#how utterly empty and awful it must be to be staring at an empty vessel that was once filled w smth

[elfcollector]

nobody ever talks about the durge as a living weapon. as a person whos autonomy was usurped and their identity broken so that they would be a god's tool. the dehumanization by god. the lack of opportunity to form your own life or self. the total lack of real identity. as ever i must do everything myself

[rueitae]

Within a Wisp of Your Life

This is a gift for @rosieclark, my contribution to the @langstron gift exchange 2019. (I hope you like it.)

Read on Ao3

~~~~~

The ground hits Lance hard, and he cries out in pain as the uneven stone floor cuts into the exposed skin on his face. His helmet lay somewhere far away, long since lost somewhere on the battlefield.

He rolls, shoulder over shoulder until finally coming to rest on his stomach, bracing his forearms against the floor. Lance breathes hard, exhausted. The dirt stirred up by his fall makes him cough.. It springs his, likely, broken ribs to cut his innards like a sharp knife. Bruises plague him all over under his armor and he wants nothing more than to lie down and rest and ease his scrambled mind. But he cannot, not yet. Not when his enemy seeks to take everything he loves.

Slowly, he places one palm on smooth stone and begins to lift himself. A shooting pain hits his forehead as he does, and if he hadn’t been familiar with these awful headaches he’d have assumed his assailant struck him again. But death blow or magic it was not - he knew what those felt like too. 

Lance forces himself to his knees. His arms wobble, struggling under his own weight, and he falters, leaning to his side. His shoulder makes contact into more stone - but even with his body and mind in shambles he can tell he’s not lying on the floor..

With a gasp, Lance realizes he’s on the other side of this ancient temple. He sits at the feet of and leans against the stone altar; the very one he’s trying to avoid. Getting out of here is imperative; he hasn’t given Pidge nearly enough time to complete her spell. Fists clenched, his resolve returns to him.

Wait. Blue! Where is his sword?

“Looking for this, brave knight?”

Ventos; the greatest of the dark mages, scourge of the Outlands, destroyer of realities…

And Pidge’s great-great-great-really great grandfather.

The man (Beast? Immortal? It was difficult to know what was truth or fiction with a living legend.) floats slowly towards him, pinning him with a predatory gaze.  He shrouds himself in a tailored dark robes with only his scarred face to show; the picture of villainy itself. 

Hovering above his outstretched and thin gloved hands - Blue, one of only five weapons capable of inflicting damage against the ancient magic Ventos wields. Lance’s sword. 

A pale-blue glow surround Blue, flickering inconsistently. Lance can feel it in his soul, Blue is just as exhausted as he. 

“A marvelous weapon,” Ventos remarks casually. Lance’s heart sinks, he sounds as if he’s not wasted breath at all on their battle. 

With a twist of his wrist the sword rotates in mid-air. “Objectively, of course,” Ventos says. “The Voltron swords are persistent, if anything. But I have no more use for interruptions.”

A simple flick of the wrist and Blue speeds downwards, embedding into the floor with such force that it shakes the ground. All that remains is the very tip of the hilt, hardly enough to grip and attempt to dislodge it. 

Lance wraps an arm around his stomach while using the other to brace against the floor as he lurches forward, his last meal now on the floor before him. A hole throbs painfully in his heart where Blue’s presence once gave him power and warmth. It’s been so long; he can’t remember life without the comforting pulses of energy from his sword. 

“Ohhh, poor knight,” Ventos says, falsely sympathetic. The air grows cold as he approaches. “You have fought valiantly, but your defeat was inevitable.”

Lance rolls back. His shoulder hits the altar and he swallows deeply, eyes closed as if to ignore the taste of his own vomit, gathering what is left of his strength. He may be down a magic sword, but for this battle, he still has a weapon at his disposal. 

“What good is this world for you anyway?” Lance snaps, glaring as if the action alone would cause Ventos to fall over dead. “Surely with being immortal and powerful you have everything you could ever want?”

Ventos chuckles darkly. “Mortals are short sighted.”

Lance gasps as wispy apparitions fill the immediate area. They mill about in a ghostly marketplace, trading wares as children play with a ball in the street.

“Look at them going about their meaningless lives, the same dull routine day after day; many of them struggling to survive.” Several of the illusions, mostly those between market stalls, turn a dark purple. “And a good many others ignore their plight.” More figures in fancier dress turn the same dark purple as they walk the streets. Lance yelps as one walks through him. 

“Their hearts are hard, their quintessence poisoning the earth; they do not deserve this world.” He sighs, falsely sad. “But I need more power, I must take unto myself the most pure quintessence from strong individuals. It falls to me to find them.”

Lance tchs. “How noble,” he says dryly. 

“Though you serve the right noble house, I can hardly expect a simple knight to understand the importance of what I do,” Ventos chides. 

Lance growls at the slight, blood simmering to a boil. “I serve the Holts; you’re just a distant blight in the family history.” A smirk tugs on his face, delighted to throw an insult back at this all powerful being. “They care more about the flowers in the garden than your ambitions.”

The dark mage merely smiles unpleasantly, sending a shiver down Lance’s spine. That… hadn’t gone exactly how he’d planned.

“And that flower would be you, Lance of Blue Beach? Tell me; where is my dear granddaughter?”

All sense of soreness and pain departs to the back of his mind and no longer is he tired. Lance springs from his spot and launches himself at the most powerful being in the world, with one a curled fist as a weapon. He swings, and when Ventos dodges Lance stumbles forward - though he hardly cares as he turns to face his foe, shoulders rigid in anger.

“You do not get to call her that!” Lance rages. 

Ventos laughs, one that echoes off the walls of the empty temple. “Such life!” The dark mage’s eyes stare him down hungrily, arm outstretched. “Your quintessence will be a feast!” 

Lance lunges out of the way of a lightning bolt, heart beating so fast it throbs in his ears. Achy limbs move on their own, muscles reacting more out of survival instinct than clear thought. His fingers stretch out, tips nearly on the hilt of his beloved sword…

A soft purple glow fills his vision and though he has no flying capability, he hovers agonizingly close to Blue. He strains, but his fingers - his body - refuses to move on its own. 

Dark magic. 

“You won’t get away with this!” Lance growls. His scowl of defiance dissolves when his body is tugged backwards; his heart pounding harder and harder as Blue falls out of reach. 

Ventos rounds him, his hand cupped upright as if he holds the invisible strings keeping Lance in the air. 

“I have seen you with my granddaughter,” he says as Lance is dragged helplessly further from Blue… and though he can’t see, it cannot be anywhere but the altar. “How precious the two of you are - walking in the gardens and holding hands as if you are sweet on each other.”

Lance’s heart freezes. How long has this madman been watching them? 

“It’s a pity a descendant of mine wields the Green of Voltron; but no matter. She will join with me like so many of our kin before her. Her body will make the perfect vessel for my magic once this one is destroyed.”

A sharp laugh escapes despite his captivity. “Pidge would never join you. She’s way more clever than you are.” And beautiful and funny and loving and loyal, also far kinder than he deserved after initially butting heads back when he’d been a squire in her father’s court. 

His vision blurs when his body is sharply turned. A cool, hard surface greets his back above the main floor and glowing purple cords of energy pin his arms to his sides and his body to the stone. The air feels thick like tar. 

The altar. 

Ventos waves a hand over him. An ethereal aura surrounds him, a thick white, with droplets of blue hovering around in it. 

Ventos breathes in deep, a contented smile upon his face, and ushers a handful of the aura and blue droplets into his nostrils. 

Lance’s eyes close, the feeling of sleep pouncing on him suddenly amidst the adrenaline of battle. That simple realization is enough to startle him to full awareness. This aura is his quintessence and Ventos is taking it. 

The man is taking his life force and he can’t do a thing about it. 

“Ahh,” Ventos sighs. “Delightful flavor, full of humor, love, and idealism. Oh?” he wonders, as if a connoisseur. “A hint insecurity? Wonderful.” Lance winces as Ventos takes another whiff as if he tastes fine wine. “There’s that bravery and selflessness.”

Lance squirms, testing the limits of his bonds. With each breath, more quintessence leaves his body as does his strength. Never has he felt so utterly exposed, he may as well be naked. He closes his eyes, trying to calm his nerves though he Ventos could take his life at any moment. 

“I digress, I have uses for you before I can take all of your quintessence. Tell me, where is my granddaughter?”

He still has a job to do.

“I’ll never tell you,” Lance spits.

The saliva lands lamely on his own cheek.

Ventos seems all too pleased at his pathetic effort. “Your loyalty is commendable,” says the scourge of the Outlands as he gently glides a gloved finger down Lance’s cheek, wiping the spit in a creepy sense of paternal care. “Though you are misguided by infatuation. No child of my line would choose a common-born knight over the power and knowledge of the universe.”

Lance knows he’s wrong. He knows Pidge will fight tooth and nail for her loved ones; it’s Ventos who has underestimated her.

But he has to keep the conversation going - he has to buy Pidge more time.

“Well,” he ponders aloud, breath labored with each word. He scrutinizes Ventros’s features and smiles, eager for his own punchline. “I suppose she does share some relation to you.”

Ventros smirks cruelly. “You continue to surprise me with your cooperation, child. Go on. If I like what I hear, perhaps I can spare your life to live at her side.”

The snarky smile dissolves from his face and a sick queasiness stirs in Lance’s stomach. The thought of being in Pidge’s service while she turns into a power-hungry tyrant would break his heart. 

Likely Ventos’s point.

All the more reason to prevent Pidge from becoming someone even she can’t recognize. 

So he makes his gulp of fear as shallow as possible, “It’s clearly the eyebrows. It took me a while to figure out because her’s are actually cute when she gets cocky.”

Ventros’s face turns dark, nose upturned and lips snarling. “Petulant child,” he says, fingers outstretched and—

Lance screams. Magical lightning courses through his body as every muscle clenches and burns. It lasts only a moment, but the pain lingers, every breath a stab against his lungs. The residual heat is itchy and continues to burn. 

A clammy hand grabs his throat, squeezing as Lance chokes desperately for breath. 

Ventros leans over and whispers harshly in his ear. “I will greatly enjoy sucking your life away as slowly and painfully as possible.”

“You’ll leave him alone!” 

It’s the voice Lance so longs to hear, but dreads at this moment. Pidge, Lady Holt of the Green Meadow - his liege of sword and heart. She stands atop the grand staircase of an entrance to the underground temple, her green tunic and armor just as beautiful as a ballroom gown. Her sword is sheathed, but she holds aloft a much more dangerous weapon.

Ventros turns from him, placing a viled hand over his missing heart. “Katie,” he purrs. “It is a pleasure to have you join me. I’ll give you the boy and power unlimited once you take up your sword for my cause.” 

Even from this distance, Lance can feel the rage building beneath her skin. “I would never,” she declares. “Return to the dark world from whence you came, or I will destroy you now forever!” 

She lights the candle before her. 

Ventros shivers. “My dear, sweet child, surely you would not do such a thing to family…”

“You are not my family,” Pidge growls. Slowly, she descends the staircase, letting wax drip down the side of the candle. “My family is my mother and father and my brother, who care and support me.” 

The dark being drops to the ground, weakened as the candle burns, his hand outstretched. “Ka--”

“My family,” Pidge continues as she steps off onto the ground floor, “are the Voltron Knights, and all my friends at the Castle.” 

She stands before Ventros, who coughs and wheezes, the candle halfway melted. In one quick, fluid motions she draws her sword, Green, and points it at him. “You may be blood, but you will never be family.”

Lance’s heart swells with pride. That’s the Pidge he loves. 

The triumph is short lived. Ventros cackles through his difficult breath. “Foolish children. If I cannot have what I want, neither can you!” 

It takes Lance too long to realize that he is the want in Pidge’s case. 

His quintessence reappears above his body, exposed for all to see. Like a punch to the gut Lance feels his life hanging by a thread, tired and slow of breath.

“Extinguish the candle if you want him to live,” Ventros threatens, his shaky form blurring between a man ready for a fancy party and a disembodied ball of black smoke. 

Moving his head to face Pidge is a difficult task and he wants nothing more than to close his eyes and sleep when he’s done it. He forces them to stay open, pleading with her, “Don’t, Pidge. Fin--” Deep breath. “Finish hi--” 

Ventros breathes in his quintessence. It thins him, like wrung out wet towel. 

“St-stop!” Pidge cries desperately. Lance hates that look in her eyes, the one without hope. She sets the candle down and backs away. “It’s all yours, just don’t kill him.”

In a heart-stopping moment, Ventros glides as if a ghost and extinguishes the candle. He slithers around Pidge, draping his hands over her shoulders. Lance shakes in rage, quelled only by how utterly spent he feels. 

Ventros leans in and whispers in her ear, “That’s a good girl. Now, the damnable sword.” 

Pidge is paralyzed, anger and frustration written on her face as Ventros slides his hand down her arm and twists her wrist, forcing her to drop Green. The sword clatters to the stone floor, the sound reverberating across the empty temple. 

Tears swell in his eyes. Even if he survives this, he’ll live in suffering, watching the love of his life carry out the will of an evil menace. He doesn’t want that for Pidge. Though she can harden her heart on the surface and make it believable for those who don’t know her, the pain will be unbearable for her. She’ll die on the inside well before she draws her last breath. 

“So much for the famed Knights of Voltron,” Ventros sneers. Lance winces in disgust as he gently strokes Pidge’s cheek. “Now, child, take part of my soul.” A black wisp toys at his fingertips and floats deceptively harmlessly towards Pidge’s nose. She tries to hold her breath, but a pinch of her arm from Ventros forces her to inhale, sucking the wisp into her. 

“Let it fester,” Ventros says as Pidge bites her lip, face scrunched together in pain. “Let it help you on the path to become a most perfect being like your forefathers.” 

Pidge opens her eyes with a start. They are pitch black. Lance lets out a whine. 

They’ve lost. 

Ventros lets out an uproarious laugh. Lance’s quintessence falls back into his body and though he feels his energy return, he can’t find the will to do much but glare, his face already stained with tears. 

“You won’t get away with this,” is all he manages to say. 

It turns Ventros’s attention back onto him, the evil grin seemingly permanently plastered to his face. “Your defiance is amusing,” he muses. “I’ll keep you alive for a bit longer, for an experiment. We will see if Katie remembers how much you mean to her. Love can be so easily warped for all the wrong purposes.” 

His cackling laughter makes Lance sick, and renews his determination. Though fruitless, he struggles against his magical bonds. 

“You can struggle all you’d like, boy. Those chains are constructs directly tied to my power, they will not break.”

And yet...

The chain by his shoulder snaps and the shackles dissolve. Lance sucks in an astonished breath. How?

“What?” Ventros gasps. “Where are you finding such strength?” He summons a dark sphere, launching it directly at him.

Lance rolls off the altar, body screaming in pain. The magic blasts off slivers of stone that rain down on his head. 

“It is you who needs to reevaluate his strength!” 

Allura’s voice carries down from the top of the temple. At her side are the other Voltron Knights. In her hand, a candle nearly spent. 

Lance smirks as he realizes this was the plan all along. Pidge came only to stall for more time - with a decoy candle. Allura drops the candle, the remainder of the wax glittering in the waning fire. 

“No! Curse you all a thousand fold!” Ventros screams. His body stretches, thinning to the width of a quill before poofing out of existence. 

They are free. 

Pidge gasps and stumbles forward, her eyes returning to their beautiful amber color. Though he’s still sore, Lance reaches on his knees to catch her in his arms. 

“You are so brilliant,” he says into her hair. “I was so scared for you.” 

Pidge chuckles, returning his hug. “What, you didn’t think I could do it?”

Lance bites his lip. “That’s… that’s not it. I saw your eyes turn black as night. I couldn’t feel Blue or the other swords. I thought I’d have to watch you destroy all you love. That’s not you, Pidge.”

She plants a gentle kiss against the side of his mouth, stroking the hair behind his ears reverently. “I know. I’m sorry to worry you, Lance. I couldn’t risk letting him on to the plan.”

“I know,” he echoes, kissing her lips lightly. “I’m not angry, just relieved and glad you’re in my arms now.”

The sides of her mouth curl up, eyes shining with delight. “Me too.” She settles her head into his chest. “Let’s go home, Lance. For real this time.”

Lance holds her tighter, heart fluttering with joy. “Your wish is my command, my Lady.”

[seenashwrite]

There But For The Grace

Word Count: 3.3K Category: One-shot; Introspection; Mystery; Choices; Life journeys; Redemption Rating: Teen & Up Character(s): Dean, Michael, Reader/O.C. Female, and… just read the story. Pairing(s): Read. The. Story. Stop wanting the endings at the starts, impatient young'uns Warnings: None Faux-Warning: There’s no banging, so now that I’ve lost 80% of you… Author’s Note(s):  *This is a re-post minus tags & links in an effort to get it to show up in searches*; I’m told you’re not a true fanfic writer unless you’ve done a coffee shop meet-up fic - kindly let me know if I got it right; more post-story Overall Summary: An archangel takes a break from his reconnaissance.

The list grew by the minute, and he had to admit to himself that the mundane task of collecting all his reasons was turning delightful.

The other world hadn’t progressed to this level of corruption; likely it would’ve, had it not been for the brimstone, but that was neither here nor there. The worlds were identical, he’d learned, at least in the ways that mattered. Time nor space made a difference. Humans were, to be sure, utterly predictable.

Case in point: his most favorite time period from recent past had unfolded in precisely the same manner in both places, so much so he came as near to astonishment as he’d ever been. The roaring twenties were rife with sin, the pompous prohibitionists and the lust-filled liquor vendors, the mobsters with their massacres, and the bankers with their bloated greed. His distaste aside, it was beautiful. It was art, the way they crafted their depravity. Granted, it was nothing compared to his favorite time of all, but this was understandable; little could live up to Sodom and Gomorrah.

See there, hunter? I’m a salt-and-burn aficionado.

He’d successfully lulled the man whose body he’d snatched - no, that’s not right. He did not steal. Theft is sin. The hunter had agreed to act as a vessel, it was witnessed, and while there was deception involved, one in his position must think of the greater good. And it should be noted that he did exercise benevolence. Angelic vessels did not fare well, exponentially so for archangel vessels, and it was poor form to run through them quickly.  

He knew firsthand how his brothers handled their hosts. Raphael would woo the humans with promises of a glorious afterlife, then promptly expel their souls the moment he got a foothold. Gabriel would talk them into giving up the ghost voluntarily (as Gabriel could talk practically anyone into anything), in an effort to keep himself guilt-free. And as the fall crept closer, Lucifer took to keeping them wide awake, poking, prodding, picking, til slowly but surely the glow faded to embers, finally snuffing them out upon growing bored.

But not him. He was the best of them all, no sense in being humble. He was different, so he did things differently. He pushed the hunter to the farthest reaches of the mind they shared, threats to family quelling the belligerence surprisingly easily.

Are you plotting? he’d asked early on, receiving no answer; they both knew it was rhetorical.

As their time together grew, he’d talk to the hunter on occasion - not aloud, of course - when he marveled at the things he observed, breathing it all in. It had been ages since he’d walked the earth peacefully. It was wonder he felt, and he knew it, and it bothered him. He had been tasked with protecting them, once upon a time, and it was easier then, they were more readily awed, or maybe just malleable. He’d begun to consider if subtlety and manipulation might be ideal this go-round, effective as plagues and floods and annihilation had been, albeit temporarily.

He’d been raised by a vengeful God, the new redemptive version that came with the birth of the prophet never quite sitting right with him, but he was an obedient son, absence or no. He was his Father’s first son, he who was of God, the first angel there ever was, no matter what differing legends over the millennia might’ve said. The offenses the rest of the children, celestial-born and earth-bound alike, committed upon God’s creation wouldn’t have been tolerated back then.

Before. Before it all changed, right under his supposed watchful eye. Before he’d laid waste, in heaven and on earth. Before he’d gotten wrapped up in his plans, let his guard down. Before he lost all three of his beloved brothers in one way or another. Before he’d started paying attention again.

He wouldn’t miss anything else.

And so it was that on his fact-gathering strolls, more and more he found himself slowing his pace, pausing, coming to a halt, damn near freezing in place when something would catch his eye, or touch his ear, or invade his nose, the latter of which stopped him cold this evening, just as twilight eased across the buildings around him, and streetlights flickered on, up and down a nondescript street in a nondescript town on one nondescript walk amongst many.

He went further down the sidewalk, and up the block, and continued around a corner, and there it was, the answer to the question of what heavenly smell had wafted his way.

.

Hallowed Grounds French and Italian Coffees est. 1922

.

In his experience, the fates were indeed fickle. On the other hand, he’d done enough surveillance that week to allow for brief relaxation, be someone else for a spell. Seemed the rough-and-tumble hunter had smoothed edges made ragged from eons spent on another plane, made him fractionally more flexible. Teaching lessons could wait one more night, he told himself.

Meant to be, don’t you think?

There wasn’t need for food or drink, but the hunter was practically a junkie on both fronts, and the palate was wide. This body was stronger than most, better equipped for him, as tailor-made things are, of course, but he had not anticipated how demanding it could be, how it would crave indulgence. Undisciplined. Annoying. Distracting. It was for that last reason he’d give in, keep bites small and sips slow, and the moment there was a sense of satiation, off he - they - would go, back on mission.

African coffee was the best, this was not merely a belief but a fact; French he’d always found bland, somehow; Italian was tolerable. He ordered an espresso, tipped well, and the barista behind the former bar said they had servers milling about, one would be by to check in, see if he needed anything else. And despite knowing he’d swallow less than a quarter of the brew, he took a seat at a table, back to people-watching. Not a one was interesting in the least.

He’d noted the woman carrying the steaming metal carafe walking briskly in the direction where he sat, but had already let his eyes roam away by the time she’d gone behind him, and she only had cause to cross his mind when a loud CLANK hit the air, and the sensation of a third-degree burn called out from his lower right leg and ankle. Several gasps erupted from close-by patrons, someone moaned “Oooooh!” in sympathy, and then came the babbling.

It was the woman, the server, and she was alternating under-breath curses with self-deprecation - Such a stupid klutz! - Why’d I take this fucking job? There wasn’t an apology to be found, not a lick of repentance.

She had his attention.

As she made her way around, the carafe - retrieved, now dented and empty - was plunked on his table, causing the espresso to slosh, and she surveyed the mess on the floor, closed her eyes, rubbed them, took a deep breath, then exhaled it far too quickly for it to have been of any use. Her eyes popped open. They instantly lit on his soaked trouser cuff.

“Jesus,” she muttered, flat forehead going to a frown in a nanosecond.

And he frowned, too. Not that he’d been particularly impressed by or had much use for the prophet, nor had he bought into all the trinity talk - he’d found it offensive that any would be placed by the Father as an equal of sorts - but this was in the ballpark of blasphemy. Well, then. Another sinner joins the collection.

Now she’d dropped, and he arched an eyebrow as his head tilted down, feeling her rubbing - aggressively - on his shoe, sopping up the spilt coffee with a rag she’d had tucked in her apron’s waistband.

“That pot was still hot as hell, it didn’t get you, did it?” she asked, looking up at him from her kneeling position.

“No,” he lied.

“Oh, thank God. I’d have been… if you’d been burnt, I would’ve… I am so sorry, sir.”

Penitence looked lovely on her.

“You seem anxious, why don’t you sit, rest for a moment,” he suggested, and gestured to the empty chair across from him.

He kept his eyes locked onto hers; she gave him an odd look in return, but didn’t have time to answer. Another table called out to her, so she broke the stare, told him she’d check on him again later, see if he wanted a refill - anything he wanted, on the house, she added - before rising and leaving his side.

He took her up on it. He paid for the one that followed. And he waited until the patrons had nearly cleared and the lights were being dimmed and the brooms were coming out. Someone else was sent to collect the fee for the still-full third.

Take a hint.

He followed the advisement - whether it was the hunter’s or some sort of self-prompting, he couldn’t say - and exited, though he didn’t carry on with his reconnaissance, instead going down the tiny alley that led to the back of the building, leaning against a telephone pole that was partially in the shadows, settling in, keeping an eye on the side door of the coffee shop.

The hunter spoke up.

You suck at this.

Pray tell?

Trying to pick up a chick, get laid.

Orgasms are insufficient reasons for risking the creation of another abomination.

Go comb through my greatest hits, then we’ll talk about risks and rewards.

It took a half-hour of darkened silence before he began to grow irritable, and he stood from his lean, was straightening his overcoat when the door opened. She spotted him, pretended like she didn’t, so he took a few steps in her direction. He was just about to speak when she whipped around, jerking something from her pocket. She immediately squirted a caustic fluid onto him, which did nothing, save prompting a confused expression to come across his now damp face.

Oh, for crying out—-

Hush.

She coughed several times as a breeze carried the mist her way, though a subtle wave of his hand served to make it disappear, and soothed her stinging eyes and scratchy throat. He pulled out his handkerchief and blotted the moisture coating his cheeks. She watched, not moving an inch, her mouth hanging open ever-so-slightly.

“I didn’t mean to startle you,” he said. “Please forgive me.”

“That’s the strongest mace on the market,” she muttered. She looked at the tiny tube, sneered, then tossed it down the alley, where it hop-skipped out of sight. Turning her head back to him, she spoke again, this time warily. “You need money or something? You’re not dressed like you need money.”

He returned the handkerchief to his pocket, met her eye. “You think I waited here to rob you?”

“I don’t… well why are you here?”

“I enjoyed your company and hoped to extend our time together.” A pause, then he added, “I have no desire to have sex with you.”

“Gee, thanks?”

He began to respond, hesitated, then opted to go with, “I’m told I’m not… not very good at… this.”

“Making friends?”

“Mmmm.”

“Well, it’s… it’s late.”

He glanced at his watch. “So it is.”

“And I don’t even know your name.”

“Michael.”

“Michael. Okay. I have a brother named Michael. Mikey, if I want to piss him off.”

“Were your parents religious?”

“What?!” she exclaimed, though she chased it with an amused grin. “You ask the strangest questions. Um, no. Not really.”

“And your name?”

“I, uh… don’t give out my name to strangers.”

“Wise. But I need to call you something.”

“Hmmm… I don’t really…”

He waited.

She snapped her fingers. "My family nicknamed me Grace. The way they talk, I’ve been clumsy since the womb.” She rolled her eyes.

“That sounds cruel.”

She laughed, but it was short, clipped. “Nah. Annoying, maybe. But they didn’t mean anything by it. Your family not have a nickname for you?”

He shook his head. “No. They called one of my brothers the star. He… shone a little too brightly.”

She nodded. “I have a friend like that. Drama queen. Sucks up all the air in a room, as my mother would say.”

“May I call you Grace?”

She laughed again, the full version this time, and said, “I ruined your pants, so I owe you. Yeah, sure. Go for it.”

He walked her to her car, but they kept chatting - the coffee shop began as a speakeasy, he informed her, and a two-way mirror once hung over the bar so as to keep an eye out for the police. And the conversation drifted with them as they meandered down the street, ended up in a park, sitting in swings sandwiched between a slide and a sandbox, lazily letting their feet trail through gravel, him allowing her to think he was a history buff, her telling him how she’d been born in another nondescript town in another nondescript state. How as the years passed, it had started to feel like another world.

And when it was her turn to ask about the past, it called up from within him the desire to lie to her - protect her - for the second time that night. So he chose his words carefully.

“I had assignments. One that was the most… I was supposed to guard people. Defend them, when needed. And… and I did a good job for quite awhile. My commander was pleased. But then things… happened. I let an enemy invade. I wasn’t strong enough. Not enough to stop him.”

“You don’t have to go into detail if you don’t want to,” Grace said quietly. She laid a hand over his.

“People died.”

“Oh.”

“They saw me as a protector. There was a time when some practically worshiped me, thought I was worthy of it.” He made a scoffing sound. “I started to believe I was.”

He’d never had a single regret, never let himself fall into the abyss of memories. But even he could be brought - broken, more accurately - out of his routine. And the most immediate period of his existence had done just that, making times of calm a desire, while in the same moment making times of silence an irritant.

He looked down at their hands, flipped his, threaded his fingers through hers, and she didn’t stop him.

They sat, unmoved, no words, for several minutes; three-point-two-one-six, in fact, because he counted them. His mind never rested, even when the hunter’s did, but he liked how she didn’t feel the need to fill the emptiness with idle talk. Made for a touch of calm. Even with the silence.

It held a bit of irony - he was the silent type, everyone said so. He’d found it often communicated intent better than any words could’ve. And more descriptions piled on: Imposing. Intimidating. Towering. Threatening. Some had called him “Beast” long before it had been applied to their once-adored morning star.

So there it was - there’d already been a second lie, and he hadn’t even noticed.

“I don’t mean to frighten you,” he told her, staring at her intently, but this time she didn’t look away.

“You said that already,” she replied, a solemn smile on her lips, not too wide, not too thin, just the right sort, and he hoped he reciprocated in kind. She gave his hand a gentle squeeze, saying, “Michael… I mean, my Michael —–”

The hunter’s belly stirred.

“—– you know, my brother, he’s in the service. He’s a Ranger. He doesn’t tell our family a lot of stories from when he fought, but he’s told me some. So if it’s anything like that, then… I can understand. I can try, I mean.”

“I led the entirety of our legion.”

“You’re… you seem a little young to be… what would it be, a general, I guess? Or do you mean you led your division? Or squadron? I know some of the terminology, you don’t have to dumb it down for me.”

“I’ve offended you.”

“No, it’s… don’t worry about it, it doesn’t matter.”

“It very much matters. How people treat one another. People can be vile, sadistic, horrible creatures.”

She raised her eyebrows. “I guess. But we’re the only ones here. And I’m not horrible, and you’re not horrible, soooo…”

“You’re right,” he lied for the third time, and with one of the hunter’s brightest smiles.

Which made Grace shine.

Go.

The hunter did as he was commanded.

Michael thought she tasted like sin.

“Okay. Tomorrow. I’m off work, but we can meet at the coffee shop, figure out what to do from there… around noon sound good?”

He nodded. “That sounds perfect. Thank you, Grace.”

She nodded in return, got in her car, and gave him a little wave as she pulled away.

Is this your plan, hunter? How you think you’ll undo me? Making me more like you?

Hey, I haven’t been driving for awhile now. Ass.

Hmmm.

You kissed her.

What makes you say that?

When you let me leave the bad boy corner, I could tell. Or else you’re putting strawberry lip balm on my—-

Apple.

Huh?

It’s apple.

He waited at her apartment, this time deep in the shadows where he wouldn’t be spotted, made sure she got inside safely, listened for the click that told him she’d locked the door. He began to leave, then thought better of it, decided to play guardian for old times’ sake, placed warding here and there to keep any would-be harm away. And back to walking he went, considering how to kill the hours til they met again.

May as well strike up a conversation.

Now that we’ve spent some time together, tell me - Why didn’t we do this sooner? What’s it been for you, about a decade?

You’re a douche.

Fine. But comparatively?

There’s not a douche scale, dick.

So I’m altogether irredeemable?

Uh - is there some universe where you aren’t?

Perhaps.

So prove it! Let me go! And LEAVE ME ALONE.

Fair enough.

If he were to put a not-so-fine point on his reasoning for not meeting her the next day, that about summed it up. He’d disappoint her, she’d disappoint him, and if she didn’t, that was no good. Probably worse. Better to keep unattached when it came to what the future… what he… would likely bring.

Even so, he found himself once more standing apart, likely imposing, always watching, this time through a window, across hallowed grounds, looking for his grace. He spotted her at the very table he’d been at when they met, scrolling through her phone, occasionally sipping on a latte. Then there’d be a sigh, a glance to the large clock on the opposite wall as five, then ten, then fifteen minutes passed by.

What say after this, we head to the cage, check on that counterpart of mine?

This time, he received an unusually placid response.

Why?

To ensure he’s paying for what he’s done.

Like you haven’t been thinking of nuking this world. You’re still jonesing for your apocalypse. You know you want a do-over.

The world could use some cleansing, true. There’s reasons. But, no. That’s not why.

Then what?! How many times are you planning on dragging me over there, making sure he hasn’t popped the lock so you can keep up your stupid act? They’re gonna figure it out soon, Cas or Sam—-

I thought of all people, you’d understand.

Understand WHAT? It’s payback? ‘Cause the first thing *he* did was make a beeline to take you out?

He killed my brother. With my own sword, no less. And that above all, Dean, I will not abide.

Grace picked up her bag, left a few bills on the table, and as she walked out the door, placed a phone call.

“Yeah, he stood me up… no, no, I’m not… Seriously! I’m not mad, I’m just, you know… yeah. I thought he was different… No, you’re right, and I’m sure he had a good reason, and I told you he didn’t have a phone with him, right? So it’s not like he could’ve…. oh God, no he wasn’t lying, why do you assume every dude…. Anyway, maybe I’ll see him again. I think that’d be nice…”

Well, then. Not so predictable, after all. Not this one. At least, for now.

Teaching the world a lesson could wait for just one more day.

.

Author’s Note #2: Per request, there’s a walkthrough on the inspiration for the title/plot points, the theology droppings, and the “clues” for the ending twist-a-roo, if you’re interested! Just look for this story on my Master Post (see below) and it’s linked at the bottom of the story.

Want more stories? My Master Post is linked in my profile, and it tells you about getting on the Tag List, too! If for whatever reason it gives you trouble, don’t hesitate to send an Ask and I’ll link you.

Re-blogs and feedback are fuel for a writer’s soul - please do let me know if you enjoyed. 😘

[seenashwrite]

There But For The Grace

Status: Complete Word Count: 3.3K Category: One-shot; Introspection; Mystery; Choices; Life journeys; Redemption  Rating: Teen & Up Character(s): Dean, Michael, Reader/O.C. Female, and... just read the story. Pairing(s): Read. The. Story. Stop wanting the endings at the starts, impatient young'uns Warnings: None Faux-Warning: There's no banging, so now that I've lost 80% of you... Author’s Note(s):  I'm told you're not a true fanfic writer unless you've done a coffee shop meet-up fic - kindly let me know if I got it right; more post-story Overall Summary: An archangel takes a break from his reconnaissance.

* ETA: FYI - Do NOT look at the comments before you read this, there’s been some spoilery stuff given away there! * 😉

. The list grew by the minute, and he had to admit to himself that the mundane task of collecting all his reasons was turning delightful.

The other world hadn't progressed to this level of corruption; likely it would've, had it not been for the brimstone, but that was neither here nor there. The worlds were identical, he'd learned, at least in the ways that mattered. Time nor space made a difference. Humans were, to be sure, utterly predictable.

Case in point: his most favorite time period from recent past had unfolded in precisely the same manner in both places, so much so he came as near to astonishment as he'd ever been. The roaring twenties were rife with sin, the pompous prohibitionists and the lust-filled liquor vendors, the mobsters with their massacres, and the bankers with their bloated greed. His distaste aside, it was beautiful. It was art, the way they crafted their depravity. Granted, it was nothing compared to his favorite time of all, but this was understandable; little could live up to Sodom and Gomorrah.

See there, hunter? I'm a salt-and-burn aficionado.

He'd successfully lulled the man whose body he'd snatched - no, that's not right. He did not steal. Theft is sin. The hunter had agreed to act as a vessel, it was witnessed, and while there was deception involved, one in his position must think of the greater good. And it should be noted that he did exercise benevolence. Angelic vessels did not fare well, exponentially so for archangel vessels, and it was poor form to run through them quickly.  

He knew firsthand how his brothers handled their hosts. Raphael would woo the humans with promises of a glorious afterlife, then promptly expel their souls the moment he got a foothold. Gabriel would talk them into giving up the ghost voluntarily (as Gabriel could talk practically anyone into anything), in an effort to keep himself guilt-free. And as the fall crept closer, Lucifer took to keeping them wide awake, poking, prodding, picking, til slowly but surely the glow faded to embers, finally snuffing them out upon growing bored.

But not him. He was the best of them all, no sense in being humble. He was different, so he did things differently. He pushed the hunter to the farthest reaches of the mind they shared, threats to family quelling the belligerence surprisingly easily.

Are you plotting? he'd asked early on, receiving no answer; they both knew it was rhetorical.

As their time together grew, he'd talk to the hunter on occasion - not aloud, of course - when he marveled at the things he observed, breathing it all in. It had been ages since he'd walked the earth peacefully. It was wonder he felt, and he knew it, and it bothered him. He had been tasked with protecting them, once upon a time, and it was easier then, they were more readily awed, or maybe just malleable. He'd begun to consider if subtlety and manipulation might be ideal this go-round, effective as plagues and floods and annihilation had been, albeit temporarily.

He'd been raised by a vengeful God, the new redemptive version that came with the birth of the prophet never quite sitting right with him, but he was an obedient son, absence or no. He was his Father's first son, he who was of God, the first angel there ever was, no matter what differing legends over the millennia might've said. The offenses the rest of the children, celestial-born and earth-bound alike, committed upon God's creation wouldn't have been tolerated back then.

Before. Before it all changed, right under his supposed watchful eye. Before he'd laid waste, in heaven and on earth. Before he'd gotten wrapped up in his plans, let his guard down. Before he lost all three of his beloved brothers in one way or another. Before he'd started paying attention again.

He wouldn't miss anything else.

And so it was that on his fact-gathering strolls, more and more he found himself slowing his pace, pausing, coming to a halt, damn near freezing in place when something would catch his eye, or touch his ear, or invade his nose, the latter of which stopped him cold this evening, just as twilight eased across the buildings around him, and streetlights flickered on, up and down a nondescript street in a nondescript town on one nondescript walk amongst many.

He went further down the sidewalk, and up the block, and continued around a corner, and there it was, the answer to the question of what heavenly smell had wafted his way.

.

Hallowed Grounds French and Italian Coffees est. 1922

.

In his experience, the fates were indeed fickle. On the other hand, he'd done enough surveillance that week to allow for brief relaxation, be someone else for a spell. Seemed the rough-and-tumble hunter had smoothed edges made ragged from eons spent on another plane, made him fractionally more flexible. Teaching lessons could wait one more night, he told himself.

Meant to be, don't you think?

There wasn't need for food or drink, but the hunter was practically a junkie on both fronts, and the palate was wide. This body was stronger than most, better equipped for him, as tailor-made things are, of course, but he had not anticipated how demanding it could be, how it would crave indulgence. Undisciplined. Annoying. Distracting. It was for that last reason he'd give in, keep bites small and sips slow, and the moment there was a sense of satiation, off he - they - would go, back on mission.

African coffee was the best, this was not merely a belief but a fact; French he'd always found bland, somehow; Italian was tolerable. He ordered an espresso, tipped well, and the barista behind the former bar said they had servers milling about, one would be by to check in, see if he needed anything else. And despite knowing he'd swallow less than a quarter of the brew, he took a seat at a table, back to people-watching. Not a one was interesting in the least.

He'd noted the woman carrying the steaming metal carafe walking briskly in the direction where he sat, but had already let his eyes roam away by the time she'd gone behind him, and she only had cause to cross his mind when a loud CLANK hit the air, and the sensation of a third-degree burn called out from his lower right leg and ankle. Several gasps erupted from close-by patrons, someone moaned "Oooooh!" in sympathy, and then came the babbling. 

It was the woman, the server, and she was alternating under-breath curses with self-deprecation - Such a stupid klutz! - Why'd I take this fucking job? There wasn't an apology to be found, not a lick of repentance.

She had his attention.

As she made her way around, the carafe - retrieved, now dented and empty - was plunked on his table, causing the espresso to slosh, and she surveyed the mess on the floor, closed her eyes, rubbed them, took a deep breath, then exhaled it far too quickly for it to have been of any use. Her eyes popped open. They instantly lit on his soaked trouser cuff.

"Jesus," she muttered, flat forehead going to a frown in a nanosecond.

And he frowned, too. Not that he'd been particularly impressed by or had much use for the prophet, nor had he bought into all the trinity talk - he'd found it offensive that any would be placed by the Father as an equal of sorts - but this was in the ballpark of blasphemy. Well, then. Another sinner joins the collection.

Now she'd dropped, and he arched an eyebrow as his head tilted down, feeling her rubbing - aggressively - on his shoe, sopping up the spilt coffee with a rag she'd had tucked in her apron's waistband.

"That pot was still hot as hell, it didn't get you, did it?" she asked, looking up at him from her kneeling position.

"No," he lied.

"Oh, thank God. I'd have been... if you'd been burnt, I would've... I am so sorry, sir."

Penitence looked lovely on her.

"You seem anxious, why don't you sit, rest for a moment," he suggested, and gestured to the empty chair across from him.

He kept his eyes locked onto hers; she gave him an odd look in return, but didn't have time to answer. Another table called out to her, so she broke the stare, told him she'd check on him again later, see if he wanted a refill - anything he wanted, on the house, she added - before rising and leaving his side.

He took her up on it. He paid for the one that followed. And he waited until the patrons had nearly cleared and the lights were being dimmed and the brooms were coming out. Someone else was sent to collect the fee for the still-full third.

Take a hint.

He followed the advisement - whether it was the hunter's or some sort of self-prompting, he couldn't say - and exited, though he didn't carry on with his reconnaissance, instead going down the tiny alley that led to the back of the building, leaning against a telephone pole that was partially in the shadows, settling in, keeping an eye on the side door of the coffee shop.

The hunter spoke up.

You suck at this.

Pray tell?

Trying to pick up a chick, get laid.

Orgasms are insufficient reasons for risking the creation of another abomination.

Go comb through my greatest hits, then we’ll talk about risks and rewards.

It took a half-hour of darkened silence before he began to grow irritable, and he stood from his lean, was straightening his overcoat when the door opened. She spotted him, pretended like she didn't, so he took a few steps in her direction. He was just about to speak when she whipped around, jerking something from her pocket. She immediately squirted a caustic fluid onto him, which did nothing, save prompting a confused expression to come across his now damp face.

Oh, for crying out----

Hush.

She coughed several times as a breeze carried the mist her way, though a subtle wave of his hand served to make it disappear, and soothed her stinging eyes and scratchy throat. He pulled out his handkerchief and blotted the moisture coating his cheeks. She watched, not moving an inch, her mouth hanging open ever-so-slightly.

"I didn't mean to startle you," he said. "Please forgive me."

"That's the strongest mace on the market," she muttered. She looked at the tiny tube, sneered, then tossed it down the alley, where it hop-skipped out of sight. Turning her head back to him, she spoke again, this time warily. "You need money or something? You're not dressed like you need money."

He returned the handkerchief to his pocket, met her eye. "You think I waited here to rob you?"

"I don't... well why are you here?"

"I enjoyed your company and hoped to extend our time together." A pause, then he added, "I have no desire to have sex with you."

"Gee, thanks?"

He began to respond, hesitated, then opted to go with, "I'm told I'm not... not very good at... this."

"Making friends?"

"Mmmm."

"Well, it's... it's late."

He glanced at his watch. "So it is."

"And I don't even know your name."

"Michael."

"Michael. Okay. I have a brother named Michael. Mikey, if I want to piss him off."

"Were your parents religious?"

"What?!" she exclaimed, though she chased it with an amused grin. "You ask the strangest questions. Um, no. Not really."

"And your name?"

"I, uh... don't give out my name to strangers."

"Wise. But I need to call you something."

"Hmmm... I don’t really...”

He waited. 

She snapped her fingers. "My family nicknamed me Grace. The way they talk, I've been clumsy since the womb." She rolled her eyes.

"That sounds cruel."

She laughed, but it was short, clipped. "Nah. Annoying, maybe. But they didn't mean anything by it. Your family not have a nickname for you?"

He shook his head. "No. They called one of my brothers the star. He... shone a little too brightly."

She nodded. "I have a friend like that. Drama queen. Sucks up all the air in a room, as my mother would say."

"May I call you Grace?"

She laughed again, the full version this time, and said, "I ruined your pants, so I owe you. Yeah, sure. Go for it."

He walked her to her car, but they kept chatting - the coffee shop began as a speakeasy, he informed her, and a two-way mirror once hung over the bar so as to keep an eye out for the police. And the conversation drifted with them as they meandered down the street, ended up in a park, sitting in swings sandwiched between a slide and a sandbox, lazily letting their feet trail through gravel, him allowing her to think he was a history buff, her telling him how she'd been born in another nondescript town in another nondescript state. How as the years passed, it had started to feel like another world.

And when it was her turn to ask about the past, it called up from within him the desire to lie to her - protect her - for the second time that night. So he chose his words carefully.

"I had assignments. One that was the most... I was supposed to guard people. Defend them, when needed. And... and I did a good job for quite awhile. My commander was pleased. But then things... happened. I let an enemy invade. I wasn't strong enough. Not enough to stop him."

"You don't have to go into detail if you don't want to," Grace said quietly. She laid a hand over his.

"People died."

"Oh."

"They saw me as a protector. There was a time when some practically worshiped me, thought I was worthy of it." He made a scoffing sound. "I started to believe I was."

He'd never had a single regret, never let himself fall into the abyss of memories. But even he could be brought - broken, more accurately - out of his routine. And the most immediate period of his existence had done just that, making times of calm a desire, while in the same moment making times of silence an irritant.

He looked down at their hands, flipped his, threaded his fingers through hers, and she didn't stop him.

They sat, unmoved, no words, for several minutes; three-point-two-one-six, in fact, because he counted them. His mind never rested, even when the hunter's did, but he liked how she didn't feel the need to fill the emptiness with idle talk. Made for a touch of calm. Even with the silence.

It held a bit of irony - he was the silent type, everyone said so. He'd found it often communicated intent better than any words could've. And more descriptions piled on: Imposing. Intimidating. Towering. Threatening. Some had called him "Beast" long before it had been applied to their once-adored morning star.

So there it was - there’d already been a second lie, and he hadn't even noticed.

"I don't mean to frighten you," he told her, staring at her intently, but this time she didn't look away.

"You said that already," she replied, a solemn smile on her lips, not too wide, not too thin, just the right sort, and he hoped he reciprocated in kind. She gave his hand a gentle squeeze, saying, "Michael... I mean, my Michael -----"

The hunter's belly stirred.

"----- you know, my brother, he's in the service. He's a Ranger. He doesn't tell our family a lot of stories from when he fought, but he's told me some. So if it's anything like that, then... I can understand. I can try, I mean."

"I led the entirety of our legion."

"You're... you seem a little young to be... what would it be, a general, I guess? Or do you mean you led your division? Or squadron? I know some of the terminology, you don't have to dumb it down for me."

"I've offended you."

"No, it's... don't worry about it, it doesn't matter."

"It very much matters. How people treat one another. People can be vile, sadistic, horrible creatures."

She raised her eyebrows. "I guess. But we're the only ones here. And I'm not horrible, and you're not horrible, soooo..."

"You're right," he lied for the third time, and with one of the hunter's brightest smiles.

Which made Grace shine.

Go.

The hunter did as he was commanded.

Michael thought she tasted like sin.

"Okay. Tomorrow. I'm off work, but we can meet at the coffee shop, figure out what to do from there... around noon sound good?"

He nodded. "That sounds perfect. Thank you, Grace."

She nodded in return, got in her car, and gave him a little wave as she pulled away.

Is this your plan, hunter? How you think you'll undo me? Making me more like you?

Hey, I haven't been driving for awhile now. Ass.

Hmmm.

You kissed her.

What makes you say that?

When you let me leave the bad boy corner, I could tell. Or else you're putting strawberry lip balm on my----

Apple.

Huh?

It's apple.

He waited at her apartment, this time deep in the shadows where he wouldn't be spotted, made sure she got inside safely, listened for the click that told him she'd locked the door. He began to leave, then thought better of it, decided to play guardian for old times' sake, placed warding here and there to keep any would-be harm away. And back to walking he went, considering how to kill the hours til they met again.

May as well strike up a conversation.

Now that we've spent some time together, tell me - Why didn't we do this sooner? What’s it been for you, about a decade?

You're a douche.

Fine. But comparatively?

There's not a douche scale, dick.

So I'm altogether irredeemable?

Uh - is there some universe where you aren't?

Perhaps.

So prove it! Let me go! And LEAVE ME ALONE.

Fair enough.

If he were to put a not-so-fine point on his reasoning for not meeting her the next day, that about summed it up. He'd disappoint her, she'd disappoint him, and if she didn't, that was no good. Probably worse. Better to keep unattached when it came to what the future... what he... would likely bring.

Even so, he found himself once more standing apart, likely imposing, always watching, this time through a window, across hallowed grounds, looking for his grace. He spotted her at the very table he'd been at when they met, scrolling through her phone, occasionally sipping on a latte. Then there'd be a sigh, a glance to the large clock on the opposite wall as five, then ten, then fifteen minutes passed by.

What say after this, we head to the cage, check on that counterpart of mine?

This time, he received an unusually placid response.

Why?

To ensure he's paying for what he's done.

Like you haven't been thinking of nuking this world. You're still jonesing for your apocalypse. You know you want a do-over.

The world could use some cleansing, true. There's reasons. But, no. That's not why.

Then what?! How many times are you planning on dragging me over there, making sure he hasn't popped the lock so you can keep up your stupid act? They’re gonna figure it out soon, Cas or Sam—-

I thought of all people, you'd understand.

Understand WHAT? It's payback? 'Cause the first thing *he* did was make a beeline to take you out?

He killed my brother. With my own sword, no less. And that above all, Dean, I will not abide.

Grace picked up her bag, left a few bills on the table, and as she walked out the door, placed a phone call.

"Yeah, he stood me up... no, no, I'm not... Seriously! I'm not mad, I'm just, you know... yeah. I thought he was different... No, you're right, and I'm sure he had a good reason, and I told you he didn't have a phone with him, right? So it's not like he could've.... oh God, no he wasn't lying, why do you assume every dude.... Anyway, maybe I'll see him again. I think that'd be nice..."

Well, then. Not so predictable, after all. Not this one. At least, for now.

Teaching the world a lesson could wait for just one more day.

.

Author’s Note #2: Here’s a walkthrough on the inspiration for the title/plot points, the theology droppings, and the “clues” for the ending twist-a-roo, if you’re interested!

Author’s Note #3: This was gonna be snarky & involve a continued barrage of insults on the infamous freeze-that-shall-not-be-named-frame, but the gif  turned out too lovely & I'd feel guilty using it for nefarious purposes.

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