#coat lapel theory

[drconstellation]

More Half-and-Half-A-Miracle Thoughts

Part 2: The Dark side of Aziraphale

Updated 10 Nov 2023

Part 1: Miracle Power Ranking is here. Part 3: The Third Archangel is here

There was one that thing that struck me about the miracle working scene: why did Gabriel offer crossed hands to the duo?

Gabriel offers his right, his good, heavenly angel-sided hand to Crowley first, and his left, his sinister-sided demon hand to Aziraphale.

And this is NOT an accident.

Its been observed that Gabriel, in his amnesiac state like this, has reverted back to a more base-state angelic being, one of joy, and love, and curiosity. He's acting on instinct here.

Yeah, that's exactly what I'm saying. The demon has more light in him than the angel, and Gabriel and can feel that instinctively. This really shouldn't be a surprise to us, its been in our face all along. Now don't get me wrong - Crowley is still a demon, and Aziraphale is still an angel, I'm not saying that they aren't. Mostly we talk about how Crowley isn't all that much of a demon at heart, just "going along with Hell as far as [he] can," but we don't really talk about much about that other side of Aziraphale other than wishing to see more of his BAMF! side.

You know what - its a side that thanks to all of the rest you ops and meta-ists out that that I've come to both fear and appreciate. And let me tell you, if I found myself in a dark alley on a bad night I would hope to God it was Crowley I bumped into , because I feel he would at least give me the choice to walk out alive. I don't think Aziraphale would, I would be at the mercy of how ever he decided he wanted to manipulate the situation...and I find that rather chilling.

Crowley might be the charred demon with a heart of gold, but Aziraphale is the two-sided bastard of an angel he loves. All bright light casts a shadow. Its easy for us to be blinded by the shining light of goodness and right and the side of God (er, hang on, isn't the GO God an eldritch horror in disguise...?) and not be able to see what is hiding behind it.

We rarely see the back of Aziraphale's waistcoat, because he is rarely seen without an overcoat on, a covering of social propriety. There is the noticeable occasion in S2E1 when Crowley comes back to do the apology dance then they perform the hiding miracle (see screenshot below, and it was still hard to chose a good angle for all it went on for several minutes!) and perhaps in S1 when he spends all night reading Agnes Nutter's book. Both times its only in the privacy of the book shop, under the cover of night. So its easy to miss that the color of the back panel is a most un-angelic color: a dark viridian green. I know I keep banging on about this, but its important, and in more ways than one.

[Edit: Since I first wrote this, I've written a mega-meta on all the colours in GO, and some of the following interpretation has changed a little - but the significance of the green still stands!]

All the angels wear some form of a pale colored neutral palette, ranging from white to beige to taupe (white, off-white shades and shades of brown,) with dove-grey for the known in-show seraphim, Gabriel, Michael, Uriel and Saraqael. Gold and blue are also associated with Heaven. But Aziraphale is the only angel to wear green and shades of blue-green. He's quite unique in that department.

The colors of Hell are completely different. Black, lots of black. And red, different shades of red. The demons are actually quite a colourful lot, but do tend towards the darker shades. Red is a colour of passion, not just a demonic colour, although it can be associated with the demonic sinister left hand side. The main colour of Hell is actually green - the thick green light that you almost of have to swim through in the crowded halls of Hell, and examples like the green stag on Furfur's sash. It represents chaos, in competition to the rigid lawful nature of Heaven.

So while Aziraphale mostly presents a socially acceptable angelic front, its telling only Crowley has properly glimpsed that dark, shady, bit-of-a-bastard unpredictable side to him - and likes it. (More from Cobragardens about it here in 1793 Paris and 1601 at the Globe.) I mean, come on - this is a being that sent a man to his death so he could go on lunch date? A lunch date he practically concocted just so he could see Crowley. wtf? A being of love who was about to shoot the Antichrist to stop Armageddon? A being who quietly and efficiently discouraged the mafia who threatened to set the book shop on fire from ever returning? (See, told you I didn't want to meet him a dark alley...) Plus we saw him mind-control a whole roomful of people for his Jane Austen-themed ball, just to woo his beloved demon, with no thought of the possible collateral damage. I'm sorry, is this the same "guardian angel" we were all glowing over earlier?

The coat lapel as wings theory adds some weight to this hidden dark side of Aziraphale as well. Aziraphale's lapels always point downwards, towards Hell. Particularly when he has been discorporated and returned to Heaven, where frustrated about being told he has to gear up for war, he instead wonders out loud if he can return to Earth to a possess a body, reasoning that if demons can, he must be able to as well. lmoa! You are so not an angel, my dear! Yet...he isn't a demon either. He's almost...a bit of both. Two sides to a coin. A blend of light and dark. Shades of grey...although he doesn't like to admit it.

Image by lomiel

Back to the shadow-like green panel on the back of the waistcoat.

Actually, on second thoughts, I'm going to put that in Part 3.

[drconstellation]

Well, now.

How about:

A couple of dark horses side by side, dressed in a similar way.

Muriel's coat is interesting, too.

Isn't it interesting...

Crowley's Lapels point up? Like Michael and Uriel's. Almost like they're more bastard than good... like crowley (although Crowley is nicer and kinder than both of them)

While Muriel, Saraqael, Aziraphale, and Gabriel's point... down. I know Saraqiel is not in a suit, but still.

Something something there's more Muriel and Saraqael that meets the eye. We don't know rhem well if at all, and Crowley and Azi couldn't remember them (despite Aziraphale having a flashback ABOUT Muriel the day before. Very strange.)

[dirthenera]

I want to talk about Emmrich’s costume- as a professional costume designer. (GIF by @hawke , thank you! It’s so beautiful 😍)

In preparation for DAV, I’ve been watching Vincent Price movies. In two specific movies, I’ve seen elements of Emmrich’s costume.

The first is The Fall of the House of Usher. In it he wears a long, dramatic, red velvet coat that is just… SO sexy. I mean… I’m normal about clothing

It really reminds me of the ✨ drama ✨ of the intricate red leather details of his coat. The vibes match- though the details don’t quite. The oversized collar, yes, but they traded velvet for leather (which makes sense for a video game)

The next is the emerald green captain’s coat in War Gods of the Deep. The color has been carried over, along with the fold over lapels with the round details and even the lines on Emmrich’s coat that mimic the trim lines.

I even see some Doctor Strange influences- which is very interesting because Vincent Price was the inspiration for the character originally. It may also throw some interesting meta towards the theory that one of his hands is messed up.

But back to those two specific movies- though Vincent Price has been in many movies involving death, those two are the roles where his characters knew they were dying and didn’t try to run from it- the ones where they face and embraced death instead of trying to cheat death or fight it.

Like Nick Boraine, his VA, has stated multiple times as being his favorite aspect of Emmrich. That he doesn’t see death as something negative, that he embraces and sees the beauty in it.

I’m very curious to see if there are any other parallels between these characters and Emmrich once we get to play the game. If you’ve seen any of his movies I haven’t and noticed another parallel, please add to this post!

[noneorother]

It couldn't be a masquerade ball because it was an unmasked ball

The S2E5 ball symbolism seemed very prominent to me when I watched Season 2 even for the first time, but I saw @meatballlady ask this wonderful question & Neil's answer and thought : hey why not share my thoughts on the clothing at the ball as well.

If you're reading this you probably know all about how coat lapels are an important character signifier both seasons of GO. If not, TLDR; jacket lapels align with a character's intentions, and their alignment with a faction is determined by their jacket colour (light goes up or dark goes down).

So why do I say that this was an "unmasked" ball? Because if you follow the lapel theory, all the important participants who seem neutral in real life gain allegiances in their costumes when they enter the bookshop. Let's break it down.

Crowley & Aziraphale

If you aren't just making everyone fancy, but actually trying to reveal intentions during this ball, then it would make sense that Aziraphale and Crowley don't change outfits : they've been wearing their hearts on their sleeves since season 1. Maggie

In everyday life, Maggie purposely wears tops without lapels. Everything is round or crew-neck, and she never wears black. In the ball reveal, Maggie wears black for the first time, and has big pointing down lapels on her navy satin shirt, indicating alignment with Hell in both colour and intention. All of her cutesy bows and hearts and gold jewelry are gone. She wears sparkly silver only, and a prominent wristwatch (like Crowley). However, her pinkie ring is still present. (go read @indigovigilance's post about pinkie rings, it's great).

Nina

Nina is all over the place in real life. Colours clash and she wears black and earth tones often. She also never wears jackets with lapels. When we get to the ball however, she suddenly has a golden brocade jacket with teal & crimson shoulders, and golden hair clasps. She becomes exactly what Maggie is attempting to project in real life, but her lapels are pointing out and up, so alignment with heaven in both colour and intention. No pinkie ring on Nina in the series. Under the jacket she wears green and crimson. A confused pairing as I've ever seen on the show. Who knows what that's about*. Jimbriel

In normal life, Jim is ultra-neutral with lapels pointing out (neither up nor down) on a brown coat. (Underneath is a whole different ball game for another post.) Jimbriel gets a hilariously Liberace-fied version of the Aziraphale outfit : bowtie, poweder blue and labels pointing down and also to the side, fluffy white and details like Michael and Uriel. He's HELPING AZIRAPHALE WITH THE PLAN, wink wink nudge nudge. You go Jim. Mutt

Mutt the magic shop owner also has a pinkie ring in real life, as does his spouse, and keeps it for the ball. He gains impressive gold details on his lapel-less tunic, and the colour shifts from base of black to a base of navy, with red and white flowers instead of orange and teal swoops. His sleeves widen, becoming almost an angelic robe-like tunic, making him kind of a mysterious mashup of symbols. Arnold

Arnold of Arnold's music shop fame is wearing black with rainbow tie and suspenders before the ball, without much jewelry save a pinkie ring. Inside the ball, he keeps the black, but now has crimson and teal accents instead of rainbow, and lapels that are very high up, but that point out to the side, making him more neutral/Mutt the magician aligned, even if he's wearing black. Justine

Justine wears Hellish green and black in real life on her daisy patterned dress, no lapels here. She has no pinkie ring either, but once inside the ball, all the green melts away and she's allllll black flowered lace. She also has no lapels here, making her also more aligned with Mutt & Arnold than anything, but just as mysterious. Mrs Sandwich

Mrs Sandwich seems easier to judge. Black and gold no lapels in real life, alllll sparkly black and big downturned lapels for the ball. No pinkie ring on her in either outfit, but a prominent wristwatch. This makes total sense to me. Even if she might not be aligned with hell directly, she runs a brothel and profits off of sex workers so probably a pretty bad lady if we're weighing the odds from a biblical perspective. In other moments she also seems pretty fond of Crowley, and pretty unhappy with Nina (see above). Mr&Mrs Cheng

Mr & Mrs Cheng are VERY interesting to me. While Cheng wears all black in real life, and we never see her partner, she is transformed in the ball into the only character (besides Nina in solid green) who wears a green pattern. She has become a plant/garden (specifically a Monsterra, like in Corwley's box), and her husband is the pollinating golden butterfly, (with neutral lapels on a black background). Neither of them wear pinkie rings, but Mrs Cheng keeps her distinctive teal earrings, and is now sporting red lipstick, making her and her husband most associated with Nina. Nina also trusts Cheng enough to mind her coffee shop whilst talking to Crowley across the street in the last dregs of E6. As an aside, they also seem to *sort of* have a pre-teen girl child at this ball. We see her briefly in the evacuation but very hidden between other characters, and never in the ball proper. Mr Brown

Do we need to go through Mr Brown's outfit again? I don't think so. ------------------------------ * I have a feeling it's to do with other things, like Jim's sweater vest, but I'll have to dig into it later.

[0bticeo]

may the odds be in your favour | coriolanus snow x fem! reader

series masterlist.

part 1. part 2. part 3. part 4. part 5.

chapter summary: blood will have blood.

“what makes you think that, put in the same circumstances, we wouldn’t turn ourselves into beasts to survive?”

there’s silence. there are twenty four gazes pinning you down to your seat. there’s coriolanus snow, blue eyes a shade darker than they were before you started talking. you meet his gaze and sense something shifting. it’s in the way he leans a tad bit closer, lips parted as though to speak – no. to taste.

wc. approx. 2000 words.

cw. sexual tension. probably innacurate anatomical description. manipulation. reader and coriolanus being assholes. death threat (implied). religious imagery. sleep deprived author.

weeks pass. snow greets you every morning at your front door and extends his arm to you until you have no choice but to link it with your own. occasionally, he brings a rose, gently tucking it in the lapels of your coat. in your hair, fingers gently brushing your cheek. in your breast pocket. 

you know it to be a blatant claim. here you are, proud descendent of the ash dynasty, allowing him to own you. you tell yourself it’s only for a few months. that, whatever the outcome may be, there’s no way that damned prize will escape you. you ignore the growing ache between your thighs, the way you lean into snow’s touch when he leads you back home. 

let him think he’s playing you like a fiddle. let him think he’s turned your own game against you. let him think, and weaponize the truth to your advantage. 

you have very few things left to your name. pride is one of them. you won’t discard it for his name.

what you will do is this. you will sit next to him in class, head held high, legs crossed under your skirt. you will not pretend you’re not enjoying the way his gaze burns into you whenever you turn one of his arguments against him in rhetoric class. oh, rhetoric.

etched in white remnants of chalk against the blackboard is the question you’ll have to treat today. there’s silence in the class, as you all take it in.

what are the hunger games for?

date’s fourth of february. in five months, maybe, you’ll get an answer that doesn’t rely solely on theory. that doesn’t rely on the minds of know-it-all, privileged bastards whose only experience of life has been luxury. for now, your only choice is to take your seat next to coriolanus snow and lean back ever so slightly, trying not to roll back your eyes.

they talk, all of them. felix ravinstill, arachne crane. 

the hunger games are a proud display of savages from the districts—to remind us that we are better than them.

clemensia dovecote. lysistrata vickers.

the hunger games are a reminder of what befalls the districts. that they should not stand against the capitol.

sejanus plinth.

it’s barbaric.

at that, your attention shifts. you focus on him, the one from district 2. the one whose father’s wealth was enough to bring to the capitol. the one with the dark curls and passionate fire in his eyes—he dreams of justice and fairness. interesting.

he doesn’t talk. no, he argues. finally someone who understands the noble art of rhetoric.

“putting them in an arena to fight—they’re doomed the moment their names are chosen! it’s inhumane, having them slaughter each other for our own entertainment!”

you watch him, cheek cradled in your palm. he’d make a good lawyer, you muse. the naive, righteous type. 

you watch the others. the way arachne crane rolls her eyes so far back in her skull you think they’ll stay stuck. the way felix ravinstill snickers, barely conceals his disdain for the district boy, for daddy’s precious boy. it’s palpable, the way they all disregard him. doesn’t matter if he’s wealthier than half the class—he’s district.

“what about you, ash?”

fucking snow.

you glance at him, from the corner of your eye. he’s been watching you, too. wonderful mise en abîme. you watch them, he watches you. who watches him? are you all being watched?

ah, he’s waiting. they all are. as if your opinion matters to them. as if it matters at all. but you have to put on your usual show, display your wit. so you lean back against your chair, lips drawn in a sharp, sharp smile, and say:

“why, it’s a dreadful reminder of human nature is all.”

there’s silence, then. twenty-four gazes are on you, and they’re waiting. 

what are you, a messiah?

snow smile, judas dressed in red.

“go on, ash.”

you do, martyr thrown to the lions.

“so far, the general sentiment has been that we’re better than them, those savages from the districts—don’t look at me like that ravinstill, i’m only quoting you.” 

you pause. you can’t outright tell them they’re influenced by a centuries-long tradition of countless philosophers. you’ll lose their interest.

“we think they’re savages. we see what we think is proof—footage of the games, of how they use anything at their disposal to slaughter themselves for our own entertainment, as plinth wonderfully put it.”

you nod in his direction and watch the glint of confusion is his eye, perceptible even from afar. poor boy will be torn to shreds if he doesn’t learn to conceal his emotions better. this is the capitol—worse arena known to panem.

(you think of your father’s flesh being torn by a man-beast’s bloody teeth in what was supposed to be a beacon of civilisation. you think of the dark abysses of his eyes, of the silent promise in them – you’d be next.)

you intend to make that fact known to those oblivious to it.

“what makes you think that, put in the same circumstances, we wouldn’t turn ourselves into beasts to survive?”

there’s silence. there are twenty four gazes pinning you down to your seat. there’s coriolanus snow, blue eyes a shade darker than they were before you started talking. you meet his gaze and sense something shifting. it’s in the way he leans a tad bit closer, lips parted as though to speak – no. to taste.

“those are bold words from such a young lady, miss ash. you shouldn’t speak so lightly of such grave matters.”

you realise that in the brief time your gaze met snow’s, your classmates have looked up. up towards esteemed casca highbottom who stares you down, short silhouette all-encompassing. there’s something in his tone that makes your blood boil.

you smile, sweet and sharp.

“then maybe we shouldn’t brooch the subject in rhetoric class, sir.”

the odds switch and twist and turn with each passing second. you might get a glimpse of what’s in store in the way the dean’s hand trembles as it reaches in the recesses of his robe – morphine.

he gulps down the contents of the small vial in one go.

“class is dismissed for today.”

when you leave the room, you feel the weight of his gaze like a knife between your shoulder blades.

you don’t like the feeling of it.

**

philosophy’s only worth it if you’ve got someone to discuss with. unfortunately, you don’t. rhetoric class doesn’t count. after the dean’s impromptu interruption, you don’t get to debate. not anymore. instead, he makes you pour over law texts – capital punishments for traitors. you think of it as a warning and keep your mouth shut.

what you do enjoy is anatomy class. which is why you’re currently in the library, pouring over a heavy tome, nibbling on your lip as your fingers trace over the shape of a drawing. it’s beautiful, an inked figure detailing the different veins in the neck. jugular. internal. external. carotid artery. dorsal scapular artery. your finger follows the pattern, lips parted in an inaudible murmur as you stare ahead. inferior thyroid vein-

“what are you doing?”

fucking snow.

you have half a mind to throw him an annoyed glare and go back to your drawing.

“what does it look like?”

he raises an eyebrow. inquisitive bastard, that one.

“studying. badly.”

this time, you raise your head.

“and does the great coriolanus snow have a better way to memorise the anatomy of the cervical region? enlighten me.”

he slides on the bench next to you. close. close enough for you to feel the warmth radiating from him. to smell him. roses, as usual. the same fragrance of the roses he gives to you each time he notices one withers away. (you don’t tell him you’ve kept them. each of them, pressed neatly between the pages of what books remain of your family’s once grandiose library.)

he unbuttons the top two buttons of his shirt, revealing the pale expanse of his neck. pale as snow. how very fitting.

“well? Where’s the external jugular?”

you let out a chuckle and move closer to him, until your fingers trail down his neck, following the path of his vein.

“what’s next, snow?”

he gulps, adam apple bobbing up and down ever so slightly. Leans into your touch as he glances down at the book – your fingers dig into his neck, until you feel his pulse, quick as the fluttering wings of a jay bird.

“inferior thyroid vein.”

there’s no pattern to the veins he’s asking you to map out on his skin. your fingers move slightly to the left. if you squint, you can make out its contours, faint blue line under the pale, pale skin. You wonder if you’d see it better if you’d blow on it. you do, softly, until you feel his breath catch in his throat – he coughs.

“next.”

“anterior jugular vein.”

you chose to start your path from the bottom, lightly pressing your finger over the button of his shirt – not yet undone, this one. you trail up.

“next.”

“external carotid artery.”

you chuckle at that. Ssomehow, you’ve moved closer to him. His hand has come to rest on your hip, steadying you as you trace the patterns that make up his life. you look up at him. he meets your stare, stark blue eyes darkening. pretty, deadly eyes.

“do you know the difference between the jugular vein and the carotid artery, snow?”

you move to his jaw, pressing your fingers lightly against the bone, until you’re all but cradling his face between your hands, a breath away from his lips.

“tell me.”

“the carotid’s harder to reach with a knife.” you lean forward. his eyes dart to your lips. “however, If i were to succeed, it would take you two minutes to die.”

when you lean back, you’re the one smiling.

"thank you for helping me study, snow. it's been most... enlighting."

[starleska]

so i have a theory about Maxime Le Mal and Valentina in Despicable Me 4...🦟🦋

theories and spoilers for Despicable Me 4 below!!! some of this is all but confirmed thanks to trailer screenshots and some toys, but some of this is just conjecture, so be cautious (especially as there's spoilery discussion in the replies!) 😉

so by this point, most of us are aware that Maxime Le Mal is a bug-themed villain...specifically a cockroach. not only does he have a bug-themed patterns on his large coat and a huge insectoid ship, but we've seen him apparently have antennae under his hair, as well as a large, cockroach-like appendage hidden beneath his coat and gloves.

this matches up well with the cockroach body he's sporting in this toy line, which is presumably why Maxime wears such a large coat - underneath that, he's all bug! perhaps this is the result of his own experimentation, or it's Gru's fault and that's why he wants revenge... however. i'm interested in what Valentina's deal is...because we can see that she is dressed in a manner which is very similar to Maxime. the large glasses which resemble bug eyes, the gloves, the long hair, and the coat + shirt combo which goes all the way up to the neck...

here's my theory. i think that it's not just Maxime who's all bug under the coat: i think Valentina is too. we already know that Valentina and Maxime have been together a long time, possibly since high school, as Gru remembers her from the same time...if we go with the idea that Maxime was transformed around that time into having a bug body, it could well be that Valentina was affected too!! i don't know...something about the sick cut of her coat, specifically the lapels, makes me think Valentina could have the body of a dragonfly or something similar. we know that Maxime has cockroach wings and can fly from a very tiny shot in the trailer...wouldn't it be cool if his girlfriend, and the pilot of their ship, could fly too? how neat would it be to have a pair of evil lovers bonded over their respective insect transformations? 👀

[askaalaska-vdeppressed]

I Cannot Breath (So I Must Sing) Ch.4

Alastor x OperaSinger!Reader

Masterlist

Real quick note this is a phantom of the opera crossover a bit and that plays into this chapter slightly

The sound of the latch landing into its groove in the doorframe was deafening as Alastor led Y/n into a room. He was fuming, that rat. That utterly worthless piece of wretched slime. That creature had to go. Alastor was not ignorant enough to believe that situations like what he had just heard through the door never happened. Quite the opposite in fact, he always pitied the poor girls he saw on gentlemen’s laps in clubs. Smiles on their faces but discomfort clear in their eyes. He would grimace at the thought that they would be forced into behind closed doors just to get into the good graces of a man with purported wealth or influence. But knowing something exists in theory is much different than coming face to face with it. Seeing the vague looks of discomfort on stranger's faces from the other side of a room is different than the action being three feet in front of you. The look of distress is so much more potent when you know the eyes behind it.

Alastor was going to need information, because that unnamed gentleman had just jumped to the top of Bayou Butcher’s roster. With a head full of murderous intent, Alastor turned to quiz his companion, only to be stunned out of his anger by the state of the woman before him.

Y/n looked somehow more distraught than she did previously. Her gaze was unfocused, staring off into nothing as she leaned against a wall for support. Her hand clutched at her chest, fingernails leaving indents in her flawless skin in some desperate bid to calm her racing heart. Alastor approached her slowly, arms extended like he was walking toward a wild animal. Y/n’s eyes flitted to Alastor for a moment before a sigh shuttered out of her mouth with a great deal of effort.

“Any other day I would have set him straight but today....” Y/n trailed off. She didn’t need to elaborate further. Alastor knew what she was saying, exhaustion permeated her visage and her eyes looked as if she hadn’t slept at all last night.

Alastor reached out slowly with one hand to maneuver the arm that was clutching her chest away from her before she drew blood. “I take it this never happened to you back home?” Y/n’s gaze was firmly on the floor as Alastor’s other hand came to rest between her shoulder blades, guiding her away from the wall.

“No...at least...not to me” Y/n closed her eyes for a moment before rolling her shoulder and gazing at him. Her eyes were still just as exhausted, though her face and form appeared solid and confident once more.

“What,” Y/n’s voice wavered slightly before she cleared her throat and tried again. “What are you doing here Mr. Altruist?” The smile crept back onto Alastor’s face as he saw the Y/n that gave longue lashings strong enough to shun a nun seep back into the girl in front of him.

“I’m a journalist dear, unfortunately crime scenes are par for the course.”

Y/n scoffed. “Don't tell me you play that wretched game”

“What? Golf? No, I don’t play. Just using its terms.” Alastor saw the color coming back to Y/n’s cheeks as the subject changed. “Though maybe I will pick it up, seeing as the idea bothers you so much” Alastor chuckled slightly to himself, grabbing onto the lapels of his suit coat. “I say I’d look rather strapping in argyle.”

Y/n laughed slightly, “You should, I hear such terrible waterfowl stalk the courses” Y/n walked past Alastor to the door, her arm resting briefly on his shoulder as she thought aloud. “I say you’d look rather strapping being chased by a goose in argyle”

Alastor shook himself for a moment, his brain half a second behind as he heard the door hinges creak. His eyes locking onto Y/n’s retreating form before replying. “But I'd look strapping nonetheless”

Y/n stepped with assuredness as she walked toward the theater’s exit. This whole morning had been an emotional whirlwind and she wanted to both figuratively and literally put it behind her for the moment. The quick long strides of hard soled shoes rang out behind her as Alastor quickly caught up to her and, in one swift motion, grabbed her arm and placed it in the crook of his elbow. Now leading her he asked aloud “So where too for lunch?”

“Pardon” y/n’s eyebrows furrowed as Alastor walked along, easing her out of the building like it was his job.

“Where are we going to lunch?” Alastor repeated the question, still not making any sense to his companion.

“And why would we be going to lunch exactly?” Y/n tried slowing her pace as they exited the building to a side alley. Alastor locked the muscles in his arm forcing her to keep up.

“Why? Well let’s see..” Alastor used his free hand to check his pocket watch “It’s just about noon, so I'd say we’re due for lunch. Do they not eat mid-day meals in France?” Frustration clear on Y/n’s face, she dug her heels into the pathway of the alley. The sudden jerk forcing Alastor to stop and face her.

“Now I have it on good authority that you are smart enough to know what I mean Mr. Altruist” The frown on Y/n’s face deepened the creases near her nose. The weight of exhaustion, frustration and just being plain fed up evident in the tense strain of her shoulders. Alastor heaved a sigh, a hand shot up to press on his temples for a moment before replying.

“Miss Leroux, please understand that I say this not as someone trying to control your life but I simply cannot allow you to be alone at the moment.” Alastor straightened up, arms crossed and legs wide apar. He seemed to take up the space of the alley in mere presence alone. His gaze brought a shadow over the confined space, like it was only the two of them in the whole of the city.

“Not only is it evident to me that you are fatigued beyond what is safe, but I simply do not trust that bag of sleaze inside not to follow you. If he felt comfortable enough to do that in a building swarming with officers, I hasten to think what he would be willing to do if you were alone. So, for Christ’s sake just let me buy you food woman.” Alastor noticed the exhaustion creep back into Y/n. Clearly letting someone lead her like this was something she was unaccustomed to. Unusual for a woman in theater, seeing as taking stage directions seemed like a very core component of the art. Then again Mickey did mention that Y/n had rolled up and changed the production immediately.

Y/n internally fought with herself a moment, fighting the urge to pout like a child as she realized that Alastor had a very fair point. Eventually she gave in, slotting her hand into his arm once more.

“So, where too for lunch?” Alastor picked up once more, his pace much slower now that he and Y/n were in agreeance.

“To be transparent with you, I have yet to eat out anywhere.” Alastor’s eyes widened as he stopped in his tracks to look at Y/n.

“What? Why are you looking at me like that? I haven’t found the time okay. Either I’m at rehearsals or practicing my own personal projects at my apartment. Besides I very rarely go out to restaurants back home let alone in another country.” Alastor blinked a few times at Y/n.

“So, you eat like a rabbit and a masochist.” Y/n scoffed and rolled her eyes at Alastor, whose face had lit up in a smile at her exasperation. Y/n began walking once more, tugging him along as her reply. A small quiet settled over them as Alastor lead them to a small cafe that was not too far away. Better to start small with Y/n and American cuisine.

As the rhythmic click of heels and shined shoes wafted into the air around them, Alastor felt compelled to break the silence.

“So why don’t you go out back home? It’s certainly not for financial reasons, is it?” Alastor felt a swell of pride in his chest as a small smile emerged on Y/n’s face as she shook her head gently.

“No, I don’t mean to brag but to be frank I have more money than I know what to do with.” After she said this, Y/n’s smile tensed. She bit her lips slightly as she debated internally with herself. Moments passed in tense quiet as finally Y/n seemed to come to an internal resolution and spoke once more. “It's more I don’t go out because my father wont, or rather can’t go out to eat. So, I just... don’t”

Alastor hummed in contemplation. He wanted to pry further. This was the first time Y/n had talked about anyone in her personal life, and the fact that she hesitated to do so was curious. Even better she was exhausted and her defenses were lower than usual. It’d be easy to get details out of her in this state. However, some poor pathetic shred of his morality was still active enough to make him feel bad for taking advantage of her. She was trusting him right now, more than she probably did with anybody in New Orleans, hell more than she did with anyone in the United States of America.

Perhaps it would be worth it to play the long con with this one.

“So, what you can’t go out without Daddy dearest?” Alastor decided to play it light. He wouldn't pry but if Y/n decided to provide more information on her own, then that would be just splendid!

“I go out with my uncle occasionally.” Y/n stated matter-of-factly. “It's just that he prefers to dine at home as well, so more often than not I join him at his house.”

Alastor hummed. “So you just never go out without one of your male relatives to chaperone then?”

As he posed the question they approached the front of a brightly colored cafe. The wait staff recognized Alastor immediately, leading them up to his normal spot on the balcony. It was perfect people watching position, and secluded away from other diners, bar a few other tables on the balcony that typically remained empty. As they were sat Y/n continued the conversation.

“You jest but you can never be too careful. You may not see it Mr. Altruist-”

“Alastor”

“Hmm” Y/n’s head and brow turned in the same direction and at the same time in a questioning gaze

‘Cute’ Alastor thought, before immediately shutting down that train of thought in its tracks. He didn’t have time for fancies right now. He had work to do. Still though....

“Call me Alastor, I find the formalities a bit stuffy at this point” Y/n paused, looking at him for a moment. Alastor couldn’t help but get a little lost in her gaze. She had that perfect doe-eyed expression that just lured you in. He was sure it was killer on stage, but it was even more enchanting up close, especially when it was focused solely on him.

These thoughts of his were getting dangerous.

Y/n bowed her head and began again. “You may not see it Alastor, but this world is quite a dangerous place, especially for women.”

‘Oh if only she knew’ Alastor thought. 'It's all I see, its why I do my work in the first place.’

“Secondly’ y/n’s tone was softer now. “And I don’t even know why I'm telling you this, but I’m not exactly very well liked at the opera house back home.”

“What? The woman who takes pleasure in verbal demolition isn’t well liked? Color me surprised!” Alastor's sarcastic tone clearly irritated Y/n by the look on her face.

“You know I can just get up and leave right?” Y/n made a halfhearted gesture to get up before Alastor stretched his hand out, motioning for her to stay seated,

“In all seriousness, you - and I don’t even know why I’m telling you this- are rather pleasant company when you aren't on some vitriolic quest for revenge.”

“A genuine complement? Well now I'm surprise colored!” Y/n put her hand up to her chest in mock shock.

“Alright, alright I deserve that.”

As Alastor spoke his regular coffee order and some waters were dropped off at the table along with menus.

“Truely though, you can’t tell me that everyone one of your colleagues is dull enough not to enjoy your company.”

Y/n looked at the menu in her hand, fidgeting with it while slightly curled in on herself.

‘So, there is a chink in the armor after all’ Alastor pondered.

“Y/n?” Alastor's voice was low, just a hint of concern laced in it if you were a keen enough listener

“it's not that per say, its more I don't have time for them.”

Alastor's brows raised, a nod encouraging her to keep going.

“Music has been my whole life as long as I can remember. For Christ's sake I knew how to read and write sheet music before I knew how to read and write my name properly. Finding time to make acquittances was never really a priority for me.”

Y/n’s fidgeting had moved from the menu to her glass. Holding it in both hands she looked down into it, avoiding eye contract.

“Analyzing people. Picking them apart to see what makes them tick I get. That’s easy. But actual connections that result in companionship? On that I am at a total loss.”

Y/n shook her shoulders a bit, returning as best she could to the cold mask that Alastor was realizing hid far more than he gave her credit for.

“Why do you want to know my silly problems anyway? Going to write an expose on how the Paramour’s new song bird has no friends?”

Alastor chuckled low, shaking his head. “No my dear, needless pot stirring is my colleague's department.”

Alastor said he wouldn’t pry but he just couldn’t stop this one little urge.

“It’s it so hard to believe that someone just wants to know you for you? That someone finds you interesting and wants to know more?”

Y/n fixed him once more with that doe-eyed expression, though this time it was much more somber. Like the doe-eyes themselves were a front to distract him not to look any further.

The tension was snapped as a waiter came by to take orders. After he left the subject shifted and conversation was light.

If Alastor were honest with himself, it was probably one of the best lunches he’d had in a long while.

The afternoon flew by, Alastor and Y/n walking about and talking. They weren’t going anywhere in particular, just walking for the sake of motion. The activity distracted Y/n from her hellish morning and Alastor welcomed the fresh air.

His request for a relaxing Sunday had been fulfilled after all.

All too soon Y/n had to be returned home and the facade of a modest two-story brick building came in to view.

“Thank you today Alastor, truly” Y/n spoke tenderly as they made their way up an exterior set of stairs to the apartment above. “Frankly I don’t want to think about how today would have gone if you weren’t here” Y/n turned to him on the landing, a soft smile curling onto her face.

Alastor bowed dramatically, “It was my pleasure Y/n” as he swung back up he noticed Y/n roll her eyes at his theatrics.

She then turned and the tumblers gave way to the key as she unlocked the door.

“Goodnight Alastor, I can’t believe I’m saying this but, I hope to see you again soon.”

Alastor smirked, leaning against the railing of the stairs smugly.

“Well, my dear you know what they say, speak of the devil”

Y/n looked at him from the open doorway, confused thoroughly written on her face.

“Americans” she huffed before heading inside.

Alastor stood there, slightly dumbfounded, slightly perturbed, slightly.... melancholic. He didn’t like where this Y/n situation was landing. She was getting too close to actually making an impression on him. He loathed her, couldn’t stand her and wouldn't have her. Then with a sudden flip of a mental switch now he’s suddenly pining on her stoop like some teenager?

This was going to require some serious thinking on his part.

As the thought crossed his mind, a curtain he hadn't noticed prior moved in the window. A delicate hand pressing a piece of lined paper up to the glass.

Rentrer chez soi

[alj4890]

You Heard, What!

(Tobias Carrick x F!MC) and (Aurora Emery x M!OC) in a Choices Open Heart Drabble

Tobias Carrick Appreciation Week

Day 7 WWTD? He's walking past an on-call room and hears two coworkers having sex. What does he do?

A/N For this short fic, Tobias and Chris are newly married. When he overhears something interesting, he goes directly to the one person he can tease. And yes, I do intend to write some followups for this situation, LOL!

Masterlist

Edenbrook, late one night...

Unusually loud sounds were coming from the oncall room. Tobias paused the closer he got. His lips curved in a sly smile as he leaned closer to the door.

No doubt about it. Someone was having a very good time in there. Just as he was about to walk away to give the unknown couple some privacy, he heard a familiar voice.

Eyes widening, he flattened his ear to the door to try and confirm his suspicions of the source.

"Will?" He whispered, his smile growing bigger in hearing the unmistakable voice of one of his best friends.

Dr. William Kent, a pediatric surgeon, had recently joined Edenbrook's roster of physicians.

Tobias couldn't help but be impressed that his friend was already hooking up with someone in the hospital. It'd only been a couple of weeks since he began working there. He knew he shouldn't have doubted him. The fun loving man was not only handsome, but had a history of charming women out of their clothes.

Just as Tobias decided he shouldn't be listening, he heard another familiar voice, one that shocked him.

Dr. Aurora Emery.

Tobias's former diagnostics partner was many things: intelligent, practical, and private. She wasn't the last person he'd expect to have sex at work, because she wasn't even on the list of people he knew who would consider doing so.

Aurora displayed little romantic interest in anyone. Whenever Chris tried to encourage her to flirt with someone or pay attention to someone checking her out, she always gave the same response.

"No thanks."

It drove Chris crazy that one of her best friends was missing out on dating.

"She's great!" Chris told him one night. "A lot of fun, once you get past her protective, cold outer shell."

She slumped down in her chair.

"Why won't she date someone?"

"She was the same at Mass Kenmore. A few people tried to flirt with her and she shut them down." He said.

"It kills me." Chris grumbled. "She deserves to let someone tell her how great she is."

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

If he was to go by the moans Will was making, Aurora was definitely being told how great she was.

Shaking his head in amusement, Tobias made his way to the diagnostics office.

Chris looked up from her laptop when her husband walked in.

"Almost finished?" He asked, pressing a kiss to her lips.

"I am." She closed her screen. "I was looking further into a theory of mine."

She noticed the amused, smug smile upon his face.

"What's going on?"

Tobias winked at her. "Nothing."

Her eyes narrowed. "That's," she pointed at his smile, "not nothing."

He tugged her out of her chair and wrapped his arms around her.

In a singsong voice, he decided to tease her.

"I know something you don't know."

"What?" Chris demanded, her laughter bubbling out.

"Not going to tell." He replied. "Ready to go home?"

"Hang on!" She gripped the lapels of his doctor's coat. "You can't keep secrets from me!"

"Who says?" He teased.

"Um, our vows." She told him.

"I don't remember that from our wedding ceremony."

"You were only concentrated on the honeymoon." Chris teased. "You don't know what you promised me."

"Ouch." He playfully winced. "Fair, but ouch."

"Tobias." She whined, bouncing up and down. "Tell me."

"Hmm." His eyes twinkled with mischief. "What's in it for me?"

Chris gasped. "You expect me to bribe you?"

He nodded.

Smiling, she slipped her arms around him. "What kind of bride are we talking here?"

He pulled her flush against his body. "I think you know exactly what kind of bribe I expect."

Her eyes darted down to his lips. "I think that can be arranged."

She looked about at the empty office. "Though, I think I'll wait until we're home to pay the price for this information."

Tobias chuckled. "What I know is that two people we know decided not to wait."

"What?" Chris gasped. "Who?"

"Come with me." He grasped her hand and led her out of the office.

The two crept down the hall where the oncall room was located. Placing a finger on his lips, Tobias sneaked over to listen at the door. Chris waited until he motioned her over to join him.

She pressed her ear against the wooden barrier. Her eyebrows rose in astonishment.

"Is that--" she mouthed in disbelief.

"Yep."

Chris silently celebrated.

Tobias chuckled softly over her victory dance.

"I can't believe it!" She whispered excitedly. "How long do you think they've been doing this."

Tobias checked the time. "At least thirty minutes."

"Not that!" She elbowed him. "I meant getting together."

He shrugged. "I think we should think about something more important than that."

Chris looked at him curiously.

"Now that we know," he whispered, "what should we do with this information?"

She began to shake with muffled laughter.

"There's only one thing we can do." She told him. "And that's hint that we know and tease them until they finally admit what they're doing."

Tobias couldn't be more proud of having Chris for his wife.

"God, I love you." He murmured.

Smiling with a future now filled with moments of torturing those they loved, the couple left to plan out their attack.

[sionisjaune]

do nico and lewis ever fuck in the lab? 😈

I thought it was implied 😈

The last clump of lethargic undergrads shuffles out of the lab, and Nico, who was supervising Lewis’s section coolly from the seat in the corner, stalks across the room, between benches bearing spectrophotometers and untidy clusters of glassware, and kisses Lewis on the mouth. 

“I thought about that,” says Nico, pulling away slowly, “for two hours.” 

Lewis pulls him in for another kiss, and Nico’s gloved hands find the lapels of his lab coat, gripping tightly. The fact that the door to the adjacent lab is wide open and the first-floor windows face the sunny quad falls out of Lewis’s mind until Nico pulls back again. It's always been easy to lose himself in Nico, he thinks.

Nico knocks his forehead against Lewis’s and tugs again at his coat. His lips are shiny with Lewis’s saliva and the high planes of his cheeks are pink. Lewis swallows, tongue wet, and despite himself thinks about his lab section spitting in tubes to collect saliva for the amylase assay. Lewis could spit in a tube and sequence it, and find Nico's DNA tangled alongside his own. 

“I’m still… wet, from this morning,” Nico whispers, into Lewis’s mouth. 

“What?” says Lewis. 

“Let’s fuck,” Nico clarifies. 

Lewis’s foolish heart skips a beat. It would be conceited and downright irresponsible. He dives in for another biting kiss anyway, and drags Nico towards the door to shut and lock it, and then presses Nico against it, mouthing at his throat. Nico laughs and clutches at the back of Lewis’s head, the silky skin of his gloves skimming the nape of Lewis’s neck. 

Lewis gets lost in Nico’s mouth—again—for another five minutes, kissing him like a desperate, intimacy-starved teenager under the fluorescent lights. It’s almost like he’ll never get enough of Nico. It's almost like there’s an endosymbiotic theory of the two of them, like Lewis ate Nico one billion years ago, and he hasn’t been the same since. 

He wrestles Nico around and onto his elbows, bent over the bench at the front of the lab. The projector is still running, shining a four-step diagram onto the whiteboard that over-explains how to press the buttons on the crappy spectrophotometers the undergrads get to use. 

“Ow,” says Nico, sliding forwards and sticking his ass out. A stand of drying test tubes rattles and clinks. Lewis flips Nico’s lab coat up over his back, and Nico drags it off, his cheek on the surface of the lab bench, which hasn’t strictly been sanitized, but hasn’t actually seen anything more hazardous than dilute indicators in the last week. 

While Lewis fumbles blindly at Nico’s fly, Nico balls up his lab coat and tucks it under his forearms, sinking deeper into the stretch. Lewis gets Nico's jeans open and shoves them down his thighs, and then he’s unbuttoning his own fly, and sinking deep inside Nico in a helpless hurry. Nico moans like Lewis is murdering him.

“Quiet,” says Lewis, snapping his hips. The undergraduate coordinator’s office is just down the hall. Nico moans again, so wantonly that Lewis has half a mind to forgive him, to let him whine and scream until he gets them caught and Lewis’s grant taken away. Instead, he leans forwards and reaches to wrap his hand around Nico’s mouth. 

“Shit,” he says, freezing. 

“Fuck,” says Nico. “Keep going.” 

“I’m still wearing gloves,” says Lewis. He removes his hand from Nico’s hip to practice proper procedure and pinch one glove off, grasping it at the palm. Nico pushes his hips back onto Lewis’s dick and moans again, just as shamelessly as before. 

Lewis lurches forward to cover his mouth again without thinking. His still gloved right hand covers Nico’s lips, and Nico’s tongue darts out to lick over Lewis’s palm.

“Jesus, don’t do that,” says Lewis. Nico ignores him and sucks two of Lewis’s fingers into the heat of his mouth. There's none of the silky wetness and only the superheated temperature, warm and dry like the heat of a thermocycler. Nico whines again, this time muffled, and Lewis’s rational brain snags on the picture of his own nitrile gloves sliding in and out of Nico’s mouth. They should both know better. Lewis's hips jerk involuntarily. He'll never be able to think about the fucking box of safety gloves the same way.

Afterwards, Nico seems extremely nonplussed to have Lewis’s come dripping down his thigh while he fastens his jeans and tosses his crumpled lab coat over one arm. He kisses Lewis chastely and disposes of the mangled ball of Lewis’s gloves in the hazardous waste bin at the back of the room, slipping off his own and tossing them afterwards. Lewis watches him fix his hair before he walks out, tousling it until he’s satisfied. 

“See you at home,” says Nico, in the doorway. “Dr. Williams wants an update on my proposal, so I’ll be back late.” 

“See you,” says Lewis, still catching his breath.

[bullet-prooflove]

Ok since I encouraged you to kill Jimmy and his wife. 🤣 here’s a nicer one

Kiss me in the corridor?

It's tender, the brush of Jimmy's lips over yours as you stand in a quiet corridor of the hospital. Your hands come to rest on his chest, fingers smoothing over the crisp lapels of his lab coat.

Your cheeks colour as he draws away, a small smile playing across his features.

"I thought you didn't want people to know..." You trail off as he kisses you again.

This time it's fierce, there's a passion rushing through him that he can't seem to control. He knows where it stems from, he saw Crockett talking to you, saw the way the other man smiled as he lingered just a little bit too close to comfort. It's not his fault, not really, it's Jimmy that wanted to keep things separate. He likes compartmentalisation, a clear difference between his home life and his work life. In theory it works. In practice...

The two of you are so professional that people don't know that you are actually together, hence what happened today.

"You're jealous." You realise as his forehead comes to rest on yours.

"A little..." he concedes.

"It's an interesting shade on you." You tease him.

"Not a fan of it." He says with a sigh.

"You could just tell them." You remind him, your fingertips rearranging the collar of his lab coat so it sits properly.

"I don't like being talked about." He reminds you. "And they're so gossipy."

You shrug your shoulders.

"You can't have it both ways."

He knows that. The thing is you are an attractive woman, compassionate and capable, he knows that other men see it too. Crockett may have been the first but he's not going to be the last. He's already seen Matt Cooper giving you the eye.

"I know." He tells before he kisses you again. "I'll figure something out."

[selene-and-the-cold]

☕️ and 💧for Silas and Bertie?

Yesterday, I reblogged this great list of snz fall prompts by @buckysnose and was sent this great ask for Silas and Bertie.

Warm drinks ☕️

Sniffles 💧

I really loved the prompt combination, Kaze, and was excited to write for the two of them again. Thank you so much for sending this ask <3 I hope you'll enjoy this little ficlet.

These are my two Victorian-era- inspired OCs Silas and Albert. Their story so far can be read in Part 1 - Taking a Ride, as well as Part 2 - Taking a Rest. I am currently working on Part 3, but it might still take a while.

This little scene is set at some point after Part 3 of their story. It can be read on its own and I apologise for the title as well as for any mistakes because this is not beta-ed.

Warnings: two men in love, one of them with a cold, the other with a valet as cool as a cucumber. Nakedness is mentioned, but not explicitly described. And somehow they are drinking alcohol again. It seems to be their thing. Brief mention of naughty things done with a tasseled belt. And of course some snz.

***

Frolicking (OCs, M/M, cold)

"I don't know what you were thinking!,"Albert chided, giving Silas a reproachful look as he hovered over him like an angry bee, then fussed some more as he pried the soaking wet coat off Silas' body. Silas just let it happen, trying his best not to exasperate his friend even more. He shivered slightly, even though Albert's rooms were nice and warm as always, but the damp fabric clung to his body like a second skin.

"Once again, I... hhhehhh... I do apologize, Bertie. It's just that I longed to see you tonight, so I decided to come over for a surprise visit*snnnffff* I meant to sneak in rather stealthily with the key you gave me. It was never my intention to cause any trouble.. and I certainly did not mean to compromise you by letting Barker witness my arrival. ” At that, Albert suddenly stopped the fussing, hands resting on Silas' drenched lapels as he eyed him confusedly. "Barker? Why on earth...?”

It took a moment until the penny dropped and Albert caught Silas' meaning. Apparently, Silas was worried he was angry with him because Barker had seen him enter. Usually, Silas was very good at entering the house unnoticed, but his sodden shoes and trouser legs had naturally drawn the valet's attention as they had made the most horrific noise on the tiles in the downstairs hallway, no matter how hard Silas had tried to slink soundlessly along the hallway.

“Ooohhh...! Oh no, don't you worry about Barker, that's not what I meant,” Albert reassured him, waving his hand dismissively. “Barker won't mind, he is very discreet. No, I'm talking about you, my love! Walking all the way here in the pouring rain! Look at the state of you!" Albert gestured, while Silas kept dripping water from every inch of his being, soaking the plush carpet in Albert's private sitting room. Albert was not wrong. Silas was in an absolutely awful state. The sudden downpour had taken him by surprise only a few minutes after he had left his own house for a sneaky, late-evening visit to his friend. Of course he could have turned around and gone back home, but he had longed to see his Bertie, and besides they did not live THAT far from each other, did they?

In theory, they did not. However, Silas soon found that the downpour was only getting worse and that the distance between their respective dwellings seemed to cruelly stretch out further and further the heavier the raindrops pelted down on him and his fashionable, alas regrettably thin coat.

So Silas had arrived at Albert's town house a dripping wet mess. Barker had met the scene with an almost blank, neutral face. Only the hint of a smile and the slightest twitch of an eyebrow had suggested Barker's real thoughts on Silas' late-evening visit long after respectable calling hours, as the valet had taken him upstairs to Albert's private quarters without as much as a word on why Silas was there. It had all been terribly embarrassing. "I'm sorry, Bertie, please don't be cross with me. I couldn't bear it... heehhhh....Hehh'dzSHhIew!!!" "Ah, there we go! Now you've caught a chill from frolicking around in the rain!" "I did not 'frolic' I was merely walk...wahhhlkhiinnn...Ngg'TSSHiih!! *snffff* Hell's teeth! Excuse mbe!" Silas had hastily ducked to the side to avoid spraying Albert with the poorly stifled sneeze, annoyed with his nose for its terrible timing. Albert just clicked his tongue and gave Silas a withering look. "See?! Quod erat demonstrandum, my love." "It's been only a few sneezes, Bertie. If anything it's a slight case of the sniffles, nothing more... HhEdzZsHIh!! TSSHHIhh!!! *snnfff*" he clamped a gloved hand in front of his face, barely covering the set of sneezes that shook his frame and sent droplets of water flying from his drenched clothes as if he were a wet dog. "*snnnrrff* So sorry.... As I said, it is merely a case of the sniffles. Do not fret on my behalf. You keep fussing over nothing, Bertie!”

“Why don't you let me be the judge of that?,” Albert retorted, sounding audibly piqued. The truth was that Silas had felt not quite like himself for a few days already. He had suffered from a terrible headache and an irritatingly sore about two days ago. The sniffling and sneezing had started yesterday evening and he had felt tired and cranky all day. If he was completely honest, he had felt miserable and craved Albert's sweet, loving embrace and kind eyes, hence why he had decided to venture out for this night time visit despite the adverse conditions. And now he had ruined their evening by getting himself all wet and Albert all cross with him. Tears of frustration pricked Silas' eyes, causing Albert's stern look to soften instantly.

“Come, Sy, let's not squabble about this. The most important thing is that you are here now and that we have to get you warmed up, my love,” he said softly, his hands rubbing Silas' arms in a weak attempt to generate warmth for his sogging wet partner. “We can't have you catch a chill! Now, you stay put here in my quarters near the fireplace, while I go downstairs and organise a few things. And for goodness sake get out of these wet clothes!," Albert chided, since Silas still stood in his wet shirt, waistcoat and trousers, having only shrugged out of his coat, which lay forgotten on the floor in a sorry wet heap.

Silas wanted nothing more than to lean into Albert, to have him close his arms around him and kiss his neck, as was Albert's habit. He was still far too wet, though, so instead of folding himself into Albert's embrace, Silas began to peel the sodden fabric from his body.

“I'll get you one of my pajamas and the warm golden-brown dressing gown,” Albert announced softly, then stayed long enough to ensure that Silas did in fact undress, before he left him to it.

Albert's bedroom was directly connected to his private sitting room, so Silas did his best not to sneeze in Albert's earshot. He could not help the waves of shivers running down his spine, though, and soon he was shaking like a leaf as he tossed one item of clothing after the other on the growing wet pile of fabric. It really was a shame about the beautiful carpet.

“Here you are, my love, you can slip straight into these once you're done drying yourself off. I brought you a towel as well, just toss it on the pile when you're done with it,” Albert explained, sweetly but efficiently, his mind snapping into efficient mode so it would not have to linger on the worries about Silas.

“Thank you, dearest. I am so terribly sorry to be such a burden to you.. Hehh'DZzzSHHI!!”

Letting the last bit of clothing drop onto the pile, Silas snapped forward with a pitiful sneeze that had him sway on his feet. Tears threatened to well up once again, when Silas was suddenly painfully aware of his own vulnerability as he stood there, naked and shivery, barely able to keep his balance in the wake of the sneeze. He blinked, trying to force the tears down, when he suddenly felt himself wrapped into a fluffy towel and Albert's warm embrace.

“Bless you,” Albert whispered softly, his lips mere inches away from Silas' ear as he was hugging Silas from behind, wrapping the towel around his shivering frame. “You are not a burden, Sy. You are a gift I intend to keep protected for as long as I can.”

He turned him around to kiss him, then. Long and slow – a silent promise.

When their lips parted, Silas had stopped shivering.

“That's much better, isn't it, Sy? Now you towel yourself off, slip into my pajamas and get comfortable on the sofa. I'll be right back with a little something to warm you up.”

~~~~~

Some time later, Silas found himself bundled up in Albert's pajamas, the dressing gown with the tasseled belt, which Albert had once used to spank him, and a warm blanket around himself. Next to him on the side table stood a tray laden with the most delicious treats. It seemed that Albert had raided the kitchen for him, since there were biscuits, a steaming cup of tea, as well as another mug filled with a fortifying hot toddy. The first few sips had filled Silas' cold body with a heavy wave of warmth, and he had finally been able to relax.

He had taken quite a few more sips since then and thus felt a little drowsy, his cheeks red from a mixture of alcohol, the heat from the fire and the first licks of a burning fever. Albert sat right behind him on the couch, so Silas could rest against his lover's chest, his body moving softly with the rise and fall of Albert's breathing.

“And you are certain that it is no trouble if I stay here tonight, Bertie?,” Silas asked in a small voice for about the millionth time.

“Quite certain, Sy, my love. Besides, it is still raining outside and I won't let you ruin my dressing gown by frolicking around in the rain again.”

Silas rolled his eyes. “For the last time, I was not frolicking around! Hehh'TttssSHHieW!”

“Bless you~”

[secretsbetweenfriends]

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Entry #1

TASIUSAQ, YUKON

Inhaling icicles, my breath crystallizes in the air. Despite the frigid conditions, it isn’t the weather that is chill inducing: rather, it is how her heart is missing, with ventricles clinging to the corroded organ. Everything above her waist is torn to shreds, exposing the bones beneath. Midnight blood congeals on the snow-laden concrete.

Grumbling, I adjust the mask covering my face. I line the insides of it with a mixture of herbs. Contrary to the novice habit, my preferred scent combination is a configuration of experience: cinnamon, myrrh, and a dash of honey. Just enough to render corpses a nuisance rather than the stomach-churning sights they are.

“Khompon seinan-ekhyan.” I focus on breathing, keeping deathly calm as I drown the outside world with silence, entering a space where figures are overcome by shadows, souls taking the center stage. The lady’s soul is dim from a lack of activity and stored in her cranium, weeping. Hers hardly has a sound and gleam, a dying rhythm. It blurs like streetlights viewed through a rain-washed window.

I grimace and lean against a wall, blinking until it disappears and the city’s gentle thrum returns. What little remains of her is held together by sinew. Empty space now in place of a stomach, chest, and face, but what remains of her jaw clamps down in a grimace. An entire desecration of the mind, body, and soul. It is safe to assume that the perpetrator was searching for her soul; gaping holes occupy the cavities where her heart should be. A nametag sits on the lapel of her coat. In small print, it shares her name: Elisa Arnatsiaq, with an even smaller Teaching Assistant below. To the left is a photo of the lady. She’s youthful, probably in her late twenties. A broad smile shows slightly crooked, dirty teeth, lips upturned.

Peyton stands with his back to the alley, mindlessly twirling his kali sticks. His apathetic nature is something I once scorned. Now, it only fuels hypocritical rage.

“Peyton,” I say, gesturing. His recent slacker tendencies have me taking the lead. “Come get Elisa’s things. And put some gloves on. We can’t have a repeat of last time.”

Huffing, he rests the weapons against the wall and reaches into his bag. Moments later, he puts the sticks away. He dons a pair of wrist-length gloves as he pulls out an old camera. Peyton snaps some pictures before swapping the device for his journal. A glance over his shoulder gives me a good view of his notes, scribbled in neat shorthand. He’s creating a victim profile, noting observations, briefly touching on theories, and estimating the time of death. An above and beyond effort, for him at least.

Providing an inkling of professionalism, he crouches over her body, unmoving until all necessary details are documented. Snow crunches beneath him, the only sound between us. On a technical level, reapers only retrieve souls. However, in cases such as these, when we feel other divisions are lacking, reapers function in their stead.

Finally, the journal closes with a snap. Peyton stands, brushing himself off. “Since we’ve done what we can, let’s go. We won’t have a chance of catching whatever did this to her if we don’t leave soon.”

The officials won’t arrive soon. Instead, they must visit another similar scene, collect the first batch of victims, then tend to Elisa. For now, it is in our best interests to discover any trace of the perpetrator before they fade.

Peyton drags the scythe behind him as we walk. It dips into the snow, snagging onto the concrete beneath. Metal screeches against the pavement, eliciting an ear-grating sound as we sprint out of the alley. People wave without hesitation, calling our names. We’re a spectacle but plain enough to ignore, and after spending half a year in town, I suspect we’ve become much-beloved nuisances.

He guides us through the slippery streets we know too well, jumping and dashing around lithely. Considering his clumsiness, it’s surprising that no one has been impaled.

I’m lost in thought as we plow through the throng, then suddenly, we’re in the middle of a residential road. Mobile homes line the path like vibrant teeth. A gaggle of children floss between them, peeking out from corners to toss snowballs. Their parents perch idly on porches, leaning over railings to chat with mugs of hot chocolate. I see the steam rising and exhale, creating a similar effect.

Distracted, I crash into Peyton and stumble, almost losing my footing on the ice. Upon seeing the object of his attention, I sigh. Staring back is an image of a grinning beaver on the snowed-over man-hole cover. Puzzled, I stare and await an explanation.

When he doesn’t offer one, I clear my throat. “We’re standing above a sewer.” His acute senses must be dulling, a fact I’ll gladly report; the last thing we need is a repeat of Vancouver. “There’s nothing here.”

No sooner than I say it, he turns to face me. I despise how emotional he comes off, even with his face covered. “Hear that?” He asks with a sense of anticipation, holding a finger in the air.

I shake my head but lean in to listen. Without warning, he roughly shoves me aside. Feeling my palms meet the ground, swiping away the freshly fallen snow beneath, I’m about to curse, but the heavy sewer lid flies upwards. Mere moments later, a piercing cry penetrates the air. I turn to see the victim. Or rather, the survivor.

A child stands petrified in the middle of the road before launching into flight, darting toward a porch. Someone—his mother—slumps over on the wooden steps. Her head is deformed by the fall, the cover pinning her against the boards. The boy clutches her bloody shirt, wailing until another lady scoops him up, shielding his body with her own as she tears into the house next door.

It’s chaos in the streets, but we won’t have the luxury of aiding just yet. I force the image from my mind and surge forward, bracing for the pass-off from Peyton. My hands wrap around the handle, and I glide into position as something bursts from the ground. Bricks fly loose as it tunnels upwards, creating a cloud of debris, dust, and powdery snow. Yellow street lights shine through the leaden mist to expose a disfigured thing that can only be the stuff of nightmares. It is a man. Or rather, what remains of one. He isn’t exactly dead yet, transformed into a mythos called Aranea. Limbs dangle several feet above four spindly, hairy legs. A face in the likeness of a spider snaps mandibles covered with blood. Not a hint of anything human remains.

He’s faceless and nameless. No longer restrained by human law. It’s twisted, if not cruel, to permit anything to exist in this state.

Hands, calloused and old, reach into the night. They’re leathery, wrinkled, and starkly black, almost midnight. Those in the streets finally react and scurry in different directions, screaming. With this creature, silence is one’s best hope of escaping with their life. Fear must be powerful enough to override reason.

To aid the escape efforts, I slam my weapon into the ground. Mouth open, I shriek. The aranea loses focus on the dispersing crowds, settling its two sets of beady eyes on me. +Suddenly, it feels like my limbs are entangled in a web. My limbs are lead. Instead of recalling the relevant pages from our guidebooks, my mind remains blank. Seeming to sense my blunder, the aranea releases a murderous shriek and charges.

I scramble into position, one foot behind the other. I lift the scythe. Just as I swing, mandibles lock around the blade and tug with enough force to sweep me into the air. Panicking, I struggle against it. The material oozing from its mouth is foul, its disgusting face inches from mine.

Peyton clears ground, bounding toward me before I can call for help. As he nears, he brandishes a kali stick. Deadly in even untrained hands, they are more so in his.

Jabbing the creature’s side, the Aranea crumbles, shrieking and hissing. It swings around, lunging for him. Only to receive another slam to the face, sending it stumbling back. Freeing my scythe, I do what I do best; I retreat, watching Peyton hit the creature’s legs and torso. He moves like a bird, diving and attacking, retreating before it can ensnare him. Each hit is followed by a loud crack. He slams the Aranea’s sides and legs with the stick with urgency, not halting until it’s stopped on its back.

Finally, with the job done, he sighs, running a hand through his messy hair. He won’t remove his mask and only slides it up to feel the breeze.

“Only female victims so far,” he says. Kicking the creature, he steps back to catch his breath. “I think our monster’s a misogynist.”

I shouldn’t laugh, but I do. It’s a bitter, resentful sound. Looking at Peyton stand over the twitching beast, I feel a twinge of jealousy. Perfected over a decade, his sense of professionalism and spectacle are unparalleled. Once again, watching as he gathers his things, I wait. My insecurity quietly simmers.

It doesn’t matter that he’s trained longer than I, that he’s someone seemingly made for this kind of life. Or at least, I like to believe he had a choice in following it. Contrarily, my sense of obligation makes me feel that I’ve always got to be two steps ahead of him and everyone else.

Watching as he gathers his things, I wait and observe every action, the seamless, heel-to-toe walk, the practiced ease of his actions. My insecurities quietly simmer.

After rummaging through his bag, he sends a box flying my way, muttering a half-hearted “Heads up!”

I catch it and scowl. The item nearly slips through my fingers. Anxious, I scoop it up and stride over to Peyton. But, more importantly, I reach the still-alive monster.

Opening the box, I retrieve an ornate dagger. Once used in a revered soul-collecting ceremony, we now use it casually, as if we were butchering a pig, removing entails, which is what most wayward souls are considered worse than.

Removing the dagger from its container, I steady it in my left hand. I move it up, left, right, then down. Poised over the Aranea’s chest, the dagger’s tip barely hits it before a siren sounds. Intent on completing the only task I can, I bring it up and slam it into the body. Putrid blood splatters across me; I back up as it dissolves, floating up and away into the sky. It seems there was no soul left to reap and that a bystander had taken it upon themself to call the authorities.

I return both items, shutting the box with a sigh. Peyton fiddles with his bag as we sit on the slippery curb. An officer steps out of a small, dingy car. He looks poorly, bear-like in the sense of hair. Nearly slipping on the puddle of blood, his nose crinkles.

“By Lord Life,” he mumbles, carefully making his way to us. Coming to a stop, he narrows his eyes. “What are you doing? Witchy things?”

Peyton laughs, a dry sound as he presents our badges. “We caught this man in aranea form after we were sent to investigate a murder on Row 202. We determined that it was the suspect and acted accordingly.”

“202? Is that near the stores?”

“Sure,” he answers, pulling out his notepad to further consult his notes. A flash of recognition shines on the officer’s face. “Closer to the river than stores.”

Squinting, the officer inspects us. His grim expression blossoms. “You’re some of Death’s little lackeys, aren’t you?” He asks with too much enthusiasm. I can’t tell whether it’s good or bad. He seems sterner as he stares, probably at the way I tense.

“Who else would be caught dead in this fashion?” says Peyton, doing a little twirl.

I elbow his side. Sticking to protocol, “We are humble servants of Our Lady.”

“Right,” the officer says. “Anyhow, what are a couple of youngsters doing to get work like this? Enchantment?”

Peyton answers, tiredly kicking at the ground. “Excuse me, but we’ve got a job to finish.” He’s standing now at full height, towering over the unintimated man.

“No, you don’t. Since you can’t verify, I’m here to clean things up.”

A smile carries in Peyton’s tone. “Isn’t that great! That means we’ll get home before nine-thirty. Dealing with that traumatized little boy would really spoil dinner. Let’s get going now. Oh, and collect Miss Arnatsiaq, won’t you?” Before seizing the scythe from my grasp, he wraps an arm around my shoulders. “They never get less annoying. Let’s leave before I have to file an incident report.”

Incident reports occur when reapers inevitably involve themselves in non-essential violence. The concept of necessary harm is intriguing, but not more so in how the phenomenon has a place in protocol. 

I groan, ignoring the officer’s angry protests as I trail after Peyton. Long before either of us notices, a silvery half-moon replaces the sun. Grotesque patterns appear in the sky, a soft blotching of face-like clouds. Streetlights flicker as we trudge through the streets, snow crunching beneath blood-stained boots.

With the hours of the night now upon us, we make haste to ensure we reach Elisa Arnatsiaq before other forces do. Moving as fast as I can, I still manage to nag Peyton as we jog down the empty roads to where we’d left her. She still lay untouched in the alleyway, now stiff beneath the streetlights. Rigor mortis must’ve finally set in while we were away. 

“Hold on, I’ve got the spirit box.” Peyton once again pulls out the box from earlier. He sets it close to her head. 

Coming to a stop directly before her, I briefly stretch and then stand upright. Clasping my hands together, I conduct parting rites.

“Bu khamkha khiyanwat khampokyan; raengshiathaai, aciliakhamaai, hacikhaai, chayohaai, dayallaai.” Using the ancient tongue, I state the soul’s components. A person’s essence as: personality, impulse, identity, secrets, and heart. Then I ask them to abandon the physical form. “Kiyanwat chodikhaer-tikha yakti.”

Dark masses of shadows pour from Elisa. They surge like rain in reverse, swirling and pooling in the air above. The atmosphere feels electric, faintly glowing. I see a blueish, fire-like orb arise from the lady’s corpse before shutting my eyes to focus. Warmth floods the area near my gut as I recite Death’s appeal in her language. “O’ Thienkhai-ara, the salvation and end; I pray to absolve our friend, school teacher Elisa Arnatsiaq, of corruption. I offer her soul to thine embrace.”

Air rushes in gusts; it should be freezing, but it isn’t. I’m warm to the point of feeling as if I’m bathing in molten lava, my soul offering a protective layer. Amidst it, another voice joins my chanting, screaming in pure agony. Elisa Arnatsiaq’s corpse is the culprit, writhing on the ground. Her voice changes in death. Gruff and deep, less human with every second.

Her mouth remains open until a final burst of light ignites her body. It spreads, consuming Elisa until she’s covered in flames. Quickly engulfed, she bursts, creating a miniature supernova in her wake. The snow-covered ground melts, exposing the concrete beneath her and scorching everything, yet I remain unharmed. The weak reaction indicates something of her soul. A bygone innocence, a soul too nurturing to harm others, even in death.

Pain blossoms across my ribcage, burning like hellfire. I double over and catch a glimpse of where Elisa previously lay. Save for a small, pale blue orb in the middle of her skeleton, nothing of her remains in this world. Translucent, her soul looks like sea glass.

It’s a tiny thing, lacking an extravagant form and color. I don’t think I’ve ever seen something so small or weak that still beats with the urgent impulse to live. All I can discern from the flickering object is that her life is not one I would ever want to lead. Shuddering, I pass Peyton the ceremonial box.

Peyton snatches her soul, entrapping it. “Hey, Blair,” he begins, toying with the claps, “what do you think the Lady’s name means? Aren’t most of the old accords lost?”

From my place on the ground, I glare. Ragged breaths come out in short spurts, pain flooding the entirety of my being. It hurts terribly, the fire coursing through my veins. The snow doesn’t help. It only burns like hot coals instead of a balm. I don’t know if I’ll ever adapt to the strenuous activity, but soon enough, the sensation disappears. My head stops spinning, and although I can stand, my limbs feel like jelly. But I grit my teeth and bear it because, at the very least, I’m still alive.

Peyton grips my arm, hoisting me up, silently dragging me through the streets as we head towards the bus station, occasionally slipping. Several times, I come dangerously close to kissing my scythe. He laughs at that, helping to hoist me up when the bus comes to a stop. The kindly driver rejects our fair. Mr. Basaure is adamant about safely getting us, his regular pair of creepily masked patrons, home. Or rather, the cold, drafty shack we occupy in its stead.

“We appreciate it.”

“Your route isn’t too far from my home,” he says, voice creaky and old.

I grin and shuffle into the vehicle, fervently thanking him. At this hour, hardly anyone is out, allowing us the entire bus to ourselves. Peyton, his heathen of a self, spreads his legs, taking up four seats with my scythe held hostage across his lap. It leaves me to plop down to his left. I hold on as the bus sets off, shifting slightly.

Once we’re away from the residential areas of town, I feel safe enough to remove my mask. Finally, breathing unscented air is much like eating after seven days; I can tell my face is red from the heat radiating from it. My inability to sweat is an utter nightmare in warmer climates, causing extreme overheating.

Although the world is a peculiar patchwork of eras and climates, Tasiusaq is on the perimeter of the Arctic circle, where winters have plentiful snow. Technology is still behind, with no service offered outside the ski lodge grounds or grocery store.

Belonging to the ski lodge’s owner—a member of the Lady’s council—our house here is more of a glorified shack. Nevertheless, we are permitted to use it during our stay. The cold is a friend to me but not to Peyton, who is accustomed to living on estates in warmer locations. What he does abroad during the cold season, I couldn’t ever know. But, for sure, I know he was less inclined to landlocked states and hardly remained in any place longer than a month before his assignment to me.

More pressing, however, is our day. Relatively uncommon, these spider-like mythos derive from complete misuse of the human form, whether physical or spiritual. If someone had forced the man into such a state, then who? And if not, what heinous acts had he committed? Do they render him worthy of such an end?

“What are we going to do?” I mumble, slumping over. The guidebooks and studying hadn’t prepared me for man-made horrors beyond mortal comprehension. Considering how outdated those are, it’s only expected, but the existence of aranea implies sinister forces at work, and they shouldn’t be anywhere near here. “I don’t see how anyone could have a soul so ugly, you know? It’s not natural! There must be something we can—”

“Blair,” Peyton tries to come off as unfazed, but I know better. Through his whiny tone, I can practically hear the gears in his head spinning, working to rationalize the fear. “Don’t worry about that. We should be worried about our pay! The Lady’s sooo not going to be pleased about this. You, her golden child, coming under inspection again? She’s going to skin me! And turn me into one of those ugly rugs she gives everyone during the holidays!”

Despite myself, I chuckle. Those are, in fact, incredibly ugly. She gifted us one last winter, and it’s still hanging outside to dry.

“So, we agree to lie on the report?” Peyton asks, tilting his head.

“There’s absolutely no reason to.”

“Blair, Blair, Blair,” says Peyton, sing-songy. He slides over, seeming to float across the seat. Arm hovering over my shoulder, he pulls back when I glare. Nevertheless, he remains flush against my side. “I think you mean, no reason not to.”

No one has to know about it. Embellishing the mythos type won’t hurt. It will spare us unnecessary trouble. And innumerable sheets of paper work.

I glower at the thought, but it’s so very enticing.

Swallowing my pride, “Well, we weren’t in inherent danger, and we still need to see if it was behind the others. Araneas form all the time in large cities, and the entrance to that weird underground place is close. We’re only, what? A few hours from it? It’s possible one snuck over.” 

In agreement, he prattles about corrupt farmers, reapers, and game wardens. An instance of bribery, failure to follow protocol and consequences. That establishes our ever-evolving guidelines.

Something jumps to mind. “Wasn’t there that case where someone tried illegally bringing a kappa into the country?” Vaguely, I recall a stale-smelling man in the station, briefly encountering him before he was whisked away. 

“See? Smuggling happens all the time, too.” he chirps. “The world’s getting crazier by the day. Don’t worry too much over something that’s likely a cosmic fluke.” But the cosmos never makes mistakes. I nearly protest. Instead, I cling to the notion of normalcy, repeating it like a mantra.

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