#also it's marginally warmer than short hair which is part of why i loved when i finally got to grow mine out

[lulu-nightbon]

@bi-pisces07 THINKING ABOUT DRAWING TANG WITH HIS HAIR LONG FOR THE MOOT AU BUT I HAVE ONE QUESTION BEFORE I DECIDE

would pigsy play with his hair if he left it long? 👉👈🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺

[lo-55]

Lost Things Ch. 5 (Epilogue)

The Reuinion 

 Epilogue

Someone had told him once, years ago, that the shivers that ran up his spine when nothing was around to cause it meant that someone was walking across his grave. It was a weird saying attached to a funny feeling that gave it a vague sense of foreboding.

Now, standing in front of his own grave, Ace was a little disappointed that he didn't’t feel any shivering at all. Just a bit of melancholy. On the cross was his favorite orange hat, a gift from Luffy all those years ago, his belt and dagger, and a necklace that he had been sure Akainu’s fist had broken two and a half years ago.

“I gathered the beads,” Marco said, as if reading Ace’s mind. He was good at that. “Haruta tried to help me string them back together, but I didn’t let her. I felt like- like I had to do it. On my own.”

Without looking, Ace grabbed his hand.

“Thank you,” he said. He looked at tomb, where they had erected a grave with his name on it. It was weird, he felt like it should have been more horrifying, to see where he had supposedly been laid to rest. Instead he just felt bitter that his family had had to erect it in the first place.

He and Marco still hadn’t been to see the others yet. Marco had explained, after his memories returned, that he was now leading the Whitebeard Pirates. After his crash into the icy islands and the ensuing months they had to spend together (which, Ace did not mind at all ) Marco had wanted to give Ace a chance to ease back into the swing of piracy before throwing him to the metaphorical sharks.

He was also probably well aware of the fact that the instant they had settled Ace was going to want to hunt down Teach, as well as that had gone before.

All of these thoughts were really just Ace procrastinating looking slightly to the right. Wind caught the massive white coat and pulled it, reminding the young man of the fact that he couldn’t put this off forever.

Ace breathed in the tepid air, trying to acquire some modicum of calm.

He lifted his eyes, slowly, to the monument built for his father. His real father. The one that loved him regardless of his origins, taken him in and offered to share his family. Edward Newgate was the only father that Ace had ever known.

  And I got him killed.

Ace couldn’t breath around the knot in his throat.

“Pop’s… I’m so-”

“Don’t you dare.”

Ace swallowed tensely and looked over his shoulder. Marco’s gaze, normally half lidded and lazy, had sharpened. A gaze golden now outside of a phoenix transformation, a sign of how intensely Marco felt about Ace’s near apology.

“Marco…”

“Don’t. Pops died for you, Little Oars jr. did too. Don’t disrespect their love for you by apologizing for their willing sacrifice. If Luffy told you he was sorry he survived after you died for him, how would you feel?”

Ace worked his jaw slowly. The guilt in his heart wasn’t alleviated, not a bit, but he knew the truth in Marco’s words. If Luffy apologized for living-

  Luffy.

Ace looked away from Marco, back to the grave. He bowed his head to hide his dampening cheeks. Where was his hat when he needed it?

“Thank you,” he said instead. “For being a wonderful father. I-I love you, pops!”

Ace could have sworn that he felt a massive hand weighing down on his back, warming his shoulders. A familiar laugh was carried on the wind.

  “I love you too, my son! “

~

“Man, Luffy is going to lose his shit when he sees me.”

Marco glanced over at Ace, who was very meticulously applying makeup to hide his freckles. He had taken to tying his long, flowing hair into a loose bun behind his head these days, and even in the warmer climate of Dressrosa he had his throat covered with the thick white scarf that fluttered behind his back when he ran. It wasn’t much of a disguise, in terms of effort, but often times the best ones were the easiest. Not to mention the fact that Ace had died, publically been executed, two years ago. Most anyone who saw him now would just assume they were crazy, or that there was just a strange resemblance between him and the young pirate prince.

Pirate Prince, now that was a strange thing to think.

At this point, it was more accurate to call Luffy the prince, seeing as he would be the next King and all.

“Does your brother know that his hat belonged to Roger?” Marco asked abruptly.

Ace’s head snapped towards him. The younger pirate stared at Marco open mouthed. So Ace hadn’t known either? Not that surprising. Ace hadn’t even been born when Roger died.

“Ah. Never mind then,” Marco waved his hand to dismiss his words. Ace was marginally less sensitive about his lineage since he regained his memories, Marco could only guess why. That was the only reason there hadn’t been an outburst of Ace’s Issues with the dead king.

“Wait, does that mean Shanks was on  his  crew?” Ace turned towards Marco. Marco handed him his combat boots.

“Shanks? Yeah, he was Roger’s apprentice back in the day. Trouble maker back then. Not much has changed,” Marco shrugged casually. This was all old news. Roger had always been pretty good at keeping his cabin brats out of the limelight, so the government and therefore the public didn’t know about his relationship. Still, he thought…

Well, it didn’t matter what he thought.

“Who knew,” Ace shook his head. He needed it clear for what they were about to do.

“For the record, I’m against this,” Marco said for the millionth time.

For the millionth time Ace replied, “That won’t stop me. Lu needs to know I’m okay.”

“Just… be careful,” Marco must have let some of his genuine worry leak into his voice because Ace’s expression softened. He crossed what little space there was in their cheap hotel room and sat next to Marco, close enough they were pressed side to side.

Marco couldn’t help it if he worried. He had already lost so much already. He had barely kept the crew together in the last two years and even now most of them were in hiding after the disastrous attempt at revenge.

The attempt he’d lead them in.

A strong arm draped comfortably across Marco’s shoulders.

“We sure are a pair, huh?” Ace joked. “What would Pops say?”

Marco snorted. “He’d tell us to get our heads out of our asses and start acting like pirates.”

“Yeah. So what are we doing sitting on our asses? We’ve got trouble to stir up!”

Marco shook his head and leaned on Ace. He didn’t like this, the whole thing smelled like a trap. As if the devil fruit wasn’t enough proof of the fact that they were luring people in, the whole country was populated by living toys. It made Marco’s skin crawl.

He still had a lot of questions in regards to the fruit, and exactly what had happened with Ace. People didn’t just disappear in a flare of red when they were supposed to be dead. Accounts of devil fruit were rare and far between, so he just assumed that it had something to do with the Flame Flame Fruit. And, Ace still had his fire power.

So, either the fruit that was being offered as a prize was a fake, or they were missing something important about Logias.

Thinking about it, Marco had never heard of a logia user dying.

There was so much about devil fruits that no one knew, so much that they didn’t understand. Even to the people who had eaten them, even to people like Marco, who had seen thousands of devil fruit in his long life didn’t know that much about them.

Marco sighed and gently shoved Ace. He pushed a ski cap into his hands.

“Get going. You’re in A block yeah? Be careful and remember-”

“No fires, I know, I know,” Ace held up his hand and an exhasperated surrender. He flashed Marco a guileless smile and, with a parting kiss, ran off through the door with his scarf pulled up over his mouth.

Marco had a very bad feeling about all of this.

~

Ace had had a good feeling about this, at the start of the fight.

By the time he was on his knees, gulping in air while the crowds screamed around him, his opinion had changed a little.

Mr. Store lay on the ground in front of him, his eyes rolled into the back of his head. Blood dripped down a cut on his temple, saturating the brown paper bag that covered the rest of his face. One of his arms was bent at the wrong angle and the rubber on his boots had melted at some point. Hopefully no one would notice, what with the whole undercover thing.

Ace was breathing so hard he felt cold from his lungs outwards, only combated by his devil fruit abilities. Ace lifted his clenched fists above his head, tilted his face towards the sun a roared his victory for the world to hear.

He hadn’t thought the fight would be that hard. Everyone else in the block had fallen easily, but this Mr. Store just would  stay down.  Ace had to give credit where it was due, not a lot of people could take what he had dished out.

In the months since he had come back from the grave he had been training his ass off in a desperate attempt to get back to where he was, and to surpass that level entirely. If he couldn’t, he didn’t have the right to sail the seas. The New World was a place where only the strong survived, and Ace would not be a burden on Marco while they travelled together. So he trained, harder than he ever had in his life.

He would have been stronger if he hadn’t spent the last two years doing little more than running around a snow island, chopping wood and helping fix houses. But, he was stronger than he had been before, finally.

Strong enough to clear the coliseum block without using his devil fruit powers once.

...well, maybe once. Just to give him a little bit of leverage in that last bout.

Ace rocked unsteadily to his feet. He’d taken more damage than he’d wanted too. Marco was gonna be pissed when he got back. Actually, from the dark glower that was clouding his face from where he sat in the crowd, he was already pissed. Great.

Ace smiled sheepishly and scratched the back of his head. His bun had almost come loose. God, he needed a haircut. After he wasn’t in hiding any more he was chopping it short again.

Luffy was here too. It had been impossible for Ace to miss him fighting in B block. This was going to be fun, he could already tell.

His good feeling only got better when he saw a flash of a gold helmet and a white beard turn through the same tunnel he was going through. Now, Ace had a plan when he came there. Beat everyone, show the world he was alive and challenge Luffy to meet him ‘where the sea meets the sky’. He was pretty confident that, even if Luffy couldn’t figure it out, that clever navigator of his would understand that there was a knock up stream around the next island.

Ace wanted a little bit of privacy for their reunion.

All those plans went out the window the second he realized he was within walking distance of his little brother. His little brother.

God, what was he ever supposed to say to him? He had speeches rehearsed in his head, excuses, apologies, pleas. But they all boiled down to thanks. Thanks that he had already given Luffy, given all of them on his deathbed. Er, death brick?

Ace grimaced and halted at the doorway to the place where the gladiators who won were all gathering. He clenched his hands into fists. Why was this shit so hard?!

It had been easier when he hadn’t known just how badly he’d fucked everything up in the past. It was almost enough to make him long for those days where the past was nothing more than the white wind the blew outside, untouchable, cold and dangerous.

Marco vanished in the crowd, also disguised though his was just some sun glasses and he actually buttoned his shirt up for once. He reappeared right above where Ace was hesitating, head poking out from the bricks that made up the colosseum. The whole place had a weird feel to it. It reminded him of walking on an iced over lake. Stable, with something lurking beneath the surface.

“Hey!” Marco tossed a pebble at Ace’s head. “Get going already.”

Ace rubbed the point of impact, like it had actually hurt, and made a face up at Marco.

“Maybe I don’t want to,” he crossed his arms over his chest childishly.

Marco rolled his sleepy eyes, looking utterly bored with Ace’s antics and indecision. For someone who was so bullheaded all of the time, when Ace’s self esteem issues reared their ugly head the cure was hard to find.

“Just go see him. Talk to him, if nothing else. He doesn’t even need to know your name.”

That was… a good point.

Ace fiddled with the dagger strapped to his hip. He’d taken that, and his hat and his necklace, off of his grave. He didn’t feel quite right without them, now that he knew they had been missing. It was a hollow mourning he hadn’t even known he’d been going through.

“Okay, okay,” Ace took a breath, squared his shoulders, and walked into the darkness.

~

Luffy had a habit of picking up weird people.  Really,   weird people. Ace stared at the guy in the diamond patterned pants and the red jacket. Honestly the most normal thing about him was the green hair. Those  teeth.

Ace made a face.

He hadn’t meant to take so long to catch up to Luffy, but removing the makeup that hid his freckles and then tracking the boy down took more time than he wanted it to. Which was how he had gotten there just in time for the green haired weirdo, Bart or Romeo, he hadn’t been paying attention, to declare that he would win the Flame Flame fruit on Luffy’s behalf.

“That’s pretty bold talk, for a rookie,” Ace chided. The sound was muffled by his scarf. “Maybe I’ll win.”

The green haired man stomped towards him, half slouched over. Even like that he towered easily over Ace. Ace didn’t so much as blink. He hadn’t planned on having audience. On top of this guy, someone else was walking down the hallway towards them.  Ace glanced over. An uncomfortably familiar hat bobbed in the dimly lit tunnel.

The ‘S’ on his arm itched.

“Who do you think you are? Do you know who I am? I’ll win the fruit for him for sure!” he roared, pointing at Luffy. Ace peered around his shoulder and waved. It was all he could do. Even with the goofy disguise the dark brown eyes that squinted at him were unmistakable.

All Ace could manage was a strangled, ‘hey Lu.’.

He cleared his throat, ignoring the way that Luffy’s eyes got just a little bigger. The scar on his chest throbbed painfully. This was Luffy. Luffy, who he’d caused so much pain. He probably would have been better off if they never even me-

  Being alone is worse than any pain.

Ace mentally shook himself. This wasn’t the time for his self deprecation. Luffy needed to know. He needed to know that Ace hadn’t broken his promise. He needed to know he still had one brother left in this world.

“I’m afraid,” the stranger in the top hat said, coming to a halt next to them, “That I can’t let either one of you win the Flame Flame Fruit.” A thin smile slid across the half shadowed face. “Straw Hat Luffy.”

So this guy recognized his little brother too? Ace shifted on his feet, freeing a hand from his pockets. He lay his fingers around the hilt of his dagger. He wasn’t the only one defensive of Luffy, the green guy swaggered over, baring his teeth.

“Who the hell are you supposed to be? Where are you from? You can’t talk to him so casually!”

Ace sighed. Where did Lu find these people? He was a magnet for outcasts, oddballs, and victims of misfortune.

Oh, he was still talking.

“He’s the brother of the legendary Fire Fist Ace! Of course he’ll get the fruit!”

At that, Ace couldn't stop it. He laughed. All eyes snapped to him. He held his hands up, placatingly.

“Ah-ha, don’t mind me. It’s just, that fruit up there is fake. The real ones already been eaten.”

“How can you laugh at his tragedy!” the green man screamed in Ace’s face. Ace put his hand on his cheek and shoved him hard enough to send him into a wall.

The man stumbled away. Ace hadn’t actually hurt him. He was a friend of Luffy’s, after all. “You can’t- He’s going to be King of the Pirates one day!”

Ace smiled. Luffy kept finding these people with so much faith in him. So, weird or not, he could give the green guy his support.

“Oh, I’ve known that since way back,” the strange waved his hand in a gesture that was a little too familiar. There was something about him… Ace could swear he knew him, but the only real resemblance was impossible. So, who was he?

Before Ace’s eyes, the top hat came down. A fluff of blond hair appeared, an ugly scar that Ace recognized as being from fire painted his face. A face that, even twelve years older Ace would recognize anywhere. His throat closed up, squeezing a hiss through his teeth.

That was-

“Sabo.”

Past that he couldn’t hear anything they were saying, the words no more than static in his brain. Ace could only watch, jaw dropped from behind his scarf as Luffy, tears and snot pouring down his face, launched himself at the blond. Sabo was- Sabo was-

Sabo was  alive.

Ace felt like he was a world away, no more than a bystander as Sabo turned his head and gasped for air, being strangled by Luffy’s rubber hug.

“B-but Sabo!”

Luffy’s sobs finally broke through the white noise machine that had replaced his ears. His heart wrenched his chest when Luffy poured his words out.

“I let Ace get killed right in front of me!”

Ace took an unsteady step forwards. He didn’t know if he wanted to hug or beat the shit out of both of them.

“I know,” Sabo’s smile didn’t fade at all. “Even still, I’m so happy you survived. I almost lost both of my brothers. If you had died, I would have been completely alone.”

“No!” the word burst past his lips. Sabo and Luffy looked over at him, one bawling his eyes out, the other happy as composed as he was. Ace gripped his white scarf with shaking fingers. His own eyes were starting to get blurry.

“You- you wouldn’t have been alone,” Ace ripped the scarf away, burning the stupid ski cap right off of his head, a few stray tears slipping down his face. “You didn’t let me die, Lu! I’ve been here the whole time!”

There was a beat of silence and for an instant Ace feared Luffy didn’t believe him. That he’d have to prove it.

Then a long arm slung around his shoulders and Ace found himself being slammed against his brothers. His brothers! Luffy  and Sabo, all three of them. Ace’s knees grew weak and he was left with no choice but to cling to Sabo for support.

“Thank you,” he choked against Sabo’s shoulder. “Thank you! Sabo, Luffy!”

"Thank you for loving me!"

[even-gayer-in-slomo]

Wardrobe Malfunction

Words: 5,502

Summary: Crowley decides to be a mischief boy and try and change up a certain angels fashion choices. Secretly of course.

This is part of the Good Omens Holiday Swap! For @soong-type-toaster​ sorry this took so long to post! Real life straight up knocked me tf out in the middle of all my working. I hope you enjoy it!!

Crowley loved the idea of shopping, only partially for the reason that most horrible experiences involved in it were his own design. Cramped stores in malls where everyone was seconds away from snapping the next time someone even looked at them? Fragile, expensive items all within range of grubby children’s fingers? The joy fading from a cashiers eyes as someone demanded a manager? It all blended together into such a building frustration that it almost brought a tear of joy to his eye just thinking about it.

The other thing he’d learned to enjoy was fashion. Centuries of clothing changing like an odd, shifting, bedazzled chameleon. From extravagant and flashy, horribly cheap and tacky, he had almost a respect for the whole thing. He himself loved following along with the trends, only regretting a handful of them. His bowl cut one of the bigger ones of the past few decades…

This trip to the shops wasn’t about him, for once. No, it was about someone a bit different. Someone who could be a stick in the mud when it came to certain things, updating his fashion being one of them. Out of the things Crowley was good at, music and television seemed more difficult a lesson he could teach to someone who refused to admit he needed to be taught. So, a hand in the fashion department was what he was going to offer.

-

Crowley began his plan that next afternoon.

"Oi, angel!" Crowley called out as he walked inside the building. Surprisingly the shop actually had a handful of customers despite the faint scent of mold that Crowley himself had added for the angel a few months before. The fact that they were still there was also worrying. Aziraphale was losing his touch. Or he’d been absorbed in his book and hadn’t noticed yet.

A few heads turned toward him, but he gave them no notice as he walked by, his steps unhurried as he made his way through the shop. It took him only seconds for his eyes to lock upon his target; Aziraphale giving him a tired look from behind his register. The angels reading glasses were low on his nose, the book on his desk almost on the last page. He’d been bored for a few hours, Crowley guessed. Excellent.

"If I tell you I've closed for the day," the angel muttered, "would that get rid of that gleam in your eyes?" There was a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, quickly giving away that he was only teasing the demon.

"Nah," Crowley answered. "I’d tell all of these other customers to bugger off, of course."

That seemed to get Aziraphales attention. His eyes widened, and Crowley watched as his gaze quickly shot around the room. He hadn’t expected the angel to seem so worried about it, however. This wasn’t the first time Crowley had caught him letting his thoughts get away from him. How was this any different? “When did they -”

"It’s alright angel, I’ll deal with it. This time.” With a wink and a snap of Crowley’s fingers, the humans in the shop had the sudden urge to head far, far away from where they stood. And so they did, some almost bumping into others as they bumbled their way out of the door.

Aziraphale breathed a sigh of relief, his shoulders sagging. “Thank you, dearest.”

Crowley felt his cheeks burn. “Yeah, well. I knew you were just going to blubber on until I did something. Anyway, I bought you something.” Aziraphale perked up a bit, but then squinted.

"Hold on, you're not holding anything," he accused. Crowley snorted and gave Aziraphale a fond grin.

"Well, 'course not. I said I bought, not that I brought."

"Oh, of course. Where is it then?"

"At my place. You have to come with me to get it."

"Hm, and what if I don't want to come with you? Perhaps I’m quite busy at the moment. Keeping inventory is important, especially after an incident with an Antichrist who could show up at any moment to switch it up again."

Crowley shook his head. "You say that like the boy changed things up on purpose. He probably thought he was helping." He leaned his elbow on the angels desk and propped up his chin to stare down at the soft yellow locks of hair. "You seem a bit off. I've never had to put this much effort into dragging you away. Are you mad? Did I forget something?"

"You didn't forget anything," Aziraphale sighed. The wrinkles around his eyes deepened as he frowned. Crowley didn't like that. "I'm just getting lost within my head. Nothing to worry a hair on your head about, my dear." The smile he gave then was genuine, so Crowley was just going to let it slide. For now, anyway.

Crowley hummed. "Would it help if I told you what it was I got you?"

Aziraphale was silent for a few moments, but he didn't seem angry so Crowley pushed on. "I could grab us some of those muffins you like. From Patsy's?"

"Cranberry and chocolate pomegranate," the angel said, more to himself than to Crowley. "With some blueberry lemon tea."

"Yeah, sure, whatever sounds good to that palate of yours." Crowley glanced at his wrist where a watch would be if he bothered to own one. "No time like the present century, come on."

“Alright, alright. You’ve tempted me,” Aziraphale laughed softly at his own joke and finally stood to follow Crowley out.

-

It was a short drive back to Crowley’s place. Well, short for Crowley. For everyone else it was probably a while longer of a trip, but that wasn’t his style.

“I do wish you’d calm down on the roads, dear boy,” Aziraphale sighed. Crowley only rolled his eyes as he held the car door open for the other man.

“I’m just saying, angel, if the speedometer goes up to one eighty, I should be allowed to go one eighty.”

“It’s a suggestion not a requirement!”

“Yeah, yeah. Hurry up before I eat all of this food myself.” Crowley shook the bag at Aziraphale, who only laughed.

They made their way up to Crowley's flat leisurely despite the threats. The elevator dinged its way up to his floor and soon they were at the door.

"I've even cleaned up a bit since last you'd been here," Crowley bragged. He held the door open for Aziraphale who gave a quick glance around as he stepped into the flat.

"So no more holy water stains?"

"Not a one. I even grabbed that stupid tea maker you mentioned and set it up in the kitchen." At the wide eyes he was given Crowley quickly carried on, "I didn't want more of your complaining about not having guest accommodations." It was the only appliance in the kitchen if you didn’t count the empty fridge and unused stove.

"Oh, of course," Aziraphale agreed easily. Crowley didn't appreciate the sparkle in his eye. It was the one he got whenever Crowley did something marginally nice. Thoughtful even. He refused to acknowledge the warmth it would send up his spine, knowing that Aziraphale approved of the things he was doing.

“I’ll go grab your gift, you just sit on the couch. Eat your snacks,” Crowley said as he dropped the bag of sweets onto the couch. He started to walk down the hallway to his room before turning his head around to give Aziraphale a pointed look. “And don’t even think about bothering my plants this time.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Aziraphale chirped. His hand was already reaching into the bag, so Crowley left him there with a nod.

Crowley hadn’t bothered to wrap the gift, no. If he’d gone the extra step, Aziraphale would start asking questions. It was still neatly folded up in the shop bag, a piece of tissue paper placed on top and keeping the item hidden from view. He never really understood that, tissue paper. Was it supposed to be some sort of garnish? It was a waste of paper at least, and with a thoughtful hum he decided that he would take credit for its creation.

“Here we are,” he announced with a flourish and a wave of his free hand. Aziraphale glanced up at him with mild curiosity, his cheek stuffed with one of the pastries Crowley had grabbed for him on their trip back, eyes following as Crowley set the bag onto the coffee table sat between them.

Crowley sat on the chair across from Aziraphale, watching him from behind dark lenses as the angel finished his muffin and reached for the bag, anticipation building in his stomach. Why was he so nervous about this? He was only doing this to get the frumpy angel to change up his style for once. The thought of Aziraphale not liking his choice made something sour sit on top of the anticipation, which he ignored. He was good at that, ignoring things.

"Oh, it's...huh," Aziraphale hummed as he held up the fabric, and Crowley tensed as he tried to decipher how he felt about that. The feeling of Aziraphale inspecting something, examining a thing that Crowley had chosen to give him. It was a soft cream colored jumper, the fabric made of some sort of wool that felt cozy enough to Crowley when he’d lifted it from the display. "I like the color.” His eyes narrowed, thoughtful. “Are you trying to say something about my wardrobe again?"

He’d thought Jesus hadn’t been too shabby with hitting nails on the head, but sometimes Aziraphale managed a good hit that could startle him for an hour. "Nah," Crowley lied after a moment, "I saw it and thought of you. Honest. Maybe if you added a layer you would feel a bit warmer in the shop. Then you could lower the temperature and make those customers even more miserable than you already do." He was starting to worry he was selling it too hard until Aziraphale’s eyes lit up.

"Oh, that is quite genius."

“I know, ‘swhy I came up with it.” He waved his hand at the other in a shooing motion. “Go on then, try it on.”

Aziraphale gave him a short glare, an assumed response to his commands, but obeyed. He watched as the angel pulled his coat off, leaving behind the usual brown vest and light blue shirt he’d not changed in decades. Crowley couldn’t stop his gaze from falling from the others face to run themselves over Aziraphale’s exposed arms, the muscles tensing and relaxing as he carefully folded up his coat neatly and set it down on Crowley’s couch.

“Vest too,” he helpfully pointed out. The look returned. “What?”

“I don’t really know how this would be counted as ‘adding a layer’ as you put it,” Aziraphale said.

“Well… it’s a thick material. You’ll be warmer I promise.”

Aziraphale said nothing else, only sighing, accepting the answer and continuing on. Crowley himself made no mention that if Aziraphale was so prissy about keeping his clothing neat he could easily miracle them as such, but he knew that would ruin the moment. Instead he kept his gaze on Aziraphale’s hands, thankful that he’d kept on his glasses so the angel had no idea of how intently Crowley was staring as he carefully unbuttoned the vest and set it on top of the coat.

Aziraphale pulled the jumper on in a quick motion, the fluff he called hair looking a right mess from the fabric pulling and pushing at it as he tugged it down. His nose wrinkled slightly, body giving a wiggle that Crowley couldn’t help but snicker at. “I… it’s not terrible.”

Crowley raised a brow. “Not terrible? That’s all?”

“The material is a bit more cozy I’ll admit, I’d have to become used to it.” The angels eyes met Crowley’s suddenly and he couldn’t hold back a slight jump. Aziraphale smiled, almost a grin. “I do appreciate the gift, Crowley. I honestly do. Thank you.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” Crowley sniffed. “I just thought it might help you get rid of more customers, since you were doing such a rotten job today.” Aziraphale’s smile faltered and he winced. “Not that I should be telling you how to do your job, anyhow. Have as many customers as you want. None of my business.”

“Right,” Aziraphale said. “Oh, well… I was wondering something. Would you want to exchange presents this year?”

“Presents? I suppose we could follow holiday customs if you want.”

“I just thought it could be nice, seeing as the world almost ended this year. A reminder of all that we’ve gained instead of lost.” Aziraphale looked almost fond, at least Crowley thought that’s what it was. Soft, he supposed. Aziraphale had been doing that a lot since they'd both almost died.

“Will this involve the whole thing? Eggnog and a tree? A young couple snogging in your shop under some demon miracled mistletoe?”

“Oh! No, I was thinking more so just be the two of us. More, well, intimate than a party.” The angel fidgeted a bit under his gaze. “Madame Tracy did invite us to her and Shadwell’s flat, for a possible dinner, but I’d rather stay in Soho this season. Travel can be so dreadful, and you know I’m not the best at small talk.”

“...right.”

“I could see about finding a few good wines, you know I always manage to find something lovely when I put my mind to it.”

“That you do,” Crowley murmured. He ran a hand through his hair and sighed. “Yeah, sure I guess. I can’t count this as your present, can I?” He couldn’t help but snort at the incredulous look Aziraphale gave him. “I’m kidding, swear it. I’ll think up something nice for you.”

Aziraphale’s face was definitely fond this time. “Yes, nice indeed. Anyway, I do believe I should be heading back.” He stood, and Crowley had to bite his own tongue so as not to invite the angel to stay the night. He even had better furniture than the last time the angel had been there. The style could even be said to match Aziraphale’s tastes; the matching couch and chair they sat in were a dark brown, somehow still matching Crowley’s aesthetic in their sleekness. Function over comfort, unless a certain angel were to lay down and feel the couch become softer underneath.

“Lift home?” Crowley asked. The thoughtful look that passed over Aziraphale’s face reminded him of the last time he’d made that offer. He bit back a hiss; he wasn’t sure how to feel about his, well, feelings. “Could get cold.”

At that, Aziraphale perked up. “Oh, well luckily for me a kind friend of mine has just gifted me quite a lovely jumper.”

“Alright, nevermind,” Crowley grumbled and with a quick snap of his fingers had himself lounged across the couch instead, head tilting back as he watched Aziraphale grab his folded clothes. “Don’t let the door smack you on the ass on your way out.”

“Is that a new feature you’ve added?” Crowley sputtered as Aziraphale laughed, and after saying a soft goodbye he left the demons flat.

Crowley stared at his ceiling, frown building across his face as he thought about his plans. Now that he’d started to put everything into motion, things felt delicate. Fragile, even. Was he honestly worried about Aziraphale hating the things he was going to give him? It wasn’t the first time that he’d been a nuisance to the angel, he usually delighted in proving him wrong in trivial things like this. Fashion was, well, fun.

Nodding to himself, he slipped down from the couch and slinked off to his room for a nap. His next gift would be even better than the last. And maybe Aziraphale would see it as a good thing that Crowley was trying to make sure his look wasn’t - as the kids said - whack.

-

Crowley received his next opportunity a few days later.

The weather had gotten colder over the week, clouds forming overhead with what was probably snow and maybe a freezing rain on top if Crowley wanted it. Not that he did, no. He was perfectly fine with the snow and rain staying right as they were, up in the sky and not falling until much later after they’d left the park.

Crowley watched as his companion tossed a handful of seeds to the ducks, the fat fluffy birds honking at each other as they fought over the food. Aziraphale merely chuckled at the sight, tossing even more to them. “There’s enough for you all, I promise,” he told them.

“Don’t think that matters to them, angel,” Crowley said. He pointed a few yards away, where another group of ducks seemed to be making their way over with a quick waddle. “You’re going to get them all worked up if you keep trying to feed them all.”

“I just want to make sure they don’t get too cold this winter,” Aziraphale protested.

Crowley only hummed. He stretched lazily, resting an arm along the back of the bench until he could almost touch the fabric of Aziraphale’s coat. He wasn’t wearing the jumper the demon had bought him, which was only a touch upsetting. Really. It was just a bit of a let down since that meant step one hadn’t worked. The jumper was probably tucked away somewhere, lost to the world until Aziraphale would remember it a few years later. Maybe he didn’t know he could have just layered his coat on top of it.

A silence settled over them after that. There was nothing awkward about it, nor tense, just a calm feeling that rested under Crowley’s skin, like a heat lamp set to Low over his head while he dozed. Not that he owned a heat lamp, of course. They both had a habit of rambling while together, bickering or going on about subjects only interesting to them. In the past there had always been a weight hanging over them while meeting in public, a worry that if they stayed standing near each other for too long someone from their respective office would take note and smite them. Or something to that effect.

Crowley let his knee bump against Aziraphale, grounding himself to the bench and to the moment. They no longer had to worry about anyone glancing at what they were doing together. It was a lot for him suddenly, to realize that nothing was keeping them apart, to truly understand what it meant to have someone who trusted him, and he trusted back. Fuck.

“It’s nice,” Aziraphale said, softly.

“Yeah,” Crowley answered. He wasn’t sure if Aziraphale meant the weather, or the view, or the fat ducks nipping at his fingers as they searched for more seed. Crowley didn’t.

A sudden gust of wind passed over them, the breeze cold as it rushed over their faces and making Crowley wince. Aziraphale shivered next to him.

“Oh, dreadful,” he cursed. “I always forget how susceptible my vessel is to the chill.”  

“Should have worn the jumper I got you,” Crowley pointed out unhelpfully. Served Aziraphale right, really.

“I had thought about it, but it didn’t have a pocket for my watch. I felt naked without it,” Aziraphale said with a sigh. He was frowning now, bottom lip almost quivering and Crowley couldn’t let that happen.

“Here, idiot,” Crowley grumbled. He’d been wearing a dark red scarf that day, and with a quick tug he had it off and held out to the other man. Aziraphale blinked, startled. “Come on, I know you know how to put on a scarf.”

“Right.” Aziraphale took the scarf and wrapped it around his own neck, his eyes fluttering shut as he once again sighed, this time in contentment. “Oh, how lovely.”

Crowley felt his cheeks begin to flush. Aziraphale’s smile had always done odd things to him, reactions that he never could understand entirely. Warmth, a lot of it, that was something he could recognize at least. Recently - hell maybe even before that, maybe even before the end of the world was laid upon the head of a baby - the odd feelings had begun to increase beyond just having the warmth building inside. Combined with the nervousness he’d started to feel about giving Aziraphale things, well, he had no fucking clue what any of it meant.

"You could have just miracled a pocket onto the jumper you know," Crowley pointed out as he hid the fact he might have been panicking a bit. He carefully clenched the hand that Aziraphale couldn’t see behind him. "Then you wouldn't be shivering."

"Ah, I suppose," Aziraphale replied. His eyes were focused on the scarf, rubbing the fabric between his fingers thoughtfully. "It just doesn’t feel right altering a gift, you see."

“Nah, not really. If the thing I got you isn’t good enough, you can fix it, angel,” he complained. “It’s useless if you don’t wear it.” Crowley startled as a warmth settled itself upon his leg. He glanced down to see that Aziraphale had placed a hand there, squeezing his knee. A shock went through him, and for a moment he didn’t hear the other start to speak.

“I’m not saying that it isn’t good enough, dear boy. I’d never want to alter a gift, especially something you specifically picked out for me.” Aziraphale’s tone was soft, and Crowley almost had to lean closer to hear. Hark the southern pansy sings, more like. “I’ve been wearing it in my shop, since I don’t really need my watch there.”

“Right, yes, yeah,” Crowley cleared his throat and suddenly stood. “Remembered a thing. Need to be places, break things, usual. Lots of glue. See ya later, angel.” He refused to call what he was doing a run, but his steps were quick as he left the park, carefully tuning out the sound of Aziraphale calling out for him in confusion. He’d make it up to him later. Right now he needed to drink, alone, and spend the rest of his afternoon getting rid of the odd feeling that was winding its way up his chest and filling it with warmth.

As he made his great escape from the angel, Crowley realized he’d forgotten to take his scarf back from him. It was almost enough to turn him back around, but he pressed on. It worked out honestly, seeing as he hadn't had the time to hand over the pair of gloves he'd been planning to gift the angel that day. He could just count the scarf as another gift, and a win for fashion.

-

After the park incident, Crowley made himself a bit more scarce. He wasn't outright avoiding Aziraphale, that was a ridiculous idea. No, Crowley was merely plotting you see. Obviously.

In the following week, he'd made about ten more purchases. Having access to the internet should have made this process easier in the long run, but he still preferred to browse shops so he could get his eyes and fingers on the exact look and texture that was perfect for the angel.

If someone from Below could see how long he'd been thoughtfully eyeing two bowties that were almost exact copies of each other - they weren't, obviously, it was just that sometimes tartans were hard to identify - they would have mocked him. Honestly, Crowley wouldn't have blamed them. It would have been ten times easier for him to just imagine what he wanted in his head, and then create it with a snap. But no, he couldn't do that. For some reason, it felt better to pick something that had already been made. It made Crowley feel, well, good about it.

Aziraphale was obviously rubbing off on him if he was starting to understand what it meant to make a gift sentimental.

It was still easier to not look the angel in the eyes when he gave him the gifts, however. The day after he'd ran from the park Crowley had ended up sending Aziraphale the gloves in the mail. For outside use, don't use them in your store and complain because you can't turn the pages of your precious books. He didn't bother signing the note, obviously.

In return he had received a package containing the scarf he had lent to the angel. He didn't bother checking for a note, instead choosing to reseal the box and send it back. Written in sharpie across the top now was the message Don't return gifts, angel.

-

Aziraphale visited him the next day, knocking on the door as though Crowley didn't know he was there. The air was colder than it had been the last time they'd met, and the angel had dressed accordingly. He was wearing the jumper and gloves, and wrapped around his neck was the scarf. Crowley's chest felt warm, much too full for just seeing the angel wearing something that wasn't entirely out of date for once. No, it felt almost right to see the angel like this, wearing things that he had chosen for him. Aziraphale was happy with the things Crowley had picked out.

Crowley was starting to wonder if what he thought was his stomach going hot was actually his heart. Anatomy wasn't his best subject.

"I thought that today might be good for us to exchange presents," Aziraphale told him with a smile. Crowley now noticed the bottle of wine tucked in his arms, almost cradling the thing like a baby. He did tend to treat his liquors like precious children.

"Alright then," Crowley agreed, holding the door open so the angel could walk inside. "I'll have to go grab it, I've got it tucked away." Which was a lie, really. All he'd done was store it with all the other gifts that had started to crowd his closet.

It was easy for Crowley to forget sometimes that Aziraphalel was actually capable of catching on to his dumb plans. But really, could anyone actually blame him? The man called Velvet Underground "bee bop" as though that was an actual thing!

It was Aziraphale's fault really, changing their routine so suddenly. Crowley was so used to the angel just nodding while he disappeared deeper into the flat, he hadn’t expected him to trail after as he’d left to go grab his last present for him, the official one anyway.

Crowley took a moment as he stood in front of his opened closet, eyes scanning between a few different ideas before stopping on an item right in front of his eyes. Tweed had been something that always reminded Crowley of a professor with large spectacles, or a grandfather. Luckily through the power of flickering the power until another customer fucked off, he’d found a nice brown one that could fit perfectly with the still plain aesthetic Aziraphale stubbornly refused to switch from. He had a few pieces like that hung up next to it, after he'd realized that keeping them in their respective bags was taking up too much of his own space, and causing dreadful wrinkles.

He’d just grabbed the hanger that held up the garment when he realized with a start that someone was behind him, a certain angelic presence that could now see the area he’d started to store all of the future planned gifts. Shit.

“Oh,” Aziraphale breathed out as Crowley turned to face him. His eyes were wide, and Crowley watched in silence as he began to walk into the room. “Crowley, dear…”

“What?” Crowley didn’t see what the issue was. Where else was he going to store all of the outfits he’d been planning to gift Aziraphale? “Do you not like it? Drawing the line at professional dweeb?”

“No, no it’s not…” He shut his mouth. Opened it again. “I never would have thought that this was your plan.”

“Ah,” Crowley sucked on his teeth, jaw clenched, “I should have gone for a more direct approach, shouldn’t I?”

Aziraphale stood next to him in front of the closet, his eyes passing over all of the different things he’d been planning to give to Aziraphale over the next month. Soft browns, creams and a few splashes of green stood out strong against the rest of the wardrobe where his own dark red and black clothing stayed. The brown tweed jacket Crowley still held was a bit striking so close to a black mesh crop top, if he’d thought about it.

“I can just toss it all, angel. Don’t worry too much,” Crowley quickly told him. The pit in his stomach was tight, he couldn’t tell for the life of him what Aziraphale was thinking right now. It probably wasn’t anger, maybe annoyance at most that Crowley had been meddling in his life like this. He lifted a hand to snap the clothing away when Aziraphale suddenly grabbed onto his wrist.

“No!” Aziraphale shouted. Crowley couldn’t help but focus his gaze on their hands as Aziraphale moved to interlock their fingers. His heart pounded heavy in his chest, and he couldn’t help himself from tightening the grip. “I’m just honestly surprised we were having the same sort of ideas, really.”

“We were,” Crowley said, dumbfounded.

“But to be honest, I shouldn’t be so shocked,” Aziraphale continued with a laugh, “I’ve always known that at times we’re two sides of the same coin dear boy.”

“Yeah.” He wasn’t sure how he’d missed out on the fact that Aziraphale was planning to go after Crowley’s own wardrobe. Was he so focused on his own mischief that he’d missed out on a golden opportunity to watch Aziraphale’s bastard side shine through? Tragic.

“I think it’s so lovely that we’ve both started to realize where all of this was heading.” Aziraphale’s tone was soft, and his thumb ran careful circles against Crowley’s knuckles. Crowley couldn’t look away for the life of him. “To be honest, I had thought we’d move into my shop, but thinking it over now it would be easier for us both to live here.”

Crowley forgot how to breathe. Moving? Together? With Crowley?

“My floors are concrete,” he blurted out. “My plants take over an entire area. You hate modern furniture.” His heart was racing and he was surprised that Aziraphale couldn’t hear the sound. He could barely comprehend what was even happening!

“Love is built upon patience and compromise, dearest. A sacrifice to, well, taste, I suppose, is something I can accept. Besides, you even bought me a lovely tea maker I mentioned enjoying!"

“Ngk,” Crowley replied. Love. Love was. Was that what he was feeling? The emotions inside him that had been building for years, centuries buried deep within as he squashed them flat. Out of sight out of mind, out of his own mind because he was in love.

"Oh, I do hope I haven't upset you," Aziraphale said. Crowley merely choked on his own tongue. "I know that while we do tend to reach for the same goals, we don't always follow the same path."

"I love you," Crowley replied. His head was swimming. "All this time."

"I had always thought, well, hoped really," his angel spoke softly, eyes crinkled warm while he smiled up at him. "I never wanted to push. I've known for a while that demons indeed can feel love, it's just difficult because they cannot comprehend it. I'm so glad I was right."

Crowley's limbs felt like rubber, and he clung tightly to Aziraphale, body shaking as he tried to fight through the feelings of love love it's love I'm in love to get his words out. "You too?"

"Always, dearest." Crowley had no other thoughts after that, all of his attention zoned in on Aziraphale as the angel kissed him.

-

It didn't take long after that to adjust their living spaces together. Warm green plants started new life in bookshop windows. Tall shelves lined gray walls, each row filled with hundreds of books. An overstuffed couch clashed horribly with a more modern coffee table.

A sleepy demon dozed on that couch while a content angel sipped tea as he read another book. Aziraphale ran his manicured nails through Crowley's hair and he swore he could hear him purr.

"You still owe me a gift, angel," a tired voice mumbled. "I moved you in first, so that doesn't count." Aziraphale laughed, setting down his book as he dug something out of one of his many pockets.

"Of course love, you just reminded me of it." From an inner breast pocket he removed a tartan patterned glasses case, which he opened in front of the demons face so he could also see inside.

It was a pair of sunglasses, much like the pair the demon was already wearing. Instead of dark black lenses, however, the glass was a softer brown in color. The frames matched the case. They looked horrible, to be honest. "They'll block out your eyes, of course."

"I love them," Crowley answered, truthfully.

[chariflare]

assignments (2018 sem 1)

from creative writing last semester! i'm not satisfied with any of these, but if i don’t post them i know it’ll niggle at my brain forever. i’ve put everything in one post, and included both a (freshly-written) preamble and a summary of the marker’s comments. for the record, this was a first-year subject

short fiction - sabbath (“horrid jimmy”, 26/3/18) cw: alcohol, questionable writing technique

this got a lower mark than any of my other pieces, but it was also the one i spent the most time on (by a wide margin). it’s also not very good. fiction is hard.

i used a dramatic metaphor - perhaps too much so for the events of the story. it’s explained more below. according to my statement of intent: “i tried to address this with a more personal, “impressionist” narration - clearly the feelings of the narrator, not objective judgement.” unfortunately, i don’t think it worked? “silly” teenage actions committed without thought can have major consequences, is the point, but there’s still tonal dissonance there. frankly, i sound like a mum

it didn’t occur to me that it’s a coming-of-age story until i read the comments afterwards! whoops!

short fiction

The leaves crackled underfoot as the other boys sauntered into the woods, chuckling and jibing amongst themselves, with me trailing behind.

Caught by a sudden chill, I shoved my hands deeper into my parka pockets. Coming had been a stupid idea. It was probably going to be boring as all hell. I suppose I knew that when they asked me. I’d only been invited out of polite necessity, but I had nothing better to do.

One of them – a boy from my class – lingered to wait for me to catch up.

“So have you already met the new guy?”

I shook my head. I hadn’t.

“I heard he beat someone up, that’s why he had to move here,” he whispered conspiratorially.

I shrugged. What he had or hadn’t done wasn’t really any of my business. Curiosity was why I was here, sure, but I wasn’t going to judge based on what he might or might not have done at his last school.

The conversation died as weakly as it started. We trudged on beside each other, silently, out of obligation.

The path opened up to a clearing. Another boy was already standing there, leaning against the edge of a table, fiddling with something. The bench behind him was stacked with beer boxes. A grin settled in on his face as he saw us approaching.

“Jimmy!” the leader called, greeting him with a hug. “How are you, man?”

Jimmy smirked, although I couldn’t hear his reply.

“You’ll love him, guys. He’s a riot.”

We were all welcomed over, given a rant about Jimmy. Nothing I hadn’t heard before – transfer student, rich kid, dad was the police chief. It’d all been in the invitation spiel. The other boys chattered amongst themselves.

Jimmy watched it all with a sort of lazy self-assuredness. He was still tossing around that object – for some reason, an outdated cell phone – and his shirt lounged half-tucked against his jeans. A slimy mop of brown hair, skin-care and fashion taste, non-existent. He could be mistaken for half the people in my class. He’d fit in, sure. Be adored even. But besides the cockiness he looked almost bland. What an uninspiring idea of a “riot”.

The boy trailed off into silence. Relieved clapping emerged from the crowd. Jimmy clapped too, weightily. “Drinks are on me,” he smiled.

My classmate used the hubbub to slip away to his actual friends. Good for him. He was barely more interesting than Jimmy anyway.

The leaves scattered as I dragged my sneakers across the litter, hauling myself over to the line that had formed from the crowd, coating the heels with mud. I hadn’t really drunk before. To be honest, given how “riotous” the party was, I didn’t really want to. Home was looking real good right now. I wondered if it’d seem like copping out to turn down the offer.

Before I could make up my mind, a can was jabbed in my direction.

Jimmy and I stared at each other awkwardly.

"I, uh -"

Eyes glared into mine from between the greasy strands of his bangs. They glowed with the sunset, dyed a deep orange, flowing with a wavering, shifting surface of flame. Sparks spun and danced, swirling trails into his irises. But as the flames parted all I could see underneath was dark. In contrast to his boyish smirk those eyes betrayed no kindness towards me. Only cruel amusement.

He stared down at my arms, stiffly encased in my jacket.

“Wussy, huh?” Jimmy laughed. The sparks circled me.

I chuckled uncomfortably. Extracting my arms out of the parka, I plucked the can from his hands.

I didn’t want to hang around him again.

* * *

The sun had truly set now. Someone had lit a fire in one of the rusted oil drums. It smelled rank. The clearing became saturated with laughter which boiled, diffused out over the trees.

I had tried the beer a little while ago, but – barely managed to hold back a grimace. It was warm. And frankly tasted like piss. The can had only grown warmer in my hands, I wasn’t going to try it again.

Jimmy sat in centre of a circle of rotten school-chairs that had sprung up around him. That laddish grin never left his face as he fed out scraps of appreciation to each of his admirers.

I cursed my stupidity for not talking to my classmate. I could’ve at least pretended to care and then I’d have had somebody to stand with who didn’t creep me out. Every other group was just too tight.

I wanted to go home. I really wanted to now. But as I had trudged around looking for a place to stay I could feel as eyes flicked over to me, conspicuous and alone. I was “wussy”. I’d had to go back to the middle of the glade.

The haze of spirits was stronger here. More bottles lay empty in the mud. The boys leaned in, commanded fully by Jimmy’s attention, eagerly offering up questions.

“What school was it you went to?” one asked.

“Brighton Boy’s Private. Too stuffy.”

“Got any girlfriends?”

He laughed. “More than you, Jacob.”

“Was it true- you bashed that guy’s head in?”

I felt my stomach drop. There was a dead pause. Not quiet – there was still chattering and the sadistic crackling of the flames – but from Jimmy, murderous.

Jimmy chuckled, sharply.

“Well, what’s to say everything was my fault? It’s in the past.”

“So you did it, then?”

Jimmy stayed silent.

No-one in the circle spoke as he tossed the mobile in his hands, testing us. The following question sat unspoken in the air. It grew heavier with each thwap of the phone hitting his palms. Please, don’t say it.

“What else?”

My stomach turned.

Jimmy grinned. They had invited in the spell.

Sins poured from his mouth. Tales of smashed windows, defiled property, past conquests. Never caught. Never paid for.

The flames jumped through the air as he acted out terrible heresies, conjuring images of his deeds as he slashed the air with his hands. The thumping of my own heart provided a drumbeat to the ritual. His charisma bewitched them. He was strong, beholden to no-one. He knew exactly what they wanted to hear and played into it until they were all stolen, taken in by his witchcraft. Hypnotised by the alcohol and adoration they couldn’t help but fall under his spell.

The crowd had grown larger. My classmate was here too now. I gripped the rim of the seat in front of me, like it would anchor me to reality. This wasn’t like us. We were meant to be normal. None of this was a joke.

The tale continued on and the heat melted the pack into a single mass, roaring, sickly orange in the firelight. All under Jimmy’s control. Slouching in his chair he observed it, a smirk growing on his face.

He stopped gesturing with the cell phone now, dropping it gently to his knee.

The sparks whirled through the air and into his eyes. He didn’t have a beer, only the phone. Foreboding weighed down so hard in my stomach that I flinched from the pain. I wanted to scream, warn everyone what was going to happen, but fumes filled my nose and throat and choked down the words.

Jimmy held up a finger to his lips, drawn in a wolfish grin.

“Just watch.”

The mass hushed in anticipation, snickering, as he dialled. Three numbers.  

A female voice crackled onto the line. “Hello, what is your emergency?”

“An- an ambulance,” he gasped.

The forest blurred away. I couldn’t hear anything anymore. The only thing in focus was my brain, screaming at me to stop this as the conversation moving in slow motion around me. But my body wouldn’t move.

Snickering rolled through the glade and pushed through the haze.

“You know, I’m sick of kids like you. Someone could have died. Someone is dying right now.”

“Someone could have died,” he mocked, laughing, the pack laughing with him. “Someone is dying right now,”

“I hope one day you understand how much your actions hurt others,” the voice snarled as it transformed into the beep of a hung-up call.

There was a rush of raucous cackling. It ripped through the night sky, stabbing through the madness. We were all just boys again. The magic was broken. I could do something.

He was just a boy. I could do something.

I levered myself against the chair. I stood up straight. I forced myself to stare at the witch and boy sitting across from me.

“You’re a horrible person, Jimmy.”

Jimmy simply laughed. The sparks in his eyes taunted me, goading me to try anything to stop him.

I whipped my eyes across the crowd. Where was my classmate? Blinded by the firelight I could barely make out any faces. Boys in the same clothes with the same face laughed and laughed and egged each other on, blurring together through my tears. Why couldn’t I recognise him? Why was it that I couldn’t name a single one of them?

Suddenly I was aware that no-one was looking at me. No-one even noticed me. The harsh truth of it crumpled my insides until I could barely breathe.

I turned and ran away.

That mocking laughter hounded me as I dashed back through the woods, away from the fires and boys that had tonight become terrifyingly beyond me.

If only I had tried.

comments:

calling it “Sabbath” is on the nose, the metaphor is already evident from the content and/or the metaphor is unnecessary (my note: I didn’t actually want to call it “Sabbath”; I just didn’t have any other ideas. originally jimmy had more wolf imagery/language associated with him, but i had trouble taking the metaphor very far. i also thought it was Ironic, for a toxic masculine peer pressure teenage boy to be described as a witch, but i’m not sure i got the machismo across well…)

the prose needs to be tighter

jimmy needs to be given the chance to speak in his own voice, to make him come across as more threatening, and to allow him to be his own character (links into the above)

the “he only had the phone” paragraph was the best bit

monologue

i did one of these. it was not submitted. we will not speak of it.

poetry – transmutation (7/5/18) cw: body horror, blood, etc.

might as well just rename it gertrauda! mili’s new album had come out recently (~2 weeks beforehand) and i’d spent the whole time playing the song (an acapella arrangement of carol of the bells) on repeat. i was also very stressed! in general!

influenced by mili’s aesthetic in general, but namely gertrauda, ga1ahad and mirror mirror. the heart imagery was taken from the millennium mother album trailer, where a human heart was used to represent it. i did NOT like poetry, but the alternative (a monologue) was conceptually too difficult to do well. this got a higher mark than jimbo. i thought it was kind of on the nose!

poem

my heart beats a sickly rhythm

each throb pumping the arteries

with bubbling potion that fuels my body, flowing through the flesh

levers and pulleys, a soundless organ

 the skin contains me

a rotting sack to protect me, my mechanism

from the world outside, my true self too weak for it

how long can I keep living

this way?

 no,

why

am I living this way?

 the thought like a knife

stabs through the film of pus and pores through oily skin

a cut.

an obvious puncture

 i can’t let anyone see

the world

(pistons pump out of tempo)

 licks hot rotten on fleshy wound.

i’m fine

 but the smog floods in

it poisons corrupts poisoned

my skin is leaking ink pouring black blood

the flesh melted dark rotten

bones grinding down to a pulp

running too fast the veins the pistons

flesh writhing against the bag of skin embracing it against it

transmuting transforming being consumed consuming

 the heart bursts

disintegrating

only the skin is

left

a husk

piled on the floor

 I know.

I can’t

ever

be free.

comments:

enjambment could’ve been used more / earlier

get rid of punctuation, it holds up the flow

repetition of “living this way” is effective

dislikes the “the flesh … pulp” segment, feels a bit done before

polarity/repeats of the transmuting segment are effective

non-fiction

contained descriptions of the exact town in hungary my family lived; for privacy I won’t be posting it. it got the highest mark, but i wasn’t satisfied with the level of nuance

in general i think the marking for this subject was lenient! i did decently, though.

[fluffybuttsfamily-blog]

This week we’re going to take a look at the Chihuahua, because my Pixie is part Chihuahua, the USA’s biggest little dog.  Of course, I don’t mean in size.  No, I mean in attitude!  As most Chihuahua owners will attest, the Chihuahua has one of the biggest attitudes of all small dog breeds (funnily enough, I knew Pixie was the little dog for me because she was lacking in that big attitude).  They’re feisty little fellows without any idea that they’re not actually big dogs.

“Yo Quiero Taco Bell,” anyone?  The campaign ad featuring the little Taco Bell Chihuahua named Gidget was one of two reasons the Chihuahua started to gain popularity among modern dog lovers.  The other reason, as one might suspect, is the tendency of rich young women to tote them around in their handbags.  The most famous among these is Tinker Bell owned by none other than Paris Hilton.

There are many theories about how the Chihuahua came about, but all agree, due to archaeological finds and local folklore, that the Chihuahua originated in Mexico.  There were even wheeled dog toys found from Mexico to El Salvador that represent both the “apple head” and “deer head” varieties of the Chihuahua.  They were named after the state of Chihuahua in Mexico.

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Apple head Chihuahua

Deer head Chihuahua

The Chihuahua is a perfect candidate for apartment living, needing very little exercise to keep them happy.  They also can be, and often are, trained to potty on newspaper or puppy pads should their owner live in a high-rise building.

They are, in general, fiercely loyal to one person and may become overprotective of them as a result.  This can turn into aggressive behaviors such as growling, charging, nipping, snapping, and even biting.  These behaviors should not be encouraged.  No, not even if they seem cute.  “Cute” behaviors such as these can get a Chihuahua in a whole heap of trouble with people, other dogs, even the household cat.  Remember, these are small dogs, despite that big attitude, and their bones are much more fragile than their larger counterparts.  Imagine what damage even a little bite from a big dog could do to them.  Don’t take the risk!  Discourage those inappropriate behaviors early on.

Unfortunately, too many Chihuahua (and other small dog) owners don’t regulate their dogs’ behavior and they turn into what I like to call little terror tyrants.  Those are the little dogs that display those behaviors that would be unacceptable in a big dog, such as nipping, growling, snapping, charging at other people and/or dogs when they approach, jumping up on people without permission, peeing or pooping in the house, etc.  This is one of the major reason for a very long time I was not particularly fond of the Chihuahua.  I’m still not particularly fond of most Chihuahuas, but I now know that’s mostly due to the owners and lack of training rather than the dogs, themselves.  That’s why when I adopted Pixie I was determined (and still am) that she would be treated just like we treat our big dogs.

It doesn’t help matters that the Chihuahua has a reputation for being spoiled and untrainable, so a lot of people won’t even bother to try.  This reputation is due to the tendency of Chihuahua owners to spoil their dogs and then neglect to train them.  Chihuahuas are, in actuality, very intelligent dogs and learn well with consistent direction and positive reinforcement in the form of frequent treats and praise from their person.

Most Chihuahuas are alert, noisily so, and will yap at any person, animal, and sometimes even thing, that dares intrude on what they consider their territory.  They’re not very fond of strangers, overall, and prefer to keep their affection reserved for their appointed few – their person and, sometimes, their person’s family.

They are not suited to homes with small children both due to their small size and fragile bones and their tendency to be high-strung and prone to nipping.  They are, however, perfect for people wanting a companion dog that will shower them with affection and want to be with them all the time.  They are wonderful lap and bed-warmers and will take any opportunity to get up and just be with their chosen person.  Owners shouldn’t be surprised if they even burrow under the blankets with them.  Chihuahuas love their dens and often feel safest when in the darkness of cozy blankets, pillows, or clothes hampers.  Possibly the best kind of dog bed for a Chihuahua or Chihuahua mix is a covered one.

Pixie loves sleeping under my blanket between my feet when it’s bedtime!

The Chihuahua comes in two coat types, short (also known as smooth) and long.

Short-haired Chihuahua

Long-haired Chihuahua

Neither type is suited to the outdoors due to their small size, which makes it near impossible for them to retain body heat in cold weather.  Both coats are easy to maintain, although if one wants less shedding, I suggest going with the long-haired Chihuahua.  One would think the short-haired ones would shed less, but they don’t.  Both require minimal brushing, only once or twice a week, to keep them looking nice and minimize what hair they do shed.  They can be a variety of colors, including black, white, chocolate (Pixie), fawn, tan, blue, and red.  They can also have a variety of coat patterns from solid, to marked, to splashed, even merle, though the merle coat pattern in Chihuahuas is only officially recognized by the American Kennel Club in the USA, due to many believing it to be the result of modern cross-breeding rather than coming about naturally through genetic drift.

If you are considering purchasing or adopting a Chihuahua, please do your research!  These dogs are not for everyone.  They are small, certainly, and little work in the way of grooming or feeding, but they can be plenty of trouble in a small package!  Always take into consideration your living situation, your temperament, the dog’s temperament, and your financial capabilities before purchasing or adopting any dog.

Fun Fact:  “Armpit Paranhas” is the name given to Chihuahuas that snap at anyone that them or their owner when they’re being held, usually under their owner’s arm, thus the name.

Do you or have you owned a Chihuahua?  Please tell us about him/her in the comments below!  I’d love to hear about your experiences with the breed.

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  Breed of the Week: Chihuahua This week we're going to take a look at the Chihuahua, because my Pixie is part Chihuahua, the USA's biggest little dog.