#long hair valdemar

[snobgoblin]

anyway here's what I headcanon their hair to look like (explanations below)

ok so for Vulgora I kind of just did the medieval bob thing that you seem to see on paintings a lot, except Yassified. because "historical but yassified" seems to be the general vibe of The Arcana anyway /affectionate

also please note I was originally going to give them a monastary haircut and decided against it, the reason I was going to go with this originally is because of their card actually, and because of Volta. I'm pretty sure Volta is modeled after a nun because Temperance (her patron Arcana) is one of the Heavenly Virtues (and the corresponding Deadly Sin is Gluttony so that's neat) and anyway with that in mind I wanted them to have vaguely catholic imagery to match since their card (The Tower) is associated with the Tower of Babel (and also their title Pontifex is usually used in reference to priests)

anyway for Valdemar I was kind of like. what if it was just stupidly long because they haven't cut it in thousands of years. really long flowy hair like this also reminds me of horses (which their patron, Death, is associated with, and it also cements their inspiration as a horseman of the apocalypse) I think it also cements them as kind of like, ethereal. like Nadia. mysterious. you can tell just by looking at the length of their hair that they've been here a long ass time you know (and it kind of reminds me of some fae imagery which, the courtiers remind me of the fae, which, fae is such a vague term that actually includes demons but I specifically mean the courtiers remind me of those really mischievous fairies what with their deals and complicated rules about lying and obsession with politeness and also Vlastomil saying you're not supposed to give them your real name. they remind me of those kind of fae and I think it's notable that in Muriels route Volta just kind of becomes a guardian of the forest. anyway I'm getting way off track here)

also I gave them both pointy ears because Vlastomil has pointy ears but loses them as a human, implying perhaps they all might have pointy ears

as for the colors I just used their eyebrow colors lmao

[soullessseraphim]

@snobgoblin maybe you're on to smth

Og idea

[vintagegeekculture]

"The Ayla Descent Theory" of Mary Sues

"Children of the Earth," Luis Royo.

After the success of Jean M. Auel's stone age novel Clan of the Cave Bear, there was a very lengthy trend in the publishing world of stone age adventure novels aimed at women that lasted for a decade and only really fizzled out in the early 2000s. After all, "Ayla," the name of the main character of these books, was one of the top baby names of 1987.

The target audience for these books were weird midwestern aunts....you know, the Mists of Avalon and the Mercedes Lackey/Valdemar audience. Therefore, the Clan of the Cave Bear imitators also featured things of interest to the weird aunt audience: Scotland, redhaired women with sharp tongues, commanding wolves, Ireland, Feminism, riding herds of wild horses bareback in scenic locations, Wicca, matriarchial religions, swimming with dolphins....but above all else, American Indians (a culture this audience finds interesting, as anyone who has seen the home decor of a typical weird midwestern aunt can attest), with many novels set in Ice Age America, like Children of the Dawn, Reindeer Moon and the First Americans. Decades later, this audience would form the core fandom for Game of Thrones, and the character of Khaleesi Targaryen in particular.

These books almost assuredly still have a place of honor on the book shelf of the weirdest woman at your job.

Nearly all of these imitators have two of Clan of the Cave Bear's defining traits: 1) a supremely beautiful, usually blonde athletic and statuesque main character over 5'11" who does not realize that she is so beautiful and desirable, who is good at a variety of different skills and is friendly with animals like hawks, dolphins, or horses, and 2) a love triangle between this aforementioned blond but innocent Venus and two bodybuilder muscular he-men cave hunks, one of whom is a blonde guy with long rock star hair (it was the 80s), and the other being a buff black guy with dreadlocks (or otherwise ethnic in some way).

The heroine usually picks the blonde guy in the end, but the audience usually picks the ethnic guy.

In the late 90s and early 2000s, in the broader culture of fandom, it was fashionable to dump on "Mary Sues" (indulgent wish-fulfillment author personas in fanfiction) and the people who wrote them. Accusations of creating a Mary Sue approached a kind of hysteria. Even at the time, when everyone else was getting swept up in this, I thought that getting mad about aunties writing fanfiction showed a loss of perspective, and was a bit silly. Thankfully, we've benefitted from moral evolution: the consensus in fandom now is that writing aspirational characters is a harmless activity that tests a young writer's creative muscles, like the half-Vulcan pretty new ensign on the Enterprise that Kirk and Spock both fall in love with, or a new archer girl who Legolas falls in love with joining the Fellowship. This hate walked hand in hand with insecurities, in the exact same way that people worried about their appearance or concerned with their weight are often cruel to fat people, and there were frequent tests if this or that character in your writing was a Mary Sue.

There was a running joke in this 2000s culture of anti-self insertion called the "Ayla Descent Theory of Mary Sues." The joke was that Mary Sues came into existence because Ayla, the beautiful, athletic heroine of the Clan of the Cave Bear novels, was the ancestor of their entire lineage, as the first known Mary Sue to ever exist in the historical record, described as being a statuesque blonde who did everything right and was always at the center of love triangles, and who changed human history.

According to the running joke, Mary Sues everywhere were descended from Ayla from Clan of the Cave Bear, and she was the first to exist, and Ayla was the explanation of where all the Enterprise's new ensigns main characters fall in love with come from.

[greyspirehollow]

Unhinged

Pairing : Quaestor Valdemar x Reader (kind of ; if you imagine you're the one who made the gift) Fandom : The Arcana visual novel Warnings : Gore. Hannibal style. ; graphic ; blood, guts, the whole package if you will.

Summary : One day, unassuming, Valdemar enters their dungeons, only to find one morbid gift sprawled out for them.

It had been a rather... Unfulfilling day. Nothing had happened at the Palace, aside from the usual courtier shenanigans, which they had grown accustomed to by now. Almost. They still couldn't understand how they had never found Consul Valerius passed out drunk anywhere ever, with how often he drank. They'd never seen him without his glass of wine. Hour after hour, they longed to go back to their office, to their dungeons, their sanctuary, with the silence occasionally broken by the discreet skittering of the red beetles down the little well at the back... But they had to sit through all the trivial matters of Countess Nadia until the evening. They couldn't understand why, but today it was especially awful. In the sense that it was boring. They had almost forgotten what being bored was, and today had been a rather painful reminder.

It is not before actual sunset that they were set free. They hurried back to the library before anyone could catch them and ask literally anything ; they couldn't handle it. They opened the secret passage, rapidly walked down the dark corridors, turned on the elevator, went inside, went down, closed the metal door behind them, reached for the dungeon's door and- Ah... Finally. They pulled down their mask and sharply inhaled the rusty air, a smile creeping up on their face as their eyes closed solemnly. They exhaled, satisfied, before stretching and walking towards the working area. But something stopped them in their tracks. An unfamiliar scent in the air... No, actually it wasn't unfamiliar. It simply shouldn't be there. Blood. Fresh blood. The warm scent of someone's insides... They knew that scent very well. But this time it was stronger, hitting their nostrils in an almost violent manner ; because they were pretty sure it wasn't their doing. It meant that someone had come to the dungeons...

They tensed up, going absolutely still and quiet, listening to their environment... Nothing. The usual quietness, although it felt stifling in the current context. They slowly reached into the pocket of their apron, getting a hold of a spare scalpel as they slowly walked towards where the foul scent originated from. They made sure to keep their steps as quiet as they could manage, and once they were about to turn the corner, they briefly paused, still as a statue, to make sure the coast truly was clear : no footsteps. No breathing. No shuffling. Nothing. Only then did they dare step forward... And their eyes widened.

There, suspended mid-air, in a crucified pose, was a corpse. Presumably not one of their own, it looked much too fresh. But it was clear it had been worked on : it was open, the skin around the torso having been carefully cut and folded around the corpse's waist in a sort of ragged skirt of flesh that stopped above knee-level. The ribs were on full display, but strangely enough, all the internal organs had been removed except for the heart, dark red and bloody, which had been placed right at the center of the corpse, hanging by what looked like thread tied to the ribs. Slightly tilted, the victim's face looked downwards, their eyes having been stitched shut. One or two loose strands of hair stuck to their cheek, presumably because of all the blood that had been splattered. It was everywhere. dripping from the corpse, onto the floor... Yet by the looks of it, it must've been at least two hours since this... what even was it? Certainly not an experiment. It was thought out. Exposed. Staged... This... This was closer to a piece of art than anything else.

A spark of excitement coursed through their spine as their chest warmed up with adrenaline. Valdemar couldn't tear their gaze away. Their jaw hung slack as their red eyes scanned over every inch of the corpse. Took the liberty to examine it up close. They almost didn't want to touch it. They felt as if they mustn't. The Quaestor examined the eye stitches, the way the heart was floating within the corpse, how well the ribs had been exposed, and couldn't help but be utterly fascinated. This had obviously not been done with a scientific goal in mind, no, it was much too... It wasn't butchery. It was different. Whoever did this wanted to convey a message. But what? And why...?

They observed the corpse for... Gods, they didn't know. They'd totally forgotten about the whole day, or even their own experiments : this was a mystery to solve. This was new. This was exciting. They observed the thing from various angles : they'd lie down on the bloody floor, go around it, observe it upside down, up close, far away, and they noticed even the operation tables had been moved in a half circle ; a detail that had flown over their head at the beginning. As they laid onto one of them, observing the corpse from their favorite angle yet, they started to think... What was the message behind this? Did the position of the corpse mean anything? This crucified pose? Maybe it was meant to bring a sense of "holiness" and importance to the whole piece, make it symbolic, make it spectacular... Or simply add an artistic touch? Maybe. All those options were plausible. The heart was obviously a key part ; otherwise the other organs wouldn't have been removed (if the goal was to make something shocking and gory). What could it symbolize? Life? Love? Probably. But what about the eyes stitched shut? Unable to see. Blindness. Oblivious. Forced to not see? Blinded by something ? That made sense. Now why would all these elements be put together...?

Valdemar felt their heart pick up in pace as the gears turned in their head and finally click, locking together perfectly : "Loves makes me blind..." they muttered to themselves, unable to stop the grin from spreading onto their face "...Blind to your atrocities". Oh, they absolutely HAD to find out who had decided to confess to them like this. They jumped from the table they had been laying on for a while now, looking at the body up-close once more. "Splendid..." They whispered. How original... Exposing your feelings with such brutality and delicacy at the same time ; going out of your way to put meaning into what was most likely a gruesome murder, taking someone's life only to convey your sentiments through their carcass... This was exhilarating. The work of a true artist. They must find them. They must.

Their grin never faltered as they rushed out of the dungeons, into the Palace, determined to sneak into every single bedroom until they found the author of that beautiful gift...

[angeledeggs]

Hey! Xx can you please do a HC for the courtiers having a S/O that they’ve known since they were humans? Like the S/O probably became a demon In order to stay with them.

I sure can! Btw, this was SO fun to write<3!!

Valerius🍷:

He's so very touched to have you. He's self conscious and though most don't know it, you know after being with him for so long.

"Are you sure you still want me?" He'll whisper to you at night. "Don't you want something better than me?"

When he was younger, he would shrug away your touch and scoff at you. He dosent know how he managed to keep you. But now he doesn't. He finds one of his only stress relievers to be at night when you two cling to each other.

If you ever become a demon for him or do something supernatural to stay with him, he will definitely cry.

How could you still love him? How could someone as sweet and beautiful as you love a corrupt man such as himself?

It's not long before he asks you to marry him. He should have a long time ago. But he finds the matching wedding bands ease the ache in his heart often.

Vlastomil🐛:

He's very old. He can't remember how many generations he's lived through. How many people he's seen die. But you never do. And it's not long before he realizes what you've done.

He confronts you, begging for you to say that you haven't done anything wrong to extend your lifespan for him, but he takes one look at your eyes, and he knows.

He's so mad at first. Why did you have to stay with him? He didn't deserve you, anyway. You just had to commit yourself to him in such a way...

He sheds many tears in his office.

But one day he just can't handle distancing himself from you anymore. You're the love of his life-- he shouldn't have distanced himself from you at all, oh, he's so sorry.

He can barely explain his apology in between tears, but he gets the point across well enough when he fumbles with his own rings, when he messily slips one onto your fingers, when he drops to his knees before you.

Valdemar💉:

They never ask you how you live as long as them. They already know why. You're their beloved, and as long as you are happy, they are aswell.

At night they find themselves turn to your sleeping form and hesitate to touch you. Their fingers are claws, their skin is no longer it's natural shade, but green, they have horns. They do not deserve you. They deserve not even to gaze upon you. In their eyes, you are still the sweetest human in the world.

Only when you plead with them to finally hold you like they used to do they give in. They have missed your warmth in their cold, dead arms.

The very same night they finally hold you after so long, they blurt it out. "Marry me." They whisper. "What?" You manage. Valdemar's eyes are teary. They force your head to look away with a hand at your jaw. They tremble against your back, your form pressed against their chest. Their tears are cold against your hair. "Marry me." They repeat.

Your ring is made of iron and bone.

Volta🍰:

She's so touched that you've stayed by her side for so long. She dosent like to think of it, though. She feels a lingering dread in her belly when she does. Why, you're human, it's such a surprise you've lasted as long as her. She is a demon after all, the only way you could last as long as her is if you--

Oh, no. No. You shouldn't have done that at all, you shouldn't have become a demon just for her. Why would you do that?

She loves you more than anything, you're her darling, why would you do such a thing? She finds herself constantly crying at night, distraught even as you comfort her.

She can barely eat or talk to the other courtiers she's so upset, so angry at herself for not noticing and intervening sooner. She should have noticed! She should have noticed that you became a demon like her...

Two demons. She contemplates this for a long time. Two demons, together. A sudden thought strikes her.

She runs to you in the middle of the day. She trips over many things, but it's fine, she needed to do this on her knees anyway. She scrambles to your legs, still on her knees, and clasps your hands in her own, and declares her offer of marriage.

She has no ring for you. But she has a bangle on her wrist. And so that shall be your wedding ring.

Vulgora⚔️:

They would be happy forever if only besides you. They always told themself that. And it's so true. They love you so much, more than anyone, more than anything.

And they had always just assumed you were human like when you both met

They don't think much of you living as long as them, at first. They don't pay attention to many things, after all. And then one day, they're just looking at you when they realize, that, oh. That's why you lived so long. It's because you're like them.

They don't know what to think, they're kind of numb to it at first. How could they not notice?

They think of it for a long, long time. Such a long time. They are unusually quiet. And then one day they just embrace you so tight your back cracks, their muscles tight and tense.

Pressed in an embrace, they present to you their oldest sword, and they beg for your hand in marriage, to commit themselves to you as you had commit themselves to them.

❀

[corgi-cthuwu]

I was bored so I drew Alastor as Valdemar from The Arcana...

Also here's some doodles I drew in class :>

There's also the opportunity to draw Lucifer as Lucio, and Lilith as Nadia (both have tall dominant wives with long hair, and they're both divorced--)

[tafkarfanfic]

Reading my way through the Mercedes Lackey Valdemar books. There are some things that feel very ‘80s/90s fantasy, including:

Gang rape is character development for heroes and heroines

Speaking of which: “hey, we’re going to cast a spell that leads to the bad guy getting gang raped; won’t that be a riot?” is a thing that actually happens

What I’m saying is: whoa, there is a lot of rape in here

Massive age gap relationships (like, 17 year old woman/50 year old man — although there are m/m age gap relationships too) are super common

The description of Dirk is so similar to the description of Brianne of Tarth in ASOIAF that it makes me wonder if both characters were based on a real human in fandom:

His nose was much too long for his face; his ears looked as if they’d just been stuck on by guess and then left there. His jaw was square and didn't match his rather high cheekbones; his teeth looked like they'd be more at home in his Companion's mouth than in his. His forehead didn't match any of the rest of his face; it was much too broad, and his overly generous mouth was lopsided. His straw-colored hair looked more like the thatched roof of a cottage... The only thing that redeemed him from being repulsive was the good-natured smile that always hovered around the corners of his mouth ...

That, and his eyes—he had the most beautiful eyes Talia had ever seen; brimming with kindness and compassion... they were the same living sapphire blue as a Companion's

At some point Lackey stopped giving people last names and it just…feels kinda weird. Why is Vanyel’s family the only one with a last name?

The books jump around in the history of the world. What is notable is the books that were written earlier (such as The Last Herald-Mage books) have lots of work in the Guard and in positions of power; the more recently the books were written the more gendered occupations become. This has the weird effect of having a several hundred years time jump and suddenly everyone is way more sexist and most of the women seem to care about fashion more than doing things.

And also…gay people suddenly vanish after being a presence in the stories for many volumes. Then poof! They’re back!

There is also a lot to like.

Ace representation (Tarma) WAAAAAY before being ace was commonly talked about! And other ace representation too!

Lots of people doing their best and trying to make the world a better place.

Beings that are actually incorruptible.

Humans that do heroic things but are also flawed…but NOT in a grimdark way!

I still think it is worth reading. But the problematic parts stand out a LOT more to me now.

[sxftkxssxs]

How do you think the main 6 would react if MC was related to one of the courtiers (sibling or child of) and they still had a relatively good relationship with them, like hanging out over tea or freindly bickering ect. Bonus if its valdemar cause they're probably the scariest out of all of them xx

//I love your HCs BTW xx

I just went ahead and used Vlademar! If you do want versions with the others then I'll gladly do that! I'm glad you like my writing <3

M6 with a Mc who’s a sibling of one of the courtiers

Asra

...You're actually related???

Wonderful, amazing, love of his life, related to Vlademar??

He's filled with a mix of disgust, surprise, and confusion.

Why that one? Out of all of them he despises Vlademar the most.

He does try to not fight or be salty towards him at least, which is only slightly successful.

If Asra runs in on you two catching up over tea he'll be absolutely flabbergasted. Vlademar?? Crazy experiment doctor chatting over tea?

He'll always come with you when you go to see your sibling, and in doing that he learns a lot about the both of you and your relationship.

Julian

downright terrified 

you’re?? The sibling of Vlademar?? 

he’s spiraling, and there’s a 80% chance he will faint 

he’s always been intimidated by Vlademar even before he met you, and now it’s even worse

Julian will be sweating buckets around them. No questions asked.

It’s very weird seeing you banter with them, though. He never thought he’d see the Vlademar so relaxed and having a good relationship with someone.

Vlademar has threatened Julian more than once just for existing around you, and then tries to act like he was joking when you come around.

Nadia

You have to be kidding.

You're related to the craziest of the courtiers? Why couldn't it have been Vulta!?

She's stressing, growing metaphorical (and possibly literal) gray hairs.

As long as you both won't be a thorn in her side, (and you don't turn up in a ditch somewhere), she doesn't mind you two having time together in the palace.

She finds it incredibly awkward when she runs in on you two having some friendly bickering. This is still the same Vlademar right? You didn't replace him with someone on the streets of Vesuvia?

Nadia will try to spend some time with the both of you together, but she usually sits out on your little get togethers.

Muriel

He's not very pleased with this information

Vlademar was literally a follower of the devil??? And now you're fighting them over if a pastry tastes good??

Muriel would definitely hold some resentment. If you really do want them to get along he'll try his best.

Inanna in turn, also despises Vlademar. She'll never stay in a room alone with them.

He doesn't really like spending time with your sibling, they unnerve him.

Inanna will accompany you if she has to, especially if it'll ease Muriel's worry.

Portia

She's shocked

Portia is more easily introduced to them as your sibling, but she definitely holds a grudge against how her brother was treated during the plague and how cruel Vlademar can be

She doesn’t often hang out with the two of you together, but if you ask her to she will!

She learned how to fake pleasantries from working at the palace, and she puts them to use here

Pepi sits in your lap, making you look like an evil villain.

Lucio

again, why that one?

He never really liked Vlademar (or any of the courtiers)

You just had to be related to one of his past (Demonic?) "friends" didn't you?

He doesn't like being near Vlademar at all. Lucio will completely leave you two to be by yourselves.

Melchior likes to stay with you though, and will definitely growl if you two start bickering too harshly

Mercedes is with Lucio, screw hanging out with Vlademar!

[duchesssoflennox]

MARRIAGE OF KING HAAKON VII AND QUEEN MAUD OF NORWAY🥺🤍💍

Prince Carl, the second son of then-Crown Prince Frederick of Denmark and Princess Louise of Sweden, was born at the Charlottenlund Palace on August 3, 1872 and was christened Christian Frederik Carl Georg Valdemar Axel. Maud, meanwhile, was the youngest daughter of Albert Edward, Prince of Wales (later King Edward VII) and Princess Alexandra of Denmark. Both Frederick and Alexandra were children of King Christian IX of Denmark.

At a young age, Carl was not expected to become king because he was a second son. So, he built a career in the military, where he served as a naval officer at the Royal Danish Naval Academy in Copenhagen. Maud, meanwhile, was the liveliest of Edward and Alexandra's three daughters. She fell in love with Prince Francis of Teck, the younger brother of her sister-in-law, the future Queen Mary .Francis and Maud exchanged several letters, however, as time passed, it became clear that the love was one-sided as Francis had no interest in Maud.🥲💔

As cousins, Maud and Carl often met, especially during family gatherings. Rumours eventually circulated within the family that the two might get married. Carl proposed during a reunion at Fredensborg Castle and Maud accepted. Their engagement was announced on October 29, 1895. Princess Alexandra was initially hesitant of the engagement because Maud was 3 years older than Carl, She only relented when she realized that Carl would prove to be the right husband for her sea-loving daughter.🌊🤍

The engagement delighted Queen Victoria (Maud's grandmother). According to Queen Victoria's Maid of Honour, news of their engagement “…caused much excitement at Balmoral…and has been the cause of much telegraphing…The Queen is delighted and healths were drunk at dinner.” 

The wedding was set on July 22, 1896. The wedding was almost delayed after Prince Henry of Battenberg's untimely death, but it was finally decided that the wedding should go on as scheduled and that Princess Beatrice (Maud's aunt and Prince Henry's wife) and her children would not attend. European royals converged in London for this wedding. Members of both the British and Danish royal families were present, as well as their Greek, German, Russian, and Swedish relatives. The bride wore a simple dress fashioned by Miss Rosalie Whyte of the Royal Female School of Art. It had a long train and was made of pure white English satin which was woven in Spitalfields, a section of London known for its weaving. She wore the Princess of Wales' wedding veil and instead of a tiara, she adored her hair with flowers.

Queen Victoria recorded in her Journal: ‘After the Benediction, Maud came forward to her parents & then to me & I kissed both her & the Bridegroom’.

the famous royal painter LAURITS REGNER TUXEN painted the wedding using the photos taken at the wedding! Queen Victoria gave the painting as a present to Maud's parents, the Prince and Princess of Wales.🥺❤️‍🩹

[runwayrunway]

No. 16 - SAS (Scandinavian Airlines System)

I mentioned this was coming beforehand. Today we’re diving into a livery that has a lot more going on than you might think at first glance, a haunting portrait of what Lufthansa’s livery wants to be - the livery of the only airline to be mentioned in more or less every YTP ever made, SAS!

This isn't actually the modern livery, sorry. I'm a fraud. This is an anachronistic 2007 Avro RJ that apparently even back then had a livery basically all but identical to the modern one save for the lack of the SAS text. It still bodies Lufthansa and then some. I just had to find a place to slide it in because it's a very funny image that I love very much.

Legally known by the extremely catchy name “Scandinavian Airlines System Denmark-Norway-Sweden”, SAS was founded in 1946 as a consortium of the national carriers of Denmark, Norway, and Sweden. This makes it among the very few airlines to currently serve as the flag carrier of multiple countries.

It’s been around for nearly 80 years, but it’s only had four liveries in that time. I mention these because I think it’s worth contrasting with Lufthansa, which bled off traits over the decades until it was nothing but a dry husk. Unlike the slowly putrefying decrepit corpse which is Lufthansa, SAS is a young adult trying to find her identity who can't stop dyeing her hair different colors and deciding she hates it. Let's talk about those phases, and where we ended up at the end of it all.

1946 - The Original

image: Bene Robió

This picture is of a modern plane, OY-KBO “Christian Valdemar Viking” (all SAS planes have names ending in ‘Viking’) wearing a retro livery, but it contains the only part of SAS’s original livery of any interest at all. 

If we zoom in we can take a look at the end of the cheatline, where it morphs into the figurehead of a Viking longship. This is a nifty little touch that represents their national identity and is itself sleek and nicely designed.

And it looks even better on the 747.

It’s also the only notable thing about this old livery, so it’s not worth lingering on for too long. I thought it was worth mentioning because it's neat, but this livery was literally adopted when they very first began flying - in 1946! At that point it was pretty rare to see airlines have any livery at all aside from their name painted on bare metal. This was actually above and beyond for the time.

image: towpilot

It didn't look half bad on the DC-3, either. This was a consistently nice style and for its era I would say it was pretty good. But are we judging by the standards of the time? No.

So, for the time I would probably have given it a high grade. But it is not the time.

So I am giving it a C-.

There are still things to like about the longship design, don't get me wrong. But there is just literally nothing else going on, and it's not enough to have the only piece of your livery that's actually identifiable be so small and easy to miss.

1983 - Belly Stripes

image: Lars Wahlstrom

In 1983 they swapped to this livery, commonly known as “belly stripes”, designed by the iconic Landor Associates, prolific purveyors of liveries. It’s a pretty abrupt change, isn’t it? I like this livery, actually. It’s nice, if understated. The stripes are specifically the colors of the Norwegian, Swedish, and Danish flags. Apparently they worried the figurehead would be hard to understand (fair) and the association with Vikings might be bad optics (yet they continued to name their planes this way). 

Like I said, it’s nice. It’s fine.

This, like the original livery, is something that can be evaluated by modern standards or by those of its time. In 1983 majority-white liveries weren’t as ubiquitous as they are now and planes still frequently had cheatlines and all-over color and even bare metal fuselages so the bare white plane with the tiny bit of color and the nice font was actually something of a statement. Even by modern standards it’s executed a lot nicer than many similar liveries, but the market is just so saturated that it only really works in the context of its time, I think. Having a plane be nearly all white is no longer an artistic choice. It's a non-choice. And that's the world I live in, and that has to color how I look at this. But all the same...I can't tear myself away from it. In photographs from the time it is as pristine as newly fallen snow.

So I'm giving it a B.

I like the belly stripes livery. It's a neat and unique way of showcasing the flags. It's cleanly executed. I like that the stripes are diagonal instead of straight and that they're aligned with the letters, which are also in a very nice typeface. I just wish it existed in a less Eurowhite-saturated environment where it could shine to its fullest.

I somehow never noticed how adorably stubby the pre -30 DC-9 models were. Thankfully this has been remedied. Just look at her. Like a really round bird hopping through the air.

I think it’s interesting how, while Lufthansa slowly lost creative interest but only ever became a different design altogether in a sort of Ship of Theseus way, SAS fully overhauled their livery multiple times. They’re definitely trying to find something that works for them, regardless of the cost. They refuse to rest on their laurels. I admire that mindset, and it’s not ended badly so far. 

And then it was 1998. 

If you look very closely you can see something horrible in the distance.

No, okay. It can't be as bad as you're making it out to be, you say. And you are a fool for saying this.

Oh no. Oh no. Sweetheart, what happened to you? 

So, this is really really bad. Really really really bad. This looks like it was designed with the same philosophy I used to design original characters in middle school - oh, I like this color, let me add it without considering the overall balance or composition. This design was made by people who were paid to make it. 

This has almost all the features I hate most in a livery, all the way up to the abrupt color transition at the tailfin, but an additional one: that absolute atrocity right at the front. If you’re confused what I’m referring to, I don’t blame you - they made it nearly invisible. If you squint very hard, though, you can see ‘SCANDINAVIAN’ above the windows and ‘AIRLINES’ below it, completely illegible due to being painted in a silver color barely darker than the main fuselage itself. 

It looks amazingly funny with rear-mounted engines, though. That's her fanny pack.

All I can really say is: why. Why did you do this? Why.  

I am actually somewhat ashamed of how little I noticed this when out in the wild. It’s a testament to the sheer saturation of mostly plain liveries with a hint of red and/or blue that this monstrosity blended into the background and evaded my notice. (And in my defense I’ve never been to one of their focus cities so sightings have only been in passing.)

This might sound harsh, but I'm about to say this and stand by it. Here is a better SAS livery from the same time period.

With the engine covers on it looks like one of those plastic tips they put on toy pistols. Also, doesn't keeping the red engine caps defeat the purpose if you also have red engines, since they're meant to be clearly visible so you don't accidentally try to use the plane with them on? Do they not have a different color available for red engined freaks? Many questions.

That's right, SAS's 1998-2019 livery fails the Star Alliance Test!

What is the Star Alliance Test, you ask? It's very simple. Star Alliance is an airline alliance - basically a club for the world's most elite carriers to hang out in and codeshare. The three major alliances all have special liveries that they might have a couple planes from each of their members wear.

I hate alliance liveries. I think airline alliances should be represented by a little symbol on the airline's standard livery, not the other way around. I would like to know what airline this plane is from before I know if it's a member of OneWorld or SkyTeam. And if I need to know that they usually have a symbol for the alliance somewhere on the plane anyway.

The Star Alliance logo on a SAS ATR 72, directly behind the cockpit window and in front of the door. If you really squint you can even see the words 'Star Alliance' written underneath it.

Star Alliance is my least favorite. SkyTeam's livery actually looks pretty good. OneWorld's is the ugliest at base, but it lets the airline keep some of its branding at the back of the plane, which makes me hate it less. So Star Alliance loses by default. (Let me know if you'd like a full review for these, though.)

The Star Alliance Test has exactly one question. Would I prefer that all this airline's planes were forcibly repainted into Star Alliance liveries instead of allowed to remain in their current state?

In this case, yes. I very much would. And that means there's only one grade I can give to this livery.

F. See me after class.

That's right. Fly away. Ideally to get repainted in something more presentable.

The 2019 Overhaul

(To clarify, when I compared Lufthansa to SAS in my post about them I did not want to imply that they literally copied SAS - their revised livery obviously came out a year earlier, and they were definitely developed privately around the same time to keep up with modernized trends surrounding livery - they’re just similar safe, non-revolutionary concepts that SAS executes a lot better.)

I don’t normally buy the whole ‘the darkness must come before the light’ line of thinking, but SAS clearly does. Because even here, in this abomination, are the building blocks for what would become something reasonably decent. And, in 2019, SAS made that happen. 

Those are engine covers, by the way. There's no red on the engines. There's actually a tasteful silver trim under there.

So, this is what we've achieved. At first glance, it looks pretty similar to Lufthansa, but the closer you examine it the clearer the differences become. 

First, the white fuselage. Well, actually, that’s not the case for SAS. It looks white in bright sunlight, but it’s actually an off-white beige (Pantone 9083C). You can see that in this picture of an SAS plane parked next to a SWISS plane, and when you put a bunch of Scandinavians in crisp white shirts in front of it. 

image source (left): Daniel Ross | image source (right): SAS

I mean, no, it’s not exactly neon pink or anything, but it’s still a noticeable change in tone relative to other planes, and that means it’s a decision someone made. And that makes me happy. 

I think the world has begun to somewhat agree with me on the whole non-integrated-tail-colorblock being bad to look at, because SAS has also extended the stripe of blue down to loop under the rest of the fuselage. Honestly, if I were them I would have made it wider so it covered the full empennage on t-tail models, but that might make it look weird in its own way - I’m not here to design liveries, I’m here to complain about them. I just think it's still a bit too small to make the jet look fully balanced with the big SAS at the front.

The awful red engines have been replaced with a far more tasteful alternative - silver with a blue stripe at the front and silver trim on the very front edge. I like that a lot. No criticisms. 

The silver text has been kept, but it’s been reduced from a bunch of small letters to just a very large SAS, which is a lot clearer even when in low contrast. It’s difficult to nail down my thoughts on this. Obviously it’s an improvement, and I wouldn’t want it to be removed entirely, and I’m not sure if a more solid, emphatic version, maybe in the same blue as the rest of the livery, would actually be better or not. I think I overall like the silver wordmark? As long as it’s not a really bad angle it’s visible enough, and it adds something a bit interesting. Even if it is illegible at least they also have the name on the tail. It probably helps that it’s only three letters long. Still, nobody is going to be confused about what airline this plane belongs to. 

I think the wordmark looks its best on turboprops wearing the livery. I honestly feel like most good jet liveries look awkward on props and vice versa, but this transitions very well. Not many major airlines still fly props, and almost none of them adapt their liveries well to them, but the wordmark fills the space really nicely on the shorter fuselage of the ATR and the high wings break up the line in a way that looks pretty darn nice to me. More airlines need to fly props, and they need to take notes on how to make a livery work for them. 

Aside from the too-small amount of blue, my one real outright complaint is the very small Noto Sans(?, unsure) ‘Scandinavian’ written on the engine nacelles. It feels pointless and looks out of place. It looks extra out of place because the rest of their livery is in Rotis semi-serif, and the combination really clashes. It’s a little baffling, because they certainly have the option of just using the SAS logo again - the only other place they use the full ‘Scandinavian’ is on the belly. My personal suggestion would be bringing back the longship figurehead for the engines, but that’s just me. It just looks more like a watermark than a design feature. 

Look, I never said I loved the SAS livery, but someone clearly designed it. The implementation is still a little shaky in parts, as if the airline is regaining its footing after the red engine years, but it’s stumbling towards being good and it’s just short of the point where it can sit down and rest and reflect on its progress. 

SAS gets an overall grade of C. Which is also what the GPA of the other three came out to, I think! My calculations are admittedly a bit improvised.

Makes Lufthansa look like chumps, though. I think we can all agree on that.

[senashenta]

Counting Scars

Title: Counting Scars

Pairing: Destiel

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: Sex. Just. All the sex.

Summary: Three years after their first meetup in a motel in Amarillo, Texas, Dean and Cas are used to traveling to meet up with each other every couple of months or so. This time it’s in Raleigh, North Carolina, where they spend (most of) a weekend locked up together in a (not so) cheap hotel, making up for lost time and reaffirming their love for one another once more… until Dean’s DAD stops by unexpectedly to pound on the door and drag him away for a JOB, anyway.

Notes: Okay so the Horror High series was originally supposed to just be four fics: Horror High (10 chapters), Cheap Motel (one-shot), Counting Scars (one-shot) and then Storm Season (which is going to be X-number of chapters long, but I’m hoping around 10 the same as Horror High.)

But somewhere along the way other one-shots, Cerulean Blue, Everything I Do, and Falling Stars, just kind of… cropped up in-between Horror High and Storm Season. So, then the series was up to SEVEN fics. UNTIL. More one-shots appeared that take place AFTER Storm Season. SEVEN of them. And now the series is up to FOURTEEN fics, two of which have multiple chapters, and I have DUG MY OWN GRAVE, here! And all for a series with an EXTREMELY small following, so I’m pretty much writing it all for myself! :D;;

ANYWAY.

Top!Dean and Bottom!Cas the same as the rest of this series. If that’s not your jam, feel free to back out now. I just happen to like them that way. Also, gratuitous smut abounds!

On a personal note, I’m having a really rough go of it right now and my writing is pretty much all I have at the moment. Destiel, Lambden, Geraskier, Hijack and Valdemar are getting me through some tough times. Comments and likes help cheer me up, if you’ve got the time and inclination. (If not, thank you for reading, anyway.)

HORROR HIGH et al TUMBLR MASTER POST HERE.

COUNTING SCARS By Senashenta

[Days Inn, 3201 Wake Forest Road, room 16. Love you.]

Cas was rather stumped by this one because the hotel he was looking at simply wasn’t… shitty enough. Usually the Winchesters picked the cheapest, weirdest, most run-down motels they could find to fly under the radar, and while this hotel wasn’t five-star by any means, it certainly wasn’t run-down. It was nicely kept. It was clean. It was two stories. It had a pool (albeit one that was closed for the season.) Cas was frankly confused as hell, after three years of these little meetups.

But he was at the right address, according to his phone, and Cas had spent the last twelve hours on a bus from Tallahassee, Florida to Raleigh, North Carolina to meet up with his boyfriend-slash-lover, so finally he just headed into the hotel and asked for directions to room sixteen from the friendly and polite woman manning the front desk. Once he was pointed in the right direction, he headed off, and when he reached room sixteen, he only hesitated slightly before knocking.

There was scuffling from the other side of the door and then Cas could hear it being unlatched. Dean yanked the door open to grin at him hugely, then grabbed at the front of his trench coat and pulled him inside, closing and locking the door again behind them.

Cas hefted his backpack off his shoulder and dropped it on the ground, looking around the—nice—room with complete bafflement. “What’s with the…?” He gestured to the whole room, the plush bed with soft, comfortable linens, the fancy furniture—the balcony—with obvious confusion.

“Oh. I—ah.” Dean glanced around, then shrugged with one shoulder and rubbed at his hair almost awkwardly. “I just thought it’d be nice, for a change. Don’t you think? And the cost doesn’t really matter, I mean, it’s all on fake credit cards anyway. So.”

Cas watched Dean shift on his feet, still bordering on awkward—and finally smiled, just soft and fond. “You didn’t have to do this for me, you know.” He said quietly, even as he eased closer and ducked in to give Dean a kiss. “I’m happy just as long as we’re together. But this is… it’s nice. Thank you for thinking of me, Dean.”

Dean relaxed on his words and tilted his head to return the kiss. “I’m always thinking of you.” He told Cas with a smile, bumping their heads together lightly. “You’re almost always on my mind.”

Three years of being a couple and most of that time having to meet up in random places around the country, in cheap motels, to eke out time together over too-short weekends while spending the rest of their lives apart—it hadn’t dulled their relationship one bit. Cas and Dean were perhaps closer than ever, emotionally speaking, if not in geographical terms, and that always stood out glaringly when they did manage to get together.

Now, with Dean being twenty-one years old (Cas was still twenty and would turn twenty-one in four months) they were still solidly a couple, neither of them planning on going anywhere any time soon. Neither of them could really even imagine life without the other, even with the occasionally troublesome manner of their relationship.

Certainly, it would have been nice if they could have had a “normal” life together. Dated the “right way”, maybe even shared an apartment. But Dean was still a Hunter—would always be a Hunter—and Cas simply… wasn’t. He couldn’t go on the road with Dean even if he wanted to, and Dean’s dad wouldn’t allow it anyway. Besides which, Cas was midway through his post-secondary education at Florida State University, so he couldn’t exactly be touring around the country. He would have to drop out of school. School that his father was paying for.

As it was Cas was taking days off from school (and his part-time job) every two or three months to meet up with Dean like this. It was easy, in university. No one called truant on you, as long as you kept your grades up—which Cas did, of course. Though his first-year roommate from when he’d been living in the dorms, Alfie, had asked him where he kept disappearing to on more than one occasion.

When they couldn’t meet up, they texted, and called, and video chatted. Cas and Dean were in nearly constant communication, except when Dean was on a Hunt—then he turned his phone off, for obvious reasons. It was the times when he tried to call and it went straight to voicemail that Cas found himself worrying, even though Dean assured him that he was fine. He was always fine.

Now, Dean reached to take his hand and tugged Cas through the room and over to the balcony, pulling the door open and nudging him outside. Dean followed him out and leaned against the balcony railing with a smile. “It’s only the second floor, but we get a view of the garden, which I guess is nice? If you’re into that sort of thing. What do you think?”

Cas stepped up next to him and rested his hands on the railing, looking around, taking in the view. “It is nice.” He confirmed with a smile, and then, again, “thank you for this. I mean, I’m… happy. To see you in any cheap motel in this country. But this is special. Something different.”

“For our anniversary.” Dean said softly, a little smile on his face when Cas blinked at him. “I bet you didn’t think I’d remember stuff like that. But a month ago was the anniversary of our first date.”

“When we went to Maggie’s for dinner and then made love when we got back to my place later. And I mean made love, not just sex.” Cas laughed quietly; his expression fond at the memory. “My first real date ever and I absolutely let you go all the way. Does that make me easy?”

“Oh, the easiest.” Dean agreed with a grin.

Cas laughed again, a blatantly happy sound, and bumped sideways into him gently. “You love me anyway.”

“I love you because of it.” Dean corrected, teasing.

Cas rolled his eyes and swatted at Dean’s arm, then pushed away from the balcony and turned to go back inside, Dean following along behind him. Once he was back in the room he hung his coat on the rack by the door—there were, for some reason, two jackets already hanging there—and then wandered over to climb into the absurdly comfortable bed. He waved for Dean to join him.

Dean crawled into the bed with him, and after a moment of adjusting the two of them settled with Dean on his back, one arm tucked around Cas, who was cuddled into his side warmly, one of his own arms flung across Dean’s chest, his hand toying with the front of Dean’s t-shirt absently.

“So, how are Sam and your Dad?” Cas asked once they were comfortable, “Did your Dad freak out again when you said you were coming here?”

“He always freaks out.” Dean sighed, his hand rubbing at Cas’s shoulder gently. “Let’s just say he’s not your biggest fan.”

“He doesn’t even know me.” Cas grumbled.

“I know.” Dean squeezed his shoulder and sighed, pulling him even closer.

Cas shifted against him and buried his face in the crook of Dean’s neck with a huff. It bothered him, that Dean’s dad didn’t like him just on principle alone. When people were together, loved each other, like he and Dean did, then wasn’t it natural to want the other person’s family to approve of you? Then again, from the sound of it, John Winchester didn’t approve of much.

At least Sam liked him, that much was true. Cas had always had a good relationship with Dean’s younger brother, ever since they had met. And while Sam was getting stubborn and (more) opinionated now that he was seventeen, rebelling against his dad and just generally getting in trouble, Cas still had a high opinion of him. He thought he always would.

Pressing a kiss against the side of Dean’s neck, Cas finally just changed the subject completely and asked, “why are there two jackets by the door?”

“There are three. One of them is your ridiculous trench coat.”

“Smartass.”

“Better than being a dumbass.” Dean grinned up at the ceiling, then told him; “my old jean jacket from high school is on its last legs. Dad gave me his old leather one, it’s still in good shape, but…” He trailed off slightly and glanced down at Cas, “that patch you got for me is still on my old one, and I was hoping you could swap it over to the leather one, while you’re here…?” Then a pause and he added, “Dad’ll be pissed I defaced his jacket, but whatever.”

Cas made a soft sound in his throat and glanced up at Dean in surprise. “You want to keep the patch?”

“Of course.” Dean gave him a gentle hug. “It keeps me safe.”

Cas was quiet and still for a moment because—that was the first thing he had ever given his boyfriend, besides peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. Something to protect him. And even years later, Dean apparently still treasured it. It was a wonderous thing. After a brief pause to consider that, Cas shifted against Dean’s side, shuffling so that he was half-laying overtop of the other man, and leaning down for a kiss. “I love you, Dean.”

“Mm.” A hum against his lips and Dean angled his head to deepen the kiss; “I love you, too. More than anything.”

As often happened between them, one kiss led to more, which lead to Cas pushing Dean’s shirt up, urging him to take it off, and Dean doing the same with him. They both eased back long enough to strip out of them before coming together again, making out like it was the end of days.

Soon enough they were taking their pants off, too, as well as their boxers, pressing together, completely nude and loving the feel of their bodies against each other in the soft sheets. When Cas mumbled something about lube, Dean extracted himself from the younger man and the bed long enough to go to his duffle bag and dig it out. Of course, Cas had brought some, too, just in case—he always did—but Dean never forgot.

Cas took the brief time Dean was gone to settle on his back and slide a hand down to palm at his own cock, then closed his hand around it and started stroking, head falling back and breath starting to come faster. When Dean turned around, lube in hand, to that sight, he cursed softly and just watched for a moment before swallowing and heading back over, climbing back into the bed.

Prep was easy now, with so much practice behind them, and Dean knew exactly what he was doing, working his fingers into Cas carefully but deeply, stroking against his sweet spot as much as possible just to watch him jerk and hear him moan. He would never get over that.

They had long ago stopped using condoms; after the first accidental slip-up it had seemed pointless, and they were in an exclusive relationship. They trusted each other, so it was fine. Besides, Cas privately liked the idea of Dean coming inside him—though he had yet to express that out loud.

Now, Dean pulled his fingers away, sliding his slicked-up hand up Cas’s thigh, leaving a streak of lube in its wake—but before he could push Cas’s legs father apart and settle between them, Cas sat up, grabbed at him and pushed him onto his back, then climbed on top of him and—oh. Okay. This definitely worked, too.

Cas straddled Dean’s hips, reaching down to fist his boyfriend’s cock and give it a couple of strokes before holding it steady, lining up and sinking himself down over it, taking Dean deeply into his body. And then he sat there for a long moment, just breathing heavily, his hands braced against Dean’s abdomen, kneading there restlessly as he adjusted. Dean’s own hands came up to grab at Cas’s thighs, gripping there tightly.

Surprisingly, when he did finally start to move, Cas rocked his hips slowly, deeply, in a warm rhythm—usually when they fucked like this it was hard, fast and rough. This time Cas drew it out, rolling his hips sensually, all slow-building heat and delicious friction. This was new, different—but not at all unwelcome. Making love in an entirely surprising way.

Dean released one of Cas’s thighs and reached up to thread his fingers into the other man’s hair, pulling him down for a kiss—then another, and another—before Cas broke off to bury his face in Dean’s shoulder, still rolling his hips, panting softly.

Usually, their lovemaking was over almost too quickly, but this time seemed to last forever, long and drawn-out and delightfully kinetic, Dean’s hands roaming Cas’s sides and back and Cas working them both to their peak while panting into his shoulder, still, until Dean began carefully thrusting up to meet his movements, at which point Cas pushed himself up again, throwing his head back with a gasp. “Dean…!”

“Shit, Cas…!” Dean panted out a curse, hands dragging to hold by Cas’s knees while Cas’s rhythm sped up—and he brought one of his own hands up to grasp at his own cock, beginning to jerk off along with everything else. Dean just cursed again, watching him under half-lidded eyes, licking his lips at the sight. “So fucking hot…!”

Cas whined at that, just a token protest, but didn’t stop moving, didn’t stop stroking at his himself, until a long few moments later when he tensed up abruptly, and came with a sharp cry, spilling sticky come over Dean’s abdomen. Even though he was done, though, he continued to move, rolling his hips down against Dean’s until the older man reached his own climax and came with a muffled groan of his own, deep inside Cas’s body.

Only then did Cas climb off Dean, then ease down to start licking at the streaks of come that speckled Dean’s abdomen, cleaning them away with his tongue. Dean bit back another moaned curse at the sight, and when Cas was done, licking his lips absently, he drew him up the bed and tucked him into his side.

“You’ve never done that before…”

“Seems rude to leave it and make a mess of such nice blankets.”

Dean chuckled and rubbed a hand along Cas’s side warmly. “That’s very considerate of you.”

“I try.” Cas yawned slightly and nuzzled down into Dean’s shoulder with a quiet pleased noise, “did I ever tell you… I actually prefer no condoms?”

“No.” Dean sounded surprised. “Why?”

“Mmm… because I like you coming inside me.” And it struck Dean that Cas must have been tired—from the bus trip there, from the sex, from a combination of things—because he wouldn’t just say something like that, normally. Now, Cas continued softly, his voice almost a mumble, “feels like you’re marking me, somehow. Claiming me. I like when you claim me.”

Dean adjusted his arm around Cas a little, tugging the blankets up around them with the other one. “You’re mine and I’m yours. We don’t share each other.” He reminded Cas quietly, tone amused.

But Cas was already drifting off and didn’t even realize he was falling asleep until he woke up some time later.

-- --

When he did wake up, Cas breathed out a long, contented sigh. His head was still resting on Dean’s shoulder, his arm across Dean’s ribs, and Dean’s arm around his waist. Neither of them had moved, so Dean must have fallen asleep, too. Cas hummed to himself and let his hand slide along Dean’s skin gently. The older man didn’t even twitch—he was clearly still sleeping.

Fingers light, touch soft, Cas began petting along Dean’s chest and abdomen, pausing every time he reached a scar, mapping them, keeping a mental tally in his head as he trailed his fingertips along them gently. Nine. He counted nine scars on the front of Dean’s torso alone—and that was if you counted the two little parallel jorogumo ones as one. If not then it was ten, and that was…

Cas understood Dean’s job. The importance of it. And he was so proud of his boyfriend for doing it. But that didn’t mean he didn’t hate it a little bit, too. Every time they met up and Dean was carrying more scars, something in Cas’s gut twisted up. He hated seeing the evidence of all the times Dean had been hurt, even if some of them were now a long time in the past.

Now his fingers touched gently across a newer scar by Dean’s ribs; it was still raised and pink, obviously fresh, and he sighed softly, wishing there was something he could do. Some way he would wipe the slate clean, get rid of all the awful marks for good, like magic. Dean didn’t deserve to carry around all these reminders of pain.

“…what are you doing?” Dean’s voice came out thick with sleep and he finally shifted slightly under Cas’s touch, stretching and then ducking to drop a kiss against the younger man’s hair.

Cas smiled a little and smoothed his hand against Dean’s ribs. “Counting scars.” He replied simply, without any more explanation than that.

“Naturally.” Dean chuckled, still settled back in the warm blankets on the comfortable bed in their surprisingly nice hotel room. “Mm… do you remember what you were saying, before you fell asleep?”

“No… what was I saying?”

Another soft laugh. “Never mind. Doesn’t matter. You know what I was thinking?”

“What were you thinking?” Cas looked up at him.

“The downside to this place? People might actually bitch to the management about the amount of noise we make while we’re having sex.”

A soft laugh and Cas leaned up for a kiss. “So, let them complain to management. We’re not doing anything wrong.” Then he settled again, his hand going back to tracing abstractly against Dean’s chest, like usual, and he said, “so, I looked up Raleigh while I was on the bus here. Have you ever been here before?”

“Yeah. Rugaru case a couple years back. Didn’t get to do much sightseeing, obviously.”

Well, yeah, okay, that made sense. Cas tapped his fingers against Dean’s chest with a soft hum. “Well, they’ve got the Natural History Museum,” He said, “and the Museum of Art, and the Arboretum. And—and I can practically hear you yawning already, stop that. I know those aren’t really your things. But they also have a huge farmer’s market, which I know is also not your thing, but I was hoping we could stop in tomorrow, if that’s okay with you? It’s got vendors from all over and it’s supposed to be great…”

Dean chuckled softly and told him, “Cas, if you wanted, I would go to all those things with you, even if I was yawning the whole time. Besides, the Natural History Museum would have dinosaurs and stuff, right? That could potentially be cool. It’s the kind of thing Sammy used to always want to drag me to.” Then a pause and he added, “and we can absolutely go to the farmer’s market tomorrow. A new date to commemorate our first date back in high school.”

A smile at that. Dean really did remember even the little things. It was still amazing sometimes. Cas tipped his head to press a kiss by the older man’s clavicle. “I’ll try to get that patch swapped over tonight, if you ever let me out of this bed.”

“Mmm…” Dean made a considering sound before tightening his arm around Cas’s waist. “We have all weekend to get that patch done, and this is a very nice bed, especially with you in it.” He joked, but then paused before asking, “do you actually still carry needles and stuff around with you?”

“Mmhm,” Cas agreed, “needles, thread and a seam ripper in my backpack at all times, you never know when they might come in handy.”

“Unbelievable.” Dean grinned down at him. “Did you know I adore you?”

“It may have come up from time to time.” Cas laughed, and lifted his head again, leaning up for a kiss. “I adore you, too, you know.”

“Happy anniversary.”

“Yeah. Happy anniversary.”

-- --

Some time later found them tangled up in bed (again), still stripped to their skin and Dean working Cas over as diligently and with as much attention to detail as he would give to any job on the road—absolutely focused on the younger man, who was arching and gasping under him while he kissed, nipped and licked his way down his body.

Cas had one particularly sensitive spot just under his navel that Dean liked to exploit every chance he got, and now was no exception. He nipped there lightly just to hear Cas gasp, then began sucking sharply, pulling up a little, purple bruise, all the while Cas made little “ah, ah” sounds and squirmed, his hands buried in Dean’s hair and his erection more than evident.

Dean laved his tongue over the pretty new bruise before ducking down to suck the head of Cas’s cock into his mouth, rubbing his tongue over it firmly. Cas moaned and tugged at his hair—and they had talked about the hair-pulling before, on multiple occasions, but the other man just couldn’t seem to help himself. Not when they were doing this, anyway.

So, Dean just ignored it for now and eased deeper onto Cas’s cock, sucking down the swollen shaft heatedly and with a pleased-sounding hum in the back of his throat because—he liked doing this for Cas. Sucking him off. He liked the taste and feel of Cas’s cock in his mouth—and especially liked the sounds the other man made while he did it. And if you had asked him, a few years ago, if sucking dick would be one of his favorite things to do? You probably would have gotten punched. But now? Now it was a completely different story.

“Ah… a-ah, Dean…!” Cas had his head back and his eyes squeezed closed, as if watching Dean go down on him would tip him over the edge immediately. Dean’s own eyes flicked upward, and he smirked around the cock in his mouth, just easing deeper, then starting to bob his head in easy motions, and sloppy.

Another few moments of that, of him giving Cas an unhurried blowjob and Cas squirming under him, and Dean pulled off his dick with a soft wet noise, huffing and licking his lips. Green eyes scanned up and down Cas’s body—Cas was sprawled out, obviously loose-limbed and pliant, breathing hard and a little, pinched expression on his face, somewhere between pleasure and pain—perfect—and Dean grinned before stretching to grab the lube from the bedside table.

“You ready for me, Cas?”

“…always.” Cas managed, his expression shifting into a little quirk of a smile and eased his legs father apart to make the next part easier for his boyfriend.

Dean settled himself half-propped between Cas’s raised knees and slicked up the fingers of his right hand, then capped the lube and dropped the tube off to the side to be retrieved later. For now, he focused on easing the first finger into Cas’s body, pushing deep and crooking it slightly to rub against the other man’s prostate. He could feel when he found it—but also knew because Cas gave a jerk and a moan.

And Cas took this part so well, so sweetly, always had, even the first time when he had been a total virgin and neither of them had known what they were doing with stretching him out. He had been patient, even then, when Dean had been tentative and fumbling with his fingers—nothing compared to the way he was now.

The second finger made Cas gasp out another moan, one of his hands down and pulling at the blankets now while the other one had returned to fisting in Dean’s hair, fingers tangled tightly in the soft strands. Two fingers was usually where they spent the most time, Dean toying with his sweet spot and drawing out the agonizing pleasure until Cas thought he might cry—until he was panting out sobs, sometimes.

Because Dean loved nothing more than to watch Cas completely unravel in front of his eyes, come entirely undone, fall apart like a marionette with its strings cut. Cas was beautiful in the throes of pleasure (he was always beautiful, but still) and Dean could never get enough of him that way (or any way, he supposed.)

The third finger was almost cursory, just to make sure that Cas was stretched out enough for his cock, though they had attempted going with just two in the past and Cas had admitted the added stretch and burn of the following penetration hadn’t exactly been a turn-off. Dean had filed that under Duly Noted for future reference.

Now, he just continued stretching Cas out for another endless couple of minutes, until the younger man was pulling at his hair (again with the hair-pulling) and breathlessly begging him to fuck him. And Cas rarely used that exact word, so when he did, Dean paid attention. He pulled his fingers back and wiped them on the sheets absentmindedly, then sat back on his heels and considered, licking his lips before patting against Cas’s hip gently.

“Roll over, Cas. Get up on your hands and knees.”

“Wh—” Cas began, but then just changed his mind, obviously figuring it out, and swallowed thickly, then carefully turned himself over onto his stomach—and lifted up onto his hands and knees. He swallowed again, glancing over his shoulder at Dean to ask, “is this okay?”

Dean just nodded mutely because it was more than just ‘okay’, already lifting up onto his own knees and lining himself up to push his own throbbing cock into Cas’s slick body.

They had fucked like this before, over the years, but only a handful of times, so it was still very new and different—and it would be fucking, there was no making love in this position. Cas’s face was flushed a dark red and his back was bowed slightly, his hands fisted in the blankets—and he just adjusted himself when Dean pushed into him, sliding his legs farther apart and moaning deep in his chest.

Dean took just a moment, his hands petting softly at Cas’s hips, to let him adjust, and then he started to move, a few slow, shallow thrusts at first but quickly picking up the pace until he was fucking into Cas hard and deep, their hips slamming together every time he buried himself to the hilt in the younger man.

Cas started out trying to keep his moans somewhat muffled, biting on his lip, eyes closed and head hanging, entire body jostling and jerking while Dean pounded into him, but soon he found himself panting out gasps and moans that just got louder the more time passed, until he was next thing to shouting, voice cracking, going hoarse around the edges with each cry.

Eventually, Cas’s arms, already shaky, gave out on him, and he half-collapsed forward into the pillows with a shout, hips still in the air but now at least able to muffle himself into the covers while Dean continued fucking him totally and thoroughly, the other man’s hands grasping hard at his waist now.

Cas scrabbled for purchase in the bedding, finding none, and eventually ended up grabbing at the headboard of the bed, his entire body jostling up and down along with Dean’s thrusts. His other hand, meanwhile, slid down between his own legs to start stroking at his own cock, slick and spilling precome in slippery blurts across the sheets under him.

There was nothing but animalistic want and need, here, and both of them were more than fine with that, at least for the moment. Dean continued thrusting into Cas hard, almost roughly, one hand coming up to shove his hair back out of his face before returning to Cas’s hip—until finally his climax edged up on him, and he backed off a bit, waiting for Cas’s telltale cry. He didn’t want to come before his lover, leave him hanging.

Dean didn’t have to wait long. Cas kept jerking at his own cock until he fell over the edge a short time later, coming over his own fist with a wrecked wail—and then Dean started thrusting harder again, working himself to the peak and over, swallowing a too-loud shout when he finally came hard and deep inside the other man.

Chest heaving, Cas waited for Dean to pull out of him, then carefully eased down onto his stomach. Dean shuffled around to lay next to him, settling on his side facing Cas and letting one hand drift down his back, gentleness in harsh contrast with what has just transpired between them.

“I’m sorry,” He apologized after a few minutes of them catching their breath, “that was…”

“A lot.” Cas mumbled, still face-first in the pillow. He finally turned his head to look at Dean—and just smiled, a little lopsided. “We don’t do that very often.”

“Because I’m afraid of hurting you.” Dean admitted, hand resting at the small of Cas’s back now. It moved when Cas began to shift, rolling onto his side to face Dean properly. “The last thing I ever want to do is hurt you, you know that, Cas.”

“Mm,” Cas agreed, “but I can handle some rough sex once in a while.”

“Cas…”

Cas sighed and lifted a hand to stroke along Dean’s cheek, his touch soft and reassuring. “Dean, it isn’t like you treated me like one of the monsters you Hunt. You just fucked me. Really thoroughly. You didn’t hurt me. I liked it, you liked it. So don’t feel bad. We can even do it again some time, just...”

“Just?”

“Just… notice. A little bit of notice, if possible. This time kind of came out of nowhere.”

Dean finally flashed a grin, “it did for me, too. Sorry.”

“If I’m walking with a limp later, I’m blaming it on you.”

“I accept full responsibility if I broke your ass, Cas.”

Cas rolled his eyes, but leaned in for a kiss, warm and affectionate. When they parted, he asked, “you think I could raid the minibar? I need a drink.” And then, to clarify; “a non-alcoholic drink. A ten-dollar bottle of water or something.”

“Oh,” Dean waved a hand in the direction of the minibar in question, “I already broke into the thing before you even got here. Have at.”

All Cas could do was laugh.

-- --

Later that night, in-between bouts of having sex—or making love, as the case may be—Cas sat down (on his miraculously unbroken ass) and removed the embroidered pentagram patch from Dean’s old jean jacket, which was very obviously on its last legs. The patch itself was worn, too, but mostly just faded with age. It was still recognizable for what it was. Cas sewed it onto the shoulder of the leather jacket with practiced hands and was done in no time, smiling to himself as he handed the jacket over to Dean to be inspected.

Dean seemed pleased, if the kisses he received as payment were any indication.

The rest of the night was spent just enjoying each other’s company, watching a shitty movie on the television and calling out for pizza to be delivered for dinner at nearly ten o’clock at night. They ate it sitting on the disheveled bed with the box between them, laughing and talking the entire time.

Even though they talked almost every day, it seemed like they never ran out of things to say to one another, and that was one of the astonishing things about Dean. Or maybe not so astonishing, considering his life. He had a treasure trove of wild stories that, to anyone else, would just seem like tall tales, signs of a healthy imagination—but Cas knew better. He had lived one of those tall tales. He knew all too well that they were real.

And Dean never seemed to tire hearing about Cas’s own, mundane life. His classes at university, his friendship with Alfie, his job at the Gas-n-Sip, what he did in his spare time, what he talked about with Charlie, Jody, Garth, Jo or Kevin when he video called them (especially Charlie.) He was as fascinated by Cas’s ordinary life as Cas was by his extraordinary one. Cas supposed it was true, the grass was always greener on the other side.

Once they were finished eating and had raided the minibar again for (expensive) drinks, they settled in for the evening, just spending the rest of their time quietly—making love once more, just warmly this time, sensually, heat and passion and closeness before completion, before turning in for the night just before one in the morning—actually pretty early, for them.

When they woke up the next morning it was just before eleven and they were in a sea of plush blankets and pillows—and it was snowing, just lightly, outside the balcony window. Cas cuddled closer against Dean’s side, his head resting against the older man’s chest, listening to his heartbeat, and quietly watched the stray flakes falling for just a few minutes as he tried to commit that exact moment to memory.

Dean, meanwhile, had one hand up, his fingers stroking through Cas’s hair and making him hum out a contented noise. “It’s gonna be chilly out today. You sure your trench coat will be warm enough?”

Cas made a soft positive sound in his throat and let his eyes close over, enjoying the fingers through his hair. “It’s actually very warm.”

“Who knew?” Dean chuckled, ducking in to drop a kiss by his forehead and then settling back again. “I wish we could just stay here forever, Cas. Just the two of us, in this room, in this bed, for the rest of eternity.” He sighed softly, “I love meeting up with you like this—I live for it—but saying goodbye after just a weekend together is always…”

“It’s hard.” Cas agreed. “I don’t like it, either. But… that’s how it has to be. I think we’re lucky your Dad even lets you come meet me at all.”

“Only because I don’t ask permission.” Dean told him with a tiny quirk of his lips, “I don’t give him a choice. I just tell him I’m leaving, and I go. I don’t even tell him where to until you’re long gone again, just in case, though he’d good at tracking people, he could probably find me if he really wanted to. He yells every time, though. About how I’m being disobedient and insubordinate and all kinds of other words they taught him in the Marines.”

“Your Dad was a Marine?”

“Yeah.”

“Probably explains a lot.”

Dean laughed and allowed, “yeah, probably.”

They continued their soft conversation for a while, just cuddled up in bed together, before finally deciding that if they wanted to go to the farmer’s market, they had to get up at some point that day. So, they climbed out of bed and showered, cleaned up and got ready to go out, Cas pulling on his trench coat and Dean is newly-pentagramed leather jacket, before they disappeared out the door, leaving a “do not disturb” sign on the handle on their way out.

Cas’s phone once again came to the rescue in getting them directions to the farmer’s market and they arrived just after one o’clock. The market was huge, with at least a hundred different booths and vendors, and Cas perked up considerably at the sight.

“I go to the farmer’s market in Tallahassee sometimes,” He told Dean, reaching to take his hand as they began perusing the market, “but it’s nowhere near the size of this one. There’s one stall, though, this old Polish woman and her daughter run it? And they sell the best pastries and tarts…”

Dean smiled as he listened to Cas talk. He was already privately making plans to go to the Natural History Museum next, even though they hadn’t really discussed it. It probably wouldn’t be entirely up Dean’s alley, just like the farmer’s market wasn’t, but it would make Cas happy and that was the importa—wait, that booth had pies.

Thoughts derailed for the moment, he tugged at Cas’s hand, heading over to the booth in question, a long table that was absolutely laden with pies of all sorts. Rustic, homemade pies. Dean paused there for a long moment and then glanced at Cas, who was looking all sorts of amused.

“It’s your money.” Cas told him fondly.

Okay, but how was he supposed to pass this up? And they had a mini fridge back at the hotel. Dean kept hold of Cas’s hand, tugging him along as he wandered down the table, looking at the various kinds of pies they had before finally releasing his boyfriend and digging out his wallet. “How much for the strawberry-rhubarb with the streusel?”

“Fifteen, hon.” The woman behind the booth answered cheerfully.

And damn, that was an expensive pie, but he was going to buy it anyway. He fished out a twenty and handed it over, retrieved his change, stuffed everything back in his pocket, then watched the woman bag the pie up for him, taking it with a smile and a thanks when she handed it over the table to him.

Cas was standing a couple of feet away with a little smile on his face as he watched the entire transaction. When Dean moved away from the pie booth, he reached to take hold of the older man’s free hand again. Dean just asked, “are all farmer’s markets so expensive?”

Cas just shrugged. “Generally, yeah. But you get what you pay for. I guarantee it’s a really good pie.” Then another smile and he added, “you found something for yourself at the farmer’s market after all.”

As for Cas, he bought a couple of apples from one of the other booths and found a hand-knit sweater at another that he seriously considered buying for his father but decided against in the end—because he’d come into town with only his backpack, so bringing home bulky souvenirs could be problematic. The apples went into one of his trench coat pockets for now.

They just continued on down the first row of vendors and tables until they got to the end of the row where—

“Hey, kid.”

Cas blinked and glanced sideways when someone called to him, then almost opened his mouth to protest because he was twenty, damnit. Instead, he stopped walking and in turn tugged Dean to a stop as well.

The woman who had called him was seated at a smaller table. It had a dark purple tablecloth and a literal crystal ball sitting in the middle of it. To the side was a deck of tarot cards. The woman herself was maybe a little older than them, wearing a long skirt and wrapped up in a shawl against the chilly weather.

Cas regarded her curiously for a moment before asking, “yes?”

She shifted in her seat, gaze roving up and down Cas before flitting up above his head and then back down to his face. She said, “I can see your halo.”

Beside Cas, Dean snorted. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“You two. You’re going to go through some very hard times.” She continued, and Cas frowned because was this her way of trying to drum up business? It wasn’t working very well. “Do you believe in soul mates? Because you two are strongly connected, and always will be, but… I see a lot of turmoil in your future. Things that may break you.” She hugged her shawl tighter around herself and offered them a vague smile, “you can get through it if you stick together, no matter what.”

“Okay, that’s enough of that,” Dean tugged at Cas’s hand, “c’mon, let’s get out of here, Cas.”

Cas just continued staring at the woman. Finally, he asked, “how long?” And then, to clarify, “how long do I get with him, before it’s over?”

She shook her head. “It’s hard to say, considering all the variables. What you are. Could be a few years. Could be an eternity. It’s really up to you two.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “Cas, let’s go.”

But Cas tugged his hand free and dug out his wallet, pulling out a ten-dollar bill and depositing it on the woman’s table. “Thank you.” He said politely, before returning his wallet to his pocket and taking Dean’s hand again, allowing himself to be tugged away. Once they were far enough off, he squeezed Dean’s hand and asked, “you’ve never run into psychics, in all the Hunting and everything?”

“We have,” Dean grumbled, obviously annoyed, “but real psychics are one in a billion, and they don’t hock their wares at farmer’s markets, of all places. She was just screwing with us. And you gave her money for it.”

Cas was quiet for a long moment before adjusting his hold on Dean’s hand, threading their fingers together, and saying softly, “I don’t think she was just screwing with us. And she never asked for a dime, I gave her that money of my own free will. I think she was just trying to help.”

There was silence from Dean for a while as they continued walking the loop of vendors, not really paying attention to them anymore. Finally, he just blew out a frustrated breath and said, “I guess I just… didn’t like what she had to say. Is all.”

“Neither did I, really.” Cas admitted, tugging Dean to a stop again and easing close, leaning up to kiss him gently. “But we’ll be okay. We’re always okay, right?”

Dean finally smiled a little. “Right.” Then he bumped his forehead against Cas’s and asked, “you wanna drop this pie off at the hotel room and then go to the Natural History Museum?”

The younger man brightened at that, perking, and nodded. “I would love that, Dean.”

Dean’s smile brightened as well, and he angled for another kiss. “Alright, let’s go then.”

-- --

The Natural History Museum was surprisingly fun for both Cas and Dean, who turned out to have a bit of a secret thing for dinosaurs. While they wandered the prehistory section, he kept telling Cas which ones he thought he could take in a fight, which just made Cas laugh on more than one occasion. They had a good time. Cas bought a fossil shark tooth from the gift shop before they left, just because he liked it.

On the long walk back to their hotel they held hands and ignored the occasional dirty look they got from passers by. North Carolina apparently attempted to foster safety and equity amongst all of its citizens. Still, clearly not everyone was getting the message. But it was like that anywhere you went, really.

Over the last few years, Cas had travelled all over the country to meet up with Dean and not everywhere had necessarily been welcoming to them. Some places they’d had to stick strictly to their motel room and order food in, just in case—mostly because Cas was worried about someone starting a fight and Dean finishing it. It had happened in the past.

In Raleigh, the dirty looks were few-and-far-between, and no one seemed inclined to start anything, so they both felt safe enough to be out together and affectionate in public. Even if that got them accosted by strange psychics at farmer’s markets.

“What do you want to do tomorrow?”

Cas blinked out of his thoughts and glanced sideways at Dean. He hummed for a moment before shrugging. “We did my fun things today already. What do you want to do tomorrow?”

Dean grinned and leaned over to kiss him. “You.”

Cas rolled his eyes, but he was smiling too. That was kind of a given. “I think we can arrange that. Maybe even a couple of times.”

Dean laughed and bumped his forehead into Cas’s temple before returning to walking normally again. “Some day I’m going to tell Sam exactly how much time we spend in bed together on these weekends, just to see the face he makes.”

“Don’t you dare.” Cas swatted at him with his free hand, “your poor brother.”

“Can I ask you something?”

“Mm?”

“Do you ever wonder, you know, about the amount of sex we have when we’re together?”

“I think it’s just because we’re apart so much. If we were living together, I think it would be different.”

“You think?”

“Yeah.” Cas glanced down, watching his feet as they walked. “I think being apart creates this… vacuum, almost. Between us. We’re just trying to fill that void. Make up for lost time.” He smiled a little, “make new memories to last until the next time we can be together.”

Dean’s hand tightened in his slightly. “Memories of you get me through some tough times, you know that?”

Cas looked up again to give Dean a smile. “Same here.”

Dean paused, then, tugging Cas to a stop and pulling him into a hug. “Don’t ever change, Cas. Just… always be like this. Always be mine.”

“I can’t promise I’ll never change. Change is part of the human condition, I think.” Cas hugged back gently when Dean sighed at that, “but I can promise to always be yours. I don’t ever want to be anyone else’s, not ever. And it’s been that way ever since we met, I think.” Easing back a little, he smiled at Dean softly, “I think that fortune teller at the market was right, at least about one thing. She asked if we believed in soul mates, and I… I think I do. And mine is right here, standing in front of me.”

Green eyes blinked at him in surprise—and then Dean was ducking in for another kiss, this time warm and wanting. Cas allowed it, kissing back in kind until they both broke away for air—and he leaned up to drop a kiss against Dean’s forehead.

“Let’s get back home, Dean.” Or, the hotel, anyway. “I want you to make love to me again.”

Dean’s reply was a muttered but enthusiastic affirmative and to take his hand again, threading their fingers together as they headed off down the street once more, this time walking at a little quicker pace.

-- --

Cas was straddling Dean’s hips again, but this time they were defiling the little two-seat sofa that came with the hotel room. Cas thought it pulled out into a second bed, but that was a moot point considering the two of them were sharing the actual bed, anyway. Regardless, now Dean was seated on it with Cas in his lap, Dean’s legs up and his feet braced against the coffee table—both to help hold Cas in place and, also, because this was that delicious position that rubbed Dean’s cock against Cas’s prostate constantly, made Cas absolutely lose his shit.

They both liked this position but for radically different reasons. Cas because of the frankly mind-blowing pleasure it provided, and Dean because watching Cas come completely undone the way he did got him off like no one’s business.

“This is not making love.” Cas commented almost idly, already breathing a touch hard from the foreplay alone. He angled his hips to rub his cock hotly along Dean’s and bit back a curse at the feeling. “Ah…!”

Dean rocked his hips upward lightly in response, then cast a glance toward the clothing scattered in a trail between them and the door. “I think ‘making love’ was out of the picture the second we got in here and you jumped me, Cas.”

“I did—not!” Another rock of Dean’s hips and Cas’s voice went high and tight. He swallowed hard and reached down to grasp at Dean’s cock, giving it a few loose strokes just to make his boyfriend groan. “I just—ah—helped you out of your jacket, that’s all.”

“Mmhm,” Dean’s head fell back, and he licked his lips, “and then my shoes, and my shirt, and my jeans, and my boxers…”

To be fair, it had definitely been a two-way street. They had hit the room and gotten the door closed and locked behind them—and then been all over each other what seemed like a breath later. There was no real way to tell who had instigated it, or who had taken whose clothes off, there was just the fact that now they were naked, Cas needed to be stretched out, and the lube was across the room on the nightstand.

There was kind of a collective pause when the two of them realized that last part, and it was followed by Dean cursing. Loudly. Then whining out a pathetic noise when Cas proceeded to climb out of his lap to retrieve the tube of lubricant. It was kind of important, after all.

When he returned, Cas just climbed back into Dean’s lap, straddling him again, and handed him the lube before whetting his lips and leaning forward into Dean’s chest, burying his face in the crook of Dean’s neck and closing his eyes.

They had never tried the whole stretching thing from this position before, and while Dean coated his fingers with slick with complete false confidence, Cas just breathed unsteadily against his boyfriend’s neck, entirely unsure how this was going to go. He was hoping well, all things considered.

When Dean reached down over Cas’s back and began carefully touching along the younger man’s entrance, Cas actually twitched slightly. Dean backed off immediately—and Cas chuckled against his neck, murmuring a reassurance that everything was fine: they had done this countless times before without hurting him, this time wouldn’t hurt him either.

Dean muttered a quiet agreement and went back to what he had been doing, carefully pushing one finger into Cas—then two—and eventually three. It was a process made more difficult by the angle he was working at, but the result was the same: Cas writhing and panting against him, arching and pushing down into his hand until the younger man finally, urgently, patted one hand against Dean’s shoulder and gasped out, “I’m ready… let me have you, ah… Dean…!”

“Cas…” Dean eased his hand away, sliding it up Cas’s back hotly and tugging him up to pull him into a kiss. “You know I’m yours…”

Cas whined out a pathetic-sounding agreeing noise against Dean’s lips, then kissed him again even as he eased back a bit, adjusting himself in Dean’s lap and sliding one hand down to grip the other man’s cock, holding it steady so he could line up and sink down over him—taking Dean into himself fully and deeply, with a long, low moan.

Then he just paused, back arched slightly and hands holding against Dean, one at his shoulder and the other at his chest. He panted softly, head falling back—and when he gave a little, tentative test rock of his hips he had to swallow a curse because the swollen head of Dean’s cock was pressing directly into his sweet spot.

But that was the thing with this position, it rubbed Dean’s cock all over his prostate the entire time they were fucking. It felt incredible but was so overstimulating it was almost too much to bear. It left Cas absolutely wrecked by the end. Not that any of that was a complaint… it was just a lot.

“Shit, ah…” Dean’s hands came down to rest against Cas’s hips and he rocked upward, just lightly, barely, but still drawing a soft whimper from Cas’s throat. “Cas… come on, move…”

Cas nodded mutely, biting on his lower lip, and braced himself against Dean’s shoulder and chest before starting to rock his hips, first slowly, almost hesitantly while he got used to the constant pressure on his sweet spot—then harder, deeper once he started to really get going.

He propped his knees against the couch on either side of Dean, with Dean’s knees up and holding him in position, and fucked himself deeply and thoroughly on his boyfriend’s cock, eyes closed and very quickly losing himself to the feeling of Dean against him, inside him, the pleasure that was absolutely pounding through him.

Dean just leaned back and watched the show with completely blown pupils, Cas rolling his hips and rocking overtop of him, the younger man’s fingers digging into his skin as he moved, head back and mouth working, breathless gasps and soft curses and oaths; things Cas only said when he really got lost in their lovemaking—or fucking, as the case may be.

Cas, meanwhile, was completely lost in the moment, in the push-and-pull of Dean’s cock in him, jamming against his prostate every time he rocked downward. And God did he love Dean’s cock. Had since the first time they’d slept together—even before then, when he had jerked his boyfriend off under the bleachers at school. Now Cas just focused on the feeling of Dean inside him, hands kneading against Dean’s skin as he worked himself harder on the other man’s dick.

When Dean moved one hand away from Cas’s hip, down to wrap around his weeping cock, and started to stroke, the end was pretty much nigh. Cas gave a little, breathless cry and rocked his hips downward, firmly, a handful more times—before coming with a panted wail.

Then he collapsed forward against Dean, gasping for air against his boyfriend’s shoulder, and continued rocking his hips, little whimpers in the back of his throat when Dean’s erection bumped against his battered prostate, totally overstimulated now. He didn’t stop, though, not until Dean finally locked up and came with a guttural moan of his own. Cas’s hips slowed to stillness, then, and he slumped against Dean, entirely boneless.

“Shit, Cas…” Dean had his head leaned back against the back of the couch and his hands rubbed soothing little circles at Cas’s hips, then drifted down his thighs warmly. “Did I mention I love it when you ride me?”

“Mmph.” Came Cas’s oh-so-articulate reply. He had his face tucked against Dean’s neck and his arms mostly limp at his sides. Dean was still inside him, gone soft now, and while normally that bothered him a little, this time he didn’t even care. “Feels too good… when we do it like this. So good it hurts.”

Dean smiled a little, hands rubbing up and down Cas’s thighs gently. “’S why we don’t do it more often.” He admitted, “I know you can’t handle too much of it.”

“Feels fucking amazing…” Cas murmured, almost a protest. He smiled slightly and brought his hands up, pushing off of Dean’s chest to sit properly again. “It’s just…” He ran a hand through his hair, “a lot. That’s all.” Then he shifted, wiggling his hips just to see Dean’s reaction—and stifled a grin when his boyfriend groaned and gave him a look. Cas chuckled and eased off, lifting up and off Dean’s limp dick and then dropping down to sit beside him. “Next time don’t complain when I want you out of me ‘too soon’ after, then.”

“You can be a real jerk sometimes.”

“You love me, though.” Cas leaned into Dean’s side and Dean wrapped an arm around him, already lowering his feet to the floor.

The older man came back with: “yeah well, you love me, too, so we’re even.”

“Mm.” Cas hummed a happy noise, entirely too pleased with himself, wanting nothing more than to make this moment last forever. He wrapped an arm around Dean’s midsection and squeezed, a gentle hug. “You’ve got me there.”

They stayed there on the couch for a while, just sitting together and enjoying their post-coital bliss. Dean used his fingers to tidy up the come that was smeared across his abdomen, licking them clean afterward. Cas watched raptly as he did so, then leaned his head back down when Dean was done, closing his eyes with a sigh. Dean leaned his own head sideways to rest against Cas’s lightly.

A few minutes later they were both about to fall asleep and Dean forced himself to move instead, getting up and pulling Cas with him. Cas made a soft protesting noise, and Dean herded him over to the bed where they tumbled into the soft pillows and blankets, tangling up together in a mess of exhausted limbs, the moonlight streaming through the balcony window now.

They were both asleep in seconds.

-- --

When Cas woke up the next morning it was to the too-early rays of the sun, an empty bed, and the sound of Dean’s hushed voice from the other side of the room. Sighing to himself, Cas rolled onto his back and flung one arm up over his eyes to block the light as he listened quietly to what was obviously Dean’s side of a cell phone call.

He could hear Dean pacing back and forth restlessly as he spoke: “I can’t, I’m not available and you know it! …yes, I have priorities, they just aren’t the same as yours, Dad!”

And oh. No wonder Dean sounded so agitated. Cas lowered his arm away from his face and looked sideways, watching Dean pace. Finally, he turned onto his side to face the other end of the room and sighed again. This probably wasn’t going to be good. Arguments between Dean and his dad never were.

“I take four days every three months, I am trying, here, and you just won’t give an inch, it’s—no! Being with him makes me a better person, makes me stronger, I don’t get why you can’t see that!” Dean ran his free hand through his hair, frustrated, then; “damnit, Dad! I said no! Two more days and I’m yours again, okay?! I—Dad, stop, I’m not going to—”

Then a pause and he lowered his phone and looked down at it before turning around and pitching it at the couch. He followed that up by bracing his arms against the wall and leaning heavily against it, head hanging down.

Cas immediately climbed out of the bed and crossed the room quietly, stepping up behind Dean and sliding his arms around Dean’s waist from behind. Dean made a soft surprised sound and dropped one arm down to rest his hand against Cas’s where they were clasped over his abdomen.

Cas leaned his forehead against Dean’s back between his shoulders. “I’m sorry about your Dad.” He said softly.

“You heard all that, huh?”

“Some of it.”

“He wants me to bail on you early for a job.”

“Ah.”

“I said I wouldn’t do it, and now he’s royally pissed at me. I think it just… cements in him the idea that you’re not good for me.” Dean sighed and squeezed his hand around Cas’s, then carefully straightened up and turned around in Cas’s hold to wrap his arms around his boyfriend as well. “Did you know you’re a bad influence?”

“I’ve heard, yes.” Cas gave him a soft smile. “Your Dad will get over it. He always has before, right?”

“Yeah, maybe,” Dean agreed—and then dropped his forehead down onto Cas’s shoulder with a despairing moan. “He’s so pissed, Cas.”

Cas brought one hand up to thread his fingers through Dean’s hair, gentle and reassuring. “I do understand, you know, to a certain extent.” He said softly, “your Dad has been through so much, the whole thing with your Mom and… I know if anyone did anything to you, I’d be out for revenge, too. I wouldn’t stop. So, I get it, your Dad’s… obsession. With the demon, and the job. With teaching you and Sam, and keeping you guys close and safe.”

They had been together long enough, were close enough, that they knew pretty much everything about each other. Dean had told Cas about his mom’s death, the circumstances behind it, and his dad’s reaction to it, long ago. He had told Cas everything about his family—everything he knew, anyway, and Cas had done the same, though he didn’t have the kinds of secrets the Winchesters had.

“I know he doesn’t like me, and I know he’s never even met me and that seems unfair, even to me, sometimes, but…” Cas continued threading his fingers through Dean’s hair and tipped his head to press a gentle kiss by the older man’s temple. “He just wants to protect you and Sam, and in his view I’m a threat to that. I’m a distraction. I knock you off your game. Or at least that’s how he sees it, probably.” It did hurt, that Dean’s dad would never know him—never like him, but… “he’s just trying to keep you safe, right?”

“I know that.” Dean’s voice came out muffled against Cas’s shoulder, until he straightened up again. “Doesn’t make it any easier to deal with, though.”

“He probably won’t ever understand what we have,” Cas told Dean with a little smile, “so just… cut him some slack. He doesn’t get it, but he does care.” Then a pause and he asked quietly, “are you alright?”

“I will be.” Dean offered a little, vague smile and just pulled Cas into a tighter hug. “You always know what to say.”

Cas leaned in for a kiss, then started backing up toward the bed, tugging Dean along with him, until they both crawled onto the mattress and buried themselves in the covers, Cas tucking up into Dean’s side under the blankets. Outside, it wasn’t snowing like it had been the day before, but it was still chilly. Cas looked off out the window, his fingers toying with Dean’s pendant absently.

“No matter what your Dad ever says to you, just remember I’ll always love you, okay?” When Dean’s hand came up and the other man began playing with a few strands of his hair gently, Cas smiled and cuddled closer. “Always, Dean. There’s never going to be anyone else for me. You’ve spoiled me for other people.”

“That’s a lot to say of your very first relationship,” Dean commented, sounding amused, “that I ruined you for anyone else.” Then he paused before adding softly, “except I can say the same thing of you. I’ve told you before, you’re it for me, Cas. I don’t ever want anybody else.”

“Mmm.” Cas hummed out a pleased noise. “Then we’re in agreement on that point.”

The two of them fell silent then, just warm and comfortable together in their (for once) nice hotel room. Today was the last day, though, Cas had to catch his bus back to Tallahassee the next morning. And they didn’t have anything planned, after everything they had done the day before…

So they simply stayed in for the day, spent most of it in bed being intimate in one matter or another—whether it was having sex or cuddling up together or just talking and laughing together about nothing in particular—but also watched some more shitty television, and of course ordered room service because there was no point in staying at a decent hotel if they didn’t order room service at least once.

Dean had been completely keyed up after his conversation with his dad, but slowly over the hours they whittled away together he unwound, relaxing into the comfort and security of their relationship—of Cas.

When they fell asleep that night, it was after making love again—properly, deeply, with passion and feeling—and knowing that their time together was almost over. For the next few months, anyway. They held on to each other in sleep, almost as if to keep from being separated when the sun came back up.

-- --

At just after three in the morning, Cas and Dean were woken by a sudden and violent pounding on the door to their room.

Dean was up and out of bed in an instant, yanking on his boxers and hurrying to his duffle bag, going for his gun. Cas followed after him, scrambling out of bed and pulling on his own boxers, but then hung back while Dean went and positioned himself to the side of the door, up against the wall. He motioned for Cas to get down and Cas immediately followed the silent command.

More pounding. Dean cocked his pistol and called out, “who’s out there?!”

And another voice shouted back, “DEAN, YOU OPEN THIS GODDAMNED DOOR RIGHT NOW!”

Dean jolted slightly, then relaxed his grip on his gun and lowered it to his side. He waved for Cas to get up again, then, frowning the entire time, reluctantly unlatched the door and pulled it open. Dean was pushed to the side by the man who stormed into the room, and just made a frustrated noise before closing the door and locking it behind him.

“What are you doing here, Dad?!”

And ah, that explained… Cas shifted on his feet and forced himself not to take the instinctive step back that he really rather wanted to. Dean’s eyes were darting between his dad and Cas—but they finally settled on his dad when the older man set a harsh glare on him and snapped, “I told you I needed you and you refused to leave, so I came to get you! And here I catch you with your pants down! Literally!”

Dean made an annoyed face and held up the gun he was holding. “If it’d been anyone but you or Sammy they’d’ve been full of holes right now!”

“A gun won’t stop a demon, Dean.” John growled.

“I am fully aware of that fact!” Dean snapped, and stalked back over to tuck his gun away again before crossing to where Cas was standing and reaching to squeeze his hand lightly. “You okay?” He asked softly, almost under his breath.

Cas nodded—but that had just drawn John’s attention to him, and now he was pinned under the older man’s glare. He tightened his hold on Dean’s hand without even meaning to. “Um. Hi. I’m… Castiel. It’s nice to meet you… I think?”

John glared daggers at him, then turned his glare on Dean, who just glared right back. He continued holding Cas’s hand, defiant. “I’m not leaving until after Cas’s bus leaves tomorrow, Dad. I always see him off and this time isn’t going to be any different.”

“You’re ruined. This kid has ruined you. You’re a Hunter, Dean! You know better than this!”

Dean bristled at that. “Cas hasn’t ruined anything, he’s made my life worthwhile, Goddamnit!”

“Being a Hunter makes your life worthwhile!”

“I can be more than just a Hunter, Dad, I can have a life, I can—”

“Are you coming with me or not, Dean?!”

“I already said no, and I meant it! I don’t ask for much, but these weekends are important to me!”

Cas’s lips quirked into a little smile at that—and he tugged at Dean’s hand, turning to face him and pulling him into a brief kiss. “Hey,” He whispered, bumping their foreheads together gently, “remember what I said. He’s just worried about you, deep down. You shouldn’t completely ruin things with your Dad for me, especially since my bus is leaving in about… seven hours. Seven hours isn’t worth your whole relationship with your Dad, Dean.”

Dean hesitated and frowned. Across the room John was grumbling. “Are you sure?” Dean asked finally, “it’s seven hours, Cas.”

“Seven hours won’t kill either of us, just this once.” Cas assured him softly. “Just go.”

Dean hesitated a bit longer, but finally pulled Cas into a proper kiss, then let him go and stepped away, stooping to start picking up his clothes. “I’ll be ten minutes. Meet you in the car.”

John turned and unlocked the door, pulled it open—then paused and glanced back at Cas, a long, surveying look (Cas privately wished he was wearing more clothes in that particular moment) before ducking out into the corridor and slamming the door closed behind himself.

Dean was halfway to being dressed, already in his jeans and just pulling his shirt over his head. Once it was on and his dad was gone from the room, though, he returned his attention to Cas, moving back over to wrap his arms around the younger man and pull him close. “Are you sure about this?”

A soft, amused smile, and Cas nodded. “I’m sure. We can make up for it next time. Just go with your Dad on this Hunt and prove to him that I’m not quite the terrible influence he thinks I am.”

“I can’t believe he actually tracked me down and came here,” Dean grumbled, leaning his forehead down on Cas’s shoulder. “You shouldn’t have been subjected to that.”

“He has a temper,” Cas admitted with a laugh, then patted at Dean’s side and repeated, “just go, Dean.”

More grumbling from Dean, but he did lift his head up and go for one more kiss before easing away and turning to start shoving his things into his duffle bag. ‘Packing’, as it were. “You should get some more sleep, Cas. Enjoy the bed a little longer. The room’s already paid for. Sorry I won’t be walking you to the bus.”

Cas sat down on the edge of the bed with a smile. “You don’t have to apologize. I completely understand.”

Once he was done tossing everything into his bag, Dean shrugged into his jacket and pulled his boots on, then picked up the duffle and moved toward the door—only to stop at the last second and hurry back across the room to lean down and kiss Cas again, hard and deep. “Call me when you get back home, okay?”

“Only if you call me when the Hunt is done so I know you’re alright.” Cas countered with a laugh. “Goodbye, Dean.”

Dean pouted but scooted out the door anyway, leaving Cas to lock it behind him.

Cas stood by the door and looked around the room for a long couple of moments, trying to ignore the depression that was edging in on him already—and the anxiety that was gnawing at the pit of his stomach. He didn’t like to think too much about when Dean went out on Hunts.

Finally, he went over and crawled back into the now-empty bed, flopping on his side with a heaved sigh.

He was just settling in when his phone pinged with a text message. First just once, but that one ping was followed by a whole series of them in quick succession. Cas blinked and leaned up, reaching to the bedside table and pulling it over to read the new messages:

[I love you.]

[I miss you already.]

[Dad wants to know if I’m texting you.]

[Should I tell him?]

[I’m gonna tell him hang on.]

[Oh God he’s totally losing his shit.]

[His impression of you still isn’t great I guess.]

[I’ve got to go before he MURDERS me.]

[MURDERS.]

[Seriously I love you.]

[Talk to you after this Hunt is over.]

Cas laughed to himself, shaking his head, then typed out a quick reply:

[I love you, too. Take care of your Dad. Be safe.]

Then he set his alarm and put his phone aside, wrapping himself up in the blankets and doing his best to go back to sleep. In the end he was less successful than he would have liked to have been—but at least the bed was comfortable, and the blankets still smelled distinctly of Dean.

It was when he was packing up to leave the next morning that he remembered the pie, previously (miraculously) forgotten in the mini fridge. They had been so distracted by each other that neither of them had even had a single piece.

THE END

[snobgoblin]

Valdemar so brushable!!! Brushes them like a Barbie doll brushes them like a Barbie doll. Maybe Valdemar in a ponytail?? Honse card matchy matchy? Sorry I have weird mood today hahaha (it's fine but everything is just so funny to me )

let me say I am so happy you guys like long hair!Valdemar because long hair and Valdemar are two of my favorite things to draw

anyway here's you brushing their hair and also them with a ponytail

[uselessvaldemarsimp]

thank you for your service

Dorian. Dorian. It's not that complicated Dorian. It's not that hard. look- hey look at me. look at me Dorian.

[uselessvaldemarsimp]

the long haired valdemar revolution has begun

[lonely-shine]

Plagued by Thoughts of You

[Read on AO3]

*Fandom: The Arcana *Rating: Mature *Relationships: Asra/Julian *Characters: Asra, Julian, Mentioned Apprentice *Chapters: 1/1 (one shot) *Wordcount: 2.700~ *Additional tags: Red Plague, unhealthy relationship, unhealthy coping mechanisms, hurt no comfort, grieving/mourning, non-explicit sex

*Summary: The death of apprentice Shell left a gaping void in both Asra's and Julian's hearts, which they try to ignore with single-minded focus to their goal (one bringing her back, the other curing the plague) and looking for something they know they can't have in the other.

********

It was late when Asra got back to the shop, the sky dark and cloudy overhead, the streets cold and quiet. He sighed when he finally stepped in and closed the door behind him, tired; it had been a long day at the Palace.

"Finally alone..." he muttered, mostly to himself.

Faust slithered out of his sash and flickered her tongue at him.

"He is so annoying, isn't he?" Asra said, smiling and giving Faust some scritches. He didn't dislike Ilya, and hadn't minded when Countess Nadia asked them to work together, but he was so tiring to deal with. "So clingy and so needy and..." And he's not her, he thought, frowning, but didn't voice this aloud.

He was not her. He was not her and would never be. How could he even think of being with him when Shell was dead? How could he be so preoccupied with the cure when that wouldn't bring her back? She was his apprentice too. He knew her, he knew her and still did nothing to—

Asra took in a deep breath as he braced on the shop's counter, his knuckles becoming white from the force of it. His vision blurred and he saw his own hands in different times and places: cupping Shell's face as she lovingly gazed at him, covered in blood as he retrieved her ashes and charred bones from the grounds of the Lazaret.

'If I can't convince you to stay and you can't convince me to go, maybe we should split up,' she had said, and he had agreed, feeling hurt and betrayed, and left. Left her behind. Left her to die alone and...

He shook his head, trying to dislodge the feeling and redirecting his thoughts to anger instead. "He's not her," he said, aloud this time. Anger and hate felt better than guilt and grieving, made him feel more in control, and he needed that feeling of control. "And he's impossible."

Faust wrapped warmly around his shoulders in a gesture of comfort, and he let out a shaky breath he didn't quite realize he was holding. "You miss her too, don't you?" he said, then stepped away from the counter and towards the shelves, all stuffed to the brim with books and magical items. "Soon enough. I will bring you back, Shell," he said, taking one of the heavy tomes in his hands. "I will fix this."

********

By the time Julian finished his shift it was well past midnight. He crammed into the nook that functioned as his office in the medical dungeons and lit a candle for light.

He rubbed at his face, sighing, and slumped into the chair at the narrow desk —ridden with scattered books, papers, and medical tools— that took one of the walls of the tiny space.

The days at the Palace were long, and the nights were even longer. So much death, so much suffering... How many victims had he seen? Strangers, acquaintances, his own colleagues once they succumbed to the disease...

And then there was her, he thought as he unlocked the desk's drawer and took out Shell's last record to him. He hadn't seen her body —she had been directly cremated at the Lazaret, he later found out— yet he could still picture her dead on his arms, on Valdemar's table during their demonstrations...

Julian shivered. Valdemar always made the fine hairs on his nape stand on end. There was something... off about them. Just as well that Shell's body never entered the Palace. He couldn't have borne to see her in that state.

The paper page of the record crumpled as his fingers reflexively clutched at it, his eyes fixed on Shell's signature at the bottom corner.

How could have he missed her death? She was his apprentice, his responsibility, and he didn't even know she was sick until after her death. How could have he been so careless? He should have kept a better eye on her. Should have protected her. Now all that remained to remind him of her was that record...

The record, and Asra.

He was a little surprised, when Countess Nadia introduced him to them. Shell had talked about Asra with him —and from what he'd gathered, they had been very close indeed— but he never thought he'd meet them.

Asra was... a little odd. So carefree and with his head always on the cloud, even in the midst of a plague. Were all magicians like that?

Belatedly, Julian remembered Shell was a magician too —she hadn't talked that much about it, while they'd worked together. Oh, but she made it sound so different! More coherent and less hocus pocus. Almost more like engineering than magic. Almost.

No, it must be something about Asra himself then, and not his profession. But he must be a good one, even so. Shell had spoken fondly of him, and she had been so kind and brave and... Well, she must have had good taste.

Or, well, she usually must have. She must not have been at her best when she answered to Julian's half-hearted flirting. Probably was just humouring him anyway. Or just being kind. He shouldn't assume.

But, ahh, how had she made his heart sore! Should he have confessed his feelings to her? Maybe not, considering how it all had ended up. What kind of man would he be, to confess his love and then forget about her until after her death? Better he had kept it to himself.

Julian sighed and put the report back on its place in the drawer.

He couldn't save Shell, it was far too late for that, he knew, but he could find a cure. He could prevent more deaths. Shell had wanted to help the people of Vesuvia; he had a small hope that in finding a cure he would earn her forgiveness, if only a little, for being too busy to notice it when she was gone.

Gone. Gone. Gone.

That thought spiralled inside his head enough that it made him dizzy. He got up from the chair and almost hit his head on the ceiling.

He had to get out. The air down in the dungeons was always so thick and oppressive, he couldn't think, couldn't breathe, not with the thoughts and smell of sickness in and around him.

Julian left the Palace at a brisk pace, and soon he could feel the cobbled streets of the city under the soles of his boots. The air was misty, and cold enough that it hurt his lungs when he breathed, which felt right.

He told himself he didn't know where he was going, that he was just wandering, as he walked down the streets. Just a stroll to clear up his mind.

However, his mind was too full of concern for a certain magician for him to believe his own lie, his steps clearly leading to the Centre City.

He was just checking on them, Julian tried to convince himself of on the way. He couldn't let harm come their way. They were the last connection he had to Shell. If they died...

No, he wouldn't let that happen. He couldn't keep Shell safe, but the same wouldn't happen with Asra.

Giving up on the pretense of a random stroll, Julian turned his heel and took the shortest route to the magic shop. It was late, but Asra was a nocturnal creature too. With any luck, he'd find him awake.

********

Herbs, magical tools, and heavy tomes were scattered on the backroom’s floor as Asra tried another spell, the air filling with a thick, purplish mist as their power manifested.

They had consulted every book they could get their hands on during their research. Books about the Arcana, curses, healing, forbidden spells, necromancy… The latter ones always required a body to work with, which was useless when they hadn't found but charred bones and ash of Shell.

None of the books gave them the information that they wanted, that they needed. They’d have to figure a way out themself.

A sudden, insistent knock on the door distracted them from their musings, making them turn their gaze away from the book they were holding. Who could it be at that hour? With a sigh, they went to answer.

When they opened the door, Asra found the lanky, nervous figure he knew well waiting outside. "Ilya?" They couldn't help but frown, not that Ilya dropping by was rare, but the hour definitely was. "What are you doing here? I told you I'd be fine."

"Yeah, I know, I just—" Ilya tiptoed his way around them to get inside, then snuffled his nose at the thick, purplish streams of mist coming out of the backroom. "Wait, what— What are you doing here?" He started coughing, doubling over at the power of the spell in the air.

"Can't you tell?" Asra said, letting the door close and grabbing Ilya by the chin to make him look at them. "Just a magic trick."

"Ah, something from one of those ridiculous tomes?" Ilya asked, breathing heavily.

They sighed, letting go of him. "Something from one of those ridiculous tomes." They took a long look at him then. Ilya was... He was a lot of things, but he held an imprint of Shell in him. It was not strong, but it was proof of her existence. Maybe... "If you'd like to help, I'm sure I could find a use for you."

"I—" He swallowed audibly. "Will it help? If I do it, will it change anything?"

Asra's gaze darkened as they turned away. "I hope so," they said, voice low and dangerous, drawing the curtains to the backroom open.

Ilya followed them inside, giving a wary look to the scattered books and the magic circle drawn onto the small, round table at the centre of the room.

Asra gestured to the circle, serious and looking directly at Ilya's eyes. "Blood. Bone. Sweat and tears. All powerful catalysts for these spells," they explained, carefully regarding Ilya. They knew perfectly well how squeamish he was about magic, how superstitious. How far was he willing to go? How committed was he to Shell? He couldn't know the spell was for her. Would he help them anyway? "I wonder... How much are you willing to give up, Ilya?"

"I— Uhm, well, that is to say— You know—" He gulped, visibly straining against the force of the spell permeating the room, then bit his lip as he looked at them. "I'll give you all of me, if that's what you need," he finally said, blushing.

So loyal. So eager. A lopsided smile twitched Asra's lips up, despite themself. They shook their head. "For now, I just need your hand."

Ilya immediately extended his arm over the table, no hesitation. Asra raised an eyebrow, half amused, half surprised by this. They hadn't expected such willingness, given his dislike for magic... Then again, maybe he was just trying to gain their favour.

No matter, a willing offering was a willing offering. They took out an ornate dagger from the pile of objects scattered around the tiny room and, holding his wrist firmly with their free hand, sliced Ilya's palm open.

Blood sluggishly came out from the shallow wound, trickling down his skin and dripping onto the table.

Asra held their breath when the magic circle started glowing upon coming in contact with Ilya's blood, daring to hope it might be enough... Then deflated when the glow quickly faded away.

"Is, er, is that it?" Ilya asked, sounding uncertain.

They let go of his wrist, turning away from the now-dark circle, feeling tired once again. Another one that did nothing. "That's all I need from you, Ilya."

"Now, hold on, what kind of magic was that? What did that do?" He stepped around the table, towards them, his voice equal parts curious and concerned.

Asra shrugged. They didn’t feel like explaining. "I'm not sure. I won't know until it happens. Perhaps nothing. Perhaps..."

"Are you putting yourself in dange—"

Asra sighed and turned around sharply, shutting him up by grabbing his wrist. "You talk too much, Ilya," they said, their eyes fixed in his.

Ilya looked back at him, blushing up mightily. "Th-then just tell me what to do instead."

Asra felt themself smiling, their anger now faded. Ilya wasn’t always easy to deal with, but then again, he wasn’t always difficult either. "You'd like that, wouldn't you?" they said, taking a step forward, forcing him to take one back.

"Y-you— Oh my god, yes." He managed to blush even more deeply as they slid one of their legs between his. "I'll do anything you want, anything at all, whatever you need."

Asra sobered down somewhat at the look of hunger and longing from Ilya. Longing felt too close to love. "You know I can't give you everything you want, Ilya."

He slid down to his knees, not taking his eyes off them. "I'll take what I can get."

They placed a hand on Ilya’s throat, not as much grabbing it as just resting their fingers there, for the moment. Still, they could feel his pulse jumping as they leaned down to whisper on his ear. "And when it hurts you?"

This close, they could hear him gulp. "I can take it."

Asra laughed, with no real mirth nor malice behind it. They pushed Ilya down on the floor, hand on his chest, and leaned down to breathe on his neck. "Then let it be. Just stop me if you need it."

********

'Just stop me if you need it,' Asra had said.

But he wouldn’t. Need it, that was. He wanted the pain. And Asra being the one delivering it felt right.

Julian could feel Asra’s hands sliding under his clothes, griping, scratching, pulling moans and groans from him. He held onto their hips with urgency, pulling them closer.

"Hands to yourself, Ilya," Asra said, their voice firm, snapping like a whip.

He obediently let go, putting his arms above his head, submissive.

"That’s better." Asra smirked and resumed his handling, expert and teasing.

The magic in the air was gone, but Julian’s shortness of breath was not, even if for fully different reasons now. He pleaded, he begged, and wherever Asra touched him, he felt his skin burn in a way that only left him wanting for more.

He could feel the tension increasingly building up inside him as Asra traced paths on his skin with hands, teeth, and tongue, marking their way and making his head spin. He arced his back towards Asra, struggling against their grip and calling their name when it finally released.

Asra looked at him from above, a lopsided smile on his lips. He seemed pleased, but he wasn’t done yet.

"Ah," Julian breathed. "Let me hel—"

"Don’t," Asra said, a hand pressed to Julian's chest while keeping the other on himself. "Stay down."

He nodded, obedient, his heartbeat fast against Asra’s palm as he worked himself up on top of him, sweaty, struggling, and so freaking beautiful Julian couldn’t help but stare as he too found release.

Still panting , Asra stayed still for a moment , catching his breath, then combed a hand through the mess of his white curls, pulling them back and away from his face. He smiled, c heeky , looking at him from above. " I hope that wasn’t too much? "

Julian bit his lip, holding a groan back . " Not at all. "

Then Asra got off him , standing up, and started fixing himself and his clothes back together. " Well, it got rather late to keep at this, " he said, moving away and disappearing from his view.

Julian wasn’t sure if they were talking about the sex or the magic. When he sat up to take look at them, Asra had produced a pitcher of water and a glass from somewhere in the room, and was offering the latter to him.

" O-oh! Thank you,” he mumbled, taking the glass. The water was pleasantly cold.

Asra nodded and leaned against the small, round table, leaving the pitcher on it. "You should get some sleep, Ilya. You start early tomorrow." He paused for a long second, looking away, then got up and away from the table. "You can take the couch in the shop, if you need." He said, finally looking back at him with an expression Julian couldn’t read. "Goodnight, Ilya."

[meat-loving-meat]

Nuclear weapons AU snippet to answer @bluewingedcoyote 's question about Tylendel

I LOVE making supplementary multimedia stuff for fanfics, so this snippet is meant to be a Something Awful (or. well. the Valdemaran equivalent of Something Awful.) thread with comments from several different users about Tylendel's death announcement. Idk if it'll make it into the final fic (if there ever is a final fic lmao), but it was SO MUCH FUN to make. Hopefully I'll find the time to make it into a doctored screenshot at some point!

It's kind of long, so no pressure to read it btw! Posting it just in case you're curious and have some time to kill.

Original forum post from user 0:

This makes me sick to my stomach:

www.heraldiccircle.gov/anouncements/oct2007/tylendelfrelennyeobituary

Comment from user 1:

For anyone too lazy to read the full announcement, a summary: Tylendel was just 17 years old. He died by calling a Final Strike after an unexpected airstrike killed his Companion, Gala. The last thing he did before dying was lead 20 refugees through a Gate to safety. He was posthumously promoted to Herald status to honor his and Gala’s sacrifices.

To reiterate: Tylendel was 17 years old. 17. He wasn’t even old enough to vote in the country that sent him to war. He was planning to take online classes in praxographical studies once he graduated secondary. He ran a gimmick [MySpace] account where Gala would try to type out inspirational quotes with her nose. By all accounts, he was funny and loving and joyful and seventeen. 

He hardly ever posted pictures of himself online, so there are only a few to showcase here. www.imagehostersite.com/albums/remembering-tylendel-frelennye

I’m in shock that Valdemar, a country so deeply obsessed with righteousness and upright morality, still has fucking child soldiers. I feel sick that Tylendel, a boy the same age as my little sister, killed himself to protect us, when us adults should have been the ones protecting him.

Comment from user 2, quoting user 1:

Hey can someone tell me what the photos are? They aren’t loading for me

Comment from user 3, quoting user 2:

The image hosting website is experiencing really high traffic, so that’s no surprise. Here are some descriptive captions:

1. A professional portrait of Tylendel Frelennye riding Gala in a vibrant green field. Tylendel is wearing a gray set of formal riding wear, and his blond hair is mostly hidden by a helmet. He is smiling at the camera with one hand resting on Gala’s neck. Gala is wearing ornate ceremonial tack. She has her head turned to the side so that she can make eye contact with the camera.

2. A slightly blurry photo of Tylendel Frelennye sitting in the rubble of a collapsed, burned-out building. He is wearing military fatigues and has a rifle resting across his lap. He is laughing with his head thrown back and his eyes closed.

3. A screenshot of a [MySpace] post from the account LendelLendel. The post contains a photo of Tylendel Frelennye and another boy, whose face has been censored with a cluster of black pixels, asleep together in a plush armchair. The chair is almost too small to fit both of them, even with their feet propped up on an ottoman. Tylendel’s left leg rests over the other person’s right, and the other person’s head is tucked against Tylendel’s shoulder. The lighting is low and warm. The post is captioned, “The best way to celebrate our one year is with a nap, apparently.”

Comment from user 2, quoting user 3:

The description of that last photo is so heartbreaking. Does anyone know who the boyfriend is?

Comment from user 4, quoting user 1:

Fuck you’re so right about the child soldier thing. I can’t believe that he was allowed to fight. What do the Companions have to say about this???

Comment from user 5, quoting user 4:

So I’m a lurker on heraldspotting.net, and there is all kinds of speculation over there about this, but to sum it up, the majority of Herald Trainees never see fighting until their internships, and it’s almost unheard of (at least in recent memory) to send a minor to a combat assignment. However, from the size of his Final Strike, Tylendel Frelennye had a very powerful Mage Gift—the prevailing theory is that things are much, much worse than the government is letting on, and the Circle felt they had no choice but to use Tylendel’s Mage Gift to fill the gap left by Eivaran’s death. In response to the recent outcry, they released the minutes of the meeting where they made the decision to send Tylendel—mostly just to prove that the King’s Own Companion supported deploying him—and several Heralds and even a few Companions opposed sending him, but they were in the minority. 

It’s painful to admit, but Tylende Frelynnye prevented a massive incursion of Karsite forces and he likely killed upwards of half a dozen of their mages. I can’t speak to whether the ends justify the means in this case, but from a purely utilitarian perspective, sending him was the correct choice. I have relatives who would have been displaced from their homes without his sacrifice, and many Valdemaran lives will be saved with the deaths of those mages. It breaks my heart that a child had to die for that, but I can’t say without qualification that it was the wrong choice.

Comment from user 6, quoting user 5:

Child soldier apologist spotted ^^

ASDLKDFJKLSDFLK ANYWAY. THAT'S HOW TYLENDEL DIES IN THIS AU