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treenissanderssidesstuff · 4 years ago

Text

One

A03 Link

Thank you to @edupunkn00b for helping me beta this story!

Words: 4222

Pairing: Roceit (Platonic Demus)

TW: None that I know of, feel free to inform me.

Summary: Janus decides to play "prince."

Inspired by @aidensm8's work in the request they filled for me. Also loosely inspired by some of the drawings @reddstardust made in response to aiden's work as well.

Link to post.

Ah HAH! I found it! Link to original ask.

The darkside’s corridor had been quiet recently, annoyingly so in Remus’ opinion. It’d been quiet in general since Virgil left and the terrible trio became a dinky duo, but now that Janus split his time between the sides, Remus had found himself increasingly uno. It was usually fine, he had the entire imagination to keep him busy and entertained, after all. He could make sides if he wanted to. But… it wasn’t quite the same. That was probably the only reason he had bothered to hang around at all when Janus went on another tirade about how insufferable and brainwashed the lightsides were, how Roman was being pushed, blah blah blah. After the last video release, the dialogged had temporarily shifted. That had gotten Remus’ attention. It seemed that Roman had rejected Janus, not just chosen someone else’ way over the deceitful side’s own, but outright stood against Janus even when the others folded around him. It would be funny, if it weren’t so sad.

All of Janus’ plans had been for Roman’s sake.

And in three miscalculated moves, Janus had managed to push away the one side he sought the approval of.

“Do you think this will work?” Janus asked, tugging at the yellow sash hanging off his shoulder again.

“Oh, definitely not,” Remus said flatly, flipping through an upside down fairytale book on the couch with a bored expression on his face. The duke had been forced to hear about Janus’ plans to woo—“reconcile” with Roman for days and at this point it was honestly slightly obnoxious how invested Janus was. “But it’s just the right side of disgustingly cheesy that Roman’s sure to love it even when you inevitably fall on your face.”

“I will!” Janus “I- I mean I won’t! I mean-!“ Janus shoved his face in his hands with a groan.

Remus quirked an eyebrow in the snake’s direction, watching the self-proclaimed “Lord of Lies” try and compose himself. Thankfully, Remus did know what he meant, even when Janus wasn’t sure of it himself. It was one of his special skills as the bestfriend™.

“Look, J, I’m going to tell you this very clearly and carefully, as your friend,” Remus said, pushing up into a sitting position from his previous sprawl across the couch. “Your plans suck.”

"Excuse you?!" Janus nearly shrieked in retaliation to Remus' brand of hard truths. “They do!… not!”

Remus couldn't have stopped the subsequent string of chuckles if he wanted to. That was the biggest lie he'd ever heard Jan tell and Remus had heard plenty over the years given how rarely the two were ever apart. The darkside pair just meshed well. Janus was the liar, sure, but Remus was the secret keeper. Even if Roman struggled to understand Janus, Remus never had. The snake couldn't hide from him, even when he wanted to. It came with Remus' position as the holder of intrusive thoughts; he got a front row seat to every dirty little secret the others tried to lock away and bury in their little shame closets. What they didn't realize however, was that Remus had the master key. Remus quite literally was the little hint of truth behind every one of Janus' lies. The truths that Janus tried to tug and weave and bend around the others to get his way.

Remus was the keeper of the blatant, harsh, and often downright uncomfortable truths, not just what the sides tried to hide from Thomas, but also what they tried to hide from each other. It was a lot like the story The Giver. Someone had to hold all of the knowledge the little utopia unit tried to hide from and Remus had been designated. Though, he usually thought of himself more of a receiver than anything. Roman was the giver of the pair. The giver of dreams, wishes, and fantasies. Remus was more like a radio with the dial gummed up and stuck on where the power switch had broken off ages ago. Not that all of the secrets were so bad to tune into, some were sweet, some were shy, and a few were even downright adorable, but more often than not, secrets were kept that way for a reason and the Deceitful side had the most secrets of all.

They worked because Janus could never ever keep a secret from Remus and likewise, Remus would never ever tell.

The Deceitful side trusted him, was the only one to trust him and Remus was adamant to keep that trust. Remus locked it in a little box and kept it close, in the few little hideaways he had. In his pockets, within little small nooks of the imagination, and under the bed on the nights when Thomas’ thoughts turned up to an 11 and even Remus started to wonder what he still had left to give.

He had that.

A tiny little secret of his own.

Most of the time, it was enough.

"Your. Plans. Suck." Remus emphasized, slowly, pushing up from the ratty sofa Janus had sewn back up after Remus’ countless escapades over the years. Janus complained about it every time. He cited everything from the loose springs, and flattened stuffing, to the threadbare upholstery and warped base. He always told Remus just to replace the broken thing, but that never stopped careful fingers in yellow-clad gloves from systematically putting the thing back together again each time, always working away at it before Remus could even consider replacing the old lump.

That was his friend’s best and worst trait after all. Janus could not let things go. He wrapped and coiled and held on to any little scrap that he could get a hold of. His problem was that when he panicked, that coil became a death grip.

That's how they lost Virgil.

And that's how Janus was currently losing Roman.

"My plans are ama--mph--" Janus glared at Remus with fury striking like lightning in his eyes after Remus willed a zipper to appear across Janus' lips to force them shut, fully closing even the snake side.

Even best friends needed a taste of their own medicine every now and again, lest they forget how bitter it can be.

"Ah, ah, ah my sweet snoot," Remus nearly sang as he skipped over to his favorite danger noodle and reached out to boop Janus' nose. "It's my turn to talk now.

“You went in and pretend to be Patton, just to have him show up on you and made Thomas want to tell the truth more. Even then, you had almost had Roman on your side, but got so focused on semantics, you missed the actual benefits. You reviewed, revised, and waited to try again after deciding Logan and his facts were the problem, right?

“Then—“ Remus started, holding his mace up threateningly as Janus made some displeased, but muffled noises from behind the zipper, likely some kind of litany of curses. Had Remus not been prepared with his mace, the other side likely would have already tried to strong arm him into getting rid of the bound. “You tried to play Logan and just… ugh, Janny you are not allowed to act anymore. That was a terrible performance. Anyway! The trial starts and you get into it and try to defend what Roman wants, right?”

Janus’ incomprehensible complaints cease, only for him to squint at Remus suspiciously and give a slow nod.

“Wrong!” Remus proclaimed, swinging his mace toward the snake and stopping so close to his face, the metal spikes brushed some of the bangs hanging over the bridge of Janus’ nose. “Instead, you got carried away again. You got caught up in semantics and made it about who Thomas is as a person rather than what would be the better choice to make.

“In short, you made it all about you. Again,” Remus said, letting his morning star drop as the energy was sucked out of him with his rant. “Sure, you won the argument, but you lost what you actually wanted.”

Remus wasn’t usually one to insert his opinions on things, that was more Janus’ thing and, gosh it was exhausting. How did the snake even keep up with just… caring so much about everything?

It seemed Remus wasn’t the only one suddenly exhausted though, because after rubbing some of the strain out of his own eyes, the duke watched Janus slowly slump backwards until he was all but sitting on the arm of their scrap couch. He wasn’t fighting the zipper any longer, his extra arms were tucked away and his normal pair were laid listlessly on his lap now as he stared down at his own yellow gloves.

“How was my brother meant to make any other decision when you put what Thomas wanted, against who he wanted to be? I wouldn’t care, indulgence is my territory. But Roman’s job is to be the dream, the ideal. You should know that.”

When Janus finally looked up at Remus, he just looked sad.

He looked pale, his eyes were shiny, and all the regality he tried to hold himself with in that dupe prince costume just fell away from him as he pressed his palms to his temples.

Remus finally let the zipper fall away into nonexistence.

He wasn’t done yet.

“Look J, I know you had good intentions.”

“But?” a slightly rough voice asked from a newly freed mouth as a yellow glove brushed the remaining ghosting sensations of the enclosure away.

Remus sighed, already imagining the hoard of grotesque creatures he’d be battling through in the imagination after this “talk.” He needed something to balance out all of the gross feelings and shit.

“But I don’t think Roman or Thomas would have chosen the wedding if you hadn’t gotten side tracked. You tried to prove you’re ugh ‘goodness’ by arguing you’re a part of Thomas. Your whole argument backfired and made him question if he’s any good. What else did you expect but for him to try and prove he is? Not to mention the after incident.”

“That was meant to be an apology,” Janus murmured miserably. “I had taken Logan’s place with the intention of leading Roman to work out his own mistreatment.”

“But you showboated.”

“I-“ Janus started, clearly ready to argue again, but stopped himself with a single look from Remus. “…I did what I thought was necessary.”

“Did you now?” Remus snorted. “Sure, going and pretending to be the nerd I get, but why change went Patton went full kaiju? You could have kept up the act and stood alongside Roman. It would have been an all around win for the lightsides as everyone would think Roman and Logan worked together to reign in one of their own.”

“I… I just wanted….”

“You wanted to be accepted. You saw an opportunity to be the hero and you took it, not caring who you hurt along the way. First you took Patton’s role as morality, then you took Logan’s role as logic, and to round it all out, you took Roman’s role as Thomas hero. That’s your problem.”

“Is wanting a place at the discussion table so bad?” Janus asked with a sigh, folding his arms in his lap.

“No, but taking it is,” Remus said, tugging the tiny chain that typically held Janus’ cape to his shoulders. It was currently re-purposed to secure the cape into a makeshift sash.

“Because that’s not a hypocritical statement at all, coming from you,” Janus replied swatting at Remus’ hands that still fiddled with his sash. “It’s not as if you, oh I dunno, knocked out Roman and took his spot during your entrance or anything.”

“True, but when I did it, I made Robro their hero.” Remus said, letting himself fall back onto the couch lazily as Remus saw the first sign of real recognition budding within his friend’s heterocromatic eyes.

“He is their hero.”

“Does he know that?”

“He wouldn’t believe me if I told him so.”

“So, what are you going to do?”

###

Roman groaned and carefully maneuvered his skirt from the grasp of yet another birch tree. It was fair to say that the photo shoot wasn’t exactly going how he had pictured it when he had chosen a full gown paired with an outdoor setting. He knew there must have been a reason why the others had all chosen knee length skirts and stayed indoors. Instead of just taking a picture, Roman had to build a scene. He had to wow his audience and every part of the image had to be carefully designed. He just… hadn’t exactly thought everything through. Roman had imagined something more along the lines of sweeping gracefully through the forest as the gown swished around him as his every movement was made even more graceful by the gentle sway of the fabric.

He hadn’t accounted for how often his outfit would catch on the branches and foliage around him.

It wasn’t fair.

Disney princesses usually seemed to magically get along with the flora and fauna around them, long skirts or not, unless they were being trailed by some evildoer of course, but that didn’t count. Roman was by himself at the moment. On break from getting frustrated one too many times as his own outfit betrayed him during the photo shoot. The photographer and set designer needed some time to reevaluate the next set and Roman needed some time to clear away his current frustration.

So, into the woods he went. He carefully lifted his skirt to protect it against nearly ripping for the fourth or fifth time today as he gingerly stepped around branches, dearly missing his boots as stray twigs tried to impale themselves into his sandled feet. At least his hair wasn’t so long that it would get unexpectedly tangled in the branches above, but he did have to pick some burrs off of his bolero already after he had tried to catch himself on a bush during an unfortunate stumble. The maneuver saved his outfit from getting muddy, but he didn’t make it unscathed.

Roman had dreamed of being on the cover of magazines his whole life. Though, in those dreams it was usually due to a movie deal but he had never been opposed to the idea of modeling like some of the other sides were. Logan found the idea of it mindless, Virgil was anxious about the attention, and Patton wasn’t fond of the rumored cutthroat environment. Still, Roman had thought it seemed so glamorous. However, he hadn’t taken into account how much work it was.

Sure, it seemed simple. Pose and shoot, right? In reality though, it was tedious work as the photographer rapidly took hundreds of pictures at just slightly different angles so they could all be evaluated later for the “best” ones. That meant not just holding a pose, but also holding an expression. Roman felt like his acting skills were being put to fill use as he tried to strike the idea of power into each click of the camera.

Absolutely nothing about this had been simple though.

Roman found himself sighing and leaned against one of the scattered trees for moral and physical support after carefully maneuvering his gown around it. He would be fine. He was royalty after all and the first rule was to never let them see you cry. It would all be okay once he took a chance to catch his metaphorical breath. Though, the literal sense wasn’t a bad idea either. He imagined the breathing exercises that Virgil had gone through with him when the prince accidentally shown up at Virgil’s door in a less than royal state after the whole wedding debauchery and name reveal sham. The near panic attacking pulling him there unwittingly.

It was… it was nice. Roman and Virgil had been getting along better than ever after his own acceptance video, but it was like a new wall had broken down around the pair. Virgil had stationed himself as Roman’s personal bodyguard since the events that need not be named and… it was nice. A little lonely, but he appreciated everything that the anxious side was doing for him and especially appreciated how he kept between him and the-side-who-probably-lied-about-his-name-anyway.

Roman didn’t think he was ready to open up that can of snakes quite yet.

Hey Princey, it’s going to be okay, yeah? You’re better than this… and him.

The words rang around Roman’s skull once, twice, and then he straightened his shoulders. Even when Virgil wasn’t around, he was right. The prince could practically feel the anxious side aiming a smirk his way from somewhere in the incomprehensible distance. Still, it was good to remember.

He was better than this.

He was going to march right back to that photo-shoot, take some fabulous as fuck photos, and then march home with his head hell high because he was going to look damn good in the final set!

Hiking up his skirt again, Roman prepared himself for the trudge back, feeling ready to take on the world once again, except—

—except something caught his eye.

Well… there was a well… a literal one out in the distance. It was old looking, some of the bricks were broken or even just missing, and there seemed to be this misty haze that hung around it, a little thinner than full fog, but something about it felt slightly… otherworldly? With only a moment of hesitation, Roman found himself taking a step towards it and then another, and then another…

…the others would be fine without him for just a few minutes longer, right?

It was such an oddly beautiful scene, broken down and uncared for, but there was still something just so striking about it. Plus, how many chances would be get to interact with a real life well? This could be a great location to take some shots and he’d be remiss if he didn’t take advantage of it!

There was also one other advantage to it as well. It wasn’t often after all that real settings lended themselves so pefectly to the Disney aesthetic. Mind you, Snow White was by no means his favorite movie. The plot-line was a bit... outdated. Still, he admired the film for everything it represented as the first Disney classic of the golden age, the film that really started it all! Snow White was a marvel of animation for its time and the well song was the sound engineers of the time showing off.

He could respect that.

Roman crept closer, one careful step at a time until his toes of his sandles nearly touched the stone. He, ever so gently, let himself kneel down slowly, until his knees began to rest upon the well’s edge. He carefully let his shoulders relax as he watched the light reflecting in the water’s slightly cloudy surface. It was just for a tiny bit longer, after all. He let his hands slowly unclench from around the skirt as the velvety material draped and flowed around him. It was nice to have something else bear the weight of the heavy material for a little while.

“Make a wish into the well,” Roman whispered, letting his fingers trace over the loose stones circling the murky opening. To be fair, it was the tiniest bit more decrepit then the one pictured in the film. He sighed and slowly let his form drape across the layered bricks as he let one hand hang over the side as his fingertips danced across the water’s surface. “That’s all I have to do, huh?”

“And if you hear it echoing, your wish will soon come true~”

The sweet bell chime of Snow’s voice only sang the next line within Roman’s own mind, but it was enough to spur his continuance.

“I’m wishing~” Roman quietly sang, trying not to feel too silly as his voice carried to no one at all. At least Snow had some animals to sing to. He had nothing but the ripples of a moss covered and slightly over-flooded well that had certainly acted as a catch all drainage for the recent string of storms.

Roman tried not to empathize with the stacked pile of rocks.

He wasn’t sure if it was the well or his own internal imagination still remembering the movie, but he could almost hear an echo reply back with, “I’m wishing”

“For the one I love, to find me,”

“To find me”

“Todaaay.”

“Todaaaaay~” came a smooth voice behind Roman’s back, causing the royal side to literally jump up and onto their feet from their previous position lounged across the well edge.

“Deceit,” Roman glowered, hiking up the lengthy gown to take a couple cautionary steps backwards. He wasn’t sure what to make of what he was seeing. There Janus was, decked out in an outfit modeled after his own typical princely gear, right down to the sash that was—wait—was that his cape?

“Not today,” Janus said simply, taking slow steps forward until the fake prince came nearly nose to nose with the real one. “Today, my darling, I thought I’d try something new, just for you.”

And then the humming started.

“Now that I’ve found you, hear what I have to saaay~” Janus started, singing along to the familiar tune. “One song,~”

“~Ever entreating, constant but true~”

A gloved hand tried to weave its way between Roman’s fingers as the other hovered just to Roman’s side and would have been only a moment away from resting against his hip, had he not jerked away the moment those gloves touched him.

“There’s nothing ‘true’ about you!” Roman yelled, not caring anymore that the edges of his skirt swept the soil beneath him as he pulled away.

Roman had planned a second round of photos after his break, but couldn’t stand the thought anymore. No, Janus had ruined this for him, just like everything else he had systematically ruined in Roman’s life recently.

Roman was about to start again, blaming the Deceitful side for this, for mercilessly pushing and shoving his way into Roman’s space, his things, his life, except—

—expect he had this look on his face. Big, mismatched eyes stared back at Roman, wide, and shimmery and open. Roman had to remind himself that the hurt shining his way was probably just another trick, just another ploy to manipulate the prince again.

...Okay, not even Roman totally believed it.

“What do you want from me?” Roman whispered, he didn’t know if he was asking the other side or himself from how quietly his voice whispered the words.

“I just want one.”

One what?

“One chance,” Janus said, taking a slow step forward toward the prince. “One opportunity to apologize properly.”

As Janus moved forward, one of Roman’s feet took a preparatory step backwards for balance, ready to move, ready to defend or flee. But Roman stayed rooted in place as the snake in princely garb moved closer.

“One day, that I can pretend that my actions and intentions had aligned, my dear,” Janus said, only stopping once his chest nearly brushed against Roman’s own. “One day, to pretend that I was your savior.”

“I don’t under—“ Roman muttered, before he could curse himself for engaging with this at all. His brain was just the smallest bit frazzled from the proximity and Janus had no shortage of charm in the way he could deliver a line.

“Shhhhh,” Janus hushed gently, tugging the yellow gloves from his hand before he reached up to trace his thumb against Roman’s cheekbone. “Can’t we just have a fantasy for a little while my prince? Just this once?”

Roman swallowed as Janus leaned further into his space.

“Fantasy is my specialty, I suppose,” Roman muttered, clinging to the fact that the sweet talk was simply to get him to conjure some kind of indulgent daydream rather than trying to lead Roman to some other kind of nefarious goal. “What kind of fantasy were you looking to dive into?”

“I want one where I gave you your happy ending in the way I intended Roman.”

Roman just stared, his jaw dropping slightly at those words.

Janus didn’t flinch, didn’t throw his voice, or quirk his eyebrows, or any of number of little tells that the Deceitful side expected the others to pick up on in conversation. No he just met Roman’s stare with something heavy behind those heterochromatic eyes.

“Please Roman? I know it’s selfish to ask, but we both know selfish is what I am. Just let me be one today. Can’t we pretend for just one day?”

“What ‘one’ do you even mean?” Roman huffed half-heartedly. Even he could feel the fire slowly extinguishing in his chest as the conversation continued. “Who are you today then? The liar or the saint?”

Janus paused a moment, his gaze unwavering from Roman’s own face. Roman watched the scales on his neck glimmer in the sunlight as he swallowed, before taking the last final step into the prince’s space as a gloveless hand sat itself on Roman’s hip.

“Neither today my dearest,” Janus said with a cocky smile as he used his free hand to brush Roman’s fluffy bangs from his eyes.

“Today, I simply want to be the one in your fantasy.”

#roceit #sanders sides #fanfiction #roman sanders #remus sanders #janus sanders #disney themes

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whitherliliesbloom · 3 years ago

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heartbeat concerto

[ ffxivwrite2021 ] ★ [ masterlist ] ★ [ prompt #03 - scale ]

[ alphinaud/wol ] ★ [ 2,605 words ] ★ [ nodame cantabile au ]

scale: an arrangement of the notes in any system of music in ascending or descending order of pitch

Illya prays to the heavens that the man beside her does not hear the fortissimo that was her pounding heart.

“Rachmaninoff?” Her voice was equal parts confused as it was alarmed, hiking in pitch that sounded like an ear piercing squeak, almost grimace worthy. Trepidation rings loud in her chest, like shrieking white noise that deafens her. “I’ve never played a concerto in front of somebody before.”

She had hoped that admittance would allow him to grant her some fraction of mercy. After all... for as gracious and supportive a tutor as he was a diligently observant audience for her playing, he surely wouldn’t throw her into the deep end after she’d just barely able to make some progress, right?

The boy merely smiles, navy blue eyes softening in its gaze as he waves the music sheets in his hands before placing them delicately upon the piano stand. He exudes an aura of gentle reassurance, but knows that his resolve to push her past her comfortable limits is implacable.

“Now would be a good time for a first then, wouldn’t you agree?”

Illya heart sinks, lips pressed into a thin, paling line as she glances at the score that awaited her - notes upon lines that were rapidly blurring into nothing but squiggles and incomprehensible doodles in her vision... as if taunting her, daring her to butcher one of the most iconic piano concertos to have ever been composed - by one of the greatest virtuoso pianists to have ever lived no less?

Sonatas were one thing - it took Illya a good amount of time to be able to even bring herself to play the first movement of Sonata Facile to completion in front of him without breaking down into a mess of cold sweat and trembling fingers.

But concertos... by the twelve, even saying the word brings her chills down her spine.

She was nowhere near good enough for pieces that demanded such high amounts of skill, precision and talent... nowhere even close to being able to perform alone on stage for a crowd to behold... let alone in front of an entire orchestra.

When she had met the violin prodigy that had been her new neighbor and he’d offered to help her overcome the performance anxiety that had crippled her ability to play the piano in front of others for years, she hadn’t expected for him to have such sky high expectations for her - expectations that she was certain she’d never in a million years be able to meet.

Alphinaud is a confident, assured young man. Performing was only natural to him, came as naturally as music does flow through his very veins - he had even stated so on the very day that they’d met. Music is for ears to hear, for the world to enjoy. What point was there to keeping music hidden behind four walls? To hide away the sound of their instruments is an affront to the very reason those instruments were made in the first place.

He moved into this apartment complex for a very different reason than she did - and she understood that he too, in his own ways that she could not yet fully understand, had his own troubles which kept him from reaching the heights in which he, and his family had aspired him to be.

But the notoriety behind the difficulty of the pieces he plays has never once made his bow once falter, nor has it ever put him off the idea of even trying. Certainly, there were aspects of his playing to critique... but his determination and confidence alone makes him more of a capable musician than she is - something she both deeply envied and admired.

Would that she could even possess half the amount of talent as he- she’d constantly tell herself, and it was a thought that possessed her even as she hung her head in defeat, trudging to the piano that sat in the middle of the living room before sitting herself down on the cushioned bench, the dent in the corner of the wood still visible from their first meeting when she’d knocked it over onto its side from panic.

Violet eyes glance down at the black and white keys with a gulp - her greatest friend in her darkest times of sorrow... yet also the cause of many of her biggest regrets and worries in life.

She stalls for a moment to pick her train of hair up from the floor and let it unravel gently behind her on the bench, her cotton slippers kicked aside to place her feet upon the pedals that were propped up by a well used extender - a necessity due to her short stature.

With stiff, slightly shaky fingers that now laid delicately upon the surface of the piano keys, Illya sharply inhales, and forces herself to quiet the raging thoughts of potential failure and humiliation as she presses down to play the first notes.

Alphinaud stands behind her by the window, quiet so as to not disturb the girl... but even with his considerate silence, Illya could not help but be acutely aware of his eyes staring holes into the back of her head. She could only begin to imagine what he was thinking - and while she’s befriended him long enough to know he was a man who was above ridicule, she still hated to disappoint - especially the first person who has heard her play the piano for the first time in years.

A symphony fills the apartment, bright as the rays of sunlight that shone through the window, making Illya’s starspun hair appear to glow like a halo. Like little bells, the piano sings out a melody that is as light as the air. It sounds easy on the ears, gentle and kind as the timid pianist who was weaving this piece into being with her fingers.

And that was the problem.

Rachmaninoff composed Piano Concerto No 2 during some of the darkest moments of his life - the piece that would go on to save his career as a floundering, helpless musician had been written from the very pits of his own despair - a song of tragedy and sorrow that tells of a struggling pianist and composer who feared to lose the very thing that gave his life meaning; something many other aspiring musicians would surely understand... something Illya herself knew all too well.

And yet when Alphinaud listened to the piece being played, it conveyed none of that sadness, none of the essence of what made Concerto No 2 become such an iconic classical piece in history.

Illya played without fault - that much he is certain. She’s taking great care to play the right notes, attentive to her own pace that would be fitting were a choir of violins and cellos playing after her tune. But he can tell, even without looking upon the tense, rigid scowl upon her face that she was focusing too much on the technicalities that she’s lost all of what made him so captivated with her playing before - a mistake that he himself has been criticized for countless times.

Father has chided him for that before - praised him for being a genius and young violin paragon both while at the same time admonishing his lack of improvement even after three years of performing professionally - three years of the same critique that would come back to haunt him over and over again.

Music was more than playing perfectly - it was about the inflections, the subtleties in the way one moves their finger across the piano keys, or the way one draws a violin bow... The emotions that would stir one’s heart in a way only music would be able to convey and can never be properly emulated with computerized digital sound.

When Alphinaud closed his eyes, he did not hear the disquiet of a child’s heart as he heard the echoes of church bells ringing on a Sunday morning... but, just as it is - a nervous pianist who was pressing keys because she was told to, because she is doubting herself.

“Illya.” he calls her name, softly so as to not startle... but more importantly, to convey that he wasn’t mad, disappointed or upset with her - as she is wont to often assume.

The piano stops abruptly, and the girl turns to look at him, her piercing stardust hued eyes shimmering with a glossy layer of worry - it suits her less than the rare blossoms of joy that sprouted in her eyes whenever she seemed to genuinely be enjoying his company.

“Y-Yes?”

The young man pauses for a moment to casually stroll up beside her, before gesturing for the lady to move. Though confused, she scoots over to her right to allow him space on the bench, questioning expression apparent on her face about his intent.

When he sits, the close proximity between them brings him warmth, and he feels the corners of his lips instinctively pull into a gentle smile.

“I’m sorry, you must have been caught off guard with such an unreasonable request from me.” He apologizes before quickly holding up his hand when he sees the young lady’s lips part in an impulsive need to protest.. but it is quickly lowered when she draws back into herself and swallows her retort. “Maybe... a little warm up would be better before we move on to such a challenging piece.”

His slender fingers stretch, the pad of his index finger resting gently upon a D key, but not pressing down.

Alphinaud has only the basic understanding of how a piano is played... and he has in the past tried to expand his musical repertoire to cover the undisputedly most popular classical instrument of all time, but he regrettably never quite got the time or chance to. But he is aware of a routine piano players would use to practice, not too dissimilar to the way violinists would warm up as well.

“May we perhaps practice scales? Just for a little while?”

The humility in his tone with his request compared to before doesn’t escape Illya’s notice, but she refrains from commenting on it as her eyes widen up at him.

“Um... s-sure.”

The hesitation in her response is only natural - after all he’d just challenged her to play a difficult piece of piano concerto only to reduce their practice down to repetitive scales - something even the most amateur of players could easily do.

Perhaps he’d felt a tad sorry for his earlier forwardness and the not so subtle way he’d intimidated her into playing something she was clearly not completely comfortable performing for him.. and the only way he knew how to make amends was to correct the damage of his own transgression’s doing.

Getting Illya to relax was important - not just for her music but for the sake of herself as well. If her Rapunzel length hair, lack of fresh foods in her pantry and well worn and weathered pink camise was any indication, the girl wasn’t the best at taking care of her own wellbeing in her pursuit for musical perfection.

Illya’s shoulder is still relatively stiff as she begins to play, though not nearly as much as they were before while she was playing the concerto. Her fingers effortlessly glide across the keyboard to play an ascension of notes before moving back down.

By the third repeat, she’s begun relaxing considerably and picking up speed, and her hands were moving with a practiced, ethereal fluidity that was akin to waves of the ocean... as were the sound of the notes being played - reminding Alphinaud of the push and pull of the tides upon a sandy shoreline.

She transitions from C major to C minor, weaving in the scales of D-flat major and minor before the scales moves further and further up in pitch, so seamlessly that anyone who isn’t familiar with notes in the slightest would have trouble even realizing the switch in scales until she’s reached F major.

In the face of something that comes naturally to Illya, she is at ease... and the piano is once more harmonizing in tune with her love for the instrument.

It’s a not so subtle way of giving her a confidence boost, but Alphinaud claps as she finishes the B minor scale with a flick of her arms - and though her confusion is still apparent, he can tell just from the adorable tilt of her head that she’s relaxed now.

“Wonderful, Illya... It’s clear as crystal with the way you played how seasoned you are. I’d dare say you’re quite a prodigy yourself.”

Having a lofty title thrust onto her so suddenly without warning burns her cheeks a bright shade of red, and the girl is quick to shake her head.

“I-I... I appreciate it, Alphinaud... But I know you’re just saying that to make me feel better.”

“Be that as it may...” He retorts before leaning forward to close the distance between them, his blue eyes swirling with a sincerity that begins to mirror in Illya’s bejeweled ones. “My praises are always truthful and well deserved. You’re a wonderful pianist, Illya.”

Something compels Alphinaud to continue speaking. Perhaps it was the twinkling of Illya’s eyes that held the radiantly clear reflection of himself within... or the dust of pink speckled upon her cheeks and across the width of her little button nose and pointed ears... or maybe it was the soft sound of air being inhaled through her barely parted lips - glossy, pink and befittingly cute for a woman of such beauty. But he deigns to open up his heart and speak his mind freely- he finds himself being able to do so more easily towards her than any other person for some reason.

“Besides... It was because of my own selfish desire to be able to hear you play that I offered to be your tutor. Being able to be by your side here like this and watch you play alone is an honor I would always treasure. So you needn’t be so afraid of playing how you wish to with me.”

When Alphinaud leans back, he finds the delightful cherry pink shade upon Illya’s face to have darkened, and her flustered quivering of her lips as him self-reflecting upon his own statement which causes him to dart his head to the side in an attempt to hide his own blooming blush.

Not that it’d be noticed by Illya in the first place, as she tilts her head down to hide her thoroughly embarrassed expression beneath the shadows of her white bangs.

“I-I’m sorry. Maybe I said too much.”

Illya doesn’t respond, and the young man is almost thankful she doesn’t... because he’s determined to force himself to recover and continue on with their practice.

Clearing his throat unabashedly, his head turns slowly back to look at the girl beside him.

“Well. Shall we continue? I could pick out an easier piece for you to try, this time.”

She nods, as halfheartedly as she did earlier when he’d asked her to perform Rachmaninoff’s piece for him. And though her playing of Mozart was even more shaky, off-pace and lacking in original intent as it did with Piano Concerto No 2 before... Alphinaud could only acknowledge her efforts with an apologetic and bashful smile on his part... for the deep red flush upon Illya’s face never once dissipates during her performance.

Nor does the trembling of her fingers - which, if nothing else, conveys the pounding of her racing heart more than clearly and loudly for him to hear.

#ffxiv #ffxivwrite2021 #ffxivwrite #kiwisffxivwrite2021 #alphinaud leveilleur #alphinaud #illya skawi #fanfic #mine #nodame cantabile au #we've come so far #AAAAAAAAAA THE FIRST FILL THAT I ACTUALLY REALLY REALLY ENJOYED WRITING HALLELUJAH #I LOVE THIS AU SO MUCH AAAAAAAAAAA

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staysaneathome · 3 years ago

Text

The Self-Preservation Society (1)

Des’ Daddy isn’t his Daddy anymore.

Des knows this because his family told him so. They’ve been whispering it into his ears, into his skin, into his tummy, with every quiet, soft step they take. Whispers of dusty, of spicy, of preserved, not sweaty and stinky and smoky like Des’ Daddy should be.

He thinks he’d know it even if they didn’t tell him though. Des’ Daddy went off to the wax museum with short hair, dark eyes, a lumpy eyebrow, and a grumpy frown. The man who came to find them and kissed his Mama at the butterfly exhibit has curly hair, freckles, a warm smile, and eyes so green Des’ family wanted to land on them, explore the vibrant flowers within.

But he is not Des’ Daddy, even though Mama likes him more. Even though Mama had got upset when Des was confused. Even though he swung Des up onto his shoulders in a piggyback ride that his Daddy never let him have. Even though he reads Des bedtime stories every night about birds piercing insects and bringing them back to the nest for their babies, even though he kisses Des’ forehead every morning and tells him to have a good day at school, even though he makes Mama laugh and put down the special juice to dance with him in the living room to Abuelita’s old tunes.

He is not Des’ Daddy.

And he knows Des knows this.

Des thinks he knows Des’ family knows this too.

His family whispers, predator, danger, predator, and Des tries to make himself look bigger. He’s messier, doesn’t cover his mouth to cough or blow his nose, doesn’t wipe his face at dinner or wash his hands after playing in the garden. Mama gets mad, and gets even madder when he doesn’t want to take a bath, because this is protection, this is defense.

Look, see how dirty and germy I am. You can’t eat me, or else you’ll get sick and die. Or I’ll taste really, really bad and you’ll wanna throw me up. So don’t eat me. Don’t even think about it.

But Des’ defenses don’t protect Mama. Mama doesn’t have a family like Des does, not yet, and she’s touching him so much to get rid of his protection, and she gets sick. She falls over in the middle of the day and has to be rushed to hospital. Des sits on a chair next to what is Not his Daddy and hears small snippets of big words like “cardiac arrest” and “cardenolides” and “overdose” and “overnight monitoring”.

The man who is not Des’ Daddy straps him into his car seat after the doctor tells him they’ll call with an update in the morning, and begins to drive.

“You did this, didn’t you Des?” He asks, in that mild way he does now. Nothing like the way Daddy used to yell, voice lowering and loudening until it sounded creaky with volume. Des wishes that he’d do that instead of this.

“Didn’t mean to.” He bites out, glaring down at his hands. One of his sisters perches on his clenched fist, opening and closing her wings softly and slowly. She’s very pretty, and her orange and black and brown wings feel like the gentlest kisses.

The man who isn’t Des’ Daddy nods, like this is perfectly normal. Like they aren’t driving past their house and out onto the motorway again, further and further away. “Of course you didn’t. Your mama loves you after all. It’s not your fault you can’t love her back properly.”

Des’s mouth drops open. “I can too.”

He’s very good at loving. He loves, loves, loves his Mama, his real Daddy, his Abuelita, his family. It’s why they came to him after all, when he fell from the big tree in the woods behind their house and everything hurt. They whisper they love him when they’re small and wriggling, when they’re quiet and growing, when they’re big and flying, and he whispers that he loves them too, because he does.

“No you can’t.” The hand that reaches out is faster than a bird.

It doesn’t feel like anything at first, as Des stares at his sister’s limp, crushed form in incomprehension.

Then the pain hits him and he opens his mouth in a wounded howl. It hurt him, it hurt him, the stranger hurt him, the predator hurt him, help, help, help.

His family come to his aid, filling the car, millions upon millions of beautiful orange, brown and black wings beating furiously around him. Protect, defend, beloved, ours, stay away, don’t touch, don’t touch, don’t touch—

The thing that is not Des’ Daddy laughs. It doesn’t even look away from the road as the poison drips down its face, doesn’t even blink as it lashes out and hurts more and more of Des’ family with every sweep of an arm. “You see? With all this inside you, Des, how could you love somebody? How could you love anybody? But don’t worry. We’re going somewhere where they can fix you up and make you aaaall better. Make you into the son Mama deserves, so you can love her properly. Don’t you want that? To love your Mama properly?”

Des can’t stop crying, reaches out and calls his family back to him. He doesn’t wanna go with the predator, but he doesn’t want his family getting hurt anymore either, he doesn’t, he doesn’t.

They’re scared too, he can feel them, even as they whisper beloved and we love you and be brave and ours as they wander over him, as their wings brush his skin in the gentlest of kisses and comfort.

Outside the car is getting brighter, big, big buildings with lots of lights zooming past like fair lights on a tea cup ride or a merry-go-round. It makes his head hurt, as more tears spill from his eyes and he tries to sniff past his runny nose. Some of his family move to the window, blocking out the lights that make him feel like he wants to be sick.

“Ssh, easy Des.” The stranger hushes, tone soothing and comforting, the same as when reading bedtime stories about the daddy bird bringing his babies pretty dragonflies and bluebottles and butterflies to eat. “We’re almost there. You’ll feel so much better once we’ve got all that nonsense out of you and fixed you up. You’ll love your Mama so much. Don’t you want to love your Mama?”

He shakes his head, sobs coming harder. He does love his Mama, but he doesn’t wanna go with the predator, with the Not-His-Daddy, doesn’t want to get hurt anymore, he doesn’t, he doesn’t.

Eventually the car stops. There’s a click from the front. A door opens and slams shut.

Des hopes for a second it’ll be home it’s stopped in front of.

But then the Not-Daddy opens the car door and reaches in to undo the straps of Des’ car seat. He’s smiling gently, soothingly. “C’mon Des. Time to go.”

Des screams.

He screams as the Not-Daddy pulls him out of the car and slams the door, crushing some of his family in the process. As he starts to drag Des towards the wax museum, smiling at everyone who passes by like nothing’s wrong, like Des isn’t wailing behind him.

Nobody even looks down at Des, not even like they do when he cries while in the shops with Mama. It’s like he’s not even there.

“No! No!! You’re not my Daddy, let me go! Let me GO!!” He tries to sit down, tries to drag his legs. His family swarm around him, wings beating furiously as they cling to the back of his shirt, to his ears, to his hair.

The Not-Daddy laughs, yanks him along, like everything he and his family are doing doesn’t even matter—

There’s a noise that can only be described as a Crunch.

Last Christmas, Mama sent Des’ Abuelita a little soldier man for her present. He and Mama stayed up so they could watch Abuelita open it on the computer while his Daddy snored, watch her admire his tufty white beard, his furry black hat, his shiny red coat and black boots. The soldier man had a little flap on his back, and when Abuelita pulled it up, the soldier’s mouth opened. Abuelita had put a walnut into it, and pulled the little flap down, and the walnut’s shell fractured open with a little snap that made Des jump and Abuelita laugh and croon at him through the screen.

That’s what The Thing’s jaws slamming shut on his Not-Daddy’s arm makes him think of, as it shatters the arm like the walnut’s shell.

The Not-Daddy shrieks, high and inhuman like a recorder blown wrong, and drop Des.

He falls back on his bottom, dazed as no longer being pulled along.

Only for the Thing that appeared from nowhere and bit the Not-Daddy to scoop him up and start running.

Des screams again, wriggling and fighting against the too tight too strong grip, screams for his family, for his Mama, for somebody to come save him.

The Not-Daddy is screaming too, yelling things like “STOP!! HELP! HELP!!” and “LET GO OF MY SON!!” Things that make all the people who’d ignored Des before turn around and stare, pull out phones, lunge out to stop the Thing that’s got Des.

But they can’t catch it. The Thing twists under and through grasping arms in a way that can’t be real, can’t be possible, making people slam into each other as it ducks between them to thunder down a set of stairs, Des’ family not far behind.

It leaps over the metal barrier, legs high and graceful like the horses on TV that Des’ Daddy liked to watch on weekends, making his tummy swoop like he’s missed a step climbing the stairs too fast.

It swoops even harder when it leaps and sliiides down the metal bit between the escalators, like Des has always imagined doing. He always thought it would feel like the big slide at the fancy park Mama has to drive to go to, or going down the helter-skelter on an itchy mat at the fair, fast and whizzy and fun with all the people and posters flashing past.

Des hadn’t thought it would be so scary, the down so sharp he’s sure he’ll topple forwards and crack his head open, sure he’ll slip and is falling from the Big Tree again, his tummy flailing like one of his family with a damaged wing, his throat cracking as his screams are torn from it.

He can only whimper once The Thing jumps off at the bottom and is running again, taking sharp turns through the nasty smelling tunnels until a train is in front of them and swinging itself not through the doors into one of the carriages, but up and over and down behind the little wall in front of the space separating them, caging Des in its impossibly bent and tangled limbs.

The train screeches and starts to pull away from the light of the platform.

The Not-Daddy is too far away to stop it, though his screams are still echoing through the tunnels, ringing in Des’ ears.

His family are not.

Des feels like crying as thousands of thousands of butterflies descend onto The Thing keeping him captive as the train whizzes off into the darkness, wings beat beat beating around him in time with their song of protect, defend, intruder, predator, thief, family, beloved, ours, defend, protect, don’t touch, don’t touch, don’t touch.

They cluster as the train picks up speed, clinging to him and to the Thing, gathered so thickly that Des can feel thin droplets of liquid seeping into his hair, into his clothes, onto his skin. He laughs, because this is his defense, his family’s defense, that feels as gentle and soothing as bathwater to him, but won’t to this thing, hadn’t to Mama.

The Thing tenses, muscles locking tight and spasming around Des. In the light of the carriage behind him, Des can see its eyes blinking rapidly, before squeezing shut tightly in pain. Yeah, serves it right for trying to eat him!

The Thing raises a hand and brings it down towards his head—!

Des recoils with a cry, praying that it won’t hurt even more of his family than the Not-Daddy did.

…?

There’s no hurt…?

Instead, it feels like The Thing’s fingers are just…sitting there? On top of Des’ hair? Not even on top of any of his family, trying to trap antennae or crush wings.

The fingers stay flat and gentle even as another spasm rocks through The Thing’s body, even as his family crawl over them to investigate.

Then, slowly, the fingers on Des’ hair begin to move. Back and forth, back and forth, very, very slowly and carefully. There’s no pressing down, no digging in, nothing.

It’s…stroking him? Like he’s a cat, or something?

The train slows down to a stop as it emerges back into the light. There’s a hiss as the doors open and people get on and off. Then a beeping as the doors hiss shut again, and the train speeds back off into darkness.

And through it all, The Thing just keeps stroking him. It doesn’t try to hurt his family, even as its eyes are screwed shut and its body flinches irregularly.

There are brightly colored bands on its wrists, glowing bright green and yellow in the dark. Lots of his family are clustering over them, investigating, seeing if there’s any nice nectar for them there.

“WHAT ARE YOU DOING?” Des shouts. Mama says it’s not polite to shout, but he can’t hear anything over the rushing of the train otherwise, and he’s very confused by this Thing.

The Thing doesn’t reply.

“HELLO?!” Des shouts, even louder. “CAN YOU HEAR ME?”

There’s a moment.

And then the Thing gives a sharp, jerky nod.

“OKAY, SO WHAT ARE YOU DOING?” Des frowns when The Thing doesn’t reply again. “EXCUSE ME, I ASKED YOU A QUESTION! CAN'T YOU TALK?!”

The Thing shakes its head tightly.

Oh. Now Des feels bad, like when Mama told him off for asking why Maisy from the park had that pink plastic thing in her ear, and wouldn’t play tag right unless you really pushed her. “I’M SORRY.” He yells, because that’s what Mama made him say to Maisy.

The Thing’s fingers go back and forth over his head again, so he thinks it’s alright.

“ARE YOU GOING TO EAT ME?!” Des asks, because that’s very important for him to know.

Shake, shake, shake.

Des nods, heaving a deep breath. It doesn’t smell very nice, but it helps make his heart not race, and he slumps against The Thing’s limbs. His family’s wings slow, and the liquid slowly stops dripping down onto them.

It’s okay. He’s not going to be eaten. They’re not going to be eaten. Everything’s going to be okay.

“ARE YOU TRYING TO RESCUE ME FROM MY NOT-DADDY?!”

Nod, nod, nod. The jerks going through the Thing’s body are stopping now, though it’s eyes are still squeezed shut.

“THANK YOU.” Des shouts, because his Mama raised him to be a polite boy. “SORRY ABOUT TRYING TO MAKE YOU NOT EAT ME AND MY FAMILY’S DEFENSE CAR-TE-NO-LIDS!”

The Thing nods again, though its brow has creased more. In pain or confusion, Des isn’t quite sure. It moves its hand back and forth again over his hair though, so he’s pretty sure he’s forgiven.

Des stares at The Thing closely, not that he knows it’s not going to eat him or hurt him.

It’s a very odd looking Thing, almost like if someone tried to make something that looked like a person, but didn’t get all the details quite right. It looks normal enough from the nose up, if a bit grubby and sweaty. It’s also dressed like a person, with a shirt and pants and a backpack and shoes, even if these clothes are very holey and too-big, like when Abuelita sends Des things ‘to grow into’ for Christmas.

The problem is that it’s got these weird dark lines on both of its cheeks that go down its neck, where its mouth can open really wide like Abuelita’s neat little soldier. Its arms and legs also bend a lot past the way Des’ can, like it’s plasticine or Hugo from the Playground’s really bendy Nutcracker Barbie ballerina doll.

His brothers and sisters perched on The Thing don’t tell him of the same dusty, spicy, preserved smells that came from the Not Daddy, but there is a scent of artificial, of not-organic that they communicate to him while wandering over The Thing’s jaw.

Then he notices something behind it.

There’s a tall teenager in the train carriage behind The Thing that’s staring down at them through the window, eyes wide and mouth open. The tall teenager has a big poofy cloud of hair that Des thinks is very impressive, and wants to smush between his hands, like a pile of bath bubbles.

There’s soft, wavy white stuff floating around the teenager, like stuff on top of the bathwater after all the bubbles have gone.

There’s so much floaty stuff that it makes it very hard to see anyone else in the carriage.

“WHAT ARE YOU LOOKING AT?” Des shouts at the teenager.

The Thing blinks at him, eyebrows raised. It lifts a hand and points to itself, as if to say, “who, me?”

“NOT YOU!” Des yells, exasperated. “THE BIG TEENAGER WITH THE BUBBLE BATH HAIR! WHAT ARE YOU LOOKING AT?!”

The big tall teenager startles then, and lifts a hand and points to themself, much like The Thing did. The Thing twists its head all the way round like an owl in time to see the teenager with the bubble bath hair mouth “me?” at them.

“YES YOU. HONESTLY!” Des huffs. Why are teenagers and adults so slow all the time? And why can’t he twist his head round like an owl? It’s not fair.

There’s a moment of silence as the train slows down and pulls into the next station.

Then there’s the unpleasant swooping in his stomach again as the Thing hurls them over the train wall and onto the platform, somehow managing not to squish any of his family in the process and takes off running again.

There’s a loud “HEY!!” and over The Thing’s shoulder, Des can see the tall teenager with the poofy hair following them out of the carriage at a sprint, going through people as the floaty white stuff seems to make the people go see-through like ghosts whenever the teenager touches them.

One of his slower brothers, an older brother, is caught in the rapidly spilling floaty stuff as he tries to flutter up after them as The Thing runs up the stopped middle steps of the escalator, barely keeping up, and then—

Des feels cold. So, so cold, like after he fell from the big tree and was crying and no one was coming for him and he was scared.

He can’t see his brother. He can’t feel his brother.

He doesn’t want to talk to the tall teenager anymore.

“THE POOFY TEENAGER'S GAINING ON US!!” He yells to The Thing.

The Thing twists its head around to look again, but its feet keep running at full tilt. Des yelps as they slam into a cleaning man with a big yellow cart full of stuff, making him feel sick as The Thing pinwheels and hops to avoid falling over the now toppled cleaning man, who yells lots of bad words Mama tells him not to say after Daddy says them.

But when his head stops spinning, he watches as the big yellow cart rolls down the stairs, inexplicably gathering speed as it bursts through the barrier and zooms towards the top of the stopped escalator.

The stopped escalator that the tall poofy teenager with the bubble bath hair is just about to come out of.

The teenager can’t disappear through big yellow carts like they can people.

There’s lots of yelling, and banging, and screaming, and clattering, and Des sort of wants to see what happened, because it sounds like something he’d see when Mama lets him watch cartoons on the weekend. But The Thing’s escaped the cleaning man’s anger and run up the stairs out of the station, taking off down one of the brightly lit streets, weaving through crowds of adults in funny, shiny clothes.

It’s so dark, it’s clearly past his bedtime, but Des doesn’t feel sleepy at all.

He just clings tighter and watches his family flutter behind them as The Thing carries him farther and farther away from the teenager and the Not-Daddy that want to hurt him.

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writingoflarka · 3 years ago

Text

The Waltz

(written during a sleepless night listening to royaltycore music, and inspired by @inky-duchess due to their lessons on high society)

"If it pleases you my dear, you can pretend I'm someone else."

His hand lingers on my waist, and I swear I can feel his fingertips digging into me, through the layers of fabric. The violins begin to quicken their pace, as if the musicians are compelled by some frightful force. It's hard to find something to say in reply, as my focus shifts to the quickened movements almost in step with the music. Yet it is still a waltz. One, two, three, one, two, three.

"I don't think it would do me much good," I say at last, settling into step even as the music shifts to distracting plucking and high shrieks. "And I believe I told you not to call me 'dear.'"

Isaac hums, the corners of his mouth twitching, but he doesn't reply. For once it seems he's run out of rebuttals, and clever thoughts. It can't help but put me at ease, as we gradually carry ourselves in step with those around us. I make the mistake of looking away, noticing the many stares. It's not their looks that cause my pulse to quicken, but the murky emotion behind them.

Isaac lets out a hiss as I scuff the toe of his shoe, nearly snapping my ankle in the process as my heel tries to find firm ground. He seems to move gracefully, pulling me back to the rhythm, and regrettably back to him. His dark eyes put me on edge again, and likely he feels how stiff I've become. His fingers shift against my waist, something I'm uncomfortably aware of.

"We should be more friendly, you and I," he says softly as we spin past the violins that have been joined by the cry of horns. "Just this one night. Really, after this, how long until we'd see one another again?"

He has a point, but even so I have no interest in showing complacency. Not since he'd forced his hand upon me. This dance was the best he could hope for if he truly wanted to gain something from me. I keep my gaze down, trying to find something to reply with. The mule of a man had proven that a simple 'no' was incomprehensible.

But thankfully, I don't have to think of something. The music rises and falls gracefully, and the dancers stop, us included, leading to a roar of applause. My chance to back out. I pry my hand from his, and my glove loosens on my fingers, his grip is so tight. I draw back, giving a nod of respect.

"Enjoy your evening, sir," I say, and turn quickly to the safety of the crowd.

I hear him walking behind me, the half-step of his limp, and I quicken my pace as much as this gown will allow. I must look like some frightened crab, skittering across the sand. To the safety of the ocean, where I could disappear and hide away. Quicker and quicker as the next group of dancers start to tentatively step forward and find their partners. I don't dare look behind him, in my head I can still hear him. His footsteps like the waltz. One, two, three, one, two, three.

I weave behind a stout gentleman and begin my own waltz through the crowd. A frightened, desperate dance. I'm certain I bump elbows with gentleman and ladies, and I feel sorry, but surely anyone who can see my face can understand my urgency. The heat in my cheeks and ears. I assure myself that as I come closer and closer to the stairwell, that I am faster than Isaac. That I can weave quicker. My steps are able to turn and change where his must halt and assess. I tell myself this over and over as the bottom of the steps finally roll under my quickened pace.

I make a bold choice to stop, to turn and look behind me. For a moment I'm afraid he will be standing right there having kept pace with me somehow. When I turn back to the dancers, he is not there, and yet somehow this makes me more anxious. If I can't see him, he could be anywhere. I try to scan the crowd, searching for his shade of green, but I can't spot him.

"Are you leaving?" I hear from behind me, and the tension coiled inside me is suddenly snapped, and it's only by quick reflex that I grab the railing and keep myself from a certainly painful tumble. And there is Lyle, standing near the top of the stairs, donned in soft blues and gold. It takes all I have not to slap his offered hand away. I just want to be alone.

"Yes," I say, letting him guide me up the stairs. "I've had enough. The noise. The people."

"It's a celebration," he tells me, as if I don't know. "It's odd not to participate."

"I've done my share," I let go of his hand, and my dress pushes against him as I move. "I need a moment. Just a moment."

He doesn't seem to like this response, but he knows he can't force me. Even if he wanted to, it wouldn't help. All he does is glance at me, and winds his way down the stairs, and I take off as he does. The halls are mostly empty, save for the wandering person. Every step I hear is him. Every sound is him. I try to maintain whatever composure I can, until at least the cool night air greets me as an old friend.

At last I let myself feel. With sputtered breath and a tremble in my hands. I bat away at my waist, as if he's left some mark on me. I can't wipe the hot stream of tears that roll down my cheeks. I find the nearest bench, a stone slab that is more of a decoration than something for actual use, and sit down to collect myself.

I can still hear the music inside. Much less powerful out in the night air, but the horns still hum in my ears like gnats. I remove my gloves, wiping at my eyes, and gripping at myself so tight I fear my nails might leave a mark. Being held is a comfort only I can provide at the moment. And as I hunch forward, feeling the strain of the lace at my back, I hear the tapping of my heel as my knee jerks up and down in a feeble attempt to remove my nerves. I can still hear the waltz in its tapping. One, two, three, one, two, three.

Regular Taglist: @atoxicrose, @ageeksnerdyworld

#everyone needs to listen to royaltycore music at least once #honestly send me an ask i'll send you the playlist i used lol #writing #writeblr #writers on tumblr #writers #royaltycore #royalcore

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keichanz · 5 years ago

Text

Save a Horse, Ride a Cowboy

hey @britonell. do you remember Ride? yeah. that’s the one. anyway i have absolutely positively no explanation for this other than the fact that i’m a slut and also i’m blaming @clearwillow and @lemonlushff for this because they will know exactly where in the fresh fucking hell this came from.

now if you’ll excuse i’m going to crawl back into the hole i came from and actually attempt to finish my 654 WIPs i have kthxbye.

anyway this is a follow up of sorts to my oneshot Ride because i have no self control. so here enjoy Stripper Inuyasha in chaps and a Stetson as i make him fucking line dance across a stage *cackle*

brief smut at the end but nothing exceedingly detailed because i’m lazy.

“Kagome,” Sango groaned, following her friend through the packed club and raising her drink above her head in order not to spill it as she meandered through the sea of people and tables. Jesus, this place was huge! “Why are we here again? And how the hell were you able to bypass that line? It was like a mile long!”

“I told you already,” Kagome called back over her shoulder, keeping a tight grip on her beer as she headed toward the only empty table in the entire establishment, reserved for a one Kagome Higurashi and guest. “We’re meeting someone.”

Sango didn’t fail to notice Kagome did not answer her second question and she sighed in irritation. Her best friend wasn’t telling her something and for the life of her she didn’t understand why. Kagome had always told her everything, and vice versa. There were no secrets between them, and that was why they were so close. But she also trusted Kagome and knew if it were truly important, her friend would tell her so Sango let it slide and muttered an apology as she bumped into a table while squeezing through the narrow paths. The tables were clustered so close together it was almost impossible to maneuver between them, but they managed and finally reached where Kagome had been leading them.

Gratefully sliding into the cushy seat beside her friend, Sango glanced around and couldn’t help but notice their table, which had been suspiciously empty in a fully packed club, was near dead center of the place and with a clear view of the stage not too far from them. It was empty at the moment, but the show hadn’t started yet, so not a surprise. Above the dull roar of chatter and laughter, Sango could hear a low beat coming from the speakers situated everywhere, standby music as the “performers” no doubt got prepared.

Sango flushed and took a sip of her Cosmo. She couldn’t believe she’d allowed Kagome to talk her into coming to a damn strip club of all places and she’d only given in because she was tried of her friend constantly bugging her about it. Hopefully after tonight, and after meeting whoever Kagome wanted her to meet, Kagome would be satisfied and never ask her again. These places just weren’t her scene, though of course she had nothing against strippers. Hey, you gotta do what ya gotta do.

Sitting back in her chair and crossing her legs, Sango sighed and set her drink on the table before turning her attention to the woman beside her. Dressed similarly like herself in a short jean skirt, cowgirl boots and a cami to give off that western sort of feel – something about the theme for the night apparently, from what Kagome had told her – said woman was grinning down at her phone with a soft blush on her cheeks, biting her lower lip as her fingers flew across the screen, no doubt typing a text message to her the new man in her life. Sango hadn’t met him yet, and every time she asked about him, Kagome would blush darkly and dodge the subject.

Not very unusual behavior for her friend, if Sango was being honest with herself. Kagome had always been reserved and shy, easily flustered and quick to stutter out an excuse if she was feeling embarrassed or awkward in a situation. So the fact that Kagome had chosen here of all places to meet their friend was very strange, to say the least. Still, despite herself, Sango was curious and knowing Kagome would just avoid the question again if she asked, she resigned herself to wait as patiently as she could for this friend of hers to show up.

Well…at least the seats were comfortable and the alcohol was good. And also free. Sango frowned. Wait a minute, how the hell—

Unbidden the lights shut off, plunging the club into darkness and instinctively Sango knew the show was about to begin. The lights lining the edge of the stage started glowing and there was a tangible buzz in the air, a heavy anticipation that blanketed the eagerly awaiting patrons. Sango was surprised to find herself actually a little excited, sitting up straight in her chair, staring hard at the dark stage and…

Wait a minute. She squinted, leaning forward. She could see figures on the stage, dark silhouettes moving into a triangular formation with one person in the front and four more branching out behind him. Her heart rate increased when she realized it was the dancers—the strippers. Ohmygod she was about to see a strip show—

Beside her Kagome could hardly contain herself, biting down on her lip to counting her squeal of excitement as she bounced a little in her seat. Though it was dark, she could just barely make out Sango’s face and she grinned from ear to ear to see her attentively staring at the stage, looking just about as excited as she felt.

Kagome couldn’t wait to see her friend’s face when she told her one of those dark figures standing motionless on the stage was her boyfriend.

Throughout the club, all the speakers hummed as the volume was cranked up, but at first there was nothing but static. Every few seconds a brief burst of music broke through before fading back to incomprehensible white noise, as if a radio dial was being turned to find that perfect frequency. This went on for another few seconds before the faint twang of a guitar was audible, the notes growing louder until an undoubtedly southern melody could be heard clearly above the gentle crackling of the static.

No lyrics accompanied the melody, no voice crooning out words of country roads, sweet potato pie, or mama. Instead all that could be heard was just the strumming of the guitar getting louder while steadily growing faster, the anticipation building, thrumming through the joint and creating a charged, restless energy until—

Silence.

A crackle, followed by an incomprehensible jumble of words, as if several radio stations were playing at once burst from the speakers, and then it was followed in short order by a widely familiar, but altered recording.

“Th-th-there’s a snake in my—”

A husky and positively sinful masculine laugh abruptly cut it off, echoing seductively throughout the club, and the wicked sound sent pleasant shivers down the backs of damn near every single female patron in the audience. Warmth pooled low in Kagome’s belly and she bit her lip because she knew who that laugh belonged to.

And then finally - finally - everyone’s attention was directed toward the stage as one by one, the dark silhouettes that were standing immobile were suddenly illuminated starting with the two in the back. The middle figures were next, first left, then right, and then finally at the head of their triangular formation, silver hair, golden eyes, and a positively devilish smirk was revealed on who was no doubt the star attraction of the joint.

While the patrons went wild and hollered their vivid appreciation, Sango’s mouth dropped and her face went very red as she took in the five figures standing on the stage. While fringed brown chaps coupled with black western boots concealed their legs, it was very obvious they wore nothing underneath them by way of the black briefs that were clearly visible. A matching brown suede western vest hung open from their shoulders with nothing else and expensive looking Stetson hats completed the cowboy look and honestly, Sango was kind of digging the look and she really wanted to know who the one with the small ponytail and charming smile was…

The response was deafening: riotous applause, exuberant cheering, screaming, shrieking, high-pitched whistling erupted from the audience. From beneath the brim of a sleek black Stetson, amber eyes found and zeroed in on a head of dark hair and melted caramel eyes in short order, sitting at her table as he knew she would be. Their eyes met and she smiled, a secretive curl of her lips that was returned with a flash of fang and a suggestive wink.

His girl blushed and bit her lip and fuck she was so goddamn beautiful.

If he’d bothered to take his eyes off of her for even a second, he would have noticed her friend beside her choking on her drink at the exchange, clearly shocked.

The beat dropped and forcing himself to tear his gaze away from her, Inuyasha adjusted the microphone headset – specially designed for his ears in mind – closer to his mouth and with one hand holding the brim of the black Stetson on his head, the other hooked into his chaps, and he waited for the next cue before starting the memorized choreography.

“Boys,” he spoke into the mic and behind him, his “boys” moved to the beat with him, holding a similar pose with one hand holding their hat and the other hooked in their chaps.

“Now, remember what we’re here for,” Inuyasha continued, purposely adding a southern drawl to his voice that elicited several hoots of appreciation from the crowd. “This ain’t no half-cocked or eight second rodeo. Ain’t no kiddie rides or little ponies up in here.”

In sync, Inuyasha led his fellow performers into a quick country two-step the flexed the muscles of his abdomen. More whistles and hollers of female appreciation were issued as he drawled, “Nah, what we got here is the real deal. We got them one of a kind”—slide a hand down the stomach—"large and in charge”—hip roll—“rough and ready”—step back, a little spin—“motherfucking stallions.”

Cheering amidst rowdy laughter and shrieked encouragement was the response to that and Inuyasha gave a fang-baring smirk, his low chuckle rising above the din of the crowd thanks to the mic close to his mouth.

“And believe me when I say,” he continued, kicking out his booted feet and transitioning smoothly into an easy line dance, “there ain’t nothin’ half-cocked about ‘em.”

More screaming and cheering, wolf-whistles and cat-calls abound and yeah Inuyasha had to admit, he was soaking it up like a fucking sponge.

“Now, ladies and gentlemen.”

The five men spun around in a brief circle and with practiced ease caught the prop that was tossed to each of them from off stage, not missing a beat before whirling back around to face the audience and straddling what they held in their hands—a hobby horse toy, the one where a stuffed horse’s head was on the end of a stick.

“A gentle reminder”—Inuyasha turned sideways, tilted his prop so the horse head at the end of the stick was pointing upward, and very suggestively stroked his hand up the wooden shaft—"that you must be this tall to ride”—feminine giggling, shrieks of laughter and more hollering met his ears at that and he grinned—“and that any lightheadedness or tingling sensations are completely normal.”

More hilarity and cheering, the crowd restless, impatient, so Inuyasha decided it was time to wrap up his little speech. After performing some rather provocative dance moves with their props that had every woman in the building feeling rather flushed, the five performers tossed their props back to the hidden stagehands and while Inuyasha strutted to the end of the stage, the other four took position behind him, preparing to put on one hell of a show.

“And now, ladies and gentlemen, cowboys and cowgirls,” he began and once more locked eyes with his girl, a devastating smirk curling his lips upward at her flushed and star-struck expression. “We kindly ask that you sit back, hang on tight, and enjoy…”

Strobe lights flashed, spotlights swiveled and bathed him in an ethereal glow, and the smirk that stretched across his face was all fang as golden eyes flashed from beneath the rim of his hat, dangerous, alluring, positively wicked.

“…the ride,” Inuyasha finished in a husky growl and as the crowd once more roared their vivid appreciation, the hanyou whipped off his headset before tossing it carelessly to the side and then fucking moonwalked back to his position, tipping his hat forward so only his smirking mouth was visible as he waited for the cue. It started only seconds later, the music reverberating throughout the club, and as one the performers started the largely anticipated show.

Only vaguely did Kagome recognize the beat that was pouring from the speakers, some kind of remix of the song The Git Up by Blanco Brown but it hardly mattered. They could have been dancing to something as ridiculous as the big butt song and Kagome would have been just as captivated, as enthralled as she was right now watching her man gyrate and pivot on the stage like he owned it. A lot of his moves were familiar now – both from being considered a regular here now and from his private little shows he gave her after hours – and Kagome suspected no matter how many time she watched him work those hips and roll that toned stomach, it would still have the same effect on her every single time, warmth pooling in her belly, heart beating fast, and a familiar ache developing between her legs.

Stealing a glance at the woman beside her, Kagome was thrilled to see that Sango was in a very similar state, her face redder than she could ever remember seeing, mouth parted in awe, and if she wasn’t mistaken, her gaze was focused solely on Inuyasha’s friend Miroku. Kagome had met him shortly after she and Inuyasha had started seeing each other officially and though he could come on a little strong at times with his wandering hands and flirty nature, he was a good man and Kagome genuinely liked him. Charming, witty, and with a surprising sense of humor, she knew he would be perfect for Sango and she decided to ask Inuyasha what he thought about setting them up.

But not until later, though, because right now Kagome’s attention was thoroughly ensnared by one silver-haired, golden-eyed Adonis as he drifted across the stage, flexing muscle, smirking devilishly, and every so often tossing her little winks that never failed to make her erupt into elated, girlish giggling.

By the time the first show of the night ended a disappointingly short five minutes later, all five performers were sans their vest and chaps, strutting around on the stage in naught but their boots, briefs, and Stetsons and looking utterly fucking delicious while they did. For the finale, the toy horse props had been made a second appearance and then the show had taken a very unexpected, but also very appreciated twist that had captive audience roaring with applause, cat-calls, wolf-whistles, and general pandemonium as every woman collectively lost her shit.

Each performer, with Inuyasha going last, briefly disappeared behind a screen that had been discreetly rolled onto the stage while the audience had been distracted by sexy dance moves and when they emerged, the briefs were gone and the hobby horse was held between their legs in such a way that the stuff horse head deliberately concealed any stallions from their screaming fans.

The dancers bowed and in another move that delighted the audience, each man removed their Stetson and tossed it into the crowd. Predictably they were fought over, women clamoring over each other to get to the precious souvenirs first, but Kagome ignored them all. Conveniently Inuyasha’s black hat found its way to her and she blew him a kiss as she placed it on her head to which her man winked at her with a grin before the stage went dark.

Giggling, Kagome turned to Sango to ask how she enjoyed the show and found that she was holding he own hat in her lap, a flush on her cheeks and a slight smile curling her lips. She recognized it was the one Miroku had been wearing and she smirked. Her little plan might be easier than she’d anticipated.

“Sooo,” Kagome drawled, not even bothering to hide her smirk as raised a brow at her friend. “Nice hat. It’s safe to say that you enjoyed the show?”

Flush darkening, Sango muttered something and proceeded to ignore her friend by putting the hat on her head and tugging it down over her blushing face. Kagome cackled and without removing the hat, Sango flipped her off. Kagome cackled louder.

Deciding to spare her friend further embarrassment, Kagome left to get them two more drinks and by the time she returned, Sango had cooled down and smiled her thanks when Kagome set a Manhattan down in front of her.

“Yes,” Sango sighed as nursed her drink and her smile was almost dreamy. “Yes, I admit it. I enjoyed it.”

Kagome simply waggled her brows and sipped at her amaretto sour, but before she could say anything else, she spotted a familiar figure, now dressed in simple jeans and a t-shirt, weaving through the sea of tables and people, fending off grasping hands of appreciative women. His honeyed gaze was zeroed on her, however, not once looking at any of the women that tried to get his attention and Kagome felt that familiar warmth bloom in her chest. She felt it somewhere significantly lower as well, but that was nothing new and she tried to ignore it as her boyfriend approached with his signature smirk.

“Ladies,” Inuyasha greeted and bent down to sweep his girl into hot kiss, caging her in his arms with a hand on either arm rest. “Baby,” he rumbled, pulling away and dropping a kiss to her forehead.

“Hmmm,” Kagome hummed and tugged him back down for another one. Inuyasha chuckled and happily obliged, getting lost in her taste, her scent, the way she twined her fingers in his hair and snagged his ear to massage the sensitive flesh. He growled, lifting a hand to cup the back of her head, tilting it back so he could plunder the sweetness of her mouth with his tongue, nip her lips with his fangs, and suck the soft flesh into his mouth. Kagome moaned for him and the sound went straight to his—

“Inuyasha, get your tongue out of your girlfriend’s mouth. You’re being rude.”

With a grunt, the hanyou reluctantly pulled away and leveled a peeved glare at the source of the voice.

Unfazed, Miroku stared blandly back, arms crossed while next to him, eyes impossibly wide and mouth open in shock as she sputtered incoherently, Sango gawked incredulously at them.

Rolling his eyes, Inuyasha grumbled something but nonetheless complied, dropping one last kiss to his girl’s mouth before standing up and gesturing at Kagome to stand up. She did, and he took her place in the chair before tugging her back down to sit on his lap. His arms went around her waist as his chin rested on her shoulder and Kagome wiggled around to get comfortable before resuming sipping her drink, calm as you please, like she hadn’t just been making out with her hot as fuck stripper boyfriend.

Recovering from her shock while Miroku not so discreetly looked down Sango’s shirt at her cleavage, Sango jabbed an accusatory finger at her friend and screeched, “Your boyfriend is a stripper!”

Kagome blinked and smiled a mite sheepishly. “Um…uh, so, Sango, remember when I said we were meeting someone here?” She chuckled nervously. “Well…”

Without warning Sango snatched her drink off the table and drained it in three large gulps.

Miroku practically had fucking heart-eyes as he gawked at the woman who had just downed a strong cocktail like it was nothing.

“Fuck, marry me,” he murmured, barely aware of what he was even saying and then he promptly forgot how to breathe when the woman of his dreams suddenly swung her gaze his way, racked her eyes up and down his body in an evident once over, and then made a noise of approval as her eyes lingered somewhere considerably lower than his face.

Feeling warm not only from the booze in her system but also lingering effects from the captivating show featuring the very sexy man before her, Sango abruptly got to her feet and pegged her best friend with a look. Kagome blinked and innocently widened her eyes. Sango snorted.

“You,” she said, eyes narrowing. “We’ll talk later. And you.” She spun around and jabbed her finger in Miroku’s face. His eyes crossed as he stared at it. “You’re coming with me.”

Then with that, completely ignoring the couple nestled in the chair with matching knowing looks on their faces, Sango stormed off, head held high and like an obedient puppy Miroku followed after her, nearly stumbling in his wake and ignoring the hands that reached out to him as he passed by.

Kagome and Inuyasha stared after her, one gaze amused, one slightly bewildered.

“Inuyasha,” Kagome deadpanned. “Meet Sango.”

Inuyasha snorted and maneuvered her around on his lap until her legs were draped over the armrest and her arms were around his neck. He buried his face in her neck and kissed the soft skin, ears flicking at her soft sigh.

“I think Miroku likes her,” he pointed out a little needlessly since it was obvious the guy was already half-way in love with her. His friend always did like a woman that could hold her liquor well and Sango’s first impression had been stellar.

“Hmm,” Kagome hummed and her friend was the last thing on her mind as she slipped her hand beneath his shirt and ran her fingers across the hard lines of her man’s defined abdomen. “I like you.”

Inuyasha smirked and kissed his way up her neck. “Yeah?”

“Mmmhm.” Scratching lightly with her nails just to feel him shiver against her, Kagome slipped her other hand into his hair and found one of his ears, fingers stroking the soft flesh. “You wanna know a secret?”

“Tell me,” Inuyasha growled into her ear and nibbled on the tender lobe before trailing his tongue along the delicate line of her jaw.

Breath hitching in her throat as his devious mouth licked and nipped at her skin, Kagome swallowed back a moan and slyly slipped her fingers further south to flutter over the crotch of his jeans as she leaned up and confessed her secret in a sultry purr.

Inuyasha’s entire body stiffened as her naughty words registered in his brain and he groaned, head falling back to loll against the backrest of the chair as his devil of a girlfriend snickered impishly on his lap. Damn, but his girl was dangerous, and fuck if he didn’t absolutely fucking love it.

“Well?” Kagome purred and he could feel her warm breath wash over his jaw as she laved the skin with soft kisses. “How ‘bout it, cowboy? Shall we go for a nice hard ride on your stallion, or you gonna make me settle for a boring little pony show?”

Her fingers flitted over the hardening crotch of his jeans again and she felt an answering pulse between her legs, thighs squeezing together to relieve some of the building tension.

With a low growl designed to tell her just what he thought about her cheeky little teasing, Inuyasha surged forward, caught her mouth in a hard, demanding kiss and then suddenly he was on his feet and dragging her toward the employees only backstage entrance. Breathless, aching, and trembling, it was all Kagome could do to keep up with him, shamelessly admiring the flexing muscles of his back and his tight ass in those jeans, but then her back was suddenly against a wall, her hanyou had wedged himself between her legs, and his hand was up her skirt, claws hooking in her damp panties and tearing the fabric completely off.

Kagome gasped but it turned into a moan when her lover hitched her thighs around his hips and then hastily unfastened his jeans, freeing the stallion that was rearing and ready to go from within. He cursed, she laughed, and the next minute he was inside her, grinding her into the wall, swallowing her moans with his mouth and returning them with heated growls of pleasure.

He fucked her against the wall, in a rarely used dark hallway somewhere behind the stage, and as Kagome clung to his shoulders and begged him for more, harder, faster, please, Inuyasha snarled and complied as her naughty little confession rang in his ears over and over, fanning the flames of his passion, his hunger for this woman all-consuming and never ending.

“I want your full cocked, large and in charge stallion inside me in the next thirty seconds and it had better be longer than any eight second ride.”

i want you all to know hat i could not. stop. laughing. as i was writing Inuyasha’s sexy little speech and that i am very proud with how it turned out rofl also yes i did make Inuyasha line dance anD I’M NOT SORRY

on another note, i didn’t put as much detail into the dancing this time because one it’s a fucking pain in the ass to write out detailed choreography; two, the actual dancing wasn’t a huge part of the plot, and three, i’m a lazy piece of shit and just wanted this done. also yes i’m aware that last line is kinda lime and anti climatic but i couldn’t think of anything else lmao

for anyone curious, the eight second thing references bull riding. a cowboy must stay on a bucking bull for eight seconds without touching any part of the bull or yourself or using any spurs, ropes, ect.

#save a horse ride a cowboy #inuyasha #inukag #oneshot #keizfanfiction #fanfiction #fuck #now i remember why i never wrote a second part #this was a MASSIVE PAIN IN THE ASS TO WRITE

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heli0s-writes · 5 years ago

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Flavor of the Day

Summary: You never know what’s going to rile you up next. Pairings: Bucky x Reader A/N: Word count 1.5k-- and apparently I’m into the intimate act of getting a haircut.

Bag of Tricks One Shot Masterlist

Some things just get you riled up.

Stupid things, mostly. Things that bubble out of the incomprehensible blue of your mind. Innocuous things, sometimes things that made most others unwell: Sam picking up the corner of the couch to grab the remote, Maria wiping lipstick off her teeth disdainfully, goddamn Smurfette talking Smurf gibberish to Papa Smurf.

It was always a mixed bag.

So, when the bomb explodes on a regular Wednesday afternoon recon mission in the flat ghost town prairie of Gun Barrel, Texas of all places, a sudden tickle travels up your spine.

Destruction, apparently, is the flavor of the day.

Bomb aside, Texas is the pits when you’re not in a major city. Hours and hours of driving, your thighs chafing in the back of the mini-van, stupid easy-listening crooning because Steve can’t stand any excitement. Grumpy old fuck.

There hadn’t even been any sights to see, other than cows of enormous sizes, dilapidated barns, flat, straight, endless pasture, and—

“Hey!” You had yelled, pointing.

“What?” Two voices replied, whipping around to see what your exclamation was meant for.

Bucky scoffed when he realized your smashed finger against the window had been pointing to the swirls of yellow flaxen threads piled atop each other: hay.

You thought it was hilarious. Steve, spitefully, turned up the warble of ancient, sizzling-static, sometimes accompanied by a shrill voice. Bucky leaned his seat back until it hit your knees.

“Grumpy old fucks.” You muttered, drowned out by terrible noise.

So, again, when the bomb explodes and levels the top floor, you are aching for something good. Rubble crashes from the ceiling, tearing cavernous holes in the current room while an alarm blares, dousing the entire place in abrupt and flashing red. Your blood is rushing, heart beating madly to the rhythm of the siren’s shriek.

Gunfire erupts from the next room where Steve is, but you either must make it to the stairwell and survive, or chance being crushed with him.

Risk, you realize with a ferocious grin, is the flavor of the day.

You barrel through the door, taking it completely off its hinges and sink your knife into the man scrambling to get Cap. It rips him neck to his goddamn tailbone and the eggshell-white notches of his vertebrae slip out to greet you.

“Hell!” Steve screams, “Is that fucking necessary!?”

He pushes you roughly out the collapsing room and nearly throws you down the stairwell. There’s some smart comment or another that gets lobbed at him, but Steve prudently ignores it and your voice ebbs away when you are launched down three flights of stairs. Bucky is stepping fast paced by the thirteenth story.

You gasp for breath and put one hand on his shoulder, “Race ya.”

Steve’s heavy boots land with a thud, breaking up the moment. An enormous piece of drywall crumbles and sprinkles dust and fire from above.

“Move!”

Your arms break out in goosebumps when Bucky grabs the back of your suit and takes you down.

Wednesday night in a shared hotel suite sheds too much light on your problem. An itch that can’t be scratched, sitting on a queen-sized bed while two others smush up on the pull out because of some old-fashioned boy-chivalry.

You take the last shower to relieve the frustration, feeling somewhat sated when you emerge bright pink from scrubbing. The robe is tied loosely, and you slip into the kitchenette to find a snack, tiptoeing through the dark shadows so neither of them will be bothered.

The mini fridge has tiny bottles of vodka and a chocolate bar and they all get tucked under your arm. When you turn around, Bucky is peeking over your shoulder.

“Goddamn, Barnes! I almost shit myself!”

He catches your pilfered treasures deftly in his hand and set them on the counter. The fridge door swings open limply, yellow light reflecting the lines of his face, confused and a little bewildered by the spread of alcohol and candy.

You quirk your head too, because one side of his mane is singed off. “From the fire?” Your wry smile tells him it’s as bad as he thinks it is, and Bucky frowns, running his hand through, clenching his fist around the frayed ends. "Do you want me to trim the rest?"

For the first time that you’ve known him, he looks like a little boy, almost petulantly so and a little flutter in your stomach gives you pause. Lingering behind him, your fingers reach up to grip his hair, catching the uneven strands between them. He still smells like smoke even after his shower. The ashy scent mingles with the hotel complimentaries—dusty cedar and pine notes accompanied by gunpowder. Clean sweat that is purely boy.

Because Bucky always keeps a knife on him, he wordlessly places one in your open palm and sits down on the floor silently.

“Where’s Cap?” You ask, surprised when your voice comes out unsteady.

The first handful slices through with a whistle and Bucky tenses under your touch. “Went out.” He replies. Another strip comes clean off and you work to even the edges, cutting in delicate motions. “Watch the ears.” Bucky warns as you crawl around him on your knees.

“What? You need ‘em?”

The long side is clipped to match the burned side, and your fingers slowly slide upwards, palm rubbing against his scalp, strands pinched. A few more cuts and then you begin to even out the back, smiling slightly at the softness of his dark locks.

Bucky leans into your hand with a slow hum, and you poke his neck with the handle of the knife to straighten him out—to give him distance from you. Or to give you distance from him.

He grumbles when you fist his hair again, tucking the knife into the front waistband of your underwear and shuffle around to look at the front. With two hands, you pinch the sides and fluff the top, moving tufts left and right to ascertain the correct way to part his hair. They all looked about the same.

“Well, it’s not bad—but I’d certainly get it redone later.”

He’s peering at you with half a frown and a furrowed brow, and you shrug in response, pushing your hand forward one last time nearly out of habit now. When Bucky suddenly sighs with your palm over his head, your eyes widen and you come to the third realization:

Bucky, apparently, is the flavor of the day.

The two of you stare at each other in the dim light of the kitchenette floor. It probably wasn’t a good idea to chop off all his hair in the dark, but all of that is out the window now as you blink at him. With it away from his cheeks, he looks changed.

Strikingly handsome.

The overhead light starts to flicker, showing you his face in half-second pulses. He blinks once. Twice. His mouth opens ever so gently.

Then the door swings open with a clatter and Steve announces his return with three grease-soaked bags of fast food plopped on the counter. “You two okay? Is that a knife in your—Jesus! Will ya cover up?”

You hadn’t noticed that the front of your robe has fallen open, revealing the sheer bralette and underwear with Bucky’s knife tucked in the front. As Steve sputters and turns around, pulling out his meal, Bucky reaches forward and takes his blade from your hip, bottom lip pinched between his teeth.

His eyes lock on yours as he moves forward onto his knees. You’re trapped in his gaze, unaware of his hands tugging on the front of your robe, pulling it shut. Steve’s body lands heavily onto the couch, and the crashing of its back against the wall rips you from the moment. Your eyes flutter, searching Bucky for answers.

He gives you nothing but a slow sweep of his tongue in the corner of his mouth. His lips purse, breath escaping in a tiny, hot, pant.

Then slowly, he lifts himself up to his feet.

“Hey, Stevie, where’d you park the car?”

Steve perks up from the couch, “Just to the left, why?”

You follow the shape of Bucky’s legs as he steps out of the kitchenette, turning ever so slightly to look down at your crouched form still on the floor. He tucks his knife back into its sheath.

“We’re going out for a bit.”

You nearly plant face-first getting to your feet, toes slipping against the scattered dark strands of Bucky’s hair.

“You got a haircut!?” Steve hollers as Bucky yanks the door open. “Buck?” And then he sees you running after, damp cotton robe flapping against your thigh. “Wha—”

The door slams shut before Steve can get another word out and Bucky is pressing you up against its frame, hands underneath your breasts, holding you up. “We’re not goin’ anywhere,” he whispers before scraping his teeth against your collarbone, “I’m gonna fuck you in the car.”

Holy shit.

Bucky pulls you along by the band of your top, not giving a fuck if your tits fall out in the middle of the parking lot.

Apparently, you think, with a shudder as he looks back mischievously, you are Bucky’s flavor of the day.

#bucky barnes #bucky #james buchanan barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky x reader #marvel #mcu #fanfiction #captain america #reader insert #one shot

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aethelflaedladyofmercia · 5 years ago

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A Cunning Plan

(This is a ButterOmens submission, expanding on @kaz3313‘s initial fic, “A Good/Bad Idea.” All continuations and expansions in any medium are welcome!

(CW: While this is the least distressing Hell story I’ve yet written, with almost no physical violence, it’s also not entirely played for laughs. The abuse is mainly psychological. The threats get intense and there’s a strong sense of exactly how bad it could be. Happy ending, though, unless you’re rooting for Team Hell, and there is comfort after the hurt.)

10575 words.

Michael glared at the telephone on her desk – an older model, with cords and physical buttons, instead of the sleek device she preferred. It almost never did anything anymore, but now it was giving off a horrific, shrill rrrriiiiing over and over. The blinking red light – not quite coordinated to the noise – told her it was an external call, to the general line.

Good. Someone else could answer that.

Rrrrriiiiing.

Except she had work to do and she couldn’t concentrate around that infernal –

Rrrrriiiiing.

After more than a minute of this abject torture, Michael gave in and snatched up the handset. “Hello?” she demanded, making no attempt to hide her irritation.

Her lip curled in disgust when she heard the voice on the other end of the line. She should have known. “No, I am not Gabriel’s…secretary, as you put it. Why would he give his personal line to you?”

Beelzebub’s grating voice seemed slightly less bored than usual. If this kept up, ze may even make it all the way to annoyed.

“Well, I believe he also said that we would be in touch. That means, don’t call us, we’ll –”

A scowl. “No, I will not transfer you.”

She stood up, very nearly losing her composure. “Or take a message. I told you, I’m not his secretary. You’ll get your paperwork back in a week. If you want to arrange a meeting then –”

Michael reluctantly listened to the demon’s reply. “Well. You had your chance for revenge, and as I recall, it didn’t work out, did it?” A pause. “No, I suppose things didn’t go well on our end, either. Not that that’s any concern of yours.”

Michael drummed her fingers on the desk, staring at the pile of paperwork. Everything since the failed Apocalypse had been paperwork and committee meetings, one scramble after another to create new plans for a world that stubbornly refused to end.

This wasn’t what she was designed for. She was built to lead the angels in a glorious war that should be going on right now. If it weren’t for those traitors…

“Fine. I’m listening. What is your plan?”

Two angels and two demons sat around the wrought-iron café table, awning shading them from the early-autumn heat, eyes watching the bookshop on the corner.

The pale one, Hastur, had a stench that had cleared out most of the outdoor seating area immediately, and Beelzebub’s swarm of flies had taken care of the rest. The flies coated every surface, every chair, the windows, the ground, and the little plate of pastries they’d brought as camouflage. Already the croissants were starting to rot.

Gabriel and Michael sat across from the demons, each with a cup full of bitter coffee. Neither would actually stoop so low as to drink a debase, earthly liquid. In fact, Michael had barely managed to convince Gabriel to sit near the cup, and he kept eyeing it as if afraid it would move closer of its own accord, spill all over his latest suit.

Michael pretended to take a sip, as the vile liquid tried to burn her fingers through the thin paper cup. It was annoying, so she immediately dissipated the heat. Somehow, it smelt even worse cold.

Beelzebub had some enormous, frothy monstrosity, to which ze was adding packet after packet of creamer, leaving the empty containers strewn about for zir flies to explore.

Only Hastur seemed to be enjoying his, devouring the cup one mouthful of shredded paper at a time.

“There,” Michael nodded down the street, the opposite direction from the bookshop.

Tall, clad all in black, dark red hair – the demon Crowley – and the round, pale shape of Aziraphale, in that absurd outfit he always wore, bowtie and all. The disgraceful angel was eating some form of confection while the demon talked at length, long arm waving in every direction.

Between them, their hands were clasped, fingers tangled together. It made Michael’s skin crawl just to look at it, and she slid her chair a little farther from the two revolting creatures at her table.

“This is what they do all day?” Gabriel demanded, incredulous.

“As far as we can tell,” she confirmed. “Go for walks. Eat foods. Sit in the bookshop. Touch each other.” Incomprehensible. Thousands of years of subtle defiance – so subtle even Michael herself nearly missed it – only to openly rebel against Heaven for a life of…nothing.

“Szoundsz miszerable,” Beelzebub muttered, echoing Michael’s thoughts, though the Prince of Hell had barely glanced at the two traitors. Instead, ze reached for the saltshaker, trying to add a pinch to the awful concoction. At the first shake, the cap came off, dumping several ounces of salt into Beelzebub’s beverage. “Great. Now it’sz ruined. Who doesz that?”

“Crowley,” growled Hastur, grinding his teeth so hard Michael thought they might crack. “He’s always loosening the tops in the Hell canteen. Thinks its…” he spat. “Funny.”

Michael and Gabriel shared a grimace. Hell was full of evil and cruelty, but what neither of them could stand was the unprofessionalism. “Regardless,” Michael tried to continue her report, “our experts have assured me they are indulging in several major sins. Sloth. Gluttony.” As they watched, Crowley paused, laughing. His thumb brushed crumbs away from the corner of Aziraphale’s mouth. “Lust.”

All four beings at the table shuddered this time, and four chairs shrieked as they moved apart, grating across the concrete floor. Despite being only a few meters away, the traitors didn’t notice – they would see and hear nothing of their observers, unless one of Beelzebub’s flies broke the barrier Michael had meticulously set up.

“Diszguszting,” Beelzebub declared as Aziraphale caught Crowley’s thumb and pressed it briefly to his lips. Several dozen flies buzzed agreement.

“When do we grab him?” demanded Hastur, ripping another bite out of his cup.

“That’s the tough part,” Gabriel said. “We have to wait until he’s alone. There can be no chance the demon is anywhere in the area.”

“Really?” The carefully maintained boredom in Beelzebub’s tone carried a note of mockery. “Are two Archangelsz afraid of one demon?”

“I don’t know, is the Prince of Hell afraid of him?” snapped Gabriel.

“Crowley is not the concern here,” Michael interrupted, glaring at both parties. She could not work like this, not if Gabriel was going to stoop to their level. “It’s Aziraphale.”

Hastur made a noise like an explosion in a swamp. “That cringing little nothing? Could take him apart with my bare hands.”

“No doubt you could, under normal circumstances.” Michael tried not to look at the hands in question – particularly the filthy, discolored nails. “But Aziraphale is a Guardian. He has extraordinary strength when acting in defense of one of his charges, and for some unfathomable reason he counts Crowley among them.” She glanced at the two demons sharing her table, neither of whom was paying enough attention for her liking. “Let me make this absolutely clear. He cannot access that strength in self-defense. That isn’t how he was designed. But if he thinks for one second that Crowley, or anyone else, is in danger – you will lose control of this.”

“Fine,” growled Hastur, who clearly lacked any patience, along with intelligence, grace, and good sense. “We grab the angel at night, when Crowley leaves.”

Michael pressed her lips together.

The look of horror slowly grew across Gabriel’s features. “Does the demon leave at night?”

“About half the time,” she admitted.

Another shriek of four chairs shifting apart.

Four nights later, Hastur watched the bookshop through the van window. Michael had manifested it, after spending five minutes mocking Hastur’s own attempt. He’d thought his imitation of a human automobile was good enough for the job, but Captain Fancy Wings wanted something convincing and realistic and with a functioning air conditioner. Little cardboard trees that he wasn’t allowed to eat sat on every surface, and Michael was spritzing the air with something that smelled foul and flowery.

“Stop that or I’ll rip your arm off,” snapped Hastur, as the spritz came too close to his eyes – and nose – again. The seven demons in the back grunted agreement.

Michael just raised an eyebrow. “You’re welcome to try.”

Hastur turned back to the shop. Crowley had finally left, and now the little cream-colored puffball was sitting in a chair with his eyes closed, sipping on a glass of something Michael had repeatedly insisted was not blood, though it was certainly red.

“Look. He’s alone. I say we go in now,” Hastur growled. This plan was taking far too long. If he’d been in charge, the angel’s hacked-off arm would be growing cold on Crowley’s doorstep by now.

“Not. Yet.” Michael’s voice was tense. “Believe me, I’m not going to keep you all a second longer than –”

They didn’t hear the telephone ring, but Hastur saw the angel jump to his feet and hurry over, sappy smile growing all over his face. “Ugh. They’ve been talking all day. What the Heaven else do they have to say to each other?”

The call went on for eternity, every expression on the angel’s face even more vomit-inducing than the last. Finally, he hung up and leaned back in his chair again.

“Now can we –”

“Our intel says after their conversation, Crowley always goes to sleep. So, yes, it should be safe to –”

Hastur kicked open the van door, emerging from the blessed potpourri cloud that Michael held them captive in. “Right, team, hit him hard and grab him quick. Let’s go.”

It wasn’t exactly the tactical strike Michael wanted, but it would do.

The doors to the shop had been magically reinforced, but they were no match for eight demons, one of them a Duke of Hell. In seconds, they swarmed through the shards of glass and red-painted wood.

She watched from the van as Aziraphale leapt to his feet. His fury at the intruder quickly shifted to horror when he saw what he truly faced, and he stumbled backwards. Michael smiled. “Not so brave now, are we, traitor?”

The first demon to reach him got a nasty knock in the teeth. Michael had warned them Aziraphale knew how to fight. Even without his Guardian strength, he was easily a match for any demon, possibly even two demons together.

But as he dashed to the phone, four jumped on him, dragging him down in a flurry of feathers, the traitor panicking so hard his wings manifested. Disgraceful.

When the demons finally had him immobile, Hastur stepped over and slammed a bar of metal into the back of Aziraphale’s head. Michael smiled again, imagining the crack it would make. Pity she couldn’t deliver it herself.

After a pause, she saw Hastur’s arm rise and fall again. Then a third time.

Really. That was just brutish overkill.

At last, Hastur and his smelly horde emerged from the shop, six of the demons carrying Aziraphale between them. That shouldn’t have been necessary. She tapped her fingers against the steering wheel, annoyed at the delay.

When the back door opened and the demons began wrestling the angel’s body inside, she snapped, “It took you long –” And fell silent as she saw Aziraphale’s eyes, wide open and alert.

“Michael.” With a flutter of white wings, he wrenched himself free of his captors, settling against the far wall of the van, trying to look like he was there by choice. “I wondered who the brains behind this would be. Just when I thought you couldn’t disappoint me any further.”

She glared at Hastur, who moved to sit beside Aziraphale. “You incompetent – I told you to make sure he was unconscious!”

“Won’t go down.” He jerked Aziraphale’s head forward by the hair, studying the back of his skull.

“What do you mean – you just didn’t do it right!”

“Listen, wanker, I know how to knock someone out. Know how to do a lot worse if I want. Something’s not right here.”

“Yes, I’m obviously too powerful for you,” Aziraphale said, but Michael could hear the tremble behind the false bravado now. “If you let me go, I – I won’t try to take revenge.”

Hastur hit him across the face so hard, the impact echoed off the metal walls of the van. And pulled away his hand with a shout, clutching his fingers to his chest. “How are you doing that?” Aziraphale barely even looked dazed, but the worry was blossoming into full-blown fear.

“We’re going,” Michael snapped. “Sit on him if you have to, we’ll figure it out once we get there.”

Hell had never captured an angel alive before. Beelzebub was nearly excited at the possibilities.

But ze was also aware it could go wrong, like at Crowley’s trial – instead of hundreds of demons witnessing the destruction of a traitor, they saw him boldly defy zir authority and shrug off gallons of Holy Water as if it were nothing. The damage control from that incident would never be over. Beelzebub couldn’t afford a repeat.

The cell ze prepared was deep in the twisted corridors of Hell; it had been designed to hold a Hellhound, so it should be enough to keep the angel contained. The chains that would bind him were forged from celestial orichalcum and stygian iron. Ze had added some fancy cameras, provided by Heaven, so the torture could be broadcast to all of Hell, but open plaza outside was to be kept clear.

“I like this,” Gabriel said, inspecting the cell. “Very thorough. Very dark. And the smell, that’s a good touch.”

“We don’t need your approval,” Beelzebub reminded him. “We know how to do our jobsz here.”

Gabriel grabbed one of the chains and pulled it with his whole weight. “But you’ve never had an angel before, have you? There’s a lot to consider. After all, angels and demons have very little in common –”

“The main differencze isz that angelsz are much more arrogant.”

The Arch-wanker finally turned to face Beelzebub, storming over to tower over zir, to try and intimidate zir. Pathetic, really.

“May I remind you that I’m here because you asked me for assistance.”

“Which you already provided. You’re now here asz a courteszy, nothing more.”

“A courtesy?” Gabriel demanded.

“Yesz.” Apparently, he thought puffing himself up and pulling a face would somehow impress someone who spent zir life ordering literal demons to stop chewing on each other for five minutes and do some blessed paperwork. “He isz our captive. We deczide what happens to him now. But asz he isz your traitor, and asz a szign of our goodwill, you can have a turn torturing him, when we are finished.”

“Listen here,” Gabriel pointed a finger. Wow. A finger. Beelzebub had never seen one of those before. “That little shithead has been a pain in my side for thousands of years, and if you think I’m just going to sit back and watch while your side takes him apart –”

“If you szat back and watched, you might actually learn szomething.” Beelzebub frowned. “But that would probably ruin your image.”

“Let me tell you something about…” But it seemed Beelzebub would go the rest of eternity without whatever wisdom Gabriel had been about to shit out, because they were interrupted by his flashy mobile phone ringing. He held up his finger and wandered off. “Michael! How’s the extraction going?”

Turning back to more important matters, Beelzebub made sure there were sufficient implements of torture in the cell. The one remaining issue was how to choose one of Hell’s many skilled torturers to work on the angel; despite Hastur’s insistence, he was clearly not the best choice. The camera set-ups were reminding Beelzebub of that reality TV thing Crowley used to write about in detail, and that was giving zir some interesting ideas for a competition…

“What do you mean there’s a problem?” Gabriel’s voice demanded, and Beelzebub sighed. Something else for zir to sort out, it seemed.

It was the second time Aziraphale had been led into Hell in chains, though the others didn’t know that.

It was harder this time. Not just because the manacles dragged at his wrists and ankles, each one connected to a different demon marching along beside him; Hastur led the way, pulling the chain for the collar around his neck. Two more demons held his wings in grimy claws.

It was humiliating, but that wasn’t all of it. Aziraphale found it had been much easier to be brave when everyone thought he was Crowley.

The routes they traveled were as wide as a city street, but the crowds pressed in on either side, reaching for him – he sometimes felt their hands brush his face, his wings, clutch at his shirt as he passed – and the shouting. Oh, the shouting.

I hope you brought enough angel for everyone.

Hey, angel, not so high-and-mighty now, are we?

You better hope they don’t leave you alone, angel, or I’m going to break into your cell and –

Hey, angel, I can’t wait to get my hands on your wings and –

What’s the matter, angel? Us demons not good enough for you?

Hey, angel –

Angel –

Empty threats, but no less terrifying for it. He tried to raise his hands to cover his ears, but the demons holding his chains jerked them back down.

It was fairly obvious which cell was meant to be Aziraphale’s: the one with two Archangels waiting outside it. He didn’t know how Michael had gotten there first. Probably took a more private route; the demons wanted to parade their captive in front of all of Hell, but they were still ashamed of their allies.

He tossed his head and tried to keep the quiver out of his voice. “Gabriel. I’d say it’s good to see you again, but I promised Crowley I wouldn’t lie so much anymore.”

“Aziraphale. What the hell have you been up to?”

“Is that…supposed to be funny?” He honestly could never tell with Gabriel.

Any trace of good humor vanished from the Archangel’s face, and Aziraphale felt a familiar fear tear through him. He can’t hurt you, he can’t hurt you…

“Take him inside,” Gabriel ordered. “String him up.”

“You don’t give the commandsz around here,” Beelzebub said, and there was a distinct note of anger behind the blandness.

“I thought you were supposed to be the expert,” Gabriel snapped. “We don’t argue in front of the prisoner. Take him in. Now.”

“What do you mean, he can’t be harmed?” Beelzebub demanded, rubbing zir forehead in annoyance.

“I mean, I bit him, hit him, scratched him – everything I could think of, but he barely felt anything.” Hastur looked offended, as if this was a professional insult.

“Barely felt anything?” Gabriel asked, trying to make sense of what passed for a report in Hell. “What did he feel?”

“Sometimes he flinched,” Hastur shrugged.

“Yes, but when did he –” Gabriel sighed. “Never mind. Michael?”

She nodded and stepped towards the cell.

“Sztop.” Beelzebub blocked her. “I told you, he isz our priszoner, and we get first –”

“Nobody is getting first anything until we know what’s going on,” Gabriel pointed out. “And unlike your…fine associate,” he gestured to Hastur politely, “Michael actually knows how to be systematic. Sit back and watch, you might learn something.”

Beelzebub’s face twisted, but ze stepped aside and let Michael go to work.

“Ah, Michael. Welcome to my new abode,” Aziraphale started, full of false bravery. Gabriel knew it was false. He’d known Aziraphale practically since the moment of the Principality’s creation. Soft and weak and anxious about absolutely everything. Right now he was standing in a dark, damp, filthy cell, arms and wings chained so they couldn’t even be lowered comfortably. He should be pissing himself already. But instead, he smiled that shaky, watery smile. “I’m sure they sent you to –”

Michael slapped him across the face, then shook her hand.

Aziraphale shrugged. “I’m afraid you’ll find that –”

Michael punched him in the jaw. His head snapped back, then lowered again to look at her.

“You know, it’s rude to interrupt.”

Over the next ten minutes, Michael tried everything, including half the torture implements Beelzebub had prepared. Knives scraped across his skin without any affect; hammers slammed into his joints with no more reaction than ��Ooh, that smarts a little.” Pulling his hair brought barely a grunt of pain. Plucking his feathers seemed promising at first, but after the first minute, he stopped noticing.

They could find nothing that actually hurt Aziraphale.

It was while Michael was trying, unsuccessfully, to break a finger that Gabriel realized what was going on. He marched into the cell, grabbing the prisoner by the collar. “You didn’t.”

“You’ll have to be more specific,” Aizraphale whispered, tongue poking out to wet his lips.

Gabriel ripped off the bowtie, throwing it on the ground, then tore open the front of Aziraphale’s shirt.

“Stop – Stop it!” Finally, the high-pitched fear Gabriel had been waiting for, but he ignored it. Pulling back the shirt, he found what he expected to see: a complex, serpentine sigil carved into the skin over Aziraphale’s heart.

“You let him mark you. You let a goddamn demon mark you. Of all the disgusting, depraved acts –”

“Really,” Aziraphale cut in, sounding close to tears. “That’s no way to speak about my husband.”

“Huszband?” Beelzebub found that somehow more disgusting than the thoughts of what the two traitors had been physically doing.

“That’s not important,” Gabriel said, though he clearly found it just as disturbing. “That mark is protecting him from any harm. As long as it’s there, we can’t touch him.”

“Crowley,” growled Hastur, clenching his fist so that the jagged nails cut deep into his own flesh. “Thinks he’s so bloody clever, pulling this shit –”

Fascinating as his latest temper tantrum wasn’t, it was time to focus on the problem. “If the angel isz marked, it can only be eraszed with the blood of the demon. Which brings us back to the original problem.” They didn’t dare try to capture Crowley. Not without knowing what powers he might have.

“I got a good look at it,” Gabriel said, shaking his head. “It’s a demonic sigil, but an angelic mark.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning, my good Prince of Hell, that it’s not powered by blood, it’s powered by faith.”

“Yeah? So?” Hastur got lost in conversations that didn’t feature disembowelments every few minutes.

Michael sighed. “There are two ways to break an angelic mark. Either he denounces his faith, or he loses it.” She frowned at her superior. “It might not be that easy. He believes he’s married to the creature. He won’t just denounce Crowley because you ask him to.”

Impossibly, Gabriel’s face grew even more smug. “Leave that to me. I know that idiot’s psyche inside and out. I’ll have him cursing that demon’s name by morning.”

Beelzebub frowned at the locked cell door. When they’d shut it, the angel had been smiling – he even waved at them. “I don’t szee how.”

“Trust me. He’s practically broken already. I’m going to need everything you’ve got on Crowley so I can sell this. Michael, if he’s marked, we’re going to need security a lot sooner than planned.”

“On it.” She walked away, tapping her phone. Then stopped and turned back. “Or I would be, if there was any signal down here. I need your Wi-Fi password.”

“We don’t just give that out to any angel who asks,” Hastur snarled.

“Hey,” Gabriel clapped his hands. “There’s no time for that. We’re going to be one big, happy family working together to break that angel, hmm?”

Beelzebub seriously considered just letting Aziraphale go and torturing Gabriel instead. It seemed like a lot less trouble at this point.

“Fine. Hasztur, go talk to Dagon. Get all filesz on Crowley, whatever she hasz... Michael, the code isz one-hundred-eighty-four zerosz followed by a one. Gabriel,” Beelzebub sighed. “Tell me how thisz isz going to work.”

“Oh,” the Archangel rubbed his hands together. “You’re going to like this one.”

Gabriel walked back into the cell, easy smile across his face. He placed a bright lamp beside him and settled into the folding chair Hell had provided. It wasn’t very comfortable, but it was important he look at ease.

The light made Aziraphale flinch, smile turning into a grimace. Good. Already used to the dark.

“Well, Aziraphale, looks like I have good news and bad news.”

“You’ve found you can’t torture me, so you’re letting me go?”

Beelzebub melted into the shadows behind Aziraphale, pulling on one chain, then another. “We can’t hurt you, but we can sztill make you very uncomfortable.” Aziraphale’s arms jerked upwards, until he had to stand on his toes.

Gabriel shook his head sympathetically. “Demons,” he shrugged. “They don’t really think big picture. But you know all about that.” Another jerk of the chains pulled down his wings as far as they would go.

Aziraphale grunted, trying to find a way to balance himself. “Crowley does. He always has a plan.”

“Yes, I’m sure he does,” Gabriel waved dismissively. “In fact, we’re waiting for him to show up. I assume that’s what his mark does, alerts him when you need help. Angelic marks are like that,” he added for Beelzebub’s benefit. “One is the protected, the other the protector.” The profane mark on Azirapahle’s chest was bright red against pale skin.

“Fasczinating,” the Prince of Hell muttered.

“He knew the moment you took me,” Aziraphale said, voice a little tighter. “He’ll be here within the hour –”

“Actually,” Gabriel glanced at his watch, “it’s been over two hours already.” It was almost impossible not to smile at the flicker of worry that crossed Aziraphale’s face at that lie. “No matter. When he finally shows up, we’ll bargain for your release.”

“What do you want?”

“Nothing much, really. Just certain assurances you’ll stay out of our way.”

“We’ve been staying out of your way!” He tried to take a step forward, then gasped and pulled back. Looks like Beelzebub’s theory was right – they couldn’t hurt Aziraphale, but he could still hurt himself, pulling against his chains. Interesting. “Look,” the angel tried again in a calmer tone. “All we want is to be left alone –”

“Then there’s no reason for this to be difficult. As soon as he –”

Gabriel’s phone rang, exactly on time. He smiled as he stood, pulling it out. “That’ll be Uriel’s team. Don’t worry, not much longer now.” Hurrying out of the cell, he pretended to take the call.

Beelzebub followed a moment later, scooping up the lamp, and Aziraphale’s tie from where it had fallen. “In casze we need proof that we have you. Enjoy the dark.” The cell door shut with a satisfying slam.

Gabriel waited just long enough for the dark and silence to press in on the prisoner. Then he shouted as loud as he could, “What do you mean he left?”

Exactly seventy-eight minutes after they’d dragged the traitor through the lobby to Hell, his demonic partner arrived. Michael had moved as quickly as she could, pulling eight of her best angels to guard the escalators, armed with every Holy weapon she could think of.

The demon Crowley burst through the lobby door with some sort of elaborate pump-action water pistol in his hands, a dark expression behind his glasses. When he saw the flaming blades, he slowed his march, lowering the plastic gun slightly.

“I’m afraid Holy Water isn’t going to work on us,” Michael smiled sweetly. “Did you have another plan?”

“Working on it,” Crowley grunted, eyeing the swords. She was relieved at that; she hadn’t been completely certain a demon immune to Holy Water would still fear heavenly weapons. “Why don’t you save us all some trouble and let him go? You can’t –”

“Can’t hurt him? You honestly believe that little mark is going to stop us?”

His lips twisted at that. So much for the infamous flash bastard. Crowley lowered his toy weapon to the ground and took a few steps closer, arms wide. “What do you want? Hmm? You want to negotiate? Give me your terms, I’m here.”

“We don’t negotiate with demons,” Michael started.

“No, you just raid bookshops with them.” Her phalanx took a step forward, and he jumped back. “Right, fine, touchy subject. I get it. Don’t want to be judged for the company you keep. Though, I’m pretty sure I smelled Hastur’s distinctive odor, and I am judging you.”

Even behind the glasses, Michael could see the way his eyes darted. He was testing her. Trying to find a weakness in their defenses. More clever than she’d expected.

“Just go home, Crowley,” she said. “We’ll be in touch.”

“When?”

“When we’re satisfied with the number of pieces he’s in, you can come and collect them.”

It really didn’t take that much to crack his composure. Michael almost expected him to charge their swords that second. “You can’t – he’s safe –”

“Because he trusts you? Let’s see how he’s doing right now.” Michael held up her phone, turning on the feed from Aziraphale’s cell. It wasn’t live, of course. Too risky. Gabriel had agreed to send her useful clips as the interrogation proceeded.

The first one played out, and Crowley made a wonderful noise of pain when he saw how the angel was chained up and collared, shirt torn open, Gabriel and Beelzebub confronting him in the harsh lamplight.

“Where isz thisz Alpha Czentauri?” demanded Beelzebub.

Aziraphale’s eyes darted from one to the other. “It’s��it’s just a place. Crowley mentions it sometimes.”

“And is that part of his rescue plan? Uriel says that’s where he’s heading. Took off in his car with,” Gabriel glanced at a list on his phone, “thirty-seven potted plants, a hundred and five discs of music, and all the wine from your shop. Not really sure what he’s planning to do with all that.”

“You’re…how could you…” The angel pulled his arms against the chains. “He wouldn’t go…”

Crowley turned astonishingly pale. Michael had been very impressed with the thoroughness of Dagon’s records, including a little snippet of conversation from the days after the failed Apocalypse, when the two traitors had made certain plans. Case of emergency, Crowley had said. If we ever have to run, we need to know exactly what we’re taking.

Michael slid the phone back into her pocket. “How long do you think his protection is going to last, once he thinks you’ve betrayed him?”

Crowley clenched his fists, but didn’t move closer. Instead, he threw back his head and howled: “Aziraphale! Can you hear me? I’m here! Aziraphale!”

Michael actually laughed. “That won’t work. He’s –”

“Hellhound pits? Thought I recognized that cell. Fine, he might not be able to hear me, but he still knows I wouldn’t leave him.” He picked up his water pistol and thundered out the door. “I’ll be back.”

Gabriel considered Hastur again; he was aggressively intimidating, which was good, but also aggressively stupid. “All I really need is for you to go in there and act like you want to rip him apart.”

“Shouldn’t be too hard.” Hastur grinned…well, it was like a grin, only horrible.

“Remember, he thinks he’s been in the cell for six hours.” It had only been three, but deprived of light, sound, and anything to occupy it, the mind lost all sense of time. “Just play along with whatever I say.”

“I know what I’m doing,” the demon snapped.

Gabriel opened his mouth, and one of the Beelzebub’s flies immediately zipped inside. He coughed, spitting it back out, and it buzzed away, unharmed. “That was rude.”

“You talk too much. Juszt open the door.”

The Archangel reached for the bolt that kept Aziraphale’s cell locked, but spun to point at Hastur again. “Whatever you do, do not threaten any harm against Crowley,” he hissed.

“I threaten whoever I want.”

“One word, one suggestion might be all it takes to set him off, even with the serpent nowhere nearby. Do. Not. Try it.”

The lanternlight pierced the darkness. The pale shape of Aziraphale slumped in his chains, limbs quivering from the strain. His eyes were closed, and he was mumbling to himself, a steady stream that didn’t pause with their approach.

Gabriel settled into the chair. “Saying your prayers, Aziraphale?”

One blue-grey eye cracked open, just a glint in the dark. “Our wedding vows. He will come back for me.”

Hastur snorted, picking up a twisted knife. “He’d’ve turned around by now if he was going to.” It would have been more convincing if he hadn’t immediately smirked at Gabriel.

“I’ve been in worse spots than this. He always comes.”

The voice was still tense, but not as shaky as Gabriel had hoped. The Archangel nodded for Beelzebub to begin pulling at the chains again, moving Aziraphale’s limbs into new, uncomfortable positions.

“You know,” Gabriel started. “If you were actually married, Heaven would have a record of it. We looked. Guess what?”

“It wasn’t under any authority but our own.” Now both eyes opened, looking past Gabriel towards the outline of the door. “We didn’t think it necessary to inform you.”

“We’d still have a record.” Gabriel had never looked at a marriage record in six thousand years, but he could pretend to be an authority on anything. “Unless, of course, one party didn’t really believe in that marriage. Just going through the motions.”

“I know what you’re trying to do.” Aziraphale’s eyes drifted over to the knife Hastur held, and his voice started to tremble. “It won’t work. Crowley will come for me.”

“Yeah,” Hastur gave another maybe-grin. “And if he does –”

Beelzebub grabbed the metal collar around Aziraphale’s neck, jerking his head back as far as ze could. “If he doesz, we let you go. Until then, you’re oursz.”

Gabriel would berate Hastur later. Thoroughly.

“Sorry, Aziraphale. Like I said, not big picture thinkers. They really don’t like that they went through all this trouble and didn’t get to hurt anyone.”

“Well,” Hastur grunted, stepping closer to breathe into the ear opposite Beelzebub. “Not yet, anyway.” He traced the tip of the knife across Aziraphale’s finger.

The angel’s eyes darted from one to the other. “You can’t –”

“Do you know what happensz to an angelic mark when the partiesz are four light-yearsz apart?” Zir tone was as bored as ever, but with the right question, it was still menacing.

“It’s never been tested before,” Gabriel said. “But our models show it fading long before then.”

Hastur dropped his knife and grabbed Aziraphale’s wrist, biting the soft part of his hand.

The angel gasped and pulled away; but thanks to whatever Beelzebub had done with the chains, his wings twisted against each other. Aziraphale gave a cry of pain, lost his balance, limbs jerking like a tangled marionette.

While the demons laughed – well, Hastur laughed, Beelzebub made what you might call a buzz of delight – Gabriel helped Aziraphale find his balance again. “See? It’s already starting,” he said, in soothing, comforting tones. “And it’ll just get worse the farther he goes.”

“That wasn’t…he isn’t…” Now Gabriel could see the confusion, exhaustion and fear he’d come to expect in Aziraphale’s eyes. “What do you want from me?”

Gabriel smiled beatifically, the smile he saved for his most important Messages. “Aziraphale. Just denounce Crowley. He’s leaving you, anyway. Do you want to wait here for hours while your protection fades? Letting the pain grow a little at a time? Giving Hastur a chance to think of something really creative to do with that knife? Denounce him, and we can get it all over with.”

“I…” Aziraphale’s eyes squeezed shut. “I…I know he’s coming. He is coming.”

With a noise of disgust, Gabriel shoved Aziraphale away. The angel gave an undignified squeak as he struggled not to fall again. “If that’s what you want, stand there and suffer. Just remember, every moment I’m down here waiting for you, is a moment I’m feeling less charitable. Let’s go.”

When the door was shut and locked behind them again, leaving Aziraphale alone in the dark with his thoughts, Gabriel allowed himself a laugh. “He’s nearly there.”

“You call that nearly there?” Hastur snarled.

“Agreed. Thisz isz taking too long.”

“I told you, I need one night. Just a little finesse. Not every problem can be beaten into submission.” Gabriel pulled out his phone. Fifteen missed messages from Michael?

“Can if you hit hard enough,” Hastur started, but the Archangel was no longer listening, scrolling through the text messages.

“Can demons make their own Hellfire?”

“Don’t be abszurd.” Beelzebub rolled zir eyes. “It comesz from the firesz of the pitsz. You can’t make it.”

“Yeah,” Hastur added. “It’s in the name. Hellfire. Why?”

As a precaution, Michael had doubled the guard at the escalator, but when the first fiery jar exploded at their feet, they had run screaming in every direction.

She’d retreated to Hell’s main gate, watching back down a corridor now completely consumed by too-hot flames. Strange flames, clinging to surfaces that shouldn’t burn, smoldering with black smoke. Flames that spread and grew in water.

She pointed her sword at the black-clad figure walking unconcerned through the fire. “Out of the way, Michael.” He still held two jars of fire, and the plastic gun strapped to his back.

“I don’t know what these flames are,” she said, calmly as possible, “but I heard back from Gabriel. I know it isn’t Hellfire.”

“Well, close enough. Greek fire. Little something I learned to make in Byzantium.” He threw another jar at her feet.

Michael didn’t flinch, even when the strange, sticky flames exploded across her legs. She forced the heat to dissipate, leaving nothing but a black, tarry substance. “I hope that wasn’t your only trick.”

Cautiously, she took a step towards him, trying to suppress the nearest flames. They were more resistant than normal fire, but once she knew they couldn’t harm her true self, it was easy enough.

Crowley backed away a few steps. She couldn’t see his eyes – the glasses reflected the light and flames – but she knew they’d be darting around again. Looking for a way past.

“Give up, Crowley. Or I’ll find out just how effective this sword is.”

“Let me see him again,” the demon demanded. “Show me Aziraphale and I’ll go.”

She could still hear the screams of her guards upstairs. He might not be able to cause harm, but the panic and chaos he brought was bad enough.

“Not here. Go home, send me a picture of yourself nice and comfortable. And I’ll send you a video of the angel. That’s the only deal you’re going to get.”

He clutched at the jar in his hand, but they both knew throwing it would be a meaningless gesture. With a sneer, Crowley spun and walked away. “This still isn’t the end, Michael!”

Once he was gone, she sighed in relief, and prepared to lecture her soldiers on proper discipline in the face of new weapons.

Crowley sat in the bookshop, in Aziraphale’s favorite chair. He’d cleaned up the spilled wine and shattered glass, gathered together the white feathers from the carpet.

It was nearly midnight.

The video played again.

“What’s so special about Alpha Centauri, anyway?” Gabriel asked, voice soft and calm. He sat in that folding chair like it was the Throne of Creation.

“It’s…just a place Crowley likes.” It hurt to look at Aziraphale, the way the chains pulled his wings back, his neck forward, his arms to the side. They weren’t supposed to be able to hurt him, but they’d still found a way. More than one; the strain in his voice had nothing to do with that on his limbs. “I don’t know why he went, but he’s coming back.”

“When did he first mention it?”

“During…when we thought the world would end.” He shifted his feet, one arm stretching to the limit. “Nn. He wanted to run. I didn’t. He came back.”

“Not this time.”

“He’s going to come. I know he’s going to come back.”

Crowley paused the video, rubbing his eyes. It was a trick he’d taught Aziraphale. Don’t try to be smart. Don’t be clever. It’s not like the movies. Just pick one thought, any thought, doesn’t matter what. And repeat it, over and over. Don’t think about anything else. Crowley should have known that he would be the thought Aziraphale picked.

He could hear the uncertainty creeping in. Was the mark on his chest looking paler than before?

He needed to reach Aziraphale, now.

Michael had doubled the guard again.

It wasn’t easy. Rumors of what the demon was capable of were spreading faster than his trick fire had.

But when Crowley sauntered up to the lobby at 1:45 AM, he found the room ringed with thirty fully armed angels.

She’d hoped he would be intimidated. Instead, he just waved.

“Lovely night for a drive, isn’t it?”

“You won’t get past us again, Crowley.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it. Just popping in for a friendly greeting.” He lounged against the glass door, opening it as far as it would go. “Say hello to my little friends.”

A swarm of rats – fifty, sixty, seventy, more – poured in through the door, flooding the lobby, scrambling over the feet of the guards, descending the escalator with a speed she wouldn’t have thought possible.

“Ooh, I can see you’re busy. Have fun, Michael.”

Beelzebub paced outside the cell. It had been over six hours, and so far they’d only succeeded in making the angel tired and uncomfortable.

Gabriel insisted it was going well. That the angel would break any minute. Just act like the result is inevitable, and sooner enough the prisoner will accept it.

The theory was interesting enough, but it still made for the most boring torture session in six millennia.

Some noise down the corridor. Beelzebub sent a few flies to investigate, buzzing around between the heads of demons.

Fifteen rats making their way down the hall, darting under feet and around tentacles, biting, scratching, but moving with more purpose than rats usually did.

These would be the vermin Crowley had unleashed. According to Michael, there were a lot more, but Hell was already full of rats. Did he think this would impress them? Make any difference in…

Something was different about these rodents.

Walking as fast as ze could, Beelzebub reached the edge of the commotion – the barriers keeping the crowds of Hell away from the angel’s cell – just as the first rat slipped out into the open. Ze snatched up the struggling creature, studying it. Brown fur, four scratchy paws, long bald tail –

There was a scrap of fabric tied to the tail, in a little bow. Tartan. Beelzebub scrambled in zir pocket and pulled out the angel’s tie. It matched exactly.

Nine more rats broke free of the crowd, racing towards the cell with tiny tartan bows dragging behind.

A message.

Beelzebub kicked apart the barrier and shouted at the demons behind. “Grab thosze ratsz! I want every rat in Hell captured, now! Move!”

The door to Dagon’s file room burst open.

She leapt across her desk, teeth bared. Who would dare interrupt her day? Four nothing demons? Armed with clubs? “This better be good,” she snarled, “or you’re going to wish you were swimming in a sulfur pool.”

“We…” the lead demon took one look at her teeth, and lost all nerve. “We’re looking for rats…”

“Rats? Rats? Look at this room –” Dagon gestured expansively to the overstuffed filing cabinets, the row on row of shelves filled with books and boxes and scrolls and, in the farthest corner, clay tablets. “Do you think I allow a single rodent in my domain? If you’ve come here to waste my time…”

She paused. Something wasn’t right. A noise she couldn’t account for. Rustling.

Gesturing for the others to follow, she stalked down the row of shelves, filled to bursting with files on every temptation, every misdeed, every demonic report since the dawn of time.

There – the fourth case down, on a shelf six feet high, one of the boxes vibrated with faint movement. Something was shuffling around. Skittering, even. As they approached, a little brown head popped out, scrap of paper in its mouth. It wiggled its whiskers at them.

“Get it!” shouted one of the demons, and all four raced forward, clubs falling, scrambling up the shelves.

“No! Stop! Don’t –”

With a crack, the case started to lean, slowly topple, and then crashed into the next.

And the next.

A hundred shelves overbalancing and collapsing like dominoes, a hurricane of paper filling the air, and Dagon stood in its eye, ready to scream.

The rat darted past her toes, a tiny bow on its tail.

In every corridor of Hell, demons raced after rodents, scrambling for them, grabbing them up only to drop them once the biting started.

Hastur chased after his prey as it got closer and closer to the prisoner’s cell. As it crossed the last meter, he dove to the ground, snagging the end of its tail.

The skin of the tail ripped free in his hand. But so did the little bit of fabric. The rat escaped, wriggling through a hole in the cell wall smaller than a demon’s hand, but without its message.

With a snarl, Hastur went in search of another.

Aziraphale was determined not to cry. He just didn’t know how much longer he could last.

His whole body ached. He told himself that it was just the chains, the way he’d been hanging in them for hours and days and eternity. It wasn’t a sign that Crowley had abandoned him, it wasn’t.

He just wanted to sit down.

One of the chains shook. He looked up into the darkness, wondering what new torment this was.

A rat dropped onto his shoulder, tail bleeding, claws scrambling at the heavy collar around his neck.

The first sobs started to escape.

Crowley paced outside the lobby of Heaven and Hell as the lead rat reported in.

“No, I’m sure you did your best. Did everyone make it out?” Tiny rat fingers ran across its whiskers. “That’s something at least. Shit.” He shoved his hands in his pockets and tried to think. It would be dawn soon. They’d had Aziraphale all night.

“Right. No more nice demon. Time for plan B.”

The rat squeaked.

“I don’t know, D? E? It’s not like I’m keeping count.” He eyed the pack of angels in the lobby, larger than ever. “I’m not going to get many more chances. This has to work.”

He knelt down and looked carefully at his agent. “I need you to tell me exactly where they’re holding him, got it?”

Gabriel held the pile of fabric scraps in both hands. “Is this all of them?”

“Isz it?” Beelzebub demanded of Hastur.

“Well?” Hastur turned to the small group of demons who had declared themselves Hell’s best rat catchers. They all shifted their feet uneasily.

“We think so,” one offered, and the others nodded agreement. “We can’t find any more.”

“You think so,” Hastur started. “And that’s –”

“Enough,” Beelzebub interrupted. Gabriel and his psychology, Hastur and his noise. This wasn’t how things were done. “If I szee another rat, bow or not, I’ll feed one of you to the Hellhoundsz. I don’t care which. And I’ll keep going until there are no more of you left. Undersztand?”

The group of demons glanced at each other. “We’ll…we’ll look again.”

Gabriel looked almost impressed, but right now he could stick his condescension up any and every orifice in his coroporation. Beelzebub grabbed the fabric out of his hands. “Bring the lamp and don’t szay a word. I’ll show you how it’sz done.”

Crowley’s phone buzzed.

He looked up from the map of Hell he was sketching on a receipt from Aziraphale’s favorite bakery. It was going to take a lot of careful planning, but his idea was finally starting to take shape. He just hoped his Angel could hold out a little longer.

A text from Michael. “Thanks!” Followed by emojis: a rat, a bow, a smiling angel.

Then the video file loaded.

Beelzebub walked into the cell, in that way every demon in Hell knew meant find some way to look busy on the other side of the world. This time it was Gabriel who trailed behind.

“We caught up to your huszband,” Beelzebub spat. “Gave him our proof. You know what he szaid?”

The hope dawning on Aziraphale’s face looked painful. It certainly ripped Crowley’s heart to shreds.

Beelzebub dropped something at the angel’s feet. The lantern light shifted forward: dozens of scraps of tartan, a bowtie shredded to ribbons.

“Lying,” the angel said numbly. “Coming back.”

“No!” The Prince of Hell’s flat disdain rarely cracked; the anger that leaked out was something few demons had ever seen, and even fewer had survived. “He’sz not!” Ze picked up a knife, sharp edge glinting in the uneven light. “Crowley isz never!” The blade slashed across Aziraphale’s palm. “Coming!” Across his face. “Back!” Across his stomach – and this time left a bright red line, glaringly visible below the pale trace of his sigil.

It wasn’t a cut. But it was a mark. An injury.

Beelzebub pressed the point of the knife into Aziraphale’s chin, forcing his head back. “Szo you’re going to be our gueszt. Forever.”

When ze pulled the knife away, there was a drop of blood on it.

Aizraphale collapsed in his chains, sobbing, heartbroken.

And Beelzebub turned and smiled directly at the camera.

The video ended.

Crowley stared at his blank phone, at the map on the receipt. And threw them into the back of the car.

“Fuck planning,” he snarled. “Time to improvise.”

Beelzebub bolted the cell door.

“That,” Gabriel said, voice full of some kind of emotion. “That was amazing! You just –"

“Shut up,” Beelzebub snapped. Satan, why had ze even invited the Archangel for this? He had done nothing to help, just dragged his feet with his stupid mind games. “I’m getting the torturersz. You can play with the angel until we get back. Then he’sz oursz.”

“Of course. You’re sure I should have Michael send this video to Crowley?”

“I don’t care. What’sz he going to do? Send more rodentsz?”

In a way, Michael was enjoying herself.

Trying to keep out one highly determined demon was almost as much fun as planning a war. Twenty angels scattered around the lobby itself, four more making a line across the escalators. More than that, and they just got in each other’s way. She’d switched off the escalator to Heaven, stationed a dozen more with arrows all along it. And five scouts up and down the street outside.

Whatever Crowley tried to do next, they were ready for it.

Something like thunder rumbled in the distance, except the sky was perfectly clear. She could see the last stars, giving way to the pre-dawn light.

And some other sound. A strange, discordant clanging, perhaps? But very faint.

“What is that?” she demanded.

Were there words in the clanging?

…lords and lady preach…

“I’m not sure, sir,” said the nearest angel dutifully, “but it sounds horrible.”

“Well, naturally,” she agreed.

…descend upon your…skies…

“I think,” said another with a frown, “that’s what the reports call bebop.”

…command your very souls you unbelievers…

Three of Michael’s scouts burst through the doors, waving their arms frantically. “Move!” one managed to gasp. “Out of the way!”

Bring before me what is mine…

“Of what?”

With a squeal of tires, the long black demonic car burst through the glass windows of the lobby, roar of the engine echoing off the walls, mixed with the sound of music screaming about The Seven Seas of Rhye. Flaming arrows rained on it from above, and bounced off with no effect.

The car crossed the lobby in seconds, and it was accelerating.

There was really no way a vintage car should have been able to fit down that escalator, but the Bentley was very good at getting places she didn’t belong.

He knew he’d hit a few angels on the way through the lobby, but they’d survive and he didn’t actually give a damn, a shit or any fucks at all.

Up ahead, someone was trying to close the main gates of Hell. With a grin, Crowley shifted gears, stomped on the throttle and cranked the music up even louder.

Storm the master marathon I'll fly through By flash and thunder fire I'll survive, I’ll survive, I’ll survive Then I'll defy the laws of nature and come out alive Then I'll get you…

Gabriel stood beside Aziraphale as he broke down, weeping messily. He could see the last few strands of faith holding that pale mark in place, but they would break very soon.

“I know it hurts, Aziraphale, but you really should have expected it. He’s a demon. He tempted you away from Heaven, and then he betrayed you. It’s what they do.”

The bound angel shook his head. “No. My choice. I – I – I wanted to…to live. To love.” The door opened and his head jerked up, but it was just Beelzebub, and Hastur, and five other demons, each nastier than the last. Another strand of faith broke. “Crowley, please,” he whimpered.

“If you’re going to quesztion him, aszk if he would rather sztart with bladesz or fire.” The glimpse of anger had vanished, buried again under that mask of boredom. It was actually an impressive bit of psychological warfare. They should talk about it sometime, compare notes.

“You did say you wanted choices,” Gabriel reminded him.

“I…I want to go home…” That broken tone was music to the Archangel’s ears. “Please…just let me go…I won’t…I’ll stay out of your way.”

“Too late for that,” Beelzebub said, as the other demons began selecting their tools.

“Tell you what,” Gabriel put an arm around Aziraphale. “When they’re done, you can come back to Heaven. Would you like that? I mean, we can’t reinstate you, but I’m sure there’s some role we can find for you.”

Once the demons had done their work, he’d have some better ideas for Aziraphale’s punishment and execution. Given the rumors that were circling, he’d have to make it very public this time, and he couldn’t afford any more misjudgments.

Hastur pushed his way past the other demons. “This was my idea. I’ve waited fucking long enough. I get to go first.”

Gabriel stepped aside, giving Aziraphale one last pat on the shoulder.

Somewhere in the distance, thunder rumbled.

Looping his grubby fingers around the metal collar, Hastur pulled Aziraphale off the ground entirely. “I am going to introduce you to whole new kinds of pain, angel.”

“Juszt leave szome limbsz for the reszt,” Beelzebub reminded him.

…comes the black queen…

Some kind of commotion had started up, across the empty plaza.

Gabriel glanced out the cell door, half expecting to see more rats. No, just that strange thunder again. “What is that?”

…Fi-fo the black queen, marching single file…

Both Hastur and Aziraphale turned towards the door, recognition dawning on their faces.

“No.” Hastur growled. “No, no, no –”

“Crowley…”

“NO!” The anger Beelzebub had let slip in the night was nothing compared to that moment. Ze raced out of the cell, arms waving at the crowd. “Szomeone sztop him! Whatever you have to do!”

Gabriel’s legs brought him even further. “Release the Hellhounds! Get the fire, anything – destroy him!”

“You will not,” came a quiet voice. Slowly, Gabriel and Beelzebub turned back towards the cell door, which was still wide open. Aziraphale was standing straight, deadly calm. “You will not hurt Crowley.”

“Shit.”

A voice from behind me reminds me

Aziraphale stepped forward, shaking off his chains as if they were cobwebs, dispelling the gloom with the glow of his wings and the demonic sigil on his chest, bright as daylight.

Hastur didn’t back away fast enough, and Aziraphale threw him clear across the plaza, to crash into the far wall.

Spread out your wings, you are an angel

“Shut the door!” Gabriel and Beelzebub threw their weight against it, driving the bolts home.

With one kick from the angel inside, it crumbled like paper.

Remember to deliver with the speed of light A little bit of love and joy

“You will not. Hurt. My husband.”

Aziraphale held a length of chain in his hands, stygian iron and celestial orichalcum. It glowed as his angelic powers flowed through.

“Your husb – oh, Crowley.” Gabriel held up his hands, backing away. “Is that who that is? I thought it was some new breed of demon.”

“I have no idea what anyone isz talking about.”

“You’re liars.”

Everything you do bears a will and a why and a wherefore A little bit of love and joy

“I think liars is taking it too far, Aziraphale, you know –”

“You said he left me. You lied. And I believed you.” The chain flashed out, ripping their feet out from under them. “But I will not let you hurt him.”

“No one isz going to hurt the traitor,” Beelzebub insisted. “You want to leave, go!”

In each and every soul lies a man Very soon he'll deceive and discover

“Oh, I’ll leave.” He grabbed them each by the front of the shirt, lifting them clear off the ground. “But not until I’m sure he’s safe from you.”

But even 'til the end of his life He'll bring a little love

The Bentley wasn’t as bad as the day he’d driven it through a burning M25, but it was still less than pristine. The front end was all bashed up, the sides scratched and scraped, and he’d probably be digging demon teeth out of the grille for weeks.

But he finally broke free of the crowd, and there ahead stood his angel, looking worn and tired, shirt in tatters, but alive. And smiling.

Behind him stood a cell of some kind, the door held on not by hinges, but a web of black and gold chains. There was probably some story there, but Crowley didn’t care.

He spun the Bentley in a wide circle, and came to a stop in front of Aziraphale, pushing open the door. “Did you call for a lift?”

“Crowley…” He climbed into his usual seat and shut the door. “I should very much like to go home now, if you don’t mind.”

Crowley ran his hands along the steering wheel.

What he wanted was to grab his husband into a hug that never ended, to apologize, to swear it was all a mistake, a lie, he’d never leave…

But Crowley recognized that look. Aziraphale was barely holding together, and any display of that kind would utterly destroy him.

So, ignoring the tearstains streaked across Aziraphale’s face, Crowley put the Bentley into gear. “Why don’t you pick out some music for the ride?”

Michael was still standing.

Not by much, but she was.

Her soldiers had abandoned their posts. All the demons in Hell seemed to be hiding. She couldn’t reach Gabriel. But she was still standing.

She planted her feet in the hallway, facing the gates of Hell, sword pointed ahead, waiting for that blasted machine to return. She could hear it coming. A noise like thunder. The terrifying, unrelenting baseline of the next song.

She was not going to move.

The hallway stretched before them. The escalator. Freedom.

And in between, Michael.

There are plenty of ways that you can hurt a man And bring him to the ground

“What do you want to do?” Crowley asked.

Aziraphale turned up the music. “I believe the term is ‘floor it,’ dear.”

You can beat him, you can cheat him You can treat him bad and leave him when he’s down.

Crowley shifted into fourth, and took his husband’s hand.

The car came, faster and faster. The sound of it, the heat of it, filled the corridor.

But I’m ready, yes, I’m ready for you

Michael could see their faces inside. She met their eyes, held their gazes. Stared them down.

I’m standing on my own two feet

Aziraphale smiled and waved. Crowley did, too, but with only two fingers.

Out of the doorway the bullets rip

And Michael…leapt out of the way at the last minute.

Repeating to the sound of the beat…

“Ta very much,” Crowley shouted out the window. “Let’s never do this again.”

“Wanker,” Aziraphale called.

The car, impossibly, climbed up the escalator, and shot across the broken glass of the lobby, escaping into the sunrise.

In the dark of the cell, Gabriel crossed his arms, glaring at all the other demons trapped in here with him. That one in the corner looked like he might be trouble. The Archangel hoped he wouldn’t have to make examples out of any of them.

“So. While we’re stuck here. Who’s fault was all this again?”

Beelzebub rolled zir eyes and glared at Hastur, just recovering from his head-first meeting with the wall.

And Hastur bit his hand so hard it leaked foul black blood, then howled: “Crowley!”

Afterward

Aziraphale lay in his four-poster bed, wrapped in every blanket Crowley could find. Already the table beside him held three mugs of tea – black, green, and chamomile – and one of hot cocoa. There was a bowl of soup, a tray of chocolates, and another plate with a dozen different pastries.

Crowley frowned, trying to find space to fit the sandwich. He carefully re-stacked Aziraphale’s three favorite books to make a bit more room.

“Thank you, dear, that’s quite enough.”

“No, no it isn’t. There’s no ice cream. You want ice cream? And pie. Let me go get some pie.”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale called sternly. “There’s only one thing I need right now.”

“What’s that? I’ll get you anything, Angel, whatever you want.”

“I need my husband.” There was the faintest quiver in his voice.

In a flurry of movement, Crowley crawled into the bed, wrapping his limbs around Aziraphale, pulling him into his embrace. “I’m here, Aziraphale, I’m here, I’m not going anywhere, I’m never ever going to leave you.”

“I – I do know that. I promise. I – I won’t doubt you again. I’m so sorry.”

“No, no, no.” Crowley twisted around to cup his face, wiping away the tears that were starting to fall. “You don’t apologize. I’m sorry. I should have gotten there sooner. Michael and her bloody guards. I won’t let them take you, ever again.”

“Oh, dear, no, don’t blame yourself. What could you have done?” He sniffed, and wiggled a little deeper into his blanket-cocoon. “Besides, you’d have to stay with me every minute of every day. I can’t ask that of you.”

“Too bad. I’m asking it of you.” He pressed his lips to Aziraphale’s forehead. “I know we said we wouldn’t rush into living together, but I’m ready. I don’t ever want to be apart from you again, not for a second. Not after this.”

“I…yes, Crowley. I feel the same.” He sighed. “I’d like to hold your hand now, but –”

“No. You’re still in shock. Stay in your blankets.” He rearranged himself one more time, draping himself across Aziraphale like another blanket, looping his arms around his angel’s neck, resting his head on his husband’s heart. “I’ve got you now. You just rest. I’m here.”

Thanks for reading! The Bentley’s Queen songs were “Seven Seas of Rhye,” “March of the Black Queen,” and “Another One Bites the Dust.” I don’t write the demon crew very often, so I hope they were entertaining!

I’ll probably post this tonight to AO3. Check the notes for a link.

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realactualfancontent · 5 years ago

Text

Scenes from that novel I’ve been working on!

Yes, I have been working on this. In disjointed chunks. But, I’ve been working on it.

So ya’ll can have some out of context scenes from my Invisible Man romance novel!

“Oh, we’re here.” She seemed as startled as he was when the walk, and conversation came to an abrupt halt.

Griffin followed her gaze to the small cottage half shrouded by trees, and frowned under the bandages.

“So we are.” Griffin agreed, not sure what else to say, only trying not to sound disappointed by the fact. The conversation leading up to this had been a heated one. Aster was absolutely insistent on the whole giant octopus thing, which was of course, unlikely. Beyond unlikely. But he’d been enjoying the debate, the distraction from more pressing matters back at the inn.

“You could come in if you want. Have some tea?” She said, starting towards her doorstep, only to pause and wait for him.

Evidently she’d been enjoying herself too. The invitation came as a shock. It shouldn’t have. After all she was about the only person in this miserable little village who didn’t flee at the sight of him. More often than not she seemed to actively seek him out.

He’d just never really considered that before, that she might actually be enjoying these walks. Griffin’s face felt even hotter than usual under the bandages, and he was, just for the moment, very glad to have them.

“I can’t,” he answered, a knee-jerk reaction, he regretted it immediately watching Aster’s face fall in disappointment.

“I’d like to, but,” He gestured vaguely to his swathed face. “Tea’s not really an option.”

“Oh, right, forgot that, sorry.” She offered a half mumbled apology. Her frown was still there, only for an instant more before she brightened.

“Some other time then. When you get those off. We can make it a celebration.” She said, flashing a quick grin as she did so.

Griffin returned it hesitantly. “Yes. That would be...excellent. Really!” It was a foolish thing to agree to, and so earnestly at that. But perhaps the added incentive would help speed along his work.

Aster positively beamed when he agreed. “It’s a date then.” She said, taking the last steps to her doorway and disappearing inside before he could protest terminology, tossing off a quick see you tomorrow as she did so.

Griffin turned around and headed back towards The Coach and Horses, returning in what Mr. Hall would later note seemed to be suspiciously high spirits.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The month of May had been an unremarkable one in Iping in as a whole. And for Aster it had been an awkward one, shaded by a quiet melancholy and frustration, as the mystery of the bundled up stranger had been replaced by the more immediate mystery of what, exactly she’d done to upset him.

She’d apologized of course. Not an easy feat when you can’t tell what particular nerve you’ve struck. But she was a big enough person to do that much. Still his absence on her evening walks persisted. And when they did cross paths at The Coach and Horses he was notably terse.

Well fuck Griffin then. His loss really, after all, he didn’t have anyone else to talk to. Whereas Aster at least had Lily and the crows.

She was in the middle of feeding them actually, enjoying Whit Monday in a manner most would count as decidedly unchristian, and not thinking about Griffin. When the birds grew agitated and with the kind of din only a dozen startled birds could muster departed.

Aster had flinched visibly and covered her ears, initially, relaxing when the small murder had receded to a taller tree and staring up at them perplexed.

“What’s wrong?”

Incomprehensible crow noises.

“Very elucidating.”

A quiet cough pulled her attention from the one sided conversation, she whirled to try to find the source finding her yard empty.

“I suspect I upset them.”

She recognized the voice immediately, although the source-

“Griffin?” It was definitely him, she was after all very familiar with that gravelly voice by now, although she’d never heard it quite so tentative, apologetic even? A girl could hope.

“Where are you?”

“I’m right here,” He sounded vaguely exasperated now, if she wasn’t imagining this whole interlude she had probably been imagining the tone before. “About four feet in front of you.”

Aster squinted took a few steps forward, and paused, realization dawning on her.

“As you can see, or, can’t, I suppose... You were right.”

“You’re invisible? Actually invisib- Wait, what’s that.” Aster extended an arm to point at a transparent glob of something floating at roughly stomach level, and was halted, invisible fingers curling around her wrist tightly.

Aster’s heart fluttered at the unexpected contact, whatever else she might have had to say catching in her throat. Tentatively Aster used her disengaged fingers to feel the invisible hand and continue to explore a firm, goose pimpled arm, and pat a muscular chest. Starting as she realized how close they now were, and that Griffin wasn’t wearing a shirt.

“Yes. Actually invisible. And that, would be the remains of my breakfast. I’d appreciate it if you didn’t go pawing at me” Griffin snapped, pulling his arm away from her, indentations in the grass indicating he took some hasty steps backwards.

“Oh.” Aster managed, suddenly breathless.

“Oh?” He scoffed. “Is that all?”

She bit her lower lip, staring at the disturbance in the grass that demarcated his feet. “Are- Why aren’t you dressed?” Her tone was tremulous of some emotion she could place.

“Because my clothing isn’t invisible.”

“Oh.”

“I hardly think this is the most pressing thing to focus on.” Griffin groused.

“Now that it has been brought to my attention I won’t be able to focus on much else.”

Griffin sighed, she could imagine him tensing his shoulders before hissing out a breath. “Yes. It’s very inconvenient for all involved parties. But there are more important things we have to discuss. I’ve-”

“You’re probably cold, do you want to come inside?”

Being cut off was infuriating in ways he could hardly articulate. Griffin stifled an urge to scream and instead nodded. Remembered the gesture was futile, and spoke.

“Yes.”

Aster felt something brush past her lightly and watched transfixed as the door to her home opened itself and remained ajar waiting for her to follow.

Aster directed him to the kitchen, and put a kettle on.

“You can put down a throw pillow if you want to sit. Can’t imagine the chairs are too comfortable.”

Aster was treated to some vague noise of agreement and the sight of one of her couch pillows drifting to the kitchen table and then being crushed by an unseen weight.

She joined him with a tea tray and two glasses.

“You don’t want to watch me drink.”

“Why not.”

“Because food and drink are visible inside me as it digests.”

Aster nodded. “Makes sense.” There was a pause for her to add sugar to her tea. “Though, I do want to see that. It sounds fascinating?”

“Later then, I’m sure you’ll have the chance. Right now, for the work we need to do I can’t afford to be seen.”

“Work?” Aster looked up at him from the cream she was pouring, quirking a brow as an invitation to elaborate.

“Yes. That’s why I’ve come to you. What I was trying to say outside- although this is better really, a conversation that should be had without risk of interlopers- what I was trying to say outside is that I’ve come to realize I need help.”

Griffin sighed, taking the steaming mug she had prepared for him. In the rising vapour she could make out hints of a face staring pensively into the dark liquid.

“It’s not half as marvellous as it seems.”

“Marvel enough for me.” Aster sipped her tea and waited for Griffin to elaborate.

“I’m glad you’ve taken this calmly. I couldn’t stomach any more hysterics today. I should have- I’ve made a mess of things at the inn. Mrs. Hall was going to evict me!”

“You haven’t paid rent in a month.” Aster was rarely one to take her employer’s side. But technically the woman was well within her rights.

“I was awaiting a remittance.” He grumbled, toying with the mug making it slide around the table in strange motions. “Moreover I’d paid her this morning!”

“It’s a moot point now,” Griffin took a sip of his tea, apparently deciding that whatever it was he needed help with could wait until his digestive track did it’s work.

Aster watched with fascination as he swallowed. It was, admittedly, a bit grotesque when one thought about it. And she imagined watching him eat anything more solid would be far more unpleasant, but still, fascinating.

They drank in silence for a moment, Griffin seemed on the verge of saying something, but was still trying to put it clearly.

Eventually, when Aster had watched enough to satisfy her curiosity she spoke up again.

“What exactly happened at the inn?”

Griffin let out another agitated sigh before he explained. Summarizing briefly his face off with The Halls, attempted arrest and the dramatic reveal of his secret.

Aster listened attentively, interrupting only once to laugh, saying that she would have paid good money to see the look on Mrs. Hall’s face when he handed her his fake nose.

Griffin had admitted it was rather funny. At least until she started in with the shrieking.

By the end of the tale he was pacing the floor from the motion of the tea that had yet to absorb into his system.

“And those fools down there still have my books! All my work in the hands of buffoons!” Fists slammed the table with violent force.

Aster winced at the outburst, and the string of cursing that followed.

“You have to help me get them back.” His chair pulled itself out and presumably he sat. “You will-” There was a desperate edge to his words. One absent from his next order. “You must.”

She was a willing enough accomplice in theory. Watching, or listening to Griffin explain his plight had her won over to his side entirely, but she was contrarian by nature, and couldn't let him think she'd be forced into anything. No matter distressed he might sound.

“And if I don’t?”

The silence was like she’d struck him.

“If you don’t-” he spoke carefully when he did, as if he hadn’t considered this option. “If- Aster you’re the only one who can. Don’t you understand. I’ve chosen you for this. You’re the only one who understands, who I can trust!” His words were shaky, he rose again to continue pacing.

“I should have revealed myself when you guess. I know I’ve not been- I was- I didn’t know how you would react- You are wasted on this town!”

He ended his disjointed speech abruptly and Aster could feel eyes boring into her, and she flushed at the intensity in his compliment. Too stunned to come up with a response before Griffin could start again.

“And you know it! You’re clear-headed, and clever! While those imbeciles floundered with their inane gossip you had me figured out. I know you can see what invisibility can mean. He moved toward her taking her hands in his and pulling her to her feet. “The power I hold. The things I- we could do. But I must have a confederate. Someone to help with all the trivial inconveniences. Please Aster. Help me, and I will do great things for you.”

They were close now, close enough that Aster could feel the heat of his breath on her face.

“Yeah.” she said quietly, exhaling a shaky breath, not sure wholly what she was agreeing to, only that she couldn’t imagine saying no.

“Yes!” Her second affirmation banished any hesitation and her eyes shone with excitement.

“Absolutely. What’s the plan!”

#Fanfic #Aster's Mod #The Invisible Man #I BET YOU ALL THOUGHT I FORGOT THIS #I CAN NOT WRITE ROMANCE AND YET #Grifter #aster atwood #Griffin

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beerecordings · 4 years ago

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AND FOR MY SECOND TRICK: Desmond!Jackie has activated the Eye and saved the world. And then he wakes up again. (Immediately after, some years after, back-in-time after, you pick. Bonus points for figuring out how Jameson Jackson, soon-to-be-Mentor of the London Brotherhood and Marvin Kazmarek, Animus Subject 16 might play into this. :D)

They think they can catch him.

He hears the laugh bubble from his mouth, breathy and bright in the chill London air. He leaps forward like a stag over rivers, feeling the world give out and drop away beneath his feet before he tuck, rolls, leaps up again and keeps running. Someone screams behind him, shuddering to a stop before the edge of the building, forced to step back and gain speed again before they can leap over.

They think they can catch him. Ha! He laughs without noise and races, just as silent, across the cold pavement of the rooftops. No one can catch him. This is his home, London his kingdom! This is his fierce little body, with hands that have known the blood of tyrants and legs to carry him for miles, swift as a bird! This is Jameson Jackson, assassin, monster-slayer, the quickest and most blood-thirsty little messenger in all of England. Nothing stops him. Nothing catches him. He is the courier, the Assassin, and right now he has a message to carry.

“Stop!” someone is screaming behind him. “Stop, come back! Please, please!”

Come to think of it, he isn't exactly sure what message he is carrying.

Something important, wasn't it? It must have been. It always is, and he is the deliverer.

Where is he going?

This almost pauses him in his tracks, his sneakers skidding a little on the concrete.

Sneakers? He glances down again, hearing the air puff out of him. No, no, not sneakers, of course not. He doesn't even know what sneakers would be. He's wearing his boots. He's always wearing his boots. He doesn't remember them being red.

“You're going to get hurt!” shrieks his pursuer. “Please stop and listen to me!”

Despite their words, remembering that they're behind him only spurs him on to greater speed. Still, he can't recall where he's going. Or even... how he got here.

Or even where this is.

A shaky breath parts from his mouth. He turns sharply and races over the edge of another building. He's beginning to be afraid, but no matter. No one ever catches him. He'll run until he's gotten away, and then he'll gather his bearings, find his allies, deliver the message. Might be he has a head injury. He just needs to keep running.

A huge gap separates the buildings in front of him. He can't jumps it and land on his feet, but his arms are strong too, and his aim is perfect. He leaps, his arm reaching out –

His arm.

Oh, oh.

His right arm is completely gone.

For a second, the Bleeding Effect is gone with it, and London disappears. He doesn't know what this city is – doesn't know where he is or why – but it isn't London, and it isn't 1868.

And he's not... he's not...

“Jackie!” someone howls behind him.

The empty space where his right arm should be threatens his life. He chokes on a gasp and lets out a small scream – what? I can't scream! My voicebox is torn through! – and scrabbles out with his left arm, barely catching the ledge of the building, wrenching his shoulder hard.

Someone crashes into the side of the wall beside him and pulls themselves up on two strong arms, hurrying to grab his wrist and the stump of his right arm, dragging him up. Maybe they aren't an enemy after all. He's too shaken to protest, anyway, letting himself be hauled up over the ledge.

Cool wind rushes past his hair – hair longer than he remembers it. He grabs at what remains of his arm, whimpering.

Burn scars coat his puckered flesh, ugly and red against white. Tears well in his eyes. His arm... this... this isn't right... what's happened to him?

“It's you, it's you,” the stranger is sobbing behind him, clutching him by the shoulders and burying his face against his back. “I thought you were going to fucking fall, Jackie, Jackie...”

His vision flickers. On the streets below, horses and petticoats, top hats and the stink of iron – and then, a moment later, cars and passers-by in leather jackets or puffy coats, phones in their hands, the world racing on around him, surviving, alive...

“What's happening?” he signs desperately, feeling warm hands rubbing at his shoulders as the stranger cries. “I'm dreaming! I'm dead!”

“You're not Jameson, Jackie,” the stranger whispers, voice broken and tired. “Jackie, it's you. It's me, it's Marv. We're in America. It's 2013. You saved the world, Jackie. You saved us. It's you.”

“This isn't real,” he signs, frantic, lost. “My friends! My family! I have to go home! I have to go back to London!”

“You can talk, Jackie, you can talk,” begs Marv, clinging to him. “Please, darling, find yourself again. Here, look at me. Look at me.”

Long brown hair curls around a round face with huge blue eyes. A soft mouth is down-turned in fear, thick eyebrows drawn back in despair. Earrings and a cloak around his shoulders.

He doesn't even remember him, not really, but the sight of him is like a balm to him.

“Say something for me,” murmurs Marv. “You have to start coming back to me. This was a bad one, Jackie... when you got away, I thought maybe... I'm so glad I caught up with you, fuck...”

He stares at him, reaching tentatively out to touch his hair.

“Marvin?”

Marvin's face melts with relief. He hides his face between Jackie's shoulderblades once again and rocks them together on the roof of the building.

“Jackie, my Jackie, my friend... you're not him. You're you. You're here. You're alive.”

“Oh, no,” he whispers, beginning to grasp the situation. “I'm Bleeding again... enough that I forgot who I was... forgot about...”

He grabs his own amputated arm, breathing through his teeth. Shaken. Exhausted.

“It's okay. All that matters is that you're here. That you remember now. That you survived. She couldn't kill you.”

“Couldn't she?” croaks Jackie, beginning to feel his whole body tremble. He stares down at his one remaining hand.

That's the thing he remembers more often than anything. Jameson's hands.

Waking up from the machine, he would see his palms flex the way Jameson's flexed. Reaching out for help, he would see the long and graceful fingers they both share. Lifting a hand to shield his eyes from the great, bright sun of the world reborn, he sees Jameson's hand upraised before him.

The ghost of him seems to reside within Jackie's skin. Ancestral.

You are in the curves of my jaw, he thinks to the image of himself. The cut of my chin, the flash of my eyes. You are in my bones and flesh.

Dividing the image of himself from Jameson? Impossible.

But it doesn't matter, because he died on the 21st of December.

It happened. He remembers. He was there. And his flesh burnt away and his heart overloaded and electricity and power and light filled him up like a vessel meant for nothing else, and in a second the stress severed parts of his brain and killed him.

Dead.

But they came back for him in time, his friends. Don't ask him how Schneep saved him. He doesn't understand it, and, secondly, he doesn't like to think about his friend sawing his arm off in the back of a van on the way to the hospital.

And since then?

Recovery has been – fuck, if not for the healing in what remains of his arm, he wouldn't call it recovery at all.

Jameson Bleeds through every moment of consciousness. London rises up like a ghost from the city around him. Technology becomes incomprehensible at random moments, the people JJ loved make his heart ache with longing and grief, and most of the time, everything is terrifying and large, and he wakes up from nightmares believing he's Jameson, and comes so close to death he thinks maybe he'll have the chance to truly meet his great-great-great-grandfather after all.

Tears are slipping down his cheeks.

“She did kill me,” he sobs. “It's just still happening.”

“No, Jackie, no,” pleads Marvin, gripping his shoulders. “No. You're here with me. You came back to me. That's all that matters.”

“One day I'll die like this!” He grips his friend's arms in return, pulling them to his chest, and squeezes his eyes tightly shut against flowing water. “I can't even remember who I am! Even if I am alive, I'm dead!”

“Jackie – ”

He tears out of Marvin's arms, leaping to his feet, hanging halfway over the edge of that precipice.

“I'm dead!” he repeats, shrieking, tearing at his hair. “I'm dead, I'm dead! I'm gone! Jackie's gone! There's just memory and loss left! I don't know why Henrik brought me back! I let myself die in that fucking machine and now – !”

“Jackie!”

Marvin tears him back from the edge and they crash to the ground together, panting.

Cold stars overhead. Cold wind through his hair. Cold people moving far below.

Alive because of him.

And this... this was the cost.

His shoulder aches. His body strains from the exercise, weak after weeks in hospital, excruciating and endless. He wants to go back to London. Back to people who never even knew his name. He wants to go home to JJ's daughter and sweep her into his arms. She should be his. She is his. Why isn't she his?

He slumps back against Marvin's body, trembling. Aching. Lost.

He's crying into Marvin's shoulder.

Marvin holds him closer and doesn't move.

“Jackie,” he says, again and again, soft, in his ear. “Jackie. Jackie. Jackie.”

An anchor for this ship, rocking on a hateful sea.

He clutches to Marvin and doesn't let go.

In his dreams, he is Jameson, and the world is right around him. The sun gleams. He throws his daughter into the air and catches her in two arms.

Jackie opens his eyes.

“Hey,” murmurs Chase, shifting from his guard duty, reaching out to touch Jackie’s wrist.

Jackie stares back at him, feeling like a dead thing. He doesn’t want to think today. He doesn’t think he can.

“I’m sorry, buddy,” says Chase. “I’m sorry. I know this is hard. But you have to keep fighting. We’re going to make this right again. Okay?”

Going to make the world right again. Going to make this right.

He hears the laugh bubble from his mouth. Chase sits back, surprised.

Nah. No way. He doesn’t buy that shit. Yeah, he saved the world. For everybody but him.

“Can’t fix shit for dead men,” he mutters, and rolls over, and goes back to his dreams.

#nikkilbook #this will not make sense if you don't understand assassin's creed :)#sorry I didn't go into much detail nikki!! just a sad reflective piece :(#2020 prompts #bee writes

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jflashandclash · 5 years ago

Text

Tales From Mount Othrys

Fidget Spinners IV

Once they were aboard the Ferry of the Dead, riding down the River Styx with Charon in his proper creepy and grim black robe, Alabaster stopped vomiting. The ship was an old Greek vessel, something Matthias could have identified immediately. They sat as far from the stern as possible. Apparently this boat was usually brimming with ghosts, but Charon had shoved the three of them aboard in such a hurry, less ghosts had flooded the space.

This gave them the room to sit on the edge of the boat so Pax, Lou Ellen, and Alabaster could stare off at the inky, polluted river. They wanted to be as far from the ferryman as possible. Charon was cursing under his breath, something about children being electrocuted in bathtubs and getting into car accidents.

Maybe, in a normal tour, Pax might have been excited by the black stalactites and terrifying horror movie set. For now, all he could do was rub Alabaster’s back. Lou Ellen sat on his other side, pulling one finger off and putting it back in a different one’s place, frequently messing it up. This was her way of acting concerned.

After he was certain Charon couldn’t overhear them, Pax whispered, “You died coming after us?!”

Before now, he couldn’t process what was happening enough to ask. The sight of Alabaster with his intestines dragging on the floor and blood spewing out of his mouth—it was enough to make Pax tremble more. And he was already trembling pretty hard in this cold cavern.

“Of course I died!” Alabaster’s voice rose, making Pax and Lou Ellen flinch. “How else would I be in the Underworld?!”

Tears threatened to spill down Pax’s cheeks. He could hear Lou Ellen sniffling. Crying would really make her missing-eye illusion less believable.

Alabaster sighed. Pax thought he was reaching for something in his pocket.

Alabaster wasn’t. He grabbed the end of his intestines. Casually, the child of Hecate wound them up around one wrist. Once he got towards the end, he ripped off a chunk.

Pax shrieked.

“Be quiet,” Alabaster snarled. Softer, he grumbled, “And Mercedes thinks you can keep it cool in enemy territory.”

Pax wanted to point out that enemies (hopefully) wouldn’t be ripping off pieces of their organs. Was that a thing they did in Camp Half-Blood? Did Percy Jackson, in fact, an organ-eating zombie?

Before Pax could withdraw his hand, Alabaster shoved the chunk into Pax’s palm.

Pax almost screamed again. Maybe this was an experience he should have smiled upon—after all, it isn’t every day that your crush tries to hand you an organ, granted, a heart might be better.

“I knew you idiots wouldn’t bring enough snacks,” Alabaster hissed, shoving another chunk into Lou Ellen’s hands.

“Oh my mother…” Lou Ellen whispered.

Pax didn’t want to watch as she held up the chunk for investigation. Then he saw what she saw. The scent of iron vanished like it had been a whiff from a distant breeze. That chunk had some kind of label covered in blood—not blood.

Pax sniffed.

The scent of barbeque sauce became overwhelming.

He rubbed his own chunk with his thumb. The sauce smeared to reveal a packaged sausage, like the kind you’d have on a cheese platter. There was even a bright label on the protective packaging.

Pax stared at his hand. The spell had been so convincing.

Lou Ellen made a low whistle. “You’re good,” she said, “Titans, can you teach me how to do that?”

“When you have enough discipline to pull off your nose instead of your chin,” Alabaster scolded.

Pax couldn’t think about the spell or the sausage.

He threw his arms around Alabaster.

Alabaster made a grunt of annoyance.

Slowly and firmly, as though not to draw attention to them, Alabaster removed Pax’s arms. There was an embarrassed hue to his pale cheeks as he scowled from Pax to Lou Ellen. “You didn’t come to me to devise this plan?” he demanded.

“We thought you’d be mad,” Lou Ellen meeped. She sheepishly poked at the fake dent in her head. By comparison to Alabaster’s effects, hers looked like something out of a D-rate horror movie.

“Oh, I am mad. When we get back, I’m killing you, and then you’ll have to march right back in there and explain to Charon how you’ve shown up twice, then you’ll have to see what he does with you,” Alabaster said.

Pax couldn’t help but grin. Threats aside, he couldn’t handle looking at this very-much-alive Alabaster. It was cute thinking about it: Alabaster finding their, “Went to Underworld. Will bring back souvenirs,” note and stuffing a bunch of sausage links into his shirt, cussing at the confused centaur that could swear he just took Alabaster and Lou Ellen off the ship. He really cared. At least about Lou Ellen.

“Are you making us go back?” she whispered, shuffling away from a wandering soul and closer to her brother. Pax understood. Everything here was cold. Touching another warm person was a nice reminder of the above world.

“How, pray tell, am I to make you go back in our current situation?” Alabaster closed his eyes and rubbed his eyelids. “Mercedes warned me you’d want to go after Axel. I didn’t think the two of you would be stupid enough to throw away your life chasing him or smart enough to get off the boat undetected.”

Lou Ellen and Pax exchanged a glance over Alabaster’s shoulders. Neither could decide if the comment was more compliment or insult.

“So, we’re going after Axel?” Pax clarified.

“We’re certainly not going back the way we came. I have no interest in angering Charon on his own boat,” Alabaster said.

That meant that Alabaster had come down here with his own plan. Even if he didn’t have one when he left, trying to catch them before they went into DOA Recording Studios, he would have come up with one by now. Before Pax could hear any awesome details, their ship pulled up along black sand.

Pax guessed that Hades hadn’t heard the memo—that pink was the new black. If Pax ever got scared while he was down here, he would have to remember to visualize the Underworld in various shades of Easter egg with magenta stalactites meeting a sparkling, rose floor. His stomach dropped about what shade of pink the river would be with its thick eddies. That went too Mayan in his head.

Alabaster tossed the plastic-wrapped suit backwards into the boat, quickly shuffling the younger two off. They didn’t wait to hear what Charon thought of the contents.

They walked towards the airport-like security with ghoulish attendants separating people into various lines. There were signs above the lines, ones that Pax couldn’t read since the letters jumbled into incomprehension.

A low whine, like that of an injured puppy, echoed around the chamber. Yea, there were wails too, but those were human wails. Pax was way less interested in those. He couldn’t find the source of the animal noises until Lou Ellen tugged furiously on his jacket.

Pax didn’t know how he missed the view before. Unlike Alabaster, Lou Ellen, and Axel, he struggled to see through the Mist. Even so, the Mist deserved a pay raise.

A few yards ahead of them was a massive Rottweiler with three heads. Maybe the truck-sized dog would have normally been intimidating; Pax had heard some intimidating stories about Cerberus. Instead, the dog just looked pathetic, curled up and nursing a paw. Pax could see why.

There was a sword imbedded between two toes.

“He’s hurt!” Pax cried.

“Ajax, no,” Alabaster growled.

Lou Ellen joined in the cry, “We have to help him.”

“What part of—”

“Please!” Pax and Lou Ellen said together.

“Grant me the patience of the Furies,” Alabaster said under his breath.

One of the heads must have caught their scent. It perked up and glanced in their direction, growling.

The other two were licking at the injured paw still. He looked cute, the way a monster truck might if painted with bambis and rabbits.

Alabaster stopped in his tracks. He fumbled with his intestines—sausages. Pax really needed to stop thinking of sausage as intestines. “Who do you think stabbed him?” he asked in his you’re stupid if you can’t answer this question and I know you too well to let you play dumb. “See many stray demigods wandering down here with blades?”

“It wasn’t Axel,” Pax said. Axel was obsessed with mythical creature rights and would have known Cerberus was just doing his job. One caged animal to another—Axel would have likely tried to play-wrestle with the beast. “I’ll bet it was Luke.”

“Yea, Luke’s an asshole,” Lou Ellen said.

The two of them vigorously nodded their heads towards Alabaster.

“Lou Ellen,” Alabaster chided, “I expect more creative insults than vulgarity. And you aren’t going to win me over by insulting Castellan.”

Despite him saying that, the corner of his lips twitched into a smile. Until then, Pax hadn’t realized how glad he was to have Alabaster along. The Witch Boy would know his way around the Underworld, or Pax guessed he would. Alabaster held that easy calm, even amongst the dead.

Pax and Lou Ellen would have feigned calm confidence. But, uh, that would have only lasted so long as they got closer to the line’s attendants.

Another of Cerberus’ heads noticed their movement. It raised and joined in the low growl.

The noise didn’t seem to bother Alabaster. “How were you planning on getting past?” he asked, gathering the rest of the sausages from his waist—he must have wrapped them under his shirt, and withdrawing them like a towel around a hand wound.

“We brought a chew toy,” Lou Ellen said. Pax could tell that she wanted to sound proud, but had realized a flaw in their plan. There were three heads and only one chew toy.

“Seriously?” Alabaster’s growl chimed in with Cerberus’.

“I heard it worked for Annabeth,” Pax said.

Although Pax couldn’t see it, he could feel Alabaster roll his eyes. “The amount of inconvenience that girl has caused,” he said under his breath.

Pax hesitated. Cerberus’ growls were making his body vibrate. This dog was massive, the size of a truck. Pax didn’t even come up to Cerberus’ chest and Cerberus was half-laying down. One of his heads still licked the sword hilt imbedded in his paw. Focus on that, Pax thought, and not on how his teeth are about as long as that sword.

“We have a treat for you!” Alabaster called. His voice was way too cold for dealing with a ball of cute fluffiness and death. Pax had a feeling that Alabaster had never been allowed pets as a child. Other than Axel and Pax. Pax was fairly certain that they were pets to Alabaster.

Cerberus stood up. When he applied pressure to his front paw, all three heads whimpered. They pulled the paw up slightly, to alleviate the pressure.

“Go fix his paw if you wish. I can only hold him for a few moments with this,” Alabaster said. “If you take too long or are sloppy, you’ll get yourself killed.”

For an instant, Pax wondered if Alabaster was nervous. The Witch Boy unwrapped a link of sausage and tossed it into the air towards Cerberus.

The two heads less affected by the wound snapped at it, nipping at each other to bite it to pieces, probably the same way they would do with Pax’s limbs if he was caught.

Its breath flooded over them, almost as bad as Pax’s little brother’s, Hiro’s breath.

“You suck at this,” Lou Ellen said, pulling a link from Alabaster. “You heard him, Pax. Have fun getting that sword out. Hey puppers! Look what I got for you puppers!”

Her voice raised in pitch and excitement. The sentiment worked. Cerberus sat upright, letting his butt drop back onto the ground. From what Pax had heard of Annabeth’s interactions with this dog, he thought their red ball plan might have worked with Lou Ellen’s charm. Uh—natural charm. No witchy charm required.

Pax puffed up his cheeks and popped them, realizing Lou Ellen had volunteered him for the harder job. His heartbeat pounded in his head. It’s just a cute, injured puppy, he told himself, It just so happens that it wouldn’t need to chew to swallow you.

Alabaster gave Lou Ellen a look that might have been reproachful or approving. He handed her the rest of the sausage as Cerberus’ short tail thumped against the black sand, echoing around the chamber. Pax thought it was weird that interacting with this dog wasn’t a red flag for the Underworld Security. What dead person wanted to poke at the landowner’s attack dog?

Alabaster made a few signs in the air around Pax’s head, muttering in Latin. Was he making him invisible? Or at least making him blend in with the stone? Or smell less like a delicious treat? Pax hoped all of the above. When Pax glanced down at his hands, they still looked visible and potentially delicious to a monster.

“We don’t have enough sausages for you to hesitate,” Lou Ellen said.

Pax swallowed. He thought about Juana, Axel’s jaguar. Their father bought it for him a few months after they were forced back “home.” Axel warned his siblings not to go near Juana without him, since she could tear them to shreds. Juana was a tenth the size of Cerberus.

From what he knew of Juana, there was no point in trying to sneak up. He approached Cerberus’ injured paw, hands outstretched in attempt to look non-threatening. Not that a 4’7 rail of cuteness could look threatening.

The other two heads were locked on Lou Ellen, or fighting over bits of sausage she threw.

The last head faced him. The eyes didn’t quite focus on Pax, showing Alabaster’s spell must have done something. Pax heartbeat thudded in his head as he took the last few steps to Cerberus’ foot. The dog hadn’t batted him out of existence yet.

The head whimpered and pulled its paw closer to its body.

“It’s okay,” Pax said, the way he did when his littlest brother had a nightmare. “I just want to help. It’ll be quick, like ripping off a Band Aid.”

That felt like a threat to Pax. Just gonna take that sharp, pointy thing in your paw and move it around a bit.

“Pax,” Alabaster said in warning.

Pax didn’t look over to see why. He figured it had to do with how the middle head had turned to sniff furiously in his direction.

Now or to Xibalba, Pax thought. He wrapped his fingers around the cold metal of the hilt and pulled up, trying not to twist the blade or yank at an angle.

It slid out easily.

Pax wanted to gloat about the Sword in the Paw and how he’d be king of the Cerberi.

His mouth went dry instead.

When he wretched the blade out, dark liquid splattered up from the paw. Something clear and goopy dropped on his head from above—saliva.

Pax puffed up his cheeks and popped them, looking up. The other two heads glowered down at him. Their teeth were barred within inches of his face. Their low growl rattled his skull.

He trembled, thinking at least one good thing would come out of this: if he died in the Underworld, he didn’t need to worry about going through Charon’s Waiting Room again.

***

Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed! And I hope you and your loved ones are staying healthy and safe!

Stay tuned next week for part X!

#Percy Jackson and the Olympians #Heroes of Olympus #Tales from Mount Othrys #fanfic #PJO #HOO #TFMO #pax #lou ellen #Alabaster #CUTE PUPPERS!!!!#irritable bowel syndrome #Also known as Alabaster #I hope you guys are doing well! Stay safe!

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