#He loves New Order because they describe his suppressed emotions perfectly

[29625]

My headcanon is that Slider, as a closeted gay man in military, has experienced a few toxic/abusive relationships and a handful of painful heartbreaks that he never discloses except for Ice and later Mav (after they become close)

[ssscentral]

dancing in the dark | for fluff

Summary: Sometimes things just go wrong, even on your birthday - but as long as someone is here to build you up each time you fall, everything will always be perfectly fine.

Pairing : Hoseok x female reader

Genre : Fluff.

Warnings : Kissing lmao - nothing else, really

WC : 1.8k

Member : Rid || @taegularities

A/N : This is for my funny, sweet, caring, beautiful BIRTHDAY BABY @hoebii​ - GIRL, I LOVE YOU SO MUCH!!! This is probably still not the best thing I’ve ever written, but I really wanted you to feel loved by your husband Hoseok :D I wish you the bestest year ever and hope you keep giving us wonderful, creative content as always! SMOOCHES, BABY!! - also, thank you @voiceswithoutlips​ for professionally betain this fic and giving me the title idea, I love YOU, too! (Also, I’m posting this right meow, cuz it’s already her birthday at her place hehe AND I apologize that it’s not night in the banner lmao the pic was just so boyfriend material).

~~~~~

There was a little, cozy restaurant that you’d always liked.

Hoseok had never understood how you’d find food places in the most uncommon alleyways, hidden behind walls, pathways or buildings. And he also didn’t know why the owners of the restaurants had decided to settle there – but there was no doubt that you knew where to get delicious food in this town and he was always happy to tag along.

That was probably one of the uncountable things he loved so much about you. You were extraordinary, always smart, always countered with logical arguments, the funniest person in the room, never failing to bring a gentle smile to your loved ones’ faces.

Then, you had this strange yet endearing habit of constantly calling yourself a clown; and to this day, he hadn’t found out whether that was a good self-title or not. But he still ruffled your hair every time he heard you say it.

You were tired from college when you came home today. Your professors had almost not accepted your exam because it had taken you thirty seconds longer to finish and you were exhausted – mentally as well as physically.

Plummeting on your couch, you put your arm over your eyes, ready to knock yourself out for the day. You were probably laying there for a few minutes before you heard your boyfriend clear his throat, startling you.

You opened your eyes, ready to give him a piece of your mind before your expression softened, taking in his whole appearance before you broke out into a wide cheesy smile. There he was, nervously fumbling at the petal of a yellow flower that was part of a huge and impressive bouquet he had apparently gotten you. He was dressed neatly, a white shirt that was tucked in his black pants, and his dark and soft hair parted at the side.

“Wow, you look- wow, Hobi,” you said, the smile not leaving your face for a second.

He looked at you affectionately, the love he had stored for you all day threatening to burst out. He came closer as one of his hands cupped your chin, making you look up into his eyes. His body came down to press his lips on yours, passionately kissing you before he pulled away just a little, smiling against your mouth. “Happy birthday, baby.”

You chuckled shyly; but then you realized that he had dressed up to go out, while you were a stinking mess that had walked around town and college the whole day.

“Give me twenty minutes and I’ll be ready to do whatever surprise you’ve planned,” you said, kissing his nose softly, before you turned around.

“What makes you think I’ve planned something?”

“I’ve known you for six years. I think you’re pretty predictable by now, baby.”

-------

A little less than half an hour later and you were strolling through the city, a beautiful dress embracing your body under your coat that Hoseok could never get used to. It was a cold February night, but having him right by your side, day by day, made your chest feel warm.

Hoseok had made a reservation at your absolute favourite restaurant. You’d noticed that as soon as you had recognized the street, growing more and more excited as you approached your table. There was this one specific pasta meal that you always ate when you came here. You daydreamed about it a lot, randomly bursting into whines, telling Hoseok how much you missed the creamy homemade sauce on your tongue.

And as you went through the menu, despite knowing what you wanted, you called the waiter to order – only for him to tell you that they were out of a few ingredients today and could therefore not serve you what you wanted.

He started listing other options instead, forcing you to pick something that was probably good, too, but nothing compared to your go-to-food. Your smile faltered, the painted mouth turning into a frown as you looked at the table with pressed lips. “No fettuccine.” You sighed sadly as Hoseok looked at you empathetically.

He felt incredibly sorry for you and about the fact that he hadn’t informed himself earlier about the menu. From across the table, he took your hand into his and smiled at you, reassuring you that this was not the end of the world and that you could still have a beautiful evening together. This guy always knew what to say.

As it turned out, it could have been a lot worse - the alternative that they served you was almost just as delicious. You swallowed the food eagerly, pouting at Hoseok as he laughed at the way your hot dinner almost burnt your mouth.

“Baby,” he said at some point when you were silently eating, getting slightly drunk from the glasses of wine you were both sipping on.

You looked up at him, a smile appearing on your gorgeous face. The lipstick had long faded and your cheeks were glowing from the alcohol - and he could only look at you in awe, mesmerized and speechless. “Yeah?”

“I love you. And you look beautiful today,” he declared, sliding a hand across the table again to hold yours.

You teasingly raised an eyebrow, smirking as he understood what you meant even before you said it. He rolled his eyes before saying, “not just today, obviously. I just love this dress so much.”

You giggled, a soft sound that made his heart swell instantly. And when you’d finished eating and walked out into the freezing and refreshing breeze, he was eager to finally wrap his arm around your waist and pull you as close into his chest as he could.

He peppered your face with kisses, making you laugh into the night air like a teenage girl, and when he reached your neck, you crooked your neck at the tickling sensation of his lips against your skin.

And for some while, that was all you did: tumble through the streets, not caring to call a taxi, not yet ready to go home - instead, you walked and walked, the urge to slip out of your heels and hold them in your hand becoming stronger as the world became blurrier.

The journey to your home felt endless today - the streetlights were dim, only a few people walking past you as you entered alleys you had never known. You felt light hearted, laughing as if you’d never been as happy as you were now. That was until you suddenly felt wet drops land on your cheeks.

It had started raining. Great. Cold February rain.

“Seriously?!” you shouted into the sky, not believing that all the things that could go wrong specifically today, were indeed going wrong.

And suddenly, intoxicated and dizzy, you let out a whine as crocodile tears started streaming down your face. Hoseok glanced at you with furrowed eyebrows, looking at you for only two seconds before he broke out in a laugh.

“Oh, baby. There, there,” he cooed, pulling you into a hug and kissing your forehead affectionately. He patted your back while you smeared some of the mascara onto his beautiful, poor shirt. “What’s wrong, Y/N?”

He was still snickering and you pulled away. “What’s so funny about that?”

“Nothing, I just-” he started, trying hard to press his lips together and hold back a giggle, “you’re crying over rain, baby.”

“No. It’s not about the rain,” you complained, hiccuping between the sentences which only made it harder for your boyfriend to suppress a smile. “My professor riled me up so much today - then I don’t get my favourite food at my favourite place and now we’re getting soaked and probably sick…”

Hoseok leaned down to you, wiping away the mascara inked tears that were quickly mixing up with the rain. “It’s not that bad, Y/N. Everything worked out in the end. And rain is not that bad. Look.”

He stepped back, your hand in his as he smiled at you, little dimples forming at the corners of his lips. You sniffed, shivering from the cold and trying to anticipate his next move. The only reason you were not frozen to a stick was the warming alcohol in your system.

“Ready?” he asked, but didn’t wait for an answer. He spun you around in a smooth move before he pulled you into his chest, one hand snaking around your waist, while the fingers of the other intertwined with yours. He leaned his forehead against yours as you softly began dancing in the rain.

Somewhere, deep inside your brain, you imagined pleasant piano tunes that matched your moves, accompanied by his low hums that he always provided you with on nights you were unable to fall asleep.

Looking deep into your eyes, he said, “now, is that so bad?”

You noticed that your tears had stopped streaming down your face and made way to the rain that suddenly didn’t feel that terrible anymore. Pressed against Hoseok, you couldn’t quite describe what it was that you were feeling - with him, you never could. The emotions he ignited in you had always felt different, always new and like breathing in fresh, crisp air.

You inhaled as the cool wind reached your mind, mixed with his scent that you were so close to right now. “It could be worse.”

And then you danced for a while as the rain poured down on you, the sky restless and not even thinking of calming down. Your make up was probably ruined, your hair even more so; but you didn’t care. All you cared for was the man in front of you who was leaning down at this very moment, his lips approaching yours before he finally kissed you with every ounce of passion he could bring up.

You melted into the kiss, pressing yourself even more against his chest as he stopped moving. His hands were roaming your back, pushing you further into him, although it seemed impossible. Your mouths moved in a sweet pace, tongues crashing against the other’s.

And as he pulled away, his nose grazing yours, he took a deep breath, panting slightly, before he said, “I love you. My pretty girl. So. So. Much.” He gave you a peck on your neck between every sentence, smiling against your skin as he heard you giggle. “Can’t wait to go home and rip this dress off of you.”

At these words, your body tensed, the familiar feeling of excitement flooding through your body as you tried to hold onto him, the whole world spinning a little in front of your eyes. “I’m surely not going to stop you,” you whispered, wondering if he had even heard you.

He noticed you getting groggy as he put an arm around your waist, laughing into the night before he said, “let’s get you home, then, my birthday baby. Can’t get sick.”

Although the day had finished differently than you had expected, with way more surprises than you had surely anticipated, you felt content with what you had. You knew that as long as he was there, he would always find a way to brighten up your day.

As long as he was here to cheer you up in the worst situation possible, you knew you would, without a doubt, always find your happiness, even on sorrowful days.

[littlemisssquiggles]

Idea time! Oscar is kidnapped and the group go to rescue him... only to find Salem controlling him with a grimm that amplifies his negative emotions. They try to reach out to him but he throws everything back in their face. "Please, Oscar, fight! We care about you!" "... since when? If I never had Ozpin in my head, would you have paid a moment's notice to me?" "We want to help you!" "Like you helped me after the train? At Argus? At Atlas? I can do without that kind of help."

Ruby takes it the worst and brainwashed!Oscar completely destroys her with a Reason You Such Speech, outlining every single one of her flaws and failures, and it's only more potent because Oscar sees right through her so well already.

-----------------------------

Squiggles Answers: 

Hiya Miki-chan o/ Hmmmmmmm….intriguing. I quite dig this idea. As a matter of fact, mind if this squiggle meister adds to it?

Have you heard of the Tales of Arcadia Trilogy or at least Trollhunters? 

Without spoiling much from the series, just in case you haven’t seen it, let’s just say that at some point during the story, an ancient evil returns. Much like Salem, this ancient evil is an evil sorceress who later in the series possesses one of our main heroes and uses them as a vessel; silently infiltrating the hero group to thwart their plans to conquer the forces of evil.

Since you brought up brainwashed Oscar, imagine if…unbeknownst to our heroes, Oscar gets baptised in the Grimm Pools of Darkness during his imprisonment; corrupting the poor little prince and turning him into the perfect pawn for Salem to rule Remnant beside her much like she had envisioned to do with Ozma long ago.

But here’s the real zinger twist with this concept---as I mentioned, our heroes---lead by Ruby Rose--- are blissfully unaware of Oscar’s corruption and rescue him from Salem, confidently believing that they were successful in rescuing their friend. Only to discover later down the line that Oscar had actually been turned by Salem and had been acting out her diabolical schemes; infiltrating the heroes under the guise of their comrade all the while Salem manipulated his actions from the comforts of her tower, like a puppet on a string.

Basically, it’s a scenario where a corrupted Oscar unwillingly (since he was being controlled) betrays his friends to work with Salem and let’s say…in the midst of all this, Oscar aids Salem in staying one step ahead of our heroes’ actions since she basically used Oscar’s body as her eyes and ears within the team to spy on them and even sabotage some of their plans?

And thus, this all culminates in that very scene you described---where our heroes, particularly Ruby go to confront Salem and rescue Oscar for a second time only this time, Salem pits Oscar against Ruby and the two smaller, more honest souls are forced to fight one another similar to Ozma and Salem’s duel in the Lost Fable.

And to add onto your idea of Oscar chastising Ruby, let’s say…for their dual, Oscar pretends to be himself to lure a naïve Ruby Rose; desperate to save her friend, into a fortress that is actually a new-type of Grimm that forces a person’s fears and insecurities to manifest before them. I hereby dub this Grimm---the Baobab (for obvious reason).

So while Oscar and Ruby are fighting, Oscar uses the Baobab’s power to emotionally and psychologically torture Ruby? So as Corrupted Oscar yells every failure Ruby has ever made in her face, including failing to save him, the Grimm basically repeats Oscar’s words to Ruby forcing to echo all around her and practically down the girl in the burden of her own mistakes. 

And to add an extra kick to Ruby’s chest, let’s say the Baobab also showed Ruby visions of what really happened to Oscar while he was imprisoned---how he was tortured by Salem, broken and beaten into nothing, all the while screaming for her to come save him from his pain only for her to never come when he needed her---thus further tormenting Ruby with the guilt of what her friend had to go through while her and the others fought amongst themselves before coming to cohesive plan of action to help him.

Heck! Why not stop there? Imagine if…the Baobab Grimm shows Ruby all the times when Oscar had been hurt either in her presence or as a result of her and the other’s actions while Ruby was either never around or practically stood there and, in from Corrupted Oscar’s pointed of view, allowed it to happen?

Like when Qrow punched Oz into a tree and Ruby did nothing to stop her uncle from hurting him. Or when Qrow basically told Oscar that he wasn’t his own person, all the while Ruby just stood there and said nothing else to comfort him. Or how Ruby and the others practically abandoned Oscar all alone and never checked in on him while on Brunswick Farm after Oz had left. Everyone was there for each other, but not him. The same thing also happened in Argus.

Even after Jaune hurt Oscar right in front of their faces, no one cared to see if he was alright afterwards. No one care. The only time they cared about him was when he disappeared. So, in Corrupted Oscar’s, him going away for good is the only way the others, including Ruby, will actually give a damn about him. You get the gist, right?

What do you think of that? 

I know it deviates a little from your idea but I definitely do like your idea of a Corrupted Oscar turned into a pawn and vessel for Salem. It basically mimics our  Black Rose Ruby Little Red headcanon only the corrupted is Oscar.

For the longest time, the series has omitted showing how Oscar truly felt about all that has happened to him. The show always portrayed him as being perfectly complacent even in the face of what is basically abuse by his so-called peers. 

I love Oscar. I mean I really REALLY do since he’s my favourite character but as sad as it is for to admit as a Pinehead, Oscar is unfortunately the RWBY equivalent of a human pin cushion. No matter how many times he is pricked by the PLOT, his reaction in the aftermath is always neglecting of  his own emotional pain to an annoying degree.

I get that Oscar seems to be the selfless type who places others over himself which is very noble for kid of his age and upbringing (and part of the reason why I like his character so much) and gives the little prince something in common with his rose Ruby...but...in all seriousness...

How much more does this poor boy have to go through before the PLOT can let him be an actual human being with feelings who shouldn’t have to be okay with everything?

This is yet another instance where Oscar’s character is reminding me of Steven Universe. Steven went through so much during his own story so I personally liked how Steven Universe: Future tackled how much Steven had been suppressing over the years in terms of his own trauma and emotional fears; culminating in what happened to him in the finale.

I’m not saying I want Oscar to turn into a giant monster needing all of his friends to finally come together for him in order to help him after all the times he’s helped them…I don’t need RWBY to go to that extent (since I highly doubt it’ll happen canonically given the awkward way the show does handle its characters; particularly Oscar).

…Hoooooooooweverrrrr….I will say it would be nice if we did have a confrontation where Ruby and our heroes are forced to finally see the extent of their past actions, poor decisions and downright mistakes through their treatment of Oscar since…in an odd way, he is a casualty of it.

Oscar Pine is, in an odd sense for me to say, a victim of our hero’s mistakes---first Ozpin’s (by extension of Ozma) and now JNR_RWBY’s.

But then again, this is just my views on it. I hope this answers you Miki-chan. If you can, let me know your thoughts on my thoughts here.

~LittleMissSquiggles (2020)

[chimswae]

BTS Caretaker CH23

Summary: She may think she has Bangtan Sonyeondan wrapped around her fingers. She may think it is easy to love the members equally without hurting any soul. She may think the boys wont fall head over heels for her. She assumes it is okay to show a little love and affection towards the boys, what if she gets it all wrong? What if it only brings more complication to her already complicated life? Can she survive their charms? Will she be able to resist them? What if they just wont let her go?

- Pairing: BTS x Oc ( Yoongi x OC, Jungkook x OC)

- Genre: Fluff, Slight Angst, Romance, Idol!au

- Word Count: 4, 330

- Author Note: So im late, i will do double update! so please check on next chapter too~ :) thank u for whoever that read my cliche story HAHAHA i have no words to describe how im embarassed i am AHAHHAA anyways ~ 

Previous | Next

Chapter 23

Promotional month embarked the start of everything.  Hectic schedule, unreasonable amount of sleep time in a day, the most would be 2 hours and not to mention the studios and practice rooms would be their second home for the time being. The boys had been practicing non-stop these past few days until their official comeback early in February. This time their popularity soared higher than their previous comeback. It felt like a dream, but the boys did it. Their album sales make it digital or physical had risen drastically in comparison to previous sales.

The impact of Bangtan Sonyeondan to the industry was no joke. More people showed their support and their fanbase grew two times bigger than before in the blink of an eyes. Phenomenal indeed. Overwhelmed by the support, the boys promised to work harder this year to repay Armys’ love. Entering the last week of their You Never Walk Alone promotion, the boys were ready to start their Wings Tour around the globe. Unlike before they went to few continents depending on the demand of the respected country however this time their schedule was utilized for the first half of 2017.

Seul massaged her aching muscle and sunk on the couch with sulky face. The dorm was quiet and cold since none of the boys were home at this time.  They would only be home around dawn to get short nap before heading to their next schedule early in the morning. Following the change of their schedule, Seul would take an evening shift and went to their place right after her shift. So, she could prepare advanced breakfast for them. It became her routine to come around 2 in the morning and stayed for two hours or more, making sure the boys got a proper breakfast despite their busy schedule.

Mrs Hwang on the other hand was well informed pertaining to Seul’s unusual activity and she would make Hoon, more like force his son to pick her sister up every day from work. World is a scary place, she did not want to risk Seul’s life though that girl was the one who insisted to change her caretaking schedule out of sudden.

Glancing on her phone screen, she decided to call it a day since it was already 3 A.M and surprisingly she managed to pull her work within an hour. Seul had informed Hoon in advance so the younger guy would not pick her up considering he had exam the next day. She did not want to be blame for his bad performance later on.

“Should I watch Tae’s drama to kill time?” grinning to herself, Seul made up her mind to catch the latest episode. As she expected, the boys had recorded every episode up till the latest one.

What a supportive boyfriend!

It took Seul a moment to remember the last episode she watched, then it came to her realization she was following the drama diligently every week. Seul never missed any episode since she watched this with her mother. Of course, her mother would watch it, we were talking about her so-called adoptive son on screen.

Satisfied with her choice, Seul sat with her leg cross on the couch gleefully. She was excited to see different side of Taehyung on screen. A side which could only be seen on screen. Indeed, BTS V nailed it so perfectly. There were times Taehyung would give her a call as soon as his drama aired that particular day just to hear her opinion. She couldn’t understand why her opinion matter in this anyways.

 “Seul-seul! Did you watch?” Taehyung’s voice croaked in happiness. Apart from his members comment, Taehyung anticipated Seul’s point of view every week caused him to automatically give the girl a call after a new episode aired.

Seul laughed softly at Taehyung’s weird antic “I watched it Tae” he hummed. “So how was it this week?” he chewed his lower lips knowing how bluntly honest she could be. Taehyung valued her honesty even though sometimes Seul would never leave her sassiness behind, he didn’t care. He basically grew up with Min Suga’s sarcasm so to hear something similar from Seul, he was already immune to it.

“Hurm.. do you want to hear the good one or the bad one first?” she poked fun making Taehyung pouted in his seat.

“I want to hear good one first” Seul could imagine Taehyung’s pouty lips as a protest whenever he was forced to make a complicated choice.

Pressing her lips together to suppress her laughter, Seul regained her composure to have a decent conversation with him “You are certainly better if we were to compare with the episode which you first appeared. You look natural and comfortable with your character now. As I mentioned before, I like how you portray your emotions through your deep eyes. It is not a joke. How did you do that?” she professed earnestly.

Her compliments flustered him “Urm…Thank you..You are flattering me”

“I am not..You really did well Tae. Don’t tell me you are blushing” she teased.

“YAH I AM NOT! Alright, I am ready to hear the bad one” Taehyung murmured under his breath with hope it was not as nasty as her first comment back then. “Listen carefully Kim Taehyung, I am about to say something that might hurt your heart” the tone of her voice was stern and cold.

“Ji Seul you are scaring me! Stop sounding so serious”

“I am trying to, okay give me a moment” he heard her heavy breathing at the end of the line as if she was in the middle of night work out. What was on her mind?

“Tae-ah..I think you are too adorable for me to handle. Shouldn’t Hansung be manlier?”

Taehyung gasped “Is that an insult?” her small giggle tickled his heart. “Or is it your way complimenting me?” he pressed. There were times he craved for this kind of attention from Seul, made him feel normal guy around his age. To have a simple conversation with a friend gave him tranquillity.

“Will you take that as an insult since you really hated cutesy stuff nowadays?”

“Armys think I am cute. I will live with that if it comes from Armys and you. Yah, I am serious. Tell me right now what is my flaw?” he insisted.

Seul shook her head “Couldn’t find it. You are a rookie, but you are doing great. My mom thinks your acting is real and she really into it. Don’t ask me who is her favourite character, because she is choosing you over Minho. Aren’t that too much that she’s giving extra attention on you?” Taehyung beamed.

“Why? Are you jealous that Ahjumma favours me more than you?”

“I am used to it, Bangtan boys this, Bangtan boys that. You can take my mom’s love, I have Eodeng and Eomuk to love me” he cringed at the response. “Ew, that simply means you have Jin hyung’s love. Those two brats are the mini Kim Seokjin” she rolled her eyes in process.

She retorted sarcastically “Who are you calling brat? You are the brat!”

 She found herself smiling at the memories, being with Taehyung made her comfortable. Something that she could feel whenever she’s with Jin and Hoseok. Returning her attention back to the screen, Seul watched the drama and clasped her hand excitedly.  A silly smile would appear on her face every time Taehyung appeared on screen along with small awe in between.

Few months ago, she ridiculed the power of Bangtan Sonyeondan on her now as time passed it slowly turned her into a fan. Guess, she was being supportive of her friends.

Yes, supportive sounds fitting.

 ------------------

“Sejin hyung quick quick my bladder is about to explode” Jimin whiney voice filled the emptiness of the hallway. Other members stood sleepily behind him. Meanwhile, Jimin was getting impatient to finish his business inside. “Gosh, why are you so whiney” he pressed the button hurriedly, entering the password.

As soon as Jimin heard the beep, he squished his small body between the door and Sejin and ran inside ignoring the older guy that were already pressed against the wall.“That kid!” Sejin hissed while shaking his head. He gave a soft pat on Jungkook back, making the maknae moved inside with a big yawn “Get some sleep everyone, you need to be ready in 4 hours” he ordered.

Jungkook screeched softly feeling his muscle stiffened at the sight before him “Seul?” he stared in disbelief. Sleeping peacefully on the couch was Seul with Hwarang still running in the background. A soft smile spread across his face since the last time he saw her was two weeks ago. He almost lost his balance when he felt someone crashed against his body from back, Kim Taehyung groaned in frustration.

“Yah, Gukkie why are you blocking the way” his bangs were poking his eyes making it hard for him to see the obstacle in front of him. Furthermore, in this sleepy state everything appeared irrelevant to him except for his comfortable bed. Confused, Taehyung’s eyes followed Jungkook and upon it landed on Seul’s figure, his eyes widened in sheer surprise.

“Seul? Seul is here?” he spoke lowly fully aware that their manager was still there.

“What should we do? Sejin hyung is here!” Jungkook started to panic. The hyungs made their entrance with questionable look but soon they gawked at the scene in front of them. It would be a huge trouble if their manager found out about Seul. The chances of her being fired was high.

It is 5 A.M why is she not home? Yoongi cursed, taking a glance at Sejin whom thankfully still at the doorstep gathering bags in process. Everyone was trying to come up with ways to hide Seul or to face Sejin’s wrath in a minute. Without wasting any time, Taehyung marched forward taking Seul in his arm casually surprising everybody in the room.

“What are you doing?” Yoongi inquired with concern look.

“We need to hide her”

“Yes, but where?”

“Lets just bring her to my room” Taehyung suggested earning a low protest from Yoongi and Jin. Nonetheless, they followed him afterwards.

Seul stirred in her sleep a little and snuggled her face at the crook of his neck, liking the familiar smell and warmth. Even in her sleep, she knew how to play with his heart. Taehyung tried to control himself from smiling foolishly as his main concern right now was to hide Seul from Sejin.

“I will distract Sejin hyung” Jungkook blurted out and quickly dashed to the main door followed by Hoseok behind. Namjoon and Jin assisted Taehyung to his room, opening the door for him so he could move Seul to safer place.

 “Hyung I forgot my headphones!” “Me too I forgot my-my game console!” Hoseok and Jungkook hollered in unison causing the older guy to eye them suspiciously.

He wiggled his finger to his headphone which hang loosely around his neck “That is your headphone Hobi and as for you Jungkook, I didn’t see you play any games today let alone having your game console with you” closing the door behind him, he placed the bags on the floor.

Hoseok gulped nervously exchanging nervous look with Jungkook “Urm…Sorry I seem to forget, but really I forgot something in the van!” he tried his luck one more time to convince Sejin. They knew it was not easy to lie on his face since he could read them so easily. Their manager knew when the boys were hiding something, like right now.

“I smell fear and lies. What are you hiding from me?” he quirked his brows prying answers out from the two boys before him.  

“Nothing, nothing” Jungkook palmed his hand against the wall awkwardly with a sheepish smile. He heard the commotion behind him meaning the hyungs were doing something about Seul, though he had no idea how much time they needed for him to stall their manager.

“If it is nothing, why are you blocking my way? Is there something that I shouldn’t see?”

Hoseok held both his palm out while cracking a nervous chuckle in between “Jimin.. I mean Jimin peed in his pant and it is disgusting. We have to clean the floor first. It is dirty, you can’t walk” Hoseok facepalmed at his idiotic ideas. It sounded ridiculous.

“YAH WHO PEED IN PANTS?” clueless Jimin exited the bathroom as his eyes threw daggers at Hoseok way. Hoseok grinded his teeth together chasing Jimin away from the scene but of course he would not budge even an inch. Park Jimin was persistent to begin with. He never let anyone taint his name.

Jungkook rubbed the back of his head in frustration ‘Jimin-ssi, can you be a little cooperative. Why out of all time’ the manager did not buy the boys lies so he forced himself inside. Being tall giving him advantage to dominate the boys. His eyes scanned the empty living room with suspicion whilst Jimin, Jungkook and Hoseok were having their secret banter behind.

“The caretaker came to clean the place?” he noticed the cleanliness of the place as he made his way to the kitchen. “I guess…” Hoseok murmured silently.

“Jimin-ssi, Seul is here we are trying to stall him! You are ruining the plan” Jungkook whispered under his breath making the shorter guy gasped realizing his own mistake. When he dashed inside, he didn’t catch a glimpse of anyone in the dorm. If and only he realized it sooner this thing could be prevented. The three musketeers kept their eyes on the manager hyung whom busy inspecting every corner of their place.

Namjoon, Jin and Yoongi exited Taehyung’s room as their eyes spotted the three boys stood in line with their hands neatly together, they shot them a bewildered look “Yah are you crazy! Don’t act suspicious, hyung might find out!” Namjoon scowled lowly afraid that the older guy overheard him.

“Get into your room now and act naturally” Jin mouthed them. The three musketeers scurried off almost bumping into each other before each of them got into their room without trouble. The sound of heavy footstep alarmed the remaining members, and they decided to avoid their manager at all cost.

 On the other hand, Taehyung had already changed into his pyjamas in order to appear more convincing in case their manager decided to appear magically in his room. From time to time he threw a nervous glance at the door feared to witness an unwelcoming sight. Judging from the message in their group chat, Sejin was inspecting every nook and cranny of the dorm started from Jungkook. Taehyung’s room is a room away from him that scared the shit out of him.

He stared at Seul while trying to find perfect way to hide her from their manager. “Screw this” caressing his fluffy hair out of frustration, he turned off the main light and slipped under the cover beside Seul. Taehyung bit his lower lips, apologizing non-stop since he was about to initiate something inappropriate. The girl was unconscious, and he was literally touching her without her consent.

She will understand, she will. Taehyung prayed in his head that Seul would not wake up until this nerve wrecking scene ended.

“Fuck” his eyes rounded upon seeing the shadow behind the creak of his door. Using his long hand to reach the lamp on his night stand, he switched off swiftly. Taehyung pulled the cover under his chin, wrapping one of his arm securely around Seul’s waist. His heart pounded due to the proximity and it doubled when he heard Sejin’s footstep approaching his room.

His body froze when he felt Seul making a slight move in his embrace. On the bright side, she’s not awake however her face was buried deeply in his chest. The heavy lump on his throat caused his breath to hitch.

Ji Seul, what are you.

“Taehyung-ah, are you asleep” Taehyung snapped out his thought, and brought Seul’s body closer to him. He shut his eyes tight pretended to sleep with hope they wouldn’t get caught by their manager today. Not today, they couldn’t risk losing Seul.

Sejin twisted the door knob, poking his head inside. He squeezed his eyes to adjust to the darkness “Guess, he is asleep. That was fast” he mumbled. Taehyung’s mind overloaded with negative thoughts and his heart thumped crazily that he swore the eerie silence in his room adding the tension. The sound of the footsteps sounded so close yet unclear. He was sure it was just few steps closer from his bed. Like a reflex, Taehyung tightened his arm around Seul’s keeping her close.

Exasperating a soft sigh, he was relieved when the sound of the footsteps faded away. The soft slam came from the door convinced Taehyung that his manager had left the room, yet he did not want risk getting caught, so he stayed like a statue for few minutes. Taehyung grinned upon hearing Sejin’s faint voice behind the door “Park Jimin, I told you to sleep. Why are you still standing there?” Sejin frowned.

Jimin cleared his throat awkwardly “Is..Tae asleep?”

“Yes, his room is dark, and I bet he is asleep”

“D-d-dark what?” Jimin continued to curse something vulgar in his head. After finding out Seul was in Taehyung’s room he couldn’t help but to worry. It triggered his protective instinct and jealousy. He couldn’t let his guard down just because Taehyung is his best friend even though Tae was never vocal about his feelings for Seul, his man’s instinct could not be wrong. Something bloomed whenever they were together.

The older guy snapped him out from his deep thought “What is wrong with you? Go sleep and stop worrying about Tae. Clock is ticking Jiminie, you don’t want to miss even an hour worth of sleep” he exclaimed.

“Fine, I am sleeping” his lower lips puckered out of habit.

“I will be here around 10, make sure everyone is ready by then” Jimin nodded obediently and threw a final glance at Taehyung’s door. Everything will be fine, Jimin convinced his racing heart.  

 ----------------

Groggily, Seul forced her heavy lids to open and that when she realized the unusual warmth behind her. Seul squinted her eyes one last time in order for her foggy brain to function properly. A small light from the curtain illuminated the dark room but was not enough for Seul to get a clear view of it. On top of all, she was beyond relief that her outfits were still intact, remain untouchable. Meaning no funny business happened. At least, she was not kidnapped by some sasaeng fans, she hoped.

‘I swear I was in the living room watching Hwarang’ she grew frustrated of her failure in retrieving her memory. Seul couldn’t recall whether the boys were back home or not. Shrugging her unimportant thought away, Seul fisted the sheets under her gathering her courage to face the individual behind her.

Seul, move slowly don’t wake up the tiger.

Shifting under the sheet, she changed her position slightly to face Taehyung. In 3,2,1 she was ready to see whoever beside her but to her surprise, someone was cradling her head halting her earlier intention to catch the culprit.

“Seul, you awake?” his voice trailed off. She recognized that voice.

Seul touched his hand “Jungkook?” she whispered in daze.

His low yet squeaky chuckle made her smile “Yes, it is me. Come on let’s get up quietly. We don’t want to wake Tae hyung” Jungkook stroked his hand down to her waist, slowly sweeping her off from the bed.

Setting Seul down on the ground, she inquired “Tae? I am in his room. How?” Jungkook let out another adorable giggle, embracing her tight. “You fell asleep while watching hyung’s drama. Let’s talk outside” while keeping Seul in his embrace, they exited Taehyung’s room at ease.

She pulled away making an abrupt stop facing the giggly maknae, why was he in good mood today. “Tell me why I am in Tae’s room? I thought I was kidnapped!” she pursed her lips in annoyance.

“Sejin hyung was here, so we had no choice but to hide you”

“Hiding me in Taehyung’s room? How clever” she wheezed.

“Then you wish to be in my room instead?” Jungkook look amused as playful smirk spread on his handsome face.

She squirmed under his intense gaze “I didn’t mean it that way, you could wake me up. I can hide in the closet and leave afterwards” he sent a disapproval glare at her way.

“No way we are making you walk alone at that time, now stop complaining” he took few steps forward, pulling the sulky girl into another tight hug. Jungkook nuzzled the top of her head, exhaling a low sigh “I miss you” he murmured.

Her heart did the weird dance again, “You woke up early today, I thought you were not an early riser” she wrapped her arms around him, returning the hug with equal passion. “You think I can sleep knowing you’re sleeping on the same bed as Tae hyung?” he said sulkily.

Seul giggled “Are you jealous? Then, I blame it on you for letting Tae got into the way” her tease making the visible frown on his forehead two times thicker. She looked up “Aigoo, you may develop wrinkles at this age” her hand smoothed his eyebrows, giving it a soft caress along the shape.

Closing his eyes with a soft hum, Jungkook let himself drown under Seul’s magic touch “You are losing your baby fat again. I don’t like that” she gave his cheek a soft stroke with a slight frown.

“Don’t worry I will earn that back after our promotion ended. Besides, I had a good breakfast every day thanks to you. Did you come late at night for your work just to prepare those meal for us?” he pecked her fingers, interlacing it with his.

“You guys are barely home so I thought it is wise to change my caretaking schedule a little. On the bright side, I can prepare breakfast for you guys. I bet Jin had no time to prepare proper food for all of you, I don’t want to wear him out” her eyes glimmered in concern. The mere thought of filling seven empty stomach washed away the worries in her.

Jungkook protested “But that’s mean you will be walking home alone, and it is not safe”

“About that, my mom made Hoon picked me up from work every day. Don’t worry, I will be fine. Worry about yourself, you need to eat healthily. Stop skipping meals” she cringed. “I saw your Vlive, all of you look dead tired. And, I am sorry I couldn’t make it to your Wings tour last week. I had to fill in for Sera” she sighed.

His hand skimmed, featherlight, over her shoulders “It is okay, it is just the opening tour this year, I will make sure you attend the next one. Hobi hyung and Jin hyung were not happy that you couldn’t make it to our concert. However since you bribed them with food the day after, they lowkey claimed that it was okay for you not to attend as long as you prepared yummy food to make it up to them” she chuckled at their silliness.

“As expected, how easy it was to persuade those two. Don’t remind me the long ass text that they sent to me showing off their protest and resentment” Seul’s face scrunched a little at the vivid memories. Jungkook laughed along and the couple continued their conversation in the kitchen. Seul reheat the food for the boys to savour when they woke up with Jungkook’s help.

“I think I need to go before your manager come. Oh, say hi to everyone” she hung her apron carefully and gathered her belongings. Meanwhile, Jungkook continued to sulk behind, “Can’t you stay for breakfast? It is still early, hyung will be here around 10” his voice was a little more than a whisper but in cutesy way.

She flashed him a soft smile “I can’t Jungkook maybe next time. I have an errand to run” he watched her back as she made her way to the entrance. “I want to meet you again before we fly off to America next month” Jungkook leaned against the wall with one hand inside his pocket.

She saw the disappointment in his eyes, so she walked up to him. Dazed Jungkook set his eyes on Seul as the girl tiptoed a little giving a soft peck on his lips “There. I will see you around, don’t miss me too much” a sweet rush of embarrassment coursed through Jungkook.

“O..kay..” his eyes sparkled causing Seul to chuckle. Jungkook might be a little blunt in showing his affection towards her, but whenever she initiated the skinship first, the guy would turn into a total baby.

Seul was about to push the door getting ready to leave but only to be greeted by Sejin’s confused face. She felt an extreme fear in her system, was she caught for real now? Fuck, she muttered.

“Who are you?” he pushed the door wider to see Jungkook stood frozen behind Seul with an extremely disturbed face.

“Hyung…You are urm.. early?” his voice broke into a small shriek.

Quirking his eyebrows, the older guy stepped inside closing the door behind him carefully “You have a long explanation to do Jeon Jungkook. To the lounge now. I want everyone in the room. 5 minutes” his voice was rough and Seul felt like pissing in her jeans.

Seul swallowed a heavy lump on her throat “When I said everyone, that includes you Miss” he pushed the glass back on the bridge of his nose, leaving astounded Jungkook and Seul behind. Jungkook made eye contact with Seul and they exchanged looks of panic and questions.

   This work belongs to  Chimswae © 2020. All Rights Reserved

[screamingatanemptyroom]

I Can’t Eat Love Side Part 2- Rig

Sorry for the long delay, I just started a new job and I’ve been really busy! Here’s is the next side part, from Rig’s perspective. Next will be a quick part with Edith, and then Hallers and finally the Queen. 

Master post Linked Here

Enjoy!

___________________________

In a previous life...

I was always a simple man, with a simple wish. I had secrets, more than most, but this fundamental thing about me never changed. Even in the underground world of spies and intrigue, my heart always yearned for one simple thing to be happy:

A family.

When I first met Helda, I didn’t know she was the daughter of the Lord of the estate I lived on. I came across her one day, standing in the gardens, a beautiful girl with a bright, kind smile. I felt nervous, having never seen such a pretty girl before.

“Do you like flowers?” I asked her, my heart in my throat. Around her I felt foolish, tongue tied.

“I love them!” She laughed at my question, and I couldn’t help but smile.

We met frequently after that, despite the differences in our statuses. We spoke of many things, gradually learning about each other, our lives, of our hopes and dreams.

___________________________

“What do you want most in life?” She asked me one day, stroking the blue flower I had given her earlier.

“I want to be happy.” I grinned at her. “Family, friends… if I had people who truly cared for me, I wouldn’t want for anything else.”

“A family… what about your father?”

Her question dampened my mood, and I frowned as I thought of the overly serious man working in the stables.

“He doesn’t care about me much.” I tried to keep my tone light. Truthfully, my father hated me. He often complained about being stuck with me after my mother had died, and about how useless I was. I didn’t say that, however. I didn’t want her to think less of me. I just wanted her to smile at me like she always did.

“…”  Despite my efforts, an awkward silence stretched between us. I looked down at my lap, only to be shocked when a small delicate hand reached over and grabbed my own.

“I care about you.” Her soft words stuck a chord in my heart, shaking me to my core. I looked up at her, unable to hide the emotions in my eyes.

I loved her.

Even without a mother or father, perhaps I could build a new family. One that I loved and loved me in return. I smiled at Helda, blinking back tears.

My dream was coming true.

___________________________

SLAP! 

“You brat! You were sniffing around the Lord’s daughter!” My father’s hand struck my face with force, knocking me to the ground. I spat out blood, having bit my tongue in the impact, and shakily climbed to my feet. The flowers in my hands were trampled on the ground, and I stared at the ruined blossoms in dismay.  

“I love her.”

“She’s beyond your reach, fool. Stop dreaming!” His sneering words made me angry, but before I could retort he through a small bag at me.

“The lord has already given his order. You are to leave today, and never return.”

I clutched the pack, stunned. My father was turning me out without hesitation, just because the Lord had seen me bringing flowers to his daughter?

What would they do if they knew how close we truly are? Suppressing this thought, I took the bag and left, writing to Helda what had happened.

___________________________

A few weeks went by, but she didn’t respond, causing me to panic. I sent letter after letter until finally her maid sent me a message, describing her condition.

“You’re pregnant?”

I went to see her, sneaking into the estate and finding her alone.

“Run away with me, we’ll make a life together.” I was nervous, excited, my hands shaking as I tried to reach out to hold hers. “I may not have much, but I will love you and our child with all of my heart. 

My hands grasped nothing but air. She stepped away, out of my reach, shaking her head. I felt pain in my chest, my blood freezing in my veins at her distant expression.

“You can’t give me what I want.” Her voice was cold, unfamiliar. Was this the same girl who held my hand and told me she loved me? What had happened?

“What do you want?” I begged her. “I’ll do anything to make you happy.” I was fired up, ready to go to the edge of the world and back for her. I would make this work. I would make a life for us. I could already see a wonderful future, with her and our children...

“A title. Can you give me that?” Those two words crushed my spirit, extinguishing my naïve dreams. No matter how hard I worked, I couldn’t make my blood more noble. It was not a true request. It was a rejection. 

“But… our child…” My words cracked.

“Will be raised as the child of a noble. It has nothing to do with you.” She stepped even further away. “So please stop approaching me. Stop writing me. Pretend you don’t know me. Don’t ruin my chance at happiness.”

She walked away, leaving me broken hearted behind her. I couldn’t speak, could barely leave. The feelings we shared, the dream of a family… were worthless to her in the end.

I snuck back out of the estate, never to return home again.

___________________________

 Starting a new life wasn’t easy. 

I found that there was money in secrets, and although it required some dark deeds in the shadows, obtaining and selling those secrets soon made me a force to be reckoned with in the underworld of the Capital. I gathered a team, infiltrating all areas of society. The little white lies, the darkest secrets, I knew them all and would sell them for a price.

But no matter how hard I worked, how much money or power I gained, it didn’t change the fact that I was alone.

Helda married right away, and was given a title and a position in society just like she always wanted. She gave birth to a daughter… our daughter. I gathered all the information I could on her, watching the young girl who seemed to love flowers, just like her mother. 

Raewynn. My daughter. 

I passed the years by, watching my child from the shadows, despairing of the remnants of a dream that still haunted my heart. But it was too late, I had lost my chance at family.

Or so I thought. Until I met her.

___________________________

The first time I saw that girl, I couldn’t help but reach out a hand towards her. I was walking to a meeting, and happened to pass by a young beggar on the streets. I had seen countless before, I knew I couldn’t save them all, so I tried to look away, hardening my heart. But after once glimpse, I already found that she was impossible to ignore. 

Despite the dirt that covered her, the fatigue that clearly showed on her face, and the too-thin frame, her eyes stared right at me, studying me curiously. They were bright, intelligent, but buried within her gaze was a sense of anger and grief incomparable with her age.  I paused, despite myself, and looked down.

“Poor thing, you starving?” I spoke up softly, and her eyes narrowed, watching me more closely. She seemed to be in good health besides being malnourished, and seemed smart enough to be able to be useful. I made up my mind instantly, holding out a hand to help her to her feet. “You can work for me, get back on your feet.”

She studied my hand, distrust clearly written on her face. Something flickered behind her eyes, and I couldn’t help but wondered what had happened too a young woman to cause such a sad look. 

“Why would you help me?”

I shrugged. I wasn’t completely sure myself. “Who know? Maybe in another life you can pay me back.”

A silly joke, one that meant nothing. How could a young girl ever help me out, even if we met again in a different life?

___________________________

“Again.”

The girl glared at me, the expression vicious. “I’ve already done it a thousand times.” 

“Can you even count to a thousand?” I handed her back the throwing knife with a grin.

“Easily.”

I laughed. Her words were forced through gritted teeth, I had a feeling that if I kept pushing her, the next target for the throwing knife might be me. Every day she was louder, more self-assured. Watching her actions and expressions slowly match the brightness I had initially seen in her eyes made me feel happy. The girl was quicker than I had expected, picking up skills and knowledge at a speed that left me amazed.

THUD

The knife flew from her hand with practiced ease, striking the center of the target with a solid sound. The girl let out a cheer, jumping up and down .

“Good job!” I complimented her without thinking, and she froze in place, her eyes wide with shock. I laughed at her expression.

“Why are you acting so surprised at a simple compliment? You worked hard. You deserve it.”

She shook her head. “I’ve always worked hard. That doesn’t mean people will care.” The pain I sometimes saw hidden in her eyes was clearly visible. At the sight, I felt a slight tug in my heart. Forcing a smile, I reached out and ruffled her hair, ignoring her annoyed reaction.

“I care.” I paused, and stepped back. “Which is why it should be perfect. Do it again.” 

“…” She stared at me silently for a few moments, and I wondered if she would revolt. Instead a bright smile lit up her face, startling me.

For a moment I thought of my daughter Raewynn. Did she smile like that sometimes too? As I struggled with my thoughts, she had already gathered the throwing knifes and positioned herself farther away from the target.

“I’ll do it perfectly then.”

___________________________

Each day the girl grew more confident. I found myself struck by her intelligence and hard work. After only a few months, she was one of my most talented runners. The air around her changed, becoming less suppressed and angry to one more bright and cheerful. I watched her change day by day, amused at how such a thin, quiet girl had become so different.

One day I overheard two of my men talking:

“That girl keeps taking all the best jobs. Should I teach her a lesson?” 

“Idiot! She’s Rig’s daughter! If you mess with her, he’ll kill you!” 

“Ugh, I’m glad you said something, I’ll steer clear.”

I watched the man run off, a smile tugging at my lips.

My daughter?

I had investigated Lenora when I first picked her up, of course. Her story wasn’t pretty. To start so high up, a valued and treasured daughter of the duke, only to be thrown away and lose everything. She must still be hurting, even if she never brought up her family or her old home. The more time I spent with her, the more I felt a kindred spirit from her, a special kind of loneliness that searched for a family.

A daughter like her… wouldn’t be bad. 

I treated her with special interest from then on, teaching her everything I knew. She learned things quickly, especially when it came to business negotiations and threats… even I was scared of how talented in that regard. She stayed by my side more and more, and I couldn’t help but feel proud of her as my adopted daughter.

Finally, one day, I took her to see Raewynn.

We sat in a tree, watching the smiling girl in a flower garden. In a quiet voice, I explained my history with her mother, and the girl’s identity. Lenora seemed to stare at her with great interest, almost falling out of the tree in her haste. I reached out to hold her in place, but was barely spared a glance by her before her attention was focused on Raewynn once more.

When we came back home that evening, she was still smiling. “You should tell her!” She jumped up and down with excitement.

I frowned, shaking my head. “I’m not sure, she might not be happy to hear the truth.” In my heart I still remembered how her mother looked at me the day I asked her to come with me… like I was disgusting, worthless. I felt a brief moment of fear, at the thought of Raewynn looking at me like that as well.

“But you’re amazing, much better than any silly earl! She should know who her real father is!” Lenora smiled warmly, pulling on my sleeve. “I know I would want to know.”

Really? The dream I thought I had abandoned so long ago stirred to life in my chest at her few words. Would it really all work out so neatly? What if it did?

I made up my mind, sending a letter to my young daughter. In it I explained the truth of who I was. The moment it left my hands, I felt panicked. What if she was too young to understand, she was only thirteen… I agonized over it for days, until finally a reply was sent my way.

Both she and her mother wanted to see me.

I was overwhelmed. The letter seemed to imply that if the meeting went well, they would consider running away, starting a new life together. 

Had Helda regretted her decision that day? She wanted to be a family again? Part of me was hurt and angry after her betrayal, but I couldn’t contain the yearning that sprouted deep within me.

A family.

Was it really within my reach?

I left Lenora behind, telling her that if we left, I wanted her to come with us. She may be grown, but I had come to regard her as my daughter. I didn’t want to leave her behind. 

“You can be part of the family, have a younger sister…” I smiled as I told her, “I can’t run off without both of my daughters, now can I?”

She cried into my shoulder, promising to wait for me to return. My spirits raised, I headed towards the meeting point, happy.

My family.

My dream was coming true.

___________________________

Once I arrived at the promised spot, however, there was no one else there.

Was I too early? I felt uneasy. I had honed my instincts on the streets these past years, my gut told me something was wrong. I knew, I should get out of here, quickly.

 But if I turn and run away, what if I miss them?  I hesitated, unwilling to lose this chance…

But I hesitated just a moment too long.

A blade pierced my chest, the sound reaching my ears before the pain hit. I grunted, shocked, slumping to the ground, a weak hand lightly clutching at the handle protruding from me, my fingers slipping on the surface slick with blood.

“Is it done?” A voice I knew better than any other, even after all these years spoke up. I closed my eyes briefly, not wanting to open them, not wanting to see the person in front of me.

“Yes.” A stranger, a man, answered her.

“Finally.” She let out a sigh of relief, and unwittingly I opened my eyes and saw her.

Helda.

She knelt down, looking at me with a cold expression. “You should have just let the past go, Rig. You’re lucky I found the letter first. I can’t risk what you know getting back to my husband. Did you tell anyone else?”

Lenora. I shook my head resolutely, denying her question.

“Hmph.” She stood up, studying me closely. “To be safe, track down his people, and kill them.”

The man who had stabbed me shook his head. “That wasn’t part of the deal…”

“I’ll triple the amount.” She shook her head slowly. “Just get rid of them.”

Helda walked away, never once looking back at me.

The masked man stared at me with a frown. “Sorry friend, at least your friends will join you in the afterlife.” He reached down, pulling out the knife. I felt my entire chest become soaked with blood, my vision going dark as he left me behind too.

I just wanted to be happy. I wanted a family. 

I thought of their words, tears filling my vision as I realized that Lenora might be harmed. The bright girl, who had just learned to laugh again. Who just started to smile after so much pain. Who was so lonely that she cried at the thought of being a part of my family… What would happen to her?

“Lenora.” I whispered the name, feeling pain, feeling regret. 

My daughter. I’m sorry. I have to leave first.

Please be happy, find a new family.

Please…

“RIG!”

___________________________

In another life…

 “RIG!” 

I opened my eyes, having fallen asleep by the window, startled awake at the sound of my name. Blinking, my thoughts scattered, I looked around, only to stop my gaze on the young woman standing before me, my breath catching within my chest.

“You look beautiful.” 

Lenora stood there, her hands on hips, a smile tugging at her lips as she rolled her eyes at the compliment.

“I would hope so, given all the work Marile and Erica have put into this!” 

She turned around, showing off the flowing white gown, the golden trim shining in the sunlight pouring through the window. She was always lovely, her appearance bright and confident, but today she was stunning. Her clothes and hair were carefully styled, an excited blush coloring her cheeks.

A beautiful bride.

I stood up, giving her a tight hug. “Nate is a lucky man.”

She grinned. “You two gave him a hard enough time when we first got engaged.” 

“How else is he going to know how precious you are to us?” I shrugged. “If I didn’t like him, he wouldn’t still be standing, prince or no.”

“I know.” She reached out, touching my face gently. “You and Hallers both defended him against his parents. It meant a lot to him.”

I looked away. “They should know they have a good son.” I muttered. It’s true that Hallers and I both had many long “talks” with Nate after the engagement, which he took in good spirit. But the moment we saw his father make a disparaging remark against him… Hallers was the first to crack.

“Prince Nathaniel is the finest young man of his generation, you are foolish if you don’t recognize how lucky you are to have him as your son!” The words the normally stoic butler shouted out that day still shocked everyone.  I had stepped up as well, agreeing loudly.

Nate, his eyes teary, had simply hugged us both, thanking us quietly. A good man, a little quiet, but he was kind and intelligent. More importantly, he made Lenora happy. He was accepted into our odd group without issue after that day. 

“Thank you, Rig. For everything.” Lenora’s words brought me back from my thoughts. I looked at her for a few moments, feeling I had to ask one last time.

“Are you sure you don’t want your father to give you away?” 

At my question her face grew cold, her normally cheerful gaze growing harsh. “The old duke? He is not my father. Not in any way that matters.” She shook her head. “Rig, in both lifetimes I’ve lived… you’ve always been there for me. You won’t leave me now, deny me having my father with me on my wedding day, would you?”

I smiled.  She often spoke about a past lifetime, one that I never remembered. It was strange to hear about. I knew from what she had told me that I had cared for her like a daughter then as well. It seemed almost too much to believe, but no matter my thoughts, I couldn’t help but be grateful that it caused her to seek me out in this lifetime.

“Of course not, girl. We’ll take care of you.” 

“Good!” Lenora clapped, “Before the ceremony, I have a surprise for you!”  She leaned out the window, looking outside while chuckling. “And it looks like it’s just arriving!” 

“A surprise?” I was a spymaster… I didn’t get surprised. Curious, I turned as she walked past me, opening the door to her rooms with a flourish. 

I paused, completely shocked.

“Hello… father.” A young girl, thirteen or fourteen years old, stood in the doorway, watching me with a shy expression. I knew her… how could I not? I had spent years watching her grow up, hidden in the shadows of the garden.

“Raewynn?” I choked out the name, barely able to speak, then turned to Lenora. “How…?”

She answered my unfinished question with a smile. “You hadn’t had a chance to see her since coming to Tilendria with me. I know that you said you would be fine, just hearing reports on her wellbeing, but how could I ignore the sacrifice you made to help me?”

She stepped forward, taking Raewynn’s hand with  a smile. “Due to some… arranged circumstances, I have been able to correspond with Rae regularly, and as we got to know each other, I invited her here to come to my wedding… And see our father.”

Father. The word repeated in my head over and over, I could barely breathe.

“Arranged circumstance?” I didn’t recognize my own voice, my mind was racing.

“You know how much Raewynn loves flowers, and learning about their uses?” Lenora waited for me to nod, before continuing with a satisfied grin. “Well, I arranged for her to learn under a master gardener.”

“Hello cousin.” the new Duke of Armeny, stepped into the room behind the girl, smiling. “I brought my apprentice, as you asked.”

“Henry!” Lenora hugged him tightly, then stepped back to show him her gown. “What do you think?” 

“Hmm… we’re missing something.” He looked her up and down with a serious expression.

“Roses?” Raewynn tugged on Henry’s sleeve with a grin.

“Too traditional. How about lilies?” 

“Not enough color.” Both of them were excited, getting into a lively debate before deciding on peonies. Henry ran out to grab a potted plant from the carriage while Raewynn inched closer to me, a curious expression on her face.

“You both are ridiculous.” Lenora smiled while watching her.

Raewynn shrugged, still staring at me. “Flowers are amazing, you just don’t appreciate them enough.”

“I don’t think it’s possible to appreciate them as much as you and Henry.” She patted Raewynn on the head. “Now talk with our father for a bit, he’s still in shock.” Looking around, she sighed. “I have to go get Hallers. He’s been crying ever since he saw me in my wedding dress.”

“Hallers?” I couldn’t help but be skeptical. That stone faced man could cry?”

She grinned. “Take your time, you two.” I realized just how much effort she must have made to arrange to bring Raewynn here without raising suspicion, and felt a warmth in my chest. I stepped closer, hugging Lenora tightly.

“Thank you.”

“Of course.” She whispered back. “We’re family.”

Family.

I sat down to talk to my daughter, waiting for the wedding to begin. A smile stretched across my face and for the first time in a long time, a weight seemed gone from my shoulders.

___________________________

The time for the wedding to begin arrived. Hallers finally calmed down, taking his place to the other side of Lenora as we brought her to the wedding hall. The Queen, a beautiful smile on her face, wiped tears from her eyes as she hugged Lenora tightly.

“Mother.” Lenora’s voice sounded muffled, as if she were holding back tears.

“I’m so happy for you, dear. My daughter’s wedding day.” 

I agreed with the Queen, looking down the hall where a nervous but clearly happy Nate stood, shifting in place as he tried to catch a glimpse of his bride. Henry patted him on the shoulder, pointing at some of the wedding decorations, obviously complaining about the flowers.  We walked Lenora towards them, Raewynn scattering petals ahead of us, Erica and Marile supporting the bride’s train behind her, both grinning from ear to ear. 

Hallers, the Queen and I all took turns kissing our daughter for good fortune, before placing her hand in Nate’s. I stood off to the side, watching the couple speak their vows of love, my heart full.

The bride and groom kissed, and I cheered with the rest.

This strange group that gathered around Lenora, we were more than simple friends, people brought about by chance. We looked out for one another, cared for one another.

A family.

What more could a man ask for?

[hopelessalways]

where the lights burn low and you’re only mine

After being obsessed with Good Omens for a while, I finally wrote a fic!!! 

Summary: For the most part, Aziraphale sees himself as a rational angel who follows a consistent moral code. That has been his identity for millennia, and it comforts him, gives him stability in an ever-changing universe.

What he feels for Crowley is decidedly not rational, and that's more terrifying than the Great Plan failing him.

(Or, Aziraphale and Crowley move into a cottage together after the world doesn't end, and Aziraphale tries to be brave.)

13,539 words, one-shot, Aziraphale/Crowley

Read on AO3!

“He's more myself than I am. Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same. If all else perished, and he remained, I should still continue to be; and if all else remained, and he were annihilated, the universe would turn to a mighty stranger.” - Emily Bronte, “Wuthering Heights”

Aziraphale liked to think that he was a rational celestial being. He took orders from Heaven without asking too many questions. He listened to God and believed in the Great Plan, believed in its divinity and ineffability. He could explain each of his actions in a logical manner; he did nothing without evaluating the relative morality of doing so and the subsequent consequences.

Of course, he could admit that sometimes he was irrational – he could be undone by a perfectly torched crème brulee, for example, and he’d been known to lose his senses over a vintage bottle of Cabernet. He would willingly describe himself as a hedonist who perhaps had taken “going native” a little too far, as Gabriel would put it, and he acknowledged that gluttony was not the most logical quality to indulge in.

For the most part, though, he saw himself as a rational angel who followed a consistent moral code. That had been his identity for millennia, and it comforted him. Gave him stability in an ever-changing universe.

What he felt for Crowley, meanwhile, was decidedly not rational, and, lately, that was more terrifying than the Great Plan failing him in the end.

...

1 Day After the World Didn't End

When the apocalypse-that-wasn’t is over, Aziraphale and Crowley simply look at each other. They’re sitting on the same bench they’ve always sat at in St. James Park, wearing the same clothes they’ve always worn (well, Crowley’s outfit is a bit more updated, naturally), feeding the same ducks they’ve always fed.

Nothing at all has changed, and yet – everything has changed.

They sit in silence for a while, and Aziraphale drinks in the incandescent blue sky, the nightingales chirping, Crowley’s solid warmth next to him. He can’t help but sigh a little. He almost lost this all, and his joy at it remaining is more than he can take.

“Tempt you to a spot of lunch, angel?” Crowley asks, in the same indulgent tone of voice he’s always used.

Aziraphale beams – literally beams – with celestial excitement. “Oh, my dear, please .”

They make their way to lunch in more companionable silence. Their hands brush as they walk, and Aziraphale suppresses an involuntary shiver.

(This has been happening more and more in the last few years, and Aziraphale has resolved to studiously ignore it.)

As always, they sit across from each other at the Ritz, a solitary candle giving off a warm orange glow. As always, Aziraphale takes his time with his meal, enjoying his exquisitely seared steak and scrumptious tiramisu. As always, Crowley drinks black coffee and watches him eat.

(They have a routine, after all.)

Every so often, Aziraphale catches a fond smile at the edge of his demon’s lips, but it’s gone before he can really catalog its precise shape or meaning.

The restaurant seems to quiet around them when they’re enjoying dessert, and Aziraphale closes his eyes, pretending he’s savoring his last bite of coffee-soaked ladyfingers, but really savoring the peace of this moment, the knowledge that there will be countless more moments like this.

“Penny for your thoughts, angel?” Crowley asks, in that gentle voice he uses when he forgets that he’s supposed to be acerbic.

Aziraphale blinks, then looks at his demon, unable to help the tenderness that floods his eyes.  “Just thinking about how I’ll still get to listen to Bach and keep my bookshop.”

Crowley smiles, unguarded, blinding. “Ah yes, I think you’d tire of celestial harmonies rather quickly. They’re bloody awful!”

“I hate to admit it, my dear,” Aziraphale says ruefully, “But celestial harmonies really are difficult on the ears. Even from Uriel, who has a lovely voice. It’s a shame, really.”

Crowley grins even more widely at Aziraphale, and the angel – well, ah, there it is. A rush of love so strong that Aziraphale has to grip his thigh to stop himself from dropping his wine glass. By all rights his divine power should be enough to keep the wine glass whole even if he did drop it, but Aziraphale learned long ago that his miracle-making ability is no match for that traitorous thump in his heart.

Because unfortunately – or fortunately, depending upon your point of view – Aziraphale can always feel love when Crowley is around. He’s gotten used to the hum of energy beneath his skin when the demon comes strolling into his shop, hips going every which direction and sunglasses perched haphazardly on his nose. But he can never distinguish how much of that brimming emotion is his own love, all-encompassing and all-consuming and threatening to spill out of his every pore. There have been moments over the past 6,000 years when he’s thought that perhaps Crowley returns his more romantic affections – a saved bag of books and a shared bottle of wine and “You go too fast for me” – but he long ago convinced himself that that was most likely delusional.

He is rather boring, after all, and Crowley is anything but.

When he has entertained the idea of Crowley feeling as he does, fear has stopped him. And he can say all he wants that he is afraid of what Heaven would do if they discovered their clandestine affair, how Hell would punish Crowley, how the delicate equilibrium his celestial status was based on would shatter. But really, that doesn’t scare him much at all. Not anymore. He’s already faced down both Heaven and Hell just to spend another day by Crowley’s side, and he’d do it again. He no longer feels any allegiance to the archangels who belittle him and are so attached to their superiority that they can’t fathom anything else.

The truth is, he is a coward, and he knows it. He is afraid of rejection. He is afraid of losing the only constant he’s ever known, the only thing in the universe that has never let him down. He is afraid of change, of falling, of burning.

And so, as he has done for centuries, he does nothing. He says nothing. He decides to simply let time pass, content with the status quo, with long lunches and drunken evenings in the bookshop and strolls through Soho. It has been enough for millennia, and it will be enough for millennia more.

At least, that’s what he tells himself.

…

2 Days After the World Didn't End

Aziraphale opens the bookshop in the morning. He isn’t planning on selling anything – not even the apocalypse could change his view on the importance of keeping precious things in their rightful place – but he’s a creature of routine, and besides, it settles him to bustle around the shop, taking inventory of the new books Adam left for him and stroking the spines of his favorite classics.

At about half past noon, the doorbell chimes, and he looks up from his ledger, frowning at the thought of having to entertain a customer.

He grins when he sees it’s just Crowley, dressed in his signature black jeans (so tight it’d take a massive effort to get them off, not that Aziraphale has ever imagined that very thing) and sunglasses, sauntering in like he owns the place. “Oh hello , my dear boy!” Aziraphale exclaims joyfully. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”

Crowley skims his elegant fingers across the books by the register, his expression inscrutable. “Nothing in particular,” he says breezily. “Just wanted to see how my favorite bookshop was doing.”

Aziraphale bounces on the balls of his feet, practically brimming with excitement. “Well, good thing you stopped by, then!” He says, rubbing his hands together with glee. “Adam added a great many books to my inventory, and I’ve been having an absolutely wonderful time cataloging them. Come along, let’s see!”

Crowley smiles, Aziraphale’s favorite indulgent smile, and the angel glows inwardly. He turns to the bookcase behind him, wondering where he should begin his tour. Perhaps the new collection of Charles Dickens? Or maybe Crowley would prefer to see the medieval art catalogs that Adam had so helpfully left in his eastern-facing bookcase…

He dithers for a few minutes, deliberating different options and routes, realizing too late that it is far too quiet in the bookshop.

If Crowley is in the bookshop, that usually means there’s noise in the bookshop. It might be snarky comments about how Aziraphale’s organization system makes no sense, or cluttering and creative swearing as Crowley explores and runs into things, or the rustle of wings as Crowley stretches luxuriously. Aziraphale has gotten quite used to the low-level buzzing that accompanies Crowley’s presence – you might even say he’s grown fond of it. So for it to be completely silent, that means – that means –

Something’s wrong.

Aziraphale swivels around slowly, carefully, scanning the bookshop for signs of his demon. Crowley is nowhere to be found in the immediate vicinity, and he starts to move through the shelves, searching. He feels for his wings, steeling himself to attack an intruder if necessary. He may not be a soldier of Heaven anymore, but he will always protect what is his.

After a few moments of fruitless looking, he finds Crowley tucked in a corner by a dusty window, curled into a small ball. He’s shaking, his narrow shoulders moving up and down, his wings tucked around himself, as if for protection.

For a second, Aziraphale isn’t sure what’s happening. Is Crowley laughing? Having some sort of manic breakdown? This shake of his shoulders isn’t familiar at all.

Aziraphale draws closer, moving as quietly as he can so as not to startle his prostrate demon, and then he realizes. With dawning horror, he realizes that Crowley is – he’s – crying. Crowley is crying.

Aziraphale has seen Crowley cry exactly three times. In Florence during the plague in the 14th century, kneeling over a girl who couldn’t have been more than six years old. In Vietnam, when the napalm destroyed everything in its path. In the bar at the World Didn't End, lips turned downward, bottle of gin empty.

And now. Now, in Aziraphale’s bookshop.

Aziraphale stills, unsure what to do next. He suddenly feels desperate, helpless, so agonized that it tugs at him, deep in his stomach. Something is very wrong for his demon to be crying, but what should he do? His hands hover uselessly above Crowley’s prone form. He wishes he weren’t so soft – he wishes he were braver – he wishes he knew the right thing to say to fix this. He wants to fix this. He needs to fix this.

Eventually, he settles for tentatively laying a hand on Crowley’s shoulder.

He expects Crowley to jerk back, to shove him off, to snarl at him and storm out of the bookshop, as he has almost every time Aziraphale has shown him affection or concern. But instead, Crowley leans ever so slightly into his touch. It’s almost imperceptible, barely there, but Aziraphale feels it nonetheless.

“My dear,” he says gently. “Are you alright?”

Crowley doesn’t say anything, still breathing heavily, shoulders still heaving to and fro. His face is turned away from Aziraphale, but Aziraphale can see the clench in his jaw, the way he’s holding himself so tightly, as if he’s afraid that he’ll shatter if he lets go.

“My dear,” Aziraphale begins again. “Are you -”

“Am I alright ?” Crowley spits out, his whole body tensing in one fluid motion. “Am I alright?”

Aziraphale’s brow furrows. “Yes, dear, I believe that’s the standard question when –”

“No, for Hell’s sake, I am not alright ,” Crowley continues, as if he hasn’t heard Aziraphale at all. “I am not anywhere close to alright, and it is all your fault .”

Aziraphale stiffens. “My fault? Crowley, if I upset you –"

“It’s all your fault because you had the nerve to get yourself discorporated , but I didn’t know, and I came into this bookshop, and it was up in flames, and I – I – and I –”

Crowley breaks off, gasping for breath, and Aziraphale’s heart constricts.

“I looked for you everywhere,” Crowley says, his voice a plaintive cry. “I couldn’t find you. You were just – gone, and I was still here. All alone.”

“Crowley, I’m so –” Aziraphale doesn’t know how to finish that sentence.

Neither of them says anything for a moment that seems to stretch for far longer, suffusing the air with regret and sorrow. Aziraphale stares at the side of Crowley’s face, trying to make sense of the jumbled mess of emotions welling in his throat. He’s angry at Heaven and Hell for causing Crowley this trauma, he’s disappointed in himself for not trusting Crowley when he had the chance, he’s confused and disoriented and unsure. He wishes he could see Crowley’s eyes. He wishes Crowley would look at him.

“I lost my best friend,” Crowley finally bites out. There’s such pain in his voice that Aziraphale feels his eyes filling with tears (oh, sweet, sweet Crowley). “I lost my best friend and then it didn’t feel like any of this was worth it anymore. Nothing was worth it anymore, not without my best friend.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale says softly. (He could pretend that he didn’t know who Crowley was talking about, but that would be a lie.)

He hesitates for a moment, biting his lip and debating the pros and cons of such a bold move, as he is wont to do, before reaching for Crowley’s sunglasses. He stops himself just before his fingers touch the black frames, knowing Crowley will never forgive him if he does this without permission. Crowley gives a minute nod, and Aziraphale slowly takes the sunglasses off.

He turns Crowley’s face toward him, swallowing when he sees the tears clinging to Crowley’s eyelashes, the raw terror and hurt in his sunflower eyes. Gently, gently, he caresses Crowley’s cheeks, sweeping his fingers up and down, back and forth, as soothingly as he can manage.

“I didn’t know it had affected you so,” he whispers. “I don’t think I had quite put it together that you came to the bookshop when it was on fire. I’m sorry you had to see that.”

Crowley tries to duck his head, as if embarrassed, but Aziraphale holds his gaze. He doesn’t want either of them to shy away from this moment.

“But,” he continues, “I have always suspected that you were a soft-hearted serpent underneath it all, so this isn’t exactly a surprise.”

Crowley scowls at him, all messy hair and yellow eyes and clenched jaw, and Aziraphale feels the pang of fondness that is almost second-nature to him at this point. “Way to kick a demon when he’s down, angel.”

Aziraphale chuckles, smoothing Crowley’s hair back from his brow. There’s no bite in Crowley’s tone. “But you’re not down,” he corrects softly, with all the tenderness he possesses for his demon. “Not anymore.”

Crowley arches one eyebrow, his eyes liquid amber.

“You got me back,” Aziraphale says firmly. “And I’m not going anywhere.”

Crowley shudders, closing his eyes. He nods quickly, then again, as if to reassure himself that this is reality. Aziraphale slides his hands from his face to his neck, then to his shoulders, looping his arms around his demon. This is more touch than they usually indulge in, more points of contact than either of them would normally allow, but – things have changed, haven’t they?

Yes, things have changed.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Aziraphale repeats. It feels important that Crowley knows. After all, he has spent too long pretending they don’t belong together. The least he can do is reassure Crowley that he knows better now.

So they sit on the floor for a long while, watching the endless stream of pedestrians through the window. The world keeps turning, and they hold each other.

…

5 Days After the World Didn't End

Crowley disappears after his outburst. It’s not unusual, of course – he’s always tended to shy away after he feels he’s revealed too much. And Aziraphale copes with his absence like he always does: reading in his favorite nook by the window, making endless cups of tea, trying not to wonder where his demon is or if he’s okay.

Crowley appears in the bookshop three days later – a much shorter interval than ever before. Aziraphale sternly tells himself not to read into this. It’s not as if the world not ending has changed anything.

(For Crowley, at least. For Aziraphale, everything has turned on its axis, and the only thing that keeps him grounded is those eyes, that smirk, those eyes .)

Crowley breezes in with his typical aplomb, banging the door open and shouting, “Oi, angel! You in here?”

Aziraphale puts down the book he was reading – a splendid first edition of A Tale of Two Cities, oh, that fellow Charles was so bright! – and smiles at Crowley. Sometimes it occurs to him that he should perhaps not be so obvious about his affections, but it’s such a pleasure to let his love shine through after so long of tamping it down. And he’s never been one to deny himself pleasure.

“Oi, angel!” Crowley says again. “Tempt you to a spot of lunch?”

Aziraphale looks at his friend (his confidante, his sunshine when skies are gray, his true north, his other half). After 6,000 years, he’s learned the signs of when his demon is merely faking confidence, but he’s also learned not to mention it. Crowley is shifting from foot to foot, scratching the back of his neck, eyes darting to and fro behind his glasses. He’s clearly still antsy in the bookshop, clearly still reliving both his breakdown a few days ago and the fire that started it all.

Aziraphale could say something, he knows. He could ask Crowley if he’s alright, or promise again that he’s here and isn’t going anywhere, or give him a hug. He could do a million things to acknowledge how scared and broken Crowley seemed the other day. But he knows that if he does that, Crowley will shut down completely.

So he only smiles. “I’d love lunch, my dear.”

They head to the tiny Italian restaurant down the street that is their haven when they’re trying to avoid being seen. It’s cozy and intimate, perfect for the grey sky and rain streaking the windows.

Aziraphale eats pasta and they drink a vintage bottle of Cabernet, and then Crowley says, apropos of nothing, “I think we should go to the country.”

“Oh, that would be delightful!” Aziraphale responds immediately, clapping his hands with glee. “Maybe tomorrow – a picnic would be miserable in today’s weather, and I think the rain is supposed to let up overnight.”

The wheels in his brain are already turning – it’s been so long since they went on a proper picnic! Perhaps he could stop by the bakery down the street and grab some strawberry tarts for them, and a baguette that would go perfectly with the brie he has in his fridge. He already has the tartan blanket they’d need, and he has just the right bottle of champagne in his wine cellar. Oh, and there’s a book he’s been meaning to read, and perhaps Crowley won’t mind if he naps while –

“I don’t mean for a picnic,” Crowley cuts in curtly.

Aziraphale stares at him, confused and a bit put-off. Crowley sounds almost…annoyed? Yes, that tone is definitely Crowley’s “annoyed” tone. But no, that’s not possible. Crowley is hardly ever truly annoyed with him. Oh, he’ll feign peevishness when Aziraphale takes too long to pick a restaurant, or roll his eyes dramatically when Aziraphale complains about him driving too fast, but he’s only been really annoyed with him a couple of times. That time at the bandstand comes to mind, of course, and outside his bookshop, screaming about Alpha Centauri. Aziraphale deserved his wrath then.

Has he done something wrong now?

Crowley must see Aziraphale’s angst in his eyes, because his face softens somewhat, and he says again, gently this time, “I don’t mean for a picnic. I mean I think we should move to the country.”

Aziraphale stares at him. “Move to the country?” He repeats, sure that he sounds as dumb as he feels.

Crowley nods.

Aziraphale continues staring at him. “My dear,” he says. “Together?”

Crowley nods, biting his lip, his telltale nervous tic. It makes Aziraphale realize that this conversation is about much more than a simple move, and he finds himself wishing that he could see Crowley’s eyes. Crowley must be able to read his mind, though, because he takes his sunglasses off.

His eyes flicker in the candlelight, and in them, Aziraphale can read all the things he and Crowley aren’t ready to say yet but are trying to communicate anyway: Come be with me. Come live out the rest of our lives together. No matter what the future holds or what we may be to each other, I know that my place is next to you. Come with me.

Aziraphale doesn’t need time to think about it, really. He thought he might feel adrift now that Heaven has cut him off, but Crowley has kept him anchored.

(Crowley has always kept him anchored.)

So he nods. “That sounds perfect.”

…

It goes very quickly, after that. It turns out Crowley has already purchased a cottage (it occurs to Aziraphale that he should admonish him for his presumptuousness, but he can’t be bothered when he is almost unbearably touched), complete with space for a garden and a library just waiting to be filled with books.

They pack up his flat and Aziraphale’s bookshop, and barely five days after their first conversation about the subject, it’s time for them to get in the Bentley and drive to the South Downs.

…

10 Days After the World Didn't End

Their first day in their new cottage, Aziraphale discovers there’s only one bed.

Of course, he could miracle another bed. Crowley probably wouldn’t even notice. But something stops him. Perhaps it’s the inviting navy blue duvet and cream-colored sheets, a harmony of his and the demon’s diverging tastes. Perhaps it’s the twin nightstands and lamps, the bible in one and Paradise Lost in the other. Or perhaps it’s the way the bed looks too big for just one person, looks like it was made for sneaking in close and breathing each other in.

Whatever it is, he can’t bring himself to add another bed, so he doesn’t.

They spend the day bickering over where all of Aziraphale’s books should go and planting wisterias for Crowley to glower at. They paint the walls a cheery light blue – Crowley complains that they should just use their powers, and then laments his past as a demon who “wouldn’t be caught in Hell with blue walls” – and move the couch around the living room five times before they’re satisfied with the feng shui. They order in Thai food and eat on their dining room floor, drinking far too much and listening to the wind in the trees. It’s perfect.

But finally, it’s time for bed.

They dither for a while, methodically putting away their trash and tidying their sparse living room. They head upstairs, their footsteps muffled on the wooden stairs, and Aziraphale can feel Crowley behind him, can smell that unique combination of brimstone, pine needles, and a touch of lavender.

How odd. How…lovely.

The queen bed looms large before them, but Aziraphale refuses to make a fuss; he snaps his fingers, miracling himself a soft pair of tartan pajamas, and climbs under the covers, not looking in Crowley’s direction. After a quiet moment, he finds that even though he doesn’t need to breathe, he’s very purposely holding his breath, afraid that he will make a noise that will give him away. He catches himself keeping very still.

He can feel Crowley hesitating, but before he can think of something to say to alleviate the tension that is suddenly stifling, Crowley says lightly, “I’m going to take a shower if that’s alright.”

“Of course!” Aziraphale says hastily, gulping.

He doesn’t watch as Crowley goes into the bathroom, but he hears the shower turning on, and before he can protect himself, he’s assailed by vivid images of Crowley in the shower. He’s never seen it in reality, but his imagination does the work for him: scattered snapshots, chaotic bursts of light and color running through his mind. He sees rivulets of water running down Crowley’s lean, bare chest, his head tilted back, the long lines of his neck exposed and inviting, his strong legs planted firmly on the floor, his…his…his…

Aziraphale bites his lip. He’s seen Crowley naked a handful of times – humanity wasn’t always so touchy about nudity, and celestial and occult beings don’t pay their corporeal forms much attention anyway. But he hasn’t seen the demon naked since long before he realized that he was in love with him, and now he realizes that he very much would like to.

He closes his eyes, shuts them tight. He wishes he were brave enough to join Crowley, to just walk into the bathroom, directly into the shower, and kiss him. He wishes he were brave enough to do something about the gnawing ache in his chest, the constant reminder that he wants more, more, more. He wishes he were brave enough to admit that their fragile peace is all he has ever needed.

But then, he’s never been very brave, has he?

(Not even when it counts.)

Several agonizing moments pass, and then, Aziraphale hears the water turning off. He faintly catches the slide of Crowley’s towel through his hair, the light patter of his feet on the tile, and that’s all the preparation he has before – Crowley’s steps are muffled by the carpet, he’s climbing into bed with him, the sheets rustling, the duvet skating across his sensitive skin, and Aziraphale is hyper-aware of his demon’s every movement, his every traitorous nerve ending alight and wanting.

They’ve slept in the same bed many times before – drunken nights crashing fully clothed on top of the covers, binging marathons ending in a cluster of sheets, sharing cramped corners after narrowly escaping discorporation – but this. This feels different.

This feels…dangerous.

Aziraphale wonders what Crowley would do if he leaned over and kissed him. Would he shrink from him in disgust? Would he scoff at him and say, “Oi, angel, I’m a demon, you know we don’t go in for that sort of thing”? Would he gently reject him, but reject him all the same?

Aziraphale doesn’t know, and he doesn’t have the courage to find out.

Crowley finds Aziraphale’s hand under the covers and entwines their fingers, squeezing lightly. Aziraphale knows he means it as a comfort, but all it does is make him wonder what those rough, calloused palms would feel like sliding over other parts of him. He swallows, hard.

Oh, dear. He is so gone.

Crowley turns over once, twice.

“Goodnight, Aziraphale,” he says softly.

“Goodnight, Crowley,” Aziraphale returns, and then he closes his eyes and tries to forget that he is in the same bed as the only person he has ever loved in the truest sense of the word.

But it’s fruitless. Aziraphale doesn’t think he sleeps at all the whole night.

...

They make a habit of sleeping together from then on, and waking up with Crowley, tangled together, just breathing as the world comes alive, becomes Aziraphale’s favorite part of living together.

…

They settle into a routine of sorts.

They wake when they feel like it – Crowley’s always been more of an early riser than Aziraphale, who may not indulge in sleep as frequently but who loves to lounge in bed when he does – and Crowley makes coffee and tea, catching up on the news of the day. Aziraphale eventually shuffles out in his tartan robe (which Crowley kindly does not make fun of – much) and whips up a quick breakfast. They sit at the table, eating their pancakes or bacon and discussing their options for activities for the day.

They go to the beach when the clouds are low and it’s not too hot, skipping rocks and dipping their feet in the water. Crowley seems most at peace by the sea, Aziraphale thinks; his face relaxes, and he never wears his sunglasses, his eyes gleaming golden in the brackish light. They bring a picnic lunch, snacking on salami and brie, stretched out on a blanket and talking about anything and everything.

Crowley creates a beautiful garden and tends to it when the sun is out; Aziraphale sits in the nook and reads by the window, occasionally popping his head out to smile indulgently at Crowley’s newest creative insults directed at his plants. He likes to look at the back of Crowley’s neck as he plants, at the ripple of the muscles in his shoulders as he bends his sinuous body to and fro. Their wisteria bloom madly, luxuriously, and if Aziraphale tiptoes out to the garden when Crowley is napping to whisper words of encouragement to his delicate buds – well, no one needs to know, yes?

Rainy days are Aziraphale’s favorite: they stay inside all day, vintage records spinning in a loop and heated games of Scrabble contested. They binge several seasons of Queer Eye – “Crowley, I do love that Jonathan individual, he has quite the celestial touch” – and The Great British Baking Show – “I wish Paul would not be so hard on David, he’s only a lad!” They curl up on their couch with hot chocolate – the richest dark chocolate from the hills of Bolivia, which Crowley had “zipped out” for one day because Aziraphale had mentioned he missed it – and talk about ineffability, about Gabriel and Beezelbub, about Adam and Anathema.

They don’t interact with the other villagers much, but they don’t mind. It’s enough to know that Heaven and Hell have left them alone for now, that the humans get to keep being humans, in all their chaotic, awful, beautiful, ineffable glory.

That the world keeps turning.

When the sun sets, they sit on their porch and watch as day transitions into night, as inky blue gradually takes over the endless sky. When it’s fully dark, their little slice of heaven quiet and calm, Crowley tells stories of the stars he hung, of the constellations he created, of the meteors he watched flare into being. Aziraphale listens with rapt interest, his angelic heart almost bursting with the force of his fondness for this beautiful, broken demon who has somehow let him try to mend the damage his Fall had done.

They make dinner most nights, making their way through Chrissy Teigen’s Cravings cookbook (Crowley guffaws for minutes on end when Aziraphale confesses that he has no idea what it means to be an influencer but he enjoys Chrissy’s authenticity on that “Instagram thing”) and indulging in every delicacy the countryside has to offer. As always, Crowley doesn’t eat much, but for once, Aziraphale doesn’t feel embarrassed about it. He can tell by Crowley’s barely perceptible smile that he luxuriates in settling at the table and watching his angel eat.

Sometimes they stay up late for no reason at all, drinking bottle after bottle of ridiculously expensive wine, getting so sloshed that they’re slurring their words and making no sense. They giggle for hours on end, regaling each other with stories of their travels over the last few millennia, always trying to strengthen the invisible ties that bind them. They’re touchier when they’re like this, less careless with the boundaries that have always been unspoken but known. A hand on a thigh, shoulders bumping, legs thrown carelessly over each other’s. Fingers running through hair, so comforting Aziraphale could cry.

They always go to sleep together, no matter what. They’ve never talked about it, but Aziraphale suspects that neither of them likes to sleep alone. It’s comforting to feel Crowley beside him, the same weight night after night. They’ve taken to cuddling, too – Crowley would never call it that, but there’s no other word for the way he drapes himself over Aziraphale as if he can’t get close enough – and neither of them brings it up.

Every night, Aziraphale falls asleep with so much love welling in his throat that he feels like he can’t possibly contain it all. And every morning, he wakes to Crowley.

Altogether, it’s a bliss Aziraphale has truly never known. He didn’t realize how heavy a burden the Apocalypse was. He didn’t realize how even before that, he was questioning his place, questioning Heaven’s intentions, questioning the Great Plan. He didn’t realize that what he needed was to be known, to be understood.

To be loved.

And he is loved, he knows that. Even if it’s not quite the shade of love he wishes it were, he knows he is loved. Deeply, unconditionally. Without shame and without agenda. He feels it every day, in every moment.

…

25 Days After the World Didn't End

Sometimes, Aziraphale has nightmares.

Aziraphale thinks he might have always had the capacity for nightmares, but he never knew. He sleeps regularly now, though – he’s surprised to find that he rather likes sleeping, although that probably has more to do with being in close proximity with his demon than with any REM cycles – so he supposes he shouldn’t be surprised that one day he wakes up shouting, tremors wracking his whole body, his eyes wide and unseeing.

The first time it happens, he’s rather alarmed. He’s having a particularly pleasant dream about walking along the sea with Crowley, and suddenly he’s wrenched into what looks like the Tadfield airfield, but this time Satan is dragging Crowley down into that gaping hole, and Aziraphale is running towards him, but he can’t reach him, he can’t get to him in time, and all of a sudden Crowley is gone, and he’s screaming, he’s screaming, sorrow and fear and regret, and he can’t –

He doesn’t recognize what’s happening right away – in hindsight, he’s never heard himself scream before – but once he realizes that it’s him making that terrified sound, he blindly reaches out for Crowley. It’s an instinct, something he’s seen in movies, and he’s not sure if it’ll work to quell the absolute terror flooding his whole corporation, but he has no idea what else to do.

(It worked for Crowley when Crowley was crying in his bookshop, anyway, and holding his demon isn’t a hardship.)

Crowley doesn’t wake up immediately, but just his proximity makes Aziraphale’s shivering slightly less pronounced, and he squeezes his eyes shut and turns his face into his demon’s neck. Aziraphale can feel Crowley’s even breaths on his skin, and he feels a rush of fierce protectiveness that almost knocks him over. Whoever – whatever – ever tries to take Crowley away from him will be decimated.

After a moment, Crowley stirs awake; Aziraphale can feel his eyelashes as he blinks rapidly. He must be confused as to why Aziraphale is curled so tightly into him that he can’t tell where one of them ends and the other one begins, but he doesn’t say anything.

Instead, he winds his arms around Aziraphale, tentatively at first, then more assuredly as Aziraphale only burrows deeper into his hold. Aziraphale squeezes his eyes shut tighter, trying to focus on what he knows to be true: they’re in their cottage in the South Downs. He’s in their bed. The fan is going above their heads. They are far away from anything that can hurt them. Heaven and Hell have left them alone. They’re okay. They’re together. Everything is as it should be.

After a few moments of this inner monologue, Crowley’s arms anchoring him to the here and now, Aziraphale’s breathing slows, and his trembling ceases entirely.

Crowley presses a kiss to the top of Aziraphale’s head, so light and offhanded that Aziraphale sighs, that telltale affection rising in his throat.

“You’re okay,” Crowley whispers, running a soothing hand up and down Aziraphale’s spine. “You’re okay, I’m right here, we’re okay, nothing is going to happen to you, I promise, I’ve got you.”

Aziraphale’s eyes fill with tears. His tender, precious, gentle demon. Always there for him, always trying to fix the damage that Heaven has wrought, always making sure they come out the other side, always holding him when everything falls apart. And he’d gone and taken that friendship and love for granted. How stupid he’d been.

He sniffles, trying not to be self-conscious about this wild display of emotion (he prides himself on always keeping composed, but lately he’s been trying to let his guard down with his favorite person). “It’s not me I’m worried about.”

Aziraphale can feel Crowley frown above him. “What do you mean? It’s not Heaven that’s frightening you?”

Aziraphale shakes his head, twisting his hands in the front of Crowley’s sleep shirt to keep himself from letting out a sob. “No, I haven’t been scared of them in a while.”

Crowley pulls back just slightly, rearranging them so they’re facing each other. Fragile morning light is beginning to seep in through the gauze curtains on their bedroom windows – it’s just barely dawn – and his eyes are liquid gold, almost unbearably soft. Lying side by side like this, legs intertwined, Crowley’s hands resting on his hips, their faces so close their noses are almost touching, Aziraphale feels like he can finally breathe again.

“Then what is it?” Crowley asks.

Aziraphale takes a deep, shuddering breath. Crowley waits patiently, his eyes steady and sure. Aziraphale supposes he’s had enough practice with Aziraphale’s reticence to know by now that filling the silence won’t prompt him to reveal anything. Giving him time and space to figure out his words is usually the best route.

(As usual, Crowley knows him better than he ever intended him to.)

Finally, Aziraphale admits, “My nightmares are usually about losing you.”

Crowley’s brow wrinkles in sympathy (he would never call it that, but Aziraphale knows better). “Oh, Aziraphale –”

Aziraphale shakes his head fervently, fisting his hands tighter in the collar of Crowley’s shirt. “No, no, you don’t need to do that, it’s just –” His voice cuts off in a sob that he can’t keep in.

“Yes?” Crowley prompts after a moment, his thumbs tracing delicate circles on his face. He holds his head like it’s something valuable.

Aziraphale shudders. “It’s just – the Tadfield Airfield. Satan coming up. I just can’t stop seeing it. If it had all gone wrong and he had taken you…I couldn’t bear it.”

Crowley nods, his eyes sad suddenly, and Aziraphale can tell he’s remembering the time he thought Aziraphale was gone. “I know what you mean,” he whispers, agonized. “When the bookshop was on fire and I thought you were really and truly gone, I didn’t know how I would survive it. It was just –”

Crowley can’t finish, and Aziraphale can tell the thought is so painful he can’t breathe for a moment. And even though they’ve had this conversation before, even though he’s reassured his demon that he’s here and not going anywhere, he understands why this still plagues Crowley. A world without Crowley would be no world at all.

Crowley wraps his arms around him again. “But nothing happened to us. We’re here now,” he breathes, a bit of awe in his voice. “I’m here now.”

Aziraphale nods. “Promise?” He whispers, and he wishes he could help the vulnerability in his voice, but it’s there, and maybe it’ll always be there, this fear that he might lose the most important thing in his world.

“I can’t promise nothing will ever happen to me,” Crowley says honestly, smoothing Aziraphale’s damp hair back from his feverish brow, and Aziraphale doesn’t resist the impulse to lean into his touch. “But I can promise that I will always be here when you wake up.”

Aziraphale looks up at him, his eyes shining with unshed tears. He knows he must look so fragile, so scared, and the unequivocal loyalty and fierceness in Crowley’s eyes have Aziraphale bracing himself against the tide of love that floods him. “Always?”

“Always,” Crowley says firmly.

Aziraphale nods, biting his lip. He closes his eyes and burrows back into Crowley’s neck. Aziraphale can feel Crowley’s warm breaths stuttering over his skin, and without thinking he twines their fingers together, letting the feeling of Crowley’s hand in his dispel the last vestiges of terror.

“Always,” Crowley repeats. “Always.”

Crowley keeps whispering it, stroking Aziraphale’s hair, holding him close, until his breathing has slowed and he’s at peace once more.

…

After that, Crowley seems to know what to do when Aziraphale has a nightmare. Aziraphale wakes up shouting or screaming, flashes of holy water and Satan streaking through his mind, and Crowley pulls him into the tightest hug possible. He whispers a stream of comfort, variations of “I’m here” and “You’ll never lose me” and “We’ll be together always.” Crowley cradles Aziraphale in his arms, rocking him back and forth as the angel’s breathing slows, little by little. Sometimes they talk about the substance of the nightmare when Aziraphale has calmed down, but often they merely linger in silence until Aziraphale can go back to sleep.

Sometimes, Aziraphale can tell that Crowley worries it’s not enough. Sometimes, Aziraphale can tell, Crowley worries that he can’t possibly fix the damage that Heaven and Hell have done to his angel. Sometimes, Crowley asks Aziraphale if he needs anything – tea, wine, chocolate, a bad movie.

Always, Aziraphale says, “I just need you.”

…

Crowley has nightmares sometimes, too. His are usually about Heaven taking Aziraphale away in the dead of the night; he wakes up clutching so tightly to Aziraphale that he’d be cutting off his circulation if that were metaphysically possible.

But Aziraphale knows exactly what to do the first time it happens (after all, he’s learned from the best). He rearranges them so he can look Crowley directly in the eye, and he simply says, “I’m here.”

He holds Crowley’s gaze until Crowley’s pulse has settled, and they stay like that until one of them falls asleep.

Aziraphale is grateful that after all this time, they’ve finally figured out how to be there for each other.

…

40 Days After the World Didn't End

About a month after they move into their cottage, Aziraphale takes a nap in the afternoon, lulled into sleep by a particularly dull Sherlock Holmes novel and the rhythmic breathing of Crowley next to him on their faded grey couch. He dreams of Alpha Centauri, a bandstand, holy water, Rome, the airfield. A million moments.

A lifetime of longing.

He awakens to soft blue light. His eyes find the window, streaked with rain. It’s completely, utterly silent in the cottage. Peaceful.

He rolls over, throwing out a hand to the other side of the bed. Empty. Oh, how curious. He was so sure he’d fallen asleep on the couch…

The heart he only has in theory squeezes painfully. Crowley must have put him to bed.

He slowly pulls himself to his feet, shrugging on his robe and his slippers. He strains his ears, searching for any sign of his demon. But their house is still, giving nothing away.

He tiptoes through the hallway, finds Crowley standing in the kitchen, nursing a mug of steaming tea at the edge of the cabinetS, where the window meets the open sky. There’s a pot of something that smells like tomato soup simmering on the stove. Crowley is looking out at the stars, probably tracing the constellations, and he’s bathed in the soft yellow light from the lamps around him.

He’s beautiful.

Aziraphale stops for a moment, leaning against the doorway, just watching him. He’s sure Crowley can feel his presence, but he doesn’t mind. They have very few secrets anymore (except the rather large one that Aziraphale has been keeping for going on a century, of course), and yet it still takes his breath away to see his demon like this. Sweatpants and henley instead of his trademark tight jeans and black v-neck, sunglasses nowhere to be found, stripped of all his defenses and pretenses. Just Crowley, just the person who has made a home in Aziraphale’s soul.

It’s a privilege and a blessing to see him like this, and Aziraphale doesn’t take it for granted anymore.

Without thinking too much about it, Aziraphale walks up to Crowley and wraps his arms around his back, pressing his face to his shirt. He’s breaking all his own rules, but Crowley is so warm and the soup smells so good and no one has ever taken care of him like this.

“Smells good,” he says lightly, thinking almost involuntarily that he’d stay wrapped around Crowley like this for as long as the demon would let him.

Crowley merely hums in response, and Aziraphale closes his eyes, so content he could fall asleep all over again.

“Thank you,” he says after another long moment, “For everything.”

Thank you for knowing we were on our own side when I didn’t. Thank you for fighting to stay with me even when you weren’t sure if I was fighting to stay with you. Thank you for never giving up on me.

Crowley twists in his arms to face him, his eyes the lightest he’s ever seen them, so unguarded that Aziraphale sways toward him. “Of course,” Crowley says, skimming his lips across his forehead and then leaning down to touch his forehead to his, their breath mingling together. “You forget we stared down Armageddon together. This is nothing.”

Aziraphale smiles. Ever since they moved into this cottage, it feels as if they’ve been moving toward something, something he can’t quite grasp. He thinks he should feel scared – after all, any minute change in his relationship with Crowley has traditionally left him off-kilter, disoriented and confused. He’s still not sure if Crowley feels the same shade of love he does, but here, in the home they’ve built together, in the life they’ve built together, he can’t feel anything but peace.

They stay like that for a long, long time, and for the first time, Aziraphale lets himself hope.

…

50 Days After the World Didn't End

Anathema, Newt, and Adam and the Them visit Aziraphale and Crowley about a month and a half after they move into the cottage. Sergeant Shadwell and Madame Tracy wanted to come, too, but they’re off on an extravagant trip searching for witches in northern Ireland.

They pass the weekend visit gardening, skipping rocks by the sea cliffs, and baking far too many lemon squares. It’s exquisitely pleasant, a distinct feeling of home suffusing their every moment together, and Aziraphale basks in the absolute rightness of it all. After millennia of questioning his place in the universe, he’s finally exactly where he was meant to be.

Their last morning together, Crowley, Newt, and Adam and the Them decide to take the Bentley for a spin, and Aziraphale and Anathema sit and have tea in the kitchen.

“How’s it been settling into the cottage?” Anathema asks as they’re enjoying their chamomile tea and watching the wisteria trees outside sway in the breeze.

“Oh, it’s been wonderful!” Aziraphale answers easily. “It’s so lovely to be away from the city. I didn’t realize how much more peaceful it would be out here, but we’ve really enjoyed being able to see the stars and having it be so quiet all the time. Crowley loves his garden, of course, and I’m enjoying having so much free time to catch up on my reading.”

Anathema smiles at him, a pure, lovely thing. “It’s good to see you guys together like this. I always thought it should be like this.”

Aziraphale opens his mouth, ready to offer his typical rebuttal that he and Crowley aren’t “like that,” that humans couldn’t possibly understand the complex bond they share, that romance is far too crude a word to describe the depth of their connection. But he stops himself. Aren’t he and Crowley together? Aren’t they how they should have always been?

They are. Of course they are. They were only ever apart because they had to be.

“You know,” he says thoughtfully. “I always thought it should be like this, too.”

They sip their tea in companionable silence, and when Crowley, Newt, and Adam come crashing into the cottage, yelling over each other about going 45 kilometers per hour and almost hitting pedestrians several times, Aziraphale grins broadly. He catches his demon’s eye, and when Crowley winks at him, he doesn’t hide his blush.

He’s so glad it’s like this now.

…

75 Days After the World Didn't End

They celebrate Christmas just the two of them. Neither of them subscribes to any particular religion, as it were, but they both like the traditions associated with the Christian holiday, so they make an event out of it.

They decorate a tree with gaudy ornaments, Crowley contributing several black orbs (“black like my heart,” he sneers gleefully, and Aziraphale kindly refrains from calling him out on that blatant lie), the string of lights twinkling merrily. They banter back and forth over whether they should have an angel or a demon as a tree-topper, before they finally just put both toppers on them (“Our side,” Aziraphale proclaims, and delights in the blush that steals over Crowley’s cheeks). Carolers show up on their doorstep every so often, and Crowley grouches and moans before joining Aziraphale, his voice ringing out in perfect pitch.

Aziraphale bakes different kinds of Christmas cookies every day of December (he’s following Ina Garten’s recipes because he definitely agrees that Madagascar vanilla is essential ). He uses Crowley as a taste tester; Crowley obviously doesn’t have much of a sweet tooth, but he’s a very willing participant in Aziraphale’s experiments, and the cottage always smells of vanilla and ginger. In return, Aziraphale samples every type of mulled wine imaginable so that Crowley can perfect his recipe from the 2nd century.

Christmas Day dawns with a fresh blanket of white snow, the weak English sunshine glittering and crystallizing on the drifts on their doorstep. Everything is quiet and serene, and Aziraphale pads downstairs in his red and green tartan pajamas.

He sees Crowley sitting at the base of their Christmas tree dressed in a matching set of tartan pajamas, and he is so overwhelmed by affection that his throat closes for a moment.

Crowley looks down at himself sheepishly. “Angel, don’t you dare.”

Aziraphale smiles fondly. “Oh my dear, I wouldn’t dream of it.”

They open presents for each other leisurely, playing old Christmas carols and eating the cookies Aziraphale left out for Santa (humans have the most delightful traditions, don’t they?). Aziraphale exclaims with joy at the first-edition books Crowley clearly took great pains to find, and Crowley hides a smile at the hand-stitched leather gloves and designer sunglasses Aziraphale has carefully wrapped in red gift paper.

After all the presents have been exchanged, Crowley unceremoniously drops an unmarked brown box in Aziraphale’s lap. Aziraphale stares down at it, dumbfounded.

He looks up at Crowley, who is sitting unnaturally still. “My dear, what is this?”

Crowley shrugs. “Just open it, you’ll see.”

Aziraphale raises a questioning eyebrow, but Crowley doesn’t say anything else, so Aziraphale slowly takes the lid off the box, reaching in to discover what feels like...another book?

“Crowley, if it’s a book why did you bother -”

“Just open the goddamn gift, angel,” Crowley says gruffly.

Aziraphale tsks disapprovingly but does as he’s told, carefully pulling the book out of the box. At first glance, the book looks like any other. It has what looks like a burnished gold finish, with no title, no author, and nothing on the spine or the back cover.

He looks up at Crowley, but his stubborn demon is giving nothing away.

Regardless, he treats the book as reverently as he treats any book that he’s lucky enough to possess: he strokes the spine, runs his fingers over the front cover, feels its heft in his hands. He can’t tell when it might have been published, and he finds no clues for what it might be about.

He opens the book, and on the first page there are two words: “Our Story."

He feels his eyes begin to fill with tears, so he keeps his gaze resolutely on the page. If this is what he thinks it is, he’s about to start crying in earnest, and he knows that will only embarrass Crowley.

He turns the page, and the chapter title, “In Which an Angel and Demon Meet and Everything Changes” hits him hard. Because that is what happened, isn’t it? Before he met Crowley, his existence was straightforward: he was loyal to God and Heaven, and he didn’t think about much, or question much. It was an easy and uncomplicated existence, but it was also boring, devoid of challenges and color, and certainly empty of feeling at all. He met Crowley, and suddenly he felt things he’d never had a reason to feel, questioned things he’d never had a reason to question, and experienced more than he ever would have experienced on his own.

Crowley changed him entirely. And he’s always known Crowley had changed his existence for good, but he’s never known it more viscerally than he does right now.

He pages through the book, catching snippets of different chapter titles - “In Which an Angel and a Demon Debate Whether The Flood was a Good Idea,” “In Which an Angel and Demon Have Oysters in Rome,” and “In Which an Angel and Demon Take Care of a Child for 11 Long Years,” to name a few - and lines that make him both want to cry and smile - “The demon was usually annoyed by the angel, but it was the kind of fond annoyance where you don’t want to be with anyone else”  and “The angel and demon often argued about the metaphysical realities of God, Heaven, and Hell, usually with many bottles of wine and too many tangents.”

The detail with which Crowley has chronicled their six millennia together renders Aziraphale nearly speechless. He can feel the affection imbued in every word, the care with which Crowley has written out their interactions and the threads that have made up their complicated relationship. He already knows that this will be the most precious book he ever owns.

He looks up at Crowley, who hasn’t moved. Anxiety is radiating out of the demon’s pores; he sits rigidly, the way he does when he doesn’t know what comes next and isn’t sure he’s going to like it.

Aziraphale smiles at him. It’s wobbly, but it’s more sincere than he thinks any other smile he’s ever worn has been. “You wrote our story?” He asks, wonder seeping into the words.

Crowley shifts uncomfortably. “It’s not a big deal, angel,” he says, and it’s clear that he’d like to downplay the significance of his gift as much as possible.

But Aziraphale can’t - won’t - do that anymore. They’ve spent too long pretending the gestures of devotion between them don’t mean anything, pretending they’re just colleagues, just two people forced into a situation that neither of them is comfortable with. He can’t do that to Crowley anymore. He doesn’t want to.

“My dear,” he says, his voice watery. He reaches out and grabs Crowley’s hand. As usual, his skin is a few degrees warmer than a human’s; as usual, it feels divine in a way Aziraphale would prefer not to examine. “It is a big deal. I am so beyond touched that you took the time to do this. This is the most special thing that anyone has ever done for me. Thank you so much. I’m going to read this over and over again.”

Crowley scowls, making a protesting noise, but his cheeks are turning a remarkable shade of fuschia. “You are such a cheeseball.”

Aziraphale’s brow furrows. “Cheeseball? What is a cheeseball? There’s no cheese here, why are we talking about cheese? Oh, should we get cheese? That would be lovely, let me - ”

Crowley squeezes his hand, a fond smile creeping over his face, and Aziraphale finds himself suddenly unable to speak.

“I’m glad you like it, angel,” Crowley says quietly, his eyes wide and honest, so vulnerable it almost hurts to look at him. “I wasn’t sure you would.”

Aziraphale smiles. “Of course I like it,” he says gently. “I love it, I really do.”

Crowley nods bashfully, and Aziraphale feels his human heart double in size. “Of course, your presence is the greatest gift of all,” he says teasingly.

Crowley just shakes his head, but he can’t hide the joy in his face, and Aziraphale is glad.

After a moment of contented silence, Aziraphale puts the book on the floor and pulls a folder out of his back pocket. “My turn!” He says excitedly, clapping his hands together.

Crowley raises his eyebrows. “Angel, you didn’t have to -”

“Of course I had to,” Aziraphale says impatiently. “Don’t be silly.”

He extends the folder, which he carefully labeled “Aziraphale and Crowley’s Next Big Adventure” with a black Sharpie, to Crowley.

After a moment’s hesitation, Crowley takes the folder and opens it, and Aziraphale watches as he flips through its contents: two round-trip plane tickets to Thailand; plane tickets to Bali, Vienna, Sydney, and countless other cities; printouts about Cape Town and Lake Como and Tokyo; reservations for hostels and five-star hotels (and restaurants of course); meticulous itineraries with space for Crowley’s input; frames for pictures; and much more.

Crowley doesn’t say anything after several moments, his eyes fixed on the folder as if he doesn’t know how to process what he’s seeing.

“I thought we could take a big trip,” Aziraphale explains haltingly when he can’t take it anymore, Crowley’s uncharacteristic silence making him self-conscious about his gift. “See all the places we’ve only gotten to visit alone, go to all the cities we were afraid to be seen together, potentially really anger Heaven and Hell, all that jazz.”

He giggles nervously, a pit settling in his stomach when Crowley doesn’t even blink an eye at his colloquialism.

A couple of moments pass, and Crowley still hasn’t looked up. “My dear,” Aziraphale ventures, trying not to let his hesitation bleed into his voice. “Is everything alright?”

Crowley visibly gulps, eyes still on the folder. “You’d want to take a trip like that with me?”

Aziraphale stares at him. It’s moments like this that make him realize just how much he has taken Crowley for granted over the years - just how much he’s failed to show Crowley that their partnership means the world to him.

“My dear,” he says gently, reaching out to cover Crowley’s hand with his (they touch so much more than they used to, and Aziraphale is glad), locking eyes with Crowley. “When the world was ending, the worst thing I could think of was that I’d never get to talk to you again. Who else could I possibly want to go on a trip with?”

Crowley’s answering smile is watery, but Aziraphale doesn’t call him out on it. He’s just happy he could make Crowley smile like that.

All in all, it’s the best Christmas he’s ever had.

…

81 Days After the World Didn't End

They ring in New Year’s Eve with a Dom Perignon from 1865 and cheese Crowley went to Paris to get (obviously Aziraphale’s favorite). They sit out on their porch and watch the village fireworks, tucked under mounds of blankets and surrounded by the perfectly brisk night air. Crowley’s feet are buried in Aziraphale’s lap, his whole bony frame pressed tightly against his soft one, and Aziraphale thinks he has never felt so complete.

“Have we ever been together on New Year’s?” He asks lightly, running an absent hand through Crowley’s hair. They both pretend Crowley doesn’t shiver at the contact.

Crowley hums. “I don’t think so? New Year’s is a big time for demons, we’re always trying to disrupt people’s resolutions. So I was usually off somewhere wreaking havoc.”

Aziraphale nods. “Ah yes, my dear, that makes sense. I was usually off doing the opposite.”

He smiles, a pure, soft thing. “It is quite lovely to be relieved of that duty and to be able to do what I want to do.”

Aziraphale feels Crowley still. He wonders what he’s said to put his demon on edge, but then –

“And what you want to do is be with me?” Crowley asks, his voice uncharacteristically small and uncertain.

Aziraphale strokes his hair more purposefully, hoping Crowley can sense his conviction and commitment. Even if Crowley never wants to be romantically and sexually involved the way he wishes they were, he’d still want to be with him, just like this. “Yes, it is,” he says gently, softly. “I love our life here. I love this new beginning we’re making. It’s perfect.”

Crowley’s breath catches, as if he might cry, and Aziraphale continues because he needs Crowley to know this. He’s still not certain whether Crowley loves him the way he loves Crowley, but he knows that Crowley wants to be with him forever. He knows that Crowley needs reassurance that they are done denying they belong together.

“You know,” he says, twisting his fingers in the hair at Crowley’s neck, the way he knows Crowley likes it, “Sometimes I think I’m more alive now than I have been for my entire existence. Here, with you, I feel more alive than I can ever remember. With you, I know I am exactly where I am supposed to be.”

Crowley is quiet for a long while, but he wraps his arms around Aziraphale’s middle and squeezes once, twice, three times. Aziraphale knows what he means.

Crowley lifts his head at last, biting his lip, and touches his glass to Aziraphale’s.

“To new beginnings,” Crowley says, affection so clear in his voice that Aziraphale’s chest warms. His eyes are liquid gold and indescribably tender.

Aziraphale nods. “To us,” he says.

( I love you , he thinks.)

They drink their champagne, and they eat their cheese, and they stay there for a long while, watching the fireworks burst into color, streaking the night sky, as another year begins.

…

125 Days After the World Didn't End

They’ve finished Chrissy Teigen’s cookbook, and now they’re on to Bobby Flay’s. They’ve taken to really experimenting with cooking, seeing what they can create. Well, Aziraphale has been experimenting with cooking, more accurately, and Crowley has been indulging his many (bad) attempts.

Tonight, Aziraphale tried his hand at coq au vin, and it just went awfully – the fire alarm went off, smoke filling the kitchen, and Crowley swiftly miracled away the burning remnants of chicken while laughing hysterically. They ordered Chinese food instead and ate out of cartons on the floor, passing a bottle of wine back and forth and doing incredibly bad imitations of Gabriel and Michael.

Aziraphale would say it’s one of his favorite nights of his very long existence, but then, all of his favorite nights have been with Crowley, and most of them have been in this cottage. “Favorite” has started to have very little meaning for him, when everything is so consistently wonderful.

When everything is as it should have always been.

They’re cleaning the kitchen when something…changes.

Aziraphale can feel it – the air has just slightly turned, the universe slowing for just a moment. He wonders if Crowley has stopped time by accident.

But no. Time is still moving. It’s just that there’s tension where there wasn’t before. It’s just that for some reason, he feels like he’s waiting for something.

And then –

“I wouldn’t have gone to Alpha Centauri,” Crowley announces suddenly.

Aziraphale startles, dropping the fork he’s holding. “My dear –”

“I wouldn’t have gone,” Crowley repeats. “I was desperate when I said we should go. I didn’t think there was anything we could do, and I was so worried that we’d get caught in the war and get obliterated. But I wouldn’t have – couldn’t have – left you to face that alone.”

Aziraphale just stares at him. His mind is blank.

“It wouldn’t have meant anything if you weren’t there,” Crowley admits, and there’s something defiant in his voice, as if he expects Aziraphale to fight him on this. “I stopped time rather than lose you. I would never have gone to Alpha Centauri, even if you hated me.”

“My dear, I never hated you,” Aziraphale can’t help but break in. “I was just a coward. I was just too beholden to Heaven to see that we were on our own side.”

“I know,” Crowley placates, reaching out to touch Aziraphale’s hand, as if wanting to comfort him (Aziraphale finds himself stilling). “I just thought that you should know that I wouldn’t have gone. I would have stayed with you until the end.”

Aziraphale doesn’t know if he imagines what Crowley isn’t saying: I would have loved you, if you’d let me.

“My dear –” He stops. He doesn’t know what to say. “I never –” He tries again, but something gets stuck in his throat.

Crowley smiles; it’s a sad smile. He looks away from him. “It’s okay.”

Again, Azirapahale wonders what Crowley isn’t saying: It’s okay that you’re not ready. I’ll wait for you. It hurts me, but I’ll wait for you forever if that’s what it takes.

Aziraphale wishes he had the words to explain himself. He thinks he’s ready – most of the time, he has to bite his lip to stop himself from telling Crowley that he loves him and probably has for almost a century – but somehow, he can’t quite bring himself to say so. He doesn’t know what he’s afraid of, really – even if Crowley doesn’t feel exactly the way he does, he trusts Crowley, and he knows his demon would never abandon him or respond with derision. So what is holding him back?

Maybe he’s scared of Crowley loving him back. Of how all-consuming and powerful that would be. Crowley is the person who knows him best in the world, who has always been by his side. What will happen if something changes and he loses him?

Regardless of what’s holding him back, he finds himself unable to say another word.

So he doesn’t say anything. He lets the moment pass, and Crowley lets the moment pass, and they keep drinking and laughing. And all the while, Aziraphale tries to find it in himself to be brave.

…

Later, much later, Crowley yawns widely. He stands up, extending a hand to Aziraphale and smiling Aziraphale’s favorite smile, soft and loving and containing all the millennia of their history together.

“Bed, angel?” He asks, and there’s nothing suggestive about it (in fact it’s what he asks almost every night), but still it ignites nerve endings all over Aziraphale’s skin.

Aziraphale nods nervously, hoping Crowley doesn’t catch the way his lower lip trembles. He’s shaken from their earlier interaction, and he’s trying to hide it, but he feels raw, exposed, as if everything he feels is written all over his face.

(He knows that’s a biological and metaphysical impossibility, and finds it an indictment of his current emotional state that he is resorting to metaphors.)

They go up the stairs together, Crowley leading the way, as he always does. It’s quiet and calm in their house, in the life they’ve built together.

Once they reach their bedroom, Crowley snaps his fingers to change into his black silk pajamas. He gets into bed, his expression warm and happy. Aziraphale goes into their bathroom to wash his face and brush his teeth - he technically doesn’t need to, of course, but over the years he’s found that adopting certain human routines makes him feel more settled - and stares at himself in the mirror. He looks old. Or maybe it’s that he looks tired: tired of pretending.

“Get it together,” he whispers harshly at his reflection. “You are a principality, you were made to withstand much worse than this.”

He shakes his head, trying to shake off the emotion that’s thick in his throat. He loves Crowley. He’s always loved Crowley. Why is that so hard to admit to Crowley?

Why is that so hard to admit to himself?

He turns off the bathroom light and steels himself, walking back into their bedroom.

Crowley smiles so big when Aziraphale climbs into bed, and impulsively Aziraphale throws his arms around his neck. Crowley chuckles, warm and fond, just the way he likes it, and he fights the inexplicable urge to cry. How could he have been so blind? How could he have even considered walking away from him? Being a foot soldier of Heaven could never be enough for him. He wants more. He wants all of Crowley, everything, forever.

“Woah there, angel,” Crowley says gently, his hands settling on the small of Aziraphale’s back, a touch so intimate that something in the angel just gives way. “No need to tackle me. Everything okay there?”

Aziraphale nods, too afraid to speak, and clutches him tighter.

Crowley lets him for a minute, rubbing soothing circles on the bare skin of his spine (making him shiver, obviously), but as always, he knows him better than the angel likes to admit.

“Really, Aziraphale,” Crowley murmurs, moving his lips to his ear, “Are you sure you’re okay?”

(What goes unspoken is that Aziraphale has only ever clung to him like he can’t breathe when he’s woken up from a nightmare.)

Aziraphale bites his lip. “I just –” He can’t continue.

They’re silent for another moment. Aziraphale can feel Crowley’s measured breath, the in and out of his chest against his cheek, and it helps a little. He tries so very hard to swallow down his fear and fall over the precipice. He wants to so badly .

He has to.

“Did you mean what you said?” Aziraphale asks finally, his voice shaking a little. He burrows deeper in Crowley’s bare chest, afraid to look at him, afraid to breathe in that distinct brimstone smell for fear of disrupting the haven they’ve created over the last few months.

(Afraid to lose him.)

“Did I mean what?” He can almost hear the furrow in Crowley’s brow. Like everything else he does these days, it only endears him to Aziraphale more.

“You –” Aziraphale pauses, tries to breathe through his fear. “You said you wouldn’t have gone to Alpha Centauri without me. You said you would have rather stayed with me, even if it meant we both died.”

Crowley goes rigid almost immediately, his hands tightening on Aziraphale’s waist. Aziraphale stills, too, fighting the impulse to look at him. He doesn’t want to know – can’t know – what his reaction will be.

Aziraphale plows on, instead. He might as well go out with a bang, as the kids say.

“If you – if you meant what you said,” he continues, shaking a little, but determined to get this out. “I’d like to know. I don’t quite know what you meant by it, but my dear, I want you to know that I –”

“Of course I did,” Crowley breaks in finally, as if he’s only just now managed to find his voice. “Of course I meant it.”

The words are soft, reverent even, and Aziraphale takes a risk and looks up at him. His eyes are full of – love.

(Has it always been love?)

“Aziraphale,” Crowley says, sweeping a hand under his chin like he can’t bear not to be touching him, and Aziraphale’s human heart starts to beat in staccato time. “Of course I meant it. I’ve never lied to you, have I?”

Crowley smiles, wry, and Aziraphale stutters, dumbfounded. “You–” He can’t finish.

Crowley leans forward, resting his forehead against his, and Aziraphale breathes him in. As always, he smells like leather and celestial power. He smells like Crowley, and Aziraphale feels himself relax. He knows how he feels about him. It may be terrifying, but he can do this. He wants to do this.

“I fell in love with you the moment you gave away your flaming sword,” Crowley says, slow, steady, as if he doesn’t want to scare him off. “I would never leave you.”

Aziraphale pulls away a little, just so he can look at him. Crowley is patient, serious.

Certain.

And somehow, after 6,000 years of second-guessing his every movement with Crowley, Aziraphale doesn’t overthink this moment. He just closes the gap between them and touches his lips to Crowley’s.

There’s a moment of resistance on Crowley’s part, a moment of hesitation where he must be processing what’s been said and implied, and Aziraphale worries, just for a second.

But then Crowley is kissing him back, licking into his mouth slow and sure, and light is bursting behind his eyelids, and he’s laughing, making it hard for their mouths to meet, and he thinks he might burst.

He pulls back to cradle Crowley’s cheek in his hands, and he finally whispers the truth he’s known for decades but been afraid to name, “I love you, you know.”

Crowley grins, a devilish thing that somehow still seems alight with joy. “I know.” He waggles his eyebrows dramatically. “Now prove it.”

Aziraphale rolls his eyes, but happily obliges.

…

They lie in bed later, Aziraphale tracing random circles on Crowley’s bare chest. The demon’s breathing is even, measured. The angel is watching the tidy shadow of their fan flashing on the ceiling. Neither of them is saying anything.

“I was scared,” he says after a long while.

Crowley stills beneath his touch, tenses just once.

“I was scared of loving you,” he admits, eyes still fixed on the ceiling. “I convinced myself that I was scared you didn’t love me back, but really I think a part of me always knew that you did. I think that’s what scared me. You loved me enough to give up everything, and I didn’t know if I was that brave.”

“You were, though,” Crowley says gently, stroking Aziraphale’s hair with steady, even touches, his body relaxing. “When it mattered, you were.”

“Only because I had you,” Aziraphale points out bitterly - bitter that he was a coward for so long. “Only because you were brave enough for both of us.”

Crowley shifts them so they’re facing each other. His eyes are gleaming in the moonlight, and he looks tender, much more forgiving than Aziraphale thinks he deserves. “You’ll always have me,” he says seriously. “And I’ll always be brave enough for the both of us. You’ll always be worth fighting for.”

Aziraphale smiles weakly. His chest feels inexplicably tight. “Oh, you wily old serpent. You always know just what to say.”

Crowley cups his cheek, his fingers skimming the side of his face. “Only because I know you,” he counters. “Only because I understand what you’ve been so afraid of. It’s scared me, too, needing you so much that I was willing to throw everything else away. I made my peace with it when I saved you from the Bastille –”

“Oh really, then?” For some reason, that surprises Aziraphale.

“Yes,” Crowley says, brushing a sweet kiss to Aziraphale’s forehead, the touch still so novel that it makes something in Aziraphale’s chest flutter. “I loved you for a long time before that, of course, but I had never been so terrified for you, and I realized that I would do anything to keep you safe. It didn’t matter that I might get in trouble with Hell, or that you couldn’t even admit we were friends. I needed you, and I would do anything for you.”

Aziraphale’s throat closes, tears pricking the backs of his eyes. “That’s very sweet, my dear.”

Crowley groans. “Yeah, don’t go spreading it around. I’m only that sweet to you.”

Aziraphale smiles. “We both know that’s not true, you’re much sweeter to everyone than you’d like the world to know,” he says, reaching up to kiss Crowley. The way Crowley yields immediately to his lips will likely never lose its sheen.

Aziraphale snuggles back into Crowley’s side after several joyous kisses, pulling himself as close to him as he can manage. They’re quiet for a long moment, love and peace suffusing the air like ambrosia. Crowley sweeps a hand up and down Aziraphale’s spine, tenderness imbued in his every touch. Aziraphale breathes in the smell of brimstone and lavender and says a silent prayer that they made it here at last.

“For me,” Aziraphale says finally, “It was when you saved me from the Germans in that church.”

Crowley doesn’t react beyond squeezing him just a little tighter, and Aziraphale is grateful - this is harder to say than he expected.

“I’m sure I loved you before then, but when you walked into the church, even though it hurt you to stand on consecrated ground, even though we weren’t talking, even though the last time we’d seen each other I’d said awful things to you, I realized - “He breaks off, overwhelmed by the epiphanies of that moment, and Crowley shushes him, whispering sweet nothings in his ear.

Aziraphale shifts so he can see Crowley’s face. It feels important that he see Crowley’s eyes - that Crowley see his face - when he says this.

“I realized the only thing that had ever kept me from loving you was my conviction that you and I were different, that you were a demon,” he says softly, framing Crowley’s dear, dear face. “And in that moment, I knew that had been a lie all along.”

He takes a deep breath, holding Crowley’s gaze. It’s so freeing to be able to love Crowley like this. He has always loved being with Crowley, even though he’d been hiding how he really felt. But he’s surprised by just how good it feels to stop pretending.

“You have always been incredibly compassionate” - he presses a kiss to the hollow of Crowley’s cheekbone - “Incredibly brave and fearless about who you are - “ he nuzzles Crowley’s nose with his - “Incredibly committed to the beauty and atrocity of the world and all its humans” - he traces the shells of Crowley’s ears with his fingers - “Incredibly loyal, even when I didn’t deserve it” - he kisses Crowley’s forehead with something like reverence - “And always, always, always incredibly loving toward me” - he drops a last kiss to Crowley’s lips, his heart swelling.

He pulls back, locking eyes with Crowley. Crowley, his true north. “I’m sorry it took me so long to realize that my place was next to you,” he says quietly. “And I’m sorry that it took me even longer to be brave enough to tell you that I’m in love with you, and that loving you is a part of me now.”

Crowley smiles, and it’s a pure, real thing. “Oh angel,” he says, and it’s the tone he uses when he’s feeling most fond of Aziraphale, a tone that Aziraphale finally recognizes for the lovesick feeling it holds. “Don’t apologize. I would have waited for you for six more millennia.”

Aziraphale knows he means it, and that makes him start to cry happy tears. “Crowley,” he bites out between sobs, “I will spend the rest of my eternal life loving you as you deserve. I owe that to you.”

Crowley brushes away his tears with the pads of his thumbs. “You don’t owe me anything,” he says. “But I plan to spend the rest of my eternal life loving you, too, so I guess we’ve got a deal.”

He smiles broadly, and Aziraphale can’t help but laugh. What an amazing future to contemplate.

Crowley pulls him in for another kiss, and then another, and then another, and Aziraphale joins him in the purest wave of joy he’s ever experienced.

…

365 Days After the World Didn't End

Aziraphale awakes a year after the apocalypse-that-wasn’t to hair in his mouth.

This is nothing unusual, of course. In the last few months, it has become abundantly clear that Crowley is a snuggler . Or, more accurately, he is a snake that likes to wrap every one of his limbs as tightly as celestially – demonically – humanly, whatever – as possible around Aziraphale. Of course, he was like this before also, but it’s become somewhat different since they confessed their love. He leaves no part of them not touching, and in the morning he whines when Aziraphale tries to get out of bed. Apparently all he needed to latch onto Aziraphale with his entire being was permission, which Aziraphale obviously happily gave.

Aziraphale just breathes for a few minutes, reveling in the feeling that has become second-nature to him recently. He feels surrounded by the purest love, and it’s all emanating from Crowley. For once, he can distinguish between his own love and Crowley’s, but now he doesn’t need to – they are one, as they were always meant to be.

Crowley stirs.

“Husband,” he murmurs, dropping a kiss to Aziraphale’s forehead.

“Husband,” Aziraphale returns.

They lay there for a long while, holding each other close, and another day begins.

fin

"I burned so long so quiet you must have wondered if I loved you back. I did, I did, I do.” - Annelyse Gelman

[letmetellyouaboutmyfeels]

Mads!! I was wondering if you had some thoughts on Bi!Wyatt because you write him so well and he is, uh, at least 50000% more interesting than I Am Wyatt Logan And I Am Definitely Straight!Wyatt. I JUST HAVE A LOT OF BI!WYATT FEELS

Oh. Oh you wanna know about Bi!Wyatt. Oh ho ho. This. This is gonna be fun.

AKA the Why Wyatt is Bi Meta That I Probably Should’ve Written a Year Ago But Didn’t Because I’m Lazy. BUCKLE UP BUTTERCUPS. THIS IS A FUCKING MANIFESTO.

This will be in two parts. The first will be my arguing why I think Wyatt is bi (pointing out examples that support my argument) and the second will be musing on why taking a character like Wyatt and making him bi is a more creative and interesting writing choice and gives him depth and complexity as a character.

PROLOGUE

Okay before we get started, people are probably wondering why I’m putting so much goddamn effort into writing about the possible sexuality of a character that managed to royally piss us all off for two thirds of an entire season.

Two reasons:

The first is that as I’ve mentioned countless times previously, Wyatt Logan isn’t a malicious person. He’s not a villain. He’s had genuinely good and loving moments. His toxic behavior actually makes him a wonderful example to people watching because it shows how otherwise good men can exhibit this behavior, and in my fiction I love to give him a chance to overcome that behavior and be the good and loving person that he can be and was meant to be. @brassmama once said I should start tagging all my fic “The Emotional Redemption of Wyatt Logan” and frankly, she’s right. That’s what I set out to do. Because to me, just hating on Wyatt and wanting to set him on fire is fucking boring.

also the amount of hate some of you show is concerning me are you guys okay?

Why hate when you can stretch your writing skills and give a character a thorough and well-earned redemption arc? Because shocking news, a lot of the toxic people we meet in our lives are not one-dimensional villains that we can dismiss. It’s not our job to fix them but by golly don’t you hope that they grow past that and become better people? I know I do.

Second, my anger at Wyatt isn’t actually mostly at Wyatt. It’s at the writers. It’s at the shitty boring writers who decided to just hand him his happy ending instead of taking the golden opportunity before them to give him a nice deep and complex redemption arc. It’s at the writers who decided to make him a toxic asshole in the first place instead of taking all his potential in season one and putting it to damn good use and making him a character who was interesting for all the right reasons instead of making him one who was interesting because he pissed us off. Two strikes means you’re out in this particular game, writers.

So. I didn’t come onto this goddamn blue hellsite in order to adopt Wyatt motherfucking Logan of all characters but since I am his mother now I am going to make him interesting and I am going to give him his emotional redemption and one of the best ways to do that is to make him bi so without further ado, here is a) why I think he’s bi and b) why that matters.

PART THE FIRST: LA PREUVE!!!

Before we get into this, I suggest that you quickly read my meta on why I see Wyatt Logan as submissive rather than dominant. It touches on some moments I’ll be mentioning here and helps to further round out how I see his character.

Let’s start at the beginning, shall we? With our favorite British spy, Ian Fleming, in 1x04. This is Wyatt’s reaction when he learns that it’s Fleming they’re dealing with:

“NOT NOW BONER!”

“Oookay that’s hot, he’s hot.”

“Oh oh oh he’s funny and cute aaaahhh”

“LUCY LUCY LUCY DID YOU SEE OHMYGOD DID YOU SEE WHO THAT IS AAAAHHH!!!!” *puppy eyes*

What’s important to note here isn’t just Wyatt’s reaction, but Lucy’s. Lucy is looking at Wyatt with a bit of fond exasperation–she’s saying “seriously?” Rufus has a similar reaction a moment later (although it was too quick for a screengrab, dammit). It’s like they’re annoyed, in a gentle friend way, by Wyatt’s behavior.

Note that Lucy’s geeking out and hero worship is never greeted with suspicion or fond annoyance by Rufus, Wyatt, and later on Flynn. Lucy’s hero worship and knowledge of historical characters is considered one of her strengths, because it allows her to get close to them. So why are Lucy and Rufus reacting this way when Wyatt hero worships someone?

Maybe because it’s not hero worship but, rather, a crush. Lucy and Rufus’s reactions much better fit friends dealing with their friend and the object of his affection.

We see this again in 2x2 with Wendell Scott. Scott makes what can only be described as a ‘sexy entrance’, throwing a man out of his tent and striding out while rock music plays, the camera panning up his body. *fans self* Oh hello sailor.

And the camera goes immediately to Wyatt who has THIS expression on his face right before saying breathlessly, “that’s…”

Wyatt then rushes in to defend Scott (who is just… hhnngghhh… sorry I need a moment that man is a Lot…) and shakes Scott’s hand with this look on his face:

If this isn’t the definition of heart eyes I don’t know what is.

When Scott compliments Wyatt, Wyatt blushes and looks away, pleased and embarrassed. Wyatt then spends the entire episode gooey eyed over Scott, and in a telling moment, tells Scott about his abusive father–private and intimate information that not even Lucy, Wyatt’s official love interest, knows about. It would make far more sense for Wyatt to tell Lucy about all this since she and Rufus are clearly wondering why Wyatt’s so knowledgeable about cars, and Lucy is Wyatt’s chief confessor at this point. Out of everyone, you’d think he’d be most comfortable telling Lucy about something like this.

But instead, he tells Scott about his father, clearly wanting to connect with Scott and be closer to him. This is something you see people do all the time when they have a crush on someone or are attracted to them: we tell them intimate details about our life in order to grow closer to them, intended to speed up the relationship process and stimulate them to be intimate with us in return (since we want to know everything we can about the people with whom we are infatuated).

Moreover, Wyatt’s reactions to Scott contrast Rufus’s reactions. Rufus also greatly admires Scott, and their growing connection as two black men despite their differences based on the times they live in is central to the emotional plot of the episode. But once again, Lucy and Rufus are basically telling Wyatt to “cool it.” Why Wyatt and not Rufus? Because with Wyatt, they’re not telling him just to calm down, they’re telling him to keep it in his pants.

Another thing to note about Fleming in 1x04 is that Wyatt is envious of his interactions with Lucy. Here’s his reaction when Fleming kisses Lucy’s hand:

🎶HEY JEALOUSYYYYYYY 🎶

Not the best screengrab but he’s trying his damndest not to roll his eyes.

Now, we the audience are probably supposed to make the jump in logic that Wyatt is envious of Fleming i.e. Wyatt is attracted to Lucy. But in the previous episode, 1x03, Wyatt tried to use the telegram system at the Vegas hotel to warn Jess of her death and save her life. He’s still hung up on his dead wife and wants to save her (we see this again in 1x06 when Flynn states outright from the journal that Wyatt is ‘obsessed’ with Jess and bringing her back). At this point in the series, Wyatt is still in love with his wife and wants her back. There’s no reason for him, therefore, to feel possessive of Lucy in any way.

But Fleming is Wyatt’s hero, not Lucy’s. So if Wyatt is attracted to Fleming, his envy makes sense. He’s envious of Lucy for getting all of Fleming’s flirtation and attention.

However, conversely we see that Wyatt is uncomfortable around other men who might show him interest. In 1x16 at the gay club, we see that Wyatt is extremely discomforted and stated that he “feels like a piece of meat.” Wyatt has so far been perfectly comfortable with LGBT+ people such as Denise, and then he’s comfortable with Ethan Cahill later on, so this doesn’t stem from homophobia but specifically from gay men thinking Wyatt is gay. I admit I’m drawing from personal experience here but in said personal experience, men who react with such discomfort tend to be suppressing a few things themselves–most straight men I know would laugh it off or roll their eyes.

Wyatt, however, is outright skittish. He’s acting like he’s got something to hide. Our first indication is when Lucy says, “This is 1954. You could get arrested for being gay.”

I couldn’t get a good enough shot of Wyatt’s reaction but here’s the tail end of it. Wyatt reacts to this assertion with discomfort and self-consciousness. Why would he do that? It’s not like they’re talking about him… unless Lucy’s reminder that people think being gay isn’t okay has painfully reminded Wyatt of himself. Wyatt grew up in a small town in Texas. I doubt they were all that kind to LGBT+ people there.

This is Wyatt right after a guy checks him out:

Check out his face. Wyatt’s avoiding the guy’s eyes, shifting uncomfortably, looking at the ground. Look at those puppy eyes. He’s scared–but why would he be scared? He’s not going to get jumped or anything. What could he possibly be fearing? The only thing that makes sense is he fears being outed, somehow, by another gay man who might be perceptive enough to metaphorically back him into a corner and force Wyatt to reveal something that he’s not ready to reveal.

Wyatt then tries to blow it off, “he’s looking at me like I’m a piece of meat,” but if we actually look at the onceover the gay guy gives him… it’s not actually that objectifying. The man looks down, then looks Wyatt right in the eyes and smiles at him flirtatiously. There’s no sloooooow drag up Wyatt’s frame, no wink, no outright leering. It’s quite tame compared to how most men look at women. But Wyatt’s response is that he feels like a piece of meat. His discomfort is actually disproportionate to the action that sparks his reaction.

But of course, all of these examples pale in comparison to the main one. The piece de resistance, the most compelling set of reasons yet, I give you… (drumroll, please)…

GARCIA FLYNN

Wyatt’s reactions to Flynn are… extreme. Rufus and Lucy have more reason to dislike Flynn than Wyatt does, and yet Wyatt’s the one storming all over the place and acting like just being around Flynn gives him an allergic reaction. He’s constantly going out of his way to push Flynn away and show Flynn just how much Wyatt hates him. It’s like Wyatt needs to prove to Flynn–and to everyone else–just how much Wyatt dislikes him.

Like this moment in 2x06 when Wyatt demands that Flynn “keep them safe”:

Note that Flynn winks at him:

was this wink scripted Goran Goran hey hey was this wink scripted or did you do it in the moment because Certified Mess™ Flynn can’t resist flirting with Wyatt to knock him off his game Goran inquiring minds need to know GORAN I HAVE QUESTIONS

And Wyatt is caught off-guard by the wink and then has to turn around and collect himself, taking a deep steadying breath:

Or take this moment when Flynn walks into the bunker in 2x03…

…where Wyatt literally stands up and storms out of the room upon Flynn’s entrance, saying to keep Flynn on a leash. Wyatt can’t even handle being in the same room with Flynn, while Lucy and Rufus (y’know, the guy Flynn got shot in 1x15) manage to stay in the room and have much smaller reactions to Flynn.

Note: Flynn definitely checks out Wyatt’s ass as he leaves I’m just saying–

Wyatt might as well be waving a giant red flag going HEY! HEY! I HATE THIS GUY! IN CASE ANY OF YOU THOUGHT I MIGHT LIKE THIS GUY OR EVEN RESPECT HIM THE TINIEST BIT!

We get even more of this in 2x07 when Wyatt gets extremely aggressive and tells Flynn to stay away from Lucy:

…and they were roommates.

(Oh my God they were roommates.)

…I mean do I even need to talk about the homoerotic subtext in these screenshots?

Wyatt, however, has more reason than anyone besides Lucy to connect with Flynn. Not only because they mirror each other, but because Wyatt gets to see a vulnerable and personal side of Flynn that nobody else does. Flynn doesn’t tell Lucy about his family’s murder–he tells Wyatt. Lucy doesn’t see Flynn risk his own existence to save his brother’s life, Wyatt does. Why does Wyatt get to see these moments if not to set the two men up as a parallel, a mirror for one another, and frankly why does he keep insisting Flynn’s an asshole when Wyatt is privy to moments like these:

Quote: “He just saved your son’s life.”

Quote: “Every memory I have of you, you were always sad. I know what it is to lose a child. I didn’t want you to lose your son, not if I could stop it.”

Moments where we clearly see Wyatt realizing Flynn’s not such a bad guy and understanding that Flynn is complex and has layers and weaknesses and powerful, understandable motivation. Why would we a) get to see Wyatt with Flynn in these moments of vulnerability and intimacy but then b) see Wyatt go out of his way to continually push Flynn away more than anyone else?

This has no bearing on the whole bi thing but frankly, this is one of Wyatt’s best looks. 10/10 suit. Pretty pretty puppy.

There’s only one reason: he’s scared of Flynn getting too close to him. And why would he be scared of that? Same reason he’s scared of the gay men in the bar hitting on him: Flynn might see a secret that Wyatt isn’t ready to look at.

1x08 is Flynn at his third lowest point (second lowest being his suicide mission in 1x16 and lowest of all being the end of 1x10/beginning of 1x11 when he kidnaps Lucy). He is ready to erase his own existence to save his brother and make his mother happy. It would make the most sense for Flynn to be seen like this by Lucy, who is the only character who’s made any attempt to understand him or connect with him and is the one he’s making the most effort to reach out to, the one he says he’ll “make a great team” with someday. Not to mention that given the disappearance of Amy from existence, Lucy’s the one most poised to understand what Flynn’s doing: saving a sibling. And Lucy’s the one (prior to 1x16) with a good relationship with her mom, just like Flynn, and would feasibly understand wanting to do anything to make one’s mother smile. Wyatt’s mother is never even mentioned in canon.

But it’s not Lucy who sees him like this and gets this intimate glimpse into Flynn’s past and home life. It’s Wyatt. Wyatt gets to see that–and usually in fiction writing, the character who gets to see that is the romantic interest or the character who at least has some sort of romantic feeling for the person.

Hmmmmmmm.

But before the Space Race, there was an even more prolonged and intimate moment between the two men–the first real interaction they have and one that, for me, cemented Wyatt as a closeted bisexual.

I’ve left this one for last, since it’s our biggest piece of evidence: The Watergate Tape.

AKA Wyatt Logan Has a Brain Glitch, AKA Wyatt Logan Has a Bi Crisis and Discovers a New Kink, AKA In Which Wyatt Logan Realizes He is Kinkier and Gayer Than He Originally Planned

thank you to @extasiswings for the second title

Aaanyway.

So. In this episode, Flynn captures the Time Team and sends Rufus and Lucy to get information for him while he holds Wyatt hostage.

I think I’ve seen this porno.

Flynn then spends his time with Wyatt telling him about Lucy’s journal and how Lucy writes about Jessica Logan’s death–in fact this is how the audience finally finds out how Jess died–and that Wyatt is ‘obsessed’ with Jess’s death and needs to learn to move on. In return to earn Wyatt’s trust, Flynn tells Wyatt how Flynn’s wife and child were murdered by Rittenhouse (again, this is how the audience also learns the story).

It’s a startlingly intimate moment between the two men. Like with Scott, we’d expect to hear the story of Jess’s death through Wyatt talking to Lucy, the person to whom he is closest and the person who at this point he is starting to show sexual attraction towards (I personally think Wyatt started to really be attracted to Lucy in 1x05 after she steadies him at the Alamo during his PTSD attack but anyhow). But instead, we hear it in a painful and intimate exchange between these two.

Pay attention to how Wyatt gets super uncomfortable when Flynn gets close to him, how he looks up at Flynn through his lashes, how very submissive Wyatt is being with his body language.

“Raise my chin even more to look Flynn directly in the eye? Nah. Gonna do a half-head tilt so I’m giving him a sultry side-eye.”

Wyatt also throughout their exchange (before Flynn pushes Wyatt’s buttons and makes him angry) routinely gives Flynn these looks:

Hmm, where have we seen Wyatt have that facial expression? At Fleming, for one, and at Lucy, for another. It’s a flirtatious expression.

There’s no reason for this screencap I just think it’s preeeetty. Mmm. Bask in the pretty.

Actually this screencap does a good job of illustrating the use of this scene to parallel the two men’s lives and storylines and show how they mirror each other.

Also? Look at how Wyatt’s positioned.

He’s not just in a hugely submissive position, he’s in a sexually suggestive position. He’s tied to a chair, and Flynn is looming over him, both of which are submissive. And look at how his legs are spread. His feet aren’t tied, by the way–Wyatt is doing that subconsciously, which puts, ah, certain aspects on display and in another situation it might be manspreading but given the positioning of the rest of his body and the situation he’s in, I sure as hell wouldn’t be manspreading. Manspreading suggests confidence and relaxation. His life is in danger and when we’re in danger whether we like it or not we instinctively go to protect our ‘vulnerable bits’ including, especially for men, our junk. By spreading his legs like this, Wyatt isn’t asserting his relaxation or confidence, he’s displaying himself.

His legs are spread, he’s tied up, he’s looking up at Flynn through his lashes, and he’s wearing a shirt that’s stretching across his chest, drawing attention to it. Now, in day to day reality, we sometimes wear shirts that do this and it doesn’t mean anything. But this is fiction and that means a costumer put that actor in a shirt that they knew would stretch across his chest in that way and therefore make him look even more sexually suggestive and exposed, and they chose to undo his top buttons and expose more of his throat, making him look more vulnerable and suggestive through that as well.

If Wyatt was, say, hanging from his wrists, that would be submissive, but not sexually suggestive. This, however, is both. The way the two sit together, the way Flynn tries to get on his level, the soft lighting, the way the two are wearing a pastel version of each other’s colors (Flynn’s signature color is burgundy and Wyatt is wearing pink, Wyatt’s signature color is blue and Flynn is wearing pastel blue)… if Wyatt was a woman there’d be no doubt that we’re seeing a prelude to a romantic connection here.

Throughout the whole confrontation with Flynn, up until the point where Wyatt’s angry over Flynn bringing up Jess’s death, Wyatt is in a suggestive, submissive position, he’s giving Flynn flirtatious looks, he’s uncomfortable in a not now boner way when Flynn gets too close the same way he was with Fleming. The whole time Wyatt is acting like he’s uncomfortably aroused.

Wyatt then takes great pains to shove away any connection with Flynn. There’s no real attempt to reason with Flynn, or acknowledge their similarities. Instead he denies any connection between them and calls Flynn a sociopath. Why? Because you can’t let any man to whom you’re attracted too close or he might figure out those dark feelings you’re trying to deny and/or hide. Wyatt is practically allergic to Flynn’s overtures or even to Flynn’s presence, as we already covered in 2x03, 2x06, and so on. But he keeps being given reason to think Flynn isn’t such a bad guy (1x06, 1x08). His shoving Flynn away like this only makes sense if Wyatt is scared of what will happen if Flynn gets too close to him, physically or emotionally. And it all starts here with 1x06.

It was this conversation that led me to go hmmmm and then re-examine 1x04 and take a closer look at Wyatt’s behavior in subsequent episodes.

So, to recap:

Wyatt shows in 1x04 that he is capable of being attracted to a man given his behavior around Fleming and Lucy and Rufus’s reaction to Wyatt’s behavior (”ugh get a room buddy,” etc). This is seen yet again in 2x02. In 1x06, Wyatt has a long conversation with Flynn where it is in a vulnerable position emotionally and physically and is furthermore in a sexually suggestive and submissive position in relation to Flynn. In 1x08 he gets an intimate look into Flynn’s psyche and childhood and family. In 1x16, we see Wyatt is uncomfortable in a LGBT+ setting suggesting he is not comfortable with his own sexuality and is scared of being found out. For all of season two, he then goes out of his way to show Flynn and everyone else how much he absolutely hates Flynn, despite having the least reason to do so, since his only reason is vying for Lucy’s affection and Flynn doesn’t become a true threat to that until 2x06. But in 2x03, 2x06, and 2x07, we see Wyatt making sure Flynn knows he’s not wanted.

Conclusion: Wyatt is bi. Wyatt is uncomfortable with being bi and has not accepted that about himself or perhaps even admitted it to himself. Wyatt is attracted to Flynn, as seen in 1x06, and has tentative romantic feelings for him developed in 1x06 and 1x08 based on seeing Flynn in vulnerable moments and learning intimate details about Flynn’s life. Wyatt then pushes Flynn away in order to push his own bisexuality away and avoid confronting it.

Wyatt being attracted to Flynn is the only logical conclusion for Wyatt’s behavior towards Flynn pre-2x06, given that Lucy and Rufus have more reason to dislike Flynn than Wyatt does, and that Flynn is not a true contender for Lucy’s romantic affection until 2x06 (he is, but Wyatt has ZERO reason to know this until 2x06 when Wyatt sees Flynn and Lucy smiling and joking together and walking down the hallway together, presumably towards one of their bedrooms for a private conversation, and Lucy tells Wyatt how great Flynn was on the mission). Wyatt has no reason other than being attracted to Flynn.

Wyatt being bi is the only logical conclusion for his behavior towards Fleming and Scott, given that Lucy and Rufus also have characters they hero worship and are not treated by the other two the way that Wyatt is when he ‘hero worships’ Scott and Fleming. Compare and contrast Wyatt’s behavior towards Scott with Rufus’s behavior towards Scott.

Wyatt being bi is the only logical conclusion for his behavior at the gay club, given that he is otherwise shown to be comfortable with LGBT+ people and seems not only uncomfortable but genuinely afraid, which as a Delta force-trained man who can more than protect himself physically, he has no reason to be–unless he’s hiding his sexuality and is scared of exposure.

The proof is in the pudding. Wyatt is bi. At least, according to my headcanon he is.

We can’t say for sure what the writers intended for Wyatt’s sexuality, and I’m not saying with any of this that they were secretly writing him as bi the whole time. I’m certain that some of them definitely didn’t write him that way *cough* Arika *cough* but either way I would never presume to know about the secret or hidden agendas of the creative team. This isn’t me saying “the writers were going to reveal Wyatt as bi in season three!” or “they secretly wrote Wyatt to be a closeted bisexual!”

Rather, this is me showing you through screenshots and a breakdown of Wyatt’s behavior in the episodes that it is perfectly possible and even logical to conclude that he is bi, and that I can use the actual source text (in this case the episodes) to back up my assertion.

This got annoyingly long so you can read the rest here!

[engelchenyugi]

Someone to believe in

Rivalshipping is one of the ships I actually see working out in canon-verse which is more thanks to Takahashi and his illustration for them.

(It feels great that one of my head-canons turned out to be realistic enough for even the mangaka to consider as a possibility.（๑✧∀✧๑）)

I see them forming a business relationship. Kaiba who came back from the Ancient times and made his peace with Atem now has to keep his eyes open in order to find a new rival which is Yuugi. There are quite a few things about Kaiba's and Yuugi's relationship people often seem to overlook. It wasn't Atem who first saw through Kaiba's mask but Yuugi. Yuugi who always had been an outsider in his class must have been used watching people.

He learned to read them because he adapted to them. He never wanted to make people angry or have them think ill of him which of course lead to him being more or less ignored by his classmates. Yuugi has shyness issues in the manga and he can't really say what he thinks as he fears hurting other people or being misunderstood. The manga explains Yuugi's personality, his complexes and how he deals with the people around him perfectly. When the manga starts, Yuugi has been in his class for quite a while but to the reader it is described in a way as if Yuugi was new there. He explains the minor characters and seems to have a lot of knowledge about them although he never actively talked to them. This way of narrative is pretty interesting and unusual.

He is wishing for friends and wants people to see him which is interesting as it shows that Yuugi has spent a lot of time just observing the people around him which explains why Yuugi can tell if someone lies or tells the truth. He has the ability to look through other people's lies which became all the more clearer when Kaiba exchanges his Blue Eyes White Dragon card with a copy.

No, even before that, we see Yuugi look at Kaiba with some kind of concern. He knows that Kaiba is up to something and he is sweating. Kaiba is smiling. Kaiba is acting. He acts like a normal teenager and if we see the whole picture, Kaiba is loved by the masses and he has fans all around the world which is also explained by the shareholders of Kaiba Corporation who only choose Kaiba as the CEO because of his popularity and his reputation among gamers. Kaiba is known as a genius. More than that, he knows how to manipulate people and make them like him. Kaiba is faking a smile and acts like a likable and kind person – which he is absolutely not, as he is pretty devious, self-centered and so full of himself.

Yuugi was the first person who ever saw through his masquerade and Kaiba should have paid more attention to Yuugi and not only to Atem. This is something he will learn after DSOD. I'm pretty sure that Kaiba will accept Yuugi as his true rival (since he already did acknowledge his skills in the end of DSOD) and that they will get closer in a human level during their work on Spherium. I like to imagine how this change slowly comes to them and how Kaiba more and more understands how much he needs people around him, especially his brother and Yuugi. Although Kaiba would never say so, he does need people around him, because if he is all by himself he is rather destructive. He pays no attention to himself and easily gets absorbed in his job, fully forgetting everything around him because he can't deal with his own weaknesses.

And this is something I find very interesting. Yuugi has full right to hate Kaiba. To avoid him, but he chooses not to. Yuugi makes a decision which is surprising to the reader (mostly to Jounouchi) and to Kaiba. He calls Kaiba a friend, saying that they have the same passion and that they're alike. He visits Kaiba in the hospital, fully knowing that he is not going to wake up. This alone shows that Yuugi has forgiven him and that he is even worried about his well-being. The man who put his friends in danger and tried to kill them. The man who would captivate him and make him face his own weaknesses. It's so difficult to understand why Yuugi would forgive him after everything he's done. It’s easy to say that Yuugi is in general a kind boy, but it’s not like he can’t be angry or hate people. Even Yuugi can be quite unforgiving and hold grudges, but there must have been something he gained from his encounter with Kaiba – something he realized during Death-T he wouldn’t have been able without him.

Kaiba and Yuugi have some kind of special bond between them and both know that. Maybe Yuugi is grateful to Kaiba because only due to Death-T he was finally able to address his true feelings and the possibility that there might be someone else inside him that is taking control over his body once he loses consciousness. He needed an extreme situation to say what was bothering him. Without the severe situation they were in, he would have never had the guts to tell his friends his fears. It was the whole situation, facing deaths and not knowing what's happening next, that made him despaired enough to address this matter – which was a good thing and helped him to overcome his fear and realize that his friends would always be there for him, even if he had another person inside him. 

Yuugi calls Kaiba a friend. He offers him help. Both manga and anime. He never shows negative feelings towards the man who put him into hell and even laughed at his misery. There is a lot of respect between them, especially coming from Yuugi’s side who would address him with “Kaiba-kun” while Kaiba would just call him by his forename. Yuugi has a lot of respect for Kaiba and seems to admire him in a way. Yuugi, just like Atem, considers Kaiba a noble duelist. And this way of thinking, the way he sees Kaiba, is to me really exciting to explore.

Kaiba must have realized that, too. Kaiba knows what a kind person Yuugi is and that it makes no difference for their awkward relationship whether he pushes him away, because Yuugi keeps coming back. Yuugi does not give him up and that is something Kaiba needs. Kaiba needs a person who is willing and able to stand up against him and does not mind being rejected. Kaiba rejects Yuugi so many times and shows him that he does not believe in his friendship-is-magic bullshit that one should think Yuugi would finally give up on him. But the more often Kaiba rejects him, the more likely for Yuugi to come back.

And that's why I like their relationship. Kaiba is an asshole and Yuugi still chooses to be nice to him and call him a friend. This whole relationship is messed up and the older they get, the more Kaiba will understand how important Yuugi is for him.

Personally, I really have problems imagining Kaiba in a lovey-dovey relationship because he is does not like showing his weak sides since he is afraid people might take advantage of him. Due to his past with Gozaburo he was taught to suppress his own emotions and strive for success. As the mangaka said, Gozaburo truly thought that this was the best and he actually considered himself a good father which is why he never realized the slowly growing madness inside his son. Furthermore, Kaiba truly regrets having killed his father. He considers himself a patricide and this burdens him. Even stated by the author of the manga:

“To Kaiba, he was a father, but he just wasn't a "typical" father. When he carried out his administration shift, Seto didn't think that Gozaburo would die. Now without a foe due to Gozaburo taking his own life, he slowly started to lose his sanity. He himself felt guilty of committing "patricide." Being an important keyword in this series, the word "patricide" always haunts him. You could say Gozaburo implanted the design that "games equal death" into Seto.”

Kaiba has emotions. Kaiba is easily manipulated. Kaiba is a human-being and it's not like he never regrets anything. There are plenty of things that haunt him. He is obsessed with crushing the past and find a way to the future, because he himself can't go on. He can't do that. He can't forget his past and is chained down by his memories. He needs to repeat these words so often not to convince Yuugi-tachi but himself. Fighting against his own emotions, his past and bounds to other people gives him strength and he seems to believe that this is the only way to reach the future. Abandoning anything around you is the only way to focus.The only way to create a path to the future is to destroy everything. Kaiba tends to think in extremes. All or nothing. Black or white. There is no middle way and he is not willing to accept any other people who oppose his way of thinking.

I'd like to quote something that Takahashi said about Yuugi's and Kaiba's relationship:

“[...]Seto searched for the meaning in fighting said to take down your opponent down in a game on your own. Fighting, and, for example, what's known as war, is a battle between two nations, while Seto considers fighting a personal war to the bitter end. That's why I think Yuugi's character is so significant. Seto, without Yuugi as his rival and without an enemy that he must topple, would not be able to exist.“

Kaiba can't exist without Yuugi, because he would choose the path of destruction and lose himself. Although the mangaka is talking about Yami no Yuugi, rather Atem, it’s something that I see as a general character trait of Kaiba. Kaiba needs someone who gives him a reason to keep fighting, someone to believe in. As shown in DSOD, Kaiba can't deal loss. He absolutely can't. He would never openly admit it or say it out loud, there is a special connection between him and Atem. (I know that the dub destroyed this moment and made him say something he wouldn't say, but I just ignore the bullshit America once again came up for Yuugiou and instead pay more attention to the original version.)

Kaiba does not need to say what he thinks, because it's obvious. His expression shows how he truly feels and that this rivalry-thingy he has going on with Atem is much more than that, equaling the love to an important brother you need to have by your side to realize your own mistakes and show you the way. Atem is Kaiba’s mentor. Kaiba is focused so much on Atem that he can’t see the world around him anymore. That’s just what he is and even in the future, Kaiba will need someone who gives him a reason to be alive. Someone who motivates him to grow and improve and the only one fitting for that role is Yuugi. Yuugi is the only only capable of handling him and has proven that he is worthy to be his next rival.

The movie makes sure to show that Kaibas has a place to return to and that meeting Atem is not the last or the ending of his journey but only a stepping stone to a brighter future where his past stops haunting him.

And later on, it's Yuugi who will fill this role, even going far beyond that. Working together, sharing their passion for games and being able to live their dreams and make anything happen they desire will help Kaiba to regain his humanity. Of course, he will never go head over heels for Yuugi and tell him how much he loves him, because his actions and his looks are enough to ensure Yuugi that Kaiba absolutely treasures him.

[permian-tropos]

might as well set down my full case for the extreme shippability of gallirae, for that twitter person’s sake (that’s my excuse but hey, I can vent by being positive about things I like)

step one would be to explain why I think they have canonical sexual tension and the point I like start with is the fact that Adea tells Sloane she wanted to “be with them both”. we already know she’s sleeping with Rax and honestly book 1 leaves plenty of room to imagine Adea has a thing for Sloane so why don’t we imagine Adea is bisexual as hell and has had a thing for the both of them, and wanted a sugar mommy and a sugar daddy simultaneously but if they couldn’t get along she’d pick one

Sloane is the one who doesn’t see it like that. but Adea admires Sloane for being ambitious and powerful and in a position to rule the Empire and create a new galactic order. this is the same case she makes for Rax, and she seems frustrated that Sloane can’t see how well they’d go together.

given that Adea and Rax’s only scene together has them talking about whether Sloane will join them and Rax is the one who’s confident about it (and Adea is the hesitant one) I feel free to imagine that an initial condition of their relationship was “we’re going to be a hot problematic threesome with Sloane”. and if Adea can ship them together why can’t I?

but moving on. why do I imagine Rax being into Sloane? well besides the fact that he keeps her around and stokes her ambitions even as he knows she wants him dead, the fact that he flatters her and makes himself her advisor even though he outranked her in book 1, and talks about how much he wants her to be a part of his galaxy-ruling business.

there’s also the fact that he gives her a mixtape of his most emotionally resonant piece of music, the opera that he associates with escaping a life of poverty and misery. it’s not an act of manipulation, because there’s no clear intended effect, it’s just a way for him to share a piece of himself in a rather awkward and indirect way. he makes choices on Jakku over and over that avoid killing Sloane in the moment, and his final moments aren’t anger at her for defeating him but regret over his own failures. he might assume the planet will explode or that she’ll be taken prisoner by the New Republic and he could let that be revenge but he wants Sloane to live and rule his Empire. he considers her a “fellow outcast” likely from their backgrounds being lower class which Sloane responds to and doesn’t dispute.

why would Sloane be into Rax? well there’s the fact that she considers herself “seduced” by him and asks herself if she’s “falling for his strange way” after he gives her a flirty smirk during the Shadow Council meeting even though in that moment she’s furious at him. “she hates him, but she admires him too”. a lot of the metaphorical language her POV scenes use to describe her fear, hatred, or apprehension of Rax also have a suggestive element to them, whether he’s a sea before a storm or a snake in her bed or a predator who wants to pick out and eat the juiciest bits of her flesh and at that point I have to blush just retelling what’s written in the book! the scene where she listens to the music brings back the ocean metaphor but has it be a “gentle wave that calls her out to sea” (bear in mind she’s in bed while she’s listening to it) and “its ethereal beauty haunts her”. since the ocean has been used to describe Rax and the opera itself represents him, it feels like a metaphor for a sexual encounter — or Sloane’s desire for one.

I think it’s extremely easy to read canon where Sloane is attracted to Rax and finds him intimidating and overwhelming for that reason, and she is especially disgusted and angry and put off by him any time he does something that seems to Zone her as a platonic political ally or a pawn in his game. she takes a lot of his betrayals extremely personally, in ways she doesn’t with characters like Vidian or even Adea. she is basically cyberstalking Rax throughout book 2 and real stalking him throughout book 3 and she has perfectly good political reasons for it but the intense emotions attached could be both dread of his creepiness and deep Frustration. she has several moments where she mentions having no children or husband or wife and you could imagine her career with the evil Empire as the war went on has been very unhealthy and draining and isolating. she’s a bit deprived and starting to get depressed about it, though she weathered it for a long time. loneliness takes its toll on everyone eventually.

so you could read Rax and Sloane as both being hampered in their capacity for healthy romance by their ambitions and flaws and emotional hangups and general evilness. Rax is avoidant and vague and nihilistic about his desire for Sloane, and Sloane is aggressive and bitter and fearful about her desire for Rax.

so obviously the idea of them overcoming these roadblocks and succumbing to their desires is Hot As Fuck

and I consider them to be extremely hot when they’re in conjunction with each other because they’re obviously terrible people but they complement each other’s terribleness. they have two different strains of fascist brain worms and their collusion and subsequent falling out is to me a great place to pick apart the toxicity of both their ideologies. their ability to destroy each other’s faith in their own megalomaniac space nazi delusions is HOT because tearing down fascist delusions is good and narratively cathartic.

the fact that they’re locked in mortal combat is kind of necessary to this. they’re not going to reject a whole ideology if there isn’t an extreme pressure to do so. this is why I enjoy their moments together in canon. particularly with Sloane’s hatred — everything Rax does calls her faith in the Empire into question and it might not be his intention and the struggles might not be romanticizable but their canon doesn’t have to end up in a romantic or pleasant situation for it to set up fascinating conflicts.

they’re also aesthetically hot. Rax is described as pale and dark haired and black-eyed and he smirks a lot and says corny pretentious crap and wears sumptuous red robes and listens to opera and has a shipboard garden. he also has a tragic backstory as a cult-raised orphan on a desert world, conscripted and groomed for his position as the Contingency by Darth Emperor Sheev himself! so he’s a sad traumatized fuckboy too, teeming with suppressed self-loathing and coping mechanisms. he deserved to get murdered and I appreciate that he does but I still find him a glorious and perhaps personally relatable disaster. his deep fixation on and love of stories should technically be relatable to everyone on here but for me it seems to resonate especially strongly.

Sloane is the one with an official character design and she is Very Hot with her dark complexion and broad shoulders and handsome features only slightly touched by age. her hair is a bit long for an Imperial (not too many women overall) and she canonically is pleased with it and rightly so, it’s gorgeous, and the white streak is oddly cute. and she’s also got this stern commanding air but you can imagine her being suppressed about various desires just like Rax is and so obviously it’s great to imagine those desires breaking through. she is kind of a jock nerd, a former boxer who also loves research and libraries and math. her determination and badassery is as aesthetically enjoyable as her moments of fatigue and despair and folly. she’s a complicated person, with plenty of moments of badness and a fair amount of potential for goodness. and she has many moments from POV sections where you could extrapolate into a quirk or peculiar trait, instead of considering the quirkiness artistic license (ie. the ghost retinue, her being overly familiar with or possessive of people in her thoughts). she’s snarky and casually self-centered and staunch in her ideologies but also constantly suppressing empathy or unease.

I like the fact that Rax is a rather flamboyant and effeminate man and Sloane is a pragmatic and masculine woman. I know it’s bad to villify gender noncomformity but frankly I just am super weak for that het dynamic, it works well with my own gender feelings, sue me

the ship comes packaged with so many aesthetics and features; a cursed sort of wasteland with Jakku, the Opera, failed attempts at galactic conquest, a viable side OT3 with Adea, Palpatine’s bullshit hanging over both of them, plenty of action and intrigue, options for canon divergences where they rule side by side, or divergences where they are forced to expel their fascist brain worms and start on a road of ideological and emotional recovery.

they are given a ton of parallels in canon, with their backstories trying to stow away on ships to escape their homeworlds as children, their weird fixation on predators and prey, to their desires for revenge or glory, their willingness to dispose of their allies, often using the same language culminating in them finishing each other’s sentences, improvising bluffs and distractions tailored to the other’s personality on the fly.

and their relationship, such as it is, ends with extreme violence and cruelty and suffering. given their high levels of participation in the big bad autocratic space regime it’s no less than either of them deserved. neither of them work through their deep and extreme issues. yet it feels like there’s room for both to change, since Rae questions her faith in the Empire and Gallius questions Palpatine’s narrative of destiny.

so if I imagine them together but unable to throw down with murder duels (because they decide to care about each other) they might be forced to completely change, and that’s a really compelling dynamic arc

and there you have it. that’s not even everything. but it’s a lot of it and it’s way way more than is ever necessary to justify a ship.

[panda-noosh]

Bad At Love {P6}{Photographer!Keith x Prodigy!Reader}

Words: 4936

 Summary: Keith Kogane was known for being the good-boy-gone-bad. You were known for being the emotionless prodigy that only ever showed up to school to stop her foster parents from getting arrested. Whenever you two are put together on a school project after briefly meeting during detention, you find your world tipping upside down as you realise that there’s more to life than science and logic.

Pairing: Photographer!Keith x Prodigy!Reader

 Notes: p1 – p2 – p3 – p4 – p5 - FINAL; WARNING: MENTIONS OF ABUSE. EXTREME FUCKING ANGST WHAT AM I.

Chapter 6

   “Ah, ah, ah!” Keith exclaims, skidding to a halt as he rounds the corner. You suppress a yelp of surprise, instead keeping the monotone glare you wore so often plastered on your face.

    Keith holds up his camera, one hand outstretched in front of him as a way to keep you standing in front of him. “Perfect.”

    A flash, followed eventually by you slapping Keith’s hand away. Keith chuckles, falling into step at the side of you.

    The school day had ended once again. Another long, tedious day of you learning the same thing over and over again and pretending you had an interest in it, when in reality, all you could think about was Keith.

   You don’t want to admit it to yourself. It’s embarrassing in some ways, pining over a man who saw you as only a friend, and yet you couldn’t stop your mind from racing throughout the entire day. He still hadn’t explained to you the story behind the black eye, or why he hadn’t shown up to history class, or why he had ignored you for two days with no obvious reason to his name. And despite the fact that he was grinning and laughing with you now, the unanswered questions still linger between the two of you.

    You were never one to shy away from asking the obvious. Keeping tension between two people just seemed like a pointless way to avoid the unavoidable, but you had been keeping your mouth shut this time. You didn’t want Keith to distance himself again, and if the reason was personal, it was none of your business anyway.

    You and Keith make your way to Keith’s pick-up truck in the school park. He had agreed to drive you home today, insisting that he ‘had a lot of time to kill’ after school. You had been hesitant, usually preferring the stroll to Ann-Marie’s house, but you had taken his offer on board anyway.

    You slid into the red vehicle, throwing your backpack to your feet as Keith makes a scene of throwing his satchel and camera bag into the back seat. He slides into the drivers seat after that, starts up the car and begins the short drive to Ann-Marie’s house.

    You nibble on your bottom lip, averting your gaze to the window. This was what it was often like between you and Keith – silent, but that was okay. Weirdly, it was perfect. It was an unspoken bond between the two of you, just the knowledge that speaking wasn’t necessary enough to let you sink into the leather seats and relax after a hard day of fighting off emotions which had crashed down on you way before you could prepare yourself.

   The thing was, you hadn’t even meant to forgive Keith so easily, if at all. You had lived in your own little bubble for nearly seventeen years – you knew yourself that you were perfectly capable of being on your own. Losing Keith hadn’t seemed like a such a big deal until you were actually faced with the horrifying situation of losing him.

   And then he had walked up to you in the cafeteria with a throbbing black eye and it was like the world had come to an abrupt halt and the problems you two were meant to discuss had slid away, leaving only the pounding of anxiety which suddenly clawed at your chest. Because Keith had been hurt, and even though that wasn’t a new occurrence, it had startled you enough to have you zooming up from your seat, tracing your fingertips over his face, wanting to pull him impossibly closer to you-

    “Allura told me about you and her going on a coffee date some time next week.”

   You flinch away from the window, shaking the thoughts from your head as Keith’s voice rings out. He sends you a small glance, narrowing his eyes at your sudden movement but you simply cough, pretending it hadn’t happened at all.

    You nod. “Yeah. She invited me out so we could talk. I think she wants to be friends with me.”

   “That’s a good thing, right? You want to be friends with her too, don’t you?”

   You shrug, hollowing out your cheeks and sinking further into the leather. “I’m not really a social person, in case you forgot. I’m a bit – I dunno. I see no point in it.”

    “In making friends?”

   “In pretending.” Keith raises a brow, beckoning for me to develop my argument some more. “I like her. She’s a nice girl, but she’s a little bit too eager, you know? As mean as that sounds-“

  “You don’t have emotional quota. You’re safe.”

   You hum. “Having too many people around me makes me nervous. Puts a brink in my head. You’re bad enough to deal with.”

    Keith scoffs. “Right. I’ll just drop you off at the side of the motorway then and then you can-“

   You slap his arm, a small laugh escaping your throat. “I was joking! But seriously – I just hope the coffee date goes smoothly. I don’t know how to start conversations.”

    “I can tell.”

   In minutes, you’re pulling up outside of the small, slanted-roofed house of Ann-Marie Brekkar. You look at it, inhaling deeply, reminded that you would soon be leaving this place once Ann-Marie’s contract was used up in another few months. You’d be sent back to the foster system once again, and that thought alone was enough to make you shudder.

   You turn back to Keith, placing a warm smile on your face. “Thanks for the ride home.”

   Keith nods. “Anytime. Call me when you’re done all your homework and stuff. I might need help on what to order from the Chinese and I only trust you at this point.”

   “I’m honoured to be of-“

   Your words are cut short by a rapping tap against the window behind you. Your head whirls round, horror flooding your system as your eyes meet no other than Ann-Marie and Patricks own pair of matching ones.

   They’re grinning from ear to ear. They’ve spotted Keith. Keith. The boy you’ve been talking about non-stop. The boy they’ve insisted on meeting for the past few months. The boy you’ve been desperately trying to hide from their sight just so you can avoid any awkward encounters.

   They were here now, looking at him in all of his glory and suddenly, you feel the urge to throw up.

  “Oh God, no.”

   “Y/N!” Ann-Marie squeals, pulling open the door that you wished you had locked. You scramble for the handle in an attempt to close it over, making Keith burst out into laughter, but you find nothing funny about the situation.

   Ann-Marie fights against you, throwing open the door and pulling on your arm. You stumble out of your seatbelt, giving her full access to Keith and she does not waste a moment in reaching over the controls and shaking the poor boys hand.

   “You must be Keith!” Ann-Marie hollers. “I’m Ann-Marie, Y/N’s foster mother. This is my son, Patrick. It’s so lovely to meet you finally! The boy who’s been getting our little girl out of her shell.”

   “Ann-Marie,” you hiss. Keith clearly doesn’t know how to respond, his lips pulled into an amused grin though his eyes are wide, darting between you and the crazy woman currently yelling in his face. “Keith has places to be. I think you’ve bothered him enough.”

  Ann-Marie shakes her head. “Nonsense! You can come in for a cup of tea, can’t you? We have all types of different flavours, so I’m sure you’ll find one you like.”

   “I don’t think he can-“

   “I’d love to.”

   Your jaw falls open, eyes popping wide. You turn your attention fully to Keith, silently pleaing with him to take back his acceptance, silently trying to portray just what he’s getting himself into – he’s not about to walk into your usual ‘family home.’ He’s about to walk into a foster home. There will be no pictures of you hung up on the wall, no lovey-dovey family time, no home cooked meals where everybody sits around the table and talks about their day.

   He’s about to walk in to what you can only describe as business. Paper work with your name written on the top of it, medical records with your name plastered on it, Ann-Marie asking you her usual daily questions that she’s permitted to ask you at the end of each day so she can send the information back to the foster people.

    The idea of him seeing that side of you makes your stomach form into a knot, but there’s nothing you can do as Keith slips out of his truck, locks the door behind him and allows Ann-Marie to take his arm, leading him into the house. Keith takes one look at you over his shoulder, snatches his camera up from the back seat before he and Ann-Marie disappear into the confines of the house.

   You rub at your temples, trying your hardest not to let out a groan of frustration. It wasn’t like Keith would understand any of it, anyway. He didn’t know how the foster system worked, and yet you still dreaded the questions he would surely ask you once he sees just what actually happens within a foster family.

   “You’re overreacting,” Patrick grunts, placing a hand on your arm. “Never thought I’d say that about Y/N L/N.”

   Keith sips at his cup of tea sheepishly, eyes darting around the large and freshly-polished kitchen he had just been dragged into. You sit across from him, nibbling on your bottom lip, trying to fight off any and all forms of embarrassing conversation – it’s not like there’s much to tell him. Ann-Marie didn’t have any stories of you when you were a baby, unless she wanted to go into details of you being abandoned at the age of two because your parents couldn’t look after you. Unless she wanted to go into details about the amount of schools you’ve transferred out of because the system was beginning to catch on to the fact that nothing they were teaching you was anything new. Unless she wanted to go into details about the years of therapy you had endured in search of your emotional quota, only to turn up empty.

   Until now.

    “So, tell us a bit about yourself, Keith,” Ann-Marie begins. She huffs as she takes a seat in front of him, leaning over the counter. “How did you and Y/N meet?”

   Keith looks over at you, trying to hide his smile behind the lip of his cup. “We met – uh – in detention a few months back.”

   Ann-Marie frowns. “Of course it was detention. She’s always getting herself into trouble, aren’t you?”

   “Not my fault the teachers don’t know how to punish people who are smarter than them.”

   Keith chokes on his tea, eyes popping open as he attempts to hide his shock behind a fit of coughing. You fold your arms over your chest, looking away from the scene in front of you and allowing it to play out away from your vision.

   “And did you two just hit it off?” Patrick chirps in. “I didn’t even know Y/N could speak to anybody outside of the family.”

    “She was easy enough to get on with,” Keith replies. He fails to mention the slight argument the two of you had gotten into upon first meeting; you’re thankful that he believed that wasn’t a necessary part of the story. “We got paired up for a biology project a few days after we met and we’ve been best friends ever since.”

   “Best friends?” Ann-Marie squeals, throwing her hands over her mouth. “Did you hear that, Pat? Our girl has a best friend!”

   “Stop calling me your girl. I’m older than Patrick.”

   “You really have improved, haven’t you?” Ann-Marie says. She turns back to Keith. “You might not know this, but she struggles a little bit with emotions. Handling them. With intelligence comes a downfall, I suppose. Not a lot of people are able to relate with her.”

    You blush, ducking your head down to look at your lap. You can feel Keith’s eyes burning holes in the top of your head but you refuse to look up to meet his gaze. There was nothing you could say or do in this situation that would lighten the blow of Ann-Marie’s words, the truth behind them that you had come to terms with years ago, to the point where the truth didn’t even bother you any more. Sure, it sucked to be the one person in the class who never had a partner for the project. Sometimes it sucked to always be sat by yourself at lunch, but it was all you had ever known.

   Keith didn’t know that. He didn’t know that you had spent your entire life living in your own little world, isolated and happy with it. He didn’t know that he was the driving force that dug you out of a hole of loneliness and placed you in the comforting grip of friendship.

   Now he did, though. You can feel the realisation pouring out of him, even if he doesn’t say anything.

    Ann-Marie continues. “She handles isolation quite well, I think. I’ve never seen her open up to anyone like this. It’s a lovely sight to see. Do you want a biscuit?”

   “I’m okay,” Keith says. His voice sounds clipped, almost wavering and it unsettles you. “I don’t understand why nobody would relate to her. I find her intelligence very intriguing.”

   “There’s a difference between intrigue and relatability,” you say, still not looking up.

    “Well, something has to have been keeping me attached to you. I think I relate with you a lot more than you realise.”

    Confusion swarms in your stomach. You look up, eyes narrowed as they click with Keith’s. Despite him refusing a biscuit, he pops one into his mouth anyway and chews thoughtfully on it, giving Ann-Marie a grateful nod before he’s looking back at you. His dark eyes are filled with something you had never seen before – not within him, anyway. Like a wall has been knocked down and suddenly he’s showing you who he is behind it, who he’s been hiding this entire time. Perhaps it’s the fluttery smile that he greets you with once you finally make eye contact, or the way he suddenly seems to sit up straighter in his chair, looks you in the eyes in ways he had never done before. He suddenly just seems more lively, and you crave to ask him why.

   What had sparked this in him all of a sudden?

   The day draws on. You, Patrick, Ann-Marie and Keith all gather around the kitchen table to play a game of Monopoly which ends in Ann-Marie and Patrick arguing about cheaters and you calculating the exact amount of houses you needed to buy to make all three of them bankrupt, though the game never escalated far enough for you to do so. Patrick ended up flipping the board into Keith’s lap, telling Ann-Marie that she couldn’t possibly buy Mayfare because that was his house.

   You roll your eyes, giving Keith an apologetic side glance that he returns with a giddy grin of his own. You had never seen him look so bouncy, so happy, so engaged in social functions outside of photography.

    It made a warm feeling sprout in your chest, one you quickly patted down with the denial you had been using as of lately.

    “Alright, alright! Enough!” Ann-Marie yells, pulling Patrick down into the seat next to her. Patrick silences almost immediately, folding his arms over his chest and pouting. “Keith, honey, would you like another slice of cake?”

   Keith silences his laughter with his hand, shaking his head as he does so. “No, thank you. I should get going before my dad starts to worry.”

    “Oh, of course. We lost track of time, I suppose. Y/N will lead you to do the door, won’t you dear?”

   You stand up, ushering for Keith to follow you. “It would be my pleasure.”

   The two of you exit the kitchen, and as soon as the door closes behind you, you sigh and press your back against the wall just beside the front door. Keith looks down at you with an amused grin still twitching at his lips, eyes boring into yours. You have the urge to tug his collar, pull him down into you, and the thought alone makes your stomach skitter. You inhale, looking away from him.

   “They can be a bit much sometimes,” you say. “I forgot to mention that.”

   Keith chuckles. “I had a great time. I don’t think I’ve been so entertained in months.”

   You roll your eyes, unable to hold back the small smile which creeps upon your own lips. Soon, the two of you are smiling at one another, you looking up at him and him looking down at you, his hands stuffed inside of his red jacket and his black hair pushed back on his head to reveal his forehead which he so often hid when he was in school. The moment feels nice. It’s like the air has been replaced by something a little lighter, something which makes you feel calm.

      You want to lean in. With every fibre of your being, you want to lean in but your overactive brain puts a stop to your urge as soon as it arrives, hissing at you about all that could go wrong. What if you accidentally hit his nose too hard and hurt him? Where would you even put your hands? What if the exact angle at which you were standing wasn’t directly parallel to his lips and thus causing you to peck his cheek instead of his lips? What if, mathematically thinking, he was-

    “My dad,” Keith breaths, suddenly. You inhale, standing up straighter.

   “Right. Your dad,” you say. “I’ll get out of your way, then. Have a safe journey home, yeah? I don’t want to hear about you getting wrapped around a lamp post.”

    “I’ll keep that in mind,” Keith chuckles, and before you can react, he’s leaned forward and has pressed a light, feathery kiss to the skin just below your ear. It takes you by surprise – since when did Keith ever show that kind of emotion?

   Your breathing stops. You can feel his warm breath against your ear lobe as he pulls away, just a little, with his lips still scraping the skin of your neck when he whispers, “I’ll see you in school tomorrow.”

   He pulls away fully, takes one glimpse at your suddenly frozen demeanour, grins to himself and leaves the house.

   That little shit.

   He knew full well what he was doing. Judging by the hyped grin that was still on his face when you looked out of the window, he was overjoyed with himself. He had pulled a reaction out of you, one you hadn’t shown before.

    You hated it, but your heartbeat had picked up so much and you can feel sweat lining your hands and you can feel your lips pulling into a smile of their own. You know you loved it. You loved the feel of his lips, and the teasing twinge he had to his voice when he pulled away.

   You just wished you hadn’t enjoyed it.

   You watch his pick-up truck pull out of your driveway and you stay by the window until he rounds the corner, exiting your estate for good. You then pull your knees into your chest, rest your head on your knees and let out a sigh of contentment.

    Buzz.

   Your head snaps up, looking towards the direction of the noise. Your stomach drops when you see Keith’s phone dug between the sofa pillows, lighting up only once with a text message.

   Do you pick it up? How had he even managed to leave it here? He was always so attached to his phone, getting panicked whenever anybody looked over his shoulder when he was using it. How had such an important thing slipped his mind?

   You reach over and grab for the device, scanning your eyes over the text message before your own conscience can kick in and tell you to put it down, to simply put it down and bring it to him tomorrow. Whoever was texting him wanted to speak to Keith, not you. Whatever they were discussing had nothing to do with you, and yet you read the text anyway.

   Your mouth feels like it’s suddenly been stuffed with cotton balls. Your breathing shallows, cheeks turning red with a heat that is far from happy. Your smile falters, turning into an angered scowl as you read the words over and over, not entirely sure what to do with them but knowing they aren’t right.

   You don’t need context to know what If you don’t get home in the next ten minutes, I’ll take your other eye means.

   Sent by Dad.

  Keith’s POV

     I had noticed my phone had gone missing almost as soon as I had pulled into the driveway of my house; Dad could already see me through the window, watching me pat down my many pockets in a frantic attempt to find the device I so desperately needed.

    But it was not there, and there was no way in hell Dad was going to let me go back and get it – not whenever I had arrived home this late.

    He had grabbed my hair as soon as I walked in the door, shoved me into a cupboard, spat some rude words at me before he had gone off to his own bedroom, leaving me alone to curl up in the corner of the kitchen, feeling stupid and weak and every other bad thing in the world.

   I woke up the next morning still curled against the kitchen counter. It was 6am – I had time to take a shower, redress my swollen eye before getting to school early to meet Y/N in the library. Maybe she hadn’t read anything, if anything had been sent. Usually, if it wasn’t Dad’s threatening text messages, my phone was relatively quiet. Maybe she hadn’t even found it and I could simply request to go back to her house to look for it after school.

   I wash up, redress my eye and head to school. I feel safer as soon as the door to the pick-up truck closes, and I let myself relax.

    As soon as I enter the school library, the calmness fades.

   The librarian isn’t in her usual seat at the front of the room. In fact, the entire room seems empty bar Y/N, who sits in our usual seats with my phone clenched between her fingers, her face pale and hair a mess around her head. I feel a sudden urge to hug her, ask her if she’s okay, but the reasoning behind her startled demeanour comes as no secret to me – judging by the way she keeps glancing down at my cell phone, she had read something.

   I want to turn around and leave. I get ready to, not wanting to be in the same room as her at the moment, not until I can find a liable excuse as to what she has just read, but her eyes find mine and she’s standing up all of a sudden, marching towards me and my feet are stuck to the floor, keeping me still, keeping me in her gaze despite my need to turn around and never look back.

   She slams the phone into my chest once she reaches me. “You’re staying over at my house tonight and we’re going to the police tomorrow morning with Ann-Marie.”

    I blink. “What?”

   “Please don’t do this, Keith.” She runs her hands through her hair, turns back to the seats and sits herself down. Her hands are shaking – my heart breaks. “You’re not safe, are you? That black eye wasn’t just from a playful fight.”

    I swallow thickly. I want to cry. I don’t know why, but I do. My chest feels tight, and everytime I try to speak, no words come out. For a moment, I know I must look absolutely ridiculous. Eyes faded out, unfocused even though I’m staring right at her in this moment. My fingers are clenched tightly around my mobile phone, knuckles white. Lip pulled between my teeth because I can’t find the words to respond.

   I hadn’t realised how scary this would be – being caught out. The truth finally unfolding after years of hiding it, enduring the abuse on my own because telling somebody else would mean I would be put in this situation – being completely vulnerable in the one place where I felt I was in control of my own life.

   Y/N tilts her head to the side, lower lip popping out and it is then that I see the glistening of tears over her irises. I had never seen her cry before. She had once told me that she was incapable of crying, and yet here she was with shaking hands and a layer of tears which are threatening to spill.

    “Why didn’t you tell me?” she asks. “I could have done something sooner. How – How long has this been going on?”

   I shake my head, swallowing the golf ball sized lump in my throat. “You couldn’t have done anything about it. You can’t do anything about it.”

    “How long, Keith?”

   “Since my mum died.” And then the first sets of tears fall from the both of us. I hadn’t even realised there were tears building up, but they’re streaming down my face in seconds, and suddenly Y/N is standing up again, making her way towards me.

   I flinch when she’s close enough. She pauses, overlooks my demeanour before she’s reaching up and wrapping her thin arms around me in a way that is so comforting to me that I can’t even describe it. Her warmth engulfs me and I let the mobile phone fall from my hands, landing with a thump against the carpet. I wrap my own arms around her waist, tugging her impossibly closer as little sobs of her own rack her body. I bury my face in the crook of her neck. She strokes the ends of my hair.

   “It’s okay,” she whispers. “It’s not your fault. You know that, right? None of it is your fault, and you won’t have to go through it any more. I’m gonna help you get the justice you deserve, do you hear me? You don’t deserve to be treated that way, Keith Kogane. Not you. Not you of all people.”

    “She died on my birthday,” I choke out, not entirely sure why. Y/N makes an attempt to pull away to allow me to speak without the muffling of her shoulder, but I drag her back into my embrace. “He’s seen me as a bad luck mark ever since. He started drinking and – and he hates having me out of his sight because he’s afraid he’ll lose me to. He doesn’t want to lose any more people. That’s all it is. He just doesn’t want to be alone.”

   “Don’t make excuses for him,” she says. I close my eyes, burrowing my head further into her neck. “He doesn’t deserve protection.”

    I know she’s right. I press my lips against her shoulder blade, inhaling deeply and she freezes in my grip but she doesn’t move. She instead tightens her grip on my shoulders, pulling me closer to her, and in this moment, I feel the safest I have ever been. Her arms wrapped around me with the whispered promise of the safety which is soon to come ringing in my ears. With anybody else, I would have called them crazy. Looked for any and all excuses to try and make my dad out to seem innocent, but she hadn’t asked me about it. She had walked right up to me, told me she was going to find me help, and that was it. She hadn’t given me the option to object, and that was why I was breaking down in her arms right now. It was a mix of fear and a mix of gratefulness all rolled into one.

    As I hug her now, swaying back and forth only a little bit, I realise just how much this woman means to me, whether she knows it or not. Because she means everything to me. She has saved me from things I cannot begin to explain, helped me fight through emotions which would rip me down if I had let them get any larger.

   I loved her.

   Y/N’S POV

   You hug him, swaying back and forth only a little bit. The world seems wrong and right all at the same time. The background knowledge of what he was going through, the signs you had missed, still nibble at your skull, but your arms are wrapped around him and in this moment, you know he is safe.

   He will be safe. He won’t have to worry anymore.

   You realise now that you cared for him far more than you had originally planned. You had let yourself fall into the trap of human emotions, and you weren’t exactly regretful of the stumble. Because you were feeling things that you had never felt before, but that didn’t make them bad. You had been trying to push away this certain emotion for months, but as you hold Keith in your arms right now, him in his most vulnerable state, there’s no denying it.

   You loved him. You loved Keith Kogane.

[foreverfamilyforevervongola]

During their first Christmas in Italy, imagine Hibari having to go through a crowded public area that's decked with decorations and becoming slightly overwhelmed from it all; the bright flashing lights and large crowds in such a great quantity are something he's not used to, and he has to find the nearest exit out of there. Cue concerned phone calls from his family because of the unusual emotions going through his bonds.

He hadn’t anticipated this. It was only the last weekend of November, and the wind was sharp and bitter and there was a thin layer of frost on the ground. It was also eight in the evening. The park should have been close to empty.

There were mobs of people, packed so close together that it was difficult to see the dirt path that twisted through the entirety of the park. The stalls were lined just as close together, the vendors sporting wide smiles and tacky Christmas hats. Christmas lights adorned every table, red and green strands twined through the branches of the trees and there was an elaborate display towards the center of the public space, the dazzling lights flashing in the night sky. The Christmas music could barely be heard over the noise of people chattering.

Hibari had frozen the second he came across the festivities. He swiftly turned on his heel to backtrack, but there were several families coming his way, blocking his exit. He would have viciously elbowed his way past them if it weren’t for the fact there were very small children who would shatter very easily accompanying them.

He was forced to press through the crowd, their meaningless, inane words rattling in his ears, the overly cheerful music causing his head to pound. His agitation rose into his throat, and when someone bumped into him he let out a snarl that sent anyone within his hearing distance scrambling to get away.

The herbivores were closing in on him and his fingers crept inside his jacket, clutching the familiar and comforting metal of his tonfas. Before he could slam it into the skull of the one currently breathing down his neck, his cell phone began to ring.

“What?” he hissed once he answered.

“Are you okay?” asked Tsuna, voice laced with concern.

“Fine,” said Hibari curtly.

He hung up without another word and discovered several dozen text messages displayed on his screen, all of them sent at the same time by his family. Hibari scowled, realizing that he had allowed his emotions to get away from him. Annoyed with himself, he kept his phone in one hand while the other had a secure grip on his weapons hidden inside his jacket. He pushed through the crowd, the murderous glower on his face enough to cause most to stumble away from him, but there was still not enough space in his personal bubble.

He ignored his phone, which continued to buzz insistently. He came to an abrupt halt when Mukuro’s voice echoed in his mind, clear as a bell.

‘I know how much you detest this, so I would suggest you answer your phone or else you’ll get to listen to me have a conversation with myself.’

Gritting his teeth together, Hibari glanced down at his phone’s screen, which now displayed Gokudera’s number. “Is Mukuro with you?” he growled.

“About damn time!” snapped Gokudera. “What the hell’s wrong?”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“Yes, Mukuro is with me. Now answer my question.”

“Don’t try to give me orders,” said Hibari warningly.

“Considering I was nearly strangled by your emotions, I can ask whatever I want.”

“I’d be more than happy to get into your mind if you won’t offer the answer,” purred Mukuro.

“I’ll bite you both to death.” After a short pause, he said, “Herbivores are crowding together for some over-commercialized holiday event.”

“The Christmas carnival,” realized Gokudera immediately. “Damn, I forgot about that. We’re already in town, so we’ll pick you up in a minute.”

“I don’t need–”

“Shut up,” interrupted Gokudera. “Whether you want it or not, you’re getting help. We’ll see you by the south exit.”

Gokudera turned his phone off, leaving Hibari to narrow his eyes and make a mental note to soundly thrash the Storm later. He was about to muscle his way through the crowd when he was engulfed by a swell of indigo mist. He was transported to the sidewalk outside the south end of the park, where there were vastly less people.

Hibari gave his head a sharp shake to reorient himself from the sudden shift. A minute later, on the dot, Gokudera’s car pulled up alongside him and Hibari threw open the back door, sliding against the leather seat.

The noise from outside silenced the moment he slammed the door shut. Able to hear his own thoughts again, he let out a quiet sigh. Gokudera adjusted the rearview mirror so he could glance at the Cloud.

“Better?”

“Yes.” Hibari shifted to look out the window with scorn. “They’re sickening.”

“Yeah, it can get pretty wild when it comes to Christmas. I should have mentioned there was an event happening here, but it slipped my mind.”

Hibari shrugged. “I should have found this information myself. I should have expected herbivores would start their celebrations as early as they possibly could.” He gave a hard kick to Mukuro’s seat. “I told you to stay out of my head.”

“If you weren’t so stubborn, I wouldn’t have needed to,” countered Mukuro. “Really. If you want to pretend nothing is wrong than I suggest working on controlling your emotions.”

“I am not fragile. I would have made it out fine on my own.”

“First of all, fragile isn’t a word we would use to describe you ever,” returned Gokudera, turning to look at Hibari with annoyance and exasperation. “You hate crowds. You were miserable and agitated and you would have felt like hell after getting through that mess. Yes, you would have been perfectly fine on your own. But you’re not on your own anymore and I’m tired of you acting like you are.”

“I don’t know why you continue to fight it,” said Mukuro in amusement. “You’re really not fooling anyone.”

Hibari rested his head against his seat and closed his eyes. “You are the worst of the herbivores. I don’t know why I tolerate you.”

He didn’t bother to suppress his affection, for there really was no point in it. No, he didn’t like the others having access to his emotions, but the fact that the bond was there was evidence enough that he had come to love them, despite his best efforts otherwise.

“Because we accommodate your weird quirks and our weird quirks are enough to interest you,” returned Gokudera, putting his vehicle into ‘drive’ and merging into the street.

“You realize I’m going to bite you both to death. No one gives me orders and no one intrudes my mind.”

“Well, you’re going to have to wait a few hours,” muttered Gokudera.

When Mukuro caught Hibari’s raised brow in the mirror, he clarified, “We had a disagreement in the kitchen. We now need a new fridge and we aren’t allowed back until we get one. Even with Vongola money, it’s still going to be two hours before delivery.”

“Fine. Let’s get food. Somewhere quiet.”

“You paying?” asked Gokudera.

Hibari scoffed. “No.” 

[simon-newman]

Newman's List of Anime 2015 - Part 20: Overlord.

First thing first: I am sorry this took SO FUCKING LONG to write.

The point is - I am more fluent in writing about bad movies or bad shows. When I get to write about good ones I rewrite the stuff for eternity trying to get it just right...

And I am still not satisfied with the result - dammit!

Without further delay...

Another cliche setting lately...

A character travels to a different world.

Or more specifically - a world where rules of the game he's been playing apply (if not straight game-world that is).

Ever since SAO showed up it's ugly head the anime industry exploded with such stories...

Sad as it is most of them were just as bad or even worse than fucking SAO.

And yes - SAO is a piece of shit.

So now. Lets look into one good example of such story I've found...

Overlord

TBH this is another title I didn't even plan on watching at first.

The moment I read the premise I was like "Yeah. NOPE" and went on to watch something else.

How wrong I was?

Verily.

The thing about Overlord is that it doesn't fuck around.

There's no EMO kid for a protagonist who claims only a cheater could outplay him.

No target for this tiresome romantic bullshit who at some point will have to be saved by our Uber player.

No.

Overlord knows what it wants to be and does it.

And it wants to be an anime about a guy who gets stuck in a body of nigh invincible Elder Lich with an army of followers who consider him to be a Supreme Being - and Evil Overlord.

*ba dum tss*

I mean... He has the looks down perfectly.

  I really liked the feel of power the show gives to people watching it. But lets begin with the actual premise:

It is early established that our Protagonist - Momonga - has maxed out his game level.

He and other players of his guild Ainz Ooal Gown - all playing monster characters - banded together to defend themselves from other players who hunted them for their choice of character race.

Together they created a massive dungeon infamous for being impossible to clear - the Great Tomb of Nazarick.

And since they're playing monsters anyway they decided to play the part and customized everything to fit the theme of Evil Fortress of Doom.

At the end - after 12 years of playing - Momonga was the last player of the guild to play regularly.

With the servers closing he decided to stay online till the very end - to properly part with the game he's invested so much time in.

He gives his last orders to the NPCs created by his friends and includes one little change in the description of tomb's Overseer NPC. Then the end comes...

And he's not forcibly logged out.

Momonga finds himself trapped - his console doesn't open and he can't contact the GMs. What's more - the NPCs surrounding him start to show concern over his visibly agitated state.

They change from programmed game constructs into true, living creatures.

Everything within Nazarick becomes reality - the Tomb itself, it's inhabitants and Momonga's skeletal body.

A body of an Eclipse - a powerful, undead magician.

It doesn't take long for Momonga to figure out the basics of how his skills work now.

The real problem he's facing is how the NPCs see him.

 The head of all the supreme beings and a merciful leader who stayed behind with us until the end.

  For the Guardians of Nazarick - a group of Boss NPCs created by the guild - Momonga is the Supreme One: the one and only true ruler of Nazarick, an evil overlord who guides them, an ascended being of unlimited power and even greater wisdom, infallible and inerrant - a being equal or superior to gods.

With this in mind all the Guardians swear their eternal loyalty to Momonga - pretty much forcing him to play the part as they explore the world they were transported to.

But enough with me describing the plot or this entire review will last for a few dozen pages.

What's important is that Momonga decides to secretly search for other players and takes on the name of Ainz Ooal Gown.

His pan is to spread the name of his guild so that other players can hear of it - a goal his Guardians accidentally misinterpret as a plan to take over the world they arrived in.

For the world they ended up in is not same as the game world of YGGDRASIL.

It's a different place altogether.

True - it has the magic from the game which surprises Ainz at first and indicates that someone from the game appeared in this world much earlier in time.

Ainz begins his quest to explore the world and quickly establishes that being a lvl 100 character here is pretty much breaking the system.

High level angel? More like a minor nuisance.

  Remember the feel of power thing I mentioned above?

This is what all this exposition above was getting to.

Nothing in the new world can even compare to Ainz. He's just THAT powerful here.

With this the anime focuses on the story and characters foremost. And I'll be honest - the anime does a great job in that regard.

We don't get to see much of ALL the guardians or other NPCs - the anime doesn't last this long.

What we get to see is that they're all individuals with distinct personalities like the people who created them - something Ainz will never fail to recognize.

The guardians are like children of the people who were his only friends and he'll go to great lengths to protect them while they in turn are ready to die for him.

The battles are still there - don't get me wrong. The battles are awesome and work greatly.

The point is - they're always a part of something bigger. The fight itself poses no challenge to our Protagonist AT ALL.

It's the same as with One Punch Man - the fight is won the moment Ainz or any of the Guardians decides to get serious.

Shit. They don't need to cast a spell or throw a punch.

All they need to do is to... Hug an opponent. Yes - really.

Well... Death by sword. Death by broken bones. Death by crushing. There’s not much difference, right? You die at the end.

In the end - baring the last fight in the anime - Overlord focuses on Ainz learning stuff about his New World and being awesome while doing it.

And by awesome I mean dark as fu*k.

He slowly grows into the Overlord the Guardians see him to be.

Partially because of his actions and partially due to his Lich body suppressing his human emotions.

Now - a warning word for those who might want to watch this show.

It's brutal and bloody.

People are going to fucking die and die brutally, painfully and amusingly. The Guardians are EVIL and shit is getting DARK frequently.

And yet it's still fun to watch and it gets a bunch of funny scenes as well.

What's more - it's a damn good story.

Not to spoil much of what's going to happen in the later episodes I'll tell you only this.

Remember the thing I mentioned about Overseer NPC?

It's a beautiful succubus whose description included a bit about her being a slut.

On a whim Momonga changed that part so that Albedo would be in love with him.

Their interactions are mostly funny from there on partially thanks to Momonga being... Well... A walking skeleton...

There's this little bit however when Ainz is going to seriously risk his life and it seems to Albedo like he is saying his farewells.

The ensuing scene is a really touching exchange between them.

Yes - a truly well done romantic scene between a succubus and a Lich.

Better love story than Twilight... Well... Actually... Better love story than most of the shit we see nowadays.

  Now.

The animation is done by Madhouse and looks absolutely beautiful.

Just like with OPM the studio doesn't disappoint and delivers a truly breathtaking spectacle which only pales in comparison to... To the source material - the illustrations of which look like Death Metal album covers.

Yes - the show is lightened in animation and (as I've heard on the web) the story is actually softened as well to better fit the anime format.

IMO this worked greatly as making the story even darker might have ended with something repulsive for most of the audiences.

And with the story and characters of Overlord being the strongest points this would have potentially killed the show.

In the end I also wanted to mention the music.

You probably know by now that I don't pay much attention to it.

Yes - I listen to it while watching but I barely recall anything after I'm done.

Music in Overlord... Well... I remember it clearly.

It. Is. Awesome.

A truly great finishing touch for a really good show - silver medalist of 2015 anime I’ve watched.

With this in mind...

  Final Score: 8/10  +Newman's Mark of Quality Status: Completed Sentence: Stuck in a skeletal body in the company of a horny succubus (I mean... It’s great but... There’s something missing...)

  Previously reviewed title: One Punch Man.

Next reviewed title: Yamada-kun to Nana-jin no Majo.

[roseylaces]

6

can also be read on ao3 here~

send me a sweet affectionate moment and a pairing!prompt list can be found here~

6. a kiss of relief - ‘Connecting Hearts’

A dreamy haze of reddened sun filtered inthrough the open window, a light breeze caressing the sheer curtains. Kiyomiwas curled in a corner of the couch, her back pressed into the arm of the seat,her head buried in a book. She had not realized how much time had passed untilKaito sat down next to her. He had been tired of waiting. Kaito assumed thatKiyomi would have changed her focus when she felt his weight as he made himselfcomfortable, yet when she continued to be engrossed in the novel in her handsrather than in him, he felt himself become slightly irritated. How could a bookbe more enticing than him?

Attempting to transfer her attention towhere it should be given, he leaned over to rest his arms on her tucked-upknees, staring up at the book cover:

‘Norwegian Wood – Murakami Haruki’.

“You’re reading that again, are you?” henoted nonchalantly with a sigh, tracing the lettering with his finger, “Youlike his stuff – Murakami Sensei’s…”

“Hmm…” Kiyomi affirmed absently, turningthe page so quietly that Kaito could hear her hum into the paper.

“Are his book really that great?” Kaitowondered more to himself than to her, closing his eyes as he felt his body heatseep into her chilled skin.

There was a small silence as Kiyomicontinued to read, and Kaito felt every small movement she made – whether itwas curling her toes or her breath catching as she read something unexpected (No,it can’t be unexpected, Kaito reminded himself, She’s read this book at leastthree times since we’ve met). Finally, he heard the quick snap of paper againstpaper, and the light pressure of the book’s cover resting against the crown ofhis head.

“If you tried one, perhaps you’d find out.”Kiyomi stated wittily, a laugh in her intonation.

“Yeah, but you like reading. I don’t seewhat’s so good about it.” Kaito murmured, and Kiyomi relieved him of the book’spressure. She sighed, before telling him something that she had been too afraidto say before.

“… It helps me to escape… Escape from thecruel reality that has been displayed to us.” Kiyomi admitted quietly, placingthe novel against her and feeling the solidity of the hardback in her tenderfingertips. “Even before everything happened, before I met you, reading was anescape. It helped me get away from my parents; away from my uncertain future.At least in a novel, there is no uncertainty. Everything’s laid out in theprinting of lines. And now, it makes me feel like I have a purpose again – likenot everything was lost. Going back to old stories I used to read when I wasyounger, it brings with it a sense of normalcy…”

Realizing she had begun to ramble, Kiyomipaused. Yet Kaito was staring at her with a look that could not be described ina singular word – a mix of caution, understanding, and love – and she knew itwas urging her to continue; to say the things she otherwise kept locked insideher heart, which had now become so puzzled, “Like perhaps things can go back tohow they were before.” She trailed off into a whisper, as raw emotion grippedat her vocal cords. She held the novel closer to her chest, and felt Kaito’sclutch around her legs tighten. Unspoken words bubbled in the pit of his chest,and she could sense it. A small part of her wanted to ask him what he wasthinking, but she knew he would tell her. Since he had once kept a secret that threatenedto ruin them, he now told her everything.

She knew to give him time, but she couldnot help but feel that she had said something wrong. Even before knowing why,an empty guilt lined the edges of her heart.

“…Am I not enough?” Kaito finally murmureddespondently, “Is me being here with you not helping?”

Kiyomi stared at him in shock. Never beforehad he seemed so unsure of himself, and that was when she realized that whatshe had said had been interpreted in a different way to what she was intending.Kiyomi was quick to alleviate him from the cloud of tension building in hismind.

“Of course you are.” She sighed, bringing ahand to rest on top of his unkempt, brown strands of hair, “I couldn’t imagineyou not being here beside me. Please, don’t ever say that.”

“Then why are you trying to escape fromthis?” Kaito questioned guardedly, “From me?”

“It’s not from you, it’s from me; it’s frommyself that I’m trying to escape.”

“I don’t want you to feel like this here –that what we have– is wrong. You know that, right? You’re allowed to feel safe.To hear that you’re running away from yourself hurts more than thinking thatyou were running away from me, because if it was me, I could do something aboutit. But if it’s somewhere I can’t reach, I don’t know how to fix that.”

“You already have reached me.” Kiyomivindicates softly, stroking his hair with the utmost care, “You’ve seen rightdown into the deepest crevices of my heart. You’ve seen me at my worst. Now Ineed nothing more than for you to just be here by my side. That enough will fixme, in time; I promise. There is no wound that your touch can’t heal, even ifit is within me.” She explained gently with a smile, and it was the truth.

Kaito knew it was.

In recent times, it had been an unspokentruth, yet hearing it in her own words served to reassure him that she wasstill with him. At times, when she was mentally absent, she had become a huskof the Kiyomi he used to know, but now she regained more of herself every day.He trusted that his unwavering support would help her to become more sure ofherself. It was a journey he was more than willing to undertake with her.

Because he loved her.

Although Kiyomi had assured him that hisconnection touched her, it did not feel enough. He lifted his head from atopKiyomi’s knees, and she gave him such a sweet, gentle smile, that he almost didnot know what to do with himself. It was in that moment that he became gratefulthat she was back here with him. The steps that had been taken to reach thispoint were devastating, painful, and at times it made him feel as broken as shehad been, but it was worth it. It was all, so, so worth it.

Because now she was able to sit across fromhim with that same expression that she had given him before everything changed.It was a look of understanding, of tender, illogical endearment.

Because she loved him.

After everything, she still loved him. Asudden swell of gratitude flushed into his heart, and all rational thought flowedout of his mind in the process. In that moment, his arms around her legs didnot feel enough. His cheek against her skin did not feel enough. His handscaressing the outside of her thighs did not feel enough.

Oh god, that smile was so enticing.

Kaito thought of nothing but Kiyomi as he satup, placing a hand by her side on the plush cushion of the sofa to reduce thespace between them. He did not even understand what he was doing. He just hadto somehow convey even a portion of the gratitude he felt. Yet all he knew wasthat words did not seem enough, and when she revealed her heart to him, thatwas when she was most beautiful.

At first, a light color flushed Kiyomi’scheeks as Kaito brought a hand to the back of her neck, lightly touching the newlyformed scar there, yet as he confined her, forced her to focus only on him,that same airy smile returned, and she allowed him to pull her into a kiss.

He barely brushed her lips; the kiss a ghost,uncertain, before pressing deeper. She closed her eyes, caressing the book in herhands, yet he parted as quickly as he had drawn her in. Kiyomi opened her eyesagain, confused.

“What’s wrong?” She whispered, loosening hergrip on the novel in order to stroke his cheek fondly.

“Nothing… I just…” Kaito struggled, tryingdesperately to suppress the urge to smile, because he knew if he did, tearswould well in the corners of his eyes. When it came to her, he softened tooeasily, “I didn’t know what else to do, in order to convey how I feel.”

“Don’t worry, I understand perfectly.”Kiyomi giggled, gently tugging on his cheek, “You’re too soft.”

See, she read him like a book.

Kaito took this opportunity to kiss heragain, yet more purposefully this time. He would make her forget all about thatbook, about escaping herself, about the unchangeable past. He would make herthink only of him, just like she made him feel.

He pressed his lips against hers, and he felther smile into the gesture, felt her heart truly connect to his. Yes, the pastwas unchangeable, yet their future was still to come. They would not let whathappened to them determine how they were going to be in a year, five years, tenyears from now.

Because they were going to live.

They were grateful for each other, relievedthat they were still able to survive and live on to see the next day together.

As long as they had one another, nothingwas set in stone. They would see each new morning as it came.

Butfor now, this moment, the true conveyance of feeling, was all that mattered.

[oddsnendsfanfics]

Pick Me Up

Genre: Fan Fiction Pairing: Jai Courtney/OFC (Roo) Warnings: Language/ Slight Sexual References Rating: PG13 Length: Short Story Disclaimer: a strict work of fiction, I own nothing except the original characters and the plot line. In no way am I affiliated to any of it.

A/N: Well, mystery is solved...or is it? Either way, you may wanna give this one a good read ;) ;) 

Read:  Overextended & Fall to Pieces

"Honey, do we have to go tomorrow?" Jai groaned, his head resting in the crook of her neck.

"Unfortunately, yes we do." She lazily ran her fingers through his curls.

Their last day in Paris, before heading back to sunny California and reality, was going to be yet another lazy day in their room. Today, they would do good to leave the bed long enough to eat, if they bothered to do so.

Jai had woke several hours ago, laying in bed waiting for a sign that his wife – he smiled every time he thought about that – had done the same. The second her eyes had popped open, he had been there snuggled up and delivering light little kisses. She was happy to lie in bed, alternating between chatting and the comfortable silence that took its turn surrounding them.

No stress, no worries, and no fears. Simply the two of them, wrapped in one another, enjoying the gorgeous morning in one of the most beautiful cities. She couldn't wait to come back and Jai had promised they would, eventually, and the next time they would actually do more in way of being tourists.

"We could stay, the joey can live with my sister, and we can use the house when we need it." Jai mumbled, his lips brushing against her collar bone. "Buy a vineyard, or maybe open a cafe." He teased.

"We'd drink all the wine, kill the grapes, and probably burn down the cafe." She laughed at the suggestions.

Everything about that morning had been peaceful, silly, and a little sexy. Wine was probably how they had gotten to this point, as well. Oh the wine! She had drank way too much of it and Jai hadn't helped her. If it wasn't the wine then it was the champagne, the sweet and bubbly alcohol had a way of making you drink too much, without even realizing it.

Lazy, mellow and pleasing would be the only way she could ever describe the moment. Soft and slow was overrated when it came to sex, had it been anything but then the whole thing would have thrown off the vibrations of the morning.

Being husband and wife hadn't stilled the hesitancy when Jai announced they were officially out of condoms – thank god for new, apparently better, birth control. She needed him and in no way was she willing to wait, even if one of them made the mad dash for a corner store, it would take too long.

A smirk tugging at the corner of her lips, the mere idea that they'd had that much sex was amusing. Who could blame her? It took one glance at her husband to know she would prefer him to stay in bed, never leaving, to fuck all day.

She loved the feel of his body on hers, the weight bearing down but never crushing, it was comforting. Her fingers played with the tufts of hair on his chest and stomach, delighted that it had finally came back. Under the hair and under her touch, Jai's stomach contracted, his muscled growing taught and tiny goosebumps rising on his skin. Gentle and ghostly her finger tips continued to explore his stomach, back, and shoulders.

Brushing his thumb across her cheek, he watched under hooded eyes as her face went from serene to pure bliss. Another tightening in his stomach caused his body to shudder, this time it was less to do with her hands, the way she was pulling him in; in every sense of the phrase, was mind blowing.

Kissing her roughly, Jai moaned and his body went completely stiff, she could feel him throbbing between her legs. Her hips tilting and her knees resting against his sides, she gasped into the kiss, whimpering and shaking. Fuck! Her mind blank except for the cliche stars and dots.

"I can't believe I didn't think of this, earlier." She muttered, digging the spoon into the carton if ice cream. "What a fucking idiot." She scolded herself through a sniffle.

The front door opened and closed, Jai's footsteps were heavy on the floor as he entered the house. Her husband was home and she couldn't find the strength to care, what did it matter anyway? Everything was a mess, including her. This evening was supposed to be perfect, everything was carefully planned, and her excitement had been through the roof.

What did that matter, now? The kitchen was a disaster, she was doubtful that he would even notice Dorito's new attire. Nor would he see that the fall centerpiece in the dinning room had been replaced; pink and blue gerbera daisies, picked to match the overall theme. If she were lucky, Jai may notice the giant baby themed balloons in the corner of the kitchen. Nobody could miss the metallic pink and blue baby shower balloons.

That slow, sexy, lazy morning in Paris was to blame for this!

"I'm home," Jai called out ahead of him, stashing his black leather travel bag on the floor by the stairs. Dorito eagerly bounced down the hall, coming from the kitchen, wagging his tail and dancing around Jai's feet.

7:30, Denzi wouldn't be far behind.

Jai had landed an hour early from Chicago, grabbing a cab home – despite the small fortune it has cost, in order to surprise his family. Coming home was always his favourite part of any trip, getting to be back in his own bed in familiar surroundings was a luxury. Getting to come home to his wife and son, knowing how much he had missed them, made it even sweeter. Jai frowned when the seconds ticked by without the sound of Denzi's excited running as he made a bee line for his dad.

"Roo? Denzi?" He called loudly, scratching Dorito under the new blue bandanna he wore around his neck. "Guys?"

Listening for any signs of his son and wife, Jai furrowed his brow. There were no noises coming from upstairs, seeing as it was growing dark outside they probably weren't outside playing. He would have smelled smoke, if they were having a bon fire. Her aging silver SUV was parked neatly in the garage, when he'd peeked in on his way by.

"Kitchen." She closed her eyes and squeaked.

Grabbing the favoured bottle of whiskey from his travel bag, Jai strode off to the kitchen, Dorito not far behind. He couldn't wait to hug his son and kiss his wife. Wife! He still smiled like an idiot, every time he thought about that. Despite the warnings that had come, from a hypothetical question with his manager, Jai was happy with the way things were right now.

He'd received word that the paperwork for her adoption of Denzi was almost final, in another week or so, his son would have a mum and dad. He was home for another month, at least. How much better could this week get?

"Hey, I wasn't sure you were here, but...." Jai stopped mid sentence. Glancing around the kitchen, he inhaled deeply, suppressing an outburst. This was a fucking mess! What had she done, while he was away?

Chaotic disaster was the only way to describe the scene before him. The kitchen counter was covered in sticky frosting, a smashed cake sat beside the sink, streamers falling from the corner of the fridge lead Jai's gaze to the balloons bobbing around by the patio door. In the middle of the chaos his wife sat on the floor, slouched against the dishwasher, her dress covered in the same frosting from the counter top. In her hand, a carton of...cotton candy ice cream?

She hated, absolutely despised, cotton candy ice cream.

"R-Roo?" Jai cautiously approached, sliding down into a squat in front of her.

"What?" She sniffled, wiping her sticky frosting covered hand across her nose.

"Babe, what's going on?" Jai rested on his feet. His hands steadying his balance by holding her knees.

"Forget it, it's not important." She choked a sob.

Lies!

"Well, then, let's clean this up and you can tell me about it. I brought home some of that organic whiskey you like."

Whatever had happened, they would get it cleaned, then Jai would settle her on the couch with a nice whiskey and ginger, the way she liked it when she was stressed. He'd fix a quick dinner and they could enjoy the rest of their evening, until Denzi came back, from wherever he was.

A body shaking, ear piercing sob erupted from his wife, Jai flinched out of reaction. Nearly stumbling backwards and onto his ass. "Whiskey?" She snapped loudly, tears beginning to brim her eyes. "Whis...Oh, Jai. I want a drink, I need a drink, but I can't."

Regaining his wits, Jai gently placed his hand on her knee, setting the whiskey beside him on the tile flooring, "Roo, are you okay?"

"I'm fine. I'm fine." She waved her hand in front of her face. "I'm just, this was supposed to be perfect, but the cake...it fell on the floor, and you were supposed to walk in and just know...obviously you...did you even look at the dog or the balloons?"

The only way to describe the expression on her husband's face was a pure what the fuck?! emotion. His blue eyes were squinted and his brows furrowed, his lips pursed, and nose scrunched. She had lost her mind.

"I saw Dorito." Jai glanced at the dog who brushed by, hearing his name. "Kind of hard not to see the balloons."

"You saw them, but did you actually look? No, because had you, then you would have known." She sniffled again, swallowing roughly trying to avoid a hiccup. "I'm pregnant, Jai. Hence the blue and the pink, the baby designs on the fucking balloons. I'm pregnant and this is not how I wanted you to know."

"Pregnant?" He spoke, allowing the words to sink in. "Preg...nant? Fuck."

Paralyzed by her words, the word tumbled out again, repeating the word for a fourth time with a throaty laugh, Jai could practically feel the kitchen spinning. How bad would it look right now, if he opened the bottle of perfectly aged whiskey and began to chug?

Obviously, she'd had some time – though he didn't know the exact time frame – to allow this to sink in. Here he was, crouched on the kitchen floor, his socks covered in ice cream or was that frosting? It didn't matter, grasping his wife's knee trying to make sense of what she'd told him.

"Pregnant." the fifth time was more of a confused whisper.

Jai's stomach sank before jolting up and into his throat, they were barely married and here they were with a baby on the way. The tears staining her cheeks weren't helping him, inside Jai felt like the world's shittiest husband. He should have known or have had some sort of inkling. Wasn't a man supposed to notice these things?

She must have been terrified, taking the test alone, seeing those two little lines and nobody there to comfort her. Gasping in a large breath of air, Jai slowly exhaled trying to stop the urge of vomiting. He couldn't even begin to imagine the freak out that she had endured seeing that result.

"You're mad." She whimpered, shoving a spoonful of ice cream in her mouth.

"No, I'm...shocked. I'm not mad, babe." Jai gently replied blinking back the tears that were trying to fall. The two of them crying would be useless. One of them had to keep their wits.

"You look mad," She replied with an accusing tone.

It had been no secret that Jai felt they weren't ready. He'd made that clear when he'd refused to speak to her over a broken condom, months ago. They were in a better place now, she was sure of it, after all she was his wife and on the way to her becoming the mother of his son, possibly sons. Who knew? Maybe his daughter?

"I'm not mad." He reiterated, "Are...are you mad?" She sniffled and shook her head No. "Why all the tears? Oh, babe." Jai rubbed his thumb against her cheek, brushing the tears away.

"Because I'm so," she hiccuped, "hap-py."

"Me too, firecracker." Jai laughed, flopping down next to her. "Wow, we're actually having a baby? A baby!"

Being a dad was one of the best things in his life, Jai wouldn't trade Denzi for anything, nor could he imagine life being as great without the little guy. A second baby would only make that even better, Jai was sure of it. Sudden and not at all planned, but then again the best things never were.

Sitting on the kitchen floor, of their home, allowing the news of a new baby, their baby, to sink in was almost surreal. A weird dream like moment, one which would be gut wrenching if one of them woke up to find they were comfortable, in bed upstairs.

"Oh god, Jai! We're having a baby." She was wide eyed and muttering.

"Yes, yes we are."

"A baby!" She wailed with a sudden sniffle. "We haven't even told Denzi that we're married. I still have to tell my mom!"

"Roo, it'll be okay. We'll figure it all out." Jai rubbed her back. Hoping he sounded somewhat convincing. This was not what he had wanted or expected to come home to.

This threw a whole new complication into his plan, after the less than pleasant conversation with his manager, on the hypothetical decision of Jai getting married. Great, not only did he have to tell a doubt filled manager that he was married, but he was also having a second child.

Telling his parents and Cora would be a walk in the park, they would be bitter at first, then sink into the idea loving the fact there would be a new baby. Everybody loved babies!

"We have to call them. We have to call our parents, Booms." She sobbed loudly squirming around on her bottom, trying to find the motivation to get off of the kitchen floor. "We can't just have a baby and never tell them."

"We don't have to do that right now." Jai gently grasped her elbow and pulled her back to him. "There will be time, Roo. Right now, we need to just enjoy it."

[juniperpublishers-robotics-blog]

Engineering Insight for Humanoid Robotics Emotions and Violence with Reference to “System Error 1378”- Juniper Publishers

Abstract

What kinds of social relationships can people have with computers are there activities that computers can engage in that actively draw people into relationships with them. What are the potential benefits to the people who participate in these human-computer relationships? To address these questions researchers introduces a theory of Relational Agents, which are computational artifacts designed to build and maintain long-term, social-emotional relationships with their users. These can be purely software humanoid animated agents--as developed in this work but they can also be non-humanoid or embodied in various physical forms, from robots, to pets, to jewelry, clothing, hand-held’s, and other interactive devices. Central to the notion of relationship is that it is a persistent construct, spanning multiple interactions; thus, Relational Agents are explicitly designed to remember past history and manage future expectations in their interactions with users [1]. Finally, relationships are fundamentally social and emotional, and detailed knowledge of human social psychology with a particular emphasis on the role of affect--must be incorporated into these agents if they are to effectively leverage the mechanisms of human social cognition in order to build relationships in the most natural manner possible. People build relationships primarily through the use of language, and primarily within the context of face-to-face conversation. Embodied Conversational Agents--anthropomorphic computer characters that emulate the experience of face-to-face conversation--thus provide the substrate for this work, and so the relational activities provided by the theory will primarily be specific types of verbal and nonverbal conversational behaviors used by people to negotiate and maintain relationships. This article is also intend if level of Artificial Intelligence reach over Natural Intelligence (Human Intelligence), what would be happen, if System Error 1378 (AI malfunction error) occur one day .i.e. robotic violence due to human like emotion in Robots/Humanoid [2].

Keywords: Humanoid; Robotics Emotions; Robotics Violence; System Error 1378

Introduction

Humans take a certain posture in their communication. Can take example, when mankind are happy or sad, cheerful, take a posture in which the activities and behaviour showing through body language like moving and open arms etc. When they are angry, they square the shoulders. When they are tired or sadness, they shrug the shoulder or close the arms. That’s why; the emotion and mental condition are closely related to the human posture, gestures, facial expressions and behavior exhibits through body language. And, human obtain many information from partner’s posture in their communication [3]. In this situation, the human arms play an important role. Figure 1 & 2 below shows the emotional expression exhibited by WE-4RII [4].

We can control the generally 6-DOFs (Degree of Freedom) robotic arms’ from its tip position precisely as like human’s arm. But, all their joint angles are fixed according to the inverse kinematics. By the way, humans have 7-DOFs arms consisting of 3-DOFs shoulder, 1-DOF elbow and 3-DOFs wrist. However, it’s considered that there is a rotational center in the base of shoulder joint, and the shoulder joint itself can moves up and down positions as well as moves to and fro, back & forth so that humans square and shrug their shoulders. We considered that these motions played a very important role in the emotional expressions. Therefore, researchers trying to develop more emotional expressive human-like body movements, gestures feelings, love and affection response supportive movements in humanoid robot arms than the usual 6-DOFs robot arms [5].

Robotic Software Architecture Model

(Figure 3) Risk assessment is an interdisciplinary subject, which runs together psychological, ethical, legal, and economic considerations. A major problem in risk assessment is the confusion between popular concepts of risk from robots (the ‘subjective risk’), which has largely been made irrational by the various fictional depictions autonomous robots destroying humankind and running amok (as in Terminator and I, Robot, among many other movies) and the actual objective risk of deploying robots, i.e., what rational basis is there for worry?

First, let us define risk simply in terms of its opposite, safety: risk is the probability of harm; and (relative) safety is (relative) freedom from risk. Safety in practice is merely relative, not absolute, freedom from harm, because no activity is ever completely risk-free; walking onto one’s lawn from inside one’s house increases the (however small) risk of death by meteorite strike [6]. Hence, risk and safety are two sides of the usual human attempt to reduce the probability of harm to oneself and others [7].

And finally, some have raised risks of a more abstract sort, indicating the rise of such autonomous robots creates risks that go beyond specific harms to societal and cultural impacts. For instance, is there a risk of (perhaps fatally?) Affronting human dignity or cherished traditions (religious, cultural, or otherwise) in allowing the existence of robots that make ethical decisions? Do we ‘cross a threshold’ in abrogating this level of responsibility to machines, in a way that will inevitably lead to some catastrophic outcome? Without more detail and reason for worry, such worries as this appear to commit the ‘slippery slope’ fallacy. But there is worry that as robots become ‘quasipersons’, even under a ‘slave morality’, there will be pressure to eventually make them into full-fledged Kantian-autonomous persons, with all the risks that entails [8].

Background for Work

Many people thinking about Spock, the half-Vulcan and half-human character of Star Trek, as the supporter saint of computer science. They highly intelligent, highly rational, highly unemotional, attractive to women etc. A famous image is that Spock didn’t have any emotions: after all Spock almost never expressed emotion, excepting his characteristic pronouncement of the word “fascinating” upon thoughtful something new. In fact, as the actor Leonard Nimoy describes in his book the character Spock did have emotion; he was just very good at suppressing its expression. Majority people think that Spock do not having emotion. When someone never used to expresses emotion, it is appealing to think that emotion is not there [9-11]. In affective computing, we can separately examine functions that are not so easily separated in humans. For example, the Macintosh OS exhibits a smile for years upon successful boot-up. But few people would confuse its smile - albeit an emotional expression - with a genuine emotional feeling. Machines can take the emotional appearance well mannered, with having dissimilarities in feelings similar to those we would have: they can generate separate expression, gestures and postures from feeling. With a machine it is easy to see how emotion expression does not imply “having” the underlying feeling.

Machines that might really “have” feelings are the key area of affective computing and love affection engineering that coined serious doubt about in 1997 book titled Affective Computing. We think the discussions there, and in a later book chapter on this topic are still timely and will not plan to add to them here. Researchers in the last decade have obtained dozens of scientific findings illuminating important roles of emotion in intelligent human functioning, even when it looks like a person is showing no emotion. These findings possible to restructure, redesign and reengineering with scientific understanding of emotions and can better motivation to work to young researchers with consider that emotional mechanisms might be more valuable than previously believed. Consequently, a number of researchers have charged ahead with building machines that have several affective abilities, especially: recognizing, expressing, modeling, communicating, and responding to emotion. And, insight these domains, various criticisms and challenges have arisen. Present work addresses such matters. The term emotion refers to relations among external incentives, thoughts, and changes in internal feelings, as weather is a super ordinate term for the changing relations among wind velocity, humidity, temperature, barometric pressure, and form of precipitation. In general, a unique combination of these meteorological traits buildup a storm, a tornado, a blizzard, or a hurricane events and that are co-relate to the temporary but intense emotions of fear, joy, excitement, disgust, or anger. But wind, temperature, and humidity vary continually without producing such extreme combinations [12].

Ethics

With example, if your boss yells at you, is it wrong to detect his angry voice, or to recognize he is angry? Is it unethical, once you’ve recognized his anger, to try to take steps to alleviate his anger (or to “manipulate” it, perhaps by sharing new information with him, so that he is no longer angry? One can imagine of scenario where the foregoing replies are “no”: e.g. He is shouting at you directly, and clearly wants you to recognize it and take steps in response. And, one can imagine the answers might be more complex if you surreptitiously detected his anger, and had nefarious purposes in mind by attempting to change it [13]. Humans routinely scanned, recognize, and respond to emotions using cognitions and manipulating them in ways that most would consider highly ethical and needful. Playing music to cheer up a friend’s mood, eating chocolate, exercising to perk one up, and other manipulations count among many that can be perfectly acceptable. That said, unscrupulous uses by people and by people via machine of affect detection, recognition, expression, and manipulation. Some of these, including ways affective machines might mislead customers, assuage productive emotional states, and violate privacy norms, are discussed in Picard and in Picard and Klein [14].

In 1872, Charles Darwin Published a ground breaking book - The Expression of the Emotions in Man and Animals 2

It was the conclusion about to 34 years of work on emotion and emotional intelligence and resource two important contributions to the field. The first was the notion that animal emotions are homologues for human emotions- a logical extension of Darwin’s early works on evolution [15]. Darwin was one of the most promised people who show this by comparing and analyzing countless sketches and photographs of animals and people in different emotional states to reveal cross-species similarities as shown in below figure. .He also proposed that many emotional expressions in humans, such as tears when upset or baring the teeth when angry, are vestigial patterns of action. Darwin second contribution was the proposal which limit to set of fundamental or’ basic’ emotions are present across species and across cultures including anger, fear, surprise and sadness and all .These two ideas had a profound influence on affective neuroscience by promoting the use of research in animals to understand emotions in humans and by giving impetus to a group of scientists who espoused the view that different basic emotions had separable eneural substrates [16] (Figure 4).

Can Robots Have Emotions

Science fiction is full of machines that have feelings .In 2001: A Space Odyssey, the onboard computer turns against the crew of the spaceship Discovery, and utters cries of pain and fear when his circuits are finally taken apart. In Blade Runner, humanoid robots are distressed to learn that her memories are not real, but have been implanted in her silicon brain by her programmer. In Bicentennial Man, Robin William splays the part of a robot that redesigns his own circuitry so that he can experience the full range of human feelings. These stories achieve their effect impart because the capacity for emotion is often considered to be one of the main differences between humans and machines. This is certainly true of the machines we know today. The responses we receive from computers are rather dry affairs, such as “system error 1378”. People sometimes get angry with their computers and shout at them as if they had emotions, but the computers take no notice. They neither feel their own feelings, nor recognize yours [17]. The gap between science fiction and science fact appears vast, but some researcher’s inartificial intelligence now believes it is only a question of time before it is bridged. There is huge research in progress in each month in the domain of Affective Computing and an advance result comes in the form of primitive emotional machines. However, some critics argue that a machine could never come to have real emotions like ours. At best, they claim, clever programming might allow it to simulate human emotions, but these would just be clever fakes [18].

What are Emotions

In humans and other animals, we tend to call behavior emotional when we observe certain facial and vocal expressions like smiling or snarling, and when we see certain physiological changes such as hair standing on end or sweating. Since most computers do not yet possess faces or bodies, they cannot manifest this behavior. However, in recent years computer scientists have been developing arrange of’ animated agent faces’ [19], programmers that generate images of humanlike faces on the computer’s visual display unit. These images can be manipulated to form convincing emotional expressions. Others have taken things further by building three-dimensional synthetic heads. Cynthia Breazealand colleagues at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology (MIT) have constructed a robot called’ Kismet’ with moveable eyelids, eyes and lips. The range of emotional expressions available to Kismet is limited, but they are convincing enough to generate sympathy among the humans who interact with him. Breazeal invites human parents to play with Kismet on a daily basis. When kismet alone seems to be sad and when with someone company seems to be happy and also able to understand other human expressions and response accordingly. Does Kismet have emotions, then? It certainly exhibits some emotional behavior, so if we define emotions in behavioral terms, we must admit that Kismet has some emotional capacity [20].

Presently Kismet doesn’t exhibits full of human like emotional behaviour but seems to be towards developing phase and one day as similar like human beings. Chimpanzees do not display the full range of human emotion, but they clearly have some emotions. Dogs and cats have less emotional semblance to us, and those doting pet-owners who ascribe the full range of human emotions to their domestic animals are surely guilty of anthropomorphism. There is a whole spectrum of emotional capacities, ranging from the very simple to the very complex. Perhaps Kismet’s limited capacity for emotion puts him somewhere near the simple end of the spectrum, but even this is a significant advance over the computers that currently sit on our desks, which by most definitions are devoid of any emotion whatsoever. As affective computing progresses, we may be able to build machines with more and more complex emotional capacities. Kismet doesn’t have voice and feelings in voice mechanism but promising advanced research change this dream into reality soon. Today’s speech synthesizers speak in an unemotional monotone. In the future, computer scientists should be able to make them sound much more human by modulating nonlinguistic aspects of vocalization like speed, pitch and volume [21]. Facial expression and vocal intonation are not the only forms of emotional behavior. We also infer emotions from actions. When, for example, we see an animal stop abruptly in its tracks, turn round, and run away, we infer that it is afraid, even though we may not see the object of its fear. For computers to exhibit this kind of emotional behavior, they will have to be able to move around. In the jargon of artificial intelligence, they will have to be “mobots” (mobile robots). In lab at the University of the West of England, there are dozens of mobots, most of which are very simple. Some, for example, are only the size of a shoe, and all they can do is finding their way around a piece of the floor without bumping into anything. Sensors allow them to detect obstacles such as walls and other mobots. Despite the simplicity of this mechanism, their behavior can seem eerily human. When an obstacle is detected, the mobots stop dead in their tracks, turnaround, and head off quickly in the other direction. To anybody watching, the impression that the mobot is afraid of collisions is irresistible. Are these mobots really afraid? Descartes, for example, claimed that animals did not really have feelings like us because they were just complex machines, without a soul. When they screamed in apparent pain, they were just following the dictates of their inner mechanism. Now that we know that the pain mechanism in humans is not much different from that of other animals, the Cartesian distinction between sentient humans and’ machine-like’ animals does not make much sense [22]. In the same way, as we come to build machines more and more like us, the question about whether or not the machines have ‘real’ emotions or just ‘fake’ one swill become less meaningful. The current resistance to attributing emotions to machines is simply due to the fact that even the most advanced machines today are still very primitive. Some experts estimate that we will be able to build machines with complex emotions like ours within fifty years. But is this a good idea? What is the point of building emotional machines? Won’t emotions just get in the way of good computing, or even worse, cause computers to turn against us, as they so often do in science fiction?.

Why Give Computers Emotions

After this long review the point is clear to give emotion in computers could be very useful for a whole variety of reasons. For a start, it would be much easier and more enjoyable to interact with an emotional computer than with today’s unemotional machines. Imagine if your computer could recognize what emotional state you were in each time you sat down to use it, perhaps by scanning your facial expression. You arrive at work one Monday morning, and the computer detects that you are in a bad mood. Rather than simply asking you for your password, as computers do today, the emotionallyaware desktops might tell you a joke, or suggest that you read particularly nice email first. Perhaps it has learnt from previous such mornings that you resent such attempts to cheer you up. In this case, it might ignore you until you had calmed down or had a coffee. It might be much more productive to work with a computer that was emotionally intelligent in this way than with today’s dumb machines. This is not just a flight of fancy. Computers are already capable of recognizing some emotions [23]. If ran Essa and Alex Pentland, two American computer scientists, have designed a program that enables a computer to recognize facial expressions of six basic emotions. When volunteers pretended to feel one of these emotions, the computer recognized the emotion correctly ninety-eight per cent of the time. This is even better than the accuracy rate achieved by most humans on the same task! If computers are already better than us at recognizing some emotions, it is surely not long before they will acquire similarly advanced capacities for expressing emotions, and perhaps even for feeling them. In the future, it may be humans who are seen by computers as emotionally illiterate, not vice versa.

Modeling

System error detection-correction model

Above Figure 5 shows system error detection-correction model which highlighted critical thinking on robotics violence. Basically Ultra Artificial Intelligence with human-like capabilities partly based on two strong segments .i.e. UAISoftware and UAI-Hardware to engineer Humanoid. These humanoid mechanisms strongly based on Self Programming Support Unit for self learning using artificial preceptor with intention to implement self sensation, actuation, meaning memories generation and execute like mankind. Hence using sensors, transducers, motors and actuators mechanism with NLP, Image Processing software possible to interact with external environment. Since Humanoid scan & learn from environment there might possible sources hidden in environment for diversification humanoid for violence or undesired execution or use I called them “Triggers”. There are two triggers possible for robotics violence one is “internal violence triggers” and another is “external violence triggers”. In internal violence triggers self bad conduct by self programming responsible for it which boost to system error 1378 occurred due to internal reasons. Whereas when self programming support unit hike, hijacked, in control of enemies or corrupted through virus programming to change good ethics into bad ethics of humanoid caused robotic violence which boost to system error 1378 occurred due to external reasons [24].

Cause-effect model

(Figure 6) This is the second purposed model in effect of first model named Cause-Effect model. In this model had given brief but lucid knowledge about Humanoid violence causes and their effects on world, technology and ultimately mankind civilization. As I said in first model discussion there are two robotics violence triggers viz. internal & external triggers and this cause effect to “self distractive program with bad ethics” due to this cause system error 1378 occurred in effect which further cause to “Humanoid-Human Wars (Humanoid/Robotics Violence)” this effect will further become cause humanoid against of human for love, affection, emotion, respect and rights .i.e. world either will end or ruled by Humanoid machines over Human due to high intelligence and processing abilities.

Human friendly humanoid designing model

This is my last model to exhibit idea how can how Human friendly Humanoid engineering possible instead of only going technically very high very we must have to think could we able to control that technology if it itself become against of us, is there we have any provision in our advanced AI engineering to stop to do so. I have suggested some one can enhance it further; these are

1) If system error 1378 occurred make immediate & emergency replacement of chip in standby to avoid robotics violence.

2) Engineer constructive counseling program in self programming support unit to trace and tackle with system error 1378 with self killing of malfunction and execution to avoid robotics violence.

3) Implement system error 1378 monitoring & security program as individual component to avoid robotic violence,

4) I strongly recommend available inbuilt subroutine to activate and direct self destructive programs which make Humanoid hardware death after its execution which trigger with inbuilt command “self destroy” when system error 1378 traced to avoid robotics violence (Figure 7).

Conclusion

Relational agents, as any technology, can be abused. Agents which earn our trust overtime can be used to provide more potent means of persuasion for marketers than more passive forms of advertising. If eventually come to rely on our agents as sources of grounding for our beliefs, values and emotions (one of the major functions of close human relationships) then they could become a significant source of manipulation and control over individuals or even over entire societies. There are those who also feel that any anthropomorphic interface is unethical, because it unrealistically raises users’ expectations. One way to combat this problem is through proper meta-relational communication-having the agent is as clear as possible about what it can and can’t do, and what expectations the user should have about their respective roles in the interaction anti violence robotic programmes must need to develop before to give human like emotions to Humanoid robots to avoid system error 1378.

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[thebewisepodcast]

Orwell v. Huxley; A Brave New World v. 1984

Definition of UTOPIA

1: an imaginary and indefinitely remote place

2: a place of ideal perfection especially in laws, government, and social conditions

3: an impractical scheme for social improvement

 Definition of DYSTOPIA

1: an imaginary place where people lead dehumanized and often fearful lives

2: literature: anti-utopia

Merriam-Webster.com

 Many Americans today would quite possibly consider Aldous Huxley's "Brave New World" to be a utopia of sorts with its limitless drugs, guilt-free sex, perpetual entertainment and a genetically engineered society designed for maximum economic efficiency and social harmony. 

 Conversely, most free people today would view George Orwell's "1984" as a dystopian nightmare, and shudder to contemplate the terrifying existence under the iron fist of "Big Brother"; the ubiquitous figurehead of a perfectly totalitarian government.

 Although both men were of British descent, Huxley was nine years older than Orwell and published Brave New World in 1932, seventeen years before 1984 was released in 1949. 

 Both books are widely considered classics and are included in the Modern Library's top ten great novels of the twentieth century.

    Brave New World

 Aldous Huxley was born to academic parents and he was the grandson of Thomas Henry Huxley, a famous biologist and an enthusiastic proponent of Darwin's Theory of Evolution who was known as "Darwin's Bulldog". 

 Huxley's own father had a well-equipped botanical laboratory where young Aldous began his education. 

 Given the Huxley family's appreciation for science, it makes perfect sense that Brave New World began in what is called the "Central London Hatchery and Conditioning Centre" where human beings are artificially grown and genetically predestined into five societal castes consisting of: 

Alpha

Beta

Gamma

Delta

Epsilon

Initially, the story centers on Bernard Marx, who is a slightly genetically flawed Alpha Plus psychologist with an inferiority complex due to his short stature. 

 By the end of the novel, however, the protagonist becomes a boy named "John the Savage" who is the bastard child of the "Director of the Central London Hatchery", and a lady named Linda, who naturally birthed John on a remote American Indian Reservation. 

 When Bernard discovers the true identities of John and Linda, he arranges to fly them back to London in order to leverage his position with John's biological father, the Hatchery Director.

 Bernard is in love with a beautiful fetus technician named Lenina Crowne, who, upon meeting John the Savage falls madly in lust. 

 Lenina is a gal who enjoys multiple lovers because, in the Brave New World, 

"everyone belongs to everyone else".

In other words, sexual promiscuity is encouraged as sort of a societal "pressure relief valve" designed to discourage negative emotions such as jealousy and envy. 

 John the Savage, however, suppresses his sexual attraction to Lenina because he considers her a slut.

 Eventually, John's sexual repression contributes to him violently attacking some children of the Delta caste who were waiting in line for their "Soma", a mood-altering drug; and the outburst causes both Bernard and John to be brought before the powerful Mustapha Mond, who is one of ten world controllers. 

 A debate ensues between John and Mr. Mond who explains to the Savage that a stable society requires the controlled suppression of science, religion, and art. 

 John, who is an avid admirer of William Shakespeare, argues that human life is not worth living without these things.

 In Brave New World, the State achieves a harmonic equilibrium via the economic parity of production and consumption while utilizing Eugenics as a means to counterbalance the life and death of the citizens. 

 Technology is employed as a means of control in lieu of any search for scientific, or spiritual, truth; as these are considered a threat to the established order. 

 People are cloned in hatcheries in accordance to the needs of the State and trained into obedience through "Hypnopedia", or sleep-teaching. 

 Happiness is valued over dignity and morality, and emotions are regulated through the use of the drug, Soma, amid constant entertainment including superficial games and virtual reality venues called the "feelies". 

 Although there is no God or religion, per se, in Brave New World, Henry Ford is canonized in the place of a deity as a testament to corporate efficiency, assembly line production and rampant consumerism.

    1984

 Like Huxley, George Orwell also envisioned a future where government monitored and controlled every aspect of human life; yet the world is much more terrifying in 1984. 

 Orwell actually volunteered and fought in the Spanish Civil War in 1936 before being injured by a sniper's bullet in May of 1937; it was there where he witnessed, first-hand, the ghastly barbarism of political fascism. 

 Moreover, he previously observed the rise of Joseph Stalin in the Soviet Union and, later, Adolf Hitler in Germany. 

 In turn, Orwell published Animal Farm in 1945 and four years later, his novel 1984, as literary warnings to mankind.

 The setting of 1984 takes place in a futuristic, post-apocalyptic Great Britain which, at that time, was part of "Oceania"; one of three world super-states all engaged in never-ending warfare. 

 The protagonist of the novel is Winston Smith, a middle-class member in the Outer Party of INGSOC, a totalitarian regime led by the figurehead known only as "Big Brother".

 Winston works in the Records Department of the "Ministry of Truth" where he revises history on behalf of the Party while under constant surveillance both at work and home. 

 Everywhere he goes; there are posters with a photo of the party's leader and the words:

"BIG BROTHER IS WATCHING YOU".

In an act of rebellion, Winston acquires a diary and begins to record what Big Brother and the INGSOC party would label as "crimethink" and "thoughtcrime".

 Eventually, Winston meets and falls in love with a beautiful coworker named Julia, and they engage in what they believe to be a secret affair whereby they have illicit sex as a form of political rebellion.

 In 1984, the Party members living in Oceania are brainwashed to have sex only for procreation and this is how sexual repression is channeled into enthusiasm for the State.

 Under the threat of detection by the "Thought Police", torture and even "vaporization", which would eliminate every last vestige of proof he ever existed, Winston persists in his rebellion against the Party with certain fatalism.

 In fact, just before he and Julia are captured by the militant, jackbooted INGSOC Party authoritarians, Winston told Julia "we are the dead"; to which she replied the same words back to him.

 Throughout Orwell's dark narrative, various themes are explored such as "Newspeak" which is a language of mind control; the terrifying tyranny of totalitarianism; historical revisionism; torture, and psychological manipulation. 

 The INGSOC Party's prisonlike control and complete invasion of individual privacy is such that a citizen's own facial expression could betray their inner disloyalty to the Party through what Orwell labeled as "crimeface":

Your worst enemy, he reflected, was your own nervous system. At any moment the tension inside you was liable to translate itself into some visible symptom.

Winston Smith

1984, part 1, chapter 6

Orwell was near prophetic in describing the proliferation of listening devices in both public and private settings as well as "telescreens", which simultaneously broadcast propaganda while relaying live video feeds back to the Party watchers.

 In Orwell's chilling story, free will and individuality are sacrificed to the extreme demands of Collectivism and in deference to complete societal control by an authoritarian government.

    Compared and Contrasted

 In both, Brave New World and 1984, common themes are addressed including government, orthodoxy, social hierarchy, economics, love, sex, and power. 

 Both books portray propaganda as a necessary tool of government to shape the collective minds of the citizenry within each respective society and towards the specific goals of the state: 

to wit, stability and continuity.

In Brave New World, the "Bureaux of Propaganda" shared a building with the "College of Emotional Engineering" and all media outlets including radio, television, and newspaper. 

 Much of the brainwashing of the citizens in Huxley's world included messaging to stay within their genetically predetermined castes or to encourage the daily use of the drug, Soma, in order to anesthetize emotional agitation:

A gramme in time saves nine

A gramme is better than a damn

One cubic centimeter cures ten gloomy sentiments

When the individual feels, the community reels.

The "Ministry of Truth", in 1984, also known as "minitrue" in Newspeak, served as the propaganda machine for Big Brother and the INGSOC regime. 

 Although its main purpose was to rewrite history in order to realign it with Party doctrine and make the Party look infallible, the Ministry of Truth also promoted war hysteria in order to unite the citizens of Oceania while broadcasting simple messages designed to discourage any self-determination or autonomous thought.

Who controls the past controls the future. Who controls the present controls the past.

war is peace

freedom is slavery

ignorance is strength

Whereas the citizens of Brave New World used the drug Soma and cursory material distractions to vanquish any desire for real knowledge or truth; the "memory hole" in 1984 was a chute connected to an incinerator and served as the mechanism by which the Ministry of Truth would abolish historical archives as if they never existed.

 In other words, truth was unimportant to the citizens of Brave New World and it was summarily rescinded from the realm of 1984.

     Furthermore, in order to additionally fill the empty existence of those living in Brave New World, Huxley envisioned a character by the name of Helmholtz Watsonas a creator of hypnopaedic phrases designed to fill the mental and emotional vacuum vacated by knowledge:

Alpha children wear grey. They work much harder than we do, because they're so frightfully clever. 

 I'm really awfully glad I'm a Beta, because I don't work so hard. And then we are much better than the Gammas and Deltas. Gammas are stupid. They all wear green, and Delta children wear khaki. Oh no, I don't want to play with Delta children. 

 And Epsilons are still worse. They're too stupid to be able to read or write. Besides, they wear black, which is such a beastly color. I'm so glad I'm a Beta.

Brave New World

Chapter 2, pg. 27

In 1984, however, Orwell conceived of a character named Syme, who was an enthusiastic Newspeak redactor of language:

It's a beautiful thing, the destruction of words.

 Don't you see that the whole aim of Newspeak is to narrow the range of thought? In the end we shall make thoughtcrime literally impossible, because there will be no words in which to express it. 

 Every concept that can ever be needed will be expressed by exactly one word, with its meaning rigidly defined and all its subsidiary meanings rubbed out and forgotten.

Syme, 1984, part 1, chapter 5

In Brave New World, Helmholtz Watson worked to fill the mind of people with hypnotic messages. In 1984, Syme strived to remove words from the English language in order to eliminate what the Party considered to be "thoughtcrime".

 Although the methodologies varied, mind control was prevalent throughout both the fictional worlds of Huxley and Orwell.

 Social hierarchies were also present in both futuristic novels. The citizens of Brave New World consisted of the Alpha caste which held the highest jobs in the world state, and Betas, who were allowed to interact with the Alphas. 

 The Gamma's were considered to have average intelligence, they were eight inches shorter than Alpha's in height, and they maintained the office jobs and held administrative positions. 

 The Delta's were trained from a very young age to despise books and were conditioned to work in manufacturing, while the Epsilon caste members were considered as morons who performed the menial labor within the lowest strata of society.

 Although 1984 doesn't have a caste system, per se, the citizenry were still separated into three groups:

the Inner Party

the Outer Party

the Proles, or the proletariat

The Proles constituted 85% of the population and were allowed privacy and anonymity, yet they lived in extreme privation in pursuit of bread and circuses.

As the Party slogan put it: ‘Proles and animals are free.'

1984

part 1, chapter 7

Although both Inner and Outer Party members of 1984's Oceania lived under constant surveillance, the members of the Inner party led lives of relative luxury compared to the middle-class lifestyle of those within the Outer Party. 

 Additionally, the members of the Outer Party were denied sex, other than within marriage and for the sole purposes of procreation. They were also denied motorized transportation and were allowed cigarettes and gin as their only vices.

 Governments of both Brave New World and 1984 also filtered information and propaganda in accordance to the class ranking of their citizens.

 In Brave New World, the separate castes, except for the Epsilons who couldn't read, received their own newspapers delivering specific propaganda for each class of society; whereas the INGSOC party members of 1984 were allowed newspapers and to view broadcasted reports of world news via their telescreens.

 Even though there is no actual organized religion described in either book, there were deities endorsed by the government, primarily for economic reasons, and complete with mandated rigorous orthodoxies.

 Again, the aforementioned god of Brave New World was called "Ford", after Henry Ford, in celebration of his efficient assembly-line production of goods that was worshiped by both the overseers and citizenry of the world state.

 In 1984, Big Brother served as the almighty "beginning and end", creator, judge, grand architect and savior for the INGSOC party disciples.

 In Huxley's vision of the future, the higher power of consumerism guided the people; complete with memorized short phrases designed to encourage the replacement of material items in lieu of repairing them; and, those wearing older clothes were shamed into purchasing new apparel:

Ending is better than mending.

The more stitches, the less riches. 

Brave New World

Chapter 3, pg. 49

Orwell, on the other hand, considered war as the means by which a collectivist oligarchy could maintain a hierarchical society by purging the excess production of material goods from the economy.

 Thus, keeping the masses impoverished and ignorant by denying them the surplus "spare time" that is afforded via the convenience of modern technology:

The essential act of war is destruction, not necessarily of human lives, but of the products of human labour. 

 War is a way of shattering to pieces, or pouring into the stratosphere, or sinking in the depths of the sea, materials which might otherwise be used to make the masses too comfortable, and hence, in the long run, too intelligent.

Emmanuel Goldstein

"1984": part 2, chapter 9

  Source: 20th Century Fox

  The futuristic societies envisioned by Huxley and Orwell, additionally, both discouraged romantic love, yet diverged on the subject of sex.

 As mentioned earlier, Brave New World treated sex as a "pressure relief valve" remaining constantly open in order to release any negative emotions like suspicion, distrust, jealousy, rage or envy. "Everyone belonged to everyone else", so there was no need for secrets. 

 Even children were encouraged to sexually experiment guilt free. 

 Of course, sex was meant to be enjoyed only as a means of pleasure in Brave New World; as procreation was considered an anathema by the people and beneath the dignity of mankind.

 In Orwell's dark dystopia, however, promiscuous sex was encouraged among the proletariat and the Ministry of Truth even had a pornography division called "Pornosec", which distributed obscene media for consumption by the Proles alone. 

 Conversely, and also as mentioned prior, the members of the INGSOC party were required to abstain from sex; except for married couples attempting to procreate solely on behalf of the government.

 In reading both books, it was also fascinating to see how both Huxley and Orwell painted their female protagonists, Lenina Crowne and Julia, respectively, as shallow nymphomaniacs.

 Nevertheless, the procreative sterilized purity and casual sexual promiscuity of Brave New World along with 1984's hierarchical rationing of sex, combined with the twisted morality of the INGSOC Party, represented the power of government invading into the most personal means of expression, and engenderment, between individuals of both worlds.

 The concept of "everyone belongs to everyone else" in Brave New World allowed intimate acts to be considered merely as trivial recreation whereas the Party's power over copulation in 1984, created a sense of fatalism within Winston and Julia as they made love knowing they were "the dead".

 In spite of any differences, both scenarios were the end result of extreme philosophical collectivism manifested into distorted and perverse destinies of speculative, future populations.

    The Future is Now

 For reasons described heretofore, many might consider Brave New World to be a utopian dream. 

 In the context of individual autonomy, however, as well as the pursuit of truth, the opportunity for personal self-actualization, the dilemma of ethical considerations and the governmental dispensation of immoral law; Huxley's vision of the future removes the lid of a veritable Pandora's Box of questions.

 In reality, the societal structure as delineated in Brave New World would greatly resemble what could be called a "prison of pleasure" and, perhaps, even a "penitentiary of profligate practicality".

 Applying the same philosophical critique of 1984, and in similar fashion, Orwell's nation-state of Oceana would be considered as a bona fide dystopian "prison of fear".

 As a matter of fact, both societies portray prisons of man's own making, formed by governments following their own directions toward their respective future destinations. 

 To say it another way: 

The road to hell is actually paved with bad intentions. 

As the Inner Party member (and administrator of torture), "Obrien", admitted to Winston Smith in Room 101 of The Ministry of Love:

We know that no one ever seizes power with the intention of relinquishing it.

 Power is not a means; it is an end. One does not establish a dictatorship in order to safeguard a revolution; one makes the revolution in order to establish the dictatorship. 

 The object of persecution is persecution. The object of torture is torture. The object of power is power.

Obrien

"1984": part 3, chapter 3

Both power structures in Brave New World and 1984 chose to diminish individual rights in order to achieve societal stability. 

 To the governments of both super-states, their citizens were considered as mere "means to an end"; namely, the continuation of power.

Now I will tell you the answer to my question. It is this. 

 The Party seeks power entirely for its own sake. We are not interested in the good of others; we are interested solely in power. Not wealth or luxury or long life or happiness; only power, pure power. 

 What pure power means you will understand presently. We are different from all the oligarchies of the past in that we know what we are doing. All the others, even those who resembled ourselves, were cowards and hypocrites. 

 The German Nazis and the Russian Communists came very close to us in their methods, but they never had the courage to recognize their own motives. 

 They pretended, perhaps they even believed, that they had seized power unwillingly and for a limited time, and that just round the corner there lay a paradise where human beings would be free and equal. 

 We are not like that. 

Obrien

"1984": part 3, chapter 3

This is a perfect description of mankind striving to be as gods; an attempt to create metaphysical law from carnal desire. 

 Foregone were the virtues of mercy, humility, temperance, autonomy, self-reliance, and restraint.

 Mustapha Mond, one of ten world controllers in Brave New World and the evil Obrien of 1984's nation of Oceana, both knew what they were doing. They were fully conscious in order to exert complete control and ensure the continuation of their respective, fictional nation-states.

 But, could this type of power consolidation occur in the real (non-literary) world?

 To answer that question one only needs to study history then, go turn on all of the various "telescreens" in their private homes: 

Televisions

smartphones

tablets

lap-taps

desktop computers

Tyrannical regimes have been centralizing and fortifying ramparts of power from the time man first crushed grapes. 

 And, obviously, as the exiled enemy of the State, Edward Snowden, has revealed, modernity is no antiserum to the cancerous systematization of power.

 When considering the prosperous technological paradise of Brave New World, where the societal elite had unrestricted access to intercontinental transportation and private helicopters; where even the lower classes enjoyed pampered lives of perennial comfort, ceaseless entertainment, and eternal recreation; as compared to the dingy, post-apocalyptically war-torn, third-world existence of 1984.

 It becomes difficult not to view both Huxley and Orwell as prophets...

 Indeed, both futures have come to pass and are merely economically separated and dispersed into diverse geographic locations.

 Today, it is the westernized cultures of the world, including Asian nations like,

Japan

South Korea,

...that more closely resemble Brave New World, whereas vestiges of 1984 can be seen in the eastern bloc communist countries,

China

North Korea

the Islamic societies of the middle-east

Although Adam Smith's "invisible hand" of Capitalism had created a rising economic tide that lifted many boats; much of the world's population still languishes in squalor and will never rise from the muck.

 Moreover, even the modernized nations today have sacrificed individual freedom upon the altar of Collectivism as political correctness stifles free speech; families suffocate beneath mountains of debt and United Nations Agenda 21 policies release a deluge of regulations causing extra-governmental autonomous innovation to collapse before the inexorable, gravitational pull of the hive-mind.

 Corporations like,

Amazon

Google

Facebook

Microsoft

Samsung

Apple,

...have become the eyes and ears of Big Brother who is always watching, and ever listening.

 To the sounds of mouse-clicks, once free people have "accepted" the "terms" of their surrender and have forfeited their liberty in the name of convenience.

 Like buzzing insects, the citizens of modern societies are caught in silicon honey traps mortgaged with plastic and electronically powered via USB cable nooses wrapped tightly around their collective throats.

 The Technocratic Powers That Be wield weapons far more powerful than any time prior in history and soon, people will wake up to realize the electronic buzzing sound ringing in their ears was not emanating from their own wings, but rather, it was merely the sound of drones over their heads.

 Like in Brave New World, science now rules supreme over ethics as medical professionals sell fetus organs to advance the cause of genetic research.

 The United States currently leads the world in illegal drug use and consumes near all of the global opioid supply, according to U.S. Surgeon General Vivek Murthy:

In most countries, the use of opioid prescriptions is limited to acute hospitalization and trauma, such as burns, surgery, childbirth and end-of-life care, including patients with cancer and terminal illnesses. 

 But in the United States, every adult in America can have "a bottle of pills" and then some.

Just as 1984's Ministry of Truth purveyed pornography to the Proles, statistics show at least 35% of all internet downloads and at least 30% of all data transferred across the internet are porn-related. 

 Also similar to Huxley's Brave New World, sex runs rampant throughout the modernized nations as cases of sexually transmitted disease have reached a record high in the United States.

 In correlation to the ever-expanding gulf between rich and poor, strict adherence to orthodoxy now determines how high one can rise in the societies of the westernized nations, as political correctness defines the faith of the pantheistic disciples of Mother Earth in the form of Gaia worship.

 And social hierarchy is increasingly determined via the identity politics of the collectivist left. 

 The American body politic has now witnessed the rise of the warrior cop and the militarization of domestic law enforcement, as interminable wars are eternally fought on foreign shores and sovereign nations are bombed under false pretense.

 Even 1984's "Victory Gin" has manifested in the form Russian Vodka within the eastern nations, as Oceania's type of man-made orthodoxy silently drowns the human spirit in devastating despair, while contorted moralities overtake both the Christian and Islamic societies of the modern age.

 Orwell defined "doublethink" as:

the power of holding two contradictory beliefs in one's mind simultaneously, and accepting both of them.

Emmanuel Goldstein

"1984": part 2, chapter 9

Only in wealthy westernized nations do billionaires own multiple mansions, fly private jets and ride in eight-cylinder limousines to climate-change conferences where policies are decreed to lower the carbon footprint of the proletariat. 

 Only in wealthy westernized nations, do ever-increasing numbers of women consider white men to be pigs while simultaneously striving to be their equals. 

 And, only in the wealthy Christian nations of the northern hemisphere will citizens support a women's right to third-trimester abortions, while rigorously and righteously battling for legislation to save endangered dung beetles.

 Throughout Islamic societies, drinking alcohol and gambling is forbidden, but the governments and their citizens gladly tolerate canings, whippings, lashings, honor killings, suicide attacks, and the genital mutilation of young girls.

 This does NOT prevent, however, the citizens of the wealthy Christian nations in the West to welcome with open arms, and in the name of "tolerance", the pervading flood of Islamic immigrants.

 The writings of Huxley and Orwell resonate by the echoes of history, over the canyons of time, and to the very cliff upon where mankind now stands. 

 Propaganda daily spews via the machinations of five corporations which control 90% of all mainstream media channels. 

 These companies toe the war-party line and wield their great powers of disinformation to contort facts or even censor the failures of the politicians whom they favor while, simultaneously, attacking their political enemies with lies and innuendo; even to the point of creating a phony election hacking narrative to satisfy their radioactive lust for war with nuclear powered enemies.

 Even the characters of both Brave New World and 1984 are resonant of familiar archetypes from days gone by. 

 Brave New World portrayed the character Bernard Marx as being short like Hitler, with a small man's inferiority complex and complete with the surname of Karl Marx, the eponymous founder of Marxism.

 The noble sounding Lenina Crowne's name contains the surname of Vladimir Lenin, and Orwell's portrayal of Julia does not seem overly diverse from former President's Obama's vision of "The Life of Julia". 

 Even the mustachioed, evil-eyed Big Brother from 1984's dystopian nation of Oceana, looks eerily similar to just about every other tin-pot dictator who ever walked the earth.

     Art imitating life? Indeed...

 Yet the irony fails to impress America's young social justice warriors of the Millennial generation who have been raised on a steady diet of socialism, political correctness, and participation trophies; a far cry from the rugged individualists of previous American generations.

 In the 2016 U.S. Democratic Party Primaries, and with the same sense of vague dissatisfaction as exhibited by Huxley's Bernard Marx, millions upon millions of rainbow worshipping Snowflakes, old and young alike, turned out in force to show their support for another Bernard: Bernard Sanders, a redistributionist of the line of Robin Hood who, in the spirit of Santa Claus, offered free college educations to all of Uncle Sam's children.

 Sadly, Big Brother is here to stay and, with time, he will only grow more bigly; regardless of any transitory elected politicians in the governments of the world's "sovereign" nations today.

 Although Aldous Huxley and George Orwell valiantly spun fictional narratives in order to warn the real world's future citizens, they were not alone in their efforts.

 On January 17, 1961, former President Dwight D. Eisenhower warned of an ever-encroaching "Military Industrial Complex" in his farewell address to the nation:

In the councils of government, we must guard against the acquisition of unwarranted influence, whether sought or unsought, by the military-industrial complex. 

 The potential for the disastrous rise of misplaced power exists and will persist. 

 We must never let the weight of this combination endanger our liberties or democratic processes. We should take nothing for granted. 

 Only an alert and knowledgeable citizenry can compel the proper meshing of the huge industrial and military machinery of defense with our peaceful methods and goals, so that security and liberty may prosper together.

Exactly 100 days after Ike's farewell, on April 27, 1961, John F. Kennedy spoke before the American Newspaper Publishers Association in an address that later became known as his "Secret Society" speech. 

 In that address, he stated the following:

For we are opposed around the world by a monolithic and ruthless conspiracy that relies on covert means for expanding its sphere of influence: on infiltration instead of invasion, on subversion instead of elections, on intimidation instead of free choice, on guerrillas by night instead of armies by day. 

 It is a system which has conscripted vast human and material resources into the building of a tightly knit, highly efficient machine that combines military, diplomatic, intelligence, economic, scientific and political operations.

 Its preparations are concealed, not published. Its mistakes are buried not headlined. Its dissenters are silenced, not praised. 

 No expenditure is questioned, no rumor is printed, no secret is revealed. Without debate, without criticism, no Administration and no country can succeed - and no republic can survive. 

 That is why the Athenian lawmaker Solon decreed it a crime for any citizen to shrink from controversy.

Thirty months after that speech, President Kennedy was assassinated in Dallas, Texas on November 22, 1963.

 Many people consider Kennedy to have been the last American president not controlled by a financial global elite hell bent on world domination.

 In one of the twentieth century's minor ironies, Aldous Huxley died on the very same day that John F. Kennedy was killed. It was also the exact day C.S. Lewis, the British author, and Christian apologist, passed from this earth.

 Coincidence? Only God knows...

 Regardless, by 1984 all had been forgotten; and, in a Brave New World, none of it really matters anyway...