#and i couldn’t find pics of snowy night for some reason

[shyslullabye]

harsh ass layout but i needed christmas theme !!

[lady-divine-writes]

A Dish Best Served Cold - A Prince of Omens Inspired One-shot (Rated NC17)

Summary: Starmakers rarely Fall. Crowley was the first. But every time one does, Crowley feels it, like razor sharp thorns throughout his body. When the latest one does, Aziraphale offers to accompany Crowley to Hell to make certain they're all right. But while they're there, Aziraphale decides to settle a score on his husband's behalf. (3689 words)

Notes: All right, I said I wasn't going to do this again, but I couldn't help myself. So this is inspired by @whiteleyfoster 'Omens of Egypt' mini comic 'Down' about Crowley's Fall from Heaven, along with their Bastille torture implied pic, which you can see here . I know there's a contest going on. This isn't about that. There's better writers for that. It's just something I've been working on since the end of 'Down'. I needed some BAMF Aziraphale sticking up for his demon husband against his former managers, so to speak. Warning for angst and mention of torture (not explicit).

Read on AO3.

“N-no … s-stop … I … I didn’t … I didn’t do … anything wrong … I … I’ll stop! I … swear!���

Aziraphale closes his book and sets it aside, then rolls on his hip to face his husband grabbing at the sheets covering his body, gripping so hard his knuckles have begun to turn white.

“Dearest?” Aziraphale whispers, brushing aside strands of hair from Crowley’s face with careful fingertips. “Wake up, dearest. Please wake up. You’re safe, my love. You’re all right …”

“N-no … no, you can’t … p-please …”

“Crowley? Dear? Can you hear me?”

“N-no … no, please …”

Aziraphale sighs as his husband continues to whimper. He rests a hand over one of his to anchor him, give him something tangible and familiar to hold on to, even in sleep.

An anchor is all Aziraphale can offer because there is no consoling him.

Crowley had once confided to Aziraphale that as much as he loved sleep, he had nightmares pretty on the regular, and they got worse as time went on. They’re rarer now that angel and demon sleep together, but they still crop up from time to time.

Unfortunately, Aziraphale can’t always tell which torture he’s reliving - being tossed out of Heaven into a steaming pit of sulfur, or the various punishments he endured the second he became a demon.

Having the down torn from his wings over the sin of being vain and naive.

Or having symbols of degradation burned into his skin with hot irons for the treachery of rescuing an angel.

Aziraphale didn’t even know that was a possibility until he’d discovered them.

The burns had faded, but the malevolent power that created them remained, its vile signature seared into Crowley’s skin. Aziraphale stumbled across them one night while they were making love, when they were close together, mouth to chest, with Crowley sitting in Aziraphale’s lap, riding him. Aziraphale blew hot air across Crowley’s chest and there they were.

Aziraphale’s divinity had brought them to light.

The way Crowley covered them, the shame in his expression when he confessed what he’d gotten them for, speared Aziraphale to the depths of his soul.

For that, and for a hundred other things (including blessing that blasted Thermos of water) Aziraphale has never forgiven himself. Crowley tells Aziraphale there’s nothing to forgive, especially when they’re in the throes of passionate embraces and a single puff of breath from Aziraphale’s lips brings those marks to the surface. Despite the consequences of his decisions, they were Crowley’s decisions, and the ones pertaining to Aziraphale’s health and safety, he’d repeat a thousand times.

Yet, the nightmares continue.

“Sleep easy, my love.” Aziraphale leans over and lays feather-light kisses on his demon’s sweaty forehead. “Sleep, and dream about whatever you like best.”

Crowley’s breathing slows. The furrows in his brow smooth away. His hands begin to loosen, let go of their vice hold. He melts into the sheets, eyelids fluttering slowly.

A small smile even manages to tilt up the corners of his mouth.

“That’s it. Relax. Be calm … at peace. I’m here with you. I’m not going anywhere. I won’t leave you alone.”

Crowley hums behind his lips, finally happy in his dreaming.

Aziraphale exhales with relief. It worked … thank God.

…

But for only about a minute.

Aziraphale goes back to his book, but a second later, Crowley jerks, jarring the bed as if the mattress had saved him from a terrible tumble. He sits bolt up, fist clutching his chest over the shadow of one particularly gruesome burn, his eyes wide and unblinking like those of a frightened foal.

“No!” he gasps, staring straight ahead, the remainder of his nightmare fading where Aziraphale can’t see.

“No what, dearest?” Aziraphale asks, careful not to speak too loudly in case it takes Crowley a moment to remember where he is, and that he’s not alone. “Which nightmare was it this time?”

“A … an angel … will Fall,” Crowley reveals in a voice that trembles. “A … a Starmaker.”

His answer stuns Aziraphale into closing his book and setting it on the table beside the bed without saving his place first. “Is that … will that really happen?”

Crowley swallows hard. “Yes.” He runs a hand through his sweaty hair, on the verge of tears. “Yes, I … I feel it. I could see it. It’s happening now. Tonight.” His eyelids pinch shut. He shakes his head, trying to dislodge the image from his brain, but Aziraphale knows it will be difficult to erase.

Starmakers rarely Fall. Maybe one in a thousand years. Crowley was the first, and for some reason, he can feel when another does. It rips through him like shards of ice, makes the return trip like tongues of fire, and haunts him for days after.

Aziraphale has often wondered if Hell did that on purpose - found a way to curse him with that foresight as one of their many forms of discipline.

Or perhaps it was Heaven’s doing.

Aziraphale wouldn’t be surprised either way. It seems like something they would both come up with.

“Do you have any idea when they will …?”

“Any second now,” Crowley says on a single breath, eager to push the knowledge from his mouth.

“Well then …” Aziraphale lifts the comforter off his legs and makes to get out of bed “… would you like to accompany me to Hell? Make sure they’re all right?”

Crowley’s eyelids snap open, blown pupils finding Aziraphale’s smiling face. It wouldn’t be the first time they’ve traveled to Hell together. Crowley looks like he might jump at the offer, but something holds him back.

Things are different now. They’re different now. They’re free agents. Crowley doesn’t answer to Hell anymore. As for Aziraphale, it’s not like Hell welcomed angels too freely downstairs with open arms before the Nope-ageddon. Angels’ visits to Hell have always been procedural, planned ahead, with paperwork involved. Heaven holds the keys to the bottomless pit, after all. It’s their job to tend to the prisoners there.

What Aziraphale is recommending they do is more than a little unprecedented.

If Aziraphale gets himself in a tight spot, Heaven more than likely won’t help him.

Is one Starmaker worth that chance? Worth the Guardians of the Gates treating Aziraphale the way they treated Crowley?

No, Crowley decides. For all it does to break his heart, it’s not worth putting his angel in danger.

“I’m … I’m probably overreacting,” he says, forcing himself to calm down. “There’s … there’s no reason to drag you down there. They’ll be fine. They … they don’t need me.” He closes his eyes again. Aziraphale can see the pain on his face, the memory of that poor angel’s Fall, or maybe his own, playing behind his eyes.

The harsh reality is that those angels that Fall need to learn the hard way that Hell is a terrible place. No one is waiting in the wings (so to speak) to rescue them.

No matter how slight their sin.

But this is important to Crowley. Aziraphale knows it is.

And Crowley means the world to Aziraphale.

Aziraphale puts a hand beneath his husband’s chin, coaxes his eyes open with kisses to his lips. “It never hurts to check, my dear. I’ll go get my coat.”

***

Hard-packed dirt where very little grows.

Thick clouds of black, acrid smoke.

Yellow-orange sulfur seeping from the earth, super-heated and bubbling, popping, releasing noxious gas into the air.

Aziraphale pops the collar of his coat, holds the ends tight over his nose.

He hates the smell of Hell.

The pools of sulfur fallen angels nosedive into are located right outside the gates, so they’re still far from the mildew infested basement that is Hell’s head office.

But this outdoor landing pad is probably worse: surrounded by air that burns the sinuses with every breath, the breeze swirling around them hot and oppressive instead of cool and refreshing.

Looking up and seeing a Heaven that no longer welcomes you, stars you will never touch again.

He envisions Crowley here - scared, confused, emerging from the pits for the first time to see his beautiful, snowy-white wings blackened and singed, covered in this foul-smelling ooze.

All alone.

Consigned here by those he loved.

Aziraphale feels a long-building contempt for Heaven rise up in his chest and does everything to keep it at bay. This isn’t him, he reminds himself. Not really. It’s Hell’s influence. It’s too easy to surrender to anger here, which is why the Almighty sends the Archangels to conduct Heaven’s business in Hell.

They’re more immune to the air here.

“There they are!” Crowley says, rushing towards a pit about fifty feet from where they materialized, where a drenched and bedraggled set of wings sits atop an orange mess, attached to an angel … a demon … lying underneath the surface.

Aziraphale doesn’t rush to help. Best to let Crowley lead that charge. Instead, he keeps watch. He’s only been here a handful of times, but that’s definitely enough.

One time in particular, he could do without.

Aziraphale peers through the black smoke, trying to decipher their bearings. Crowley snapped them here. It’s the easiest way to come. Which means that Hell should know they’re there. Every time Crowley performs a miracle, they receive a fax. So there’s a fifty-fifty chance a welcoming committee of some sort might arrive.

The wind blows.

The smoke shifts.

Vacant mold-gray eyes catch his.

Bingo.

As the smoke continues to clear, Aziraphale gets a better view, and he smiles.

Luck, oddly, seems to be on his side.

“You stay here, my dear,” he says, not bothering to raise his voice since he knows Crowley will hear him. “I’ll take care of this.”

Aziraphale isn’t a vengeful angel. His job is to inspire humanity, to spread love.

Wrath is normally reserved for Archangels.

But as in most things, Aziraphale doesn’t feel they’ve done their jobs right for close to a millennium.

And besides, this is personal.

Aziraphale strolls up to the demon hopping through the sulfur pits in his direction.

“You’re Dagon, right?” he asks.

The demon slows, approaches warily, not expecting to meet Aziraphale (of all entities) after the memo they received.

Not expecting to see an angel flash a smile that is eerily at home here in Hell.

“What’s it to you?” Dagon asks.

“Come on. Let me preen these for you,” Aziraphale hears Crowley say to the new demon he’s helping out of the sulfur. “And take my advice … learn to do it for yourself. You don’t want to ask anyone down here for help.”

“Nothing, my dear.” Aziraphale steps to the right, blocking Dagon when they try to blow past. “I just like to know whom I’m addressing. I’ve heard a lot about you.” Aziraphale sashays left - another block that leaves Dagon gnashing their teeth in frustration. “Crowley says you’re a rather creative demon … when it comes to cruelty and violence.”

Dagon squashes their plan to leap around the angel and grins proudly at that remark. “Did he now?”

“Indeed,” Aziraphale returns, the words as dry as the ground beneath his feet. “In fact, he told me that from the first day he Fell you couldn’t keep your hands off him. I almost got jealous … until he elaborated.”

Dagon’s face falls, their eyes blank, but they snicker when they catch on.

Every time Dagon tore at Crowley’s wings.

Every time they put a hot iron to Crowley’s skin, tied him up and whipped him for his treachery.

Or worse …

That’s what the angel is referring to.

Dagon can’t help noticing the loathing in Aziraphale’s eyes, the undeniable rage.

And Dagon smiles.

Anger feeds demons like well-roasted mutton. It intoxicates them like wine.

And the anger of an angel?

That’s about the finest vintage any demon can find on earth.

Hence why calling off the war disappointed them so.

It makes Dagon long to stab Crowley in the back with their claws to see how angry this angel can get.

What Dagon might be able to convince him to do.

Dagon tries to dash past again, but Aziraphale is surprisingly quick. This time, Dagon walks straight into Aziraphale’s chest and stops short.

It’s like walking into a brick wall.

Dagon sniffs. They refuse to be intimidated by an angel. Especially a plump and useless little Principality like this one. Dagon remembers Ligur talking about what the Archangels think of him, how they have no respect for him.

Thinking of Ligur reminds Dagon that that demon is gone. Gone at the hands of Crowley, who doused them with Holy Water.

Holy Water he got from this angel.

The only angel in Heaven that can withstand Hellfire, pudgy or not.

Dagon’s face goes pale. They swallow hard. Those memories of torturing Crowley, the times they’d been so proud of, flood their mind with vivid sound and color.

Staring at this angel’s cold, hard expression, they begin to regret every single one.

“You look parched,” Aziraphale says with an unexpectedly warm smile.

“Yeah, well, it’s hot down here,” Dagon growls suspiciously. “Otherwise it wouldn’t be Hell.”

“True, true. That’s why I brought this.” Aziraphale reaches into his inside coat pocket and pulls out a tartan Thermos. Dagon stiffens at the reveal, but they’re too curious to back away.

It’s just a Thermos. How much damage could Aziraphale possibly do with a Thermos?

“It’s … it’s a Thermos,” the demon points out.

“Yes,” Aziraphale says in a condescending tone. “Very good. And what do you think it’s filled with?” He pulls off the cup and puts it in his pocket, then unscrews the cap. “I’ll give you three guesses and the first two don’t count.”

Dagon scoffs. “How the Heaven should I …?” Their eyes blow wide as context melds together in one harrowing spark of realization. “That wouldn’t be … Holy Water? W-would it?” Dagon takes a step back, but Aziraphale’s hand shoots out, grabs the demon by the wrist. Thick, sausage fingers wrap tightly around, solid as stone.

“You know,” Aziraphale says in a low, gravelly voice to match, “I don’t like the way you’ve treated my husband.”

Dagon pulls, trying to break free, but Aziraphale has a grip like iron. “We’re … we’re demons! It’s what we do! Wot did you expect?”

“Doesn’t matter what I expect. It matters what I’ll tolerate.” Aziraphale lifts the Thermos to his mouth and takes a drink. Dagon stares as Aziraphale gulps the blessed liquid, licking his lips when he’s done. But from the sound of sloshing, there seems to be plenty left. “Oh! How rude of me,” Aziraphale says, holding the Thermos out to his captive. “Fancy a sip?”

Dagon’s eyes nearly pop out of their head. “You … you wouldn’t!”

“Wouldn’t I?” Aziraphale lifts the Thermos over Dagon’s wrist where it’s caught in the angel’s fist. “By the way, I wouldn’t tug too hard if I were you. I am clumsy. I might slip. It only takes one drop to dissolve a demon.” On cue, a single drop begins to form on the silver lip of the container. Angel and demon watch it grow, dangle like a trapeze artist lowering themselves down the rung of their swing, preparing to jump. Aziraphale looks on in amusement; Dagon in utter horror. The drop lengthens, heaves, the tenuous connection thinning as it threatens to break.

“N … n-no! “ Dagon stutters, lurching backward, but Aziraphale holds on impossibly tighter.

“What was that you said?” Aziraphale asks, taking his eyes away from the precarious drop, not caring a whit for its fate.

“It … it’s going to fall!”

Aziraphale shakes his head, inadvertently shaking the Thermos as well. “I’m sorry. I couldn’t quite …”  

Aziraphale doesn’t finish his sentence.

He sticks out his tongue and catches the drop seconds before it falls.

Dagon makes a strangled sound as they struggle to recoil.

Aziraphale watches the demon flail in his grasp and laughs. “Phew! Will you look at that? That was a close one!”

“You’ll … you’ll start a war!” Dagon cries, utilizing this momentary reprieve since the Thermos is still there, held aloft by the angel, his loathing brewing into a full-fledged flame. “A war between demons and angels! You didn’t want that, re-remember?”

Aziraphale shrugs. “Perhaps I’ve changed my mind. You wanted a war, didn’t you? Well, now you’ll get your wish, provided doing away with you is impetus enough to start one. Pity you won’t be around to join in. I’ve heard you give some rousing pep talks.”

“N-now, listen to reason, angel …”

Aziraphale’s grip around Dagon’s wrist ratchets from tight to bone-crushing, almost bringing Dagon to their knees. They lose their footing, but Aziraphale drags them closer, holds them upright by that one thin and straining joint.

“You … don’t get to call me that!”

“I’m sorry! I’m so sorry! I …”

“Aziraphale …” Crowley’s voice creeps into Aziraphale’s ear. It sounds distant for the pounding in Aziraphale’s head, but it’s mere inches away “… don’t ...”

Aziraphale doesn’t turn to look at his husband, the full force of his anger trained on this one pathetic demon, ready to turn them into dust with the weight of that alone. But Aziraphale pictures Crowley’s amber eyes in his mind - doe wide and pleading.

Begging for no more.

“Are you sure, my dear?”

“Yes.” A hand finds Aziraphale’s shoulder and squeezes gently. “I’m sure. Don’t do this. For me?”

Aziraphale shudders. He would do anything for Crowley, give him anything he wanted … but he can’t seem to do this. For all his posturing, all of his simply wanting to put the fear of God into this demon for everything Crowley said they’ve done, he can’t just let go. With his Thermos poised over the green-gray and fetid skin of their arm, he’s so ready to pour.

And it would feel good.

It would feel like righting a wrong.

The wrong of Aziraphale not being around to protect Crowley when he truly needed protecting.

But the kneading of his shoulder muscles loosens his grip ever so slightly. A kiss on the crown of his head loosens it more.

“Angel,” Crowley whispers against his scalp, his cheek pressing there to enjoy the softness of his hair, “please?”

“Urgh! All right!” Aziraphale grumbles, releasing his grip. He’d been holding on so tight, it takes a few seconds for his corporal form to actually detach, sending Dagon stumbling back, landing undignified on their tailbone in the sulfur. “But just you remember, Dagon,” Aziraphale adds, straightening his waistcoat, “the next time you get it in your empty head to try and do something … anything … to my husband, that he’s the only reason you’re not a puddle right now. Yes?”

“Y-yes,” the demon stutters. “I-I’ll remember.”

“In that case, I do believe some appreciation is in order.”

Dagon shoots a glare Crowley’s way. Not an inch of conceit can they see on Crowley’s face, only concern for his angel. And that makes Dagon furious. Despite themselves, Dagon scowls. But seeing as Aziraphale has put no cover on his Thermos and could always change his mind (that’s what Dagon would do) Dagon has little choice. “Thank you,” they grind through pointed teeth.

“Thank you what?” Aziraphale stresses.

If Aziraphale weren’t both immune to Hellfire and carrying a Thermos of Holy Water, Dagon would bolt out of that pool of sulfur and rip him to shreds.

At least, that’s what they tell themselves.

“Thank you … sir.”

“Better. Now run along. My compassion only lasts so long in this place, and it’s getting rather hot out here.” Aziraphale swirls the Thermos in Dagon’s direction, taking another drink as the demon scurries away, mumbling under their breath. The sulfur pits become tensely quiet, thicker and heavier than the black smoke stinging their eyes.

“Aziraphale …?”

“How’s the fallen Starmaker?” Aziraphale asks before Crowley can finish. Whether he intended on thanking Aziraphale or lecturing him, Aziraphale isn’t ready to hear it.

Crowley sighs. “As good as can be expected.”

“Well, that’s the best we can hope for, I suppose,” Aziraphale says with a sympathetic smile.

“Don’t you think that was going a little too far?” Crowley asks, lowering his voice and gesturing toward a sulking Dagon with his chin.

“Not at all. In fact … would you like to make your friend Dagon over there lose their bowels, so to speak?”

“Only always.”

“Do you trust me?”

“Without question.”

“Take a nice long swig out of that, my dear,” Aziraphale says, handing off the Thermos.

Crowley knows this Thermos. Knows it well. He pauses when Aziraphale offers it to him. Touching it gives him a jolt, fills his brain with the echoes of Ligur’s screams, but he can’t betray fear for one second. He’s supposed to be the demon who can withstand Holy Water, after all.

Plus he trusts Aziraphale … more than anything.

He brings the Thermos to his lips and throws his head back, taking the biggest mouthful he can before his survival instincts can force him to stop and spit it out. He hears Dagon curse from across the sulfur pits, and Crowley almost sputters. His eyelids squeeze, preparing for the burn of the righteous.

It burns, all right, but it doesn’t dissolve him into the dirt.

“It’s … it’s not Holy Water,” Crowley comments only loud enough for Aziraphale to hear, helping himself to another hefty mouthful. “It’s not water at all! It’s vodka!”

“Oh dear. Look at that,” Aziraphale says in a dry, sarcastic tone. “I brought the wrong Thermos. I’ll be more aware of how I pack next time.”

Crowley shakes his head, wrapping his arms around his angel’s body and holding him tight. “You know, you’re pretty sexy when you’re being all guardian angel and stuff.”

“Yes, well, it’s only for you, my love,” Aziraphale says, resting his head against Crowley’s chest and hugging him back, more than ready for his husband to snap them back home. “Only for you.”

[i-am-a--lionheart]

~◇~ Broken ~◇~ ◇ ~ {Oh dear, i wished we already had some new medieval pics :D But our Shooting is in december :x so you have to live with Ugly me in 2013 - this fic is for #sunorweek by @sildesalaten and @ryuokowolf ~ day 5 - tragedy ~ and of course it has to be set at the end of Kalmar Union} ~ He had always hated the silverish light of the full moon on the darkblue sky at midnight. It robbed everything that was mysterious away, it stole the beauty of the stars and it hid the life of every creature with a veil of its dead light. He hated the moon, it destroyed the darkness of the night that always lulled him. That hid him away from hungry eyes of the one that wanted to consume him. That could hide him away from the hurt and sad eyes of the one he loved. This night wasn't quiet. It wasn't peaceful. His heart hurt. There were words screamed at him, insults, what did they mean, another language he may had been able to understand years ago. Why did they broke his heart like that? Why did they cut him so deep? Why? Why did it have to end like this? His body hurt. The abuse always left bruises on his delicate body. Dirty blood on his pale skin, dark blue marks and scanned wounds. He wondered if everyone would ever care how he suffered, how broken he was. He wondered when he had broken on the inside and the outside. When he had lost all of his dignity. His pride. Where was all his strenght gone? Why was he that broken ? Why didn't he stand up against him? Times had changed. He was at the bottom of their hierachy. He was conflicted. Why, why was it like that? Why was he that weak? How could he get his colour back – his colour, his shine. His eyes that could tell so many norse fairytales…they were of a dull grey instead of a clear amethyst blue. Which of them would heal his wounds? Would they ever scarred up, those deep cuts in his heart? He was torn between them. How could he ever be able to stay? He loved Berwald with all his heart, his soul, even with his broken body. He was loved by him, he knew it, he felt it in every gentle touch, no matter if he was the one that laid all bloody on the ground and had to be fixed by the Norwegian or vice versa. His heart, his wounded and hurt and broken heart, it was healed by his gazes, his few words, his featherlight kisses. How could he deny his wish to flee? His wish for independence? Because of his love he could stand through every abuse. He had a little brother, the youngest of all of them, six years by appereance. The child was innocent and fragile and soft to touch in heart and body. He wouldn't be able to forgive himself if he left him behind. Berwald said he should simply take him with him. But there was no 'simple way' in the life of a nation. The Swede didn't know it because he was still proud and wore his head up like a man should. But Lukas had no pride anymore. It was all gone because a certain person had robbed it away along with his dignity and innocence. But he was the second reason why Lukas could never leave this cursed castle – he couldn't let him fall in insanity. Insanity. It wasn't Mathias fault. It was the fault of this god damned might that was in his hands. Lukas was a puppet, Emil was a puppet, Tino was a puppet, yes, even Berwald was a puppet but a puppet that was about to cut the strings. And he would also cut Lukas' strings if he would just let him. But Lukas couldn't. He couldn't. And he hated himself for it. Beautiful veins and bloodshot eyes Berwald had never realised how thin Lukas really was, even when he laid completely bare in front of him. Maybe it had been the veil of love in front of his seablue eyes that had hidden the illness of the Norwegian. Though he had felt the bones under his skin every time he had grazed his fingers over the flesh of his arms, his chest and hips. What he had seen were the bruises, blue and green and red, so colourful. He had been a painting, a painting of pain and abuse, created in the cruellest way. What a beautiful, destructive work. It had cut his heart, a heart that seemed hard every time he spoke to their self-declared king. He had hated it. He still hated it. To share him. Oh no, what a way of thinking! He had sworn to cherish him but the doors to Lukas' heart were closed. He had been turned into a doll…It was a curse but the Swede had sworn to crush it. He'd free him. If only he would accomplish…If only he would let him. He hated to see him like this, shivering, trembling though he had covered him in blankets and in his own fur-coat…He hated to see those orbs that were like gems to him – priceless – reddened by the tears he had shed. He hated to see the veins that weren't hidden by his skin – his sensitive, snowy white skin – so hurt, so hurt, so hurt. Why couldn't he make his pain his own? Maybe because his own pain was enough – because his body was scarred as well. Maybe because his heart was tired of the pain – it slowly turned cold like ice and hard like a stone. Maybe because his soul was ripped apart and the only one that would be able to heal him shoved him away again and again. Maybe because he was tired of waiting. And he was tired. Tired of talking to him about his plan, again and again, tired of trying to convince him to come with them. Who were 'them'? Berwald had not chosen Tino. But he knew the boy would surely reach the age in which Mathias would do the same to him. The same he did to Lukas. And since he had been the one to find him as a child in the woods, Tino was like a little brother to him. A person he had to take care of. Now, if he had also someone that he saw as a person he had to protect and another person he loved over everything, you'll ask yourself why he didn't understand Lukas' situation. Couldn't he see the despair in these dull eyes? Couldn't he understand why Lukas preferred to sleep in the room he shared with his little brother? Couldn't he understand that Emil who was nothing more than a child needed the protection of his brother? Oh well. Berwald saw everything, he heard everything and he understood everything. But he didn't get that Lukas also protected him and them, on his very own way. He couldn't take him as the person he had been in the past. The warrior, the strongest of them, a Viking like no one else with so much power. By now the power was gone or so it seemed to the tall blonde man. But it wasn't gone. Lukas seemed so powerless. He seemed so broken with his transparent skin, the bruises on his hips and his arms, everywhere, the bite-marks on his neck, the dried blood. Where was this power? In his heart. Berwald didn't know it but Lukas gave everything to be their shield. The Swede might be their sword against the Dane. He might be the weapon but he was too aggressive. He still thought that it was the best thing to fight, that the attack was the best protection. But it wasn't. Lukas knew the only way to keep Mathias away from slaughtering and killing like the maniac he was. No one else did. Lukas was the one that whispered reassuring words to him. Lukas was the one that took all the pain. He was the one that shed all the tears, alone, in a locked chamber where he was kept when the days were especially dark. Lukas was the only one that was loved by Mathias. Yes, it was a strange kind of love. He was loved in the most wicked way there was. Yes, it was a destructive love and maybe it was one-sited too. But Mathias had always loved Lukas. And Lukas had – secretly – adored him from the depths of his heart. He knew him better than everyone else. Better than Berwald, better than Tino and also better than himself. He knew it was an illness. And Berwald hated him for this. He hated how Lukas defended Mathias. He hated it. He couldn't believe it. He misunderstood the caring of him, the self-destruction, and all those selfless actions as love. As love to the one that terrorised them all.

[memorylang]

Reunions | #29 | March 2020

Fitting, this 29th story from my Peace Corps Mongolia life marks my reunion with our M29s, the senior cohort who taught me so much about how to be a Peace Corps Volunteer. 

From blurred goodbyes with mentors and friends, to an uncertain transatlantic journey, my continued evacuation felt nostalgic, new and every emotion between. In this story, I bring you from my city of service across Mongolia’s north central Khangai region, to pick up fellow Peace Corps Volunteer evacuees on our caravan to the capital. 

With every familiar face I saw, leaving Mongolia felt more and more real. 

Last Sunrise 

Sunday, March 1, I awoke early for my last sunrise in my apartment. 

Next, I went around the rooms, stowing the rest of my needs in my luggage and sweeping dust around the linoleum floors. I felt Mongolians were always tidier than my best. I left aside a few household things I didn’t mind whether they stayed or went. 

As I packed myself snack bundles in the kitchen for my journey ahead, I thought to my summer host mom. She made lunches for my day trips to Дархан /Darkhan/ on Peace Corps business. Those were great. 

Lastly, I heated on the stove my supervisor's remaining бууз /boe-z/ steamed dumplings she gifted at Tsagaan Sar. 

Just then my supervisor contacted me, she was on her way with бууз.

Mongolian hospitality’s the best. 

Sunday Rush 

The moment my supervisor arrived, through the next 45 minutes, was a lightning of activity. 

My supervisor wanted to make sure anything remotely useful to me, we’d stow away for my return. People from the uni were coming to clean the apartment, so she wanted nothing taken. 

I tried to explain I wasn’t sure I’d be coming back, for none of us knew Peace Corps’s situation. But I too wanted to come back. And I appreciated her planning for it. 

A supervisor wouldn’t plan for my return unless she wanted me to come back. 

So stowed away items and helped me complete every last detail needed to secure the apartment. She and one of the school workers showed me how to run thread through putty we pressed onto my closet doors. This way, if someone tampered with my doors that couldn’t lock, they’d know. We stamped the date on one side then pressed my key’s grooves into the other. 

As we wrapped up duties, I handed my supervisor my card for our department and an “Omnibus” student poetry book my training clustermate asked me to give my community. I also gave her some “Laubach Way” to Reading/English textbooks I referenced from teaching English in Reno, Nev., fall 2018. I hoped our department would use these. 

My priest friend from the night before returned, so my supervisor helped me load his vehicle. She insisted I haul this huge bag of snacks with me for my journey. I’d been offering them for others, but I finally acquiesced. I had my backpack, my small IKEA bag, my suitcase checked bag, the food sack and my stranded sitemate’s hiking backpack and camera bag. 

At last, goodbye. Throughout the week I’d ask my supervisor when I should leave my apartment key with her, since there was no use taking it with me to America. She’d told me to hold on to it, so it’s easier when I get back. I wasn’t sure I’d get back. 

During this last visit, well, she asked if I wanted her to have my key. 

The moment felt like an acceptance of this uncertainty. We locked the door. I gave her my key. 

I parted ways with thanks. My priest drove me to my senior M29 cohort sitemate’s apartment. Meanwhile, my supervisor shared in our department’s group chat my card. My colleagues wished me safe travels. I felt disappointed leaving them from just after our Lunar New Year. 

Bittersweet with Final Friends

After that rush, I’d a breather. 

My priest dropped me off by the curb, where a group of my friends gathered. They were from our coffee shop speaking group, including the English teacher who invited me over a couple nights before Tsagaan Sar. I felt touched they came to see me off. They left me with more food, snacks and gifts. 

With selfies and warm wishes, I wished my friends good-bye and came up to my sitemate’s apartment. 

Assembled within were our Peace Corps Volunteers’ long-time engineering friend, his friend, and our eager high schooler who visited me the night before. What a nice bunch. My sitemate related how the kid after receiving my Peace Corps key chain and name tag excitedly told him. Indeed, the kid still wore “Daniel Lang” when I arrived. What a cool lil’ dude. The guy resolved to be my first and last Mongolian visitor. He won. 

The first time I visited my Peace Corps sitemate’s apartment might have been the only time before now. That August 2019, I’d just arrived in town, and he offered up the left-behind M28 cohorts’ things. (That’s where I got the cork board I described in my packing story.) Now my sitemate’s apartment looked bare, save its furniture. 

On to business, my sitemate and I compared when we expected Peace Corps’s driver to reach town. We got different stories, so we called the driver with our Mongolian friends’ help. The driver just picked up our friendly spiritual sitemate from the village in our province over. We reasoned we’d plenty hours before leaving. 

We got squad pics. Beyond handing off keys to the colleagues of our stranded sitemates two or three days before, my friend here and our friends already grabbed a few belongings for our other stranded sitemate. With nothing left to do, we went out to find lunch. 

I loved the light snow flurries, quaintly reminding me of the auspicious Lunar New Year. But we found most places closed around the city to ward off COVID-19. (Mongolia doesn’t drive-through like America.) At least, we found open the bakery I visited the Saturday before with my translator friend. So our group got to-go and headed back. 

I enjoyed the meal. I had the pastry my speaking group friends gave me, plus the new бууз from my supervisor—my last from Tsagaan Sar 2020. They’d pizza. On a thrilling note, Peace Corps Mongolia emailed our flight itineraries. Turns out my sitemate and I’d fly Thursday before dawn. I felt shocked and awed that after Russia we’d come through Germany and the Netherlands! An overnight in New York City seemed weird. By Friday I’d touch down in Vegas...

We got our friendly sitemate’s calls, our driver was in-town. Time to go. 

Picking Up Pals in Peace Corps

I descended the apartment stairs, opened the front door and felt heartened. I'll never forget the Sunday sight of my fellow spiritual Volunteer. Before me was my Episcopalian Peace Corps friend’s delighted face. We’d assembled. 

My friends and I loaded up the white Peace Corps SUV. We strapped my suitcase among the bags up top, while I protected my stranded sitemate’s things in the vehicle. We exchanged small talk while we wrapped up. 

Moments later, our three local friends stood waving by the curb as we pulled away. What a blur. I didn’t catch a photo, but I felt their sight ingrained. 

We had a U.S. Embassy driver instead of a Peace Corps one, which explained why I didn’t recognize him. He had a wonderful sense of humor. With my friend, we shared snacks and compared evacuation stories. He told this wild one of how they almost drove off a cliff! I remembered Peace Corps’ Safety & Security emailed us about snow storms but I hadn’t thought of ‘em. 

We drove across the snowy world’s whiteness to the neighboring province for our next sitemate. As we entered a beautiful forested town, we could see why she hadn’t left her site much. Her village could have passed for a winter resort if tourism ever touched this. 

When we pulled into the yard of basically our sitemate’s host family, her dog barked, and the family welcomed us to tea and Tsagaan Sar food. ‘Evacuating’ felt surreal. I loved this little countryside stop. 

Our journey continued. 

Farewell in Sorrow

We had a mission. 

We headed on to one of our stranded sitemate’s places. Unfortunately, no one had been able to visit her area to pack her things. And like my senior M29 sitemate, she was of that cohort—the one not coming back. 

As we rode into site, I recalled an autumn day trip when my and my sitemates’ party of four came to visit. We cooked together. I wandered out a few hours back then. 

Now the site's covered in snow, and our different party of four came to her apartment with her colleague, instead of her. We forwarded to each other our stranded sitemate’s email of what to pack. Then we got to work, splitting up on rooms to take to scavenging her year and a half’s worth of memories. She helped over video call. 

She was among my Peace Corps mentors. I felt sad coming in and having to rummage her things for her. But if we didn’t, who could? 

We finished. We readied to leave. Then, watching our sitemate over video say goodbye to the colleague she couldn't come back to see in-person, I felt heartbroken. 

But we had to keep going.  

Police State? 

With the Health Volunteers in our car, Sunday, March 1 became the first day I actively heard people calling the creeping Coronavirus crisis a pandemic. 

But as we pulled into police and military checkpoints, the likes of which my priest described, I felt like were entered a police state. Americans and I commented among each other, people in the States would so resist measures like these to quarantine our nation. 

At checkpoints, we needed to show our passports and accept the forehead temperature checks. (If one in our party coughed after the health person walked away, we laughed about our luck.) 

After getting all set at our province border, our vehicle awaited the coming of our neighboring province’s Peace Corps evacuation party. We travel together the rest. 

Avengers Assemble

Fun fact: I naturally tend to frame my life in terms of adventures I’ve read, watched or played through. 

Seeing my old friends again, for instance, under these grave conditions reminded me of every time watching Steve Rogers first step onto a scene in “Avengers: Infinity War.” 

A white microbus arrived. Our fellow Volunteers arrived. 

Stepping out of our vehicle felt like being the Avengers, assembling in Wakanda for our Infinity War. All of us were evacuees. We all left behind our Mongolian homes. And we’d seen better days. But we were together. 

And yet, I felt somber with the sense we’d already ‘lost.’ With a snap, COVID-19 was wiping out half my Peace Corps Mongolia universe. Our senior M29 cohort would undergo their Close of Service. Their service would finish in the capital. But my cohort’s wouldn’t—or it may.

So we were in our Endgame. If we return to Mongolia, it'll be the greatest comeback. But half our Volunteers would still be gone, maybe more. We'd be starting a bit fresh, becoming the new senior cohort. But that'd be our duty—to continue where we and others left off, to keep going.

We shared moments of grins and hugs and small talk. I saw my Catholic friend again, what a guy. Then we re-boarded our vehicles. We left from Mongolia's second-largest city to its third. 

Hometown Snow Storm, That Winter Night

Riding back east across Mongolia, I recalled my previous trips in the country.

Further east, near dusk, we passed a turn off, where another driver head of us turned left. Our U.S. Embassy driver called that driver crazy. I’d been down that way before, during my day trip with Japanese JICA Volunteers to the historic monastery. But there was scarcely a daytime road—I couldn’t imagine getting there with this snow storm and night. 

Further down, we drove through Хөтөл /Khutul/, the soum where many of my Peace Corps cohort friends lived this summer. With darkness and snow all around, I could barely recognize the city of 12,000, beyond its street sign. 

Then we pulled through Номгон /Nomgon/, my Mongolian hometown. 

My senior sitemate and I both trained here, albeit during different years. With blowing snow and darkness surrounding, we couldn't even see the iconic mountain on our right. But to our left, he spotted the green of our school, and we saw the lights of the street-side convenience store beside the red tractor monument. 

We meant to visit home for Tsagaan Sar, before travel banned. I realized, I was the only one from my cluster who got to see our Mongolian hometown during winter. I taped a video of our passing and shared with my host family and training cluster. 

We continued on. 

Between Mongolia’s Largest Cities

At times, so much powder snow blasted across the road, I couldn't even see its edge. But we could see the red lights from the microbus of Peace Corps Volunteers ahead. 

Finally, we arrived in Дархан /Darkhan/, on the dark road that felt nothing like our summer rides in light. We stopped a while somewhere near the city proper’s border, somewhere I recalled from my host family driving me on a summer day trip. 

Besides briefing exiting a train during my winter trip to the capital for a Peace Corps conference, I'd never seen Дархан during winter. 

We stayed in a hotel overnight to wait out the snow storm before continuing for the capital the next morning.

I reorganized my food sack, enjoyed some nibbles. My Catholic friend roommate caught me up more on the peace of our situation. I felt awed, my senior sitemate played a Nintendo Switch. I hoped I could play someone’s back in the States. 

Change of Pace

Monday, March 2, we hurried our bags downstairs and had a quick lamb stew breakfast. 

Curiously, a Volunteer asked to switch from the microbus to our SUV. Cool, I swapped with her. Coincidentally she was the very first I met in my cohort during Staging in Philadelphia last May, before reaching Mongolia. We both gave speeches at our Swear-In Ceremony in August 2019. 

In the microbus were many Volunteers from our senior M29 cohort. I felt (maybe too) elated to see them again. They pointed out they’re processing their abrupt Close of Service—They needed space. 

Within a few hours, we’d hit the capital. Life gained speed, and, of course, I’ve more to share there. For now, though, I gazed out the window at our snow-blanketed world, with my fellow Volunteers in mind. Our lives, theirs especially, were changing fast. 

You can read more from me here at DanielLang.me~

[emisonme]

Here we go again..................

That MTV interview with the photographer was a well written piece of propaganda for "Bare with me", basically saying that love is love, and it is beautiful in all forms. The stuff about Lauren and Lucy was all propaganda to prop up the narrative.

The photographer and the wardrobe lady were only saying what they were advised to say. LIES! (though the wardrobe lady decided to fuck the narrative a bit with the "sisterly and maternal connection") Management did the same thing with DWTS. Val was advised to lie about when and where he had his first meet up with Normani for DWTS. They had been rehearsing for days before that Houston Rodeo, yet they wanted to push the narrative to the general public that the girls were in on the surprise, and helped introduce Mani to her dance partner. Why? To show how much they support her decision to do her own thing.

My point is, they (management) have no problem getting outside forces, other than the girls, to help sell their narrative. The ladies who did that photo-shoot with Lauren and Lucy are no different. Why have the photographer say what she said? They needed someone, other than Lauren or Lucy, to confirm that Laucy was real, to prove that Camren wasn't. That one interview killed three birds with one stone. It confirmed Laucy, destroyed Camren, then destroyed Laucy, all at the same damn time. Brilliant actually.

Why did they need to confirm Laucy, and do so in a way that spans a few years? A few reasons really. Lauren was tired of being stuck in the public closet. She was ready to be herself, and to come out as "a proud Cuban American Bisexual woman". She couldn't do that, because it would basically confirm Camren. The Label's are not ready for Camila to be considered anything but "straight" for her career.

People keep asking, even though I have explained it before, why it's OK for Lauren to come out, but not Camila. Again, Bisexuality is more accepted in the Music Industry than Homosexuality is. They convinced Camila, and maybe more so her mother, that if she wanted a lasting career in the music business, she had to be "straight", and mention boys every time she opens her mouth. For a girl who used to stomp her feet and curse under her breath every time she was asked about boys, we have been hearing the word "boys" come out of her mouth, at least three times in every damn interview since she went solo. It's a promo trick. They want to pound into our heads that "Mila likes boys". I recognize the trick, that's why I'm not buying it.

So, Lauren needed a prop to come out, that could be believable and take the emphasis off of Camila and Camren. Who better, than her already out Bisexual best friend. It's not the first time someone famous has used their BFF to come out, and it won't be the last.

Let's do a little timeline..................................................................................

If my memory serves me correctly, Lauren and Camila were both "separately single" in the beginning of 2015. I believe it was around June of that year, when they really started publicly pushing Laucy in our direction. Interestingly enough, that's also the same month they started to push a possible Shawmila romance at us.

They weren't confirming Shawmila, but they weren't denying it either. They just sat back and let the fans do their thing, to promote the duet. Then after a while and song success, it was decided to put an end to the Shawmila rumors and say "just friends". No worries. With the demise of Shawmila, they began ramping up Laucy. They also began ramping up the "tension" between Camila and the girls. They needed to kill Camren 1) before Lauren came out, and 2) before they announced Camila's departure.

That brings us into 2016 and the 7/27 era. Last year, Lauren couldn't turn around without bumping heads with Lucy. She was everywhere Lauren was. London in May. Brazil in June. A few different stops on the North American leg of the tour. Lauren literally couldn't sneeze, that Lucy wasn't right there to wipe her nose.

It went both ways. They had Lauren spending almost all of her free time in NOLA with Lucy as well. The very private Lauren, the same girl who can travel the world's airports without anyone knowing she's there, never failed to let it be publicly know that she was in NOLA with Lucy.

Then it was off to Europe. October was an emotional month for all of the girls. Camila was publicly separated from them, and all of the girls were an emotional mess, but they never failed to put on a good show. After a little over a month, they got to finally come home, just in time for Halloween.

I don't know about you, but if I had just spent a month away from my girlfriend, my first stop after arriving home, would have been her bed, not California for a few days to play dress-up with friends. Maybe that's just me.

November was also a very busy month. They had to cram quite a bit into Novermber, before Thanksgiving and the Jingle Ball tour. Lauren had to go to a family wedding and pose for a kiss pic with Lucy, so it could be "leaked" (released for the public to see).

A few days later, Camila is at the dentist and snaps that she has seen all the hoopla over the kiss pic, and that she regrets logging on. She then is outside and she shoots out a tweet of a pic of her and a dinosaur, with the caption, "cuffing season" then another one that said "please believe me" Then they all go to the Epic party, where I'm pretty sure Camila is the one to find out, December 18 will be her final show with the girls. I know this all happened the same day, because she was wearing the same clothes.

Then just a few days later, Lauren officially comes out, in a long ass Trump rant in Billboard Magazine. After that rant is published, we find out that Lauren and Lucy are doing some kind of photo-shoot together. On November 20, the girls go to the AMA's. We got some cute Camren moments. Lauren had to stop herself from putting her hand around Camila's neck. It was funny.

That brings us to December. The Jingle Ball tour starts and 'Back To Me" is released. Lauren, sometime, does a live chat with Marian Hill, where she sort of addresses her Bisexuality, but says nothing about the kiss pic or a relationship with Lucy. We get to the Dec. 18 Miami Jingle Ball performance. In the very early hours of Dec 19, Management shoots out a ridiculous message to the masses announcing Camila's official departure from Fifth Harmony, to pursue a solo career. Then we are blessed with that whole cluster fuck back and forth, between Management. (must have been awkward criticizing themselves)

Merry Christmas! Who wasn't expecting a Christmas pic of Laucy? We've all seen the picture. Apparently there is more than one way to view it. Laucy shippers see a nice moment with a loving couple. I don't see it that way, at all. I see Lauren's thin lipped forced smile, her glassy eyes, and her stance, and my first thought was "she'd rather be cuddling a cactus." I mean, come on. She looks like she'd rather be getting shark piss shot up her nose with a three foot needle, than posing for that pic...but I digress.

Happy New Year! Camila heads off to Cancun for some fun in the sun, and Lauren heads off to Lake Tahoe for some fun in the snow. She poses for a snowy night pic with Lucy, a bottle of Champaign, and an ugly ass piñata. She parties with some friends, does a live performance with Marian Hill, then falls off the face of the earth. I'm pretty sure I know where she went, but anyways. She reappears at LAX a few days later, takes a pic to prove she was there, then off again.

5H do their PCA performance, on January 18, just before that is  Lucy's Birthday. January 11, is the first time there is even a  hint to Laucy by Lauren. She writes out a B-day message to her, basically saying how happy she is to have Lucy in her life, and addresses her as "My Love". WTF! Oh wait. If calling Lucy "My Love" in a birthday message means she fucking her, she must have also fucked Ally somewhere along the line, because she called her the same damn thing, in a birthday message.

That brings us to the Women's March on Jan.21. Lauren and Lucy were at the same March, only they weren't together. Uh oh, trouble in Paradise? (how are people actually falling for this shit) Rumors start flying that Lauren cheated on Lucy at the PCA's. REALLY!!! Is that the best you could come up with? What, did Lauren whisper "My Love" to a stage hand and get lucky. Jesus Christ!

Then it's Camila's turn to do press. She does an interview were she is asked if she has had any contact with the girls since her departure. She says "No! I tried. It's to sad to talk about." move on. The girls also refuse to discuss her when asked. OMG! The girls hate Camila. Camila loves the girls. How can Camren be a thing, if they aren't even talking? Everything's a damn mess! ONLY IF YOU BELIEVE ALL THE BULLSHIT!!!!!

To bring it full circle, Now we are back to the hilarious happenings of the last couple of days. They released the photo's from the photo-shoot first. The Laucy shippers were on cloud nine, and completely full of themselves. I'll admit, they were some nice pics. Lauren looked fantastic. Then they released the interview, and the Laucy shippers got gut punched.

The photographer, from a 4 month old photo-shoot, does an MTV News interview about Laucy. A fucking photographer "confirms" that Lauren and Lucy were in an on again off again relationship, for years. They were a beautiful loving couple during the shoot, but wait, they aren't together anymore, but they wanted us to still share these loving memories with the world. HOW SWEET!!!

Wait, since this on again off again relationship spanned years, when was there time for Camren? Well, let's see. Lauren had that Emblem 3 guy in 2012. There was Luis from the end of 2013 to July/Aug 2014. Then there was Brad also in 2014. They didn't "break up" until December. Lucy didn't move back to the States from Puerto Rico, until the Fall of 2014, to attend classes in NOLA. That means, Lauren didn't "reconnect" with Lucy until 2015. So that means, this on/off relationship that spanned years, was in 2015/2016. How convenient. She showed up just in time to kill Camren, help push Camila's solo career, and for Lauren's coming out. Do you not get it guys???

The whole point of Laucy, was to destroy the Camren ship, so Lauren could come out, without being linked to Camila, and so Camila could go solo, without being linked to Lauren.

So in one interview, a photographer managed to confirm Laucy, kill Camren, and break-up Laucy. I'd say that photographer knew EXACTLY what to say, wouldn't you? (like reading from a well rehearsed script) just sayin.

It couldn't end there though, could it! NO! Those delusional, disgusting, crazy ass Camren shippers, just had to get some payback. They started the #laucypartyover. Really, just couldn't let it go could you?

Apparently, Lauren (or her SM handlers) were stalking that hash tag. Someone tweeted using the hash tag "no wonder Lauren hates Camren"  Couldn't let that go by without a comment, right? It was laughable really. I mean, it wasn't just never real, it was "...never real...Ever"

Why would Lauren (if it was her) go out of her way to comment on a Camren tweet in a Laucy thread. Simple, after it was confirmed that Laucy were no more, the Camren shippers got their hopes up. Not on Lauren's watch. She literally obliterated the Camren ship...again. Why is she so adamant about killing it. Two reasons. 1) to protect Camila and her solo career and 2) now, Lauren is out and proud, single ready to mingle. (not really, but for Camren's sake, lets pretend)

What about Laucy? Lauren and Lucy are and have always been BFF's. Lucy is still available to use again, if need be. You know what the best part about all of this crap is? Finally, Lauren and Camila can have their "secret" relationship in private, without all of the Camren bullshit. (yes, I still ship them)

I don't know when it will be "safe" for Camila to come out, but one day she will get to. She wanted to before, but was pressured to keep quiet. The pressure, eventually will be off, and she'll get to be her true self, not only in private, but in public. Until then, I am going to continue to support Camila, Lauren, Dinah, Normani, and Ally. They all lost control of their lives chasing their dreams. They have done nothing to deserve the hate and the division of this damn fandom. We should support every single one of them, and wish for them all to find their true bliss, despite the fucked up business they're in and the people who run it.