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shopsofiacollection · 1 year

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The Healing Power Of Water & Soft Italian Silk || ShopSofia

Alessandra covered virtually all of my body with the silk Manto (cape, large shawl) in a single smooth move, floating it over my head and draping it over my shoulders. Unlike any other piece of clothes I had ever worn, this one immediately made me feel calmer and more calm.

It all began in the water. Alessandra has spent many years immersed (sometimes literally) in water and her powerfully healing qualities as a student, practitioner, and subsequently trainer of numerous holistic healing practices that involve sound and the memory of water among others.

Drinking water, taking a bath in it, swimming in it, floating on it, and even just sitting by it have all been shown to have healing properties. Even simply picturing being by the ocean makes me feel better. The work of the late Masaru Emoto, who has greatly influenced Alessandra's own journey, is a good place to start for those of you who might still be unfamiliar with it.

The story of how water and silk mix may be essentially summed up as follows: one day, Alessandra photographed a stream of water while she was doing a walking meditation. She afterward understood how the picture still kept and emanated all the energy of the water in that unique moment since it had been taken in full presence and mindfulness thanks to her being "in the zone" at the time. Enter her enduring love of design and the pursuit of beauty, fostered early on through her family's textile company, and the notion of transferring this enthusiasm to silk soon followed.

Ah, to be enveloped in a shawl-sized piece of smooth, luxurious Italian silk dress that has been "captured" with the picture and energy of water. These magnificent Manti were created by Alessandra Benetatos, also known as Adima, and serve as the foundational piece of her business, Adima Made in Presence.

You may learn more about the meticulous consideration and integrity that went into the selection of the raw materials and the creation of Adima's Manti by exploring the Adima Made in Presence website. Adima's Manti is based on the best of genuine Italian artisan craftsmanship. Haiku, which I had the pleasure of translating into English for her, is also used to explain each shawl. The true spirit of these shawls can only be expressed via poetry. These Manti offer a sensory and vibratory experience that is totally different from other jewelry. Each performance aims to put the human being in the spotlight and encourage each participant to connect with their true honest Self.

Alessandra saw how various bodies of water in various areas had a unique vibe and personality. More images were taken, and more shawls were produced, each with a distinct vibratory signature. These shawls are best chosen from that deeper intuitive place inside, that higher, wider Self who knows just what we need, just like when choosing a tarot card or a color to get a message.

Since then, whenever I have felt out of sorts—which has happened more frequently than I like to admit, even to myself—I have worn my Manto. Additionally, I wear it during meditation, whenever I practice healing on myself or with others, and just for fun.

Since I first featured Adama's lovely home and garden in this post a few years back, I have been promising you this story for a while. However, excellent things do take some time to develop and go from the dream or inspiration level to the actual world. They demand a lot of effort as well. And for the past few years, Alessandra has been working nonstop to make her goal come true.

What you see in these photos is the lovely store Alessandra built in the middle of one of Milan's most charming and historic neighborhoods, where she has held numerous events over the past few years and introduced her designs. I have been planning to share this beautiful, light-filled area with you since my most recent trip to Italy, but Alessandra had another project in the works that needed to be finished, so I held off.

Alessandra's website, where she reveals more in-depth information about herself, her passions, and how she expresses it all, is the project in question. She accomplishes this with a wonderfully shot video tale, which I have watched repeatedly not because Alessandra is a dear friend of mine but because it is so captivating and captures so much of the spirit of who Alessandra really is. Visit this site to see it, if you'd like. The video is best watched in full screen and is in Italian with English subtitles.

I don't know about your experiences, but I have discovered that a lot may change between the time you have an inspired concept and the time you actually put it into solid creation. It immediately shifts again after that. In the last couple of years, I've noticed that this has been happening even more quickly, and I anticipate that this will continue as we enter the next decade. Going with the flow, in my opinion, will not only be a wonderful idea but also the only method to live without losing our minds.

This also applies to Alessandra's many projects, which appear to be merging, as well as Adima Made in Presence. The gorgeous Milan showroom will soon only be accessible through these photographs due to the new central location (which will be revealed) as well as several stores and pop-ups.

However, the magic shawls and all of Adima's upcoming new designs will continue to be offered in other shops, through Design Italy, and by getting in touch with Alessandra personally through one of her websites. She enjoys receiving and responding to your emails.

If this introduction to this unique project has inspired you and you would like to know more about any aspect of it, I invite you to submit your questions either in the comments or directly to me via email at [email protected]. I have also asked Alessandra/Adima to share her unique experience and path through a series of guest posts here on the blog. Depending on the query, we may directly respond in the comments or elaborate in a blog article.

To reach us out in offline mode do not forget to visit

SofiaCollections

2515 Washington Ave #1502, Houston, TX 77007, US

Email: [email protected]

Visit Our website - https://www.shop-sofia.com/

#Italian silk dress

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uesp · 3 years

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Theory: Todd is the sleeping Godhead that we all talk about. Also he achieved absolute CHIM

You're definitely free to come up with whatever theory on that you like, but if you're genuinely curious, I would say you're a bit off from the intended takeaway.

Trying to figure out who the Godhead is a bit of a self-defeating exercise. In fact, to get a bit ahead of the point I'm going to make, it's often easier to describe the One by what he is not. If you're looking at the rare in-series mentions of the Godhead (most of the uses of "godhead" are actually referring to more generic godhood, which is also a more modern form of "godhead"), you come up with two mentions of the Godhead, and only one of them describes the Godhead at all.

The eyes, once bleached by falling stars of utmost revelation, will forever see the faint insight drawn by the overwhelming question, as only the True Enquiry shapes the edge of thought. The rest is vulgar fiction, attempts to impose order on the consensus mantlings of an uncaring godhead.

From Waking Dreams of A Starless Sky

The Godhead is uncaring. And that is basically the depth of actual text on the Godhead. If you go with sources that did not appear in the game, you'll do a bit better, but not really to any satisfying degree. So how do we get a satisfying answer? We escape the confines of the rare and deliberately esoteric mentions of this part of the lore and look at its real-world inspiration. Speaking for myself, the best summary of this part of the lore I ever read is:

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gnosticism

Sincerely, after reading that and its associated articles, I went from "wow this is all a bit complex" to "alright, this is surprisingly straightforward". To tangent slightly, while there are numerous fan writings that try to explore these concepts, and I do enjoy a lot of them, I find that some of them often have trouble expressing what it all actually means because they often restrict themselves to the trappings of TES. We're going to remove those trappings, and see if it helps.

If you want more help, here is how I mentally tie some TES lore topics to its real world counterpart.

The Godhead is the Godhead (Monad)

CHIM is Gnosis

CHIM has been described as the secret syllable of royalty. It is best understood as a state of being which allows for escape from all known laws and limitations. It is the process of reaching some sort of epiphany about the nature of the universe and one's place in it, leading to a simultaneous comprehension of the full scope of existence as well as one's own individuality.

Gnosis is the common Greek noun for knowledge. It is best known from Gnosticism, where it signifies a spiritual knowledge or insight into humanity's real nature as divine, leading to the deliverance of the divine spark within humanity from the constraints of earthly existence.

Amaranth is Emanationism

The Tower touches all the mantles of Heaven, brother-noviates, and by its apex one can be as he will. More: be as he was and yet changed for all else on that path for those that walk after. This is the third key of Nu-mantia and the secret of how mortals become makers, and makers back to mortals.

Emanationism is an idea in the cosmology or cosmogony of certain religious or philosophical systems. Emanation, from the Latin emanare meaning "to flow from" or "to pour forth or out of", is the mode by which all things are derived from the first reality, or principle. All things are derived from the first reality or perfect God by steps of degradation to lesser degrees of the first reality or God, and at every step the emanating beings are less pure, less perfect, less divine. Emanationism is a transcendent principle from which everything is derived, and is opposed to both creationism (wherein the universe is created by a sentient God who is separate from creation) and materialism (which posits no underlying subjective and/or ontological nature behind phenomena being immanent).

Anu and Padomay and their derivatives are Aeons

Lorkhan is the Demiurge

Lorkhan, the Missing God, is the Creator-Trickster-Tester deity present in every Tamrielic mythic tradition. He is known as the Spirit of Nirn, the god of all mortals. Names for versions or aspects of Lorkhan include Lorkhaj (the Moon Beast) in Elsweyr, Lorkh, the Spirit of Man, the Mortal Spirit, or the Sower of Flesh to the Reachmen, Sep in Hammerfell, Sheor in High Rock, Shor in Skyrim, and Shezarr in Cyrodiil. He convinced or contrived the Original Spirits (et'Ada) to bring about the creation of the Mundus, upsetting the status quo—much like his (figurative) father Padomay is usually credited for introducing instability, and hence possibility for creation, into the undivided universe (or the Beginning Place).

In the Platonic, Neopythagorean, Middle Platonic, and Neoplatonic schools of philosophy, the demiurge is an artisan-like figure responsible for fashioning and maintaining the physical universe. The Gnostics adopted the term demiurge. Although a fashioner, the demiurge is not necessarily the same as the creator figure in the monotheistic sense, because the demiurge itself and the material from which the demiurge fashions the universe are both considered consequences of something else. Depending on the system, they may be considered either uncreated and eternal or the product of some other entity.

The word demiurge is an English word derived from demiurgus, a Latinised form of the Greek δημιουργός or dēmiurgós. It was originally a common noun meaning "craftsman" or "artisan", but gradually came to mean "producer", and eventually "creator". The philosophical usage and the proper noun derive from Plato's Timaeus, written c. 360 BC, where the demiurge is presented as the creator of the universe. The demiurge is also described as a creator in the Platonic (c. 310–90 BC) and Middle Platonic (c. 90 BC – AD 300) philosophical traditions. In the various branches of the Neoplatonic school (third century onwards), the demiurge is the fashioner of the real, perceptible world after the model of the Ideas, but (in most Neoplatonic systems) is still not itself "the One". In the arch-dualist ideology of the various Gnostic systems, the material universe is evil, while the non-material world is good. According to some strains of Gnosticism, the demiurge is malevolent, as it is linked to the material world. In others, including the teaching of Valentinus, the demiurge is simply ignorant or misguided.

I think that by seeing these concepts side by side it will help make sense of it all. You can definitely research this further, and argue that specific parts of the lore are more directly related to other concepts, but from my limited understanding of theology/philosophy, this is a framework for understanding what the lore was based on, and the ideas that might otherwise go unconnected. If you can do better than me here, by all means, be better than me.

But this takes us to the secret question within all of this: How does this effect the setting? The answer to that is that it really doesn't. Knowing that the setting of The Elder Scrolls is the material world created by the Demiurge, separating its inhabitants from the Godhead, doesn't really change anything. After all, you can literally say the exact same thing about our world. The presence of these concepts in The Elder Scrolls setting should change how you appreciate it in roughly the same way that this school of thought existing in our own world changes your view on our setting.

If you thought this was interesting, I certainly agree with you. If you think this is all a bit too much, and don't want to think about it anymore, you won't be missing out on much by ignoring it going forward. If you want to explore different theories on this, you’re definitely free too, I hope you enjoy exploring your own thoughts on this subject.

#UESP #The Elder Scrolls #Lore #Real Life Lore

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ikeromantic · 4 years

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An Uncertain Alliance

A Mitsuhide Akechi fanfic- this scene occurs at the start of Ch. 11 (romantic route- picking one was hard!). Approx 3000 words of fluff and stuff.

First: Mitsuhide and the Maiden

Previous: Fox Hunt

Mitsuhide took a few more days in Kyoto to wrap up his business. He could have managed most with letters, but he wanted to be here for any reply from Mouri. The madman’s participation wasn’t a requirement to move forward, but his access to men and weapons would make life so much simpler. And it was an excuse to pamper his little mouse.

Not that he let her know that was his objective. To her it was just happenstance that their trip to visit an informant passed by a beautiful garden or a talented street performer. Or that the tea shop they stopped in surprisingly carried her favorite snacks. Her joy was Mitsuhide’s pleasure. He stored every memory of her delighted smiles and happy sighs. The look in her eyes when something took her breath away.

And so he was almost disappointed the day the letter came, informing him Mouri would meet him at an upcoming festival in Kyoto. Mitsuhide didn’t want to discuss Mouri with his little one. Besides, he wasn’t sure what he could say that would do justice to the man and his reputation. So all he told her was that they’d be going to the festival together.

It was a good location for a contact. Any city guards would be busy keeping order and no one there would likely know either of them on sight. Plus, the crowds would make it hard to get away with any violent double-cross. Still, it made him uneasy.

Meeting Mouri in a place he chose meant trusting there was no trap. And trusting Mouri was like expecting a rabid dog not to bite. Or, not to bite you anyway.

“Are you worried about our mission,” she asked him as they walked through the crowded festival avenues.

Mitsuhide glanced down at her and smiled. “No - not about our mission.” His little mouse looked as if she might squeak up again, so he added, “Let’s not think about it and just enjoy the festival together, hm?”

She frowned. “How can I not think about it? I mean, the sho-ah, shark-eyes, is planning our destruction as we speak!”

“As we are planning his.” He stopped and faced her. “Right now, I am more interested in plotting a pleasant evening with you.” The half-truth stung, but he needed her to relax. To smile. To be his light. Because he knew he would do terrible, dark things still and without that balance, he would lose this sliver of peace they’d made together.

His little one blinked, surprised by the intensity of his response. “Oh. Well, that does sound nice . . .”

“Look,” Mitsuhide pointed toward a nearby food stall. “Candy sculptures.” The distraction worked as intended. Her gaze lit on the delicate confections, twisted around sticks into all kinds of shapes.

She clapped her hands together in excitement. “They are so pretty! Can we get one?”

“We can get as many as you like,” he chuckled, letting her lead him to the stall. While she was ogling the display, he asked for two crane candies. Cranes were life-mates. Bonded from the moment they touched. He wasn’t sure she would understand the symbolism, but that was alright.

Then they walked on, hand in hand, enjoying the sugary treat.

“I’m glad you decided to bring me here,” she said after a moment.

“Well, it was you that reminded me humans - and kitsune - cannot go on without rest.” Mitsuhide watched her from the corner of his eye. She was finally smiling. Her small, pink tongue darted out to taste the candied crane. It made him want to kiss her. To taste the sugar on her lips, which would be far sweeter than the confection in his hand. He quite suddenly wished they were back in their room at the inn.

“Good.” She grinned over at him and bumped her hip against his leg. “So, why cranes? There were horses and dragons. Those colorful fish ones.”

A slight blush stained his cheeks as he realized she might have caught on to his choice. He cleared his throat. “Did you know that cranes mate for life?” He used the candy to ‘kiss’ her cheek.

Her eyes went wide and her smile was soft and full of affection. She raised her candy up to give him a kiss on the lips.

Mitsuhide took advantage of the moment to ‘kiss’ the crane back, which brought a rosy color to her cheeks too. The moment ended all too soon though. He saw the man they were here to meet approaching. Tall, and limned in red-lantern light that stained him blood-red. Motonari Mouri.

“Look,” he gestured toward the figure. “That is one of our potential allies. What lucky -”

“So this is the real reason we came to the festival. I knew it had to be more than a fun night out!” She looked up at him, eyes dancing. “You can’t fool me, kitsune.”

Mitsuhide smiled fondly. “I suppose not. But a nice evening with you is also part of the plan. This is just the part I didn’t mention earlier.”

Her gaze went back to Mouri. “Who is he? What does he do?”

“Hmm. I suppose you could call him an artisan of violence. A creatively murderous fighter. I almost shudder to think of the horrors awaiting anyone that crosses him.” Mitsuhide’s tone was playful, but he was deadly serious about Mouri. He wanted her to understand this was not a kind soul they were allying with, but a killer.

His little one nodded once, squaring her shoulders. She might have asked more, but Mouri was too close now for further conversation.

“I gotta say, Kyoto knows how to have a festival.” Motonari greeted them with his usual swagger. “Nice as it is, this place is gonna be yer funeral if I don’t like what ya got to say. Savvy?” He took in Mitsuhide with a wary glance and then looked to the chatelaine. Where his eyes lingered longer than necessary.

Mitsuhide felt his jaw twitch and did his best to restrain the reaction.

His little one took a step back, her face going pale. This only encouraged Mouri.

“Who’s yer little friend here, eh?” Motonari took a step closer to her, raising a hand as if he was going to touch her.

Mitsuhide stepped between them smoothly. “This is my fiancee.”

Motonari grinned wider. “You brought your little lady to parley. With me.” He laughed, a sound edged with madness. “I like a man that doesn’t respect the rules.”

The chatelaine poked her head around to look at Mouri.

“My love, this is Motonari Mouri. I’m sure you’ve heard of him.” Which he was because he’d given her that lesson himself.

“Of course.” She came out to stand beside him, putting her brave face on. “You conquered the whole south but . . . I thought you died?”

Mouri laughed again. “I gotta say, the best part o’ that introduction is the bit where yer eyes went wide with horror.”

Mitsuhide did not appreciate the way Mouri’s gaze swept up and down his little mouse, or the rise of his brows as he tried - in his crude way - to flirt. “Yes, she is a delight isn’t she? Touch her and you’ll leave this meeting with one less hand.” A crude threat for a crude man . . . or so he rationalized.

“That so? Guess it depends on how many parts you plan ta leave behind.” Motonari threw back his head, laughing so hard he shook.

The chatelaine interrupted with a polite cough. “If - if I may ask - how did you two meet?”

“Until recently, we were both in the service of Shogun Ashikaga Yoshiaki,” Mitsuhide replied. He didn’t want to give Mouri the opportunity to characterize their relationship, such as it was.

Motonari got control of himself in time to nod, adding. “I slipped out before Mitsuhide here. But I promised him a good bloodbath before I left.” He wiped a fleck of spittle from his lip. “So, out with it. Why’d you invite me to meet?”

Mitsuhide watched Mouri slide his gloved hands into his jacket. He took out a pistol and spun it lazily, waiting for an answer. “Motonari, there’s no need to play coy. You know why I contacted you. You watched my little drama play out at Honnoji, from start to unsatisfying finish.” He pointedly did not look directly at the gun and kept his expression one of thin-lipped indifference.

“Mind-reader. No wonder people get so twitchy around you.” Mouri shrugged one shoulder, his eyes narrowing. “You want help killing the shogun.”

“Very much so.”

Mouri pointed the pistol at Mitsuhide. “Does it get drafty in that big empty space o’ yer head? I didn’t come here tonight to get disappointed!”

The chatelaine bit her lip and looked for a moment as if she might run. Mitsuhide could feel the way her body tensed, but she held still.

All he did was raise an eyebrow. “Oh? What part of this disappoints?”

Motonari scoffed. “How ‘bout the whole damn thing? Tell ya what - I got one goal. Just one. And that’s ta get you and Kenshin. Shingen. Nobunaga. Hell, anyone worth a damn, into one big, bloody melee.” His lips twitched into a half smile. “If everyone’s not trying to kill each other, then it’s not much of a party!”

He gestured at Mitsuhide with his gun. “Ya think I’m gonna waste my time with some small fry like the shogun? I should shoot you right here, right now, in place o’ asking fer an apology. In fact.” He stroked the unlit fuse.. “I think I will.” Mouri pressed the barrel against Mitsuhide’s head, digging the iron into his skin.

Mitsuhide knew his little one was contemplating some mad attempt to ‘rescue’ him and rather than reply to Motonari, he first looked at her. Waiting to see a slight nod that meant she understood she was to stay still. He had this handled. In fact, it was going better than he’d expected. Mouri was playing right into his hands.

“I see. You plan to leave the shogun free to roam, ensuring that your long dreamed of bloodbath remains only a fantasy.” Mitsuhide sighed. “I expected better from you.”

Mouri raised an eyebrow. His pistol didn’t so much as twitch.

“Surely you see it.” Mitsuhide waited a beat, then continued. “The shogun will never engage with Nobunaga - or any of his enemies - in open combat. If he did, he might lose. Instead he will seek to assassinate them, one at a time. Subtly. An accident here, a mysterious illness there. Until there are none left to take the field. No celebration. No battle. Only quiet, pathetic deaths. One enemy after another. Who knows, perhaps he would even target you.”

“I’m not afraid of him.” Motonari’s defiant reply was somewhat spoiled by the nervous way he licked his lips.

Mitsuhide smiled. “Of course not. But your bloodbath will be severely lacking when there is no one there to bleed. A good party requires . . . guests - does it not?”

Mouri chuckled. “Ya got a silver tongue. But it’ll be so much viscera on the paving stones when I pull this trigger.”

“Mhmm. I imagine parts of me would travel quite far. Perhaps spattering the food stall there, or some of those festival-goers.”

“They told me you were tricky, kitsune. But no one mentioned you were mad.” Motonari closed the distance between them until he was close enough to kiss.

Mitsuhide stared into the depths of his red glare, imitating the madman’s own body language. Gold on scarlet glinted in the light of the festival lanterns in this space of tense silence.

Then Motonari started laughing. His breath smelled of sake and tobacco. “Alright. Ya got me. I’m in, just this once.” And he lowered his pistol.

Mitsuhide watched as the madman carefully wiped down the barrel and placed it back in the holster. His hand found the chatelaine’s icy fingers. He gripped her hand tightly. She was alright and so was he. The gambit had paid off.

“The only place I’ll let Nobunaga and the rest die is in a sea of blood and gunpowder. By my hand.” Motonari sounded certain as he said this. As sure as he would be telling them the sun would rise in the east.

“Then I believe we have a deal.” Mitsuhide knew the bargain would only last so long as Mouri saw the necessity of it. And stayed entertained. Hopefully they could locate the shogun quickly and be done with this.

Motonari gave a snort that might be agreement, then gestured to the candy Mitsuhide still held. “Say, why don’t ya treat yer new ally to some o’ that fancy candy, huh?”

“You . . . want candy?” Mitsuhide couldn’t help the ways his eyebrows rose.

“Yeah. So run along and get some fer me. The lady an’ I will wait fer ya right here.” Mouri took a step toward the chatelaine.

Mitsuhide didn’t need to be psychic to know what ran through his little mouse’s head. It was written in her face in large, panicked script. ‘Don’t leave me alone with this maniac!’ The kitsune thought fast. “I am sure I could deliver a better token of friendship to you at a later da-”

“I ain’t asking fer a better token o’ whatever.” His voice rasped and his hand moved toward the holster of his gun again.

That was the problem with unstable allies. They couldn’t be relied on. Even the simplest things could set them off. Any situation could become a violent one at the drop of a pin. But what bothered Mitsuhide the most was this. There was only one reason for this particular request. Mouri wanted to be alone with the chatelaine. Why?

“Yer girl will still be here when ya get back.” Motonari smiled like a shark. A hungry one.

“Go ahead, Mitsu. Get him some candy. I’ll be fine.” She gave Mitsuhide an uneasy smile.

“I’ll be right back.” It made him feel ill to say it but Mitshide knew it would be better to go along with the madman than to fight him on such a small request. And besides, if he tried anything, the chatelaine would scream. Then, Mouri would lose more than his life. So it was reasonably safe to leave them for a few minutes.

Mitsuhide glanced back at them as he hurried away. Mouri was sitting beside the chatelaine now, almost close enough for his hip to touch hers. Bile surged in his belly. No one should be so close to his little mouse. No one but him. Just hurry up, he told himself. Hurry and get back.

He found a closer stall with the same kinds of candy and picked out a fish for Motonari. Then hurried back. His little one was smiling at the madman and Mouri looked . . . confused. Jealousy burned through his veins in a wave, and he almost ran the last few steps, shoving the stick of candy between the two of them. “There. Your candy. Now get away from her.”

The last sentence was almost a growl, and Mitsuhide couldn’t help the way he reached for his little one. Pulled her close. She was his, her smile and her laugh. Her kind eyes. Mouri deserved to be close to none of it.

Even as the jealousy burned through him, a colder, more logical part of Mitsuhide scolded him for his rash behavior. This was not like him at all. This display. What did it hurt, even if Motonari was flirting with the chatelaine? Nothing, really. Except . . . except Mitsuhide didn’t want her to be anywhere near that madman. She could get hurt. Not just physically - but her heart and her sweet spirit. He had to protect her.

Motonari seemed unaffected as he took the stick of candy and popped it in his mouth. “There’s somethin’ wrong with yer lady friend. She’s crazier’n I am,” he said around the stick.

“There is nothing wrong with her. She is perfect.” The words were out before he’d even had time to consider his response. This was . . . odd. He never spoke without thinking. Never.

“That so? Cause from here it looks like her madness is contagious. Gettin’ worse from person to person.” He chomped down on the candy, crushing the spun sugar figure between his teeth.

Mitshide’s first instinct was to slap the sweet out of his mouth and break his teeth with a well-placed elbow. But he held himself still, rigid. His heart was beating fast and he felt hot - shaky. Acting now would be . . . ill-advised.

Motonari shook his head and stood up. He addressed the chatelaine. “Better hope yer man doesn’t get tripped up by his love-addled brain. If he does,” he took the candy out of his mouth and pointed toward her with the jagged, chewed end. “I’ll fall on you.”

This threat was more than Mitsuhide could stand still for. He pushed his little one behind him and grabbed the hilt of his sword. “You will stay away from her! If you take a step closer to her - now or ever - I will remove your head from your neck.” The words were a barely audible snarl.

If Mouri was worried about this, it didn’t show. He only smiled his shark-like grin. “Where’d your disguise go, kitsune? Your real face is showing now. Barking like a fox in a trap.”

Mitsuhide tried to get control of his breath. To push the murderous rage in his chest back down. To slide his mask back into place.

From behind him, his little one hugged his back. “There’s nothing to worry about. My Mitsuhide won’t trip up.”

Motonari shrugged. “We’ll see.” Then he was walking away, swagger firmly in place.

Mitsuhide watched him go, and when he was out of sight, finally let go of his sword hilt. He was shaking. He turned to wrap his arms around his little one. Feeling her warm body pressed tight, the steady rhythm of heartbeat and breath, calmed him. She was here and safe and his.

“Are you alright,” she asked, her voice muffled against him.

“Yes. I . . . I’m fine.” But he wasn’t. This was only the first of several dangerous meetings they would need to undergo in this quest to see the shogun taken down. There would be more meetings with Mouri and others. He had to find a way to control this - this response of his. Otherwise Motonari was right.

Next: Future-Speak

#ikemen sengoku #ikesen mitsuhide #Mitsuhide Akechi #ikesen motonari #otome guys #otome #fanfiction #fanfic

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quillandink333 · 3 years

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The Anniversary

Kazuma Asougi × Original Character

SPOILERS FOR THE GREAT ACE ATTORNEY CHRONICLES ~ Read ahead at your own risk!

Rating: T

Word Count: 1.6k

WARNINGS: amnesia, psychosis, implied colonialism

Summary: Having spent the better part of the last two months at sea, the delinquent pair of voyagers spend the night of their arrival in Alexandria tearing up the streets.

Masterlist

One might’ve suspected that the Egyptian climate would be murderously hot in the middle of June, and the day spent there by the Vitesse crew was no exception. By dusk, however, the arid street air had cooled down to the point where it was almost bearable. On a higher note, their timing couldn’t have been better. The date was the seventeenth, and the city was alight with the annual festivities that accompanied the long celebrated flooding of the River Nile. Since they’d arrived at the port, Union Jacks flying high in greeting, the two ex-exchange students had heard locals referring to the ancient tradition as ‘Leylet en Nuktah.’

For some unfathomable reason, today, the whispered shrieks coming from the back of the one’s mind that followed him wherever he went were more imposing than ever.

It had been Cecelia’s idea for the two of them to slip away that night and get a taste of the festival. In retrospect, he was starting to regret his decision to comply with her. They’d been away from the docks for virtually the entire evening now, and their scheduled curfews for that night were fast approaching. If they stayed out much longer, coming back on board was going to be troublesome. It was already enough that they were shirking their respective duties in the loading and unloading operations, for which he had a carefully devised plan to avoid repercussions, but still, that too was bound to fall through if they failed to make it back on time.

“Don’t… Don’t you think it’s about time we made our way back?” he urged, but to no avail. She was too busy admiring all the beautifully handmade merchandise that the various street vendors and artisans had out on display.

After another moment or two, she finally chirped out a dismissive, “Did you say something?”

She only gave him her attention in full when he heaved a frustrated sigh. “Cecelia-san, I thought we’d agreed, on returning o-once we’d had something to eat.” Hours had passed since their visit to the food stalls where all the foreign flavours and aromas mixing together had nearly overwhelmed him. “How much longer do you—”

“I know, I know,” she waved off, “but come on. In all likelihood, this is something neither of us will ever have the chance to experience again, you must realise. I think we ought to make the most of it while we still can, don’t you?”

“I—mmh…” His rebuttal fizzled out. How could he possibly refute that?

Their discussion was interrupted by an uproar from further down the street.

“Let’s go see what that’s about!” He couldn’t even get a word in before she was tugging him along in the direction of the excitement.

Its origin turned out to be a large gathering of people around a raised platform, from atop which a group of street performers were regaling them all with song and dance. The scene was unlike anything the amnesiac could have imagined, but it was clear as day that they were an experienced and reputable troupe. With the way the dancers sashayed along in sync to the rhythm of the percussion and the tune of the strummed strings and winds, anyone could tell they took both pride and passion in their performance.

“That looks like so much fun, doesn’t it?” his overly enthused colleague shouted so as to be heard above the spirited cacophony, her eyes sparkling in the same manner as that of the lavishly decked dancers. He shrugged. How would he know? He’d never tried anything like ‘that’ in his life, as far as he was concerned. Fixing her gaze toward the stage, she said to herself, “I think I might give it a go.”

“Wha—Cecelia-san! Wait!” Just like that, she was off. Weaving through the audience, she barged her way onto the dance floor uninvited. “What the devil are you doing?! Get—”

But his pleas were washed away by the sudden swell in the crowd’s furore. The mountain of a man in front of him hollered something in Arabic that sounded like cheering, but of course he couldn’t know for certain.

He shoved his way through to the front of the throng, and that was when he caught sight of her.

She was still dressed in her regular, salty sailing garb, and she didn’t know the first thing about Middle Eastern dance as shown in the sporadicity of her movements. And yet, the air she boasted made her seem just as competent as the professionals, who to his astoundment had welcomed her with open arms. It was the strangest thing. Ever since their first encounter, she’d carried herself with ineptitude, always tripping over her own two feet. But that night, she’d transformed into another being entirely, prancing about the stage with all the elegance and freedom of a phoenix.

As he openly marvelled at her carefree performance, something flickered within him. What was it? Envy…?

He blinked and noticed she was staring straight at him. Whether or not it was just a part of her spontaneous choreography was unclear, but he could have sworn she’d beckoned him forth with one hand just then. By the second time, he knew it hadn’t been by mistake. What was she thinking? Surely she didn’t expect him to come up and join her, did she?

In fact, that was exactly what she’d intended. The next thing he knew, she’d grabbed him by the arm and was hauling him up on stage.

She didn’t give him time to steady himself. Or to think, for that matter. The moment he was beside her, he was swept up in her gambolling. The capricious flicking of her wrists and shaking of her hips were near impossible to mirror. His heart pounded, his eyes were wide, and his head was turning every which way. But to his surprise, a few seconds went by, and the two of them still hadn’t been kicked off the dance floor. Even more surprising, the crowd’s energy seemed to have doubled.

Now the musicians were picking up the pace. With every beat of the hand drums, he grew lighter on his feet. Little by little, as the onlookers clapped along, he sensed himself falling into the rhythm beyond his control.

What was he doing?

Cecelia was just as jubilant as ever, her smile brightening every time they spun round and locked eyes with one and other. Soon enough, the two had fallen into almost perfect synchronisation. He couldn’t help but give into his own instinct to smile, if not at the sheer absurdity of the whole affair, because of the indescribable feeling of weightlessness that had overtaken him. He had no discernible reason to be as happy as he was, but in that moment, with this raving madwoman by his side, he didn’t care. The stars were out, and all around them, people were rejoicing without a care in the world. Even the ever-present voice in his head was drowned out by the roaring sound of merriment.

Once she’d had a moment to catch her breath, Cecelia let out one of both satisfaction and sorrow. “I suppose we’d best make our way back to port now,” she admitted, remembering his earlier urgency.

“Hm? Ah…” His smile faltered for the briefest of moments before resurfacing just the slightest bit weaker than before. “Right.”

“You’d only just begun to enjoy yourself, hadn’t you?” she laughed, giving his shoulder a light shove.

He rolled his eyes, juxtaposing the pink tinge seeping its way into his cheeks. “Yeah…”

As the two of them started down the street which they’d taken to get there, the merchants, like the performers, were all beginning to close up their stalls for the night. Everywhere they looked, the lights that had brought the festival to life were going out one by one, but an echo of the revelry that had swept them both off their feet still resonated through the air.

“Thank you,” he spoke against the quiet, “for tonight.”

“No. Thank you,” she countered, stopping them both in their tracks. “Really, you have no idea—this made me so…so happy. If it weren’t for you, tonight wouldn’t have been nearly as enjoyable.” He chuckled, making her realise he probably thought she’d meant his position making it possible for her to skip out on work at all. Anyway, “I’ll never forget this.”

His calloused fingers moulded around hers as she held him by the hand. Absentmindedly admiring the soft and contagious upward curve of her lips, he replied, “Neither will I.”

“Eh! You there!”

Her ears perked up as she heard English being spoken in their general direction.

She turned to see an elderly Egyptian woman emerging from the dwindling crowd and looking down on them with an affable grin. “You are the young couple who stole the stage before, right?” she asked in fragments.

“Oh, ehm…” Cecelia dropped her hand from her crew mate’s. She glanced over at him, who looked back at her with a seemingly permanent smile plastered onto his face. This wasn’t helping. “Actually we’re not a couple,” she blushed, “but yes! That was us.”

“Ah, please pardon me.” The woman’s laugh was much more raucous than one would’ve expected. “I just want to say what fun it was to watch you. In my youth, I was…how can you say it in your language? Belly dancer? And to see people from far away dancing and having so much fun… It made me very happy.”

Cecelia’s heart swelled at her touching words. “Thank you very much,” she beamed. “We’ve only been here since yesterday, but I have to say, your country’s culture and traditions are truly worth treasuring.”

The kindly woman’s smile widened as she turned and bid the two of them goodnight. The people of this land were all so warm and welcoming. It was why, when she saw the flags of her homeland flapping in the distance, her heart sank in shame.

#my writing #fanfic #dgs spoilers #dgs2 spoilers #tgaa spoilers #tgaa2 spoilers #dai gyakuten saiban #dgs #the great ace attorney #tgaa #kazuma asogi #asougi kazuma #kazuma asogi x oc #asougi kazuma x oc #my oc #dgs oc #tgaa oc #cecelia gardner

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scimitar-and-longsword · 4 years

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Prompt from lovely @kiaya: Nile taking Joe and Nicky to some modern young people thing of your choice and they are like wtf?? But they end up enjoying it and kicking ass. Then they get addicted and Nile is like WHAT HAVE I DONE?

What is wrong with me?? Am I incapable of writing just silly little fluff?? Apparently. Cause this is the second time I’ve turned a fun Nile prompt into her and Nicky having a heart to heart lol. Also early Book of Nile if you squint??? Idk guys, I just kinda wrote lol

Food Trucks & Family Ties

“It’ll be fun, I used to go with my brother all the time!” Nile said.

“I don’t see the appeal,” Nicky said from where he trailed behind her and Joe.

“Aren’t you like- a classically trained chef?” Nile asked.

“Many times over,” Joe said with a grin, at the same time Nicky said, “sì.”

“Then I think you’ll love it, just keep an open mind.”

Nile looked down at her phone, trying to orient the map with their current position.

“Does that say Artisanal Funnel Cake?” Joe asked.

Nile glanced at Joe. She couldn’t help chuckling at his eyebrows lifted up in confusion before following his outstretched hand to the food truck in question, Which did indeed say Artisanal Funnel Cakes in red looping letters.

“Yeah,” Nile said, absentmindedly turning her phone in her hands.

“How can funnel cake be artisanal?” Joe asked.

Nicky huffed air out his nose in a way that could almost be considered a laugh.

“I’m not sure Joe. Ah-ha! Found it, follow me.”

Nile started down the rows of food trucks, toward the one she had her eye on.

She stopped in front of the food truck in question, and turned around, her hands in her pockets, and a giant grin on her face.

“Here we are!”

“Korean fusion?” Joe asked, looking at the food truck behind her.

“Korean tacos to be precise.”

“Well, I’ll try anything once,” Joe shrugged, and got in line to order.

Nile followed, with Nicky close at her heels.

“You seem very excited about this,” Nicky said as the line moved slowly forward.

“Well yeah, good food is good food,” Nile said as she studied the menu.

“You mentioned you used to do this with your brother.”

“Yeah,” Nile said. “We had our favorite trucks and would go track one or two down wherever they were when we had a free Saturday.”

Nile saw Nicky nod out of the corner of her eye.

Nile ordered two tacos, one beef, one kimchi. Nile was pretty sure Joe got one of everything on the short menu.

“Aren’t you getting anything?” Nile asked when Nicky stepped away after Nile was finished ordering.

“Joe’s got me.”

Nile smiled to herself as Nicky walked up behind Joe, wrapped his arms around him and kissed his shoulder. She was always impressed by how in sync Nicky and Joe were. Sure enough, when the food was ready half of it went to Nicky.

They ate their food as they walked between the trucks and talked. Nicky laughed at Joe when he ended up getting a plate of vanilla-vodka infused funnel cake, but still helped him eat it.

They made the two hour drive back to the safe house where Andy, Quynh, and Booker were waiting in relative silence. Joe had fallen asleep stretched across the back seat almost immediately, mumbling something about a food coma and Nicky was driving. Nile leaned her head on the passenger window, watching trees whiz passed.

“Does that happen with all of us?” Nile asked.

“Does what happen?” Nicky asked, his eyes still on the road.

“You and Joe seem to be able to read each other’s minds,” Nile said, finally looking at Nicky.

He smiled, it was small but he looked like he knew something she did not.

“You get good at reading people the longer you live,” Nicky said. Nile nodded to herself and resumed her study of the blurry trees out the window.

A silent minute passed before Nicky spoke again, “There is something unique about having a close relationship with someone though. I can’t pretend that I don’t know Joe better than I could ever know anyone else. But that’s not an immortal thing, you had that with your brother, did you not?”

Nile looked back at Nicky, still driving calmly, and blinked at him for a moment.

“Yeah,” Nile said, nodding to herself, “Yeah I did.”

Three months later the Guard found themselves in Amsterdam. Andy and Quynh had disappeared two days ago, still making up for 500 years of lost time.

Nile had gone out drinking with Booker the night before, and they were both nursing hangovers. Nile was laying on the couch with her legs draped over Booker’s lap and a throw pillow over her face, trying to block out the too-harsh mid-morning light.

“There’s a food truck near Albert Cuyp that puts pickled herring on waffles,” Joe practically shouted as he burst into the room, “which personally I think sounds disgusting. It only has two stars, but I can’t leave Amsterdam until I’ve tried it.”

Nile groaned and moved the pillow to see Joe staring down at his phone, with an amused expression on his face. Nicky was leaning in the doorway behind him, staring at Joe, his eyes full of affection.

“Joe-” Nile started, but the bright light was too much and she put the pillow back over her face, knowing it muffled her voice as she continued. “Joe, the point is to find good food trucks.”

“I’m sure there will be others there.” Joe said, and suddenly Nile was being pulled up to sit up by her arms by Joe.

“Alright, alright fine,” Nile said, pushing Joe lightly on the shoulder. She laughed and tucked her head into Booker’s shoulder. “If I’m going, you have to too.”

Booker sighed but he still got up and grabbed his jacket.

Joe was once again ordering while the rest of them hung back. This was the fifth time Joe had dragged some combination of them out to some poorly rated food truck in whatever city they happened to be in. Nile was seriously beginning to regret introducing him to them in the first place.

Nile squinted up at the sky, the overcast clouds were somehow making it brighter out than if the day had just been outright sunny. She brought her eyes back down to find a pair of sunglasses in front of her. Booker was watching Joe next to her, but there was no mistaking the Oakley sunglasses in his hand were for her.

“Thank you.” Nile said, slightly bewildered. She hadn’t even thought to ask if anyone had spare sunglasses.

Booker grunted something that was probably meant to be you’re welcome, and shoved his hand back in his pocket.

Nile looked at Nicky where he stood on the other side of her. He smiled at her, before walking toward Joe the split second before he called over his shoulder for someone to help him carry the food.

Nile put the sunglasses on, and immediately felt her headache ease.

Cross posted to my AO3 as well.

#idk what this even is #The Old Guard #my stuff #my fics #this is the shortest thing I've ever written lol #it's hard to write short stuff!!!#fluff? without feelings?? idk her

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platypanthewriter · 3 years

Text

Soda

This is for Harringrove April day 12, Soda! The dude in Steve's night class is a little grouchy, and a little beautiful.

Steve locked up his photography studio, set his shoulders, and drove to the college.

He rethought all his choices as he stared around at all the children in the college classroom, and wondered for a second whether he’d wandered into a highschool. The thought made him shudder, and he stood rooted with dread in the doorway as somebody edged past, growling under his breath.

The dude dropped into a seat in the middle of the class, shoved the hood back on his burgundy hoodie, and looked like he was Steve’s age, so Steve headed over. He’d just walked up when the guy squinted at the whiteboard, muttered furiously under his breath, and moved two seats closer to the front. He had tawny curls pulled back in a messy bun, a stubbly, well-defined jaw, and crow’s feet, and Steve shifted forwards to stay next to him, breathing a sigh of relief. He grinned as he listened to the muttering.

“Hey,” Steve said, then watched the guy bury his head in his arms, pulling the hood back over his face. “...glad to see somebody else who isn’t twelve,” Steve tried again.

The guy snorted. “Yeah, we’ll see how long I last,” he groaned. “You know how sometimes when you know you’re gonna fuck up, you might as well sooner than…” he rolled his head to smirk over at Steve, and then his blue-gray eyes widened, and he trailed off, licking his lips. Steve waited politely as he cleared his throat. “...later?” he whispered.

“You have to stay in this class,” Steve hissed as the teacher came in, grinning. “You’re the only one I can talk to, you won’t fuck up, come on.”

The guy blinked slowly at him, then ducked his head, smirking again, and grabbed a tumbler off the floor and slurped at it. “It’s soda,” he shot over, rattling the ice.

“Okay,” Steve said, laughing, and nodding at the low sun pouring in. “I won’t rat you out, man, I wish I had something cold right now.”

The dude laughed, and Steve jumped on his chance.

“Come back tomorrow and the next soda’s on me,” he whispered out the side of his mouth, and got back a warm grin.

After class, the guy climbed up to sit on his desk, facing Steve with a smile like a lighthouse beam now he was awake. He had circles under his eyes, and it looked like he didn’t have a shirt on under his hoodie, just tan skin all the way down, but Steve had had rough mornings too. “I’m Billy,” the guy said, leaning in and cocking his head. “You wanna go for—”

“Uh, Steve, I’m Steve,” Steve said, wincing at his own lightning wit. “What kind of soda you want me to bring?”

“Oh,” said the guy, going still for just a second, like Steve had said something weird, and just as Steve was trying to figure out what it was, he laughed and hopped off the desk. “Sprite or something, whatever’s fine.”

Steve jogged to catch up. “No caffeine?”

“...doesn’t matter,” Billy sighed, walking faster, and Steve slowed down, and let him get away.

The next day Billy had on a rainbow chainmail bracelet, and Steve grinned as he handed over two cans of sprite. “That’s neat,” he said, pointing to it, and Billy narrowed his eyes, studying Steve’s face like he was acting suspicious as hell. After a few seconds, Steve laughed nervously. “I’m not gonna steal it,” he said, and Billy groaned into his arms.

He agreed to study before class at the picnic tables outside, though, and Steve got treated to hours of his freckled face sipping his soda, and grimacing faintly, like it was a depressing surprise every time. When Steve went to take a piss, he grabbed some root beer and some Squirt, to see if that got a better reaction, and Billy blinked, then grinned his laser beam grin.

Didn’t look like he liked them better, though. The next time Steve was at the grocery store, he hit the fancy aisle. He bought elderflower soda, and ginger brew, and orange cream. At the last minute he stuck a kombucha in his basket, just to see what face Billy would make.

It was satisfyingly revolted—betrayal, and disbelief—but Steve grabbed it back, laughing his ass off. “Don’t drink that,” he cackled, “—I’m sorry, I’m sorry!”

“See if I take notes for you again, you fuck,” Billy grumbled, wiping his tongue with a napkin, but his ears and cheeks were turning pink, and Steve couldn’t stop snickering.

As the semester went on, Billy started wearing a rainbow lanyard, and rainbow clips holding his flyaway curls, and a big ol’ sticker of a cat shitting rainbows on his soda tumbler.

“Wow, you sure like rainbows,” Steve said when the barrettes appeared, instead of his first impulse, which was to offer his ex’s little sister’s abandoned hair care collection. It had pink plastic poodles clips. Billy’d have looked hilarious in them, grouching about midterms and scratching his graying stubble, and Steve bit back a smile.

Billy stared at him, then grabbed his soda tumbler and drank, holding eye contact. It was full of the lavender lemon artisan soda Steve had found on sale, and Billy spluttered, coughing. “Where do you find this shit,” he asked, grimacing, and Steve laughed.

“I can stop. You just make this face when you drink soda—”

Billy’s mouth quirked, and he sighed. “...nah, it’s...uh. It’s...nice.”

“Don’t fall all over yourself in gratitude,” Steve told him, and Billy kicked at his legs under the table.

“It’s not like you aren’t having the time of your life feeding me this shit,” he hissed, and Steve snickered.

Billy started talking again about dropping out around midterms, fiddling incessantly with his soda, and losing sleep again, if the crinkly, bruised skin under his eyes was anything to go on. “I’m gonna fail anyway,” he breathed. “Why did I even register, I always do this, I get—”

“You’re not gonna fail,” Steve hissed, then stared at the whiteboard. “Are you?! You said I was getting it! Are we both failing?!”

“No!” Billy laughed. “No, no.” He reached across the aisle and squeezed Steve’s shoulder. “No, man, you’re good, you’re fine—”

“Don’t say that shit then,” Steve told him, narrowing his eyes, and Billy took a deep breath and blew out, swallowing. “Look,” Steve said, steepling his hands—like he always had to stretch them after basketball—the way Robin always said looked like a supervillain. “Look, okay, come over. Before midterms. We can get a pizza. Stay the night. We’ll play Super Mario and go to bed at like eight pm like we’re in first grade.”

Billy cocked his head, biting his lips together.

“I’ll make sure you study and get to sleep,” Steve said, leaning closer, and Billy laughed, kind of darkly. “Lemme know,” Steve said, and slid the weirdest soda he’d found recently—Schooner’s Coffee Cola—over like they were making an under-the-table drug deal.

Billy looked down at it and burst into snickers, curling forward to rest his face in his arms on the desk, and then kinda sighed tiredly, and half-smiled over at Steve, and Steve wondered what he’d said wrong.

Steve came early every day to grab their picnic table, and Billy showed up more and more, in rainbow sneakers, and after a while, a purple button-up, unbuttoned, with rainbow pinstripes. Steve watched him wave his soda and cigarette around, and swear about the people calling tech support. “I get my degree, they said they can promote me,” he said, sighing.

“Sounds like you deserve it,” Steve told him, with a suave double thumbs-up into finger-guns that nearly made Billy spit his soda.

“I brought you cherry-lime,” Steve told him, waggling his eyebrows, and the bottle, and Billy groaned, holding his hand out, and Steve pulled it back. “You can say no,” he pointed out, and Billy laughed, waggling his fingers.

“I’m weak to peer pressure,” he said, grabbing it, unscrewing it, and dumping it right in with whatever was in there while Steve looked on in horror. He tossed back a swig, and then grunted, grimacing, and pressing his lips together, his eyes shut tight.

“Spit it out! Spit it out!” Steve yelped, snickering. “My feelings won’t be hurt!”

Billy pressed the back of his hand to his mouth, and swallowed with a shudder, and Steve tried to yank the tumbler away from him, but Billy jerked it away, waving it in the air. “Not so bad,” he gasped, lying. “Want some?”

“Don’t do it!” Steve hissed, trying to grab it, but laughing so hard he was clumsy. Billy finally chugged it despite Steve’s melodramatic pleas, and Steve threw an arm around him, cackling and leaning into Billy’s shoulder. Billy had an enamel pin on his denim collar of a carton of milk that said 100% HOMO, and Steve snorted, laughing harder, yanking out his phone. “Can I get a picture of your pin?”

Billy turned to frown at him, then frowned and patted his collar, and bit his lips together, raising his eyebrows.

“My best friend’s a lesbian,” Steve told him. “She’d love it.” That got him a slow blink, and then Billy nodded.

He seemed distracted after that, and didn’t look at Steve during class.

“...I have a really horrible soda I was saving for after midterms,” Steve told him after class, running to catch up.

“If it’s shitty, why’d you buy it,” Billy hissed at him, and stalked off, and Steve watched him go, squeezing his bag with the terrible-sounding dandelion-burdock soda.

“I fucked up,” Steve told Robin, sitting in his car. “I don’t know, he’s pissed—”

“This the guy with the 100% HOMO pin?” she asked dryly, and Steve blinked.

“Yeah, but I mean, I wasn’t a dick about it, or anything?”

“Hrm,” she said. “I saw some of that soda. Maybe he’s mad you poisoned him, you ever think of that?”

“I guess,” Steve sighed.

“Maybe he’s just not into you?” she suggested, with what sounded like a grimace. “I mean, just because he’s gay—”

“Wait, what?” Steve asked. “No, I—I didn’t hit on him, jesus—”

“...wait, what? What are we talking about, then?” Robin asked flatly. “What’d you fuck up, if you weren’t asking him out?”

“...he might just stop talking to me,” Steve said, wincing. “He stomps off a lot.” He considered. “Uh, I could—I could wear that bi pride shirt you got me. See if he says anything.”

“...he might just think you love pink and purple unicorns,” Robin said, but it sounded like she was snickering, so he took it as a win, and when he got home, he puttered around through the bi stuff he’d gotten at Pride—he tied on the friendship bracelet, and relaced his shoes with the pink, blue, and purple laces, and put the belt buckle on with the speech bubble that said ‘Be Gay, Do Crimes’ like his dick was talking.

He looked like a very pretty princess in the mirror, but a hot one, he thought, taking a couple of selfies of the way the tight unicorn shirt clung to his biceps and pecs.

Billy didn’t show up the next day, or answer texts, though the professor said he’d emailed in. Steve texted a picture of ginger ale, grimacing. “I got you an antidote, I’m sorry,” he sent, but he didn’t hear anything until the day of midterms, when Billy was already slumped on his desk when Steve came in, even though he’d have had to walk the whole long way around the building to avoid their table.

Steve settled in and tried not to nervously click his pen, or tap his foot, or squeak his shoe against the leg of his desk, but eventually Billy shot him a glare, and then just...stared. Steve glanced over at him, cautiously, and the instructor cleared her throat. “Eyes front!” she called, and Billy swerved his glower back to his own test, staring down at it until he shook his head, and started scribbling with a will. He was one of the first to turn his test in, and then he stood by the door with his eyes on Steve’s pen, as Steve tried to write an essay.

The classroom slowly emptied, and there Steve was, dressed like a unicorn princess man, and utterly failing his midterm. His teacher glanced up from her book occasionally, and then glanced at the clock, and once, she sighed, and Billy stood there watching Steve be a moron.

He had to already know, Steve figured, rereading the question one more time, and understanding less. Billy’d helped him with homework assignments, and notes, and seen what an idiot he was, and that was why he’d never said anything despite being 100% HOMO. Steve bit his lips as the words ran together.

He gave up on the last question, and turned in his exam with a sinking feeling of finality. He grabbed his bag, heard the swish of the definitely-gross soda in there, and groaned in the back of his throat.

“Do you just fucking like unicorns,” Billy asked, falling into step with him as he left the room, and Steve was left with the announcement he’d been trying to avoid, so Billy wouldn’t have to avoid him. “...bi...corns,” he mumbled, and Billy said “Fuck,” and grabbed his face, kissing him hard, then laughing awkwardly and gentling it. His lips were soft and warm, and a little chapped.

He tasted like soda. Steve ran his fingers over the rainbow hair clips, and through the curls at the back of Billy’s neck, kissing that smile finally. Billy sighed shakily against his mouth, yanking Steve closer by his unicorn-shirted shoulders. “Jesus, why didn’t we do this sooner,” he breathed.

“Why didn’t you,” Steve muttered, cupping Billy’s jaw and kissing him again, instead of letting him answer. “...wearing all that Pride shit, but you never asked me out, I figured it was kinda obvious you—”

“I what,” Billy hissed, and then scowled. “No, wait, you shithead, I waited that whole damn time, I drank like four cans of Sprite, and then I couldn’t miss you coming out—”

He’d been nervously sucking it down the whole test, and Steve thought he might have grabbed more while he waited—and sure enough, he shoved Steve away, as Steve laughed, then leaned back in for one more hard press of lips, and said “Shit, I gotta take a piss, I’ll be right back, don’t fucking move.”

The whole school was quiet in the early evening, as everyone ran home after night classes. Steve waited. When he heard the squeak of Billy’s sneakers echoing in the silent halls, he dug out the awful soda.

“I got this for you,” he said, as Billy ran around the corner, looking around like Steve might be gone. “—but I wanted to ask if I could—let’s go out, somewhere,” Steve said, laughing nervously.

“Jesus, anywhere,” Billy said, laughing as he took the soda, and Steve’s hand. “On a date, right? It’s a date. For real. This time.”

“This time?” Steve asked, leaning in to kiss his smirk, and then again, as Billy’s eyes closed, and he made a contented noise in the back of his throat. Steve snickered, kissing along his stubbly jaw, and then had to kiss his mouth so he’d grin again.

Neither of them wanted to stop, but finally Billy pushed him back, laughing and flushed. “Don’t wanna get arrested for indecent exposure,” he said, smiling, and then looked down at the soda Steve had handed him. He raised his eyebrows. “...dandelions? That’s a new low.”

“You really probably shouldn’t drink it,” Steve laughed, giddy at the feeling of Billy’s hand in his. He leaned in for another kiss, feeling Billy’s root beer-flavored lips part against his, and Billy’s lips curving in a wide, irrepressible smile. “Come on, there’s a bar around the corner. I’ll get you something better.”

Billy stilled for just a second, and then ran alongside him, like the bar was gonna run away. “So we’re dating now, right,” he said, and Steve laughed, grinning over.

“You expect more? You greedy fuck, after I bought you like a shipping crate of soda.”

“You owe me for that soda,” Billy told him, laughing.

When they reached the bar, Steve hauled him to a table.

“What can I get you,” Steve asked him. “Not soda, not if it’s running my debt up.”

Billy’s fingers whitened on his soda tumbler, and he licked his lips. “...don’t think you’re gonna wanna pay?”

“Come on, it’s a date,” Steve told him, laughing, and Billy echoed it, softly, glancing at the menu above the bar.

“...I am bad against peer pressure,” he said, swallowing.

“No pressure,” Steve said quickly, “—just it’s a date, I’ll treat you—”

“Wonder how bad I fucked up the test,” Billy said, laughing. “Where’s today going.”

“What?” Steve asked, feeling like the conversation was getting away from him.

“...double whiskey,” Billy said, with a crooked grin, dropping into his chair. “Go big or go home, right?”

“I didn’t…” Steve paused, thinking of the way Billy’s hand always reached for the tumbler, but he always looked startled and kind pissed off by what was in it. Peer pressure, he thought, grimacing, and remembered how Billy had been excited about a date, but stalled out when Steve suggested a bar. “No, no, I didn’t—they’ve, um, they’ve got...mocktails. Billy. I just—you don’t like soda, maybe—um, iced coffee, or—”

Billy stared at him, his hands tightening further as his shoulders hunched. “Shit,” he whispered.

“You don’t have to drink,” Steve told him, pretty sure his guess was right, and wondering how badly he’d fucked up, this time. “Fuck, I’m sorry, this place was just—close, we can go, uh, what—what if—dinner?!”

“You just—you fucking figured out I’m a fucking alcoholic, and you want dinner?” Billy growled, rubbing his face and groaning.

“I should have asked you where you wanted to go,” Steve admitted, grimacing. “Shit, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—make you, uh, make you tell me...anything. D’you still want a date?!”

“Yeah, I fucking want a date,” Billy snarled back, and Steve laughed with relief, dragging him back outside by the hand, and leaning in to kiss him around his bared teeth.

“...let’s get you something that’s not soda, though,” Steve whispered against his lips, laughing.

“Fuck, you seriously don’t care?” Billy asked, pulling away to stare into his face. “...I’m a mess. I’m working at a fucking call center. I kept my commuter mug full of whiskey. I had my last drink the morning we met.” Steve listened, running his fingers up the back of Billy’s neck, and into his warm curls, as Billy’s explanation of why they shouldn’t date started to turn into why they should.

“I agreed with my little sister to taper it off last year,” Billy told him, watching his face. “I did, I swear. Started drinking less. It was less,” he said again, like he thought Steve might not believe him. “I was just having one now and then when somebody was around to stop me before I went too far. I’m not—shouldn’t go in bars and order doubles, I just thought—I—” he laughed shakily, and Steve leaned his face in close enough to kiss, but not so close he was cutting Billy off if he had more to say.

Billy leaned into the kiss with a soft whine, and as Steve kept kissing him, he started smiling, and let Steve drag him for bubble tea. He liked it better than soda, Steve was pretty sure, from the look on his face, but they agreed the boba wouldn’t fit through the mouth of the cup.

“Gotta start buying you different drinks,” Steve told him, stroking his chin, and Billy burst out laughing.

“Oh, fuck,” he whispered, leaning his head on his arm, and grinning up at Steve. “Anything but that.”

The other Harringrove April prompts I’ve done

#harringrove #Harringrove April #They meet later #Moderner AU

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dobsmoneylake · 3 years

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Prudence. Corazon. First actual date. (Or, it doesn't have to be a DATE-date...but the two of them as a pair for the first time.)

AN: I am so sorry that this took so long (Corazón wasn’t talking to me until I insulted him), I hope it was with the wait! Thanks for the prompt!! <3 I own nothing. Also thanks to the Historian for beta-ing for me.

At the sound of footsteps, Prudence looked up from where she was laid out in a sunchair on the deck of the Joyful Damnation, attempting to enjoy some of the sun. “I see you’re alive,” she called out to the owner of the footsteps, causing the sound of them to stop before starting to head toward her purposefully.

“Alive?” their owner proclaimed. “Of course I’m alive! It takes more than a few drinks to keep this pirate down!” A head popped into her view. “Honestly, Prudence, who do you think you’re dealing with here?”

Glaring at Corazón, Prudence took one hand and shoved against his shoulder, “Get out of my sun,” she warned.

Stumbling back at the force of her hand, Corazón straightened up and put his hands on his hips, looking around. Instead of the busy sight of their remaining companions that he expected, he instead saw a deck that was empty of everyone but Prudence. “Where is everyone?” he huffed. “We were supposed to set sail first thing this morning!”

“Well, you probably should have thought about that before sleeping the morning away,” Prudence said, smirking. “Now, I need to go into the town myself; are you going to sit around and sulk all day, or will you be accompanying me?” She stood up and stretched before reaching over to grab the robe that she usually wore, casually shrugging it on.

Corazón felt his cheeks heat up and he quickly looked away. “I don’t know, I have some things to do around here to make sure we’re ready to go as soon as you all get back,” he told her. “It takes a lot to get a ship as incredible as The Damnation ready to go, you know.”

“Yes, but how often do we get to spend time in public without having to talk Egbert out of blowing something up or making sure Dob doesn’t run off with all the gold?” she asked.

When he looked up, she was smiling. “You may have a point,” he conceded, “And I do deserve a vacation after all the work I do for you guys.”

“Exactly,” she said, brushing by him as she walked off the ship and looking over her shoulder at him. “Why don’t you say we have some fun?”

‘Fun’ led them to the market, which was in a little bit of a disarray when they arrived. Prudence immediately took off towards the most lethal looking stall, which was full of various sharp and pointy objects. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed Corazón disappear, presumably to make use of the last bits of chaos from whatever had happened before they had arrived.

Letting all thoughts of her partner for the day leave her brain, Prudence started looking over at what this stall had to offer. There were a few bigger weapons that she looked at with some interest (they would be such a great benefit to her rage), but they weren’t elegant enough to really fit her aesthetic. In the middle of the table were a collection of sharp knives and daggers that her eyes kept getting drawn back to.

Idly casting detect magic (and how good it felt to be able to do that again), her eye was immediately drawn to a stiletto dagger in the middle of the table, which was just pulsating with energy.

“Are you going to, like, buy something or what?” the bored voice of the shopkeeper asked her.

“Can I try out that dagger in the middle?” She asked.

“Huh? Yeah, whatever. Just don’t steal it or anything.”

Picking it up, Prudence couldn’t help but let a grin spread over her face. The dagger was perfectly balanced in every way-- in fact it was perfect in every way. “How much for this, then?” she asked.

“That? 500 gold pieces.” The shopkeeper was still looking at her nails.

Prudence deflated. There was no way the party would be okay with her spending that much. She put the knife back on the table, but kept eyeing it, debating how much work it would be to just take it.

“Prudence!” Corazón said joyfully, walking up to her with his arms full. “Would you like any of these delicious artisan meats?”

“Sure,” she said, absentmindedly taking one.

“What do we have here, anything good?” he asked her.

“Nope,” she said.

“Really?” he asked skeptically. “Because you’ve been standing here for quite a while, and usually you would have left in disgust at this point.”

She glared at him. “Honestly, it’s all rubbish,” she said, “waste of my time.”

“Okay, if you say so,” he said. “Although if you really wanted something, I’m sure that we could afford it.”

“I said IT’S FINE,” she hissed at him before storming off towards the tavern. She needed a drink.

********

Corazón met up with Prudence just outside the tavern, which she was staring at for some reason. That reason became clear when the noises from inside the tavern drifted out as someone else entered-- specifically the sound of two familiar voices and the even more familiar sound of chaos.

“Oh, great,” Corazón said. “There goes our relaxing day.”

“Hm.”

“Hm? What do you mean ‘hm’?” he asked, pointing dramatically at the tavern. “That doesn’t exactly sound relaxing.”

“Yes, but this isn’t the only place to get drinks,” she reminded him.

He thought for a moment before sighing. “You want to go to the nice restaurant.” When she nodded, he threw up his hands. “But Prudence! It will be expensive! They’ll expect us to actually pay! Please, think this through!!!”

“I have thought this through,” she told him. “I’ve thought that I don’t want to go in there.” She pointed at the tavern for illustration, where a conveniently timed crash happened for emphasis.

Corazón sighed. “Pirates don’t do fancy establishments,” he told her.

She took off walking. “Okay, I’ll go by myself then,” she said. “There might be someone I meet along the way who would want to get a nice dinner with me.”

He jogged up to her. “I never said I didn’t want to get dinner with you!” he said.

“Oh good,” she took his arm. “Then you can buy me something nice.”

Looking down at the top of her head, he smiled. “Don’t push your luck too far, I never agreed to pay.”

*******

Dinner went well. Appetizers had been served, main dishes had been critiqued, and dinner was on its way out when music started and other people in the restaurant got up and made their way to the dance floor.

Corazón watched as they started to dance and scoffed. “Honestly, look at those idiots,” he said, never taking his eyes off the couples as he started moving his finger to the beat of the music.

“Why, because they’re dancing?” Prudence asked.

“Because they’re dancing horribly!” He said. “Honestly, look at that form! Dob could do better than that-- and I definitely could do better than that!”

Prudence took a sip of her wine, hiding a smile. “You’re sure about that, are you?”

“Am I sure about that?” He rolled his eyes. “Believe me, Prudence, I could dance circles around anyone in this restaurant-- no, around anyone in this town!” He sat back in his seat. “Honestly, ‘am I sure about that.’”

“Well then,” she said, setting her wine down, “You’ll just have to prove it to me.”

His eyes went wide. “Pro-- prove it to you!” he let out a shaky laugh. “I don’t need to prove it to you-- if anything, you should prove your dance skills to me!” He nodded decisively. “Yeah, Prudence, why don’t you prove your dance skills to me?” He raised an eyebrow at her.

“Okay,” she told him simply.

“What?” His eyes went wide. “What do you mean ‘okay’?”

“Okay, I’ll prove it to you,” she said. “Let’s dance.”

“You’re joking,” he told her.

“Well, unless you can’t dance after all,” she told him.

He stood up suddenly. “I am going to dance with you so hard you see stars!” he told her, holding out her hand.

“I’m sure you will.”

Still holding onto her hand, he led her out onto the dance floor as a tango started, pulling her into a picture perfect position and desperately trying to remember the steps of the tango-- for some reason, it was hard to focus when she was so close. He was so busy running through the steps in his head that he didn’t notice how quiet they were.

“You know, you’re right,” she said, breaking the silence. “You are a very good dancer.”

He smirked confidently down at her. “I told you so,” he said.

“But I think you’re overlooking some of the benefits of being not so perfect,” she continued.

He raised a confused eyebrow. “What do you mean?”

“I mean this,” she said with a smile, allowing herself to drift even closer so they were pressed together.

Corazón’s steps stuttered as she pressed closer to him, and he started moving with less confidence. “Prudence,” he said softly so only she could hear. “What are we doing?”

“Do you trust me?” she asked him.

Corazón didn’t even have to think about it. “More than anyone.”

“Then just keep doing that,” she told him, pressing her face to his chest.

*******

As they walked down the path back to the ship (Corazón had ended up paying), Corazón grabbed Prudence’s hand. “Wait,” he told her, bringing her to a stop.

“What is it?” she asked, turning to face him.

“I know you said you didn’t want anything, but here,” he said, slipping out the dagger from earlier and shoving it into her hands. “You were obviously into it.”

She looked down at the dagger. “Please tell me you didn’t pay full price for this.”

“What?” he scoffed. “No. I nicked it. The shopkeeper was absolutely oblivious.”

“I don’t know what to say,” she told him.

“Don’t say anything.” When she went to open her mouth, he continued. “Really, don’t say anything. Let’s just agree to never bring it up again.”

“If you say so,” they made their way up to the ship. “Well, thank you so much for the lovely date,” Prudence told him.

Corazón stopped in his tracks. “Date?” he asked, his voice rising. “What do you mean, ‘date’?”

“Oh Corazón, you really are an idiot sometimes,” she said, shaking her head and grinning.

“What?” He sputtered, “I am the smartest member of the--”

He was cut off by her lips.

“You kissed me,” he said when she had pulled back.

“Well,” she smirked, “I certainly didn’t kiss myself.”

With that, she pressed her lips against his again. Corazón froze for a moment before slowly lifting his definitely not shaking hands to brush against her cheeks. When she didn’t pull back, he relaxed down into her, giving her the angle she needed to wrap her arms around his back.

After a few moments, Prudence pulled back and smiled almost shyly at him. “Have a good night, Corazón,” she said before walking into her room.

Corazón watched her go with his mouth half open before he closed it into a smile, reaching up to rest his hand on the back of his head. Suddenly, there came a rustle from above and the cat form of Merilwen jumped down to sit in front of him. If a cat could smirk, she was definitely making the facial impression.

“Oh, you shut up,” he told her irritably, turning around and walking into his captains’ quarters. He let the door shut behind him before leaning against it with a grin on his face.

#oxventure #oxventure fic #demon pirate #corazon de ballena #prudence #thank you so much for the prompt!#In my head #prudence was 100% aware it was a date the whole time #she just didn't let corazon know that #corazon/prudence #merilwen reports back to dob and egbert that prudence moved first #and gladly collects their money #randomthunk

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nicnacsnonsense · 4 years

Text

Okay so this is going to be part Good Omens meta, part head canon, all ramble, but I promise I have a point. Well, technically it’s a question, but I am going somewhere with this; there’s just going to be a lot of pit stops and detours along the way.

We’re starting with Crowley. I know Aziraphale’s the soft one, but Crowley’s pretty soft for a demon. He’s not a total cuddly marshmallow like I see him portrayed as sometimes – he does seem to genuinely enjoy the “annoying people” parts of his job. Though even then he doesn’t seem to enjoy the annoyance for its own sake as much as the fact that it represents he has been successful; what he really seems to enjoy is the cleverness and artistry of it – the way he describes knocking out the telephone systems in the book is like a beautiful symphony of irritation. (Actually it’s weird to me that Hastur and Ligur’s method of chipping away at one soul at a time for years is called craftmanship while Crowley’s method is presented as a matter of efficiency. Like H&L are over here making artisanal meals with only the finest ingredients while Crowley is slinging out fast food burgers. Because to me Crowley’s method seems the one that takes more consideration and skill and is, taken for what it is, a thing of beauty, whereas H&L thing just seems like blunt-force trauma. I’m sorry you sat on this guy’s shoulder whispering in his ear for ten years in order to win his soul over? Unless he’s literally Job or Jesus Christ, I’m not impressed.) Crowley isn’t a total marshmallow, but he is soft. He’s not cruel or sadistic and he doesn’t like seeing people get genuinely hurt or killed. Now when other demons are sadistic, he doesn’t like it, but he seems to largely accept it as the way things are. When Heaven does terrible things, he seems kind of disgusted but not terribly surprised. But when it’s the humans or God doing terrible things, that’s what hits him hard. For slightly different reasons in each case, but ultimately it boils down to “I thought you were better than this,” and he cannot emotionally handle it when they prove they aren’t.

Moving on to Aziraphale (I promise we’ll come back to our soft demon boi in a minute). There’s a lot of different takes out there about how book Aziraphale differs from show Aziraphale, but the most compelling one I’ve ever seen argues that it’s not so much that Aziraphale is inherently different as it is Heaven is different in the two versions, which in turn impacts how Aziraphale behaves. In the book Heaven shows up on three occasions: when Aziraphale calls Heaven and speaks with the Metatron, when Aziraphale accidentally gets himself beamed up to Heaven (which could be considered a continuation of the same event), and at the airbase to try to restart the Apocalypse. In all of these cases either Aziraphale reached out to Heaven first or his presence was incidental to Heaven showing up. The general implication is that no one is checking in on him really; he has his own personal loyalty and sense of duty to Heaven urging him to do what they expect of him, but unless he’s really blatant about it, no one’s going to know if he breaks the rules here and there. Book Aziraphale’s life is basically one long “who you are in the dark” test, with the plot twist at the end where he flicks on the lights switch and flips everyone off while he does the thing he wasn’t supposed to because it turns out that was the right thing to do all along.

By contrast in the show Heaven is showing up all the time. Aziraphale is dragged up there multiple times for reports, archangels are constantly popping down to Earth to talk with him, and they actually proactively uncover Aziraphale’s involvement with Crowley. Granted, we can assume this is a higher than normal rate of involvement because of the fast-approaching Apocalypse, but the point remains that show Aziraphale is dealing with a lot more oversight. If he breaks the rules, there is a good chance he will be caught, and even if he just does something perfectly allowed but considered to be unbefitting an angel, he will be met with scorn and disapproval. That’s why show Aziraphale is more anxious, less likely to break any rules, and more cautious if he does so.

An extension of this difference in how Heaven behaves that I haven’t seen mentioned before, is it impacts how Aziraphale perceives Hell to be. Aziraphale doesn’t have any real firsthand experience of Hell, so he has to make inferences as far as what they’re like to work for. His main two sources of information are going to be what Heaven tells him – likely to be sparse and often inaccurate – and what Crowley tells him – honestly also likely to be sparse and often inaccurate. Obviously, Crowley knows what working for Hell is like, and there are probably some areas that he’s willing to be fairly open and straight-forward about. But when it comes to things like punishments for failure or disobedience, Crowley’s going to spend most of the time evading and downplaying with occasional bits of shocking honesty to make a point and blatant overexaggerations for dramatic effect. With limited information to go on, Aziraphale is forced to use what Heaven’s like and extrapolate from there. And since the book and show versions have two such different starting points, even if book Aziraphale concludes Hell is more overbearing than book Heaven and show Aziraphale concludes Hell is less thorough on following up than show Heaven, they are still going to come to very different conclusions as to how present and aware of what Crowley is up to Hell is. Which is relevant because not only is show Aziraphale dealing with a Heaven that is more like to catch misbehavior, he also perceives Hell as being more aware and therefore Crowley more likely to be caught and punished than book Aziraphale does.

Circling back to Crowley and his emotional upset at the cruelties of the world. The reason we had to talk about Aziraphale is because how he behaves has an impact on how Crowley copes. Now with the book we don’t have our “a love 6000 years in the making” backstory, and Crowley and Aziraphale are just generally less prominent than they are in the show, which means we have less to go on. The only real reference we get is Crowley’s reaction to the Spanish Inquisition. He gets a commendation for it without having done anything, goes to take a look, and then gets drunk for a week. This would imply that drinking is how he handles these sorts of things, but I don’t think we’re getting the full story here. I say think because this is the most head canon-y part of all this; I don’t have any real evidence other than if you assume this is true then it does explain some things I’ll get to in a minute. The book tells us that after looking in on the Inquisition Crowley “had come back and got drunk for a week.” But back to where? The implication is back to the cantinas in the nicer parts of Spain where he had been before going for his look, but I think he went back to Aziraphale (who may very well have already been in the cantinas with him anyway). Because honestly, an actual literal demon with actual literal snake eyes getting shitfaced drunk in the middle of the Spanish Inquisition, knowing full well he’ll melt into a puddle of goo and die if anyone even sprinkles any holy water on him, is pretty fucking stupid. But if that demon had an actual literal angel watching over him… Aziraphale is by nature a guardian/protector, and in the book he isn’t constantly concerned about their relationship being discovered. I think over time Crowley has learned that if he needs to fall apart or be vulnerable for a while, he can go to Aziraphale and rely on Aziraphale watching over him and supporting him until he’s ready to pull himself back together again.

Show Aziraphale does not have the same freedom as his book counterpart, and so cannot always reliably be there for Crowley in the same way. Which is not a dig on Aziraphale at all; he’s in a different situation where he has to be focused on keeping them safe from their superiors, so he simply does not have the additional emotional capacity sometimes, and that’s not his fault. Despite that, Crowley does still get the emotional support he needs from Aziraphale, it just has to function in a different way.

Our episode 3 cold open lets us watch this develop quite well. Our first two scenes (aside from the one with God asking about the sword, obviously) are Noah’s Ark and the crucifixion, where we see Crowley approach Aziraphale to essentially needle him about what’s going on. At this point Aziraphale isn’t so much support as someone he can redirect his anger toward – I assume this is how Book Omens started too, and we’ll get to the divergence in a second. Crowley is willing to drop the anger with Aziraphale much faster in the crucifixion scene, suggesting they have grown closer over the intervening 3000 years, and Crowley no longer finds as much emotional catharsis in being angry at Aziraphale, but he continues to approach Aziraphale that way out of habit.

Then we get to Rome, where Crowley has, according to the script book, come to town to tempt Caligula only to be shocked and upset when he learns how very much Caligula doesn’t need tempting. Crowley goes to a bar where Aziraphale happens to be – whether he knew Aziraphale was there or not before he arrived is irrelevant, but I am assuming he was aware of Aziraphale’s presence by the time he walked in the door. And here is where book and show diverge. Because Crowley has approached Aziraphale about things he’s been upset about in the past, but it’s one thing to needle an angel about things Heaven is responsible for; it’s quite another to walk up to your crush and just start complaining about some jerk who’s put you in a bad mood. Book Crowley, who has been dealing with a slightly more relaxed Aziraphale, says fuck it, goes and sits down across from him and says, “You would not believe the day I’ve had.” And from there we develop into the dynamic mentioned previously for Book Omens.

As mentioned, show Aziraphale is more anxious about their relationship, resulting in show Crowley falling on the other side of this choice and not approaching Aziraphale. This leaves it to Aziraphale to approach Crowley this time. Now as much as we may tease, Aziraphale’s not actually an idiot. He can tell Crowley is upset about something, and he’s picked up on the pattern where when Crowley is upset, he likes to be able rant a bit about Heaven. Obviously Aziraphale can sometimes find those conversations uncomfortable, but he’s feeling good today, so he’s happy to engage in some banter, especially if it’ll cheer his friend up. But Crowley’s the one who usually starts the conversation, so Aziraphale wracks his brain for something he can say about the nature of good and evil and ineffability and comes up with “Still a demon, then?” Shockingly, this doesn’t work. Still he keeps the conversation going and tries again with “Oh well, let me tempt you to... Oh, no, that's, that's your job, isn't it?” This still doesn’t work the way he’s expecting it to, but they do have a very nice meal and a good conversation that’s not really about Heaven and Hell at all, after which Crowley seems to be in much better spirits. Which leads him to the conclusion that it’s not the specifics that are important, just the fact of having the conversation and giving something Crowley to distract himself with.

Skipping ahead to the Globe, two quick things to point out. This is the first time we see Crowley do his little circle of Aziraphale, proving that by this point they established the dynamic where Crowley protects Aziraphale. The second is this is also the first time Aziraphale really intentionally uses his puppy dog eyes on Crowley, meaning their acts of service dynamic is established as well. Knowing these have been established helps inform the decisions Aziraphale makes in the Bastille scene.

Bastille scene. We can assume everything about this incident is something Aziraphale has staged, from actually getting arrested to his claims that he can’t rescue himself because he was reprimanded for too many frivolous miracles. I will say I don’t think that last one is a complete fabrication; I think either that it is something that has happened, but a good while ago such that he’s not worried about it anymore, or it did just happen, but Aziraphale actually had been using an unusually large amount of miracles recently – possibly as part of getting his bookshop set up – and has since dialed it back enough that he can use one or two at the Bastille, be it to free himself or just to change his clothing, without getting in trouble. However, while I do think it was staged, I don’t think the primary propose was to indulge in Aziraphale’s damsel in distress fantasies; that was just an unexpected bonus. Aziraphale’s main objective was helping Crowley.

Aziraphale knew about the French Revolution, knew Crowley was in the area, and knew Crowley was liable to find the whole situation upsetting. His response was to put on his prettiest outfit, and get himself locked up. He’s broadcasting to Crowley, don’t worry about the humans, just focus on me, don’t think about what they’re doing, just look at the silly angel all chained over here in need of rescue. Of course this isn’t completely divorced from the current situation, but in a way that’s actually better, because it takes that situation and lowers the stakes – Aziraphale isn’t going to die, worse case scenario he’ll just get discorporated – and puts Crowley back in control of the situation – he can’t stop the Revolution, even if he’s capable he’d be risking too much trouble with Hell if he tried, but he can save Aziraphale and fly under Hell’s radar while doing it. Basically, we’ve taken the “Crowley needs a distraction” conclusion Aziraphale came to back in Rome and refined it in the intervening 1750 years.

Even Aziraphale’s suspicions that Crowley is behind the whole revolution can be seen as an extension of the indirect comfort he’s offering. He knows that Crowley is going to have to tell Hell that he is behind all this stuff that’s upsetting him, so when Aziraphale accuses him of the very same, it gives Crowley an opportunity and a safe place to assert that, no, he is not responsible. And not just to say it, but to say it and have someone believe him, that it isn’t his fault and he would never do anything really terrible like this.

This gives us the final form of how Show Omens dynamic works. Instead of offering Crowley a safe haven, Aziraphale emotionally supports Crowley by offering him opportunities to be the savior.

What’s especially interesting about this is if we take these two different dynamics, where in Book Omens Aziraphale serves as Crowley’s safe haven and in Show Omens Crowley is Aziraphale’s savior, that actually explains four of the big differences between the book and show: Crowley’s reaction to being called nice, Crowley crossing the M25 with optimism vs imagination, the whole run away with me subplot, and Crowley’s post bookshop fire reaction.

A demon being called nice is a pretty risky thing for the demon in question. As Crowley points out during his and Aziraphale’s conversation in Eden, a demon can get in a lot of trouble for doing the right thing, and I can’t imagine being accused of being nice would work out much better for him. But book Crowley is used to being vulnerable like that around Aziraphale. He still snaps at Aziraphale when he says it, because Crowley is stressed out and right now is not the time for that, but it is ultimately an established part of their relationship dynamic so it really only annoys him. By contrast, in the show a lot of Crowley and Aziraphale’s relationship is built around avoiding saying those things for their own safety. Given that, it’s no wonder his negative reaction would be more extreme.

There’s a whole long meta out there about how both Crowley’s are optimists, but in different ways (and if someone knows where to find it, please let me know so I can link it). Book Crowley is a more passive sort of optimism; he just generally believes that eventually things will work out for him. This is consistent with the way he handles it when he’s upset about things; he just goes to hang out with Aziraphale, lets himself be upset for a while, eventually it passes, and he’s good to go again. Whereas show Crowley has a more active sort of optimism, believing things can and will work out fine, as long as he steps up to make it happen. Again, this ties into how he deals with being upset; he goes out and does something about it. Granted, he’s not usually fixing the actual problem itself, but he’s being active related to what’s upsetting him, e.g. he can’t stop WWII, but he can go save Aziraphale from some Nazi spies. So when book Crowley drives through the M25 he has his optimism that things are going to work out as sort of a default mental state in his head, and it turns out The Secret really does work for demons so he gets through. Meanwhile show Crowley is actively applying himself to believing the car is fine, and that’s what pulls him through.

This passive/active difference also explains the addition of the “we could go off together” subplot in the show. Despite being more passive, book Crowley is not complacent; when they realize Warlock is not the antichrist, he and Aziraphale make efforts to find the real one. But when their initial search runs dry and they both agree the best thing to do is to have each of their “networks of human agents” look for the boy, Crowley is willing to step back and wait. Either one of their agents will find the kid or something else will turn up; somehow it’ll all work out. Show Crowley can’t do that. He can be optimistic that things will somehow work out, but not if he’s not doing something to fix it. Except there’s nothing else he can do to solve this problem, and when he can’t solve a problem his default is to instead save Aziraphale. The world is going to go up in flames, so Alpha Centauri it is then.

And now the one everyone loves to talk about: the bookshop fire. “Aha!” you said twenty minutes ago and then patiently waited for my rambling to get back to this point. “Aha! There is a flaw in your logic; after the bookshop fire it is book Crowley that copes by getting up and saving things, whereas show Crowley gets drunk and has an emotional breakdown.” But what you didn’t realize, gentle reader, is I already solved that problem weeks ago (this meta took a lot longer to write up than I was expecting). In fact, it’s not a problem at all, but further proof of these dynamics. Because after the bookshop fire, Aziraphale is gone. Aziraphale is gone, which means Crowley’s normal coping strategies don’t work. Book Crowley can’t have a breakdown about Aziraphale being gone precisely because Aziraphale is gone; he’s lost his safe space. So instead he just has to keep pushing forward and he’ll figure out how to deal with the rest of it later. Meanwhile show Crowley can’t save Aziraphale if Aziraphale is dead, and lacking that distraction, he has a breakdown.

Now that I’ve gone on for an obscenely long time about the different dynamics of book Crowley the protected vs. show Crowley the protector, I’m going to say that the specifics of how they are different aren’t ultimately that important. At least not in comparison to the way in which they’re the same. Despite how very different Heavens (and in theory a very different Hells could have a similar sort of impact) changed the details of their relationship dynamics, in both the book and the show, Crowley leans on Aziraphale for emotional support to deal with trauma. (As a side note, I don’t want to imply that this is a one-way relationship. Aziraphale also receives emotional support from Crowley; I’m just not touching on that now because I have to draw the line somewhere.) And that emotional support is a key factor in what makes Crowley different from other demons.

Obviously, we can see how being stuck in Hell would have made Crowley a worse person – though I use the word worse lightly here, as I think it’s very likely that rather than getting meaner for being stuck in Hell, Crowley would develop a learned helplessness. But even if Crowley was on Earth, being on Earth without that emotional support would have eventually had a huge negative impact on him and his attitudes and behavior. Because seeing humans being cruel to each other hurts him, and with no way to process that hurt, it would keep building up until eventually he would have to retreat into apathy to protect himself. But where the apathy of a Hell-residing Crowley would be underpinned by a sense of hopelessness because cruelty from demons is just what he expects, the apathy of an Earth-residing Crowley would have underneath it a lot of anger and betrayal. He did expect better of them, and they let him down time and time again until he stopped seeing the good in them. This betrayal-fueled apathy is the recipe for getting a Crowley that presents as a stereotypical demon, selfish and cruel.

And now finally we reach the point. All of this, all 3767 words of it (well, most of it) was all just context building up to this question: what the fuck did Heaven and Hell do to Crowley and Aziraphale in the 1992 script version?

#good omens #crowley #aziraphale #show omens #book omens #ineffable husbands #meta

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spytap · 4 years

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That Time I Maybe Accidentally Slid Between Universes On The Lower East Side: A Modern Pizza Brigadoon

Okay, we’re trying this again. With the words. Let’s give it a shot.

I was telling this story over the weekend, and it struck me that it’s something I’ve never really written down. But I think it’s worth documenting - you know, for science.

I guess I have to preface this by saying that I’m not the type of person to accept the unexplainable. In the Mulder/Scully matrix of assumptions, I lean much more Scully, assuming that most things have a reasonable explanation once more data is uncovered or known. I say that just so that I can say that one time while on a business trip to New York, I’m pretty sure I drunkenly dropped back and forth between parallel universes Sliders-style while trying to grab a slice.

Right, so let’s set the stage of our merry little fever dream of a play, shall we?

It’s 1:30am and I am drunk.

Wait, let’s be clear: I’m not just “I’m in New York and let’s have some fun” drunk, I’m “we’re at a digital media event and it’s the late oughts” drunk. I think it was the Webbies, but who knows. It could have been social media week or any number of other things. But if you were in the DM scene at the time, you remember (or not…) that any event which brought together the weird crossover between tech, social media, and nascent web video had, at its intersection, going hard in the motherfucking paint, if you get my drift.

The late oughts were where SXSW got its reputation as an epic and riotous shitshow where long term memories went to die. Companies lived and died by the parties they threw way out in the wasteland that was “anywhere off of sixth street.” It set the scene for an arms race of irresponsibility that wouldn’t peter out until about 2012. And New York, being much larger than Austin and with a scrappy underdog of a tech industry, had a reputation to uphold.

So that’s how I find myself at my third after party, in a bar called (I think?) Ford’s, on the lower east side, surrounded by the technorati, glitterati, and all other manner of descriptive terms for young, pretty, newly and soon-to-be rich people, before we discovered that they were called “influencers.”

This bar is a proper dive. Not quite “you could destroy everything in here and you’d be out like fifteen bucks” but still well into “you’re gonna need more than a new paint job once the artisan cheese shops roll into this neighborhood.” Put in 2009 money, we were still getting five dollar beers in Manhattan, so do with that what you will.

Back to the story: right around 1:30AM, I’m thinking three things: 1) I would very much like to slam an inordinate amount of pizza into my mouth, 2) I probably need to use the restroom before I do so, and 3) The four or five people I’m with are probably feeling the same way. So I check in with my crew, tell them I’m gonna hit the head and then we’re gonna hit some pizza. First things first though: I gotta get some crucial info from the bartender.

I saunter up to the bar and ask where I can get a slice. The sole bartender, a man who is both younger and exponentially cooler than me, tells me “New York’s best pizza is two blocks up and one left.”

“New York’s best?” I clarify, because wouldn’t that be a coincidence?

“Yep, New York’s best pizza. Two blocks up, one left.”

Well, I know that everyone thinks they know the best pizza in town, but this dude looks like he’s a perpetual trend setter, so it feels like it has a higher-than-average likelihood of relative goodness. Besides, I’ve assaulted my sense well past the realm of good taste, so as long as it’s not cooked on a literal garbage can, it should serve it’s purpose. I pop the directions into the old memory banks, and wander off through the broken door that indicates relief (and, in retrospect, possibly tetanus.)

True to its dive bar requirements, this restroom is super classy you guys. Just above the pee trough (like an actual six foot long trough that horses would drink out of) (in other circumstances) there’s a mirror where someone has carved “Smoke Beer” - a particular exercise that I contemplate for far too long. Is this a flavor profile of some cheeky new porter? Are they suggesting you replace your bong water with Budweiser? Or is this an actual “get a beaker and some burners and let’s get high in the science lab” situation?

Regardless, my attention turns back to the core mission: Operation Pizza Face Hole Intersection. So I push away the culinary suggestion, zip up, and return to the main room to find…no one.

I don’t mean my friends were gone. I mean that when I left to pee, there was somewhere between 150 and 200 people in this bar, and now there were two. And I was one of them. The other one is a bartender, but very crucially, not the bartender I was just speaking to one or two or five hundred billion minutes ago. This is a new bartender. He’s older. And has a beard. This is very distinctly a different person, but I’m still hung up on the reality that there is no one else in this bar except for him and me.

I look at this new bartender. He looks at me. I look around to see if maybe my friends are hiding behind something, but this place doesn’t even have tables, let alone hiding spaces. I look back. He’s still looking at me. So I do the only logical thing to do in this scenario: I run away.

Outside, I pull out my blackberry (shut up) and call my friends. Voicemail. Every one. No one picks up. I text them “where the fuck are you assholes” but drunkenly, on a keyboard the size of a postage stamp, so they don’t write back, even to clarify whether I just had a stroke.

Something has definitely gone horribly wrong. I am very drunk in a strange part of a strange city. Everyone I know and several dozen complete strangers have been Thanos-snapped into the ether of the universe. I am alone and have no real understanding of how to get home from here. But, you know, I also still really want pizza. So I do the only thing that truly makes sense in this scenario: I start walking towards pizza.

One block up, things start getting weird(er). Now weird in nighttime Manhattan isn’t quite as weird as it used to be, and I’ve spent a fair amount of time in Venice Beach, so my weird meter is a little skewed compared to most people. But it’s as-near-as-matters-2am now and the streets of the lower east side are deserted, except for…

Look, there’s no way to say this without sounding like I’m writing a David Lynch spec, so I’m just gonna say it and you’re gonna have to trust me here.

Directly in front of me there is a group of a dozen or so seven to ten year old girls playing double dutch in the middle of the street. A totally normal sight at 2pm - less so at 2am. There are no adults here. Or anywhere. Except me. And right as I notice them, they notice me. They don’t stop their monotone chanting, they just continue to do so while swiveling their heads to follow me like a leopard follows a [whatever leopards eat - I’m not looking it up on Wikipedia right now.]

So once again: empty streets in the LES, except for me and a gaggle of girls wielding a pair of twin jump ropes. And chanting. I briefly wonder if they’re okay and why they’re out here all along performing what’s starting to sound more and more like some pagan ritual before I keep fucking walking because there’s no scenario in which any good comes from me stopping and hanging around. But I start thinking that I need a witness here.

The blessing of living in California and spending a lot of time in New York is actually time. More specifically, that you can call your girlfriend at what’s almost your 2AM and she’ll still be up and wondering what the absolute fuck you’re talking about when you open with “I hope I didn’t wake you but everyone disappeared and I’m kind of scared because there’s this creepy group of girls playing double dutch but I think it’s going to be alright because I’m walking to get pizza.”

We’d been together for a while at that point, so thankfully I’d build up a reservoir of good graces to pull from in moments like these.

Witness achieved, I told her precisely (ish) where I was, so the police could find my body, and continued my Epic Pizza Quest. Two blocks up, and one block left, where I found…

New York’s Best Pizza. That’s the goddamned name. Motherfucking hipster bartenders.

It’s open, for some reason, and empty for good reason, but after some back and forth that includes “well I don’t have any and I’d have to make a full pizza” and “I understand but I don’t want a full fucking pizza, I just want a slice” I get a couple slices and, for lack of anything better to do, decide to head back to Ford’s.

Now you might be asking yourself, dear reader, why I would march back through a fae revelry towards a crack in the universe, and that’s a very good question. The answer is that I was very drunk at the time.

So back I went.

The children were still there, still playing double dutch. (In my memory of this, they’re doing everything slowly and in a minor key, but it’s likely they were normal speed and tone, and I was just perceiving things slowly for chemical reasons.) My phone comes out again and I subtly (HA) narrate my way through this gauntlet to my girlfriend (and for the police report) and back towards the bar/Tardis.

Which brings us to our climax. See, there’s something even more disconcerting than leaving a restroom to find an erstwhile packed bar with naught but tumbleweeds, and that’s coming back to the deserted bar and finding it full again. Like packed full. Like normal full. Like Digital Media Event after party full. You know, like you remembered it pre-restroom (which is as weird a sentence to type as it is, I imagine, to read.)

I immediately run into my friends, who not only know nothing at all about the empty bar, but proclaim that they’ve been looking for me for “like an hour.” They’ve called and texted me, they say, which is ludicrous because I’ve been using my phone and I would have…

I looked at my phone. I had seven missed calls. A dozen texts. None of which were on my phone when I used it just moments ago, but all of which were timestamped over the past hour-ish.

I call my girlfriend again. Please pick up.

“Did you just talk to me and did I just tell you about everyone disappearing and the bar being totally empty and the weird creepy double dutch girls and getting into an argument with the pizza guy at New York’s Best Pizza?” I shouted into the phone, to the absolute horror of my friends (who were probably wondering what legal obligations they had to return me to my hotel and/or the insane asylum before I hurt myself.)

“Yes…” she responded, probably wondering what obligations she had to guide me to my hotel and/or the insane asylum before I hurt myself.

“Good!” I shouted, and promptly hung up, having proven my sanity, but really testing the depths of that aforementioned reservoir of goodwill. She would later tell me that somehow the second phone call was weirder than the first.

Moving past my friends, I stormed back into the bar. The bartender (the first one, the hipster one, the human one) clocked me coming in, but before he could open his mouth to ask what was probably going to be a very friendly question about whether I found the pizza place, or did I want to close out the tab I’d left open, instead got to be on the receiving end of me shouting “You sent me to a really fucking weird pizza place!” before marching out the door; thus cementing my reputation as a gifter of bizarre and inexplicable social interactions, and the probable punchline to someone else’s very different story.

For the rest of the week, my friends would swear up, down, sideways, sober, and drunk that no, the bar did not empty out; no, this was not a prank; no, they didn’t see me leave; and yes, they were in the very full and active bar the entire time I was gone.

It’s ten years later, and I don’t have an explanation for this event. I wouldn’t say it haunts me, but it’s definitely one of the weirder things that’s ever happened to me. And weirder still, in writing down this modern pizza-driven Brigadoon, I looked up Ford’s and New York’s Best Pizza just to see if I remembered their names right - and I can’t find any trace of either of them.

I’m still with the same girlfriend, and she still remembers the phone calls (vividly), but no one else was actually there, so no one else can verify the very weird set of events and circumstances that happened late that night, and into the early morning, across a series of overlapping universes.

Somewhere, out there in the ether of the multiverse, I imagine one version of me is still wondering where everyone went and yearning for a slice of New York’s Best Pizza.

#Personal

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carewyncromwell · 4 years

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The Cinderella AU is back...and with it, a proper introduction to the character who fills the “evil stepmother” role -- Carewyn’s cold, cruel grandfather, Charles Cromwell. If you’d like to learn more about Charles and his family’s canon counterparts, you can consult this post, but to summarize quickly, in Carewyn’s canon, Carewyn’s mother Lane ran away from home to elope with a Muggle, which ended up protecting Carewyn and Jacob from Charles’s emotionally abusive influence. (At least until R started going after them, because hey, what d’you know, in Carey-bear’s canon, Charles is R’s leader.) But in this AU, Carewyn has to answer to Charles for some reason...so yeah, that doesn’t bode well, does it? You’ll just have to read on to learn a little more about why that might be...

Fashion changed very dramatically during the Renaissance, thanks in large part to the cross-pollination of different cultures and influences that came from more extensive travel, the growing popularity of published works, and royal funding of the arts. Pre-Renaissance men’s fashion, at least for the nobility, was very big on oversized sleeves, which ended up creating a more “top-heavy” frame. (Just look at most portraits of King Henry VIII.) As the Renaissance went on, though, trunk hose (which creates that kind of “bubble butt” look that we’re used to seeing in William Shakespeare Halloween costumes) became the latest fad, shifting a man’s frame to be much more “bottom-heavy.” Women’s fashion briefly flirted with wide trumpet sleeves (as one can see in this portrait of a young Elizabeth Tudor, later Queen Elizabeth I), but by the time the 1550′s were over, rounded sleeves grew much more popular. Fitted sleeves also went in and out of style in a lot of Europe throughout the 16th century, though sleeves were considered a special feature on gowns, so they often had a lot of embellishments, such as paneling, embroidery, or puffs. One exception to this rule, however, was in Italy, where fitted, detachable sleeves that could be used on multiple gowns became fashionable. Fashion in Italy in the 16th century was notably understated and modest compared to a lot of Europe, which tended to favor a lot of ornate beading and embroidery -- there were even laws on the books restricting how “bedazzled” women’s fashion could be. One such law even banned stripes, as it was considered wasteful to use two different kinds of fabric just to make a pattern. That being said, there were plenty of people in Italy who said “screw the rules” and worked around them anyway. Carewyn’s dress in this picture is somewhat based on this design, but with some tweaking, most notably with a fuller skirt and more ornate and puffy sleeves.

Previous part is here -- whole tag is here -- and I hope you enjoy!

x~x~x~x

When the end of the month arrived, Andre requested that Carewyn come to his chambers bright and early in the morning. Carewyn had anticipated that the prince had some extra duties for her to attend to, but instead, he immediately led her over to a corner of his bed chamber that he’d drawn a curtain around. When he pulled the curtain back, he revealed a full tailoring station inside his walk-in closet, complete with organized rolls of fabric, various jewels and beads strewn about over a table, several unfinished hats stacked on the nearby desk, an entire separate wardrobe of unfinished pieces, and several mannequins with fine fabrics half-pinned on them.

One mannequin, however, was wearing a completely finished, luxurious dark scarlet gown. It was made of about six different fabrics, all cut and sewn together in a complex tapestry of folds and textures and trimmed with many sparkling beads and jewels. Also lying on the floor just in front of the dress was a pair of heeled shoes made of off-white cloth with red and white roses sewn into the toes.

Carewyn couldn’t help but gape. Andre was grinning from ear to ear.

“So?” he asked. “What do you think?”

Carewyn glanced out the side of her eye at the prince, over to the dress, and back.

“Did you...make this, your Highness?” she asked, amazed.

Andre laughed. “Carewyn, please, it’s ‘Andre.’ But yes! I got inspired while working on your shoes, so I stitched this up to go with it. ...Do you like it?”

Carewyn walked around the mannequin to look over the gown, not daring to touch it. She’d never seen so many fine fabrics on one dress before -- velvet, linen, silk -- and all the embellishments must’ve taken full days to finish --

“It’s -- well, it’s extraordinary, your -- Andre,” she corrected herself very quickly noticing the prince’s pointed smile. Even she was finding it difficult not to smile too. “The beading on the sleeves, the lace work -- the alternating wool and cotton paneling along the bodice...it’s worthy of an artisan!”

Andre looked clearly both incredibly pleased and impressed. “You have an eye for detail, Carewyn!”

His face burst into a bright white grin as he bent down and picked up one of the off-white cloth shoes.

“I’m pleased you like it,” he said brightly. “I thought it’d be the perfect thing for you to wear today. Lord Cromwell sent a message to the palace asking Father if you could return home for a visit -- so I worked all night to get this done in time so that you could wear it for your outing with your new shoes.”

Despite her best efforts, Carewyn couldn’t completely keep the dismay and discomfort she felt off her face.

“What? Oh -- oh, your Highness, I -- ”

“Ah, ah, ah,” chided Andre, “what have I asked you to call me?”

“Andre,” Carewyn corrected very quickly, her eyes drifting up onto the dress rather than at Andre, “this dress is...truly beautiful...but it befits a lady of status, not -- ”

“It fits you,” Andre said, undaunted. “I used the measurements from your uniform fitting. It should fit you like a glove -- or better.”

Carewyn felt like her stomach was shriveling up. She hated turning away such a lovely gift -- under any other circumstances, she would love wearing it out and about. But...

“That...that is...it’s so kind of you, to use me as your template...”

Or “dress-up doll” -- that is what the Queen said I would be, isn’t it?

“...but I simply couldn’t wear such a gift on my visit...not when I have no comparable gifts to bring my cousins. Many of them are around my age, and...and well, I know Heather, Iris, and Dahlia would be very upset, knowing I got to wear such a beautiful dress and they didn’t.”

None of her cousins had ever been very respectful of Carewyn’s personal belongings. Not long after she first arrived, her aunt Pearl’s two bullying sons, Kain and Arsen, stole her jewelry box while she was sleeping and sold both it and its contents for pocket change. Her youngest cousin, her uncle Blaise’s bratty son Tristan, had once thrown a bottle of red wine out the window that shattered mere feet away from Carewyn and soaked her dress so badly that it never washed out. Even Iris had -- after Carewyn caught the eye of one of her suitors who’d come to call -- ripped the sleeve off Carewyn’s dress so badly that she had to hide from sight for most of the day, until she’d managed to sew it up enough that her chest wasn’t exposed. Carewyn had had to hide her mother’s old dress from her cousins for years, for fear they might steal and/or ruin it.

Andre frowned deeply.

“Well, I hardly can send along anything for your cousins without knowing their measurements,” he said with a quick glance at the wardrobe full of unfinished pieces.

His face then brightened with an idea.

“How about this -- I’ll order you. I order you to wear this dress on your trip home, and to have your cousins give you their honest opinion of it. Then you must bring their opinions back to me. Goodness knows I could use some feedback -- and maybe a few new ideas, if they have them,” he added with a teasing grin.

Carewyn opened her mouth to object, but Andre cut her off.

“As your prince, I command you to showcase my work to your family,” he said through a broad grin. “Am I clear?”

Carewyn really, really didn’t love the idea -- but she had to concede that she could use this to her advantage. She needed a stable place at the palace in order to achieve her goals, and she could help maintain that stable place at the palace by justifying to Charles why she had to be there. And Charles’s whole interest in her being there was to try to endear the Cromwells further to the royal family, and maybe even secure one of her Aunt Claire’s daughters a space in that family...

So, with a heavy sigh, she put on a small smile and inclined her head respectfully.

“Very well, Andre. I’ll wear your work proudly.”

And so Carewyn set off for the Cromwell estate on horseback, dressed in the new shoes and dress Andre had made for her. The shoes were lovely and fit perfectly, but they were rather impractical for walking around outdoors. Carewyn thought to herself that she might have to continue wearing her old shoes when she returned to her palace work, if for no other reason that she hated the thought of getting them scuffed up.

As to be expected, when she arrived, her cousins reacted very hostilely to her appearance.

“Well, well,” sneered curly-black-haired Kain, “what do we have here? Playacting as a lady, little Winnie?”

“All hail Lady Cinderwyn, Duchess of Dust!” sniggered his similarly dark-haired brother Arsen.

He reached for her wide skirt, but Carewyn -- remaining on her horse -- steered herself far enough back that he couldn’t reach.

“I wouldn’t damage this, if I were you,” she said as coolly and levelly as she could. “It’s not mine.”

Arsen and Kain exchanged a mocking, wide-eyed look and an “oooooh.”

“Are you a thief now, little Winnie?” asked Kain. “How far you’ve fallen -- we might need to call the castle guard on you -- ”

“Cinderwyn’s a thief!” crowed tiny Tristan in a sing-song voice. “Cinderwyn’s a thief!”

Claire’s three daughters looked a lot less mocking.

“You have some nerve, stealing clothes from your betters,” spat dainty, brown-haired Heather. “Grandfather should lash you within an inch of your life -- ”

“I haven’t stolen anything,” Carewyn said very firmly. “Now I wish to see Grandfather. I have a message from the Prince he’ll want to hear.”

“Grandfather’s inside,” said Claire’s gangling, button-nosed son Elmer with a crooked smile. “I’m sure he’ll enjoy your new look, Lady Cinderwyn...especially with the finishing touch!”

He jumped right into a mud puddle that splashed everywhere. Carewyn just barely avoided the spray, but when she moved back, Dahlia and Iris successfully grabbed hold of her velvet brocaded skirt and yanked hard in either direction, as if trying to rip it.

“Iris -- Dahlia -- ” said Carewyn, her voice growing colder and harder as she struggled to hold in her temper and emotion as best she could, “if either of you have any ambition to marry his Highness, I would strongly suggest letting go of his dress this instant!”

All of Carewyn’s cousins stiffened.

“His dress?” repeated Dahlia, looking outraged. “You mean to say you took this from the Prince?!”

“He bid me to wear it, for my visit,” Carewyn shot back fiercely. “Or would you have me oppose his Highness’s will?”

“You...arrogant, pretentious, ungrateful little rat!” shrieked Dahlia. She tried to yank Carewyn off her horse, and there was a slight struggle as Carewyn tried to both comfort her horse and prevent Dahlia from dislodging her.

“Now, now, children,” said a very coldly serene voice, “a little less noise there.”

All of the Cromwell children looked up to see Charles Cromwell striding across the lawn. He was dressed in black, gray, and white with a dark red cape with black trim, and he supported himself on an ebony-wood cane with a dragon’s head carved out of black zircon for a handle. Behind him were Carewyn’s aunts, Pearl and Claire, with their husbands, as well as her uncle Blaise. All three of them were looking over Carewyn’s outfit disapprovingly -- Blaise looked particularly irritated, his upper lip curling as he rested a hand on top of Tristan’s shoulder that made the small boy flinch.

Iris and Dahlia were still clinging to Carewyn’s skirt, but they’d frozen up like startled cats when their grandfather appeared.

“Grandfather -- ” stammered Iris, “W-Winnie’s a no-good thief -- she stole this dress from -- !”

"I have stolen nothing,” Carewyn repeated coldly. She stroked her horse’s white mane several times to soothe it.

Pearl too had come up to rest a hand on Arsen’s shoulder and was looking at Carewyn very critically out her own almond-shaped blue eyes -- most of Carewyn’s family had them.

“Is that so?” she said, her voice a low growl in her throat. “Explain, then, what gives you the nerve to show up here dressed in such obnoxious clothes.”

“It’s positively garish,” added Claire in a higher, simpering tone from her comfortable spot in her husband’s arms, mirroring her sister’s disapproval like a child would imitate their older sibling.

Carewyn raised her eyebrows very coolly. “Prince Henri will be very disappointed to hear that. He worked very hard on this.”

This startled all of the Cromwells. Blaise looked scandalized.

“And I suppose that makes you think the Prince favors you somehow?” he spat, his eyes flashing dangerously as he released Tristan’s shoulder and approached Carewyn’s horse. “Rather than just thinking of using you as some saucy little tart and then discarding you, just like your wretch of a father did your mother -- ”

"I think nothing of the sort,” Carewyn cut him off coldly.

Don’t you dare talk about my mother.

Charles, the least visibly startled, took a few steps forward. Iris and Dahlia finally released Carewyn’s skirt so as to get out of the way, and Charles came to a stop about three feet from Carewyn’s horse, his own almond-shaped eyes locked on his ginger-haired granddaughter’s face.

“I believe you owe me a full report, child,” he said quietly. “Stand before me and give it.”

Carewyn’s red-painted lips pursed as she picked up her skirts and descended from her horse at last. She looked up at Charles with a very stoic expression.

“Prince Henri learned that I would be coming to see you, as per your request,” she explained. “He commanded that I wear this dress, for my visit. He’s heard about my cousins and desires Dahlia, Iris, and Heather’s opinions on it. Then he requested I deliver their feedback back to him this evening.”

The time limit was a flat-out lie, but one Carewyn knew she could get away with. She did not want to stay at the Cromwell estate overnight -- she’d rather sleep on a lumpy old cot in the servants’ quarters than on the floor by the kitchen fireplace.

Claire looked at Charles, her face breaking into a rather eager expression. “His Highness wishes to hear from my daughters? He must have heard from the rest of the court of their extensive talents -- ”

“Or at least purported talents,” said Blaise under his breath with a rather cynical look. “Seems the rumor mill is working well...“

Pearl shot Blaise a glare, but Claire didn’t seem to hear him -- she had already whirled on Carewyn.

“Tell his Highness that the dress is a work of art, fit for a queen!” she said insistently. “And make sure that he knows that there are much better models for his work here, at the Cromwell estate -- Iris has a far superior build, Dahlia the most perfect shoulders -- ”

“I suppose Winnie can do far worse than inanely fawning over your daughters’ target on their behalf,” said Blaise in a rather cutting voice. “Mindlessly swooning certainly worked for you.”

“Blaise!” Pearl snapped reproachfully.

Charles’s eyes drifted over Claire and her three anxious-looking daughters thoughtfully.

“...What feedback...do you believe would most please his Highness, child?” he asked Carewyn.

“He appreciated it when I noticed the details,” said Carewyn. “I would think if anyone had any creative ideas to add onto it...or perhaps constructive criticism...he might react well to it. His Highness is very interested in fashion and tailoring...I’m sure he would appreciate knowing someone who could indulge in that passion with him.”

He must be awfully lonely, locked up in the palace all the time. It’s no wonder he tried to find things to do indoors that could bring him some joy, if he’s unable to go much of anywhere...

Charles’s eyes flitted over the silk and ornate beading on Carewyn’s sleeves.

“His Highness certainly does have an eye for finery...has the royal family come into additional wealth recently?”

“I don’t think so,” said Carewyn. “The castle staff is very limited. And although the nobility are all dressed and fed well and the castle is decadent, the staff is frequently short of common necessities like nails and coal for the fire. Not to mention the staff’s rations are sparse.”

Iris gave a loud, haughty laugh. “Ha! Probably just as well -- you could do with getting some of that meat off your thighs!”

“Iris,” said Charles very sleekly, even as the rest of Carewyn’s cousins sniggered.

His lips curled up in a smile that didn’t touch his eyes.

“...It seems that the King and Queen are indeed in need of our family’s charity. But we must indulge their pride. It’ll be far easier for them to accept help from a future daughter-in-law and princess than simply from a loyal servant of the realm. Carewyn -- you shall report back what his Highness wishes to hear. Customize three answers for Heather, Iris, and Dahlia -- one fawning, one critical, one creative. Whichever answer he likes best, we will then pursue that route with the cousin you’ve assigned to it.”

His almond-shaped blue eyes narrowed ever-so-slightly upon Carewyn’s face.

“And once we’ve secured an invitation from the Prince...I expect that you will step aside, to make room for your cousin to make her move.”

Carewyn’s expression didn’t shift.

“I’m not interested in courting princes,” she said lowly.

Heather, Iris, and Dahlia can knock themselves out. Andre will see through them sooner or later, and it’ll be all their own fault.

There was a cold, diamond-like glint in Charles’s eye. “...Yes...you truly don’t care to chase any man except for your brother...do you, Carewyn, my dear?”

Carewyn tried not to blink or look away.

“You have news of Jacob?”

Charles sighed airily. “I’m afraid not, my dear. I know he’s well, of course...but news from the War front, as you know, is simply impossible to come by...”

“You know he’s alive,” Carewyn shot back a bit more sharply than she meant to. “That doesn’t mean he’s well. No one could be doing well out there.”

“And yet I’m sure you’re happy that the first is guaranteed?” said Charles. “At least, so long as you do your duty to your family, and to me?”

It was a warning, but it was done so delicately -- it was like his voice was flirting with a threat, rather than flat-out making one.

Carewyn’s lips came together tightly as her gaze drifted to the ground.

“You know I wish no harm to come to either you or Jacob,” Charles said softly. “Losing a child was terrible enough, losing grandchildren as well...well, it would deeply upset me. And per our agreement, you are the one who must shoulder the burden of your brother’s and your debt to me...particularly since you have no dowry and no possible claim to my estate. Remember, Carewyn...you are responsible for how you are treated -- and for how Jacob is treated.”

Carewyn’s eyebrows knit tightly together over her closed eyes.

“...Yes, sir.”

“Good. Now then -- rehearse the answers you plan to give to his Highness with your cousins. I wish them to sound convincing, so that when one or more of them is invited to the palace, they will be able to play their part appropriately.”

Carewyn hated every minute of hashing out responses with Heather, Iris, and Dahlia. Like their mother Claire, they and Elmer were all “follower” type personalities who tended to echo whatever they thought would please others -- so Dahlia, Iris, and Heather were constantly trying to steal each other’s ideas to “improve” Carewyn’s answers, despite all three of them supposedly needing to take three different approaches as part of Charles’s plan. Even the three girls’ hostile attitude toward Carewyn largely came down to her refusing to follow their direction, despite her lowered status in the family giving them authority over her -- something that, Carewyn believed, they would never do if their positions were switched.

When Carewyn was finally ready to leave (and successfully avoided Tristan’s muddy hands when the wickedly grinning little boy forcibly tried to hug her goodbye so he could leave stains on her dress), Blaise pulled Charles aside. As the male heir of the Cromwell legacy, Blaise had always followed in his father’s footsteps most, but there was one thing they didn’t agree on.

“Father,” he said, his voice very low in the back of his throat as he watched Carewyn ride away at a fast gallop, “I don’t approve of her returning to that place.”

Charles smiled coldly. “You always have disliked sharing your toys with others, Blaise.”

“It’s a bad influence!” said Blaise, whirling on his father. “We can’t monitor what she does, how she behaves -- who she speaks to -- how can we hope to keep her, if we consistently open her cage?”

Charles’s eyes, the same color and shape of all of his children and most of his grandchildren, sparkled with something crueler.

“Ah, my boy,” he said sardonically, “you have much to learn about cages. Physical cages have strong bars, but ones easy to see and constantly weathered. But a cage forged carefully in another’s mind...can become so strong that the prisoner willingly chooses to stay.”

Charles turned on his heel, his lips curling up further still even though his face remained so doll-like and emotionless.

“As weak and overemotional of a thing she is, Carewyn is far more like you and me than Lane ever was. She’s very resourceful and she’ll do whatever she has to in order to get what she wants -- and that drive fuels everything she is and does. It may make her spirited, but it also makes it so that as long as she sees Jacob’s life in the palm of my hand...so too will she be.”

Blaise’s eyes flickered with a strange skepticism. “And...if Jacob’s life were ever not under your sway?”

Charles’s expression grew even more detached and emotionless as his smile faded and his eyebrows raised.

“...Would Carewyn really want to contemplate what state he’d be in, if he weren’t?”

Carewyn couldn’t be happier to leave the Cromwell estate behind. She didn’t slow down her horse’s pace until she’d reached the outskirts of the market, well after the manor house was out of sight. Only then did she slow her horse down to a leisurely trot, so that she could enjoy some time on her own wandering down the village streets before heading back to the palace. The castle staff wasn’t expecting her back to work until the following morning, so she could take her time.

Unfortunately for Carewyn, there was another reason her cousin Tristan’s hands had been so muddy -- and that reason soon became apparent when Carewyn reached into one of the pockets on the side of her saddle, thinking to temporarily change out of the pretty shoes Andre had given her and were now pinching her feet for the ride home. When she reached into the pocket, she instead found the tiny snake that Tristan had stolen out of the reeds by the nearby pond.

With a scream of surprise, Carewyn flung the snake to the ground -- the snake arched back, hissing angrily, and that in turn spooked Carewyn’s horse. With a loud, scared whinny, it reared back, bucking wildly.

“Whoa!” cried Carewyn. “Whoa, boy -- whoa!”

Several passerby turned around at the sound of the noise. A few looked like they wanted to help, but were too warded off by the horse’s kicking feet. Carewyn tried desperately to calm her horse, stroking its mane with one hand and clinging desperately onto the reins with the other, but it was no use. She wasn’t strong enough to wrench her horse into submission. And so when the horse gave a particularly violent jerk, Carewyn was thrown right off.

“AHH!”

Out of nowhere, someone dashed forward. Carewyn ended up slamming right into them, and the two landed roughly in a heap in the dirt.

Carewyn watched her horse gallop off the street, her face very tense and distraught. She then looked down at the person she’d landed on top of, and she gave a visible start.

Her “hero” was a man about her age dressed in modest clothes with tanned skin, slightly-too-long dark hair, and a beard. His sparkling black eyes were squinted slightly as he winced in pain, but nonetheless shone with some concern as he looked her over.

“Are you hurt, Lady Cromwell?” asked Orion.

#hphm #hogwarts mystery #cinderella au #carewyn cromwell #charles cromwell #blaise cromwell #pearl cromwell #claire cromwell #andre egwu #orion amari #my art #my writing #orion!! you sweet tofu-eating knight in shining armor!!#and charles cromwell you no-good bastard :I #the cromwell clan by and large are terrible people but all of them are dark shades of gray except for charles #he's always been the worst of the bunch easily since he first appeared in my head #but hey for a character who leads r in his canon I guess that's not surprising #charles's cane has a black dragon head which is a reference to the hebridean black dragon which appears on the cromwell coat of arms #like mythical dragons the cromwells hoard their treasures -- not just financial wealth but also their family #it's frankly no wonder carewyn's learned to be stoic and sophisticated in this universe looking at how charles acts and treats her #she got her more tearful and emotional outbursts beaten out of her by her cousins' bullying #and yet she's too proud to grovel and cower :(#I'm looking forward to writing some more pleasant stuff in the next part <3

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kuramirocket · 4 years

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It’s been more than a month since Frank Coronado got COVID-19, but the photographer from Oaxaca, Mexico, still gasps for air when he speaks sometimes. Although his illness didn’t put him in the hospital, his case was severe enough that he worried about suffocating in his sleep.

Coronado’s personal experience with the coronavirus has made the Oaxaca native sensitive to the pandemic situation in the state. As he watched case numbers continuing to rise, he also noticed more tourists defying widely practiced public-health protocols like wearing face masks in public.

On Feb. 25, Coronado posted a plea to his 171,000 Instagram followers: “Dear travelers, you are welcome in Oaxaca, but you should ALWAYS wear a mask when you are in public places.”

He wanted to publicly address the issue and encourage visitors to do better – particularly visitors who travel from Oaxaca City into smaller rural villages, where artisans are even more vulnerable.

“I get mad because I already went through (COVID-19) and know how bad it feels,” Coronado says. “I don’t want my people, the people of Oaxaca, to get sick.”

Unlike many of the world’s most-frequented tourism hot spots, Mexico never fully closed to foreign visitors. While the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention has said Americans should avoid all travel to Mexico because of a “very high level” of coronavirus, the country has remained one of the most popular destinations throughout the pandemic.

Still, Mexico tourism plummeted last spring as it did around the globe; according to the state government, Oaxaca recorded less than half of its 2019 visitor arrival numbers in 2020. Numbers picked up again last summer, but welcoming outsiders back as the pandemic continues to rage has been complicated.

While Oaxaca doesn’t pull in nearly as many visitors as Mexican destinations such as Cancún, Acapulco or Mexico City, tourism is a significant part of its economy. Those who work in the industry have suffered.

With business trickling back, Sánchez is elated. He took coronavirus prevention courses by the Mexican Institute of Social Security (IMSS) and guided his first tour again on Oct. 20. Now he follows precautions such as checking guests’ temperatures, requiring face masks, social distancing and providing hand sanitizer. He also helps Americans get their mandatory coronavirus tests.

Most of his returning customers have complied with his safety protocols. But that’s not the case with all of the tourists he sees around town, like the Americans who refused to wear a mask at the request of an ice cream vendor, or the people who regularly break coronavirus rules at Monte Albán, Oaxaca’s most famous archaeological site.

“As soon as they go through the checkpoint, 30 steps after that, they take their masks off,” Sánchez says. “And most of them are foreigners.”

Beyond Monte Albán and Oaxaca City, Oaxaca’s artisan culture is one of its strongest selling points. It’s common for tourists to take day trips out to remote villages to see how the state’s famed mezcal alcohol, and arts and crafts, are made. With little access to medical care, those communities have been particularly vulnerable during the pandemic. Many closed to outsiders to protect themselves, but some have started welcoming back visitors for income despite the risk involved.

Omar Alonso, who has run food and mezcal tours in Oaxaca for seven years, says visiting rural communities can be done safely with the small private groups he vets ahead of time. But he regularly runs into the kinds of tourists he fears.

For example, Alonso says he often sees maskless foreigners in the mountain town of San José Del Pacifico between Oaxaca City and the beach.

“If you are going through a town where there’s locals and older people serving you food because that’s what they do for a living, it’s very frustrating because (foreigners) don’t respect them,” says Alonso, whose uncle died of COVID-19. “I can tell you that yesterday, when we went to have lunch, out of the maybe 20 tourists that we saw walking around town, maybe two of them had a mask.”

Vera Claire, a U.S. expat whose nonprofit Cosa Buena works with local Indigenous communities to preserve their artistic traditions, says she believes some tourists’ perception of Mexico could be the problem.

“I think there’s a stereotype of (Mexico) being a place with no rules, a place to have fun and relax and enjoy yourself,” she says. She regularly receives messages on social media or emails from strangers asking for Oaxaca travel advice, noting that they need to get away and forget about their lives in the United States for a while, she says.

“That’s a really dangerous narrative, of course, because they come here with that mentality that there’s no rules,” Claire says. “Those of us who are foreigners living here all have a responsibility of shedding light on the severity of the situation. … Mexico is beautiful. It’s a wonderful place to escape to. But the same thing is happening here.”

The frequency of spotting maskless tourists in Oaxaca City is increasing despite the prevalence of signs encouraging masks and most locals complying with the practice, Claire says. It’s unsettling as the coronavirus seems to be encroaching on her community.

It’s impossible to know exact case numbers in the area as testing is limited. But it was reported in January that hospitalizations in Oaxaca for COVID-19 were rising rapidly, with 13 hospitals in the state at full capacity and facing a desperate oxygen tank shortage, a problem plaguing more than Oaxaca.

“It’s a dramatic situation, and it’s not something tourists are seeing,” he says. “This is a harsh reality that doesn’t show up on Instagram.”

Reyes said he thinks the worst offenders are young tourists. He has watched them come from around the world to travel along a well-worn party circuit through Mexico City, Tulum and Oaxaca, attending huge, mask-free gatherings and putting locals at risk.

“It sends a really sad, de-motivating message to locals who are taking care of each other,” Reyes says. “We are all trying to keep it together, and these guys are flying around the city enjoying themselves and not taking care of us.”

Many in Oaxaca City don’t have the luxury of isolating from tourists – like Aurora Tostado, who owns the downtown coffee shop Marito & Moglie with her husband.

“People in Mexico, we have to get out of our homes to work. It’s not like we can work remotely like most of the people in the U.S.,” Tostado says.

The couple made adjustments to Marito & Moglie, moving more tables to an outside patio and encouraging customers to keep masks on and social distance. Insisting on safety protocols is something that makes her and her employees feel more comfortable at work, and something most guests appreciate – but Tostado notices others around town behaving as if the pandemic is over. “This is not Disneyland,” she would like to tell them.

#people always love our culture but when it comes to us as people most don't give a shit #this is what I have always said since the start converning tourists #especially americans in mexico #news #mexico #coronavirus #covid19 #covid 19 #covid-19 #oaxaca #indigenous #usa #united states #americans #🇲🇽

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