#i wrote a second chapter actually!

[9haharharley1]

Chapters: 2/? Fandom: Spies In Disguise (2019) Rating: Mature Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Walter Beckett/Lance Sterling, Walter Beckett/Killian Characters: Walter Beckett, Lance Sterling, Killian (Spies In Disguise) Additional Tags: Romantic Comedy, My attempt at a romcom, oh boy, Fluff, Smut, Cute, Humor, just trying to keep it light-hearted, Maybe - Freeform, just Killian and Lance having a dick measuring contest, i just want to see then make a Walter sandwich ok?, Im a simple woman, Pining, so much pining Summary:

"Our agents are safer than they've ever been thanks to you."

Walter's heart soared at the admission.

"Which is why," the woman closed the program, "we're going to give your proposal a trial run."

"Really?" Walter gasped.

She nodded. "Despite his history, Killian has been a model prisoner. We don't know what he wants, but we need his information. And he wants to talk to you. With that in mind, we're setting up an official trial run to rehabilitate him, and in the meantime, get the answers we need from him."

"There is a catch, though," Jenkins took over. "Your proposal hinges on near 24/7 surveillance. Cameras from every angle outside the property the initiate is staying on, and an agent living in-house with the prisoner. Since this is your idea and Killian wants to speak with you, you will be the agent monitoring him."

"What?!"

---

Chapter 2's up!!

[psychomusic]

so. I've been reading some posts on the jedi order tag AND i won't talk about my opinion on "are jedi good or bad discourse" BUT i wanna point out some lore to everyone who's complaining about the jedi taking kids into their order: (in the EU) it wasn't always like this.

if you take swtor era (more than 3000 years before the prequels) there were many jedi who joined at an older age. like, for example there was a guy who broke his engagement to become one. most jedi remember their families because they were old enough when they decided to go.

THEN in darth bane's book trilogy (circa 1000 yesrs before the prequels) there is a passage where two sith lords are talking about taking bane, already an adult, to study at korriban. one doubted him because he was too old, ans the other told him he sounded like a jedi, and that ONE DAY jedi will have to accept only kids into their ranks if they really want to find "pure" people that can learn their lessons quicker.

one day!! so it wasn't always like that!! the ongoing wars with the sith, who corrupted and killed many of them, had pressured them into taking always younger people into their ranks.

also, consider a thing that this video explains super well: training to become a jedi is not like exercising, because there is a transformative lesson at the end of the training that changes everything. you can't just do as much as you can, but not finish.

the transformative lesson, as the video explains, is that through the force, everything is the same - from rocks and ships to life and death. at the end of the training you have to understand this fundamental truth.

yoda says "you have to unlearn what you have learned". during times where they were constantly killed off or corrupted by the dark side (and if you haven't learned this lesson you are more susceptible to this corrupting), younger people were taken in to actually finish their training (a training that was ultimately about being a good person AND that you could leave at any point if you weren't sold on that, too)

(remember that for the sith failure = death. like. that was the alternative for force sensitive kids. it's not like sith had any moral problem with taking kids away without consent. sith don't have moral problems: they believe that them being stronger in the force means they can do whatever they want as long as their strong enough to go and do it. there are MANY passages in many different star wars stories, even in different mediums, that say this out loud)

AND (this is more of a critical thought than just stating the lore) the fact that they started doing it out of necessity doesn't mean it's 100% good BUT you know. the whole set up of the prequels is that we're starting off the story in a period of crisis and decadence all around. most of the systems of the times were about to fall. OF COURSE they had problems. if they didn't, we wouldn't have the story to begin with.

that doesn't automatically mean jedi = bad and sith are better, tho. you wouldn't take the last, chaotic and decadent period to jugde something, would you? it's like deciding that the athenian democracy sucked because people at the times of Demosthenes failed at recognizing the new schemes in which the world was evolving into, and still believed that their city would be important as it had been in the previous century. They just didn't fucking expect the Macedons would conquer half the world known and more, and have the subsequent political power. Still, their experiences in the 5th century with democracy were very good, even better than ours on many fronts, if you contextualize a little. the jedi had flaws, and most importantly, they didn't fucking know the future and everything that ever happened, ever, so they made mistakes. that doesn't automatically make the system ill, or bad, or not-working. systems can have setbacks when the world changes. (just like athenian democracy had one when they lost the empire that was funding the democracy. they even had a tyranny for a while and then fixed the problems. that doesn't diminish retrospectively their democracy)

[undertale-fic-librarby]

https://archiveofourown.org/works/49679263/chapters/125392051

Have you seen this?

Howdy, & thanks for the recommendation! The fic being recommended is…

In The Rubble Of Our Sins, I Grow by Z1pperZoomin (General Audiences, Incomplete)

Dream watches nature grow over what he once knew (tags will update as i add more chapters)

[reliablejoukido]

Someone just gave me a shit sandwich comment on a fic and it’s like… don’t do this. Don’t do this to me and don’t do it to other people.

[partystoragechest]

A story of romance, drama, and politics which neither Trevelyan nor Cullen wish to be in.

Canon divergent fic in which Josephine solves the matter of post-Wicked Hearts attention by inviting invites four noblewomen to compete for Cullen's affections. In this chapter, Trevelyan has someone she'd like to impress.

(Masterpost. Beginning. Previous entry. Next entry. Words: 3,848. Rating: all audiences, bar a few swears.)

Chapter 42: The Ball

The Great Hall was adorned in its finest, the banners of the Inquisition unfurled. A quartet played upon the dais, the floor before them awaiting its dancers. Attendees of every strata—advisors, digintaries, mages, soldiers—exhibited their most exquisite attire, anticipating the arrival of their guests of honour.

The door thundered open. A herald announced their names:

“Presenting! Lady Erridge of West Coldon, Lady Samient of Samient, Baroness Touledy of Val Misrenne, and Lady Trevelyan, of Ostwick!”

The Ladies strode in, none finer than they. Lady Erridge wore her pinkest, most ruffliest dress yet; Lady Samient wore her tightest, of dark, snakish leather; the Baroness wore her most glamorous, a gown in deep and passionate red—with a mahogany cane to match, of course.

Trevelyan entered last of all. The ballgown she wore? Unrecognisable.

The black brocade was gone, the lace ripped from its seams with wicked delight. All that remained was perfect canvas of purest navy, onto which it could be painted—with shining, silvery thread.

Her mother would’ve fumed at the very idea. But what good was learning embroidery, if one did not use it in defiance? Each Lady had taken up a quadrant of her own, yet the stitches they had sewed were all the same: dozens upon dozens of tiny, shimmering, stars.

Trevelyan sparkled with every step. Diamonds glittered around her neck, lent eagerly by the Baroness. Every candle’s flame glistened upon her. Even the night sky could not compare.

Were it not for the musicians, the room would have been stunned to silence. Whispers of admiration made their circuit. Trevelyan drank in the praise, striding through the parting crowds. They led her to the foot of the dais, where the Ladies had gathered, and where an elegant figure—clothed in blue and gold—stood tall. With little more than a smile and a gesture, Lady Montilyet brought the room to a hush.

“Friends of the Inquisition!” she proclaimed. “Thank you for attending! If I may, I wish to propose a small toast, to some of our departing guests.”

She raised her glass. “A toast to Lady Erridge and Lady Orroat, to the union of your families and of Coldon! A toast to the Baroness Touledy, for victory in Val Misrenne! And a toast to Lady Samient, for her safe journey home!”

Glasses and steins clinked together, accompanied by a hearty cheer.

“But to Lady Trevelyan of Ostwick,” Montilyet continued, “we do not say farewell. Gathered friends, may I please introduce you, to our new Arcanist!”

Applause went up, echoing off the walls, and filling the room with joy. Trevelyan laughed in delight, and caught glimpses of her friends amongst the crowd. Varric clapped, Dorian hollered, and even Sera cheered—though none were as enthusiastic as Dagna herself!

Still, there was one face she could not quite find.

“Tonight, we celebrate!” Montilyet declared. “So please, enjoy!”

The band launched into triumphant fanfare; good humour and good company were the orders of the evening. The Ladies, all aflutter, went about these goals with giddiness and verve.

“Won’t you come dance?” asked Erridge, having already recruited Lady Orroat to her cause.

Trevelyan startled, her attention elsewhere. She stumbled and stammered over her excuses. “Oh! Later, perhaps? There’s something, I, um...”

Lady Samient picked up on her meaning, and picked up her slack. “Come, Lady Erridge! I’ll dance with you.”

Appeased, Lady Erridge escorted her away. Trevelyan withdrew from the dancefloor.

She could dance another time. She did not wish to muss her hair or catch her skirt. Her eyes scanned the party. Her fingers trembled. The moment he saw her had to be perfect.

A hand caught her shoulder. The Baroness, apparently having already procured a drink, leant over, and tilted it forward.

“There,” she whispered.

The crowd parted, as if by her will. True to her word, at the other end of the room, there he stood. The man she’d been searching for.

The Commander.

Maker, he had only become more handsome the longer she had known him. That rough-hewn jaw of his, and the dishevelment of stubble upon it; the subtle waves in his hair, hints of his rebellious curls; those dimples upon his cheeks—the thumb-prints of the divine, left where the Maker’s scultping hand had gone astray.

And his weary eyes, whose gentle gaze found her, and drew her closer.

Trevelyan admired, as she approached, the coincidence of the navy blue doublet that Lady Montilyet had undoubtedly advised him to wear. Hm. She liked him better in red. Suited him more, perhaps—though it mattered little. There was nothing that could dull the shine of him; true gold, after all, did never rust.

A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, as he straightened to greet her. And he would have done so, perhaps warmly, perhaps sweetly—had a scout, uniformed and on duty, not appeared at his side.

Ah, fuck.

They whispered something to him beneath the hubbub of the ball, which sharpened back into focus. Though Trevelyan heard nothing of the Commander’s reply, when his attention returned to her, his smile was gone.

“Arcanist,” he said, with a bow. “I’m afraid you’ll have to excuse me. There is urgent business to which I must attend.”

Bloody typical.

“Of course,” she told him, magnanimously. “Duty calls.”

“At inconvenient times,” he muttered.

“No duty is ever convenient,” she commented. That seemed to amuse him, at least.

“I will return as soon as I am able, I assure you.”

“Yes, Commander.”

She curtsied to him, and allowed him to depart. The scout lingered by the rotunda door; the Commander followed them through.

Gone.

Trevelyan looked down at her pretty, sparkly skirt, and fluffed it up, pointlessly. Not quite the moment she’d been hoping for.

Oh, well. She would have ample opportunity for such moments with him in the coming days. If he didn’t get called away by something or other during those, too.

Stowing her frustration, Trevelyan returned to the party. There was plenty there to distract her, anyway. She watched the Ladies dance together; she enthused with Dagna about their work; she spoke to Lady Montilyet about her new quarters (ready tomorrow!); and she gossiped with Dorian about absolutely nothing of note—though he was, as always, terribly good conversation.

Yet still no Commander.

The noise of the music and the chatter and the stomps of the dancing were beginning to blur in her brain. Dorian noted her change in temperament, as she attempted to peer through the garden door from afar. Too many in attendance; the party had spilled out into it. It was no less busy out there than it was in here.

“Try up there,” Dorian suggested, indicating the mezzanine above. It seemed Sera had been banned from it today, as there was no skulking to be seen. “It has a balcony, if you need some air.”

“Thank you,” said Trevelyan. She’d had little cause to ever stray up there before—but this seemed as good a reason as any. She bid him farewell, and escaped up the stairs.

The moment she reached their peak, her troubled mind calmed. Mere feet above the chaos, the music came quieter, the conversation nothing more than ambience. Thank the Maker.

Besides, this mezzanine was well-furnished for a somewhat hidden space, with a luxurious chaise and portraits of figures Trevelyan did not quite recognise. The candelabrum here were not lit, leaving all illumination to that of the moons, whose glow trickled through a pair of glass doors—beyond which, as promised, was a balcony.

But Trevelyan felt enough at ease to stay inside—and she found the view of the party below to be quite of interest. The dancers weaved such wonderful patterns; outfits, in all colours, were arrayed like a painter’s palette. She could watch, as those she knew flitted from one group, to another. An enjoyable pict—

The rotunda door opened, drawing her eye. The Commander entered the hall. He strode into the party with such determination, it was as if it did not exist around him. Trevelyan traced his path as it led him, direct, to the Baroness.

They huddled against a wall. He whispered something. Urgent business? Oh, no.

But the Baroness smiled. Wider and wider. She asked him a question; he replied with nod. She placed a hand over her heart, and sighed. Trevelyan did the same.

If the news they shared was what she hoped, then she was rather glad she hadn’t kicked up a fuss at the Commander’s departure. Because if it was what she hoped, then he could have left all night, and still she would smile.

Maker, she had to see the Baroness—and she would have, if not for the feet hurrying up the stairs. The Baroness? No cane. Then—!

The Commander sprang onto the landing, startling himself as much as he startled her, determination abandoning him in an instant. “Arcanist!” he stammered, attempting to bow. “Forgive me—Dorian told me you were here.”

That crafty bastard. Trevelyan put his schemes aside, and asked, “Is everything all right, Commander? What was your urgent business?”

Before he’d even said a word, he smiled. That alone brought her relief. “There was a message from the Inquisitor,” he told her. “The battle is won. Val Misrenne is safe.”

Trevelyan could scarcely believe it. She clasped a hand over her mouth, a beaming smile beneath it. She shook her head, out of sheer incredulity. By Andraste. She could not fathom how dear Touledy felt.

“Thank the Maker,” she breathed. “Or, I suppose—thank you, Commander.”

He rubbed the back of his neck. “I think it is the Inquisitor’s party and the guard of Val Misrenne who ought to have the credit of it.”

“Of course, but you may take a little as well, Commander. Your handling of the situation was… impressive, to say the least.”

Such a compliment did not seem to sit well with him, for he stuttered as if he had not the words to form a reply. Awkwardness prevailed, until his fortunes changed, and his eyes chanced upon the balcony doors.

“Forgive me, I didn’t meant to disturb you. Were you… headed outside?”

Trevelyan smiled. She looked at them, then at him. “Preferably not alone.”

“Oh. I could...”

She backed into the doors, her eyes beckoning him to follow. He trailed after her as if in a trance, stepping through, to the tranquil night beyond.

The stars above shone in greeting, illuminating the finely-carved stone of the balcony balustrade. Trevelyan rested herself upon it, gazing out. The Commander’s presence, a warmth in the absence of the sun, settled beside her.

“It’s... a nice night,” he said.

She quite agreed. The entire courtyard was laid out before them, from the tavern—as lively as the party they’d left behind—to the stables—quiet, at this time of day. Moonlit stone, punctuated by glowing torchlight, encircled the fortress, and banished the darkness from its embrace.

“I, ah, have something for you,” he said, hand fumbling within his jacket. “I believe this is yours.”

He managed to locate this ‘something’, and freed it from its concealment. A white cloth, that flashed in the moonlight, embroidered with leaves Trevelyan recognised. It was far more pristine than the last time she’d seen it.

The napkin slipped pleasantly from the Commander’s fingers into her own. She noted the warmth of his proximity, still lingering within the weave, and the sweet, earthy scent that had been left by his possession.

“Technically,” she teased, “I believe it is Lady Montilyet’s.”

“I hardly think she’ll miss it.”

“I certainly hope so.” She tucked it away—safe. “Thank you, Commander.”

“Thank you for the use of it,” he said. “Though, speaking of Lady Montilyet—you, ah, took the offer. To become Arcanist.”

“I did.”

“Good.”

“Good?”

The Commander stammered, “For you—I mean. I mean, I am glad. That—despite how you came to be here—you have found enough reason to stay.”

Trevelyan shook her head, and smiled. “I know that I ought to have left, and truly have started my life afresh… but that would have been dishonest, to what I truly want.”

“May I ask… what is it?”

“What?”

The Commander met her eye. “That you… want?”

She bit back the smile that threatened to betray her. “Well… I suppose there is one thing—”

Feet clattered up the stairs. Trevelyan stopped herself. As if she were summoned by these precise circumstances, Lady Erridge stumbled out onto the mezzanine.

“Lady Trevelyan!” she called. “Oh, Commander, there you are! Sorry to disrupt, but I came to see if you should like to dance!”

The Commander shook his head. “No, thank you. I don’t dance.”

Erridge giggled. “I know! I wasn’t speaking to you, Commander! Come, Lady Trevelyan! The Commander shall have plenty of time to whisper with you when we are gone!”

Though the interruption was not exactly ideal, Trevelyan could not deny the sentiment. She curtsied to the Commander, somewhat apologetically.

“It seems I am summoned away. Urgent business, I believe they call it.”

His mouth tilted into a smirk; it made her skin tingle. “Another time, then.”

“Of course.”

Raucous music caught their ears, and Erridge perked. “Come along!” she said, snatching up Trevelyan’s hand. She threw a hasty farewell to the Commander over her shoulder, and whisked Trevelyan away. They tumbled down the stairs together, bursting onto the main floor of the hall—as the band cued a jig.

“Over here!” called Samient and Orroat, from the dancefloor. In the absence of Lady Erridge, they had partnered together—but saved a spot beside them, just in case.

Trevelyan and Erridge squeezed past the other dancers, and hurried to take it. They joined hands—properly, this time—and waited for the song to start, giggling all the while.

Strings and wind erupted into a prancing melody of alternating highs and lows, and caught them quite off-guard. But Lady Erridge sprang to action, and Trevelyan followed her lead. They bounced around the floor with zest and zeal, clapping their hands, kicking their legs into the air. Skirts clashed and flew, an explosion of fabric and colour.

It burst apart, into an exchange of dancers. Trevelyan sailed into the arms of Lady Orroat, who cut as fine a form as one could expect.

“So this is what you were all up to yesterday?” she said, of Trevelyan’s dress. “Maker, it’s beautiful!”

Though the compliment was quite routine, a look of panic struck the passing Lady Erridge. “Look, dear Orroat!” she called, loosing a hand from Samient’s, to jab her finger at some collection of stars. “I sewed those ones!”

Dancers parted again, to what must have been Erridge’s utmost relief. Trevelyan swapped Orroat for Samient, the latter of whom smiled as if amused.

“It seems dear Erridge has quite reversed her position on your knowing Lady Orroat,” she whispered.

Trevelyan giggled. “Good, for I could hardly say we should make such a handsome couple as they!”

Nor one so well-suited. It seemed the touch of her dear Orroat’s hand had quelled Lady Erridge’s worry in an instant, and the pair twirled and danced so pleasantly to the eye, it made Trevelyan miss a step. Samient ably accounted for the fumble. It was a wonder how she danced so well, in a dress so constricting. Then again, it was a wonder how this was Trevelyan’s first stumble, in a dress so grand.

Though their jig came to an end, another began—and Lady Erridge would not be satisfied with just the one! Trevelyan was made to dance the next three complete, until—quite exhausted—she formulated an excuse, and made her exit.

The sight of the Baroness at the edge of the dancefloor was quite welcome, as if safety and anchor in a storm. Trevelyan hurried towards her, and greeted her with a smile and an embrace—for which they both knew the reason.

“I’ve heard the news,” she said, as she recovered her breath. “How do you feel?”

The Baroness sighed. “Relieved. When I leave for my home tomorrow, I shall return to find it at peace—but that peace has not come without sacrifice. And yet, I know it could have been so much more. That Val Misrenne and its people still stand is worth celebrating.”

“It is. And I hope that it brings you peace, as well.”

Trevelyan hugged her again—but the music’s sudden and effervescent return caused her to jump. Laughing at herself, Trevelyan glanced back at the dancefloor.

“You know, I am surprised Lady Erridge has not called you up for a jig!”

The Baroness chuckled. “No, no, my leg is far too frail for that.”

“Really?” Trevelyan raised an eyebrow. “I remember you saying that you still dance.”

“I do.” She grinned. “But the leg is an excellent excuse.”

Trevelyan caught her meaning. “Lady Erridge’s enthusiasm is quite difficult to match.”

“Indeed. She has the stamina of a demon. Though I’m sure Lady Orroat could find some use for that.”

Trevelyan laughed. “Your Ladyship! Please, I feel so terrible teasing her!”

“Then you should not like to hear what we say about you and him.”

The Baroness winked, as if to point. Trevelyan, utterly confused by who ‘him’ was, heeded the suggestion. She turned, laid her eyes upon the man in question, and groaned. Weaving past the dancers was—she ought to have guessed it—the Commander.

“Oh, Maker! You all have far too much—” She halted, realising the Baroness’s mouth was half-open, her cane being raised in the air. “No, no—!”

“Commander!”

He heard the call. His head whipped round. No stopping it now—he was coming towards them.

“Baroness!” Trevelyan hissed.

Touledy smiled, gave a suggestive flick of her brow, and said nothing more. Though Trevelyan was almost glad of this—the Commander ought not hear anything she was thinking.

“Ladies,” he greeted, upon arrival. “Is there something you need?”

“Why, yes,” said Touledy, all too confidently. What was she up to? “Lady Trevelyan here wishes another dance, but I am afraid I am unable to”—she flashed her cane—“would you be able to dance with her Ladyship, in my stead?”

“Oh.” The Commander softened. "Are you all right?”

Trevelyan noted, rather indignantly, that the Commander asked this question with the same sort of gentle voice that he often put on for her. This was a concept which, she suddenly discovered, she did not like. Why, oh why, did she have to make him befriend the other Ladies? Fool.

“Yes, thank you,” the Baroness answered, “but her Ladyship must have a dance.”

Trevelyan rolled her eyes. “But Baroness, the Commander does not like to dance, and I—”

“I could try,” he said.

Trevelyan stared at him. She thought of a thousand questions in response to this. But somehow, the only one she could quite manage was:

“What?”

“If you would like to.”

Oh. Well, there was little chance of her saying anything other than, “Yes.”

The Baroness grinned, relishing in her triumph. “Go on, then,” she said, “enjoy.”

Easier said than done. At least Trevelyan had danced enough jigs with Lady Erridge to know what she was to do with them, now. In her mind, as they walked to the floor, she went over the steps. Left, left, kick, clap. Switch. Then to the right? But—

The music grew in volume. Yet it sounded like no jig she’d ever heard. Trevelyan realised that the musicians had betrayed her. Not a jig. Not at all.

Sweet, slow strings floated across the hall. A… romantic melody, that had couples approaching the floor. Dear Maker fucking Andraste shitting Void. People linked hands and put them on waists and Trevelyan realised that she was in the midst of it, surrounded, and there was no escape, and she would have to do those things herself.

She faced the Commander. Maker, why did he have to look so pretty and be so sweet? This sort of thing was far simpler with unimportant suitors that one could so easily discard after, even if one did step on their toes.

He offered a hand. Trevelyan’s shook.

But still, they met.

Her fingers slid into his palm, sensing the warmth that emanated from beneath the leather of his glove. The feeling of his skin, however rugged or tender, was cruelly left to the imagination. She savoured it regardless.

Her other hand gathered up her skirts, like the rest of the dress-wearers were doing. Almost in position. There was simply one last thing to emulate—

The Commander’s hand moved for her waist, hesitant in its approach. The first touches of his fingertips—gentler even than that of cotton or down—caused her body to tense. She did not know how she was to bear his entire hand.

But his hand stopped short. It instead hovered over the fabric of her dress, as if afraid to press any further. Disappointing.

Nevertheless, the gentle strings of anticipation harmonised into a symphony. Dancing commenced, and the Commander’s feet shifted. Trevelyan mirrored his steps. Her nerves hit a peak.

And then, began to fade.

Because dancing with him was unlike dancing with anyone she had danced with before. It felt different. Gentler. Warmer. Safer. No pressure for extravagance, or flourish. It almost did not matter if she was dancing well or not. It was only him that mattered.

“You should dance more often,” she whispered to him. “You do it well.”

He smiled, softly, and said, “All right.”

Her words must have emboldened him, for his grip around her hand firmed and strengthened, and he drew her closer by its pull. His other hand slipped around her back, fitting perfectly into the mold of her body. The gap between them was more indistinct than ever.

Yet in that closeness was comfort. Her head, laid on his shoulder. The warmth of his chest, felt within her own. That gentle, soothing sway they shared. She let her eyes fall shut, the dancers fall away, and listened only to the beat of his heart. Trevelyan could have stayed like that for an eternity.

But the music slowly, gradually, dulled to quiet. The other dancers reappeared around them, the party audible once more. It was over.

They came to a standstill. Trevelyan’s hand reluctantly left his grasp; his trailed away from her waist. Yet still, she smiled, for nothing could take it from her lips.

“Thank you,” she said.

“Of course,” he replied.

“I shan’t make you dance another.”

“That’s… all right.” He rubbed his neck. “Will you, ah, be stargazing tonight?”

She played with her dress. “Most likely.”

“Ah. Good.”

She curtsied, he bowed. He left, she stayed. Her feet still wobbled, a little.

But she would have to recover quickly. For she turned to her side, and saw complete what had, until now, been only a disruption in her periphery: the Ladies, huddled together, in keen observance.

Trevelyan shook her head, and, before they could open their mouths, told them firm:

“Not one word.”

[biscuityskies]

a couple of knights on the road

"Who knows?" his brother says, cuffing Cody sharply on the shoulder once before heading back towards the castle. "Maybe married life will suit you." Cody? Commander of the Armies of the Krayt? Supposed to just settle down and call it quits as a soldier, cozy up into his new life as a married man to a spouse he never picked, let alone met even once? Yeah, right. As if.

this is perhaps my goofiest title. my most whimsical creation. what the heck happened here. anyways here's day three of @codywanweek, with prompts arranged marriage and there was only one bed

[stergeon]

Rating: Mature (horny)

Fandom: Fire Emblem: Three Houses

Relationship(s): Edelgard von Hresvelg/Byleth Eisner

Words: 11.5k (2 chapters out of, theoretically, 3)

There's a new professor of the Black Eagles house, but it's not the one Edelgard and Hubert had planned to take on the role—and to make matters worse, Edelgard knows her. She could never forget her, or a single moment of that hot summer night when they met in Enbarr.

Worst of all, the professor doesn't seem to remember Edelgard.

AU in which Byleth and Edelgard meet by chance a few months before the start of White Clouds.

[ginnyw-potter-archive]

When I finally roll out of bed I'm updating Experimentally in Love. Finally a smut chapter. I hope you're happy 😁

[ballisters-lawyer]

Do I write a short few chapter homoerotic sparring fic to motivate myself or do I just jump straight into “a little death” and make you guys wait a bunch until we finally get to the homoerotic sparring?

[seventhdoctor]

In another possible world, a young Yuki Judai remembers the entirety of his past the moment he holds the Yubel card in his hands. Guardian and guarded are reunited, and all is right with the world. “To remember back then would have been a great burden for you. Our past lives did not end happily.”

Judai and Yubel daydream about other lives they could have lived.

[daz4i]

too lazy and having trouble with words to work on my fic but i do enjoy imagining it. fuck yeah make that beast bleed

[waywardsalt]

ooooh i hope im back on track with the ganonbeck fic

[pieofdeath]

Btw truly the worst part of writing ROTD is remembering where Pumpkin is at all times.

[aethersea]

ooohh i'd love to hear a bit about The Arrangement! 👀👀👀

ooh ok well that one is a sequel to what was, at the time I wrote it, the most niche, self-indulgent fic I’d ever written. It was a Tortall au of the Avengers, specifically Song of the Lioness, in which an 11-year-old Natasha disguises herself as a boy to become a knight of the realm. Steve is the prince, Bucky is a ward of the queen so they’re kind of brothers, and the Howling Commandos are all pages training alongside them to be knights. The fic has Natasha befriending Clint, who does archery in a traveling circus, and then the two of them stop a political-ploy-or-maybe-it-was-just-a-prank against Steve.

I had so much worldbuilding for this. All the major MCU characters were cast, and a few minor ones that I just liked a lot, and I had vague but lofty plans for a coup in the future that would take Steve out of the world in a parallel to getting frozen in the Arctic, and then on his return he’d have to gather the Avengers and take back the throne—

Alas, my breakup with the MCU was acrimonious and final. But lately I’ve reread this fic a few times and decided that I’m keeping it in the divorce actually, so I’ve started to write the sequel. Or rather, the bridge between this fic and the sequel, because I need to set things up so that Clint leaves the circus and joins Natasha and the others in the palace. That way he can be around when Tony shows up – he’s studying magic at the City of the Gods, but he comes by for a visit or something – and suddenly someone starts trying to kill both him and Steve.

That original fic is called The Archer. At some point I gave up trying to come up with a better title – generally speaking, once it’s posted, I just leave it alone. But see if I call the sequel The Assassin, and then this intermediary fic is called The Arrangement, then it’s a theme! We love a themed naming convention.

I have just two scenes so far, but I’m going to keep at it, because this is still a wildly self-indulgent fic and that’s the sort of thing I want to embrace in my writing.

[artekai]

Posting and updating fic is so embarrassing and so stressful fr 😭😭😭 I should've just conveniently "forgotten" to update it and never acknowledged it again like I was planning to 😐

[aquilamage]

keep thinking about this fic over and over in my head so putting it up. little bit of just having fun, little bit of projection, little bit of headcanons Featuring leif and vi and my love of their interactions. human fables au because I was specifically thinking about them and hair.

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Vi would never, ever admit it out loud (not after she’d fought tooth and nail for a shift, against Kabbu’s protests that she was “still growing” and whatever, and still only been allowed half of one, always at the beginning of the night), but keeping watch was boring. It had hardly been any time at all and she was already halfway towards clawing at the walls of the little recess they’d camped out in. And it wasn’t going to get much better because nothing ever happened.

So she was experimenting with her beemerang (the new feature was great, but ooh, once she got that new password she was going to have words with Shades). Right now it was trying to get a feel for stopping it midair when she tossed it up.

The bonus of doing that now was that no one else was there to see when she messed up. Especially the time she got smacked in the face and hissed a word that would have made Kabbu gasp.

She’d just recovered from that enough to start looking for where her beemerang had fallen when she heard a shuffling in the direction of the camp.

Energy surging, she dashed over, only to find it was only Leif turning over in their sleeping bag. She groaned. “Figures.”

But when she finally found the beemerang (in some tall grass) and got back to her original lookout spot, Leif was tossing around more, mumbling something in their sleep. Which was none of her business. And she would have kept on ignoring it until they stopped or her shift was over, but the noise was starting to get on her nerves, quiet enough you couldn’t really hear it, but loud enough you knew it was there.

So she got up and walked to stand over Leif. She watched them for another minute in case they decided to pick just then to stop.

No such luck. With a heavy sigh, Vi prodded them in the side with her foot.

Vi couldn’t say exactly what happened in the ensuing moments, except that there was some yelling and flailing on both their ends, ending with her on the ground with both legs frozen (one just past the knee, the other almost to the hip) and Leif crouched forward as well they could while still in the sleeping bag, another spell dancing on their fingertips.

Their mutual staredown was broken by a soft noise they both immediately looked toward. Kabbu shifted, sleepily mumbled something, and then settled back to sleep.

Leif gave an extended, heavy sigh, and curled up into themself.

“You’re welcome,” Vi grumbled, scrabbling around for a rock to start chipping away at the ice.

They didn’t react until the first sharp crack, whereupon they stared for a second before moving over and starting on her other leg.

“This would be a lot easier if you could actually control the ice once you make it.” She’d said it for the sake of saying it, no real heat behind it – she still meant it as much as the first time, during a practice incident, but wasn’t feeling it the same. Still, she’d expected them to snip back with something (last time, xe’d replied that when xe found the source of xyr powers, xe would bring that up).

So when they didn’t respond at all, she knew something was wrong. Ugh. “Do you need to- to talk about it, or whatever?”

They just made a noncommittal noise, so she slapped their arm.

The ambient temperature dropped as they glared at her. “What was that for?”

“I’m trying to help, and you’re...I don’t know, but you’re not paying attention!” She tried to yank her foot the rest of the way out, only to slam her ankle against a piece of it. “Get me out of here so I can wake Kabbu up.”

“That’s not…” They hesitated. “We don’t need to bother him about this.” They combed a hand through their hair. “Just...a bad dream, less than pleasant memories.”

When she was free, Vi walked unsteadily to a rock high enough for her to sit and kick her legs out, sticking her hands under her arms to warm them.

After a few minutes, she noticed that while Leif had gotten back into their sleeping bag, they were sitting up against the wall, both hands playing with their hair. She would give one more effort, and then they were on their own. “You should probably go back to sleep.”

They sighed. “At the moment, it would only become a repeat of our previous state, which we’re not exactly interested in.”

“...Okay.” She turned back to the lot of nothing happening outside their camp.

The back of her neck prickled, and though she tried to ignore it, eventually she had to turn and face Leif’s watching her. “What?”

They looked down. “May we ask a favor?”

“Depends on what it is.”

“Would you do our hair for us?”

“What?...Why?” They couldn’t do it themself? It looked fine, anyway.

“We used to ask M-” Leif froze, going quiet for a long time before saying, hoarsely, “We find it soothing.”

She stared at them.

“You don’t have to if you don’t-”

“No, that’s- I just- ...soothing?” As a child, she’d thrown fits when anyone so much as adjusted flyaways. Even as she grew up, haircuts had been an ordeal of tensing her whole body to stay still and hold in a scream while she endured the sensation.

“Yes?”

Weird, but whatever, she guessed. “Bring my sleeping bag over with you.”

She folded it over into a cushion on the ground as Leif sat in front of her. Taking the brush, she started.

Barely any time after, they reached back and stopped her. “Is that really how you brush your hair?”

“Uh, yeah?” She just did whatever to make sure it looked decent and didn’t have knots.

They sighed. “Try like this.”

She copied as best she could, and they didn’t correct her, so it must be okay at least. Even at a glance, it was impossible to miss how much hair Leif had, going almost all the way down their back, but seeing was still different from handling it. For one, it wasn’t as heavy as she’d expected, from her own thick hair as baseline. But still, even without any snarls or anything to work out, it took a while to brush the whole of it.

She definitely took it slower than needed, but it was something to do, and much more tolerable on this end. Besides, once she’d started properly, Leif had relaxed dramatically.

When she did finish, they stayed still for a little longer, took a slow, deep breath, and said, “Thank you.”

Vi shrugged, then remembered they couldn’t see her. “Sure.”

Another soft lull.

“Would it be too much to assume you know how to braid?”

She huffed. She’d never really done one, but how hard could it be?

...Apparently quite a bit, she realized after a while. She knew it was three pieces, and then you wrapped them around each other, so she’d gotten that far. But then she’d started to think it was too loose, and then she’d tried a different pattern, and somewhere in there she ended up with a fourth section of hair. Now she was just trying to undo the whole thing and failing spectacularly at even that.

Her tugs must have gotten rougher, because Leif turned to look over their shoulder. “What are you doing?”

With a groan, she flopped onto the ground. “I don’t actually know how to braid, okay?”

They pulled their hair to the front so they could see it better and burst out laughing.

“Shut up!” Pressing her hands over her eyes, she kicked at them. “It’s not that bad!”

“No, it’s worse,” they gasped. “We don’t think we could do this if we tried.”

“Fight me.”

“We’ll pass.”

She kicked them again, although not as hard.

When Vi finally sat up, they’d worked out the worst of it. “Do you want to learn how to actually braid?”

“You’re just offering so you can bother me into doing it for you later.”

They shrugged, smirking.

“Yeah. Teach me.”

---

Leif rolled out of the inn bed and stumbled through the dark toward the bathroom. Groggily, she noted the faint light under the closed door. As she raised a hand to knock, she heard a litany of muttered curses, clearly in Vi’s voice.

She knocked.

A yelp, the sound of something falling. “What?”

Resting his head against the door with a clunk, Leif said, “Does your crisis require you to stay in there?”

“Wha- I’m not- Back off and mind your own business!”

“We would but we have to pee.”

“Ugh!” A lot of shuffling and a couple more curses later, Vi opened the door, a towel draped over her head and shoulders, and shoved past him.

When he was done, he found her sitting on the edge of her bed, pulling the towel tight around her head as she stared at the door. As soon as he opened it, she tried to dash back in.

But Leif stayed in the doorway, blocking her. “What did you do to your hair?”

“Nothing.” She ducked down to crawl between her legs.

He let Vi, and used the opportunity to yank the towel off her head.

Barely stifling a shriek, she tried to shove him back into the bedroom.

But he just dropped his weight, leaning against her. When she stumbled back, he pulled the door closed behind them.

She’d hastily replaced the towel, and was glaring up at him.

Yeah, she didn’t want to do this either, but something was up, and she couldn’t tell if it was Vi’s natural stubborn reticence about even tiny stuff, or an actual issue. “We can do this the easy way and you talk to me, or the hard way, where I go wake Kabbu up.”

Somehow her glare managed to intensify even more. As they stared each other down, Leif noticed her eyes were red, skin around them a little blotchy.

After long enough that she was about to go for Kabbu, Vi spoke up. “I was cutting my hair and I messed up a little, and I didn’t want you to see because it looks stupid and you’d be joking about it for the next month.” Crossing her arms, she huffed. “There. Now get out.”

A whole month? No, that wasn’t the important part right now. “Why were you cutting your hair in the middle of the night?”

“Hey! I’ve been cutting my own hair since-” She stiffened, then went back to even more shouty. “for a while now. I know what I’m doing!”

The rhetort ‘and yet you managed to mess up on it’ came so easily it almost flowed right from his brain to his tongue before he even knew it had formed. But he stopped himself. That was only going to put her on more of a defensive. “We didn’t mean it like that. Why now?”

Vi narrowed her eyes, but responded. “It was getting long, and I didn’t have the chance to do it the past couple days with camping out, and then we said about getting an early start, so I wanted to get it done while I had a chance.” As she spoke, she became increasingly worked up, until she was flailing her arms as she added, “Why do you even care?”

Because she was his friend. Maybe not to the most common meaning, and certainly not as mushy as Kabbu meant it when he said it, but. She’d stuck with them when it really counted, and despite all of her other talk of seeking a reward for the slightest help, hadn’t spoken a word like that when he’d made his request or since. She’d been supportive, comforting even over the past few days as he processed the revelations about...about his family.

And over the past few days, he and Kabbu had watched her become more withdrawn and irritable the closer they got to the Bee Kingdom. It didn’t seem likely to be a coincidence this was happening the night they’d arrived on the outskirts. She was his friend, and he was going to help her whether she liked it or not.

She leaned back against the door. “First of all, we’re extremely nosy. And, despite everything, we do give a shit about you.” The curse got the tiniest huff of amusement out of Vi. Kabbu still had a thing about watching their language around her, but the way Leif figured it, she was seventeen and had been on her own for who knew how long, interacting with some...questionable figures (if this “Shades” she’d mentioned but refused to elaborate on was anything like they seemed). Besides, she wasn’t using anything she hadn’t already heard Vi use.

Vi didn’t snap about it, but neither did she say anything else even after a bit of time.

“Do you feel confident fixing your hair on your own?”

“I’m not going to a hair place,” Vi spat.

So, no. “Well, we’re not going to let you embarrass us by going out looking like a disaster, so something has to get done about it.” Softening minutely, he added, “We also have some experience with this. If you let us help, we promise not to tease you about how it looks.”

She eyed him, then finally yanked the towel off, throwing it in his face.

Her hair was bad. Before, it had been halfway between her chin and shoulders, a single unstyled length, often teetering on the edge of acceptably neat. Now...it varied in length from hardly any shorter in bits of the back to a section in the front left side that was maybe a couple inches, the rest with no pattern to it.

There was really only one way for that to have happened, and thinking about it made Leif want to throw her scissors out the window, wrap her in a blanket until she couldn’t move, and sandwich her between himself and Kabbu until she told them what was going on. The ferocity of it scared him a little.

Instead, Leif sat on the floor, sighing dramatically and putting her head in her hands to disguise any outward reaction she might have had and to give herself a moment to calm down and think about what to actually do. “...What were you attempting to get it to look like?”

Vi gave her a look that said she was at least a fraction as on to her as she was Vi. “At first I was just gonna make it shorter, like usual.” She made a motion at about the height of her earlobe. “But I remembered I don’t actually like how that looks…” she ducked her head “or feels, either. I just wanted it to be shorter, now, and…” She didn’t move for almost a minute before she whispered, “I don’t know.”

Cautiously, Leif scooted around until she was next to Vi, brushing shoulders. “How short would make you happy with it?”

She stared at him, razor-sharp. “Are you fucking with me?”

“No?”

“What if I said I wanted to shave my head?” Still glaring.

Leif shrugged. “It’s your hair, although I’d insist you let someone else do it this time. Do you?”

Her eyes went wide. Then, she abruptly turned her head away. “...No. But I know I want most of this” she grabbed a handful of hair and tugged on it “gone.”

“But not an exact style?”

She shook her head.

Leif thought for a moment. “How much creative liberty do you trust us with?”

In response, she turned just enough to narrow her eyes at him.

“If you really hate it, we’ll buy you lunch for three days.”

“A week.”

“...Fine.” She got up, stepping towards the door. “Don’t do anything else to it until we come back.”

“What? Where are you going?”

She leaned on the doorknob. “Are we correct in assuming you don’t have hair clippers?”

“Uh, yeah.”

“Then we’re going to that all-hours store and hoping they have some, or we’ll have to change our plans or wait until morning.”

They did, fortunately, and she got back in something like a reasonable amount of time. From there, she dragged the desk chair into the bathroom in front of the sink and sat Vi down in it.

As she was getting things set up, Vi handed her a pair of regular scissors.

“What?” Her mind went blank, thrown.

“You still gotta cut it down the regular way first, right?”

“Yes, but-” Horror dawned. “You’ve been using these to cut your hair?”

“What else would I use?”

“Hair scissors?!”

She stared at him through the mirror. “That’s a thing?”

Leif sat down for a minute. When he’d settled, he put away Vi’s scissors and took out the ones from the set.

He started by assessing the damage. Fortunately, there wasn’t much he’d actually have to work around, given the dramatic length change. But as he was pinning a section, he realized something and paused. “What’s the matter? Is something pulling too hard?”

“No. It’s fine.” Vi was tensed as if in pain, eyes squeezed shut. “Just. Keep going.”

Then Leif remembered her reaction to them asking her to do their hair a few days ago. Ah. “Here.” He forced the scissors into her hand. “Shorter hairstyles mean cutting more often, and we don’t want to get stuck doing it for you every single time. So we’re going to show you.”

He did finish the sectioning off, showing her where he was doing it, but then he let her loose with the scissors on the rest. When told she should take it down to about an inch, she went about it with a glee that was infectious.

After that, she got the clippers, explaining how they worked. She did one little section herself so Vi could see, and then put her hand on top of Vi’s to guide, talking her through getting the trickier spots and angles, and where to step so the line between this and the pinned length wouldn’t be jagged.

“How do you know all this stuff anyway?” Vi asked when they’d taken a break (she’d complained about her hand getting numb, and Leif had to agree).

“We did try this, once. It turned out not to be what we wanted, but there was also a point where we had it partially short with the rest long.”

When they finished with the clippers, Leif took out the pins and guided her through scissor-trimming the rest.

Vi had watched the whole process happen, so Leif figured if she had any complaints she would have already voiced them. Loudly. Still, after he’d taken the towel off her shoulders and rubbed a clean side over her head to get rid of more of the loose hairs, he told her to give it a final look-over.

“We picked something where you can use product to style the longer part, but it looks fine if you don’t,” he said as he swept up the hair from the floor as best he could. There was a lot of it, but at least most of it was larger pieces. He was going to have to remember to leave a good tip for the housekeeper. “So you’ll have to let us know if you want to get some. But does it at least look acceptable for now?”

Silence. Leif looked up, and realized she was staring into the mirror, frozen. With a sigh, she tossed the hair in the garbage and stood. “What, did we really do that horrible-”

And then she saw Vi’s expression.

Her eyes were wide, staring at her reflection, mouth ever so slightly open. With both hands, she combed through the ‘longer’ portion on top. A smile, and a single tear ran down her face.

“So it’s good?”

She flinched away from Leif, apparently just remembering she was there. “It’s fine.” She tried to shrug it off, but her voice was far too choked up to manage it. (Not to mention the way her eyes softened as she rubbed at the buzzed portion at the back). One of her breaths caught, and she scowled. “You’re still buying me lunch.”

Leif smirked. “You’re welcome.”