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idontknowreallywhy · 6 months ago

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WIP Wednesday

Soooo… yea. I did a little more of this…

✈️✈️✈️✈️✈️✈️✈️✈️✈️✈️✈️✈️✈️✈️✈️✈️

The serious-looking PA finally gave the nod and Scott fairly bounced through the door eager to find out what flyboy-playdate-thinly-disguised-as-military-exercise his buddy had dreamed up this time, only to come skidding to a halt as his old friend looked up at him.

Ash was… well, ashen. In fact Scott could almost imagine him crumbling and dissipating into the wind.

Scott hadn’t seen him look this pale since he’d turned up at the ranch, mere days after Scott had finally been discharged and delivered the news none of their superior officers had had the courage to deliver. That Val had…

A sickening rush of deja vu made his legs weak but he steeled himself. Whatever the news was this time, he had to receive it differently. He would do better. This time he would not shoot the messenger. This time… he could take it, whatever it was.

Keeping his voice as calm as possible he pushed out two words he abjectly did not want the answer to:

“What happened?”

Air Marshall Ashmore McKellar tilted his head slightly towards the sumptuously upholstered antique wooden chair beside him. Not on the opposite side of his desk where it would usually reside, but, if the scuff marks in the rich carpet were anything to go by, recently dragged around to be within arm’s reach of his own.

Feeling rather like he was walking to the gallows for a crime he’d never been aware of committing, Scott gathered himself and approached the chair. He paused for a second or so, before sitting gingerly and forcing himself to look directly at his old wingman.

Ash leaned forward and spoke so softly Scott had to strain to hear him even from barely two feet away.

“I’m sorry, Scott, we don’t have a lot of time. They don’t know I know yet, but I wanted to warn you before somebody comes to ask questions.”

“Warn me of what?” Scott’s mind raced as to try to predict what was coming but came up blank. Sure he upset a lot of GDF officials in his line of work, primarily by pointing out their incompetence in the heat of the moment, but nothing that Casey wouldn’t smooth over. Nothing that wouldn’t make Ash chuckle.

Nothing that would make him look so… afraid.

“They’ve found your plane.”

“My… wait, the F-82?!”

Ash shushed as Scott’s voice rose in surprise. He swallowed to slow the flurry of how and why and so what and found a large lump obstructing his throat. He focussed on that rather than the sudden chill that had entered the pleasantly heated room. He stubbornly counted the ticks of the ornate clock on the wall rather than acknowledge the skittering of claws over concrete.

“I… I can’t believe there was anything left to find? Didn’t it get stolen for scrap by… by… the occupiers?”

Ash cringed “No, there wasn’t a lot. But some small parts. Enough to identify. And err…” he cleared his throat then looked Scott in the eye “…some traces of your cargo.”

His gaze intensified and Scott knew he was watching for his reaction.

But Scott had nothing but bewilderment to give him.

“My…? I wasn’t carrying cargo that day, Ash, you know that. It was just an EMP payload and…”

A flicker of relief crossed Ash’s face - invisible to most but unmistakeable to the man he’d trusted with his life a hundred times. He reached out and grasped Scott’s shoulder, ever such a slight tremor indicating his need for support was as great as his desire to give it.

“It seems we were misinformed.”

#thunderbirds are go #thunderbirds #thunderbirds fanfiction #thunderangst #wip wednesday #idontknowreallywhy fanfic #Scott Tracy #OC Ashmore McKellar #airforce Scott #bereznik Scott #idkry wip #WIP: Burn it all

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corellianhounds · 12 days ago

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Murder Mystery at Jabba's Palace has me intrigued 👀

AS IT SHOULD!! This one is very fun for me because it doesn’t have to be some big overarching plot connected to the bigger universe with Themes and Parallels, it’s just plain fun

I was on a murder mystery kick for a while some time back and got to thinking about what it would take for there to be a semi-kind of 1940s nightclub/mafia headquarters vibe to the palace after the events of TBoBF (though in my head this is after a revised TBoBF so there are some changes to several characters and new characters altogether in the mix)

In the revised TBoBF, Boba has a tenuous alliance with the Trandoshan crime family, the head of the family in this story having been usurped by his younger ambitious son, Ressik. Here, the son has leveraged something Boba wants against him in exchange for Boba agreeing to host an extravagant party with a specific band at the palace at the demand of Ressik’s fiancée. Boba initially refuses because this is his place of business, not the lowlife outpost of Jabba’s cronies it used to be, but the more lucrative the offer becomes in terms of an eventual exchange of favors, the more Fennec’s telling him “Look maybe ONE party wouldn’t be a bad thing, we kick them out come sunsrise and you don’t have to do it again,” so Boba finally relents.

One ☝️ semi-respectable nightclub party. He doesn’t want to become known for this, and this is his place. They’re running things how he sees fit.

It takes a fair bit of money to convince Figrin D’an and the Modal Nodes to come back to Jabba’s Palace— because that’s all anyone is going to know it as for a while— the band having already escaped from Jabba once, but once D’an sees proof of the change in ownership and Fett proves this is a genuine commission and not a ploy to get and keep them there for the foreseeable future, he starts to eye the amount of credits Fennec’s offering on Fett’s behalf with keen interest; the Modal Nodes try to convince him not to do it, but he’s the frontman for the band and technically owns most of their instruments, so regardless of the fact D’an is known to be bad with money and still insists on gambling despite his debts, they have no choice but to come along with him when he agrees.

Night of the event comes and we as the audience get to see our cast of suspects and uninvited guests start to arrive: Mando’s been paid to be there as extra security. The marshal, Jo, and Taanti are in from Mos Pelgo. Garsa Fwip politely but firmly declined Fett’s offer, so the blue Twi’lek from Jabba and Bib Fortuna’s rule is the singer opening for the band onstage before the main event. Peli Motto somehow secured an invitation, or at least a convincing approximation of one, and Fett, Fennec, and Mando all don’t care enough to throw her out anyway. Krrsantan is also there, and that’s creating some unfortunate tension with the Trandoshan guests, the nosy B’omarr monks are skittering around the halls unnerving people in their search for gossip enlightenment, and wait is that Lando Calrissian in the background—?

Things seem to be going well with only minimal squabbles throughout the night, but when the band gets up for their second set close to midnight, something goes terribly wrong: Figrin D’an collapses, dying onstage in front of everyone with no discernible cause as to why or how. The Trandoshan noble is furious, and Boba and his crew lock down the palace because they have until sunrise to solve the murder, or the Trandoshans promise there’ll be hell to pay.

WIP Ask Game

#There is ALSO the possibility that this could maybe might take place in a branch of the Toro Lives timeline #Because I have some character interactions that will make for fun dynamics within the mystery #But I’ll have to wait a bit while I get the version of TBoBF that happens there done first #Anyway! thank you for asking 🥰#hounds speaks #my writing #Fic: Murder Mystery at Jabba’s Palace #The Book of Boba Fett #ask games #Q&A

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the-pen-pot · 1 year ago

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The stench of its fur: musk and stale blood. Muscles bulging beneath its pelt as it moved, too quick for anything but a creature of magic. Obsidian claws, sharp and black, raking the ground beneath its feet as it watched him with all the intensity of a predator latching onto its prey. The serpent in the place of its tail, reared back and ready to strike.

Fangs sinking through his chainmail and into his sword-arm. A shout: Merlin's voice, rough over words Arthur did not know. His blood burning through his veins.

Merlin's eyes, dazzling gold.

Cold raked its talons across him, making him shudder, touching everywhere except the hot, heavy throb of the wound on his arm. He shivered, torn right through as fever consumed him. Maybe this was yet another dream. A figment. Nothing more than the shattered glass of his own addled mind, slicing at him.

He tried to rouse himself, to open his eyes and find Merlin.

Merlin, who had magic.

The thought skittered away from him, retreating to hide in the shadows. Arthur could not recall ever being so tired in all his life. He kept struggling to marshal his wits, only for them to slip through his fingers. Questions bobbed through his aching head, lost and untethered.

Was he back in Camelot? What day was it? Time was like air, impossible to catch, and whenever he dropped the thread of his thoughts, he could not be sure whether he fell back into slumber or merely lost a moment. His mind was wreathed in fog. Memories loomed from it, grim silhouettes that took on definition only to fade once more.

Merlin.

Magic.

A cool cloth blotted across his brow, dripping fresh water against his mouth. He licked at it, parched, but his request for a drink was little more than a cracked moan of sound: pained and wretched. He would be embarrassed by his own weakness if he were not too broken to care. Yet it did not seem to matter that he could not find the words. The mattress dipped. An arm slipped beneath his shoulders, supporting his weight as a cup pressed against his lips.

He drank greedily, rivulets running over his chin to collect in the hollow of his throat. Someone bade him to sip, not gulp, and he tried, but his body cried out for the water: feral in its thirst.

His stomach ached and clenched. There was one dizzy, awful moment where he thought he might just expel it all again, but he mastered the urge as he was eased back to the pillows' embrace, lain upon them as if he were something fragile, liable to shatter. His lashes fluttered, his eyelids too heavy to lift, leaving him in the strange, disjointed shadows between dreams and the waking world.

Those hadn't been Gaius' arms cradling him. It had not been the old man's strength raising him up. He did not need his burning, aching eyes to confirm it, not when he could smell the herbs-and-clean-sparks fragrance he knew always clung to Merlin's skin and hair. The perfume nestled in his clothes, too, mixed with laundry soap. It was familiar: comforting in a world that seemed to know only pain, and Arthur's fingers twitched against the blankets, grasping for something that seemed forever out of his reach.

' – delirious, Sire.' Gaius' old voice seemed to come from very far away. He sounded as if he spoke from another world, eerie and lost within the veils. 'The fever must break soon.'

'And if it does not?'

His father. Broken and bloody over the rack of his own guilt. Braced, as always, to rule and rule and rule despite his tragedies. Did he even see a son in the poisoned shell upon the bed, or was it merely an heir failing to live up to his duty? A dynasty in pieces?

'I fear the prince's strength will be spent.'

There was a noise then, a tiny crack of sound that Arthur suspected was a figment of his fevered imagination. Yet when his father spoke again, the strain in his voice was evident.

'Heal him, Gaius. There must be something you can do?'

'I will try everything in my power, Your Majesty.'

'Use any means necessary. Any means. No questions will be asked.'

If Arthur had the strength, he would have laughed at his father's hypocrisy. He knew what the King asked of Gaius. Once again it seemed that, when all else failed, Uther would turn to the magic he reviled. Now, it was not only the poison that burned in Arthur's blood. Rage blazed alongside it. It surged, rising ever higher in the name of those he had seen led to the executioner for no greater crime than trying to save a loved one from the vagaries of fate.

By his own laws, what Uther asked of Gaius was punishable by death, and still, he did not hesitate.

There was a whisper of cloth and the click of a door in its threshold. In its wake, the silence was punctuated only by the crackle of the fire in the grate. Someone shifted nearby, the mattress bobbing like a small boat in a calm harbour.

'Arthur saw you.' Gaius' voice was closer now. 'You're certain?'

'Yes.' That reply contained multitudes in a single word. Merlin should not sound like that – hurting, resigned: a man already condemned. 'He looked right at me. I saw him see.'

'He might not remember.'

'He will.' A hand rested on his brow: long fingers cool against his arid skin. They teased his sweaty hair back from his brow and brushed over the vault of his temples as if he were something fragile to be treasured. 'He'll know I've lied to him all this time about what I am. What I can do.'

Merlin's words hitched, wobbled, broke. A breath stuttered between his lips, crying out for comfort which Arthur was powerless to give. He could not so much as lift a finger, let alone stir himself back to awareness. It was like he was present but not, an unwilling eavesdropper to Merlin's grief.

'Yet you will heal him.' It wasn't really a question. Gaius said it as if he knew that any alternative would be unthinkable. How easy it would be, Arthur thought, for Merlin to do nothing. He could let him slip from life, vanquished by his fever, and take his secret with him. It was no small thing, after all: a death sentence. Perhaps his father had said no questions would be asked, but it did not matter. If Arthur awoke with accusations of sorcery on his lips, Merlin would not be spared.

He wanted to speak, to promise that it would not come to that, but he could not form the words. Only tiny, tight breaths escaped him, broken upon the blade of his pain. He was a prisoner in his own body: a captive in poison's chains.

'Yes.'

'I see.' Gaius sighed, a world-weary sound, full of melancholy. 'I will pack your bag, just in case.'

It took Arthur's tired mind far too long to unravel that statement. It wobbled in and out of the haze of his mind, baffling – until it dawned, cool, crisp and cruel: a winter's daybreak.

Gaius was packing in case Merlin needed to flee. Not from Uther, who would assume the spell was Gaius' work and turn a blind eye, but from Arthur. Until that moment, he had never realised the truth. He had thought Merlin was a permanent fixture in his life. A certainty. Now, there, in fever's haze, he saw that Merlin was instead always on the cusp of leaving. The secret he held was not simply words unsaid. It was a breach waiting to yawn between them. A precipice. A desolation.

Merlin had lived for years in Camelot with one foot always out of the door.

And Arthur ached for him.

'Clǣnsiġe besmitenblod.'

The magic came upon him, as soft as moonlight. It did not blaze and burn, but seeped across his skin, sinking to flow through his veins and nestle in his bones. It captured the sharpest edges of his pain, peeling them back until he was free of their clutches. His fever roiled, then simmered, ebbing in the tiniest of increments as Arthur lay before it: a victim of its ferocity.

Yet, at last, power's cool balm suffused him. The haze lifted and the shadows retreated, and Arthur's mind, exhausted and battered by a battle he could never have won alone, finally cleared.

He opened his eyes, gritty and disgusting, to blink at the canopy of his bed: a splash of crimson that may as well as be as big as the sky. The blankets weighed him down, pinning him to the mattress, and his body panged with the bitter recriminations of flesh that had fought too hard for its own survival.

Merlin still whispered those same, soft words in a language Arthur didn't know, his voice broken with exhaustion and his eyes shining gold between the seam of his lashes.

Arthur twitched, and Merlin blinked himself awake from his reverie. The invisible net of magic that had woven itself through the chamber spun away to nothing, its gossamer fading from Arthur's senses. For a moment, they stared at each other, and Arthur saw the split-second when Merlin's courage – and he would never, ever again call him a coward – abandoned him.

'Don't.' Arthur gritted his teeth against the ache in his arm as he grabbed Merlin's wrist, stopping him before he could turn-tail and flee. Merlin could break away with ease if he tried, but instead, he hesitated, his body turned towards the door but his gaze, familiar blue now, taking in Arthur where he lay. 'Don't go. Please.'

He could feel how Merlin shook beneath the grasp of his fingers: a subtle tremor born of true terror. And how could he blame him? One word from Arthur, and the guards would come running. Merlin's life would be forfeit.

He had magic, and he had used it to save Arthur's life.

And this was not the first time.

'Merlin, please.'

Maybe it was that last word that did it. After all, Arthur rarely bothered with his manners outside of court. He was a prince, and he was to be obeyed. His father would be appalled to hear him almost begging a servant, and yet the words fled Arthur anyway, desperate and hollow. A strange dread had awoken in his chest, one that told him that if Merlin ran now, then he would never see him again – he would never get the chance to explain, or to listen, or to thank him.

'You should rest,' Merlin rasped, his grief like a bruise upon his voice. Any other man of Arthur's acquaintance would try to hide their feelings, but Merlin had never been one to bother with that. Not once in all the time Arthur had known him. He wore his heart on his sleeve, and it meant every emotion was there for Arthur to witness: guilt and terror, remorse and heartbreak. Yet beneath that, there was relief, as if some huge burden had been shed.

Cautious, Arthur increased the pressure of his grip, no longer merely hanging on to Merlin's arm, but tugging him towards the bed. He did not have the strength to sit up and face this. The aches careening through him warned him to not even make the attempt. Yet nor could he do it at this distance, held at remove. He needed to see Merlin, cast not just in the stark shadows and highlights of the fire, but right at his side.

'Come here?'

'I don't think –'

'I won't hurt you. I would – I would never hurt you.' Arthur swallowed hard, putting as much of his certainty into his gaze as possible. 'Magic or not.'

There. Confirmation, not accusation – but important all the same. In many ways it would be so much easier to pretend it never happened - to feign ignorance and let things carry on the same, but he couldn't do that. He did not want to do that. There, on the fading cusp of fever and delirium, all Arthur cared about was the man at his side. He wanted to know him, all of him, everything he put on display and all that he kept hidden.

That would never be possible if they couldn't face the truth.

He saw the moment of Merlin's collapse, saw it in the sway of his body and the tears threatening to spill over his lashes. It was no swoon. Rather, it was a body sacrificing all its strength beneath the flood of its own emotion. Merlin sagged to sit on the bed as if he couldn't stand a moment longer, his shoulders rounded and his head bent, one hand pressed to his mouth to stifle to the sob that threatened to tear itself free.

'I'm sorry.' It sounded as if it was punched from him, little more than a breath given shape in a scatter of syllables. 'I wanted to tell you, but –'

But his father was the bloody tyrant of Camelot, and Arthur had been taught his whole life to hate magic.

Arthur shook his head, stifling a grunt of pain as he plucked at Merlin's sleeve, tugging at him, nudging and pulling and shoving with all the pathetic tatters of his own strength until Merlin seemed to get the message.

He hesitated for a moment, indecision flickering over his tear-stained face before he sagged down to lie in the empty space at Arthur's left side. He did so on top of the covers, chaste and acceptable, though something in Arthur despised even that much distance. He had a feral urge to wrap Merlin in his arms and make sure he didn't slip away in the night. He still looked wary – a horse about to bolt – and Arthur scrambled through his sluggish mind for the right words to rein him in.

'You saved me.' He wet his lips, rolling on his side so they were facing each other, the space between them intimate and warm. They were like a pair of brackets, their knees knocking, and Merlin's hands clasped in the blankets. 'More than once, I suspect.'

He reached out, cautious, at first insinuating only his smallest finger into the lax curl of Merlin's grasp. Yet it was the leading force in a battalion. The others soon followed, until he was holding Merlin's hand in earnest, his fingertips exploring familiar calluses and the spaces between, the sharp angle of his knuckles and the occasional scar that painted his skin. It was easy to see, in retrospect, how wilfully blind he had been. Now, through the lens of magic, he could see the truth of so much of his good fortune.

'You saved me even though it would have been far safer to let me die.'

Merlin shook his head, and Arthur smothered a smile to see the gaze behind those spiky, wet lashes spark with outrage. Yet he didn't give Merlin a chance to speak. Instead, he squeezed his hand, ushering him back to silence with a simple pair of words.

'Thank you.'

A shivering breath whispered past Merlin's lips as he released it, closing his eyes for a moment and shaking his head against the pillow. 'You aren't... angry?'

Arthur pulled a face at that. He was. He suspected he would be, anyway, once his strength had returned and the full measure of all this had sunk in, though possibly not for the reasons Merlin assumed.

It stung that he had lied, but Arthur could not honestly say he would have done any differently in his place. Not considering how much was at stake. Instead, his anger frothed and simmered around the notion of Merlin taking one look at Camelot – at all its rules and risks – and deciding to use magic anyway. As if he thought anyone, anywhere, was worth the cost of his own life!

'A bit,' Arthur acknowledged at last, knowing that Merlin would catch him out in a lie. The truth was written all over his face, after all. He was too weak and spent for royal masks now. 'Later, maybe a lot, but Merlin, not enough to – to condemn you. Not enough to make you leave.' His voice cracked on that last word, thinning to almost nothing at the thought of him gone from Arthur's life, never to return.

In his youth, he had imagined capturing a sorcerer in Camelot. He had envisioned the adoration of his people and his father's pride as the fiend was dealt with. They were childish fantasies, of course, and he had grown out of them some time ago. Now, all he could think of was the need to protect Merlin, to keep his secret and hold it close, away from the prying eyes of his father and anyone else who would see him burn.

'Stay?' The word slipped out of him, small and hopeless, painfully young even to his own ears. Part of him felt he had no right to ask it of him. How could he, when every day Merlin lingered here, he risked his life merely by existing. Yet nor could he hold it back.

'I'm right here, Arthur.'

'I don't just mean now. I mean – the bag Gaius is packing for you.' He let his eyes roved over Merlin's face, the slant of his brow and the sharpness of his cheekbones, the pink of those full lips and the scatter of stubble across Merlin's jaw that suggested the depths of his vigil.

'You heard that?'

'I heard everything, including what my father said. He is – his hypocrisy is...' Arthur trailed off, unable to speak of it. It sickened him right down to his bones, and he forced himself to push it aside. This was not about his father, not really. This was about him and Merlin. He could not expect Merlin to peel aside all the shadows of his secrecy with nothing offered in return, and he tightened his grip anew, drawing his hand towards him as he made his promise.

'I will never let him hurt you, and I will never be like him.'

Perhaps it was the lingering veils of fever's ebb that dismissed his caution. Maybe it was simply that he was too tired to hold back his natural inclination, but the brush of his lips over Merlin's knuckles, soft and sure, sealed his vow.

He heard the catch in Merlin's breath and saw the hope – desperate and wild – that flared in his gaze. Yet there was belief there, too. Whatever else Merlin thought of him, whatever fears he harboured, he did not doubt him, and Arthur's heart swooped and thrilled in his chest to see it.

That was a sensation that intensified a thousand-fold when Merlin shifted closer, bowing his head over their joined hands and brushing his lips against Arthur's fingers. 'It's for you, Arthur. My magic, I mean, and I will never allow it to be used against you or your kingdom. I swear it.'

Arthur's throat clicked as he swallowed, feeling the noose of uncertainty loosen around his neck. He had not wanted to give credence to that subtle fear, and yet he could not deny it had pressed its mantle across his back. Yet in Merlin's eyes he saw the truth of what he said: loyalty and devotion on unapologetic display, irrefutable.

There would be time, later, to plumb the full depths of Merlin's secret. There would be the opportunity to learn all that he had done in Arthur's name, the good and the bad, but in that hallowed moment, they built the foundation of something new between them. It was writ in soft, shared breaths and the press of Merlin's brow against his own. It wove around them in the warm air and eased aside the aches in Arthur's muscles.

It began then, not with a kiss – which would come a little over a week later, hot and desperate and all Arthur had ever craved – but with two oaths shared, as solemn and certain as a hand-fasting.

And those were promises they would keep, day-by day and year-on-year, as Merlin led Arthur into the brightness of that promised golden age.

#Merlin #Merthur #Happy Ending

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hcdragonwrites · 2 years ago

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Letters (a @journey-to-the-au Drabble)

I made another thing (yeah I couldn’t help myself but this one is shorter I think. I hope you like it!) I just. Brain fire.

Inspired by <a href="https://www.tumblr.com/journey-to-the-au/722003448742248448/may-we-hear-about-the-yaogui-attack-0-apologies" >This Post </a>

(Also I suck at linking things I’m so sorry.)

Liu crossed out the line on the parchment before him, splashing ink onto the stone beneath his feet in an frustrated spray.

“No that doesn’t sound right either!” He gritted his teeth, growing frustrated. General Liu, one of the Four great Generals of Flower- Fruit mountain and friend to its King Sun Wukong, had a dilemma.

He set the brush down, still getting used to holding it in his hands. Wukong makes this look so easy! But things of the unmonkey nature came easily to Wukong- how could they not ? He had mastered the mysterious arts that had given him such power, had defeated the demon who had first claimed Water- Curtain Cave in his absence (and more beside.) Wukong had walked among the men of the world and had claimed treasure from dragons.

Wukong would be able to hold a brush with ease and write words with a steady hand. The general tugged at his fur and looked about himself. Rolls of parchment lay about him like discarded rinds of watermelons. All the failed attempts to transcribe what his heart was trying to speak. He tugged more, hairs coming free.

When Wukong spoke of his experience in the world abroad their mountain, he had mentioned how the important people within that strange world of mortals and immortals would communicate through scrolls and parchment.

“It was too quiet at times for my liking!” He reminisced once, splashing some wine as he gesticulated upon his throne. “What silence! What needed to be written that couldn’t be communicated with a clear voice?” He would then call for one of the troop of his subjects to retell a story, for Wukong loved the telling of a yarn through voice and act.

Liu had understood why one would want words written down however. The things he wanted to say- to tell- either fled him like mist before the sun or stuck in his throat like a peach stone. The Marshal scratched behind his ear, brushing the notched edge and remembering. Remembering her.

Rin Rin.

Liu had never been one for such deep hesitation as he was now. In all the Aolai country, among and betwixt the unicorns and the phoenixes who preened and called themselves the most beautiful, where the leopards and the tigers roamed and boasted their own majesty, Liu had faced all that threatened his home with bravery. He loved this mountain, from every blade of grass to every luminous stone deep in Water-Curtain Cave. He thought none of the beasts or birds or celestial bodies in Heaven was more beautiful than his home.

Except Her.

He wanted to tell her. Tell Rin Rin how she rivaled all the clouds in heaven for her softness. How no flower could compare to her eyes and how they shined like the sea when the sun hit it. Her smile could make the trees cry and her anger could chase the stripes off a tiger.

Liu was afraid. Not afraid of her. Afraid to miss this opportunity! His tail lashed and sent a bit of paper skittering over the stone floor, knocking into several stone bowls of almonds.

The mountain was a paradise. The waterfall that crashed beyond, the pine forests that dotted the slopes where their needles spiced the air. He had faced tigers and demons, fought and thrown himself into situation after situation of danger without a second thought for himself.

Now he was hesitant. He acted as he had on that day Wukong had found Water- Curtain cave: hesitant. Marshal Liu had not been hesitant since that time- so why had he returned to this state ?

Liu looked down at the paper and groaned.

“I just want to tell her how beautiful she is…”

Steps approached from outside Liu’s room.

“So this is where you’ve been!” Wukong called, stepping into the room with a frown on his face. “I have been waiting for you in the Throne room for hours! Sentries have spotted what look to be the makings of a camp. We have a troop of creatures lurking in the shadow of our mountain and I need my Generals— what is all this stuff ?”

Liu didn’t bother to cover up his failings- he just lay his head on the stone table and glared at the brush.

“You only called for a meeting a few minutes ago, my king.” He replied from the table.

“Minutes- hours. It has been too long! What have you been up to in here?”Wukong picked up a paper scroll, the feathered crown on his head bobbing.

“You are as pretty as a … hmm. You never finished this one Liu!”

Liu moved his face to flatten into the stone table, feeling his cheeks burn and his ears itch. Of course my king would start reading them.

Shuffling paper noises sounded again as Wukong picked another scroll up.

“My heart becomes a candle when you are near—“ he frowned. “You crossed out the rest in a mess of black.”

Liu wished he could dissolve into the stone.

“You smell as sweet as a magnolia flower- your eyes are the shape of stars —“

“Please My King.” He begged. “Spare me.”

“You wrote them Liu! I am only reading.”

“And I ask for mercy, please.”

“Seems you’ve had trouble finishing whatever you were trying to say.” Mused the Sage.

“None of the words formed well enough on the paper.” Marshal Liu sighed. There came a shuffle and a brush beside him. He lifted his head to see Wukong had crossed his legs beside him, a shoulder companionably against Lius. The Monkey King twirled the brush between his fingers, unrolling a new scroll of parchment.

“If I help you Write your love poem to Rin, Will you stop mooning so sadly ?” Wukong cocked a brow at his general, side eyeing him in a way only a friend could.

Marshal Liu felt his pride pricked, just a bit. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Liu- you have been my friend for countless years. Longer than most monkeys usually live.” Wukong dipped the brush into the inkwell, checking the ink stone and grimacing at its diminished size. “I know you from the tips of your ears to the ends of your fur. We have fought and bled side by side. You may be a master at strategy and planning but. My friend.”

Wukong turned his whole face to stare at Liu. “You suck at hiding how in love you are with Rin Rin.”

The Marshal sat up, opened his mouth to defend, to deflect —

Wukong, Great Sage Equal to Heaven, waited. His face set in a neutral and very are you really going to argue with me? expression.

Liu closed his mouth, tugged at his fur and set his chin on the stone table. “She makes me feel so—-“

“Mhm.”

“She’s so—!”

“Mhm…”

“I just can’t get the words out!” The Marshal admitted finally. “Each time I start to tell her, I freeze. I’ve tried so many times!”

When Rin and He had shared a sweet patch of strawberries he had tried to say how he loved her.

When Rin had been tending to a scratch on his face, chiding and reprimanding him for his recklessness again. Her anger had made him want to hold her and reassure her that he was fine.

When they had decided to stay out late, tails curled together as they counted the stars. Liu had wanted to compare her to each one.

And each of these times his words had either fled him or had refused to come out.

“And you thought to write them out because they keep getting stuck.”

Liu nodded.

“Give me the words and I’ll write them down.” Wukong set the tip, ready. “If I write this for you, then will come and put your mind back to keeping our mountain safe?”

Guilt itched beneath his fur. “My King i'm sorry—“

A affectionate rub of Wukongs head against his own shut the general up as the king tugged at his ear in play.

“Liu. I may not understand the power of what you are feeling,” Wukong cut off, tail thumping against the Marshals “but that doesn’t mean your feelings aren’t important. And … seeing you so distressed makes me distressed. I can help my friend in this simple task at least.”

Liu felt a warmth well from him. For all his Kings boasting and prideful proclamations, Wukong cared for each of his subjects - even in the face of his incomprehension. He would do what he could to ease his friends, his subjects, his families struggles. Wukong began to write as Liu began to speak, his face warm and his hands slowly beginning uncurl from his fur.

After just an hour with Wukongs transcribing and Liu describing, the confession was complete. Liu clutched the scroll and strapped it to his side.

He had been able to attend the Council with a lighter heart and a smile on his face. The discussion and the plans to increase patrols along the pine forest to the west of Flower Fruit Mountain had been unanimously agreed upon as the troubling information came to light.

The scouts' reports had indicated that there had been activity - a half made campfire kicked over and cold with bones from what looked like a small deer- not a few leaps and bounds from the slopes. Liu had frowned at the description of the tracks- five footed, fur and the scent of musk in the air. Another band of Monkeys … but they seem to be scouting us as well.

When Liu had this brought to attention, an immediate patrol had been sent out to gain more information on how many may be circling their home. The unspoken kept being danced around but all in that council chamber had a suspicion. Demon Monkeys….

Until they knew further who and what they were facing, Wukong wouldn’t risk a war troop to prowl the nearby hills and leave the rest of his family and people exposed.

Liu had a bit of time beneath the growing moon of night to find Rin Rin now. Before his nerves left him. Wukongs handwriting had made the words look better, flow better, feel better to the Marshals eyes. His King had sat through his flowery language, and had written it all diligently if with a little bit of snorting at times. (“Don’t compare her to pine nuts!” “But she smells of the pines and the wood and everything I love!” “…. But pine nuts ?”)

If his words failed him, Liu had them written down. If they stuck in his throat, he could pull them apart with the help of his letter. His heart was thumping, his fur was sticking out a bit as electric nerves rolled on his skin. Liu was in full armor having come from council, and it jangled softly in the night air. But it was a comforting jangle- a separate staccato rhythm against his body.

As the moon rose outside of Water-Curtain Cave casting the spray in silver light, Liu gazed out. Some other monkeys mingled in the cooling air enjoying the clear night. Tending to loved ones by either grooming fur, sharing ripening fruits from the many orchards across the vast mountain, or cuddling down in the soft grasses to gaze upward. Liu greeted each in turn, butting heads or brushing hands. Pride welled in him, making Liu stand taller. This was his home- his family. The peace they lived in was hard won and protected by their King and his Marshals- and that peace was precious.

A small bundle of babes shot past, one carrying a lychee fruit as a prize to be kept from the others. A pair of older simians gazed into the waters of the pool, leaning into each other. Liu would fight a thousand demons, all the celestial beings in the world, to keep this peace. He would tame dragons and pull the moon down from its boughs in Heaven to preserve this peace.

Liu turned, green eyes seeking. There, just beneath the pomegranate tree overlooking a mossy spray of water, he spotted the cloud gray of Rin Rin. Even in the shadow of the tree he could see her moon flower perched behind her ear, the fur perfectly groomed in wonderous swirls. He wished he had a bouquet of moonflowers to bring her or a cup of tea to present to her. He wanted to come bearing gifts and to tend and tidy her hair and weave flowers throughout it.

He came bearing his heart instead.

Said heart thumped against his chest. Steady Liu.

Liu took a moment to groom his finger through his fur, his tail, and to dust at his armor. He grabbed at a small patch of pine needles, snapping them between fingers and briefly rubbing the tips over his fur. He wanted to look his best to smell his best to be his best.

Then, gathering himself and tapping the scroll's top at his hip, Liu straightened and stepped forward.

He would tell her how much she meant to him. He would show her how much she was worth to him- between the words he had been able to wrangle and place onto a page.

Liu would never get the chance to unwind that scroll however. The night air that had been full of gentle chatter and warm conversation was broken by screams as the mountain's peace was shattered into a thousand screams of fury and fear rang off the mountain.

#hcwrites #writing stuff #I Hope you like it !#this was a bit more difficult because I kept looking at RinRin and Liu art of him giving her his cape flower #like. it kept melting my heart #very dialogue heavy #Marshal Liu is a boy with heart eyes for only one girl #rin rin #jttw au #jttw monkey king #for journey to the au #this one may not be my best only because I wanted to write more but I didn’t want to imped on what was already created #I Like filling in the blanks inbetween because it’s fun to make connections #drabble stuff #I may have made Liu a bit too obsessed with pine needles #had to pull down my big old Journey to the West book to see how many fruits and details they list for Flower fruit mountain #THEY HAVE A LOT OF FRUIT WTF I DONT REMEMBER IT FROM THE FIRST TIME READING #but again that was years ago #I’m reading a shorter version and then will be diving into that four book translation #this was fun to write because I was able to take from the book itself to give dimension to the mountain #I love adding dimension and culture to writing it jsut makes me want to go there and see and touch and feel and smell everything #if you need me to edit anything I can do it though! like if I didn’t get yer boy right I don’t mind fixing it !#hcfanfics

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amaurotine-daydreaming · 5 months ago

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Orbital (Prompt 9 - Lend An Ear)

It was Menphina who had told the Watcher that, as Hydaelyn, Venat had become in every sense the many-splendored jewel he had always imagined: bright, sparkling, and with countless facets.

He wondered the ways in which Venat might have changed over so many millennia. From his balcony, he could see her, the living embodiment of Etheirys, but couldn’t speak to her. Couldn’t reach her.

---

It could be so very quiet without the voices of others.

Not unlike the archives at Akadaemia Anyder, the Watcher supposed. The great expanse reminded him of its empty, cavernous halls once the last lamp had been extinguished for the evening: Vast and silent.

Most sound did not travel between the stars, he had learned. But Hydaelyn had woven across the moon breathable air, and the Loporrits maintained its flow even as they slumbered on, and the resulting ambience gave him some semblance of company.

Aye, as a phantom his footfalls made no noise, his robes did not rustle while they moved…but there was the timepiece in his palace, thudding a low, steady heartbeat. There was the skittering of lunar debris and moon dust as winds swept across this land’s pockmarked surface. The pylons, when he did his rounds to examine their integrity, crackled with levin. Zodiark’s prison hummed.

The Watcher had been gifted with endless patience, and so these little things were enough; but the memories granted to him told of a man who enjoyed stimulating conversation. He remembered many evenings where his conversations with Venat would last late into the night…

He would gladly bend his ear to her should she ever need it, both then and now.

Alas, so rarely did she speak to him now that she was Hydaelyn, her own duty calling on her to devote most of her energy to communing with her chosen. Those cherished instances he had with her had been made only fewer as the Ascians marshaled their schemes with ever more brazenness.

He would not have minded being one of her Warriors of Light.

But he had his place. Hydaelyn had granted his entreaty to serve as her ever-watchful eyes over Zodiark, and this solemn vigil he would always honor.

The doors to his palace banged open. An excited barking, a scrabbling of claws on tile, and then all at once the Watcher had a very large, very affectionate dog putting his paws up on his lap.

The Watcher cocked his head in welcome. “Hello, Dalamud.”

“Dal! Dal, down! Heavens….”

In Dalamud’s wake came the hound’s mistress Menphina, both bubbly and chiding.

Dalamud reluctantly took his paws off the Watcher and sat at the shade’s feet with a heavy thump. Somewhat on his feet, truth be told, but pain was not a sensation that troubled the Watcher as a shade. Even if it had, it would be a feeling much diluted…

The Watcher knew that not all of his shards survived. Some had been consigned to oblivion by the Rejoinings, another had violently met its end at the point of a voidsent’s sword.

How Hydaelyn had wept for these lost worlds, and for him.

The Watcher scratched behind one of Dalamud’s ears, right at the base. Back and forth went the great hound’s tail in wide happy swishes.

It was Menphina who had told the Watcher that, as Hydaelyn, Venat had become in every sense the many-splendored jewel he had always imagined: bright, sparkling, and with countless facets.

He wondered the ways in which she might have changed over so many millennia. No doubt more brilliant facets had been etched into her. From his balcony, he could see her, the living embodiment of Etheirys, but couldn’t speak to her. Couldn’t reach her.

Menphina, goddess of the moon where the Watcher made his home, was not thusly bound. Menphina, who enjoyed visiting when she could; they had known one another in their lives before this one, after all.

Menphina, who knew men’s hearts…including his own. She always hearkened to those in need of a sympathetic ear, especially those hearts that were plagued with love and yearning.

While Hydaelyn had spared the Watcher some discomforts, emotions - good and ill - were essential to faithful stewardship of those on Etheirys. To ever remember what it was to be mortal.

Dalamud lifted a paw, and Menphina took her seat upon it. She buried her hands in her companion’s ashen fur and leaned against him, looking up at the Watcher with sympathetic affection.

“Tell me what troubles you, dearheart.”

And so the Watcher spoke, and Menphina listened.

#ffxiv #ffxivwrite #ffxiv fanfiction #ffxivwrite2024 #the watcher ffxiv #menphina #dalamud #one sided watcher/venat

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paleo-vodka · 15 days ago

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i gave up

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scp-ao3-author · 6 months ago

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I made an SCP Server

I specifically wanted a discord where I could hold friends and ping/discuss fics together with other people.

I unfortunately do not want to get involved with drama or issues so to resolve this bit I had careful conversations with others to determine the best course of action, and took it.

Some server Features:

One of my more long term goals is to include more SCP 963 rewrites into the group, though my one requirement is they follow a majority of Daisy's list on rewriting SCP 963. If this were to happen, then I could include pings for discussing the rewrites or for fanart/etc. (please don't use bright in my server)

roles

these are pings for popular AO3 fics that are still actively being worked on or pings for discussing the stories and headcanons for characters. the same applies to ships, and more are allowed to be requested.

Request-a-Fic

if you are someone with niche tastes, or want to see more of your favorite guy, you can include your favorite little blorbo here to request writing. (i see you skitter marshall fans)

if nobody responds with a fic, I will inevitably get around to it. that is a threat /silly

like what you see? join!

just.. please be responsible and try not to cause problems ;;

#adsog #scp fanfiction

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mcd-incorrect-quotes · 1 year ago

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i am pretty sure that the inheritors are characterised in a certain way for a reason

i was rereading skitter's tale and i noticed this

i initially thought oh thats nice i wonder what the others got and uh

well okay then, glad to know ruprecht has such high expectations for his inheritor, lets see what per-

uh...

honestly if the first message that someone who had disappeared from the world had sent in presumably decades was to his inheritor, then you'd definitely expect iris to be meant for something more.

in conclusion, the mcd inheritors had always had a specific role. skitter as a replacement, robert as a formality, and iris as an heiress of percy's knowledge. ngl i think robert's the worst off in terms of character, he's just there to be there. the only time he gets used is in his own tale, nexus hyperline, and third law. that's. that's fucking depressing to a reader. but ay, what can you really do with someone who's kind of a gag that's jus reaping the benefits of being one of the most powerful men in the world?

#mc&d #mcd #marshall carter & dark #marshall carter and dark #scp #scp fandom #iris dark #robert carter #skitter marshall

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jac-is-procrastinating-again · 1 year ago

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The fan fic is up, finally! And this first chapter you already know, but here’s Crowley’s POV….

- - -

Chapter 1- Crowley

“He said what??” Crowley could hardly speak and when he did his voice was hard and raspy.

Aziraphale’s face shone; he’d never seen him so ecstatic. “He said I could appoint you to be an angel—to come back to Heaven, and—and everything!”

Crowley stared, and the words died in his mouth.

“Like the old times—only even nicer !” Aziraphale laughed in his excitement.

“Right.” Crowley could not process the words for a moment. Heaven had taken notice of them at last; the Metatron had turned his gaze on them, and the master manipulator had set his trap with a bait so delectable that Aziraphale was blind to the threat that lay behind it The demon rallied himself. “And you told him just where he could stick it, then?”

Aziraphale’s smile faltered slightly, uncomprehending. “Not at all.”

Crowley bared his teeth. “Oh we’re better than that, you’re better than that, angel. We don’t need them. I certainly don’t need them!” Heaven would never take him back. Even if God would forgive him, he was not sure if he could ever forgive God. Anger flared up his spine like hellfire, and he exploded into furious pacing. “Look, they asked me back to Hell and I said no. I’m not gonna be rejoining their team and neither should you!”

But the angel’s face was painted with surprise and confusion. “Well obviously you said no to Hell, you’re the bad guys,” Aziraphale went on as if Crowley’s world were not crumbling about him. “But Heaven—Well, it’s the side of truth! Of, of light.” Aziraphale gestured even more widely, as if his point were so obvious that it needed explaining in small words. “Of Good .”

Of Good ? How could he be so blind? Those self-righteous bastards had sent a million angels’ eternal souls to Hell way back before most ways to sin had even been invented! They’d never allowed him to sully their hallowed halls now he’d sinned so much more. He scraped together the control to speak, biting each word off sharply. “When Heaven ends life here on Earth, it will be just as dead as if Hell ended it.”

But it made no difference. Aziraphale just stood there, his face a picture of confusion and hurt.

Fear prickled at the back of Crowley’s eyes. “Tell me you said no.”

Aziraphale’s breaths came quicker, and he glanced away like a cornered mouse.

Crowley’s chest was so tight he could hardly breathe. “ Tell me you said no…!” It came out like a demand but it felt like a plea. Don’t go where I can't follow!

Aziraphale’s troubled face eased as a thought struck him. “If I’m in charge, I can make a difference.”

The idiot! He thought he could still make things right. Six thousand years of humanity and his beautiful optimism was barely tarnished. He was going to walk right into danger. He had no idea what Heaven was capable of, none! Crowley had avoided sleep for a thousand years because of the nightmares, and that heady terror bubbled up inside him again.

“Ohhh.” He turned away again, as if he could run back to that fragile, beautiful life they’d shared here before Gabriel had turned up. In six millennia Crowley hadn’t managed to persuade Aziraphale that Heaven was anything but good. There was only one last chance to keep him away from them. “Oh God. Okay. Right.” It was the most terrifying prospect since The Fall, but he had to try.

“Right, I didn’t get a chance to say what I was going to say, and I think I better say it now. Right. Okay. Yes. So.” Adrenaline coursed through the demon’s body. He started to step towards Aziraphale, thought better of it, stopped. The angel still didn’t understand, but the hurt on his face spurred Crowley on. He tried to marshal his thoughts but they skittered about, just out of reach. The risk of getting it wrong made his throat constrict, but if he didn’t do it now, he never would.

Crowley cleared his throat. “We’ve known each other a long time. I mean, we’ve been on this planet for a long time, you and me…” He swallowed. “I could always rely on you. You could always rely on me. We’re a team, a group. A group of the two of us.”

Aziraphale glanced towards the door, panic written across his face, but Crowley didn’t care who heard so long as Aziraphale did.

“And we’ve spent our existence pretending that we aren’t.” Crowley looked away and swallowed, trying to clear the prickle at the back of his eyes. “I mean, the last few years, not really—". The words would only come to him in fractured phrases, but he kept going. “And I would like to spend—” I would like to spend all eternity with you. That truth came to him in the moment he spoke and it was too big to put into words unprepared. He looked away, blinked, cleared his throat.

“I mean, if Gabriel and Beelzebub can do it—can go off together—” He forced himself to keep speaking. “Then we can. Just the two of us.” He’d tried to persuade the angel to come with him before, but somehow this time was different; not running away but to .

Aziraphale’s eyes narrowed. It spurred Crowley to fight harder, words starting to pour out of him. “We don’t need Heaven. We don’t need Hell. They’re toxic.” The angel was shaking his head but Crowley couldn’t stop. “We need to get away from them. Just—be an us .” Crowley shut his eyes for a moment so he couldn’t see the angel’s denial, and fought for a casual tone. “Come on, you and me, what do you say?”

Aziraphale closed the gap between them, reaching out for Crowley’s arm, his face etched with pain. “Come with me —to Heaven. I’ll run it, you can be my second in command. We can make a difference!”

Crowley searched Aziraphale’s face, looking for some way to make him listen. Even if not Alpha Centauri, he’d take whatever he could get. “You can’t leave–” Everything we could have. Our life here. Me. “This bookshop.” The tears were rising now, the taste of salt in his mouth.

Aziraphale’s face softened, and moisture glinted in his eyes. “Oh Crowley. Nothing lasts forever.”

Not the universe. Not the bookshop. Not you. Whatever Crowley had expected, it wasn’t that. He took a deep breath and tipped his head back, looking upwards, but his eyes were brimming. “No.” He reached for his shades, hiding behind the darkened glass. “No, I don’t suppose it does.”

Of course. Obvious really. What a fool he was, to think an Angel would give up Heaven for a demon.

Well, not this demon. Gabriel and Beelzebub’s escape had made him hope, foolishly, that Aziraphale might consider it too. But Crowley couldn’t compete with Heaven. At some level, he’d always known that Aziraphale would never choose him over it. But he’d tried anyway. He’d dropped all pretence and begged. Hope was not enough, and neither was he.

“Good luck.” He straightened his shoulders, summoned the shreds of his devil-may-care attitude and walked towards the door.

“Good luck ? Crowley!” Aziraphale caught at his sleeve and missed. “Come back! To Heaven!”

Crowley paused, the words jagging in his heart like rusty nails.

“Work—with me !” Aziraphale begged.

Crowley stared blindly ahead, working to keep his expression stony.

“We can work together. Angels —doing good. I—I need you!”

That hurt. He’d never denied the angel anything he really needed, not since the Fall. But this time, he couldn’t give in, though it was excruciating to deny him.

“I—I don’t think you understand what I’m offering you.” Aziraphale’s words hung in the air, and he couldn’t let that pass.

“Oh, I understand.” Crowley sighed. “I think I understand a whole lot better than you do.” There was more to it than the angel could possibly know, or than Crowley could tell him. The Metatron had tailored this split with a Master’s deftness.

Aziraphale crushed down his distress with a brief nod and a smile that did not reach his eyes. “Well. Then there’s nothing more to say.” He was trying to put on his polite business face, but not managing.

Crowley searched for a way to get through to him. There was none. But he couldn’t just walk away, even now. “Listen.” He pointed upwards. “Do you hear that?”

“I don’t hear anything.” The angel was near tears; Crowley could hear it in his voice. It hurt.

“That’s the point,” he rasped. “No nightingales.”

Aziraphale pressed his lips together and looked away.

“You idiot. We could have been us .” He meant to go, but his steps took him over to Aziraphale. Crowley grabbed his love’s lapels, pulled him close and kissed him, hard and angry and desperate.

Aziraphale stiffened. His hands came up and caught at Crowley’s shoulders; for one excruciating nanosecond, hope seared across the demon’s heart. But almost immediately the angel’s hands fell away, and his whole body cried distress.

Despair flooded through Crowley. It had all gone wrong. With an effort, he made himself unclench his fists to release the angel.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this!

Aziraphale pushed away from him and stumbled backwards, catching his balance awkwardly. He was almost sobbing; it was a few seconds before his sobs turned to hard gasps, his eyes were wide and full of tears. He opened his mouth as if to speak, but at first no words came out. When they did, they stabbed like daggers. “I–I forgive you.”

Crowley straightened his shades. “Don’t bother.” He strode out.

The Metatron was loitering outside, not far from Muriel. Crowley barely saw him. Blindly, he made his way across the road to the Bentley. As he caught himself on the car, he was hit by a wave of love from it; his knees buckled and he had to lean against the Bentley to stay upright.

The car offered what comfort it could. It was worried about him, but also about Aziraphale. It wanted them to be together.

“I tried, you know?” He blinked hard. “I really… I tried. But it went so badly wrong.” He watched Muriel waving through the bookshop window at the others inside as they moved towards the door.

He couldn’t stop thinking about the kiss. In his desperation he’d been brutal, almost coercive, to the person he loved more than the world. It was horrible. Crowley didn’t give a toss what Heaven thought was right or wrong, but this time he had sinned against love.

Aziraphale’s first reaction to most things was to say “I forgive you,”—it always had been—but this time Crowley wasn’t sure he believed it. And he certainly didn’t deserve it.

He scrubbed away a drop of water on the slick paintwork. However long it took, he’d find a way to apologise. He’d screwed up big time, there was no getting away from that, but they had six thousand years of friendship behind them; eventually, Aziraphale would give him the opportunity to make amends. And Crowley intended to start trying before the wrongness had time to really bite.

As soon as the Metatron had gone, he’d go back into the bookshop and try again. There was that bottle of Chateauneauf du Pape he’d hidden in the dictionary section. They always talked better with a glass in hand. Maybe that would help, to get astoundingly drunk and try to talk it out. The apology dance isn’t gonna do it this time though.

There was movement inside the bookshop. Crowley waited.

The Metatron came out. Aziraphale followed, wearing the wide smile that he used to pretend that all was well when it really, really wasn’t. The Metatron led him across the way to the doors of the Dirty Donkey, currently in use as the lift to Heaven. His voice was pitched to carry, even amongst the hustle and bustle of the Soho street. “Well, I can’t think of a better angel to wrap things up, and to set into motion the next steps of the Great Plan.”

Wrap things up? Crowley’s stomach lurched with dismay.

“Um, yes, you mentioned that.” Aziraphale hesitated. “Can I know what it is?

The Metatron leaned in confidentially. “It’s something we need an angel of your talents to direct, an angel who is familiar with how they do things on Earth.”

Aziraphale preened a little; if Crowley hadn’t been so heartsick, it would have made him smile.

“We call it—”

Crowley didn’t hear the rest as The Metatron turned away, but Aziraphale’s face froze. He sent a worried glance back at Crowley.

Trouble. Crowley watched more closely. The Metatron was in the lift, standing by the buttons. Aziraphale’s whole stance spoke of reluctance, but when the Metatron gave him an imperious look, Aziraphale joined him there.

“No!” Crowley gasped, but it was too late. Aziraphale was barely inside the doors before the Metatron hit the Heaven button and relaxed against the wall with a knowing little smirk. Crowley caught a second’s flash of Aziraphale’s gaze; worried, a plea for understanding, even. But before Crowley could work out what it meant, the doors slammed shut between them and the lift was gone.

He stared like a fool. Aziraphale had made his choice without knowing what dangers threatened him. The Metatron had taken him far beyond Crowley’s reach, alone in a Heaven full of enemies, and there was nothing he could do about it. He leaned on the car, which was trembling too.

In the shop behind him, Nina was serving coffee. He glanced her way and she waved at him. All that time, he and his angel had been meddling in their friends’ love-lives, and neglecting their own… And there was Maggie, sleeping with her head on her counter. The two of them would have the chance to sort it out, spend their lives together. To be an us…

Crowley’s head was loud with static. He should go lock up the shop; but the place was all wrong without Aziraphale and he could hardly bear to look at it. His heart bounded in his throat, choking him. He had to get away.

He got in the car. What the Hell was he going to do now? Aziraphale was in trouble, but it was a trap set for them both. He’d slipped into Heaven once with Muriel, but they’d be looking for him now. And even if he could’ve gone, would Aziraphale even want to see him? That kiss… it had been everything that was wrong.

The car disagreed; Aziraphale loved him. They would fix it. The radio clicked on. “A nightingale sang in Berkeley Square,” it murmured.

He turned the button off.

As Muriel stepped into the bookshop, Crowley took the wheel and pulled away from the kerb, and the Bentley drove off, sombre as a hearse.

—-

Find the next couple of chapters here: the other 34 are written and just waiting for upload…

#good omens fanfic #good omens #ineffable idiots #ineffable husbands #crowley #good omens 2 #good omens 2 spoilers #good omens season 2 #good omens s3 #good omens fix it #aziraphale #bentley

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