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minsyal · 3 years

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The Fugitive: Finding Home, Pt. 2

Karl Heisenberg x Reader

Warnings: strong language, Resident Evil-esque violence and descriptions of gore, and dark/sexual themes

Summary: A once-in-a-lifetime trip turned dark. You're quickly exposed to the sinister and mysterious world of a cursed village under the control of dark leaders. How long will you last and will you ever return home in one piece?

The Fugitive: Finding Home Masterlist

Part 1 - The Beginning

“Mother Miranda, I’ve been requesting new maids for at least six months to this day.”

“That’s because you keep eating your other ones.”

You were shaken awake.

“I think that my castle would be best suited for her.”

“Oh, so you can bleed ‘er dry? You think that would really be the best use of anyone’s time?” A familiar voice retorted.

“Good morning!” A shrill voice squeaked as what felt like wood kicked at your face. “She’s up! She’s up! She’s up!” It exclaimed excitedly with a bounce, the voice became softer as the skittering of feet scrambled away.

“Ah,” the unfamiliar smooth woman’s voice cooed as your eyes adjusted to your surroundings. There were what looked to be six figures in the room. Miranda stood before you, perched upon a stage-like area that once housed what you could only imagine was a priest or preacher. To the left sat a cloaked woman with a blob of white resting in her lap. Another woman, also adorned in a white garb, sat towering over the rest, the light constant trickle of smoke danced upward from her vintage cigarette holder. On your right sat a familiar face, the man from the village who had saved you only a few hours prior. You’d come to know him as Lord Heisenberg. He maintained the large woman’s gaze, but the look held no love or any remote sense of familial belonging. Instead, his eyes were set ablaze, even behind the shaded rims of his glasses. Lastly, a shorter creature with a large hunched back moved ungracefully around. Its long gangly arms accompanied by its deformed face only aided in the growing unease.

The dull ache of your shoulder only distracted you from the bindings of your wrists for a moment. Your attention was quickly drawn to the rough ropes that dug their thorny threads into the soft skin of your wrists. Everything ached, mentally and physically.

“I do think she would be best suited with me.” The tall woman repeated herself. “There’s no doubt Moreau wouldn’t be able to handle her, and likely not the rest of you either.”

The hunched creature whirled back, throwing a forlornly glare in the woman’s direction. You supposed that was Moreau.

“You think I couldn’t handle her?” Heisenberg shot back, bent forward to rest his weight on his heels. His relationship with the large woman was clearly tumultuous given his outburst and her subsequent reaction.

“You always get them.” The shrill voice called. It was the doll; the fucking doll was talking... not that this should surprise you at this point. “She should come with us! We need more friends.”

“You’re not included in this conversation.” The tall woman mocked with a fierce glare shot violently at the doll as its mouth hung slack.

“Can someone please tell me what the hell is going on?” Thus far, nobody had managed to answer your simple question. The lot turned toward you, the majority with piercing stares. “Guess not.” You muttered, becoming quite fed up with the range of emotions you had been experiencing over the past day. If it kept going in this direction, you’d surely have to be treated for whiplash.

“She’s already proven to be a considerable pain in my neck.” Miranda loudly projected. Her steps were a clear juxtaposition to her tone, falling light on the church floor as she approached. “One villager is unable to walk, another dead.”

“Dead?” The words fell before you could stop yourself. She didn’t answer.

“Please,” Heisenberg leaned back once more, his hand moving to the interior of his jacket, “the dumb thing practically laid down when she was attacked by a lycan.” His fingers fumbled around the darkened paper of a cigar. Yellow, blonde streaks flashed upon his face as the distinguishable clink of a metal lighter was flicked. “I wouldn’t call that too capable.”

“My friend pushed me.” You argued, once again mentally reeling for the outburst.

Heisenberg let out a huff of smoke, intentionally blowing it in the tall woman’s direction, “sounds like a piss poor friend.”

“Enough.” Miranda had taken to her spot at the front near the alter once more. “The girl shall go to Alcina.”

A wicked smile crossed the tall woman’s face. “Thank you, Mother Miranda. It is so good to have you back.”

“Where are you from?” One of the girls ushered you through the depths of the castle. She wore a simple gown with stitches at the bottom, holding together the frail fabric that looked to be decades old.

“America.”

The girl cocked her head to the side like a newborn. “I don’t know of that town.”

Upon arrival you were escorted down to what was described as the maids’ chambers. In a small stone room, you were assigned a cot, given a chest, and told to change into uniform. Your arm ached and spasmed as you lifted the lid of the trunk open. Somewhere between being shot by the villagers and being transported to Castle Dimitrescu, the bullet was removed from your shoulder and replaced with gauze that limited the mobility of your arm. The distinct oily feeling of grease caused friction between the bandages and your clothes; the ache of alcohol still stung, causing a sore numbness.

The Lady insisted all maids conform to the strict code of dress. Long, unflattering dresses, short heels, and sometimes a headscarf if hair wasn’t pulled tautly into a bun at the base of one’s neck were a few things to name the least. You always wore the headscarf, which was a thin piece of grey lace that attached at the peak of your hairline, cascading over your shoulders to land at waist-length.

The rest of the day passed slowly. You learned the ins and outs of the castle, became acquainted with the sparse staff that only consisted of women, and met Alcina’s daughters from a distance. The next two weeks passed the same way.

Wake up, clean the castle, serve Lady and her daughters, go to bed. That was your routine. Though, the sounds that seeped from the halls at night prompted unwavering curiosity. Heisenberg had mentioned the ill-fated maids that had the luxury of serving the Dimitrescu women back in that church. Nothing at this point had you doubting that was the case. But you assured yourself daily that you would not accept the castle’s fate; you would get out of here one way or another.

You had only been at the mercy of Lady Dimitrescu once to this day. A small spat broke out between maids and the arrival of the head of house had the women squealing lies of how you were the one to start it.

“She stole our rations!” The girl with the wide nose accused her chubby finger outstretched in your direction.

“I didn’t steal anything, you dirty fucking liar.”

“She did. We were squabbling over how she should be punished.” The other girl replied, tucking a shaking hand behind her back as she straightened her poor posture.

“A thief,” Alcina regarded you, “that’s a shame.” Knives skid across the thin skin of your forearm. “Another outburst like this and there will be harsher consequences.” Red stained her tongue as she ran the claw through her cherry-red lips.

As she sauntered down the hall and out of sight, you uncurled your arm from your chest, wincing at the large crimson stain it left on your dress.

“Fresh face.” The words ricocheted off the wall in front of you. Footsteps steadfastly approached from behind. He walked with an effortless swagger, legs slightly bowed with each lyrical step. You’d gone for the quiet route after the situation, finding that silence often pleased those that ruled over the castle. “Here I was thinkin’ it would take you a little longer to lose that fight.” He stepped closer; the unmissable smell of tobacco seeped from his lips. “Looks like I was wrong.”

Instead of words, you held his gaze through unimpressed eyes. Hues of yellows, greys, and greens met yours from beneath his rounded glasses. You could see more of him from here. A large scar ran from the right of his face to the left, the lifted skin healing over leaving memories of whatever had happened. In fact, the majority of his face was plagued with scars. One ran from the bottom of his lip down to his chin, disappearing beneath the stubble of his beard. You wondered if his disdain toward Alcina was founded by those wretched claws of hers. His hair was wirey with shades of brown and peppered grey streaking through the ends. Quite honestly, he was an attractive man.

“I’ve got a name, you know?”

“I don’t think I cared to ask.”

“Then I suppose you aren’t deserving of one either.”

“Well,” he tapped at your chest with a gloved finger, “I think you’ve got a little spunk left in you, sweetheart.”

“Call me Y/n.”

“No last name?” He deadpanned.

“L/n.”

He nodded, but you felt as though your words had passed through him like a ghost.

“Karl.” He gave a lazy bow, tilting the rim of his hat. “But I think you probably already knew that.”

“Gossip and information don’t come easily from the maids here. Sorry,” you pressed your lips together, “I didn’t know.”

Karl gave a shrug.

“Do you know what happened to my friend?” The thought had been playing on your mind for the past few weeks.

He raised an inquisitive brow and turned his head to peer out the shaded window. “The so-called friend that left you to become lycan chow?” A hearty tut left his chest. “I think she’s assimilated into the town.”

“Dumb bitch.” You breathed.

“There’s that spark.” He stood tall with an artificial sense of pride. It had been a long time since somebody in the village was willing to use such crude language in front of any of the Lords, let alone Miranda. It almost astonished him that they’d let you live after the killing of Adelina’s brother. The gun misfired; it wasn’t really your fault.

Another week of growing suspicions and two newly missing maids, you finally attempted to seek out the dungeons that everyone spoke of but warned to stray from. You had to know what was going on here.

“Lost?” Heisenberg’s voice appeared at your right side. His chin almost rested upon your shoulder; the stubble of his beard scratched at your neck. “This isn’t a place I’d get lost in if I were you. In fact, it’s not even a place you should be exploring.”

“Are you going to run to Alcina if I do?” You didn’t face him, why would you? The hallway was cramped, restricting of any sort of movement other than in the direction you were going.

“Me?” He leaned backward to stand at full height. Your body cursed silently, wishing nothing more than to have him close again. How he wasn’t hitting his head on the rafter just inches above floored you. “I hate that bitch. You do what you want, but I won’t bail you out when you get caught.”

“Good thing I don’t plan on being caught then.” You descended the metal ladder, only looking upward for a moment to catch a glimpse of Heisenberg leaning over the opening. An eerie smile was plastered on his lips, it was almost smug.

The dungeons were as you imagined. Cold water trickled down some of the walls, likely due to cracks in the castle’s foundation accompanied by the ever melting of the outside snow. It smelled of mothballs and garlic, something musty was clinging to the air. You noted a few turns here and there, attempting to memorize the path you had taken in case you needed to make a swift escape. What didn’t help was the skid of your maid’s clothes along the rigid floor.

Muffled cries put you further onto the edge. The narrow hall gave way to a large room filled with arched stonework. Metal bars shot from floor to ceiling, hinges creaked as the sound of hands banging against them filled your eardrums. You didn’t want to go further, scared of any repercussions should any of the jailed women recognize and rat you out.

Turning to head to the ladder, you collided with a chest. “Leaving so soon?” Heisenberg again.

“Shh!” You slapped at his chest with a closed fist, only realizing what you had done when the action was completed. He looked rightfully amused. Everything that you had learned of these “Lords” up to now told you to act less casually with him, to put on an air of respect at the very least. But there was something surprisingly human about him. Something that told you it was okay despite it potentially not being so. At this point, you were only prolonging the inevitable.

“What?” He started, swiftly being cut off by approaching footsteps. Firm hands grasped at your arms, pulling your face forward into his chest. “Open your mouth and I’ll feed you to whatever’s coming.” He said through his teeth, trapping your arms between your two bodies.

The room grew dim, the wall behind your back became close even though you had not moved at all. Heisenberg’s grip was strong on your forearms, causing you to inaudibly hiss as his thumb dug into the slash Alcina had left weeks prior. The footsteps were accompanied by the soft cries of a woman, gasping pleas of being let go falling silent on the ears of her assailant. A minute passed; the dungeon fell soundless.

“You can breathe now.” His lips lingered close to your ear, once again sending a rush of chills crawling down your skin. He knew what he was doing.

“I’ve been breathing.” You breathily retorted sounding as if you had just run a marathon.

“Whatever you say, doll.”

The wall behind you gave way, moving on its own. You turned; the materials that had been pressed to your back laid themselves on the ground. Heisenberg’s smile was unmissable. “Go ahead.” His voice was gravely, gruff, a slight melancholy dismay underlying. Heisenberg desired for you to implore what just happened, but you wouldn’t give him that satisfaction. You refused to see him as anything but normal, for if you did give in to the village’s mental games, you’d likely find yourself going mad. He was a man, you told yourself, nothing more.

“I thought you weren’t going to bail me out?”

“I wasn’t.” He tightened his grip on your arms. “But I figured it’d be a shame to lose such a pretty face so soon.”

“I, I’m sure you say that to all the girls here.” You couldn’t hold his gaze at this distance. Perhaps Adelina was right, you were rather frumpy and unexperienced.

A huff came as he exhaled, a thoughtful tug of his lips upward accompanied it. He didn’t answer, a reoccurring event with those who inhabited this town.

Heisenberg had been keeping his trips to and from the castle a secret. Truthfully, he wasn’t sure why he felt so inclined to bother with the outsider woman who appeared in the village one fateful evening. Perhaps he was growing bored of his daily routine with no results to show. Maybe he was enticed by the well of knowledge you held of the outside world. Maybe it was something else, something human. The Lord’s weren’t allowed to stray far from the village. The other three lived delightfully oblivious, completely okay with never exploring the unknown. Heisenberg, on the other hand, was not. Your friend, Jess as he recalled you calling her, was far from interesting to him. It didn’t take a genius to tell how low her I.Q. had to be. She conformed easily to the village and by all accounts had been down talking you to the others she met. She quickly fell into the same brainwashed daze of worship.

It had been another turbulent week of utter chaos around every corner. Nobody knew of your adventure into the depths of Castle Dimitrescu and you had no intentions of spreading any gossip among the maids. They all seemed to have it out for you anyway. You were the “outsider,” as one described it. It was so blatantly evident to them that you were not going to conform to their ways. And that disturbed them.

It wasn’t that you hadn’t your fair share of punishment to this point. In actuality, you had received a significantly greater amount of beratements and surface wounds from Alcina and her daughters. You thought to Heisenberg often, continually wondering how your life would differ had Miranda bestowed you upon him. He was irresistibly charming in his own twisted sense. Every word that escaped his mouth heavily contradicted his actions. You received a good number of swats to the hand stemming from woeful daydreaming of the man you hardly knew.

He could be dangerous, you’d tell yourself before slipping into yet another sequence of fervent and unrelenting thoughts stemming from the mysterious man. He was a Lord, one placed in a top position according to the village’s hierarchy. You just weren’t sure why.

There had been countless times the man had sauntered into the castle, “accidentally” run into you, and held brief conversation.

The other maids were assholes. Though you had concluded this swiftly upon entering the castle, their recent actions only solidified your feelings.

It had been only a day since Heisenberg’s last visit. He strolled into the castle, easing his way past the maids as they hurriedly passed by. They paid him no mind. The evening sun had begun to set in the sky. Lady Dimitrescu had gone out for the night, instructing her girls to hold down the castle while she was away. The three of them had descended into the dungeons, not to be seen again until morning. This left the halls free and roamable for the savvy Lord.

“That’s bullshit and you know it.” Your voice caught his attention. “Oh, shut the fuck up, Marybeth.”

Shrill voices argued back and forth behind the kitchen doors. The sound of muffled giggles fell on his ears; it was an unusual sound within the castle walls. The girls must be relaxed knowing they’re safe from punishment tonight. At least, that’s what they thought.

In a second, the hinges of the door burst off, sending the heavy frame crashing down to the tiled floor. Shrieks came quickly and died on their lips as soon as the girls realized who was there.

“Lord Heisenberg.” One woman bowed her head, concealing something within her hands as she placed them in her lap, clasped tightly together. “Lady Dimitrescu has left for the evening.”

“I know.” His brow raised at the scene set before him. You stood to the rear of the kitchen, clearly irate at something the woman who regarded him had done. Five other women were huddled with the one who spoke, following her lead and averting their gazes. No aroma of cuisine drifted from the empty cauldron, only the stale scent of curing meats clung to the air.

“What’s going on in here?” He looked directly at you from beneath the lid of his hat.

“We were cleaning the kitchen.” The maid spoke through shaking breaths.

After a pensive moment, he waved his hand. “You’re dismissed. Except,” he held his hand at your chest as you attempted to pass, “you.”

The girls stumbled over the door, making quick work of getting back to their quarters and away from the Lord. You listened as the audience of feet trampled away. None of the girls here knew how to walk in heels causing for a rather elephant-like clomping of shoes wherever they went.

“What really happened?”

“Do you care?”

“Not particularly, but color me curious.”

“Don’t get them in trouble.” You demanded through gritted teeth. “I don’t want to deal with the aftermath.”

He chortled. “You seem more afraid of them than you are of me.”

“You’ve not given me a reason to be scared.”

Your back pressed to the wall, a glass chalice fell, shattering against the floor. The lapels of his jacket and dog tags pushed to your chest were still cold from the frosted night air. “Do I need to give you a reason?”

“I just,” embarrassment rose in your cheeks, “would you stop doing this?” There was no budging the man. His strength far outweighed yours, easily acting as if your pushing against his chest was nothing but a soft breeze.

“Doing what?” A smirk grew on his lips. God, he loved this.

“This!” Your clenched fist banged on his chest, not rattling him in the slightest. Droplets of claret liquid ran from your palm to your elbow. “Dammit, Karl. Move.”

The use of his first name was new. A solid hand closed around your wrist, bringing it up to eye level. He tilted back, adjusting his vision. The raise of his brow signaled that he wanted you to open your hand. Complying, you cringed as the reddened skin screamed for relief.

“They did this?”

“It’s no different from the other injuries I’ve gotten here.”

“It’s deep.” He reached into the pocket of his trench coat. “Don’t let anyone know you’ve got this.” A silver tin slipped from his hand to yours, you pried at its ridges with your nail.

Heisenberg disappeared after that, taking off with a dramatic throw of the castle doors as he disappeared into the dense forest. He had given you a tin of salve and a bandage.

“Lady Dimitrescu has requested your presence.”

The Fugitive: Finding Home Part 3 - Foreign Thoughts

I'm so excited for where this fic is going...

Feedback is always appreciated

Tag list: (let me know if you want to be tagged)

@ambiguous-g @ren-ni @metaphorical-love-for-a-car @lgbtomatoes

#karl heisenberg #heisenberg x reader #karl heisenberg x reader #karl heisenberg x you #heisenberg #re8 #re8 heisenberg #Resident Evil Village #resident evil heisenberg #lord heisenberg #resident evil 8 #re8 imagines

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supernova-cas · 3 years

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S01 E01 PILOT

Okay so! starting a rewatch and I thought I’d do a little missing scene from each ep. So here we go starting out strong with some Dean on the road. You can read it here on tumblr or here on AO3!

The road stretches ahead of him, long and empty and Dean speeds up, hits the accelerator, trying to lose himself in the motion, synch up with the car and just glide. But it’s getting harder to focus now, when his destination isn’t some monster or creature from a nightmare. No, he’s not going anywhere so easy.

It’s stupid really, to feel like this and Dean knows it. He’s dealt with much worse than a trip to a college campus. This time last week he’d been over in New Orleans, moments away from being stabbed by an intangible knife. He ignores the slight pain that lingers in his side. As far as hunting injuries go, well it hardly qualifies. Point was Dean wasn’t a kid anymore. He was old enough to hunt on his own now and definitely old enough for this.

And yet, if he was a kid, if they were both kids, he wouldn’t have to be doing this. If they were just a few years younger, Sam would still be right there with him. Sitting next to him and spouting some stupid fact about old lore or just burying his head in one of those trash novels he pretended he never read. They would be together, and for all he knew, if Sam was here, if things were different, if they all stayed together this wouldn’t be an issue at all.

But it’s been years since any of Sam’s shit had cluttered up the backseat. The car’ all Dean’s now, his tapes in the front, his gear in the back, the car was big enough to contain everything he owned and more. All Dean’s possessions, packed into her tight. He wonders if Sam drives. Not that he’d need a car to contain his belongings anymore. No, Sammy’s got a new home now. Proper shelves to line his books up on instead of the corner of the trunk, clothes hanging in a closet instead of piled up on top of a false bottom opening. Yeah, Sam doesn’t need any of the space he and Dean had spent so long arguing over. They’d squabbled for years, each trying to get a little more storage space. And Dean won.

To the victor the spoils. An empty car with all the room in the world. He doesn’t have enough to fill it.

He’s been trying, definitely. Even just now in New Orleans he’d picked up a couple of pretty pieces, a silver knife and some more bullets. His collection is growing, he’s got rifles and handguns now, small knives and machetes, bags and bags of rock salt. Enough iron he’s pretty sure he’s causing some kind of disturbance in the Earth’s natural magnetism. He’s even collected some books of his own. In the trunk is a mixture of a couple of old lore books and some classic literature. Dean may not be going to some fancy college but he sure loves to read. It’s a ragtag little library, taken from old garage sales he passed or the occasional thrift store.

He’s not sure what John would think of them. It isn’t something he’s mentioned. Not because he’s keeping it a secret from him! He just hasn’t had reason to bring it up. It’s not a distraction though, he has that answer locked and loaded. He barely ever reads them, they’re just there in the car. For the long nights when the cards are all frozen and his hustling hasn’t been quite enough to afford to buy dinner and a motel room. When he’s lying back in the impala, waiting to be exhausted enough that sleep overtakes him, sure, he’ll turn a few pages.

Dean passes another mile marker and tries not to see it as another chance to turn back now.

He wonders where Sam sleeps now. If he’s got a little bedside table, he can put his books on before he falls asleep. If his room has thick curtains, if he never has to ignore neon lights flowing through thin curtains or broken blinds. He’s got a home now, the address Dean is driving to, he doesn’t have to sleep in a car.

He wonders if Sam has a car.

The end of the cassette brings him back and for a moment he considers pulling over right there to flip it around. There aren’t any other drivers out here at this time. But if he does pull over, he’s not sure how long it’ll be until he can bring himself to keep going again.

So, he drives in silence. It’s not too far. Which is a good thing. He wants to be there already. And maybe if he tells himself that one more time it’ll make it true.

He slows down as he gets off the highway. Into the residential area of the college town. Sammy’s home neighborhood. He hates how little he hates it.

The impala is silent as he parks her right in front of Sam’s home. She’s beautiful and brilliant and he’s not sure why suddenly she feels small.

A quick knock doesn’t garner any response and Dean is too curious not to take the chance, to test Sam’s defenses.

There aren’t any.

His door is locked and that’s it. He’s not sure what he expected. Sammy definitely doesn’t want to have to explain to all his college friends a line of salt in the doorway, he doesn’t want to carve a sigil in the doorpost. But this, it’s a simple lock Dean gets open in moments. A challenge even Sam would be able to master without trouble.

He moves through the apartment quietly, looking around. It’s bigger than he thought it would be. And there’s so much stuff. He wonders how much of it is Sam’s if he actually owns all this. He probably should have been more focused on his surroundings but with all this, well it was easy to get distracted. Sue him.

So, Sam’s attack takes him by surprise. Not enough of a surprise that Dean doesn’t react well, but enough to get him off balance for a moment. Sam still fights well. Or at least, well for Sam. Dean’s still got the clear advantage as he shoves him right into the other room. The light from the window (framed by thick curtains, he notices) illuminates his face for a moment and Sam falters. Dean gets him pinned down in moments.

“Whoa, easy tiger.” He manages, trying to catch his breath.

“Dean?” Sam’s voice is shock, but not instantly hostile and Dean can’t help the laugh that escapes.

“You scared the crap out of me!” Sam’s voice is his tried and true bitching about being beaten tone, and Dean falls into his own role easily.

“That’s ‘cause you’re out of practice.”

He’s goading Sam and it works, always does. It actually surprises him how fast Sam is, how quickly their roles are reversed.

“Or not,” he admits. Sam hits him twice and Dean rolls his eyes. “Get off of me.”

Sam gets off of him and extends his hand to help Dean. Sam pulls him up and then stands back.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Sam’s voice is upset now and it’s suddenly too real. Sam’s no longer the brother Dean reaches to poke and annoy in the car, he’s no longer an abstract figure too far away to reach. Sam is here, right here in front of Dean and he is angry.

“Well, I was looking for a beer.” He tries with a grin, grabbing hold of Sam for a moment.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Sam repeats and Dean needs to tell him.

“Okay.” He answers. No jokes this time. “We need to talk.”

“Uh, the phone?” Sam asks, eyebrow raised.

“If I’d’a called, would you have picked up?” His tone is light but it’s a serious question and they both know it. Dean thinks for a moment that Sam won’t answer and for another, worse moment that he will.

But he doesn’t get the chance. The lights flick on and Dean spins to see the blonde woman at the switch. She’s pretty, too pretty to be in Sam’s apartment anyway, and more then anything else she’s an interjection into the situation. A distraction and Dean pounces.

“Jess.” Sam speaks up next to him. “Hey. Dean, this is my girlfriend, Jessica.”

“Wait, your brother, Dean?” she asks and where ever that’s going Dean wants to cut it off before it has a chance to begin the trip.

“Oh, I love the smurfs.” He gestures to her crop top and he can practically feel the disdain and anger rolling off the two others in the room. That’s fine. He expected that. “You know, I gotta tell you. You are way out of my brother’s league.”

Jessica looks at him like he’s just confirmed Sam’s reasoning for leaving in a single moment.

“Just let me put something on.”

No. He isn’t staying, they aren’t staying. This isn’t some long conversation to be had. And Sammy definitely didn’t want his girlfriend in on it.

“No, no, no, I wouldn’t dream of it.” He says with an easy grin. “Seriously. Anyway, I gotta borrow your boyfriend here, talk about some private family business. But, uh, nice meeting you.”

“No.” Sam speaks up and Dean watches as he walks away from him, as he goes to put his arm around Jessica.

“No whatever you want to say you can say it in front of her.”

Dean looks at him for a moment. He hadn’t anticipated this. But he can’t very well walk away now.

“Okay. Um.” He looks at them straight on, trying to order his thoughts. “Dad hasn’t been home in a few days.”

“So, he’s working overtime on a Miller Time shift.” Sam says, and his words are heavy and disgusted. His hold on Jessica seems to tighten. “He’ll stumble back in sooner or later.”

Dean ducks his head. Trying to let that one go. It’s not that he’s wrong exactly, it’d happened before. But it wasn’t something they’d say. Not like this. And besides this time isn’t like that at all. This time is different. This time, John is in trouble. And Dean’s not going to let him down. He’s going to get his baby brother and he’s going to get the family together and safe. He looks back up at Sam, his gaze hard as he says,

“Dad’s on a hunting trip. And he hasn’t been home in a few days.”

#my writing #mine #scene fill #fjksdakjlfdskl i hope people see this #i'd love to hear some thoughts #or if anyone wants to read future ones?

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buckybabybaby · 4 years

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Not So Bad

A/n: this is my one shot for @firefly-in-darkness's summer challenge. It's a couple of days late, I'm so sorry!! I wrote most of this in one go on Friday, which is the most I've written in months, so hopefully I can keep that up.

Proof read by way of a text-speech device.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes/reader (gender neutral)

Word count: 1998

Warnings: none :)

Plot: stuck on a beach awaiting pick-up after a mission, you and Bucky have an interesting conversation. (Enemies to friends (to implied maybe lovers later))

Masterlist

*****

The steady lapping of the waves washing up onto the sand below is the only sound breaking the silence between you and Bucky. Seated at opposite ends of the last bench on the promenade, you are seriously considering typing up your notice the minute you get back home and walking away from The Avengers if this is the way you're going to be treated. Not only have you had to spend the last two weeks acting all lovey-dovey with Bucky for the sake of a mission, but now it's over you're stuck on a beach with him as you wait for a pick up. Because, apparently, a domestic flight back home would be too risky.

A light flickering in the distance catches your attention, and you raise your head to watch as the illuminations strung along the closest pier are extinguished one by one, until only the hazard warning at the very end remains lit, plunging the beach further into darkness.

“That'll be midnight then.”

It shouldn't, but Bucky's voice coming from beside you for the first time in hours makes you jump. Sitting up straighter, you attempt to hide your shock as you ask, “What will be?”

“The lights. The pier closes at midnight. I guess it's just you and me now.”

Looking away, you roll your eyes; this mission hasn't been easy for you, and you've had to hold yourself back from repeating that action many times during the last fortnight. Normally working with world-saving heroes is the dream job, but normally you're not sent out undercover with the formal Winter Soldier, forced to act like a honeymooning couple to infiltrate a people smuggling ring operating out of an exclusive Floridian beach resort. Though it wasn't hard to get people to talk and the mission was a success, you feel little joy in the outcome.

The reason is currently huffing next to you.

“Stop that!”

Bucky looks across at you, raising his eyebrows at your outburst. “Stop what?”

“Breathing so heavily!”

“Oh, you want me to stop breathing?”

“I wouldn't complain.”

“That'll be a first.”

Refusing to rise to the bait, you turn back to staring out to sea. How you survived pretending to be married to this man for fourteen long days, you may never know. Maybe you were an actor in another life, because every time you're alone with him it usually leads to petty squabbling, but you somehow managed to fool multiple people into believing that he was your 'amazing husband' who you were madly in love with.

To be fair to Bucky, he was very good at pretending too. The little glances and touches that made it convincing, the way he memorised your back story perfectly and never slipped up when questioned, how he succeeded to completely hide his disdain for you the whole time, it was all truly impressive. Even in private he didn't drop the act, on the slim chance of being caught out, leaving you flustered and confused.

Hence why you're sitting as far away as possible on this weather beaten bench.

As soon as the all clear had been given that you could go home, you couldn't get out of there fast enough, desperate to sleep in your own bed alone and not share one with the furnace in human form that is Bucky. Apart from the comment about the pier, he's been completely silent as you waited for the rescue boat to arrive, a jarring contrast to earlier in the day as you checked out of the hotel.

You don't like the way you miss his gentle hold and soft words. A fortnight living together has warped your emotions beyond recognition, and the return to normal life is most welcome.

From somewhere deep in the pile of luggage on the beach your phone buzzes twice, and you jump up to grab it, groaning in frustration at the message it contains.

Bucky senses the cause. “Delayed?”

“Hmm.”

“Cool.”

He says it so casually and it's like you snap. It's been ages since the two of you have been alone without the threat of eavesdroppers, all that pent up tension exploding in a mini rant.

“Well it might be cool for you, but excuse me for being annoyed. Not everyone wants to be stuck on a beach in the middle of the night.”

He shrugs, unaffected. “You kept saying you wanted to go to the beach.”

“Yeah, but not at midnight! And certainly not with you!”

“Wow, ouch.”

The genuine hurt on his face surprises you. He has always given as good as he gets, never seeming fazed by the verbal abuse you throw his way. “What, Bucky? Don't act like we get along. You hate me!”

If anything, the look of hurt deepens at your words. “Hate? I don't hate you.” He rises to stand with you on the sand. “Y/N? Is that what you think?”

You can't keep eye contact. “Why would I think anything else? We can't spend ten minutes together without arguing.”

“It's just friendly bickering.”

“Friendly?” Scoffing loudly, you walk back up to the bench, flopping down in a slouched position and resigning yourself to the wait. “If that's your idea of friendly I worry about your actual friends.”

Bucky's stood frozen where you left him but you pay him no mind. As the clouds clear above and the stars become visible, the temperature starts to drop. Shivering, you curl into a ball on the seat, too lazy to search through your suitcase for warmer clothes.

“Here.”

Blinking, you're met with Bucky's outstretched hand and the offering of his coat.

“What.” You say flatly.

“So you don't freeze,” He explains, shaking the jacket a little in your face.

You snort at his act of chivalry. “Oh, please. It's okay, the shows over. You don't need to pretend any more, we haven't got an audience here.”

He visibly holds his tongue. “Will you just take it? Stop being so stubborn.”

“Well, what about you? Don't you need it?”

“Super soldier, doll. We tend to run hotter.”

“Yeah, I noticed,” You mutter under your breath, not quietly enough.

“Oh, you did? Must have kept you nice and warm huh?”

The smirk you know so well is back and you fight your smile at the familiar tone in his voice.

“More like sleeping with a damn heater. You're lucky I didn't kick you out every night.”

“As if you could.”

“You know I could.”

He nods in agreement, remembering all the times you've beaten him in combat training. “Suppose you could've. But you didn't. That's something.”

Placing the jacket over your shoulder when you sit up, Bucky pulls it round to the front to fasten the top button, allowing you to do the rest yourself as he takes his place back on the bench. You are much closer now as you chose to sit in the middle of the seat, but you stay put as it feels rude to move away when he's been so nice.

The air is once again full of only the sounds of nature. It was true you had wanted to visit the beach during this mission, the long stretches of white sand calling your name from the hotels bedroom window, but you hadn't got the chance as the suspects you were tailing stayed around the bar and pool. As you breathe in the salty air, you decide the pain of the last fortnight was worth it for this moment, even in the middle of the night and without the longed for ice cream.

Glancing over to Bucky's relaxed form, you study his profile. Whilst you've seen it a lot recently, it still shocks you how defined his face is and the way his hair always seems to fall perfectly, no matter the time of day or weather. Even his early morning bed-hair could be classed as a tousled style others would take hours to achieve, and you can't believe you've never noticed how attractive he is. And it's not just his looks, if the way he acted his role is anything to go by. This mission has taught you one thing; who ever Bucky does end up marrying will be the luckiest person in the world.

You think of your previous conversation, still lost. Since your first meeting it's been the same, sharp tongues flinging insults at each other whenever you meet, and the others in the tower have learnt to avoid the two of you when you get going. Does Bucky really think that that's all been in jest?

Eventually, the curiosity gets the better of you. “Do you really not hate me?”

He takes a few seconds to reply, not looking at you as he says quietly, “No, of course not.”

“Okay.” You don't bring up your regular fights as evidence to the contrary, instead asking, “And you actually enjoy my company?”

“Why do you think I volunteered for this?”

“Volun-what?” That really wasn't what you expected when you started on these questions. You stare at him wide-eyed with disbelief, sure you've misunderstood. “I thought we were assigned? I definitely didn't choose to be here.”

“You were assigned. They thought you'd blend in well with the crowds here, they just needed someone to be your husband and... Here we are.”

“Huh.” You blow out a breath, overwhelmed.

“I thought it would be a way to spend time together without the usual spats.”

“That's an extreme way to spend time with someone.”

He sighs. “I know.”

“But why? With me?”

“'Cause you're fun to be with?”

“Are you telling me or asking?”

“Telling. I want to be better, nicer to you, but any time we're together, you get all defensive, and I can't help returning the sentiment.”

“So, it's my fault?”

“That's not-” He cuts himself off, stopping the argument before it can begin. “I'm sorry.”

“No, I'm sorry.” You smile at him for the first time. “You're going to have to give me a while to get used to this. I'm finding it kinda hard to believe you don't actually hate my guts.”

His own smile drops. “I'm so sorry.” Dragging a hand through his hair, he gazes at you intensely. “This is... I honestly had no idea you thought our arguments were serious. I thought-” He swallows, a self conscious grin tugging at his mouth. “Is it awful that I thought we were flirting?”

Your cheeks heat up, but you shake your head to reassure him. Thinking back, you can see why he believed that. There is a fine line between hate and love, and it makes sense now why you sought him out so often, why you gravitated to him even when it would be so easy to avoid contact, and why, if you're being honest with yourself, you didn't despise the last two weeks at all.

“So, where do we go from here?”

“First, we go home.” He gestures to the vessel you hadn't noticed bobbing in the surf, waving at the captain as the speed boat is launched to retrieve you and your belongings. “And then? Whatever you want.”

“Can we start just being proper friends?”

He reaches for your hand to help you up. “I'd like that.”

Stretching, you follow him across the beach in the gloom. Picking up your holdall and rucksack on the way, you dump them into the bottom of the boat and climb in, sitting close together on the narrow bench. The crew shout at each other over the engines roar once you're both safely on the yacht, but you tune them out, choosing to stay on deck and admire the lights along the coast. Bucky joins you after you tire of his hesitation and tug him down into the seat to you.

As the boat starts the journey back north he glances at you through the spray of salt water, the small smile you share feels so much bigger, and your letter of resignation couldn't be further from your mind.

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky x reader #bucky imagine #bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes fanfiction #buckybabybaby

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collecting-stories · 5 years

Text

Crush - Adam (Supernatural)

Could you do something where the reader hunts with Bobby and the boys, and falls for Adam?

Crush - Adam x reader

“Here you go,” you announced, stepping into the small guest room at Bobby’s, holding the glass of water out to Adam. Your hand was shakier than was typical and once he took the glass you found yourself standing awkwardly by the door, unsure of yourself. He’d sequestered himself up here almost immediately after Sam and Dean had suggested that he didn’t know what he was getting into.

The first time you had met Adam he had turned out to be a ghoul disguising himself as John Winchester’s illegitimate son. A friendly ghoul who had charmed you even easier than he had Sam but still a ghoul who fully intended on eating both brothers and you. It was unfortunate and afterwards you had to wonder why you hadn’t questioned the possibility in the first place. Maybe because you thought Adam was cute and you had the beginnings of a superficial crush on him. Or maybe because you really didn’t know him and the oddly optimistic memories of an absent father who came around once in a blue moon for a baseball game seemed normal. Either way, you and Sam both fell into the trap of a well-meaning kid who needed help and turned to John Winchester, unaware his once mythic father was dead.

“Do you need anything else?” You asked, the silence making you anxious. You missed the appropriate cue to leave and now you were overwhelmingly aware that you had overstayed your welcome in Adam’s room.

He shook his head and continued to stare at the glass of water in his hands.

Crushes were funny things, like itches that you couldn’t scratch. Even when the situation at hand didn’t call for it you found that nagging at the back of your brain reminding you of stupid things like how cute, and slightly helpless, Adam looked. He was a sore spot for Dean who had spent the entirety of his life convinced his father never loved anyone but his mom. Adam felt like a betrayal, even now that he was no longer a monster in disguise and the disdain he held for John proof that the patriarch never did find love after Mary. Sam, who only remembered a John post Mary, was more welcoming of the idea of an illegitimate other Winchester, a more normal one he could be normal with. Turning out to be a ghoul had dampened his optimism and further turning out to be a risen-from-the-dead vessel for Michael was the nail in the coffin. Adam was their brother but only half and the half that made him not their brother seemed to be truly defining, even as they warned him against making any rash decisions.

You wanted to see him make the right decision, or the decision where he told Michael to go fuck himself, too, but you weren’t nearly as invested in the sibling squabble. Possibly because you weren’t a sibling but also because your own father had a countless lineage of ‘other’ children scattered across the Midwest. That and you thought Adam was cute, something Dean was quick to point out when you attempted to stick up for his motivates.

“Some of us are thinking about the apocalypse that’s supposed to be happening. If you want to re-join that conversation and stop making heart eyes at the kid.” He’d been understandably frustrated by your lack of supposed self-control. And maybe you were staring at Adam a little too intensely but who could fault you. Living with Bobby didn’t exactly introduce you to a whole lot of eligible guys your age. Mostly all you saw were rowdy hunters. The Winchesters, despite their good looks, were no different. Adam was the first guy your age that you’d seen in months and you were seeing him for a second time, who could help having a little, harmless crush on him.

“I was not making heart eyes.”

Dean had taken up the role of older brother/well-meaning but emotionally distance father and that led to plenty of clashes between the two of you.

“Guys, this isn’t the time.” Sam was designated referee for all your arguments. So while the two of them argued null points further you had taken a glass of water up to Adam, mostly to make sure he was doing alright but also, apparently, to stare at his cute face until you spontaneously combusted.

You attempted a step further into the room. Then further and further until you were grabbing the wooden seat from the corner and sitting down by Adam’s bed. Maybe some insight into his headspace would help determine what he was going through. He was just risen from the dead to be a vessel for Michael after being eaten by ghouls not too long ago. And here you thought having the sister you lived with turn to witchcraft to send your father to an early grave was the weirdest it could get for a person.

“I know this is all a little overwhelming.” You announced, picking imaginary threads off your flannel in hopes to ease your nerves. Ganking monsters was nothing compared to talking to cute boys. Talking to cute boys about not starting to apocalypse and potentially saving mankind was a weird way of flirting but it certainly gave you something to say.

“Until a couple of hours ago I was in heaven and now I’m here and I’m supposed to be Michael’s vessel and you’re telling me not to? Like I told Sam and Dean, he’s promised to bring back my mom.” He snapped.

Alright well, you didn’t exactly want the guy you thought was cute thinking that you were a major dick who didn’t care about him as a person only about the greater good and your own personal need for overdramatic heroics. That category was better reserved for Sam and Dean and sometimes Castiel in all honesty. But not you. Not you who, to some extent understood what Adam was going through. Weren’t you just a normal kid until all that freaky shit started happening and your sister’s irresponsibility got you possessed by a demon.

Saying ‘I know’ again would only piss him off and you couldn’t imagine a sentence along the lines of ‘I get it’ or ‘I understand’ would go over quite so well either.

“Dean and Sam-”

“Dean and Sam only care about themselves. I’m not family to them and they’re not family to me.”

That didn’t help either. There was no reasoning with him. Regardless of his lineage or his willingness to be Michael’s vessel, you knew that consequences of him going through with this would be detrimental to everyone, yourself included. But then, was protecting yourself from the apocalypse at the expense of a kid who just wants his mom back selfish or were you truly looking out for the greater good?

“I don’t want you to get hurt.”

“You don’t even know me.”

Well, true. But you’d known a very charming ghoul-version of him that had flirted you into compliance. Granted the risen-from-the-dead version was a little less trusting of you. Though that had nothing to do with whether he thought you were cute in return and everything to do with the fact that he wasn’t planning on eating you.

“Doesn’t matter,” you lied, trying to explain to the ghoul thing to him now would be even more overwhelming than all the other things he was trying to come to terms with, “what matters is that you’re putting yourself and all of humanity at risk doing this.”

“I don’t care.” He repeated his prior statement, emphasizing each word as if you hadn’t heard them the other twelve times.

“Yeah I got that. But none of this will be worth it because everything will be gone and your mom won’t really be back. Michael will never keep his promise.”

“Whatever you’re trying to do isn’t going to work. I’m doing this.”

“Don’t waste your breath on him.” Dean’s voice came from the doorway. He was as effective as having a parent around because you stood and headed for the door immediately. Dean moved so you could pass him into the hallway and then he followed you back down to Bobby’s kitchen. You couldn’t help the sullen attitude you had as you sunk into a chair.

Adam didn’t come down from his room until later that night. Both of the brothers and Bobby had gone to sleep but you were still awake, pouring over lore books in the living room as if something you already read was going to change midway through and provide an answer that saved both the world and this damn kid that you were crushing on. But everything was the same as before and the only answer that seemed even remotely good was the one Dean had offered up over dinner, he take Adam’s place. A force of hand on both sides.

But that answer sucked too because you didn’t want Dean to get hurt.

“You’re still awake?” Adam asked, lingering at the bottom of the stairs awkwardly. He wasn’t sure what to say to any of the people in this house much less you, the only one who seemed interested in both telling him not to accept Michael and arguing that he had no choice.

“It’s a combination of terrible coffee and anxiety.” You replied, glancing up from one of your books, “you should try it.”

“The coffee or the anxiety?”

You hummed, “both?”

He smiled and you watched him walk to the kitchen where Bobby’s coffee pot sat half full on the burner. Pouring himself a cup Adam came back over and sat beside you on the couch, an improvement from earlier when he could hardly look at you as you loomed over him in the guest room. “What are you reading?”

“Trying to solve this end of the world problem in a way that gets none of the Winchesters, yourself included, killed.” You supplied. “though so far I’m at a dead end.”

“I’m okay with being Michael’s vessel. I’ve accepted it.” Despite his vehement refusal to be associated in any way with his half-brothers that sentence alone secured his place as a Winchester.

“Of course you did.” You muttered, thumbing through the text. It was a fool’s errand at this point but it was distracting enough to keep your mind only half on the hopelessness of the situation.

“Why do you care?”

“Because I care about Dean and Sam. And Bobby and Cas and I don’t want any of this shit to go down like I know it’s going to. Sorry but they’re my family. I don’t have the luxury of ‘bringing my mom back’ and I know better than to try that shit.” You confessed. It was all partially true. The other part being that you felt drawn to Adam in a way that half made you believe you were trapped in one of Gabriel’s stupid time-warp tv drama universes. Like this was some teen romcom and together you would figure everything out and walk off into the sunset in time for your prom like Footloose.

“You don’t understand than.”

“I do, but I don’t wanna see you get hurt either.”

“Why? Because I’m a ‘Winchester’? I’m not.” He replied. He took a sip of the coffee and grimaced, “you’re right, this is terrible.”

You huffed a laugh and smiled just the slightest at his comment. Bobby did make terrible coffee. “I know you ‘aren’t a Winchester’ and all that...but I still am worried about you and it has nothing to do with Dean and Sam. I don’t want to see anyone get hurt and even if Michael doesn’t hurt you I don’t want you getting your hopes up for nothing.”

“I have to take the chance.”

You nodded and looked away. Dean had once told you that hunting was complicated and that relationships couldn’t happen in the life they led. It just wasn’t a possibility for them and if you chose to join them on the road than you would have to give up those friendships that you had back home. At the time it didn’t bother you but now you were starting to understand, even potential crushes were a waste of time because they either turned out to be monsters or boys with misguided senses of heroism that wanted to sacrifice themselves for a cause they believed in.

“Hey, I’m sorry.” Adam’s hand covered yours, his thumb rubbing gently over the side of your hand, the slightest tickling sensation causing goosebumps to breakout on your arm. “You seem like a great person, I wish things could’ve been different.”

“Tell me about it.” You replied, deciding not to torture yourself by reading too far into the phrase ‘great person’.

“Do you want help?” He offered, “I don’t know what I’m looking for but, I can’t sleep.”

You pulled your hand away to reach for a book on the coffee table, “I’ll take all the help I can get.” It was true, you could use an extra set of eyes. And if this was the most you could ask for from Adam than you would take it.

Sorry this took so long. Honestly I’ve been writing this since I got the request in my inbox and it’s just taken me this long to put thoughts into words. I don’t even know if this is decent, I'm just keeping my fingers crossed that it is.

#Adam (supernatural) imagine #Adam (supernatural) x reader #Adam (supernatural) fanfic #supernatural fanfiction #supernatural imagine #supernatural fanfic #collecting stories imagine

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hillnerd · 5 years

Note

Why do you think Ron and Hermione fell in love with each other?

I think there are a ton of different reasons. (stole a ton of this from debates I’ve had) THIS IS LOOOONG

1-They enjoy spending time with one another

From the moment they become friends (after the troll incident) they are joined at the hips. Harry goes off on his own a lot (what with Quidditch practice and games, detentions, not allowed to go to hogsmeade, private lessons, dates) and every time he comes back, there are Ron and Hermione still hanging out.

Ron gets on very well with Dean Seamus and Neville. If he didn’t like Hermione, why would he spend all his free time with her? Hermione has made it clear she’d rather have no friends at all than bad ones (otherwise she’d have hung out with SOMEONE when she was on the outs with the boys)- and yet she chooses to spend all her free time with Ron. So we have them choosing to spend their time with one another, whether Harry is there or not.

They are in sync and enjoy one another’s company

The two of them not only spend time with one another, but they see eye to eye on most things. They’re known for squabbling- but as far as actual disagreements go they don’t have that many in the series. The two are a great team who work as a unit to support Harry, Hagrid, defend others, defend each other, and as early as PS/SS even have funny naturally flowing back and forths.

Harry told the other two about Snape’s sudden, sinister desire to be a Quidditch referee.

“Don’t play,” said Hermione at once.

“Say you’re ill,” said Ron.

“Pretend to break your leg,” Hermione suggested.

“Really break your leg,” said Ron.

But they straight up enjoy the company of one another. They are seen laughing throughout the series, ‘having the time of their lives’ in Hogsmeade (just the two of them), hanging out in the library, happily hanging out in the common room.

Ron makes Hermione smile/laugh more than anyone else

Ron is one of the only people in the series that can bring a smile to Hermione’s face- and it’s so important in any relationship, romantic or platonic, that you’re able to do that. Hermione is a rather serious character and rarely laughs. She barely laughs at the twins at all- but Ron? She laughs, smirks, smiles and finds real enjoyment from his wisecracks. He’s the only character able to get in there and help her have some real fun in the series.

2) They have the same values and admire one another

Honesty, loyalty, fighting for what’s right, valuing the same sorts of people, enjoying spending their downtime (When there’s no ‘activity’) the same way, the commitment they each have to helping the ‘little guy’, valuing intellectual stimulation (not just academically, but through wit, analysis, and people watching), shared ideas of what’s important in life, and the ability to tease/take the mickey with one another. They are both down to earth people who value the simple things in life above everything else, and their loved ones mean more to them than anything.

They admire each other’s compassion

In the 7th book in particular we see how Ron’s compassion for the cattermoles makes her look like she might kiss him- and then his compassion for house elves is what makes her actually jump him and snog him right in the middle of a battle.

But the two of them admire one another’s good heart throughout the series. He thinks she the best person he knows (says it so as well). Ron is more frequent in verbally praising Hermione than the opposite- so we have a lot of examples of him praising her character.

Both have equal disdain for artifice, cowardly actions, hypocrisy, and cruelty- They also see eye to eye on just what constitutes each of those traits the majority of the time.

You see throughout the series that Ron admires (and does NOT ONCE SHOW JEALOUSY OF) Hermione’s abilities. He compliments her on them in every single book. Hermione is also pushing Ron to live up to his potential (Which she thinks is large- because- hint hint- IT IS) and gushes over how brilliant he is towards the end of book 7.

3) They enjoy mentally stimulating one another

In the series Hermione is constantly trying to get people the engage with her when she wants to argue, or learn. People are happy to inform her of things, but most people shut her down immediately when she starts arguing. Ron is the only character who consistently will engage with her when she does this. He’s the only person who will go head to head with her when her ideas aren’t sound. When she’s going off about SPEW and is trying to FORCE the elves into freedom against their will by hiding socks/hats she knit, Ron is the only person to engage with her about this and question it.

And she LOVES arguing/discussing things. She does so with so many people throughout the series. She argues at the drop of a hat- To her it’s not arguing though- to her it’s just dicussing/qestioning/getting to the truth of the matter- but it drives most characters away- not Ron.

Hermione also does this for Ron. He’s nowhere near as argumentative as Hermione- but he also loves to sit down and discuss stuff- and frankly he’s been so overlooked for so long- it’s wonderful he’s found Harry and Hermione- two people who readily want his opinion, want his input, and enjoy discussing things with him.

Ron and Hermione are both people who crave mental stimulation- and give it to one another throughout the series. It’s not just about arguing- it’s about engaging with her. Most people won’t listen to her and talk about topics with her because she bulldozes others. He is not bulldozed and will engage. Instead of Hermione speaking into a void, or foisting opinions on an unwilling audience- she has Ron there. He is offering her companionship. She obviously LIKES this companionship- even before their friendship she relentlessly pursued him and Harry to ‘help them’ and ‘correct them.’ She is a willing participant in this- and with Ron finally has an audience for all her thoughts. She seeks him out. At first he did not want HER companionship- but they bonded and he changed his stance.

He’s not just a silent audience- he participates- sometimes he’s agreeing with her. Sometimes he’s debating with her. Sometimes he’s laughing as she gets outraged and stamps her foot. But he’s there with her- Hermione chose Ron and Harry as friends. Her choice speaks very loudly. She could choose to never speak to Ron and only be friends with Harry. When she was icing out Ron in DH for a bit she did just that! But throughout the books she engages with him and visa versa.

4) They are fiercely protective of each other and have a bond/trust there that few could compete with

I mean, this is something througout the series- they are always willing to make sacrifices and help each other out- facing things they might not for anyone else.

Ron is the only person to see to Hermione’s needs most of the time. He is the only one to push in third year to learn why she’s disappearing so often. He is the only one to volunteer to help with Buckbeak’s petition. He is the only one worried about her dating some dude they never met who is legally an adult (yes a lot of it is jealousy- but I’m shocked he was the only one to be like ‘Um, no one else finds this problematic???’)

He’s making sure she eats properly, defending her left and right (got tons of detentions from Snape for all his defense of Hermione, faced his worst fear for her (spiders in the woods with broken wand), slugs with Draco etc) When Hermione is crying over her parents, it’s Ron who immediately is by her side with a handkerchief holding her as she cries (same at Dumbledore’s funeral.) When Hermione is tortured, it’s Ron who carries her body away from their and gets her the medical care she needs (and who offered to take her place before the torture began.) Hermione is able to emotionally lean on him throughout the series and does- and Hermione looks out for Ron in this same way (though not to the same extent.)

When he’s being tortured with ‘Weasley is our King’ she is kissing him to distract him, when he’s hurt by his brothers she is standing up for him and helping him out (Percy’s letters, the twins being mean about his prefect status), they are entwined at Dumbledore’s funeral, and she’s holding him when he mourns Fred.

They intrinsically know how to be there for one another.

5) They are attracted to one another

This we don’t get as much insight on, as the two are so repressed it’s ridiculous- but the two of them obviously are attracted- they’re always vying for the attention of the other- are plagued by jealousy- and Ron even tells Hermione she looks great. The two blush at compliments and just are attracted.

6) They have a passionate reparte they can’t find with anyone else- where they complete the picture for each other

Each bring something different to the table- but they

Hermione offers her intelligence, hardworking nature, and drive

Ron offers cleverness, strategy, companionship, self-sacrificing, and loyal

They both offer honesty, passion, kindness, loving natures and companionship.

The two of them bicker- but we see in the books they are SHOCKED when people see them as ‘fighting’- as seen in OotP and Harry yells at them for fighting and look highly offended at being cut off and chastised like this.

The two of them keep each other honest, and have personalities that make a rumble everywhere they go. People like to think the two of them bring out bad qualities in the other- acting as if Hermione is a quiet sage intellectual who maturely goes about life until Ron comes into the picture. No. Hermione is unsubtle, pushy, abrasive, argues with a lamppost, and condescending. She’s also incredibly smart, passionate, and kind. She’s an emotional train-wreck a lot of the time who doesn’t have much in the way of interpersonal skills- she’s either quiet and kowtowing to authority figures, or pushing at people.

Ron on the other hand is not some chill dude until Hermione comes along. He’s passionate, always ready to throw down, is brash, and calls out anyone on their bullshit within a square mile. He’s also sensitive, loving, and self sacrificing.

The two are lions through and through with everyone- and that includes one another- but they work so well together because they enjoy passionately tearing into subjects, passionately loving one another, and taking on everything from monsters to parenting Harry. :P

Few people could deal with Hermione’s fiery nature- which again seems to be ignored in much analysis. People like to project and think of her as some lofty intellectual who is all cool logic, forgiveness, and objective. No. Hermione has never been that. Read the books and you can see how she is ruled by passion over her intellect.

I think people criticizing Romione a lot see relationships as something that should be all about shared interests, objective discourse, and perhaps some level of attraction. How very ‘Spock’…

They personally read arguments with any emotion/passion/loudness as negative. As a Latina, I gotta say- LOL. My poor poor husband. He comes from a very uptight white family where everyone is quiet and never expresses an emotion much at all. Like that John Mulaney bit- ‘I will keep all my emotions right here [points to chest] and then someday I’ll die.’ So the first time we had a debate and I was loud he was SHOOK. Now he knows- oh, wait, she’s loud all the time- like any time she’s passionate about a topic she’s loud. Ok! It’s like the ‘My Big Fat Greek Wedding’ family. They just loud.

That’s how Ron is (and all his family are!) and that’s how Hermione is.

They genuinely like one another (as shown time and time again how they smile at each other’s actions, value the other’s opinions, admire one another’s actions) love one another (as shown by how VERY much they go to pieces when the other is in danger/hurt, how Ron even said it in the books) and bring out something good in each other.

Ron is coded with female traits, while Hermione is coded with male traits in the series- he’s the emotional caretaker (making tea, feeding people, putting pjs on an injured harry, allying the group with emotional enthusiasm), while Hermione is the brain (helps with exposition, spellwork, gives answers to solutions and riddles.) Together they are the perfect team.

The two of them are awkward humans at times, and they are able to make it work. Hermione is able to look past Ron’s flaws and deeply admire him, while keeping him honest and really bringing out his intellectual side that he’d probably neglect left to his own devices. He is able to look past Hermione’s interpersonal flaws and deeply admires her, is able to make her see other sides to equations she doesn’t think about, and brings out the fun side of Hermione she would DEFINITELY neglect without his presence.

Dating for Ron is hard due a bit to social awkwardness, but it mostly comes down to his insecurity due to his familial upbringing (That was continually reinforced at hogwarts- the message of ‘you’re not good enough,’ ‘you don’t matter.’)

Despite some differences and disagreements, Ron and Hermione understand one another. The respect they have for one another goes very deep (though I think Hermione has some growing to do in this department when it comes to verbal validations.)

You see throughout the series that Ron admires (and does NOT ONCE SHOW JEALOUSY OF) Hermione’s abilities. He compliments her on them in every single book. Hermione is also pushing Ron to live up to his potential (Which she think is large- because- hint hint- IT IS) and gushes over how brilliant he is towards the end of book 7.

Relationships aren’t supposed to be easy, but as far as Romione goes- their relationship IS easy the majority of the time. The upsets they have as teenagers are silly and fun for a plot and overblown, as are most of the interpersonal dramas in a fictional kids adventure book. Objectively, they have so much good and little bad- subjectively- they have passion and love.

Ron is one of the most multifaceted characters in the book. He’s not just passion/emotion/loyalty- he also has an incredible strategic mind, is instinctively brilliant with magic (always picks up on magical stuff the other two don’t like the taboo, or his ‘predictions’ about stuff that always come true, or how he broke gamp’s laws when he made a mushroom.) In some ways Ron is entirely confident in WHO HE IS, and refuses to bend or change for anyone- and in other ways he’s completely insecure and certain that he is hated. He’s brave, but anxious. He can be rude, but he also will fiercely protect. He wears his emotions on his sleeves, but never verbalizes his insecurities. He’s the fun guy- but also the one who will literally let himself get killed so you can survive. Like, Ron is such a great interesting multifaceted character. Just the sort of interesting, provoking individual to never let the ever passionate Hermione get bored with. She could never get bored with someone with so many different modes. She can sit and analyze situations with him for hours, but she can also laugh with him as they explore shops for hours. They are adaptable together.

#romione #Anonymous

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goodfortune-au · 3 years

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Good Fortune (Soulmate AU) Chapter 22: Aftermath

It’s been a few long days since the confrontation at 29 Neibolt Street, and Angel has found herself perpetually tired ever since then. When she’d come in that evening after having gotten home, she didn’t stop to greet Mayor Jello, or prep her lunch for work the following day, or even undress before bed. She just kicked her shoes off and trudged like an emotionally dead zombie to her room, pulled back the covers and crawled in. When she woke the following morning, she rolled out of bed when her alarm went off and went to work. She hadn’t yet processed anything that had happened the previous day; it was almost as if her brain was refusing to acknowledge it. She was avoiding it, she was blocking it out. Thinking about it was just too painful, and she’d dealt with more than her fair share of pain lately as it was, so she simply opted to forget. As she attended to her duties in the library, she was rather distant and absentminded. She kept bumping into things or spacing out during exchanges with patrons, and no matter how she tried she just couldn’t summon the energy to do much else except stumble around and clumsily put things back on shelves. The people couldn’t be bothered to really notice; they regarded her with no more indifference or disdain than usual, so at the very least she had that going for her. Not even the librarian was getting on her case as of late, though she chalked up her more merciful disposition to the fact that A History of Old Derry had at long last been recovered and been checked out to a child much less likely to scatter it to the four winds. She still hadn’t any idea how it had ended up back in the library but she didn’t intend to waste time wondering about it. It didn’t matter anymore. Nothing did.

Forgetting would only get her so far, unfortunately, as it seemed Angel could not stop her mind from dredging up the details of that day no matter how hard she tried. It refused to stay buried in the back of her subconscious, desperate to breathe the air of sentient thought once more by forcing itself back into her immediate focus again and again. Those details kept flooding back in, and would overwhelm her in flashes like a fever dream of some kind. How things had begun, the way they had progressed, and the way that one thing had led to another; it was all she could think about. She kept chasing the events of that day all the way back to the beginning, when she’d seen that ghostly transmission on Channel 27, had heard that voice speaking to her from behind; when she started finding the gifts and watching the Derry Children’s Hour; how she went to bed so miserable on the eve of Valentine’s Day and woken up at the touch of something she had pined for so terribly for so long. How she had relished that first touch. The days he spent building her up, the days he lavished her in praise and gifts and danced with her. The nights they spent laying together in her bed, doing nothing except drinking in each other’s company… The day she had been harassed by those boys in the library, and found him down in the archives… The sight of him… Swallowing down their lifeless bodies… How he had left her alone after that, how she had felt so lonely and isolated and empty, so much so that she almost relapsed, had almost done something terrible to herself. The sight of them at her front door at such a drastic time, and the way they spoke gravely of the things they had seen and witnessed. The addition of Mike into their little group, before they came to the unanimous decision to…

"I'm just saying let's face facts. Real world. Georgie is dead. Stop trying to get us killed too."

"Guh-Georgie's not dead!"

"You couldn't save him, but you can still save yourself-"

"No, t-take it back! You're scared, and we all are, but take it back!"

She didn’t like thinking about it. It just made her stomach roil and turn. The walk back from 29 Neibolt Street was unpleasant for everyone, but for Angel most of all. It was true a couple of them sustained injuries from the confrontation, but the emotional turmoil felt so much more grievous in her battered mind than anything else they collectively suffered. The children had tried so hard to console her as they found their way out of the house and, to their credit, they had selflessly set aside their own trauma for the time being to aid in hers, but in her grief she couldn’t bring herself to be grateful for any of it. She found it harder and harder to be grateful for their company at all as of late, not that she could ever admit that out loud. Depression on top of everything else was hard enough to contend with without having to keep four children from squabbling all the time. No, make that six… Make that seven now. Seven children, and she was just expected to look out for their wellbeing, keep them all happy and safe. What about her, huh? Who was going to look out for her wellbeing, keep her happy and safe? Didn’t she deserve that too? If ever there was a thing to offer her such blessings, it was Pennywise, but they had… They…

“You’re just a bunch of losers! F*ck off!”

“Stop!”

“You’re just a bunch of losers and you’ll get yourself killed trying to catch the stupid f*cking clown!”

Keeping them separated took everything she had. She had snapped out of her catatonic state for a brief moment to assess the fight breaking out right in front of her, and instinct took over. She shoved herself in between them as she’d done so many times before, had tried in vain to keep them from continuing to lash out, but the others thankfully took over for her. Stan and Mike held Richie by the arms, and Ben had his hands full trying to keep Bill back from taking another swipe around her waist at Richie’s face. Eddie and Beverly simply watched in horror at the events unfolding. And then, once the immediate skirmish had been dissolved, the emotions came bubbling up to the surface for her again, and she started to gurgle weakly in front of them all, and then she trekked a thousand miles from the street onto her front lawn, collapsed there, and started to sob again. She didn’t care in that moment that they could all see her like this, didn’t care that she was behaving so helplessly in front of them; this was all simply a long time coming, and in that moment all she really cared about was communicating how she felt. And how she felt was f*cking terrible.

“Look, a*shole, you got her upset all over again!” She could hear Richie yelling at Bill.

“Stop! This is what it wants!” She had heard Beverly say urgently. “It wants to divide us. We were all together when we hurt it. That’s why we’re still alive.”

She could feel something vile and wroth consuming her then. It was a feeling untempered and unbridled that rose up from the pit of her stomach, and it made her seethe, it made her angry. It made the grass wilt beneath her form as she laid there weeping, consumed in heartbreak on her front lawn, and she couldn’t control it any more than she could control her labored breathing. It shocked her to her very core because she didn’t think she could ever have these feelings, let alone entertain them seriously. In that moment she should have felt terrible for having them. She should have immediately denounced those feelings and worked to achieve a better, more fair assessment of the situation. But instead she lays there, sobbing and festering, and she can do little else but succumb to the toxic influence of her current train of thought. None of this would have ever fucking happened if they would have just listened to her. Richie wouldn’t have broken his arm, Ben wouldn’t have gotten wounded, Bill wouldn’t have recklessly endangered all his friends and P… Pennywise wouldn’t have...

She’s sobbing pathetically into the grass, full of sorrow, dripping with righteous anger while the children argue, and she can’t collect herself enough to stop. All she can think about is him. All she can think about is that he was alive and well until she’d stepped in and distracted him. All she can think is that she was the reason he’d gotten hurt, she was the reason he was possibly... She knows she should be more concerned about the children. He had, after all, put them all in danger. It looked as though he was fully prepared to eat at least one of them, and on his way out he lacerated Ben, cut him clear across the stomach and left him to bleed. Why didn’t she care about that? Why the f*ck wasn’t that her first priority? Richie had broken his arm for Christ’s sake. Why didn’t she care? She knows why. Because she took his side, that’s why. It was awful, it was terrible, it was condemnable and frankly reprehensible, but she had warned them not to go after him. She knew him, knew him better than anyone else in this town could ever hope to, and she knew that he would not back down from a threat, not even a threat from the likes of children. He was an ancient and predatorial thing, she knew it, and he was not immune to defending his turf, from protecting what was his. They hunted him down, they trespassed on his property and threatened him; how could she rightly fault him for defending himself? She simply couldn’t. It didn’t matter to her that he had, in a sense, started things between them. She was sure he didn’t intend to actually hurt any of them, because she was certain he would have kept his promise to her in the end. Though he had gone, though he had left her, he... He still loved her, didn’t he?

“Yeah? Well I plan to keep it that way.” Richie said, harshly shouldering past Bill. Once he’s gone, Stan leaves. Ben is next, then Eddie, then Mike.

“Mike-” Beverly begins.

“Guys...” Mike says guiltily. “...I can’t do this. My granddad was right, I’m an outsider. Gotta stay that way.” And then he’s gone. Only Bill and Beverly remain. The quiet is tense and awkward as Angel continues sobbing on her lawn, and neither of them seem sure of what to do. Angel is inconsolable, her chest heaving as she cries out in hysterics. She’s no better now than she was in the Neibolt house, when she’d screamed out in terror at the sight of Beverly impaling him through the eye with that rusty line of fence, when she’d had her heart shattered into a million pieces right there on the kitchen floor as she watched him bow out of the room. It’s all she can think about; the sight of him so overcome with pain that he was reduced to rage, like a dog lashing out to bite when hit. The sight of his eye gouged, his beautiful golden eye, torn asunder by the force of the metal being shoved through his head. And the blood, the blood dripping up the side of his head as he sobbed; it wrenched her heartstrings. She had wanted so badly to see him again, so badly that she might risk it all, might risk them all knowing what she had been up to this past year, might risk them hating her beyond all reason just to be with him again, just to feel him in her arms just one more time. It’s why she can’t stop herself from jerking away from the gentle efforts of Bill and Beverly to lift her up, can’t stop herself from glaring at them as she gets up, dusts herself off, opens up her front door, and slams it behind her.

She was worried sick for him. Once she had gone past the phase of being emotionally devoid as a result of her shock, she had somersaulted right back into her typically overemotional self. The second day back at work was a rollercoaster of emotion for her; all day long she kept replaying the events of that day back in her mind, thinking about all the ins and outs, analyzing the situation down to every last detail. One thing kept jutting out to her in her mind, and that was the way she’d seen Pennywise look at her just before Beverly struck him. She could see it in his eyes and on his face, a burning truth, something that she could plainly recognize. That was the look on his face he got when he was happy. He was happy to see her. After all that had happened between them, after the strange manner in which they parted ways, after his long absence, he still had that look on his face when he saw her. He missed her, just as she missed him. That kind of detail was very hard to ignore. As she took the front desk, as she catalogued returns, as she assisted patrons with their book selections she never stopped thinking about it, and despite all her dread and grief over the situation, the thought of it makes her heart swoon ever so slightly. It made her a little drunk with love to consider it, that he was so distracted by the mere sound of her voice that he stopped everything he was doing just to find her, to look at her again. There was yet a part of her that found it confusing all the same, though. If he had missed her so dearly, if he had risked grievous injury simply to steal a glance at her, why on earth had he left her in the first place? Why had he gone away?

She didn’t know the answer, but there was something she knew. There was a possibility he was still alive. Though they had certainly... Done a number on him, she knew that he was a strong, likely eternal creature, not to be bested by some mere piece of fence through the eye. Pennywise was mighty enough to survive hundreds upon hundreds of years by her estimation, based on what he’s told her, and she was sure that the Losers were likely not the first to take a stab at killing him. There were probably others in the past tormented by his existence, pushed into a willingness to act based on one unfortunate incident too many, and they must have tried to rid the town of him once and for all. Perhaps they were special, just like her and the children. Or perhaps they weren’t. But one thing was for sure; they had failed at whatever they set out to do, and predictably so, as Pennywise was a great and fearsome thing. It should make her sick to be the one paraded on the arm of a monster, but as the days went by and she was growing more numb to the realization of his true identity, she was starting to rationalize his actions more and more. There was some small part of her entrenched in the deepest, darkest dredges of her mind that found it attractive in him to be so dangerous, and that small part of her was growing more emboldened by the day as she considered his unwavering sweetness towards her and steadily came to the despicably selfish decision that that was all that mattered in the end. Not the lives of those lost to his hunger, or the perpetual cloud of dread descendent over the town’s collective heads, or the possible threat to the children, as awful as it all sounded. What she cared about was her, and him.

She wanted so badly to know that he was okay, it was nagging at her so insistently for days. She wondered if his whereabouts were in that of the house at 29 Neibolt Street or somewhere else entirely. She wondered if that well had something to do with his location. She’d heard it described by Bill as they returned from their unfortunate excursion, said that he’d seen him escape down it, down in the basement below the house, and that was where he’d finally lost him. She wondered if that well led someplace new, or if it were a place she’d somehow seen before. She’d thought that the Neibolt house was surely connected to his true location in a way; it simply made sense, given that they’d encountered him there, that she’d encountered him herself in that dream on New Year’s Eve. She wants to know if she can possibly track him down herself. Maybe that’s what she needed to do. Maybe she needed to find him on her own; maybe that was how they would reunite. Pennywise clearly wasn’t coming back to her for a reason, and she intended to find out that reason, wanted to know why he had spent so long leaving her in seclusion when he’d even said he didn’t intend to do such a thing.

“The dreams are over, pretty girl. Pennywise is here, and he won’t ever leave you alone again. Never.”

Why had he, then, chosen to do just that? It was something of a mystery to her, even if she had previously considered the reason why. She needed to know for sure. Though she dreads the answer, she wants to know whether or not he’s still alive and it’s enough to make her want to investigate. The trouble is, she’s not exactly sure where to start.

After some deliberation, she decided to start with returning to the Neibolt house on her own. Maybe it would be different if she was by herself. Things were always different with Pennywise when it came to her, she knew that for a fact. Though he might have seen fit to torment just about anyone else with his games and ferocious appetite, he would never do the same for her. No, with her he was positively gentlemanly. He doted on her, he was smitten with her, she could tell. She knew by now that their attraction was more than mutual, even if she had a hard time believing it at first. He liked her enough to leave her gifts, to lavish her in love and affection, and to offer her a shoulder to cry on in her lowest times. She was... She was his mate, she was supposed to be with him, he’d implied as much on their very first meeting. He’d reiterated several times that choice had nothing to do with it; she was simply made for him, and the two of them were meant to be together. Anyone else might have tried to run from such a thing, might have found it all questionable and dubious and utterly bizarre, but Angel was in love with the idea. She was a hopeless romantic at the end of the day, and she’d longed and wanted for years of something that would cherish her enough to stay with her forever. It was almost like a dream come true. She didn’t want that dream to end.

So she wouldn’t let it. She would investigate the matter thoroughly, and she would find out the answers to her questions if it killed her. She began with an agenda in mind, had decided to embark on a little quest some days after the incident, a quest that began as soon as her shift at the library was over. Once she had clocked out she made her way home, stopped in at her house to drop off her things, and then without deliberation she started on her journey over towards 29 Neibolt Street. The walk over was surprisingly pleasant; the weather was starting to wind down in the afternoon on an already temperate day, and she enjoyed a nice, consistent breeze as she strode down Witcham towards Route 2. All she had brought with her was Pepper, and she’d decided to wear her bell and sweater as a small show of faith (even donning her pearl heart earrings as a final touch), thinking that if she kept his precious gifts in her heart, he might feel her presence even from far away and be assured that she was coming, that she hadn’t forgotten him. These things made her feel secure, they made her feel safe in a world without his immediate presence, and she drank in the confidence gladly, knowing that she needed it if she was ever going to find him. She turns onto Route 2 and keeps going, intent on making it to her destination no matter what.

When she arrives she looks upon the house with a sense of wistfulness and melancholy. She remembers that dream, remembers how empty she had felt as she went about her day, how nothing could make her feel better, that she simply felt hopeless and downcast and incapable of any joy or delight. Until that warmth, until that familiar feeling swept over her, and carried her all the way to this dreary place on the outskirts of the town, how it had beckoned her inside with a simple chittering gust of wind and told her that this was the place she needed to be, right here, right now. And when she walks inside she doesn’t feel that warmth, she doesn’t feel that sensation sweeping over her like a wonderfully tepid fever, but nonetheless she keeps going anyway, knowing that she needed to stay strong if she was ever to find him. She needed not to lose hope or morale, even as she looked upon the distinctive decay of the house within and found that it was utterly devoid of his presence or aura. She was not afraid as she ducked under cobwebs and heard mice skittering around in the corners of the room, she did not shiver with fear as she heard the floors moaning under her feet. The house was dilapidated and unkempt but she saw a charm in it anyway, taking comfort in the fact that this was his place, this was his domain. He was a part of it, there was no denying that.

When she finds the basement, she descends the steps with purpose. She wonders what she might possibly find down there, if she might find anything at all, and what might happen if she did. She entertains the thought of a reunion, the thought of them finding each other again and rushing into each other’s arms. How she would sob with joy, with purest elation at the sight of him, and how he would take her into a comforting sweep of his arms and tell her everything would be alright. It’s a pretty picture, and perhaps it wouldn’t come to pass, but she liked to think of it nonetheless. It gave her step just a little more purpose, gave her more strength, and she needed that strength now more than ever. As she trudges down the flight of stairs she finds herself squinting in the darkness, but there’s light from a nearby window to aid in her investigation. It casts enough of a spotlight that she can make out the well in the black of the room, and she makes her way towards it slowly, tentatively. Pepper is clutched in one hand, her bell is jingling softly about her neck as she walks. And when she gets there she simply looks down into it for a time, contemplating, ruminating. Thinking.

So that’s where Pennywise might be, the bottom of this well. She wished she could see more. She wished she’d brought a flashlight, she wished she’d come more prepared in general, but to tell the truth this trip wasn’t very well planned out. To tell the truth, she’d simply gotten so restless the last few days, she just needed to come and see more for herself, discover what she’d missed the last time she was here. And... There was a part of her that simply expected for him to meet her there. She’d been looking for him as she walked through the house, she looked for any sign of him and thought that if maybe she tried hard enough she might just find him again. If the kids could encounter him so effortlessly, after all, just how hard could it be for her, a person he actually wanted to see? But try as she might, that simply turned out not to be the case, and she found herself just the slightest bit disheartened. What if he was actually dead? She doesn’t want to even consider it, but she needs to accept that it may just be the reality of the situation, that it might just unfortunately be the answer she was looking for. She stares down into the well with a sad look, stepping back to leave, but she’s suddenly struck with an idea. Looking into Pepper’s googly eyes, she’s filled with resolve. She paces back up the steps and out of the Neibolt house, but not before leaving her beloved doll behind at the base of the well.

She wastes no time when she walks back into her house. She strides in, she shuts the door, she walks brusquely over to her room and retrieves her purse. She promptly packs a few things, supplies that will surely come in handy should she need them, and replaces her Doc Martens with a pair of knee-high rain boots. She feeds Mayor Jello, gives him some quick affection, and sets out again. It’s evening now, and the sun is starting to set but that doesn’t deter her. She just walks. The journey back over seems to pass more swiftly than it ever has before; the passage of time simply meaning nothing now as she takes the path at a speedy march forward. In time her stride becomes a gait, and then almost a run as she fights to keep her breath, both out of exhaustion and excitement of a fashion. Making this trip not once but twice in one day should wipe her out completely but she’s too electrified by adrenaline to quit now; she simply keeps going. Witcham becomes Route 2 in no time at all, and once she happens upon Neibolt Street she looks upon the house once more with determination. Stepping back inside she’s greeted by more of the same, more dead silence and a concerning lack of warmth. Her bag slung over her torso, she walks through the parlor and coughs when she walks through a cloud of dust. The scent of stale must is ubiquitous, and it's pervasive now more than ever as she walks through the house. When she makes it to the basement she takes a deep breath and descends down the steps again, and when she makes it to the well, she’s met with a pleasant absence. It was just as she hoped. Pepper is gone.

She smiles, and immediately reaches into her bag. She pulls out a long and winding rope and knots it over the well, creating a cable with which to rappel down with. She admires her handiwork, and then considers her next logical step; scaling down the well, a task much easier said than done, especially with her weight. To tell the truth, this absolutely terrified her. Never in a million years would she have thought she would be doing a thing like this willingly, but then she remembers what she’s doing it for, and suddenly it all doesn’t seem so scary. This was for him. She was doing this for him. Taking a deep breath she grabs hold of the rope and climbs over the side, and then gingerly she lets go of the ledge with her leg. She immediately almost slips down the rope but she catches herself just in time, ignoring the burn as she holds herself steady with everything she’s got. She hoped to god the rope wouldn’t slip or break; the last thing she needed was to die or be grievously injured from a several hundred foot drop down a well, and she’s careful to keep her grip as she shimmies down the rope one inch at a time, taking her time, moving slowly so as not to upset her rig. She’s moved down a couple feet now, a couple excruciating feet, and she’s exhausted now but she keeps going, determined despite all her pain and fatigue. She keeps her eye on the wall for any potential pathways she can take, and just as she can no longer see the light from the window above she finds a hole in the wall she can slip through. She lowers herself enough that she can reach the hole with her legs, and then she swings into it and grabs hold. She climbs in.

The stench is immediate, and she knows to ignore it. These were the sewers, after all, and she couldn’t expect it to smell anything less than vile. She’s crawling on her hands and knees through the passageway until she finds herself in a room underground, a conduit to more tunnels with a staircase and a door. All she can think about is the reunion now that was surely to come; he was alive, she knew that now. How else would Pepper have gone missing from the well so quickly? It was a gift from her, and he’d accepted it, and now it was only a matter of time before they were back together. She smiles at the thought as she walks amid the grime, ignoring the puddles of grey water as they slosh about her rainboot-clad feet. She imagined all of his features, features burned so vividly into her mind that she could recall them all perfectly. His hair, his lips, his impossibly tall stature and that beautiful silken suit. His eyes... She loved his eyes most of all, they were so gorgeously bright like solar flares, and she so loved to look into them, even if it made her dizzy and disoriented and weak. In a way, that was what she loved so much about them, they had the power to make her feel things she had never felt before, a madness in her blood just fighting to break free, one that she couldn’t quell no matter how she tried. She thinks of it as she moves along through the tunnels, trying to find her way to a place she recognized in the back of her mind; the place from her thoughts, the place from her dreams, where she knew she would surely find him.

The tunnels are getting darker and more intricate, and she has her flashlight out through it all, using it as a guiding light. But she can’t stop herself from getting lost amongst it all, starting to forget where she’d gone and where she had come from. She tries to concentrate on the task at hand but finds she’s too excited to keep a clear head. She just wants to find him, she just wants to see him, it’s what she’s wanted in her head ever since he left her. She missed him so much, it was an ache unlike anything she’d ever experienced before, and she wanted so desperately to alleviate it. It was like a piece of her was missing, and she wanted that missing piece back more than anything, so despite her confusion she keeps going. She wanted to run to him when she found him, she wanted to kiss him and hold him and never let him go again. She wanted to make sure he was okay, that he was safe; she wanted to protect him, take care of him and nurse him if need be. It was a part of her she couldn’t rightly control. It was a compulsion, an instinct, and it consumed her like a sickness. She’s getting all turned around now, and the flashlight is no help. She can hear the water rushing from a nearby cesspool and it starts to ring in her ears. The grey water is flooding around her feet and she’s so grateful she’s wearing boots. She trudges forward through the tunnels, continuing on her way even if she doesn’t particularly know where she was going. She believed that in the end of this, it would all be okay. She believed it would all resolve itself, that she would discover a way out of this labyrinth and make her way to her rightful destination. She believed that he was still alive, and she believed she was going to find him eventually. She believed.

And then she hears a voice in the distance, one she can’t mistake. She hears it, she knows it, it makes her heart pound restlessly in her chest. It’s faint, it’s paper-thin but she can still detect it echoing gently in the distance, calling to her, beckoning her towards it. And then, against all better judgment, she starts to run. The grey water is splashing around her heels now, she’s shining her flashlight at the path in front of her as she plods along quickly and frantically. She tries so hard to keep her composure but the truth is she’s so worked up, she’s too drunk with joy at the thought of seeing him again. It’s all she needs to keep going, to keep following his voice. As she scurries through the tunnels, making her way through various twists and turns she’s more delirious than ever but she’s sure-footed; she knows where she’s going now. It’s almost as though the voice is blazing a path in front of her, it’s almost as though she can feel his hands guiding her through the passageways, and she’s warm now despite the cold chill of the sewers. It’s the same warmth from all the times of before, the one that would reassure her in all the times of bad when she felt like she was all alone in the world, the one that made her feel safe and at ease when nothing else could, the one that let her know that he was coming. She rounds another corner and keeps going; she keeps going even as she’s running out of breath, and her feet are killing her, and her heartbeat is thumping in her ears. And then, just as the voice goes quiet, she finds it.

A great, big open space in the center of it all, dark and intimidating, stands there before her eyes. It’s so late now that the sky above offers no light to help her wandering gaze, and as she steps down into the cistern to assess and discern her surroundings she shines her light in the daunting black. So far she’s finding nothing but grey water beneath her feet, grey water and, strangely, the occasional stray object. Battered furniture, different articles of clothing, the odd children’s toy. She’s puzzled by it but she doesn’t think to question it right now; she simply continues in her silent investigation. She’s almost certain she can feel him, the warmth was simply too unmistakable, and the voice was fairly damning as well unless she simply imagined it. She walks along, hearing nothing but the grey water. And then she shines her light upward, she comes upon a mass in the center of the dwelling. A big mass, a huge mass. It reaches impossibly skyward from what she can tell, and to her utter amazement it appears to be a pile of more of the same from before, lost curios and things she can only assume he’s collected over time from his victims. That had to be the only explanation. She continues in her exploration, her flashlight travelling slowly upward until she finds the top of the heap, and from there her jaw practically drops open. There at the crown of it all is a most disturbing sight, and one she has to stop herself from being disgusted by. Countless bodies drift there in the air around the mound of lost trinkets, weightless to the air, unaffected by gravity.

(( “You’ll float with the rest of them” ))

She simply stares, unable to take her eyes off it, awestruck in truly the worst way. And then she hears something. She pauses, listening, tuning in to the noise, and she discerns it to be a growl of some kind coming from inside the mound. Her heart thundering in her chest, she cocks her head and shines the light on the source of it, only to find nothing. But she doesn’t stop. She circles around the pile with her flashlight, following the sound keenly as she moves through the grime. And then she finds it. A wagon of some kind, grand and tall stands buried underneath the mass of lost objects, and she can see his visage in the middle of it. “Pennywise the Dancing Clown,” it reads in an appropriately circus-esque lettering. Her heart stops. Ignoring her unease at the silence now present in the cistern, she quickly climbs up to the door and presses her ear against it.

“P-Pennywise?” She asks nervously, her voice echoing in the emptiness. She hears nothing, but that doesn’t deter her just yet. She knocks on the door. Still nothing.

She steps back, dismayed and silent. She considers the door for a time, her eyes trailing over it in thought, and she desperately wishes she knew how to open it. She can’t even begin to imagine the mechanics of how it works; she knows there’s a way for it to open, she just doesn’t know how. It frustrates her, but she tries not to let it get to her too much. She needed to remain calm. So she speaks to him.

“Pennywise, I... I’ve missed you so much.”

She almost feels like she’s talking to herself, but she can’t bring herself to stop nonetheless. She didn’t want to leave without some kind of answer from him. She hoped that the sound of her voice was enough to coax him out somehow, but given his lack of response so far she’s not exactly hopeful.

“I’ve been so lonely lately, I’ve been feeling so empty ever since you left and I... I can’t help it. I want you back.” Tears are starting to well in her eyes as she looks up at the picture of him on the wagon. “...I just want you back.”

She thinks about him then, about who he is, and how much it had disgusted her when she had first discovered it. But now, against all odds, after all this time, she simply didn’t care anymore. She loved him regardless of who he was.

She starts to pull weakly on the door to the wagon, hoping in vain that if maybe she believed it would open, if she tried hard enough it simply would, that it would fall ajar and she would finally find him, waiting for her there in its confines. She’s starting to pull harder now, she’s putting her everything into it, grunting and whining as she tugs on the wooden door but it simply won’t give. The tears are stinging her eyes more than ever but she doesn’t stop to wipe them away, she simply keeps pulling, and tugging, and jerking, and yanking on the door but no matter how hard she tries to jimmy it it won’t budge for her. No matter how much strength and will she exerts, the door is nothing but an obstacle keeping her from the one thing she so desperately wants more than anything and she gets upset, she cries out in frustration and kicks the door as hard as she can. The wood echoes hollowly in the darkness of the cistern. She stands there dejected, helpless and hopeless and ready to call it quits.

But then.

She can hear something metal start to shift from inside and she perks up. Looking at the door she can see it start to open towards her like a drawbridge, and she steps back to allow it room to fully expand outward. Speechless, she can see a dim orange light illuminating the inside of the wagon, and there towards the back...

Pennywise.

He’s still visibly disheveled, his hair is messy and unkempt, and the metal rod is still stuck in his head, but he’s there, alive and in the flesh all the same. She chokes on her relief, blinking back more tears as she looks upon him from the floor of the cistern. He’s crouched, almost like a wild animal in repose, and he’s nuzzling against Pepper. She wants to come towards him more than anything. She takes a step forward and the grey water splashes under her feet, and the sound alerts him fully to her presence. He looks up with a low growl and then he sees her, and his face softens. He drops the toy.

#pennywise #daddywise #it 2017 #it chapter one #pennywise x oc #pennywise x angel #good fortune #losers club #minors dont read #mature fic #chapter twenty two #aftermath

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sundogsandrainbows · 7 years

Text

No Shems Allowed

Rating: Teen and Up

Fandom: Dragon Age Origins- Awakening

Words: 7242

Relationships: Velanna/Mahariel friendship, Warden Alistair/Female Mahariel pairing

Characters: Velanna, Female Mahariel, Lenya Mahariel, Alistair, Anders, Female Cousland, Evie Cousland, Nathaniel Howe, Oghren, Ser Pounce-a-Lot

Tags: (copied from Ao3, bc I’m lazy) Female Friendship, Developing Friendships, Drunken Shenanigans, Established Relationship, Alcohol, General Chaos, Warden Alistair, Post-Blight, Lenyaverse, Elven Wine, Lots of it, This Got Out Of Hand Fast, Sorry Not Sorry, Humor, Or More Like, Attempt at Humor, Teasing Alistair, Is My Warden's Favorite Pastime, Even When Drunk,Especially when drunk, Sexual Humor, Drunken Kissing, Mild Sexual Content

Summary: Even months in after taking over the arling of Amaranthine to rebuild the Wardens, and thus her being the acting ruler of this region still felt utterly bizarre and unreal. A notion which quite a few humans shared with her, if the rumors of an assassination plot were to believed.

Been there, done that, Lenya thought, not less bored. Though she would actually prefer a dozen crows and/or nobles descending from the throne room's ceiling than listen any further to the petty squabbles of too many humans still in line for an audience. Stabbing, she could handle. Diplomacy and politics? Not so much.

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Velanna and Mahariel bond over the ridiculousness of life in a human dominated society. Dalish/drunken shenanigans and chaos ensue, starring (almost) the whole Awakening crew (+ Warden Alistair). Two shot.

Links: AO3 | FFN

Full Story On Tumblr Under The Cut:

"We should do what?"

The human man in front of Lenya bristled and huffed indignantly. The tension built up letting him appear less stocky than he actually was. Though his round face slowly adapting the red hue of his hair certainly compensated for the momentarily loss of volume.

Looking away was all that kept her from rolling her eyes at him and his more lanky neighboring farmer he'd bickered with for the past ten minutes. "Cut the goat in half," she repeated, and the animal in question bleated in response. Or rather, in protest. Lenya could sympathize, for it had to endure these two even longer than she had, hence this solution would be one in kind.

Somewhere outside her vision, she could hear Varel sigh, most likely with resignation. Surely, the first or second time of her holding court in the throne room he'd still tried to intervene, urged her to be more diplomatic and patient. To his credit, he'd long given up on that, and had learned quickly that Lenya was neither.

"Arlessa?" The man urged, sounding whiny, confused. It took her a moment to react, to remember that it was really her he meant with that title. Even months in after taking over the arling of Amaranthine to rebuild the Wardens, and thus her being the acting ruler of this predominately human region still felt utterly bizarre and unreal. A notion which quite a few humans shared with her, if the rumors of an assassination plot were to believed.

Alongside the utterly stupid title of 'Hero Of Ferelden' she was certain that it all belonged to a subtle but elaborate revenge plan of Queen Anora, for not sparing her father's life. That and her severe allergy to Alistair taking over this whole Arl part, of course. As if sitting here on this sorry excuse of a throne would rekindle his already tepid wish to become king and overthrow her after all. Hah, she'd bet it would rather have the exact opposite effect.

Her eyes narrowed at the thought, inwardly cursing her lover for lucking out on passing this position. And of course Alistair wasn't even there today to quell her boredom while holding court. Instead he was out in the city, looking into the same assassination plot Lenya wished to happen right now, probably even stabbing people for information.

Life wasn't fair.

The goat bleated anew, keenly reminding her that she still needed to elaborate. Straightening her hurting back, she looked back and forth between the two farmer. "Each of you is saying that the other stole the goat, thus one word stands against the other. I have no evidence to disprove either of it, so sharing the goat would be the compromise."

"But the goat -"

By Mythal, if she had to hear that man saying 'the goat is mine' one more time, she'd stand up and cleave the animal in half herself. "Isn't he your neighbor, though?" Lenya quickly cut him off.

The red-haired man frowned. "Yes, but..."

"Then he is part of your close community, even." She tried her best to not let the contempt for some of these humans' selfishness bleed into her voice. For her as a Dalish it was utterly incomprehensible how someone could argue over resources much better spent shared. "I'm aware the times are trying right now after the Blight, which is all the more a reason why you should support each other, like communities do. It is really not that hard a concept." Well, trying had here been the operative word, after all. She heard Varel sigh anew, while ushering them away.

Collectively muttering under their breath as they turned away, both men clearly were not satisfied with this solution. If its reluctance to follow was any measurement, the goat was neither.

Tough luck, Lenya thought, but seeing the sheer mass of people still waiting, she also applied these words to herself. Sinking back into the hard seat of her throne, she braced herself for the next one in line and the many hours of complains still to endure and address.

::::

"Stupid humans and their stupid politics," Lenya groused, far more many hours later than wished or expected.

"I agree."

She flinched upon the unexpected answer, half-expecting to see Seneshal Varel there to reel her back in after bailing on him. Apparently, his idea of unwinding after dreary hours in court included such fun things as writing report letters to the warden main quarter.

Creators, that man must be the life of every party.

Not to mention that it was somehow surprising that there was even still correspondence to be held with Weißhaupt after her first letter containing a colorful collection of her best swearing words to the First Warden. This was only to thank him for his oh so helpful support during the Blight, of course. Perhaps Varel had intercept and changed the letter before sending it. Nosy as he was, it would be fitting an action for him.

It was however Velanna who looked at her upon turning. Still undecided if this was an improvement, Lenya kept her wary stance. The couple weeks ever since she'd become a Warden had been...trying, to say the least. Not only did Velanna never miss one opportunity to make her disdain known for her relationship with Alistair, a human, but she also remembered Lenya way too much on how she'd been back in the day. Maybe this was why she showed uncharacteristically so much patience for the acerbic, standoffish behavior of her fellow Dalish.

Lenya knew too well how it was to lose someone close, to be thrown out into the world of the humans with no way to return to your old life or clan. For Velanna it was her sister instead of a best friend she'd lost, for whom she'd even joined the Wardens, in order to be able to pursue Seranni and the darkspawn holding her captive. Certainly not the most unambiguous motive to ultimately taint and damn yourself to a life of hunting darkspawn. However given the still ongoing shortage of Wardens in Ferelden, Lenya took what she could get. If only the Dalish mage wouldn't always feel the need to comment on her relationship with Alistair. Or sounding like a yesteryear version of herself, for that matter, that would be great, thanks.

"...do it."

Lenya's head snapped up, blinking at the blonde Dalish, as if in a daze. "Huh?"

Velanna rolled her eyes with an accompanying sigh, yet found the grace in herself to repeat her sentence. "I don't know how you do it."

"Because I must?" The scoff escaped her almost at its own volition but her stance relaxed in contrast. She had no desire for yet another discussion or confrontation with Velanna, not after so many hours spent talking and debating in court today. "Look, Velanna, I'm tired, hungry and not in mood to fight with you."

"Who said I want to fight?" The Dalish frowned at her, which furrowed the lines of her vallas'lin. "I simply can't understand how you can endure the constant drone of their whining. For hours, even. I would have called down lightning on their heads after mere minutes."

Lenya wanted to mention how she'd already done exactly that with a group of humans she wrongly believed responsible for her comrades' deaths and kidnapping of her sister not long ago. Though belatedly she remembered how this would very much contradict her prior words and only lead to more friction. "I was tempted to," she said instead, forcing a smile. "At least to stand up and walk out on them, that is." Idly she wondered what Varel would have done then, or why he hadn't tried to reign her in again for the task she'd abandoned.

Letting her eyes wander to the flickering, large centred hearth fire, she noticed how its warm glow drew long shadows upon the rough stone wall and its high-arched windows. Daylight was slowly fading away, making her wonder when Alistair and his party would finally return from Amaranthine City. She could really use his presence, for a hug or two, and maybe even more for losing this damn tension that had been steadily building up inside of her body all day. Lenya rolled her shoulders and hated the strain within. It wasn't the good kind of ache either, like after a battle. No her muscles and back did hurt from sitting on her ass all day. Ugh.

"Why you did stay then? Why do you always do their bidding?" Her question pierced through the stillness that had laid itself over the dormant main hall like a cloud. It was posed without the initial malice in her voice and yet Lenya couldn't help but to let out an annoyed groan.

Not this again.

She'd discussed this matter time and time again with Velanna, even seized the argument of duty she hated so much to hear herself. Feeling a pressure building up behind her skull again, she motioned Velanna to follow her. Fresh air was what Lenya needed most now, and if she wanted any answers the mage would have to pursue them in the courtyard.

Besides, leaving the stuffiness of the main hall behind also had the nice side-effect that Varel couldn't find her at first glance. Lenya liked if he had to put at least a bit effort in catching her. For all the boring, if necessary, paperwork he made her do, even after a day of court hearing, this was only fair.

::::

The air smelled like rain, fresh and cold. Dark clouds overhead were stealing even the remaining vestiges of daylight and heralded a downpour soon to follow.

Lenya didn't mind. She was used to Ferelden's fickle weather and its briskness, even amidst late spring. Taking a deep breath, she leaned herself back at a stone pillar, savoring the crisp smell and stillness of this place. Back in her clan, she used to break away and seek out places of solitude, whenever the commotion became too much to bear for her.

Nowadays however, with the tasks of an Arlessa added to the already weighty responsibilities of being a Warden, Ferelden's acting commander, even, she found less and less a chance for doing so. Sure, there always were these stolen moments with Alistair in between their shared duties. Not to mention these passionate nights spent entwined together, or stay in bed mornings, but these were becoming more rare and rare occasions in times of food shortages, assassination plots, and talking, intelligent darkspawn. As if a bloody archdemon hadn't been enough already.

Lenya sighed into descending darkness above, while first driblets of rain greeted and wetted her face.

"Brr," a voice said behind her, shuddering. "I do not see the point of having walls around oneself, if you are just as cold outside as you are inside these walls."

So much for peace and quiet. Turning, Lenya looked at her fellow Warden still standing in the courtyard's door frame. "It is easier to endure harsh weather like a storm on the inside of four solid walls than in a tent or aravel, believe me," Lenya offered with a shrug. "It took me some time to get used to it myself though."

Velanna eyes narrowed, their glow in the half-dark diminishing. "And now you are?"

"Sort of." Lenya watched her approaching, how she reached out to the open sky to catch the raindrops now falling in a more steady, quicker rhythm. "I still prefer open space and finding a patch of nature, whenever I can, which isn't often lately, alas."

"So I have noticed." The mage tilted her head, appraised her. "You do their bidding, live in stony buildings just like-"

"Just because I don't hug trees or live in the forest anymore, doesn't mean I am less Dalish!" Lenya burst out, fed up. "You know what? Forget it." The dramatic gesture of her departure was severely undercut by Velanna's flat palm at her shoulder, stopping her.

"Creators, I didn't mean to..." she sighed, frustrated. Falling silent, her ears twitched once, twice. Then Lenya felt something cool and heavy within her hands, before Velanna reestablished the prior generous personal space between them.

"What is this?" She looked down, recognized the object as a bottle of wine.

"A peace offering. Or rather...a thank you for the book you gave me last week. I do not like to feel indebted to you." She glanced away, then up into the rain-filled sky. "I have decided to fill its empty pages with new stories of our people. For those who come after me, be it my own children or other da'len of my- a clan."

Lenya didn't miss the hitch in her voice as she quickly corrected herself. Come to think of it, Velanna hadn't spoken of her clan yet, beyond of being a First and her derision for most of her Keeper's decisions. It seemed generally a touchy subject for her with which Lenya could well emphasize, given her own...rebellious history with her own clan. Her intent to officially bond with a human naturally didn't help to smooth matters over much either.

"You must take me for a sentimental fool," Velanna scoffed, obviously misunderstanding her silence for something negative.

"No, not all," she rushed to say before her fellow Dalish could copy the attempted dramatic of her departure just moments ago. "It is a nice idea, actually."

Y-you really think so?" Whipping around, Velanna's eyes went wide, her tone as hopeful as a child expecting praise. Not a moment later, the ever-prominent scowl found its way back into her features. "Not that I care."

Arching an eyebrow, Lenya laughed out a snort. If traveling a year with Morrigan had taught her one thing, it was the more someone emphasized their indifference for an opinion or person, the more they most likely cared about it. Unless they really were as callous and cold an ass as they pretended to be, but this was Velanna definitely not. Lonely perhaps, a bit cynical and awkward toward other people certainly, though not callous by far.

"Yes, I think so." She nodded, showing her an honest smile. "We Dalish have lost so much, most of which we can never recover. But we can always create and add new tales of and for our people. A history which is actually remembered this time."

"Ah." There flitted something akin to humor over Velanna's face, tugging at the corner of her mouth. "You mean, like the story of a Dalish Warden, who slayed an archdemon, stopped a Blight in under a year, and lived?"

"Ugh. I'm quite sick of hearing that one already." She wrinkled her nose. "At the last Arlathvhen just months ago, there was a teenage girl, from Clan Lavellan I believe, who kept staring at me. All the time. Basically they all did that, gaping at me as if I was some kind of reincarnated elvhen god." She groaned. "Very annoying."

"Oh yes, must be so hard to be revered as hero by our People. Poor you."

Ignoring the sharp bite of sarcasm, Lenya rolled her eyes at her. "On the plus side, for all their staring, they at least didn't cook up yet another stupid title for me."

"The Hero of Ferelden," Velanna said deliberately, as if testing each of the words in her mouth. Then, she snorted. "It is indeed silly. Who came up with that?"

"Queen Anora. The Arlessa thing is also her damn fine work."

"Of course," her huff ended in a sneer, she'd come to know so well of the mage. "Humans."

"Yeah, them..." she sighed into the night. None of them spoke for a long while after that, and the pitter-patter of rain upon the cobblestone became the only audible sound. It was nice, actually. Lenya could appreciate the company of someone who didn't always feel the need to fill silence with needless words. Something Alistair had to slowly learn over time, while being with her. Not that it stopped him from falling into this old habit from time to time, nonetheless.

"Do you ever wonder how it would been, if Arlathan hadn't fallen?"

"Yes, sometimes maybe," Lenya confessed with a half-shrug. "Our people would have a permanent home then, instead of being forced to wander, I guess." She smirked at her. "Oh, and you would be much grousing less about humans then, that's for sure."

"And you would have a better taste in...your bondmate," came as deadpan answer.

This again? Though now it lacked her usual disdain, so Lenya decided to humor her. "Alistair?" She blinked rapidly, faking confusion. "What about him?"

"Ugh." Her face twisted in a scowl. "He is..."

"...different," Lenya finished, unbidden. "You know, some humans aren't bad."

"Yes, sure. Until you have outlived your usefulness to them and they try to get rid of you." The mage gave her a pointed look.

"You mean my assassination some of these petty noble assholes have allegedly planned?" Lenya shrugged, couldn't care less. "Pfft, some of my best friends wanted me dead at first. A whole army of darkspawn with an archdemon at the top definitely wanted me dead. Several antivian crows, bandits and other assassins tried to murder me as well. So it must be Tuesday."

"You are...disturbingly unfazed by all this."

Lenya snorted joylessly. "You would be too, after living through all this shit for over a year. Just give it time." Finally she managed to uncork this damn stubborn bottle with her skinning knife after battling with it for several minutes. Taking a small sip of the wine to probe its taste, her expression lightened up immediately. "Oh, this is Dalish wine. Much better than the box of sickening sweet Orlesian swill Evie just brought in from her last palace visit. A gift from the queen, or something Evie talked her into giving her, dunno. You know how good she is with politics and words. Comes with a noble upbringing, I guess."

"Yes, this human always speaks too many for my taste." Velanna squinted first at the bottle, then at her. "So you...like the wine?" She glanced away, her shoulders sagging. "It is the last thing I had left from my clan."

Upon hearing that, Lenya nearly spat out the mouthful of wine, shocked. "And you give it to me then?" she managed after swallowing and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. Seeing the scowl curling back into the Dalish's expression, she hurried to add. "Not that I don't like it, I do, but shouldn't you rather keep it then?"

"Why?" Her lips pressed into a fine line. "As a sentimental monument to times past? Don't be foolish. Like I said, I simply don't like feeling indebted to you. This..." Velanna gestured to the wine bottle."...makes us even."

Lenya didn't fail to recognize the irony of Velanna -of all people- not wanting to preserve a thing from past times, though omitted to mention it. "I see," she simply said instead, nodding. "Well then, I insist on sharing the wine with you, at least."

Before the mage could protest, she ushered her back inside and toward the kitchen. "And with that I mean all of the wine."

::::

Maker, he was so glad to be finally back.

Standing under Vigil's Keep shielding rock at last, Alistair shook himself. It was far less effective a maneuver than Shira shaking off the water of her fur of course, which was also due to him being drenched to the bones. At least the massive downpour took care of the darkspawn entrails prior plastered to his armor. Well mostly, that was. He shuddered again, hated the fact to be kept so long from a nice warm place by an unforeseen darkspawn ambush, after their trip into the city. Darkspawn who now talked back at them and used intricate battle formations to counteract their own. Funny how killing these bastards were far less complicated during a damn Blight going on, of all things.

"Bronto Piss! This sodding, nughumping open sky with its too much sodding water falling down from this gaping hole."

Even long before Oghren became even visible in the encroaching darkness, his tirade made clear how he felt about the weather, and most likely everything else today. Stopping, the mabari turned with a low whine, unwilling to go inside without her mistress at her side. Evelyn appeared with Anders in tow not a moment later, and eager to finally reach the first dry place in hours, they quickly pushed past him. Nathaniel only huffed out a grunt, probably hoping his everlasting brooding aura would repel any excess water on its own.

Upon reaching the main hall however, all four Wardens came to a screeching halt so suddenly that he nearly barreled into the group, after absentmindedly following them inside. Forgetting every complain about the weather and their own drenched state, they fell silent and collectively gaped at a particular corner of the throne room.

Alistair blinked, slowly. Once, twice, simply hoping he'd seen it wrong. Towering over them with his height, he looked over their heads at it again. Nope, still there.

Oghren was first in breaking out of their wide-eyed, speechless stupor and doubled over in bellowing, rough laughter. "By the stone's pebbled balls," he snorted, loudly. "Missy sure knows how to party."

That was one way of putting, the very recent, um, redecoration of said corner and the whole main hall, basically, in words.

The two dark, elongated and massive dinner tables were no longer visible, buried as they were under a rather oddly precisely placed assorted mishmash of bedsheets, curtains and drapes. On top of the hidden table and some stray griffon banner, chairs were stacked. And not only some chairs, no. Alistair was pretty damn sure that this was the whole inventory of every chair in Vigil's Keep ever. Same could be said for the extensive collection of pillows and cushions, which were placed on top and around the table. It did build a massive trench, as if intended to keep others out. The air around them was leaden with the smell of wine, and faint but distinctive giggling came from the impressive pillow-fort's center.

To top it all off, hastily glued together pieces of vellum served as huge sign in between chairs, on which was drawn in scrawly writing: Shemlen suck. Elvhen rule.

"This is...new," he eventually managed, unable to stop staring at the...everything of it.

"Soooo," Anders drawled, turning around to him with a bemused grin, his gaze questioning upon himself. "Is this what happens when she gets bored?" Then, falling back into his cocky smile routine, the mage added, "Maybe this is just me, but I feel you don't tire the Commander out enough at night, Alistair."

"Nope, not just you," Evie agreed in a cheery sing-along, barely containing her amusement. Damn her! She picked up an emptied wine bottle Shira held in between her massive jaws, pointedly ignoring his glare as she praised her dog. "Good girl."

Oghren was still snort-laughing and it didn't look as if was stopping any time soon.

"Did you hear that?" Nathaniel squinted past the centred hearth-fire, taking a step forward as he strained his ears. Hit by his momentum, another empty wine bottle clinked and skittered away over the patterned stone ground. Maker, how many were there? Did he even want to know?

The dwarf's sniggering made it nigh impossible to distinguish what sound Nathaniel meant, so Alistair elbowed Oghren and reprimanded him to be silent. Rolling his eyes at first, he eventually complied and stifled the remainder of his amusement into choked snorts. With him no longer obstructing the source of sound, Alistair could hear it too. It was a muffled sound, as if someone was persistently yelling and knocking on wood.

"There!" Nathaniel pointed to a hallway behind to the throne and rushed to it, Alistair and others in tow. On his way passing the pillow fort to what seemed the door to the larder, he stumbled over two other bottles of wine, both as empty as the others.

Arriving at the door in question, subtly decorated with a sign saying "No shems allowed!" in the same scrawly writing like the other one placed on top of the tables. Underneath the vellum, a fine layer of a magical barrier flickered in an unnatural light, causing Nathaniel to frown at it.

"Hello?" The voice behind the door sounded much like a panicked version of Mistress Woolsey, and had a shrill note. "Is there someone? Help us we are locked in here."

The creak of wet metal rang as Oghren heaved an armored shoulder to a shrug. "Well at least they won't sodding starve to death." He grimaced at the water still dripping from himself. "But I will of cold, if I don't get out this bloody armor." Not a moment later, he started to unbuckle the straps of his heavy armor, slowly dressing down amidst the hallway.

"W-what are you doing?" Evie sounded almost as shrill as the captive treasurer as she waved about at him letting the parts of armor fall where he stood.

The dwarf rolled his eyes at her. "What does it look like, princess?" With not a care for the world or people around him, he continued to undress.

"Time and place, Oghren." Towering over him with her sheer bulk and height, she looked as if she was ready to punch him out. "This is neither."

"Heh, instead of whining like a tea kettle, you better undress soon too, princess. Lest your noble bum gets cold."

"Yes, I will," she hissed through gritted teeth, still glaring at him but stepping back. "In my own room. As should you."

"Evelyn? Oghren?" Another voice, Varel, broke through their bickering, halting it. He let out a relieved sigh. "Thank the Maker you are here."

"Yes we are," Nathaniel replied in their place. "Don't worry we will get you out of there." Considering how his frown deepened, the door seemed to win the ongoing staring contest between them. "As soon we have figured out to break the magic barrier."

Ah. Of course. "Let me..." Alistair motioned him to step aside, intended to use his templar talents to dispel the ward. Before he could concentrate enough to call it forth however, there was an electrical charge rushing through the air, followed by a scream and a loud thump. Alerted by it, Evelyn ran past him and back into the main hall containing the elvhen pillow fort.

"Ouch!" a voice cried out, unmistakably belonging to Anders. "These bloody elves have--"

"Andersss, Anderssss, can't even take a ganderssss! Andersss, Anderssss, can't even take a ganderssss!"

Not only had Lenya and Velanna apparently mined the pillow trench with magical runes, they even managed to make up a mocking, if slurred, song on the fly, effectively shutting the mage up. If it weren't all complete chaos left to handle for him, Alistair would even be inclined to give credit to their booze-induced creativity.

Deciding Varel and the others were more safe behind the door than freed at the moment, Alistair spun to return to the main hall as well. "Nate...stay here at the door and..." He blinked back at the dwarf and immediately regretted it, for he was completely undressed by now, save for his unmentionables. "...um, watch Oghren?"

"Don't need to, heh." He showed him a toothy grin, and patted his naked, hairy and round belly. "See ya later boy. I'm gonna sit down by the fire now to warm up. Missy better left any of the booze in this sodding keep untouched, especially mine!" With that, Oghren spun on his bare heels and left into the opposite direction.

"You forgot your armo-" Alistair stopped with a sigh. Why did he even bother?

::::::

"They took my blanket!"

As soon Alistair re-entered the throne room, Anders didn't waste any second to complained to him with the indignation of a five years old. Dressed down to his breeches, the mage looked positively disheveled, his long hair standing up on all ends. Which was probably due to the electrical charge of the runes and also the reason why Evelyn was now the one doubled over in snorting laughter. Shira jumped up and down in front of her mistress, woofing happily along. All the while the giggling of both elves never abated.

Great.

Too caught in his own misery to notice Evie's amusement about his rumpled looks, Anders pointed at a vague spot high up the pillow fort. "And they took my cat!" He flailed about, tone whiny. "Do something!"

At that, a pair of light-reflecting cat eyes blinked down from the elevated cushioned seat within the magically warded area. Ser Pounce-a-lot yawned lazily and let out a content meow, blissfully unaware of his owner's distress. Or he simply didn't care, which given how comfortable he looked on top of the pillow fort was more likely.

"Oh, Maker...." On days like this, Alistair idly wondered if leading a country wouldn't have been easier than...whatever this was. Though as quickly as the thought came, he dismissed it again. Chaotic as it was at times, he wouldn't want to miss it for all in Thedas. Well, this situation in particular he'd gladly pass up on, of course, but this sense of belonging and purpose along with always being side by side with the love of his life? Nope. Never.

Come to think of it, Lenya owed him big time for wreaking such havoc in their home. The rare times she'd been too deep in the cups, he'd gotten to know her as a lazy drunk, who became laid-back, relaxed and cuddly. A bit giggly too perhaps, sometimes even, ahem, horny, but never as productive and hyper as she'd been tonight. Taking this knowledge, he could try to make her come out of her fort by appealing to her heightened need to, well, snuggle. Yes, this angle could work, with added benefits for himself, even.

Though he should probably deal with Anders first. Twitchy mages were never a good thing.

"Tell you what: Why don't you go and aid Nathaniel in dispelling the ward at the door to free Varel and the others?" I will deal with, um, that, and get your cat back."

"And my blanket!" Anders huffed, eyes narrowed. He drove a hand through his mussed hair, futility attempting to straighten it out again. "Or I'll set them both on fire!"

"Yes, yes." Alistair waved him off like a father did with an indignant child. With Anders vanishing into the other room, Evie finally started to calm down again. Alistair threw her a pointed look.

"What?" Evie chortled, shrugging at his gaze. "It is funny."

"Right," he retorted in the most sarcastic tone possible. "I can hardly contain myself." A pause. "Don't you want to continue laughing at Anders in the other room?"

Cousland regarded him, amused. "Oh no, I'll stay here." Then she leaned herself at a wooden beam, and adapted a relaxed pose, in spite of her warden plate armor. "I wouldn't want to miss this for the world."

"Suit yourself." Turning away from her again, Alistair decided to no longer care for her antics, or presence. His eyes focused on the pillow fort in front of him, while he started to undo the straps of his armor. Not only needed he to get out of this drenched thing anyway, it could also proof effective to motivate Evelyn to leave after all. Seeing how non-existent her interest in men were, especially watching men undressing.

"Leeenyaaaa," he tried, drawling out her name, while methodically dressing down. He didn't plan to imitate Oghren in this regard, but what was the harm in already losing all the bulky armor parts? The rest could -and would- follow later, in private. "Love, I'm back."

She replied with a non-committal grunt, followed by a giggle. Or maybe the grunt had been Velanna's, it was hard to say.

"Atisssh-" Lenya started, before Velanna hushed her.

"Nooo sssshems, rememberrr?"

She however was having none of it. " But 's Alistair. 's okay!" she explained to her with slurred words, eliciting another, now peeved, grunt from the elvhen mage.

So far so good, for she was receptive to his words. He stepped closer to their fort, though remained a respectful distance to the magical runes hidden within. "It's been a loooong day, Len," Alistair added, deliberately slow. He drew out each word, his voice warm and dipping low. "And I'm tired. So I want to go to bed now. I was just wondering..." He swore he could hear how Evelyn rolled her eyes behind him. "...if you are coming with me? Oooor do I have to sleep alooone tonight?"

"Really? This is your brilliant plan?" Evie replied in Lenya's place, huffing out a long, suffering sigh. Meanwhile both women begun arguing, one slurred elvhen word following the next.

He took the moment to glance at Evelyn over his shoulder with a grin, and shrugged. "You wanted to stay here, remember?"

Then, there was a loud crackle, the telltale sound of magic being diffused. Other than expected, it didn't came from the hallway where Anders and Nathaniel still worked on opening the magically barred door, but the center of the main hall. As Alistair turned to the source of the sound, he saw a flash of blonde hair running toward him.

"Atiiiish'aaaaaan!"

Having no time to prepare for the impact of a distinctive elven-shaped ball jumping him, he was nearly thrown down to the ground. Instead, Alistair just crashed into the wooden beam behind him, thankfully hindering his fall. It still did hurt, of course, though he was quickly distracted by the way her firm legs wrapped itself around his waist, and, oh Maker, wriggled as she searched for purchase. Instinctively, his arms wound around her, pressing her even closer to him. It was, after all, the only sensible thing to do. Then again, he suddenly struggled to think straight for some reason.

Encouraged by his reaction, Lenya continued her onslaught with a series of sloppy kisses into his neck. "Mmmissed you," she mumbled into his skin, her breath hot and smelling of sweet, fruity wine. Also, he noticed, she wasn't wearing any pants, which didn't exactly made this whole rational thinking thing any easier.

Belatedly, he remembered how his dear commander was currently somewhat mooning her fellow Warden, long, oversized tunic in spite, and thus quickly turned her away from Evelyn's sight. "Love, where are your breeches?" Alistair asked, when she finally paused her affections for a moment.

Looking up to him, Lenya only shrugged. " 's hot in there. Sssooo, I got rid of it. I'm Dalish and we need no pants in Arlath'an." To demonstrate her point, she tugged at her other pants with a giggle.

"No, no, no." He grasped her wrist. "The undergarment stay on, Len." For now.

"Thank the Maker for small mercies." Instead of annoyed, Evie sounded amused, way too much for his taste, that was.

Glancing past Lenya, who busied herself with poking his face, he couldn't help to smirk at her in triumph. "See? It did work!"

The poking of his face stopped. "You're ssssooo wet, Atish'an."

"Yes, it did rain a lot today, dear," he replied absentmindedly, his focus still on Evelyn.

"Then I'm gonna lick you dry," Lenya decided and languidly drove her whole tongue from his throat to his jawline, and over the shell of his ear. Stumbling back, he felt his eyes rolling back into his head, unable to stop the moan escaping him.

Someone next to him cleared their throat, bringing him back to reality. Turning, and subsequently wishing he hadn't, Alistair looked at Varel, whose face had adapted a deep shade of red. Whether it was due to his involuntary time spent in the stuffy pantry, anger, or the situation just observed he couldn't say, nor was he keen to find it out. For the shred of dignity's worth still present, he really, really should let go of Lenya now. Though doing so would reveal other, um, pressing matters to them, and hence was out of the question.

Lenya giggled into his shoulder, completely unbothered by the sudden audience. "Fuuuuunny..." she said, loud and clear for everyone to hear, "...first I poked you and now you are poking me!" Alistair let out a weak whimper, distantly wishing for a hole to appear and swallow him completely.

"Yep, it all worked brilliantly, indeed, Theirin." Patting his free shoulder, Evie laughed out and slipped past her fellow Wardens to leave, Shira in tow. Her laughter rang through the Keep's hallway, even long after she wasn't visible anymore.

And while Alistair wallowed in between self-pity upon the embarrassing situation at hand and useless indignation upon Evelyn daring to use that name, Lenya squinted at the group beside them. "Waddah ya want?"

"Oh, I don't know, Commander," Anders bit out, pushing past the others. "How about my blanket?" Leave it to the mage to care about the things that really mattered. "And-"

"-the fact that you locked in Varel and the others in the larder and magically locked the door," Nathaniel interrupted him, and warped Anders' words to something more, well, substantial.

Lenya made a face, then pointed sloppily to the still intact pillow fort, from which now emitted a strange but soft snoring sound. "'s wasn't me. 's was Vaa-Velen-Velanna," she finally managed and nodded, thoroughly content with this explanation.

"...my cat!" Anders finished his sentence in spite. He was persistent, Alistair had to give him that. Jumping down from his cushioned seat, Ser Pounce-a-lot finally found it in himself to appear in front of his owner.

"There you have your cat." Ser Pounce-a-lot blinked up, first to Anders, then to Alistair and meowed loudly, as if agreeing. A mistake obviously, since Lenya now became aware of the small animal beneath her.

"C-caaat," she shrieked while squirming in his arms, effectively causing very unhelpful friction between them. He felt suddenly very hot, drenched clothes notwithstanding. "Shoo, shoo," Lenya gestured into Ser Pounce-a-lot's general direction, and pressed her chest closer to his, fearful. Alistair bit down hard on his insides of his mouth and idly wondered how or why his head hadn't exploded yet. Perhaps because all the blood had already rushed...elsewhere.

"Pfft, you and your fear of cats," Anders' eyes narrowed at her. "This isn't normal. Grow up."

Pot meets kettle. Pot meets sodding kettle.

Lenya bestowed it with the dignified answer it deserved, and blew raspberries in his direction.

"Come Ser Pounce-a-lot, we are going!" The animal replied with another meow and followed the huffing and puffing mage, who reclaimed his beloved blanket before finally vanishing. Alas it also elicited the same squirming motion from her, flush against him. Alistair wanted to cry, his already thin patience frazzling. Maker's bloated ass, why were so many people still standing about here anyway?

"Can't we discuss all this tomorrow?" he ground out, his voice hoarse. "When Len...the Commander is sober again and is actually wearing pants? That would be great, thanks."

"Mmhm," she agreed. "Sssleepy noow."

Nathaniel cleared his throat, looking away. "And not nuzzling your throat..." Ah yeah, that.

"Get a room, you two nughumpers, heh," resounded from across the hall, before the door closed again with a bang.

Alistair bit down a whimper. I'm trying.

"You are right, Warden Alistair," Varel agreed, however reluctantly. He shifted, visibly uncomfortable. "Err...rest would do us all good now. We shall resolving this matter and chaos tomorrow."

Distantly behind him, he heard Nathaniel sighing. "Right. I will take care of Velanna, then."

"Just, um, what I wanted to hear, thanks. Bye, then." Red-faced, Alistair practically fled away from them with Lenya in his arms. It was better this way, lest he started doing things here, which weren't very much suitable for an audience. As he moved forward with quick strides, Lenya wrapped her arms and thighs even tighter around him and added more dreaded pressure this way. She giggled and licked a sloppy trail from his throat over his ear. If he didn't know it any better, he'd say she did all this on purpose.

"I'm gonna ride you like a pony," she whispered into his ear right after, stopping Alistair dead in his tracks. He had nearly dropped her then, if it were not for her own iron grip on him.

Yep, definitely on purpose. Devious minx.

"But what about all this mess?" Madame Woolsey seized the chance to ask the distant but still visible pair, while Alistair still reeled with her unexpected declaration, breathless. "Who is cleaning it up?"

He took several stabilizing breaths through his nose, before trusting his voice enough to speak. Biting down his neck, Lenya did her best to change that again. "Tomorrow..." he ground out with his back turned to them, voice strained and small.

Alistair didn't know how he managed to reach the corner down the hall that shielded them from their stares. Only that he did. The way back to their shared quarters, however, still seemed cruelly long and distant. Having let go of biting his neck at last, Lenya busied herself now with squinting at his ear, while poking the other. "Hmm, Atish'an, your ears aren't really that round as I always thought."

"Fascinating, love." He was too busy to navigate Vigil Keep's many hallways, stairs and corners with her in his arms, to really pay heed to her words.

"Are you a sssecreeet elf?" She beamed at him. "If ssso, you can come with us into our kingdom. 's Arlath'an. Vele and I rebuild it!"

Instead of a reply, Alistair let out a relieved sigh, which was due to coming face to face with the door of their room, at last. Fumbling with the doorknob a bit, he managed to open it and immediately rushed to their large bed. Lenya yelped with laughter as he let her plop down onto its mattress. To him, this was the sweetest sound, always would be.

Remembering the open door, he quickly backtracked to kick it closed and turned the bolt. "I don't know," he said, more than a bit out of breath and sweaty. While getting rid of his still wet shirt, he quickly returned to the bedside, and her. "I don't think I'd fit in your pillow fort, err, Arlath'an. I'm a big guy, after all."

Her gaze flitted down to the very obvious bulge in his breeches with a snort. "Hmhm, biiig."

Maker, how much he loved this ridiculous, wonderful woman. Leaning in for a languid kiss, he let her know this. And again, with more fervor, as soon as he'd settled next to her in bed, hovering over her. Nuzzling his throat, she giggled into his skin there. "'s here is Arlath'an too, you know?"

He withdrew to look at her. "Oh, really?"

"Yeeep." Lenya nodded, sloppily, under him. He felt her hands tugging at his breeches. "Ssso no pants."

Laughing, Alistair was more than happy to comply.

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long-way-down-rp-archive · 7 years

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The Quarter Courts

For everything a season, and for every season, a Court. Well, many courts, to get it right. As many as all those greedy, grasping hands and wandering feet allowed, from the depths of the Rhine to the heights of Schiehallion. Wherever trooping faeries gathered, four kingdoms were quick to rise: Autumn, Summer, Spring, Winter. Each had their days to tend to, and their while to slumber, as the next in the cycle awoke to revel and rule. Oh, sure, it wasn’t always so neat n’ polite as that. Early frosts sparked skirmishes, dry, scorching Mays left fists a-shaking. But nature danced along, and the courts - for all their squabbling - managed to keep time. More or less.

These days, well. The Fair Folk have spread far and wide, and thin. They miss things. Wake late, or early. Sleep fitfully. And every time they rouse, their old, old hearts seem a little more offbeat. Or perhaps that’s just the seasons themselves. Those summers that are burning too hot, too long. The springs that rush in, sodden and delicate. Lagging, lingering falls, brutal winters, biting fast and hard. It’s true; those rhythms of bright and dark, rain and sun and heat and cold, they’re just not playing out like they used to. It’s all their fault, those mortal things, chopping and digging and ruining the fun. As usual.

Nonetheless, there’s a few weathered courts left back in the old homelands. Mounds that didn’t molder with the potato fields, hills that weren’t crushed by sooty, iron machines. Beyond that? The brave, the desperate, they crossed the ocean at the side of their wandering believers - sailors and convicts, settlers and colonists. Where they built, the fae built. And warred, for the same stolen ground. When the bloodshed became too much, accords were struck, arms laid down. The ragged survivors arose in fresh courts, scrabbling for footholds in an unfamiliar land. A few - a whole cycle, altogether - found themselves right at home in Nashville. Must’ve liked the taste of the place. The magic of it. Still, the question remained: what next? The bold have pushed forward, walking amongst the human crowd to see what they can learn, how they might change. The rigid, they bury their secrets deep, and sink their claws into every scrap of pride and power they have left. Only time will tell who’s made the right call, there... and who’ll survive, in a world that doesn’t pay fairy tales much mind.

But, the seasons still turn. And so, the Courts come out to play, each in their time. For now.

At present, the Quarter Courts of Nashville stand thus. To all but their fae fellows and a rare few mortals, the location of each Court’s sacred places, halls, and mounds is a mystery; but anybody who’s familiar with the Folk around here will have heard a thing or two about their enigmatic rulers. That’s the stuff of legend, alright.

Spring

Little’s certain of the Spring Court, these days. They come forth cautiously, quietly, fearful of Winter’s vicious snapping. Then they tend to their crocuses and robin’s nests, maybe have a whirl in their charming little mushroom circles when those soft, springtime afternoons come around. For the most part, though, they keep to themselves - darting under the ferns, staying out of sight. They’ve got plenty of reason to be so cautious. The Spring fared poorly in what Nashville’s Fair Folk only speak of as The Bygones, those early years of ugly battle between fellow faeries and local spirits. Usually a gregarious, sprightly Court, their losses have left them shy, withdrawn, hidden away... wherever it is they go.

The Spring’s a season of wariness and timidity, until their wide-eyed curiosity gets the better of them, at least. They’re nurturing by nature, delicate as the tiny sprouts they care for. But don’t mistake such tenderness for weakness. This Court will protect what’s theirs, with all the desperate, selfless love of a rabbit defending its kits.

Their aspects are:

Verdancy, the lush, chaotic exuberance of life

Water, flowing freely and falling softly

Growth, the nourishing and strengthening of every little thing in need

Far from neon, exhaust, and just about any kind of company besides the trees and creeks, the Spring Court has retreated to a mound hidden away in Wystan Hollow - a beautiful nature preserve, an hour outside of Nashville. Better leave ‘em to the wildflowers. They’re not much for visitors, these days.

Fancy taking up the mantle of Spring? If you’d like to lord over April showers and May flowers, just send a songbird our way.

Summer

Much of this Summer Court arrived with Queen Titania, leaving behind their cherished hills in Cornwall. Emerging triumphant from every contest for the throne, she led her faeries off to what she hoped would be a future as bright as their golden past. They arrived in the late 1860s, around the tail end of the Civil War - back when The Bygones weren’t by and gone but raging. Fresh to the fight and primed for battle, Titania gathered courtless summer fae to her cause and came out of the fray with a firm hold on her new kingdom. She has ruled the city’s summers ever since, bearing both of her court’s resplendent crowns.

These faeries burn hot, eternally: their determination is ferocious, their pride brilliant, their passions blazing. They’re quick to argue and fight, but just as fast to light up with a laugh, or tumble headlong into that heady, summertime sort of love. Their rage is a hell of a thing to behold, but so long as you’re on their good side, the Summer Court is always fired up and eager to play. Just don’t expect them to slow down for anything.

Their elements are:

Heat, scorching one moment, soothingly, lazily warm the next

Light, an incandescent beauty that drives fears away and lifts the spirit

Vigor, that vital, thriving spirit, charging fiercely ahead

In an act of boldness that would baffle most of the Fair Folk, the Summer Court has established themselves a mound right in the downtown core. Midsummer Records is a buzzing business and a wondrous hive of faeries, hiding in not-quite plain sight behind Titania’s masterful glamours.

Autumn

The bulk of Nashville’s Autumn Court hail from Connacht, Ireland. They arrived at the side of Queen Medb, clinging to those immigrants who fled the Great Famine, and wound up in this neck of the woods by way of Irish and Irish-American soldiers shipping out to serve the Union. But the faeries of fall found war, too. Wearied by their travels and heartaches, but stalwart, Medb had her season’s children fighting under her banner by the mid-1860s. Autumn’s Queen would become one of the mightiest voices for peace, instrumental in the treaties that brought those bloody days to an end. Now as then, her court stands united in strength and serenity.

Autumn is a resilient, thoughtful season, more prone to patience and practicality than the rest of their brethren. These faeries certainly know how to savor; they love a hearty feast, clever, intricate pranks, and sprawlingly epic tales, all jarred like sticky pots of jam to tide them through the cold months ahead. However, this Court can also be as changeable as the rustling, red-gold leaves - and must not be taken lightly. Raise their ire, and you’ll see how brutally “fair” their sense of justice can be.

The domains of fall include:

Earth, rich and generous, hard and stony, at once cradle and tomb

Fruitfulness, the hard-earned bounty of harvest, joyful and indulgent

Decay, the sickly sweet end that come to all things, in time

Though there’s no replacing the mighty green mounds of Ireland, Medb’s Court has found a new home in the thunderous, beautiful depths of Rumbling Falls Cave. When they venture above ground the Queen holds regal sway in a creaking old barn on the edge of town, and leads her Court’s carousing on a winding path of farmer’s fields, Irish bars, wishing wells, Kildress Cemetery, and a host of beloved trees and stones.

Winter

Blowing along at the heels of Scottish and Irish-American settlers, the Winter’s faeries were the first of Nashville’s Quarter Courts. They were also the first to take up arms against the spirits of this place - the ones who belonged to the crags and coves the fae tried to take for their own. By the time Autumn, Spring, and Summer began to rise, the Winter had torn its way through human decades of sleepless, maddening war. All that bloody desperation made them cruel, covetous. Unwilling to yield a scrap of what they’d bled for, they were soon lashing out at season and spirit alike. It was years more before an uneasy truce was forced. Since then, the rest of the faeries around here have let The Bygones truly be... but Winter has held a grudge, and kept their disdainful distance. No-one’s complaining. See, without Winter’s brutality, every grove and hillock these Courts have claimed would have come at much, much higher cost. Fact is, the Winter is owed. And the Folk do hate to be reminded of their debts.

This Court is infamously cold, frigidly majestic, and tenacious as their last, late, murderous frosts. Like Summer, they’re warriors; only, they care nothing for battle-glory. These faeries fight to survive, by any means necessary. They’re known for slyness, ingenuity - of a lamentably selfish bent - and a spiteful kind of hunger, the sort that takes special pleasure in destroying what others have built. Even in their better moods the Winter Court’s more malicious than mischievous, delighting in cruel tricks and deceit. Unrelenting and unkind, they’ve earned every bit of their nasty reputation.

The powers of this season are:

Entropy, the world’s way of unravelling to disorder and destruction

Cold, snaps of freezing breath and howls that chill to the marrow

Darkness, fearful uncertainty, looming and obscuring

There’s plenty of tales whispered about the Winter Court, their taste for suffering and ruin. No surprise, then, that they rule from the remains of Fortress Rosecrans, near the blood-soaked battlefield of Stones River. It’s just such a wonderfully nostalgic atmosphere. Don’t you think?

Seems that Winter could use a master. If you’re ready to shiver some bones, have a whisper at the admins.

Any queries regarding our Quarter Courts, their rulers, retinues and changelings? Bring ‘em around, we’d be happy to help!

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