#counts as not being an outlander

[torgawl]

crack theory: what if the abyss twin isn't a descender because they're an ascender?

[leaving-fragments]

the amount of times claire has gotten herself in hot water just because she got mad and righteously proclaimed her opinions and morality :')

[ebitenpura]

This isn't the best picture, but it kinda looks like Lana designed this armor for him and unintentionally (or intentionally) made them match, lol.

[sapphiressmoke]

Outlander I

Summary: She doesn’t know how it happened but they were calling to her to come closer. Touching it was never suppose to uproot her life and transport her somewhere she never thought she could see and witness. She has to try her best to survive if she wants to get back, right?

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen X Modern!Reader.

Warnings: Nothing as of now but angst, romance, smut

Word Count: 2.6K

Next Part

2024 AC Kings Landing

So this was the magical Kings Landing? Once the vast and lively city was now a place of desolation, solitude and history. It had been like this ever since the burning in 305 A.C between two Queens. You read about how it was a horrible event, many innocent people lost their lives… Even the two Queens. Since that moment, no more Targaryens roamed Westeros. It was now a place of history and learning. Most teachers brought their students here to see what they were being taught. Some parents dragged their kids here to learn of their heritage.

You were here for the first reason.

Being in your second year of Vale University, you were studying History and Literature. What were you going to with that degree? You have no idea but at least you were enjoying yourself… For the most part. “The Red Keep took many years to complete. Three reigns to be exact. What started on Aegon’s High Hill names Aegonfort. King Aegon the First used this fort as his seat during the conquest, housing the impeccable Iron Throne. Though it was destroyed in the battle of Kings Landing, paintings portrayed this throne as huge and intimidating.” Your group followed your professor as she guided everyone at the base of what the humongous Keep used to be. You looked around, red brick scattered over the floor. You mind raced as you thought of how these bricks were over 2000 years old, millions of people have touched them and now they were scattered all over the dirt floor. “It isn’t said when but at some point after the Conquest, the King ordered the destruction of the Fort and the construction of the Red Keep began. It was said that Aegon requested the castle be built with red rock to remind people of the fire he roasted and the blood he shed of his enemies, so whenever King’s Landing looked up they’d see the price of defiance.”

Your professor continued to talk but the sound of nature around you drowned it out. The sound of buzzing getting louder in your ear, getting louder and louder. “Ugh! You don’t hear that?” You brought your finger to your ears and tried wiggling it around to see if there was anything there.

“Hear what?” Your friend, Talia, said as she leaned in.

“That stupid buzzing sound. It won’t stop.” You groaned as you continued with your ear.

Your friend gave you a weird look. “I just think you’re going crazy. There is nothing.”

The buzzing softened and turned into a soft whisper, softer than wind. “Y/N… Darling… Y/N.”

You whipped your head back, trying to find the source of the noise. “Please told me heard that!” Before Talia could respond, your professor spoke faster. “Is there something you would like to add, Miss Y/N?”

Your face went beat red from embarrassment. “No ma’am… Sorry.” You said sheepishly.

“Thank you. Now where was I? Ah yes. The start of the fall of the Targaryens, it started when…” You started to zone out and looked back behind you, trying to figure out where the whisper came from. From the bottom of the hill, you spotted a man sporting an eyepatch, long silver hair and cladded in leather. He had his arm extended out towards you, as if he was waiting for you to come and grab it, calling you to run away with him but just as fast as you spotted him, he disappeared.

You felt your arm being grabbed and a hand stroke your upper arm. You turned towards Talia, who wore a worried look. “Is everything okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

You shook your head and ran a hand through your hair. “Yea… Yes. I’m good.” You grasped her hand that was on your upper arm. “Let’s just get this tour over with. It’s giving me the heebie jeebies.”

“You got that right.” She agreed. “But I heard that the Kingswood, which is just behind the hotel, is just as creepy. Maybe even haunted!”

128 AC Kings Landing

“Mother, please tell me I do not need to go to this hunt. There are better things I can do with my time.” The One-Eyed Prince has been trying for days to stay at the Keep, not wanting to waste a morning travelling to the Kingswood just for a hunt that he did not want to participate in.

The Queen sighed at her son, pushing a silver strand away from his stoic face. “Aemond… ‘Tis for Jaehaerys and Jaehaeras name day. Your brother wants to do a grand celebration for them. Especially for Jaehaerys.”

He rolled his one eye. “We all know that it’s an excuse for him to drink away… With reason this time.” He looked up at his mother. “Will father be coming?”

“The Maesters will assess The Kings health before letting us know but I do doubt that he will be able to join with the amount of pain he has been in.” The Queen replied. It has been no secret that The Kings has been declining the past couple of years. Decaying flesh, rotting teeth and constant pain. Drunk day in and out on milk of the poppy.

“If he does not go…” He tried to think of a reason to stay but was stump. “If he does not go then I shall stay here and watch over him.” Lies.

Alice by let out a chuckle. “You are quite the convincing liar, Aemond, but the Maesters will be here to aid your father in anything.” She walked away from her son and looked at the window, looking upon the people of Kings Landing. “I know you would much rather be here, reading in the library and training outside but it will do you some good to be away for a bit. Breath the good air of Kingswood.” She turned around to face her third child. “Plus, Ser Criston Cole shall be joining us if you ever do need to scratch the intense to train.”

Aemond rubbed his face and groaned. “I guess you are right, mother. But I will not ride with Aegon in the carriage. He’s an imbecile and will most likely throw up from all of the wine he has drank.”

“Thank you.” Alicent smiled. “You may ride with with me and Ser Criston. Halaena will be with the children and nurse while Aegon rides with Ser Arryk and Erryk as it seems they are the only ones that can deal with his shenanigans.”

“As I mentioned before… Imbecile.”

The night passed swiftly and once the sun started to rise and was on the horizon line, the Royal Family begun their travels to the Kingswood. Even though Aemond was never a talkative person, worsening after the incident with his eye, he seemed even more lost in his thoughts than usual. He stared out the window, sitting across from his mother who watched him intensely. “What is on your mind, sweet son?”

Aemond continued to look outside the window but sighed. “I had this weird dream. Was just flashes of images. Nothing clear. There was this woman… She seemed lost, searching for help. It sounded like she was calling out to me but the way she dressed did not seem normal.”

The Queen stayed silent for a moment before speaking. “Are you a Dragon Dreamer now?” She joked, causing a small smile to break on the princes face. “Dreams have many meanings. Perhaps it’s just a bad dream from the stress you put on yourself. Free your mind for the next couple of days. Perhaps even participate in the hunt.”

The hunt that went on in the Kingswoods happened every couple of years, usually to celebrate a names day for a royal child. The White Hart was usually the main goal of the hunt but any animal was game. “And if I were to meet the White Hart, would that not be a sign that I should be the King over my buffoon of a brother?” It was quite well known that Aegon did not desire to be King, fought against everything Even fighting with his Grand Father and Mother saying that it was his Half Sisters birthright but all of his complaints were going to a deaf ear. Aemond wished to rule. He was fit to rule and it was simple: he rode the largest dragon in all of Westeros, he excelled in combat and studied on the history and politics of his family and of Westeros but it would not go to him unless everyone in front of him died.

This was a conversation he had with his mother too often but his question was answered with silence. That was how the rest of the carriage ride went. Silence. The dream kept replaying over and over in his mind. Who was this girl? What was she doing? Who was she to him?

Within the next couple of hours, Lords and Ladies and the Royals arrived in Kingswood. The air still cold with the mornings breath. Everything was set up for them to place clothing, tables… Everything. The children were running about, screaming playfully with each other. Jaehaerys and Jaehaera came running towards Aemond, crashing into his legs. “Hi Uncle Aemond!” They squealed.

He looked down at his niece and nephew, rubbing the back of their heads before pushing them back on their way. “Hello you two.”

“Time travels back and is protected by the White King.” Helaena whispered into the cold air of the morning, staring at Aemond from across the way.

Aemond looked up to make eye contact with Halaena, seeing her lips move but not making out what she had said. He cocked his head to the side, deciding to walk towards his sister to see what she had said. She didn’t seem to realize that Aemond was by her side before he squeezed her hand. “What was that, good sister?” Helaena looked up at him and gave him a small smile. “Only Time can tell you… Only Time.”

The rest of day went on eventfully. The men prepared for the hunt while the women gossiped as they ate cake. Of course Alicent chose not to participate in the gossip. She could not bother to hear anymore about Rhaenyra, her bastard sons and how great they are. She decided to watch her grand-children run about. Aegon was nowhere to be found, most likely already drunk in his tent, Helaena chose to rest in her tent as the carriage ride took a lot out of her and Aemond sat with Criston Cole as they sharpened their swords, getting ready for the hunt. She stared around her and for a slight moment, she would think her life was perfect. She had her children and her grand-children around her but then she remembers that she is practically ruling the Seven Kingdoms, her husband was dying and she was alone in the world.

2024 AC Kingswood

You slipped on your black slip dress, continuing to argue with your friend in the hotel room. “You don’t get it, Talia! There is something calling to me out there. I’m not insane. I’m not crazy. It’s been going on ever since we entered Kings Landing.” The buzzing was constant, the whispering was constant and the flashes of that man were at every corner.

Talia sat on the bed, her eyes following you as you continued to pace around the room. “I’m not saying you’re crazy but you sound crazy, Y/N. A silver haired man with only one eye? Listen to yourself!”

You groaned and you pulled yourself into a ball. “I know what I sound like!” You stood back up and waved your arms around. “But this… This place is weird. There has been so many deaths and apparently fucking magic. There is something going on.” You grabbed your black shawl from your luggage and pulled in over your shoulders. “And I am going to figure it out.” You pointed to the woods. “I’m going to go in those stupid woods and try to find something. I don’t what I will try to find but I will know what it is when I see it.”

Your friend gave you a shocked look, standing up quickly and grabbed your arm. “Okay now I’m saying that you are crazy! There’s boars… Bears in those woods! You could die! What would your mom do if you die?”

You ripped your arm from her grasp. “Well she always knew I would die in a stupid way. Tell her I love her. And before you ask, no you can’t come. You’ll be the person to let the teacher know that I’m gone. If I’m not back before the next tour tomorrow morning, you can go all out and tell everyone I’m missing. Okay?”

You saw the perplexed look she wore in her face before answering. “Fine. Fine! If you die… Ugh!”

You put on your pair of shoes, grabbed your flashlight and placed it your bag before heading out. You stood in front of the forest and sighed, were you really this stupid? Yes, yes you were. You took one last look at the hotel before you made your way into the dark, insect infected forest… Gods you were dumb.

It had already been a few hours at this point, you were tired, you were hungry and you still had no idea what you were looking for. You kept hearing animal noises surrounding you and you were terrified. What if a wild boar chased you or a bear mauled you to death? What if you died of dehydration. How many days does it take to die or dehydration or hunger?

Suddenly the aura around you shifted and the whispering begun again. ‘You’re so close, Y/N. Continue.’ It was a man’s voice. It was so clear. ‘Continue straight, My Love, we’ll be together soon.’ The buzzing began and it only got louder as you continued walking straight. The further you walked, the higher the grass got. It was tickling your calves. It was as if a flash of light opened your eyes when all of the sudden a bunch of tall stones stood tall in front of you, being illuminated by the direct moonlight. The aura surrounding it was calling to you to come closer. “This is what I’ve been looking for.” You beamed with excitement.

The buzzing only got louder as you approached the Stones. The high grass tickled your calves, leaving tiny water droplets on your skin. The buzzing sounded as if it was whispering your name, soft as wind. “Y/N… Y/N…”. It only drew you closer.

The Stones had this silver and golden aura surrounding it. Were you the only one that could sense it? Were you the only one that could hear it? See it? Your thoughts were racing as you stood in front of the tall Stone. You raised your right hand to touch it, as if that was what it was telling you to do. The only thing you could do. For a moment you hesitated, wondering what you were doing, why were you here but it just kept calling out. “Y/N… Y/N…”

You let out a long breath and pressed your palm flat against the rough texture. Within the moment, all sound seized to exist around her, life was dark and as soon as it disappeared, everything reappeared.

128 AC Kingswood

You blinked your eyes fast, letting out a shaky breath. You stumbled backwards and the world wasn’t as you just saw. There were more trees surrounding you. The woods seemed to be more lively than before. “Oh Gods, what did I do.”

From back at the camp, Helaena felt the shift in the air. “Welcome home, Time.” Helaena smiled.

———————————————

SOOO what do we think? It’s only getting started and I’m so excited to see where this goes.

[zepskies]

Outlander - Part 3

Pairing: Dean Winchester x OFC 

Summary: Dean Winchester has been stripped of his military rank, but he’s living happier with his new wife, trying to adjust to a new life in her tribe. What will it take for her people to accept him, especially when the battle for her heart might not be completely won? 

AN: Back into the saddle, so to speak. 😏 Plus, we have a very special guest joining the cast...

Disclaimer: I first got inspired to write The Honorable Choice for @jacklesversebingo after a recent rewatch of Spirit: The Stallion of the Cimarron (with a tinge of Yellowstone in the mix). I’ve done a fair bit of research for this now ongoing series, both on the Native American Lakota tribe, and on American history during this time in the late 1800s; AKA: the Old West, during the American Indian Wars.

Jacklesverse Bingo24 Prompt: Western AU

Song Inspo: The Spirit Soundtrack

Word Count: 8.1K

Tags/Warnings: 18+ only! Smut, fluff, angst, hurt/comfort, blood and character death.

🐎 Series Masterlist || Bingo Masterlist

Part 3: A Warrior’s Death

Mila has never enjoyed being an early riser, but sometimes, it has its benefits. In the rare times that she wakes up before Dean, she’s taken to counting the small nicks and scares that mark his body, from his chest and arms and back, down to his calloused hands. They mark him as a warrior.

Today, she slips her fingers through his brown hair. It’s grown a little more, and it’s easy to spike wildly in all directions. His breathing shifts from the deeper, slower ones of sleep to shallower ones.

“What’re you doing?” he grumbles, despite the way his lips twitch at a smile. His eyes are still closed. 

“It’s morning, and I’m lonely,” Mila teases. She leans in to kiss his chin, then slowly and sensuously across his prickly jawline.

“Can’t you entertain yourself until the sun comes up all the way?” he says, in a voice laden with grit and sleep.

“That is what I’m doing,” is her cheeky reply.

Dean releases a deep breath that’s more like a sigh. Mila continues, smoothing her hand across his shoulder and squeezing warmly as she makes her way down his neck with kisses. She takes to nibbling his skin, then soothing it with her tongue. He makes a throaty sound of pleasure, gripping her hip.

“Wake up, my love,” she whispers.

Dean feels the shape of her smile against his skin. His lips tug upwards too, before he chuckles and finally succumbs to her wily ways. He twists onto his back and takes her with him, guiding her leg to slip over his lap. She squeals in surprise to be moved, but it ends with her smiling down at him as she straddles his hips. His hands travel under her the thin fabric of her shift and squeeze the supple flesh of her thighs.

Her fingertips drag down his chest, teasing his nipples along the way. She begins to tease him in other ways too, subtly rolling her hips, rocking against his hardening length. She wears a heated, playful look he knows all too well. He smirks up at her lazily.

“You’ve been more demanding than usual,” he remarks. His hold on her hips tightens, encouraging her to grind down harder onto him. He groans in pleasure at the feeling of her bare, wet folds against his clothed erection. Still, he can’t help but tease her too. “You already got what you wanted. I got you good and pregnant.”

His knees slide up to press against her ass, angling her more firmly against his cock. She hums in pleasure at the feeling of him, nice and hard and ready to fill her. It doesn’t matter that he’s right.

She’s pregnant, and has been for over a month now, according to Eyota. Even so, Mila still craves her husband. She wants to take advantage of a good morning, one where she doesn’t feel sick to her stomach.

“Yes,” she agrees, “but you think that means your duty is done?”

She takes his hands from her thighs and moves them up her body underneath her shift, until he can palm her breasts. He obliges her, rolling the sensitive buds under his thumbs.

Dean chuckles deeply. “Haven’t you had enough?” 

“I will say when I’ve had enough,” she quips back. 

He smiles, more genuinely this time. “Yes, ma’am.”

He takes back control of his hands. One holds her steady by her waist, while the other drags back down her body, brushing over the thatch of hair covering her mound. His fingers slip between her wet folds, and they find what they’re looking for.

She utters a keening moan when the pads of his fingers probe gently at her entrance, pushing inside for a few pulsing beats. He gathers some wetness there and begins to circle the sensitive bundle of nerves above her entrance. She grinds her hips down as she tries to press into his hand. A shudder of pleasure tingles down her spine and throbs deliciously in her core.  

She grips his arms tight. “Please,” she says, “I’m ready for you.”

“Already?” he smirks. “I’ve barely touched you.”

Instead of answering him, she drags down his pants herself and reaches for his heavy cock. He moans at her touch, demanding, but still careful as she pumps him to full readiness. Then she notches him at her entrance. Dean grabs her hips and slowly guides her over him in one smooth plunge.

Their breathing becomes more labored as they take beat, just to revel in the connection.

During the day, they both lead busy lives. They each do their part for the tribe to make sure there’s food to eat, clothes to wear, and that the tribe stays protected—but the time they spend together here doesn’t need to be rushed. This is their time.

Mila hesitates to move though, her hands flexing on his shoulders. Her thighs squeeze his hips experimentally.

“How should I move?” she asks in a whisper. “I’ve never…ridden you.”

Dean grins. He rubs her thighs encouragingly. “Trust your instincts, baby. Try just rocking on me.”

He helps her by guiding her hips in a smooth, rolling rhythm, in and out. Mila moans as the shallow friction builds a slow momentum inside her.

“See,” he pants, “you’re a natural.”

She smiles, her face warming in a blush. As she craves more, she becomes bolder, letting his cock drag out of her almost to its tip, before she pushes all the way back in. Dean utters a faltering moan, and tries not to let his eyes close in pleasure. He wants to keep watching the way she gets herself off on his cock, the way her full breasts bounce with her movements.

Dean’s hands slide up her back to feel the gentle slope. He leans up to kiss and suck at her tightened nipples, his teeth catching on them. She gasps and arches against him. Her nails scramble for purchase between his shoulder blades.

Dean chuckles into her skin. “So sensitive. Being so fucking good for me, huh baby?”

Mila nods, half out of her mind. He blazes an upward path, kissing and sucking between her breasts, along the line of her collarbone, and then at her neck. He stops there to suck hard at her pulse point, burying his fingers tightly in her hair.

She moans and clings to him as she rocks a harder rhythm on top of him. She chases her release, and tries to help him reach his. But when his fingers slip in between them to massage her clit again, she shudders deeply and gasps. “Dean.” Her inner walls clench tightly on his cock and begin to flutter and pulse around him.

He drives his hips up into her with a few wild, harsher thrusts with his own release. He grunts sharply into her neck as he spills deep inside her.

Mila holds him tightly to her while her heart races. She pants for breath, huffing because her hair has fallen into her eyes. Dean brushes the strands behind her ear as he too catches his breath. He lays back down and takes her with him, gratefully stroking her back.

“Well, good morning,” he says. His voice is like hot gravel. “Fuckin’ hell…”

She giggles breathlessly against his chest. By now she’s learned many of the English curse words. They often sound both harsh and funny to her. Though she knows that right now, it’s a compliment.

They lay together for a while, even after she untangles herself from him and grabs a washcloth to clean them both. She finds herself led back into Dean’s embrace under the warm furs. His large hand spans her lower belly, resting there.

“You want a boy or a girl?” he asks. His deep voice is still a bit coarse with sleep.

Mila considers his question while pillowing her cheek against her folded arms.

“I want to give you a son,” she says.

Dean’s lips twitch into a smile. He hums thoughtfully while he slips his fingers through her hair.

“I guess that means I’ll have to teach him things. Things about the world,” he says. She turns in his arms to face him.

“What would you teach him?” she asks, with a smile of her own. She asks the question not only because she genuinely wants to know, but because she likes the soft glow of optimism and possibilities reflected in Dean’s eyes. In some ways, he’s already different from the hardened soldier she first met. Or maybe she’s just continuing to learn more and more of who he really is—layer by layer.

“Well, how to learn from his mistakes, for one thing,” he says. “How to protect himself, and his family. How to survive, but also how to live.” He thinks about it a bit harder for a second.

“Come to think of it, I’d teach my daughter all that too,” he says. “So I guess I’ve got no preference.”

And we can always try again, he thinks.

“He will be strong, like his father,” Mila says. 

“Or like his mother,” Dean playfully replies. She smiles back, and she leans forward to kiss his lips. She cups his cheek with a gentle, loving hand. Dean squeezes her waist and pulls her tighter against him.

“Are you two going to sleep all day, or are you going to join the rest of the world and start working?” Šóta interrupts, loudly from outside their tipi. “The horses need to be fed, Horsemaster.” 

Dean and Mila break apart from the kiss, and they share a look, hers more annoyed than his. Her cousin has taken what she said to him before about being a leader to heart, if in some unexpected (and annoying) ways. 

She sighs, but unfortunately, Šóta has a point. It prompts them to get up and start getting dressed. 

“What do you got planned today?” Dean asks, while he tries to find a clean shirt. 

“I have some mending to do and laundry to take down. Then I will help my aunts skin the hides and prepare the vegetables for lunch and supper,” she says.  

He pauses, leveling her with a warning look. “Hey, remember to take it easy, all right. Don’t strain yourself.”

She just smiles and touches his cheek. This man is a protector in all senses, and it seems, also a worrier.

Dean takes pride in corralling the horses and making sure they’re fed, brushed, and given water. Just like he suspected would happen, Mato and Baby have been getting along a little too well. She’s now pregnant too.

Ironically enough, it means she’ll give birth to her foal around the time Eyota believes Mila will deliver their child, maybe a month or two after.

Ain’t that just life, he thinks.

There’s another colt that Dean has spent the past week breaking in. He’s wily and precocious, giving Dean a challenge, but that’s what he likes about the guy. 

“You’ve got spirit, kid, I’ll give you that,” Dean says. 

He has a rawhide lead tied around the horse’s neck while he runs around the corral. He’s waiting until the horse tires himself out, so Dean can really begin training him, getting him used to a bridle, teaching him verbal cues, and all the rest. 

Back at Fort Laramie, there were those like Colonel Sanderson, who believed that breaking a horse meant you had to break his independence, his spirit. Dean’s father had always taught him that a bond between him and an animal, a bond based on trust, will serve him better with a loyal horse rather than just an obedient one. He’s glad that the Lakota here share his views on horse rearing. 

At about mid-morning, Chatan comes over to inspect Dean’s progress. His ankle has healed, mostly, but he’s allowed Dean to take over the harder work when it comes to breaking the horses. Chatan is still teaching him their ways in training them, making bridles and simple saddles, and all the other ways they care for their horses here. He inspects Dean’s work with the colt and nods. 

“You’re doing well,” he says. 

That’s a big improvement from all the times he’s given Dean some form of correction or instruction. Dean is about to reply, when Šóta and Takoda come over the hill on horseback. Šóta calls for both Chatan and Dean—especially Dean. 

“You should see this,” Šóta says. 

“Are the other men coming?” Dean says, keeping his voice low as Baby plods along beside Šóta.

“No,” Šóta replies. “We must keep the group small.” 

Dean namely meant Otaktay, who still tries his best to ignore him.

Takoda has warmed up to him more though. He doesn’t call him Outlander anymore, let alone wašíču. He’s also the tribe’s best fisherman, and when they eat lunch together, he’s started to save Dean the second-biggest fish after Šóta.

Takoda even showed him how to fletch his own arrows. And when Dean broke his whet stone while sharpening his knife, Takoda gave him his own whet stone.

“I make new one,” he said, in broken English, even with a smile. “This one old anyway.”

At first, Dean used to wonder why some people in the tribe seemed to have better English, like Mila, Tahatan, and Šóta, but others didn’t. After he thought about it more, he supposed he wouldn’t want to learn his enemy’s language. He asked Šóta about it once.

“It’s the opposite for me,” Šóta told him. “I want to know what my enemy says behind my back. Then, I will be ready when he strikes.”

He now leads them away from the forest and across the grasslands. In an hour, they reach a desert valley, where Dean already hears the construction. A new stretch of railroad is being laid out, courtesy of the U.S. government. Dean even spots Benny, Jack, and Colonel Sanderson himself supervising the construction. 

Shit, Dean thinks.

They stealthily crept back into the forest and returned to the village. They bring the news of what they saw to Chief Tahatan in his tipi. His wives are there, along with Chatan, Weaya, Mila, Eyota and her husband Hanska. The last two are the medicine man and woman of this tribe, but Hanska is also their wiseman. He advises the Chief.

“We should move the village again, farther north along the river,” Hanska suggests. 

“And what? They will keep pushing us back until there is nothing left—until we fall of the edge of the earth!” Šóta shouts. He’s getting more and more angry as the conversation becomes a deliberation on what to do next. 

“It’s the Northern Pacific Railroad,” Dean says. He doesn’t know if it’s place to speak, but he feels that he has to. “They mean to keep building until they reach the coast in the Northwest.” 

“See? They will rape more and more of the land to do it,” Šóta says. “Our land. We cannot let this stand.”

Dean gives him a wary look. “This is bigger than the tribe. If you try to hit them, they’re just gonna hit back harder. And they’re going to bring the full weight of the U.S. Army on top of you.”

“So what do you suggest we do, Dean Winchester?” Tahatan says. “Sit and do nothing while they continue to carve into our home, where we have lived and died for generations?”

“I think…you should look at the faces around you,” Dean says. “Ask yourself how many of them you’re willing to lose.”

That evening in the privacy of their tent, Dean tries his best to soothe Mila’s worry, but his own trepidation and sense of urgency wins out as he paces back and forth. 

“Just moving up the river won’t be enough,” he says. “We could go southwest into Montana, towards the Yellowstone River.”

Mila shakes her head warily. She sits by the fire and watches him cross the room again. He makes her anxious, and so she grabs onto his hand and leads him to sit beside her.

“The Crow people live along Yellowstone,” she says. “The Lakota have fought them for generations.” 

“About what?”

“Land,” she admits. “Our tribes are proud and do not like to share hunting territory. The Crow are bitter enemies. They will not accept us there.”

That is putting it mildly. She shudders to think what the Crow would do to them if they crossed paths in their own land. 

Dean nods. “Okay, well, what about if we go further north?”

She ponders the idea. Even though she doesn’t like the idea of leaving the river, where her people have settled for decades, she believes what he says is true. Her people wouldn’t win in a head-on fight against the U.S. Army.  

“East of Big Cheyenne, there is a bigger territory of land. Other Sioux tribes live there,” she says. “The path is long from here to there, but it could be the answer.”

“Okay, that’s good,” Dean nods. “…I just don’t know how Tahatan and the rest of ‘em are gonna take the idea coming from me. To them, I probably sound like a coward.”

Mila shakes her head and grasps his arm. “You are no coward, Dean. I will help you talk to my father. When he understands, then we will speak to my uncle.”

“And Šóta?” Dean says wryly. 

“Šóta is young and wants to prove himself to my uncle. He is brave and strong, but doesn’t consider what we could lose,” Mila says, holding a hand over the small swell of her stomach. Dean covers her hand with his. 

“Whatever comes next, I’m not letting anything happen to you. You understand?” he says.

Her face, and the tension in her shoulders, relax. She doesn’t quite manage to smile, but she rests her head against his shoulder. 

“Yes,” she nods. 

Days become a week, and the men of the tribe begin to notice Cavalry patrols edging closer to the village. Too close. 

Dean tries to convince Šóta to let them pass by in ignorance. Attacking them would not only heighten the risk of the military discovering Dean’s alive, but it would just put the entire tribe in more unnecessary danger. 

It’s getting harder and harder each day to persuade Šóta to stay his hand, so it becomes even more important to convince the Chief to mobilize the tribe.

While Dean and Mila manage to get Chatan to see the wisdom in the idea of moving the village north of the railroad, Tahatan isn’t so easily convinced that they should leave the river where their tribe has tilled the land, fed their families, built their traditions and their way of life. It’s understandable, but it leaves Dean with a worry in his gut that only grows with every new day.

Mornings are no longer peaceful for him, and while he knows Mila’s beginning to notice, it’s something he can’t help.

They dress for the day in silence after breakfast. He straps his gun to his right thigh and his knife on the other—a new precaution he’s started taking. 

“Don’t go past the corral by yourself,” he warns Mila, when he sees her piling up a bundle of clothes for washing. She glances up at him with raised brows. 

“I’m only going to the river,” she says.

“Take someone with you,” Dean says, shaking his head. “Like your mom, or a couple of your aunts. Hell, take Šóta with you. Or at least Takoda.”

She gives him a look that says she’s trying to be patient. “I will see if others have washing to do.”

Dean stops her with a hand on her arm. 

“Or you could wait ‘til I get back,” he says. “I don’t mind going with you.”

“Dean,” she replies, her brows furrowing. “I may be with child, but I don’t need a caretaker. I’ll be fine.”

Again he stops her from moving past him. “Hey. Just listen to me, damn it!”

She gives him a sharp, surprised look. He stops himself short and realizes he’s losing his temper. He takes a breath, his face tight with frustration. 

Mila frowns at him, trying to keep her own temper from rising to the surface. She knows he only wants to protect her, but nothing has even happened. Cavalry patrols haven’t gotten more than a couple of miles close to the village as the railroad construction continues. She’s begun to wonder if it’s necessary to move north after all. 

Dean sighs, raising his hands in apology. He gently grasps her arms and looks down at her, meeting her gaze. 

“Sorry,” he says. “Just…humor me, okay?”

Her brows furrow. “Humor? You want me to laugh at you?”

At that, he actually breaks into a chuckle. It eases some of his tension, but doesn’t completely expel his worry.

“What I mean is, I know how I’m being right now. I just want you to be safe,” he says, staring into her eyes. “Actually, I need it.”

Mila softens with a sigh. She reaches up and caresses his cheek, and she nods in agreement. She reaches up for his kiss, and he holds her tighter, more securely. 

Okay, he thinks. 

Dean leaves her to see to his responsibilities, caring for the horses, while Mila goes her own way to resume her daily chores. But when she asks her mother, Misae, and even Eyota if they want to go with her to the river, they say they’re too busy with other tasks to wash clothes. Her mother does give her an extra bundle to do for her though. 

So even though it makes her uneasy to go against Dean’s wishes, she carries the bundles by herself to the river. Honestly, she prefers to do this alone sometimes, so she can be alone with her thoughts. Dean’s being overcautious. 

Sure, it takes extra effort for her to get down on her knees at the riverbank, considering her protesting back, but she manages to do it. Because in her tribe, one does what they need to in order to live and eat.

She settles into her work after a few minutes, and bit by bit, she feels settled enough to relax. She even hums a little tune to herself. It’s part of a lullaby her mother used to sing to her when she was little, and now Mila sings it for her child, even before she gets to meet him…

Or her, she thinks, smiling to herself.

Her smile drops with a sharp inhale of breath. 

She hears hoof falls on the earth. A horse treads nearby. 

Slowly, she lowers the wet clothing back into the basin. She sees two reflections growing on the water: a horse and a man. The man gets down from his horse first. 

“Hey there, miss—”

Mila swiftly turns and unsheathes the knife she keeps strapped to her ankle. 

Dean finally takes the colt out for his first ride out in the open. He’s a little twitchy, but he responds well to Dean’s commands, enough that he chances leading the horse farther out of the village. 

Maybe he’ll join Šóta and the rest of the men. They’re likely planting in the fields today, some of the women too, if they’re done at the river. Dean thinks of Mila then, and he hopes she’s finished her work there. He wonders if she got her mother to go with her, or maybe a couple of her friends. They’re new mothers, just a few years older than her. 

I’ll just check on them, make sure everything’s on the up and up, Dean thinks. He guides the horse towards the river. He’s relaxed and focused on how the colt is behaving, until he hears a man’s voice on the wind. Dean looks up sharply and sees his wife there alone, crouched down on the riverbank. 

A man stands just a few feet away and towers over her. 

Dean’s gun is in his hand before he realizes it. With a small but purposeful kick, he urges the colt to a full gallop. 

The man seems to be approaching her, taking meaningful steps forward. Mila says something sharply to him as she brandishes her knife and prepares to use it. He stops short.

“Hey!” Dean shouts.

He aims for the dead center of the man’s chest. His hair is long enough to brush his shoulders and obscure his face, but the closer Dean gets, a certain twinge runs up his spine and triggers his senses.

When the man looks up and raises his hands in shocked surrender, it’s like a physical blow to Dean’s chest. The man staring back at him is broad-shouldered, slightly taller than him in his dark brown duster coat, Stetson hat, and boots. He’s scruffier than usual, but unmistakable; he too stares at Dean like he can’t believe his own eyes.

“Dean,” he says, a hint breathless. His gaze drifts from Dean’s face to his pointed gun. He chuckles. “You gonna shoot me?”

Slowly, Dean lowers his weapon. He quickly moves to Mila first and slips an arm around her waist to help her stand with him. He makes sure she’s all right by the silent conversation that passes between them, through their eyes.  

Then, he looks over at his brother and smiles, shaking his head in disbelief.

“Hey, Sam,” he says. His gaze roams over the younger man’s face, sporting what he’d call half a beard. “What the hell’s that ferret on your face?” 

Sam laughs. It ends with a too-bright smile that’s a little teary. Dean’s throat begins to close up on him a bit as well, but feeling Mila stir at his side, grasping his arm with a questioning look on her face, he gives her a reassuring look. 

“Sweetheart, this is my brother. Sam,” he says. 

Her eyes widen, but as she looks between the men, her face dawns with understanding. She smiles and releases him, only to guide him towards his brother with a gentle push. 

Dean needs no further encouragement. His grin widens as he goes to meet Sam, who’s already coming straight for him. They meet in a warm, solid embrace, even if they’re both still on shaky ground on the inside. Sam’s grip is just as strong and desperate as Dean’s is reassuring, cupping the back of his neck. 

“They told me you were dead, you bastard,” Sam says. His laughing words have a suspect shake in them.

“Yeah, my fault,” Dean says. He chuckles too, as if that can make this easier. “Why’d you come all the way out here?”

Sam pulls back after a moment. “Because I didn’t believe them.” 

Dean’s smile falls. How the hell is he going to explain this? To Sam, to the Chief and the rest of the tribe…

He notices Sam looking past him, and finally Dean remembers himself. He keeps a hand on Sam’s shoulder and beckons Mila over to them. She’s hesitant, but she trusts him. She goes to him and leans into his side while he wraps his arm around her waist. 

“Sammy, this is Mila…my wife,” he says. 

Sam brows raise high, his mouth nearly falling open. Dean recognizes the question in his eyes.

You married…an Indian?

Dean just raises his brows.

To his credit, Sam gets ahold of himself and internalizes most of his reaction.

“Ah, right. Nice to meet you…ma’am,” he says, chuckling awkwardly as he extends the offer of his hand. She just looks at his hand curiously.

Sam clears his throat and takes his hand back.

“So, when did—uh, how…”

Dean smiles slightly. He can’t remember the last time he saw his brother this tongue tied; maybe since the time Jessica Moore kissed his cheek when he was nine after he gave her his last juice box.

“Come on,” Dean says, tightening a hand on his shoulder. “I’ve got a lot to tell you before we get back.”

“Get back? Where are we going?” Sam asks. 

Dean doesn’t answer him just yet, but he wishes he had brought Mato. He doesn’t trust putting Mila up on the colt, who’s still being broken in, but he doesn’t think she’d feel comfortable riding with Sam. So they walk back together to the village while leading their horses. Dean tells Sam the story of how he and Mila met—the good, the bad, and skimming over most of the ugly. Though he does admit to killing Dick Roman. And Dean admits that he made a choice to help her based on gut instinct alone.

“I knew what I was supposed to do, but…” Dean trails, glancing over at Mila. She’s been holding onto his arm as they make their way up a grassy hill, and now, their eyes meet. “I guess I’m just not the man they wanted me to be.”

She smiles a little at that, squeezing his hand. 

Sam watches them together. He’s unable to stop the wonder from crossing his face, along with his smile. But his smile fades.

“You let us believe you were dead, Dean,” he says. Anger creeps into his voice, earning Dean’s sigh.

“It’s not like I could mail you a letter, Sam. It was…easier this way.”

“Easier?” Sam scoffs. “You think it was easy for me? Easy for Mom?”

Dean looks away. This chips open every part of his grief.

“We had a funeral for you,” Sam says. “Not that we had anything to bury.”

“Okay, I get it,” Dean says, rubbing at his eyes. “Maybe easier was the wrong word…safer is. For you, for me, for my wife, and for her people.” 

Sam glances at Mila, who stares back at him with reservation in her eyes. She understands his anger, but she’s grateful to Dean. She knew what he’d done to protect her all this time. However, faced with part of the family he let go for her sake, she now feels guilty. So she doesn’t speak as she walks beside Dean.

Sam also stays quiet for a while. The gentle plodding of the horses and their boots on the grassy earth are the only sounds for a while, along with the wind in the distant trees of the forest. 

“So, her tribe just…accepted you?” Sam asks. 

Dean chuckles, shaking his head. “Well, it hasn’t been that easy.”

“He has worked hard to earn the Chief’s respect, and the respect of everyone in our tribe,” Mila says. It’s the first thing she’s contributed to the conversation, but she feels that this is something that must be said. 

Once again, she and Dean share a meaningful glance. He’s going to need all of that respect and goodwill if he’s going to bring Sam to meet the Chief.

Dean is actually glad Šóta is gone on a hunt with most of the other men. Tahatan, Chatan, and Hanska are enough of an audience when he brings Sam to the Chief’s tipi. He and Mila explain why his younger brother came to find him, and Sam fills in the rest of the blanks from his point of view.

Apparently, he and their mother, Mary, received a letter from the U.S. Cavalry that Dean had been killed in the line of duty, but when Sam reached out to military personnel through his law connections, no one could tell him specifically how Dean had died. 

So Sam took a train out of Lawrence, Kansas and headed to Wyoming. He travelled the rest of the way on horseback to Fort Laramie. There he requested to speak to Colonel Sanderson, but the only one who would talk to him was Captain Benny Lafitte. 

“Captain now, huh?” Dean remarks. He smiles to himself. “Good for him.”

“He’s the one who told me that you had fallen into the canyon…in pursuit,” Sam says, tactfully when he glances at Mila. “But I looked all over that canyon. I never found your body, or your horse. So I just kept looking.”

Dean sighs. He can’t fault Sam for not leaving it alone, because he knew if he’d been in Sam’s shoes, he would’ve been searching all over the state for his little brother too, even if it was just a body to bring back to his mother. 

“What if they followed him here?” Chatan speaks up. It reminds Dean that it’s not just him and his brother here. In fact, his father-in-law and the Chief are wearing similar grim looks while they seize up the younger Winchester. To see if he’s a threat to their tribe.  

Dean meets his brother with a firmer look. “What did you tell them, Sam?”  

“What do you mean?” Sam asks. “They lied to me.” 

“Yeah, but what did you say to Benny? To Sanderson. To anyone. Did you tell them you didn’t believe I was dead?” Dean asks. 

“No, I didn’t even talk to Sanderson. He couldn’t be bothered with me,” Sam says. “All I told Captain Lafitte was that I was going to find your body.”

Dean breathes out in relief, but the feeling is short lived. Šóta and Otaktay bring in a wounded Takoda into the tent. He’s bleeding and groaning in pain, clutching at his chest with a hand covered in scarlet. Blood drips to the ground where they lay him before Hanska. Tahatan calls for Eyota, the healer. Mila and Dean go to help Takoda. 

“What happened?” Tahatan demands to know. 

Šóta can’t look his father in the eye at first. He opens his mouth to reply, but Takoda groans in agony. Mila pillows his head in her lap and brushes her half-cousin’s hair from his face. She feels someone’s gaze on her, and she finds that it’s Otaktay. He hasn’t spoken to her since his fight with Dean several weeks ago, and she’s certainly not gone out of her way to speak to him. But there’s no time for awkwardness right now. Takoda writhes in pain while Hanska examines his wound. 

Dean recognizes what it is right away. Takoda has been shot twice—once in the shoulder, and once all too close to his heart. Dean looks up at Šóta with furrowed brows.

“These are bullets, not arrows. Where did it happen?” he asks.   

“I warned you not to engage the White Men!” Tahatan reproaches angrily. “Now look at what has happened!” 

Šóta looks like he wants to bow his head, but he holds stubbornly to his convictions. 

“They’re starting to build closer to the village. We were just watching them at first, but we were spotted,” he says.

“You got too close!” Chatan growls. 

Eyota arrives with more supplies to help stem the bleeding. Dean is no doctor, but he knows a gunshot wound better than the others do, even Eyota and Hanska. The problem is, they don’t have the tools to get at the second bullet in his chest, and he’s bleeding out fast. 

“I gotta dig it out,” Dean tells Šóta in English. He translates to the others. Dean looks down at Takoda and tries to reassure him. “This is gonna hurt like hell, brother. Just hold on.”

Takoda nods. He literally holds onto Dean’s shoulder and pleads without speaking. Help me.

His jaw clenching tight, Dean tries his best to find the bullet with the thinnest utensil Eyota has for him. Takoda attempts to keep still. His writhing is too much though. Even Sam comes to help hold him down. He’s a lawyer, not a doctor, but he knows what Dean is doing is the man’s only chance. 

It just takes too long. Dean eventually does find the fat piece of the bullet and pulls it out, but the fight has drained from Takoda along with his life blood. His sweaty chest stills in its movements. His grip on Dean’s shoulder and Šóta’s knee become lax, and then limp. 

His dark eyes stare up at the ceiling of the tipi, now unseeing as the light drains out of them. 

Takoda. His name meant Friend to Everyone. And so he was.

After Hanska and Eyota clean his body, they dress him in his best clothes and wrap him in robes. Then they bring his body to the highest point near the village, at the top of the grassy hill. Under the night stars, it’s the closest they can bring him to the heavens, where the Lakota believe his soul will ascend to the spirit world. They won’t bury him in the ground, but instead will give him an “air burial” for a warrior’s death. 

When a member of the tribe dies, usually the night is spent telling stories, laughing at old jokes, and food passed around. But this isn’t a night for joke-telling. The whole tribe is gathered in mourning at the foot of the hill. 

Tahatan sings a somber song for his second son, and his voice rises high over his second wife’s wails. She kneels beside her son and cuts her long hair jagged with a knife while she weeps. Mila grieves more quietly, but she tells Sam and Dean that hair cutting is part of the custom, and even cutting at their own bodies if their grief is that great.    

Eventually, the tribe disperses for the night. Tahatan leads his wife away, but Šóta and Otaktay stay with his body. They will sit in a vigil with him all night.

Meanwhile, Mila and Dean take Sam to their tent. She finds bedding and furs for Sam to sleep on, and Dean helps her lay it all out. 

“Thank you,” Sam says to her sincerely.

She offers him a small smile, then she prepares to sleep herself. Dean stops her by taking her hand. He leads her into a comforting embrace. She lets out a shaky breath as her fingers curl into his clothing.

“I’m sorry…I couldn’t save him,” Dean confesses quietly. 

Mila shakes her head. “It was not your fault.”

In her mind, she can’t help but put that blame on Šóta. It hurts to have that anger in her heart, but it’s there, no matter how hard she tries to let go of it. She clings harder to Dean, pressing her face into his chest while her body shakes with silent sobs. He caresses her hair, kisses the top of her head, and then her cheek. 

After a little while, she pulls away from him and rests a grateful hand over his heart, before she goes to bed. Dean helps her settle down on the ground and pulls the fur blanket over her form. He squeezes her shoulder one more time before he joins Sam on the other side of the room.

All the while, his younger brother has been watching him, admiring the way he’s always been a protector, but also a man who takes care of the people around him. Sam remembers it well, when they were kids. 

Dean gives him some bison jerky to snack on, and for a few minutes they eat in silence while a small fire burns in the coals piled in front of them.

“You’re all in danger here, Dean,” Sam says, breaking the silence. “It’s only a matter of time before the Army finds this place.”

Dean nods slowly. “I’ve been trying to convince the Chief to move the tribe up north. Other Sioux tribes have been able to settle there, but more and more, they’re being forced out of their land.”

Sam considers that with a slow nod. A grim realization dawns in his eyes.

“It’s not fair,” he eventually agrees. He falls into his thoughts for a moment, trying to decide how to say what he wants to. “You should come home, Dean. Come back with me.”

Dean sighs. He knew this was coming. It might as well be now. He glances over at Mila, who finally seems like she’s sleeping peacefully. He rests an elbow above his knee and looks back at his brother.

“You’re asking me to leave my wife?” he asks. “She’s pregnant, Sam.”

Sam’s eyes widen. That news probably shouldn’t have surprised him as much as it did, but he’s a little hurt that Dean would think he’d suggest leaving her. 

“No, Dean, of course not,” he says. His frown fades, turning into a smile. “Congratulations.”

Dean lightens, his lips curving slightly into a smile as well. He nods in thanks.

Sam sighs. “Look…ask her to come with you. With us. You can live out with Mom on the farm and raise your kids there.”

“You forget that I’m supposed to be dead? Hell, for God’s sake, you already had my funeral to prove it.” Dean rubs tiredly at his face. “Lawrence is a small town, and Mom has, what, fifteen, twenty people working that farm? Word’s gonna get out, one way or another. If the Army hears it, I’ll be court martialed for desertion, not to mention all the rest of it.”

Sam opens his mouth to argue back with that earnest, determined look in his eyes. Dean expects nothing less. It’s what makes his brother a good lawyer, but Dean raises up a hand against whatever he’s going to say. Again, he glances back at Mila.

“Sam…this is what she knows. These are her people, her family,” he says. After a hesitant pause, he adds, “They’ve become my family too.”

Sam’s jaw clenches. He glances down at the ground between his feet, before he’s able to meet Dean’s eyes again. There’s hurt and anger in his own.

“And me?” he asks. “What, I’m not your family anymore?”

He doesn’t know just how deeply that hurts Dean. He shakes his head, drops his jerky into the dirt. He reaches out and grasps Sam’s shoulder.

“Sammy,” Dean says. For a moment, he can’t speak. His throat constricts, and no matter how tight he presses his lips together, he can’t stop the slight tremble in them. “You don’t know how hard it’s been…to convince myself that I wasn’t ever gonna see you again. But I’m happy. I’m so fucking happy that you found me.”

Dean tries and fails to blink past the way his eyes burn with tears. Sam’s eyes are getting just as red and shiny. He lays a heavy hand on Dean’s knee, and they sit like that for a while in silence, until the embers on the coals dim from red to black.

Šóta hasn’t slept. It’s evident in his red-rimmed eyes and unkempt, dirty clothes, but he’s still adamant about hitting back against the railroad construction.

“Father, they stand at our doorstep!” he argues to the Chief. “They take our horses, run off our wild game with their machines, cut down the forest, and now they build iron tracks through our lands. You went to war against the Crow for less!” 

Tahatan seems heavy in his thoughts as he listens. The words of his eldest son, and from his first wife, have weight—not just with him, but with the entire tribe as they sit together in the place where they typically have group feasts. Otaktay stands behind Šóta in support. 

Dean is reluctant to single himself out, but after sharing a look with Mila, he stands.

“Chief, what happened yesterday was more than just a tragedy or a crime. It’s a warning,” he says. “We need to leave, before the Army finds this village.”

“You suggest we run like cowards,” Otaktay says. His tone is icy and angry. 

Dean shakes his head. “I’m not doubting your courage or your skill. I’m not doubting any warrior here. But this ain’t a fair fight.”

He shifts his gaze, addressing Tahatan directly. 

“We’re out-manned and out-gunned, literally. Arrows and knives against bullets—pistols and rifles,” Dean says. “They’ll tear through this village until there’s no one and nothing left. We have to go north. It’s the only way we’ll survive.”

Chatan sides with Dean, and Mila stands with him too. 

Tahatan thinks hard. After a long, silent moment, he stands from his chair of whicker and wood.

“We will pack the caravans today and move out tonight,” he says. 

Then he commands Šóta and Dean to start preparing the horses. Šóta shoots Dean a hard, angry look, but Mila steps in and pushes at her cousin’s arm. 

“Don’t look at him,” she warns tersely in their language. “This is the cost of what you have done.”

Šóta is affronted by her words, but he doesn’t answer her. He just turns away with a sharp pivot on his heel. Otaktay glances back at Mila and Dean impassively, but he follows after Šóta, his friend and his leader.

Dean understands what she said; he’s spent enough time here that he’s able to follow every word. He gives her a look that’s mostly resigned, but he holds her to his side in comfort. He knows this isn’t easy for her either.  

“I will start packing,” she says.  

Dean nods. “I’ll come help you in a bit.”

He watches her leave his side to make her way back to their tent. Sam approaches him, and together they walk to the horse pen, where his horse is grazing with the others under the great sycamore tree that shields them. 

“We’re leaving tonight,” Dean says. “You should head home.”

“What if something happens to you on the road?” Sam says. 

Dean smiles ruefully. “I could say the same thing to you…but it looks like you don’t need me to protect you anymore.”

“Yeah well, doesn’t mean I won’t always need my brother.”

They share a smile, followed by a strong embrace. Dean thumps his back.

“Take care of yourself, Sammy,” he says, a coarse whisper.

Sam chuckles weakly. “You’ve got a harder road than I do.”

“Hey, you’re the one who’s gonna have to face Mom.”

Dean says it as something of a joke, but all it does is sober both of them. Sam pulls away reluctantly.

“I’m not going to get to meet my niece or nephew,” he says. 

“I’m sorry about that too,” Dean says, meeting his brother’s glassy eyes. “I’m sorry about a lot of things.”

Sam jaw clenches, and he shakes his head. “Don’t do that.”

Another beat passes between them. He clears his throat.

“I’ll tell Mom…”

“Take care of her,” Dean says. 

Sam nods his agreement. Dean finally releases his brother’s shoulder, and there below the sycamore tree, the brothers part ways. Sam straps up his provisions and climbs up on his horse. Dean opens the pen for him, long enough for Sam to ride through.

He stops at the foot of the hill and looks over his shoulder at Dean, who gives him one more lax salute. Sam smiles, nodding back at him. Then he keeps riding.

Dean watches him cross the grassy plain until it becomes too hard to look straight into the afternoon sun. Distantly he hears Šóta’s voice behind him, giving out orders to other men. Dean looks away from the sun.

He has work to do.

He locks up the rest of his grief to begin with the horses, not knowing that Otaktay watches him. 

Dean doesn’t want to load up Baby with too much cargo. She’s still early in her pregnancy, and he could even ride her if he wanted to, but he can’t help but want to protect her more. It’s going to take days to move the tribe across the state, maybe longer. So instead, she can help pull one of the caravans with the colt and a couple of the other horses.

He saddles up Mato to ride. Hopefully he actually cooperates with Dean this time. 

Mato begins to stamp nervously though, like he senses something coming. Dean perks up and notices the way the horse’s ears flick back and forth. Baby makes an anxious sound as well. Dean turns his head in the direction of the village with furrowed brows. 

Šóta draws near to find his horse, who’s just as unsettled as the rest of them.

“The horses are spooked,” he says.

“Something’s wrong,” Dean nods in agreement. His gut tells him so, while a spark of unease licks up his spine.

And then he hears it. A warning blow of a buffalo horn on the air, followed by screaming, shouting, and gunfire in the village down below. His eyes widen. 

Mila.

AN: 😬 Sorry about the cliffhanger, but we're almost to the end! What did you think of Sam's big entrance into the story? 😉

Coming up, the grand finale...

Next Time:

Gritting his teeth, Dean brings Mato to a short stop in front of the Chief. Dean aims his gun at the Colonel. By now, the man is clutching his bleeding shoulder and staring at his former captain in disbelief. Benny is maybe a little less shocked to see Dean, but there’s conflict in his eyes—happiness mixed with turmoil.

The other officer is Jack Kline. He recognizes Dean too, with wide eyes and a gaping mouth.

“You…” Sanderson trails. He blinks, his brows furrowing. “Dean Winchester.”

Pronunciation Guide:

Wašíču ("wash-ee-jew") Šóta ("sho-tah") Chatan ("chat-tan") Tahatan ("ta-hat-tann") Otaktay ("ogh-tac-tay") Weaya ("we-ayy-ya") Takoda ("ta-koda") Mato ("matt-toe") Misae ("mee-sah-eh")

▶️ Keep Reading: PART 4 (Finale!)

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@tmb510 @syrma-sensei @artemys-ackles @malindacath @mrsjenniferwinchester

@jc-winchester @charmed-asylum @fromcaintodean @k-slla

[sgiandubh]

Heughan’s voice is as smooth as his whisky. His latest venture is his multi-award-winning whisky and gin, ‘The Sassenach’, the Gaelic word for ‘outsider’. He feels he is an outsider to the industry, but the idea behind the name seems to have emerged from his mother, who is an English artist and was called ‘Sassenach’ when she arrived in New Galloway, and in Outlander, Jamie Fraser calls his wife Sassenach as s term of endearment. “The name is very special to me,” he tells me.

Perhaps the video he recorded at Everest Base Camp was for his mother ?She's on IG too and we know Sam loves her so much and sometimes doesn't call her Mum but Chrissie. Cait is not a Sassenach because she's Irish. Sam calling her the Original Sassenach it's because of her character, Claire and he recently stated Caitriona is nothing like Claire (SheKnows interview). Either way it's not a big deal so don't blame me. It's just a thought and cute anyway .

Dear Sassenach Anon,

Let me count the ways. Quoting from memory first we had ' She [C] is the original Sassenach' (at one of the seasons' premieres in London, where he brought a bottle and waxed lyrical to the press over it). Then, we had 'Sassenach means foreigner in Scots Gaelic and it's a term of endearment of Jamie Fraser, the character I am playing in OL, for his wife' (numerous times for various media outlets). Then, 'I am the Sassenach, I always felt as an outsider, but also Jamie Fraser's term of endearment for his wife, Claire' (ditto). And then 'the name emerged from his mother who is an English artist and was called ‘Sassenach’ when she arrived in New Galloway, and in Outlander, Jamie Fraser calls his wife Sassenach as s term of endearment.'

The Arbuturian is a well regarded online magazine, founded in 2009 and based in London. It looks and reads to me as The New Yorker's slightly more plebeian, younger cousin of sorts - check their masthead mascot...

... and remember (ROFLMAO) The New Yorker's Eustace Tilley, its illustrious inspiration:

By the way, Eustace Tilley, one of my favorite dandies, was itself inspired by an engraving of the French count Alfred d'Orsay, by a certain... James Fraser, sometime around 1830. I kid you not and yes, totally Clan Fraser, born near Inverness:

Can't make this shite up, even if you wanted, huh?

Anyways, back to your question and this little media outlet that could. Its targeted audience is, according to Wikipedia:

In sociological lingo, AB means an educated mid-to high level management audience, with a hefty disposable income to boot (usually more than 1 million £/year net revenue). All it takes is a short stroll through their Lifestyle pages: according to them, among this year's most sought after Xmas gifts gimmicks are a Turnbull & Asser silk pocket square (£75) for him or a £200 voucher for Fairmont Windsor Park’s Ultimate Diamond Facial, for her.

This interview's one and only raison d'être was to sound appealing to this particular dinkie (double income, no kids) Generation X audience, especially as far as his booze was concerned. For he was on booze promo mode here and he obviously twisted a bit whatever (I repeat: whatever) his real motivation behind the brand name might have been to the least controversial possible version. It's hard to question or throw shite at this mum version, let alone at a version involving a heroic single parent as Chrissie H, let alone at Christmas time. This allowed him, at the same time, to elegantly keep his personal life away and separate between business and private: something he should have been doing since the very start. But S is a sentimental man and a people pleaser - we all know that, don't we?

It was important for S to be featured in this London online magazine, read by the same people he was once serving drinks to, at parties. It's all about aspirations, social climbing and being a part of that crowd. Finally!

And you, darling, are a troll, despite your protesting. I nevertheless hope this answered your very transparently targeted question, in the spirit of Christmas. Otherwise, it would have landed in the bin, where it probably belongs.

PS: Caitriona is Caitriona, probably nothing like Claire, indeed and thank God! Being 'like Claire Fraser' was certainly not what prompted the coup de foudre - I daresay, quite the contrary. Sorry, darling, to pop your bubble, but this is not exactly how the real world works.

Later edit: if the entire Everest trek was something 'just for himself', then the recorded video was also 'just for himself'. The reason he posted it on Instagram was to probably childishly rejoice/brag he finally made it and damn the consequences. Use a bit of logic.

[yourivyygrow]

COUNTING SUMMERS | jj maybank

in which your life is pretty boring and miserable, but gets a whole lot more interesting when you pick up a compass in an antique shop that drags you into the outer banks. but not the ones in your world.

or... you warp into your new tv show obsession and chaos ensues.

an isekai obx serie rewrite, 'cause we all need some self-indulgent extravaganza!

. . . INFOS

everyone is aged up to 18 cause it feels icky to write otherwise, plus i never really considered 'em teenagers in s1? they all look 25

english is not my first language so i apologize for typos

apart from a backstory in order for the whole thing to make sense y/n is a blank canvas!

reality-traveling in this show has been a 100% inspired by outlander, if there's some similarities that's why

this fic is written for fun and is meant to be read for fun, it's really self-indulgent and meant to be a little silly and out-here!

if you want to be put on the taglist, send an ask with your user or comment here!

THE PULL OF THE TIDE, book one

szn one ﾉ where the current takes us

. . . falling asleep on a beach wasn't exactly unheard of. waking up on said beach but in a whole other place, though, was more uncommon. especially because kildare island was not supposed to be real, and the sarah cameron standing in front of you even less.

being swept in your favorite tv show wasn't on your to-do list and you have to find a way to go back before you mess the storyline up. but things becomes significantly harder when people start to feel like destiny in the shape of strangers.

in which a compass rewrites reality, a girl discovers the weight of belonging, and the outer banks may hold more than just treasure. 

MAIN MASTERLIST ─ 00. siren song, 01. deny, deny, deny, 02. sweet agatha, 03. mystery girl, 04. shoot your shot, 05. what goes around, comes around, 06. reality check, 07. the meaning of belonging, MORE TO COME!

EXTRA CONTENT ─ none yet.

[bcacstuff]

The clock may be ticking for Outlander on TV, but the story is everlasting for bestselling author Diana Gabaldon, who writes the historical fantasy books (nine and counting!) upon which the show is based. Debuting in 1991, the first Outlander novel has spawned several sequels, spinoff novellas, and ultimately the intense Starz drama that viewers have come to love. With the final episodes on the horizon and new prequel series Blood of My Blood forthcoming, Gabaldon reflects on the show’s end and offers a peek inside her notebook.

What have you been happy to see so far in Season 7?

Diana Gabaldon: One of the things the Outlander production as a whole does really well is battle scenes. We’ve had a certain amount of the [American Revolution��s] Battle of Ticonderoga, the first Battle of Saratoga, and a lot of the second Battle of Saratoga. And I absolutely loved the actor playing Benedict Arnold, Rod Hallett. The casting this season has been spectacular. Every character is just right.

Would you say that Benedict Arnold was the character you were most excited for fans to meet this season?

He is historically fascinating, and I did a lot of research work on him because he plays a large part in more than one of the books. And we’ll see him again in Book 10. His story is very interesting. Everybody knows how his story ends, or at least they think they do. But yes, I was just impressed that, between the script and the actor, they pretty much nailed him and captured his sense of reckless adventure and his charm. Luckily, they used a lot of the book dialogue for it, some of which was taken from things that Benedict Arnold himself said.

With the show set to conclude with Season 8, do you have an ending in mind for Claire and Jamie’s story on the page?

Yes, I have shared the ending scenes with [the creative team]. But as to the actual way the story comes to a conclusion? No, they don’t know that. [Laughs] But we’ll get there. I don’t write in a straight line, and I don’t work with an outline. This is why it takes me several years to write one book — not only the way that I write, which I describe as like playing Tetris in my head, but also just the sheer size and the fact that they are books of a continuing nature.

You’ve shared a few excerpts from your 10th novel in the series. Is there anything else you can tease about it?

Well, I’m still writing it. And I have a title, but I’m not revealing that until we’re a bit closer to publication. I don’t want to rub all the “new” off it. I can tell you that it’s got whales.

You’ve also written Season 2’s “Vengeance Is Mine,” “Journeycake” in Season 5, and the upcoming 14th installment in Season 7. Can we anticipate more scripts from you?

Yeah, it’s so much easier than writing novels. [Laughs] It takes me three weeks tops to write a scene. I will be writing a script for the prequel [Blood of My Blood] and one for Season 8 [of Outlander].

Though only one season has been given the green light, how long do you envision the prequel’s story to be onscreen?

Well, the television version isn’t up to me, but for what it’s worth, I have material for three —  relatively short, as compared to the main Outlander novels — prequel books concerning Jamie’s parents. Blood of My Blood is based on the synopsis of the first of those books.

Apart from the ones you’ve written, are there any episodes you love so much that you wish you had?

Oh, yeah. There’s always at least one per season where I’m thinking, “Oh, this is fabulous.” It would be [Episode 8, “Turning Points”] for Season 7.

Do you have a favorite memory from your times visiting the set?

It would probably be the first season where they invited me to do a cameo [as Iona MacTavish] in Episode 4. It was fascinating being part of the set rather than visiting it. I was a cast member for three days. It was just interesting to see how it all worked.

Were you able to make it to set for Season 8?

God willing, I will be on set for a week or so next month [September 2024]. They’ll be filming the final block, for which I wrote one of the scripts, so I’d like to see a bit of it live. The last time I was on set for a prolonged period — as opposed to drop-in visits — was for Season 2’s “Vengeance Is Mine.” The food from craft services was always excellent, so I’m hoping to have a toastie, and I’m looking forward to seeing good friends.

How have the main cast’s performances surpassed what you envisioned on the page?

Sam Heughan does a fantastic job with Jamie, and Caitríona [Balfe], while she doesn’t look like the Claire of the books, certainly acts like her and is totally immersive in her character. I’ve [never] seen a bad performance by anyone at any level.

What will you miss most about the show?

I’ll miss the entertainment value of seeing dailies five nights a week, but otherwise, I’m not troubled. The end of a great adventure is always a bit traumatic and nostalgic — but it does leave you with a feeling of specialness, accomplishment, of having been part of a great endeavor. And they do live in my head, you know…

Are there more stories in this universe that you still wish to explore?

There’s always more I could write. Making the optimistic assumption that I’m going to live long enough, I have notes for [time traveler] Master Ray-Mond’s book (no title on that one yet) and for another [about Claire’s first husband, Frank], titled What Frank Knew.

Will you feel sad saying goodbye to Jamie and Claire?

I really don’t think I will — the main books are written with a lot of lacunae — spaces where we move from one block of story to another, leaving a hiatus of months (or sometimes years) in someone’s life. I can, should I want to, always go back to one of those places and write what happened while everyone was looking somewhere else.

Outlander, Season 7B, Fridays, 8/7c, Starz (Midnight on the Starz App and On Demand)

This is an excerpt from TV Guide Magazine’s Outlander: Claire & Jamie’s Love Story For The Ages issue. For a deep-dive into the historical romance, scoop on the second half of Season 7, and details on the upcoming prequel, pick up a copy of the issue available on newsstands and for order online at Outlander2024.com.

Article posted 29 November 2024

[museofreverie]

Chapter 07 ⋆ Held Captive

WAYS OF FREEDOM┊Pairing: Eren Jaeger x Modern Fem!Reader ┊2nd POV

In which a chronically online Gen Z that went through the pandemic goes to the Attack on Titan Universe and tries her very best to change the ending with an "I can fix him" mentality.

⋆ CHAPTER WORD COUNT: 3.9k words

⋆ WARNINGS: manga spoilers

⋆ AUTHOR's NOTE: This entire chapter was so fun to write before because I remember watching those TikTok vids of what happens when 'you randomly wake up in the AOT universe' and I knew fans would be in disbelief and fangirl on the spot but also have doubts if this was real LMAO. Hope you have fun reading!

← prev chapter ┊ next chapter →

𝐘𝐄𝐀𝐑 𝟖𝟓𝟏.

“ABOUT DAMN TIME you woke up.”

          At the sound of a gruff voice with a deep french accent, your head snapped toward the direction of the owner in the dimly lit cell. Your eyes widened as you recognized it was none other than Levi Ackerman himself. 

          He was accompanied by Hange, Mikasa, and Armin trailing closely behind him. The flickering light from a lone candle danced across their faces, sending shivers down your spine at the sight of them all together, their presence adding an air of tension and danger to the already claustrophobic room.

          Your breath hitched as your palm went to cover your mouth.

          Holy shit.

          They really were real.

          As in real people.

          Fucking hell, they were in front of you.

          The hand covering your mouth instinctively went up to touch your wound, reminding you of your reality. 

          You winced. 

          This is insane! Your mind screamed.

          You still couldn’t believe it. Just a few minutes ago — wait, a few days ago you reminded yourself — these were the characters from your favorite manga and anime series you cried for. 

          Cried for! You cried and mourned for them even though they were supposed to be fictional, yet now they were real. Real people in front of you. 

          Damn, I feel like Thor in that scene with Loki in Ragnarok!

          Your mind was screaming with excitement and disbelief and heck, the fangirl in you even screamed at the thought of how many fans would kill to be in your position right now.

          You stole a quick glance at Eren whose intense gaze was already fixed on their arrival. Feeling nervous and awkward, you tried to break the tension with a joke replying to Levi.

          Gosh, you were replying to Levi! The Levi Ackerman!

          “To be fair, that was the best sleep I’ve ever had,” you said with a nervous chuckle before immediately keeping your mouth shut and regretting it. 

          Your stomach churned, and your hands anxiously grasped the iron bars, knowing these people were natural skeptics, hardened soldiers who had dedicated their entire lives to protecting humanity in this brutal world. A mere joke won’t get through them just like that. You braced yourself for their scrutiny, knowing they would want to know every detail of where you came from and how you ended up here on the island.

          You gulped, as the only thing you could do to save yourself from embarassment was touch your necklace for comfort.

          Levi remained unfazed by your attempt at humor and instead crossed his arms in boredom. Feeling intimidated by his stoic demeanor, you shifted your focus to Hange who was practically beaming at you with curiosity. 

          With a jaunty wave and a bright smile, Hange introduced themselves to you. “Hello! My name is Hange Zoe. Commander of the Survey Corps here in Paradis Island.”

          Despite their intimidating eye patch beneath their odd looking glasses, Hange exuded a welcoming presence that put you at ease amongst the others  who were still suspicious of you. You wouldn’t really blame them for doing their job at being wary of an outlander who had mysteriously appeared in their land in the middle of nowhere. Literally. But as you caught a glimpse of Hange’s exhausted appearance, your heart sank for a moment, knowing the constant struggles and sacrifices they must have faced as the new Commander.

          Especially after losing Erwin.

          At this, you offered Hange a small smile. “Hello.”

          Seeing your response, Hange wasted no time in interrogating you about your origins and intentions and all you could do was blink. Hange eagerly questioned, “What’s your name? Why were you outside the walls? Are you a shifter? And where did you come from—?”

          “Tsk, calm down, Hange.”

          Too stunned to speak, your gaze flickered back and forth to Hange and Levi, the iconic dynamic between these two being evident. Their personalities were like two sides of a coin yet they seemed to complement each other perfectly.

          And then all of a sudden, you were hit by the memory of that panel of them in the manga. The pain from seeing them both being so vulnerable in accepting their fate alone was still so fresh and all of this was just too much for you to handle.

          Sensing that tears almost formed in your eyes, you cleared your throat to get rid of the overwhelming feeling before opening your mouth to speak, your name rolling off your tongue with ease.

          Hange attempted to pronounce your name, but to no avail, they made a mistake and you gladly helped to correct them.

          “So, Y/N,” started Hange, “As you’ve noticed, we’re here to talk. How exactly did you end up outside the walls?”

          You gulped at the question and your eyes flickered to Armin who brought out a notebook and pen to probably record your words.

          Shit. What exactly do you say to them?

          “I. . . I . . .”

          You were aware that your sudden appearance on Paradis Island had taken them by surprise and they were determined to uncover any potential threats or liabilities. Perhaps that was why they had thrown you in this cell without explanation in the first place, because you could only assume that it was because they saw you as a potential threat. 

          You bit your lip hard and sighed. “I’m not sure.”

          The members of the Survey Corps exchanged looks of confusion before Hange spoke up again. “You’re not sure? Why is that?”

          A hand went through your hair and you realized some strands were tangled at the end. You purse your lips into a thin line in frustration. “It’s. . . complicated.”

          “How complicated?”

          “Well. . . I can’t fully explain it myself. And you probably won’t believe me, anyway.”

          “Just admit that you’re a spy from Marley so we can be over this already,” interrupted Levi, his eyes narrowing in suspicion.

          At this accusation, your brows furrowed and a look of hurt flashed across your face. “What? You thought I was a spy? Oh, hell no!” you exclaimed, incredulous.

          Taking a deep breath, you replied cautiously. "Look, I’m not a spy. I just — come from a place. . . far away from here.” 

          Your eyes darted around nervously, careful not to reveal too much.

          “How far exactly?” asked Armin.

          Hange's eyebrows shot up in surprise. "Far away? How did you end up so far away?" they asked. “How is that even possible? There were no ships on sight, but only the lightning on the place we saw you.”

          How much could you reveal without putting yourself in danger? How could you explain the truth without sounding insane?

          “Like I said, it’s complicated.”

          “Where exactly do you come from?”

          They were insistent, you noted.

         You took a deep breath before telling them about your country. The least you could do was give them little information about you. 

         Hange looked puzzled and said, “I’ve never heard of such a place.” They turned their attention towards Eren. “Is it far from Marley?”

          Eren, who was quiet the entire time, shook his head. “I’m not sure.”

          “That’s because it’s not from here,” you said, cutting them off. “It doesn’t matter, really. As for how I got here, well. . . I was sleeping in the sand. . . ?” 

          At their unconvinced looks, you sighed and raised your hands in defeat. “Okay, fine! I don’t know how I got here, okay? It doesn’t even matter if you believe me or not. . . I’m already stuck in this prison, anyway.”

          You knew deep down that telling them about your recurring dreams would only make things worse. But Hange's serious expression made you rethink keeping the truth hidden.

          "It matters to us more than you know,” they implored. “You will not leave this cell until you tell us more about how you got here.”

          "I swear I mean no harm," you pleaded. “Look, please believe me when I tell you I have no ill intentions toward you guys or — or be a spy as you say — I just want to go home,” you said, desperation creeping into your voice.

          Hange thought carefully about your words. Your eyes searched for sympathy in their faces.

          There was none.

          “Alright, then. . .” trailed Hange, frowning. "Perhaps you can tell us what this is?"

          Your heart skipped a beat as Hange held up the object in question.

          You gasped realizing what it was. 

          My phone! Your mouth went dry.

          “Where — where did you — where did you get that?” you asked anxiously, stumbling over your words.

          “Oh, this?" said Hange casually. 

          You nodded eagerly, gripping the bars of your cell tightly. 

          "One of my soldiers discovered it near where we found you. We believe it belongs to you, but we weren't certain. So tell us, what is this device? Is it some sort of weapon from where you came from? Or a form of communication? Hmm, Sasha did say she saw her face before it disappeared. Well, that was odd."

          “What?” you said dumbfoundedly.

          “So what is this then?” Hange prodded, their curiosity piqued.

          Your heart raced as you gulped nervously. 

          Don’t say anything. A voice in the back of your mind warned you not to reveal any information, knowing it could potentially be used against you. Unable to speak, you simply shook your head hesitantly. 

          Don’t say anything.

          “Eh? Not even a name?”

          Don’t say anything.

          You kept quiet and shook your head again, letting go of the cell as silence lingered.

          Don’t say anything.

          "Well," Hange said, tapping their chin thoughtfully. "It's settled then. I won't give it back to you."

          Your eyes almost bulge. “What? No! Please —”

          “Well, you can have it back if you can tell us what it does," they challenged, holding out your phone expectantly. “But for now, it belongs to the Survey Corps.”

          Hange's decision was made, you noted.

          "Please — please don't do anything to it. Please," you begged desperately. Your eyes fell to Armin. “I'll tell you what it is, but please. . . don’t try to do anything to it, I beg you. . .”

          And that was that. With not much information gained from you, they left with a promise to to return at some point, but where did that leave you now? Stuck in a creaking prison bed, your heart shattered into fragments as you struggled to make sense of the situation.

          This isn’t real. This isn’t real. This isn’t real.

          You tried to gaslight yourself that this wasn’t your reality now. No. It can’t be. This couldn't be happening. It was all just a nightmare. This wasn't your reality. 

          This isn’t real.

          But the cold, hard walls around you and the stifling air in your cell were constant reminders that this was all too real.

          And for a moment, you felt like it was the start of the pandemic all over again.

          Stuck and alone.

          “This isn’t real. . .”

          And the only thing you could do now is play with your necklace for comfort, muttering words over and over again. 

          “This isn’t real. . . This isn’t real. . .”

          Hange always knew what to do.

          When Erwin Smith died, the position of being the Commander was passed to them to take charge of the Survey Corps. It was a huge burden to bear, but with Levi by their side, Hange knew how to move forward. 

          And so Hange always knew what to do during times of turmoil in the Survey Corps.

          It was never easy, per se, but they had a natural curiosity and drive for knowledge that often led them to seek out new discoveries which helped them. And it was this same thirst for knowledge that had drawn them to join the Survey Corps in the first place. 

          But as Hange stood in their office, mulling over the mysterious item they had found outside the walls and now held in their hand, they were at a loss for what to do next.

          Yes, the Survey Corps always had a plan to whatever is laid upon them, but this was different. Perhaps they will come up with a plan later on, but now, they have none.

          Hange did not know what to do.

          It had been a few days after that interrogation with you, and still, no information out of your mouth. They tried visiting again but you were always asleep whenever they came to talk to you.

          “I don’t buy it, Hange.” 

          Levi finally spoke up, breaking their reverie.

          Hange blinked.

          The weight of Levi’s suspicion and scrutiny lingered in the air and Hange sighed heavily at his words.

          “I know. . .” said Hange, “. . . there’s more to it. I can feel it. And with the way she reacted, this object seemed important to her.”

          Hange placed the object on the table and tried to take a sip of their tea that Levi prepared. “Do you think it’s used for communication? Or perhaps something more? I don’t think it’s a weapon. It doesn’t look like it could explode any time soon. . .”

          “It’s obvious that she’s hiding something about it.”

          “I know that.”

          “So I’m in for a torture if that’s the only option for us to have her talk.” Levi declared, like it was nothing new.

          Hange shook their head, and grabbed the object to inspect it once again. “I don’t think that’s necessary, Levi.”

          “And why is that?”

          “The evidence is right there. She’s no shifter and is quite far away from where she came from.”

          “But it’s not enough for us to trust her.”

          Levi was right. But still, Hange couldn't shake off their gut feeling that there was more to this stranger than met the eye.

          “I know.”

          They already had this conversation before. But with you regaining consciousness and not muttering a word at what the object does seemed to be a problem to them. 

          But their conversation got interrupted when Armin bursted into the room, panting and out of breath.

          “Commander Hange—” Armin saluted before quickly catching his breath to deliver the urgent message. “—it’s about the Military Police.”

          “The Military Police?” said Hange.

          Armin nodded, trying to make his face remain stoic. “Yes. I overheard a few of their soldiers talking about the rumors regarding our captive being a shifter. They wanted to take custody of her after they received news that she’s awake. They believe that even though the Survey Corps found her, it was up to them to imprison her under the Military Police’s name and not ours. And also. . . they seemed to be asking for a trial.”

          “Unbelievable,” Hange breathed. 

          At this, Levi clicked his tongue in annoyance. 

          The Military Police always seemed to be looking for excuses to assert their power and control, even if it wasn’t their choice to make. He could feel his blood boil with anger.

          Not those bastards again, he thought to himself before dismissing Armin. “Return to your duties again and gather the others once you are done. We will have a meeting later to discuss this matter.”

          “Yes, Captain.” Armin nodded to the both of them and was now out of sight.

          He turned to Hange and said, “We need to do something.”

          Hange’s jaw clenched in frustration. Just moments ago, they were discussing this topic and now it seemed like their fears were coming true. 

          “We found her first,” Hange said. “We found her outside the walls, not here, therefore she is under our jurisdiction.”

          “If they decide to take her, we may not have a choice,” argued Levi.

          Hange took a deep breath. “This is ridiculous! The Survey Corps found her first. And why are they even doing this? There’s no need for a trial!”

          Levi let out a frustrated sigh. They were already dealing with so much chaos and sacrifice, and now this happens? 

          “What do you suggest we do?”

          Hange's expression hardened as they made up their mind.

          “Let’s go, Levi. We’re going to have a little chat with them.”

          Hange and Levi wasted no time and immediately went to confront the Military Police in their headquarters. 

          Nile Dok, the commander of the Military, was taken aback by their sudden arrival. He sighed, the corners of his mustache frowning. “I’m guessing the news reached you two already.”

          Hange gave a curt nod.

          “This wasn’t my idea,” was all Nile said. 

          Levi crossed his arms. “Doesn’t matter. The Military Police do not need to call for a trial over this one. The Survey Corps has it under control.”

          One of the members of the Military Police scoffed loudly. 

          “Under control? You call it under control? You couldn’t even handle what those traitors did before! We cannot afford another incident like that!”

          Hange stepped forward, their expression stern. “I assure you that the Survey Corps has this under control. The stranger poses no threat to humanity as we’ve checked before that she isn’t a shifter. I understand your concerns but it seems that you are only using this as an excuse—”

          “And how can we trust your word?” One of the Military Police officers said, clearly not convinced by Hange’s words. “After all, wasn’t it the members of the Survey Corps who caused more damage than good within the walls? That Eren may have blocked the hole before but that doesn’t guarantee that there won’t be any new trouble coming from you!”

          Another officer spoke up, his voice gruff and full of disdain. “And what about her allegiance, huh? How do we know she isn’t working for Marley? She could be a spy! Have you already forgotten what the Female Titan did to our soldiers?!” 

          Levi stepped forward, his glare aimed at the officers. He argued, “Have you already forgotten that Annie Leonhart was from the Military Police? Therefore was your responsibility?” 

          The tension in the room was palpable as both sides stood their ground.

          Levi then turned towards Hange and continued. “The Survey Corps will conduct further investigation about this matter. Whether she is a threat or not. What worries me is if we turn her over to you, what happens then? You put the blame on us for what happened with the Female Titan, but it seems you have only shown your incompetence in handling matters like this.”

          The officer did not say anything and merely scoffed.

          Finally, Nile spoke again. 

          “Look,” Nile said with a resigned tone. “We will try to hold off on the trial for now. But the others will still demand for it. We’ll give you a few days to try to settle this. You must promise that this individual will be under constant watch for any suspicious activity.”

          To Hange, it seemed like Nile was against this but only followed the orders of his fellow officers. 

          Hange and Levi exchanged glances. 

          “A trial is still too much,” Hange tried to argue. “But for what it’s worth, we will do our best to have her detained and remain in our custody.”

          And with none left to be said, Hange and Levi left.

          Now back in the headquarters of the Survey Corps, Hange had to drink another tea prepared by Levi to not go insane by what just happened.

          Levi broke the silence. “The brats are on their way.”

          Hange’s fist clenched in frustration and almost banged their head on the table. “How could they—!”

          “Keep your shit together, Hange. I said the brats are on their way.”

          “What do we do, Levi?”

          And so a few minutes later, Hange found themselves sitting at the head of the table, throwing a quick glance amongst their gathered subordinates—Mikasa, Armin, Eren, Jean, Connie, and Sasha who are members of the Levi Squad, were all present in the meeting to discuss their next course of action on what to do about you. 

           And Levi was in the corner, drinking his tea.

          “What seems to be the matter, Commander Hange?” 

          They all looked at Hange expectantly, eager to know what to do about the situation.

          “That is why you are all gathered here.” Hange’s voice was laced with tension as they addressed the group. The urgent matter at hand weighed heavily on their mind. 

          “As you all know, we need to come up with a plan to handle this. . . situation.” Hange paused, searching for the right word to describe the mysterious stranger that had been brought before them. “There will be a trial for our captive set by the Military Police.”

          The group reacted in unison, a mixture of shock and disbelief.

          “Meaning that they want to take her into their custody,” Levi interjected.

          Their expressions became grim. 

          “Did this person even give any explanation for her sudden appearance?” asked Jean.

          Hange nodded. “Yes, but the information she has given us seemed. . . off. Like she’s hiding something. Levi suspected she may be a spy for Marley, but the girl strongly denied it.”

          “It seemed like she knew something.” Eren interjected, his brows furrowed.

          “What do you mean, Eren?” Armin questioned, stealing a quick glance with Mikasa.

          “She said she woke up sleeping in the sand, Armin. This is the first time we reached the ocean. Meaning she’s not from inside the walls.”

          “Exactly,” said Hange. “The object that Sasha found, well, it is rather strange. . . and I can’t quite put a finger on it but there is something about her that doesn’t add up.”

          “Like with what I’ve suspected, there are also suspicions from the Military Police that she may be a shifter or a spy. But it’s clear that she doesn’t heal,” said Levi.

          “But why would they think that?” Sasha asked.

          “It’s likely due to her mysterious background and sudden appearance,” Hange argued. “They see it as too much of a coincidence seeing as it’s only been a year since the attack of the Beast Titan.”

          “Perhaps talking to General Zachary about this could help?” offered Armin. 

          “It’s too late. The Military Police already did that. And asking Historia for this would be too much.”

          Mikasa spoke up for the first time since arriving at the meeting. “She poses no threat to us as long as she is imprisoned.”

          “Yeah,” agreed Connie. “She’s locked up so why would they want her to be imprisoned under the Military Police? It’s not like she’ll escape or anything.”

          “We should talk to her again, Commander Hange,” Armin said with a firm tone. 

          Hange nodded in agreement. “Yes, I think that’s the best plan for now. Then sooner or later, we find out if she’s dangerous or not. But I am curious as to why she doesn’t want me to touch the object.” 

          Hange hummed, placing a finger under their chin. “Could be helpful if we find out what this object is for after I try to run some experiments on it. . .”

          “This meeting is adjourned.” Levi’s cold voice echoed through the room as he dismissed the group. His gaze settled at Armin. “Everyone else can leave except for you. Prepare to take down notes when we visit later.”

          Eren jumped to his feet. “I’ll come too,” he said with determination.

          “No.”

          “But Captain—” Eren tried to argue.

          “I said no.”

          But Eren was insistent. “My father’s memories might hold some answers. It might be able to help us figure out if she’s telling the truth or not.”

          “Eren,” said Mikasa with a warning tone.

          Armin shifted uncomfortable in his seat, his brow furrowing with worry. “I don’t think that’s wise, Eren. . .”

          “Armin’s right,” said Levi. But with one look at Hange’s state, he sighed and rubbed a hand over his temples.

          “Fine,” Levi relented after a few seconds. “But stay back and don’t interfere. The rest of you are dismissed. Return now to your duties.”

          Mikasa turned to Levi with a glare. “If Eren is going, then so will I.”

          Levi glared back. “Stop disobeying my orders, you brat.” He tried to ignore her and went for another tea.

          “Enough of that,” Hange interrupted with a determined look. “Let’s hope our captive talks this time. We’re paying that prison cell a visit again.”

To be continued . . .

← prev chapter ┊ next chapter →

[inglorionamy-ammy]

Of Home and Haven (Ch 1/6)

[Yes I love them and I am drawing them a cover lol]

Summary: A tender tale between an outlander barbarian and a scholarly wizard, navigating life, love, and belonging (aka. What "being together" means for them) in Waterdeep and beyond.

Pairing: Half-orc Barbarian F!Tav X Gale SFW

Word count: 3.2k

Notes: Welcome to my first venture into fan fiction!

A gigantic shoutout to @senualothbrok for guiding my newbie writing every step, for being my beta and English coach, and for being so enthusiastic about Gale AND Ta'V in general. Without you, I wouldn't have the courage to post the story.

For whoever ventured here, please enjoy :)

AO3 Link: Here

-------------

It still feels wrong to venture outside without the Nyrulna, your faithful trident.

Logically, you understand it’s a horrible weapon choice for the crowded streets of Waterdeep, its thunder damage a guarantee of passerby casualty. You are not expecting battles anyway — Compared to your last two months of tadpoled adventures and the previous ten years of your mercenary life, this is a significant change of pace. The violence rate here is obscenely low.

Ha. Astarion would have giggled at that, followed by a disapproving-but-amused headshake from your gentlemanly wizard. Gale Dekarios, your human, your man. Even counting your pillow, he is still the softest, finest thing you have ever laid hands on in your nomadic life. What a strange twist of fate, that a scheme of the Dead Three has led you to this treasure you'd never encounter otherwise. Perhaps a “thank you” is in order.

A lady always says thank you. Ma’s voice rings in your ears, a distant memory. You snort, not to her but to yourself. She had never lost faith in your ability to be civilized, even when you believed otherwise.

Now, it is Gale who has given you the courage to try out polite society again. The last time you set foot in a city, not including the cultist-infiltrated war-torn Baldur's Gate, was for an escort mission at Elturel. You and a few others were hired to travel with a half-elf noblewoman, her frail yet elegant frame reminiscent of the fawn you hunted a day before. In daylight, you rode next to her, vigilant for any potential danger. At night, you postponed your rest to hunt so that her private chef could prepare her precious meal, while you feasted on cheap rum and dry meat. You had no protest over such an arrangement, being right at home living simply in the wild. It was only when she deliberately changed her wagon into what you could only describe as a "show-off cart" to enter the city, that you felt a pang of distaste. Despite her so-called concern for safety, she wanted a crowd anyway, and a crowd was what she got. Unsurprisingly, when the crew marched past the city gate, the people of Elturel gathered to stare at her in awe and at you in fear. As you walked alongside the heavily decorated four-wheeled cart at a painfully slow pace, you silently thought, "That could be me sitting in there. I am half-human too, you know?"

But that’s where you stop. Focus. You have two missions today, the first being to bring a surprise lunch to your fiancé at Blackstaff Academy. You have roasted a pig leg as best as you could with his magical hob, picked out the freshest berries of the season, and scouted a rich full-red you know Gale will enjoy.

Wait. Is drinking allowed at school? You wouldn’t know, as your education came from your parents and the road. In any case, he can store it in his big, nice teacher’s room he gleefully described in detail when he first got his position a week ago. You had been celebrating at the Yawning Portal that night, and your drunken wizard had lovingly leaned on your arm, so overjoyed that, despite being in public, he cheekily rubbed his beard against you like a spoilt kitten. You just couldn’t resist giving his soft hair a good pat.

“T-This is surreal,” he sighed, with a lazy gaze under half-lidded eyes. “Please, my love, join me someday. I have so many stories to share —it is my second home after all!”.

You liked the place already. If that is where he belongs, then you must go there as well.

In the end, you decide to give up the Nyrulna and pick a simple axe, just for safety measures. It should be a perfect choice: small enough to hide under your cloak and cheap enough not to make a fuss, even if it got confiscated by an academy guard. Tracing its metal notches reminds you of Karlach, a fellow barbarian soldier. You miss that woman.

You check yourself in the mirror one last time, adjust your dreadlocks, and take a deep breath. Time to face polite society.

---

"STOP."

You hold up your hands as two steel sentinels halt you at the gate of the renowned Blackstaff Academy. It is a gesture you have practiced many times, wary and expectant. Behind them, the arcane tower looms over you. The voice of the guards sounds too hollow and unified, a single echo shared between the duo. Remotely controlled guards then, you think, impressed.

“STATE YOUR PURPOSE.”

“I am here to see Gale Dekarios, Professor of the Illusion School.” You practiced this also, more times than you’d ever admit.

“School of Illusion,” the voice corrects you. Now it sounds like a sentient being, not like that weird projection of Lorroakan’s at Sorcerous Sundries. The masculine voice has a pinched, haughty tone and an air of tired condescension. You are immediately reminded of wizards and their pride in education; how a long time ago, when you had miraculously succeeded in channeling the Weave for the first time and shared your joy with Gale — “I didn’t know channeling the Weave was so easy” — he wasted not a second to remind you that, in fact, it is not. Somehow, that awkward moment has now turned into a soothing memory.

“Hm-Right.” You cough to hide a snort. “I am his wife. I would like to bring him lunch. May I pass the gate?” As an afterthought, you add, “Please?” Your Ma would be proud.

“LIAR. Piss off before I chase you out.”

Of all the responses you expected, this is not one of them. You are growling before you know it. “I suggest you KEEP YOUR MOUTH SHUT.” The words rush harshly out of your fanged mouth.

…uh.

In an instance the two sentinels spring into a battle stance. Worse still, you can feel onlookers start to gather, and your skin itches under their gazes. You force an exhale.

“…What makes you think I am lying?” You try as calmly as you can manage, holding onto the mental image of your smiling wizard, just beyond reach. Volo’s book better gets published sooner so that everyone will know who you are. Better yet, you will make sure he highlights the word ‘wife’.

“Professor Dekarios is not married.” The sentinels, with the smuggest voice you have ever heard in your life, drop their final blow.

And that is when you remember. Yes, you are still technically his fiancée, even though the man himself has often forgotten that, already showering you with affection far deeper than a ring could ever capture.

Perhaps someone more eloquent would continue to argue, ask Gale to come out, and demand proper treatment for a lady. But right now you only feel overwhelmingly exposed, with too many prying eyes and wiggling tongues for you to maintain your civil façade any longer. So you retreat, trying to ignore the unsubtle snickers. The sentinels were not as clever as they thought they were anyway. What kind of guards reveal personal details to a potential enemy like that? Amateur.

---

What would Gale do to remedy the day? He would strategize.

You decide to call upon Tara to deliver the meal, and if the sentinels deny her entry they will know true horror. Her outrage upon hearing your encounter was enough to cheer you up. After all, your goal is to get your love fed, and the means—who is doing the delivery — are less important than the ends.

With that dealt with, you now need to focus on your second mission—to pass a job interview. You have decided that settling down in polite society means less fighting, but there is no way you’d just stay at home and rely on Gale’s income, even though he wouldn’t mind. The man is more than willing to provide for you, but you wouldn’t want to lounge around in the tower, hanging off his coattails. Truth be told, this is for your own good too—you truly wish to be a part of Waterdeep by playing an active role in it, not just as a tag-along of Gale’s.

Of the ten positions you applied for in the past month, you only got one reply: a counter clerk at the Aurora's Realms Shops next to the Market. Gale had frowned when he heard about the demanding dusk-till-dawn working hours, but you assured him you’d only take shifts six days out of a tenday. He had tried to argue further, but upon seeing your determination, swallowed his questions. You both know that if you had applied to be a city guard, a dock laborer, or even a weaponry store assistant, you’d get better offers. But you have decided that you want a change. More sitting, less fighting. To be polite. Chit-chat with people. To smile without malice.

So, on leaving Blackstaff, you arrive at the shopfront five minutes before your interview. You scan the two queues before you: one inside the shop and one outside. A queue for a counter clerk job at this paid rate? You lament, Waterdeep and its gods forsaken job market.

You push open the glass door, and upon seeing you enter, a human woman with a clipboard swiftly calls, “Oh. The interview for security guards is outside.”

“I am here for the counter clerk one.” Several candidates from the queue indoor turn to you curiously. To be fair, all of them are tinier than you; you’d have no problem reaching the top shelf, or lifting one, if you ever needed to.

“Ah. Right.” The lady is polite enough to look embarrassed. “And your name?” She shows you her clipboard as you tower over her, and as you scan through the long list she adds helpfully, “Or you can just tell—” “I know how to read.” You stop her mid-sentence, your harsh tone making her wince, and you wince too. Gods, you need to get better at this. Apologetically, you soften your voice, “This is me,” pointing to your name on the list.

“Ta’V Riversong?” She is surprised. Does she recognize the Hero of Baldur’s Gate? She does not start praising your great deeds, so you assume no, you aren’t that lucky. It must be the other reason then.

 “Yes,” you explain. “Riversong is my Ma—mother’s surname, she’s a human.”

This is one thing you share with Gale: taking your mother’s family name. Your father, however, did not abandon the family like Gale’s father did. Instead, your father understood—theirs was a runaway marriage, and your mother had sacrificed a lot to settle down with a barbarian deep in the woods, away from civil society. Her name was her last connection to her noble past, and your father could never deny her that. Idly, you wonder if this woman has heard of your mother’s family. Growing up, you never cared enough to learn about this illusion of a heritage.

“I see,” she says meekly. “Sorry…It’s just that from your application, I didn’t expect you to be a half-orc.”

---

And that is why you end up shit-faced in a random tavern. You don’t even bother to look at the tavern sign as you stumble in, determined to leave behind the interview, the Academy, and polite society as soon as possible. You order whisky first, then firewine, because you can’t afford to waste money, given that you definitely won’t get the job. You understand. They want someone less intimidating. Of fucking course.

You are almost delighted when you feel hostility flushing towards you.

The hair at the back of your neck stands. At the corner of your eye you spot the flash of a cunning dagger, which you recognize as a Murderous Cut. Ah, local Bhaal cultists then. You may have had a bad day, but at least you can make theirs worse. You down your drink in one go, and without further ado, send the mug right into a cloaked figure’s face.

In an instant the whole tavern breaks into chaos. As the others reveal their weapons, you realize something: You have missed this. The axe you wield breaks through wind and skulls. Frenzied roars explode from the depth of your lungs, your charge unstoppable and inevitable. This is the part of yourself you used to be most proud of, the warrior that you were trained to be, born from ashes and forged in flames.

FIGHT ME! You father shouted, signaling the start of the match.

Two figures charge at you. You ground your stance before taking a full-body swing, slashing open both poor souls at once. With a kick you send one of them towards the side, knocking over a clamour of plates and glasses.

SIDE! He took advantage of your open stance.

A blade cut scratches your cheek, but you promptly ignore its stink of poison. You grab the man and throw him right at a ranger in the corner, knocking both of them out. Perhaps you are enjoying this too much, but when you look at the screaming Waterdhavians, your grin is wide and true. You will not be tamed.

CHARGE!

As you knock down your last enemy you feel free, freedom that you haven’t tasted for months since you arrived in this godsdamned city. You rise, wobbling, and you see your father grinning proudly. On the day you had beaten him down finally, he had pronounced you a worthy adult. You were sixteen, ready to hit the road. You laugh maniacally, in joy and sorrow and everything else you can’t name. You know Gale could name them. Yes. Gale. The smartest, sweetest person you’ve ever known.

And then you collapse.

---

You were inside his purple tent. Late at night, he illuminated it with floating orbs, reclining between your legs as he read his tomes. He was so focused, and you couldn’t help but distract him with a kiss on top of his head as you gently traced circles on his stomach.

He chuckled, low and warm, then leaned back against you.

“This is one mystery I’ll never solve,” he began, closing his tome. “Why oh why would such a wonderful, ferocious, tenacious warrior ever set her sights on someone as brittle as me?”

“I could ask the same in reverse, but I ran out of adjectives,” you muttered sleepily and he laughed, setting his hands on top of yours as his thumb stroked your calloused skin.

You knew he was unsatisfied, so you tried your best, despite the pulling weight on your eyelids, to set his ever-churning mind to rest.

“You smell good,” you managed, and he laughed even louder.

But you needed him to understand. You pushed out one last word.

“Home.”

He went quiet as you fell asleep.

---

You hear…

“Ta—”

Something. Familiar. Wings.

“Ta’V—”

It’s the smell that gets you.

“TA’V!”

“WHAT? I’m awake, I’m awake. Don’t fret!” You jerk up, snapping out of your coma. It is Gale who holds your face urgently, his brows tightly knitted, knees rough on the hard ground. Next to him, Tara flutters her wings, startled by your sudden movement.

You are elated to see them, and you want to tell them so. But something in his glistening eyes makes you pause.

“Don’t fret?” His voice is an octave higher than usual. “You were lying on the ground alone, bleeding, unconscious, surrounded by godsdamned cultists, AND YOU TELL ME TO NOT FRET?”

Dead cultists, you want to counter, but your overflowing relief finally spills over.

“I love you,” you say instead, and Tara twists her tail in amusement.

Gale stares at you for a long time. Finally, with a deep breath, he relents.

“And I you. Let’s go home, shall we?”

---

While you have never been well-versed in sentimental things, you do understand that this situation calls for a hug. So you gather him into a squeezing embrace as soon as the two of you stumble out of the portal. Tara, in the meantime, settles herself on the kitchen counter, waiting for the drama to unfold.

To cheer him up, you decide to start with something happy. “So…did you enjoy the meal Tara brought you?”

You feel him tense, so you hug him harder. A moment later, he nods against your chest.

“It was wonderful,” he mutters. “I savored every bite, sang the chef’s praises to anyone who’d listen.” He pauses. “I learnt from Tara what happened at the gate.”

“Oh, well. Perhaps I shouldn’t have dropped by without a head’s up.”

He pushes himself away from your chest and stares sternly into your eyes. “That is not the point. I swear, the first thing I’ll do next time I return to the Academy is to teach that young man Endorick a very serious lesson on manners. That was pure disrespect, not only to you but to everything the Blackstaff stands for. In fact, the only reason I was delayed was because of the next bit of shocking news Tara relayed to me.” His gaze turns sorrowful. “My love, would you please tell me what happened?”

You grunt. Talking has never been your strong suit, but it is Gale’s preferred mode of communication, so you push through it. You tell him about the failed interview, the resulting drinking, and the fight. You try to describe your feelings along the way, knowing that it will comfort him to know more about you. At the end of your narrative, he falls silent.

Then he announces abruptly, “Let’s pack.”

“What? Why?”

Gently, he presses his hand against your cheek. His voice is firm and tender when he says, “It was never my intention to cause you such pain, or to mold you into something different than what you are now.” He grimaces. “In fact, I can scarcely believe I truly deserve to have someone as wonderful as you by my side as a friend and a wife. So we can go, far away from here, travel again, meet your parents perhaps! Anywhere that makes you happy, I will follow.”

“But what of your teaching?” You counter, and you are almost appalled when he shrugs. “I have barely started. I’m sure the esteemed, resourceful Blackstaff Academy can manage without—"

“NO!” You stumble, hands gesturing frantically. “This is your dream! Your second home, you said!”

“And you are my first,” he declares without hesitation. “I know my choice.”

Your head hangs. You feel dejected. He doesn’t get it.

There are too many thoughts swirling in your head, words starting to slump and melt and break. You can’t explain yourself, and you can’t keep up with this conversation anymore. Unlike Gale, you must see and touch to manipulate. As you fall silent, you can sense Gale’s increasing concern.

Finally, you proclaim, “I will show you tomorrow.”

---

This is why, when the morning comes, your fiancé will find himself awake before you — a rare occurrence — and reading a great puzzle in the form of a simple note, carefully pried from your fist as you doze. It reads, in handwriting he finds as endearingly boorish as its owner:

“I want to work at Blackstaff Academy too.”

Chapter 2

---

Thank YOU for reading this story. Tell me what you think! It would make my day :)

Other things that I do

[ebitenpura]

still having brainrot over Eight and Lana's own commander-and-outlander relationship bc i can't fucking sleep and have to make flop posts, but the day before he leaves is the day they sit down with one another atop his ship, watching the sunrise. (I guess this counts as a WIP whenever but I've slacked so hard this month I don't even remember how or what i've been tagged in...OTL)

they've both been made aware of one another. Lana's incomparably guilty. Eight looks at her and sighs.

"Be proud, Lana Beniko. Yours is the shield that our enemies dashed themselves on, that guaranteed a new future for all those you held dear. If you're at a loss for what to say to me: don't. No other would go so far. That is why we won."

For once in her life, Lana finds no speeches at the tip of her tongue, no ready-made phrasing that does just enough; she merely stares at her friend, (her hand), and stammers.

"I... don't know what to say. Eight, I..."

"I just told you not to." The spy feigns irritation with a roll of his eyes, then cracks a smile at her, faint and fleeting as the breaking dawn. "Neither of us were very good at listening to each other, were we."

An awkward silence descends on them. Lana is visibly discomforted, now made aware of the exact implications of such a statement. Eight had bent over backwards to follow her sense of right and wrong. Eight had devoted everything to heeding her call. She hadn't even known his reasons for doing so until the very end, blinded by her own eagerness to be saved. Her gloved hands grip the edge of their perch, white-knuckling them beneath the leather.

And she'd been none the wiser until she awoke one day to a slightly panicked holocall from base saying Eight was gone.

He'd fled. Deserted. In the traitor Theron's words, as he put it with uncharacteristic gravity to his features, "was it any surprise that he ran away? you used him-- and now he wants nothing to do with you or the Alliance. It's over."

The betrayal had stung almost as much as the revelation. They'd made up by now, but...

"Lana." Eight's voice pulls her out of her morose reverie, clear and lucid as day. His eyes lock with hers, piercing right into her soul. Lana's breath hitches, and his next words punch the air right out of her chest, like a battered hole in a damaged dreadnaught in the vacuum of space.

"Stop it. I know that look. Stop punishing yourself."

He grips her by the shoulders, shockingly earnest for a spy who concealed all emotion. Lana opens her mouth to speak, but instead of words coming forth- something unfathomable flows into her across the bridge of physical and mental contact, whisking her away on the tides of fate.

[bubbleddisasters]

Been thinking about the Traveler being reminded of Inazumas War during Natlan, and an Open Arms Reprise I saw/Heard that sparked an idea about Teppei and Vichamas deaths, so i’m about to make it everyone else’s problem.

Spoilers, obviously

————-

With every scrape of blood off the sole of her once gleaming white boots, the sound of every solider and innocent lost being counted in the rest area, she was reminded of flashing lightning.

Of Gorou returning from unsuccessful search and rescues. Of Kokomis deep eye bags, Of….him. He who never got to try on his uniform.

A dash of moonlight reflected on Paimons hair, now drained from all the tears she had shed, wrapped in the blondes scarf.

She had really been with her through everything. The one constant Lumine could always count on.

“Captain?”

The once familiar voice had the outlander turning immediately.

“Teppei?”

Smiling in his Watasumi uniform, the apparition waved happily . As if he had never died. The friendship bracelet made from his first broken dummy still tied neatly as he stood by a crackling blaze.

“Thats me! It’s been awhile, huh? You look pretty tired, you can rest here by my fire, if you want.”

As if in a haze, she moved forward, an in a foolish leap of faith, jumped to hug her fallen friend, silent tears staining his uniform as he returned the embrace.

When she pulled back, the reality came in.

“You’re dead.”

“Yup.”

“Then how..?”

Rubbing the back of his neck, the former soldier looked off to the side.

“Night…uh…Kingdom stuff? I won’t be here for long, but I met this guy in the afterlife, and he mentioned you made it here, so I wanted to check on you! He helped me out.”

“He?”

Another figure fizzled into view. One she had seen only days ago. But this form was mutilated, ripped apart. He couldn’t have….not after..

“Vichama….?”

He didn’t meet her eyes.

“Rifthounds are the worst, aren’t they?”

Prodding the small flame with a stick, the fallen sighed.

“Once this flame goes out, we’ll be gone for good. You can have my stuff if it’s not too destroyed when….if…you get back. I doubt anyone else will want it.”

“The Captain of Swordfish || will definitely make it out! You haven’t seen what she can do! She’s amazing!”

“You’re weirdly positive for someone who died a long and agonizing death, y’know.”

Eyes of gold welled, the onyx haired patting the log next to him.

“You can let it all out while we wait, Captain. The dead tell no tales, right?”

———

And so, Lumine did just that. Told him everything. Sumeru, Fontaine, and what had happened so far in Natlan. Desperately, she didn’t wish for this moment to end. If only she had obtained Pyro from the Statue, she would have made Vichamas Fire burn eternally.

As it began to fade, Teppei rose from his seat, holding out his hand toward her.

“It’s time to keep moving on Captain.”

“…How Teppei?”

Wind was his only response as she took it all in. He was right, and she knew it. As she took his hand, Vichama cut in.

“I….I know you’re probably tired of all this war and bloodshed, but you’ve got the chance to have a life to live. Someone once told me to Keep them in their heart to bring them home.”

“He’s right! And give all the kindness you can, well, if you can.”

Carefully handing Paimon into her arms, the Inazumian smiled weakly.

“Remember how even during the war, our friendship still made us both feel happy and warm? Don’t give up on making friends like me again.”

The Verdette now stood, his ripped canopy outfit getting stuck on a twig for a moment before he was able to respond.

“And I know from..you know..that you probably might feel like we like we blame you for not being able to save us, but we don’t. Atleast I don’t.”

He faded away first, tossing her a dog-tag necklace with a key attached, leaving just Lumine and Teppei, who admired the mountain view, even in the pitch darkness.

“Y’know, life really is amazing. Everyone takes it for granted until they lose it, so…”

Slipping off his identification tag from around his neck, the deceased pressed it into her hand.

“Even after all this, try to greet the world with Open arms, ok? It’s going to be hard, but I think you’re capable of anything, I really do.”

Just like Vichamas, his visage began to fade, ruffling her hair as he disappeared.

“Thanks for everything, Traveler. I couldn’t have asked for a better Captain, or a better friend.”

One final time, he smiled.

“Goodbye, my friend.”

The fire flickered to nothingness as he vanished.

——-

Paimon stirred, yawning as she shifted around in the swaddle Lumine had made with scarf as the outlander began to prepare the hot air balloon.

“Paimon had this dream about Teppei and Vichama, and a huge war in….”

As she floated to oversee the region from above, the cheeriness in her voice all but faded.

“Oh…Guess Paimon wasn’t dreaming about the war then…is…is it really not over?”

“Not yet Paimon. Soon. Open arms.”

“Open arms? Whats that supposed to mean?”

————-

____________

Link to the Open Arms Reprise that gave me this idea!:

Yea thats it.

Enjoy.

[lupineaerosol]

traveler | thomas shelby x f!reader

Not my image!

pairing : thomas shelby x time traveled!reader

word count : 3,831 :P

summary : a trip to scotland for a belated birthday celebration turns into a blast from the past when you find yourself in 1919 with no chance of getting home, until you meet someone on a train to London that tells you he can help your situation and get you a visa....

warnings : angsty at times, near death experience (hypothermia), inspector campbell being creepy for the plot, bad writing, i have no concept of how much money a british pound is so ??, warnings will change with each chapter so please read them carefully!

notes : reader is 23-27 but no specified age, this is kind of an Outlander A.U. where the reader travels through a stone circle (or cairn for this one lolz) and goes back in time

a.n. : this chapter is technically an intro to the rest of the plot that ties in with the canon + vvv descriptive bc thats my writing style :P + also i suck at summaries + just recently got back into writing as a hobby, so this might be absolute trash but I'm very proud. if anyone has any issues with the content or what i write about because it goes against anything online please let me know so i can fix it!!

Not my image!

The black hoodie clings to your skin, sopping wet and forcing a chill through your skin. In the split second it took to regain consciousness, you realize your clothes are soaked, and judging at how badly you're shivering and that you're face-down in the grass, you've been asleep in the rain for god knows how long. Rolling over the damp grass to sit up, you catch a glimpse at the location you find yourself, the cairn outside the small town you had been staying at in Scotland on vacation. 

The sky was dim, sunrise slowly encroaching over the heavy raindrops on the hills. Sitting against one of the boulders of the cairn, a shaky breath leaves your chest, fanning out in front of your face. Through the near hypothermia that's started to quickly make you sweat, a deep uneasiness started to take root, but you were far too panicked to acknowledge it in the moment.

You jumped to your feet, realizing how little time you have alive could be without action, rubbing your hands together for as much friction they could create, dancing your legs in place to wake your body back up. Attempting a warm breath into your hands barely helped your frigid and close-to-death state. The cold was numbing, the fog in your brain was all around you, mentally and physically, keeping the hilltop the cairn sat upon as an island amidst a sea of grey. And suddenly there was a faint light approaching. 

The candlelight within the squeaking lamp softened the mist, making it far more inviting than the haze the man emerged from. Your shivers halted abruptly, the uneasiness bubbled up from your stomach to your throat, a foul taste in the back of your mouth spread over your tongue. 

"'ello!! 'ello is anyone out 'ere?!" The man's shoulders shook with a powerful Scottish accent, and a strong sense of safety accompanied it. Alas, the shivers returned in full force.

"Here!" Your voice broke sharply. "I-I'm over here!" Attempting to speak up through the shakes and ambiance of early dawn proved difficult, your breathing overtaken by the cold and feverish urge to survive. 

And luck was on your side today, for the first time.

"Hello?" The gentleman turned to the sound of your voice, not expecting to find you curled in a ball and soaked to the bone. And in strange clothes that were quite unseemly for a woman of your age. The outer layer that draped over you and the denim that clad your legs were downright outlandish to the man in front of you. 'Damn Americans and their strange styles of dress'  He thought to himself quickly, before stepping lightly over to you, helping you up, and taking his overcoat off to throw across your shoulders.

The warmth was welcomed greatly. You nearly stopped shivering for a moment as the smell of worn and slightly wet leather, cologne and fire overtook you. It was the most definitive thing you could grasp on to in the few minutes, or hours, you had been conscious of.

"Ma'am, what are you doing out here at the time of morn'? You'll catch yourself a death of a cold out in this weather for much longer." The older man took your hand and led you to his carriage and horse. What am I doing out here? The reasoning escaped you through the fog, but you caught a glimpse.

A stone in your hands, turning in your palm as you walk the grounds of a historic castle. Your phone died in your hands mid photo, with the cairn in the fading pixels.

Where are you?

Your slowly warming hand finds its way into the soaked pocket of your hoodie, and alas, no such stone was to be found. Your cell phone and wallet remained, but judging by the man assisting you, there didn't seem to be much hope in asking if he had a charger you could borrow.

He paused to let you lean against the large wooden wheel of his cart, waiting a moment before speaking. A gentler tone took his voice. "Ma'am, do you remember how you got out here?"

The fog had cleared, both in your mind, and as the first bits of sunlight rose from the eastern horizon. After a pregnant pause, you responded.

"I'm vacationing here, from America." That much was true, you were from America and you were here on vacation, the only question was when you were visiting. You had flown over in a modern plane, taken a modern train from London to Edinburgh, and then a taxi to Inverness. The man in front of you made a subtle face of surprise, as if the journey you have described could have taken over 6 months, when in it only took 2 days for you to be a quarter of the way around the globe.

"I'm sorry you've found yerself so far from home, Inverness 's not a place I would expect an American to want to travel." The man moved the lantern from his hand to a metal bar attached to the seat of the carriage. He busied himself with his gloves. "If I'm correct, you're shivering out of yer britches and startin' to sweat at the same time." You nodded quickly, sharp pins and needles erupting from the skin you moved. The man brushed his hand over his chin, considering his options. 

"My daughter Isa will have coffee and a warm hearth awaitin'. Once you've warmed up we can 'elp you return to wherever ye came from." The man sounded less than enthusiastic to have an American in his home, but the desperate need of your medical situation demanded his unwilling help. No one wanted to have any connection to a dead foreigner found at a locally mysterious site known for having a frequency of people going missing when visiting.

He helped you up onto the bouncing wooden seat. The smell of horse and leather of the reigns was the second most tangible thing you could consider basing your reality off of. This was obviously not the 21st century. A young woman, possibly anywhere in the 1830's to the 1940's (judging the man's attire and horse) in a foreign country with no possible way of proving her existence via official documents. That was the reality of the matter. You had no idea when you were, and if there was a possibility of getting back to the modern day.

Focus, and compartmentalize. There will be time to deal with the larger issues later on. Don't freeze to death, and then figure out what time and day it is. Gently and slowly returning to work, your brain made its first decision of this strange crisis: Deal with it later. In the meantime, you were able to do a quick mental diagnostic ; Legs work, fingers bend and grab, your stomach growls and you understand that your guts and heart still work, you've spoken to the man, so obviously your mouth and voice still work just fine. The only outlier was what year you were inhabited by accident.

The gentleman took one last glance at the girl who had barely spoken, and urged his horse forward toward the gentle outline of a stone town a few miles away.

-

The fire overtook the crisp and clammy feeling that crawled over your body. Heat licked at your hair and half exposed arms. You had met the man's daughter, Isa, and she had practically thrown a warm cup of half brewed coffee out of half awake panic. Although your father walking into your kitchen with a strange young woman at barely 5 in the morning would alarm you as well.

Adding to the alarm, Isa was just as perplexed about your strange, "American" clothes. She was convinced no one was strange enough to wear those clothes willingly, and since you were of similar size with Isa, she gave you a few of her old clothes to wear as you warmed in front of the fire. A bulky, tan skirt slightly too tight at the waist and a thin, loose in the bosom white blouse. You sat at the hearth with a large blanket draped over your shoulders, reminiscent of the smell of the man's overcoat. 

Your clothes draped near the fire, steam coming off of your printed socks with cats on them. Isa had commented about the craftsmanship and how expensive they must have been. You barely muttered a response that would have made sense. All that time spent taking notes in World History class, and you remember nothing about Britain and Scotland after the Revolutionary war or before WWII. The grip on your phone was tight and you quietly pondered as to how you were going to keep it hidden while you were here. There was hope to get home. At least for now. 

"So you really can't remember anything?" Isa leaned over to place the back of her hand over your warm forehead. 

"Nothing from before your father found me." You only partially lied, you can't directly remember how you ended up at the cairn.

"But you remember your name, right?" Isa sat back in her chair, reaching for a cup of coffee on the dining table. 

"Oh, right, sorry. My name is (y/n)." Your answer was curt, unrevealing as possible. 

The morning dragged on. The sun was up, the clock on the wall above the sink read 7:46. Time. 

"What day is it?" You asked quietly into your coffee while attempting to cool it off. 

"Wednesday." Isa had been buzzing around the kitchen, completing various tasks but while also keeping an eye on you. Her father had toddled off somewhere else in the house, his footsteps were heard, but not yet seen in daylight. "But if you would like the specifics, it's Wednesday, February 5th, in the year 1919." 

"Thank you, Isa." 

-

Hours later and lots of planning around the limited memory you spoke about having, it was decided that Isa's father would lend you a 20 pound note he had been saving (He was subtly adamant you got his address to mail money back to him) for the trains to London, and Isa gifted you a few of her mother's worn skirts and blouses.

The plan was for you to travel back to London and hopefully return to either your home country or your family, though you knew both of these things were problematic. Isa's father, Robert, had left around 8 to ask around the town about your family, or anyone who may have traveled with you. No one had a clue. You thanked both of them urgently, and with deep appreciation. A small mental note was categorized that you should repay more than just the 20 pounds, kindness as bountiful as had been shown to you was deserved of a larger reward.

A short walk with many stumbles to the train station back to Edinburgh. The heels of your company's shoes clicked against the raised wooden deck parallel to the stone station. 

"Thank you both, for your generosity." You gripped at the skirt that fell to the tips of your toes barely covered your Chuck Taylor Converse. Isa smiled gently, holding a worn and broken leather carrying case out to you to take.

"I can't do enough to pay you all back." You made a note to include Isa's mother in the thanks, as she was also indirectly gifting you items.

"Goin' home safe," a large pause entered the conversation following Robert's comment. Isa had earlier explained that her father has a strange and unusual issue with Americans. Especially visiting somewhere like Inverness. "-Is all we can pray for." His voice was genuine, but with a hint of resentment. Not towards you, but aimed at something far larger than you. Robert was odd. Everything is odd. If you were only slightly more deranged, you would be acting just as cold and bitter as he was. 

The train whistle was enough to make you jump out of your skin slightly, and the final call for boarding passengers was announced by the conductor.

"Again, thank you both. Your kindness is appreciated more than you can imagine." Taking the bag from Isa's hands, the heft slightly surprised you, but recovered as you walked up the steps to the train. Part of you wanted to stay, see what life you could carve here while trying to get home through the cairn. The other part of you understood that there isn't a choice in going home. 

A large smile was across Isa's face when you found her among the scattered people on the raised deck, her father seemed to have already walked away and started on the walk home. A smile and wave and the train chugged into motion, steam flying behind the glass. You catch your reflection briefly. (y/e/c) eyes and an ill greenish grey colour clung to your skin, the grey skies unrelenting in their goal to forbid sunlight from reaching Scotland’s soil. It was pitiful to see yourself like this, a homesick and anxious ache bloomed in your gut. Settling into the steady chugging, the warmth of the shirt on your shoulders, and the steadiness of your seat beneath you was reality enough to coax you into a well deserved sleep. 

-

A clamorous crash awoke you from the short nap your body allowed, the train had stopped, and with it came your carrying case from the weak storage compartment situated above your head. Calming your racing heart, you leaned over to stand and pick the dry leather handle from the floor and returned the hefty item to its previous place. A huff of breath while you fall into your seat, and your pulse finally calms down. You looked out the glass at the yellow train station sign reading the carefully painted words ‘Welcome to Manchester’ slowly. 

People filed onto and off of the individual train cars, and soon enough your train car was mostly filled, all except the private aisle you suddenly shared with an older man in a bowler hat and bulky, black overcoat. Scanning him as he took the opposing corner seat in the small room.  Everything about this man was understated, his tie held no colour, nor did his vest or suitcoat. The only colour to bespeckle this man was the icy blue of his eyes, weathered by age, and his salt and pepper hair and mustache.

He carried and opened a file of paperwork close to his chest, but sitting across from him it was easy to see that he had no intention of keeping the title private; ‘TOP SECRET, SPECIAL BRANCH, BSA MUNITIONS ROBBERY : PRIME’- Suspects, finishing the sentence you couldn’t read fully. With the amount of heist movies you watched before you were thrown back in time gave you a good inference that this man was police, or whatever British version of the FBI that happened to exist in 1919.

You were shocked the man didn’t seem to acknowledge your existence in the train car, until he swiftly checked to see where your eyes had been trailing and caught you staring directly at the opened folder.

“Has your family yet taught you that staring is quite rude?” A gruff and grumbled voice projected from beneath his bushy mustache. You removed your eyes quickly from the grey-green envelope. He carried the corners back towards each other, closing the file to place it on his lap.

“They did, I apologize.” You moved to turn your body away from him, crossing your left leg over your right to lean against the window, eyes dragging sleepily over the quickly passing trees. You hadn’t even been aware the train had started moving again. Your accent seemed to surprise the man.

“American?” He queried. You nodded, turning your head back to look in his direction. “If I may be so bold and ask, are you traveling to London?”

“Yes, actually. I hope to travel home once I arrive there.” You pondered quickly over the depth of information you wanted to share with the man. “I lost my passport while visiting Inverness, I need to speak to the police in London to figure out how I can get home without it.” 

The man’s mustache lifted gently with a slight smile. “Well, I suppose it’s a good thing we met today, my name is Chester Campbell, I’m an Inspector with the Scotland yard. I can get you a travel visa in Birmingham tomorrow, and then the day after you can be on a boat in London sailing back to the states.” He enthusiastically put his hand to his knee, outwardly excited for the upcoming few days. Your warning alarms were blaring in your head, but you doubted this man would let you stray away from the plan he just created.

“May I see your identification?” You hoped he would be too excited to hear in your voice how deeply you distrusted him. “It’s awfully dangerous for a young woman like myself to be traveling with a stranger who can’t prove his identity.” A shy smile lit your face gently, hoping to ease your own tension. He gave off waves of steeled and attuned senses to something. What it was you couldn’t pinpoint, but you could barely manage to stay in the same car with the way your skin suddenly crawled.

“Of course m’lady,” He handed you his badge after drawing it from within his breast pocket on his overcoat. All his information seemed appropriate for a man of his age and stature, and your hackles smoothed down with the small comfort that he was in fact a police officer. “Anything for the comfort of the fairer sex.” 

Ew. Forget your skin crawling, you felt violently ill. But he could get you to America sooner. Although, what the hell would be good about being a woman traveling by herself to her nonexistent home in the states? Where would you even go once you got to New York? Dangers lurk around every turn, this Inspector Campbell was proof of this. I can’t give this opportunity away, as much as I dislike him. I might not get another chance to fall into my lap like this. “Thank you, Inspector.” A response finally fell through your teeth as you handed his badge back to him, and he tucked it back into its place within his coat. A tense conversation of small talk filled the remainder of the ride to Birmingham, your trust in him was nonexistent, and the hour and 30 minute ride didn’t improve it.

-

Stretching your legs from the excruciatingly long train ride was a welcomed feeling, stepping off the train and onto the Birmingham station platform. The sun was setting and you needed a drink. The trunk in your hand bumped your leg as you walked with it, eager to get away from that god forsaken room the Inspector filled with conversation through the entire ride. Swiftly asking those scattered around the buildings surrounding the station, The Garrison seemed to be the only pub within walking distance and price range, and so you started your venture to find food and drink. Your legs carried you away from the station as fast as possible before the Inspector had the chance to corner and engage you in yet another drawn-out commentary on the weather. 

The Inspector had also offered to take you out for dinner, but you refused politely as you were collecting your things on the train to leave swiftly. If an hour of his time was grating years off of your life like it seemed to have done, you can’t imagine dinner with him. It might kill you on the spot. 

The intricate details on the glass of the front façade gave The Garrison an odd aura that felt so very welcoming and warm, and yet the building itself had a feeling of owning wary and watchful eyes. Pushing through the doors, the rubber of your shoes squealed loudly against the marble flooring, catching the eyes of many of the other patrons through the frosted glass. You paused against the second set of doors to steady yourself and grip the handle of your carrying case before walking directly to the golden bar top and shimmying up onto a stool.

It wasn’t a great bar, in fact it was barely more than four walls, a few windows, and a mountain of liquor. The lighting was dim, keeping the more unseemly stains from the eyes of the customers. The woodworking of the booths behind you was gorgeous, beautiful craftsmanship that was beer spackled and possibly pissed on. The woodwork behind the bar seemed less abused, instead worn and well loved, and before you could admire it any further, the tall bartender asked you for your order.

“What food do you have here?” You asked swiftly, running on fumes and short tempered from the train ride. You, very less than subtly, reached down your shirt to where you had stashed the 20 pounds in your bra. Luckily The Garrison paid no attention, and you were able to order the largest meal the man in front of you could provide: a few slices of sourdough bread, cheese and a small chicken breast with potatoes. Pairing it with a large stein of beer, you were barely awake by last call, nearly asleep on the bar after everyone else had cleared out, except for the strange group of men that had been in and out of the corner room over the course of the night. 

“Ma’am, I hate to do this to you, but you can’t sleep at the bar tonight.” The bartender leaned against the golden surface with a rag over his shoulder. God knows what time it was, and there was no possible way of getting you to care. 

“Is there anywhere nearby for less than,” You did a quick tally in your mind to count the remaining coins in your pocket. “10 pounds a night?” Lifting your head from the counter to gaze up at the barman.

He sighed above you. “Look, don’t let anyone know about it, and I’ll let you sleep at one of the booths for tonight. You seem like a good enough woman, but tomorrow morning you are done loitering here and you’ll move along.” He bargained, and your heart leapt in your chest at the grace of the cards that have been falling into place around you. 

“Thank you so much, sir. I’ll help you open tomorrow morning if that would help at all, I really do mean to earn my keep for tonight.” You suggested, overexcited at the fact you had a place to stay the night. He seemed to chew on the idea in his mind for a moment.

“I don’t see why that wouldn’t work.” He nodded. “The name’s Harry Fenton, I own the Garrison.”

“I’m (y/n),” You smiled slightly. “And I think I will be going to bed now.”

notes pt2. : woooaaah holy crap that was a lot im so sorry for such a long intro chapter but trust itll make sense next chapter :P i legit worked on this chapter for a week and I will try my best to learn how to make a freakin masterlist now that im finally back into writing stuffs :> idk when pt 2 will be out but i can start a tag list if anyone wants to be added

[zepskies]

Outlander - Part 1

Pairing: Dean Winchester x OFC 

Summary: Dean Winchester has been stripped of his military rank, but he’s living happier with his new wife, trying to adjust to a new life in her tribe. What will it take for her people to accept him, especially when the battle for her heart might not be completely won? 

AN: Ready for some more Cowboy Dean? Here we go with Outlander Part 1! This is a sequel story directly following The Honorable Choice, where Dean not only saves the member of a Native American tribe, but falls in love with her. (She saves him a lot in return.) Now, he’ll have to learn how to live in her world if he wants to stay with her.

This sequel series will be 4 parts! 💜

Disclaimer: I first got inspired to write The Honorable Choice for @jacklesversebingo after a recent rewatch of Spirit: The Stallion of the Cimarron (with a tinge of Yellowstone in the mix). I’ve done a fair bit of research for this now ongoing series, both on the Native American Lakota tribe, and on American history during this time in the late 1800s; AKA: the Old West, during the American Indian Wars.

Jacklesverse Bingo24 Prompt: Western AU

Word Count: 5.3K

Tags/Warnings: 18+ only. Suggestiveness/implied smut and spice, hunting (in the more traditional sense), angst, hurt/comfort, and romantic fluff. **Pronunciation guide at the end!

🐎 Series Masterlist || Bingo Masterlist

Part 1: Two Worlds

Her people call this river Little Cheyenne. It’s because Big Cheyenne cuts through the land of the Sioux Indians by half, but Little Cheyenne almost meets it in the south, stretching all the way up to the Black Hills.

Mila’s tribe has always lived near this river. Its waters have bled red during battles with other tribes, and sometimes during battles with White Men.

The White Men’s fort, the one her husband came from, lies farther down in the south. The tribe had to move their village higher north along the river after Mila returned with Dean Winchester, just to be safe.

On a cloudy afternoon, Mila scrubs at a bundle of dirty clothes until they’re clean. She rinses them off in the river and is thorough about her work, but she knows she can’t be here much longer. She has a stew simmering on hot coals in her tipi…

Well, the one she now shares with her husband.

Unconsciously, she smiles. She remembers leading Dean through the tribe, to the place where she hoped he would find rest. They stopped at the foot of her tipi. 

“This one’s yours?” he asked.

She paused, giving him another small smile. 

“Ours.”

Mila continues scrubbing, though she frowns when her fingers slip through a tear in one of the new tunics she made for him (even though he keeps calling it a shirt). The tear was made by a blade, or maybe an arrowhead, she realizes. 

The crunch of feet on the riverbed’s gravel makes her raise her head and look over her shoulder. Unease prickles down her spine. She braces herself for a familiar shadow, come to disturb her peace.    

But then she relaxes. She’s being joined by two of the older women in her tribe. Mila has known them her whole life, and so she calls them tunwin. Aunt. They both greet her kindly and kneel beside her with their own bundles of clothes for washing, but Eyota, the older one, has a sharper eye. She is their tribe’s medicine woman. 

“Your husband wears out his clothes,” she remarks.

“He’s been working hard training with Šóta and the other men,” Mila explains.

“He seems to be learning quickly,” says Misae. She has a more playful glint in her eyes. “Who knew that you could catch and tame a White Man. Looks like they are no different from wild horses.”

Mila smiles slightly, but it’s not genuine. She nods in agreement. “He’s learning quickly.”

She holds her tongue from saying anything else, even though she wants to. Dean isn’t a man to be tamed, any more than she was, in his people’s eyes. She aims to change the subject. 

“Do you have any good herbs or spices for wahonpi? I’ve had the stew simmering all morning,” she asks Eyota. Not only is she a gifted healer, but Eyota is also one of the best cooks, and she knows it. She nods and straightens her shoulders the way she always does when someone asks her for advice—and even when they don’t ask for it.

“Of course, child. What you need is…”

“Goddamn it,” Dean huffs under his breath.

The jackrabbit flees from him again, or more accurately, from his terribly aimed arrow. He’s an excellent marksman…just not with a bow, it seems.

He doesn’t know what he’s doing wrong here, and he’s not likely to figure it out. Not by the way Takoda, Šóta, and the other men are laughing at him.

Dean resists the urge to roll his eyes. He knows when he’s being hazed.

These men are bare-chested warriors, each of them richly tanned under the sun. Most of them wear their hair long, half of it gathered high on their heads, or braided in some way. Šóta is his wife’s cousin, and as the Chief’s son, he wears a small adornment of eagle feathers threaded into his hair. His closest friends are Takoda and Otaktay. Both of them laugh at Dean the most, and in their language, using just enough gestures and body language that Dean knows he’s being talked about. They point at his boots and his brown Stetson hat—two of the only things he’s kept of his own that make him feel comfortable in his own skin.

Finally, Šóta goes over to him. “Good try,” he says, in his usual patronizing tone.

Dean knows he can’t punch out Mila’s cousin, no matter how bad he’s asking for it. Somehow, Dean manages to hold onto his temper.

“What’re they saying?” he asks lowly, gesturing at the two chuckle brothers.

Šóta’s lips twitch. He glances down at Dean’s feet. “They say your…shoes are loud on the earth. You give yourself away before the animal even catches your scent.”

Dean’s given up a lot of things, but his boots won’t be one of them. He wants to learn. He wants to belong here, in Mila’s world, but he also wants to stay himself.

So the men move on, mounting their horses. Dean rides with Baby at a plodding clip. Her black coat ripples with a healthy sheen. He thinks she’s come to enjoy the more natural surroundings and freer pasture of the grasslands, and he can’t deny, this part of it all feels right. The sun peeks through between the dappled leaves of oak trees, painting the ground in red, green, and gold. It’s quiet and beautiful here as Šóta leads the pack through the forest, just southwest of the village.

Eventually, he stops them between a denser thatch of trees and shrub. He raises a hand signal that Dean’s come to recognize. He raises his bow belatedly after the others though. He follows Šóta’s line of vision, and there is a deer grazing in a small clearing. A young buck.

Šóta signals at Dean. Try again, his eyes say.

Dean takes in a deep, quiet breath through his nose, and he takes aim.

He really misses his damn rifle.

Dean shoulders the sting of failure while he makes his way through the camp, leading Baby by the reigns. He drops her off at the large horse pen. There he feeds her and brushes her long coat, all while murmuring soft affectionate things. She’s still one of his only friends here.

But even she leaves him short to join her new friend, Mato. The two have become thick as thieves. Mato greets the black mare with a friendly whinny. Their noses touch in affection, and Mato playfully nips at her ear.

Dean raises his brows. “Well, that’s a little more friendly than usual. You guys start courting when I wasn’t looking?”

He walks over to Mato, who’s softened up to him in recent weeks.

“You sly dog,” Dean remarks, smirking. “Didn’t even ask me for her hand.”

Mato blows a hot breath through his nose at Dean, who has to blink, wiping his face.

“Now that’s just rude.” Still, he offers the mustang an apple from his pocket. Mato takes it from his palm, letting Dean rub his neck while he munches on his snack. “As fathers-in-law go, you lucked out, pal. See? I’m a delight.”

He wouldn’t be surprised if Baby had her first foal by spring. Dean grins at the thought, but it soon falls. If only his father-in-law were so easy to please.

His mind dwells on it as he starts making his way back to the heart of the village. Chatan, Mila’s father, hasn’t warmed up to him any better than Šóta or the other men. Tahatan is the only one of them who treats Dean civilly, and overall, he seems to be a good leader.

Dean has that thought, just when he sees the older man himself walking with a woman Dean sort of recognizes. She wears a long necklace made of blue beads and seashells. Tahatan goes into her tipi, even though Dean knows…that woman isn’t the Chief’s wife.

Dean raises his brows, but he subtly pivots on his heel and takes a different route back to his own tipi. Whatever he just saw, it’s definitely not his business.

“Honey, I’m home,” he teases.

She welcomes him into her arms, her hands traveling warmly up his shoulders. He bends to kiss her, soft and slow at first. And then deeper, sucking on her lower lip and teasing her with a sensuous tongue. She hums in surprise into his mouth, making him smile.

He’s exhausted and feeling low, but he doesn’t want to let on to her. He just wants to forget about his day, and hopefully recharge with a better night.

“How did it go today?” she asks, after he allows her to breathe.

Dean nods (and lies). “Pretty good.”

She waits for him to continue. When he just continues to hold her, she raises her brows up at him.

“Dean?”

“What? I’m workin’ on archery. Lots of progress.”

She eyes him in suspicion, and he knows he doesn’t have her fooled. Actually, she looks like she’s going to press him about it, so he releases her from his hold and goes to change out of his dirty clothes to avoid her gaze.

“Hey, uh, maybe it’s none of my business, but I saw the Chief go into some other woman’s tent today. Holding hands, bedroom eyes, the whole deal,” he says while he changes. He glances back at her and waggles his brows. Mila smiles slightly.

“Did she wear her hair in a half-braid, or did she wear a necklace made of seashells?” she asks.

Dean’s surprised that she doesn’t seem surprised, but he thinks back to what he saw.

“Uh, seashells. Yeah, she wore seashells,” he says.

Mila nods. “Yes, that woman is also his…the chiefs of my people are known to take more than one wife.”

At that, Dean becomes even more surprised. He finishes dressing and leaves his boots by the tipi’s entrance. His raised brows even out into a smirk.

“Well, okay. Guess it’s good to be Chief,” he says.

Mila’s lips purse as she eyes him narrowly. She goes back to stirring the stew with a wide, wooden spoon. Dean doesn’t see her reaction, but he does notices that something’s missing from his side of the bedding. He frowns.

“Hey, where’s my gun?” He asks Mila, who shakes her head without looking at him.

“I moved it,” she curtly replies.

Dean’s frown deepens. He touches her arm to get her attention.

“I’d rather you didn’t do that, baby,” he says. He’s made sure that she knows the basics of a gun well enough, but he doesn’t want to take the chance of her hurting herself.

“Don’t leave it out, then,” she snips back. “It shouldn’t go where we sleep.”

Dean tilts his head at her. He’s a bit confused at her tone, especially because they’ve had this conversation before.

“I have it there just in case something happens at night,” he reminds her. His pistol is really just for emergencies though. There are only three bullets left in it, and he can’t exactly go shopping for more. 

Dean realizes then that Mila’s mood has shifted. He approaches her from behind.

“What’s wrong, huh?” His hands find familiar purchase along the curve of her waist. He swipes her braid away and presses a kiss where her neck meets her shoulder. More teasingly, he asks, “What’d I do now?”

Mila remains tight-lipped, until she glances at him over her shoulder.

“Do you want another woman?” she asks.

It’s a simple question, but it succeeds in completely tripping him up. He blinks at her, incredulous and bewildered.

“What?”

She continues shredding another herb to put into the stew. Somehow, it makes the broth smell a bit worse. 

“You seem to admire the Chief for having three wives, so you must want another one too,” she says.

Holy shit, three wives? Dean wonders. The man must be a saint. Look at the hell I’m catching with one.

He can’t help but laugh, a deep belly chuckle that does nothing to take away Mila’s ire. She glares at him now, genuinely upset, and Dean knows he’s starting to shit the bed on this one. He sobers up and raises his hands in surrender.

“Sweetheart,” he says, in a placating tone.

Despite her annoyance, she allows him to hold her again. He plies her with more tantalizing kisses along her neck. He breathes in the sweet-smelling oil she uses on her hair.

“You’re more than enough woman for me. You know that, right?” he whispers against her skin. It earns her slight shudder, and he smiles. He teases the spot just under her ear, grazing with his teeth, then soothing with his tongue. She can’t help but writhe against him a bit. It stirs a well of desire in his lower belly, especially when he squeezes her hips, pressing himself to her from behind.

She tries to remain strong as she clears her throat, no doubt feeling his growing hardness against her. She starts to blush hotly.

“It’s all I can do just to make sure you stay sweet for me,” Dean says, a hint of teasing returned to his voice.

Mila finally breaks into a laugh. She reaches back to swat him on the head, but his ministrations work. Once she manages to escape from his grasp with a teasing smile of her own, she more happily serves him a bowl of stew.

Dean smirks. Fine, he can be patient. He’ll just have to wait until dessert, then. After a moment to calm himself, he sits down on the ground beside her and brings a large spoonful of stew to his lips. There, he pauses. The strange taste that assaults his tongue nearly makes him choke, but he does his best to swallow it down. The meat’s tough as nails, for Christ’s sake…

Hearing a spoon clatter against the bowl, he chances glancing at Mila. She sits stock still, her brows furrowed as she frowns. Slowly, she sets the bowl down and says,

“Stop eating.”

She looks angry at herself. Dean feels bad for her, his sympathy striking at his chest.

“What do you mean? I’m hungry,” he says, and gamely takes another couple of bites.

She just watches him. Her upset worsens while he tries and fails to cover up a hacking cough.

Finally, Mila can stand no more. She takes the bowl from him, making some of the foul broth slosh over their hands and onto the ground. She tried to make wahonpi, one of the most basic soups in her people’s culture, made from bison, potatoes, corn, and carrots stewed in the broth.

Eyota told me it was simple! she thinks in dismay. How did it go so wrong?

“It’s no good,” she says, her voice hard. “I will go to my mother and see what she cooked. She may have extra for us.”

She rises to her feet, and Dean quickly follows her. He catches sight of her tears, even though she turns her face away from him to grab her shoes. He reaches out and stops her with a hand on her arm. He tugs her back to face him.

“Hey, it’s okay. Why’re you getting so upset?” he says. “I’m not picky. I’ll eat whatever you make.”

Or maybe next time, I’ll try doing the cooking, he thinks.

“Because!” she blurts. Tears well up in her eyes and begin to slip down her cheeks, no matter how much she tries to brush them away. “Because you shouldn’t have to eat it. Because it should be good. You deserve to eat something good!”

Mila finally realizes why her mother tried so hard to teach her these things. She’s embarrassed, feeling sorry for herself, but it’s also far worse than that. Her heart hurts knowing what Dean has gone through, and what he continues to go through for her sake. The least she could do is make sure he eats well, and it seems she can’t even do that.

“Mila,” he says with a sigh. He guides her into his embrace. “It’s okay, sweetheart.”

She can’t allow herself to be comforted. She pushes at his chest to look up at him.

“You think I don’t know what happens outside?” she says. “It’s a small village, and people talk when they think I’m not listening. I know what the men are doing to you.”

Dean shakes his head stubbornly. “It’s fine. I can handle it.”

“You should not have to,” she insists, resting a hand over his heart. “You have proven yourself to be a man of honor. Tahatan said it himself. They should not be this way.” 

Dean smiles ruefully. “I can handle it.” 

He bows his head and captures her lips, plying her with a deeper kiss. The heat of it grows and becomes more than a distraction, more than comfort. It strips everything else away, until it’s just the two of them again, like the night she found him at the riverbank and held him until he woke up in her arms.

What they eat doesn’t matter. Other people don’t matter. All that matters is this.

He squeezes her hips and presses her harder against him, so she can feel every part of his desire. She moans into his mouth, curling her fingers into his shirt. So he guides her down to the bedding, where he shows her what he’d rather get a taste of.

Later that evening, Mila and Dean have dinner with her parents. Her mother, Weaya, is a gracious host, treating Dean both like a guest and a proper son-in-law. She gives him a special cut of braised bison meat, not to mention extra corn and potato hash. Chatan says nothing to him and eats in gruff, stoic silence. 

Dean can tell it both hurts and annoys his wife, but he has to focus on answering Weaya’s many questions about his life—mainly about his family and the farm he grew up on. In some ways, raising crops and rearing up cows, chickens, and horses there isn’t so different from the Lakota village.  

“You must miss that place. Your home,” she says. Dean meets his mother-in-law’s eyes, pausing in polishing off the meat sauce on his plate with a piece of bread. Chatan looks up from his meal, and so does Mila, who hesitates too. He sees the thread of her concern there, behind her eyes, so Dean hides the stab of sadness that hits him every time he thinks of Lawrence. 

“Sometimes,” he admits. He looks over at Mila. “But I’m not alone. That’s what matters.”

She smiles at him softly. Dean has the urge to take her hand, maybe raise it up to his lips, but he’ll leave that for when they’re alone. He doesn’t want to upset her father any more than he has just by sitting in Chatan’s house. Tent…whatever.

He’s glad when, after almost another hour and a round of hot tea, Mila finishes chatting with her mother and stands. It means they can finally get the hell out of here. No disrespect to her parents, but with so much change happening so quickly, Dean had been able to put Lawrence out of his mind for a while. Tonight he thinks about his mom and his brother more than makes him comfortable on their way through the village. He follows Mila inside their tipi, then starts up a candle while she gets ready to rest for the evening. 

Living here is like going back in time—before the lantern, before indoor plumbing and the water heater. It’s not a huge hardship for Dean, who’s spent a lot of his life sleeping on hard, dusty ground, or military bases with less than most modern amenities, but it’s still another adjustment. 

He undresses down to his pants and settles down to the bedding and furs, waiting for his wife. She kneels beside him after undressing down to just her shift. He lays on his back with an arm tucked behind his head, and he watches her unbind her long, dark hair, undoing the braid from the bottom strands. She has this concentrated look on her face, like her mind is far away, even though she’s right here next to him. He threads his fingers through her loose hair while she works, giving her a smile.   

“You okay?” he asks. 

Mila pauses. She lets her tresses escape from her fingers and reaches for him, laying her hand on his chest. Dean holds it there and finally allows himself to press a kiss into her palm. 

I’m sorry, is what she wants to say, but she knows he’ll only reply, For what?

So she lowers down and slips into his warm embrace, as if this can make them both forget the day. She rests her cheek over his beating heart. 

“You will never be alone,” she promises. 

Dean quirks a smile. Instead of answering, he brushes her cheek tenderly with his hand, and he closes his eyes. A few deep breaths later, and he finds sleep.

The candle slowly flickers out.   

On most nights, Mila falls asleep before Dean, and so his light snores don’t bother her. Tonight, even though she’s tried, she can’t tune out his rumbles. Or maybe it’s her own mind she can’t tune out.

She carefully maneuvers out of his hold and slips on her shoes. Maybe the moon will give her clarity tonight. 

She pushes open the front flap of the tent and steps out into the cooler air. She looks up at the moon’s white-blue glow, a wide crescent peeking out from between two large clouds. A strong breeze tugs at her hair and flutters her lashes when she closes her eyes. She crosses her arms when goosebumps spread across her tan skin.

“What troubles you, Kimmímila?”

The voice is steady and male, and all too familiar. Still, the intrusion startles her. Her eyes fly open wide and she jolts, inhaling sharply. She frowns when she realizes it’s him. 

“What are you doing? It’s late,” she says.

He steps out from the shadows with his pipe in hand. He smells strongly of tobacco. Her father and uncle smoke as well, but she doesn’t like it herself. She’s glad Dean doesn’t either.  

“Easing my mind,” he says, raising his pipe. “I see you’re up to the same thing.”

Mila shakes her head. She returns her attention to the moon. “Go. You shouldn’t be here.”

“Are we not friends, Mila?” he says. “Can’t we talk and share like we used to?”

His voice is disheartened enough that it earns her gaze. She sighs at him. 

“I am sorry, but I can’t give you what you want,” she says. “Don’t test me anymore.”

He pauses with his pipe in hand. It drops to his side, and he takes measured steps closer, until he’s looking down at her. Even with the litheness of his form, he’s still taller and broader than her. His long, dark hair is half pulled onto the top of his head, threaded together with a beaded leather string she made for him when they were children. He has used it ever since. The rest of his hair lays loose down his back, brushing his arms. 

“If you actually loved him, it wouldn’t be a test,” he teases.  

He tries to touch her cheek, but she guides his hand down. She shakes her head and steps away from him. 

“This isn’t a game,” she says. “You know I mean what I say.”

His anger and frustration surfaces, with a sharp exhale of breath and the crunch of his dark brows.

“You would choose the Outlander over your own people,” he accuses.

Mila’s gaze is firm as she heads back to her tipi. If he will not be reasonable, then she will make it clear enough to hurt. 

“I choose him over you,” she says. 

Then, she slips back inside.     

The shadow outside remains, just long enough for the moon to become clear past the moving clouds. 

In the morning, Mila goes to her uncle, Chief Tahatan. She finds her parents there in his tipi as well, all of them sharing breakfast. Her aunt passes around more bread and wojapi, a sweet mixed berry sauce, while her father is resting a broken ankle. He’s complaining again, even though it happened over a week ago now. 

“If you hadn’t let the horse buck you off, you wouldn’t be hurting,” she says sharply now. She’s become annoyed with his griping. “Or better yet, you can finally admit that you’re beyond the years of breaking young stallions.” 

Chatan is the Horsemaster of their tribe, and has been since Mila was a little girl, inheriting the position from her great uncle, the former chief’s younger brother. Mila knows, however, that Chatan is getting too old to do the harder work. Many years have meant many battles too, and they’ve taken their toll on his bones. 

An idea grows in her mind, and she goes to sit beside her father. She applies the poultice Eyota gives Weaya for him, before rewrapping his ankle.

“Father,” she begins, imploring him gently, “perhaps Dean could help you care for the horses.”

Chatan eyes her with a frown. “Your husband already has his hands filled with training.” 

“Šóta and Takoda can’t do it all themselves, and Dean has experience with breaking young horses,” she reasons.  

Chatan ignores her and hefts himself to his feet without her or his wife’s help. He leaves with her mother on his heels, even though she looks back at her daughter apologetically. You know your father, her eyes say. 

Mila frowns at his back, both frustrated and upset. When they’re gone, she heaves a sigh. She remains determined though. 

She goes to Chief Tahatan next. He sits in his chair of whicker and wood while he smokes his pipe. Her aunt has gone to help the other women harvesting chokeberries and wild onions. Mila will go there soon, but first, she has business here.

“Uncle,” she says. 

He makes a sound of acknowledgement, crossed between a grunt and a groan. He knows what's coming. She kneels at his feet and touches his hand in a sign of humbleness, reverence, and familial love all at once. 

“Uncle,” she repeats. “Dean has done nothing but try to please Father, but still, he’s being stubborn…will you talk to him? Please?”

Tahatan sighs deeply. “You must understand your father, child. The decision you’ve made affects us all.”

“I do understand, Uncle. But the truth of it is, none of you have given Dean a chance to prove himself.”

“His chance is right now,” Tahatan says, his tone more stern. “Have I not been gracious? Did I not allow him to stay and live among us?”

“Yes, but you continue to judge him in your mind, like everyone else,” she says. The Chief remains quiet. She moves to stand before him, holding his gaze directly. “Let us perform the Huŋkápi.”

Huŋkápi. The Making of Relatives. Her people first created the tradition to make peace between Lakota and rival tribes, like the Ree. It can even be used to unite extended families within the tribe, especially in times of marriage. There is no better time for it, she thinks. 

The Chief shakes his head. “Kimmímila.”

“Is he not my husband?” she says. “In the eyes of our people, this is the joining of two families, and accepting an outsider into our tribe. That is exactly what the ceremony is for.”

“He has no family,” Tahatan snaps. “It is not exactly the tradition.”

“Then let us make it new,” she argues.

Tahatan hesitates. He shakes his head and rubs at his chin in a gesture of long-suffering. He thanks the spirits that he never had daughters. While he loves his niece, he has never envied his brother. 

“I will think on it,” he says. 

Mila frowns, but she tries her best to accept this, for now. She thanks him respectfully and leans in to kiss his cheek. Tahatan grunts an acknowledgement and watches her go with another shake of his head, despite a small smile. Between her and his sons, they will keep adding years to his life. 

On her way out of the Chief’s tipi, she runs into her cousin, Šóta. He walks with all the comfortable cockiness of a rooster among his harem.

“Good morning, sister,” he greets, even as he playfully pulls at her braid and tosses it into her face.

She flicks it away and meets him with an irritated frown. She’s in no mood to be teased, especially by him. “You’re still a child.”

“Ho-ho, hey now,” he chuckles, and he cuts off her path by standing in her way, crossing his arms. “Watch it. When I become Chief, don’t think I’ll let you talk to me so disrespectfully, my sister.”

“Just because you will be Chief one day does not make you wise,” she says. Her voice is as sharp as the snap of a blackberry vine. “And don’t call me sister. You have lost that right.”

Šóta finally becomes serious; he realizes that she means what she says.

“What are you talking about? What have I done?” he asks, more earnestly.

“It’s what you haven’t done,” Mila snaps. “If you were a good leader, you would take your father’s words to heart when he accepted my husband into our tribe. If you were my brother, you wouldn’t let the men mock him. If you were a man at all, you would do what is right. You would be guiding him right now, instead of letting the others ‘train’ him.”

She storms away from him, leaving Šóta feeling irritated, but also with an uncomfortable feeling beginning to churn in his gut. 

Mila moves brusquely through the camp until she reaches the clearing edged by the forest. There the horses are fenced in. They’ve been given their food and water for the morning, so they’re rather frisky as they clop around and graze.

She looks for Mato. Baby is no doubt with Dean today, so the Kiger mustang keeps to himself underneath a large sycamore tree. His tail flicks when she approaches, and he turns to her with a sound of greeting. She allows her hand to run along his dun-colored coat as she draws closer.

“I need you, my friend,” she whispers. 

She holds his snout, pressing her forehead against his as she squeezes her eyes shut against the burn of frustrated tears. Mato bumps her shoulder with his nose, softly whinnying. She smiles, sniffling, and rubs his cheek. 

“Let’s go for a ride.”

AN: Well, here we go! Sorry for ending on some angst, but here we've got the pieces in motion for a fun-filled, four-part sequel. 😂💜 Dean and Mila are both struggling in their own ways while he tries to navigate this new world he's trying to live in.

And how do you think he's gonna react to the "mystery man" trying to win her back? 😬

Pronunciation Guide:

Šóta ("sho-tah") Chatan ("chat-tan") Tahatan ("ta-hat-tann") Otaktay ("ogh-tac-tay") Weaya ("we-ayy-ya") Takoda ("ta-koda") Mato ("matt-toe") Misae ("mee-sah-eh")

Next Time:

But she feels a shadow at her feet as she ventures through the village. They are getting bigger as a tribe, harder to move when they need to, and it’s more mouths to feed, but it’s also a good thing. Despite all the challenges the past few decades have brought, their people are enduring. 

However, she pushes these thoughts to the back of her mind when she feels a prickling down the back of her neck. It’s followed shortly by the strong hand that closes on her wrist, and the man that calls her name. 

She gasps and whips around. He is there, gently shushing her. She glares at him and tries to pull her hand out of his grip. 

▶️ Keep Reading: PART 2

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(Going back to the regular Dean tag list, plus those who said they'd like to be tagged on this series!)

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[tinandabin]

THE CREATOR'S BELOVED pt.3

____

You had grown quite tired of living in this same old bland room. And it isn't like the archons were hovering above you 24/7 like some kind of mosquito. I mean, they did have their duties to attend to after all. So most of the time you were left in the care of some servants and a few knights here and there.

You are but a weak, fragile mortal in their eyes. They weren't really all that worried about you running away, look at it, where could you even run away? No matter where you would still be in Teyvat so they would find you one way or another. Sure, it was annoying. But who was to say you can't leave Teyvat? There isn't really any concrete evidence. If you can be brought into this world, then surely you can also leave. That's how it always works.

Thinking of it now, it was weird. Like Genshin Impact is just a game. How could you even be brought here? As the 'Creator's beloved' nonetheless. All of this thinking was making your head hurt.

Exiting your room, you causally made your way towards the front door intending to leave as quickly as you can. But of course, things never go the way you want.

"Your Creator's Beloved, I do not think that you are permitted to leave at this time of the day." The head maid told you. She told you the same phrase everyday and you would sigh and go back to your room every single day. But man, not today. Today you were gonna wreak havoc upon everyone.

"Oops, would you look at that? I seem to have run out of the fucks I give."

"Your Creator's Beloved, that is extremely rude and inappropriate! I forbid you from going out."

"And I forbid you from speaking to me, bye Becca."

"Huh? That is not my na-" Before she could finish her sentence, you had already made your leave and were running faster than 'Becca' could with her old miserable legs. You didn't win gold medals in every marathon in your school for nothing.

___________

You didn't quite know which state you were in, none of the archons bothered telling you. You were but a mere decoration meant to please this Creator of theirs. You felt pissed. So obviously, you went and punched a tree and 2 or 3 lavender melons fell. At least you knew where you were now. Inazuma. Had the traveller reached here? Or were they still in Liyue perhaps? Maybe they could help you escape. I mean, they too are an outlander. Probably the only one to understand your struggles.

"Hey boss, check out that chick over there!"

"Damn, she would probably fetch a good amount."

You heard some voices not too far away and saw the treasure hoarders you would kill for your Kaeya. They rarely fucking dropped golden raven insignia.

"No thanks," You mumbled, getting ready to run away because you were no way in hell gonna fight these jacked-up guys. It was way easier to fight them in the game, but in real bro. You don't even have a fucking vision. The disrespect. Couldn't you at least have a vision? What's the point in being the creator's beloved.

And so you ran.

Well, you tried to. Hey, at least you tried! It's the thought that counts.

Somehow, don't ask how, somehow the Treasure Hoarders tied you up and were just talking within themselves. Rude to not even include you in the conversation!! Bitches.

"Man, her clothes look so luxurious too! Is she a rich man's daughter or some?"

"We ought to let her go. What if we get caught? Wouldn't be surprised. She looks hella loaded.."

And thus an argument began. Whether to let you go or keep you. Really, they didn't have a choice. The dumb Archons would probably find you easily.

But looks like you didn't have to wait for that to happen, because soon enough someone else arrived. And just blew all the Treasure hoarders away. Hahaha.

"Are you alright, miss?" The boy with white hair and a red streak politely asked you, sheathing his sword. ( is it katana or sword? )

"Uh, yes. I'm okay. Thank you!!" You replied, as he undid your bindings.

"I'm Kaedehara Kazuha, pleased to make your acquaintance." Kazuha smiled at you. Oh God, his cute little smile. You just wanna squish his cheeks.

"I'm...[Name]." You replied with a smile of your own. Your existence to the whole of Teyvat was practically unknown. Only the Archons and a few maids knew you existed. So perhaps, this can play in your favour.

"Well then, Miss [Name]. I will be heading off. I hope you return home safely!" He got up and started leaving, assuming your house was nearby.

"No, wait-wait! Can you help me?" You jogged up to him, how he fuck did he go so far away in barely 1 minute? Inhumane.

Now to hope he does help you.

______

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