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borisbubbles · 4 years ago

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Character analysis: Vivienne de Fer (Dragon Age Inquisition)

So, if you’ve wondered where I popped off to the past two months or so, I’m going to give you an answer - I finally bought Dragon Age Inquisition (legit on my gaming wishlist since its 2014 release) and I’ve been obsessed with it ever since.

The main draw to this game however, isn’t so much the gameplay (if you want a game that feels similar but has better gameplay - Assassin’s Creed Odyssey is what you’d want instead), but the storytelling and particularly the character development are top notch. All nine companions are fascinating and fleshed out in such a realistic manner I’m still gasping in awe on my fifth playthrough. Thus, a post on it is in order. It’s a bit different from my usual content, but don’t let that discourage you - clearing my head from Dragon Age will allow me to let Eurovision back in and continue my unfinished 2020 ranking. In this post, I will be analyzing one of DAI’s most interesting characters - none other than Madame de Fer herself, Vivienne. Now, I’m under the impression that this is a rather unpopular opinion but I absolutely love Vivienne. And no, I won’t apologize for it. As a Templar-thumping elitist with a icy, sardonic demeanor the sheer ‘Idea Of A Vivienne’ is meant to make your head spin. Dragon Age has always been a franchise in which mages are a socially surpressed group and to be confronted with a socially confident enchantress who likes Templars and seemingly supports the social shunning out of her own ambition is the walking embodiment of flippancy.

and yet, I feel a lot of sympathy for Vivienne.

Yes, she’s a bitch. She knows she’s one and she’s a-ok with it. I won’t argue with that. Sadly, the “Vivienne is a bitch” rhetoric also drastically sells her short. Vivienne is highly complex and her real personality is as tragic as it is twisted.

Madame de Fer

So let’s start with what we are shown on the surface. Vivienne is a high-ranking courtier from an empire notable for its deadly, acid-laced political game. She seemingly joins the Inquisition for personal gain, to acrue reputation and power, and eventually be elected Divine (= female pope) at the end of the game. She presents herself as a despicable blend of Real Housewife, Disney Villain, and Tory Politician, all rolled into one ball of sickening, unctuous smarm. Worse, the Inquisitor has no way to rebuke Vivienne’s absurd policies and ideas. You can’t argue with her, convince her to listen to your differing viewpoints or even kick her out the Inquisition. She has a way with words where she can twist arguments around in such a fashion that she lands on top and makes the other person look like the irrational party.

“Thus speaks the Inquisitor who has made so many mature and level-headed choices so far. Such as releasion malcontents upon the population without safeguards to protect them should they turn into abominations. Very wise. I rearranged some furniture. Lives aren’t thrown into jeopardy by my actions. Perhaps a little perspective is needed.”

She’s Cersei Lannister on creatine, Dolores Umbridge on motherfucking roids. If you look at merely the surface, then yes, Vivienne looks like the worst person ever created. I love a good anti-villainess however, and she’s definitely one.

Yet, she never actually does anything ‘evil’? Yes, she is ‘a tyrant’ as a Divine, but 1) the person saying this is Cassandra, whose dislike for mage freedom is only matched by her dislike of being sidelined 2) Divine Vivienne isn’t bad to mages either? (hold that thought, I’ll get to it). She never actually sabotages the Inquisition, no matter how low her approval with the Inquisitor gets. She never attempts to stop them, no matter how annoyed she is. She’s one of the most brutally honest companions in the cast, in fact. (It always surprises me people call her a ‘hypocrite’ - you keep using that word and it doesn’t mean what you think it means.) The ‘worst’ display of character is when she attempts to break up Sera and the Inquisitor and even then - are we going to pretend Sera isn’t a toxic, controlling girlfriend with a huge chip on her shoulder? I love Sera, but come on.

Vivienne is a character where the storytelling rule of Show, Don’t Tell is of vital importance. The Orlesian empire is an empire built around posturing and reputation. Nobody really shows their true motivations or character, and instead builds a public façade. It’s like how the Hanar (the Jellyfish people) in Mass Effect have a Public name they use in day-to-day life, and a Personal Name for their loved-ones and inner circle. Vivienne’s ‘Public Visage’ is that of Madame de Fer - this is the Vivienne who openly relishes in power, publicly humiliates grasping anklebiters with passive-aggressive retorts, the woman who is feared and loathed by all of Orlais, and this is the Face you see for most of the game.

The real beauty of Vivienne’s character and the reason why I love her as much as I do (which is to say - a LOT) are the few moments when - what’s the phrase DigitalSpy love so much - Her Mask Slips, and you get a glimpse of the real woman underneath the hennin.

This is the Vivienne who stands by you during the Siege of Haven and approves of you when you save the villagers from Corypheus’s horde.

This is the Vivienne who comforts you when you lament the losses you suffered.

This is the Vivienne who admires you for setting an example as a mage for the rest of Thedas.

This is the Vivienne who worries about Cole’s well-being during his personal quest, momentarily forgetting who or what he is.

This is the Vivienne who, when her approval for the Inquisitor reaches rock bottom, desperately reminds him of the suffering mages go through on a day-to-day basis because of the fear and hatred non-mages are bred to feel towards them and how this can spiral into more bloodshed without safeguards.

This is the Vivienne who shows how deep her affection for Bastien de Ghislain truly is, by bringing you along during his dying moments. I love this scene btw. This is the only moment in the entire game where Vivienne is actually herself in the presence of the Inquisitor - needless to say, I consider anyone who deliberately spikes her potion a motherfucking psychopath ^_^)

“There is nothing here now” fuck I *almost* cried at Vivienne, get out of my head BioWare, this is WRONG -- people who delude themselves this is an irredeemable character.

So, who is Vivienne really?

Understanding Vivienne requires recognizing that the mask and the real woman aren’t the same person. I think her relationship with Dorian is the prime example of this. I love the Vivienne/Dorian banter train, obviously - an unstoppable force of sass colliding with an unmovable wall of smarm is nothing short of a spectacle. However, there’s more to it than their highly entertaining snipes. As the incredibly gifted son of a magister, Dorian represents everything Vivienne should despise, and should be a natural enemy to her. And yet, she doesn’t and he isn’t.. Their gilded japes at each other are nothing more than verbal sparring, not dissimilar to how Krem and Iron Bull call each other names when they beat each other with sticks. In what I think is one of the most brilliantly written interactions between characters in DAI, I present Vivienne’s reaction when the Inquisitor enters a romance with Dorian:

Vivienne: I received a letter the other day, Dorian. Dorian: Truly? It's nice to know you have friends. 🙄 Vivienne: It was from an acquaintance in Tevinter expressing his shock at the disturbing rumors about your... relationship with the Inquisitor. Dorian: Rumors you were only too happy to verify, I assume. 🙃 Vivienne: I informed him the only disturbing thing in evidence was his penmanship. 🙂 Dorian: ...Oh. Thank you. 😳 Vivienne: I am not so quick to judge, darling. See that you give me no reason to feel otherwise.

Madame de Fer can never be seen directly expressing approval to a relationship between the Herald of Andraste and an ‘Evil’ Tevinter ’Magister’. By this subtle, subtle conversation, Vivienne indirectly tells Dorian that she considers him a good match for the Inquisitor and approves of the romance. It’s one of those reasons why I could never truly dislike Vivienne - between the layers of elegant poison lies a somewhat decent woman who never loses sight of the bigger picture. Not a good person maybe, but not one without some redeeming qualities.

The crux of Vivienne’s personality is that she, like all DAI companions, is a social outcast. She’s a mage in a fantasy setting where mages are psionically linked to demons, and grew up in a country where the majority religion has openly advocated the shunning and leashing of mages (’Magic exists to serve man’ - the Chantry is so, so vile in this game.). Vivienne’s “gift” was discovered so early in her life that she can barely remember her parents. Vivienne grew up in a squalid boarding school, learning from a young age that she’s dangerous and her talents need to be tamed and curbed. She is also terrified of demons, as her banters with Cole point out:

Cole: You're afraid. You don't have to be. Vivienne: My dear Inquisitor, please restrain your pet demon. I do not want it addressing me. Inquisitor: He's not doing any harm, Vivienne. Vivienne: It's a demon, darling. All it can do is harm. Cole: Everything bright, roar of anger as the demon rears. No, I will not fall. No one will control me ever again. Cole: Flash of white as the world comes back. Shaking, hollow, Harrowed, but smiling at templars to show them I'm me. Cole: I am not like that. I can protect you. If Templars come for you, I will kill them. Vivienne: Delightful. 😑

Vivienne’s Harrowing is implied to have been such a traumatizing event to her that she’s developed a pavlovian fear of demons ever since. (Hence her hostility towards Cole.). Vivienne is fully aware of the inherent dangers of magic, and projects this onto all other mages.

Besides, given how Dragon Age has a history with mages doing all sorts of fucked up shit, ranging from blood magic, murder, demonic possession and actual terrorism (yes, *ElthinaBITCH* had it coming, but let’s not pretend like Anders/Justice was anything other than a terrorist), Vivienne’s policies of controlled monitoring and vigilance are actually significantly more sensible than the options of ‘unconditionally freeing every mage all over Thedas’ and ‘reverting back to the status quo before the rebellion’. They’re flawed policies, obviously. When Vivienne says “mages” she pictures faceless silhouettes foremost and not herself. Regardless, unlike Cassandra and Leliana, Vivienne is aware of the fear others harbour for her kind, and how hard it is to overcome such perceptions.

Additionally, Vivienne’s a foreigner. She is an ethnic Rivaini, a culture associated with smugglers and pirates (Isabela from DAO and DA2 is half-Rivaini). This adds an additional social stigma, again pointed out by Cole:

Cole: Stepping into the parlor, hem of my gown snagged, no, adjust before I go in, must look perfect. Vivienne: My dear, your pet is speaking again. Do silence it. Cole: Voices inside. Marquis Alphonse. Cole: "I do hope Duke Bastien puts out the lights before he touches her. But then, she must disappear in the dark." Cole: Gown tight between my fingers, cold all over. Unacceptable. Wheels turn, strings pull. Cole: He hurt you. You left a letter, let out a lie so he would do something foolish against the Inquisition. A trap. Vivienne: Inquisitor, as your demon lacks manners, perhaps you could get Solas to train it.

This is the only palpable example of the casual racism Vivienne has to endure on a daily basis - Marquis Alphonse is a stupid, bigoted pillowhead who sucks at The Game, but remember - Vivienne only kills him if the Inquisitor decides to be a butthurt thug. She is aware that for every Alphonse, there are dozens of greasy sycophants who think exactly like he does, and will keep it under wraps just to remain in her good graces.

Finally, there’s the social position Vivienne manufactured for herself, which is the weak point towards her character imo. Remember, this woman is a commoner by birth. She doesn’t even have a surname. Through apparently sheer dumb luck (or satanic intervention) she basically fell into the position of Personal Mage to the Duke of Ghislain. Regardless, ‘Personal mages’ were the rage in Orlesian nobility, and the prestigious families owned by them like one may own a pet or personal property. By somehow becoming Bastien de Ghislain’s mistress and using his influence, "Madame de Fer” liberated herself from all the social stigmata which should have pinned her down into a lowly courtier rank and turned the largely ceremonial office of “Court Enchanter” into a position of respect and power. This is huge move towards mage emancipation by the way, in a society where, again, Mages are feared and shunned and are constantly bullied, emasculated and taught to hate their talents. Vivienne is a shining example of what mages can become at the height of their power. Power she has, mind you, never actually abused before her Divine election. Vivienne’s actions will forever be under scrutiny not because of who she is, but because of what she is. The Grand Game can spit her out at any moment, which will likely result in her death.

Inquisitor: “You seem to be enjoying yourself, Vivienne?” Vivienne: “It’s The Game, darling. If I didn’t enjoy it, I’d be dead by now.”

Whether Vivienne was using Bastien for her own gain or whether she truly loved him isn’t a case of or/or. It’s a case of and/and. The perception that she was using Bastien makes Vivienne more fearsome and improves her position in the Grand Game, but deep down, I have no doubts truly loved him. Remember, Vivienne’s position at the Orlesian court was secure. She had nothing to gain by saving Bastien’s life, but she attempted to anyway. That Bastien’s sister is a High Cleric doesn’t matter - Vivienne can be elected Divine regardless of her personal quest’s resolution. She loved him, period.

No, I don’t think Vivienne is a good person. She treats those she deems beneath her poorly, like Sera, Solas, Cole and Blackwall (characters I like less than Vivienne), which I think is the #1 indicator for a Bad Personality. But I don’t think she qualifies as ‘Evil’ either and I refuse to dismiss the beautiful layering of her character. I genuinely believe Vivienne joined the Inquisition not just for her personal gain, but also out of idealism, similar to Dorian (again, Cole is 100% correct in pointing out the similarities between Dorian’s and Vivienne’s motivations for joining, as discomforting it is to her).

In her mind, Vivienne sees herself as the only person who can emancipate the mages without bloodshed - her personal accomplishments at the Orlesian court speak for themselves. Vivienne isn’t opposed to mage freedom - she worries for the consequences of radical change, as she believes Orlesian society unprepared for the consequences. Hence why she’s perfectly fine with a Divine Cassandra. Hence why her fellow mages immediately elect her Grand Enchanter of the new Circle.

Hence why Vivienne is so terrified by the Inquisitor’s actions if her disapproval gets too low. The Inquisitor has the power to completely destroy everything she has built and fought for during her lifetime. Remember: Vivienne’s biggest fear is irrelevance - there’s no greater irrelevance than having your life achievements reverse-engineered by the accidental stumbling of some upstart nobody. This is the real reason why she joins, risks her life and gets her hands dirty - the only person whose competence Vivienne trusts, is Vivienne’s own.

Even as Divine Victoria, I’d say she’s not bad, at all actually. Vivienne has the trappings of an an Enlightened Despot, maintaining full control, while simultaneously granting mages more responsibility and freedom, slowly laying the foundations to make mages more accepted and less persecuted in southern Thedas. Given that Ferelden is a feudal fiefdom and Orlais is an absolute monarchy, this is a fucking improvement are you kidding me. (Wait did he just imply Vivienne is secretly the best Divine - hmm, probably not because Cass/Leliana have better epilogues - but realistically speaking, yes, Viv should be the best Divine and it’s bullshit that the story disagrees.)

Underneath the countless layers of smarm, frost and seeming callousness, lies a fiercely intelligent and brave woman, whose ideals have been twisted into perversion by the cruel, ungrateful world around her. Envy her for her ability to control her destiny, but know that envy is what it is.

The flaw in Vivienne’s character isn’t so much the ‘tyranny’ or the ‘bitchiness’ or the 'smarm’. Her flaw is her false belief that she is what the mages need the most. Her belief that her competence gives her the prerogative to serve the unwashed mage masses... by ruling over them. For all intents and purposes, Vivienne is an Orlesian Magister and this will forever be the brilliant tragedy of her character. She was created by a corrupt institution that should, by all accounts fear and loathe her but instead embraced her. It’s that delirious irony that makes Vivienne de Fer one of the best fictional characters in RPG history. the next post will be Eurovision-related. :-)

#RPG #Dragon Age #Dragon Age Inquisition #Vivienne #Vivienne de Fer #Madame de Fer #DAI #Dragon Age 3 #BioWare

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puttingfingerstokeys · 4 years ago

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A Birthday Party for Liu Kang

Oh my god the spacing is all fucked and I’m so lazy. Uhghghghg nope it’s staying. The warring exes plan for Liu Kang’s second birthday. This is just before the third Mortal Kombat tournament.

Warring exes (obv) ft New Kang

Restored timeline

“The timing,” Shang Tsung purred as his swooping handwriting graced yet another piece of vellum, cordially inviting some (un)fortunate kombatant to the third tournament, “is fortuitous, pet. She is growing so quickly.”

A long-suffering sigh resounded from a chair near an ornate bassinet in the sorcerer’s book-lined study. Under the light of an enchanted lamp, a book lay upon the lap of Raiden, the former thunder god and protector of Earthrealm—he had been this in another life, another time, and only he remembered it—but his eyes were not on the tome. Rather they rested upon Shang Tsung, who continued writing, even as he spoke.

The child cooed and rubbed her eyes with small, balled fists. She was a bit over eighteen months old, by Shang Tsung’s calculation. They had decided her first birthday was within a day or so of her arrival upon their island and, with that agreed, went about their business with the addition of an infant.

“You would celebrate Liu Kang’s birthday—”

“With the opening ceremony of the Mortal Kombat tournament, yes,” Shang Tsung responded smoothly, rolling the scroll and reaching for the wax spoon which lay near a small brazier. It was old, and long-stained red, as if seeking to pay homage to the blood which would be spilled at the tournament its presence represented. “Kombatants will present tribute and earn our favor.”

Closing his strange eyes and shaking his head, a look of amusement (and familiarity) upon his face, Raiden closed his book and set it aside. “They do not require my favor,” he said.

“Then it will be mine they shall earn,” answered the sorcerer simply, waving one hand about as if it was of no real consequence whose favor was earned, just that one of the two primary occupants of this strange island was pleased.

Liu Kang cooed again, this time reaching upward, her bright eyes catching the light of the braziers around the room and sparkling with vitality. Leaning down toward the bassinet, Raiden grasped the blanket on either side of her and, ensuring she was wrapped completely, lifted the child and held her close. She reached for his face and he deftly dodged, holding her a little ways away from him.

She snatched at his medallion, at his hat, at whatever her small hands might lay upon. Cackling as only babies can, she flailed about and kicked her feet within the beautifully damascened blanket. The magic radiated off it in waves and it made Raiden feel more than a little giddy, but Shang Tsung had enchanted it so that he could hold his daughter, so giddiness was a small price to pay.

Striding across the fine rugs of the study, toward Shang Tsung, his desk, and its growing pile of Mortal Kombat invitations, Raiden tilted the child so she could watch the sorcerer lay the wax seal and press the sacred symbol into it. The symbol, he thought wryly, of the Elder Gods—no… of the One Being. Do we invite disaster by once more using it? He dismissed the thought, however, focusing instead on the things he could influence, the here and now. He watched Shang Tsung lift the seal, observed the perfection of the lines, the way the light seemed to catch with particular fervor in the eye of the dragon. Does it watch us? Does it mock?

Setting the scroll aside, Shang Tsung reached for Liu Kang and Raiden handed her gently over, taking care to avoid the fresh wax, the brazier, and the spoon. The sorcerer settled her upon his lap and began bouncing his knee, gesturing to a seat which was closer to his desk. Raiden sank into it with a lightness and grace uncharacteristic of a man his size. There were, in Shang Tsung’s memory, no men his size, however—or not many, anyway. At seven feet tall and some, he certainly stood out in a crowd, but that had not been the sole contributing factor to the sorcerer’s near-fatal attraction.

Had he been asked, he might have expressed his interest in the workings of the divinities. As Lord Liu Kang was otherwise occupied and had done him the immense favor of providing his emissary—it was a clever deception and one Raiden no longer maintained and had not for quite some time—as a teacher, trainer, and mentor, it was only natural that Shang Tsung would want to know more about him. This was not untrue, of course, but the desire was much deeper, much more fundamental. It was, in fact, so deep, that now he had acquired his “prize”, rather than growing weary of him, the desire had intensified. It was truly fathomless, just the way Shang Tsung preferred it. What, after all, was life without mystery?

“The Wu-Shi take a vow of poverty, Tsung,” Raiden reminded the sorcerer. Shang Tsung knew when he was being sweet-talked, of course. Raiden was an open book and when he used the man’s given name, it was a sure sign. But he was feeling indulgent. Liu Kang shrieked and grabbed for one of the baubles in Shang Tsung’s hair. A flick of his head removed the target from her reach and she grunted, eyes wide with surprise. Object permanence had, evidently, not yet set in.

“The gifts needn’t be rich,” said the sorcerer, “only meaningful. It is the… thought that counts, is it not, o’ fulminator?”

Raiden nodded. Shang Tsung would have his way, he knew, and there was little use arguing. Maybe it would not be so strange. There was nothing terribly conventional about the tournament anyway. This time, it was fair—Shang Tsung had not developed the habit of sending multiple opponents at one he simply wanted to see ended—and every realm had a chance to earn their place among the ranks of champions. Kung Lao would be returning, of course, and Raiden looked forward to seeing the sincere monk once more. With Kung Lao, however, would be his divine teacher, Liu Kang—the original—and with him would come questions.

Lord Liu Kang had not visited Shang Tsung’s island since his trip there to compete in his tournament. He had not even set foot upon this timeline’s island. Raiden had handled all of that, having met Shang Tsung in the teaming streets of a bustling, busy city. He had no idea that Raiden was raising a child with their formerly bitterest enemy. It would be… incongruous, to say the least.

He had no doubt he could explain all of it to Liu Kang; the man was nothing if not reasonable. All the same, he knew he should have mentioned it before now! How many times had he gone to be with Liu Kang, at his side at the Dawn of Time, to advise him on some question or shifting of sands? How many opportunities had there been? Would Liu Kang see this as yet another breach of his trust? Not nearly so bad as murdering him, Raiden justified, and then flinched back from himself and that memory, but a betrayal nevertheless.

“Would you hide her away?” Shang Tsung’s tone was not accusatory—it never was—but curious, genuinely sincere in its question. “From whom, I wonder?” This was not sincere in the least. Shang Tsung did not wonder; he knew. He was many things, but a fool was not one of them. Raiden sighed heavily once more, shaking his head.

“He does not know of her,” Raiden confirmed, “and it is my doing. I… sought to…” He looked down at his hands, arcs of electricity dancing over them. “I… am unsure what I sought to do. The opportunity—”

“Never presented itself,” the sorcerer filled in, good-naturedly. He did not presume to judge the motives of gods, lest they judge him. That, he had long since reasoned, could be disastrous. Best stay out of the business of celestial beings and feign righteousness, or whatever passed for it in his case. “You go to Lord Liu Kang to consult in matters of cosmic importance, not to tell him of the child who is named after him.”

“I…” Raiden knew when he was being toyed with. He also knew when Shang Tsung was right. Shaking his head once more, he straightened and met the man’s eyes. “It was not the time, and not my place. It was—is—our place to present Liu Kang as ours… whenever we choose.” Whenever you choose, was the unspoken thought, though oddly enough, not without affection. Liu Kang responded to her name by slapping her fat little hands together and gabbling nonsense. It was not what one would call applause, but it delighted the sorcerer and he ran his fingers over her hair, praising her vocalizations.

“You are right, of course,” said Shang Tsung, as if conceding a point. Raiden’s whole form seemed to sag a little, but there was really nothing for it. The longer he waited, the worse it would appear, as if he really was trying to hide the child. Besides, he had other things on his mind regarding the situation, things with which only Lord Liu Kang could assist him. He would require her presence to make his point anyway and, after all, he was not ashamed of her. Quite the opposite was the case, in fact. She made him happier than he could ever recall being and, in a life as long as his, this was remarkable. Her debut would be, in a word, opulent.

Liu Kang squealed with delight and held her hands out toward Raiden, who received her once more. Shang Tsung took great care to ensure the enchanted blanket stayed in place as the child curled up in the thunder god’s huge arms and immediately stuck her finger into her mouth. She was tempestuous, this one, and though she shared more in common, looks-wise, with Shang Tsung, the explosive force of her demands were nothing less than thunderous. He said so, and then suggested the three of them take supper in their chambers, sending for a servant with a wave of his hand.

The journey upward was filled with bowing and genuflecting servants, a cooing baby, and gently murmured speech between the two, of this or that or nothing in particular. Shang Tsung was concerned with the overall presentation of his island, wondering if they ought to string lanterns at the docks, or float them upon the water. Raiden reminded him that the beasts beneath the waves might not appreciate such an intrusion and so on it went until they were seated at the small table within their chambers and served.

As the utensils were sterling silver, Raiden could only watch while Shang Tsung spoon fed the child he had long thought of as his daughter—he had never said this, unsure what Shang Tsung’s reaction might be; he knew he was being foolish, once more, but the nagging doubt still crept its way into his mind—and wish there was some enchantment that would allow him to do this. She was grasping at more solid food, like bread now, and would not need to be coddled like this much longer. In point of fact, the only reason the sorcerer did it was to spare her the indignity of covering her embroidered bib with fresh peaches. His eyes found Raiden’s presently, however, and dark, finely-plucked brows knitted.

“What troubles you, pet?” He left off feeding Liu Kang and set the small spoon aside, shifting in his seat so he could lean over and place a practiced, wicked hand upon Raiden’s thigh. He felt the muscle tremble under his fingers, a pleasing sensation that was not all voluntary. Some of it was most assuredly that deadly current of which the man was made, that most dangerous of traits which attracted Shang Tsung without end. He was eager, but not impatient; the same could not be said of their daughter.

Liu Kang pounded the finished wood of the lacquered high chair in which she sat. It, like her bassinet, was carved with dragons and gilded. Unlike the bassinet, however, there were no gems or mother-of-pearl. Food splatter made such a thing unwise, as did searching little hands—all the gems upon the bassinet were in unreachable places, for now. Shang Tsung had been thinking lately that she was due for an upgrade, perhaps a proper bed, albeit a small one, with rails. There was a prototype of an idea in his workshop far below the bedchambers already, in fact, but for now it was just an idea.

“The tournament, I suppose,” Raiden admitted. This was half true and, for now, good enough for the sorcerer, who nodded.

“Fifty years it has been since your Fire God’s student, Kung Lao—ah, but he is known as the Great Kung Lao now, isn’t he? Fifty years since he triumphed and secured Earthrealm’s safety. He was a fool to spare me, you know. Your Lord Liu Kang should have taught the brave monk to be more ruthless.” The smile on the sorcerer’s face was absolutely feral. Raiden sighed.

“It is not in him to take a life when the victory has already been won, Shang Tsung,” Raiden chided. “He is a monk—more than that, he is an Earthrealmer.” And I would not lose you.

“Earthrealmers are soft,” spat the sorcerer. Liu Kang squealed at the tone and pounded the seat once more. She did not speak yet, but these syllables sounded like “MORE”. Reaching over toward her, Shang Tsung placed a finely-manicured finger upon her lips and clucked at her, shaking his head. Her eyes widened with a strange understanding and she was quiet, grasping at his finger, which he allowed her to hold. The movement had caused his hand to leave Raiden’s leg and, in the meantime, the thunder god shifted in his seat, crossing his arms and offering the strange ghost of a half-smile for Shang Tsung’s perusal.

“You are an Earthrealmer,” he observed.

“Cheeky,” purred the sorcerer, unperturbed. He reached out and unfolded Raiden’s arms, which of course the man allowed, and took one of those hands, grasping it with deliberate firmness. Lifting the knuckles to his lips, he first grazed with them, then pressed them firmly. Even unadorned, they were fine, beautiful, worthy of admiration, and sparking with electricity. One does not bed a deity without a healthy tolerance for pain—perhaps even a craving, he reminded himself as the arcs of power touched his lips and threatened.

He rose to the threat, the challenge, and pressed his lips down again, a little higher up, closer to the wrist. Raiden was, as ever, adorned in blue and white, but the robes were more flowing now, less tailored for kombat (though that would not stop him) and more for indolent lounging—reading and meditating were two of the thunder god’s favorite activities.

The ever-present hat disguised very little from the sorcerer who, nevertheless, snatched it off Raiden’s head in one fluid motion and tossed it aside almost carelessly. Almost. He knew how much the silly thing meant to Raiden and would never have done anything to damage it, even in jest. As Raiden leaned to reach for it, Shang Tsung also leaned, serpentine and powerful, capturing those oh-so-formerly-chaste lips in a forceful kiss.

Liu Kang squealed at this, too, though as ever, she had no idea at what, precisely, she was squealing. She was also clapping in her stilted way and this brought laughter bubbling from between the two men, caught halfway between the ground and a fiery kiss. Had it been two less dignified people, they might have tumbled from their seats with it.

They did not. Righting themselves, clasping hands, they did continue to laugh.. Their laughter fueled that of the child and Liu Kang gabbled and slapped her pudgy hands together with the delight of whatever they were enjoying.

“You are, as ever, far too critical of yourself, dear Raiden,” said the sorcerer, once more lifting the hand he still held. Rather than kissing it, however, he squeezed it meaningfully, desirous to one day see at least some little bit of opulence thereupon—something simple, perhaps. Raiden did look exquisite in gold. Gold, Shang Tsung considered, and perhaps nothing else. The thought was lascivious, so he kept it to himself, but it must have shown in his eyes for Raiden’s expression had turned to one of chiding. Or perhaps this was in response to what the sorcerer had said. “I speak only truth.”

“As you have ever done,” Raiden admitted. Shang Tsung had, in their decades together, never once lied to him, not actively, or by omission. He had always told the god of thunder everything which was on his mind—everything. It was this openness and trust which had saved him. It was what had saved them both. Raiden felt as if it was now his turn to be the serpentine deceiver and he misliked it. What horrified him most was his own skill at the art of subterfuge and deception, but not with Shang Tsung. They had seen too much, done too much together for such things. But Liu Kang did not know, nor did his brother, whom he had not seen since departing for the new timeline.

So much had happened to them in a comparatively short amount of time, but that was no excuse. Life had simply happened at its normal speed, for a mortal, and Raiden was, admittedly, still adjusting thereto. He had become a teacher once more, a mentor, and a lover. He could still picture the moment in time where everything had changed, where he, hopefully, had altered the course of time for the better.

A much younger Shang Tsung—he could not have been a day over thirty-five at the time—had looked to Raiden in those awful moments at the end of the first tournament, standing over the desiccated husk of what had once been his mighty, final opponent, the man’s glowing soul clutched in his hand. Rather than turning away, the thunder god’s expression had been one of passive approval. The minute nod he gave was all the permission the sorcerer required and he took the soul into himself, lifting both fists and declaring himself victor.

That moment had changed everything. Raiden's approving acknowledgement of his student's hard-won victory shifted the very sands of time, such that Fire God Liu Kang, the new keeper thereof, had offered commentary when they met later that evening. With that simple gesture, Raiden had set Shang Tsung upon a higher path, one he was elated to walk as well, hand-in-hand.

#cc #cw #mortal kombat #warring exes #raiden #shang tsung #new kang #restored timeline

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pedros-mustache-main · 4 years ago

Text

like the movies

summary: he’s the writer; you’re the muse. there’s a cup of coffee somewhere in there, too.

word count: 3.3k+

warnings: fluff & pining—so, a change of pace from my usual angst. :) also: a serious lack of dialogue because i am feeling verbose.

a/n: this is entirely @joemazzmatazz‘s fault. it was her idea (albeit given to me actual ages ago), but she said “do it” and who am i to say no? anywho, i’m relatively uncertain about how this turned out, but have it regardless!

your latte is hot, almost too hot. it burns your tongue on the first sip.

but you welcome the heat and the momentary burst of pain. the weather swirling outside borders on atrocious: freezing rain mixed with snow flurries, bloated, gray clouds, and a thin layer of ice on all surfaces. though the tip of your tongue stings upon that first sip, the heat that rushes to your chest pushes away the dreary weather you’d slogged through to get to the coffee shop.

you’re a regular here. not a regular regular, but regular enough that the interchangeable baristas recognize you and you recognize them. you exchange tight-lipped smiles and nods of greeting when you approach the counter, but nothing more than simple pleasantries. you don’t know their names, and they never ask for yours, but they remember your order: frosted blueberry latte with extra foam. it’s gotten to the point where you can simply walk up to the counter, money in hand, and the barista can repeat your order before you open your mouth.

it’s the little things, you suppose. in this little corner of the world, you feel seen.

today, you have your laptop open, latte pushed to the side, and a cherry and almond scone on a bright blue plate. you resist the urge to pull your foot up on the chair and rest your chin on your knee. though you’re here more often than you’re at home, this isn’t your living room. you settle for sliding your ankle beneath your opposite thigh.

being a paralegal is decidedly unglamorous. sure, it sounds highfalutin to the person sitting beside you on the airplane, but damn, if it isn’t stressful. you feel like a glorified secretary most of the time. pushing papers and getting signatures and making tens of phone calls to people and places that are not interested in speaking to a lawyer isn’t really what you signed up for. at least, it’s not what you ultimately want. it pays the bills for now, though; a partnership… that’ll come later.

you’re lucky enough that you can work remotely, hence your sturdy corner of the café. from where you sit, you watch customers enter and exit the shop. each time the door opens and the little bell tinkles above, a blast of cold air rushes into the cramped space. you enjoy watching the reaction of newcomer—the way they stamp their snow-covered shoes on the wood floor and shiver, turn to their companions with a smile, hurry to the counter to order something sweet and warm. in those moments, you grow wistful, your heart lurching with loneliness. it’s been a long time since you’ve had anyone to meet for an afternoon coffee date, friend or otherwise. your job doesn’t afford much downtime, and what downtime you do have is devoted to menial life responsibilities.

your phone buzzes, and you glance down. a text from your boss. time to refocus.

you work for a while longer, nibbling on your scone, sipping from your latte. the emails pile up, and your phone buzzes incessantly. a headache forms at the base of your skull as you struggle to keep up with the constant flurry of communication.

after receiving a terse email from your boss’s legal partner in relation to something that is no fault of your own, you shut your laptop. a five-minute break; you deserve that much. rubbing a hand down your weary face, you grab your purse, slide out from behind the table, and head for the restroom. in the poorly lit bathroom, you splash some cool water on your cheeks and sigh at your reflection in the mirror. you look tired, feel it too. the dark bags under your eyes bely how little sleep you’ve gotten in the last week, and your shoulders droop under the weight of the world. maybe by christmas…

who are you kidding? christmas is just as busy as any other time of the year. people don’t stop needing lawyers just ‘cause it’s the holidays.

when you return to your makeshift workspace, you immediately frown. you freeze several paces from the corner of the table and glance over your shoulder, tightening your grip on the strap of your purse.

someone had been at the table in the five minutes it took to freshen up.

nothing is gone, thank god. (in retrospect, you probably shouldn’t have left your laptop and phone sitting in plain sight. call it naivety, but you like to think the best of people. however, your line of work consistently reminds you that the bad in people often outweighs the good.) your laptop, though, has been nudged to the side, the movement causing the charging cord to fall out. several drops of dark liquid—spilled latte—dampen the corner of your yellow legal pad.

what truly catches you eye is the square piece of paper resting on your laptop’s keyboard like a discarded feather.

you look over your shoulder again, but the shop is largely empty save for the baristas and an older couple in the far corner. the weather is certainly a deterrent from lingering. perhaps someone had come in while you were in the bathroom and left you a note. had your car been hit? you hope not. you don’t have the extra funds for vehicular maintenance right now and even less time to fix whatever damage had been done.

leaning forward, you lift the piece of paper, and your chest tightens.

it’s a drawing—a drawing of you. blue ink scattered across the page in swirling lines forms the hazy outline of your profile. your chin rests in your hand, and the artist made certain note to emphasize your eyelashes, which are not that long in actuality. at the bottom of the page, a message in curling script: when you are old — yeats

your mouth runs dry, your palms moist with nerves. returning to your chair, you quickly type the words into the search bar of your browser. you remember enough from high-school english to know yeats is a poet, but when the poem loads and you read the words, you feel like you might fall over.

your neck snaps up, cracks at the sudden movement. someone had been here in the café long enough to watch you, to sketch you, and to think of the yeats poem in relation to you.

how decidedly… romantic. like something out of a chick-flick.

despite the warmth in your chest, you shut your laptop, fold the sketch, and shove it in your coat pocket, willing yourself to forget the random happenstance. things like that—serendipitous moments of romance—only happen in the movies. they certainly don’t happen to you.

whomever had left the note, well—at least they’d brightened your day. your mother would call it a gift from the heavens, an angel smiling down on you.

shaking your head, you gather your things and hurry out into the cold, wintery weather. you refuse to allow yourself to go home and daydream. you could use the note as a bookmark, sure, but there was no use in dreaming about the artist. no use whatsoever when you would likely never cross paths again.

except you do go home and daydream. why you ever thought you could keep yourself from mulling over a moment rife with potential is ridiculous.

all throughout the evening—as you make your stir-fry dinner, as you draw your bath, as you change the sheets on your bed, and fold the laundry—you consider the possibilities:

you’d been at the café for a handful of hours, but how much had you truly paid attention to the patrons coming and going? barely, if you’re honest with yourself. you had noticed the older couple when they came in; you’d wondered how they’d managed to get from the parking lot to the warmth of the coffee shop without slipping on the icy sidewalks. you’d noticed, too, a man who looked a lot like how you imagine paul bunyan: massive height, plaid shirt stuffed in worn jeans, impressive beard. no one else of note sticks out in your mind hours later.

what had you been doing all afternoon? hopefully you hadn’t done anything embarrassing. god, sometimes you have this habit of resting your fingers over your mouth in such a way that it pushes up your nose to resemble a pig’s snout. had you done that? sometimes you fiddle with your hair too much and bounce your knees and hum to yourself. you want to sink below the suds of your bathwater when you recall your propensity for talking to yourself.

your thoughts turn fanciful when you finally slip beneath your covers.

maybe the artist is like tom hanks in “you’ve got mail.” only instead of emails, you could exchange notes in a coffee shop and forgo the business rivalry part.

maybe the artist is like tom hanks in “sleepless in seattle”: soft and sweet and really good with kids.

maybe you just have a thing for tom hanks.

you turn your head with a girlish grin, tucking your lower lip between your teeth.

you’d promised yourself you wouldn’t daydream, but how could you not? yeats’s poem filters through your mind like the moon filtering through your curtains: how many loved your moments of glad grace, and loved your beauty with love false or true, but one man loved the pilgrim soul in you and loved the sorrows of your changing face.

with a muffled squeal, you allow yourself a moment to thrash in delight—like a schoolgirl with a crush and a note checked yes i like you tucked beneath her pillow. the idea that someone somewhere notices you, of all people, is simply too much to bear. you feel like your heart will explode and sunbeams will burst from beneath your skin. you feel warm and happy and drunk on possibility.

you settle, then, and sigh, smoothing your hands over the rumpled comforter. you’re a professional, though. a paralegal, for god’s sake. you’ll go back to the café. maybe not tomorrow, but you’ll go back. just maybe—maybe, maybe, maybe—you’ll run into your artist again.

you return to the coffee shop in two days, lugging your over-stuffed bag with you, earbuds snug in your ears. when you cross the threshold, you can’t help the way your eyes immediately scan the customers who have parked themselves in the various sitting areas. you’re looking for your artist, obviously, but you have nothing to go on other than the note tucked away in your jewelry box at home. a few words, a carefully drawn profile—that’s not enough to determine who had created the note from a simple glance.

begrudgingly, you remind yourself once again that life isn’t a movie. there’s no tom hanks waiting for you on the other end of the note. it’s silly to dwell on it any longer, really. you’ll get too wrapped up, too attached, and that wouldn’t bode well for the upcoming holidays.

the table you usually occupy is already taken by a man in a red sweater. his head is bent over his laptop, glasses slipping down his strong nose. you try not to take it to heart; the table was never explicitly yours. with a soft grunt of effort, you drop your belongings in an orange armchair across the room before meandering to the counter. julie (at least, you think that’s her name?) smiles when you approach, and she rings up your order, asking about the weather and plans for the holidays.

once your coffee is in hand, you return to your new seat and relax in the accommodating plush armchair. maybe the man in the red sweater had done you a favor after all. you glance up to look at him. if he stays as long as you often do, his ass will ache by the time he leaves. the wood chairs offer zilch in the way of comfort.

you quickly lose yourself in work, but the idea that your artist could be in the same room as you never truly leaves your mind. you find yourself glancing about the room from time to time, studying those who come and go, wondering if perhaps they were the one who saw something worthwhile in you. no one catches you eye; everyone is too busy with their own affairs, and you don’t blame them.

by the end of the afternoon, you find your latte completely and utterly forgotten. it’s cold when you take a tentative sip, and you sigh. maybe not five dollars wasted, but five dollars you had meant for a hot drink, especially considering the cold weather. rising from your seat, you take the latte to the counter and ask the barista to pour your drink in a to-go cup with some ice. might as well make the best of it, and you don’t like things to go to waste.

when you return to your chair, you nearly drop the plastic cup.

another note.

“holy shit,” you breathe. instinctively, your palm tightens around your cup, and the plastic gives a small crack. you wince and double-check to make sure no leaks have sprung before picking up the folded piece of paper on your messenger bag.

your fingers tremble as you flip open the folded note.

the same blue ink, same hurried penmanship. no drawing this time; only words.

she sat, much as i did, working fervently. i couldn’t help but watch, and maybe that made me a creep, but i’d been called worse. she sat with an heir of regality, her chin held firm, eyes dancing about the room like she owned the place. not haughty or self-possessed. just sure of herself. what did that make me then? alone in my corner? i didn’t like to dwell too long, so i—

the words stop in time with the seize of your heart.

you can’t seem to look away, to look around the room again in search of your artist, your writer. your heart pounds in your chest, flush rising on your cheeks. eyes—you feel eyes on you whether they are present or not. you feel dizzy. never have you felt so… seen, so noticed. not even in past relationships have your boyfriends took such care to notice the minute details of your being.

the strange urge to vomit rises in your throat. you aren’t afraid; you aren’t creeped out.

you’re just… overwhelmed.

so, you tuck the note in your pocket and leave, careful to keep your gaze on the floor as you exit. just in case your writer is still there, still watching.

you’re nothing special, nothing like the paragraph they penned. they should get that through their thick skull before they find themselves disappointed.

you don’t return to the coffee shop until after the holidays.

it’s not that hard to stay away. the hustle and bustle of work combined with the hustle and bustle of family gatherings keeps you from finding the time for an afternoon of solace anywhere, let alone the café.

you must admit that you think of your author often, try as you might to forget them.

by now, you have the cadence of the yeats poem memorized and the prose of the paragraph tattooed on the front of your mind. each time you pass a couple in a warm embrace, you wonder what became of your writer. you wonder if they think of you as much as you think of them; if they ruminate over the possibility of a life that cannot be.

if this were a movie, you would run into your author by random happenstance. you’d bump into them at the market, spill your legumes on the floor, touch hands in your haste to right the mistake, and—boom—as you look up, it would all fall into place.

if this were a movie, you would see them in the library or the post office or the deli or—

—or the coffee shop.

you sigh as you enter the café, wishing for your author to be there, knowing they won’t be. it is enough that you’ve experienced two mysterious love notes; things like that don’t come in threes.

that’s only in the movies.

the café still has its holiday decorations up. twinkle lights hang draped across the ceiling, and music filters over the sparsely filled tables and chairs. in the post-holiday haze, you didn’t expect the café to be crowded. in all truth, the sight of few patrons eases your mind.

less of a chance to run into your author. less of a chance to reveal yourself as the decidedly uninteresting person you are.

you set your belongings down at a side table, and as you reach for your wallet, a presence hovers over your shoulder. frowning slightly, you straighten, prepared to ask the person to kindly give you some space. when you do turn, your heart leaps to your throat, and the wallet in your hand clatters to the table.

it’s your author. you just know it.

there’s something vaguely familiar about the man, about his strong nose and groomed facial hair and crystal eyes. he’s tall, warm looking, like a hot drink on a cold day or a crackling fire. his eyes scan your face as though he is worried, as though he’s uncertain of what he should do now that you’ve actually faced him.

you speak before your thoughts catch up with your heart. “you wrote those notes, didn’t you?”

he nods, and the movement—so gentle, so reminiscent of a small boy on the verge of a scolding—makes you love him all the more. “yeah.” he sighs, lifts a hand to rub the back of his neck. “yeah, sorry about that. i wanted to apologize. wasn’t sure i’d get the chance, if you’d come back again.”

you shake your head. “no, don’t apologize. please don’t apologize.”

it’s his turn to frown, and he looks up from the table. you lose your breath momentarily. god, his eyes are blue. “when you left last time i thought… well, i thought i’d scared you off.” with a rueful chuckle, he shoves his hands in his pockets. “would serve me right, too.”

“why do you say that?”

“i mean, notes on your laptop when you aren’t looking? intently watching you? kinda stalkerish, huh?”

you can’t help but smile—smile at him, at the nervous twitch of his mouth, at the way he avoids your gaze. “i guess.” on a daring move, you reach out and touch his elbow. when you touch him, he feels like home. “but i don’t want you to apologize. i like the notes. i haven’t thought about anything else since you gave me the first one.”

“really?” there’s a hopeful tone in his voice; it sets your heart on fire.

“yeah.”

“i’m writing a book—a novel, really. i saw you so often that any time i got stuck, i just wrote about you instead.”

you could kiss him then and there. instead, you tell him your name, and he grins.

“i’m gwilym.”

“tell me, gwilym.” you pull out your chair and motion to the café counter. “how would you feel if i bought you a coffee? i want to hear more about that novel.”

“i’d—i’d like that.”

he follows you to the counter, his hand brushing the small of your back.

the barista—matt, you think—looks up from the register and laughs. “holy shit, i won!” he looks over his shoulder. “hey, julie! you owe me a fifty.”

you glance at gwilym, but he’s already looking at you. you smile.

matt continues. “we had a pool to see how long it would take for you two to get together. you were always looking at each other but never at the same time. you knew that, right?” still laughing, he rings up your orders without be asked. “coffee is on us today, guys.”

as you wait for your latte to be steamed and gwilym’s chia to be poured, you tuck your lip between your teeth to stem your widening grin. gwilym is strong by your side, the perfect height for you to rest your head on his shoulder. you look up at him, at the noble planes of his face, and your chest squeezes. when he looks at you again, your chest squeezes even tighter.

maybe life is like a movie after all.

#gwilym lee #gwilym lee x reader #gwilym lee imagine #bohemian rhapsody #j writes

131 notes · View notes

ibijau · 4 years ago

Photo

Xisang Week Day 3: Shifter / Royalty / Fairy Tale

the leopard was mostly traced because animals? Not really my thing :D

I’m dedicating this one in particular to the Xisang discord, since the snow leopard shifter!Nie is that AU everyone brings back after heavy angst has been discussed XD

Two pairs of eyes watched as Lan Xichen walked away from the house. Nie Huaisang growled in warning so Lan Wangji knew to move away. Disappointed but understanding, his friend left the comfortable position they had found, Lan Wangji laying his head on Nie Huaisang stomach, both of them enjoying the warm sun of early summer on the porch. While Lan Wangji went inside to put away his book, Nie Huaisang yawned and started stretching his whole body with intent until his fur disappeared and his bones returned to their other shape.

Like this, furless in the morning air, the sun felt less warm. Before Nie Huaisang could start shivering, Lan Wangji returned so they could do like Lan Xichen and head out for breakfast.

As they walked side by side, an idea that had been bothering Nie Huaisang for a while struck him again.

“I think gege doesn’t like me,” he sighed.

Lan Wangji shot him a surprised look, but said nothing. He never said much, even if he was really old enough he should have spoken well. He used to do it a bit more, but his mother had died a little before Nie Huaisang’s father, and now he was a really quiet person.

“Gege never tries to pet me,” Nie Huaisang explained in a tone of self evidence. “Everyone does, but not gege, so he doesn’t like me.”

For being silent, the look Lan Wangji threw him had plenty to say. First, that Nie Huaisang was a little self-centered, because adults never tried to pet him, and at very nearly ten Lan Xichen was obviously almost an adult. Second, that Nie Huaisang didn’t like it when random people tried to touch his snow leopard form without his permission, leading to the two of them often hiding together for hours to avoid the attention since Nie Huaisang had arrived to the Cloud Recesses, a few weeks before.

“He always frowns when he sees me being a leopard,” Nie Huaisang continued, never one to give up on an idea. “And then he smiles, but it’s not a real smile. He shouldn’t smile so much like that if it’s not real. And also he really, really never tries to pet me and that’s weird and I think he hates me."

"Brother likes everyone,” Lan Wangji retorted, offended enough by this attack on his brother’s character to let his voice be heard.

‘People who like everyone often like no one,’ Nie Huaisang’s father told him once, in the days before everything went so wrong. Nie Huaisang had listened and committed that to memory, because back then his father was the strongest and wisest man in the whole entire world. Now though, he wasn’t so sure anymore. Lan Xichen clearly loved his brother a lot, and he looked sad when people mentioned his mother so he must have loved her too. Besides, Nie Huaisang no longer believed his father to be so wise anyway.

At the end, his father had just turned out to be mean and scary, and then he’d died and that was a relief, even if Nie Huaisang wasn’t supposed to say or even think that. And now Nie Mingjue, busy with getting the sect in order, had sent his brother away to Gusu for safety when Nie Huaisang only wanted to be with him, and that too was their father’s fault.

Everything was their father’s fault.

“Gege likes everyone except me,” Nie Huaisang grumbled, feeling some tears threatening at the corner of his eyes after making the mistake of thinking of his family.

It was silly that it bothered him so much whether Lan Xichen liked him or not, and he knew adults would probably have scolded him for it. It was bad of him to bask so much in the attention he received for his other form, to want everyone’s eyes on him, but he couldn’t help it. At home he was nothing special, but since coming to Gusu, everyone treated him like he was extraordinary.

Everyone except Lan Xichen.

It had been nearly a decade since Nie Huaisang’s first stay in the Cloud Recesses, but the place hadn’t changed much… and neither had he. Certainly the circumstances were different, he was there to study rather than to be protected from the power struggles that followed his father’s death, but everything else was much the same.

So when another guest student asked whether it was true that members of the Nie clan were cursed, Nie Huaisang quickly turned into his feline form as answer.

As he had as a young child, Nie Huaisang delighted in the gasps of shock and fear that followed. He was now old enough to understand that none of them could change, though it still puzzled how anyone could live perpetually on two legs. Nie Huaisang pitied them, really, and that was part of why he was always so willing to transform for the entertainment of others, almost an apology for being better than them.

Mostly though, he enjoyed this rare chance to feel superior.

After the first moment of fear and horror, the other boys quickly recovered, their emotions turning to wonder and curiosity.

“Is it really a curse?"

"Where do your clothes go?"

"Does it hurt?"

“Can the curse be transmitted?”

"Can I touch you?"

The last question was repeated a few times, making Nie Huaisang shiver when they all tried to pet his fur. It always scared him a little how quickly people forgot he was a person, and tried to touch him with a disrespect for boundaries they’d never dare to have when he was human. When he was younger he didn’t mind it so much, but the more he grew, the less he tolerated the touch of strangers. Still, he sat still, his head hung low to give them permission.

People never liked it when he refused to be pet, and he wanted to be liked so badly.

Just as the boldest of the other boys dared to bury a hand into the fur of his neck, a voice rang behind them.

"What is going on here?” Lan Xichen asked.

On pure instinct, Nie Huaisang dropped on his stomach to show he meant no trouble, looking up at his brother’s friend who seemed upset.

He always seemed upset around Nie Huaisang.

“Lan gongzi, that’s Nie gongzi !” one boy exclaimed, as if Lan Xichen might not have known that. “Isn’t it amazing? He’s cursed but he was going to let us pet him!"

If Nie Huaisang had missed the frown on the older boy’s face, the smell of his anger was unmistakable. He made himself lay even flatter on the ground, a little scared he might have gotten in trouble on his very first day there.

"I am well aware this is Nie gongzi, I recognise him,” Lan Xichen said with a pleasant smile. “I understand you are all new to the Cloud Recesses, but we have rules that must be respected. Unnecessary noise is frowned upon. Besides, it will soon be time for dinner, and you should start heading to the dining halls to make sure you get there on time.”

His voice was calm, gentle even, and he wasn’t that much older than them, but not a single one of them would have dared to object. Such was the effect that Lan Xichen had on people. Even Nie Huaisang quickly returned to his other shape so he could obey, but Lan Xichen stopped him from following the others.

“You should not use your gift like this,” he mildly scolded.

Nie Huaisang nodded, because his brother had often told him the same. It was one thing to shift whenever he pleased inside the Unclean Realm, where there were many others like him, but away from home he ought to have been more cautious.

“I won’t do it again, Lan gongzi,” he mumbled. “I swear, the whole time I’m here I’ll stay human."

"I wouldn’t ask that of you,” Lan Xichen protested. “It would be cruel of me. But exercise more caution, at least around people who you do not know well.”

“That's…"

"Just then, you seemed uncomfortable, right?” Lan Xichen asked, a little unsure now. “Or did I misunderstand the situation?"

Hesitantly, Nie Huaisang nodded again. It surprised him that Lan Xichen could read the body language of his other form. Outside of Qinghe Nie, few people could, unless they had a deep connection to a Nie. But of course, that was the case of Lan Xichen, who was so close to Nie Mingjue, so it shouldn’t have surprised him.

"You shouldn’t let people touch you if you don’t like it,” Lan Xichen admonished, to which Nie Huaisang could only nod again. Lan Xichen sighed. “Huaisang…"

Nie Huaisang looked at the other boy, hunching his shoulder as he awaited more reprimand, perhaps even punishment for making trouble already. Lan Xichen no longer seemed angry though. A little disappointed, almost sad, but not angry. Or, well, disappointed for sure. But sad? He had no reason to be sad, so Nie Huaisang had to be misreading that part.

"Yes, Lan gongzi?"

Lan Xichen sighed and shook his head.

"Nothing. We should go too, it wouldn’t do for us to be late to dinner."

"Yes, Lan gongzi."

Another sigh, and when Nie Huaisang looked again, Lan Xichen’s expression was definitely somewhat sad.

"I wouldn’t mind if you used my name,” he said with uncharacteristic hesitation. “You don’t have to be so formal with me. After all, you call my brother by name."

"Oh but it’s different, Wangji is my friend!” Nie Huaisang protested. “I really could not disrespect you like this!"

Lan Xichen pinched his lips, and turned away.

"Let’s just go. We’re really going to be late otherwise."

He started walking without waiting for Nie Huaisang who could only follow a few steps behind, wondering if he had somehow offended the other boy.

They made it on time for dinner, but only just. Lan Qiren threw Nie Huaisang an angry glare, as if it were his fault if his perfect nephew had nearly broken a rule.

Nie Huaisang sighed as he dug into his meatless meal, and promised himself to avoid Lan Xichen in the future.

Classes were a nightmare, and Nie Huaisang was sure he’d have to come back another year.

Meals were a nightmare, and he often had to go secretly hunt at night just to have some meat.

Other students were a nightmare, angry at him whenever he refused to change into his other form to amuse them.

So far, Nie Huaisang did not much enjoy his time in the Cloud Recesses.

At least, there was Lan Wangji, whose companionship was still so pleasant after all these years. Even though they had both grown and changed in many ways, in others they were still the same, able to spend endless hours in comfortable silence together. Anyone else needed to beg or threaten to get Nie Huaisang to transform before them these days, but all Lan Wangji needed was a glance and it was a done thing.

As the weeks passed, Nie Huaisang found himself visiting his friend every chance he had. Whenever it was warm enough, they would be on the porch together, Nie Huaisang laying in the sun in his animal shape, Lan Wangji sitting against him with a book or a piece of music he needed to study. Lan Qiren was never happy to find them like that, but could find nothing in his precious rules to forbid it. Lan Wangji usually just ignored him, obeying rules to the letter and refusing to consider other matters. As for Nie Huaisang, after a shichen spent in that form, he couldn’t care about things as useless as propriety and etiquette.

Everything was so much simpler when he was a snow leopard.

Everything, except Lan Xichen’s disapproval.

At least, Nie Huaisang thought of it as disapproval. Lan Wangji had more than once assured him that his brother bore him no ill-will, even hinting that he thought his friend was the one to bring coldness and distance into their acquaintance, but Nie Huaisang knew better. Lan Xichen always stayed a step or two away from him, especially when he was in his animal form, and he had that look on his face if he saw him playing with others as a leopard in the Cloud Recesses… though he usually had his expression more under control if Nie Huaisang was only with Lan Wangji, so of course his brother wouldn’t have noticed.

It really upset Nie Huaisang that Lan Xichen disliked him like that, though he wasn’t sure why. Maybe it was just that Lan Xichen clearly liked Nie Mingjue and Lan Wangji so much, who were also Nie Huaisang’s favourite people in the world, and it stung that the affection couldn’t be extended to him.

It was almost fall, but the weather was still warm that afternoon, so of course Nie Huaisang and Lan Wangji were together on the porch of the house the latter shared with his uncle and brother.

Until then, it had not been a very pleasant day for Nie Huaisang. The results of his last batch of exams had arrived, confirming something he had known for months: he was an idiot, and would need to return the year after to try learning what everyone else had managed in one year. His brother would be furious, just as Lan Qiren had been angry at this stain on his career as a teacher. Well, Nie Huaisang assumed he was angry. He hadn’t said anything, but of course he had to be angry.

At least, in his other shape, those things stopped mattering. As long as he could lay in the sun and enjoy Lan Wangji’s company, Nie Huaisang was a happy snow leopard.

Of course, even that was ruined when Lan Xichen appeared on the path to the house and walked right toward them, carrying a message from his uncle who requested Lan Wangji’s presence. Usually ever obedient, it was clear that Lan Wangji felt somewhat reluctant to leave his friend when he had been crying so much earlier, before taking on his animal form. Still, open rebellion was not in Lan Wangji’s nature and he quickly went, leaving his poor friend in the company of his brother.

Unwilling to annoy Lan Xichen, Nie Huaisang forced himself to turn back into a human. It took effort, as it always did when he was upset, but he managed.

“You could have stayed like that,” Lan Xichen said with a hint of a frown. “You’ve had a rough day. Isn’t it easier for Nie people to handle their emotions in their other shape?”

Nie Huaisang felt himself blush at the accusation and looked away. It was true, of course. The instant he’d become human again, the pain of failing his exams so badly had quickly returned, with now the added shame of being told he was too emotional over this. It really was too much. Nie Huaisang was sure he was going to cry if he stayed human too long, and it made him almost angry that Lan Xichen could be so dismissive with him when he was usually so kind to others.

"Lan gongzi, why do you dislike me so much?” he asked, hating how whiny he sounded but unable to help himself.

Lan Xichen startled and stared at him, eyes wide with surprise.

“Why would you think such a thing?"

"When you look at me, you often have that expression on your face,” Nie Huaisang explained with a shrug, daring to meet his eyes. “And you’re always looking at me if you’re nearby, like I’m going to make trouble otherwise. I won’t, you know! I’m trying hard not to! And then, also…"

"Also?"

Nie Huaisang shook his head. "No, it’s stupid. It’s really nothing. And it’s fine if you don’t like me!"

"I’m sure your concerns are not stupid,” Lan Xichen replied in an oddly strangled voice. “Tell me what I’ve done to make you believe I dislike you, so that I may correct it in the future."

It was an odd thing to say, as if it mattered what Nie Huaisang believed. Still, ordered to speak, it would have been wrong to stay silent.

"Everyone tries to touch me in my other form,” he explained. “But you never do. Even when we were little… You’ve really disliked me from the start, I guess?"

"I haven’t!” Lan Xichen cried out with emotion, before quickly regaining his composure. “Huaisang, I’ve never disliked you. And I’ve been… I’ve been as tempted by your fur as everyone else,” he admitted, some colour rising on his cheeks. “Even when I was little. But everyone was always touching you, often without your permission, so I thought it would be wrong to ask. I’ve long thought if you ever want to be pet by me you will say so, and otherwise it is better to leave you alone, since you are already pestered by so many others."

"Lan gongzi, I think that’s the kindest thing anyone has ever told me,” Nie Huaisang spluttered, his heart racing so fast and so hard that it nearly made him dizzy.

Nobody else ever seemed to care what he preferred in terms of boundaries, except Lan Wangji… but even he had had to learn over time, and at first he had imposed himself as much as all the others. Aside from that, the only people who hadn’t tried to pet Nie Huaisang upon seeing his other form were those who got too scared.

“If that’s the case, I’ll have a word with your brother,” Lan Xichen retorted with a warm smile that, for once, reached his eyes. “You deserve more kindness than that, Huaisang."

His cheeks ablaze, Nie Huaisang pouted.

"Now you’re teasing, Lan gongzi. But… So, you would want to?"

"Would you?” Lan Xichen retorted, his face a little redder in spite of the calm of his voice.

It was tempting to say no, just to see what would happen. If it had been anyone else, Nie Huaisang would have put the other person to the test, refusing to be touched yet still transform to tempt them. But Lan Xichen wasn’t just any person, he had proved already he would respect Nie Huaisang’s choice.

And as to whether Nie Huaisang wanted it or not…

It had always bothered him that Lan Xichen alone wouldn’t try to pet him in his other form. Part of it was just that he liked attention. But even after he had started disliking the touch of most others, he had still wondered about Lan Xichen. If he gave scratches half as good as Lan Wangji's… and with those long fingers of his, delicate enough for a guqin, strong enough for a bow, how could he not?

In a heartbeat, Nie Huaisang made his choice and turned into his other shape once more, quickly walking closer to Lan Xichen. The older boy knelt down next to him, but still made no movement to touch him.

“You didn’t really answer my question, Huaisang,” he noted, sounding somewhat amused.

A fair remark, and one that made Nie Huaisang’s heart clench in emotion. He didn’t want to turn back into a human, so instead he rubbed himself against Lan Xichen’s knees, hoping the invitation would be clear enough.

It must have been. Lan Xichen chuckled, and ran one hand through the thick fur on Nie Huaisang’s back.

“It’s softer than I thought,” Lan Xichen whispered in awe, a bright smile on his lips. “Worth the wait, certainly. Thank you for allowing me."

For a moment, Nie Huaisang feared the other boy would leave it at that, content with this single touch. He was happily proven wrong when Lan Xichen gently pet his head, letting his fingers glide behind one ear to lightly scratch there, right where it felt the best.

Nie Huaisang didn’t even realise he had started purring until Lan Xichen’s hands stilled on the back of his head.

"Is it you making that noise?” he gasped.

Nie Huaisang nodded, still purring. In this form he never felt as much embarrassment as when he was human, so he shamelessly nuzzled again Lan Xichen’s wrist, silently begging for him to resume scratching him. Even Lan Wangji and Nie Mingjue, who knew him so well, didn’t do it half as well.

“You really are full of surprises, Huaisang,” Lan Xichen said with a gentle laugh.

Nie Huaisang purred louder, pressing himself harder against the other boy until he ended up half on Lan Xichen’s lap. A great place to be, although the more human part of him would probably die of shame later, when he would return to his other form and realise what he had done.

A problem for later.

At that moment, laying on Lan Xichen’s legs and with his head scratched to perfection, Nie Huaisang was the happiest he had ever been, and nothing could spoil that.

#xisangweek2020 #xisang #nie huaisang #lan xichen #mdzs #NHS&LWJ AS BFF AGENDA HECK YEAH #tbh I think 99% of the discussions about this AU end up being about lwj having bff priviledge and everyone being jealous?XD #anyway sorry I've brought maybe a touch of angst into this (literally) fluffy AU XD

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sdwolfpup · 4 years ago

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I waited until the @jaime-brienne-fic-exchange Festive Festival was mostly done before talking about the fics that I was gifted this year, since I know everyone was deluged with wonderful stories, and the ones I was gifted were all excellent and I hope hope hope you make time for each of them. These are the fics I was @’d on in one form or another.

First up is the fic that my assigned writer, @naomignome wrote for me, A Winter Wish. Naomi is one of the funniest people I’ve ever met, but she also has an unbelievable knack for description even in comments, and such a good sense of tenderness and emotion and she brought all of that to her fic for me. In this, she takes one of my new favorite headcanons -- that Jaime and Brienne’s moms were friends! -- and transposes them to modern Westeros, where J & B meet as children during a tradition around the first snowfall. What’s especially brilliant about this is that she also keeps the years-long seasons, so the five (plus one) times they meet to do this spans a huge portion of their lives. There is humor and sorrow and flirting and sexiness and love underneath all of it. I was so happy when I saw she was my writer and this fic was fantastic.

They trudged in good humor to the closest park to the university, the air chilly and cold with the promise of snow. Brienne’s laughs came out in puffs of white, and Jaime yearned to jar the sound and keep it in his pockets for when he felt cold.

When the powdered snow began to drift down around them, he watched her smile openly into the sky, in a way that she only ever did at him and at first snow. He watched some lucky snowflakes catch on the soft tendrils of her pale eyelashes, and kiss the flush of her cheeks. The warmth wrapped around his heart, much like the mitten she had knit him wrapped around the stub of his hand.

For my stocking stuffers, I’ll go in order received. @potatothecat wrote me campfire stars in the distance. This is a lovely little modern AU vignette of Jaime and Brienne and all of their friends sharing a night around the campfire under the stars. It’s so quiet I can almost hear the crackle of the fire, and I can definitely hear Jaime’s very loud love for Brienne, even if their friends aren’t sure if it’s real between them or not. But they know it is, and that lovely bond between them comes through strongly.

They’ve done this a hundred times by now—on the couches in both their apartments, sitting on the floor across from Addam and Dany when the four of them meet up for game night, in restaurant booths, and now by the fireside—but it’s no less delightful for the familiarity of it. He’d spend his entire life pressed up against Brienne’s side if he could, staring into the dancing flames and laughing along with the rest of their friends as Sansa reenacts a prank she played on her siblings.

Then @eryiscrye wrote me Caught Gold Handed, which is a canon AU set after the Long Night, where Jaime and Brienne get in a snowball fight with the squires and orphans of Winterfell. That summary ALONE should sell you on this, if it being Eryi isn’t enough on its own. What’s marvelous about this is it’s a rare chance to see the canon characters having fun together, and the ways their love for each other comes through even in something as simple as Brienne helping Jaime make snowballs. No one can take this happily married version of JB from me, I will fight you.

She flushed, all blotchy and red. “We already slept in this morning.”

“We hardly slept. And that was this morning,” he replied as he happily pressed up by her side.

She glanced over at him, still shy, but also so bold, his darling lady wife. “We’ll go to bed early tonight.”

Jaime chuckled, “And yet sleep late.”

Brienne bit her bottom lip, “I suppose that is how all our days will go now.”

He beamed at her happily.

@kurikaesu-haru wrote Merry & Bright for a group of us and it is a delightful modern AU that tackles a bunch of tropes - fake dating! only one bed! Christmas activities! - in a fun, funny, and sweet package. The banter in this is wonderful and there are some tender little moments tucked in between the laughs (Arthur Dayne cutout!!) that are lovely to stumble on.

He rests his head against her shoulder, so his stubble scratches her skin, and he’s whispering in her ear. “And I’m glad you tricked me into standing under the mistletoe with you. Who else would I want to kiss as much as you?”

Brienne realizes, suddenly, that a lot of the things Jaime says to her mean, I love you.

@wildlingoftarth wrote a group gift fic as well, I want a house with a crowded table, which is a canon-based future established relationship fic that feels like coming home to family and sitting by the fire. It’s years and years later and Jaime and Brienne live happily in a cottage on Tarth and they’re welcoming their children and grandchildren for a feast. The weight of all their history and love is palpable. This is everything I want for them, and whatever canon may or may not says happens, this is where I believe they end up.

It is a life she never dared to hope for, never dreamed of in her days of fighting for this king or that, being sent on a series of seemingly impossible errands she accomplished through sheer force of will, and falling desperately and irrevocably in love along the way. That the man she’d fallen for had somehow developed the same feelings for her still fills her with astonishment at times, even after all these years.

THEN, @elizadunc wrote me Fêted Snow! This is a perfectly delicious little morsel of Brienne and Jaime married with kids (and more on the way!!), snowed in and making the most of it. Their banter and way with each other is so easy and familiar, their feelings and history are there, plain as the snow falling down out their window. It’s a delightful slice of their very happy life.

But then it had started snowing on Friday afternoon and apparently hadn’t slowed at all through the night. On Saturday morning when Brienne woke to a very insistently ringing phone she knew that the party, sorry, fête, was off.

She brought the phone back into the bedroom and smiled at the sight of Jaime stretched out across the bed in a starfish pose. He liked to claim he was an excellent bedmate but moments like this proved very much otherwise.

And finally, when my cup was already overflowing, @forbiddenfantasies1 came swooping in with Let’s Make This Next One Last and made me cry. This is a modern AU where Jaime and Brienne are happy and married (I would read eight thousand more stories where they are happy in an established relationship it is literally all I want from them) and their holiday plans get diverted when snow rolls in, cancelling a flight to see Dacey and Benjen (!!!). This fic is such a beautiful treatise on a long-term, mature couple who are struggling through the roteness of daily life. They still love each other deeply, it’s just life that is difficult right now, and their love and commitment to each other is what gets them through it. The tenderness and humor and history and beautifully hot sex are woven together perfectly into this utterly wonderful story.

Jaime was waiting at the bottom of the stairs for her, and she felt her heart tighten in her chest for a moment just as it always did when she laid eyes on him. He was still so gorgeous, even after all these years they had passed together. His hair was more gray than golden, and his face was softer, more lined, but she still only saw Jaime. Every mark of time that he bore was simply a reminder of all they had been through together, all the days that he had been hers, and only made him more beautiful in her eyes.

Right now he looked like the golden retriever she so often compared him to, nearly quivering in his skin with excitement. He had changed into his sleep clothes, a pair of thin gray pants that hugged his hips and thighs in a way that always made her fingers twitch, and a long-sleeved black tee that went perfectly with his complexion. She nearly rolled her eyes before she caught herself. Only Jaime Lannister could make lounging around the house during a vicious snowstorm a testimony of how attractive he was.

Thank you, again, to all of my gifters, I am so grateful to have received these and it helped make my end of the year an absolute joy. ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

#jaime x brienne #jaime x brienne fic recs #jaime x brienne festive festival exchange #overwhelmed with gratitude tbh #please go read these they're all excellent!!!#long post

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one-leaf-grimoire · 5 years ago

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Three Leafed Chaos

Chapter 1/4

I've had this sitting in my drafts for a while and finally posted the first chapter! It's a bit self indulgent but whatever. Enjoy!

Warnings: alcohol use, language

The three leaves of a clover represent faith, hope, and love. On the holiday known as Three Leaf day, citizens of the Clover Kingdom prepare a gift for a special someone. The receiver must give one of those three virtues in return. Faith and hope are good and everything, but the reward everyone is really looking for is love.

Well, almost everyone.

"Alright everyone, listen up! You better all be on your best behavior today. And get this damn building cleaned up! If anything goes wrong, I'm skinning all your hides."

Yami had bigger issues on his mind than Love. His squad, the Black Bulls, was notorious for being a group of unproductive ruffians. That was true, sure, but Yami still wanted to improve their reputation. Julius entrusted him with a squad, after all, it was the least he could do. Today might be a good day to achieve that; an official from the Castle was coming by to conduct an evaluation, which could directly affect squad rankings. If there was a time to get serious, it was now.

"Captain, Captain! I have a question!" Magna exclaimed, raising his hand. "Who exactly is it that's coming?"

Yami sighed and took a drag of his cigarette. "Some new official at HQ. I don't know the guy, but they're as green as they could get... probably some prissy noble boy, if I had to guess."

"Ooh, are they cute~?" Vanessa slurred from the couch.

"Probably not... by the way, you better be dressed and sober by the time they get here!"

Luck giggled and punched the air. "Ooh! Ooh! Can I fight them? I bet they'd like that!"

"Absolutely not."

"Maybe it's a girl!" Finral swooned. "If so-"

"Don't even finish that sentence."

Gauche sneered and held up his photo of his little sister. "Captain, there's no reason for me to be here. Can I go-"

"No, you can't go visit your sister."

"Grrrr!"

"That's enough! Everyone get cleaning!" Yami barked. The squad broke off to go do their chores, all anxious about tonight's evaluation. Yami sighed and sat down in his chair, pulling out a newspaper to distract himself. This could go really badly... it doesn't help that we're the last squad to get visited. This evaluator is going to be comparing us to all the other squads...

Meanwhile...

"Captain! I didn't expect you to be so tall! I mean, I've seen you before, from afar, but up close you're like a giant! Does it run in your family?"

Gueldre Poziot had no idea what to do, for the first time in his life. He and his squad were prepared better than anyone for this evaluation. He was well aware of the problems in his squad, and would rather conceal them than have them get fixed. Everything was in place, but he never expected this problem...

No, the problem wasn't the evaluation. It was the Evaluator.

Oh no. She's cute.

He didn't expect this official to be an extremely cute girl, that was for sure. "I- Uh- yes, actually, it runs in the family," he finally replied, trying to keep it together. Gueldre wasn't the type to get flustered like this, but there was something about the way she looked at him with those wide, bright eyes, and how cheerful and genuinely interested she seemed to be in him. He wasn't used to people being... nice to him. His squad obeyed him, sure, but that's as personal as it got. "So... let me give you a tour of our place?"

She closed her eyes as she smiled. "Of course!"

To his delight, she actually took the arm he offered her. Gueldre was practically giddy as he walked.

Look at me... could this be love?

Charlotte Roselei could only bring herself to love one man, Yami, but she was pretty sure she would never have her feelings returned. However, she did develop little crushes on women very easily. This was definitely one of those times.

"Wow, she seems like a cool person," Sol said to her captain. The two of them were watching from afar as the evaluator talked cheerfully with some of the other squad members. "Don't you wish that she would join our squad, sis?"

"It's captain, Sol," Charlotte corrected, a light blush on her cheeks. "And yes... I suppose I do."

Her heart jolted as the girl turned and jogged towards them. That was another cute thing about her... she was always moving, whether it be tapping her foot or pacing around, or fiddling a pen between her fingers. She never walked, she ran from place to place, even if it was just a short distance. She was so full of life and excitement, Charlotte couldn't help but feel drawn to her.

"Captain! What an amazing squad you have!" she burst out as she skidded to a stop. "So many powerful women! I wish I were a magic knight now, haha!"

Charlotte laughed to herself. It was surprising; she usually got so worked up over crushes, but this girl put her at ease. "It's not too late, you're welcome to stay here!"

"Oh, that's so nice of you! But, I couldn't possibly leave my current job... Marx says that my coffee is the only thing keeping him alive!"

Charlotte frowned. She knew Marx was one of the Wizard King's closest associates. "Coffee? They don't have you acting as a servant, do they?" The thought of a girl like her being reduced to such a role...

Luckily, the girl shook her head adamantly. "Oh, no no! It's not like that at all! I mean, I used to be a servant."

"Oh? So, you're not nobility?" Charlotte asked, wondering how this girl managed to climb so high in the ranks.

"Nope! I was a peasant, but my magic happens to be very convenient," she explained. "So, I worked in the castle as a royal servant. It wasn't great, but it was a job... but then, someone told me that I needed to go, er, spend time with the king... I was so scared! They made me wear a tasteless outfit and everything..." The girl laughed nervously, but Charlotte could tell by the look in her eyes that it was a truly bad memory. The Captain wanted nothing more than to grab her in her arms right then and there, and protect her from this cruel, evil world.

"But!" Her eyes suddenly lit up, and she started to talk so fast that it was a little difficult to tell what she was saying. "I was so scared, I decided to run away! I started using my magic and making a big hole in the wall to jump out because otherwise I would have to go back through all the guards... but then, who should walk by but the Wizard King! I had never seen him before and thought he would be old and ugly like Augustus (Don't tell him I said that please), but he wasn't either of those things! He asked what was going on and I told him, so he took me with him instead! And, ta da! Here I am." She spread her arms out cutely to punctuate her point. "Well, that's all I really have to do here. I have three squads left to check out." She turned and waved goodbye. "See you later, Charlotte!"

Charlotte blinked, then realized that it was too late to ask the girl out. Dammit! I'll have to invite her to tea or something next time.

"Big Sis?"

Sol poked Charlotte in the cheek, the older woman having zoned out watching the Evaluator run off out of sight. "Is something wrong?"

"No, no! Nothing." Charlotte blushed. "And it's Captain, Sol."

"Got it, Sis!"

Despite Sol's antics, Charlotte had a little smile on her face.

Three-leaf day is coming up soon after all...

"Are you sure you want to come? It might be dangerous." Fuegoleon frowned down at the young woman who was sent to evaluate his squad. They were about to leave on a mission to round up some dangerous magical beings out in the strong magic region.

However, the girl wasn't dissuaded. "What better way for me to evaluate you guys than go on a mission! I probably can't stay the whole time, I have one more squad to visit. And also!" She grinned and punched the air, trying to look tough. "I can take care of myself!"

...cute, Fuegoleon thought to himself, but was suddenly drawn from his thoughts as his sister Mereoleona, who was here to visit for a few days, slung her arm around the evaluator's shoulders. "I like you! There's nothing I love more than a tough woman!" the flame-haired woman laughed. "And if you get in trouble, I'll be the one to save you." She sent a playful glare over at Fuegoleon, but her message was clear. Hands off. This one's mine.

Fuegoleon sensed a challenge, and smirked to himself. Over my dead body. "Very well. You may accompany us."

They headed off to the strong magic region. The magic creatures were like large, purple octopuses, flinging rocks around with their tentacles. "Make sure to just knock them out! We've been ordered to relocate them!" Fuegoleon ordered. The Crimson Lions yelled back in response before rushing into battle. Fuegoleon crossed his arms and watched, glancing out of the corner of his eye at the Evaluator, who was entranced. "So? What do you think?"

"They're wonderful!" she exclaimed. "So many powerful knights, and they're all so well coordinated..." She turned to beam up at Fuegoleon. "That's because of your leadership though, right?"

It took everything Fuegoleon had to fight off his blush. "Ah- er- I suppose. The squad all works hard, though."

"Mhmm! And Mereoleona's wonderful!" She pointed at his sister, who was kicking one of the octopus's ass. "I've never seen someone fight like that!"

"Big bro! Can I get a little help?" Fuegoleon looked over to see his brother Leopold struggling with one of the beasts. He let out a deep sigh. "Sure." He ran off to help, and the two of them quickly dispatched the enemy. Haha, look at that! That must have impressed her... Fuegoleon turned around to see that she was, indeed, shocked at the power he just gave off. But what really got his attention was what was coming up behind her.

"Oh no! Look out!"

The evaluator turned around just in time to see one of the Octopuses barreling towards her. Both Mereoleona and Fuegoleon sprang into action, sprinting towards her as fast as they could. Shit! I'm not going to get there in time! Fuegoleon's eyes widened as the beast prepared to crush the small girl with its tentacles. It's going to kill her! FUCK-

The Evaluator raised her hand, her Grimoire already open in front of her. "Dehydration Magic: Vanishing Vapor!"

As soon as the spell was cast, the beast suddenly started to wilt up as all of the water vapor in its body was squeezed out. It let out a squeal of confusion as it shriveled up, shrinking down rapidly. A moment later, the once-fearsome animal plopped on the ground at her feet, the size of a normal octopus.

Fuegoleon and Mereoleona skidded to a stop, their jaws hanging open. The girl giggled and picked up the octopus in her hands, as it squirmed around helplessly. "I told you I could take care of myself, right?" They had no words. "Here." She handed the creature to Fuegoleon. "You two are impressive, and so is this squad! Unfortunately, I really need to get going, but this was fun!" They both waved goodbye weakly as she turned, grabbed her broom, and flew off into the north. The sun was setting.

"...Damn." was all Mereoleona could say. "She was... interesting."

Fuegoleon nodded, smiling to himself a little. That was... kind of hot. There was a strange feeling in his chest, something he hadn't felt for a long time. "I hope we can see her again soon."

"Hmm." Mereoleona hummed in agreement. "After all... Three Leaf day is coming up soon."

"Hi everyone! Sorry I'm so late, I got caught up in a mission with the Crimson Lions! How are you doing tonight?"

Yami and the other Black Bulls stared at the girl in front of them. This was the evaluator the Wizard King sent them? Slowly, Yami looked her up and down, then smiled to himself. Julius... thank you for making my day. No, for making my week. He cleared his throat. "It's fine. Come on in."

The others watched in silence as Yami and her walked around the base, discussing the latest missions and squad performances. "Wow... she really is a cutie," Finral said, hearts in his eyes. "Do you think she would talk to me?"

"Probably, but just to be nice," Charmy responded, breaking the man's heart.

"And besides, I think Yami would kill you if you did," Magna commented. "I mean, look at him."

"What about him?"

"Use your eyes," Gauche grunted, Gordon peering over his shoulder at the scene. "He's going to try and hit that by the time she leave."

"Hit that? What do you mean-"

"By the way, where is Vanessa?"

Speak of the Devil. Vanessa came staggering around the corner, still in her underwear, and spotted the Evaluator. "Oh! They're here! And they're a girl!" She giggled and slung an arm around the girl's shoulder.

Yami glared at her. "Vanessa! I told you to get dressed! Are you still drunk?" Not only could this ruin their evaluation, but it might ruin his chances with this pretty girl.

"Yami, she's just comfortable in her own skin, that's all!" The evaluator giggled and let Vanessa lean on her. "And besides, everyone enjoys a drink now and then! Even me."

"Yeah, but Vanessa here enjoys like 30 drinks," Yami commented, a little nervous about it.

"Awww, not only are you cute, but you're also kind~" Vanessa tapped the girl on the nose.

"Cute? Ahah," the girl laughed nervously and blushed. "Well, thank you."

"Now! Come have a drink with me," Vanessa coaxed. "it's Squad tradition."

"Vanessa-"

"Sure! I love traditions!" Everyone cheered and started pulling the girl off toward the dining room. Yami let out a frustrated breath. This wasn't going to end well.

And end well, it did not. Charmy made a feast as the others poured their drinks, and tried to feed it to the Evaluator. "Try this! It's one of my favorite recipes!"

"Thank you!" The girl took a bite, and stars were instantly in her eyes. "So good!"

"Here, a toast!" Vanessa handed her a glass of wine then raised her own. "To... tradition!"

"TO TRADITION!"

15 minutes later, everything was in chaos. Luck and Magna were fighting. Guache was yelling at Charmy and Gordon, Grey was squatting in the corner, and Vanessa as forcing another glass into the poor Evaluator's hands. "Here! One more couldn't hurt!"

"Vanessa, that's enough," Yami was trying to stay calm for the sake of appearances but it was getting hard to do. "Look at her, she's at her limit."

Indeed. The evaluator was flushed pink, her eyes glassy. However, she snapped out of it at Yami's words. "No way! I can handle more!" She grabbed the glass. "I need to surpass my limits! Watch me!"

The words were like the arrow of cupid, which sailed right into Yami's heart. He could do nothing but stare in awe as the girl chugged her glass before letting out a laugh. "See! I did... I..."

Uh oh. Her eyes suddenly went dark.

"I..."

She couldn't say another word. The evaluator passed out right there on the couch, slumping down like a deflated balloon.

"...look what you've done!" Everyone suddenly paused, terrified at the sight of the unconscious woman. Yami checked her pulse and breathing. "She's alright, but she could be sleeping for a while. We really messed this up..." He clenched his jaw. Not only did I let everyone get wild, but I couldn't be in control of the situation... I really am a shitty captain sometimes.

"W-what are we going to do with her?" Magna stuttered, pointing. "Isn't she supposed to work in the castle? They might think we've kidnapped her!"

"No... I doubt it'll be that serious," Yami said, grabbing a blanket and pillow and tucking the girl in. She made a soft sound and buried her face in the pillow. "We'll watch her carefully tonight."

"And I'll make her breakfast in the morning!" Charmy piped up.

I have a feeling she's going to be more interested in purging her stomach than filling it, Yami said, staring down at the sleeping woman. However... she is really, really cute when she sleeps...

Suddenly, he tensed up. He could feel something rocketing towards the base, a magical signature so powerful that it could only belong to one man.

"...uh oh."

Something made impact with the ground outside, and a moment later there was a knock on the door. Yami steeled himself for what was inevitably to come. "Everyone. Stand up straight. Don't act up for once in your pathetic lives."

Everyone was confused for a couple minutes, until Yami opened the door to reveal none other than Julius Novachrono, the Wizard King himself, standing there. "Good evening, Yami! It's good to see you... say, have you happened to see-"

Yami got straight to the point. "You're looking for her, right?" He stepped out of the way to point at the sleeping lump on the couch.

"Ah! You killed her?!" Julius rushed by in a panic, stopping next to the couch with a distraught look on his face. "No, not killed... but Yami!" He frowned and crossed his arms. "What on earth happened here? Why is the evaluator I sent you asleep on the couch?"

"She got... uh..." Yami kicked his toe into the ground sheepishly. "She's drunk."

"Yami! People die of alcohol poisoning all the time, you know," Julius scolded. Yami expected this, but it hurt all the same. "She's a lightweight, too. Honestly..." Julius let out a sigh and turned back to the couch.

Yami felt the disappointment radiating off of the older man, making his heart clench more. "...I'm sorry."

Julius raised an eyebrow, surprised that Yami actually apologized for once. "It's alright... at least she had fun." He smiled a little. "Anyway, thanks for making her comfortable." He said nothing else before leaning down, carefully picking her up in his arms as if she were some glass thing he was afraid would break. Julius let out another sigh through his nose, but this time it felt more like relief. "You'll hear back about the evaluation in a couple days. Have a good night!" Despite the tension, Julius smiled at them warmly before turning around. With a flash of light, the two of them disappeared.

"... great. Of course he had to show up and see everything for himself," Yami grumbled, pulling out another cigarette.

"Captain... we're all very sorry, we shouldn't have-"

"No. Just... go to bed. I'm not mad," Yami cut Magna off before walking off to his room. Right now, he needed a good shit and a good sleep. However, despite this debacle, Yami felt a pit of warmth in his chest.

Even after everything that happened... I'm glad I got to meet her. He smiled to himself. And, after all...

Three Leaf day is coming up.

#black clover #yami sukehiro #Fuegoleon Vermillion #mereoleona vermillion #charlotte roselei #gueldre poizot #x reader #writing #three Leafed chaos #julius novachrono #long post

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firewoodfigs · 5 years ago

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Summary: Roy thought this was fine. Perfectly acceptable, in fact. Stolen, furtive kisses over daybreak and evening-time tasting of ginger tea and caffeine; the occasional quiet embrace or two filled with warmth and suppressed ardour. Little indulgences like these were enough to keep them hanging on to each other, to their shared resolve.

“... her eyelids flutter, her breath hitches, and Roy thinks there’s nothing more exquisite than the taste of her. Her morning coffee lingers within. Two spoonfuls of sugar, but it is the indiscernible hum in her throat that sweetens the kiss.”

(for @royaiweek day 5: picture prompt - lovers at sunset; part 6 of Royai Week 2020. thank you mods for the wonderful week! 💕)

~x~

It happened once, on Miss Hawkeye’s thirteenth birthday. Roy had overheard from some of her peers as he was making his way back from a trip to the nearby grocer’s that it was that strange girl’s birthday, and did you see, she didn’t receive any presents - does she even have any friends?

In truth, it wasn’t difficult to figure out why she was friendless. From the little time he’d spent with her in the Hawkeye’s manor she wasn’t the nicest person around. Roy had tried to approach her a few times in the spirit of the good Samaritan, but any attempts at friendliness had been met with hostility. Like that one time he saw her swinging alone on the makeshift swing in their backyard. He had offered to push her on the swing, but she’d pushed him in the chest instead before disappearing back to her room. Or the other time he’d offered to help her with her chemistry homework when he saw her struggling with a permanent scowl etched on her features, in which she had merely stormed off after remarking angrily that she didn’t need an arrogant city boy like him rubbing it in her face.

�� Like he said, Miss Hawkeye wasn’t the nicest person around.

Nevertheless, in spite of her antagonism, Roy liked to believe that she was an inherently good person somewhere deep down, if one looked hard enough. Really hard. He’d seen her feed leftovers to the dogs that visited their backyard occasionally though she barely had enough to eat for herself. The Hawkeyes’ abject poverty also meant that food was scarce, but even then she always made sure he got the bigger portion instead.

(Of course, he had tried - multiple times, in fact - to insist otherwise, but any resistance he put up was only met with a baleful glare and a stiff upper lip.)

For the most part, therefore, he was content to leave her alone, and she generally seemed to prefer dogs to people anyway. His days were filled with studying and thick tomes and incomprehensible codes, and Roy was focused on becoming a remarkable, respectable alchemist. One that his aunt would be proud of. Any spare time he had was typically dedicated to trawling through the awfully dusty library in the Hawkeyes’ estate for research and reading.

But this was different.

Birthdays were special, sentimental, as his sisters had indoctrinated in him from the time he’d learnt how to count. Enough to count their birthdays, they claimed. Roy therefore felt terrible at the thought of her spending it alone, without so much as a single gift or birthday wish. From the little he’d gleaned from her relationship with Master Hawkeye it was clear that the man didn’t pay much attention to her, and he found himself wondering if his Master even remembered that it was his daughter’s birthday.

Sadly, his theory was proven right over lunch.

As usual, Miss Hawkeye had been the one to prepare their meals. While he wanted to help, the kitchen felt a little like Miss Hawkeye’s untouchable holy ground - except for the fact that even the removal of his shoes wouldn’t permit him to enter. He ended up waiting awkwardly in the living room, pretending to be engrossed in a thick alchemical tome for the rest of the afternoon amidst sizzling pans and fragrant spices.

When lunch was ready, they ate together as a trio, but neither Master Hawkeye or Miss Hawkeye made any mention of her birthday.

It was just like any other normal day - tense, quiet and sombre.

Afterwards, he returned to his studies, an uncomfortable feeling settling in his gut, but not from Miss Hawkeye’s cooking. Lunch had been fine - great, in fact. Her culinary skills were fantastic, second only to his aunt’s and sisters’. Miss Hawkeye didn't seem to react well to compliments, though, so he smartly refrained from singing her praises.

Alone in his room, the mangled mix of emotions only multiplied tenfold. He'd tried to distract himself with the textbooks strewn across his table, on his bed, but it failed. Nothing could pacify the guilt that had been gnawing at him.

Roy sat upright on his bed, pillow to his chest as he thought long and hard about Miss Hawkeye’s birthday.

He didn’t even know what she liked, and he most certainly didn’t want her to feel like he was lording his money over her. Ordinarily, he might have gifted his sisters with a handmade card, but he didn’t know her well enough to know the words to write. Saying thank you for being so kind and loving all the time didn’t seem to sit well for some reason, and given how sharp she was she would probably see through the lie.

So perhaps something that didn’t cost him anything, and didn’t require him to pen down his thoughts (because really, it was hard to have that many thoughts about a person who barely said much to him) would work best.

A piece of driftwood, or flowers plucked from a nearby bush, maybe?

But those sounded absurd, even to him, and he failed to see what purpose Miss Hawkeye had for those things. Maybe a place he could bring her to?

Then, it hit him like an epiphany. Of course.

He had recently discovered, during one of his recent trips to the forest when he’d been tasked by his Master to collect firewood, that there was a secret hideout that lay within. Oddly enough, that particular corner was unshrouded by trees, and the sunsets there were exceptionally breathtaking - especially when the sunlight refracted off the clear, emerald lake in the middle of the little sanctuary. Occasionally, Roy would take a short break on the abandoned bench to admire the view and empty his mind of the vicissitudes of life that plagued a fifteen-year-old. But the bench was large enough for two, and he sometimes yearned for a companion who could enjoy the scenery with him…

And now, Miss Hawkeye could.

He grinned excitedly as he sprinted over to her room, though when he arrived the wooden door suddenly seemed rather... intimidating.

But Roy was determined to make sure that Miss Hawkeye had a decent birthday, at least. Such occasions were not meant to be spent in isolation, in bitter solitude.

He would not falter.

Taking a deep breath, he mustered all the courage in him and finally knocked on her door, mentally rehearsing what he was going to say. Why am I getting so nervous, anyway? It’s not even a date -

She opened the door to stare at him quizzically. “Uh… hi,” he stuttered. Words eluded him.

“May I help you, Mr. Mustang?”

“Ah, yes... Would you mind taking a stroll with me?” With that one question the look of curiosity on her face was quickly morphing into scepticism, distrust.

“What for?”

“It’s your birthday, right?”

Now she was most definitely suspicious. “... How did you know?”

He gulped. “I… overheard some… things…” he finished lamely. “Anyway, I just wanted to give you a little gift, that’s all.” The large, overbearing grandfather clock in the hallway signalled that it was about five o’clock in the afternoon, and if they went now the timing would be perfect. “Nothing weird, I just wanted to show you a place. If you don’t mind?”

Miss Hawkeye scrutinised him carefully, as if searching for any hint of deception. He kept his palms open, pupils dilated in earnest, and gave his most charming, sincere smile.

When she was finally satisfied that he was being honest, she relented. “... Okay. But not for long, I have to be back to prepare dinner.”

He smiled sunnily at her in response. “Of course, Miss Hawkeye. Shall we go?” She nodded in agreement before following him quietly, and he was thankful for the relatively comfortable silence that had settled between them as they walked through the forest.

Miss Hawkeye was quite a sight to behold, he realised. The sunlight that crept through the dense crowd of trees cast a charming light on her stoic but pretty countenance, and in the forest she seemed a lot more relaxed; a childlike innocence and joy twinkling in her golden eyes. Her skirt billowed gracefully along with the falling leaves that frolicked in the autumn breeze, but despite her attire she moved lithely; feet shuffling through detritus with disconcerting familiarity and ease like she’d done this before.

Eventually, they arrived at their destination. A light sheen of sweat was beginning to form on their foreheads, but they found, much to their delight, that the sun was starting to set in brilliant shades of aureate and tangerine. Roy tugged at her wrist gently to lead her to the bench, to which she shyly obliged, settling them both onto their respective seats. “Here we are. Lovely, isn’t it?”

“It is. I’ve been here before, actually,” she said, fingers fiddling idly with the hem of her skirt as she gazed at the picturesque scene ahead, lulled by the sighs of the water and the gently rocking waves before them.

Roy was a little taken aback by this new revelation. “How did you know about this place?”

Miss Hawkeye’s fingers continued to pick at the threads, and he wondered how they hadn’t come loose by this point. “My mother used to bring me here, too, a long time ago,” she murmured softly, a brittle sort of reverence in her voice.

He stiffened, fervently hoping he hadn’t offended her in some way by bringing her here. “I… I’m sorry, Miss Hawkeye, if this place brings back bad memories.”

She shook her head, but though her lips were beginning to curve upwards in a small smile there was a poignant look in her eyes, like she was reminiscing a distant memory that could never be recreated. “No, it’s not like that. I just… it’s a nice place.”

“It is,” Roy echoed. The silence that had dawned upon them suddenly felt very awkward to him. He swallowed nervously, but decided to ignore the thoughts swimming in his head. Instead, he continued to stare at the sunset that was unfurling in front of them, silently hoping that Miss Hawkeye enjoyed her birthday gift.

“Thank you for bringing me here, Mr. Mustang,” she whispered, legs swinging in tandem with the water’s rhythm.

It broke him out of his reverie. Roy was delighted with the small affirmation that she did like her present, after all. He turned to look at her again, and was mesmerised by how tender she looked, saturated in orange. “Roy.”

“What?”

“Please, call me Roy.”

“... Okay.”

“Can I… can I call you Riza?” He asked, hoping she wouldn’t behead him there and then in the middle of the forest. She nodded imperceptibly while keeping her eyes ahead. Roy couldn’t tell if it was the sunset glow that painted her cheeks in the subtlest shade of scarlet, or if it was a blush.

Either way, he beamed, happy with the progress they had made. “Happy birthday, Riza.”

This time, the smile reached her eyes. Roy’s heart began to pulsate in his throat. He felt his breath being taken away, but he was unsure if it was because of the breathtaking scene in front of them or something else. For while the sunlight continued to scatter glittering diamonds on smaragdine, the sparkles dancing in her ochre eyes suddenly seemed infinitely more fascinating.

In front of them, their shadows began to lengthen with the sun’s movement, before slowly merging into one.

~x~

“What’s on your mind, sir?”

“Nothing, just appreciating the sunset,” Roy chuckled. After regaining his vision, he’d come to rediscover an appreciation for simple things that he might have previously taken for granted. But while the sight of the setting sun engulfing the tall buildings in Central was rather glorious in its own way, it paled in comparison to the warm, fulgent rays delicately kissing his Captain, painting her lovely visage in a warm, tender gold.

Roy often found himself wishing that he could be the one kissing her there and then instead during moments like these. Quite unfortunately, though, any semblance of a relationship they shared would have to remain strictly confidential. Their duty to make reparations took precedence over anything else, and in any case the anti-fraternisation laws were still in place.

Dating like two normal civilians were therefore prerogatives that they did not have.

But this was fine. Perfectly acceptable, in fact. Stolen, furtive kisses over daybreak and evening-time tasting of ginger tea and caffeine; the occasional quiet embrace or two filled with warmth and suppressed ardour. Little indulgences like these were enough to keep them hanging on to each other, to their shared resolve.

Anything beyond that - holy matrimony, domesticity and normalcy, perhaps a family of three - probably teetered dangerously close on the precipice of avarice.

This too, shall suffice. Roy ran a hand through his unkempt hair, as if doing so would quell his desires, before turning to give her a soft smile. A conspiratorial whisper, one that only she could hear. “And you.”

“I see,” she replied impassively, although the gears in her brain were already clicking as memories of her thirteenth birthday flashed behind her eyes. Speaking of sunsets and birthdays…

Of course, it didn’t escape her that Roy’s birthday was coming up soon, the same way his daily schedule was never a mystery to her. Birthdays weren’t a particularly special occasion to Riza, but Roy liked to make it so.

She smiled gently as she observed fire dancing in obsidian, suddenly overwhelmed with gratitude that his schedule was mercifully empty for the next few days.

Perhaps a trip to Tobha is in order.

~x~

The train ride to Tobha was one filled with companionable silence as vast conglomerations of buildings faded past them into rustic fields and lush valleys of green. Roy picked indolently on a slice of cake that the train staff had kindly provided for their journey. Whether this was a surprise of sorts from his beloved Captain, he wasn’t sure, but he couldn’t help chuckling at the memory of almost-begging a young girl to follow him somewhere on her birthday nearly decades ago.

The close proximity between them now reminded him of that memory - the first time he’d inched so close to her without a looming death threat. But now, sitting so close to one another felt like second nature. Wherever they went, his feet always somehow drew him subconsciously nearer to her, and vice versa; revolving around each other like planets in orbit. In some ways, he supposed their presence had the effect of pulling each other in like gravity.

Slowly, he encroached into her personal space to lean his head on her shoulder. Then, he took her right hand in his (hers were smaller, colder) and ran a thumb gently across her knuckles, committing every callused ridge and line to memory to reassure himself again that this wasn’t a dream. That she was well and alive before his very eyes; eyes that could see once more.

“What are you doing, sir?” Riza muttered under her breath, an accusation and a protest. She’s a little embarrassed by how overtly affectionate he was despite the cabin’s privacy.

Roy, on the other hand, could care less.

“There’s no one else here,” he whined, like he was fifteen again. “And it’s my birthday, so let me have this privilege, please?”

She doesn’t bother deigning him with a verbal response. But with a free hand, she cards through his unkempt hair, and Roy feels the faint thrumming of a quickening pulse as she does so. He grins triumphantly to himself before allowing the inconsistent rhythm to lull him to sleep. It’s the most peaceful slumber he’s had in months: he dreams of gossamer webs and sunsets in autumn, reliving a treasured adventure, a cherished memory.

It’s short-lived, though. Soon enough, he’s awoken by her shoulders shrugging against his neck. “We’re here, sir.”

Roy places a finger on her lips. “Please call me Roy,” he requests politely, mirth and nostalgia dancing in his eyes as she rolls hers.

“Fine, Roy. Shall we go?” Roy can’t help but let out an unbridled, wholehearted laugh. It feels a little like a fairytale told in reverse, he thinks. One that he doesn’t mind countless retellings of.

“Of course, Miss Hawkeye,” he replied, intertwining his fingers as they got off the train. She grumbled at his idiocy, but was nonetheless thankful for the lack of prying eyes in this isolated, raffish town.

Together they walk to the forest, hand in hand, and with a quick glance at his pocket watch Roy realises it’s five. The perfect time to watch the sunset. Roy already has a rather accurate idea of where they’re going, but nonetheless obliges - teasingly, of course - when Riza tells him to close his eyes as they pass through magnificent woodland. The smell of wood and damp earth makes for a cornucopia of childhood innocence, one that he’s more than happy to immerse himself in.

“Close your eyes, Roy.”

“Or what, you’ll blindfold me? I didn’t know you were into stuff like -”

“On second thought, maybe I’ll just knock you out myself.” Riza glares at him, feeling like he’s just ruined the magic of the moment with his predilection for bad jokes.

Roy laughs again before complying, lifting his hands to cover his eyes. As he peeks through the infinitesimal gaps, he sees her shaking her head in exasperation, but the slightest hint of amusement makes itself known in the form of a subtle smile.

“Okay, now follow me.” Riza says, and he does. It’s easy to follow her. Roy knows her so well by this point that he understands every change in pitch, every hitch of her breath, every tug at his arm like simple chemistry.

(There’s an electrifying chemistry in the air between them, and he wishes he could seal it with a kiss right there and then.)

Patience, patience.

“I’ll follow you into hell if you wish, Riza,” he opts for teasing her again, and though his eyes are closed, he can already envisage her scowl in his mind.

Regardless, she’s still a sight to behold, as she’d been as a thirteen-year-old.

“We’re here,” she announces a little excitedly, breathily. Instinctively, Roy removes his hands from his eyes to cover her open palm instead.

Tugging at her wrist gently, he leads her towards a wooden bench that’s all too familiar. It’s a little weather-beaten by time and rain, but sturdy all the same: it supports their weight comfortably as they sit, bodies adjacent to each other. Their shadows merge once more as the sun bathes their silhouette in crimson and orange. Roy pulls her in with an arm and relishes in the contact, sneaking a glance at her every so often while she watches the sunset unfold.

Before them, the vivid blaze began to soften into a gentle lilac as the lake drowned out the final vestiges of the sun. Any worries and sins and tragedies that might have plagued them receded like a spectre with the setting sun to give them a moment of undisturbed quietude. It’s incredible to watch, and Roy might have been fascinated by the show if he wasn’t so entranced by the way it reflected in Riza’s eyes; the scarlet mottling her cheeks (he’s pretty sure it’s a blush this time).

Lost in admiration, Roy doesn’t even notice that the enormous sky above them has turned a deep, dark blue until she points out that the first star of the night has appeared.

“Could be Venus instead of a star,” he muses out loud.

“You really have an uncanny ability to spoil things, Roy,” Riza frowns.

“Well, in Roman mythology, Venus was the goddess of love and beauty, and also sex and fertility...”

“... Let’s narrow it down to the goddess of love. Your point being?”

Her question is pure rhetoric at this point as she turns to look at him. Their noses bump against each other’s, but neither makes a move to withdraw. Roy leans in closer, nearer, the same way there was no distance separating their hearts.

Finally, their lips touch, and it feels a little like stars are being born in the enormous universe above them. It starts off tentative, gentle. Riza runs her hands tenderly through a crown of raven black to draw him deeper into the kiss, decades of pining and memories and love unfurling beneath them. It continues like a slow waltz, as though they had all the time in the world, but soon it quickens into a passionate, heated dance as they open their mouths to offer an invitation to explore charted territory. Her eyelids flutter, her breath hitches, and Roy thinks there’s nothing more exquisite than the taste of her. Her morning coffee lingers within. Two spoonfuls of sugar, but it is the indiscernible hum in her throat that sweetens the kiss.

“Happy birthday, Roy,” she whispers after they pull apart.

“Not Mr. Mustang?” Roy manages to quip, a little breathless himself.

Riza sniggers good-naturedly. Idiot. “No, sir.”

He flashes her a smile, one of bittersweet understanding, before leaning in to press his forehead against hers. “Let me savour this moment for a bit more before we get back to business, Riza.”

“Of course, Roy.” She supposed they could afford just this one moment of indulgence before resuming their roles as Brigadier General and Captain.

At the very least, we’ll have these hours of glory to keep our hearts alight, alive.

#royaiweek20 #royai #royai fic #young royai #secret relationship hehe #we're all saps for royai here #finally figured out how to share fics from ao3 onto Tumblr LOL #pls lmk if there are any grammatical errors my brain is not working anymore

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theteej · 4 years ago

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“You need to take serious time for yourself, do self-care, or something,” my best friend Mark said to me, uncomfortably earnestly.

“I’m serious. You haven’t been letting anything in, and you just have to sit and stop running. Go process, or feel, or just let it sink in that you did things and you surprisingly don’t suck.”

Fuck, he’s right.

And so that’s what I’m doing. Last week I booked an Airbnb in La Jolla, a tony coastal enclave of San Diego near where I went to undergrad. I pretended I was on vacation, but in a pandemic. I booked a small studio near the water, and planned to spend these next few days reading, reflecting, walking along the ocean, and staying otherwise indoors and trying to wrestle with this whole semester. I pulled up to the studio last night, unpacked my bags, and cried. Like cried a lot. I felt lonely and scared, but also so numb. I felt a sea of blankness all around me, and a sense of trepidation.

Honestly, I don’t know what to do about all of my stupid feelings.

Where to start?

I feel like I’ve been anxious nearly my whole life. It’s absolutely something that developed as a kid with a violent, drunken father. You learn to live in between heartbeats like that, always testing what’s about to happen, trying to think of the next thing to plan in order to stay safe. Sure, your brain says tauntingly. Things are OK right now, but what if they’re not in a few minutes? Or even worse: Things ARE terrible—what are you going to do if they stay that way forever? These are the gifts Tyrone Tallie Sr left me, along with an unoriginal legal name and a stubborn widows peak visible whenever I grow my hair out for a few weeks.

Couple that with a natural tendency to think quickly, and you have the birth of a personality that masked my calculating self-security by turning those constant permutations into clever moments for interaction or comment. Like many people, my wit is born of trauma; the ability to process things in quick time is born out of needing to feel safe, and frequently gets deployed to put others at ease. That’s one of the weirder contradictory things about being me. I am simultaneously witty and clever and in control, and I am also always quietly freaking out, or at the very least, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Which is why this has been….a damn semester. Teaching two classes fully remotely with panicked, overwhelmed students in the shadow of an ever-worsening pandemic that stretches on and on without end and feeling daily gaslighted by the endless selfishness of your fellow citizens—what a gift for the anxious. Ironically, anxiety helped to a certain extent because I didn’t have the shock of falling into a new world of uncertainty or fear that so many non-anxious folk did this year. But that’s hardly a gift, is it? Congratulations! You’re already living as if a bomb can go off at any moment, so you’re not struggling to adjust to the new horror show of life!

Teaching this semester has been…just without any context. I’ve taught online, but not in this same planned way and with everyone panicking, and the looming threat of pandemic and election. And yet we did it. We pulled ourselves together, and my students were honest about their needs and their breakdowns and I tried to model humility and grace and confusion and rage as well as they did. We didn’t fuck it up. Or, we all fucked up, and it was okay. We learned things. Students surprised me, and it was glorious. I got to be broken and I didn’t die.

It was an intense semester of overworking as well. I was on a bunch of committees, formal and informal, and we managed to get a new minor—African Studies—passed. I’ll be heading a new program on campus next year, and that’s exciting and terrifying. And on top of all of that, I couldn’t stop volunteering for stuff, or talking about things I cared about. In addition to teaching, I gave fourteen different presentations or talks this semester, an increase in expectations or agreements on my part thanks to the ubiquity of zoom. It grinds on you: the whole, get up, trudge to the back room, power up a personality for the zoom camera, and pour yourself digitally into a screen, only to feel yourself broken into little packets of light and data and scattered across the universe.

The talks went well. The student evaluations went well. Honestly, both were fucking great. And I haven’t let myself feel a goddamn thing. I let it slide off me like rain on a waxed deck, the droplets beading on the slick wood before slipping away into the darkness. I cant let it sink in, because then something good might be happening, and the very skills that have made me capable—the whip-fast reflexes, the self-deprecating humour, the rapid analysis—are also tied to the very deep-seeded anxiety. Everything has to be calculated and understood and prepared for, because at some moment a dark curtain is going to fall over the face of a man with my same name. He will smack me so hard I will go flying out of a chair and hit the wall with a soft, sickly whump, a particularly unpleasant of me at seven that I carry sewn into every cell of my skin and fiber of my being.

I can’t stop and let it sink in because I have internalized the worst calculus of overachiever life—push harder, don’t stop for the good, that’s normal. Stop only for the bad to learn from it, take in its horror, and let it never happen to you again. And so I found myself at the end of the semester holding a bag of relative joy like a party favour, looking around anxiously for bullies to come snatch it out of my hands.

And then Jeopardy fucking happened.

I got to be on television. I got to talk to Alex Trebek, the same man who held my grandmother’s hand on Classic Concentration and saw that her for the beautiful, formidable queen that she was. I got to turn silly trivia knowledge into cash—and I got to do it while being me. And to my confusion—people liked me. It went well, they felt I resonated with something inside of them, and they liked it.

I do not, in my own skill set, have the tools to deal with that. I am supposed to be clever and fast, and witty, and engaging and lovable—but I do not know how to actually think of receiving goodness. I know how to process being witty and clever and delightful—I did what I was supposed to do, good job, next—but I don’t know how to actually take that positivity in.

I keep waiting for all of this to fall apart, for everyone to hate me in the reassuring ways that I distrust or marginalize or disbelieve myself. And yet, I know that’s not helpful. Hence, overachiever’s therapy: forcing oneself to prematurely trade on prize money and spend a three day love/relaxation retreat, less than fifteen miles from my own apartment.

I woke up and cried a little. I then tried to mediate or at least focus on the positives of late. Nope. Nothing came. I decided it was time for coffee. I drank some that I made in the Airbnb, but realized I needed to get outside for a walk. I changed into a bright yellow caftan and an extra-dramatic face mask, and went for a walk on the streets of La Jolla, the bougie and strange bubble by the sea.

La Jolla can double in weird ways like other parts of the world I frequent. It feels sometimes like I’m in Durban (if you’re more partial to Umhlanga Rocks or Durban North) or Wellington (if you love Mount Vic or Oriental Bay), or even Vancouver (if you feel like West Point Grey or the haughtiest parts of Kitsilano are your thing). It’s a rich place, one that I don’t belong in, but one that I can feign a few hours of enjoyment and sun.

Today I walked down palm tree lined streets in the perfect weather, the breeze pushing through my still-short hair with a strange urgency. I picked up a cold brew coffee and a freshly caught and grilled halibut sandwich that my therapist recommended (we decided to briefly be pescatarian for a day and chalked it up to the ‘medical advice.’), then I turned toward the coast. I sat for a long time looking at the waves—unsurprisingly—with a bit of anxiety.

What if I relaxed WRONG? What if I couldn’t let myself feel joy? What if I just wasted the day by…eating this sandwich and not fully appreciating the beautiful ocean waves, golden sun, or nature all around me. After a while I realized that sounded ridiculous, and just forced myself to sit.

And as the old Zulu language dance song “Unamanga” by the late Patricia Majalisa started to filter to my headphones, as I stared out at the sea and the sun, something shifted. I felt something like, I don’t know, a failure in the sealnt around myself, and some drops dripped in, slowly. Maybe, just maybe, I didn’t have to do this in a grand gesture. I could enjoy myself and the small joys I’d found in life so far.

I could be grateful and quietly glad for the little things that happened. It wasn’t about deserving it, or about it being worthy of me. I could imagine for right now, that this was a thing that I could have. I could sit and marvel that some great shit happened to me, and it was OK. Let’s not get it twisted—I didn’t have an epiphany, there were no turnbacks on the road to Emmaus. But I did find a little quietude in my soul for a second and stopped frantically Teflon-ing my heart from joy for a second.

I survived a hell semester, and did well. I got a wonderful opportunity and it went well. I could just let hat happen and also not ignore that it happened, to focus on negatives in an outsized way. I could, in this single afternoon moment, be delighted that things had gone okay. And not worry or strategize about the next disaster, which would happen on its own anyway. And…that’s all I can do right now.

Also, I’m going to work on this more, this whole letting people love me and letting it sink in. I usually avoid it because I feel like it keeps me off my game from the inevitable disaster to follow. But that’s not how I want to live. I’m going to try to think about what it means that some of you all tell me you love me, and then to show it. I need to reconcile the nonstop whirligig of my mind also turns menacingly in on itself so often, and that acknowledging the gift of calculated wit and mirth also means I have to cultivate love and joy.

So tomorrow, I’m going to go for a brief run, I’m going to drink some lovely coffee, and I’m going to walk along the ocean again. (And then I’m going to keep staying in this Airbnb so I don’t catch or spread this plague.)

What a fucking semester, y’all.

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wesleyhill · 5 years ago

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Jesus Feeds Us

A homily on Matthew 14:13-21 preached at Trinity Episcopal Cathedral, Pittsburgh, on the Ninth Sunday after Pentecost 2020

I would speak to you in the name of God, the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, Amen.

In just a few moments, Aidan our priest is going to stand behind the altar there and pick up a piece of bread and a cup of wine. He will pray over them, asking the Holy Spirit to set them apart so that they might be for us the body and blood of Christ. And then those of us who are here will eat that gift of Christ’s body and drink his blood. And any of you who want to partake can receive them this week (just call or send us an email, and we’ll bring Communion to you in a safe, socially distant way).

What we are about to partake of goes by different names: Holy Communion, the Eucharist, the Mass. The Second Vatican Council, in a wonderful phrase, said that the Eucharist is “the source and summit of the Christian life.” Somehow, when we receive the Eucharist, we are returning to the nourishing heart of our faith. We are given divine grace in Holy Communion as we receive it with faith and gratitude.

I have been thinking a lot about Communion over these past few months of lockdown. I have been able to receive it, as you’ve seen here via the livestream, but I know many, many Christians, and even many of you, who have not. And they have longed for it, sometimes without really knowing why. In light of this extraordinary situation, starting this fall, I’m going to be offering to you some teaching videos on the cathedral Facebook page specifically on the Eucharist and why it remains so important, why it is indeed “the source and summit of the Christian life.”

But for now, this morning, I want to look at our Gospel reading through the lens of the Eucharist. The reason I want to do that is I think that’s what the Gospel is inviting us to do. Listen again to the climax of the story: “Taking the five loaves and the two fish, he looked up to heaven, and blessed and broke the loaves, and gave them to the disciples, and the disciples gave them to the crowds.” Does that choreography sound familiar? We’re about to watch Fr. Aidan take the bread and wine, look up to heaven, bless and break the bread and pour out the wine, and give them to me, the deacon, and I’ll carry them to those here present — and to any of you who request a visit. What Jesus is doing is, we might say, eucharistic. It’s not the Eucharist itself, but it should remind us of the Eucharist, and the Eucharist should remind us of the story. If we pay attention to what is happening in this story, we’ll better understand what is happening to and with us when we receive Holy Communion.

First of all, let me give you the simplest way I know to think about what the Eucharist is. This is what I tell my 3-year-old goddaughter: The Eucharist is Jesus feeding us. We come to him hungry, needy, broken, and sinful, and he feeds us. How?

One thing we should immediately think about is that Jesus feeds us in a surprising way. In the story, the disciples, of course, are the ones who make the rational plans. They come to Jesus with a proposal for how to take care of the restless crowds. They remind him of the desolate setting — there are no markets around, no houses whose doors you could knock on to ask for bread — and then say, “[S]end the crowds away so that they may go into the villages and buy food for themselves.” But Jesus, bizarrely, says, “They need not go away; you give something to eat.” This is our first clue that the meal the crowds are about to eat isn’t “business as usual.” There is something new, something strange, something from another realm or dimension, about to take place. That’s of course the way it always is with Jesus: he’s always surprising us, always bursting out of our limited categories of understanding, toppling tables, breaking the rules, taking people off-guard with his unprecedented authority and power. He is always, as we heard in our daily lectionary reading last week, “going ahead of us.” Here Jesus shows his glorious freedom to act otherwise than what we could ever imagine. He breaks out of the narrow boundaries of the disciples’ thinking and performs one of his famous “deeds of power,” bringing provision and nourishment in a way no ordinary human process ever could.

And that, friends, is how we ought to understand what is happening when we receive Holy Communion in humble trust and expectation. Jesus is feeding us in a way that is miraculous, arresting, unpredictable, surprising. We are not dealing here with simply a human occurrence, a religious or cultural ritual. We are being fed by the Lord himself. This is a supernatural meal, a visible sign of the workings of God’s effectual grace.

But not only does Jesus feeds us in a surprising, lordly way. He also feeds us freely. In the Gospel story, there is the notable absence of any exchange of money or goods. Jesus doesn’t offer to feed the crowds on the condition that they come up with payment. He doesn’t set any conditions at all. He simply gives the bread and fish away, with no ifs, ands, or buts.

It’s probably not an accident that the creators of our lectionary, our schedule of Scripture readings, appointed that wonderful passage from the Hebrew prophet Isaiah to be read alongside our Gospel story for today.

Thus says the Lord: “Ho, everyone who thirsts, come to the waters; and you that have no money, come, buy and eat! Come, buy wine and milk without money and without price. Why do you spend your money for that which is not bread, and your labor for that which does not satisfy? Listen carefully to me, and eat what is good, and delight yourselves in rich food…”

What the Old Testament prophet saw about the free gift of God’s favor is exactly what took place in the life and ministry of Jesus. Over and over again, Jesus called out to those who had no money, no social standing, no distinguishing virtues or character qualities, no moral uprightness, and he said to them, “Come, have bread and fish without money and without price. Come, receive my body and blood without cost and without payment.”

One of my favorite hymns is Hymn # 685, “Rock of Ages, Cleft for Me.” In that hymn, you and I are invited to say to the Lord, “in my hand no price I bring, simply to thy cross I cling.” That’s about as succinct and memorable a summary of God’s good news as I can imagine, and we are about to show it with our bodies this morning as we open our hands to receive the gift of Christ’s body and blood. Our hands will be empty; we won’t be carrying a check book or a debit card to try to bargain for God’s grace. We will hold out our bare palms, and Christ will feed us freely.

Finally, we can see from our Gospel reading that Jesus not only feeds us surprisingly and freely; he also feeds us abundantly. Listen again to how the story concludes: “And all ate and were filled; and they took up what was left over of the broken pieces, twelve baskets full. And those who ate were about five thousand men, besides women and children.” All ate, and not just nibbled: they were filled, satisfied, satiated. And, even so, there were leftovers, with as many baskets full at the end as there were tribes in Israel. Not only that, but the “all” who ate to their hearts’ content numbered over 5,000, perhaps even twice that number. This is a story of extravagance, of abundance. What Jesus gives is lavish, over the top, more than we could ever dream of asking for. He gives and gives and gives, without measure and without end, and there is always more.

Ultimately, what Jesus gives is… himself. Jesus gives us his very life, the love that he is, the abundance that is his person. That is what he was offering to those hungry crowds that day in Palestine, and that is what he offers to us in Holy Communion. Jesus feeds us… himself.

There is only one of Jesus’s miracles that is recorded in all four Gospels, and that is the miracle of his feeding the 5,000. We read St. Matthew’s version this morning, but if we had read the version in chapter 6 of the Fourth Gospel, we would find this point about Jesus feeding us with his own life to be unmistakable. Right after all the leftovers are collected and Jesus has gone on to another place, he says to the crowds, “[T]he bread of God is that which comes down from heaven and gives life to the world.” With the memory of the loaves and fishes still fresh in their minds, they say, “Sir, give us this bread always.” And that is the moment when Jesus says, “I am the bread of life. Whoever comes to me will never be hungry, and whoever believes in me will never be thirsty.” And then, in language that is filled with eucharistic overtones, Jesus says, “I am the living bread that came down from heaven. Whoever eats of this bread will live forever; and the bread that I will give for the life of the world is my flesh…. Those who eat my flesh and drink my blood have eternal life, and I will raise them up on the last day; for my flesh is true food and my blood is true drink. Those who eat my flesh and drink my blood abide in me, and I in them. Just as the living Father sent me, and I live because of the Father, so whoever eats me will live because of me. This is the bread that came down from heaven, not like that which your ancestors ate, and they died. But the one who eats this bread will live forever.”

Friends, Jesus feeds us surprisingly, freely, and abundantly — because what he feeds us with is his own life, his broken body and shed blood, so that his life might become our life; that by communing with him, we might be healed.

I remember talking with a wise older priest when I first became an Episcopalian. He asked me what drew me to our church. I fumbled around for an answer, trying to sound well-informed and engaged. But then I decided just to be honest: “I’m here mainly because of the Eucharist. I meet Jesus in Holy Communion.”

And the priest, his eyes misty, said, “He’s here, isn’t he? He’s really here.”

Amen.

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fitzdizzyspells · 4 years ago

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Great Things

On an average day, the back room of Diagon Alley's ice cream parlor would typically smell of sweet elderberry sorbet, iced mooncakes, and hot chocolate. But today, for the first time in what felt like ages, it was filled with smoke and laughter.

"If you think you've an easy advantage over all of us, Albus, you're wrong." Florean Fortescue wagged his pipe at Dumbledore accusingly. "Meet my eyes as much as you like, you won't uncover any secrets that way."

"I'm wounded, old friend," Dumbledore said. "You think I'd stoop to such lows?"

Garrick Ollivander chuckled quietly and rearranged the coins in front of him. "Dumbledore doesn't need Legilimency, Fortie. A mountain troll could notice your tell."

"And," Aurora Sinistra added, "it's all the more noticeable the more you try to close your mind."

Florean replaced the pipe in his mouth. "Fine," he grumbled, replacing his coins in a small leather pouch. "Urdrig. I'm out." Purplish-grey smoke curled from his mouth in petulant bursts, forming loose, unruly spirals that matched his wild grey hair. Still, Garrick noticed the corners of his friend's mouth twitch briefly upwards. He knew Florean well enough to recognize when he was in high spirits. Even Garrick was willing to let himself feel a brief flicker of the same warm nostalgia. It was nice to return to the old routines, which years of war and grief had forced them to neglect.

"You are a delightful addition to our Ballynok game, Aurora," Garrick said. "Albus used to always invite Filius or Horace to these gatherings. Imagine my surprise when he turned up with you."

Dumbledore glanced happily at Professor Sinistra and said, "After weeks of meetings with the school governors, I sought a friend who could drown out the coughs and sputters of old warlocks."

"I see only one elderly man in this room, Albus," Florean said, pipe between his teeth.

"Certainly," Dumbledore said. "I find my coughs and sputters the most tedious of them all."

Garrick smiled at Professor Sinistra. "You're a quick study, Aurora, it's quite impressive. I should have known better than to gamble against a witch wielding a dogwood wand with a dragon heartstring core."

"Oh!" Aurora said, beaming. "You remember the wand you sold me!"

"Don't encourage him, hen," Florean said with a pained look. "He needs to learn that this tick of his isn't nearly as charming as he thinks it is."

She sighed, looking at her coins. "Well, unfortunately for me, it appears that dogwood and dragon heartstring can only take me so far. Urdrig. Besides, I have a feeling it's never wise to bet against Dumbledore." She gestured at the large bid Dumbledore had pushed to the center of the table.

"Perhaps," Garrick conceded. "It's no match for Albus's elder wood wand, and, ah," he snapped his fingers absentmindedly, "forgive my forgetfulness, Professor, what is the core of your wand, again?"

"I would say 'nice try,' Garrick," Dumbledore said cheerfully, "except that it might've been your weakest attempt yet. And Aurora, you overestimate my Ballynok skills. Although I am wise enough to guess you only want to end the game early to study the Mourning Moon tonight."

She laughed. "I'm sure I bored you to tears this morning, talking about it all through breakfast."

Garrick's eyes became unfocused as he stared at the coins in front of him. Of course. The Mourning Moon was in the sky tonight. Phoenix feathers that were plucked during this time were strikingly magical.

Garrick sighed. He should've known that Dumbledore would be no less industrious in peacetime.

Albus cleared his throat. "Well, Garrick? Feeling confident?"

"Not particularly, no."

"Have some courage, man." Through the smoke, Albus's eyes caught the candlelight as he smiled over his half-moon glasses. "Don't underestimate yourself."

"Sometimes restraint is the best thing a wizard can exercise." Garrick surveyed the coins before him, irritated by these sudden distractions. He'd nearly forgotten the coins' true value — the value he'd seen before he'd taken most of them out of his leather pouch. Four of the coins in front of him — two silver, one made of stone, and one made of alabaster — were actually four gold coins, that was easy enough to remember. The obsidian coin he'd grabbed from the community pile was, in fact, an obsidian coin. But his last wooden coin — that had been obsidian, right?

Garrick clicked his tongue softly. Florean Fortescue and his blasted goblin games.

"Well, everyone," Garrick said, "this seems as good a point as any to end the night. I've an early morning tomorrow —"

"How unfortunate," Dumbledore said. "I had just thought of a way to make things more interesting, if you happened to raise the stakes."

"More interesting?" Garrick frowned at the large pot in the center of the table. "How so?"

"I thought you might appreciate the chance to finally sate your curiosity." Dumbledore examined his elder wood wand with a half-interest. He smiled at Garrick, who had frozen in his chair, eyes wide. "Let me be clear," Dumbledore said, "lest you think this a suspiciously bold wager: I am not betting my wand. I am offering you the opportunity to examine it, if I lose. I'll confess, I've been a dreadful friend to have kept it from you all these years. It's quite the secret."

Dumbledore's offer had jogged Garrick's memory like a lightning bolt. He was certain now that he had four gold coins, and two obsidian. "And," Garrick said, "if I lose?"

"If you lose," Dumbledore said, "then I would humbly ask you to craft a wand, with materials of my choosing."

The room stilled. Florean looked up at Dumbledore with a deep, disapproving frown. Aurora's gaze flicked nervously between Dumbledore and Garrick.

Garrick gave a shaky scoff. "Not this again," he said. "For now, it's unnecessary for me to make any more wands. My inventory is diverse, it's robust. A good wandmaker knows to pause for a decade or so and wait for a new generation of dragons and unicorns."

"Certainly," Dumbledore said, "and you are the expert. But in this particular case, I must respectfully —"

"Yes, Albus, I am the expert, as much as you may think otherwise," Garrick said. He threw his cloak around his shoulders and snatched his hat off the table. "Keep your gold and your wand. You have won both, after all. Besides, I'm sure I could write to Gregorovitch. With a bit of prodding, he'd likely share what wand he sold to that terrible wizard, all those years ago."

"While that conversation undoubtedly would be interesting to you," Dumbledore said, "it would not give you any insight into my current wand. This is not the wand Grindelwald received as a boy."

Garrick furrowed his brow. Florean and Aurora continued to watch them.

"Grindelwald couldn't have..." Garrick paused. "He didn't make a wand for himself... did he?"

"No. He sought a particular one out, and he found it."

Garrick stared at Dumbledore, turning that statement over in his head. What could that mean?

Dumbledore's wand switch had been apparent to Garrick mere days after the defeat of Grindelwald. It wasn't just that the curious elder wood wand had caught Garrick's eye the moment he'd first seen Dumbledore cast magic with it. The object had a palpable energy to it. It produced a tension in the air, as if a long, drawn-out hum suddenly stopped. Even now, as Dumbledore used his wand to levitate and rearrange his six coins on the table, there was a ringing in Garrick's ears.

Three years ago, he had promised himself he would never make another wand again. But he wouldn't have to, if he won.

Garrick sighed, placed his hat back on the table, and returned to his seat. He gathered his remaining Galleons and placed them in the middle of the table. "I see your twelve Galleons, and I raise you any wand of your choice."

Florean leaned over to Garrick and muttered in his ear, "More than anyone, I agree that returning to your work would be good for you. But don't let him force you into it."

Garrick shrugged. "Perhaps luck will be on my side tonight."

Florean raised his eyebrows dubiously as Dumbledore tossed his wand into the pot.

"Well." Dumbledore clapped his hands together. "Let's see what we have here."

Florean raised his hand and, after a second's hesitation, snapped his fingers. For a moment, nothing happened. Then Garrick's silver coin popped, not unlike a kernel of corn, and transformed into a gold coin. Each coin eventually changed in much the same way — a few at a time, then many at once, until a thunderous cacophony of pops and jingles filled the room as the coins rattled on the table.

Dumbledore's seven iron coins lay in a line on the table. Seven of a kind — one of his coins had in fact been two. Garrick stared at them and felt a prickling, feverish sense of dread.

A stony expression had clouded Fortescue's face, and Aurora's eyes were flitting nervously between the three wizards in the room. The Galleons and Sickles in the middle of the table were cascading like a waterfall of gold into a small pouch that Dumbledore held out. "The phrase 'embarrassment of riches' always comes to mind in this situation," he said as the last few Sickles clinked into the bag, "but if Ballynok teaches us anything, it's that nothing gold can stay. I'm certain you'll win it all back the next time I'm here, Florean."

Garrick asked, in what he hoped was a casual voice, "Shall we make an appointment to discuss what sort of wand you'd like me to craft? In a month or so, perhaps? I'll be freer in the new year."

Dumbledore raised his eyebrows and smiled. "I'm surprised you're so booked up. I had no idea Ollivander's experienced a Christmas rush. A wand is a rather odd gift to buy a friend."

"Well." Garrick coughed. "People are accident-prone this time of year. Office parties at the Ministry, family gatherings — wands are dropped and stepped on with a frequency that breaks my heart. I often wonder why we abandoned wand scabbards years ago. I think it might do the wizarding world some good to —"

"When was the last time, Garrick," Dumbledore asked, "that you obtained a phoenix feather on the night of a Mourning Moon?"

Garrick's eyes flicked to Aurora Sinstra, who was bidding Florean goodnight. "Plenty of times."

"I'll admit," Dumbledore said, "my understanding of wand-making is rudimentary at best, so forgive me for forcing you to entertain the theories of a novice. But the fact that you've sworn off crafting wands during a time of such historic significance..." Dumbledore looked thoughtful as he watched Florean levitate the table and chairs to a corner of the room. Once the room was tidied, Florean pulled a box of jelly slugs off a shelf in his stockroom and began to munch on them, casting sulky glances at the table that had previously supported a fair amount of gold. "Wands made during this time could contain some exceptional magic, don't you think?" Dumbledore asked.

"There is something unsavory, Dumbledore," Florean said, still skulking in the corner, "about meddling in the affairs of a grieving man."

Could historic significance of a particular time influence the magic of a wand? It was the kind of theoretical question that Garrick used to love to debate, and even now he felt a ripple of his former curiosity. Would a phoenix feather procured on the first Mourning Moon after You-Know-Who's death be any different than any other phoenix feather? Who could say? The thrill of an intriguing wandlore experiment stirred something in his Ollivander blood. In his darkest days of late, however, he had started to wonder if his passion for wandlore should be treated more like a hereditary curse.

Garrick donned his hat and said, suddenly animated, "Albus, even if I wanted to, I wouldn't be able to find a phoenix in time. Even if I did somehow manage to travel to Asia tonight for a quick jaunt to the top of the Himalayas, these hunts can take weeks before we're successful. Even if I knew precisely where a nest was — and I've not corresponded with my contacts there for, Merlin's beard, two years at least — one does not simply track down a phoenix in a matter of hours."

"Ah! Well, thank goodness you're well acquainted with one of the three people on earth who has managed to successfully domesticate a phoenix."

Dumbledore's smile wavered as Garrick paled and his eyes widened in sudden horror. He turned on his heel.

"Ollie?" Florean looked up from his snack, baffled, as Garrick shouldered past him and out the door that led to the front of the shop, behind the ice cream parlor's counter. Garrick, who'd spent thousands of hours of his life in this shop, was better equipped to navigate it in the dark than Dumbledore was, and he stormed past the buckets of ice cream on display behind the glass until he reached the part of the wooden counter that flipped up. It fell back down with a bang as Garrick made his way across the tiled floor, and he heard a soft but satisfying "oof" as Dumbledore stumbled behind him.

Garrick's breath caught in his throat as he strode out into Diagon Alley, illuminated by a few lanterns and that blasted Mourning Moon shining above his head. He put his hands on his knees before Dumbledore eventually joined him.

"Garrick, I —"

"Absolutely not." Garrick's words came out in a short, ragged croak.

"I thought it was obvious what I —"

"That was not what I agreed to," he said, raking a hand through the air. "Had I known that was what you were getting at, I would never have agreed."

"I assumed, incorrectly, that you always knew I was talking about Fawkes. As ego-bruising as it is to admit, I'm in neither the mood nor the shape these days to scale the Himalayas at a moment's notice."

Garrick straightened shakily. "I'll make you a wand. But I'll not use another feather from that bird. What could come of that, but another Dark Lord?"

"That's the sort of nonsense I would expect to hear from a wandmaker with a fraction of your knowledge and talent, Garrick," Dumbledore said. "Surely you don't believe that a wizard is made Dark by his wand."

"Back at my workshop," Garrick pressed, "I have tail hairs from unicorns that I stumbled on in Brocéliande, and wood from that forest as well. I would be happy to work with those materials, to make you a wand from that."

"That's excellent news," Dumbledore said with a smile, "but you will have to do that work on your own time."

Garrick turned away from Dumbledore and strode down Diagon Alley in frustration, drawing his traveling cloak a little tighter around his neck in the brisk night air. He weaved his way around a smattering of shoppers, Dumbledore trailing close behind. Garrick was still readjusting to a thriving Diagon Alley, especially this late in the evening. Less than a month ago, the high street would have been deserted at this hour. But now that witches and wizards could move without fear through their communities once again, it was startling how rapidly things had returned to normal. Or, somewhat normal. Nearly every weekend, the Ministry had to calm a jubilant crowd that was attempting to restart the celebrations of the first of November, and the confetti beneath Garrick's boots made it clear that everyone's high spirits would not be subsiding any time soon.

After the Dark Lord's fall, Garrick had watched the celebrations from his flat above the shop. Relief and joy washed over him, and he laughed for the first time in three years, watching Florean dance ridiculously with Madam Malkin. Garrick had turned to his wife, in hopes that this might be the first thing that could coax her off the sofa. However, when he saw Elspeth's vacant expression had not changed, he had sobered immediately.

Garrick pushed this thought from his mind as he passed Quality Quidditch Supplies and Eeylops Owl Emporium and reached the Leaky Cauldron's brick wall. He raised his wand and, without even making a conscious decision, tapped out the combination of bricks that was best burned into his memory. A brick in the center shook and shimmered, and the wall finally opened — not to Diagon Alley's local wizarding pub, but to the vast expanse of Flutterleaf Park.

Garrick gave a relieved sigh, and strode forward.

All the trees had shed their leaves, but the park had always been Garrick's daughter's favorite place, even in winter and even before the first snow. Grass sprawled as far as the eye could see, and a pond was just visible at the end of the path that began right at his feet. He walked forward, slower now, drinking in the air that was so much fresher here. Tall lanterns lit the path, but so did an occasional fire that huddles of witches and wizards had conjured in the cold, as did lights from flocks of fairies that flitted from shrub to shrub.

Garrick folded his arms under his cloak, and his knobble-knuckled fingers brushed against her pear wood wand he always kept nestled beneath the seam. Ten and a quarter inches. Unicorn hair for the core, naturally. Fern always had an affinity for unicorns, even as a young girl. Whenever the Ollivanders would visit Elspeth's Muggle relatives, Elspeth and Garrick would always have to lecture their daughter — in vain — not to mention unicorns to her cousins. Fern found it heartbreaking that everyone wasn't in on the secret. Her accidental magic was troublesome enough, and the breathless, unnervingly detailed stories she liked to share with anyone who would listen were enough to turn Garrick's hair grey.

As an adult, Fern would insist — in that same breathless detail — on using an unstable, enigmatic magic known as pyromancy in her wand crafting. Garrick would lose hours with her, arguing against her appeals to use phoenix fire on holly, or dragon fire with ash.

"You're letting an animal do half your job," he would scold her. "Imagine what you're burning away in those flames."

Her brow would crease, not with frustration but with intensity. "Dad," she'd reply, "imagine what we're gaining!"

Youthful follies aside, Fern had been invaluable. She was unmatched in procurement and, after her death, replacing her had proven impossible. Garrick's description of "stumbling on unicorns in Brocéliande" was quite the understatement — it had taken him days to find any magical beasts. With Fern's help, they could have found a herd in a matter of hours. It didn't help that Garrick had trudged through the forest much slower than he usually did, wondering why he was even there. The woods had felt quite haunted.

Dumbledore joined Garrick on the path, his eyes trained on the night sky. Garrick assumed momentarily that several owls swooping overhead had caught Dumbledore's attention, but, of course, it was the moon that was on the headmaster's mind, he realized with a sigh.

"Did you read the Prophet today?" Garrick asked, his boots crunching along the path. "The Ministry is considering renaming this park after the Harry Potter boy."

"I did hear that, yes. What do you make of it?"

"I don't think Marty Flutterleaf would mind. He was quite embarrassed to have it named after his family in the first place. I don't believe he thought they were notable enough."

"I'd beg to differ."

"So would I. I don't think Ollivander wands would have seen the improvements they did over the past several generations without the Flutterleafs' contribution to herbology. But," he shrugged, "they may call the park whatever they please, as long as I can still have access to the trees whenever I like."

"Ah, how intriguing. The wood here is good enough for wand crafting?"

"Yes — simple, unassuming trees are sometimes best for certain wands, especially when you're looking to balance out a particularly powerful core."

Dumbledore smiled. "I'd hoped as much. That's why I was planning to show you a specific plant in the Forbidden Forest, for the wand wood I had in mind."

Garrick turned sharply toward Dumbledore. "The Forbidden Forest?"

"Yes."

"But the merchant restrictions on that land... ?"

"Are overridden as long as you're in the presence of the Headmaster of Hogwarts."

"Yes, indeed," Garrick said, thinking. "Oh, very good. Well, well, well..."

"Would you like to see it?" Dumbledore said, offering his arm.

A braver, wiser wizard than Garrick Ollivander would have been terrified to find himself in the Forbidden Forest at this hour. Insidious noises punctuated the fog and the darkness around him — leathery wings beat through the air, legs scuttled over frost-covered tree roots, sudden feral cries rang out without warning. Instead, however, Garrick felt only giddy. He was surrounded on all sides by endless sources of magical materials, and it overwhelmed any sensible desire to flee that he should have felt.

He scraped some moss off a rowan tree with a fingernail and sniffed it, then absentmindedly let it crumble between his thumb and forefinger as he examined the bark. If Garrick could trust his instincts, the tree had been a longtime home for a wood nymph roughly five years ago, but hadn't been inhabited by anything more magical than a bowtruckle since then. The wood would pair well with the unicorn hairs back in his workshop. He moved forward to break off some branches, then hesitated. His habit of gathering wand materials wherever he went had proven difficult to kick. If he was no longer going to make wands, there was no reason anymore to find interesting wand wood or impressive magical creatures. Garrick caught up with Dumbledore, briefly, before he was distracted again by a chestnut tree. He wished that it were April, rather than the end of November, so that he could properly examine the foliage. He squinted up at the branches in the darkness, before he heard Dumbledore calling his name.

"Step lightly, Garrick, this isn't a place to tarry." Dumbledore was several paces ahead of him. "Fear not, this holly I have in mind will be interesting as well."

Garrick felt that prickle of excitement and dread again. Holly had, naturally, been at the corners of his mind when he'd tried to anticipate what kind of wand wood Dumbledore would want to pair with Fawkes' feather. The plant of death and rebirth...

He shivered in the cold, and then hurried to find Dumbledore.

A large stag looked up, then leapt away as Dumbledore approached a holly bush. The plant didn't appear to be anything special; it was a bit scrawny, in fact. But Garrick Ollivander, like Dumbledore, knew that appearances could be deceiving. However, as Garrick leaned in and inspected the holly — moving steadily round the plant, examining the soil around it, testing the give of its branches, taking note of the crooked direction in which it grew — he brushed off his hands and cleared his throat.

"Forgive me, Albus, but this specimen is, erm... quite underwhelming."

"It is dreadfully flimsy, isn't it?" Dumbledore smiled and loosened the purple scarf at his neck.

Garrick bent down and searched for a branch that would work best. Dumbledore pointed his wand at his throat, cleared it and said, "Sonorus." Then Dumbledore began to whistle a low, melancholy tune that likely could be heard throughout the Hogwarts grounds.

It sounded like a phoenix's song, and yet... the same tune, mimicked by man, had the opposite effect that a phoenix's warbled notes should. Light tendrils of anxiety crept around Garrick's mind as he realized that Dumbledore was calling Fawkes to him, and he thought about the last time he'd seen Fawkes' feather core wand.

It had felt surreal, when Lord Voldemort had walked quietly into the wand shop three years ago. The bell had jingled as the Dark Lord shut the door behind him and Garrick stood frozen behind the counter. Voldemort had paced around the shop as if he worked there, looking up at the shelves with keen interest.

Voldemort had pulled a wand box off the shelf and ran a finger slowly along the side of the box to remove the dust obscuring the scrawled text. "Redwood and unicorn hair. Eleven and a half inches. Crafted in the year seventeen fifty-two... fascinating... and yet, it's found no owner?"

"Wands are patient," Garrick had rasped, almost automatically. "They — they will wait, for the right person to come along."

Voldemort considered this as he removed the wand from its box. He curled it through the air, swiftly conjuring a geometric mandala out of silver light that glittered in the dim shop as the lines connected, swirled and looped before him, until Voldemort vanished it with a dismissive flick.

"It gives me no pleasure to end sacred wizarding lines," Voldemort said softly, replacing the wand back in its box. "Lines that could have produced great witches and wizards who might have served my wizarding world very well, generations from now."

Garrick did not move, his feet rooted to the floor.

"Seventeen fifty-two — a great era," Voldemort continued. "I wonder who this wand is waiting for... hopefully someone who comes of age in my lifetime." His lips curled as he replaced the box on the shelf. "Ollivander's was not selling wands to Mudbloods in the mid 18th century, if the historians are correct... What a tragically brief tradition."

"Tragic indeed," Garrick countered, his voice trembling, "if that wand is waiting in vain for someone who never had a chance to walk through these doors."

"Someone who does not have the resolve to discover these doors and force their way through," Voldemort said, producing his own wand, "was never much of a wizard to begin with."

If Garrick had not already been a dead man in that moment, he knew that his small comment of dissent had certainly made him one. He thought desperately of how he could keep Voldemort from reaching his family upstairs, what he could possibly say to pacify him, but then his eyes focused, almost out of habit, on the raised wand.

"Mr. Riddle?" he whispered, stunned. Thirteen-and-a-half inches. Yew. Powerful. Garrick, like many others, had assumed that Lord Voldemort had emerged from a school other than Hogwarts. No one seemed to know who he was, and his Dark magic was so foreign to Garrick, so unique and strange, that he had likewise assumed that his wand had also come from elsewhere.

But it had not. The wand that had caused so much destruction, that had taken so many lives... Garrick had sold it to a small, pale boy half a century ago. It was horrid, and yet... and yet...

"That shape that you conjured just then," Garrick rasped, "what is it? What does it do?"

Voldemort laughed softly. "More than you could ever fathom materializing from one of your wands, I imagine."

"Try me," Garrick demanded, with more conviction than he ever thought he could summon before the Dark Lord. He had to know: What great magicks had Tom Riddle advanced with an Ollivander wand, one that appeared to be unchanged from the day it had been sold?

Riddle raised his wand again, and black-green light fluttered not only through the yew wood but through the veins in his hand as well — a prepared Killing Curse manifesting in a way Garrick had never witnessed before. In the moment when he knew he was about to die, his thoughts did not turn to memories of his wife or his daughter, but of a strangely contorted yew tree that grew in a dark and overgrown graveyard.

"Avada Kedavra!"

The mandala reformed, the Killing Curse invoked, and bands of light wove together his doom as Garrick gasped in the light. As the spell faded and its brightness dimmed, Garrick felt dazed, unsure why he was not yet dead until he saw Fern, lying motionless at the bottom of the staircase in the shop. Fern, who must have heard the conversation as she descended, of course she had. Fern, who had undoubtedly tried to take action when Garrick had done nothing...

"Perhaps now you will understand what you are risking, if you continue to sell wands to those who are undeserving." Tom Riddle left the shop as casually as he'd arrived, the bell jingling as the door closed behind him.

Fawkes flew as magnificently as he had the day Garrick had taken a feather from him.

The phoenix glided down into the Forbidden Forest as if it were a dance. Who could say how Fawkes managed to swoop through the branches without snagging its glittering golden tail, which swished across the forest floor as it landed on Dumbledore's outstretched arm. As it folded its impressive wingspan at its sides, the bird puffed itself out in a brief, frenetic shiver before settling again.

Garrick regarded it warily, from a distance. He couldn't be certain in the dark, but Fawkes appeared to be strong and healthy and nowhere near a Burning Day.

Dumbledore turned to Garrick. "I ASSUME — "

Garrick nearly fell to the ground, clutching his ears as Dumbledore's voice reverberated around them, and Fawkes flapped its wings in alarm. Dumbledore shot Garrick an amused, apologetic look and nullified the charm at his throat.

"You did that on purpose," Garrick said, massaging his temples.

"I would never." Dumbledore smiled. "I assume you'll want to return to your workshop?"

"Yes. All my materials are back in Diagon Alley." Garrick proffered his arm. "I'll bring us directly into the shop, I suppose."

"Actually," Dumbledore said, "would you be opposed to traveling by different means?"

Garrick frowned for a moment, confused, and then realization dawned on him. "Is it safe?"

"I wouldn't advise you try it with other phoenixes, but with Fawkes, it's a perfectly reliable form of transport."

Fawkes cocked his head at Garrick, who hesitated. "What do I need to do?" Garrick asked.

"Stepping a tad closer would be a good start, I think."

He was still a significant distance from Dumbledore and his phoenix. The bird opened its beak, and one soft, clear note echoed through the forest.

Fern hadn't been as good with phoenixes as she was with unicorns. Five years ago, at the top of Mount Kailash, she and Garrick had rested briefly in their tent after two freezing days' worth of unsuccessful hunting. That morning, Garrick heard her put the kettle on, and he emerged from his bedroom to find her sipping tea, lost in thought as she stared, bleary-eyed, into the middle distance.

"All this work," she had grumbled, "and the wand may just go to some quill-twiddler who uses it to enchant paper airplanes at the Ministry of Magic."

"Not everyone can go on adventures," Garrick had said, examining the flute that he used to attract nearby phoenixes.

She'd frowned with a smile. "That's the funny little myth of the wizarding world, though, isn't it? We can certainly all go on adventures."

Dumbledore cleared his throat, bringing Garrick back to the present. "We don't have a great deal of time left," he said.

Garrick took an unsteady breath and strode forward, and, just as he reached Dumbledore, smoldering ringlets began to swirl around the phoenix until the three of them were suddenly, terrifyingly engulfed in flames. Garrick gave a shout as nothing but fire filled his line of sight, and then, abruptly, the only lights before his eyes were the tall lanterns along the cobbled road of Diagon Alley.

Garrick was trembling uncontrollably, and he stumbled to his right. Clouds of vapor poured off their bodies in the brisk air as the fire around them dissipated, and yet Garrick was unharmed.

Dumbledore seemed delighted by Garrick's reaction as Fawkes settled on his arm. "I'm shocked you've never traveled by phoenix before. What did you think?"

"Albus, that was... that was..." He was exhaling in short bursts, trying to gain control of himself. "Phenomenal."

"Quite the thrill, isn't it?" Dumbledore said. "And the further one travels, the more exhilarating it is, I find."

"I think I felt this way once in 1927, when Florean convinced me to smoke some crushed Billywig stings."

"Did you, now? What a compelling endorsement for narcotics."

"Albus, if I die of a heart attack tonight, you'll have my wife to contend with."

Dumbledore chuckled, and the two of them started walking toward the wand shop.

Garrick glanced over at Fawkes atop Dumbledore's shoulder. "When was your phoenix's last Burning Day?" he asked

"Seven years ago. In fact, it's his birthday today, in a sense."

Garrick stared. "You don't say."

"Yes," Dumbledore said. "I fed him his favorite meal this morning. All the learned experts say that phoenixes most enjoy the gum of frankincense, but, in fact, I've found over the years that there's nothing Fawkes fancies more than a plate full of flobberworms. He prefers them toasted, to Hagrid's great distress."

Garrick fumbled with the key as they reached the wand shop, unable to stop inspecting Fawkes out of the corner of his eye. Its scarlet feathers shone so brightly against the shop's grimy windows and chipping black paint that he wondered if there was still some fire smoldering beneath them. A soft warmth emanated from the bird still, like a recently extinguished bonfire.

The bell bounced against the door as he opened it, and Fawkes left the headmaster's shoulder to glide inside while Dumbledore followed. Garrick's eyes adjusted in the gloom. Even as a cold wind blew into the shop, he lingered at the entrance, his hand on the door. Fawkes perched atop a lamp on the counter, eying him, and the two held each other's gaze.

"And you're fine with all of this, then, are you?" Garrick asked with narrowed eyes.

Fawkes blinked back at him.

"I used to be just as confident in my abilities," he muttered, shutting the door with a snap. He walked behind the counter, took out his wand — hornbeam, dragon heartstring, eleven and three-quarter inches, brittle — and began to summon his materials. His favorite carving knife and sanding stone flew out of a nearby drawer; a tape measure and his bottle of almond oil emerged from a cupboard behind him. He flicked his wand above his head, and a bottle of firewhisky eventually appeared at the top of the rickety staircase, spinning rapidly in the air down towards him. Garrick caught the bottle smartly in one hand.

Dumbledore said, "And the firewhisky is for — ?"

"For me."

"Of course." Dumbledore smiled. "Would you mind if I joined you?"

Garrick waved distractedly. "Be my guest." As Dumbledore conjured himself a glass, Garrick took a sip from his own conjured glass, peering at Fawkes. The phoenix pecked and picked up the tape measure, and it bobbed as Garrick reached for it, trying to keep it away. Out of pure habit, Garrick took advantage of the distraction. He set down his glass and, in one swift motion, plucked a feather from Fawkes' breast so quickly that the phoenix didn't even flinch. Fawkes looked up at him, tape measure still in his beak, as Garrick examined the feather.

"Adept, as always," Dumbledore said, and Garrick glanced up with a start. "Will that do for a core?"

"I think it'll do very nicely, yes," he murmured. "If memory serves, it's roughly the same size as the core that... as the previous core. But this is a feather near the heart, while the last one was a tail feather."

"Ah, interesting. Do you think that will be an important difference?"

Garrick ground his teeth. "We'd better hope so, shouldn't we?"

Dumbledore hummed noncommittally.

"Albus, I'm surprised that you of all people are so nonchalant about the possibility that I might be replicating the Dark Lord's wand."

"I think," Dumbledore said after a thoughtful sip, "the most important difference is not in the materials themselves, but in the state of mind of the wandmaker."

"Ah, marvelous — a wand injected with fear, trepidation and doubt."

"Well, that certainly would be quite different than Voldemort's state of mind, would it not?"

Garrick flinched at the name. He shook his head and picked up the branch of holly and his carving knife. How had he found himself in this situation? Not three hours ago, he'd been discussing Food Freezing Charms with Fortie.

"For the record," Dumbledore continued, "I would not characterize it as fear. I believe it's something more akin to humility."

Garrick took his frustration out on the branch, carving with a blur of quick, deliberate knife strokes. "You are not the first to attempt to bend the business practices of this shop to your will, Albus."

For a while, the only sound in the workshop was the knife quietly scraping against soft wood, small shavings hitting the table. Finally, Dumbledore spoke.

"If my request is in such direct opposition to what you think is best, Garrick, I will bid you goodnight and be on my way. But I know you have always carried on, doing what is right, regardless of any such attempts to sway you otherwise."

Garrick cursed as the knife caught harshly on what was now a roughly finished wand. "Well," he grumbled, "now there's a flaw in the wood, so what do you propose we do now?"

"You've always told me that magic thrives in asymmetry and imperfection. How else could humans be suitable vessels for magic?"

Garrick ran his thumb along the wand, then grasped the knife and split the wood down the middle. As he carved a trench in one of the halves, he noticed that the feather had inched closer to the wood as it took shape. "And what poor, pathetic vessels men are for magic," Garrick said. "Cruel, selfish, destructive. They use magic to attain the same loathsome goals, century after century, generation after generation. And what do the Ollivanders do? Why, we help them focus those desires, don't we? We make it easier for them to injure, to kill, and to destroy."

"My dear friend, Fern would have thought it the greatest tragedy in the world to hear you speak of magic so —"

BANG! A great cloud of glittering silver dust filled the room, and Garrick breathed heavily, gripping one half of the coreless wand with a white-knuckled hand as the smoke cleared, revealing Dumbledore calmly clutching his cheek. A thin drop of blood seeped into his beard.

"I knew there was more to that holly that meets the eye," Dumbledore said.

"You dare mention her name," Garrick said, "now, of all times? When you've strongarmed me into making a wand with a twin core of her murderer's?"

"Garrick, please. If I am truly forcing you into something against your will, then —"

"And what is my will, Albus?" Garrick demanded. Even he had not expected rudimentary magic to emerge from such an unfinished tool, but his blood was pounding in his ears and he pointed the wand half at Dumbledore like a madman. "I am certain you know, otherwise you would not be so confident in your bluff to walk out the door. You know as well as I do — better than I do — that even now, still, after everything, I would never pass up the opportunity to bring such great magic into the world again. Especially when the phoenix feather is plucked under a Mourning Moon, while the phoenix is seven years out from a Burning Day, precisely. Why, you've placed a great tankard of goblin-made ale in front of a drunkard who's spent his last Sickle!"

"I am trying to remind a great craftsman of something he's forgotten."

"Albus, let me forget. I beg you."

"I know it feels a fitting penance, to give up everything." For a fleeting instant, Garrick thought he saw a flare of pain in Dumbledore's eyes. "There is a duality to magic, yes, but —"

"I made and sold the wand that killed her." Garrick's voice cracked. "I didn't protect her. I didn't even know she was there."

"You mustn't blame yourself for —"

"But I must, Albus! You don't understand, the — the curse, it was... Albus, it was — exquisite. Such great fury, distilled so casually and with such great precision. It was elegant. Superb. I think of it as often as I think of her."

Fawkes bristled, and Dumbledore watched Garrick sadly. The wandmaker set the carved holly branch on the counter and brought his hand to his face. A steady tick tock, tick tock from a grandfather clock in the corner was the only noise in the shop. He wondered if Dumbledore would take the feather and leave. Garrick wondered if he would let him.

"Garrick," Dumbledore began, "you are not —" He stopped abruptly, and both men turned as they heard a sound on the staircase. Elspeth Ollivander was standing romrad still, her hand on the bannister as she stared down at Garrick.

His wife didn't look horrified. She only looked sad.

"Elsie," he rasped, "how — how long have you been there?"

"The bell always wakes me up." She descended slowly, her eyes on the phoenix who was staring back at her. She reached the bottom of the staircase and looked at her husband. "Is it finished?" she asked.

He blinked, in a daze.

"Have you finished the wand?" she repeated.

He shook his head adamantly. "You don't have to worry. I won't do it." He thought about setting the carved holly down on the counter, thought about knocking it to the floor. But the unfinished wand remained clutched in his hand, trembling at his side. "I won't make it. I won't make another wand."

Elspeth studied him for a long moment. "You ought to use Fawkes," she said, "for the pyromancy."

"Pyromancy?" He shook his head, incredulous. "Fawkes' feather alone will lend the wand a great deal of erratic strength. You want me to craft a wand that's even more unpredictable?" His hand drifted absentmindedly to the seam of his cloak. He paused, thinking.

Elspeth pulled her dressing gown tighter around herself, frowning slightly. "Didn't you always fear what the fire could burn away?"

"Certainly." His hand was still at his cloak. "Without question."

She was staring off into the middle distance. She and Fern always wore the same expression, whenever they disagreed with him. "She always knew the importance of burning away the darkness," Elspeth said.

Garrick glanced at the counter. The feather had inched closer to him, as his wife spoke. He swallowed and, with a glance at Dumbledore, removed his cloak from his shoulders. Elspeth watched as he ripped out the seam with both hands. It had been three years since he'd laid eyes on Fern's wand, and every groove in the wood, every small chip was exactly as he remembered it. He held his daughter's wand in his left hand, as she once had. Garrick exhaled and frowned at the ceiling, struggling to remember something forgotten. He raised the wand half in his hand. Then, in a firm and resonant voice, he began to chant.

The incantation came out in a long, dizzying string of Greek. He felt a sudden pressure in his ears, and the temperature in the room rose sharply. Dumbledore smiled. Elspeth breathed in deeply, and closed her eyes.

For the first several minutes, nothing happened as Garrick spoke, but he kept a steady pace of words and breaths, using Fern's wand to imbue the holly with magic and prepare it for the fire ritual. The phoenix feather inched closer, closer along the counter until it drifted up toward his hands and nestled itself in the trench that he'd carved.

Garrick slowed the incantation and picked up the other wand half, closing it over the feather as he turned to Fawkes. Smoldering ringlets were swirling around the phoenix again, and Fawkes breathed out a thin, soft stream of golden fire that lifted the wand out of his hands and into the air, resealing the wood, smoothing and shining one end of the wand and scorching a charred handle of rough bark onto the other. The flames illuminated the shop and three people in it, who watched the wand form in the space between them.

The fire dissipated, and Garrick took out his wand to levitate the newly finished wand just as it fell. He reached for it gingerly. It was warm to the touch, but did not burn his hand. He ran his thumb over the new wand, noting the imperfections with satisfaction.

"I rather think that wand will choose someone good," Dumbledore said.

"Someone great, I imagine," Garrick said distractedly.

Dumbledore hummed noncommittally.

Garrick crossed the room, and placed Fern's wand on a faded purple cushion in the dusty window of the shop. "This feels right," he said, "for her to make the wands we sell, from now on." Elspeth murmured in agreement, staring at her daughter's wand.

Garrick looked down at the new wand in his other hand, considering it. He still needed to test it.

He turned to Dumbledore. "Accio winnings," Garrick said, and a sudden shower of coins emerged from Dumbledore's robes, clinking in the air. Garrick levitated all the coins at once, made them flutter around the room — each column's movement one beat ahead of the next, so they all seemed to be caught in ocean waves of glinting silver and gold.

He swished the wand back in the air, and the Galleons and Sickles returned to Dumbledore's pockets.

Elspeth smiled. "Fern always did get her way."

"Quite," Garrick said. "Like someone else I know."

"I can't imagine who you're talking about," Dumbledore said. "I always defer to the experts."

Garrick chuckled and raised the wand, casting a flurry of charms that filled the shop with magic and light.

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coffeecomicsgalore · 5 years ago

Text

25 Days of Adrien (+6 of Marinette)

The class has a Secret Santa event.

Part of the MLHolidays2k19 prompts.

Ao3

Chapter 11 – Secret Santa

A few days ago, the class decided and voted on participating in Secret Santa. They were all really excited to create or buy something special for one of their friends in the class. Everyone secretly hoped that Marinette would choose their name, knowing very well that she would hand craft the gift to fit their personality.

Some of the boys, Nino being the worst of it, hoped that Adrien would choose their name knowing that he could gift something expensive. Never mind the fact that their exchange actually had a monetary cut off. But that didn’t stop them from hoping.

As the names were drawn out, there were moments of excitement from some selected people, while others held their head trying to figure out exactly what to buy for their chosen name.

Marinette was holding her breath hoping that she didn’t end up with Chloe or Lila’s names. She slowly peaked at the name and let out a relieved sigh when she received Nathaniel’s name from the hat. She was already coming up with designs in her head for an apron, satchel, and pencil pouch combo for him in his favorite colors. She couldn’t wait to get home to design some concept art in her sketchbook.

She was worried on who got her name, but she wouldn’t try to dwell on it now.

When Adrien retrieved his tag, he was excited to see the name. He smiled so bright, it actually dulled down his blonde locks. It was Marinette’s name! Sure, it probably wasn’t fair he got his own girlfriend’s name in the draw, but he was excited because he could do something for her. She has been making him feel so loved over the last few days that he knew he could pay her back somehow. But how?

“I can see you got someone good, dude.” Nino said jokingly. “Care to say who it is?”

“No man. It’s a secret! I mean it is Secret Santa, right?” he teased.

Alya came up behind Nino and propped her elbow on his shoulder. “If his smile says anything, then he probably got Marinette.”

Marinette was too busy thinking of the designs to realize they were talking about her.

Trying to get her of his tail, he comes up with a witty response. “I like everyone in class, Alya. I am just really excited to buy for this person since I haven’t been able to repay them back for their kindness recently. And plus, Marinette is my girlfriend. I can buy her whatever I want every day if I wanted to!”

“Alright, lovebird. You’re good.” Alya said with a laugh.

-----xoxox-----

Adrien headed home after school instead of going to Marinette’s house. He knew she wanted to get started on her Secret Santa gift so he took the opportunity to work on his.

She cherished the handmade lucky charm he made her for her 14th birthday. She still keeps it on her to this day. He knew a handmade gift was the perfect choice for this gift. But what?

He walked around his room, yelling out ideas before mentally scratching them off his list. Plagg was becoming increasingly annoyed at his chosen’s indecisiveness. A wedge of Camembert later and he was happily hiding in the trash can ignoring Adrien’s antics.

He was close to giving up when he heard his phone buzz. Looking down, he saw Marinette’s name with a text.

Marinette: I miss you, dork. I wish you were here with me.

Adrien: You miss me already? It’s only been three hours.

Marinette: Well, you didn’t walk me home today. :p

Marinette: I’ve just been enjoying our extra cuddles lately that I feel a bit lonely right now.

Adrien: Are you taking a break from creating your gift?

Marinette: I already designed everything and cut out all the fabric. I’m just taking a break before sewing it all.

Adrien: Lucky. I haven’t even started...

Marinette: Do you need help? Maybe I can help you come up with an idea?

Adrien: Sorry, sweet pea. I need to figure this one out on my own. I’ll get it.

Marinette: Oh, okay then. 😊

Marinette: Sorry Adrien, Maman is calling me down for dinner. I’ll call you later.

Adrien: Enjoy. I love you. :-*

Marinette: I love you too <3

As Adrien sat there looking over the texts, the idea hit him like when he gets hit to the side of a building during an akuma attack. Yeah, those hurt. He could make her one of those Remember Me bears! He remembered hearing about those when he was looking for comfort after his mom died. A bear made with the loved ones cherished clothing piece. It would help Marinette whenever she needed extra cuddles when he wasn’t around. She could hug the bear, smell him, and think of him. It was perfect!

He quickly dove to his computer, opening up the search engine looking for templates to cut out the design. Once he found the exact size and design he was looking for, he printed everything out and went straight into his closet.

Searching around for a shirt suitable for the bear was a little harder than he thought. He wanted to find the perfect item, one that will scream Adrien when she sees it. That’s when he found it. Discarded in the way back corner of the closet, almost never to be found again, was one of his shirts from when they first met.

“Wow. I’m surprised this was even back here. But it’s perfect!”

Not wanting to mess this up, he decided to see Nathalie. Maybe she could give him pointers or direct him to someone who could help. He gathered the shirt and template and head out his room.

But instead of bumping into Nathalie, he bumped into his Father.

“What’s this Adrien?” Gabriel asked curiously as he saw the items in his hands.

“Our school is participating in Secret Santa and I received Marinette’s name. I tried to think of what I could make her since she makes me so many wonderful things. Today, she mentioned she missed me and I thought I could make her a teddy bear with one of my shirts. This way if I am unavailable, she could always have a piece of me whenever she needs me.”

Gabriel looked at his son before smirking his lips up into a smile. “That is a lovely gesture, Adrien. Do you need some help with creating this gift?”

Adrien beamed. He couldn’t believe his father was being nice, praised his idea, and offered his assistance. Was this a Christmas miracle? He wasn’t even going to question it. He was going to just take it and run with it. “Yes, Father. I would love the help!”

-----xoxox-----

On the day of the exchange, everyone was conversing around the classroom, giddy and delighted over the party they were having this morning. As students flurried in, they placed their presents on their desks, hovering over the pastries and punch that sat on Mlle. Bussier’s desk.

Once the teacher called the class and the chatter died down, Mlle. Bussier took attendance and discussed how their day would go. Scurries of excited feet could be heard in the otherwise quiet classroom, eagerly waiting for her to start the gift exchange.

“Okay, okay, students. We can start. I will choose one student who will then give their gift to their Secret Santa. Then that person will move on to the next, then to the next, until everyone has received their present. Once everyone receives their gift, you are then free to open them. Ready?”

Everyone nodded in excitement.

“Mylene, could you please start?”

Mylene handed her gift to Juleka. Juleka gave a bag to Max, who then gave a box to Kim. Kim had a package for Alya and Alya had a bag for Alix. Alix gave a box to Rose, who then gave a bag to Lila. Lila handed Ivan a small envelope, who then gave Sabrina a large box. Sabrina, of course, had an obnoxiously large gift for Chloe, and Chloe had a small gift for Nino. Nino then gave his gift to Mylene.

“Did anyone not receive or exchange their gifts yet?” Mlle. Bussier asked.

Marinette, Adrien, and Nathaniel raised their hands. Mlle. Bussier called to Marinette to restart the flow.

Marinette handed Nathaniel his wrapped box, who then gave Adrien a square box. This allowed Adrien to turn around and hand Marinette her bag.

“I knew it! Lover boy had his girlfriend.” Alya pointed a finger at Adrien with a sarcastic grin.

“Hey I needed you off my tail.” Adrien crossed his arms.

As soon as the teacher allowed them to, the students ripped through their gifts, oohing and aweing at the items. Marinette smiled sweetly at Adrien before opening up the bag. Her eyes welled up with tears. As she pulled out the bear, she tried to form the words. “Is this- is this the shirt you had worn when we first met? And you made him into a cuddle bear for me?”

Adrien could only nod before Marinette jumped to her feet to hug him. “I love it! I now have you with me whenever I need you!” She sniffed the bear. “It even smells like you!”

“You seriously win in the romance department, lover boy.” Alya said deadpanned.

“Merry Christmas, Marinette.” Adrien smiled to her lovingly.

She kissed his cheek. “Merry Christmas, Adrien.”

#mlholidays2k19 #miraculous ladybug fanfiction #miraculous ladybug #ml fanfic #adrienette #adrien x marinette #christmas fluff

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casbeanwrites · 6 years ago

Note

flo!!!!! congrats on your followers!!! if you want suggestions you should write.... hmmm... some kinda soulmate au + royalty au?? or anything else that floats your boat :)

blooming stars

15k wc, explicit, ao3

My sweetest love,

It is with a broken heart that I write this last missive. The day we’ve been dreading all those years has finally come to pass — I have been promised in marriage to a complete stranger. I know nothing of them, besides that they are an offering to my family, strengthening with this gift the power I shall soon hold as the heir to our estate.

I know not their gender, nor their age, or even the color of their eyes, nor do I care; they are not you, my love, therefore I spare them very little thought. I only fear they will try to wed me to a young immature thing, and I am revolted at the thought; my brother’s future wife has been deemed his since they were only children, and I dread to find out how old my future spouse will be.

My hand shakes as I write these words, for I know they shall be the last you will read from me for a terribly long while. I’m afraid that with a spouse by my side every day I won’t have the luxury to hide and write you these letters, nor will it be safe for me to receive our dear pigeon at my window.

This might be the last time I can ever tell you, my sweetheart, my darling, but it is never going to stop being true — I love you, and only you. I am yours, and yours alone, now and forever. No matter the legal bonds that shall bind me to another, you will remain the only one to have ever touched my soul. I will see your eyes in the morning, when I look up at the sky, I will think of your honeyed voice in the afternoon, as the sun sets, and I will think of nothing but your lips long after the day is done.

My heart will remain here, on these papers, in the words I picture you reading over and over again, just like I read yours. Not a day will go by that I won’t be thinking of you, thinking of holding you, kissing you, thinking of the life we could have had together. Those few stolen hours we spent with each other all those years ago remain the best memory of my life.

I must now end this letter, otherwise I might simply cover the paper with all the words I dreamed of one day calling you — darling, sweetheart, sunshine, beloved, angel. Those words shall never escape my lips for another, but here they are, just for you.

Despite my own sorrow, I pray every night that you find the happiness you deserve, be it without me — I shall not be so heartbroken if I know that you’ve found solace, peace, and joy, be it with another. Please, write me one last time, and tell me your life will be wonderful, leave me only with thoughts of your smile, your laughter, and I shall be at peace.

Yours, in this world and all the others,

Your soulmate

Dean folds the letter with shaky hands, cursing at the tears that have dripped down on the paper and made his words blurry.

He knew this day would come — they both did — but it doesn’t make it any easier. He does not dare write the name of his love on the paper, in fear of who might find it, and so simply pours some wax from his candle and seals it with the emblem he’s made himself, in secret, for this purpose alone — a bee. His love adores bees, he has told Dean about them in many of his letters. His family owns beehives in their backyard, and when they met it was one of the first thing Dean learned about his soulmate.

He leans out of the window and whistles, and while he waits for the pigeon they share for this purpose alone — his name is Charles — he sits down and opens the bottom right drawer of his wardrobe. He lifts the false bottom to reveal hundreds of letters carefully folded and stocked underneath. They’re all covered in his soulmate’s beautiful handwriting. Some contained dried flowers or herbs, a very small rock or seashell, a strip of fabric or a pine cone — all now stored in a small box hidden under Dean’s bed. Pieces of his soulmates life, things he had touched, things he’d picked with care knowing Dean would receive them, hold them, kiss them, as if he could touch his soulmate through them.

Every night Dean sits here and picks a letter, unfolds it, and reads it. Never the same one, usually in the order he’s received them. He’s careful when he handles them, and never allows himself to open more than one, by fear of the words slowly fading from the pages from being handled too much.

It’s already started to happen to the very, very few portraits Dean has of his love — already a few years old and done by his sister Anna. How often he has traced the shape of his lips with his fingers, the dark ark of his brow, stared at those charcoal eyes and wondered if they were still as blue as they used to be.

Dean will never forget the boy he only met once, on that beach, all those years ago — dark tousled hair, wide blue eyes, and sun-tanned skin. He will never forget his smile, the way he threw his head back when he laughed, or the soulmate mark that bloomed and coloured on his arm when they touched.

Dean looks down at his own arm now. It’s small, but still there — the dark blue night sky, of which every freckle on his skin is a star. Sometimes beautiful lines stretch between those marks to create pictures, joyful or scary, depending on his soulmates’ mood. Other times, the colours and stars are obscured by dark clouds. For the three first years after their meeting, his mark was faded, grey, dull.

Until a pigeon showed up at Dean’s window, cooing softly. Its eyes were blue, its feathers white and grey. On his back was tied a small roll of cloth. Dean carefully unrolled it and something heavy fell in his hand — a necklace, with his family sigil, that he had hastily taken off and pressed in the other boys palm right before they parted. He’d closed his soulmate’s fingers around it, told him that if they were ever to meet again, this would remind them of who they truly were — soulmates. Now and forever.

And there it was again, three years later, in his own hands. Dean had looked for his soulmate everywhere he went, and had almost lost hope of ever hearing from him again, until then. This wasn’t him, but it was something — it was proof that Dean wasn’t alone. That his love was out there, thinking about him, wishing for him.

His mark bloomed all over again.

The letter was simple but Dean could only hear it in his soulmate’s voice, that had already been low for his age.

Dear soulmate, if this messages reaches you, know that I think about you every single day. The mark on my arm has etiolated, the leaves brown and the branches thin and frail. Not a day has gone by that I haven’t looked for you, and this is my last hope. Please send me back a word, any word, if by miracle you receive this.

Yours, now and forever,

Your soulmate

Then had begun their correspondence. Every week, Dean would wait for Charles to perch on his windowsill with a letter attached to his back. He’d feed the bird and sit down to eagerly read it, leaving the animal a night to recover before sending him back with a response. What started shy and tentative became long missives full of promises, secrets, and dreams. They’d never mention their names, or where they were from, in the fear of the letters being discovered.

They never mentioned hope, either.

Because soulmate or no soulmate, Dean has a destiny. He’s the heir to the Winchester estate, to a small fortune and ample lands, to political influence over the court and the King. He has huge responsibilities awaiting him on his twenty first birthday. He’s pretty sure his soulmate is in a similar situation.

And it’s not like they can sneak out to meet in the middle of the night. Dean can’t be sure, but he suspects that his soulmate doesn’t even live in the same kingdom. It takes several days for Charles to fly between them, and the beach they had once met at was on the edges of land. The other boy had smelled like the sea, like salt and sunshine and waves, like rain and storms and lightning.

They’d never had hope, but they had dreams. Their letters were full of what if ’s, of the things they wished they could say, do, if they were ever to see each other again. It had grown and evolved into more mature ideas as they’d grown older, from adolescents to young adults. Dean hadn’t kissed him then, only eleven years old, still a child, but in the past ten years there wasn’t a day he hadn’t thought about it.

And maybe now he realizes that he did, somehow, have hope.

But that’s over now.

Dean’s wedding is in a couple of weeks, and then he’ll take over the estate. And he will never, ever see his love again.

He receives a response the morning of the ceremony. He was afraid, so afraid, that it wouldn’t arrive in time, and he almost cries in relief when he wakes up to find Charles taking a nap on his windowsill. He’s a little miffed that the pigeon didn’t wake him, but his heart beats loud as he wonders how his soulmate will react to the news of his engagement — even though he was warned that it would happen a long time ago.

He didn’t expect this, though.

My darling love,

I wish I could tell you that I am, indeed, filled with joy and delighted with life. That despite your absence I have managed to find love and a purpose, that I will spend the rest of my life tending to my garden and my beehives, peaceful and content.

Alas, I cannot. Not only am I tortured by the thought of you and this unknown spouse, by the fear of who you will be bonded to, and whether or not they will be the kind, loving, generous, and tender partner you deserve — but I myself have learned similar news just this morning.

I have also been promised in marriage, to a spouse I not know of. My parents refuse to tell me about them, and I fear the worst — as the youngest sibling of a large family, I’m afraid of being no more than a gift of tender youth to an old, rich, powerful aristocrat. I know my parents are hoping to strengthen economic bonds with a wealthy family of a neighboured kingdom, and I can only fear the worst for my fate. I shall be brought to them very soon, as if I am no more than a bale of hay thrown in front of a horse.

I will have to leave my bees, my garden, my home, and travel many miles to be given to this stranger and live the remainder of my life on their estate; yet my only true sorrow is to lose you, my love. I do not know if Charles will be able to find me again once I leave here, but if he does, I will have to send him away or else my spouse might suspect your existence.

The only solace I’ve found was in your words, to know that even in my darkest times, I shall never be alone — that when I think of you, even as I am about to give my life to someone else, you are out in the world, somewhere, thinking of me. And that will have to be enough, my love, my honey, my dearest. That is enough.

In this world we might part, but in another, I know, we will find each other again.

Yours, now and forever,

Your soulmate

Dean folds the letter before his tears can tarnish the precious handwriting. He kisses it, once, before placing it in the secret drawer and getting ready for the day.

His wedding day.

∞

10 years ago

Dean takes a deep breath of the salty, marine wind blowing over the ocean. It’s the first time he’s ever left the county, or went any further than the little village adjacent to the Winchester estate. He’s begged his parents many times to let him come when they visit the capital and the court, but they’ve never allowed it. His life is too precious, they say. He could catch an illness, or come face to face with many dangerous people — beggars, murderers, kidnappers. The Winchesters are a big name in the kingdom and their heir must be protected.

Thankfully a few years ago came a second child, another boy, and their parents have decided to finally take them on their first family vacation. They’ve travelled all the way to the edge of land, where the population is sparse, their name is unknown, and their sons would be safe. They’ve left their private guards behind many miles ago, and Dean breathes for what feels like the first time in his life.

He looks to his right, where both of his parents are laying down under a sunshade, and his little brother plays in the sand, building a castle with an wooden bucket and his bare hands. He looks to his left, where the beach unfurls endlessly, the air blurring from the heat of the sun.

He wonders what would happen if he took a few steps away. He looks back, and no one is looking at him — both his parents have fallen asleep and Sam is too engrossed in his task. Dean would be wary of leaving him, if they were anywhere else, but they’re completely alone and Sam is safe with both his parents by his side.

So Dean keeps walking.

He’s not sure what pulls at him, but it’s something — curiosity, a desire of liberty, of being truly alone for the first time in his life. Maybe it’s that, maybe it’s something else, but he walks until he cannot see his family anymore, hidden behind the many twists and curves of the coastline.

He keeps going, his bare feet digging into the sand, the wind soft and refreshing against his skin. The waves hit shore in an endless cycle, and Dean lets the water run over his feet and ankles, deliciously cold. He walks without thinking of having to go all the way back. The sun is high, birds are chirping, flying overhead and plunging into the storming waves, and Dean admires their fearlessness, to let themselves fall into the dangerous waters over and over again.

He walks until he sees movement ahead, and then stops, his heart hammering against his ribs.

He’s not alone anymore. There’s a boy, walking towards him, the imprint of his steps in the sand reaching far behind him. He stops too, when he sees Dean, and then he waves. Dean can’t see much about him from this distance — only his clothes, white pants and a loose blue shirt, a dark mop of hair. A blinding smile.

Dean smiles back and his feet start moving on their own, carrying him closer to the stranger.

His skin is tanned, his limbs lanky, adolescence just about to hit — he looks around ten or eleven, the same as Dean. His eyes are bluer than the sea.

“Hi,” Dean says, and they stop, a few feet from each other. Water licks at their feet, retreats, and reaches for them again.

“Hello.”

The boy examines Dean curiously, calmly. Their eyes meet, they both blush a little bit. Dean wants to say something, wants to reach out. Wants to ask what his name is, where he’s from, and if he feels it too — this pull, this energy between them. What pushed Dean to walk all this way, looking for something he couldn’t understand.

The boy reaches out between them and stops, his fingers a few inches from Dean’s arm.

“Can I touch your freckles?”

Dean’s cheeks, already heated by the sun, turn a shade darker. He’s never liked the hundreds of dots adorning his skin, nor does he know where they come from. His mother has a few on her nose in the summer, but nothing close to the quantity that covers Dean’s body. Sometimes he feels dirty and tries to rub them off in the bath, but only ends up with red and irritated skin, and feels like he can count even more the next morning.

The thought of that boy touching them should feel scary, and shameful, but it’s not.

“Okay.”

But instead of touching his arm, the boy’s hand reaches up, his fingertips grazing Dean’s cheek. They gasp. They’ve both felt it, Dean knows when he looks back to his new friend’s widened eyes.

A tingling, where their skins are meeting. Dean reaches out and wraps his hand around the other boys’ wrist. They both watch as a bright light flares between them, and then —

Where the other boy’s skin was bare before, colour etches itself into his skin. Green. Just a thin line first, and then leaves start sprouting from the new stem. They curl around his forearms, growing and spreading. It’s a plant — a plant with bright green leaves grows and blooms along his arm, disappearing under the hem of his sleeve.

“Oh,” the boy murmurs. Dean looks up to find him staring at Dean’s hand, still around his wrist and — oh.

A dark blue shade has wrapped itself around Dean’s forearm. His freckles have gone from brown to bright and shining, like a thousand stars into the night sky. Dean lets go of the boy’s wrist just as he lowers his other hand. Their fingers meet, tentative, and weave between each other.

Their soul marks grow, grow, and grow, until both their arms are covered in colourful hues, all the blue shades of the sky for Dean, and lush green leaves and elegant stems for the boy who he realizes now, is his other half.

They stare at each other, amazed. There’s so much Dean wants to say, to ask, but he feels an itch in his throat, so he pulls the boy into a tight hug instead. His heart feels as full and as bright as the sun, and he wants to laugh and cry at the same time. He doesn’t even know this boy’s name, where he comes from, if they even speak the same language — but he knows, deep inside, that he’s just found something rare, precious, and unique.

His soulmate. He has a soulmate, and he found him.

Dean tears up as he holds the other boy even closer. His face presses into the soft skin of his neck, he smells like the sea, like sunshine and freedom and summer breeze. The boy hugs Dean back just as fiercely, his fingers dig into his shoulders and he lets out a sob against his chest.

They stand like that for a really long time, just slowly swaying, tightly hugging, as the water envelops their feet, then their ankles, moving slowly up with each wave. Finally they have to pull away, when the water reaches their knees and soaks their pants. Dean can see his soulmate wiping his cheeks when they move apart, his eyes red and bluer than the sea and the sky combined. Dean’s never seen such a gorgeous, vivid color — except on his arm. Right now. He shakes his head, unable to stop smiling, and finds his expression mirrored in the other boy’s.

They walk up the beach, hand in hand, and collapse down on the sand. They stare at each other.

“We’re soulmates,” the other boy says. His voice is low for their age, and it might be the most beautiful sound Dean’s ever heard. It makes his heart puff up in his chest.

“Yeah. I didn’t — I didn’t think I’d ever meet you.”

“Me neither.”

They both laugh a little bit and Dean scoots even closer. The other boy brings their intertwined hands up and lays them over his heart. Dean can feel it beating, as fast and hard as his own.

He lays his head on the boy’s shoulder. The sand under them is warm, the long grass behind them shuffles in the wind. For the first time in his life, Dean feels perfectly content to just exist.

“Tell me something about yourself,” he asks.

“I love bees,” the boys says, and he smiles against the top of Dean’s head. “And I love honey the most.”

“I like that. I love honey too. S’my favourite sweet.”

His soulmate’s fingers untangle from his just to run along his arm, brushing over and over the colours twirling on his skin. Colourful lines connect between the dots and a bee appears, flying amongst the stars.

On the other boy’s arm, little bees are buzzing around the leaves and stem of what is slowly growing into a tree.

“Your turn.”

Dean thinks of all the things he wants his soulmate to know about him. That he’s rich, that he’s an heir who will one day hold responsibility for the political and economical system of a whole county, that he’ll have thousands and thousands of lives depending on his choices and rulings… That his favourite food is pie, be it meat or fruit, that he wishes he could spend his days reading about stories and heroes and maybe even write them.

But instead he decides to begin with the most important.

“I have a little brother. My parents are always so busy, so I’m kind of the one raising him. I just started teaching him how to read. I like… books, and stuff, y’know, been reading him stories before bed every night, and— sorry. I’m rambling.” He hides his blush in the other boy’s neck. His skin is warm, and he smells so good.

“I like hearing you speak. Your voice is very pleasant.”

“Yours too.”

“I hope I can meet him one day.”

“Do you know any soulmates?” Dean asks instead of dwelling on that answer — he doesn’t want to think about why this might forever remain a hope. He just wants to be here, now.

“One of my sibling met theirs, but in my family, we don’t — we can’t…”

“Mine either.” Dean closes his eyes for an instant, reminded of the harsh reality — in his family, no one marries for love. He holds on to the other boy tighter and inhales his already familiar scent. “But there are these two women in the village—” Dean smiles, thinking about Jody and Donna, the village’s peacekeepers. “They’re soulmates and they live together. And their marks are beautiful. One of them has those yellow flowers all over her arms… the other has darker marks. They compliment each other.”

Dean thinks about the way he feels whenever he sees them — warmed from the inside, like their love and the bond they share heals those around them. He understands now, because holding his soulmate close makes him feel like he’s the sun, radiating heat and light and life all around him.

“Are you here long?” the boy asks. He speaks into Dean’s hair.

“No. Just a few days. You?”

“We leave tonight.”

Dean feels cold seeping through the warmth, despite the other boy’s body heat. Just the thought of having to separate from him is physically painful, an ache in his chest. But he knows he will have to. He doesn’t want to say it, doesn’t want to think it, but his soulmate pulls back a little and Dean instinctively holds him tighter. But he moves just enough to know his forehead against Dean’s, and smiles sweetly at him.

“We will find each other again. I promise you—”

He pauses, frowns, and then smiles again.

“I don’t even know your name.”

“It’s Dean.”

“Dean. That’s a beautiful name. I’m Castiel.”

Dean doesn’t have time to tell him that his name is the most beautiful thing he’s ever heard. Voices are calling, distressed, for Dean, and he scrambles to his feet.

“Dean you cannot speak my name—”

“I know. You can’t either.”

It physically hurts to pull his hand away from his soulmate, so he does the only thing he can think of — he grabs the necklace his brother had given him as a present and puts it in his soulmate’s hands. He looks into his beautiful eyes one last time, and then he runs.

∞

There’s a soft knock on his door and Dean looks up to find Sam standing in the doorframe. His baby brother, now a tall teenager with floppy hair and kind features, is looking at him with a small smile.

“Hey,” Dean manages. His throat is blocked up, his fingers are shaking around the buttons of his ceremonial robes.

Sam walks in and bats his hand away, doing the buttoning himself.

“How are you feeling?”

“How do you think I’m feeling?”

Dean immediately regrets snapping at Sam, but he can’t help it. Sorrow has dug its claws deep in his chest, and he can barely breathe. In a few hours, he will be bound for life to someone who isn’t his soulmate. The longing and heartbreak he has felt for ten years were nothing compared to what the rest of his life will be.

“I’m sorry, Dean. I’m sorry you’ll never see him again.”

Dean closes his eyes to keep the tears from pouring out. Sam is the only one who knows, the only one Dean has told. His parents know, kind of — of course everyone noticed the mark on his arm that keeps changing colours and shape depending on his soulmate’s mood. But to everyone except Sam, Dean lied. He told his parents that he didn’t notice when his mark appeared. That he doesn’t know who triggered it.

There’s a reason he can’t risk speaking his soulmate’s name.

Dean knows that his parents are good, kind people. But finding a spouse for someone who’s already bonded with their soulmate is a near impossible task. Everyone is aware of the power that soulmates bond hold over a person. Everyone has heard stories of great men and women who sacrificed everything to find their love. Kingdoms have fallen because kings and queens broke marriages and alliances, wars were started over soul marks and love that wasn’t supposed to be.

Innocents were killed just for being soulmates of important people, slaughtered because their existence threatened alliances and treaties.

Not only that, but marrying an offspring to someone who’s heart and soul belongs to someone else is a risk most families refuse to take. Especially when the marriage is for a political or economical alliance. The only reason Dean’s parents were able to find him a respectable spouse is because they believe he doesn’t know, or care, about who his soulmate is. And they’ve been lucky enough to find someone who had also been compromised. Someone who has also met their soulmate.

Dean’s not sure if it’s a good thing or not.

“You could run, you know. Find him. For real. Charles could guide you.”

“I can’t just leave, Sammy. We’ve always known that — and anyway, he — he’s getting married too. Maybe it already happened. He was never really mine.”

Dean doesn’t need to look at Sam to know the look of pity he’s being given. Sometimes he envies his brother, for having never met his soulmate. Sam can still hope of falling in love with his future spouse — maybe he already has, he seems to be getting along quite well with Amelia, an old family friend to whom he’s been promised since they were both children.

But Dean’s heart can never belong to anyone else.

He feels nothing but dread as he enters the ceremony hall, and has he stands at the altar in front of Jody — she will be performing the ceremony. He’s been blinded, as will his spouse, with a veil over his face.

The room is filled with people, mostly friends of his family and villagers he’s known his whole life. There are a few new faces, though, that Dean noticed before his mother pulled the veil down over his face. Probably members of his future spouse’s family.

His future spouse. As always when he thinks of them, and more so with every day the wedding got closer, Dean feels like a block of ice has been dropped into his stomach. It churns and freezes his insides. His heart is heavy in his chest and it hurts every time it beats low against his ribs. He wants to run, he wants to run so badly, but he can’t, so he does the only thing that ever manages to calm him down – he thinks about his love.

He closes his eyes and thinks of that day on the beach. He replays every moment, up until the very last touch they shared. It was so long ago. Since then, Dean’s only gotten to know his soulmate from his letters and the small gift they contained. He knows he’s smart, thoughtful, kind, generous, passionate. He knows he’s funny, too, and a little bit mischievous. And that sometimes, he can write about love and desire and… lust, and make Dean ache in the best of ways. Often, Dean thinks that hadn’t they been soulmates, had they met any other way, he would’ve fallen in love with him anyway.

He wonders what he looks like now. Ten years can change so many things. In the last portrait Dean received, three years ago, his soulmate was already almost unrecognizable. His shoulders were broader, his jaw too, and he had lost the tender features of childhood that still lingered when they had met. Dean had stared at that portrait for hours, thinking that he’d never seen such a beautiful man.

It hurts in a million ways to think about him, but it’s the only thing Dean has left to hold on to. His voice must be lower now, huskier. His hands, calloused and rough from working in his garden every day. His eyes — his eyes are the same, Dean knows, as their color is forever inked into his skin. He thinks about his lips, stretching into a smile. He almost smiles too. He may spend the rest of his life hollow and hopeless, but at least he knows, he will always know, that he’s loved.

He’s loved.

The tension in his chest loosens, just a little bit, just enough to breathe. He wants to touch his mark, run his fingers over it, even though it’s been grey and dull for weeks now. He knows why, and he knows that the twin mark, on his beloved’s arm, must be the same. He still wishes he could touch his right now, but he can’t. He’s wearing long gloves under his sleeve. A tradition for arranged marriages.

The door hinges creak and Dean forces himself to open his eyes. All he can see is the red cloth over his face. But he can hear — the chatter in the hall has died down, and the clear sound of footsteps walking up the aisle resonates against the stone walls.

There’s a sense of impending something in Dean’s chest, something like doom, or something worse, Dean isn’t sure, but it grows with every step his future spouse takes towards him.

The air is too still, the silence stifling, no one daring to say a word. Dean’s hair raises on its end, goosebumps covering his body from head to toe. He can’t see his spouse, but he knows they’re standing in front of him now. He’s not sure how but he can feel their presence, their breathing. Dean braces himself one last time, and for a split second he thinks of running — but then Jody takes his hands, and joins them together with the hands of the person he’s about to marry, and he forgets to.

Through the gloves, the grip is firm. Steadying. He’s holding a stranger’s hands, yet Dean feels a lot calmer than he did a minute ago.

He barely hears what Jody is saying — things about undying bonds and lifelong promises — until she asks him to repeat her words.

“I, Dean Michael Winchester…”

Dean feels fingers tightening their grip around his, like an involuntary spasm. He’s not sure how but he can hear his future spouse’s breathing accelerate, and he realizes he’s not the only one who’s scared witless right now. Somehow that makes him feel a little braver.

“I, Dean Winchester,” Dean repeats, his voice coming out shaky, uncertain.

“Take thee, Castiel James Milton…”

Dean’s heart stops in his chest. His mouth runs dry. His ears are ringing. He must have misheard — he’s only heard that name once, ten years ago, and he never thought he’d hear it again.

“Take thee, Castiel James Milton,” Jody repeats, a little louder.

“Take thee,” Dean breathes in, out, slowly. “ Castiel… James Milton.”

He waits to be corrected. Waits to be told he’s mispronounced it. All he feels is his future spouse holding on impossibly tighter to his hands. Dean feels a buzzing under his skin, as if a thousand bees have elected residence in his veins. The feeling he’s had ever since the door opened, that something terrifying is about to happen, intensifies.

No one else seems to notice, though, and Jody continues, undisturbed.

“To be my lawfully wedded husband, in sickness and in health…”

“To be my…” Fuck, Dean’s voice will not stop trembling. “Lawfully wedded husband, in sickness and in health…”

“Through war days and peaceful times, under this sky or any other, and to be yours long after death does us part.”

Dean repeats, dutifully, his voice finally steadying out.

And then it’s his turn. A voice, low and warm, and somehow incredibly familiar, rises in the hall, repeating Jody’s words.

“I, Castiel James Milton, take thee, Dean Michael Winchester…”

Tears well up in Dean’s eyes. He’s heard that voice before, he’s heard his name in that voice before. It wasn’t the same back then, it was a child’s voice, and now— his heart is beating so hard, so fast, that he can hardly hear anything else. It cannot be. It’s impossible, this is his mind playing tricks on him. This is ten years of deeply buried desires surfacing back—

He struggles to stay focused, to untangle reality from his dreams, but all he can see is red, and all he can hear is him.

“To be my… lawfully wedded husband, in sickness and in health, trough war days and peaceful times, under this sky or any other, and to be yours long after death does us part.”

“And now with these rings, your promises must be sealed.”

Dean breathes, finally, as their hands are separated. His mind is spinning, dizzied, and he tries to gather his thoughts, keep them from spinning out of control.

It’s completely possible that there is more than one person on this Earth named Castiel. That the man in front of him is one of them, and that his voice is familiar just because Dean wants it to be. He cannot afford to hope, he cannot afford to lose himself to this — the pain that will crush him when he reveals his spouse’s face, when he realizes he let himself loose his mind over nothing — it would kill him for good. No, hope is not allowed. Finally, his heartbeat becomes regular again. He takes off his gloves, has to pull hard to slip the fabric off of his sweaty hands.

A cold ring is pressed into his palm and then Jody guides his hands once more, until he holds onto bare skin.

A rush of light and a million spark burst under Dean’s skin, staring from where the tip of his fingers press into the stranger’s skin and twirling around his palm, his wrist, his arm. He can’t see but he can feel, colors blooming under his skin, lines stretching between stars. Blue. He can feel blue wrapping around his arm, like it did ten years ago.

His fingers hurt from Castiel’s grip, he can feel the tremor under both their skins, and his knees almost buckle under the weight of the truth he can no longer ignore.

He is holding his soulmate’s hands. There is no denying it, no ignoring it. He doesn’t know how it happened, if it’s a miracle or a dream, but there is no fighting this — all he can do is abandon himself to it. He grips Castiel’s fingers tightly, then the ring, relief replaced with urgency. He must seal this marriage before anyone notices.

He slides it onto Castiel’s finger, just as he feels him do the same with his other hand. Promises are sealed, and Dean’s heart beats with hope renewed.

“I now pronounce you officially wedded in the eyes of the court, the law, and the Gods,” Jody declares.

The veils are lifted, and fear grips Dean one last time.

The face before him is of a stranger, yet Dean would recognize him anywhere, any time. Eyes bluer than the sky. Lips stretched into a hopeful smile. Dean is lost then, lost in the admiration of his beloved, standing before him, changed by the years and yet eternally beautiful. He’s not quite as Dean imagined, in fact he’s so much more; taller, broader, warmer, more breathtaking than Dean could have ever pictured. In that instant, he wants nothing more than to bring those hands to his lips and kiss them, to fall to his knees and worship the ground of whatever God brought Castiel back to him.

He wants to stand here forever and let himself drown in his eyes, he wants to bring him close, wants to bury his face against his beloved’s skin and lose himself in his scent. He wants — he wants so much, but the ceremonial hall is once again buzzing with sound, with chairs rattling the ground, with applauses and voices.

Their families surround them, ushering them down the altar. Their hands are pried apart, cold replacing the space between Dean’s fingers where warmth used to be. Dean finds himself hugged by his mother, his father, his brother. It’s a whirlwind of questions and congratulations, of claps on his back and tight hugs from those he loves.

His eyes frantically look for Castiel, afraid that if he blinks, even once, he might reopen his eyes to find him gone. Replaced by a complete stranger, dream shifting back to reality.

But when he looks above his uncle Bobby’s shoulder, he finds those blue eyes meeting his once again. The same hopeful, uncertain smile, the same questions in Castiel’s gaze. The same longing that Dean feels pulling at his chest painted on his features, like a string stretching in the invisible space between them.

He loses sight of him as his mother drags him out of the room, down a hallway and finally into a changing room, Sam on their tail.

“How are you?” Sam asks as soon as the door closes behind them. He anxiously examines Dean from head to toe.

“I’m— I’m fine, I’m okay,” Dean manages to say. He hides his hand in his long sleeve, unsure whether or not his soul mark has reached it. He can’t risk them noticing it before he can speak to Castiel, before he can ask him how, before he can — fuck. Kiss him, maybe, hold him, feel him, be certain that this is real.

“He’s pretty cute, right?” His mother tries, cupping Dean’s face in her palms. Her eyes are bright and happy, relieved. She never wanted unhappiness for him, but Dean knows that she feared, like the rest of his family, that he’d put up a fight or try to run away. “And he’s your age, and he has a soulmark, but his parents promised us that he has no idea who it is, and that he won’t be looking for them. This is the best we could’ve hoped for, Dean.”

“Yeah. It is.” Dean clears his throat, avoids her gaze. “Thanks, mom.”

Mary smiles, and then looks at Sam and nods towards the door.

“Alright, sweetie. We’ll let you get changed. Meet us outside when you’re ready.”

When the door closes behind them, Dean slumps against it, finally breathing again. He can still feel it. In his heart, in his mind, bees buzzing under his skin.

As fast as he can without ripping the fabric, Dean sheds his heavy ceremonial robes, cursing at all the layers. Finally he’s down to his undergarments and he quickly rolls up his sleeve.

And falls to his knees.

Where his mark was dull and grey, an eternal cloudy sky, his skin is now an explosion of colours. Blue, blue of course, the first and the most vibrant of them all. But through the stars are smears of pink, violet, green, as bright and beautiful as an aurora borealis. Both his arm and forearm are covered now, and the colors merge and expand right in front of his eyes.

His vision blurs, and he wipes the tears rolling down his cheeks. He rests his forehead against his knees and breathe, deeply, in and out. It’s true. It’s real, Cas is here — here, somewhere, and he’s happy.

Dean needs to get back to him.

As quickly as he can manage he puts on the clothes waiting for him on the bed. They’re much lighter than his previous robe was, just one layer of dark green velvet, adorned at the seams with golden lace. The sleeves are long, covering his whole arm to the wrist, and thankfully his mark hasn’t reached his hand yet.

His mom exclaims with praises when he walks out and he brushes off the compliment as best he can. His eyes are already searching the empty hallway for Castiel, who must also have been brought around here to change.

He can see that Sam wants to ask questions — his brother knows him better than anyone else, and he must have noticed that something is going on, but he dares not ask questions in front of their mother. So they follow Mary without a word, back towards the ceremony hall where a banquet and a long night of celebration are awaiting the new husbands and their families.

They turn the corner and Dean’s mark throbs. Coming out of another bedroom and standing between an older woman and a girl with dark hair, Castiel smiles. His robes are similar to Dean’s, but the velvet is dark blue, matching his eyes, and the lace is silver. The open collar shows a hint of tan skin and of a muscular chest. The pants are tight around strong, thick thighs.

He’s stunning. Dean forgets to breathe, choked by the sight in front of him. Before he realizes it they’ve walked up to them and met, and Dean’s mom is already talking to the other two women enthusiastically, about how beautiful the ceremony was and how delicious the feast will be.

Cas takes the place besides Dean and they walk, silent, their sleeves brushing against each other. That simple touch, that hint of heat, is already overwhelming. Dean steals glances at him from the side. His profile is as remarkable as the rest of him — straight nose, strong chin, high cheekbones. His dark hair curls on his forehead and behind his ear, and Dean’s fingers itch with the need to touch, to feel. There’s a shadow of stubble on his cheeks, down his neck. Their eyes meet. Dean opens his mouth, closes it.

He has a thousand questions to ask, and a million more things he wants to say. But not here, not where they can be heard. Not with Sam walking right behind them and their mothers in front.

Silence it is.

The chairs in the ceremonial hall have been removed, replaced by round tables at which most guests are already sitting. A group of musicians, with their violins and cellos and flutes, have taken place on the altar. As soon as they walk in, Dean and Castiel are accosted by Dean’s father, and then guided around the room to meet each other’s families. Dean loses track of the number of people who congratulate them, of the hands they each shake, the polite words they exchange. The whole time they cannot speak a word to each other, and Dean’s impatience is growing.

Finally, it’s time to eat. At the royal table, they sit, flanked on both sides by their families. Dean is acutely aware of Castiel’s presence next to him, of the heat coming from his body, of the gaze, heavy and longing, examining him when he looks away. Under the table, their knees touch. Dean struggles to swallow his bite of lamb shank.

When their eyes meet, Dean finds warmth, and heat, and want in his husband’s gaze. He keeps touching his ring, new, then his mark, familiar, reminding himself that this is real. That it happened. That this isn’t a hallucination. Every minute that goes by, Dean expects to wake up in his bed, sweaty and tangled in his sheets. He expects to look up and find his ceremonial robes waiting on the chair, to hear his mother knocking at his door and asking him if he’s ready.

His right hand rests on the table, next to his plate. Less than a quarter of an inch from Castiel’s. He keeps looking, keeps finding them closer than they were before. If he just shifted his pinky finger slightly…

Heat rolls under Dean’s skin, his mark glows with warmth. Castiel’s fingers rests against his own, more firmly. Slips under, hooks… The tension in Dean’s chest melts, replaced by warmth. He breathes.

“Seriously, Dean, are you okay?”

Dean jumps when his brother leans over to address him. He hides his hand under the table, underneath the long tablecloth. Next to him, Castiel’s cheeks are pink, and Dean wishes he could stare longer, reach out to touch him again — but Sam is watching him with rapt attention.

“Yeah, Sammy. I’m fine.”

Sam leans in further, close enough to whisper in Dean’s ear.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“Sammy…” Dean’s throat blocks up. He wants to tell him. Needs to tell someone, needs to be told he isn’t crazy, that what he’s seeing — that it’s real. “I’m okay. I’m really — I’m better than okay. I’m good.”

He looks at Sam as he speaks, and finally his brother nods. His eyebrows are still curved with a note of uncertainty, but he lets it go.

Dean looks to his right again. Castiel seems engrossed in a talk with his mother. Dean moves his hand under the table, until he meets a warm thigh, and the folded fingers waiting there. He tries not to gasp at the contact. The rush of emotions buzzing under his skin still takes him by surprise, every time.

Slowly, his hand slides into Castiel’s. Fingers curl between Dean’s, holding tight. A thumb brushes, ever so softly, on top of his own. It’s so much easier to breathe when he’s touching him. It’s both intoxicating and incredibly healing.

He fights to keep his eyes on his plate. To not stare, endlessly, at the man next to him. At the curve of his neck as he leans towards his mother. At the delicate coloring of his cheeks, from the wine, or maybe from their touch. At his long fingers curving around his cup, at the way his mouth moves when he speaks, eats, drinks. Dean isn’t supposed to be enamoured with his new husband. Isn’t supposed to want him, or care for him. Not yet.

He puts his fork down, and slides his left hand under the tablecloth to join his right one. He finds Castiel’s wrist, against his own, slides his fingers under the hem of his sleeve. Touches the mark that is hidden there. He closes his eyes. He can feel it, can feel the mark moving under Castiel’s skin. It’s not as much a physical sensation — it doesn’t have texture, or shape, it’s more that he can feel the energy of it. He can feel the way it feeds on his own, and gives back to him tenfold. He strokes his fingers on the inside of Castiel’s arm. The skin there is soft, warm.

His husband’s cheeks turn a shade darker. His fingers tighten around Dean’s. It takes everything in Dean not to bring their linked fingers to his mouth. Not to kiss each of them, reverently.

He blushes at the memories of the words he laid out on paper through the years — so many desires, so many dreams. About all the places on Castiel’s body he wished he could kiss. Of all the ways he dreamed of bringing Castiel pleasure. The vivid descriptions Castiel wrote of the things he wanted to do to Dean kept him warmth through the coldest winters. There was a freedom in their exchanges back then, a boldness, thinking that they would never get the chance to make those dreams a reality.

But now — now they are surrounded by hundreds of people, but soon, too soon and yet not nearly soon enough, they will be alone.

Dean doesn’t have time to expand on that thought. He has to let go of his beloved’s hand as the tables are cleaned, and then pushed to the side to make space for dancing.

His only relief is that he and Castiel are not requested to lead. In fact, his husband is soon dragged away by his sisters, to share dances with them, and Dean stands back, leaning against a pillar, and watches them.

Castiel is all elegance and confidence on the dance floor. He smiles as his sisters goof and jump around him. He throws his head back and laughs as one of them makes him spin, arms extended. Dean’s heart clenches painfully in his chest. Before him stands a man, tall and strong and grown, but he can still see in him the boy he met on that beach all those years ago. The abandonment in his joy, the lightness in his eyes.

The same complicity, warmth, and tenderness as their gazes meet from across the room.

“Hey,” Sam smiles.

“Hey.”

Dean can help but grin back, and then goes back to admiring his new husband.

“So. Not that bad?”

“You have no idea, Sammy,” Dean chuckles. He can’t help himself. He’s fucking giddy.

“Really? Wow. I — That’s great, Dean. I didn’t think—”

“It’s him.”

Sam stops, frowns. He looks between Dean and the man currently twirling on the dance floor with abandon.

“What do you mean, him?”

“My soulmate, Sammy. Castiel is my soulmate.”

“How—”

“I don’t know. I don’t — I don’t know.” Dean realizes he’s laughing, even with tears in his eyes. That he’s so happy, he’s not sure how he can contain it much longer. “I don’t know, but… it’s true. It’s him.”

“Holy shit.” Sam grabs him and hugs him, tightly, and Dean returns his gigantic embrace.

“I’m so happy for you.”

“Yeah. Yeah, me too.”

Someone stands in front of them and they pull back. Dean clears his throat and turns around to find his new husband looking at the both of them, a fond look on his face.

“Hello, Sam.”

“Hi, Castiel.”

Sam looks kind of starstruck — in all those years Dean has spent telling Sam about his soulmate, it never occurred to Dean that Sam might want to meet him, too.

“Would you mind if I borrowed my husband for a dance?”

Dean lets Castiel pull him to the dance floor, too enthralled by the feelings he gets whenever their skins touch to think of something to say. It’s like sunshine pouring directly into his veins, and he feels so light on his feet that he worries he’s going to float away. But Castiel grounds him, wrapping his free arm around Dean’s waist and pulling him close.

Dean has to turn his face away to avoid their noses bumping, and he follows, a little clumsily, Cas’ easy movements. The music is upbeat but not too fast, easy to move with, and Castiel doesn’t attempt any complicated steps, he just swings slowly, spinning a little bit, pulling Dean with him, and Dean goes.

They dance in silence at first, just basking in each other’s presence. Dean closes his eyes and lets the feelings of liquid light wash over him, starting from where their hands are clasped together and running through his whole body, oozing all the way to his bones.

He briefly meets Castiel’s eyes, but it’s just too much — who knew cold blue could shine so bright? — so he turns away again. Their cheeks brush, the barest touch. Dean’s heart is about to hammer out of his chest. Castiel’s hand is firm on the small of his back, his steps are sure, his breathing even, but Dean can feel his heart stutter against his own every now and then, when Dean’s breath tickles the hair curling behind his ear.

Dean aches in an entirely new way. He wants to bury his nose in Castiel’s neck, he wants to hold him so much closer, he wants to finally know what those lips feel like against his own. Want to know Castiel’s taste in the same way he has come to know his scent.

But everywhere Dean turns, eyes are on them.

So they dance.

They dance until the music slows, until they can only lightly sway, and Dean can’t resist speaking, the questions burning his lips and his heart.

“Is this — is this real?”

Cas moves his head slightly, his cheek rubbing against Dean’s when he speaks.

“Yes.”

He feels real — he has a presence, Dean can feel the warmth of his body, his energy, his weight in this reality. But it’s still hard to believe.

“What if it’s just a dream?”

“Then it means that I get to be with you, like this, every single night when I fall asleep. I’m good with that too.”

Dean could listen to him speak for hours on end, the low rumble of his voice the most soothing of sounds.

“How did — how is it possible? How—”

“How did this happen?” Cas murmurs, and he gently spins them around. His thumb rubs circles on the small of Dean’s back.

“Yeah,” Dean manages. “Did you—did you do this?”

Cas shakes his head slightly, his hair tickling Dean’s ear.

“No. Did you?”

Their gazes meet again. Dean always gets a little lost when he looks into Castiel’s eyes. It’s hard to focus on thoughts.

“No. I really thought—really thought I’d lost you.”

Cas’ eyes fill with tears, and Dean blinks to chase the wetness away from his own.

“Me too.”

Dean has to look away to repress the need to lean over and kiss his husband right here, right now. It would attract the wrong kind of attention. They keep dancing as the night goes on, easily switching from animated line dances — which Dean always dreaded, but Castiel is so beautiful and free, throwing his head back and laughing at the silly steps, trotting and gambolling and spinning around each other — to slow, intimate ones. They just fit together, easily, and Dean finds himself grinning until his cheeks hurt. He constantly has to restrain his urge to press his forehead against Castiel and to lean into his shoulder, so firm under his palm.

He’s not sure how long he can keep doing this without losing his mind.

“Dean?”

“Yeah?”

Dean slows them down a little, tightens his grip on Castiel’s hand. They’re slowly waltzing now, Castiel’s hand firm between Dean’s shoulder blades, their fingers intertwined.

“I—”

Dean lets his nose brush, ever so slightly, along the sharp angle of Castiel’s jaw. He feels his new husband shiver from head to toe.

“All those things we said, in those letters, about—”

A ball forms in Dean’s throat and he swallows around it. He’s not sure he wants to hear this. If Cas says—

“I know they were written with the thought that they’d never come true. And now, this, and I don’t expect — but I want you to know that I meant it. Every single word I wrote to you, I meant it.”

Cas’ lips brush on the shell of Dean’s ear as he speaks.

“I still do.”

Dean pulls him closer, chest to chest, until they can barely move without stepping on each other’s toes.

He keeps his eyes trained on the curl of hair behind Castiel’s ear.

“Me too,” he murmurs. “I want — fuck, I want it, I want you, more than — it’s just…”

He feels Castiel tense against him and he wrecks his brain to find the right words. His cheeks are burning against Cas’. He thinks of all the things he wrote over the years, the needs and desires he laid out on paper.

“I’m scared of disappointing you.”

Cas pulls away, just enough to catch his gaze. “Dean—”

“All that stuff I wrote about, I — I’ve never actually done any of it.”

Dean knows how it works, he’s read books and heard people talking, and he’s certainly well acquainted with his own body. But he’s never actually touched anyone else that way.

“I ain’t gonna be good at it.”

Cas smiles then, and the knot in Dean’s chest loosens at the sight.

“I have not done any of those things either. I’ve only dreamed about it, thinking of you”

“We’re gonna have to learn, I guess,” Dean smiles, and Cas laughs, and fuck. It’s the most beautiful thing Dean’s ever seen. And suddenly he isn’t scared at all, because Cas will be there with him every step of the way.

“And you could never disappoint me. This is — this is all I’ve ever wanted.”

“Yeah. Me too,” Dean murmurs, and he can’t resist bracing their foreheads together, just for an instant. He’s an inch away from kissing Cas’ mesmerizing lips. His husband’s cheeks are tainted the most delicious shade of pink, and he’s so fucking beautiful Dean isn’t sure how his legs are still supporting him.

He manages to turn away, and breathes the sweet perfume of Castiel’s hair instead, soft against his lips.

“Do you — um, do you think —” He takes a deep breath, steadying his voice. “How soon do you think we can get out of here?”

“Now. Now would be good,” Cas’ rumbling voice replies.

Dean lets out a breathless chuckle and holds him tighter. He knows his eyes are shining like never before, he knows his smile is brighter than the sun. He’s still not completely certain this isn’t a dream, so he waits impatiently for the song to end, so he can slip away with his new husband and make the best of this night in case he wakes up.

The party is still in full swing and Dean isn’t sure how they can escape unnoticed. They move, slowly, to the edge of the dance floor, hoping to melt into the crowd and slip away through a backdoor.

As the last note of the song floats through the air, they pull back from each other, grinning. Cas’ cheeks are pink, his eyes shining brighter than the moon. For the hundredth time tonight Dean feels knocked over by his beauty. Nothing, not a memory or a drawing or even Dean’s imagination could ever do him justice. And somehow, Dean can read the same sentiment reflected in Castiel’s eyes — a fiery admiration, an endless gratitude, and still a little bit of disbelief.

“Might I get a word with my son?”

Dean startles when his mother appears by his side, with Castiel’s mother right behind. Dean feels washed by a cold wave as they let go of each other’s hands.

“Of course,” Cas says, bowing his head. They exchange a glance, and while words were all they had for ten years, they don’t seem to need them anymore. Dean can read in his husband’s eyes everything he needs to know — he nods, and Castiel smiles, before they go their separate ways.

Mary grips Dean’s hand and drags him back to the dance floor and he follows, albeit a little reluctantly. He wouldn’t mind dancing with his mom on any other night; he loves every moment spent with her and she’s always been his favourite dance partner. But right now all he can think about is getting Castiel alone and out of these ridiculous ceremonial clothes and finally, finally —

“You two seem to get along,” Mary smiles as they sway together.

“Uh, yeah,” Dean stutters. He doesn’t know how to speak without accidentally letting out that he’s over the fucking moon. “He’s — we’re —”

“He’s your soulmate, isn’t he?”

Dean gawks at his mother, but she doesn’t seem mad, or sad — she’s just smiling, with a look not dissimilar from his own — full of relief and tenderness.

“How did you—?”

“A mother always knows, Dean. I can feel it. Your happiness.”

Dean doesn’t say anything for a moment. He’s not sure he wants to hear more. What if Castiel’s family knows too? What if they decided that this is — that it’s not what they thought it would be, what if they think this was rigged, somehow, and decide to take Castiel away? Dean’s breath shallows at the thought, recoiling like he’s been hit.

“Dean, honey, look at me.”

Dean looks at his mom and realizes he’s been squeezing the blood of out her hand.

“This is a good thing. This is — it’s a miracle, Dean.”

“I know,” Dean breathes out, “but — isn’t it — what if they’re not happy about it, what if they change their minds and they take him away? What if—”

“Why would anyone do that?”

Dean realizes he doesn’t have a good answer to that. He’s just been so, so scared of losing Cas again, that he never stopped to think that this secret might not be a bad one after all.

“I don’t know, I just—”

Mary looks at him with sympathy.

“This is the best possible outcome, Dean. I think your father and the Miltons would agree.”

“Yeah?” Dean asks, almost daring to be hopeful.

“Yes. And even if they didn’t, it’s too late. You and Castiel are bonded together by the rules of the land and the laws of the Gods. No one can take him away from you, not even Death.”

The wave of relief that crashes inside of Dean almost knocks him off his feet, and he leans into his mother, into her familiar, reassuring embrace.

“You have nothing to worry about.”

Dean hugs her fiercely, and quietly wipes his tears with his sleeve.

“I’m sure you and Castiel must be eager to make your exit,” Mary smiles, a little teasing.

“Yeah,” Dean blushes. “Kind of.”

“But we need to have the talk, first.”

“The talk?”

“The wedding night talk.”

“Oh, Gods, mom,” Dean groans, his cheeks flushing with heat. For a moment he thinks of abandoning his mom right then and there in the middle of the dance floor.

“I don’t want you or Castiel to get hurt in your eagerness to—”

“Please don’t—”

“Now, there are different ways for two men to share pleasure, however—”

Dean frantically looks for a way to escape this conversation. “I know how it works,” he mumbles hastily. “I don’t need the talk.”

“I’m sure you think you do, but your health is more important than your embarrassment right now, Dean Winchester.”

Dean bites his lips at his mother’s commanding tone — it’s the one she uses when things matter, and Dean knows better than to try to try a witty reply.

“Now, first of all, lube is the most important thing you’ll need. You cannot produce enough lubrication on your own for penetra—”

“Mom, ew —”

“And it can be very painful without it. It’s also very important to stretch, I know it might seem boring but you need to really take the time to use your fingers to open up before—”

“Please stop talking.”

Dean throws desperate glances around the room until he finally finds the blue eyes he was looking for. On the other side of the room, Castiel’s face is as red as a boiling beet. Dean realizes he must be receiving the exact same discourse from his own mother, and his own embarrassment only heightens at the thought.

“And it’s going to hurt, at first, but—”

Dean tries to tune her out, putting his hands on his ears and singing under his breath. The idea of doing those things he’s so desperately wanted for years, tonight, with Cas — it’s overwhelming, exhilarating, and confusing in a way that makes Dean want to be as far as possible from any member of his family.

Finally, she seems to be done, and so is the song, so Dean pointedly takes a step back and looks around for Castiel. He spots him a few feet away from the door, having apparently been able to escape his mother.

“Dean, one last thing—”

Mary gently grabs Dean’s arm.

“Being with your soulmate doesn’t mean that this is going to be easy. Love and marriage is something you have to work at, no matter the bond you have. Don’t take him for granted.”

Dean frowns. The thought of ever taking a moment with Castiel for granted, after all they’ve been through, makes no sense at all. There won’t be a day he will not be grateful to the universe for having brought Castiel back to him — and he knows just how incredibly lucky he is to get to have this. He’s not about to forget.

“Alright, go ahead,” Mary winks, gently pushing him off the dance floor. “Go find your husband. I’ll distract your father. I think he wanted to have the talk, too.”

Dean silently thanks his mom and finally manages to get away, taking Castiel’s hand just as they slip through the door.

Dean’s anxiety rises with each step they take towards their newly appointment quarters. His mind is only beginning to get a grasp on this new reality — the one where he’s actually married to his soulmate, to Castiel, for the rest of eternity — and despite the reassuring press of Castiel’s hand into his and the familiar way their fingers intertwine with each other, Dean feels his heart beating faster and faster as they make their way through the empty corridors.

“We have a greenhouse,” Dean blurts out.

He’s not sure why he chose that moment to say it, just that he’s been wanting to from the moment he realized who was standing in front of him at the altar. He remembers vividly the words of Castiel’s last letter — his sadness at the thought of leaving his home, his garden, and his beehives. Dean’s mother had always been fond of plants, and for the past ten years Dean has been helping care for the greenhouse, because it made him feel close to Castiel, somehow.

And now — now he wants him to know that there are things, here, for Castiel to love, besides Dean. That even when they thought there was no hope, Dean was still thinking of him, and of making his life a home for Castiel, may he never live in it.

“You do?” Cas smiles, and Dean can only glance at him quickly for fault of being completely blinded.

“Yeah. It’s really big, and it has all of your favourite plants.”

Cas’ hand squeezes Dean’s fingers and he halts, just for a moment.

“Really?”

“Yeah.” Dean can’t look at him and he keeps moving forward. They’ve almost reached their bedchamber and he needs to busy his brain so he doesn’t stumble into complete panic. His mother’s “talk” has done nothing but freak him out more. What if he hurts Cas? What if he does everything wrong and Castiel never wants to touch him again?

“Every plant you told me about in your letters, every seed or cutting you sent — I planted them. Took care of them. They’re all waiting for you, if you—”

There’s a sharp tug at their joined hands and Dean is forcefully spinned around, until he’s nose to nose with his new husband.

“I’m building an apiary, too,” Dean says, unable to stop talking, because Castiel’s lips are right there, an inch from his own, plump and pink and perfect and if he doesn’t keep talking he’s going to do something else, something he’s not sure he’s ready for. “It’s not finished so it doesn’t have any bees yet, I was thinking of asking you to send me a queen or something, I don’t know if you can send bees by carrier pigeon but I—”

“You did that for me?”

“Yeah. I… I mean. I never thought I’d get to actually show you. But it made me feel… I don’t know. Like there was a piece of you with me. A place I could go and… be with you. I know it’s dumb I just—”

“Dean. Stop talking so I can kiss you.”

“O-Okay, but I’m probably going to be bad at it, and—”

Dean’s words die in his throat when Castiel’s thumb brushes on his lower lip. His eyes are lit with a dark spark that takes Dean’s breath away. Their noses bump, a hot breath caresses his mouth.

Their first kiss is tentative, just a dry press of Cas’ lips. Dean closes his eyes anyway, feels like he’s free-falling ten thousand feet through the air. He’s pretty sure he’ll have bruises on his chest tomorrow where his heart keeps hammering against his ribs. He lets out a whimper and cups Castiel’s cheek, feeling too much at once — the scrap of stubble against his palm, the soft hair caressing the tip of his fingers, the warmth of Castiel’s entire body pressed against his own. And finally, the soft caress of perfect lips on his mouth.

It’s new, but nowhere as scary as Dean thought it would be. It doesn’t matter that he doesn’t know how to kiss, let alone do anything else — because he’s with Cas . And suddenly it’s so easy, sharing each other’s breath, tasting the sweetness of each other’s lips. Cas’ hands run up Dean’s chest, grip his shoulders, and the kiss deepens.

It’s more wet now, and Dean feels the subtle scrape of teeth against his lower lip, sending a deep shiver through his nerves. It’s a whirlwind of new sensations. He wants more, pulling Castiel closer, inhaling deeply, sea breeze and sunshine and love. Cas smells like love. The buzzing under Dean’s skin, that has been growing ever since Castiel walked up the aisle, reaches a new height; there are fireworks exploding inside of his chest, and light spilling from Castiel’s touch into his skin.

Only when Castiel makes small sound against his lips does Dean realize how hard he’s holding him, so hard that his fingers cramp and pain shoots up his arms. He loosens his grip and pulls back just enough to rest his forehead against Castiel’s.

Inside of Dean, beneath his ribs and low in his stomach, is a strong pull, a ferocious hunger, for more of Castiel’s touch, more of his kiss, more of it all — but he keeps it at bay, long enough to look at him, and everything else falls away.

Cas is smiling, beaming, and Dean gets lost in deep sea blue.

“I think we’re pretty good at this,” Cas murmurs, and Dean can’t resist kissing the smile on his lips.

“Yeah, we are.”

Dean didn’t think he could feel this calm, stepping into the bedroom, on his wedding night, with his new husband. But Castiel has managed to make him feel calm, almost settled. Of course there’s still the underlying current of energy under his skin, but he’s starting to understand that that’s never gonna go away as long as Cas is there — and he’s more than okay with it.

As for the yearning in his chest, in his stomach, well — maybe they can do something about that. Slowly.

They tour their new living quarters hand in hand. Castiel especially appreciates the tower corner, a small library with a fireplace, bookshelves, and a large window following the curve of the building. A padded bench runs along the wall under it, and plants hang above it, giving the space an ethereal feel. Dean is impressed with the bathroom, with a real porcelain sink and a bath big enough for two, that he cannot wait to try.

The bedroom is at least twice as big as Dean’s old one. The canopy bed is large enough for them to both sleep without ever touching each other, if that was something they wanted, and in the morning light will flood from the tall glass windows and spill onto the bed.

The bed. Dean can’t help staring at it like it’s a monster about to devour him. He has thought about Castiel in his bed every single night for ten years. First it was innocent — he’d think about them holding each other just like they had on the beach that day. He’d think about falling asleep listening to Castiel’s heartbeats, lulled to unconsciousness by the slow rumble of his voice. As years passed, the dream changed. He thought about laying Castiel bare underneath him, and of all the ways he could pleasure him, cherish him, worship him.

It was easy to think about it then, when it was just fantasies. Hypothetical. Impossible. Now it’s—

“Cas, I’m scared.”

Dean isn’t sure if it’s the soulmate bond that makes him unable to lie and blurt out every thought going through his mind, but before he can ponder his embarrassment, Castiel lets out a relieved sigh.

“I am too. Terrified.”

They exchange a wide smile, both leaning into each other’s embrace. Emboldened, Dean lays a soft, chaste kiss on his husband’s mouth.

“Maybe we could — take it slow. If that’s okay.”

“I would like that,” Cas agrees. He wraps his arms around Dean’s shoulders, caresses his cheek with the tip of his fingers. “We are in no rush. Are we?”

“No. Not at all.”

It hits Dean all over again, that it happened. He married Cas today. He married Cas. This is it, for the rest of his life—

“Can you disrobe for me?”

Dean stares at Cas, who seems just as shocked as he is by the words that came out of his mouth.“I meant — I didn’t mean —”

The most adorable blush has spread on Cas’ cheeks. Dean chuckles.

“I thought we were taking it slow?” he teases, pulling at their intertwined hands to press a kiss on Cas’ fingers. The ring is cold against his lips.

“No, that’s not — I mean, I do want to see you—” Cas’ entire face looks like a ripe strawberry. He takes a deep breath. “I have been dying to see your mark again. Every day I wondered what it looked like, and all night I’ve been—”

Dean only lets go of Cas’ hand to undo the buttons of his ceremonial shirt. Cas’ eyes darken, following the path of his fingers.

“You too,” Dean says, with more bravado than he feels. “I want to see you.”

Cas nods and begins unbuttoning with shaky fingers. Dean gets impatient, fiddling with those ridiculous threads and buttons, so he ends up shucking his shirt over his head. When he looks back at Cas, he stops breathing.

Cas is bare from the waist up. And there is a lot to take in — but all that Dean can see is colors.

An explosion of colors has taken over both of Cas’ arms and almost half of his torso. What used to be a frail vine snaking around Castiel’s arms is now a lush, jungle-like spread of leaves, stems, and flowers. All the shades of green in the world are battling on his skin, all the shape of leaves and plants and trees; and it’s only when Dean feels the warmth of Castiel’s bare body that he realizes they’ve embraced each other again

Arms around each other and skin against skin, Dean now sees just how much their marks compliment each other. Not only is the night sky blue of his own the perfect mirror to Castiel’s eyes, and the green lush of Castiel’s a reminder of Dean’s, but all the other colors adorning their skins are a perfect match; flowers for Castiel and brushstrokes of colors for Dean, imitating the aurora borealis that often lights up the sky during winter.

Together, their marks look like the Earth under the sky, and the leaves ruffle softly as Dean holds Castiel closer. Their soul marks almost seem to feel each other, melding into one another, bleeding into each other. Leaves and vines begin to tease the tip of Dean’s fingers, where they’re curled around Castiel’s arms, and blue starts to darken Castiel’s skin along the length of his arm.

Dean isn’t sure how long they stand there, just watching the colors move and bloom on each other’s skin. Must be a while, because his muscles are stiff when he blinks again. He meets Castiel’s eyes, wide with amazement, and then his mouth, for a gentle kiss.

Castiel’s arms tighten around his shoulder, fingers slip into his hair, pulling to deepen the kiss. His body is warm and firm against Dean’s, and he can feel the muscles rippling under Cas’ skin as he runs his palms up and down his husband’s back. Too taken by the sight of his mark, Dean barely registered everything else, but he’s now completely floored by how much Castiel has changed.

His shoulders are large, firm, his jaw rough, his hands strong. The translucent colors of his mark move over tan skin, adorned by little brown moles. Dean can’t help but trace the outlines of Castiel’s body with his palms; sharp angles, silk soft skin. Dean has wondered what Castiel looked like more times than he can count, but nothing he’s ever come up in his mind could come close to this.

According to the reverent look in Castiel’s eyes, as his fingers explore Dean in return, he’s thinking the same thing. They can’t read each other’s minds and never will, can’t hear each other’s thoughts, but are already naturally attuned to each other’s emotions, wants, and needs. Dean knows instinctively that Castiel wants to kiss each of his freckles, he can see it in his eyes. He leans over to kiss him again, and Cas makes a soft sound against his lips, melting into his arms.

Dean has spent years picturing what kissing Castiel would be like, but he never thought it would be like this. That Castiel’s mouth would light his entire body on fire, that the hesitant brush of his tongue would send his mind spinning out of control, that he’d fight to keep his knees from buckling just from his soulmate’s touch. Fingers begin their exploration again, Cas’ palm sliding down his chest, down his hips, slipping under his waistband.

Dean’s not so sure he wants to take it slow anymore.

His tongue slides, slow and filthy, against Castiel’s. Shivers run under his skin, Cas pulls harder into his hair. Emboldened, Dean lets his finger slide down the V of Cas’ hips, picking at the knot tying Cas’ pants together.

“Oh,” Cas murmurs, a little breathless. Dean bites harshly into his lips in response.

Dean can feel his own heart, beating hard against Castiel’s, can feel both of their hardness pushing between the layers of clothes.

“Cas,” he growls, tugging at Castiel’s waistband. “Want — need—”

Cas is so hard. Cas is so hard, for him. He presses the heel of his palm into the shape tenting Castiel’s pants and Cas’ hips jump forward, his nails drag into the skin of Dean’s shoulder.Dean pulls back, just to watch the way Cas’ eyes glaze over, the plush wetness of his mouth, pink like a rose in bloom.

There’s so much he needs, and he doesn’t know where to start. It’s overwhelming, to love this much, to hold in his hands the most precious thing on this Earth. He’s told Castiel that he loves him a thousand times over, has written all the words of love and endearment and cherishing that exist in the world. He’s dreamed of saying them aloud every single day for ten years, but now that he’s here, now that Cas is real and warm and wanting in his arms, he doesn’t know where to start.

I love you just isn’t enough.

“Angel,” he murmurs instead, kissing every bit of Cas he can reach; lips, cheeks, nose, eyes. “My angel.” Cas’ neck is warm, and he can feel his husband’s throat vibrate against his lips when he lets out a soft groan. “Sweetheart.” Cas arches against him, cock twitching against Dean’s palm, and Dean needs to feel that, over and over again. “Sunshine.”

“Beloved,” Cas replies, out of breath.

He pulls back from Dean’s embrace, his hands frame Dean’s face. They’re noses bump, and Cas is smiling too much to allow for Dean to kiss him properly, but he can’t find himself to be mad about it.

He needs to say it anyway.

“I love you.”

Maybe there’s no need for anything more than that. Maybe it’s enough, because it’s all there is. Love.

He doesn’t need anything more than this.

He leans over, kisses a path along Castiel’s jaw, presses his mouth into the tender skin of his neck.

Cas says it back, of course, repeats it over and over, until their voices get lost, stifled between their lips.

And suddenly, Dean knows exactly what he wants. He slides down to his knees, hitting the hardwood floor.

“Dean…” His name falls from Castiel’s lips, not a request, not a question. A shuddering breath, an adoration.

Dean smiles, reassuringly, and then lowers his eyes. He undoes Castiel’s pants and pulls them down, pooling them at his feet.

He has dreamed of this, too.

His hands frame Castiel’s thick thighs. He buries his nose in Castiel’s hips, warm skin and sharp bone. He traces it with his tongue, very aware of the hard, throbbing length brushing against his cheek. Cas’ hands settle on his shoulders, gently stroking through his hair.

He nuzzles in the slightly softer flesh of Cas’ stomach, follows the brown trail of hair down, down, down. He moves towards the heat, where the skin burns under his lips, curly hair caressing his mouth like a kiss. Vines and leaves follow Dean’s touch, moving under his mouth, and he kisses them too. Where his lips touch, flowers button and bloom.

Castiel’s scent is different there, concentrated, headier. It sends Dean’s mind into a dizzy spin. His stomach is pulled tight with want, his cock hard and bobbing between his legs. He doesn’t allow himself more than a quick glance at Cas’ — thick, curved and scarlet at the tip, spilling a generous amount of clear liquid — before he wraps his lips around him. He doesn’t want to think about it, he just wants to taste, to know, finally.

It’s bittersweet — mostly bitter, Dean realizes, but maybe he’s just a little too in love to not find it sweet — and Castiel’s cockhead is smooth and warm under his lips. That’s what hits him the most, the softness of Castiel’s skin against his tongue. He’s hard, getting harder with each clumsy stroke of Dean’s lips, but it’s soft, smooth, and Dean hums in delight.

He can hear Castiel make strangled noises, his fingers pulling a little too hard at the strands of Dean’s hair. But Dean is already addicted to this feeling, to how much he can feel with his mouth — his husband’s desire, his pleasure, flesh throbbing and hardening into his mouth, spilling salty bitterness on his tongue. He lets out a frustrated whine when Cas forcefully slips out of his mouth, but he doesn’t have time to ask why before Castiel’s strong hands grab him, forcing him up to his feet.

Cas’ kiss is burning, bruising, filthy, and Dean feels him moan as he tastes himself on Dean’s tongue. Dean wants to ask what he did wrong, but Cas grabs the back of his thighs and hauls him up in his arms. Dean only has time to grab onto Castiel’s shoulder to avoid falling backwards, and then Castiel has marched them to the bed and unceremoniously dropping Dean onto it.

“Cas, what—”

His question is swallowed into Castiel’s mouth, and the shock realization that he’s on a bed — their bed, their marital bed — with Castiel, naked, on top of him, hits him like a punch. It’s real. Cas is real, and he’s here.

“Cas,” Dean lets out, and he understands now — it’s not a demand, a plea, a request — it’s simply the wonderment of reality. “ Castiel—”

All those years not daring to speak his name — now Dean can’t say it enough. It’s the most beautiful word he’s ever uttered, it’s what his mouth was made for, to speak that name.

“I didn’t want — it was gonna end, and I didn’t want it to end,” Cas murmurs, bracing his forehead against Dean’s. “It was too soon.”

“You were gonna—?”

Dean realizes, with a surge of pride, that with only a few touches he almost made Castiel fall apart. He might not be as terrible at this as he feared.

“It was too soon,” Cas murmurs. His arms are bracketed on each side of Dean’s face, holding his weight. His stomach rests against Dean’s, warm, and they breathe together. Dean can feel everything, the weight of Cas’ body, the slow caress of Cas’ fingers on temple. His cock, painfully hard, wetting the skin where it’s tucked against Dean’s hip.

“You should’ve. Wanted to taste you.”

“I didn’t want it to end so soon.”

“End?” Dean smiles, wrapping his arms securely around Castiel’s waist. As if he might leave, or be taken away. But no, Cas is here, firm and alive and breathing into his arms. “There ain’t no end to this, Cas.”

Cas kisses him instead of answering, and Dean’s more than okay with that. Then he moves Dean’s body, peppering a thousand kisses on his skin on the way.

Dean understands now, why Cas pulled him up so soon — the feeling is so overwhelming, velvet soft heat like Dean’s never known before — he soon grabs Cas’ arms and hauls him back up.

The next kiss tastes like both of them.

Dean will never, ever tire of the warm slide of Castiel’s tongue, of the hand behind his neck, or down the slope of his shoulder, moving to tease the sensitive skin of his thighs, the curve of his stomach.

Dean’s need for release his growing with every passing minute, but he knows what Cas meant. There will be a thousand moments just like these, yet Dean isn’t ready for this one to end just yet. He wants to stay right here, right now, forever.

He wants to get lost in Castiel’s eyes, tracing over and over the outline of his face, memorizing every detail of him. The creases in his lips, the arc of his brows, the curve of his cheeks, even the shape of his nostrils, is important information that Dean needs to memorize and file away.

He likes the way Cas’ body feels on top of him, heavy and warm, likes the way Cas’ flesh yields under his grip, he likes the way his hand fits around Cas’ neck, thumb on his throat, feeling the air move in and out of his lungs. He runs his fingers through Castiel’s hair over and over, to never forget how soft it feels, the way it curves behind his hair and on his forehead. He wants to lay here and spend the next hundred hours of his life just staring in Cas’ eyes, wants to feel their bodies breathing together, moving together, chasing pleasure together.

He never wants to forget the salty taste of Cas’ skin, the way it glistens in the candlelight, the fine sheen of sweat covering them both. He moans at the feeling on Cas’ flesh between his teeth, curving into his mouth. He’s slowly covering Cas’ neck in bruises, new marks uniting them, marking Castiel as his.

When they do finally stumble over the edge, it feels like everything is falling into place one last time. This pleasure is their own, something they could’ve never shared with anyone else. Colors explode on their skin, the bed is alight, for an instant, by the sudden brightness where their skins meet.

Pleasure seals their fate, their union, their place into the world.

Dean spent the whole night thinking he couldn’t be more in love, but he was wrong.

When they awake, bleary-eyed in the late morning sun, he’s already impossibly more in love than he’d been a few hours before, when bone-deep exhaustion had forced him to stop kissing every inch of his new husband’s body, and let sleep finally overcome them.

He would’ve gladly stayed in bed and slept all day — or done a myriad of others things, the ideas certainly aren’t missing — but Castiel begs Dean to show him in the greenhouse and the gardens, and Dean quickly realizes he’ll never be able to say no to his husband and his adorable puppy eyes.

And if he thought he was in love before, it was nothing compared to the way Dean’s heart explodes in a million pieces as he watches the smile that illuminates Castiel’s face as he enters the brightly lit greenhouse, where lush plants are growing and blooming. Some of them are ancient, dating from long before their first meeting, but some of them are new, younger, a few years old — and obviously cherished.

Cas recognizes every single one of them, remembers their name, the day he took them, sliding the cutting in his pocket when no one was looking. He remembers touching them for the last time as he sealed his letter, comforted by the thought that they would soon know Dean’s touch, too.

It really hits Dean in that moment — his mind struggling to accept the fact that this isn’t just one gigantic hallucination — that he has spent ten years preparing for a life without Cas. A life without his love, without his everything. It’s going to take him a while to catch up to the fact that he is, in fact, going to spend the rest of his life with his soulmate.

Bees, butterflies, and other creatures buzz around them, and Cas follows their movements with proud adoration. He kisses Dean a lot, too, when he can tear his eyes away from the lushness surrounding them. Dean guides him through the greenhouse and then the garden, never letting go of his hand, the cold press of Cas’ ring a much needed reminder.

Eventually, their sleepless night and exhaustion catches up to them so they settle in the grass, the afternoon sun warm on their skin. Dean rests his back against the bark of his favourite oak tree, and Cas in turn lays against Dean’s chest, head lolling on his shoulder. Beautiful blue eyes droop as he sets himself more comfortably into Dean’s arms.

Dean kisses his forehead, his temple, his nose. He closes his eyes and reopens them, to find that he’s still there, the grass soft under his legs, light dancing on his beloved as the wind shuffles the branches of the tree above them.

“Sleep, my sweetest love,” Dean murmurs, “I’ll be here when you wake up.”

Tags: @suckerfordeansfreckles, @deanies-weanie, @kohumi, @daughter-of-the-rain-and-snow, @winchester-ofthe-lord, @starlightthroughbrokenglass, @theladydetective, @reallyelegantsharkfish, @elaspn, @mythicalesbian, @contemplativepancakes, @baemy-santiago, @godofcake

#deancasfanficnet #profoundbond #destiel fic #deancas fic #destiel fanfiction #deancas fanfiction #spn #m writing #i did it...... i finished something......

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