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arrantsnowdrop · 5 years ago

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It’s You I Want - Haldir x. Elf Reader (fluff)

Request: "The reader is maybe a child of Galadriel, and Haldir is quietly trying to pretend he isn't interested in courting them because of their status differences?"

Tags: @headless-twink

Warnings: 3,283 words (I kinda popped off), but other than that nothing

A/N: I gave the reader a brother because I thought being a single child of Galadriel and Celeborn would be lonely as heck, and I didn't wanna subject poor (y/n) to that. This was really fun to write, I do love Haldir a whole lot. Hope y'all enjoy! :D

It was midday in Lothlórien. Lady Galadriel had summoned the High Council to discuss the growing threat to border security posed by the goblins of Moria. The lesser lords and ladies of the forest and the most skilled members of the elven guard had been invited to the Chamber of Celeborn to determine how best to handle the situation.

You, being the eldest of Lady Galadriel’s children, had also been invited to attend. Though you were still quite young for an elf, you were destined to assume leadership of one of Lórien’s sectors when you were older. There was also always the possibility something could happen to either of your parents and you would take their place. Your mother saw these meetings as a way to introduce to you the responsibilities of leadership.

And that is how you found yourself stuck inside a rather dark, somber looking hall in the middle of the most sunny day Lothlórien had seen in quite some time. You almost wished you hadn’t agreed to attend, but you did recognize it was a privilege to be allowed to listen to the conversations of the High Council. You were sitting around a large wooden table in a chair next to Galadriel’s. The members of the elven guard had been sharing their experiences with the goblins thus far.

“What I am gathering,” Lord Celeborn said thoughtfully, “is that the curiosity of these orcs is growing every day.”

“Every night my patrol watches them grow closer to our borders, my Lord,” one elf added. Lord Celeborn nodded.

“We seem to have two main options, if I may detail them further,” Iachion, one of the senior marchwardens, said tentatively. Galadriel nodded for him to continue.

“Thank you, my Lady. We can either send troops out of Lothlórien to meet the orcs now, or wait until they cross our borders to attack,” he said.

“If I may, Iachion, those options seem to be on very opposite ends of the same spectrum,” you observed. “I’m sure there is some action we can take that will ensure our safety for the time being without risking so many lives.” You looked to your mother for approval on your comment, who gave you a small smile.

“I agree with (Y/n),” came a familiar voice at the opposite end of the table. There sat Haldir, head of the northern patrol. He too was a younger elf, one who had earned his place in the High Council through his much admired leadership in the elven guard.

“My patrol has discussed the actions of the orcs several times these past weeks, perhaps I could share our consensus on the situation,” he offered.

“Go on, Haldir,” your mother said.

“We believe it would be wise to increase the patrol groups in the northern and western woods, especially at night, so that the orcs do not go unmonitored,” he began.

“Yes , but monitoring the orcs will not deter them,” Iachion interrupted. You grinned as Haldir rolled his eyes slightly.

“As of now, the orcs are still quite a distance from our borders. They seem accustomed to the dark, and only travel so far from the mines that they can still return during the night,” Haldir added.

“How many nights then would it take for them to reach our borders?” Lord Celeborn asked.

“At least two, they do not travel lightly,” one elf said.

“I feel it would be unwise to take action with violent intent when the orcs do not seem keen on coming closer. As (Y/n) put it, we would be risking the lives of our own in a confrontation that might not even come to fruition otherwise,” Haldir stated.

“I agree with Haldir, mother,” you said, looking at Galadriel.

��As do I, it is always important to maintain nonviolence unless it is unavoidable,” she said thoughtfully. “The council will vote on the plan Haldir proposed, unless there is a desire for further discussion.”

You met Haldir’s gaze from across the table and offered him a small smile, brows furrowing when he looked away quickly.

“The decision carries, we will increase border patrols to monitor the orcs, but take no further action unless they grow closer,” Galadriel said, standing up to dismiss the meeting.

You got up quickly, intending to go over and compliment Haldir on his strategy, but by the time you reached the other end of the table he was nowhere to be seen.

~~~~~

By the end of the week, you found yourself practically living in the seemingly endless library of Lothlórien. Your mother has asked you and your younger brother Lodatôr to research the historical differences between the different branches of elves (“Just because you were not there to experience it does not mean it is not important to know,” your mother had said). Though you’d found the assignment rather trivial to begin with, you’d quickly become fascinated with the subject.

Your most recent read was a first-hand account by a Teleri elf who traveled to Aman, and the emotional struggle he went through after his sister abandoned the march. The work was fueled with passion and sorrow, and you understood why so many of the book’s pages were littered with tear stains.

Luckily, you had reached the end without crying too much (as your brother had poked fun at you everytime you began to tear up). You stood up from your chair to put the book back on its shelf.

“Did he make it to Aman?” Lodatôr asked from across the small table you were sharing. He too has been intrigued by the subject and was reading a book about the elves who refused to embark on the Great Journey.

“Yes, thank goodness, I was beginning to think he would turn back to try and find his sister,” you said shakily. The last few pages of the book had been quite emotional.

“Good for him,” your brother said matter-of-factly, returning his attention to the book in front of him. You chuckled softly.

Lórien’s library had been built around one of the many great trees in Caras Galadhon. The library was only slightly younger than Galadriel herself, and the further down the tree you went, the older the books got. Your particular autobiography was from the Years of the Trees, which preceded the First Age of Middle Earth. In any regard, you had a long journey down.

The particular shelf you were looking for was nearly at the bottom of the tree, which was always rather quiet - not many elves spent their free time reading about Middle Earth before the time of the Ring, especially since half of them had lived through it themselves. Others, like yourself, were not bestowed with the memory of such times. You almost laughed remembering one specific instance when Lodatôr argued with your parents over deciding to have children after the beginning of the First Age.

You turned into the area your book was from, jumping back in surprise at the sight of another elf perusing the shelves. He looked up in surprise, you grinning at the sight of the familiar blonde elf.

“Hello, Haldir, I’m sorry for startling you,” you said softly. “I wasn’t expecting to see anyone else this low in the library.”

He stared at you for a moment before nodding and looking back at the books in front of him.

You slid past him, placing the book back into its designated space. Your gaze trailed to the novel next to it, gasping with delight when you saw it had been written by the sister of the aforementioned Teleri elf.

“Are you alright, (Y/n)?” Haldir asked with mild concern. You grinned at him and nodded.

“I hadn’t realized my book had a sequel of sorts, just got a little excited is all,” you said bashfully. He nodded again and looked away. You paused, biting your lip at the awkward pause in conversation.

“It’s about one of the Teleri elves,” you finally said, feeling the need to break the silence. His gaze met yours for a third time. You looked down at the new book in your hand.

“He was making the Great Journey with his family but his sister abandoned the trail in the Misty Mountains. And this book is written by said sister,” you added.

“Sounds...interesting,” Haldir stated. He was definitely uninterested, and you felt quite embarrassed for intruding upon his free time.

You nodded curtly before rushing past him and up the stairs, cursing yourself for being so talkative. What you failed to see was Haldir watching you longingly as you left, before turning his gaze to the book you had just returned and picking it up himself.

~~~~~

By the time the next High Council meeting came to pass, you had become thoroughly confused by the blonde marchwarden.

After your encounter in the library, you had tried to provoke conversation with him several times. All had been failures in your opinion.

You’d concluded that Haldir must have been introverted, or uninterested in socializing. This made sense, of course - his thoughts were likely preoccupied with the many important tasks he was charged with and he probably didn’t want to spend time distracting himself from them.

And yet, there he was, standing across the room, freely conversing with several other elves about those trivial affairs you had thought bored him. Or that seemed to bore him whenever you tried to talk to him.

You turned to your brother, who had also been invited to this particular meeting.

“Have you ever had a conversation with Haldir?” you asked quietly.

“Hmm?” Lodatôr asked, not quite paying attention. He was always bored at these meetings, constantly zoning out in the middle of discussions.

“I said have you ever talked with Haldir, the marchwarden of the north,” you insisted.

“Oh yes, many times,” he said thoughtfully. “Just last week I caught him leaving the library and we had a pleasant conversation about the eastward expansion of the city.”

“Oh,” you said softly, stomach sinking.

“Why?” he asked curiously.

“I’m just curious, I’ve seen him at a few of these meetings and I was considering introducing myself,” you lied.

“You should! He’s quite fun to be around,” your brother noted. You nodded, watching Haldir laugh at something one of the young ladies of the court had said. You despised the feeling of jealousy that stirred within you.

You couldn’t focus the entire meeting. It was obvious Haldir didn’t like you for some reason; he was clearly a social elf and yet he avoided talking to you at all costs.

Had you done something to offend him in some way? Or said something that upset him? While you’d never been close to him, he was at nearly all the meetings you were asked to attend. Perhaps he had assumed you were entitled and spoiled, like so many of the younger elves in Lothlórien did.

“(Y/n)?”

Your head snapped up, wide eyes meeting those of your mother.

“Yes?” you asked bashfully.

“I asked, are you feeling alright? You look more pale than usual,” she said jokingly, with underlying concern. You looked around the table to see the elves of the court watching you intensely, Haldir included. You gulped, suddenly feeling quite small.

“May I be excused?”

At the nod of your mother you stood up abruptly, rushing out of the room before anyone could say anything.

You felt quite overwhelmed as you walked back up to your family’s flet, high up in the trees of Lórien. You also felt stupid, which was uncommon for any elf. You had been trying to socialize with Haldir for several weeks, and yet it had taken you this long to realize he did not enjoy your company.

You sat on your bed for several hours, watching as the sun sank below the treetops and trying to pinpoint what you had done to lose Haldir’s favor.

It was dark outside when Lodatôr walked into your room.

“How are you doing?” he asked softly, sitting down next to you. “You rushed out awfully fast.”

“I’m fine now,” you said, not completely a lie this time. You were feeling better, finally coming to terms with the fact Haldir probably hated you for whatever reason.

“Haldir wanted me to tell you to feel better soon,” he said. You glared at him sternly.

“Don’t joke with me, Lodatôr.”

“I’m not joking,” he said slowly, looking at you with furrowed eyebrows. “He came up to me after the meeting was dismissed asking if you were sick, and when I said I didn’t know he asked me to tell you to feel better.”

You were at a complete loss for words, mouth hanging slightly agape.

“(Y/n)-”

“Are you kidding me?” you said loudly, standing up from your bed and beginning to pace around the room.

“What is going on with you?” Lodatôr asked, also standing up, now extremely concerned about your mental wellbeing.

“All month I’ve been trying to talk to Haldir,” you seethed, “and I had finally concluded that he must just be socially reserved, but clearly that isn’t the case!”

“Well then, what is the case?” your brother inquired.

“I had just decided that he must despise me but now apparently he’s concerned about me, and I don’t know what that means!” you shouted, slamming your hand against the wall for emphatic effect.

“Oh my gosh,” Lodatôr grinned.

“Oh my gosh what?” you grumbled.

“I think he likes you.”

You gasped and whipped around, looking at your brother incredulously.

“That is most certainly not the case!” you retorted. His eyes widened and he began to laugh.

“Oh my gosh, I think you like him, too!” he exclaimed, doubling over laughing.

“Get out! Right now!” you roared, lunging at him as he scrambled out the door.

“Just talk to him!” he called as he sprinted down the hallway. You slammed the door shut and flopped onto your bed, groaning into your pillow.

Lodatôr was right, you definitely liked Haldir. There were plenty of elves who didn’t like you and you had never cared about them, and yet the mere possibility that Haldir might not like you was crushing.

Also, he was stunningly attractive. That was indisputable.

What Lodatôr said had confused you, though; he was rarely wrong when it came to understanding people (a gift you clearly did not possess), but was it possible Haldir liked you?

Before falling asleep you came to the conclusion that you needed to confront Haldir, because at least then you would know for sure - if he truly despised you, you could always ask your parents to send you off to Rivendell and study with Elrond for the next century or two.

~~~~~

The next morning you felt both determined and nervous, but you had already begun your trek down into the center of Caras Galadhon. You were walking quite fast, so it would look odd if you turned back now.

You knew Haldir was not scheduled to leave the city until noon, so it was just a matter of finding him.

“Excuse me,” you said, interrupting two young elves who you recognized from Haldir’s patrol, “have you seen Haldir this morning?”

“Yes, your grace,” one of them replied. “He said he was heading to the library to return a book.”

“Thank you!” you replied, bidding them both a good day before turning in the direction of the library.

The elf at the front desk had seen Haldir go down the building’s spiral steps, and thus down you went, nerves rapidly increasing every floor you passed.

You were beginning to think you might not even see him, that you were probably wasting your time, when you accidentally skipped a step and collided with another elf on the stairs.

You let out a small shriek, body crashing into a rather broad chest, their hands gripping your shoulders to catch you.

“I am so sorry,” you began to apologize, looking up into Haldir’s bright blue eyes. Your eyes widened.

“Are you hurt, (Y/n)?” he asked, his rather large hands still on your shoulders.

You were both panting slightly - the stairs of the library were not easy on the lungs.

You blinked once, twice, trying to come up with something to say, before deciding to throw caution to the wind.

“Do you dislike me?” you asked genuinely, almost cringing at how pathetic you sounded.

“Excuse me?” he asked, looking more concerned if that was possible.

“You just, you seem to be a fairly social elf, but you always avoid talking to me,” you rambled, “and it’s not like you’re obliged to like me but it’s starting to hurt my feelings-”

Haldir pulled you into one of the shelves swiftly as another elf made his way down the stairs. You gulped, looking up at him in the confined space.

“I just wanted to know if I had said or done something to make you upset, and to apologize if that’s the case,” you said softly, looking down at your shoes. “I've come to like you a lot, and I don’t want you to be upset with me.”

A pause. You felt like you might implode because of your nervous energy.

“I don’t dislike you,” he replied genuinely, tenderly brushing a strand of your hair behind your ear. You looked back up at him in surprise.

“Really?” you asked hopefully. He chuckled a bit.

“Yes, (Y/n), you’re joyful and witty and ridiculously clever, I’m rather fond of you honestly,” he admitted. Now he was the one looking at the ground.

“Haldir, are you blushing?” you teased.

“Stop it,” he grinned, looking back up at you, a light pink spreading across his cheeks.

“I’m sorry if I made you think I disliked you, that was never my intention,” he apologized, looking at you like you were the most important thing in the world. “I was afraid of growing attached, which sounds selfish now that I’m saying it out loud,” he said, making a disgusted face. You laughed lightly.

“But that doesn’t matter now because I grew attached anyways,” he said, not meeting your gaze.

"Why would that be a problem?” you asked seriously.

“Because you are the child of two of the most powerful and respected elves in Middle Earth,” he said bluntly, “and I am a member of the elven guard.”

“What’s that got to do with anything?”

“I’m not good enough for you,” he clarified, “and every time I think about you, about how much I want to court you, I realize any lord could provide you with a much better life than I ever could.”

“Haldir,” you whispered, reaching up and cupping his face softly, “It’s you I want, not some prissy member of the court.”

“Your parents-”

“My parents won’t care,” you interrupted. “They are wise, and my mother taught me to love people for who they are, not what they have.”

“(Y/n),” Haldir whispered softly.

“Yes?”

“May I kiss you?”

You smiled and nodded, eyes closing softly as Haldir leaned down, bringing his lips to yours and pulling you into him.

“You are the most beautiful and intense being I have ever met,” he mumbled against your lips. You laughed and buried your face into the crook of his neck, trying to pull him as close to you as possible.

“I read your book,” he said softly. You pulled away and looked at him quizzically.

“The one about the Teleri elf?” you inquired.

“Yes, that one,” he nodded, smiling.

“Oh my gosh, you read my book!” you squealed, beaming with excitement.

“Tonight, after my patrol ends, would you like to come over and discuss it?” he asked, gazing at you adoringly.

“I would love that, Haldir.”

#haldir x reader #haldir #lord of the rings #lothlorien #lorien #fluff #oneshot #fanfic

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ethelphantom · 5 years ago

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Always Been The Missing Piece

This is, uh, a sequel to the Maribat Secret Santa thing I wrote for @worlds-tiniest-spook-pastry because Ailelie over at Ao3 gave me a good idea in the comments for an identity reveal fic because obviously they don't know the other isn't a civilian. So. Uh. I am planning at least one more sequel after this because I was given a perfect idea for BartAdrien identity reveal on the Maribat discord server and I need to write that too. Just, don't expect it to turn as long as either of these. And seriously, you really should read this only after Like You Could Be Family, because I seriously doubt this will make much sense without, but it's not like I will be able to actually stop you so....

(Also how the hell did I get to 13k? This has got to be the longest one-shot I've ever written please help me I have a problem)

Ao3 || First part | Third part

This is Maribat -- Don’t like; don’t read.

___________

“I don’t think disowning him is even necessary to make him my brother, and it seems there’s a chance we might become family regardless of whether this Bruce adopts me or not.”

Tim stared at the words written permanently on his wrist, rubbing the skin as though to see if they would smudge and leave. They did not. He had never truly thought of even getting a soulmate when he was young.

(Well, obviously he’d thought about it, rather often too. It was just that he always thought he wasn’t going to get one — either because his parents didn’t have one and he would surely be just like them, and then later, once he became Robin and later Red Robin, he thought that even if it wasn’t going to be because of his parents, then he wouldn’t get a soulmate because he wasn’t going to make it alive to 18.)

But, as all things that had anything to do with Fate always did, it didn’t go as he thought. After all, Fate was never quite so simple.

As it turned out, he made it to 18 and got a soulmark.

There was someone in the world Fate thought was the perfect match for him.

Then he for the longest time believed he would meet them while he was in the vigilante business because if his soulmate was a civilian, what would he even do? There was always a high chance of death because of what he did on a nightly basis, and it was certain he would have to disappear on multiple nights and occasions just to be Red Robin — no way he was going to give that up. That meant, that if he had a civilian romantic soulmate, they might accuse him of cheating, and then his life could be ruined because he was the damn CEO of Waye Enterprises and thus in the public eye all of the time. The words written on his wristed also sounded both like they could be romantic or platonic soulmates, since usually soulmates considered one another family of some sorts automatically — it didn’t necessarily mean his soulmate was speaking about one of his brothers becoming their brother-in-law. They all knew there was a chance Bruce would adopt his soulmate one day (no matter what they said about that being unnecessary.)

Then he actually met his soulmate.

He met Marinette Dupain-Cheng.

A sweet young woman almost his age, perhaps around a year younger than him (turns out he was right when she told him of herself later before he managed to go and search her up), with black hair the shade of midnight sky, her eyes blue as Morning Glories. She was kind, thoughtful, great at baking (she could so some pastries better than Alfred could, and that said a lot about her skills), and she shared Tim’s love of coffee (Dick had been horrified when he found her pouring energy drinks into extra strong black coffee after the first night she spent at the manor).

She was also MDC, Tim’s all-time favourite designer, and it was suddenly much easier to commission her when she could just show him the designs in person and talk about them — why she wanted this thing here and that thing somewhere else. Tim was also much more eager to pay her a whole lot more than what she ever asked for, even if that was partly because Marinette was trying her hardest to lower her prices for him.

Yeah no, that didn’t work with him at all — she was fantastic at what she did and he’d be damned if he let her do the work underpaid.

She never pushed his boundaries too far, only enough to have him open up a little, but because she never made him feel uncomfortable or like she was trying to use him, it was fine; He was horrible at opening up himself and wouldn’t have done it without her. It was clear she knew what was alright and what was not — most of the time anyway. And even when she did push his boundaries too far, it was because she tried to show her appreciation to him or got too excited, and when he or someone else pointed it out to her (because she was bad at noticing it herself), she immediately stopped doing the thing and apologised over and over because she never meant to violate his boundaries.

And then she made sure to never overstep it again unless he gave her the explicit permission to do so.

That told him more about her than many other things did or even could.

She was also intelligent, sassy and sarcastic when she wanted to be, had a strong sense of justice and he knew for a fact she knew how to fight and well. She’d mentioned having done martial arts for quite some time and because she made a complaint about having nearly no opponents on her level, Jason asked her if she wanted to try and spar with him. She agreed and won two out of three matches, and though there was a chance he was just holding back (unlikely, considering how much Jason had talked about it on patrol that night), Damian had challenged her after that and they came to a tie. Twice. Damian then won the last round, probably when he finally stopped underestimating her and holding back. There was no way she wasn’t good.

Marinette always tried to help people in need if she could and wouldn’t take no for an answer when she decided that a person beaten to a bloody pulp was in no condition to walk home, especially not alone. If she had to pay for the taxi to get them home, well, she did, never expecting anyone to pay back.

She was absolutely perfect, if you asked Tim.

The problem was, she was a civilian regardless of how well she fought or how intelligent she was. He could never risk her safety by being in a close relationship with her in case someone found out his identity and decided to use her against him. Wouldn’t be the first time that happened in vigilante business. It had given him enough of a heart attack to be with her while in civvies and get caught by the Riddler because of course he had to be there and there was nothing Tim could do to help her himself — the small and young CEO was not supposed to be able to punch a guy’s teeth in.

And then she’d gone and insulted his fashion taste. Tim agreed, definitely, that green and purple three-piece suit was atrocious, but it was a horrible idea if you were a civilian because the Riddler was extremely sensitive about his fashion choices and a villain and he had hardly any rules as to what he did and to whom, unlike some of the Rogues. Marinette didn’t even have any protective gear against him.

So yeah.

An almost-heart attack.

Turns out, she solved all of his riddles rather quickly, some of them with Tim once the Riddler noticed him, and in the end they all got out safely and unharmed.

At least half of the credit of that definitely went to Marinette.

The best course of action would either be to tell her, or cut ties with her, make her hate him or anything that got her out of the danger zone that came with being in a close relationship with him.

The second option was definitely not what he wanted.

And that was what led him to here, sitting at the table in the apartment he used (especially) when he needed an escape from his dear but way too invasive family with Kon and Bart.

“It’s just, I don’t know what to do! I like her, I really do, but I can hardly pursue a relationship with a civilian. I might endanger her life! We’ve seen that happen with enough many of us. Someone figures out our identity, kidnaps a loved one and puts them at risk. Or sees us too close to a civilian while in the suit and decides they’ll put the loved one at risk anyway. I can’t risk my soulmate’s life for something like that, she doesn’t deserve it,” Tim exclaimed, groaning as his head hit the table. Thank heavens Bart had pulled the plate from under him just in time before his forehead would have ended up in his food.

(Though it was likely he was going to lose half of his food to Bart as well, it was likely he was going to eat Tim’s food while Tim wasn’t there to protect it. Asshole friends and all that.)

Sure, Kon and Bart would have probably had fun watching him ruin his looks (and hair, especially his hair) because of the tomato sauce and spaghetti he somehow had not managed to burn, but maybe they were pitying him enough for his soulmate problems to not just let it happen for this one time. That, and he’d gotten injured in their latest fight and he would not honestly be surprised if they blamed themselves for it at least a little — that was what Tim kept doing if any of his teammates got injured when he was there and even theoretically could have helped.

“Tell her?” Bart suggested, shrugging as he filled his mouth with the spaghetti. From Tim’s plate. Oh well. Telling him to stop would probably not really help and it’s not like Tim couldn’t just steal Kon’s food later. Bart continued speaking as soon as his mouth was empty. “I don’t see why not. If she’s as amazing as you make her out to be, I can’t see a reason why you shouldn’t tell her. I’m gonna tell Adrien, by the way.”

“Do you have any idea when you’re going to do it?”

“Nope, but not yet ‘cause I don’t think it’s fair or appropriate since Paris just declared their heroes dead ‘cause they haven’t made any appearances — but that’s not to say they don’t know where the bodies are, perhaps they’re just protecting them? — in quite the while, but I will soon enough. Wouldn’t be fair to him to keep it a secret, right?” he chuckled and chewed on his (Tim’s) food.

Oh yeah. Paris’ heroes, the ones that were apparently dead. The heroes they had thought didn’t actually exist and were just a make-believe story to entertain people until Paris held a public memorial for them because they were nowhere to be found and told the people they just hadn’t found their corpses, but maybe that was just to protect their identities. The reminder they hadn’t helped them with their villain felt like a punch in the gut to Tim now, even if he hadn’t been the one to make the decision to not help.

He shook the thoughts away. This was not the time for blaming himself or anyone else for it, he could very well do that later.

“Kon?”

“I agree with Bart. If you think she’s good for you, I think it’s better if you just told her. It’s not like you would want to just cut ties with her to protect her and hurt the both of you at the process. It would definitely be like you, but I know you don’t want to do that to the one person meant for you.”

Tim sighed and stole his plate back. It was significantly emptier than it had been two minutes ago. Damn Bart. As a last-ditch effort, he stole Kon’s plate and scooped some of his food to his own plate, ignoring the rather offended look on Kon’s face. His fault, he hadn’t protected Tim’s food from Bart. Besides, Tim needed to eat something proper, after all. It might have been a little too long since the last time he ate more than an energy bar… so probably around three days since.

No wonder he was the smallest of them.

Munching on his food, he sunk back into his thoughts while Bart and Kon chatted animatedly, the few words he picked up indicating the conversation was about soulmates and Adrien in particular.

It had been a few weeks since he and Bart met their soulmates, but both of them were definitely interested in them — likely romantically, but only time would tell for sure. Marinette was amazing and sweet and Adrien must have been the only one as much of a sunshine child as Bart was, though according to Marinette, he could be a little shit when he felt like it. Then Bart and Kon had overheard Marinette discussing Adrien’s father with someone and turns out, Bart was ready to run to Paris and kick the man’s ass himself, regardless of whether he was in prison for being a supervillain and terrorising the city for years or not. Not that Tim would have stopped him. After all, Stephanie too had decided to ruin his father’s plans when it turned out he’d become a villain.

...That was something Adrien could probably bond over with Stephanie at some point. Maybe they’d found the “my dad’s a supervillain and I had nothing to do with it” club.

(“The list of bad dads just grows and grows,” Tim swore he’d heard Bart say afterwards with a suspicious grin on his face. Tim wouldn’t disagree with him though, he could name quite the number of them himself as well, one of them being his very own father.)

Then Marinette had heard Bart declare war on Gabriel Agreste and immediately told him she was joining — according to her, he didn’t have a choice in the matter because she really wanted to kick his ass again.

(Again? When had she managed to do it in the first place?)

So yeah. Having a civilian soulmate was difficult.

Then again… What if he made her a vigilante? She did possess all of the necessary qualities and even more to become a good vigilante that he could think of. Perhaps he should ask her if she’d like to do that. After all, she was now family, both Bruce and Dick had declared so (rather clearly and Dick loudly), accompanied by Alfred’s nods, Jason’s approving humming (and the way he started treating her better than he did most of the family), Cass’ silent approval visible in her smile as she looked at Marinette, and a little reluctant Damian as well.

It wouldn’t matter she didn’t have any superpowers like some people did — none of the family did, and they were all great at what they did, even if Gotham was nearly impossible to save at this point anymore. She was already good at martial arts, knew how to take care of herself (if it didn’t mean her inability to eat when she was supposed to or her reluctance to go to sleep (nightmares, perhaps?), but she knew how to defend herself and others.) She would make a good vigilante, especially with some special and personalised training. Now he only needed it approved by the rest of the family because she could and would put two and two together and realise all of them were involved with the vigilante business if he came clean to her as one.

Actually, that sounded like a good idea.

Then his phone chimed on the coffee table in the living room and he all but ran there, injuries be damned.

“Hey, careful there, you wouldn’t want us to tell Alfred you need new stitches,” Kon called after him before turning to Bart. “How much do you want to bet that was Marinette messaging him right there?”

“Nope, not betting anything when we both know full well it was Mari. There’s no one else he’d practically dive out of the table for and leave his food unguarded with us. Speaking of...”

“Bart! Do not even think about eating my food while I’m gone! It better be still there untouched when I come back, or so help me god I will kick your ass back to the next millennium!”

Bart just snickered.

God, why was he even friends with Bart?

Oh yeah, because he didn’t know how to live on without him (or Kon) anymore anyway.

⬷۵⤐

Marinette paced around her room in the Manor, panic clearly showing on her face. Adrien sat on the bed placed near the wall, leaning to it, seemingly unconcerned. He was mostly waiting for Marinette to calm down enough to stay still and just listen for a second in between her freak outs.

Thank kwamii for the fact they had gotten Wayzz to secure the room and create a shell in which they could talk without needing to worry whether someone heard them or not. No one would. They were safe.

...They also wouldn’t disturb anyone with it since it was way past midnight already.

“But this ruins everything!” Marinette exclaimed, finally standing in one place long enough for Adrien to decide paying attention to her would be worth it. Or, could be worth it.

Adrien rested his chin on his palm, tilting his head. “Now, Buginette, I love you and all, but this is getting ridiculous, utterly ridiculous (“Don’t you dare sound like Chloé right now, Adrien!”) Are you sure you need to panic about all this? As far as I see it, you could just, I don’t know, tell him. Gabriel isn’t a threat anymore, and even if he was, we aren’t in Paris,” he said, and plopped down on the bed, propping one leg on his knee. Plagg seated himself on Adrien’s head, ready to take a nap, while Tikki had nestled on Marinette’s shoulder. It was amazing how she was so used to Marinette freaking out that she could just stay calm on even a pacing Marinette.

“I know I could tell him because Gabriel is behind bars, and I should tell Tim because otherwise it won’t be fair to him and I like him, probably romantically soon, and I can’t let myself pursue a romantic relationship with anyone that doesn’t know because it’s too much to keep a secret, but I have no idea how to! What if I scare him off because right now it looks like the both of us are staying here in Gotham — or at least the States — and knowing the two of us, we won’t be able to just quit hero work either! Speaking of which, we have to design ourselves new suits because Paris just declared us dead like a week ago. Not Marinette and Adrien, obviously, but Chat Noir and Ladybug. Understandable, we just disappeared after the fight with Papillon and there’s no way anyone would believe him if he said he didn’t hurt us so why would they believe he didn’t also kill us and—”

“Nette, please, try to breathe and calm down. It’s not that serious of a situation,” Adrien tried but Marinette had resumed pacing around and it was clear as day she was freaking out. It was also clear she wasn’t listening to a word he said anymore, and barely even paid attention to the fact she wasn’t, in fact, alone in the room in general. He sighed and stood up, grabbing his best friend by the shoulders. Plagg shrieked before he shut his mouth because of his holder’s sudden movement.

Now that had her stop and concentrate her attention on him again.

“I know it’s difficult for you to reveal your identity to anyone, including me even long after I realised my behaviour was a big no-no and apologised to you, and that’s fine. It just means you’re being responsible. But. This is your soulmate we’re talking about. There are so many reasons why you should tell him and you know that if you don’t, whatever relationship you might end up in with Tim might go horribly wrong if all the while you’re keeping a secret such as this from him.” Adrien took a deep breath and looked Marinette directly in the eyes. “I am well aware you like him like, a lot, so there’s no way you’d want to risk losing him in either way — by putting him in danger or by having him tell he can’t take you disappearing on him all the time anymore.”

Damnit. Adrien was right. Marinette hated it when Adrien was right. Mostly, because usually when Adrien was right and even she had to admit it because it was so obvious, it meant that the kwamii also agreed with him. And well. When Tikki, the literal miniature goddess of creation, said something should be done, her word was final. She had no way out of this, now did she?

“Nope!” said Tikki from next to her ear.

Oh. She’d said that out loud. For crying out loud.

But yeah, she truly did like Tim, a lot. He was smart, could banter with her rather easily without ever making her uncomfortable by doing so, was never put off by sarcasm (which was, unfortunately, quite rare nowadays and that meant she found it rather refreshing), and he was kind. Also, he had a huge sweet-tooth and mostly a good taste which meant she could freely bake a lot and Tim would likely enjoy any and all of it. She could use him to test new recipes, too.

She also liked his appearance — a lot. His looks were definitely nothing to scoff at. His hair was black and silky, and his eyes were so enchantingly blue (as were many of his brothers’ and Conner’s, if she was being honest, but his were her favourites) and she couldn't help but just drown in them. He genuinely liked her designs (he says he loves them, her mind not so helpfully reminded her, because that made it even better and even harder to let go of him if the need be), he wasn’t pretending to do so because they were soulmates. Tim also had such great ideas for new clothing sometimes — he had been a massive help with the design for her latest dress that she was planning on making for the up-coming Wayne Gala where he (and the rest of the family) had invited her.

Yeah, and Tim knew how to paint nails a little too well. Marinette was certainly going to use that little fact to her advantage and have him do her nails at some point.

Marinette also truly enjoyed spending time with his family and him. All of them respected her at least on some level (gave her the basic respect Jagged had taught everyone was supposed to give her automatically unless she actually did something to warrant them to lose said respect) and didn't try to have her bake or design clothes for them or have her do their chores they were supposed to do because they wanted a little more time to themselves — especially not for free. Never for free. And, even if they did ask her to do something for them (usually it was Jay or Dick doing so), they never failed to remind her she could say no and that depending on what they asked her to do they’d compensate it to her as soon as possible in whatever form she wanted — whether that be money or new fabric or favours or them helping her the next time she baked something.

They didn’t take her for granted, and that was freeing.

She was genuinely happy to spend time with them. Their presence, especially Tim’s, was comforting to her, with him it was safe for her to just be herself.

Yeah, she was too far gone for one Timothy Jackson Drake-Wayne and definitely did not want to lose him. She could only hope she was someone Tim could be himself with as well.

Honestly, her biggest problem with all and any of this was that Tim was a civilian and in case someone found out he was close to her, it would be no good for him to know. If the threat was magical, there was no way he could fight it off even if he was anything like his brothers when it came to fighting (she just didn’t know, but she did suspect he was). She herself could get out of problematic situations rather easily, but there was no telling just how bad situation could get until Tim would no longer have any way to get away. She figured he had to have at least some kind of basic training because so many in his family seemed to know martial arts, he lived in Gotham and was a CEO, but she had no idea to what extent he could protect himself.

And indeed, because the miraculous considered her an adult now and she no longer had a time limit after she used her special ability (whatever it was depending on the miraculous), it meant there was no way she would even consider stopping. Of course, she still tried not to push too far after she did use that ability as to not exhaust the kwami she was using too much and she’d made it her point to wear multiple miraculouses at once at all times so even if she had to detransform to let one kwami rest, she wouldn’t need to stop fighting right away or wait until they recharged.

In a city like Gotham where she could be needed, this all meant she could not stop being a hero. (Though, she knew that Batman wasn’t known for being too fond of magic users, or metas, whatever it was they called them, so she would need to have him somehow accept her presence or prepare to fight him and perhaps also all of his team that seemed to actually be his family — especially Robin seemed to still be a little child, younger than her when she received her miraculous.) Not since they had seemed to decide they were going nowhere from there, most of all not Paris.

They were never going to return, they really didn’t want to do so, what with the entire city being full of traumatic memories to them. Maybe they’d visit Kagami and Luka and her parents, maybe his aunt and cousin, but otherwise, no. Besides, their soulmates were both here, they had hardly any people they had good relationships with in Paris anymore because they’d both eventually stood up to their class, Gabriel was in prison — which, in turn, meant that the majority of Paris blamed Papillon’s actions on Adrien at least on some level. It didn’t matter to them that he had said that no, he had nothing to do with his father’s actions, and that his father actually abused him and he was glad to be finally free from him.

It wasn’t like they didn’t have a list of excuses to stay.

(Marinette wasn’t going to admit it any time soon, but she had an actual list of the excuses to stay written down in case someone asked her and her brain wouldn’t agree on cooperating at that time. It was also partly in case she ended up mentioning there were many, many, many reasons for them to stay and someone asked for a list; This way she could literally provide them with one. It was both on multiple papers and notebooks and on her phone — after all, back-up copies were very useful.)

Yet another reason as to why she should tell Tim — even though her Miraculous Cure healed and restored almost anything, it had mostly stopped working on her as it drew its energy from both her and Tikki, and now she was full of scars. Sure, it mostly healed the biggest injuries so she was rarely limping or bleeding long, and they never became devastating, but well. It still wasn’t any good that she had to keep covering some of the scars behind layers of makeup or hide them under clothing. Thank kwami Adrien had yet to report the same was happening to him.

There was no way Tim wouldn’t discover the scars’ existence at some point, regardless of whether their soulbond was romantic or platonic (although she certainly hoped it was romantic), so it would be far better to just come clean about it before he eventually found out about them on his own anyway.

So yeah.

She also had a long list of very good reasons to tell Tim.

The problem here was, she had no idea how.

She could hardly just walk up to him and blurt out she was Ladybug when it had just been announced that Ladybug (and Chat Noir at that, but it was up to Adrien to decide whether he wanted to tell his identity to anyone aside from Bart — he likely wanted to tell him) were dead, she would have to come up with a better plan to that. A lot better plan.

But perhaps… perhaps if she presented him with a miraculous and asked him to fight alongside her and Adrien… Maybe Bart could be there as well if Adrien considered it a good idea?

“Hey, Adrien, what do you think? Would Tim be a good miraculous user? And how about Bart?” she asked. Fiddling with the mouse necklace she was wearing, Marinette turned to look at Adrien who had, at some point, left from her side. Mullo was sleeping somewhere inside her hood. “They both seem like people that would like to help others if they could — I mean, Tim already tries as a CEO and I simply don’t know Bart that well yet — but I don’t know. I want to hear your opinion on this as well because even if I am now the guardian and could technically just do whatever the hell I wanted, you’re still my partner in crime… fighting, and since some of my previous choices weren’t too good…”

Yeah, she did mean Alya and Nino. Also others, but those she’d trusted the most, so…

“Are you seriously asking me if I’d like to have both our soulmates by our side if— no, when we are fighting possibly magic-based crime in Gotham or elsewhere in the States?” he asked, crossing his arms over his chest. She nodded slowly. Adrien arched an eyebrow as he looked at her like she had made the stupidest question he had ever heard in his life before. “Duh, obviously, of course I want them there. Bart would be good. He’s so fast already — no, seriously, I swear, he’s quicker at doing things than Plagg is at eating camembert —, he’s a quick thinker and okay, he’s a little impulsive, but most of the time his ideas haven’t been that horrible, so a miraculous could probably enhance all of it in a good way.”

“And Tim’s got a good sense of justice and he’s one of the smartest people I’ve met. He’d be great at any strategic positions and— you know, I think he could work either the snake or the dragon miraculous really well.”

Adrien nodded enthusiastically. “Now you’re talking my language. Mayhaps the fox miraculous would be good for Bart, he’d get to be creative and I’m sure if he got up to any mischief, Trixx would only be more than happy to help. Or maybe the horse— actually, no, forget about that, I don’t think that’s a good idea because he might get the idea to send us all to anywhere in the world because it seemed like a good idea to him for all of two seconds and that’s the one thing that would make everything really problematic.” Adrien sunk into his thought for a moment, tapping his nose with his finger absent-mindedly as he tried to think of something else. Then his eyes brightened as he came up with an idea.

“Oh, the turtle! He’s quick so it wouldn’t take him long to protect those in need of it, and maybe in some moments when he’s too impulsive, Wayzz could be there as a voice of reason and common sense in his head. I don’t actually mind his impulsiveness at all but sometimes all of us could use a Wayzz to help us slow down a little.”

Wayzz himself looked torn between agreeing, and strongly disagreeing and escaping before Adrien could convince Marinette to give him to Bart.

“I’m seriously considering this now. I have no idea how to give them one, though. It isn’t as simple as it would have been in Papillon’s Paris — we don’t have a Miraculous threat here and no one knows us. I mean, they’ve probably heard of the deceased Ladybug and Chat Noir, but not the ones we’re going to become. We can hardly just swing up to them and be like “hey have you ever wanted to be a hero? Well, here’s a miraculous that will transform you into a magical superhero with the help of jewellery and a god like in some anime—” God damn it Adrien, now I consider transforming into LB the same kind of thing as your anime’s girls with objects to make them magically transform.”

“They’re magical girls, actually. And well, I have to say, we kind of are magical girls, you know. Magical transformation, magic, magic provided superpowers, magical healing, double lives, way too obvious costumes for anyone to not figure out our identity yet none of them do it anyway… Oh, and we have specific words to transform us along with magical accessories or jewellery and we have a literal transformation choreography! Clearly magical girls!”

“Magical girls, then, whatever. Never compare us to them again.”

Adrien just snickered.

“Ugh, shut up, will you?”

“Of course. But yeah, you’re right, we can’t just appear behind their windows and give them a miraculous. That would be just stupid and irresponsible, now wouldn’t it?”

“Why do you sound so sarcastic?”

“That might be because I kind of am.”

“Go away.”

She had no idea how she could still stand Adrien. Why was he her best friend again?

Oh yeah.

Because he was the one who had stood right there by her side through thick and thin.

That’s why.

⬷۵⤐

“So. Let me get this straight—”

“In this family?”

“Shut up, Jaybird. So, what you’re saying is, you want to reveal us all to your girlfriend because you don’t want to keep secrets this big from her?”

Tim sighed and ran a hand down his face, exasperated. Hadn’t he just explained this? “No, Dick, first of all, she’s not my girlfriend — at least yet. What I’m asking is if it’s okay to everyone I tell her I’m Red Robin and get her to start training so she can become a vigilante as well. She’d be good at it. I don’t want to keep my identity from her in case we do start dating because then what if she thinks I’m cheating on her or up to some other not-good stuff when I keep sneaking out in the middle of the night and can’t even tell her what for.”

“And why do you want her to be a vigilante? You know it’s dangerous.”

“Then why is any of us doing it? It would anyway be her choice. Besides, if she was fighting beside me, she wouldn’t even need to worry about me that much because she could technically probably see me and not have to stay at home, you know? I know I can see there’s something in her that reminds me a lot of most of us, the need to fight for justice and for those in need of help because no one else does either. I can see the crave to fight in her.”

Dick sighed and tilted his head, his expression hard as steel. “You really thought this through, didn’t you?”

“Obviously. And as to why I’m asking you is because she’s actually smart and would definitely put two and two together when I tell her I’m Red Robin; The likeliness of Robin, Red Robin, Batman, Nightwing, Batgirl, Red Hood — yes, Jason, you too, have you seen the giant red bat on your chest you insist on wearing even though you claim to detest us half the time because we all can see it —, Black Bat, the Signal and the rest of us being close with each other, if not family, is quite high. Basically, she would most likely connect you all to the vigilantes running around.”

Bruce crossed his arms over his chest and shot him the Batdad-Look™, and if he hadn’t been so determined to get them to agree, it would have probably made him a… little too nervous to keep on talking. Alas, it wasn’t going to make him stop because he really, really wanted Marinette to fight beside him and if it meant he needed to bear with Bruce’s Batdad-Looks™, then so be it. He was not about to go down without first putting up a fight.

Tim couldn’t even explain how grateful he was for the fact Bruce stayed quiet despite the expression on his face. It helped his situation a little.

Instead, it did not help that he could feel Cass’ eyes on his back. She was sitting on the ground a small distance away from them, probably reading all of them like they were open books. He decided to ignore it for now — there was really nothing else he could do.

“And you know she’s a good fighter — you saw her spar with Jason! You saw how she fought against Damian who actually, officially challenged her, like she were equal. He doesn’t do that too often. We all also know neither of them wasn’t holding back too much on second matched anymore, if at all in the in the third one. She only lost once they stopped holding back and even then she put up a good fight — the matches weren’t over in minutes. Like, we’ve all gotten training from at least the Bat himself, likely from many others too. She has not. That makes it an impressive feat. With training, she could probably be one of the best of us!”

Steph lifted her hands above her head as to surrender and to draw attention to herself. “Alright, I’m cool with it. Timmy’s passionate about his cause and also I like Mari. It could be fun to have her in the team.”

Thank goodness, at least someone was on his side.

Dick’s phone chimes and he looks at the message, groaning when he reads it. “Babs told me to tell you all that she also says yes, that she trusts Marinette with all of this if others are fine with it as well,” he says slowly, before he puts his phone away. It’s strange seeing him not cheerful, but Tim can’t afford to care about it too much now .

Another voice spoke up softly. “I think… Marinette makes a good fighter,” Cass said from her spot, resting her body weight on her arms with the flats of her palms on the ground. She seemed thoughtful. Her words carried a meaning all of them understood, even if she didn’t say it out loud — she liked her too and wanted her in, but that she too would like Marinette to get some training first before letting her out.

Just in case.

They knew she wanted to lose people just as much as the rest of them — which meant, she didn't want to lose any more people she cared about.

Then, a sigh. “Yeah, gotta agree. Could be nice to have her on our side, she’s fun. And Timber’s right, she does seem like she’s achin’ to go fight a bitch. It’d be better if we made sure she’s got the necessary skills and stuff, and I’d rather not have to fight her because one of us considers her an enemy or because she thinks that of us. Girl’s got some mad skills. Also, B, if you think about it for a second longer, I’m sure you’d realise that if there’s a chance she is going out anyway, I’m sure you’d prefer she followed your rules, too, right?”

Tim… wasn’t sure when the last time he’d been grateful for Jason’s input had last occurred, but he was certainly ready to let Jason do whatever the hell he wanted with criminals during their next patrol together, that’s how grateful he was. Yes, even if it meant Jason shooting them in the fucking kneecaps.

“Yes, but she’s still—”

“She’s what, Grayson? She put up a respectable fight even thought she’s still clearly inferior to me, but I do not doubt she could do the same in the field. Her skills most certainly require improvement and bettering, and she needs to fine her techniques if she wants to hold her own out there without getting killed, but I’m certain she’s more than capable of getting to Todd’s level with guidance.”

Okay, wow. Damian was defending Marinette. He definitely needed to tell this to her — he was sure she’s appreciate hearing the little demon of the family respected her enough to speak up against Dick and his father, the only ones of them he’d ever openly admitted held his respect, even if he didn’t necessarily word it as “I respect you” or “you have my respect.” It seemed Marinette got the honor of being the third one, and she had been family for all of some weeks. She’d even gotten him to use the word “respectable” when talking about her.

She got him admitting to all of them, all of them, that he thought she was good and worth his respect. Now that was something.

So, Tim also appreciated him speaking up. This tiny (alright so he may not have been that tiny anymore and there’s a chance Damian was now taller than Tim, but who cared, he would always be tiny to Tim) teenager was still the only biological child of Bruce and also one of the hardest of them to impress, so if he said something of this sort about anyone (the last time it was something about Jon but Tim hadn’t cared enough to remember what it actually was about anymore), everyone would at least listen to him before simply jumping to decisions.

So yeah. If there ever was a time Tim wanted nothing more than to take his little brother out and let him find a few new animals to keep as pets, even if they weren’t good as pets, it was now. It certainly was now.

“I’m siding with Tim here — don’t give me that look, Dick, the ones already sided with him are scarier and more dangerous than you and Bruce together, so even if I didn’t agree, his side would be the wiser choice—”, Duke starts, shrugging, though there was a clear smile on his face. “But like, Marinette’s nice, like actually nice, and if she’s going to become family anyway, I don’t see why we couldn’t have her in this as well. Tim has a good point — several good points, actually, so the logic is also on his side.”

Yeah, Tim certainly couldn’t hide his smile any longer. Only Dick and Bruce were yet to say yes. Maybe he could actually do this.

Of course, he was not going to go through with any of this if all of them didn’t agree. He could risk his own identity to his soulmate, but there was no way he was going to force anyone else to do so for anyone, least of all for someone that wasn’t literally linked to them by their very soul. He would never compromise all of them for one person.

“Okay, fine. It seems everyone else is saying yes, so I guess I’m outvoted here. I just want every one of you to stay safe, you know? I don’t want this to end up being the reason any of you gets hurt.”

Yes, Tim knew that. Regardless of how annoying Dick managed to get a lot of the time, or how frustratingly stubborn he always was, or how his attitude was irritatingly similar to Bruce’s even when their personalities weren’t even remotely similar most of the time (that one was probably causation of Bruce taking care of Dick for like a decade), there was never any doubt his love or concern for any of them wasn’t genuine. That much was more than obvious.

He managed to give Dick a small smile, hoping it would convey he was grateful he finally said yes.

Now there was only one left to convince.

The most difficult of them (if you didn’t count Damian in, anyway) to convert.

Bruce was stubborn as hell when he wanted to, but seeing as he was stubborn even if he wasn’t trying to be, this could either be easy or the most difficult thing Tim had ever done. It had taken him a while to convince Bruce to make him Robin, but back then all he was trying was to have him take himself in and train him; Back then Tim wasn’t planning on telling his identity to someone who didn’t know yet, someone who could figure out the rest of them as well, and then have her trained to become one of them. Tim knew it, it was a lot to ask, but he wanted to do it anyway. It was important to him, alright?

Tim turned to look at Bruce. “Well? How is it?” He placed his hands on his hips and tilted his head, waiting for an answer. Any answer, really.

“I don’t think it’s a good idea, Tim. What if something happens to her? Or what if something happens to you? Or any of your siblings?”

“But what if something happens to her because I didn’t tell her? And besides, something could happen to any of us at any given time, given what we all do on nightly basis. We could have also just not done it, but we are doing it anyway and like hell is any of us going to just quit. Out world is full of what-ifs, we cannot help them, and I’ll be damned if I let them make me lose the one person actually made for me, the one person that I was tailored to.”

“With all due respect, Master Bruce, I must say, you have told your identity — even if only subtly hinted at it with a very specific set of words so that it’s enough for them to make the connection — so many times that I think you can hardly be against this. None of them were even your soulmate. Need I remind you of who everyone knew or found out without ever even becoming one of us? At least Master Tim is planning on bringing her in on all of this and planning to have her properly trained,” Alfred said, appearing in the doorway behind Bruce.

So sure, Cass and Damian knew exactly how to seemingly just appear and reappear without anyone noticing as though they could teleport, sure, Commissioner Gordon always complained about Batman doing it, and sure, the rest of them knew how to blend in with the shadows (they just didn’t always do it), but Alfred also seemed to possess this skill — better than most of them, anyway. Tim had absolutely no idea how, but he wasn’t about to complain.

Besides, it was Alfred, so it wasn’t surprising. Honestly, was there anything the man couldn’t do?

But the thing is, Alfred was also right. He had let Rachel Dawes find out. He let commissioner Gordon find out. Mr. Fox knew because Bruce had asked for help and equipment he then used as Batman while he was being Bruce Wayne — now that right there had never even seen subtle hinting. A whole lot of other people knew as well, though many had found out on their own — such as Tim, while some found out because of other, not so lovely circumstances, like Selina.

So, all in all, Bruce was the worst of them to say anything about it. True, he was mostly protective of them, always thinking up the worst-case scenarios about everything, something Tim himself did as well because that was the easiest way to make sure they were prepared for absolutely anything and everything, but Tim trusted Marinette. He wanted to trust her, just like Bruce had trusted some people. And in any case, he’d rather trust than live his life in suspicion of most people, like some people he knew did. Like Bruce.

Bruce opened his mouth to say something, but as nothing came out, he just closed it again. A defeated sigh slipped past his lips and he let go of the tensity in his shoulders, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Fine, I can see when I’ve lost. I want to meet her soon after you tell her, maybe right away after it, though, regardless of whether she makes the connection or not. I would prefer if all of you were here then,” he said, motioning at all of them before he placed his hand on Tim’s shoulder. “And that you—” he cast a pointed look at Tim, “—tell us when you are going to do it. I trust that you understand what you’re doing. I do not want to find out Ms. Dupain-Cheng is a danger to any of you, but especially you.”

“Of course. I take full responsibility of her and her training—”

“No you won’t. I’ll do that, although I do expect you to be there for her and to be a major help. I’m still your father and I don’t care if you’re already 19, because I’m not letting my children be that much of adults just yet.”

“Hey!”

Bruce just smiled (a tense smile, one that was half-forced on his face) and left all of them (except Cass whom Tim couldn’t see anywhere anymore) behind, gaping.

“Did he just—”

“Oh my god he totally did!”

“Please tell me someone recorded B calling himself a father and calling us his children.”

Tim had a vague suspicion that Cass had indeed recorded it, was going to send it to all of them, and then, depending on the reactions to it, would send a voice message of her laughing to their group chat.

Well, that definitely went better than he thought.

⬷۵⤐

“You know, I’m glad I have you as my soulmate,” Marinette began around a week later as they were sitting in the living room of the Wayne Manor. She snuggled closer to him and Tim wrapped an arm around her, comfortable and relaxed for the first time in a few days. “I’ve known you for not that long, but I already know I don’t want to lose you.”

She reached for his hand and took it in her own. Tim squeezed her hand back.

“Me neither.” Tim saw this as an opening — after all, most, if not all, of his reasons to tell Marinette who he was and all his plans about how exactly he should do it were born from the idea that he didn’t want to lose her. And so, he stood up, still holding her hand, and pressed a light kiss on it. “I need to show you something important. Will you follow me?”

A soft laughed escaped from Marinette as she replied, smiling, “Always, to the ends of the world.”

Marinette let herself be pulled up to her feet and led through the endless dark hallways of the manor. He quickly shot a message (“I’m prepared to do it, I’m taking her down now. Be there in five”) to the group chat before putting his phone away. When it vibrates in his pocket, he first looked at Marinette as though to make sure it was fine with her if he checked and possibly answered — after all, he knew it wasn’t too urgent or they would have called, and as far as Marinette was aware, this was supposed to be their time together to get to know each other better and all, not time for either of them to spend talking to other people via phone —, the corners of his lips turning upwards at her when she nodded with a smile on her face.

It seemed smiles liked to creep up on his face a lot more now that Marinette was around.

The message was from Jason, and Tim rolled his eyes fondly at it.

I thought you were supposed to tell her instead of fighting her, babybird.

shut up jason

You know pwefectly well what taking her down means int his case

Oh yes, I most definitely do.

It’s just so much fun reminding you of the existence of double meanings you either use to insult people or forget about completely.

But yeah, we’ll be ready.

“One of your brothers?”

“Yep. Jason is being a cumberworld.”

“And him being a cumberworld definitely makes you grin and roll your eyes as though he merely made a stupid joke and you, unfortunately, thought it rather amusing. Got it.”

“Wait. You actually know what it means?”

“Duh, obviously. After listening to you and your family for a while, it seemed like a good idea to do some research on different English insults so they wouldn’t fly by me all the time.”

Tim snorted. Of course. Only Marinette would. Only her. Everyone else outside of their family seemed to give up on trying to understand after a little while, but noooo, this girl decided she was going to spend extra time doing some research just to be able to understand — that, and also most likely to be able to laugh at them. She definitely fit in just fine.

It didn’t take them too long after that to get to the main study in the manor that Tim had earlier told her was Bruce’s and told her not to go in. Maybe that was why Marinette now looked quite nervous and anxious as he unlocked the door and pushed it open, motioning for her to go in.

“Are you sure we can go in here? Mr Wayne— I mean, Bruce, isn’t going to get mad at us? And you aren’t about to kill me, right?” she laughed, trying to mask her nervousness with humour, but walked in anyway. She relaxed a little and the tensity in her shoulders slipped away the slightest bit as Tim shook his head as no.

He walked to the grandfather clock in the room and let go of Marinette’s hand in order to be able to turn the hands of the clock. The clock hit 10:48 (Tim had always thought there was no one more grim than the Batman but then he actually met Bruce Wayne and found out you needed to turn the clock to show the time Bruce’s parents had been murdered, and was just like that forced to change his view on the matter) and the panel unlocked, opening the door hidden from view behind the clock.

Marinette’s jaw dropped open. This was most certainly not what she had been expecting, that much was sure.

“Well then, my fair lady, shall we enter?” he asked, grinning at Marinette’s flabbergasted expression even as she walked closer and tried to figure out where the entrance would take them.

She could keep trying; he was not about to tell her just yet.

The elevator took them down and soon enough, they were in the cave. He stepped out of the doors and waited for Marinette to follow him.

“...Where are we?” she asked, her voice a little strained.

“Uh.”

“Timothy Jackson Drake-Wayne, where in the world exactly did you take me?”

It seemed actually telling her turned out a little more difficult than he thought. Well, no use crying now — he couldn’t just brush off all of this like he hadn’t just taken his soulmate down to the Batcave either.

“Alright. So, this might come as a shock and for the love of all that’s still holy and sacred in this world please do not freak out. I just decided I needed to tell you this before we consider pursuing any relationship on a deeper and closer level than what we have now, regardless of in what sense it would be.

Marinette nodded slowly, encouraging him to go on even as she seemed suspicious (and anxious) about what was going on. Perhaps that was a good thing since they were in Gotham, in the city where you never knew who the person in front of you was or what they did in their free time (or at night).

Tim took a deep breath before dropping the bomb on her. “I am Red Robin, one of the vigilantes of Gotham.”

At his declaration, her jaw dropped. Again. “You— I— What?”

“I’m Red Robin,” he repeated and pulled out the domino mask he had taken with him and slipped into his pocket, putting it on his face. Thank heavens for Marinette and her need to give him big pockets whenever he commissioned her (and there was any reason to put pockets to said commissioned clothing) because of that one offhand comment complaining about too small pockets some of his clothes had. He scratched his chin awkwardly before realising what he was doing and pulled his hand down, pressing his nails to his skin to keep himself from bringing it up again. “I was also thinking, you’d make a good vigilante if that’s what you wanted to do. Obviously, I would need to train you first to make sure you’d be ready for Gotham’s streets, but I thought it could help you not to worry about me if you saw me in action and actually had the chance to help me if necessary?”

That… wasn’t supposed to come out as a question. Why did it come out as one?

But Marinette’s silence was worrying him. It would be understandable not to get an answer now, but he knew her well enough by now to know that she would be mindlessly rambling at this point if it were merely shock she was experiencing.

“You… You aren’t a villain or planning on becoming one, right? Because even if you were my soulmate, that would mean I’d have to take you down.” Almost certain he could feel Dick’s pointed (and amused, definitely amused) look on his back, he added, “I’m not about to go down the Batman-Catwoman route with this.”

That startled Marinette out of her shock and as she stared him dead in the eye, she blurted out, “Spots on!”

Tim could have almost sworn he heard an exasperated and quiet “Marinette, why couldn't you just tell him like we agreed?” as bright pink light enveloped her and soon revealed that in her place there stood a young woman in a red suit with black spots.

And a spotted mask.

Which made it a ladybug suit.

Or the Ladybug suit.

On his soulmate that came from Paris.

Paris’ Ladybug…

“Oh my god. You’re Ladybug. My soulmate is Ladybug. This is a thing now, apparently. Aren’t you supposed to be dead? Actually, no, I’ve seen enough people that were resurrected, it wouldn’t even be that surprising. How were you—”

Ladybug’s shoulders lifted to her ears and she smiled sheepishly. “Hi? I’m not a villain as you can see?”

It was Tim’s turn to simply stare at Marinette. He— he was not expecting this turn of events. He sighed and waved his hand a little in a “come here” gesture, knowing they were there and that they’d seen her transform anyway. That would mean there was no secret identity problem anymore as her identity wasn’t really a secret anymore, per se. Besides, since she was a hero already, they could very well just introduce themselves to her already.

He had to admit, this was absolutely wonderful as it meant she fit in perfectly — it was as though she had always been the missing piece of the puzzle that was his life and family.

Of course, though he was expecting fate to be a jerk and give him a civilian soulmate, Fate instead decided to cut him some slack and just give him someone that could actually keep up with him and the family he wasn’t going to get rid of anyway, no matter what he tried or wanted (not that he wanted to get rid of them most of the time).

But well. A soulmate was supposed to suit you perfectly, so maybe it wasn’t that surprising.

Ladybug didn’t seem to notice his family approaching them as she kept on rambling and tried to explain herself. “I’m also not dead and never was. Chat Noir isn’t dead either though he has died multiple times during akuma attacks and was resurrected by my Miraculous Cure. Paris just happens to have a tendency to get overdramatic and jump to conclusions, and Chaton and I decided we didn’t want the Ladyblogger on our backs any longer. Neither of us is too fond of her, especially not after the phenomenon that is Lila Rossi,” she said, sighing as she cocked her hip. Ladybug shook her head and turned her eyes to the side. It seemed the name meant a lot, just not in any good way. “Wait. If you’re Red Robin, then—”

“Hiii!”

Aaandd it seemed that Dick had taken that as his cue to make his presence known. How lovely.

Ladybug turned to Dick and then back to Tim, arching an eyebrow. “Since you’re Red Robin, I’m going to go ahead and suppose this is your family. Am I right?”

“Yeah, unfortunately.”

“They’re not going to try and fight me or drive me out of your city for having powers, right?”

Batgirl cuffed him upside the head as she skipped to them, walked past Tim and then looked Ladybug up and down before nodding approvingly. “Definitely approve, though that suit… Am I seriously supposed to believe you’re our sweet, wonderful, talented fashion designer? Also no, even if B-Man or Dickiebird over there tried, Timmers, Damian and I would fight for you. You’re staying because I like you. We all like you.”

Ladybug flushed lightly at the compliments and the otherwise sweet words, but to her credit, her voice didn’t even waver when she replied (unlike usually), “I just haven’t had the energy and time to change it yet. It’s magic, can’t change it that easily.”

“Oh, okay. Well, try and see if you can recognise all of us!”

Ladybug bit her lip and looked at each and every one of them separately, her calculating eyes feeling like they could see right through all of them. She walked between them and around them, a sly grin appearing on her face.

“Well, Bats here is probably Mr Wayne. He’s the oldest of all and I strongly doubt any of you could be doing what you are if he didn’t know — unless, of course, it was Alfred, and I don’t doubt Alfred’s skills at all, but I’m pretty sure that back when Robin wasn’t there yet, someone needed to look after Batman and I honestly think only Alfred could have that much power on him. So. Mr Wayne.”

Batman took off his cowl, indeed revealing Bruce himself.

As she moved on to Nightwing, she winked and laughed with an “I did do my homework on the flight here. Seriously, did you think I wouldn’t?” Then she turned to look Nightwing in the eye (or, would have looked him in the eye if not for his domino. “I’m going to say Dick. I’ve been watching you all while I’ve been here — in both forms, it seems —, and I doubt any of you could pull some of the moves, or the attitude, Nightwing does, except for Dick. Don’t give me that look, you did jump from the balcony at some point last week, landing safely on the ground after showing off and doing like a million spins and somersaults.”

Tim laughed. “Dick, I told you, someone else besides me was going to recognise you for your somersaults one day.”

“You too?”

“Oh yeah, I worked out Dick’s, Bruce’s and then Jason’s original identities because of Dick’s quadruple-somersault when I was a kid. Nightwing’s identity wasn’t difficult either since, well, it was obviously the previous Robin.”

“Of course you would.”

Then she turned to Oracle in her wheelchair. “Anyway. I know you’re Barbara, and I’m so glad to see you here too, but I’m nor sure about you alias,” she said, her voice clearly apologetic for the fact.

“It’s alright,” Barbara comforted her and gave her a smile, “I wasn’t expecting you to know it. I’m Oracle, it’s nice to meet you. I’ll probably get you on the comms at some point as well because managing things is what I do now. The woman in the chair, if you will,” she continued, making Marinette chuckle. Tim loved the sound.

“Then the big bad Red Helmet over there is Jason — no, seriously, Jay, why in the world are you the Red Hood if you aren’t even wearing one?” she asked, her face twisting as she looked at him. God, Tim loved this girl, she would happily stab any of their fashion sense with a smile on her face, and honestly, the helmet was horrible. Her words earned her snickers from all around the room. She was obviously pleased with herself as Jason took off his mask and gaped at her, offended.

She didn’t even pay him attention too much, continuing on with her list. “The scowling Robin over there is definitely Damian, only he could pull off those expression with a hint of Bat in them, and the current Batgirl is obviously Stephanie. Duke is the Signal — that was your name, right? Oh, and Cass, you’re Black Bat, aren’t you?” At Cass’ nod and her revealing her face, Marinette let out a sigh of relief. “You’re one of the only ones here with an acceptable suit.”

Ladybug transformed back into Marinette, a small creature appearing from her… earrings? before hiding inside her jacket. Tim decided to ignore it, maybe it was nothing. Marinette turned around, spinning on her heel to face Bruce. “Like, I know you need protection because there’s no magic to do so, but you could have protection with suits that looked less ridiculous and atrocious than this,” she said, motioning at their clothing. “That actually goes to most of you. I especially hope there’s a really good reason and a story behind Robin’s colours, because otherwise I will not possibly be able to understand why anyone would go around as a vigilante in colours this bright.”

“There is a reason behind the color choices,” Dick said disturbingly quietly from where he was standing. “They were my family’s colors.”

Marinette winced lightly — she too knew what had happened to them on that fateful night. “Alright. That’s a good reason, even if they’re still horrible colour choices. That would make you the first Robin, right?” Dick nodded. “It’s understandable for you to want to use your family’s colours.” Her solemn tone indicated she accepted Dick’s reason for it completely, telling them all she felt bad for saying they were horrible but knew she wouldn’t back off — and they wouldn’t blame her for that either —, and they all knew she was going to leave arguing and pressing for explanations away completely. Her limitless capability of empathy was admirable.

Then she turned back to Tim. “Is that offer about training still on the table? I’d love to take it if so. I could probably win any of you as Ladybug because magic and a goddess in my pocket, also known as Tikki— Oh, actually! Tikki, come on out, come say hi to Tim!”

A small red, ladybug-like creature flew from under her jacket to Tim, smiling brightly. He immediately recognised it as the fairy he’s seen earlier. “Hi! I’m Tikki, the goddess — or as we like to call ourselves, the kwami — of creation. It’s lovely to finally meet my holder’s soulmate!”

“It’s, uh, nice to meet you as well, I guess? I take it you’re the one that helps Marinette transform,” Tim said, a little confused by the flying, speaking creature.

“Yup, I’m an ancient being, older than anything and everything else, so while she’s not the only one I’ve helped — the history is full of Ladybugs —, she’s my current holder. Remember that if you hurt her, while Adrien can do a lot of destruction and damage —” there seemed to be a double meaning behind those words but he just couldn’t figure out what it was. “—I will be the one you actually want to look out for!”

Tikki’s words were single handedly the single most terrifying thing Tim had ever heard, and it did not help at all that she was smiling all through it, her voice gentle and kind, her entire demeanour bright even when she was threatening him. He didn’t even want to know what a goddess of creation could do as retaliation.

“If I hurt her, I’d let you do whatever you wanted,” Tim finally heard himself say. Those words were surprisingly true and ran deep, he realised. It… should honestly have been alarming. It was not.

“Good, you understood quickly. This one’s good, let’s keep him.” Tikki patted his head — and such a weird image it must have been, a creature maybe the size of his hand patting his head —, bringing Tim comfort for some reason. He had absolutely no idea how she managed it, being terrifying and so sweet and safe at the same time. He could totally see where Marinette got it from. “Also, some of you have definitely been in close — too close — touch with the Lazarus Pit, this place reeks of it. Marinette, tell me, why haven’t we already taken Plagg with us to the Lazarus Pit and gotten rid of it for good?”

Marinette shrugged, unaware of what was happening in the background behind her — Jason gaping, Bruce in shock, Damian just staring at them like he had seen a ghost, which was a rather disturbing picture because sometimes it seemed the boy could get fazed by nothing. The rest looked just confused. Maybe he should just leave them be and try to focus on Marinette and Tikki right now. “Jeez, Tikki, I have no idea. Maybe, maybe it’s because this has got to be the first time I hear about them and honestly, it should be more disturbing than it is that I, for some reason I don’t want to know, actually know what you’re talking about. Is that a guardian thing?”

Tikki nodded before speaking. “Well, we have to do it at some point. Let’s take the cat with us as well, I’m sure he’d prefer not to be left alone if we’re taking Plagg with us anyway. For now, though, I’m sure we can talk about it later.”

Tim shook his head, trying to concentrate. “Yeah, the offer is still on the table. I’d be happy to train you. You’d also get training from the Bat himself if you wanted — he actually insisted on it before this,” he laughed. “But yeah, I’ll be there anyway. Fun soulmate bonding and all that, right? Fighting, training and sparring until we can no longer stand on our own two feet, that’s all anyone could ever want,” he mused, odd warmth filling his chest as Marinette chuckled at his comment.

“Yes, you get it. Finally someone gets it — looking at you, Chat. Having said that, I do have to tell you it’s a little awkward and a huge coincidence you happened to ask me if I wanted to become a vigilante, as I was kind of going to ask you the same.”

“Huh?”

“You just beat me to revealing your identity and asking. I was wondering if you’d like to try using a miraculous, you know? It’s so much fun unless you’re trying to save an entire city that’s flooding and your partner is not doing what he’s supposed to and you have maybe five minutes left after you use your special ability but other than that, it’s great. I know you sometimes get even magical threats here, and I’m sure you’d rather be able to deal with them yourself instead of having to get the magic users not from here involved every single time since it’s your city. Also, since I’m not going to quit being Ladybug, and I will be out there doing my thing, I’d like to have my soulmate in the team sometimes as well, by my side. Obviously, you can refuse, but like, I could see you being a good snake. Sass would like you.”

Tikki nodded, clearly agreeing with Marinette. He knew better than to ask if they realised what sass meant, or to tell them that he was already familiar with sass, since it was probable this Sass was one of the Kwamies. Kwamiis. Kwamii? He had no idea.

Then she turned around to face the others whose attention — all of it — went immediately to her when she focused hers at them. “It could also be fun to see how any of you work with a miraculous once I get to know you better and know which kwamii would fit to each of you — I do have quite many of them travelling with me, after all,” she said, and the smile playing on her lips was easy to hear from her words. Come the next words (and the jab at most of them), Tim also knew for sure there was a mischievous glint dancing in her eyes. “That, and the kwamii come up with alright costumes most of the time even if you have no idea how to design a good one yourself. The suits are much safer than yours, too, because again, magic . And god-given powers, quite literally.”

The little fairy — kwami, wasn’t it? ... she. Something. — settled herself on Marinette’s head while Marinette took out a small box from her purse, opening it. A bright light with a yellowish or orange hue appeared in front of her as another one of the kwamii took form. Marinette put on a necklace that looked like a fox’s tail, which honestly looked logical as it resembled the kwami as well — if they had something to do with each other, that is.

“Heya Marinette! What is it today? Ooohhh, there are more people to mess with today! The cat isn’t here, I see… Wait, is this the soulmate thing you and Chat discussed? Is one of them your soulmate? Do I actually get to meet him before any of the others do?” The fox looking kwami seemed excited and it was a little bothersome to realise how much the kwami reminded him of Bart. They would probably get along, if they ever got the chance to meet. Probably not.

“Well, Tikki met him already, but yes, you’ll get to gloat about this to Plagg, Wayzz, Mullo, Longg and the others. Except for Duusu, that’s forbidden. She’s not in a good enough mental state for that yet. But anyway, Trixx, Tim is my soulmate, the one that’s probably standing right behind me right now unless he actually somehow managed to stay still even in the presence of something new he doesn’t understand just yet,” she said and pulled out two cookies, handing one to each kwamii present. Tim flushed as he realised she knew exactly where he was and why he was there.

Marinette didn’t pay any attention to any of them anymore, only the kwami in front of her.

“Besides, you complained about not having gotten to patrol in a long while last night and as it seems they don’t hate the idea of a miraculous user here, yet anyway — not that it would stop me, honestly, you guys need to get out and be used sometimes and as the guardian, it’s kind of my responsibility —, they might even let me patrol with them and thus give you a chance to go around. Chaton and Plagg won’t be there, though, and I’m not going to tell him about them, so keep your mouth shut. I know you love knowing things others don’t, but you don’t get to tell them because then you won’t be able to keep the knowledge of more heroes to yourself, and I’d honestly rather have Chat and Plagg only know I’ve told my soulmate now so he’s free to tell his. Also, they—”, she pointed at his family, “—Get to keep their secrets, so there’s that too.”

It felt a little too familiar to hear Marinette call someone Chaton, and it irritated Tim to no ends to know that he knew the one Marinette had called Chaton earlier by name, but yet could still only connect it to Chat Noir and Chat Noir only.

Trixx flew around Tim’s head a few times until deciding on landing on top of it. The kwami started to eat the cookie, still there on top of his head, damnit, leaving cookie crumbles in his hair. “Hello there, Marinette’s soulmate! You seem rather interesting. Are you going to be trying to use one of us? It’s going to be so much fun seeing what kind of a hero you could become with our help!”

But, just as Tim was about to answer, an alarm went off in the cave. They all knew it was a villain attack, and soon all of them got notifications of said attack to their phones, computers, tablets, clocks, anything they had promised to carry around everywhere for this specific thing. Tim groaned and ran a hand down his face.

Not now, we don’t have time for this.

Even so, Tim ran off to put on his suit. There was a big chance Marinette would be coming along since she was, apparently, already used to villains (even if quite different from theirs), and he wanted to be there to see it.

At least Trixx let him leave without following.

⬷۵⤐

Marinette watched in wonder as everyone got a move on the second the alarm went off. It was so different from Paris. She hoped the civilians had more basic common sense than Parisians did, too, and would try to escape the danger zone instead of trying to get into it.

Barbara went to get a small piece of technology before wheeling to her. She took Marinette’s hand and pressed it on her palm. “Here. This is a comm. I want you to wear it when you’re out in the field at all times so you’ll be able to contact everyone, me included, at any time you need. They can also contact you if they’re in need of help or something. That, and I’ll be able to locate you at any point I want or need to, so yes, you have to use it,” she told her, but Marinette gave it back. Under Barbara’s rather scary and very unimpressed glare, she decided to give in. After all, she was — even bound to a wheelchair — one of the scariest of them. She was also one of Marinette’s favourites in the family and would probably admit this to any of them at any given time, so she reasoned that played a part in her decision as well.

“Fine, I’ll take it, but I need to transform first or it will disappear, though I’m pretty sure I could actually connect my own, safer communicator to yours,” she said before stepping back. “You might want to close your eyes, the light can be blinding. Tikki, spots on!”

Once the bright light went away, she got ready to unify Trixx and Tikki together. It would take her a lot of energy, but the stealth abilities Trixx came with were useful, as were the illusions, especially in a city such as Gotham, and Tikki, well, Marinette knew how to work with her the best, and the Miraculous Cure Tikki provided was the best thing ever since it could repair anything and everything if she was involved in it with the miraculous (and better yet, no one would need to pay for said repairs.) “Tikki, Trixx, unify!”

“Alright, I’m done now. I can take the comm now if you so insist,” she said, opening her palm and waiting for Barbara to hand it to her again. “You can call me Lady Vixen for now until I come up with a better name, Oracle.”

Oracle smiled at her and dropped the comm on Lady Vixen’s palm. She put it on, adjusting it until it no longer felt uncomfortable in her ear. Red Robin had just finished suiting up by then as well, and with a grin on his face, he stepped to her side. He brushed over her wrist with his fingers and she did the same to him, because even with their suits covering up the skin of their wrists, it made them more comfortable, more at ease, more focused. Happier. They turned to look at the rest of the family, waiting for the go-ahead since she still needed one from at least Batman.

After Batman nodded to her and smiled (which honestly was not a smile and looked more like a grimace, like seriously, Mr Wayne needed some help with how to smile), Nightwing gave her a bright smile (like, an actual smile, unlike Batman’s) and said, “Welcome to the team!”

She didn't reply, she knew she didn’t need to, and decided that swinging off with her soulmate was going to be enough.

Yeah, she was happy to be a part of the team, a part of the family.

Especially if her soulmate was going to be there for her and stay at her side through all of it.

____

@the-navistar-carol @kris-pines04 @thethirdwheelfriend @daminett4life

#Timari #timinette #tim x marinette #maribat #tim drake #marinette dupain cheng #Bartadrien #ml x dc #dc #ML #miraculous ladybug #soulmates #fanfic #fanfiction #ethel's writing

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neriad13 · 4 years ago

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Favorite Media of 2020!

There was a large swathe of this year during which I was unable to concentrate on reading (as there probably was for a lot of other typically-frequent readers), so, as a result, I ended up listening to way more podcasts and watching way more TV shows. Not a bad thing, but boy did I read way less books than usual.

However, for the first time in a while, the amount of fiction I read was about equal with the amount of nonfiction I read. Last year’s reading resolution was to read more fiction, so...success??

I did read a lot of phenomenal fiction when I had the energy to do so this year.

Books - Fiction

The Martian - Andy Weir

This book is the hardest of the hard sci fi I think I’ve ever read. Every single aspect of it is minutely researched and calculated. The author literally wrote equations to write this book. The science is insanely impressive and yet...it never loses its sense of humor or humanity in the mix. In fact, they’re the thing that drives the entire story.

Warlock Holmes - G. S. Denning

Way early in the year I was strolling down the fantasy aisle at the library, when this cover caught my eye. I took one look at it, went “oh, this looks silly” and...proceeded to devour the entire series in a matter of weeks.

It is very silly. Especially when it’s pointing out something that was silly in the original. There’s something so satisfying about Watson immediately answering Holmes with the correct number of steps in their flat when he’s trying to make his point about how most people don’t pay attention to things like that.

World War Z - Max Brooks

Every single scenario in here could easily support an entire book. A park ranger whose job it is to contain the yearly zombie spring thaw? HECK YES. I’d read tens of thousands of words about that. A Chinese admiral who defaults, steals the government’s premier submarine, loads it up with the families of his underlings and takes to the sea for years to live in the maritime economy that has sprung up in a world where everyone is trying to escape the shore? That could be an entire movie on its own.

Every chapter was more creative than the last and as a huge worldbuilding fan, this book was so, so fun.

An Unkindness of Ghosts - Rivers Solomon

In which a queer, neurodivergent protagonist solves a mystery on a spaceship which is a microcosm of antebellum era politics! This had a beautiful, mysterious, wonder-inducing writing style and it was a joy to peer into the wildly differing minds of every single character.

Books - Nonfiction

Underland - Robert MacFarlane

In every chapter, the author visits a different hole. Basically.

It’s an exploration of caves, catacombs, mines, nuclear waste facilities and the hidden underbelly of every forest. It was fascinating. And fundamentally changed how I look at time.

Rejected Princesses - Jason Porath

After years of having enjoyed the web entries, I finally got my hands on the first book and was not disappointed.

There are the more entertaining entries, of course and the art is as charming as always, but what struck me the most were the more difficult stories. The deeper you go into this book, the more horrific it gets. The author does not hold back on the indignities suffered by the historical figures he writes about. It’s terrible...but also very, very illuminating.

The Gift of Fear - Gavin De Becker

This book - while maintaining all the essential information in it - could be pared down to one sentence in a sea of blank pages and that sentence would be: trust your instincts. End of story.

But in a world where instincts are either customarily suppressed or going haywire, it’s not quite that easy, which is why I’m glad there is more to the book.

I picked it up thinking “ha ha, betcha can’t help a person with anxiety who fears all the time already” and...what it actually ended up doing was giving me the tools to differentiate between real fear and unfounded fear. And did help with the anxiety quite a bit.

Fanfiction

Watch Over Me - cakeisatruth

A Bioshock fic from the point of view of a little sister who is learning how to trust and be an ordinary child again. Dark and sweet. An excellent combo.

All That is Visible - Ultima_Thule

An exploration of a minor character in a well researched historical context? That’s my jam! How did they know?? A Tron fic about what it’s like to be a female programmer in the 70s.

Graphic Novels

The Adventure Zone - McElroys + Carey Pietsch

Yesssssssss! It was a running-to-the-library type event whenever my library got a new volume in. The jokes are so good, the art is so lively and the ways in which they added the details that the podcast couldn’t necessarily get across is *mwah*

Trail of Blood - Shuuzou Oshimi

Hoooooooly shit, the art style of this one!! It’s beautifully detailed and expressive, sure, but the real draw for me was how it changes with the emotional state of the main character. There’s this sequence in which he’s consumed with anxiety at school and all of his classmates become blurry and unfocused, until they can’t be recognized as humans at all, that particularly sticks with me.

It’s a horror story about a kid who witnesses his loving mother push his cousin off a cliff for seemingly no reason and is then obligated by her to keep the secret, which is eating him from the inside out. It’s so good, guys, please read it.

Level Up - Gene Lien Yang/Thien Pham

A story about a kid who is haunted by his late father’s desire for him to become a gastroenterologist. It’s funny and touching and the ending gave me what I can only describe as a feeling of exhilaration. Y’know that feeling when something unexpected but not out of left field, perfectly in tune with the narrative arc and gut bustingly funny happens, all in the same panel? That one.

Film

Searching

This is a fairly standard thriller about a dad trying to find out what happened to his missing daughter. It’s also found footage...but not in the usual way, which was what made it so compelling to me. It’s told through the dad’s phone calls, google searches, social media interactions, news footage, security cameras and webcams. It was such a cool way to tell a story.

Train to Busan

There’s a lot that’s already been said about this movie and I don’t think there’s much more I can meaningfully add to that. Suffice to say that ya gotta take care of each other if you’re going to survive a zombie apocalypse!!

TV Series

My Brother’s Husband

As close to a perfect adaptation as a person can get (barring the entire conversation in English which was...oof). I was so happy when they took it a step further and showed Kana and Yaichi actually getting to meet Mike’s family.

Zumbo’s Just Desserts

I watched a lot of baking shows this year. Like...a lot. They were my much-needed comfort viewing for the year and this one was my favorite, even over The Great British Baking Show (which I LOVE). Why? Because the pastry chef for whom it’s named makes such bizarre and wonderful desserts and fosters an environment in which the competitors do the same. I’ve never seen anything like a lot of the desserts that make an appearance on this show. Every single episode was an awesome surprise and so help me, this show had better get a third season.

She-ra and the Princesses of Power

There’s also a lot that’s been said about this one, so I won’t say much more. Suffice to say: DAMN. That’s how you do an 80s toy tie-in cartoon remake.

Infinity Train

This show’s premise is probably the most unique I’ve seen in recent years. Its balance of comedy, horror and existential dread is also *mwah* I also love how much it trusts the viewer to figure things out on their own.

Primal

A late entry sliding in before the year ends! I finally got to watch the second half of the first season last weekend and it was EXCELLENT. The pacing, the brutal fight scenes, the adorable dinosaur antics, the animation, the quiet moments - *mwah-mwah-mwah-mwah-mwah*

The most emotional moment for me was the part in which the protagonists watch, with sorrow, as the rabid dinosaur who’s been trying to kill them all night dies an excruciating death.

Also it sets up a fascinating new plotline right before ending in a cliffhanger!! Another one for the ‘had better get a next season’ list.

Games

Night in the Woods

This is one that’s been on my to play list for a few years and I was so glad I finally got my hands on it. It’s like...The Millennial Experience (TM), the game. I felt so seen, playing it. The character writing was fantastic.

Prey

I don’t know why I put off finishing this for so long. I guess I wasn’t in the right alien killing headspace for a while?? Anyway, the setting is gorgeous, the alien biology is weird and cool, the ethics are delightfully murky and the interconnectedness of the station was really cool, especially in the OH SHIT moments at the end.

Podcasts

The Adventure Zone

I tried to narrow this down to one favorite arc, but found that I couldn’t do it. I love Balance for its comedy and creative energy. I love Amnesty for its drama and acting. I am loving Graduation for the depth of its world and the way in which the real story behind everything that’s happened is slowly unfurling. It’s a good podcast all around.

The Magnus Archives

Who obsessively listened to every single season while playing Minecraft in about a month? Surely not me, nooooo. Of course not.

There’s also been a lot said on this one, so I’ll keep it brief. I’ve seen things in here that I haven’t really seen elsewhere in horror. My particular favorites were the creepy psychiatric hospital in which the horror comes not from the patients, but from the denial of the doctor to believe them about their mental illnesses and every single thing related to the Anthropocene. The one with the Amazonian village made out of trash - CHILLS.

#tma #taz #prey 2017 #night in the woods #infinity train #warlock holmes #she-ra #zumbo's just desserts #a thought

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fantastica-daily · 4 years ago

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Richard Elfman on his new bizarro comedy - Aliens, Clowns & Geeks

By Staci Layne Wilson

When it comes to cult science fiction movies, Forbidden Zone stands tall. Richard Elfman's 1980 Mystic Knights of the Oingo Boingo vehicle was a one-of-a-kind film zooming down on a one-way street to a whacky conclusion that’s stayed in the minds of schlock cinema fans ever since. His latest film, Aliens, Clowns & Geeks is an equally wild and expressionistic indie featuring Austin Powers' Verne Troyer in his last role, promising that Aliens, Clowns & Geeks is the antidote to mainstream and a breakneck cure for the run-of-the-mill.

“I was fortunate to have my dream cast on this one, including Verne Troyer (Mini-Me) as my demonic clown emperor–his final film role,” says Elfman. “Our ninety-minute film has seventy-five minutes of driving music by my brother Danny (Elfman) and acclaimed animation composer, Ego Plum Guerrero. Along with Danny’s to-die-for clown and alien music, Ego added a Latin element with the band we play with, Mambo Demonico.” The score was composed by Danny Elfman, who wrote the theme song to The Simpsons, the music to The Nightmare Before Christmas and did the singing voice of Jack Skellington, and won six Saturn awards.

"Eddy Pine (Bodhi Elfman) is a jaded actor dealing with the cancellation of his series," reads the official synopsis. "To complicate matters, he wakes up with the key to the universe stuck up his ass. Apparently an alien Clown Emperor (Verne Troyer) is in hot pursuit of this, as are his rivals, the Green Aliens. Professor von Scheisenberg (French Stewart) and his comely Swedish assistants, the Svenson sisters (Rebecca Forsythe as Helga, Angeline-Rose Troy as Inga), come to Eddy’s aid. If only Eddy hadn’t fallen for Helga, and then the aliens manipulate his mind to confuse her with Inga! And when the mad little Clown Captain (Martin Klebba) steps on the gas and shifts his spaceship into fourth gear, all hell breaks loose.”

We had the opportunity to sit down with Richard to ask him about his movie.

Q. To what do you attribute your enduring interest in clowns? And why do you think they’re so fascinating to people in general?

As I’ve always said: “To be born a male redhead is to be born into a clown suit.” Hence my carrot-topped brother Danny and I have always had a fascination with clowns. Coupled with our wicked sense of humor and a love of the horror genre, it was an easy morph into thoughts of creepy clowns. Just like dolls and puppets—yes, I’m speaking Anabelle—clowns can have something “surreal” about them. Bill Skarsgard’s Pennywise really nails it. And I laughed my head off at Killer Klowns From Outer Space. (And we have honk-honking shit-load of killer clowns in my new film).

Q. How did the idea for Aliens, Clowns & Geeks come about? Is it similar to The Forbidden Zone?

Joined-at-the-hip. Yes. And no. Forbidden Zone is basically a surrealistic “human-cartoon” set to musical numbers. So I was working on Forbidden Zone 2, a thematic extension of FZ but on a much grander scale. I did a successful crowd-funder to develop the project, then, with the help of my producers, raised about half the budget. They asked me if we could do something quick (and cheaper) in the interim to keep the momentum going.

So I basically locked myself in my roof-top writing garret with a box of cigars and many bottles of whiskey and banged out my Geeks script over the next three weeks.

Geeks is utterly zany and music-driven, but it’s not a “singing musical” so to speak like FZ. It has surrealistic elements, thanks to my insane special effects department--and a little help from Hieronymus Bosch—but I would describe Geeks having cartoony elements rather than being a total “human cartoon” as FZ was…if that makes any sense. (And please don’t try!)

Q. Tell us about the multiple roles played by your family – and do you have role as well? What was it like working with your family – any funny stories?

My son Bodhi Elfman—a serious dramatic actor with 100s of credits--did a great comic turn as Eddy, the lead; a bitter out of work actor who wakes up with the key to the universe stuck up his ass. He also played the ass-kissing clown (literally) on the space ship plus the green alien network executive who orders the destruction of Earth. My wife Anastasia played multiple roles, everything from a nun to a carny slut. She also danced and choreographed the cabaret burlesque numbers as well as played a clown…until she got sick from the chemicals inside the clown mask and had to throw up—after we got the shot, of course--committed trouper that she is. When I met Anastasia she was a ballet dancer with a “day job” at a horror fx shop. She can dance with a broken toe but seems to have developed a sensitivity to certain shop chemicals.

I played a clown as well and almost threw up from laughing. I must say Geeks was a fun show to work on (my greatest joy is creating a sense of fun) and the actors and crew had serious trouble keeping from laughing as I directed in insane clown attire. What a fucking visual!

And brother Danny—what can I say? As an independent (hence lower budget) film maker it helps when your little brother in Mozart.

Q. Tell us how you ran away and joined the circus.

Actually, The Grande Magic Circus--a French musical theatre company. 1971, I was twenty-one, visiting the Festival of New Theatre in Montreal. I ran into a scruffy Parisian street troupe. They had something though, a charisma, an élan, whatever-- it attracted me. Director Jérôme Savary needed a percussionist—et voila, that was me! I persuaded them to give me several minutes onstage at the festival doing my comedy/horror piece set to an Eric Satie’s Gnossienne. When I “killed” the pianist in a pool of blood the audience was shocked. And they loved it!

Then, back in California, I went to see Marcel Carne’s masterpiece Les Enfant de Paradise , a three hour film set in the Paris theatre scene of the 1830’s. I exited the theatre, stopped, turned around and went back in and saw it again.

A few months later I received a letter from Jerome. Peter Brook, famed director of London’s Royal Shakespeare Company was backing the Magic Circus in a large Paris theatre. Would I like to join them? Bloody hell!! Hence, I ran away and joined the “circus.”

Q. Tell us something about your time with the Magic Circus, how it influenced you and also how your brother Danny Elfman joined the show.

I might say that working with Jérôme Savary was perhaps my single greatest influence. The troupe had classically trained actors from the Comedie Francais as well as more Avant guard performers. Jerome was a genius, his material had a sense of Absurdism that really struck me. I would later develop this absurdism in my own fashion. Certainly with my own troupe, the Mystic Knights of the Oingo Boingo (later Oingo Boingo). By the way, my film Forbidden Zone was essentially our Mystic Knights stage show set to film.

Danny—several days out of high school--showed up at my 5ème, Rue Descartes doorstep with his electric violin. The company violinist was from the Paris Opera. Jerome liked to improvise. The opera guy couldn’t deviate one note from the written score. I believe my brother is Mozart reincarnated. He could follow any improvisation and got the job and toured with us for the summer throughout France. He and I opened the show with him on violin, me on percussion—the first music Danny Elfman ever wrote.

Q. Any other interesting experiences that you and Danny had there?

We were in a Basque town near the Spanish border. If I may digress, I am four years Danny’s senior. I went to a high school in Crenshaw (Boyz in the Hood), Danny ended up at a school with no guns. I was a tough boxer. Danny might be described as a bespectacled science nerd. So it’s Friday night, the audience was really rowdy and restless. My “street sense” knew it was just a matter of time before the fights broke out. We had an Argentine fellow in the troupe, “Katshurro,” nicest fellow. Drunks in the audience picked up on his accent and shouted terrible Spanish insults about his mother. Katshurro stopped mid-performance, his eyes bugging out of head, and he dove right into the audience swinging away. All hell broke loose. Everyone was fighting, sets crashing down. Danny’s glasses got knocked off. Well, and not for the first time, I managed to get Danny out of trouble with both his glasses and violin intact.

Q. Tell us about the cast you assembled – which includes Verne Troyer in his final screen performance. What was he like? Who does he play in the film?

I really had my dream cast. Along with my son Bodhi we had lovely kung-fu kicking Rebecca Forsythe, versatile Angeline-Rose Troy who not only played Rebecca’s sexy Swedish sister, but donned prosthetics to play poor Eddy’s junkie/whore “Mom from Hell.”

Professor von Scheisenberg was played impeccable veteran French Stewart (Third Rock From the Sun). Another great vet was George Wendt (Cheers) as Father Mahoney. Six foot six comic Steve Agee (Sarah Silverman Show, Guardians of the Galaxy) played both a tough cross-dressing bar owner and a stuttering dufis in a chicken suit. Nic Novicki (Boardwalk Empire) played his nasty little-person boss. I was really blessed with a great ensemble to work with.

And, of course, Verne Troyer, our megalomaniac Clown Emperor. What a wonderful talent to work with! He was funny on set, insisted on doing things in spite of physical limitations and he gave us hilarious comic improvisations. Little body. Big spirit. I will certainly miss him.

Q. The music is by Danny and you also have great animation… please give us some details what it’s like to create worlds through music and manufactured imagery.

Danny, along with my band mate--award winning animation composer Ego Plum (Guerrero)—really gave it to us. Seventy-five minutes of music in a ninety-minute film. ♪ ♫ La, tee-da and a boom boom boom! ♪ ♫ Music is essential to everything I do—especially setting the tone of my films. I even play music before I start writing.

As soon as Danny saw our surrealistic Bosch dream sequence and goofy clown rocket ships he agreed to do the score…after he stopped laughing. I play percussion in a quirky Latin band, Mambo Demonico, led by Hollywood’s top tv animation composer, Ego Plum. He and Danny work with the same people, including Oingo Boingo lead guitarist Steve Bartek, who subsequently has done every one of Danny’s film arrangements. Steve and the original Oingo Boingo members all played on our sound track. I must brag that we do have great fucking music!

You know, Danny was a bespectacled science nerd growing up, basically stayed out of trouble. That was my department. Oddly, he wasn’t really into music. No bands, no concerts, no big music collection. Life is funny how things turned out. I showed him a rough cut of Geeks, he laughed his ass off and offered to do it. Yes, I’m very lucky to have “Mozart” as my little brother!

Q. Who is Aliens, Clowns & Geeks for? Do you think movies like this are more likely to find a mainstream audience?

Forbidden Zone may be a “cult” movie but it still plays all over the world--after forty years. Just this past month FZ played festivals in France and South Korea. Geeks is certainly not for everyone—no one falls in love then dies of cancer. But it will find an audience I am sure. Anyone who had fun with Killer Klowns From Outer Space, liked Rocky Horror, even What We Do in the Shadows in terms of a quirky, wicked sense of humor. I also think it will play well in mental asylums…it certainly shall send people there in any case.

Geeks doesn’t fit into the scheme of “modern films.” Actually, the shooting style and underlying three-act story structure harkens back to classic comedies (says the son of a former English teacher turned novelist). The trappings though, are insane and off-the-wall. You might say it’s just my own, goony creation. Love it or hate it, the humor is balls-out outrageous, definitely not for everyone--no one dies of cancer. Geeks is simply meant to be fun for essentially the genre audience.

Q. What’s your proudest moment associated with making the film?

Proudest moment? Maybe finally paying the actors. People say I’ve embraced the indie spirit. I don’t know how much I “embrace” it, so much as am fucked by it, having to work on such a modest budget. Although I’ve been a “hired gun” and directed scripts written by others, Geeks is really the first time since my 1980 Forbidden Zone that I’ve really done purely my own vision. Per John Waters, well, I’d hope he’d have something strong to drink and/or smoke and then laugh his ass off watching it! That’s what it was like creating the film: Drinking scotch and smoking cigars in my rooftop writing garret, laughing my ass off! The green aliens have a totally high-tech ship, except for the automotive steering wheel and four-on-the-floor to shift gears. For the clowns we went for an absurdly updated version of Flash Gordon. And when our tiny clown emperor takes possession of an earth body, he has little dummy of the earthling sitting in his lap, their heads connected by electrical wires. Absurd and ridiculous, and that’s my middle name.

Want to see a double feature of The Forbidden Zone and Aliens, Clowns & Geeks? You can! They will play at The Regency in L.A. as part of The Valley Film Festival on 1/30/21. Get tickets here.

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Look for our review of Aliens, Clowns & Geeks here soon!

#Richard Elfman #forbidden zone #aliens clowns geeks #bizarro #cult films

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dlamp-dictator · 5 years ago

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I’ll keep an eye on this anime. If anything, it definitely looks pretty, the fight scenes have been [done] well so far, and seeing Melida be cute in full color is great. If I just get a decent action series out of this anime, I’ll be happy.

-Allen X, October 22 2019

Well folks, Assassins Pride wrapped up last week and I can safely say I got what I wanted. In the end, I think this was a pretty fun and passable anime to watch weekly. Decent action, decent plot, and a decently written story. Nothing was too offensive or annoying save for one or two moments in the middle, and as much as I felt the show stumbled compared to the manga and possibly the light novel I have hope that this might just get an official translate and... well, you know, do the pacing thing better.

But since I had a habit of covering this thing after every arc I figured I’d give the show some closing thoughts and an overall opinion of the thing at the end. I hope I don’t spend a 1000+ words on this, but... well... I can get pretty wordy when I get a groove, so we’ll see.

But anyway, let’s start with...

The Good

The Visuals

Let’s not mince words folks, this anime is pretty. It might be because I’m a sucker for night aesthetic, but the one disadvantage of the black-and-white manga is that were really never got to see just how dark the world of Flandor really was. To quote myself again:

(This is a) world trapped in perpetual night with warriors of light being the only thing keeping away further darkness, along with the last bastion of humanity being a literal chandelier city in case you missed the symbolism

And nothing makes you really feel that more than that first scene of Kufa walking through the quiet streets on his way to the Angel estate, seeing not only how dark the world is from the night sky above, but also how artificial the light within it really is. The dark aesthetic really helps a lot of the other characters pop out a lot more in terms of the actual color. Mana is literally a glowing, flaming aura that lights the darkness like a candle. The two main girls in this series are a bright blonde and white-haired girl that stand out against the black night sky like the sun and stars.

Again, symbolism.

The list goes on, but you get the idea.

The Action

Not to say this is Trigger or Madhouse or Perriot, but it is pretty nice that we get a decent action scene every arc. Something I definitely appreciate is that they show contrast between Melida’s kind nature and friendly attitude with her brutal and dirty fighting style.

See, Melida is a kind and gentle girl that would rather not use violence save for fighting demons, but if she has to fight she’ll use every dirty trick in the book. She’ll throw sand, she feint attacks, she go into brawling when close enough, she fake being injured to make her opponent let their guard down. It’s a nice little story detail that shows you this noblewoman was, in fact, trained by a ruthless assassin that taught her to actual fight for survival instead of like a nobleman. Her taking down stronger students by doing all but outright cheat is almost hilarious to watch sometimes.

The Overall Narrative

For as fast as the pacing was I feel like I got a good idea of Melida’s story and the trials she has to endure as the “Incompetent Talented Girl”. This story focused on Melida more than Kufa, which is something I’m very thankful for. It’s always tempting to switch over the OP male MC to overpower his way through things, but to my pleasant surprise this only happened in one arc, and it was an arc that had some justification for it, though I really didn’t care it myself. Save for the third arc everything was to show Melida’s growth from a shy and bullied girl to a competent swordswoman that can even hold her own against the other heirs of the three noble houses.

But that’s enough of the good, so now we have to talk about...

The Bad

The Pacing

There’s no getting around this. Even if I didn’t already read bits of the manga online ahead of time the pacing for this show is still insanely fast. Even taking out the fact that this is an adapted story we’re never given enough time to absorb certain scenes. And the worse is that a lot of the arcs have a focus on intrigue and mystery. Luna Lumiere Selection Tournament Arc had two major mysteries: who was the one that changed the plaque and who is Black Madia masquerading as? They especially took care to make Mule seem like a very suspicious party only to reveal it was a third party in the very same episode. The mystery of Black Madia was done better, though by necessity as she couldn’t reveal herself until the very last moment of the arc. This was fine in the anime, but it could had used an extra episode or two of build-up between scenes. The arc at Rosetti’s hometown was a huge mystery that had Kufa under believable suspicious, and was actually done pretty well by not revealing the true culprit until the last episode of it, it also helps that Kufa was under suspicion from the first episode of it. The Library Exam Arc was... done alright, but it could had used an extra episode or two to cook and add some more tension between the Angels and the other nobles, but it was done well.

And that’s the main issue. Every arc could had used one or two extra episodes to really set the scene. Nothing was done poorly in terms of structure and narrative, but everything could had been better had things slowed down. Despite the action this show isn’t a shounen or action genre, it’s a political drama with a combat school setting.

This might also be just the issue of this being a 12-episode anime adapting a novel. A novel has the advantage of progressing its plots slowly with the knowledge the reader has the entire book to finish either that arc or at least most of it. If that reader skips around because they’re bored that says more about them than the author. With an anime or television show you don’t have that luxury, you only have a few episodes at best to keep a viewers attention, especially for something like the seasonal anime lineup where you have to keep audience retention every week and your competition is the other 50+ anime out there that might possibly be more interesting. I pity whatever decent anime has to contend with the newest My Hero Academia season along with everything else.

I understand the need to want to just show off the cool bits to keep audience attention, but it came at the cost of the narrative. Even if this thing still holds together well it could hold together much better if they only focused on the first two arcs of this series instead of trying to shove in four, but alas...

In any case...

Other Smaller Issues that Bugged Allen

Really, the pacing was the biggest issue in this anime, but I do have my fair share of gripes and nitpicks too. I’ll keep this in list form for the sake of simplicity.

Kufa having access to potions/medicines that can not only kick-start a mana-less person into having it, but one that can also turn half-Lyncrophyes back to humans opens up quite a few plotholes and issues. I’m sure the light novel and manga explain their existence better, probably something to the effect of them being extremely experimental and a deadly risk, but the anime doesn’t explain that and it can take you out of the story if you care about the world-building.

I feel like side characters like Nerva, Mule, and Salacha were suppose to get more screentime, or at least more development, but just didn’t due to the pacing and runtime. You get the basic idea of everyone, but it feels like the show wanted to do more with them, or at least that the source material probably did more with them.

The occasional moments fanservice don’t work too well in this series. It’s nothing to the level of Senran Kagura or Ikkitousen, but when your cast consist of mostly middle school aged girls the most fanservice that should be seen is a beach episode or a sleepover episode. And while this anime did have a sleepover episode it still also took time to put some of this girls in... compromising positions. My general rule of fanservice is that high school age characters doesn’t really count due to the wonky-ness of hormones act and how most media east and west tends to treat high school characters anyway, but middle school kids... yeah no. That’s just my morals, but it’s still a detractor from the anime.

The third arc kind of felt pointless since it tried to focus on Kufa’s relationship with Rosetti. I didn’t really need to know about Kufa’s past, and connecting it to Rosetti just... doesn’t feel right given how he dismissive treated her in the first arc. Making Rose a half-vampire was also pretty pointless to me. It feels like they were trying to give Kufa a harem when this show is mostly focused on Melida, and the most interesting part about his past is a mix of his life in the dark zone of the world and his past as an assassin, not his relationships with his apparent adoptive sister. It just felt... really focused and a waste of time. They could had cut out this arc, gave each other arc an extra episode to build up some things and be none the weaker for it.

The Dub

The nice thing about VRV is that I can see the HiDive dubcast along with the show. I only watched a handful of episodes, but here are my general throughts for those curious. Overall, the dub is fine, but like most HiDive Dubcasts it feels... off. Not bad, but it feels like they needed to be 4 or 6 weeks off the original release instead of 2 or 3 to get the director in the right place. I feel like most of the issues with this dub come from the direction and scripting rather than the actual voice-acting. But just to keep this short.

Kufa sounds too flat. This was a pretty common dubbing issue back in the early 2000s when trying to translate/localize a stoic, serious character. The director is probably trying to make the actor emulate the original Japanese voice acting and Kufa just sounds too flat and bored at times because of it. Most character like this tend to be given a more deadpan and sarcastic edge to them in English to make the have a little more emotion. In Japanese that flat tone is meant imply stoicism, resolve, and masculinity. In English... that’s just sounding flat and bored. Again, most characters like this are usually given a different kind of tone to keep them from sounding bored. For Kufa I’d say a more strict and stern tone of voice would help given he’s an instructor, almost like a even-toned drill sergeant issuing orders. He does sound like that from time to time when actually instructing, but I wish he kept that persona. Though that’s just my take.

Nerva and Rosetti... just don’t hit it for me. I don’t mind the difference in tone, but the script doesn’t lend itself to it. Rosetti’s actor makes her sounds much more like an adult in English, but her actual lines are still childish, which makes her come off as a little... cringe. Same with Nerva, but I’m willing to overlook it since she’s more of a side character anyway. Mule actually sounds pretty good in this regard. Her tone sounds less like a middle schooler and more like a young college woman, but since a lot of her actual lines has an air of condescending smugness it works out, though her actor sounds like she’s reading the script and not acting from it.

The scripting in general seemed to really want to follow the subbed version and it falls flat because of it. When I read the subtitles that take the world, systems, and general wackiness of this subpar anime so seriously it’s fine. But to actually hear it in a language I understand... it kinda’ shows how lacking the series is. I’m not saying they should had added jokes or anything, but it feels like they could had made the dialogue a bit more casual than it was in the subs so that the lines flowed a little better. HiDive dubs, their dubcasts especially, tend to feel like a product of the early 2000s rather than something current.

Thoughts and Recommendations

Overall I do recommend this series as a decent action show with some nice colors to it and a killer OP and ED, but there's a lot better I could recommend too that does everything this anime does but better.

So... here are a recommendations I have if Assassins Pride didn’t really click with you as much as you hoped.

A bit of an odd recommendation, but I’ll stick up Goblin Slayer first. This anime is actually a lot like Assassins Pride, being a character-focused story with decent side characters and does a lot of its world-building in the background. However, it does its arcs far better than Assassins Pride since they aren’t intrigue-based and the cast is solving much simpler problems in the grand scheme of things. It’s also an anime based off a light novel just to add to the similarities, and said anime also has four arcs to it. I will say this is a series that’s not for the faint of heart, and I almost recommend skipping episode 1 if you’re of a weaker constitution if you plan on watching this one.

Next up would be Chivalry of a Failed Knight. It does the combat school aspect of Assassins Pride much better, taking some strides to show that each of its students are, in fact, warriors capable of harming and killing others and going to a school to hone those skills. And if you that Melida was a ruthless fighter Ikki probably takes it a step further. And this is also another light novel adaptation, though the manga did technically finish its updates online if you’re curious. A side recommendation to this one would be Armed Girl's Machiavellism.

My last recommendation will be Katana Maidens. This is another combat school anime that I feel is honestly average, but it’s an anime-original series that has 24 episodes behind it, and quite a few decent action scenes. I recommend this one more to action junkies as I feel the story really starts to drag in the second half, but an overall decent series that does do itself world-building a little better than Assassins Pride, or at least I’m not asking as many questions at the end of it.

And those are my thoughts on Assassins Pride. Now I have a Rambling on video games to work on, so I’ll see you all later.

#assassins pride #your dictator is speaking

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lavieendonna · 5 years ago

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Brushwork || ArtMajor!Calum AU (Chapter 29)

Summary: An Art Major AU where Dallas - third year gawky art student at VCA - makes a deal with Calum - her cute new neighbour and project partner - and they spend the semester learning that the perfect masterpiece takes a whole lot of brushwork.

Date: 20 September 2019 Requested: no one cares Pairing: Calum + Dallas Words: 3.8K Warnings: none! Except that if you try to find my master lists, most of the links are all fucked up because I haven’t gotten around to changing my url links from lavieencalum to lavieendonna. soz. A/N: Christ on a cracker. It’s been.... literal months. But here is something to make up for it, although I know it won't. I already know that no-one reads this story any more so :) oh well. I just need to finish this for my own peace of mind. Anyway.

Big Love xo

Chapter 29: It Was A Wonder Why I Didn’t Just Hold A Press Conference, Answer Everyone’s Questions, Then Proceed to Blow My Brains Out in Front of Them All.

I’d not really taken notice of the time since I’d arrived at the cinemas earlier in the evening. Not that I was there to see a movie or anything, no I was still too broke for that. But the cinemas down the street from the student residence had a quaint little eatery upstairs near the theatres. It was kind of like being in a pub (without the middle-aged men telling me to get out if I wasn’t going to let them cop a feel in the bathroom) and almost a little hipster, even – especially considering the cocktails all had ridiculous names (I was yet to figure out what was inside an ��Illegal Alien’) and it served predominantly vegan (albeit delicious) food.

The Hideout was quiet and warm, and much more welcoming than either Bitters or The House. When I’d been laying around the apartment aimlessly feeling sorry for myself, I knew I needed to get out of the house and into a new space and this place had popped into my head. Calum and Ashton had brought Polly and me here once months ago, and though we’d had a great time we’d never come back. I wasn’t really sure why, because it never really came up in conversation either. It was just the kind of place that simply existed, almost like the way the four of us used to just exist.

It was almost kind of exciting working in my sketchbook and drawing in a new environment. There was soft jazz floating through the room and the coffee was better than anything anywhere on campus had to offer. There was something about the ambience that was putting me in the mood to just draw my dumb little heart out, and I didn’t really stop until the chick behind the bar wandered over for the first time since she’d delivered my last coffee over an hour ago.

“I think the last one went cold.” She offered a quirk of her brow and motioned quickly with her chin to the mug that sat on the table across from me still more than half full. She slid the new beverage onto the table next to the abandoned one, and sat herself down in the seat across the booth.

“Thanks,” I pursed my lips sheepishly, feeling as I melted slightly into the cushions of the booth and my cheeks burned a soft pink. “Sorry, I didn’t even realise I’d forgotten the other one.”

The girl shrugged but offered small crooked twitch of her lips which I guessed was supposed to be a smile.

“Don’t be sorry.” She said simply, but almost kind of firmly. “You were in the zone, I could tell. Something on your mind?”

It sounded like the kind of line she should be asking me over at the bar while she wiped down the counter with a dirty dish rag after sliding me a beer that I would drink in a heartbeat then follow up with so many more this girl would have to haul me out to the curb by the waistband of my jeans. Obviously, that wasn’t going to happen, but I couldn’t help but look at this girl and really feel like her job here at The Hideout was her calling. She really looked the part, her shaggy chestnut hair brushing her shoulders, the eyebrow piercing and the name badge that read ‘Rocky’ even though I was almost certain that wasn’t her real name. Her entire being just screamed ‘Mentoring Barkeeper’.

“I guess you could say that.” I said little vaguely, pulling the new coffee closing to me by the saucer and relishing in the taste. “Is it that obvious?”

Rocky made a face and I grimaced, knowing exactly what that meant.

“You’ve had the same crease in between your eyebrows since you walked in.” She said almost matter-of-factly, tapping the spot on her own forehead to make her point. I blinked and absent-mindedly reached for my brow.

“Really?” I practically squeaked.

“Don’t think too much about it.” She said with the hint of a wider smile twitching on her lips. “It makes it worse.”

“Oh, God.” I muttered other unintelligible things while Rocky chuckled lightly, though she looked thoroughly amused.

“What’s got you troubled?” Rocky asked again with a slightly tilted head. I sighed, pursing my lips. “Actually, let me guess.” Rocky’s face shifted, her mouth forming a small ‘O’ as her eyes narrowed on me and a glimmer of mischief flashed through dark irises terrifying me slightly. “This is about a boy.”

I blinked dumbly.

“How… How could you tell?” I asked, not even bothering to be ashamed and just genuinely impressed by Rocky’s observational skills. The girl offered me a slight, one-shouldered shrug and gave a smug smile.

“It’s a talent of mine.” She said matter-of-factly. “My theory is that I was clairvoyant in a past life.”

“You believe in reincarnation?” I couldn’t help but arch my brow incredulously. “And clairvoyance?”

“No.” Rocky deadpanned with a one-shouldered shrug. “But it hasn’t been overly busy in here lately so I have to amuse myself somehow.”

I laughed and Rocky grinned at me, mischief being replaced by a softer, more comforting expression before I sighed yet again – which made a lot of sense, considering my entire life up to this point was just one big sigh.

“I have no idea how to fix this.” I admitted glumly, and as I reflected on my own words I was beginning to realise that this was the first time I’d officially and whole-heartedly admitted that out loud. And it was to a complete stranger, no less!

“What happened?” Rocky asked. “If you don’t mind my asking, that is.”

I had to stop myself from physically groaning at the inquiry. I was so over telling this story. Between my mother and my sister and Polly and now this girl – it was a wonder why I didn’t just hold a press conference when everything went down, answer everyone’s questions all at once then proceed to blow my brains out in front of them all.

I must have made a face that conveyed that entire thought pattern because Rocky’s hands went up, palms out as if in surrender.

“No, sorry. I get it.” She said softly. “You don’t have to tell me. I mean it’s not like you know me.”

“It’s not that,” I said immediately, even though that was (in part) a lie. “I’m just… this all started because I have a big mouth, that’s all.”

Rocky nodded slowly, but after a moment she leaned forward slightly and offered a calm, though slightly stoic, pursed-lipped half-smile.

“Look, I know we really don’t each other at all, and I gotta be honest, like, if the roles were reversed I probably would have told you to piss off by now.” I snorted and Rocky smiled too. “But you haven't done that, which means that whether or not you have a big mouth, you’re a good person. And you seem open to help, regardless of who it comes from.”

I had to sit and let Rocky’s words sink in for a moment while I took a long sip of my drink. Like she said, she was a total stranger, and yet she was under the impression that I, Dallas Noel James, was a good person. I couldn’t pinpoint why that meant so much to me, but it did.

“How do I show Calum that?” I found myself asking quietly. “How do I show him that… that I want his help? Like… specifically.”

Rocky seemed to stare at me for what seemed like longer than necessary, and for a moment I felt completely and utterly stupid for stooping so low as to ask someone I didn’t know for advice. I watched as a small frown formed between her shapely brows.

“His name is Calum?” She asked kind of dumbly.

“Uh… yes?”

Not for the first time since I’d arrived at The Hideout, Rocky narrowed her eyes at me, clearly deep in thought. “Huh.”

I blinked at her, kind of confused about how she managed to only take that away from my very genuine question.

“Why, uh… why do you ask?” I questioned when Rocky failed to elaborate on her ‘huh’. She tilted her head, right hand finding her chin while her eyes narrowed further.

“He wouldn’t happen to be, I don’t know… like six-foot-something? Dark hair, loads of tatts? The tall Māori kid, what’s-his-face… Hood!”

I couldn’t help the slightly creeped-out side-eye I gave Rocky as she described Calum to a T.

“Uh… yep. That’s… that’s him.” I said suspiciously. Rocky’s brow un-furrowed as realisation flooded her eyes and this kind of all-knowing smile finding plump lips.

“I should have known you were the girlfriend.” She said, almost proud that she’d put two and two together. “He was in here like a week ago telling me a very similar story.”

“Um…” I gulped, a shiver travelling up my spine though I wasn’t sure if it was because she knew who Calum was, because she’d now figured out who I was and what I’d done, or the fact that she’d just referred to me as ‘The Girlfriend’. “Did… Is that what he said I was? His… his girlfriend?”

Rocky gave a light-hearted chuckle and shrugged.

“More or less.” She said vaguely with a casual wave of her hand. “But that’s beside the point.”

“It is?” I squeaked out and Rocky nodded.

“It is.” She repeated. “The point here, Dallas,is that you two are both clearly meant for each other.”

“Uh… I mean… um.” I stammered for a minute, almost thinking that I’d misheard her. I understood every word of Rocky’s sentence separately, but it was like the order she chose to put them in was completely foreign to me. Not to mention, I hadn’t even told her my name yet which meant she’d definitely heard it from someone – that someone being Calum.

“Hang on, how do you know Calum again?” I asked, partly because I was stalling so I could come up with something to say in response to Rocky’s statement, and partly because I was still really confused about her role in this.

“Oh, Cal buys my patches on Etsy.” She said as if it was supposed to be obvious to me that she sold patches on Etsy. “His sister has a jacket for them and I’m pretty sure they’re mostly mine.”

The jacket I borrowed from Mali that I’d worn to the Showcase came to mind and suddenly everything made sense. Calum told me himself, Mali knew someone who made custom jackets and he knew someone who made patches – and as it turned out, Calum’s someone was Rocky.

“Oh. Right.” I found myself saying carefully, nodding slowly and taking another sip of my drink that was, much like the last one, ever-so-slowly getting colder and colder. “Right, yeah, that… that makes sense.”

“Are you alright?” Rocky asked with an arched brow. “You look kind of… green.”

“I’m…” I did what I could to laugh. “Yeah, that’s kind of normal for me these days.”

“Is it what I said?” She asked, softer now. “About you and Cal?”

“No, no, it’s not that.” I ensured her, shaking my head quickly. “I just…” I looked at Rocky, almost with a bit of hope. “Do you really think so? What you said about us?”

Rocky didn’t say anything, though she did give me that small crooked smile of hers again and nodded once.

It took a few moments, but slowly I let myself smile back a little.

Rocky’s eyes flickered down to the workbook I was slaving over, her smile disappearing as she gestured with her chin to the piece I’d been working on all afternoon.

“Whatcha working on anyway?” She asked, and although I felt good about our conversation about my predicament, I was glad for the change of pace.

“Oh, um.” I looked down at the sketch, the wings of the butterfly not quite finished yet. It was nice, I guessed, but there were eraser shavings all over the page still. “It’s just… I don’t really know, actually. It was supposed to be a design for a tattoo but it’s, uh. It’s not done yet.”

I leaned back away from the book so that Rocky could lean forward, and I watched as she reached forward and pulled the book closer to her. She gave a small chuckle, nodding with what looked like an impressed expression.

“The rubber shavings make it look like that half of it the butterfly is made of shattered glass.” She commented and I looked down at the page again, really trying to see what she could.

“Huh.” I almost mumbled out. “I guess it does.”

“This is wicked,” Rocky nodded at me approvingly as she flicked through the book’s pages slowly. “You are one amazing artist, you know that?”

“Ah,” I gave a humble shrug, a small pursed lip smile finding my lips. “I’m alright.”

“No, really.” She said seriously, pausing on a set of sketches and running her fingers delicately over the lines. I lifted my chin slightly and peered over the top of the sketchbook to see what had caught Rocky’s attention, my cheeks flushing pink when I realised that she’d found the very first drafts of the ballerinas we modelled the mural after. “These are… Jesus, girl, there are stunning.”

Rocky was practically speechless as she stared at the pages, turning each one so gently it was like she thought they might disintegrate at the touch. And I was speechless too; I almost couldn’t remember the last time I let somebody look at all of the work that was supposed to be only for me.

“They are, aren’t they?”

A new voice joined us in the booth, both Rocky and I looking up in a flash to see who it belonged to. Rocky beamed at the new addition, excitement glistening in her eyes as she greeted him and closed my sketchbook softly. I, on the other hand, did my best not to projectile vomit in my new friend’s face, and felt myself melt into the leather cushions in an attempt to become invisible.

“Ah, speak of the devil and the devil shall appear, am I right?” Rocky said cheekily. Calum laughed, though I could tell he was holding back on my account.

“Pretty sure you’ve been here all along, Rock.” He shot back and Rocky’s mouth formed a small ‘O’ as she feigned offense.

“I prefer the term diavola, actually.” She said very concisely, though her smile was wicked and playful.

“More like Satan’s Mistress.” Calum snickered, and even I couldn’t help the snort that forced its way through my throat. I immediately regretted the noise, too, because it meant I was no longer invisible – not that I ever was – and Calum’s attention turned to me.

“Hey, D.” He said carefully with the tiniest hint of a smile I’d ever seen him offer anyone. With a quick, terrified glance at Rocky (namely, my only support system at this exact point in time), I gulped like my life depended on it before pursing my lips together in a very similar, tiny, tiny smile.

“Cal, hey…” I said, although it was hoarse and half-choked because my throat had spontaneously gone dry. I cleared my throat, and while I was feeling almost confident for a split second and thought I might actually be able to get out the words I’d been dying to say, it all disappeared in an instant and I was overridden with fear once again. “I, um. I was just… leaving.”

“No, she wasn’t.” Rocky interjected loudly, making me jump a little and turning Calum’s initial disappointed expression into an incredulous arched brow. Rocky wasn’t bothered in the slightest, she just shuffled herself out of the booth and somewhat pushed Calum into her place. “I’m gonna go get you guys some milkshakes. Calum, usual?”

Calum gave a stiff nod and Rocky almost floated away, oblivious to the shitstorm McFlurry she’d just created and left behind, or – and this was more likely – she was aware and she didn’t give a shit at all.

There hung an awkward silence in the air that Rocky left behind, neither me or Calum knowing what to say. I did what I could to avoid eye contact, but eventually I let my gaze wander to his face and, lo and behold, he was already looking at me.

“It’s, uh. It’s Strawberry, right?” I spluttered out like an idiot and, as suspected, Calum’s brow lifted.

“What?” He asked with a slightly amused chuckle. I cleared my throat again because I could just feel the moisture leaving me from the inside out, but also because I needed a hot second just get a grip.

“The milkshake.” I said with a little more conviction. “You usually get strawberry.” I decided not to ask him this time and just point it out. And, apparently, it was the right move. Calum smiled gently and it took everything I had in me not to melt at how much I missed that.

“You remembered.” He said, impressed.

I shrugged, stealing a glance over to the counter across the way where Rocky was still eyeing us up as she made our drinks painfully slowly. I watched as she made a face before turning her back to us, giving Calum and I what little privacy she was willing to give us. My face flushed pink and for a moment it was almost like Polly was still here.

When I turned back to Calum he looked, not exactly troubled but like he was waiting for me to be the one to mention the elephant in the room. I gave a small sigh because even I knew that it was the right thing to do. I didn’t want it to be, but there was rarely a time in my life where I got what I wanted anyway so I bit the bullet and did what I could to gather some kind of sentence that resembled every last thought I’d had for the past few weeks.

“Listen, Calum,” I breathed out, and Calum perked up at the sound of his name like he’d missed the way I said it or something so equally as cliché that it belonged in a Nicholas Sparks novel. “I want… no, I need to apologise.”

“You were upset, Dallas,” Calum was already trying to defend me and I wish I surprised by that but I just wasn’t. “All of the things you said… I don’t blame you for that.”

“You should blame me for that.” I half-scoffed. “I said some shitty things to you, Cal. But that’s not what I’m apologising for.”

“It’s not?” He asked and I shook my head.

“No.” I confirmed. “No, I… I pushed you away. And not even just a little, like, I tried to throw you out of my life. And I can’t even begin to tell you how sorry I am for that.”

Calum’s smile that he gave was warm and understand and everything I didn’t deserve after what I’d put him through. And it made my bottom lip quiver, but I refused to sob. Because I was better than that.

“D, you don’t have to be sorry.” He said softly, his hands finding the surface of the table like he was thinking about reaching for me but wasn’t too sure if he should just yet. “I get it, it was a crazy time –”

“I do need to be sorry, Calum.” I interjected a little more aggressively than I had intended, but I think the desperation was clear in the way that my voice jumped an octave half way through the sentence. “I’ve spent the last three years stuck inside my own head and too debilitated by my own fear to see that when things went wrong in my life, it was my own fault. I convinced myself that I was no good at anything so it couldn’t possibly have been my fault that things blew up. You were right, Cal. I was full of shit. And you were only trying to help me through it but I… I pushed you away. And I’m… I’m so sorry for that.”

Usually this was the moment that Calum would get up and sit next to me, hold me close and tell me that it was going to be okay and that he was going to stick by me anyway. But he didn’t. He just looked at me a little sadly, patiently waiting for me to go one. Because he knew I wasn’t even close to done.

“You scare me.” I felt myself saying, and I didn’t even mean to but it tasted like the truth in my mouth. Calum’s eyes widened in confusion, though he didn’t look hurt.

“What?” He almost chuckled. “How? Why?”

I laughed now, though it was more of a reflex.

“Because!” I said dumbly. “You… you make me feel like there’s nothing wrong with me. Like I’m not a complete mess.”

“But you’re not,” He said, eyes narrowing at me slightly as if his statement was supposed to be obvious. “You’re, like, a regular mess. A standard, average mess for our age group in the twenty-first century.”

Brown eyes glistened through a cheeky grin and I laughed, though there were tears on my cheeks. That being said, I wasn’t upset. I wasn’t actually sure I could identify the emotion that I was feeling, all I knew was that there was something liberating about being able to talk to Calum again.

“It’s just that, for a while there…” I gave a small sigh, my gaze dropping. “Being a mess was all I knew how to be. And when you came along and made me feel normal… I didn’t know how to be that. How to be… what you wanted.”

When I looked up again, Calum was getting up and sliding himself into my side of the booth to sit next to me, one arm sneaking around my shoulders as he smiled gently.

“It’s okay, D.” He said softly. “You’re already everything I wanted, and you don’t need to try so hard to be perfect. Because you are so, so great.”

A smile slowly finding its way across my lips, warmth spreading through my chest so much it felt like I might burst. I could feel the butterflies in my stomach fluttering with excitement, Calum’s lips inching closer and closer to mine.

Somehow this moment in time was simultaneously fondly familiar yet excitingly new all at once. It was kind of like living in a dream, only one of those lucid ones where you’re fully aware of your surroundings and have the power to change it.

That’s what it felt like, having Calum’s lips press against mine again. It felt powerful.

“Aw, well would you look at that.” Rocky’s voice was followed by two relatively loud thuds on the table, scaring the living daylights out of me. “As my Nonna would say; l’amore vince sempre.”

The girl pushed two milkshakes towards us, one strawberry and one chocolate. My cheeks were still flushing a brilliant red as I melted into the seat yet again, Calum rolling his eyes but still chuckling as he reached for the drinks.

“Always one for subtlety, Rock.” He sighed before looking back at me with glimmering brown eyes.

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ticklefits · 5 years ago

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Distant Yearning

AO3 LINK !

the adventure zone : balance | taagnus | words : 5364

summary : Magnus remembers Taako acting a little weird about something and it got him curious enough to ask about it, much to Taako's embarrassment.

“Hey, pst, Taako -- you up?”

It has to be at least two in the morning when the soft, yet audible rumble of vocals belonging to Magnus pierces the late night silence of the room. Unsurprising, Taako is awake, albeit not by choice ( insomnia’s a real burden ). Merle and Robbie, stationed messily underneath their blankets, remain in sound deep sleep; made obvious by the occasional gargantuan snores that drag from the dwarf’s mouth and the smaller ones from Robbie. At first, Taako ignores Magnus’s call, opting instead to stare at the nearest wall within the room’s darkness, groggy and somewhat agitated from the lack of a much needed repose. It’s only when the warrior addresses him again, and then a third time, that Taako raises his upper frame with the support of his elbows, leaning over the side of the wooden frame that separates each bed, to peer down into the bottom bunk and hisses out “Mags, it is two in the goddamn morning."

Magnus seems to stiffen at that, instinctively delivering an apologetic smile to the smaller elf . “Yeah, ah, my bad, but listen, something’s been weighing pretty heavy on my mind for awhile and it has to do with you.”

Those words alone cause the contents of Taako’s stomach to churn, a sense of anxiety already beginning to creep from the recesses of his mind. He forces himself to sustain his semi-irritated expression and conceal any display of how that singular sentence is already making him sweat with anticipation of what Magnus is going to say.

“...Well? Ain't got all night my man, spill the tea already.” Taako urges, all too impatient to hear what is so goddamn important about himself that Magnus couldn't have kept this in until a decent hour -- namely no sooner than noon .

The larger man's visage contorts in an expression that reads half curiosity and half apprehension, as if he has abruptly decided that maybe he shouldn't have mentioned anything at all. It's too late for that though; he's got Taako's nerves whirling around like flies at a summer barbeque and if he doesn't come out with it already, it's very plausible that Taako will end up forcing it out of him one way or another. He carries his own chest of secrets, the same as everyone else, and the fear that someone, somehow, might have unlocked it and discovered something detrimental about him, terrifies the absolute shit out of him. With another gesture of urgency, Taako finally persuades Magnus to continue on.

"Uh, okay, okay, well -- this might just be stupid, or I might've just been imagining things when it happened, y'know, 'cause lotsa stuff was sorta happening all at once and there was the void fish and it's great, big, everything and--"

"Magnus, you have one more chance - count it - one more chance to tell me whatever stupid thing you have to tell me before I put you back to sleep myself." But Taako did register hearing something about the void fish, which has only served to confuse him further. What could he possibly have to do with the void fish?

"Okay! Okay, okay, so… uh.. You remember when we first met Johann in the elevator? And he was super sad and I didn't know the reason why, but I wanted him to be happy like any ol' good citizen would?"

"... Yeaaah..?"

"So I tickled him." Taako has to clench the bed frame a bit to bite back a shiver at that word. " Normal reactions all around, except… I noticed you were acting a little.. Off?"

Oh gods. Oh gods. Oh gods. If Taako's suspicions and anxieties are true, then Magnus discovering this particular secret is probably one of the worst ones he could know. He delivers his best facade of indifference, simply nodding and allowing Magnus to continue - if he begins to act out again at the mention of it, it might set Magnus off.

"The first time, I was like, whatever, he's probably just weirded out, and that's fine, like that's definitely a Taako thing, but then when I did it again is when things kinda… I dunno, intensified maybe? That might not be the right word but."

The blond could only hope this was a dream. A horribly taunting dream where Magnus had unearthed one of his deepest secrets, that absolutely no one knew about him, that was so well concealed he couldn't even begin to piece together how someone could end up knowing unless Taako himself had screwed the pooch. He goes silent in his internal prayers for this all to be a scene of his imagination and hopefully, his insomnia will do its duty and kick in again, waking him before any additional embarrassment can rear its ugly head.

"You were fidgeting and looking away from Johann and I, but sometimes your eyes would flicker back to us, and then away again. I swear I even saw your lips twitching. And you had this look like you were… yearning? I dunno, like I said, it could be hella stupid and I could be reading way too much into things."

Quietude sustains from Taako, almost too far gone into his own thoughts and wishes for none of this to be reality, as Magnus single handedly picked apart every little subtle sign that Taako had unknowingly granted his vision with, as if the elf had lain daisies out for him to effortlessly pluck. If he were any less freaked right now, he could commend Magnus for his observational skills. Finally, Taako gulps down the lump that infiltrated his throat and constricted the breath he couldn't take while Magnus had been speaking, willing the sweat that was beginning to form at his temple to dry.

"I'm.. I'm pretty sure you're just grasping at straws, Mags. I was just.. Offput 'cause you… Did that to a total stranger." He bluffs, heterochromatic eyes rolling to attempt to emphasize his faux apathy towards the situation.

"Uh huh," Magnus hums, and his stare towards Taako is all of a sudden intense, as if peering deep beyond the lavender - jade of his irises, to see what the elf has hidden behind those long, thick lashes of his. "And so… what if I decided to do it to someone who isn't a total stranger?"

Taako's eyes widen. His breathing begins to cut short again and his toes curl under the blanket on instinct. What.. The hell is going on right now?

"What if I decided to tickle you?"

That's when Taako chokes. He chokes on fucking air, has to level himself after a brief, strangled coughing fit so as to refrain from waking up their other two roommates; the last thing the wizard needs is two extra idiots looking to embarrass him. His gaze returns to Magnus, incredulous in expression, with plump lips slightly agape and cheeks tinted in obvious roseate hues. It's been at least two minutes and he hasn't delivered any sort of response other than nearly asphyxiating himself on oxygen out of sheer surprise of the fighter's words. What's the point in even saying something like that? To get a reaction out of him? To cause him more chagrin than he's already suffering with? He doesn't possess the spoons to ask Magnus that question right now, especially with the way that amber eyes maintain that focused gaze on him -- Taako meets his line of sight for a second and instantly regrets the decision.

Butterflies assault the insides of his stomach, making it nigh impossible to look Magnus in the eye right now. Could he have… the same thing Taako has? Despite Taako's palpable discomposure in regards to it, he knows that while it isn't exactly a common thing, it also isn't something totally outlandish - especially compared to some of the other kinks has been unfortunately exposed to. His blush darkens against his will, finally, slowly, providing a verbal response to his still waiting companion.

"You… um.. Why would you even..?"

Magnus' features revert back a little bit, growing soft and curious once again. "Because… I'm kinda the same, I guess? It's kinda been a thing for me for awhile. I'm assuming it's like that for you too."

"I… I-I gotta say Magnus, I'm learning a lot more about you than I thought I would and that I think would rather not know." But there's bemusement in those words; a signal that means Taako doesn't really mean what he says. At least, not all of it. Magnus only releases a small, deep chuckle and shrugs his broad shoulders.

"I guess it'd be easier to say, that I couldn't really help myself when I started noticing the signs you were putting out. You have some really.. Kinetic energy. It was like… I could feel some sort of invisible pull from you."

That only darkens Taako's freckled cheeks even more. This entire conversation has been nothing but one giant trip for him , what with Magnus not only discovering his inclination for tickling but even bringing how own desire for it to light. What's even more wild? Magnus definitely wants to tickle him -- his eyes proved that he was practically hungry for it, and gods, Taako can still feel the goosebumps decorating his flesh from the sheer magnitude of the fighter's earlier peer. On one hand, this could be terrible. Sure, he and Magnus have some sort of weird, unspoken chemistry between them and it shows when they interact with each other. Magnus is steadily learning how to handle someone like Taako and it's crazy, Taako thinks, but at the same time, a… comforting sort of thought? On the other hand, Taako has been in the worst craving moods ever since he witnessed Magnus and Johann. Even before that, the elf would be burdened with the occasional craving and have no way of relief. Magnus could… maybe… become that outlet, and if what the other says is true, then Taako, could do the same for him in return.

Yet and still, he and Magnus have a long journey ahead of them and still many paths to cross and situations to deal with it… this sort of thing is more than just a silly prank or a playful way to tease to Taako. It's a very personal and intimate extension of himself, something not another soul has shared with him. Until this burly, dog loving dork anyway… and perhaps, this some kind of a sign.

A sign that his life is, finally, starting to shine brighter than he thought it could.

After what felt like hours of mulling over the thought, Taako speaks again. "... You know this isn't just some childish shit for me, right? It's the real deal." Without truly thinking about his actions, Taako's eyes flash at Magnus and are granted the same stare that he had earlier in return. " ---- Think you can handle that?"

Magnus had wondered for the longest time if he had overstepped his boundaries by his exposure and request, up until Taako's rebuttal of a challenge and suddenly, his fingers were twitching, apexes heating up with the urge to touch and stroke. Imaginably, his intentions in the beginning had been somewhat selfish -- but can he truly be blamed? For a gorgeous wildcard like Taako to have any semblance of submission towards a kink like this, especially one shared by him as well, it's honestly astounding. How can Magnus pass up this chance? It would be a whole crime to do so.

"I think the real question is if you can handle me." He shoots back and with the way Magnus' lips curl at the corners into an eager half smirk, Taako could melt into the mattress right on point. It's been much too long since someone was able to instill in him such avidity -- Magnus managed to do so in a one single sentence. At this point, he really isn't leaving Taako much of a choice.

".. I'd say tomorrow, but since it's already tomorrow Magnus, later today then. We'll see how good you are."

A chuckle breaches from Magnus, but he nods in agreement, "Looking forward to it," and with that, slinks back under the cover of the wooden frame of his bunk, leaving Taako to his own thoughts, whilst he too crawls back into his own bed -- though neither of them actually get much sleep from that point on.

The first sight of dawn rises over the horizon and a percentage of the b.o.b rises with it, including merle and robbie, neither of which find it especially necessary to wake their other two roommates for breakfast just yet and end up leaving them alone in the room. Magnus is the first to wake, groggily with a rugged yawn as he exits the bunk and stretches as far as his limbs will allow, animating refreshed muscles and joints. Upon renewed awareness, the fight distinctly recalls the conversation he had with Taako hours prior and his fingers suddenly flex on instinct, cheeks heating up if only for the realization that this was actually going to happen. Circling around, his gaze settles on the still sleeping wizard, observing him with a softness to his eyes that Magnus has yet to see another with; he seems so peaceful when he’s actually sleeping… beautiful, even. Magnus can peer at him up close and see just how long his lashes really are, how his freckles are bunched together on the bridge of his nose, but spread out over his cheeks and just keep going, covering his skin in various areas and varying degrees.. It appears so soft and smooth, and thought of being granted the opportunity to touch it as thoroughly as he will soon is enough to make his fingers flex again, impatiently this time, forcing him to hold back a chuckle at himself.

The need for a distraction is strong, so Magnus busies himself with dressing and locating the mess hall to gather up consumables for himself and for Taako too, considering he figures neither will be leaving the room much today. A short conversation with Merle and Robbie transpires, inwardly flushing relief when the two mention they have their own businesses to attend to and probably won’t be back for awhile. Magnus gives an acknowledging goodbye without telling either of them much of his and Taako’s affairs of course, and begins his tread back to the room with as much subtle swiftness as his large self can manage.

When Taako finally rouses from slumber, he yawns and stretches high, slender digits rubbing lightly at his eyes to rid them of sleep crust and adjust to the bright morning rays. With a lazy gaze around the room, he hoists himself up to look over the frame and comes to witness Magnus on the floor, setting out a few breakfast pastries and savory treats on two trays. He senses eyes on him and glances up to Taako, who in lieu gives him a wriggly - fingered wave, making Magnus smile and gesture for him to climb down. Taako nods and wastes no time in doing so, definitely perusing the food as his stomach growls in desire. Once out of bed, he sits cross - legged in front of the tray that isn’t already in front of Magnus and begins to chow down on what catches his eye. Magnus does the same, inviting a comfortable, though temporary silence between the two.

“Sooo…” Magnus begins once they’ve both finished their meal, unable to really look at one another in the eye, “Food was good.”

Flaxen gold locks sway lightly with Taako’s nod, smoothing out the wrinkled chiffon of his sleepwear, “..Yeah. Pretty good.”

It’s another few minutes of silence, before Magnus scoots himself around and closer to Taako, immediately invoking a settlement of heat to color the blond’s cheeks in anticipation. “Listen… I don’t wanna make you any kind of uncomfortable, Taako. This all sprang up pretty fast, so if you don’t want to do this, we definitely don’t have to and can act like last night didn’t happen if that’s what you want.”

That definitely isn’t what he wants; not in the slightest. The awkwardness that plagues the air around them isn’t exactly due to the coming act itself, but mostly from Taako’s own insecurities and the fear of vulnerability that approaches with this sort of thing. He trusts Magnus enough.. That isn’t the issue. He needs to be able to trust himself not to ruin something good before anything even occurs. A sigh through his nostrils breaks the impending tension that had been building while Magnus patiently waited for Taako’s answer, legs scooting so that his entire body faces the other and with a quick once over of Magnus, he extends both arms and offers them to the fighter. Magnus pauses, giving off a confused stare until he slowly lifts his own arms and mimics Taako’s motion with a small tilt of his head. A roll of his eyes ensues, but at least Magnus’ clueless has an amusing charm to it -- especially right now, helping to further evaporate some of the rigidity of the situation.

“No, dork -- touch me.” Taako lays his arms within Magnus’ open palms and the reaction from Magnus is immediate: a small “oh” sound, as if surprised, and a realization from his earlier ponderance does in fact conclude that Taako has really.. really soft skin. Unlike Magnus’ own flesh, which is scarred and calloused from his days of carpentry, to the battles of current times. Taako probably notices this too, from the thoughtful expression that perked his features once he actually felt Magnus’ fingers close around his smaller wrists. They remain like this, Magnus’s hands wrapped around Taako’s arms like loose handcuffs, simply getting a feel for his skin and determining a course of action. While brushing up the underskin of his arms, Taako squirms and a little whimper pulls from his throat before he realizes it. Magnus definitely takes notice of that reaction and repeats his action, watching with a blossoming delight at how Taako squirms a little bit harder that time and has to bite his lip to capture the noise before it leaks out again; however, it’s a little too late for that and timidness is suddenly out of the door.

Before Taako can truly register what happened, he discovers himself with the seat of Magnus’ lap, ample hands positioning themselves on his sides but haven’t dug in. Rose paints over freckled cheeks again, daring his eyes to rise and look at him questioningly, but words don’t come to formulate a verbal response. Magnus simply smiles down at him, half apologetic and half joyful. “Sorry.. I’m really trying to be patient, but you’re already killing me here.”

Even with the advantage of their positions, Magnus is still polite, respectful in his own way despite his seemingly growing impatience. Taako actually finds it really cute, endeared by the duality of the fighter’s morals. He relaxes against the other’s chest then, a signal to Magnus that he’s comfortable enough to permit him to do as he pleases (within reason) and Magnus isn't about to let the chance go to waste. Therein, his fingers commence their dutiful exploration, spidering along Taako's sides gently while moving in an ascending and descending motion. Taako's reaction is instantaneous, with choked giggles leaking from between plump lips that he binds in a tight line, attempting to keep the budding laughter captive within the hollows of his cheeks and throat -- obviously this doesn't pan out the way he had hoped. Especially when Magnus treads further south and hits a rather sensitive area: the sections of flesh at Taako's hips that separates meat from muscle, which has him squirming almost frantically and the giggles that bubbled from his chest, already amplifying into soft , full on belly laughter.

"M-Mahahagnus -- wait, wahahahit! Nohoho -- nooohohohot theeehehehere!"

"Not there? Not there… Oh! Oh, you mean, right here?" Magnus teases, delivering impish squeezes to each hip and earning the reward of a high pitched squeal from the elf writhing in his lap. It's invigorating to know that they've only just begun and Taako is already unraveling at the seams by his hands. Though momentary, he ponders whether the wizard's prior challenge was one of bluff, lack of experience, or he's so reactive simply because he truly is that sensitive. Whatever the case may be, Magnus is certainly soaking in every wriggle and giggle that blesses him.

"Aaahaa-! Mmmahahahaha, n-nooohohoho, stop, stahahahap!" Taako squeals while he continues to flail about, only to release a small squeak of surprise when Magnus does halt his tickling and glance up at him, a shy "I didn't actually mean that--" on the tip of his tongue, but the larger interrupts him before speech can form.

"Sorry, hold on, I should've asked before we started, I got carried away -- have you thought of a safeword? I know that when you say things like stop or no, you don't actually mean them, & that's fine and all, but I'm the type of guy that needs to have communication so I know when to really stop." He even temporarily removes his hands from Taako's hips, at which a whine leaks from the smaller's lips from the loss of contact.

"Um… if I'm being honest? No. I've never really had a need for one before now, I guess." Slender shoulders shrugged nonchalantly, his skin prickling with impatience at the continued lack of Magnus' fingers tickling away. The aforementioned fighter nods, a glaze of thought spreading over his features for a minute or so. "Alright… So, take a minute to think one up real quick. Then we can continue."

A whine nearly slips from Taako's lips at that, but he fathoms the importance of having a safeword for stuff like this. He can already tell from the concise amount of tickling Magnus has enacted so far that he'll definitely need one if things become too overwhelming. Additionally, Taako wholeheartedly appreciates the concern for his well-being. "That's a very Magnus thing of you to do." he teases him a bit, before actually mulling over what word to use. "Hm.. Ah.. Let's just use milk. Easy to remember, not stupid enough for me to be too embarrassed to call out."

Magnus smiles and as if in reward, plants his hands back upon the wizard's sides, beaming a little brighter when said wizard squeaks and rattles in his lap a little from the returned contact. "Sounds good to me. I'm gettin' back to it now." With that warning, thick extremities dig back into the skin of Taako's sides, garnering a prompt explosion of giggles and squirming once again. Even though Magnus hasn't done much yet, Taako's already gone extra sensitive, with little ripples of electricity riding his skin with every stroke and dip of the fighter's skilled fingers, causing Taako to actually wonder what he's gotten himself into.

"M-mmmahaa-! Mahaahahahahagnus, plehehehehease!"

"Pleeeease what? Change spots? Gladly." He's all too curious about the rest of Taako's body; even decided on a game -- a probably evil game, appropriately named: Find the Death Spot. To keep the elf from guessing his movements or next location, Magnus has one hand poking and prodding all over the expanse of his torso, while the other acts more strategically, utilizing claw rubs and squeezes to better assess Taako's sensitivity in that area. That hand hoists up from his hip, marking tickles along the way until Magnus reaches the top of his ribs and Taako absolutely loses it.

"N-no! Nonononohohoho! Oh gohohods, shit-! Shihihihihit, not thehehehere! Ah! Ahahaa--!" Taako's mouth hangs agape as laughter pours through like an even water flow, ringed hands pushing at Magnus' own halfheartedly, but the safeword never comes despite the rest of Taako's pleas, so Magnus simply attaches both hands that sweet spot and goes to town for a bit. In lieu, Taako tries to curl up and pull his knees to his chest to protect his ribs, but all that really does is trap the other's fingers in there, allowing him to work undisturbed by the elf's own attempts at pushing his hands away. He squeals when Magnus seems to punish him for his mistake by poking in between as many ribs as he can reach until Taako has to let his knees down so that Magnus can move positions -- if he even does.

"Y'know, it's pretty cute that your ribs are this ticklish. I think next time, I'll play them like piano keys and make you a fun little song. ~ ' The tease is completely dreadful and it brings a new splash of pink to Taako's cheeks, ears, and neck, to which Magnus is totally delighted to see. His laughter only seems to raise in pitch and volume with each passing minute; Taako hadn't the slightest idea that Magnus was this good! Honestly, who the hell has he been practicing on to be able to bring someone near to tears like this? It was wholly unfair, especially if you count in the fact they've only been at this for about ten minutes -- Taako had planned on making this last as long as he could manage, but with the tickling competence that Magnus is effortlessly dishing out right now, that wish isn't appearing very probable.

Magnus' chest suddenly rumbles with a curious hum and Taako knows that can't mean great news for him. He's trying to anticipate where and how Magnus will strike next, but he isn't granting him any hints, the big bully. His skin is on edge, zapped with extra ticklish just waiting for Magnus' fingers to act as conductors for the currents again; yet when all Taako receives are light spiderings over his stomach (enough to reignite his squeaks and giggles), a foreboding sense of trepidation occurs, like the calm before the storm. He feels Magnus deciding to migrate from his stomach and gulps at the thought of him attacking his hips again -- only to realize that he isn't stopping there, and instead, rests the flat of his palms right atop the meat of Taako's thighs, wherein the elf's face flares with heat and long, pierced ears twitch perceptively, daring to observe what Magnus does next.

He can definitely feel Taako's eyes bearing down into the backs of his hands, just bracing for whatever he ends up doing. It's a powerful feeling and Magnus is soaking it all up with a grin brightening his features. However, he doesn't move his hands yet, simply keeping their positions steady while leaning closer to Taako's ear. "-- Is this alright? I don't wanna touch you anywhere you're not comfortable with."

The wispy strands of Magnus' sideburns only tickle the hypersensitive skin of his ears, forcing Taako to snap down on his bottom lip from the threat of an embarrassing squeal trying to burst from his mouth. After a few moments, Taako finally deems himself calm enough to answer, though completely refuses to even peek in Magnus' general direction; in fact, one of his own hands goes to promptly conceal half of his face as he succumbs to abashment anyway. " … Do what you gotta do my man. Pretty sure I'm handlin' you better than you thought I would, huh? Hope you got more tricks up your sleeve than that."

Magnus can't refrain from laughing softly at Taako's hardass front -- he pretty much fathoms that's all it is, considering how much the elf has melted into him from the way Magnus' fingers have treated him thus far. That's just another part of Taako's charm, and if he's being honest, Magnus thinks it's cute as shit. It makes his fingers itch for another opportunity to make Taako squeal and laugh and eat the sass-laden words he just spoke. He proceeds to do just that, hands springing back to life with soft squeezes to the tops of Taako's thighs that already send him into frantic giggles and squirms.

"S-Shi--! Shihihihihihit--!" His hands push at Magnus', yet seem to be pin them down upon his skin rather than off. The fighter can't tell if that was intentional or not, but he certainly is going to make sure that Taako feels every result of his action. He digs into the sides the wizard's thighs in circular motions, alternating between faster and rougher or slower and softer, all the while dishing out the occasional squeeze and Taako absolutely loses it.

"MahAAAHAHAHAHA!" His laughter breaks free like a cracked dam with too much pressure and finally overflowing; it's loud, pitch and octave raising to a level Magnus didn't know Taako could achieve (honestly, neither did he) and for a second, he's worried that someone may hear him and wonder what the hell was going on for him to be screeching like he is. But Magnus can't find it in himself to care all too much -- and you wouldn't either if you got to see the same sight as him: Taako with nearly his entire visage painted in hues of rose, flushed ears flicking about in what he can only assume to be excitement or overwhelm, plump lips broken apart with a wide grin that showed every single pearly white and the best part of it all? Taako is absolutely glowing, even more so than his beauty normally is. Anyone would be able to clearly visualize how much he's genuinely enjoying this despite his half-hearted pleas for the larger male to cease. It's enough to bring Magnus a blush of his own, never wanting any of this to end.

Yet, when Magnus swears he hears the strangled, half-laugh, half-whine of the word milk, he halts all movement, immediately moving his hands off of Taako and setting them on his own thighs. He's still smiling, but it's softer and more apologetic than anything. "You okay, tough guy?" He teases, his voice is so gentle, almost barely above a whisper while Taako gulps down excessively deep breaths, taking back the oxygen that was stolen with every note of his guffawing.

"D.. Don't patronize me, ahahasshole… This is gonna be your f-first and only.. victory…" Magnus is silent for a minute, simply soaking up the fruits of his labor while the aforementioned elf still continues to pull an act even while looking and feeling as ruined as he is; combat or pranks wise, Magnus would have had a real reason to honestly fear what Taako's threats would entail, but for this? The ex carpenter knows he has a pretty significant advantage. Still, it's just as cute as earlier -- Magnus is having trouble refraining from nuzzling into the top of his head, knowing that wouldn't end well for him. So he simply settles for the view, leaning back as Taako regains his bearings. "Next time won't be so easy for you."

"... Oh. So there's gonna be a next time, huh?"

Taako glances back at him as if his sentence wasn't spoken in common, "What, you thought you were gonna win a one and done? Not on your life buddy boy, better exercise those fingers up 'cause you're gonna be bowing with hand cramps to the unbreakable Taako next time."

Magnus covers his mouth on a laugh, rolling his eyes a bit. "Oh yeah, lookin' forward to that mess."

A yawn interrupts the unbreakable Taako's next statement, his hand reaching up to block the breathy sigh that leaks from his mouth. "Mmm… but, for now, as next time's loser, your punishment is to hold me while I nap.." Taako's yawn was apparently infectious, noted so as Magnus releases one of his own, suddenly too tired to protest or argue that it's probably not the best idea to sleep in the middle of the afternoon. He wordlessly follows the wizard as he lifts off of his lap and makes a wobbly trail to the lower bunk where Magnus sleeps, unceremoniously flopping atop the mattress and curling underneath the blanket, with the bigger adventurer sliding in behind him. He spoons up against Taako, curling an arm around his waist to snuggle into him better, to which Magnus hears a low, grumbly, "And no funny business Burnsides."

"Wouldn't dream of it," comes the sleepy reply, but Taako doesn't see the smile upon his lips or the fingers crossed inside of his mind.

#taagnus #magnus burnsides #taako #taako taaco #taz #tickling #tickle fic #taz balance #the adventure zone #taako the wizard

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dialux · 5 years ago

Text

they say we’re out of control and some say we’re sinners, ii

Good Omens, chapter two of the Aziraphale character study. Hope y’all enjoy!

Chapter Two: hungry little fool, but you were mine

...

we were born with nothing and we sure as hell have nothing now

...

Through a complex web of intermediaries, Aziraphale decides to meet Crowley in a little shop in Baghdad known for spicy bread and wonderful pistachio recipes[11] to welcome the twelfth century. Aziraphale actually gets there before Crowley; he orders himself a thick sort of soup and starts running through his mental catalog of wines that he knows Crowley’s stored away. The guessing of what he’ll get is almost the best part.

His eyes are closed when an arm closes over his shoulder.

“Angel,” says Crowley.

Aziraphale tilts his head to the side and smiles at him, takes in the sharp edge of his cheekbones that’s softened from the haggard cut of five years before. They both look much better, Aziraphale supposes, now that they aren’t in an active war zone.

“Crowley. It’s been some time.”

“Mmm. When was the last time we met?” There’s something glittering-amused in Crowley’s expression, an angle to his eyebrows, a smugness to his voice- that makes wariness curl down Aziraphale’s back. “Five years, I think. That mess up in Belgrade.”

“Oh, yes.” The wariness digs fine claws into Aziraphale’s spine. “I never did get the chance to ask you if you found those demons that were after you.”

“Never saw them again, actually.”

“That’s a pity.”

“Not really,” says Crowley casually. “Though I did hear a few strange rumors.”

“Did you?”

“And saw a few disciplinary reports... that don’t add up.”

Aziraphale smiles thinly back at him. “Hell’s not known for its paperwork, I’d think.”

“Hell does take notice when a few demons become discorporated, though. And especially when done as- completely- as happened to those two.” His lip curls. “Their bodies were so badly off, headquarters couldn’t fix ‘em. Had to burn them up. Apparently.”

“It was that bad?” Aziraphale asks, alarmed.

Crowley slouches into his seat, a jewel-encrusted goblet tipped far enough in his hand to dare the drink to spill. “Only... there was one strange thing.”

“Was there,” sighs Aziraphale.

“Those idiots kept babbling something about me doing the actual act. Which doesn’t make sense, because as far as I remember, I was sleeping in a ridiculously overpriced room while Belgrade was being sacked.”

Aziraphale folds his hands together tensely. “I’m sure your memory hasn’t gotten that bad, Crowley. Old age... there’s some newfangled ideas about training your brain that ought to come up in a few centuries that-”

“My memory hasn’t gotten bad at all, angel,” says Crowley amusedly. “Perks of being immortal.”

“Well, then, I don’t-”

“Did you steal my face?” interrupts Crowley, leaning further forwards.

His face is so intent- it feels like Aziraphale’s skin is being pared away, revealing all those terrible emotions running under it. He fights the urge to shift or do something even more moronic. Like throw his own goblet at Crowley’s head and disappear on another eighty-year sabbatical.

You cannot run away from all your problems, Aziraphale tells himself sternly, before he lifts his gaze to Crowley’s black-glassed ones.

“Just,” he says, “for a few hours.”

Sheer glee splits open Crowley’s face. And something else, chasing on its heels- something soft and wide and sharp.

“And it was borrowed,” corrects Aziraphale sharply, desperate to keep that expression from erasing all thought in Aziraphale’s mind. “Not stolen. It’s not like I went about wearing your face after that.”

“Wouldn’t’ve been a problem if you did.”

“Pardon me?”

Crowley flicks his fingers and picks up the decadently-decorated wine bottle he’s just magicked up, rolling it between his fingers carelessly. There’s a faint smile on his lips.

“I was just thinking,” he says. “What I tempt the humans into doing, you thwart. What you try to miracle into being good, I miracle into being bad. We, ah- cancel each other out.”

“We do our duty,” agrees Aziraphale.

The wariness is back. It prowls up and down Aziraphale’s back like a cat, digging claws and sweeping tails over his spine.

“But nobody down below knew that it was you,” says Crowley. “They couldn’t tell the difference between me doing something or you doing something. Demonic, angelic- it doesn’t matter. So long as the job gets done.”

“What are you saying?”

“We do the work they want us to do. But if it’s in the same city- at the same time- one of us can do both. Tempting and thwarting. Make it easier on both of us.”

“Slothfulness,” says Aziraphale, as scornfully as he can fit in. “And no.”

“No?”

“No!”

“How long have we been here?” Crowley asks, and angles his face to the side, glasses slipping the barest bit to reveal eyes golden as the sunset around them. Aziraphale shudders internally, and prays fervently that he didn’t make the physical movement to match. “Five thousand years, give or take a decade. How many days off have you had?”

Aziraphale swallows, hard. He reaches out and seizes the bottle. Pours it out. Then, glaring defiantly at Crowley- who looks far too entertained for the words coming out his mouth- he takes a too-large swig.

“None. Which you know.”

“I’m sure you’d like some, though. To go buy a book. To find the best restaurants. To... enjoy the new year.” His lips twist into a thin, long line. “We’ve been doing this only once a century because you don’t want anyone up there finding out what you’ve been doing, but what’s to say that anyone cares? Imagine it, angel- the same work, but half the time.” Crowley’s lips flatten, curve upwards. Not a smile, thinks Aziraphale desperately, hands too tight on the goblet. A smirk. “You going to call efficiency sloth?”

“Just because Hell doesn’t know doesn’t mean Heaven won’t,” Aziraphale points out, instead of thinking about the flash of Crowley’s teeth. He lets the old, familiar irritation surge through him. “And just because it’ll mean less work doesn’t mean it’s truthful!”

“Honesty isn’t one of your virtues.”

“Crowley.”

He spreads his arms. “Five thousand years. Has anyone come down to check up on you? They don’t care, Aziraphale. They don’t. Keep doing what they tell you to do, keep signing off on their forms, keep filling your quotas- they won’t care how you do it.”

“No,” says Aziraphale. He drains the wine and steals the bottle back, pouring another too-large portion again.

Crowley opens his mouth.

Aziraphale lets his own voice turn sharper. “No,” he says. “Enough. I’m done talking about it.”

"Angel-”

“A new century,” says Aziraphale, too-stern. He exhales once, short and forceful and irritable, then paints a smile back onto his face. “The twelfth century. Let’s enjoy this night, Crowley. We can talk about work later.”

For a long minute, Crowley doesn’t answer. Then a smile ripples across his face, like a stone through still water. “Tomorrow?”

“Why not?” asks Aziraphale. He takes a deep breath, and holds out the goblet. Waits for Crowley to clink it. “It can’t hurt.”

...

Aziraphale refuses Crowley three times after that.

He mumbles inextricable the first time, slurring the word just enough for it to sound like ineffable, and ignores Crowley’s consternation in favor of the kilishi laid out on his plate like little red discs. The second time, Aziraphale sobers himself up with a snap of his fingers and flees into the colorful crowd of a Plantagenet masquerade, trusting that Crowley will need at least a minute longer to follow him. But Crowley times the third request just perfectly to coincide with Aziraphale’s performance review of the fourteenth century.

Aziraphale refuses him in the morning and spends the rest of the day dodging Crowley’s increasingly petty attempts to catch his attention, ranging from leeks in his soup wriggling eerily like live snakes to a friar who tries to drag him into a church to discuss Original Sin. By the time he ditches the infuriatingly insistent friar and returns home he’s got little electrical sparks fizzling out from his fingers; when he opens the letters left on his doorstep, Aziraphale barely finishes reading the damned thing before it goes up in flames.

He hasn’t taken his hat off, or his shoes, or his gloves. Aziraphale turns around and strides straight back through London to catch up to Crowley, the charred remnants of the letter still clutched in his fingers.

Why should he go out of his way to thwart when Gabriel apparently still doesn’t understand the difference between the Black Plague and the Ten Plagues of Egypt? When Head Office still doesn’t understand they’ve affected a wholly different population in terms of place, people, and time? How can Aziraphale have faith in them when they’re so absolutely stupid?

“Fine,” he says, ignoring Crowley’s scrutiny [12]. “Have it your way. Once. And no more.”

Crowley waves his hand and a coin, wide and glittering and bright as his eyes shines between his fingers. “Alright, then,” he says, a smile like a sheathed sword on his lips. “Let’s do it.”

...

Once, twice, a dozen... does it matter?

...

In the Great Fire, Aziraphale is discorporated.

It’s accidental; he’s saving two sisters from a burning building when a piece of masonry crumbles down on his head. Aziraphale wakes in a clean, empty room with absolutely no pain. It’s the anger that propels him out of the room at first; anger at Head Office and the anger of a man who’s given everything to a cause only to realize it’s worth absolute jack shit to said organization. Aziraphale takes about three steps out of the heavenly clinic before he gets too tired for any sort of confrontation.

Nobody seems to notice or care that he’s not back on Earth already, so Aziraphale decides on a vacation- it’s been more than a thousand years since his last; he’s certainly overdue- and where better than Heaven? He’s toured Earth and is probably [13] banned from Hell, so he should enjoy this.

He hides out in the library for a few weeks until that gets boring [14]- and then he hangs out in the corners with the rest of humanity that’s merited a heavenly afterlife [15]. When he finally tires of that, he spends another couple weeks exploring the parts of heaven that they’d renovated while he wasn’t around. Within two months, Aziraphale’s about stir-crazy enough to finally head over to Gabriel and get his body back.

He lands in London.

The air is damp from rain and mold like always, but it’s not currently raining. Aziraphale makes his way through the city, admiring all the things that have changed in the two months he’s been gone. Five and a half thousand years and it took him two months to get tired of heaven all over again; two months and it feels like London’s grown seven inches to the left of where it had once been. The same, and subtly different, all at once.

The city is no longer smoking. It has healed over. People have settled back into their old lives.

Aziraphale sits down on a bench near the river to catch his breath. So much has changed. Too much. Two months. Just two months. He feels like a stone on a river, worn down smooth and featureless, unimportant, dislodged from its position for the first time in millennia and suddenly flowing along with the current. Aziraphale curls inwards on himself. He feels so- small.

Then he sees a black-clad figure, kneeling next to a little boy and holding out a piece of candy.

Heart leaping into his throat, Aziraphale lunges forward.

“Crowley,” he cries.

Crowley almost jumps into the air. Before he can turn around, Aziraphale’s there- he slaps at Crowley’s hands until he drops the candy. Crowley backs off immediately; Aziraphale can see him out of the corner of his eye and thinks Crowley looks like someone who’s stepped off a cliff but found solid ground under him, somehow, impossibly. Relief and shock and the anger at being so terribly foolish as to believe it a cliff in the first place.

There’s such immense emotion carved into his face that Aziraphale cannot bear it. He turns away and catches the wide, shining eyes of the boy, who’s looking more and more like he wants to cry.

“Here,” says Aziraphale as convincingly as he can manage even as all he wants is the boy to go away. “There you go, have another sweet.” He scowls at Crowley, and immediately regrets it; Crowley is fast regaining his equilibrium, but somehow still looks shaken. “One that isn’t demonic.”

The boy runs off to his parents, who glare at Aziraphale. And Crowley says, in slightly injured tones, “I wasn’t poisoning him, you know.”

Relief spreads through Aziraphale. At least- at least things are back to normal. When he glances at Crowley, the sunset’s illuminating his face so it looks softer than usual, blurred at the edges like candlewax melted over flame. It takes almost all of Aziraphale’s will not to let his hands shake.

“Then what were you doing?”

“Giving a child a sweet,” says Crowley dryly. “He tripped over my shoes. I thought it only-”

“-nice?”

“Someone’s had to maintain the balance around here. Especially after you disappeared.”

Aziraphale doesn’t flinch at that, but he does feel his lips depress into an involuntary grimace. “What?”

“They’ve been sending your regular notices for the past months. Your Head Office, I mean. One act of charity, please, and all that.” Crowley runs one gloved finger over the knuckles of his other hand, but he doesn’t look away from the river. “Bunch of self-righteous wankers, aren’t they?”

“Hmm.”

“Aziraphale?” He turns, just a little, and there’s flickering tension in his slender figure, whipcord-taut and as dangerous as a promise. “You disappeared for... a long time. I was- confused.”

So you decided to continue our Arrangement? Even when I just-

There hadn’t been anything in Aziraphale’s mind when he decided to walk out of the clinic in heaven and just explore. Just exhaustion and the desire for a vacation and the numb anger that came with the realization: five thousand years, and nobody cared if he did his job or not.

But Gabriel had been surprised.

Nobody had noticed he was gone.

Crowley had-

“I got discorporated,” says Aziraphale faintly. “In the fire.”

Crowley breathes in. His fingers convulse around his wrist, white. “Angel,” he says.

“I wouldn’t recommend it. Rather- painful. Not a good experience.”

“Angel.”

Crowley’s squeezing his wrist so tight it looks like it might well have been broken on a human. Aziraphale reaches out and places his hand over it; he watches as Crowley softens, just a little.

“I came back,” he says quietly.

“Come back quicker next time,” says Crowley, just as quiet. “I won’t always be there to do all your work for you.”

Aziraphale inhales. The smell is sharp- dampness like freshly turned over earth, and smoke like the ashes of the city surrounding them. The rain after a firestorm. Crowley, standing close enough for Aziraphale to feel the warmth of his skin. London, picking itself up, dusting itself off, readying itself for another long, long day.

He breathes out, and doesn’t remove his hand from Crowley’s wrist.

...

They do try to promote Aziraphale, his Head Office, eventually. He’s been doing good work; it’s only to be expected. It isn’t that Aziraphale isn’t entirely sure of how to answer, but when Gabriel backtracks a few hours later, Aziraphale doesn’t even bother to question him.

He sets out tea for Crowley the next afternoon, brewed with the use of a good three miracles to perfection.

Beside it lies a slender cloth, silvered and softened. Tussah silk, thinks Aziraphale, letting it puddle through his fingers. Thick but soft, and with little of the burrs that come with wool. Expensive, too, which he can only hope...

“Aziraphale?”

“Tea,” he says, turning away and letting Crowley settle into his customary position. “It’s ready.”

“I’ve some chocolates. From yesterday, but-”

“Oh, I’m sure they’ll be fine.” He’s too nervous. He’s over-compensating. It’s too much. But Aziraphale tilts his head and flexes his fingers and forces himself to calm. “What have you been up to?”

“No good,” says Crowley languidly. “Bit of tempting here, wiling there- deceiving angels and hoodwinking some terrible government officials... all in a day’s work.”

Alright, then, thinks Aziraphale. So that’s how we’re doing this.

“Of course,” he hums. “It’s what you do, isn’t it?”

Suspicion flickers across Crowley’s eyebrows. “You sure you’re alright?”

“Just fine.” Aziraphale hands him the cup and sinks into his own chair. He picks up the first chocolate he sees- dark and ribboned through with special caramel- and pops it into his mouth. “Absolutely fine.”

They graduate from tea to wine, and Aziraphale can feel the hours wheeling away around them, but he doesn’t care about any of it. He’s too warm and content, bones softened and lethargy swimming through his muscles. Chocolate and wine and the softness of a chair with two hundred years of use; Aziraphale is more content in that moment than he has been in years. He actually almost forgets to hand Crowley the silk when he gets up to leave.

“They made it wrong,” Aziraphale says airily, taking care not to let his fingers tighten on the cloth even as he sobers himself up as subtly as he can. “And it’s tussah silk, you know, very difficult to dye."

“So whattaya want me to do ‘bout it?”

“Keep it.”

Crowley stands there.

Aziraphale can feel himself flushing at that silence, at the awkwardness and terrible emotion- whatever it is, Aziraphale can’t be bothered to decipher any of it right now- in Crowley’s face. The cloth feels so- so pitiful, small and scant and so human, above all else, so human, to someone who is about as far from human as they can get.

But even all of that would be acceptable, if Aziraphale hadn’t gone out of his way to keep a cloth far darker than anything he’s ever kept in all his existence. He hadn’t thrown a fit at the shopkeeper, hadn’t asked for a replacement; just taken it from a seller in Shanghai more than fifteen centuries previous and kept it in a cupboard for no reason at all.

For no reason at all.

For absolutely no reason at all.

“Or not,” he says slowly, starting to fold it away, a glutinous liquid starting to crawl up his chest.

Crowley clears his throat. “No,” he says, sounding strange, like something’s caught in his throat, or he’s sobered himself up abruptly. “No, give it over. You know how I get cold in winter, and they keep saying this year’s going to be worse than the last. I can use it as a scarf.”

“It’s a bit lighter than-”

“Hand it over, Aziraphale,” says Crowley.

He does.

...

Crowley wears it after that. Incessantly [16].

He doesn’t thank Aziraphale, and Aziraphale doesn’t thank him, and none of it matters. There are no words, after all, to explain this. Trust in a person who reason says deserves none of it; faith in a person who’s been repulsed by God; mercy from a demon.

No words exist, and for all that Aziraphale loves books, loves reading- he’s content with this strange wordlessness. The ineffability of it. The brush of their hands, the twist of their lips, the sharp-tongued slide of their words, always meant to wound in the fashion of a thorned rose. Stinging but not deadly. Uncruel, and lovely.

...

Crowley asks for the holy water on a summer afternoon.

It’s simple; it’s almost the same place that Aziraphale had met him after getting discorporated. Ducks floating on golden water. London humidity, the air thick in his chest. The itch of the felt hat over his scalp, on just the wrong side of rough.

The fear is so alive in Aziraphale that he cannot breathe.

He walks away, and it takes him too long to remember that he is an angel. That he need not actually breathe. That magic is his birthright and fire is his blood and Crowley cannot take that away from him.

Is it taken? he wonders, pacing from front to back long into the night, long past the point at which the candles are extinguished, almost until the sunrise lightens the shop again. Is it taken, or is it given? And- and does it matter?

Aziraphale is an angel. He gets to want things. He gets to be...

He gets to imagine a world with Crowley, centuries and centuries upon centuries. A world without Crowley. A world sharper and colder and more dangerous. More colorless. Aziraphale does not like danger [17]. He likes steadiness. He-

He gets to want.

Crowley, gone? The thought spirals through his head like one of those little children’s wind-up toys. It’s unfathomable. So much of these last few centuries have been spent beside each other- not so much the ephemera of the millennia previous, where they’d met once every few hundred years and been so wary of even that- but that of old friends. They meet up, if they’re in the same city. Same area. Talk about work. Chat about old colleagues and terrible bosses and the commendations each have received from their respective sides. Share the best eating places. Wines.

“A backup plan?” Aziraphale runs a finger over a dust-free first edition of Dante. “I’m no fool.”

Aziraphale can do without a lot of things in life, for all that he has crafted an existence that holds those things dear; he’s done without wine in those centuries before humanity invented it, without sweets when it was too difficult or expensive to acquire, even without Crowley in those long decades between their meetings.

But Aziraphale has never existed without the promise of Crowley.

He has counted years in Crowley’s name, spent decades trying to forget him, passed countless moments staring at the stars and thinking of him in the place of everything else that Aziraphale ought to be thinking of.

He gets to be selfish, damn it all.

In Zemun, Crowley’s hands had been clenched so tight every divot of his knuckles were prominent. Aziraphale had knelt by his side and watched him breathe and swore, silently, fiercely, to make him better. Not less of a demon, but more of himself. And it had not mattered then how much Crowley did not wish it, or how dangerous it might become. Aziraphale is an angel, and while Crowley might be a demon, while they might be on opposite sides, Aziraphale will do what must be done.

“Five thousand years,” he whispers. “And five thousand more. You swore that to me.”

...

The next week, he seeks Crowley out.

Crowley’s angry; his lips are thinner, and there’s a faint haze to the air around him that makes even Aziraphale a little wary of approaching.

“Well?” he drawls. “Where’s your whole fraternity, angel?”

Despite himself, Aziraphale flushes. “How long’d it take you to come up with that?” he asks, too sharply. He inhales. “And where’s your fraternity, Crowley?”

Crowley is leaning back against the chaise lounge of his home, one that he’d expounded upon in great detail to Aziraphale a few months’ previous [18]; his hair shines prettily against the dark backdrop, and his skin looks even softer and paler in contrast. But his glasses are firmly set atop his eyes. There’s no weakness here that can relax Aziraphale. Just sharp bones and dark cloth and anger, writhing like a living thing.

“Out,” says Crowley coolly.

“What?”

“Get. Out.”

“No,” says Aziraphale.

“Angel,” says Crowley coldly, “if you don’t leave, I’ll have to make you.”

“And as much as I’d like to see that happen, I came here with another purpose in mind.” Aziraphale blinks at him. Waits for the fall of Crowley’s wrist. The barest twitch of his lips. His mouth feels dry on the inside, sanded and gritty with fear, but Aziraphale knows what’s going on. Knows it well. Too well. He tries to soften his voice with that comprehension. “Did you think I wouldn’t understand, Crowley?”

Crowley tips his head back, slow and lazy, like he’s got all the time in the world in the palms of his hands. “I’m not sure I follow, Aziraphale.”

“I spent two months in Heaven when I got discorporated. I was... tired. It happens. I can understand why-”

“I’m not tired,” spits Crowley viciously, all laziness gone in a flash as he jerks upright. “I am worried about-”

“Your people,” finishes Aziraphale sadly. “Coming after you.”

Agitated, Crowley surges to his feet and moves across the dark stone floor. He turns back at the wall, shoulder slicing through air like a blade, neck the jeweled hilt following through. “I should be worried,” he says. “My lot don’t send notes, Aziraphale, and they don’t send warnings. Or have you forgotten Belgrade?”

“Holy water in their hands and blessed knives cutting into your wings,” says Aziraphale. “I’m not going to forget that. Not ever.”

“Then-”

“I’ve taken years off, when I needed it,” Aziraphale interrupts him. “And I’m not saying you shouldn’t be worried- but I know that if you spend every hour here being worried, it will lead to you being even more tired. And exhaustion in demons isn’t all that different from exhaustion in angels, I suspect.”

“And what,” asks Crowley, “does an exhausted angel look like?”

“Like I did, in 1666.”

For a long, awful moment, Crowley doesn’t react. But him not reacting doesn’t mean he isn’t feeling something; Aziraphale braces himself for the fallout.

Crowley doesn’t disappoint [19].

“You think your exhaustion leads you to fucking getting discorporated?” he shrieks, each syllable louder than the last. “You- you fucking- moronic- fucking- exhaustion- exhaustion- you’re- suicidal?”

Aziraphale remembers that first millennia, when he’d gone through life basically throwing himself into the worst scraps he could find and getting discorporated through it- he’s died in pretty much every way possible. He also thinks about how he didn’t fireproof himself before walking into a burning building. It would’ve taken only a dash of a miracle, one snap of his fingers. He remembers waking up, staring at a white ceiling, and being unsurprised. Being tired, like a river rushing through him, clogged and dusty and so fierce it left nothing of him behind.

“No,” says Aziraphale carefully. “I was- exhausted. And careless. And that meant-”

“Death?”

“Discorporation.”

“You’re insane.”

“If I am, no more than you.”

“Insane!”

“Crowley,” says Aziraphale, fingers clenching and unclenching on nothing. He reaches forwards, almost, but there’s an impassable distance between them. For the briefest of unnecessary heartbeats, the sense-memory of Crowley’s skin rushes through him- the softness, the faint warmth, the long, slender bones pressing back up beneath the flesh, all solid and firm. Instead, Aziraphale swallows. “You need to rest.”

“I need,” hisses Crowley, mouth full of fangs, “you to go away.”

It takes a kind of courage that makes him tremble to think of it, but Aziraphale rests his fingers on the angle of Crowley’s elbow.

“No, you don’t,” he says quietly.

Crowley sags at his touch. Not much; his spine had been near-vibrating from the tension, but now it’s the stillness that makes Aziraphale feel strangely guilty. His spine curves, just enough that Crowley is silent, and still, and staring into the dark brick of his home like it’s absolutely fascinating. Like he can’t bear to lift his head or look at Aziraphale.

“Sleep,” whispers Aziraphale, heart thundering in his ears. “I’ll handle it.”

Crowley’s shoulders bow towards each other. He looks tired, half-defeated. And that makes Aziraphale, in turn, want to brush his hands up, over his back, down his shoulderblades, smooth the expression from his face and his body, plaster all the ache over with warmth and kindness and all that Aziraphale has, all the miracles dripping from his fingers with light and honey.

But he finds his stores of courage quite diminished.

“One week,” says Crowley finally, voice almost soundless. “Wake me up at the end of it.”

“As long as you need,” disagrees Aziraphale. Thinks, heart in his throat, of the time that Crowley had mentioned sleeping for a century. He quails, and then stiffens his resolve: what must be done will be done, and done well besides. “When you’re ready, and no shorter.”

“Aziraphale-”

“Crowley,” says Aziraphale simply.

Crowley looks up, at Aziraphale. His glasses have slipped; his eyes are slitted through and dimmed, like a kerosene flame on the verge of sputtering. The strip of skin along his nose that sags when he’s asleep looks soft, and tenderness swells inside Aziraphale like a rising wave. He doesn’t know what Crowley sees, only that Aziraphale’s masks have been torn asunder, only that Aziraphale would rather be worn and shattered than have Crowley discorporated and disappeared from his life. He doesn’t know what Crowley sees, but Crowley acquiesces without further argument.

“I’ll handle it,” murmurs Aziraphale, and takes a firmer grip on Crowley’s elbow, and they walk together to his bedroom. “I’ll handle it all.”

...

By the time Aziraphale steps out of Crowley’s home, it’s evening. He looks up and sees the sunset- golden and painting the entire sky as if with a thick paintbrush. The rain has just ended and the clouds are parted, backlit from the sun like two shining wings. The puddles and damp stone glimmers. There’s quiet calm on the street- a gap between rumbling carriages and shouting vendors, the rain tamping down the stink of refuse and rotten vegetables, an unexpected silent peace that leaves Aziraphale’s chest tight and lungs too small.

He clasps his hands behind his back and walks home.

...

It’s a lot of work, of course, being two agents at once.

Diligence, thinks Aziraphale grimly, settling down to finish his eighth report of the day in triplicate.

...

Multiple wars later, Aziraphale’s got commendations from Heaven for ending them and commendations from Hell for starting them. By the time the 1930s roll around, the filing’s got out of hand; Aziraphale’s got half of Crowley’s documents strewn over his shop and far too many incriminating pieces of evidence for him to be comfortable with any of it. It’s unjustified paranoia that makes him set the perimeter alarms around Crowley’s flat, Aziraphale assures himself, even as he resets it on his weekly visits to make sure Crowley’s not gone and smothered himself in the silk-fringed pillows.

The paperwork has gotten so bad, in fact, that Aziraphale accidentally placed Crowley’s names on the majority of the documents involving his entry into the British Secret Intelligence Service. It takes him two months to even realize the problem, and by then Aziraphale’s got too mired in the mess; he can’t be bothered to fix it back. Crowley therefore becomes a useful pseudonym for a British spy working alone, with a rate of success in disrupting German operations like nobody else- leaving A.Z.-Fell-the-harmless-bookkeeper to develop a relatively successful pipeline of spies throughout Europe to funnel the worst persecuted out of danger.

Spying is a fulltime job for any human. Spying and becoming a spymaster and somehow mitigating the most extreme of the excesses in a world that seems determined to be the worst it can possibly be- Aziraphale supposes that it’s a good thing he’s never got into the habit of sleeping. It’s ten more hours that he gets to keep on top of work that feels more and more like it’s swamping him whole.

He’s getting by.

It isn’t easy, but it’s easier than in those cold, terrible years after Eden, when the humans hadn’t been very good at being God’s chosen ones [20] and Aziraphale hadn’t been very happy about being stationed on Earth. It’s what keeps him going through the long, dark nights: the knowledge that I have gone through worse than this, and I have not quit through any of it, and remember who this is for.

Of course, he doesn’t let himself get discorporated this time. He can’t afford for Gabriel to ask for an account of his miracles, not when a good half of his miracles are layered over one innocuous building in Mayfield. He can’t afford for any of this to be known to anyone, and that means keeping his head down and gritting his teeth and getting the work done, and as dearly as Aziraphale might wish for a cup of tea or sweet wine or Crowley’s sweeter venomous tongue-

The promise of Crowley waking one morning, he finds, makes it all worth it.

...

1940, late November.

Aziraphale is in Liverpool, hands reddened as he moves through the wounded, pressing miracles into their skin. There’s screaming and the distant whistle of bombs, the crackle of flame. An air raid shelter hit; people sobbing in the streets. Blood, red and thin on his palms. Sunrise comes and it does not warm his chilled skin.

Sunrise comes, and something unspools in Aziraphale’s gut.

Miracles, fading from existence. A waking that hasn’t been seen in decades. Protections collapsing because that which they are meant to protect has woken.

He stumbles away from the weeping man and his collapsed lungs, and presses his hands to a nearby pipe. Steadies himself against it. Tries to breathe, and then stops, because the stink of blood hangs too heavy in the air.

Oh, Crowley, he thinks. Tips his head forward, presses it to the pipe, forces himself calm. Oh, dear boy, you should not wake alone to this.

How the world has darkened. How the world has chilled. How Aziraphale has tossed miracles out, one by one, and thought each a flickering candle to the evil of the abyss. How he wishes he could be there, besides Crowley, and sit beside him for just one night of peace. How he wishes he could tell Crowley: for eighty years you’ve slept, and for eighty years I have kept you safe, and I-

Too many words. If he were anyone else, he would return to London and hold Crowley close. Let his fingers be some sort of glue to his old, shattered heart. Let Crowley warm him, in the parts of him that have gone cold. But he is not anyone else, is he? He is Aziraphale the angel, and that is an inextricable, unerasable part of him.

He is an angel, and he has a duty, and he will do that to the bitter, bitter end.

Still, Aziraphale lingers by himself, a bare shadow, ignored by everyone else. He grants himself one breath, two, three. Just long enough to let the longing curl down his spine. Then he breathes in: blood, flame, the distant, aching promise of rain hanging over Liverpool’s salt-ridden rivers. He breathes out, and exhales miracles with the visible puff of air.

...

He returns home, hours later, to an empty flat in Mayfield, all the paperwork miracled away and the furniture swept clean.

There is no sign of Crowley.

...

Aziraphale tries searching for him, after, of course. But every door slams shut, every window turns tinted, ever clue goes cold. He wonders, briefly, if this was how Crowley felt in the decades before Christ’s crucifixion; he dismisses the idea before it can take root. Aziraphale and Crowley hadn’t been this close then. The Arrangement hadn’t been even a whisper of a thought in either of their minds. Two months later, he gives it up for a lost cause. If Crowley wishes to be found, he will be.

He’s got enough to do, anyhow. The war picks up; Aziraphale gets drawn into it. He’ll meet with Crowley one day, when they get the chance. Until then- Aziraphale has work to finish.

...

They meet again in a church in London, not quite a year later. Earlier than Aziraphale expected but later than he’d hoped. Crowley looks better; there’s the singing edge of hellfire and brimstone when he walks in, and overlaying it all is mischief like the imp he’s too powerful to be called. He’s softened, thinks Aziraphale; softened and relaxed into himself as he hasn’t been since they first began the Arrangement. As he hasn’t allowed himself to be, since then. Seventy-eight years of sleep have done him a world of good.

He lets Crowley drive him home in the Bentley. They don’t talk about any of it [21]; Aziraphale just watches the mud-smudged city wash him by.

All the lies, he thinks, after, in the smoky, dusty room of his bookshop. All the lies we tell.

To their Head Offices. To each other. To themselves.

There are jagged pieces sliced into each of them over these six thousand years. Aziraphale can feel his fit, perfectly, against Crowley’s. It rather terrifies him. It rather entrances him.

...

Aziraphale loves Crowley. Of course he does. Aziraphale loves many things: his books, his tea, his wines, his foods; what is one more? One more indulgence in an existence full of them will not ruin him. And he does love Crowley, and if it is not as graceful or kind or good as he would want it to be, it does not matter.

He will not let it.

...

(And if he knows, wholly, entirely, that Crowley cannot love him back-

Aziraphale has spent thousands of years smiling at Crowley. Baring his teeth and calling it love. He has spent so long doing what he wishes and naming it differently. So long reaching forwards, grasping at Crowley’s wings and chest and elbow and hand, and never expecting anything in return.

Here is the deepest secret, the oldest secret, the one that has carved itself bloody into Aziraphale’s sinew where once fire and holiness ran bright: this is not a love that demands recompense.

The promise of Crowley is enough.

It has been thus for six thousand years. It will be thus for another six thousand.)

...

Aziraphale hears about the heist in a tiny corner cafe with more ambition than promise. He’s standing to order when he hears two men grumbling over the compulsive strangeness of rich folk.

“To go, then?” asks the barista irritably, finger hovering over the shiny register.

“Stealin’ from a church’s wrong, though,” says the second man, and Aziraphale makes his mind up.

“For here, actually,” he says. “And could you add a butterscotch eclair to the order?”

After all, there’s no reason not to enjoy himself while working [22].

...

Aziraphale returns home and locks the doors and starts making tea for himself before he breaks his favorite cup from his trembling hands. The synthetic aftertaste of the eclair sits heavy on his tongue, and Aziraphale slowly sinks into a nearby chair, knees not quite as firm as he’d like.

His first instinct is to go after Crowley. Demand the truth from him. Scare him into inaction. Aziraphale is an angel; it shouldn’t be excessively difficult.

But his second thought is Crowley, who is paranoid but, perhaps, justifiably so. Crowley, who has been hunted by his own people. Crowley, who has probably had hundreds of other experiences of being unsafe. Outcast from his own people, fearful of Heavenly Retribution... paranoia is not paranoia if the world really is out to get you.

There had been a spy in Lyon who’d killed himself when he saw Aziraphale. A spy who mistook Aziraphale for a German agent and swallowed cyanide; a man who’d died in Aziraphale’s arms, shaking apart and choking. Aziraphale had been besides Socrates when he took the hemlock, and he remembers well the way his body slowly stiffened and succumbed to death. Viramadevi’s screams as she threw herself on her husband’s pyre for grief and her sister-wives’ lamentations. Qu Yuan, walking into the Miluo with his hands clasped tight around heavy stone. Crowley has seen what holy water does to demons, but Aziraphale has not. He can only imagine something similar: Crowley golden-eyed, terrified, trembling and dead.

Aziraphale closes his eyes.

But if he does not do anything, Crowley can get hurt. Will get hurt.

And there is nothing Aziraphale can do to change his mind. Not if seventy-eight years did not have any effect. Not if Crowley is as stubborn as Aziraphale suspects he will be. He’s already not told Aziraphale his plans to get the holy water; it’s only by chance that Aziraphale knows. Next time- if there is a next time- Aziraphale might not get so lucky.

There’s nothing for it, then.

...

The holiest of holy water is made, not just blessed.

Aziraphale gathers a bucket of rainwater in a cold iron bucket. He purifies it with multiple rituals, blesses it twice over, and even manages to trick Michael and Uriel into blessing it themselves. There’s no holier water in all of history.

It’s only after he gives it to Crowley that he actually lets himself panic in the darkened corner of his bookshelf. The fear sits livewire and hot in his belly, rises up to his chest whenever he remembers. He makes six separate customers cry over the next few days, mostly because he can’t believe their absolute gall in daring to want books now. Now, when Crowley has everything he’ll need to-

Aziraphale makes six customers cry, runs through four months’ stock of tea bags, and is desperately considering whether marijuana is really all that much of an indulgence when compared to wine when his door chimes.

“I AM NOT ENTERTA-” starts Aziraphale, before he sputters to a halt.

Crowley’s standing in front of him, coat glittery and hair parted at a dashing angle, shoes polished shining. “You busy?” he asks. Aziraphale stares, and Crowley’s hands enter his pant pockets. He slouches a little further, though his tone doesn’t change. “Because... I’d get it. Even if- you don’t look too. Busy.”

“What?”

“A decent sushi restaurant in Vauxhall. Thought we’d go.”

“Crowley,” says Aziraphale.

It’s on the tip of his tongue: Can’t you get a hint? Cruelty, fury, implacable and ruthless. How Aziraphale ought to protect him. Send him away and protect them both and let this quiet, comfortable companionship fade into the ether as all of Aziraphale’s other friends have gone over the centuries.

Then Crowley says, “I know how you’ve missed the ones made without vinegar.”

Wretchedness sweeps over Aziraphale like a brush over canvas. Like an ocean in a storm, waves swallowing him whole. Crowley- his kindnesses, quiet and strange and soft. His patience. The way he walks away and returns. Time and time and time again.

“Not so much, no,” says Aziraphale, and knows the wretchedness is too audible [23]. He pauses. “And- I don’t understand. Why are you here?”

“Dinner, angel,” says Crowley patiently. “I owe you. For the- favor. From last week. Now, do you have to do anything to close up or is it just a matter of locking the door?”

Aziraphale says, faintly, “Don’t mention it.”

Something like testiness flashes across Crowley’s face. “It’s good sushi,” he tells him, voice a half-mumble. “You- we’d like it.”

“We can’t keep doing this,” says Aziraphale gently.

“Your people don’t care.”

“And if your people decide they do, they’ll kill you.”

“Let me handle Hell,” says Crowley, teeth looking slightly sharper than before, shining just a little more. “My people, right? I’m the one who knows about them. Let me handle it.”

“Crowley-”

“I’m a survivor, angel.” It’s unmistakable now; his teeth have lengthened into fangs, slender and long against his red lips. “Six thousand years- how many times have I been discorporated?” Crowley leans forward. “Less than you, certainly.”

I don’t want you to discorporate. I don’t want you to leave. I don’t want to bear that grief. I don’t think I could bear it. I don’t-

“I don’t- I can’t-” Aziraphale tries to breathe. Stutters to a halt, and stills. Drags his hands down his face, horrified at his own inability to speak properly. How can he stay with Crowley when, if, if, if-

If, thinks Aziraphale. What would I give up for a world of possibilities?

Trust him, thinks Aziraphale. Trust Crowley, because you know him. Crowley is Crowley, is he not? You know him well. Six thousand years too well.

“You’re certain?

He doesn’t want to do this.

But, oh, there’s nothing he’d like more.

Absolutely nothing.

And Aziraphale- he closes his eyes. Inhales. Flame, rain, the quiet ache of loss. Once, Aziraphale had stood on a prairie right after fire had run over it. The earth was scorched black and brown, but shining through the char and dross: golden flowers, bright as the sun. Life after death. Fire had not destroyed it all; it had only been the last part of a cycle, closing the circle whole.

Those flowers had been brighter than the sun.

Crowley’s eyes are brighter.

“Well, then.” Aziraphale opens his eyes, and feels himself soften: at Crowley’s patience, at Crowley, who he’s known for too long to not want around, who he’s loved too deeply to hurt as he ought. He swallows, and the words come out steadier than he feels them: “Sushi, you said?”

Crowley’s face brightens like a lamp suddenly lit, and Aziraphale silently resigns himself to another hair-curling ride in that stupid Bentley.

...

Call it coincidence: Aziraphale is in that same sushi shop when Gabriel comes to meet him. It’s all an uncomfortable reminder; they are an angel and a demon, and for all that Aziraphale’s given up, for all the lies he’s told and all the secrets he’s kept and all the things he’s done- Aziraphale is an angel.

That matters.

It does.

...

He gives in, hours later, as he always does to Crowley. The worst part of it all is that Aziraphale can’t even bring himself to regret his own weaknesses [24].

...

Gardening is not quite so difficult as Crowley had made it out to be. It takes some discreet miracles and a little more discreet wheedling, but Crowley eventually acquiesces to tend the most finicky plants if Aziraphale will watch over Warlock. Because it gives him some more time to teach the boy to be good, Aziraphale doesn’t bother complaining.

It’s late one night that Aziraphale hears a loud scrabbling sound. He heads out of the shed-converted-to-a-room to see Crowley hissing inventively at a gardenia bush, hair slicked back and face positively shining in the dark.

“Crowley?” he asks, and has the pleasure of seeing him flinch upright.

“Aziraphale,” he says, biting the edges of the word off like it’s a slippery thing. “You’re... awake.”

“No need to sound so happy to see me.”

“I thought you had business in Suffolk.”

“As an angel,” says Aziraphale slowly, “time and distance do not present the same obstacles to me that they do for humans.”

He does take the time to look at Crowley, though; Crowley’s not dressed in the nanny outfit, and the contrast between the skirt Aziraphale had seen just that morning and the trousers now makes his legs look even longer. His hair’s not so perfectly coiffed and looks like it’s sticking up because of Crowley's natural hair rather than any gel. It’s raining, just a little- the kind that’s halfway between mist and proper rain- and the droplets stand out from Crowley’s hair, glinting like a thousand tiny diamonds in the faint light from Aziraphale’s shed.

“They say sarcasm is the lowest form of wit.”

“Wilde, Crowley?” asks Aziraphale, sighing, though he can’t quite help the spurt of fondness. It’s been so long since he’s seen Crowley without the rigid pleats and corners and perfectly-tamed hair, and even longer since they’ve spoken without an irascible child or multiple people around. “You assured me you weren’t angry about that.”

“I’m not!”

“You quote him more than you talk about anyone else, and that’s including whatever musician’s taken your fancy this decade.”

“You learned the gavotte, you infuriating piece of overcooked cheesecake,” hisses Crowley, folding his arms over his chest. “I missed the first angel to ever dance, all because you didn’t want to wake me up! You danced with Wilde like a- a-”

“-Hoysala courtesan?”

The frustrated edge to Crowley’s gaze softens, marginally. “Never visited that area at that time, actually.”

“Brilliant sculptures. There was this one architect they had- could do things with stone I’d never imagined. Even better dancers, though.” Aziraphale sees the way Crowley’s eyes track to the gardenia bush, the slight shiver wracking his body. “Do you- want to come in? Dry off, maybe?”

“Have to go to Ardennes. Some... garden variety vandalizing, but. Needs a push.”

“And you’re here because?”

“Eh. Gardenias are hard to maintain. And you’re terrible at gardening. Have to make sure the soil’s watered properly. Too little and it can’t grow. Too much and it starts feeling spoiled!”

He hisses the last, spine twisting to meet the bush and spittle falling on the leaves.

Aziraphale feels vaguely offended, but only in the form of someone who knows full well they haven’t got a proper defense. He sighs instead. “When are you planning to leave, then?”

“Soon.” Crowley rocks back on his heels. “Once the rain clears up. Thought I could fly there.” He smiles, small and genuine, teeth a little too sharp like he’s forgotten they shouldn’t be that way. “’s been ages, you know.”

“Hmm. Last time for me was...”

“Peru? That whole incident with the snowfall and all?”

Aziraphale shudders, remembering it. It had been a couple decades ago. There hadn’t been any lives lost, thankfully, but explaining away an avalanche he’d caused just to stretch his wings hadn’t been a pleasant experience.

“Enjoy,” he says, and knows Crowley knows he means leave me out of it. “I’ll likely be here when you return.”

“Just two more years.”

“Until we either win, or. Well. Lose.”

“Two more years close to that beerish American diplomat [25]?” Crowley’s lip curls. “I’ll be lucky to want the world to exist after that.”

“Your people chose well.” Aziraphale grins at him, and feels his grin grow when Crowley unbends from his irritated pose.

“Bah. We all know Heaven hasn’t had good taste since, like, the early days,” says Crowley, eyebrows waggling. “Downhill from Eden, they say.”

“Oh, begone with you!” Aziraphale flicks his fingers, and the sky clears up. He regrets that, almost immediately- the moonlight trickles through to catch on Crowley’s sharp cheekbones, his knife-like hair, his little knobs and buckles and silver contraptions. Aziraphale has to swallow twice before he can speak, and even then he feels a little unbalanced. “Do come back before noon, though. There’s a matinee the mother would like to attend and she’ll notice if Warlock’s nanny isn’t around.”

Crowley rolls his head in a half-nod. “Be back before that, I’d think. Not too difficult to get some grave-defacing or whatever out of my way. I can probably pick up breakfast if I hurry it along.”

“No, better not risk it.” And that’s real regret in Aziraphale’s voice, no matter how much he tries to lighten it. “Dinner, though? Day after tomorrow?”

“That little shop in Iceland we found-”

“-I found-”

“-a year ago?”

“Haven’t been back.”

“Mmm. I’ll try to fit it into my busy schedule.”

“Try,” says Aziraphale, smiling to remove the sting of the words, and steps back just as Crowley nods, tips his head forward, and launches himself into the air.

A minute later, he steps forward to the gardenia bush and peers at it. Aziraphale hadn’t wanted to plant it; but Warlock’s father had insisted, and Aziraphale had eventually given in. He’d treated it as a challenge. Hadn’t used any miracles, hadn’t even taken much help from Crowley. Before he left for Suffolk the bush had been on the verge of wilting.

Now it’s positively beautiful, glossy with terror and glimmering with fear.

But it isn’t that that catches Aziraphale’s eye.

For as long as he’s known Crowley, as long as he’s seen him with plants, there haven’t been any flowers. Bushes, yes; flowing vines and rich, verdant trees. But no flowers. No colors.

Slowly, Aziraphale reaches out and brushes the soft, soft petal of a gardenia flower, white as his heavenly raiments.

He makes sure to pay for dinner the next night.

...

Crowley smiles at him. Crowley bares his teeth at him. Crowley is danger.

In danger?

Or dangerous?

(Five thousand years- five hundred years- ago, Aziraphale might have doubted his answer. Now?

Now.)

...

They lose the Antichrist, and Aziraphale finds him. He fights with Crowley, really, properly, for the first time in centuries. He gets discorporated.

Heaven: Aziraphale stands in shining white, body formless, fear twisting low in his belly, leaving his legs aquiver. There are rows of flickering angels behind the general, each waiting patiently. His thigh is aching, a little, and his head feels like it would be throbbing if it had a physical aspect to it. All he can see is white sky, white walls, white on white on white.

All Aziraphale can remember is fire, turning London to ash and ruin.

He turns, and feels like he’s drowning. All he can feel is loss, flaring up around him, and the ever-present fear. A reminder that he is an angel, that he is an angel, and that is an inextricable part of him, no matter what else he has chosen to become over six millennia.

Heaven: a river rushing through him, taking all that he's grown to love and pulling it away like cattails in a current.

Aziraphale closes his eyes. Breathes, in, out. There is no smoke here, no flame nor rain, nothing that can remind him of Crowley. Only Aziraphale, and Heaven, and all that he is and all that he was and all that he has become.

He opens his eyes, and digs his feet into the river. Stands.

Stands, firm, and says, “Demons can.”

He is not a stone smoothed down by a river. He is not a cattail, yanked along by a river’s current. He is not an angel subsumed by his Heavenly Duties. He is Aziraphale, the angel who chooses otherwise, who cannot be as he ought to be, and he will do what must be done to save Earth.

He will do what must be done.

He will.

...

The Bentley explodes. Aziraphale’s hands are shaking, and Crowley is streaked with ash, and the world will end soon, and all Crowley sees is the hunk of metal aflame, battered, broken.

His glasses are gone. His eyes-

Aziraphale feels his throat throb with something too close to grief. He turns away instead of staying beside Crowley. There are things they have to do; there are things he has to do. He will. He must, so he shall.

Finish this, he thinks, and his hands still. Finish this, so you can mourn later. So there is time and place to mourn in the future.

...

And still- later- when it’s all over-

Crowley cannot love him. Crowley cannot love. It is impossible.

(Impossible in the manner of a defiant, unFallen angel? Impossible in the manner of an Antichrist who will not destroy the Earth? Impossible in the manner of an angel and a demon standing before their Head Offices, fierce and unbowed and unrepentant?

How can anything remain impossible in this world any longer?)

...

Things happen; the Antichrist lives; the world does not end. Aziraphale settles next to Crowley on the bench, the metal chilled and hard beneath him. He feels so exhausted; in Heaven, Aziraphale had thought his head would be aching if it were physical. Now, he is physical, and it is hurting right behind his eyes like someone’s taken a sledgehammer to the bridge of his nose. He’s so tired, but his limbs are twitching with excessive energy and he can barely find it in himself to stay still.

The body Adam gifted Aziraphale feels too human, in a strange, terrible manner.

He almost doesn’t realize when the bus approaches. It’s Crowley who juggles his elbow and guides him up, and Aziraphale stumbles onto the bus. Sinking into his seat- he actually finds himself half-nodding off.

“The relief, I think,” says Crowley lowly. There’s another two people on the bus- a long-bearded man with a backpack almost as big as him and a college-aged girl who keeps sending wary looks in their direction from over the top of her phone- so he’s keeping his voice quiet until they can miracle their way to Mayfield proper. Best not to call too much attention to ourselves, thinks Aziraphale, a little distracted by Crowley’s shoulder pressing against his own. It nudges him back, a little, and Aziraphale scrapes up the strength to keep himself upright. “Humans call it a crash. Adrenaline crash.” He eyes Aziraphale. “I’m thinking you should, too.”

“How aren’t you crashing then?” asks Aziraphale, more surly than he’d meant to sound, though he can’t quite find it in himself to moderate his tone.

Crowley shrugs, slow and indolent. “You did lose your body and get it back. Tiring stuff, that.”

“And we can’t even rest yet.”

“No.”

“Crowley,” says Aziraphale, helplessly. He feels ugly heat rising through his chest, anxiety and fear like some sulfurous mixture bubbling in his skin. “They’re going to- to-”

“-I know,” says Crowley quietly.

His shoulder is very warm against Aziraphale’s, and very soft. One of his hands are clutching the wine bottle tight enough to blanch his knuckles. The other rests, preternaturally calm against his thigh.

“It’s going to be hard,” whispers Aziraphale.

“We’ve got tonight, I think. And maybe the morning, too, if your lot aren’t too diligent about it all.”

“Choose our faces carefully.”

“Yes,” murmurs Crowley. “We’ve some time, though.” He reaches up and presses a careful hand to Aziraphale’s arm, presses down. “I think you ought to rest. I’ll tell you when we reach.”

For a moment, all Aziraphale can feel is Crowley’s arm, blazing through his coat like hellfire. Then the exhaustion catches up to him, and Aziraphale feels himself curl in on himself, darkness wrapping around him like the space between stars, consciousness fading away, and he doesn’t even have time to feel alarmed at the strength or rapidity of the darkness before it’s claimed him.

...

[11] Aziraphale hasn’t returned to the area since Jesus’ crucifixion, but he misses the pistachio soups. And the kebabs. The foods that the people of France and Italy- and, until a few centuries previous, Rome- enjoy have never had the salt that the Babylonians or Mauryans used. And once someone gets used to that flavor... it's very difficult to revert. It’s only the prospect of returning to the memories of Jesus’ crucifixion and all that you’d done to run away those centuries ago that keeps Aziraphale away.

[12] The smoking paper doesn’t faze Crowley; when he got a commendation for the Spanish Inquisition, he’d burned it with the strongest infernal fire he could create. It’s the look in Aziraphale’s eyes that actually bothers him, though he doesn’t know how to comment on it.

[13] Definitely

[14] Aziraphale’s transcribed most of the books in there. He spends a few weeks just enjoying the smells and the look and the feel, but soon enough the novelty wears off, mostly because he’s the only being who’s found the library any shade of interesting in the past six thousand years, and he knows every word written in it. There’s only so much nostalgia anyone can bear before it becomes cloying, even a bookstore-owning angel. Say what you want about humanity, but their sheer inventive spirit was remarkable.

[15] Which is where he begins to truly hate the celestial harmonies.

[16] Whether as a pocket square, scarf, or handkerchief. As necessary.

[17] This is a lie; Aziraphale loves danger. He doesn’t like seeking it out, which is the whole problem. But the adrenaline? The thud of his heart and song singing out- Aziraphale was and is a Principality. He has led legions in the First War, and he has done his duties well. He likes danger a little bit more than he thinks he should, which is why he avoids any opportunity to seek it out. All while staying with Crowley like a too-bloodthirsty leech. Really, Aziraphale’s been undermining himself since the very beginning.

[18] Crowley imported it from France and had it decked up as outrageously as the sellers would make it. It turned out to be uncomfortable to sit on and delicate besides, and it was only with the use of a miracle that the legs- carved to look like whorls of clouds- weren’t collapsing on the slightest weight. For all that Crowley loathed Rococo art, he’d somehow found himself the owner and designer of a piece that was perhaps the summit of Rococo furniture.

[19] Contrary to all expectation, Crowley doesn’t disappoint. Ever.

[20] They didn’t develop wines or chocolate or civilization for too long, in Aziraphale’s opinion. The fact that they eventually did is all that’s keeping his faith in an ineffable plan going.

[21] Though, admittedly, Aziraphale is clutching onto his life too dearly in that moment to talk to Crowley about anything. The city might be mud-smudged or scarred-over or even invaded by flying purple rats, but Aziraphale couldn’t have cared less about any of it.

[22] Eavesdropping, by any other name.

[23] It’s almost the truth, too. He rather enjoys the novelty of the newer sushi; the tang and salt and flavor of it. But his visits to Asahi all those thousands of years ago mean he likes his sushi plainer than most.

[24] Six years with Crowley? Close enough to spend nights together, to sit and talk and enjoy? Aziraphale finds that almost as alluring as the idea of living past the Apocalypse, which is probably his first sign that he’s a little obsessed. Compromised. Stupid. Call it what you will.

[25] Beerish: adj, rough and bad-mannered while enjoying the advents of beer a little too much. [26]

[26] Crowley has absolutely nothing against beer. He knows where it came from. Humans needed to start fermenting alcohol somewhere, after all, and he’s content with the choices he has now. But beer sticking around? When there’s so many bloody choices otherwise? That, he thinks, is probably the single biggest piece of evidence that he’s seen in favor of an ineffable plan.

#good omens #my writing #good omens fic #i just...... love this romance a little too much #out of control and sinners

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thesportssoundoff · 5 years ago

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Keeping up with my Yankees centric MLB preview, I wanted to continue onward and take a long look at the trade market the Yankees may be waddling into. Over the past two seasons, the Yankees have done most of their damage via trades both as it pertains to shedding unwanted salary, clearing 40 man space (Caleb Smith and Garrett Cooper to Michael King) and making big fish splash trades like Giancarlo Stanton and James Paxton. The Yankees have opted to make deals in large part because it's cheaper but also because they are just flat out good at it. So good in fact that it was reported toward the trade deadline that teams were absolutely going to get Brian Cashman to overpay because they didn't want to be the latest team to give up something for nothing. So if Brian Cashman opts to upgrade through trades, here are some names to keep in mind as we go through the late fall/early winter*

*As an aside, no Syndergaard, no DeGrom, no Bauer, no Kluber and no Lindor. For starters, I just don't see those deals as being remotely possible so I'm not going to waste keystrokes. Beyond that? I mean WE also all know WHY those deals make sense for the Yankees would be a barrel of fun so why waste time? They'd be amazing additions to any team let alone this one.

1. SP Robbie Ray, Arizona Diamondbacks 12-8 4.34 ERA 174 innings pitched 12.13 K/9 4.34 BB/9 98 ERA-

In a very chippy and controversial post season presser, Brian Cashman stated plainly that the people they were aiming at the deadline ultimately didn't get traded. We know for a fact that one of the guys that the Yankees chased up until the deadline was Diamondbacks arm Robbie Ray. According to Jon Heyman and other NY media members, the trade fell short when the Diamondbacks asked for a FOUR player package headlined by Clint Frazier. My guess is that the Yankees and Diamondbacks are going to circle back around to one another and the winter meetings will be ripe with Ray to the Yankees rumors. Robbie Ray is not the answer if you're chasing down a stud ace starter. He's a less talent but still quite good version of James Paxton. Let's discuss the positives; Robbie Ray is a strikeout machine who was somewhat fluked by the juiced ball in 2019. His xFIP is a full point lower than his actual ERA which suggests some flukiness. He was third in the MLB in K's per 9 innings and at 234 strikeouts, would easily give the Yankees a power lefty arm they yearn for. He's under contract until 2021 and is still on the right side of 30 which matters because Severino could be the only starter on the rotation now who is around beyond next year. The downside is that giving up assets for a guy who doesn't solve your desire/hunger for a #1 starter isn't normally wise business. Severino, Tanaka, Paxton and Robbie Ray is a really good top 4 in your rotation but it's not the sort of rotation you can trumpet out vs Houston's or even on the same level as Cleveland's top 3 of Klueber, Corrasco and Bieber. Ray also has crazy walk totals and like most power pitches he tends to give up flyball contact at a relatively spooky rate. Also could dude shave his beard in time before pitchers and catches report? That shit looks like it'll take a while.

2. SP Matt Boyd, Detroit Tigers 9-12 4.56 ERA 185.1 innings pitched 11.56 K/9 2.43 BB/9 98 ERA-

Sticking with the names and faces we know of that didn't get dealt, Matthew Boyd! The Yankees apparently checked in on Boyd a few times and Detroit figured the best way to start negotiations was with Gleyber Torres. Because idiocy exists in Michigan seemingly. To his credit, Boyd decided to "reward" the Tigers down the stretch for their view on him with a 5.55 ERA and a .505 slugging percentage against. With elevated walk rates and elevated contact overall, Boyd was pretty terrible in the 2nd half. The good news is that he throws for power, is under 30, has crazy K rates and is under contract into 2023. He is worth a lot if you buy into the upside but worth a whole lot less if you take in the totality of the circumstances. he was slightly better away from Detroit and the fact that he pitched to softer contact on the road might have some pitching coach figuring it's just a desire to get out of a dead situation. It would also be fair to note that every team trading for a Tigers pitcher is going to remember how they jerked around teams on Michael Fulmer only for him to completely fall apart. Matthew Boyd is the ultimate gamble; ridiculous stuff, amazing K rate, good walk rate and a penchant for loud hits with a terrible second half to send him. My guess is Detroit would probably like to hold onto him until the trade deadline and then reconsider things.

3. RP Ken Giles, Toronto Blue Jays 1.87 ERA 23 saves 53 innings pitched 14 K/9 2.41 BB 41 ERA- 1 flat WHIP

The final name on our Trade Deadline targets from July. Apparently of the three names above, the Yankees were closest on Ken Giles as an added bullpen arm before something in the medicals spooked them. Giles had a great year in Toronto and was a quality-ish arm for Houston before falling off the map and losing his confidence, eventually getting swapped out for maligned Roberto Osuna. If Chapman opts out, it's worth noting that Giles is probably going to do around 8 to 10 mil or so through arbitration which would put him below Britton and Ottavino in the financial totem pole. The guy who runs Toronto also was in Cleveland when they drafted Clint Frazier so clearly they have a comfort there on their end. Britton can close and Giles can be your 8th inning guy.

4. SS Nick Ahmed, Arizona Diamondbacks .254/.316/.437 19 HR 82 RBI 79 runs scored 93 OPS+ 92 wRC+

The general thought process is that if Didi leaves, the Yankees will just shift Gleyber Torres to shortstop full time, put DJ at 2B and have Gio and Voit round out the infield. In that case they probably will want somebody who can rotate around at a variety of spots in the infield to keep everybody fresh aka the same role they had in mind for DJ LeMehieu when they signed him. If they want a more traditional shortstop and use DJ/Gleyber/Gio as a trio of rotating infielders (or play DJ at 1st) then Nick Ahmed might make a lot of sense as a trade option. Going back to names from the past, the Yankees have inquired on Ahmed in the past; once as a potential 2B (the role went to Neil Walker) and once as a fill in for Didi when he had TJS. Ahmed had his career best year which is still noway near Didi's peak years BUT his glove is world's away better than Didi's peak years so that's the trade off.

5. 1B Daniel Vogelbach, Seattle Mariners .208/.341/.439 30 HR 76 RBI 79 runs scored 112 OPS+ 111 wRC+

The original plan in 2019 was a Greg Bird/Luke Voit platoon gig at 1st and DH. It didn't work out that and to his credit, Voit took the job and ran with it for the first half of the year. In the 2nd half, injuries and a lack of confidence in his ability to read the zone led to Voit being off the playoff roster. He's got all of the tools to be a really good hitting 1st baseman (less about the defense said then the better) but Voit remains a "Yeah but" for the Yankees. He's too good on paper to not make the team but too question marked filled at this point to be a reliable set it and forget it starter at 1st. Daniel Vogelbach falls into a similar boat as Luke Voit; both see a lot of pitches, both hit for power, both are cost controlled and both struggled in the 2nd half down the stretch. Vogelbach isn't great shakes defensively which would give the Yankees a sketchy lefty-righty platoon with bad defense but the pop and the OBP skills are tremendous and well worth considering if Vogelbach is not considered a key part of the Mariners rebuild. The argument could/should be made that the Yankees already have a Daniel Vogelbach in waiting in Mike Ford though.

6. SP Jose Quintana, Cubs 13-9 4.56 ERA 181 innings pitched 8.0 K/9 2.4 BB/9 107 ERA-

Went over this one elsewhere. For a Yankees staff that really could use the innings, Jose Quintana would provide a reliable somewhat affordable (at 11 mil) innings eater with upside. His stuff was basically the same as usual (he K'd a bit less than usual) and figures to have some bounceback ability especially if the balls are untreated this year.

7. DH Kyle Schwarber, Cubs .250/.339/.531 38 HR 92 RBI 82 runs scored 120 OPS+ 120 wRC+

So as previously stated; if Brian Cashman wants you then chances are he'll find a way to go and get you eventually. In 2016, Cashman went toe to toe with the Cubs in an attempt to get Kyle Schwarber for Aroldis Chapman. It didn't work out and apparently they tried again for the stretch run in 2017 as well. When the Yankees lineup was being wiped out with injuries, they went out and got a DH in Edwin Encarnacion with the belief being that they could hit their way by teams with no upgrades to the rotation. It didn't quite work out in the playoffs but Encarnacion was very reliable for the Yankees last year. Could the Yankees jump on a potential Cubs soft rebuild by grabbing Schwarber and using him as an occasional outfielder but mostly full time DH who mashes lefties and provides balance at the top of the line up between the likes of Stanton, Judge and Gleyber? Schwarber is an abysmal defender who mashes and then some but cannot hit lefties for the life of it. The price would probably be high despite his warts because he's still relatively cost effective and lefty power is always in demand.

8. RP Blake Treinen, Oakland Athletics 4.91 ERA 16 saves 58.2 innings pitched 9.1 K/9 5.6 BB/9

If the Yankees have to go and find some additional bullpen arms, they might find a friend out in Oakland. Blake Treinen was superb in 2018 and despite having similar peripherals for most of 2019, the results were way worse. EVEN accounting for regression to the mean, this was a hell of a decline for Treinen who ended the year on IL. At 31 years old and likely at an elevated (by bullpen standards) cost, the Yankees could take a low risk high reward flier on Treinen.

#MLB #Yankees #australia #Robbie Ray #Trades #pitchers #hitters #Schwarber #Nick Ahmed

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iampikachuhearmeroar · 6 years ago

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okay, y’all, i’ve gotta back on my tl;dr bullshit soapbox about something:

so, the other day, i was just mindlessly scrolling through my corporate & capitalist hellscape facebook™️ (i.e. LinkedIn) and came across this totally trite mostly bullshit meme that was shared by some corporate executive search man (whose name i decided to crop out bc eh):

so i obviously agree with the last three points on this list, bc god yes my life would’ve been a bit better if I didn’t get all my dialogue about mental health only from teen mags and horrible portrayals in teen tv shows (and also this hellsite). and hell yeah everyone, and I mean EVERYONE needs to learn that failure is okay many situations (like failing a class in uni or school) bc everyone fails at something sometimes. and dealing with failure is HARD. and time management is something that I’m pretty sure everyone lies to fuckin hell about on their resume, bc lots of people really suck at it, myself included. so yeah. that needs to be taught. and i also agree with the “how to manage your health” point. bc thats becoming ever more prevalent and important with career burn out etc.

but entrepreneurship? people management? conflict resolution? creativity? how to manage money? public speaking? like y’all. three of those ARE taught/learned in school, who the fuck wrote this meme?

for anyone who actually paid attention in maths class, (which is probably very few people outside of the top performing classes), there WAS A WHOLE FUCKING UNIT that focuses on financial maths (in australia anyway). I ignored this unit as well as maths in general at school, bc I generally hated maths and was convinced that I was somehow never going to get a job. but i remember the gist of the overall topic and its subtopics. one subtopic teaches you how to calculate your wages in various contexts (overtime, double-time and a half, holiday payments, im pretty sure maternity leave pay was jammed in somewhere? idk if other countries would have double time & a 1/2 like australia though). another subtopic teaches you how to calculate interest on bank loans and credit rates on credit cards. a third subtopic teaches you how to calculate savings (obvs in terms of discounts in shops)....im sure there was a bit about budgeting in there somewhere? im pretty sure there were some questions were about tax payments somewhere as a subtopic enrichment exercise? but you get my gist. are these not money management skills? in some sense? like if i could find one of my old maths textbooks or old maths books i’d give an example of a question, to make my point stronger. but the problem, like i said before, is that a load of people (myself included) just zone out in maths in high school and stop trying with it. they forget what they’ve learnt, and just remember how much they hated algebra and how they’ll never use it again. maths was one hell of a fucking strong bitch, guys. but maybe i’m wrong.

creativity? excuse me? have people forgotten about art classes? drama classes? english classes? music classes? need i go on? okay don’t get me wrong, most of these classes did focus a lot on memorising quotes or facts about people (artists/writers/poets/composers/dramatists etc) or specific periods/movements in art or theatre or literature for example.... but the amazing sculptures/paintings etc people created in art for their final projects in year 12, or even in year 10 were works of their imagination. the scripts people write in drama or maybe english (if you had a fun teacher who did a screenwriting unit, for example) are creative asf. especially in year 12 when they do their major projects, where they may produce a monologue or a short movie, and then there’s a group piece. drama students might even make their own costumes for these performances. LIKE AIN’T THAT A LOT OF CREATIVITY RIGHT THERE Y’ALL????? and english. lowly old english. THEY HAVE A WHOLE FUCKING TOPIC ON CREATIVE WRITING FOR FUCKS SAKE. the original music people might create for their final projects too in year 12? does that not count as creativity? like yes, i know a lot of these things do still have to meet bs assessment criteria (especially in catholic schools, where the main things are you don’t offend the catholic education office and jesus/god lmao) to be considered worthy of a mark for your year 12 exams. but FUCK. HOW THE FUCK AREN’T ANY OF THESE SUBJECTS COUNTED TOWARDS BEING CREATIVE???????? like fuck your corporate creative ideation or w/e bullshit, Callum. drama and english even lend themselves to improvisation in some instances, like public speaking, which is examined further, below.

next, we move on to public speaking. this shit is basically taught from the first goddamn day of “show & tell” in kindy/kindergarten, and this fucker has the gall to say that it’s not fucking taught in schools? someone call in miley cyrus/hannah montana to throw the fuck down in this motherfucking hoedown BC THIS STUPID-ASS MEME-FUCKER HAS NERVE. i hated public speaking. absolutely hated it. even though it was ironically one of the places i ended up excelling in in english classes. even when i fucked up in my english speeches with like “oh, fuck.... said nelson mandela, i’ve seem to’ve lost my palm card. wait, shit! there it is... excuse me while i pull it out of my ass. whoops, sorry miss” *bats eyes and finger guns at my year 9 english teacher who has her head in her hands and is done with my shit, while the class laughs at my gaffe* i’d still end up with like 73% or like 26/30. it was baffling. but for people who weren’t the class clown/smart alec like i was from years 7-10 (and like i actually wasn’t once i moved schools).... public speaking is like the leading cause of anxiety, right? like by the time i got to doing speeches/presentations at uni i was having panic attacks... the thought of presenting to my classes made me fucking sick with fear and anxiety. nearly every subject i did at uni (even when i tried to avoid subs with public speaking assessments) and throughout school had some type of presentation/speech whatever you want to call it project/activity in it. even fucking SPORT/PDHPE at school and even philosophy at uni. and these fuckers are saying its not taught in schools. FUCK OFF. like yeah, i get that they actually mean it in the professional sense.... where people can give the sappy bs motivational speeches or an insightful ted-talk worthy 20-minute presentation... or a great sales pitch. but like??? save that for mike “my dad phoned in to EY and i have a job waiting for me after uni” mcfuck in a business major or law degree? or for clubs like toastmasters? fuck. ok enough of the skills we learn in school. let’s move onto the businesslike-sounding ones of “people management”, “conflict management” and fucking “entrepreneurship”. like. what the fuck? okay in some sense people management and conflict management could potentially be used in managing friendships and relationships in your personal life. but like. i can feel the business underpinnings and i dont like it lmao. like why do you want fully functioning adults straight out of school, franklin? and there’s extra credit conflict management subjects at uni??? or at least my home uni had it... and i never did them bc they were intensive courses during summer break lol. but the one that pissed me off the most was entrepreneurship. LIKE ARE KIDS NOT FUCKING ALLOWED TO BE KIDS NOW????? well apparently: “NO! YOU MUST ALWAYS THINK OF MONEY MAKING WAYS TO BE RICH! YOU MUST BE ENTREPRENEURIAL!!!!!! YOU MUST GENERATE BUSINESS IDEAS FROM THE TIME YOU CAN FUCKIN’ WALK!!!!! AND SPEAK!!! CHILDHOOD AND BEING A TEENAGER DON’T EXIST WORKER BEE!!!! CAPITALISM FOR ALL!!!! WORKER BEES!!! CAPITALISM IS YOUR FRIEND!!! OWN A BUSINESS BY THE TIME YOU’RE 8 YEARS OLD!” like it’s insidious asf. and it doesn’t acknowledge that most entrepreneurs are already privileged people anyway, who usually have some type of money to start off their venture (or that’s what it feels like anyway). and yeah throw all the “THIS BOY IS AN ENTREPRENEUR AT 18!!! 18!!!???? BY STARTING HIS OWN BUSINESS AT 12!!!! WHAT A CHAMP! 😁🙃” clickbait news stories at me, but i don’t fucking care. the concept and perceived over-importance and almost preaching mindset of entrepreneurship is slowly becoming insidious and toxic asf. call me paranoid. but that’s what it feels like.

but with those last three topics, i want to make a point that school curriculum’s (in australia at least, and probably worldwide) are so jam-packed already with sport (which is pointless and shitty), geography (ok how to read maps is important, but i never bothered to learned to do it properly), history, science, english etc etc etc..... that like.... where the actual fuck are the gonna jam the above bs (people management”, “conflict management” and entrepreneurship) into the curriculum???? and also teachers are already over-worked enough as it is, they don’t need another load of shitty subjects pushed onto them. and they sure asf don’t earn enough (especially in the states) to have this bs pushed into their subject schedules either. keep them at uni, where they should be. or just in the workplace/in the general public where they belong. and if people suggest that you could probably push these subjects into the year 11/12 business studies programs or elective commerce courses in years 9/10, save your goddamn breath. like i remember looking at business studies hsc papers in years 11/12 to see what they did.... and it was pretty chock-a-block anyway. and my experience of my year 9 commerce was horrible, to say the least. let kids be kids, for fucks sake. they shouldn’t have to be fully functioning adults in the workplace, by the end of high school, for fucks sake. AND ENTREPRENEURSHIP IS NOT AN ESSENTIAL SKILL????!!!! FUCK OFF WITH THAT SHIT, WILHELM. anyway. that’s my rant over about how i hate how corporate people are trying to be #relatablewiththeyouth🙃 with their shitty versions of “10 things i wish we learned in school” memes.... and failing.... without realising that this is why millennials are suspicious and cynical about meme usage by corporate people/corporations.

#life #about me #shut up ilona #ranty mcrantrant #ilona rants about shit #warning: a too long didnt read/tl;dr post #for lazy tumblr peeps who never read long posts is ahead #BEWARE!!!’#and strap in for the ride #but yeah tl:dr ahead #learn to read long form posts you fucks #it was in my replies #so read my tags y’all

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kurojiri · 5 years ago

Text

away from expectations

Fandoms: Harry Potter; Merlin (TV Show) Gen: Charlie Weasley & Draco Malfoy & Merlin Summary: Like how life was usually described by the majority, it didn't go as planned. Prompt: Staying up all night A/N: written for June’s prompt for @hp-coffeehouse Word Count: 1,534 Or read on: ao3 | ffnt

It started out as a whim. Draco had been needing more than the tea that his mother had packed for him before he left to his new job. It hadn’t been like he didn’t love the sweet flavors or the softness they made his magic feel afterwards; it was just that he needed a pick-me-up that coffee always gave him. A powerful caffeine trip that Weasley was able to provide when he noticed that Draco was waning off during their breaks.

That had been an interesting combination in his life. Working with another Weasley, but one that had been the very definition of what he pictured what Gryffindors would do outside Hogwarts. Taming, studying and overall, protecting such creatures like dragons.

Yes.

Dragons. Tall, fire-breathing, very incredibly dangerous creatures. Why would Draco Malfoy of all people would start working at a dragon enclosure in Romania someone would ask? Simple, the ministry over there hadn’t cared too much about his business or the war. They just liked how high his scores had been for healing and potions. (The number of retired workers had also flexed that Draco would be a great asset for their enclosure given that he knew how to properly use all the equipment and ingredients without them fearing that he would waste all their materials and funding.) He had been thoroughly trained for that position as a means to get out of England in general for a position that didn't scam him out his pay for reparation that the war caused.

And if that meant that he had to work alongside a Weasley that didn’t look disgusted by him, who actually had been very decent with him, then who was he to deny his life in Romania?

It had been a whiplash in the beginning with people—a lot of strangers that glanced at his last name and not spit on him. There had been many neutral parties that understood his age, his name and why the war had happened.

Were there was still a minority that didn’t like him? Of course. But they had also loved to pretend he didn’t exist and didn’t jinx him either. He had called that a win. He needed all the kinder parts of what reality could afford him when he had been doing his best to send as much money to help his mother where she stayed in France. Most of their British roots had taken a downward spill, as their assets had barely placed them in a zone where they had to be careful about future investments.

Although they had been lucky. Some families that were heavily based on the British soil had ended worse than them. He knew some of them, and they had left long ago before the mobs could get to them. Draco, had been in the middle where he left as soon as he was able for his education after the trials concluded. When his mother was safe in France, and he could breathe momentarily in peace.

In those months turned into two years, he had met the inspiration of overcoming his fear of fire, while also going as far as he could in Europe to find a calling for himself. The dragon enclosure had ended up being that place. Where he could walk there, to feel himself herding a lock of courage when he interacted with his coworkers. Namely, Charlie Weasley. Their friendship had been a core extension when he stayed up from a breakthrough when he tweaked a potion. Or when he helped organize report logs from the various peers, he could bring himself to tolerate (then tentatively befriend).

When he had found a niche there, it became quite clear that the coffee shop closest by the dragon enclosure had been the perfect place for Weasley to entrap him. The first cup had been divine. Had been the very taste that woke every cell of his body.

(He had ignored the smug grin of Weasley’s when he finished the drink in record time.)

After that cup, Draco had requested for Weasley to take him to the shop after their shifts. The road had seen better days for muggle’s standards, but for many magical folks, the dirt patches had such a wild—very welcoming allure. Like what all the forests he ever stepped into before had in common, where the magic was at its purest form. The buzzing of insects and the silence of a semi empty road prickled at his ears. The aged wooden door opened to an old-fashioned shop. Its style did not come to Draco’s former likes, but the warmth of it all had been inclusive for anyone that needed to unwind.

By the counter, there was one man.

His curly black hair was messy, his blue eyes were piercing as if he could read Draco's thoughts, but had been polite enough to never dig deep. He had a growing beard that made him rugged and cheekbones that had made Draco himself jealous. Besides his outward appearance, Draco hadn't felt any malice coming from the man. And that, that had been a nice feeling to have after being stuck outdoors for half the day when he had been collecting samples for some of the potions, he would need to make next week. Their first conversation had a mixture in the tone. Where Draco felt like he had been speaking to a man far older than he appeared.

As if the barista had a knack of talking and understanding the older generations or old souls better. Not completely unfair for the first couple of assumptions, but then, Draco had softened up a bit for calmer conversations that he could appreciate them when they shared that together. Especially when Weasley had that type of air of himself to build fires into his stories that children tended to flash when their excitement knew no bounds. But it all fit perfectly as they all chatted. With Draco drinking up the details every time he visited since then.

The shop had seen better days, with the wood being aged and the frames of photos lining up in the walls. He could tell that it had seen a lot of history when he sat down on the love seats or chairs by the tables. Yet, that had been why he kept coming back, in part of the coffee that enabled him to stay awake during long hours. Whether in early mornings where he gathered most of the usual ingredients or in late nights when he needed to do certain time-based potions. The coffee had been cataloged with the perfect hours for the wizarding world that thrived in the location, seeing that most of the muggles left in hurry to their homes or temporary lodgings that were a couple hours away.

By the third month since he had walked into the coffee shop, he had acquired a table where he liked to work on his paperwork. Where the sun rays didn’t hinder the parchment coloring and the ink pens he used when writing. The view of the tall green trees and mountains weren't bad either when compared to the open skies. It had reminded him of the times he got lost at the beauty of how remote Hogwarts felt when he had strolled where the black lake had been. The rest of the customers had also the same unspoken rules of maintaining hushed conversations and the barista (who he later learned was actually the owner), would come around the shop to talk to anybody that seek a second ear. Like a friend that remembered when someone gained a promotion or had family visiting. A living and breathing home to go back to when the rest of the world was harsher.

It had become a place that Weasley and himself went to in daily trips, given that Draco always wanted to rest in a place that didn't leave him in a stuffy mess. Merlin (and Draco really spat his coffee when he told him his name) had been an addition to his Romanian chapter in his life that he didn’t know he needed. His quips had the same fondness Draco used to hear when he had been younger in Hogwarts, his blue eyes (still so bright and mysterious) covered for his limitless expressions when he laughed. Half the time it felt like Draco gained another uncle figure in his life. What with him calling him out whenever Draco felt comfortable to display any of his old ‘git-like retorts’ when his posh background came up.

Not that he missed how Merlin’s smile gave Draco the impression that he had been missing someone that had similar backstory of being born in a high-class society.

He didn’t know when it came to finding himself sleeping at the coffee shop as a normal side effect, but knowing his coffee intake and Merlin’s hospitality and growing friendship, a second bed had been prearranged whenever Draco had to stay up all night.

Because when Draco thought about where he once started after Hogwarts, he couldn’t bring himself to care where he worked and who importantly were now inside his circle of friends. Not when he started to smile genuinely again.

#hp coffeehouse #HP #bbc merlin #Charlie Weasley #Draco Malfoy #Merlin #crossover: hp x bbc merlin #fic: 1-5k #gen #post canon #post hogwarts #post 5 x 13 #coffee shop au

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totally-tae · 6 years ago

Text

The Regular

Character: Namjoon x Reader

Genre: fluff, coffee shop!au, slight angst?

Word count: 5k

You’re working in a coffee shop and Namjoon visits frequently.

„Christie, I’m taking my break!“ I announce to my co-worker and start taking of my working apron.

“Alright, see you in a bit!” She replies while fixing another customer their coffee.

Almost naturally my gaze drifts over to a particular corner in our little shop. As usual one of our regulars is sitting over there reading hi….wait a minute! Was he just looking at me?

I stop and continue to fold my apron.

No that can’t be. I must be seeing things.

I make my way over to the staff room, but my gaze still lingers on him. Now he’s reading one of his books again and I can’t help but notice that he looks exhausted. Mostly he’s wearing casual, but still sort of trendy clothes. Today, he’s wearing a simple gray hoodie with unruly hair and jogging pants. It still looks hot though, maybe even more than usual. And no that didn’t mean I tend to look at him more than I should.

I sigh and finally manage to look where I’m actually going.

Whenever he is here, he’s reading, writing or doing something on his laptop. Ever since I noticed him (which had basically been the day I started working here), I told myself I would chat him up someday.

Well, guess who still didn’t gather the courage to do so.

The staff room door falls shut behind me and I lean against it, sighing. I’ve been working here for half a year, what was so hard to start a conversation with someone? Especially someone who is always reading a book you could start a conversation about? Right, being afraid of getting rejected.

He probably wouldn’t want to talk to me anyway. I mean he’s the most charming person ever when he orders his Iced Americano, but he obviously got stuff to do, so I would only bother him.

Having these thoughts, I spent my break eating lunch and checking my social media. When I come back to the counter, I glance at the corner again, but he is gone.

The next few weeks continue as usual, although I notice that our regular is not visiting as often as he used to. And every time he actually shows up, his orders of coffee and the dark circles under his eyes increase.

Today is one of these days and although he is a stranger, I can’t help but feel worried. Just a minute ago he ordered his third coffee, extra strong.

I chew on my lip as I prepare his order. Maybe I should ask him if he’s alright? After I finish making his coffee I take a look at the clock and walk over to Christie who is working with me again today. The shop is rather empty now, so I lean closer to her.

“Hey do you mind if I take my break right now?” I ask her in a muted voice.

She instantly turns and looks at me with huge, twinkling eyes.

“Are you going to talk to him?!” She exclaimed a little too loud for my taste.

“Shhhh!!” I put my hand over her mouth hastily and look around the shop. Phew, it seems like he didn’t hear it.

“I guess?” I shrug as I take my hand from her mouth, while giving her a warning look. “I mean he doesn’t look like he is doing very well, so I thought I’d at least ask him how he’s doing…”

“And you think he’d tell you?” She retorted and I rolled my eyes at her.

“No. But it’s the intention that counts!”

“Not when you want to get into his pants.” She smirked and I swatted at her arm.

“I don’t want to get into his pants!” I denied maybe a little too quickly. I felt heat rising to my cheeks and turned around, heading his way.

“Anyway if you need me, you know where you can find me.” I stated, making my way over to his table.

My feet slowed down as I neared his table. How should I start this conversation? I can’t just show up and ask him if he is stressed out or something. My eyes focused on the book he was holding in his hand.

“The Ones Who Walk Away From Omelas?” I read out loud and he lowered his book to look at me.

“Huh? Oh, yeah, right. You know the book?” He asked me and I shook my head.

“No, only read the title out loud.” I admitted and felt the blush creeping up again.

I set his coffee down on the table and sat down on the seat on the opposite side of the table.

“So what is it about?”

“It’s just a short story. There is this town Omelas and everyone living there is happy and living a good life without anything bad happening to them, but then you find out the dark secret of the town’s happiness. There is a child trapped in small, dirty room living in constant fear and pain which somehow is what makes it possible for the rest of townspeople to live their happy, careless lifes.” He explains to me and I raise my eyebrows in surprise.

“That’s heavy.” I frown and he nods, grabbing his coffee and taking a sip.

“It is, but sadly, not so far off from reality.” He says while looking out the window.

“I guess not your favourite book?”

“No, it’s a very good book, but it manages to drag you down a little.”

“Yeah, it does.”

A short moment of silence followed my sentence in which both of us seemed to think about what to say next. Still not daring to address the concerns I had about his wellbeing I spoke up again.

“So, you’re here pretty often? No Wi-Fi at home?” I joked and he chuckled.

“You’re not far off.” He joined my banter while leaning forward. “But no, I just find it easier to concentrate here.”

“Are you sure? With that amount of coffee you’ve been drinking lately, I kind of doubt it.” I managed to change the topic and he sighed.

“What are you, a psychic?” He sighed, nipping at his coffee again. “Just a little more work than usual, nothing special.”

I nodded and started to get up.

“You always seemed to unwind here...and I kind of want this to be your relax zone, so hit me up if you need anything.” I smiled, not sure what I was saying myself. Then I turned around and made my way back to the counter where I sat down the tray I had used to bring him his coffee. After that I rushed back to the staff room to spend the rest of my break hiding from customers, especially one.

After that encounter with our regular I thought about quitting my job and never returning to the shop, but before I could seriously consider doing that, he stopped showing up.

Maybe I really went too far by telling him I want this place to be his relax zone. I mean who says stuff like that?

I groaned and felt like hitting my head against a wall. No, I was not working today, but I was in a book shop, definitely a place where bumping your head against a wall would be inappropriate as well.

When our regular stopped visiting our café I had bought myself a copy of “The Ones Who Walk Away From Omelas” and he was right, it was an amazing short story. So now I was standing in front of a bunch of Murakami books and couldn’t decide which one I should buy. I only knew that he read something by Murakami once and since he seemed to have great taste in books, I figured I should give the author a shot as well.

“Hey!” I suddenly hear from my right and turn to see our missing customer standing in front me.

“Oh, hey!” I greet him and close the book I was skimming through. “Long time no see.”

Wait, he’s talking to me? So he wasn’t avoiding the shop because of what I said?

“Yeah, life’s been busy, so I had no time to stop by at the shop.” He explains with a guilty smile and I nod.

“That’s good!” I babbled before I could stop myself. “Uhm, you know that nothing bad happened.” I clarified and he chuckled.

“You were worried?” He questioned me in a more serious tone, the smile fading from his face and a frown appearing.

“Kind of. You didn’t look too well the last few times you were at the shop and since you used to come so often it kind of feels like we know each other, you know?” I told him with a more serious look on my face now, too.

“My name is Y/N by the way.” I added quickly when it dawned on me that we never formally introduced ourselves and extended my hand.

“Right, my name is Namjoon.” He replied and shook my hand. Maybe we shook them a little too long and when we realized we both let go awkwardly.

“So uhm…” Namjoon started and looked around the shop. “What are you doing here?”

“Looking for a book.” I shrugged and held the one I was holding up. “I thought about getting one from Murakami, but I’m not sure which one.”

Namjoon only nodded when he heard that and took a look at the various books placed in front of us.

“Have you read some of his books already?” He asked and I shook my head.

“Then it’s easy.” He continued and extended his right arm to grab a book from the top shelf. The title read “Almost Transparent Blue”.

“This one is amazing. I read it a while back, but it’s one of my favourites. I’d recommend it to everyone I know.” He elaborated and handed it to me.

“Sex, drugs and rock ‘n roll?” I questioned him and raised a quizzical eyebrow after reading the short description on the back.

He raised his arms in defense.

“You don’t have to buy it, it’s only a recommendation.”

“I guess I’ll give it a shot.” I shrugged and a satisfied grin appeared on his face.

“Good choice.”

We made our way over to the cash point and I paid for the book. Only now I noticed that Namjoon also held a book in his hand, but I couldn’t read the title.

After we finished paying, we exited the shop.

“What are you doing now?” He asked me and I looked at him in surprise. I totally didn’t expect him to ask me that.

“I don’t really have any plans to be honest. What about you?”

“I should get back to work, but I could spare some time for a coffee if you’d like? My treat.”

“Sure! If you really can that is. I don’t want you to get in trouble because of me.”

“No that’s fine. My job is pretty much like a freelancer at the moment, so don’t worry about it. It’s quite the opposite.” Hearing that made me feel more at ease about it, so we walked over to the nearest coffee shop we could find.

“Let me guess, you’re taking an iced Americano?” Of course I was right, he always orders one in our shop. “Then I’ll take one, too.”

We wait for our drinks and sit down at a cozy little table in the upper floor of the shop. We spent quite some time talking about whatever comes to our minds. Our favourite books, movies, music (a topic he seemed especially passionate about), hobbies and family.

Surprisingly there wasn’t even one moment of awkward silence. When the sun started setting we exited the shop and came to a stop outside the door.

“Wow, it’s getting dark already!” I exclaimed at the rosy view in front of us.

“Shit, you’re right! I’ll better get back to work now.” Namjoon said while scratching his head.

“Oh, sure, sorry I took up so much of your time.”

“No need to apologize for that. It was nice to get my thoughts off from work for a while.”

We exchanged phone numbers before we parted ways and I took the subway to get home.

The following weeks Namjoon was still busy and didn’t visit the shop very often, but after our encounter at the book shop we texted nearly every day. Christie was already teasing me about it constantly, but I brushed her off.

Until Namjoon invited me to a party.

“Come on Christie! I can’t go there on my own! And he said I could bring some friends!” I whined over the phone while Christe groaned.

“But I don’t even know anyone Y/N!”

“I don’t know anyone either! That’s why I need you!” I begged. “Also you can get to know new people much faster than I can, so forget complaining about that.”

“Fineee.” She finally agreed and I cheered, feeling relieved. “But I swear if you run off with Namjoon and I haven’t found an interesting person to chat with, I’ll be mad.”

“I doubt he’d even want to run off with me, but okay, I’ll ask for your permission first.” I chuckled and she laughed as well.

The days at work before the party we chatted about what we should wear, if there would be any cute guys, good food and drinks. And then the day of the party finally came. Christie had come over to my place so we could get ready together. I ended up wearing a classic little black dress, since Namjoon didn’t really tell me why they were having the party, so this was the safest option.

Christie went with a black mini skirt and a crop top. Then we searched for the public transport that would take us there and got going.

When we arrived at our destination, we were not standing in front of a normal building complex with apartments, but some company. Was this party related to his work? But he always somehow avoided talking about his work…

We rung the bell he told me to ring and waited anxiously while exchanging unnerved looks. This was different from what we expected. The door was opened and we went to the elevator and up to the 4th floor. Up there the music could be heard even before the elevator doors opened and I sighed in relief. Now that sounds like a party.

Still a little hesitant, we followed the music and ended up in a huge room filled with people. There were mostly young people, but also some older ones. Definitely work related.

I looked around the room in search for Namjoon, but couldn’t see him anywhere, so we went over to the bar. A drink would at least make it seem like we belonged here.

“I swear to god, I’ve heard BigHit somewhere before…” Christie mumbled and I frowned. When you own no television and don’t really catch up on mainstream media it was no surprise I didn’t know the name.

“Maybe something related to books? Since Namjoon reads a lot.” I shrugged and she shook her head.

“I doubt that.”

We stayed at the bar, continued to chat and watch more and more people arrive until someone tested a microphone. Just now we noticed the little stage like space at one end of the room.

“What is this party?” Christie whispered into my ear and all I could do was shrug again, after all I had no clue.

“Y/N! There you are!” I heard Namjoon’s familiar voice and seconds later he appeared next to me. In that exact moment the older man on the little stage cleared his throat.

“I really need to tell you something. Do you have a minute?” He asked in a hurry and I frowned.

“I promised not to leave my friend Christie alone, since she knows no one, sorry. But you can tell me here?” I suggested and he sighed.

“Not ideal, but I guess it will do.” He mumbled while the guy on stage started talking.

“Good evening everyone! We’re honored that all of you appeared here tonight to celebrate the success of the promotions of ‘You Never Walk Alone’!”

Promotions? You Never Walk Alone? Never heard of it.

“So you see…I never really told you what I work as right? And I guess you already figured out that this party is somehow work related. And the truth is I was so busy the last weeks, because we were promoting ‘You never Walk Alone’ our new album.”

Immediately I turned to him and stared at him with wide eyes and an open mouth, blurring out the man talking in the background.

“You’re a musician?!” I gasped and he nodded, unsure if my reaction was a positive or negative one.

“Yeah…” He admitted and frowned.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“It’s just…I was surprised that you didn’t know at all and I didn’t want to ruin it and act like a jerk who thinks he’s cool because he is successful in the business.”

“Namjoon why would I think you’re a jerk?” I face palmed and he chuckled.

“Who knows?” He shrugged and I laughed it off.

Then music started playing in the background and I turned towards the stage again, where you could see some kind of music video.

“Is this one of your band mates?” I asked when a guy with a cute beanie and a blue cardigan appeared on the screen.

“Yep, that’s Taehyung. I’ll introduce you to them if you want, but I have to go now. See you later?” He questioned me with hopeful eyes and I nodded, then he disappeared into the crowd of people.

I continued to watch the music video and was surprised that Namjoon showed up as the very first person to rap. I was surprised by the sound of his voice and his looks. And we thought he looked stylish when he showed up in our coffee shop. Well, I would never wear a blazer over a sweater, but he looked amazing nonetheless.

The song itself was really calming and not at all what I was expecting from the kind of music Namjoon preferably listens to. Then I caught a glimpse of a word in the video. Omelas! So that’s what he’s been reading it for!

Now that I recognized the word, I tried to read into everything that was going on much more and at the end of the video I was impressed. I couldn’t believe Namjoon was part of this.

Then another video came up and the feeling was entirely different. The name was probably ‘Not Today’ they said that pretty often. But wait? Namjoon had purple hair? I didn’t even notice in the previous video! But he had brown hair now, didn’t he?

The video ended as fast as the first one and I turned to Christie in awe.

“Was that…Namjoon?” She asked in confusion and I nodded slowly.

“Yeah, he just told me he is a musician. Judging from the amount of people here they must be huge! Do we live under a rock or something?!” I complained. I really needed to buy a TV. Like tomorrow.

“You definitely do. I’m more disappointed in myself. I even heard of them, but never looked up their stuff. What the hell.” Christie joined in and we went back to the bar to get another drink.

Then the band got called up on stage and they thanked everyone in the team who worked on the album with them.

Only now I had the chance in to take in Namjoon’s appearance. He looked smoking hot!! How could he look better every single time I saw him?

“Ok, now it’s obvious he’s an idol. All of them are so hot. Y/N you need to introduce me to at least one of them.” Christie insisted and I sighed.

“I don’t even know them myself. And if they’re idols they probably have a dating ban, so don’t get your hopes up.”

She looked at me with concern in her eyes.

“I never got my hopes up okay.” I clarified and she rolled her eyes.

“Yeah, right.”

In the meanwhile the boys had left the stage and were talking to some of the people in the crowd. I didn’t really want to get in Namjoon’s way and, as Christie pointed out, my hopes up. So we just walked around the decorated room, grabbed some food and then went over to the dance floor.

After a while someone tapped me on the shoulder and I was greeted by Namjoon’s smile.

“Enjoying yourself?” He questioned me and I nodded.

“A little isolated, but we’re having fun.” I joked. “Join us?”

“Nah, I’m not really a dancer.”

“…You’re an idol…?” Christie chimed in and Namjoon shrugged.

“I am, but did you watch the videos just now? Definitely not the best dancer out there.” He continued and I sighed.

“There is no skill level needed to dance with us though.” I countered, but he shook his head.

“I’ll pass for now, but how about I introduce you to the others?” He suggested and of course we agreed, so we followed him over to where the boys were chatting among themselves right now.

“Hey guys! This Y/N and Christie, they work at the coffe shop I usually go to.”

“Oh the girl you…” One of them started, but Namjoon cut in.

“Yes the one I told you I invited to the party.” He stated with a glare and the guy laughed. If I remembered right it was the one with the blue cardigan in the first video.

“Hey! It’s so nice to meet you. Namjoon never told us he had a band.” I greeted them awkwardly and they looked at him, acting offended.

“Wow, are you ashamed of us?” “What did we do to you?” “I’m so disappointed!”

Christie and I laughed and the guys laughed as well. Then Namjoon introduced them one by one and we talked about their music, how long they’ve been together, how long they trained, all that stuff.

At some point I needed to use the restroom, so I excused myself. Before I could rejoin the group however I was caught by Namjoon.

“Hey, can we talk right now? The boys are taking care of Christie, don’t worry” He added when he noticed my concerned look. I couldn’t fathom what he’d want to talk to me about, so I agreed.

We left the room and walked down the hallways, until Namjoon opened the door to a small room.

“A studio?” I asked while looking around.

“My studio.” He explained and I gasped.

“Nice.” I stated while inspecting the room. “A lot of figurines.”

“Oh, yeah, do you think it’s too much?”

“No, it’s fine. It’s your studio anyway, right?” I encouraged him and he seemed relieved that I didn’t mind them. “So what did you want to talk about?”

“Nothing in particular. I only wanted to show you some more music. Maybe some of my solo stuff if you want? I mean ‘Spring Day’ and ‘Not Today’ are good, but it doesn’t cover everything we’ve done.”

“I’d love that!”

We sat down in front of his desk and he opened up some files. Their biggest hits and some tracks of his mixtape. Every single song was incredible.

“Ok now I feel like a potato next to you.” I sighed and leaned back into my chair.

“Don’t say that. There are many things you’re better at than I will ever be.” He tried to cheer me up, but I was having none of it.

“Making coffee isn’t the same as creating amazingly beautiful and emotional music. I’ve never seen anyone crying, because they’ve tasted a cup of coffee.” I rolled my eyes.

“It doesn’t have to be work related you know.” He sighed and I shrugged, remaining silent. “We’ll just agree on the fact that you’re great, ok?”

I agreed in defeat and then remembered something.

“Oh, right! I saw an Omelas sign in one of the music videos! Don’t tell me you read the book for that?” I inquired and he chuckled.

“You noticed? I told you it was work related. We have a consistent background story going on in most of our MVs, but it would be too much to explain it to you now.”

“I have time.” I stated and Namjoon laughed.

“As much as I’d like to spend more time alone with you, I still have to show up at the party again or rumors will start circulating.” Ouch.

“Sure…” I mumbled, trying my best to conceal the stinging pain in my chest. Not getting my hopes up had worked really well.

We left Namjoon’s studio behind and and rejoined the others at the actual party location. I noticed Christie chatting happily with Jin and ventured out to the bar by myself where I got another drink. It didn’t take long until another person showed up behind me. Hoseok.

“Hey are you alright?” He asked me with a frown and I smiled at him.

“Sure, I’m fine, why?”

“I don’t know, you seemed unhappy when you came back, so I thought I’d ask.” He shrugged and sat down next to me.

“No, it’s all good.” I insisted, but he was having none of it.

“Did Namjoon say something to you?” He hit the bull’s eye and I sighed. “Look, I don’t know what he said and I don’t want to pry, but I know he appears all smooth and good with words, but when he’s nervous he’s not. I bet whatever he said he only wanted to protect you.”

“Protect me from what?” I furrowed my brows and he grinned.

“Our Armys can get a little wild.” He said and slid off his seat. “Cheer up, ok?”

And with that he disappeared again.

I stayed at the bar for quite a while and tried to sort out my thoughts. Just when I thought I finally managed to do so, Christie and Namjoon appeared.

“There you are! We were searching for you everywhere!” Christe exclaimed and hugged me, clearly a little tipsy.

“Oh, sorry. I only got another drink.” I told them and raised my glass.

“So, the boys and I were planning on taking this party home with some close friends. Do you want to come?” Namjoon suggested and I thought about it for a while.

“Do you want to Christe?” I asked and she nodded eagerly.

“Sure, why not.” I shrugged and not long after we found ourselves in a van driving to their dorm.

Of course not everyone had fit into one van, so we were divided into groups. There was Taehyung, Yoongi, Hoseok, Namjoon, Christie, me and two others I didn’t know the names of in the van. Music was playing and everybody was having a good time.

A short time later we parked in an underground parking lot and all of us squeezed into the elevator. The boy’s dorm was tidy and even a little bit decorated. They definitely prepared for this. Taehyung proposed a little house tour for us and we found ourselves wandering through their various rooms.

“Wouldn’t have expected you guys to be so tidy.” Christie pointed out and Taehyung chuckled.

“Hobi is very diligent about us tidying, so we have no choice.”

We walked through a few more rooms until Taehyung opened the door to his own room.

“This is Namjoon’s and my room.” He announced and I looked at the pile of stuffed toys.

“Don’t tell me these are Namjoon’s.” I laughed and Taehyung grinned.

“Ok, I won’t.” He joked and told us that they were rarely home anyway.

After that we walked back into the now packed living room. Christie and I stayed for a few more hours, but decided it was time to leave before it got too late.

“Let me walk you home?” Namjoon asked when they found out that Christie didn’t live too far from their dorm and I had to walk a little longer on my own.

“You don’t have to. I can just take a taxi. No need to leave your own party for that.” I smiled and he shook his head.

“It’s not that I have to, I want to.” He insisted and I sighed, giving in.

We walked up to where Christie lived together and then it was only me and Namjoon.

“So…” I started.

“So?”

“Not afraid of being seen outside with me?” I teased and he looked at me with shock in his eyes. “You know rumors and stuff.” I added hastily and he frowned.

“Yeah Hobi told me you weren’t happy that I said that.”

“He told you?!” I asked. Wow, I’ll never tell Hoseok about my feelings ever again.

“I asked where he’s been and he said he checked on you and I asked why, that’s all. He probably knew I was worried.”

“About what?” I questioned him and he shrugged.

“About you.”

“Why?”

“Look I’m not dumb, I notice when you’re acting strange as well. Of course I get worried.” He clarified and I looked to the ground. Sometimes it really sucked that I couldn’t hide my feelings very well. “I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings when I said that. I just know that dating as an idol isn’t the best thing to do. And you’d suffer because of it more than I would.”

“Wait, what?!”

Namjoon stopped and I turned around to look at him in the faint street light.

“I like you. From the very first moment I saw you in the coffee shop I wanted to talk to you, but I didn’t know what to say, so I stayed quiet. I planned on asking you out long ago and when you approached me and we met in the book store…I just knew it was now or never. But you saw that I have close to no time to spend with you, so I thought it would be better not to say anything.”

I stood there in disbelief. My eyes wide, mind blank and a pounding heart.

“Probably shouldn’t have said that…” Namjoon said while scratching the back of his head and started to walk again, but I grabbed his hand. He stopped and turned back towards me, but I still didn’t know what to say.

“So…you’re saying you want to…date me?” I asked quietly and slowly raised my eyes to meet his soft gaze. He nodded quietly.

“I’d like that very much.”

A grin formed on Namjoon’s face and he leaned forward to seal my lips with his.

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