#i drew this instead of reading hamlet

[kitmdrawsthings]

sub-ether snapchat is real in my mind

alt text under cut cause i couldn't decide what was funnier

[snackara]

Asha (The Alondra of Rosas)

I have no idea how to start one of these so let’s just dive into the madness-

I took a very different take on Asha, to say the least. Instead of being a cheery peasant girl or a gracious princess, she’s a charismatic, cunning, and emotionally distant thief. so an accidental puss in boots ripoff-

My main goal with Asha in this rewrite is to give her more of a personality, as well as a character arc. She had a little personality in the movie, but ultimately just falls into that “quirky female protagonist” trope Disney has been doing lately. I drew a lot of Asha’s personality from characters like Meg, Raya, and especially Esmeralda. As far as a character arc, she doesn’t really have one in the film. The only change she really goes through is becoming a little sparkly and becoming the fairy godmother or whatever (which was such a stupid idea especially after they JUST defeated Magnifico but for another day). Not to spoil much here, but in this rewrite I decided her character arc will mainly revolve around opening up to people and vulnerability.

As a quick side note, her nickname means “The Lark of Rosas”. The citizens call her lark because of the way she glides across rooftops so gracefully, and for her singing voice.

As far as her design goes, I wanted her to closer resemble Brittney Lee’s concept art, shown below.

Her facial features and hairstyle just seem more fitting to her in this rewrite, and the warmer colored clothing would make her stand out against the other citizens of Rosas, who wear a lot of cooler colors.

(credit unknown)

As for her outfit, I went with the classic Spanish Musketeer look like the design above (minus the pistol). The art is pretty close to what I imagine, though I’d probably have her just wear a shirt and not the blue vest seen above.

Now, I know what you may be asking: What about Valentino? Well, he’s still here, but um…

…he changed quite a bit too. This is a genet, a catlike animal native to Spain, and a much more fitting companion to a thief than a goat. Think of him like Abu from Aladdin.

Now for the fun part: angst

Asha was born in Rosas to Thomás and Sakina. A few years after she was born, her mother died during the raids. Afterwords, her father guided her and many others to the Uncharted Forest, where they built the hamlet.

Like Asha, her father was a thief who stole supplies for the hamlet and gave money from the nobility to the poor of Rosas. He became well-liked by many, and stood as a symbol of hope for poorer citizens. He was basically the closest thing the hamlet had to a leader. Until one day he disappeared when Asha was just 14. (This will be somewhat important later in the story)

Asha felt she had to take her father’s place to keep hope alive in Rosas and began to steal from the nobles, sharing their riches with commoners as he had done. Around this time she was taken in by an older man named Sabino, who had been friends with her father.

Sabino never really approved of Asha’s thievery, but since she was the only one bringing supplies into the hamlet he didn’t say much. Asha eventually became very closed off to people, and had Sabino and Valentino as her only real companions. Although most people like her, she doesn’t really have friends in Rosas or even the hamlet. She’s too scared of failing their expectations of her, and avoids growing close to anyone besides Sabino.

This girl has a lot of expectations weighing on her, and they’re only about to get a lot heavier. But this time, she won’t have to carry them alone.

Thanks for reading! Stay tuned for more.

[professionallovethief]

i had to read hamlet for literature class but my finger slipped i drew him instead

[alicent-vi-britannia]

The parallels between Code Geass and Hamlet

In the first episode of R1, when Lelouch and Rivalz go back to Ashford Academy after the former defeated a noble in a game of chess, Lelouch reads a book. For a fraction of a second, we see that this book is Hamlet, a tragedy written by William Shakespeare between 1599 and 1601 and it is his most recognized work (some would define it as the quintessential Shakespearean and I personally call it the epitome of Baroque). This is a detail that called my attention because it wasn’t necessary to give the book a title. They could perfectly invent one or leave it empty. Instead, the creators of Code Geass opted to choose a real and distinguished work of English and world literature. I read Hamlet a few years ago and it's fresh in my mind, at least I remember it more than other books I've read, and I drew parallels between the two as I reminisced and came up with some interesting results that I'd love to share with you.

To do this, I have to gut the play of Hamlet. Therefore, if you are one of those who don’t like spoilers, or stop wasting time and go read Hamlet, which is on the internet, or, if you are lazy, go see the Kenneth Branagh film, which is Hamlet word for word (hence it is an even longer movie than Avengers Endgame) or continue reading my comparative analysis and I will convince you to give this great work a chance.

Hamlet is the story of a Danish prince who has just returned home to attend the funeral of his father, the king, who recently passed away. But then he hears that a ghost with a striking resemblance to the late king appears in the castle at night; so Hamlet is encouraged to investigate and manages to meet with the ghost that, in effect, is real and it is about his father who has crossed the threshold of the afterlife to entrust him with a mission: to kill his uncle Claudio; for it turns out that he killed his own brother to ascend the throne and marry Hamlet's mother, Gertrude. This is the first act of the play and constitutes the premise of it; as well as establishing its two main themes: revenge and madness.

Immediately, we distinguish several parallels between Lelouch and Hamlet: both are princes who decide to take revenge for their deceased parents against a member of their family, who is precisely the monarch of their kingdom, after receiving a supernatural summons (the ghost of their father, for Hamlet; the Geass, for Lelouch); however, none of them imagine that on this journey they will lose themselves and the beings they love. Throughout the plot, Lelouch and Hamlet will be assisted by C.C. and Horace respectively. Horatio is Hamlet's friend and, like C.C., is the voice of reason and is Hamlet's greatest confidant. He is present in most of the scenes in the play, always accompanying Hamlet and conversing with him. Even in his soliloquies, which are the moments when Hamlet bares his thoughts, he is there; as well as C.C. who remains on Lelouch's side. Neither Horacio nor C.C. take actions in the plot, they limit themselves to being simple spectators and both, additionally, wanted to kill themselves, but they were stopped by Hamlet and Lelouch who wanted them to continue living, for different reasons that I won’t go into details.

Both Hamlet and Lelouch are gray characters that critics and fans of their respective works like to argue about by raising the classic debate: is Hamlet/Lelouch a hero or a villain? In any case, the conclusion is the same for both: they are two of the most human characters both in Shakespeare's work, in the case of Hamlet, and in the anime industry, in the case of Lelouch (if you want an answer , don't think too much about it: both are undoubtedly tragic heroes).

As someone who loves Shakespeare and Code Geass equally, I think Lelouch is a hybrid of Hamlet and Macbeth (another great Shakespearean character). This is because Lelouch and Macbeth live tormented by their crimes, however, they continue to justify themselves that the blood spilled would be in vain if they stop. On the contrary, Hamlet is a bit more pusillanimous and very indecisive (he's not an action guy, he's more contemplative and thoughtful).

Although Hamlet has sworn an oath of vengeance in the first act, he doesn't take action right away because he doesn't fully believe the ghost's accusation or so he says (in my opinion, it's because he's afraid to act); so Hamlet decides to check if his uncle is the murderer of his father and find out who are his allies and his enemies by faking his madness (yes, like Lelouch, Hamlet has acting skills) . Of course, his alienated attitude causes strangeness at court, especially it baffles Polonius, who is the king's adviser and an impertinent bootlicker for Claudio, and that motivates him to investigate. At a certain point in the play, Gertrudis, worried about her son, confronts him alone in her room, while Polonius, who is a gossip, hides behind the curtains to spy on them. Hamlet spots Polonius's feet and, believing that he is his uncle, savagely stabs him, only to discover that he wasn’t who he thought he was. This stupid mistake will affect the children of Polonius, which will lead to the great tragic ending of the work.

On the one hand, there is Ofelia, the sweet and innocent youngest daughter of Polonius (well, I presume that she is younger). She is in love with Hamlet and has had affairs with him, they have even consummated sexual relations; but ever since he assumed the role of his madman, Hamlet has been cold and somewhat cruel to her, on the grounds that he believes she is part of plot. Returning to Ofelia, the pain caused by the murder of her father at the hands of the man she loved drives her crazy and leads her to commit suicide. In a sense, her tragic fate brings me back to Shirley.

Like Ofelia, Shirley is in love with Lelouch, due to which she suffers from the barriers he imposes and she is left disoriented, while being curious about his strange behavior (Hamlet's feigned madness, on the one hand, and the Lelouch's efforts to hide his double life, on the other). Her feelings are conflicted when she finds out that her lover is the murderer of her father. It’s worth noting that neither Hamlet nor Lelouch had the intention of killing the father of their respective love interests. It was all a unfortunate accident. From here on, Shirley and Ofelia's paths diverge, but they end at exactly the same point: dead and Lelouch/Hamlet are indirectly guilty, or at least that's how they both feel, because, despite everything, they did love Shirley/ Ophelia.

On the other hand, there is Laertes, the impulsive and bellicose eldest son of Polonius. Laertes has a brief but forceful introduction that is, at the same time, a prelude. Laertes warns his sister that she should be careful around Hamlet because he fears that his love for her is insincere and he is only taking advantage of her. And he adds something like this: "if I find out that Hamlet hurt you, I'll kill him" (of course, Shakespeare says it in a more sophisticated and beautiful way than me; that gentleman did know how to use language properly). Saying that, Laertes leaves for France. When the news of the terrible deaths of his father and his sister reaches his ears, he returns to Denmark to take revenge on Hamlet and I’m inevitably thinking of Suzaku.

Like Laertes, Suzaku was immersed solely in his own business, but when Lelouch kills Euphemia, Suzaku turns to revenge by vowing to kill him (Shakespeare is known for his love of building narrative parallels between two characters, and Code Geass is rife with this kind of parallelism, the most obvious being that of Suzaku and Lelouch: one way or another, they end up becoming the other in the second season). Needless to say, Euphemia's death was an irremediable event as a result of boasting to cover up his wounded pride, like Polonius's death that was a mistake. Two tragic accidents. (By the way, coincidence that Suzaku went crazy over Shirley's death afterwards? I don't think so). Suzaku and Laertes are blinded by pain and anger and, although Lelouch and Hamlet try to reach a middle ground, both flatly refuse to listen to reason; which pushes them into a confrontation that, to a certain extent, is sponsored by the enemies of the respective protagonists. Claudio, who already knows that his niece has discovered his crime and intends to end his life, manipulates Laertes to get rid of Hamlet. Charles never deliberately uses Suzaku's anger for his benefit, but Suzaku serves him and his empire, which works to their advantage in a certain way.

In the end, the poison of hatred corrodes Laertes in a literal and metaphorical sense, since he ends up perishing in the duel against Hamlet, being wounded by his own poisoned sword, although he doesn’t leave without first revealing the conspiracy he was hatching with Claudio and make peace with Hamlet, as he understands that his judgment was clouded.

And, to all these, what happens with Hamlet?

Well, he is killed by Laertes in said duel of swords (yes, they kill each other). As is Lelouch dies impaled by the sword wielded by Zero (Suzaku) in the Zero Requiem. Just like Laertes and Hamlet at the end, Lelouch and Suzaku also manage to settle their differences and make peace for the good of the world. And, just as Lelouch kills Charles, Hamlet gets revenge on him by murdering his Uncle Claudius.

See that Hamlet and Lelouch have in common that, though driven by a desire for justice, both are both victims and responsible agents of the misfortunes that befall them, their loved ones, and their nation, as Denmark falls into the hands of of a foreign king and I’m not going to dwell on the consequences of each battle of the Black Knights and the Zero Requiem, I trust that you remember in broad strokes how many losses and how much havoc there was in the world. 

Also see that both characters are haunted by death. In addition to the deaths that I mentioned and that are attributed to Hamlet, we must add those of his mother and his two childhood friends who succumb to the hatred and pain that Hamlet feels since his friends obeyed orders from his enemy and he believed that his mother was in cahoots or, in any case, that she didn't love her father because her mother got married quickly because she got married quickly, which, in his eyes, was a betrayal (yes, a lot of people die in this play and, in fact, I think it is the play that honors that Shakespeare meme that wanders Facebook saying that he has no idea how to finish his play, so he kills to all the characters; although it isn’t quite like that either, Horacio survives, a few characters who don’t appear again and Fortinbrás, who is the foreign king. Basically, it's like in Code Geass, all the important characters die except for C.C., the UNF members and the background characters). 

I must say that in a certain way it reminds me of Lelouch because he blamed all of his family, not only his father, for the misfortune that fell on him, his mother and his sister (this is because they didn’t respond for them). Lelouch hates his siblings as well and was equally responsible for the death of his mother. Hamlet's mother, Gertrude, dies by mistake, but he was indirectly to blame.

Oh, I almost forgot! Horace tries to commit suicide, but Hamlet stops him because he needs him to tell his story. 

Hamlet and Lelouch suffer more from the consequences of their own actions than those of others, that includes their enemies. Their vendettas consume them and make them lose themselves in madness; for until the damage is done, Hamlet and Lelouch are unable to see the destruction they leave behind. 

We could say that Hamlet and Code Geass address the stories of two great men who fight to keep their sanity, if not they have already lost it. 

I dare say that Hamlet is the most prominent tragedy in general culture (I think if I asked you to talk about tragedy you would think of Shakespeare and this play specifically) and I think it's great that they introduced this detail in the first episode of Code Geass because it's a subtle statement of intent: none of us knew what we were going to find in this series, so it ended up surprising us. Code Geass is properly a beautiful tragedy and no one better than Shakespeare to present it to us. I don’t rule out at all that Hamlet has been inspirational material for Code Geass. I perfectly imagine Okouchi in his house thinking: “hey! What if Laertes and Hamlet had been childhood best friends? That duel would have been more intense! Oh yes!”

Joking apart…

Maybe Shakespeare influenced the good reception that Code Geass had in me. I love tragedies. I love tragic characters. I love Shakespeare. I consider myself an admirer of his work and I recognize his influence on my writing. Hamlet isn’t my favorite work by the English playwright, although I enjoy the story and how things are handled, I find it hard to connect with Hamlet; unlike Lelouch, to whom I already professed eternal love. Anyway, I still have a lot of Shakespeare plays to read and fall in love with.

I hope you liked this analysis. I loved writing it, even though it took me longer than I had calculated. You should turn it into a video so that it lasts forever and ever. Let me know in comments the opinions of him. We will be reading soon.

PS: no, it's no coincidence that the Lelouch from my fanfic, Code Geass: Bloodlines, is a Shakespearean fanboy. I must even say that to build the dynamics of my Lelouch and C.C. I was inspired by Macbeth and his wife; just as I was inspired by the character of Brutus, from the tragedy of Julius Caesar, for my Suzaku.

[cowpokeomens]

LORE CORNER CANTO ONE TELL ME THE PREMISE 🔫🔫🔫🔫🔫🔫

teehee okay so this will be long:

So for context, I was a big theatre kid (Pre-Hamilton, simpler days) and so I often just. Read scripts for fun. Anyways, there's this absurdist play called "Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead" which follows two minor characters from Hamlet after they have died. So, I took that idea and ran with it, only instead of Hamlet I drew inspiration from Romeo and Juliet and Dante's Inferno. Our reader, the "Juliet" figure, wakes up in Purgatory with no real recollection of how she got there- until she runs into Noah, our "Romeo" who doesn't know who she is. They travel the Nine Circles of Hell together, confronting hard truths about each other and themselves while being in. Y'know. Hell. It's fun!!!!!!

[no-phrogs-in-hats]

If I could Turn Back Time

Larissa Weems x fem!reader

Warnings: Argument with your mother

Chapter 13

I was pulled from my doze by voices. Opening my eyes, through the dim light of lamps, I saw Larissa on the other side of the room at the door in a white satin robe. She stood tall and was obviously shielding me from someone’s view. 

“Is he alright?” Larissa whispered.

The other voice, who I recognized as Marilyn's, seemed frantic. “We don’t know. He’s been taken to the hospital. They said he’s in critical condition.”

“Alright, Miss Thornhill,” Larissa said. “Thank you.”

After closing the door, Larissa turned back around to the bed. “Oh, you’re awake!” She climbed in and immediately pulled me into her arms. “I didn’t mean to wake you, darling. I’m sorry.”

I pecked her on the cheek before snuggling into her. “It’s okay. What was that about?”

“A student was attacked in the forest,” Larissa sighed. “Apparently he’s in critical condition.”

I gave no response, and instead, laid there. As I listened to her steady breathing, I began to doze off again until I heard Larissa’s soft voice. “What’s…what’s your Outcast ability?” 

I hummed and looked up at her. “It’s the trickiest and most consequential ability of all time.”

“And what is it, darling?”

“Time manipulation.” 

Larissa’s eyes narrowed. “Most consequential ability of all time,” she repeated before giggling. “Oh, I get it. Of all time. You time travel…alright.”

I giggle alongside her, my hand reaching up to play with her hair. “Time travel is one term for it.”

“How often do you do it?” she asked.

“Well,” I said, “not much anymore. I really discovered that I was able to do it around thirteen years old–I went to bed one night and woke up in the middle of the middle of the 1800s. Every night would be different. And then, I finally decided to tell my grandmother. She knew exactly what was happening, and she gave me a pocket watch that would let me control it. Now, I never travel back in time unless I want to.”

Larissa smiled. “You’re rarer than me!”

“I am!” I laughed. “Not many time manipulators have been documented. But, a few of my ancestors were. The watch is a family heirloom.”

“What’s your favorite year that you’ve been to?” Larissa asked.

I huffed, thinking hard. “Oh, god…I don’t think I have a favorite year or a favorite event. Each one I’ve witnessed has been so different and incomparable to the next. The women’s suffrage movement is definitely in the top. I’ve been able to read the first published copy of William Shakespeare’s Hamlet.” Larissa giggled at that and I continued. “I’ve been within five feet of Queen Elizabeth I. I watched the Boston Tea Party happen.” Each experience I list off, Larissa seems more and more mesmerized. “I use my ability more for my students’ benefit rather than my own. I have to be really careful when I go back in time. I’ll observe events, if I’m able to, but I won’t partake. Is there anywhere you’d like to visit?”

Larissa smiled. “I’ll go wherever you think I’d like to go.”

“Hmmm…I think you’d like the Renaissance,” I said. “Maybe…1504? When Da Vinci painted the Mona Lisa? Or…maybe 1512, after Michelangelo finished painting the ceilings of the Sistine Chapel in Rome. What about…1789? The inauguration of George Washington? We’d have to stand back a bit, and find suitable clothes, but I think you’d enjoy it.”

With a peck on my lips, Larissa takes my hand in hers and threads our fingers together. “All of those sound wonderful, my love.”

“Y/N!”

The sound of my name drew me from the papers I was grading. In front of me, Marilyn walked up, a salad in hand as she took a seat. 

“Where were you the rest of the night?”

I stared blankly at her. “What?”

“Friday night?” she clarified. “I couldn’t find you when I came back.”

“Oh! I–” I tried to come up with an excuse that wasn’t ‘I was having sex with my boss’. “I wasn’t feeling very well. I’m sorry, Marilyn. I heard it was quite the night, though! How’s Eugene?”

Marilyn sighed. “He’s stable.”

“Well,” I said, “that’s good. Let’s just hope he wakes up soon.”

There was silence between us for what felt like hours. The silence that I shared with Larissa–calm and mild, pleasant and tranquil–was the opposite of this. This was tense and Marilyn obviously had something to say.

It was seconds later that she blurted it out. “Would you, maybe, wanna go out sometime?”

“Um…” I set down my pen gently and took a sip of water. “Well…I’m sorry, Marilyn, but, I’m kind of…involved with someone.”

Marilyn’s face grew red. “Oh…Right. Sorry, I just–”

“No, no!” I said. “Don’t apologize! I’m flattered. Really.”

A hesitant smile quickly flashed, and soon, the tension and silence became unbearable. I quickly gathered my things and gave her my kindest smile. “Well, I have to go! I have a meeting soon. I’ll…see you around.”

“Hi…” I slumped into a chair in front of Larissa’s desk and sighed.

She looked up at me from her computer. “What happened, love?”

“Marilyn…” I almost hesitated saying the next part, not wanting to set Larissa off in some way. “Um…She asked me out…on a date.”

Larissa stopped her work immediately. She looked at me and–to my surprise–seemed completely unphased. “Can’t say I’m surprised.”

“What?” 

She chuckled, going back to typing away on her computer. “Have you seen yourself? I almost asked you out the second you ran into me with that coffee. Also, she’s been drooling over you since you arrived.”

“That’s ridiculous,” I scoffed. 

“It’s true,” Larissa said. “She and I were talking during your first couple of days here. She told me she was thinking about asking you out. I didn’t think she'd actually do it, but then I overheard your conversation at the dance, and–” she stopped typing again and grinned at me “–I just knew I had to step in.”

My cheeks flushed. “Well…You definitely stepped in.” When Larissa went back to working, I gathered my thoughts. “I just…ugh…I felt so bad rejecting her.”

“Sweetheart,” she said, “you shouldn’t feel bad. You didn’t lie to her. You weren’t rude. She’ll get over it.”

I wish I could believe Larissa, but there was something about Marilyn that just didn’t feel right.

Parents Weekend rolled around quicker than I would’ve liked. Thursday night, in Larissa’s office, I sat beside her, going over the outline and helping her with any last minute needs. 

“It always hurts to see the children who have absent parents,” Larissa sighed, scribbling a couple things down on a post-it note. “Reminds me of when I attended.”

I looked at this woman, who was always so stone-cold with a facade of strength and dignity and elegance, and for the first time ever, I saw it drop. It was barely there, but it was noticeable. “I’m sorry,” I said, leaning over to wrap my arm around her waist and press a kiss on her cheek.

The facade that had slipped quickly revived itself and Larissa smiled softly. “It’s not your doing, darling. But, thank you.”

The following evening, parents arrived. I sat at a picnic table in the Quad with students as Larissa stood at a microphone, going through the itinerary and various events we had planned for the next couple of days–picnics and trivia, bonfires and three-legged races. 

A dinner at the dining hall took up the rest of the night. I was truly hoping for no surprises, and it was going well–until about half way through when I heard my name called. I broke my conversation with Larissa to turn my head and to my demise, it was my mother.

She walked over to our table, smiling and reaching her hand out for Larissa to take. “Wendi Foster. Y/N’s mother. A pleasure to meet you.”

As usual, she wore a dark skirt suit, her frame heightened by small black heels and her arm occupied by a purse and a white lab coat. Before either me, or Larissa, had a chance to respond, she sat herself down in the empty seat beside me. 

“Why didn’t you tell me you got fired from Jericho High?” she asked–too loudly, in fact. People turned their heads to look at us as soon as the words passed through her lips.

I sighed, closing my eyes and taking a deep breath. “Mom, please, can you not be so loud?”

“Sweetheart,” she said, “I’m from New York. I’m going to be loud.”

“Well, can you be loud quieter, please?” I asked. “Or, can we at least go somewhere else? People are staring.”

Down the hall, in my classroom, my mother and I stood at the front of the room. As always, the confrontation turned into shouting.

“All I’m asking is for you to call your mother every once in a while!”

“Why should I, when every time we speak, this ends up happening!?” My throat became tight and my lip quivered as my frustration boiled over. “I know! I know I didn’t turn out how you wanted! I’m not a physicist like you! I don’t have some fancy doctorate degree that took me a decade to achieve! I’m sorry! I’m sorry I wanted to be my own person rather than follow in your every single goddamn footstep!”

“I just don’t want you to regret anything!” she yelled.

At this point, I was sure we were yelling so loud that the entire school could hear us. Sobs finally choked my words and my head was pounding. “I don’t regret anything!” I cried. “I love my life! I love my job! I love my students! I have someone who I love and who I’d give everything for! Why would I regret any of that?” My chest heaved. “Get out! Get out of my classroom! Now!”

My mother stood there with a clenched jaw and flared nostrils, red cheeks and balled up fists. She angered me in every way possible. With no words, she let out a simple huff, leaving the room, and slamming the door. 

As I wiped away my tears, the quiet sound of the door opening set me off again. “What?” When I turned around, I met the sheepish face of Larissa. I instantly felt like shit. “Larissa, I’m s–”

She walked over quickly and gathered me in her arms. “Don’t apologize, love. It’s alright.” 

Larissa was more than I deserved. She let me cry, she let me scream my lungs out, cursing the universe and everyone in it–except for her. She drove me home that night, not wanting me to be by myself. After helping me get ready for bed, she moved to open the door, but I stopped her.

“Will you stay here tonight?” I asked.

She smiled at me before stripping her clothes and climbing into bed. I followed her actions and tore the nightshirt from my chest, eager to feel her bare skin against mine. There was nothing sinister about this. There was no ragged breathing and overwhelming pleasure clouding our thoughts. There were no mumbles of curses and there were no soft moans gracing ears. 

This was simply without sin. 

This was simply holding each other close, refusing to let go.

This was simply love.

Before I dozed off, Larissa spoke into the darkness one last time. “Oh, by the way…I forgot to say. Your nose looks a lot better now that the splint is off.”

[i-am-nickelbolt]

Bronze to Mythic: Wilds of Eldraine, draft 6

The story of this draft was flooding out every game.

Pack 1 pick 1 Taken by Nightmares over Syr Armont, the Redeemer in a stinker of a pack. Came down to 4 mana over 5 mana and mono black is better than GW. Pick 2 Gingerbread Hunter over Spellscorn Coven and Torch the Tower. Pick 3 Feed the Cauldron over High Fae Negotiator (which I honestly didn't remember seeing, this was a mistake), second Syr Armont, and Hopeful Vigil. Pick 4 Back for More which has not been as good as it reads for me. Pick 5 Wicked Visitor over Frantic Firebolt and Tenacious Tomeseeker. Pick 6 Frantic Firebolt over Rowan's Grim Search. Pick 7 Neva, stalked by Nightmares. These packs were just mediocre. One of the Syr Armonts wheeled, but I took Evolving Wilds over it.

Pack 2 pick 1 Redcap Gutter-Dweller and like that I'm Rakdos. Pick 2 Prophetic Prism over Knightly Valor and Cooped Up. Pick 3 Torch the Tower. Pick 4 Evolving Wilds. Pick 5 and 6 Lord Skitter's Butcher...

This was a hard draft for me to navigate, and looking back at the logs, I'm still not entirely sure where I went wrong. I think taking white cards instead of red cards would have gotten me a better deck.

The decks I played against, or at least the games I played, just lined up extremely well against the cards in my deck. I didn't play against a single conventional RW or BR aggro. No x/1s, not even rat tokens to flick coins at. Few 2 drops. There were multiple games where Feed the Cauldron just sat in my hand. I knew my deck had some holes, but I wasn't prepared for exactly how ineffectual my early game removal would actually be for lack of targets in these 5 games.

My first loss was some poor removal sequencing in the early game into flooding out late game. In particular, I got wrecked by the Hexproof instant, which sealed my fate quickly.

My next loss was another flood game but I managed to get three 2-for-1s with removal against adventures targeting their creatures. We got to topdecking, and they drew Devouring Sugarmaw into Cooped Up where I drew 2 lands.

Last loss was turn 4 Hamlet Glutton and I'm staring at my Rat Out, Torch the Tower, Feed the Cauldron hand like, what am I even doing here?

I did almost lose another game to 5-mana creatures, a particular class of card my deck was quite soft to.

[izzyeffinhands]

He wasn’t sure himself how he was still nimble and agile at this age. Most likely it was the constant sparring he was in coupled with the harsh physical life at sea. Instead of letting himself go to pot, Izzy made sure he was just as well at a sword as a young man. It was about footwork, locking eyes with your opponent and reading their next move before they made them.

The easy victory was not coming well for Norrington. And at their last clash of swords, Israel practically held him there with a mocking, but frustrated laugh. It wasn’t an easy win for him either. Norrington actually held his own where so many others would have already been dead and done.

“ I very much believe I will be the first. “ He snarled amidst that laughter and once their clash and show of pure strength ended they were at point once more. His forehead felt damp. Had he really caused him to break a sweat? Color him impressed.

But one hit seemed to be slight and Izzy flourished about him, enough so that he was able to get a slice in. It was to his left side at his abdomen, enough to break through that uniform and enough to draw a little bit of blood. He had pride then. If this bastard managed to take him down, even hang him? He at least drew blood.

“ A hit. A very palpable hit. “ Israel might have shown a card about himself then. Unlike most pirates, he could read. And unlike most he’d managed to read some Shakespeare already, even see a horrid attempt at a few of the plays put on by different pirates as a show. This line was said in Hamlet, after a strike from Hamlet to Laertes in a fencing match. Surely, a man of James’s worth would know the reference. Surely, it put insult to injury with that strike.

When it Hurts

[lag1995-fics]

Hello!! I love how you write your stories! Is it okay if I request a story about Peter figuring out he can move/control metal while hanging out with the other x-men? And he accidentally makes them all start floating (because he's controlling the metal in their clothing) and everyone is trying to get him to calm down? Maybe even throw in some dadneto?

Hey Love ❤️ really sorry about the wait work has been a real bitch lately. I promise I haven’t forgotten any of you.

Magnetic

Pairing: mostly just dadneto but it does have a pinch of cherik because it’s canon in my mind

Words:1220

Warnings: my language but that’s about it

Summary: Peter becomes a human magnet 🧲

Masterlist

///::::///

Peter didn’t get upset often, he was the type to bottle his emotions until they exploded from the internal pressure. He had been shoving down his feelings about Erik for over ten years now and unknowingly shoving down his secondary mutation from manifesting along with said emotions. But like with all things emotions can’t be stamped out they will come out sometime if you don’t deal with them and it’s usually at the worst moment possible.

Peter’s moment came in a petty argument with Scott. Something a twenty six year old shouldn’t be doing especially with someone nearly ten years younger than them. It wasn’t even a good argument; it was over something as asinine as whether Peters silver pants were lame or not.

Peter and the kids had been chilling in one of the common areas. The kids pretty much flocked to Peter like a cool older brother. It had made him uncomfortable at first, he didn’t want to be that guy who hung out with teenagers. Adults that hung out with kids were weird, he was much more comfortable hanging out with Raven. He just wished she would drop the whole you should talk to your dad thing.

“Nice pants” Scott had scoffed at the speedster who only raised his eyebrow at the kid.

“Thank you, I spray painted them myself,” Peter informed him, his eyes twinkling. This only seemed to piss off Scott even more, he wanted to argue and it seemed like Peter wasn’t having it.

“Oh we can all see that” Scott scoffed and Peter felt a small thread of irritation run through him. Scott was notoriously a shit stirrer and liked to get under people’s skin.

“Nobody likes a bully, Scott,” Jean said without looking up from the copy of Hamlet she was reading. Scott looked properly chastised after being called out by his girlfriend. Peter knew that wouldn’t keep his mouth shut long.

“Yell nobody likes looking at a metallic eyesore” Scott laughed and Peter could feel his irritation building up. Jean huffed and got up just in time to drag scot away. It was too late though the emotions had already started to bubble up and instead of word vomit all the loose metal in the room started to levitate.

Once the objects were floating they started shooting towards Peter causing him to make a very “manly” squeal of surprise. Jean and Scott who had been in the doorway about to exit stopped to stare.

“What the hell” he yelled, unable to unstick any of the metal that had become attached to his person. Peter could feel the panic and anxiety start to build up which only threw his new found powers even more out of control. He tried shaking at superspeed to get the metal to fall off.

“I’m gonna go get the professor” Kurt declared with wide eyes when he saw that Peter was not in control. Kurt was gone with a bamf up to the professor’s study. Unfortunately for Peter or some might say it was fortunate, his father Erik happened to be up there playing chess with the professor.

***

*BAMF*

Erik blinked in surprise when the blue child teleported directly into Charles’ study. His surprise quickly turned to irritation, he was reminded again that this was a school and there would be no peace. His irritation then turned to slight guilt when he saw Charles’ worried face.

“What is wrong my boy?” Charles asked the nervous blue child. He couldn’t be more than 15, still all gangly limbs and awkward stares.

“It’s Peter, everything is sticking to him!” The frazzled teenager yelped. Erik felt an inexplicable rush of concern for the silver haired mutant. He had grown to like the boy in the brief time that he had known him.

“Kurt would you be kind enough to take us to Peter” Charles’ voice sounded right like he knew something and wasn’t sharing the information. Kurt nodded, taking each of the men’s arms. With a bamf the three were in one of the common rooms.

Erik for all that he had seen in his life could honestly say he had never been more stunned. There standing by the sofa was Peter covered in metal odds and ends looking completely miserable with a teaspoon stuck to his cheek. Erik stared mouth agape at the sight before him.

“It seems Peter has manifested a secondary mutation” Charles' voice brought Erik out of his stunned stupor. Peter, who had only just noticed the two new arrivals turned lobster red with embarrassment and began frantically shaking his limbs trying to dislodge the metal from his person.

“Peter, you need to calm down, only that will free the metal, Charles' voice cut through the chaos. Peter froze resembling a child with their hand caught in the cookie tin.

“Students please clear the room please,” he continued and the students dutifully filed out of the room leaving just Peter, Charles and Erik. Erik took the time that Peter was standing still to study the boy with his new knowledge. He hadn’t noticed before, his shock of silver hair and loud clothing drew one's eye away from his facial features. Peter had a very familiar face, he had Magda’s smile. He also had Erik’s nose and his Mama’s eyes. Erik was floored how he could have missed something so glaringly obvious.

Peter was his child, his adult child. He had missed out on his child’s entire life. He refused to miss a minute more he would be there for Peter no matter what, the Brotherhood be damned. Nothing came before his family, not even mutant kind.

Peter was following Charles' instructions , breathing in deep and holding them before letting them out. Slowly the bits of metal began to drop from Peter’s body.

“That’s it Peter, find your happiest memory” Erik suggested, coming to lay a hand on the boy’s shoulder. Peter’s breathing stuttered at the physical contact but quickly evened out again. It took Erik and Charles another fifteen minutes but soon Peter was completely calm and a pile of metal lay at his feet.

“Peter, can we talk?” Erik asked, Peter’s eyes went wide but he nodded. Charles excused himself without a word and Erik made a mental note to confront his lover about keeping things from him.

“So...what did you want to talk about?” Peter asked laughing nervously as he rubbed the back of his neck.

“You said something to me ten years ago, with the chaos I didn’t have time to give it thought,” Erik started and Peter made an audible gulping noise in the back of his throat.

“Huh? Did I, about karate I think?” Peter deflected, uncomfortable with the building tension.

“No Peter, I think you know what I’m referring to. You mentioned something about your mother knowing someone who could bend metal.” Erik stated pointedly but not unkindly.

“Uh yeah” he rubbed even more furiously at the back of his neck.

“Yes and now you are experiencing a secondary metallokinesis mutation. Tell me Peter, was your mother’s name Magda?” He asked and Peter could feel all the emotional walls he had built crumble.

“Yes” Peter answered looking anywhere but at his father. That’s why he didn’t see it coming when he was suddenly wrapped in Erik’s long armed embrace.

As always thank you for reading. Feel free to drop an ask.

[uncloseted]

how do you think freddie could’ve been killed off that would’ve made it more impactful ?

I love this question. I've been thinking about it all day. Assuming that the major plot points have to stay the same (Foster is brainwashing Effy and he kills Freddie), I think it would have worked better if they had more closely followed how Hamlet ends, since they drew parallels between Hamlet and Freddie throughout gen 2. (Also please don't come for me if this isn't actually how Hamlet ends, despite the fact that I did once design a set for Hamlet I don't think I've ever read it all the way through ��).

What I'm imagining is something like this: Freddie goes to confront Foster about Effy. Foster attempts to kill Freddie and mortally wounds him, at which point Freddie grabs Foster's weapon and kills Foster himself. I kind of feel like the weapon should have been a sword instead of a baseball bat, both because it would work better with the Hamlet motif but also because Foster seems like the type of person who would have a sword collection. Meanwhile, Cook has followed Freddie and finds a dying Freddie alongside an already-dead Foster. Freddie says something like, "she's the most important thing to me. Just...take care of her". Cook promises that he will, and Freddie dies. Cook commits himself to making sure that Effy is okay, but abandons any idea of having a romantic relationship with her.

The reason I think this would work better is because it closes out the characters' arcs more cleanly. Freddie avoids conflict and has trouble taking action, and throughout the gen, he learns how to reach out and take what he wants, even if it means that people will be angry with him. So I think it makes sense that his final act would be one of action; protecting Effy from ever being hurt by Foster again by killing him. And I think Cook killing Foster for Freddie was meant to be his redemption, his ability to finally show how much he cared for Freddie above everything else.  It’s supposed to be the ultimate act of sacrifice for his friend, something that Cook has always struggled to do. But I think Cook sacrificing the one thing he really wants- Effy- would be the bigger act of redemption. And Effy, who struggles with being vulnerable and letting herself love and be loved, would know that her vulnerability paid off- right until the very end, Freddie loved her and wanted her to be okay.

[captain-apostrophe]

I saw that no one chose [2]Shakespeare for your prompt fics. I admit I have gone overboard (because I love Shakespeare), so you can do whatever you want. Choose one, pick whichever sparks joy or completely ignore this. Here goes

1. Richard ii - A III. 2 let us sit upon the ground (jgy having a breakdown before the Guanyin temple scene)

- A IV. 1 Alack, why am I sent for to a king, deposition scene (JC convinces WWX to surrender himself instead of WQ+WN and a trial at Jinlintai ensues)

- A V. 5 I have been studying how I may compare/This prison where I live unto the world (WWX in the burial mounds)

2. Jin Ling as Hamlet (because his uncle murdered his father, see)

-A III. 1 Good my lord,/How does your honor for this many a day? (...) Oh, woe is me,/T' have seen what I have seen, see what I see! (WWX as Yílíng Laozu tries to push LWJ away)

3. Much Ado About Nothing (JC/Beatrice + Huaisang/Benedick - A III. 2-3 either one of the trick scenes)

4. Romeo and Juliet A III. 2 Give me my Romeo; and, when he shall die,/Take him and cut him out in little stars,/And he will make the face of heaven so fine/That all the world will be in love with night/And pay no worship to the garish sun. (XY & XXC)

5. A Midsummer Night's Dream - based on this Sam Rockwell scene from the 1999 film https://youtu.be/1TiNAYpVVr4 (some kind of reincarnation au vibes, where XY and XXC are amateur actors, and playing the suicide scene knocks something loose in his head)

- A III. 2 “Puppet”? Why so?—Ay, that way goes the game. fight scene (the juniors idk who the smallest in height is, but Jin Ling does seem to have a similar fiery temper; a night-hunt gone wrong maybe because of some interfering spirits)

6. Titus Andronicus - A II. 4; A III. 1; A V. 3 An if your Highness knew my heart, you were.—/My lord the Emperor, resolve me this (XXC discovers SL's mutilated body before it's turned into a fierce corpse and he kinda snaps)

7. MacBeth - A III. 4 banquet scene (jgy sees the ghost of NMJ)

-A V. 1 away damned spot (LXC in seclusion)

8. The Taming of the Shrew (instead of throwing him in the Burial Mounds, WC takes WWX with him and psychologically torments him with the same tactics as Petruchio; plot-twist: instead of being tamed, WWX kills him, because I hate TTOTS)

9. Othello A III. 3 (Othello/NMJ; Desdemona/LXC ; Iago/JGY; Cassio/NZH)

- A V. 2 It is the cause, it is the cause, my soul. - Oh, the more angel she,/And you the blacker devil!(...) I have another weapon in this chamber, - Oh, Desdemona! Desdemona! dead! Oh! Oh! (...) Soft you, a word or two before you go.-I kissed thee ere I killed thee. No way but this,/Killing myself, to die upon a kiss. (to DESDEMONA) I kissed you before I killed you. Now, killing myself, I’m dying while I kiss you again. Kisses DESDEMONA, dies (established relationship; JC realizes what NHS did at Guanyin temple and all the scheming before and is driven to murder)

10. Tom Stoppard's Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead "Two ELIZABETHANS passing the time in a place without any visible character.bThey are well dressed—hats, cloaks, sticks and all. Each of them has a large leather money bag. GUILDENSTERN’s bag is nearly empty. ROSENCRANTZ’s bag is nearly full. The reason being: they are betting on the toss of a coin. (...) It would have been nice to have unicorns."+" Do you ever think of yourself as actually dead, lying in a box with a lid on it? (...) Eternity is a terrible thought. I mean, Where’s it going to end?" (JGY and XY in the afterlife, but they don't know it)

-"We could play at questions. (...) Yet he sent for us. And we did come." (JGY +NHS)

Now that's what I call a prompt! It was fun to have so many to choose from and to look at the different parallels you drew. I might be doing another, but this was the one that really caught my eye. Hope you like it!

(also on ao3 if you prefer to read there)

[gen; Lan Xichen; references to Macbeth; guilt and sleepwalking and blood]

- Spot -

In his sleep, Xichen walked.

There was nobody to see it, secluded as he was, and he himself was not aware. He only knew that he was tired every day, as tired as if he'd risen from his bed and paced back and forth for hours on end. The weariness felt fitting, though. He didn't deserve to sleep well.

He tried not to think about it. He spent a lot of his time now trying not to think about things; sometimes he succeeded.

Each night he went to bed at the prescribed time and lay staring into the darkness. Despite his weariness he always struggled to fall asleep - and the sleeplessness seemed to perpetuate itself. The longer he lay there, unsleeping, the less likely sleep became. Sometimes he didn't sleep until the room was turning grey with the approach of dawn, and sometimes he didn't sleep at all.

But when he did sleep there was no rest in it, and this was why: he would rise without waking and walk circles around the boundary of the home that had become a prison.

"Yet here," he mumbled, on one such night, words slurred and changing from dull to desperate and back again. "A spot!"

He wrung his hands together. He paced. If one were to look they might notice, as the months of his seclusion turned to years, the wearing of a path around the boundaries of the rooms: from door to bed, from bed to desk, from desk to door and around again. And again. And again.

"Hell is murky - out, damned spot! Who would have thought a man would have so much blood in him?"

He held up his hands as though to stare at them, though of course he saw nothing - or if he dreamed, perhaps in the dream he saw the stain of the guilt that lay upon them. Certainly the image of it haunted his waking hours. He was supposed to be spending this time in meditation, this seclusion, but each time he closed his eyes he saw his sworn-brother again and felt the hot spray of blood over his hands.

"No more of that," the sleepwalker told himself, soothing. "No more of - oh, but here's the smell of the blood, still! What perfume could sweeten this? Will these hands never be clean?"

His distressed cry rang out like a bird's call through the night. There was nobody to hear it. The elders of his sect slept easily with the weight of their decisions.

"Wash your hands," he said. His tone was gentle, as if he spoke to another, one he wished more kindness on than he would in waking choose to offer to himself. "Wash them and put on a clean robe. Look not so pale. He's buried! He cannot come out from his grave! Wash your hands."

There was no water in the wash-bowl but he knelt at it anyway and, as if enacting some elaborate mime, scrubbed at his hands. Come morning the skin would be red and raw - but there was nobody to notice how his hands troubled him now, and he did his best not to wonder why.

It didn't matter. What did he need his hands for? Let them ache. Let the skin crack and the joints swell. All his hands were good for any more were a weight when they sat folded in his lap, when he stared at nothing and feigned serenity.

"To bed now," he told himself then, rising with freshly-aching hands and eyes still unseeing. "Come, come, come - what's done cannot be undone. Dawn approaches. To bed."

And on the next night, and the one that followed, and on and on, he would rise to repeat the performance: pacing, scrubbing, muttering. Murmuring in distress but providing, too, the consolation that there was nobody else to offer.

Perhaps one day he would believe that he deserved forgiveness.

[grandhotelabyss]

For Shakespeare’s birthday, I post this column from one of the JFK-assassination-era magazines I mentioned inheriting in this previous post. (If you click the image and enlarge you should be able to read it clearly.) It’s from Life magazine, July 10, 1964, and brilliantly parodies the anti-Stratfordians. The columnist, Dora Jane Hamblin, uses all the arguments of the Baconians and Oxfordians to claim (not unpersuasively!) that the works of Mark Twain—himself an anti-Stratfordian—were in fact written by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. 

I am a Stratfordian, but then again, it doesn’t matter that much to me; it matters much more to them. As Borges wrote, Shakespeare was everything and nothing, so why not Bacon, de Vere, and Mary Sidney? Still, I’ve mentioned before that I was educated by Catholics in grade school and Marxists in grad school, so it seems to me that our poet’s sensibility bespeaks an ex-Catholic semi-nihilism traceable to the Stratford man’s crypto-papist family, and I think, too, it’s apt that the inventor of literary individualism should have been a litigious shareholder and nascent bourgeois. The latter point is the gravamen of Stephen Dedalus’s proto-postcolonial tour-de-force lecture on Shakespeare in Ulysses:

— A deathsman of the soul Robert Greene called him, Stephen said. Not for nothing was he a butcher's son, wielding the sledded poleaxe and spitting in his palm. Nine lives are taken off for his father's one. Our Father who art in purgatory. Khaki Hamlets don't hesitate to shoot. The bloodboltered shambles in act five is a forecast of the concentration camp sung by Mr Swinburne.

[...]

— And the sense of property, Stephen said. He drew Shylock out of his own long pocket. The son of a maltjobber and moneylender he was himself a cornjobber and moneylender, with ten tods of corn hoarded in the famine riots. His borrowers are no doubt those divers of worship mentioned by Chettle Falstaff who reported his uprightness of dealing. He sued a fellowplayer for the price of a few bags of malt and exacted his pound of flesh in interest for every money lent.

In my annual Shakespeare’s birthday post on my site, I consider Othello, which I hadn’t read for a long time. I figured there was little left to say on the gender-and-race question, so I didn’t bother and viewed the play from a slightly different perspective instead, guided in part by G. Wilson Knight’s Wheel of Fire. Knight is non-doctrinaire, but his approach is, roughly, a New Critical one, attentive to the coherent inner workings of the text. I’ve always thought that Shakespeare benefits from this much-maligned critical school. Romantic criticism and its psychoanalytic successor treats his characters almost as real people, while the historicist criticism that came to dominate in the late 20th century dissolves the text into its sociopolitical contexts. Knight, by contrast, discusses the plays for what they are—dramatic poems, united by patterns of sound and imagery that disclose a vision of life.

[itsclydebitches]

A fifth of the way through! Who’s proud of me? :D

Noisy - After a certain seance Aziraphale is feeling insecure about how much he talks.

Aziraphale was speaking.

Had been for the majority of their meal, pausing only to take bites of the Norfolk crab with ossetra caviar, veal fillet with asparagus in a wild garlic sauce, chocolate and hazelnut mousse for dessert with a second order of the fruit sorbet because he hadn’t been able to decide and really, why not both?

Why not both?, Crowley agreed. He adored watching Aziraphale eat. All those quirky mannerisms that positively screamed his personality for all to see. The way he would slide each fork-full from his mouth with agonizing slowness, ensuring that he’d picked up every morsel from between the tongs. Raising his napkin after every fourth or fifth bite, whether there was a mess to clean up or not. Aziraphale went deathly still when he ate, as if he couldn’t bear to distract from the taste with any unnecessary movement. Except when he’d taste something new or unexpected and then it was all wide-eyed surprise; that absurd little wiggle. Aziraphale flipped his spoon before taking a bite because, “The mousse should hit my tongue, dear, not the roof of my mouth. Obviously.”

Obviously. On nights like this Crowley was grateful they hadn’t had to keep up their ruse any longer. One look at Aziraphale-as-him digging into that popsicle and the whole jig would have been up.

And Crowley could never hope to re-create this.

So yes, he loved watching Aziraphale eat. He loved hearing him speak more though.

Why not have both?

“So I told the dear girl—quite firmly, I should say—that we would have to undergo a true apocalypse before I gave her those sigils. Hell would need to freeze over and such. Though I suppose you could manage that if you put your mind to it.” Aziraphale took another bite of his sorbet and dropped a wink that sent a flush rising up Crowley’s neck. “Anathema is a brilliant young woman but really? Giving her access to Enochian symbols? I can only imagine the horrors that would produce! And trust me, dear boy, I have quite the active imagination.” Another bite; another flipped spoon. “She swore she only wanted to study them, but if any mortal is capable of sketching out a true celestial circle it would be that witch. Then where would she be? Accidentally killed, that’s what. Or worse, getting through to them! Can you imagine Anathema summoning Metatron into that little cottage? No, no, no. We’ve had quite enough upheaval for one millennium, thank you.”

Crowley had long ceased trying to get a word in edgewise. In truth he didn’t want to. Six-thousand years together, but so little of it spent together. They’d meet randomly or clandestinely and it would never matter which because they knew it could only be for a brief moment or two. One side could always be watching them. Both, even. And it took Crowley decades to realize how much of that precious time was just spent posturing. Aziraphale feigning shock at their latest arrangement. Crowley pretending like that actually annoyed him. They had their routines down, a script they read from, and though Crowley had learned to love that for its familiarity, he hadn’t realized just how much he’d been missing. Hearing Aziraphale wax on about oysters or give summary accounts of Hamlet couldn’t compare to this: hours upon hours of meandering, casual thoughts.

Crowley settled his chin further into his hand. Beneath the table his free fingers circled in a clockwise motion, a bit of extra energy spent on slowing down time. Nothing terribly noticeable. It wouldn’t even affect the humans. Much. Just a devilish little miracle that would give Aziraphale more time than what the real world had to offer.

Because they’d been sitting here four hours now and Crowley was fully prepared to sit another four.

“What do you think?” Aziraphale asked. He downed the rest of his La Grande Année and smiled over the rim of the glass. Like he somehow knew that, whatever Crowley’s answer, it would be well worth knowing.

Problem was, Crowley hadn’t the faintest idea what Aziraphale had just said.

Hmm. Distraction via flipped spoon. It happened. Not that there was much danger here. Aziraphale had the distinct talent of being able to talk about a single topic for hours—if not days—on end. Always easy to slide into.

“Really, angel? Giving me a say?” Crowley pushed his own, untouched tart across the table. “I thought you’d already made up your mind about the witch?”

He’d meant it as a bit of light teasing. Poking fun, making jokes, being a nuisance and all that. So watching Aziraphale’s expression fall took the breath right out of Crowley’s lungs.

“Oh,” he said, voice suddenly soft. “Yes. I have been prattling on, haven’t I?”

And Crowley, in a moment of incredible insight and sensitivity said,

“What?”

Aziraphale had been reaching for the tart but now drew his hand back, beginning to fiddle with the edge of his vest instead. “I’m terribly sorry. Rather rude, isn’t it? All things considered. I promise to make more of an effort in the future and you must stop me if I suddenly start rambling once again. You deserve to—” Aziraphale’s mouth suddenly clicked shut, eyes popping wide as he realized what was happening. Crowley could see his jaw working for a long moment. “I want to hear what you have to say too,” he said. Simply.

Meanwhile, Crowley’s elbow had slipped off the table and he nearly took the rest of the food with him. When he came back up there were splashes of champagne on his sleeve.

“I—why—?” Crowley tugged his glasses just low enough to take a good, long look. “I haven’t got anything to say.” Which wasn’t true exactly. Plenty of ribbing to indulge in when it actually managed to land, but right now Crowley had bigger fish to fry. Flay ‘em, cook ‘em, and serve 'em up with lemon butter so his angel would actually smile again. “What precisely are you on about?”

Aziraphale shrugged. He never shrugged. “Just thought I might be...”

“Be?”

“...talking too much.”

Crowley slipped off the table a second time.

“It’s just—”Aziraphale said, clearly trying to explain without continuing to talk. Which most people will realize is rather the lost cause. “Madame Tracy. Or rather, her friend. Or perhaps not a friend exactly. A client? Follower?” Aziraphale scowled when Crowley just went on blinking at him from halfway out of his seat. “A woman asked to speak to her dead husband and being an angel currently existing between planes I accommodated her and he told her to shut up.” He exhaled after all that, lips trembling. “Separated for who knows how long and the only words he had for her were ‘shut up.’ Because she’d never let him have his say. I... I would never want you to feel the same way, dear boy. I couldn't stand it. ”

Jesus-H-Bloody-Fucking-Are-You-Kidding-Me-Christ.

If Aziraphale wanted him to talk more he was shit out of luck because Crowley’s voice had died a mangled, embarrassing death. Giving up the ghost via shock was like that. And oh sure, sure, plenty of things he could say if his vocal cords kicked back in. Like how Aziraphale was stupid for thinking he could compare them to some random human couple who clearly needed therapy. Or ask if Aziraphale had ever paid one ounce of attention these last six thousand years because if Crowley wanted to say something? He’d damn well say it. No fussy angel was going to stand in his way.

(Not unless he asked really nicely. Or looked at Crowley in that particular way of his. Or so much as thought about wanting him to shut up. Because those were all entirely different situations.)

Speech seemed to be the enemy now. Which was all kinds of horrible since Crowley liked Aziraphale speaking and had hoped to soak up another couple hours of it before the night was over. Who could put something like that into words though? Even when words were an option? Not Crowley.

So instead he summoned up a small black book and slid it across the table.

Aziraphale blinked. "What's this?"

"Read it."

Just a small, ironically innocent notebook. Every demon had one. Standard issue for the bastards lucky enough to go topside. Recounting your deeds was all well and good provided you actually remembered what evil deeds you’d been up to each day. Too often demons melted back into hell having forgotten half of what they’d done. They might not be good at record keeping down there, but there was something like an effort. So, yeah. Write it all down like a good little worker bee.

“Go on,” Crowley said, keeping his voice at a whisper. Aziraphale hesitantly took the book in hand. “Out loud.”

Crowley hadn’t written a deed down for thousands of years.

“June—” Aziraphale paused, having opened to a recent date. He swallowed hard. “June 3rd. Angel went on about gilding again all through lunch. Improper heating techniques and wet vs. depletion. I currently know more about pretty books than any decent demon ever should. Good thing I’ve never been decent.

“June 4th. Got reamed out for going over 90mph again today. Wonder how many times I can get Zira to squeak like that? Half-hour lecture to follow. Gonna start just as soon as he gets back with the shawarma. In three... two... one...

“June 5th. Talked a lot about knitting today. Thinking of picking it back up before winter. Zira had a whole pro/con list for crocheted vs. knitwear but honestly? If it’s warm?? Who cares??? Angel, apparently. There were many thoughts on socks.

“June 6th. Some bugger on the bus had his music blasting while I was trying to hear Zira’s latest Gabriel impression. The kid is gonna end up with wet jeans one way or another for the next week.

“June 7th. Right. Zira might have been onto something with the whole crocheted socks rant. Pretty sure this is one of Beelzebub’s inventions—Crowley.”

Aziraphale finally looked up, his eyes wet in a way that made Crowley shift uncomfortably in his seat. “You keep a diary.”

He winced. “It’s not a diary!”

“It most certainly is,” Aziraphale crowed, flipping through some of the older entries. “I'm astounded at what a faithful record this is—especially since Armageddon��and so many of them are about me. They're...” The impact of that last bit seemed to hit Aziraphale all at once, stilling his hands. “Oh. They’re all about me.”

Talking.

Crowley shrugged. Because he was the one who shrugged in this relationship. He pressed the little book back into Aziraphale’s hand when he tried to pass it back. Crowley’s fingers ran over his knuckles then, soft and slow.

“Keep it awhile,” he said. “For the next time you get some ridiculous idea stuck in your head. Now, what were you saying about the witch girl? My memory’s worse than a goldfish’s, angel. You know that. Best you start from the beginning."

Aziraphale wasn’t much for public displays of affection, but he did bring their still-intwined hands up to his lips, resting them there for a moment.

When he started speaking again Crowley’s skin was gifted with the very first words.

[harryswanderlust]

Overdue

where y/n’s the new library assistant and harry doesn’t actually show up for the books...

warnings: none

requested: nope

It wasn’t until the beginning of September that Y/n had really started to appreciate her job in the campus library. She’d been working there for only a few weeks, every night from six ‘til eight, and she enjoyed it. She enjoyed sorting through endless amounts of books and placing them back on the proper shelf. She’d end up finding new and exciting things to read from doing this, and at first, she thought that was the best part of her job, but after someone waltzed into her library during the start of September, she was given a new reason to love it so much.

She remembers it being a particularly cold night, which was surprising to no one since it was the beginning of the autumn season in upstate New York. Everyone already had their jackets pulled out by the end of August and were adjusting to the cooler temperatures. Everyone except Y/n. She’s always hated the cold, and she’s set on moving out of New York once she graduates. All she wants to do when fall and winter roll around is curl up in a pile of blankets and read until she falls asleep, but on that night a cup of hot chocolate would have to suffice.

It was a typical Thursday, and it wasn’t any quieter or less empty than any other day of the week since most kids couldn’t find the library even if they tried. She always finds it amusing when certain students come rushing in to find a book for a paper they were supposed to start writing weeks ago, but chose to wait until the last minute instead. It’s usually the same people over and over again, and thankfully it’s not a daily occurrence, but it did happen on this night as Y/n’s shift was coming to an end.

She’d lost track of time, so it was a few minutes past eight when he hurried in, but the library hours have always been clearly posted on the doors. She briefly looked up from what she was reading–Shakespeare’s Hamlet–when she heard the door swing open, and felt a gust of cool air blow in. She let out an annoyed sigh when she glanced up at the clock to check the time. She was hungry and planned on grabbing something to eat after locking up, but now she was going to have to wait because some idiot couldn’t read a sign.

She observed the stranger as he made his way inside, trying her best not to scrutinize him too hard or get caught staring. He was wearing a university hoodie that appeared to be in desperate need of a wash, and his hair is falling in disheveled ringlets in front of his face from being windblown. She cut him some slack for it because everyone on campus was only trying to stay warm, but it didn’t make her less irritated with him.

He looked to be a bit older than she was. Maybe around twenty-one? She didn't think there was any way he could be a sophomore like her or any younger than a junior really. His sleeves were half rolled up, exposing a trail of tattoos up his left arm and a wristband on his right arm with the name of his frat house. She decided to shrug it off, simply going back to reading her Shakespeare while he went about finding the books he needed. She was almost near the end of the third act when he walked up to the checkout counter, shaking his hands through his tousled curls for about the tenth time since he arrived.

It wasn’t until then that she truly got a good look at him, and she could physically feel her heart skip a beat when was met with a pair of forest green eyes, simultaneously shutting the play and nearly falling off her stool in the process. She stumbled before catching herself on the counter and flashed him a smile to try and conceal her embarrassment.

“That’s one of his longest plays isn’t it?” He asked her as he slid a few books across the counter for her to check out. Her brows drew together, his question throwing her way off guard before she registered that he was talking about Hamlet. Her eyes shifted back and forth between him and the play because she definitely wasn’t expecting him to ask her that.

“Uh, yeah. I think it is,” is all she could manage to say in response, working to grab the books he placed in front of her to scan them. She eyes him unsurely for a moment, and an awkward silence stretched between them as the scanner beeped a couple of times.

“It’s been a while since I’ve read that, but ‘to be or not to be: that is the question’, right?” He asked, quoting the play to her, and she swore her jaw practically dropped to the floor. She didn’t think he was dumb–hell, she didn’t even know the guy–but if someone had told her she’d be talking to him about Shakespeare she wouldn’t have believed them. But here he was quoting Hamlet of all plays. Her own friends didn’t even discuss Shakespeare with her, and they’ve always got their noses stuck in some piece of literature as much as she does.

“I think Hamlet should’ve let nature run its course, you know? I believe in fate, and by taking things into his own hands he only made things worse. Nothing was really resolved,” he said, reaching for his books as she handed them back to him.

She nodded, considering his words. She’s only ever heard people’s thoughts on Romeo and Juliet and everyone’s opinions are pretty much the same on that one. “I believe in fate,” he’d said. Was it fate that lead him into her library on that Thursday night? Was it fate that lead to him coming in almost every single night after that?

“I’m Harry by the way,” he added, introducing himself with a dimpled grin. Y/n’s not sure why she was finding it charming or why she’d become more endeared by him than she was several moments ago.

“And could you try to not look so surprised that I’ve read Shakespeare before?”

She frantically shook her head, stammering over her words as they quickly fell out of her mouth. “No, I’m not–I, I mean I wasn’t–I mean it’s, it’s just that–”

“Don’t worry about it. I’ll let it slide since you’re cute,” he teased, shooting her a wink. Her entire face heated up at the compliment, but she didn’t know what’s worse: how little she thought of him or how he had called her out on it. “Definitely cuter than the last library assistant. What was her name? Callie or Catherine or something like that?”

“Caitlin,” she corrects, causing Y/n to remember how she heard somewhere that she was caught with pot in her room and got kicked out of school. Whether that’s true or not, Y/n doesn't know. But she hasn’t seen Caitlin around campus since so she’s definitely not around anymore. She also found a secret stash in between some books one time which makes the rumors seem more truthful than they are not.

“Caitlin, that’s right. I liked her. She’d write papers for me sometimes if I paid her enough.”

Classy, Y/n thought to herself. She mentally rolled her eyes at his confession, finding it unsurprising. She figured this guy may have known a thing or two about a famous playwright, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t another lazy student that only tries to pass so they can keep partying every weekend. She didn’t care for guys like that and assumed that everything she found attractive about him was all on the outside.

“Anyway, I didn’t catch your name,” he said.

“That's because I didn’t give it to you,” she’d shot back, watching as his grin grew wider and he licked his lips. She wasn't aware, but he was the type that liked a challenge. He loved having to work for it.

“Guess I’ll have to call you princess from now on then.”

The pet name didn’t earn any appreciation from her, nor did it make her want to keep talking with him at that point.

“If you think I’m going to write your papers for you, you’re wrong. And your books are due in two weeks,” she told him, ignoring his subtle attempts at flirting with her. He should’ve stuck to giving her his analysis on English literature.

“I’ll be back in two weeks then.”

That’s the last thing he’d said before shooting her one last wink and leaving with his books tucked under his arm. She didn’t know what exactly to think of the guy, and he even hadn’t crossed her mind until he returned to the library again. She had hoped that she wouldn’t see him again after that, but that proved difficult since he purposely showed back up two weeks later during her late night shift. As it turned out, he wanted to continue the conversation they had when they first met, but Y/n didn’t buy it. She thought he wanted to see if he could take another shot at possibly trying to get into her pants.

She was quick to judge him though, and soon found out how wrong she was about him. Sure they don’t run in the same circles, and honestly, they still don’t, but they have a lot more in common than she was willing to give them credit for at first. It took a while, but she eventually started looking forward to his infrequent visits. And after a couple of months, the infrequent visits turned into a daily routine.

At first, he’d act as though he was coming in to find a book he wanted so it didn’t seem like he was only there for the cute, alluring, library assistant, but he soon gave up trying to hide it. Not that it wasn’t at least a little obvious to Y/n. He only ever came in when she was there, and she knows this because she took it upon herself to ask the actual librarian if she’d seen him. She told Y/n she’d never seen or heard of him before. It’s possible that she could’ve simply missed him, but before Y/n started working there Harry had only seen the inside of their library a solid two times.  

So by the time the end of the fall semester rolled she had fallen in love with her job, and by mid-February, she had fallen for him. She tried to chalk her feelings up to love being in the air and all that, but she wasn’t just enamored by his riveting smile or adorable curls. She didn’t want the four walls of the campus library to be the only place she ever saw him. She wanted to be able to be with anywhere and recite her favorite soliloquies to him or listen to him play his guitar or sing to her.

That was their thing. He loved art and music, and she loved books and poetry...and maybe even him too. She hasn’t been able to find the guts to tell him, out of fear that he might not feel the same way. If he hasn’t asked her out by now then she doubts it’s going to happen. Besides, they’re good at the whole friend thing, and there’s no way she wants to ruin that.

“Did you read the book before you wrote this paper?” She asks him one day when they’re sitting at a table in the library. They’re going over a paper he had to write over Homer’s Iliad, and she’s pretty sure the only thing he’ll get credit for is putting his name on it.

“Would you believe me if I said yes?” He responds, and she shakes her head. He groans as he takes his paper back from her, running a hand over his face and through his messy locks. He tugs slightly at them with frustration, and she places a hand on his shoulder. She gives it a soft squeeze, offering a sympathetic smile.

“I should read it shouldn't I?”

She nods, murmuring a quick “yeah” before standing up. “I’ll go find it for you.”

She slips behind the bookcases, finding the book with ease since she read it herself a while back. She hears the light pattering of footsteps behind her, and she whirls around to find that Harry has followed behind her. She gasps when she almost collides with him, the book nearly falling out of her hands.

“What’s that?” She asks when she spots a cd in his hand. He shifts back and forth on his feet, his body towering over her as he looks down at her. His face flushes at her question, a pink tint blossoming over his cheeks as he twists his lips to hide a smile from her.

“I...I made you a playlist of all my favorite songs. I thought you might listen to it while you’re reading or studying or whatever,” he tells her, shrugging nonchalantly as he wipes his hand against his jeans. It makes her realize that he’s actually nervous. She’s actually making him nervous.

She smiles fondly at him, her heart swelling at the simple gift. He could’ve just thrown all the songs onto a Spotify playlist, but he went out of his way to make her a cd.

“Thank you. I love it,” she says, wanting so badly to kiss him for it. He’s standing close enough that it would be easy. All she’d have to do is lean in, and she’d be lying if she hasn’t spent some time thinking about how his lips would feel against hers. Like the beginning of a beautiful song is what she guesses.

“How can you love it? You haven’t listened to it yet, princess.”

She rolls her eyes, playfully pushing his arm.  “Because you made it for me, silly.”  

This gets him to smile, and she swears it makes her want to melt. His fingers gently trace over her wrist, his thumb rubbing over her knuckles. Her breath hitches at the contact. She didn’t see it coming, his gaze is cast downward at where they’re touching as he pauses for a moment.

“Would you wanna go to a party with me tonight?” He finally asks once he’s racked up enough courage.  

She blinks a few times. “What?”

“I mean, you totally don’t have to if you don’t want to. My frat’s throwing one tonight, but I’d understand if that’s not your scene. I just thought it might be nice to hang out somewhere besides here,” he explains, afraid that asking her out has scared her. He’s as terrified of moving too fast as she is, and doesn’t want to assume that she likes him.

If only he knew.

“Yeah, I’d love to,” she says, wrapping her own fingers around his.

He bites his lip, bringing his other hand up to push her hair behind her ear and cup her cheek. He slowly pulls her closer to him, their noses brushing against one another’s. It tickles and a giggle escapes past her lips as her eyes flutter shut, anticipating a kiss. But his lips ghost over hers, not giving her the one thing she wants.

“Great, I’ll pick you up in couple hours?” He whispers, pulling away from her and letting her go.

She nods, not trusting herself to say anything. She can hardly breathe, and when he leaves she leans back against the shelf full of books. Her head spins, unable to process what just happened.

He asked her out.

He finally asked her out.

————

Taking a nap wasn't her smartest move, and she was dreading how little time she had to get ready. She had an outfit picked out in her mind before she even left the library, but had to quickly throw on a dress and shoes in order to focus on getting the sleep out of her hair and face. She doesn't look bad, but she did envision herself looking better for a first date. Though, going to a frat party as a first date wasn’t exactly what she had in mind either.

She slides into the passenger's seat of his car when he pulls up, immediately noticing how he ditched the dirty hoodie and fixed his hair. He looks as nice as she does, and even more handsome than he ever has in their tiny, old library.

“You clean up nice,” she compliments, taking a second to buckle her seatbelt. It’s dark but she can still see him blushing as his hand reaches for the gear to back out.

“Only when I really like the girl,” he teases. “And you look beautiful too.”

She pulls her bottom lip between her teeth, biting back a smile. Her fingers wind tighter around the sweater she grabbed on her way out, the butterflies in her stomach starting to flutter faster. Somehow she’s more nervous that she’s ever been. He’s just Harry. The guy who stops by the library more times to see her than he does to read a book and is now probably going to become her boyfriend.

Wait.

Boyfriend? Now she’s getting ahead of herself. He doesn’t want to be her boyfriend. Sure he had her a mixtape–which is undoubtedly pretty romantic–and he did ask her out, but he’s not going to become her boyfriend all of the sudden. She’s not even sure what to call what’s already going on between them.

“You want something to drink?” He asks when they arrive at the house, surrounded by hundreds of half-drunk college students and someone’s terrible playlist blasting through the giant speaker.

“Yeah,” she nods.

“Okay, stay here. I’ll be right back.”

“Wait!” she frantically grabs his arm, pulling him back to her. He glances at her, brows drawing together to show he’s confused and making her mentally slap herself for acting like a crazy person. “I’m...I’m not really comfortable being alone.”

She releases her death grip on his arm, praying that she didn’t make herself seem like a pathetic freak. She shifts uncomfortably where she stands, avoiding his gaze. But he smiles softly at her and grabs her hand, intertwining his fingers with hers.

“Alright, I won’t leave your side,” he tells her, squeezing her hand for assurance. She looks up at him, squeezing it back as a thank you.

He leads her to the kitchen, which causes an outburst from several of Harry’s friends. A blonde one comes from around to counter to pull him into a hug, engaging in some sort of handshake with him afterward. He pats him on the back, telling him that he was wondering when he was going to show up.

“I’m here now,” he tells him, stepping to the side and placing his hand on the small of Y/n’s back. “And this is Y/n.”

“Wow, Harry. You’ve always known how to pick them,” a lankier one says before winking at him.

“Is she your girlfriend? Or another one of your hookups you never intend on calling back?” Another one pipes up, tauntingly.

“No, we’re–”

“You’ve always been quite the ladies man haven’t you?” The blonde one nudges his shoulder.

Okay, his friends seem like nice people except they really don’t. But was what that one guy said true? Did he have a thing for hooking up with girls and never calling them? Was she really just another conquest to him? And if she was, why would he put so much effort into a quick screw?

“I think I’m going to go to the bathroom,” she lies, excusing herself from the awful situation. Harry calls out after her, but she doesn’t turn around and instead makes her way towards the stairs. She hurries up them, set on heading for the bathroom but stopping short upon finding something else.

To her left, a bedroom door is open slightly and inside she can see the same hoodie Harry was wearing earlier hanging off a chair. Now, she's in a house belonging to a bunch of frat boys that all play the same sport, so that doesn't mean the bedroom is his. But is that going to stop her anyway?

Absolutely not.

She presses her hand to the door, opening it further and stepping inside. The first thing she notices—besides the condom laying out on his dresser—is the Iliad laying out on his bed. So it’s definitely his room, and she definitely wasn’t expecting so many Fleetwood Mac and Pink Floyd posters. What also comes as a surprise is the bookshelf full of books, including classics like Hemingway.

“I see you got lost on your way to the bathroom,” Harry says, now leaning in doorway and watching her with a subtle smirk.

She ignores him, her fingers scanning over the spines of the books. “So you’ve got Wuthering Heights on your shelf, but you can’t get through the Iliad?”  

He shrugs. “Wuthering Heights was entertaining.”

She snorts, “Spoken like someone who didn’t understand the book.”

“Did you?”

She opens her mouth to speak, but can’t find any good way to answer because she, in fact, didn’t understand it. So that’s twice now that’s she’s not given him enough credit and put her foot in her mouth, right?

“You know this is like way overdue right?” She pulls a book off the shelf, holding it out for him to see as she points clearly at the return date sticker. He was supposed to return it a couple months ago, but she’s partly to blame for giving him a pass every time he forgets to bring his books back.

He walks over to her, one hand grabbing her waist and the other brushing her hair away from her face.

“What are you–”

“I think this is too,” he cuts her off, gently cupping her cheek with his hand and pulling her in for their lips to meet. The kiss is deep and slow, lighting up her body and she finds it hard to catch a breath. Her arms wind around his neck, her finger running themselves through his curls.

She moans when he pulls away, still keeping her body close to his. “I was wondering if you were ever going to do that,” she giggles, giving him another peck on the lips. “Could never really tell if you were into me.”

Harry nods, pinching her hips and causing her to giggle again. He could listen to that sound on repeat, like a sweet melody.

“Trust me, I am,” he says before pulling her in for one last kiss.

[codicesandflora]

Ineffable Inktober-Day Twenty Three-Shakespeare

Sadly, I have fallen behind again, but I still hope to finish by the end of the month. We’ll see what happens....

This takes place a few months after the Nearpocalypse. I’m going to rate it Teen just to be on the safe side.

Such Heavenly Touches (AO3 Link)

“Angel, you need to relax.”

Aziraphale blinked, peering over his glasses. “I thought I was relaxed. The shop is closed, I’m sitting here on the couch with you, and I’m currently reading the second volume of A la Recherche du Temps Perdu. I don’t see how I could be any more relaxed.”

“Yeah, but you’ve been reading the same page for fifteen minutes. And it took you ten to get through the last one.” Crowley sat up and scooted closer to Aziraphale.

“Something’s been bothering you for almost a week now,” he continued. “Ever since you got back from your last visit to Heaven. Is that what this is? Something happen while you were there?”

Ever since the Nearpocalypse, Heaven and Hell hadn’t communicated all that much with either of them. That came to an end when a messenger angel dropped by the bookshop with a request straight from the Metatron that Aziraphale come to receive new instructions: to continue to stay on Earth and work on Her behalf however he saw best.

They hadn’t discussed it much once Aziraphale got back, but Crowley doubted that that would be the end of it. Aziraphale’s withdrawn behavior for the rest of the week proved him right.

Aziraphale let out a long sigh and closed the book in his lap, sitting it to the side. “I didn’t expect to be welcomed back with open arms. I am aware that the only reason I wasn’t destroyed the moment I entered Heaven was because of that decree from Her that we be left alone. But I…I had hoped that Her declaration of forgiveness would lessen the severity of their contempt.”

‘Instead that increased it,’ Crowley finished for him. That wasn’t surprising to him. For all the talk about Divine Forgiveness, it was usually in very short supply among the majority of the Host.

Aziraphale shook his head and took his glasses off, putting them into his pocket. “No, it’s not even really that. I’ve known for a long time what they think of me. It’s more like the feeling I had just after I left. I suppose the only way I can describe it is a sort of disconnection. Or isolation.”

The angel looked over at him with a wan smile on his face. He placed a hand onto Crowley’s knee. “Dear, I am sorry. Your company is far preferable to the entire Host, but….”

“But it’s not the same,” Crowley nodded. He knew that he could say that being Fallen was the ultimate form of isolation from Heaven, but he also knew that that wasn’t the same either. Not when Aziraphale was still an angel and yet was cut off from most of Heaven.

He watched as Aziraphale drew his hand back into his lap and began twisting his fingers together, his posture even tenser than it was before. Seeing him hunched slightly forward, his arms pressed tight to his sides, Crowley finally got an idea of what to do.

“How about a massage?” Aziraphale blinked hard again, but this time it was accompanied by a rush of red to his cheeks.

“A, a what?! Er….”

“You heard me, a massage.” Crowley leaned toward him, tilting his head to the side. “Have you ever had one?”

Aziraphale cleared his throat. “Er, no. I’m not…angels are supposed to be the ones giving comforting touches, not….”

“Yes, I know,” Crowley sighed waving his hand. “But this isn’t Heaven, and you don’t have to live by their rules anymore.” He picked up one of Aziraphale’s hands and caressed it. “It’ll feel good, angel. I promise, you’ll love it.”

The red on Aziraphale’s face increased, but what truly warmed Crowley’s heart was the trust that filled the angel’s eyes as he nodded his head.

“All right. So, er, what do we do?”

--------

A couple minutes later, the two of them were in Aziraphale’s bedroom. A few quick miracles pushed the bed to the side of the room, conjured up a massage table, and made a second table of oils and towels appear.

Aziraphale watched Crowley prepare the room with wide eyes. “Have you…have you done this before?”

“Once or twice,” Crowley said with a shrug. “I got to know a few masseuses during a temptation scheme I had going on in Manchester.”

“Oh, um,” Aziraphale tugged at his bowtie. “Did you use it a lot for your…for work?”

Crowley smiled at him. “You mean did I use massage for tempting people? Nah, it wasn’t that kind of massage, angel.” He came up behind Aziraphale and gently placed his hands onto the angel’s shoulders.

“Most of the people weren’t looking for that sort of thing,” he added. “Oh sure, one or two were, but most of them…they just needed someone to touch them.” He clasped Aziraphale’s shoulders, noting the soft gasp he got in response.

“I think you do too, angel. Even if you don’t know how to ask for it.”

Aziraphale pulled in a shuddering breath. “Crowley, I…I….” Crowley shushed him and lifted one hand to stroke his cheek.

“It’s all right,” he murmured. “I’ll take care of you, Aziraphale. I promise.”

The sound in Aziraphale’s throat could have been a sob or simply shock. There was no way to know. All Crowley did know was that the angel spun around to embrace him tightly and press his face against Crowley’s shoulder.

They stayed that way for a full minute until Aziraphale finally pulled away and slipped his arm out of one of the sleeves of his jacket.

“I suppose I should….”

“Yeah,” Crowley said, turning his face away. “I’ll go warm up some of this oil. Just lie face down on the table when you’re ready.”

It was odd, this need to turn away while Aziraphale undressed. Both of them had seen the other one naked more than once. Then again, Crowley was aware that Aziraphale had a strong aversion to being watched or stared at in any situation.

The angel would probably make an exception for him, but Crowley didn’t want to make him do that. Not when this was supposed to be about soothing Aziraphale’s nerves.  

“I’m ready,” a small voice said behind him.

Crowley nodded and picked up one of the bottles of oil. It was scented with lavender, a good choice for Aziraphale he figured. He held it in his hands and let the heat that was always just under his skin warm it.

Then he turned and smiled at the sight in front of him. Of Aziraphale lying on his stomach, his arms folded up near his head and his head craned to watch Crowley.

As he drew closer, he noted shivers coursing through the angel’s body. He stepped back just long enough to grab some towels from the stand.

“Relax, angel,” he murmured as he heated each towel up and draped them around Aziraphale’s body. Aziraphale had left on his boxers, but had removed everything else, and Crowley imagined that some of that shivering was just a slight chill due to having far skin exposed than he was used to.

Once he had covered the lower part of the angel’s body and offered him a warm towel to rest his head onto, Crowley could see some of Aziraphale’s tension ease. The angel lowered his face onto the towel while Crowley poured some of the oil onto his hands.

‘Who will believe my verse in time to come/ If it were fill’d with your most high deserts?’

Crowley hummed and smiled. He remembered the day Shakespeare wrote that. Or rather, the day the two of them pieced it together. Crowley was still hanging around the Globe Theater, helping Hamlet become a success and was tossing out a spare line here and there to move his latest sonnet along.

What he didn’t share was that he’d been thinking about Aziraphale the whole time. About the way the angel’s face lit up when they saw each other again and how Aziraphale’s smile could warm him in a way Hellfire never could.

Throughout their impromptu writing session, Shakespeare had prodded at him to reveal the inspiration for his words, but Crowley refused. Eventually, the bard gave up, but not before getting the true final word in.

“Whoever they are, they must be a beauty beyond compare. Just as your poetic words say.”

‘You have no idea,’ he had thought at the time. How could any human understand the beauty of an angel? Shakespeare’s words would be far more accurate than he could ever know.

Crowley walked up to the table and placed his hands onto Aziraphale’s shoulders, clasping and then kneading at the muscles that were clenched tight. Aziraphale gulped, but then leaned into the touch.

“C-Crowley….”

“Shh,” Crowley said, leaning in to lightly kiss the shell of Aziraphale’s ear. “Just let yourself enjoy this.”

Aziraphale let out a long, contented sigh as his body sagged against the table. Crowley continued to ease out each tightly wound knot in Aziraphale’s shoulders and neck. The lavender scent spread outward, cresting with each touch.

Crowley’s smile grew. The sunlight coming in through one of the windows made Aziraphale’s hair glow, making the faint halo that Crowley always saw around the angel’s head shimmer slightly in response. Soft sighs filled Crowley’s ears, making his heart swell with affection.

‘If I could write the beauty of your eyes/ And in fresh numbers number all of your graces/ The age would come to say, “his poet lies”’

‘Such heavenly touches ne’er touch’d earthly faces.’

As Crowley’s hands traveled down Aziraphale’s back, his eyes took in every curve and fold of the angel’s body. His hands massaged, but also caressed every inch of skin that they touched.

I love you. Every stroke was an echo of this one thought that continued in an endless chain in Crowley’s mind. I love you, angel. I love every part of you. Let me touch you, hold you, comfort you.

Crowley began to knead Aziraphale’s calves. Legs that had stood strong in the face of darkness and suffering. Feet that had remained firmly grounded when others would have fled from the pain and misery confronting them.

As he worked downward, Crowley continued to hear Aziraphale sigh and then moan in pleasure. When was the last time anyone had touched him tenderly? Did anyone in Heaven do it? Unlikely. All the angels aside from Aziraphale that Crowley had met were not the types who believed in touch founded on gentleness and care. Humans? Possibly, but even then Aziraphale kept himself remote from most everyone around him.

The cold truth was that Aziraphale was probably touched starved for centuries and was still adjusting to getting even the smallest scraps of physical affection within their relationship.

Crowley carefully guided Aziraphale to roll over onto his back. The angel’s eyes were closed, but his expression was slack ecstasy. He bent down to give Aziraphale a light kiss to the forehead before rubbing his fingertips along the angel’s temples and then down the sides of his head.

Once he was done, he ran his hands down Aziraphale’s cheeks. “How do you feel?” he whispered.

Aziraphale’s eyes opened, and Crowley stopped breathing for a few seconds as the blue of the ocean nearly drowned him. Then a smile brighter than sunlight brought him back.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale breathed. “Dearest….”

Crowley moved from behind Aziraphale to stand over him, placing his hand back onto Aziraphale’s cheek.  Seeing him like this, bliss suffusing his features, Crowley remembered why he chose to visualize Aziraphale’s face when he wanted to think of Heaven.

--------

Author’s Note: the lines Crowley was thinking of were from Shakespeare’s 17th sonnet. When I read it, it really felt like something he would think in relation to Aziraphale. 

[hellolittleogre]

Billy x Goody College AU

The continued adventures of College AU Goody and Billy. This time with the full skinny on that infamous production of Hamlet.

And because Billy is utterly fucked anyway, and had never had that good self preservation skills, he ends up in the kitchen with Josh, Vasquez, a bottle of tequila and a whole host of bad decisions.

 He felt so shell shocked it took a while before he even noticed the alcohol and by then he was practically asleep in a bathtub with Vasquez next to him very earnestly telling him that his hair was pretty. And like? Billy knows his hair is pretty? He also thinks his hair is very pretty, and Vasquez is kind of pretty too, and the way that his t-shirt fits snug around his bicep is very enticing and his eyes are a sort of melting brown which are different from Goody’s eyes, which Billy is resolutely not thinking about, and suddenly Vas’s face is kind of close and coming closer and their noses are kind of brushing, Va’s breath brushing wet and alcohol-y over his cheek and then Sam opens the door to the bathroom. 

There is a long moment where he just stares at them, Vasquez sitting on the floor clutching a bottle and Billy lying in the tub, faces way too close, and then Vasquez breaks out in a brilliant grin. 

“Sam! Come in here, we're talking about Billy’s hair. ‘S very pretty. Yours also very pretty.” 

Billy thinks moodily that he doesn't find Sam’s hair very pretty at all. 

“Gentlemen,” Sam says, “any chance of using the facilities for their intended purpose?”

Billy and Vas go back to staring at each other because none of that made any sense and then Billy’s brain bursts into action. Its brilliant that way.

“Pee! He needs to pee!” he exclaims, delighted with having figured it out. “Only he can't because I'm in the tub!” He feels very proud of himself. 

“Goody!” Sam hollers down the corridor, “I've found your roommate, I think you’d better come fish him out.” 

And no no no, Sam can't be calling Goody, Billy does not want to see Goody at all right now, no thank you, but here he comes and Billy can only look at his socked feet too afraid that if he looks up everything he’s just realized will be visible on his face. 

They go back to the dorm with Billy escorted between Sam and Goody, feeling very much like a kid being taken home from a birthday party in disgrace. And isn’t that just perfect, not only does Goody have a tall, hot, manly boyfriend who fills out his shirts properly and has a deep voice and probably drives with his hands at 10 and 2 like a dad, but he also literally had to walk Billy home like he’s a child.

However it’s impossible to dislike Sam, he has a warm laugh and Billy can just tell, an even warmer heart, and since he, unlike Goody, is not completely useless there is coffee and painkillers for Billy the moment he wakes up, even if it wrenches his heart to see Sam peel out of Goody’s bed to get them (of course they still haven’t fixed the air mattress, instead sleeping squashed up like two incredibly handsome sardines. Billy is not jealous).

Sam is also an inexhaustible treasure trove for outrageous shit on Goody.

“Did you tell him about Hamlet?” he yells to Goodnight, who’s in their little kitchenette scrambling eggs, and in spite of the painkillers it makes Billy wince.

“Of course not!” Goody yells back. “And neither will you!”

Sam just smiles at Billy and rolls the chair closer.

“Let me tell you aaaaalllll about Hamlet,” he says, slinging an arm conspiratorially around Billy’s shoulder.

“Will you please not?” Goody says, sounding incredibly pained.

Turns out that Goodnight and Sam were together in a high school production Hamlet, and if Goodnight can be a pretentious twat now, with his French Nouvelle Vague films and spontaneous quotations of David Foster Wallace and Gertrude Stein, apparently his teenage self had been much, much worse.

“Goody here really, really wanted to be a serious actor.” Sam says. “He’d read all about the “Stanislavski system” was all the time getting into fights with Mrs Henson about “the art of experiencing” and the inner psycho-drama of Hamlet.”

“You’re only jealous because I got the role and you had to be second fiddle Horatio,” Goody yells from the kitchen, rattling the pans.

 “Only because you shamelessly, shamelessly I say, used your audition to roll all over the stage pretending to die until your shirt came undone and inflamed Lydia Krukowski with unholy lust.” Sam yells right back, Billy really wants to know more but he also wants them to talk at a more reasonable volume. “She was Ophelia,” Sam adds in an aside to Billy, who feels a twinge of sympathy. He knows all about being inflamed with unholy lust for Goodnight.

“At least I started with audition with my clothes on! You came to yours with your shirt undone to the navel, you hussy. And let me remind you, it was not my pants that Lydia Krukowski wanted to get into.”

“Whenever somebody goofed off he’d get so upset smoke would come out of his ears!” Sam continues, gesticulating. “So the props department, for unknown reason, made this huge fish prop and it became a running joke to throw it on stage during rehearsals to make the actors crack up, and he -” Sam waved his hand towards the door. “ - did not crack up. Not once! Sense of humor surgically removed! So the props guys, who made the fish, got really cheesed off, everyone else had laughed, so for the final performance they decided to get him back and wham! In the middle of the famous soliloquy they threw the fish on stage!”

Billy snorted and Sam waved an indignant arm. “Only Montgomery Cliff here didn’t as much as twitch, he caught the fish like it was a baby,” Sam made a cradle with his arms against his chest,. “And tossed it right back!” 

Sam broke out in a big laugh and Billy couldn’t help it, but laughed too.

“Nobody heard a word of the rest of it.” Goody says, having emerged from the kitchen while Sam was talking, leaning  against the door jamb with his arms crossed. “We had to halt the production for 20 minutes because the audience couldn’t stop laughing.” Billy can tell he’s trying very hard to sound displeased but there is a small smile was pulling the corner of his mouth.

“Nobody wrote a word in his yearbook, they all just drew fishes,” Sam chortles, wiping tears from his eyes and Goody smiles ruefully and fixes Billy with his blue- grey eyes.

“No, I’m not Prince Hamlet,” he says softly. “Nor was meant to be, am an attendant lord, one that will do, To swell a progress, start a scene or two,” his voice melting in Billy’s ears like dark honey, the sweet Louisiana drawl stretching the syllables and pulling in him helplessly. “Advise the prince, an easy tool, Deferential, glad to be of use. Politic, cautious and meticulous, Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse; At times, indeed, almost ridiculous. Almost, at times, the Fool.”

Goody’s voice dies away and Billy feels like he can’t breathe, unable to look away from Goody’s face, it feels like something huge and massive is caught in his chest because how can everybody not love Goody when Billy right now, in this moment, would give an arm and a leg for the privilege of pulling his worn cotton t-shirt off with his teeth?

And then Sam breaks the moment by slapping Goody hard on his bony hip.

“You incorrigible old ham!” he says and then turns to Billy with a positively wicked grin. 

“Do you want to see the pictures?”

He is sort of best friends with Sam after that, the short grainy footage of Goody clutching a huge papier maché trout like its his baby making Billy laugh so hard he falls out of his chair.