behind the wedding bells

tiergan-vashir  asked:

What is the story behind Bell's gold wedding/engagement ring? ::BRACES SELF FOR SAD FEELINGS::

Largely nocturnal, by preference, Surenqara always found she was pleased when someone else was awake in the link. Much as she liked to sit within its vast and empty folds, intent on silence, she also liked to know she wasn’t alone. It was comforting to have a neighbor’s light on, as it were, those hazy beacons of thought and–often–warmth. Sometimes, she sat at the piano and played, softly. Requests were smiled at, and tended to in her own manner: your Gridanian waltz wearing a jig’s clothes, a Limsan shanty turned into an Ossuary dirge. Love song? Bent to her fierce, technical style, stripped of sentiment. She was capable of vicious sarcasm through chords alone, and Sura didn’t like love songs.

That night, she was willfully picking a ballad apart, frankly merciless, when a familiar voice interrupted. “Surenqara?” A rumbly baritone, restrained brashness. She looked up, and saw the perk of sharp white ears, intent alabaster eyes, and the rest of Tiergan’s armored posture as it faded into view. Always a little taut, something had set his spine tonight, the brush of his tail held just off the floor in too-still pose. Worried.

She raised her eyebrows at him, lifting her hands from the keys. She tipped her head to the side, golden chains swinging from her horns, tail curled in its habitual question mark.

“Have you seen Bell? He’s been silent, since–” Tiergan gestured, indicative of the latest event that’d embroiled their shared bond. A horror, an invasion. Something about it had caught Bell deeply, this time, where he was routinely unflappable in the face of the latest existential horror dredged up. It’d been a week. “He had this ring; he was very angry. I can’t find him anywhere…” Tiergan had been ruminating. His ear flickered uneasily, its piercing swinging wildly.

“Julian Celestin’s grave,” Surenqara said, softly. Tiergan startled at her voice, or the words. She gave him a smile, but it wasn’t very reassuring. “He’ll be back.” Tiergan’s expression was dire, eyes middle-distance, like he was tallying what he’d need for a rescue mission. Oh, dear.

“Once,” she said, bringing Tiergan’s attention back around to her quelling, golden eyes, her voice. It was rare she told stories; she still didn’t like to speak, only to sing. Nevertheless, for this, words would have to do. “A long, long time ago, Bell fell in love. The kind that changes you,” her voice was tender. “His name was Julian Celestin, and he was going to heal Bell’s hands. He did. The range of motion he has now–” she spread her own long, exquisite fingers out, pensive. “That’s the remains of Julian’s work, Bell’s stubbornness, and an incandescent love.”

“When Bell turned twenty-five, Julian gave him that ring. It was supposed to be a promise, a chance for them to be more. Iriel’s hands were nearly whole enough to wear it. But Bell–what mattered to him then was power, the rigorous pursuit of control. Better, he’d convinced himself he wasn’t worthy, that he couldn’t love–after all, that too had been taken from him. So, he turned Julien down, and left to graduate his master’s apprenticeship.” Surenqara’s voice went bitter, and flat.  “He was gone six months, and came back with those hard tattoos on his face, too thin, radiant with heat.”

She drew in a slow breath, “A day before he returned, Julian had been–killed.” It still hurt to say. “It was revenge, a vendetta against Bell.” She paused for a moment that stretched thinly, her lips pressed and pale. “I have never been afraid of him, not even in the blackest of his moods, but that wasn’t Bell. That man was eclipsed by vengeance.”

“Vengeance,” Tiergan repeated. “Did he find the killer?” It was fierce and eager.

“Oh, yes,” she said. “His end was not swift. Nor the ends of his colleagues. Every single one. Bell burned his hands back to char to repay that debt.” His redemption ashes. “All of Julien’s work gone.” The golden ring rattling against black bones. “Lost,” her voice rasped on it.

It took her a moment to come back, to meet Tiergan’s gaze. “He’ll be back,” she repeated her earlier statement. “But not well–for a while.”


Finally I’m getting around to posting my 600 follower celebration fics.  Apologies for the wait!  

This one’s for @tallcansholdhands Destiel, Florist AU.  Fluffy.  (Sorry, I couldn’t get the smut in there without taking it in another direction.  Maybe someday I’ll do a rewrite with my smutty plan one day…)

Summary: Castiel gets a frequent visitor to his flower shop.

warnings: none, just Destiel fluff

word count: 1270

Castiel was a couple hours into his daily shift, reorganizing the flowers in the display window to make them more enticing to the passer-bys on the street.  Arranging the flowers was one of his favorite parts of the job: placing different flowers next to each other based on color or shape, height or width, sometimes based on their meaning.

He turned from the display, walking to the sink behind the counter where he needed to trim some of the stems they’d be using for a wedding order.  Behind him, the bell tinkled lightly, indicating that a customer had entered.

Keep reading

When we met, I wasn’t just… unloved. And unloving. I was an enemy, of love. Love had only brought me pain. All my walls were up. You brought them down. You brought me home. You brought light, into my life. And chased away all the darkness. And I vow to you. I will never forget the distance between… what I was, and what I am. I owe more to you, than I can ever say. How you can see the man behind the monster… I will never know.
—  Rumplestiltskin’s wedding vows to Belle. Once Upon A Time season 3 episode 22, There’s No Place Like Home.
Showdown - Dally

This one has profanity!

“No. No fucking way.”

You stand in the middle of Dally’s apartment, arms akimbo, “Come on, Dally!”

He’s furious, but hasn’t gotten violent just yet, “Absolutely not.”

“It’s none of your fucking business anyway,” you cross your arms defiantly. “I don’t need your shitty commentary on my life.”

Dally takes a threatening step towards you, his voice deadly even, “I am not going to let you date Tim Shepard.”

“Fuck you!” Tension stiffens your body, your hands grip tighter to your arms. “I’ll do whatever I want, Dallas Winston,” you pointedly say his full name just to piss him off.

Dally takes a quick step forward, punching the wall behind you and getting in your face, “You listen to me, you little shit, the day you date him is the day I fucking croak.”

You cock your head back, challenging his steely gaze, “Then I better call the morgue because you’re getting a little cold there, asshole.”

He gives an animalistic growl, “Goddammit, (y/n)! Why the fuck are you even interested in this guy?!”

“At first I wasn’t, but you’ve stepped into territory that you don’t belong in. There’s no way I’m denying Tim now.”

“You little-“ Dally runs a hand down his face, trying to calm himself, “No. I fucking refuse to let you see him.”

“Do I hear wedding bells?” You cup a hand behind your ear, “Tim’s looking more appealing by the second.”

Dally clenches his jaw, veins pop in his neck, “He’s not the marrying type, sweetheart.” The endearing term spits out like venom.

Your nails dig into the skin of your arms in self-directed anger. Your voice grows louder with a touch of insanity, “Then do I hear the pitter-patter of little feet?! I can live without a ring, fucker!”

If only looks could kill. “Get out of my apartment,” Dally steps back from you, pointing at the door. His entire body is tense, each muscle expertly defined by hateful rage.

“Gladly.” You step out and the door slams violently behind you, shaking the walls.

Dally’s furious screams echo through your head as you hit the top of the stairs. Something explodes against the inside of his door, the shattered pieces rain to the floor like your feet down the steps.

Part 2