#[ mortals. ] at their full potential; they could be her equal. a human who could have as much to teach an adeptus as to learn from them.

[iniziare]

Tag drop: Guizhong (don't mind me re-dropping this with the fixed ones, shh)

[yuelun]

Tag drop #2: Character things and dynamics (more will be added).

[void-botanist]

Sharran AU: The Gods Part 1

In this AU (which I will probably come up with a better name for later, but I'm really excited to share it) I'm reconstructing the gods and the storyline of Baldur's Gate 3. I think the gods of the Sword Coast should be weirder, and the storyline should really make use of that. This first post is for the most important gods in this AU, which also happen to be the most important ones in BG3, for the most part.

This post contains vague spoilers for Baldur's Gate 3 below the cut.

Shar: the goddess of shadow, loss, darkness, night (and sleep), forgetting, shades, and opportunity. (Why opportunity? When one potential path is lost, another opens. To gain, you must sometimes lose. Without that loss, how can you find your way?) Unlike her twin sister Selûne, she is frequently seen in human form, which is why her temples are full of statues of her. She is often considered a petulant, petty goddess, which is true. But she is not particularly cruel or evil, no more than her sister. Despite her misgivings at the beginning of the world, she's come around to the idea of having living beings about, and isn't interested in getting rid of them anymore. Instead, she provides them aid that Selûne could never give them, such as taking away their painful memories of loss, which she then integrates into herself. People often turn to Shar when Selûne's so-called "healing" fails to address their emotional and spiritual ills. All Sharrans have had some memory removed—they get to choose which ones. They also all have scar-like markings on their bodies that represent their commitment to forgetting, and what kind of thing they forgot.

Selûne: the goddess of the moon, the sun, the stars (and navigation), heat, light, lycanthropes, and commitment. (Why commitment? In the real D&D lore, one of her past domains was marriage. But drawing from this classic post about the moon and Earth, I think it makes more sense to have her be the goddess of steadfast commitments of all kinds. The only exception is commitments to other gods, because she will not interfere with those processes.) Though she is sometimes represented in human form in art, her natural forms are strange to most mortals, and she has found that they'd rather not see her real human form. Eyes alone are enough, hence the way she is represented on her crest. Many consider her a peaceful, stable goddess, and her personality trends that way, but her power can equally be used for harm: heat and light can be extremely dangerous, the sun can damage mortals irreparably, and there are many bad commitments to be made in life. Selûnite clergy and Selûne's favored have golden cracks on their bodies, but all of her faithful develop cracks here and there.

Ievaal: known as Bhaal in D&D lore, Ievaal is the god/dess of murder, the hunt, and ritual killing. She has three forms: the Slayer, a humanlike form that wears the raw flesh of its enemies as clothing; the Hunter, a velociraptor-like form that always catches its prey; and the Priest, a gnarled form that vaguely resembles a human but is unknowable under its cloak. His believers, who double as clergy when needed, typically follow one of his three forms, and he has two Chosen: one to bring together the clergy, and one that is best at killing and his favorite. Ievaal considers their gender to be shapeshifter, which is to say all genders, and none of them. It is most often called a deity, but god/dess is also acceptable. Those who follow her are granted the ability to shapeshift, though many can only master one or two forms.

Myrkul: the deity of souls, bones, and the liminal space between life and death. They are not the deity of death as a concept—that's Kelemvor's domain—but of death as a process, of something that happens to most beings eventually and requires the collection of their souls. Their most common form is a lavishly decorated assortment of bones of all kinds formed into a loose humanlike shape. Most claim that the bones change every time they take this form, and they neither confirm nor deny it. They are more withdrawn from the affairs of mortals than Bane and Ievaal, but counts them among their staunchest allies. They are not worshipped so much as remembered.

Bane: the god of power and tyranny. He generally appears as a figure of shadow with two ruby and black crystal gauntlets. Because of this, much to Shar's chagrin, he is sometimes called the Lord of Darkness. He has no fully corporeal form and is known to possess mortals to do his bidding, granting them magical armor crafted of his own shadowy essence. His primary goal in life is to cause trouble and sow discord to put himself at the top, something his right hand Ievaal is only too pleased to assist with. His rigidly structured clergy can be recognized by the red teardrop shapes on the backs of their hands.

Mystra: the goddess of magic. She acts as a conduit between the Weave, the substance of magic that permeates the universe, and spellcasters, partly to prevent them from casting magic that is too dangerous and partly to prevent them from being overwhelmed by the Weave. Her normal form looks like a human-size doll, held together at the joints with shifting threads of magic that weave together—the Weave itself. She boasts a wide variety of clergy and adherents, who are gifted slightly increased access to the Weave that tends to make their eyelashes or fingernails turn Weave-like.

Riodda: known as Oghma in D&D lore, Riodda is the deity of learning, ideas, knowledge, and bees. Her main form blurs the line between human and insect—she has the fluffy clawed arms of a bumblebee, but ten of them, as well as a set of compound eyes set next to her human ones and two long antennae. Bees of all kinds, but especially bumblebees, are considered her messengers that report new information back to her in her study. She, too, is always busy learning something new or playing music. Her faithful typically have six dots on one or both ears, representing both the six feet of a bee and the necessity of listening.

Lathander: the god of the dawn and beginnings. He typically appears as a human, though the details of that human have changed through the ages. The one thing they all have in common is that they are very tall and have a laugh that can be heard for miles. He frequently does not bother to mark his faithful because they do that themselves, adorning themselves with gold jewelry and tattoos in his image.

Jergal: the god of fate and the end of everything. He has always looked impossibly old and lich-like. For the most part, he has no adherents, and is not even considered to be a god by most, not since the ascension of the Dead Three, Ievaal, Bane, and Myrkul. He's still kicking, though, and those he resurrects slowly acquire a set of tally marks along an arm. Enough deaths and resurrections would lead to a full body's worth of tallies.

Aylin: a goddess in her own right, but she focuses on being Selûne's Chosen rather than ruling over a domain and believers. She is the daughter of Selûne and Shar, though she rarely acknowledges Shar's parenthood. She was created in the midst of one of Shar and Selûne's early fights when Selûne used a bit of her own essence to knock out a bit of Shar's essence, and that combined essence formed into Aylin. Aylin chose her first mother as her true mother and deity, though she can't deny she has aspects of Shar as well.

bg3 taglist: @multi-lefaiye @theskeletonprior @kk7-rbs

[littlemisspascal]

Death and an Angel part 3

Death!Din and Cupid F!Reader

Summary: You and Din have an unexpected heart-to-heart about what it means to be Death and a Cupid on route to a planet where Din’s potential soulmate lives.

Rating: G

Word Count: 1,500

Warnings: Pining, smidge of angst, more plot development, Razor Crest (RIP I miss you darling!), a made-up home world for the reader (yes, yes, there’s like a million I could have picked but my brain said NOPE)

Author Note: Ahhhh, the comments are so amazing from you all! Thank you everyone out there sparing time to check out my little universe, it makes me sooo happy you have no idea! As always, I hope you enjoy this new segment as I try to plot this story out and get these two idiots to acknowledge there just might be something between them. 

Also special thanks to @codenamewitcher​​ for including the first two parts on Weekly Fanfic Recs. Be sure to go check out the list for a whole bunch of fantastic stories!

Links to Part 1, Part 2 and Part 4

Photo Inspiration: (What I imagine is beneath the armor in this scene...*dreamy sigh*)

There is a distinct silence that can only be found in hyperspace when the stars outside resemble sparkling streaks of silver tinsel and your breath is trapped within your lungs as you’re awestruck by the sheer beauty of it all. You experience this silence aboard the Razor Crest, sitting in the cockpit behind Din as he pilots his beloved gunship. It isn’t the first time you’ve been a passenger, having traveled with Din on two previous ventures where your Cupid services were required on planets far away from your home on Umbriel.

Off-world assignments for you were generally rare since your bosses were more inclined to choose Cupids of higher ranking to handle those clients, but sometimes you were the only available option left. Which, come to think of it, is exactly how you became the one roped into meeting with Death every full moon. Your bosses decided someone needed to check up on him to make sure he wasn’t reaping anyone before their fated time and thus messing with the natural order of things. You privately have reached the conclusion it was a decision made during a fit of paranoia as you had yet to find any evidence suggesting Din ever broke a single one of the universe’s rules, let alone even considered the mere possibility.

When you did travel for assignments, you never stopped feeling like a goldfish being dumped out of your familiar little bowl and into a massive ocean full of strange oddities. You would often find yourself wasting time trying to successfully navigate the unknown world when you should have been focused on tracking down your client’s soulmate.

That’s why Din had offered to start traveling with you. Actually, in his own words it was because, “You think about love so much you don’t see trouble until it’s an inch in front of you. Someone’s got to be there to look after you.”

You’d tried to argue, told him you had never experienced trouble and that if you did then you could handle it with your bow. All Cupid’s were required to master archery for self-defense purposes, though Din’s responding snort of derision made you suspect he wasn’t convinced of your skills. You wondered if he thought, just as humans incorrectly did, a Cupid only used their bow to spread love and lust. Or maybe he just thought you weren’t capable of such finesse. It was an insulting assumption, fueling you with the burning desire to prove him wrong. One day, you keep telling yourself, a repetitive chant. One day you’ll show him just how capable you are with your weapon and you imagine his look of shock, whether worn openly on his face or hidden beneath the visor of his helmet, will be utterly priceless.

But in the meantime, you’re in no hurry to encounter trouble. Finding enjoyment in taking these trips with him on his ship instead.

The Razor Crest had actually been a complete surprise to you when Din first welcomed you on it; primarily because the notion of him using such a primitive form of transportation despite the powers he possessed as Death was too outrageous to wrap your head around. However, it took less than ten minutes soaring through space for you to discover just how many details of the universe you were missing by relying on your Cupid abilities to teleport yourself between locations. Never would you have imagined Death to be the one to teach you to love the slowness of travel, to let your eyes linger on all the beautiful wonders along the way. But that’s exactly what happened.

You turn your head away from the window to look at Din. From your angle, all you glimpse is the back of his helmet, reflecting the passing starlight. Soon you’ll be introducing Din to the first immortal on your list of potential soulmates.

Death, you quickly correct yourself. He’s only Din when he’s around you.

You initially thought he elected to wear his armor because you told him he could to ease his comfort, but now you think it’s because this is him meeting his potential soulmate as himself. It is easy to forget sometimes this is the image of Death—a warrior enshrouded in beskar, cunning and ruthless—that is recognized throughout the universe. And feared.

If the handsome face he concealed was known instead, you wonder if mortals would readily choose to embrace the ending of their lifetime, rather than foolishly seek to run from its inevitability.

“What is it?” Din’s baritone voice startles you as it shatters the quietness. The modulator within his helmet gives his tone a low raspiness that never fails to send a chill down your spine when you hear it.

“Huh?” You respond ineloquently.

“You’ve been staring at the back of my head for the last five minutes, angel. I figured you had something worth saying.”

“Oh, no. I was just thinking about you.”

Immediately you wish a meteor would collide with the ship, providing you with the necessary distraction to escape and find somewhere you can hide until the end of time.

“...What about me were you thinking?” Din wonders after a solid thirty seconds of pure silence, voice somehow conveying an equally blended mixture of intrigue and wariness. He flips on the ship’s autopilot and turns in his seat to pin you with his gaze, apparently unwilling to let you try and weasel yourself out of the conversation.

You roll the question around in your mind, wanting to give an answer that satisfies him without it also embarrassing yourself further.

“I was thinking how much of an enigma you are,” you murmur at last, leaning back in the chair with your arms crossing over your stomach. “You wield such incredible powers and yet you choose to wear a human face, to call this man-made ship your home and to also spend your spare time living amongst those you will eventually reap. Why are these your choices?”

He tilts his head, and you just know there is a little crease of bewilderment appearing between his eyebrows right now even if you can’t see it. For as much as he is a puzzle you can’t put together, he is also at times an open book that you will never tire of reading.

“I would think you, more than most beings, would understand the discomfort that stems from loneliness and the lengths one will go to ease it,” he says, not unkindly. He mirrors your position, maneuvering himself until he’s comfortable in his seat and totally oblivious to the dilating of your pupils as you observe every subtle shift of his armor-clad body. “Isn’t that the true purpose of Cupids? To spare individuals the ache of living a life of solitude by introducing them to someone to love so they no longer feel it.”

“That’s a poetic way of putting it,” you answer, smiling softly and shrugging your shoulders. “My superiors would just quote our mantra back at me when I used to ask. Amor vincit omnia.”

“Love conquers all.”

You shouldn’t be surprised he’s able to translate such an ancient and obscure language, but your eyes widen regardless. “That’s right.”

His voice is unusually soft when he asks, “Do you like being a Cupid?”

You stare at him, caught off guard by how easily he’s changed the topic of the conversation from himself to you. You’re used to taking orders and being thanked for your services, but no one has ever asked you if you liked doing any of it.

“I’m good at it,” you finally say, even though it’s not really an answer.

He nods his head still, as if he understands. A part of you thinks he actually does.

You lick your lips, eyeing him hesitantly. “Do you...like being Death?”

“I’m good at it,” he echoes, but your words sound somber coming from his lips.

The cockpit fills with hushed silence again, but there’s a unique tenderness unlike ever before. Minutes seem to stretch on for entire seasons as you watch one another, content to simply coexist and revel in each other’s presences.

It would be so easy to slip off his helmet and kiss him right now.

You stiffen, stunned at your own thought, but you aren’t given the chance to analyze it further as an alarm on the ship’s control panel announces with a resounding beep you’ve reached your destination.

Din spins in his seat, reclaiming control of the steering to begin the ship’s landing process. You look out the front window at the large green-blue planet drawing nearer with every anxious tick of your heartbeat.

“We’re here,” you say needlessly, forcing excitement into your voice. Fake it till you make it, isn’t that the human expression?

“Who is it we’re meeting on this backwater skug hole?” Din asks, pressing a series of buttons above his head.

You kick the back of his seat. “Be nice,” you scold when he shoots you a look. He mutters something unintelligible under his breath as he turns back around, prompting you to roll your eyes. “She’s a goddess of springtime and motherhood. The locals call her Omera.”

Tag List: @leilei-draws​, @theocatkov​, @becauseican2, @vintagesaph​, @stardust-and-starlight​, @kay2304, @odelia-d32, @adrieunor​, @remmyswritings​, @gallowsjoker​, @rhiannon-russo​, @randomness501​, @eleine-t1d​, @nicotinebirds, @sylphene​, @softly-sad​, @maytheglitter​, @melobee​

[captain-yeet]

A Beautiful Way To Die

Pairing: Heidi x Fem!Reader

Summary; When you thought of death or the possibility of you dying, you never seriously considered the possibility of dying at the hands of a gorgeous vampire.

Word count: 1.7k

Warnings: swearing, Heidi accidentally being creepy give her a break she's new to interacting with mortals and NOT eating them

Author's note: I've been wanting to write about Heidi for a while now because her character, even though we got so very little of it is fascinating (again thanks smeyer for making your side characters more interesting than the main ones). Also, am a simple gay.

Arising from your jet-lagged slumber, you'd hoped the beautiful blue, sunny skies you enjoyed yesterday would still be there. Sadly, your luck was out the window along with the welcoming warm weather.

You'd travelled to Italy with the intention of finally getting out into the world and having the freedom to explore and go your own path. Looking online for travel destinations was both a struggle and exciting! "Where should I go?" you wondered while scrolling through all your proposed options. None caught your eye until you landed on one listing;

Enjoy an enriching, quaint experience in the city of Volterra!

Nestled in the country hillsides of Italy, Volterra has a host of activities for you to enjoy, from historical site tours and many shopping locales, bars and more. From the Palazzo di Priori to the Volterra Cathedral... Come, and lose yourself in a city who's architecture is frozen in time.

You wandered the town, taking in the sites of all the old buildings around you. Even with the clouded sky above your head, Volterra was still a breathtaking place.

After an hour of wandering you came to a stop in the Palazzo, plopping down to sit by the large fountain. Hands resting under your chin, you entered a blissful, happy daydream.

Sighing dreamily, you let your eyes close.

You didn't notice the woman watching you attentively.

Heidi had been tasked with finding more humans to feed the guards and the masters themselves, her own hunger growing more ravenous by the day. She'd managed to lure in a few stray helpless tourists, but she still needed just a few more.

Striding through the streets with confidence, she halted as a sudden alluring scent hit her like wave. Mouth pooling with venomous saliva, she held in an instinctive growl. Where is that scent coming from? More so... who?

Following the mouthwatering aroma, she let herself be guided through the cobblestone streets of Volterra, the beast within her growling with glee as she got closer and closer to the human. Heidi had had many victims, many catches that she's reeled in from her "fishing" that have satisfied her, but none that made her yearn for blood more so than whoever it was that smelt like this.

She found herself in the Palazzo, her eyes desperately scanning every face, every scent of anyone who was nearby. She needed to know which it was.

Taking in another deep breath through her nose, the scent hit her again, and she found the poor helpless human.

A woman, who smelt better than anything she'd ever had before. Heidi sunk into the shadows of a nearby alley and studied you. You were plain, simple clothes and your eyes were currently closed as you enjoyed some blissful daydream. Her throat burned with thirst by this point, and as she watched you... something else began to grow.

Curiosity, was it? Heidi couldn't put her finger on it. Letting out an unnecessary huff, she decided to approach. I'll make sure to let Felix and Demetri know that this snack is strictly mine alone. Heidi put on her best smile and sauntered over to the human.

 “Pardon me, Miss?” a smooth voice called your attention away from your daydreaming. 

You jump in surprise as you turn your attention to the source of the voice that startled you. The owner of the voice was equally startling; her beauty blinded you, as she stood directly in front of the faint rays of sunlight you swore she was literally shining. The red dress she wore clung nicely to her body, an off the shoulder piece that only highlighted her best assets. Violet eyes gazed at you curiously, flicking from the art book open in your lap to your face. 

If angels were real, you’d believe this woman was one.

Unbeknownst to you, but the shock went both ways. Now that she was face-to-face with you, Heidi’s painted red lips had parted, an inaudible gasp to your ears escaping them.

A pull she had never experienced before took hold of the vampire. She needed to be near you - not just in the hunger sense, but more of a “If I am separated from this woman for any reason I will rip someone’s arm off” kind of way. At least, that is how Heidi would describe it.

Trying to shake herself out of her jumbled train of thought, she flashed you a quick smile, savouring the way it made your heart stutter. “I couldn’t help but notice you sitting here, are you new to Volterra?”

You nodded, gently smiling at the pretty woman. “I am, just passing through on my way to Venice.”

Heidi giggled. "Venice? That's quite the destination. And what brings you to Volterra?"

"I'm going on a tour here before I leave for Venice," you explained, none the wiser to the sudden shift in Heidi's demeanor. "I needed a place to stay since it was such a long trip, and..."

"What tour, if you don't mind my asking?"

You blinked. The woman was now very serious, the playful almost-flirtatious air about her gone. "In there, actually," you reply, pointing to the castle-like cathedral just behind her.

"I see."

Shit. Shit, shit, fuck! A string of curse words swam in Heidi's head in multiple languages. She can't go in there! But she's booked already, they'll be expecting her and we don't often get cancellations and if we do -

"I'm sorry, is there a problem?" You ask, growing more confused by the pretty lady as the seconds went by.

"Ah, hello Heidi."

You both turn your head to the rather tall man who had appeared at Heidi's side. He was quite the looker - very tall, heavy build and looked like he could break you in half with one hand.

"Felix, what are you doing here?" The woman - Heidi - says to her companion with an airy smile.

You didn't fail to notice the sharp look she had in her eyes.

"Just roaming about the city is all," the man replied coolly, a grin on his face that faltered into a curious smile when his gaze shifted to you. “And who might this lovely lady be? Perhaps a tour guest of the castle?”

With a laugh, Heidi linked her arm into Felix’s bicep, her fingernails digging deep into his arm. Under his breath Felix hissed and looked at Heidi with wide, confused eyes but she kept her airy exterior up perfectly.

 “Our tour bookings are full, Felix,” she said pointedly.

You looked on at the exchange feeling lost. There seemed to be some animosity between the two but why? You didn’t know. Maybe they were exes.

 “I see.” A thin, curt smile replaced his cocky grin from just moments ago. “Well then, I’ll meet up with you later. We’ll talk more then.” 

As the man left, Heidi left out a small huff and then turned back toward you, her brilliant smile bewitching you again. "Forgive him, he's always prowling during the tours for pretty young women to bore to death with his rants about his hobbies."

You giggled, grinning back at her. "I'll be sure to try and stay off his radar when tomorrow's tour begins."

Tomorrow's tour, Heidi's thoughts echoed your words. So she's coming in on that tour. Keeping her composure cool, she tilted her head down and gazed at you from beneath her eyelashes. Seduction tactics, only this time she was trying to steer her prey away. "Please beautiful, I want you to listen to me very closely."

Frowning at her sudden serious nature, you began to stand up from where you were perched, listening intently.

"Volterra has a lot to offer tourists, many fascinating sites to see. Our cathedral however... don't come. Please," she pleaded, her voice low and silky, "find somewhere else to go sight seeing."

You froze mid-way through putting away your art book. Her serious tone and the look in her eyes... something about the look in her eyes sent a chill down your spine. "I - I'll consider it."

The corner of Heidi's mouth twitched. She then straightened herself up and the deadly serious disposition left as quickly as it had appeared, the friendly seductress returning once more. "Well, I suppose all I can do is steer you away," she chuckled, more to herself.

You smiled politely back, your eyes flickering to your surroundings briefly. As you took in how the sky had gone much darker than it was before, you gasped. "Oh damn, it looks like its going to rain!"

Sure enough, as soon as the word "rain" left your lips, Heidi felt a droplet from the sky land on her cheek.

"I had better get going, it was really nice meeting you!" You began saying your farewells to the beautiful lady, pulling your backpack hastily up onto your back. You didn't want to get potentially drenched in the downpour.

"Wait!"

Ice gripped your wrist abruptly, sending a shock up your arm and making a surprised gasp escape your lips. The fuck?

Oh.

Heidi had grabbed your wrist. She must have some bad circulation, you vaguely thought to yourself.

"I never got your name." The word were desperate, to Heidi pitiful even.

"It's Y/N," you breathed, taken back by Heidi's behavior.

She let go of your wrist, a half smile appearing. "Y/N," she repeated, your name leaving her mouth - in your mind anyway - almost reverently. "Beautiful name, cara mia... anyway, we should head our separate ways! The rain is sure to stat pouring any moment now."

You hummed in agreement, internally trying to shake yourself out of the stupor you now found yourself in. God damn, this woman... help. She's pretty. So pretty. I am very gay.

"It was nice meeting you, Heidi. Maybe I'll see you around?" You offered with a hopeful smile, trying to shut out your internal screaming.

As you quickly walked away, Heidi carefully breathed in after holding her breath. The air stung her throat, your scent, your blood, making her moan wantonly.

She only hoped for two things; one, that she would get the pleasure of seeing your exquisite face again, and secondly and most importantly, that you would heed her warning not to come to the Volterra Cathedral tour tomorrow.

[lonelyghosts-stuff]

Loki-Character Analysis (and Rant lol)

Idk if anyone will see this and I frankly don't care too much, just kind of ranting and venting. (for context I am not necessarily in the healthiest head space as of now so my emotions could be more extreme than they normally would be)

Loki's death is really hitting hard for me again. The fact he went from a mischievous kid who just wanted his father's recognition, to sabotaging his brother's coronation to lead up to defeating the Jotuns for his father and proving himself worthy as Thor, in the process finding out his life was a lie and that he himself was a Jotun who was abandoned, to giving up his life only to be found by Thanos to be threatened and manipulated (idc what anyone says, Loki was definitely tortured during his time with Thanos. How else could you explain how sickly and gaunt he looked when he first showed up in Avengers?) to losing his mother and protecting a mere mortal just because his brother cared for her, also willing to sacrifice himself for her and his brother, to finally having a period of success, only to witness his father die, see his home destroyed, and then ultimately get killed by Thanos as he tried to kill him to protect Thor.

He had an arc. He grew. And then he died. While we will get Loki in the new Disney+ series, he will never be the same Loki unless they find a way to implant the experiences of the prime Loki into this one. While I have no doubt he will be shown key points of his alter variant self's life, seeing them from an outer perspective cannot substitute for the experiences themselves.

Loki was such a complicated character who, while sometimes seeming inconsistent, was consistently inconsistent within the nature of his chaotic and mischievous character. He cared. He wanted recognition and to be viewed as equal to his brother. Along the way he got lost and found and twisted even more. Notice how in Thor 1, he never killed anyone other than Jotuns. While he did endanger other humans, he never killed them despite being easily able to do so with the destroyer automaton. And when it came to his brother, he had the perfect chance to blast him, but resorted to a backhand; and while that could have proven to be fatal, when it came down to it, Loki couldn't bring himself to do it the easy way. Deep down he still wanted to be on equal terms. That's why when Thor returned to Asgard, Loki kept instigating Thor, trying to rile him up so he would fight him. He ended up resorting to threatening harm upon Jane just to get his brother to treat him as equal and a worthy opponent. He denied familial connection to Odin and Thor, trying to convince himself that the reason he will never be viewed as equal with Thor is that he is a Jotun, the "monster parents tell their children about". In the end, when Odin still wouldn't show any more sympathy to Loki or try to reason with him, instead just telling him "no", Loki gave up. He was willing to accept whatever happened to him when he let go and he fell into the collapsing portal of the bifrost.

Cut to the first avengers, he is clearly very changed. He's sickly, gaunt, and weakened, needing support just getting onto the back of the truck for Clint Barton to drive him away on. His eyes are sunken in, he's greasy and slow, and borderline sociopathic. He clearly experienced something that turned him into this. We already know the scepter influenced his mind and that Thanos threatened him eternal suffering that would make pain look sweet if he didn't get the tesseract. But I steadfast refuse any statement someone could give me saying he wasn't tortured or manipulated by Thanos or his followers. Loki quickly goes in for the attack when he arrives on Earth, killing without hesitation or regret. When Thor confronts him on Stark tower, for even just the most fleeting second, he pauses. He knows what he's done and that he's gone too far. Even when he doesn't back down, he doesn't try to kill Thor. He simply, or, well, "simply" stabs him and runs off knowing very well it would take much more than that to kill his brother.

When he is brought to Asgard for imprisonment, his pride and guilt eat away at him. He refuses to acknowledge what he did as wrong to anyone, but he is very well aware of his actions the weight of them. The person who affects him the most being his mother, the one who always showed love for him and Thor equally. He tries to hide this knowledge, denying her being his mother as well since he is of Jotun blood, but he cares for her greatly still and can't help but feel guilty for how she sees him now. He still strives for chaos and when the Dark Elves invade, he mischievously points them in the direction of the throne room, not knowing their full capabilities, but living for the potential chaos to ensue. Of course this leads to his dear mother being killed. Loki is furious, broken, and lost. His actions have gone too far, causing the woman he loved the most and felt loved him more than anyone else to die. Thor can easily see through his illusions proving that Loki has shown his adoration for Frigga enough that even Thor knows of it. When they finally get to the Dark World, Loki tries getting under Thor's skin again, but also in an attempt to understand him. He prods at Thor's feelings for Jane and reminds him that her life is but a brief moment in their own lifetimes. They bicker and scuffle on the ride to their destination, but it is ultimately resolved by Loki's declaration that Thor can trust his rage, his rage at Frigga's death. When there, we see Jane in direct danger twice. Both times, Loki throws himself in harms way to protect her, seeing her both as vulnerable but also something that Thor cares for. Loki then proceeds to save his brother's life, being willing to sacrifice his own for him as well. Knowing his wound is not fatal, but also being fully aware of his skills in trickery and illusions, not only does Loki trick Thor into believing he is dead, but he also takes the opportunity to try to relieve his conscience; he apologizes. He then follows it up by saying that he didn't do what he did to make Odin proud or acknowledge him, not this time. He did it for the one who truly cared for him and showed it, Frigga. This gave Loki the opportunity to discreetly get back to Asgard and exile Odin and take his place. Now, Loki got the respect and adoration he felt he deserved. But it would only last for so long.

When Thor gets wind of Loki's antics, they both find themselves eventually facing down Odin and him passing away, but not before telling them that he's proud of them and loves them. Even Loki tears up here. He feels somewhat that it's his fault for Odin's passing, but he also feels empty after finally hearing Odin give him what he thought he always wanted. Hela arrives and Loki tries to reason with her; perhaps thinking he can relate to her and handle the situation. Unfortunately, Loki and Thor get separated for a while, eventually reuniting, but on opposite ends of the social class on Sakaar. Loki could easily continue to bask in his new status over Thor, but still decides to help him when h found him in the waiting area for the fighters (even though he eventually tried to betray him later when he realized he could regain what status he had and that he viewed escape futile and pointless with Hela still around). In the end, despite him having the chance to escape and run off, he returns to Asgard to help fight. He even proves key in defeating Hela as he revives Surtur, also grabbing the tesseract on the way. He doesn't hide. He doesn't show bitterness. He returns to the ship alongside his brother. (despite how much Waititi gave a middle finger to the writing and characterization of the characters, I am still trying my best to piece good Loki moments from Thor Ragnarok and fit it into Loki’s personality given that Ragnarok is considered MCU canon).

Thanos attacks. He has Thor in a precarious situation, threatening to kill him if Loki doesn't give him the tesseract. Loki tries to hold out as long as possible, knowing the consequences of giving it to the mad titan, but eventually yields when he sees no other way to save his brother; after giving it to Thanos, he immediately goes to Thor's side to protect him. When Thanos took down Hulk, Loki realizes the only chance they have to get out of there alive is to use his trickery. He proclaims himself Loki, prince of Asgard and, most impressively, Odinson. He accepts who he is. He acknowledges he is the rightful heir to Jotunheim, but he also knows that, even if not by blood, he is Thor's brother, and Odin and Frigga's son. Unfortunately, he rushes to action quite recklessly, potentially undermining the power Thanos has already with even just the two infinity stones he as acquired. Loki is killed. Neck snapped from the pressure of Thanos choking him. He died trying to protect his brother. Trying to fight for the good fight. Died at the hands of the man who twisted him in the first place and promised him suffering if he didn't deliver the tesseract.

Loki may have started out as a dark antagonist, then to a twisted villain, and eventually progressing to an Anti-Hero, but he died a hero.

This just breaks me. He was such a loveable and complicated character. He had many faults, faults he battled with every day. When it came down to it, he threw his own life down for his brother.

It upsets me he died so quickly and seemingly so pointlessly within the first ten minutes of Infinity War. But he also served a great, if I may, glorious purpose. He brought the Avengers together in the first place, and died trying to make sure another one of them, and his own brother, could live on to fight and stop Thanos.

Loki will always be my favorite character and hero and villain simultaneously in the MCU. And I couldn't thank Tom Hiddleston enough if I got the chance for his stellar performance of this fantastic and complicated character who helped bring the Avengers together, even if unintentionally.

[kimsiever]

The traditional LDS concept of divinity perpetuates the sexism, homophobia, and transphobia inherent in the LDS church’s teachings and traditions.

LDS theology teaches us that we have a heavenly father and a heavenly mother. Although we know very little about Heavenly Father, we know even less about Heavenly Mother.

LDS theology teaches us that Heavenly Father is who we pray to, and it is to whom we assign all appearances of divinity to humans (even if there is no indication in scripture that the appearance was gendered).

Contrastingly, we are discouraged from praying to Heavenly Mother, the scriptures are mostly silent about her, and no president of the church has presented to the general church body a revelation on her: her nature, her role, her history, her interactions with humans. Nothing.

LDS theology also teaches us that Heavenly Father and Heavenly Mother are in a partnered relationship—some people label this “marriage”—and that they are the parents of the spirits that inhabits our mortal bodies.

These teachings inform our stances on gender roles, orientation, gender, and relationships.

Because the LDS church sees the divine relationship between Heavenly Father and Heavenly Mother as an ideal, they teach that the ideal mortal relationship is between a man and a woman, and they should have children. Any other relationship is unnatural and—to borrow LDS parlance—unordained.

Because there is inequality in their relationship—with Heavenly Father being in charge and Heavenly Mother being demure—we should have inequality in our relationships, with husbands presiding and wives nurturing.

Because Heavenly Father leads out in speaking to us, then men are assigned leadership qualities and roles. Because Heavenly Mother is quiet (or silenced, if you will) and reserved, women are assigned soft skills as qualities.

Because only two persons are in that relationship and are different sexes, the LDS church sees sex (and gender) as binary.

A few years ago, I began to feel pulled toward getting to know more about Heavenly Mother. I wanted to feel closer to her. And so, I began praying to her. Well, I sort of included her in the prayers I was already addressing to Heavenly Father. In reality, I prayed to both of them. Over time, I felt doing so allowed me to place both of them on equal footing, and I believe this allowed me to experience intense spiritual events that seemed connected to Heavenly Mother.

Recently, however, I have realized that even this action—while it might address the sexism in LDS theology, at least in part—does little to address the homophobia and transphobia. It still perpetuates ideas of gender and sex binary. And so I’ve spent some time in my morning and evening walks reflecting on the LDS concept of God.

I think the LDS church has something potentially powerful in the idea that there is more to the divine than just an old, bearded, white guy. Including a feminine personage in the divine could be liberating. Even the idea that we have a familial link to them could be empowering.

But it’s ruined by the perspective that they are two entirely and completely separate beings, especially when one has all the power and the other is in the shadows. Separate not only in person, but also in purpose and role.

This perspective leads us to—even encourages us to—do the same thing in the church. We separate the masculine and feminine. Classes are segregated by sex. Roles are segregated by sex. Ordinances are segregated by sex. And our intense focus on idealizing the cisheteronormative portrayal of our heavenly parents forces out those among us who are not cis and who are not hetero.

I wonder, however, if we would be better served seeing God not as two beings as separate—both in person and in role—but as two beings united.

LDS theology teaches that the Godhead consists of three beings who are one in purpose. Perhaps, we can use a similar approach in our portrayal not just of the Godhead, but of, well, God.

We often synonymize “God” and “Heavenly Father”. We even do that with the name we have assigned to Heavenly Father. Although we assign “Elohim” to him, it is a name that is plural in nature.

But what if we reappropriate “God” to mean both Heavenly Father *and* Heavenly Mother? What if we see God as both male and female, both masculine and feminine? What if without one or the other, “God” is incomplete?

What if we have a heavenly father and a heavenly mother not as a pattern to dictate our approaches to sex, gender, and orientation? What if we have a heavenly father and a heavenly mother to remind us that none of us is purely masculine or purely feminine, neither just man nor just woman? What if viewing “God” as both masculine and feminine for it to be whole helps us to know that our unique combination of masculine and feminine is what makes us whole?

What if the song went, “I am a child of God, and they have sent me here”? What if the youth recited instead “We are children of our God, who love us, and we love them”? What if we embraced the idea that because the appearance of God to Moses, to Joseph Smith, to John the Baptist, or to the Nephites is never accompanied by gendered pronouns that perhaps it wasn’t always just Heavenly Father in those instances? What if we portrayed not just Heavenly Father in the temple film speaking to Adam and Eve, but the whole God?

If we can see God as both male and female, then it could help us see the futility in gendering roles and relationships. If each of us is both masculine and feminine (to whatever degree or combination), then none of us is entitled to lead or to be more spiritual or to parent or to baptize or to participate in any of the multitude of gendered activities and responsibilities. If each of us is both masculine and feminine, then trans members can no longer be seen as abnormal and burdened. If each of us is both masculine and feminine, then gay members can be welcomed as full participants in the religion, without threat of church courts and excommunication.

And maybe, just maybe, the sexism, homophobia, and transphobia so prevalent among Latter-day Saints would diminish.

[redemptionbaby]

The Altar is Calling| Arthur/Reader | pt.2

notes: you guys I think will get mad at me for this one lmao

word count:2569

summary: you and Arthur celebrate on your wedding night

“So, tell me about this would-be fiancé of yers, sugar,” Arthur said, his tone between playful and growling. You walked side by side in the autumnal forest on the way back to your house, hand in hand, and he swung your connected arms back and forth in amusement. He was clearly slowing himself down so you could keep pace with his longer strides. He had offered to summon forth some nightmarish steed for you both to ride, but you declined. 

Strange as you were, you were uninterested in theatrics of that caliber. 

“He’s. Uh, male. And has a face and some hair.” Arthur scoffed out a quick laugh. 

“Ain’t nothin special, I’m guessin’? Or are you just tryna spare an old devil’s feelings?” Better yet, are you tryin’ to protect this sonuvabitch from me? “That’s awful sweet of you, buttercup, but I promise you I’ve heard worse.” Your face is unreadable, which is equal parts intriguing, irritating, and nerve wracking for Arthur. Really, you’re just paying attention to the leaves that crunch beneath your heels. You make it a game to try and step on the ones that look the crunchiest. You’re very good at it. Having to think of conversation to make, or recalling any of the identifying characteristics of your fiancé, is making you worse. Arthur, who is easily at least seven feet of demon beef, leans down to be at your eye level. 

“Or maybe… you love him?” Arthur asks, eagerly awaiting the answer which could destroy him. Crush his blackened heart, shatter his damned soul like a crystal chandelier suspended by a rope in the crossfire of a heated sword fight. You stop walking and twitch your nose bizarrely. 

“Chu!” You sneeze, rubbing your nose with a sleeve, still sniffling. Arthur pauses awkwardly, unable to say ‘bless you’.

“No, nothing like that. He’s nice enough I guess, but not at all interesting, you understand. I’m sure marriage to him would have been almost infuriatingly tolerable.” Arthur has only known you for a few hours, but he can already see why someone completely ordinary would bore you to tears. This relaxes him somewhat, because he isn’t boring... Is he?

A question begins to bud on the tip of your tongue when your house comes into view at last. Arthur slides his hand beneath your chin and tips your head up, his eyes roaming over your features in adoration as his sighs. This kiss he plants on your lips is soft, gentle, and almost overwhelmingly warm. Like the tender underbelly of some great beast, the kiss implies near fatal vulnerability just beneath the surface. So of course you kiss back. He parts from you with a smile behind his eyes, and calls to you in a low whisper. You’ve never heard your name spoken so kindly. 

“Prepare yourself, sweet thing. I’ll be back come midnight to collect you for our wedding night.”

—————

Rehearsal was boring, but you were distracted, much to the displeasure of your parents and the staff. What did Arthur mean? Did he just want to hit it and quit it, or was this like, it? Were you going to pack your bags and move to hell? Not the most unappealing idea, given the current circumstances, you just would like to be more well informed. 

Your rehearsal is concluded with a lot of aggravated sighing from everyone but your fiancé, who has his patient gaze affixed to you still. Despite everything, he kisses your hand innocently and bids you goodnight. You almost felt bad about being unfaithful to him, but was there really any faithfulness to begin with, when you didn’t feel much of anything for him? His parents would just find another girl anyways, one probably much more sensible and agreeable and normal. 

After dinner and a hot bath, you retire to your room and change into your nightgown, which you’ve never really considered sexy, but you were on rather short notice and you weren’t sure what exactly to be preparing for. You aren’t really sure why you’re even thinking of this, as if what happened today wasn’t just a delusion of your hopeful romantic mind. Wouldn’t it be nice, though?

Being all warm from the bath, and your stomach full from dinner, you can feel yourself getting sleepy, and the clock is still a ways from midnight. Maybe if you sleep, you’ll dream of Arthur. Then again, when you wake up, maybe you won’t remember any of it. 

————

A clawed finger traces over your cheek lightly, trailing down to toy with the modest collar of your nightgown and the little ribbon bow that adorns it. You really are such a darling thing. Innocent, sweet. Everything Arthur couldn’t be. Everything he’d been told he could never have. 

Your eyes begin to open, and your gaze followed up the demon’s arm and shoulder, until your eyes meet his. His eyes are predatory and dark, but only as a thin veneer over his fears of absolute rejection. You were bound to him now, yes, but you weren’t mind controlled. He wouldn’t do a thing like that, no matter how lonely he got. 

“When did you get here? In my room, that is.” You grasped his hand gently and brought it back up to your cheek. It was super toasty and nice. Arthur reveled in the contact and the pleased look on your face. 

“This ain’t yer room, sweetness. We’re in my domain. Jus’ made it look like yer room so you’d feel comfortable,” he uttered, almost like he didn’t want you to hear it, in case you’d be mad. Upon closer inspection, the rosary that was kept hung next to your door was absent. It made sense that he wouldn’t recreate that detail. 

“Is this my home now, too?” You asked. 

“Only if you want it to be. I could return you to the world above if you wanted, too,” he sighed. “But you’d never be free of me. Not forever.” You rub your thumb thoughtfully, patiently along the underside of Arthur’s wrist as you childishly cling to his arm. He can’t tell if your comfort is out of affection, pity, or something else. But he knows what he wants for it to be. 

The demon sits down on the bed, seemingly bigger than your bed at home, and you sit up to be level with him. Your nightgown is caught beneath you, pulling some of the fabric taut and flush against the swell of your breasts. Unintentional or not, it doesn’t go unnoticed.

You look up and see a sudden intensity in Arthur’s eyes, accompanied by an otherworldly glow. You felt compelled to ask your unsaid question from earlier. 

“Why was your altar in the woods, waiting for someone like me?” He closes his eyes and breathes deeply, as if attempting to summon emotional strength. He wants this to work. He wants you to know all of him, and for him to know all of you. And this is as good a start as any. 

A long time ago, I was in love with a human woman, and she was in love with me, or so I like to believe. Despite how different we were, and the worlds we came from, we were in love. So we chose our favorite spot in the woods for a little ceremony, a ritual that would tie us together forever. I said my vows, but when it came to be her turn she wouldn’t look me in the eyes. I should have seen it coming from miles away, but I ignored the signs. I just wanted to be happy with someone. 

She knew that I would not and could not join her in the mortal realm and give her the life she wanted. She said that it didn’t bother her, that she still loved me, but I don’t think it ever stopped weighing on her mind. She left me at that altar. Donned a silver rosary so that any contact I tried to make would burn me. I still have the scars from trying. In the end, she decided we were too different after all.

Arthur waited for something. Pity, disgust, admonishment, anything. But all he felt was the gentle and smooth flesh of your hand, almost cool against his warm skin, cupping his cheek and going up to tangle in his hair and stroke one of your thumbs over his blackened horns. How you knew that would comfort him was a mystery. 

————-

Your scent engulfs him as he buries his face into your hair, you smell wet and wild and woodsy, like spices and potpourri alongside the scent of a rotted log turned over, one with an entire ecosystem of newts and worms and beetles subsisting on fresh, rich soil. You smell of the death that sustains life, and it endears you to the demon all the more. In you he finds the sense of love impending— of a love that hasn’t yet bloomed, but even so he can imagine it clearly. It’s intoxicating and tear-jerking. 

He looks at you with softness undefined when he asks:

“This—what’s between us. Do you feel it too?” His skin burns pleasantly beneath your palms. “I feel it— I feel it so goddamn much I could die!” He doesn’t have to explain what he means. It’s an all encompassing and infinite fire between you two. One that burns with potential and promise, like your life to this point has been waiting, and your real life has just begun. Though it may be dangerous, you can’t refuse it. 

“I feel it, Arthur. I do.” The way you utter his name like you’re coming off of a high note, like it’s been practiced in your head, shoots straight to his loins. There’s a growing urgency in your voice, and he feels his body screaming for him to respond to your needs, regardless of whether or not you know of them. The adoration in his eyes betrays the depravity he feels. 

His hands are large, warm, and calloused. They cup your cheeks as Arthur leans his entire body into you and kisses you like he’s trying to devour you. His hands trail down to the swell of your throat, the curve of your waist, the meat of your thighs, where he grips and pulls you into his lap unapologetically. Your quiet and restrained mewls are going to be the death of him. He grits out your name. 

“Baby. Angel. Tell me you want this. Tell me that and I’ll be yours.”

“Arthur, I want this. I want you.” The moment you finish he pushes his mouth against yours so hard you can almost hear your teeth click together. His mouth is raw on yours, with animalistic amounts of teeth and tongue, with passion. You feel a few hot, wayward tears against your cheeks, and you know you’re not the one crying.

The demon parts, looking at you for approval as he places his hands at the hem of your nightgown, pulling it up over your head when you nod. Your underthings are not removed with the same grace, as they’re sliced apart by the delicate work of his claws. There’s a ravenous fury in him, but he pauses to appreciate every curve and mark and pocket of fat on your innocent body, nervousness radiates off of you in waves while you tremble under the heavy weight of his gaze, clearly trying to stay brave and keep your eyes on him.

“You ever been intimate with a man before, darlin’?”

“No. I’ve only ever been kissed--”

“By who?” He blurts out, unable to contain his budding jealousy.

“Just friends. Playmates when I was young, but I fear I know just about as much now as I did then,” you trail off, averting your eyes as you submit to embarrassment. Arthur’s fingers delicately cup your chin and guide your gaze back to him.

“A virgin bride, then, how cute,” he croons, a gleam of something sadistic in his eye, but gone in an instant. “I’ll take care o’ you, promise. You’ll never know pain from me unless you wish for it.” He presses his forehead to yours, gently.

“My wife. My beautiful, sweet, strange little wife…”

The word strange had never sounded so lovely to you. It had, for as long as you could remember, made you unmarriageable and discomforting to others of your class. It was something that people called you behind your back with quieted giggles.

But coming from Arthur, it made you feel special. Like it was something wonderful no one else could have.

Your awareness returns when one of his hands finds the curve of your breast, toying with one of your nipples while he gently bites and sucks the other. His hand travels further, reaching your ass and grabbing, pulling you even closer-- right up against the bulge under the simple cloth he wears. You get your first taste of delicious friction as he begins rutting against you fervently. He thumbs your clit while he latches onto your throat, smiling at every choked moan and breath you release at the new sensation.

You soon find yourself laid gently on your back, the curtains of the canopy on “your” bed closing, much of the light going with it, but Arthur's eyes and patches of his warmest skin, like his palms and across his nose, have a faint light about them, as well as beneath the cracks of his horns.

______________

Arthur grips your thighs and guides you to wrap your legs around him as he leans forward and over you. There’s an intensity behind his eyes that’s frightening, and yet you can’t look away. His hand comes back to your cheek, and everything stops.

“What do you want?” you’re not sure what he means. The way he says it makes it seem so much deeper than just permission for sex. Tears form at his eyes once more, and they drip onto your cheeks.

“I’ll be anything for you. Just say what you want, and that’s what I’ll be.” 

An idea strikes you. A thought that made your eyes widen enough for Arthur to pause and worry. Your palm comes up to his cheek and you can feel his hot tears run down your arm. The mortification— the scathing and paralyzing fear of rejection has the demon choking down a sob. That rejection seems imminent and inevitable, with the pitiful display he thinks he’s cultivated. Who would want this? A broken down hell creature, battered and torn away from all that is strong and all that is beautiful. You would never—

“You don’t have to be ready for this. I will still have you. I will still want to be here. Relationships aren’t based in the realization of fantasy—,” you move your hands down his body to his waist, where you gently guide him from atop you to lay on his side, face to face with you. 

“This is not a play, you have no part to fulfill. You don’t have to be anyone or anything but you.”

He hates for you to see him this way, but he would feel even more pitiable and ashamed turning away from you. You scooch closer, wrapping your arms around him and pressing light kisses to his face. 

Sobs turn to full on wails, and yet you don’t let him out of your loving hold. 

[leam1983]

Felix the Reaper - Thoughts? Review?

Can't really go into too much detail, it's rather late as it is and the ol' bed is beckoning, but I also want to couch this down somewhere while it's still fresh...

So, Death as a concept - as a character - obviously permeates the whole of human civilization. You've got Anubis and Osiris, Humbaba the Undying, thousands of years of mythology surrounding the concept of life leaving you and your flesh-bits rotting, generation after generation of people processing grief in visual and abstract forms - and now, we're sort of living in a context where Death isn't really all that scary anymore. We understand it, we can push it back in some cases - and when we can't, then we can sort of map out its occurrence. What started as just this inexplicable force swiping at hunter-gatherers and that warranted Danse Macabre paintings across Medieval France is now something we can put an almost-precise date and time on. There's a bunch of "death clocks" online that project a potential DOD based on your age, gender, health status, habits and BMI; sort of turning the concept of memento mori into a shockingly literate manifestation.

You will die, one day. We're so aware of that that a bit of science and Web design wizardry can shit out a half-serious guesstimation of when it'll happen. Pre-Colonial aspects of Death survive in Mexican culture in the forms of both calaveras and the Santa Muerte cult, and the inevitability of death now even counts as a game mechanic in the SoulsBorne genre. You've got Terry Pratchett's extremely Humanist rendition of Death and, well, Hollywood faff à la Meet Joe Black. The short of it is we're far from the robe-wearing zombie we used to plop everywhere as a reminder of our own supposedly sinful urges or on the fleeting nature of youth.

Another item that's of interest is the notion of life and youth being represented as the Maiden - and of Death being in love with her. Sometimes, the affection isn't returned and disgust is shown. That's most of Holbein's death-related works, in this case. In others, the Maiden leans in, lets the skeletal figure push a hand underneath her skirt and against one of her thighs. They share a kiss, press against one another in the way honest lovers might. He's a dried-out corpse with a bloated midsection and she might've stepped out of some sixteenth-century church in the Netherlands, but their liplock is intense and genuine. In one statue, the Maiden looks like she might've just surrendered to the Reaper's arms, but her hands are also touching his scythe....

Eroticism, a commentary on suicide or plain acceptance - there's several ways to look at that duality, and it's even managed to worm its way over to cultures that don't natively have similar associations with human remains. The Japanese, for instance, do have their own Gashadokuro concept, but the locals of Nagasaki needed their initially-exclusive exposure to Portuguese traders to shrink down their massive skeletal eidolons of doom and to design woodblock prints where a Danse Macabre effectively meets the dress codes and habits of the locals under sakoku, or the Emperor-mandated closing-off of Japan to the outside world.

Death as a dancer. Death, especially, as a force that's quite lively, despite its attributes. A force that falls head-over-heels for Life in its own anthropomorphized form.

This is what Danish devs Kong Orange opted to work on in Felix the Reaper. Their Death has a human name, has a thing for the stuffier ends of Business Casual, is maybe eighty pounds overweight - and won't ever, ever, let the music die. He's also in love, obviously - and in love with Betty, the equally portly and nimble personification of Life. The pair look a bit like a Fernando Botero couple waiting to happen, with ample waists and sagging breasts held aloft by spindle-thin legs - but if Ghostbusters taught us not to cross the streams, then you can assume that Life and Death starting a tango in the same workspace could have severe coincidences on the biosphere. Not that Felix cares, he'd want nothing more than for Betty to notice him. His supervisor is voiced off-camera by Sir Patrick Stewart, who's as delightful as always, and who sort of plays the part of the well-meaning supervisor who eventually realizes his new employee's quirks don't diminish his potential.

And what is Felix's job, exactly? Well, he's Death. He's not getting paid to distribute hugs and kisses, obviously. He gets sent to the mortal plane to, well, kill people, and more specifically, to kill people in precise and pre-ordained ways. His "televator" takes him to an instant frozen in time, and he has to alter the surrounding scene so that once time resumes its course, the requisite accident or happenstance occurs. You do that by picking up items, flicking switches, and placing targets in the path of whatever it is that's set to kill them. You also move the sun around the world using a magical sundial doohickey, as Death can only move in shadows. You're basically Death in the same sense as in the Final Destination movies, except you really, really, really want to twerk and sashay your voluminous heinie through the small changes needed to turn a nothing-burger into a drunk huntsman getting his head stuck in the stump of a decapitated deer, so the dejected and near-sighted hunter you've been following mistakes him for a target and shoots his spear through his brain-case.

And yes, Felix does twerk and he certainly sashays. Dude dresses like a stuffy librarian, sure, but seemingly loses all inhibitions once his headphones come up - which allows the player to share in his personal soundtrack. This particular Reaper seems to have a thing for very bass-driven and samply EDM, with occasional forays into Ambient and Jazz. His many, many, many idle animations all sync with whatever it is that's playing, and so does the variety of prances, somersaults, grands jetés and twirls he goes through while moving from place to place. Comparatively, you get the sense that Felix's coworkers are more the dour and solemn type - with a few unsubtle cameos from Skeletor and Manny Calavera in the opening cinematic - and Felix, well...

Let's just say it's a wonder he has those hips and that paunch. If he twirls around for every little thing he does, then you'd assume he only sits down to hoover an Olympic athlete's worth of food once a day. Or maybe I'm overthinking things because, well, death.

And therein lies the problem, honestly. In thinking, I mean. Felix is a puzzle game through-and-through, and also ties into a Challenge system in order to really tickle those completionist nerves. The starting scenarios are braindead-easy, but the later ones left me stumped for fifteen minutes per screen. Add to that the notion that the game doesn't check off some of them as complete if you only do the bare essentials, and you're left with another would-be mobile offering that doesn't reach its endpoint until you exhaust every little bit it has to offer - even if you're effectively done with the main gameplay loop. It's a great game, but there's just not a whole lot to do in those six chapters, beyond repeating bits of drudgery until your noodle clicks or you give up and look up a solution online.

It's a shame, too. The isometric perspective is perfect, and the game could've been pitched as a hybrid between a puzzler and, say, XCOM: Enemy Unknown. You'd take cover to hide from moving targets or to escape daylight and instead of shooting at them, would emerge from cover to move items around or solve puzzle elements. You could've had Death evoke the illusion of a friendly face to inject some more concrete narrative delivery, for instance. Steal a friend's features, magically conceal yourself, and then have your target piece her own weaknesses together, leaving you to retreat and regroup before executing your plan of attack. But no, everything is out in the open and everything is spelled out for you. Kong Orange could've also stolen a page from Hitman Go and set multiple triggers in place to truly sandbox the experience.

What is there is fun - it oozes personality and charm - but there's just not enough of it to justify Steam's full asking price, IMO. Comparatively, the Switch's online store is currently running a sale for it (as of Sunday the 15th, at least) and lists it as being 2,15$. Two bucks for a few hours of harmless fun is a pretty good deal, as far as I'm concerned. It also underlines why the devs and Daedalic Entertainment alike consider it as having "bombed", as the marketing effectively targeted Devolver's usual stable. It's not crunchy enough, however, and not exactly irreverent enough to warrant that comparison. A more hefty Felix could've earned its full 20$ price point on PC - and Kong Orange's very design for Betty makes it obvious that if Felix ever returns, it'll be in a co-op setup with the love of his, well, unlife.

I'd be up for more of this cuddly, swinging skelly - assuming the devs mature a tad and put something together that's just a smidge more compelling.

[themattress]

OUAT AND ME: SEASON 5

Story - The story for the first half of the season is the Dark Swan Saga and the story for the second half is the Underworld Saga.  The Dark Swan Saga is split between a flashback story where the main characters travel to Camelot to help free Emma from the Dark One curse and a present day story where they are back in Storybrooke with no memories of their time in Camelot and Emma appears to have become a full-on villain who seeks to claim the power of the sword Excalibur for herself. The Underworld Saga is a direct follow-up to the Dark Swan Saga, as the heroes brave the dangers of the Underworld, a limbo zone between life and death that curiously appears to resemble Storybrooke, in order to retrieve a fallen friend.

The Dark Swan Saga...should not have happened. Or to put it more clearly, Emma should not have ever been the Dark One and Storybrooke should not have been a setting here at all, as it ends up ruining the potential inherit in a Camelot-based arc. And that potential is all over the place, everything about this show's interpretation of Camelot is subversive and unique and reminiscent of OUAT at its best, and yet it takes further and further of a backseat in favor of Emma as the Dark One....whenever it's not taking a backseat to elements from Disney/Pixar's Brave! Yes, this is a problem I neglected to point out when talking about Season 4: the Disney influence on the show that was always there in moderation has started to become more pronounced, and it's to the show's detriment. Brave isn't even an adapted story, not even loosely like Frozen was, it's a pure Disney/Pixar invention. And yet the show is linking it to Camelot and the legend of King Arthur!? Frankly, I find that to be a little insulting.

And on top of everything, the arc pulls a plot twist in the last third that is completely unnecessary and merely overcomplicates things while pleasing virtually no-one: Emma isn't evil at all, but Hook is because she turned him into a Dark One against his will in Camelot when he was dying of a mortal wound! Given that the arc was doing an equally asinine thing with Rumple in claiming that he had become a pure hero worthy of pulling Excalibur from its stone because he threw some magic dust at a bear, this twist just adds to already mounting frustration. And then they pull ANOTHER twist where after Hook comes to his senses and has his big self-sacrifice moment, we learn that Rumple was still evil all along and has invalidated Hook's sacrifice to destroy the Darkness by taking it all back, becoming the Darkest Dark One who is more powerful then ever before, with Belle being none the wiser.

So after that bullshit is through, we get the Underworld Saga and...it's honestly the best that OUAT has been since Season 3! It seriously feels like the Neverland Saga and the Wicked Saga mixed in a blender, and while that's not always ideal, for the most part it works perfectly. Many of the characters begin to feel like their old selves again, we actually start to get moments of hope and happiness back even amidst the bleakness of the setting, Zelena finally begins changing for the better, we get an influx of returning characters who - for the most part - it's great to see again, and we are provided with an excellent Big Bad, Hades.

But sadly, it was not to last. The Underworld Saga ends with a highly questionable decision, in the third-to-last episode, leaving just a two-part season finale left. If that decision hadn't been made and the show hadn't been renewed, we could have had ourselves a blowout finale that left most viewers satisfied. But because neither of those things happen, we instead get a weak finale which sets the stage for weak finales in the next two seasons as well, and all three of these finales hold elements that could have worked blended together into one finale, but are underwhelming when taken on their own. If there was any need to confirm that this show's best days were long behind it, this absolute joke of a finale was that confirmation.

Characters - Misery, misery, misery. That's what you've chosen.

* This is Emma Swan's worst season, bar none. From beginning to end, the writing is all about Emma Torture Porn, putting her through metaphorical and literal Hell and turning this once proud hero into a punching bag. No matter what she does, no matter what choice she makes, it's always the wrong way to do things and she is endlessly shamed for it. This is a natural follow-up to what was happening in Season 4, where the definition of Emma's role as "the Savior" underwent a drastic shift. Initially, it was simply to break the Dark Curse, but then Emma took control of her own destiny and redefined it to mean the protector of the residents of Storybrooke so that they can maintain their happy endings or be free to obtain them. But in Seasons 4 and 5, it suddenly got redefined as Emma being personally responsible for giving everyone their happy endings, her own happiness be damned. That's why she was obligated to sacrifice herself to the Dark One Curse for Regina, and why her being the Dark One instantly causes her to be treated as the worst Big Bad to ever menace Storybrooke despite barely doing anything actually villainous. In fact, "Emma gets punished for doing good" is a pretty recurring theme at this point. It's tiring to root for such a perpetually miserable heroine, and so while other things hold my investment in this season, Emma is sadly not one of them.

* Snow and Charming have one good episode in the Dark Swan Saga, but that's not enough to make up for what utterly boring characters and utterly horrible parents they are in every other episode. The fact that they don't lift a finger to find Emma, talk to her, and get her to see reason when they think she's evil is beyond disgraceful, especially when it happens in the same arc where them being written as surrogate parents to Regina is taken to a whole new level of creepy. Like, a sickening level of creepy. They are suddenly written well, in regards to their parentage of Emma and in regards to everything else, in the Underworld Saga, but again, the show not ending means that it's not going to last into the next story arc.

* Henry really comes into his own this season. Being written like a teenager instead of a child does wonders for his character, as even amidst fantastical fairy tale backdrops and with the magical position of Author, he struggles with real teenage issues that anyone who is or has ever been a teenager can relate to. He experiences his first crush, struggles with trying to stand as more of an equal with the adult heroes, and even undergoes what's basically a crisis of faith. And now that he's past puberty, Jared Gilmore is a much better actor than he's been in the past, finally selling the material that's written for his character the way it needs to be.

* Regina starts off in full Mary Sue mode, following up naturally from Season 4. "The Price" is an episode that is everything wrong with her character in microcosm. However, after a few episodes pass she settles down into a relatively inoffensive, bland character for the most part. In The Underworld Saga, there are even times when she is downright likable, which almost distracts from how ludicrously good she has it in a place that is allegedly full of her resentful victims, whom she does absolutely nothing to help. Unfortunately, because of the questionable decision that was made by the writers in the penultimate episode, the two-part finale brings her full circle, with both said finale and the show going forward suffering for it.

* If Rumple had a return to form in Season 4, then Season 5 makes the issues with his character in Season 3 look miniscule by comparison. His imp self, whether featuring in flashbacks or as the form the Darkness takes to needle Emma or Hook into embracing it, is still a delight that Robert Carlyle clearly enjoys playing. But his human self, Mr. Gold, is handled atrociously. First he is an over-the-top coward beyond what he ever was in the past, then insufferably smug about being a "hero" even though he doesn't deserve that position, then it looks like he might just make the final turn to good before he swings in the opposite direction and becomes the Darkest Dark One, and as the Darkest Dark One he is a cold, abusive dickwad who isn't fun to watch and Robert Carlyle doesn't seem to be having as much fun playing, as he starts phoning it in on more occasions than is usual for an actor of his caliber. It's only in the last five episodes, when Belle is taken out of the picture by a sleeping spell, that he suddenly regains some of his former glory and becomes engaging again, but even then the series not ending deprives him of a conclusion at a point where he could have one, so we're stuck with the Darkest Dark One for a whole 'nother season.

* Hook is mostly great in this season. In the Dark Swan Saga, he is badly handled and often behaving insufferable in the Storybrooke parts of the story, culminating in his turn as Dark Hook which, while Colin O'Donoghue performs it amazingly, was highly unnecessary and only serves to convolute an already heavily loaded arc at the last minute. However, in the Camelot parts of the story, he is on top form as a romantic hero, complete with his original pirate garb. And he really gets to shine in the Underworld Saga, where we see him be brave in the face of bloody torture, recover from depression and rediscover hope, find closure with his older brother Liam, confirm his and Emma's relationship as True Love, and finally be resurrected by Zeus after being ordained a True Hero by him. He sadly has precious little to do in the finale and next season will totally forget about all this, but taken on its own, it's good stuff.

* How do you solve a problem like Belle? Put her to sleep, apparently. Yes, after having her re-enter a romantic relationship with Rumple (following a ridiculous, not-fooling-anyone tease that maybe she won't take him back), Belle learns that she's been duped again since Rumple had taken back the Darkness before she slept with him. But it's too late now - she's pregnant with his child! And she learns this from Rumple, at the same time he reveals his deception to her and finally gives her a "This is who I am, take it or leave it" ultimatum.  She spirals into an erratic mess, tries to redeem another bad boy romantic interest only to end up condemning his soul to the River Styx, and then puts herself under a sleeping spell after giving Rumple the extremely poorly-worded order to "do whatever it takes" to get her and their unborn child out of the Underworld safely. Rumple then literally objectifies her by placing her in Pandora's Box, which he lets slip through a portal in the season finale. And that's literally it. The writers aren't even trying with Belle. They just don’t care about her. She's done as a character.

* Robin Hood's soul is obliterated. I know it's weird to start off like this, with the last thing that happens to him in the season, but that really does overshadow what little else he does in the season where he was ironically made an "official" regular. This is the culmination of the misuse of his character: being made Deader than Dead by his rapist's psycho boyfriend. And yeah, the next two seasons retcon this fate, but when Season 5 is taken as is, then you enter the finale on a sour note because the bleakest thing possible happened to someone who really didn't deserve it, all so that Regina can make certain developments that would have better off not being made. It again makes me wish that Season 5 was the final season, since then there would be no option to make those developments and Robin could be spared. But as it stands, it's the last indignity inflicted upon the legendary hero, and on Sean Maguire.

* Zelena is promoted to regular this season, to the surprise of no-one. What is surprising is that the writing issues she had in the previous seasons are all but absent here. Zelena is an incredibly entertaining, funny, deliciously wicked, sympathetic, nuanced and ultimately redeemed character this season, with Rebecca Mader doing some of her best acting work. Her joining forces with the villainous King Arthur, her giving birth to her child, her tragic romance with Hades, and her reconciliation with her mother and sister are all highlights.

* Hades, the Big Bad of the Underworld Saga, is the best Big Bad this show has had since the Neverland Saga's Peter Pan. He's devious, underhanded and hateful, but he's also funny and smooth and, when it comes to Zelena, legitimately romantic. Greg Germann's performance is naturally the glue that holds it all together; he is just so charismatic. Hades is also a great example of a nuanced villain who doesn't end up getting redeemed, as in a great twist the curse that Zelena's True Love's Kiss breaks, a curse to stop his heart and dull his feelings, was put on him by Zeus for a damn good reason, as he is an absolutely sadistic psychopath with his heart beating. The only downside to Hades (besides the needless Disney-esque fiery blue hair effect they occasionally use on him) is that his defeat is rather anticlimactic, hinging entirely on the fact that he forged the only thing in existence that could kill him. If he hadn't made such a monumentally stupid blunder, taking him down would have been much harder. His actual death scene is well-done, but in context it’s pretty silly.

* Camelot introduces an onslaught on new characters: King Arthur who is reimagined as an insecure, self-righteous tyrant, and his wife Queen Guinevere whom he has under mind control so that she's unwaveringly loyal to him. There is also the short-lived Sir Percival, the even shorter-lived Sir Kay, and Sir Morgan who ends up being the Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court. Sir Morgan's daughter, Violet, is Henry's adorkable new girlfriend. The nearby kingdom of Dunbroch gives us Merida and her father King Fergus, whom was surprisingly allowed to get killed off. And we even have some returning characters like Sir Lancelot (not killed by Cora after all), Mulan (suddenly a lone mercenary despite having last been seen joining the Merry Men), and Ruby (and oh boy, I'll get back to Ruby soon...)

Two absolutely pivotal characters to the show's overall lore are Merlin and Nimue. Merlin, who contrary to usual depictions is a young black guy, is the Sorcerer who was constantly alluded to in Season 4, responsible for such things as the position of the Author. His ex-lover Nimue became the first Dark One through drinking in the power of the Holy Grail and then perverting it for murderous vengeance. It was Merlin who reforged the Holy Grail into Excalibur afterward, then breaking it in half and creating the Dark One Dagger out of the top half. Nimue, meanwhile, is the closest to a Big Bad that the Dark Swan Saga has apart from Emma and Hook, influencing them as an avatar of the Darkness prior to her actual soul, still bonded to the Darkness, rejoining the land of the living alongside the other dead Dark Ones. With her ashen-gray face and creepy monotone voice, Nimue is a truly unsettling figure.

* While there are a few new characters encountered in the Underworld such as Hercules, Megara and Zeus, the main attraction is all of the returning dead characters they were able to get back on the show. Neal, Cora, Henry Sr., Peter Pan, Cruella De Vil, the Blind Witch, Prince James, Milah, Liam, Gaston, the Sorcerer's Apprentice....even obscure characters like Stealthy and Claude! Some are utilized better than others, but it's great to see all of them.

And then there's one living character whose return I could have done without - Dorothy Gale, who is even blander as an adult than she was as a child! And to add insult onto injury, the writers clearly set up a gay storyline between Mulan and Ruby in the Dark Swan Saga, only for Disney to apparently step in and not allow it since Mulan is in the Disney Princess lineup and her in a gay romance is bad for the brand (then why'd you allow her to have feelings for fellow Disney Princess Aurora then!?), and so out of nowhere we get the Ruby/Dorothy romance in the span of just a single episode. Watching Meghan Ory desperately attempt to act like she's in love with the wooden actress who plays Dorothy is painful to watch, and this being Ruby's final appearance just hammers how how utterly wasted this poor character was.

* The two-part season finale brings another unwelcome return: the Dragon from the abominable "Selfless, Brave and True" episode of Season 2 (like Lancelot, he is retconned into having survived). We are also introduced to Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, and the Land of Untold Stories in which they reside...and as I'll detail in my next post, this is a place and a concept that is so wasted, even by the standards set by this show, that it's mind-boggling. Last and most certainly least, we have the Evil Queen that Dr. Jekyll's serum brings out of Regina, with Lana Parilla in full camp mode while playing her. And after a fake-out where it looks like she's dealt with, she's shown to be alive and will be our next antagonist. Joy.

Atmosphere - Whether you like this season's atmosphere or not, there is no denying that it has distinct atmosphere: dark and morose and foreboding, to the point of bleakness, coupled with a sweeping epic and romantic feel. I personally feel like this atmosphere is perfectly appropriate when the stakes are raised so high and the show is dealing with two of the oldest mythologies in the world, Arthurian and Greek respectively, but it seems that too frequently the show doesn't know when to hold back and reign it in a little. This is especially the case in the final two episodes of each arc (not including the two-part season finale). I must definitely give props, however, to the designers of the Underworld's version of Storybrooke, or as fans liked to call it: "Scarybrooke". With the decaying buildings, red sky filter, and broken clock tower in the middle of the street, you really feel like the characters are traversing an eerie new world even though it's technically the regular old Storybrooke set that is being used.  

Also, despite being featured in the wretched episodes "The Price" and "Dreamcatcher" and has the first part of the wretched finale named after it, I really like the usage of the song "Only You" by Alison Moyet. It adds kind of a (suitably romantic) theme song to the season.

Episode Quality - While the Dark Swan Saga may not be a good one overall, its episode quality is a mixed bag. "The Broken Kingdom" and "Nimue" are easily the best episodes, since they are almost exclusively focused on Camelot. "The Dark Swan" and "The Price" are easily the worst episodes, starting the arc on off the worst possible foot. "Dreamcatcher" and, especially due its Brave connections, "The Bear and the Bow" are vey weak episodes, while "Siege Perilous" and, in spite of its Brave connections, "The Bear King" are surprisingly strong episodes. And then there's the Dark Hook trilogy of "Birth", "Broken Heart" and "Swan Song", which have some amazing visuals, brilliant acting, and dramatically thrilling moments, but they unfortunately can't shake off just how badly the Dark Hook twist affects the story. I never liked the idea of making Emma the Dark One, but if the show was going to do that, then they should have gone the whole way with it rather than pull this kind of bait and switch.

The first four episodes of the Underworld Saga, dedicated to saving Hook, are its strongest: "Souls of the Departed", "Labor of Love", "Devil's Due" and "The Brothers Jones" flow really well into one another and all have their share of memorable moments and interesting character development. "Our Decay" and "Sisters" are also strong episodes, although they have some drawbacks such as a well-acted but painfully uncomfortable scene between Rumple and Belle in the former and the inexplicable wasting of Prince James in the latter. "Her Handsome Hero" and "Ruby Slipper" are the only truly weak episodes in the arc, and even they have their moments, usually courtesy of Hades. Finally, the climactic "Firebird" and "Last Rites" are of the same quality - everything that transpires in the Underworld is fantastic, but everything that doesn't is flawed. The flashback in the former is completely nonsensical and does Emma's character a huge disservice, which is especially a shame when her present-day material is some of her best in the season.  The Storybrooke-based events in the latter culminate in Robin Hood's death and I've already made my thoughts known about that, but the quest in the Underworld shared between Hook and Arthur is something I never knew I needed, with Colin O'Donoghue and Liam Garrigan's chemistry being off the charts and the resolution we get for both the Underworld and Arthur's character being absolutely perfect.

And then there's the two-part finale, "Only You" and "An Untold Story", which I think actually holds up even worse than it did when it first aired. Emma revealing to everyone else that Hook is back alive, Rumple absorbing all Storybrooke's magic into the Olympian Crystal, Emma and Regina's argument that makes Henry think Regina is regressing, Henry blaming magic for everything and setting out with Violet on a quest to destroy it, and both the heroes and Rumple reacting accordingly all happens within the first 10 minutes. Just 4 minutes later, Emma and Regina are in Boston, Henry and Violet are in New York, and Snow, Charming, Hook and Zelena are in the Land of Untold Stories. And then, despite all this rushing, we end up spending 7 fucking minutes on a woe-is-me, martyr complex speech by Regina to Emma in Neal's old apartment. Regina and her angst ends up slowing down the second part as well, as the process of her using Jekyll's serum and separating the Evil Queen from her (encouraged by a re-idiofied Snow) goes on forever. The final scene being the Evil Queen's return, with her promising to be the next Big Bad to threaten Storybrooke, is the exact opposite of how to get me hyped for next season. At least with Season 4′s finale, there was the promise of going to Camelot in addition to Emma as the Dark One. What does this finale have to accompany the Evil Queen factor? Mr. Hyde and his invisible friends? Weak!

There are some elements in this finale that work and that I would have liked to see in a series finale at this point - Henry and Violet hanging out together, Rumple with his Olympian Crystal plot, Neal having some posthumous relevancy, the Land Without Magic outside Storybroke being a setting, and the full-circle element in regards to "New York City Serenade". But none of those things are worth how they were utilized here, alongside the reappearance of the Dragon, the wasting of the Land of Untold Stories, and Henry's cringe-inducing speech about believing in magic that Jared Gilmore probably won't be putting on any career highlight reels.

Overall - Season 5 is probably the most personally frustrating season of the show to me. I love it, I hate it, I find joy in it, I find despair in it, I can enjoy it for what it is while also agonizing over what it could have been. The one consistent I have in regards to it is that it should have been the final season of the show. If Adam and Eddy had allowed that, they still would have had enough goodwill from viewers to potentially do more in the OUAT universe afterward (ex: more spin-offs like Once Upon a Time in Wonderland; maybe one where they could utilize their Land of Untold Stories idea which seems tailor-made for an anthology series). Because as lows as this season's low points are, its highs are not going to be matched by the next two seasons, and that was the death of OUAT as a profitable franchise.

[ymiwritesstuff]

Secret Admiration

I decided to once more combine two requests so I hope this is alright! I loved working on this so thank you so much for requesting and I hope you enjoy!

Jojo’s Bizarre Adventure Part 1: Phantom Blood

Dio Brando x Reader

Summary: It was no surprise that Dio had never met anyone able to match with him in terms of strength, however during one fateful night under the full moon, he finally witnesses equal power and later learns to appreciate it.

The sound of Dio’s steady footsteps echoed around the dark hallway that was lightly illuminated by the rays of the full moon. The sounds of the unwanted commotion coming from one of the rooms that held his human prey were getting louder with every step the blond vampire took. The women in the locked room were screaming for their lives, seemingly under attack by something he couldn’t recognize from the sounds alone. Dio had gotten used to the desperate pleas of mercy but this time the screams were far to grueling, even for him, hence why he was now approaching the locked metal door.

Just as the Lord was about to open the door and make his way inside, the interior suddenly went silent. No sounds of terror or fighting. Just pure, unsettling silence. Dio raised his brow in puzzlement and slowly opened the door, being greeted by the usual darkness, but no signs of life. However the second he stepped in, Dio could feel an unknown, but threatening presence and could faintly hear a set of animalistic growls around him. Though the darkness weakened his vision, he could see the bodies of his future meals brutally murdered, their intestines ripped out and their blood mercilessly spilled all around the room. Something was off.

Suddenly, from the corner of his sharp eye, Dio noticed something lunging towards him at an inhuman speed. Thanks to his quick reflexes, the vampire was able to step out of the way and avoid the attack of the unknown creature. With a scoff, he punched the stone wall of his castle, breaking the surface and allowing the moonlight to seep through the fresh hole. With the help of this new source of light, Dio was able to see the beast before him. The wolf-like creature was standing on its hind legs, a vicious snarl laid across its snout and fresh crimson blood dripping from its canines. The animal was enormous, towering over him, the sight sending shivers down any mortal’s spine. However, Dio was intrigued.

“My.. This is certainly interesting..” His voice cuts through the low growls of the werewolf, his amber eyes firmly locked on it. It didn’t blindly lunge at him again, which lead him to believe that behind that thick fur and those dangerous eyes was a conscious human. Dio took a few steps to the side, the animal’s eyes immediately following his every move. Werewolves were a familiar concept to Dio, having heard of them in many works of fiction, but that’s what he had thought them to be. Fictional. However his eyes didn’t fool him as this creature before him was without a doubt a living, breathing werewolf. How dare such an inferior beast invade his lair?

“You should know, the last mutt that dared to anger me met a gruesome end,” Dio’s eyes briefly looked at the limp bodies around the room and scoffed, returning them on the beast again.

“And it seems you have destroyed my property and that is something I do not tolerate well.”

The werewolf’s eyes were glued on his form, ready to strike in case he tried something. A dark chuckle escapes Dio’s lips. “However. I shall give you one chance.” Dio respected the power emitting from the animal and it would be a shame to put an end to a potential follower. 

“Revert back to your human form and join me.” He noticed the wolf’s eyes widening ever so slightly, further proving that this was no mindless bloodthirsty beast. It had intellect and that intellect and power were something Dio desired to have on his side. 

“Or remain a beast, and perish by my hand.” There were no signs of submission from the werewolf which admittedly disappointed Dio. Such stubborn animals.

The werewolf lowered itself on the ground and quickly lunged at the vampire again, this time with much more anger and power. Dio swiftly moved out of the way again, but was surprised to notice the wolf following his movements, almost scratching him with its sharp claws. Its speed and power were admirable but Dio was the superior being and with his sharp eyes was able to find an opening and strike the beast with a powerful kick. The very top of the fur of its shoulder quickly froze into hard ice, widening Dio’s already existing smirk. 

The wolf stumbled backwards, leaving more openings for Dio to attack. He hissed and jumped at the animal, throwing out punches and kicks that it was trying to protect itself against. His claws scratch the skin, drawing blood from the new wounds.

“It’s futile!” With one final kick, Dio was attempting to launch the animal through the wall and into the pit below his castle, putting an end to the invader. However his amber eyes widen in surprise when the werewolf grabs a firm hold of his foot with its clawed hand, stopping all movement and then throws him at a wall, making it crack. Dio lets out a painful grunt and falls to the floor.

He wastes no time getting up and preparing himself to attack the mutt again, but stops in his tracks when he notices it falling to the ground, the ice on its shoulder breaking on impact. Its form quickly changes, being replaced by a smaller, human form, covered in bruises and cuts. The person rolls on their back and Dio quickly places his foot down on their chest, examining the person. Flecks of surprise form in his amber eyes when he notices a woman with sharp (E/C) eyes and messy (H/C) hair.

You look at the man standing above you, your breathing slow and heavy caused by sheer exhaustion. Vampires were equally matched with your kind and he had already caused so much damage to you, you don’t have any choice but to voice your agreement to his suggestion with a quiet, weak voice:

“I.. I submit..”

~

Having a human able to transform into a werewolf provided Dio with many advantages. There was the obvious fact that you weren’t a simple, brainless zombie and actually possessed great knowledge and intellect. However you were also extremely powerful your might matching perfectly with his. But that great power also meant that the Lord couldn’t simply control you like he could his other servants. You were stubborn and refused to be treated as a mere puppet.

Despite how much he despised your stubbornness a part of him couldn’t help but to find said trait extremely amusing. Almost adorable even. He pushed these feelings aside and tried to convince himself that you were nothing more than a lowly beast, inferior to him and his kind. How could he ever find himself enjoying the company of some mutt? At times he found himself rolling his eyes whenever you presented yourself in his room, but also at the same time carefully eyeing your admittedly attractive features.

But no matter what his thoughts were telling him, his actions didn’t lie as every time you were in your beastly form, Dio’s eyes absorbed your power and secretly admired it. He admired the fact that such a delicate, fragile doll was able to possess such power and mercilessly cut down anyone who dared to oppose her. It was impressive and Dio was more than happy to feast his eyes upon your power. He also wished to journey deeper into your mind and learn more about you.

However you weren’t blind as your quite precise eyes were able to catch the Lord staring at your form, clearly under the spell of your might. You found it funny that the mighty vampire desiring take over the world was carefully watching and admiring you. You knew his words about ‘how much your powers were of use to him’ or ‘how well you were serving him’ were nothing more than words attempting to hide is admiration. You weren’t sure if you should’ve been flattered by this, but one thing was for certain: You did hold similar feelings of admiration for the Lord and that’s why you were still by his side.

Another dead body falls to the ground after the Lord was satisfied with the amount of blood he had consumed. Witnessing Dio drain the lives of his victims was nothing new as you had been tasked with bringing him his meals. You figured this was due to your heightened senses and speed, allowing you to bring your Lord his source of nutrients much faster than any of his other servants could.

Dio raises a brow at your unwillingness to feast on the corpse before you, like you had done in the past. However as of late, you had seemed resentful to the action of devouring humans and it awakened a certain curiosity in Dio.

“Is something the matter, (Name)? Why do I not see your teeth sinking into the flesh of this mortal?”

He immediately recounts your first meeting within his mind and remembers just how hungrily you had ripped your victims apart and his sadistic nature secretly wishes to witness that once more.

“Not hungry.” You simply say and crouch down to grab the limp body in order to dispose of it like usual, only to be stopped by Dio. You glance at him and then the corpse before letting go and standing up, waiting to hear what the vampire has to say.

“Tell me, (Name). Were you a human once?” He asks, his question surprising you. Dio positions himself in front of you, locking his intense amber eyes with your (E/C) ones.

His question makes you recall the events of your past, something you hadn’t done in years. You gained the ability to transform into a beast at a young age when your village was under attack. It was a gruesome night you thought you had escaped with only a minor wound caused by one of the wolves. Little did you know that the small scratch would change your life forever.

“I was. I became a werewolf at the age of 13. My life hasn’t been the same since.”

You keep your eyes on his, holding no hesitation in your voice. Why would you? Dio had spared your life and allowed you to live by his side. You respected and admired him and sharing your past with him wasn’t an issue. Even though your form would change into that of a merciless beast, you still had some humanity in you as you dreaded the thought of feasting on mortals. Sometimes your beast form prevented you from resisting the urge to bite into the delicate flesh of a human but you had tried your best to restrain your urges.

“Interesting.” He says, taking a single strand of your (H/C) hair, twirling it around his clawed finger. 

"And what about you, Lord Dio? Have you also abandoned your humanity?”

His lips curl into a smirk upon hearing your question and he lets out a low chuckle. His own story is far less tragic than yours as he himself decided to reject his humanity in hopes of gaining more power. That power had served him well and was the one to help him survive your initial invasion on that fateful night.

“Yes I have. Humanity has its weaknesses. One can only do so much with the limitations of a human body.” He says, his words holding the same meaning they did on that night he put on the stone mask and was gifted eternal life. 

“Wouldn’t you agree, (Name)?” He places his hand on the side of your face and you immediately find yourself leaning to his touch. Digging deeper into your past makes Dio admire you even more as it tells him about your submission to him. Despite your occasional stubbornness, deep down he knows that your admire him just as much as he admires you and that admiration makes him feel relief about the fact that he didn’t have to kill you during that night.

“Yes, my Lord.”

You were a ruthless killing machine and Dio was fortunate to have you by his side. He finally accepts his feelings of affection towards you and anxiously waits for the day Jonathan storms through the entrance of his castle, just so he can see your ruthless side he loves once again.

[flutteringphalanges]

                                             Mirabile Visue

Summary: Sister Agatha Van Helsing discovers she’s in over her head when a competitive game of chess ultimately results in her becoming pregnant with the child of her worst enemy, Count Dracula. Now tied by a bond deeper than blood, the two must learn to coexist and adapt in a world that could be potentially hostile towards their offspring. Parenthood has never looked so batty.

Characters: Dracula/Sister Agatha Van Helsing

Chapters: 1/7

Read on FFN and AO3

A/N:  So this is my first Dracula story and I hope I do the show some justice. It will be broken into three chapters just as the show, or first season, was broken into three episodes. Without further ado, let’s begin. (Oh, Mirabile Visu is Latin for “Wonderful to See”).                      

                                                Transylvania, 1897

                                             Count Dracula’s Castle

“You’re pregnant.”

Agatha could almost visualize the vampire’s wide grin as he spoke, her head turned towards the wooden bucket she’d taken to vomiting in. She hated him at that moment. More than usual. But she knew he was right. No matter how hard she didn’t want to believe it, she knew.

“I’m dying,” she inhaled, not moving to meet his gaze. “Just like all of your other victims. I thought you of all people would recognize the signs.”

“And I thought you of all people wouldn’t agree to sex after losing a game of chess, but I suppose we are all full of surprises.” Dracula watched with amusement as the nun turned to glower at him. He raised his hands in playful defense. “Now I am no man nor creature of God, but I must ask, exactly how many rules did we break with your sisterhood-”

“Shut up,” the woman groaned. “Just…how? I didn’t think this was even possible. In all of my research…stupid, stupid…”

She was mumbling to herself now, cursing her mind that had been so hellbent on knowing everything there was to know about Count Dracula that somewhere along the way she had been seduced by the beast himself. How could she have been so inattentive?

“While I am flattered you find me so seductive,” the Count’s voice pulled her from her thoughts. “You are equally to blame Sister Agatha Van Helsing of St. Mary’s Convent, Budapest. Pointing fingers now is, well, how would one put it in Romanian? Frecție la picior de lemn? A rub on a wooden leg.” His smile was gentler now. “Useless, Agatha. Now, how’s about you get cleaned up and I’ll fix you something to settle your stomach? No blood, you have my word, and we can discuss things.”

The nun seemed hesitant as she watched the vampire from her spot in the room. She’d been at the castle for weeks now. First it had been against her will, seeing first hand what Jonathan Harker had. But it was this knowledge that had changed the castle from a prison into an exploration that she so desperately sought. Dracula and his companionship was a bonus in its own way. If he had yet to extinguish her life then, he most certainly wasn’t planning to now. Especially if she were carrying his child.

“Fine,” she agreed. “But if you think I’m going to incubate your spawn-”

“I was thinking peppermint tea,” Dracula interrupted. “But your sour attitude is saying…lemon?” When she didn’t respond, he nodded thoughtfully. “Lemon it is.” And with that he closed the door.

Agatha eyed the entrance way to the room for a few seconds before collapsing onto her bed. The bitterness from her stomach bile still lingered on her tongue as she looked over to a nearby night stand where a dress sat neatly folded. Whose it once was, she wasn’t sure, nor cared to dwell upon, but it appeared clean and warm. Her own religious habit had become dirty overtime, particularly because she chose to wear it in Dracula’s presence to spite him. But now graced with the sensitive nose of an expecting mother, she could hardly stand the smell. Body odor, mildew, and earth. Not that it mattered now having broken her vows with the Church. She was as good as excommunicated.

I’ll add it onto my ever growing list of confessions. The woman thought to herself as she began to change into the fresh clothes. I do hope God accepts memoirs.

Her fingers brushed carefully across the stone walls as Agatha made her way down the staircase and into the dining room. Halting in the archway, she found herself slightly taken aback by the display before her. Fat logs of oak lay aflame in the fireplace, the heat beckoning her closer from where she stood. The table was set for one, an ornate glass filled with some sort of fruit juice and a plate thickly sliced toast with scrambled eggs.

“See? No blood, as promised.” The unexpected voice caused her to jump slightly as Agatha turned to see Dracula watching her intently. “At least for now. We don’t know what they crave. You see, Agatha, in all my four hundred years of life, this has never happened to me.” He gave a small smirk that made the former nun’s skin crawl. “If I believed in God the way you mortals do, I’d say this is why fate brought us together. A blessing in disguise.”

“A curse,” she retorted. “A lapse in judgement. And now I am to pay for my sins apparently.”

“Again, it takes more than one to make the beast with two backs,” he smiled. “William Shakespeare’s Othello, have you read it?” Dracula waved his hand dismissively. “Never mind that or the arguing, sit and eat. Your food is getting cold.”

Though she wanted to fight it, Agatha couldn’t help but feel tempted by the meal before her. One moment she was nauseated like a sailor sick at sea and the next, the feeling was almost ravenous. With great reluctance, she walked over to the table and sat down. The woman tried her best to ignore the Count’s eyes as he watched her begin to consume her meal. Even more so when it tasted so delicious she could feel the corners of her mouth attempting to twitch into a smile.

“Good?” He inquired curiously, moving to sit across from her.

“Edible,” she replied, placing down the nearly empty cup. “So, Count Dracula has achieved something that no information speaks of. Reproduction of the sexual nature. You must be very proud of yourself.”

“Can’t I be for the both of us?” He shrugged, straightening up in his chair. “I mean, I’m not alone in this. You are its mother. Whether you like it or not, Agatha Van Helsing, my offspring is yours. And before you go threatening to throw yourself out a window or do something silly and stab impale yourself with a stake, we both know you wouldn’t do that.”

“End my own life?” Agatha snorted, eyeing him with slight amusement. “Why would I have any qualms about my own demise?”

“Because you aren’t just dealing with your own existence,” the vampire answered. “You have a weakness, Agatha, and it’s both charming and utterly annoying depending on the circumstance. You are a protector. A guardian. Someone who is willing to throw away themselves for the benefit of the rest. And that is why you won’t harm the baby.”

The baby. The baby. Her intestines seemed to writhe and knot at the very thought of it. She was pregnant, carrying the child of the one person on Earth she despised the most. A disgust that took her on a journey after him in the hopes of learning all of his secrets. Secrets they ended up sharing. Whispers and fingers intertwined, bare skin against fabric sheet, the copper taste lingering on his tongue. A Vampire’s Kiss without the bite. The forbidden act between Beast and Daughter of God. And now, growing in her very womb a product of that.

Agatha stood up so suddenly it caught Dracula by surprise. Mouth pressed into a firm line, she tossed her napkin onto the table and turned away. She was out of the room and halfway up the steps by the time the man had reached the bottom.

“Agatha,” he called after her, his voice mildly concerned. “What on Earth are you doing?”

“Getting some peace and quiet,” she called back, swallowing thickly. He wasn’t to see her cry. No weakness. “I suggest you leave me be and go…go slaughter an old maid. I don’t care!”

Dracula was still attempting to hold some form of conversation when Agatha slammed the bedroom door in his face. For a brief moment, she half expected him to come barging in, proclaiming something that would surely upset her more. She listened carefully as if the vampire would even bother to make himself known if he was spying. Finally, confident that she was alone, the former nun retreated to her bedside and sat down. Sighing, she ran a hand through her hair.

“I don’t understand why this is happening to me, nor am I sure if there even is an answer.” Her eyes fell down to her stomach as she spoke. “But for some reason you decided to come to life-if you are alive.” Tentatively, Agatha moved her hand so it rested just under her belly button. “I don’t know what you are, or who you are, but you made a mistake. You chose the wrong people to be your mother and father.” She paused before inhaling sharply. “Especially your mother. I left my family, you know. I left to be a nun. Gave up marriage and motherhood.”

Her eyes flickered down to the corner of her bed. Tucked just slightly from view, Agatha’s eyes set upon her old crucifix. She reached down and grasped it, studying the metal. Hungary. Mother Superior and her Sisters. So many people she cared about, loved, all dead. At least, she hoped they weren’t anything more than that. In that moment, Agatha Van Helsing, former Sister of St. Mary’s Convent, Budapest, made her decision. Setting the necklace down, she returned her hand to her stomach.

“Alright,” she exclaimed. “I suppose we can explore things. But if you are under the impression that I will kill and feed on human blood for you, you are highly mistaken.” The corners of her mouth twitched into a small smile. “I am a fan of meat though if that’s any consolation.”

Agatha stared peacefully down at her stomach, feeling a new sense of purpose she had yet to truly understand.

                                                              XXX

Two evenings had passed before Agatha finally chose to face the Count again. One would’ve suspected avoiding another in such an enormous palace would’ve been an easy feat. But no matter where she turned, the former nun could feel the eyes of the vampire following her. Silent, but ever present. A shadow of sorts. But unlike hers, it required no light.

She ignored Dracula’s inquisitive expression as she walked over to the embellished table he occupied. Steam seeped from a porcelain bowl filled with a soup that caused her stomach to rumble lowly. For someone who only consumed blood, the vampire was well versed in cooking. But having a meal was not the top priority matter on the woman’s mind, no matter how lovely its fragrance was. Instead she remained standing, now mere feet from him.

“There will be rules,” Agatha stated emphatically. “Many if this is to occur.”

“Rules? Like a contract?” Dracula met the woman’s gaze with a mixed expression of amusement and slight shock. “You want to settle upon a guideline…over a baby?” When she remained unmoved, the vampire merely shrugged. “Alright,” he breathed, settling back in his chair. “Enlighten me.”

“No one dies for the baby. Or for me, if you’d even consider that. You survive as you normally would, feed as repulsively as you like, but no doctor is to be touched with the intent on gathering information on the child.” She inhaled, folding her arms over her chest. “Which means no outside medical help. We can learn from what is in books. No one else is to be involved.”

“I’m a count and a vampire, Agatha, not a doctor.” Dracula replied, the grin fading from his face. “Just because I love science doesn’t mean I am well versed in it enough to deliver a baby.”

“Then it’s quite a fortunate thing we have, at least I hope, months to educate ourselves before then.” Her lips parted into a sardonic grin, Agatha enjoying the man’s realization of the leverage she currently held over him. “Are we in agreement then?”

For a long moment, the vampire said nothing. It was only when Agatha opened her mouth once more, about to voice her conditions, that Dracula shook his head and clicked his tongue quietly.

“Even when I thought it no longer possible, you never cease to amaze me, Agatha Van Helsing.” He quietly snorted and met her stare. “You have my word. My, how intrigued I am to see how the roots of motherhood will snare you.”

“If you are even capable of feeling the emotions of a parent yourself,” countered the former nun. “I suppose we will see how our true faults form together.” She turned on her heels and began to walk away.

“Yes,” the vampire agreed, smiling once more as he looked on. “I suppose we shall.”

                                                                   XXX

“You’re reading that book again?”

Dracula peered up from his copy of, Tokology: A Book For Every Woman, looking almost slightly insulted as Agatha watched him from where she stood in the doorway. Her stomach had started to swell, and from both their rough calculations, she was three months, give or take a week.

“Well, you aren’t exactly allowing me to consume the blood of any physicians, so my grasp of understanding pregnancy is limited.” He waved the book in her general direction. “Just one man, that’s all I need and then I wouldn’t have to read about any of this. Or,” he lifted a finger in suggestion. “A woman? A midwife perhaps?”

“No,” Agatha said firmly. “I know I cannot stop you feeding, but we did agree that no one would die because of this pregnancy. No draining doctors, just books.”

“But what if something were to happen to you,” the vampire ventured, eyes following the woman as she moved to a seat nearest to him. “Do you really want to risk your life, Agatha?”

“Then forget about me and save the baby,” the former nun snorted, shaking her head. “Honestly, Dracula, when did book knowledge become less of a value to you?”

“You do realize you’re pregnant with a child who is half vampire, yes?” The man countered. “And yet, despite knowing everything I’m capable of, you show no sign of fear about what it could do?”

“Like violently tearing my vagina?” She grinned when she noticed the surprise on his face. “You’re not the only one who’s read that book.” Sighing, Agatha rested her hands on her stomach. “Women give birth every day and I will be joining their ranks soon enough.”

“I won’t let it hurt you.”

The words were so quiet that Agatha almost missed them. The former nun’s eyes flickered to meet the dark irises of the Count. For the first time since she entered the room did she pick up the severity of his mood. He seemed off, not that he wasn’t always pouring over medical texts and journals now. He, like she had, had taken to this idea of a child from such a scientific approach. Continuous research, needing to know more. And it was that that had been bringing them together. But now he seemed concerned, genuinely so, for her safety.

“You’re reading too much,” she finally responded, breaking the silence. Rising to her feet, Agatha walked over and gingerly took the book away from Dracula. “I’m a lot stronger than you think. I’ve survived you, yes?”

The two exchanged small smiles, a rarity that was growing more shared as time went on. Agatha glanced towards the stairs, arms folded over her chest. It was getting late and she was getting tired.

“I’m going to go turn in now,” she sighed, turning to Dracula. “If you must go out and-”

“No doctors, you have my word.”

“Then I’ll see you in a few hours?” Agatha inquired. “Unless you meet the sun or end up staked?”

“It’s a Tuesday,” he replied smirking. “It’s unpredictable.”

Without much thought, he reached forward and placed a hand on Agatha’s shoulder. Much to his surprise, instead of pulling away, the former nun let her fingers brush against his. They stood there for a moment, both equally silent. Agatha smiled softly and turned away.

“Good night, Count Dracula.”

The vampire watched as the woman went up the staircase and disappeared. The ancient vampire sighed before moving to smother the fire in the fireplace.

“Sleep well, Agatha.”

                                                               XXX

Agatha watched Dracula expectantly as the vampire moved around her. While she was curious about what the man was doing, her true wonder fell on the brown object in his hands. It was oddly shaped, sort of like an instrument. A horn. He hadn’t said much when he called her into the parlor, just to recline as best and as comfortably as she could in one of the seats.

“It’s called a Pinard horn,” the vampire answered before Agatha could ask. “It’s for listening to the fetus’s heartbeat and no,” he held his hand up in defense when he saw her express. “I didn’t kill or steal for it, you’re welcome. I bought it because I wanted to confirm that the thing I’ve been hearing is the baby’s heart.”

“You’ve been hearing its heart?!” Agatha’s tone was mixed with shock and aggravation. “I’ve been pregnant for six months and you are just now telling me that the baby has a beating heart! That it’s living, living?!”

“To be fair, you didn’t tell me immediately when you felt it kick for the first time.”

“Because it was the middle of the day and you were sleeping!” She exasperated, propping herself up on her elbows. “Do you realize how often I’ve sat on this exact spot and worried about if I was giving birth to an undead baby?”

“My apologies,” the vampire expressed, tone lacking actual sympathy. “But what’s done is done and now we can both be assured that the baby does have a beating heart.”

He reached to lift up her dress, but was immediately stopped when Agatha grasped his hand. Their eyes met and Dracula let out a long, irritable sigh. Releasing his hold on the fabric, he motioned to the horn with his free hand.

“It works best on bare skin,” he exclaimed.

“Perhaps you should put down the medicine books and pick up one on manners, Count Dracula,” Agatha expressed. “It isn’t very polite to lift a lady’s dress without her consent.”

“I’m perfectly fine not confirming my heart beat theory…”

“Just let me help,” Agatha grumbled, rolling her eyes as she hiked up her gown. “There, now do what you must.”

Choosing not to bicker further, the vampire eyed the woman’s distended stomach carefully. Her pale skin stretched to reveal roads of thin blue veins that had previously been hidden. Though he knew what flowed through them, he was surprisingly not tempted. Tenderly, he brought his fingers down to rest upon her flesh pausing only when he felt her shiver.

“Sorry,” he gave a half smile. “I suppose you could say I have low circulation in my hands.”

“Your humor died a long time ago,” Agatha smirked.

“And yet you still laugh,” Dracula replied, resting the horn right under her belly button. “Now give me a moment.”

The vampire carefully leaned an ear to the opening of the device. He didn’t need to look up to know that Agatha was holding her breath. Of course, that was unnecessary as the thrumming resounded almost instantly from within. There was no denying it. A heartbeat. A living, beating heart that had no reserves for making itself well known.

“You’re smiling,” Agatha’s voice pulling him from his concentration. “Is that a good or a bad thing? I can’t ever tell with you, especially if you’re being quiet.”

“I believe it is safe to say it physically inherited its mother’s heart.” When the former nun didn’t seem to put two and two together, he added, “…it has a beating heart.”

“There is a God,” she breathed in relief.

“Let’s keep religion out of this,” Dracula replied. “We can deal with opposing views when it’s actually born.”

Agatha’s arms unceremoniously wrapped around Dracula, the horn falling from her stomach and to the floor. Bewildered at first, he remained motionless. The woman wasn’t exactly one to show affection. Especially when it came to him, despite them learning to coexist with each other. But he too allowed his guard to slide and embraced her back.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

“Well it’s no gem encrusted necklace, but it proved its worth,” Dracula chuckled, looking down at the horn. “You’re welcome.”

They remained in each others’ arms for a few long moments before Agatha broke away. She was smiling, a genuine grin that held no form of hostility. But when she opened her mouth to say something to Dracula, she decided against it, leaving the vampire to wonder what else she had to offer.

“Agatha,” he ventured. “I was planning on taking a stroll through the castle. If you aren’t too busy being bothered by mortal things, I would like to offer you the invitation to join me.” He gave her a grin. “You can bombard me with all of your usual vampire inquiries.”

“I’d like that,” the former nun smiled.

“Then it’s settled,” the vampire said. “A walk around the inside grounds.”

Where there once would have been refusal, when Dracula offered Agatha his hand, she took it. Without a second thought, the pair began to walk down the stone hallway. For now, they would just enjoy each other’s company.

                                                           XXX

It was late into the night and she was already well into her seventh month of pregnancy when the craving first hit. Well, the craving had long been building up, she’d just had been ignoring it. It was midnight when Agatha was hit with an episode of sorts brought on by fighting the urge to consume blood.

Dracula had found her thrashing in her bed sheets, fingers digging into the mattress as she pressed her face into the pillow and howled. The thirst burned in her throat and twisted in her stomach. She was frustrated, miserable, and the idea of death seemed more and more welcoming.

“Please,” she whimpered, a hand falling to grip her stomach. “Stop, stop, stop!”

She could feel the baby more than ever as if it too was suffering from her infliction. That her ignoring her craving for blood was upsetting it. It jabbed, poked, and prodded. At this point, blood wasn’t needed for survival-if they had made it seven months in without it and were still present, then it wasn’t a necessity. Nevertheless, that didn’t make how it felt any better. Like detoxing from a severe addiction.

“Agatha?” Dracula asked worriedly, moving to her bed. “What-”

“Get out!” She screamed, biting down hard on her lip. The copper last of blood melted on her tongue, but hers wasn’t what her body wanted. “Get out! I can smell it on you! Get out!”

Of all the nights for him to have fed. He silently cursed himself as he moved towards Agatha. It frightened him really, seeing her like this. He knew something was off by the way she had been acting lately. Now he realized why.

“Agatha,” he said gently. “You need to drink.”

“No!” She spat back almost immediately. “No blood! We…we had a rule…no one dies…” Their eyes met and Dracula saw how red they were from tears. “I can fight this,” she whispered. “I can fight this…I can fight this…”

“You don’t have to,” Dracula insisted. “Agatha, one doesn’t even need to be killed for blood, there are-”

“I will not have my baby become a monster!”

The anger and fear that laced her words struck out at the vampire like whip’s rope soaked in venom. They hurt. It was such an odd sensation that he found himself staring absently at the former nun. Agatha had said things, proclaimed that he was the reincarnation of the Devil himself, and yet it was a single outburst about a baby no less that tightened the long dead muscle in his chest.

“So what if it is?” He asked coolly. “What if the baby is a monster? A full fledged vampire? Then what? You wish to kill it?”

“No,” Agatha swallowed thickly, still visibly trembling. “You don’t understand…”

“I don’t?” Dracula nearly hissed. “Because from where I stand, Agatha, your hatred for vampires has manifested even more so since we first became acquainted in Hungary! So due forgive me for becoming offended that your motherly concern is that our child will-”

“I just want to protect it!” The former nun screamed.

“From what?!” Dracula snapped. “Me?!”

“EVERYTHING!”

Once more the vampire found himself at a momentary loss for words. Agatha had now shifted into an upright position, her expression one of false stoicism. The way her arms wound around her middle, Dracula no longer saw a nun seeking to slay that of which was unholy, but a mother desiring nothing more than to protect her child.

“Crosses. Holy water. The sun…” She shook her head, a sorrowful smile crossing her features. “What is said to hurt you, to kill you, has it not occurred to you that this baby could be equally if not more vulnerable?” Agatha sighed and peered down at her swollen stomach. “I got so far, I hadn’t craved blood up until this point and now…” Her eyes flickered to meet his gaze. “If I’ve experienced one vampire characteristic, who knows…”

“Then we experiment with me,” Dracula said. “Tomorrow we’ll open the curtains-”

“No!” Agatha said sharply. “I don’t want…” The former nun seemed to struggle with the next words that left her lips. “I can’t lose you either.” Her eyes narrowed at Dracula’s silence. “Well, go on then. Make a mockery of me. Agatha Van Helsing who has spent most of her life trying to stop Count Dracula actually cares for him. The irony.”

Dracula was quiet for a moment. “Well, I suppose it’s true what they say. Lubirea trece prin apa, nu-i e frica ca se-neaca.” He smiled softly. “Love will go through stone walls.”

“What does that-”

Her words were captured by a kiss as the Count joined Agatha at her bedside. She didn’t fight back, nor attempt to protest in the slightest. Instead, she let his cool hands rest on either side of her face. Her mouth moved hungrily against his, the scent of blood still lingering off him. The last time either had shown this level of romance was the night their child had been conceived. Just as the nun let her hand trail down the vampire’s chest, he stopped.

“There is something we can try.” Dracula said suddenly, pulling away. “But you aren’t going to like it.”

“Then why even suggest it?” Agatha inquired irritably, secretly annoyed that the affection ended so quickly. “I told you, no humans.”

“It’s a good thing pigs are beast then.” He stated quite proudly. “Their blood is closest to humans-not that I can drink it. But perhaps the baby won’t require human blood. Maybe animals will suffice.”

“You want me to drink a glass of pig’s blood?” She asked skeptically.

“You’ve made it clear the alternative is a no,” he shrugged. “There’s a farm not too far out that breeds the loveliest hogs.” At Agatha’s frown, he merely smiled and gently touched the side of her face. “I’ll make sure to use a cup that isn’t transparent. Now try to get some rest. I’ll take care of everything.”

Dracula kissed her forehead and lovingly patted her stomach. Even after he vanished from the room, Agatha found herself wide awake with her thoughts. Nun vampire hunter to vampire, dare she venture, lover, who also was pregnant with his child. Just in a seven month span. If there was a God who accepted her for, well, her, she hoped he’d have a large allotted time slot set out for her to explain everything when she died.

                                                          XXX

“I think my water just broke.”

At first, Dracula wondered if he heard the woman right. They had been sitting by the fireplace together, Agatha on her second glass of hog’s blood, when the declaration was made so calmly. She was heavily nine months pregnant so it shouldn’t have been a surprise. But it took the former nun nearly doubling over in pain from a contraction to snap the vampire from his trance.

“You’re water broke?!” He asked, sounding unnervingly panicked.

“Smell the amniotic fluid for blood and tell me,” she said through clenched teeth. “Now help me get to the bedroom. You’re going to need to get…” Agatha inhaled sharply and closed her eyes. “…You’ll need to get the supplies, I’m afraid I won’t be much use going up and down the stairs.”

Dracula had felt many things in his centuries of existence, but never had he felt such overwhelming worry and raw excitement. Diligently, he moved to sweep Agatha up-who protested that she could still walk-and brought her up the steps. She winced as he set her down, but the initial contraction seemed to have run its course.

“You should’ve let me drink a physician,” the vampire said, unable to pull his gaze away from the laboring woman. “Or even bring one here!”

“No,” sighed Agatha. “No, we’re fine. We’ve prepared. Stop being so nervous, you’re making me nervous and I’m the one who’s going to be pushing it out.” She sucked in a breath, trying to remain collected. “Go find some towels and fill a pot with water. It’ll need to be boiled, so maybe start with that. And a watch to time the contractions.”

“Perhaps you chose the wrong profession,” the Count responded. “Maybe the role of a midwife would’ve been better suited.”

“And you a librarian,” Agatha retorted. “You could replace the stones in your castle’s walls with books from how you collect them.” Her lips twitched briefly into a teasing smile before another grunt of pain abruptly severed the mood. “If you would be so kind and hurry back, I would…highly appreciate it.”

The more time he spent with her, the more Dracula found himself learning about humans. Especially when it came to women and their reproductive cycles. After getting everything Agatha had requested, he returned to find the former nun pacing around the room. Every so often, she’d stop and lean against a wall, her breathing heavy as she anchored herself in place riding out each contraction that hit.

“No,” she hissed, eyes squeezed shut as she waved him away. “Don’t touch me! Let it pass!”

As the hours wore on, it became clear that her contractions were not only getting worse, but growing closer together. And while Dracula did love the smell of fear, he was far from enjoying Agatha’s. No longer did she object to his closeness as he moved to where she knelt on the ground by the bed. She could feel the pressure from within her, the weight of it telling her body that it was time. And yet, Agatha felt very unready. She was scared. Terrified. Powerless.

“Breathe,” the vampire instructed softly. “I’m going to move you to the bed.”

“I’m perfectly fine right here,” but the weakness in her voice betrayed her. “I don’t think moving is such a good idea right now.”

“You and I both know that you don’t want to deliver this child on the floor.” Dracula tilted Agatha’s chin so that her wide, fearful eyes met his reassured stare. “So let’s get you comfortable.”

A pang of guilt hit the vampire as the woman let out a moan when he lifted her from the floor. Already strands of her hair stuck to her sweaty forehead, exhaust looming over like a storm. With his aid, Agatha sat propped up against the headboard, a pillow cushioning her back. Towels were laid at the end of the bed towards her feet, her gown pulled up to her hips. She already knew before Dracula checked her what was happening. The pressure. The urge.

“The head,” he sounded so mystified. “You’re beginning to crown!”

Agatha was too exhausted to think of a snide remark in response. Instead, she tensed as another contraction hit, crying out as it reverberated throughout her abdominal region. Nine months she had planned, prepared for this, and now in the midst of bringing life into the world, confidence turned into dust.

“I can’t do this,” she whimpered, shaking her head. “This was a mistake!”

“You need to push,” Dracula instructed gently. “You can do this, Agatha. Let go, I’m right here.”

She didn’t want to. But the civil war she fought with her body to ignore the urge, the more intense they came. The baby was coming and there was nothing she could do about it. When the next contraction hit, she sucked in a sharp breath and bore down as hard as she could. No longer was there just pressure, there was burning. An extreme, inextinguishable fire. She screamed.

“Good girl,” the vampire coached. “Keep going, Agatha, you’re doing marvelously. Focus your energy, that’s it.”

Nothing sounded better than a stake through the vampire’s chest each time pushed. The agony. The burning. She felt the tearing. This had all been his doing. So she focused her energy on anger. An emotion that was suddenly forgotten the moment she felt something small slip out from her body. In seconds, an infant’s wail sounded in the room. It was the most beautiful sound Agatha had ever heard.

“A girl,” Dracula beamed, holding the squirming baby gingerly for her mother to see. “A perfect daughter.”

“Let me see her,” Agatha whispered, holding out her arms as he placed their baby into them. “Is she healthy?”

The two marveled at the tiny being before them. She looked exactly as any normal human newborn would look. Ten fingers and ten toes. A small crop of dark hair. Agatha gingerly opened the baby’s mouth with her finger to reveal two sets of toothless gums. Suddenly, every single thing that had ever gone wrong in her life was meaningless. Nothing mattered except the good that had led up to that moment.

“You were incredible.” Dracula grinned.

“I suppose you could say that I had some help,” she smiled, leaning into him when he sat on the edge of the bed. “She needs a name.”

The vampire seemed to ponder for a moment. “Someone so beautiful deserves a name that is just as equal. In my four hundred years of life, up until this point, the most beautiful thing I know of is something I cannot see.” He looked down and tenderly touched the baby’s face. “Sorina. In Romanian, it means Sun.”

“You want to name our daughter after something that could kill you?” Agatha asked, sounding slightly amused. “You don’t find that a little silly?”

“Or fitting,” the vampire mused. “Unless you have another idea?”

“Hm,” Agatha hummed, nodding her head thoughtfully. “Sorina…” With a smile, she gazed lovingly down at her new daughter. “Welcome to the world, little one. There is oh so much to tell you…”

A/N: So as I was writing this, I kind of realized that in this first part, if I ever wanted to make separate one shots based on events throughout Agatha’s pregnancy, I could. That’s why there were “snap shots” rather than make the whole story about her being pregnant. Not sure if anyone would be interested in that. Anyway, I hope you enjoyed! Part two shall have more romance. Reviews are greatly loved and appreciated! Until next time! -Jen

[askhubertvonvestra]

(Ominous prophecy? Yes.) Eyes of dying pine will know how the world burns so close to its prime. Flames must consume to survive, and a world built on lies dies quick and leaves few alive. Watch the skies for the ash your master creates, for it will choke the flame and sparks, taking away air and hearts. What will he with eyes of dying green do to preserve what was worked for? All choices have cost, and some even the most ruthless dare not owe debt. My dear Vestra, your world will burn endless.

Heh. An ill omen preordained by the goddess, or a vague threat from her mortal followers? I know which I consider it to be.

In response to its key components: 

At the last minute before our success, this predicts I will be present to witness the downfall of all we have worked for.

These ‘flames’ refer to a force that cannot help but destroy to survive, and the world built on lies should refer to the Church, but both symbols are most likely meant for Her Majesty and her allies. To the writer, we are both beasts and murderous warmongers. How short-sighted.

The analogy splits here to distinguish Her Majesty as the source of ash to suffocate the flames, a representation of all who side with her. As if our deaths were not a risk we knew of when we took her side in this war. It is a small price to pay for her success and the liberation of humanity as she desires.

And what threat would be complete without an attack on my character? They have no concept of my devotion to Her Majesty if they need to question the lengths I will go to in order to see her path to the end she has envisioned. The fixation on my eyes in particular suggest a correlation between this threat and ensuring I witness the loss of Her Majesty’s efforts carried out, particularly with “dying” used twice as a descriptor.

All choices have cost? A belated “warning” once more. We have all chosen this path with the full awareness of what it may cost. No theoretical debt I incur on Her Majesty’s behalf is too great that I would not gladly take it on in her name. 

Even if this world we fight for is destined for failure, as “burn endless” suggests, it is worth it all the same. Should we fail, we will still have exposed the rot and corruption underneath the Church and nobility. The curious part of this particular section is the choice of the word “burn”. If the flames refer to our efforts and Her Majesty’s allies in equal measure, to burn could imply ruin or that we will leave our mark on this world for the rest of time. What that mark is is what they are warning of, I suppose.

All in all, it’s a well-crafted ‘prophecy’. I’ll catalog it with the other threats and questionable missives we’ve received to potentially establish a common sender between them. If they are in correspondence with the goddess... Heh. I have some complaints to lodge with her.

[Part 2]

[hedonisthierophant]

SW thing

Foils/Complementary Contrasts

He was a Miraluka, to him the galaxy appeared in innumerable transparent shades and outlines of gray, the flicker of the force inside living beings making them glow softly with colorless light. The stronger the being was with the force, the more intense their light. All his people saw thus through the force, having gained the ability as an adaptation after their migration to a world with very little light. Jayzen Vicarr had come to the temple like all the others in his infancy. It was not unheard of for members of his species to join the Jedi order but it was rare, his people were passive and peaceful. Although they all possessed and innate sensitivity to the force, few had the strong connection that was a prerequisite for membership within the order. Many parents among his people were askance at the idea of ending their children to a group with such a martial focus, however noble its intentions of peacekeeping may have been. They preferred for their children to remain on Alpheridies and join the Luka Sene, the Miraluka’s own order of force sensitives focused on the expansion of their inherent abilities to sense through the force. The force, if it could be said to have a will of its own, most certainly had something different in mind for Jayzen. His mother was a powerful seer who used her precognitive abilities to find and capture those who broke the law on Alpheridies. His father had weaker abilities but used them to provide therapy to those in need, observing them and helping them make sense of their feelings. When Jayzen was born his mother was overwhelmed with visions that he would have a role to play in attempting to prevent a calamity of galactic proportions, his parents gathered with other members of the Luka Sene, doctors, teachers, and sages, the child’s light was so much brighter than all the others around him even that of many adults who’d received training from the Luka Sene. His parents, realizing an education on Alpheridies would not unlock the child’s full potential and deciding not to attempt to contend with the will of the force. They sent a message to the Jedi Temple and summoned a Jedi seeker to their home. They surrendered Jayzen to the monastic order knowing that being trained in the ways of the force by the Jedi was a necessary step to the fulfillment of his destiny.

           He had spent all his life within the temple, he learns that outside its walls, the site of a young humanoid who covered the area where his presumed ocular receiving organs were would be considered quite strange. Beneath the covering where in many species there would be eyes of one variety or another, lay only smooth, uninterrupted skin. Miraluka covered this part of their faces for social reasons as it tended to unnerve members of other species even those who were much further from human themselves. Everyone in the temple had at least the potential if not the habit of seeing the galaxy as Jayzen did. He knew that the force was what provided him with the colorless picture that came into focus the moment he became conscious every day, his clan mates and the other youngling’s sparked with some degree of the force inside them but at his young age Jayzen did not comprehend the purpose of bringing this disparate collection of young beings together from across the galaxy. To him, they were a group of children like any other. Until he began to understand the potential that the force placed before them. He remembers clearly the first time he felt the whisper of the force inside him. He had been about four or perhaps five and sitting in a meditative stance under a tree of blossoms focusing on clearing his mind to better feel the force as he’d been taught to exist in tranquility, he could sense the slightest echo of waves of energy all around him but the carefree distractible mind of a child has little patience for seeing such things through.

Batti was a Twi’lek youngling from another clan who was equal parts boisterous and rambunctious. His favorite past time was climbing the very tree that Jayzen sat beneath. Members of the two clans chased each other to and fro some sat in silence like Jayzen as Batti began his ascent. Jayzen observed as the grey impression of Batti’s form hopped upward and began to energetically scale the tree from gnarled roots to winding branches first one, then another. Further from the ground, higher and higher, up and up again until, until the young boy towered above the rest of them, his body perched at the edge of one of the higher branches as he let out a jubilant yell of triumph and members of both clans began to clap and whoop in appreciation of his daring feat of athletic acrobatics.

Jayzen would wonder later whether he heard the murmur of the force through powers of foresight he’d inherited from his mother for suddenly he looked up and stared at where Botti alighted upon the tree though there was no physical need for him to do so. As Botti’s happiness made him reckless and his foot began to slip after taking a single step to begin his dissent no surprise ran through Jayzen, merely a horrified grim certainty that had been bestowed upon him by hearing the faintest echo of an echo of Botti’s terrified scream seconds before it actually left his mouth. An instinct to protect, to reach out and stop this hurt from the falling someone he knew gripped Jayzen, with the fumbling determination of a neophyte he reached out and imposed his will to intercede on Botti’s behalf with unfeeling gravity and impetuous downward acceleration. Jayzen felt the dam burst within him and for the briefest few moments Botti’s dissent was halted as though he had been plucked upward into the grasp of an invisible hand, for that stretch of time Jayzen’s will defied physics, arrested momentum, but he was young and this power was new and untested. Still he felt like he could’ve held on until help arrived had he not been encircled suddenly by vicious tendrils of Botti’s fear, they tore at his concentration and crashed upon him in waves, fraying the delicate freshly formed link between Jayzen’s outstretched hands and Botti’s gentle suspension. Botti’s dismay overwhelmed Jayzen’s inexperienced mind as he felt the despair as though it were his own, severed the connection, and ended the all too brief reprieve he had granted the other boy from the unforgiving judgment of solid ground beneath him.

Jayzen collapsed as Botti’s terror took him and was suddenly released as the child struck the ground with a dire thud. The stunned silence around them was pierced by a shrieking wail of pain issuing from Botti’s throat. Jayzen struggled to his feet and focused his vision on the scene before him, members of both clans were crowded around the injured boy, a couple of the older ones had already run for an adult but the younger ones were howling in misery as though grieving their own agony and shock rather than Botti’s. Anguish ruled inside Jayzen as well, if only he’d been stronger he could have spared Botti this pain and the others their fear. His breathing came in rapid gasps as his vision began to blur, what had once been distinct shapes and shades of gray blurring in to one another, he felt weightless, unmoored, ready to collapse again, this time perhaps into the sweet embrace of unconsciousness where he could have time away from his failure away from the frenzied whirlpool of emotions emanating from his clan mates and but was sure to be the disappointed that would suffuse the instructors when they learned of his failure.

Amidst this turmoil a quiet certainty bloomed, it grew and grew until it filled him seeming to take an eternity to drown out the abyss of negativity but in truth it took only the space between ticks of a chronometer. He could help. He had to help, had to make it right. Shaking and unsteady, he advanced towards Botti’s prone whimpering form in the center of the circle as quickly as his small legs would carry him. By some unspoken agreement the crowd of frightened children parted around him although he was far from being an authority, a moment ago he was simply treated as just another one of them, no more.

He knelt at Botti’s side, “May I help?” he asked in his high, airy, child’s voice, doing his best to incorporate the kindness and calm that their caretakers would show in a situation like this, sincerity filling him. Botti ceased mewling long enough to give a trembling nod of assent. He turned the full power of his ethereal gaze upon body and opened his mind. Pain and fear that were not his own suffused is being, but there was now a brightness at the core of him, he didn’t have to just endure this, neither did Botti, he could help. Blood oozed out of a nasty gash on Botti’s leg, Jayzen reached out for the wound, his hands far steadier than they had any right to be in light of his inexperience. He could sense the pain flared up in an area encircling the point of impact, moving like angry buzzing insects inside the outline of Botti’s form, which had once seemed the very picture of youthful invulnerability and now had been violently proven to be so mortally fragile. Jayzen acted on pure primitive intuition, some long buried and forgotten instinct passed down from the earliest of his people to witness one of their number in pain. He tugged on the energy inside of him and pushed at it, directing it, willing it to flow into the laceration that marred Botti’s leg, to ease his suffering. As though commanded to do so by the application of universal imperative, the trauma began to heal, the world around Jayzen had gone dull and muted as his whole being was focused on the task inf front of him. Distantly, he was aware that Botti’s voice no longer kept up an agonized refrain and that the others had ceased their mourning as well. Micrometer by single micrometer, bleeding ebbed and torn flesh began to insistently knit itself back together. Enveloped by the energy at Jayzen’s command the damage repaired itself and when he lifted his hands not even the smallest remnant of a cut remained, it had been forcefully consigned to the realm of memory.

 A storm of hurried, anxious steps heralded the arrival of their caretakers, their haste making their steps echo loudly in the silence that had descended upon the group. As several harried seeming jedi matrons herded the children away and examined Botti, Jayzen felt lost in the blur of noise and motion. The expenditure of so much of the nascent power within him left him feeling drained and weary but his hearing of a quiet tapping, wood upon ferro-crete and the approach of the brightest light Jayzen knew signaled the approach of master Yoda. Mustering strength he didn’t feel he had left him, he straightened and bowed respectfully before the grandmaster of his order even at this tender age he was slightly taller than the wizened Jedi sage.  Differences in species meant he could not meet Yoda’s gaze but he could feel the intensity of it upon him. Yoda was even more capable of seeing him as Jayzen saw the rest of the galaxy, of seeing without eyes, of hearing whispers of stray thought and feeling wisps of stray emotion and sensing the energy of those around him. Standing before Yoda he was as a single meek candle is before a blazing inferno. Yoda’s voice snaps him back to the present. “Done well you have youngling, proud of you we are.” Behind the grandmaster stood the young knight Stass Ailee. “You were indeed correct master Yoda, this young one does posses an aptitude for healing as well as empathy, and prodigious strength in the force besides. I would like to speak with you more of the proposal you made earlier.” She spoke in a queenly voice, dripping with refinement. She bent down to Jayzen’s level, he could feel interest, curiosity, and…decision within her. “Hello Jayzen, I think you and I are going to get along very well, I shall watch your training with great interest.” It was not until a few years later that Jayzen would realize that in that moment he had been chosen by a master.

The boy from Tatooine was different from the day he arrived. Anakin Skywalker’s energy was not the new spark of a youngling, nor the eager flicker of a padawan, nor the steady glow of a knight, nor the concentrated fire of a master, no…to look upon Anakin Skywalker through the force was to see a blinding tempest of light.

[vulpinmusings]

Letters from Buxcord #5: The Ways of the Fey

After a month of delays for various reasons, we return to Buxcord the day after the fiasco at Nollthep’s magic shop.

Samantha,

Some good news this time.  My memory is still full of holes, but it’s only been a day.

I will admit I spent most of the day following the disaster at the magic shop in an existential funk. I was too shocked by losing… those memories to even start thinking about how to reverse the effect.

As evening fell, I heard Lea and Piper’s voices outside my apartment, and a desire to apologize for dragging Lea into the fiasco was enough to pull me out of my funk.  I went outside and we had that conversation; Lea said it was her own choice to accompany me to Nollthep’s, and we agreed to talk about the experience in more depth later.  At the moment, Lea and Piper were planning to sneak out into the bayou to investigate some strange lights that Lea had seen around one of the islands when we’d gone looking for Rocky and encountered the basilisk.  Needing to do something to distract myself from my own brain, I asked if I could tag along.  The girls readily agreed, citing faith in my ability to handle trouble with a level head.

That’s… I think someone would find that hilarious?

Anyhow, we made our way quickly to Bayou Boating, arriving just as it was being locked up by an employee I’d never seen before.  He was a quirky individual, both looking and sounding like a hard-boiled detective from some cookie-cutter police drama or other, and he took an oddly supportive interest in our plan to sneak out a boat.  He even warned us that Officer Weaver had been stationed at the docks to watch for boat thieves and offered to help us convince her to let us go out anyway.  His intensity gave me deja vu.

It turned out that this man, Mr. Penn, was a poor negotiator, so we ended up relying on Lea’s charm magic (which she seems to be learning to call up on purpose) to get Weaver to look the other way for an hour.  Penn invited himself into our boat, and when we pressed him for why he’s so skvetchte interested he said he just wanted some excitement in his life.

It was full night by this point, and the Bayou Boating craft aren’t equipped for nighttime use, so I conjured up a mage-light for Piper’s benefit.

When we reached the islands, Lea immediately directed Piper to land on the second one, claiming it was covered in floating lights.  Nobody else, myself included, could see the lights, but we didn’t protest.  Lea was the first to disembark, and she quickly started acting like things were gathering around her.  I got off next and approached Lea, sensing nothing except for a brief warmth on one shoulder.  I still had little to go on at this point, but from Lea’s reactions, the subconscious abilities she’s demonstrated, and the general feel of the situation, I started to suspect Faeries.

The invisible lights started nudging Lea deeper into the island, and I made to follow, warning the girl gently to keep her wits about herself but not resist too strongly unless things started looking dangerous.  I warned Penn and Piper that they shouldn’t delay following after me unless they wanted to be left in darkness, but it still took them a bit to decide to disembark and catch up.  Penn finally realized at that point that I was using a mage-light and not a flashlight, and let slip a comment about being in the business of magical artifacts.

I would’ve followed up on that, but I had to keep an eye on Lea in case the Fey were waiting to spirit her away.

As it turns out, that was exactly their intention, but I’m getting a little ahead of myself.

The invisible things took us to a clearing with a large circle of mushrooms in the middle.  A very old-school marker for a Fey Way, if we were to judge by the standards of Taryn’s Fey neighbors, but still a marker I was easily able to identify.  Lea heard something that made her hesitate at the edge of the ring and offer me her hand.  I reached for her, but something shoved us, causing her to fall into the ring and vanish before I could grab her.  Penn and Piper arrived just after, and when I explained what had happened, Penn didn’t hesitate to leap into the ring himself.

I shouldn’t judge Penn too quickly, but that seemed a strange thing to risk for someone he’d just met.  In any case, he’d proven that the Fey Way wasn’t selective about transporting people.  I offered to leave my mage-light with Piper if she wanted to stay behind (and reduce the number of bystanders I’d have to worry about to one), but she insisted on coming along, out of guilt for not being there for Lea during the Nollthep fiasco. So, I took her hand and we went through together.

I can’t recall if you’ve ever traveled a Fey Way, Sam.  I don’t recommend it, incidentally.  The Faeire Realm around Taryn has only a passing acquaintance with the concept of geographic consistency, and from what I experienced the same seems to hold true for Buxcord’s version.

The ring we’d all passed through didn’t even connect to the same point in Faerie each time it was used; Penn and Lea were nowhere to be seen.  Piper and I were in some thick, dark forest lit only by a purple glow, and it was as cold as winter save for some pockets of summer heat where the light was brightest.  For lack of a better plan, the two of us started walking in a random direction, hoping to encounter a Fey of some description.  What we found first was a troll.

It may be obvious, but I’m not talking about the Gob-kin mythics that often squat in old gold and silver mines, but something closer to the theoretical Fey ancestors of the Gobs.  Tall, tusked, long arms and thick hair.  I attempted to make conversation on the slim chance that it wasn’t as brutishly violent as it looked, but at best it didn’t understand my language.  It punched me and then threw a log as Piper and I tried to retreat, trapping me briefly.  I retaliated with what is easily the tightest and most thorough Tangler binding I’ve pulled off since arriving in Buxcord, which gave Piper more than ample time to lift the log and for us to limp away.

Some time later, and after many failed attempts to cajole some assistance from the many eyes I felt watching us, Piper and I found Mr. Penn.  Penn had made the acquaintance of a bat-faced gremlin-like thing that was acting as his guide through the realm.  Penn was looking a little frustrated, as the guide had apparently been leading him in circles for a while in different zone of Faerie before bringing him to where “human-like faeries” were. After listening to the two banter for a bit I diagnosed the problem: Penn was being vague with his questions and the gremlin was responding with equally imprecise answers. I gleaned enough to learn that this realm was ruled by a King, and so I asked to be guided to said King.  The gremlin agreed on the condition that each of us pay it with something we were wearing.  It requested my robe in particular.  I should have argued more, offered something easier to replace, but I was feeling overly cautious.  For one thing, Faeries can be fickle and temperamental things, difficult to negotiate with without causing offense.  For the other, I was still reeling from Nollthep’s messing with my memory and hurting from the troll encounter.

So, I’m going to have find myself a new robe and put in several days, if not weeks, of work embroidering my protection runes into it.

The gremlin at least kept it word once it had my robe, Piper’s jacket, and Penn’s shoes.  It brought us to a fog bank and instructed us to enter it, and then scampered.  We entered the fog and found ourselves standing before a food-laden table with chairs in a field surrounded by stone gates.  Lea was approaching from one of the gates in the company of a gnome-like Faerie, and she was glad to see us.

Lea had arrived in a spring-themed part of the Faerie realm, with wispy voices welcoming her home.  As she’d wandered about, memories she had long repressed due to her guardians not believing her tales of growing up in Faerie started to return.  Those memories gave her a better understanding of her magic, but they seemed to have come at the cost of some memories of her life after leaving or returning to the mortal realm.  It’s still unclear whether Lea is a natural-born Faerie called a Leanan Sidhe or a human girl who had been taken and raised as a Sidhe.

All of a sudden, the King himself appeared in the largest chair at the table and asked why we hadn’t partaken of the food.  I told him that I was aware of the dangers of eating Faerie-made food without establishing the full implications of doing so first.  The King commended me for my wisdom, and the commented that that was surprising coming from someone “of the Chain.”

I can only assume he was referring to the Tau’rin Chain.  If he was, that opens up a lot of questions and some possibilities.  The Fey Ways have never been adequately explored; it’s far too chaotic and vast a dimension for anything not native to do so.  Still, I’d always assumed that the Fey Ways of Taryn were just a part of our universe, a separate dimension but still contained fully within the same boundaries as the “mortal” plane.  But this King of a Faerie realm linked to another universe is, apparently, aware of the Tau’rin Chain.  Could there be passage between different Faeries?  It seems too far-fetched to assume that all Faeries are a single space, linking the multiverse together.

The King’s surprise at my knowledge implies to me that if he speaks truly about knowing of the Chain, he may not be aware of the whole of it, or simply doesn’t know enough about the history of Taryn’s Fey Ways in particular. Still, there’s a potential way home; even if I can’t get to Taryn directly or to any universe in the Chain that I’m personally familiar with via this Faerie, I at least know how to navigate the tears once I’m in the Chain.

Enough speculation.  I need to finish this story, as Samantha would insist.

The King declared that he had a policy of not allowing his subjects to leave the realm, aside from a not-insignificant list of exceptions such as going out to acquire human children.  I kept my mouth shut until Lea made her opinion known; I wasn’t about to force her to leave and continue to associate with me if she didn’t want to. Once Lea opted to try and convince the King to let her return, though, I started looking for options.  I didn’t get far before the King decided to play nice and offer a deal: Lea would be permitted to leave Faerie if the rest of us – me, Penn, and Piper – all agreed to enter the King’s service as guards, in essence, to catch and return any Faerie who was in the human realm without permission and to guard the entrances from forces the King wanted kept out.  He hinted that both Penn and Piper had existing connections to those antagonist forces already.  Something for me to look into later. With greater care than I approached the Nollthep issue, of course.

Piper was quick to agree simply for Lea’s sake, and I don’t know what was going through Penn’s mind before he also agreed.  For myself, I saw it as just another job, and something up my usual alley: resolve trouble and maintain an orderly peace. It’s supposed to a life-long commitment, but if the King is able to reach out to Taryn then my efforts to return home won’t create any conflicts.  And if it turns out that he can’t reach Taryn, then he won’t be able to punish me for breaking…

Dangerous thought?

No, that wouldn’t be a violation of the contract, so long as I intend to honor it.

So, I have a regular client now, and Lea gets to not live in Faerie forever.

I’ll gladly take the win.

-Ash

[obaewankenope]

so i finished my raphael!crowley fic @darthvcder ur welcome

You Were Made (To Meet Your Maker) summary:

How does one Fall and still stand as an angel? How does one exist both as good and evil? How does one embody the virtues and the sins? How does one perform miracles on Her order when they are no longer one of Her angels?

.

In Heaven a spirit doth dwell       Whose heart-strings are a lute;

None sing so wildly well As the angel Israfel, And the giddy stars (so legends tell), Ceasing their hymns, attend the spell         Of his voice, all mute.

                                   Edgar Allan Poe

.

How does one Fall and still stand as an angel? How does one exist both as good and evil? How does one embody the virtues and the sins? How does one perform miracles on Her order when they are no longer one of Her angels?

Crowley doesn’t know the answer to any of those questions, he’s not sure he wants to know them. He’s always been curious—always asked and asked and asked—but some questions, he knows, are not always answerable[1].

Once he was an angel. Once he had brothers and sisters made of beautiful light, full of song and praise and wonder. Once he knew what it was to be Her mediator. Once he knew heaven in gentle glory.

Once.

Now he is a demon. Now he knows what it is to claw his way through the earth, from a searing heat at the core, further and further away from the boiling fire toward sweet blue sky and cold beyond. Now he knows what it is to feel so, so alone. Now he is no one’s messenger, no one’s herald. Now he knows hell.

It’s not as bad as it could be, Crowley knows this. It is worse for some of the demons who were Made Demons and not who Once Were Angels. There’s a difference between the two types; those who have been made into demons are so much weaker, they’re the cannon fodder to thin the enemy lines and exhaust the heavy-hitters on the battlefield. Demons Who Were Angels Before are strong and mighty still, with their wings retained and all of their celestial powers driven by demonic strength instead of God’s love.

Crowley has wings but to those he is now kin to, they see him as a Made Demon rather than a Once Angel. He prefer it that way. Made Demons are given simpler tasks, capable of far less intellectual ability and generally good for a few temptings before they stupidly meet their end at the hands of a priest with holy water on hand.

It was his wings that made Crowley the option for tempting Eve in the garden. He could fly as well as slither, speak as well as hide. Made Demons are given far less attention by heaven and the celestial Powers That Be so, obviously, Crowley would go under the radar and avoid detection[2].

That made the meeting with the principality on Eden’s wall all the more amusing. For Azirafel knew not who stood beside him. Though he could not for Crowley had done much to hide it from all—brother and sister and Parent alike. Mother did not know him for Crowley had dropped all but his power and wings when he Fell.

Yet…

Mother did not stop calling on him. She called for him—Her mediator, one who heals, —to perform miracles throughout human history. Heal this human, save this place, travel to that town and perform a miracle to save the children, speak between the Archangels and stop them from tearing each other apart. Always a Purpose. Always another Task for him to Perform for Her.

And for all that he hated it, hated being called when She had cast him out, he still answered her summons. He wore a face that his siblings knew, answered them when they called for him by That Name and never let it be shown that he felt that part of him had died the day he Fell.

Azirafel grew as a friend, became someone Crowley found companionship throughout the ages of humanity. The angel who was a Principality of Eden, the angel with a flaming sword gifted to humanity for warmth and protection and out of kindness. Azirafel was worth knowing, Crowley decided only moments after meeting the angel in Eden.

Knowing him throughout the ages only solidifies that fact as Incontestable.

The kind of Incontestable that makes life insurance policies such useful things to have on a spouse with a dangerous job even when you mess up details on the policy when making it[3].

God’s plans are, as always, ineffable. Azirafel loves that phrase, that word, it’s his go-to defence and distraction from Important Conversations method. Crowley respects it, that sort of verbal skill is sadly lacking in hell—and heaven, it was lacking there as well, but that was Then and this is Now[4].

Now where he sits in his flat and wonders what the itchy sensation across his back is. It feels… not familiar, it’s too strange to be mistaken for the irritation of his wings wanting to move and be in the world. Crowley feels as though it’s a sensation meant only to be felt by him and only at this specific moment in time.

The moment his television blares to life, screen mottled with white noise and a distorted but instantly recognisable voice echoing through the surround sound system built into the walls, Crowley understands.

He wishes it had been his wings itching for some freedom.

 .

.

“Crowley, darling, I have a brilliant task for you.”

It’s not brilliant. Crowley knows it’s not. He knows it like he knows the way Abraham couldn’t believe the sight of three Archangels standing before him in the Grove of Mamre two thousand years ago. It’s the same understanding of this being A Distinctly Not Brilliant Task that he has of every order She has given him over the ages.

This is something Crowley is destined to do but he sure as hell doesn’t need to enjoy it[5].

So delivering the end of the world doesn’t necessarily involve him tooting a horn for the world to hear, but even celestial and demonic beings had to move with the times.

As an Archangel, Crowley’s purpose was so different to his demonic duties that it was laughable how they—finally—meshed together with his being the bearer of Armageddon. It was hilarious.

Perhaps he should have been sat waiting for the end times, perhaps he had been. All through his time on earth, acting as demonic scourge while performing angelic blessings, Crowley has been waiting. He knew—knows—the fruitlessness of it all. The ending is written in the lyrics of the cosmos, in the stanzas and bars of each note, a mournful admission of what was, is, will be.

Aziraphale—modernised pronunciation, grammar, letters, language, it suits the angel better than it does Crowley—has never understood the pointlessness of it all. A loyal angel, loving and kind, who holds fast to the order of loving humanity. That’s Aziraphale.

Crowley wishes he could be like Aziraphale.

In the moments of his life when he has had too much time to sit and think, Crowley has envied and resented Aziraphale in equal measure. But he has pitied him most of all.

At least Crowley knows the ending, Aziraphale doesn’t even have that. It’s a small consolation[6].

So here it is, Crowley, the Fallen Archangel Who Is Not Samael, who delivers unto the earth an ultimatum, a determination, a statement of undeniable fact[7].

Let the axe fall, let those who will fall collapse and those who are given Favour rise. Crowley is the harbinger of extinction.

A fitting duty for one such as he.

Aziraphale understands that the end times are coming. He understands in distant terms, removed from the centre of it by virtue of his distance to the child Crowley delivers to the nuns—Crowley knows without having to check that the child is unremarkably remarkable and will bring the world to ruin in ways it has never been brought to before—and the time they have until the War To End It All.

That Aziraphale honestly considers Crowley’s suggestions, his nagging, his hints, his temptings, to the point of agreeing to work together on the child… Crowley has known the Principality for a long, long time and he never thought the angel would agree to such a thing even with the Arrangement between them.

It’s as unexpectedly wonderful as learning an angel gave his celestial blade away out of kindness and kindness alone.

He’s reminded of his time in Greece, back before the Romans got it into their heads to be a civilisation. Before he met Aziraphale in Rome and continued to bond on their immortality on a mortal world. Greece had been a wonderful place with a lot of dark spots to mar the brightest sheen on it.

Hell had loved Greece for its slaves and wars and conquest. Crowley had loved Greece for its potential.

He had flourished in Greece, walking streets with his eyes gold rather than serpentine yellow, hair flowing red to his waist, robes always a pristine white, red, and blue. Crowley knows he had looked beyond anything mortal. He had intended it.

Greece was a place where healing was so, so important. Where Crowley could walk into a temple dedicated to Asclepius—a lovely gent—and touch the heads of the sick and heal them of their ills and have no fear of it reaching heaven that it was he was doing it.

Heaven had never tracked his movements—they couldn’t, no Archangel could be tracked save by another Archangel or God Herself—and Hell was more interested in the suffering he claimed credit for that a minor healing meant little to them.

It was always assumed to be in service to a higher cause[8].

Falling had never been his choice, not really. He’d just hung out with the wrong crowd, asked too many questions, been tricked at the worst possible time to be tricked.

Samael’s words were like honey but with a vinegar aftertaste only noticed when one stopped imbibing the sweetness. Crowley remembers how kind Samael was, how loving and bright and sly. He remembers huddling beneath his brother’s wing and staring in wonder as the beginning of the cosmos. He remembers Samael’s hurt anger when She revealed to them all Her newest project.

Humanity.

Most of all, Crowley remembers the boiling pits of hell as he landed, the searing agony as the sulphur bit into celestial skin and tried to poison it. He remembers his wings unfurling and launching him from it, landing on rock-molten ground and screaming screaming  s c r e a m i n g.

He remembers contact with his wings of bodies and beings never before known in the universe. He remembers celestial fire burning around him, lashing out and immolating those who dared approach him.

Crowley remembers wings of fire and light and love wrapping around him, blocking out the world, smothering his own celestial strength and arms entwining around him, caging him in place.

Crowley remembers the soft words, spoken in that honeyed voice, calming him, soothing him, placating him to stop, stop, just stop dear brother, you are safe with me.

But safe was not here. Safe was Before. Safe is an illusion Now.

“Go above, tempt the mortals, do this and remain there, I give you the duty and honour and freedom from here. I am Kind like that, I am Gentle, I am Merciful.”

Merciful? It would have been merciful to end him then and not force him to endure as this.

But Samael was only ever merciful in ways that He Preferred to be. Not ways Crowley wished.

That angel up in Eden bears a blade that is common and yet rare. It burns with celestial fire and something more, something else that is a leftover from one who bore it before. Power and strength and will entwined.

Crowley recognises it and he wonders at it. Why this blade? Why this angel? What is the reason?

But questions have damned him once, Crowley wishes them not to damn him again.

She would likely do worse than just let him Fall[9].

Being the bearer of the end, knowing without doubt that it will come to pass. It is no kindness to know it. It is less so to realise he will be Called Upon to fight.

Which side will call him first? First come first served.

Crowley hopes to never know but he does, deep down he does. It is always She who will Call him first.

It is less a kindness than heaven or hell calling him.

Standing on the ground of an airbase in Tadfield, beside an angel who has no idea who he is, with children who follow the Anti-Christ, two mortals who have souls tied to one another, and the Horsemen—and Women—of the apocalypse, Crowley accepts his Place.

It has always been with humanity.

Selfish reasons have driven him over the eons. To be seen as more than just a demon, less what he has Become and instead as one who is Kind and Gentle. But, at the core of him, Crowley loves more than any other.

He loves so much he Fell.

He loves to understand, to ask, to enquire, to have answers.

He loves to spend time with others, witness them, wonder at them, love them equally and without guile.

He loves to be with his angel, the principality, the kindest he has ever known.

He loves these children, standing beside their friend who terrified them only hours previous, steadfast in their loyalty and love for one who could destroy them.

He loves it all and all Crowley has ever been is a being of Love.

Whether he has admitted it or not since his Fall.

Now he admits it.

Now he stands.

.

.

Gabriel is shocked to witness it. To see two immortal beings standing beside a mortal weapon, implacable and unrelenting in their loyalty to neither side and to the Third they all Forgot.

Aziraphale, the bright and kind angel of Eden, is wondrous in how he does not startle at the change of one he has known since the start. His strong, determined, focused angel.

Crowley wants to smile at him.

He smiles at Gabriel instead[10].

Adam, the child who has been named for one of promise and born of dust collected by Crowley’s own hands, just looks at him and smiles.

“You look more like you now, Mister Crowley,” the boy with Power Over All says, and Crowley wants to laugh.

Of course the boy who is his nephew would Know Him beneath the illusions he has constructed from the start. Of course.

“I’ve always looked like me, thanks,” he replies, smirking a little at the way Adam shakes his head.

“No, you look like you should now,” Adam insists, his eyes moving from Crowley’s face to the wings behind him.

Crowley realises they are no longer the inky-black with slight shades of blue. Now they Shine bright and reflective. Like gemstones shaped like feathers. Lapis lazuli.

And there are four, not two, wings sprouting from his back[11].

No wonder Gabriel is shocked into open mouthed silence.

Crowley’s revealed himself in every way and hadn’t actually realised until Adam pointed it out.

“Raphael,” Gabriel breathes, shocked beyond measure. The Archangel Who Is Messenger seems weak-kneed and confused, as though he cannot believe what he sees.

Crowley figures he probably can’t. Gabriel always did have a problem with imagination.

“Gabe’,” Crowley nods at his brother—younger than him by moments but no one but the Archangels know that—and shrugs a shoulder. “Long time no judgement.”

The kids snicker at that and Crowley’s smile widens because yes, that was funny. Aziraphale’s nervous fluttering makes the smile and humour sharp and as vicious as Crowley is capable of being.

It’s often forgotten than healer’s know best how to cause hurt.

“You died.” Gabriel looks like he can’t believe the sight of him as real, like it’s a trick of some sort and, yes, he’s a demon to all here so demonic trickery is the Thing To Do.

But Beelzebub is looking a little green around the gills—flies—and Crowley realises that she didn’t know who he had been.

Samael—Lucifer—hadn’t told them.

It’s obvious, looking back on it all, that had he told them that the Archangel he smothered in his wings was the snake he sent to Eden, the one entrusted with the Anti-Christ, were one in the same, he’d have faced a distraught rebellion of Made and Once demons jealous of the favouritism.

And it was favouritism[12].

“Died? I’ve been performing miracles the world over,” Crowley replies and okay, yes, perhaps that’s not something to admit in front of Beelzebub who definitely didn’t know about those miracles—the green hue on her face is mixing with a pale sort of red, the kind shocked anger tends to produce—but oh well, it’s done now. “Good to know you’re as observant as ever, Gabe’.”

That makes Gabriel scowl, wings ruffling in offence. If there’s one thing Gabriel always did hate his brothers and sisters doing, it was pointing out his attention span. For one who was so good at destruction, he sure did overlook the obvious.

The obvious here being that when an Archangel dies, heaven is dimmed and their name rings out and—hold on a second.

“Did She declare me dead?” Crowley asks suddenly, and he wants to know but he doesn’t at the same time because if she did—he doesn’t know if he could bear that.

“No,” Aziraphale answers beside him. The angel has been forgotten between the Archangels facing each other—one Fallen, one not—and Crowley startles a little. Gabriel too, from the expression on his stupidly square face. “She declared you Lost.”

Crowley blinks. “Oh.”

“There’s a difference between dead and lost?” One of the children pipes up, Crowley knows it is Brian just because Adam knows it and Adam is his family in ways only Gabriel can understand.

Aziraphale looks at the child and it’s not Crowley’s imagination that the Principality’s face softens from a sort of hard concern to something much kinder. He’s good with kids, Crowley knows, when he isn’t intent on shoddy mortal magic.

“Dead is extinct in angelic terms. Angels die and we know because we feel it and the Almighty declares it,” Aziraphale explains in that soft way he has when explaining things, a little fast and with so much feeling. “Lost is—uh—not quite the same. It can mean dead, but it can also mean stolen, misplaced, or one who has abandoned—” Aziraphale looks at Crowley, voice faltering and Crowley snorts.

“I never meant to fall,” is his response, his explanation, and defence in one.

Beelzebub chooses that moment to finally chip in on the whole family drama[13].

“Thiz izz all nicezz but we have a war to fight!” She gives Gabriel a Look that has the Archangel shifting as though he’s just remembered why he popped into being on earth when he so clearly hates the whole damned mudball.

“Yes! Right! Well, family reunion will have to wait! We really do have a schedule to keep to,” Gabriel says, giving his attention to Adam who, Crowley is pleased to note, is very Not Impressed with the Archangel’s attempts at being friendly to him. “Adam, we need to restart the apocalypse.”

“But why?”

Crowley officially loves this kid.

Gabriel and Beelzebub both blink, nonplussed and Crowley just wants to cackle. It’s insane and bonkers and absolutely bloody hilarious.

“Because this is the Great Plan, Adam, and you have the starring role.” Gabriel smiles but the smile is strained. Crowley remembers the smiles Gabriel used to give him as a fledgling, all full of joy and wonder and awe at his family. This smile is the smile of upper management being forced to try and wrangle an agreement from the union when they’d rather have everyone slogging away for a tuppence.

It’s sad how well that smile suits his brother now.

“Don’t you want to rule the world, Adam?” Beelzebub asks, trying to be friendly and approachable and Crowley sort of wants to gag and maybe Adam does too because the boy leans back a little from her.

“It’s hard enough thinking of things to keep Brian, Wensleydale and Pepper happy,” is what Adam says and Crowley smirks.

Bless those who don’t want power because it’s too much effort.

“Listen, you little brat,” Gabriel’s smile falls away and in its place is an annoyed scowl that rings of storms and destroyed cities of men. “This apocalypse is happening. Now restart it!”

If a child with power over all of creation could turn an Archangel into a slug for being an absolute dick, Adam Young could definitely do it.

“Bit rude, Gabe’,” Crowley says, sauntering up to stand behind Adam, and he’s a little pleased at how Beelzebub and Gabriel both step back at his approach. Aziraphale joins him on the other side of Adam and they stand with the child, facing down heaven and hell both. “You used to be much better with kids.”

“Really?” Aziraphale looks askance at Crowley. “I never knew that.”

“Welllllllll,” Crowley drags out, scratching his neck. “He was pretty good with the new angels when Mother got around to making them. Always showing them how to use their wings and stuff. Guess he’s gotten cranky in his old age.”

The wings Gabriel has been keeping from this mortal plane appear in a sudden flair of motion and light that blinds most of the humans out on the field—Adam and the witch are unaffected. They’re whiter than Crowley remembers, with less gold in the feathers to mark him as loving and wise. Perhaps that says all that Crowley needs to know about Gabriel as he is Now compared to how he was Then.

Gabriel, just like Crowley, possesses six wings to Aziraphale’s two. It is a mark of the status and power of Archangels that they all have four wings on their backs, though only two are used for flight. The other two are more… excessive displays of power and status.

That Crowley retained his when he Fell probably shocked Gabriel more than his being Not Dead. An Archangel who Fell is a disgrace and that he would still have all his wings is unheard of. Samael, Crowley knows, lost a set in the Fall. It’s one of the reasons he has avoided his—avoided him and kept his wings strictly to two whenever he has been forced to see The One Who Was Lightbringer. It hurts them both, he thinks, to be reminded of what was lost[14].

“Enough!” Gabriel roars and the world around them trembles from the force of an Archangel’s anger.

The humans shake and look around in alarm, even young Adam, and Aziraphale seems—rightly—terrified of an angry Archangel. But Crowley knows Gabriel.

He has known this Archangel from the moment She made him and he knows Gabriel’s limits.

Even without the Host of heaven to give him strength, Crowley is strong enough to match his little brother[15].

So he sighs and clicks his fingers with all the fanfare of his usual dealings with celestial beings who foolishly draw on their power in front of mortals. Immediately the rumbling ceases and the sensation of thunder and power dies away.

Gabriel looks around, confused and Crowley raises an eyebrow because, well, it should be obvious.

“You always were prone to temper tantrums, Gabe’,” Crowley remarks, amused at it all. Gabriel’s expression is as close to open confusion as Crowley has ever seen it.

Beelzebub—now—looks rightly afraid. That Crowley—lowly Crowley whom she has always hated—can end an Archangel’s anger before it even really begins… it shocks her.

“Last one I remember was Sodom,” Crowley continues. “Oh, and Gomorrah! That was a doozy of a temper tantrum, I tell you.”

If looks could kill, Gabriel’s thunderous expression probably would have murdered Crowley on the spot. As it is, only Adam’s looks can probably kill. Probably.

“This is an absolute joke! Stop with all of this crap and just start the apocalypse!!”

And there’s the whining from an Archangel. Lovely.

“I agree. It izz time, boy!”

And now a demon’s joining in. Great.

“No.”

Adam Young is the absolute best child, Crowley has ever met.

“It izz the plan!”

“It is the Great Plan!”

“It izz written!”

“The war must be waged!”

“There must be a winning side!”

Adam stares at the Archangel and demon as they trade off, without even realising, to try and convince the child to do what they want. They sure as hel—heav—Alpha Centuri can’t make him.

“But—uh—excuse me for a moment,” Aziraphale pipes up, distracting Gabriel and Beelzebub from continuing their routine. “Is that the Ineffable Plan you’re talking about?”

Gabriel splutters. “It’s the Great Plan.”

Beelzebub nods. “It izz written.”

“But,” Aziraphale presses. “Is it the Ineffable Plan?”

And like a bolt of lightning to the face, Crowley understands what this angel—the kindness and softest and most loving—is doing. He’s being sly.

“You don’t know,” Crowley breathes, near silent, but Adam catches his words, looks at him with that look on his face that is part-confusion and part-understanding.

Neither side understand Her. They never have. Not Before, not Now, not Ever. It’s how it’s always been. Crowley accepted that a long time ago, as much as it galled him and enraged and hurt him to do. He is steady with that understanding. He has made himself a life by doing what he Knows is Right and not regretting it.

She let him Fall and he learnt to Stand Alone after.

Maybe it’s time for heaven and hell to learn to do the same?

“Well, Ineffable Plan and all, maybe this is Her plan all along and you lot are messing it right up?” Crowley questions, mock-thought and pondering. The look on his little brother’s face is so amusing that he wants to laugh, but the situation is Serious and laughing would be Bad[16].

“God does not play games with the universe!”

Crowley cocks his head because really? Gabriel, really? “Where have you been?”

“Your father will not be pleazzed boy!” Beelzebub declares and, well, she’s not wrong. Samael will be pissed beyond reason with Adam for not causing the apocalypse as per the Great Plan.

Crowley would probably have pointed out the irony that Samael is following Her plan with the apocalypse if he hadn’t been concerned with Samael tearing off his wings in anger. Fun times.

“He’s not been pleased since Mother went and decided to create humanity in case you hadn’t noticed,” Crowley snips at Beelzebub who buzzes angrily at him[17]. The amused breath that Aziraphale lets out makes Crowley smile, pleased that his snark still amuses the Principality.

It’s very endearing that Aziraphale is amused by Crowley at his most snippy. Endearing and very easy to fall in a whole new way for.

“I hope someone tells him, your father,” Gabriel says, giving Beelzebub a Look that Crowley quirks a brow at. His little brother knows a Made demon so well that he can exchange Looks with them? Oh how the hypocrites rule the roost.

“Oh, they will,” Beelzebub promises. It’s an ominous promise, the sort that is an assurance of a lot of Problems to come and probably, most likely, Pain too.

Crowley finds he dislikes that.

But he can’t really do anything about it when both Beelzebub and Gabriel disappear in hues of green and purple, leaving the airbase with two fewer immortal beings than it started with.

“Did we do it? Did we stop the apocalypse?” one of the children ask—Wensleydale—and Crowley nods.

“I… I think we did, yeah,” he says, frowning a little.

His wings are still out and he’s just realised that fact and is starting to pull them back within when the ground trembles and a striking pain runs through his chest, dropping him to the ground with a pained cry.

“What is it? What’s wrong?” Aziraphale demands, stepping toward him in concern. “I feel something.”

Crowley hisses, more like a snake than any sound a human or angel would make, coming up to his knees—the best he can do with that striking pain still in his chest—and he looks at Aziraphale. “They did it. They told him.”

He lets out a shuddering breath. “He’s coming.”

Crowley feels like he’s about to witness something—do something—that will forever change him. Forever change who he Was, who he Is, and who he Will Become and he’s afraid.

“Come up with something Crowley!” Aziraphale snaps at him, standing with the flaming sword of Eden and the Morningstar. “Or I’ll—I’ll never talk to you again!”

He’s so, so afraid.

But there’s anger beneath the fear. Bubbling anger that has been simmering away on the back burner for over six thousand years and it’s finally, finally boiling over.

His wings, snap out, fan around him as he forces himself to stand, to ignore the pain, to heal what is causing it over and over and to keep going. He is the Archangel Raphael. He is the demon Crowley.

He is healer. He is tempter.

He is humanity’s protector.

And he is done with his brother.

Stopping time is easy, he’s done it dozens of times over the years whenever he’s needed a little more time. It’s a little more difficult to pull Adam and Aziraphale into the little bubble he’s created where they can exist and be but not be affected. Adam is easier to pull than Aziraphale and it’s only because of the closeness he has to Aziraphale that it takes less power than it ought to otherwise.

“Adam, you have to make a choice.”

Choices. It always comes down to choices.

“Right now, reality will listen to you.”

A child of eleven has power over reality the likes of which Raphael-who-is-now-Crowley knows to be unique. Half-Archangel, Adam Young can do anything with the strength of his will alone. But it is the humanity in him that makes him so, so worthy of that strength.

Adam won’t squander it like Samael would. Like Crowley would, even.

All angels are flawed beings, imperfectly flawed and prideful. A perfect world is what every angel thinks is Best. They don’t understand the beauty of struggle.

Crowley learnt it the hard way. Aziraphale has learnt it over time on earth. The earth is beautiful for its variety, its difference, its disorder, for every ounce of pain and suffering and harm and wonder and love and kindness there is upon its surface and beneath it.

Adam Young knows the same for he is human and he knows that perfection is an illusion crafted by imperfect hands.

So Adam won’t create perfection. He’ll create what is Right and what is Good and it is never going to be Perfect.

Everything must have a balance. Even paradise.

“You’re not my dad! You’re not my real dad!”

Oh but it’s true. No parent who is absent in their child’s life is a parent, least of all one who appears and demands obedience just for being Parent.

Samael is learning the same lesson She learnt and Crowley wants to laugh at him. He really does.

But it’s hurting too much in his heart of hearts to laugh. The pain of seeing his brother laid bare, rejected again, unmade once more… it’s like Crowley’s being rent in two.

Perhaps he is.

“But you’re my uncle.”

And just like that, with four words from a child with Power, Crowley’s pain stops. Adam has rejected Samael—no, he has rejected Satan as father—but claimed Crowley as uncle. He accepts the bond of family, celestial and timeless, and he accepts Crowley.

Maybe he cries, Crowley doesn’t really know. All he knows is that having an eleven-year-old son of the Devil only-by-birth clinging to him and telling him that “you’re mine, you’re my uncle, mine, my uncle” over and over until it seeps into his skin and muscles and right into the core of his being made of material no mortal could understand, is the most amazing sensation Crowley has ever known.

It’s like Forgiveness and Absolution in one.

This was Her plan all along.

Crowley—clinging as fiercely to Adam as the child does him, Aziraphale stood with a hand on his shoulder—can’t even find it in himself to be annoyed at Her for not sharing some of the details to make it a little less painful for him in the long run. It’s so very like Her to not explain.

Some lessons, parents learn in the end, cannot be taught, they must be lived.

Crowley is happy enough to live this.

He still has Questions though. He wouldn’t be him if he didn’t, after all.

.

.

[1] It’s an incontestable fact that some answers hurt too much to hear. Crowley knows this better than most considering he has given answers to humans over the centuries that have driven men mad and women to drown their children to protect them from the Suffering To Come.

[2] He could have too. Not because he was Made but because he wasn’t. His divine power has always been his own, his knowledge always his, his wit, his smarts, his survival instincts and drive to Be More. It means that he knows how to avoid notice when, by all rights, he is the most noticeable thing around.

[3] Crowley had been secretly pleased at managing to make that clause in a policy—it had nothing to do with protecting The Little Guy from the Big Bad Corporation as a psycho-therapeutic act, nothing at all.

[4] Before the Fall is, in Crowley’s mind either ‘Then’, ‘Before’ or, ‘When He Was Still Just One And Not Two’. After the Fall is, naturally then, ‘Now, ‘The Present’, ‘Where He Is Two Instead Of Just One Any More’. He exhausts himself sometimes, figuring out the mental hurdles he leaps on an endless track trying to figure it all out. Who he was Before and who he is Now, how much they bleed into each other, how little they do, what parts are the same, where the differences lie. It’s all the more exhausting because he can’t just talk to anyone about it. Talk therapy is a Big Thing that Crowley puts a lot of stock in but, unfortunately for him, no licensed therapist has quite the credentials necessary to help him out. Unfortunate, that.

[5] Crowley has rarely enjoyed any of the orders he has received from Her or from hell, with the exception of three orders that allowed him the chance to work around the strict commands. One time was with Noah’s Ark when he managed to rescue a few dozen of the children surrounding the Ark whom he miracled to a patch of land far enough from Noah and Co to not be a problem for a few generations. She hadn’t smited him or rained down destruction on those children so, as far as Crowley feels, the action wasn’t wrong of him and She agreed with him on it all but was a little Too Proud To Admit It. It was a habit with Her.

[6] It is no consolation at all. It is too painful to be reassuring knowledge to have.

[7] It is noted in several religions of humanity that there is an unnamed angel who heralds the end of the world, sounding a trumpet signalling Armageddon. Crowley isn’t quite sure how the humans came to learn this but, considering that the angel they mention with no name is him, he’s pretty impressed. Also concerned and a little bit afraid because someone had to tell the humans.

[8] It is an oft’ forgotten fact that demons, just as easily as angels, are capable of feats of healing. It is less common but no less possible. Crowley has, in his long existence, performed several hundred thousands healings. Of those healings, hell has not thought to investigate on them beyond a short memo enquiring—dropping the matter when Crowley responds each time with credit for whatever suffering those healed have caused, intentionally or otherwise. After all, a healed slave who was freed but poisoned by their master is causing suffering for that master whom exile is the punishment for.

[9] But what is there that is worse than Falling? Crowley feels that there is only Death and Oblivion but those would be a kindness now. So obviously She would deny him them. Living as a demon and it being known who he was would, perhaps, be worse than the Fall. One who was bright and kind and a healer, now Fallen? If it was known, that would be so, so much worse.

[10] It is not a nice smile. Bit too bloodthirsty and full of Might to be nice.

[11] He possesses another two but they aren’t really wings so much as strategically placed protection methods for celestial organs of great important. Crowley has no desire to reveal those to any present. Except maybe Aziraphale.

[12] For reasons Crowley never really wanted to think about too much. It was a painful reminder that they were, among the Fallen and the still Flying, apart from all the rest for how they had been made and what they were to each other. Existing without him is, for Crowley, both impossible to consider and all too easy to imagine.

[13] Beelzebub however is not really family. She is a Made Demon—quite powerful and with a lot of pull down in hell but Made all the same.

[14] Crowley is under no illusions that the hurt caused by his four wings upon his back is more from the fact that Crowley still, somehow, retained Her favour and love even in a place as loveless as hell when Her Lightbringer was torn at and left mutilated by his Fall. Maybe it’s a commentary on how Crowley never really Fell so much as tripped and landed in the wrong place and had no way back before the crossing closed up shop and vacated itself out of existence. Either way, it has always made interactions between Samael and Crowley awkward.

[15] The thing that is easy to forget is that, as the One Who Heals, Crowley has an understanding of energy and power and all those other things that makes him a match with Michael and Samael because he doesn’t need the raw power of the First Archangel or the Lightbringer to win in a conflict. One day, Crowley supposes, the others will understand that fact.

[16] But he can definitely laugh about it later.

[17] She’s done that several times over the years, each time because Crowley had said or done something she wanted to hit him for but actually couldn’t.