#it's up on a hill and you can see over crops and the sun was shining and there was a really nice breeze

[lit-in-thy-heart]

went for a little walk, found a field of sunflowers and sat in it for ten minutes, best unexpected find in a long while

[niccolites]

green cliffs: - lessons in mortality. chapter one

highlander!soap x fem!reader. cw attempted sexual assault. read on ao3 here

On the same patch of land that you once took your first step, you are dragged out of your home by your hair.

There are things of little consequence: the blinding beam of the sun, how its heat doesn't reach you, snatched up by the snapping wind. The peeling paint of your broken fence, the pitchfork that has been abandoned in a bale of hay instead of with the rest of the tools in the barn.

You focus on this, the bite of the cold on your cheeks instead of the nails that are digging into your scalp. Easier to try and distance yourself from the fear that is gaping in your stomach, instead wondering if it was you or your brother who left that pitchfork out like that. You decide that it must have been your brother, he had been the one in the rush to get to the river to catch the ‘better’ fish this morning.

There are three strange men around you. You don’t know any of their names. You had seen them in the distance, the stark red of their coats along a distant hill, barely even a day prior. Your village had seemed to suck in a breath, air stilling with their approach. Now, the wind howls, the noisy exhale after that tense beat.

Trouble, your brother had warned you. Told you to stay in the house as much as you could. Tend the crops, feed the animals and keep your eyes down. He would go out, speak with your neighbours to get information on who these men were and what they wanted.

And you had done what you were told, had darted across to the barn, to the coop. Like a horse jumping at the sight of a snake before it even coils to snap.

It didn’t matter anyway. A spooked horse gathers more attention than a calm one. Your brother is sitting by still waters somewhere else, and you are here, gritting your teeth at the sting of your hair being ripped out by clumsy fingers.

Seemingly bored of dragging you, you are shoved to the ground, collapsing in a pile of skirts in the dirt. The men guffaw at you. They’ve clearly been drinking, the stench of whiskey is foul, and one of them still holds a bottle of it. Swings it around and you feel some of it catch the end of your dress. The laughs have a bitter edge to it. They’re angry, you realise, a new spike of fear shooting up your spine. You have just met these men, but they are treating you like you have wronged them in the past. Here to exact their revenge.

Soldiers, likely. One of them is still holding their bayonet, the other with a pistol slung around their waist. You don’t know how high-ranking these soldiers are, you don’t know if that would make a difference in how they are going to treat you. Worse, likely. Not even a month past and one of your neighbours had been strung up to the post, back bloodied with a whip until he collapsed. The punishment for not welcoming God’s own into your home, apparently.

Usually the English presence in your village is more official. A battalion, passing through and making sure that everyone is minding their own. There had been another Jacobite uprising, somewhere to the west of your village. Scottish men gathering to try and overthrow King George, reinstate the Catholic Stuarts. It had failed, but English law recently had become a lot more permanent, tangible in light of this rebellion.

These may be soldiers on your land, but they were operating as men. English law placed to the side, it’s overseeing eye shut for just long enough for what they were planning for you.

You are pulled up, arms yanked behind your back. Held in place by the first soldier while the other two prowl around your home.

“You know, I'm sick of you stuck-up cunts,” the first soldier hisses in your ear. There’s a twist in the muscle of your shoulder which makes you whimper. “You'd bend over for your sheep before you would us. I bet you have as well.” You can see his dark hair in the corner of your eye, smell the whiskey on his breath.

“Oh, come on, Grahams,” the second interjects, reaching over to catch your chin in his clammy hand. “She looks like a good girl. I bet you haven’t even been touched. Am I right?” His thumb pushes on your lower lip, his own mouth parting beneath the heavy curl of his pale moustache. Salivating, the way a rabid dog does before you put it down.

You stay silent. Feel his skin on yours, how he pulls your lip down. The parting of where you were and where he drags you down. Feel that ugly gap of space, an inch but it feels like a mile.

“Alone in that house?” the third asks, not even sparing you a glance. He’s pouring his drink over the edge of your field, just outside the second fence. The border between your yard and the crop you and your brother had laid down, scarcely a few weeks before. The third soldier has small eyes, and a pig nose, turns to give you a horrible, hating look. “Bet she’s had the entire village between her legs,” he sneers.

The first soldier distracts you, breath polluting you as he huffs a laugh. Tightens his arms around the lock of yours and ignores you as you grunt in pain. "Well, I’m sure that she wouldn’t mind the King’s own men from taking what they are owed, yes?”

The third man, apparently done with talking, throws the rest of his bottle over your fence and strikes a match. The catch of fire always surprises you. The match is suspended in the air for a flicker of a moment before it connects to the pool of liquor. A blink, and the fire roars, summoned into life and it eats all of the crop that you and your brother had laid on that once tilled field.

The memory of you and your brother, on your hands and knees as you planted that crop. The acceptance of exhaustion that comes with physical activity when you know it must be done and so you do it. Body connected to mind, an idea and then the yield.

Impossible to reconcile what had taken hours to do, lit up within a second. The fire branches across everything, almost licking the third soldier himself. Everything swallowed up, a horrible demon, brought by these men, a senseless cruelty that you can barely comprehend.

You howl, a wounded animal sound, lunging forward and then yanked back immediately. Everything is separate, suffocated by sensation. There is only the connection between the fire and your eyes, the conclusion that your brother is going to have to bow in that dirt again.

You shriek again, when you are stopped from preventing this, arms protesting in the twist that the first soldier forces them into. Told to stop your squealing. The second soldier steps back into your eye-line and grins down at you. Yellow teeth, dark eyes. Another demon on your land, seeking retribution in something that you have not even committed.

His mouth moves, but you barely hear it, blood rushing in your ears. Your face is hot, molten with tears. Brain and body disconnected. The socket of your shoulder is boiling, every yank pulling a tense groan from between your clenched teeth. You know that you are going to hurt yourself if you keep struggling, or maybe one of these men are going to hurt you. But you keep pulling, huffing with fruitless effort.

The second soldier reaches down, fingers digging into the collar of your dress. His fingers cold against the hot flush that has spread across your chest. A tear in the cotton cloth that covers most of your clavicle. Another shriek, ripping up your throat and into his face. He barely flinches. You are a cat with its tail caught, it doesn’t matter how sharp your teeth are anymore.

The first soldier with your hair in his teeth. The second with his hands groping down your chest. The third man, kicking your fence to get it to buckle and catch in the flames as well. Paralysis like a fist around the base of your spine. A yell that starts in the bottom of your lungs, builds until you are almost sick with the force of it.

Another yell, one that does not fully register until the soldiers take notice of it.

"What on -" the first soldier starts to say, before the rest is lost in a strangled noise. The second soldier steps out of your vision and you see what is stopping him.

Your father was no soldier, although he had been when he had to be, god rest his soul. He used to tell you about the true highlanders, the real soldiers and the swords that were as broad as they were, and how they would swing them as if they were an extension of their own arm.

It sounded like folklore. Mythology, until you see the swing of that broadsword, splitting the third soldier at the waist like the crack of an egg.

You barely have time to catch sight of the fourth man before you are thrown to the ground again, dirt catching on your palms and digging in.

It feels generous to call it a fight. There is a brief tussle between the new man and the two soldiers that had been holding you prone, before they are brought to heel. Blood seeping into the dirt. Half of the second soldier’s face thuds to the ground, his moustache halved. He stares sightlessly up at the sky, half an expression stuck and immortalised.

You lie in the dirt, watch as your tormentors are silenced, lives ended and left to pool in the soil that you used to dance across when you were younger. It is entirely unfair, the three men that were able to drag you around like a ragdoll, cut into like slabs of cheese.

It’s breathtaking, watching this man save you like it is the easiest thing in the world. He finally stills, the first soldier lying limp on his knees before he is kicked aside. You hysterically wonder if that is what would have been done to you, if these three Englishmen had gotten their way. A passage of time interrupted, snipped like the threads of fate. Time redirected.

You stare up at him, barely able to connect that your arms are your own now, even though you had been wrestling for them to be this entire time.

Your saviour, a bloody mess on his kilt and three dead men around him.

"Thank you," you manage. Voice crackling as you form full words now. The stench of gore is another presence in the yard with you. Thick, you resist the urge to gag as it seems to catch in your teeth as you inhale noisily through your mouth.

The man who saves you is silent, breath heaving out of him. He is massive, with dark hair that is pushed back out of his face. A light beard and red in his kilt. Red everywhere, actually. Staining the white of his cotton shirt beneath the crossover of his kilt, staining his skin. His broadsword is almost the same height as him, almost as wide. Metal catching the sun, glowing red as it drips blood.

It takes the man to stumble back to force you into action. You force yourself up, staggering towards him. You reach the centre of his chest, his breadth suffocating you, encompassing. You catch his bicep to right him, the equivalent of smacking your hand against stone. Now that you are standing chest to chest with him, you realise if he were to fall, you would not be able to catch him.

"Are you alright?" You ask, staring up at him. The blood on his face doesn't seem to be his, for the most part. There is a cut across his brow, leaking a lazy trail of blood down his temple and you almost reach up to touch it without thinking, before you catch yourself.

His eyes are blue. The sky brought down to you.

You almost laugh, delirious. Self-conscious under his rapt gaze. You tilt your head and catch sight of the fire again. As if other sensations had been halted under this man’s gaze, you are brought back to the present with the crackle of fire. You curse under your breath, stepping out of the pull surrounding this man, darting away to get a bucket to extinguish the flames.

You feel the ghost of a hand across your back before you are gone, furiously pumping the handle of the well and tossing the water across to the fire. It takes a few journeys, something that has your hands fumbling as you try to work faster.

The man is there, pulling the bucket away from you even as you try to stop him. He is able to swing the water further, catching more of the flames. His gait is longer than yours, but you notice that he seems to be stumbling as he is putting weight on his right leg.

After you pass him two more full buckets of water, the fire is finally put out. You take stock of the blackened field. All of it razed, deader than the men who are still sinking into the dirt a few feet away from you. You swallow harshly, angry tears pricking at your eyes. It will take a month, longer even, to fix this. You can imagine the devastation on your brother’s face when he sees this. Resist the urge to turn to the corpses and give them a few good kicks.

You want to give into the lump in your throat and cry over this, but the man fills you with purpose. You roughly swipe at your face before you face him, catching him already watching you. “Your leg - is it alright?” You ask, trying to keep the burned field out of sight. Better to focus on what can immediately be fixed.

The man stares at you for a beat too long. Almost as if waiting for you to speak again before he does. "One of the bastards caught me in the leg," he says. His accent is thick, deep in a way that has you flushing. He tilts his leg, lifting his kilt enough for you to see the gash on the back of his calf. The flesh looks torn open, which makes you wince.

"I can patch that up," you offer, grateful at the opportunity to take your mind off of the events of the past hour. You step closer, hands hovering, unsure if he should be walking. "My brother cut his arm on a scythe once, wrist to elbow, and I managed to stitch that up,” you add, even though the man doesn’t seem to care about your past experience with wound tending.

"You the village nurse then?" the man asks, reaching over to drape his arm over your shoulder. There is a moment of his weight pressed into you that almost makes your knees buckle before it is lifted. His hand stays though, warm on your opposite shoulder. He seems to be guiding you into your home more than you are. He is a hot line along your side, hip to hip. The sway as you acclimate to his walk, sturdier on your right leg as if to compensate for his.

“Hardly,” you manage to respond, kicking the door open for him to get inside. “My brother is just clumsy.”

You set him on the chair in your kitchen, bustling around for some cloth and a needle and thread. Your kitchen is like a picture in a book, just how it was when you woke up this morning. Time has not moved here, your mug is still by the sink. Your brother’s boots by the door where he had forgotten them this morning. Life before the fallout, perfectly preserved.

“It’ll look ugly, but it’ll do the job,” you warn, tossing a cushion on the floor to kneel on, gesturing for him to elevate his foot on the other chair.

“I trust you to make my leg as handsome as it was before,” he says, a smile that slips from his mouth when you come back to his side. You kneel down, a wet flannel in your hand that you cover the wound with, wanting to the extent of the damage beneath the aftermath that covers it.

You glance up at him, finding him watching you. Eyes dark now, water before a storm. You give him your name, suddenly realising that you haven't yet. Admonish yourself for being rude.

He breathes it back, like he wants to hold it in his mouth for a moment. “John,” he replies after another pause. “I get called Johnny.”

“Am I allowed to call you Johnny?” You ask, turning back to his leg. You catch sight of his chest stuttering over a breath. You tuck your hair behind your ear, frowning to yourself. You know if your brother were here, then you would not be speaking to this man so casually. That knowledge makes you feel like you are doing something inappropriate. Something to be ‘caught’ doing. Extra dash of sugar before the whip of the belt across your backside.

“Absolutely, angel. Well, dependent on the work you make of my leg,” he adds, tone musing. He seems amused by you, mouth smiling even as his eyes stay that dark colour. Trouble, your brother had described the soldiers. You aren’t so certain he wouldn’t describe Johnny in the same way.

You resolve yourself to your work. It’s not a bad gash, when most of the blood is wiped away. One of the soldiers must’ve stabbed it in, and then pulled it to the side, splitting the flesh. You wonder how he was able to stand on it, nevermind help you with the fire. You murmur a warning before you stab the needle in, threading the wound closed. A thin layer of poultice along the loose white cloth you have, an attempt to prevent any swelling before you wrap this around the wound. Tie the ends. The beginning of a thank you for what Johnny has done for you. His blood stains your hands, sticky into the crevices of your palms.

You squeeze the red out of the flannel and stand, roles reversed. He looks up at you, gaze reverent in a way that makes you faintly embarrassed. “The cut on your brow doesn't seem as bad,” you murmur, half-excusing yourself. You’re not doing anything untoward, but you feel the need to pre-emptively explain yourself. 

You wipe the blood on his face away, other hand hovering uncertainly, before you cup his chin. Hold him in place as you clean him up. It's something that you think would be normal, but feels outrageously intimate with how hot his gaze is on your face. Swallow and watch as his eyes drop to observe your throat move.

You avoid his eye, difficult when you can see that flash of blue darting around. You feel swallowed up by it. His attention feels like the sun has finally reached you, reaching through the wind to land on your skin. Scalding where his eyes land. You’re suddenly aware of the rip in your bodice, how it looks like you are bending over to show him the view down your chest. You snap up straight when you realise that he is looking.

You’re being ridiculous, you decide. This is the man who saved you from those horrible soldiers. A fate worse than death, most likely. Raped, murdered and burned most likely.

The cut on Johnny’s brow as stopped bleeding. “I think you’ll live,” you pronounce, voice falling flat at the end.

Another gap of quiet. Standing over a man who saved you, his blood on your hands. Three dead men in your yard. The burned crops, that smell wafting in, ruin and death.

“You live here alone?” He asks, accent catching on the ‘o’ sounds.

“No, my brother…he's away, fishing,” you explain.

Johnny barely seems to hear you, hand on your wrist. Thumb on your pulse, like he's listening to more than your words. “There may be more soldiers,” he says, gaze dragging away from you to the window. Darting back again as if he can barely stand to not be looking at you. “We have to go.”

You stammer, something in your spine locking at the idea of leaving your home. “I can't, no, this is my home - my brother - Ian - he’ll be -”

Johnny stands, a wall of muscle in front of you. The size of him silencing you. “There are English men dead on your land,” Johnny tells you, fierce suddenly. The snap of teeth. “Now, they may not believe that a sweet thing like you could do this, but they’ll make an example of you anyway.” His words blow the air out of your lungs, a shudder in the shape of a breath. You think about what he’s saying. You, on that post with your back whipped until everyone can see beneath your skin. Saved from the lawless and delivered to the law, the punishment eerily similar.

You shiver, fear worming through you. The scowl on his face smooths out, and he reaches up and cups your face. Sticky with gore, you can feel the print of hands left on your cheeks. “We have to go,” he repeats, firm. The full force of his will is something to bow to.

Your shoulder twinges, familiar with that sensation of being caught and forced into position. You twist your mouth, that ignored lump in your throat making itself known again. You blink up at Johnny, blood in the light beard across his face. The blood of the men who hurt you. Offering to save you. Again.

Your saviour is a stranger in your kitchen, and when you murmur your assent, he smiles like a wolf.

[pparadiselost]

milk and honey.

bull hybrid! ushijima x farmer! human! reader in the midst of the summer heat, ushijima decides he wants to cross the line. warning(s): nsfw, hybrid au, hybrid x human, heat cycles, slight public sex, breeding, creampie, allusion to cock bulges, mentions of cervix kissing, reader described to be smaller in size than ushijima minors do not interact. author's note: hello! this is my entry as part of the house of solis occasum's summer-themed fic exchange! i was assigned to write for @stopisa, so i hope you enjoy reading this, isa!

it’s hot.

the air buzzes with the tremor of life awakening, and the heat hangs amidst the air like a thick quilt enveloping the earth. this is one of the few times throughout the year that you’re actually grateful to wake up early, otherwise you’d be out in the fields at the mercy of the summer sun. still, you can feel your skin start to stick to your clothes as you leave the comfort of your house and make your way towards the picturesque meadows where you’ll spend most of your morning.

it’s not much, being a farmer and raising a hybrid on your farm, but it’s honest work. you do your best to take pride in it, and being on a small farm means that you can form a special connection with every single little part of the land and its inhabitants. 

maybe you’re going insane after staying in the countryside this long, but sometimes you swear your crops love you back as much as you love them. the tomatoes with their lanky vine-like hands wave hello as you spread fertilizer around them, and the summer-time flowers enjoy wiggling their petals at you like they’re little ladies dusting off their petticoat dresses. as much as you would love to tiptoe through the greenery and see what kind of gossip the chatty breeze brings you, you have a more pressing task at hand.

a picnic basket with a red plaid blanket wrapped around it bounces off of your hip as you make your way towards the small cottage-like structure on top of the hill. you chose to take the few minute walk to admire the sun-kissed strands of grass greeting you hello as the tiramisu cake dust-colored dirt crunched against the bottom of your boots. yes, this was all work, but finding the silver lining in the beautiful was what made the work worth it.

you give a small huff, feeling the summer heat pressing against your body as you knock against the entrance to the cottage. you can hear heavy footsteps from the inside, and you don’t have to wait too long before the door carefully swings open. the smell of clean hay and cloves of cinnamon emerge from the interior, an odd comfort amidst the stark darkness that linger within. your eyes trickle upwards towards the top of the doorframe, where a figure easily looms above you. his silhouette engulfs you wholly without another word, cloaked in the shadows and the safety of the little hutch atop the hill.  

you beam innocently. “good morning! how are you today? did you sleep well? i hope i haven’t woken you up or anything…! i know summers are rough for you, since you have a tendency to go into h-”

he coughs loudly to cut you off as quickly as he can. 

he steps forward slightly, and he ducks his head so he doesn’t bump against the wooden doorframe. you knew from the get-go that taking a hybrid into your care was no easy task, but you really had your work cut out from you when you first took ushijima wakatoshi into part of your life. you never regretted a single second of the time you’ve spent getting to know him, but you definitely had your work cut out for you in earning his trust. you like to think that you’ve done a good job by putting a roof over his head, food in his belly, a wide world at his fingertips to explore, and a companion in the form of you. the poor boy had always been formal, polite, and it wasn’t until too long ago that he quit keeping you at an arm’s distance and let you come in closer to his guarded heart.

you wonder what he thinks, sometimes. even now, when looking up at him, the two of you couldn’t have more disparate appearances. whereas you’re your run-of-the-mill human farmer, ushijima is huge. he’s a proud but self-contained bull hybrid, and he towers over you like it’s nothing. he’s built like a true bull too, with nothing but layers of muscle on him that honest to god makes you swoon a little if you think about it too much. perched atop his head of olive-greenish brown hair are some tiny cow ears with a little tag stating his connection to you, and placed firmly around his neck is most prized possession: a cowbell that you gifted specially to him.  

he’s beautiful. hybrid or not.

he nods gruffly, and he hopes you don’t notice the light shade of pink dusting his usually stoic cheeks. “i slept well, thank you. how about you? do you have a lot of work?”

you would never do anything without his explicit permission, so everything he has to his name right now is all things that the two of you agreed on. he wasn’t fond of the idea of becoming your hybrid “pet” and opted to ask for a separate place to live, claiming that he preferred the hard boundary to remind himself of the rift between human and hybrid. and so you complied. in time, ushijima felt less like a bull hybrid and more like a neighbor that happened to be a hybrid, but there were moments where he’d remind you of the metaphorical line he had drawn in the sand.

“not today! i want to spend some time with you. if you aren’t busy…,” you gleefully hold up the basket into his field of vision, “do you want to have a picnic with me?”

his gentle, brown eyes widen. you want to hunt down whoever said bull hybrids were uncontrollable and dangerous and smack them upside the head. ushijima is nothing but considerate to you, and looking at the way his eyes twinkle at the idea of spending some time with you and sharing a meal only proves your faith in him.

“...if it’s alright with you, i would love to.” he nods again. he shyly folds his hands, and your grin widens. you grab for his big palms, tugging him out of his cottage and out into the beautiful summery world unfurling in front of you. despite his massive size, he stumbles out of the cottage and barely gets to shut his front door before you’re tugging on him like he’s a ragdoll. 

and he lets you. he lets you usher him past his front gate and back towards the green, green meadows filled with flowers and sweet grass and all sorts of butterflies just waiting to become the backdrop to your lunch escapade. you’re so small and so sweet in comparison to him, and even though he could crush you like you were nothing if he so chooses to, you always come to him with open arms and a sunny smile that disarms him instantaneously.

he’s sure that’s why it didn’t take long for him to fall for you. as you practically dance in front of him, leading him past the thick wooden gates and into a secluded field onto your farm, he wonders if you have any clue as to how he feels.

…

…

…

it’s hot.

you’re glad to be sitting in the shade when the unrelenting summer heat amps up, and the sun lingers high in the sky as it takes its midday rule with an iron fist. ushijima’s grateful for the cool breeze under the trees as well, and he’s especially grateful for the fact that you had the foresight for the heat when he notices the ice packs placed inside of the picnic basket. the red blanket contrasts the vibrant green of the meadow, and he sits calmly in the center as you unpack the goodies you prepared for the two of you.

“juice? do you prefer watermelon or strawberry?” you hold up two chilled bottles up. 

ushijima blinks at you. “you can pick the one you like better. i like both equally.”

“you’re being too nice!” you laugh as you hand him one of the bottles. he watches with keen eyes as you twist the cap open and take a hearty swig. his jaw tightens ever-so-slightly when he sees the way your throat bobs with each swallow, and a small dot of red juice beads at the corner of your mouth. you let out a clearly refreshed gasp when you lower the bottle, and the tiniest string of saliva connects your lips to the mouth of the bottle for a split second.

he forces a deep breath through his nose, and he lets his eyes flutter shut for a moment. no, this was no situation to act in such a profane way, and he had to know his place. he instead drops his gaze to his own drink, focusing on the way the cool material of the bottle felt against his hot hands, and he follows your example in opening his own share and taking a sip. the decadent taste of sweet fruit fills his mouth, and it goes down the hatch in one thirsty gulp.

“i made sandwiches! and don’t worry, they’re vegetarian just for you.” your singsongy voice breaks him out of his short lived reprieve, and you gesture at him to come closer to you. ushijima feels something deep inside of his stomach stir like a beast awakening from a long slumber when he sees your unsuspecting smile, but this one doesn’t go down as easily when he swallows again. 

you pick one out of the basket and hand it over to him. “look, look! i found a guide online about cutting them into animals. and they even had a cow tutorial, see? i made them all cows, because they reminded me of you! what do you think?”

the sandwiches are tiny in his big palms, but he can see the care you’ve put into making each one. they’re a little crude around the edges, most likely because it’s your first time trying to cut them out in such a specific shape, but ushijima thinks they’re adorable. frankly speaking, you could have put slop on a plate and given it to him, and he’d still eat it all up so long as you were the one who made and delivered the food. 

he stares at the sandwiches for a bit longer, trying to push the thought of your small fingers assembling the foot together or the way your face might have been scrunched up in concentration. he bites down on the inside of his cheek, and something akin to shame and embarrassment flickers like a flame in his gut. it’s wrong of him to feel this way towards you, to lust after everything you do. part of him wants to blame his animalistic nature, the undeniable instinct nestled deep inside of his brain, and the fact that it’s only a matter of time before his hormones overtake him and he’s plunged into the depths of his yearly mating cycle. there’s nothing more he would love to do than to overwhelm you with that primal yearning, to satisfy his own bodily cravings and make you his mate.

but it would be wrong. he knows it’s wrong. the rational part of him scolds himself thoroughly, that this was the entire reason he’s so adamant about keeping some distance between the two of you. it hurts him, but it would hurt you more both physically and emotionally, if he were to go rampant and tear into you like some kind of uncontrollable animal.

he lets out a deep exhale and decides to choke down his food. even entertaining these kinds of thoughts are dangerous, and he doesn’t want whatever thinly veiled restraint he has left in him to snap. you’re rambling on about wanting to take a nap in the afternoon sun next to him, but your words go in one ear and out the other. all he can focus on is the dulcet tones of your voice and how his cheeks are heating up. he wants to blame the summer heat, but he knows he can’t. the heat comes from somewhere far deeper, somewhere far more sinister, somewhere more base. 

his belly feels unnaturally tight, and he hastily stuffs another bite of sandwich into his mouth to distract himself. 

this is going to be a difficult picnic for him. 

…

…

…

it’s hot. 

ushijima’s hands are big, and his palms are rough as he grips at your waist. you can feel beads of sticky sweat trickling down your back and your forehead, and your legs tremble as he grinds down on you. he’s not pressing his full weight on you yet, but his body feels heavy. it makes your pussy clench around nothing, feeling the sheer size difference between your bodies.

“you’re… you’re torturing me.” he grunts. he has you pinned down underneath him, your back pressed up against the scrunched fabric of the picnic blanket. ushijima clings to your body. you can feel him humping your bulge against your soft ass, your clothed cunt, your plush thighs… his fingers claw at the waistline of your pants, like he’s itching to tear your clothes off and dig right into you. but ever the gentleman, his thinly veiled restraint is kicking in.

this is your fault. you know it is. you had casually brought up how attractive he had looked and what a shame it was that he was so distant at times, that had he maybe been a regular neighbor of yours rather than a hybrid, you might have given him a shot.

he huffs through his nose. “you have no idea what you do to me. you’re killing me. i don’t- i don’t know if i can hold myself back anymore.”

your stomach flutters, and you can feel your inner walls tightening up. fuck, you think the heat might be getting to you. it’s like being physically overwhelmed by the bull has flipped a switch in your brain, and you can feel your body acting before your mind can. you always knew ushijima was attractive, and you knew toeing the line by flirting with him was never going to land you anywhere good but you couldn’t help yourself. he’s everything you could ever want in a man.

a low groan lodges itself in his throat as waves of pleasure shoot up his body. he shouldn’t be acting this way, but something in the back of his brain keeps egging him out, the onslaught of the early stages of his heat gripping his sanity. you look so small and so caught off guard, and ushijima thinks you look ravishing. you’d look adorable folded in half underneath him, getting your brains fucked out by his thick bull cock in the middle of a field, getting that tight hole of yours fucked full of his cum.

your scent fills his nose as he bows his head, burying his head into the crook of your neck. you’re sweaty and sticky, but every part of you feels so good. ushijima feels like his body has been set on fire, and his cock strains in his pants. it hurts. his dick throbs and twitches, desperate for your attention. whatever little friction he’s getting from more or less mounting you and dry humping you out in the open isn’t enough for him. he needs more, needs to feel more of your tiny body, needs to indulge in you until he’s had his fill.

“ushijima-,” you gasp out. he bucks his hips into you, and you cry out unexpectedly when he nudges up against your clit. a shockwave of pleasure jerks through you, and you arch your back into his chest. “ah- shit-”

“say you want me,” he rasps into your skin, his eyes fluttering shut as he tries to ground himself. his head is spinning, and all he can register is how good it feels to have your body pressed up against his. “tell me you want this too. otherwise- get away from me. run away from me. i’ll hurt you.”

your voice is like a hard lump in the back of your mouth, and you wrap your arms around him. his skin is scaldingly hot, almost feverish as his heat starts to run its course through his body. he trembles when you touch him, and he leans into you, hungry for your attention. your own body feels hot too, and you want him to have his way with you, breaching past the tension building up between the two of you. your own selfish intentions aside, if it provides any kind of physical relief to him, that’s more than enough of a reason to let him have you.

“it’s- it’s okay,” you breathe. your fingers trickle up his spine, and he gasps into your skin when your fingertips brush over the cowbell. you can feel his bulge twitching in between your legs, and you don’t want to linger too much on how you can feel yourself getting wet too. it doesn’t take a genius to feel how big the tent in his pants is, and you’re simultaneously anticipating and fearful of just how monstrous his bull cock might be. “you can have me. i want you- i want to make you feel good too.”

those are dangerous words. you can feel his grip on you tighten, and you shudder as he pulls you closer, basically thrusting up into your clothed crotch. you know you’re both going to be leaking messes when you finally take each others’ clothes off, but you can’t help it when it feels so good to feel his whole body weight crushing you like this as he tries to imitate the motions of fucking you.

“are you sure?” his voice is deep and heady and heavy, and it makes your cunt clench. your thoughts are slowly clouding over. your stream of consciousness is slowing down, getting replaced with a gnawing sensation deep in your gut, and you let out breath cries as you grind against him, working your hips in tandem with his needy thrusts. “i’ll hurt you- you’re a human, and i- i don’t know if you can take me.”

you don’t care about any of that. all you can feel is how hot the air is around the two of you and the heat prickling all over your body. “i don’t care about that. i want you. i want you, wakatoshi- i want you to touch me.”

he grits his teeth when you choke out his first name, and his cock pulses noticeably. you have a precarious grip on his mind, dominating every single one of his waking thoughts, consuming him wholly with just how much he wants you. but if you’re not denying him, he doesn’t know how much longer he can keep everything at bay.

you gasp as he tears your clothes off of you, and the shrill sound of his cowbell clanging desperately against his throat invades your ear. your shirt is quickly abandoned to the side, and your bra follows, tossed somewhere off into the grass. his hands are big as he gropes at your chest, calloused fingers playing with your pebbling nipples. you arch your back so that the softness of your tits fill out his hands better, and he moans as he grinds up against whatever he can reach. sparks of pleasure explode deep in his belly, and you shudder as he draws his hands down your chest and stomach.

“i’m going to ruin you,” he breathes. you’re not sure if it’s something he says as a promise or out of worry, but you don’t care. you want him, you want him to ruin you. you guide his hands down to your pants, and you fumble with getting the zipper down as he yanks the garment off of your legs. 

ushijima thinks his heart is going to stop when he sees your nearly bare body, the expanses of your skin that existed only in his imagination now coming to life in front of him. his cock is so hard it almost hurts, and he wants nothing more than to tear your panties off and shove his entire length into you and thrust and thrust until the heat inside of his chest is gone. but he can’t and he won’t, not when he’s so viscerally aware of his shortcomings as a lover.

you watch him with wide eyes and your heart pounding inside of your chest as he wraps his fingers around the waistline of your panties. there’s a prominent wet spot in the seat from when he had grinded against you, a true animal in heat, and the thought of you being turned on as much as he is makes his mouth feel dry. your breath stalls when he drags them down slowly, past your thighs and down your knees, past your ankles until you’re left bare against the fabric of the picnic blanket, wetness dripping from your core. 

he can’t tear his eyes off of you.

his hands wrap around your knees, and you lay there placidly as he separates your legs to slot his head in between your thighs. a wave of shyness overcomes you when he just sits in between your legs and stares, his hot breath fanning against your glistening folds as he takes a moment to simply process everything happening to him. his favorite human, his dearly beloved farmer, naked and laid out bare for him in a way that he might have only seen in the midst of his most intense wet dreams… it’s almost too good for him to believe.

“ushijima, i-,” your voice gives out mid-phrase when his tongue darts out from in between his lips and swirls around your cunt. he’s careful and cautious at first, mostly pressing sticky kisses to your throbbing clit and licking up and down your slit slowly. he lets out a heavy exhale, similar to a moan, when your fingers thread through his thick hair, gripping at him to ground yourself.

“i’m… i’m going to make you feel good first,” he mumbles against your entrance. “prep you for me… make you feel good so that my cum takes better inside of you.”

you gasp, tugging at his hair. his tongue swirls around your clit, and he suckles at you, swallowing down your arousal as if it’s the sweetest thing he’s tasted. you might as well be—his cock is straining like crazy against his pants, but he’s more caught up in how good it feels to have you fluttering and coiling around on the tip of his tongue like this. you’re so good and so sweet, so patient with him as his tongue explores your most sensitive parts. 

everything about this was lewd, having a man going down on you in the middle of an open field where anyone could walk in and see you naked and moaning, but all you could focus on was the dull pangs of heat pulsing through your insides. he’s teasing your folds and circling your fluttering hole with his tongue so carefully, his ears perked for any sound you make. 

he laps at your slit with his whole tongue, playing with your clit with each greedy lick. your thighs shake around his head, your legs pressed open by his strong hands. he’s being sweet to you, but at the same time, you’re completely at his mercy on what he decides to do. 

“inside-,” you choke out, your voice so strained that you barely recognize yourself. “don’t just tease me outside, ushijima! put your tongue inside me too- feels so empty…”

you can feel his ears perk up when you whine for him, and you throw your head back with a whiny moan as he breaches your hole with the tip of his tongue. you might as well be a sugar cube dissolving inside of his mouth from how much you’re melting from the simplest of touches. what was it about him that made you act this way? you don’t get too long to think about it before he’s pumping his tongue in and out of you, searching desperately for that one sweet spot deep inside of you that’s sure to make you fall apart entirely.

you moan for him continually. pleasure dances all across your insides, and your walls keep coiling around him. ushijima savors the feeling, your soft gummy insides clinging to his tongue in search of any kind of stimulation. it’s a primal kind of feeling, having your bodies intertwined with one another out in the open, and ushijima likes the simplicity of it. he drools at how inviting your insides are, and his cock aches at the thought of finally plunging himself into you. he already knows that he’s going to basically fold you in half and fuck his cock into you until he’s slamming right up against your womb, making sure your body has no choice but to take his length and all of his cum as he mates you thoroughly.

“so good… you feel so good inside of me- ooh, you’re so deep-,” you grind your hips against his mouth, and he breathes hotly against you, matching your rhythm. he’s dreamt of your face all scrunched up in pleasure like this more times than he can count, and despite how awful he’s felt each and every time for thinking about his precious human farmer this way, he decides that he likes it. he likes the reality he has now, with you spread apart on his tongue, not caring for anything else in the world except for him.

“gonna make you cum-,” he breathes, darkly and firmly, determined not to let you go until he’s had his fill. “can you feel it? does it make you feel good? do you like it when my tongue is inside you?”

the warm weight that’s restless inside of you needs an out. your blood feels like it’s boiling, like you’re genuinely going to start running a fever with how much heat suffocates you both inwardly and outwardly. you nod feverishly, your nails scraping against the rough surface of his horns. you grip at them and his hair interchangeably, and it’s all you can do cling to him as he ups his intensity. his fingers pry into your flesh, hungry to taste more of you.

“oh fuck- ushijima- you can’t do both at the same time-!” your entire body tenses up when two of his fingers slide into you without any resistance, and his mouth latches onto your clit to suckle on the sensitive nub like he can’t get enough. he pumps his fingers in and out of you slowly, almost as if to really fully feel the sensation of your walls seizing up against his knuckles. 

“let me,” the bull breathes. your walls won’t quit fluttering and stretching out around his fingers, and whenever he spreads his fingers apart ever so slightly, you’re tensing up all around him and whining out so prettily. there’s so much blood rushing downwards to his crotch, and he knows he won’t be able to think straight for much longer. but he’s entranced by all the sweet reactions you’re giving him and he wants to keep egging you on this state, to memorize every detail until he’s sure you’ll continue to haunt him in his dreams. “you can take it. i know you can.”

you grit your teeth, helpless cries escaping from you as your pussy drinks in all of the new stimulation. he’s not giving you a break as he thrusts his fingers into you. he fingers you deep and slow, making sure you feel every part of him entering and exiting you. having your clit sucked like that isn’t helping you out either, and your stomach coils and unfurls, thrashing wildly inside of you as the arousal starts to make your brain go hazy.

“gonna cum, ushi- if you keep doing that, i’ll cum…!” you’re digging your fingers deep into his hair at this point, tugging wildly. he moans when he feels the stinging pain shoot down his spine. there’s nothing he wants to do more than to fuck his cock into you, but you can’t take him as you are right now. he has to work you open, get you used to taking his big fingers first, make sure he’s taking his time with you before he lets his selfishness get in the way.

“go ahead,” he pants against your inner thigh. “cum- cum for me.”

you think you’re going insane. your toes curl into the fabric of the picnic blanket, the once pristine material now warping and moving with how much the two of you are thrashing around. the heat building up inside of you is almost too much to take, and your vision is blurring over with tears. your walls won’t quit milking his fingers, clinging to his knuckles as if they don’t want him to leave you, like they should stay buried deep inside you so he can continue pressing his rough fingertips against that one spot that makes you swear you see stars. you’re pulsing around him so nicely, and your voice keeps rising in pitch, a telltale sign that you’re at your limit.

“there! right there-,” you swallow past all of your drool, “don’t stop- don’t stop, ushijima, i’m so close! i’m gonna cum, gonna cum all over your mouth- your fingers too- oh fuck, i can’t think! can’t think, can’t think, just need you inside me! i’m cumming- cumming…! gonna cum so hard…!”

he keeps the pace the way you like it best, the possessive twinge in his eyes savoring and enjoying the sight of your hips thrashing wildly. slick keeps leaking out of you, and he can’t wait to imagine how much more pleasure he’s going to be able to give you with his cock once this round is done. but for now, he keeps fucking you out on his thick fingers, listening to your pretty voice keening and crying out, pride swelling up inside of his broad chest at knowing that it’s him who’s finally getting you to fall apart.

“cumming-!!”

your vision gives out on you as pleasure crashes down on you. the world turns to white as you thrash uncontrollably in ushijima’s grasp, heat gushing from between your thighs as you cum with a loud cry. it’s hot, and every part of you feels sticky and warm. but even as you wail and writhe like a wounded animal, ushijima keeps going at it, determined to lap up every last drop of your orgasm. you think you’re going to suffocate to death with everything overwhelming your senses, your body pushed to its very limit with how greedy ushijima is. 

you don’t even get a moment's worth of reprieve to collect yourself. your folds are still sensitive and slick, your chest heaving as you struggle to put enough air into your lungs. your vision is blurry, and your entire body feels numb and heavy, your brain blown out and fuzzy from the electric tingles buzzing in your core. fuck, you didn’t think you could cum this hard from getting eaten out, but you have no strength as you simply lay on the blanket. ushijima watches you with a kind of morbid curiosity as he slides himself out from between your legs, seemingly satisfied with the first orgasm out of many he’s going to rip from you.

“ushi-,” you choke out as he grabs your thighs, and a lump lodges in the back of your throat as he carefully presses your knees to your chest. a weak whimper dies out in your mouth as your dripping cunt is exposed to him, and he swallows noticeably as he hastily yanks his pants down with one hand.

“...oh my god,” you breathe, your eyes widening to the size of saucers when you see ushijima’s cock for the first time. you had no doubt that he would be big and thick, like any bull would be, but seeing it bare with your own two eyes and thinking about how that monster of a dick is going to go inside you makes your body go limp with both shock and a sick sense of anticipation. “you’re going to kill me.”

“i’m not going to kill you,” he breathes. he guides you to hold your legs with your hands, the sight of you folded in half so obediently a blessing to the heat-stricken bull. you let out a high pitched whine as he smacks his length tentatively against your slick-soaked entrance, and your stomach lurches at the sheer weight of his cock. he’s big in every sense of the word, swollen and engorged like it’s been born to break your pussy in two, and you flinch every time his tip collides with your clit.

his tip is big and red, pre-cum leaking from it in a way you didn’t know was physically possible. you knew ushijima had been holding himself back for a while, but his self-restraint is practically a miracle now that you’ve seen just how aroused he is. you grit your teeth as he rocks his hips against yours, grinding his cock in between your pussy lips. he’s coating his length with your combined juices, and your body lurches when you can feel the pangs of heat bubbling up inside of your gut again. you shouldn’t get turned on this quickly again, but with the hybrid looming over you and caging you in between his broad chest and the ground, you can’t help but feel helpless and horny at the thought of him breeding you and fucking you to his heart’s content.

“this-,” he sounds strained, “-this is why i ate you out. made you cum. otherwise, you wouldn’t be able to take it.”

his gaze falls on your face, and you swear your heart stops when his eyes lock on yours. his gaze is always firm, head held high, a little steely, but now, there’s a hint of warmth that makes your heart squeeze. his cock prods at your hole, his cockhead nestled right at your fluttering entrance almost as if he’s asking for permission.

“look at me,” he tells you. the strain in his voice is sweet, and you want to taste the sweetness against your own mouth. “i want you to look at me while i put it in. can you do that for me?”

you nod wordlessly, and you suck a deep breath in through your nose. you do your best to relax your tense body the best you can, but a sharp inhale breaks through your thoughts when you can feel him breach your cunt. a high pitched sound curls in the back of your throat as he pushes himself in, and you can immediately feel the stretch. your smaller body is already struggling to take him in, and your walls are clamping down on his girth, the ache in your muscles spreading across your crotch to the lower part of your stomach. 

he’s trying to be so good for you, trying to be slow and gentle, but his mind nearly goes blank the instant he feels your velvety insides fluttering around him. he clenches his teeth. “fuck- ah- fuck-... i-i knew you’d be tight, but still- this is too much-”

“s-so big-,” you murmur, starstruck, struggling to keep your eye contact with him. he’s looking down at you as if he’s about to go mad, and you know he is. whatever minimal scrap of sanity left inside of his brain is hanging on by a thread, his animalistic instincts clawing and howling and screaming for the control he won’t give. 

inch by inch, bit by bit, you do your best to focus on your breathing until he bottoms out inside of you. you’re suddenly grateful that you got at least a round in as prep; otherwise you’d be suffocating on the sheer size of his bullcock by now. it feels like he’s deep in your belly, and you don’t need to look down to feel the bulge from him nestled inside of you.

“oh fuck-,” he groans. the veins on the side of his neck look like they’re about to pop. “it went in… the whole thing’s in. oh god- you’re so tight… and wet- i’ll go crazy…”

he laid on top of you, your breaths mingling with one another as you both soaked in the sensation. you can feel him buried so deep inside you, reaching places that nothing else would have been able to. masturbating or using toys had never gotten the same effect as him putting his cock in, and you swear you feel him inside your stomach, pressing against your diaphragm. your chest feels tight, and you’re growing light-headed as you cling to ushijima’s body.

“can i- can i move?” ushijima moans. “please- you’re squeezing around me so much already- i can barely take it-”

“go ahead… i’ll be okay,” you reply. you moan when you feel him shift his hips, drawing them back. his cock rubs against your sensitive walls as he pulls out before slowly sinking his cock back into your hole, and the slow friction makes the sparks welling up inside of your gut go crazy. he’s moving so carefully, like he’s savoring every second of having your pussy wrapped around his cock. 

it feels good. the stretch is getting to your head, and your body feels so much more sensitive than earlier. you blame your previous orgasm. his muscled thighs make contact with the underside of yours as he rocks his hips, fucking his cock in and out of you. you can feel him growing more and more bolder with each slow pump of his dick, your cunt enthusiastically suck him in and try to guide him towards the entrance of your womb. 

you like whatever this fuzzy feeling consuming you is. you’re sure this is how ushijima wanted you from the very beginning as you start to lose your grip on reality. all you want to think about is the cock stretching you out, his heavy balls slapping noisily against the curve of your ass. there’s a slight ache in your hips and legs from being folded in half, but the angle at which he’s rutting against you makes you swear you see stars. he’s not letting a single stroke go to waste, grunting under his breath. 

all that’s on his mind is keeping you like this. submissive and sweet, built to take all of his stifling affections, ushijima thinks that this might be the perfect reward for how long he’s waited and waited. edging himself to the thought of taking his human farmer wasn’t enough for him, and even though he knew that you were no hybrid, the right thing just wasn’t going to satisfy him. and now that he’s had a taste of your sweet cunt, he doesn’t think he can go back.

“faster-,” you mewl, your legs shaking. “you’re so deep inside of me, so big- so good- ooh, i can feel so much of you-”

the sound of your slurred voice, all fucked out and weak, makes him grit his teeth. he snaps his hips a bit harder into you, and you recoil back into the picnic blanket. pleasure slams and rattles against the inside of your skull, and you can hear the wet sounds of your cunt squelching around him. the two of you are being so ridiculously greedy, absolutely lost in the physical bliss of devouring each others’ bodies. ushijima’s fucking into you faster now, his cockhead bullying your deepest parts with each sharp plow.

you’re crying out incoherently, sobbing out broken moans each time he fucks into you. you can tell he’s doing his best for you, focusing more on your pleasure despite how much more he’s craved this. you feel heavenly wrapped this snugly around him, your juices leaking all around his swollen length. he doesn’t ever want to go back to jerking off using his hand now that he’s gotten you, and just feeling your smaller body tremble and having your sweet scent invade his senses makes him almost wonder if he’s dreaming. 

“ushi- ushijima-,” you cry out to him. “oh, fuck, it feels so good! feels so good to have you inside me. waka- wakatoshi, please…!”

his hips stutter when you blurt out his first name. it’s like he doesn’t know how to process it, and he stops dead in his tracks. “you… you said my name.”

you whine loudly when he stops moving, the incessant hunger in your womb coming back with a fury. you want him to go back to fucking you, to bullying you with that stupidly huge cock of his. you grind your hips up towards him, desperately trying to stuff more of him inside you. “wakatoshi, please-! need more- need more of you, waka-”

he grits his teeth, and without another warning, he snaps his hips and fucks his whole cock straight into you. your words immediately die out on your tongue, and your mind goes completely blank as your body struggles just to process the feeling of his entire length getting stuffed up your tiny cunt. you can’t even breathe as he starts fucking into you roughly, slamming his hips down against yours, forcing you into a brutal mating press as he moves in and out, tip to base, leaving you with no choice but to take him. 

whatever frayed restraint inside of him has snapped.

“you-,” he hisses. you’ve let go of your legs, and yet him being on top of you keeps you folded perfectly in half. you flail and struggle to grab onto whatever you can to anchor yourself, but he keeps plowing into you, like he’s determined to break your poor pussy. “you can’t just do that- you’re dangerous to me. i’m dangerous- you can’t just do things like that-!”

“sooo- so rough-!” is all you manage to cry out. pleasure and heat boils inside of your body, and your brain can’t seem to process all of the stimulation being shoved onto you. all you can manage to do right now is to get fucked out on his cock, the tightness building up inside of your womb now so big and restless that you think you can feel it in the back of your throat. 

you’re really not going to last like this. not when he’s being so brutal, so possessive, so merciless with the way he’s fucking you. like a switch has been flipped in his brain, he’s gone from emulating the gestures of a touch starved lover to a true animal in heat. 

“wanted to do this to you so fucking badly-,” the bull mutters under his breath. there’s a brutal thrust after each one of his pointed words. he looks down at you as if he’s going to eat you whole, and your pussy flutters at the sudden shift in his demeanor. “but you had no clue. no clue about the monster you made. everything i am right now- it’s all you. it’s all your fault.”

he’s rambling. you know that he’s not thinking straight right now, but god, you’d be damned if you said that it didn’t do something to you too. he was mating you so thoroughly and so roughly, like he was going to die if he spent even a second away from your body. he’s ravenous, slamming his hips down into you, trying to force as much of his cock into your tiny hole. you think you’re going to die right there, drowning in the inhuman amounts of pleasure threatening to shred your body to pieces, right there underneath ushjima and his huge form, succumbing entirely to whatever madness he’s transferring onto you.

“waka, you’re so deep-,” you moan lewdly. you can feel your wet slick dripping everywhere, your lower lips and your inner thighs drenched. he’s sliding in and out of you so quickly, and your pussy can’t even offer much resistance just from how wet you are. “you’re gonna break me- gonna break my pussy- you’re too big!”

“you can take it,” he mutters under his breath. his breathing is irregular, soaking in as much of your scent as he can. he feels dirty, like a true animal that can’t seem to resist the most base of his instincts, like he’s tainting you by touching you this relentlessly, but he thinks he’s going to die unless he gets to have you like this. his cock hurts too much, his balls threatening to spill into you with each sharp thrust into your warm and welcoming hole. he doesn’t know how you’ve managed to keep up this long with him, especially when he’s being so unreasonably greedy, but he needs to keep going like this. “you’re already taking it.”

he’s pounding into you like he’s determined to shatter you. it’s good, good in a way that you know you’re never going to recover from. you know you’re done for, that you’re going to get hooked on whatever pleasure is taking your body captive as is, that you’re going to end up no better than he is in the climax of his heat. you can already envision it in your head, the vision of you crawling to him in the dead of the night to beg him to fuck you, no human lover enough to satisfy you now that both of you have crossed the point of no return.

but morals are secondary. he’s smitten with you. with every part of you. even outside of your body, ushijima has pined after you for longer than he can fathom. the cowbell ringing incessantly around his neck is proof to him of that.

“gonna fuck so deep into you. gonna make you take everything i give you.” the bull grips at your body. “gonna cum right into your pussy, into your womb. that way everyone’s gonna know what we did today. that i’m not letting anyone else take you away from me. that i’m yours. you- you don’t mind any of that, do you?”

you shake your head side to side. you don’t care anymore at this point. all that matters is how good it feels to have his dick buried inside of you, stretching your gummy walls out until your vision blurs. your skin prickles with sweat and skin, drunk on the feeling of him on top of you and pinning you down into the grass. it’s equal parts intimate as it is ferocious, and you want it. you want him to cum deep inside of you, to fill your womb and pussy up, to leave you cock-drunk and helpless to soak in all of his monstrosity.

he grits his teeth. your kind voice makes his brain go fuzzy too quickly, and his balls keep tightening up against the curve of your soft ass. he’s not going to last much longer, not when you keep squeezing him. you’ve already been so much more than he could imagine, even better than whatever lewd fantasies he would play out in his head all alone, and he’s coming undone. his abs tighten with each thrust, his rigid pace starting to grow sloppy as he shoves himself into you. 

he wants to cum so badly, so so badly inside of you. it’s all he wants right now, and you’d be so good for him. you’d let him empty his load, let him drench your insides white and stuff your womb, whine about how full you feel as the excess leaks out of you, coating the outside of your sweet hole the same shade of white as your insides. he’d get entranced at the sight, fully intoxicated at the thought of claiming you so wholly from the inside out.

he grunts, unable to form full words. you feel so tight and so good around him, milking his cock incessantly. it’s enough to make him think you want it just as much, that your pussy also wants to cum, that you were made to take his cock like this and carry his cum inside of you. what a good human you were, to endure all of this so gracefully, and it’s just too much for his heat-stricken mind to fully comprehend.

“cum inside me-,” your voice breaks through his muddled mind, “-i want it! cum inside me, wakatoshi! want it- i want your cum!”

you can see his jaw visibly tighten, and his cock twitches and throbs inside of you. your cunt unconsciously clamps up around him, and you let out a pathetic sob when he angles his hips and fucks hard into you. your gut won’t stop writhing painfully, your oncoming orgasm like a chokehold on your consciousness. it’s all you can think about, cumming with ushijima, and you think you might actually pass out if you don’t get it soon. 

the effect you have on him is deadly. he pulses inside of you, slamming straight into what feels like your cervix. you can feel the desperation coming off of him in waves, and you wonder how he’s managed to survive this long holding everything back. maybe this act of frenzied heat was for the better, maybe this could teach both of you how to be more honest. but all of that is secondary to the physical reality, the pangs of arousal and need consuming you from the inside out, your brain a captive to the pleasure making all of your limbs go limp.

“you said- you said you want it, yeah?” his voice is uncannily soft. the afternoon sun casts a dreamy glow on him, making him almost golden as he looms over you. “take it- take it all… i won’t let anyone else have you. someone like you- you’re only for me.”

your eyes meet his for a fleeting second, and using whatever little strength left inside of you, you smile up at the bull. “i’m only for you.”

his chest heaves, and his hips stutter. you cry out when he slams harshly into you, burying his whole length into you. your insides clamp down on him, the sudden intrusion making you coil around him deliciously. the friction has your mind up in outer space, numb to the world except for the heat burning all around. ushijima lets out a deep cry, wanting to stay buried deep inside of you, and you can barely register the shift in his weight before you feel him cumming inside of you.

it’s hot and heavy, and it burns. the warmth sears you from the inside out, flooding every part of your already overwhelmed pussy. you already knew that sex with a hybrid would be far from normal, but you didn’t account for the sheer amount of cum pumping into you. his dick keeps pulsing inside of you, releasing what feels like unending spurts of virile semen straight into your womb. you feel it seeping into you, filling you up until you think you’re about to burst. it’s sticky and runny like thick milk, and you can feel it starting to ooze out of your plugged hole and down your thighs. 

ushijima grits his teeth. you can feel the pressure mounting in your belly, and when he shifts, something inside of you breaks open like a dam too. you blame the cum stuffed into your cunt, but you can’t linger on the thought too long before you find yourself cumming from being creampied. 

“wakatoshi-!” you throw your head back, and something wet gushes everywhere. you can’t tell if it’s his cum, your cum, or a mix of both. it’s probably the latter, but that’s not what matters to you. your vision spins on an axis, and everything seems to dissolve into pure nothingness. you feel so full, your stream of consciousness blown out and tossed to the wind, savoring the sheer ecstasy of having a big cock to stretch your insatiable cunt out and enough cum to breed you into a submissive mate. it’s perfection, and you wouldn’t trade anything in the world for the literal bliss coursing through your veins.

the two of you are drunk on each others’ bodies. ushjima doesn’t show any sign of wanting to get off of you, staying where he is, keeping you folded underneath him. it hurts to keep his cock shoved into you as it starts to soften, but he’s willing to endure it. he needs to see as much of his sticky cum stuffed into your pussy, make sure it takes inside of you so that all of his physical efforts don’t go to waste. you’re starting to feel the strain in your muscles, the ache that’s settled in all of them long ago, but much like him, you don’t want to do anything about it. 

your mind’s buzzing like it’s been lit on fire, like the flame refuses to die. the summer heat that encapsulates both of you is unbearable as it is almost comforting, smothering in the way that he must have wanted for longer than you could imagine. you want to melt away in it, and you let him hold you here, tangled in one another’s limbs out in the middle of what would otherwise be a pristine meadow.

“you- you did well, but-,” he manages to get out, “stay with me here for a little longer…”

“mmm. yeah-,” you reply softly. you maneuver yourself, and ushijima shifts so that you can finally put your legs back down properly. the relief that shoots through you is like a gulp of fresh air, but you’re more focused on clinging to the man laying on top of you. chest to chest, his strong heartbeat began to match up to yours. his breathing was rhythmic and welcoming, and you let your eyes flutter shut, simply basking in his presence.

you felt sticky and spent, undoubtedly tuckered out from everything he had put you through, but you would gladly do it again. would this be what they called affection? a kind of special connection? the exact label wouldn’t matter as long as the two of you were happy and satisfied with one another, and you preferred focusing on things like that anyway. 

…

…

…

it’s hot.

you wake up to a cozy dim room, and the first that hits you immediately is the ache that’s spread all over your body. you wince, the blanket that you didn’t even realize was draped over you falling into your lap, as you slowly try to maneuver yourself into a semblance of a seated position. grogginess clings to your senses like thick honey, but you fight through it to make heads or tails of where you ended up.

the smell of clean hay and cinnamon is your first clue, and the next follows shortly after. 

“are you awake? you were out for a while. do you need to go to the hospital?”

you peek up to see a familiar but worried face peering down at you. ushijima extends you a water bottle, and only then do you also realize that you’re absolutely parched. you give him a grateful nod as you take the drink from in, downing half of the bottle in thirsty gulps before you pull away to haphazardly wipe at your mouth.

“just a little sore and a little tired. nothing i haven’t dealt with before. it doesn’t hurt or anything, so a few days of good rest should do the trick.” some of your questions seem to answer themselves. you recognize the inside of ushijima’s abode and the little ways in which he’s made the place a home. you must have fallen asleep from exhaustion not too long after, and ushijima must have carried you back and let you rest in what looked like his bed. 

“you should have something to eat before i give you some painkillers.” he extends a hand towards you. his voice is demure and gentle, like he’s scared that you’ll run off if he approaches you too quickly. “do you think you can walk? or should i carry you? it’s pretty late out, but i prepped a few quick bites for you to have whenever you woke up. it’s dark, so you can stay over for the night.”

he pauses before sheepishly looking away. even through the dimness of his room, you can make out the shy glimmer in his eyes and his nervous body language, and it’s endearing to know that even after plowing into you like his life depended on it, his feelings for you ran much deeper than a quick fix for his heat. there’s a boyish pink tint to his cheeks that’s unlike any of his usual stoic demeanor that you’re used to from him, but you don’t dislike it. if anything, it makes you like him even more, wanting to see more of this romantic side of him.

your hand slides silently into his, and the cowbell around his throat clinks melodically as he helps you up. he slides a gentle hand around your waist as he guides you towards another room of his house, where, true to his word, a board with fruits, bread, jam, and what looks like a bowl of soup awaits you. your stomach rumbles at the sight and the scent of food, and you’re itching to dig in by the time you’re situated at the table.

you’re not sure what to make of the whole thing as you eat, empty chatter filling the air in between your bites. but it’s the kind of spontaneous tension that you like, one where ushijima can’t quite look you in the eye, where his blush only deepens every time you call him in that siren-like voice of yours, where sharing a meal feels like healing for the soul as much as it is nourishment for the body. you’re still processing everything that went down this afternoon, and you’re sure you’re going to be chatting with ushijima deep into the night to decide where to take things from here. but you’d be lying if you said you couldn’t feel a surge of excitement gnawing with bated breath inside of your stomach, like you’re a younger version of yourself giggling over a school crush and unable to go to sleep.

summer has always been a fleeting time for you. filled with life awakening and the earth extending herself into her finest majesty, you were more than aware of everyone else how temporary this summer heat was, and yet, there was something comforting in its cyclicality, in knowing that the summer would always return year after year with its stifling heat and dazzling sun. 

you hope you can see many more summers with ushijima. you’ve shared many before with him, but this is the first time that the heat has brought you closer, in more ways than one. you hope that the summers will turn into autumns with him and that those autumns will turn into winters and that the winters too will turn into springs to repeat the seasons over and over again. the sweetness that lingers in the air between you and him, the human and the hybrid, farmer and bull, feels inexplicable. and you’re sure it is—you doubt that there are enough words in the universe to properly decipher the complexities he’s plunged you into, but if it’s for him, you’d happily delve into the unforgiving waves. 

isn’t that the whole point of love?

as summer continues to close in, the heat wafting throughout the expanse of the night, you bring yourself closer to ushijima. he guides you carefully back into his bed, and you motion for him to join you. he hesitates for a second, but the way you grab onto his wrist makes him acquiesce. before you know it, you’re pressed happily against his broad chest. his strong arms are wrapped firmly around you, pulling you close to him and keeping you safe from whatever night terrors might rest underneath. but you have nothing to fear, not when you’re this close to him, savoring his embrace, his existence, his warmth.

it’s hot, and you like it.

author's note: happy hybrid tuesday to the house! i had a lot of fun writing this, and truth be told, this fic ended up a lot longer than i had anticipated. double than what i had planned on writing, if i'm being completely transparent. but i think the result was worth every second of it, and it reminded me of how much i love working with hybrid aus! now that this exchange is done, i'm going to start finishing up the last of the requests in my inbox and get ready for kinktober.

i'm also going to start working full-time soon, so the rate at which i'm going to be writing might slow down drastically. thank you so much for all of your patience and support with the blog so far, and thank you even more for reading this far!

if you enjoyed my writing and would like to show appreciation, you can do so by donating to help shahed muhammed and her family evacuate gaza. time is running out for her family, so if you ever had any thoughts about tipping or commissioning me, please extend that generosity to those in need.

[lunajay33]

Future🍂

Summary: Daryl’s the only one that’s ever made you feel loved so when you get separated during the apocalypse you feel lost without him

Pairing: Daryl Dixon x f!reader

•Masterlist•

Daryl was there for me growing up and I was there for him, when his dad acted out on him I was there to hold him through the night, when a guy would break my heart he’d do everything he could to cheer me up, we were inseparable, so we saved money and bought a little house in the woods together, it was peaceful everything was just settling for us, eventually he asked me to be his girl and it was the happiest day of my life

Then came the apocalypse, thankfully I was with him when everything happened and he took me to the quarry away from the town staying far away from big crowds, we shared a tent and I’d grip him tight at night scared that if I closed my eyes he’d be gone in the morning or something would happen and he’d turn into a walker

Eventually we made it to the farm, life seems like it can be good here, there’s water, land to grow crops, chickens and livestock, even after everything that’s happened including Daryl’s accident I’ve felt a sense of calm for once

“Hey sunshine ya doin okay?” Daryl asked as he sat next to me around the low burning fire as he handed me a plate of bacon and eggs

“Oh yeah I’m fine just thinking about how we use to live, remember all the plans I had for our home, all the recipes I wanted to make, all the trips I wanted to experience with you, a family…….” I said the last part under my breath but the man had the ears of a bat

“Ya wanted a family…..with me?” He asked a bit of shock laced in his voice

“Of course D why would I, have a little girl running around with crazy dark hair like yours, seeing you play with her, maybe getting a dog you like, I just had so much more for us, but I’m still grateful that we were able to escaped together”

“Maybe one day we can still have that, ya never know sunshine, I wish I coulda given ya more”

“You give me plenty Daryl”

Everything was happening so quickly one minute the barns on fire the next there are walkers swarming the farm, I tried to get to Daryl but I got cornered by walkers having to run into the woods, my heart was beating so fast that was all I could hear, running for what seemed like hours till the sun started to rise, eventually I couldn’t hear anymore groans and moans of walkers, I slumped against a tree exhausted when I realized I’m in the middle of nowhere with no idea how to get back or where to even start looking for Daryl

That heavy feeling gripped my heart voiding me of any emotion but despair, I walked and walked and walked down the long winding road heading South, making stops for any supplies left at random houses or stores I came by, 2 months into be on the road I became sick, not being able to keep anything down, exhausted more from the long days of walking, coming to realize I was pregnant, it gave me a little bit of hope knowing that if I truly never found Daryl again atleast I’d have a part of him still

The months dragged on until my belly was plump with a little Dixon, luckily I found a house unscathed from seekers, the food stocked high which made sure I was malnourished during this pregnancy, I loaded up a car with the groceries and drove, everything worked for a few months, I am guessing I’m about 7 months now and the food was running low and the gas was running out, slowly my car came to a halt, I got out feeling the Georgia heat when I heard running water, I ventured into the trees with my canteen finding a a small man made waterfall, I filled the canteen when I heard shots, looking forward over a hill I see a prison, people walking around, I was secure no walker inside, distracted I didn’t notice where I was stepping and stepped right onto a nail on the train tracks making my fall and bust my eyebrow open, my knees ached and my hands were bloody, I pulled my self up screaming when I ripped my foot off the nail, the scream alerted near by walkers until they swarmed around me, I was scared and weak, this couldn’t be how I go I still haven’t found Daryl and I had to protect this baby

I gathered as much strength as possible running towards the prison gates, praying they would take me in and help just for today, I made it to the gates exhausted with a trail of walkers behind me when a woman with dreads appeared at the gates

“Please let me in I need help….please I’m begging” I cried holding my belly seeing her eyes soften as she noticed my baby bump, she yanked open the gates right in time to let me in and shut it on the walkers

“Come on hun let’s get you cleaned up” she smiled leading me up to the prison, we almost made it inside when I heard the familiar grumble of the bike I use to ride on all the time, late at night when everyone in town was asleep Daryl would take me out roaming around

I turned my heart leaping every second that passed, until I knew for sure it was him, and it was I could recognize that hair anywhere, he parked the bike and looked around till his eyes landed on me, and he did something I’ve never seen him do before, he dropped to his knees crying

I wobbled over to him still in pain but I didn’t care, I dropped gently to my knees infront of him holding his face in my hands

“I can’t believe I found you Daryl, it’s really you” I weeped as took me shoulders and held me tight against his chest

“I looked for ya everywhere I swear I never gave up, that day when ya weren’t with anyone after the farm it felt like my life was over, but I knew ya were still out there, god I love ya”

“I love you too Daryl, so much”

“Sorry to interrupt this beautiful moment but your girl need some medical attention” that’s when Daryl noticed my busted eyebrow and all the blood over me

He picked me up in his arms bringing me inside to Hershel

“The hell happened to ya angel?” He asked as Hershel attended to my wounds

“I stepped on a nail and fell in just glad I didn’t land on the baby”

“Baby?” Daryl face drained of color standing there frozen

“You didn’t notice? I’m pregnant D” I said flattening down my shirt to make my belly more prominent

“I guess I was just to stunned”

“You seem a lot more healthier than the Lori, how did you manage?” Hershel asked as Daryl came to sit by me squeezing my hand, something he did when he was anxious

“I found a fully stocked house, only just ran out of food today”

“I’d say you’re pretty lucky lil lady, now I’ll give you two some space”

Daryl looked at me with such love mixed with worry

“I can’t believe yer pregnant and it’s mine?” He asked gently rubbing the bump feeling the baby kick

“Of course it’s yours D, you know I’ve only ever been with you, I’ll only ever want you”

“I’ll keep ya both safe, I’ll give ya that dream life ya wanted fer us, I promise”

“I just need you Daryl, I just want you”

[lunarw0rks]

slasher!graves 🩸 in honor of spooky season !!! w/c; 2.7k

warning(s): implied violence/gore, drugging, fem!reader

endless crop fields surrounded the dirt path, crunching under the tires audibly, overbearing the hum of the pickup's old speakers. as soon as you crossed county lines, only the two local stations played: gospel or vintage country. any tuning of the knob, and it was buzzing static.

mellow country music it is. preferable to a pastor lecturing you about the ins and outs of hell. don't worry father, i'm already there. or i've made it halfway to purgatory — east Texas backroads.

though, you don't need the faceless pastor; the decaying signs along the way are enough. hell is real, God bless, repent — every single one rusted, scratched, peeled in some way.

limitless, barren farmland; half-murky swamp the further east you go.

who's feeding the lumps of livestock you see grazing? what about the herding dogs that lay by rickety fences and intently watch your car pass? if it weren't for the occasional passing truck, you'd assume no one inhabited this county at all.

your pupils retract, blinded by the sun glaring off the hood. vibrant hues of orange and yellow, that would otherwise be soothing if you hadn't been in the driver's seat so long. for once, the lack of traffic and straight and narrow is a blessing, otherwise, you surely would've caused a collision.

the blinding sunset fades over time, indicating that you drove through golden hour instead of lying back and enjoying it. though, the thought of pulling over in this area sounded like a painful ordeal.

from straight, unpaved roads to skinny windy ones with taller grass on the border. as the sky darkens, the foliage is surely full of critters, snakes, and spiders that would crawl and tickle your flesh the second you stepped foot. the thought alone makes you shiver against the leather seats.

as the tires climb a particularly steep hill, the engine sputters, as if hacking and choking from the exertion. please don't let it happen here, is all you can think. the vintage pickup creaks and moans the further along you go — but thankfully doesn't let you down. it's any wonder you've made it this far in your trip.

your fingers reach across the seat, peeling back the page of your guide. the map you snagged at the first — and only — rest stop in the area. a few pages, tainted with coffee and grime, aside from hints of its original eggshell stain. the booklet is rough in texture but still partially legible, so you decided to take what you can get.

besides, once you finished up in the bathroom, bought water, and felt the judgment of the locals, you weren't in a position to ask for a clean map. and the geriatric clerk, brandishing a crucifix and eyes so blue they could pass for pearl, staring at you with grief.

for what, you couldn't wager. your unsaved soul?

your unwise decision to stop there? at least you can agree with the latter.

at last, your finger skimmed the section of road you were supposed to be cruising on. a straight one, like you had been on before. not the thin, windy dirt you're nearly stuck in — which doesn't exist on the map. either you're trespassing in some form, or you really have gotten lost in purgatory.

muttering a curse, you twist and turn your heads in hopes of finding an opening. somewhere, anywhere to turn the truck around and get back on your intended route.

once you spot the first opening, you turn into it. the truck travels down the short path, mud squishing underneath the overworked tires.

up ahead, the first residence you've seen that wasn't moldy or collapsed. three floors, milky paneling, original windows older than two of your lifetimes, and steps sure to give you splinters and creaks under the slightest movement.

from the outside, it's... average.

only slightly unsettling at best, which was a major improvement from the rest of town. frankly, it was shocking there wasn't a higher fence around the perimeter. you imagine this property being prime pickings for bandits and adventurous country teens.

after taking in its appearance for a few moments, you begin to reverse, now feeling the most resistance in the entire trip. the harder you push your foot down on the gas pedal, the deeper the back tires go into the thick mud.

the engine sputtered louder, beginning to spit out smoke from under the hood. considering your efforts, all you'd successfully done was splatter mud on the windows and kill the engine, hopefully not permanently.

you slumped forward and lightly smacked your head against the rim of the steering wheel, cursing yourself for literally ending up deeper in the mud.

through the cracked window of the truck, the windchimes sounded, reminding you of your only way out. raising your head, you laid eyes on the white farmhouse again, taking in its mystifying essence. the decor rustled in the gentle breeze, as did the fuzzy white clusters blowing off the cottonwood trees.

against the unforgiving summer elements, the outmoded residence stood still — as if the stoic constant stuck in the middle of a brewing summer storm.

motionless and deathlike; if a tornado dipped down through the dusky clouds, you were mildly convinced the residence would be the only structure left standing.

as it stands, your options are either to sit in the truck and sulk or take a gamble and knock on the old farmer's door. deciding on the latter, you step out, not bothering to shut the car door behind you, in case you're met with a cliché shotgun barrel for trespassing.

the rickety porch creaked under your weight when you stepped up, occupied with examining its every detail. there were the chimes you heard. some were standard, high-pitched jingles — others made from small animal bones were dull clicks — all suspended with twine.

aside from the roadkill and rocking chair, there were few signs of life in terms of decor. through the windowpanes, you were only met with pearly, lace curtains blocking any view inside.

caving, you raise your fist to the door. it's slathered in the same blanched paint as the rest of the exterior, only riddled with indents and scratches from age. three small knocks against the wood, and you're hoping whoever's behind it won't lead with hostility.

the house settles and croaks from inside, its joints as noisy as the deck you’re standing on. eventually, the door opens. behind it, the owner reveals himself; and it’s not the stereotypical image of an old man with overalls and a noisy coonhound at his side.

your prediction couldn’t have been more inaccurate.

“how can i help you, ma'am?” the voice speaks, oozing a subtle regional twang. casually, he leans against one side of the doorway, blue eyes sweeping you up and down.

younger than expected, and clean despite the gritty environment he lives in. his blond locks are carefully groomed and swept, and an aroma of musk and cedarwood permeates from him.

"i don't mean to be a bother," you stammer a bit, then motion behind you. the man's demeanor remains unbothered by the intrusion. "my truck is stuck in the mud, and i was wondering if you could get it... unstuck?"

he hollows his cheeks as if taking a few moments to consider your request.

but Graves already decided the moment he saw you. with a click of his tongue, a rumble rises through his chest, "no bother in askin' for help, is there? why didn't you just say so?" a faction of a smile spreads on his lips, easing the tension in your shoulders.

you return the break in tension with a small chuckle, biting back the urge to start twiddling your thumbs. he glances at the truck, "i'll pull her out for you. keys in the ignition for me?"

you nod, and he steps out of his relaxed pose. "i would really appreciate that. thank you, sir."

but instead of stepping out toward the vehicle, he moves to the side and flicks his head. "don't mind waiting inside, do you? 'sides, young lady like you shouldn't be shivering."

you really were helpless, or at least, that's how it felt.

the desire to reject is futile and forgotten. before you knew it, you stepped inside and followed him. the entryway was quaint with only a coat rack and mat, and open to the kitchen. the gray and white tiles were patterned like a checkerboard, blended with natural wood cabinets that matched the original wood everywhere else.

in the middle, a circular dining table with two chairs, brandishing hack marks — some fresh, some old. with a scrape, he pulled out a chair for you, and you settled on it.

rather than asking first, he went straight to the vintage refrigerator and pulled out a pitcher. he reached into the ice bucket and dropped a handful of cubes into two glasses, then tipped the pitcher and filled them with lemonade.

you stopped watching when he turned, instead setting your attention on the decor. it was as average as the exterior; a country kitchen that was slightly rough around the edges. Graves slid the glass in front of you, then set his own on the opposite side, sitting instead of heading straight outside to deal with the truck.

he sighed when he sat down again, holding onto the glass but not sipping from it. for a few moments, there was silence between you; a studying stare making you feel like you were in a fishbowl. swallowing dryly, you raised the glass and took a sip from it.

lemonade, a partial punch of citrus, coaxed by tons of added sugar. you let out a polite mhm and smiled, hoping to let your courtesy break the silence again.

"gets awful lonesome out here, don't it?" the man finally spoke, and you took another gulp to pass the time. "can't say i mind the company. not a lot of tourists in these parts, i guess."

you nodded in agreement, eyes darting toward the ticking clock behind his head, "i'm sure it does." you really should be back on the road by now.

he must've noticed your eagerness, because he gave his knee a slap and sat up, "here i am, talkin' your ear off again. should only take a few minutes if you don't mind waiting here."

his footsteps retreated back down the hall, leaving you in silence except for the ticking, which now sounded louder. you glanced down at the glass and swirled it around, deciding it best to finish your drink off before you left the man's seemingly good graces.

once the front door opened and closed, you took a better look around at the kitchen. the knickknacks along the wall, and the dusty china in one of the cabinets.

further along, you skimmed past the doors leading to the rest of the home. the l-shaped staircase came down to the kitchen, steep and rickety. adjacent, was a door similar to the one in the foyer.

when curiosity got the better of you, you stood up and crept over. pressing your ear against it, you heard no one behind it; not even the drone of a television.

you wrapped a hand around the knob and twisted it, pushing the door open. it led to a sitting room of sorts, or perhaps the only living room in the farmhouse. an old-fashioned wood fireplace in the corner, a brown couch against the wall facing the back windows, and the box TV posed on an end table.

the windows had the same sheer, white curtains as the kitchen, blowing gently from the breeze outside. custom shelves covered the other wall, filled to the brim with outlandish decor.

you first stepped closer to the window, seeing his figure outside. there was your truck, still in the same position you'd left it; the door still cracked, and its tires were embedded in mud. and the man, a distance away and moving toward the red barn in the distance — a more powerful, agile stride than he'd shown with you.

thinking nothing of it, you occupied your boredom with snooping. the shelves were what caught your attention, so that's where you ended up.

standing in front of them, you scanned through every item, growing more unsettled the longer you ogled. first, it was ancestral photos old enough to be in black and white, eerie but not abnormal. then, on the second shelf, the appeared uncanny.

quaint, mason jars and teeth.

fangs from coyotes and bobcats alike, mixed with bloodied molars that only could be pried from human mouths. the sight was akin to a gnarly car wreck, causing your morbid curiosity to overtake your sense of danger.

you glanced out the window again, seeing the barn door cracked open, indicating he was still occupied. crouching down, you examined the lowest shelf. the only clutter visible was VHS tapes, thick books, and small chests and boxes.

you took the first one that caught your eye, undoing the clasps and opening the velvety chest. newspaper clippings and passages alike, and a mini-Bible lay in the mess of words.

shaking your head, you set it aside and grabbed one of the tiny boxes, taking off the lid. your blood flow went icy, and your fingers trembled as you set the lid aside and continued processing.

possessions; watches, necklaces, wedding bands, and choppy strands of all hair types. when you noticed the hair, you gasped and ejected the box from your grip.

they weren't belongings; they were trophies.

the front door creaks from across the house, then slams shut again. you scramble to put the lids back on and pinch your finger in one of the latches, reflexively dropping it. all its contents clatter against the wood floor, compromising your cover.

"find somethin' you like?"

his voice appears behind you, effectively sending you into a startle. graves glances at the mess below you, still maintaining an eerie stillness about him.

frantically shaking your head, you begin to feel sweat cake your hairline. you ball your fists and go clammy, taking steps back, "this is my fault— i shouldn't have let my curiosity get the better of me." he remains untouched by your apprehensive shift, only worsening your instinct to run.

but he doesn't lunge or creep closer; all he does is linger by the shelves.

despite how dry your throat is, you gather saliva and gulp tensely, "i should get going. long trip ahead." that's hopeless; you know he didn't move the truck. you would've heard an engine. how far could you make it on foot?

your words come out sluggishly as if your brain is working at half speed. you peer down, stepping around every morbid souvenir — though all you do is stumble, rather than make any distance.

"won't be necessary, sweetheart." his voice echoes, stance unchanging while he observes your struggle.

you grasp at one of the walls, lids drooping as your feet drag. the lemonade he never once put his mouth on, laced with some sort of sedative. it all hit you too late; too late to retch it up or bolt down the hall ahead of him.

eventually, he steps closer, watching as you make an 'attempt' to swat him away. all you do is whack your hand at the air, thoroughly wasting more of your dwindling energy. instead of words, all that comes out are slurs or whimpers of intense turmoil.

your view of the doorway tilts and twists, turning blurred and doubled the further you stagger. a swirl of nausea erupts in your stomach, causing your knees to buckle. your head collides with the edge of the coffee table, leaving you stunned.

as the tranquilizer pumps through you, the drowsiness is indomitable. you roll onto your back and cough, lying at his feet. with the last of your remaining lucidity, you tug on his jean leg, as if in one last ditch effort to get to your feet again.

despite his opportunity to kick away your pleas, Graves stands idle, his neck craned down to watch every moment of it, a sick rendition of his favorite hobby. the most noticeable sensation — the tender skin of your temple throbs from the impact, until any and all discomfort fades away.

eyelids weighed with bricks flutter shut, squirming limbs cease, and the heave of your chest slows into gentle waves of slumber.

"atta' girl."

‧˚₊ divider cred. - cafekitsune ‧₊˚⊹

[ronsenburg]

for the drabble requests.. literally any ace attorney pairing <3

sending u strength and also a hug

The thing about being famous is that it gets pretty damn old after a while.

It feels like a bad cliche to admit something like that, even just to himself. Especially when Daryan’s the one with a multimillion dollar contract, sitting on the balcony of a house he doesn’t even own up in the Hollywood Hills, on loan to the Gavinners while they finish working out the kinks on their latest album. But all the gifts and the money and the views of the valley as the sun sets behind the hazy horizon line aren’t enough to make the thought untrue.

Being famous is getting old.

Six years, now, and Daryan’s over it. All the fans screaming in his ears anytime he steps foot in a public place, the comments from the armies of deluded kids online convinced he’s the answer to their teenage angst, getting stalked by sleazebags with cameras who’d say anything for a shot. Every day makes him a little more tired, makes it all a little less worthwhile.

It’s the same problem as drugs, Daryan thinks, though he’s never touched the stuff himself. You get a taste of it once and it seems like the best thing life has to offer, the best thing you could imagine. But then the lights go off and the high fades out and you need that next hit to feel on top again. Only problem is the tolerance, right? The bar never stops raising. You need a bit more each time to get that same feeling. And, after a while, you’re numb to anything else.

Daryan can relate. He’s been standing on the stage of a sold out stadium tour, staring out into a sea of noise that sort of resembles the lyrics to one of their songs, and he should be in awe, right? All those people, shoved together under one roof, for them. Paying stupid money to stand close enough to maybe touch Klavier’s hand as he reaches out into the crowd, to catch the pick Daryan might toss one of them after the set. But he doesn’t feel anything, not anymore. The only emotion he can really muster up is pity. For them, sure, but also for himself; there’s a limit to how far you can take something before it gets you and Daryan’s starting to understand the tragedy that walks hand in hand with people like them.

He’s not the only one feeling it, either.

When he climbs down the marble staircase and makes his way out the back door, Klavier is still floating in the middle of the pool on the back of an inflatable flamingo, staring at a notebook of staff paper in his hands.

“D’you write us a new hit yet?” Daryan asks from the edge, where the sun warmed travertine burns the skin on the bare soles of his feet.

He can’t see the look that Klavier shoots him from behind his dark sunglasses, but Daryan can guess what it looks like from the way Klavier tears the top page of paper off the pad, crumbles it into a ball, and lobs it in the direction of his feet. There’s only two lines filled in when Daryan reaches to smooth it out—the notes look suspiciously like the jingle of a car dealership that’s been running on the radio for the past six months.

Daryan snorts. “So that good, huh?”

“Ja, that good,” Klavier replies, his tone completely soaked in sarcasm. “Do you have anything better?”

It’s a slump, they both know it. All they need is for one of them to work an interesting new case and then Gavin’ll be all over it, cranking out ten new chart toppers in three days without even an hour built in there for rest. It’s how they’ve always done it before, almost like a formula at this point. But LA’s not really pulling its weight here, either. All this beautiful weather and the only homicides they’re catching are the gang hits that crop up as predictably as the tides rolling in against Santa Monica pier. No deaths under mysterious circumstances, no jealous lovers bludgeoning each other in swanky hotels, no creepy suicide pacts. Either this town is getting boring or they’re just getting old–nothing seems to surprise Daryan much anymore.

“This is bullshit,” he announces to no one in particular. From the float, however, Klavier inclines his head in silent agreement. “No, I mean it. How the hell are we supposed to come up with anything good up here? Fucking castle in the clouds.”

It’d seemed like a good idea, when they’d first got the offer. Out of their usual habitat, together all hours of the day, free of the usual distractions. Now it feels more like a goddamn prison. The other members of the band—useless until they’ve got something down on paper to workshop—have been missing for longer and longer stretches as the days wore on; Daryan doesn’t think he’s seen them since the beginning of the week. Typical, but what does it matter? They’re not the stakeholders in this operation, this gimmick of a rock band that Daryan and Klavier came up with on a whim eight years ago. Then, it seemed like a joke. But now? There’s a whole lot of money on the line, here, that Daryan would prefer not to throw into the fucking ocean if they can’t deliver on what they’ve promised. So maybe it’s only professional obligation, not actual loyalty, that’s keeping Daryan pent up here now, repeatedly banging his head against the wall in a farce of productivity. That, or the way Klavier slips silently down the hall and into his room every couple of nights, ready to drown his creative frustrations in the stupid high thread-count of Daryan’s sheets.

When Daryan looks back across the pool, Klavier’s penciled-in eyebrows are raised above the rim of his glasses. Daryan watches as he reaches up and pulls the shiny, black lenses down enough to meet his eyes. “What are you suggesting?”

It’s a gamble. It doesn’t matter that they have nothing to show for it yet, Klavier takes these workshopping days as seriously as he takes his day job back at the prosecutor’s office—which is to say, as serious as a fucking heart-attack. There’s good odds his offer will net Daryan nothing but a cold shoulder and an even colder bed for the next couple of nights. But what’s life without a little risk, anyway? God knows he could use a thrill. “Come out with me tonight, babe. Let’s fucking do something for once. Dancing, karaoke, I don’t even care. Whatever you want.”

For a long moment, Klavier says nothing. Daryan doesn’t bother trying to suss out the little clues of emotion on Klavier’s face anymore, just listens to a plane droning across the sky above them, the way the fronds on the palm trees lining the pool deck rustle together in the wake of a sudden breeze. Maybe he is a little surprised, though, when the sound of water sloshing against the side of the pool joins those other noises, when he looks up to see Klavier wading his way across the shallow end of the pool with a look of distaste coloring his features.

“I asked you not to call me that, ja?” is all he says before hoisting himself up and over the edge of the pool, all sun-soaked skin and abs dripping with chlorinated water. “Hand me that towel.”

Daryan laughs. “You can be such a bitch sometimes, you know that?”

But he holds out the towel anyway, reveling in the way Klavier’s little eye-roll response doesn’t stop his fingers from dragging deliberately along the back of Daryan’s hands when he takes it. It feels like enough of a promise that Daryan has to grin.

So maybe he can still feel something, after all.

[piscesseer]

Honor the Sun: Summer Solstice ☀️

As the warm rays of the sun envelope us, we find ourselves at the Summer Solstice, also known as Litha or Midsummer. This holiday celebrates the sun’s power. 

Summer Solstice is observed on June 21, 2023. This is the longest day of the year, and the shortest night. Litha is about the power of the sun. Before we welcome the dark side of the year, we acknowledge the peak of the solar year. 

Many see Litha as a time of balance between light and dark, masculine and feminine energies, and our realm and the other. It’s a time to connect with nature, and enjoy the company of others.

The sun is shining the brightest on this day, symbolizing the peak of light and the triumph of the sun over darkness. The warmth of the sun gives us a sense of renewed strength and inspiration. It’s a reminder to embrace the abundance of beauty and nature surrounding us.

The Anglo-Saxons brought Litha with them to the British Isles when they settled in the 5th and 6th centuries. The Celts celebrated Litha, with the planting season just passing and wanting to call in a great harvest. It was essential to appease the solar Gods in some way. They would have hilltop bonfires and dancing. Many people would jump over the bonfires for good luck.

Many cultures have honored Gods and Goddesses of the Sun. These deities can be worshiped during Litha.

Some traditions believe in the battle of light and dark, where the Oak King and Holly King fight for control. During each Solstice, they battle for power and the balance shifts. The Oak King, who represents daylight, rules from the Winter Solstice to Litha. During this time, the day steadily gets longer. During Litha, when the Holly King wins, the days get darker until Yule.

Litha Correspondences:

Key Words: Warmth, Manifestation, Love, Light, Fertility, Unity, Success, Strength

Symbols: Sun, Flowers, Trees, Mushrooms, Honey, Bees

Herbs & Plants: Chamomile, Lavender, St. John’s Wort, Rosemary, Sunflowers, Daisy, Oranges

Colors: Gold, Green, Light Blue, Orange, Pink

Animals: Bees, Cows, Horses, Dragonfly, Songbirds

How to Celebrate Litha:

For most modern-day Pagans, Litha is a day of inner power and brightness. Fire rituals and barbecues are a common way to celebrate. This holiday celebrates Earth’s abundance and personal power. 

Decorate the House and your altar. Adorn your altar with symbols of the sun, flowers, herbs and items that represent Litha. Some ideas: gold objects or coins, yellow and white flowers, lavender, circular items, symbols of the sun, seasonal flowers, fruits or crops (strawberries, sunflowers), citrus fruits.

Gather loved ones for a Litha feast, abundant with seasonal fruits, vegetables and herbs. Having a summer barbecue counts! Savor the flavors of the Earth’s bounty and share in the joy of community. As you dine, express gratitude to the land for the nourishment.

Kindling a bonfire is a time-honored tradition of Litha. Traditionally, people stayed up all night on Midsummer’s Eve to welcome and watch the sunrises. Bonfires were lit on tops of hills and at sacred places to honor the Sun. A bonfire represents the Sun at the peak of its strength. People danced and leaped around them. Coals from the Midsummer fire were scattered on the fields to ensure good harvest. Today, you can gather friends and family to hold a Midsummer Night’s Fire Ritual. Celebrate the season with a big bonfire and form a circle around the dancing flames. As the fire crackles, offer gratitude for the sun’s life-giving energy. Release any burdens of negativity into the fire, allowing the power of flames to cleanse or renew your spirit. In addition, you can write these things down and burn them in the fire to symbolically let go of what is no longer serving you.

If you prefer spending your time alone this Summer Solstice, there are plenty of small ways you can celebrate.

Craft a beautiful flower crown using vibrant blossoms or herbs that correlate to the holiday. Wear it as a symbol of your connection to nature.

Take a stroll through a blooming garden, a lush forest, or a sunkissed meadow. Listen to the melody of a birdsong, breathe in the fresh air, and take in the majesty of nature. Allow yourself to be in the present moment, embracing the interconnectedness of all beings. Gather flowers, herbs, or stones that resonate with you to use in rituals or as decoration.

Meditate about the light and dark forces in the world or in yourself. Find ways that you can bring more lightness into your life and get in touch with the joyful parts of life. Journal, do yoga, practice self-care or take a walk. Stargazing is another way to reflect on yourself.

Focus on your goals and nurture your intentions. You should see results in the harvest season. 

Find a natural body of water such as a river, lake or ocean and immerse yourself in the waters, or at least a part of your body. As you do this, visualize negative energies or emotions being washed away. Offer a prayer of gratitude to the water element for its purifying properties. 

Cast spells of fruition. It’s a great time for spells of success, abundance, love, purification, protection and parenthood.

This celebration beckons us to embrace the power of the sun and revel in the abundance of the summer season. Celebrate life, growth, and the eternal cycle of nature. May the blessings of Litha fill our hearts with warmth and inspiration through the year!

For more detail on this celebration, visit this post!

[whatachillkillyeri]

Love Amidst Persecution

Son chaeyoung x farmer female reader

Synopsis- loving someone even though its forbidden

Warning- takes place in the 17 century, mention of hanging, fuck chae father in this story, mention of homophobia

A/n- happy chae day

In the small, idyllic town of Springfield, nestled amidst the lush, rolling hills of the countryside, the air was thick with anticipation. The sun hung low in the sky, casting a warm, golden light over the fields, where the crops swayed gently in the breeze. A sense of peace and contentment filled the air, as if everything was as it should be.

The people of Springfield went about their daily routines, oblivious to the events that was about to unfold in the future . Young lovers strolled hand-in-hand through the cobblestone streets, children laughed and played in the town square, and merchants busily set up their stalls, displaying their wares for all to see.

Seo y/n was a 17th century farmer girl, her hands calloused from the soil and her cheeks permanently flushed from the sun. Her home was nestled in the heart of the town, surrounded by lush fields and chattering streams. Life was simple, yet fulfilling, as she tended to her crops and cared for her livestock.

As she walked through the rows of corn, wheat, and potatoes, she hummed a cheerful tune, her basket swinging gently at her side. Suddenly, she heard a rustling nearby and stopped in her tracks. There, in the distance, she saw a figure approaching. As they drew closer, Y/N realized it was Son Chaeyoung, the daughter of the head of the town. She looked flustered and out of breath.

"Y/N, I-I'm so sorry to bother you," she panted. "My father sent me to fetch you. He needs your help with something important at the town hall." Y/N raised an eyebrow, skeptical. Chaeyoung seemed genuinely nervous, and she rarely ever saw her in the countryside. "It's nothing bad, I promise. He just wants your expertise on...on some crops that aren't doing well." Y/N hesitated, but eventually nodded. She knew Chaeyoung's father valued her knowledge and skills as a farmer. Perhaps this was a chance to strengthen their tenuous relationship.

She followed Chaeyoung back into town, her heart racing with a mixture of anticipation and fear. The town hall was bustling with activity, townsfolk rushing about, delivering messages and supplies. Chaeyoung led her to her father's garden . He looked up as they entered and smiled warmly. "Ah, Y/N. I'm glad you could join us. I'm sure you can help us figure out what's wrong with these crops."

Y/N nodded, trying to hide her unease. As she examined the wilting crops , she noticed something strange about them. "It looks like they're infested with aphids," she said, pointing to the tiny insects that were sucking the life out of the crops . Chaeyoung's father looked surprised. "Aphids? I've never seen them this far south before. Thank you, Y/N. You've been most helpful."

He gestured for her to sit down beside him, and they spent the next hour discussing farming techniques and strategies for dealing with the infestation. Y/N was surprised to find that Chaeyoung's father was actually quite knowledgeable about the subject, and they shared many stories and experiences.

When it was time for Y/N to return home, Chaeyoung walked her back to the edge of town. They stopped at a picturesque spot overlooking the valley, and Y/N offered Chaeyoung some freshly picked apples from her orchard. As they sat there, talking, enjoying the view and the crisp autumn air, Y/N felt a strange connection with Chaeyoung. It was as if they had known each other for much longer than just a few hours.

"You know," Chaeyoung said softly, breaking the silence, "my parents... they don't understand. They think that same sex relationship is wrong. That we should be with someone of the opposite sex. " Y/N looked at her, surprised. She knew what it was like to be different, to be misunderstood.

"Well, they're wrong," she said, offering Chaeyoung a reassuring smile. "You're special, and you should be with someone who sees that." Chaeyoung blushed and looked away, playing with a stray strand of hair. "I just wish... I wish they could understand." Y/N squeezed Chaeyoung's hand gently. "Time will change things, I'm sure of it."

They sat in silence for a while longer, enjoying the peacefulness of the moment. Finally, Chaeyoung stood up, brushing the dirt from her skirt. "I should get back. Thank you again for your help today, Y/N. It means a lot." She leaned in and kissed Y/N's cheek before walking away.

Y/N watched her go with a smile, feeling a warmth in her chest that she hadn't experienced in a long time. As the sun began to dip below the horizon, casting the world in a golden glow, she couldn't help but feel hopeful. Maybe things would change between Chaeyoung and her parents. Maybe they would come to understand that love had no boundaries, no rules.

She gathered up the remains of the picnic and started back towards her home, lost in thought. The image of Chaeyoung's face, the way she smiled and blushed, filled her mind. The way chaeyoung looks so effortlessly gorgeous.

As she neared her orchard, the setting sun cast a warm glow over the apple trees, turning their leaves into a symphony of reds and golds. She stopped for a moment, taking in the beauty of the scene, and realized that perhaps this was what love was all about. It wasn't just about being with someone you cared for, but about finding beauty and joy in the world around you.

The next few months passed by in a blur of activity. Y/N spent every spare moment helping Chaeyoung's father tend to their crops. After that she would meet up with chaeyoung. where they would shared stories, laughter, and even a few tears. Each time they parted ways, they promised to see each other soon, their words filled with hope and longing.

Despite the challenges they faced, they found solace in each other's company. They talked about their dreams for the future, about the places they wanted to visit and the things they wanted to achieve. Y/N found herself inspired by Chaeyoung's determination and resilience, while Chaeyoung admired Y/N's strength and independence. They were, in many ways, complements of each other.

One afternoon, as they sat beneath the shade of an ancient apple tree, talking about accident that their friend dahyun made, Chaeyoung leaned in and kissed Y/N. It was a soft, tender kiss that left them both breathless. For a moment, they forgot about everything else and were lost in the moment. When they finally pulled apart, they looked into each other's eyes, their faces flushed with emotion.

"I've wanted to do that for so long," Chaeyoung murmured, running her fingers through Y/N's hair.

Y/N smiled and leaned in, kissing Chaeyoung tenderly. The sunlight filtered through the leaves above them, dappling their skin with shadows and light. The warmth from Chaeyoung's body felt so right against hers, and Y/N couldn't help but feel a sense of peace wash over her. They kissed for what seemed like hours, lost in the moment, the world around them fading away.

Eventually, they pulled apart, breathless and flushed. Y/N reached up to brush a strand of hair from Chaeyoung's face, her fingers trembling slightly. "I feel the same way," she whispered, her voice barely audible over the rustling of the leaves. "I've wanted this for so long."

They lay there for a moment, their hearts racing, the world around them seeming to slow down. Chaeyoung traced the line of Y/N's jaw with her finger, marveling at the softness of her skin. "I never thought I'd find someone like you," she murmured, her voice thick with emotion. "Someone who understands me, and who I can be myself around."

Y/N smiled, her heart swelling with love for Chaeyoung. "And I never thought I'd find someone who could make me feel this way," she replied, reaching up to run her fingers through Chaeyoung's hair. "Who could make me forget about everything else and just be happy."

They lay there for a while longer, lost in each other's company, enjoying the simple pleasures of their love. The sun began to sink lower in the sky, casting long shadows across the orchard. Eventually, they sat up, brushing the grass from their clothes. Y/N glanced around, noticing how the trees seemed to sway gently, as if they were moving to some unheard melody.

"Come with me," Y/N said, taking Chaeyoung's hand. "I want to show you something."

She led Chaeyoung through the rows of apple trees, the evening air cool against their skin. As they walked, the branches overhead swayed gently, creating a natural canopy that cast dappled shadows across their path. They emerged from the orchard and found themselves at the edge of a small meadow, dotted with wildflowers and tall grasses. A small stream trickled nearby, its waters sparkling in the fading light. grasses swaying in the gentle breeze. The sky above was a deep, vibrant blue, speckled with puffy white clouds.

"This is my favorite spot," Y/N said, her voice soft with affection. "I used to come here when I needed some peace and quiet. It's where I felt closest to nature, and to myself."

Chaeyoung smiled, her eyes taking in the beauty around them. "It's beautiful here," she murmured, her voice barely audible over the sound of the stream. "It's like a secret oasis, hidden away from the world."

Y/N nodded, feeling a sense of peace wash over her as she looked out over the meadow. "I used to come here when I needed to clear my head, or when I just wanted to feel close to something bigger than myself." She glanced at Chaeyoung, her cheeks flushing slightly. "I never imagined I'd find someone who could make me feel this way, though."

Chaeyoung smiled, stepping closer to Y/N. "Neither did I," she replied softly, reaching up to brush a strand of hair from Y/N's face. "But I'm so glad we found each other." She paused, her gaze meeting Y/N's. "Because now I feel like anything is possible."

They stood there in silence for a moment, the sounds of the meadow and the stream providing a gentle background hum. Y/N leaned in, their breath mingling as she pressed her lips to Chaeyoung's. The kiss was tender and sweet, a perfect expression of the love they shared. As they pulled apart, Y/N's heart swelled with happiness, and she knew that no matter what challenges they might face in the future, they would face them together.

They stood there in the middle of the meadow, basking in the glow of their love, as the sun dipped below the horizon. The air grew cooler, and a gentle breeze rustled through the trees, carrying with it the scent of autumn. Y/N wrapped her arms around Chaeyoung, feeling grateful for the warmth and comfort she provided.

"Do you remember the first time we met?" Y/N asked, looking up at Chaeyoung with a smile.

Chaeyoung laughed softly, her cheeks flushing. "Of course I do. You were so quiet and shy, but you had this way about you that just drew me in. I couldn't help but want to get to know you better."

They stood there for a moment, lost in their memories, before Chaeyoung turned her attention back to the present. She looked around the meadow, feeling grateful for the peace and serenity that surrounded them. "I never thought I'd find a place like this," she said, her voice barely audible. "A place where I could be truly happy."

Y/N squeezed Chaeyoung's hand, her grip firm yet gentle. "You are my happiness," she replied, leaning in to press a soft kiss to Chaeyoung's cheek. "And I'm yours. No matter what the future holds, we'll face it together."

Their time in the meadow seemed to stretch on forever, the hours passing unnoticed as they reveled in the comfort and love they shared. As the last rays of sunlight disappeared beyond the horizon, the stars began to twinkle in the darkening sky. A chill crept into the air, prompting them to move closer together for warmth.

Y/N leaned against Chaeyoung, her head resting on the girl's shoulder as they gazed up at the stars. "Do you have a favorite constellation?" she asked softly, her voice barely audible above the rustling of the leaves in the trees.

Chaeyoung shrugged. "I've always liked Orion's Belt," she replied, her breath tickling Y/N's ear. "It reminds me of when we first met. It was like fate, you know? Like the stars were aligning just for us."

Y/N smiled, her heart swelling at the mention of their meeting. "That's a beautiful way to think about it," she said softly. "I think I'll always remember that night too. It feels like a dream sometimes, being with you like this."

As they continued to watch the stars, the sounds of the forest began to fade away, replaced by the soft rustling of leaves as a gentle breeze picked up. The air grew colder still, but neither of them seemed to notice or mind. They were content just being together, wrapped in each other's warmth and love.

"Do you ever wonder what it would be like," Y/N asked, her voice barely audible over the whispering of the trees, "if we could travel to each of those stars? To see the worlds they're part of, the people who live there?" She felt a shiver run down her spine as she imagined the vastness of the universe, the endless possibilities that lay before them.

Chaeyoung paused for a moment, considering the question. The stars above them seemed to dance in the darkness, their twinkling light casting a soft glow over the meadow. "I think it would be incredible," she finally replied, her voice tinged with awe. "But I think the best part would be coming back here, to this place. To know that no matter where we go or what we see, we'll always have each other. And this place will always be our home."

They sat in silence for a while, lost in their own thoughts and the beauty of the night. Y/N felt her heart swell with love and gratitude for Chaeyoung, for the life they shared together. She knew that their love was special, that they were meant to be together. As she looked up at the stars, she made a silent promise to herself: no matter what challenges they might face in the future, she would always fight for their love. She would never take Chaeyoung for granted, and she would do everything in her power to make her happy.

Eventually, the chill in the air grew too intense for them to ignore, and they stood, stretching their limbs and yawning. "You should go back home ," Y/N said, her voice husky with sleep. "It's getting late. And I don’t want you to get in trouble”

Chaeyoung nodded in agreement, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. She knew that the night couldn't last forever, but she didn't want to leave this place. She didn't want to leave the feeling of peace and contentment that came with being wrapped up in Y/N's love. But she also knew that if they get caught there will be consequences.

As chaeyoung was sneaking back home, she didn’t notice her father siting on the chair in the dining room.

“Where were you… let me guess out sucking the face off that bloody witch.”her father said. Chaeyoung was shocked. “Why so shocked? You thought I wouldn’t know, I have eyes on you everywhere.” he added.

“So you was spying on me, where’s the trust in that father.” Chaeyoung said. “You broke the trust as soon as you kiss that witch” he responded quickly.

“ oh bloody hell so what I like y/n what wrong about th-” she got cut off with a slap by her father.

“ you don’t like that thing, you don’t even know what love is. She must had put a spell on you to make you believe that .” he said angrily. “ she needs to pay for what she is doing to your mind” he said then went over to grab a torch. He walks out of the house. That’s when chaeyoung realizes what he means by that a rush to y/n cabin.

-

"Chaeyoung," y/n whispered, her voice barely audible. "What are you doing here? Your father gonna kill me if he found you here."

Chaeyoung knelt beside her, her eyes wide with fear and desperation. " you need to get out of here , my father is ordering the town to find you ." She wiped the tears from her face, as she gently brushing her knuckles against y/n cheek. "Please, y/n, get out of here, while you still can."

But it was too late. The sound of footsteps approaching echoed through the field. The townspeople had found them. They encircled them, their faces twisted with anger and hatred. They had found y/n, the witch who dared to love another woman especially the daughter of the town . They grabbed her roughly, tearing at her clothes, pulling her away from Chaeyoung. As they dragged her away, she struggled, desperate to reach Chaeyoung one last time, to tell her that she loved her, that it would all be alright.

"Witch! Witch! Hang her at the stake!" they cried, their faces twisted with rage and fear.

Chaeyoung followed, tears streaming down her face, her heart breaking with every step. She begged and pleaded with them to let her go, but they ignored her. They forced her to watch as they hung y/n from the gallows, her body twitching and jerking with each agonizing breath.

As y/n's life faded from her eyes, she looked down at Chaeyoung, her love, the only thing in the world that made her life worth living. "Chaeyoung," she whispered, her voice barely audible. "I love you. And I will never ever stop loving you. No matter what happens to me right now, it would never destroy my love for you." With those final words, y/n's soul left her body, as she was hanging from the tree. Chaeyoung screamed, her voice echoing through the fields, the sound of her anguish piercing the very heavens.

The townspeople, satisfied that justice had been served, turned their backs on Chaeyoung, leaving her alone to grieve. But even as they walked away, they could not escape the haunting image of the two lovers, torn apart by a world that could not understand their love. And so, their story lived on, a tragic testament to the enduring power of love, even in the darkest of times.

The sun began to set, painting the sky in shades of red and orange, as if the heavens themselves were weeping for the loss of y/n. Chaeyoung remained at the foot of the gallows, her body racked with sobs, her heart shattered into a million pieces. She clutched at the dirt, refusing to let go, as if somehow she could bring y/n back. But she knew deep down that this was not the end. There was something still pulling her forward, some unspoken promise that their love would find a way to survive.

Night fell, and the stars twinkled in the inky black sky. Chaeyoung's tears finally dried up, leaving her chest heaving with the memory of each sob. She looked up at the stars, searching for some sign, some hope that they would find a way back to each other. And as she stood there, gazing up at the heavens, she swore an oath: she would spend the rest of her life seeking out others like them, those who dared to love against the tide of public opinion. She would fight for their right to be together, to live their lives as they saw fit, free from the judgment of a world that could not understand.

Days turned into weeks, and weeks into months. Chaeyoung's determination only grew stronger, her resolve unshakeable. She became a symbol of hope for those who found themselves in her situation, a beacon of light in the darkness. And though y/n was gone, her spirit lived on through Chaeyoung, guiding her every step of the way.

Years passed, and the world began to change. Slowly, but surely, people began to see the error of their ways, to understand that love knew no bounds, no gender, no race. It was a victory of the heart over the head, of compassion over fear. And as Chaeyoung watched this transformation unfold before her eyes, she knew that her love for y/n had not been in vain. She had made a difference, however small, and for that she was eternally grateful.

Eventually, Chaeyoung found herself standing before a great crowd, addressing them with a voice that rang clear and true. "We must never forget the sacrifices that have been made for our freedom," she said, her gaze fixed on the sky, as if y/n were standing there beside her. "We must honor their memory by continuing to fight for justice, for equality, for love. For as long as there is one person left who dares to love against the tide, we will be there to fight by their side." And with that, a roar went up from the crowd, a testament to the enduring power of love and the indomitable spirit of those who dare to follow their hearts.

The years passed, and Chaeyoung grew old, but she never stopped fighting. Her story became legend, a reminder to all who heard it of the incredible strength that can be found in the human heart when it dares to love truly and fiercely. And though y/n's body was gone, her love for Chaeyoung lived on, etched into the very fabric of history, a testament to the power of the human spirit to endure against all odds.

[possibilistfanfiction]

For the one word prompt: allergic

[a small bea & lil (platonic) backstory for tattoo artist/florist au]

//

'so let me make sure i understand you correctly,' you say, trying your best to seem unaffected and annoyed in front of both beatrice's and your parents in beatrice's childhood dining room. everything is austere and the back of your neck prickles in discomfort, years and years of it; you remind yourself to not fidget. 'you want me to, what? fly to oregon —' admittedly, an offense on beatrice's part — 'and... kidnap beatrice back to england?'

'stop being so dramatic,' your mother says, rolling her eyes. 'beatrice needs to come home. she's passing up a job in parliament to go choose to live a sinful lifestyle —'

'fine,' you say, just to stop where you know that would inevitably end up. admittedly, you do think beatrice is running away from, like, every single one of her issues, but you've never been good at talking to each other, and, anyway, no one has ever been able to force beatrice to do anything, especially not you. you doubt it'll start now. 'just send me the flight and hotel info.'

'you leave later tonight.'

'a red eye.' you resist the urge to groan. 'great.'

/

begrudgingly, portland is beautiful — green and lush and quiet for a city its size, the river meandering through its middle, all the bridges and fast-moving clouds on a relatively clear day, a barely-there warmth in the sun that signals the beginnings of real spring. you watch it all go by on your way from the airport to the address beatrice's parents had somehow found — you don't even want to know how; better to leave well enough alone, you've learned — and when you arrive at a small house, navy blue with a red door, a neatly kept pollinator garden in the front, you park your car and allow yourself to acknowledge that, well, it's kind of cute. the sun is sinking beneath the hills across the river and a chill is moving in, but the air is fresh.

you smooth down your hair, try to fix any wrinkles in your shirt, which is, of course, both fruitless and unnecessary as soon as you get out and put your favorite leather jacket on. honestly, you don't even know if beatrice is home, but there's a practical, small hybrid suv in the driveway, and you're pretty sure if you texted or called her that you'd been sent to fetch her back to london by both sets of your parents, she'd never see you. you pocket your phone and keys and walk up the little stone path to the small porch, then knock on the door. you wait while you hear some shuffling on the other side, and then it takes you a few moments to process that beatrice is standing in front of you.

apparently, her too, because she stands perfectly still for some seconds before, 'lilith?'

you take her in fully, because you can: her hair is short now, buzzed on the sides and back, swept back on the top, neat and dark, and you can see part of a tattoo on her forearm from under the soft, loose sweater she's wearing, pushed up to her elbows. she has on casual pants — navy, still well-tailored in a way you expect from her, cropped at the ankles — and blundstones, like she's getting ready to go somewhere. 'it's been, what, ten days? you're really assimilating quickly,' you say, even though you regret it as it's happening. her face goes from surprised to stormy, one you know all too well.

'piss off,' she says, and starts to close the door, but you stick your arm out and she glares but — thankfully, because she could — doesn't slam it in your face. 'if you came to convince me to go back to london, it's not going to work.'

'can you let me inside?'

she waits a beat but then sighs, still glowering, but steps aside. 'i have to leave in seven minutes.'

'hot date?'

the blush that creeps up from her chest, beneath her sweater, and spreads along her cheeks, to the tips of her ears, is also new.

'oh.'

she crosses her arms over her chest, an unspoken dare. you look around at the house: it's small, but it's been remodeled and has a beautiful open floor plan, marble countertops and a big fridge, a comfortable couch and a big tv, all warm woods and easy greens and rich oranges, mirroring the world outside. 'this is yours?'

she clenches her jaw. 'yes.'

'look,' you say, processing the fact that beatrice has apparently also purchased a house here, and hold up your hands, palms toward the ceiling. 'i come in peace.'

'there's about a 100% chance you're here at the bidding of my parents.'

'they want you to come back home, yes.'

she rolls her eyes. 'i'm an adult.'

you're twenty-seven, and beatrice is a year and a half younger than you, so that's sort of debatable, but it's not worth the argument you see written all over her posture, her stiff shoulders and ramrod straight spine, the set of her feet, ready to get into a fight. 'transparently, they did send me here with the purpose of convincing you to come back to london and do your parliament thing.'

she huffs and turns toward the kitchen and motions for you to follow; she opens the fridge and takes out two beer cans, opens them and hands one to you. a local west coast ipa, you take note of. 'no pint glasses?'

'like i said, i have to leave soon.'

'fair enough.' you lift yours in an offer for a salute — an offer of peace, more than anything — and she clinks hers with a resigned little expression, takes a long sip before putting her can down on the counter and leaning toward you.

'you know i'm not going back.'

'i do,' you say; you always had. 'mostly i wanted to see that you were, you know —'

'okay?'

it's kinder than anything that would've come out of your mouth in the moment, a hint of affection seeping in. 'sure.'

'i'm doing great.'

'clearly.'

she frowns, takes another drink. 'if you really believe all of our parents' bigoted —'

'beatrice.' she stills where she'd started to pace. 'you know that i don't. i just don't understand why you can't be a lesbian at home.'

beatrice tips her head back. 'of course you understand,' she says, more intense than you had expected. 'maybe not about being gay specifically, although, whatever, we can get into your proclivities later —'

'bea —'

'but — don't you want to have your own life?'

'you think, what, moving halfway around the world, with no warning, to help run some farm, is — '

'— is what, lilith?'

you feel yourself deflate; you take a sip of your beer because there are tears starting to burn at the corner of your eyes.

'it's a permaculture project — part science, part local politics, part business. it's a good opportunity.' she stills, glances at the time on her phone. 'and, even if it wasn't, i just — you know as well as anyone how suffocating our families are.'

you can't quite look at her yet — her sincere, golden eyes and serious frown, her freckles, things you've known since you were children whenever she was explaining something that hurt, something that mattered — but you nod. 'it's been ten days, beatrice. and you're already —' you swallow, a hurt silence sitting in the air, heavy and swarming.

but beatrice has always been braver than you. 'i need to breathe, lil. it was killing me.'

'you and your fucking flowers,' you say after you're able to gather yourself enough that you're fairly certain you won't cry. thankfully — full of more grace that you have ever been — beatrice grants you a laugh.

'why don't you stay with me,' she offers after a silence when you can't bring yourself to say anything more. 'i have a spare bedroom, and, lil —'

you reach out and squeeze her hand. 'please don't say anything.'

'just because you're allergic to any kind of affection —'

'fine.'

'yes?'

'yes.'

a smile blooms on her face that makes caving far too quickly — you want to breathe too, so badly — much more bearable. 'okay, well, i shouldn't be too late. there's leftover vietnamese food in the fridge if you're hungry, and i recorded the arsenal match from earlier.'

'plying me with katie mccabe?'

'well, i didn't know you would be failing at kidnapping me today.' she rinses out her beer can and puts it carefully in the recycling. 'kismet, if you will.'

you roll your eyes while she grabs a camel wool peacoat — one she's worn for years now, gorgeous and an inexplicable comfort, that she still has it — and then carefully pulls a pale blue beanie on. you gesture helplessly toward, well, whatever this aesthetic is. 'do you feel like, well, you?'

her smile softens. 'i think so.' she shrugs. 'more than i ever have before, at least.'

'well, i won't wait up, and i don't want to know any details.'

'it's a first date, lilith.'

'are these walls soundproof?'

'goodbye,' she says, but there's amusement in her tone and, before she leaves fully, she turns and strides back toward you and wraps you in a hug. 'i'm glad you're here.'

'me too, beatrice.' you hold onto her a moment longer than you normally would. 'she hot?'

she backs up and smacks you on the shoulder.

'have fun, bea.'

she nods. 'i'll text you when i'm headed home.'

[dmwrites]

So, I was thinking about in-game/storyline reasons for Bdubs not uploading his pov of Limited Life, and it kind of spiraled from “maybe he’s an npc this season” to “well grian would have to do the administrative work to make a bdubs npc I guess” to “well Martyn’s vtuber lore…”, so now there’s this thing. Uh, enjoy?

——

“Bdubs?”

Cleo heard a familiar throat clearing from behind the tree she and Scar were trying to cut down, and called out to whoever was on the other side of the river.

“Ah, Cleo, hello!”

Cleo smiled cheerily at Bdubs, who was approaching them. Scar waved Bdubs over, and they all started working on chopping down the same big dark oak tree.

“Another life series already, can you believe it?” Cleo asked. She couldn’t help but smile- the sun was warm, her friends were all around her, and a new opportunity for good, wholesome murder.

It was natural, the way that she, Scar, and Bdubs fell into an alliance. They were good together, a kind of natural blend of sarcasm and thirst for violence.

But something wasn’t quite right. She shrugged it off at first, thinking it was the general overhanging anxiety of a clock ticking down to death. But no, it wasn’t until the second boogeyman was chosen that she began to realize exactly what was wrong.

When Bdubs had killed Skizz, not even a minute after he had been named boogeyman number two, Cleo hadn’t been paying attention to him. She had been laughing at Scar, and helping him out of the pond he’d fallen into after being rammed by a goat. But when she looked up, to see a death message in chat and Bdubs standing, axe still raised, that same, broad smile on his face.

“Bdubs?”

There was a moment of stillness, where Bdubs stood there, staring off into the space that Skizz had occupied only moments ago. His head then jerked to the side, and he laughed.

“Ah, Cleo, hello. Ah, well, that’s done now.”

Cleo laughed at his laissez-faire attitude, but couldn’t shake the feeling that she’d seen something from Bdubs that wasn’t right.

“Bdubs! You killed Skizz!” Scar exclaimed, interrupting her thoughts.

Bdubs didn’t respond to that, just smiled broadly as Skizz came over the hill again, swearing up a storm and making everything even more funny.

As much as she’d like to forget the weirdness she felt about Bdubs, it was impossible, since he was right there, cheering her on, joining Scar in calling her Mom. He was being odd, in ways that wouldn’t have mattered to anyone but her. He didn’t wear armor until Cleo gave him some. Whatever was suggested, he happily agreed to. He had that big ol’ classic Bdubs smile, but it was the eyes. There was something missing from his eyes- like they had gone dull and lifeless, like a statue or doll.

“Scar?”

“Hmm? Yes, Mom?” Scar was sitting on the top of the mountain, resting for a moment, and gave a cackle as he spoke.

Cleo elected to ignore that for the time being. “Does something seem a little… off… about Bdubs to you?” She eased herself down next to him.

Scar frowned, and Cleo had to appreciate that Scar, for all of his misgivings and silly nature, took her seriously when it was needed. The two looked towards their rudimentary farm land, where Bdubs was doing some final bits of crop harvesting before the sun fully set. The last rays of sunlight glinted off of the many clocks that hung off of his body. He was planting seeds in a uniform, practiced way, focused on his task without the usual whimsical and jumpy gait to his step.

“No, not really.” Scar said slowly. “But, I will say… isn’t it odd that his skin doesn’t change? We all get reset every season, but he… it’s like his last life season never really left him or something.”

Cleo frowned. Last Life was always close to her mind too, but it had never left any… physical marks. Bdubs looked like a sore that never healed.

“Oh, also, he said this thing I thought was kind of, well, I wouldn’t call it out of character, and it was a throwaway comment at best I suppose, but when he and I were trekking the server with our horses and wares, he said he was content to just watch me, like some kind of hidden camera show. Watching my life. Like he’s just a camera for me. And he’s always egging on my terrible ideas.”

“But he’s always like that- he’s a ‘yes, and’ man. You know that.” Cleo said.

“You’re the one who seems to be worried- why don’t you go talk to him then? I don’t want the family to be broken up so quickly. We already lost Dad.”

Cleo smacked Scar lightly up the backside of his head. “Shut it, boy.”

She did wander out to Bdubs, who was just finishing up the final seed plantings.

“Bdubs?”

“Ah, Cleo, hello!” Bdubs stood up and beamed at her.

“Are you okay, Bdubs?” Cleo asked. “Enjoying your time so far?”

“Of course! I am greatly enjoying this time with my friends!” Bdubs’ face wasn’t changing. He was talking and his mouth was moving, but his eyes still were just that same kind of glassy deadness. It struck Cleo all at once, suddenly, what exactly was wrong. It was the uncanny valley effect that she sometimes got when she made a statue too realistic. Bdubs didn’t look like he was living. It was impossible to tell, most people wouldn’t ever see it, only feel that weird anxiety.

“You’re not the real Bdubs.” Cleo said, trying very hard to keep the tremor out of her voice.

Bdubs’ mouth opened and closed for a moment, those eyes still just as wide and happy as it had been since she’d first seen Bdubs on this sever.

“Bdubs?”

“Ah, yes, Cleo.”

“You say that every time I say your name.” Cleo whispered.

——

“Grian.”

Joel and Jimmy must have wandered off, leaving Grian in the ruins of the mansion (which Cleo secretly giggled about). Grian was typing on his commutator, assumedly some admin stuff to do with the server, but looked up and smiled as Cleo approached.

“Hey, what’s up?”

“Sorry to bother you, but I think something is… off about Bdubs.”

For a moment, a flash of recognition and panic appeared in Grian’s face, then smoothed back out. Grian was good at lying, but Cleo had been dealing with misbehavior and liars for a lot longer then he’d even been alive.

“I don’t know w-”

“Don’t bother lying to me, you’ll just embarrass yourself.” Cleo cut him off abruptly. Her head was pounding- she was right, something was wrong. And Grian knew what it was. “What happened to Bdubs?”

“Cleo, that is an administrative issue, not a player issue. That information is private and between only those who need to know.” Grian was talking fast, and his communicator kept beeping- resetting a whole mansion wasn’t an easy task, clearly. He was clearly distracted. “Bdubs being an npc this season is not- oh no.” Grian groaned at his mistake. He closed his communicator and took out his sword. “Okay, so let’s just pretend that I didn’t say that.”

“You really think you can frighten me into silence, little bird?” Cleo crossed her arms and puffed out her chest. She was very scared, she knew how Grian was when he was backed into a corner. And she didn’t even have diamond armor.

“Cleo, listen. I respect you, and I know you care a lot about Bdubs. But let this one go. It’s not… it’s complicated, okay? No one can know, not ever. It’s too…” Grian looked her over, coming to some kind of decision. “Listen, I may not scare you, but I will kill you. If this gets out, I will slaughter you over and over until your out of the series. With no remorse. I promise this.”

Cleo held her ground for as long as she could, jaw set, brain frantically screaming at her to go. “Fine.” She finally said. “It stays here. For now.” She turned and walked away without another word, mentally preparing for an arrow to the back. But nothing came, and she walked until she was beyond the still-smoldering dark oak forest. She could see her allies, Scar and not-really Bdubs, on the mountain, but she couldn’t go there. Not yet.

So she walked in the flat area around spawn, just kind of wandering, mind racing. So Bdubs was some kind of npc- she vaguely knew what that meant. Non-playable. But how could a person be non-playable? It did seem like he has certain things that he said and did- a yes, and man to the extreme, which wasn’t too far off from the man she knew anyway. She had to wonder if being boogeyman hasn’t been part of the script, if that’s why he’d killed Skizz the instant he’d be chosen. But was that even what npc meant?

“But why have an npc?” She murmured to herself, wandering by a small cave opening.

“What did you just say?”

And faster then she’d ever seen him move, Martyn barreled out of the cave entrance, a wild look in his eyes. It was odd to see her old soulmate, and she almost expected a twinge of pain when he tripped over a rock in his hurry over to her.

“Martyn?”

“Cleo, please- did you just say npc?” Martyn was almost shaking, and held out his hands to her. She’d never seen him look so rattled.

“I- yeah.” She cringed, remembering Grian’s threats. “But that’s just between you and me. What, do you know something about that?”

“I- oh my god.” Martyn ran his fingers through his hair. “We need to talk right now. If you know what npc’s are, that changes everything. I- wow.”

“What on earth are you on about, Martyn?” Cleo asked, anxiety rising in her once again.

“I don’t know.” Martyn said. “Well, I do, kind of, it’s just… can we talk?” He gestured to his cave.

“I- yeah, I suppose so.” Cleo replied. It was almost funny, how they were teamed up together by necessity once more. But this seemed a lot bigger then their own souls. Cleo thought of Bdubs and his empty, wide eyes, and it steeled whatever resolve she had inside her.

“So, where to start…”

[miserymerci]

Dear Desolence (Good Omens S3 take)

Seven months after a change in leadership, Heaven slips up and "accidentally" released Jesus Christ onto the Earth before their plan is ready. Hell is in shambles, angels in Heaven are dividing, and they can't seem to shake off that stupid Book of Life crap. It would do some good to throw it off a cliff.

When Muriel is assigned to find the missing Son, Crowley is pulled into the storm, Aziraphale risks his all, and two equally-misguided children of two big, ineffable entities face what "humanity even means"

Chapter One: Ready for Duty

(Word count: 22,445)

Jesus has gone missing. Muriel is assigned to find him, but in an effort to reach out to Crowley, Muriel realizes that he needs a little pick-me-up. Cue the girls' day out! Meanwhile, the Archangels try to keep Jesus's disappearance a secret from The Metatron.

Lower Galilee, Nazareth: 6 CE

“What’re you doing here in Galilee?”

Aziraphale choked on his stew. 

The first thing he probably should have said was: ‘That’s none of your business, snake,’ and then the second thing should have been, ‘now crawl back to whence you came,’ followed by a very unfriendly strike over the head— but with a mouthful of vegetables, it was difficult to make the whole thing look professional.

He sniffled and chewed carefully.

“Having a meal,” he said.

“Well,” said Crawley, looking around the inn, “I can see that.” 

Aziraphale swallowed, pushed away the bowl, and then hastily got up from his seat. He had nearly finished his food anyway. The last few bites didn’t matter— he had already been caught red-handed.

“I’m here on business. Angelic business. What about you?” he brushed over his wool tunic and spared another glance at his adversary, who continued to stare at him blankly. 

Glasses were such a bothersome invention.

Crawley mulled over his question. Aziraphale doubted he had to think about it for very long, but Crawley rather enjoyed the suspense. He was very good at keeping Aziraphale guessing.

“Demonic business, if I had to put a label on it. I’m supposed to be keeping an eye on the Romans,” said Crawley.

“Galilee isn’t exactly a hotspot for Roman control.”

“Not yet it isn’t,” Crawley shrugged, “but it still counts. It’s near the area, anyway. I have an excuse to be here.” 

Aziraphale wrinkled his nose, turned, and exited the inn.

In truth, Aziraphale never saw Crawley often. Since the incident in Uz, he’d been… well, not flighty. Busy, more like. He had lots to think about, and lots to do, and lots to solve. A busy angel was a fulfilled angel, Michael always said. 

Aziraphale didn’t know what to do with himself.

The bright sun brought little warmth to his skin. In the aftershocks of summer, darker clouds had begun to roll by. It would rain within the next few weeks. Then, the autumn crops would finally take root, and Aziraphale’s assignment would end. He wasn’t used to staying in one place for very long. He had tried not to be twitchy about it, but something in his chest urged to flutter and twist. Maybe it was homesickness. What a silly thing. 

“You know, everyone knows about the Messiah,” said the demon following him.

Crawley lingered to his side; almost like a herding dog, the way he was leaning into his space. He spared a watchful look at the people passing on the streets before turning back to Aziraphale. When he did, that cheeky smile was on his face.

“Good grief,” whispered Aziraphale to the sky.

“Look, all I’m saying is that you don’t have to be so anxious about keeping secrets. I already know so what’s the big deal? You keeping an eye on the kid?” 

“That’s not really your business,” said Aziraphale, wringing his hands. He continued walking, looking over at the clouds or the far hills or anything else that could coax his nerves. 

Crawley retreated, vanished, and then came back to his other side.

“Figs?” he offered, and Aziraphale startled.

“Don’t do that.”

“Do what? Buy figs? You don’t like figs?” 

Aziraphale scoffed to himself and waved away the demon. It didn’t do much. Instead, Crawley welcomed himself into Aziraphale’s bubble with a funny expression. Maybe calculating, maybe just teasing— it was hard for Aziraphale to pinpoint.

“I… do! I mean don’t come to me thinking you can get something out of me. I’m here on assignment, fine. I’m keeping an eye on the Messiah, fine. But that’s all you’re getting from me.”

Crawley was quiet for a moment. He trailed Aziraphale up narrow steps, weaving past a group of kids running out of a nearby entryway. The smallest child was being tugged along with gleeful giggles. All of their knees were caked in dirt.

Aziraphale paused, turned, and watched Crawley lean against the wooden column holding up the little building’s eaves.

Crawley raised his eyebrows.

“You think I’m tempting you for information?” he asked. 

“Well,” began Aziraphale, hesitantly, “I find it hard to believe that you just want to talk… are you saying that I should enjoy long walks with my adversary and sharing a warm meal with the Serpent of Eden? I got a very harsh scolding, you know, for letting you slip past me.”

Crawley grimaced and tilted his head this way and that.

“Ehhgh, when you say it like that, it does sound pretty awful of us. We are pitting against one another. Usually.”

Aziraphale swallowed. He glanced down at his fiddling hands, caught himself, and instead used them to smooth down his tunic. 

Morals were always a push and pull for Aziraphale. There was always a right and always a wrong— and they always depended on who told them. If an angel told Aziraphale something and a demon told Aziraphale another thing, what was Aziraphale to do other than believe the obvious? But hadn’t Crawley and him worked together the last time they met? He had disobeyed Heaven. Did that still make him a loyal angel? Obviously not, but what was he to do? Confess his sins? Fall? If he could be not-quite-an-angel, then Crawley would be not-quite-a-demon. But the other had been adamant on only temporarily being on the same side. 

Ah, there he went again— a headache crept up at the thoughts he had been trying to avoid since Uz. 

“I… wasn’t around to witness the birth of the Son.”

In his peripheral vision, Crawley’s face twitched, as if he hadn’t expected Azriaphale to speak up at all. His foot slipped as he tried to stand up properly, but he recovered quickly.

“Oh yeah? I guess Gabriel realised the last birth you observed had almost been a muck up,” said Crawley, slyly. 

“I know!” blurted Aziraphale. He clasped his hands together against his chest. “Oh, I felt awful. Gabriel went through the trouble to send me away so I wouldn’t be around for it, I’m sure. I had to go to Egypt to ‘observe the Red Sea’. As if it’s going anywhere? Moses parted it a millennium ago and Gabriel had been concerned about it eleven years ago?” Aziraphale noted Crawley’s blank look and hurriedly added, “Not like he was wrong to be or anything of the sort. It’s just a shame that I wasn’t back when I needed to be. To help, you know.”

Crawley frowned. 

“Riiight,” he said, in a tone that made Aziraphale want to hide his face forever. “I know. So what’re you doing here watching the boy, if the Supreme Archangel Gabriel wanted to keep you away?” 

It would be embarrassing to admit to this demon that Aziraphale’s assignment didn’t have anything to do with the Messiah. Gabriel had been so apparent with his stretched smile and gleaming eyes to steer clear of the plan that was unfolding. It wasn’t Aziraphale’s division. However, he could see that the few angels who were assigned the boy weren’t clapping their hands with joy at the whole thing.

Aziraphale was ashamed enough already. He didn’t want to hand Crawley salt for his wound.

“At-a-distance mission, I suppose,” said Aziraphale, knowing he’s supposed to be blessing the harvest, “but he is interesting. ‘Son of God’ and all that. Gabriel must have been thinking about how that title puts a huge target on the boy’s back and, well, I—… I mean, he is just a kid; the Messiah.” He realised he had taken his eyes off the demon, and caught him picking at the figs’ stems one-by-one.

“That’s obvious, angel. They all start as kids once. I just hope he won’t grow up to be a prick.”

“The Son of God won’t be a prick. He will be as forgiving and loving as his Mother, and will lead humanity with bravery and benevolence. That’s what the Plan says.”

A challenging look sparked in Crawley’s eyes. For a moment, Aziraphale felt something in his stomach twist (because he was saying that God was good and gracious to a demon’s face), but then those teeth bared at him like a snake, and Aziraphale stubbornly held his ground. 

“It’s sad, isn’t it?” said Crawley in a rumbly voice, “that that little boy has such expectations on his shoulders? If he messes up, then what? It’s not like people come back the way they were before. Something always goes missing somewhere. If you ask me, it would be easier to forget the guy and stop trying to act human all the time.”

“Act human?” 

“We both know you’re an uptight, prissy agent of what your side thinks is right. It’s all you angels are. You’re fussy with your drinks, fussy with your food, and fussy with your duties. What’re you doing down here wasting your existence away living with people when you could just go home? Leave the Earth to the demons and just smite any sign of life from above? Would make you a real angel, you know– being cruel and mysterious like that.”

Home. 

Aziraphale had just been thinking about “home” again; what it was, what it meant to him. The fluttery, sickly feeling drew attention to his chest and spread down and around until he swore his skin was buzzing. Did he miss Heaven? Those bright halls and those endless skies? It had always been his home. He had never seen anything quite like it on Earth. 

He swallowed the mysterious feeling and said, eyes fixed on the ground, “you’re just trying to tempt me, Crawley.”

And just like that, Crawley disengaged and rolled his eyes. 

“I could be,” he said with less heat, “you wouldn’t know. I’m the enemy, remember?” 

“I don’t understand if you want to get rid of me or not,” admitted Aziraphale. “Why do you talk like that?”

“Why do you always look at me like I’m shameful?”

Oh, goodness. That wasn’t it. That wasn’t it at all. But Aziraphale didn’t have the words right now, like his entire body was paralyzed, and he had left his mind in the clouds. He couldn’t correct him because he himself couldn’t say what was correct. 

He had tried to make an effort today. This was the first time, after all, that Crawley had really reached out to him, but Aziraphale just couldn’t understand. He didn’t truly know his quirks, really, or his sense of humour, or the way he liked to spend his time. Crawley likely couldn’t even read him, either. It seemed like they had just made a muddle of things in their attempt to find common ground.

Maybe Aziraphale did miss Heaven. Maybe this was homesickness, as close as Heaven was to “home”. But then Crawley bit into one of the figs, the seeds cracking and popping against his teeth, and vanished with the crowds— and Aziraphale didn’t know what to do with himself.

Oh, how this distance was unbearable.

Present Day, Heaven

What was distance? 

Aziraphale tossed and turned that question in his head often. Of course, there were many dictionaries in the world. Aziraphale had witnessed the first one being written amidst a dry summer in Mesopotamia, where it had found itself sunken into a watery tomb.

But all words came with definitions. Not all of them came with meaning. 

So if you were to ask Aziraphale what ‘distance’ was, he would quote the Oxford English Dictionary: 

‘Distance (/‘distəns/ : the amount of space between two places or things’. 

But then again, ‘distance’ came with a plethora of other definitions. And while they would all technically be the truth, it would also be a lie.

‘Distance’ came with feeling. Surely poets, not as old as he, could mix up the perfect lull of words to describe it. Aziraphale could not. 

Could not. 

So the only thing he could do was stick it to something. There was a distance between Aziraphale and Earth, for example… a distance between Heaven and the Earth and further Down, for another. 

Distance was for places, and distance was for people, and distance was for thoughts. Distance was connection and the lack thereof. 

Aziraphale would not be able to tell you where he stood. 

It was certainly not lonely in Heaven. Aziraphale had never once thought throughout the last few months that he was alone. Heaven had eyes, and Aziraphale had eyes, and eyes could close a distance.

Eyes for seeing and hands for holding and mouths for— oh… lights! Lights could close a distance, and Heaven had plenty of those. And, as per the eternal ways, ceiling lights in Heaven never went out. Angels on lightbulb duty were only given this task so that even the lowest of cherubs could pretend to be busy (this was a recent discovery to Aziraphale, who had found this fact atrocious. He was outvoted 1-to-4). 

On this particular day, one light dared to flicker. 

Aziraphale blinked apologetically and turned away from it.

He continued down the Heavenly Halls. The ceiling light that had flickered was likely glaring at his retreating back at the attempted murder. But really, Aziraphale hadn’t meant to do that. He should be cherishing the silence right now, not–

“Supreme Archangel,” said an angel coming up to his left, breaking all of Aziraphale’s wishes, “Sir, you are aware you are late to your meeting, yes?” they turned down at their clipboard, flipping up a few pages, “if you do not wrap it up in approximately eight minutes, you will be behind on your–!”

“–Archangel Aziraphale!” said another, to his right. “There’s been another pressing issue that we need to add to your schedule. It’s about–.”

“The schedule is already full. I can’t fit anything else in,” mumbled the angel on the left.

“Then make some room! There, there’s a little slot between the platoon training and the weapon inspection,” said the right angel.

“I suppose so… well, then, I’ll put that in for you, Aziraphale.”

Aziraphale swallowed and nodded ahead.

All of Gabriel’s duties had seemed so stagnant compared to this. Had Aziraphale ever actually seen him do anything of importance? Gabriel had hovered more than planned, in Aziraphale’s distracted memory. Perhaps he never noticed because he was too busy not getting caught by Gabriel in the first place.

The next time Aziraphale blinked, he was in another room entirely. That was a funny thing about Heaven: its lack of doors. Most believed it was just a hassle in the grand scheme of things (Who wanted to reach out for a door knob, anyways? Who wanted to use their hands to make an effort, to touch solid ground, to open a door? Why go through the trouble?). 

Aziraphale swallowed and looked up.

"Late again, Aziraphale," said Uriel.

Aziraphale lifted his eyebrows, smiled, and neatly placed the folder he had been carrying onto the table.

“So I am,” he said. “Giliel had needed assistance in their new position. None of the other scriveners had the spare time.”

Michael smiled back at him. 

"The lower ranks have been experiencing a flux of changes in the past several months. It’s not our responsibility to coddle each one,” Michael crossed one arm, blinking slowly at him as if they were perfectly in their element, “let the officers do their jobs, Aziraphale."

"Am I to blame for wanting to make sure that there are no breaks in our formations?" challenged Aziraphale.

Michael snorted, the action forming into a sneer. 

“Ironic,” they said.

"Please leave the arguments for later, Your Reverences," said Saraqael, as if watching Michael’s and Aziraphale’s odd bickering had become boring over the past few months. "The matters of this meeting are far beyond a squabble between cherubs."

Aziraphale nodded (Mostly because Saraqael is looking at him to take the lead). He opened the absurdly-thick folder in front of him that read 'Meeting Notes', paging through delicately before he settled on an empty page.

The Metatron cleared his throat. For the first time during that meeting, Aziraphale looked up at the floating head.

“Thank you for gathering on such short notice. Your flexibility and resolution will be rewarded with good news: the Second Coming is almost among us. In a few weeks–"

"Already?" Aziraphale blurted. He looked surprised at his own interruption, and he glanced around at the table. No one said anything, so Aziraphale took a deep breath and continued, “It took eleven years for Hell to concoct the Apocalypse. We are only a few months in."

"Honestly. Do you really believe us to be as incompetent as those creatures? Of course we would have the advantage, Aziraphale,” said Michael.

“What advantages?” asked Aziraphale.

Sandalphon hummed, but it came out more like a goose honk.

"Fall jostled their good-thinking ability, for one,” said Sandalphon. "Brewed for far too long in the sulfur. Mushy, those ones. Brain soup."

Aziraphale threaded his hands together tightly and watched the way that Saraqael stared at Sandalphon.

“…Gabriel used to laugh at that one,” said Sandalphon.

Michael sneered again.

"Enough," said The Metatron, finally. "Be thankful that any of you play a part in God's Great Plan. It would be just as easy to keep this information solely between The Lord and I."

Aziraphale’s eyebrows scrunched. He manifested a pen and scribbled something down in his notes.

"No need for that, I'm quite sure. Do go on. Unless anyone has anything else to say," said Aziraphale. He tried to ignore the way Uriel’s lips twitched and how Michael’s look withered.

"Very well. Thank you, Aziraphale,” said The Metatron. “We have the Son of The Almighty under supervision. Since the failed Apocalypse, he has been carefully raised in a quiet confinement. The Almighty does not want his judgement to be influenced, unlike what happened with Hell’s botched attempt.”

All eyes turned to Aziraphale's end of the table. The angel quietly added to his notes. 

Uriel turned back to The Metatron. 

"You mean to say that we've had the Son of God under our jurisdiction for almost five years? And nobody ever thought to tell us?"

"Why wouldn't we have The Almighty's Son?” Michael asked all-too-quickly.

Uriel whipped around at them, titled their head, and then leaned closer.

"And... you knew of this? That we had the Son?"

"More or less,” said Michael. “Not my place to say, is it?”

Before they could begin to really argue, Saraqael sneakily waved a hand. 

Uriel and their chair blasted off to the other end of the table. They knocked into Aziraphale, who stammered ungracefully.

Michael hung on to the edge of the table for dear life.

"We had everything under control, and if we had needed your assistance, then we would have sought it out. Do not fret. The raising of Jesus is none of your concern,” said The Metatron.

Aziraphale sniffled.

The Metatron continued, "The Son will soon be on Earth. You will continue preparing for battle. Hell's forces are itching to destroy every value we've spent millennia protecting. Heaven must meet them halfway. If we want to finally triumph, it would do you wise to worry about what is happening Up here than down there."

Aziraphale thought about the power struggle happening Down Below, but kept his mouth shut.

"With all due respect,” said Saraqael, in the tone of someone who was at least trying not to sound unkind, “all Heaven has been doing is preparing for war. We have done all we can in our formations and drills. I see more paperwork of weapon assignments than I do ceiling lights these days. What’s the point of rechecking a file that has already been checked, rechecked, and further checked? There’s already a division for those duties.”

‘Humans have done it for hundreds of years: the reevaluation of works dozens upon dozens of times,’ thought Aziraphale, ‘What was it? The scientific method?’ 

Certainly worked for many things. It just so happened that Aziraphale was one of the places that it didn’t apply. 

"This is the part you play. It is decided by God,” said The Metatron, and that part of the conversation was over.

At Sandalphon’s delighted expression, Aziraphale sent one nervous finger down the side of his pen’s feather.

"Ineffable,” sighed Aziraphale, smilingly.

The Metatron smiled back at him.

"Ineffable," he agreed.

Whatever tension that was starting to build subsided. It seemed like Aziraphale had chosen his words correctly this time.

Close to his left, Uriel leaned over to look at Aziraphale's notes. They had been curious, lately, about Aziraphale’s note taking— he hadn’t been thrilled at first, but then he learned that there was little he could hide from Uriel. Aziraphale tapped his paper, shared a look with Uriel, and then said, "I have a few questions."

"Every meeting," groaned Michael.

Aziraphale took a deep breath and levelled his gaze with The Metatron. They stared and stared, until finally, the Voice of God hummed, and Aziraphale had won the face-off today.

"Well, Aziraphale?”

"Where is Jesus, when will he be sent to Earth, and how will he be sent to Earth? I believe those are justifiable questions, yes?"

Slowly, The Metatron nodded. It was probably a nod, anyways. As just a head, it looked more like a bob.

"I understand your curiosity. However, we are too close to the Second Coming for us to want to… risk our plans. Where Jesus is being held is not information relevant to your role. I already have angels assigned to transport the Son when we are ready to do so. However..."

A miracle split through the air, like a light zap— less like a sound. In the middle of the table, a folder appeared. Aziraphale beckoned it over with a hand. As the folder slid within reaching distance, Uriel straightened quickly and reached over for it the same way Aziraphale was.

Aziraphale flicked his other hand. Uriel and their chair rocketed back towards Michael. 

“Guh…” Uriel or Michael said after the collision settled.

"You want to send him to... Iceland?” Aziraphale asked gently. He raised his brows, not looking up from its contents.

“No mosquitos– hm, just don’t tell the All Creatures Big and Small Department. They could put up a fuss, and that’s the last thing Heaven needs. The mosquitos’ original designer is a demon now, however. For good reason. Pesky pests,” said The Metatron. 

Sluggish nods and murmurs made its way around the table.

Aziraphale blinked. He opened his mouth, closed it, and then blinked again.

"Well? What does it say?" said Michael.

"This file will go to our twelfth degree courier. They will know what to do, so there’s no use in explaining the process. Would only be tedious work for an Archangel. Simply deliver the folder, yes?" After a moment, when Aziraphale did not reply, The Metatron added, "Supreme Archangel?"

The folder shut slowly, delicately, as if the contents were dynamite and closing it could spark a fire. Aziraphale nodded, even though the orders were suspicious. Why the twelfth degree courier? Wouldn’t it make more sense to hand it to the captain of the division? Then again, Aziraphale had hardly been a messenger in his early days, and had been more interested in his own purpose.

"Quite right," hummed Aziraphale, registering The Metatron’s words and raking through his mind to remember who the twelfth degree messenger was, “this information will be safely delivered to Orel..."

“Very good,” said The Metatron.

"...by Sandalphon."

"Sorry?" said Sandalphon.

"Don't be," replied Aziraphale.

The Metatron scoffed, bobbing its head from left to right, and Aziraphale furrowed his brows.

"Well, I hardly think this is appropriate. I gave you an assignment, Aziraphale, and I expect you to be the one to complete it."

"A folder with 'Second Coming' printed on it being delivered by the Supreme Archangel?" said Saraqael, squinting over at it. "That will turn heads. It would be safer to keep such a key component to our success on the down-low."

Ah, that was likely why the messenger chosen was so specific; hidden well in the midst of numbers to help with the secrecy of the entire plan. Aziraphale smiled at Saraqael, but they didn't return it. Sandalphon had already been eyeing Aziraphale, something dark and gloomy in its already-dark-and-gloomy eyes, and finally moved to reach for the folder.

Aziraphale tossed it, letting it land into Sandalphon's hand safely— possibly thanks to a little miracle. He likely would have fretted about being too reckless to such an important thing. It just-so-happened that Aziraphale wanted it out of his hands as quickly as possible.

"And I," said Aziraphale, "can't think of any other angel that will keep it better protected than Sandalphon."

Sandalphon's lips twisted and widened into a smile. Aziraphale returned it with a hum.

The Metatron glanced over his audience, clicked his tongue, then said, "Very well," then, to the lower Archangel: "Sandalphon. Deliver the folder immediately. You’re playing a crucial role in the Plan, and any failure will be dealt with equal reprimand. Any other... questions?"

No one took the bait. Aziraphale likely would’ve, seven months ago, when he felt defeated and inspired all at once– like red wine against his tongue every morning and every night. He couldn’t risk it anymore, now that he had his feet on the ground.

The Metatron smiled at his angels.

“Amen,” he said.

Sandalphon sent himself off to his duty.

No one would ever utter anything after the meeting was declared over. Aziraphale, in his more-than-six-thousand years of existence, had had many more meetings in Heaven than he could bother to tell. Exchanging pleasantries was decidedly a human thing. It was never written in their rules, but instead smudged into the small dents a finger would leave in paper. And Aziraphale was very good at reading the fine print.

Sandalphon was different. He didn't know what pleasantries were in the first place. And much like how pleasantries were a man-made concept, magic was, too. 

In fact, the angels often shook their heads at the word. ‘Magic’? How silly the humans were to make up a term to excuse the existence of great wonders that they couldn’t explain. Maybe that was the interesting thing; how when approached with something unknown, they make it known with a name. Those who do not search for answers will not receive them, and those who do tend to hit solid ground. The thing about magic is that it can happen even when one is looking. To expect to be deceived only ensures that you will find deception.

Angels were awful at magic. Especially Aziraphale. Thankfully, what he lacked in magic, he made up for in miracles.

Sandalphon stopped right in another angel's way. He looked the angel over once, then twice, then said almost accusingly, "Morel."

"Orel, actually," Orel corrected, unfazed.

The Archangel leaned in, and Orel leaned back. He handed them the folder with a smile.

"Directions from The Metatron."

A flash of understanding crossed Orel's face, breaking through their initial blankness. They looked down at the folder, flipped it open, and closed it just as quickly.

"I will get onto it right away–," Orel started to say, but Sandalphon had already vanished.

Magic was messy. It spilled and splattered on white floors and was almost impossible to scrub clean. It was alarmingly human, because it had obvious flaws, and because it was unpredictable. That was terrifying.

Miracles were more clear-cut. Miracles were direct. You would have to know what you want for a miracle to be a miracle.

When Orel walked into the elevator, there was a milky-white button just above the 'H', a button that only appeared when Orel wanted it to. They clicked the button. The doors shut.

The elevator remained motionless. Orel waited patiently, keeping their arms to their side, until the doors opened once more. One step told Orel that they were in a different place than they had entered from. 

This was their duty, and once this was done, Orel wouldn’t serve any other purpose to the plan. They were just a screw in a machine for the greater good.

"State your business," said an angel, to the left of a door. Something glinted at their waist.

Orel didn't seem disturbed. Instead, they turned to the second angel at the right of the door. They presented the folder toward them with an outstretched arm, and the second angel took it. 

The first angel peered over the second's shoulder.

"It's time to send him down. The Metatron's orders," Orel announced as the two stationed angels shared a look.

In this small, white room, it was easy for it to feel strangely like this was a dead end of Heaven. Heaven didn't have dead ends. If it did, it would start feeling as if it were a cage, and Heaven was a little more complicated than that. Heaven was always endless, even when you hit a wall.

The first angel moved from their position, revealing a light switch behind them. They reviewed the folder once more— because mistakes could cost the winning side, and nobody wants to be the loser.

One perfectly-placed miracle can change the trajectory of an entire story. Isn't that magical?

They flicked the light switch on.

On Earth, there was a single angel stationed.

But it wasn't very lonely, so they didn’t feel too bad about it. It was a very important job that had many more pros than cons. Like, for one, they got to read books— fun ones and sadder ones and ones with lots of words. The ones that weren’t too wordy had pictures with more colours than one could ever imagine in Heaven. Their new favourite colour was green— or maybe purple— but blue was pretty as well.

They could feel the rain, the heat of the sun, and the dirt that got stuck under their fingernails. And then, when it got really cold, snow flittered down to the earth as if it were on angel wings, landing and melting into the waiting cups of steaming hot chocolate below. 

And the smells. Well, actually, the smells left a lot to be desired. Some of them were pleasant, like old books, and others were bitter and cutting like spoiled milk. Smells were the most confusing of all of Earth's specialties.

But best of all, there were the people.

In this particular building, coffee brewed, and cinnamon wafted from the kitchen hidden behind the counter.

People liked coming to places with coffee. Coffee was a necessity for human life, and took a lot of shapes and forms. It was almost as important as sleep, which humans also needed to sustain life. But then, coffee wasn't a replacement for water (even though they're both drinkable liquids. How odd), which humans also needed to sustain life.

Even though the concept was confusing, Muriel grew to love coffee shops. Really, just Nina's coffee shop, where they've played board games like Monopoly (Muriel liked the top hat the most), and had gathered around one of the tables to partake in a seasonal gift-giving event that was meant to honour the birth of Jesus Christ.

Lovingly, Muriel had gifted Nina a pack of instant coffee from the market so that she wouldn't have to work as hard to keep up with the morning rush. Nina, just as lovingly, explained that instant coffee wasn't actually 'instant'.

In the cosiness of Give Me Coffee or Give Me Death, Maggie folded onto one page of a magazine and flipped it over for Muriel to see.

"Here," Maggie tapped one of the images, "do you remember this one?"

Muriel leaned closer. Quickly, their face brightened, "Oh, yes! London's spinning wheel. We saw it the other weekend."

Maggie snorted, but shook her head in good humour, "Well, yes, it's pretty much a spinning wheel. But it's actually the–."

Some magazines that were fanned out on the table crinkled and shuddered as Muriel patted their palms against them in excitement.

"Oh! Oh, don't tell me!”

Muriel hadn’t ever been assigned anything about human culture before. They had annotated documents that had already been annotated, were given half-finished reports on miracle usage, and never had their meeting notes used by their higher-ups. The closest thing they could think of that was ‘human’ would be the communication documents that would rarely be sent Muriel’s way— along with Aziraphale’s trust in them with the bet between God and Satan. 

Despite their colleagues taking up most of the work, they not only had a fierce passion for literature, but for learning as well.

Through Muriel’s focus, Nina placed an iced coffee next to them.

“Eye-ced coffee for you,” said Nina. Muriel's eyes glittered before Nina had even finished her sentence.

"The London Eye! See? Didn’t I say I knew?” they said. 

Maggie gave Nina a look– something bordering between fondness and chide– who shrugged.

“Just doing my job,” said Nina.

"Thank you very much for the drink.” Muriel sent her a grin, something they did often in their presence. They picked up the drink and rocked it. The unmixed cream swirled and danced as it crept down the ice, much like the clouds that they had grown accustomed to watching.

Nina didn't linger long. With a fleeting smile, she returned to the front counter to tend to a squad of teenagers who had just entered.

Muriel swallowed and turned back to the magazines. But something had shifted now; and Maggie had become used to recognizing when Muriel was really thinking about something. 

At Maggie's questioning look, Muriel shrugged and waved around one of the magazines dismissively, "Nina does her job very well,” they said.

"And?" prodded Maggie. She turned to grab her latte and took a long sip.

Muriel's lips pursed, frowning at the magazine in their hand, not really reading the words. It wasn't as if it really mattered if they did, anyways. They would eventually. Anything with words that landed in Muriel's hands always ended up finished. Maggie's previous set of magazines had already fallen victim to Muriel's eyes, until, eventually, Muriel had memorised it all— and Maggie had had to dig up new ones.

“I think it’s that I wish that I had a job? To do well in, I mean,” Muriel took their fingertips and glided them along their lips just to have something to do. “It makes me feel… strange… thinking about it.”

Maggie glanced up from a magazine.

"Is watching over the bookshop not your job?" she asked. 

"Oh, yes!" flustered Muriel. "Yes. Of course. I've been doing an excellent job watching over the bookshop. No one's really checked up on me so I don't really know–," Maggie's expression twisted into a wince, "–but I'm sure that just means that my performance has been satisfactory. No one at work writes for unimportant purposes like check ups. Everything has a purpose.”

Maggie nodded slowly. It was an odd nod though, like she was trying to understand, but couldn’t. Luckily for Maggie, Muriel didn’t know all of the humans’ expressions yet.

Muriel turned back to their coffee to watch the swirling cream. 

"But oh... well, I just wish I had a little direction. Someone to tell me what to do so I could do it." 

"You've been amazing at learning about all these landmarks. You know Buckingham Palace, Big Ben, The London Eye..."

Muriel leaned over and pointed at one of the pictures on a magazine neither of them had touched yet, "That's The Shard."

"Right,” said Maggie, causing a grin to split blindingly across Muriel's face. "Not only that, but it took you like– a week to learn about ancient Rome and Greece. That's impressive. And theatre production– you learned that one in a few days, even if you didn’t like it that much. And the discovery of a fashion sense: a place where I’m pretty sure no angel has ever ventured before.”

"You really think so?"

"Of course I do, Muriel. You're my friend. I'm always looking at the best of you."

Muriel was relieved to drop the subject. They leaned back in their chair and reached out for a strawberry jam biscuit from their plate (that they had forgotten about in their studying) to carefully inspect.

Yes, the people were the best of all.

People were all sorts of funny and weird. Sometimes, they would yell, or cry, or swing their hands at one another. Other times, they whispered, or laughed, or held hands. There were no patterns or set lines. Not usually. If there were, people tended to walk over them anyway— so did they really do anything? The patterns and the lines?

People were hard to read.

"You know, I don't think we had you study that one," Maggie said suddenly.

"A fashion sense?" Muriel asked, worried. They tugged at their jumper to get a good look at it, trying to find something wrong, but Maggie waved her hands frantically.

"No, no. I meant The Shard."

"Oh!" Muriel watched Maggie drink as they talked. Her latte was a lovely shade of tan, reminding Muriel of the uniforms up in Heaven. "I used to be able to see it Up in Heave— I mean... Where I moved from. The other human settlement. Greece, probably."

"Right," Maggie agreed, but shook her head anyway. "The Shard. From Greece."

Muriel nodded.

"Maybe we can start some human geography next month," suggested Maggie with a tentative smile.

It had been difficult for Muriel to ask for help in studying everything the humans have done and what they were currently doing. The last thing they had wanted seven months ago was for their cover to be blown, but just three months ago, Maggie herself had brought up the idea– and who was Muriel to say no to such an offer? Especially since Maggie had insisted in exchange for her rent (Muriel had denied her money offers. From what they read, Aziraphale didn’t take the money, so why should they? It’s not like they needed it…).

The sound of trumpets echoed through Muriel's head. With a startled gasp, they jumped out of their seat, their iced coffee almost tumbling down. They flung out to catch it, but their hands were far too jittery. Maggie came to their rescue.

"What happened—?" Maggie began after the cup was steady.

"Well— oh— um!" Muriel's mouth hurried to form a cognitive thought, but they accidentally backed into a man waiting in line, and all roads were lost. "A little something came up! My telephone is ringing, as it does. I will talk to you later, Maggie and Nina! T-T-Y-L!"

And then Muriel was out of the coffee shop.

Nina opened her mouth to say something to Maggie. One glance at her flushed face made her reconsider, and instead, she leaned over the counter, amused.

"...we haven't gotten very far on abbreviations,” said Maggie.

Muriel skipped off the curb and almost got hit by a car.

"Watch it!" yelled a man with his car horn blaring. Other cars followed his noisy lead as Muriel scrambled across the road, calling out 'sorry's the whole way.

They turned over to The Dirty Donkey (Nina had taken Muriel to see what it was like. Muriel stepped in for only a moment before walking right out). Its windows flashed a familiar white, the doors flying open only a second later. Muriel forced themself to look away and focus on just getting to the bookshop's doors.

Muriel had only owned one key in their entire life– but searching for it now taught Muriel a lesson about excessive amounts of pockets on pants.

"Muriel," greeted Uriel, their shadow casting over the panicking angel, "having trouble?"

"Not at all," Muriel replied kindly. They finally aimed the key into the keyhole correctly. With a click, the door opened, and they gestured for the Archangel to come in. "I am so delighted to see you, Archangel Uriel."

Uriel passed by them. They looked around the bookshop– maybe looking for something, maybe judging it– while Muriel stepped in after them. The door closed with a chime.

Uriel blinked slowly like a tiger.

"Quaint. I have an assignment for you."

That was something that Muriel had been waiting to hear since they were bound to the bookshop.

"Oh, anything. What is it?" Muriel clasped their hands together. "Oh! And would you like a cup of tea?"

Uriel fixed a narrowed look onto the lower angel. With a sniff, Muriel pressed their arms to their sides and straightened. The Archangel let the silence stretch until it was the perfect temperature of uncomfortableness.

"A few hours ago, the Son of God dropped from our radars. We believe he was sent to Earth. As the angel stationed here, we believe you to be the best candidate to retrieve him and give him back to us," said Uriel.

Muriel nodded frantically, wide-eyed.

"Yes. I can absolutely do that. I won't let you down, Archangel Uriel."

Uriel was tight-lipped. They tilted their head, narrowed their eyes further, and then hummed. They only made it halfway to the door when Muriel made a strangled noise.

"Except…,” they said, “I might have a few questions.”

Uriel stared at them.

"What.”

"Well, for one, the Son of God– who I’m assuming is Jesus– is dead," Muriel explained carefully, looking away from Uriel's blank face. "Has been for two millennia, now, actually. And also–! Where would I start to look for said-dead Jesus. Who has been dead for… you know, like I said… two millennia now."

Uriel looked up at the Heavens. For a moment, something sharp glinted in their eyes, but they dropped back down to meet Muriel's.

"You've heard of the Second Coming, yes? As a scrivener?"

"Well, omens and prophecies aren't really my responsibility. It's more of a 10th-degree-order-scrivener-and-up sort of thing."

Uriel chuckled at that. Their smile was crooked, but it was more amused than anything. Strange and brittle, but amused. Muriel flitted their eyes across the bookshop and pressed their lips together into a line. 

Uriel's expression slid off their face.

"You're serious?" Uriel asked. Muriel nodded curtly, and the Archangel's nose pinched. "That's ridiculous."

Muriel made a face.

"It’s always been this way,” they said.

Uriel took a moment to gather themself. When they finally did, they turned to the doors again.

"Jesus is back. Alive. Find him and bring him to us. Understand?"

"Yes!" Muriel smiled. "Yes. Of course. Uh, but... could you tell me what he looks like?"

"It's the Son of God. You'll know."

Muriel cleared their throat, trying very hard to keep their smile steady. "Course," they said softly as Uriel reached for the handle of the door.

The Archangel paused, glanced over their shoulder, then looked distantly through the window.

"Don't forget what your duties here are for. You’re an angel. Act like it."

That could mean a lot of things for Muriel; acting like an angel. Did Uriel mean to keep themself busy? Or was it more like… ‘Muriel, hunt down and extinguish evil!’ or maybe, ‘you’re doing an awful job passing as a human’. 

But Uriel was gone before they could ask, leaving the scrivener all on their own in the almond-smelling bookshop.

Leaving the scrivener all on their own... with an assignment!

"Yes!" Muriel whooped.

The last thing that Maggie had expected was Muriel's sudden exit, looking to be more frazzled than Maggie had ever seen them. The second-to-the-last thing that Maggie had expected was Muriel to practically fly down the bookshop's stairs as Maggie passed by.

"Where are you going?" Maggie asked, paused a few feet away on the pavement.

"I'm—."

Muriel tripped.

Maggie jumped the distance between them, the magazines she had been carrying flapping ungracefully to the ground. The sacrifice was in vain, though. Muriel righted themself up without Maggie's help, looking as if nothing had happened. 

"Ah, bugger," Maggie sighed, watching her magazines flutter from the passing cars.

"I'm sorry!" Muriel said. They took a moment to gather themself before diving in to help their friend. "I'm sorry," Muriel said again, once they had gathered all the magazines, their smile never faltering.

"It's all right," said Maggie. She held a hand out and pulled the both of them to their feet. "Are you okay?"

"Ah! What's the word? More than okay!"

"Great?"

"No– tremendous," Muriel's face brightened even more. "Oh, Maggie, it's a miracle– well, it wasn’t. I don't think it was a miracle— but it's very very good news." Maggie nodded along. Muriel took that as a good sign to continue. "I was given an assignment! Me! Archangel Uriel needs me to find the Son of The Almighty, here on Earth!"

Maggie made an 'o' shape with her lips, head tilted up as if to fall into a nod– but she was still missing something. She frowned and glanced off to the side.

"Oh, that's..! Well, I have no idea. Does that happen often?"

"No! Isn't that great?" Muriel answered.

Maggie scrunched her eyebrows together. In her moment of thought, Muriel caught something absolutely crucial. 

They squawked and said, “Well, actually– because you see, Uriel is one of my bosses, and Archangel is their first name. Andddd ‘Son of The Almighty’ is just a code word for… um…”

“A super secret project?” suggested Maggie, not believing them.

“Exactly.”

"Yeah, that's pretty great, Muriel,” said Maggie after a moment. “Where will you go?"

Maggie had begun to move. Both of their arms full of magazines, they walked together down the street to The Small Back Room.

"I don't know," admitted Muriel. "But I'm sure Mr. Crowley will have some ideas."

Maggie paused, almost making Muriel run into her. "Mr. Crowley?" she repeated after giving them an odd look, leading them the final few strides to her shop.

Muriel nodded, their enthusiasm never faltering. They watched expectantly as Maggie opened the door. Maggie went in first, but held the door open with her foot to let her friend in. The door closed behind them.

"I'm not too sure you'll find him. I mean, I haven't seen him since Mr. Fell left. It's like he's vanished off the face of the Earth," Maggie said as they made their way to the shop's front counter.

Maggie placed down the magazines. Then, she turned around to Muriel, who had a pinched look on their face. 

Muriel shook their head.

"No," they said, "no, that's not right. Mr. Crowley lives in a flat in Mayfair. I've read it in Mr. Fell's diaries. I have the address."

The magazines that Muriel had started to hand over to Maggie fell to the ground, slipped in Maggie’s moment of surprise.

"Ah—!" Maggie ducked down to pluck them all up. "You— what!? Wait— you've known where Mr. Crowley was all this time and you never told Nina and I? And you read Mr. Fell's diaries?"

"Oh, yes. He has plenty of them. I've read all the books in the bookshop. Except the ones near the back."

Maggie frowned at that, but didn't question it further. She placed her elbows onto the counter and stared at Muriel. When Muriel didn't elaborate on anything, she sighed.

"Okay. So, here's what I'm hearing," Maggie took in a deep breath, then splayed her hand out. "You're going to march over to Mr. Crowley's flat, ask him to help you find, uh, Jesus Christ, and he's just going to say yes?"

"Yes."

"I... don't think he'll want to help you, Muriel.”

Muriel frowned.

"Why not?"

Maggie opened her mouth, but nothing came out. She shook her head once, twice, and then tried again.

"Mr. Crowley hid himself away for a reason. It doesn't feel right of us to barge in and tell him what to do,” she said.

Muriel considered that. They looked down at their nails, which were worn-down and bitten, and said, "Because Mr. Fell is gone?"

Maggie swallowed. She turned to the magazines. "Yeah. Yeah, I guess so."

Muriel straightened, reaching out toward Maggie, but caught themself. Their eyes fell down to look at a splinter in the counter’s wood. They began to pick on it.

"I know that you and Nina feel bad about how your advice to Mr. Crowley didn’t work out, but I have to try. This is an assignment," Muriel said. "My assignment. And Mr. Crowley has been down here for six-thousand years–"

"–he's been what!? Actually, why am I surprised?–"

"–if anyone can track the Son down, it's him! I need him to help me, Maggie. For Heaven’s sake."

Maggie pursed her lips. Muriel stared at her, begging, trying to pour all sorts of feelings and emotions into their eyes— something they had seen plenty of humans do in the past. It must have done the trick, because Maggie’s shoulders sagged with a sigh.

"I don't think I'll ever understand your lot," she said, finally.

"I’m just like you and Nina," replied Muriel.

Their friend snorted.

"You sure are."

The address that Muriel had dug up had led them through a series of twists and turns around Mayfair. Even with Maggie’s help in deciphering which streets to take, one step forward made Muriel step three back, only to then turn to the left— no, the right— maybe take a loop? 

Humans’ streets were confusing. Muriel didn’t often like to explore the city alone.

When Muriel did find the right building (it was rather big and obviously demon-esque with its many windows and drab colour scheme. How had they missed it before?), they were forced to go to the front desk. Aziraphale hadn’t written which flat Crowley had taken residence in, and even the receptionist had been surprised to hear Crowley’s name (“Fourth floor, ma’am, and take a slight left– but I hardly think he’s home, these days.”).

Then came the problem of getting in.

Muriel didn't often talk to people other than Maggie or Nina. Maybe, if they had, they would have a better idea of how to knock on someone's door.

What they should have said was: 'Hello? Mr. Crowley, it's me, Muriel. I need your help. Can you please open the door?' Who is it? Muriel. The why? They need his help.

Another option would’ve been: 'It's Muriel! Open the door and help me, or else I could be demoted to numbers that are yet to exist.' Again, it's Muriel. The why? Failure would mean serious trouble– a nice mix of kindness and urgency.

Muriel said neither of those things.

"POLICE!! OPEN UP!!"

Ah.

Muriel only found the courage to gently knock on Crowley's door, despite their yelling. 

The lights on this floor were dimmer compared to those on the lower floors. They hummed as if their bulbs were ready to burst. Maybe, if Muriel listened hard enough, they would sound like the ceiling lights in Heaven. Instead, Muriel could hear two people arguing, too muffled to make out any words.

Muriel swallowed and knocked again.

"A-hem! Mr. Crowley! You're under arrest!'

A harder knock cracked the door open. Muriel gasped, hesitated, and then quickly lost to their curiosity. They pressed their palm to the door and coaxed it further.

"I'm... coming in…!”

The door fully opened. With it, a gentle mist casted over Muriel. It cooled the nerves beginning to buzz beneath their skin, but it was too chilly for the middle of February. Muriel shivered and rubbed their arms as they stepped into the shaded room. The door shut, unprompted, behind them.

“Okay,” whispered Muriel, “that’s probably a normal human thing…”

It was dark. Muriel had only seen darkness at night. Even then, in the bookshop, the moon would peak between buildings, and the streetlights continued to glow until the humans returned home.

This type of darkness was self-made. 

The curtains were closed tightly. Few slivers of light squeezed through them, fighting against the black silk to reach into the flat. It outlined vibrant, green plants that climbed up and up to the ceiling, tracing the walls, coiling around frames; twisting; turning; wild like a pit of watching snakes.

The finest house plants one could find in London had made itself into its own jungle.

Muriel took a deep breath. They brushed away a curly stem and ducked beneath another to go deeper.

"Mr. Crowley…?" Muriel called softly into the almost-darkness.

The plants were muttering something to them; something that couldn't quite be put into words. Something like the way thunder roars before lightning, or the squeal of a burner before the fire spins out of control.

Leaves slowly shifted out of place. They curled away or tipped up a little higher, and Muriel walked through a newly-formed path past a dewy desk and into a hall with a ceiling so high that it made them feel dizzy and small.

In hindsight, the tall ceilings were very Heaven-like. There was no reason to be afraid.

Muriel noticed a flash of light colours in the dark and curiously leaned around a squeaking plant. Past the mist, the wings of a statued demon were flaring fiercely, arching at the furthest joint to block the skies from its downed opponent. They took a small step closer (despite the plants’ flustering) and read on the plaque that the flailing creature underneath the demon’s claws was an angel. 

They swallowed.

Just behind them, another plant whined softly, and Muriel turned to see it beckoning them back down the hall. In their curiosity, they had strayed from the path unfolding around them. 

The plants had led Muriel to a door. The paint was chipped near the knob. Muriel could spot the little claw marks dipping into the flesh of the wood, jagged and frantic, as if a fight had happened here– but the scars were old and blunt on its edges.

A leaf fluttered in their peripheral vision, making Muriel jolt. They gave it a single look of betrayal and turned the loose doorknob.

The plants hushed. For the first time since Muriel was left on Earth, they became uncomfortably aware how misplaced they were.

Something was sleeping here. 

Crowley laid silent on the bed, arm slung over his eyes. Condensation from the mysterious mist dampened down his hair. The air was heaviest here; wet; stuffy. Muriel didn’t need to breathe, but the temptation was almost irresistible. 

Muriel focused back on Crowley. They could have easily mistaken him for another statue. One thing that Muriel continued to doubt themself over was the stillness of a human in sleep. They were kind of like snakes, weren’t they? Capable of striking? Looking too much alike to their dead counterparts? The uncertainness of closed eyes made Muriel dramatic, and odd. They cleared their throat and tried to remember what Maggie had taught them about pulses.

They eyed Crowley’s chest, found the rise and fall of it, then quickly moved back up to his face. 

The idea that something was wrong was just a silly thought. Crowley was breathing just fine, and Muriel was… well, not really breathing, but doing fine too. They were fine.

Muriel watched Crowley go through the humans’ breathing motions and tried to mimic the movement.

The angel inched a little closer, cautiously, but Crowley didn't stir from his slumber. The plants shook. And because Muriel was not fluent in plant language, they took it as encouragement.

Muriel reached out–

–and they were on their back.

Something dug into their arms. Claws pinned them to the cold, unwelcoming Earth. Above them, the plants cried out and rattled down to the stem. They were only shadows in the dark.

The world went fuzzy– like a million pins itching at their eyes– and the houseplants were squealing– something like an animal. Muriel had helped take in a trio of kittens on the side of the road, once, in the middle of the night. The veterinary clinics had been closed. The kittens, hungry and cold, had sounded like this then, too.

‘Focus, Muriel!’

Their head buzzed. The hissing bubbling from the thing’s throat spilled through teeth. It could drip and drip into Muriel’s eyes and claw there, until it got to their brain and claw that, too. 

Suddenly, they lost all their courage.

"I'm sorry! I'm sorry!” they yelled over the noise in their ears, “Don't take me to Hell!"

And then, as quickly as it started, the descent to darkness stopped.

"Muriel?"

"Yes!"

Muriel had screwed their eyes shut somewhere during the whole ordeal. With great effort (and with a very shaken conscience) they peeked just as the shadow retreated.

Crowley sat back on his heels. He was frowning, but not at Muriel. The plants that were leaning in to watch withered back. They were almost ashamed— more so frightened, really— to have been caught in their spying.

Head tilted up at the leaves, Crowley's eyes drifted off to Muriel's.

Muriel winced.

Crowley inhaled sharply. He turned toward the bed, picked up his sunglasses, and smashed them onto his face.

"What are you doing here?" Crowley asked.

"Wh... well, I–."

Muriel needed a little more time to think. Words they thought of could only jumble together uselessly. When Crowley stood, they proceeded to sink further against the floor. He raised a brow at them.

Muriel cleared their throat. 

"I need your help," Muriel tried to say bravely. 

Crowley waved away the plants that were still crowding their space. He pulled his hand up and snapped, the condensation that had been caught on his corporation vanishing along with the motion. He was now completely dry. It seemed like the cool mist that was there when Muriel had first entered was long gone.

"If this has anything to do with Heaven, then you should leave,” he said.

When getting in an argument, one expects to be yelled at. When following a beat, people will make it into a rhythm that is predictable, and, therefore, comfortable.

Muriel had gotten into arguments in Heaven before– if one angel yelling and the other angel standing there counts as an argument, that is– but whatever the case, yelling meant an argument, and an argument meant anger. People who argued were angry. People who were angry yelled.

Whatever anger Crowley had was so much worse.

Crowley spoke in a low, steady tone. It was tauntingly delicate– maybe as if it’ll break him, but far more likely that it was at bay for Muriel’s sake.

"I really need your help Mr. Crowley," Muriel said, finally, after they figured out how to sit up. "You know Earth better than anyone. Archangel–" the plants squealed and quivered. Muriel glanced up to see Crowley's darkening expression, "–Uriel–" Crowley turned to look off at a wall, "–asked me to–."

"Get up."

No point in arguing. Muriel quickly scrambled to their feet, chewing their nails. Crowley fully faced them. With a jolt, Muriel pressed their arms stiff to their sides.

Crowley made a face.

"Er, don't do that."

"Do what?" Muriel asked.

He made little circles in the air with his fingers. "That little soldier thing. You look like a board," he said.

Muriel didn't know what to do with their hands. They crossed them behind their back, then tried clasping them together at the front. Finally, Muriel decided to mirror Crowley by shoving their hands into their pockets.

Crowley sneered openly this time. It was gone before Muriel had the chance to think about it.

"I," started Crowley, in that same angry-voice Muriel had noticed before, "do not want anything," Crowley neared Muriel, "to do with there," he pointed Up, "or there," he pointed Down.

Muriel blinked, stunned. Crowley leaned in closer at their silence.

"Do I make myself clear?" he pressed.

The angel slowly nodded. But even as Crowley turned away from them and began herding up the plants, Muriel couldn't shake something.

"Your home is very scary," they said.

"What?"

"It's empty. It feels empty. There's something missing. I mean… there’s a lot going on. Too much going on… but it’s this gritty feeling, like it’s cutting out my chest.”

Crowley was quiet. He glowered at Muriel, but they were too busy taking in their surroundings. The plants seemed to shy away from their gaze. Painfully, one of Muriel's hands rubbed at their chest.

"I don't think I’ve ever felt love like this before."

Something in the room made a shuddered noise. Muriel, alarmed, looked at the plants, but they were deathly still.

"Get out," choked Crowley.

Muriel startled as Crowley darted towards them. They scrambled backward, where plants that would have been in their way moved to clear the path. They stumbled out into the tall hall together, to the wild living room, and up until Muriel could see the front door over their shoulder.

"Agh!" cried Muriel, frustrated and desperate. "Mr. Crowley, please listen–!"

"You come to my flat demanding me to help you in whatever sadistic business Heaven is up to? No!" Crowley spat. "Do you know what I am? How did you even find me? There's a reason why I didn't want to see you around."

If Muriel continued to back up, they'd hit the door– thankfully that wouldn’t be a problem. Miraculously, the door opened up for them. 

They stepped out into the hall.

"Mr. Fell had–!"

Crowley hissed. With one jerk of his hand, the door slammed in Muriel's face.

"I honestly don't know what you expected," Nina said. She took a bite of her chowmein and chewed as Maggie whacked her shoulder.

"Nina!" chided Maggie.

"I'm just telling the truth!"

Nina turned to Muriel, who had their head in their hands. If there was one thing she knew about Muriel, it’s that failure was always a tough thing to face. She clicked her tongue and reached out to touch them tentatively on their shoulder.

"Don't beat yourself up about it, though," sighed Nina. She managed a smile, but didn’t receive one back. "You can only say so much to someone else before it becomes one-sided, yeah?"

Muriel winced. They leaned back in their chair, scanning the empty coffee shop.

Nina was taking her lunch break. She didn't use to have a lunch break, but Maggie had nagged her senseless about skipping meals, and they had reached a delightful middle ground. As in: Maggie had barged in at midday, hands full of whatever takeout she had come across that day, and gifted it to Nina. For the first few days, Nina made it a point to give back the cold, untouched meals. Maggie's determination had been endearing, though, and Nina found that it didn't hurt to entertain her (“Food is too expensive to waste. I guess I’ll just have to eat it,” she had said, making the other two snicker).

And it had made Nina feel much better, too.

"I... don't understand," Muriel said. "The way he’s acting– Mr. Crowley– It's confusing me."

"There's still a lot of things you don't understand about Earth," comforted Maggie.

Muriel pursed their lips and said, “I know you meant good by that, but it makes me feel… not good.” They began to pick at their nails, not really knowing how to describe beyond that, feeling pathetically un-human. “I feel sad for him. He’s struggling, I can feel it. Or, well, I can’t feel it– it’s a little complicated. Like I want to help him not struggle… Does that make sense?”

Maggie nodded slowly. "You want to make him feel better."

Muriel sighed, their shoulders dropping in relief.

"Yes," they said, "and, well, whenever one of us is not feeling well, we always go out on a girl’s day out."

Nina sputtered on her next bite of noodles. Maggie, ever helpful, patted her back sympathetically as she coughed. Nina put her hand up.

"I'm okay. Thanks, Angel," Nina wheezed. She smacked her fist onto the table to ground herself and then looked at Muriel. "You're telling me that you want to take Mr. Crowley on a girl’s day out?" 

Muriel smiled. All the doubtfulness that had been gnawing at them blinked away.

"Yes! It always helps me when I'm sad. Mr. Crowley doesn't have anyone else but us to take him on one," they said. “Girls’ date! Day out on the town! Let’s do it!”

Maggie and Nina exchanged a glance– one of those glances where they could say something that would completely ruin someone else's day. These glances usually don’t happen in Heaven. In fact, Up There, the glances were vocal and held no secrecy at all. Because of this, it wasn’t easy for Muriel to read the room.

"Oh, please, Nina and Maggie!" pressed Muriel when they didn't respond. "I'll do anything! I'll even try those disgusting shop snacks again!"

Nina snorted, shaking her head. She tried not to smile.

"Those were decorative fruit. They're made of styrofoam," Nina explained.

"Well, is normal fruit made of styrofoam?" asked Muriel.

"Normal fruit is made of fruit, I think," said Maggie.

Muriel supposed that made sense. If all fruit was made out of styrofoam, then Adam and Eve would have never wanted to eat it. Fruit must be enough to be willing to risk it all. Then again, if the fruit had been styrofoam, they wouldn’t have known until they took a bite… How many bites had they taken again?

‘Enough to be exiled by God,’ Muriel’s mind provided, helpfully.

“We can schedule something for tomorrow?” said Nina. She knocked away some celery bits to the side of her bowl. “I’m not sure if we can fit that much into a couple of hours.”

“I know,” said Muriel, now familiar with the quick passing of time (especially when they got into a good story), “but this is crucial. What if Mr. Crowley takes off to the Americas overnight and we never see him again? Then he’d never feel better.”

Crowley was still an enigma for Nina and Maggie. Even though they could spot a lovesick gaze from a mile away, their familiarity with him stopped at his shadowy companionship with Mr. Fell. Maybe he was just shy, or wasn’t very partial to people. Nina likely wouldn’t be if she were a demon. So it was entirely possible that a supernatural being would simply disappear if they couldn’t be worth the trouble. 

Besides, if Crowley was able to befriend Mr. Fell despite them being demon and angel, then Crowley couldn’t possibly be one of those stereotypical demons with the barbed tails and pitchforks.

Muriel leaned in and smiled.

Nina blinked away her train of thought and scoffed to herself. 

“You know what? Fine. I’ll close the shop early– but just this one time,” she said.

“Then I’ll do the same,” said Maggie, too smiley for her to even pretend to be disappointed by closing shop early. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

The hierarchy in Heaven wasn't hard for an angel to wrap their head around. Understanding what they were in Heaven was supposed to be easy. Knowing what others were in Heaven was even easier. 

This meant that those who came into contact with angels ranking lower than themselves could stretch their wings with ease, and those who came into contact with angels ranking higher than themselves should tuck their wings behind their legs and pray for the best.

There weren't many angels who ranked higher than Michael. Just two: Aziraphale, for one, and he was an idiot as far as Michael could care to admit. The second was The Metatron; a much more worrying symbol of authority.

Michael paced back and forth. The glassy walls helpfully reflected their own image back to them: The little coil sticking out of their otherwise-perfectly-put-together hair; the golden dust brushed down only one cheekbone; and for some reason, the cuffs of their sleeves wouldn’t stay unflipped. 

They forced themself to stop. As calmly as they could, they put their hands together at the tip of their nose and closed their eyes.

"What happened?" asked Michael, slowly. They turned to look at an angel observing them. 

This angel stiffly jolted. They spared a nervous glance around and said, "According to the protection unit, the two angels on duty received a document ordering them to launch the project.” Michael groaned. The Archangel began to pace again, and the courier angel stammered to continue, "My division verified that the twelfth degree courier delivered the file. Was this incorrect?"

"No. What was not correct was them letting go of–!” 

Something made a scribbling noise; rough pen on paper. It made Michael’s ears ring. Their gaze peeled off of the courier and onto a second angel who was standing behind them.

"What are you doing?" snapped Michael.

The second angel startled. They sent a worried look toward the courier angel, who ignored them, before turning back to the Archangel.

"Eight degree scrivener," they said, finally. They wiggled their stark-white pen. "I write everything about the Second Coming's progress, my Archangel. It’s my assignment from The Metatron."

"Okay," said Michael. "Okay. Stop writing."

"Any… reason why, your Reverence?” said the scrivener.

The courier finally turned their head to give the scrivener a look that appeared awfully dismayed; maybe scolding, maybe a warning– and Michael's expression pinched right as they expected it to.

"Are you questioning me? I say do not record it, do not record it."

The scrivener flinched. They let the clipboard and pen flit out of existence. When the courier returned their attention back to Michael, the Archangel already had their back turned to them.

"I do not want to hear either of you talking about this conversation– or anything about the missing Son. This is Archangel business, now. Await your next orders," said Michael. "Dismissed."

The two angels briskly made their way out of this plane of Heaven.

The footsteps ceased. The ceiling lights hummed. The clouds floated, thin and wispy, below.

Michael forced themself to watch them travel sluggishly along. Clouds were a bother, these days, in Heaven. They had served a purpose once. Those days were long behind them now. There was no reason for their existence that Michael could think of (unless they thought of them as another layer between them and Earth. In that case, it was good to have a clear label somewhere).

Higher places existed beyond the clouds.

Michael took one fisted hand and pressed it into the glass. The weight of it wasn’t flimsy. It was stubborn, as if it were made to live for as long as time allowed it. When Michael tested it further, their hand shook with effort.

The glass, admiringly, remained.

"…You didn’t have to do all that, did you? Eliel and Shirel meant no harm."

Michael jerked away from the glass. They fixed a nasty glare onto Aziraphale and straightened their cuffs.

"Lurking, Aziraphale? Hardly praise-worthy," they harrumphed.

Aziraphale briefly quirked a brow at that, but Michael caught it before it disappeared. They crossed their arms.

"Well?"

"You are keeping the Son's disappearance secret from The Metatron," said Aziraphale, more observation than accusation. 

Michael turned to face the glass. Their eyes strayed off to the side, where Aziraphale’s reflection was watching them.

"Hardly," said Michael. "The Voice of God is supposed to know all, because God knows all, and God would surely share everything with Their Voice. It is our duty as The Almighty's Archangels to... smooth out these bumps as we row."

"In the road," Aziraphale corrected gently.

Aziraphale neared Michael and took a cautious place by their side. He blinked at them, peeked down at their ruffled cuffs, and then turned to the glass.

"Saraqael is keeping an eye on any miraculous activity on The Globe," said Aziraphale. "If he’s down there, we will be the first to know. Sending down any more angels could cause an imbalance Down Below, and we are certainly not ready for a war."

"We are ready for war. It’s been our assignment for seven months,” scoffed Michael.

"We don’t need a war,” said Aziraphale, absentmindedly.

"So you’ve said before.”

The clouds used to move in a way where it was near impossible to see the ground below. It was a practised march, where if one part lacked, other parts made up for it. It had been mesmerising; it had been constant; up until it became an expectation. Something had changed recently. Michael wanted to find out what as soon as possible.

Michael turned away from the clouds to look over at Aziraphale.

"It doesn’t work that way, you know, Aziraphale. Telling Hell not to attack is like telling the sun not to rise. Not only is it inevitable, but it wastes time that could have been spent doing something about it," their tone became lighter. "But that’s okay. I know you were never really into strategies in the first place, with your plans never going as you wanted them to."

Aziraphale blushed this time, only exposed by the lights above. He squinted down at the clouds.

Michael's lips twitched up.

"You think you have control here after your promotion. But truthfully, you’re here so The Metatron can keep an eye on you. Keep your friends close and enemies closer, yes?” when Aziraphale didn’t reply, they said, “You are still the incapable, poor Principality who was tempted by a demon. Your sins remain. Beg for forgiveness, Aziraphale, but I fear that everyone knows you’re out of chances."

With that, Michael vanished, leaving Aziraphale to stand alone.

The Archangel's gaze faltered. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and let the exhale rattle in a place deep in his corporation’s ribs. There was the start of something there, like a flutter– something small and sickly in the small cavity of his chest. He rubbed at it. Then, after discovering that that was only worsening its effects, he frustratedly balled up the button-up beneath his palm.

Something chimed. Aziraphale straightened up. When he turned, another angel dipped their head to him in greeting.

Aziraphale recognized this angel from over the past few months– one he hadn’t had the time to properly meet until his promotion. It had been for the best to form allies in this uncertain place. This angel had been one of the first, and had rarely left him alone since (if they could help it).

“Hello, Visiel,” he said, and Visiel smiled a silly smile. It was one of those expressions that was supposed to be comforting. Aziraphale was thankful for the attempt, but didn’t feel great beyond that.

“My Archangel,” they replied. “Saraqael requests your presence at The Globe,” then, as if they were sharing a secret: “they’ve located the Son.”

"This is a joke."

Muriel smiled sheepishly at Nina as they pushed aside a leaf that had sneakily shoved itself into their face. The plants in Crowley's flat were just as overgrown as they were nearly an hour ago, and the room was still shrouded in darkness. This time, though, the mist was absent.

"Ah, yes," replied Muriel, then stuck their finger up as if they had just thought of an excellent point. "Well, no. Not a joke. Mr. Crowley has been asleep the whole time, you see. The plants probably grew restless, as plants do."

Nina shook her head the same time Maggie nodded.

"No. No, I don't think they do," mumbled Nina, even though the only plant she’d ever had was a cactus. She shoved past a Monstera deliciosa leaf and shouted into the jungle, "MR. CROWLEY! MR. CROWLEY, YOU SORRY SOD, GET YOUR ARSE OUT HERE!"

The plants quivered as they softly squealed in surprise. Nina and Maggie stared at them.

"Did you hear–" Nina started.

"Did they just–" Maggie interrupted.

They didn't get to think about it for too long. The sound of something shattering echoed from a different room. The group shared a look– and thank God that Muriel had been studying human expressions, because they were able to recognize the look of collective agreement. Together, they neared the opposite way Muriel had once gone in search of the noise.

"These plants are beautiful," whispered Maggie.

Before Muriel could agree (because now that they weren’t alone anymore, they realised that the plants were actually rather kind and lovely) someone close-by mumbled something. It was low and dark and muffled.

Muriel hoped it was Crowley, as himself.

The plants helped guide them to a wall, then shifted their stems to flutter toward a cold draft coming from a slightly ajar door. The rambling became louder and louder.

"–honestly. You can't even grow this big. It's not possible. What the Heaven are you–" Crowley’s voice dipped in and out. “–is that a fig!?”

Muriel gently pushed the door open.

It was the kitchen. Muriel hadn’t seen it before, but they were relieved they hadn’t. The smell of alcohol clung to their nose in an attempt to kill it. Muriel recoiled, covered the lower half of their face, and then scanned the room.

The kitchen was filled with more plants than any actual kitchen supplies. Aziraphale’s kitchenette had been decorated nicely with various clutter, including kettles and pretty pots and pans. The counters here were barren from any of that. There were bottles askew. The surfaces had splotches of something fruity and sticky. For a moment, Muriel had half a mind to just leave.

Muriel blinked. They looked up at the small painting of a grumpy-looking toad with a chef’s hat on for courage and then turned to Crowley.

Crowley was on his knees. He busied himself in piling up shattered pieces of a black pot. Dirt smudged across the floor in the process, and one tiny, shaking, spout-of-a-plant was in the middle of the wreckage.

"–this flat is mine before it's yours, you know. Out of it for a little while and you decide to– what, mutate?– what is this?”

Crowley flicked away a bulb of something onto the ground. Then, he twisted his torso to grab a large plant behind him and brought it down to the floor. He fixed a weathering stare at it. One that, even through his sunglasses, the plant seemed to shiver at.

"Shrink," said Crowley. He shook the poor thing.

Muriel’s foot kicked at an empty wine bottle. It spun once, then twice, then stopped facing Crowley.

The demon had started to glare at it the moment the damage was done. Slowly, that same glare rose to his three intruders.

"I locked the front door," said Crowley, incurious.

"Yes," said Muriel. "I unlocked it."

Crowley quickly turned to Nina and Maggie and said, "And you two are still alive. That's nice."

Nina looked him over with a raised brow while an offended expression passed Maggie's face. In their shock, Crowley rose to his full height and shoved one hand into his pocket as he examined the room (even though he likely wasn’t looking for anything specific).

"What's that supposed to mean?" said Maggie after she found her words.

"As rude as ever," mumbled Nina, crossing her arms.

"You broke into my flat!" said Crowley, "Which, by the way, I never asked for the company. Could've left a note at the door. Would've gotten back to you within the next century or two."

Crowley stepped over the mess on the ground, stalking closer to the others. Muriel took a tentative step back. Thankfully, Maggie and Nina made up for it by keeping themselves rooted.

"But considering that this is a blatant violation of privacy, I would appreciate it if you saw yourselves out."

Nina’s jaw set. Something was happening in her eyes, as if she were arguing with herself. They shone, then squinted, then hardened in only a few seconds. She abruptly went off to the nearest window and shoved away its curtains.

Sunlight poured in. Then, the window latch clicked and opened.

Crowley immediately scowled. He looked around at his plants, which perked up with delight at their first proper touch of sun in seven months, and decided that he should have just stayed in bed.

"I can smell your misery," Nina said, making Crowley turn back to face her. She placed her hands at her hips and clicked her tongue. “And you look like shit. I want you to take a shower. We’ll get you an outfit from your closet, and we–” she made a circling gesture with her palms, “–are going to sort out all of this with a nice day out.”

Crowley raised a challenging brow.

“You’re kidding,” he said, after a moment, but it seemed like there was no punchline here. Maggie crossed her arms and had the same expression as she did when she had stayed behind with Aziraphale in the bookshop, back with the demon horde. Even Muriel had caught on and made a point to nod sternly. “I– hn– huh? This is ridiculous.”

"You heard her! Off you get, Mr. Crowley," said Maggie, trying to wave Crowley out the door. "It’ll be fun."

"Fun?" groaned Crowley.

"Maybe we'll do some cleaning afterward," added Nina, looking around at the wasteland of a kitchen. "Do you have any disinfectant?"

"Well–"

Maggie shook her head.

"Oh, nevermind that. We'll take a look around ourselves. Muriel, grab something nice for him to wear,” she said.

And then Crowley was ushered out of the kitchen into the office, Nina following close behind. Muriel skipped a few steps ahead of them. They thanked a leaf that politely moved out of their way (Crowley’s jaw dropped at that) before saluting to the rest of the group.

"Muriel, ready for duty!" cheered Muriel. "Now where is the ‘closet’? …Oh! In the bedroom, of course."

Crowley began to say something, but Muriel was already wandering away.

"Now, hang on!" he flustered.

The plants behind Crowley dared to snicker. He glared glarefully at them and then turned back to his intruders. Nina and Maggie were looking at him, but Muriel was still trying to remember which way in the plant labyrinth the bedroom was. He snapped consecutively for their attention.

"Oi! Stop. There's nothing in the blasted wardrobe. I miracle in all my clothes."

Muriel opened their mouth with a silent 'oh'. They had never considered that to be a possibility before. It had seemed like such a futile thing to use a miracle for. Nina, on the other hand, looked absolutely appalled.

"Your clothes aren't real?" Nina stared at Crowley's rumpled outfit cautiously.

Crowley pointed at her.

"No. No, that is not what I said," he pressed matter-of-factly. "Secondly, I do not need to take showers. And thirdly, I am an occult being— and occult beings do not go on your… feel-good… fun-times…” 

“No? Seems like your scene, being rebellious and all,” interrupted Nina, trying to think of what she was taught about demons in Bible camp.

“Stereotype,” said Crowley. He didn’t want to explain how it was more complicated than that. Other demons tried to be feel-good, fun-timey, but they were all too stupid to not come off as creepy in their attempts. Crowley just didn’t feel like it right now. “A very hurtful one, in fact. Now. Out.”

Crowley didn't bother watching, instead turning his back to them to lecture the previously-snickering plant in a low, whispered hiss.

Maggie put a hand on Nina's shoulder.

"Nina," she whispered– almost as if she was about to launch into a speech about how sometimes things don't work out– but Nina wasn't ready to back down.

With a reassuring smile to Maggie, Nina stepped toward the demon. He had gone quiet now. Nina cleared her throat.

"I know you need time. These things... they're messy," Nina paused, watching Crowley's face pinch. He continued staring at the Ficus elastica. Nina took a deep breath, her brows rising, "...but it honestly smells like an unsupervised party in here and you've gone and grown a jungle in your sleep. Give it a chance. If you really don't like it, then... Well, then, we'll never bother you again. I swear this’ll be the last time."

Crowley smacked his lips and glanced up at the ceiling.

Maggie brushed past the plants to the window hidden behind them, letting the curtains in the office open. The sun spilled golden colours past Maggie and Muriel, past the good-intentioned leaves, past Nina, and pooled itself right before Crowley's feet.

Crowley took a step back.

Muriel knew very little about Crowley. But they had known Aziraphale through their duty as angels. They knew that Aziraphale believed in them. In their attempts to be useful, Aziraphale had never put them down for trying, and he had certainly never brushed Muriel to be the type to sink his teeth into someone. In fact, the things they heard from the other shopkeepers only comforted Muriel’s view of him: he was kind, he was tolerant, and he was almost like an angel, the way he gave (granted that it wasn’t one of his books). 

But there was something going on here that Muriel didn’t very much understand. The way Muriel felt about Aziraphale was different from the way Crowley felt about Aziraphale. 

Nina had explained it to them, once. Muriel had thought they had gotten it at the time. Now, they rubbed their chest, and weren't too sure anymore.

"…Alright, then," said Crowley.

London never truly rested.

At all times of the day, people walked, the cars roared, and even the birds never shut up. They always prattled on with their funny little pastry-stealing grabbers. If you gave a bird a cookie... Well, a mouse?

Mice were quite nice, actually.

Well, if you gave a bird a cookie, they would eat it without a second thought. Would make a big fuss about it, too, as it ate, because birds were fussy like that. That’s why they don't have hands. It was funnier when they stomped around like a bowling pin. Something had to keep the birds' cockiness in check.

A pigeon pecked at a biscuit crumb, dropped it, and flew away when Muriel neared.

Crowley, Nina, and Maggie followed them along the pavement. As the cars whizzed by, Crowley stared longingly at each and every one of them.

"–but then, it turned out that he was his dad!" Muriel was saying. "Which, by the way, is a human word: dad. It's short for father, I think. Humans are so funny, trying to be little gods like that," they waved a hand as they talked. "But then he was devastated because–"

Crowley nodded along. He was obviously not listening. He took a moment to readjust his tie. The wrinkles in his outfit had been miracled away, and he smelled an awful lot like coconut and strawberries.

"Yep," said Crowley in the middle of Muriel's rant. "Funny things, humans."

Crowley must have said something right, because Muriel's smile brightened. Before they could start rambling again, Maggie looked over her shoulder.

"What are we thinking for nails?" she asked.

Muriel and Crowley swivelled their heads to look at her.

"I mean…” added Maggie, quickly, “if you'd like.”

"Oh, yes!" Muriel agreed, and then turned to Crowley. They stuck their finger up. "You see, it's a human thing. They don't actually mean their nails, they mean painting them– or putting something over them that has paint. It is just the best. Oh, but it's not the paint you put on walls. It's nail paint. For nails. We get them done every girls’ day out."

Crowley, who was staring at Maggie, blinked out of his silence.

"You know, no one told me what we’d be doing. I was thinking maybe… eh, I mean… lunch, probably." Crowley said as they continued walking.

"No offence, but I've never seen you eat anything. At all," said Nina, and Maggie nodded beside her.

Muriel smiled at Crowley and said, "Don't worry. I don't eat anything either. We can just look at the food."

Crowley was quiet after that.

Muriel had gone down this street many times during their time on Earth. Maggie had been the one to bring them here for the first time, and she had bought them a little bracelet with their initial on it (It had meant so much to Muriel. They had gifted Maggie a bottle of their Heavenly nail polish reserves). They had gotten their nails done then, too. That’s how Muriel had begun to meet other humans.

They arrived at a blue-tinted door. It was soft blue that probably needed another coat of paint. Hanging pots of morning glories and cranesbills seemed to shudder at their arrival. Muriel glanced curiously at Crowley.

Just beside them, Maggie’s necklace jingled as she sped up to the front of the group to open the door. The bell above it chimed.

“Come on in,” she said.

The air conditioner hit them in the face. An overpowering odour of polish wafted through the salon, grabbed them by the throat, and shook them like rag dolls. It was glorious. The first whiff of it was always the best, in Muriel’s opinion. 

It wasn’t the best place to go for sensitive noses– or sensitive eyes– but Muriel preferred the pastel palette. Especially since the bookshop lacked them. The walls, a stark white, had candy-floss-blue and bubblegum-pink waves painted at its bottom. Above, buttery-yellow, five-pointed stars were painted on the ceiling. 

Crowley gagged. He tried to hide it underneath his hand, truly, but Muriel managed to catch it.

An elderly lady who appeared to be cleaning up her work station lifted her head to look at them. Recognition fluttered past her face. She smiled, the corners of her eyes wrinkling with the motion.

"Nice day, isn't it, Lucia?" said Maggie as the lady neared.

"The weather?" Lucia pondered. "It is perfect."

Lucia turned her crinkly smile towards Crowley as she leaned over the front desk's computer.

"You were at the Whickber Street Shopkeepers' Association meeting a few months back. I would remember a face like yours," said Lucia.

Crowley frowned further. 

"You were there?" he said.

"My grandson insisted I come with him. Something about having a good feeling? Well, it must have been something, if I can't for the life of me remember what happened that night."

Crowley swallowed. Maggie stepped in, her hand hovering over his arm.

"This is Mr. Crowley. He's joining us," Maggie spared a glance at Crowley, who was still staring straight ahead, and smiled at Lucia tightly. "Just for today. To see if he likes it."

Lucia tapped the keys on the computer slowly. Her fingers appeared unsteady and frail, and that might have worried anyone else who came in hoping for nicely-painted nails. What many wouldn’t know is that she was rather good at her craft. She had found a passion for it late in life, and retired so she could do what she loved in her last few years.

"Of course,” she said, “Come, please sit down."

Crowley had invented naming all the sub-sub-sub-shades of colours. Red wasn't just red. Red could be carmine, mahogany, and vermillion... but carmine, mahogany, and vermillion could not simply be called 'red'. Like how a square was a kind of rectangle, but a rectangle couldn't be called a square.

Crowley wasn't sure who invented that one. Probably an angel, if he had to put money on it. Maybe even Gabriel himself.

But now Nina was passionately advocating how cinnabar would clash too much with Crowley's hair, and that scarlet would be all-too bright– and, yet again, Crowley's actions patted his shoulders and bit him in the arse.

Nina leaned over to look at the progress of Maggie's nails. The lady doing them smiled nervously at her hovering and continued to apply little bees. Nina nodded approvingly. Then, she got back to analysing the five bottles of different reds before Crowley.

"What do you think of this one?" Nina pointed meaningfully at a reddish-purple polish.

Crowley frowned down at it, shook his head aimlessly at Nina and Lucia, and then shrugged. Unhelpful.

Nina put a hand to her cheek.

"Maybe something other than red?" Maggie suggested lightly, noticing the growing distress in the room.

Muriel twisted in their seat across the room and accidentally jolted some closed bottles. The man doing their nails 'tsk'-ed loudly.

"Sorry," Muriel said to him. The man waved dismissively, but they took the time to line them back up anyway. Muriel looked at Crowley, thought about his reaction, and then said, "What about stars?"

Crowley opened his mouth to protest, but the noises died deep in his throat.

"What about stars?" he challenged.

Wuh-oh. Had Muriel misread the room? For all they could know, he hated space, because wasn’t that one step closer to Heaven? Muriel cleared their throat and peeked down at a little speck on the ground.

"Well, you've been over here brainstorming for five minutes. If you don't like it, then we'll wipe it off and that's that," said Nina.

Maggie laughed at that. Nina frowned.

"What? What's funny?"

"Nothing, nothing," Maggie said in a voice that told them it was most definitely something. "It's just that... you were the one fussing over colours."

"Not helping, Angel. Just a big fan of colour-coordination."

"Great," drawled Crowley. "Because something is going on over there. Might need a colour-coordination professional."

Crowley pointed over at Muriel, who had a big grin on their face as Nina looked at them, then at their nails. Maybe they were rainbows. Maybe someone had slaughtered a unicorn.

"What's that you got there?" Nina asked.

"Oh," giggled Muriel. "Remember The Flood?"

"No, I don't think she would," Crowley chimed in quickly without looking.

Nina ignored him.

"That a rainbow?" she tried instead.

"Yes! I thought a little bit of everything would’ve been fine. I mean, aren’t rainbows supposed to have all the colours, anyways?"

Nina nodded, as if convincing herself that the colours weren't actually all that bad. If anything, there may have been some sort of charm in the half-neon, half-pastel, not-in-the-correct-order rainbow. Would Nina choose it for herself? Err, no… she’d have to be blackmailed for it to even be a possibility. 

“Whatever makes you happy, Muriel,” said Nina, finally.

Lucia grabbed the tips of Crowley's fingers and guided them down to lay flat on the table. Crowley looked up at the old lady. She offered him a pleasant smile.

"Should we do what your friend recommended, young man?" she asked, even though Crowley was thousands of years older than her. 

Crowley let a deep breath run through his lungs and ease somewhere deep in his ribcage. These were ridiculous human fears. Crowley had endured worse things than painting his nails. He’d done it himself a handful of times in his existence, and had even found some enjoyment in it. But he wasn’t feeling right. Maybe even a little sick; like he was being fed on a full stomach; like he’d been so rudely awakened and then jostled out of his body.

He shrugged, then choked, "Ye– ah.”

"Colours?"

Crowley gave her another shrug. A mesh of noises came from his mouth, none of them real words, and he finally decided to quirk his head shortly to the side.

"Just whatever, really,” he said.

His difficulty didn't seem to phase the kind, age-worn grandmother. As if she'd worked with customers far stingier than Crowley, she went straight to work. Each stroke was as careful as the last. Whatever shake that had been in her hands vanished as if it were never there in the first place. 

The black nail polish she used wasn't truly, completely, black. It was a deep, dark blue that reflected the ceiling lights in its shine.

Crowley stared.

He stared until Lucia placed his hands under the nail dryer after that coat was completed.

Maggie was the first to shift in the silence that had taken over the salon. Nina, Muriel, and Crowley watched her as she dramatically displayed her nails for the rest of the room.

There was a gathering of 'ooo's and 'ahh's that everyone but Crowley joined in on. 

"How pretty!" Nina fawned. Her smile grew into something so genuine that Maggie immediately needed to return it tenfold.

Nina came close and took Maggie's hand in hers. The base colour was a soft brown, decorated with skulls alternating between white and pink. Nina’s orange nails, a teddy bear design centred on her middle nail, paired for a silly sight beside Maggie’s. They snickered like it was all just one big joke.

"Isn't it just?" Maggie sighed.

And then Lucia was taking Crowley's hand away from the dryer and returning to work. Crowley's eyes snapped down to watch, but Muriel had just begun to talk. He lifted his heavy head.

"Can we please get frozen yoghurt after?" asked Muriel.

"It might be a little chilly out for frozen yoghurt," Nina replied.

"Oh, I wouldn't mind. I've been thinking about paying the local froyo place a visit for a while now. I’ve been thinking about their watermelon," said Maggie as Crowley's hand was led back underneath the UV lights. Crowley kept focusing on the others.

"Have you ever tried frozen yoghurt?" Muriel said to Crowley suddenly.

Crowley blinked at them, then glanced up.

"Nah. Not a big fan of cold treats."

"But you've never tried it. You should. You don't have to eat it if you really end up not liking it," Nina placed her hands to her hips. Crowley recognized the unsaid statement instantly: 'if you don't try this frozen yoghurt I'm going to make you try.'

Part of Crowley wanted to challenge that. Crowley was a challenger, after all, and he didn’t feel in the mood to be particularly nice– but he also wasn’t in the mood to be particularly nasty, either.

Crowley’s head tilted to one side and didn’t reply. 

Lucia hummed in satisfaction. Crowley turned from glaring holes into the walls– something he had been doing for a few minutes, now– to look at her. He caught her eye, but she gestured down towards Crowley's hands.

Crowley swallowed. Slowly, he followed the movement.

Against dark blue, against undulating lighter blues and whites, yellow sparkles of stars rested.

Their next stop ended up being a quaint, little froyo shop that was wedged between a big building and an even bigger building.

The shop smelled like waffles and vanilla which was strange, because not an ounce of waffles or vanilla was displayed. Maybe it was just the sweetness of everything that made the illusion. The walls were a drab grey that didn't do a very good job telling people that it was a froyo shop. If a tourist came by, they’d probably assume it to be a furniture store. 

The teenager at the counter didn't spare them a glance as they walked in. Muriel, as chipper as ever, beelined right to a stack of paper cups and passed them out one at a time.

Crowley put his hand up in protest at Muriel's offer. Nina immediately gave him a blank look, but he spoke before she could voice her potential threats.

"The floor is sticky. It's ruining my boots," Crowley nodded his head toward Muriel. "Surprise me."

And with that, Crowley was moving to the nearest table. A chorus of 'shh-tick, shh-tick, shh-tick' followed his footsteps. Muriel reached out for his retreating form, but there was no point. 

"Ah," said Muriel. "Okay..."

"Don't mind him too much, Muriel. New things like this can be very tiring to humans," said Maggie.

Muriel brightened at that.

"Oh, is that right? Ah, of course," they shuffled and their tone turned into something that could have been all-knowing, "of course. Well, I'll just have to make Mr. Crowley the best frozen yoghurt cup known to humanity."

Maggie snorted at that. Muriel grinned.

Crowley had liked the flavour of espresso, Nina told them once. Espresso was kind of nutty, kind of bitter, kind of tangy– not that Muriel knew what that tasted like. A good rule of thumb that Nina had taught them was that if it smelled acrid, then it probably was acrid. But it was socially unacceptable to smell all of the flavours. Also, it was a frozen yoghurt place. Everything was supposed to be sweet.

Muriel bit their lip, uncertain now.

"Focus on our task, soldiers," whispered Nina as she pressed her cup underneath one of the machines. White yoghurt swirled down into it. She glanced up at Maggie and Muriel and then tipped her head sneakily toward the demon sitting a few feet away.

Maggie came close, sparing a worried look at the object of their conversation.

"Does he look any happier?" asked Maggie, softly.

"Hard to tell with those bloody shades on," huffed Nina.

"I think it's going splendidly," said Muriel.

Muriel shifted to the right, away from where they had huddled, to fill Crowley's cup with something red. It read ‘cherry’ at the top, and sometimes cherries smelled bitter. That was probably a good start.

"Do you think Mr. Crowley is of the almond sort?" asked Muriel. "Or maybe sprinkles? Chocolate chips?"

They put something bright green into the cup. The colour seemed to surprise Muriel. The label, after all, had read ‘apple’, and weren’t apples red? Their brows scrunched together in wonder, and they made sure to stick their own cup underneath that one, too.

"Liquorice. He probably invented them," said Nina, finally. "But the circle ones. There’s a difference. Anyways, I did promise to keep out of his life if this all didn't work out, so maybe I am a little worried."

Maggie turned to Nina with a gentle smile. 

Muriel noticed that Maggie smiled the most at Nina, even if Maggie was friends with Muriel, too. There was a flutter that went through Muriel’s chest. Somehow, they knew that the butterflies weren’t anything that they were personally feeling.

"We'll have known that we tried our best. Don't beat yourself up for it, Nina, Love," said Maggie.

A chair squealed across the floor horrendously. They looked back at Crowley, who was slouched down his chair. He was probably eyeing them out of the corner of his shades. Maggie, quick to the damage control, offered him a strained smile while Nina coughed into her wrist.

Maggie cleared her throat. Cheeks pink, she moved over to where Muriel was currently pouring sprinkles into their cup. Muriel offered her a scoop-full.

Maggie grimaced. "No, thanks."

Nina began to fish her wallet out as she and Maggie placed their cups onto the weight at the counter.

"I think that maybe a walk in the park would be a nice way to end things off today," Nina said to Maggie. “Look at his face– I think we may be pushing it.”

Muriel stood behind them. They were looking between their own frozen yoghurt and what they had chosen for Crowley. They nodded, satisfied, but the pleased expression was smacked off their face.

A Heavenly horn echoed in their head.

"End things off? It's barely four. We never end off our days this early," said Maggie. "You know what he needs? A little taste of window-shopping."

Maggie shuffled her shoulders and Nina groaned, but she couldn't help but smile.

Muriel, frantically, twisted around to look at Crowley. He had already gotten up. He squeezed through the group to get to the teenager in front.

"Bathroom,” he said.

"Second door down, sir," said the worker. "Let me give you the key."

The teenager ducked down. Something went ‘clunk-clink ting dwowowow’, and he hit his head on the way back up. Crowley sniffled. Finally, the teenager handed Crowley the head of a golfing club. The rest of it, presumably, had been lost somehow. 

"Nn–," grumbled Crowley, looking weirdly at the key dangling from it. "Thanks."

Muriel’s heart dropped as they watched their only lifeline slink away. They turned to the shop's window right as Uriel appeared from across the street. Uriel's stony face didn’t twitch as they scanned the buildings.

Muriel knew that they couldn’t hide from the Archangel, and without even confirming where Muriel was, Uriel began to march over.

"Right. Muriel, where's your–?" Nina turned. There was no 'Muriel' to be heard of. She continued turning and spotted Muriel already out the door, two unpaid cups of frozen yoghurt in their hands.

Nina and Maggie stared at the teenager. The teenager stared back.

"Guesstimating here: Thirty total," he said.

Maggie sucked in air through her teeth.

"That was a lot of sprinkles," she told Nina.

Nina furrowed her brows. She glanced between Maggie and the poor teenager.

"Twenty-five,” she said.

Muriel, both hands preoccupied by frozen treats, rushed over to the left– away from the shop's windows.

Uriel watched them, unblinking. They stepped out onto the busy road. A car honked, but miraculously swerved away last-second. The crowd uncharacteristically parted until Uriel was face-to-face with Muriel.

"How is your progress?" greeted Uriel.

Muriel tried to smile, but it was difficult when they felt like they were being choked. It wouldn’t do to stand here like a silly goose. They used both cups to gesture to the shop.

"No Son in there!"

Uriel looked down at the frozen yoghurt, then narrowed their eyes. Muriel doubted that they had ever tried human food before. Somehow, this made the situation feel even worse.

"I see that," said Uriel.

Muriel swallowed. They let out a quiet breath that Uriel raised a brow at, but despite the preparation to talk, nothing came out. Muriel stared until the Archangel crossed their arms.

"This is frozen yoghurt," squeaked Muriel. "It's fun to look at. It’s for humans."

"Thirty-seventh degree recording scrivener. We have reason to believe that the Son has landed in a human settlement to the east called Dover."

Muriel shook their head quickly, as if just awakening. A lifeline, finally.

"Dover! Dover. Of course. I can go to Dover. I know exactly where that is," then, for good measure: "Dover."

"Then you should run into no issues."

"No issues. None at all."

"Uh-huh.”

Uriel looked down at Muriel's hands, where the cups were wrinkling under their grip. Muriel snuck another experimental breath. A car honked close-by. Muriel startled. Uriel did not. 

"Get a move on,” said Uriel.

Before Muriel could respond, Uriel sent a pointed glance back over their own shoulder, toward the froyo shop. Their nose crinkled.

"Go to Dover. Find the Son. Hand him to us," the Archangel looked down at Muriel, "You are not to do anything else other than what we've already told you to do. We’ll handle the rest once you’ve done your part."

"Of course, my Archangel."

Uriel didn't immediately leave. They stared at Muriel as if something else could be said to them, but whatever it was was lost. Something sparked in Uriel’s eyes; like they had just uncovered a dark secret, and Muriel feared that it may have had something to do with them.

Muriel made the mistake of blinking. When they opened their eyes, Uriel was gone, and Maggie, Nina, and Crowley were filing out of the shop.

"There you are! The hell did you run off to?" asked Nina.

"Mm! Might have... needed the fresh air, actually. I'm–" the group neared. Even though they were all looking at Muriel, Muriel's gaze drifted off to Crowley. His arms were crossed, but his face was strangely lax. "–I'm feeling a little homesick, I think."

Nina's expression softened. On the other hand, Maggie looked especially panicked, now, nervously turning from Muriel to Crowley to Muriel again.

"Well... there's a park not too far from here," Maggie said gently. "St. James’s. We can take the little detour past that nice fashion boutique."

"Would've been faster if I took the car," said Crowley.

"It's not supposed to be fast, six-shots-of-espresso-in-a-big-cup," Nina rolled her eyes. "It's supposed to be enjoyed."

"Well, I enjoy things best when I'm going sixty over the speed limit," the demon snipped back. He turned away, then did a double take. "Six-shots-of-espresso-in-a-big-cup?"

Muriel laughed. It shook slightly around the edges, but the group hadn’t completely fallen apart– so the mission could still go on. They glanced down at the frozen yoghurt still in their hands and hastily offered Crowley his own.

"This is frozen yoghurt," they said as Crowley took the offering.

"I see," he replied.

Crowley stared at the yoghurt. It had melted. All that remained was a mush of brown slop and two yellow, circular pieces of liquorice staring up at him.

Together, the ragtag group made their way through the streets of London.

It was a little silly, really, how they looked to the normal passerby.

The black-clad stranger in the dark sunglasses in the middle of winter? Good chance he’s hiding something, maybe even from himself. Whoever conceals their identity in public is surely not to be trusted at all.

The warmly-dressed one’s carefully-embroidered cardigan gave the impression of passion. There was something strange about her walk, like she was certain but uncertain; kind but unkind; like a secondary school English teacher. 

The stranger right behind her was scanning the streets as if she were looking for her next target. That or she had a resting angry face, which didn’t make it any more comforting– other than the fact that she was walking around with someone who was skipping. 

The skipper turned, smiled at the rest of their weird little group, and patted their big cargo pants. Maybe the skipper was secretly carrying around knives in one of their many pockets. It would make more sense than the mix of night and day going on here.

Well, best not to speculate. Walls have ears, you know.

Not by design.

They passed by the windows of shops too expensive for their wallets; but the experience laid not in what they had, but what they could have.

Sunglasses considered every outfit on display carefully. It was as if he was actually considering buying one of them, but with no wallet to speak of, maybe his threats were worth more than any amount of money he could provide.

"See anything you like?" English Teacher asked him, but Sunglasses just shrugged.

"Lots of inspiration," Sunglasses replied. He didn’t sound impressed.

The suits and dresses and boxes of jewellery were impressive. Only someone with lots of spare money to spend could throw it here (or very passionate advocates for the divine). But Sunglasses knew that some of these shops were just tourist traps. He had gone down here on occasion, and had more-often-than-not been in the presence of someone who could sniff out a cheaply made product.

(“It has a stench, really, like it’s musty… even if I washed the poor thing, I’m sure I would smell it in the back of my mind. No love put into it at all.”)

"I want that one," Skipper awed, pointing towards a set of jewelled bee earrings that sparkled reflections of light in every direction.

Sunglasses turned to look at them, "you, quite literally, could have them."

"Oh, but that's not the right way," said Skipper, looking genuinely worried. "We’re supposed to say we want it but not actually get it."

"Sounds like a torture method," mused Sunglasses.

"You're no fun," Resting Angry Face chided him.

"It's his first time, Nina," English Teacher said, and, just like that, the illusion cracked.

Crowley glared at a particularly-overdone set of light gloves. It had strange gems and flowy patterns, and the sight of it was like dipping donuts in maple syrup. His eyes flicked up in consideration before he frowned again.

"I'm plenty of fun," said Crowley. "But I'm not up for looking into an expensive boutique like I'm a dog looking for something to drop on the ground."

Nina snorted. "You do have an imagination, don't you?"

"Don't doubt my imagination. It's gotten me through some serious scrapes."

As a group, they turned the corner, passing the last of the sparkly windows and escaping from their voluntary torture. Crowley recognized this stretch to the park’s steps. He frowned, faltered, and then continued.

"Oh yeah?" laughed Maggie. "Like what?"

"Hellfire, for one," said Crowley. 

Maggie's smile awkwardly dropped from her face.

"Oh."

The sun was glaring between the trees, hiding along the edges of the park. Muriel found that it was always the brightest right before it sank into the ground. It was ironic, in a way, but maybe fitting for the situation. There was still some time before they had to call quits on this mission.

Nina pressed her shoulder against Muriel's as they bounded down the steps. The angel startled.

"Are you okay?" whispered Nina.

Muriel frowned. They glanced at Nina, then at Maggie and Crowley behind them, who appeared to be focused on the Christmas roses that had just started to bloom.

"Yes," said Muriel. The trees dotted them with shade as they crossed into the park. "I'm just... thinking."

"Dangerous thing: thinking," said Nina, dryly.

Muriel pursed their lips together. They glanced up at the sky, where the clouds, thick and heavy, were beginning to creep up on them. It wouldn’t do any good for them if it rained now. 

"Muriel?" Nina tried again.

"Sorry," said Muriel. They found that their voice had come out strangled, and tried again, "Sorry… I have this feeling in my chest."

"Still thinking about–" Nina's eyes flicked up. "–about home?"

Muriel nodded, gnawing at the inside of their cheek. 

"I’ve never been away for so long. It's only seven months. It should feel like nothing to me…” they said.

"But it's different," said Nina, graciously filling in the blanks. "New things can be nerve-wracking, if you've only ever been–" another glance, "–you know. All your life."

Muriel swallowed.

They didn’t know all that much about Earth and its humans before this mission. It was embarrassing, really, knowing how unprepared they had been. Had Heaven done it intentionally? Maybe it was all just a test. Replacing Aziraphale, after all, was already a tall order. He had been associated with the higher-ups since day one.

It was hard to tell, and even harder to ask. 

Even though Muriel had to keep their mission– whatever that had been over the past seven months– a secret, they could hardly even do that properly. Their human friends knew it. 

"Well, most of my existence, anyway,” replied Muriel. “I've been occasionally sent to Earth– um, close to The Beginning. But never for long periods of time. It was just... you know, maybe a few minutes. A few hours. Most of us had assignments like that, back then."

"What changed?" asked Nina.

"Oh, I don't know," Muriel admitted, softly. "The Almighty was still brushing out a few kinks. Needed to make adjustments, maybe. Heaven had some– err– missing spots to fill. The world was still new."

Nina stared at Muriel from the corner of her eye. She looked them up and down, glanced thoughtfully at the approaching lake, and then seemed to rethink something.

Muriel frowned. "Did I say something wrong?" they asked.

Nina tilted her head. Nina had promised, early on in their friendship, to be honest with Muriel. Even though she often chose to spare Muriel’s insecurities, Crowley’s return seemed to have pushed her.

 "It's hard to look at you and see an immortal,” she said.

Maggie rushed to their side.

"Mr. Crowley is glaring at all the plants. I think he's trying to set them on fire," whispered Maggie.

"'m not," grumbled Crowley, faintly, behind them.

Maggie scoffed to herself, leaned closer to Nina and Muriel, and said in an even quieter voice, "I think he's getting restless. Does he even like walks in the park? Doesn’t that seem not-very-demonic? Ugh, I hadn’t even realised at the time. Maybe we should have done some research before assuming. Oh, Nina, I'm so sorry– I don't want to give up on him, either."

Nina quickly placed a hand on Maggie's shoulder. 

"Calm down there, Angel,” she said. “It's all right. Let’s think about this… First of all, he probably needs the sun. He’s not a vampire. And what could we have possibly researched? The Bible? We’re doing the best we can, yeah?"

Maggie's pinched expression eased, but not by much.

Nina swished her thumb repeatedly over Maggie’s back. She hoped that it was a comforting gesture. Maggie had been the first to use this technique on Nina, found that it had helped her, and had tried to sparingly return the favour ever since.

“Crowley’s an adult, anyways. I mean… technically, right? If what Muriel said was true, then he’ll be able to survive… It can’t fall on us. What he chooses is his choice. No point trying to control him.” 

Muriel closed their eyes. Nina was very good at talking. Nina was reasonable and did smart things that Muriel wouldn’t have thought up. The warm words built at the cavity in their chest, up and up, into a little ball that would dissipate if Muriel exhaled– and then a hand jostled them out of their thoughts.

Muriel looked up at Crowley, then at the fence right before them.

"Thank you," they said.

Crowley’s face twitched. For a moment, Muriel feared that Crowley would snap at them; but the hand he had used to block Muriel from walking straight into the water’s surrounding fences slipped right back into his pocket. He stepped back.

"Look," said Maggie, pointing. "There's Abigail."

Abigail skittered over the surface of the water, excited to see familiar faces. Ducks were clever like that. They were almost like humans, but with wings and beaks and smaller brains. They were also much kinder than geese. And less toothy. 

The three of them squatted at the lake’s edge to meet the mallard.

"Hello Ms. Abigail," cooed Muriel. From their pocket, they produced a baggie of peas. "Where’s your friend?"

Muriel poured some of the peas into Maggie's and Nina's palms. They had a slight sheen left behind from defrosting in Muriel’s pocket. When Muriel tested its strength, the pea smushed with ease.

Abigail flailed her wings. She stuck her head through the fence’s bars and attacked the squished snack from Muriel’s hand.

Muriel had only known the mallard for about four months now. Maggie and Muriel found her trying to sit on other ducks in their sleep. Abigail hadn’t taken part in their autumn migration. Instead, she chose to stay in St. James’s until her flock returned for wintering, and Muriel had familiarised themself with Abigail’s more-grey-than-orange bill. 

A quack– sounding like a smokey wheeze than anything– made Abigail turn her head. From somewhere further into the lake, another smaller mallard lazily drifted through a group of waterfowl toward the excitement. Abigail's ferocity towards the peas subdued.

"Hello Ms. Lottie," said Nina. She tossed the peas over the fencing. Abigail, graciously, allowed Lottie to peck at it.

Muriel grabbed onto the fence, pushed themself up, and swung over to the other side. They teetered on the bank. Maggie stared at them nervously (she never liked it when Muriel did something risky). With a reassuring smile, Muriel knelt down carefully at the lake’s edge, keeping one hand on the bar behind them.

"It looks like she's doing better," Muriel said as they peered closely at Lottie's wing. They leaned over to move aside a few askew feathers to check the injury, and Lottie nicely continued to nibble on peas.

"Getting braver, too," said Maggie. She wiped her palm off against her pants, then looked at Nina. "She'll be able to join her flock for next year's migration, I’d think."

"Your wing will be all better by then," Muriel promised Lottie, who only looked at them with beady eyes and mushy peas sticking out of her beak. 

Nina had told Muriel that sometimes, when something was injured, it may not heal the same as it was before. Bones were tricky like that. Sometimes bones forget their original form, and mould around what little space they were given underneath the skin. Lottie’s little bones, thankfully, would not have that problem.

Abigail and Lottie, the wild ducks they were, took the last of the peas and paddled off together. They weren’t meant to be friendly. Muriel learned that animals outside of human domestication were just made to survive. How interesting it was, Muriel had thought, for something to unintentionally provide to the rest of the world by simply existing.

The sky was darker now. The clouds had snuck up on them, just like Muriel had predicted. Muriel hoped it wouldn’t rain. They didn’t feel like getting their corporation wet.

Yet, the group lingered at the side of the lake. Maybe everyone else had felt the change of tone, too, or maybe they were procrastinating on ending this mission like they were. Muriel had the sudden urge to check on Crowley. But instead, they stayed in place, watching how the ducks made ripples that waved out behind them, stretching down, down, until they died at the water's edge.

Muriel reached down for them.

The world spun. 

Muriel was strikingly cold— strikingly wet— strikingly ripped from the trance. They crawled against mud and slipped face-first into reality. Something was stinging. They gasped, choked— something awful shot out of their nose.

"AZIRAPHALE!"

The name came naturally. It was tossed to the frigid sky. It froze mid-air and dropped dead to the ground like hail.

And, suddenly, Muriel knew they messed up. This was the worst possible scenario that could have happened. How had Muriel chosen every little thing that could tick Crowley off? How come they had said the wrong words every time? How had they fallen in such an embarrassing way, when this entire mission relied on them not to?

Muriel sat frozen in the lake. Water dribbled down their skin, and their clothes, and their burning nostrils, and they felt pathetic. No one said anything.

They lifted their eyes.

Crowley stood the same way he had been for most of the day: casually, brows furrowed, lips tilted downward– but his hands trembled in his pockets. He swallowed a few times too many. Muriel felt their stomach plummet. For the first time, they feared that they may throw up.

Crowley smacked his lips, glanced at the lumbering clouds, and then turned and walked away.

"My Beatitude," greeted Visiel, bowing their head. They took a folder that had been tucked under their armpit and offered it to the Supreme Archangel. "The files that you asked for."

"Thank you, Visiel," said Aziraphale.

Visiel smiled at him. It seemed like another one of those days, to Aziraphale, where Visiel was hesitant to leave his side. Aziraphale tried not to mind it too much. Visiel, after all, seemed to look up to him– and Aziraphale would rather have that than the opposite.

Aziraphale took the beige folder and turned back to his lone desk. He placed it down, opened it, and began reading.

Visiel shuffled closer. They hovered at Aziraphale’s shoulder; maybe curious, which wasn't unusual. Visiel always tried to make his business their business.

"Yes?" said Aziraphale.

Visiel twitched out a smile. It was an awkward attempt, like they had tried to practise it and had failed when it was the right time. 

“I’ve already made myself familiar with its information. Shall I summarise it for you?” they said.

Aziraphale blinked. He huffed out a laugh and replied, “That’s quite alright. I think I’ll manage.”

“But this will spare you the time. You’re marvellous at writing notes, anyways, so let me help.”

Goodness. Aziraphale snuck in a breath and smiled faintly at him.

“Well…” he said. He furrowed his brows, glanced up at Visiel’s hopeful expression, and then leaned back onto the edge of his desk. “Of course. I do value your effort, you know.”

Visiel’s next smile was genuine, but smug. So did it really count?

"The demons are still bickering over who will be the Lord of Hell. The tides turned to Dagon, after Hastur's attempt to sway the demons by trying to ban the use of nursery rhymes– apparently, demons love Humpty Dumpty– anyway, Leviathan discorporated one of Dagon’s messengers and framed Hastur, so now they're at each other's throats, but some of the demons are quite liking the drama. Granted that they’re smart enough to not be squished along the way," said Visiel.

Aziraphale nodded along, flipping through the pages and trying to catch some words for himself. He settled the papers down onto the desk, pressed a flat palm to them, and then flung the contents up. The papers shimmered into holographic screens around them. Most of them frayed along the edges, but what quality was one to expect from something made in Hell?

"There's a reason you're the Lord of Files!" Recorded-Hastur snapped. Aziraphale squinted at the suddenness. “For being an expert on paperwork, you’d assume you’d know how to spell your own title properly.”

Recorded-Leviathan clicked his tongue.

“Yikes,” he said, tilting her head to Dagon.

Recorded-Dagon bared all of his teeth on a different screen. He swung a look at Leviathan, betrayed, and then glared back at Hastur. Faint snickers around them echoed.

"You can’t spell either! They put you up ‘ere because you couldn’t do anyth’ng else–!" Recorded-Dagon began, but Visiel talked over the raging demon’s next words.

"It’s fascinating, watching them squabble. What a bunch of squirmy animals. I knew they had a few feathers loose, but not even being able to communicate long enough to reach an agreement. How funny," Visiel laughed to themself, "finding the need to fight all the time."

Aziraphale hummed.

"You remember Job, yes, Visiel?" Aziraphale mentioned off-handedly, looking between all of the screens. He focused briefly on Hastur spitting insults at one of the Erics. When he blinked, the Eric had already discorporated from something he hadn’t seen.

Aziraphale scribbled something down onto a paper that wasn’t there before. Visiel watched his pen swoop and twirl.

"Of course," they said. "I was observing with a squad, for if anything went wrong,” they took a moment to consider their words. "But of course, nothing did. My Beatitude."

"I'm not offended,” said Aziraphale, automatically.

The tension that had started to build in Visiel’s shoulders smoothed out. They looked prouder, now; reassured. They stepped closer and nodded their head, thankful.

"The demons were very cooperative then, I would think. Heeding The Almighty's will. That didn't take much of a fight," said Aziraphale. He tried to keep his eyes on his notes. Somewhere, one of the demons on the recordings were giggling.

"That's different," said Visiel confidently. "Satan issued that order, but which was agreed upon by God. It was an…”

They trailed off. 

Aziraphale froze, because his mind helpfully tried to fill in the blanks for him, and where it had wandered felt almost like an epiphany. Aziraphale thought too much these days. Other days, Aziraphale felt like he couldn’t think at all. 

He turned carefully and smiled at Visiel, “Yes?” he coaxed, as if this was a casual conversation.

"…Well, we had our orders,” they said, “and they had theirs. 

Aziraphale folded the paper he had been writing on into a pristine square. He blinked and tilted his head in what he hoped was a comforting way. He reached out with the paper in his hand, which had changed into a white envelope, toward Visiel.

They took it.

"Would you be a dear and deliver that?" said Aziraphale as he rounded his desk. He closed the folder, and all of the floating screens sucked back to where they belonged. The faint remaining smell of sulphur tickled his nose. "And bring this to the archives, yes?"

Helpfully, Visiel nodded. They took their free hand and made a pulling gesture from the sky. In a blink, the folder vanished.

"You can count on me, my Beatitude," said Visiel, and Aziraphale knew that he could in this regard. The angel turned, paused, and then spun around on their heels, "Oh... Actually, my Archangel, is storytime still happening tomorrow? It’s only that Adiel and the others missed the last session, and they wanted me to ask..." they trailed off.

Aziraphale drummed his fingers quietly against the side of his desk. He glanced around the windowless room, pretending to be in thought, and said, "Tell them I still have plenty of stories to share."

Visiel smiled. They looked over Aziraphale one last time and then disappeared.

Angels didn't need sleep. Sleep was a source of energy, wasn’t it? Maggie had explained that humans have a certain amount of energy before they have to replenish it– like a recharge. Like… when you drink coffee, the cup empties until you pour more.

Something like that…

Muriel gently closed the book they had finished reading. It had been one they had already read; but they had hoped its familiar story would calm their nerves. It had been a book Muriel found in a drawer upstairs on their third week on Earth.

They traced the spine, felt a little dent in the hardcover, and pressed The House At Pooh Corner to their chest.

Muriel felt tired. It was a horrible thing. Muriel wasn’t human– Muriel was an angel– and they didn’t know how angels replenished their energy (if at all. They hadn’t known it to be possible. Maybe they were… different).

The thought wasn’t comforting. Maybe they needed to read another book.

They sat up in one of the comfy chairs and scooted up to the edge of the seat. They reached over to grab the tea, made an hour ago, but still warm to the touch, and tried to focus on the feeling.

Maybe their tea was defective, being hot after all this time. Maybe they could try to make another cup; they had been getting better at making it; but none of their end results had looked quite as pretty as Aziraphale's.

Aziraphale.

Muriel pressed their lips tight together.

It was horrible, being an angel in some… weird… unknown… human… Muriel sighed. They were being ridiculous, but they couldn’t find the words to describe the knot in their throat, or the buzzing that was spreading to their arms. Muriel was hot but cold and sick but alive. The longer they thought about it, the fainter their head became.

Aziraphale would have known what to do. He had helped to track down the Antichrist, went unpunished by Heaven, and had built up this little bookshop for himself. 

It was unlike Heaven, though. Heaven had some rhyme and reason in their order. Muriel still couldn’t figure out Aziraphale’s sorting system (and they were normally very clever at deciphering algorithms).

They stood to lean over the desk, closed the curtains, and decided that trying to sleep wouldn’t hurt.

“Muriel.”

Muriel jumped. They shoved the poor book onto some random surface and stumbled away from the chair.

"Archangel Uriel!" chirped Muriel in greeting. The Archangel had appeared right behind them, in the middle of the bookshop– but it was likely that Muriel just hadn’t heard the door chime. 

Uriel's brow twitched. "Hello," they said.

"Whhhat can I do for you?"

The Archangel took a long, excruciating moment to look over the bookshop and its surroundings. Muriel knew they didn’t have to make such a big show of the whole thing. It did a good job in shaming them, though.

A streetlight's glow crept in from the door's windows. Uriel, backlighted, turned to stare darkly at Muriel.

Muriel leaned back against the desk.

"I see that you’ve yet to leave the shop," said Uriel, finally.

Muriel grimaced at that. They made a wild gesture with their hands and then decided that was just making them look like a fool.

"Just some preparations. It's what humans do. So there is no suspicion from the other humans," they explained.

Uriel only hummed. They stalked the bookshop, examining the bookshelves and the untidy papers that had long since started to dust in Aziraphale's absence. They were looking more closely this time, it seemed. Some level of care had crept into their movements.

The quills and inks were Aziraphale's. That decorative pillow was Aziraphale's. All the little ornamental boxes tossed along the shelves and tucked away between a book or two were all Aziraphale's.

Uriel turned to Muriel.

"The Son, Muriel. Where is he?" they asked.

Muriel picked at their nails unconsciously.

"Yes, you mentioned that he's in Dover? You see, all the humans are asleep at night. It's what they do– so– so it'll be a little harder to get to Dover tonight. Because people are weird like that. Tired."

"The miraculous activity in Dover keeps setting off our private alarms," Uriel said. "It would be best if you started the journey," a head tilt, "now."

"Of course," said Muriel.

"If I catch you tomorrow morning lazing around in this… bookshop… then I will have no choice but to replace you with a better-suited candidate," said Uriel.

Muriel nodded. They ran a nervous tongue over the ridges of their teeth.

"Probably with Michael," mused Uriel. They were likely joking, but their casual tone sent Muriel reeling. They looked up at the sky. "That would be a sight to behold. Michael down on Earth trying to figure everything out."

Uriel smiled. Quickly, Muriel cleared their throat, and they blinked out of their strange mood.

"Surely one as high and respectable as Michael won't be sent in the place of a scrivener," said Muriel.

"Hm," Uriel looked at them– really looked at them– looked at them until Muriel squirmed. "It could be possible," they said, slowly, "like how a Principality can become the Supreme Archangel."

"I see," Muriel replied, dumbly. 

But Uriel wasn't focusing on the scrivener anymore. They looked around at the clutter and mess and, with one finger, swept up a line of dust that collected on one of the first books Muriel had finished. 

"Leave for Dover," said Uriel. 

Muriel couldn't do anything but nod. They watched as the Archangel turned gracefully and set off to the lift Up.

And then Muriel was alone again.

At the end of the day, sometimes all someone needed was a nice cup of tea, a comforting book, a well-loved chair, and the home around them. 

There was comfort in familiarity; and Muriel had months to build up a schedule. Months of reading and exploring and finding places to broaden their horizons. To see, hear, taste, smell, touch–

The phone across the room 'ring-a-bring'-ed.

Muriel startled, looking at the phone strangely. They had never once heard a peep from the thing– even when they had tried to make conversation with it (Nina came in to tell her that the phone wasn't the thing talking, but the person on the other side of the phone. Clever humans). But now it was yelling like its life depended on it. 

Muriel fumbled with it. It slipped out their hands twice and the coils tangled Muriel’s fingers thrice. ‘Ring-a-bring!’ it went, ‘ring-a-bring!’, like an alarm, and Muriel pressed the speaker to their ear.

"Hello!?" Muriel called out, still hearing the ringing echo.

"Aziraphale? It's me, Anathema. I found something that might interest you."

[ch4tk4t]

Pride month is already over...(2/2)

PART ONE - HERE

Today's LGBTQ+ superhero comics character: Rachel Summers aka Phoenix aka Mother Askani aka Prestige aka too many d*mn aliases (I stuck to those I remember from the top of my head)

Needs: I struggle to think up something she needs... More gay? Always can use more gay.

Qualifications: Bi inter dimensional celestial avatar mutie Queen 💅

🏳️‍🌈

Today's LGBTQ+ superhero comics character: Remy Lebeau aka Gambit aka Zaddy "I MURDER in a crop-top" Lebeau (guess which one I made up 🤣)

Needs: Mon ami! Gambit needs ONE thing, and she's called Anna Marie, chère. Aside from that, Gambit don't need NOTHING.

Qualifications: Bi sex icon mutie zaddy (seriously, he's GREAT with kids, like, breed me already, sir. Oh that's right, you're fictional, like my womb😮‍💨)

🏳️‍🌈

Today's LGBTQ+ superhero comics character: Elisabeth Braddock aka Betsy aka Psylocke aka Captain Britain

Needs: Nothing. I'm in love with her new status in the Marvel Universe. Keep it going Marvel. No notes.

Qualifications: Bi ex-ninja inter dimensional protector

🏳️‍🌈

Today's LGBTQ+ superhero comics character: Irene Adler aka Destiny aka Kurt's second biological moooom suck it Azazel 😁

Needs: The Krakoa era already took care of her needs. It would have been cool if a woman was allowed to seem old, but hey 🤷🏽‍♀️

Qualifications: Lesbian mutie freedom fighter

🏳️‍🌈

Today's LGBTQ+ superhero comics character: Harleen Quinzel aka Harley Quinn aka Yes, as you can see I'm aware of DC characters as well

Needs: For birds of prey the movie to be accepted as the classic it is, I will die on that hill. Don't even get me started.

Qualifications: Bi (although I'd debate she's a previously closeted lesbian)

🏳️‍🌈

Today's LGBTQ+ superhero comics character: Cooper Cohen aka Web Weaver

Needs: A f*cking ongoing. Like yesterday. The fact it hasn't been done yet should be considered a criminal offense.

Qualifications: Super flamboyant and stylish gay dude

🏳️‍🌈

Today's LGBTQ+ superhero comics character: Charlotte Webber aka Sun-Spider

Needs: Also a ongoing. Can't believe SPIDER-BOY got one before her. Like, wtf.

Qualifications: Badass disabled lesbian

🏳️‍🌈

Today's LGBTQ+ superhero comics character: Felicia Hardy aka Black Cat

Needs: Tough question... More gay? Never too much gay. Seriously though, she already kinda DOPE.

Qualifications: Bi cat burglar. Be gay, do crimes 💅

🏳️‍🌈

Today's LGBTQ+ superhero comics character: Karolina Dean aka Lucy in the Sky aka LSD (Yes, really)

Needs: For the Runaways comics to go on forever. Like, really. Not a joke.

Qualifications: Bi alien princess. Also she's a litteral rainbow alien 🏳️‍🌈

🏳️‍🌈

Bonus round:

Today's LGBTQ+ superhero comics character: Gwen Stacy aka Ghost Spider aka Spider-Gwen

Needs: For the spidercels to let our gurl go, she's OURS now. Also Sony, admit she's trans already, you COWARDS.

Qualifications: Trans gurl. Bite me Spidercels 🖕

PRIDE MONTH MAY BE OVER, BUT WE ARE ETERNAL, HAPPY FOREVER PRIDE Y'ALL !!!!

🏳️‍🌈

[badwolf-gallagher88]

Day 25 - Slice of Life

Dany was bored of being queen.

She was bored of dealing with the requests of Westeros, with the hundreds of greying lords who came to the foot of her Iron Throne each day. They came with such a number of requests that she could hardly keep her eyes open by their end.

She did not shirk the responsibility she had so long fought for, but neither did she enjoy the labours of the court. Unlike in Meereen, she could not choose who stood beside her. Instead, she was surrounded by all manner of fragile mæsters, reckless knights and scheming lords.

It was on the third day when one particularly tiresome lord requested lands that were not his to request, that Dany decided to flee to the country. Tomorrow, she would leave King’s Landing, with a company of her own choosing.

For one day, she would live a normal life.

And they would have a picnic.

-

They set out in the shallow light of dawn, leaving through the Lion Gates. She rode her silver mare, and beside her Ser Jorah sat atop a great black destrier. His cheeks were burnished pink in the early morning light, his hair shone copper. Since their return to Westeros, the knight had found a new array of armour, and this too was polished to a shine in the rose-tinted dawn. 

Behind them came Irri and Jhiqui. She had lent the handmaids horses for the day, as she wished them to have some reward for their loyalty. An outing was hardly a substitute for their loyalty, but it was something. Still, the girls appeared happy, and regularly turned to talk to Aggo and Rakharo who rode alongside them. Ser Barristan Selmy lagged behind, acting as rear guard, yet also taking his time to marvel in the landscape. Dany had heard whisper he was a keen observer of bird life, and suspected his sharp eyes roamed the sky for some of their number, even as he guarded against potential threats.

The sun was high in the sky by the time they reached the hill she had selected for the picnic. They unpacked what they had brought, and ate rapidly, famished from the long ride. Lethargic beneath the warm sun, Ser Barristan began to doze. Dany’s handmaidens sat giggling with the Dothraki, until they all stood and walked off towards the nearby shrubbery. Dany struggled to conceal a smile, turning to Ser Jorah, who lay on his side beside her. He had removed his armour, and rested his head upon a propped elbow.

“You look puzzled, your Grace.”

She momentarily shook her head, but nonetheless preceded to detail the thoughts that troubled her.

“I wish every day could be like this, Jorah. I’m glad to be queen, but it can be so troublesome and tiring. I am expected to judge everyone equally but never too harshly, to smile when I am asked and show no emotion when naught is required, to act as though I am equal to everyone but above them also.”

She had unknowingly averted her eyes as she spoke, but glancing up from her hands saw a frown cross his face. 

“Go on, my lady.”

“See, even now you call ‘my lady’. It’s like you’re scared of me, scared that by calling me informally you will be punished. Haven’t we come far enough together to know that is not true? I wish I could flee the stone walls of King’s Landing, live out here where it is peaceful. We could start a small hamlet, just the seven of us. Everyone would know each other, we could grow our own crops. I could bake bread, and arrange flowers, and I wouldn’t even mind mucking out the pigs. We would be guarded by my dragons, and I’d never have to worry about threats from the North and what I can and can’t say. And I know I can’t Jorah, I know. I know, but I am so lonely…”

She trailed off, the frustration setting her close to tears. She closed her eyes a moment, attempting to calm her breathing and regain her composure. Yet, she again opened them quite rapidly.

Jorah had placed his hand on hers, gently running his thumb backwards and forwards over her skin. His own skin was rough, yet he was gentle. His gaze directly met her eyes.

“You are not alone, Dany. You will never be alone so long as I stand by your side.”

[fountainpenguin]

"Turn your face towards the sun... Let the shadows fall behind you..." (x)

---

Debut of Criminal Experience today! || Short Story

Chapter 1 - “Wanted”

Read on AO3

Basically a series prequel... Li'l bit Hermitcraft, li'l bit Traffic SMP, li'l bit Naked and Scared

---

Mumbo Killsalot Jumbo has never been one to take sides during war. He tends to his llamas, trades freely with his neighbors, and his doors are open to all.

Fellas, is it spoon behavior to not ask more questions when a burned-out phantom hybrid starts hanging around your llama farm? 🤔

(First 1,000 words under the cut)

Criminal Experience ᓵ∷╎ᒲ╎リᔑꖎ ᒷ ̇/!¡ᒷ∷╎ᒷリᓵᒷ 392,861 Minecraft days before Dog's Life

Buzz and Ursula Uno don't know it, but they are (without a doubt) the most pampered llamas in all of Little Sun Valley. Yeah, that's right! He said it: Anywhere in the valley. That even includes the west side of the river, and you best believe he's digging in his heels on that one, mate. His wheat farm's been cranking out results this year… so much so that every time he checks its drops, he's practically up to his armpits in fresh hay. Took ages of iron collecting to craft all the hoppers, but Mumbo earned every bar of that stuff while still adhering to the valley rules of 'no non-essential harm done to passive mobs,' and he counts that as a win.

Double-U and Buzz are spoiled. He'll just say it. They've got the softest, driest straw and he switches it on the daily. He's got glowstone for heat tucked in one corner of every pen and he drops silk touch'd ice blocks in their water to keep it fresh and chilled. Surely even good parents are allowed one or two favorite children, yeah? As long as it's kept under wraps and all that.

I mean, come on… Just look at them. Heh. Even when it's nail trimming day, they can't stand to be apart. They're like two scoops of raw cookie dough, marbled brown and cream fur bundled together in a nest on the dirty floor. Which is… peculiar, actually, seeing as Impulse supposedly swept the barn out while Mumbo took the llamas down for water. Mental note. What's that man been up to?

"Foot," he says, and Double-U plops her pad in his lap. It scatters soil all over his robes, but he can forgive the dirty floor. Impulse went above and beyond this weekend already with the crops. You know, it's not every year a man who'll voluntarily harvest uncraftable blocks for hours just stumbles into your life… Actually, last night Mumbo offered him a few stacks of emeralds for a hard day's labor, but Impulse only laughed, sticking his thumbs in his overall straps.

"What? Can't a guy just want to lend a helping hand?"

And, well… He's a phantom hybrid, so Mumbo let it slide (Phantoms are safe to talk to; it's allay hybrids you don't want to make open-ended deals with). Actually, it's nearly noon. Impulse should be coming up the hill from the farm in just a couple ticks… hopefully with clover and alfalfa in hand. Alfalfa is a massive pain to farm since the rain will wash the redstone dust out sooner than you see it grow, but luckily, he doesn't need much. It's a special treat he'll lightly thread into the feeding trough… because Buzz and Ursula Uno are still the most pampered llamas in all of Little Sun Valley. Possibly the whole Between dimension.

Now, will their glorified loafing shed of a barn win any points for flair? No.

Was his use of maple wood in this build even a little bit unique? Also no. But maple's abundant - maple's efficient - and an entire village of wandering traders can't all be wrong.

Actually, Mumbo thinks, lining the edge of his shears against Double-U's toenails, out of every player hybrid type… I feel like wandering traders must be the MOST knowledgeable people when it comes to block qualities and how well they hold up in certain types of weather. Is that too big of a pat on the back? He's really not that kind of guy. It's just… you know… He and his friends have spent their whole lives swapping stories.

The maple mountain biome is always soaked in rain, but the residents of Little Sun make it work. When the ground's too moist for proper farming, the whole community gets together to lead the animals up the plateau. Everyone pools their harvests and they get by on what farms they still have. Mumbo's spent a solid 600 fresh, clean wet seasons (at least) in the shade of the tweenstone spawn temple, swapping stories and laughing until his stomach hurts. Because even when the rain rinses redstone dust off the farms, everyone in Little Sun still has each other. They have their llamas. They have community.

And when all else fails… they can always go out wandering.

Good fun, that… but some days are meant for sitting on dirty barn floors. Is there any better way to spend a morning than cleaning the toes of the most beautiful llamas in the world, occasionally bouncing ideas for silly redstone ideas off their heads?

"Uh-oh," says a voice at the door. Ah. Mumbo still doesn't have a name for that type of accent, but he definitely knows the man from his volume. Double-U's ears flick up instantly. Mumbo keeps trimming her toenails with gentle brushes of the shears. He doesn't even have to use the F5 cam to know Impulse is hiding behind the barn door, peering around it like a twitchy cat. Mumbo can almost hear the way he hunkers, knees shifting to a crouch. He's got wheat, yeah, because it flutters and whispers when he clutches it to his chest. "Uh… dude? Is that the llama who hates my guts? Or the one who just wants to headbutt me into the void?"

Double-U gets a slithery rumble in the base of her throat. This stirs Buzz into lifting her head and Impulse jolts again.

"No! What? Oh, come on! You really have to have both the llamas who wanna trample me in there?"

Mumbo chuckles. "Double-U's all right with you now, I reckon. I mean, yesterday she let you get within spitting range."

"Yeah! So she could spit." Impulse says the word like it's some sort of ancient curse. Mumbo listens for the scrape of shoes on creaky floorboards, but they never come. Tsk, tsk… Double-U would never hurt anyone who doesn't deserve it. Llamas can sense these things, you know. "My pixels were fritzed for three hours before I got that stuff out."

"Did you really come all the way up here thinking there wouldn't be llamas in the llama barn, mate?"

"Just bringing you wheat," Impulse mumbles back.

[Cnt'd on AO3 - Link at top]

[ongolecharles]

DAILY SCRIPTURE READINGS (DSR) 📚 Group, Wed July 24th, 2024 ... Wednesday of The Sixteenth Week in Ordinary Time, Year B

Reading 1

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Jer 1:1, 4-10

The words of Jeremiah, son of Hilkiah,

of a priestly family in Anathoth, in the land of Benjamin.

The word of the LORD came to me thus:

Before I formed you in the womb I knew you,

before you were born I dedicated you,

a prophet to the nations I appointed you.

“Ah, Lord GOD!” I said,

"I know not how to speak; I am too young.”

But the LORD answered me,

Say not, “I am too young.”

To whomever I send you, you shall go;

whatever I command you, you shall speak.

Have no fear before them,

because I am with you to deliver you, says the LORD.

Then the LORD extended his hand and touched my mouth, saying,

See, I place my words in your mouth!

This day I set you

over nations and over kingdoms,

To root up and to tear down,

to destroy and to demolish,

to build and to plant.

Responsorial Psalm

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

Ps 71:1-2, 3-4a, 5-6ab, 15 and 17

R. (see 15ab) I will sing of your salvation.

In you, O LORD, I take refuge;

let me never be put to shame.

In your justice rescue me, and deliver me;

incline your ear to me, and save me.

R. I will sing of your salvation.

Be my rock of refuge,

a stronghold to give me safety,

for you are my rock and my fortress.

O my God, rescue me from the hand of the wicked.

R. I will sing of your salvation.

For you are my hope, O Lord;

my trust, O God, from my youth.

On you I depend from birth;

from my mother’s womb you are my strength.

R. I will sing of your salvation.

My mouth shall declare your justice,

day by day your salvation.

O God, you have taught me from my youth,

and till the present I proclaim your wondrous deeds.

R. I will sing of your salvation.

Alleluia

---------

R. Alleluia, alleluia.

The seed is the word of God, Christ is the sower;

all who come to him will live for ever.

R. Alleluia, alleluia.

Gospel

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Mt 13:1-9

On that day, Jesus went out of the house and sat down by the sea.

Such large crowds gathered around him

that he got into a boat and sat down,

and the whole crowd stood along the shore.

And he spoke to them at length in parables, saying:

“A sower went out to sow.

And as he sowed, some seed fell on the path,

and birds came and ate it up.

Some fell on rocky ground, where it had little soil.

It sprang up at once because the soil was not deep,

and when the sun rose it was scorched,

and it withered for lack of roots.

Some seed fell among thorns, and the thorns grew up and choked it.

But some seed fell on rich soil, and produced fruit,

a hundred or sixty or thirtyfold.

Whoever has ears ought to hear.”

***

FOCUS AND LITURGY OF THE WORD

Growing up in the Midwest, farming analogies were a common if not ubiquitous part of daily conversation.  Although my urban family did not farm, my mother's family (parents and brothers) did.  Many, many friends at my undergraduate college in central Nebraska were rural kids, and if their parents didn't farm or ranch, they lived in a town where agriculture was the economic engine.  "How 'bout this weather" OR "Sure is dry" OR "We could sure use some rain" were almost expected in the early part of any conversation.  The Missouri River Valley is fertile farm land.  The Platte River feeds irrigation circles throughout the state.  The plains, carved out by glaciers, are flat and well accommodate row crops, and the rolling hills are dry, but suited for cattle grazing.  So, it would have been difficult for me to escape a basic understanding of farming, even if I'd wanted to (which I didn't).  I love being out in the beauty of wide-open spaces, of Midwest agriculture in all it's forms, the symmetry of the rows, the promise of future food or sunflowers.  

I came to understand early that all soil is not created equal, and was taught that there can be "bad seeds" in the world (sometimes a reference to a person who couldn't seem to avoid trouble, but also describing a seed packet for flowers or veggies that just got too old, or too wet).  So, one could plant bad seed in the best soil ever, and it wouldn't thrive.  Or, one could plant great seed in the wrong spot and the same thing would happen.  So, today's Gospel lesson, when I first heard it some 60 years ago, really "stuck".  For a change, the lesson made immediate sense, had context in my world, and could be immediately applied in my family, in our small flower beds.  Jesus wanted us to know that each of us were good seed, and could be - although not guaranteed - blessed with good soil.  Sometimes our environments, or the friends we choose, or the addictions we face, or the difficulties we endure feel like the footpath, the rocky ground, or the patch of thorns where seeds fail.  But make no mistake, every one of us is a gift from God: every one of us is Good Seed.

Every year, when I'm gardening each spring, I spontaneously and without conscious effort begin to hum or sing from the hymn "Lord, let my heart be Good Soil."  It makes me smile every time, because it just effortlessly happens!  The hymn sprung forth again today, when I read this Gospel lesson.  It reminded me to think beyond the obvious lesson that each of us is considered by God to be Good Seed; to also accept that Jesus was inviting us to accept our obligation to each other to create an environment that is Good Soil.  A space of peace and love and acceptance and grace.  If MY heart is open and loving and full of God's light, and I share that light with you, then I've created Good Soil in which you can thrive and grow.  

I was SO blessed to have such a tender gardener, in the person of my Grandmother.  She (along with my grandfather, who died when I was only 5) was both Good Seed and Good Soil.  Grandmother Alice did everything she could to tend her eight children, her 23 little grand-seeds, and every other soul she touched, so we could sprout and thrive.  What a blessing to have had her!  What a blessing to be able to pass on, in small measure, her tender care!  What a grace to accept God's gift of being Good Seed, and to heed God's call to be Good Soil.  Amen.

***

SAINT OF THE DAY

Saint Sharbel Makhlouf

(May 8, 1828 – December 24, 1898)

Saint Sharbel Makhlouf’s Story

Although this saint never traveled far from the Lebanese village of Beka-Kafra where he was born, his influence has spread widely.

Joseph Zaroun Maklouf was raised by an uncle because his father, a mule driver, died when Joseph was only three. At the age of 23, Joseph joined the Monastery of St. Maron at Annaya, Lebanon, and took the name Sharbel in honor of a second-century martyr. He professed his final vows in 1853, and was ordained six years later.

Following the example of the fifth-century Saint Maron, Sharbel lived as a hermit from 1875, until his death. His reputation for holiness prompted people to seek him to receive a blessing and to be remembered in his prayers. He followed a strict fast and was very devoted to the Blessed Sacrament. When his superiors occasionally asked him to administer the sacraments to nearby villages, Sharbel did so gladly.

He died in the late afternoon on Christmas Eve. Christians and non-Christians soon made his tomb a place of pilgrimage and of cures. Pope Paul VI beatified Sharbel in 1965, and canonized him 12 years later.

Reflection

----------

John Paul II often said that the Church has two lungs—East and West—and it must learn to breathe using both of them. Remembering saints like Sharbel helps the Church to appreciate both the diversity and unity present in the Catholic Church. Like all the saints, Sharbel points us to God and invites us to cooperate generously with God’s grace, no matter what our situation in life may be. As our prayer life becomes deeper and more honest, we become more ready to make that generous response.

***

【Build your Faith in Christ Jesus on #dailyscripturereadingsgroup 📚: +256 751 540 524 .. Whatsapp】

[townsenddecades]

1308 – Day 2

It’s the summer harvest!

With Benedict, Bejamin and the girls helping out, it is still hard work, but doesn’t take as long as it would have done if father and son would have had to manage on their own. Only Gregory, Simon and Anne don’t take part, the former two because they are still too young, the latter because she is busy enough with her housework as it is. She does make sure they have plenty to eat and drink, however.

And what a crop it is! It is even better than in the previous summer and leaves their stores and their purse both full. Ample reason to celebrate, as far as the people of Tovar are concerned.

(The Watcher asks you to kindly ignore Anne’s suspiciously modern-looking cleaning-implement.)

When the harvest is done, Anne takes the walk over to Tovar, to sell their produce, accompanied by Edith, who wants to look in at the Watmore’s house, to see how their harvest has gone. They are surprised and rather happy to meet Robert at the market place, who is on a patrol trip around the countryside with Sir Silas. They use the time to catch up and make sure that Robert is well-cared for in his new home.

He assures them that while he misses them all dreadfully, he is learning a lot and that Sir Silas and his men are treating him kindly. While Anne doesn’t know if she believes him wholly, it is a comfort to see her son.

Afterwards, Edith makes good on visiting the Watmore’s cottage, where she meets not only Mrs. Watmore and her twin daughters, but William, who had made himself rather scarce during her previous visits. Truthfully, he had been working in remote parts of the parish, part of his duties as a serf, and hadn’t been home much himself.

Now, however, his eyes gleam when he spots her. “Edie! It’s so good to see you again.”

They get to reminiscing about simpler childhood days and are soon comfortably talking as the sun goes down outside. After not seeing him for so long, Edith had almost forgotten how much she enjoys spending time in William’s company. Her father eventually comes in as well, and with William’s parents, siblings and her own Da filling the small cottage, Edith doesn’t hesitate when William asks her to slip outside to stargaze.

Back inside, Benedict is deep in conversation as well, though not with the same youthful exuberance as the two youths outside. He is talking about the harvest and their families’ wellbeing with Elsie Watmore, besides exchanging news about the parish.

“Have you heard that the Baroness has died?”, she asks, with a look towards Elbenhawke Hall on its hill.

“Of course I have. Dreadful business. Apparently, she was heartbroken by losing her daughter.”

“And her son.” Elsie shuddered. “I can’t even imagine. Although there are joyous things, as well. William and Edith seem to get along rather well, don’t they?” She glances outside their window, where the two young people’s laughter can be clearly heard. Benjamin can’t help but smile.

“Don’t play coy, Elsie, I know what you’re hinting at. They have always gotten along well. We’ll see what develops out of it.”

“But you wouldn’t be opposed? I know Edith could do better than to marry a serf.”

“She could”, he agrees. “But Anna marrying the Crawley boy will be costly. I don’t know if we could afford another such marriage in the next few years, and a suitor might not like to wait that long. Besides, I know your family would treat her well.”

Elsie laughs. “Why, I don’t know whether to be offended or touched. But I’m grateful all the same.”

They don’t have to wait long to see which way the wind is blowing. In fact, William Watmore makes his decision while he and Edith are still joking about what they see in the constellations and the passing clouds. So when she gets up to go inside, he instead pulls her away from the house, so he can have at least a little chance of not being overheard.

“I was really happy to see you again, Edie. I didn’t know how much I had missed you until we met this afternoon.”

She smiles. “The feeling’s mutual, Will. You aren’t even half as annoying as you were when we were children.”

That startles a laugh out of him. “I’m glad, because I really enjoy your company. And, if I may say so, you look lovelier than even when we last saw each other.” He gets a little closer to her, taking her hand. It’s as if sparks are going out from that contact, but instead of flinching back, Edith just grips his hand tighter. Her heart is pounding, but not in an uncomfortable way. She feels drawn to him in a way she can’t quite explain.

It isn’t entirely unexpected when he kisses her, but she still gasps. He pulls back.

“I’m sorry, Edie. It was too soon, wasn’t it?”

“No.” And she grabs him by the collar and pulls him towards her again. “But not nearly enough.”

This time, neither of them flinches back when they kiss.

He rests his forehead against hers when they part. “I’ve wanted to do that since I saw you this afternoon.”

She lets out a startled laugh. “You could have said something sooner. We could have spend the evening very enjoyably. Not that talking to you wasn’t nice.”

“I’m glad you enjoy both. Because I…I want you to marry me, Edie. I like having you around, and my mother adores you. I’m sure we could make a good family together.”

This time, she does pull back, if only to stare at him incredulously. “Is this a proposal?”

“Er…yes. I know your sister has this entire fancy courtship, but I felt I would go mad if I didn’t ask you already. I’m sorry if it wasn’t very…what you wanted.”

“No, no, it’s fine. I was just surprised, is all. I didn’t exactly expect a marriage proposal when I walked here. This has all gone rather quickly.” She takes a deep breath. “But I think I know my answer.”

She does love his family. She doesn’t know if she loves him exactly, at least in the way a woman is supposed to love her husband, but she loves spending time in his company, and he makes her feel alive in a way she can’t describe. She is still tingly all over from their heated kiss. Of course she knows she will be taking on hardships she wouldn’t if she married a freed man, and that they will have to get the Earl’s permission, but in that moment, she is sure it will be worth it.

So she quickly reassures him that of course, her answer is “Yes.”

To say that Benedict is surprised when William and Edith walk in hand in hand to announce their intent to marry and ask for his blessing is an understatement, but true to his word, he gives his consent readily – after making sure this is what his daughter really wants. The already joyful mood becomes celebratory after that, with the entire Watmore family congratulating the young couple, and Benedict can’t help smiling at Ediths dreamy expression when they walk home through the moonlit fields.

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