#can easily imagine one of my ocs wiring up some old phones to do this

[baryonyxtrainor4]

and to think i nearly scrolled past this today

[idonotbitemythumbatyou]

Found a prompt list and would love to see one (or more than one!) of these done for an OC pairing if they resonate:

- things you said while we were driving

- things you said too quietly

- things you said at the kitchen table

Also happy birthday month :)

Thank you for this fun prompt!

These are characters from a piece I’ve been playing with on and off for a year. I hope it makes sense with zero context.

----------------

You asked me to pay for breakfast like a normal person. With money. I don’t know what it was but something about that pissed me off. 

So when the waitress came back I said, “I know you have to smile for work, but we’re very lucky to see it.”

“What?”

You rolled your eyes and scowled out the window - muttering something in Irish under your breath. She didn’t notice, and I ignored you.

“You have a beautiful smile” I said, finishing the attack with a sincere smile of my own. 

She blushed and opened her mouth only to find herself speechless. 

Thus disarmed, I extended my will to encompass her like a warm embrace. I held her in my heart and said simply, “Maybe this breakfast could be on the house.”

The waitress faltered - I felt her shift inside the comfort of my will - but not very far. She grinned as though the two of us were sharing a delicious, intimate secret. She really did have a beautiful smile, it brightened her round face and transformed her from an unremarkable person into a heart-stopping beauty. “On the house, darlin.” she said, placing an empty check on the table in front of me with a wink, “Don’t tell.”

Tammy gave us some serious guff when we tried to leave - choking and stuttering and belching when you turned the ignition. You gritted your teeth and turned the key with increasing irritation culminating in a hearty slap to the dashboard (followed by a gentle pet and a whispered apology).

You pulled out of the diner parking lot and towards the poorly lit highway. You looked carefully before turning (even though the flat terrain would have revealed headlights a mile off and I think I saw one car pass by the entire time we were in the diner.)

We were on the road in total silence for an excruciating three minutes. Not even music. Only the grumpy rumble of the deteriorating engine. 

After a long time you took a deep steadying breath. “You probably got her in trouble,” you said.

I laughed - relieved that that was all you were annoyed about, “We’re in trouble, Maeve.” I cranked the window down to vent the trapped sun-heat into the night air. “You act like we have money to spare. I don’t just do that for fun.” The ends of your crimson hair whipped in front of me, drawn by the wind outside. I brushed it out of my face, revelling in the feeling of the strands between my fingers, the smell of you through the horrible motel conditioner. My voice came out gentler, softened by the contact. But I was not ready to back down on how right I was, “Do you think I’ll be able to do that when Tammy here finally gives up? We have to be tactical about where we spend money. Thank you. A-very much.”

You sighed. “But did you have to go that route?” 

“I had to disarm her.”

“Don’t give me that, Lilias -”

“O~oh full names.”

“You only use compliments when you’re trying to annoy me.”

“That’s not true!” 

It was true. A little light flirtation is the easiest way to disarm someone, but it also has the most painful hangover for the person influenced - once they realize that something strange has happened. Especially if I lie. You were the one to point that out to me.

“I didn’t lie to her.” I said (petulantly. I can admit it), “She does have a beautiful smile.”

Without another word, you pushed the wired tape into the tape deck and scrolled down your phone to choose a discordantly jaunty pop song for the rest of the drive back to the motel.

-------------------

I have loved you since we were fourteen. Part of me knew you were the only one who could understand what I was - even if I hadn’t wrapped my own head around it yet.

The first time we kissed - years later - I was terrified because by then I understood the power I wielded. I wanted you to love me the way I loved you. But I hated to think you might love me because I wanted it. I tried so hard not to feel anything about you that night. Because I wanted you so badly it was certain to encompass you if I wasn’t careful. I sat beside you, nose to nose, rooted in place  shaking like an ash tree, with tears (tears!) welling my eyes. 

Absolutely mortifying. I could have died of embarrassment.

But you had touched my face and brushed a lock of hair behind my ear. “I have resisted the influence of fair folk kings.” you had said, in that melodic voice of yours - a little sadly, a little exhaustedly, with absolute gentleness, “you cannot make me do anything I do not desire.”

And then you waited for me to close the distance, and smiled into my lips. When we kissed, I realized the love I’d had for you up to then had only been practice. It could have been anyone, but now I was ready to love you in full, with all of myself in return.

From then on, I have faced everything with you. I would not change you for the world. But I did sometimes wish that we could have loved each other in a world that didn’t ask us to face so much. 

--------------------------

You took a shower while I warded the motel room. A dull routine by now. When I was nearly done, I looked up to find you sitting at the table of what could only be called a “kitchen” under the most generous definition. You had a towel wrapped around yourself, and your hair - usually a majestic flaming halo of curls - hung damp and lank down to your waist.

On the table beside you, my practice scissors rested on a newspaper made entirely of useless coupons.

“I think it’s time to cut my hair.” you said.

“Are you sure?”

“I’ve been leaving bits of myself everywhere. It’s becoming dangerous. And if they send a hunter -”

“Of course. I can-”

“A hunter will know exactly what to do if they find my hair.”

“Yes. Let me just-”

“So will you cut it for me?”

I noticed then that your hands were balled into white knuckled fists in the towel on your lap, and your chin was trembling. I stood from the knot I was twining around the doorknob and went to you, taking your face in my hands.

“Of course, Maeve.” I said, and I kissed your forehead lightly, “Let me finish these wards, and I’ll be back to help you.” I took the scissors to cut the twine - extending my will to protect us into the knot. I then went back to you and helped you spread the paper under the kitchen chair. I brought over the ugly standing lamp with it’s fuzzy, peeling lampshade to illuminate our work with dull orange light. You played some quiet music and sat back on the kitchen chair.

I asked you what you wanted.

“Just… short. As short as you can,” you said, “if I can still have some of my curls left, that might be nice. But short.” 

I hardly knew where to start. Your hair is so thick I had to tie it off into five different sections to get the scissors through it, before tossing it piece by piece into the little plastic waste basket.

“We’ll have to burn it in the morning,” you said.

After the first chop, your hair was around the length of your jaw. You wanted it even shorter. I told you it would seem shorter when the curls finished drying. You insisted. So I sectioned your hair with pins instead of bands and kept cutting. Careful snips to the sound of your soft acoustic music.

“Do you know why they’ve never found us, Lily?” You said.

I did. But the theatre of this conversation had kept us safe so far, and it had become a comforting prayer, “Why Maeve?” I said gently (snip)

“Because,” (snip), “they think they know how we should be feeling.”

“Oh?”

“They are reaching their mycelium tendrils out to search for our fear. They don’t expect us to feel anything else. They only know what our fear smells like. They haven’t scented out our joy yet. They don’t know what our love is like.” (snip)

I took another section of your hair down. “Then they’ll never find us.” I said, “What I feel for you is stronger than fear.” (snip), “I’m sorry about the waitress.” 

(snip) “Thank you.”

“We can check on her tomorrow if you’d like.”

“I don’t think it’s a good idea. We should be moving on.”

I nodded, though I knew you couldn’t see. Of course we would keep moving. We would do so for as long as we could. I wondered when the folk would learn to track my exhaustion.

It took nearly an hour to cut your hair all the way down. You were blessed with gorgeous thick curls. Back when I was “jealous” of you, this was my greatest source of consternation. I obsessed over your hair as I sat behind you in algebra class. I was irritated beyond all reasonable measure that you didn’t even seem to know how to style it, and imagined vividly what I would do if I could style it for you. I did poorly in algebra and only later interrogated what that jealousy had masked.

If only I could tell my fourteen year old self that I had run my hands through your hair more times than I could count since then. I had braided and combed your hair. Nestled my face into its depths, kissed it so many times that surely my love had reached every strand by now. I had even, on occasion, nearly choked, breathing it into my mouth in moments of uncontrollable ecstasy (a detail I would certainly not share with my fourteen year old self).

I cut it nearly to the skin on the sides - as evenly as I could manage with scissors (I am sorry, my love, the sides looked a bit uneven and plucked for a few days before we acquired the clippers), leaving a long flop of red curls on top to cascade down nearly to your eye-line on one side. I stepped back to behold my clumsy effort, and was about to apologize when your muddy green eyes met mine and my breath caught in my throat.

You had gone from an ethereal beauty to a striking creature whose appearance was less easily defined with words like “beautiful” or “handsome.” I saw for the first time how your cheekbones ran parallel to the sharpness of your jaw. Your long neck arced gracefully to meet your slim freckled shoulders. Even the bow of your lips seemed more prominent. You furrowed your brows at my reaction and turned to see yourself in the mirror through the open bathroom door.

You blinked in disbelief. Then grinned. “I look… They’d never know me now.”

The folk do not rely on vision. If we were found, of course they would know you in an instant by the impression of your being - even if you somehow grew an extra four inches taller or switched bodies with me they would know you. Normally I would never imagine a haircut could make any difference. But as you looked in the mirror your entire demeanor changed. The carriage of your weight, even the set of her shoulders shifted. We had cut your hair so you might not leave such distinctive tracks behind us, and instead we’d revealed an entirely new essence of your being. “You know Maeve,” I said, wonderingly, “I think you’re right. You look like someone they’ve never known before.”

You looked like yourself for the first time in 400 years. 

I felt a pang of self reproach that I’d been perfectly happy these seven years only knowing the masked version of you. You took another rinse to get the clippings off your skin while I swept up. I hesitated before dumping all the hair and paper into the bin. After a moment, when I was sure you weren’t just about to get out of the water, I reached into the bin to pull out a long lock of your hair. I opened my kit and tied the hair with twine, then wrapped it around a quartz with an iron emulsion to keep it safe, and placed it all in a little pouch. I packed it at the bottom of my kit, and put everything else on top of it.

By the time you re emerged into the room, the kitchen was clean and I was in one of the twin beds, scrunched up to the side to leave room for you. It was a tight fit, but we were used to it, and we both felt safer together. You crawled in next to me, and took your place in my waiting arms. 

“There’s more room now without your hair.” I said, nestling my face into the back of your neck, feeling your damp hair against my forehead. I felt you laugh in my arms, and then you were still, breathing steadily for so long I thought you were asleep. Until you spoke again.

“I know you are tired, Lily.”

I closed my eyes and held you tighter. “I just worry, you know? Like. I don’t know if I can run my entire life. And we’re no closer to finding a permanent solution.”

 You shifted a little closer to me. “There might not be one.” You said. “But whatever happens, I’ll be here.”

I kissed your shoulder and breathed you in, finding solace against the inevitability of our eventual failure in the weight of you against me. After a long time, when you were asleep - for sure this time, I whispered to myself, “I’ll be here too.”

[not-a-space-alien]

Your Own Side Outtake #14:  The Death of Adam Young

Series masterpost

On AO3

Adam Young was dying.

And he still insisted on doing things the human way.  Even to the end, he refused to try and regain his antichrist powers, he refused to let any of his supernatural friends restore his health and vigor. Without fail he diverted them to helping Dog, who was in his prime despite being 81 years old (that’s 567 in dog years, mind you!) due to the attention lavished on him.  But not Adam Young, no, not him, the most human human to ever human, craving the human experience down to his very bones, his very old, very brittle bones.

It started like most elderly human deaths, at the ripe old age of 92, with a fall that broke some integral bone, landing him in the hospital where he developed complications that necessitated a lot of tubes and wires and rhythmic machines, nurses checking in on him regularly and suggestions of hospice care.

The people coming to visit him often muttered about how young he was, which seemed like an odd thing to say, but everyone deals with loss in their own ways.

When they disconnected the life support, he was surrounded by loved ones, most of whom looked quite stoic and begrudgingly restrained themselves from various supernatural interventions, against their better judgement following his wishes.

Adam Young took his last shuddering breath and closed his eyes.

Then, he opened them, seeing a bright white light.  No, two, two pinpricks, looking at him.  And they disappeared, then reappeared like a slow, languid blink.

“Oh, bugger,” said Adam. “I’ve finally died.”

IT TOOK YOU LONG ENOUGH, Death said.  I’VE BEEN WAITING IN THE CAFETERIA FOR FORTY-FIVE MINUTES.

Adam flexed his shoulder. “I feel…good.  Is being dead supposed to feel this good?  Did I just forget what it felt like not to have a bad hip?”

YOU ARE FREED FROM YOUR MORTAL FORM, said Death.  YOU NO LONGER FEEL ITS PAIN.

“Yeah, I guess,” said Adam. “Did they have anything good in the cafeteria?”

THE PIZZA IS SURPRISINGLY GOOD.

“I haven’t been able to eat pizza since I started getting heartburn. Can we take a stop on over there?  Before going on to, er…”

He looked at Death awkwardly.  He suddenly felt a little foolish.

WHERE INDEED, said Death. YOU PRESENT AN INTERESTING DILEMMA. HOWEVER, I’VE NARROWED THE CHOICES DOWN TO HEAVEN OR HELL.

“Oh,” said Adam.  “I mean, I guess.”

I OUGHT TO CONGRATULATE YOU. YOU ARE THE FIRST ONE TO EVER BE DISCORPORATED DUE TO OLD AGE.  HAD I NOT KNOWN YOU DID IT ON PURPOSE, I WOULD HAVE CHALKED IT UP TO NEGLIGENCE.

“Yeah, I g….Wait, did you say…discorporated?”

YES, said Death, leaning his scythe against the wall.  BECAUSE DESPITE YOUR INSISTENCE, YOU CANNOT DENY YOUR HERITAGE.  I SUPPOSE YOU OUGHT TO GO WHEREVER YOUR CLOSEST RELATIVE WOULD GO WHEN DISCORPORATED, WHICH WOULD BE HELL.

“Wait,” said Adam Young, gawking.  “Deny my heritage?  How am I…not human?  I mean, I guess I am Satan’s son, but…”

I KNOW OF NO HUMANS WHO HAVE WINGS.

“Wings?!” said Adam, standing up ramrod straight, and in the process involuntarily flexing muscles he had never used before.  This elicited an unexpected feathery whoosh.

“Whaaaaaat?!”

***************************

“Unfortunately, yes.”

Noah let out a deep breath. “Damn.  Okay.”

“I’m sorry,” said Beth.

“I should have gone up to see him one more time,” said Noah, pacing the length of the throne room. “Dammit.  I knew he wasn’t doing well, but…”

“What now?” said Maltha.  “We could start scouring Heaven and Hell for his soul, but if he has the same attitude in death that he has in life, he won’t accept the same help from us that Beth does, if we can find him.”

“He’s stupid,” Beth scoffed. “I don’t see why he has to put his own idealism before everyone else’s feelings.”

Noah slouched down into his throne and put his face in his hand.

“We can start searches, sire,” said Dagon, at his elbow.  “You needn’t upset yourself.  We can sort this out easily.”

“I supp—”  Noah cut off and jerked his head up.  “What’s…?”

They all heard it to as the silence fell:  A long, drawn-out, excited, gradually getting louder, “Broooooooooooooooooooooo—”

The sound reached a crescendo as the throne room doors were flung open, and the disembodied spirit of Adam Young bore down on them, carried on a pair of speckled brown sparrow wings, flailing in excitement.

“Adam?!” Beth exclaimed.

Adam bounced around the room hooting at the top of his lungs.  Mammon galloped in after him, winded.  “Sire,” she panted.  “I found him in Purgatory, in the spot where discorporated demons usually fall.”

“Bro!” Adam shouted. He accidentally rammed into one of the arches at the top of the room and rubbed his nose, then shouted again, “Bro, look!  Look, I have wings!  I have wings!”

“What?” said Noah, standing up, absolutely flabbergasted.

“He’s—” said Maltha. “He’s not a dead human soul, he’s a discorporated—”

Angel?  Demon?  It was hard to tell.  His aura didn’t feel quite like either.  His aura did feel like it was surging with the powers he had denied himself for decades, though.

“Death told me so,” said Adam.  “Death told me the lock I put on my powers wore off when my body died, because I had basically trapped myself in a mortal form.  Because I’m still closer to angel or demon than human, so my body is just a body, and—”

His erratic, graceless flight finally ended with him crashing unceremoniously into the foot of Hell’s throne, tumbling over and over to roll to a stop at Mammon’s feet.

She looked down to stare into his eyes.  “You still need a lot of practice.”

Adam leapt up, wings trembling and fluttering.  “I never knew I had them, Noah, but it’s cool—cool—cool!”

“Aren’t you upset?” said Beth.  “You were adamant about being a human even when it sucked, and now you’ve been told in no uncertain terms you aren’t one.”

Adam stopped.  “Huh?”

“Would you like us to fashion you a new body so you can lock your powers again?” said Noah.

“No!” said Adam with horror, hugging his wings to himself.

“Well, you can’t go up to Earth without a corporation,” said Maltha.  “Do you want to stay here in Hell and live like a dead human?”

“No!” cried Adam.

“Then what do you want?” said Noah.

“I want you to look at my wings!” Adam cried.  “Look at them!  They’re so cool!  Why aren’t you excited?!”

“They’re very nice, Adam!” said Noah as his brother fluttered his wings in his face.  “But you’re essentially a discorporated demon now.”

“You don’t have to decide what to do right now,” said Maltha.  “I could make you a new body if you like, and then once you’re back up on Earth you can think about what you’d like to do.”

Everyone in the throne room had to listen for the next few minutes as Adam prattled on and on about whales, spaceships, cowboys, America, UFOs, a dash of philosophy about human nature and nuclear power.  Noah eventually managed to steer him into following Maltha up to the infernal incorporation department without making any commitments.

“All right,” said Maltha, sliding a pair of scissors through a roll of skin like wrapping paper.  “This should be easier than making Hastur’s corporation; I remember what you looked like much better.”

“Do I, er, do I have to look the same?” said Adam, shifting from foot to foot.

Maltha’s hands froze on the sewing supplies.  “I…suppose not.  What would you prefer?”

“Can I have different anatomy?” said Adam excitedly.

“I supp—”

“Does it have to be human—”

“What are you th—”

“Could you give me wolf ears?  And a tail?”

Maltha’s face creased with distaste.

******************

“DeviantArt.”

Aziraphale held the phone out at arm’s length, staring at it.  Then he drew it back to his ear.  “I beg your pardon?”

“Beth said it looked like DeviantArt,” crackled Maltha’s voice on the other end of the line.

Beth’s voice could be heard shouting manically in the background.  “He looks like a DeviantArt OC!  Oh my fucking God!”

“I managed to at least talk him out of the extra pairs of wings,” said Maltha.  “But he was insistent on the retractable claws.”

“Ah,” said Aziraphale. He rubbed his chin. “That’s….well, it’s something. Does he have access to his powers?”

“Yes,” said Maltha.  “The function he had used to seal them off was tied to his physical body.  I imagine any angel or demon could do much the same if they really wanted to and tried hard enough.  I doubt any of us would have the patience to live out our entire lives that way.”

“I certainly wouldn’t.” Aziraphale miracled a cup of cocoa and sipped it.  “And he’s...not upset he’s not living as a human anymore?”

The line crackled as Maltha took a contemplative breath.  “I think he’ll settle down once the novelty has worn off.”

“Maybe so.”

“For now…”  There was a bark in the background.  “He seems…ah…to find not being human quite entertaining.”