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themurphyzone · 3 years ago

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PatB: If I Can’t Love Him Ch 3

AN: I'm going to take a break from Nova and finish this fic. It's been 2 months since I last updated this anyway.

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Ch 3: No Lesson Could Teach Me

The Beast's head throbbed like someone was repeatedly bashing his skull in with a hammer. Something cold and wet was wrapped around his right arm, which throbbed even more than his head. His front was exposed to wind and cold, his back against soft leather.

He swayed from side to side, and a gentle hand pushed his shoulders so he didn’t lean too much in one direction.

It was a strange touch, gentle and strong and graceful and frightening all at once. He didn't want the mouse touching him.

Only infants and young children required physical contact. Not someone of his royal station, and certainly not beasts.

Why save him? The mouse...no, his name was Pinky. It was the only thing he remembered as he slipped in and out of consciousness. Pinky had every right to leave him in the snow to be devoured by wolves or perish from exposure.

A fitting punishment for all his failures to lift the curse and reclaim his throne.

The muffled clops from Pinky's horse gave way to sharp clacks on stone, sending a fresh wave of pain through the Beast's skull with each harsh sound.

Then the horse came to a stop.

The Beast opened his eyes and slowly pushed himself up. They’d arrived at the front doors of the castle.

“Hello?” Pinky called. The Beast nearly tumbled off the horse in surprise, not expecting his voice to be so close to his ear. “We’re back!”

An opening widened slightly at the door’s base, and Dot poked her teacup handle outside. Upon seeing them, her eyes lit up. Then she sounded the alarm, and a frenzy quickly arose from the servants as they threw the doors open as wide as they could, uncaring of any snow or debris that would blow into the foyer.

It wasn’t just the Warners, who huddled together in shock and relief. Among the crowd, he spotted Hello Nurse off to the side, her range of motion highly limited since her harp form was rather heavy. Mindy, a porcelain doll, squealed in delight. Her purple dress was ruffled, skin slightly cracked from her misadventures around the castle. Buttons, her loyal dog turned footstool, made sure she didn’t get too close to the sharp hooves. The Goodfeathers, former pigeons who’d been caught in the curse as they roosted on the castle spires, hovered above everyone as featherdusters. Another footstool with scruffier tassels, Runt, wagged his rear dumbly. Rita, an angelic Christmas ornament, sat on him and surveyed everyone from her perch. Despite having an angel’s halo, robe, and wings, she was flexing her paws like she wanted to claw the Beast herself.

There were far too many eyes on the Beast for his liking. They didn’t have to stare. Pinky and the horse were alive, weren’t they? Isn’t that all that mattered? “I’m going back to the West Wing,” the Beast announced. “Don’t disturb me unless the castle’s on fire.”

“Your arm is wrapped,” Hello Nurse said, like it wasn’t obvious already. Her arms were folded neatly in front, though she matched his glare with her own. “If my area of expertise is needed-”

“It’s not,” the Beast snapped. Hello Nurse was skilled in her trade, but he didn’t require anything except to be left alone.

He just wanted to barricade himself in the West Wing, and either sleep or ponder a new plan for breaking the curse while ignoring that scornful rose. Because the whole ‘fall in love’ solution obviously wasn’t working, not that he’d ever lend it serious consideration.

“Hello, Hello Nurse!” Pinky waved to her. “Do you know how to treat wolf scratches, by any chance? Beast got clawed pretty badly.”

The servants went into an uproar at that information. Individual voices were quickly lost in the cacophony, though there was much confusion, worry, and annoyance coloring everyone’s tones.

“Don’t tell them!” the Beast growled at Pinky.

Pinky folded his arms. “Zort! Well, it’s not like you were gonna tell them!”

Though it was a true statement, he didn’t want that reflected back on him by some impudent rodent.

“I would’ve explained eventually. And next time...” the Beast trailed off as his mind caught up to what Pinky said. “...did you just call me Beast?”

Beast got clawed pretty badly.

Pinky had said it so normally. Like it was any other name.

Was it possible...oh, this was foolish. He knew better than to entertain fantasies.

He’d lost the ability to read in the third year of the curse. And the year after that, he found it was impossible to invent. He snapped writing utensils with ease, whether by accident or out of frustration.

If he couldn’t perform those simple tasks, then he didn’t deserve his old name.

“Sorry. It’s just...um, you told me to call you Beast,” Pinky said. He seemed unsure for some strange reason. “Is that okay?”

“It’s fine,” the Beast grunted. He wasn’t taking it back now. He was a prince, and princes, even former ones, never went back on their word once spoken.

In the back, he saw Hello Nurse tap Dot’s rim. Dot leaned over as Hello Nurse whispered something to her. Then Dot pulled back and nodded firmly. Hello Nurse covered her ears.

“EVERYBODY, QUIET!”

Dot’s shriek echoed throughout the castle, rivalling his own roars in volume and intensity. It stunned everyone into silence, even Yakko, which was an achievement unto itself.

The arguing servants stared at her. The only one unaffected was Mindy, who kept trying to touch the ‘pretty horsey’, and was barely being held back by Buttons’ wooden leg.

“All yours,” Dot said to Hello Nurse.

“Thank you, Dot,” Hello Nurse said, her voice somewhat unsteady from being so close to the blast radius. "May I remind everyone that there are three beings who are still in the cold, one of whom requires urgent medical attention?"

"It's not that urgent," the Beast protested, but Hello Nurse ignored him as she organized the servants.

"Yakko, light the fireplace and warm the room."

Yakko saluted, a golden cap pulled low over his waxy head like a soldier's helmet. "Ma'am, yes ma'am!" he shouted as he rushed away.

"Wakko, fetch spare clothing and towels from the laundry room. Dot, run to the kitchen and ask Chef Flavio to heat some water, but not boil it."

Wakko and Dot hurried out of sight, though Wakko quickly waddled back across the room once he realized the laundry room was in the opposite direction.

“Goodfeathers, gather a cleaning crew and tidy up the entrance hall.”

“Oi, do we look like maids to you?” Pesto shrieked as Squit and Bobby dragged him away by his dust-covered feathers.

Before Hello Nurse could assign Rita, Runt, and Buttons to their tasks, a group of brushes and buckets skittered across the courtyard and came to a halt in front of Pinky’s horse, who stepped backwards with a nervous whinny at their sudden appearance. Pinky patted her side to calm her down, and the noises stopped.

“We’ll take your horse to the stable, monsieur!” one of the brushes piped up.

“We’ll take really good care of her!” a bucket added.

Pinky shook his head, though he smiled gently at the disappointed stableboys. “Thanks for the offer, but I can do it myself. I don’t wanna trouble you or anything.”

The Beast had seen Pinky frightened and defiant, but never smiling. It was strange. Somehow, the smile seemed like the most natural expression for Pinky to have.

And now his thoughts were going off in a weird direction. The Beast quickly turned away, watching Buttons reluctantly hand off Mindy to a resigned Rita and a delighted Runt under Hello Nurse’s orders.

“No trouble!” the brush said, and the brushes and buckets hopped in agreement. “None at all!”

“It’s fine, really! Pharfignewton’s part of the family, so I’ve gotta take care of her,” Pinky said.

Pharfignewton stomped her front hoof, her ears pinning back. She didn’t seem to agree at all.

A blast of cold wind reminded the Beast that they were still exposed to the elements, and if they didn’t want to become icicles, they had to get inside now.

“If I may,” Hello Nurse cut in before the Beast could say anything he’d probably regret later. “Pinky, I know you’re worried about your horse, but the stableboys are well-equipped to take over her care for now. I’d rather you warm up by the fireplace before doing anything else."

"Well...if it's okay with you, Fig." Pinky carefully crawled up to Pharfignewton's head and down her long muzzle, quietly excusing himself as he passed the Beast.

Pharfignewton nickered softly, and that seemed to satisfy Pinky.

Buttons positioned himself on Pharfignewton’s left, digging his wooden legs into the ground as he waited for the Beast to dismount.

“Move. I’ll walk there myself,” he said to Buttons, who adamantly shook his front end. Or what the Beast thought to be his head. It was hard to tell when the footstool had no visible face.

And he wasn’t incapacitated. He’d recovered from his fainting spell just fine on the ride back. The offer was nothing more than an insult.

A sudden bolt of pain traveled up his arm, and he clutched his injury with an agonized growl, almost falling off Pharfignewton in the process.

“As for you, sir, you shouldn’t walk on your injured arm,” Hello Nurse said. “Unless you’d prefer to limp to your chair.”

Limping on three limbs was even more humiliating than being carried, especially when Pinky was scrutinizing his every move. Slowly, the Beast slid from the saddle and onto Buttons, surprised that Pharfignewton was willing to bend down to make the transfer easier.

He tried not to think about accidentally cutting Buttons’ cloth with his claws. He didn’t understand how this accursed magic worked. Transforming living beings into inanimate objects made no sense from a scientific standpoint.

Nor did having one’s insides become stuffing, brass, or wood or anything that didn’t normally belong in one’s body.

It was somewhat nauseating if he pondered that concept too much.

Pharfignewton gave Pinky a sloppy lick, and he hugged her nose in return. Then a spare coat rack took Pharfignewton’s reins and led her to the stables, surrounded by the entourage of stableboys.

The Beast gripped a loose piece of golden trim to keep his balance as Buttons headed inside. The Goodfeathers arrived with the cleaning crew, who quickly set about cleaning all the dead twigs and snow that had accumulated at the entrance.

Buttons pushed Hello Nurse across the stone floor while Rita and Runt herded Mindy in the direction of the servant’s quarters. Mindy was far too curious for her own good, too young to know her porcelain skin put her in greater danger if she strayed or touched something hot. It was a constant danger with Dot as well, who regularly insisted on keeping cushions laying around in strategic places so she could land safely. No amount of persuasion got through to her, not even from her own brothers.

Pinky trailed behind Buttons. He still seemed to have trouble navigating the castle by himself.

There was a loud crash behind them, and Buttons whipped around so fast that the Beast was nearly thrown off.

“Gentle, Runt!” Rita scolded as Mindy recovered from being pushed too hard into a draconic gargoyle. But she popped up within seconds and giggled about silly puppies, so it wasn’t much of a cause for concern. There weren’t any new cracks on her porcelain.

Runt whimpered and pawed the ground. “Sorry, Mindy. Bad dog. Definitely a bad dog.”

Buttons growled a warning to Runt, who pressed himself to the ground in submission. Rita hissed right back as she patted the messy tassels on Runt’s head.

“Aw, you’re not a bad dog!” Pinky ran over to Runt and embraced his leg. “It was just an accident.”

“Eh, you ain’t bad. You’re just a klutz,” Rita said, which perked Runt up again. She flicked her paw dismissively. “Kiddo’s fine, Buttons. Take the boss to his brooding chair or something.”

“It’s a pondering chair,” the Beast corrected. Everyone called it the brooding chair for some insane reason. He didn’t brood. He just used the chair to ponder ideas for breaking the curse.

Really? You just stare into the flickering embers these days. Where are all your brilliant ideas now?

He really wanted to throw his internal monologue off the West Wing balcony.

“Whatever you say, boss,” Rita shrugged. She flicked the tassels on Runt’s head, and they corralled Mindy to the servant’s quarters.

Pinky waved goodbye to them, and Hello Nurse called for him to catch up to Buttons before he was left behind. Pinky barely looked as though his life had been in danger at all.

Buttons crossed the threshold into the parlor, pushing Hello Nurse into a position between the fireplace and the stuffed armchair where she could easily supervise.

The fireplace crackled with warm, orange flames. The heat alone was soothing to the Beast’s exhausted mind. Pinky stretched and basked in the warmth. Yakko preened in the attention his hard work received.

Wakko and Dot stood on a side table next to the armchair. A bowl of warm, steaming water and a stack of towels was next to them.

And most comforting of all, a wine-red cloak was neatly folded on the armchair’s cushion. Next to it was a pair of black trousers, one of the less ragged pairs he owned. For Pinky, a small, slender dress of fine pink silk laid a few inches away.

"Change out of those wet clothes first," Hello Nurse advised.

The armchair was made for humans, not rodents, though Buttons was thankfully the same height as the cushion, so it wasn’t difficult to transfer to an actual inanimate object.

The Beast gripped the side of the armchair, placing his claws within the clawmarks he’d scored on the object when he became frustrated.

Ripping away the destroyed remains of the cloak he’d worn during his fight with the wolf, he quickly donned the replacement and secured the collar’s golden clasp below his neck. But he didn’t bother with the pants.

Maintaining some level of decorum, even with trousers that were too torn for even the best seamstress to repair, was absolutely necessary.

Hello Nurse gave him a disapproving look, but he ignored it and sank in the back corner of the armchair instead. With his cloak surrounding him and his back pressed against into the corner, he felt more secure.

“Awww, this is a very pretty dress!” Pinky exclaimed, admiring the fine material that was ten times more expensive than whatever house he lived in as a commoner. “Thanks so much, Wakko!”

Wakko grinned, his pendulum swinging faster at Pinky’s praise. Dot ribbed him playfully with her teacup handle. “Who knew you had an eye for fashion?” she teased.

“Is it really okay for me to wear this?” Pinky asked.

“Sure is! That color matches more with your name anyway,” Yakko said. “Unless you want us to start calling you Bluey. Color coordination’s a thing in fashion, right?”

“There’s hope for you after all, Yakko,” Dot said. Yakko held a candle to his chest in mock offense.

Suddenly, Pinky shimmied out of the waterlogged commoner dress he’d worn since his arrival at the castle.

And the Beast received a view of gleaming white fur on an exposed body.

Lean, but with a fair bit of muscle. Slender. Beautiful.

Desperate for something to do so he didn’t have to watch Pinky put on the dress, the Beast unwrapped the purple cloth around his lower arm, revealing four long scratches. Though the fur was stripped away and left the skin wide open, they weren’t deep. A trickle of blood leaked from one of the scratches, and without thinking, the Beast lapped it away with his tongue.

It was neither sanitary nor dignified, but the Beast found himself tapping into instincts he usually fought to repress. To his horror, it was becoming more natural to lick his wounds like a creature of the wilderness. He was a prince in name only, no real power or respect behind the title.

He lost himself in the rhythm for a while, only stopping when he felt something foreign on his arm.

Pinky’s hand rested on his upper arm, just above his wound.

Was he crazy? Why would any sane being touch royalty, or a monster, or him?

Pinky wore the pink dress now, his long sleeves rolled up to the elbows. “You shouldn’t do that,” he said, bringing a wet cloth closer to the Beast’s arm.

The Beast growled and stubbornly turned away from Pinky. Couldn’t this idiotic mouse just let him hang onto even an ounce of his pride? He held his arm out of reach, just so Pinky couldn’t have the satisfaction of getting it.

It was Pinky’s fault he was injured in the first place.

But Pinky wasn’t deterred, nearly falling onto the Beast as he reached up and tried to touch the cloth to the scratches.

“Just hold still!” Pinky said, still not giving up even when the Beast moved his arm to avoid the cloth.

He could deal with this himself! What part of that did Pinky not understand?

The brief tussle ended when Pinky finally managed to slap the cloth onto the Beast’s arm. Pain instantly shot through him, and he roared out of instinct and fury.

“THAT HURTS!” he snarled in Pinky’s face.

“If you’d hold still, it wouldn’t hurt as much!” Pinky retorted, his blue eyes piercing and intense with anger.

It was strange. Pinky had cowered before him when they’d met face to face in the tower, and again when he’d been caught in the West Wing.

But then, Pinky yelled back when he refused to dine with him. So it wasn’t completely out of the question.

Regardless of what happened in the past, the Beast still needed to come out on top. After all, he was the Master around here.

“If you hadn’t run away, this wouldn’t have happened.” The Beast allowed himself a smirk.

A small victory, but a victory nonetheless.

“If you hadn’t frightened me, I wouldn’t have run away!” Though Pinky’s face was just inches away from the Beast’s fangs, he didn’t flinch.

And just whose decision was it to break into the one area he’d forbidden? It was a generous rule when the rest of the grounds were open for exploration!

However, he couldn’t completely dismiss that while Pinky broke the rule, he didn’t deserve to be nearly killed twice over it.

Regardless, he refused to let Pinky win this round.

“You shouldn’t have been in the West Wing!” the Beast couldn’t resist leaning into Pinky’s space. Point made. It was over.

“Well, you should learn to control your temper!” Pinky snapped.

It was one thing to have living inanimate objects say it, many of whom had tempers themselves, but had never caused the destruction he’d dealt over the years.

Never in his life had he heard an outsider say it. A peasant scolding royalty. A prisoner fighting their captor. A mouse challenging a beast.

Impressive, but infuriating that he couldn’t refute how his temper caused this entire mess to begin with.

The Warners tried and failed to stifle their laughter, and it was completely unfair that they were on Pinky’s side. The Beast huffed, placing a paw on his cheek as Pinky grabbed his injured arm again. Maybe it was childish, but he didn’t care.

“Now hold still,” Pinky said. His voice was firm, but also gentle. “This might sting a little.”

As promised, the wet cloth stung on his arm as Pinky gently ran it over the scratches. The Beast grimaced at the sting of the fabric, and though he succeeded in containing the roar that threatened to build, he couldn’t stop himself from growling at the pain.

He had a brief moment of respite when Pinky changed the cloth he was using now that he was finished sponging the remaining blood away. The scratches were pink, raw, and painful, but they weren’t bleeding.

Maybe he should be more cautious this time. Just so Hello Nurse wouldn’t give him grief over his carelessness causing an infection. Or Pinky for that matter.

Pinky returned with a new cloth. The Beast tensed as Pinky reached for his arm again, not wanting to be touched even though he reminded himself that it was necessary in this situation. After being isolated with nobody but household objects for company, and even before then, when his so-called family shunted him off to a minor province because they didn’t want the evidence of an affair in their palace, physical contact was a concept that was foreign to him entirely.

“By the way, thank you,” Pinky said, smiling gently at the Beast. “For saving my life.”

A warmth blossomed in the Beast’s chest, a sensation he couldn’t identify. It was new, but pleasant.

“You’re welcome,” the Beast replied. That was the proper response to gratitude, right?

He wasn’t sure.

But he tried to cooperate as Pinky carefully wrapped the wound with bandages, following Hello Nurse’s instructions to the letter. Pinky deserved that much, at least.

Pinky didn’t try to cause any unnecessary pain. But worry clearly showed in his eyes when the Beast involuntarily growled and tensed up with each touch.

“It’s not you,” the Beast grunted, and Pinky's shoulders relaxed. He didn’t want to put up with that strange look much longer.

“That looks fine, Pinky,” Hello Nurse called as Pinky finished wrapping the bandage around the Beast’s arm. “You did a great job.”

Pinky stepped back and wiped his forehead in relief.

“His arm looks like a mummy’s,” Wakko not-so-subtly whispered.

Ignoring the comparison to dead Egyptian royalty, the Beast carefully lifted his arm. It didn’t hurt as much as before.

Next to him, Pinky carefully picked up the scrap of purple cloth that once served as a crude bandage. The Beast had forgotten about it. But Pinky neatly folded the scrap, tucking the bloodied side inward. He held it close to his body, like it was a precious item.

He felt an odd twinge of guilt for tossing it aside, though he wasn’t why Pinky was treating it like a valuable painting or fragile heirloom. Maybe peasants just saved every piece of fabric they could.

Then Pinky yawned, barely able to keep his eyes open.

The Warners were oddly subdued as well.

It had been a long and eventful night for everyone, and despite the Beast's exhaustion, his mind was brimming with questions.

Terrifying questions he didn't want to know the answers to.

"Children, why don't you escort our guest to his room and go to bed?" Hello Nurse suggested.

Yakko balked, crossing his candlesticks over his brass chest. "I'm a height-challenged candelabra, not a—Dot! Don't jump from there!"

Wakko and Dot jumped from the table at the same time, both landing safely on a cushion. Dot pouted. “Oh, but it’s okay for Wakko to jump?” she muttered.

“He’s not porcelain,” Yakko said as he joined his siblings on the floor. Buttons whined in sympathy.

“For the last time, I’m not helpless!” Dot hopped out of the parlor, not bothering to wait for her brothers or Pinky.

“I didn’t say you were! You’re just more prone to chipping easily!” Yakko shouted. He chased after her, only stopping at the doorway when he remembered he was supposed to be an escort. He glanced at Pinky and Wakko. “You coming?”

“Narf. Okay, I’m coming,” Pinky said, gathering his waterlogged dress and fabric scrap. Carefully, he climbed down the armchair and joined Yakko. Then he turned to everyone in the room. “Thanks, Beast. Thanks, Buttons and Hello Nurse. Good night. Can’t wait to turn in myself.”

“Good night, Pinky,” Hello Nurse replied.

Buttons barked.

Beast nodded awkwardly. He didn’t think Pinky would be wishing him a good night after all he’d done to him.

Wakko said nothing and happily batted at Buttons’ tassels.

“Eh, he’ll catch up,” Yakko said, leading Pinky away from the parlor. “We can drop your clothes into the laundry along the way, and we never finished your tour before the boss ran you out, did we? Now if you direct your attention to the flying buttresses over yonder…”

His usual chatter faded away.

Maybe someone else should’ve escorted them, just to make sure Yakko didn’t treat Pinky to a whole song and dance routine on Baroque architecture.

“What do you think he’s gonna turn into?” Wakko asked.

Poor choice of words, but the Beast reminded himself that it was just an innocent question and not curse related.

“Hopefully, nothing,” the Beast sighed. “Don’t you have somewhere to be?”

“Go catch up with the others, Wakko,” Hello Nurse said. She opened her arms, and Wakko happily accepted the invitation to hug. They broke apart after a minute, then Wakko turned back to the Beast.

“It’s okay,” Wakko said. “You’ll break the curse. I know you will.”

And he scuttled out of the parlor, leaving the Beast before he could explain all the reasons why such innocent faith shouldn’t be placed on him.

It was just the Beast, Hello Nurse, and Buttons now. And Buttons wasn’t much of a conversationalist.

“He shouldn’t say those things,” the Beast quietly said, his claws digging into the cushion.

It was nigh-impossible to break Wakko’s hope, even though plan after plan of breaking the curse failed. Hope was such a terrible burden to bear.

Hello Nurse met his gaze coolly. “Hope does exist, whether you deny it or not. Pinky gave you a second chance. Maybe it’s time to use the original condition that was laid out for you from the beginning.”

Love someone and make them love a monster in return. Yes, that made complete sense.

“You caused a lot of pain, and not just to Pinky,” Hello Nurse said. The Beast wanted to argue that Pinky was recklessly defiant, but at the same time, he couldn’t deny that Pinky only wanted to save his father. That Pinky only broke his promise because he feared for his life. That his servants shouldn’t have to suffer for his mistakes. “But he saved you. And we’re grateful that he did.”

Right. Because he was the only one who could break the curse.

He didn’t deserve a second chance. Hello Nurse wasn’t forthcoming with a satisfactory answer as to why he was given one.

“I haven’t learned my lesson. That’s not possible. I can’t just...change,” the Beast said.

He’d been stuck in the same routine of planning and failing for too long. It wasn’t an option.

“You’d be surprised.”

With that final statement, Hello Nurse signaled for Buttons to help her out of the parlor and push her to Dr. Scratchy’s room. He was always woefully behind on any developments, mostly because the Warners couldn’t leave him alone long enough for anyone to deliver news.

But more importantly, if it was possible for someone like him to change, then all he had to do was...try?

Try to break the curse. Try to reclaim the throne. Always trying, never succeeding.

Pinky had given him another chance though. Another opportunity.

And Hello Nurse made sure he knew it.

“Buttons, stop!” the Beast shouted. It came out harsher than he intended.

Startled, Buttons stopped pushing Hello Nurse, who simply turned her metallic body as best she could with a harp stuck on her back.

“I...wanted to thank you both. That’s all. Now leave,” the Beast hastily said.

Buttons and Hello Nurse just stared at him, and the Beast growled. They didn’t have to act that bewildered about it.

“Good night,” Hello Nurse smiled once she finally recovered.

Then they were gone.

Alone in the parlor, the Beast settled into a comfortable position that wouldn’t aggravate his injury. He touched the bandages on his arm, remembering Pinky’s gentle touch.

The fireplace burned as he pondered an endless amount of questions, searching for answers that would never come.

End AN: I'm sorry for excluding everyone's favorite squirrels from the castle staff. Personally, I can't picture Slappy living in a castle. She's perfectly content in her tree with her nephew. I did have an early idea for her and Skippy being transformed into nutcrackers though. They might show up elsewhere though.

Hello Nurse (or a lookalike of her) as a harp was taken from the OG Animaniacs segment The Warners and the Beanstalk, so that's where I pulled her transformed state from. Originally, Rita was going to be a harp, but I decided to change her to a Christmas ornament as a reference to her VA, Bernadette Peters, voicing the Christmas ornament Angelique in BatB Enchanted Christmas.

I imagine the Goodfeathers to look similar to Plumette’s birdlike design in the 2017 live-action, but less graceful and more pigeon-y.

Brain logic: Oh no Pinky is beautiful what’s a logical course of action? Lick my arm? Yes, licking my arm is a good distraction.

#pinky and the brain #batb au #if i can't love him #patb fanfiction

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invisibleinorange · 4 years ago

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A Different Ending 1/?

Chapters: 1/? Fandom: Bridgerton Rating: M Warnings: Only be forewarned that this is an AU from the Adrift saga but Colin actually died in this one, so if he’s mentioned he’s actually gone. Relationships: Benedict Bridgerton/Penelope Featherington, Colin Bridgerton/Penelope Featherington (past feelings), Eloise Bridgerton/Penelope Featherington(besties), Bridgerton Family Dynamics, Daphne Bridgerton/Simon Hastings Characters: Penelope Featherington, Eloise Bridgerton, Phillip Crane, Benedict Bridgerton, Daphne Bridgerton, Additional Tags: Bridgerton, Penadict (do we have a ship name yet?)

Summary: There were some requests for an alternate/Parallel word to "Bridgerton's Adrift" where Benedict and Penelope actually did get married. So this is the result of that peer pressure. Still not sure whether this will be a bunch of connected one shots or a full-blown fic project but here we go.

Anthony and Violet had gone above and beyond to help make sure that the church was immaculate. It was unseemly to be extravagant on moments of great spiritual weight but after everything they’d been through in recent months he felt they deserved a moment of happiness. Despite anxiety he might have had about the gravity of the situation, he was happy.

It was hard to believe that his word could turn upside down in such a short amount of time. He’d gone from seeking this engagement as a means to honor his late brother to seeing the potential in the match. He’d grown to respect and enjoy Penelope’s company more than he could say that he enjoyed most.

As he gazed around the church, it meant a lot to have his family there to support this choice. It was nice to see everyone smiling, finding something to look forward to. Time was marching forward and they were all moving on. They were figuring out how to live in a world without Colin Bridgerton. Perhaps, he had been a catalyst to this marriage but he was no longer the soul reason for it.

It felt surreal in a way. Benedict had never quite been able to quite put a face to his future. It had always been a blur but it all seemed so clear now. It was almost shocking how Penelope Featherington who had always disappeared into the background was front and center. She had captured his attention and now he was eager to help her reach her potential; A potential that so many other had failed to see.

They could reach their potential together.

As nervous as he was, he was excited to see her. He was eager to see what was going to be next because the last few months had been utterly unpredictable and he was quite happy with where he was in this given moment.

His pulse quickened at the sight of Anthony at the entrance, then there was envelope beside her brother. Anthony took her in his arm and led the way and he knew he was absolutely shook. His appreciation and affection toward the girl had been generally mentally based but in that moment, he appreciated the physical just as much.

His smile widened despite his nerves, meeting her eye as she crossed the distance of the church to him and when she was near he took her hands in his try to and still the shake. He quietly leaned near playing it like he was brushing back a red curl but it was just an excuse to whisper in her ear.

“It’ll be okay,” he told her.

And it was. It was going to be perfectly okay.

She squeezed his larger hands, focusing on him instead of the sea of eyes watching and undoubtedly waiting for him to come to his senses and run away. That was the outcome Penelope saw in her nightmares; the whole Bridgerton family turning away from her. Sometimes she even saw Colin there as a ghost whispering in Benedict’s ear, laughing at the thought that she was worthy.

Benedict wasn’t running away though and as the Vicar read from the Common Book of Prayers she was grateful for it. Admittedly, she did grow anxious as the Vicar reached the part where he had to ensure no one had a reason why the wedding should be stopped.

She chanced a glance back toward Eloise who gave her a reassuring nod.

When no objected, the Vicar continued and her focus moved back to her groom. As the questioning moved from the audience to them, it was pretty clear that this was going to be one of the last moment’s they had in which they could turn back. There were no secrets of the heart to be shared though. There was nothing that hadn’t been shared or said. Benedict knew about Lady Whistledown. He knew how she’d felt about his brother. Those things hadn’t made him turn away from her though. They’d only brought them closer together.

“Benedict Bridgerton, wilt thou have this Woman to thy wedded Wife, to live together after God’s ordinance in the holy estate of Matrimony? Wilt thou love her, comfort her, honour, and keep her in sickness and in health; and, forsaking all other, keep thee only unto her, so long as ye both shall live?” the vicar asked as he moved from the gloom and doom, threats of burning in Hell to vows.

There was a pause and in that pause, Penelope was certain she forgot to breath.

“I will,” he said after a moment and she remembered again.

“Penelope Featherington, wilt thou have this Man to thy wedded Husband, to live together after God’s ordinance in the holy estate of Matrimony? Wilt thou obey him, and serve him, love, honour, and keep him in sickness and in health; and, forsaking all other, keep thee only unto him, so long as ye both shall live?” the Vicar asked of her.

Penelope had thought long and hard about this and while she’d struggled to imagine saying these words to Benedict before, they were there now and she meant them. She wasn’t one to enter into an obligation lightly.

“I will,” she said back.

There was then passing of hands. Even though she’d been holding Benedict’s hand through the majority of it, she was required to let go long enough to let Anthony pass her to him and then there were more vows. There were Words that she had to repeat and those that he had to repeat in order to make additional promises to each other. It all went off without a hitch and then Benedict was required to kneel and he did, presenting a new ring to her symbolic of their marriage.

The ceremony was becoming a bit tediously long at this point but they were still required to pray before declaring them wed and even then he had to give them a blessing. By the time, they ceremony was complete and they were allowed to move to sign the Parrish register to masses were restless and moving around, ready to get to the events that would follow.

“I hope you’re famished and ready to eat after that,” Benedict said with a hint of a smile while he watched his new bride sign. “Daph’s created quite a spread at Hastings House.”

A late breakfast feast was the tradition but Penelope wasn’t sure she could eat a single bite.

“Once my stomach returns to itself I might be able to eat something,” she confessed.“I know what you mean,” he said with a laugh, extending an arm to her so that he might properly escort her toward an awaiting carriage and to the fete. “You were a beautiful bride though and we never have to do that again. We can literally hide away from the vicar and his promises of Hell fire for the rest of our days. I'll protect you just like I promised.”

She accepted his open arm. “The scary thing is that was apparently the easy part,” she couldn’t help but tell him, keeping her voice low between them as they moved past people to try and get where they needed to go. They could socialize more there. “The rest of it is supposed to be much harder.”

“At risk of offending my new wife, I assure you that you have nothing to be afraid about."

#benedict bridgerton #penelope featherington #bridgerton

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fairiesherefairiesthere · 5 years ago

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Fraxus Anastasia au #3

Fic under the cut ! Or on ao3 (https://archiveofourown.org/works/23144866/chapters/57301969)

"Yoooo!!!!" Bickslow yells and immediately Laxus ? Yuliy ? gets snapped out of his stupour and pushes himself away from Freed, too aware of how close they had been. He can't shake the feeling of the man's breath hitting his ear like so, the ghost sensations leaving the tips of his ears burning.

"Sup fellas", Bickslow says as he strolls into the room, a woman somewhat reluctantly following him. "I brought an assortiment of snacks that could be classified as a fancy dinner if you aren't all that picky and I'm kind of counting on that." He winks at the both of them before plopping down on some couch and throwing the bag on a table. "Feast my underlings, your king has provided for you."

"I hate you", the woman spits out before turning her glare towards him. "And who is this fool?"

The fool himself would like to know too. With a lazy drawl in his voice, Freed joins the conversation. "His name is Laxus, you might've heard of him." The too large piece of chicken that Bickslow was trying to force into his mouth drops to the floor and the woman raises a single brow. "Right and my name's Evergreen Strauss." Picking the chicken leg back up from the floor, Bickslow points it at her. "I mean, it could be. It ain't that hard to add Strauss to it, all you gotta do is ask your boyfriend to become your h-u-s-b-a-n-d."

"Shut up, he isn't my boyfriend", she snaps before turning her attention back to the blond. "Laxus huh?" He shrugs. "Your friend is trying to sell it to me as well. Currently, I'm not believing him." A single smile slips past her guarded façade. "Good, you shouldn't. He's a pompous piece of shit." While Freed mildly protests her assessment of him in the background, Evergreen shoves Bickslow off the couch and seats herself on it. After extracting the couch from Bickslow, she takes the bag of snacks as well.

Patting on the empty spot next to her, she offers him to sit next to her. "Sit down and have a snack." Turning towards the other two men, she sticks out her tongue. "Bitches don't deserve anything, so don't even bother to ask." (Later on she ends up giving them more than enough.)

"I'm guessing these two have been awfully mean to you."

"No, it's mainly been Freed." The man in question makes an offended noise at this, but Laxus (he likes the name, okay? It's not like it's forbidden to use it. There are people with weirder names out there and he's an orphan so he has the right to choose) isn't done throwing him under the bus. As soon as the next opportunity arrives, he'll do it again.

Evergreen sighs at that and flicks Freed's forehead. 'You rude selfserving bitch, leave people alone." The man in question grumbles a little bit before dramatically flopping down onto the carpet. "Fine then. Oppress me even more." With a gentle smile Evergreen relays the following kind message to him. "Well, with the way you act, you deserve to be."

For a while no one says anything, but Laxus feels more than sees multiple pairs of eyes gliding all over his form. "If there's anything you guys want to say, just spit it out. You're creeping me out with the staring." Awkwardly Bickslow turns his head away as though he hadn't been staring (he's not a very convincing actor). Evergreen however isn't so inclined and continues to look at him, head a bit cocked. "Don't take it personal please, I'm merely assessing how big the chance is that you're our Laxus."

He lets her stare, opting to distract himself by fishing his necklace from shirt and twirling the dainty key attached to it between his fingers, trailing over the letters 'together in Paris' engraved in the tiny thing. The movement catches the attention of the three around him and while Bickslow is busy chocking on his chicken leg, Freed gives the other two a smug glance. "Shut up", Evergreens snaps before he can even opens his mouth, but the young man can't help but shrug cheekily. "Alright Ever dearest." At the open mockery, she decides to try suffocating him with a pillow. She doesn't succeed but the scene does draw a smile from Laxus.

After the bout of tomfoolery, Evergreen plops back unto the couch and shoos Laxus off it. "Fellas", she says addressing Bickslow and Freed more than him. "Tomorrow we'll be starting our journey to Paris. What do we do with him?" This time, she does address him, eyes boring into his soul.

"What does he want?" Freed hummed, faux-nonchalance painted across his figure. "Not that it really matters, I mean, our fourth train ticket is for prince Laxus and this young man says he isn't him. We can't take him with us", the man says, checking his nails and refusing to even spare Laxus a glance. The way he talks over him as though he isn't there grates on his nerves and he grits his teeth together. "I am him, that's what you said. Or are you going to take back your words now?"

"I am convinced, but are you?" The man's grin is infuriatingly patronizing and he tuts a bit at Laxus as though he's a child unable to make his own decisions. "I am the prince, alright? So my dearest subject", he smiles, spite colouring his words, "Shut the fuck up."

Holding his hands up as though Laxus' reaction wasn't perfectly reasonable, Freed sighs. "Oh prince of my heart, please do control your emotions. Such a blatant display of discontent is quite unsightly." Snorting, Evergreen gives Laxus a few pats on his shoulder. "I like you, please continue pissing him off. You're a good one Laxus."

Rolling his eyes, Freed lays down on the discoloured carpet beside the couch. "Our dearest future tsar is indeed quite lovely. I'm sure I'll dream of nothing but him", Freed taunted, eyes dragging across Laxus' entire form, a wicked grin playing along his lips. When their eyes inevitably met, Freed dragged out the words, "Nothing but my dearest prince", obnoxiously popping the 'p'. "Goodnight!" the man wished him with a wide, insincere smile before he wished Evergreen and Bickslow the same, fondness turning both his expression and voice kinder. It was a bummer that he couldn't be decent to Laxus like that. Wasn't that something akin to a capital crime?

"We'll be leaving early tomorrow morning, so you should try to catch some shut-eye as well", Bickslow explains before crashing right on top of Freed, who lets out a disgruntled little "oof". Evergreen curls up on the couch and Laxus awkwardly scans the room from his position on the floor. With a tired sigh he lays down unto the carpet as well, leaving a few feet between himself and the mass of limbs that's Freed and Bickslow. He doesn't want to get entangled with that.

Waking up, Laxus instinctively knows he's failed his resolution from the previous day. He's utterly engulfed in warmth and despite the hair in his mouth that's most definitely not his own, he decides to simmer in the heat for a while. Unused to the sensation, he draws the heatsource closer. In return his personal heater hums a little before tightening his arms around Laxus.

The little detail that throws him off though, is the insistent snickering around him. Reluctantly he opens his eyes and after blinking a few times to adjust to the light he looks at the being entrapping him.

It's Freed, because of course it is the most aggravating bastard on this unholy earth that has decided to interrupt his perfectly peaceful sleep. "Bitch", he mutters before looking up to meet the curious gazes of Bickslow and Evergreen. "Now that's a bit uncalled for baby", Bickslow judges and Laxus ignores him in favour of collecting a pillow from the couch. "It's time for him to wake up too, right?" Evergreen gives him a slight nod, but removes herself from the scene. He really should've thought harder about his following actions, especially considering that Bickslow scoots backwards too.

With an unforgiving force he brings the pillow in the direction of the greenhaired man's head. However, the two do not connect as Freed's eyes spring open and with a combination of both grace and brute force, he grabs Laxus by the arm and throws him over him, making him slam into the corner of the nearby table.

"Ah fuck, sor-" As soon as he notices who exactly it is he attacked, he stops mid-apology. An infuriating smirk plasters itself onto his face instead. "Dear prince, as you can see I'm a jack of all trades." Leaning against his side, the man lets his fingers skips across Laxus' shoulders, whispering: "I'll protect all of this for you, everything inch from head to toe." Laxus tries to swat him away but the bastard proves to be annoyingly strong. He ends pushing against a cheek that feels surprisingly soft to distance himself from Freed.

"Boys, if you could stop fondling each other for a minute, we have to catch a train", Evergreen remarks dryly and Bickslow cuts in, "and breakfast, preferably. I'd kill for a meal."

"Then do it", Freed says, eyes wide open. "Human flesh is-" Laxus takes it upon himself to silence him by gagging him with his arm. Dragging the struggling man along, he nods at Evergreen. "Let's go", he says and sighs wearily. He's already regretting this.

Eventually he has to let go of Freed, because dragging a man along in that manner is a bit suspicious and he isn't looking to be arrested. Thanks to what probably is divine intervention, the man has decided to shut his wicked mouth for now. Instead he's letting his gaze slip over their surroundings, letting it hover at certain foodstalls. The overall expression of his face is inconspicious, innocent even with his slightly parted pink lips and youthful glow. But in the depths of his eyes swirl wayward lights and Laxus shivers. Who knows what this man is truly capable of?

Soon, he gets a demonstration of Freed's slightly shadier sides. Although he has to admit it's nothing he hasn't done himself and that Freed's probably not the only crook at work at this market. Approaching one of the vendors with a bright smile, Freed draws the man into a discussion about his wares. Are they the truly the best in town, as his sign says and other useless questions.

Provoked by the questions, the man offers Freed a sample, boasting about his quality. Freed nods along as the man explains the process of making the bread, interjecting with questions here and there. As the vendor launches into from one passionate speech into the other, Freed puts his nimble fingers to work.

It's the nonchalance of his actions that truly baffle Laxus. He doesn't even try to hide his actions, he casually swipes goods here and there and to top it all off? The vendor doesn't notice. At all. As someone who's gotten beaten quite a lot for getting caught pickpocketing, he's envious of the whole ordeal.

After purchasing a single slice of lemon cake and bidding the vendor goodbye, Freed returns to them. "I got you lot some breakfast, want it now or on the train?" Laxus' stomach rumbles at that very moment and as the tips of his ears colour slightly red, Evergreen doesn't spare him his dignity and gives a light chuckle. "Although circumstances", she glances at Laxus and he glares back, "seem to demand we have breakfast now, I'd advise to wait until we can sit down. I think it would make for a far more pleasing experience, right?"

Agreeing with her, they continue their walk. "Do you always gather your breakfast in that manner?" Laxus asks Freed and the man shrugs. "Is it of any importance dear prince? Is being fed not enough for your royal highness?"

"I'm wondering if you guys don't even have enough money to eat...How the hell are we going to get to Paris?" Freed's mouth falls open in a surprised 'o' shape and he covers it with his hand. "Oh my...there's some form of intelligence there after all", he gasps in faux-surprise.

As he moves to swipe at the guy, Freed swiftly stops him by shoving the lather large remnant of his slice of lemon cake into Laxus' mouth. Gross. That thing's been in the other man's mouth. He doesn't hesitate to voice his thoughts, but does throw in a little thank you because he had been hungry and contrary to other people, he knows what manners are.

"No problem", Freed says, voice honeyed and sweet. "The knowledge that you are enjoying your stolen goods, brings me the greatest happiness my dear prince!" Laxus swipes at him again and Freed dodges by smoothly skipping forwards. When he looks back and sees Laxus indignant face and puffed up cheeks, he lets out a laugh that sounds surprisingly close to genuine.

#fraxus #Freed Justine #Laxus Dreyar #freedxlaxus #Evergreen #Bickslow #Raijinshuu #fanfic #anastasia au #TheFairyWrites

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thinkingisadangerouspastime · 5 years ago

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a most holy sin

i watched Bohemian Rhapsody and cried at least 12 times so of course i was (loosely) inspired by it and had to write an ineffable husbands fanfic. i definitely listened to a Best of Queen playlist while i wrote it, too. i hope you enjoy and please forgive historical and medical inaccuracies because im sure there are some. also for some reason the line break isn't working?? i'm going to try to add it again later.

(I know Gabriel does not technically outrank Aziraphale but for the sake of plot he's gonna be in charge of Earthly affairs.)

WARNING: There is usage of homophobic slurs at a point in this story. If you are sensitive to such, either be wary as you read or simply do not read this fic. Don't worry, you won't hurt my feelings if you keep scrolling.

~*~

"I'd like to be temporarily stationed in America."

Gabriel looked up from his desk, every inch of it covered in paperwork. Glasses that Aziraphale knew very well the archangel did not need slid down his nose. Gabriel pushed them back up. "Why?"

Succinct. As per usual. Aziraphale pretended that he was not twisting his ring anxiously around his pinky as he spoke. "Well, I do read American papers every so often, and I've been keeping tabs on a certain, er, an epidemic, of sorts, that is happening over there."

Gabriel removed the silver frames from his nose, folding them and placing them on his desk. "Right. The AIDS epidemic."

"Yes," Aziraphale murmured. "Yes, quite. I assure you that I don't intend to miracle up a cure for the disease. It's best to let humans work through that on their own, I assume. I simply wish to - to ease the pain of those in the final stages."

Gabriel was silent. Aziraphale began to wonder if he was pushing his luck with this request. He'd nearly been discovered with Crowley only two decades or so ago, not to mention his boss was not known for being the friendliest or the most sympathetic of angels -

"Yes."

Aziraphale blinked. "I beg your pardon?"

"I said yes, you may go." Gabriel sighed, scrawling his signature on a document in glittering gold ink before shoving the paper away. "I have also been keeping up with information on the epidemic. Those victims could certainly use some angelic kindness right now, what with so many being rejected by their families even as they're on their deathbeds. Beelzebub undoubtedly has a special place in Hell for those sorts of nasty people, I'm sure."

"And we have a special place in Heaven for the victims?"

"Precisely." Gabriel returned his attention to the stack of papers in front of him. "You're dismissed, Aziraphale. Don't stay too long."

"Of course," Aziraphale breathed, nodding. He was almost unable to believe everything had worked out so well. "Thank you, Gabriel." Not wanting to overstay his visit and risk having the decision reversed, Aziraphale promptly left. He considered taking the back exit out, but it wasn't as if he was in a rush. He still had to pack, after all.

It was quite a shame he couldn't simply miracle himself to America. Airplanes were... Less than enjoyable, in Aziraphale's opinion. But miracles had to be preserved.

He didn't want to think about how many he might have to perform in the very near future.

~*~

America, circa 1990

Aziraphale had ditched his usual tartan suit for new tartan scrubs. He was posing as a nurse, working in a ward delegated specifically to victims of AIDS in the final stages. As much as it pained him, he refrained from miracling them back into health. God probably would not take too kindly to that, what with the circle of life and all, even considering Her infinite generosity. Instead, Aziraphale eased their pain as they passed to Heaven. If nothing else, they deserved to know that good things awaited them on the other side.

"Room 636, Nurse Fell," a woman called to Aziraphale as he walked down the hall. Her voice had the rounded edge of a faint Southern drawl. "He's got family with him right now, but they'll be out soon."

"Right. Thank you." He nodded at her as she passed. Aziraphale had memorized the layout of the hospital before he'd started "working" there - it helped him maximize his time with the patients. Not to mention he had to be back in Soho before the end of the year.

"This is your own fault, you know."

Aziraphale froze.

"You're the who grew up and decided to be a fucking fag, goddamnit!"

He recognized that tone. It was one he heard all too often in the AIDS ward.

"And now that choice is killing you. Just like it killed your little queer boyfriend."

Aziraphale resisted the urge to swear. Of course the voice was coming from room 636.

"Hope you're happy with yourself. Hope you're proud."

The man's words were laced with more venom than the world's deadliest snake could provide. Aziraphale reached for the door handle, only to find that it had been locked. Very much against hospital regulations, but also rather common in these situations.

"This is the devil's consequence. You know why they're calling it the 'gay plague'? Because only fags are getting it." The man sighed, an intensified frustration bleeding into his tone. "You just had to be a queer, didn't you? You had to be the family disappointment." His voice dropped, and he growled the lethal blow. "I can't believe I ever called you my son."

Aziraphale didn't care if Heaven reprimanded him. He snapped his fingers, unlocking the door and entering the room without a moment's hesitation. He straightened his back and stared down the father. "Sir, I am going to have to ask that you leave here immediately."

The man's lip curled in disgust. "A queer nurse? I should have known."

Aziraphale ignored the comment, standing his ground. "I must insist that you leave, or else I'll be forced to call security."

For a moment, Aziraphale was afraid the man wouldn't go. But after a long pause, he left in a furious silence.

Aziraphale rushed over to the patient's bed. He was young, in his late teens or early twenties. Still a boy, really. And that only made it all the more heartbreaking.

"I'm sorry you had to go through that." Aziraphale checked the IV in the boy's arm, making sure it remained connected. "You don't deserve to be treated like something is wrong with you."

"Maybe there is something wrong with me."

Sweat beaded the boy's forehead, and Aziraphale's heart ached a little more when he saw tearstains on his cheeks.

"Am I really going to Hell, nurse?" the boy whispered. "Was falling in love really a sin?" He closed his eyes, biting his lip in a clear attempt to keep himself from sobbing. "I loved him. I loved him so much. All I did was fall in love."

"My dear boy." Aziraphale pulled up a chair next to the hospital bed before sitting down. "Of course you aren't going to Hell. Believe me, falling in love is no sin."

"That's not what my father thinks." His voice was bitter. Much too bitter for someone who likely had just started university.

"Well, fathers don't know everything," Aziraphale replied. "Trust me, dear boy. There is nothing you have to fear in death."

The boy wiped tears from his eyes. "Yeah? How would you know?"

Aziraphale snapped his fingers. The Almighty really was not going to be pleased with him. So many miracles only a few minutes apart was sure to get him reprimanded. Or maybe it wouldn't. He never could tell what exactly She would approve or disapprove of.

The boy's eyes widened as he took in the sudden change of his surroundings. He tried to sit up, but Aziraphale stopped him.

"Careful, now. I'm simply giving you a peek into what awaits you."

The boy shook his head in disbelief. "Is this - is this Heaven?"

"Indeed." A part of it, at least. A lovely little spot of paradise that was reminiscent of Eden. Many enjoyed it when they first ascended to Heaven. A place to get acclimated.

The boy stared at Aziraphale. "You're an angel."

Aziraphale's wings fluttered, as if responding to the query. "Yes, I am. I requested to be stationed in America to help ease the pain of those suffering from AIDS. People in the... Final stages of the disease."

The boy nodded. A faint smile appeared on his lips. "That means I'm dying, then."

Young people truly were getting more perceptive. "I'm afraid so, my dear." Aziraphale snapped his fingers, and the vision of Heaven dissipated. Regretfully, his wings went, too.

The boy sighed, leaning back more deeply into the hospital bed's pillow. "Would you believe me if I told you that I'm going to miss my father?"

Aziraphale didn't respond. He knew an answer wasn't expected.

"I'm going to miss him. Even if -" The boy's voice cracked. "Even if he hates me, he was the only family I had. I forgive him, and - and I want God to forgive him, too."

"She will," Aziraphale murmured, his voice so low only he could hear it. "She always does."

The boy's heart rate was dropping. Aziraphale resisted every instinct in his body to save him. He could not interfere. It was not his responsibility to influence Earthly life and death.

"At least I'll get to see Miles again," the boy breathed. Tears were trickling down his face. "It's been a long year without him."

He closed his eyes.

The machine flatlined.

Aziraphale could sense the boy's spirit leaving his body. He returned the chair to the side of the room, then slid the curtain shut around the bed.

"I'm sorry, angel."

Aziraphale didn't know when he'd started crying. "I can't imagine even your lot could be responsible for this, Crowley."

There was a pause. "AIDS itself is one of the final gifts of Pestilence unto Earth, despite that they retired eons ago." Footsteps echoed in the quiet room, moving closer to Aziraphale. "But only humans could be so cruel to one another."

"I know," Aziraphale whispered. "And I think that's the worst part of all." He didn't even blink as Crowley stepped in front of him, brushing away his tears with his thumb.

"There's nothing you can do, angel," Crowley murmured. "You know that."

Aziraphale did know that. He hated it, but he knew it all too well. "I just - I just don't understand. All they do is fall in love, Crowley! What could have wrong in human history where they started to believe that love was sinful?"

Aziraphale expected a witty comment in response. A dry quip about Catholics, or the Shaker community. He certainly had not prepared himself for a serious answer.

"When did Heaven and Hell start believing it?"

Crowley's sunglasses slid down his nose. He took them off, tucking them into his jacket. They stared at each other, eye to eye.

"I've been - I've been wondering that myself," Aziraphale stammered. His voice was hushed. "But it's not my place to question it."

Crowley shrugged. "The Almighty has been more forgiving as of late. Since it's you, She just might allow it."

"I - I couldn't possibly."

"I know, angel." He sighed. "I know."

Neither spoke after that. But neither made a move to walk away.

Aziraphale knew he had to leave. He had to report the death of the young man so the room could be available for other patients. But he couldn't bring himself to step away from Crowley.

The stood only inches apart. Aziraphale wasn't certain whether he'd reached for Crowley's hand or if the demon had grabbed his, but their fingers were intertwined and Aziraphale knew damn well he didn't want to let go.

"How did you find me?" he finally asked. "I don't recall telling you I was leaving Soho. Or where I was going." In fact, they hadn't spoken since 1967. The night in the Bentley.

Crowley shrugged. In a rare moment of tenderness, his thumb gently brushed over Aziraphale's knuckles. "The city feels different when you're not there."

"O-Oh. I see." Aziraphale found his gaze drifting down from Crowley's eyes to his lips. He didn't fail to notice that Crowley had lessened the distance between them even further.

"Is love a sin, angel?" Crowley whispered. His free hand moved to cup Aziraphale's cheek. "Because if so, it must be the holiest sin there is."

Aziraphale would have laughed had the tension between them not been almost suffocating. "Well, my dear, I really don't think there's such thing as a 'holy' sin -"

He was cut off as Crowley captured his mouth with his. Aziraphale found himself melting into the kiss, pulling the demon towards him. Crowley wrapped his arms around Aziraphale's waist, and Aziraphale placed his arms around Crowley's neck.

He shouldn't be doing this. He didn't know why he shouldn't be, because every atom in his body was telling him that this was right, that this was love, that Crowley was all he needed -

But he couldn't.

Aziraphale pulled away, certain that regret was written all over his face. He couldn't bring himself to look Crowley in the eyes. "I'm sorry. You deserve - you deserve better than me."

Crowley laughed. It was harsh. Bitter. "I'm a demon, angel. I don't 'deserve' anything. It's part of the job description. In the fine print. Non-negotiable. You know that." He yanked his sunglasses out of his pocket and shoved them onto his face.

"No." Aziraphale's voice refused to move above a whisper. "You deserve everything, my dear. Anything you want. The whole world."

"I don't want the whole damn world. I only want you."

Aziraphale forced himself to look at Crowley. The demon's expression was unreadable behind the black lenses. "I can't, Crowley. Not now. Not yet."

Crowley raised an eyebrow. "'Yet'?"

Aziraphale nodded. "One day, I'll - I'll be ready. To go faster. As fast as you. I swear it. Just - Just not today." And he meant it. More than anything he'd ever said. "Will you... Wait for me?"

A small smile appeared on Crowley's lips. It was a rare sight, but one of Aziraphale's favorites.

"For you, angel? Always."

Aziraphale blinked, and the demon was gone. He didn't know when they'd see each other again. He didn't know what the future would hold for them, either. But when Crowley had left, he'd taken all of Aziraphale's tears with him. As he so often did.

Perhaps his demon had a point.

If love was a sin, it truly was a holy one.

Maybe even one worth Falling for.

~*~

im a mess, y'all. i love these two more than i love myself. i hope you enjoyed! feel free to send me prompt requests for them or for ineffable bureaucracy because both are such good pairings.

#good omens #ineffable husbands #aziraphale #anthony j crowley #anthony crowley #good omens fanfiction #good omens fic #my post #my fanfic #my writing #fanfiction #archangel gabriel #tw: homophobic slurs #aids crisis #amy writes

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felassanis · 5 years ago

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The Hunter - an Oblivion short.

Lucien Lachance fic I made, not really done as I sort of flicked through it editing it and trying to modify my rather wordy writing but also trying to figure out how to elaborate character’s feelings in scenes.

Comments and likes would be appreciated

What was meant to be a quiet night lead the Hero of Kvatch to reminisce about something that has haunted her, something she has tried to quell deep within her mind. When the murderer seeps into her room like a bad omen, she is offered an opportunity...

My horse surrendered to a slow pace as we crossed the bridge, letting its sleepy head sink as it trudged against the ground with weighted hooves scraping against cobblestone. “Tired are we?” I mumbled leaning down and stroking his brown coat with my fingers. He snuffed snottily in what I took as validation. Somewhere up ahead, beckoning me through the leering orange hue of the late afternoon was a signpost standing slanted, riding closer my eyes pined for the carving of a tankard brimming with mead. Indeed, my eyes glinted and my ears perked with pricked interest. “We’ll reach Cloud Ruler Temple come tomorrow, I think you...and I, deserve some rest,” I spoke and steered my reigns in the direction the wooden sign lured me to.

About a half an hour later night had descended upon Cyrodil, blankets of shadows coveted the forested region like a black veil. The cool breeze fanned across my face reaching out to my heart, which pleaded for the warmth only a tavern fire could bring. At last, we reached a tavern that sat alone on the side of the dirt road. Lighting up as a beacon to weary travellers by the positioned lanterns that dotted the building’s outskirts, it worked on this weary traveller.

Securing my horse to a fence, I removed my hood and ventured inside. The door creaked open with a loud howl eliciting the attention of every patron dwelling inside. As Cyrodillic customs dictated each head tilted in curiosity; the type of curiosity that went hand in hand with scrutiny and light malice that seeped into squinted eyes filled with a lack of surety. And a suspiciousness weaved into their frowns and smouldering grimaces. Eyes lurched to my face, a clear peaked interest in the men but the flame of desire quickly dissipated with the dubious revelation of my sharp ears which suddenly burned the more they stared. Eventually, they went about their business once more. I knew that if I were to knock one of them it would surely result in a brawl like poking a slumbering bear.

Bearing this in mind, I avoided the patrons and went around the seating area straight to the bar. A small Imperial woman stood behind, cleaning out a glass. “Yes?” Said the patron, with a tone that assured me I had to be snappy with this interaction as she barely looked up from her chore to even acknowledge me. “Just a room please,” I responded to which she nodded and handed me a silver key in exchange for some coin.

Heading upstairs I was greeted by a long hallway, oddly encased in darkness. The hallway seemed to go on and on till the end was but a black spot. I was filled with a sudden sense of dread, my eyes getting lost down that dark and when I scanned my surroundings; I saw little but saw no presence, despite the poking feeling of one watching me. I scanned again doubting my senses, but alas all it appeared to be was a dark hall, still and unmoving with silvery wisps of cobwebs littering the corner of the ceiling. Of course, I had seen enough to know this wasn’t the case.

My feet carried me into my allotted room with haste, but the dreary feeling did not subside once I locked my door. I reached out slowly towards a candle hung on the wall by rusted metal, letting small trickles of fire crackle under my nails as I lit it. The room was now dimly lit in a charming way, making my room come alive in the light. Still, with each beat of my heart sounding off in my ears I didn’t feel comforted. More so like the warming light was false, trying to lure me into false security.

As the night drew on I eventually found myself under the bed covers, with eyes wide and ears pricked by each creak of the tavern, every gust of wind that swept across my window. I had sprung from my bed a few times, hand itching for my blade tucked under my pillow. Alas, nothing confirmed why I felt a watchful gaze course over my body. I considered getting on my horse and suffering through the night to return to Martin, to Cloud Ruler. And just as I was about to collect my cloak I saw a shimmer in the room, a wisp of colours moulding together someone had thrown dye into the waters. It moved slowly, stopped...then I saw it inch closer.

My hand flew to my dagger and in an instant, I threw it quickly in the direction of the wisp with a hearty growl. I heard a magical grumble pierce the still air before a tall man draped in black appeared before me, born from whisks of magical embers. His own hand is as quick as my own; for he had his pale fingers wrapped tightly around my blade before it struck his skull. His precision amazed me, his eyes stayed unto me as if he hadn’t even blinked at the assault. And he seemed to acknowledge my awe; under his hood was a long grin brimming with pride.

“Why does sleep evade you so, young one?” He speaks in a fruity voice, deep and low. It’s a numbing voice that makes me tremble as if tremors filtered out his mouth, flowing with an impeccable air of strength. His words slipped through that mischievous smile stemming from deep within his throat. A clarity so crystal clear it was as if he’d rehearsed the lines a thousand times. He speaks with purpose and with conviction, and I’m almost envious he can sound so strong and calm while holding the knife I pined for his eye. Again, I reach for a second dagger but he’s already evaded it by the time I’ve let it slip through my fingers, a slight lean and my aim proves worthless to him. The knife consequently, barrages against the wall of my room in a dull thud.

“Perhaps slumber fails you...because you’re riddled in guilt hmm? Plagued by nightmares of hands soaked in the blood of innocents?...your innocents?” He tries one again, each word is slow as he traces every inch of my face with his dark gaze. I feel it, like fingers caressing my skin. He walks towards me slowly and carefully and I feel small, caught out somehow like a mouse spotted among the cheese. He makes me want to confess, but with what I am not sure. The air is quiet, not a sound save for his edging steps and my unsteady breaths. I can feel the tension between us brewing, like a finger flicking a thin string that threatens to snap. Each twang is his footsteps poking and prodding further and further and I stand there anticipating the string to just snap, to break and release...something. I don’t know what...that unknowing, that petrifying and foreign anonymity exacts more unease. I expect him to surge at me, lunge with a quelled ferocity and yet he appears peaceful. I studied him, from what little I could see under his hood there was no trace of wrinkles; no lines against his pale features like cobwebs, not a slither of grey in his hair. He was clean-shaven, said hair whisked back neatly without a strand out of place, connoting he was particular like a young man might’ve been. Yet I sensed a great life in him. Perhaps not a long life, but one worth hundreds of them all the same.

I raise my hands, sure enough, he won’t speak slowly and with such immense patience were I to try again. I could feel he had somewhat of an unpredictable nature. I was sure he meant no harm, but I wanted to be careful still. “I felt eyes on me as soon I reached that hallway, didn’t your mother ever tell you it’s rude to stare? Especially when one is trying to sleep?” I respond just as slowly, to try and mock him. He chuckles darkly and tosses my first knife into my vacant hand. The act surprises me, and I fondle with the knife almost shamefully, daunted by his composure. “Ah, but you have not slept. Fair game no? Especially for one so guilty,” “No guilt plagues me, just the strange man who followed me into my room,” I add nonchalantly looking up. “Observant, and...dare I say...neglectful? Do you brush past takings of life so easily? Good, you’ll need a clear conscience for what I’m about to propose,” He counters. “Hold on there; strange man invading my room in the dead of night. Before you ‘propose’ anything, just who are you?”

He stares at me once more and then he begins to pace about the room. His long black robes made of the night itself trails behind him and he folds his arms behind him in a polite manner. I have not seen many dress as such, cloaked in long assortments such as he. I have seen elongated robes similar indeed, but they had always been etched in something identifiable, something that marked them as one small thing in something much bigger. Like the sun of the Mythic Dawn. He bore none, perhaps his group did not approve of grand statements? Whatever it was, whatever organisation claimed him as their own I couldn’t make out. It had to be something cult-like, and therefore something I wanted no part in.

“I am Lucien Lachance.” He greets, now coming to a stop. “A speaker for The Dark Brotherhood. And you, you are a killer,”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say with threats dripping from my tone. He senses this, as seen by his quirked brow. But it isn’t a vigilant caution that fuels his next words...it is intrigue. “Oh, how easily you have forgotten?” He purrs. I haven’t forgotten, could never forget. “Forgotten what? Speak quickly!” I quip defensively. “I feel it in the void, your work has pleased the Night Mother. And so, I come to you with an offering. An opportunity to join our rather...unique family,” He demurs and I feel my anger prick, feel it bubble like lava in my veins. “Your offering is likely something I won’t take kindly to, Mr Lachance,” I cautioned but he just nods.

“Listen close, On the Green Road north of Bravil lies the Inn of Ill Omen. There you will find a man named Rufio, kill him. Only then, will your initiation to the Dark Brotherhood be complete,” Lucien explains the offer, says it smoothly as if he asks little of me. His disregard of the life he wishes to be slain infuriates me, reveals the fury I had tried to quell like a boulder into the water before this obvious murderer. I unsheathe the knife, it leaves my belt in a slick metallic hiss piercing the air. “You think yourself bold? Claiming to be of the Dark Brotherhood? Think yourself clever? Careless is what I call it, messy most of all. Do you think I will throw myself at your feet? Kiss your boots in worship for your offer?! You sicken me,” I rattle and with each sharp and swift hit of my words that ring as loud as thunder I inch closer, I inch with fire in my feet and in my veins. “I won’t kill for you, Assassin,” I declare hotly, spit it like it’s a curse and I point the end of my weapon at him. The space between his chin and my tip is near non-existent. The lack of room I hoped would secure the message, drill into him and more importantly; myself a solid no.

To add fuel to my offence Lucien still fails to show a lick of surprise, shock or insult. As if possible, his smile grows wider, as if my refusal sparks excitement in him. For a moment I fear he sees that spark of interest I so desperately wish to hide, sees something in me I thought I had locked away. “I see, you have yet to face who you are,” He begins. “Not ready to satisfy that hidden thrill you feel when you see the life of your victims ebb away by your hands,” my frown intensifies and I can feel my wrist begin to shake. “You do feel it, I know you do,” He insists.

“You know nothing! Leave now! My next blade won’t miss!” I seeth.

“Indeed, you seem to have an endless supply,” Lucien bemuses huskily, eyes lingering down towards my belt. Lucien reaches into his cloak, I flinch ready to assault but he holds a hand up at me like I did before and he pulls out a knife. It’s dark and weaved from ebony, the blade is crooked and bends like a bolt of black lightning. It is oddly beautiful and soon I find it at my feet, it’s dark material like penumbral swirls drawing me in.

“Accept this token from the Dark Brotherhood. It is a virgin blade, and thirsts for blood. Should you find yourself lost of a family...of a purpose. May the blade serve you well in your endeavour. If you decide to take me up on it,” He says with a honeyed voice. He takes a step back and unlocks the door to my room without effort, and I realise he’s already picked the lock.

“And I know, one day...you will,” Is the last thing Lucien says before he vanishes before my intense gaze, a flash of purple unravels right then and I see a hint of the wisp trail behind him before it too has dissipated. I am left astonished, my heart palpitates wildly and I feel dizzy. The knife in my hand falls and I think of the Grey Champion; his sad eyes looking at me with so much appeal before he drives my own sword into his chest. I think of my horror, my hand on his bloody chest. The way regret seeped into my heart that felt black, how I wished I just burned that letter written by his father…

If I hadn’t wished weakness upon the Orc, hadn’t handed him the letter will full knowledge of what it would entail for him. If I had fought him bravely as an equal instead of stripping him down of his confidence and will to exist. Maybe being referred to as the Champion would not sound so bitter. No one saw his death as undeserving, while it wasn’t much in the way of a spectacular show everyone in Cyrodil accepted it. Only this shadowy group of killers saw it as an innocent life being stripped away...what did that say?

I slink into my bed from the weight of my budding sins. The weight of the blade Lucien gifted is evident, I hold it in my palms with immense effort and the weight pokes at me, ‘you lied’ a murderous voice in my head whispers. My consideration of his offer sickened me. I knew my righteous facade was thinning, that the way Martin saw me wasn’t real; just a veil I had enveloped myself in. But I was adamant, I chewed whatever inklings of ambition I had and swallowed it like a knife. The blade somehow ended up in my trunk back at Cloud Ruler, once I had returned. I wanted it gone and so I stowed it away. But I think, deep down I know I kept it for other purposes. Lucien inspired a spark, some kind of desire; a need I didn’t know I had. His smile, all-knowing...He was right, I did feel it. But for the time being, none at Cloud Ruler need to know, and I never told anyone...

#Oblivion #TES4 #TES #TES: Oblivion #Lucien Lachance #Hero of Kvatch #HOK #Bosmer #Wood Elf

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snidgetsafan · 5 years ago

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Good Omens

Rating: T

Summary: It all starts in a garden...In a world where Heaven and Hell play an ineffable game of backgammon with humanity, an Angel and a Demon have been stationed on Earth since the dawn of time. And after 6,000 years, any being, whether they be ethereal or occult, would go at least a little native. And after 6,000 years of being the only two immortal souls on Earth, could you blame these beings for braving angelic and demonic taboos and growing close?

A Good Omens AU (no prior knowledge of the book or mini-series needed) (on AO3)

Notes: Here is my entry for @csseptembersunshine! Good Omens is my favorite book ever, and the mini-series has reawakened my obsession. I haven’t been able to write anything else, this idea wouldn’t leave me. Just so you know: this was supposed to be a bullet point outline. And here we are, 10k later... I wish I could say I was sorry for all the puns and dumbass jokes, but you know I’m not. Last but not least: a HUGE thank you to @shireness-says, who has edited this fic in two days, cheered me while I was writing, and tolerated both my fixation and puns (and even made one of her own! I’m SO PROUD)

Wordcount: 10.7k

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It all starts in a garden. No, not a garden – the garden. You could even say the Garden, since it’s currently the only one in existence.

It’s a gorgeous Garden. You could even call it heaven on Earth, because it is.

It doesn’t actually start in the Garden proper, mind, but rather on top of the wall surrounding it, where an Angel is watching the first two humans walk towards an undetermined future. More determined, however, is the lion slowly prowling towards them. A slight breeze brings the smell of ozone from the coming storm (the first storm – God really casting the humans out in style), as well as the slightest whiff of iron. That last smell is explained a few seconds later by the appearance of a huge snake slithering up the wall before slowly taking human shape as it reaches the parapet, as if unsure how to go about the transition. A Demon, then.

And thus the Demon spake unto the Angel, “Well, I don’t think that could have been any more dramatic.”

“I beg your pardon?” are the first words the Angel spake unto the Demon. The Demon smiles in amusement, their dark hair fluttering in the wind as it steadily blows stronger; the storm is growing nearer. They catch a few strands between their fingers, looking at it in puzzlement before shrugging and turning towards the Angel.

Then their smile turns into a frown. “Didn’t you have a flaming sword?” they ask, tilting their head to look behind the Angel, just in case their lanky frame could somehow hide a huge sword on actual fire. Such a feat would have to be quite the mirac– well.

The Angel averts their blue eyes, pretending to be fascinated by the approaching clouds. When they see the Demon patiently waiting for an answer (and isn’t it odd, seeing a Demon display one of the seven Virtues?), they mumble an answer, turning their head away once again.

(Those clouds really are quite something. They’re the first ones, for starters).

The Demon’s serpentine eyes widen. Surely – “You what ?” And then the Angel says Words, words that will shape the next six thousand years of the world, from its very beginning to its end (and its aftermath, too, but more importantly its end).

“I gave it away,” they repeat defensively, not looking at the Demon, unwilling to see the mockery on their face. The Demon is glad that the Angel’s not looking at them; this way, they have time to hide the absolute awe they’re feeling at the moment. It’s not that the Angel has compassion; angels are made of love, compassion is innate for them. No, it’s that this Angel, without even realizing it, has shown free will, has had the complete and utter balls to find and use a loophole in God’s orders.

They’re so awed, they don’t even acknowledge the envy and wrath this realization awakens in them (why didn’t this angel fall, when what they did was worse than what the Demon did – when they only asked questions? )

It’s the first time of many that the Angel will cause the Demon to ignore their very nature, reminding them of Before (before Eden, before Hell, before the fall, before the doubt).

And with the dawn of human history begins the dance of Emraoth and Kiliel (for they do learn each other’s names eventually). Because while “how many angels can dance on the head of a pin?” is quite an interesting question, it would be more appropriate to wonder what an angel and a demon would dance if left to their own devices (or to be more precise, not an angel and a demon, but rather this Angel and this Demon).

For instance, right now, you could say they’re line dancing; following the steps set by the choreography, occasionally facing each other but each staying in their own space, in sync with their side. They meet in Mesopotamia, Etruria, and what will become Australia. They assume their roles at the foot of the Ararat Mountains, though they’re not very good at it (an angel unenthusiastic about the Flood and a demon raving about the children not deserving this fate – what would their ilk think?)

––-

And then Jerusalem happens. Kiliel watches with sorrow in his eyes as God’s Son is nailed to one of the crosses. He knows God’s Plan is ineffable, and that Jesus’ death is a vital part of it, but his heart still bleeds as he hears the man’s cries and whimpers. He oddly feels relieved to smell the whiff of iron, turning his head to see Emraoth suddenly standing next to him (but not watching him - almost never watching him, not since Eden). She is draped all in black with a veil covering her brown hair in the local fashion, and she looks grim, no sign of amusement on her face.

“Did you meet him?” Kiliel can’t help but ask, both out of curiosity and as a way to cover Jesus’ cries of pain.

��I showed him all the kingdoms of the world,” she murmurs, not looking away from the cross now slowly being raised.

“Why?” Kiliel asks, not understanding what temptation she was trying to accomplish. And just like Emraoth’s whole worldview had tilted on its axis on the Garden’s wall, so does Kiliel’s on top of the Golgotha as Emraoth snorts, although there is no mirth in it.

“He’s the son of a carpenter. How else was he supposed to see them before he died?”

And just like Emraoth hadn’t expected to find free will in an angel before the Garden, Kiliel hadn’t expected to find pity in a demon before

They wait in respectful silence for the end after this, feeling Jesus deserves to not be left alone in his last, most terrible moments. Neither of them says a thing when the spear pierces his side; they’ll later get commendations from their respective sides for the act, and they won’t say a thing. What could they say? Could Kiliel say that out of the two of them, it was the Demon who showed mercy? And what can Emraoth say when Hell rejoices in her worsening the Christ’s agony? That it was the farthest from her mind?

So they continue line dancing. While they imperceptibly move out of sync with their sides, their steps start complementing each other’s instead, though no one notices, them least of all.

(God of course notices, just like She’s noticed everything since the beginning, but keeps Her own counsel on the matter).

––-

For once, Kiliel is the one who first spots Emraoth in Rome. She looks dejected, slumped against the counter with her head leaning on her fist. Kiliel feels quite nervous; he’s known Emraoth since the Garden (as much as one can know a demon, duplicity being second nature to them, he thinks, remembering Liamel’s warnings every time he reports in Heaven), but he doesn’t know how to deal with a demon capable of compassion.

But Kiliel is… curious, and he approaches her (and if Emraoth’s abrasiveness settles him into a relative sense of comfort, well, nobody has to know). They eat oysters, of all things. Emraoth hates them, but seems to like the honey cakes he orders for dessert (if the way she gobbles her plate and steals his last morsel while he is distracted is any indication, anyway). And during their meal, they talk. Not of deep things – they don’t trust each other enough for that - but of what they’ve seen. Kiliel talks about the Library of Alexandria; Emraoth mentions seeing it. Kiliel is suspicious until Emraoth snaps that it wasn’t her that burnt it down; Maleficent, one of the Duchesses of Hell, has pyromaniac tendencies.

They part, but something has changed. Both have enjoyed the other’s company, despite their natural enmity. Both Angel and Demon know that if their sides were to know this, they’d – at best – be called back to Heaven and Hell, never to set foot on Earth again. They tacitly agree to keep their acquaintance a secret.

The line dance stops, rearranges itself; they’ve shifted into a tripudium, right in time for the Dark Ages. The Church considers dancing to be immoral, wanton, but how can you stop humans dancing when there’s music? You can’t, so you compromise: people may dance, but under no circumstances should there be physical contact. Touching is impure, a mark of the Devil.

And isn’t that right on the nose for Kiliel and Emraoth.

They continue to meet from time to time (and if they sometimes investigate stories of miracles or curses wondering if they’ll find the other at the source... well, nobody has to know). Human technology and knowledge takes a step backwards after the fall of Rome. Kiliel misses running water and notions of personal hygiene; Emraoth misses good entertainment and good wine. They complain about it to each other over what passes for a drink at that time in inns, taverns, and on one memorable occasion, during a coronation feast.

They meet again in Ireland in the 5th century, and the discussion becomes quite heated over, ridiculously enough, salmon. Heated enough that Emraoth transforms back into a snake out of a frustration that makes her want to hiss properly. And heated enough for Kiliel to, for the first and only time, discorporate Emraoth where she writhes. They certainly didn’t intend to be seen by the locals, and Kiliel certainly didn’t expect it to gain as much traction as it did. He didn’t chase all the snakes out of the island; he just banished the only snake that ever stepped foot on it, is all. Still, he gets a commendation for smiting a demon and bringing Christianity to Ireland. Above is so happy with him that the medal is directly delivered by the Archangel Blue on a rainy Tuesday morning. The meeting leaves him feeling on edge; while he was outwardly rewarded and praised, this felt more like a trial than anything else. Blue’s parting words certainly didn’t help:

“It’s surprising how well you’ve adapted, Kiliel. Be careful not to go too native, though.”

(Emraoth takes her revenge a decade late when she sees Kiliel on the battlefield of Châlons, making sure at least three arrows are miracled to pierce him when he’s distracted. Why she had to make sure one hit him in the arse, Kiliel wonders before he is sent back to Heaven, he’ll never know).

––-

Kiliel joins King Arthur’s Round Table in the 6th century. Above wants to see how all of this quest for the Grail turns out, and he’s been sent to observe it all; Arthur had seemed like such a good lad at the lake when Kiliel had handed him the sword. (Not just a sword, either, but his sword, the one he hasn’t seen since Eden, though it’s not flaming right now. When it’s delivered to him by Blue he keeps a straight face. Nope, nothing to see here).

When talk of a dark sorceress reaches Camelot, Kiliel volunteers to investigate, centuries of habits making him guess who is behind these tales. And just as he thought, he finds Emraoth in the woods, lounging in a mossy clearing. She does look impressive, if a little… surly. Snakes don’t like the cold and the damp, after all. Neither do angels, for that matter. (Or Kiliel, to be more precise. Heaven, while beautiful and peaceful, is cold . Being posted on Earth had been a blessing in disguise; the warm caress of the sun had felt scorching after the chilly harmony of Paradise).

And in the middle of that mossy clearing, as Kiliel’s neck itches under his chainmail, and as Emraoth keeps having to miracle the bottom of her gown dry as they catch up, that clearing is where the Demon vocalizes an idea she’s had since at least Pompeii.

“If I’m here to wile, and you’re here to thwart, and all we do is cancel each other out all the time… wouldn’t it be more sensible to just… go home?” the Demon asks, her serpentine eyes fixed on Kiliel’s, “What’s the point of staying here in the damp when what we’re doing won’t have any impact anyway?”

Kiliel entertains the idea for a second (that chainmail really is itchy, and the less said about his braies, the better) before he sees through Emraoth’s attempt at sloth.

“No!” he exclaims, “what’s wrong with you?” Emraoth just shrugs, miracling her dress dry once more. She hadn’t even been trying to tempt the Angel; it would have just been more practical for both of them to go home, that’s all.

Oh well.

It only takes a decade for Kiliel to see Emraoth’s point as he takes Arthur to Avalon on his final trip, once again appearing as Viviane, the Lady of the Lake. That mess with Lancelot and Guinevere really soured Kiliel’s time in Camelot, and he feels that Arthur giving back Excalibur and dying marks the end of his time at the Round Table.

(He can’t help but feel a little responsible for Lancelot. He did have a hand in his upbringing, after all, and may have been a little heavy-handed in his lessons about love).

He has half a hope to be able to keep his sword at the end of it all, but it’s whisked away by Blue minutes after Arthur has breathed his last, nattering about how it’s going to be needed later on. He finds Emraoth still in the same mossy clearing, and the Arrangement is born. Instead of fighting fruitlessly against one another, one of them can accomplish both the blessing and the temptation.

And if the other one stays home… well, no one has to know.

––-

And so they now seek each other out, meeting in inconspicuous places: gardens, balls, markets, and isolated clearings. Kiliel is the one who goes up to Iona in the 9th century to inspire some Vikings into attacking the monastery there. He is also the one who helps the monks flee to Ireland. During the trip, he happens upon a gorgeously illuminated book, and is absolutely charmed. He helps the monks settle, and decides to stay for a little while, just to make sure the monastery stays safe (and the books, because there’s a second one ). A little while ends up being five decades. It’s in that time that he decides to adopt the name the locals have given him: Killian. It’s close enough to his real name, and attracts less attention than his foreign-sounding one.

During this time, Emraoth goes to the continent to wreak a little havoc. She has way too much fun nicknaming the successive kings of that period. Kiliel empathizes with Charles: being constantly mocked for your hairiness by being nicknamed King Charles the Bald must have stung something fierce.

When Emraoth comes back, she tells him she now goes by Emma. He guesses he’ll get used to it, even if it’s been almost five millennia of calling her by her demonic name. And if Emma doesn’t meet his eyes when she tells him she just liked the name when she heard it, Kiliel won’t call her out. Just like he won’t mention having read about the angel Immanuel in the Book of Isaiah (although he can’t – he can’t remember ever meeting her before the Fall. So is the curse of the Fallen, that their annihilation from Heaven be so complete that their very existence is banished from Heaven’s memory).

The Arrangement continues and strengthens with time; the dancers get closer and closer, until there is at last, some measure of trust; they touch, even if it is still hesitant. The dance once again changes, the parudium leaving its place to a stately minuet, where the dancers twirl around each other, growing closer then separating in order to come near again. (And if the dancers twirl closer and closer, well, again – no one has to know).

Kiliel learns not to tell Emr– Emma that she is nice, or kind, because she will spend the next decade trying to prove she is not . He spends all of the 10th century protecting the Kells library from different pillaging attempts because the Demon knows he loves those two books and is being spiteful. The monks there comment that it’s a miracle the two manuscripts always seem to survive the attacks on the monastery. Kiliel (or brother Killian, as he’s known there) smiles nervously and changes the subject every time.

Years, then decades, then centuries pass in this fashion. Neither Heaven nor Hell seem to catch onto their ruse. Quite the contrary, in fact; the commendations both from Above and Below become more frequent. The only downside to the Arrangement is that Kiliel sees Blue much more often than before, and every meeting leaves him feeling out of sorts, as if he’s missing something, as if Blue’s hiding something behind her affable smiles and azure garments. Kiliel can’t help but feel guilty after each meeting for doubting his superior; Blue knows what she’s doing, and if she weren’t following God’s Plan, then surely the Almighty would have already taken care of her.

Emma absolutely loathes the 14th century, and she makes sure everyone around her (especially Kiliel) knows it. Her drunken rants about all the evils of the era become legendary in their length, virulence, and irony. The last straw is when the umpteenth bout of plague decimates the village she is staying in; she decides in a fit of pique to sleep the rest of the century away. Kiliel does not miss her. He had just grown unaccustomed to only speaking to mortals, that’s all. Plus it’s nice not to have to protect what has become known as the Book of Kells from constant attacks because someone was annoyed and feeling childish.

(Emma has been a constant in his life since the beginning of human history; truth be told, he sees her more often than those on his own side. Of course he’s grown accustomed to her).

As time goes by, Kiliel grows more and more fond of books in general. Even though the Angel loves illuminated manuscripts and thinks them objects of art, no one is more excited than he about the advent of the printing press. He is quite proud, in fact, of having inspired the first sentence to be typed. “Fiat lux” – let there be light – had, indeed, been quite enlightened of him, he thinks. It helps balance the quite scandalous things that print will be used for. Being able to produce several books a day will certainly help spread not only the Gospel, but also stories and histories to people who didn’t have access to them before. And if more people can read, then more people can write books. That’s a win-win situation for the discerning angel looking for new material to read, after all.

Libraries start popping everywhere around Europe. Kiliel is all in favor of giving people free access to books; it’s just that books deserve respect , deserve to be handled with care, and so many of these humans seem unable to grasp that fact. They are precious, not only because they are rare, but because of the knowledge they hold. Even he will admit that he went a bit far in the Hereford Cathedral’s library. Chaining the shelves was frowned upon both by the Archbishop and by Above; he’s supposed to influence humans to do God’s will, not miracle the chains himself during the night. He had received a strongly worded letter the following week; phrases like “more judicious use of your grace” and “try to deal with less trivial matters in the future” were used, making Kiliel grimace in discomfort. Head office was not happy.

Emma comes back from her jaunt in the Carribbean with a tan and a new accent and laughs herself silly when he tells her what happened. Kiliel didn’t know demons could laugh. They snicker, cackle or chortle ominously, but Kiliel had no idea they could make such delighted (and delightful) sounds. And if he thinks that laughter really suits Emma, much more than her customary smirks... well, no one has to know.

A century later he is more careful in Dublin; chains are too obvious to protect the books. He just makes sure to devise a system that makes it near impossible to find specific volumes. After all, arranging them by weight and size is logical and practical when you think about it. So little space, so many books. And well, if the Book of Kells finds a privileged place in the college’s library, then that’s just a coincidence, isn’t it?

(His classification system serves as inspiration again when he opens his bookshop at the end of that century. Again: so little space, so many books ).

As Kiliel slowly sets up his shop at the end of the 18th century (he finally found the perfect place, a corner shop in the middle of Soho deserted by its previous owners due to the latest plague outbreak), he hears that the revolutionaries in France are requisitioning all the belongings of the nobility and selling them. He thinks of the libraries of the Versailles palace, of Paris, of Brittany. He thinks of all that knowledge being dilapidated and lost and can’t bear the thought. He needs to do something .

So the Angel travels to Paris with his pockets full of écus , and starts making enquiries. Except that the situation is so... peculiar in Paris these days that a rich well-dressed man automatically translates to aristocrat. And nobles aren’t very popular in Paris right now, except on the guillotine platform. And so an Angel finds himself chained in a cell in the Bastille. He’d miracle himself free, but he’s not supposed to be in Paris (he should be blessing away in Norwich, but Emma had drawn the short straw this time) and he doesn’t want to attract Above’s attention. And he’s sure he can explain himself to the court; their Declaration of the Rights of Man and of the Citizen sounded perfectly reasonable when he’d read it the previous month, very progressive and full of good sense. He might even suspect Heavenly influence, if it weren’t for the fact that he’s the only angel in Europe right now.

It turns out the French are not reasonable at all, especially when they see the content of his pockets and decide it would look better in their coffers. Really, he shouldn’t be surprised; they’re a pretty uncouth and smelly bunch and would be unsalvageable if it weren’t for their cuisine and wine. Kiliel finds himself in a new cell, one in which he can hear all the poor souls being decapitated to the cheers of the crowd. Nothing Heavenly about this, he thinks. Hell must be the ones behind this. He hopes Emma was not involved (and doesn’t dither too much on why he doesn’t want her specifically to be responsible).

He barely waits an hour before the executioner arrives, looking decidedly too cheerful for a dealer of death. Under his jolly appearance and upbeat tone, Kiliel can sense a man rotten to the core, who takes pleasure in making heads roll. No reason nor help coming from this side either, then. Getting discorporated is going to be such a bother, Kiliel thinks, disgruntled. At this rate, he should really use a miracle to free himself; he’s going to be reprimanded anyway, but at least he won’t have to fill the paperwork to get a new body.

“I really don’t understand how you can behave like such animals while pretending to fight for freedom,” Killian grumbles while raising his hand to snap his fingers, not realizing Jean-Claude has stopped moving entirely.

“Animals don’t use clever machines to kill each other,” sounds a voice from behind him as he realizes the crowd outside has grown silent. Emma . He turns around, smiling delightedly, never happier to see the Demon. She’s wearing the local garb, Phrygian hat hiding her brown curls, smoked glasses firmly planted on her nose to hide her serpentine eyes. Her hands are also on her hips, and her eyebrow is raised in the universal sign of annoyance.

“What the heavens are you doing here, Angel? Don’t you have a bookshop to open?”

While it might be surprising to see an angel lectured by a demon, it’s important to remember that this is not just any angel, nor any demon. So Kiliel tells her everything, ignoring the way she rolls her eyes so hard her head follows the motion. Explaining to Emma why he hasn’t freed himself is a little trickier, though (a lot more embarrassing, more like). Where he expects Emma’s laughter, or her anger, he’s only met with fond exasperation as she shakes her head, looking at him over her glasses. Emma can’t hold time prisoner for long, though, so she switches Kiliel’s clothes with Jean-Claude the executioner’s just in time for two soldiers to come fetch the “English pig” to take him to his date with Madame Guillotine. Both men ignore Jean-Claude’s protestations that he’s French, which probably has something to do with the fact that he’s suddenly forgotten how to speak French. The Angel doesn’t feel guilty about Jean-Claude’s fate. After all, it’s divine retribution for his crimes; he will die as he lived, on the scaffold – only this time, he’ll be the one with his head on the block.

After getting out of the Bastille and breathing in the relative fresh air (Revolutionary France really was letting itself go in terms of waste disposal and personal hygiene, not that it had been this stellar to begin with), they go to a café and have some crêpes. Between Emma riding on the high of a successful rescue and Kiliel feeling relieved at not having had to resort to any miracles, the tone is jovial. They joke around, Emma telling him about Norwich, Kiliel telling her about his latest purchases. After the first bottle of cider, Emma finally teases him about his coming to Paris, making the Angel smile (he’d been waiting for it; after almost six thousand years, he was starting to know the Demon).

They end up walking in the Tuileries after dark among canoodling couples and groups of friends. It would be hard to guess from this sight alone that the city was in the middle of the Reign of Terror. They stop on a bench overlooking the Louvre. Amusement and the alcohol they’ve drunk make Emma relaxed, and that the flimsy little glasses she wears keep sliding down her nose as she talks animatedly. Kiliel looks at her, finding her positively charming, her flushed cheeks and relaxed brow making her appear younger.

(Than usual, that is, not than her actual age. Any breathing body automatically looks younger than six thousand years. To be honest, any body looks younger than six thousand).

Fresh air and Paris and wine as well as a good time had with a friend make Kiliel unable to keep his thoughts to himself. “You have the most beautiful eyes, love,” he blurts out, emboldened by being able to see them for once, no smoky glasses shielding the serpentine orbs. Ever since she had discovered smoked glasses, she almost always had a pair over her eyes, the most notable exception being when she’d turned into a snake in Ireland (and hadn’t that encounter ended spectacularly badly).

And yet, even as the words escape his mouth, he knows he’s making a mistake; those glasses are an armor for her, one behind which she can hide and upon which she’s based her whole persona, her whole shell. Her face closes off immediately, and in another two minutes she’s gone, pretexting a temptation in Orléans. It’s only after she’s disappeared behind a row of trees that he realizes he’d never asked her how she had known where to find him.

Neither of the dancers notice, but Paris in 1793 marks a significant change in the dance, as the minuet slowly becomes livelier, sharper, more challenging. Both dancers prod at each other, enter each other’s space to see if they’ll take a step back, twirl and walk and collide in a fiery facsimile of a fight. Though it hasn’t been invented yet, the angel and the demon are the first to dance a pasodoble.

Kiliel doesn’t hear from Emma for 10 years. She waltzes back in his life one Tuesday morning in 1803 as he’s trying to convince a gentleman that no, he doesn’t want to purchase that Shakespeare folio, that it’s not for sale even if yes, it is on display in a bookshop. The gentleman is quite insistent until Emma snaps her fingers and he seems in a hurry to get… somewhere else. Kiliel doesn’t want to know. He’s just glad to be rid of the man, as he had quite odd ideas; arguing that bookshops have to sell books, how preposterous. It’s taken him more than three centuries to amass his collection, he’s not going to start squandering it. He didn’t nearly die in Paris for this.

That first meeting is all business, as she has a new pet project in Manchester (or, to be more accurate, the pet project is Manchester). They make a deal: Kiliel will ignore what’s happening in Lancashire, and Emma will steer clear of County Mayo in Ireland. Not that it’s a sacrifice for her; she still hasn’t forgiven him for what happened there in the 5th century. But if Emma plans on influencing a whole city, then Kiliel should definitely do the same, just somewhere else. He remembers popping by Cathair na Mart two decades ago for a blessing, inspiring the lord of the place to rebuild the village he had destroyed to extend his grounds, instead of just turning the inhabitants into the streets. A second blessing on the architect ensured that the new town would be decent; he’s particularly proud of the promenade along the river.

So Kiliel starts spending more time there, dusting off his Killian moniker and encouraging the citizens to do good. His efforts show, as four churches open. More importantly a proliferation of missions and charities begin to operate in and around the city. He hasn’t often concentrated so much on one place, and he finds he quite likes it, even if he misses his bookshop (though his frequent absences help establish him as a particularly difficult merchant, a reputation that he is far, far from resenting, as it keeps most customers away).

What he doesn’t expect, however, is to enjoy sailing so much. Oh, he’s already sailed before in his long existence – after all, you can’t travel from England to the rest of the world without setting foot on a ship (he could fly, but the air currents over the Channel are a nightmare to navigate) – but this, this is different. Sailing directly from London to Cathair na Mart is quicker and more practical than traveling by land, and for the first time since the invention of the caravel, he actually sails on the open sea, and he finds it exhilarating . When the wind is behind them (and it always is, he makes sure of it), it feels like flying, the ride smooth and swift. He loves it so much that he acquires his own ship, a small brigantine named The Ethereal Swan which employs eight sailors (but which he usually sails by himself if he can help it). He makes sure that a dock is always miraculously free for him both in England and Ireland.

He finds he can’t wait to show his ship to Emma. They are… friends, after all, are they not? They’ve been exchanging letters this whole time (even if months or even years could pass between each one), ostentatiously to continue with their Arrangement, less officially to catch up.

(Emma still refuses to step foot in Ireland; considering the utter mess she’s wreaking in Manchester, that’s probably a good thing. Kiliel can’t approach Manchester now without the stench of evil making his eyes water. They’d meet, but they’re afraid that both of them being absent from their cities at the same time would raise some suspicion).

He thinks he might get a chance in 1835, when Emma sends a message to his bookshop (he’s been spending more and more time there, his work in Mayo County slowly coming to an end) asking him to meet her at St James’ Park, not far from Buckingham Palace. It’s become a privileged meeting spot for them since the 1660s, but they haven’t been there since the canal had been transformed into a lake. Kiliel is quite eager to see the changes (and even more to see Emma; it’s been too long, despite the letters). They catch up with each other while walking the new avenues, Emma telling him all about the mischief she has been up to in Manchester and the commendation she’s gotten for it, before Kiliel talks about Cathair na Mart and Emma tries not to roll her eyes at the sentimentality (well, not too much). Kiliel softly smiles whenever she does so; he knows what she looks like when truly annoyed, and this isn’t it – this is just a front. The Demon Emraoth can be quite soft when she wants to be, although Kiliel isn’t stupid enough to voice that thought (not anymore, at least – he doesn’t know where she’d find Vikings to attack Trinity College, but he trusts her to somehow manage it).

It’s while they’re sitting down in front of the new lake, looking at the new facade of Buckingham House (“Palace, Angel, get with the times”) that Kiliel finally broaches the fact he bought a ship. “You what?” Emma laughs, looking delightfully surprised (just as she had on the wall of Eden, at the very beginning, and Kiliel is proud to still be able to surprise her). So he invites her to Rotherhithe where the Ethereal Swan is docked, planning on taking a cab to go there. Emma stops him, bringing him to a black buggy which she drives with… unabashed enthusiasm, a part of Kiliel tries to think diplomatically (though the rest of it is screaming that she’s driving like a madwoman). Between sharp turns and exhortations for Emma to watch the road, Kiliel performs six minor miracles to ensure there are no casualties to Emma’s driving, while the demon snaps that pedestrians know the risks when they venture onto the streets. It’s with the greatest relief that Kiliel finally glimpses the masts in the marina, and directs Emma as close to the Swan ’s dock as possible.

He suddenly feels bashful as he guides Emma onto the gangplank, ridiculously wanting her to approve of the ship. He can’t help but breathe a sigh of relief as soon as he steps on the deck, feeling more at home than anywhere else (even more than his shop, and he’s lived there for the last five decades, longer than anywhere else). Emma has already started exploring, climbing on the upper deck to see the wheel and peer over the railing, before coming back towards him. Kiliel waits patiently for her, watching her walk around his ship, the sight oddly right.

They end up in the captain’s cabin, sharing a bottle of rum Emma miracles. She had brought back some from her time in the Carribean, and Kiliel had developed quite a taste for it. “Plus,” she smirks, ”it’s quite appropriate to toast the ship with some naval rum, wouldn’t you agree, Captain ?” Kiliel just smiles while sipping his drink, letting the alcohol and the company warm his insides.

It’s as she leaves that Emma plants a seed in Kiliel’s mind, looking around her at the books littering the window’s edge and the furniture.

“If you feel so much at home here, why do you even bother with your bookshop?”

(And isn’t that the way of demons, sowing seeds and making sure humans grow them all by themselves? Ironic, when you consider how hopeless Emma is with plants.)

At the time, Kiliel just smiles, but the wheels of fate have already started turning, even if he’s not aware of it yet.

––-

After that, they start meeting more often, always following the same pattern: they meet in the park, and end up either in his bookshop or on his ship (and always, always with Emma’s mad driving in the middle, regrettably). Excepting the infernal rides, Kiliel likes this new development. Even though she is supposedly his mortal enemy, he feels a kinship with Emma born of almost six millenia spent on Earth and of their own alchemy.

This state of harmony comes to an end on a stormy Tuesday morning four years later when Blue herself graces him with her presence, stepping into his bookshop as he waits for Emma’s arrival. They’re planning to go eat at Claridge’s. Apparently, his achievements in Cathair na Mart have earned him a medal, as well as a promotion. A promotion that means he’s being summoned back to Heaven, permanently . Something which he definitely doesn’t want, but can’t really say to Blue, now can he? Kiliel tries to argue that he is an asset here on Earth, that he knows the enemy and manages to thwart them quite effectively, but to no avail. She doesn’t seem to care at all that if he were to go, Hell would be left to roam Earth unchallenged, even enjoying the thought. And this promotion doesn’t feel like one either. What did Petrarch used to say? “Keep your friends close and your enemies closer”? Kiliel somehow doesn’t feel like a friend there. He manages to win a little time before he has to leave, just enough to sort his business here (just enough to say his goodbyes).

But it doesn’t come to that, as Blue comes sulking back two hours later, this time with Gabriel in tow. The head Archangel looks perplexed (which would translate to frantic agitation in any other person or angel). Apparently, Kiliel’s promotion has been postponed, as he is considered far more useful on Earth than Above – but he can keep the medal, thank you and goodbye. Blue doesn’t look perplexed or alarmed; instead, she looks frustrated, her mouth turned down into a subtle frown that Kiliel somehow catches. Her insistence on his being on Earth as merely temporary is also odd; it’s almost as if she wants to get him away from Earth, and not up to Heaven.

He sits at his desk, puzzled, when he realizes that Emma never came. It’s as he’s wondering where she is that she appears, as if summoned by his thoughts. She listens as he recounts his morning before rolling her eyes behind her glasses (she unconsciously rolls her neck at the same time, which Kiliel does not find cute; if Emma knew what he was thinking, he’d be discorporated on the spot) and inviting him to lunch. They don’t talk about it any more, and at the end of their lunch Emma heads off to Camberwell to officiate a blessing for Killian on her way to Croydon.

(Kiliel is not amused by the result of this blessing; young John William Bean was supposed to feel divine inspiration to bring change to his life, but not by shooting at the Queen. Emma is, however, and keeps arguing that the gun was full of coffee, anyway, the worst that could have happened was that Her Majesty’s dress would have sported a suspicious brown stain)

The incident stays in his mind, however, and he realizes with a certain shock that he can’t trust Blue anymore, that she doesn’t seem to have either his or Earth’s best interest at heart. The thought scares him, as an Angel is not supposed to question his superiors (is not supposed to question anything, really), and he knows that several of his former brothers and sisters have fallen for just this reason. He fears this will be his fate, until he realizes that it’s not God he’s questioning (he still has the utmost Faith in Her, doesn’t doubt Her Great Plan), but rather a particular Angel. The thought saddens him, as angels are not supposed to be suspicious of each other, but it is what it is.

And that’s where Kiliel starts to plan. Because whatever Blue’s goal is, it involves him not being on Earth, and he has no intention of being a part of it if it’s not the Almighty’s Plan. So he needs some sort of… deterrent. But what can an angel do against an archangel? There’s only one answer, and it’s a terrible, unthinkable one. Which is why Kiliel chooses to unthink it for a decade, pretending everything is fine as he conducts blessings as usual, interspersed with the occasional temptation for Emma.

But really, the thought keeps nagging him despite his best efforts; Hellfire is the only thing that can kill an angel. And he’s not talking about a simple discorporation, your mortal vessel dies, whoops, Up Above you go, please fill these forms to get a new one and don’t let us see you again. No, death by Hellfire would mean complete annihilation of the body and the soul; you’d be burnt away from existence, with no hope of resurrection whatsoever. It is an abomination, made even more abhorrent by the fact that it’s a weapon kept solely in the hands of their mortal enemies – just like the Heavenly Host has Holy Water. The stakes are balanced, each side having the means to destroy the other.

(While God’s Plan is Ineffable, this part is pretty clear, the balance perfect. They’ll see which side tips the scales when Kingdom comes.)

And yet, it’s the only solution. And as far as he knows, there’s only one way to get some Hellfire, and that’s through a demon.

Good thing he knows one.

Except the meeting doesn’t go as planned. They meet at St. James’ Park, feed the ducks, then head to the bookshop (which he keeps mostly closed these days; he’s getting tired of fending off customers) like usual. He makes his request after a few drinks, but Emma flies off the handle, categorically refusing to even give him an ember.

“I will not give you the meansss of destroying yourself. I need sssome time, Kiliel,” is the last thing she tells him, hissing her s in a rare show of true anger before leaving his shop, not looking back despite Killian calling after her.

He doesn’t hear from her for 64 years.

For the first time since the beginning of the world, the Angel and the Demon dance separately. The Demon has walked away from the paso doble, leaving the Angel alone on the stage.

And so, lonelier than he’s ever been, the Angel dons a mask that hides his face, and performs the steps that ensure he doesn’t stand out from the ensemble. He begins a Kabuki performance that will last until November 14th, 1941.

––-

Kiliel (or Killian Jones, as he’s come to be known by mortals) should really have realized this operation was too good to be true. He’d been contacted the previous week by a Captain Teach, who’d told him some Nazi agents were looking to obtain his collection of books of prophecy, and that the SOE wanted to use this occasion to root out the cell. He had readily acquiesced, always eager to thwart evil coming from demons and humans alike.

The Nazis has indeed contacted him, proposing a substantial sum of money to convince him to part with his precious volumes. He had accepted and called Teach back, giving him the time and place of the meeting. He thought it was quite fitting that they were to be brought to justice by an angel in a church, but he guessed that it made sense to meet in a place that was public but usually deserted, and which wouldn’t be crowded in case of an air raid. However, he didn’t like that Her house would be used for such nefarious purposes, but guessed that the ends justified the means in this case.

Except that it turns out Captain Teach is only a pseudonym, and that he’s really a mercenary who doesn’t care where the money is coming from, as long as it’s hard cash. Kiliel is fuming as he stares down the nozzle of the gun pointed right between his eyes; he can’t believe he got swindled by these half-witted Nazis .

His execution is stopped by colorful swearing and the off-rhythm staccato of heels hitting the church’s stone floor. The men turn as one to see a woman hopping quickly towards them. Kiliel can’t believe his eyes; he hasn’t heard this voice in 64 years (nor seen these calves since Ancient Greece, if he remembers correctly).

“The notorious Emma Swan,” Teach breathes next to him, sounding astounded.

“Swan?” Kiliel asks in confusion, ignoring the humans behind him.

“Yeah, what of it? I had to think of something,” Emma grumbles, coming to a stop near them, sitting on a pew and taking her feet off the ground with a sigh of relief escaping her red lips. Kiliel tries to hide his smile, flabbergasted she’s here, in front of him, after all this time, and that she walked on consecrated ground to come to him. Turns out it’s not the only miraculous thing to happen today, though; she explains to Teach and the Nazis that they’d better run if they want to avoid getting killed by the bomb that’s heading their way. She mentions that only a miracle would allow someone to survive the explosion, looking meaningfully at Kiliel over her glasses, who understands her meaning and prepares to use his Grace at the right moment.

Teach is the only one who heeds Emma’s advice and scampers out, running out of a side door. The Nazis don’t move, thinking that Fraulein Swan is bluffing, even as they can detect the buzz of planes coming nearer. They only realize she’s definitely not when they hear the tell-tale whistle of a bomb heading towards the ground at breakneck speed. Kiliel walks closer to Emma before blinking and making sure their little corner remains untouched by the blast and the debris, allowing only a warm breeze to ruffle their hair. When the dust has settled, Kiliel turns his head towards the Demon. She looks regal, draped over the pew, her black outfit untouched by the dust as flames reflect on her sunglasses, making her appear absolutely diabolic. She’s never looked more beautiful to Kiliel.

And then he realizes he completely forgot about his books. They’d been in the Nazis’ hands before the bomb had fallen, and they must be completely crushed under the rubble, or even burning, he thinks with dismay, sighing noisily. They had been among his most prized possessions, some of them even signed by their authors (he especially loved the dedication by Nostradamus – such a nice man, if somewhat misguided). But then Emma gets up, heading towards the biggest pile of rubble and picking something up before tossing it to him. Caught by surprise, Kiliel fumbles to catch it before looking down and seeing that it’s his satchel, untouched by the destruction around them.

“Little demonic miracle of my own,” Emma says as she passes him, gingerly walking towards the exit, the ground still consecrated even if the church doesn’t exist anymore.

Kiliel doesn’t follow immediately, floored by the thoughtfulness of his friend as his heart soars and his stomach swoops and – oh . How could he have been so oblivious? Angels are beings of love: they are made of it, and they thrive in it. An argument could be made for his love for Emma blending into the love he feels for all creatures, high and low, but that’s not it, is it? He doesn’t merely love Emma, he’s in love with her. He doesn’t just want to see her happy, he wants to make her happy. If he could give her back even a tenth of the bliss she elicits in him just by existing, then he’d be satisfied.

He’s jarred out of his thoughts by Emma calling after him to hurry up. With a soft smile, he follows her to the street, where she heads towards a parked car, clicking her tongue at the gravel and dust covering it. Stepping on the sidewalk, Kiliel blinks once more, and the car is sparkling clean. Kiliel is surprised to see that it’s more yellow than black – a surprising color scheme for a demon but then, when has Emma been remotely conventional? It’s surprisingly her , he thinks fondly. His smile is soon wiped away, however when he sees her get behind the wheel, the passenger door opening on its own in a wordless invitation to get in as he hears sirens in the distance. Surely she’s calmed down on her driving, right? What with the different vehicle and the risk of rubble on the streets she’s going to be more prudent, he’s sure. Kiliel gets in, clutching his satchel.

He was wrong. She’s even worse than before, the maneuverability of the vehicle allowing her to do more daring stunts, like taking turns on two wheels, or slaloming between craters at top speed. Kiliel is glad Soho is not far from the church, as he would surely have discorporated if he’d had to stay in the car for five more minutes, either from an accident or from his heart giving out on him (Emma scoffs when he tells her that, reminding him that he actually doesn’t need a heart, stop being so dramatic, it’s not cute at all ). The only good thing about the ride is that since they’re in the middle of an air raid, there are no pedestrians on the street.

Emma stops when she enters the bookshop, looking at the empty shelves with amazement before turning to Kiliel, silently waiting for an explanation. It’s simple, really; what with the Blitz raging over London, he wanted to make sure that both his ship and his books would be safe. He went with the most practical solution, which was to put the books in his ship, and his ship in Cathair na Mart. He doesn’t understand what’s so funny about it, but Emma is highly amused (and if her mocking allows him to hear her beautiful laugh, then it’s a small price to pay).

They spend the evening drinking, catching up, and not mentioning their last meeting at all. The Angel asks about Emma’s new name, and has the pleasure of seeing a slight embarrassed flush bloom on her cheeks as she mutters that she needed a new name and that was what came to her – it’s not her fault demons have no imagination. Kiliel charitably doesn’t say anything more, as they both know Emma can be quite creative when she wants to be, choosing instead to ask about her car. That launches her into how she got it and the modifications she had done to it.

Kiliel keeps expecting to feel different about Emma, but apart from having identified his feelings, it’s just like any meeting they’ve had before. It’s comfortable, familiar, a breath of fresh air after more than half a century of her absence.

When Emma leaves, it’s with no promise that she’ll be back. And yet, Kiliel somehow knows he won’t have to wait 64 years to see her again.

––-

The Demon comes back to the dance floor, and the pasodoble resumes, even more intense than before. But the dynamics have changed; they don’t push against each other as much, choosing instead to move together. The posturing is just that, now: a facade for the audience.

Another change: they barely look away from each other.

Kiliel’s books never go back on the shelves of the bookshop, despite the ship coming back to its place in Rotherhithe after the war. A seed Emma had planted a century before finally blooms, and he realizes that he is much better on his ship alone with his books rather than trying to fend off rude people not understanding that they’re not for sale (“customers, angel, they’re called customers ”).

Arranging his collection to his satisfaction takes some time (and a miracle or two, both angelic and demonic) until he’s satisfied. The whole cargo hold is transformed into a new library, with only his most prized books in his cabin. With this new organization, Kiliel finds himself with a lot of room below deck empty; he uses it to store bits and bobs, such as nautical maps and instruments, his old clothes (though his toga doesn’t survive the trip, and miracling it whole wouldn’t be the same), and various furniture and decorations (and if the pew on which Emma had lounged in 1941 finds its way to the galley… well, no one has to know).

Once he’s satisfied with his organization, in 1952, he invites Emma aboard to show her. He’s a little miffed by her laughing fit, because he’s not a proper pirate now, whatever she says (though her laugh is still as delightful and precious as ever, even more so now that he knows how much he loves her. For a few minutes he thinks mission accomplished , he’s made her happy).

Emma is so amused that for the next fifteen years, she only refers to him as Captain and asks him every time they see each other how his pirate booty is doing. Kiliel feels like he is the butt of the joke in some way, though he’s yet to find how.

They also see each other more frequently, approximately once every couple of years. They don’t mention it, but Kiliel is glad; he missed Emma before, and in a world that has become so fast changing, it’s reassuring to have a constant, even if she insists on following human fashions, making each meeting a lesson in the zeitgeist of the time.

On a foggy Tuesday morning, Blue comes to visit Kiliel at his old bookshop. Though his collection has been relocated, he keeps the shop to maintain a base of operations in Central London, now filling it with much more recent books that he is willing to part with (though he keeps his hours as erratic as before; he doesn’t mind selling these books, but even he has his limits when it comes to customer service). She wants to ask him what he knows about a heist that took place in Mayfair’s Christ Church. Apparently a door was broken down, but nothing was stolen – except, oddly enough, all the Holy Water vats were emptied, not a single drop remaining. Kiliel hadn’t heard about this, and plays it down as probably a local homeless man wanting a dry place to sleep for the night and who was thirsty. Blue almost seems disappointed by his explanation, asking him to look into it nonetheless; they can’t have Holy Water falling into the wrong hands, after all.

Kiliel diffidently agrees, even though he can feel his anger rising. He knows. A quick visit to the church confirms his suspicions; a slight scent of iron betrays that a Demon has recently come here and burnt her feet on the consecrated ground. Though why would she take such a risk, knowing that even a mere handful of liquid could do her serious harm, even kill her if she were splashed?

How dare she take such a risk, Kiliel thinks angrily, when she could just as easily have asked him to – oh.

Oh, the hypocrisy .

While Kiliel has adapted quite well to the human world, he remains at his core an angel, and while angels are known for their benevolence, they’re also known for their righteous fury when provoked.

And Kiliel? Oh, Kiliel feels provoked alright.

He heads to her new apartment (she wasn’t even subtle, just went to the closest church, that damned serpent) and barely restrains himself from literally knocking down the door, but only because he can feel human eyes on his back and he doesn’t want to cause a scene. So he pretends to have a key and miracles the door open, striding into the living room. The Angel can feel that Emma is absent; there’s no one in the flat, so he sits down, and waits. He waits until the sun has gone down, and until it goes up again, his anger feeding on itself to remain a burning fire in his chest.

When Emma finally shows up, she enters her living room cautiously, already knowing he’s there. Kiliel doesn’t even let her open her mouth to talk, laying into her immediately. Because beyond the anger, he is hurt , hurt that she wouldn’t trust him, hurt that she’d do the exact same thing she had refused him the previous century, and hurt that she would risk herself in such a way. And beyond the anger, beyond the pain, he is afraid, because what could a demon want with Holy Water?

“That’s none of your business!” Emma exclaims, her eyes flashing behind her sunglasses.

“None of my business? Are you kidding me? It is my business when a demon does what no other has ever done and sneaks into a church to steal Holy Water ! It is my business when that stupid, stupid act attracts the attention of the archangels, and they ask me to investigate! And whether you want to admit it or not, it is my business when my friend takes ridiculous risks to obtain something that could obliterate her from existence, and refuses to tell me why!”

“We’re not friendsss ,” Emma hisses, as if the word is the ugliest swear she’s ever uttered, “I don’t even like you.”

Of all that he said, that is the thing she chooses to respond to? Infuriating woman, he doesn’t understand how her animal traits are not those of a bull; she’s the thickest-headed being he has ever had the displeasure to meet.

“Yes you do ,” he snaps back, at the end of his rope. He doesn’t know when he stepped closer to her, but he is now towering over her smaller form, forcing her to raise her head to look him in the eyes (and despite the glasses as a barrier between them, he’s not fooled by her) but for once he will not back down. This is too important. “What’s going on, Emma?”

He can see her wavering, senses it in the way her breathing hitches, how her body shifts as if she wants to slither away, forgetting she’s in human form for a moment. But she rallies (because she wouldn’t be his Demon if she didn’t) and answers his question with another one. “Why did you want Hellfire for anyway? Quite hypocritical of you to rake me over the coals, so to speak, for something you tried yourself barely a century ago.”

Kiliel doesn’t let her barb get to him and instead decides on honesty, knowing that this will catch her off guard. “Because I need… something to defend myself with, just in case,” he says simply.

“Defend yourself? From angels? What the fuck is going on, Kiliel?” Emma almost never uses his name, preferring one of the numerous nicknames she has for him, so he knows she’s rattled.

And so he tells her everything: that while his faith in God has never wavered (quite the contrary; seeing Her hand in the wonders of the world, both big and small, has only strengthened it), he has started to have doubts about Blue, finding her actions and words quite peculiar. He tells her about his fear of Falling for doubting his superior, and that the fact Blue herself hasn’t Fallen means that she is still faithful to God, and the incident that triggered his request for Hellfire. He’s surprised, however, when she snorts as he recounts Blue’s change of mind.

“Yeah, I know, I was there,” Emma says, smirking. “I heard her when she was at the bookshop with you, so I took action.”

What kind of action exactly, she will not say. Kiliel is mystified: not only had she known about Heaven’s plans, but she’d actually thwarted them with no one being the wiser, the clever, clever woman. Doesn’t like him, right .

Emma then opens up to him; demons don’t trust each other by nature, but Hell has been even more tense recently. Something big is brewing, although she doesn’t know what yet. More demons have been making noise about coming to Earth, too, even high-ranking ones, such as two of the Duchesses of Hell, Maleficent and Cruella. Nothing has stirred Hell like this, ever ; even the Great Flood hadn’t excited demons in this way.

Something wicked this way comes , Kiliel can’t help but think. Good old William – he’d heard Kiliel tease Emma back at the Globe, and he’d run with the line. He doesn’t know what’s better: being the inspiration behind Macbeth ’s most famous scene, or Emma’s offended face when she had seen the three witches for the first time.

But they have no idea what it is, so all they can do is prepare as well as they can and agree to keep each other in the loop from now on. Kiliel manages to get a promise from Emma that she’ll get some Hellfire for him, which he hopes she’ll honor.

Neither of them talks about the fact they are actually plotting against their own side, choosing their mortal enemy (though just one in particular) over their own brethren. But they have been here on Earth so long that it has started to feel more like home than Above or Below ever have; they have spent so much time together that they feel more kinship to each other than to their own kind.

The next day, Kiliel finds a lantern glowing with an ever-burning fire on his cabin’s desk. It ends up in his safe, warded against any accidents, whether external or internal. Emma is not the only one who’s paranoid.

––-

Months pass, then years, then decades. The Angel and the Demon see each other more frequently, though not regularly, in order not to arouse suspicion. Short, short, long, go the intervals. Quick, quick, slow, goes their rhythm. They fly across and around and over the world in an otherworldly foxtrot as Earth evolves around them, faster and faster, busier and busier. But the world can’t go on accelerating; it’ll need to either stop turning or rotate right out of its orbit, both outcomes meaning its downfall.

––-

On a perfectly fine Tuesday morning, Blue visits Kiliel in his used bookshop, startling him from his inventory (he had to do something with the space, after all, and filling it with books that have been loved by previous owners creates a warm glow that warms him from inside; he is an Angel, after all, and angels thrive on love). From the start, the Angel knows that something is different. Blue is positively glowing, her eyes sparkling and the corners of her lips seemingly permanently turned into a slight secretive smile.

The secret, for once, is quickly spilled; the Archangel seems delighted to announce that the Antichrist has been delivered to Earth, and by none other than the Demon Emma, as if it’s Kiliel’s personal fault. She doesn’t elaborate on this theme, however, preferring to tell him that he had best put his affairs in order, as eleven years will pass quite quickly. Her parting words - that he should also start training for the War, that he seems to have gotten quite out of practice, if his reflexes are to be believed – hit their mark, despite Kiliel’s best efforts not to let them. He used to be one of the Host’s best soldiers, after all, his exploits earning him a post at one of Eden’s gates.

But six thousand years on Earth have changed him; he doesn’t want to fight anymore, doesn’t see the point in it (and he doesn’t want to face even the slimmest possibility of finding himself opposite Emma on the battlefield). And yet, the arrival of the Antichrist shows that the Ineffable plan is going along, that it is God’s will.

So be it.

On a perfectly fine Tuesday afternoon, Kiliel stands at the prow of the Ethereal Swan , looking unseeingly over the water, when his phone rings. Without pulling his gaze away from whatever it is he is seeing, he answers the phone, already knowing who’s on the other end.

“Emma. I suppose you’re calling about…”

“Armageddon, yes.”

Well.

––-

The music stops, and so do the dancers, their hair and their clothes snapping around them as they lock gazes, lost in their own world. A world that’s coming to an end.

Welcome to the End of Times.

#captain swan #cs ff #cs fic #ouat #septembersunshine #snidget writes #good omens

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simplyshelbs16xoxo · 5 years ago

Text

‘It's the Heart that Really Matters in the End’ Chapter 1: The Way to a Man’s Heart

So this is just gonna be a short fluffy, hurt/comfort post-tfp story (no more than 3 chapters), cause I thought we needed more cheery fanfics :)

Author's Note: A fun fact for y'all is that this fic was originally named 'The One Where Molly Bakes Shit' lol! I hope y'all enjoy this plot bunny that implanted itself into my head yesterday.

Molly Hooper was a strange woman. Unique, but most definitely strange. This is what went through Sherlock’s head as he stared at the package that now sat atop the counter in Mycroft’s home. It wasn’t large, nor was it miniscule. He wasn’t sure what was inside, but he knew it had been personally delivered by her. A lump rose in the detective’s throat as his mind flashed back to the day before. That phone call should have torn his friendship—and potential romantic entanglement—with Molly to shreds, and yet, here she was delivering mystery packages to him.

Sherlock stepped closer toward the package as if he were frightened by it. He could smell the light, flowery scent of her perfume, but mixed with the scents of lemon, ginger, and—was that cinnamon? “How peculiar,” Sherlock mused.

“What’s peculiar, brother mine?” Mycroft Holmes inquired. “You act as if whatever resides in Miss Hooper’s package will harm you.

“Perhaps it will,” Sherlock snapped in irritation. He paused, took a breath, and continued in a quiet voice, “After all, I deserve it.” Though Mycroft wasn’t good with emotions, he could tell his brother crestfallen.

“We don’t have time for this, Sherlock,” Mycroft reminded him. “We must meet mummy and father soon.”

Carefully, Sherlock pulled one of the ends of the fabric bow tied around the package, unraveling it, and opened up the box. Peering inside, he found a variety of baked goods: lemon cakes, cinnamon raisin scones, and the ginger nuts he loved so much. There was a letter addressed to him lying on top of the pastries. Attempting to swallow the lump in his throat, Sherlock untucked the envelope’s flap and retrieved the letter.

Dearest Sherlock,

It has come to my attention that you were in distress yesterday. Anthea refused to say anything more on the matter other than the fact that all of our lives were on the line—in our case, the phone line.

Sherlock allowed himself a small smile, unable to keep from hearing Molly laugh at her own joke.

I’m not angry with you; it’s imperative that you know this. I never intended for my deepest secret to be revealed to you, so for both of our sakes, can we pretend it didn’t happen? I apologise for forcing your empty words; that wasn’t fair. I should have noticed the rising panic in your voice right away, but I allowed my emotions to get the best of me. I see why you suppress them; they’re a nuisance sometimes. Mycroft gave me a teensy bit more information, telling me it was a family matter, and that your parents will be in town today. I couldn’t sleep last night, so I thought I’d bake the scones for your parents, as it’s their favourite, and lemon cakes for Mycroft. I know you love your ginger nut biscuits, so I thought you might like some. No, you don’t have to share.

His heart lurched at her words, unable to fathom Molly’s unwavering kindness and love. To just let the situation roll off her shoulders took a strength that Sherlock had always admired about her.

Writing this next portion if only for my benefit. I feel that writing this to you would be cathartic for me. After you read it, we will both never speak of it again…deal? Okay, her it goes…

Sherlock Holmes, I love you. I always have and always will. I know it is unwanted by you, but it’s not something that can be controlled; believe me, I’ve tried. I never said anything, because I don’t expect anything. Treat this factoid as if it were as meaningless as knowledge about the solar system.

Regardless of what happened yesterday, know that I am here for you. If you need to talk, you know where to find me.

Love, Molly

“Well?” Mycroft asked impatiently. Sherlock said nothing, but allowed his brother to read the letter for himself, only after having torn it right before Molly’s written confession. That was for him alone. Mycroft couldn’t read his brother’s emotions, as they were conflicting, but noticed him slide the torn piece into the inside pocket of his Belstaff before promptly turning away. Something stopped him, though, and he doubled back to snag the ginger nuts before heading to his temporary bedroom.

Sherlock couldn’t help but mull over the contents of Molly’s letter. The portion of it he carried near his heart was the bit he was most concerned about.

Meaningless. How could Molly ever believe what she felt was meaningless to him? After all, in retrospect, it was her love that saved him on multiple occasions. But did she realise that? Probably not. Sherlock’s heart felt as if it might burst. Everyone he cared about made it out alive last night, and though his sister’s vivisection was a nightmare, Sherlock couldn’t deny the one good thing that came out of it. His carefully constructed walls were in ruins, but the flood of emotion coursing through him was no longer unwelcome. Sherlock thought emotions and sentiment were only destructive, but he found himself feeling rejuvenated. He never felt so alive, his heart thrumming with uncontrollable emotions.

He looked at the time on his watch, and knew they would have to head to Mycroft’s office in less than five minutes in order to beat their parents there. This was going to be the hardest part. There would most surely be tears, and definitely anger. When mummy was angry, she was an unstoppable storm of rage. Sherlock heard Mycroft call to him that it was time to go. Once more unto the breach, he sighed.

Molly flopped down on her sofa, already exhausted. It was only ten in the morning, and she had already seen Greg who had—on Mycroft’s orders—searched her flat and removed the cameras from whatever had happened the day before, and she delivered baked goods to the Holmes brothers and their parents. The night before, she had been downright distraught, but upon closer inspection, she realised something had to be wrong and that was when Greg had called her whilst he was on his way to rescue John, Sherlock, and Mycroft. She found out that 221B had blown up, but everyone survived, and that John had been stuck in a well for God knows how long. Sherlock had been frightened and panicky during that call, and it made her heart ache for the both of them.

The weirdest part of the whole thing was that Molly couldn’t seem to get ahold of Meena at all for the last couple of days. She had tried again this morning, but still nothing. This was unlike her friend to not immediately pick up her mobile. Just before coming back home, Molly had gone to Meena’s flat to visit, but the landlord informed her that she hadn’t been home in days. It was an entirely separate mystery that made absolutely no sense.

So, now, Molly just sat lazily on the sofa, flipping through channels on the telly, but nothing held her attention for long. She was feeling restless, wishing she could fast-forward through the day so that she could go into work for the night shift already. This was the kind of restlessness that ended up in her kitchen looking like a disaster as she baked to her heart’s content. Maybe, she thought, I’ll just see if John thinks Rosie would like some company.

FFN | Ao3 | Buy me a Coffee?

#sherlolly #my fanfiction #it's the heart that really matters in the end #sherlock x molly

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nothingunrealistic · 6 years ago

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oof hey i hope i'm not bothering you, and i asked jury this already (and deffo got a good answer but i need all the info i can get because i am crushingly insecure)- do you have any tips on characterizing/writing the deh characters? i struggle with it immensely and I have no idea why, and you're one of my favorite writers for this fandom. so. no pressure to respond i was just curious!

sure! the only characters i write regularly/feel confident in writing are evan, jared, and alana, so those are the characters i’ll talk about the most, but i’ll try to say something for all of them. also this will feature a good number of quotes from writers’ notes (here) and interviews because those are the main sources i draw on for characterization after, you know, actual canon

evan

Smart, sincere, and cripplinglyself-conscious, Evan prefers to hover in the background, asupporting player in his own life, too afraid to step forward into thespotlight and risk ridicule or, what might be worse, no one noticinghim at all.

this description captures a lot of the things i think are key about evan, but one big thing it’s missing is that he’s kind of an asshole. he usually has good intentions, and he tries to be inoffensive and considerate and Nice, but he sucks at that because it’s just not how he naturally is. he’s bitter and angry about a lot of things - his lack of friends, jared (ostensibly) not caring about him or taking him seriously, heidi rarely being present, and perhaps most of all, his own perception of himself as “broken” and a burden, which he genuinely believes that heidi agrees with and that everyone else would if they knew what he was truly like. he’s frequently sarcastic and occasionally pedantic (see: “president” “co-president” and “it’s sula” “what did i say?” “sulu”). but these are things he doesn’t like about himself, which is why he tries to be either Nice or invisible, especially when he feels uncomfortable. the times when he’s most comfortable acting like himself are, in my opinion, when he’s just with jared, who in turn finds it most fun to spend time with evan when he’s not putting up a front.

major pet peeves in fic: being written as a ~delicate anxious bean uwu~ or anything along those lines; dialogue with stuttering that doesn’t resemble his actual speech patterns at all; making a big deal out of him using profanity; portraying his relationship with jared as evan just letting himself get pushed around until someone (usually connor) comes in to bravely show evan that He Doesn’t Deserve That

jared

Droll and sarcastic,Jared claims to be forced by his parents to hang out with familyfriend Evan, for whom he ostensibly has nothing but disdain.Jared covers his own obvious insecurities with a well-practicedbraggadocio and a know-it-all arrogance.

I think this is the playlist that Jared puts on in the morning on the first day of school to pump himself up for the day… Ultimately he’s terrified of going back to school, but he’s trying to psych himself up. … Every one of these songs is a JAM. No ballads here. And they’re all slightly sarcastic or tongue-in-cheek songs about unrequited love. Jared can relate to that. [x]

Jared Kleinman is too cool for the music of the times. He is proudly a walking 90’s movie… but he doesn’t mind sneaking a little of his parents Manischewitz and listening to a dusty Bette Midler record. [x]

(there are like a dozen interviews with will roland that i could cite here but that’s practically a post unto itself)

the best way i can sum up all the major points of jared’s characterization is that there’s always a reason for the things he says. he doesn’t make harsh remarks to be deliberately cruel or mean; he’s either pointing out an uncomfortable but important truth, or he’s aiming to make a joke and inadvertently crossing the line. when he does make jokes, it’s often another way of delivering the truth, an attempt to get people to laugh and thereby validate that he’s clever/funny/worthy, or an effort to deflect something that makes him uncomfortable or scared. redirection, derision, and showing off are some of his major defensive tactics; he doesn’t do self-deprecation out loud, but he is, as will has said, repressed and self-hating. he and evan are similarly asshole-ish, but where evan tries to hide it, jared tries to hide behind it.

he wants people to be impressed by him in general, but he really wants evan in particular to think well of him and be his friend and openly care about him - the problem is that jared can’t bring himself to openly care about evan, because that entails emotional honesty & vulnerability that he’s just not prepared to deal with. hence their interaction on the first day of school, and then jared agreeing to help evan more and more with his increasingly complex lie despite claiming not to care. (the key word in that first quote is “ostensibly.”) when he is actually is at ease (which is pretty rare, at least in canon), he’s a bit of a drama queen, which evan may pretend to be annoyed by but quietly enjoys.

major pet peeves in fic: being written as straight and/or homophobic and/or leaping to make jokes about how evan and connor are Clearly Doing It immediately after finding out that they’re becoming friends (as if he isn’t utterly convinced that evan is 100% straight); making excessive/forced references and jokes to modern pop culture/memes (everything he shouts out in any form of canon is at least ten years old and usually decades old, and that doesn’t happen often anyway); relentlessly treating evan like shit/being incredibly domineering in their friendship; constant bickering with connor; calling evan “hansen” all the time when he only ever addresses him as “evan” (or, like, “dude” or “bro” or “son”) and even only does THAT when he’s especially emotional or letting his guard down; just generally giving him dialogue that in no way resembles his actual, very distinctive speech patterns

(i have. a lot of thoughts and feelings about jared)

alana

Alana is an incredibly genuineperson. Everything she does comes from a place of deephonesty and tremendous feeling. All of the characters inthis musical put up masks of sorts. For Alana, it’s a façadeof cheerfulness. She is always ready with a smile, a note ofencouragement. This hides the loneliness underneath.

often prone to melodrama, high school senior Alana has few friends but lacks the self-awareness to understand why; beneath her extroverted demeanor, Alana is in fact haunted by a terrible and abiding loneliness; tired of always being an outsider, Alana seizes the death of a classmate as an opportunity finally to find a sense of belonging. [x]

Study break! … Alana spend a lot of time in the books. This playlist allows her to either kick back, have a lip sync battle, or a jam session. … We have classic up beats like ‘Uptown Funk’ by Bruno Mars cause she loves to dance and be silly. She’s also a romantic. Girl reads Jane Austen, so a nice healthy batch of love songs to daydream to. She’s also a feminist! So naturally Beyoncé has the perfect perfect pump up jams for the feminist in us all.

alana has Big Feelings, and they drive all her actions. she wants to achieve great things and succeed in life, yes, but more importantly, she wants to help people and make the world a better place. when she commits to a course of action, it’s because she truly believes that it’s the right or most beneficial thing to do in the end, even if the means themselves are questionable. much like jared, she struggles with vulnerability and connection with other people, and often tries to form connections with other people by making herself seem more impressive, but unlike jared, she also tries to build up and support other people, rather than tearing them down. she’s also committed to supporting Truth in a general sense, and struggles when this comes into conflict with Doing The Right Thing. this is especially obvious after good for you, when she resigns herself to continuing the fundraiser even though she’s certain it’s based on a lie.

all of this makes alana seem incredibly serious, but that’s not the entire picture. she strives to be upbeat and optimistic, and even when she’s not trying, she loves to have fun! she likes to be silly and tell jokes and laugh at other people’s jokes and daydream about finding a great romance! she thought “fuck finn” was the height of comedy! she’s not a killjoy!

i also hold with kristolyn lloyd’s theory that alana was very close with her grandmother and struggled with feeling unable/not allowed to openly grieve her death, or to express any kind of loneliness or other strong negative emotion. however, i do not hold with kristolyn’s theory that alana had a crush on connor, because alana is a lesbian.

major pet peeves in fic: being written as pedantic and joyless; overly formal dialogue (she’s perfectly capable of using colloquialisms and slang) in which she is never sarcastic, ever (she absolutely can be when she’s frustrated)

zoe

a sensitive, sophisticated high school junior; cool without realizing it, Zoe could care less about the status games and popularity rites of high school; funny and bright, she has grown up in the long shadow cast by her volatile older brother, Connor, tyrannized along with the rest of her family by his out-of-control behavior; few rooms are as familiar to her as the inside of a family therapist’s office; Zoe compensates for her brother’s darkness by striving to be warm, nice to everyone, the kind of person who goes out of her way to learn the names of the kids who sit by themselves at lunch; she feels a terrible ambivalence over her brother’s death, finding it difficult to forgive him for all he did, and at the same time forgive that part of herself that feels nothing but relief in the fact that he’s gone.

this sums up just about everything i could say, but i will add: the disembodied voice calling zoe a “stuck-up bitch” during ywbf reprise is NOT a voice you’re supposed to agree with.

major pet peeves: anything that states/suggest that zoe is a bitch; those connor/evan fix-it fics with background zoe/alana where the premise of zoe and alana’s relationship is “they’ve actually been best friends this whole time!!” even though this contradicts canon on multiple levels

connor

An angry, disaffectedloner, Connor has been a troubled kid for as long as anyone canremember, an enigma and a source of endless consternation to hislong-suffering parents and sister.

i honestly don’t have much to say about connor, because i don’t think about him very often, but i will say that:

- if your portrayal of him can be described as “edgy,” you’re probably doing something wrong. he’s just as awkward and anxious as evan, it just manifests very differently

- him addressing evan as “hansen” all the time is admittedly much more plausible than jared doing it, but still just as annoying

heidi

Overworkedand stretched too thin, Heidi loves her son fiercely, but fears theyhave begun to grow apart. She is prepared to do anything to repairthe damage.

heidi’s torn between trying to connect with evan and trying to provide a better life for him, because for her, achieving the latter currently requires spending too many hours away from home to really achieve the former. that’s why she’s so upset and demands to know what’s going on in evan’s life when he seems to be acting out of character and doing things she doesn’t expect him to do - she feels she’s being left out of the loop. much like alana, she strives for optimism, trying to find the bright side of any situation. and, as steven levenson pointed out in the annotated script (regarding the line about fabulous tips that evan’s stepmother may or may not have made from cocktail waitressing), she doesn’t have a fully developed sense of healthy boundaries, which is an interesting nuance that tends to get lost in fics that flatten her out into a generic Cool Mom. she’s trying to raise a teenager while not wanting to fully grow up herself.

cynthia

To Evan, she seems to be the perfect mother, nurturing, available,and willing to talk about anything. To her own children, it’s a bitmore complicated.

evan idealizes all the murphys, and cynthia is no exception. she tries her hardest to be a good and accessible mother, but she’s deeply dissatisfied with being just a mother. she works to support and empathize with connor, and to remember him positively after his death, but she frequently neglects and minimizes zoe and her problems in the process.

larry

Though often tense and taciturn, Larry shows a different face tothe world, representing for Evan the dad he always wished for:strong, confident, and, more than anything, reliable, someone to becounted on.

is larry going to call his children slurs or disown them/kick them out of the house for being lgbt? no. is he going to research How To Interact With Your LGBT Child and drive connor and zoe to the local pride parade? also no. the once-popular (and possibly still popular?) characterization of him as a demon straight from the ninth circle of hell is just as inaccurate as evan’s perception of him as the World’s Greatest Dad.

i hope this helps! and thank you for asking - i really enjoyed answering this, and i’d be happy to expand on most of these points if you want.

#inbox #thecicadasong #dear evan hansen #evan hansen #jared kleinman #alana beck #zoe murphy #connor murphy #heidi hansen #cynthia murphy #larry murphy #sometimes i write

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ngame989 · 6 years ago

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Thought on tomstar?

Good for character development, not a particularly healthy romantic relationship - which is exactly how the show portrays it anyway. Tom not being committed to helping Star and Star ignoring Tom/prioritizing Marco forms a feedback loop that’s good for no one. Both would’ve been better off staying friends, but Star’s heart was understandably aching and Tom never internalized his stated desire to move on, so off they go holding hands and shit. There’s certainly some good in it, too. Demoncism was a solid episode demonstrating the genuine connection they can have, and it’s not as though there was anything wrong with their PDA in episodes such as Lava Lake Beach and Monster Bash. Not my thing, obviously, but that’s just me, and if someone liked the pairing then hey there ya go you get your cute romantic Tomstar moments just like Jarco had in season 2. None of this is/was fanservice or anything, it’s just how people act when they’re dating.

All things considered, I think the show handles it well - if you go back and rewatch the episodes (with your mind clear of whatever preconceptions you would’ve had when 3A aired, or whatever bullshit the fandom is spewing), it never tries to paint it in an unfair light in either direction. It’s never shown as some epic romance for the ages when it’s clearly not, but it’s also not treated as an abomination unto the lord when it clearly isn’t that, either. It was rushed, it felt like whiplash, but it wasn’t some awful mistake - it’s just two teens that know they want support but don’t really understand themselves well enough to know the best ways to do it. And this is all completely intentional given the theme of change - and specifically that trying to force/rush change doesn’t work - in season 3.

Time to get ranty.

Now let’s step back from the very, very narrow lens of “objective take on the presentation of the ship within the canon episodes” and take off the kiddie gloves for a sec, because here is where my opinion can go from “not good, not awful, but just definitely not my thing” to “kill it, toss the corpse in a lake, excise the landmass containing the lake from the planet, chuck that into the sun, and maybe nuke the rest of the planet just to be safe”. So many garbage takes in this fandom about how Tom “deserves” Star as though she’s just another of Brian’s Good Boy Badges, how Star’s a rancid bitch for ignoring/mistreating him, the kiss in Booth Buddies being some irredeemable/forced trash… All just totally miss the whole point of Star’s character and/or the show itself just because people want their demon husbando to get some even when it’s not best for him, and ignoring everything else about the show (similar to takes of Marco being a irredeemable neglecting asshole to Jackie or the Jarco breakup/his feelings for Star being “forced” coming about as a result of fans’ Jackie infatuations). Not to mention the AUs that turn the Tomstar kid into a martyr who everyone hates to farm sympathy points, despite that totally missing the point about how the show handles prejudice…

…

Alright, that was a refreshing stroll away from my computer for some fresh air. Where were we?

I’m not saying I’m perfect here either, I was wrong about Tom and Star getting back together - but all my reasonings for why they wouldn’t get back together ended up coming true as reasons why it wasn’t all that healthy instead. I would never claim to know everything about the show, but I at least aim to maintain a core, consistent understanding of the fundamentals of the characters/show. And seeing so, so, so much misinformation or outright malicious stupidity over the character development (which is the cornerstone of the show) sickens me.

Do note that the Starco side of the fandom isn’t immune to my wrathful criticism here either - a lot of Starco AUs fuck up understanding the show and a lot of Starco fans also have a horribly skewed view of Tom in the opposite direction. I like Tom as a character and appreciate his growth, and it sickens me that almost all of the vocal fandom I’ve seen gets it so fundamentally wrong. On my darker days I’ve even caught myself thinking maybe it would’ve been better if Tom just stayed an asshole after Season 1 and never got redemption just so all the bullshit surrounding him wouldn’t happen. This is probably the closest I’ve come to having my view of the show itself poisoned by outside influence, and that spooks me a bit lmfao. And I wouldn’t really like Tomstar art or whatever anyway, but at this point I’m practically Pavlovian conditioned to think of the bullshit whenever I see it, which pushes it towards “NOTP” territory. Which is a shame because I don’t like to have such strong negative feelings about something in the show that doesn’t deserve them, but alas.

And before I get an inevitable ask about it, the fandom notion of Stomco/Tomstarco is even more offensive to me. “But wait, Ngame, it has Starco included so it’s at least better, right?” Yes, Starco is a component of that dynamic and I appreciate that its fans are at least willing to admit Star and Marco at this point love each other, but it’s essentially the equivalent of getting Starco granted by a monkey’s paw. Stomco undercuts everything that makes them such a loyal and committed pairing by equating that to the bonds Star and Tom or Tom and Marco have, thus either ignoring everything special about Starco and leveling it to a normal teen romance or being so blind as to claim Tomstar or Tomco share what Star and Marco have developed over the past three seasons. And considering a lot of the fans of that triplet are/were Tomstar and Tomco fans before, to the point where the Tumblr Stomco Week was jointly hosted by Tomstar and Tomco Week blogs… forgive me for seeing the whole thing as Tom zealots blatantly disregarding the whole point of Starco just so Tom gets a slice of the action.

The moral of this story is, don’t be like me because it’s not fun being this negative. I actively try not to dwell on this stuff anymore, but I’m happy to provide my opinion here just to clear the air. And I’d never shove my negativity about this down others’ throats or say that someone is wrong for just liking something, not at all. If you ever find yourself in a similar position, just step back from the fandom, only check the bare minimum tags for new art, find some friends to personally connect with over the show, idk. Yeah, it sucks that so much of the fandom just doesn’t appreciate a lot of the good aspects of the show, and I’d kill for there to be a way more consistent production of Starco art/fics, but c’est la vie.

#answered #Anonymous

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sleepykalena · 6 years ago

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“It’s not a problem if you don’t look up.”

I’m a POC and I love Jyn Erso.

And lately it seems like there are some folks (literally just a few folks, afaik) who seem keen on painting parts of the fandom with such a broad brush that their shouting has made their way into my corner. It’s such an angry brush, and I understand where the frustration comes from. But I’d like to remind anyone who’s bothered to actually look at this post:

Fandom is what you make of it.

I mean this in the intended sense as well as with regards to the things you create and put out there in the fandom itself. I don’t want to contribute to the anger or the fighting. I go out of my way to try and not pick fights with people. Yet somehow the fighting finds me. The real life has me tired. So tired. Between the Orange Skull, the racist white folk who decide to actively trash my POC friends and neighbors in one of the most liberal areas of the US, and politics within the industry I chose to have a career in, I just want to sit in my corner and do my thing on my own terms, with the people who’ve supported me, in my own little section of the Rebelcaptain fandom.

So here’s the thing about Jyn Erso, and why I love her so much: “it’s not a problem if you don’t look up.”

I have been raised as a second-generation Asian-American to keep my head down, stay quiet and don’t cause a stir, and just try and climb your way out of your social class and aim for a higher rung on the ladder. I was blessed to be raised with a level of privilege that the military comfortably provided me, with an income that brought food to the table and helped pay my tuition.

But that doesn’t change the atrocities committed against me as a female and a POC- the emotional manipulation, the sexual assault, the slurs thrown at me from people of all walks of life.

Regardless, I kept my head down and didn’t bother to “look up”. I literally do not like to look people in the eyes, because it implies I’m itching for a fight or a confrontation. I kept quiet where I could. I tried to make change where I was able to, knowing full well that it would make a difference. I would try my hardest to help others (and sometimes a little too hard if I think back on the last few months), only to find myself still beaten down by some other entity- be it the people I once trusted, by the powers that be in government, or even down to the people who try to fight for causes I also believe in. But if you piss me off enough, if you push my patience to the very edge and test me, then I will lose all sense of remorse for whatever I do unto you when I snap.

Jyn’s emotional development and attitudes aren’t too different from my own, and I love that this was written in to her character. Her character arc lines up so well with my own life and experiences that I will continue to write about her and draw her until my wrists break.

I also love Cassian Andor, but it has less to do with Diego Luna and more to do with my significant other (who, for the record, is also Latinx).

It seems expected that I would like him, given that I’m a rebelcaptain shipper, Lunatic, and likewise a fellow POC. But if it weren’t for my partner and all the qualities I see in him as I see them in Cassian, I don’t actually think I could be as fervent a rebelcaptain shipper as I am right now. Cassian’s brightest character points, as well as his darkest ones, are very easily found in my partner. In the same way that Cassian gave Jyn hope, my partner gives me hope in a world that deserves to be burning in the depths of whatever hell you happen to believe in. In the same way that Cassian internalizes all his character flaws, so too does my partner try his hardest not to dwell too much on the negative aspects about him. He’s quiet, a man of few words, and even fewer true ones. Cassian speaks just enough for people to be appeased, but the words carry little meaning, a ploy to comfort people to make sure he can live to fight another day. His words of honesty, of thoughts in his mind, are rare, and shared only to those he finds himself trusting. My partner is hardly any different.

But, if there’s anything he let himself admit to me, it’s that he loves that I’m there for him when he needs it, and that I’ve taught him to be less apathetic. Me, the cynic, the one bitter with the real world, had taught him to be less apathetic. Who’da thunk?

In every piece of fanfic I write, I almost inevitably fall back on this: Jyn teaches Cassian something that changes him for the better. It brings me immense joy to be told that I, a Jyn, had helped him, a Cassian, to be less apathetic, to care just a little bit more about his actions, how they affect others, and why he should take more effort to visibly care just a little bit more.

Is it a problematic trope? Sure, according to some of those folks in the fandom. But I write these stories because, for once, I made a difference to my partner’s life, to someone’s life. To me, Jyn teaching Cassian a thing is a result of her finally making a difference in a galaxy where she was inundated with the idea that her existence doesn’t matter, that what she does makes very little difference. My reasons for writing fic are intensely personal, and there are bits of me and my partner scattered in all of them, in various proportions.

What I don’t appreciate is being told that, as a POC and based on my personal experiences, my “silence” and refusal to be loud and join this tirade of sorts makes me complicit in what is allegedly rampant sexism and racism in the fandom.

Being a POC, particularly a WOC, puts a target on my back on the internet. I keep quiet, especially with regards to my racial identity, precisely because I know how dangerous it can be to open my mouth and scream too loudly into the void. Out of all the fights I want to pick, fandom “discourse” is far and away from my list of priorities. I’m busy trying to get my representatives in to make actual difference in my city, state, and country, informing myself for the broader problems that exist outside of this fandom, making money to put food on the table, etc. All I want to do is enjoy my corner of the fandom in peace, and not have an extra “duty” to fight this racial fight at the risk of looking like “a bad POC”. If anything, that puts an onus on POC to be “perfect” with all that preaching, and not only am I far from perfect, I also think that expectation is damaging to the movement as a whole.

Much like Jyn, you could ask me if I care not for the cause. Much like Jyn, I do. But, cynically, I have to say again: “It’s not a problem if you don’t look up”. Making that much noise to fight a cause is a huge waste of my time and effort because I’m surrounded by people who either 1) are so fully-formed in their development that they’re set in their ways and are otherwise unchangeable; 2) are already are aware of these issues and tropes, and thus I’d be preaching to the choir; or 3) don’t care for my existence because I’m not really a big name in the fandom.

But the biggest reason why I don’t make a huge noise about it is because fandom is what you make of it. These people literally have every right to write whatever trope they want, including exceedingly problematic ones, because- you guessed it- it’s their space too. I acknowledge that their presence exists and I refuse to share my space with them, but so long as you’ve written your line in the sand over your space, I won’t interfere with your space. Don’t interfere with mine. Any overlapping peers who happen to like us both are free to cross to and from the borders. My kink is not your kink, my headcanon is not your headcanon, but so what? I’ll still tell people to write that stuff anyway. Because that’s what they want to make of fandom, whether or not it’s canon/fanon, whether or not I like it.

I fight problematic tropes by setting an example. If kudos, views, notes, and comments are currency, then I, as one could phrase it, “talk with my money”. And believe me, some people have got me feeling pretty stingy. I think it’s far more effective to incite change in this small fandom by creating content that (hopefully) sets an example that inspires others to do things a little more like the way I do them, rather than trying to scream at people. I try my hardest not to adhere to these tropes or dynamics I find disagreeable. I boycott content from certain users if I find their presence and/or actions a threat to my enjoyment of the fandom. And I block people who regularly engage in fandom wank and abuse the tagging system. In a fandom that seems to be increasingly sensitive to note counts and feedback, my withholding of attention is a more than effective tool at showing people that I don’t like their stuff.

Does it create an echo chamber? You betcha! But this is my echo chamber; the real world is already looming over me with its own set of drama. Creating an echo chamber for my corner of the fandom and making a safe space out of it is something I deserve as a human being.

I’m relatively confident that others have taken the same policy and thus do not give me their attention to any of the things I’ve created. And that’s perfectly okay. It sucks, but it’s perfectly okay, because I don’t owe them my time just as much as they don’t owe me theirs.

I will fight by encouraging change to those in my purview in my own terms, in my own way. I refuse to be painted with this brush of being uncaring and complicit, especially when all I’ve seen from those people is hate against the enemies and very little uplifting, encouragement, and love to the ones they claim to fight for. I don’t even think they’ve read or liked a single thing I’ve ever made in the fandom; I am, in short, a POC not worth supporting. What’s more, their shouting had become so loud and so angry that I nearly cancelled a fic because it was a modern AU in which Cassian is Mexican-American and speaks Spanish off and on depending on the situation. I planned for him to speak Chicano English by default, but use Californian English whenever he’s outside his own home. I chose them because I think his identity and accent matter to the plot. These people, who were so fed up with the use of the Spanish language and Mexican identity for Cassian, had me scared to ever write this fic even though people I’ve discussed the story with insist that this upcoming fic is perfectly fine. It was hard to hear their support when the loudest voice in my head repeated all those gripes that other people had about the depiction of POC in the Rebelcaptain fandom, and it took several tries and a relentless barrage of support to give me back the courage to draft this fanfic, which has a huge socio-political slant specifically targeting the POC of the Rogue One squad.

The people who encouraged me to do it? Still predominantly white folk (and I deliberately choose not to use the word “women” here). I get support from people of different racial identities as well, no doubt (and one POC in particular comes to mind because she’s been my loudest supporter since I officially entered the fandom), but most of them have been white.

My corner of the fandom has been peaceful and the least problematic, and the people are, at their very core, truly lovely people. I’m sorry that people mistake my alleged silence for compliance. I’m sorry that people find my work so uninteresting that it’s not worth their time to give me their support. I’m sorry that some people are finding their corner of the fandom violated and full of toxicity that no amount of blocking can help matters.

But please, for the love of every deity in human existence, keep your anger away from my corner of the fandom. I only get a few hours each week to myself, and I’ve chosen to spend it here. I want to make each minute count. And the next minute, and the next, on and on until I’m satisfied with my contributions here, or until the minutes are spent. Let me love Jyn and Cassian in my own way. Let me celebrate their relationship in my own way. Let me fight my fight in my own way. If you don’t like it, that’s fine! Use that currency I mentioned earlier and take your money elsewhere. But do not dictate how I should act within my space and place expectations on me because I’m a POC, and do not make assumptions about my character.

#1 #2 #rebelcaptain #jyn erso #fandom wank #sleepy rambles #a hell of a lot #tl;dr: let me do fandom things on my own terms and gtfo my lawn please #to co-opt Chirrut's line:#let me pass in peace

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wellhellsbelles · 6 years ago

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Que Será Será, Part II

i got over excited and couldn’t help but post the second part. and yes, there will be one more part after this because i decided it’d be better if i split the grand finale of the fic into two separate parts. the last part will be the perspective of our dear riley :)

anyway, enjoy!

ao3 link found here.

Farkle is twenty-four, going on twenty-five, and his whole world, this existence he’s procured for himself, is getting ready to shatter.

He’s never been one to pace around his house anxiously, but he’s also never been waiting to turn twenty-five before, the seconds ticking away at the clock a reminder of something he’s never once had faith in.

That is, until now.

Even he can’t deny the fact that he wants so desperately to have letters appear on his skin at this point; he’s been fooling himself for years, trying so hard to dispute something that has a high probability of occurring. He’s seen numerous friends go through it that he can’t deny it any longer, which is why he’s wearing a hole into his tile kitchen floor, each minute passing by slower than the next.

Maya insisted she be there, but Farkle wouldn’t let her. This was going to be an experience he had to deal with by himself, to figure out how he felt about it. After all, his opinion on the matter had changed drastically within the course of a month, and he was still dealing with the numerous possibilities that were running through his mind.

Millions of trillions of possibilities, each one a figure he could not even begin to understand, let alone imagine.

It’s probably Riley’s romantic tendencies that have rubbed off on him, he figures, but it doesn’t change the fact that he’s waiting for something he never even once believed in.

Until now.

He’s not quite sure what changed his mind. Of course, seeing his friends have the writing appear on their wrists was a factor, but that alone wasn’t enough to change his mind.

Maybe it’s delusions of grandeur.

To think that he’s so important that his wrist warrants a soulmate mark, that he deserves one in the first place, might just be borderline laughable. But he doesn’t ignore his heart’s desires, just this once, and waits for the night to pass and for the letters to appear.

His twelve-year-old self would be laughing at him right now for being so foolish; Farkle’s just glad he’s let himself be open to love. He appreciates not being jaded and cynical, not letting logic rule over every part of him (just most of it).

Farkle is . . . excited. He’s genuinely excited to be a part of this sort of rite of passage, this sort of magic life holds that science can’t explain for, if his apprehensive shifting is any indicator. He stops for several seconds occasionally, just to adjust a picture frame on his wall or to drum his fingers on the kitchen table or the countertops to bide his time.

And then it happens—one minute before the day of his birthday, and the countdown in his head rattles his body, sends goosebumps tingling amongst his skin. Fifty seconds becomes forty, thirty, twenty, and then he’s down to the final ten seconds, and he counts the seconds in his head, practically holding his breath in.

Ten . . . nine . . . eight . . . seven . . . six . . . five . . . four . . . three . . . two . . .

One.

His phone vibrates immediately, both to relay his alarm for his annual birthday reminder, as well as mass texts filing in from his friends. Farkle places his phone down on the counter gently, wobbling as his breath catches, the anticipation building with every passing second after midnight. Then he lifts his wrist—the left, of course, always the left—and gingerly and carefully moves up his sleeve, the black lettering coming to view almost instantaneously.

And then he gasps, loudly and very audibly, covering his wrist back up immediately.

It wasn’t a stranger. It wasn’t an acquaintance he met once in passing, or a face that only manifested itself in his dreams when his brain was trying to make sense of the world around him during slumber. No.

It was Riley Matthews.

[Hartbreaker]

yoooooooooooooooooooo who yo soulmate be ya NERD

you can tell me i promise i won’t spill

probably

well maybe not

but you can still tell me

cause

I WANNA KNOWWWW

WILL YOU SHOW MEEEE

I WANNA KNOW ABOUT YOUR SOULMATE MARK, PLEASE

get it? phil collins!!!

. . .

???

u out there???

[Zayday]

k if u aren’t gonna tell maya then u gotta tell me

we cool

cooler than cool

ice cold

ALRIGHT ALRIGHT ALRIGHT ALRIGHT ALRIGHT ALRIGHT ALRIGHT ALRIGHT ALRIGHT ALRIGHT ALRIGHT ALRIGHT ALRIGHT ALRIGHT

come ON you gotta appreciate that

okay, okay i get it i won’t ask

just text me if u alright?

i won’t do the annoying thing again i promise

. . .

ALRIGHT ALRIGHT ALRIGHT ALRIGHT ALRIGHT ALRIGHT ALRIGHT ALRIGHT ALRIGHT ALRIGHT ALRIGHT ALRIGHT ALRIGHT ALRIGHT

maybe i lied a little about that

sorry man i am who i am

but seriously minkus

TEXT US

[Huckleberry Friar]

First of all

Is my name still Huckleberry Friar in your phone?

I feel like you should change that because Maya doesn’t need the satisfaction of everyone in our friend group having my name as that in their phone

Secondly

Are you okay?

I don’t care about the other thing

Just wanna make sure you’re doing fine

Come meet me for lunch if you want I’m going to that pizza parlor around the corner

We can just chill and catch up just lemme know

[Isadora Smackle]

I have heard that you are not answering phones.

Well, you answered Lucas, which is nice.

But I feel like you owe the rest of us the courtesy of answering our phones.

Also, we have a birthday party planned for you that I was not supposed to spill about, but I feel like you are obligated to come to that.

I am just informing you of this.

I will also drag you out by your ear if I have to.

That is all.

[Smiley Riley]

Hey, are you doing alright?

Is this a mid-midlife crisis?

Should I be running over to your apartment to check on you?

I just really worry about you, Farkle.

Okay, you definitely don’t have to answer our texts, but you definitely have to show up at my apartment tonight at eight.

FOR NO REASON AT ALL

JUST A COOL FRIEND HANG OUT NO SPECIAL OCCASION HERE

Dress up nice, though. I know you can do it, Minkus!

Also there might be a certain dessert involved?

Also also objects of particular interest to you that are uhhhh covered in pretty paper that will be relinquished unto you??

I’m really bad at this please just come to your party tonight I made a really cool cake (thanks Pinterest!!) and you’ve got lots of good presents and I feel like you need a hug.

See you tonight! ♥♥

[OPERATION: TOTALLY NOT FARKLE’S BDAY]

Riley: Okay no one talk about the YOU KNOW WHAT at the party

Riley: It’s officially off limits

Maya set the nickname for Riley Matthews to Lame Nerd.

Maya: Uh huh

Maya: Suuuuuuuuuure

Lame Nerd: Maya!!!!!

Lame Nerd set the nickname for Maya Hart to Stupid Dummy.

Stupid Dummy: Good comeback, Lame Nerd!

Lucas set the nickname for Riley Matthews to Riley.

Lucas set the nickname for Maya Hart to Maya.

Lucas: Come on, guys.

Lucas: I agree with Riley. Don’t talk about it. If he wants to tell us, he can, but don’t press him.

Lucas: It is his birthday, after all.

Smackle: I second that. I don’t want you two to ruin the party.

Maya: You two??

Smackle: You and Zay.

Zay: Awwwww how come I gotta be called out like this

Maya: It is what it is, Zay

Riley: Alright, you two are outvoted by Smackle and Lucas and I.

Riley: No talking about it!!!

Riley: Also, Zay

Zay: Yes?

Riley: Please wear something nice.

Riley: As in, NOT YOUR TUXEDO T-SHIRT

Riley: If you’d like, I’ll send you a list of APPROPRIATE wear

Zay: You’re no fun!!!!!

Riley: ISAIAH BABINEAUX

Riley: YOU WILL DO AS I SAY OR YOU WILL NOT BE ALLOWED TO THE PARTY

Zay: Fiiiiiiiiiiiiine MOM

Lucas: Don’t sass your mother

Maya: Yeah, ZAY. Don’t sass your mother!!!!

Riley: When did you all agree on me being your mom????

Smackle: A while back.

Smackle: Mom

Smackle: :)

Smackle set Riley Matthews nickname as Mom.

Mom: I’LL ONLY ALLOW THIS FOR THIS GROUP

Smackle: Oh, Bubbles

Maya: Oh, Hon

Zay: Too late

Lucas: DEFINITELY too late

Mom: YOU GUYS ARE THE WORST

Mom: . . .

Mom: Please arrive at 7:30 for set up thank you

Mom: GOODBYE FOREVER

Mom left the group.

Maya: Awwww party pooper

Turning twenty-five is not all it’s cracked up to be.

As Farkle sips at his light beer, he watches his friends from beside Riley’s bookshelf as they argue about what to do next, and Farkle really loves them, he really does.

But he wants to leave.

He’s got this overwhelming suffocation in his chest, both from anxiety and proximity to Riley, who doesn’t know she’s supposed to be his soulmate. And by the time she does, it probably won’t even matter to her because she’ll be happy where she is, most likely married to her current boyfriend.

She likes Daniel, as she should—he’s a veterinarian, part-time afterschool tutor. He’s got a great dog that loves her unabashedly, and she fits right into his picturesque home like the last piece of a puzzle.

And that, that is the reason why he doesn’t tell her. But what does he say? He certainly can’t tell them that his best friend’s name is on his wrist; that’s a disaster waiting to happen. Farkle’s had enough rejection in his life time, and for Riley to find out they’re supposed to be together because some unknown force dictated it?

She wouldn’t care for it.

Yes, she does care for him, he’s not unaware of that fact. But caring for someone and being in love with someone are two different things, and Farkle knows for certain that Riley is not in love with him. If she was, they’d be living together happily, and instead of his party being thrown at her house, it be their house.

But there will never be their house, it will always be his house and her house, and Farkle will remain infinitely in love with a girl who doesn’t feel the same way.

Honestly, this whole ordeal is just a punch to the gut, and Farkle would rather stick his head in the toilet for a full minute than admit what his wrist says, so he decides then and there what he’s going to do.

He’s going to pretend he doesn’t have a soulmate mark and live for an eternity with his wrist covered so that no one ever has to know.

It’s for the best, really.

“Okay, Farkle, it’s settled. You’re going to stop moping against this bookshelf and come join us for a fun dance party with no complaints. And you’re gonna dance with me first!” Riley appears at his side, tugging at his left arm. Farkle’s initial reaction is to pull away, but he doesn’t want to make her suspicious, so he complies and lets Riley tug him to the living room as Maya puts on her favorite playlist.

The music starts and immediately Riley starts jumping around, her periwinkle lace dress swishing around her as she beams brightly, her eyes pleading for him to join her. He sighs, setting down his beer so that he can comply, because when can he ever say no to her?

It’s impossible.

And as the room becomes drowned out by Maya’s music and the visage of Riley, Farkle wishes he could live in this moment forever—uncomplicated, undemanding, effortless.

If only.

If only, if only, if only.

Farkle, after turning twenty-five and getting the name of a person who will, despite the forces of the universe trying, never love him back, finds dating to be extremely difficult.

And yeah, it sort of makes sense. People don’t flock to people with soulmate marks, and if they do, it’s because they’re looking for the match to their soulmate mark.

So Farkle quickly learns to deal with the fact that he’s going to be alone forever; that’s just how it’s going to go.

But he tries anyway, because he’s a fucking idiot, that’s what. It never lasts, even the ones that promise him it will, and all of it can be explained by the other person soon finding their soulmate and ditching him. It drives him up the wall, but he gets it. He really does.

It doesn’t help that he knows he’s in love with Riley still, too. How can he not? If he had gotten her name tattooed on his wrist when he was younger, he would’ve fainted, maybe even died from shock. But now that he’s older and his love for her has become more solidified, more an actual part of him rather than just a fleeting feeling, he can’t deny the fact that he is hers forever, regardless of what capacity.

Not that he’d ever tell her what capacity he’d prefer it to be. Riley is his oldest and dearest friend next to Maya. Feelings complicate things and make them messy, and the last thing he wants to do is make things messy with the girl who makes his life better by just being in it.

Ugh, he’s a fucking sap.

He’s also in love with his best friend, and for the first time in his life, Farkle Minkus has no idea what to do.

#riarkle #riley x farkle #farkle x riley #riarkle fanfiction #bella writes #soulmate au

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alteredphoenix · 2 years ago

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the unending, headlong dive into this hell with you (WoW x ToLumi)(WIP)

A/N: I’ve been going back and forth between other WIPs while I’m tidying up/padding the table of contents for the ZM Fic (and with four chapters done for the side story, but it makes no sense to post it to AO3 when ZM Fic Chapter 1 just got started), one of them being a separate WoW Xover series of one-shots (and Other Such Things) set during the course of Legion rather than late-game Shadowlands.

Whereas I’ve always viewed the meta-contextual basis of the ZM Fic as an adventurous romp that slowly but steadily dives into trauma manifestations, soul-searching a’la atonement, healing from said trauma, and slow burn, this piece and others following it takes a more cynical, bombastic, weird, and somewhat mean-spirited look at what would happen if you dropped Laplace and Alex - two people that don’t exactly get along (but actually make quite the more effective team than Alex and August would) - into another world and most of the people in the Armies of Legionfall - or, rather, Azeroth in general - sincerely doubt their ability to help them out with the Third Burning Legion Invasion (because, again, they’re in a constant state of butting heads with each other, and Laplace tries to be a pain in the ass to everyone but August and Bastion). This isn’t a series meant to bash them (because it’s not, I adore Alex too much and Laplace is more layered than she’s letting on at the expense of not being able to be picked apart like you would with, say, Celia and Michelle playing the ‘we’re not nice or good people because we think our kindness is our weakness’ card), but it is meant to be more satirical than the ZM Fic. But this is drawing inspiration from Postal 2 (and it deserves to be in its own category for being so off-the-walls batshit), so it’s to be expected that the narrative is going to go out of its way to rake Alex and Laplace, people you should be rooting for, over the coals for having the misfortune of (a) having only each other for company and (b) being stuck in a world that’s giving you the side-eye because one person wants to do their own thing and the other is trying to help the people of this strange new world they’re in because it’s the right thing to do and in the hopes doing so will open the way back to Gildllan so the world itself would rather have its own heroes stop the Legion rather than ask the two strangers if they want to help (a big, stark contrast to my other WoW Xovers, where most of the time they’d help if they got something in return that doesn’t involve mercenary work).

I like to think that whereas the ZM Fic can be described as “you’re welcome to live in our world if circumstances show you can’t ever return to yours, you’ll always have a place here among us”, the Legion/ToLumi fics can be summed up as “please GTFO of our house, you’re making a mess and causing a scene, also quit bringing up how both factions are to blame for starting the Fourth War” LMAO

“...Now I’m going to tell you this one more time—and when I say one more time I mean one more time; it’s final, done, el finito, no more, da end—so listen up and listen good,” Laplace says, and doesn’t even bother to wait for the undead man to finish opening his mouth to speak. “I am not a warlock. I have never even considered being a warlock. I may wear the paraphernalia of a spider, embody the aesthetics of a spider, and act very much so like a spider, but that does not make me a spider; therefore, as I am not a spider, I am neither a warlock. I don’t want to be. I don’t even intend to be. So! My good sir! I will say so, with true and righteous and uncaring feeling, the answer I gave to you before and I shall give unto you again—loudly, clearly, and without fail.” She leans as far as the shackles will allow her, which isn’t very much room at all and only rewards her with looking up the bridge of her noise into his glowing yellow eyes because Primordials forbid the chain around her neck can’t be any tighter. “I’m. Not. Interested! Leave. Me. Alone!”

The man—Laplace thinks his name might be Randall, she doesn’t know and can’t be assed to remember, she was scarcely paying attention between the mutt bitching up a storm right up against her ear about unfair treatment and being dragged by the wrathguards through the valleys of this magic-blasted wasteland of a floating rock the Black Harvest called a Legion portal world--blinks with all the intelligence of an owl (which to say isn’t very much at all, if she knows her birds right) trying to wake up and clicks his tongue against his teeth. The motion makes the light off the lampposts bounce off the metal plate covering his lower jaw. “Oh. Okay,” he says, plain and simple as could be. “Sorry ‘bout that, ma’am. You kinda just give off the vibes, you know?”

“Oh, you don’t say. What do you suppose gave that away?”

“Well, everything you said. But it’s the attitude, you know? You got spunk. We have spunk in spades, ‘specially those that dabble in, uh, you know, the pyrotechnics up in the Destruction branch. You got the fires that burn low and cold, the little embers sort of deal, but you got the fires that burn bright and hot and go very high—although it beats me why we never bothered to make use of blue fire when we already use green felfire for our spells. You get what I’m saying, right?”

She has absolutely no fucking idea. “Oh yeah, yeah, I getcha,” she lies.

“Ah, that’s good, that’s good. I’m glad to hear it. Unfortunately the warlocks here—well, pretty much any warlock everywhere—we don’t mix things up with archery, least there isn’t anyone that I know of. We’ve got demon hunters among the Illidari that do, though, but uh...we kind of don’t jive, you know? Like, they’re demon hunters. They’d be on us like white on rice if we so much as breathe the same air...oh, but I hear Tehd’s gettin’ on pretty well with that Marius fellow. Has a big cat, he says. Real, lean mean sonuvabitch with teeth as long as your hand is wide and a skeleton as tough as obliterum. So I dunno, maybe it can work out. Stranger things have happened.”

No shit, look what the universe decided to strand her here with. “I guess. Could be worse.” It can’t get any worse than this.

“Heh, no kidding. You put up quite the fight back there, especially your friend. The Netherlord used to mingle with the holy types before the Fall; wielded it, too, last I heard; I’ve only met the guy just recently. If it weren’t for him stepping in when he did, I think she’d have been thrown out into the Nether. If there’s one group that hates us more than the Illidari, it’s the church. Human, elven, trollish, gnomish and goblin, you name it! Them and their Light, always shoving their dogma down our throats. Between you and me, if I had to choose who I’d want to kill me, I’d take the demon hunters. At least they want you to die and stay dead. The paladins and their priests? They’re gonna want to make you hear every word they say, and they’ll make you stay for it as long as it takes for that shit to sink in. Ah, and don’t get me started on some of these ‘preservation rituals’ I’ve heard the secularists are trying to create. Shit’s wild...but hey, lucky for us they haven’t had any luck with ‘em. I got to see Life-styled necromancy back on Draenor in Gorgrond and fel necromancy in action at Hellfire Citadel. Can you imagine someone being brought back by the Light?”

“Hell if I know.”

“I’ll tell ya what it’d be like: chaos. Pure. Chaos. People like me can use the Light, but we’d be hurtin’ ourselves if we tried. Then again the way we were restored can be considered...hmm, let’s call it malpractice, so who knows—maybe a Light undead would be more complete than us. It’s all the same when you think about it; just the methods are different.”

“We don’t have this kind of scholastic philosophy where I come from. You either take up a sword and hit somebody with it or you take up a staff or a bow, like I do, and shoot somebody with it. Either way, you’re hitting somebody with something. That’s it.”

Randall tosses his head back and guffaws. The hinges on his jaw creak loudly with the motion, and it takes everything in Laplace’s self-control to not grimace at the noise...or look at the way the head of one screw is sticking out just a centimeter or two more from its socket than it was before. “I like you, ma’am,” he says. “You’ll fit right in. A lot better than your friend over yonder. Kinda feel bad for her. She’d be more at home with the folk at Light’s Hope. ‘S a lot more grounded over there. Not many people I know that’d freak out being shunted off-world into a pocket dimension filled with demons. Always a first time for everythin’ if it’s been a while.”

“Believe me, it’s been a shock for both of us.” But only a little, because once the brunt of it wore off it became obviously apparent this wasn’t the laboratory R&D ushered her into to witness the culmination of their newest pet project. Plus all the enchantments and pinch-penny artes plied everywhere couldn’t disguise the fact that the place reeked so much of sulfur that even August and Bastion would’ve found it hard to stomach. And the bitching—oh the bitching, it was unbearable. If there had ever been a moment where Laplace wanted to hurl herself off Dreadscar Rift and left the mutt to her fate, it would’ve been right before the Black Harvest had them surrounded and cuffed in chains.

But then she’d be made into mincemeat for the demons and their master, and it wouldn’t do to throw the Empire into whatever panic they’re undergoing now by losing one of their two Alphas to an eternity of torment.

And Alexandra getting shit on by another universe that practically knew nothing about her until today? Where would the fun be if Laplace wasn’t there to see it or take part in it?

(Huh. She’s probably still ranting and raving about being thrown into a cage and chained up.

Laplace wonders if the shackles were big enough to fit around her chest, and tries not to snort at that.)

#tales of luminaria #warcraft #fanfiction #mywriting

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nickrbockr · 7 years ago

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Simon Vs Fan Fic: Chapter 10 - Lightly Down Unto A Pillow

Ao3

“Can I at least have the ring box?” I request from Dad in more of an order than a question.

Dad could see that it was about that time as he agreed to get the ring and went upstairs to retrieve it.

It was the day before our anniversary and proposal day. At the end of January is when the snow and slush in the streets stops being fun and starts being annoying. This winter break has been wonderful, filled with Abby and Nick explaining all of their fun stories, Leah taking our conversations to use as examples in her sociology finals, and Bram and I spending nearly every single second together.

School was due to start again, but I informed all of my professors before I left for break that I may miss the first few days of their classes. After I told them why, most of them smiled, nodded their heads, and told me they’d email me the syllabi and what I can work on before I come back. One of them even bought me a bottle of wine as a gift.

I finished the poem on New Years Eve with Bram laying on my chest. I both wanted him to stay and leave because I wanted to write the rest of the poem but I could never ask him to leave when he looked so comfortable and I loved seeing him there. The smell of bacon did, however, motivate both of us to get up as we came downstairs to Mom, Dad, Nora, Ian, and Alice.

“Good morning star shines,” Alice said sipping coffee.

“Alice is so cool,” Ian said, shoveling eggs into his mouth. “She doesn’t know too much about soccer, but neither do you, but that’s okay, she makes up for it in smarts.”

“Thank you…what’s your name again?” Alice asks.

“Ian.”

I make Bram and I plates as my family makes small talk over their breakfasts. It was fun seeing everyone sitting and talking and getting along with each other. It made me think of Bram and I’s wedding day and how I would make him plan all of it, mostly because asking his parents, getting the ring, and doing what I’m doing for the proposal took a lot out of me. Plus I know he loves planning, especially with the logistics of a wedding.

I didn’t talk much at the table because I kept repeating the lines over and over in my head that I wanted to add to the poem. I would catch Bram stealing glances at me and it made me so unbelievably happy. I grabbed his hand as I repeated lines over and over again in my head while he ate with his free hand.

We finished breakfast and Bram had to leave as he was getting yet another call from his work. He kissed me on the cheek and ran out to his car. His butt looked so good when he ran; it was the best part of watching him play soccer in high school. Once he drove away, I rushed upstairs to write all the thoughts I kept repeating to myself over and over again through breakfast. I hope nobody said anything too important because I wasn’t listening at all.

There. I did it. I was finally done. I wrote the final poem on a clean sheet of paper and read it over and over again. This was it, I hope he likes it!

Bram and I celebrated his birthday a few weeks later where I was tempted again to propose, but I still didn’t have the ring and Bram deserved a ring. And the proposal, so I obviously didn’t say anything and the normally insightful Bram didn’t even notice my weird energy because he seemed preoccupied himself.

“What’s on your mind?” I ask him. His pensive stare was so stoic, statuesque, and sexy that when I broke his trance, I was a little upset with myself. “Thinking about school?”

“Yeah.” Bram said, a bit hollowly. “Like usual when we get back into the groove of being together we have to go back to being apart.”

“But hey, at least you didn’t have to take the January semester this year, that’s something. And we’re going to be able to be with each other this year on our anniversary.”

When Bram heard the word anniversary, he smiled and his rigidness began to melt as he leaned his head on me.

“You’re right, sorry. I want this year’s anniversary to be the best we’ve had so far.”

I couldn’t agree more. We took anniversaries very seriously since the day in his Honda Civic. It was a big step for him and an important deal for us. It was when, for the first time in a long time, either of us felt so…normal. Not having to hide and having each other every step of the way. It was the reason I wanted to propose on our anniversary, the meaning will be more than obvious. I kissed him on the forehead, knowing what was coming and him (hopefully) blissfully unaware of what was to come. That was last week and tomorrow is the big night.

Dad came back downstairs with a black felt ring box with a red bow wrapped around it. He handed it to me and I took it gently. I know Dad spent a lot of time finding this ring and I could see it in his watering eyes that it meant a lot to him to be a part of the proposal in this way. It’s always hard for sons to tell their fathers properly how much they mean to each other, gay or straight.

“Thank you so much Dad. You know, don’t tell Mom, but now you have the most involvement with the proposal.”

Dad let a smile grow in his face. “You know what, you’re right and I’m going to hold on to that feeling. Speaking of that, how are you feeling? Tomorrow will come super fast.”

“Yep.” I wasn’t as nervous as I could be because of Mom. Yesterday we went shopping and gathered all of the ingredients for dinner. It was nice to have her there to remember all the necessary items I would have forgotten and then I’d be serving Bram and I peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, which he would love too but I wanted tomorrow to be more special than PB&J.

“It’s alight to be nervous, Si. They don’t call it float lightly down onto a pillow, they call it jumping in.” Dad is wise as he is nerdy. Now I know where I get it from.

I have the ring and that was the most important (and last) thing on my mental checklist. Leah was on her way over to help me hang the pictures again before she had to go to another reunion meeting at the high school.

“I just don’t understand why they need to meet with you so much.” I ask while we re-tabe the backs of all the cut out pictures.

“There’s a lot of logistics into planning such a big event, Si. Tables, chairs, caterers, hotels, the school itself, and everyone has an opinion.” She replies sticking a picture in an empty spot.

“But to have a meeting every other day the entire time you’ve been back from Yale? What did they do when you were not in Shady Creek?”

“Oh, they did fine. It’s just different when the date grows closer and closer people tend to become more flustered with already decided paths. Speaking of that, you’re calm?” Leah jokes.

“I kinda am…I think I’ve finally taken all of my family’s and friend’s advice. I’m starting to think I should have been doing this since high school, I feel great!”

Leah and I finish the collage of pictures and it looks even better than it did last month when we did it. Alice knocked on the door and Alice brought in the dozen roses I ordered.

“Alice? I thought you had to hit the road?”

“Me too, but it seems the weather has a different story.” She showed me her phone and her flight was cancelled. There’s a storm in Boston, so flights were grounded until further notice. “Apparently it could be a few days, so it looks like I’ll be able so see this proposal after all.”

I smiled so wide and hugged Alice as I took the roses and she patted me on the back.

“So what are you going to spell out anyway?” Alice asked.

“The idea is ‘Abraham,’ but let’s see if a dozen roses is enough.”

Alice, Leah and I all pluck off the petals and pile them up until only green stems remained.

“He loves me, he loves me not.” Leah said, jokingly. We finished spelling Abraha on the bed. I didn’t spell that wrong, we were out of petals.

“You could just disperse the amount of petals so you have enough for the ‘m.’” Alice suggested.

“But I like how the letters look with tighter petal overlap.” Leah commented.

“Or I we could just spell Bram?” I say.

Leah and Alice teamed up with me for a judgmental look.

“Oh, no, no, no, Simon.” Alice starts.

“No-no,” Leah adds.

“Are you proposing to him or are you ‘prop-ing’ to him?” They both walked up to me with glares.

“No nicknames?”

“Correct,” Alice said. “I’ll go buy another dozen. My treat, Bub.” Alice leaves the room and blows me a kiss. While she’s gone, Leah and I begin to unwrap and set up candles around my room.

“This has got to be a fire hazard. And what are your parents going to do with all these candles when you’re done using them for ten minutes?” She asked.

“I dunno, tell your reunion committee you have parting gifts.”

“Who would want to a partially used candle?”

“People who actually go to the reunion.” Leah shot me a look. “I’m sorry, I couldn’t resist.”

“Speaking of which, I’ll be at school hopefully done with the meeting tomorrow night to be back to celebrate after. I promise I won’t miss it.”

I told my parents and the gang to come to the house around 10pm to have a celebratory drink. I guess you could say I did have some confidence Bram would say yes now.

“You better not, if I wanted anyone else there after Bram, it would be you.”

She smiles and winks at my as we finish strategically placing the candles around my room. We talked about how Nick and Abby still have not confirmed who the other person in their relationship and that made us think it could be someone from high school. That lead into speculation and more creeping on social media with old high school acquaintances who went to school or live in New York. During our investigation, Alice returned with another bouquet of roses. We shut the computer quickly and stared at her.

“I saw Simon do that only once, so I don’t want to know what you were looking at.”

She laughs as Leah gives me a disgusted look and I deny every claim they make. We finish spelling Abraham on the bed and it looks really good. So good that I realized I didn’t want to move it.

“Looks like the couch has my name on it.” I say. Ian flew back to Yale yesterday. Both Leah and I wanted him to stay, but the professors weren’t as forgiving to have him miss his first days. Alice sees the ring box with the bow from Dad.

“He finally gave it to you?” Alice commented. “That only took forever.”

“I have faith that Dad had his reasons and that it will be badass.”

“It will be…and Simon, your room. This all looks badass, good job.” Alice complimented.

“Now that I see it all together, it does Simon. Bram is going to love the collage.”

“Well, in the theatre world,” I start to Leah sighing and Alice making a fart noise with her mouth and hand. “In the theatre world! Sometimes the best way to build a good pay off is misdirection: have Bram notice the candles so I can shut the door which will lead him to the bed with his name spelled out so I can pull out the ring and get on one knee and by the time he turns around, he sees me, the ring, and the pictures of us. And he’ll be recently fed, so he’ll be in an even better mood.”

“Good planning, Si,” Alice commented. She said the words, but it sounded like there was a space of her feeling underwhelmed. I’m probably just looking into it so I look to Leah who is nodding her head in approval, so at least I have that going for me.

“Si!” Nora shouted from downstairs. “Bram is here!”

I smile like I always smile when I hear my boyfriend’s name, soon to be fiancé’s name.

“Remember, we all have to keep him out of my room. Which will be hard because we both like my room.”

“Not the only thing that will be hard.” Leah jokes. Ian has rubbed off on her. And now I guess so have I. Someone stop me.

“Ew, gross, you got it, Bub, we won’t let him anywhere near the threshold.” Alice promised.

We all head downstairs and there in a nice v-neck and black jeans was my beautiful boyfriend, sun setting behind him. I immediately go up to him and kiss him, extra long, extra hard.

“What’s that for?” He asks, coyly since we kissed in front of my siblings and parents.

“For fun.” I reply.

Leah had to go to her meeting she went to Creekwood as the family, Bram, and I all go to Waffle House for dinner. it was Alice’s idea to get as out of the house and to give more reason not to have Bram and I go to my room.

“So how’s relaxing been, Bram?” Dad asked. “Seems like you’ve definitely needed it by the way Simon’s made it sound.”

“Not the best,” Bram answered. Since the beginning of his break, the station and his professors have been calling him at least once or twice a day, he’s been typing away on his computer when we’ve been hanging out on the couch, and he’s been a little distracted lately. I haven’t minded, I love watching him work. He’s also been pleasantly surprised because I am not the completely needy Simon I have been in the past. Wonder where all this new confidence came from? “Even though I didn’t take the January Semester it feels like I still am. I may tell them to give me a few credits.”

“I hate to see you too stressed out, B,” I reply, rubbing his shoulder. He put his hand on my hand.

“Well, it should be over soon. Working for the station is fun, but finishing school at the same time is work. I won’t miss college, I guarantee. Simon, we should go on a nice, long vacation this summer or fall before we move to New York.”

I planned on that. As a wedding present, Mom and Dad offered to help pay for our honeymoon. In return, Mom made sure I promised to visit the house, with Bram, for no less than four major holidays per year. I think we could pull that off. I have a few places in mind once the proposal part is over and Bram and I can talk about it together.

Together. Together forever. God I like the sound of that. I squeeze his shoulder and his hand squeezes mine in response.

“I agree, you deserve a good vacation.”

Bram’s phone rings and he closes his eyes and exhales. He wipes his mouth and looks at the call. “Sorry guys, I have to take this.” He stands up from the table and walks outside to take the call.

“He needs to relax,” Mom said, staring at him through the restaurant window. “He’ll have the rest of his life to stress about work.”

We continued to chat and eat for a few minutes until I saw Bram hang up the phone and place his hands on his head. Alice followed my glance and looked at Bram too until until entered the doors. He’s so cute, but he looks so torn.

“Hey, Alice, can I talk to you outside?”

We all look at Alice who finishes sipping her Diet Coke and looks up at Bram. She is good at handling herself in awkward situations.

“Sure.” Alice gets up and looks to me with ‘don’t hate me’ eyes.

“Is everything okay?” I ask, kind of starting to get worried.

“Yeah, yeah, it’s just a work related question that I don’t want to bore you all with. It won’t be long.” He shoots me a reassuring smile and my anxiety melts away. If there was a problem worth talking to me about he would. New Simon trusts his boyfriend.

Alice and Bram walk outside and we all try to not look as a group but all we can do is look at random times. When I first look, Bram looked like he was explaining something with Alice intently listening. I looked back at my plate and swirled around the last of my waffle in syrup. When I looked again, Bram paced as Alice spoke with a calm expression. I ate the last bite of my waffle and sipped my water and when I looked the last time, they were hugging. That’s a good sign, right?

They walk back in together and Alice yells from the front door, “Family, don’t be weird about this, let’s just finish eating, people are entitled to have conversations with other people in private.” The other patrons stared at them as they walked past the tables and finished eating. I turned to Bram.

“So everything is good?” I ask again, just to be clear.

Bram smiles. “Yep, Alice is a smart lady.”

He kisses my cheek and finishes his meal. Bram knows I’ve been better at being more confident and trusting and not second guessing but there is tiny, minute, microscopic seed growing in warmth below my stomach. I was becoming nervous. ‘It’s okay to be nervous’ I heard Dad’s words in my head, ‘it’s why it’s called jumping in.’ Maybe this was just proposal nerves and I was over reacting to my possible fiancé speaking to my sister in private outside a Waffle House. When I said it out loud, the growing burn went back to a subtle luke-warmness. The premise was laughable and a smile returned to my face as I placed my arm around his chair. I leaned on his shoulder and I could feel him chew.

Mom paid the bill and we all piled in the car back to the house. Nora and Alice were belted out ‘Ironic’ when it came on the radio to the entertainment of all of us in the car. When we got to the house, Bram pulled me aside.

“Hey handsome,” he started. He called me handsome when he was about to ask me a favor.

“Hi gorgeous,” I reply.

“Would you be mad at me if I went home? I had a late night last night and I have more work to do and I’d rather finish it tonight so it can be just us all day tomorrow?”

I pulled Bram to me and laid a warm, deep kiss on his lips. He went to pull back but I kept going and he stopped pulling away. I placed my hands on his cheeks and he placed his hands lightly on mine. When I pulled away, I could see his plump, moist lips and he bit his bottom one.

“Never, ever. I love you Abraham Greenfeld. When you need to work, you need to work. You’re all mine tomorrow.” I give him one light kiss and he smiles, but not as brightly as he usually does. “Seriously, last time I’ll ask, are you sure you’re okay?”

He looked up at me with his coffee brown eyes as the last remnants of the sun glisten in his eyes.

“I love you more, and yes.” He places his hand on my cheek and lean into it.

“Then go do what you need to do. I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”

Bram walks towards his car and stops. His frame has never looked tighter and reminded me of a Greek statue. He didn’t move for a moment until he turned around and walked back to me with a quick pace. He kissed me hard. Passionately. Aggressively. I felt so protected as our lips moved in pressing motions against another and my knees started to feel weak. After what felt like five minutes, he slows his kisses until he pulls away and licks his lips.

“I love you, so incredibly, so deeply, Simon.”

“I love you so, so, so much. Now go before I change my mind.”

He smiles and this time goes to his car and leaves. I go back inside and my family is talking about tomorrow and how excited they are but my mind is still focused back on the minute burning of nerves. Leah only stays for about an hour before she goes home and then we all gather around the TV to watch more Bachelor episodes. After four episodes Mom, Dad, and Nora go to sleep and Alice stays next to me on the couch.

“I know you can’t stop thinking about what happened at dinner.” She said.

“It’s not just that.” I say. “It’s a combination of that and I’m nervous for tomorrow and I can sense Bram isn’t telling me something, but he wants to.” When I said this scenario out loud, it didn’t sound crazy like when I thought it back at the restaurant. The nervous burn grew a little in size. Alice exhaled loudly and didn’t say anything. She usually has something to say, whether it is helpful or hilarious, but this time she was just quiet. The burn grew again.

“Simon, trust Bram. Trust yourselves. Trust.”

Alice kisses me on the head and covers me up on the couch. I felt like she wanted to say more but knew not to say anything else. There’s nothing she could really say to me right now that would make me feel calmer. Except maybe Bub.

Everything I felt I learned over the past year with confidence, every part of me that has grown in my relationship was hinging on this moment. Will I fall back into old habits of self-sabotage or fall forward into progress?

My mind was going over everything it could, analyzing the last six months. Conversations with Bram, conversations about Bram with Abby, Nick and Leah, and it all didn’t have any raised flags. I scrolled through out texts as far back as my phone had saved them and it all came up nothing. I went through Bram’s social media presence that was low. He only appeared in tagged pictures on Facebook and barely used Instagram, both of which provided no insight. Perhaps I was just over thinking it.

I turned the TV on to try to allow the dull glow of Forensic Files to lull me to sleep. It was on low volume, I was warm, it was late, but nothing worked me into a restful state to fall asleep. A new episode was about to start when my phone vibrated. I closed my eyes not to sleep, but to prepare myself. It was three thirty-eight. Alerts at three thirty-eight were never good.

Bram Come outside. Please. . .. … I know you’re up.

He knew me too well. It took all of my strength to fight my gut instinct and plunge backwards into old Simon and start making wild accusations in my head, causing me not to be present while we talked. I breathed in and out for a few moments before I replied.

Be out in a minute.

I put on my coat and a hat and I go outside to have my glasses immediately fog in the cold weather. Through the fog I can see Bram’s car and the trail of exhaust coming from the tail pipe. I walk slowly towards the car, both because it was cold and I was even more nervous than before and wanted more time to prepare. I determined that whatever Bram had to say to me in person at three-thirty in the morning, I had to let him speak and I could not answer at all or I may not be able to hold back the vomit or tears or words I’m trying so hard to keep from coming out. Which is crazy because I don’t even know if what he says will be bad. But a part of me knows it’s not good.

I reach the door and I open it, getting in the front seat to a warmer car. The car door shut and my glasses fogged slightly in the change of temperature. Blurry Bram was still so cute, but his expression was very serious. I can also see in the back seat where there are bags. Not a good start.

“Simon.” Bram whispers, barely moving his lips, staring at his steering wheel.

I didn’t answer. I think Bram knew I wouldn’t…I couldn’t answer. He inhaled, looked down at his chest and shifted his body toward mine.

“I was going to drop a letter in your mailbox…but when I got to it, I couldn’t do it. You deserve better than a letter.”

I was starting to become a little numb, but not from the cold. The nervous fire grew inside me.

“I knew I had to tell you in person so you didn’t think I was a coward.”

Hold it together, Spier. I fought urges to speak as I sat in the passenger seat staring at the dashboard.

“The call I took at Waffle House…it was the station. They knew I was heading to New York after graduation and so they promoted me to give me on-air experience. For the next six months, I’ll be writing and filming my own news stories. I start Tuesday. I have to leave now to get back in time.”

The nervous fire was extinguished, but what was left was emptiness. It wasn’t bad news, but I also wasn’t thrilled. Bram put his hand on mine and squeezed and I squeezed back.

“I know how much our anniversary means to us and I guess I was so afraid of letting you down that I was…I just was so scared to tell you because this moment, right now, pains me so much.”

He moved his hand to my face and I fell into it. I looked at Bram and he moved his eyes away from mine. I was formulating what I wanted to say as he continued.

“But I know that our future is also important, for both of us. Not just my future, but our future. This could be a very big deal and help us settle when we move and –”

“Bram,” I finally say, moving my fingers across his lips. “Go.” It sounded harsher than I meant it and Bram shot me a weird, hurt look. I had to clarify because that look stabs me, shreds my insides, and leaves me breathless. “You have to go. This is a big opportunity that can be good for your career. And our future. It’s a no brainer.”

He exhaled hard as a tear fell from his eye. I wiped it away with my thumb and held back my own. I spoke in fragments to drive home that I meant what I said. He leaned in to me more.

“I love you so much. I love that you care so deeply about us. But I’m also not selfish enough to want keep you here if this is something you need to do. And we’ll have many more anniversaries to come.” Bram still wasn’t looking up, it was time to return the favor he sent me months ago. I started to sing softly as I leaned closer to him.

“You are my sunshine, my only sunshine, you make me happy when skies are grey. You’ll never know, Bram, how much I love you, so please don’t take my sunshine away.”

Bram squeezed his eyes and more tears fell out when he finally looked up at me with hazy pink eyes.

“We’re Simon and Bram,” I told him, pulling his face closer to mine. “Don’t feel bad at all, don’t feel guilty at all. We got this. I’m going to miss the hell out of you, but hopefully I can see you more than twice this semester.”

Our lips are just inches apart until I pull him to mine and lay a kiss upon them.

“I love you so much, Simon. I promise this will all be worth it.”

I remained silent. I needed to remain silent. If I didn’t, I’d cry myself and in a couple when one of you is hurting, the other has to be the lighthouse leading you out of the hurt. If both are lost, you may never find a way out. It’s why it took us so long in high school to find each other in the first place.

Since I have no words, I kiss him again, both our lips tremble. I click the handle and step out of his car. He rolls down the window as I shut the door and I lean in one last time.

“Text me when you land,” I ask. “I don’t know if I’ll be able to handle hearing your voice.” He nods quickly and wipes his face from the tears. I extend my hand to him and he grabs it and kisses it repeatedly and places it against his cheek. “I love you Abraham Louis Greenfeld.”

I pull my hand away from his warm cheek and with it goes the warmth from my heart. The window rolls up and Bram drives away. I’m left on the lightly snowy grass, cold, not being able to move, lost in thought.

When I walk back, it hits me that Bram left. Everything I’ve been planning since August has evaporated before four o’clock in the morning on the day of our anniversary. No more proposal. At least not today.

It knocked the wind out of me as I opened my bedroom to see all the candles and flower petals spelling Abraham. I felt so much weird pain, but we didn’t break up, but why did it feel that way? Why do I feel empty and Why can’t I talk to Bram about why I feel this way? I didn’t fall backwards, but I didn’t feel like I moved forward either. I just stayed put, is that better? When life is running forward, can you afford to sit on the track and let it out of your sight?

I lay on my bed on top of the rose petals and feel the lump of my poem notebook on my back. I kept it there to also remind me to memorize it. That was it, that was the trigger that caused me to bawl. Why does it feel like such a let down? It’s not like I won’t propose another day, but I wanted to badly to be engaged. I want to be Bram Greenfeld’s fiancé, I want to be Bram Greenfeld’s husband. And I know that’s selfish but I want to be selfish about Bram. I worked so hard with Elijah and Tracy and Mom and Dad and everyone else’s support. I guess it feels like not only was I let down, but I let them down as well.

It was still our anniversary and I didn’t want to associate this night with all the rest of them. Bram didn’t deserve my selfishness to affect our day. I pulled out my phone and decided to text Bram

Bram, I don’t want our fifth anniversary to be associated with either of us feeling this way. I did have some things planned, but there was one gift I have to give you.

I didn’t have to look at the notebook; I had it memorized.

Blue Oreos – A poem for Abraham Greenfeld

Blue Oreos Digitally sent in heart shapes Punctuation. Is. Key. To. Identity. Wrapped shirts Pinned notes Not ready for Spotlight But ready to grow Steps of a Baby Started light, became heavy Nothing we couldn’t carry Ferris Wheel, Tilt a Whirl We realized we weren’t for girls He saved me Beating hearts Touching skin Skipping Lunch Together again. College came, nothing changed We got strong We got game There may been doubt But not by us Because what I want Is You. Always you. Forever you. Us.

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