#but this will do for now until I can get to the Black Emporium anyway

[thehungrycity]

Okay I'm doing it.

[st4rlabsforever]

post-episode 3 fix-it

words: 2.9k

notes: i started a long fic based on this post after watching ep 3. i cannibalized some snippets from another fic i wrote last week so if you see similar scenes, that’s why. i think this will end up being 12-15k words endgame sambucky by the end, but i refuse to post on ao3 until it’s complete. this is the first 3 scenes. feel free to comment and message me your thoughts since i’m still very much in the writing phase :)

summary: “It’s the kind of statement that should be screamed into Bucky’s face, but he’s learning that when Sam’s angry – when he’s truly angry – he’s just as soft-spoken as he is when he’s in one of his pensive moods. And he lets his anger build and build and build until it bursts in spectacular fashion.”

“I didn’t back Steve on the Sokovia Accords,” Sam says unprompted one day. They’re so close to apprehending the Flagsmashers and wrapping up this ridiculous saga.

“I don’t follow,” Bucky says.

“I was the one who refused to sign it first. Not Steve.”

Sam says it so softly that Bucky has to strain to hear him. Sam is loud and chatty and half the time he keeps up a constant stream of chatter just to get on Bucky’s nerves, but Bucky’s coming to realize that when he really wants to make himself heard, he’s soft spoken and mild. Bucky doesn’t entirely follow his train of thought, though.

The thing is, Sam is unreadable when it really matters. He offers words of comfort where needed – in Germany, after seeing Walker with the shield that wasn’t his, knowing that it had affected Bucky just as much as himself; in Madripoor, Bucky’s hand on the throat of some henchman or other, Sam’s hand on his when the Soldier’s memories threatened to overtake him; even in Riga, when Bucky’s guilt over releasing T’Chaka’s killer bubbled to the surface and Sam had checked in with him even though he couldn’t have possibly known about Bucky’s meeting with Ayo. Sam speaks with his eyes, always a searching look that leaves Bucky raw and feeling like he’s been x-rayed. I see you, is what those eyes say.

In contrast, Bucky’s words of comfort feel hollow. He knows that Isaiah is still a live wire for Sam, checks in with him after Madripoor when he can tell the conversation with Nagel weighs heavy on his mind. But he doesn’t see the way Sam does. He knows he’d missed something important because that conversation had ended in an argument and a threat from Sam to destroy the shield.

He never gets a chance to ask Sam what he’s getting at, because Torres signals to them that they’re at the drop point before all hell breaks loose.

***

In the end, after Karli and the Power Broker and whoever else decides to show their head from the emporium of supervillains are dealt with and they finally have a moment of peace, Bucky says, “The shield looks good on you.”

Sam freezes a few paces ahead of Bucky, the shield strapped loosely to his wrist.

“We make a good team,” Bucky says softly.

What he doesn’t expect is for Sam to whirl around suddenly. The look of barely restrained fury is enough to nearly knock Bucky off he’s feet. They fight without ever really fighting all the time, squabbles over who went left and who went right and who was supposed to lead and who was supposed to follow, but never has he seen Sam look like this before. The fury verges on hurt and it’s so fucking visceral that Bucky can barely breathe.

“You don’t get to say that,” Sam says quietly. His voice shakes and he closes his eyes like he’s steadying himself.

“I said I’d squash it until the mission was over, and I did. But you know what? I’m not doing this anymore.”

“Sam–”

“You don’t get to tell me what a good team is. Not after all the shit we just went through. You invited yourself to Munich, and I thought, ‘Fine. I could use the extra set of hands.’ We went through it together against Thanos and I respected that.”

Sam shakes his head. “But then you went off on some lone wolf woe-is-me bullshit, and look at where it got us. You broke Zemo out without even asking if I was down with that. You knew I wasn’t and you forced my hand. Now I’m an accomplice.”

“He was our only lead–”

“Bullshit. That field trip to Madripoor led us right back to Karli. Torres ended up tracking them to Riga anyway.”

“But the Power Broker–”

“–showed his ugly face in the end. All we got out of Madripoor was you digging up your trauma and us getting our faces plastered all over the internet. I promised Sharon one goddamn thing and I can’t even deliver on that now.”

“But I went along with it, fine,” Sam continues. “I knew it couldn’t have been easy reaching back into that headspace, doing what you did to Selby’s men.” The memory blindsides Bucky. “So I tabled it.” Sam taps out a tally with his fingers. 

“And back in Baltimore, you’d been too keyed up about Steve being wrong about you to even listen to what I had to say. Again, I tabled it.” Another tally. 

“I’ve been meeting you halfway this entire time, man, and I’ve gotten near nothing in return. You kept Isaiah a secret from me, and at first I thought you were just clueless about how damn significant it would’ve been for me to know about him.” Sam shakes his head. 

“But then we met him. You saw what they did to him. The one Black supersoldier – a fucking hero – and look what they did to him. You saw it with your own eyes and you still sat there and lectured me about what you thought I should’ve done with that goddamn shield.” 

“There’s precedent for it, you know,” Sam says. It takes Bucky a moment to realize Sam is expecting an answer.

Bucky doesn’t know, is the thing. He feels like he’s all of five years old again, put on the spot. He’s reminded of when Zemo just had to let him know about the African American experience; he’d felt chastised and embarrassed enough to pretend like he’d had any clue what themes lurked in Marvin Gaye’s work. Sam just searches him with those eyes, searches Bucky for something yet unfathomable and decides he hasn’t found it. That hurts more than anything else; Bucky wishes he could sink into the ground, make himself as small as possible. Sam doesn’t notice, or else doesn’t care, and just plows on with a scoff. 

“You don’t even know the true history of the country you’re living in. Figures.” He shakes his head. “You’re not ever going to be able to separate the shield from the history Black folks have endured at the hands of this country. Not now, not ever.”

Sam doesn’t even look angry anymore. Angry, Bucky can deal with. It would be a relief, even. 

Instead, Sam looks at him with a disappointment that somehow surpasses what Steve could have ever accomplished.

“Whatever. I tabled that, too,” Sam says. “And then after Madripoor, after we heard that doctor go on and on about Isaiah’s blood like he wasn’t even a real human-being? I said my piece and all you did was throw that shield bullshit back in my face.”

“Sam–” Bucky tries again. He’s mortified to hear the crack in his own voice.

“It’s honestly breathtaking,” Sam says with something that might be akin to genuine wonder, or maybe even morbid curiosity in his voice. “We saw the same things in Baltimore and Madripoor, but your head was so far up your own ass that you never once stopped to think all of it was just proof to me. That the shield in the hands of a Black man wouldn’t make any damn sense.”

It’s the kind of statement that should be screamed into Bucky’s face, but he’s learning that when Sam’s angry – when he’s truly angry – he’s just as soft-spoken as he is when he’s in one of his pensive moods. And he lets his anger build and build and build until it bursts in spectacular fashion.

Sam’s not even done yet. “And that’s another thing. Stealing the shield from Walker…” Sam rolls his eyes at the memory. “You want to run around with that giant frisbee, fine. That’s your business. But then you forced it on me–”

“That’s not fair,” Bucky says immediately. Desperately. “You didn’t have to accept it.”

“The whole damn country was watching,” Sam says hotly. “It was either accept it, or shit all over Steve fucking Rogers’s legacy and make myself into the villain half the country was already hoping I’d turn out to be.”

“You were dead wrong for that,” Sam says. “I stuck around until we took down Karli because it was the right thing to do. After Munich, though, this little adventure was all you. Zemo, Madripoor, the shield.”

Sam shoves the shield into Bucky’s arms, the impact so sudden that it forces him back a step.

“Since you’re so obsessed with this thing, it’s yours. Congrats,” Sam says sarcastically. “I’m sure you’ll do it proud.”

Bucky lets out a breath he hadn’t even realized he’d been holding.

“For what it’s worth,” Sam says, “Steve might not have understood everything about me. But in Vienna, when it came time to sign the accords? He was considering it. I put my foot down first and he listened.”

Sam shrugs. “Whatever you thought we were, it's not a team.”

Bucky knows where to drive the knife in to kill a man in as few twists of the wrist as possible – a brutal economy of movement and technique. But Sam...it pales in comparison to what Sam’s capable of. His weapons aren’t knives and his targets may not be made of flesh and blood, but he knows exactly where he needs to strike to rip Bucky open raw. Bucky feels like he’s been flayed alive.

“How about that long vacation?” Sam says, and claps Bucky on the shoulder. 

And we’ll never have to see each other ever again goes unsaid.

Fuck.

***

The thing about ignoring Sam’s texts was that Bucky responded if they were actually important. It just so happened that most of the nonsense Sam sent was inane prattling about his day, about his job, his sister, his nephews. Now that he’s on the receiving end of it, though, it feels awful.

3/25/21, 2:58 AM

I’m sorry.

Delivered

3/28/21, 1:51 AM

Can we talk?

Delivered

3/31/21, 3:05 AM

Let me know what to do and I’ll do it.

Read 3:34 AM

4/1/21, 12:42 AM

Or if there’s anything you need.

Read 1:05 AM

Yesterday, 1:00 AM

I’m available if you need another body for a mission.

Read 1:02 AM

A week into the admittedly one-sided exchange, Sam turns his damn read receipts on. It’s ridiculous and it’s fucking asinine and it gets under Bucky’s skin immediately. It’s a form of twenty-first century psychological warfare that he’s unfamiliar with and already can’t stand. Mainly, he hates that it makes him seem desperate (he’s not), needy (he might be, especially when he realizes with horror that he actually misses Sam’s rambling texts), and ridiculous (he definitely is, because he’s letting petty mind games get to him).

Normally, Sam would send him nearly daily updates on his comings and goings – whether he’d been in New York, D.C., or New Orleans. The radio silence is unsettling. Bucky wonders if Sam made good on his promise to take a long vacation. And then....

The thing about apologies is that Bucky isn’t sure he’s ever done a proper one in his entire life, at least nothing beyond a rote “I’m sorry” with the “let’s move on” part left unspoken. But it stands to reason, Bucky thinks, that a proper apology can’t be given if he’s not completely certain what he’s dealing with. That’s all well and good because he’s got the world at the tips of his fingers, is what Yori always said. And when he grows frustrated with reading on his tiny phone screen, the New York Public Library is only a train ride away.

Sam had mentioned precedent, so Bucky’s first search is for medical experimentation. He knows for a fact he was good at this once, a memory of Steve whining about him being too good at exams coming up unbidden. He reads voraciously. Anything and everything that might offer a clue on what he’d missed. And it doesn’t take long for him to find what he’s looking for. 

He reads with dawning horror. The Tuskegee syphilis experiments. Eugenics. God, the fucking Nazis had even modeled their race science on the American school of thought. The things that the history books left out. Some of it was even happening under his nose in the 30s, he’d just been blissfully unaware. He somehow ends up down a rabbit hole where words like `prison industrial complex’ and `school-to-prison pipeline’ make increasingly more persistent appearances. New Jim Crow. COINTELPRO. War on drugs. The way all of these horrors reached their long arms into the twenty-first century.

Bucky’s going to be sick. The memories come up one after another.

Just give him your ID so we can leave.

You think you can wake up one day and decide who you want to be? It doesn’t work like that. Well, maybe it does for folks like you.

So you’re telling me that there was a Black supersoldier decades ago and nobody knew about it.

This is what you’re not going to do. You’re not going to come here in your over-extended life and tell me about my rights.

The shield wasn’t yours to give away.

He spends the next week in his downtime reading. With the mission being over and his parole in jeopardy, his downtime mostly coincides with every day of the week.

Had Steve known?

No, he thinks. Steve was compassionate, but he wouldn’t have known because he’d taken one look at the problems of twenty-first century America and decided he’d had enough. Then he’d ran back to the 40s to live out some fantasy that simply didn’t – couldn’t – exist anymore. Had he eventually become aware of all the issues plaguing this country that they’d been able to ignore as starry-eyed kids in Brooklyn? Bucky hopes not, because that would mean he’d...no. 

A part of Bucky thinks he’s so surprised because he’d thought things – race relations, civil rights, not things, his brain amends – had been getting better in the 40s. Deep down, though, he knows that’s a lie. A 2 AM read through Howard Zinn’s A People’s History of the United States confirms it. Shady politicians. Klansmen who went back to their day jobs as cops, judges, firefighters. Mass incarceration taking its place as the new king on the throne of segregation. Evidently, 

There had been plenty of folks – white folks – raising an uproar about these hidden horrors back then. The seeds of those movements had even been there in the 30s. Bucky tells himself that he’d been raised during the Great Depression, that his family had been too focused on putting food on the table to focus on social movements, but that, too, ends up being a lie. The poorest and working class whites – some, at least – in movement and solidarity with civil rights. Not him, though. Apparently he’d had his head up his ass back then, too.

Bucky can see the bigger picture a tiny bit more clearly, now. 

Fine. So he’s been disarmed of the little lies he’d used as shields, and he also owes Sam one hell of an apology.

Somehow, he doesn’t think “I’m sorry, I was ignorant then but I read some books and now I know better” is going to cut it. Maybe a commitment to do better would work? Perhaps after Baltimore, but not now. That ship had long since sailed. Some grand act of service, then? He’s sure he can think of something Sam needs in this post-Blip world that he can provide. He vaguely remembers Sarah mentioning something about a ship and bank loan. That could be a starting point.

It doesn’t take much time to find the public records on the Wilson family business and then the not-so-public records on the denied bank loan. It wouldn’t take much for him to pry a little, not when seedy bankers were astonishingly amenable to the threat of violence. But he’s reminded of Zemo and figures that he ought not to do anything so drastic that could jeopardize Sam’s family situation further.

He snorts. Did growth that came several months late still count?

In the end, he decides to rip the bandage off quickly, which is how he finds himself in the sticky Louisiana heat with his hands shoved deep into his pockets, staring back at an incredulous Sam through his open door.

“I did some reading recently,” Bucky says. 

“Hmm.”

It’s not outright refusal, so Bucky continues.

“About, um, the things you mentioned last time. Precedent.”

“Huh.”

For someone who’s normally so expressive with his language, Sam’s one-word answers as nerve-wracking as anything.

“I didn’t fully appreciate the situation that you were in. That you’re still in,” Bucky amends.

Sam shrugs. “It’s cool,” he says in a way that doesn’t sound like he really believes it. Bucky wonders if this is a test; he feels just as lost as he did on that plane a week ago.

“Let’s do this outside,” Sam says, closing the door behind him and ushering Bucky away from it. “Walk with me.” 

They head down to the pier mostly in silence until Bucky breaks it. “I’m sorry for making it all about me,” he says.

Sam stares at him. It’s true Bucky might stare a little too much on occasion, but Sam’s stares are utterly unnerving in the way he seems to see right through Bucky when he really wants to, like he’s already mapped out all there is to know.

[kookie-doughs]

Y/N L/N AND THE HALFBLOODS

Percy Jackson X Reader -Y/N L/N met Percy Jackson and everything was now ruined.

CHAPTER 11: Prepare For Trouble And Make It Double

In a way, it's nice to know there are Greek gods out there, because you have somebody to blame when things go wrong. For instance, when you're walking away from a bus that's just been attacked by monster hags and blown up by lightning, and it's raining on top of everything else, most people might think that's just really bad luck; when you're a half-blood, you understand that some divine force really is trying to mess up your day. Which was actually what's happening. So there we were, Annabeth, Percy, Grover and I, walking through the woods along the New Jersey riverbank, the glow of New York City making the night sky yellow behind us, and the smell of the Hudson reeking in our noses. Percy and I walked side by side with our hand still connected. Grover was shivering and braying, his big goat eyes turned slit-pupiled and full of terror. "Three Kindly Ones. All three at once. I was pretty much in shock myself. The explosion of bus windows still rang in my ears. But Annabeth kept pulling us along, saying: "Come on! The farther away we get, the better. "All our money was back there," Percy reminded her. "Our food and clothes. Everything." "Well, maybe if you hadn't decided to jump into the fight—" "What did you want me to do? Let you guys get killed? I was not going to leave Y/N." "You didn't need to protect me, Percy. I would've been fine." "Sliced like sandwich bread," Grover put in, "but fine." "Shut up, goat boy," I said. Grover brayed mournfully. "Tin cans... a perfectly good bag of tin cans." We sloshed across mushy ground, through nasty twisted trees that smelled like sour laundry. After a few minutes, Annabeth fell into line next to Percy. "Look, I..." Her voice faltered. "I appreciate your coming back for us, okay? That was really brave." "We're a team, right?" She was silent for a few more steps. "It's just that if you died... aside from the fact that it would really suck for you, it would mean the quest was over. This may be my only chance to see the real world." The thunderstorm had finally let up. The city glow faded behind us, leaving us in almost total darkness. Do you want to see?

Yeah that would be nice.

It was as if it was morning, I could see everything clearly. I wandered my head to make sure I could see everything. This is cool. "You okay?" Percy asked. "Yeah," Not really a fan of the current silence I turned to Annabeth. "You haven't left Camp Half-Blood since you were seven?" I asked her. "No... only short field trips. My dad—" "The history professor." "Yeah. It didn't work out for me living at home. I mean, Camp Half-Blood is my home." She was rushing her words out now, as if she were afraid somebody might try to stop her. "At camp you train and train. And that's all cool and everything, but the real world is where the monsters are. That's where you learn whether you're any good or not." If I didn't know better, I could've sworn I heard doubt in her voice. "You're pretty good with that knife," I said. "You think so?" "Yeah maybe you can teach me some tricks. "Anybody who can piggyback-ride a Fury is okay by me." Percy smiled. I couldn't really see, but I thought she might've smiled. "You know," she said, "maybe I should tell you... Something funny back on the but..." Whatever she wanted to say was interrupted by a shrill toot-toot-toot, like the sound of an owl being tortured. "Hey, my reed pipes still work!" Grover cried. "If I could just remember a 'find path' song, we could get out of these woods!" He puffed out a few notes, but the tune still sounded suspiciously like Hilary Duff. Seeing a tree coming up I tried to pull Percy to avoid it but Percy immediately slammed into a tree and got a nice-size knot on his head. I suppressed my laugh by covering my mouth which made Percy glare at me. After tripping and cursing and generally feeling miserable for another mile or so, I started to see light up ahead: the colors of a neon sign. I could smell food. Fried, greasy, excellent food. I realized I hadn't eaten anything unhealthy since I'd arrived at Half-Blood Hill, where we lived on grapes, bread, cheese, and extra-lean-cut nymph-prepared barbecue. This kid needed a double cheeseburger. >We kept walking until I saw a deserted two-lane road through the trees. On the other side was a closed-down gas station, a tattered billboard for a 1990s movie, and one open business, which was the source of the neon light and the good smell. It wasn't a fast-food restaurant like I'd hoped. It was one of those weird roadside curio shops that sell lawn flamingos and wooden Indians and cement grizzly bears and stuff like that. The main building was a long, low warehouse, surrounded by acres of statuary. The neon sign above the gate was impossible for me to read, because if there's anything worse for my dyslexia than regular English, it's red cursive neon English. To me, it looked like: ATNYU MES GDERAN GOMEN MEPROUIM. "What the heck does that say?" I asked. "I don't know," Annabeth said. She loved reading so much, I'd forgotten she was dyslexic, too. Grover translated: "Aunty Em's Garden Gnome Emporium." Flanking the entrance, as advertised, were two cement garden gnomes, ugly bearded little runts, smiling and waving, as if they were about to get their picture taken. I crossed the street, following the smell of the hamburgers. "Hey..." Grover warned. "The lights are on inside," Annabeth said. "Maybe it's open." "Snack bar," I said wistfully. "Snack bar," Percy agreed. "Snack bar," Annabeth joined. "Are you three crazy?" Grover said. "This place is weird." We ignored him. The front lot was a forest of statues: cement animals, cement children, even a cement satyr playing the pipes, which gave Grover the creeps. "Bla-ha-ha!" he bleated. "Looks like my Uncle Ferdinand!" We stopped at the warehouse door. "Don't knock," Grover pleaded. "I smell monsters." I turned to look at my knife. It had a light glow emitting from it. Probably because it was sheathed. "I think there's monsters." I was now reluctant and sided with Grover. "Grover's nose is clogged up from the Furies," Annabeth told him. "All I smell is burgers. Aren't you hungry?" "Meat!" he said scornfully. "I'm a vegetarian." "You eat cheese enchiladas and aluminum cans," Percy reminded him.. "Those are vegetables. Come on. Let's leave. These statues are... looking at me."

"Percy, I don't think---"

"It'll be fine." Percy took my hand and went in. Be careful and don't look. Then the door creaked open, and standing in front of us was a tall Middle Eastern woman—at least, I assumed she was Middle Eastern, because she wore a long black gown that covered everything but her hands, and her head was completely veiled. Her eyes glinted behind a curtain of black gauze, but that was about all I could make out. Her coffee-colored hands looked old, but well-manicured and elegant, so I imagined she was a grandmother who had once been a beautiful lady. >Her accent sounded vaguely Middle Eastern, too. She said, "Children, it is too late to be out all alone. Where are your parents?" "They're... um..." Annabeth started to say. "We're orphans," I said. "Orphans?" the woman said. The word sounded alien in her mouth. "But, my dears! Surely not!" "We got separated from our caravan," Percy said. "Our circus caravan. The ringmaster told us to meet him at the gas station if we got lost, but he may have forgotten, or maybe he meant a different gas station. Anyway, we're lost. Is that food I smell?" "Oh, my dears," the woman said. "You must come in, poor children. I am Aunty Em. Go straight through to the back of the warehouse, please. There is a dining area. We thanked her and went inside. Annabeth muttered to Percy, "Circus caravan?" "Always have a strategy, right?" "Your head is full of kelp." The warehouse was filled with more statues—people in all different poses, wearing all different outfits and with different expressions on their faces. I was thinking you'd have to have a pretty huge garden to fit even one of these statues, because they were all life-size. I was anxious so I tighten my grip on Percy.  It's stupid for walking into a strange lady's shop like that just because we were hungry. For a child of Athena, Annabeth sure isn't making wise decisions. I mean yeah I agree, you've never smelled Aunty Em's burgers. The aroma was like laughing gas in the dentist's chair—it made everything else go away.  But Grover's nervous whimpers, and the way the statues' eyes seemed to follow me, to add the fact that Aunty Em had locked the door behind us. Made me more cautious. Sure enough, there it was at the back of the warehouse, a fast-food counter with a grill, a soda fountain, a pretzel heater, and a nacho cheese dispenser. Everything you could want, plus a few steel picnic tables out front. "Please, sit down," Aunty Em said "Awesome," Percy said. "Um," Grover said reluctantly, "we don't have any money, ma'am." Aunty Em said, "No, no, children. No money. This is a special case, yes? It is my treat, for such nice orphans." "Thank you, ma'am," Annabeth said. Aunty Em stiffened, as if Annabeth had done something wrong, but then the old woman relaxed just as quickly, I had to turn to Annabeth to check if there was something wrong with her.. Quite all right, Annabeth," she said. "You have such beautiful gray eyes, child."  I wonder how she knew Annabeth's name, even though we had never introduced ourselves. "Percy, I want to leave..." I whispered. "Just a few bites Y/N. Don't worry." He gave me a reassuring pat. Our hostess disappeared behind the snack counter and started cooking. Before we knew it, she'd brought us plastic trays heaped with double cheeseburgers, vanilla shakes, and XXL servings of French fries. I wasn't gulfing down my food like Percy was.  Grover picked at the fries, and eyed the tray's waxed paper liner as if he might go for that, but he still looked too nervous to eat. Annabeth slurped her shake. "What's that hissing noise?" he asked. I listened, but didn't hear anything. Annabeth shook her head. "Hissing?" Aunty Em asked. "Perhaps you hear the deep-fryer oil. You have keen ears, Grover." "I take vitamins. For my ears." "That's admirable," she said. "But please, relax." I don't like it here. I'm scared. Be wary of all things. Aunty Em ate nothing. She hadn't taken off her headdress, even to cook, and now she sat forward and interlaced her fingers and watched us eat. It was a little unsettling, having someone stare at me when I couldn't see her face, and I figured the least I could do was try to make small talk with our hostess. "So, you sell gnomes," I said, trying to sound interested. "Oh, yes," Aunty Em said. "And animals. And people. Anything for the garden. Custom orders. Statuary is very popular, you know." "A lot of business on this road?" "Not so much, no. Since the highway was built... most cars, they do not go this way now. I must cherish every customer I get. My neck tingled, as if somebody else was looking at me. I turned, but it was just a statue of a young girl holding an Easter basket. The detail was incredible, much better than you see in most garden statues. But something was wrong with her face. It looked as if she were startled, or even terrified."Ah," Aunty Em said sadly. "You notice some of my creations do not turn out well. They are marred. They do not sell. The face is the hardest to get right. Always the face." "You make these statues yourself?" Percy asked. "Oh, yes. Once upon a time, I had two sisters to help me in the business, but they have passed on, and Aunty Em is alone. I have only my statues. This is why I make them, you see. They are my company." The sadness in her voice sounded so deep and so real that I couldn't help feeling sorry for her. Annabeth had stopped eating. She sat forward and said, "Two sisters?" "It's a terrible story," Aunty Em said. "Not one for children, really. You see, Annabeth, a bad woman was jealous of me, long ago, when I was young. I had a... a boyfriend, you know, and this bad woman was determined to break us apart. She caused a terrible accident. My sisters stayed by me. They shared my bad fortune as long as they could, but eventually they passed on. They faded away. I alone have survived, but at a price. Such a price." Annabeth gave me a look of worry. I knew she realized something. "Percy?" I shook him to get his attention. "Maybe we should go. I mean, the ringmaster will be waiting." Grover was eating the waxed paper off the tray now, but if Aunty Em found that strange, she didn't say anything. "Such beautiful gray eyes," Aunty Em told Annabeth again. "My, yes, it has been a long time since I've seen gray eyes like those." She reached out as if to stroke Annabeth's cheek, but Annabeth stood up abruptly. "We really should go." "Yes!" Grover swallowed his waxed paper and stood up. "The ringmaster is waiting! Right!" "Please, dears," Aunty Em pleaded. "I so rarely get to be with children. Before you go, won't you at least sit for a pose?" "A pose?" Annabeth asked warily. "A photograph. I will use it to model a new statue set. Children are so popular, you see. Everyone loves children." Annabeth shifted her weight from foot to foot. "I don't think we can, ma'am. Come on, Percy—" "Sure we can," Percy said. "It's just a photo, Annabeth. What's the harm?" "Percy, I don't want to..."  "It's just a photo guys." "Indeed it is just a photo Y/N," the woman purred. "No harm." I could tell Annabeth didn't like it as well, but she allowed Aunty Em to lead us back out the front door, into the garden of statues. Aunty Em directed us to a park bench next to the stone satyr. "Now," she said, "I'll just position you correctly. The young girls in the middle, I think, and the two young gentlemen on either side." "Not much light for a photo," I remarked. But joke's on her I could see quite clearly. Don't look. "Oh, enough," Aunty Em said. "Enough for us to see each other, yes?" "Where's your camera?" Grover asked. Aunty Em stepped back, as if to admire the shot. "Now, the face is the most difficult. Can you smile for me please, everyone? A large smile?" Grover glanced at the cement satyr next to him, and mumbled, "That sure does look like Uncle Ferdinand." "Grover," Aunty Em chastised, "look this way, dear." She still had no camera in her hands. "Percy—" Annabeth said. "I will just be a moment," Aunty Em said. "You know, I can't see you very well in this cursed veil...." "Percy, something's wrong," I insisted. "Wrong?" Aunty Em said, reaching up to undo the wrap around her head. "Not at all, dear. I have such noble company tonight. What could be wrong?" "That is Uncle Ferdinand!" Grover gasped. DON'T LOOK. Annabeth turned to my direction, "Look away from her!" she then shouted. She whipped her Yankees cap onto her head and vanished. Her invisible hands pushed Grover and and I pulled Percy with me. We were on the ground, looking at Aunt Em's sandaled feet. I could hear Grover scrambling off in one direction, Annabeth in another. "Percy, we have to move!" I shook him. But he was too dazed to move. Then I heard a strange, rasping sound above me. My eyes rose to Aunty Em's hands, which had turned gnarled and warty, with sharp bronze talons for fingernails. Percy was about to look higher then her hands and I instinctively covered his eyes. "Don't look!" More rasping—the sound of tiny snakes, right above me, from... from about where Aunty Em's head would be. "Run!" Grover bleated. I heard him racing across the gravel, yelling, "Maia!" to kick-start his flying sneakers. "Percy we have to move please!" "Such a pity to destroy a handsome young face," she said soothingly. "Stay with me, Percy. All you have to do is look up." "Percy please!" Percy pushed my hand away and looked to one side. I turned to look as well and saw one of those glass spheres people put in gardens— a gazing ball. I could see Aunty Em's dark reflection in the orange glass; her headdress was gone, revealing her face as a shimmering pale circle. Her hair was moving, writhing like serpents. Aunty Em. Aunty "M." How did Medusa die in the myth? But I couldn't think. Something told me that in the myth Medusa had been asleep when she was attacked by my namesake, Perseus. She wasn't anywhere near asleep now. If she wanted, she could take those talons right now and rake open my face. "The Gray-Eyed One did this to me," Medusa said, and she didn't sound anything like a monster. Her voice invited me to look up, to sympathize with a poor old grandmother. "Annabeth's mother, the cursed Athena, turned me from a beautiful woman into this." "Don't listen to her!" Annabeth's voice shouted, somewhere in the statuary. "Y/N carry Percy!" "Silence!" Medusa snarled. Then her voice modulated back to a comforting purr. "You see why I must destroy the girl, Percy. She is my enemy's daughter. I shall crush her statue to dust. But you, dear Percy, you need not suffer. We won't even hurt, Y/N." I swung Percy's arm around my shoulder. But he was too heavy.  "No," he muttered trying to make his legs move... "Do you really want to help the gods?" Medusa asked. "Do you understand what awaits you on this foolish quest? What will happen if you reach the Underworld? Do not be a pawn of the Olympians, my dear. You would be better off as a statue. Less pain. Less pain." "Y/N!" Behind me, I heard a buzzing sound, like a two-hundred-pound hummingbird in a nosedive. Grover yelled, "Duck!" I turned, and there he was in the night sky, flying in from twelve o'clock with his winged shoes fluttering, Grover, holding a tree branch the size of a baseball bat. His eyes were shut tight, his head twitched from side to side. He was navigating by ears and nose alone. "Duck!" he yelled again. "I'll get her!" I tackled Percy to the other side. Thwack! Then Medusa roared with rage. "You miserable satyr," she snarled. "I'll add you to my collection!" "That was for Uncle Ferdinand!" Grover yelled back. Pulling along an out of a dazed Percy we scrambled away and hid in the statuary while Grover swooped down for another pass. Ker-whack! "Arrgh!" Medusa yelled, her snake-hair hissing and spitting. Right next to me, Annabeth's voice said, "Y/N! Percy!" Percy jumped so high his feet nearly cleared a garden gnome. "Jeez! Don't do that!" Annabeth took off her Yankees cap and became visible. 'You have to cut her head off." "What? Are you crazy? Let's get out of here." "Medusa is a menace. She's evil. I'd kill her myself, but..." Annabeth swallowed, as if she were about to make a difficult admission. "But you've got the better weapon. Besides, I'd never get close to her. She'd slice me to bits because of my mother. You—you've got a chance." "What? I can't—" "Look, do you want her turning more innocent people into statues?" She pointed to a pair of statue lovers, a man and a woman with their arms around each other, turned to stone by the monster. Annabeth grabbed a green gazing ball from a nearby pedestal. "A polished shield would be better." She studied the sphere critically. "The convexity will cause some distortion. The reflection's size should be off by a factor of—" "Would you speak English?" "I am!" She tossed him the glass ball. "Just look at her in the glass. Never look at her directly." "Hey, guys!" Grover yelled somewhere above us. "I think she's unconscious!" "Roooaaarrr!" "Maybe not," Grover corrected. He went in for another pass with the tree branch. "Hurry," Annabeth told him. "Grover's got a great nose, but he'll eventually crash." Percy took out his pen and uncapped it. The bronze blade of Riptide showed. He turned to me and gave the glass then offered a hand. "Percy you can't be seriously bring her along!?" "I'll go with him." Taking his hand, we followed the hissing and spitting sounds of Medusa's hair. I raised the glass so I could guide us. I kept my eyes locked on the gazing ball so I would only glimpse Medusa's reflection, not the real thing. Then, in the green tinted glass, I saw her. Grover was coming in for another turn at bat, but this time he flew a little too low. Medusa grabbed the stick and pulled him off course. He tumbled through the air and crashed into the arms of a stone grizzly bear with a painful "Ummphh!" Medusa was about to lunge at him when I yelled, "Hey!" We advanced on her. I had let go of Percy's hand to bring out my knife. So if she charged, I could help Percy. But she let us approach—twenty feet, ten feet. I could see the reflection of her face now. Surely it wasn't really that ugly. The green swirls of the gazing ball must be distorting it, making it look worse. "You wouldn't harm an old woman, Percy," she crooned. "I know you wouldn't." I could tell he hesitated. From the cement grizzly, Grover moaned, "Percy, don't listen to her!" Medusa cackled. "Too late." She lunged at him with her talons. I ran and raised my knife to block her talons, Percy then swung his sword, then we heard a sickening shlock!, then a hiss like wind rushing out of a cavern—the sound of a monster disintegrating. Something fell to the ground next to my foot. It took all my willpower not to look. I could feel warm ooze soaking into my sock, little dying snake heads tugging at my shoelaces. "Oh, yuck," Percy said. His eyes were still tightly closed, but I guess he could hear the thing gurgling and steaming. "Mega-yuck." Annabeth came up next to us, her eyes fixed on the sky. She was holding Medusa's black veil. She said, "Don't move." >Very, very carefully, without looking down, she knelt and draped the monster's head in black cloth, then picked it up. It was still dripping green juice. "Are you okay?" Percy asked me, his voice trembling. "Yeah," I decided. "Why didn't... why didn't the head evaporate?" "Once you sever it, it becomes a spoil of war," she said. "Same as your minotaur horn. But don't unwrap the head. It can still petrify you." Grover moaned as he climbed down from the grizzly statue. He had a big welt on his forehead. His green rasta cap hung from one of his little goat horns, and his fake feet had been knocked off his hooves. The magic sneakers were flying aimlessly around his head. "The Red Baron," Percy said. "Good job, man." He managed a bashful grin. "That really was not fun, though. Well, the hitting-her-with-a-stick part, that was fun. But crashing into a concrete bear? Not fun." He snatched his shoes out of the air. "I didn't know Grover got Luke's shoes."  Percy recapped his sword. "I can't fly." He shrugged.  Together, the four of us stumbled back to the warehouse We found some old plastic grocery bags behind the snack counter and double-wrapped Medusa's head. We plopped it on the table where we'd eaten dinner and sat around it, too exhausted to speak. Finally Percy said, "So we have Athena to thank for this monster?" Annabeth flashed me an irritated look. "Your dad, actually. Don't you remember? Medusa was Poseidon's girlfriend. They decided to meet in my mother's temple. That's why Athena turned her into a monster. Medusa and her two sisters who had helped her get into the temple, they became the three gorgons. That's why Medusa wanted to slice me up, but she wanted to preserve you as a nice statue. She's still sweet on your dad. You probably reminded her of him." "Oh, so now it's my fault we met Medusa." Annabeth straightened. In a bad imitation of my voice, she said: "'It's just a photo, Annabeth. What's the harm?'" "Forget it," I said. "You're impossible." "You're insufferable." "You're—" "You're both loud and stupid." I growled. "Yeah!" Grover interrupted. "You two are giving me a migraine, and satyrs don't even get migraines. What are we going to do with the head?" I stared at the thing. One little snake was hanging out of a hole in the plastic. The words printed on the side of the bag said: WE APPRECIATE YOUR BUSINESS! I was angry, not just with Annabeth or her mom, but with all the gods for this whole quest, for getting us blown off the road and in two major fights the very first day out from camp. At this rate, we'd never make it to L.A. alive, much less before the summer solstice. What had Medusa said? Do not be a pawn of the Olympians, my dear. You would be better off as a statue. Percy and I shared a look. We got up. "I'll be back." "Percy, Y/N," Annabeth called after me. "What are you—" We searched the back of the warehouse until I found Medusa's office. Her account book showed her six most recent sales, all shipments to the Underworld to decorate Hades and Persephone's garden. According to one freight bill, the Underworld's billing address was DOA Recording Studios, West Hollywood, California. I folded up the bill and stuffed it in my pocket. In the cash register I found twenty dollars, a few golden drachmas, and some packing slips for Hermes Overnight Express, each with a little leather bag attached for coins.  "Found one." Percy called. We went back to the picnic table, packed up Medusa's head, and filled out a delivery slip: The Gods >Mount Olympus 600th Floor, >Empire State Building New York, NY With best wishes, PERCY JACKSON <3 Y/N L/N "They're not going to like that," Grover warned. "They'll think you're impertinent." I poured some golden drachmas in the pouch. As soon as I closed it, there was a sound like a cash register. The package floated off the table and disappeared with a pop! "I am impertinent," Percy said. I looked at Annabeth, daring her to criticize. She didn't. She seemed resigned to the fact that we had a major talent for ticking off the gods. "Great, well Fred and George," she muttered. "We need a new plan."

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UwU bb I'm just licherali rippin off now srry -kookie-doughs

Taglist?

@gayer-than-the-gayest-gay @the-natureofme @booknerd-3000

[hollyand-writes]

4 for the meta asks if it hasn't been done yet?

Thanks so much for this, Diz! What a fun thing to wake up to ❤️

From the “Fun meta asks for writers” post

I already answered number 4 here yesterday, but I can answer it again! 

4. Share a sentence or paragraph from your writing that you’re really proud of (explain why, if you like): 

Right! So I’m gonna share something from a fic I wrote for last year’s Black Emporium Rare-Pair Exchange, “A Marriage of Convenience”, which is an enemies-to-lovers Carver/Merrill Spy AU set in a Modern Kirkwall with magic. Starring rubbish spy extraordinaire Merrill, who is spying on Evil Garrett Hawke, but is so hapless that she keeps getting lost and accidentally ends up arranged to be married to his ex-Templar brother Carver while she’s trying to complete the heist that’s assigned to her. 

I was particularly pleased that I got to crowbar into this fic the (mean but kinda funny) British expression “body from Baywatch, face from Crimewatch” (albeit as Merrill describing Carver as “body from Rialto Bay-watch, face from Crimewatch” shortly after a failed heist in which she has to fight him -- while in disguise -- to escape), but I also want to share the start of Chapter 3: 

--- 

The things Carver did to help Garrett get elected to Viscount of Kirkwall.

Carver had danced with many women that evening, and had been thoroughly bored by their company; but if it was all to help Garrett realise his political ambitions, he supposed it was a small sacrifice to make – especially given the much larger sacrifice Garrett wanted him to make in order to help him out.

And anyway, at least this ‘smaller sacrifice’ meant he was now dancing with the pretty, dark-haired elf girl who had walked in on Varric’s arm this evening, giving him a pang of jealousy and recognition he never thought he’d feel at such a fancy, foppish, posturing affair full of wine-drinking pinkie-extenders such as this one. When he’d first met her all those years ago, he’d been too shy to talk to her. He’d been too shy to even ask Varric about her when he’d next seen him, and was forced to put her out of his mind until she showed up tonight in that figure-hugging, shimmery black dress of hers and a filigree mask that framed her beautiful big green eyes and made him desperately want to know more of her.

Carver had always been unlucky in love. And he’d thought about Merrill a lot over the years, kicking himself for being too shy to ask her out when he’d had the chance. He told himself he’d ask her out if he ever saw her again, but the Maker played a cruel practical joke on Carver when he never did see her again. One of many cruel practical jokes the Maker played on Carver – although not as painful as the one that stole Bethany’s life away before they came to Kirkwall – and now that his brother was determined that nothing would get in the way of his election as Viscount, the Maker was about to play another cruel practical joke on Carver again.

‘I’ve decided you’re getting married,’ was Garrett’s announcement once Carver had recovered from his injuries after his fight with the elven blood mage. That was typical Garrett: he could turn on the charm when he needed to, he was handsome and well-dressed enough that people listened to him when he spoke, but underneath it all Garrett didn’t care about anyone but himself.

‘That’s it?’ Carver had barked, wincing as he removed the ice pack from a particularly nasty bruise; he’d considered himself lucky the blood mage he’d fought only used defensive spells, and didn’t outright kill him. ‘No “I’m sorry you got hurt”, Brother? You’re not even gonna ask me what I think of this?’

‘Our family needs to be seen as squeaky-clean and respectable if I’m to be elected Viscount,’ Garrett went on, as if Carver hadn’t spoken at all, ‘and you have a… a reputation. We need to arrange you a marriage, and then perhaps the scandal of you getting in fist-fights in my office headquarters – not to mention your numerous failed love affairs and your status as an ex-templar – can be distracted from.’

Carver had been outraged. ‘Wait. I’m not the one who’s a politician here. It’s not important for me to have a squeaky-clean image. Why don’t you get married?’

But Garrett merely shrugged. ‘The city already considers me its hero, and its champion,’ he replied in those infuriatingly smooth tones of his, and Carver bitterly wished that his own unswerving family loyalty didn’t mean he probably would end up agreeing to whatever hare-brained scheme Garrett negotiated to secure his own power. ‘A politically expedient marriage for me can be made in good time, perhaps even after I become Kirkwall’s ruler. But you – you need to clean up your act.’

Carver clenched his fists; he was aware he looked like a petulant child, but he didn’t care. ‘And what if I don’t want to get married?’

‘Well, you don’t have to remain married for long,’ Garrett said. ‘Pre-nups can be drawn up. You only have to do it until I ascend to the Viscount’s throne. Nobody needs to know your marriage is fake or arranged until after my election.’

‘And you’re arranging it,’ Carver deduced, through gritted teeth.

‘Exactly,’ Garrett had said, looking pleased that Carver understood him at last. ‘I am holding a masquerade ball just for the purpose of beginning your courtship. The finest grandees in Kirkwall and beyond will be in attendance; every person of class loves a good party, and this one will befit the best. You are therefore free to choose a wife from this suitable pool of attendees, or I can propose to one for you – whichever you prefer, Carver. Just – don’t do a Varric and start courting a married woman, whatever you do.’

And now the masquerade ball in question was taking place, and Carver was miserable. His one saving grace was the elven woman he was waltzing around the room with right now. She seemed nervous around him for some reason. Not that that bothered him – he was nervous around her, too, for she was very pretty and if there was one thing Carver didn’t know how to do, it was to talk to a pretty girl.

Even a pretty girl that was currently in his arms. 

[wwitbeyondmeasure]

Summer At The Burrow - r.w. fan fiction

Previous Chapters

Introduction / Author’s Note / Chapter 1: The Journey to the Burrow / Chapter 2: Hidden Letters / Chapter 3: Ron’s Return

Chapter 4: Nighttime Conversations 

You awoke to the sound of quiet shuffling in the corner of the room. You opened your eyes but didn't dare move. The wizarding world had become increasingly dangerous lately so you were terrified that there could be some dark wizard lurking in the darkness, ready to kidnap you. Then, you heard someone stub their toe and the sound of a muffled swear eased your fear.

"Ron?" you asked, no longer afraid of the mysterious noises in the room. You flipped over in bed so now you were facing him.

Your cheeks immediately flushed a deep shade of red. Whatever it was you were expecting to see when you turned around, it definitely wasn't a shirtless Ron.

"H-Hi. Sorry I, er, thought you were asleep," he stammered, standing frozen as if he was paralyzed.

Your brain was having an intense argument with your eyes to prevent them from dropping from Ron's face to his bare torso. Unfortunately, you were weak, so your gaze fell ever so slightly and your face got even redder. The years of Quidditch seemed to really have paid off because Ron's chest was toned. Freckles littered his shoulders and chest like constellations and you fought the urge to run your fingers over every single one of then. You tried your very best not to notice his prominent v-line leading to the waistband of his pajama bottoms.

Ron's face was the same color as his hair as he hastily threw a shirt on, to your great disappointment.

"I couldn't sleep well in normal clothes so I came up to get some pajamas...didn't mean to wake you," he muttered quietly, his eyes locked in a staring contest with the floor.

It took a second for you to snap your attention to his words when all your brain was thinking about was him half naked only a moment ago.

"S'okay," you said, matching his soft tone.

An odd silence filled the room, a silence that usually wasn't present in conversations with your best friend.

You scooted over closer to the wall, making as much room as you could in the small bed.

Ron took your silent cue and laid down next to you, folding his arms behind his neck as he leaned against the bed frame.

"Couch not treating you well?" you asked, keeping your tone light in hopes he hadn't noticed how you were ogling at him a minute ago.

He groaned, "I don't know how old that couch is, but I think my mum got it before her and Dad were even married. It's like sleeping on rocks."

"I can sleep down there if you want," you offered, feeling guilty for taking his room.

Ron was shaking his head before you even finished your sentence.

"No way, I'm a gentleman. I can't do that," he told you.

You snorted at his choice of words. "You're the furthest thing from it," you joked.

He playfully slapped your shoulder.

"It's true!" you defended yourself. "I don't think we've had one conversation at the dining hall where you're not talking with your mouth full."

His shoulders, clad in his red Chudley Cannons pajama shirt, jostled up and down with quiet laughter. You noticed there was a small hole in the middle of the shirt and you could see his pale skin moving underneath the cloth.

Forcing your eyes back up to meet his, you tried to change the subject.

"So why were you in Diagon Alley for so long?" you asked nervously, praying he hadn't noticed your eyes betraying your better judgment once again.

At this question, Ron beamed.

"They really kept the secret?" he asked, excitedly hopping out of the bed. "Nobody told you? Not even Ginny?"

Confused, you shook your head.

"I got you a present," Ron explained as he walked to the window and opened it, letting in the fresh nighttime summer air. "I asked the family to not tell you what it was, but I half expect them to anyways. But I'm glad they didn't, I wanted it to be a surprise."

You followed him out of bed, sitting next to him on the windowsill. You watched as he leaned out of the window, put his fingers to his lips, and let out a short whistle. Nothing happened, and you craned your head out the window to see what he was calling for.

The night was empty, all you could see were the rolling fields outside of the Burrow and the garden gnomes throwing rocks at one another.

You were about to pull your head back into the room, when you saw a small pink blur soaring through the air. It looked like it was getting closer and closer to the window.

"What is that?" you asked, looking to Ron for answers but were met with only his large grin.

Suddenly, the pink blur shot into the bedroom. You turned around, stunned as you saw Ron cradling it. Taking a step forward, you were delighted to see it was a creature.

"An owl?" you asked excitedly, as you stood next to Ron to see the creature closer.

It was miniature, about the size of Ron's owl Pigwidgeon, but a million times more adorable. Pink feathers surrounded large blue eyes and you noticed a black heart shaped marking on the top of its head.

"Her name's Aphrodite. I call her Dite though," Ron told you, glancing up at you from under his lashes to see your reaction.

You were beaming from ear to ear.

"She's amazing," you said.

Ron grinned. "Good, because she's yours," he said, moving closer so he could set the small creature into your hands. She reluctantly stepped off of Ron's palms, but once you gave her a small pat on the head, she nuzzled into your hands.

"I know how upset you were about Celeste, so I wanted to cheer you up. I spent days in Eeylops Owl Emporium looking for the perfect one and then one day Dite showed up. She's pretty affectionate and a fast flyer, a bit annoying really, but I thought you'd like her," Ron said. He looked at you again, biting his lip in hopes that you appreciated your gift.

Dite flew onto your shoulder as you lunged forward and wrapped Ron into a tight hug. He let out a little gasp of surprise but then wrapped his arms around your waist, pulling you closer.

"Thank you, I love her," you said while hugging him.

"I'm glad. Now when we write letters to each other, you'll have an owl too so Pig won't get so tired making so many trips," he said.

At the mention of your letters, guilt knocked the smile off your face. You quickly pushed away from Ron.

"Ikindasortamaybelookedthroughyourpersonalbelongingsandsawtheletters," you said in one quick breath.

Ron stared at you confused. "Y/n, I didn't understand one word of that."

You swallowed nervously before stating slower, "I, er, I was curious about that box under your nightstand so I kinda...opened it. It had my name on it and I saw all my letters you kept," you said nervously. Dite reflected your emotions and shifted awkwardly from talon to talon on your shoulder.

Ron's facial expression changed slightly, and you were afraid he was going to be mad at you. Here he was, offering you a place to stay over the summer, buying you an owl, and letting you sleep in his room and how did you repay him? Oh yeah, by snooping into his personal items.

Instead of the anger you were expecting, Ron looked deeply embarrassed.

"Oh," he sighed, lowering his head and scratching the back of his neck. "Bet you think I'm weird for saving all your letters right? I dunno why I did, I just sometimes liked to reread them when I hadn't seen you in a while. I guess cause I missed you. I dunno," he said.

Again, a silence filled the room. He missed you. He missed you. Of course you missed him over the summer, both as a friend misses a friend and as someone misses their crush. You wondered which kind of missing he felt.

"I keep your letters too," you told him.

Ron finally looked back up at you. "Yeah?" he asked with a hopeful smile.

You nodded, "I reread them when you take a while to reply, sort of as a way to hold me over until the next letter. Or I reread them because your handwriting is so damn awful it takes a couple reads to actually figure out what you wrote."

He laughed, and just like that the tension was gone.

You spent the next hour or so chatting and playing with Dite. Even though Ron's watch read 2am, neither of you really cared, you just missed talking to each other. Back at Hogwarts, you would take walks along the Black Lake once a week and time seemed to matter less when you were together. You would stroll around the lake numerous times, your conversation flowing easily, and not even notice how long you had been gone until the sun would set. The same flow came into place now, and before long it was 5am.

By now, you and Ron were laying on his bed, your head leaning against his shoulder. Dite took it upon herself to sit with Pig in his cage, drinking some of the water from his water bottle as he unknowingly snoozed in the back of the cage.

A yawn escaped you as Ron sleepily spoke about the newest broomstick he saw on sale at Diagon Alley.

"It's late," he said, glancing at his watch with tired eyes

You nodded, too comfortable to move.

"Is it alright if I stay up here tonight? That couch is bloody awful," he said.

Heart soaring, you nodded again and scooted closer to the wall to give him more room. He got under the covers with you, slowly wrapping his arm around your back. Now you were cuddling next to Ron, your head on his chest as his fingers drew lazy circles on your back. People who were just friends didn't lay like this together, right?

Before long, he was snoring. You closed your eyes too. For the first time since you came to The Burrow, you drifted to sleep peaceful and warm. With Ron's arm wrapped around you, you were more comfortable than you had ever been before.

[lexigraph]

oh my god I found a draft of a Hawke/Varric thing I was working on (YES I have a pattern!! Maybe developers should stop making characters mine have extreme sexual tension and compatibility with ok.)

I don’t know if it will ever get any further than this, but the notes made me laugh and sad. Dumping it all after the cut.  Please note that YES I literally stopped writing mid-sentence six years ago and never continued. Why??

It all started when we returned from the Deep Roads.

Actually, that’s not exactly true. It started about half a year before then, or else the last time I’d seen Bianca. Nevermind that. This isn’t the story I never tell, it’s just one that I don’t.

In any case, after the Deep Roads is as good a time as any to start. If you want the real beginning, it’s in the book. The Champion of Kirkwall. Sure, there may be some missing lines, a few redacted conversations, but the foundation is there. Go ahead and read the first act, I’ll wait. If you haven’t read it by now, though… let’s just say you’re in the minority. After all, it is my best selling story.

After the Deep Roads, Hawke and I had a lot of reasons to spend time together. After all, there was business to conduct: treasure that needed the right buyers at the right price, hirelings to question about their involvement with the whole “abandonment thing”, letters to write to various and sundry members of the Guild, maps to update with an ancient thaig, for Andraste’s sake. 

There was also a lot of drinking to be done, or maybe it was just that a lot of drinking was done. It took the edge off of things… washed down any manner of dark thoughts. Or so we’d claim. The company helped, regardless. Hawke and her little band of misfits, myself included… we ruled the Hanged Man in those days.

After a while, well… things got a little more complicated and reasons turned to excuses.

---

Hawke drops herself into a chair at Varric’s long table with a considerable thunk of metal on wood; something ridiculous and heavy made of iron that she’s taken to wearing as ornamentation impacting less than delicately with his fine dwarven chairs. Varric sets the quill he’s been using in its holder, leaves the paper to dry. It’s just a bit about their encounter with the darkspawn. For his records; nothing serious, but he finds himself writing it as prose out of habit. It can wait.

He studies Hawke for a second. The rings under her eyes are especially bad today, the purple tinge of long nights visible even under the gold powder smeared across her eyelids and the smudged black of whatever substance she darkens her eyelashes with. She almost always looks like she slept in yesterday’s eye makeup, but lately each day has been progressively worse, and today is no exception. He swallows and tries to keep his tone light.

“No word?” Varric knows the answer, will probably know word is coming before Hawke does, but asks anyway. It isn’t entirely impossible that a messenger from the Wardens would slip past the notice of his carefully placed network of spies. Highly improbable, but not impossible.

She shakes her head and sighs, leaning forward to place both elbows against the edge of the table and duck her head as if to study the exquisitely carved wood. Not that the elbows bothered him; this table had, after all, seen a lot worse in it’s day, and Varric wasn’t exactly Mr. Manners. Hawke wasn’t normally an elbows on the table kind of gal, was all. Leaning back until she practically slid off the chair, sure. But hunched was bad. She’d been hunched a lot lately.

“Nothing at all. It’s been weeks, Varric. I just--”

“--want to know that your brother is alive. ‘The little snotrag’.” He finishes for her, managing (pretty badly) to keep back a chuckle. Hawke narrows her eyes but smiles, albeit a wan one.

“I’m sorry. I know you’re sick of hearing it.”

“Of course not.” He leans back in his chair, tipping so far that it’s balancing on two legs. “Though you could stand to get a little more creative with the insults. Carver was a little shit.” Shit. Hawke’s face falls again, fast, on ‘was’. Varric leans forward again so all four legs of his chair hit the ground, then pushes back and stands.

“Come on. I’ve got something for us to do.” That, at least, elicits a stronger smile. He’ll have to think of something good, and fast.

He mulls this over as Hawke waits for him to pull on his jacket and gloves, to strap Bianca on. He feels her eyes on him, and slows down just a little bit, making a show of adjusting the way his gloves lay and fiddling with his earrings. Varric is retying the sash around his middle (again) when he spies Hawke’s mouth pressing into a thin line. Time to stop dragging his heels.

“Alright, Hawke, let’s go.”

“If you’re sure you’re presentable, Tethras,” she rolls her eyes as she stands, but the smile has returned.

“Well excuse me. Some of us have a reputation to uphold. Actually, Hawke--” he gestures towards the door to his miniature suite, beckoning her through “--that’s going to include you very soon. You know how they are in High Town, after all.” His tone is light as a feather, threatening a chuckle.

Hawke shrugs her way out of the room, and he follows, then turns to pull the door shut. Not that locking it means a hell of a lot -- everyone basically already knows not to bother Varric’s things. It still makes him feel better.

“It might. If my share is what you said, I should be able to get the mansion.” A small throaty laugh escapes her. Varric fumbles with the key a moment, then shakes his head:

“And then some. Don’t worry, it’s not too difficult to line up buyers for ancient dwarven chamberpots.”

She laughs again as he turns around to find she’s still facing him. “I may just keep one. I’ll think of Bartrand every time I sh--” The expletive is drowned by the laughter that bursts out from deep in Varric’s body. Maker, it feels good to laugh like that.

“Alright, alright, I get the picture, you don’t have to get gross. Let’s go already.” He gestures again, toward the stairs. Hawke’s mouth twitches in a mischievous smile, but she turns on her heel and  That’s where I stopped?? And then, a rare thing, an OUTLINE:

--- Months before learning Carver survived ---

Scene one: Two weeks after returning from the Deep Roads. Hawke and Varric go to the Black Emporium (pretend it is first time) to try and sell off some of the rarer goods. Run into Anders on the way, drag him along (hint at annoyance, very light).

Something something plot hook idek. Bandits? Someone sniffing about the manor trying to buy it first? Figger it out.

Small amount of time skip, nighttime scene, everyone loves fucking Wicked Grace at the Hanged Man scenes lets do this. Flirting, but table-wide. Some stupid observation from Varric about attention from Hawke being great or whatever blah blah blah. Maybe like a shoulder touch ho ho ho gettin’ racy. But point is Hawke is manic, flirtatious and drowning her anxiety, pretending to be happy about a good sale, whatever.

Hawke like blind drunk, Isabela already took someone to her room, everyone else has wandered off, SUPER PLANTONIC FLUFFY tucking her into his bed and setting up to a sleepness night writing just make sure it hurts a little how much Varric is taking care of her.

Morning afterwards maybe a fight OH NO about Carver?? oh no, Marie feeling stupid and hungover and sad and Varric sticking his foot in his mouth for once trying to be reassuring. You tits.

Break for action about whatever DUMB PLOT is happening, gives a chance for building tension because they’re being weird ha ha TIME TO BE WEIRD. Other people. Resist using Isabela to deliver tired lines about how they should shut up and kiss. Resist it. But whatever whole point is tension. Do not break the tension. Laughter must be strained.

Who loves shirty Hawke? Everyone. Anyway moving things along lets have enough time pass now for Carver to be Survive! Hooray? And so real celebration, everyone knows good news is an even better excuse to drink than avoiding problems.

Speaking of avoiding problems maybe like now is when Marie is still being shirty and Varric is like also shirty and so they have a “private” conversation at the bar (Varric, getting his own drinks? Must be serious) and now, now we’ll put cracks in that tension eggshell, there’s a baby bird inside ok it needs to breathe.

Varric is a grownup and Hawke is pretending. Let’s make more touching happen and confusion. 

???

[nat-20s]

PROMPT! the first time the s1 archive gang hangs out outside of work (any variation of the group, doesn’t have to be All of them)

This is only the Archive Assistant sqaud, bc I’m sorry Jon, but no bosses allowed. Also it’s VERY silly and soft bc sometimes u just wanna write nice things u know

(also also fuck I lovecompletely missed that this said “first time” they hang out but uhh. I hope u like it anyway.)

Tim Stoker like to think that, sometimes, not to toot his own horn, but he can be something of a genius. When a cousin’s cousin had offered to let him use their cozy little cabin for a night or two in exchange for help with moving, he had been struck with what could only be humbly described as “inspiration of the most divine nature”. For, as nice as a Friday evening away from it all by himself sounds, it’s so much nicer for a Friday evening away from it all to serve as Archival Assistants Bonding Time™. Or well, more like Tim and Sasha, Who Are Already Best Friends Forever, Figure Out What Martin’s Deal Is, Because For A Guy So Chatty, He Sure Is Mysterious Time™, but that’s not nearly as catchy. Truly, his plan was brilliant, bringing two compatriots and an excessive amount of food and drink to a spot away from the prying eyes of the world and bosses, and feast in the openness and silliness that comes from having a great fucking time.

His plan, and his genius, were tragically derailed. While he knew on their drive up that the air was rapidly getting cooler, Tim couldn’t have even pretended to predict that an hour into their stay would bring a freak blizzard that means they’re snowed in for the next three days, which was 3 times longer than he had accounted on spending with his coworkers/friends. There was more than enough food to last them, and almost enough alcohol, but as Sasha so kindly put it:

“First you make us reenact the first scene of every bad teen slasher movie, now there’s a fucking white out. If we lose power, I’m telling you, there is absolutely going to be a murder.”

“Pfft, no way. The guy who owns this place is one of those weird ass prepper types, there’s a back up generator for the back up generator. And even if we did lose power, we’re all much more the “huddle for warmth under a shared blanket in front of the roaring fire” types than the “get panicked and stab someone in darkness” types, right? Back me up here, Marto.”

Martin, who at three shots in is both hilarious and mean, directs his response to Sasha. “in the event of a black-out I vote we kill Tim. I can take him down and you can finish the job.”

Sasha tips her cup at him, saying, “I like the way you think,” at the same time that Tim yells out, “Hey! Why am I the one dying?!”

Sasha tells him, “Duh. This whole thing was your idea, which makes you the Dr. Black* of this situation. Any good mansion murder mystery dictates the the host dies first. Then, in a moment of entirely unplanned synchronization, her and Martin start chanting, “Host dies first! Host dies first!”

“Okay, you know what? Fuck both of y’all, it’s not my fault that you’re both thoroughbred city slickers that can’t handle being in a cabin with plumbing and running water and electricity. Didn’t either of you go camping as kids?”

Sasha replies “No I’m far too pretty for that,” while Martin bursts out laughing. It takes about 20 seconds for him to settle down. Wiping away a tear, he elaborates, “Sorry, sorry, just. Can not imagine my mother on a camping trip.  I mean, sure, she probably hoped at one point or another that I’d be lost in the woods as a child, or maybe even now, but I think that’s a bit different.”

Tim leans over the kitchen counter, placing his chin in his hands as he says, “Oh shit, Martin lore. Spill the deets.”

Sasha, who’s loyalties tend to sway towards whatever’s most interesting in the moment, piles on with, “You called her your mother, not your mum. That’s means she’s pretty much a right bastard, or a member of the aristocracy, which is just another term for right bastard but you got to grow up as a rich kid. Am I right?”

It’s clear the the two of them have made a grave mistake. All joviality flees Martin’s expression, and he shrinks down both his physical presence and his voice to something that could easily be overlooked if someone wasn’t paying attention. “Oh, um, well, I definitely didn’t grow up as a rich kid. And, it terms of the ‘right bastard’ thing, she’s not- er. That’s to say, she’s- she’s sick and. She’s doing the best she can, given, given everything.”

Martin pointedly looks at his hands while Tim and Sasha panickedly look at each other. They go to either side of him, and when he doesn’t flinch away, they each place a comforting hand on his shoulder. Tim immediately feels the itch to fill the heavy quiet, and he happens to know he has quite the talent for blazing on ahead after these kinds of moments. It’s how he’s survived basically party for the past decade. “Ooookay, I’m gonna go ahead and say that all depressing familial reveals shall be held off until at least the second night of being trapped. While Sasha may have irritatingly few skeletons in her closet in that regard-”

“I have Tory grandparents?”

“We all have Tory grandparents Sash, that’s absolutely nothing. As I was saying, while Sash’s family is boring and semi functional, you and me are gonna do some fuckin’ commiserating on our journey from work friends to friend friends. However, I’m going to have to be 40% drunker, go through a decently strong hangover, and then once again get hair of the dog drunk before I can even start to consider heading down that path. And in that spirit, I think it’s time to start up the drinking games. Truth or dare might end up a bit too heavy for our needs, but Never Have I Ever should suit us just fine. I know I’m gonna regret saying this considering Sasha is 100% going to target my ass, but I think we should establish that whoever puts all ten fingers down first has to chug the rest of the box wine.”

Sasha pipes up with, “Ugh, no, not drinking games, that’s such twenty-something bullshit. I expected better from you.”

“Hey, Martin is a twenty-something, so that still works fine actually-”

“Tim!”

“What?”

Martin’s directing wide, bordering on frantic, eyes at him, and Tim is almost certainly missing something, though he can’t for the life of him figure it out. Sasha’s head is bobbing slightly between the two of them, and shes apparently able to parse what Tim has not. “Oh! Martin, uh, I already know that you’re 2, and it’s cool.”

“Did..did Tim tell you or?”

Tim scoffs out an “I wouldn’t!” even though there’s a distinct possibility that, entirely on accident, he would, and Sasha makes a reassuring coo. “No, no, babe, nothing like that. It’s just that, uh, the Magnus Institute is kind of notorious for not doing any background checks pretty much ever, so when I get a new coworker, I..do it myself.”

Martin’s face blanches, and his eyes somehow get even wider. “Oh god, please don’t tell Jon or Elias, I know I don’t have the credentials, but I really need-”

“Woah, woah, I’m not gonna do that. First of all, archival assistant squad, we ride together we die together in a snowed in god forsaken log cabin, secondly, it’d be hypocritical as fuck if I got up your ass about qualifications. Not a single one of us is qualified for our jobs, not even Jon. Maybe especially not Jon. It’s like, raise your hand if you have a degree in library sciences. No one? Okay, cool, that’s not weird at all for an archive. Actually, maybe bring that up next time he gives you shit. He’ll be all like ‘bluh bluh, you didn’t document this spooky bullshit well enough, it’s not up to the High Standards here at Spooky Bullshit Emporium’ and you can be like ‘whatever buddy, you’re an English major, what do you fuckin’ know?’. It’ll be devastating. He’ll be devastated.”

Martin laughs in the manner of someone who knows that they shouldn’t be, and his shoulders relax into  a lower position. “Why would you want me to devastate him? I thought you guys were friends?”

“We are, which is why we all collectively need to get back at Jon for acting like such a prick. He’s always been a bit temperamental, but I honestly don’t get what his deal is, especially with you. I mean, c’mon, you’re great, being mean to you is like kicking a puppy.”

“Thanks? I think?”

Tim pipes up with, “Oooo, since drinking games are apparently too childish for Sasha, what if instead we play ‘What’s Jon’s Deal Anyway, Featuring, Seriously, Why Target Martin, The Baby of The Archives’-”

“-That feels a bit reductive of who I am and I also I think I’m technically older than Jon?-”

“-Whoever comes up with the best explanation, and by best obviously I mean most entertaining, gets an all expense paid trip from the other two to one of the charity shops I know we all frequent.”

Sasha snorts, “Wow, a whole twenty quid, who could resist such temptation. But also, I’m in, I think I have a winner and I have a violent need to out-cardigan Jon.”

Martin’s relaxation is gone again, which Tim thinks need to be fixed through aggressively passing a glass of wine towards him. He takes it without protest, takes a long drink, and says, “This seems more like 3 am conversation than a 9 pm one.”

Sasha gives an encouraging nudge, prompting another drink, and replies, “Yeah, well, I am not gonna make it to 3 am. I’ve got about an hour until the Alcohol Sleepiness sets in, and I know Tim will be right behind me.”

“Sashaaaaaa, you’re ruining my reputation as a young-at-heart, party-all-night kind of guy.”

“Babe, you’ve complained about your bones aching often enough that you’ve never had that reputation.”

“Surrounded by mean drunks, that’s what I am. I should be pitied.”

Martin shoots a glance towards Sasha, then replies, “You’d be more pitiable if this entire thing wasn’t, you know, entirely your own fault.”

Sasha nods sagely, “It’s true. If you were pitiable then maybe you wouldn’t have to die first.”

“You know what? I am uncomfortable with the energy that’s been created in this room, how about we divert some of that towards complaining about our bosses, as coworkers who are hanging out and having a good time and not bullying me are supposed to do.”

Sasha giggles slightly as she leans down and presses a kiss to Tim’s cheek. “Aw, sorry, Tim. I promise to double cross Martin when if becomes killing time.”

Tim melts a little, even as he’s replying, “Wait, when?” Martin takes another sip and says, “Whatever. I could take you both.”

How the hell are you supposed to resist a set up like that? With an over the top wink and cheesy grin, Tim says, “I bet you could, big guy.”

He’s expecting a slightly flustered reaction, maybe a higher pitched voice and a blush, if he’s lucky. He gets all of those things, but it’s Sasha saying, “Oh my god.” Martin only gives him a raised eyebrow and level stare, and Tim makes a mental note to reevaluate his dedication to only considering Martin in a strictly platonic fashion. Sasha continues talking, cutting through the..tension? with, “Okay, now I am uncomfortable with the energy that’s been created in this room. Tim, tell the studio audience what you think is up with Jon.”

Tim blinks, hard, gives a shake of his head, and says, “Oh, obviously the Jon we know is dead. His ‘promotion’ to Head Archivist was actually Elias killing him off and replacing him with a robot that has the command If: see Martin Then: be dick. Don’t worry Marto, now that Sasha is aware of the issue, she’ll surely be able to reprogram him.”

Sasha hums a bit, then says, “I buy it. I think my explanation’s better, but Elias does seem the “kill a dude and replace him” type. Like if I was gonna suspect any particular person of murder he’s in the top five.”

“Seriously? Elias? Somehow has middle manager vibes even though he’s the head honcho Elias? Mr. ‘I probably wore boat shoes and khaki shorts for the entirety of university’ Bouchard? Voted most likely to put a thin layer of mayo in between two pieces of white bread and claim it’s a sandwich Elias? The area man that’s almost certainly gone on record as saying that golf and networking are his favorite hobbies Elias? He’s far too boring to have committed a murder.”

Tim’s looking at Martin with shock and delight, and he knows Sasha is wearing the exact same expression. “More of this. Please describe more of the things that Elias is.”

“I mean, sure? Uhh, guy that would pay $80 for a dime bag because you told him it’s a premium strain. Person that ironically says things like “kids these days” and “the youths” and you know he’s talking about people well into their 30s. Genuinely believes that if you can afford a cell phone then you shouldn’t be complaining about being  poor, because apparently a one time purchase of around a hundred bucks is the same as trying to pay monthly rent. Tells people to haul themselves up by their bootstraps. Thinks he got to where he was ‘without anybody’s handouts’ even though he’s had a trust fund since he was 15. Writes weekly editorials to the local newspaper complaining about the liberalization of media, and they’re like ‘sir, please stop submitting to us, we’re just trying to talk about Lisa’s gardening club’ because they can’t professionally tell him to fuck off. Thinks salt and pepper are the only spices one could ever possibly need, everything else is simply excessive. Somehow gay and homophobic. Like, yes, he’s taken a male lover, but he’s also seconds away from calling you a slur at any one time. Actually, no, that’s too interesting, and I refuse to believe he’s had a lover. Legally, he cannot have a lover, I’ve decided, so just gay and homophobic, both in theory alone. Has said that Boris Johnson is “a bit much, but really not so bad, and much better than any of the alternatives, really.” All of the cousins in his family banded together and officially got him banned from any sort of major holiday dinners. Basically every shitty boss you’ve ever had, especially if you’ve worked retail, rolled into one.”

Tim lets out a low whistle. “Damn, all right. Get fucked Elias.”

Sasha emphatically agrees, “Get fucked Elias.”

They all clink their glasses together, and then there’s a beat of silence before Martin says, “I’m pretty sure robots can’t get eye bags.”

Tim and Sasha let out a “huh” and “hmm?” respectively, so Martin elaborates. “You posited that Jon had been replaced with a robot. Pretty sure robots aren’t able to look that tired.”

Tim snaps. “Drat, you’ve pointed out the one flaw in my impeccable logic. So what d’you think is up with him? I know you don’t have the Before The Archives comparison, but I think you could provide a fresh perspective.”

“Oh, fuck, I don’t know. Two months ago, I might have had some choice words, but first off, you all genuinely got on, so it didn’t really make sense for him to be awful all the time, and secondly ever since the, um, worm thing, he’s actually been pretty nice? I haven’t heard any snide comments, and whenever I mess something up he’s a lot more, um, gentle about explaining what wrong. He actually complimented my work the other day so. I guess I think Jon’s deal was that he was stressed out and I was very nervous and not very good at my job and he picked up on that?”

“So you think he’s like a horse.”

“Explain.”

“He sensed your fear and he became skittish and irritable in kind.”

“Horses can sense fear?”

“Horses can sense everything.”

“That’s fucked up.”

“Right?”

“Guys, we’ve gone on like four different tangents in one conversation. Martin, I’m very glad to hear that Jon’s changed his behavior towards, because it means I don’t have to yell at him on your behalf, you’re getting to see the person that me and Tim both know who is actually pretty cool, and also mostly because it feeds perfectly into my winning theory.”

“What, you’ve got something better than Martin’s ‘accurate but boring’ reasoning or my ‘super cool but now that I think about it for .5 seconds actually kind of a bummer robot’ knowledge?”

Sasha’s incredibly self-assured when she says, “I sure fuckin’ do. Jon’s secretly been in love with Martin the whole time, and he’s been previously overcompensating by acting like he hates him.” which makes Tim choke on air and Martin emphatically reply, “Fuck off, he is not.”

“No, no, hear me out, I have, I have receipts, as the kids say. First point of evidence: Martin’s stupid hot, and there’s no way that Jon is straight, so obviously he’s not gonna be impervious to that.”

“What?”

“Oh come off it Martin, it’s just a fact. Like, me personally? I don’t even do the whole romance thing, but the first time I ever saw you I blacked out slightly and thought ‘Now there’s a man I could raise some ferrets with.’.”

“I, um, I, well. Is that...supposed to be a euphemism for something?”

“What? No, I’ve just always wanted ferrets, and asking someone to raise pets with you is like the height of romance, I’m pretty sure. Back me up here Tim.”

“On the ferret thing or the Martin hot thing?”

“Either? Both.”

“Aight. Yes, asking someone to raise ferrets with you is basically a marriage proposal if that someone is Sasha, and I hate to break it to you Martin, but you’re incredibly good-looking. We’re all incredibly good-looking, to the point where I think the only qualification for the archives staff is being a straight up hottie. OH! We should name the group chat “straight up hottie squad”. Anyway, yep, point for Sasha.”

“Not a point for Sasha, even if I believe you about about my, em, physical attractiveness,-”

“-Don’t have to put belief in a fact, Marto-”

“-that doesn’t mean anything. By that logic, he’s equally as likely to be in love with either of you, and my money would be on Sasha if it was anyone, because you’re clearly his favorite.”

“Ah, but that’s exactly why it isn’t me, but thank you for the transition into my second point which is: Jon is the kind of person that sees anything that might make him vulnerable and starts aggressively defending himself against it, and what’s more vulnerable than a crush? He’s not crushing on Tim, because Tim’s fucking great, but sometimes he’s also the walking, talking embodiment of sensory overload, and while I myself I love that, Jon clearly gets a bit overwhelmed by it at times. He’s not into me, because he knows better than that, and overall I’m pretty non-threatening to his whole thing, so of course he’s going to be the most relaxed around me. You, on the other hand, are single, hot, kind to animals and people alike, and make a great cup of tea. Incredibly crush worthy, thus incredibly threatening, thus Jon acting like That.”

“Hmm, this still seems like something that comes from watching one too many corny rom coms, and that’ s coming from someone who loves corny rom coms.”

“I also love corny rom coms, but that’s completely beside the point. Because, okay, sure, if Jon had just been a weird asshole to you, I wouldn’t be like ‘oh, yeah, that’s a classic case of covering for something’ but you’re right about him being nicer since the worm thing. So nice, in fact, I shall be bringing in Timothy as my star witness that’s going to blow this whole case wide open. Martin, you may not have heard how Jon has started to talk about you, but me and Tim sure have.”

“God, yeah. Like if we thought he wouldn’t shut up about you before-

“-which he wouldn’t-”

“it’s gotten way worse now.”

“I think the whole life threatening worm woman flipped a switch for him and now he’s all fuckin. ‘Oh, Martin should stay in the archives, let me give him the place that I sleep.”

“Oh, Martin, I don’t think he should go out on too many research trips anymore, I’d much prefer for him to be ~nice and close~”

“Oh, Martin, good lord, did you know that his tea is quite good? I’m think it might actually be the best I’ve ever had.”

“Oh, Martin, his work’s rather improved, don’t you think? It’s really quite impressive, especially considering all the stress he’s had to endure.”

“Oh, Martin, I just want him to take me into his big, strong arms and whisk me away from all of this.”

“He did not fucking say that last one.”

Sasha throws her arms up in the air. “He may as well have!”

Nodding sagely, Tim replies, “This whole thing holds water. I vote Sasha gets the shopping trip. Martin?”

Martin stares at his drink as if it has any ability to give him any sort of answers, then lets out a sigh with his entire body. “You know what? It’s probably nicer than whatever the fuck is the truth, so sure, why not? Let’s get Sasha her cardigans.”

Sasha lets out a whoop. “Hell yeah! Can’t wait for spree, assuming all three of us get out of this cabin alive.”

“Okay, nope, clearly Sasha needs another distraction. Got any suggestions, Martin?”

“Uh, wasn’t a karaoke machine part of the sales pitch for this place?”

“Martey babey, yes! I wouldn’t have thought you’d spring for that sort of thing!”

“If this were a public bar or something where I’d have to listen to drunk strangers and they’d have to listen to me, then no, I’d rather have my brain pulled through my nose a la mummification. But with only you guys and fourish drinks in? I’m down to clown.”

“Sash, you with us?”

“Dunno, what songs are there?”

Tim shrugs, and heads to the storage closet that contains all the various entertainment equipment. It takes a bit of searching, and a bit more digging, but he’s able to unearth the ancient portable karaoke machine. He also grabs some of the jigsaws, mostly on the thought that sometimes a bitch just wants to hang out with their friends and do a puzzle. Also because in light of the fact that they’re stuck inside with no sort of access to the outside world for two days longer than planned, there’s pretty much no way that they’re not going to reach a point where they all say fuck it let’s do a puzzle.

Plugging in the machine, it takes a solid several minutes to boot up, which is the perfect length of time to take it upon himself to take one for the team and chug the box wine himself, with Sasha and Martin chanting in the background. When he finishes, they cheer, and then Martin immediately shoves a glass of water for him to down as well, muttering something about how he wants him to be alive in the morning. Tim can tell he’s well inebriated by now, because the simple thoughtful gesture is enough to make him a little bit misty-eyed, and Sasha can attest to alcohol turning him into the world’s biggest sap. In order to avoid prevent himself from becoming the kind of person who says “I love you” in a gradually more sloppy repeat, he starts flipping through the discography of the now running machine. “Alright y’all, it looks like we got 80s songs or...80s songs. Ooo, they have the Grease 2 soundtrack.”

That gets him a well deserved “No!” from both parties, with Sasha adding on, “Not even if it was Grease 1. I’m putting an embargo on musical theater in general.”

“Oh come on, some musicals are better than other. Right, Marto?”

“I’m with Sasha on this one.”

“Boo. But fine, what do you want?”

Martin and Sasha glance at each other, and Tim’s amazed at how well the bonding night-turned-long-weekend has gone so far, considering they seem to have already mastered the art of silent communication. Martin speaks first, with, “They got Dolly Parton?”

The process of scrolling through individual letters to type is achingly slow, but luckily all he needs to get through is “DO” before she shows up. “They do.”

Sasha says, “Do they got 9 to 5, by Dolly Parton?”

Tim’s eyes light up with realization as he says, “They do,” and in a moment of spontaneous understanding, all three of them know that they’re not simply going to sing 9 to 5. No, they’re going to do a  full blown music video for the benefit for nobody but themselves, because why the fuck not.

The next hour is spent in a very silly fashion. They figure out how to use the cabin’s layout to their advantage, assign various parts of the song to each person, and practice their inexpert choreography a few times with the song tinnily blasting from Sasha’s phone. The final result is hardly of professional quality, but it is of making them all giggle quality. It starts off in a relay like manner, each of them in a different area to coordinate with “Tumble of out bed and stumble to the kitchen” (Sasha on the couch), “Pour myself a cup of ambition”, (Tim at the coffemaker), and “Yawn and stretch and try to come to life” (Martin at the fridge), with them finally crowding around the karaoke machine together to scream sing the chorus. Despite their practice, they quickly go off key, and while they might end up with low points for accuracy, they get full marks on enthusiasm.

When the song ends, it takes them a few minutes to settle down into something less giddy. As they do, Sasha, out of breath, says, “Fuck me, I’m sleepy now. What the hell?”

Tim hums in affirmation. “Goddammit, I’m tired too. Let me guess, Martin, you’re young enough that you could go all night?”

“No? I’ve never pulled an all-nighter in my life. Actually, I know that it was supposed to be in case the power went out, but huddling together under a blanket in front of a fire sounds really nice? I mean, um, if you guys were down.”

Sasha leans her head against Martin’s shoulder and takes on the expression of a deeply content cat. “Mmm, I call Martin, he’s warm.”

“Absolutely not, I also want to leech Martin’s warmth. You good with being in the middle?”

Martin’s practically beaming, but his voice manages to almost fake being put upon. “I suppose it’s a sacrifice I could make.”

With Sasha already half asleep, Martin brings her over to the couch, while Tim gets them all set up. He manages to find the kind of big, fluffy blanket that all cabins should contain and wraps it around their shoulders. Luckily for them, the fireplace is gas lit and can be put on a timer. He sets it for 30 minutes, even though all three of them are going to be long passed out before them. Sasha is already softly snoring away, and Martin’s head keeps drifting down and snapping back up. Tim curls up against Martin’s other side, and even though all three of them are going to wake up with aching backs and worse heads, he thinks he really just might be a genius after all.

*Why is Mr. Boddy’s name Dr. Black in the UK. I hate that. Why would you not have the dumb joke of  naming the victim “boddy”. Hey brits explain your crimes.

[brideofcthulhu10]

YASSSSSSS! Romeo and Juliet is my all-time favorite!

Okay this took all day, so all you guys better love this! This is actually the first part, I will submit the other half in about an hour or two. It really was so massive it needed to be broken into more than one segment. So, after FIVE HOURS of writing, I present for your viewing pleasure

THE TRAGEDY OF MARKO [1/2]

Marko×Fem!Reader

Content Warning! Violence, Gore, Sexual Themes, Offensive Language! Reader's Discretion is Advised!

The idea of being with a human never really sat well with Marko. He wasn't exactly popular with the ladies when he was alive, and now they all just seemed intrigued by his night time allure. Fake the lot of it. Half of them were just going to be a snack anyways, there was no point in getting attached. 

At least until Star made a friend.

Cruising around on the boardwalk was second nature, to the point that he knew the place like the back of his hand. With his hands stuffed in his pockets he trotted behind his friend Paul who was determined to get a good spot. These Santa Carla concerts were okay, but finally the big guns rolled in. For one night only the baddest bastards in Hollywood were coming down to tear it up with the citizens of this manky beach town- Mötley motherfuckin' Crüe! Anyone in their way quickly moved, he was not about to miss it.

 Honestly the notion was pretty cool, Marko understood Paul's over exuberant glee. Of course it started off with the greatest bang he's ever seen. Fireworks, pyrotechnics, his buddy was just geeking out to the extreme. Halfway through Girls, Girls, Girls he spotted a mass of h/c just swinging through the crowd. Every step was so nonchalantly elegant, which was a rare description when it came to a rock concert. But his eyes just zeroed in on them. No, her. She was giggling with Star of all people, he hadn't even realized the little half-er was there with them. He bit at his thumb, pushing away the tumbles of blonde that fell into his face. A solid THUMP to his shoulder alerted him to reality as Paul cheered as loud as he could. 

"THANK YOU SANTA CARLA! AND GOOD NIGHT!"

Had it already been two hours? Marko rapidly shook his head, still floating with each step when Star approached them. Both girls were giggling, panting messes. Y/N. That's what you introduced yourself as.

Paul was praising you for your most excellent head banging skills. When you turned to him he thought his heart might kick up again. 

"Awesome to meet you, gorgeous," he teased with a curling grin. 

Now it was your turn to be flustered. If this was what all California boys were like you could definitely get used to this. Looking for any excuse to talk to him further you blurted out a suggestion to grab something to eat. Star passed, all that heavy grease was too much for her but she wouldn't mind just following along. Marko on the other hand chimed in that it wasn't too much for them. 

Paul watched you two banter back and forth the whole way across the beach and up the steps onto the boardwalk itself. With a casual grin he slumped his arm over Star's shoulder, whispering something low in her ear. 

"Ah, shit you know what? I totally forget we promised Laddie we'd take him on the ferris wheel," he exclaimed, Marko cocking an eyebrow. Since when? Paul wasn't for all those slow rides. He knew his best friend. The guy was an adrenaline junkie, usually that boring stuff was Dwayne or Star's liking. 

"Oh, um we could come with if you want," you suggested, only to have Star wave you off. 

"No, no don't worry about it, Y/N. You two have fun. We'll catch up later."

Before you could get another word in they bolted, leaving you alone with Marko. 

"Still hungry," he asked, raising a brow. "Or do you gotta go too?"

"Oh! No, I could still eat." Boy, sheepish wasn't a word you'd use to describe yourself. But something about the way he watched you, it make you feel so nervous. "So uh, Marko right? Have you always lived in Santa Carla?"

"Well, I've been here a while," he casually responded. Talking about his past before turningwas usually a touchy subject. That stuff was best left behind. He wasn't Mark anymore, that guy died long ago. "I guess you could say I've been all over. I used to live in England for a while before I came to America."

"No way, you're so lucky!" You looked down to see you had grabbed his jacket in your excitement, quickly letting go. Whew. Was it getting hot out here or what? "S-sorry, I didn't mean to, um, ya know..."

His snicker was so cute, lightly bumping your arm with his own. "Don't even trip. We all get excited, yeah?" Neon lights made his hair shift colors as you walked through the crowds, stopping at a snack shop that stood out like a sore thumb. It was impossible to miss the big, flashing red sign reading: 

"CHARLIE'S BOARDWALK EMPORIUM"

Photos decorated the base of the blue walls with images of cotton candy, caramel apples, nachos and snow cones over an explosion of popcorn. So many options. On your tip toes you waited in line with him reading each of the prices. Deep fried cola? Chocolate dipped bacon sticks? You scrunched up your nose, settling for a basket of chili cheese curly fries and a soda. 

"Hey put your money away, babes," Marko interjected. "Charlie doesn't charge for cute ones, right bud?" 

He must've been referring to the heavyset Armenian man in a 'kiss the cook' apron, who by the way had no hair net covering the mop top smushed beneath a red baseball cap. All he did was slowly nod, stiffly scooting your order onto the counter. You only ordered a medium, this was massive. "Yes, of course. It's on the house lil' lady," he insisted in a thick accent. It must've been hot in there, he sounded bizarrely out of it. 

"You sure have a way with people," you commented, now wedged on the boardwalk steps leading off onto the sand, splitting the gooey mess with your newfound friend. 

"Nah, you heard him. Cute girls don't pay," he teased. That rosy tiny hadn't left your cheeks since he'd been with you. Hours passed, sharing stories and finding you two had so many common interests. Marko hadn't genuinely laughed like this in a while, and when it became late in the night he offered you a second chance to hang out. Since then you came visiting every night. 

The moment you showed up he felt a breath of air. It didn't take Marko long to introduce you to the boys. The big one with a lack of shirt was Dwayne, you still remembered Paul and Star from that night on the beach. Then there was David. You weren't so sure he liked you. The most he gave you was a disinterested wave, but Marko insisted he was always like that. Eventually he'd have to leave around 10 pm, apologizing profusely. 

"Wish I could stay baby, but we got some ridin' to do. Same time tomorrow," he asked, holding your hands in his. 

"Y-yeah of course. Oh! Wait wait hold on," you insisted, quickly digging through your pockets. Where was it? Ah! "Here, I got you this." 

Nestled in the palm of your hand was a silver scorpion etched on a black coin dangling off a chain. "I remember you said you wanted to get a new earring a few days ago"

"Babe thats awesome!" His gloved fingers plucked the piece, swapping his little skull out for it before modeling it in front of you. "Think you can hold onto mine for a while? I bet it'd look cute on you."

It wasn't hard to sense David growing impatient with you delaying their leave. Maybe because he told you two to hurry up. Right. "Gotta ride, baby." Before he left Marko stole a fast kiss from your cheek, riding away in a flash leaving you frozen. Slowly you opened your palm. The little black carved skull rolled over, looking right at you. Steeling your resolve you took it right by the silver hook and pushed it against your earlobe. The skin resisted, a sharp burn pressing harder until it popped into place. A little blood was fine, you'd be healed by morning. But now there was a whole lot of nothin' to do. Star was at their little hideout, you'd only really seen it once before and didn't have the stones to go there without the boys' permission. Tonight you saw that brown haired guy with them again. Some new guy who just came to Santa Carla named… Oh god what was it? Mitchell? Manny? Milo? Something "Mi"... mmm...mmm-M-Michael! Yes, that's who it was! He was so much more intense and jumpy that the others, but you always got the impression he was a bit... er, lost. He always either had this confused or angry look on his face.

With nothing better to do, you spent the night aimlessly wandering through the coastal shorelines, your feet sweeping over cold, damp sand as you followed hills. You couldn't stop thinking about the jumpy newbie who seemed particularly aggressive. He always gave David dirty looks, but Marko wouldn't tell her who he was. 

"Just a guy Star met, babes. Don't worry too much about him, he's just gotta mellow out before he joins us."

You'd walked so far you hadn't even realized there were people up ahead blasting Aerosmith on their boombox, jumping around a crude bonfire like a pack of wild men. 

Ugh, Surf Nazis. Pain in the ass California boneheads who practically dominated the waves and the boardwalk. You were ready to turn the other way when a stream of light flew by, one after the other. Five each. Hey, you knew those motorcycles! Ducking down by the dunes you watched Marko swing his leg over the seat, dashing up to a looming tree overlooking the bonfire mosh pit with Paul, Dwayne and David. Michael was there too? You wiggled lower, cautiously staying out of sight just close enough to hear them over the music. 

"Initiations over, Michael," David hissed with glee. "Time to join the club!" 

Club? Like a biker club or something? Squinting at the tree you nearly feel backward when the image cleared beneath the harsh orange glow. Their ey-e-eyes! They-they were blood red- white even! The way they snickered and laughed sent a blood curdling chill down your back. Marko… that sweet, alluring smile was now twisted into a hideous smirk boasting sharp, pointed teeth mocking the brunette beneath him who shared a similar look of horror. In a flash they fle- THEY FLEW! 

Rapidly you ducked down, clutching at your heart. It was beating so fast you thought your ribs were going to break. And then the screams.. those awful, sickening screams! You had to cover your mouth not to cry out in horror as David lodged his teeth into a man's skull. Dwayne howled with delight, tearing another guy in half. They were painted red. Every where, every thing, red. 

You almost missed Marko as he snapped their neck, peeling back scalp with ease to devour the wrinkled flesh beneath their skull. Then you couldn't see anymore, it was all tears. They showed no regret, no mercy. Instead they reveled in their kills, throwing the last of the limbs into a flaming inferno like some sort of hellish bonfire. 

Bile flooded your esophagus, tearing your hand away to empty your stomach onto the sands beneath you. You nearly cried out, startled when David spoke again to Michael. 

"Now you know what we are… and now you know what you are."

What they were? 

"You'll never grow old. And you'll never die. But you must feed."

David's voice cut the air like a knife. Your whole body was frigid. For a moment it almost felt like he was speaking to you. Then you remembered the earring still wedged in place, your fingers clawing it out in a frenzy. Dammit! It ripped again a thin stream of blood dripping onto your neck as you threw it on the sand. 

Meanwhile Marko watched that coward Michael bolt off screaming. What a wuss. So a few people had to die, not a bad price for eternal youth, dude. He could only laugh at this point, smearing the blood off his mouth. That was a good meal…

"Hey did we miss one," he asked, sniffing the air. There was always a distinct taste and scent between fresh, and old blood. By now whatever was left was either staining them, the ground, or being burnt.  He gnawed on a finger bone, looking Paul's way. Might as well hang for a while, they had to make sure the pieces were nice and burnt to a crisp. 

"Nah man, they're all barbecue. I getcha though." Yeah he smelled it too. Those assholes were dead shit, fresh blood shouldn't still be in the air. It was undeniable, and soon all of them could smell it

 "Its still nearby."

Oh god, they smelled you! Stumbling over sand, you tripped over your own feet and spiraled down to the base of the dunes. Marko was the first to step out. He almost missed the bloody scent, most of it was moving away. The sands still shuddered to adjust to the missing weight, a few foot prints pushed away by sand and wind. But then a tiny… something tapped his boot. Kneeling down, still caked with a familiar scent of fresh blood...it was his earring? Now he could smell it more clearly. Your scent was all over these sands. His heart dropped, realizing why this was on the ground. "Ah shit," he groaned, clasping it tightly in his hand.

×××××

The front door of your home swung as you tore it open. Locks fumbled shut and you immediately made a mad dash for your room. Your mom and dad had gone to the next town over, so it was just you and your dog D/N tonight. Absolutely the worst possible scenario to be in when you discover your boyfriend of the past few months was a murderous psychopath who ate people! 

Your heart beat echoed throughout the whole room, you thought you might even faint. Pacing back and forth you tried wiping your hands on your skirt like a madman. It just wouldn't come off! All you could see was red. Just red everywhere. Bloody splattered stained your eyes in shades of crimson. On your hands, your clothes, on the walls, in the air, on… Marko...

Covering your mouth did little to stifle the whimpering, sharp sobs that made your lungs spasm. Marko. Oh Marko.

You'd never seen such cruel delight plastered over his sweet face. Beautiful blonde locks were caked in fresh blood, he was even laughing the whole time. He enjoyed it. Revelled even, in the carnage. 

Stumbling over discarded clothes you shut off your lamp, rapidly kicking them away. Naked, trembling you ran into your bathroom. You had to wash it off! It felt like an hour had gone by in the blink of an eye. All you could do was sob under the streams of hot water. Knees to your chest, clutching them close. Maybe if you just stayed there you wouldn't have to face the reality of what you saw.

You were afraid to blink. Every time you did, there his eyes were. Those cold, unyielding white eyes that glowed perfectly in the dark. You stayed planted until the water finally ran frigid. Once your fingers started trembling and your lips went blue you had no other choice but to get out. 

Without another word you threw on the nearest clean shirt, a pair of pajama shorts and collapsed onto your bed. Everything you thought he was, was now up in the air. Now you questioned every motive, every kind gesture. That kiss tonight.. He could have been luring you. Maybe he was planning on killing you too. It was enough to bring all the tears back, sobbing into your pillow in the dark until sleep cradled your miserable form.

The next time you opened your eyes, D/N was in a frenzy. Barking over and over. Still groggy you lazily snatched your alarm clock. 2:15 am?? Seriously, D/N? Ugh, bad dog. Probably saw a squirrel or something.

"Y/N!"

Immediately you were snapped wide awake. The fog of slumber was blown away in an instant. For a solid minute you remained utterly still. You didn't even dare to breathe. 

It was clear, firm, just outside. Every tick on your clock echoed softly, you almost thought you misheard. 

"Y/N please, I can hear your heart. I know you're up there!"

Oh god. Holy hell he found you. Running to your window you felt your heart in your ears. It was so loud, you slowly inched your fingers towards the closed curtains. This was almost out of body. You could feel every step you made. Marko's presence grew stronger as you near the window. Clenching the dusty fabric, you tempted yourself to peek every so slightly. Then you screamed bloody murder. Face to face, a pair of bright blue eyes cut through the night looking right at you. 

HE. WAS ON. THE ROOF!

Immediately you shut the curtains! Wait! The lock! Pushing them open you immediately twisted it shut just before he could pry it up. 

"Babe please, I can explain!"

"Explain nothing, I am not listening to anything you have to say," you screamed. When he began to move you ran to the other window and locked it as well. He banged his forehead against the glass, still trying to wrench it up. Damn these old houses! The frame had a silver lining! Immediately he tore his fingers away, pressing against the glass. "Y/N, baby girl, come on please let me in!" 

It was so hard to look away. "No! I'm not even gonna look at you," you insisted, shutting the blinds. Cute girls eat free? Ha! He probably hypnotized the cashier! Oh god. When he spoke this time you plugged your ears. "I'm not listening! MARY HAD A LITTLE LAMB, LITTLE LAMB!"

A sharp huff of air pushed out of Marko's nostrils. This was ridiculous! "You are being such a brat! Just let me in, dammit!"

Nope. More stupid singing. Fine. If you were gonna be stubborn, so was he. 

Flying downward he searched for any easy way in. The front door was locked, the upstairs bathroom, the master bedroom, the back yard do- not this one. Slowly the golden knob twisted, rattled, then squeaked open.

Oh boy, now there was a dog! 

"Fuck me," Marko groaned, hands in the air with utter exasperation. Of course you had a dog! Why not! Got any holy water too? The big ball of fluff continued to snarl at him. Rolling his eyes, Marko flared his fangs which promptly silenced the snarling muty. "I don't have time for you!" 

THUD THUD THUD THUD THUD. 

Rapid steps dashed down the stairs where Y/N then skidded to a halt. 

You had heard D/N wildly barking, your only plan was to drag him upstairs with you where it was safe. However, once you stepped in the room you could see him standing there in the dark, a silhouette circled by a thin layer of moonlight. His eyes were glowing bright red. 

You felt like a deer in headlights. You couldn't budge an inch. A complete Mexican standoff. Both of you were staring at each other. 

Marko watched you for any movement, any at all. Then you flinched. "Y/N," he said as he slowly reached out- and you ran.  "Wait!" 

You scrambled back up the stairs towards your room, almost looking back. Shit he was fast! You screamed the whole way while he begged, nay, pleaded with you to just hear him out. 

"You killed them! I saw you," you shouted, lunging for your door. It was just a second too slow as you spun between the frame and into your room. A solid hit from the other side nearly knocked you back as Marko crashed into it, trying to force it open. You were barely keeping in place- except you were. Every time he rammed the door your feet were being pushed back.

"I know! I didn't mean for you to find out this way! Babygirl, you gotta believe me I would never hurt you," he insisted. With one firm push he swung the door wide open, sending to flying onto the floor. Already you were jumping over your bed to reach the bathroom, trying to get behind the door where you could lock him out. "Stop!"

With everything he had he bolted forward and finally got a grip on your waist just before you could get through the threshold. He completely lifted you off the floor! You flailing and kicking did nothing except frustrate him, his grip tightening to where you were struggling to breath. "Let me go! Stop it, Marko, you put me down right now! Put me down, put me down!"

"Enough!" Slamming you down on your bed, Marko quickly grabbed you by your wrists and held them above your head, a knee over your legs to keep you from thrashing any further. "Y/N stop it! I'm not gonna hurt you, you know this! You know me!"

"I know you lied to me," you cried, still trying to look away, writhing and twisting beneath him. You weren't gonna be so easily tricked this time. "How can I trust you?! Everything you told me-"

"I never said I was human," he insisted. "Baby look at me. Look at me!" When you wouldn't he kept your wrists tightly gripped beneath his hand and forced you head to turn his way. "Y/n… please, just look."

This time he wasn't angry. Just hurt. The way he tenderly whispered your name made you want to cry, and just ever slightly you peeked open your eyes. His eyes were… watery. You looked into them, the tints of red faded back into the shimmering sky you treasured just hours prior. "Did… did even like me? W-was I just another me-meal to you," you choked out between hiccups.

"No. No, no, baby," he spoke softly, calloused fingertips pushing away your years. "Babygirl. Please, listen to me. I.. would never, ever, hurt you." 

This time it stuck, you could see the sincerity in his eyes.  There was a slow diffuse, and now Marko just sat atop you until he was absolutely sure you wouldn't run. 

Slowly you sat up, looking at him. It got awkward by this point. But you had to know. 

"Marko… what are you," you asked softly. It sounded harsh, but it was impossible to avoid. 

"I guess the easiest thing to call it would be vampire," he sighed, looking down at his hands. 

"So, I guess you're not 17?"

"Well I mean, not anymore. I was, but I haven't been for… a while."

Your brow furrowed, looking over at him. He wasn't upset anymore. Just calm. "How long is a while?" 

Marko seemed physically uncomfortable discussing this. Whatever he had left behind when he turned was something he wanted gone. Slowly you reached over, taking his hand into your own. 

"Y/N, listen. I-"

"You swear you aren't going to hurt me," you asked, looking at him. Marko only gave you a soft smile and leaned forward. You didn't have time to react. Only feeling the tender press of his lips on yours. 

"I'd rather die."

You cupped his cheek, searching his expression for any signs of lying. Not a word. Not a single piece was a lie. You tasted him again. Salt, iron, soft. There were still little traces of blood that tainted his lips. Kisses deepened into dizzying passion. Your shirt was pulled away.

His jacket fell to the floor with a solid thump. You could feel his fingers prying away the shorts wrapped on your waist. He really was dead. You expected him to be warm, but instead it was cold; almost icy. It sent chills over your flesh. 

"You don't have to..," Marko whispered. This was a vulnerable moment. He'd revealed something completely new and frightening.

"I want to," you whimpered. It certainly hurt. All those movies made it look so simple. It pushed in, your whole body tightening until your toes curled. Marko was so tender. To him you were made of glass, he couldn't lose control even for a moment. Wrapping you in his arms he took you away, passing hours away with the most luscious touches he could spare. 

Laying amongst disheveled sheets and bedding he held you tightly to him, glancing over at the clock. 4:57am.

 Sunrise was in an hour. There's no way he could stay. A closet wasn't exactly light-proof, and the boys might come looking for him. "I have to go.." 

The words sunk in your heart. "I know.."

Gently he tilted up your chin, stealing away one last kiss. "Come to the hotel this afternoon. I promise as soon as I wake up I'll tell you everything, okay?"

It was a hard bargain. There was not much else you could do. With one last deep kiss you watched him dive out your window, vanishing into the night. You looked down at your dresser, the earring you discarded now cleanly placed atop it. You'd be sure to wear it this afternoon

[jhara-ivez]

Hush, love, hush

He hadn’t given any explanation to the Holy Order when he suddenly disappeared. And now they want to know. The questions are what he expected them to be like. What happened, why didn't he tell them, where has he been, why has he come back, what the hell. Jespar gets irritated and nervous because it feels like he's on trial, and he's trying to explain but they won’t meet him halfway. Only Merrâyil has a look of barely hidden sympathy on his face, so maybe he knows. Jhara brought back the stone so he must have told him bits and pieces. The others though aren't that forgiving. Arantheal dismisses him half an hour later with a cold glance. And Jespar isn't even quite sure if what he told them is true. That he came back because it is the right thing to do. It feels pretentious. And wrong. But what else can he do. Even if he had wanted to leave, what difference would it make in the end.  So instead he would do this and think about his next move then. When all this is over. He desperately hopes that this will be over at some point. Otherwise his former theory of him being just cursed since birth would sound rather convincing again. But he can worry about that later. Merrâyil wants him to carry out a task. And that task brings him back to the really big problem at hand.

Jespar finds the house soon enough. It's right opposite the Emporium and a tired looking keeper is standing beside the door, eyeing him suspiciously. “I am allowed to be here. I have to see the prophet. Merrâyil wants to talk to him,” Jespar assures him and the keeper relaxes a bit. “Go ahead then”, he says, but Jespar fishes his pipe out of his pockets and starts to prepare it. “Yes. I'll just... I'm sure he wouldn't mind a few more minutes of peace and quiet.” Or maybe you are just a coward The keeper doesn't reply. Instead he nods in greeting to someone behind Jespar. When he turns around he can see the sad girl walking up to him. She has her sword shouldered and her armour polished. “Dal' Varek?” she asks, and for some reason Jespar didn't expect her to remember his name.  “That's me”, Jespar replies and it sounds cocky, even though he doesn't feel cocky at all. “A shame you weren't here when the attack happened. We would have been thankful for a little help. Where have you been?” the girl asks. “I had to be somewhere,” Jespar lies. “It was important.” When he says it, he realises it only sounds worse: like he has things to cover up. Which he has. But these keepers don't need to know that.   „I understand.“ She isn’t being malicious saying it, which is surprising. After all the girl probably sees him as a womanising asshole just like all the others do, but regardless she’s surprisingly civil, friendly even. Maybe Jhara filled her in on the circumstances and she knows. Maybe Jhara told her some sorry tale of Jespar Dal' Varek losing his only remaining sister, falling down a rabbit hole of drugs and booze and in the process of it poor Jespar lost everything he had left. Maybe he did that out of spite. Or maybe he did that because she grew important to him and it's only natural to tell your...your friend about things that make you angry. And sad. Jespar isn't sure. “Are you here to wake him up?”, she then continues and vaguely motions to the building behind them. “That's what I was planning, yes.” Her face falls a bit as he answers. Clearly she hoped to take over that task. Jespar tries to pretend that he doesn't notice, but he does. “You've known him for a long time, right?”, she says, her hand coming up to rub her neck. He stares at her in incomprehension. She stares back rather expectantly. “...I... What do you mean?”, he asks. She pushes some of her hair from over her eyes and smiles a sheepish smile. “I'm sorry. You guys just seem to have this... this connection. The way he speaks of you – I thought... Well, never mind.” Does he? He feels his chest swelling up from her words – But then the nagging at the back of his brain follows. Jhara has no reason to still say one good word about him. Not after the stunt Jespar pulled that night. He fucked up, and it's even more pathetic now, because he only realized it fully when he vomited by the side of the road, trying to make it all stop. Far away from Ark, alone and miserable with the chilly air clawing at his skin, limbs feeling heavy with millions of tiny insects crawling all over his skin, because dust doesn't go well together with too much booze.   “It will go well,” the girl now muses. “He will be happy to see you.” I don’t think so. Jespar sucks in smoke. His hands feel sweaty for no reason. The girl watches with her sad eyes and worries on her bottom lip. Something seems... wrong. “He will probably just be overwhelmed,” she then says after a few seconds. And suddenly he recognizes that off-look on her face. She has fucked up too. In what way he doesn't know but that's not important now, and it's none of his business anyway. Jespar just hopes she is right. He really does. After a few minutes of shared silence his pipe has gone cold. The unofficial signal to confront the situation. Jespar looks up to the building again in which the prophet currently is said to be staying. Merrâyil explained that he told Jhara to sleep. He was quite strict about it. Just go sleep. Jespar somehow doubts that Jhara has a good time in there. Regenerating. Healing. Funny really, Jespar thinks, his mind flashing back to earlier, when he found Jhara nearly falling asleep on the bench in the pyrean train as they waited to arrive at the Halfmoon isle – that’s how exhausted he was, eyelids drooping. But still he didn't sleep. Not even when they rearranged and settled down on the dusty beds in the next room. He doubts Jhara has had a proper night’s sleep since he got stranded on that desolated beach: he naps here and there, and that’s it. He’s alert, he’s always ready to run. Therefore, Jespar concludes, this here is more of a forced imprisonment for his own good. He puts away his pipe. “Well then...” “Good luck,” the girls says, brushing strands of her hair away. A nervous habit of hers maybe? Jespar only nods and turns to open the massive wooden door that still separates him from his impending doom. The big sitting room is quite busy when he closes the door behind him. A few novices stand around, all looking groggy and irritated. Some nod at him somewhat cordially. Others are eyeing him but clearly nothing sparks up in their brain.  They don't want him around but that's just as well. “Will he ever stop moaning? I swear I didn't get any sleep the last four hours!”, a petite and pretty girl with long brown hair mutters, just walking around the corner. She falls silent once she sees him standing there.   “Where is the prophet?”, Jespar asks, coming straight to the point. “Just down the corridor. To the left. It's the last room.” She doesn't smile but seems somewhat relieved. He thanks her and walks down the left corridor. It feels like an eternity until he reaches the aforementioned door. But instead of entering he's standing still, taking in the view. There are dark brownish handprints near the handle and streaks and splashes on the wood. It stands out in contrast to the otherwise clean and polished hallway. On the floor is a tray with food – bread, sausage, cheese and some kind of stew – it's untouched. Maybe because Jhara doesn't like any of it. Maybe because he didn't notice it is there. You are stalling. His inner voice is right but he keeps eyeing the door. He is behind that barrier. And he won't be pleased to see him. There is an ache in Jespar's chest at the thought. Pathetic. He flinches when suddenly a scream comes from behind the wood. Inhaling sharply he rips the door open only to find pieces of armour, Jhara's blood-drenched elbow cop, knee-poleyn and highly padded vest, blocking the way. He steps over them, avoiding the weapons as well which were carelessly thrown on the floor. The rest of his belongings lies in a pile next to the bed. Time to disturb the sleeping dogs. The curtains are open, letting a bit of light in, the leather belt Jhara usually wears on the thigh with the sheath for the poisoned knifes is on the bed stand and it's empty, and Jhara... is under the covers. And then Jespar is already there, sitting down on the edge of the bed. Jhara looks pale. His eyes are closed but he's not asleep. In fact, he looks exactly like he did when he woke up after Coarek left them to die on that damn raft.  Frozen. As if his whole upper body is paralysed, making it hard to breathe for him. “... Save them. We need to save them... need to light the Beacon...”, he mumbles and his breaths are shallow at best. “What, but... but we will! You found the Black Stones, and we'll use them, no matter how hard this Coarek tries to stop us.” Jespar's tone is soothing, or at least he tries it to be. His hand somehow found it's place on Jhara's shoulder. “But first of all, you should calm down a little.” That last part seems to be too much. Somehow from one moment to the other Jhara is very much awake, turning his head to look at the hand on his shoulder and then glaring at Jespar with unhidden fury. “Fuck off, Jespar.” But Jespar doesn't move. He sits there, stupidly, awkwardly. And he knew it, didn't he? That this is a very bad idea. “Are you deaf?! I said: Fuck off!”, Jhara now barks, sitting up quickly and finally Jespar jumps up to give him space. “And why are you even here?!” Jespar's tongue seems to be numb. At the same time his head doesn't offer anything he could say to appease the man in front of him, who now stands up to appear bigger than he actually is, although he doesn't really need it right now. He's terrifying enough as it is. “I...”, Jespar begins, taking another step back. And somehow that seems to help a bit. “Shock of shocks, because I heard you screaming.” No reaction. “Plus... Look, about that talk we had in the Silver Cloud...” Jhara's eyes narrow dangerously and Jespar stops mid sentence. He now sees that the prophet is trying to put most of his weight on his right leg. The other one is damaged, with untreated wounds showing through the bloodied fabric of his pants. His face is smeared with dried blood too, but it doesn't belong to him. Jespar is glad it doesn't. At the same time it's still... terrifying. He heard the people talk about a beast unleashed during the attack, No one knows where it came from. They just know that it tore apart. A sign from Malphas or a demon come to signal the Order's downfall? Jespar knows. “Honestly, you look like shit”; he observes and Jhara flinches slightly. It hurts but he tries to hide it. He's tough. “Will you hear me out? I'll leave you alone afterwards if you want that, but... just hear me out, please.” It's as close to begging as Jespar can get. And it feels weird. Jhara exhales but nods, crossing his arms in front of his chest. Well then. “Okay... So, as I said - It was a pretty disgraceful performance on my part. It's just that... The past few moons were a lot for me to deal with, let's put it that way”, he says, the words spilling from his lips. How often has he practised this speech in his head? “And what happened to Adila... It... it was the last straw. I guess what I'm trying to say is... sorry. I said a lot of bullshit down there, which you didn't deserve.” There. There. He said it. But what follows is silence. At least one minute of silence, filled to the brim with tension, while Jhara continues to glare at him. Just as the tension becomes unbearable the prophet breaks the eye contact. “Was it the truth, though? That you would have sold me to Coarek for a handful of pennies?” He looks away at the wall, but Jespar can see the way his lips twitch downwards. And the words bite. “What? No, of course not!”, Jespar rushes out, a tad bit to fast. Jhara shakes his head disbelievingly. “Stop lying”, he just says and he sounds tired.   “Please, just... let's not make this more awkward than it already is, okay?  You've... become important to me, you really have.” Again silence starts to stretch between them. But this time Jespar interferes. “So - are we good?” It's an easy question with just two possible answers, yes or no. Yet Jhara decides to ignore that fact. “You’d love for me to punch your lights out, huh?”, he all but snarls, finally letting go of his defensive posture and gritting his teeth. So that's that then. Jespar feels his insides knotting tight. What he did was cruel and vile and can't be forgiven. Jhara is still angry. He gets that. Better let it be then. He doesn't want to screw this up any further and he also doesn't want to fight with Jhara. But he doesn't get far in his attempt to leave the room. Jhara is quick to react when all Jespar wants to do is vanishing. Instead his back hits the wall and pain flares up, leaving him momentarily breathless. And then Jhara is there, right in his space, hands firmly pressed against the wall right next to Jespar's head, effectively blocking every chance to escape. “Are we good?! What kind of a fucking stupid question is that?!”, the prophet barks, fury bubbling over. “You waltz in here after disappearing for fucking weeks, leaving me with no clue whatsoever, leaving me thinking: He killed himself and it's your fucking fault!” “I didn't-” “I can see that for fuck's sake! But you know what? Listen! Every fucking kid could have stabbed you in that condition! Drugged out of your mind? 'S fucking easy, you little piece of shit!” Jespar blinks, doesn't dare to speak. “And you know what's the worst thing?”, Jhara rages on, still angry and shivering. “The worst thing is that I thought about searching for your sorry ass. I didn't, but I damn nearly did. Fuck humanity, I need to find my friend who probably turned his brain to goo by the time I find him or fell overboard in an attempt to leave the country because he's a fucking idiot!” There’s an edge to his words, something painful that cuts through Jespar's skin like a sharp dagger. It’s only then that his actual words reach his brain, and Jespar suddenly feels breathless again even though the pain from hitting the wall is long gone. “You are a fucking idiot”, Jhara repeats. “And then this fucking army storms the city and all I think is: What if he's hiding here? What if he's still alive and hiding in plain sight and-” He breaks off there, takes a breath. It's obvious that he's too exhausted to keep up this adrenalin-filled state. “My point is that – That your own sister tried to kill you. That... justifies quite a lot. But... I got so fucking scared. And now you stand here like everything's fine and- Fucking hell, it would have been so much easier if you'd been just angry with me. But no. No. Instead you-” “Jhara. Stop”, Jespar finally cuts in. “Stop.” It works. Jhara takes in a shuddery breath. And he doesn't put up a fight when Jespar touches him this time and pulls him into an embrace. He's still rigid and shivering but he doesn't fight it. “I'm sorry, you hear me? I'm sorry. I'm sorry.”, Jespar says again and again, shushing him the best he can while Jhara's eyelashes brush against his neck. So he just keeps talking. Even if that means that he has to apologise a thousand times.   “You are the biggest idiot I've ever come across”, Jhara grumbles into Jespar's chest piece and while it's still sounding bitter and angry he can hear the relief beneath it. “I know.” I know, I know. Jhara's breathing evens out after a while but for some reason Jespar doesn't want to let go yet. Jhara too doesn't seem very eager to get away from him for now. Probably just because he would collapse to the ground otherwise. “So... how are you?” Jespar can't help but laugh a little. It's an exhausted laugh because it's just ridiculous, isn't it? “What, after all that you ask me how I am? You never stop surprising me, I'll give you that.” “..it's what I'm good at..” “True. But hmm, ...how am I...? Honestly, I don't think I've realized, let alone "processed" what happened to Adila. I just... try to keep going, I guess.” Jhara's nose presses against his jaw. It's distracting. “...I'll have plenty of time for self-reproach after we've lit this machine out there. No matter how big my part was in what Adila became, the High Ones used her depression to trick her into doing what she did. And they will pay for that.” Jhara nods tiredly. He's calm now. There's no need to keep up the embrace. Jespar is very aware of that fact. And maybe Jhara is too because he then takes a step back, staggers and nearly collapses on the edge of the bed again. He's hurt. He needs someone to take care of these wounds. Why did no one care? Why did they left him on his own like that? “You better get that treated as soon as possible.” It really looks nasty. And what if it inflames?   “I can get someone to come here. A healer”, Jespar offers but Jhara only shakes his head with a small laugh. “I have potions. I don't need your help.” “... Sure. Right. Sorry. I just... sorry. Why didn't you use them when-” “Was too tired.” “Oh.” Again, silence. But this time it's not that unpleasant any more. Jhara clearly still needs a bit of time for himself so it would be alright to leave him alone now. Jespar takes in a breath. Then Merrâyil's task comes back to his mind. “Oh... right. I nearly forgot, but Sha'Rim and The Archmagister asked for you. It's about this "Numinos"-thing. Best you go see them as soon as possible.” Jhara hums. “They are in the Chronicum.” Jhara hums again. He's rummaging in one of his satchels but it's all slowed down. He doesn't want to waste energy. Jespar watches for a few seconds. Then he feels stupid and out of place. “I.. I'll leave you to it then. We'll catch up later, right?” He doesn't answer, doesn't hum, instead Jespar sees him downing a flask containing an ominous red-brownish looking liquid. And it seems to taste pretty bad because Jhara immediately flinches. You are stalling again. But he'd rather stay if he's honest with himself. Where Jhara is, because the urge to stay away is nearly gone now and everything is fine. Well, mostly anyway. Still he coaxes himself to step up to the door. Just as he touches the handle a thought comes back to him and he turns around. “Jhara?” The prophet looks his way. “Calia, that sad-looking girl. How do you feel about her?” It's a risky question. He knows that. Then again he knows of that kiléan woman. Jhara was head over heels for her. And Calia? She's a good girl. A keeper on top of that. Jhara seems indifferent though. He shrugs. Uninterested. Cold. Oh damn, she must have fucked up big time too. But as sad as it is, Jespar feels like he can breathe easier for the first time in weeks.

[planetsam]

As people close to the twins and Michael begin to disappear in a suspected alien abduction (based on season 2 synopsis) Michael tries to keep frantic tabs on Alex. “I know you don’t want talk to me but I don’t care. I’ll do whatever it takes to make sure you remain safe.”

Alex starts to become aware of someone watching him quite soon after it happens.

He’s lived most of his life looking over his shoulder for one reason or another. Realizing someone is watching or tailing him is second nature at this point. He feels it on and off for a few days before he’s sure. He quietly makes sure his father is where he left him and his brothers are occupied elsewhere. He checks as best he can to make sure that he’s aware of any new people who come in that are connected with the Air Force even vaguely, but it’s a lot like trying to find a needle in a haystack. But Alex refuses to be the kid who spent his time counting down five minutes for every public conversation with a boy and could eyeball a ‘safe distance’ of three feet with alarming accuracy. He doesn’t go home to a monster anymore and he’s spent a decade evading people who will shoot him where he stands.

So he evades.

He’s buying new clothes anyways. Some of them just happen to be reversible. He layers, he does all the survival things so that when he feels like he’s being watched he can slip away and vanish. It’s easier in a more crowded place, so he takes to frequenting the more well packed areas. On the plus side he gets really good with crowds, loud noises and his prosthetic, survival making him finally seek out the necessities. There’s nothing like the threat of death to end procrastination. Or maybe he’s just putting more band-aides on the wound and this is going to come back and fuck him over again. But if he’s around to get fucked over, he did something right.

Unfortunately whoever is watching him is persistent as hell. No matter how many quick changes, no matter how cunning he gets, it’s only a few days before he feels them watching him. He steadfastly ignores them, refuses to give them the satisfaction of intimidating him. After a few weeks he becomes even more determined not to give them any satisfaction of getting under his skin. And a week later, he decides that when he feels it again he’s going to stop running. He only has to wait a few days after that decision before he does. He slips into the crowd, weaves his way through and when it persists and gets worse, he leads them through and in one smooth motion he turns, grabs them and shoves them up against the wall of the alley. Forearm against their throat, he gives them no quarter as he yanks back the hood and throws away their cap.

Michael Guerin is the last person he expects to see under there.

“Guerin, what the hell?” He demands, going to step back. But there’s an invisible wall behind him. When he side steps, Michael shoves him back against the wall and pushes him there, effectively trapping him, “Gu—“ before he can say anything else, Michael smacks his hand against his mouth and puts a finger to his lips before Michael’s hat flies up and he puts it over Alex’s head and braces his arm against the wall, blocking as much of Alex’s face from the direct line of sight as he can.

The temperature spikes.

Not just from Michael, it’s a different kind of heat. Alex wants to say it has nothing to do with the footsteps that come closer, but they sound strange. Foreign. Like they come from someone who knows how to walk in theory but hasn’t done a lot of it. He yanks Michael’s hood over his head at the last moment, as the footsteps come past them. Michael’s fingers press into his cheeks and every muscle tenses as Alex braces himself against the wall. He’d be outmatched with one alien, forget two. Surprise is the only thing he can use. But the heat and the odd footsteps pass. Michael looks over his shoulder and then back at him, waiting another moment before he drops the hand over his mouth.

“I can explain,” he says.

“Have both of you been following me?” Alex demands.

“I’m trying to keep you safe!” Michael protests, “Alex—Alex!”

Being trapped in an alleyway with one alien trying to kill him and one alien who broke his heart is not on Alex’s plans for today. He wants as much distance between all of them as he can get, but Michael snags his sleeve twice and he realizes one of them isn’t giving this up. If they make a scene whatever that thing was is going to come back. Practicalities aside, Alex feels betrayed again by Michael. Playing cat and mouse all over again is not something he wants to do. He leaves and Michael stays, that’s always been the crux of things. Alex has no idea if he even wants Michael to come after him. But doing it like this just makes the still fresh sound on his heart ache worse.

“Go away,” he says,

“Not until you talk to me!” Michael snaps.

“Would you keep your voice down?” Alex questions, “do you know anything about being inconspicuous?”

Michael glares at him. But his cheeks are already turning red and they both kind of know the answer to that question. The only people they’ve been terrible at hiding from are each other. They hold each other’s gaze for another moment and then Alex turns and walks away.

“Hang on!” Michael catches up to him, “we don’t know where that thing went. You can’t jus—“ frustration is apparent in every angry breath, “would you stop for a second!”

“You’ve been following me for weeks,” Alex says, turning around so fast they nearly knock heads, “I thought it was my dad.”

“It wasn’t all me!” Michael protests.

“Stay away from me,” Alex says, moving his wrist out of the way when Michael reaches for it, “I said I wasn’t ready.”

“This is serious,” Michael says, something almost pleading in his tone, “you could get hurt.”

“We’re way past that,” Alex says.

Michael stares at him like Alex slapped him. He can join the club, Alex’s walked around for months feeling like someone sucker punched him as Michael has struggled to leave him behind. Maria is salt but Michael is the wound. And logic has no place in the part of him that knows Michael is just trying to leave him and their mess behind. Actually if he eliminates logic, Alex isn’t sure who he’s trying to run from. At least he knows what to do with physical pain. He can deal with that. He’s never had a good way to deal with the emotional stuff. Michael stares at him in silence and Alex takes advantage of it to move.

Right into what is apparently a glass wall.

“Guerin,” he snaps, turning around. Michael is never this bold with his powers. He’s angry suddenly. And not just at Michael, at everyone who seems dead set at showing how outmatched he is. But Michael is there, “stop it,” he says, “I said I don’t want to talk—“

“There’s a surprise,” Michael snaps back. Alex glares, “you think you’re the only one who got hurt? Who wants to keep someone safe?”

“You don’t get to make that decision,” Alex snaps.

“Yeah I do,” Michael shoots back.

“Why?!”

“Because I love you!”

Several people pause and Alex gets shocked back into reality. It’s years of training up against the fact that Michael said he loves him. Or that anyone has said they love him. Alex has never heard those words before, not like this. Not about him. Not so seriously. Michael is completely serious. Half the town doesn’t know Michael is bisexual and he’s just shouted he’s in love with Alex in the middle of the street while they are trying to evade an alien. His entire plan was to use the element of surprise and that’s been taken away in one heartfelt declaration. Michael closes his mouth and gets the look on his face that tells Alex they are doing this right now. Everything in Alex says to run but some part of him that’s spent a decade wondering holds firm. Michael seizes his wrist and pulls him into another narrow alleyway.

“I need you to be safe,” Michael says.

“Because you love me,” Alex repeats.

“Stop sounding so surprised,” Michael says, folding his arms around himself, “you knew.”

Alex really tries to laugh but all that comes out is a sigh. Michael’s features go from guarded and defensive to surprised to something that twists at whatever broken part of Alex is the most whole. Michael seems to fold in on himself. Maybe somewhere deep down he did know, but it’s easy to let the world decide your truth. Or maybe knowing Michael loves him and could still leave him behind is just too much.

“I’m not ready,” he says finally, “I can’t—“

Heat and those strange footsteps come. He’s moving forward as Michael grabs him and they go through the nearest door. Inside it’s pitch black. But no alarm goes off so there’s that at least. Michael presses his hand to the lock and there’s a painful sound that comes with the pin breaking and the bolt getting stuck. Alex doesn’t think for a second that will stop the alien, but it will buy them some time. He can’t see a damn thing but when he takes a step forward he realizes that he doesn’t have to. Alex has a pretty good internal map of the city but he spent most days in this place after school and once you locked up, there was a path of glowing stars to follow but no actual lights. The entire place was refurbished but when Alex touches the right spot, he feels the star stuck on the ground.

“We’re in the UFO Emporium,” He says.

“Shit,” Michael tells him.

“Come on,” Alex says.

“I can’t see,” Michael snaps.

Alex grabs his hand and uses muscle memory to find the stars and their general direction. Michael stops at the point he wishes that he didn’t, but then again the universe seems to be against him.

“I thought you couldn’t see,” Alex says.

“You stopped too,” Michael says and pulls him in.

The room is pitch black. But Michael finds the light switch because Michael is Michael. Alex’s heart starts pounding. He’s avoided this place like the plague, like he always does when he comes back. It was a haven back then and he’s long since thought he lost the right to those. But coming back to this place is so much worse with Michael right there. With the pair of them alone. He’s always picked the hard way, against reason, against logic, against everything. So why would this be any different?

He tugs off the baseball cap.

“I haven’t worn anything with a visor since I got back,” he says, pushing it into Michael’s chest and walking past him. Everything looks the same, because why wouldn’t it? It’s only the inside that’s different, “everything looks the same,” he says, “except us.”

“Alex—“

“If you told 17 year old me this is how things would turn out, I would have thought you were insane,” he says, looking at a collection of ‘bones’.

“More insane than me saying I was an alien?” Michael asks.

Alex does manage to laugh, but only because he can’t believe that they’re at a point where he doesn’t have an answer to that. Which is more insane? Him being a one legged veteran trying to commit treason or Michael being an alien? Or them not being able to be around each other without pain? He turns to see the smile slipping off Michael’s face.

“That’s probably the least insane part of it,” he says, “what’s going on?”

“Something’s here kidnapping people,” he says, “I thought you were safe but Max got a call that it tried to take Jenna,” Alex looks away and Michael’s face falls, “we just haven’t talked in a while so I thought—“

“How’s Jenna?” He cuts in.

“She’s the one who called us,” Michael says, “she weakened it enough that it’s walking funny and we can feel the heat it’s making,” Alex nods, “I didn’t mean you were like Jenna,” Michael says.

“It’s fine,” Alex lies.

“No,” Michael says moving towards him, “I messed up. I know that. But you’re not like Jenna. You know you’re not someone I was using—“

“So Maria was?” Alex demands. Michael looks away and Alex rubs the bridge of his nose, “is that supposed to make me feel better?” He demands.

“No,” Michael says finally, his voice small.

“You shouldn’t have to be with someone else to want to be with me,” Alex says, “I knew I wanted to be with you—“

“I didn’t,” Michael cuts him off, “I had no idea, Alex. Neither of us knew. You went across the world, that didn’t make it any easier.”

The pair of them are much better at saying that they deserve what has happened, at blaming themselves for what goes wrong. That they messed up and are hurt is strange for both of them. Alex turns away, he doesn’t know how to be there and not be like the world is completely wrong. He refuses to run though, he’d rather hit his head against this proverbial wall.

“Us being in each other’s lives,” he says finally.

“Huh?”

“Us being in each other’s lives,” Alex says, “that’s the part I wouldn’t have believed.”

Michael doesn’t snark or make a comment and the words settle in all their weight over them. The only people Alex was sure of being in his life was his family. That was a curse. He worked at keeping Maria and Liz, as much as he could. But it was Michael who kept the lights on between them. When he turns he’s not surprised to see Michael looking at him tentatively, fiddling with the brim of the hat. Alex looks down, his mouth suddenly dry. But yeah the idea of them being in each other’s lives is the most unbelievable. He can’t imagine seventeen year old him doing the mental gymnastics for that.

The door bangs open.

Alex rushes over to him as Michael slams the lights shut. He can navigate with the plastic stars and he knows the general layout of the room. He pulls Michael to the nearest corner and they both press into the wall. Michael somehow winds up body blocking so it’s his back to the door. He knows Michael has powers but that doesn’t stop him from unholstering his side arm. He grabs Michael’s hand so he knows that Alex has the gun and positions it so if he has to take a shot it will be as far away from Michael as possible. Michael doesn’t do the logical thing and turn around though, he pushes against Alex like he’s some kind of fucking human shield. Alex wraps an arm around him, gripping the shoulder of his hoodie. If Michael isn’t going to protect himself Alex sure as hell is.

The footsteps get closer and closer.

There’s no reason for them to pause unless the thing has night vision. They’re tucked into a corner, so maybe it won’t see them. Even far away Alex can feel the warmth. He feels Michael tense against him and forces his lungs to work as the footsteps get closer. He realizes that in the commotion, Michael dropped the hat. He feels Michael tense against him and he knows exactly what he’s about to do. Alex tightens his grip on Michael’s hoodie and shifts his weight. He knows the room like the back of his hand. The footsteps make it to where Michael would have dropped the hat and Alex takes a moment to line up the shot.  

He feels the heat shift as the alien crouches to pick it up.

Alex fires.

The sound the alien makes is horrific. A white hot pain splatters down the forearm he’s got plastered across Michael’s spine and Michael grunts in pain but Alex empties the clip into the alien. He’s got the element of surprise. There’s a series of shrieks and then silence. Alex puts several more shots into it but they hit and there’s no sound. Just a painful wet jerk.

“Get the lights,” Alex orders and they flip on.

“What the fuck is that?!” Michael demands and doesn’t let go of him.

Alex’s stomach rolls. The thing there is very clearly not human but a mass of flesh with no real features. It’s a blob. Michael gags and buries his face in Alex’s shoulder. Alex glances down. There’s a patch on his forearm and it trails down and across the lower part of Michael’s back. The skin under is pink and blistered. It’s like they’ve been burned. But Michael seems more troubled by the pile of goo and Alex can’t help but agree.

“Move it into one of the cases,” he says.

Michael does with his power and shudders the whole time. You can’t wash powers, apparently. When it’s done he shivers and they both look at the goo inside the case.

“Noah didn’t look like that when he died,” he says.

“Maybe it’s the bullets?”

Michael shudders.

“Let’s just get out of here.”

Alex nods and tightens his grip on Michael as they get out of the room. Michael turns the lights on as they go, in case whatever that thing is has some alien power they don’t know about. They sweep the building before they go out the back, Michael killing the lights and fixing the locks. By the time they’re out there the use of his powers has finally caught up with him and he’s leaning on Alex for more than just proximity. Alex shifts him to re-holster his weapon and barely gets an arm around him as Michael’s knees buckle.

“M’sorry,” Michael says.

“It’s okay,” Alex tells him and presses his lips to Michael’s curls before he realizes what he’s doing, “what do you need?”

“Acetone,” Michael says and tightens his grip on his shirt to make it clear that’s not the only thing.

“Let’s get you some,” Alex says and grips him back equally tight, “Come on.”

He gets a better grip on Michael, forcing himself to continue to trust his prosthetic like he has been. It’s harder, not because the threat to his life has been taken care of but because there’s something precious he needs it to hold up as well. He has his doubts but the metal holds as they get out of the alleyway.

“I think you were right about that place,” Michael mumbles as they hobble towards the nearest drugstore, “no more making out there.”

He knows Michael is delirious and it’s adrenaline that’s getting them both through, but he says the first thing that comes to his mind.

“We could try the movies,” Alex says, “I hear that’s a good place.”

“You wanna go to the movies with me?” Michael asks, suddenly adorably hopeful. Alex hitches him higher.

“Ask me after we get some acetone in you.”

[not-another-archive]

D-Day fic (title undecided)

Storyboard for context (btw I’m calling the guy next to Murdoc on the 4th panel Terry)

“You’re really gonna lug that bloke everywhere, eh?”

“Yes. Required by law.”

“Since when did you start obeying the law?”

“Since I got caught’s when,” Murdoc snapped as he shoved the comatose Stuart into the car. Terry had tagged along, one of his many hooligan friends that seemed to come and go at moment’s notice. Murdoc stared at the one-eyed, blue-haired heap slumped in the back seat. A second passed. Murdoc sat the boy up and daintily placed the limp forearm on the kid’s lap, pleased. Terry scowled. “Get in already, bender,” he muttered. “Bender!?” Murdoc yelped as he slammed the door shut. Once he hopped in the driver’s seat, he pouted and flitted his eyes around, trying to think of a comeback. Suddenly, a smirk crept across his lips. “Say, would a bender be looking to participate in...oh, I dunno, that parking lot with all those loons mucking about, eh? Care to go for a hell of a spin, Terry? Or are you some kind of bender?” Terry’s eyes widened as the greasy animal revved his late father’s jalopy.

“You’re bluffing, now.”

“Nuh-uh!” Murdoc cracked a snaggle-toothed grin, “we’re in Nottingham, mate, we may as well.” He cackled as the beat-up Vauxhall Astra, patched up from the fairly recent crash that bestowed him the unresponsive teen, sputtered its way to the parking lot derby.

By the time they got there it was raining lightly, but that wasn’t stopping anyone. Terry wasn’t too keen on potentially snapping his neck, much to Murdoc’s amusement. He opted to stand and watch while the mop-topped madman tore up the parking lot. Despite Murdoc’s mockery, Terry gave him a big smile and a double thumbs up for luck before stepping out. Murdoc smirked, and a chuckle rolled out of his throat as he fiddled with his cigarette. He tossed it out the window and slammed his foot on the gas. The deafening roar rumbled out of the car, almost drowning out the cheers. He picked up more speed and performed a few donuts, tossing the blue-haired ragdoll, still in the backseat, to-and-fro. Murdoc, however, was having a whale of a time, laughing maniacally and beeping the horn. Eventually, when he’d had his fun, he screeched to a halt next to the crowd, surveying his captive audience, panting and feeling — kind of — alive. They were going wild, waving, whistling, hollering; it’s what he longed for, what he dreamed would meet him onstage one day…

Murdoc was quickly snapped out of his musings with something else that allured him so.

Tits!!! On a lady!!!

A girl had taken her top off to, well, encourage him. And boy, did it ever. Murdoc’s freakishly long tongue lolled out of his maw as he tried to plan his last trick on the spot, the grand finale. He revved the engine once more, to another wave of applause. The speedometer gradually climbed up to around ninety as he spun the car around the lot. With his rearview mirror ravaged with cracks and rendered useless, he turned his head out the window to see if that lady was still offering her “encouragement.”

B-DUM!!!

It hadn’t been so much as two seconds before Murdoc’s car barrelled head-on into a bollard at top speed. There was a deafening crunch of metal twisting, shattered glass, and the smell of rising smoke. The car alarm rang like a cry of agony. Murdoc shrunk in his seat. The impact had left him pretty scraped up, but mostly alright; a bruise or some cuts here and there, but it was nothing he wasn’t used to. The very kid he was supposed to look after would beg to differ. Having not been buckled, Stu careened through the windshield and hit the pavement, skidding on his face for what felt like half a mile before his head made a final impact on the curb. Oops.

Almost on cue, the rain seemed to pick up slightly, and the surroundings grew dreary to match the sky. Stuart lay limp on the road, surrounded by bits of broken glass. Murdoc, hands still latched onto the wheel, craned his neck to get a look at him. Moments passed. Despite the blaring alarm and the rain, it felt just as heavy as silence.

Stuart’s fingers twitched.

He lifted his head off the ground.

Painstakingly slow, the boy who was a crumpled, immobile heap mere seconds ago pushed himself off the road. Disoriented, the spindly teen hoisted himself to a shaky standing position. And there he stood, swaying, but there he stood. Murdoc stared, gobsmacked. Then he finally got a good look at the boy’s face. He was missing teeth, he was all bloodied up, but that was barely noticeable compared to what took center stage.

Stuart had no eyes. In their place were two empty, reddish-black voids. Murdoc had bashed one in before, but what were the chances it would happen again?

Now, this was quite a unique look, Murdoc thought as a smile began to stretch across his face. That kid worked in the Keyboard Emporium, didn’t he? He was fervently plotting now, gleefully hunched over the wheel. This was an opportunity he couldn’t miss.

Murdoc stepped out of the wreckage and trotted over to the bizarre-looking fellow.

“Hey!” He waved as he approached the lost-looking lad.

“...Huh?” The further disfigured Stu turned to squint at the small, grayish, greenish, blackish blob.

“...Erm…” Murdoc scratched the back of his head. Perhaps he didn’t plot as well as he thought. “R’you...ok?” He asked, surveying the damage. The younger bloke didn’t respond, staring blankly in a now quite literal sense until he could figure out it was a person he was looking at. He looked at Murdoc, then back at the wreckage, then back at Murdoc, then the car again. Suddenly, his pitch-black eyes widened and his bleeding jaw dropped. “Oh my god!” He warbled, turning back to Murdoc, “did you crash that car?” Murdoc wasn’t entirely sure how he was supposed to answer that.

“...Yeah.”

“I coulda been killed!”

“Oh, shut up, you-“

“You saved my life, mister!” Enthused, Stuart leaned closer and began twiddling his fingers.

“...Beg your pardon?”

“Not sure why I was on the ground, but if you hadn’t crashed your car, you woulda run me over n’ killed me for certain!”

Murdoc was at a complete loss. At least this idiocy and/or delirium was in his favor.

“Yeah, let’s go with that.”

“What was that, sir?”

“Nuthin’.”

There was a bit of a pause. Stuart observed his now fuzzy surroundings. Murdoc looked at the ground and whistled for a second or two before clearing his throat. “You play keyboard, right?”

“Yeah!” A big, dopey smile spread across Stu’s scraped up face, “I work at Uncle Norman’s Keyboard Emporium. Ever been?”

“Oh yeah. I don’t think they like me very much over there, though.” They chuckled, but only Murdoc knew why it was funny.

“...Why not?” The boy tilted his head. “Not important,” Murdoc made a dismissive gesture, “anyway, erm, I’m forming a band, actually, and I think you’d be a welcome addition.” Stuart’s new eyes tried their hardest to light up. “You really mean it?”

“Sure, sure. I’m certain those… interesting looks of yours would make good frontman material. Definitely draws attention.” Stuart beamed another jacked grin, overjoyed from the pseudo-complement. “Why, thank you, mister! Sign me up! I owe ya for saving me whole life ‘n such.” Bingo. With some disinfectant and patching up, Murdoc would have the perfect face for the band. Other than his own mug, of course. “I sing too,” Stuart added. With a voice like that? “Doubt it,” Murdoc replied curtly. “Well,” he tutted, “no use standing around in this rain. I’ll nick a car and you can clean yourself up at my place.”

“Ok!”

The new recruit was rather complacent watching Murdoc smash a random car’s window and start it up, and soon enough the budding band was on the road. It felt strange for them to both be conscious. Once they were properly introduced and caught up, small talk was made, but it was dull. As frustratingly dull as the former coma patient himself.

“Er… Murdoc… whose car is this again?”

“I told you, it doesn’t matter!”

Similar conversation plagued the car throughout the ride. All the while, Murdoc found it ridiculous that this moron could look so strange and have a name like Stuart. Not if he had anything to say about it.

“We can’t keep calling you Stuart, man.”

“Then call me Stu!”

“No! It’s boring! You need a stage name, looking like that.”

“...StuPot? That’s what they called me in school.”

Murdoc groaned. “Let me do all the thinking, and you can tell me what you like best. C’mon, man, it’ll be cool.”

Murdoc ran through a list of nicknames he thought of on the spot. As Stu dismissed one after another, Murdoc grew exasperated.

“Well, if you don’t like Denthead, Dentrimental, or Dent, Daft, and Beyond, then what?! Come on, those were good!!!”

The boy shook his head, “Too long for me. I like Stuart. It’s easy to remember and quicker to write.”

“I can’t work with that criteria!”

Stu almost rose his shrill voice. “Just keep it simple, please.”

“Ugh, simple’s what we’re trying to avoid!” Murdoc scowled. “Just Dents, then?”

“Does it have to be about the dents in my skull?” Stu whined. “Well, I mean, yeah,” Murdoc retorted. “You have dents in your skull,” he continued, “that’s fuckin’ metal.” Stu nodded slowly. “It’s just a bit on the nose, innit?”

“Then…” Murdoc was damn near out of ideas. “How about… 2-Dents, then? ‘Cos you’ve got two now, don’t you? It’s not just ‘Dents’ and it could be ‘2-D’ for short, yeah? It doesn’t sound bad, even without the implication of brain damage, so there you go.” Stuart mulled it over, nodding slowly, then picking up speed as his bloody face beamed once more. “I actually really like that! That- That’s quite good, innit?” He went so far as to declare, “from now on, I want everyone to call me 2-D!” Murdoc was pleased. “That’s the spirit!” He hollered. “Right then, 2D, this is it. The big one. We’re on the road to stardom, I can feel it. This is gonna be revolutionary, just you wait.”

“Well, no… we’re on the road to your place, remember? If we’re going to stardom we must’ve taken a wrong turn…”

“Well, you see, my place happens to be where stardom is.”

“Wow! No kiddin’!”

The new duo was jovially cruising to Murdoc’s shitty bedsit in high spirits now that everyone had an appropriate title. Still, likely due to 2-D’s lack of brain functionality, it wasn’t long before conversation dissolved to nothingness.

Suddenly Murdoc cussed and banged his fist on the wheel, wide-eyed.

“What happened, Murdoc?” 2-D chirped, craning his neck at the fellow.

Murdoc had one hand on the wheel, one hand rubbing his temples. “We forgot Terry.”

“Who’s Terry?”

Murdoc hesitated, then he sat up, looking straight ahead. “Eh, you’re right, no one important.”

[just-another-busy-fangirl-writes]

December 22, 2017 - Holiday Edition

I am reposting old fic rec lists.  Unfortunately some of the blogs/stories have been removed, but I am still going to list them for historical reference.

Feel free to tag me in ANY fics you post, and see previous weeks’ fic recs HERE

Hopefully this list helps those of you (us) who want to get away from our families for at least an hour or two over the holidays.  There’s quite a bit of fluff on this list, so hopefully these awesome fics put a smile on your faces!  There were a million more holiday stories that I’ve read the past few weeks, but I tried my best to spread the love to as many authors as I could.  Make sure you check out everyone who’s tagging Kari (@thing-you-do-with-that-thing) and Ida’s (@like-a-bag-of-potatoes) 12 Days of Christmas Challenge, cause a lot of writers are doing that!

Happiest of Holidays to all of you beautiful people!

SMUT

Santa Baby by @impala-dreamer   Dean may not be the Christmassy type, but he sure will try for Y/N…

Let’s Stay Home Tonight by @impalaimagining   You’ve done enough Christmassy crap by yourself, and all you want is your husband to come home. When his flight is delayed and you have a little more time to yourself, you decide to make his wait worth your while.

Sparkling by @kittenofdoomage   Fighting a Krampus was not how you wanted to spend Christmas, but at least you’ve met your soulmate. Even if he is a little… tied up.

Home for the Holidays by @luci-in-trenchcoats  After his flight home is cancelled, Jensen decides to spend Christmas with his co star and long time crush…

Santa Baby by @queen-of-deans-booty   You’ve been waiting all year for this to happen. You got your favorite sexy Santa lingerie and you just know Dean is going to love it on you.

The Bell Still Rings by @sp-oops   Set after 11x09 (and ignores the rest of the season). Just weeks after the Cage fiasco, Jody Mills gets TFW & co to Sioux Falls for some much-needed time off. Sam’s hurting, but man, is he happy to see you. So happy that you’re starting to think your longtime crush on him may not be as one-sided as you thought. Here’s hoping for some strategically-placed mistletoe.

We Love Anyway by @sp-oops   Set after 12x08. So you busted Sam and Dean out of federal lockdown and then skipped town. But now that the holiday weekend is here, and you’re lonely for them. Lonely for Dean. When Donna calls to invite everybody to her Christmas Eve wedding, you head north in a heartbeat. But when you get there, immersed in all the lights and splendor, it’s soon obvious that you’re not the only one pining for someone you didn’t think you could have. Will you have the guts to make a move?

The Cozy Christmas In by @whispersandwhiskerburn   You and Dean are snowed in.

FLUFF

First Christmas by @atc74   Rob and his new wife prepare for their first Christmas together.

Christmas Traditions by @crispychrissy   It’s the Holiday Season and you’re stuck in the bunker with a broken leg. Dean and Sam plan some activities for you after learning about your family’s holiday traditions.

Anything for You by @d-s-winchester   Your ex will be at the Christmas party your office is hosting. Instead of you going alone, Matt offers to pose as your boyfriend.

It’s Cold Outside by @docharleythegeekqueen   Christmas music helps set the mood as Dean and Cas spend the evening with their girlfriend and son.

One Horse Open Sleigh by @docharleythegeekqueen   A Christmas date you’re hoping is leading to a proposal goes in a completely different direction.

All You Want for Christmas by @evansrogerskitten   Jack is excited about his first Christmas as you teach him the holiday traditions. The special day also brings a surprise for you as well.

What You Always Asked For by @imagineteamfreewill   The reader is one of Santa’s elves that travels to a new town each year to make sure even the poorest of children can have a good Christmas. When the boys find a case that links her with a string of recent murders, however, she has to team up with them to help save the children she’s been tasked with watching over.

All I See by @impalaimagining   Jared and reader have been together for a while and decide to spend this Christmas alone in a cabin in Colorado.

What’s Your Hurry by @impalaimagining   You and Jensen host a Christmas party, and before too many guests arrive, Genevieve asked you about your future.

Little Drummer Boy by @jpadjackles   Louden Swain decide to host a small Christmas live stream for their fans. Rob invites a special guest to sing a song with him, and everyone can see the chemistry between them.

Mistletoe Surprise by @just-another-winchester   Dean plans a little surprise for you to show you how he really feels about you.

Cancelled Plans by @katymacsupernatural   Driving through a huge storm, you get Dean to pull over at the next hotel where you are snowed in.

Crackling Embers by @katymacsupernatural   Jared surprises the reader with a trip to a winter wonderland.

Cabin Fever by @luci-in-trenchcoats   The reader and the boys take a break from hunting for the holidays to head up to an out of the way cabin to meet up with some friends and have an old fashioned Christmas together…

Meeting the Parents by @luci-in-trenchcoats   You invite your boyfriend, Jensen, to spend Christmas with you where he meets your family for the first time…

A Very Supernatural Hanukkah by @saxxxology   When Sam finds out you don’t celebrate Christmas, he makes it his goal to make your next Hanukkah the best one you’ll ever have.

The Christmas Con by @whispersandwhiskerburn   Dean explains to you why Christmas isn’t for hunters.

The Gift Box by @whispersandwhiskerburn   Dean has to stay back during a hunt and stare at his Christmas present from Y/N the whole time.

Mistletoe Trap by @whispersandwhiskerburn   Why is there mistletoe everywhere?

Beware the Office Christmas Party by @winchesterprincessbride   It’s that one event of the year that you truly dread: The yearly Sandover Christmas party.  Last year was a disaster, and you are determined to avoid it at all costs. But your BFF Kate is forcing you to go, and the only saving grace is the chance you might run into your office crush.

The Elf on The Shelf Can Kiss My Ass by @winchesterprincessbride   Your daughter convinces you to get an Elf on the Shelf.

You’ll Shoot Your Eye Out, Dean! by @winchesterprincessbride   You introduce Sam and Dean to a Christmas movie that’s old to you but new to them.

ANGST

I’ll Be Home for Christmas by @impala-dreamer   Problems on set and two thousand miles of snow and ice between them means Jensen may not make it home for Christmas this year…

Pre-Christmas Catastrophe by @jpadjackles   Y/N is out finishing her Christmas shopping on one particularly snowy day. It’s smooth sailing until she’s coming home when her car slips on black ice. Luckily for her, she’s got an ambulance officer as a fiance who just so happens to be working that night.

It’s a Terrible Tree by @whispersandwhiskerburn   Sam Wesson is getting a bit tired of his job, but Y/N is the best part of his day.  Can he get their place ready for Christmas dinner with her mother?

SERIES

The Emporium of Christmas Enchantments by @almaasi (on AO3)   Every night when the clock strikes twelve, all the toys in the toymaker’s workshop come to life. Dean is a little wooden soldier, so easily distracted by the pretty dolls. However, in the nights leading up to Christmas, he feels drawn to a very different kind of toy: Castiel, a kindhearted cowboy displayed on the other side of the store. Dean and Castiel spend all their time together, spreading joy and festive cheer throughout their miniature community. But once the Christmas rush comes around, will fate allow them to stay together? (Perhaps… with a little sprinkling of Christmas magic, even the wishes of simple toys can come true.)

Celebrate Me Home by @callmesweetheartifyoumeanit   A Dean Winchester Holiday//Daddy//Bookstore!AU - After having a traumatic experience back home, the reader climbs into her car and begins driving with no place to go. She ends up in a small town in Vermont where she finds more than she bargained for.

12 Days of Dean and Donna: A Christmas Story by @deansdirtylittlesecretsblog   Christmas has become just another day for Dean, not worth celebrating. Donna, on the other hand, loves Christmas. Can she instill him with the Holiday Spirit by Christmas Day?

Another 12 Days of Dean and Donna: Christmas at the Bunker by @deansdirtylittlesecretsblog   Dean invites Donna to spend Christmas at the Bunker.

A Winmills Christmas by @ilostmyshoe-79   Follow Sam and Jody through the holiday season.

12 Years of Christmas by @sis-tafics   Dean and you go back further than your first night together. Actually, Dean’s had his own little secret for years. Told from Dean’s POV

[carabas]

(for the Black Emporium prompt: "Colette is an academic out in the field hunting for clues about who Ameridan was, Ameridan has been rescued after 800 years of fending off a powerful dragon abomination. Imagine if he survived and could give answers to some of the theories she'd been researching." In which Colette meets her history crush.)

After the Inquisitor’s visit, Colette spends the remainder of the day documenting the Tevinter ruins. She barely notices the darkening sky until she finds herself struggling to make out her own notes, until a green light flashes overhead and illuminates the page. And she looks up just as a glowing wisp darts through the air and brushes against her cheek.  

At its touch, a deep, pleasant voice echoes through her mind.

We have a plan. Haron and Orinna will lead the Avvar elsewhere, so Telana and I can deal with the dragon. My spirit companion believes we can seal the dragon away, even if we cannot kill it. It is less clear whether I can do so without—

The voice cuts off as the wisp drifts away, taking up a position circling the statue at the heart of the ruins. And Colette frowns up at it in consternation.

Spirits. Always meddling with the most important sites. Useful for preservation, but then they make it impossible to date anything accurately; mimicking history, but with no way to tell how much of what they say reflects the actual events and how much came from someone’s wild imagination. About as reliable as insights from a dream. And its presence in these ruins means she’s going to have to be doubly careful to verify everything she’s discovered here—not that she wouldn’t have done that anyway.

Still, she scrambles to jot down its exact words before she forgets them.

It’s something, to hear Ameridan’s voice here in this place where he and his companions had walked, still lingering after all these years. Even if it isn’t real.

It’s a long walk back to the base camp, and bird song’s given way to chirping insects and the occasional rustling of some unseen creature in the undergrowth—some nocturnal predator probably, and she’s probably not lucky enough to be rescued by the Inquisitor twice in the same day, and she should really see about bringing along some Inquisition scouts for the return trip tomorrow. But even the prospect of another hungry pack of lurkers can’t dampen her excitement much, and she spends the walk mentally cataloguing the work still to be done. The discoveries she’s made today alone, the contributions to their understanding of Inquisitor Ameridan’s era of early Chantry history—it’s a feast after spending years searching for scraps.

Tonight definitely deserves a treat from her limited stash of hot cocoa, she decides.

There’s a crowd clustered in the lights of the base camp, so many people hanging around the gate that she can’t manage to get through; she just manages to spot the surgeon running towards them, then ducking out of her sight.

When she asks what’s going on, one of the scouts in front of her answers in a hushed whisper. “They found the last Inquisitor.”

She thinks her heart just stopped. “The resting place? It’s here?” We were right. Maker, this book is going to make history.

The scout shakes his head, and he points through the crowd, leaning aside just enough for her to see what everyone’s clustered around, the unconscious man that the surgeon’s kneeling over. “They found the Inquisitor.”

She doesn’t recognize the man on the ground. One of the Dalish scouts, clearly, with the tattoos, but not one she knows—though that antique armor he’s wearing isn’t Inquisition uniform; it looks almost like—

It penetrates. “What?”

Inquisitor Ameridan looks nothing like she’d imagined. And granted, the historical records are quite vague on his appearance—and privately, her mental image had been mostly based on an Orlesian novel about the Inquisitor and his lady mage; it was quite tasteful, really—and granted, lying unconscious on the surgeon’s cot is perhaps not the most accurate of first impressions.

He looks kind, the lines of his face. Smile lines. She hadn’t expected that.

Breaking down the camp and getting ready for the journey to Skyhold, Colette hesitates outside the surgeon’s tent, her arms full of a box of mineral samples. There’s a pair of guards keeping watch, but she and Professor Kenric have been in and out of that tent all day, and the guards pay her no mind anymore.

The surgeon and the spirit healer have stepped outside at the moment, locked in a heated debate about bile and bloodletting. They’ve been doing a lot of that. Inquisitor Ameridan keeps drifting in and out of consciousness, and there isn’t a standard method of treatment for eight hundred years’ worth of magical exhaustion, or for the sudden loss of some kind of spirit companion who’s kept you alive all that time.

But she’s hearing voices inside the tent too. And the real Ameridan’s voice sounds just the same as he had in her head, at the wisp’s touch.

He’s awake.

Peering through the tent flap, she sees that strange boy that the Inquisitor—the other Inquisitor—that Inquisitor Lavellan has been looking after, the boy whose name she can never remember.

“Too bright, blinding, breaking, broken. ‘Get to safety. I will seal us both away. …It's not forever.’”

Cole. That’s his name. Colette doesn’t know how she keeps forgetting that.

She sees Ameridan’s hand grasp Cole’s, then fall back. And feeling she’s intruding, Colette lets the tent flap fall closed, just as she hears Ameridan say, “Thank you.”

A career spent picking away at pieces of a mystery, and now she’s had the whole answer dumped in her lap all at once. She’s still not sure she believes it.

And that’s the trouble. Even with all their documentation of the Inquisitor’s last days in the Frostback Basin, when it comes to proving that the man now recovering in Skyhold is who he says he is, there’s very little in the way of physical evidence and a whole lot depending on Inquisitor Lavellan’s word about what she saw, dragon-god skull or no.

And for anyone already inclined to mistrust the Inquisition, Colette has to admit it’s a bit of a stretch. So convenient for Inquisitor Lavellan, the elven upstart who crowned herself as the new Inquisitor and declared the rebel mages under her protection, to suddenly discover that the last true Inquisitor was really an elf, and a mage, and here in the flesh to give her his blessing; the perfect precedent conjured out of nothing, too convenient to be believed.

And then there’s those who accept the Inquisition’s claims just because they think supporting the Inquisition could work to their own advantage, not because they care about the truth or the accuracy of Colette’s research one way or the other. History dependent on politics. That leaves an even worse taste in her mouth.

Which is why Professor Kenric is packing for Orzammar and the Shaperate, prepared to search for every scrap of corroborating evidence of their claims, when the answer to all their questions is right there in Skyhold’s guest quarters.

“It’s the chance of a lifetime,” the professor says for what has to be the dozenth time, somehow managing to sound both giddy and as if he’s trying to convince himself at once. Colette can sympathize; under any other circumstances, she would be mad with jealousy at a chance to access the Shaperate’s records.

But it’s hard to be jealous, when instead she’s sitting beside Ameridan’s bedside as he patiently answers her questions, trading every answer for a question of his own; as she sketches Haron and Orinna from his description until they’re both satisfied with the result, while she tells him, haltingly, about their last stand, and then about the Dales, Drakon, the Blights, and Seekers and mages and spirits and the alienage where she grew up and Qunari hot cocoa, and the dragons that no one hunts anymore, or hardly anyone aside from Professor Frederic anyway, because they’d seemed extinct until they weren’t, another wonder from the past that everyone had thought was gone forever. Everything. As much of the past eight hundred years as she can piece together for him.

Maker, he’s tall, she thinks the first time she sees him out of bed without needing his staff to lean on; and then when she sees him in the long lines of the Inquisition’s formal uniform, looking like he’d just stepped out of that Orlesian novel.

He looks even taller as he moves through the alleyways of Halamshiral, the line of his back ramrod straight, and they draw curious looks as they move deeper into the slums. And this isn’t where they’re supposed to be; their diplomatic visit to the Winter Palace on their way to the University, the stops along the way, the meeting with Keeper Levinia Ghilain, it’s all been carefully scheduled. But he follows her lead when she veers off the planned path; gives her a curious look, and then sets out as if he knows where he’s going, ground-devouring strides, putting an end to the protest of their escort in formal livery and formal masks, forcing the escort to hurry to keep up with them.

The river might not have changed since his time, or the mountains around the city, but everything else must have. Even just within Colette’s lifetime, the city’s changed beyond recognition. She can still see the scars where the Empress of Fire earned her name; whole neighborhoods gone, cobbled-together shelters that can’t have been standing for more than a year and don’t look likely to hold together for much longer, older buildings left abandoned, roofs fallen in and doors boarded over.

All this to remind the elves not to forget their place. And yet now Colette’s walking through Halamshiral at Ameridan’s side with a sword slung across her back, an elf openly carrying a weapon within the city, and not one guard has tried to stop her.

Ameridan pauses on a bridge over the river, identical to half a dozen others, of no particular significance that Colette can see. His hands gripping the iron railing.

“Andraste’s children were the ones who granted us the Dales in the first place,” he says, sounding more bewildered than anything else. “For Drakon’s chantry to be the ones to do—this—”

He doesn’t finish the thought, just spreads his hands wordlessly.

Drakon’s chantry. As if it was just that, just a group of the faithful started by a friend of his.

Hesitant, she puts her hand over his, where he’s been gripping the railing. And she watches his shoulders sag as a little of the tension goes out of him.

She asks him what it was like, the old Halamshiral, the way he remembers it. And looking up at the Winter Palace silhouetted against the sky in the distance, he begins to tell her, clasping her hand in his own.

Everything always seems so meaningful in the stories about him, the novels and the historical accounts both. Like every event has a purpose behind it. There may be pieces missing in the records, but when she’s reading, it’s always felt like if she could just fill in enough of those blanks, the world would make sense.

But he’s not a character in a book.

“Would it be that bad, if you can’t prove who I am?”

They’re sitting in Skyhold’s garden, with one of the books on the Divine Age that Ameridan had asked her for. The Sword of Drakon: An Examination of the Life and History of the Father of Orlais. Though it’s far from the most historically accurate depiction of Drakon’s life after Ameridan's disappearance. He passes her a mug as he sits down, unasked, and she’s startled to find it full of hot cocoa.

And that question’s such an understatement, she barely knows where to begin.

“There’s so much we’ve forgotten,” she manages. “You’re—everything.” Eloquent.

He’d spent half the morning in the undercroft with Dagna and Harritt and his perfectly preserved Divine Age armor, listening to them argue over innovation and older methods, historical techniques that have gotten lost over time, across the Exalted Marches, the Blights.

And he comes from a time period when there was just the Blight, one, a singular event, and over and done with; when people hadn’t believed there would ever be another, not even when the darkspawn had already overrun half the Anderfels. She can’t picture what that would be like, the kind of future he must have imagined for the world, without the Blights constantly knocking them down again. As if you’d only have to get through one winter, and then it would be flowers for the rest of your days. It must have seemed like anything was possible.

And he’s not sure it matters if anyone recognizes who he is.

Just the sheer fact of him makes anything seem possible again.

[locitarose]

I’ve officially started rewriting that HP AU and Leonard’s barely even gotten to Gringotts and the word count on this is already more than half of the entire original series so I’d say it’s definitely more detailed. And because I like posting sneak peeks at stuff, here’s a bit of what’s been written so far:

           While most boys would probably shy away from holding their mother’s hand, Leonard didn’t mind. He had been worrying about her and Lisa since she’d convinced his dad that Leonard needed to go to Hogwarts.

           He wasn’t worried about the fact that Lewis had said nothing other than “good riddance” and “at least I’m not paying for that crap”. No, Leonard worried about what Lewis would do when he realized that his mom had taken sixty pounds out of the account so that Leonard could get extra things if he wanted. (Books, he thought, might be his best bet. Books might not be perfect but it’d give him a place to start at the very least.)

            “Mom, we don’t have to convert all—“

            “We do,” she said, interrupting him with a smile as she pushed Lisa’s stroller. They weren’t far from the area that Professor McGonagall had said they’d find The Leaky Cauldron. “I want you to do well at this school, Leo. That means learning as much as you can before you get there. If that means your father gets a little upset, well, then he gets a little upset. I only took out what I deposited from some of my side jobs anyway.”

            Which was even worse, Leonard thought. Mom needed that money. Just in case.

            “Mom—“

            “Leonard Snart, that’s enough.” Her expression softened and she briefly let go of him to run her hand over his hair—what little he let remain at least. Her son had taken to keeping his hair cropped very close to his head two years ago. “I won’t hear any more arguments from you on this. We can afford this much and you need it. That’s final.”

            Leonard stared at her for a few moments and then nodded. “Okay,” he said eventually. His hand slipped back into hers, remembering that Professor McGonagall had said that to see the pub they would go through, his mom would have to be touching him though they’d be fine once they were in Diagon Alley.

            It wasn’t even ten minutes later before Leonard tugged on his mom’s hand. “There,” he said, fighting down the feeling of giddiness that wanted to come over him. As excited as he was, he also knew that he needed to be careful. He had no idea what this new world was like or whether the people were decent or not.

            He’d learned a long time ago that while most people might not be abusive like his dad, they were definitely blind to the abuse. Or they just didn’t care.

            He still hadn’t decided which was worse.

            “Oh,” his mom breathed as she took in the grubby looking pub between the book shop and the record shop. She watched as people walked by as if it didn’t even exist and smiled slightly. “Well, let’s go in.”

            The inside wasn’t very crowded. There were a few people at tables here and there though it wasn’t exactly easy to see inside with how dark it was. There were candles lit throughout the room along with a few lanterns giving off just enough light that a person wouldn’t have to strain their eyes to read anything. Leonard wondered why they didn’t just use lamps but decided against asking just yet. He paused as he caught a glimpse of a newspaper called The Daily Prophet and noticed the picture on the front was moving.

            He glanced away before the person reading it noticed him watching and allowed his mom to tug him towards the bar as she carefully maneuvered Lisa’s stroller between the tables.      

            “Excuse me,” Natalie said once they reached the bar, “but would you happen to be Tom?”

            The balding man blinked at the sound of an American accent before smiling. “That I would, miss! How can I help you today?”

            She smiled. “Professor McGonagall said you’d be able to help us get into Diagon Alley. My son is going into his first year.”

            “Is he now? I’d have thought Ilvermorny with your accent,” he said. Off of Natalie’s confused look, he added, “Ilvermorny is the magic school in America.”

            She nodded in understanding. “We moved here a little over a year ago due to my husband’s work,” she said.

            “Aye, that would explain it,” Tom said. “Come along, let me show you how to get in the alley.” He motioned for them to follow him and led them through the bar and out into a small courtyard with brick walls. There was nothing but a trash can (dustbin, Leonard reminded himself) and a few weeds. He smiled down at Leonard and pulled out his wand. “Now pay attention to this, lad. Once you get your wand, you’ll be able to enter the alley with it. You’ll always use the wall that the dustbin is in front of and count from the top of the dustbin.” He pointed at the bricks. “Three up and two across and then tap three times. You’ll do the same thing on the other side to come back.” As he tapped the brick a third time, he moved to the side. “Welcome to Diagon Alley, folks.”

            Leonard watched, unable to hide his amazement as the brick Tom had tapped quivered and then a small hole appeared in the middle and grew wider, turning into a large archway that led to a cobbled street. Leonard followed its path with his eyes, taking in the way it twisted and turned until it was out of sight and let out a breath. The alley was packed with people, some in colorful robes and others in Muggle clothing like he and his mom were. He felt something loosen inside him.

            It was real.

            Tom smiled at them. “Follow the path all the way to the end. You’ll see a large white building. That’s Gringotts.”

            “Thank you, Tom,” Natalie said absently, staring at the alley with just as much amazement as Leonard. They moved forward and behind them they heard the brick shifting, glancing back to see that the archway had become a solid brick wall again. Leonard allowed himself a grin and turned back, noticing the way his mom was smiling down at him.

            They made their way slowly down the path, taking in the different shops. There were cauldrons—Leonard couldn’t believe they used actual cauldrons—piled high outside the nearest shop.

            “Mum, Dad, look! There’s a new Nimbus,” a boy with messy black hair and glasses practically shouted as he ran by.

            “James, get back here,” his mother called. She frowned at a man that Leonard assumed was her husband. “He gets this from you.”

            “Of course, dear,” the man said with a smirk as he began to pull her in the direction of the shop the boy was standing in front of. “Now come on, there’s a new Nimbus!”

            “I’m only going so that you don’t walk out of there with two new brooms, Monty. Honestly, there’s still Christmas and his birthday to think of and he can’t even take a broom this year.”

            “We can still look, Mia, my love.”

            She sighed. “Fine. But we’re going to the apothecary afterwards. I’m nearly out of asphodel.”

            As they moved passed them, Leonard looked over to the right and took in the sights of all the shops. A place that had to be the apothecary the woman from before had mentioned had a barrel of bat spleens outside. He wrinkled his nose a bit at the smell coming from the shop as they passed. Another was selling robes while the sound of soft hooting could be heard coming from Eeylops Owl Emporium. Another shop had telescopes and a bunch of other instruments that Leonard couldn’t identify. Flourish and Blotts had stacks of books outside around the entrance and the store itself was two stories high. A stationary shop had parchment and quills, across from that was a shop that sold trunks. Leonard thought that’d be a good place to start. At least they’d have a place to put everything they’d need to buy.

            Finally, they reached a sparkling white building with bronze doors that towered over the shops. Leonard fought to keep the surprise as he saw the guard at the door, remembering that Professor McGonagall had told them that goblins ran the bank and it was never a good idea to cross them. As the goblin bowed, Leonard nodded in reply. He wasn’t sure if he was even supposed to acknowledge the goblin but it couldn’t hurt.

            Leonard paused as they reached a second set of doors though these ones were silver and had a poem of sorts engraved on them.

 Enter, stranger, but take heed

Of what awaits the sin of greed,

For those who take, but do not earn,

Must pay most dearly in their turn,

So if you seek beneath our floors

A treasure that was never yours,

Thief, you have been warned, beware

Of finding more than treasure there.

            Leonard paused as Natalie entered the bank, moving off to the side so that he could read the words again. He briefly considered telling his father about this bank just what would happen when he got caught. He dismissed the thought almost as quickly as he’d had it. While Lewis had stopped taking him on jobs due to all the cameras that London had, he was sure that his father would make an exception so that he could use his wizard son to try and rob a wizard bank and Leonard wasn’t about to get busted for his father’s crimes.

            Besides, if Lewis got arrested, it’d leave his mom in a bind. She’d have to try and find a full-time job just to support the three of them and that would mean having to find someone to watch Lisa during the year while he was at school.

            So, as tempted as Leonard was to set Lewis up, he wouldn’t do it. But it was nice to imagine.

            “Trying isn’t worth whatever the goblins would do to you.”

            Leonard turned to find a kid with dark hair watching him, not even bothering to hide his curiosity. He tilted his head.

            “I wasn’t considering it for myself.”

            “Then you must really hate whoever you were considering it for,” the kid said.

            Leonard paused. “Yeah,” he said, not bothering to explain further.

            The kid shrugged. “Long as it’s not me, I don’t care. I’m Mick Rory.”

            Leonard studied him for a few moments and then nodded. “Leonard Snart.”

            They stared at each other for another few moments and then, as if they’d reached some sort of unspoken agreement, headed inside together. A pair of goblins bowed at them as they went through the doors and entered a marble hall. There were hundreds of goblins sitting on high stools behind a long counter. More doors than Leonard had ever seen led off the hall and even more goblins were leading people in and out of those.

            “My parents are already inside but I got distracted by the brooms,” Mick said, scanning the room for his parents. “Ha! There they are.”

            “Leonard!”

            Leonard glanced over to find his mom coming towards him. “Hi, Mom,” he said.

            “Hi, Mom, he says,” she muttered, rolling her eyes. “Don’t wander off.” She focused on Mick. “Sorry. Hello.”

            “Hi,” Mick said brightly. “Sorry, I distracted him.”

            Leonard fought not to show his surprise at the blatant lie.

            His mom smiled. “Well, I suppose I can’t be mad if he was making a friend. I’m Natalie Snart, Leonard’s mom.”

            “I’m Michael Rory but everyone calls me Mick,” Mick told her. “I sort of got distracted by the brooms instead of coming in here with my parents.”

            “I’m sure we can find them.”

            Mick nodded. “I know which lines they’ll go to.” He paused. “Do you need to convert pounds?”

            “Yes,” she said, not mentioning that they’d need to talk to a goblin about fund that helped students pay for Hogwarts as well.

            “That’s the lines furthest over. If you want to open a vault for Leonard, you can ask one of the goblins over there about it too. It takes a bit but I bet my parents wouldn’t mind waiting for you guys.”

            Natalie blinked in surprise. “If they’re okay with it, then we’d love to join you.”

            “I’ll ask then find you,” Mick said. He glanced at Leonard and grinned before moving off towards a group of lines not too far from where they were standing.

            “He seems nice,” his mom said as they headed towards the lines that Mick had indicated before.

            Leonard nodded. “Yeah,” he agreed, thinking of the way Mick had lied to his mom about being the reason Leonard had fallen behind. “He does.”

[nemossubmarine]

DA RP Write-up #15.1

Hello, I am GM’ing again. I’d say it’s been a while, but it’s literally been less than half a year. This write-up is mostly boat-maintenance, but there’s some plot too!

Our first scene takes place before the last campaign’s end actually. Before the parts of our party who did the assassinating of King Aeducan separated from Humbert and Randy, there’s the matter of Kaino.

Kaino wishes to discuss his fate with Boshara. He isn’t very keen on having his freedom limited and is especially wary of Humbert.

Boshara understands this. She is willing to help Kaino get back on his feet outside the boat, if that’s what he really wishes, but she doubts Kaino would survive very long on his own, having the brand of the tranquil on his forehead, and no life-skills to speak of.

Kaino agrees with this, and Boshara promises to have his back if any conflict with Humbert is to arise, since she has far more expertise in dealing with him.

So Kaino joins our boat.

Now we’ll skip right back to after King Aeducan’s tragic, untimely death. As we are picked up from Denerim, Cahair decides it’s a good time to visit his clan and Vintiver, as both are relatively near.

Cahair wishes to take Richard with him, and he and Humbert have a somewhat heated conversation on the subject. 

In the end Cahair takes some friends from the ship to be extra-eyes, though he grumbles about it. Humbert also is perhaps not the happiest with the situation, but Cahair and his group are already off the boat, so there’s nothing he can do about it anymore.

It is decided that the boat should head for Kirkwall.

While away, Kanuuna and Jelaina have managed to keep the boat afloat, though Kanuuna has some bad news to report. 

There has been some strange things happening on the ship: dead birds falling from the sky on the ship and dead fishes appearing around the ship.

Kanuuna is convinced they are caused by Konstantine, who has been practically in a coma without the lyrium.

These omens certainly should be investigated, especially if they continue.

Because of these bad luck omens, at least according to Kanuuna, the ship has had some trouble with their usual trading partners. 

Some new business avenues clearly need to be opened.

Our heroes ponder about maybe dealing with some runes or rare herbal mixtures, but those would require materials they don’t have right now, so that will have to wait.

There is now lyrium on board, but it needs to be decided who is responsible for it. Two names are put forward on this: Elspet and Will Turner, Humbert’s templar-student.

A vote is had, and it’s really close, but Will Turner edges out as a winner, because many people follow Kanuuna’s example.

Having an access to lyrium really makes Humbert more energetic, and he gets really into the business side of things, as well as continuing Kanuuna’s and especially Will’s educations.

Konstantine is up and if not running at least standing upright, so the mage teaching returns to normal as well.

One day, as our heroes are closing on Kirkwall, Kaino barges into the infirmary where Elspet and Boshara are. He is dragging with him Carmen, the ex-captain of the ship, who got her mind wiped by the qunari in a previous session.

Kaino demands to know why they are keeping a tranquil person on the ship and not helping her.

Boshara explains that Carmen’s case is different, because she isn’t technically a tranquil, and they didn’t know it could be cured before meeting Kaino.

Kaino is very adamant that Carmen should be tried to be cured anyway.

Boshara wants to ask Alf first. Even though Carmen gave up her position as the captain after Nikita died, Boshara still feels it to be polite to ask Alf.

Alf gives this his blessing.

Elspet, with the help of Konstantine and with Humbert present to watch over, brings Jonathon in to touch Carmen as he did Kaino.

Jonathon however is unable to “bring Carmen back”. He says that he feels the missing parts of Carmen are somewhere too far away for him to grasp.

Our heroes surmise that they must be in the orb the qunari used to make her Viddath-Bas. 

The orb is at the bottom of the ocean near Estwatch. Carmen’s healing must wait until they go back that way.

Kaino seems to be okay with this. He is given, or rather, he takes up the duty of keeping Carmen company.

Alf has been in contact with Arkaitz and has arranged to meet up at Kirkwall.

Boshara has gotten wind of this, and approaches Alf to ask what Alf wants with Arkaitz, as our standing with the Crows isn’t the best.

Alf tells that he had hoped to hire Arkaitz to help locate Alf’s mother who Alf knows to be a Crow.

Boshara says that she has been thinking about ways to contact her mother and perhaps Arkaitz could help that as well.

So she asks Alf to take her with him when he goes to meet Arkaitz.

Our heroes reach Kirkwall. Alf and Boshara go off to meet Arkaitz at a local burger-joint.

For Alf, Arkaitz says locating his mother would probably not be that hard, if she is still alive that is. She would be at least 50, if she were alive and that is quite an age for a Crow.

Also if she is alive, she might not take too keenly on having someone dig up stuff about her.

As for Boshara, well, it’s more probable her mom is still alive. And Boshara could give Arkaitz more information than Alf, namely a name (Nesta Silvethari) and a location (The White Spire, probably). Getting information about her from the templars would require some money though.

Arkaitz says he can work with this, but he would need some cash. Somewhere between 300 and 500 gold would do.

Well, Boshara and Alf have 9 gold in their pockets between the two of them.

They start thinking about making money quick. Alf remembers a Kirkwall legend about a man named Xenon the Antiquarian, who supposedly offers ludicrous sums of money for some tasks.

Boshara and Alf decide that trying this route seems good. They’ll get back to Arkaitz when they have some cash.

During that same day, Elspet visits her elven friend at the Lowtown market and spends a nice afternoon with her.

Randy has gotten curious about the position of a boatswain, which our ship is lacking. He talks to Kanuuna about it as Randy would need to find a teacher. This is the first time they really talk after their break-up.

Kanuuna offers some tips and Randy pays back the money he borrowed from him.

Randy takes some of his dwarven friends from the ship and visits the local Raider-place to ask about a boatswain.

The owner of the place remembers a woman by the name of Usva-Kilna, who has recently retired from the sea-faring life.

The owner gives Randy an address.

The address turns out to be a yarnshop, owned by Kilna’s grand-niece. 

Merle and Brett stay behind to browse the wares, while the others go meet Kilna. Merle buys some yarn as he is part of a knitting circle held by Cahair for the riggers.

Kilna turns out to be a half-qunari-half-dwarf woman. She hears Randy’s suggestion, checks over his hand and past experience with being a handy-man, and agrees to come to the ship for a few months to teach.

The teaching would start next morning already, as Kilna needs to go sharpen her tools and she wishes to have Randy with her, which sounds agreeable to him.

For the evening, everyone returns back to ship and Alf and Boshara take up their problem with money with the others.

Humbert gets quite flustered when he learns Boshara is determined to find her mother, and tries to explain why Boshara’s parents haven’t reached out for her yet the Circle politics and restrictions being what they are, as Boshara thinks they should. 

As Humbert is played by yours truly and not his proper player, he removes himself from the situation pretty quickly. I’ll continue as Kanuuna.

Kanuuna is of the opinion that getting some money quick sounds good, as that would give them a bit of leeway to establish new mercantile relationships.

Boshara is a bit worried about how to approach Xenon, as he surely wouldn’t take just anyone to work for him.

Of course, our heroes still need to find him first.

They take to the streets to find Xenon. Some (everyone else) are a bit more subtle than others (Boshara).

At some point an elven man tugs at Alf’s sleeve and asks him and the others to follow him. 

He takes them deep into Kirkwall’s sewers, and finally to an ordinary-looking wooden door, through which they enter Xenon the Antiquarian’s Black Emporium. 

Xenon himself turns out to be a mummified man on a chair, surrounded by books and magical items. The corpse however talks, clearly alive.

He asks for introductions, which are given. Randy is the only one he really recognizes, due to his dad.

Boshara says that since she and Elspet are mages, she was hoping Xenon would hire them.

Xenon asks for a demonstration: Elspet turns into a bird. Boshara (consensually) blood slaves Alf and uses him to shoot an arrow through an apple Randy throws as hard as he can.

Xenon is impressed enough, though it’s certainly hard to read emotions off of a corpse.

There is indeed something our heroes could do for Xenon. There is a swamp in Nevarra, called Teufelbäder, near the town of Meünzebern, on which a thousand years ago a group of magisters were ambushed and killed.

One of the magisters was holding a pendant that was said to be able to turn back and forward time. It was lost to the swamp.

But there has been word of ghosts in the swamp, so Xenon believes it to have resurfaced, and would like it retrieved.

For the pendant, he offers 700 gold.

Randy checks the coin purses one of Xenon’s elves shows, and since they are indeed filled with gold, our heroes agree.

Before leaving, they chat with Xenon a bit. They learn that he is not a mage, at least so he claims.

Xenon, or one of his elf friends, gives a box that would dampen the pendant’s magic. Alf takes it.

Randy asks Xenon about how well he knew Mandulfr. Xenon replies that Mandulfr tried to search for him, but he didn’t let Mandulfr find him, as people work for Xenon, not the other way around, so the relationship between the two wouldn’t have worked.

They are given 200 gold in advance, and that should be enough for Arkaitz to start working too. 

They are led out by an elf, who tells that once they return from Nevarra, one of the elves will come take them back to the Emporium, to give the item.

So off towards Nevarra it is!

Randy finally admits to people (our heroes + Kanuuna), that he may have had some (like one or two) Crows with him when he visited Orzammar, and the “friend” of Randy who had joined our ship after our visit to Orzammar is one of them.

Boshara is quite displeased, especially since while at Antiva, our heroes had gotten knee-deep in Crow shit, but Randy re-assures everyone that Randy’s relationship with the Crows is okay and the Crow is there just to guard Crow-interests. 

However she probably shouldn’t know about the work they are doing for Xenon, so our heroes should watch their mouths.

Boshara mentions to Konstantine about their visit to Nevarra during one of their lessons, and Konstantine recognizes the place they are going on.

In fact, 30 years ago Konstantine had been there with the Nevarran army to deal with an undead problem.

Konstantine has some maps he had drawn in his grimoire that he offers to Boshara. They’re a bit out of date but could be useful.

Boshara lets everyone else know that alongside ghosts they could expect some undead as well.

As we are going by Orlais too, Humbert decides he should visit his other sister, so he’ll not be joining the others on this swampy adventure.

So that’s it. Next time we’ll be heading to the Nevarran swamps in search of lost treasures. Anyone want to make any predictions on a scale of 1 to 10, how badly our heroes will fuck up with the time-magic pendant?

[katharaya]

DA Fic: A Novena to Any Gods Listening

A/N: Listen. Listen I will F I G H T for this ship. Bioware did them dirty and they didn’t deserve that. You know. That. Which is why I’m so glad I got to write them for @for-the-love-of-solas’s Black Emporium gift this year! Thank you for the wonderful prompt!

Pairing: Tamlen/Female Mahariel Word count: 3,678 Summary: Tamlen has never been particularly prayerful, but as the current state of things can attest, stranger things have happened.

---

I. Sylaise, Hearthkeeper, though we wander far from home, we keep your fire alive in our most secret of hearts. Keep us warm.

It feels like a funeral.

(It may as well be.)

Guilt overwhelms Tamlen as he and Mahariel walk away from the clan for the last time. It clings to the soles of his boots, weighing him down.

(He wanted to explore the cave, he went to touch the mirror, he had to drag an unconscious, feverish Mahariel out of the cave and into the waiting arms of the shem Grey Warden with suspiciously impeccable timing—)

He feels everyone’s stares bore into his back as they part to make way. The clan is somber, silent but for Merrill’s soft sniffling.

Tamlen hesitates at the edge of camp, wrestling with the urge to look back. Only Mahariel’s touch gives him pause, her hand slipping into his, and when he glances over her eyes are trained ever forward, staring almost defiantly at the gloom of the dark forest beyond.

Her grip is fever-warm; sweat beads on her forehead as her breath hitches unevenly—signs, Duncan had told them, of the spreading Taint. It's in Tamlen, too—like a constant buzzing at the back of his head, reminding him of how he'd tipped the hourglass, and now time is running out for both of them.

And yet, the set of her shoulders is resolute, the gleam in her eyes the same dauntless fire he’s loved for years upon years. He'd follow her anywhere, if only to keep that fire burning.

So he stands at her side, looking forward with her at last, and her touch is his only comfort now.

(Honestly? It’s the only comfort he needs.)

---

II. June, Craft-master, we honor you with every blade that strikes true and every arrow that finds its mark. May we never be without their aid.

When every day you see horror upon horror, it all starts to blur together after a while.

Tamlen keeps thinking it couldn’t possibly get worse, but somehow he’s never really surprised when it does. From Ostagar to Lothering to the Brecilian Forest, from feral darkspawn out for tainted blood, to shem who hate them for their ears as much as their blue and silver armor, to werewolves hunting Dalish of any clan, it comes to a point where Tamlen stops wondering at the strangeness of it all—choosing instead to focus his limited energy on the fight, on making every blow count, on protecting the one thing that still matters in this upside-down world.

He focuses on the things he understands—he knows that blades need to be kept sharp, that fletching needs to be renewed, that camp needs to be made in a defensible location.

Mahariel needs to keep her eyes on the horizon, on the next mission, on the big picture, so Tamlen helps by keeping his eyes peeled in the now: Lethallan, he tells her, we can camp here; or, Give me your blade, I’ll sharpen it for you; or, in the heat of battle, Mahariel, duck! as he steps in with his shield raised between her and an arrow aimed for her heart.

It helps, too, that he knows the rhythm she dances to, knows how each strike and parry and feint are timed to the beat of her heart. Alistair is a formidable warrior in his own right, and Morrigan knows magic that would astound even the Keeper, but Tamlen knows Mahariel in a way that means he is always precisely where she needs him to be—whether it's at her back in battle, fending off a hurlock, or beside her in the cold Fereldan nights, sharing body heat, just listening to each other breathe and thanking the gods they're alive.

(Whether in battle or in love, Tamlen knows her heartbeat as well as his own.)

And he knows, too, how she looks by the firelight, sleepy and warm; he knows how her vallaslin stretch and curl when she laughs, and he knows how much and how messily she can eat after a long day of travel and fighting.

He knows how the nightmares that plague her are worse than even his and Alistair’s, and he knows how she kicks in her sleep when they begin. He rolls expertly out of the way, waiting for her to settle down before he gathers her into his arms, wrapping the thin blanket around them both as she seeks out his warmth even in her sleep.

And the next day he gets up, he takes down their tent as she looks over their route for the day, he sharpens her weapons, he makes sure she has enough potions.

Mahariel keeps him sane; it’s only fair he keep her safe.

(As if he could allow himself to do anything else. As if it’s even an option.)

---

III. Fen’Harel, Dread Wolf, my foe is wily and shrewd. Lend me your tricks.

“So,” Zevran says, sidling up to Tamlen as he’s sharpening his sword—and though Tamlen has doubts about letting an assassin tag along, he's not going to bring it up with Mahariel, because the last time he'd insisted on doing things his way, they ended up chugging darkspawn blood in Ostagar.

"So?"

“I have noticed that you and the Warden share a tent," Zevran says, flashing his teeth when he smiles. "Does this mean that you two are also lovers?”

He doesn’t know how to answer that. Back with the clan, it seemed almost a certainty—to the point that everyone assumed they would end up in that direction anyway without further prompting. As such, neither of them had seen any point to rushing things, content to just be Mahariel and Tamlen, Tamlen and Mahariel—their future bright and secure and always just waiting patiently for them to arrive.

And of course, Tamlen loved her—loves her, still—but now, with the Taint thrumming through their blood and a Blight at their heels, suddenly that future doesn’t seem quite as certain as he thought.

Not that he can disclose all these things to Zevran, so instead Tamlen asks, “What’s it matter to you?” as he swipes the whetstone along the blade with vicious force.

“Oh, it is simply that I have noticed the Warden—” She has a name, Tamlen thinks venomously, but he keeps it to himself as Zevran prattles on, “—has seemed rather more tense as of late, so I figured I could offer my services, if you were not already doing so.”

A pause.

“What services?” Tamlen asks, eyes narrowed.

“As a bedmate,” Zevran replies nonchalantly, and Tamlen chokes.

“Wha—!?” Tamlen sputters. “You—how dare—why would you even—!?”

“As you must be aware, the Warden is not unattractive,” Zevran says easily, “although exhaustion is not a good look on anyone, if I’m being honest. And seeing as we need her in, pardon the pun, fighting form, I was merely suggesting that I could help alleviate some stress by warming her bed.”

(Oh, Tamlen could kill him, just for that.)

“I can warm her bed just fine!”

“Oh,” Zevran says, seemingly unfazed but for the feline grin that stretches across his face. “Well, that is excellent news. I leave her then in your capable hands.”

And then he has the gall to just walk away, as if Tamlen has not just been subjected to the most embarrassing conversation in his life.

Dread Wolf take him, Tamlen thinks. He’s not getting any sleep tonight.

(And not in the fun way.)

---

IV. Falon'Din, Friend of the Dead, we fear not death with your hand to guide us. Keep us brave.

The rest of the party meanders back to their own haunts, the excitement of the sudden attack dying down, replaced with a wary calm.

But Tamlen and Mahariel linger at the edge of camp, where they’ve piled the bodies of the shrieks for burning, watching the flames lick the tainted corpses. The acrid smoke makes their eyes water, but not so much that Tamlen fails to note the pointed ears—a marked difference from hurlocks—and the long, lean frame—the opposite of the short, stout genlocks. He’s certain Mahariel’s noticed, too.

Her whispered words confirm it—a prayer he’s heard a handful of times in what seems like a different life altogether: “Falon’Din enasal enaste.”

As if in response, the fire crackles brighter. Tamlen hopes the gods have heard them.

“If Duncan hadn’t found us,” he begins haltingly, “do you think we—?”

The light from the fire flickers in Mahariel’s eyes, making them glow in the darkness, feline and eerie.

“Best not to think about it,” she says, in that tone that Tamlen knows means she can’t think about anything else.

(Prayers for the dead have never tasted so bitter in his mouth.)

“Do you hate it?” he asks her quietly. “This life?”

She blinks.

“What brought this on?” she says, glancing over at him with a curious look.

He thinks of the way things are—bleak and danger-fraught; he thinks of the way things could have been—the both of them mindless ghouls as the Taint consumed them faster than it currently was, or dead.

“I wish we’d never found that cave," he sighs quietly. “I never should have touched that mirror.”

“What,” Mahariel says, a smirk playing at the corner of her mouth, “you’re only realizing this now?”

He looks away, shame leaking out of every pore, until he hears a quiet “Oh, Tamlen.”

And then Mahariel is there in front of him, holding his face in her hands, forcing him to meet her eyes.

“The only life I would hate,” she whispers, eyes at once fierce and tender in the dim firelight, “is one without you in it.”

He feels his expression crumble; his eyes soften as he presses his forehead to hers. “Ar lath ma,” he says. It seems like the only appropriate response.

“I know,” she says, rubbing the tip of her nose against his. “Ma vhenan.”

(For one moment, that word drowns out everything else; he can’t hear the crackling of the fire or the lonely wind in the trees or the ever-present hum of the Taint in his blood—only the echoes of that beloved word falling from her lips: vhenan.)

---

V. Mythal, All-Mother, though we bind out hearts in the secret night, our love is true and bright as day. Bless our marriage.

The night before they begin the long trek to Orzammar, Tamlen is kept awake by thoughts of uncertain futures and not enough time. He’s still awake when Mahariel crawls into their tent after her watch, and though she’s surprised when he turns and hooks an arm around her waist, she relents easily, pressing back against him for warmth.

“You should be asleep,” she chides him, and it’s such a familiar and ordinary thing to say that he snorts, though a bit ruefully. He nuzzles into her neck, matching his breathing to hers and taking comfort in the familiarity of her earthy scent.

“I was thinking,” he admits after a time, tracing patterns up the bare skin of her arm.

“Oh no,” she says, and he can hear the teasing smile in her voice. “Sounds like trouble to me.”

Tamlen pouts, nipping at her shoulder and pinching playfully at her waist, eliciting a squeal that he answers with a laugh. He maneuvers them both, evading her flailing legs until he’s crouched over her, taking in the sight of her hair spilling across the bedroll and the soft smile she’s only ever reserved for him.

It comes out in a rush, then: “Bond with me.”

She blinks. “What, now?”

He blushes, but he loves her, and he knows what he wants, and there’s not enough time. “When else?”

She laughs. “I hope you didn’t plan on doing this in the tent, at least.”

He grins, then leads her out, light-footed and light-hearted, sneaking out of camp and into the woods. They always make camp near water, and this late at night the nearby lake is quiet—a still, calm mirror shaded by gently swaying trees. Perfect.

(As is she, and thus she deserves no less.)

Tamlen leads her into the shallows, letting the waves lap softly around their legs, and there, with Mythal’s moon as witness, he binds his heart to hers with the ancient words he’s long since dreamed of saying.

(When she says them back, it’s a boyhood dream come true at last—a pinpoint of light in this otherwise living nightmare.)

He kisses her, and with each press of his lips he pledges himself to her again, and again, and again, in a handfasting lit only by the flicker of fireflies and the reflection of the moon on the water.

---

VI. Elgar’nan, All-Father, a slight has been committed against me, and I seek recompense. Grant me your strength.

He’s heard of alienages, has met flat-ears like Pol and heard his stories of its cramped structures, of how shadows cling to its edges even in daylight, of the stench and suffering that pervade its alleys.

He’s never expected this.

Elves—hollow-eyed, hollow-souled, backs bent under the weight of shame and shemlen derision. The tree at the center of the alienage droops just as much as the elves that tend to it, its leaves a sickly kind of green that Tamlen knows—down to the very marrow of his forest-raised bones—is wrong.

Everything here is wrong, and it puts him on edge, so much so that when the Tevinter healers grab hold of Mahariel, he barely reigns in the savagery they assume all Dalish possess, lunging for them with such ferocity that it takes both Zevran and Wynne to hold him back. He barely registers the smirk Mahariel throws at him just before the door to the hospice closes behind her with an ominous thud.

(His heart is well on its way to thudding out of his chest—just as in the hospice, his heart is probably sinking her blade into whatever fools dared underestimate her.)

And Tamlen is afraid—so, so afraid—but he trusts Mahariel, and so he waits, uneasiness welling in the pit of his stomach, until the door opens once more with a soft creak.

The guards turn, suspicious, but before they can draw their swords Tamlen’s already struck them down. Mahariel exits the hospice with several bruised elves in tow, blood-splattered but looking none the worse for wear. Reunions immediately erupt all around them—tearful embraces between families who thought they’d never see their loved ones again. Tamlen, too, joins in, pulling Mahariel into a crushing hug and burying his nose in her hair.

“Never do that again,” he whispers fiercely, and she laughs and throws her arms around him to squeeze tight, her heartbeat a steady rhythm against his chest to remind him she’s alive.

But for every tearful reunion, there’s a dozen elves still searching, still waiting for a relative or a friend or a lover to come home. This victory is only a spark—the beginning of a wildfire that will stir the elves into action. Tamlen and Mahariel pull apart when a trembling voice reaches their ears.

“So . . .” Shianni begins, and already Tamlen can see that the tangled ball of bitterness and hate she clings to so tightly has started to unravel. Hope is seeping in through the cracks in her skin, flickering to life in her eyes. “What do we do now?”

He and Mahariel share a look, and he knows she’s seen what he sees.

In a proud voice, Mahariel begins, stoking the fire that’s starting to burn in the heart of every alienage elf here: “We are all of us elvhen.”

“And we never submit,” Tamlen finishes, and watches the embers of hopeful rebellion surge into a blazing roar.

---

VII. Dirthamen, Secret-keeper, you know well how Fear and Deceit conspire to keep two people apart. Teach us to keep faith in each other.

“We don’t—” Mahariel gasps out between breathless kisses, “—have time.”

“Mm.”

“Tamlen.”

He pulls back to look at her—breathless and disheveled, a bright flush creeping down from her cheeks to her chest, heaving under her half-open tunic. He remembers the night he’d kissed her at the lake, binding himself to the only girl he’s ever loved, and he remembers, too, one late afternoon a lifetime ago, when he’d peeled away armor from supple skin for the very first time and knew—with every lungful of air and every beat of his heart—that she’d be the only one he’d ever wish to look upon like this.

He’s never wanted anyone else.

He’s never going to want anyone else, and yet here he is, and here she is, asking him to—

“Tamlen,” she says, interrupting his thoughts. She’s always read them on his face far too easily. “It’ll be alright.”

He sighs. “You really want me to do—that—with Morrigan?”

She laughs, but it’s a desperate, unhappy sound. “What I want is for us to have a chance at . . . something after all of this. And I don’t want anyone to have to die for that to happen.”

A chance at something. That’s all this is. No promises that it’ll work, and no promises of happy endings afterwards.

Just an uncertain chance for an uncertain something.

(But if it’s something that includes her, he’ll take any chance he can get.)

“Ar lath ma,” he says simply, pressing his forehead to hers.

She smiles. “Ma vhenan,” is all she says in reply, before drawing him down closer still into a kiss.

The world is set to burn, and they don’t have time, but when he kisses her he can almost believe that tomorrow will never come.

---

VIII. Andruil, Lady of the Hunt, our prey is in our sights, and we cannot falter. May our strike be swift and true.

His sweat tastes like ash and fear.

He wipes it from his brow as he follows ever on Mahariel’s heels—a habit neither of them have bothered to break since simpler days in sunlit forests.

(Mahariel and Tamlen, Tamlen and Mahariel, never one without the other, even now.)

Especially now, on the precipice of the end, as they sprint past charred buildings instead of mossy trees, blue and silver wrapped around them instead of Master Ilen’s craft, a human Warden and a Circle mage at their backs instead of Fenarel and Merrill.

Tamlen of a year ago would have been bitter. He’d have despised these shem and their walled cities and the way they thrust the burden of salvation onto his shoulders.

It doesn’t matter anymore.

This matters: pushing through the market and the alienage, cheers of support at their backs as they repel waves of darkspawn and chase the fiends further into the city.

This matters: Mahariel teetering on her feet, blood staining her armor, and Tamlen all but shoving a bottle against her mouth and forcing her to swallow a potion, only stopping when her hand forces his away with renewed strength.

This matters: the archdemon is strong, but they are Dalish and they are not bred to submit; dragons fall just as quick as any wild bird if you know where to strike, and they fall twice as hard if you know how to strike well.

This matters: Mahariel rushing past him as he hacks down darkspawn after darkspawn, a stranger’s sword in her hand as she leaps—

This matters: locking eyes with her just before she strikes and seeing the fear there, the uncertainty, all the questions and what-ifs that she shoves aside as her mouth forms the words, Ar lath ma—

Bright, blinding light. A sound like thunder, stone crashing upon stone, and then silence—

And in the stillness, her voice reaches him at last, ushering him into unconsciousness as he finishes her sentence in his mind:

—vhenan.

---

IX. Ghilan’nain, Halla-mother, guide these wayward souls. Bring us home.

"Lethallin!”

A blur of black and green barrels into Tamlen’s chest, just as Mahariel is yanked into another woman’s tearful embrace.

“Da’len,” Ashalle sobs, arms tightening around Mahariel. “Da’len, thank the Creators you’re safe.”

A squeeze around his waist elicits a chuckle from Tamlen, drawing his gaze down from the smile he’d been sharing with Mahariel over Ashalle’s shoulder.

“Aneth ara, lethallan,” he greets her.

Merrill grins toothily at him, and a little ways behind her stand Fenarel and Junar, a little more reserved but looking no less pleased. Tamlen only now realizes how much he’s missed this—clanmates, and familial affection, and the familiar warmth of home.

“Will you be coming back to the clan now that the Blight’s over?” Merrill asks, green eyes wide and hopeful.

He looks at Mahariel only to find her already looking back. She bites her lip—chapped from the elements, a bruise at the corner where a dimple should be.

Still beautiful, he thinks. Still kissable.

Mahariel looks away, toward the throne, then down at her boots, then back at Tamlen. There’s already been talks of hunting down the remaining darkspawn, and rebuilding the Wardens, and something or other about Amaranthine. She shakes her head.

Tamlen nods, understanding.

Blue and silver armor doesn’t feel quite so strange, now, or so heavy.

(But then, it has never been as heavy as the duty it entails.)

“No,” he tells Merrill, feeling a pang of guilt at the way her face falls. “I don’t think we will.”

“Oooh,” Merrill whines, “but—”

“But you’ll stay together,” Ashalle interrupts, “won’t you? You’ll look after each other?”

“Yes,” Mahariel answers this time, nothing but certainty in her voice as she comes to stand beside him. “Of course.”

“Always,” Tamlen adds, twining his fingers with hers. He presses a kiss to her temple to prove his point, grinning when Merrill squeals and Ashalle gives a motherly chuckle.

Mahariel only smiles sideways at him, squeezing his hand, but it says enough. Wherever this life might take them—to Amaranthine or the Deep Roads or even the farthest reaches of the Fade—as long as he can reach out and take her hand, then he knows: he’s home.