#fractional half a miracle

[erraticopeninghours]

The "Little" Miracle That Could

Thoughts on 1.15: The “little” miracle that could  

First, I love that it is Aziraphale who proposes doing half of a miracle each.  I think it really shows that he’s begun to internalize at least some of the ideas of Our Own Side.  

In Season 1, we got to see Crowley proposing the Arrangement and also coming up with the idea to raise the Antichrist together so that he will grow up to be neutral.  But this makes it clear that Aziraphale has not only been reluctantly going along with Crowley’s ideas and has - at least to some degree - accepted the idea that working together can be an effective solution to problems.  

Also, just all of the times that Aziraphale clearly expresses his desire to work with Crowley in this episode!  (Even, uh, until the end of Episode 6, rip…) Like shades of grey for the win!  All of Aziraphale’s willingness to work together (without Crowley cajoling him first) also makes me even more curious about who initially came up with the body swap solution in canon! 

I love how Aziraphale and Crowley holding hands with Gabriel parallels the scene of them with Adam at Tadfield air base.  But also, I love how it calls attention to how much has changed between seasons 1 and 2.  At Tadfield air base, Aziraphale and Crowley were only presenting a united front because it was the climax of the season, and they both knew that it was time to put everything on the table.  

In the scene with Gabriel, we’re still in the first episode of the season, and most of the rising action is still to come.  But they’re already (fairly openly) working together anyway!  And they’re in the sanctuary of Aziraphale’s bookshop rather than on an unfamiliar airbase!  And the stakes are objectively a bit lower (since they don’t know what horrible thing Gabriel was trying to avoid) but, in a personal sense, higher because they now have Their Own Side to lose!  

Additionally, as we find out, Gabriel does not wind up being very helpful at all in this season.  Whereas in Season 1, Adam essentially saves the world and sets most of the problems (e.g., the Bentley and bookshop) right, in Season 2, Aziraphale and Crowley have to rely much more directly on their own competence/incompetence and the consequences thereof.   

I know that they did count in order to get the timing just right, but I loved getting to see them miracling in sync.  Like, yes, an angel and a demon who pull powers from opposite directions, but also, two friends working so perfectly and intentionally together!  The synchronization was just really delightful to witness! 

Crowley’s “I am not your friend!” line was also very fun.  Partly because he and Aziraphale had just argued about Gabriel not being their friends / not having any friends.  But also because of his later remark to Gabriel that he [Crowley] only has one friend! 

I’m sure none of this is new, but for my own records, my initial theories on why were the miracle wound up being so powerful were: (a) Crowley was a very powerful angel before Falling; (b) they accidentally used Gabriel as a conduit or tapped into his powers (seemed less likely after viewing the entire season); or (c) Aziraphale and Crowley are extra powerful when working together because (c1) they’re an angel and a demon, (c2) they love each other so dearly, or (c3) they’ve retired from their former sides and are accidentally tapping into a third earthly/human source of power. 

Lastly, I’ve been trying to steer away from the topic of Crowley being created as a powerful angel because that feels like its own series of posts, but I do want to point out some of the little ways that Season 2 Aziraphale and Crowley have subverted common fanon ideas, but managed to do so in ways that make sense.  

(1) For example, before Season 2 and especially before Neil Gaiman mentioned anything about benevolent landlord!Aziraphale, I would have expected Crowley to be the one with oodles of human investments.  Partly because it fits his human personna of fashionable flats and black credit cards and flashy outfits but also because he seems slightly more up to date what all is involved with living in human society.  But it also makes perfect sense that Crowley approached personal finance as another way to pull one over on Hell (especially given that they never check up), and for Aziraphale to take the time to set up his bookshop and livelihood the human way!  I mean, Aziraphale does his taxes perfectly each year.  If Crowley’s aware of taxes, I’m sure he proudly does not pay them. 

(2) Similarly, from a fandom perspective, I feel like Aziraphale is generally the one who is portrayed as being especially good at wards and the more finicky, technical aspects of magic / miracles.  This makes sense given his apparent love of the little details and the formidable intelligence which we see him apply to Agnes Nutter’s book.  However, given that there are signs that Crowley is (possibly) especially powerful in season 1 (e.g., being the one to check that no one is watching before they swap back bodies, stopping time, etc.), it also makes sense that he is the one who takes point on checking that their “tiniest, most insubstantial, fractional half a miracle” succeeded. 

(3) And of course, this is later in the season, but just the fact that Aziraphale has both a firearm and the corresponding permit while Crowley has presumably no firearm experience!  In hindsight, this makes complete sense, but it was not, in my estimation, widely expected!  For me, at least, it completely tracked once I learned about it, but it wasn’t something that I felt I knew before Season 2.  And I  think little surprising details like this are especially fun because they put the audience in the same position as Crowley and Aziraphale: even though we’ve known them for a (somewhat) long time, they’re complicated enough that we still get to discover new things about them!  And that makes them even more interesting and fun to spend time with (or love?) across the years. 

(previous) (next)

[ Note: I intentionally skipped 1.14 The “I Was Wrong” Dance because I am not prepared to write about it, and I potentially may never be ready.  But it is definitely a thing – a thing that is both beautiful and egregious.] 

[goatbeard-goatbeard]

Revivals

“And the dead will leave their graves and walk the earth once more. And there will be great lamentations. Every day it’s getting closer.”

Thinking about the running theme of revival in Good Omens 2.

Thinking about how the only dead who actually left their graves were the Nazis.

Thinking about how Aziraphale and Crowley got a few years of not being bothered by heaven and hell, but now the Second Coming is ramping up.

Thinking about the running theme of revival in Christian evangelicalism — a revived fervor that comes roaring back, cyclically, after periods of increased secularism, in the form of Great Awakenings and revival tents.

Thinking about the early 2000s, and how it was common knowledge then that conservative evangelicalism was dying out on its own.

Thinking about now, when ultra-conservative Christians are explicitly organizing around revival tents and Great Awakenings.

Thinking about how much easier it is to work miracles when you believe your every tiny action or inaction has consequences for eternity, leading to a wild mismatch in passion between evangelicals and non-evangelicals toward incremental progress like voter persuasion and school boards and controlling the levers of political power.

Thinking about how the biggest miracles (for good OR for evil) come from each person doing an incomplete fraction of a miracle, while trusting others to do the same.

Thinking about how easy it is to resonate with Crowley, with the idea that it’s not worth engaging with heaven or hell — might as well talk to a brick wall. Besides, their influence is dying out on its own. And when do the dead ever leave their graves?

[shock]

i want to hold my tongue and not share the depth of my opinions about the two-headed cow but it upsets me so much every time i see it, i really do hate the narrative of 'rooting for' an animal like this to live despite it being unable (and will be unable, for its entire life) to do the most basic of things life has to offer, even breathing, eating, moving, to prioritize the savior myth that everything can and should be saved, that every living creature should be treated this way as though its not one of the greatest mercies that we as humans have the ability to enact a quick and painless alternative to a slow and miserable life that ends in slow and miserable death on our livestock when they can't advocate for themselves, the ability we have as humans to see the research and make a prognosis and decide that the spectacle is not worth the extended misery, but this life is worth the dignity of a peaceful death we have the capacity to grant

because there is a difference between helping a baby animal in the first legs of life knowing it has a chance to have a quality of life worth fighting for, not a life doomed to be painful that we KNOW is painful knowing all that we know about animals who come with this specific type of physical abnormality, what we see on the surface is only a fraction of much more malformation and deterioration on the inside that we can't just decide is not happening because they 'look' fine, and what we see on the surface is already a life from start to finish without any experience an animal like this should have by virtue of being alive, with no life at all and no understanding of why it is going through this

the assumption that there is no suffering despite eating, breathing, moving never something that this baby will be able to do unassisted, despite knowing the longest a two-headed cow has ever survived was not even a year and a half and that record hasn't been broken in over thirty years, that's not even a quarter, an 8th, a 12th, a 15th of a cow's normal lifespan, and doubtfully much of that was pleasant or comfortable, and even if this cow does get to the point of being able to stand on its own, we can't ever know the full range of agony this animal is going through, all we know is there is and there will be agony, and we need to not see life as inherently successful or painless just because something is going in one end and coming out the other, that isn't what defines an animal's quality of life to me

the two-headed calf poem is beautiful to me because it's a miracle that something so rare (luckily) and so doomed could see one extraordinary thing before passing. the sky ceases to be beautiful when forced to live every day for the sake of social media's voyeurism, it makes me so sad that someone who raises livestock would put public attention over their duty to their animals ☹️

[fuckyeahgoodomens]

Crowley: We need to make this the tiniest, most insubstantial, fractional half a miracle we have ever performed. No traces of anything miraculous left behind. No alarm bells ringing in Heaven.

Aziraphale: Right. Count of three.

Crowley: One, two, three, now.

*Crowley jumps on the chair and checks an orangey-flowy-something with a tip of his finger*

Crowley: I think it took. That was a class-A surreptitious half a miracle. No one will have noticed a thing.

*happy Aziraphale*

*unamused Michael sighs as alarms are blaring in Heaven*

[mizgnomer]

The tiny, surreptitious, fraction of a half miracle

Good Omens Season 2

[ralkana]

Fluffbruary, Day 6

February 6: tie | embarrassment | dessert

Dream of the Endless / Hob Gadling

Rated G

-----

It's the middle of the afternoon when his stranger shows up at the New Inn, a smile on his face, naming Hob friend. Apologizing for his absence.

"Welcome," Hob says, shoving his marking into his satchel. "Let me get you a glass of wine."

His stranger sits silently as he asks Katie for another pint and orders a glass of Malbec.

"The good one," he clarifies, and she grins.

"Got it, Robbie," she says, with a curious glance at his companion, and then they're alone again.

His friend is still watching him, that smile on his face, and Hob can't help but take a moment simply to look. He thinks about asking why they didn't meet in 1989, why he was left adrift and alone, but it doesn't matter. Not really. He's here now.

"What were you working on when I arrived?" his friend asks, his gaze shifting briefly to Hob's satchel before anchoring firmly on Hob's face once more.

"Marking," he says, and his friend's brow furrows. "Checking my students' work," he adds. "I'm a professor now! Me, can you imagine?"

And then he's off, the familiar rhythm of their past meetings suddenly returning. He talks for so long that his voice falters. There is so much to tell his friend about. X-rays and the space race, vinyl records and the internet. With a word to Katie, he switches from beer to water, and keeps going.

His friend is no more talkative about himself than usual, but he seems more engaged, less... dour. He asks questions, and is more expressive than Hob has ever seen him. Hob even thinks he tried the wine Hob chose for him, though the nearly full glass now sits on the table between them.

He is in the middle of explaining the miracle of organ transplants when his stomach growls, loud enough to be heard from across the table even in the busy pub, and he breaks off in embarrassment.

"Pardon me," he says with a laugh.

"I have kept you from your evening meal," his friend says, shifting in his seat, and Hob lunges, half-desperate, as it looks like he might rise. His friend stills, eyes widening a fraction.

"No, no! It's fine!" Hob says, lowering his hand from its aborted grasp. Please don't leave! He takes a moment to breathe, to calm himself.

"We have shared a meal before," he reasons, though of course, his friend has never eaten. He has remained while Hob has eaten, though, and that's what he's hoping for now. "We could do so again. If you'd like."

His friend nods his agreement, so quickly that Hob thinks he might not be the only one unready for the evening to end.

He orders a steak and ale pie, and when Katie asks his friend for his order and he declines, Hob asks for two forks. His friend raises an eyebrow at that, and Hob simply grins. One day, he'll find something that tempts his friend - his need to feed those he cares about is strong. Stronger still because his friend looks like he's missed a fair few meals recently.

If he even eats. Perhaps he lives on words. Heaven knows Hob has given him plenty of those.

His meal arrives, and he breaks the crust of the steaming pie, smiling as he inhales the aroma of the thick gravy that wafts out.

He has eaten a few bites in between his words when his friend shifts in his chair, reaching for the fork in front of him.

Hob watches, fascinated, as he scoops up a small bite of beef, a morsel of crust, and a tiny bit of gravy. Those petal pink lips part as he tastes it, head tilted like a bird's as he considers it.

"It is pleasingly savory," he pronounces as he sets the fork down again, and Hob grins.

"That it is, friend," he says in agreement, applying himself to his meal and his tale.

"Dessert then, Robbie?" Katie asks a few minutes later, as she brings him another glass of water and sees the remains of his meal.

Hob debates for approximately three seconds. "Yeah, go on then."

Katie laughs as she picks up his plate. "The usual?"

"Please, and two forks."

There's so much more to tell his friend about - there always is - but Hob feels mostly talked out. This is by far the longest his friend has ever lingered, and he can't ignore the ache of the knowledge that soon, their meeting must end.

Unwilling to prematurely give into the melancholy that always arrives after these evenings, Hob pushes it away and says, "The kitchen here is fantastic. In some ways, pub food is the same as it's always been, but some things are so different now..."

He's in the middle of explaining gastropubs and fusion cuisine when Katie approaches their table once more, and he breaks off.

"Ah, thanks, love," he says, rubbing his hands together in anticipation as she sets down their dessert. "Butterscotch bread pudding with vanilla bean ice cream and housemade whiskey caramel sauce. It's absolutely the best thing on the menu. It's won awards."

Lifting the shot glass of caramel, he upends it, drizzling it over the pudding sizzling in its little cast iron pot. The ice cream is melting slowly into the top of the pudding, and the smell is divine.

Hob digs in and pops a bite in his mouth. It's too hot, burning his tongue, and it's absolutely worth it.

His friend picks up his fork and digs out a tiny bite to try, and Hob watches his eyes widen, his pleasure clear on his face in a way that has Hob shift in his seat. He's beautiful.

"Good, innit?"

He says nothing, but his fork dips again, lifts a larger bite this time.

Sweet tooth, then, Hob thinks. Got it.

He goes in for another bite as well, picking the thread of his words back up.

He's talking about the rise of the celebrity chef a few moments later, reaching for another bite, when his fork scrapes against iron, and he blinks and looks down. The little pot is empty, only a few drops of caramel sauce and a few smears of melted ice cream remaining. Hob has had maybe three bites.

He looks up, astonished. His friend looks back serenely, but there are spots of color, high on his pale cheeks. He sets his fork down.

Hob could not stop the smile breaking over his face for all the money in the world. His friend's lips twitch, the corner tucking into a tiny smile, and Hob notices there is the smallest drop of caramel sauce at the corner of his friend's mouth.

Hob entertains a very brief fantasy of leaning across the table and licking it off, tasting the sweetness of the caramel and his friend's perfect skin.

Clearing his throat and shoving the thought away, he sets his own fork down. They are not unfamiliar, these little moments of want that flash within him, whenever they share an evening. They are what sustain him in the long decades between their meetings.

His friend's gaze is sharp on his face, but those spots of color remain.

"I apologize for consuming your dessert."

"Our dessert, friend. Two forks, remember? I'm just glad you enjoyed it. Would you like another?"

His friend looks away, out the window long since gone dark.

"The hour grows late," he says, and Hob tries not to flinch. "And I have. Difficult work ahead of me. But. Perhaps we might meet again soon. To share this dish. Or perhaps another."

Hob's breath catches, his heart pounding. I will take you to every bakery and dessert shop in London, he thinks. England! The world!

"I would like that very much, my friend," he says.

"Dream," he says as he stands, looking down at Hob with the same smile he had when he first came in. "You may call me Dream."

"Good night, Dream, my friend," Hob says, trying not to choke on the emotion that swamps him. "I hope to see you soon."

"You shall, Hob Gadling. Good night, my friend."

Between one blink and the next, he's gone.

END

-----

Thanks to @fluffbruary for the prompt, and to the Morrison in Atwater Village for the best damn bread pudding I've had in my life.

[izvmimi]

cw: babytrapping. yandere. manipulation. cult behavior. suguru.

Suguru told you once, twice, perhaps more times, that he never wanted a child, no matter how longingly you glanced at small children, or how much your arms reached to him when he spilled inside you, hoping he would hold you close and leave behind just enough of him for you to carry forever.

What he planned for the world was too great, and an attachment to this earth would distract him. And you understood him, even if the undercurrent of these statements implied that his love for you wouldn’t be enough, that you are not a real liability and are just as disposable as any one of his other entanglements.

You’ve always known that Suguru doesn’t just belong to you, and truly no one. Jealous glances were often swapped between you and other members of the cult, especially forward when you knew Suguru had been sweet on them recently. Yet you were always his favorite, his prized one. The spot beside him belongs to you, the favorite kitten, pet idly as he followed more… noble pursuits. Little mattered of occasionally sharp claws or sparse mewls for attention. He’d fuck you good, and that was enough to keep you satiated.

The human part of Suguru still makes mistakes. 

You look shakily down at a pregnancy test, wishing for some miracle, some sign that it’s defective, that you haven’t failed your leader in such a cruel way. The two lines look mercilessly back at you as your stomach churns, even worse than it did this am prior to your first sickness of the day. Suguru stands before you, arms crossed over his chest, not bothering to give you even the privacy of confirming your newfound state in privacy.

“I can explain-” is the first thing that comes to mind. As if you are somehow to blame for getting pregnant. The fraction of a percent chance past birth control pills and condoms, and pulling out. You wonder if he’ll force you to put in an intrauterine device this time, or pursue even more permanent options.

He raises his hand, and you look at him, eyes wet with not yet spilled tears.

“Do not worry.”

Your heart quickens its pace. Mercy.

Getou kneels before you, your closed legs, and kisses your left knee, warming you from your toes to your nose. Intimate and possessive, he takes the test from your other hand and drops it in the trash.

“You may keep it,” he offers.

You swallow.

“A-are you sure?” you whimper. His other hand rubs your other leg, while he continues to kiss your knee. Watching him from this rare vantage point, you can feel an immeasurable joy in the pit of your stomach, devotion welling up inside you. The tears make it past the brim of your eyelids.

“You never let anyone else-”

Getou smiles and looks up at you as tears fall from your face, splattering on your bare bent legs, on shaky hands. He’s had nearly a half-dozen children to be, you’ve not wanted to embarrass him the way these other women did, and yet here he was! Extending you something you could lord over others, something that would be just yours and his.

Another heartbeat that belongs to the two of you only. He is yours, yours, yours.

“None of them are as devoted as you are to me, now are they?”

You nod, joy so much it is caught in your throat.

No one, under the sun and moon, will ever love him like you do.

[yandere-daydreams]

Title: The Huntress In Moonlight.

Written for a very lovely anonymous commissioner.

Pairing: Yandere!Eula x Reader (Genshin).

Word Count: 2.0k.

TW: Unhealthy Relationships, Implied Kidnapping/Imprisonment, Obsessive Behavior, Slight Manipulation, and Intimidation.

[Part Two]

It’d taken Eula six hours to catch you.

Three hours for one of her many agents stationed within Mondstadt’s walls to report that you were missing, two to find your tracks amidst the dense wilderness of the Whispering Woods, and one to overtake your frantic sprint and recapture you – the target sighted, located, and hunted down in less than half a day. Part of you was proud of yourself. You were familiar with her swordsmanship, had witnessed what she could do with a claymore and a raging vendetta. You knew that the twisted sense of fondness she held for you was the only reason her blade wasn’t lodged in the side of your throat, but still, it was a small miracle that you’d managed to evade her for as long as you did. It was a small miracle that you’d managed to get out of the city at all.

Part of you was proud. The rest of you, the majority of you, was just angry that you’d been stupid enough to try something so foolish in the first place.

Angry, and bitter, and more frustrated than you had any right to be. Even slung over her bicep, her shoulder pressing into your stomach and her gloved hand wrapped over the back of your thigh, you couldn’t do anything to loosen the tight coil of irritation pressing against the inside of your chest, to stop yourself from digging your nails into her back and kicking at her stomach whenever the terrain grew harsh and you could get away with trying to hurt her a fraction of as much as she’d hurt you. She took the abuse without complaint. You couldn’t see her face, but her breathing was steady, unfaltering, and she only ever seemed to pause to check the compass hanging from her waist or brush stray greenery out of her path.

That might’ve been the worst thing about Eula, when you found it in yourself to look beyond the violence and obsession. You could kick and scratch and scream all you wanted, bite and tear and call her names until your own desperate fear had been forgotten in the face of rage and vile hatred, but she was strong enough to take it, to hold you against her chest and bury her face in the crook of your neck until you were too exhausted to fight, until your throat had grown too hoase to scream. She was always hard to read, but her emotions (or, the collection of delusions that she liked to call emotions) were the most shielded in those small hours you spent alone with her; when she saw fit not to take what she wanted from you, but to wait until you’d worn yourself down far enough to let her have it willingly. It was the most excruciating to be at her mercy when—

Your limp body was hauled off of her shoulder and thrown carelessly to the ground – the earth colliding with your back and knocking the air from your lungs. No, you’d been wrong, this was the worst thing about Eula; the feeling of her gaze piercing into your flesh as she loomed above you, lips pressed into a thin line and dull eyes glinting silver in the moonlight. She reminded you of a wolf, silver-furred and nocturnal, an unrelenting force of nature from the minute she caught her quarry’s scent to the moment she had them in her maw, bloody and broken and ready to bend to her will. An unstoppable fury of teeth and canines and all the many things she had stripped you of, during your time together.

A click of her tongue, the setting of her jaw. She stepped towards you, where you remained on the ground, lingering long enough to haul you upward before gripping your shoulder and coming to kneel behind your back. “Hands.”

You hesitated, going stiff at the cold harshness of her tone. Her grip tightened, calloused fingertips burrowing into vulnerable flesh, and you relented quickly, bringing your hands to the small of your back and balling them into fists, your own blunt nails pressing defined indents into the meat of your palms. She wasn’t a wolf. That had been an idiotic thing to tell yourself. Wolves were messy, and barbaric, and they relied on their packs; admitted their weakness each time they shared their quarry with another dozen starving beasts. She was a hawk, or an eagle – a bird of prey who needed no more strength than what she possessed. She did not trek through the dirt and brambles, did not stoop so low as to have to put herself on the same plane as those she hunted. She soared above it all, barely a shadow in your peripheral until she saw fit to make herself known and fell just low enough to spear you with her claws. She was clean, and swift, and lethal. A huntress who did not waste time wondering if her prey knew to fear her.

You felt something cold and smooth wrap around your wrists – shackles, connected by a chain no longer than your forearm. For the first time, you thought to glance around the area she’d dropped you in. A canvas tent bearing a tattered crest sat to your side, covered in leaf litter and clearly not often used, an unlit lantern hanging above it on a thinning cord. An abandoned Fatui encampment, cleared out by some vicious adventurer and left behind by those who might've once inhabited it. Eula, in one of her rare fits of transparency, had once mentioned that there were dozens of them, dotted across the untamed wilderness, uncharted and unnoticed. She may’ve been the only person who knew how to find them, who cared enough to chart the forgotten sites, if only in her own mind.

The idea that there wasn't a soul in Mondstadt who knew where you were or how to find you was, somehow, even less comforting than you would’ve assumed.

When she finished, she pushed herself back to her feet, taking long seconds to skirt her fingertips along your shoulder, then the side of your neck as she placed herself in front of you. “Are you hurt?” As always, her voice was stern, stoic, and as always, you responded to her probing with bitter silence, pursing your lips and narrowing your eyes at the ground. She let out an airy sigh, but any other signs of irritation were muted, hidden beyond the shallow reach of your perception. “If you still have the strength to hold your tongue, you must not be too terribly injured. I’ll take this as evidence that you’re being woefully disagreeable and regard you as an uncooperative party from this point forward.”

You hated it when she talked to you like this; as if you were a criminal, as if you were some evildoer she could lock away without guilt. You grit your teeth, shrinking into yourself, but if Eula noticed your growing resentment, she didn’t deem it worth her acknowledgment. Few things you did seemed to be worth her attention, despite how close she saw fit to hold you.

“You know that it isn’t safe to leave the city on your own,” she went on, ignoring your resistance. “Let alone wander into the forest in the middle of the night. If you had something you needed to attend to, you could’ve just—” She paused, exhaling deeply. You could see her posture slacken, fatigue forming hairline cracks along the surface of her composure, but it was a temporary fracture, hidden just as quickly as it’d materialized. “You know the rules I’ve given you are there for your own protection. I don’t see why you continue to break them.”

“I never asked for your protection.” You were mumbling, speaking under your breath, but you knew she’d heard you. From the abrupt quirk to her practiced scowl to the way her fingers twitched at her side, fighting the urge to grope for her claymore, you knew she’d heard you. “The only thing I’ve ever asked you to do is leave me alone, and you have never once listened to me. Why shouldn’t I pay you back in kind?”

“Because I’m trying to prevent someone very dear to me from getting hurt, while you are being unnecessarily difficult and throwing yourself into danger just to spite someone who cares about you.” Her tone took on a tender lull, softened and saccharine, accompanied by a light touch to the corner of your jaw. You jerked away from her hand, but that did little to deter her. “You know that, don’t you? That I’m just trying to make sure nothing happens to you?”

You opened your mouth, already baring your teeth.

But, just as quickly, you snapped it shut and twisted away from her, bringing your knees up to your chest and firmly shutting your eyes. A childish tactic, but a necessary one. Complete avoidance was the only strategy she understood, the only thing that managed to block out her mantras of love and protection. She usually went on for a while longer, tried to provoke you with a cloying pet names and rhetorical questions, but in a few minutes, her frustration would take control and she’d leave to collect herself or return your silence in turn. Usually, she’d let you have your reprieve. Usually.

But, tonight had proved to be distinctly unusual, and you should’ve known better than to try such old tricks.

When you failed to respond, Eula pulled away from you, regaining her towering stature. The skin of the huntress traded out for the armored façade of a knight, the latter worn just as naturally as the former. “Do you really want to make this difficult?”

Again, you held your tongue. There was another sharp sigh, another shift in her stance, and then, she raised her hand.

Your mind didn’t have time to fully gasp what she was doing. She was holding nothing, and then, there was something – a hulking mass of iron and steel, the spaded tip of a blade plunging down, down, down,  towards your suddenly very exposed and very fragile form. You stiffened, curling into yourself, but the piercing blow never came. Rather, you felt something cool and flat against your back, heard a hollow thud, and reluctantly, opened your eyes to see that her claymore was no longer plunging towards you, but puncturing the ground less than hair's width from your back, buried in the earth with the chain of your shackles pinned beneath it. You jerked at your cuffs, pulling frantically at your restraints, but her claymore held true. All your strength – your diminish, exhausted strength – wasn’t enough to make the hulking weapon so much as tremble.

“I’ll come back in the morning. We’ll see if you’re feeling more mature, by then.” Cold as ice, as cutting as a sharpened knife. You lashed out blindly, kicking at the ground and clawing at the metal wrapped around your wrists, but she stood strong, unmoved by your panic. “My company’s based a few miles north. If you do manage to slip out, carefully consider in which direction you’ll choose run.”

“You can’t—” Your voice cut out, dying into a wordless, frantic sound of desperation. “Eula, there are monsters, and wolves, and— I promise, I’ll be good.” Because that was what she cared about. Not your safety, not your security, just your cooperation. Just how violently you fought back against her. “I won’t talk back, and I’ll let you touch me, and I’ll be so, so good. Just, please, don’t leave me here.”

For the first time since your recapture, her frown gave way to a small, softened smile. With slow, deliberate movements, her hand came up to cup your cheek, the pad of her stroking over your tender skin. “Oh, but you were so sure you’d be just fine without me only an hour ago.” She leaned forward, pressing a soft kiss into your forehead before rising back to her full height. “Be safe.”

She turned away, but spared you one more glance over her shoulder, the moonlight casting her eyes in cold, unfeeling silver.

“And have a good night, beloved.”

[indigovigilance]

Miraculous Energy

Guys, I think I found a hole in the plot. We should probably walk through it together and see what we find.

inspo citation by @ritz-writes

Originally this post had to do with holding hands.

The 25 Lazari Plume

In S2E1 they hold hand through the conduit of Gabriel and perform "the tiniest, most insubstantial, fractional half a miracle we have ever performed. No traces of anything miraculous left behind. No- no- no alarm bells ringing in Heaven" miracle.

Even though they were trying to be surreptitious, they failed drastically. Common fanon is that their combined angelic and demonic energy, or the power of love, creates a holistic power greater than the sum of its parts. The result:

A miracle of more energy than anyone knows what do with: per Shax, "a miracle of enormous power... the kind of miracle only the mightiest of Archangels could've performed."

But.

This isn't the first time they've combined their powers to perform a miracle.

Two quotes from Gail Neiman:

The instance in question:

Theory:

There are at first glance two solutions to this paradox. Either

a) They did create a burst of energy but everyone above and below Earth was so freaked out by them having just survived hellfire and holy water (respectively) that they were like "yeah that tracks and we're not touching it with a 10 foot pole," or

b) They did not create a burst of energy in the body swap, and therefore the plume of power didn't have to do with the boys combining powers but instead has something to do with either (b1) Gabriel or (b2) the nature of the miracle being performed.

I don't like (a) because Saraqael is so dismissive of the idea that Aziraphale could have performed such a miracle. It creates a narrative inconsistency.

We are left with (b), and since purple is the color of Gabriel's divinity this would be narratively consistent. (b2) doesn't track because the nature of the miracle being performed is fundamentally the same: in S1E6 they were (what in other fantasy fiction is frequently called) glamouring to hide their identities, and they did the exact same thing to Gabriel in S2E1, obfuscating his angel identity with a made-up human one.

So, yeah. It perhaps doesn't lean into our preferred conceptualization of the super-powerful duo, but it does fit the evidence.

~~~

It looks like @ineffable-suffering already put forth this theory, I just missed it. You can read it here: What if it wasn't Aziraphale and Crowley who performed the 25 Lazarii miracle?

~~~

special shout-out to @flameraven for the scripts, you make my life much easier now that I can copy-paste quotes instead of transcribing.

If you liked this, you can find my meta index here.

[nofomogirl]

Why was Aziraphale and Crowley's joint miracle so powerful?

They try to make it as tiny and insignificant as possible. A fraction of a miracle. And yet it turns out to be a massive one, with power enough to raise 25 people from the dead. A power that only the mightiest of the Archangels should have at their disposal.

Why?

Theory #1: It's love.

That one must be the most popular one. It just has to. Because that's what Good Omens are all about to many fans, myself included. Aziraphale and Crowley share a very special bond and hence when they join forces they create magic.

Theory #2: It's them

Let's not dismiss the simplest explanation - the miracle was powerful because the ones performing it were powerful. If you think it's too simple to be particularly interesting, think again.

There are many hints this season that Crowley used to be a big shot before the Fall. One of them is actually the miracle in question, or rather Crowley's words to Shax when she questions him about it.

But there are some things about Aziraphale that raise eyebrows too. Mainly, how he always seems to need Crowley's help to control a single person but then is suddenly puppeteering a room full of people.

I'm just saying, with a memory wipe canonized, everybody's identity is a potential mystery now.

Theory #3: It's a fusion

Renegade or not, Aziraphale is an angel and Crowley is a demon. Their powers are opposites and if applied at once would just cancel each other out. Like fire and water that represent them, right? Right?

Well, opposite is often just a synonym for complementary.

I think it's entirely possible it isn't just about Aziraphale and Crowley personally but simply about celestial and infernal power. I wouldn't be surprised that combined they can do things neither can separately.

Theory #4: It's Gabriel

This one is a bit underwhelming and I doubt it would be to many people's liking. But can we address the fact that the plume was kind of purple? Okay, it was more pinkish than Gabriel's trademark lilac-violet, but still. I think by holding hands our boys made Gabe not just an object of the miracle, but a participant too.

Theory #5: It's the portal

That's another one that might feel disappointing, but it's something I've noticed and I'm excited about it.

Just look.

Episode 1: when Aziraphale and Crowley decide to do half a miracle each, Crowley asks Gabriel to sit on the chair which he puts on top of this light-coloured, very worn circular rug.

Episode 5: when the bookshop is under attack, Aziraphale decides to use the portal against demons. We can see it was covered with a completely different rug - a burgundy one - so probably a different spot, right? Aziraphale must own at least a dozen circular rugs.

However.

Episode 6: when Crowley cleans the bookshop, he covers the portal with the same light rug we saw in episode 1 in the miracle scene.

Normally I'd say that if we saw the burgundy rug removed from the portal, it means it was under the burgundy rug the entire time and it was Crowley who put another one over it afterwards. After all, Aziraphale doesn't exactly strike me as the redecorating type.

Except he decided to host a ball in the meantime and we saw him redecorate for that.

So when Crowley puts the light rug over the portal, it's very likely he is in fact putting things back to how they originally were.

What I'm saying is when Aziraphale and Crowley performed their miracle, Gabriel was sitting directly over the portal connecting the bookshop to Heaven. Sure, it was closed, but it still might have given the whole thing a boost.

Personally, I think it was the combination of all of the above.

What do you think?

[actual-changeling]

He asks him exactly once.

Some months after the world almost ended, Crowley still smells smoke and tastes fire whenever he first enters the bookshop, and so every single time he stays into the evening, he gets drunk. It's not the ideal way of dealing with it, but it works, and, really, it's not going to last forever.

(Right?)

Either way, it's past midnight and he's absolutely shitfaced. Aziraphale pulled out the good whiskey around eleven, and while he is still nursing his second glass, Crowley has lost count of how many times he has topped off his. Looking back, it is hard to tell why that evening, why that question at that time - not that it matters much.

The room is spinning, he is less than artfully sprawled across the sofa and only held in place by a stern look Aziraphale had leveled at the cushions at some point; they wouldn't dare to let him slide off.

"Stars, angel," he says, responding to... something, surely.

"The whole bloody sky 's full of 'em, but you only see such a tiny teeny sparkling sparkle."

Pushing himself a bit more upright so he can face Aziraphale in his armchair, the liquid sloshing dangerously, Crowley impatiently waits for a response, flopping onto his back when he doesn't receive one within seconds.

"Y'know, 's all so pointless, innit?"

Even with his gaze tracing colourful swirling lines on the ceiling, he knows exactly what kind of frown falls onto Aziraphale's face, half worried and half thoughtful. Distantly, emptying his glass and miraculously not choking, he wonders what his concerned little pout would taste like.

"Maybe we're simply not supposed to know the point, my dear, the-"

"The Almighty 's not here, angel, She doesn't care 'bout my stars."

His interruption ends on a sigh, a puffy exhale laced with the first sparks of millennia old angry frustration, and his mind is jumping between centuries and memories alike, leaving him uncomfortably dizzy.

"D'you think," Crowley begins, his voice oddly steady, "She's still- does She care 'bout me?"

If he were fractionally less drunk, he would have sobered up before the words slipped past his lips, but he isn't, and he doesn't. Regret comes all the same, immediately and forcefully enough to punch the air out of his lungs. Home, he needs to go home, needs to take the question back, needs to run before the pity undoubtedly radiating from Aziraphale hits him. His limbs are dipped in honey, unresponsive to his commands, and he screws his eyes shut just long enough to get rid of the worst of the vertigo.

He does not know the answer nor which answer he wants to hear, and yet he has whispered the question to the stars countless times, receiving nothing but cold silence.

(I still love you, he wants to tell her, sometimes, hoping that maybe-

You made me and I still talk to you and you're my Mother, you're the heat burning in my the stars, you're watching us, me and him, and you have yet to punish us him)

With considerable effort, he pulls himself upright with one hand gripping the backrest, dropping his empty glass onto the floor and swinging his legs down next to it. His vision is a blurry haze, his mind too heavy to fully comprehend the panic raging behind it, and a familiar rush of blood in his ears is drowning out Aziraphale muttering in concern.

"Sorry, 'm leaving. See you t'morrow, angel."

"Crowley-"

Making it to the Bentley with nothing but a twisted miracle, he shakes off Aziraphale's fluttering hands, and falls into the driver's seat; she knows where to go, whether he's actually driving her or not. Loneliness seeps into his bones while the engine cools, and he forbids himself from thinking about the response Aziraphale might have given him if he had stayed.

The stars above London are distant and quiet like they always are, and not for the first time, Crowley accepts the silence as the answer it is.

(He asks the sky again three weeks later, he never did know when to stop with the questions.)

(Deep down, he thinks knows hopes if he just keeps asking, eventually She will answer; he hates Her almost as much as he misses Her.)

(Almost)

[myriad-ofmuses]

Birthday Dinner

@thetraumazone @alilmusebundle

He paused in his finishing preparations to allow his hands to stop their shaking, exhaling a stressed breath and stalking back over to the sink to throw cold water on his sweaty face. Again.

Keeping his wet hands plastered to his face for a few beats longer, trying to calm his racing soul, frustrated at himself for letting himself get so worked up.

Fottutamente ridicolo. (Fucking ridiculous.) It was just a dinner. - It was just a culmination of all his impatient patience over the last several months, trying to pin down a time that he could catch his mother alone.

Which.. either fortunately, or unfortunately.. happened to be on her birthday. His father had been called away on some urgent Family business, along with most of their people. Pops had been apologetic and promised to make it up to her, but as ever, she'd been all cool grace about his absence, claiming she would rather have a quiet night in with her sons and grand-baby then to make a big deal of it, anyway.

He'd agonized on whether or not he should wait for another opportunity, but he'd been on pins and needles at home for too long already, and that ticking clock was ever looming over him. The longer they waited, the more risk of discovery - and they couldn't under any circumstance let Sir catch wind of their reunion.

Not until they had powerful backing to support them, anyway. They were in over their heads, they had to make some sort of play before the cards were further stacked against them.

And while it was a shrewdly selfish thought, perhaps his Pops could make it up to his Ma by taking her lead in acceptance of this twisted situation. They just.. had to get to that point, that was all.

Heh.. yep. That was all. Abbastanza facile, vero? (Pretty easy.. right..?)

With a shaky breath, he wiped his wet face with a dish towel and went back to the oven, checking on the garlic bread and the pre-sauced spaghetti simmering away on the stovetop.

It was a miracle in itself that he'd convinced his Ma to let him make dinner for them, but she'd softened up when he said that he wanted to give back even a fraction of what she did for their family on her special day - and then promptly put her grandchild in her arms. Whatever lingering resistance she had melted away, and she'd shooed him off to the kitchen while cradling an extra-snuggly Mia.

Plating up their first course, he took the opportunity to slide the sauce-laden, seasoned pork loin in the oven for secondi, setting a timer to let it slow cook while they enjoyed their first course (and talked.. of course..)

And while he was at it, he tapped the pager clipped at his belt, giving the signal that everything was prepared.

Gathering everything up on a tray, it took a few trips to transfer dinner to the dining table, his mother looking up from her squirmy granddaughter to watch him set up the table, even smile shifting to a perplexed expression at the extra place that was set.

It took all he had not to nervously tug at his collar when faced with that silent quirked brow, but he managed. He certainly wasn't going to start this off on a full-bodied lie, but wouldn't show his hand yet either.

"I invited someone that'd like ta celebrate yer day with us, hope ya don't mind, Ma.."

Puzzlement changed to an equal combination of suspicion and curiosity, and he quickly draped his apron on an empty chair to take his own seat, relieved that it had saved any staining on his sharp suit. No half-assed formal ware tonight, not if he was going to butter her up, anyway.

After an affectionate kiss to her cheekbone, he settled in his chair, and glanced expectantly toward the entryway of the dining room, hoping that Juke's nerves wouldn't get the better of him. It would be.. a much better introduction if he walked out of his own volition, rather than him having to go and fetch him.. but he was prepared to do so.

As the seconds ticked by, he sent out a silent plea to his anticipated partner.

Please.. just trust this, Vipera.. we're going ta be fine. We got this.. I promise..

[after-witch]

 Little Purchase [Yandere Jouno x Reader]

Title: Little Purchase [Yandere Jouno x Reader]

Synopsis: You got far away from Jouno. But not far enough to escape from him.

Word count: 2007

notes: yandere, kidnapped reader, NSFW noncon sex & kissing

The city you’ve found yourself in is unfamiliar, but that’s a good thing, isn’t it? It means that Jouno is far less likely to find you here.

Because it’s not somewhere you ought to run to for help. By all rights,  you should have gone back to your home town, or even one of the major cities, where you could either beg for help from family or get lost in the crowds upon crowds lining the streets. 

But those were the safe options. 

You didn’t have the luxury of safe options anymore.

It was a miracle you even made it out the door, and you attribute that miracle to weeks of meticulous planning and good behavior. Just enough that Jouno let down his guard around you, but not so much that he would think you were behaving suspiciously. If you were too sweet, too submissive, well… he’d know you were pretending. So instead, you were begrudging. Soft, but not entirely without bite. He seemed to like that, if anything, and that’s how you got the opportunity to escape.

And escape you did. It’s been 2 weeks and you’ve made it this far, heart pounding all the while, only sleeping when you knew the buses and trains weren’t going to be making any stops. (Because every stop--any stop--meant he might just get on board.) 

Now, though… you can finally take a rest. Calm down. Relax. Bring your heart rate back to something normal and close your eyes without worrying that he’ll be there when you open them. 

You deserve that much.

That’s why you picked this particular spot, a park overlooking a bridge. There’s a pretty lake, and even some swans (they might be ducks) floating around on the water, creating little trails in their wake. You aren’t even bothered by the occasional bee that finds its way toward you, no doubt lured in by the smell of your lunch.

It would have bothered you, before, to steal money for food. But you weren’t on the run then. You didn’t know what it meant to survive. Now you do, and you thought nothing of the money you lifted from the pockets of a woman on the street. She would be fine. You, on the other hand, were practically starving.

Sitting on the bench with your lunch in your lap, sandwich half eaten, drink cup by your side, you wonder if you should settle down in this city. It’s nice. It’s big enough to get lost in, and not so small that people would get to know you. Perfect for hiding. But then--maybe you will need to get farther than this. Just in case. Maybe switch countries? 

You chew on the thought, literally, as you take another bite of your sandwich. People walk by you, some clearly enjoying the scenery of the park as well. A couple holding hands. A mother with a toddler in tow. 

Someone is sitting next to you. They weren’t there before. You didn’t see anyone approach, or even hear footsteps.

Well.

It takes you a moment.

Too long. 

By the time you realize that it’s Jouno, there’s nothing you can do but sit, muscles feeling like they’ve turned to lead, as his white-gloved hand gently pulls the sandwich away from your hands and sets it aside.

His hand returns, fingers entwining with your own, and bile rises from your stomach.

Could you scream? Would anyone intervene? Would it even help, if they did? 

“This fresh air is nice,” he says, voice as airy as the breeze around you. “Maybe in a while…” And his hand tightens painfully on yours for a fraction of a second, emphasizing something you don’t want to think about: what’s going to happen when  you get back. “We could sit outside together.” He pauses, and you see him frowning. “But not for a while. You’ve been bad, haven’t you? Silly thing. We’ll have to get you home.”

He stands up, and you do too, like a puppet being pulled on a string.

The word hits you, delayed and heavy.

Home. 

The thought seems to release your muscles and a primal urge to get away floods all your senses. “No,” you say, voice choked with fear and anger mingled. “No!” 

His grip tightens again, painful and strict. You tug and struggle--a few people glance, you can see them, see that flash of concern. But you know in an instant that nothing they do will get you away from him now.  Your heart races against the uselessness of everyone around you--the uselessness of yourself. 

He pulls you close to him, a lover’s embrace. He doesn’t seem to mind that you struggle as he leans forward, resting his nose against your hair. “You’re so weak. It’s sweet.” He pulls away and a gloved finger on his free hand finds your chin, tickling it before his fingers grip it hard and pull you in for a kiss. 

You don’t want it. It makes you feel sick. You keep your lips pressed tight, but that only gives him a reason to nip at them. 

Why are tears always salty?

--

“I can tie your wrists to the bed, if you want.” 

Absurdly, you know he can tell that you’re pouting even if he can’t see you. It takes the punch out of your expression, and even that, he seems to sense. He chuckles and finishes stripping your clothes off, having already prepared himself before he got on the bed.

“No? You’re being agreeable, then?” You don’t want to be--but you’re here, aren’t you? In a compound he makes you call home, on his bed, underneath his naked body and forced to be naked yourself. 

He leans down and presses a soft kiss to your forehead. Hair tickles your cheeks. “Do me a favor, dove.” His hands trace down your bare shoulders, making them hunch up in discomfort. “Put your arms around my shoulders. 

“What?” Your eyebrows furrow. You’re used to him touching you. Used to the kisses and the harsh grips, the unwanted strokes and teasing. But he’s never made you touch him before. Not like this. 

Jouno tilts his head ever so slightly, and smiles. “Ah, maybe we need to get your hearing checked.”

It’s a terrible joke.

His face is impassive, and his smile settles into something like a frown. “I don’t like to wait.”

You raise your arms, and they tremble even as you settle your hands on his shoulders.

And then that smile is back, smooth and condescending and horrible. “Good girl. Keep them there, okay? I know you can do it.”

You hate him. You hate this.

You hate it, hate it, hate it--even as the feeling of his bare fingers pulling your legs apart makes you clench in anticipation. Even as you bite back a sigh when his fingers begin to stroke you in an all-too-familiar way that gets you wetter than  you would ever admit. You don’t come, he never lets you come as easily as this, but your eyes shut against the little sparks of pleasure. 

Anxiety-numbed fingers curl on his shoulders when he hums, a sound that you know means he’s deemed you ready to be fucked. You’re surprised, in some way, that he even bothered with this--since it was meant to be a punishment, wasn’t it, when he pulled you directly into the bedroom and began taking off his clothes?

He brings a finger to his lips, and you watch with a sickened fascination as he laps at the wetness there. 

And then he pushes himself inside you, fast, hard. And you’re almost grateful for the way he’s forced your hands onto his shoulders, because it gives you something to brace against--him--as he begins to thrust at a faster, harder pace than usual.

It feels more for power than pleasure, a reminder of what you are (beneath him) and who you are (his) than anything else. The fact that you keep your fingers on his shoulders, not daring to pull them away--not wanting to, in some measure, because you’ll lose some of the physical purchase it gives you--only makes it sink in more bitterly.

One of his hands begins to finger your clit again, and you gasp, only for the gasp to be swallowed by his mouth in a sudden kiss. You whimper against him, some guttural sound that he keeps all for himself, his tongue directing any noises you might make with its touch against your own.

When he pulls away, you turn your head, wanting to get away. But he brings a hand up to your chin with ease and grips it. 

“I want to taste you,” he whispers, breath warm against your cheek. “So let me.” 

Your lip curls in distaste and disgust, but you can’t get away from him. Not from his fingers on your chin, not from his cock inside you, not from this strength keeping you literally and metaphorically pinned to the bed.

The hand on your clit begins to speed up, and you hate that he’s so familiar with your body that he knows just how to stimulate you just right, just so that it’s not overwhelming as the bundle of nerves begins to tingle and throw and build.

Your fingers curl hard against his skin, and you dimly wonder if he’ll bleed, as you come around his cock. 

A moaning sob bubbles out of your lips just as he kisses you, and he smiles against it. Like he knows, like he just fucking knows what is happening inside the turmoil of your mind. And he likes it.

He made you come. You hate him. You hate this. But he made you come, anyway, and your pussy is clenching around him like it wants him there and you can’t do a damn thing about it. 

He speeds up on his thrusts, and the familiar sensation of his hardened cock is punctuated by the deepness of his movements that make you gasp in ragged, timed breaths. It makes you feel stupid. It makes you feel weak.

And he knows it all, and takes it in eagerly, pressing his cheek against yours and nuzzling your face as he stiffens and comes inside you. The warm fluid makes you feel gross and sticky even before he pulls out, leaving you to feel the warmth of it dripping out of your hole.

There is one thing, as you stare up at him, that you can take pleasure in. A few beads of sweat on his forehead. Sweat--it’s the only thing that makes you remember that he’s a human being, underneath all this. Under his abilities, under his strength, under his capture and keeping of you.

He maneuvers himself until he’s laying down next to you, your arms still on his shoulders. 

“You ran away, and I brought you back.” The words are like poison dripped into your ear, and you squirm. But of course, you aren’t going anywhere. “You struggled, but I forced you back with no trouble at all.” Your wrists feel the ghost of his grip, the way he easily subdued you, just like always. 

The building bitterness finally spills out of your lips. “Stop.” The words stick to the roof of your mouth. 

How can he sound so sweet and horrible, all at the same time? 

His fingers dance up your arm, casual and teasing, ignoring your pointless outburst. 

“You got wet from my fingers. You came around my cock. You moaned so sweetly into my mouth.”

You shake your head, stupidly, but you can’t deny what happened. You just want him to stop saying it, stop reminding you. 

He wraps his arms around your waist and pulls you in closer. His body is warm, and you can’t escape the instinctual, biological urge to lean into it. 

“How does that make you feel?” He pauses, and smiles. “No,  you don’t have to tell me.” His hair is soft against your chest as he rests his head against it, cuddling you in a way that makes you hate him but yourself more. 

Because it feels nice, in some way, to be held.

It feels nice, in some way, to be known. 

And Jouno is the only one who will ever know you like this again.

“I already know.”

[rosewaterandivy]

sings like a church with a choir in it

Summary: A blurb not at all inspired by the tragic events I got myself into yesterday due to poor planning and wasting away in bed due to sad girl hours.

Pairing: Steve Harrington OR Eddie Munson (choose your lover!) x curly/coily/wavy fem!reader

WC: 1232K

Warnings/Themes: anxiety, self-care, acts of service, hair wash day & its trials, shower sex (male receiving)

A/N: Eddie and Steve have intricate haircare routines, I know this in my bones. So obviously they help us with wash-day because it's exhausting! This is for my curly/coily/wavy!girls; I see you, I love you, and my arms are tired too 😮‍💨

Please do not interact if you aren't 18+.

Nota bene: Reblogging, commenting, and liking my work is always appreciated; reposting, however, is not.

Enjoy! 💜

🎵My baby runs ten miles to win it, she moves like her body's got a fire in it🎵

Damn your shitty timing and utter laziness— the dreaded day has finally arrived, a day that will live in infamy.

Despite a schedule that mostly kept things at bay, stress and anxiety had taken over landing you in bed for an extended stay.

But you couldn’t let the precious motivation you’d saved up go to waste. And that’s how you found yourself staring down the barrel of a wash day and an everything shower.

Fuck.

The bed had been stripped and sheets were in the washer, so you couldn’t even sneak back into the bedroom and recreate a cocoon to wallow in.

With a sigh, you crouch down and grab the necessary supplies: co-wash, leave-in, body exfoliant, razor, and the body wash you’d spent far too much on, but just couldn’t pass up— the scent was otherworldly.

Shower products in place and temperature as hot as it would go, you placed the styling tools in order of use on the countertop and wrangled the hair dryer to balance on the side of the sink.

Towel on the rung close to the shower and t-shirt at the ready, you tug the hairwrap from your head and step into the steamy shower, running your fingers against your scalp to further distribute the oil you’d applied last night.

Once under the stream of water, you take a moment to let the warmth sink into your skin. Rolling your neck as the droplets skim down your neck and chest, a deep breath in and out.

Then you get to work.

Body exfoliant first, quickly followed by shaving your legs. Checking for any nicks, you smile at finding none— phase one, complete.

Music echoing through the bathroom, glass and mirrors too fogged to see through— the opening of the shower door startles you, understandably.

“The fuck?!” You yelp, scalp brush in one hand and co-wash in the other. It’s a miracle you hadn’t dropped either.

The magnetized door of the glass shower clicks open. Just a muted, dull separation that lets a fraction of cool air rush in, towing his body in with it.

He smirks, eyeing you up and down as he joins you. You shuffle over to make room, rolling your eyes. A tsk when he takes the brush from your hand, “Gotta save water babe.”

Take the brush from your hand and reaches over to adjust the temperature of the water. His body is warm and solid behind you, beckoning you to lean against him. His arm falls lazily around your hips, “Lemme help you, sugar.”

As you nod and say something about detangling, he grabs a claw clip and holds it between his teeth while his hands work to section your hair. Mumbles something that sounds like, “Think I don’t know how to take care of my girl?” But you’re not sure, the plastic in his mouth preventing an accurate translation.

Half of your hair clipped up and away, he pumps a few dollops of co-wash in his palm and distributes it through the loose sections. Through the mirror by the showerhead, you can see his brows tilt together in concentration.

Too fucking cute.

He takes it seriously, knowing how tedious the wash-day process can be. Is careful not to pull or tug, not that you’re tender-headed necessarily— just hates to hurt you, the old softie. Fingers card through the conditioned waves, the top section falling with a wet smack down your back.

“Sorry,” He murmurs, bottom lip full and red against the bite of his white teeth. 

Snaking an arm to grasp his forearm, you give a gentle squeeze, “S’okay baby.”

Diligently, he continues the process on this section— taking more time to finger curl and define the strands for more volume. 

Your heart clenches at the thought, god, how you adore him.

He’s humming along to the music under his breath, working the scalp brush gently over the crown of your head. The soft bristles are soothing, you let out a soft sigh and all but melt against the hard line of his torso.

A sonorous laugh that echoes through the stall of the shower and reverberates in his chest. He asks you to turn, voice soft and low. Grabs the retractable shower head to rinse your hair, fingers working against your scalp, a lazy smile gracing his lips.

“Hey sleepyhead,” He says, licking his lips in the hazy steam, a click when he slots the showerhead back into place. “Feelin’ better?”

“Mm,” You hum, head resting on his chest teeth bared against slick warm skin, “Almost.” Then your fingers light on his half-hard cock, which is suddenly very interested in your hand. 

His eyes roll back. “Fuck.” 

“Sorry, honey,” you say, but you’re not, because you know how he likes it. 

He hisses quietly, back hitting the tiles as you step between his legs. “Oh.” He stutters breathlessly, watching your gotcha expression.

You slide to your knees like a supplicant, mouth dropping open so prettily. You purr and lick and nuzzle into him as if you can’t get enough, like be content there between his thighs until the end of time.

Doesn’t matter what he says, half-hearted attempts to remind you about getting to your leave-in fall away in small gasps and swears. You just keep rubbing with your palm, your nimble fingers, your tight grip. 

It should be illegal for someone to be as hot as you, he swears it.

He groans when you give him a slow lick up to his throbbing tip, swirling your tongue at the end, then shoving him down until you choke yourself on it. He jerks up reflexively, getting in two quick thrusts before you pull away with a smile.

You’re looking at him like you could devour him, lower lip pinched tightly between your teeth, breath shallow and quick. His abs constrict when you put your hands on them, feeling your way up his ribs and back down, fingers dancing along planes of bone and muscle.

Lips puckered and glossy with spit and precome that doesn’t stop leaking out of him, making these obscene fucking sounds at the base of his shaft, at the curve of his balls, tugging them into your mouth, keeping them there while he prays for mercy.

“Baby,” he growls, patience gone. “I swear to god.”

He means to threaten you with something— a rough fuck, maybe—but he effectively loses his train of thought when you give him exactly what he’s fantasized about since he’s woken up.

Your candy pink mouth turned red hot and wicked. Wet and slick as you slide him down your throat. You keep your jaw slack and bob your head steadily as if suggesting that he take the lead. 

To your delight, he slowly begins rolling his hips. Experimental at first, half-hearted and worried about startling or choking you, but at the first reflex of a gag, your eyes light up before fluttering half-closed and you practically mewl.

“Jesus Christ. Oh, fuck, honey.”

Hooded dark eyes meet yours, looking down the bridge of his nose, lips parted to match. Panting. Grunting. 

“Don’t stop,” Your voice is a ragged debauched thing.

Suddenly bold because he’s at the end of his rope and about to blow—completely collapse and pour down your throat and all over your pretty little face.

And goddamn, he thinks.

He’s never loved a girl like you.

So much for saving water.

[posarmeklen]

Don’t you hate when you turn your back for a minute at your dead-end copy job (sorry, dead-end desktop publishing job), and all of a sudden, one half of your sister’s cool teen quartet along with your horndog conspiracist friend are holding paper products (er, helping with a big job) and flapping their lips about the latter’s fairly new unplanned pregnancy?

It was just a coincidence that Goat swung by to visit Alex at Repro Man’s shortly after Fruity and Matt came in, and even though they had heard through Chaka (who, naturally, knew because of Alex) that the older man was in a “delicate” condition, it was their first time bumping into him in person since.

Hearing Fruity’s compliments, Matt turned around from the poster in his hands. “Oh, hey, Goat,” he greeted him.

“Hey, Matt, what’s up?”  

“Probably nothing compared to what’s up with you, right?”

“Yeah, I’ve been busy.” Goat coughed.

“Yeah, you know, my cousin just had a baby a couple months ago,” Matt offered up. “I’m not gonna lie, it wasn’t easy for her, but she said it was totally worth it. You know, yin and yang and all that.”

“Hey, I don’t think this situation calls for the poetry.” Fruity made a disapproving smacking sound with his lips.  “Man, can’t you just leave this beautiful thing be?” Goat smirked.

“Chill out, alright?” said Matt, gingerly transferring a large stack of paper from Fruity’s hands to his own and placing it by the copier. “I was just going to ask how he’s taking it.”

“Well,” Goat said emphatically. “Do you want the miracle-of-life Demi Moore Vanity Fair edition, or the cold unabridged truth?” His words conjured an image of himself, au naturel and assuming the pose of the actress, which subsequently splintered and fell away like a broken pane of glass.

“I wouldn’t expect anything less than the second one from you.” Matt smiled.

“Oh, it’s fuckin’ brutal,” he asserted. “Imagine the most head-splitting zombifying hangover, with none of the fun from the night before.”

Fruity raised his eyebrows. “None?”

“Oooh, rough…” Matt mumbled sympathetically.

“My back hurts all time. Everything’s sweaty. Plus, on top of that, I can’t really see my junk. It makes for a challenge when women’s volleyball is on and I wanna –”

“Alright, alright…” Matt’s laugh cut the description of his plight short. “I think we get the picture.”

“Hey, we’re all guys here!” grinned Fruity, giving an open-palmed shrug.

“I will say, it’s not a total loss,” Goat went on. “I seem to have unlocked a brand-new level of savoring life’s pleasures.”

“Oh, because you had trouble with that before, right?” teased Matt.

“Eh, I don’t know, but this baby must love Ring-Dings and Bud Light.”

“Hey, and at least the ladies eat up this stuff,” Fruity said. “You know, feeling the baby kick and comparing its size to a dill pickle and crap. They must be all over you.”

“Uh, yeah, yeah, right on.” Goat looked past him, letting out a sigh. “Is there a bathroom in this place? I gotta take a leak.”

“Yeah, right over by the back wall,” said Matt.

“I won’t keep you,” Fruity added, motioning in the general direction of the door.

So anyway, when it comes to Fruity’s comment re: the “fairer sex” and pregnancy, I would be remiss not to mention the kindred spirit Goat hit it off with, the child’s second parent (seen in my Downtown posts of yesteryear. However, I did change her name for some reason. Friendship ended with “Jackie”, “Kasey” is my best friend now). *clears my throat and shuffles flashcards* There came a point of awareness that despite their similarities, they were at really different life stages (Goat had been doing his own thing for years, but Kasey, a trans woman who was Goat’s age, had been living as herself for a fraction of that and was relishing her freedom) and while Goat initially hadn’t changed his lifestyle a bit to accommodate the pregnancy, she didn’t want to live like him forever and begrudged his seeming lack of trying. Words were exchanged, and the pair went their separate ways. Not to worry – they would soon rekindle, and both put forth effort to be healthier (in Goat’s case, he was mostly propelled by the knowledge of his physical condition; in Kasey’s, she was inspired to show a sort of solidarity with him, plus she would soon be a parent as well, despite not physically being pregnant).  But given their respective issues, neither swayed the other in a positive direction, and they soon reached the disappointing yet amicable conclusion that they were perhaps too alike to remain close. And in the midst of that, they just knew neither of them were cut out to raise children (what were we thinking?) – so wish granted for a lucky adoptive parent(s). But I digress… I wonder if some of this diverted him from regaling Fruity and Matt with salacious tales when given the opportunity.

Also, by the way? Even though Fruity was being facetious in my picture and Goat wouldn’t name his offspring after himself, he and the aforementioned second parent did discover at an ultrasound (the first and only; Goat completely forgot about an appointment scheduled earlier in the pregnancy 😑) that the fetus was male. Goat after he and Kasey exchanged an overwhelmed glance and muttered fragmented agreeable noises upon being asked if they were interested in finding out the baby’s sex today: “Rock on! Built-in apprentice and wingman, here I come…” *medical technician politely chuckling intensifies*

[littlemisspascal]

Rockford & Roan Pt. 7

Pairing: Tim Rockford x Female Reader/OFC ‘Roan’

Word Count: 2.7k

Summary: “All that glitters is not gold, Miss Roan.”

Rating: T. Heed the warnings y'all!

Warnings: Language, Reader has a dog, Reader has military background, Superpower AU, They Were Roommates AU, self-esteem issues, soulmates-ish, original characters, worldbuilding, crime-solving

- Reader has no first name and no physical traits described in detail except for being shorter than Rockford. Reader is mentioned to have hair

Author Note: Thank you always for the kind support💗

Special thanks to @beecastle for beta reading and encouraging me 💜💜💜

Series Masterlist

The Truce

Entering the apartment, the whole living room is soaked in sepia tones, all browns and reds creeping up the walls, half-lit by a lightbulb on its last leg. You unclip Banjo’s leash from his collar, watching him dart away in the direction of the kitchen where his water bowl awaits him. Slipping off your shoes, you quietly venture further in.

In a scene almost identical to earlier this evening, Rockford rests on the floor with his eyes closed, sending a feeling of déjà vu rushing over you. He’s surrounded by paper, some crumpled and torn, his curls extra disheveled from fingers dragging through them with increasing annoyance.

His presence makes your empathy prickle, little firecrackers bursting in your veins bugging you to break the silence. And you want to, really, it’s just you don’t know how. There’s a jumble of half-formed sentences sour tasting on the back of your tongue, none of them feeling big enough, right enough to fix everything. Maybe Rockford doesn’t even want to talk to you. Maybe he’d been glad you’d disappeared, giving him time to think in peace.

“Did you know whenever a portal opens and closes there’s the distinct smell of ozone afterwards? It’s a pungent odor, like bleach,” Rockford says, causing you to jump. His eyes are open and looking at you now, though he makes no move to get up. “I have some if you’d like to shower with it. Cassius has a penchant for inhabiting seedy places.”

Your eyebrows lift, aiming for a note of levity in your voice. “I guess I missed the memo luxurious mansions are what’s considered seedy nowadays.”

There’s a tremor beneath his calm exterior, something dark he smothers a hair too late, and he angles his gaze away from your face, off to the side. “All that glitters is not gold, Miss Roan.”

You’re not sure what hurts most. The disparaging remark or how he continues breaking his promise of always letting you feel his emotions by continuing to stifle them. You’d entered the apartment wanting to close the distance between you and Rockford, but it seems like so far all you’ve done is widen it further.

Banjo chooses that moment to enter, licking at the water drops clinging to the hair on his beard. He makes a beeline for Rockford and lies down next to the man’s arm so there’s no excuse not to pet him. Spoiled pup doesn’t even notice the brewing tension, tail wagging happily with each stroke of Rockford’s palm over the top of his head. 

“I…” Your fingers wiggle restlessly, bottom lip held between your teeth. “I don’t…”

Rockford freezes for a fraction of a second, and you catch it again–a flicker of feeling he douses in the same instant it forms, preventing identification–before his steady movement continues. 

You join him and Banjo on the floor, sitting with your legs curled under you. The physical closeness settles some of your jitteriness somehow, reminds you he’s here. Tangible. 

“I don’t know how to fix this,” you confess.

Rockford’s head turns your direction so fast it’s a miracle his neck doesn’t snap. “What?”

“I know I screwed up at the crime scene, and I’m sorry for that, I’ll–I’ll be better, I promise I’ll do whatever it takes to be the match you deserve, just please stop shutting everything down–” You jam your finger against your temple, hoping he somehow understands how much it upsets you.

“Roan.” Rockford pushes himself upright, voice sharp and cutting deep, looking at you with blazing eyes. “None of what happened tonight was your fault. You don’t need to be better,” he spits the word venomously, killing the counter argument you’d been forming on the tip of your tongue. “You’re the perfect match for me. Exactly as you are. I’m the fuck up you don’t deserve.”

You frown, spluttering uncomprehendingly. “Wh–what?”

“Your trauma was triggered because I didn’t even spare a second to fucking think about the consequences of what I asked you to do. I put the case before your needs. The look on your face, Roan, I never want to see so much fear or pain ever again.” He swallows and takes a few seconds before continuing. “And as long as you kept feeling my emotions–my anger and my worry, everything–you’d keep being reminded of how I’d fucked up and you paid for it. So I sent you outside with Keziah, the most levelheaded man I know, and I did what I thought was necessary to…”

“To what?” you ask, barely above a murmur.

It’s heartbreaking to watch those brown eyes darken with shame, the tiniest quiver of his lips before he’s ducking his head, gaze falling to the rug. “To start earning back your trust.”

“No,” you breathe, shaking your head vehemently. “No, no, no. You never lost my trust. Not once. I’m the one who screwed up, Rockford. My empathy, it’s too…” unpredictable, disobedient, broken “...temperamental.”

“Kez told me what you felt from the victim. Roan, you’ve confirmed my suspicions there’s a killer on the loose.” He takes your hand in his, fingers interlocking. “You and your empathy have done more for this investigation singlehandedly than half the police force and their gifts have done in months.”

“Still, I’m sorr–”

“Roan,” he interrupts you with a firm squeeze of your hand. “Don’t you dare fucking apologize again.”

You grit your teeth, lips pursing in a thin line. If Rockford’s not going to let you feel at fault, then you’re not going to let him keep harboring guilt either. 

Bunch of self-blaming idiots, the pair of you. This ends now.

“Fine,” you answer, looking him square in the eye as your mind-gift deliberately pokes at his persisting mental shields. “I’ll stop apologizing if you stop shutting off your emotions. That shit’s not healthy. You’re not responsible for my trauma, Rockford. You didn’t have any idea what I’d sense from the echo and even if you had somehow guessed, you couldn’t have done anything about my brain’s reaction. It just…happened.”

And it’s like a switch flips inside your mind, such a jarring realization that your panic attack wasn’t your fault or Rockford’s. Neither of you directly caused it. Neither of you could’ve possibly predicted the hissing laughter. Neither of you had the power to erase your past.

It just fucking happened.

Rockford says nothing, gaze sweeping over your face as if seeing you for the first time, perceiving something new that entices his gift and eases some of the lines from his brow. 

You feel it when his walls come down, waters of relief and high spirits cascading upon your empathy, nurturing and nourishing. Rainfall after years of drought. Your eyes flutter shut, basking in the feeling of his mindscape. God, it feels so good to return. To be welcomed and wanted again.

The stark contrast between brothers rivals night and day. There’d been nothing to sense from Cassius’ aura except for just that: nothingness. A shadow without substance. But with Rockford’s, your mind-gift can stretch out infinitely in every direction, on and on and on, forever finding something new to discover. Barely scratching the surface.

“So,” you murmur, unashamedly soaking up his presence the same way Banjo sploots on the floor in a patch of afternoon sunlight, “it’s a truce then?”

You can hear the smile in Rockford’s voice when he agrees, “It’s a truce.”

“Good.” You let out a jaw-popping yawn, stretching your arms up over your head. “Now that that’s settled, I think it’s time for me to slee—hey!”

Rockford’s other hand retracts from your jacket pocket, quick as a fox, the playing card from Cassius caught between careful fingers. He holds it up towards the lamp, flipping it over, examining both sides. To you there’s nothing extraordinary about the card’s appearance, but evidently something must stand out to Rockford’s gift to spend extra time analyzing it. 

“Three of hearts,” he states the obvious, but there’s something about the narrowing of his eyes you don’t like the look of. 

“Does that mean something?” you wonder, glancing over at the wall where the knife still has the joker pinned. “What’s Cassius’ deal with playing cards anyways?”

“My brother picked up many pointless talents during his youth–tying cherry stems into knots with his tongue, mimicking birdsong, rolling a coin across his knuckles among others. But his favorite trick has always been cartomancy.” The hand still holding yours suddenly flips, exposing your palm and Rockford presses the card there with the three red hearts facing up. “If you believe these are capable of fortune-telling, then this particular card serves as both a warning and a piece of advice.”

“Well that’s clear as mud.”

Rockford leans back on his hands, all loose and casual now that his burden is gone and seeing that does something to you, it really does. “It means he likes you, Roan. That you’ll be seeing him again sooner or later.”

You groan, eyeing the playing card with a new lack of enthusiasm. “Hopefully later.” 

“Did my brother offer you money to spy on me?” Rockford asks out of nowhere.

“Yeah,” you answer, a little dumbstruck. “How did you–?”

“You’re not the first. Won’t be the last either, I’m certain.” Rockford steamrolls on before you can make a comment about their bizarre family dynamic. “Did you take the money?”

Huffing indignantly, you cross your arms. “Of course not. I wouldn’t do that to you.”

“Pity,” Rockford says, dry as dust. “We could’ve used the extra income around here.”

The Suitcase

Rolling your eyes, you fling the playing card at his head. It misses him by leagues, soaring through the air frisbee-style and landing on the couch. Banjo stares after it for a moment, probably contemplating if it’s worth fetching, before settling his head upon Rockford’s knee with a quiet exhale.

It’s not as easy for you to turn away.

“Rockford.”

“Hmm?” He tweaks one of Banjo’s silky ears, distracted. 

You point a finger at a yellow suitcase standing out so glaringly amongst the couch pillows it’s ridiculous you didn’t notice it sooner. “What is that?”

Rockford reluctantly drags his gaze away from Banjo, the pup attempting to lick and nip every inch of the man’s hand, and acknowledges what’s caught your attention with a bland, “Oh that? It’s Carmin Carrillo’s luggage.”

Surprise raises both your eyebrows, gaze flickering back and forth between the suitcase and your match. “Seriously?”

Instead of outright answering, Rockford crawls across the short distance and grabs hold of the suitcase’s handle, yanking it onto the floor with a thud. He taps the personalized tag attached to the zipper, black with yellow initials CC, confirming the owner is indeed the victim. 

“Found it discarded in a dumpster a couple blocks from the warehouse,” Rockford tells you before gently nudging Banjo away with his foot when the mutt tries to give the case a thorough sniffing. “Careful. That’s evidence.”

“Does Inspector Dorrance know you have Carmin’s suitcase?”

“I sent a text to him highly suggesting he stop by here tomorrow at his soonest convenience. He replied with a thumb’s up.”

“Okay…” You frown lightly. “How did you even know to look for her bag?”

“The victim’s coat was wet, however her umbrella was unused which means she not only faced rain but strong wind too,” Rockford explains, and you remember how he’d studied the body, touching her coat and searching her pockets. “That kind of weather hasn’t happened anywhere in Fox Leap today which means she came in from outside the city. But she can’t have traveled more than an hour or two since her coat would’ve been dry. Quick weather check on my phone showed Toven was a match.”

Your jaw’s hanging open, you know it is, but it’s just–he’s so–and his mind, oh his mind is–

Beautiful, you think. Beautifully brilliant. Shining like the steady white beam of a lighthouse cutting through all the bullshit and distractions to the beating heart of it all: the bloody truth.

“There were mud stains on the back of her leg. Tiny splashes you’d only get from dragging a wheeled suitcase around. Except Kez told me no such thing had been found with the body.” His tone is almost totally inflectionless, flat like yours used to be when giving a field report to your higher ups. A recitation of pure, solid facts compiled and organized connecting A to B to C. “Most probably the killer drove the victim to the wharf, then accidentally forgot her suitcase was still in the car. No way he pulled it along with him or carried it on foot, that would’ve definitely attracted attention. And I say ‘him’ because statistically speaking, it’s most likely a man behind these deaths.”

“Uh…” You don’t know what to say, reeling from the influx of information. “Right, yeah. Makes sense. So, um, you really pieced together all of…all of those itty bitty details from just a few minutes of observation at the crime scene? That’s amazing!”

Rockford is quick to shake his head. “Remember our truce, Roan. There’s no need to flatter me.”

“Well, that’s unfortunate.” You click your tongue at him, causing Banjo’s head to tilt quizzically at the sound. “If you can’t tell when I’m being dead serious versus blowing smoke up your rear then maybe you’re not the master of perception like I thought.”

“No such thing as a master of anything,” he reasons, uncharacteristically flustered in such an endearing way your mind-gift threatens to melt.

“Humble,” you can’t help but tease, “that’s cute.”

“Good to know.” He clears his throat, changing the subject swiftly, probably hoping you won’t notice the red tint of his ears. Gesturing at the suitcase, Rockford says, “All the victim’s essentials are just as she packed them. Clothes, toiletries, charger. But her phone is noticeably absent. Wasn’t on her person or in her bag.”

“Maybe she left it back home accidentally?”

“In this day and age?” He scoffs. “Please.”

He’s got a point. Everyone’s glued to their phones from the moment they wake up to the moment they fall asleep, relying on them like an extra limb. Even Rockford’s got his cell within easy reach, acting as a paper weight on top of a stack of documents near where he was previously laying. Coming on an overnight trip to Fox Leap, Carmin definitely would’ve had her phone with her.

“She could’ve lost it,” you suggest, thinking of other possibilities. “Or…”

He leans in, brown eyes brightening, eager for you to reach the same conclusion he has. “Or?”

It takes you all of three seconds

“The killer has it,” you blurt out, an exclamation that Banjo echoes with a bark.

“Correct, Miss Roan,” Rockford states, matter-of-fact. “She might have left it in his car, just like her suitcase, or he took it from her directly. Either way, it’s in his possession.”

“You think he still has it?” Your eyebrows draw together dubiously. “If I were the killer, I’d throw it into the nearest body of water I could find.” 

“And that’s the difference between a clever and a brilliant killer.”

“Huh?”

“The brilliant ones are desperate to get caught. They crave attention. An audience.” Rockford spreads his arms out wide in a theatrical gesture, eliciting a quiet snort from you. Still, makes you wonder…

“How many killers have you encountered?”

Rockford falters for a moment. You feel it in his mood again, another one of those dark flickers, a bobber in the water dipping and coming back up, reacting to something deeper and unseen. He doesn’t try to hide it this time, doesn’t make a move to shove you out of his mindscape either. However, you’re reluctant to pull on that string any further. Tonight’s already had enough highs and lows involving a laundry list of emotions, thank you very much. He knows you know it’s there and you know he knows it’s there—whatever it is. For now, that’s enough. 

“Enough to be certain our killer has made a mistake tonight, Roan,” Rockford says without an inkling of doubt coating his voice or staining his mood. “It’s up to us now to set the trap and put an end to his poisonings. Together.”

Together, you think with a slight smile. I like the sound of that.