#Light through a Broken Lens

[dragonowl]

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Light Through a Broken Lens

The Sky That Doesn't End: Part 2

Masterlist

Genre: EXO AU, Romance, Mystery

Rated: PG

Pairing: Byun Baekhyun x Lara (OC)

Summery: Exo has scattered. Now in hiding after the Red Force closed in on them and Luhan went missing. Baekhyun finds himself in a small town while he waits until they can reunite again. Guarded after everything that has taken place, he’s not looking for friendship, or anything else, until a light shines through, even as the darkness closes around them.

Next, AO3

Chapter 1: Depth of Field

The sun warmed Baekhyun’s skin against the cold breeze that weaved through the tall grass. It was turning golden, creating the perfect lighting for him to catch through his lens. The puttering of an old truck broke the stillness as it made its way on the road behind him, but he kept his focus on the camera. He was so focused that he didn’t notice the puttering had stopped. 

“You okay?” 

He jumped with a yelp at the sudden voice and spun around to find that the truck had come to a stop and its driver was addressing him. The light of the setting sun was blocking his view of the woman’s features, but he could tell she was young by her voice. 

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you. Do you need help?” she asked with a giggle that tinkled like soft bells. 

“I’m okay,” he responded, the Russian still awkward in his mouth. “Just catching some photos before the sun goes down.”

“Would you like a ride back to town?” she asked. “It’s quite a walk.”

“I’m going to be taking photos for a while, but thank you,” Baekhyun said and started to turn back to the scene he was capturing. 

“I don’t mind waiting,” the woman said. “I’d hate to leave someone alone on these roads after dark. They’re not the safest.”

“It could be a while,” he said, turning back to her again. 

“My evening is free.”

“Well…” he thought for a second. Walking back in the dark was not the most ideal situation. “Okay,” he finally conceded. “I’ll buy you dinner as a thank you.”

“I’d never refuse a free meal,” she said with a chuckle. 

He smiled at her honest response and then turned back to the scenery that was quickly changing with the sun’s descent. Faster than he anticipated, the sun was gone and he rushed to pack his gear in the lack of light, then made his way carefully through the tall grass to the road where the truck still waited. 

The young woman was now hidden in the heavy shadows of twilight, but she noticed him coming before he had even left the brush. 

“All done?” she asked, leaning across the truck to open his door from inside. 

“Yep,” he responded as he finally made it to the asphalt. “Where can I put my gear?”

“There isn't much room in the cabin, unfortunately, but you can get in here what will fit and place the rest in the bed if you’re okay with that.”

“Better than lugging it back to town on foot,” he said. He placed his camera bag on the floor then took his tripod to the back and placed it in the truck bed as securely as possible. When he climbed into the front she started the vehicle and then held her hand out to him. 

“My name’s Lara,” she said and he took her hand. 

“Baekhyun,” he said after a second of hesitation. 

“Korean?” she asked with surprise, her grip tightening as she pulled him closer.

He nodded, trying to pull back.

“Oh, sorry,” she said, letting go and switching to Korean. “I got excited. There aren’t really many Koreans in the surrounding towns. 

The language change surprised him and he noted the lack of accent. “Are you Korean as well?”

“On my mom’s side,” she said, then put the truck in gear and started driving. “Spoke both Korean and Russian growing up, so I’m fluent in both. Your Russian is pretty good, but I can tell it’s not a natural language for you. How long have you lived here? Must be fairly new if I hadn’t heard about you yet. Word about newcomers travels pretty fast around here.”

“I haven’t been around long,” he said, adjusting in his seat as he tried to come up with answers. “I travel a lot and liked some of the scenery in the area so I thought I’d stick around for a bit.”

“Do you work for a magazine, or…?”

“Just freelance,” he responded when she trailed off. “I’ll send shots to magazine companies sometimes and find random requests online to fulfill. I’d like to set up a studio someday though if I can ever settle down.”

“Wanderlust?”

“Something like that. Nowhere really feels like home.” He shifted again and coughed. “What about you?”

“I can’t really seem to escape the small-town life,” she said with a shrug. “Moved away from home, but only made it a few towns over. I didn’t really have any grand plans, just wanted to see how I would do on my own.”

“Sounds grand to me,” Baekhyun said with a smile. “Where do you work?”

“The little bakery on the east end at the corner. I was just coming back from a delivery to the next town over.”

“I’ve been meaning to go in there. What do you recommend?”

“We’ve got some pretty good muffins,” she said. “But they’re my specialty so I might be biased.”

“I happen to really like muffins,” he said. “I’ll have to give them a try.”

They continued to chat casually as they bounced down the road. Stars became more and more visible as the light continued to fade in the horizon and the homesickness that Baekhyun had been struggling with lightened slightly at the familiar language and constant chatter.

Next

[peachsayshi]

🩵

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ minors / ageless / blank blogs (dni) - dad gojo x reader

papa's scary face is how your daughter describes it. the difference when her usually bubbly, bright father morphs into somebody else. the expression he makes when she accidentally walks in on you and satoru having a serious argument. when she catches him coming home from work with his shoulders taut and his brows furrowed.

satoru's daughter is the light of his life - his little peace of heaven on earth. that's why he is so terrible when it comes to discipline (a lecture you constantly have to give him). she has never been on the receiving end of your lover's scary face. isn't familiar with the hardened muscles he express when serious, or notices the angry twitch of his jaw when frustrated.

it's rare, but these moments happen. satoru may possess godlike powers, but he's still inherently human. his very essence the same that make up you and your daughter.

you're surprised when you see her quietly tiptoe her way towards the sofa, towards you and her father. her energetic aura dwindled by silence. her bottom lip is tucked tightly between her teeth, her beautiful round eyes varnished with tears ready to fall.

satoru's face instantly drops with concern. his body immediately growing protective with his arm lightly slipping away from around your waist.

"you okay, mochi?" he asks sweetly, his brow quirking at her arms tucked behind her back.

you both know that she's hiding something.

"I did something bad" she says quietly, her worried voice so small it makes satoru spring to his feet to meet her halfway.

he crouches on his knees, his height daunting compared to hers. he lightly tugs at her frosty pigtail, and she sniffles ever so slightly to keep her brave face in place.

always trying to hold a strong front, just like her father.

"what did you do?" he asks with a gentle smile, watching her shift from one foot to the next.

" I..uhm...I was playing with your toys," she mumbles, unable to meet his gaze as she keeps her own firmly on her pattering feet. "I know they're yours. I know I have’ta ask first. I was tryna to be...uhm..."

"careful?" satoru completes, tilting his head in an attempt to make contact with his hesitant daughter who still hasn't figured out all her words just yet.

"yeh that..." she grumbles to reveal what's behind her hands.

you press your fingers against your lips when you see it.

satoru's favorite pair of sunglasses.

a limited edition pair from one of his favorite high fashion brands. he splurged a stupid amount of money of it. even kept the packaging because he hyper fixated on the details. the frame was extremely delicate, which is why he rarely wore it. but he gushed over it for almost a year since it's pre-release was announced.

his daughter, however, has a habit of sneaking into her father's room to steal one of the many pairs of shades that your lover wore. she enjoyed "modeling" them, and would flash poses in front of your bedroom mirror while sifting through his collection like they were treasure.

you and satoru have caught her doing this many times before, and while the both of you found it adorable, you realized that your daughter wasn't very careful when handling things.

she scratched the lens of another pair that belonged to her father. bent the temple of a second, which he hasn't been able to fix.

so, when satoru received these specific shades, the two of you sat her down to try and explain that she couldn't freely just loot around his stuff without asking for permission.

right now, those very shades where split into two in his daughter's hands.

satoru's jaw goes slack when he picks them up from her tiny palms, his cheeks tinting a slight red from surprise.

"im sorry, papa," she timidly begs, bringing her now empty hands to cover her eyes. her body heaves, you can see that she is trying really hard not to cry.

satoru allows the shock to settle for only just a minute, before he places the broken sunglasses by his side. there's something else that washes over him - relief.

he circles his arms around her wrists, tugging them away from her face but she keeps them fiercely in place. he chuckles with ease, shaking his head in disbelief as he loosens his grip to grab her waist and pull her into his frame.

"silly girl," he teases. "it's okay, papa's not mad, I promise..."

"but I didn't listen to what you 'n mama said-"

"I know," he sighs calmly, "and you know that was wrong, right? not to listen?"

she nods her head yes, her hands still covering her face.

"Eyes on me, grabby hands..." satoru lectures but she shakes her head no.

"Don't wanna see your scary face," she awkwardly admits, and you can't help but bite back a smile.

she's far too innocent to understand what those expressions. to young to acknowledge that they weren't always bad. that they were, in fact, normal. and that one day she will bare the cross of these complex emotions herself.

"scary face?" satoru huffs, "you think daddy has a scary face?"

she drops her hands to her side swiftly, revealing her guilt and wet cheeks. she furiously shakes her head no, taking in a large inhale as she wipes her face with the back of her hands.

it makes your heart ache watching her try to comprehend the weight of her small feelings.

"nu-uh," she reassures, "but-but sometimes..."

satoru kisses her plush cheek three times over to interrupt her eyes, "I am not mad at you, mochi," he consoles, "just promise you won't do it again."

"pinky swear!" she yelps as she searches for his long, slender digits. the relief brings the color back into her face, the pale sheet of white bloomed with a tiny blush. she hooks her pinky around satoru's, the size different so prominent, before eagerly wrapping her arms around his neck. "m'sorry, papa"

"it's okay, baby," he coos as he kisses her forehead.

the scene is heartwarming, and while satoru maintained his cool, you can still read the disappointment on his face.

the pair slip away from each other's arms, your daughter picking up the broken shades as she patters her way back down the hallway to give you both some privacy.

satoru gets up, his hand clutching his chest as he turns to give you a pathetically sad expression.

"how much does it hurt?" you tease, watching him drag his feet back to you.

you grumble when he collapses into your chest, burying his nose into your neck as he wraps his strong arms around your waist.

"this is the worst heartbreak of my life," he groans obnoxiously, and you raise your own brows in surprise.

"I thought our break up was the worst heartbreak you’ve experienced," you chide, twirling the strands of his soft hair between your fingers.

"seriously? you want to bring that up now? while I'm in mourning?"

you giggle when he sinks his teeth into the delicate flesh of your neck, nipping at your skin tenderly before exhaling with sorrow.

"ugh, she's got me wrapped around her fingers like taffy," he moans like he can’t believe his own defeat, "did you see her face? how can I even get mad?"

"I know, my love," you coo, consoling your own crybaby.

Minutes pass in silence before satoru finally ponders that, "maybe, I can find another pair online or something-"

"papa!" your daughter chirps, interrupting the moment as quickly as she graced it.

satoru untangles himself from your embrace, sitting upright to see her pigtails bouncing as she scampers towards you both. her steps hit the ground fast. he doesn't even have a chance to answer before she climbs on his lap, her eyes still a little glossy from shedding her tears. she wipes away the rogue strands of feathery hairs that stuck to her temple, before showing off what's in her hand.

"I fixed it for you," she beams, her face hopeful and optimistic.

Satoru picks up the glasses from between her fingers, noticing that she had used one of her washy tapes to stick the bridge back together.

It was blue, and had little ducks on it.

You can feel an eruption of laughter bubbling in your chest, but pure love bleeds through Satoru's eyes, completely moved by her gesture.

"Aww, mochi," he gently replies, tracing his thumb over the tape.

He arches forward to kiss her nose, while she seeks another embrace between mumbling into his ear that she loves him.

You simply melt by their side.

Satoru doesn't wear the glasses anymore, but he still keeps them. Bringing them out every once in a while to show his daughter that he still loves them.

Even though they sit quite lopsided on his handsome face.

[requests are closed]

[screampied]

saying “goodnight,” to gojo is one of the worst things you could ever tell him.

some may ask why . . it’s a simple word, a sweet farewell of good dreams if you will. but in this case, perhaps not. just a simple word, a simple word that always knew how to bring the strongest to complete tears.

“goodnight, ‘toru.” you’d murmur, swiftly running your hands through his white tangled strands. he was struggling to keep his eyes open. the calmness of your voice soothed him. cerulean irises stared right back into you before he lets off a soft sigh. his face was so relaxed, he stares into your eyes with his own becoming a bit droopy.

“goodnight,” he’d utter before his eyes briefly closes. “i love you.”

is what you thought he’d say in a moment like this. but even sometimes, reality can be faux. life’s pretty funny, isn’t it.

gojo didn’t like the word ‘goodbye’ simply because it brought back too many hard memories.

he wasn’t one to really explain why, he was more resvered sometimes than anything. he was often too embarrassed to get things off his chest. especially things like this, you did always wonder why though. how sometimes you’d kiss him on the cheek, reaching for the light before uttering off those fatal words of, “goodnight, satoru.”

despite everything though, he always gives you a soft kiss on the lips, murmuring, “sleep well, angel,” instead of goodnight. he’d hold you in his arms, stroking you gently until you fell fast asleep into his arms, where you always belonged.

why was goodnight such an avoidance to gojo’s vocabulary. it was simple, really. a bad experience, a very bad experience actually.

“i don’t like seeing you cry like that,” he’d grumble in a merely defeated voice. he sounded so different, so tired, so … weak. gojo’s voice, it was once so full of life and oh so effervescent. and now, it sounded like he was clinging onto his last and final conclusive breaths—in which he was. “hey, hey. look at me.”

you’d sniffle, glancing at gojo. your eyes were merely blind with your own pathetic tears, everything you saw through your own lens of eyesight was straight blurry. that dumb dorky smile remained plastered on his face despite the circumstances.

the circumstances, gojo satoru had been finally defeated. the strongest, considered as once the strongest, was now lying in your arms, squeezing your wrist as if it’d be the last time he’d touch you. and it would be.

“don’t cry for me. you’re gonna make me cry, silly,” he whispers in a jesting tone, brushing a thumb against the outer part of your hand. you always loved his touch, there was nothing like it. gojo actually for once seemed scared, he was always so good at concealing his emotions—but with you, that was an entire different story.

you could hear the tremble in his voice, his time was rapidly running out, and he just wanted to reassure you, even though perhaps you should have been reassuring him.

“s-satoru,” you’d reply in a shaky voice, you felt an abrupt sharp sting prod through your heart.

you didn’t expect to come to contact with the feeling of heartbreak so soon, but it hit you like a truck. you hated feeling powerless, you couldn’t do anything but just sit here and . . hold his hand.

one … last … time.

“you’ll be okay,” he murmurs, and he lifts up your hand, struggling at first. you’re kneeled down beside him as he lies on the floor. a pool of his own defeat starting to fill from underneath him before he kisses the palm of your hand. “i… i want you to promise me something though. can you do that, angel?”

“y-yes,” you immediately reply, your grip on his hand only growing tighter. suddenly, the air felt so thick and warm—everything felt so out of place. your ears, both of them rang and rang. there was a sting in your heart and it refused to go away. you were experiencing heartbreak at its finest, in slow slow waves.

gojo inhales, and you watch as his pretty lashes flutter at least twice before he says in the most broken, defeated voice you’ve ever heard.

“promise me,” he starts, and you watched as a tear ran down the corner of his eye. even he knew what his fate was coming to, everything was catching up to him and you were sharing the exact dreading emotion. gojo’s eyes flicker up towards you before he sniffles. “promise me, promise me that you’ll be here when i wake up?”

silence—pure silence was your reply, you didn’t know what to say.

but that pure silence only lasted for about three seconds before you nodded, feeling your own tears start to trickle out the crevices of your eyes. “i promise, i’ll be here, i’m always here, ‘toru,” and with a sob nearly escaping your lips, you whimper out a, “i love you.”

“i love you,” he replies with a cheeky grin, and by now he’s really clinging onto his final breaths.

all gojo could focus on was your face, the tears that swelled up through your eyes. he hated seeing you cry, he truly loathed it. with your fingers interlocked with his, gojo says in a soft broken tone, “goodnight, baby.”

“… goodnight, ‘toru.”

but instead of waking up next to gojo like promised, you woke up alone with his side of the bed empty. then reality hit you, he was already gone.

[mindmelter]

A Body Stealer Tale: A Capture To Remember

When I arrived in Italy, I found out my camera was broken from the travel. Frustrated, I wandered through Italy until I found a small, dusty shop tucked between old buildings. Inside, an elderly shopkeeper offered me an old camera model, calling it "special." I was desperate, so I bought it, not realizing just how “special” this camera would actually be.

I’d only been in Italy for a day when I spotted him—an absolute Adonis. I was just wandering through the cobbled streets of the old town, camera in hand, getting lost in the architecture and the vibes, taking photos of every old building I saw. Suddenly, there he was: this hot Italian guy walking alone past me. I couldn’t resist. I knew it was a little risky, but I raised my new camera to grab a quick shot of him without him noticing.

I mean, I would never see him again after that, so I should as well capture the moment to remember.

But then, the moment I pressed the shutter, there was a flash of bright light. It wasn’t from my camera. It was like a white ball of light bursting out from the man's back and zipping straight into my camera, vanishing without a trace.

And before I could even gasp, his whole body crumpled like a pile of clothes, totally hollowed out. I blinked, trying to make sense of what I was seeing. I mean, there was this whole empty Italian guy lying there on the street—skin, hair, face, everything—but no bones, no organs, nothing inside. Just a bodysuit.

I just stood there, completely dumbfounded, staring at the bodysuit that had been a whole man only seconds before. Luckily, there was no one on the street but me, which honestly was a miracle. My heart was racing, but curiosity got the better of me. I glanced around, making sure I was alone, and slowly crouched down, reaching out to touch the hollowed man's face. It was surreal, it felt smooth, soft, and very real, I mean... it was real. As I caressed his stubble beard and admired his slack empty face, I noticed an opening on his nape. Curious, I pulled his sagging head by the hair and noticed a small opening on his back, it was the exact place where the ball of light had come out of him.

An idea popped into my head—completely insane, but somehow, I knew I had to do it. Before I could second-guess myself, I slipped off my shoes and started undressing right there on the sidewalk. Yeah, risky, but I wasn’t gonna let this opportunity slip away.

One leg at a time, I stepped into the suit's open hole, pulling his muscular calves and thighs over my own legs. The fabric—no, the *skin*—wrapped around me like a second layer. I could feel his muscles molding to my shape as I slid my arms into his and finally tugged his handsome face over mine like a mask.

Then… something amazing happened. I could feel the strength of his body taking over, the weight of his muscles filling me up, the opening in his back closing, and even his face settling into place over mine. I wasn’t just wearing him—I *was* him.

I glanced down and saw those fit pecs, those ripped abs, and a big flaccid cock that now belonged to me. The guy was very hung, I thought.

I couldn't help but give my new cock a few strokes. I chuckled at the thought of someone walking and seeing this stud jerking off naked on the street.

But I wasn't in the mood to spend my new hot body in an Italian jail, so I grabbed the man's jeans from the ground and pulled them back up. His wallet fell out of his pocket, so I grabbed it and looked for his ID.

"Luca Moretti, 23 years old," It said.

Well, I guess that's my new name for now, I thought as I put a shirt on.

I grabbed the camera from the ground and looked at the lens, my eyes squinted as I tried to look inside for any sign of life, "Hello? Do you hear me?" I waited for a response and chuckled at how ridiculous I looked talking to a camera. I was about to put it inside my backpack when I heard a distant voice in my head. It was a male voice, and it was screaming in Italian.

"Che cazzo sta succedendo? Non sento più nulla… posso solo vedere attraverso questa maledetta lente! Ma cosa mi è successo? Sono intrappolato qui dentro? Non può essere vero… Aiuto! Qualcuno mi tiri fuori da qui, vi prego!"

I couldn't understand what he was saying—I don't speak Italian! I gazed into the lens, letting a look of gentle compassion soften my new features.

"I'm sorry man, I can't understand what you're saying. But it looks like that's your new home now. Your body is mine and It's going to be so fun being you, I hope you don't have a girlfriend because I'm really going to put this ass to use. But don't worry though, I will make sure you get some company soon."

I put the camera inside my backpack and casually walked away as if I’d always been him. I’d never felt this confident in my life, and proof of that was the huge bulge I proudly displayed in my jeans. This is going to be one unforgettable trip.

Next time, I won't be taking photos of old buildings, but of hot men whose bodies I want to capture.

[revelboo]

(Or Madam) Tfp Shockwave 🥺 if you have the inspiration and or inclination to write for him? Also I hope you had a fantastic birthday!!! 🎂 🎈 🎁 ironically it was your birthday and you’ve been giving all of us gifts 😂 I thank thee very much!

You’re welcome! My family doesn’t really do parties or make big deals about birthdays, so I tend to just treat it like any other day 😁

Point of Extinction Pt 2

TFP Shockwave x Reader

• Slowly, that disconnect rattling about in his processor eases and he can move again. What’s the next step? Stick to the routine. Logical steps. Venting, he retrieves his data pad and a scanner. Reaches into the box to lift you out and place you on the exam counter where you huddle, trembling. Eyes darting around for a way to escape. There is none and he watches your shoulders sag as you realize that. Accept it. When he lifts the scanner, you tense like you’re considering flinging yourself off the counter anyway. “Will it hurt?” You ask him, soft voice breaking.

• I’m not supposed to be here. It hurts. Were those his words? He’s not sure, but his antenna flick back as that disquiet stirs. “No,” he says as he thumbs on the scanner and uses the end of his cannon to nudge you. Not a lie, this won’t hurt. But other experiments will. “Stand, Thirteen.”

• You want to correct him, tell him that’s not your name, but feel like you’ll come apart if you try to speak again. Just start bawling and be unable to stop. Reaching out a hand to use the muzzle of that cannon at the end of his arm to pull yourself up, you feel it when he flinches at the touch. Antenna on the sides of his helm folding even further back like the ears of an affronted cat. As soon as you’re on your feet he turns the thing in his hand on you and green light plays over you. It doesn’t hurt and you obediently turn for him so he can scan you. Is this why he took you? Just curious about humans? This… this is okay.

• You’re staring up at him, those intelligent eyes watching his every move. His other lab animals hadn’t looked at him that way, hadn’t understood anything but the pain. Wishes you wouldn’t look at him. That jangling sense of something he can’t understand is still there. The same unpleasant, illogical feeling that had welled up when he’d been brought prisoners on Cybertron. What might be guilt. It’s hard to be sure when he experiences the world around him through a cold, numb lens of dispassionate logic. Knowing something is wrong with him, but unable to remember exactly what. Almost remembered things, broken memories he can’t even claim as his shouldn’t affect him. It’s illogical. He’s still for so long aside from the faint tremor as he tries to sort everything into things he’s certain are real and the murky memories he can’t understand or quite recall. Doesn’t realize you’ve moved until he feels that little hand on the end of his cannon again. Helm tipping down as you look up at him. “Are you okay?”

Previous

Next

[wordsinhaled]

“I need you” isn’t “I love you,” and it isn’t “Yes, let’s go off together,” but the thing is, it might as well be. And it might be one of the more honest things Aziraphale has ever said.

He has never said it aloud before now. Not like this, with eons worth of raucous indignant feeling crawling up into his throat. He had not wanted, not expected to say it like this, mocked by his own stricken reflection in Crowley's sunglasses, each lens a dark mirror.

"I—I need you," says Aziraphale, and his voice breaks down the middle. It might as well, for he's confessed too late. Crowley is shut to him, recedes from him like a wave broken on the terrible bedrock of Aziraphale's futile stubbornness.

And still, even like this, Aziraphale needs him.

His presence, his constancy. His unfailing, tenacious friendship.

Crowley’s kindness, his softness, his solicitousness under the prickly façade Aziraphale sees is just that—a layer that can be so easily peeled away to reveal the deep core of caring beneath, too entrenched to be deserved by any world they could live in. He needs Crowley’s unguarded gaze, needs the way Crowley’s forever looking at him across distances when he thinks Aziraphale doesn’t notice: chin tilted up, eyes soft as marigold petals.

A phone call away whenever anything or nothing at all happens is Crowley’s dear voice; his lovely dry humor; his sauntering, slithering, improbable walk despite which he somehow flawlessly falls into step alongside Aziraphale anywhere and all the time. His hip knocking against Aziraphale’s, casual as anything and yet so much more than. Flashes of black and wisps of red flitting in and out of Aziraphale’s periphery for thousands of years.

He needs their circuitous arguments, their winding ethical debates—after most of which they somehow end up on the same side, that is, their own side, terrifying and exhilarating in its Promethean familiarity—and Crowley’s chaotically-sure moral compass. The times Crowley is braver than Aziraphale could ever be; and the times Crowley reminds him of how brave he actually always has been.

And Aziraphale needs even the great big awful rows, the ones that end in their standing on opposite verges of another chasm of their own making. Because the culmination of such a fight is always the meeting again in the middle. It’s the low sweeping bow of their apology, a ritual not half earnest for all its facetiousness, which says so much without either of them having to utter a word. Crowley holds a whole conversation in the dip of his fiery head and the exaggerated flutter of his elegant wrists, when it’s his turn; and, when it’s Aziraphale’s, the hashing-out of differences is there in the way he executes each familiar movement with the practiced ease of a faithful courtier, though it’s been ages since he stood in any king’s court.

He needs the knowledge that they always forgive each other. Because, well, they do. They must. They will. What’s a spat or a quarrel or even a proper falling-out to two beings like them, to him and Crowley?

Aziraphale needs Crowley’s happiness. His truest happiness. If that isn't the crux of it all, what is?

He remembers the ancient light of Crowley's joy, how it had shone once about both of them like an aura through the blackness of undeveloped space. It never left, all that bright, barely reined-in giddiness, all that frenetic energy, but he's transmuted it, magpie-like, into something else. Aziraphale can sense it whenever Crowley brings him a new vintage record to add to his collection. Whenever Crowley pulls out Aziraphale’s chair for him outside Marguerite's, or orders just what he likes for him at the Ritz. Whenever he drops into the shop unannounced with a little box tucked under his arm, full of gorgeous petits fours from the new bakery Aziraphale hasn’t yet tried, and says, gleeful, Ohhh, you wouldn’t believe all the wiling I had to do to get my hands on these, angel. You’ll have to thwart me for this, I know. But first—no, no, no, first! The only sensible thing for you to do would be to try them… you’ll like the pear macaron...

And of course Crowley is right. He's right about most things, isn't he, after all? Because Crowley knows him, and he needs to be known, but it simply wouldn't do for anyone else to be the one doing the knowing.

Aziraphale likes the pear macaron, just as Crowley knew he would.

He likes all the things that come along with Crowley, really. The fast car, oh yes, sleek and stylishly classic and so very Crowley through and through, though Aziraphale has committed staunchly to grousing about it. The way no companionable silence held in Crowley's company is ever truly silent. The jaunts to the park on seasonable days: Crowley's touch lingering where he pours frozen peas for the ducks into Aziraphale's cupped palm; the fondness in Crowley's tone poorly disguised as he points out his favorite mated pair trawling placidly across the pond. The drinking together long past the small hours of the morning in the back room of the bookshop, where the walls are the same warm ochre shade as Crowley’s eyes.

It isn't ever so much about the drinking as it is about the together bit. How the space between them dwindles with the syrupy passage of time. How Crowley softens and melts into the settee. How he becomes Aziraphale's to watch, for once. How he grows so wondrously relaxed and gloriously at home there in Aziraphale's space that Aziraphale begins to wonder if this will at last be the night Crowley does not, eventually, get up and retreat back to his Bentley to take himself away again...

There is always that fragile little moment, right after sobering up, when everything in their universe seems at the same time to be entirely too set in stone and entirely too much as though it all hangs by one delicate, dissembling thread. Always the split second in which Aziraphale looks into Crowley's guileless face and remembers he could unravel everything with a single tug.

Yes, one sharp tug on the lapels of Crowley's jacket would do it, he knows. How easily it could be done... Tumble the two of them into one another, just then, and they would never be parted again. And his deft-tongued Crowley would lick the heat and the aftertaste of Talisker into Aziraphale's mouth, then, before it had the chance to dissipate completely.

He could. He could.

It's in those stretched milliseconds, brimming with a tender longing so acute it tips right over into an agony, that Aziraphale realizes: I do need all of you, darling, don't I? So terribly much it might unmake me one day. Never mind Aziraphale's most fickle and blustering attempts at denial, he knows this to be true as he knows the truth of little else in the cosmos.

And perhaps today is that day—the day Aziraphale will dissolve and be remade in the permanent shape of lack.

[miriellesandthegiantpeach]

Anatomy of a Breakup | Bucktommy

All it takes is one moment; one sentence that’s misinterpreted, exposing their insecurities, and it falls apart. An argument that neither of them remember how it started, but spiraled into something else entirely.

‘I really can’t do this right now, Evan, I gotta go.’ Came from Tommy where he meant he was tired of arguing and needed a breather and Buck interpreted it through the self conscious lens that Tommy was done done. One too many slip ups on Buck’s part.

‘Wait what? Fine fucking leave then! See if I give a shit,” Buck spat back in anger and confusion and insecurity. So Tommy left his loft and came back an hour later to find it empty. And maybe Tommy called a little too late at night and Buck was a little too tipsy to be able to talk through it or decide to wait for a better time, so they decided to just end it.

The thing is, they didn’t seem to get the memo that they were exes now; neither of them quite understanding it meant they needed to let each other go. They weren’t too good at the whole broken up thing.

**

It’s when the rest of the 118 crew petter out one by one from the bar, conveniently leaving Tommy and Buck to be the last two standing outside attempting to order separate Ubers.

Tommy is already outside when Buck closes out his tab, not even looking at how much he spent or drank for that matter. He walks out into the crisp night loose limbed and relaxed. He catches Tommy’s eyes and can’t help the smile that spreads across his lips; he believes for a moment that it’s written in the stars that Tommy is still there and not due to the Ubers taking a while. Walking over to Tommy, Buck realizes he doesn’t actually have a plan, but he knows he wants Tommy.

“Uh, hey,” Buck says a little less than eloquently. The soft smile Tommy shoots his way sends little sparks of hope down Buck’s spine. “Hey back,” Tommy says easily, refocusing on his phone.

Buck drops the need to be flirty, they’ve gone through that, they know each other better than anyone else. He goes for earnestness because that’s what works best on Tommy. Taking Tommy’s hand out of his jean’s pocket he says, “I don’t wanna go home alone tonight.” Tommy meets his eyes again and dips his chin, mouth forming a flat line.

”Evan.” That’s all Tommy says as he drops the hand holding his phone. For a minute there’s silence, searching each other’s eyes, looking for answers neither of them have. Tommy sighs and decides he’s too drunk for rational thinking especially when Buck’s hand is warm in his and tugging slightly. “You know what, me neither,” Tommy sighs and pulls Buck in the rest of the way and meets his mouth halfway. They melt against each other; they kiss easily because it’s so familiar.

Tommy breaks the kiss just long enough to check his phone, and says against Buck’s mouth, “Uber’s seven minutes away.”

Tommy can tell himself that this could be anyone’s cologne. But if he’s being honest with himself, this scent is forever associated with Buck. This lethal combination of bergamot, cardamom, and cedar that’s woodsy and sweet and has become Tommy’s own personal aphrodisiac. He takes a big indulgent inhale, aware that this could be the last time he’s this close to Buck.

He can convince himself that Buck’s stubble feels just like anyone else’s, and almost does, up until the moment Buck rasps out ‘Tommy’. No one says his name like him, whines his name the same, moans his name in such a particular way to send Tommy directly into a tailspin.

**

The hospital lights are blinding as Tommy cracks open his eyes. When he adjusts, his tired gaze falls onto Lucy.

“Donato,” he croaks, “Call Evan.”

Lucy gives him a reluctant look, “You sure? I thought you guys had a pretty nasty breakup?”

“He’s gonna find out anyway and there’s no stopping him from coming here, might as well speed up that process.” Tommy can barely move, his left arm feels numb and his ribs feel all kinds of bruised.

As soon Lucy steps into the hallway, Buck’s number on her screen, she sees said man storming down the hall looking frantic. “Calm yourself, Buckley,” she says, holding up a hand to stop him. “He’s okay, he just woke up and asked me to call you.”

”Thanks,” he says, rushes into Tommy’s room and pulls up a chair next to his bed.

“Tommy? What the hell happened, we heard over the radio-“

“Evan-“

“As soon as I heard there was a chopper from Harbor down I drove straight here-“

”Evan, please-“

”What happened? No one knew anything and I-“

“Baby!” That shuts Buck up so Tommy can finally talk. “I’m sorry. But I needed to get your attention.” He knows that word is off limits, but Buck just wouldn’t stop talking.

For the next five minutes Tommy explains everything, Buck’s hand gripping his tightly. Buck’s eyes are red rimmed making them a lighter shade of blue and Tommy can’t look at him. When he’s done, Tommy’s head falls back to the pillow and he rolls his head to make eye contact with Buck, “thanks for coming.”

“I’m so relieved you’re okay, I don’t know what I’d do if-”.

”Shhh- I’m okay.” Tommy soothes him, rubbing a thumb back and forth on his hand. Buck swallows hard and just nods, canting his body towards Tommy like he’s going to kiss him. They both feel it- the pull like gravity. They resist, both knowing they can’t break the dam, not now anyway.

**

“Tommy?” Buck chokes out as soon as Tommy answers the phone. “I didn’t know who else to- my parents-”.

“On my way,” Tommy interrupts him and speeds over to Buck’s.

The door is unlocked and Tommy finds Buck pacing in the kitchen. Without a word Tommy wraps Buck tightly in his arms. Buck takes a minute to let himself cry into Tommy’s shoulder, seeking the familiar comfort. Tommy doesn’t ask, knowing Buck will tell him. All he has to do is stroke the back of his head and pull him back by the shoulders.

There’s a telltale tremble in Buck’s hands so Tommy takes them, holding tight. “I’m sorry, I didn’t have anyone else who’d understand. Maddie and Chim were there and Jee is sick and my parents said you were just an experiment.” Buck’s tears are flowing freely down his cheeks. Breath trembling, Buck continues, “I just lost it, calling you a fling and that they were relieved I ‘got you out of my system’”. Buck spits out his parents' words in pure anger and hurt.

There’s a vice around Tommy’s heart, strangling it, because if they were being completely honest with themselves, there’s a very slim chance of them getting each other out of their systems. Their internal wiring has permanently changed.

Tommy pulls Buck’s head back into the junction of his neck and shoulder, big hands rubbing up and down his back. He clasps his hands together across Buck’s lower back and rocks them side to side. “You’re okay, Evan. We know what they’re like. Don’t let them change what you know, okay?”

Buck sniffles against his collarbone and nods, hands hanging onto Tommy’s shoulder blades. “You can always come to me, even though-”, Tommy stops himself from finishing that sentence. Even though what? Even though we're not together. Even though we’re too hurt to talk about what we need to. Even though we’re still obviously, painfully in love but too scared to admit it.

“Stay,” Buck whispers against Tommy's ear. And Tommy is powerless. Anything, Tommy thinks. I'll do anything, just say the word. If Buck asked him to, Tommy would take Buck straight to the courthouse and say ‘I do’ with whatever they can find to wrap around their ring fingers. Even now.

“Okay,” is all Tommy says out loud. He takes Buck's hand and silently pulls him upstairs and into sheets they've been tangled up together so many times before.

**

“Buck, I can’t take it anymore, you’re miserable and it’s making me miserable. For the love of God talk to Tommy and fix this,” Eddie tells Buck, frustrated that his best friend is being so hard headed.

Buck groans and puts his head in his hands. “It’s not that simple, Eds! He literally said ‘I really can’t do this right now.’ Like how else am I supposed to interpret that any other way then he’s done with me? I was fun for him while I lasted I guess, but the novelty wore off, just like with all my ex-girlfriends.”

“Well, did you give him an actual chance to explain? Maybe it wasn’t that. I know that man is absolutely head over heels for you, so I don’t believe for a second that he’s done with you.” Eddie sighs and puts a heavy hand on Buck’s shoulder. Buck turns to look at Eddie with his signature Buck sad eyes and pout.

“I’m just scared of being this huge disappointment to him, like I just feel like I’m going to slip up in a big way because of my inexperience. He gave me an out so I panicked and took it.”

Eddie tilts his head and gives Buck an exasperated look, “Maybe I’m betraying Tommy’s trust but I’m tired of you moping and you were my best friend first. Tommy is stupid over you, he was literally talking about moving in and settling down with you. Does that sound like you’re a huge disappointment?”

“He-he what?” Buck is blinking back tears. He didn’t let himself hope for all that no matter how desperately he wanted it. He wanted everything with Tommy.

“Go. Please. He’s off tonight.” Eddie barely finishes his sentence before Buck is out the door and in the Jeep.

Tommy hears the familiar engine cut off and looks up through the front window with anxious hope. Ten seconds later there’s a hasty knock on the door. Buck is on the other side, eyes are red rimmed from either crying or trying not to. Tommy tugs the other man wordlessly in by the wrist and closes the door.

With a deep breath, Tommy asks, “Evan?”

“You want to settle down with me?”

Goddamn it, Eddie, Tommy thinks, that was supposed to be confidential. All he can do is clear his throat and meet Buck’s too sincere eyes. “Yeah, whatever that looks like. You’re it for me, Evan. I don’t want anyone else.” Buck’s breath hitches at the present tense Tommy uses- he still wants him, wants a life with him.

Lunging forward, Tommy catches Buck in his arms with a surprised huff. Tommy feels the hot tears now against his neck. “I’m so sorry, Tommy. Fuck. I- I fucked it all up.” He pauses to sniffle and breathe ragged breaths. “I want that too, God I want that so bad, more than anything. I was so afraid of letting myself believe that what we had, what we have, could be that. I’ve never had something like this, never felt like this before. I guess I thought I’d be easier to break my own heart before you did.”

“Baby-” Tommy’s voice breaks and he’s holding on tight to Evan, as hard as he can without hurting him. His tears are now falling freely too. “I’m sorry too, I should’ve talked and not walked out. I was scared too- insecure that you had your fill and were going to be done with me soon.”

Pulling back, Buck makes eye contact with Tommy and cradles his face, wiping away stray tears. “Never, honey.” Buck kisses the tear tracks left behind on each cheek. “I’ll never have enough of you, never get over you, never not want you.”

They lean their foreheads together and just breathe. Both beyond relieved but angry now with themselves that they could think letting the other go was even a possibility.

“I love you,” Tommy says.

“I love you more,” Buck says back.

“Respectfully I don’t think that’s possible,” Tommy counters and makes Buck laugh. They finally find each other’s lips in a kiss that says everything that’s been built up, letting the dam break.

“I don’t wanna be broken up anymore,” Buck says, meeting Tommy’s eyes.

“Same here. Let’s not ever do that again,” Tommy smiles and it reaches his eyes. “I’ll do you one better- move in with me. I can’t go much longer without you here everyday.”

“We’ll start tomorrow,” Buck agrees and pushes the words into Tommy’s mouth.

[imustbenuts]

theres a few ??? thing going on in trigun stampede that's explicitly japanese/sino-ish in culture but im entirely not sure what to make of it. 3 things.

Knives' birthname being settled as Kni/Nai,

JuLai's emblem symbolism,

and the Buddha Thread??? thing in ep 11 10

Knives' birthname is Kni and hm! ...無い?

this is specifically a stampede thing. nightow didnt give him this Kni name in his work, so i can only chalk this up to the stampede staff's deliberate decision. if you render it into japanese, it'd be Nai, and the immediate word i can think of is... 無い. meaning, Nothing, or Without.

it fits rather well considering stampede has officially placed an emphasis on his obsessive love towards his brother on his bio on their official site:

my TL:

Vash's twin brother. Possesses a cold and merciless personality. Filled with a hatred for humans, he masterminds an organization with a plan to massacre the entire human species. With abilities beyond human understanding, he has the power to destroy entire planets. He greatly loves his only younger twin brother, Vash to an obsessive degree.

interestingly, the word used for the obsessive love here specifically is 執着 shuuchaku, which has roots/association with the word Abhinivesha. from what i understand it is a mental state, a fear of death, and a desperation to cling onto life so much one becomes ignorant and causes their own suffering. and ignorance is another big core of what makes Knives' character tick.

so i feel like this has some pointers towards Knives, or even child Kni being nothing without his younger brother. (or it could just be a simpler play on the word naive lmao)

meanwhile for Vash there's not really anything japanese that jumps out at me, but some have pointed out his name sounds like the french word Vashe, used for female cattle. extremely passive and born for consumption and theres a lot to dissect in that direction but im not going there! his name is Knife and his brother is a cattle there's catholicism may your brain go brr.

theres more to the nothingness concept in buddhism that doesnt put it squarely in a negative category but lets talk about buddhism later. next:

JuLai's emblem

stared at this for a few seconds and yelled fuck me. this represents the twins, AND its the broken yin yang symbol:

:). hey look at that female thing popping up again--

Knives is evidently the light Yang, and Vash is the dark Yin. ngl this daoist thing is somewhat sexist but lets brush that over 2 thousand year old aspect aside for this post. for stampede's case we can clearly see what theming is going on especially for those in the know of the original work.

Knives is hella assertive to the point of echoing fascist eugenics nonsense, and Vash has that nurturing instinct that seems to pop in whenever there's a human child or people who needs help.

interestingly the planet No Man's Land has too much fugging sun and is too hostile for human life. to survive people have to live in the shade and turn to plants for counters to the harsh, hot celestial sun. so here if Knives is being the sun, hes also being hostile to human life, and meanwhile the feminine looking plants and Vash's personality plus actions are the only thing giving these people at chance at life. (also vash has the power of Dark Matter or something)

obviously, just like JuLai's broken symbol, the balance is completely and utterly out of whack. in daoism a broken balance is thought to cause a lot of suffering. in the finale, Vash doesnt have a single speck of white on him, and Knives doesn't have a single speck of black. this means there isn't a balance and they cant come to an agreement at all.

im gonna also point out here that vash's idea of co-existence even if accepted wouldnt be a permanent solution due to the dependents having limited lifespan. so through this lens, stampede seems to be saying that neither twin's ideas are really effective long term solution, tho Knives is completely unacceptable due to obvious genocidal reasons.

Buddha Thread

studio orange whaaat are you guys cooking over there... ok so. in ep 11, Knives drops Vash into the uhhh The Hell Pool, and Vash tries to get out of it with his wire and hangs for a bit. then we get a scene like this:

Knives proceeds to cut Vash's thread and he drops into The Hell Pool. and then the metaphorical SA scene happens.

i call it Buddha Thread but this can also be known as The Spider's Thread. there exists a story of The Spider's Thread that's very Japanese-Buddhist and well known over there.

the gist of this story is that Buddha lowers a single spider thread to a sinner in the deepest hell as a lifeline to get out, bc this heavy sinner had done a singular good deed of saving a spider he was about to crush with his foot. however, the thread is broken as a result of the sinner's selfishness yelling for the other sinners below him to let go, claiming this thread was his and his alone. the sinner having climbed halfway upwards the thread after great effort plunges back into the pits of hell. buddha having watched all of this reacts with sadness, and the days in paradise carry on as per usual.

and. digest that for a second. and then refer back to Knives and The Fall and this scene that plays later, when Vash's mind wipe begins proper:

fuck. me. knives is framed as a self proclaimed god in the loudest ways on multiple levels.

while these 3 aspect i just broke down explaining do not exist at least overtly in the original trigun, i thought it would be interesting to chew on in light of the overwhelming catholicism existing in the story.

there's some themes im also picking up from the original trigun that might be rooted in either buddhsim or japanese culture such as: the undeniable truth that yearning and hunger is part of the human living experience and to deny it is to deny living. but im not sure what to make of it bc A) not explicitly framed or explored as a buddhsim/japanese idea thing and B) catholicsm obv is the overwhelming theme of the entire work

idk what the heck studio orange is cooking exactly but. hm.

[partfae]

Sauron, Galadriel, & Tolkien's Theology of Repentance - Part One

Summary: Character meta analysis on Sauron (and Galadriel, through the lens of Sauron). Based on both Silmarillion & RoP canon. 3.5k words. Discussion of Catholic theology involved. Blanket TW for discussion of violence, manipulation, etc., because Sauron. Spoilers for S1 & S2 and the Silmarillion, of course. The tragedy of Sauron is that he gets offered so many legitimate chances at redemption and forgiveness, and he denies them every single time. But we know he wants absolution, because that’s what he sees Galadriel as: his chance to bind himself back to the light, to be Mairon again, to heal the pain that he caused and that was caused to him under Morgoth. But because he has such a warped view of himself and his actions, he dismisses genuine extensions of compassion, forgiveness, and care as simultaneously beneath him and too good for him. And yet, he still pursues redemption, but through none of the channels offered to him.

In The Rings of Power, he’s given the explicit instruction to change for the good in the village after he’s reborn. He’s given the chance leave his past behind and work meaningfully in Númenor. He’s given the chance to redeem himself by Galadriel's offer of friendship (or love, depending on your interpretation). In the Silmarillion, he's even given the chance by Eönwë himself, and comes close to leaving Morgoth behind completely!

Let's look at this passage from Of the Rings of Power and the Third Age (emphasis mine):

When Thangorodrim was broken and Morgoth overthrown, Sauron put on his fair hue again and did obeisance to Eönwë the herald of Manwë, and abjured all his evil deeds. And some hold that this was not at first falsely done, but that Sauron in truth repented, if only out of fear, being dismayed by the fall of Morgoth and the great wrath of the Lords of the West. But it was not in the power of Eönwë to pardon those of his own order, and he commanded Sauron to return to Aman and there receive the judgement of Manwë. Then Sauron was ashamed, and he was unwilling to return in humiliation to receive from the Valar a sentence, it might be, of long servitude in proof of his good faith; for under Morgoth his power had been great. Therefore when Eönwë departed he hid himself in Middle-earth; and he fell back into evil, for the bonds that Morgoth had laid upon him were very strong.

This passage is clear that Eönwë is willing to pardon Sauron--he simply did not posses the power to do so. But when Sauron was told he must appeal directly Manwë, he gave up entirely and skulked back to Middle-earth. There are a few ways to read this:

1. He was not wholly repentant

Sauron simply wanted the protection of a new master in the absence of Melkor. i.e., he was rather fickle and simply wanted to be on whatever the "winning" side was. This is supported by the text literally saying that at least some of his obeisance was completely false, and that he only made a point of feeling bad about anything once his master had been chucked into the Void and his armies and strongholds were being destroyed (Thangorodrim). In this reading, perhaps Eönwë saw Sauron's treachery and referred him to Manwë knowing that it would be a test of his true intent. However, while a valid interpretation, I believe this to be the less holistic of the two.

2. He was truly repentant

Sauron did truly feel badly and "abjured all his evil deeds," but he was unwilling/unable to humble himself after being so fundamentally broken by Melkor and developing an insatiable power lust (hey, he isn't defined in the narrative by lust and pride for nothing).

Earlier in this same chapter, Tolkien wrote that Sauron could "...deceive all but the most wary." This is in the specific context of his physical shapeshifting. But, I would argue that this can also be tied to his lies. Tolkien has a specific ethic of beauty, where physical perfection is equated with moral goodness. Sauron completely inverts what is otherwise a hard and fast rule within Tolkien's writings by being the character most frequently described as "fair"--seven times to Lúthien's six, and she was the most beautiful woman to have ever lived!

(Side note: I have another post on Tolkien & beauty in the works where I'll get more into this idea)

Why does this matter? Even though this interaction with Eönwë takes place in the First Age, Sauron could at this point be in the demonic form Mirdania describes in the forge. And, I am inclined to believe that Eönwë, as the head Maiar and herald of Manwë, would be a pretty wary guy, and thus able to sense any of Sauron's trickery. I read this to mean that Eönwë looked at Sauron and saw his potential to be Mairon again, either in absence of his evil form or in spite of it.

Because Sauron is incredibly beautiful. And even if it is a disguise of the true, depreciated form of his spiritual essence, he presented himself to Eönwë at his most beautiful. He wanted, even in his act of repentance, to make himself more favorable in Eönwë's eyes. To show up as Mairon (who was likely close friends with Eönwë before everything went down, since they are considered to be two of the most powerful Maia and would have worked closely together).

But I don't think this was all manipulation on Sauron's end. I agree with the scholars mentioned in the text who believed that Sauron was truly repentant--which is why Eönwë even bothered referring him to Manwë instead of kicking him into the Void with Melkor.

And this is the tragedy: Sauron is told exactly how to repent, and believes fundamentally that it is an impossible path for him. And yet, he still longs so intrinsically for it! He was, under Aulë, a Maia of precision, perfection, and order. Under Morgoth, he feels disordered, dis-regulated. He needs to correct the fundamental imbalance within him, so why does he flee Eönwë?

It comes back to Sauron's pride.

If he follows through with this path of reconciliation, there is no way he can hide or pretend his actions away. If he cannot trick his fellow Maiar, he certainly cannot trick the Valar. And he cannot stand the idea of submitting himself back under their rule, especially now that he has tasted power. This is a pride wound; it is why the idea of confessing to Manwë would be humiliating to him as opposed to just upsetting/uncomfortable.

Again, the pivotal moment: he is told how to make amends for crimes and determines that he cannot do it. So he returns to Middle-earth and stews in his own self-hated and self-pity for a few years. In that time, he consciously or subconsciously latches onto Eönwë's offer--forgiveness from penance. It is the way forward. And if he cannot earn penance at Manwë's hand, he will do it on his own.

The Prodigal Son

This is where we have to talk about the Catholic roots of Tolkien's work for a moment. The scene where Sauron approaches Eönwë mirrors the biblical parable of the prodigal son. In this story, a man abandons his family, spends all his money, and falls into ruin. But when he recognizes his failings and returns to his father to get help, he is welcomed back into the family without question--in other words, he is forgiven and restored to his former position.

17 But when he [the prodigal son] came to himself he said, “How many of my father’s hired hands have bread enough and to spare, but here I am dying of hunger! 18 I will get up and go to my father, and I will say to him, ‘Father, I have sinned against heaven and before you; 19 I am no longer worthy to be called your son; treat me like one of your hired hands.’” 20 So he set off and went to his father. But while he was still far off, his father saw him and was filled with compassion; he ran and put his arms around him and kissed him. - Luke 15:11-32, NRSV CE (emphasis mine)

The parallel is clear; Mairon, the repentant Maia, returns home with hopes of reconciliation. He is prescribed the same task that the prodigal son offered to his father: he must be bound in servitude to his father/creator in order to pay off his debts. This is a deliberate allusion from Tolkien. The story of the prodigal son models the path of reconciliation that Eönwë describes. Tolkien seems to be drawing a line in the sand with this: Sauron is unwilling to do the work required by the Valar for repentance, so he is unable to receive the grace of a warm welcome back into the fold of the Ainur. Since he did not humble himself, he has to be told to do it. And he does not want to! He wants to be loved, but he also wants his power--evidence, in a way, of how his character was fundamentally altered in his time with Morgoth.

His pride--and his fear--cut him off from the potential of grace. He does not know for certain that Manwë would subject him to servitude (though I would argue that it's textually evident that it is a custom), but this assumption leads him to flee, which allows him to slip back into his old ways.

He wants to be Mairon (admirable) again, not Sauron (abhorrent). He wants to be accepted and loved, but not punished. He wants the benefits of reconciliation without the work he would have to do to earn it or the shame he would feel as he did. It's pride, but it's also deep shame--the flip side of his extreme ego is an implicit self-hatred, one that we can see in the subtext of how he speaks about himself and about his time with Morgoth.

Even the language Tolkien uses is heavily shame-coded, especially in a Catholic context; Mairon did not go willingly, he was "seduced." He admits to Celebrimbor that he was "tortured by a god". It becomes exceedingly clear through both text and on-screen canon that Sauron was routinely broken and abused for centuries. This has fundamentally damaged his self-perception, which is ultimately what leads him to "[fall] back into evil"--whether due to pride or shame, he hides, perhaps because he consciously or subconsciously does not believe that he deserves forgiveness, no matter how much he craves it.

Naked in the Garden

His flight back to Middle-earth after meeting Eönwë is reminiscent of another biblical scene, where Adam and Eve, after committing the first sin, hide from God in shame and fear (emphasis mine):

7 Then the eyes of both were opened, and they knew that they were naked...9 But the Lord God called to the man, and said to him, “Where are you?” 10 He said, “I heard the sound of you in the garden, and I was afraid, because I was naked; and I hid myself.” -Genesis 7-10, NRSV CE

The image of nakedness is, here, one of vulnerability, and Tolkien establishes that Sauron fears that which he cannot control. He needs the Rings under his power. He needs his armies and his enemies under his watchful eye. He is petrified of letting his power slip away (possibly due to never wanting to feel powerless in the hands of a Vala, fallen or not, again).

The biblical allusion here hearkens back to the fear Tolkien describes Sauron as feeling regarding his return to the Ainur. In the religious system Tolkien has established, which is likely inspired by his own religious beliefs, Sauron has sinned, and must make penance. But he is afraid of God/Manwë, and does not want to "let go" of his sin. In other words, he is not truly repentant. This reflects the Catholic sacrament of confession, which requires self-reflection and resolve to never commit the sin again.

Instead of shame driving him to contrition, it drives him to isolation.

But he still wants forgiveness. So, in his years of hiding in Middle-earth, he decides to earn it himself. His own way.

Enter the Rings.

Sauron wants to perfect the wrong he wreaked so that he can both earn his way back into the Ainur and keep his power. But what he does not realize is that this does not work. Eönwë is clear that he must forsake his true temptation--absolute power--through penance by submission. Yet Sauron in his pride thinks he can have it all. Sauron is a very carefully controlled villain, and the only times he snaps or makes significant mistakes are when his inflated self-perception is challenged, revealing the self-loathing and/or self-pity underneath. The best example of this is when he kills Celebrimbor prematurely, and cries afterwards. Why? Because Celebrimbor was right about him, and he hates it. He hates knowing that he is nothing more than the Morgoth's shadow, because Morgoth was his master as much as he was his tormentor. As Sauron puts it, his relationship with Morgoth was often defined by pain as a test to see "whose will was the mightier":

This image carries more shame, both in its implicit sexual connotations and in the simple power dynamic of it. Sauron, even though misguided, is rallying against Morgoth. He wants to break what Morgoth has created and build something new, something better, something apart from his old master entirely. But Celebrimbor confronts him with reality: he has not created something new, and perfect, and special, as he so wanted to--he can only act in imitation, not in generation. And when he got close with the Rings, it cost him everything. It's almost like he wants the power of a Vala, and loathes that he cannot attain it.

And this is why he becomes so singularly obsessed with Galadriel.

She’s his foil. They both crave power and adoration, but in the end of things, she does not fold under his temptation. She turns down everything she has ever wanted for the greater good and for the sake of her own soul. Sauron looks at Galadriel and perceives that she would have succeeded at Eönwë's test because she is willing and able to humble herself. This maddens him to the point of both desiring her and desiring to break her.

She learns that she is easily tempted and becomes strong enough to handle it (through a lot of tough love from Elrond & co.). She has to learn how to do it, but she is able to.

She grows from someone who resisted and rejected authority to someone who is trusted as an authority because of her ability to wield it wisely (see: Gil-galad allowing her to answer for him in 2x08).

In other words, she earns the trust, love, and support of her community. Sauron has to force his to comply—it is an illusion of love.

His possessive obsession with her also stems from her fairness. She was the object of her uncle Fëanor's obsessive desire for creation as well. Her hair was the inspiration of the Silmarils (see: The History of Galadriel and Celeborn; The Shibboleth of Fëanor - source with page #s here), which Morgoth desired more than anything to possess.

Sauron, wanting to spite his master, wants one better--to own that which inspired the Silmarils, to own the image of fairness (and thus of moral good) completely. This is why he wants to bind himself to her. This is why he needs her. He sees Galadriel as his mechanism of repentance, and his last triumph over Morgoth. Winning her is his salvation as much as it is proving that his will is the mightier. It is his way of dominating Morgoth. This starts, I think, as a genuine effort at proving himself to the Valar, but quickly consumes him entirely. He is overcome with the desire for revenge, just as Galadriel was at the beginning of the First Age.

And he sees this in her. Sees their similarities. Sees that she, too, is angry and lonely and so afraid of losing her power. And he leverages that to befriend her. This is where it gets ambiguous and you can read RoP as either painting the image of Sauron being earnest but completely misguided in his proposal, or you can see it as him being entirely manipulative.

I think the truth of that scene probably falls somewhere in the middle; just like when he presents himself to Eönwë, he is sincere in his desire, but only knows how to present it in an inherently contriving way. He does want to bind her to him, so he tries to only reveal to her the good aspect of that desire (and also of his desire for power, which he allows her to see because he believes that it is good and also because she understands it), and not the ugly underside of his internal struggle against Morgoth, the Valar, and himself.

And I do think, in his own way, he cared about her. Galadriel consistently shows kindness and compassion to him. In S1, they grow to know each other's minds and souls, and she considers him a close friend. He finds comfort in this, that someone could see the blackness of his heart and care for him anyway. He thought, in his isolation, that he lost that chance when he fled back to Middle-earth. And here is the very picture of the light itself telling him that she supports him, that she sees the good in him, that she wants to help him set the world to rights! Of course he is infatuated by this. Of course he also wants to use it. He is Sauron.

But Galadriel succeeds where he fails, so he stops playing nice and tries to forcibly drag her down with him. First, by baiting her with the image of the man she cared deeply for:

Then, by reminding her of all she is losing by rejecting him:

And she is still strong enough to say no. And not just to say no, but to shut the door completely. To look in the face of everything she has desired for centuries and turn it down, understanding that it will ruin her. Yes, she hesitates. Yes, she still wants it (wants him). But she wins the day by holding fast to the light that Sauron wishes so badly to bind himself to.

Because she has lost everything--her brother, her husband, the station as commander, the trust of her high king and best friend--and earns it back only through her resistance of her greatest temptation. It is a struggle, it is painful, it nearly kills her--but she does it. She wins the test that Sauron could not even bear to face.

In their headlong, self-sacrificial tendencies, they are the same. Both view themselves as fundamentally stronger/better than their peers while also being deeply lonely due to their self-imposed isolation (Galadriel's laser-focused hunt for revenge, Sauron's exile in Middle-earth). But to Galadriel, the light is more important than her pride.

For Sauron, the light is his source of pride. He desires it more than anything, but condemns himself to never being able to touch it due to his rejection of Eönwë's offer. Paradoxically, he tries to grasp at it through Galadriel, the living silmaril, and succeeds only in darkening her. We learn from Gil-galad in 2x08 that his crown piercing her flesh in an act of brutal domination nearly strips her soul from her and pitches it into the unseen world. In this, Sauron is saying: If I cannot have you, I will force you to need me. I will break you into loving me.

He says this to Celebrimbor as well. He no longer knows how to love properly. He only knows how to inflict pain until this object of his obessive desire needs him--just like how his immortal spirit was broken into submission by Morgoth. And isn't this revealing of his own sense of self? He refuses to suffer the path of light, but willingly suffers the maddening path of darkness because it is a comfortable, familiar suffering. One, he tells Celebrimbor, he even grew to enjoy (2x08). As the path of the Rings drive him madder and madder, his desire for the light (Galadriel) and the return of his power (Celebrimbor) become further disordered and corrupted until they culminate in him destroying them--and his chance at earning/owning them--entirely.

And this is Sauron's ultimate point of no return (which we will hopefully see in S3 🤞). The razing of Eregion and slaying of Celebrimbor were acts of petty rage he committed when his pride was injured. This was the final nail in the coffin. Galadriel, in her rejection of him, ruins what he sees as his true chance for redemption.

Galadriel, now stepping into the role of Eönwë, re-opens the invitation: "Heal yourself!" (2x08). But in rage and shame and stubborn pride, he turns it down again. I believe this is where his desire to heal Middle-earth shifts fundamentally into desire to dominate Middle-earth. He always wanted to rule, but now he wants to own.

[dragonowl]

Pathcode: Light Through a Broken Lens

The Sky That Doesn't End: Part 2 Masterlist Genre: EXO AU, Mystery Rated: PG Summery: Exo has scattered. Now in hiding after the Red Force closed in on them and Luhan went missing. Baekhyun finds himself in a small town while he waits until they can reunite again. Guarded after everything that has taken place, he’s not looking for friendship, or anything else, until a light shines through, even as the darkness closes around them.

Prev, Next. AO3

Chapter 2: Tao: Barcelona, Spain, 10:09

Voices. Whispers and quiet conversations mixed easily with the sound of the buzzing machinery and soft piano music. The scent of roasting beans and brewing coffee was rich and wafted around Tao like a warm hug, reminding him of the early school mornings and Xiumin’s passion for fine coffee. He’d nearly chosen the traditional hot chocolate and churros for breakfast, but the homesickness that hit him after smelling the coffee had changed his mind. 

Bringing the warm glass to his lips, he paused and then quickly placed it down as he lifted up the morning’s paper. A small section near the base of the newspaper’s front page caught his attention and he quickly flipped through the pages to find the full article. 

His heart stuttered as he processed the words that made him feel sick. A light flickered and his eyes shot up just as a bulb shattered. He brought the newspaper up to protect himself from the flying debris as he flinched at the noise, but the debris never hit. The cafe went silent instead of beginning to clammer at the danger, and he looked around to find the cause.

His breath caught when he realized he’d frozen time without even realizing it. 

The hold he had was wavering though and he knew he needed to get out. The Red Force had found a way to track them down and using his powers would likely narrow down their search parameters if they had the right tech. Chen hadn’t been able to determine how they had been found, but he and Suho had cautioned against using their powers in case that had been the cause.

He rushed out of the cafe in a daze, trying to ground himself enough to find his way back to the small room he was staying in. After what felt like forever he made his way back and stumbled multiple times as he ran up the flight of stairs and through the door, gaze darting around to keep an eye on his surroundings. 

Once inside he rushed to grab his bags and throw in any essentials he had left lying around. He tried to make a mental list as he double and triple-checked everything. Unable to handle being there any longer, he prayed he had everything that couldn’t be replaced. He’d need to go by the public locker and grab a different ID and some money, and then maybe take a train to another city to fly out of. Deciding on his next location in the moment would hopefully throw off any tail he might have. Something completely random. 

Slinging his bags over his shoulders, he exited the small space and quickly made his way down the stairs and outside to the sidewalk.

Someone collided with him, his fast pace and height making him completely miss their presence.

“I’m sorry,” he stumbled, arm encircling the young woman to keep her from falling.

“It’s okay,” she said, her hands fully grabbing his arms to steady herself. “You should pay more attention to your surroundings though. You could get hurt.”

A chill washed over him at her words and he tried to see her face, but she had kept her head bowed. She let go of one of his arms and grabbed the other tightly before he could move and he winced when there was a sudden prick, immediately followed by what felt like fire in his veins. Stumbling back, he found a purchase against the brick wall and dropped his bags as his head erupted in pain, making him drop to his knees. He cradled his head in his hands as the pain drowned out his other senses and his breathing became labored. It ended as quickly as it started and he slumped against the wall, his arms falling to his sides in exhaustion. Tao blinked at the young woman standing over him, but his eyes were too blurry to make out her features and drooped closed as he fell into unconsciousness. 

Prev, Next

[snowleopardcrk]

more symbolism!!!

ah yes, more Midnight Lily, a silverbell cameo and two Moonflower doodles. AU by @cuppajj

For Moonflowers story, we have her main conflict with her father, Saint Vanilla Cookie. But what about Midnight Lily Cookie, her mother? To give a little context for whats coming up, Moonflowers story theming around the Saint where Moonflower symbolizes the Moon, which includes the Solar Eclipse to contrast the Saints light themed imagery. Plus Moonflowers additional and more religious theming being based on the Spirit of Apostasy.

It is abundantly clear that Midnight Lily is an enabler of the other Neo Beasts, while to some extent understandable as she is the weakest of the Neo Beasts (she has long crossed the line of it being acceptable).

To compliment well with the general religious theming, I did additional research into the role of a mother in the lens of the Bible. 'the mother is one who "binds" the family together, holding them together individually and collectively through her love and actions' Despite how broken the family is, the only remaining connection that Moonflower has with the Saint IS Midnight Lily. And in return, she does care for her daughter and the Saint at some level. Yet, she does nothing to genuinely mend what has been broken (no one is, Moonflower is afraid of her father and the Saint is so delusional that he believes that this is the best course of action to save everyone). This fits her pattern of enabling and being generally passive to the world around her, for the most part.

Another aspect that I have neglected to mention is her slow-burn of a plan, she seeks by the end to have the others at least playing by her rules, but also not liking when her children do things she does not like. This is now territory where I do a lot of guess work and personal thoughts n' research so this is very much subject to change if anymore gets revealed.

How I have understood the few tidbits we get about the Beast of Sovereignty, she is an enabler and insecure about being the weakest. And I think her insecurity in some way, even if unintentional may reflect on her relationships where she is the one in power. In general, she is fine with her kids, generally passive until they get too unruly. At that point, she will remind them with harsh words who the mother is. I'd like to note quickly, she will NEVER get physical. She only uses WORDS. It is also important to note that she does wish for her child to understand where she is coming from. She is an enabler because she holds little power over the beasts, but in dynamics where she is the one in power, this side vanishes for the most part. Despite valuing sovereignty I believe she still wants to retain some level of control so Cookies don't do things she does not like. This is generally in line with how leadership generally operate, they don't care when you're doing smth positive, but when it turns negative, that's when it starts turning sour.

As for the actual arc of Midnight Lily and Moonflower, I have a general framing but it is difficult to make something as substantial as the one she has with Saint Vanilla. Gotta wait until I get more lore and story for the gal. But in short, it is a conflict of the two trying to make each other understand their respective sides. With Moonflower trying to save her mother, her only remaining parental figure from being a beast- while Midnight Lily seeks to make Moonflower truly understand her side and hopefully have Moonflower join her permanently.

Heres other tidbits for Moonflower and her relationship with the Creme Republic. For her ventures to the Silver Kingdom are actually secret. She is a very powerful and talented magic user (similar to her parents), so her travelling long distances quickly is very possible. Moonflower is already an outcast in the Republic, it is well known who her parents are. And Cookies keep their distance, there are very few Cookies who come and check in her. Its mostly some scientists who are researching the neo beasts (espresso, maybe, depends on his condition in this au), Clotted Cream Cookie, GingerBrave, Financer (sort of, she tags along the Consul) and depending on the direction of the story, Madelaine Cookie(I will start really brewing something here once more stuff comes out~). She stays isolated in her lab in the undercity, she never comes out, and when she does, she hides her face and just retrieves things like food or research material. It is normal for her to not talk with anyone for well over a week with nothing but a single lost Raisin Crow to keep her company. I'd like to note that this raisin crow is now an albino, and Black Raisin tasked Moonflower to take care of it since it was bullied and ousted by the other raisin crows (I took inspo from the myth, but it is generally agreed that white color corvids are subordinate to the colored ones).

But she is also an outcast in the silver kingdom, despite being Midnight Lilys kid (its a well known fact), she has gotten into disagreements with their monarch and isn't the upmost loyal member- she has a strong stigma around her. Silverbell Cookie does take pity on Moonflower.

That's all for now. I'm gonna lay down, I've done so much research...I silently weep at the thought of fully showing the complexity of the three in full force.

[goldsbitch]

Right? p2

summary: Y/N is a photographer for McLaren F1 team. Hard working, goal oriented professional who would never put her career in jeopardy for some stupid crush, right?

That is until a photoshoot gets out of hand and there is no way to go but forward.

part 1

You almost started this day with a shot from the minibar. Contemplated faking a flu. But the qualifying was too important, the sponsors seemed to love this track and your boss was very clear that he needs every photographer, even if they had a broken arm.

With a sigh, you entered the common area of the paddock, quickly heading for the media office. Sure he won't be there, he must be having some prep time now. You were not ready to face him.

Nothing happened, you tried to calm yourself down with every shiver that came around every few minutes. It was just a kiss in the heat of the moment. No one would ever know.

Oh, but if it had only been just a kiss.

You were a bit shocked when he closed the distance between you two, put a hand on your cheek and his lips on yours. This was no light romantic kiss. Your body reacted immediately, faster than your mind, which shut down completely. Butterflies in your stomach flying over the roof.

Lando pulled away few centimetres. "Is this ok?"

You nodded. Nothing else for you to do, you were hooked.

"Use your words. I want to hear it."

"Yes," you whispered and went for more.

Lando pushed you down, you were now lying on the backseat with him over you. Your bodies seemed to speak in their own language, it was all so natural. Your hands in his hair, his lip biting yours. You'd do anything to stay locked in this moment for ever. How can someone have lips so soft? You roamed around his perfect body, and he did too. His hand quickly found a way under your crop top. And it was right when he was about to touch your breast when your phone rang.

It felt like being caught by a teacher. Except you were technically not caught. Your boss was just asking if you were going into overtime or if the photoshoot was wrapped.

The ride back to the hotel was silent from both sided, reality kicking in. It was probably the longest drive you've ever experienced.

//

You had a strict deadline. Editing photos from last night was the last thing you wanted to do right now, but duty calls.

Your heart sank after you skimmed though them. Not because they would be bad - on the contrary. The last photos had Lando with the hottest look on his face you have ever seen on him, dynamic close ups and him literally eye fucking you via the picture. These can't get out. You were almost jealous at the thought of anyone being able to see him like that. Somehow, you managed to dig yourself even a bigger hole than before.

Professional, right?!

You didn't see Lando until few minutes before the start of qualifying. Focusing on taking photos of Oscar was your strategy to survive today, because the butterflies were unbearable yet again. Lando's nonchalant presence was something you were not able to tune out this time.

Taking few snaps of Oscar made you seem busy. You'd take only few pictures of Lando today. But almost as if he could feel you the same way you felt his presence, he managed to look into your lens right at the moment you were taking a picture. You could melt right at the spot.

Lando seemed less chatty than his usual self today.

//

Third in qualifying, fourth in the Grand Prix. Podium slipped through Lando's hands. But nevertheless, great weekend for McLaren. Lando beat himself up, but made sure to highlight the job of the people at the factory and the whole team.

You danced around each other all weekend, always busy, never alone and without company. It was probably for the good, right?

Days rushed over and suddenly you were sitting at the usual Tuesday PR catch up. The team was analyzing the response of the fans in their usual matter. Lando and Oscar were due to join in.

You sat rather quietly, waiting to be addressed and not trying to join in - very unusual on your part.

The whole room was watching stats and analytics, talking about the boys as if they were not human, but some sort of character. You always found that strange.

You both successfully avoided eye contact until the moment where the growing female fan base of Oscar's was discussed. This being a subtle hint that Lando is getting side tracked. Once you locked eyes, it was hard to look away. The room went silent for you, could not stop focusing on his look and the way he subtly licked his lips.

"Merch time!" This way your cue.

"Yes, let's see the latest photos," you stood up confidently to take over. Fake it til you make it, right?

As you went over the selected 15 photos and explained the idea behind them and how you believe these might work for the targeted audience, Lando seemed to be more intrigued than usually.

"Thank you, y/n. Lando, can we approve these for the launch?" asked his lead PR.

"Um." Lando seemed to be lost for words, fascinated look on his face. The room paused for a second. "Can I see them again real quick?"

What was he playing at? Your heartbeat skipped a beat.

"Yeah, sure," you skimmed through each of them again, putting them on a replay.

Lando put on a fake serious face, as if he was thinking something through. "Yeah, I think these are great," he replied, making everyone in the room relaxed again. Then he turned to you and gave you a smirk. " I think we should do more of this."

That fucker.

part 3

______________________________________________________________

@i-wish-this-was-me

[itsmarsss]

Scandalous (Blitzø x Fem!Succubus!Reader x Stolas) [Helluva Boss] pt. 5 - Monster

How the mighty do fall. (Getting into a weird three-way situation with an imp and a succubus isn't exactly considered classy, Stolas)

If they’re only with him as prisoners, what kind of monster does that make him? 

pt. 1 | pt. 2 | pt. 3 | pt. 4 | pt. 5 | 1st bonus | pt. 6 | pt. 7 | pt. 8 | pt. 9 | 2nd bonus

Warnings: mentions of sex as usual, some depressing thoughts, slight mention of an abusive relationship (stella), you guys ready for a time jump? this happens after the season 1 finale. don't worry we'll find out what happens during that in a later chapter! a lot of the dialogue here comes straight from the show. this is all solely in stolas' pov!!

Word count: 6,005

Stolas almost wishes he’d have the guts to kick the two demons out after they were done with the… activities agreed upon.  

He almost wishes they’d see themselves out immediately after, not leaving him a single, mere second to get used to their presence. He almost wishes their talk of not staying the night weren’t so empty, the promise broken by a simple plea for them to stay. He almost wishes he’d have the willpower to refrain himself from pleading. He almost wishes they had never let him have a taste of feeling their weight on his mattress next to his own body or to their body heat keeping him warm under his fancy bedsheets, to begin with. He almost wishes they’d never let him have an insight into how a life as their lover could be like, waking up to their half-dressed bodies still lazily holding onto his in some way in the morning. 

Then again, Stolas is a hypocrite. A self-aware one at that, too. 

Because he could intervene and he could stop all of these things from happening. He could tell them they had to go. He could not ask them to stay. He could never see them again. Because he’d been the one to propose they start this complicated situation they all found themselves in and he was the only one, really, who could realistically put an end to it, given they still needed their part of the deal. Because he could have done it a long while ago, cut the problem at its roots, stopped himself from falling, never have pushed them into this, and he’s well aware of it. He never really did, though. 

He should have. 

As the months went by, the more Stolas’ feelings- real, scary, romantic feelings- grew. And, with it, the more he started to see their arrangement in a different light. Back when he didn’t care all that much, he didn’t really think it through. They wanted something of his, he wanted something from them. It seemed fair and simple in his mind at the time. 

But he cares now. And at times it makes him feel disgusting. What was he thinking, anyway, tying them to himself against their will? Sure, they agreed when they could have denied it. But then again, he held the power in all of this. He had the book and they needed it badly. They’d probably do whatever he wanted for it. 

The thought had started to make him sick.

If they’re only with him as prisoners, what kind of monster does that make him? 

He buries those thoughts and conceals those feelings whenever he sees the two, making place for the momentary happiness that comes with their visits, but it eats him alive. 

He hadn’t seen either of them in a while, ever since… what happened at Ozzie's. He’d texted both Blitzo and y/n the day after that, and, upon receiving a disappointing one-letter text in reply from the imp and a nicer, but still dry and impersonal one from the succubus, he didn’t know why he still expected more than that. 

Then again, he’d never really looked at the situation through a lens other than his own. Why should he expect anything? It wasn’t their fault that he cared about them beyond the sexual nature of their relationship when their agreement ended at that. 

The whole divorce ordeal was coming close to making him lose his mind. When he announced he wanted a divorce, he thought that would be enough. He’d even felt bad about how he did all of that in front of Stella’s friends, how he embarrassed her.

But the aftermath of it reminded him of how that’s all she used to do to him, over and over again, and now she wasn’t accepting the idea all that well, seen as she still stayed around the palace, as if nothing had changed. 

It annoyed him to no end. 

“I cannot do this anymore, I want you out. Now.”

“What do you mean… ‘out’?”

“I mean out! Out of this palace. Out of my life. We are getting the divorce.”

“How dare you? What do you think the rest of the Goetia family will think? And Andrealphus-” Stella raised her hand, surely to slap him the face. It wasn’t something she did often, but Stolas couldn’t say it had never happened before. He’d allowed it, then, deeming himself deserving of it. 

He wouldn’t allow it this time. Never again. 

Stopping her made him realize how easily he could have done it all those other times, had he had the courage to. Announcing the divorce had unknowingly been the first step he needed to find the guts to begin standing up for himself. It was scary, but it was thrilling, at the same time. “I don’t care what your arrogant brother thinks!And the only thing the Goetia family wanted from our marriage is already seventeen, so it’s over. I’m done.”

Stolas knew what he did, and he knew Stella wouldn’t forgive him for it. He could only ever hope Via could, someday, understand. Still, he supposed what was in his power now that he had done it was to not let things fall into what they were before. He couldn’t have gotten things so messy for nothing. 

He didn’t even know what to think of the fact that he just couldn’t feel bad for what he’d done. Things were falling apart, and as much as he wished all of this didn’t affect Via, he didn’t regret it, now that it was done. In fact, he was relieved. Because he couldn’t go back now.

And he was fine with not wanting to.

So no more pretending to be fine, no more putting everyone else’s wishes before his own.  

… It’s easier said than done when that’s all you’ve ever known. 

[. . .]

Stolas woke up with a headache. Fuck, it was moving day. 

Well, for Stella, that is. And she wasn’t moving, per se. She had moved out the same night he demanded that she did, but every single day after that she’d come over to the palace again, claiming to have forgotten something she so desperately needed. 

The night before, he’d had enough of it, making sure to pull whatever strings he could to have all of her things out of his home by the end of the next day. 

So he woke up early, with a pounding headache, put on his robes, and walked himself straight to the front door, not stopping to get himself breakfast as he usually did. He could already hear some commotion. Good, at least people were already there to start on getting her absurd amount of belongings. Maybe they’d be done early enough that he could enjoy the rest of the day. Honestly, all Stolas had been longing for was a peaceful day. 

It was quickly proven to him that this wasn’t going to be one of those. 

As soon as he laid his foot on the first floor, the phone started ringing, and a servant ran over to bring it to him. He let out a sigh. Stella, surely. 

He was right. 

[. . .]

The phone call was going on half an hour with no signs of ending any time soon, when Via walked in.

It was hard to properly talk to her when Stella was whining on the other side of the call, so he deemed it better to dismiss her and have a conversation when he and her mother were done yelling at each other. “Darling, can we not talk about this now? Your mother is being a real B-I-T-C-H.”

Stella yelled incoherent insults at him for that. “Well how was I supposed to know you can spell? I’ve never seen you read!”

About an hour later, only a couple minutes after finally being able to hang up the phone, it rang again. He let out a groan in annoyance. Did she ever, ever shut up? 

He picked the phone up again, ready to curse at her when a voice came through first- one that wasn’t hers.

“Heyyy, Stolas, so, your daughter came by, took your book and teleported off to who-the-fuck-knows-where and we have no way of getting either of them back. Okay? Okay, good talk. Byyee!” Blitzø blurted it all out at once before hanging up abruptly. 

What. The actual. Fuck. 

In an instant, Stolas was there, in his full demon form without having even noticed he’d changed into it, angry beyond he’s ever been at the imp. 

“BLITZ!”

“Heeeyy, Stolas,” Blitzo tried (and failed miserably) to act nonchalant, earning angry looks from his employees.

Stolas turned back into his normal self, now worried more than anything, pacing back and forth on the reception floor as he tried to assimilate the situation. “How could this happen? Do you just let anyone waltz into your office and grab infinitely powerful artifacts?” He shouted. “Why would she do this? How are we supposed to find her? Where would she go?”

Blitzo’s daughter, Loona, tried sniffing around. Was it even possible that she’d be able to smell that? Apparently, she was successful, as she announced… “Well, it reeks of urine and desperation, so-”

“L.A.?” y/n asked, interrupting her. She seemed to be hoping she was wrong.

Loona confirmed with a nod. ‘L.A.”

Stolas didn’t understand exactly how she’d managed to do that, or even why y/n knew immediately where she was talking about just from those disgusting things she’d said about the place- that place must be awful. The thought only got him more worried, come to think of it. How was Via going to deal with a place that seemed to be so terrible in a realm she’d never visited? 

Stolas tilted his head to the side. “What is this ‘L.A.’ place like?”

“It’s not that different from here. She’ll be fine, I’m sure,” y/n tried to reassure him. It didn’t work all that much. 

He grimaced in preoccupation as he conjured a portal.

Blitzø was the last to walk through it. “Alright, Loona, let’s make this quick. In and out before anyone notices we’re here.” He looked around, taking the view in. “Oh, this doesn’t look much different from Hell.”

“I told ya,” y/n tells him. 

“Alright, well, let’s get to work. Loony, sniff!”

“How am I supposed to smell anything in this city?”

“Can’t you even do one thing right?” Moxxie complained, annoyed.

“Can't you finally do something about how fat you are?” The hellhound retorted.

“I’m not!”

Blitzø joined the conversation. “You know, it wouldn't kill ya to put a salad in your body every now and then.”

“What? But I'm not fat! I’m not!”

Great. He had no idea where Via was and the people supposed to help him find her were arguing about… whatever that was.

Blitzø climbed on top of a dumpster, grabbing a megaphone from satan-knows-where and talking into it. “Now! First things first, if we’re gonna do this the old-fashioned way, we’re gonna need disguises.”

Okay, now that Stolas could do. In an instant, he morphed into his human form, as did Loona and y/n, making Millie clap, amused at their abilities. He still couldn’t fathom the fact that the other three imps didn’t have real human disguises, and apparently just walked around the human realm as they were. 

Stolas could almost swear Blitzø looked amused as well, but it only lasted a second. Maybe he’d imagined it. He didn’t dwell on it- there was no time for anything other than finding his baby. 

“No chance you could conjure us a couple of those… can ya?” Blitzø asked him.

“Sadly, no. I’m afraid without my Grimoire my powers are just a tad limited in the human world,” Stolas explained. 

Blitzø scoffed. “What, you can’t memorize your fucking spells?”

“Oh, your memory’s so great? What’s his phone number?” Stolas motioned at Moxxie.

“Fuck you.”

Stolas smiled, content that he’d gotten his point across. “Eeeeexactly.”

As they all walk out of the alley they were in, Stolas grabs himself a pair of red-tinted sunglasses that he puts on his head, where his second pair of eyes would be. Yeah, that feels better. He watches as y/n grabs a pair too- purple heart-shaped ones- and pays for both. Where she’d gotten human money he didn’t know, but he found it endearing that she would spend it on their glasses when she could have just walked out with them. 

They continue on their way- which Stolas admittedly didn't know exactly to where, when y/n stops walking, asking them to wait. She’s turned around now, talking to Millie while Moxxie talked to a funny-looking human man. 

“What’s he doing?”

Moxxie hisses at Millie as she tries to take whatever it was he was holding from him. She sighs. “Look we’ll find ya, alright? I’ll just stick around so he doesn't do anything stupid.” 

“You sure?”

“Yeah, we can handle ourselves. Right?”

“Right.” Y/n turns back around, cueing for everyone to keep walking.

“You worry too much,” Blitzø remarks.

“Oh shut the fuck up. Let’s find you something to wear.”

“What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?”

Stolas shared a look with her. “Blitz, you’re not exactly… passing as a human right now.”

“And whose fault is that?” He jabs at Stolas. 

Y/n rolls her eyes at the comment, grabbing both demons by the hand and dragging them around until they found a shop she deemed useful. 

She grabbed some cash and gave it to Blitzø , sending him on his way inside the store, opting to wait outside. Stolas decided it would be best if he did the same. He tapped his foot nervously on the sidewalk as they waited and tilted his head to the side when Blitzø walked out the door with human clothes and gigantic costume ears to conceal his horns. Perhaps not changing would’ve brought less attention to him. 

“Now that’s disturbing,” Stolas pointed out. 

Blitzo looked like he was about to say something in return, but wasn’t able to- someone started yelling beside them. “Ahh! Look everyone! It’s Hollywood star, Brannon Ragers!”

“What?” Y/n asked no one in particular. 

“The fuck is a Brandon Rager- ohh,” Blitzø looked up behind himself, and the two demons did the same. Ohh, indeed. There it was, a billboard, huge as can be, with a guy’s- well, apparently Brannon Ragers’ face on it. The similarity between that guy and whatever was going on with Blitzo’s appearance right now was uncanny.

Stolas’ eyes widened. “Oh, dear.” If they didn’t want attention then, now things were getting so, so much worse.

A hoard of fans quickly surrounded Blitzø, to the point of almost suffocating him, as they asked for selfies or autographs or simply smothered him to the ground trying to hug him. “Millie! Where the fuck are you and your whorebag husband?” Stolas could hear him scream, but couldn’t for the life of him see him in the middle of so many people.

“Can you do something about this?” He asked y/n, unsure if either of them should even do anything. 

“I mean, technically I could wipe ‘em out but I don't think we want that, do we?”

No, definitely not. 

As the three of them tried to push their way into the crowd to get to Blitzø, someone blew a whistle, which made Loona’s ears hurt and caused everyone else to pay attention to whoever had done it- apparently, some guy with ugly glasses brandishing a diploma from ‘cinephile university’, whatever that meant. 

Satan, this place was so much more chaotic than Hell was.

It worked, though- the crowd dispersed, and Blitzø was released from someone’s grip, getting dropped face-first onto the sidewalk. Some other guy made his way over to him. “Mr. Ragers, we’ve been looking for you everywhere! You were supposed to be on set an hour ago!” As he spoke, two other guys, assumedly bodyguards, grabbed Blitzø up from the ground, holding him by his arms. 

“The fuck are you talking about?” Blitzø questioned.

“Shit, they think he’s that weirdo from the billboard,” Stolas heard y/n tell Loona.

“Your guest spot on ‘Sweetie, I’m in The House”! We’re taping tonight. Now, hurry up and get in the car.”

“Oh, no, no, no, no, no, I’m not going anywhere with you, jizz biscuit,” Blitzø flipped him off. 

The guy didn’t seem bothered at all. “Very funny, Mr. Ragers. Now get in the car-” was he- was he making cat noises at him? “Come on, boy, come on,” he kept on, apparently trying to bribe him with fruit snacks, which only made everything so much more confusing. Was this Brannon Ragers guy flat-out stupid?

“Get your fucking hands off me!” Blitzø tried to release himself from the two bodyguards’ grip, but was unsuccessful, only making things worse for himself. “Loona, Stolas, y/n, a little help here?” He called out, now being forcefully dragged. His fake ears came off, but it didn't even faze anyone there. Humans are weird.

“Oh, shit,” y/n muttered. Apparently, like Stolas, she’d imagined Blitzø would have been able to get himself out of that situation, but things were going out of control now.

Stolas had to think, and fast. The crowd was going wild again, so he used his height as an advantage, the only one out of the three who could actually see over people. “Excuse me, sir, uhhhh” Shit, if they left Blitzø alone, who knew where they would take him? “I’m…. Mr. Ragers’ agent!” He found himself exclaiming. “I don’t believe you can just-” Yet another bodyguard simply grabbed him off the floor, taking him with them with no effort. That got him distracted for a second. “Oh, you are strong!” 

“No! What the fuck are you doing?” Y/n yelled after him, which was fair. He hadn’t really put much thought into what he’d done. No use thinking about it now that he and Blitzø were getting aggressively thown into the back of a van.

It only took a couple seconds for Stolas to realize what that meant- how was he going to look for Octavia from there?

“Blitz, we don’t have time for this. Via could be anywhere… She could be in danger.”

For a second, Blitzø looked worried too, until it seemed he’d had an idea. “Don’t worry, I’m on it.” He punched the window so he could stick his head out of it, looking for Loona and y/n. “You two! Go find Via! We’ll catch up soon!”

He was met with a middle finger from both of them. 

“Yeah! Way to be a team!” He yelled out, getting himself back into the van. “She’s in great hands.”

Stolas let himself smile weakly. He didn’t know if that was true, but he wanted to believe it- after all, Loona had been able to track Via up here, and y/n was sure to do the best she could. 

[. . .]

As they got to what apparently was their destination- Starstruck Studios, as it read- Blitzø was dragged around the set, barely able to keep up to what they were doing to him. They styled his fake hair, poked his eyes with something, applied heavy makeup on him- which, for some reason, did nothing to conceal his obvious red skin, and gave him a pat on the back, telling him he was ready and would be on in five. At some point during all of that, Stolas was handed what could be anywhere between 10 and 600 water bottles. 

“What? Five what? I can’t be in a sitcom.”

“Should’ve had an ego crisis before signing the contract,” the producer guy mocked him. 

Stolas took a good look at him. He looked nervous. He killed people for a living, was on the brink of getting killed every single day, and this was making him nervous. 

“I- I- I- I- I don’t even know the fucking lines, idiot!”

“Well, that’s why god invented teleprompters.” 

Stolas hardly believed teleprompter could ever be described as a creation of god’s, but sure. Blitzø looked like he was on the verge of collapsing. Stolas tried to help out. “Shouldn't he rehearse or something?”

“No can do, we’re live in 10… 9…-” They guy started counting out, and with each second that passed Blitzø seemed to spiral even more.

“Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit, I- I- I can’t do this! No, not again.” He began pacing back and forth around the room. “I- I haven’t performed since-”

Alright, time to be the level-headed one. 

Stolas walked towards him. “Blitz, if your performance on stage is half as good as it is in bed, you’ll leave them… breathless,” he cooed, satisfied at the gulp he could see the imp take when he whispered the last word, free hand running over his throat. 

But no more time for that. He pushed Blitzø towards the stage. “Now hurry up and wow them so we can get back to finding Via!” Blitzø stopped at the door in front of him, and Stolas opened it, pushing him again, this time right onto the stage. “Break a leg, darling!” 

Suddenly, the lights were on. The crowd wasn’t huge, but there was a considerable amount of people there to watch the live recording. The actor who was already sitting on the couch delivered the first line. “Well if it isn’t our neighbor, Ronney! You feel that earthquake earlier?”

Blitzø looked terrified. Oh, no. “Say something,” Stolas urged him in a whisper from behind the camera.

Someone thankfully got him the teleprompter. He looked like he was barely present as he read his line from the screen. “Oh, yeah. Yeah! That was just… my wife… rolling out of bed.”

Stolas looked at the audience, worried no one would laugh at the joke. If no one laughed at his joke Blitzø might as well collapse. He was relieved when they started laughing. Blitzø, in turn, was beyond relieved- his eyes were almost sparkling with joy. He’d made people laugh!

Granted, they might have only done so because of the big signs telling them to, but Blitzø didn’t need to know that. Whatever was going on, it seemed to put him in a much better place, as he no longer looked like he was halfway through spiraling. It granted him the courage to keep on and even improvise. 

“Yeah! Yeah, and then that bitch hit her head on the way down and shattered her skull!”

Stolas didn’t even register the crowd’s reaction this time. He’d forgotten Blitzø is a performer. He couldn’t contain a laugh. 

Blitzø went on. “There was blood everywhere. Peed her pants,” Stolas was full on giggling now, though it took him a second to realize people had only now started laughing along. How did they not find this funny? No matter. 

Why did Blitzø even kill people anyway when this is what he’s supposed to do? He’s funny and- and… Blitzø winked at him, and immediately Stolas could feel his cheeks burn, downing some of the many water bottles he was holding to cool himself down. 

Where was he? Oh, right. He was funny and interesting and charming. Why had he given up performing? Perhaps Stolas could ask him about it at a later time.

The material of the show certainly wasn’t helping much. After a while, things were getting repetitive and, frankly, boring. And Stolas could see he was definitely not the only one who thought so, as the guy on his right had left the place altogether and the one on his left had literally fallen asleep.

Was this shoot ever going to end?

Blitzø’s character was rambling to the ugly tiny dog they’d brought in about it being the fifth couch he’d ruined that year.  “You know, maybe it's time I find you a new home, one that can put up with your attitude.”

A little girl walked into the set for the first time since the scene had started. “I can take him, Mr. Ronney! I’d be happy to adopt old Ugie and give him all the attention he needs!”

The crowd let out an ‘aw’ at the scene, everyone a little more interested now. Okay, good, it sounded like the episode was coming to an end, finally.

Blitzø held on to the dog’s collar, kneeling on the floor in front of it. “Yeah… yeah, maybe you should adopt.”

Oh, no, what was going on? Blitzø looked lost in thought, an unreadable look taking over his features. It didn’t look like a good sign at all. 

 “No. No, no, no, you can’t have her!” Her? “She’s mine and I love her!” Now that didn’t seem like acting. His expression was that of worry. 

He was right back to spiraling. 

“But Mr. Ronney, you gotta let me have the puppy. You’ve just gotta!” The kid tried salvaging the scene. 

Blitzø full-on hissed at her, shoving her away. “Don’t you touch her, you little anal fissure!”

Yep, he was definitely not doing well, whatever it was that suddenly caused this. Stolas found himself stuck, debating whether he should go there and do something.

The crowd laughed at what Blitzø said, which had been good before, but it was terrible timing now. “Oh, you think this is funny, assholes? She’s not fit to be a mother! I saw her doing lines of coke in her dressing room!”

“Hey, maybe-” Stolas tried talking to the cameraman, but was interrupted by the commotion of the bodyguards from earlier trying to get to Blitzø and contain him. 

Bad idea for them, but they didn’t know that yet. 

Another actress tried, once again, to salvage the scene, which was bonkers. What was there to even salvage after this? “Now, uh, Ronney, I think maybe you should-” she tried taking the dog from him, which was clearly the wrong move here. He pushed her onto the ground, her wig even falling off in the process. 

“No! You can’t have my baby, bitch! I’ll never get rid of her!”  Oh. This was about Loona. He took out his gun, swinging it around. One of the bodyguards tried tackling him to the ground- wrong move again. Without a second to think, Blitzø shot him in the head, still holding the dog as he did so.

And then it was chaos.

 In a couple seconds, Blitzø had already shot at least four people, and many more were coming to try to stop him. 

Yeah, time to do something, Stolas. “I’m coming, Bliiitzz-” he exclaimed, tripping over himself on the way to the commotion. He tried making his way into it, excusing himself, but to no use. Grabbing the last water bottle left on him, he threw it on someone as a last attempt. 

For… some reason… it worked. He didn’t even want to know what was in this place’s water, because the moment it touched the producer guy’s skin, it started burning its way right off, which was disturbing, but also wildly convenient at the moment. In an instant, the entire set was engulfed by fire, chaos running free as people screamed and ran around aimlessly. One guy almost tripped Stolas, and the prince would certainly have fallen if Blitzø didn’t grab him by the hand, pulling him up to stand again. 

“Alright, let’s go find our daughters,” Blitzø announced. The sight was one for the books, in Stolas’ humble opinion- he stood, holding him in place, shirt quite literally ripped open and gun in his hand, looking fiercely into the distance. The fake hair was a little distracting, but oh was this working for him.

Focus, Stolas! He snapped himself right out of it as they walked out.

“So, what happened back there… it was about Loona, wasn’t it?”

“I don’t wanna talk about it.”

“Oh, that’s fine.” They both stayed in silence for a couple minutes, as Blitzø dragged Stolas around the streets. “Where are we going?”

“Well, where do goth teenage daughters go?” Blitzø showed him his phone screen as he tried to look for Not Topic on his maps app, but it kept suggesting to him this place called Hot Topic, which was a stupid knock-off name for a store. “If we could just find where-”

A portal appeared right in front of them, startling them both. Loona walked through it first. 

“Oh, Loona, my sweet baby girl! I’m so sorry! I’ll never replace you no matter what you-” Blitzø ran up to Loona, meaning to hug her. She wasn’t having it, literally kicking him off of her. Stolas was startled by that, not used to this kind of… affection. “You’re good,” was all she said.

“Dad, I’m so sorry,” Octavia started, looking at the ground as if embarrassed at herself. 

Stolas threw himself onto her immediately, shifting out of his human form and interrupting her with a hug. “I’m just relieved you’re okay! But what could possess you to do such a thing? You know I haven’t taught you spells like this yet.”

“I just wanted to see the stars you promised.”

“The stars?” Stolas looked around, confused. He gasped when he realized what Via meant. “Anathoths’s tears! Oh, no, my dear, sweet Via, I am so-”

Octavia was the one to interrupt him with a hug this time, holding him tight. “I know, dad. It’s okay. You’re here now.”

He smiled, holding her closer to his chest, relieved. 

“Thank you,” he told y/n, holding a hand of hers in his for a brief second, to show his gratitude was sincere. “For finding her. And keeping her safe.”

Blitzø turned to face her too. “S´ppose I should say thank you too or whatever.” He eyed the two holding hands with a weird expression, and it made them withdraw them in an instant.

“Where would the two of you be without me?” Y/n quipped, trying to lessen the awkwardness of whatever had just happened. 

“Okay, don’t flatter yourself too much now,” Blitzø feigned annoyance, but clearly tried to fight a smile. He tried to hug Loona again, but she slapped him across the face with the Grimoire. She didn’t look irritated though. Stolas realized it really was her weird way of showing affection. 

Some sort of colorful shooting stars appeared in their sight but it was as if they were coming from the ground and going through some sort of explosion when they hit the night sky. Weird. Stolas had never seen those in his books. 

It was pretty, nonetheless. 

“What the fuck is that?” Loona questioned, seemingly also enamored by them.

“My acting career,” Blitzø replied bitterly. 

“They’re called fireworks,” y/n explained to them. 

“Fireworks?” Stolas questioned, intrigued. He kept forgetting how much she knew about this realm, and he almost felt inadequate when he was reminded of it. But he’d ask more about them later. 

Now, he was watching the stars with his daughter. 

“Ooh, Look at that one! Did you see that one?” Via asked, excited, and his heart swelled. He’d live in this moment forever if he could. 

“Now, where the fuck are M&M?” Blitzø questioned, which disturbed the moment a bit, but he supposed it was a fair question. Where were the other imps all day?

“Last Mills told me they were…” y/n took out her phone, re-reading the texts sent between them, “‘singing a love-song duet for money’,” she paraphrased.

“Well that makes no sense. Hold on.” Blitzø took out his own phone, texting Millie. She replied within the second.“They’re… still at the alley, apparently.”

“I’ll conjure them a different portal,” Stolas tells them all, waving his hand and conjuring one of his own. “We should return now.”

[. . .]

Back at the palace, Stolas tried to make things seem normal. “So, was your visit to the human realm eventful, at least, sweetheart?”

“Oh, not that much. I spent the whole day trying to find some place where I could see the stars. Turns out you can't really see the stars from there.”

Stolas’ mood deflated. Via noticed. “It’s fine though. I took some cool pictures and we got to see the fireworks!”

“I am really sorry I missed Anathoth’s tears, my sweet Via. I really am.”

“I know you are. I talked to Loona. And Y/n.”

“Whatever about?”

“Well they said you’re not perfect. And you fuck up sometimes. Which is true. But they also said you’re trying, and you’re making an effort. And I can see that now. That’s good for me.”

Stolas couldn’t find his words for a couple of seconds. “...I’m glad it is, darling.”

“I like her.”

“Who?”

“Y/n. As much as I don't like that you… you know. She’s not that bad, I guess.”

“And Blitzø?”

“Don’t push it, dad. That’s all you’re getting from me. I’m gonna go to bed now, alright?” She walked over to him, kissing his cheek. “G´night, dad!”

“Goodnight, Octavia.”

As soon as she was out of sight, he broke down. 

How awful of him, to be so absorbed in his own chaotic life that he didn’t remember, didn’t notice. 

What kind of father was he? 

Was he really the kind to let his daughter think that him fucking up all the time was okay? That it was enough because he was trying? 

Stolas wished to be a father who was there. Who didn’t fuck up. A father who remembered important things and didn’t dismiss his own daughter when she was trying to talk to him about them. A father who didn’t ever have to worry about her being in danger because he paid attention, and prevented her from getting herself into dangerous situations. 

Amidst his own drama, he’d forgotten to be a father altogether. 

How selfish. How awful. How disgusting.

Perhaps whatever it is he had with the two demons did have to end, he reflected. At least in the way it currently stood. 

He had obligations more important than spending his time worrying about whether his feelings were requited, analyzing their behavior for a sliver of hope, tending to their times of need. 

He’d had the time to think of himself, but it seemed he couldn’t trust himself to do so without forgetting to think of others all around. 

And now it was time to think about Octavia. 

He had to be a parent, and if he was unable to do it right while his life was a mess, then he was solving that mess altogether.

He’d deal with the consequences later, and if it shattered him, then so be it. 

[. . .]

Stolas tapped his foot on the floor as he waited, catching himself inspecting the feathers in his forearm and trying to resist the urge to  try and pluck some, more to not make a mess out of the room than to stop the harm of it. For better or for worse, the bandage around his unhealed arm made it impossible to do it without causing excruciating pain. 

The huge door was pulled open in front of him, and he stood up from the couch in the waiting room. 

“Stolas!” Amodeus called, opening his arms to greet him. “Hey there, birdy babe. Haven’t seen you since you crashed my club.” Stolas grimaced at the memory, following the Sin into his office. “How you been?” Ozzie closed the door behind them, leading him inside. He let out a laugh. “Still getting your kink on with my girl and that feisty imp?” 

This was going to be uncomfortable. Stolas let out a nervous laugh, trying to calm himself down before he can get to what he wants to say. 

But he’s doing this. He’s giving them the crystal and setting them free. Free to make a choice, whatever that choice ends up being. 

Stolas almost hopes they will choose him. No, he fully does.

But that’s not his call to make.

Yeah, he’s doing this.

“Well, um, that’s actually what I’m here about.”

A/N:  first bonus chapter comes tomorrow or the day after that! look out for it it has a little hint of something we'll find out in a later chapter <3 i hope you guys like this one, i'm a little self-conscious abt it but it's exactly what i intended it to be so.

[thenightcallsme]

Do I Make you Nervous? | Simon "Ghost" Riley

little re-upload from my AO3 :)

Synopsis: When Task Force 141 is betrayed by Philip Graves, they're forced to separate. Y\N fights her way through the foreign Las Almas with a broken radio and no sense of direction. Yet, somehow, she finds herself in the same church her lieutenant, Simon "Ghost" Riley, seeks sanctuary in. As they attempt to brave the storm sweeping through the streets, the infamously unreadable Ghost challenges their professional relationship.

Pairing: Ghost x F!141reader

Contains: fluff, kissing, use of Y/N, hint of angst but resolved in the end, vague mentions of blood/wounds

Word count: 5,874

• • • • •

It was all a set-up. A lie.

Disappointment and anger triumphs any sadness over Grave's betrayal. At first, he came across as over-confident in that stereotypical male way. Over time I had warmed up to him. But Shepherd? The man who has given me the most freedom I’ve had in a long time? I admit that my use as a weapon to him has put a strain on our companionship, but to station me with my own cousin only to lash out unprovoked? He’s crossed a line that he can never come back from. The small liking I had for the man vanished as soon as shit hit the fan. Everything seems to replay in my mind. Alejandro insulted and detained, Johnny shot at, Ghost cornered...

There were too many of them to fight off. I couldn't trust myself to hold my own with my mind worrying over Johnny, Alejandro and Ghost while also plotting Shepherd's death. So, though it pained me, I ran. Ghost and Johnny did the same. 

My radio was damaged in the incident. A stray bullet flew my way, and with a stroke of luck, grazed the radio instead of my ribs. The close call was enough warning to run, which is what I do now. The lack of communication only worsens the worry.

Shadows crawl in the streets of Las Almas like rats in a sewer. From door to door they go, yelling at innocent civilians in the late hours of dusk. From the conversations I've heard, they're looking for two foreign men and their female friend. They don't quite explain why we're being hunted, but the truth wouldn't change much. Every so often, a shot fires, echoing through the streets like a warning bell. A call of sorrow and fear.

With the Shadows forcing their way into civilian homes and raising their weapons against anyone who could harbour us, houses and shops aren't safe. The towering cathedral spires peeking above tin roofs and stacked houses catch my attention instead. Nobody would be inside at this time of night. For now, it's the best I can do. Also to my luck, the church isn't too far away. I take my time and keep to the shadows on my way. With a quick survey of my surroundings, I know I've bet the Shadows to this part of the city. That won't last long. The revelation has me jumping the gate within seconds of making it.

Inside the church is pitch black. Towering windows that tell biblical tales line the walls, casting light in intervals across the empty foyer. Rows of seats begin to emerge as my eyes adjust. Further back is an intricate, circular skylight tens of feet above the marble floor. Illuminating the altar below is a waterfall of silvery light. The giant cross, gold statues, and wooden altar glow like I'm looking through a blurred lens. The view is both eerie and magical...and not meant to be marvelled at in a time like this. My focus should be maintaining high ground. I begin to turn in search of a staircase when something shifts in the darkness.

A figure materialises, tall and built; easily a male physically capable of snapping my neck. My next best option is the gun strapped to my hip to parry the one in his hand. I go to reach for mine—

“Y/N?”

I freeze in surprise, but my mind eases slightly.

“Lieutenant? How—”

“Doesn’t matter. We’re here now.” He looks down at me with searching eyes. “You in one piece?”

“Yes. You—?” At that moment, my own eyes skim his body, only to halt at a worrying sight. On the left side of his waist, just above the waistband of his pants, is a blooming, dark red stain on his shirt. He’s been shot. “Jesus, Ghost. How bad is it?”

“I’ve had worse—”

He stops himself at the distant shouting. The surrounding streets haven’t been quiet since I’ve been in the church, but this time it grows closer. Angrier. Ghost doesn’t waste time ushering me along in search of a stairwell. The one we find leads to the second floor, then a third. Eventually, we discover the central bell tower. The room is dank and cold and decently big. Suspended in the middle is a gigantic bell. Even in the dark, I can see how weathered the metal is. The worn wooden floors creak as we cross it. On each wall are arched openings that allow entry to the cold night air and terrified screams. A small cluster of discarded furniture draped in white sheets huddles in a corner. From here, we have a perfect view of the sprawling city and winding streets. To those down there, we’re invisible.

Simon leans back against a wall and grunts, his hands brushing over the bullet wound. He pulls back his hands to inspect the fresh blood. However bad it is, it’s still bleeding.

“Show me,” I say. My voice comes out more demanding than I intend.

He gives me a brief exasperated look but doesn’t push back.

Ghost sits against the wall with his shoulders slumped just enough to reach my level. His jacket is unzipped, his black shirt rolled up halfway. Those tired, piercing eyes and muscular arms are the most I've ever seen of him. It feels like a reward when the weather is unforgiving enough to chase away his usual long-sleeve or jacket. His arms are tanned and muscled, with a tattoo sleeve working from the wrist of his left arm up to his elbow. I’ve begun to accept that it’s the closest I’m ever going to get to seeing him. But now I stare down at his bare abdomen.

The waistband of his black cargo pants sits low on his hips, offering a distracting view of a pronounced V-line and abs. In the moonlight, I can make out the reminders of war that mark his skin; a few silvery scars, some clean-cut, some gnarled and twisted; an old bullet wound healed closer to his ribs. The fresh one with the most of my attention is buried in a more acceptable spot. It nestles into the far right side of his waist, thankfully nowhere near any vital organs. However, it’s still a bullet wound and it still bleeds. That’s enough to worry me.

“Do you reckon it’s bad?” I ask.

He shrugs. “I wouldn’t say I’m dying.”

“But we aren’t in the position to get proper help. Maybe sit down for a bit.” Surprisingly, he does so without question. I get to my feet, draw a small knife from my thigh holster, and rip a strip of fabric from the white sheets. When I drop back down beside him, I take a deep breath. “Here"

He takes it with a mumbled thank you and wraps the fabric around his waist.

“You heard from John?” I ask.

Simon winces as he adjusts the torn sheet. “I radioed him multiple times. Never got an answer.”

“Are you surprised by all this?”

Simon leans back against the wall. “I tend to be less surprised by betrayal. But I had some respect for Shepherd.”

I sigh, shuffling around him so that I can do the same. “What are we supposed to do now?”

“Survive,” he says. “Shepherd wants you alive. Graves will see to that. He can’t kill Alejandro, either. But Johnny and I…” He shakes his head. “Graves won’t sleep until there’s a bullet in our heads and Shepherd won’t care enough to stop it.”

There’s a moment of silence as I fold my arms and look away thoughtfully. How are we supposed to do this? The blanket of night and the ensuing storm may offer some cover, but getting out of the city will be a mission. I can’t bring myself to leave without John, either. My heart hurts when I think about him. He could be anywhere, alone and outnumbered while I sit uselessly in a bell tower.

“What do we do about Johnny?” My voice is quiet. Fearful. “My radio was damaged so I couldn’t reach out to him. Maybe his is the same. But not knowing… He’s the only family I have left. My only real friend.”

“Don’t worry about Johnny. He’s one of the most resourceful and strong-willed Sergeants I’ve dealt with in a while. Have faith in him.” He looks at me then, tilting his head to the side. “I wouldn’t say he’s your only friend.”

“I do quite like his girlfriend…” I murmur.

“And Alejandro? Ronaldo?”

I purse my lips as his question draws thought. I’ve been considering Alejandro and Ronaldo as allies. Companions. But I’ve grown quite fond of them. Considering them as friends would set me up for heartache if anything were to happen. So I haven’t… At least openly. Despite my attempts to create some distance in our relationships, my subconscious has decided for me. Those two are my friends. It explains the immense distress I’m battling over Alejandro’s capture.

“I guess so.”

“Me?”

Silence ensues from both of us.

His question stuns me; I was prepared for him to stop at Alejandro and Ronaldo. There’s nobody else in Las Almas or back at home that I pay attention to. Besides Ghost, at least. I could answer him in a second. I almost do.

Ghost is infamous for his detachment. He’s quiet, short-tempered, dangerous and mysterious. I’ve heard the comments that he suits his code name. Spiritual beings do not communicate through speech but through action. Ghost is the physical embodiment of the epiphany. Anybody able to coax a few sentences from him outside missions is admirable. Outside of that, his physical emotions require deep analysis and theory to understand. The mask only makes things more difficult. I’ve never seen him show palpable kindness through his aura or words to anyone, never heard him allow the use of his name, never heard him offer others insight into the raging whirlwind of his mind.

And yet he lets those things slide around me.

He lets me speak his name when no one is listening. He offers me comfort when I need it most — if not through limited words, through soft gazes and a hand on my shoulder. I’m usually able to get him talking. Sometimes I receive short answers, sometimes I receive enough to help me understand more of that whirlwind mind. He even occasionally shows pieces of himself that take away from the guessing game I usually play.

I shut people out because the last people I let in betrayed me.

I never consider answering personal questions, but you tend to have a lot of them. And every time you ask…I almost answer

I guess you and I are more alike than I thought.

All of it has me wanting more. More of his mind, his words, the soft gazes I’ve noticed are reserved for me. What I already have is nothing compared to every naked truth he could be telling me. However, what I’ve managed to coax from him seems to be more than he’s told anyone in a long time. At first, I marked it down as me being the only female on the team or Ghost considered me fragile. But I've proved myself, and nothing about being a 'fragile female' (which I very well am not) does not automatically give me all these passes. I now realise it is much more than that.

Never once has he called me his friend. I already have. Now it’s his turn.

“I don’t mind you, Simon, but friendship can’t be one-sided,” I say. While it’s a simple statement, a silent question hides between each word. Are you my friend?

“If it was as one-sided as you think, you wouldn’t be calling me Simon.”

My heart skips a beat. There. It’s an answer to my unspoken words, but it’s not plain as day. As usual, Simon tells me something that is anything but straightforward. There’s room for interpretation in his answer—something that is beginning to tire me. It’s almost as if the honest answer is criminal and he’s trying to cover up his tracks. Almost as if not speaking that honest answer can allow him to deny it.

I don't bother concealing my annoyance. “That’s not what I want to hear and you know it.”

“Fuck sakes, Y\N, I said it,” he says. His voice comes out both argumentative and exasperated.

“No, you didn't. All I ever get out of you is stuff that works around the truth. Stuff I have to think about to understand.” I'm crossing a line, I know. I just can't help it. “What’s so hard about admitting it?”

“Don’t.”

His tone is final. I don’t care.

“Does the truth scare you?”

His eyes squint, becoming barely visible against the black paint, the mask, and the low light. I can clearly picture a scowl jumping across the many faces I’ve imagined. While I want to flinch away, I don’t. Not for a second do my eyes lower, and not for a second do I grow offensive. I remain calm and collected, which I think annoys him more.

“You want the truth?” he growls. The accent of Manchester seems to thicken. “Fine. I’ll tell you the truth. I don’t want to admit I think of you as a friend ‘cause I bloody well want to ignore it. For years, it’s only been me and I planned it to be for the rest of my life. Then all of a sudden you and your annoying cousin appear and jeopardise everything. The only person with an inkling of anything was Shepherd and I was fine with that. But now you’re catching up to him. You’ve so effortlessly undone everything I’ve worked hard to maintain.” The growl in his voice dies down the longer he speaks. In the last sentence, his voice is quiet, defeated, but a little begrudging. “And I knowingly let you.”

“If it was bothering you that much, you should have told me,” I say with a voice equally as quiet. “If I knew you didn’t want me to know so badly, I would have respected that.”

He shakes his head. “You don’t understand. I think about telling you everything. I may get pissy at you over your questions, but…” A sigh. The truth is shameful to him. “I look forward to them.”

“If it makes you feel any better…” I laugh a little. “It’s really annoying how intriguing you are. Not just your past and your face… When I’m not trying to guess what you look like, I’m refraining from asking you stupid questions. Shit like if you’re a cat or dog person.”

“Dog person,” he replies. Any hint of anger or annoyance has disappeared. “Cats have too much attitude.”

I squint. “You just don’t appreciate them.”

“You strike me as a cat person.” He pauses in thought. “You just remind me of a cat, really.”

I raise my brows, giving him an exasperated look. “Are you going to tell me I have an attitude?”

“Maybe. But there’s more to it.”

I cock my head in question.

“Cats are friendly. Independent.” His eyes shift and I wonder if there's a smirk beneath the mask. “Curious.”

“Was that another dig at my questions?”

“Yes. Now shut up and listen.”

Before he continues, I find myself turning my body so I can fully look at him, my shoulder against the concrete walls and my legs folded beneath me.

“There’s that look in their eyes that they know your worst thoughts. Your secrets. They’re also graceful. Got that high-class elegance about them. But they can be unpredictable, striking out when you least expect. Once they sink their claws into you…” His eyes search my face. “You can’t get rid of them.”

I look up at him in wonder, my mouth slightly agape as I try to find a suitable response. Nothing I could say would express the way his words sink in. I’ve always coined Simon to be the observant type, keeping to himself and remaining silent. But I never expected him to relay his finds. His usual short, sharp answers contrast the compliment greatly.

“I think…” A small smile curves my lips upwards. “…That was the most meaningful compliment I’ve ever gotten.”

“Don’t let it go to your head.”

“Never. Now I have a question.”

“The floor is yours.”

“Do you have, like, Queen Elizabeth tattooed on your face? The British flag?” I grin. “Something mask-worthy, you know?”

“Why does it have to be something British?”

“Because there’s no way you’re the only Brit I know that isn’t somewhat stereotypical.”

Simon huffs a laugh. “No stereotypical tattoos. Sorry to disappoint.”

“A big scar, then?”

He tilts his head. “No scars that make me want to wear it.”

I raise my brows. “So you do have a scar?”

“Only one big one.”

“Good to know.” I nod my head with thoughtful eyes. “I’ll add that to a mental note.”

His eyes widen a fraction. The skull sown to his balaclava only offers the view of his painted eyes and nothing. Not even his eyebrows. I guess he’s raising them in question.

“How often do you think about this?”

I let out a long breath. “You have no idea. I change what I think you look like every day.”

“What do you think I look like.”

I go quiet in thought for a moment. As I said, the image changes… Only more frequently than I want to admit. Sometimes the change is small. Sometimes the change is big. I know I’m not the only one stumped by this, either. John and I joked over it once. He said things eluding to him being unattractive. A crooked nose, a huge scar, broken teeth. Every time he made a guess I would laugh, but never did the ideas seep into my mind. Nothing in an unattractive sense, anyway. Despite the possibility, I can never picture him as ugly.

“It varies, but…” I take one last second to collect my thoughts. “Without that skull piece, you have dark eyebrows. I imagine your hair is brown. And you’re eyes…it’s hard to tell with the paint, but they’re more deep-set and heavy-lidded. The balaclava is tight enough to make me think you have a straight nose, high cheekbones, strong jaw…” I shake my head. “Beyond that, I’m stumped.”

I can tell he thinks deeply about each characteristic. I sit patiently and almost wait for confirmation, but I know better than that. If he’s not going to show his face, he’s not going to—

“My hair is brown.”

I’m about to backtrack on my previous thought when he reaches towards the space between my neck and shoulder. In the frenzy that has been the last hour, my hair has come undone. The braid was unsavable, making me pull out the band and attempt a ponytail…only for it to snap in two. My hair now falls in dishevelled waves. A small part of my hair falls over my shoulder. Simon gingerly reaches for it, curling it between his finger and examining it in the low light. …Can he hear how fast my heart is beating?

“Not like yours. A few shades lighter, maybe. And that scar…”

Even more gingerly, Simon pulls one of my hands from its folded position, and I pray my expression doesn’t betray me. Rough, calloused hands press against the back of mine. The size difference is almost comical. He guides it to his masked face, working his fingers working around mine to spread them out. He drags my hand over his right cheekbone, across the hollow of his cheek, and towards his jaw. My mind is hyper-fixated on the shape of his face.

“Right along there.”

His eyes continue to search my face. There’s nothing but curiosity in the blue-grey of his irises. Curious at what, I can’t tell. Everything about this has my mind raging. The way he looks at me, the way he holds my hand against the black balaclava, the way he towers over me even when sitting down... The thoughts that surface are shameful. He’s your lieutenant, for Christ’s sake. Have some respect. The remembrance of his position has little help.

If anything, it strengthens the fantasies.

His hold shifts on top of my hand, the pad of his thumb swiping across my skin to stop on the inner side of my wrist and press down. He may not have been able to hear my heartbeat…but now he can feel it at the worst possible moment.

“You’re heart is beating fast.” He inclines his head. “Do I make you nervous, Y\N?”

God, is my breathing even? I can’t tell.

“You just caught me off guard, is all.”

Simon hums thoughtfully as his hand breaks away from mine and reaches forward. His fingers connect with my collarbone before finding my neck, exploring upwards in search of a pulse point. A shiver of excitement and nervousness runs beneath my skin like a ripple. His other hand slides over my knee and up my thigh. If my heart was racing before, this is a life-or-death sprint.

Slow are his movements. Calculated. He knows exactly where my heartbeat reverberates in my neck. Instead, he drags the moment out, coaxing out his desired reaction. But there’s something else in the slowness: a window for me to flinch away and draw the physical line neither of us has ever drawn. We’ve brushed shoulders and hands. We’ve sat with our bodies aligned in cramped cars. He’s held my hair back in a bathroom as I threw up after a panicked episode (something I would like to forget if he wasn't so surprisingly understanding). He's placed a hand on my shoulder for many different reasons. All are excusable moments. The ones that surpass professional boundaries can be marked as friendly. However, the intimacy of this moment is new. Scary. Exciting.

“Did you know your bottom lip twitches before you lie?” Simon asks. I find myself at eye level with him. When did he get so close? “I don’t like lies. Try again.”

“Sometimes…” I breathe.

“Sometimes, what?”

Bastard. “Sometimes you make me nervous.”

“Why?”

“Because…” I frown. “I don’t know.”

He’s definitely leaning closer now. Not just with his head, but with his whole upper body. Out of the nerves Simon is so adamant on understanding, I retreat, only making it a few inches before my back hits the other wall. Simon half hovers over me, the hand that was on my thigh now bracing himself on the floor. There are only a few inches between our chests. Even less between our faces. Not once does he lose his connection with my pulse.

“Another lie.”

“I don’t know how to word it. That's not a lie.”

Simon drops his head so that his covered mouth hovers beside my ear.

“Good girl.”

Never has praise sounded so seductive. It takes every inch of concentration to reign in my self-control. I might have ripped off his mask then and there…

Only, I think he’s beating me to it.

From where his head hovers, I can’t see his masked face. The wide, strong shape of his shoulder obscures most of my vision. He retracts his hand from my neck to reach somewhere I can’t see. The sound of moving cloth widens my eyes and upsets the rhythm of my breathing, the uneven rise and fall of my chest barely brushing his.

Maybe he’s adjusting it, I convince myself. He has only ever offered you little pieces at a time. What he’s offering me now is more than he ever has at once. While my body screams for more, my mind knows I can’t expect too much from him. Whatever he’s doing now is more than enough.

“You’re breathing funny.”

The feeling of breath skims the shell of my ear and down my neck like a warm, ghostly waterfall. It takes me a second to notice a difference in his voice. It’s low, it’s rough, it’s teasing. All are easily noticeable and nothing new. What is new is the enhanced clarity. An added sharpness lingers in his accented words. The slight muffle is nowhere to be found.

I was wrong. He’s lifted his mask.

“Because you’re taking off your mask." My answer comes out in a weak whisper.

He doesn’t speak about the mask, instead repositioning his hand to my neck to find my pulse.

“If you can’t tell me,” he murmurs, returning to the previous topic, “your heartbeat can.”

A warm feeling presses into my neck. A gasp slips past my lips as my heartbeat continues to quicken and stumble beneath his thumb. Against my skin…I think Simon is smiling.

Nothing about this seems real. Simon plants slow kisses on my neck with his bare lips. They’re a little rough, yet soothing. Whether they’re full or thin, I can’t tell, but the lack of obvious signs paints an image of something in between. His nose brushes the base of my jaw. Just above the pointed tip is where the balaclava begins. I can feel the hard edges of the sewn-on skull pressing into my left temple. Light stubble covers his jaw.

As his mouth works slowly against my neck, my jaw, and my collarbone, my hand slides up and over his chest. I slowly feel his bare neck. Beneath my fingers, his Adam's apple bobs. Further I explore, feeling the planes of his skin. The stubble scratches against my curious hand. Raised skin runs in a line over the right side of his face; the scar. It’s thin and generally clean-cut. He pulls back slightly as I feel his face. A deep chuckle rumbles in his chest as my thumb traces over his lips. I was right, they are something between full and thin. His lower lip feels slightly fuller with a deep hollow beneath that curves into his chin.

When I find it in me to speak, my voice is breathy.

“Kiss me.” He seems to still at that. When his reply isn’t instant, I continue. “You don’t have to… But I won’t look. I swear it.”

Silently, he reaches for my hand. He holds his over mine for a moment as he did with the mask moments earlier. Then he gently pries it away. Cloth shifts in my air as he fixes the mask and pulls back. I can’t say I’m not disappointed, but I respect the decision. Simon looks down at me with lust-blown pupils. Mine must be the same.

He takes a second to examine me. My heavy-lidded eyes, my slightly parted lips, the way I slump beneath him, the glistening wet spots left on my neck. He whips it away before he speaks.

“Can I trust you?”

We both know the answer to that, so instead of saying the obvious, I one-up him.

“Do you want to trust me?”

Silence passes for a heartbeat.

“Of course I do,” he says softly. “I want to trust you. I want to touch you. I want to kiss you. …Undress you. I’ve wanted to for so long.”

Then he moves.

My thoughts go quiet as Simon’s hands reach upward. When his fingers brush the base of his mask, I reach out and still his hands. The action takes both of us by surprise. For months I’ve been thinking about this moment. Just now I’ve admitted how much what he looks like takes up my mind. Now I find myself stopping him, but not because I’ve changed my mind. I worry that this will be something he’ll regret.

“Simon,” I say. “You don’t owe it to me to show your face.”

“But I do.” He inclines his head. “Now keep your pretty eyes up.”

My breath catches in my throat as he pulls it off in one swift motion. I take in everything I’m seeing in amazement, wonder, and bewilderment.

He’s handsome. He’s really handsome.

The ruggedness and confidence he carries seem to be etched into the planes of his face. A light stubble shadows his angular, defined jaw. Just as I had imagined, the bridge of his nose is straight and strong. His high cheekbones, deep-set eyes and smudged black paint create deep shadows. His mouth is wide. The shape of them is a physical manifestation of what I had imagined. With an average fullness, his upper lip is slightly smaller with a soft cupid’s bow. Tracing the angles of his right cheekbone is that straight, silver scar. His hair isn’t as short as most other military men’s. It’s a little messy from the mask and, true to his words, a few shades lighter than mine. I can tell that, the longer it gets, the more it curls.

I stay silent as I take him in, eyes wide. Somehow I find the courage to slowly reach out. His blue-grey eyes dart to my hesitant fingers. When he doesn’t deny me, I close the space, this time feeling him without needing to imagine his image. I apply a little pressure as I brush his skin, feeling the warmth of his cheeks, the scar tissue on his cheekbone, and the stubble on his jaw. His eyes train on me. This is one of the few times I cannot understand what I see in them.

Whatever he’s thinking, it doesn’t matter. All that matters is that I stare back at Simon. Not Ghost, Simon.

“I was starting to think you weren’t real,” I say jokingly.

He laughs softly. One side of his mouth quirks up into a skewed smirk. My heart flutters at the sight of it. When he speaks, it’s with that teasing tone that always had me imagining a smirk. Matching his expressions to his tones is a strange thing to see, but I love it.

“Is this real enough for you?” he asks.

I hum in agreement. “You’re a lot better looking than I imagined.”

He raises a brow in mock offence. “Do I radiate unattractiveness? I’m offended.”

“I never said I imagined you ugly.”

I draw my hands back, taking another good look at him. My amazed smile remains. So does the awe in my eyes. Now that I know how good-looking he is, it’s going to be hard to get him out of my head. At least I can’t scold myself over falling for a faceless man anymore.

“I guess if I die tonight… I can go a little happier.”

The way he tilts his head and looks up through lowered brows sends my mind into a frenzy. I’m used to the action with his mask on, usually with the sewn-on skull. Now, with every part of his face laid bare for me, the feeling it stirs comes tenfold. He gives me a fake accusing look. Beneath the teasing air he gives off, that desire remains.

“A little?” he murmurs. His face grows closer, giving me a better view of the hollows and curves and marks of war.

“A little not enough?”

His eyes dip to my lips. “Not by a longshot.”

Then Simon kisses me.

Eyes fluttering closed, I sink into the feeling of his lips against mine. Gently. Hesitantly. Does he expect me to pull away? How could he think such a thing when I almost seemed desperate when I asked him? My hands slide over his chest, slowly linking behind his neck as the kiss deepens.

For a moment, everything fades away. The gunfire, the screams, the impending death we may face any moment... All of it reduces to a meaningless blur. Suddenly all that exists is me, Simon, and the secret embrace we share. In our kiss is a million unspoken words; a tidal wave of passion laced with a bittersweet sadness. The talk of ‘dying happy’ is no exaggeration. We very well may die, and seeing his face and feeling his touch eases the painful thought. Maybe this way I can find him in the afterlife - seek out his mysterious eyes and lopsided smirk and spend an eternity together. Or perhaps there is no afterlife, and this is my last stroke of luck.

Satisfied with the knowledge of what he does to me, Simon lowers his hand from my neck. The pressure reapplies near my belt. His fingers timidly skim the bottom of my tanktop, pulling the tucked part from my waistband. My own fingers weave through his brown hair as his hand slides further beneath. My kiss falters when he finds one of my breasts. His hand comfortably rests over it, his palm slowly kneading at the flesh. A low groan builds at the back of my throat.

After a moment, we pull away, chests rising and falling as we take deep breaths. His forehead rests against mine and suddenly I'm wishing we could do this over again. Except I picture less sadness to tinge every word and action. I picture the safety of home, the warmth of a bed, a carefree air that allows us to just enjoy the other's company. Reality comes back in a painful rush.

“I don’t want to die,” I whisper.

His hand retreats from my breast at my words. Instead, he takes a hold of my waist, giving me a comforting squeeze.

“You are not going to die. Not today. Not when there’s so much more I want from you.” He adds the last part with a teasing, suggestive smirk.

He looks down at my lips again—

“Ghost, how do you copy?”

We both freeze at the sound of a voice, so caught up in the moment that the radio is forgotten. Both the unspeakable things and sorrowful thoughts flooding my mind suddenly vanish at the sound of a familiar voice. There’s an equally received look on Simon’s face as he reaches for the small radio.

“I read you loud and clear, Sergeant,” he says. “What’s your location?”

“I…don’t know,” John replies solemnly. “Streets are crawling with Shadows. Where are you?”

“You see church spires above the houses?”

There’s a second of silence. Then…

“I see them.”

“Good. Head straight there and come inside. No Shadows here yet. They’ll be busy going door to door.”

“Affirmative. I’m on my way. Have you got any word from Y/N?”

Simon looks at me, silently giving me the floor to speak. “I’m right here, Johnny.”

There’s a sigh of relief on the other end. “Oh, thank fuck. You in one piece?”

“I’m all here. You?”

“Got a shot to the shoulder. Nothing I can’t handle.”

For the next while, Simon and I sit huddled side by side, guiding Johnny through the radio. I generally leave the talking to Simon. Listening to him speak and sinking into his warmth is good enough. Every so often, he'll say something that takes me by surprise. Sometimes it's a dad joke, either really good or incredibly bad. Sometimes it's something that alludes to Simon not minding Johnny. He never outright admits it, but saying 'I like you alive' to Johnny's 'so you do like me' speaks for itself. I smile at that. I have sunk my claws into him, and he's not going to be able to get rid of me till the day I die.

[somehow-a-human]

Whose POV is it Anyway?

"Your 'Something's Wrong' voice."

DO NOT ASK NEIL ABOUT FAN THEORY

Hallo assorted ethereal and occult beings! I'm back to break down the POV of different scenes in detail! Starting with episode 1, and notably, the coffee shop scene when Crowley comes to meet Aziraphale for the first time in present day & the argument about Gabriel!

For reference & context, I recommend reading these posts:

Whose POV is it Anyway? - Introduction

Lens Filters

Let's jump straight in!

We open Season one's present day with Crowley and Shax on the bench in the park, and in this scene the Black Diffusion FX filter is in Full Effect, and Crowley's sideburns are short.

The color is well saturated, but still cool-toned and bright, indicative of Crowley's POV.

Then when Aziraphale visits Maggie, listens to his music, and Gabriel arrives to Aziraphale, the Bronze Glimmer Glass filter is used.

The lighting is warm, golden, soft & hazy. Aziraphale's POV.

This brings us to the coffee shop scene.

I've stolen this photo from @embracing-the-ineffable 's post about The Appearing Honolulu Roast Sign which you should go check out if you haven't yet. But I'd like to draw your attention to something subtler here, the tone of the top two images and the bottom two. Pull up the episode and watch it if you'd like as well.

When Crowley walks into the coffee shop and sits down, the lighting is warm and hazy, because Aziraphale had been there alone so far. There is then a cut, Crowley's sideburns are short, the Honolulu Roast sign notably appears, but the scene is also noticeably (if you're looking for it) clearer and more vibrant, the warm haze is gone. I think we've switched from Aziraphale's POV to Crowley's POV here, and I think that's then confirmed by Crowley immediately beginning to give Aziraphale a bit of a a read about his "somethings wrong voice". We're broken out of Aziraphale's fairytale filter POV into Crowley's which is a bit colder and more realistic.

They then head back to the bookshop where Crowley discovers Jimbriel.

As soon as they're in the door of the bookshop the warm hazy Bronze Glimmer Glass filter is back and Crowley's sideburns are long. He removes his glasses, he's relaxed, and then he's jumpscared out of his boots by Jimbriel. Aziraphale's POV.

Crowley drags Aziraphale to the backroom and despite the warm yellow paint on the walls, the hazy warm tone is gone and I believe we've returned to the Black Diffusion FX filter, or Crowley's POV. Additionally, his sideburns are short again. Crowley is angry, terrified, and stressed now. He's not the kindest with his words and refuses to help Aziraphale.

When Crowley storms out, his walk back through the bookshop is marked by another POV change with longer sideburns, in the warm hazy tones of the BGG Aziraphale filter, and a notable shot of him retrieving his glasses beside the plate of eccles cakes. Two details that I believe would stand out in Aziraphale's imagination and mind. He would notice Crowley's eyes, and remember the eccles cakes.

Outside in the street, Crowley's sideburns are once again short, and the filter is cool toned again, indicating we've switched to BDFX or Crowley's POV again. He's angry, he's struck by lightning, and gets in the Bentley to angrily drive off.

NEXT

POV a Trip to Hell and a 25 Lazarii Miracle

[quackerofoatz]

The Beauty of Botticelli & The Beauty of Will Graham ˗ˏˋ ♡ ˎˊ˗

Hannibal’s first instinct upon seeing Will is how unique and different he is from the usual people he interacts with behind his persona. A way Hannibal also fell for him is with the physical appearance of Will Graham. As seen in the show Will isn't known for his looks but for how he doesn't get along with others. Even in the book, he's given a very so-so description of how he's seen by others as average or “not very handsome” as said by the red dragon in the book.

This is why I am examining the looks and appearance of Will Graham from the show only, as it is its own medium compared to the book.  Will is not an average but an attractive man by looks alone thanks to Hugh Dancy. It was a factor that stuck out to me as I watched the show. With how the light shadows him and his startling pale skin and blue eyes. He reminded me of beauty only found in the paintings of old masters of Europe.

There are a myriad of reasons shown in the show but I will focus on what I see from an outside perspective into Hannibal's interests and thinking mixed in with my own.

Hannibal as we know likes Europe and favors the arts above all, looking through life with a gruesome but academic lens. Will is the personification of all the arts and humanities he holds so valuable. Will’s beauty transcends these periods and fits them. In morals and looks, Will has it all and is perfect in Hannibal's eyes. 

His Vitruvian man, as this user on Tumblr, keenly pointed out. Hannibal is an academic and thinker at heart, he romanticizes Will Graham by his beauty being magnified by his thinking and his deep empathy encroaching on everything he touches. Hannibal's way of absorbing and showing love is embodied in the way he kills and talks to Will through veils of academic conversations with him. Hannibal has never felt nor something strongly other than to kill, which makes his feelings for Will blur in this messy dance of courtship.  

First Will could be examined based on his features and personality, in a way examining him on how most people perceive him. 

Will is a man who stands at average height with light blue eyes. He has a lean, masculine beauty that can easily mesmerize. His eyes, a deep, intense shade of blue, spark with intelligence and wit. With his tousled dark brown curls and strong, angular features, he has soft but masculine features. He has a lean build with pale skin.  He commands attention in a room even with how he speaks rarely to draw attention to himself. He has a scruffy beard along his sharp jaw and an air of unsettledness to most people. It is radiated more by his lack of social interaction and often bored tone of speaking. He is our brooding protagonist with a deep and sensitive soul. He often rocks a disheveled yet charming style. His intense gaze and commanding presence give him an undeniable allure on-screen. A man who feels too much and is wrapped up trying to not let himself drown in it, saving lives.

Will is brave in the face of adversity no matter if it's on both sides or in his field, even as he is chipped away or broken down who he is at his core remains. 

Will has features that were the beauty standard of both the medieval and Renaissance period. The Renaissance and medieval beauty standards for men concerning blue eyes and dark curls varied but were generally associated with nobility, strength, and a sense of mystery. During these periods, blue eyes were seen as captivating and intense, while dark curls were considered masculine and powerful. This combination of traits was often associated with warriors, heroes, and leaders. It was believed that these features suggested a deep, complex persona and attracted attention and admiration.

The beauty standard for men during the Renaissance and medieval periods was influenced by ancient Greek and Roman ideals of masculinity. Blue eyes and dark curls were considered attractive features, symbolizing youth and strength. It can be pointed out that Hannibal has a love of Classic Antiquity.  During the Renaissance, which lasted from the 14th to the 17th century, the focus shifted towards humanism and the individual, and the ideal man was depicted as well-balanced, well-built, and well-groomed, often with light eyes and dark, curly hair.

Pale skin was considered a beauty standard for both genders during the Renaissance and Medieval periods. It symbolized wealth and status, as those who could afford to stay out of the sun had the free time to do so. A pale, blemish-free complexion was seen as a symbol of aristocracy and class. This preference for pale skin can be seen in many Renaissance and medieval works of art, where men and women are often depicted with a light, almost translucent complexion. It was seen to be revered and “angelic” to have such pale skin marking you as an individual of high status and closer to divinity.

Will is a closed-off man due to how others treat him in his field of behavioral science and federal agents. Hannibal is the first that look at Will not as a basket case but as a muse waiting to be molded. As highlighted in my other post Hannibal had a love for Botticelli and his artwork during the Italian Renaissance. As shown in Dolce with them sitting in the Uffizi gallery surrounded by Botticelli artwork.

He wanted Will to transform into the person he should be, into the person Hannibal envisions him to be. As one Redditor noted they sit in between the portraits of Simonetta and Botticelli. I will explain more about the relationship instead of briefly as this user did. 

Simonetta Cattaneo Vespucci was a famed Genoese noblewoman married to Marco Vespucci.  known for her beauty and charm. She was an inspiration to many artists of the time and had a close relationship with the Renaissance artist Sandro Botticelli.

Botticelli was deeply smitten by Simonetta's beauty and grace. She was the inspiration for many of his works, including "The Birth of Venus," and he included her in many of his paintings. It is often speculated that Botticelli may have even harbored romantic feelings for her.

Botticelli's relationship with Simonetta Vespucci, the inspiration behind many of his famous works, was marked by a deep connection. Their relationship appears to have been akin to that of a muse and artist. 

Simonetta Vespucci died in 1476 at the age of 21. The cause of her death is not accurately known, but it is believed to be from complications due to tuberculosis. It is said that Botticelli was devastated by her passing and even refused to paint for several months. He later channeled his grief into his works, creating some of his most beautiful paintings as a tribute to his beloved Simonetta.

Hannibal sees himself as an artist, in the culinary arts, traditional, psychology and so on. He has the mind of an artist who paints even the people he kills.

Throughout the show, he is often seen creating pieces of art, whether it be culinary masterpieces or gruesome tableau displays. Additionally, his ability to manipulate people and situations to his advantage can be seen as a form of metaphorical art, as he carefully constructs his plans to achieve his desired outcomes.

Like Botticelli, he sees himself as an artist creating his muse which is Will. Botticelli is noted as the themes in his art are biblical and had a great appreciation for Dante Alighieri.  No matter how grotesque or unethical it is, it's Hannibal’s way of showing affection. 

He is shown to have a deep appreciation and understanding of art and often incorporates elements of art and art history in many of his actions and conversations. He is also shown to have a keen aesthetic sensibility, often using beautiful imagery and metaphors in his interactions. He uses it, especially in sessions or conversations with Will. Additionally, Lecter is depicted as a creator himself, both in the literal sense as he composes music and paints, and more metaphorically as he engages in a creative act in his killings.

Dr. Hannibal Lecter’s attempts to show love to Will Graham are often twisted and manipulative, as his definition of “love” is different from the traditional sense. Throughout the show, Lecter goes to great lengths to get Will’s full attention and admiration, often in harmful and violent ways. He sees Will as his equal and wants to mold him into a partner, someone who can understand him completely. He continuously challenges and tests Will, trying to break him down to build him back up in a way that is acceptable to Lecter. 

He is shaping his muse to be his perfect companion. To both worship and eat alive in his dark change.