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the-l-spacer · 3 years

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Ooo fic requests,,, how abouttt madeleine convincing espresso to take a day off to relax?

ao3

He really should have seen them sooner. The signs, pointing to the fact that something is amiss with Espresso. But as Madeleine sweeps up the stairs to the mage’s laboratory, situated two floors above Sparkling’s juice bar, he remains blissfully unaware of the uncharacteristic quiet of the stairwell, devoid of the usual distant crackling of electricity. He doesn’t notice that the hum of equipment, the bubbling and hissing of wildly coloured chemicals in little vials, the telltale scratch-scratch-scratch of Espresso’s quill on parchment, are absent as well.

Instead, he hums the chorus line of an old Republic cantata that had snuck into his head that morning. He balances the freshly-made scones, jam and cream in the crook of his right arm, the flasks of tea (for him) and coffee (for his boyfriend) in his left. And as he clears the last flight of steps, he certainly doesn’t register the musty smell of the room he stands outside, the scent of dust and stale coffee souring the air, as he bursts through the door, announcing heartily,

“Espresso! The hero of the hour has come to relieve you of your workaholism… with breakfast!” He brandishes the gifts — procured from the market that very morning — like they’re his sword and shield, flashes his trademark grin, and…

….and then he goes quiet.

Espresso sits (or rather, slumps) at his messy desk, head resting in both his hands. His carefully gelled up hair now falling in disheveled locks across his face. Slowly, thin fingers shift slightly to reveal a single, bloodshot eye, that regards the knight with disdain.

“Of course,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “As if things couldn’t get any worse, you show up.”

Madeleine blinks at the unexpected hurt the comment brings him. Yes, their early relationship was full of such... quips from Espresso, but more than half the time, Madeleine had deserved them. Now, after time spent trying to improve himself, stepping back to let others take the spotlight once in a while, not tying his worth to the adoration of the public (that was still a work in progress), he thought he’d gotten better. To hear his boyfriend say those same, biting words that characterised their interactions months prior, when all he’d done was say hello?

Something isn’t right.

“Well, that is to say, your work ethic is something I admire, of course, but you do tend to neglect yourself because of it.” Madeleine pads towards the desk, tries to find an uncluttered spot to set their breakfast down. “Hence, scones! Tear yourself away for a bit and eat them with me?”

Espresso’s finger twitches, and quite suddenly, Madeleine is sent stumbling back, a crackling magical barrier shooting up around the mage. “Leave, Knight-Commander,” Espresso says, “I’m in no mood to entertain your bumbling.”

Carefully, Madeleine sets down the packages on the floor. “Espresso. Are you well? Something about you seems… off, today.”

The Coffee mage, still unmoving at his desk, scoffs lightly. “Off? I’m fine. I was perfectly fine before you came along to distract me.”

Madeleine chances a glance around the room, at the crumpled up papers scattered across the floor, the dustbins filled with strange, foul-smelling goop, cups of half-drunk coffee set across every available surface.

“I do not think so,” he responds, gently as he can. “Something is troubling you, that much is clear. Let me help, Espresso.”

Espresso’s fists slam on the table, and the mage’s head snaps up, anger flashing in his eyes. “You’re not some white knight in shining armour, and you’re not a savior,” he snarls, “so stop trying to be one and leave. Me. Alone!” The barrier around him turns into a wave of Coffee Magic that sweeps across the lab, engulfing Madeleine in momentary pain.

Then, the room is silent once again.

Madeleine regards Espresso, head back in his hands. “Are you done?”

“Leave.”

He takes a breath, composes his next words, and speaks. “It’s true that I am none of those things, you’ve made that abundantly clear in the time we’ve known each other.” No response from Espresso, but for a slight exhalation of breath he chooses to interpret as amusement. He continues. “But I am your boyfriend. And while I may not be a saviour, I’m not foolish enough to let that stop me from caring about you. If caring means leaving you alone, then so be it. But I’ve left you alone for weeks now, and seeing you this way…”

He trails off, looking Espresso up and down. His robe had been long discarded, in favour of rumpled shirtsleeves, stained and singed, and the mage looks more exhausted than usual, if that is even possible.

“… So let me care about you. Please.”

As if a switch had been flipped, Espresso deflates, curling in, head falling from his hands to rest on the desk’s edge with a dull thud. His next words come slightly muffled from beneath the table.

“I’m sorry, it-”, They both wince at the rough, sarcastic tone. Espresso takes a shuddering breath, and Madeleine’s chest aches when he sees Espresso’s slight frame shake with the effort. He tries again, softer this time. “I’m sorry. It’s just. It's been-” his voice hitches. “It’s been a long day.”

And Madeleine is crouched at his side in an instant, rubbing soothing circles into his back. Espresso sighs, and leans against him.

“It’s the research grant for the Parfaedia Institute,” the words tumble out of him, “I have to develop a new spell, submit successful results as proof. Next year’s funding hinges on it but. But I-”

Madeleine leans on his shoulder. “It’s alright. You don’t need to say it if you don’t want to.

“No, it’s… it’s nothing. Just that none of my experiments have worked so far. I thought that if I simply buckled down and focused, everything would fall into place, like it had in the past. But the deadline is a week away and I’m no closer to a completed paper than I was a month ago. I.” Espresso shuts his eyes, fighting against the rising tears. ‘I don’t know what to do.”

Wordlessly, Madeleine straightens up, opens his arms.

Espresso gets out of his seat, wincing as blood rushes to his legs, and stumbles into his boyfriend’s embrace, the tension in his shoulders finally melting away.

“Madeleine, I need a day off, don’t I?” Espresso mutters, defeated, into his chest.”

The paladin chuckles. “I think you just might.”

“Had coffee an hour ago though. Probably wouldn’t be able to sleep, even if I tried.”

Madeleine breaks away gently. “How about some breakfast, to start? These scones aren’t going to eat themselves.”

For the first time in weeks, Espresso cracks a small smile. “Let me get cleaned up first?”

“Of course.”

“And Madeleine?” Espresso looks up at the knight.

“Hmm?”

“I’m sorry about earlier, truly. And… thank you.”

Madeleine smiles, too, and presses a soft kiss to Espresso’s forehead.

“Already forgiven, and thank you. For letting me take care of you.”

Later, they take breakfast together (slightly cold, but neither of them mind). Then, Madeleine takes Espresso’s hand, and pulls him out of his dark laboratory, to the sunlit Kingdom beyond.

If he was someone different, perhaps Madeleine would have pointed out the metaphor. But he’s far too busy trying to win a stuffed jelly horse for his boyfriend (currently riding a carousel bemusedly) to notice. Probably for the best, anyways.

#cookie run #espresseleine #IM SORRY THIS HAS BEEN SITTING IN MY INBOX FOR MONTHS DJDBDLBDLD #wrote this in a haze might go back tomorrow and edit #but yea hope u like it anon!#the actual break-taking happens towards the end most of this is just grumpy espresso oops #oh yeah also this entire fic was based around usnavis one line in champagne jsyk

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notachaconne · 3 years

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All the Bachs

II have wondered about this ever since I read that line in the book, what, near thirty years ago now? Convincing Aziraphale to try to avert the Apocalypse, Crowley says that Hell is in possession of all Aziraphale's favourite composers, and I remember the line as ending "Beethoven, Mozart, all the Bachs!"

It is implied that they both know this to be true. In the TV series they use the same line but I think Aziraphale's response is new, I remember it as a silence in the book, and I haven't got a copy here.

But wait a minute, "all the Bachs"? That is a profoundly countercultural statement, that's not the same as saying Beethoven or Mozart. That's claiming the family music factory with "for the glory of God and the refreshment of the soul" over the door, the man who is widely assumed in the western classical culture to be the Kapellmeister in Heaven, Master of Music to the Prince of Peace. Author of not only the Chaconne, the Mass in B Minor and the St Matthew Passion, but also a cantata about coffee and this craziness and whatever this is. Anyway, I haven't seen anyone notice what a bold and counter-traditional claim Crowley makes at this point.

There are a few obvious ways take it, and I think I remember considering all of them at the time.

1. It's making the point that in the GO universe, you can't trust Heaven. This is more of a theme in the TV series than the book, though. The book is vague about Heaven; it's just depicted as much less interesting than Earth.

2. It's making the point that in both the GO universe and our own, you just never know about anybody. This would be, I think, a perfectly orthodox Christian point of view. But it's not a theme in GO.

3. It's nothing more than a reference to the saying, attributed to various Evangelical preachers, "why should the Devil have all the best tunes?" The joke is that in the GO universe the Devil has, in fact, all the best tunes. And "Beethoven, Mozart, Bach" were the first three names the authors could use that their audience would understand as "best". This is supported by Crowley's next line, something to the effect of "can you imagine eternity with Elgar?" the joke being that Elgar is famous enough that the audience would still get the joke, but not the best, and a bit twee for Azairphale's tastes.

Now, I am sure that 3 there is the correct interpretation. It's completely in line with Pratchett's "cultural white noise" approach. We know what the allusions are, details are unimportant.

Edward Elgar was an English gentleman at the tail end of German Romanticism. He was particularly strong on tunes. While J. S. Bach is almost pure harmony, counterpoint and ornament, there aren't really tunes, in quite the way Elgar wrote them, at all. Subjects and motifs aren't really the same thing, in my view. Elgar was a Catholic, treated with some suspicion by the British establishment, and wrote a lot of religious music, but he became less religious during his lifetime and told his doctor before his death that he had no belief in an afterlife. (Another interesting thing about him is that he took to the new technology and made quite a few recordings conducting his own music.)

I'm sure that 3 is the correct interpretation, but I always felt this was a bit like the Bentley. In the book they went with the car being shaped like a 1920s Bentley, which isn't what they meant at all, and this is corrected in the TV show to what they did have in mind. The point is, what they were going for is a cool car, conceptually the same car Lord Peter Wimsey drives - that, I have always supposed, is why it's a Bentley and not anything else. And what they were going for was, conceptually, "best" and "not best" music, and it's only if you pay too much attention to unimportant details that you get a bit thrown and start to wonder if they're doing something much more complicated.

I don't actually know if Dorothy L Sayers was a reference for either Pratchett or Gaiman, but it seems very likely to me. A fascinating thing about DLS is the way she ended up having to completely remodel her principal character because she had sort of accidentally written her own fanfic. And she really rose to the occasion.

I wonder what happens in series 2.

The line about the massive continuity of ducks is DLS. I forget which book it's from, but it's one of the remodelling ones, probably Gaudy Night, which also contains that amazing sonnet. There's just a perfectly-formed sonnet. Which two of the characters write. Together.

All fiction transforms something.

#good omens #good omens meta #classical music #good omens music

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borathae · 5 years

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↳ Index [#02 Act Two: Connected by Sound]

Warnings: none, maybe a hint of homesickness

Wordcount: 5.2k

The rest of your week you spent attending lectures and practicing your first cantata as well as hanging out with Jimin and Jungkook. You had decided to give them a second chance. They were the first ones to be nice to you after all and you are surely not in the mood to find new people to hang out with, it is far too stressful for you. So you guys meet up daily at their favorite spot, a small wooden bench underneath a big oak tree just down by the school’s pond. It is beautiful, you definitely know why it is their favorite place. It is calm, quite and basically no people come here, which makes it the perfect spot to chat, laugh loudly as well as have some random improvised duets. It is fun hanging out with them. They are nice, like really nice, they make you laugh until tears dwell in the corners of your eyes and your stomach aches. They make you feel accepted.

Come Sunday you all had already exchanged phone numbers and Jungkook even made a group chat, making up the name for it from a weird concoction of your names. It was hilarious really.

And Yoongi? Well, Yoongi you decided to push back to the farthest part of your memory and given that you neither saw him again nor Jimin and Jungkook mentioned him again, it was an easy task to do.

You are sitting in your fifth lecture for today, European History of Music, when the blushing man comes crashing back into your life. You are currently munching on your second sandwich - as you had gotten quite hungry because of the lack of an afternoon snack break – and stare mindlessly to the front of the lecture hall, when someone suddenly blocks your view.

The sudden black figure shielding your vision makes you blink. And then you blink again. And again. And again. The piece of half-chewed sandwich gets swallowed down.

That posture, you know it, shoulders drawn up to the ears and head lowered. The figure even wears his hood again. Min Yoongi, it’s him and as fate had decided he is sitting right in front of you.

You are starting to feel incredibly nervous, your heart is racing in your chest and your sandwich lays forgotten in your lunchbox. This could be your chance to introduce yourself to him and ask him about his side of the story.

You stand up, leaning over the table. You stretch your arm out. Just a few more inches and you would touch his shoulder.

“Good morning class and welcome to the Monday course of European History of Music”, a tall man, just a few years older than you, interrupts you.

With a silent groan you fall back into your chair, pouting. Great, there goes your chance to talk to Yoongi.

The tall professor, whose name you later find out is Kim Namjoon, starts his lecture, talking quickly.

You soon find yourself zoning out, Yoongi is a lot more interesting than Mister Kim talking about Ancient Greek instruments. Yoongi seems to be just as nervous and fidgety as in the hallway, maybe a little less scared, but he was definitely still on edge. He has made himself small, keeping his arms pressed to his sides and pressing his legs close the entire time. That is the man, who is supposed to be such a dangerous creep? Who stalks girls and takes perverted pictures of them? As much as you try to, you just can’t wrap your head around this idea.

The professor tells a joke, something about musical scales, you didn’t really hear it. But apparently Yoongi did, as his shoulders suddenly start to shake as if he was laughing. Your heart does a jump in your chest, gosh he is adorable. This drop of his protective stance however only lasts a moment. He tenses up again, looking around to see if someone had watched him, before he clutches his hands over his mouth to keep himself from laughing. Your heart melts in your chest and you have to fight the urge to “aww” out loud. This was endearing to witness.

This is it, you have decided not to judge him based on other peoples' stories. He can’t be a bad guy, maybe a little awkward, but who isn’t?

Once the lecture has ended, you finally seize the moment to talk to him. You jump to your feet and tap on his shoulder. He tenses up, his breathing quickens. You tap again.

“Hello, you are Min Yoongi right?” you say with a smile on your face.

He tenses up even more at the sound of his name before he finally turns around. His head he still keeps lowered however.

“Hey, my name is ___ and I know it’s weird but would you like to go for a cup of coffee with me? Or tea? Whatever suits your taste.”

You send him a smile, despite knowing he won’t see it.

“Please leave me alone”, he mumbles.

Your smile drops, confusion replaces it.

“I’m sorry?” you ask to make sure you had heard him right.

“Don’t, don’t t-talk t-to me”, he stutters, clutching his books so tightly his knuckles turn white.

It feels like someone has punched you in the guts. You feel so bad, he is clearly so uncomfortable and you approach him like some crazy woman. Gosh, what were you even thinking?

“Sure, of course. I’m sorry I asked. Have a nice day Yoongi”, you say, putting your things into your bag messily, before rushing to the exit.

This is so embarrassing, let’s hope no one saw you right now.

Yoongi however is frozen to the spot, his head is raised high and his widely-opened eyes follow you. This is the first time someone had wished him a nice day.

You run straight home this day, telling Jimin and Jungkook that you wouldn’t come to the bench today because of womanly matters. They answer you immediately, well Jimin does as Jungkook has his notifications on mute again, telling you that it was okay and that they both wish you a speedy recovery. With getting the answer you wanted, you put your phone back into your coat pocket and run down the gravel path to the exit of the school perimeter.

What in god’s name made you think that talking to Min Yoongi was going to be a good idea? He clearly doesn’t want people to talk to him, judging by his posture and the way he talked to you. Now he must think you are a total weirdo, coming up to him and asking him for a coffee date.

Your jaw clenches, gosh you are such an idiot, you should have listened to Jimin and Jungkook. In mere hours everyone will know about your failed attempt at talking to him, word spreads fast in this school and there is a sure way that someone must have watched you attempting to speak to the black haired man. You can already imagine all the judging eyes on you tomorrow morning.

You groan whilst getting on the bus, which you always take to get home.

Perhaps you will call in sick tomorrow morning, cough into the speaker and murmur how sick you have gotten with a weak voice. Perhaps add Wednesday too, maybe Thursday as well. No actually, just pretend to be sick for the entire week so no one has a chance to judge you in the hallways.

"Good god", you murmur.

What has this school done to you? You have never skipped class before and now you plan on skipping an entire week worth of lectures just because you are scared of what people might think of you.

"Goddamn it."

And you always thought people interested in music were the most judgemental free people of all. Oh, how terribly wrong you were.

When you wake up the next morning, still feeling as embarrassed as yesterday, you decide to actually go through with the plan. You call the school, telling the principal with a raspy voice that you had gotten a very bad case of the flu overnight and that you won’t be able to attend this week’s lectures. The principal only tells you to catch up on your missed lectures' topics once you were fit enough and that you should try to practice as best as possible before he hangs up.

You lower your phone, staring at the grey ceiling of your one room apartment. The sun hasn’t started to shine into your room yet, still in the middle of rising above the tall trees outside. You could keep on sleeping and wake up at a normal time, one where the sun has already greeted the new day and the city woke up, but as much as you try to, you can’t seem to get tired again.

So with your body aching to get moving, you peel yourself out of bed and trot to your closet to get the first warm sweater you can find. You can use the quiet time in the early hours of the morning to explore your neighborhood. You didn’t really have time until now to do so, too busy with moving and going to school. You are definitely excited to finally get a chance to make up for it.

You pull the sweater over your head and slip into some warm socks as well and done is your early morning walk outfit. You leave your phone at home for today, taking nothing more than your house keys and a banana to snack on whilst walking.

Putting on a warm sweater was a good idea, the morning air feels cool on your skin, the grey fog making everything feel just a lot colder than it actually is. You breathe in deeply, clearing your lungs with the fresh air of a new day. There are no people on the streets, most of them are still asleep. Silence is your constant companion as you walk down the narrow walkway next to the stream. The orange light of the rising sun paints its own beautiful picture on the stream's surface, making the small waves dance in glistening shapes of autumn colors. It almost looks like the water is on fire, like little flames greet the new day with vigor.

You sit down on a big rock close to the water, resting your chin on the palm of your hand. You could sit here for hours, watch the color of the sunlight change and wish the water a nice journey as it makes its way through the city. Sitting here makes you forget about the fact that you were actually in a big city, far, far away from your home, your green garden and the seemingly endless spans of forest and the big sea. Sitting here feels like a little piece of home, the water reminds you of the many days you spent letting your feet tangle from a dock whilst underneath the ocean sang its endless melody.

You really miss your home, you miss the simplicity of life in the countryside, you miss the honest smiles of the people as they greeted you by calling your name and waving vigorously, you miss the slow passage of time not like in the city where life seems to be fast paced even in moments of calm.

Was coming here really a good idea? Are you ever going to feel as at home here in this big city where people seem to be everywhere but you were still lonely? Where everyone looked at you like you were a stranger and no one seemed to care about your life?

You sigh.

Was coming here really the step you needed to take in order to fulfill your dreams? You had imagined it to be so different, to be exciting and to be full of people, who were all shining in different colors. You expected to laugh and sing and dance with people, sharing the one thing which connected all of you. Music. You expected to experience the most beautiful form of art together with likeminded people, but all you got was the message to be careful of who you hang out with in order not to blemish your status.

You scoff.

If someone dares to mention the word “status” to you ever again you will literally lose it. How come that people here care so much about what others think of them? How come they refuse to connect through music, refuse to improve each other, to challenge each other to perform even better, greater things and instead decide to be against each other in a constant battle of talent? Everyone is talented here, there is no use in competing against each other every given chance.

A cold wind rustles through the yellow leaves of a weeping willow. It almost sounds like it is singing its own song in long notes and sighs, telling you its story if you only listen closely enough. You close your eyes, listening to the willow's quiet song. It is telling you of far away places, where life seems to be easier and the air seems to be warmer, where the water is clearer and the grass is greener.

The wind gets stronger, the weeping willow's song louder. Mountains, higher than the clouds can reach appear in front of you, the willow paints them for you in a soft whisper.

You feel happy, like singing and dancing.

You peel your eyes open, blinking twice to get used to the yellow sunlight. You won’t give up now, not when you came this far, not when you moved away from home with a promise to make your parents proud, not when you are finally at the school of your dreams. Fitting in is hard, painful even, but you are strong, the weeping willow had told you so as it dried your tears with its melody. You are going to make it here, find the place you belong to and find the people you are destined to meet, even if the journey is going to be long and rocky.

You get up from the tree stump, stretching your arms above your head to wake your tired joints up and walk back up to the walkway afterwards. The streets have gotten busy whilst you were sitting by the stream, people dressed in formal dresses and suits busy around the streets, getting to their work or university. The city has woken up, sounds of traffic blend over the purring of the stream, voices ring in the air and the fog has disappeared now that people made staying any longer uninteresting for him.

You are getting hungry, the banana wasn’t enough for you to feel full, your stomach is rumbling. You could walk down to the bakery and get some sweet pastries and get some coffee as well when you are at it. You still have some money in your sweatpants, enough to buy you some food.

People pass you by, not paying you any attention, voices fade in and out of your ears, smells of different perfumes come and go as you walk down the streets to the bakery. Just like always you are alone in a place full of people, but with the weeping willow's song still in your heart the loneliness gets a lot easier to bear.

There are people in the bakery when you enter, sitting at the tables whilst drinking their morning coffees and staring into their phones. It is loud, the people are chatting with each other loudly. It smells like coffee and cinnamon inside, your mouth watering at the smell. There are two people at the counter in front of you, a black haired man and a blonde woman, both of them seem to be young. The woman orders first, a black coffee with a shot of baileys if you had heard correctly. You stifle a laugh, someone is eager to get drunk first thing in the morning. The barista, a brown haired man in his late twenties turns around, getting her order ready. She plays with her acrylic nails whilst waiting, a golden diamond ring glistening on her left hand. She must be married. Her makeup looks beautiful, she must have put a lot of effort into it. She is wearing a beige skirt with a fitting blazer, she must be a business woman, probably successful and with lots of money in her bank account.

The barista returns with the woman’s order, handing it to her. She pays him, even gives him a gracious tip. As you had thought, she has lots of money in her bank account. The barista smiles, bowing his head at her. And just like that she disappears, walking out of the coffee shop with a cup in her hand and success in her eyes.

The black haired man orders next, shuffling to the front. He stays silent for a moment, staring at the display. His hands hold onto the marble surface of the counter. The barista sends the black haired man a friendly smile, asking him what he wanted to order.

The black haired man hums in concentration, tightening his grip. You can hear it clearly as you are closer to him than before now that the queue got less with the woman leaving. Even from here you can smell his perfume, woody with the faintest hint of orange blossoms and the ocean breeze. You like it, your chest feels warm when smelling it. Tight black jeans adorn his skinny legs and an oversized grey jacket hides his judgingly skinny torso. He must be a student, getting his morning coffee before he needs to get to his lectures.

The black haired man finally speaks, ordering a double-sized black coffee with two extra shots of espresso. Your eyes become big, not only because this man clearly wants his heart never to calm down again, but also because his voice makes your heart flutter in a familiar way. A deep baritone, smooth like the black coffee he had ordered, soothes your ears. You have to swallow, your mouth feels dry.

This voice sounds so familiar.

The barista nods, turning around to get the man’s order ready. You could watch him work, watch how the coffee pours into the paper cup, but your eyes stay glued to the black haired man. He is fumbling with his wallet, counting the coins before he lets out a sigh of relief when he manages to scrape together the right amount.

The barista returns with the man’s order, handing him the cup and accepting the man’s money with his other hand at the same time.

“Thank you”, the black haired man mumbles before he turns around, getting face to face with you.

The second your eyes fall on his face, your assumption ever since you had heard his voice turns out to be right. The black haired man is none other than Min Yoongi, the man you had embarrassed yourself in front of and the reason for you skipping school. Your breath catches in your throat, the air is practically knocked out of your lungs. Yoongi looks just as taken aback as you do, staring at you with parted lips.

Time seems to stand still as you look at each other, your ears drown out the voices of the other people, your heart feels like it had stopped beating. Is it fate you had met here in this corner bakery right at the same time in a city where times seems to race even in moments of calm? Perhaps it is, perhaps fate really means to bring you two together, two lost souls in a city too big for them.

You feel yourself blush, Yoongi does so as well. His coffee burns his fingertips, but he doesn’t dare to change hands for he is too mesmerized to move.

“You?” he breathes. He seems to not be able to break eye contact, his dark-brown eyes race between yours.

“You?” you breathe, equally as entranced.

Yoongi is the first one to blink, wetting his lips with his tongue before he looks away. The voices of the other people come back, nearly deafening you with their intensity now that the quiet moment shared between only you and Yoongi was gone. You feel able to breathe again, your muscles start working again.

“What brings you here?” your voice sounds hoarse, in desperate need of you coughing.

Yoongi looks back at you for the briefest of moments. He raises his cup, looking at it.

“Oh yeah, right”, you chuckle awkwardly, “I could have thought of that couldn’t I?”

Yoongi wets his lips again, looking back at you before looking at the exit. You see him swallow. He looks back at you, connecting eyes. Is he finally going to talk to you, now that you aren’t locked in the suffocating halls of the school? It seems like it, his lips part, he takes a breath. He sighs and just like that his head lowers to the ground. The last thing you get is a whiff of his perfume as he brushes past you to the exit.

You look after him, not knowing what to do. He is gone as fast as he had appeared in your life, leaving nothing more than a weird feeling in your chest and the unbearable thought that yet again a chance at happiness had slipped right out of your fingers. You are alone again in a city full of people, standing here in this little bakery with your heart feeling emptier than it had when you had woken up this morning.

You don’t order anything this day, walking out of the bakery with empty hands and your eyes searching for the black haired man. He is nowhere to be found, of course he isn’t, he must have disappeared in the crowd, hiding in the safe stream of anonymity.

You tried anything, running up and down the streets, over the bridge to the bus stop, waiting at the bus stop for hours. But the black haired man was gone, as if he had never existed in this part of the city, as if you had imagined it all in your head.

The next days feel like torture to you, your mind keeps racing with endless thoughts. You write a lot these days, your thoughts and feelings, making them into songs no one will ever hear except you and the sun when it comes to visit you through your windows. Your little apartment soon becomes suffocating for you, you need to get out there unless you want to lose your mind.

So come Saturday night, you decide to go for a little adventure in your school. No one is inside the school on Saturday evenings, most of the students either practice at home or are out with friends. So you have the practice room for you alone.

You practice for hours on end, repeating the melody over and over again until you are sure you have memorized it. You don’t give yourself any breaks, wanting to keep your mind preoccupied with having to concentrate on singing. You only stop when your throat starts to hurt from the excessive training and once even the easiest notes come out strained, it is officially time for you to rest for the day. You write down your name on the list after storing the music stand in the cupboard and turn off the lights.

This may have not been able to clear your mind completely, but at least you were able to forget about your confusing feelings for a moment.

You step outside, gasping in surprise. It is dark in the hallways, the cleaning staff must have turned off the lights already. How long exactly have you been here? The street lamps shine into the building through the tall windows, illuminating the halls just enough so you wouldn’t drip over something. It is quiet, your breathing the only thing you can hear in this dark night. Shadows of the tall trees outside stretch out on the floors, laughing at you in menacing voices. Goosebumps run down your spine as if a cold finger of a threat has traced it. You know you are probably alone and have nothing to worry about, but you quicken your steps nonetheless, clutching your sheet music with sweaty fingers.

“Gosh I regret everything”, you start talking to yourself to ease your nerves, “this is okay, it’s just your school, you are safe here, no one’s going to kill you”, you mumble.

A loud crack cuts through the silence, making you squeal. Your steps quicken, the shadows seem to follow you, breathing down your neck with their cold breath.

“Nope, nope, go away”, you are practically running at this point.

You must look hilarious right now, running around like a scared little rabbit and frantically talking to yourself. The hallways become darker, the windows less. The shadows disappeared, darkness swallows them whole.

A note. D sharp if your ears were correct.

Your feet seem to be glued to the spot, you listen, your muscles tense.

“Don’t be ridiculous there is no one her-“, you stop talking to yourself when soft piano music suddenly blends out the deafening silence.

Debussy. Rêverie. You could identify this melody from miles away. It is one of your favorite pieces. Sudden calmness overtakes you, the once scary hallways seem to glow in the slow melody. You exhale shakily, watching the dust dance to the sound of the piano, swirling around in the orange light of the street lamps. The once scary shadows of the trees start swinging to the music, laughing in happiness.

The music draws you in, wakes your curiosity. You need to see the owner of those skillful hands. With easy steps, you walk to the practice room. It doesn’t feel like you were walking, it feels as if you are flying, being carried by the notes of Debussy.

The door is opened widely when you reach it. Up close the piano sounds even more beautiful, almost as if it was singing the notes. There is not one moment when it feels like the player struggles with keeping up the rhythm. The notes dance with one another in perfect harmony, allowing each other to unfold on their own whilst still being one.

You step inside the room with held breath. The song changes, Deux Arabesque, another one of Debussy’s pieces, just as beautiful as the first one. You can’t see the person at first, the piano covers them up. You step further into the room and tiptoe to your left.

The first thing that comes into view is a mop of black hair, then a shoulder and then. Your breath catches in your throat. Yoongi. He has his eyes closed, that is why he hasn’t yet noticed you yet. He has his hood off for once, giving you the perfect view of his beautiful dark hair and his normally pink cheek appear ivory beneath the white light of the full moon. He looks peaceful, the music flowing through his veins almost makes him glow like an angel.

The melody gets faster and louder, Yoongi’s lips part, his whole body starts swaying to the music. He looks totally changed, calm and without any sort of density in his body. It seem as if he is free, as if this is his true self he is too scared to show the world. It takes your breath away, his play leaves you with tears in your eyes and your heart consumed by emotion.

The melody gets slower again, it carries you with it like a calm mountain stream would carry a fallen leaf to its new destination, far away from its home past beautiful landscapes and foreign sights. Until it finally stops, having reached its destination at a place safe from world’s harm, where birds sing sweeter and the sun feels warmer.

Even after it had ended you feel your body swaying to the memory of the music and your heart racing because of the man in front of you.

Yoongi keeps his eyes closed, resting his hands on the piano keys. You stay silent, not daring to breathe or clap for the moment is too magical to ruin. He is still glowing, the moonlight seems to kiss his skin, thanking him for serenading it, for making its job of illuminating the night sky a little easier.

Yoongi sighs, opening his eyes to turn the page on his sheet music. Only that they don’t fall onto his sheet music, but snap over the ominous shadow he had noticed in the corner of his eyes.

Your stomach clenches in panic when his eyes lock with yours. He looks just as taken aback as you do, his eyes big and his body tensed in shock.

“What are you doing here?” he asks, not once stuttering. He must still be in his zone, totally forgetting about how scared he actually is to talk to people.

“I, I just finished my practice and, and I was on my, my way home when I heard someone play so I wanted to check it out”, it is your turn to stutter.

You can feel that you are starting to blush, mostly from embarrassment of getting caught. Yoongi must think you are some sort of stalker, watching him play like a creep.

“You are not supposed to b-be here”, his nervousness slowly comes back to him. You watch him take a deep breath through his mouth afterwards.

“I know, I’m sorry for watching you like a creep”, you say, jumping from one foot to the other.

Yoongi visibly tenses up at the word “creep”. His previous confidence is washed away from his face, his eyes flicker to the ground, avoiding your stare.

“J-just leave me, me alone p-please”, he has his head lowered again, staring at his folded hands.

This is your chance to show Yoongi that you don’t mean to hurt him, that he can trust you. Your feet start walking to him, quiet and slow as not to scare him.

“You know I don’t want to do you any harm. I don’t know what the other peoples' problem is, but that’s not me. You can trust me”, you say, taking one step closer to him.

Yoongi suddenly jumps up, grabbing his sheet music in the process. You stop mid-step, watching him with big eyes. Even in the moonlight you can still make out the faint blush which appears on his cheeks.

“I said leave m-me alone”, he says, louder than before.

Your mouth falls shut, the words you had wanted to say are gone from your mind. You stay frozen to the spot not being able to move, even when Yoongi rushes past you and out of the room. You can hear his footsteps become fainter and fainter until they die out completely.

You groan loudly, face palming yourself. You have done it again, great job scaring him away with your pressing words. You take one last look at the piano, the magic from before is gone, now all there is left is a dull-looking grand piano in the dim moonlight.

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an-aura-about-you · 4 years

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thoughts on opera

So I already liked musicals before I started liking opera, and there’s so much overlap to the point that I can’t really tell you what the difference is. The commonly accepted difference is that opera is sung all the way through and musicals have dialogue, but that’s not a hard and fast rule. Die Fledermaus is an opera but has breaks for dialogue, and Repo! The Genetic Opera (even though it has opera right in the title) is generally considered a musical even though it’s sung all the way through. Stephen Sondheim has said the difference is that opera is performed in an opera house, but some suspect he said that because some of his works have been performed at the Met.

But that aside, I’ve fallen in love with classical music, so me liking opera was only inevitable.

And while there is a commonly accepted idea of what opera is, opera is a medium and not a genre, meaning any story can be told as an opera. Sure, there’s a heavy bent for tragedy, but my sibling and I were watching Die Fledermaus and they were so bewildered when the third act slapstick began. Some topics that have been turned into opera that you might not expect include the making and testing of the atomic bomb, Brokeback Mountain, The Neverending Story, and (sort of cheating to include a cantata here but I like it!) a man trying to curb his daughter’s excessive coffee habit. It’s kinda like how ballet can be about anything, too, like the Dracula ballet I went to see some time back.

Opera can be anything and I love it!

#seasaltmemories

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hansols-yoda-boxers · 4 years

Note

Who's your favorite classical composer? Is there a period of music you like studying in particular?

Tchaikovsky and Holst in terms of listening, they’re my go tos. I also really like some of Debussy’s stuff and like funny enough, his atonal stuff lmao. I have a love-hate relationship with Liszt. I’ll get down to some stuff from The Rite of Spring by Stravinsky and Berlioz is a halloween staple. Also Messiaen’s Quartet for the end of Time is really cool. Obviously contemporary I love film music so John Williams.

For playing hmmmm I like some Bach but Ei! Wie schmeckt der Kaffee süße from the Coffee Cantata can burn I hate it. Handel and Telemann are fun too I like a lot of Baroque stuff to play. There’s also some really cool contemporary stuff by Kathrine Hoover and Ian Clarke. Lmao my friends were o b s e s s e d with Ian Clarke when we were in school. His pieces are awesome and weird but so freaking hard because you have to learn new fingerings and techniques for them.

My fav to study is romantic music. It was very much a time or rule breaking, getting rid of the rigidity of the classical era that marks Mozart’s and Hayden’s works, and even early Beethoven as well. There was more experimentation but it was still melodic. There was also, along with the art movements, a bigger push for emotionality. Many of the well known ballets and operas stem from this time so it has a special place in my heart. It was also a time of a rise in nationalism and while that wasn’t great for the world it was really interesting to see how countries saw themselves musically. There’s a big infusion of folk elements at this time, one of my fav examples is Mussorgsky’s Pictures at an Exhibition

#thanks for letting me ramble love!#ask game #thetypingpup

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sadienita · 5 years

Text

BTS Babies

Namjoon

The Pregnancy

Definitely a planned and expected pregnancy

You had talked even before you were married about exactly when you wanted to have kids and that time had come

The timing would never be perfect and you were aware of that

But this was a good time

He would be here for the pregnancy and he had enough time to plan to be around for the birth

So he’s not surprised when he opens a gift bag to find a shirt that says “#1 Dad”

It’s a cheesy gift but his face still lights up and he engulfs you in a big hug

Namjoon is the research type

So he jumps into reading up on every little thing about pregnancy

He has more questions for the doctors than you do

And the only time he stops talking during the appointment is when the ultrasound comes up and he sees his baby for the first time

He’s silent as he looks at the monitor and just holds your hold silently as his eyes well up with tears

He still likes to know what’s happening medically after that

But he’s a little more wrapped up in the magic of watching your body create life

He frets over what he should have your baby listen to

He plays different music nearly every day

“I just want our baby to experience everything!”

It’s very sweet, some nights you have to wrestle Bach’s Coffee Cantata out of his hands tho

L&D

The problem with reading up on all of the medical stuff

Is he now his a list of complications that could happen during your labour

He knows that many of them are extremely unlikely

But he’s still a bit worried about them

He treats you like porcelain through the end of your pregnancy and once your water breaks its as if you’re made of thin glass

You have to remind him that you will not fall apart any moment

Once you get settled in the labour room your doctor talks you through the labour and explains what he wants Namjoon to do

And he seems to relax a little once he has a firm grasp on what will happen today

He knows that people give birth all the time

But he also knows people die giving birth too

He’s just going to trust in the doctors and remind himself that you’re the most amazing woman he knows, so if anyone can give birth, it’s you

He takes a few deep breaths when the doctor says it’s time to push

Then he’s at your side holding your hand and telling you when to push

He’s so focused on you that he doesn’t immediately notice when his son is born until he sees the commotion

His heart nearly stops when he doesn’t hear crying right away

But it only takes a few moments longer than he expects before his son starts crying and you’re holding him

Namjoon takes in your weary expression and your crying baby boy and hugs you both, relieved that your son is here

Newborn Moments

He has a rough first few days

There’s so much that books don’t teach you about babies

You son seems to love you

He’s quiet and not fussy at all when he’s in your arms

He eats well and sleeps and looks at you and you seem like such a natural

But the first few times Namjoon picks up his son, he cries and fusses until he’s put down

He’s thrown off and starts to wonder if he’s just bad at this

Maybe he just won’t be a good father

He’s very quiet about his fears but you pick up on it

And late one night when your son is crying

You drag Namjoon out of bed with you to get him settled again

You tell Namjoon how to hold and cradle his son

And at first he’s fussy and continues to cry

And then you show him to bounce and rock him gently

And as he does he starts to talk to his son

And slowly the little baby calms down and starts to fall back to sleep

And your husband gives you a very tired, yet very happy smile as he settles his son back into his crib before you go back to bed

“He’s lucky to have a mother like you.”

“And he’s lucky to have a father like you”

#bts #bts imagines #bangtan #bangtan imagines #bangtan sonyeondan #rm #rm imagines #namjoon #namjoon imagines #kim namjoon #bts fluff #dad!bts #we more than half way through these

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madpanda75 · 5 years

Text

“As Long As You Love Me” Part One

A song fic hosted by @thefanficfaerie for her Backstreets Back Challenge. I chose “As Long As You Love Me” and now that song is forever in my head. Two will be posted tomorrow. A HUGE shoutout to @sass-and-suspenders for being my support while I wrote this angsty novella and for giving me the brilliant idea in the first place! 😘

Warning: Long fic (4000ish words)

Story takes place during “Undiscovered Country.” Yes, THAT episode...you know the one

Rafael sat in the back of the classroom, biting back a smirk as he watched you deliver your closing argument for a mock trial, wiping the floor with the prosecution team. As a favor to a friend, he was guest lecturing for a semester at Columbia University.

“Mr. Barba, the evidence presented by the prosecution is weak and circumstantial at best. Mr. Haines had done odd jobs and worked as a gardener for Mrs. Ellis which explains why his muddy footprints, and his blood from an injury sustained on the job were found at the crime scene. Furthermore, the coroner’s report stated that time of death was between 5pm and 7pm on the evening of May 20th. My client was four hours away at a family reunion in Boston and it was confirmed by multiple people that he was present the entire time. Does the prosecution really expect us to believe that Mr. Haines drove four hours back to Mrs. Ellis’ home, in rush hour traffic no less, murdered her in cold blood, buried her body, hid the weapon, cleaned himself up, then drove four hours back to Boston in time for s’mores around the campfire with his cousins?”

Even though he knew you already won, Rafael sat quietly, pursing his lips as he pretended to deliberate over your argument. After a moment he walked to the front of the class, a smile slowly spread across his face, “Congratulations, Ms. Y/L/N. I believe you just won your case.”

You beamed, bouncing up and down on the balls of your feet before looking over at the prosecution team, who were less than enthused. “Sorry,” you mumbled. “It was a good try.”

After your victory, Rafael dismissed everyone. It was the last day of class and students couldn’t get out fast enough, excited to celebrate after a long hard semester. You took your time, packing up your things, hoping to get a chance to speak with your guest professor.

Rafael was confident and sexy. You had never known anyone to discuss torts and mens rea with as much passion and fire as he did. He was mesmerizing, drawing you in like a moth to a flame.

Once the classroom was empty, you walked up to him, unable to conceal the blush forming on your cheeks. “Thanks for a great class, Mr. Barba. I really learned a lot under you.” You closed your eyes, shaking your head upon realizing your innuendo. “I mean not under you...but…ummm you were hard and I liked that. Well...not hard that way...not in the sense that I thought you had an erection...but..ummm..” You rambled on, digging yourself into a bigger hole, your pink tinged cheeks turning beet red. “And you want to be a lawyer? You can barely form a sentence,” you thought to yourself.

Rafael laughed, you had caught his eye since the first day of class. You were brilliant with razor sharp focus and not to mention beautiful. No other woman had ever made his heart skip a beat the way you did, not even Yelina. “I know what you meant, Ms. Y/L/N. Congratulations on winning your case today. Ever think about becoming a prosecutor?”

“I thought about it, but I really want to pursue human rights. Working with NGOs or non-profits.”

“An admirable career,” he smiled at you, clenching his fist to keep from tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “Whatever you pursue, I know you’ll be an amazing lawyer.”

“Thanks,” you softly said. Letting out a deep breath, you decided to be bold. “So even though I’m going into an entirely different field of the law. I’d love to know what the day to day life of being a lawyer is really like. Maybe if you’re free we could grab coffee or something and I can pick your brain.”

He quirked an eyebrow at you, a smirk firmly planted on his face, “Are you asking me out, Ms. Y/L/N?”

You bit your lip, your heart pounding in your chest, “Can I plead the fifth?”

He subtly looked you over before glancing down at his watch, “As of 5 minutes ago, I’m no longer your teacher so how about instead of coffee, we grab dinner?”

You shyly smiled, looking up at him from beneath your lashes, “I’m free now, if you are?”

“Well then let’s go,” he said, grabbing his briefcase and jacket, leading you out of the classroom.

***

You paced the living room floor, worrying your bottom lip as you dialed Rafael’s number. The sounds of the city that never sleeps could be heard from outside your apartment, but all you wanted to hear in that moment was your boyfriend’s voice on the other line. Instead you got his voicemail. You sighed in frustration, waiting for the obligatory beep to leave a message.

“Hey, mi amor, can you call me back when you get this. You were supposed to be home from the hospital 2 hours ago. I’m not trying to be a nag, I’m just worried about you.”

Hanging up the phone, you plopped down on the couch. Something was wrong. You could feel it deep in the pit of your stomach. Over the past few months, Rafael had been struggling with his cases, often coming home late at night with the weight of the world bearing down on his shoulders.

This recent case in particular hit the ADA hard. You remember him reluctantly telling you about the mother and father standing on opposite sides of the fence, each believing they knew the right choice to make for their dying child.

You knew Rafael was torn over prosecuting the case. It brought back memories of when he was in a similar situation, ultimately deciding not to end his own father’s suffering when he was put on life support. You felt helpless, watching the man you love being eaten away at by his job, tormented by the decisions he had to make. If he even could make those decisions sans bias sans judgement.

Lady Justice may be blind, but looking at that dying beautiful baby boy and his heartbroken parents, Rafael wanted nothing more than to rip the blindfold off. But as Jack McCoy said, they were not in the compassion business.

You were about to call him again when the sound of the apartment door opening stole your attention away from the phone. “Raf? Is that you?” You leapt off the couch and ran to the foyer. “Are you ok? I’ve been calling non-stop. Why didn’t you pick up your--”

You stopped dead in your tracks when you saw your boyfriend. His appearance shook you to the core. A mixture of sadness and fear etched in his face. His eyes slightly wild and glossy with tears. A shroud of darkness looming over him.

“Raf, what’s wrong?” You softly asked.

Rafael stared at the ground, studying the hardwood floor, shaking his head. “I did it,” he whispered.

“Did what?” Your mouth went dry as you took a cautious step towards him, like you would approach a wounded frightened animal. “Mi amor, what did you do?”

“I turned off the machine. I...ended his…suffering. I had to do it. I had --” he looked up at you, his eyes vacant for a second before a look of shock slowly spread across his face. “Dear God, what have I done? What have I done? What have I done?” In an instant, Rafael collapsed to his knees, his body wracked by sobs.

You ran to him, holding him close as he cried, clutching fistfuls of your shirt in his hands. Rafael, the man who was a lion in the courtroom, fierce and commanding, was falling apart in your arms. You rocked him back and forth like a child, running your hand through his hair, trying to soothe him as best you could.

Eventually, you both made it to the bedroom. Rafael laid his head on your chest, telling you everything that had happened. About how the judge needed to appoint a guardian ad litem, the prolonged pain Drew experienced every day of his life, the agony his mother felt, how he told her to leave the room, Bach’s cantatas, the orange roses, the peace after so much suffering, the silence afterwards.

Rafael was sensible, pragmatic, he knew what the law and the potential repercussions of his actions. You didn’t necessarily agree with what he did, but you understood why he did it. Tears ran down your cheeks as you listened, holding him even tighter, whispering that everything was going to be ok over and over again. It was the only thing you could do as the two of you cried together in the dark.

***

The next morning you slipped out of bed, not wanting to disturb Rafael. After a long and restless night, he had finally managed to fall asleep. Sipping on your coffee, you sat at the breakfast bar while typing an email when he came into the kitchen.

“Hi,” you softly smiled at him. “How are you feeling?”

He didn’t respond, choosing instead to pour himself a cup of coffee. You watched as he sipped from his Harvard Law mug while flipping through the New York Times. It was unsettling, the way he was acting as if nothing happened the night before.

“I told my boss I would be out today,” you said. “I thought we could talk, spend the day together. Maybe figure out what the next steps are.”

Rafael set the paper down, moving to rinse out his mug in the sink. “I can’t. I have a meeting at the D.A.’s office and then I’m going to meet that lawyer, Dworkin. He defended Byron Marks, the rapist Fin tracked down in Cuba. He’s repugnant, but I think he’ll be a good lawyer to represent me if they plan to indict.”

You stared at him, your mouth agape, hearing him talk about picking a defense attorney to represent him as casually as if he were debating whether to wear his polka dotted suspenders or striped ones. “Can I at least come with you? We can talk to Dworkin together.”

He shook his head, giving you a chaste peck on the cheek. “Thanks for the offer, but I should go on my own.” He walked down the hallway, calling over his shoulder, “I won’t be late.”

You sat there for a minute before walking into the bedroom, Rafael was already in the shower. You bit your lip, your hand hovering over the doorknob to the bathroom, wanting nothing more than to burst right in and demand he talk to you. With a sigh, you dropped your hand and walked to the closet to get dressed, unable to muster the courage. “Maybe he needs some time to process everything?” You thought as you picked out an outfit. “He’ll be fine. We’ll get through this together.”

***

It had been a rough month. Rafael had been placed on administrative leave by the D.A.’s office until the trial. If he wasn’t wandering around the apartment aimlessly, he would be out working with Dworkin on his case or meeting with Olivia, always keeping you at arm’s length. He had completely shut you out. Apart from the polite exchange of pleasantries and small talk, he would say nothing more to you about how he was feeling. Now with the trial only a week away, the tension was palpable, hanging heavy in the air.

Hoping to relieve some of that tension, you thought a night out would help your boyfriend let loose and forget about his troubles. Tonight the law firm you worked at was hosting its annual charity dinner. You and Rafael always attended, drinking and socializing. You were considered the “It” couple, the sharp tongued, handsome ADA and the gorgeous human rights lawyer.

Rafael aimlessly flipped through channels, waiting for you to get dressed. “Y/N, are you almost ready? We’re going to be late.”

“I’ll be right there,” you shouted from the bedroom.

He sighed and turned off the TV, hearing a rustling of paper beside him. Looking down, he spied a newspaper stuck between two couch cushions. He grabbed the paper only to see a picture of him standing on the courthouse steps surrounded by reporters, his face grim and solemn. Above the picture was a title that read, “ADA Murder Trial in One Week.” Rafael audibly swallowed as he skimmed the article. He took a deep breath, trying to calm his nerves and keep his hands from shaking even more than they already were.

You came upon the scene and froze, silently cursing yourself for not throwing away that damn newspaper. Nervously shifting from foot to foot, you cleared your throat to get his attention, “I’m ready.”

He looked back and gave you a tight smile, getting up to grab his coat. You gripped his arm, pulling him back to you. “Ya know, we don’t have to go tonight,” you said, adjusting his bow tie. “We could just cancel. Stay in, relax, get naked,” you purred, kissing his jaw. Although sex was the furthest thing from your mind, at least it would be some sort of connection with Rafael.

“No, it’s ok. We should go,” he turned towards the door, leaving you no choice but to follow him.

***

You sipped on your wine, making small talk with Gary, your paralegal, catching Rafael’s eye from across the room as he sat at your table, drinking his scotch. Throughout the evening, he tried to avoid talking or being around as many people as possible, afraid that someone would bring up the trial.

As the band began to play soft music, you were finally able to tear yourself away from Gary and make your way back to your boyfriend. “So tell me, what’s a girl gotta do to steal a dance with the sexiest man in the room?”

Rafael chuckled, tipping his glass, watching the amber liquid tilt and catch the light of the candles on the table. “Not sure. Why don’t you ask him?”

“Please, baby. Dance with me,” you pouted your lips, looking at him with big doe eyes as you batted your lashes.

For the first time in weeks, he smiled a real smile at you, his eyes happy and light. A warmth spread through your body when he smiled at you like that, shooting straight through your heart. “Sure,” he offered his hand to you. He couldn’t say no to you if he tried. Once on the dance floor, he gripped your waist, holding you close, your bodies swaying to the music.

You looked into his hypnotic green eyes, running your fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck, “Thanks for coming with me tonight. I couldn’t be here without you by my side,”

“Always, cariño,” he softly said. You blushed, the room fading away, leaving only you and him. No trial, no pain, no fear, just two people who loved each other.

“Y/N!” Gary called out to you. You softly groaned, unhappy that your perfect moment was interrupted.

Your paralegal walked over to you and Rafael, “Y/N, they need all the partners for pictures right now.”

“Ok, I’ll be right there,” you replied before looking at Rafael, “I’ll be one minute.”

“Take your time,” he said.

As Gary pulled you off the dance floor, you looked back at your boyfriend playfully rolling your eyes. He smiled and went back to the table, watching as the photographer snapped pictures of you and the older partners along with various members of charity organizations. You were the youngest member of your law firm to be made partner. He was so proud of your accomplishments. From the moment he met you, Rafael knew you were destined for great things.

“Hey! I know you!” said a voice by the bar. Rafael turned his head and saw one of your co-workers drunk, stumbling towards him. “You’re the guy who killed that baby!” The man slapped him on the back, “Damn! Let me get you a drink. Gotta live it up now. You may be put away for murder in a few weeks,” he laughed, finishing the last of his drink.

The ADA stiffened, nervously glancing around to make sure no one else was paying attention. “Excuse me, I have to go,” he abruptly got up from his chair, tugging at his bowtie which seemed to be too tight. He left the room in need of fresh air, looking back at you one last time before leaving.

***

The ride home was silent. After the pictures were taken and you had finally found Rafael, he asked if you could leave, practically pushing you out the door, not answering any of your questions. When you got back, he walked into the apartment, making a beeline for the scotch.

You gritted your teeth. Like pot that had been ignored and bubbled over, you had reached your boiling point. “Alright, enough!” You stomped over to him, snatching the scotch from his hand and downing it in one big swig. Rafael stared at you, completely stunned. You slammed the empty glass down, “I can’t stand this silence anymore, it’s driving me crazy. You’ve been walking around here like a zombie for weeks.” You pinched the bridge of your nose before reaching out and placing his hands in yours, “Rafi, por favor, mi amor. Talk to me, please.”

“Why are you still here?” He mumbled, stepping away from you.

“What?”

“I said, why are you still here,” he repeated a little louder.

“What do you mean, why am I here?! This is my home, Rafael. You are my home,” you placed your hand over his chest where his heart laid, beating against your palm.

He pushed your hand away, “Well I’ve got news for you, your home is broken. I can’t be your home anymore.”

You vehemently shook your head, cupping his face in your hands, “You are not broken. I know you don’t mean that. I love you. We love each other.”

He scoffed, “You love me? Are you going to love me when I go to jail and you have to visit me through 6 inches of plate glass,” he laughed but there was no humor behind it.

His words stung as if he doubted your love for him. As if he thought that you would abandon him during one of the hardest moments of his life. “Rafi...I--”

“Have you seen the papers!?” He interjected. “I’m a murderer, a monster. I know what they think when they see us. Here’s Y/N, youngest partner at her law firm and oh there’s her boyfriend, he went to trial for murdering a baby.”

“Is this about tonight? Did something happen?”

“It’s not just tonight!” He exclaimed causing you to flinch. “It’s every day! This trial, my actions, they will always be over your head. Is that how you want to live your life?”

“I don’t care about that! None of that matters to me! All that matters is you and me. You are NOT the man they say you are!” You shouted before winding your arms around him, although he didn’t hug you back. He stood there like a statue, knowing if he were to return your embrace, he would breakdown in your arms. You inhaled deeply, smelling his cologne mixed that familiar scent that was Rafael, your tears wetting his dress shirt. “I know you, not them and I’m telling you that I don’t care what happens or what you did. I will love you and be there for you no matter what.”

Unwrapping his arms from around you, he grabbed your hand, leading you to the door. “Get out,” he softly said.

You raised your eyebrows in surprise, “Excuse me?”

“You heard me. Get out,” he growled. “I’m not going to stand here and watch you ruin your life.” There was a silent stare down between you both, waiting for the other person to make the next move. “Get out!” He barked.

“No. I’m not going to do that, Rafael,” you whispered. “You need me, we need each other, that’s the only way we will survive this.”

“Get out,” he said in a dangerously low tone. You stood there, rooted to the spot, refusing to leave. “Fine, if you won’t leave, then I will,” he turned and left, slamming the door behind him so hard the walls vibrated.

***

Letting out a shaky breath you didn’t realize you had been holding in, you silently made your way back to the couch. You curled up in a ball and wept, waiting for Rafael to come home, waiting for him to come back to you.

You cried for hours after he left, eventually falling asleep on the couch. Only to be woken up by the loud ADA clumsily stumbling into your home. “Raf,” you croaked out, sitting up to turn on a lamp.

Rafael came into the room, a big cheesy smile planted on his face, his bowtie undone, hair askew. “There she is! The woman that just doesn’t quit. All my other failed relationships, they all left, but not you, because you are stubborn,” he pointed to you and giggled. “Almost as stubborn as me...almost.”

He tripped over his own feet, trying to get closer to you, nearly falling over on the coffee table in the process. “Have you been drinking?” You asked.

“Now I see why they give you the big bucks. You don’t miss a trick,” he said with a wink, his body swaying from side to side, the man was snarky even while intoxicated.

You got up and went over to him, gently trying to lead him to the bedroom. Although herding cats seemed like a much easier mission than putting a drunk Rafael to bed. “Come on, mi amor,” you took his hands and led him down the hall. “Let’s go to bed.”

He leaned over, placing his body weight, on you, pinning you up against the wall as he sloppily kissed down your neck, the sharp ethanol smell of whiskey on his breath stinging your nostrils, “Mmmm if I go to jail, maybe they’ll let us have conjugal visits. What do you think?” He slurred against the hollow of your throat. “Think the boss will let you off work early to fuck me in one of those teeny tiny trailers.”

He pulled back, his eyes going wide, “Ooo will you smuggle contraband in for me like good coffee and a law book that has a toothbrush turned into a shiv hidden in the pages.”

“Shhh, we’ll talk about that later,” you replied. Finally you both made it the bedroom. By the time you had stripped him of his clothes, you felt like you had just run a marathon. “I need to work out more,” you mumbled, wiping the sweat off your brow.

After placing a glass of water and two ibuprofen by his side of the bed, you laid down, Rafael immediately curling up against you.

“Y/N,” he choked out. “I’m scared.”

You rubbed soothing circles into his back. “I know. I’m scared too, but we’ll get through this together,” you whispered. “Just rest, baby.”

The next morning, you reached a hand out, still half asleep, expecting to find the warmth of your boyfriend’s body next to you. Instead you were greeted by cold rumpled sheets.

“Rafael?” You sleepily mumbled, sniffing the air in search of the coffee he usually made, only to find nothing. Getting out of bed, you padded down the hall, the apartment was still dark and eerily calm. Then you saw it, a slip of paper next to a framed picture of you and him smiling and laughing at happier times. As you read the short note, you could feel your heart drop down to your stomach.

I’m so sorry, mi amor. I’m doing this for your own good. You deserve someone better than me. I’ve already destroyed my life, my career. I can’t stand the thought of taking you down with me. I love you. -Raf

The letter slipped from your fingers, wafting down to land at your feet. You immediately grabbed your phone, calling Rafael’s number only to hear his voicemail on the other line.

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grandexodus · 5 years

Text

Deal /Chapter Two / Incantations

Word Count: 2,566

Rating: T

Warnings: Cursing

Summary: Darcy becomes desperate to rid the evil spirit from her home. However, hold habits of ridding demons don’t necessarily work this time around. Darcy finally swallows her pride and calls upon help from a Catholic priest. With full confidence that the priest will put an end to the negative energy, she invites St. Marie Louis into her home with open arms.

Previous Chapter - Chapter One / Blood

Next Chapter- ~

The first streaks of morning light peeked through the cracks of the blinds. Pillows and blankets were strewn across the room. The entity taunting Darcy thought it would be a great idea to continuously interrupt her slumber by removing articles of bedding and tossing them about. After coming to terms with the fact that she would not be catching up on any sleep, Darcy took it upon herself to find a solution to her demon problem.

To rid the grogginess that was fogging up her brain, Darcy brewed herself some coffee. The almost black liquid was made in a lavender mug. Two spoons of sugar and a splash of milk. One, two, three stirs counter-clockwise and the coffee was to the young witch’s desired taste. As she indulged in the semi-sweet beverage, she paced around her flat in hopes of racking her sleep-deprived brain of a way to break the deal and rid the demon from her home. No matter how long and hard she pondered, only one possible solution came to mind: dispose of the board.

With a surge of sudden optimism, Darcy abandoned the half-empty cup of joe and beelined to her room. While her idea was clear, her head was suddenly swarming with thoughts. What if disposing of the board didn’t work? It hadn’t technically worked the first time? The ounce of optimism she had was quickly fading. She traded her sleeping gown for a Ramones shirt, jeans, and chucks. All that was left was to gather the proper items and get to a cemetery. Locating the Ouija board wasn’t at all difficult, but she needed holy water if she was going to do this the right way. She definitely had some. The only problem was remembering where she had stored it. Holy water wasn’t something Darcy found herself using that often. In fact, the only time she had ever used it was when she was fifteen. She had practically torn her flat apart before finding the holy water at the top of her closet.

Greenbriar Cemetery was located a short ten minutes away from Darcy’s flat. Disposing of the spirit board seemed more vital now than it did when she was fifteen. Perhaps it was because she was now fully aware of the danger she had put herself in.

Having walked to the cemetery, Darcy followed the same steps she did with her father when she was fifteen. The spirit board was broken into seven pieces, sprinkled with holy water, and buried under a tree at the back of the cemetery. Darcy was sure to pack down the dirt as best she could manage in hopes that her efforts to rid the burden of being haunted.

Darcy stood up from her position on the ground. She wiped her dirt-covered palms on her jeans and let out a sigh of relief. She had full confidence that burying the Ouija board would rid the demon from her home. Unfortunately, this confidence was short-lived.

Back at her flat, Darcy stopped dead in her tracks at the sight laid out before her. On the coffee table in the living area was none other than the Ouija board she had just buried. The board was fully intact, and the planchette was lying on top of the black stain. Curiosity overcame the young witch, and she soon found herself planted on the couch in front of the board.

“What the hell?” She whispered to herself as she reached out to take hold of the planchette. As soon as her fingertips touched the piece, it began to move violently.

D-E-A-L

“I understand that I made a deal, but quite frankly I’m over it,” Darcy replied.

T-O-O B-A-D

Darcy removed her hands from the planchette, and she closed the board. Though, at this point, she knew it was useless to close the board. The spirit she was dealing with was far too powerful to be withheld. She quickly came to the conclusion that she wouldn’t be able to expel this spirit on her own.

Without hesitation, she returned to the book that she found would offer the most insight, Conjure and Expel: A Witch’s Guide to Summoning Safely. After some extensive reading, the only option became apparent. Darcy needed to find a Catholic priest as soon as she possibly could. Though Darcy had lived in the city for a few months at this point, she still wasn’t very familiar with the area. She only knew of one cathedral, Westbrooke Cathedral.

Having found the cathedral’s number in a phone book, Darcy rang them. A woman answered on the third ring.

“Hello, St. Marie speaking.” The woman had a higher-pitched, yet soothing voice.

“Hello, my name is Darcy Invidia, I’m calling to see if anyone at your church knows how to expel an evil spirit from one’s home?”

“I am willing to stop by the home in question and determine the exorcism would be doable. However, I can’t promise that the spirit will be expelled permanently or at all for that manner. Are you still interested?” St. Marie said, her tone changing from sweet to very serious.

“Yes.”

“Very well. When would you like me to pay a visit?” St. Marie asked.

“Would you be able to come over today?” Darcy asked.

“I’m going to assume you need assistance as soon as possible, yes?” The woman asked.

“Yes.”

“I can be there at five this evening. Do tell me your address.” The woman prompted Darcy to share her home information.

“29 Brier Hill View here in Leeds. I’m in flat number 22 on the second floor. Thank you very much, St. Marie.”

“My pleasure. I’ll see you at five, Darcy.” With that, the call ended. This left Darcy with an hour to kill before her company arrived. With this hour, Darcy decided she would try a last-ditch attempt to rid the entity from her home.

The young witch opened the front door and all of the windows in her flat before lighting a bundle of sage. As she smudged her small home she repeatedly whispered an intention, “Sacred and holy ones, please clear this place of stagnant and negative energy.” She began her smudging at the front door and worked her way to the room farthest from the entrance. When she reached the final room, her bedroom, she began to repeat her intention louder.

“Sacred and holy ones, please clear this place of-” Darcy was cut off by the windows slamming shut, and all doors and drawers in her room flying open. She attempted to continue, “Sacred and holy ones, please,” but she was cut off once again. This time a potted plant flew from the bookshelf and right next to her head before hitting the wall and shattering.

Five o’clock could not come around fast enough.

What felt like ages later, there was a light knock at Darcy’s front door. She practically leaped from the couch to answer it. Upon opening the door she saw a plump, older lady, most likely in her sixties. Her hair was curly and bright white, and she was wearing standard clerical clothing. The only thing the woman had on her person was a brown, leather-bound Bible that appeared to have been well-used. From the looks of it, it appeared that this woman had owned this Bible as long as she had been alive.

“You must be Darcy Invidia?” The higher-pitched, soft voice sounded almost exactly as it did over the phone.

“St. Marie, yes?” she said in turn. The woman merely nodded. “Come in.” Darcy stepped to the side as she invited in the catholic priest. Shutting the door behind her, Darcy led St. Marie to the living room. The two women sat on the couch in front of the coffee table that held the Ouija board.

“During our phone call earlier, you stated that this evil spirit was a result of your use of an Ouija board, and I am assuming that this is the board you used?” The soft voice of the priest changed to stern and serious as though a switch had been flipped.

“Yes, ma’am,” Darcy replied.

“Do tell me what this black mark is.” As St. Marie prompted a reply she reached into the pocket of her jacket and retrieved a wooden cross that seemed to fit perfectly in her hand.

“I was communicating with the spirit. I thought I would be able to get rid of it on my own, but I wasn’t quite sure how. While using the board the entity said that if I made a blood deal it would leave me alone. I wasn’t going to at first, but I wound up doing so. That black mark is where my blood fell onto the board.” Darcy spoke quickly.

“Very well. Are you ready to begin?” St. Marie opened her Bible, holding it in her right hand while the wooden cross was clutched in her left. Darcy nodded in response to the question. “I would like you to open the board and use it as you would normally.” The woman instructed.

Darcy placed her hands on the planchette and circled the board one, two, three times clockwise before asking, “Are there any spirits here?” The piece jerked the girl’s hands up to ‘yes.’

“Please take my hand, Ms. Invidia.”

“With all due respect St. Marie, this is a powerful spirit, and I don’t think it would be in our best interest for me to remove a hand from the planchette,” Darcy stated, halfway expecting the priest to have it her way or no way. However, that wasn’t the case at all as St. Marie, as Darcy found, was accommodating to the situation.

“I understand. That’s quite alright, we will make do. Do your best to keep your hands on the piece as I continue.” Darcy pushed down harder on the planchette to ensure it wouldn’t go flying across the room. St. Marie looked down at her Bible and began to recite an incantation.

“Regna terrae, cantata Deo, psallite Cernunnos, Regna terrae, cantata Dea psallite Aradia. caeli Deus, Deus terrae…” Darcy recognized it as Latin. While this wasn’t the process the young witch was expecting, it definitely seemed to upset the entity that was residing in her home. The planchette didn’t move from its place hovering above ‘yes.’ Instead, it began to vibrate rapidly.

“Humiliter majestati gloriae tuae supplicamus Ut ab omni infernalium spirituum potestate…” As St. Marie continued the planchette stopped vibrating, and it began to slowly move in a familiar figure-eight motion. The movement was almost sluggish as there seemed to be little momentum behind the movement.

“Laqueo, and deceptione nequitia…” The planchette gained such a speed that Darcy was beginning to struggle to keep her hands in place. As the piece sped up, St. Marie’s voice steadily grew louder. “ Exorcizamus you Omnis immundus spiritus Omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursio…” With that, all of the lights in the department flickered for a moment. The sight caused St. Marie to stop talking mid-sentence. It was clear she had never had such an experience before. Before either of them could begin to comprehend what was happening, the planchette made one swift move to the black stain at the bottom of the board.

“Close the board, Darcy!” St. Marie practically shouted the demand.

Darcy attempted to push the planchette so that she could do as she was told, but it wouldn’t budge. “I can’t close it, it’s stuck.” She lifted her hands from the board and the lights stopped flickering immediately.

St. Marie slammed her Bible shut and stood up, “Darcy, I am afraid this spirit is far outside of my realm of expertise. I’m unable to help you, but best of luck.” With that, St. Marie found her way out of the haunted home. Darcy was left sitting on her couch at a loss for words.

She sat in silence without moving a muscle for a few moments before placing her elbows on her knees and pressing the palms of hands onto her eyes. After a few deep breaths, Darcy looked up and saw the planchette moving between two letters repeatedly.

H-A-H-A-H-A-H-A

“Oh, come off it!” She snapped.

Darcy could only think of one other possible solution to this problem. She had to contact the darkest witch she knew, her father. With an exasperated sigh, she swallowed her pride and rang her father. He answered on the first ring.

“Hello, dear. How have you been settling in?” A familiar deep voice echoed through the phone.

“I’m nearly there. Hey, I’ve got a silly hypothetical question.” Darcy was eager to get straight to the point so that the conversation could be over.

“Okay.” Odin’s response came out as more of a question. It was clear he was apprehensive about the conversation to come.

“Let’s say I have a friend who has been dabbling in witchcraft, and she stupidly made a deal with an entity.”

“Darcy.” She was cut off before she could continue to set the scene. “I wasn’t born yesterday, this isn’t a hypothetical situation. Did you summon a demon and proceed to make a deal with it?” While he was primarily disappointed, there was a tone of rage laced beneath his words. Darcy was silent.

There was a sigh from the other end of the line, “Was it a blood deal?” Again, Darcy was silent. “God dammit, Darcy! I would have thought you would have learned your lesson by now. Did you not remember what happened the first time you used an Ouija board? Had you forgotten just how awful it was for you when the first one attached itself to you, and know you’ve gone and made a bloody deal? What were you thinking?” Odin’s voice was raised, but he wasn’t yelling by any means. He wanted his daughter to be safe, and that safety had been compromised.

“Listen, I understand I should have thought it through before I did it, but it was a rash decision. It was a last-ditch effort to get the thing to leave me alone. I’ve tried getting a priest to break the deal and expel the thing, but she said it was too powerful. She left before she could even finish the incantation. I’m at a loss.” Darcy explained. The line was so quiet it was hard to tell if Odin was still there, “Hello?”

“Darcy,” He began, his tone rather austere, “I love you. I want you to be safe, but unfortunately, you’re stuck with the deal you’ve made. There’s no way out of this one.”

“Well, surely you’ve made similar mistakes before? There has to be something I can do.” She was becoming more desperate by the second.

“I’m afraid not.” A hint of sympathy flickered between her father’s words.

Silence fell between them for a moment before Darcy spoke, “Don’t tell mom, yet.” She was aware that she made a mistake, and she had done everything in her power to fix it. At this point, Darcy couldn’t bear a lecture from her mother.

“I’ll do my best, but you know how your mother is. She knows when information is being hidden from her.” He let out a chuckle in hopes of lightening the mood.

“I know.” Darcy returned the chuckle, however, there was a weight upon her chest that was unshakable. “I’ll talk to you later.”

“Be careful, and don’t make rash decisions anymore.”

“Deal.” Darcy acceded.

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