“...that concludes our section on cursed artefacts. Now, dear listeners, you may be aware of the sculk that has recently appeared all over the Capital. Let me reassure you: it’s not just all over the Capital. Several other emperors have left worrying messages about the fungus. More on this, after the weather—”
“—Um…Dear listeners, I have some bad news. It’s not the sculk, worrying as it is. I… I think I’m a ghost? I picked up the old crown and… I still seem to be able to operate the microphone, at least. And that’s really all that matters, isn’t it?”
I would Love to read Something about the Promo "do you Trust me?"
I think that's perfect for Sam and Bucky 🖤
Thanks you🖤
Thank you so much for the fantastic prompt, @fenriswolflokidottri! I hope you enjoy the drabble! 🥰
Prompt 7: “Do you trust me?”
| 6 | Prompts | 8 |
Sam was close. So close. So infinitesimally close.
Bucky couldn't stop staring at Sam's eyes.
They were a warm sunset in the eclipse of Bucky's heart. They were Sardonyx, Andalusite, Smokey Quartz, Feldspar, Agate sparkling in the dazzling light of a mood-lit gemstone exhibit. They were Table For Two irises, Duet dahlias, Odessa calla lilies, True Love helleborus rustling in the wind.
Sam was a vision. He was awe. He was sublimity. He was kindness and joy and a ball of stress all wrapped up in a body built through hard work and dedication.
Sam was an uncle in a bathing suit who asked Bucky for some reason to come with him, Sarah, and the boys to the brown waters of a Gulf beach.
Sam was a very shirtless man sitting on a towel next to Bucky's completely buried body who was staring at Bucky as if he wanted something from Bucky. Attention? Love? One of those Captain America popsicles?
Bucky would bust out of his sand prison like the Hulk and sprint to that ice cream truck driving off if Sam asked him.
"Do you trust me?" whispered Sam, pseudo-serious.
Bucky laughed a little too loudly.
"Always," said Bucky a little too sincere.
"You got a..." Sam whispered, low and rumbling and hotter than a summer in Delacroix.
Sam's finger moved towards Bucky, the tip grazing Bucky's face, brushing Bucky's skin in a way that made Bucky want more. Sam moved his finger into Bucky's line of sight.
"Eyelash," murmured Sam, like bourbon mixing with honey, a low purr that made Bucky's brain short-circuit, "Blow it and make a wish."
Bucky immediately blew it, unable to break eye contact with Sam.
Bucky could wish for a lot of things. He could wish for the Russians to have never found him. He could wish for the snap to have never happened. He could wish that he wasn't the type of fella who needed a pardon.
He wished for Sam's happiness.
Because. If wishes were real, and if he could wish for anything, that felt like a good wish.
Sam smiled at him, the gap in his teeth hypnotic.
"You ever wonder what magic is real?" asked Sam as he lay next to Bucky, his face still so very close, "Now that we know magic is real?"
"I try not to think about it too hard," said Bucky.
Bucky's mouth felt too wet yet too dry at the same time. How was that even possible?
"Thanks for coming, James," said Sam, sounding uncharacteristically shy, "I know I keep inviting you to these family things. I hope it's not too weird for you."
"No, never. I love your family! I love - !" Bucky started, then faltered.
Because.
Because.
Sam's eyes widened.
"Sorry - " Bucky started again, meaning to explain and apologize, but he was stopped by a kiss.
A chaste, quick peck.
"You too," said Sam, sounding like he was rambling, despite him only saying a few words, "I'm - you know - with you."
Bucky couldn't help but smile at Sam, melt at his words.
"Me too," said Bucky softly, "I love you too."
Sam laughed.
"I think you sort of said that already," said Sam before going in for another kiss.
*****
This is for my 300 Followers Event! If you want to submit a prompt, check out the list and send in an ask!
“Barry turn the camera off I’m sleeping” 😑 “But you look so pretty” 😋
Drabble 7 - The Flash Season 5 Countdown - 4 Days Left!
(A couple minutes late again, but here you go! Enjoy!)
Iris West-Allen loves her husband. She really, truly does.
She loves how he takes care of her when she’s pregnant; howhe’s gentle with her and catering to her every need. How he’ll find freshwatermelon in the middle of the night and doesn’t tease her when she goesthrough three half-gallons of mint chocolate chip ice-cream a week. She lovesthat he massages her feet and doesn’t use his speed to carry her around whenthe occasion arises because he knows it makes her nauseous.
If she had to choose from all the men in the world, shewould still pick Barry Allen. And not because he’s the Flash, but because he’shim. She wouldn’t trade him for anyone.
It’s just sometimes, occasionally, his enthusiasm todocument every moment of her pregnancy is a touch annoying.
His latest kick is video-taping everything. Even the grossstuff. She hates it. Absolutely detests that her worst moments have beenrecorded, and she has no idea where he keeps the tapes. She’s 95% sure he’dnever show it to anyone – though that does beg the question why he’d want tokeep that footage for himself too.
And right now, right at this exact moment, she is exhausted,and she is trying to sleep. He’s beside her in bed. And okay, normally she’dfind him watching over her endearing, like her protector is there watching overher, and her lover is there basking in the love between them and how much headores her.
But it’s neither this time. It’s for his frickin’documentary.
“Barry, turn the camera off. I’m sleeping.” Her eyes remainclosed.
“But you look so pretty,” he says, and there’s somethingabout the way he says it that makes her open her eyes.
He’s not cooing annoyingly. There isn’t the slight shiftthat comes with him adjusting the camera in his hands. It’s just soft.Romantic, even. And she needs an explanation.
She melts when their eyes meet. The camera is probablynearby, and maybe he snuck it away as soon as she responded so there would beno evidence of his complete lack of subtlety.
“Where’s the camera?” she asked, only distantly aware thatshe sounds more breathy than condescending.
“On the table.” He gestures to where the alarm clock sits,and she faintly sees the dark object just beyond it.
“Were you filming me?”
“I was.”
“Why aren’t you filming me now?”
His expression softens further, and she’s reminded of justhow in love she is with this man and how in love he is with her. For all therecent irritation he’s caused her with that damn camera, he’d do anything forher. He’d choose her over anyone. How can she not love and appreciate a manlike that?
He reaches over and brushes a lock of hair out of her face.
“I wanted it to be just us.”
She’s complete goo. There’s no point in denying it.
“I love you, Iris West-Allen,” he says gently, tracing thecurves of her face with his finger, brushing the back of his fingers down hercheek.
She’s speechless, watching him as his eyes wander over her.
“I love you, too,” she manages, and their eyes meet.
All the stars in the night sky couldn’t match the beautybetween them there.
Summary: You had been a pivotal part of the Winchester’s lives for the entirety of yous - but what happens when Mary comes back?
Prompt: #77 “How would you feel if this happened to you?” from the writer’s resource page at the spn fanfic pond
Characters: Dean, Sam, Mary, Reader (No Pairing)
Word Count: 3011 (this is so far from a drabble, forgive me)
Warnings: Angst, angst, and more angst. Literally no fluff whatsoever.
A/N: Italics are reader flashbacks, I bolded the prompt. To whomever requested this, I hope this is enough distance and angst for you! Also, since season 12 hasn’t started and we have no idea how the dynamic between Mary and the boys are, her mannerisms and such is completely based off of my imagination.
If you want to be added to the taglist for the rest of my drabbles or my forever taglist, please let me know!
Follower Celebration Drabble Masterlist
Alone – without anyone or anything else, separate from other people or things.
You swallowed hard as you walked around your room. You smoothly went back and forth, from your bathroom to your dresser, your dresser to your closet, and your closet back to the fading beige duffel bag placed on your neatly made bed.
Loneliness – the quality of being unfrequented and remote, isolation.
A shaky breath racked against your rib cage as you ran your hand through your hair. Your mind was buzzing at a million miles per second, and your focus was quickly diminishing.
Desolate – deserted of people and in a state of bleak and dismal emptiness.
Your heart fluttered in your chest. This was real, this was happening, there was no going back. You were about to step out on the only people you had loved, the only family you had in this screwed up world.
With trembling fingers, you carefully closed the zipper of your bag. Your eyes remained on the worn material as you stood frozen. You willed your muscles to move, to inch away from the footrest and slide quietly out the door. This was what you had to do.
Yet, every fiber of your being was telling you otherwise.
Your hands balled into fists, clutching onto your bag. A fat tear rolled down your cheek to splat down onto the fabric. Why did it have to be so hard? You were simply going back to where you came, where you belonged.
The loud clang of metal reverbed in your skull. All you saw was darkness, its being engulfing every inch of your vision, wrapping itself around you. A deep wave of cold seeped into your core, the only sensation in the empty void. Something wasn’t right.
“Dad!” An unknown voice called out. It was distant. “Dad! I found someone!”
Suddenly there was a heavy presence by your side. You could sense their weight hovering above you, their hands lifted your head. The black you saw swirled together from the jolt.
“Dean,” a gruffer voice emerged, “wrap this around her torso. Nice and tight alright? Just like I taught you.”
“Okay.”
Dean. That was the name of the mystery boy who had come to your rescue. Such a simple name, yet to you it now held so much more meaning.
“Hey, can you hear me?” Dean spoke to you, his hand gently cupped your cheek. “If you can hear me, just know that you’re safe, okay? Just hold on.”
You didn’t know this person, this savior, but you focused on his promise – and held onto his words.
A hard knock disrupted your thoughts. You sucked in a hesitant breath, daring not to move, to give any sign of you being present.
“(Y/N)?”
‘Damn it,’ you thought to yourself. They weren’t supposed to be back from the supply run yet. Everything was supposed to go according to your perfectly formulated plan.
“(Y/N), I know you’re in there. Already checked the rest of the bunker. Can I come in please?”
Dean’s pleading tone struck a chord. It urged a swell of guilt in your gut. Against your better judgement, and not like you had much of a choice, you padded over and creaked open the wooden door.
“Hey,” a smile lit his face, “it’s Saturday night, and you know what that means.”
“It’s Saturday Night Binge Night,” you simultaneously declared, yours much more feeble than his.
Dean’s grin faltered at your un-enthusiastic response. Tonight was your turn to pick the next series you all were going to cram into an eighteen hour period, normally it was the only thing you would talk about.
“What's wrong?” His green eyes swept across your frame. Concern was etched into the fine lines of his scrunched brows. After the years you had spent with the Winchester boys, reading your emotions or tells had become as easy as flipping through a picture book.
Timidly your gaze fell to the floor. Your mouth dried up, choking the words you so desperately wanted to say. You were planning on destroying the thin, peeling glue that had kept you all together for years. The least he deserved was an explanation.
“(Y/N), talk to me.” Dean’s fingertips grazed your jawline to lift your chin up. You flinched back from the sweet gesture. You weren’t worthy of that affection anymore.
His hand hovered in midair a while longer, before he slowly curled his fingers inward and let it drop. Clenching his jaw, he stiffened in the doorway.
“Please,” again Dean pleaded, “just let me in.”
You sprinted around one of the many corners of the maze of never ending piles of scrap cars. Your heart beat thudded loudly, your breathing erratic, adrenaline pumped through veins. Nonetheless you continued to kick up the dirt, searching for the perfect place to hide.
“You can’t hide for forever! I am going to find you!” You ignored the echoing threat as you frantically spun around on your feet. To your left was a rusted blue van, and without any hesitation you jumped into the open hatch.
Curling in on yourself, you slowed your breathing. If there was one important lesson you gained from growing up as a hunter, it's that you can’t hide if you sound like fish out of water. Anxiously you waited and listened. It had been too quiet for too long.
“(Y/N)!” You jumped at the low squeal of Sam Winchester. His shaggy hair had appeared through the distorted window.
“Sam?” You hissed through your clenched jaw at the six-year-old boy, “What are you doing here?”
“I couldn’t find a place to hide. Please, can you let me in?”
He flashed a pitiful, gap-toothed smile. How could you say no to that?
As you bit you lip in indecision, you waved him over to welcome him into the trunk. His grin widened as he stealthy climbed to your side.
“Now, if you’re going to hide here with me, you have to promise to be quiet.” Sam diligently shook his head. “Good, cause if we aren’t you know who will find us.”
“What was that, about you know who finding who?”
An array of sprinkled freckles and green orbs flashed from around the cracked passenger side window. Dean had found you.
Immobile from the unexpected appearance, you stared blankly at the older Winchester. Your lack of reaction gave him just the necessary amount of time to swiftly tap a finger on your shoulder.
“You’re it, (Y/N),” his words slyly came out, “Now catch me if you can.”
You kept your gaze deterred from Dean as you sidestepped to allow him into your now bare room. Slowly he turned on his feet, the lack of posters and art made the room feel so empty, so absent. When he noticed the rectangular bag that sat on the edge of your bed he stopped.
“What’s that?” He spoke steadily. You remained silent, unsure of whether his tone was to be taken as reassuring or if it was the calm before the storm.
Dean aggressively pointed to the bag, his eyes now boring into you. You could feel the fire that was building up inside. “What the hell is that, (Y/N)?” He spat venomously. Any hope of his understanding was thrown out the window.
“It’s – It’s my bag.” Your fingers fumbled together nervously. The air was growing thick with heated tension – it wasn’t supposed to be going like this.
“No crap it’s your bag,” his hands thrust down to his sides, “Why is it packed and on your bed?”
“Because,” you took a short breath as you warily glanced up to Dean, “Because I’m leaving.”
Meeting his eyes was the largest mistake you could have made that night. To see his pupils, grow wide, the mix of pain and anger that were churning inside. You could see right through his act, his charade of always being okay, and found the broken shell of the boy you first met – a boy that had deserved so much more love in life, so much more compassion.
A boy who could never fill the hole of what he had lost – a hole you were now shoveling deeper.
“You were leaving?” Dean ran his hand down his face. Even a blind person could see the disbelief and betrayal that were echoed in his movements. Scoffing at the situation and your mediocre response, he placed his bodyweight against the top of your desk chair.
A heavy silence cloaked the room. You watched as his scarred knuckles turned paler, fading into a starch white. His shoulders bunched together, the red button shirt crinkled as his muscles became more visibly taut. It was almost like winding a toy. You waited for him to explode.
Dean half-hazard picked up the chair and smashed it into the ground with a loud grunt. The wood splintered and cracked into pieces, the debris flew outwards to create a blast zone. You jumped at his action.
“Hey,” Sam jogged up to your doorway slightly out of breath. He glanced between the shattered chair and you. “What’s going on?”
Dean kept his focus on you, the presence of his brother not even a bother. “Who gave you the right?” You could feel the rage that boiled beneath his skin. “Huh? Who gave you the god damn right?”
“After everything we’ve been through, after dad took you in as his own.” Dean inched closer with each phrase. “What, you were just planning on walking out on your family?”
You pushed yourself up against the wall, trying to keep a distance from the nuclear reactor Dean had now become.
“Damn it, (Y/N), answer me!” His fist made contact with the wall, merely inches from your face. A small whimper escaped from your lips. You had witnessed the explosive rage that Dean Winchester could exhume, but this was beyond that measure – and it was directed all to you.
“Dean, you need to calm down.” Sam grabbed hold of his brother’s shoulder, only for it to be violently shoved off.
“She’s trying to abandon us, and you’re telling me to calm down?” He glared at Sam. “I’ll calm down when some actual sense is being spoken in this room, and it’s being spoken by her.”
“I’m not your family.” You feebly said, interrupting the standoff between the two most important boys in your insignificant, little life.
Both of their heads turned back to you. You shriveled under their stares. This time it was Sam who questioned you, “What?”
“I said-,” you let your head fall back against the wall and shut your eyes. You didn’t need to see their faces; you didn’t want to remember them with sorrow etched into their features. “- I’m not your family.”
Giddily you skipped down the bunker halls, making your way to the low ruckus in the kitchen. It was taco night tonight, and that meant one important thing – it was the night you got to cook for the boys.
Not that they would prevent you from cooking any other time of the week, but tonight was incomparable to the other dishes you would prepare. Sam and Dean were obsessed with your top secret recipe for the meat filled shells, and it would be the only subject all of the afternoon.
You loved being able to see their eyes light up as you placed the various toppings and sides on the table. It gave you a sense of pride and accomplishment to bring some joy into their dark lives.
Yet, as you turned the corner into the kitchen, you skidded to a stop. The smile on your face had begun to waiver.
Sam and Dean had already sat themselves at the dining table, eager grins plastered onto their faces. Mary was gracefully dancing from countertop to stovetop, her blonde hair tied up into a neat ponytail. A waft of various spices and seasonings found their way into your nostrils.
“What’s going on in here?” You shoved your hands into your pockets, trying your best to play everything off as cool.
Dean glanced up to you, completely unaware of your presence beforehand. “Mom’s making soup, an ol’ Campbell recipe.”
“Oh,” you slowly nodded your head, working hard to keep your fake smile.
Awkwardly you remained standing in the doorway, unsure if you were intruding on some precious moment. Noticing your apprehension, Dean rose from his chair and crossed the small distance over to you.
“Look,” he spoke in a barely audible whisper, “I know tonight is taco night, but mom really wanted to make us a family recipe, something she used to have as a kid. I mean she’s making enough to feed an army, there’s some for all of us.”
“Boys, dinners ready!” Mary chimed as she carefully brought over two bowls of her infamous meal. Dean quickly glanced over his shoulder.
“It’s okay, I wasn’t that hungry anyways.” You feel your grin tighten as you push through your act. “I’ll just head back to my room, enjoy your dinner. I’m sure Mary made a delicious soup.”
Dean gave you a smirk and a short pat on the shoulder before he jumped down the step and into his seat. You looked at the three of them, sitting and laughing together. If you wouldn’t have known better, it would seem like she had never been dead in the first place.
Solemnly you turned on your feet and headed back to your room, the picturesque Winchester family the only object of your thoughts.
“You’ve been like a sister to us all our lives!” Dean exclaimed as he threw his hands up into the air. “What do you mean you’re not our family?”
“Exactly, ‘like’ a sister. I’m not blood, I’m not related to you one bit.”
“You know damn well that blood doesn’t make you family, it doesn’t mean anything.” Dean growled.
“Dean’s right, (Y/N),” Sam’s tender gaze calmed the rolling nerves you felt inside. “You’re our sister, no matter what we need you.”
A low chuckle broke through your lips. You shook your head in dismay at the comment. “You don’t need me,” you muttered through your broken smile.
You angled your head to the two men who stood incredulously before you. Their confusion and skepticism only pushed you further over the edge. The safety pins and bandages that had been holding you together were now breaking free.
“You don’t need me and you know it,” half-heartedly you said. “Who helps with a majority of the research for a hunt? Mary. Who cleans and organizes the bunker while you guys are out? Mary. Who ensures that your favorite beer is stocked and chilled? Mary. Who patches up every single scrape and bruise you come home with? Mary.”
Counting each observation with a lifted finger, you ran down the list you had spent many late nights conjuring. “I mean she even goes on some hunts with you guys,” you let out another short laugh. “What doesn’t she do?”
“(Y/N), we know how weird and different things are now that mom is back, but -.”
“It’s not that, Sam!” You interrupted him. “How would you feel if this happened to you?”
You pushed yourself up from the wall. The dam had broken free, and with it came a bitter relief.
“Can’t you see I’m the problem? You don’t need me here; all I do is take up space. I’ve completed my purpose. I filled a void that seemed impossible to fill until two months ago. I’m not a part of this family of yours, nor will I ever be. And no matter how hard you may try to say otherwise, it’s the truth, you both know it deep inside.”
It felt good to let out the pain, to pour out the sorrow and self-loathing that had festered for so long. Both Sam and Dean were struck speechless. They clearly had not expected this from you – not even you had expected this outcome from what seemed to be a miraculous blessing.
You hesitated to say anything more or move, waiting for some signal of life from the boys. After seconds of a tense silence, you skirted around Dean and went to grab your bag. All you wanted to do was get out, to finally end this undesired torture.
“(Y/N), please stop,” Dean reached out to grab hold of your arm.
Vigorously you shoved his torso away from you, “Leave me alone, damn it!” He stumbled backwards into Sam’s shoulder. They both gawked at you – physical outbursts was never your thing.
“Just accept the fact that I don’t belong here, and let me leave in peace.” You snapped at them. Snatching your bag off of the bed, you’re once again forced to pause by another desperate plea.
“Please, don’t do this,” Sam softly cried out.
“Move,” you muttered through clenched teeth.
Letting his gaze drop to the floor, Sam stepped away from the doorway. You shoved your way past their large frames and into the gray hallway. You gave them one last glance, allowing yourself one more moment to remember their faces.
“(Y/N)?”
You shifted in the hard motel bed to face the six-year-old’s silhouette. “Yeah, Sammy?”
“Promise you’ll never leave us, like dad or mom. Promise that you’ll always be with us, no matter what.”
The innocent plea of a child who wanted nothing but a home, and a family put a small smile on your face in the darkness of the night – of everyone in the world, he had chosen you. “I promise.”
“Enough with the sappiness, you two. Some of us are trying to get some sleep,” Dean grumbled as he flipped around on his squeaky bed.
You let out a silent chuckle. “I promise I won’t leave you either, Dean.” Even though you couldn’t see the faint curve of his lips, you knew that was just what he wanted to hear.
“Goodbye, Sam, Dean.” With that final phrase you lead yourself out into the garage and into a new world. A world where the sacred, whispered promise to a young boy would no longer have a meaning.
Crowley picks at me. He can’t wait to get the souls in Purgatory.
Dean would not approve of working with Crowley. Dean would be very angry at me.
When Sam finally came out of hiding, his soul missing from his flesh, my guilt fought my pride. I had taken Dean safely out, and I had brought Sam out. Perhaps not whole, but he was out.
Broken. Ugly.
But I let Sam be because I had other problems: the war against Raphael was going poorly.
Drabble Prompt 7. Victarion getting his signature helmet from the blacksmith.
It had been a year since Victarion had rose to the position of Lord Captain, and that year was not spent lightly. His focus had been single-minded and swift: attacking ships from Bear Island for lumber, snatching up greenland cogs and galleys that wandered too close to the islands. It was all with the purpose of increasing the number of ships that anchored outside the many ports of the Iron Islands. I will give Balon a fleet beyond compare, he had promised himself, and it looked as though he would make good on it in no time.
The captains of the Iron Fleet took well to his command as well. For the older Ironborn, it was not immediate, but as dictated in their culture, Victarion's shows of strength, fearlessness, and commitment to the Old Way eventually won them over. He was as good a Lord Captain as any could hope for, yet he still felt as thought aught was missing. I am the commander of the fleet, he thought, but I do not look the part. He stood tall and wore his thick steel plate, with axe and kraken-emblazoned shield in his hands, but it only presented him as a strong Ironborn, and not a commander among them. I want my enemies to know me by sight: know that they died by the axe of Victarion Greyjoy, Lord Captain of the Iron Fleet.
He was puzzled as to how he would accomplish his wish for some time, but the answer came to him in the stores of a Myrish galley. It, as well as a pair of battered cogs carrying sailors to guard it, had been swept north from Fair Isle by a fell autumn storm. The Iron Victory and a handful of other ships had been patrolling the waters south of Pyke when they spotted the lost ships sailing out of the edge of the storm. By the time the bewildered Myrmen were aware that they were not alone, there was no hope left for them. They sank the two cogs before the sailors could mount a defense, and took the galley at the point of their swords and spears. Within lay many treasures from the Free Cities: expensive lace, fine wines, queer weapons and all manner of other things. What caught the Iron Captain's eye, however, was what the traders had received from Faircastle: bolts of cloth-of-gold and many ingots of hard, black steel. As he looked upon the materials, he was inspired. "Take what you will of their stores," he told the captains that had followed him belowdecks, "the ingots and gold cloth are mine."
When he returned to Pyke, he ordered two thralls to cart in his quarry. With the cloth, he went to the castle tailor and commanded her to craft a cloak that befit a Lord Captain of the Iron Fleet. For the steel, he had more specific designs. The armorer who had crafted his plate was eager to work for Victarion once more, knowing that making another aegis for a man of such rank would surely increase his reputation. "I want a helmet, tall and fearsome to look upon," Victarion had ordered, "work the metal into the shape of a kraken: this will be how greenlanders know that their doom approaches them from the Lord Captain."
Both artisans were swift and careful in their craft, deeming it wise not to keep the robust Greyjoy in wait. Victarion insisted that he did not want to see either one until both had been finished, and thus they were both brought to him at once. Donning his plate armor first, he had a pair of thralls bedeck him in his new effects. Another brought a tall silvered looking glass before him, that he may look upon his own appearance. The helmet was just as he imagined it, tall and black with the two long tentacles of a fierce kraken coming down around his jaw. The cloak was just as fine: nine layers of cloth-of-gold hung from his shoulders , tapering in several areas to resemble the grasping arms of a kraken. "Truly worthy of a Greyjoy and Lord Captain both," he uttered, finally satisfied with his appearance.
He ascended from the Great Keep and crossed the three bridges to Balon's study in the Sea Tower. Victarion normally refrained from disturbing his brother while he attended to the affairs of the Iron Islands, but if anyone was to see him now, it was to be his eldest brother. "Brother," he called out, "raise your head and see what I have bought with Iron." Balon looked up slowly, evidently reluctant to turn his attention away from the papers he was poring over, but when he did, he blinked with surprise. "So this is what you did with the fruits of the Myrish ship," he said, standing up and approaching his brother. The Lord Reaper put a hand on Victarion's shoulder. "You look like an image of the Grey King himself," Balon told him, "Father would have been pleased." It was more than the Iron Captain could have asked for, and he beamed at his brother. "In this garb I will be the subject of greenland nightmares along the coast of the Sunset Sea," he said, "and I will bring much wealth and renown to Pyke. And to you most of all, brother."
Shiloh turned her head to the side and playfully glared at Gabe, throwing the flower that she had been playing with at the other ‘wolf. They had just decided to hang out for the day, relaxing in the grass and enjoying the nice day that they had been granted.
Gabe was always the one that Shiloh was closest to other than Flynn, although Thom came in a close second. Something about hanging out with Gabe just clicked and the two of them never got bored.
Although, she suspected that every time they hung out, the others were waiting and expecting them to get in trouble. Shiloh didn’t think that was their fault, trouble just tended to follow them wherever they went.
Shiloh turned her head once more to look at Gabe, this time smiling at the girl.
