selunare

[thelostmoongazer]

more figuring out how i wanna draw the Lamb :3

[sanstropfremir]

ok this took way longer than i expected because i got sidetracked looking at paintings and reading poetry and just admiring the mv, but it's finally finished!! let's talk about

higher

✨

i'm going to draw your attention to a few things.

firstly, these verses from rime of the ancient mariner by samuel taylor coleridge, published 1834:

The harbour-bay was clear as glass,

So smoothly it was strewn!

And on the bay the moonlight lay,

And the shadow of the Moon.

The rock shone bright, the kirk no less,

That stands above the rock:

The moonlight steeped in silentness

The steady weathercock.

And the bay was white with silent light,

Till rising from the same,

Full many shapes, that shadows were,

In crimson colours came.

A little distance from the prow

Those crimson shadows were:

I turned my eyes upon the deck��

Oh, Christ! what saw I there!

Each corse lay flat, lifeless and flat,

And, by the holy rood!

A man all light, a seraph-man,

On every corse there stood.

This seraph-band, each waved his hand:

It was a heavenly sight!

They stood as signals to the land,

Each one a lovely light;

This seraph-band, each waved his hand,

No voice did they impart—

No voice; but oh! the silence sank

Like music on my heart.

secondly, this ivan aivazovsky painting, chaos (the creation), c. 1841:

and thirdly, the memorial of percy shelley, who drowned in a boating accident at age 29, in 1822:

there's a common conflation between the romantic and the pastoral in the general cultural consensus because the pastoral a) has been around as an art term longer than romantic, and b) romanticism does use some similar imagery. but there is a key difference: the pastoral is specfically an idealization of 'the simple shepherding life,' often for high class and urban audiences who have no conception of the details of this life includes. one of the more famous examples is christopher marlowe's a passionate shepherd to his love, published in 1599:

Come live with me and be my love,

And we will all the pleasures prove,

That Valleys, groves, hills, and fields,

Woods, or steepy mountain yields.

And we will sit upon the Rocks,

Seeing the Shepherds feed their flocks,

By shallow Rivers to whose falls

Melodious birds sing Madrigals.

And I will make thee beds of Roses

And a thousand fragrant posies,

A cap of flowers, and a kirtle

Embroidered all with leaves of Myrtle;

A gown made of the finest wool

Which from our pretty Lambs we pull;

Fair lined slippers for the cold,

With buckles of the purest gold;

A belt of straw and Ivy buds,

With Coral clasps and Amber studs:

And if these pleasures may thee move,

Come live with me, and be my love.

The Shepherds’ Swains shall dance and sing

For thy delight each May-morning:

If these delights thy mind may move,

Then live with me, and be my love.

whereas romanticism is a more pointedly specific movement that was active from around 1800 to 1850, primarily focused on intense emotion and catharsis as the primary experiential output of an artwork. which most prominently manifested in a deep fascination and glorification of the natural environment and historical nostalgia. the movement sprung from the german sturm und drang (literally storm and drive/stress) period of the late 1760s to early 1780s, which was a direct reaction to rationalism and enlightenment. romanticism had similar impulses; it was also a revival of medievalism and a reaction against the looming urban sprawl and mechanization of the industrial revolution. a typical romantic poem from one of the originators of the english movment william wordsworth, composed upon westminster bridge, september 3, 1802, originally published 1807:

Earth has not any thing to show more fair:

Dull would he be of soul who could pass by

A sight so touching in its majesty:

This City now doth, like a garment, wear

The beauty of the morning; silent, bare,

Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie

Open unto the fields, and to the sky;

All bright and glittering in the smokeless air.

Never did sun more beautifully steep

In his first splendour, valley, rock, or hill;

Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep!

The river glideth at his own sweet will:

Dear God! the very houses seem asleep;

And all that mighty heart is lying still!

this romantic fascination with nature was underpinned by the philosophy of the sublime, generally agreed to be first treatised by edmund burke in 1756, the theory was also written about by kant and hegel. in the simplest of terms, the sublime is a quality of greatness beyond calculation, imitation, and human comprehension. the sublime is twofold; the greatness of the ocean is beautiful, but its power is also terrifying, and the experience of the sublime is to feel those two at once. to be in awe and also to be horrified of its ability to sink ships and drown a life in a tempermental change of tide.

let's take a quick detour to talk about

clothing

in the present day we have become much more lax thanks to the aesthetic movement in the late nineteenth century, but back in the early victorian period there are still highly structured rules about when and what clothing one can wear in public. and the clothing itself is also highly structured. anyone with a passing understanding of the victorian era knows about the whole flashing of the ankle thing and corsets galore, and it is true that the general day to day garments cover a lot of area. for men in particular, this manifests in no less than three layers in public at all times: shirt, waistcoat, and suit jacket, with a coat or mantle overtop in colder temperatures. this also includes a variation of a neck tie (depending on what year), hat, gloves, and any other decided upon accessories (this can also include a corset and other padded structural underpinnings). an important tangent to mention here is that this is the uniform of the upper classes, although the rules do apply to the lower classes if they wanted to appear 'sophisticated.' the working man's uniform was also shirt, waistcoat, trousers, but the difference here is in the textiles themselves; the colours tended to be much more drab, with less complicated patterns. obviously due to the price fabric itself, but also due to the labour of laundry. an indicator of class here is the white shirt itself and its pristine implications. (there is a longer conversation here about the invention of neckties and detachable collars and cuffs, but that's for another day). the silhouettes are very important to note here in the higher mv, as they are directly referential to the 'romantic poet' archetype of loose shirt and tight pants that we see in popular culture. but as i've just said, the reality is that men of the era were not dressed like this out in public. this look is essentially underwear; the implications are salacious. so where did this come from? well, we can blame it mostly on lord byron, who by all accounts was the first western 'rockstar.' notoriously called 'mad, bad and dangerous to know' by lady caroline lamb (a married women he publically had an affair with), byron was openly bisexual and deeply hedonistic with a lot of questionable habits, but his poetry was so popular that he was known to have women following him in the street and gathering in large quanities to see him at salons. and this was close to three decades before lizstomania. his close friends and contemporaries included percy and mary shelley, with whom he lived with abroad in italy for some time (this living arrangement resulted in the writing of both frankenstein and john polidori's the vampyre). byron's reputation was so eclipsing that the image of the lush poet lazing in his undergarments has become its own genre of romantic, slightly removed from the movement byron was writing in. it's also worth it to point out that there are no official portraits of byron dressed like this from the time. the visual assumption is somewhat apochryphal. now let's get into some specifics. a.c.e is not unfamiliar to this silhouette; as previously mentioned in this post i wrote about their styling, the boxy loose upper and fitted lower is their general mode for their styling because of its emphasis on legs. cactus was the most extreme example of this, and to prove my point, this specific silhouette is extremely common in classical ballet:

1. vaslav nijinsky, giselle, 1911 2. nehemiah kish, george balanchine's ballo della regina, 2011/12

higher fits very neatly into this same category: we have an emphasis on the legs through tightly fitted garments and also through light reflective textile, as well as a secondary emphasis on arm and shoulder movements with looser fit shirts. plus, the shirts are made from fabrics that have good drape and flow, and mimic the visual effects of water:

there are also several instances of scale patterning and wetlook hair styles, further elabourating on the siren theme. and the jewelry is the same, purposefully cut clear stones for oceanic sparkle or pearls, the gem directly born from water, as highlighting accents to specific parts of the body - namely eyes, hands, and torso:

the body jewelry also serves a double purpose in addition to being sparkly; it gives a semblance of shape to their torsos so their movements aren't totally lost in the shroud of their shirts, and it also invokes some of that salacious element that us as a modern audience doesn't necessarily perceive in the same way when we see a man wearing only a shirt. all of these points are especially prominent in the stage costuming. concerning the veils, these are an aesthetic choice following the theme of depicting water without actually using water. the song has a very breathless quality to it, and the lyrics directly make reference to water and breathlessness, so it only makes sense to have a physical manifestation of struggling to breathe.

now let's talk about

mise-en-scène

unlike most kpop mvs, I would argue that higher is not a spectacle in what we normally see spectacle to be. the overwhelming visual saturation of goblin (and the goblin remix) is more in line with what we expect, but how do you follow that, top it? the answer is that you don't. you aim for something with a completely different feel, which is exact what they did with higher.

the performing arts did not escape romanticism. the very start of the movement, sturm und drang, is actually named from a specific play written by friedrich maximilian klinger that premiered in 1777. the plays of the brief period are characterized by extreme and passionate emotions, and were siblings to one of the most famous genres of theatre, the melodrama. meant to appeal directly to the emotions of the audience using sensationalist plots and stock characters, the melodrama was the predominent form of entertainment in victorian england and gradually developed a specific form of its own. in this period we also start to see the development of 'stagecraft' into the recognizable form that it takes today. footlights, limelight/spotlighting, the separation of house and stage lighting, fly galleries, elevator platform mechanics, and the first (purported) western use of rear projection are all innovations of the late 18th and 19th centuries, as melodramas were known to have very intricate and spectacular stagings. and to go along with these stagecraft mechanics we see the rise in designated stage crews, which were predominantly off-duty sailors looking to make money. the rope systems that made up the fly galleries were very similar to that on ships, and much of the terminology and supersitions crossed over: this is the origin of the term 'rigging' being used for suspending set elements, and also the origin of the 'don't whistle in a theatre' superstition. as sailors communicated with whistle patterns on ships, the same system was adopted for changing scenery, and therefore whistling a random pattern could potentially drop a setpiece on an unsuspecting victim.

so with all this backstory out of the way, what is the very first full location we see? a stage, complete with forced perspective via the painted fabric legs (the side panels) and borders (the wavy upper panels). we even have a flat painted backdrop with a projection screen and hanging overhead lamps. there's also a second interior set, a desk in what looks to be a study of some kind. bit self explanatory on this one, taking the poet notion on the nose.

the locations have a bit of an obtuse arc, but it's there when you look for it. it starts interior spaces, where the ideas of sublime attempted to be recreated for the viewer. then it moves to transitory spaces; portions of nature isolated from a whole environment, interjections of human architecture into natural spaces:

(the white hut structure in the greenhouse is reminiscent of a skene (literally hut/tent), which is the structure at the back of the stage in ancient greek theatre used for the actors to change their masks and costumes. it was originally temporary, but slowly transformed into permanent stage architecture)

and then finally outdoors, into the sublime itself:

jwm turner, crossing the bridge, 1815

lastly,

lighting

there's a very clear lighting pattern here, primarily in light and dark. the base colour story is fairly simple complementary pairs; there's a lot of purple/red and green, and blue and yellow/amber, with everything relatively on the same tonal level. there are deliberate interjections of heavily saturated red for specific effect. there are also, most notably, a 'dark' version of all the sets. obviously as a reference to the eclipse that we see in the mv and in the concept photo series, but also as a reference to that darker undercurrent of the sublime, the upsetting, the uncanny, and the terrifying:

And the bay was white with silent light/Till rising from the same/Full many shapes, that shadows were/In crimson colours came.

[dearest-bucky]

I think I’m in love... just a little bit (One Shot)

Bucky Barnes x Reader

Summary: An undercover mission brings to surface some underlying feelings.

Words: 2.9K

Warnings: mutual pining? 

A/n: This fic is inspired by one scene of the movie “The man from U.N.C.L.E” that I saw a few days ago after Meg’s @searchingforbucky post on her blog. I really loved the movie and I wanted to write something similar. p.s Meg I’m sorry you’re getting a second notification for this. 🙈

Originally posted: August 12, 2020

"I hate this." He grumbled from the chair he was sitting, positioned behind the large window to keep an eye on the street below.

Y/n let out a sigh, but didn't say anything to him. What could she say really? Ever since they'd arrived in the hotel yesterday morning he'd been complaining the whole time, so Y/n just let him let it all out, let him whine as much as he wanted while she prepared for her part of the mission.

She was drawing her winged eyeliner in front of the mirror, carefully gliding the flat tip of the brush on her lid, then angling it a little upwards to draw the wing. The precision with which she moved her hand, the careful movement; Bucky glanced her way in wonder as he saw her put on make up. She was so invested in it. Truly, an art in itself.

Yet, he still couldn't help but be annoyed with the entire situation in general. "I'm not even a spy. I'm a fucking soldier." He said as she finished the eyeliner on the other eye, completely unbothered by him talking.

"I don't know why I agreed to this mission in the first place. I just think it would be better if- "

For the first time in the last hour, she finally decided to reply to him. Putting the eyeliner down and turning towards him, she spoke up, interrupting his rant. "Because T'Challa is your friend and he asked this as a favor from you. Now quit whining and start getting dressed. We'll have to make an appearance in less than an hour in the ballroom downstairs."

That shut him up effectively. He got up from the chair he was previously sitting, put the binoculars on the small table next to the chair and walked to the closet where his suit was hanging, fresh from the dry cleaners.

In just a few minutes he was dressed and his hair slicked back, gathered in a low man bun at the nape of his neck. He cleaned up nice, if he dared say so himself.

Y/n on the other hand, had moved to the adjacent bathroom to change into her gown for the night, a floor length navy blue dress that hugged her curves beautifully. She walked back in the room, holding the front of her dress with her hand. "Can you please help me zip this up?"

He picked his head up to look at her, mouth going dry in an instant. She looked so beautiful. No, the word beautiful didn't do her any justice. Bucky thought there was no word in the English language - or in any of the other languages he spoke - that could truly describe the way she looked, standing there in front of him.

After a short moment, he broke out of his stupor and moved to her. "Yeah, sure." He mumbled as he positioned himself behind her, flesh hand reaching for her zipper and the metal one resting lightly on her hip. He could feel her shiver in front of him as he slowly glided the zipper up. "You're shivering." He spoke and she turned her head slightly to the side, their eyes meeting for the briefest second.

"Just nervous about the mission."

He finished with the zipper and placed his flesh hand on her other hip, holding her in place, his warm breath hitting the skin of her neck. "Don't be. I'll be with you the entire time." It was supposed to be a reassurance and it worked, but as he kept her close to his body, she started shivering for a whole different reason. She simply nodded her head and moved away from his touch, suddenly too overwhelmed to be in his presence. The tension in the room were palpable. The unspoken feelings kept secret inside their chests.

"Are you ready to head out?"

Another nod and she looped her arm to his and they walked out of their shared room, entering the elevator in the corridor and moving down to the ballroom where a party was being held in honor of a politician neither of them couldn't care less about.

However, in the same place was secretly happening the illegal sale of some stolen piece of Wakandan vibranium. One of the acquaintances of the aforementioned politician was to do business with some weapons dealers from Middle East and apparently the business would take place during the party where everyone's inhibitions were low because of the flowing alcohol and they'd be unsuspecting of what was really going on.

That was about to be ruined though, because king T'Challa knew all about the plans of that thief so he'd send Bucky and Y/n to put an end to the whole thing.

They walked slowly in the ballroom, discreetly looking around to take note to all the exit points, scanning the place around for any unexpected but still possible threats. To the untrained eye, they were just another fancy couple attending the party, both dressed to the nines, enjoying the expensive party.

They made their way to the bar, Bucky ordering both of their drinks. She sipped a small sip from hers, hoping the alcohol would help her relax a bit. It wasn't her first undercover mission, however it was the first one where she was alone with Bucky and she wanted to succeed, to prove to him that she was as good of a spy as Natasha. Not that he doubted her abilities, but still.

They'd been there for at least an hour when his eyes fixed on something behind her head. As they were looking around the place, Bucky caught one of the weapons dealers walking to the exit. "Stay here, I'll be right back." He whispered to Y/n in a rush and pecked her cheek, trying to keep their cover.

She wanted to ask him where he was going, but Bucky was already gone, leaving her alone at the bar. She turned to the bar counter and picked up her glass, taking another small sip, enough to wet her red lips.

She was playing with the seam of her glass, tracing its outline with her finger in circular motion when she felt another presence behind her.

"It's truly a shame to leave such a stunning lady as yourself alone at a party." The voice said and she turned her head to look at the new man who was now at her side. She gave him a tight smile, seeming uninterested and turned her head towards the party, ignoring the man.

This wasn't part of the plan, but seeing that the man came to her like the lamb in the slaughter, she wasn't stupid to pass this golden opportunity.

"Allow me to buy you a drink." The man spoke up again after a short moment of silence and she wanted to scoff at how bad he was at this, picking up women.

Her mission required her to be serious and collected, so she acted exactly that. "No, thank you." She replied curtly, knowing that her refusal would only spur him to insist more with her.

Just like she thought, the man wouldn't give up, and after a few minutes of acting totally indifferent and uninterested, she knew she had to change tactics if she wanted to win him over. She felt disgusted with herself, but it had to be done. The things she had to do for a mission!

"I would love it if you'd be able to accompany me tomorrow for a business lunch." He said over a glass of expensive whiskey that was so strong even its smell was enough to get Y/n drunk. "Then after that we could go anywhere you'd like. I'm sure there are many interesting things to do in this city." His hand that wasn't holding the glass moved to touch her bare arm and she wanted to crawl in her skin just to not feel his touch but she had to act flattered and interested for the sake of the mission. She knew what the 'business lunch' was and if this man was dumb enough to invite a total stranger to his illegal deals she wasn't going to complain. He probably thought she was a brainless bimbo who only lived by her looks and that's exactly what she wanted him to keep thinking.

A smile made its way to her face and just as she was about to reply and accept his offer, Bucky returned again, his eyes darkening when he saw the man's hand on her arm, looking at her as if she were a piece of meat and he, the hungry wolf. He hated that look and he did his best to not break the man's fingers, opting to just loop his arm around Y/n's waist rather possessively and throwing daggers with his eyes to the man. "Sorry I was away for too long baby." His words were spoken sweetly and directed to Y/n, but his eyes that were still on the man said another story. "I'm afraid we have to cut this night short."

This was confusing. They weren't supposed to leave. She gave a questioning look to Bucky but couldn't read him at all. Damn Winter Soldier. His hand around her waist just tightened a bit, squeezing her hip lightly and she didn't question him anymore.

"It was a pleasure meeting you, mr. Teller." She spoke to the man on her other side rather sweetly, trying to keep the cover intact. "I'm afraid I have to leave now."

The man was left a little confused too by the presence of Bucky, but he didn't comment on it. He just put his hand in his pocket and fished out a business card, handing it to Y/n. "My number, so we can talk about tomorrow."

When she stretched her hand to grab the piece of paper he swiped it and kissed the back of her hand in a chivalrous manner, slightly bowing in front of her. "And believe me, the pleasure has been all mine, my dear."

Bucky couldn't wait to get away from him. He didn't know how he controlled himself to not punch the man right then and there, but he was glad he did, otherwise they'd fail in their mission. And the last thing he wanted was to let T'Challa down.

They moved quickly to the exit, walking across the long lobby of the hotel towards the elevator again. When the doors of the elevator finally closed, that's when Y/n voiced her questions. "What happened? Why did we leave? I was about to gain access to their meeting tomorrow, their deal would take place in that lunch."

He only released his bowtie, not answering her questions, so she kept asking. "Do you understand that I had him? You almost cost us this mission, and for what? For what Bucky?" She didn't realize she'd been raising her voice with each question she asked.

He finally picked his head up to look at her, his eyes had returned to their usual soft blue but his face was set in a scowl. "You don't know that."

She only scoffed at his words. The doors of the elevator opened to the floor their room was located and while they walked through the corridor to their room, none of them said a word, not wanting to be heard from the wrong people.

Bucky opened the door and entered the room first, Y/n following him and closing the door behind her back, locking it just in case. Just as the lock clicked she spoke up again.

"I'm going to that lunch tomorrow."

"Not happening."

She sighed in frustration, suddenly feeling as if she was speaking to the wall. "Look, all I know is that Teller being all over me would help us with the mission more than we can imagine."

"What help can he be? He's a thief. He's up to no good." Bucky threw the jacket of his suit on the bed, the bowtie following too.

"If by up to no good you mean he's trying to steal me away from my 'fiancé' then yes, he's up to no good."

"Exactly, a thief!" He exclaimed and Y/n scoffed in annoyance at his reaction.

"I don't know why you're so upset about it. You're not my real fiancé Buck."

At that, he turned to face her again, nostrils flaring in anger, but he controlled himself before he said something he could regret later. He drew in a short breath, calming himself relatively before replying to her. "As far as he is concerned, I am. And for the purpose of the mission, I am. So like I said, not happening."

She wanted to punch him in his beautiful face, she was so mad at him she couldn't even look at him anymore, but the mission was more important than their fight, so she willed herself to calm down too and ask him again, albeit a little harshly. "Okay then, my dear fiancé, how do you suggest we do this?"

"We don't." He replied shortly and Y/n could only stare at him, dumbfounded by his answer, but she waited for him to continue speaking and explain what was happening.

"When I left earlier I followed one of the dealers Teller was going to sell the vibranium to and I found out the place of the exchange of the vibranium. The lunch tomorrow is only a formality, a way to close the deal in papers. The real exchange will happen somewhere else."

She processed his words for a while and then she asked. "Where do we have to go then?"

"Us? Nowhere. I spoke to T'Challa and gave him the location of the exchange, he and Okoye will take care of it. Our mission is over now." He explained.

"Oh." Was the only thing she said. If she was being honest with herself, she'd been looking forward to a little real action with those bastards, but apparently T'Challa had other plans, so she couldn't do anything about it. "Okay then."

By now Bucky was sitting on the edge of the bed, having unbuttoned the two upper buttons of his white dress shirt.  "Tomorrow we can head back home." He said to her and she only nodded in response.

She walked to the bathroom silently to remove the make up and get out of the dress she was wearing, changing into a mismatched pajama that consisted in a large shirt she had borrowed from Steve? Or was it Sam? and a pair of cotton shorts.

When she returned to the room she saw Bucky had changed too, instead of the suit he was now wearing grey sweats and a tank top. "Do you want me to order you anything for dinner? I'm calling the room service."

"No thanks. I'm just gonna hit the sack."

He picked up the phone and ordered something to eat for himself, while Y/n got in her bed, fluffing the pillow before laying down on her side, facing Bucky.

There were two single beds in the room, so at least she didn't have to worry about sharing with him for the night. She closed her eyes, trying to will herself to fall asleep, but the thoughts in her head were too much. She still couldn't make sense of Bucky's earlier outburst about Teller but despite the fact that she was dying to know what was he really thinking, she knew better than to poke the bear.

Soon enough, exhaustion took over and she was out like a light.

Bucky could tell from the very first second she fell asleep. Her breathing evened out and her heartbeat slowed down considerably.

After he had his dinner, he tried to read for a while before bed, but after a while closed the book, not wanting to bother Y/n with the light that came strong from the bedside lamp. He laid down and closed his eyes with a silent exhale, thinking back to everything that happened earlier.

He guessed he had overreacted, but he couldn't help himself but see red when he noticed that bastard touch Y/n as if she were his. Y/n was no one's but her own and Bucky knew that, despite his reasons for getting mad at the other man being totally selfish.

He didn't have the courage to come clean to Y/n about his feelings for her so he used the mission as reason for his outburst. Truth is, Bucky had the hugest crush on Y/n since the first time he saw her but another truth is that Bucky is a coward when it comes to his happiness, so he never said anything to her, never even tried to give her any hint  about it.

Now as he laid down, facing her from the small distance that separated their beds, he felt like the biggest idiot in the world. He acted like a jerk with her.

Sleep didn't come to him for most of the night, thoughts plaguing his mind incessantly. However, the last thought that went through his head before he fell asleep, was Y/n and how much he wanted to tell her how he felt about her. If only he could find the courage to do so.

Maybe one day he would do that. Maybe.

[gyromitra-esculenta]

Was nice to get a back in touch with Synchronicity. Including two big reveals re: general story that could be seen as ‘spoilers’ but I’m REALLY curious if anyone’s seen those particular things coming. Tw*tter thread. Warnings: violence, blood, slighly descriptive gore - generally a big dose of turpism, also mentioned suicidal ideation / implied suicide attempt(s), and general midfuck.

*

He leans back and wipes the blade on the fabric of his pants, each breath forced under control regardless of the hunger thrashing in his lungs, and the Beast curls under his tongue - dark stinging taste of adrenaline and biting cruel satisfaction.

"Aren't you precious, Sunshine?"

It twists around his neck and slithers down his arm. Jack follows its movements to the body lying under him, hand stopped millimeters from the mask covering the man's face, fingers trembling with apprehension digging its cold claws deep into his spine. The Beast nips at his ear.

"Do you truly want to know, Sunshine?"

His fingertips wedge under the mask. He idly notices the marking on the chest armor says 'S116' instead of 'S114'.

"Doesn't matter what I want, does it?" Jack slowly lifts the facemask up. The fractures propagate. The clock is broken.

There's blood, of course there's blood, on the lips, couldn't be anything else when the knife went through the throat and then up. It's his face staring back at him, younger, unblemished, blue irises almost hidden under the dilated pupils, and a twisted derisive smile.

"You did want to know, Sunshine," the Beast laughs, a menacing sound splitting the reality into fragments that do not fit together no matter how much he wants - needs - them to. "They are lambs led to slaughter, and us, we will kill them all, this I promise you."

"Clones. They're all... That's what she..." Genetically engineered soldiers. S114. S116. S76. An obsolete model to work the kinks out of the system.

The mask falls from his numb fingers. He's not even a person, only a failed copy of one, of someone else Reaper is searching for.

Everything falls apart around him, the long grass tickles the skin of his palms, and Shaanxi makes the turn on the final approach to the landing strip. This time Jack hears it, the sound of a shot, and one of the ghosts falls to the ground - but now there's a third shadow behind.

All of this is wrong, completely wrong, the gunshot, it shouldn't be here. Because when the plane touches down, when the wheels tear on the tarmac, he gets his throat cut and bleeds out. This is how it happens, that's how it's been, and how he saw it play out before.

"Did you, Sunshine? Or is that a story you told yourself to feel better?" The Beast bites into his neck with its fangs, snarling, all the pretense of prior cordiality gone, and brings him down to his knees. The blood trickles into the thirsting ground.

"All the lies told to the good doctors, Sunshine, all the fabrications, I know them all. Oh, they all came in, they did," the Beast laughs now and its bite does not lessen, "but the only one out was you. All those times, what were you trying to kill, the truth, or the lie?"

Something hard is scraping the back of his throat, the intrusion moving deeper and deeper. The water in the bathtub runs russet red, an old antiquated razor in his hand, and he cuts again and again, against the muscle, fat, and skin, all knitting back together meticulously.

A different kind of fascination - desperation maybe - why had he forgotten? Was it only because he didn't want to remember? Jack clenches his teeth, words come halting and slow.

"I don't... Did I...? Was that me?"

"One-in-a-million lucky shot, or the perfect shot, Sunshine."

He digs his fingers into the dry dust between the clumps of the grass' roots, dry even if soaked with blood, the bitter aftertaste of alcohol and crushed pills on his tongue, he doesn't remember why, can't remember why, can't remember because he will break.

The Beast quietens. Gives out a faint chuckle of satisfaction and slackens its jaws, lets Jack fall to the ground. Allows him to breathe against the red dust as it laps at the holes left by its fangs.

"What were you trying to kill?" The seductive hiss brushes his senses.

"The truth, or the lie?"

"Myself," Jack admits. "The lie. Everything's a lie, I'm not a person, there's nothing true about..." His voice hitches and almost fades. "Did I kill him? The original, the one Reaper's looking for, because he's searching for him, isn't he?"

The Beast slots its maw under his chin, needy and insistent now, nudges his head back towards the airstrip, and Jack shuts his eyes closed because facing this truth is a gnawing terror somewhere in the back of his mind.

"You wanted to know," it hisses. "Look, Sunshine."

Again, two shades walking on the side of the tarmac, Shaanxi on the final approach, the crack of the rifle - single shot - the third silhouette lowering the barrel and firing again, at the ground. His heart is trying to escape from behind his ribs, hammering against them wildly.

The plane touches down. Translucent shadows running, not important as everything freezes in place, the flock of birds stopped in motion on the backdrop of the swirling crimson sky, out of place here as the tree is, and his vision tunnels, his gaze focused on the shooter.

The vertigo is here to stay. Nausea twists in his insides. The familiarity of the mannerism - the open palm of the hand resting on the side of the Patten with fingers bent at the exact right angles - stirs panic and hate surging in one bright flash of conflicting emotions.

And the face, the cold relief that washes down his body in waves at the recognition, putting the name to the shadow like putting a period after a sentence, or a bullet in a human. Gerard Lacroix. Butcher.

"That's rich coming from you, Sunshine," the Beast chortles.

The Butcher, a nickname taken up with the kind of morbid humor people in their profession have, not much different from Sunshine. The breeze brings the smell of broiled jungle hiding under the odor of burnt fat and roasted meat.

Cloying; revolting and appetizing at the same time. Inhale. Count to five. Exhale. The Beast nudges his head back from the still nature, to the side.

Reaper. His form keeps its shape now, the face framed by the hood and stringy hair no longer changing with the ebb and flow.

Crimson eyes are transfixed by the memory that now rewinds itself in a rush to play out again, and Jack is certain it repeats on a loop here - wherever here is.

But what startles him is his doppelganger facing Reaper, fists clenched and trembling at his sides.

As long as the apparition's attention is not focused on him, Jack takes in the small details. The uniform is non-descript, no discernible insignia anywhere, but the make and the pattern, it's Blackwatch. Black bloody stain spreads from under the jacket, exactly where the seam is.

The perfect shot. The partially congealed blood spilling from his doppelganger's mouth and the dilated in shock pupils fit. He had drowned in his own blood, there, on the tarmac. Bone shrapnel tearing through the tissue, too much damage, too rapid.

"You left me behind." Desperate rage simmers in the words. "You left me," the apparition's voice raises in pitch, becomes forceful. Accusing. "You promised to take me with you when I go."

Reaper remains rooted in place, giving no indication he even notices the presence.

"I'm here. I'm here!" His doppelganger screams, clotted blood falling from his lips as he draws in heavy breaths - almost panicked, his chest heaving - and then he starts pleading. "Why don't you look at me? Why can't you see me?"

And again, defeated, hands shaking.

"Why won't you see me?"

In a way, Jack can understand him, the desperation of screaming into the void where there is no-one who will hear you, no-one that cares enough to hear you, but it's not it.

Help him find that person, she told him.

How can you find someone who’s dead, and the other choice is forcing him to understand there is nothing to be found, not anymore, only retribution remains - but this is untrue when his screaming double persists in its existence?

“He’s here. Don’t you see him?” Jack softly asks.

Crimson eyes move, shift with glacial speed to gaze at him, focused until space stumbles over itself, and Reaper is in front of him, his claws tracing the line of Jack’s jaw. It leaves him pondering their peculiar texture again, of something left to stew in warm pond water.

Then the realization comes when they brush over his lips - not claws. Fingers. The flesh shorn off on a hard surface and the bone underneath tapered to a point, both blackened by the decay permeating all - mildew and rot on his tongue, the sickening sweetness of a thing long dead

He parts his lips for the intruding finger and the taste spreads further, addictive and revolting, familiarity undercut with decomposition - all there, ready to be experienced anew.

It's not a need, it's a dependency. Now, he understands what has been lacking in his life.

A dutiful little soldier. A failed prototype. The doctors say jump, and so he does, isn't that right?

The standing orders from his Commander remain, no witnesses, no evidence, only charred bones and black ash after they pass through, and Reaper's vengeance is indeed righteous.

"See, Sunshine?" The Beast licks his fingertips, reassuring, proud even. "This is how we are together, now and always."

"Now and always," he echoes with something dark curling around, slithering into his mind and twining with every thought. All he ever needed, his orders.

"No!" Something collides with him, hard and solid. Back of his head hits the floor and Jack brings his arms up to shield himself from the unexpected onslaught. Blood splatters on his face. "You will not take my place!" His double snarls over him, raising the fist again.

The training takes over and the blow slides along his forearm as he grabs the side of the apparition's neck with his left palm, and thrusts forward with his other hand. The blade of the knife he is somehow still holding goes through the jacket. Scrapes against the rib.

The apparition leans back with a subdued gasp, almost a whine. Looks down at him with hate palpable on his face as it starts to break up into smoldering embers drifting on the air.

A kind of Déjà vu, only this time Jack is in Replica's position, and the copy is victorious.

The embers snuff out, one after another, and the black ash they turn into swirls slowly until it fades too.

Jack falls back to the floor, next to the corpse still radiating heat. The ceiling above is grey, sooty around where the wall joins with it.

Inhale. Count to five. Exhale.

There's a lot of land to cover between here and the Still Island facility. He has his orders. He climbs to his feet and wipes the blood off his face. Straps the knife back to the jacket, shoulders the plasma rifle, and curls his fingers around the Patten's grip.

[trekraider]

Kiss me like the final meal

Fandom: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, Good Omens (TV) Rating: General Audiences Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens) Characters: Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley (Good Omens)  

Crawly is in a garden. Not just any garden, but The Garden. The very first garden. Hell has sent him to do a quick temptation, and it was almost too easy. As though it was meant to happen. He slithers up the wall and at its apex is almost blinded by the view. The sun is glinting on the sand and searing his eyes, and beside him stands a being of the most intense light he’s ever witnessed. But he has been fooled by beauty and golden locks before, and he knows better than to trust an angel.

“Didn’t you used to have a sword?” Crawly asks, the first chapter in their story. The rest is history, though butchered by the words of mankind. 

**

He meets Aziraphale again, having grown fond of his own human form, and now his name is Crowley. No longer bent and forced down in supplication, not grovelling on the floor for those who see themselves superior. He is Crowley, and he’s been waiting to see Aziraphale for years. 

Their paths intersect in a crowd, animals and humans paired off two by two, and at the front of a barricade separating the species is a lone figure with glowing platinum hair. Crowley moves towards him, two by two, and slots himself at the Angel’s side. They wait for the storm.

**

Centuries pass before they run into each other again. Crowley sports a new haircut and his amber slit eyes are covered with dark lenses. It’s completely by chance, but Crowley gets this niggling feeling in his stomach at the thought of leaving. And then the Angel offers a temptation to him and his heart stutters in his chest. It’s quickly covered up and Aziraphale corrects himself, but Crowley feels drawn to him.

**

Crowley starts keeping tabs on Aziraphale - as much as he can without drawing suspicion from the Higher Ups and the Lower Downs. There is a revolution going on and it’s the perfect place for Crowley to find himself, amidst all the chaos, yet Aziraphale is there too and with his forked tongue he can taste that something has gone awry. He finds him in a cell awaiting execution, and that just won’t do. 

He freezes time around them, and behind Aziraphale tries to make himself look as nonchalant as possible. The Angel turns and says his name, his name, the chosen one that not even hell honors, and it melts something inside of him. He scoffs at Aziraphale’s excuses, plays up the demon act just enough to deter questions about his conveniently timed appearance, and gives into the hope that this time an angel won’t hurt him.

**

The Arrangement is so organic between them, and their run-ins change from coincidence to a steady routine. Clandestine meetings in parks, on buses, and soon enough Aziraphale is inviting him to his bookshop. 

Crowley feels his guard coming down, his walls caving, and after enough drinks he tests the waters and lets Aziraphale see his eyes again. It’s the most stark representation of his true nature, of what lurks within, and Aziraphale never shies away. Crowley realises that Aziraphale accepts him, wholly and without desire to change him. 

And by then he’s forced to admit he’s falling in an entirely new way.  

**

The fantasies started at least a thousand years ago, and not much about them has changed since they first came to him in the recesses of night, save for Aziraphale’s appearance and his latest gourmand proclivities. Crowley doesn’t hunger and doesn’t crave food. Not until he sees flecks of it dusting Aziraphale’s lips, rivulets of syrups and cocktails and other delightful concoctions dripping from him. 

As a demon, you would expect his mind to be laced with sinful, lustful images in this moment. Aziraphale sits across from him, one hand neatly folded in his lap while the other dips a spoon into a shallow ceramic bowl filled with chilled cucumber soup. Aziraphale raises it to his rosy lips and purses them as the cold liquid slips in, satisfaction dripping from him with a pleased moan as he wiggles in his seat. 

And Crowley is, as always, transfixed at the motion, the well-practiced puckering of his mouth. But instead of thoughts of ravishing, all he thinks of is Aziraphale's lips on his. Other demons would certainly laugh at him for wanting something so tender, almost holy in its nature, but he can't help it. And so he watches. It's become his favourite hobby, his obsession. 

Crowley’s mind is consumed with tasting it all on Aziraphale’s skin, delving his tongue into Aziraphale’s mouth to lap up every last trace of flavour until all that’s left is Aziraphale himself. He wants to remove every unworthy morsel that gets to luxuriate in Aziraphale’s mouth.  And then Aziraphale selfishly dabs the remnants away with a serviette.

**

It gets worse after the bomb drops, and then comes to a rolling stop. “You go too fast for me, Crowley.” He retreats. He feels disgusting, predatory, and doesn’t see Aziraphale again for a while.

**

It’s a Tuesday, which is nothing special in and of itself, but Crowley and Aziraphale are together again. Well, dining together, as they do for almost every meal lately with trouble looming on the horizon and who knows how much time they have left.

It’s the only time Crowley really humours that oh-so-mortal necessity, and if he’s being honest - which he compulsively is around Arizaphale (just not always out loud) - he still wouldn’t mind being together in other ways too.

Crowley sips gingerly from his own teacup, the closest he'll get to eating today. The noise of food distracts too much from Aziraphale, unsettling crunching and munching and saliva-slick chewing like cud. He drinks Aziraphale in with his eyes, and it's all the sustenance he needs. 

The corners of Aziraphale's mouth quirk and Crowley watches his lips form his name, and then again, which sends a tingle up his curved spine. It takes a third concerned Crowley, dear for him to snap back to attention and look Aziraphale in the eyes. 

"Hm? Sorry, what were you saying?" 

"I was asking if you'd like to go for a stroll after lunch." 

Walking makes it much harder for Crowley to watch Aziraphale, but it's closer than having a table between them and that's something he will always be amenable to. "Where to?" He asks, not that the destination matters because he would follow Aziraphale anywhere. 

**

It’s a random Thursday after the not-Apocalypse and this time Crowley is alone in his vast apartment. Away from the forces of hell and their energy, his anger has dissipated. His plants grow just as well, as vibrant and luscious as ever. Though they still tremble out of muscle memory, Crowley hasn't yelled at them in weeks. 

He waters them with flowing wrist movements, more akin to a barista making patterns in foam than a demon doing, well, anything. It’s methodical, meditative. And it’s the only thing keeping him sane right now.

Crowley is in a self-imposed exile. He feels on the verge of making a mistake, of slipping up in front of Aziraphale. His gaze has been too intense as of late and he needs these moments of privacy to centre himself before their meals, their jaunts, their too-late-in-the-night drinks in the bookshop. 

He puts the watering can away and drapes himself over the charcoal sheets of his bed, smooth and slippery as his own true skin. Crowley drags his hands down his face, covering his eyes as he rubs the inner duct with his fingers, and then ghost over his mouth. His thoughts are back to Aziraphale. Damn it. (Bless it?) 

He holds his bottom lip between his thumb and forefinger, playing with the delicate, pliable skin, and wonders again what Aziraphale would be like. Crowley imagines carding his fingers through Aziraphale’s lamb-soft hair and capturing his mouth. He wants to feel teeth on his skin and to open the Angel’s mouth with his long tongue, to utterly devour him. 

But his mind never strays from Aziraphale’s mouth, never ventures away from the plumpness of those lips. He wants to worship at the throne of them, lay offerings of decadence on an altar to them, and revel in the liturgies they spout. Aziraphale has been the only one to utter kindnesses to him without motive, not once in 6000 years has he demanded anything of Crowley or made him feel lesser than. 

He might just die if he doesn’t kiss Aziraphale soon, and that would land him right back on Hell’s doorstep. 

**

Mere hours later, Crowley finds himself back in Aziraphale’s sitting room behind the bookshop. The Angel is pulling out a slate tray piled high with pleasures for his senses: jams, candied walnuts, ripe figs, medjool dates, apple slices, brie, port salut, garlic and herb boursin, smoked gouda with a deep brown rind, ricotta smothered in local honey, and toasted slices of baguette, with a pomegranate, feta, and rocket salad. 

He’s careful in his movements and glides effortlessly to place it on the low coffee table, not a single item shifting under his grasp. Crowley sits, restlessly shifting as red zinfandel swirls in his glass and stirs when Aziraphale sits down right next to him, sinking into the plush couch. 

Aziraphale cuts a wedge of brie with a slotted knife, and lays it on a slice of toasted baguette with sour cherry jam, and offers it to Crowley who politely declines. It crunches under Aziraphale’s teeth and he breathes out a sigh of relief as he chews. His tongue darts out to collect the crumbs and Crowley is captivated by it.

Crowley waivers for a moment, then gives in. “Actually, can I-,” he’s surprised at himself for even considering it, but he needs the distraction and it would feed his fantasies for another decade. “I’d like to try a piece. Whichever is your favourite.” Whichever tastes most like you, he means.

Aziraphale inclines his head. Crowley rarely ever does more than drink in his presence, but ever the gracious host Aziraphale moves to select the proper cheese. “I dare say I can’t really pick a favourite of these,” his eyes flicker back to Crowley, curious, and ultimately he decides to play it safe with a cube of the smoked gouda. “This, um, this is a Dutch cheese, wonderful for snacking on if I do say so myself. Sturdy but creamy enough to break away in your mouth, and the darker the rind is the better.” Aziraphale had spent several years in the last century hopping from country to country on the Continent, sampling various wares between bestowing virtues, and became himself quite the connoisseur. 

Aziraphale plucks up a cube of the smoked gouda and with a slight tremor raises it up for Crowley to take from him. Instead, Crowley is already leaning forward with his eyes closed and lips parted, patiently waiting, and Aziraphale freezes. He’s never seen Crowley like this before, so exposed and vulnerable to him, at least not while inhabiting a body. Then he continues, afraid he might startle Crowley if he moves too fast. 

Crowley’s forked tongue pokes out as though he’s about to receive holy communion, and Aziraphale gently places it down. Crowley is tugging it into his mouth, wrapping his lips around it, but Aziraphale hasn’t let go yet, and suddenly two of his fingers find themselves tucked into a wet heat. The tongue swirls around them and Crowley is astonished that he enjoys the flavour, letting out a shocked moan. Then confusion is crossing his brow at the size and shape of the intrusion, and he opens his eyes wide. Crowley’s jaw goes slack, the forgotten cheese tumbling into his lap, and sputters.

“A- Ange-- Aziraphale, I…” And Crowley doesn’t know what to say, he can’t think. Well no, that’s not true. He can’t think about anything else but the taste of Aziraphale and his mind has stammered as much as his voice. “I’m sorry,” he finally manages in panic.

Aziraphale feels just as nervous, and confused, and… and then his eyes are locked on Crowley’s lips, glistening with saliva, and his own breath starts coming fast. The world fades away and a puzzle piece clicks in his head. This act, this behaviour, he recognises it from all the times he has spent with Crowley, being watched like he is the centre of the universe. “Don’t go,” he asks, pleads, wants. 

And Crowley stops. 

And Crowley feels himself hoping at the expression he sees mirrored on Aziraphale’s face. 

And Crowley waits.  

“Why?”

“I love you, Crowley.”

“You’re an Angel,” he says matter-of-factly. “You love everything.”

“But I choose you.”

They meet somewhere in the middle. Aziraphale’s hands are cradling Crowley’s face, and Crowley’s hands are split between Aziraphale’s hair and the top of his shoulder. Their noses touch as they share the same breaths of air, hesitating at the all-too-real feeling of it under their palms. 

Crowley’s bottom lip is starting to quiver as he tilts his head, and he fights fights fights against the voice in his head and replaces its words with Aziraphale’s. I love you. He loves you. Not Crawly the underling, the traitor to Heaven, but Crowley the self-named being, the friend. 

And Crowley falls, overcome with a love he can at last show. His lips part and he closes the distance between them, melting into Aziraphale and shedding his past. Aziraphale is his future, his present, his everything, and he will devote lifetimes to showing him that.