#it's harmless kind of useless and perfectly tiny

[felsdumpsterfire]

What would happen if an eaper had a child tho? Would the child inherit their divine abilities? I cant stop thinking about the possibilities

Honestly?? I don't think they would- unless the patron would bless the kid with something, you know? And even then it'd be much simpler things compared to their Esper parent, like, maybe something like being blessed with extreme luck or charisma- simple stuff instead of full body/power changes. Or if they do have physical changes it's extremely small, like, Sander's kid(s) getting his red eyes or something like that- just, very, very insignificant in hindsight.

Though, I do think that there's the off chance of the patron jumping to the kid from the parent, but it really depends on the patron and if the kid is something special and I mean fucking special because I don't think they'd mindlessly jump from person to person. I think they're just kind of.... like, "this is my person and no one else can have them" :D

NOW, DO I THINK MOST OF THE PATRONS WOULD BE PROTECTIVE OF/GOING OUT OF THEIR WAY TO KNOW THE KID?? YEAH

Because in all technicality that being is an extension of their person's blood- the compulsion to protect them to some degree is there. But also this is a tiny person forming, there has to be some curiosity in there for them somewhere.

[anigerrrr]

Just a friend from work

Natasha Romanoff x Carol Danvers

Word count: 1.5k

Summary:  Natasha doesn’t think that she’s dating the blonde woman, and they certainly shouldn’t as well. It’s not professional.

Warning: Protective Yelena, sister conversations, Captain’s bad acting 

(please let me know if there’s any I should add as well)

a/n: Hello! This is my first fanfic written in English for carolnat, and I just love them so much. English is not my mother language so please ignore my grammatical errors lol ! Please do comment if you have any thoughts or questions!

/

“So, how old is he?”

“Who?”

“That guy you’re dating.”

When Yelena started it - whatever it is, the redhead immediately made a full stop for this upcoming conversation.

“No,” Natasha said, half jaded from today’s mission. “Yelena, I already said that we are not gonna talk about this. Not now.”

“Excuse me, you almost got caught in the middle of the frickin’ building just for replying to someone's text.” Her sister’s brown eyes widened in disbelief, “and as your partner, little sister plus, I think I have a full right to know what’s happening.”

Ok, after all of the universal matters. The Snap, The Blip, The Endgame and The Reunion. Natasha let out a sigh. This world may be peaceful enough - almost too peaceful, for her younger sister to dig into her personal life now.

“It was something important from the HQ, ” she finally made something up, trying to convince Yelena. “Some information. Not anyone I’m dating, and I’m not seeing any single guy either.”

This part was sort of a truth.

Natasha wasn’t seeing a guy.

/ Coming back to earth in an hour. - C. /

That’s the reason she punched the bad guys in extra strength today, almost ruining Yelena’s nose as well in some kind of jump-scare situation. Well, Natasha just needed to end this mission. Efficiently. 

She’s expecting a woman with glowing fists.

“You may be the top assassin with excellent lying skills, but you know it’s useless to me.” Yelena teased in a raspy Russian accent, as if she just couldn’t let go of it. 

“I’ll take the compliment.”

“And does that mean you’re actually lying to me?”

Natasha smirked, taking off her suit as she replied to the blonde. “You’re less annoying when you’re still a little girl.”

She tried to pretend nothing actually happened in this present, and that’s what she should do for sure. She’s still an Avenger, reborn in the mysterious deal between Captain Marvel and the Soul Stone keeper after the war. 

Carol was there, shining like stars in the darkest underground. Vormir was a place of exchange, a place where only sacrifice made deals. But when it was about Carol, nothing seemed impossible to make a miracle in her hands. 

-It was easy, you know. I just asked him to return what we had left in that shit place.

-Yeah, I asked him nicely. See this smile? That’s how I got Nat back.

No one believed this story. It didn’t matter anyway, especially when these avengers witnessed Natasha taken back by Carol without any visible injuries.

Maybe just like how she found Tony and took him back at an unbelievable speed, there’s something always mysterious with Carol.

They supposed. 

“If you’re taking good care of yourself as Fanny is, I wouldn’t have asked.” Yelena rolled her eyes, and suddenly she saw something unusual on her sister’s back.

“Wait, Natasha. What is that?” As Yelena leaned closer, she narrowed her brown eyes to observe the unusual mark left on Natasha’s back. “It looks like a bite. Oh my God, are you turning into a vampire or something? “

She realized that maybe Yelena didn’t know what love marks were. As far as she knew, her younger sister hadn’t dated anyone since the collapse of the red room. 

“There’s no bite, Yelena. You’re exaggerating, it’s probably just a scratch from the fight.” Natasha pulled down her black tank top, adding an extra leather jacket she didn’t usually wear.

There’s a bite. 

And it took all her efforts to stay impeccable in front of her sister every time she felt it burning silently, especially after taking a shower or punching someone really hard. 

Carol did that. 

“Alright then, time for dinner?” Yelena shrugged, putting her oversized hoodie on. 

“Yeah, sure.” Natasha didn’t catch the full sentence from her partner-sister honestly, she focused more on the communicator that she’s been carrying all the time.

“Speaking of that…Mom - I mean, Melina. Anyway, she asked if we’d be free to show up for dinner next week.” Yelena said, pulling out her phone from the pocket as well. “I think Friday will be good, how do you think?”

/ Let’s catch up in the compound later, I need to take a really quick shower. - C. /

“Yeah, that’d be amazing…wait, what?” Natasha raised her head up and seized the blonde’s eyes, “I’m sorry, what was the question?”

/ In case you wanna know, I look like a total mess in purple blood now. They didn’t even act like living spices, what a day. - C. /

Natasha stopped, and smiled a bit for imagining the blonde woman’s messy look now. 

She didn’t reply a single word to these texts, but it kept coming up. It’s just like Carol knew that she’d always read them as soon as they were delivered. 

“Ok, that’s rude.” And her sister finally couldn’t take it any longer. “Admit it, Natasha. You’re apparently disturbed by someone that you don’t wanna tell me, why is that?”

Then, Natasha realized that Yelena was still standing in front of her the whole time. She didn’t pay attention to anything this young woman said about free or show. Or dinner. 

Fantastic.

“I’m dealing with something important,” walking together out of their changing room, Natasha answered softly. She’s hiding her vague feelings of guilt. “- from work.”

“Natasha, we’re working together.” 

“Ugh, that’s different. That’s…” As Natasha tried to come up with something more persuasive, her younger sister stopped and nodded to someone.

“Oh, hey.” Yelena took a step back, and she seemed a little nervous. “Cap, we didn’t know you’re coming back today.”

When Natasha met the other blonde woman’s eyes, she found Carol’s hair still dripping. Ok, that’s definitely how a quick shower should be called.

“I left a message to Agent Romanoff.” Carol showed her audacity in acting surprised just right in front of the perfectly trained assassins. “Oh Romanoff, I was looking for you. Lucky me.”

“The mission I mentioned last night, remember that? It went a little bit wrong now.”

To Natasha’s surprise, her sister showed concern on her profile. “Is everything alright?”

Wait, Yelena could tell if she’s lying easily but actually believed in Carol’s almost-too-obvious acting?

“It will be,” Carol smiled back, taking a step in to pat Natasha’s left shoulder. “I just need to borrow your sister for a few minutes - hours, if you don’t mind?”

“Oh, that’s fine. She’s not actually paying attention to me anyway.” Yelena raised her eyebrow, adding a friendly suggestion to her Captain. “Just don’t let her suspicious friend bother her via texts during the mission.”

“Ha, that’s mature.” Natasha couldn’t help but roll her eyes back again, she knew Carol was trying to not let out a laugh. This woman is literally shining right now.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah, totally.” Carol winked in a way that Natasha suspected she'd done this a thousand times. 

“See you later then, young lady.”

When they left the compound, Natasha shut the door of the training room and almost hit the blonde’s pretty nose.

“Are you fucking serious?” Natasha said as soon as there’s no one else between them. 

“You are wearing my jacket.” Carol just smirked happily, admiring how well it fit the redhead. “It looks cute on you, just keep it for me. Will you?”

Something did go wrong, between these two deadly women.

Any one in the galaxy would say it's very hard for Carol to stay in one place for a long time. But she did, she stayed on earth for almost a week, once a month. 

And any one in the Avengers’ HQ would say it’s very hard for Natasha to be disturbed by anything or anyone. Even so, she would not show it on her expression even a tiny bit.

That’s just not her thing.

Like dating someone, or texting someone back. Or admit that she’s caring for the blonde ones, not just her younger sister. 

But they did have sex (well it was amazing), twice. Ugh, maybe three times, if the very first time on Carol’s spaceship counted. 

That’s all, it's a healthy relationship between adults. 

It sounds professional.

“You should stop texting me while we’re at working hours.” Natasha sighed. 

“Wait,” Carol chuckled, her hair color looked darker when it’s wet. “Do we actually have ‘working hours’ in this job? I mean, when is it not ?”

“When we’re not on a mission.”

“But how do I know- ”

“You’re the Captain, Carol.”

“Oh,” Carol finally agreed with a small smile. “That makes sense.”

Every time. Natasha looked at her and thought. Every time she called her name, not Danvers or Captain, just Carol. The smile just came up like that, like nothing else in this world was more delightful than hearing Natasha say her five-letters name.

It’s silly, unprofessional.

But Natasha did that, once in a while.

“So,” Carol tilted her head slightly, and acted that she’s way more harmless than having power to blast spaceships in a single fist. “What’s the plan for dinner?”

“You’re gonna stay that much longer, Captain?” Natasha teased when she finally felt something was in control, by her. Carol’s thoughts were easy to be studied, or at least she gave in for her.

Carol hummed in a way that Natasha could tell she’s triggered, and dragged her leather jacket’s collar to lean in.

“Depends on what you’re offering me to eat, ma’am.”

[whetstonefires]

While i was rifling thru your fic tag like a half-starved raccoon in a cake tin I found your clone Damian's fic & i'm in LOVE! And like, do u hav anymore meta on that verse? like how do the rest of the fam find out? how do they REACT?! how does Damian? does the heretic clone still exist? Just reading abt tim with a bunch of tiny dami's gave me heart palpitations. Thank you for this gift.

(In reference to this post.)

Why thank you!

It’s vaguely inspired by some meta @cerusee and @audreycritter did about what if Damian was one of several identical clones, but I’ve been fascinated by the character potential suggested by Damian having been cloned since Talia first revealed it, so.

Let’s see.

I don’t think the Heretic still exists, not in the form we saw. This story fragment sort of assumes Talia went less crazy than they made her for the whole Leviathan storyline; she doesn’t regard the clones as sons the way she does Damian (she totally relied on cloning to get him perfectly matched organ replacements, like that spine) but she’s not “sons are born to die in battle” “let’s grow him big inside a WHALE” levels of whacked out.

She hasn’t fully committed to having them compete to be selected as the official Damian #2, either, because she’s still attached to the original, though the growing prospect of that was a lot of the reason they ran for it. One of them might have wound up as the Heretic, in another timeline? But it was a timeline that diverged long before they fled the League.

So they make it to Tim’s emergency van without being intercepted, and get as far as his secure site on city limits, but they have to fight their way through the last leg of that trip and to make it inside the bunker, and it’s supplied for a siege but not really big enough for eight people, even if seven of them are small, and also staying there and being besieged would draw the attention of the Bats, which defeats the whole purpose of not making for the Cave/calling reinforcements.

So he calls his friends for extraction, and they all wind up in Kansas.

Tim puts off contacting the family until the clones have with his guidance sorted out exactly how they want to present themselves.

Unfortunately, the last stage of the ninja battle was showy enough not to be overlooked, so his absence was noticed much sooner than he expected, and regarded as more worrying. On the second day Dick calls Kon to see if he knows where Tim’s gotten to, and Kon fails to lie adequately.

Dick can’t pressure Kon as easily as he can most people because last time he asked Kon for a favor Kon came to the North Pole and died for him.

Which is the kind of thing even Nightwing isn’t veteran enough not to take seriously.

But he still calls his bluff and asks a bunch of questions, and winds up very suspicious and worried, so at this point Tim and the Damians have to hurry up and figure out how to announce the situation or go on the run from the Bats as well as the League, which would be. Not smart.

Tim explains the situation over videochat with the Cave before having the cloneboys join him on the feed; this spares them the worst of the yelling.

Bruce, Dick, and Damian all respond pretty badly. Bruce because he doesn’t like change and he’s reflexively suspicious, and having eight Damians to raise is a justly horrifying notion. Also anti-clone prejudice. It’s unfortunately an established trait of his, though not like. A strong one.

Dick because he’s really defensive of Damian, and perceives this first and foremost as an emotional threat to his bab’s fragile identity.

Damian because he knows exactly how he was raised to react to someone being in a place he wants, and he knows how many opportunities his father’s household policies gave him to take shots at Tim, and they may be six years old but there are seven of them. He is going to die.

All things considered, Damian’s being the most rational here.

He’s wrong though. The clones were raised as disposable ninjas, not princes; they’re perfectly well aware killing him would gain them nothing, and they have very little sense of entitlement.

Bruce and Dick do try to be nice to the kids once it’s finally settled they will be staying at the Manor at least for a bit, because they need to be somewhere safe and Bruce can’t leave them at Clark’s house forever. Even Ma Kent has her limits.

But Bruce blows bewilderingly hot and cold and Dick kind of makes a point of of not being too warm to them, because he’s loyal to his demon brat. Damian starts staying at his place a lot and consequently working with Nightwing instead of Batman.

Bruce has no idea what to do about this or if he even should do something. Damian’s thirteen, right? Teenagers are supposed to rebel??? This is a pretty harmless way to do that?

But he misses him.

This does lead to making more time for the Seven Identical Six-Year-Olds.

Their sense of morality revolves around having made the breakthrough to valuing on another’s lives; they aren’t as opposed to not-murder as Damian was but they’re also a lot harder to coax into seeing things his way because they don’t need as much from him, emotionally.

This makes them ironically less terrifying for Bruce, even if he’s still having trouble actually bonding with them the way he normally does with his kids.

Barbara meanwhile is cautious. She always takes a while to warm up to new people, and she doesn’t have Tim’s history with clones to get her over that speedbump. She tries very hard to be fair, but she’s not really welcoming. She’s Reserving Judgment.

Jason thinks this is the funniest thing ever and goes out of his way to tease Damian about it. Privately he’s super creeped out, but as that wears off he starts getting mad about Bruce and Dick making the kiddos feel unwelcome and at some point does a rant, and after that is vaguely protective in a useless sort of way.

He enjoys being a bad influence. The septuplets also enjoy this. They think he’s funny, too, and he’s easier to communicate with than most people around here. Achieves a fairly high tier on the Favorite Non-Clone Brother list they aren’t exactly keeping.

Cass is super about these kids. She can relate to them even more than to Damian, because they weren’t raised as heirs to anything and don’t have the sneering put-down form of pride going, and also she’s actually around to meet them at the crucial getting-to-know-you stage.

She thinks sparring one-on-seven is an excellent sibling bonding activity. There are assassin-child puppy piles once they’re all worn out. Many photos are taken.

She’s doing much better than Bruce at getting them to extend their nascent sense of empathy beyond one another, without actually making an effort. It’s not like they’re actually much behind their cohort when it comes to social development, they’ve just got murder conditioning flattening their affective empathy. (And are ahead of cohort intellectually, which contributes a lot to the dissonance.) Cass’ accidental therapy involves butterflies.

Tim continues to be around, a lot more than he has been for a while because he’s kind of obligated to see this through. The septuplets trust him, which is more than they do anybody else for a while, so he winds up with a lot of childcare duties.

Since this amounts to ‘showing them where to find soap’ and ‘being in their vicinity’ rather than i.e. brushing their teeth for them and making sure they don’t steal each others’ snacks, he’s fairly okay with this.

Sizdahum sticks especially close, which is fine because he’s not a big talker; he winds up getting a lot of absent lessons on detective work.

Tim gets yelled at for having murder scene photos open in front of him; both of them and Haftum, who happens to be there at the time, roll their eyes a lot throughout.

Tim’s friends also visit the Manor a few times specifically to visit the kids, since they already met them. At one point the Damian clones, Tim, Kon, Wonder Girl Cassie, and due to rumor mill Anita, Cissie, and Greta all have a picnic in a rare afternoon of sunshine on the Manor grounds.

Alfred packed the picnic so it has ludicrously expensive cheese, a fruit salad featuring freshly pitted cherries, and thermoses of milkshakes in the favorite flavors of everyone who got one, even the ones he’s never met before. In response to this bounty Anita threatens to come to visit every time she can get babysitters for her parents.

Then she considers introducing her parents to the clone kids. They’re turning out almost as weird, even if in theory they don’t remember their previous lives. We’ll see how that turns out.

Bruce got used to how all his sons’ friends know his secret identity over a decade ago, it’s…fine.

Steph thinks they’re creepy but she’s far enough from ground zero to laugh about it, especially about their occasional appearances as Tim’s row of ducklings, and also she trusts Cass’ judgment.

Everyone does, to a certain extent; it helps the septuplets’ cause incredibly over the course of the first few weeks. It wins Alfred off the fence about them after about three days, which is quite a coup; even before that he was fast catching up with Tim in the ‘learning the differences between the septuplets’ sweepstakes.

(Cass is the only one who can even semi-reliably tell them all apart if they’re not wearing their nametags, or catch them switching, but learning things like their individual preferences in weaponry or cake is arguably much more important.)

Speaking of names, it’s a difficult issue. Bruce would (with considerable angst and self-doubt) be willing to name them all if asked, and they’d probably be open to it if he offered, but they’re not quite comfortable naming themselves and he’s too insecure and weirded-out to suggest anything else.

The other members of the family are varying degrees of not okay with the numbering system. Steph’s main issue with it is she has trouble remembering them precisely, because she doesn’t speak Farsi and learning seven unfamiliar similar-sounding words at the same time doesn’t play to her strengths.

Damian has a tendency to call them by their numbers in English, which only some of the clones actually mind but it offends the hell out of Bruce.

The necessity of keeping them secret until they have actual public-ready names and a story has been settled on wears on everyone’s nerves a bit. The issue that there exists no story more believable than the actual extremely weird truth stands in the way.

Barbara actually crafts an entire cover about rescuing the products of an illegal cloning operation by people planning an overly complicated ransom scheme for Damian, and Bruce going ‘well dammit they’re my kids too,’ which doesn’t get deployed for a while because:

1) everyone’s still hunting for something a little less weird and

2) they have to review the entire body of legal precedent relating to clones to make sure this won’t put the kids in jeopardy down the line or undermine Bruce’s chances of getting custody somehow.

Meanwhile, Bruce absolutely forbids the clone squad from getting involved in vigilante fighting. Because they are six. They’re not quite on house arrest but they have strict supervision and a curfew. They mostly accept this; they’re used to discipline and they did come here for refuge.

He tries to take away all their live weapons. Because they are six. This fails to stick. It threatens to become a serious bone of contention.

Cass, Tim, and Damian (somewhat unwillingly) wind up having to broker the issue; explaining to Bruce that the kids think he suspects them of plotting murder, and to the kids that Bruce doesn’t think they can be trusted not to hurt themselves with sharp objects is. Fraught. On all sides.

Why does Bruce never get any kids for whom normal responsible parenting guidelines are fully applicable?

[mysunfreckle]

ER with 1? E is A and R is B?

Angst to Fluff promt: Enjolras just caught Grantaire in a lie, andnot a harmless white one. [ ~1.3k ]

@impetusofadream I think you asked for this one too! And thank you anon ^^

Enjolrasnever tries to sneak up on Grantaire, he honestly doesn’t. It’s just thatGrantaire is notoriously easy to sneak up on sometimes. Because as lively and loudas he is, he has these moments where he seems to zone out, going completelyquiet and momentarily unable to hear any noise around him. It’s a littledisconcerting sometimes. Enjolras is so used to Grantaire’s presence beingannounced by noise, be it humming or tapping or the erratic movement ofobjects, that it’s always a bit of a shock to enter a perfectly quiet room andfind his boyfriend standing there, wrapped in one of his moments ofabsent-mindedness.

Grantaireis looking down at something in his hands, staring with nearly unfocussed eyes,and a very odd look on his face. Enjolras steps slow and he tips his head tothe side involuntarily to see.

He stopswalking.

Grantaireis holding a pair of baby’s shoes.

Enjolras isfairly sure there is absolutely no reason for there to be baby’s shoes anywherenear Grantaire and even less for Grantaire to be looking at them like that, butthat is unmistakably what they are. They look like tiny green sneakers. A bitlike the kind R has himself. They’re not, of course, they’re more like softlittle loafers made to look like sneakers, but they have the aesthetic down.Maybe that’s why he has them? Because they’re like his own pair shrunk down. Asa joke?

“R?”Enjolras’ voice is very gentle, but clearly it still startles Grantaire.

His eyes dartup, his head following with a hasty movement. “Oh,” he grins sheepishly. “SorryI was off for a second.”

Enjolras smilesreassuringly, but he can’t help but notice Grantaire just tried to close hishand around the pair of little shoes. If he’s trying to hide them he’s doing aterrible job.

On theother hand, he himself is clearly not doing a very good job himself of not lookingat them too obviously, because Grantaire clears his throat uncertainly andsays, with slightly uncomfortable smile:

“Chetta.”

If it hadbeen paired with an eye-roll or a scoff that might have been enough explanation,Enjolras feels like a lot of both their explanations consists of merely thename of one of their friends and a look of mutual understanding. But in thiscase…

He closesthe distance between them and puts an arm around Grantaire. “Chetta gave youthese?”

Grantairenods, opening his hand in a vague gesture.

Enjolrastakes one of the shoes. They’re cute. Stupidly cute. And quite useless of course.A child small enough to wear them wouldn’t be walking yet.

Grantairegives him a slightly helpless look. “I know it’s stupid.”

“What is?”Enjolras asks, looking up from the fake laces.

“Gettingsentimental over undersized shoes.” He grimaces. “I’m just. They’re fuckingcute okay.” Something tense releases in Grantaire’s shoulders and he tips hishead back defyingly like he’s declaring towards the heavens. “I’m a sucker forthis stuff and if I had a kid to clothe I would buy them so much impractical shit.” He waves the shoe in front of Enjolrasface. “I’d put these on them and watch them start a bet with themself on howfast they could get rid of them.”

Enjolras canfeel he’s smiling and he’s not sure whether that’s in reaction that that imageor just because R is suddenly smiling himself, but that smile can’t get pastthe frankly shocking tangle of surprise that’s unfurling itself in his chest.He looks from Grantaire to the tiny left shoe and back again. “…but you don’twant kids.”

Grantaire’ssmile fades. He looks away, but Enjolras has been with him long enough to catchhis eye anyway.

“You’ve always said you don’t want kids,” hepresses. That is knowledge he owes to before they were dating even. Whenever itcame up in conversations among their friends, in vague plans for the future andhappy hypotheticals, Grantaire had been vehementlyagainst it. Enjolras looks at Grantaire, with each of them still holding one halfof that daft pair of shoes.

“Well,” Grantairemutters. “Easier to say that than to own that I’d be the worst parent on theface of the planet and that no child should be subjected to me.”

He says itpretty matter-of-factly, but it’s been a long time since Enjolras heardGrantaire talk about himself like that and for a moment he’s genuinely shaken. “Doyou still feel like that?”

Grantairehesitates. “…no. I mean. I’ve worked through some of my shit since then.”

Enjolrasexhales a short breath of relief and Grantaire places a hand over whereEnjolras’ fingers are suddenly digging a little into his side.

“You know Idid, you were there for most of it,” he quips.

“Well…good,”Enjolras mutters. “And for the record-” He can hear a bit of old defensivenessslip into his voice, but it’s making Grantaire smile so he leaves it. “I thinkyou’d be a great father, if you wanted to be.”

Grantairestares at him.

“…what.”

There’s astrange sort of blush rising up from Grantaire’s neck and there’s a jumbledmoment of silence before he says: “Youwant kids?”

Enjolrasmakes a thoughtful movement with his head. “I don’t have to,” he says. He looksinto Grantaire’s eyes earnestly. “I like the idea of a family. But there’s alot of ways to build a family.”

“I—” Grantairelooks slightly stunned. “I always thought you were the ‘this is no world tobring a child into’ kind.”

Enjolrasfrowns slightly at that, both at the implication and at the fact that this is apparentlysomething Grantaire has been thinking about. Maybe while he was thinking about the same thing. “How are we ever going tobuild a better world without better people?” he says.

Grantaire’ssmile trembles slightly in the corner of his mouth.

“Also,”Enjolras continues. “Adoption.”

Grantaireis still making a very strange face and Enjolras smiles at him bemusedly whilehis boyfriend drags his hand through his curls a couple times.

“Now what?” Enjolras grins.

“Nothing,”Grantaire says. “I’m just…your kids would be a force to recon with on the playground.”

Enjolras wrinkleshis nose a bit. They would be, of course, but he’s not taking full responsibilityhere. “Well, they’d be our kids,” hesays.

Grantaire’sgrin is no longer sheepish, it’s wide like sunshine and completely out of control.“Don’t say stuff like that,” he begs. “Don’t-”

“Why not?”Enjolras says defiantly. He pulls on Grantaire’s waist, wrapping his other arm aroundhim as well and linking his hands together, slightly squashing the little shoein between them. “A second ago I didn’t even know raising kids with you was anywherein the realm of the possible!”

“It’s beenmore than a second.”

“Shut up.”Enjolras presses a hasty kiss on the corner of his mouth. “I’m not saying weshould have kids,” he says seriously. “I’m just saying that we could. Some day.”

Grantairebites his lip, his pale eyes lit up brightly. “Could we?” His voice is shaking likehe’s about to burst out laughing.

“You’re theone gushing over tiny shoes,” Enjolras retorts.

“Touché,”Grantaire says. “But you try to hold this against me and I’ll ask Chetta to geta pair of red ones.”

Enjolrasisn’t quite sure what his face just did in response to that, but now Grantaireactually does laugh. Out loud, with that sunshine-bright grin still beaming onhis face. And Enjolras laughs with him, softly, and with his arms still wrappedaround R’s waist.

[zainclaw]

Alfie’s Café  --  chapter one

masterpost  |  AO3  |  coffee shop/modern day AU  |  art tag

It's all thanks to Charlie, really. That he finds it.

They're walking the streets of London, Charlie's small hand holding two of Tommy's fingers in a tight grip. It's spring, the air still chilly most days despite the sunshine. Charlie is a patient three year old, but Tommy can tell he's almost had enough exploring for the day. He says he's hungry, and since it's not quite lunch time yet, Tommy promises to find them a snack in the meantime.

He spots the café at the end of Bonny Street, close to Camden Road station. There's a small sign above the door, reading Alfie's in bold, fun lettering. Tommy has been around these parts a few times even before the move, but the place had never caught his attention. It looks decent enough, a handful of customers sitting outside in the sun while most tables inside look empty.

Tommy tells Charlie to open the door for them, secretly helping. Inside, the smell of freshly baked bread and coffee hits them like a wall. The first thing catching Tommy's attention are the warm colours of golden brown, bread loafs and other baked goods filling the shelves.

The second thing is a dog lying in a big dog bed in front of the door. The dog is huge, lifting its head and perking its ears as the bell chimes above the door. Charlie stops dead in his tracks, Tommy nearly tripping over him.

"Daddy, look! A doggie!"

"Yeah," Tommy agrees, not sure if his son is scared or amazed. Judging by his tone, it's the familiar combination of the two. Instinctively he holds out an arm in front of Charlie, as if to shield him.

The dog doesn't move from its spot, but the tail starts flopping back and forth as it looks at them. There's a simple cardboard sign placed next to the dog bed, reading please pet me.

"Can I pet him?" Charlie asks, as if he could actually read.

Mostly amazed, then.

"I'm not sure," Tommy says hesitantly, watching the dog's big paws, big jaws, big everything.

A soft chuckle makes Tommy look over, finding a man standing behind the counter. It's hard to notice anything but the wild beard at first, more fuzzy than Tommy has probably ever seen. The man's got his arms crossed over his chest, tattoos peeking out from under the white t-shirt. He's got two chains around his neck, and more bracelets cluttering his wrists than Tommy can count.

 Somehow, he's not the kind of man Tommy had expected to find inside a small London café.

The man uncrosses his arms and leans over the counter, peeking around the big showcase of pastries to smile at Charlie.

"No, you go ahead, mate." He gestures towards the dog. "Cyril is a very nice dog, you see. Totally harmless. And you'd make him very happy if you gave him a petting."

Charlie's face lights up, and he expectantly looks up at Tommy. Tommy looks between his son, the man behind the counter, and the massive dog.

"…Alright," he says after a moment, thinking no sane person would let a dangerous dog loose inside an open café. And the man looks sane enough.

Charlie makes a squealing happy noise, breaking free from his dad's hold and stomps over to the dog. Tommy can't tell if he means to sit down on the corner of the bed, or if he just loses his balance, but either way Tommy's heart skips a beat watching his son plop down right next to the big dog. Tommy half expects it to snap, but it remains perfectly still as Charlie pats the dog's wide spine with his little hand. Charlie laughs, his whole face scrunching up with delight.

The man behind the counter chuckles again, and Tommy turns his attention away from his son. The man's got his arms crossed on top of the counter now, still leaning over as he watches Charlie and the dog with a pleased grin. His teeth are all crooked, but it's still a nice smile.

Very nice.

Tommy looks back to Charlie, watching the dog finally turn its big head towards the boy. He's struck, once again, by just how big its jaws are. Charlie's arm looks tiny so up close. Tommy suddenly goes very still, heart stuttering.

"Is that a pitbull?"

He doesn't know much about dog breeds — they'd had a german shepherd in the army, but that's about as far as his knowledge goes — but it's difficult not to pick up what a pitbull looks like. There'd been talk about putting a ban on them last year, so Tommy knows of the prejudice around the breed. And as much as he wants to believe that no animal is born dangerous, that bad behaviour is usually the owners fault, just like with horses, Tommy can't help the fear stirring inside him at the risk of his son getting bit.

The man regards him for a moment before answering.

"Mostly, I'd say. Probably some german shepherd in there, too."

"You don't know?"

"Well, he's a shelter dog, mate. Kinda hard to know these things when some prick just abandoned him, innit? But I know my breeds pretty well, and I'd say that's definitely a pitbull mix." He nods, looking over to Charlie and the dog again. "Yeah," he drawls, somehow making a single word sound like an entire sentence. Then he looks up at Tommy again, smiling. "Not that it matters, you know? Dogs are just dogs. Big hearts, all of them."

"Right," Tommy hears himself say, somewhat taken aback by the man's rambling.

The man must see the doubt lingering on his face, because he huffs and shakes his head a little as he straightens up.

"Really, you got nothing to worry about, mate," he assures him. "Cyril can tell he's only little. Lets kids do whatever they want to him, that lad. I didn't help him write that sign for nothing, yeah?"

Tommy is no stranger to the man's accent, having been to southern London many times through work, but the man's voice somehow seems to elevate it. It's rough and soft at the same time.

"Yeah, of course," Tommy nods, scoffing at himself. He can feel himself starting to blush, through he's not sure why. For being so mistrusting of an already misunderstood breed, maybe. For coming across as an overprotective parent. He takes a few steps closer to the counter, hands itching to reach into his pocket and pull out a smoke. "Sorry. He's just…"

He trails off, glancing over again to see Charlie touching one of the dog's ears with great interest. The dog side-eyes him, but keeps its head still. When Tommy turns back to the counter, the man's got yet another wide grin on his face.

"Fucking massive, right?"

Tommy blinks, taken aback by the swear word. Even Charlie who's busy petting the giant dog pauses for a second to look over. The man seems to realize his mistake, slamming a hand over his mouth.

"Shit, sorry, mate. I got a real foul mouth."

"That's alright," Tommy assures him, smiling faintly. If Polly was here, she'd probably grab Charlie and walk out, but Tommy is far too polite for that. And it doesn't really matter how foul this man's mouth is — it's not like they're gonna hang around here every day.

"You Alfie?"

It's an attempt to steer the conversation back to more casual ground, away from the dog and back to the task of feeding Charlie. But the man's smile still lights up like he never thought Tommy would ask.

"That's me. One and only. Well, there's another fella working here sometimes, but he's bloody useless. Burns the bread every time, you see. Can't handle anything but the register, that lad."

Before Tommy can respond, Charlie comes over to join them by the counter.

"How old is he?" He asks, pointing back to the dog still sitting on the bed, though it's looking longingly after Charlie with the tail still wagging.

The man — Alfie — leans forward and crosses his arms on top of the counter again, smiling at Charlie.

"Four years old, can you believe it."

Charlie makes a little surprised noise, looking up at Tommy.

"He's bigger than me, daddy."

"Older, Charlie," Tommy corrects him.

Alfie chuckles softly, a wheezy sort of sound that somehow fits the man. He nods down at Charlie.

"And how old are you, mate?"

He doesn't change his voice the way most grownups do when speaking to children, and for a moment Tommy thinks his son will be too surprised by Alfie's odd behaviour to answer properly, but then the kid's face lights up and he proudly tells Alfie:

"I'm three. Almost four!"

"Oh, I see," Alfie nods seriously, stroking his beard with one hand. The way he does it makes it seem like he's barely aware of doing it. "Now, that 'almost' is really important, innit? You grow a lot in just a couple months, don't you?"

Tommy can't help but hum in agreement, a smile tugging at his mouth as he ruffles his boy's hair.

"Plenty."

Charlie giggles, looking back to the dog. Its tail had gone still for a moment, but as soon as he regains Charlie's attention, it starts wagging again. Charlie lifts his hand to wave in response.

Alfie's straightens up with a hum, his eyes locking with Tommy's.

"So did you lot just come in here for the dog and not the food, then?"

"Food!" Charlie exclaims, head snapping back towards Alfie. He grabs onto the counter top with both hands and jumps in place.

Tommy scoffs, realizing they've been in here for several minutes at this point without ordering anything. He blames the dog for being such a distraction, throwing a glance to the small group of teenagers sitting by a table in the corner as he clears his throat.

"Right." He gestures to the pasty showcase next to them. "Go ahead and pick something, Charlie."

Charlie makes a little gasping noise, moving to press his hands and face against the glass. Alfie chuckles, drawing Tommy's attention yet again. He's watching the boy with a kind smile, and Tommy can't stop the warmth spreading from his chest.

"What'cha want, mate?"

"That one!"

Charlie points at what looks like a cinnamon roll, only the little sign next to it says something else.

"Cha...llah?" Tommy reads, looking hopefully to Alfie.

Alfie grins, nodding as he opens the back of the glass box to reach inside.

"My own cinnamon challah bread, that. How many?"

"Two," Tommy decides, patting his pockets to locate his wallet.

Alfie puts two thick slices on a plate. He puts it down between them, but before Tommy can ask about coffee, the man reaches for a glass jar sitting on the counter. It's filled with little bone-shaped biscuits, and Alfie pulls one out and leans over the counter to offer it to a wide-eyed Charlie.

"You wanna go give this to Cyril for me, mate?"

Charlie nods, taking the cookie with an excited grin and bounces over to the dog who's waiting for him. Tommy watches the boy hesitate before holding the treat out in his hand.

"Coffee?"

Tommy meets Alfie's questioning eyes, before his gaze darts back to Charlie.

"Yes," he says, distracted. "Latte, please."

Alfie hums, stepping away from the counter and out of Tommy's line of vision.

The dog seems hesitant to take the treat from the Charlie's hand, but then it slowly opens its big jaws and oh so carefully bites down on the biscuit and takes it out of the boy's hand. Charlie squeals happily, giggling as he pets the dog while he eats, and Tommy finds himself releasing a breath.

He looks back to where Alfie is standing by the coffee machine, finding the man already watching him with a small smile. Tommy scoffs and ducks his head down, a little embarrassed.

"So, Birmingham, eh?"

Tommy looks up again, cocking an eyebrow. Alfie's attention is on where he's pouring the milk.

"You got a good ear."

"Nah," Alfie huffs, crow feet appearing around his eyes. There's a flash of teeth. "You're just a textbook example, mate."

Tommy snorts, shaking his head. He's tempted to say so are you but it feels... dangerous. As if that'd make this little back and forth less innocent. It's already so far from what Tommy is used to when speaking to his employees or meeting with business partners. He tries to remember last time he took part in casual small talk like this, but fails.

Alfie returns to the counter with Tommy's latte, gently putting it down next to their plate. There's a fancy heart pattern in the milk foam, and while Tommy knows that's pretty much the standard for most places serving coffee nowadays, it still makes heat rise to his face.

"Something for your boy?" Alfie asks. "Glass of milk? Still growing, ain't he?"

"Yeah, perfect, thank you," Tommy nods.

Alfie turns away again. The group of teenagers that'd been sitting in the corner gets up and starts to gather their things, and Tommy feels a strange sort of relief. They tell Alfie bye as a they pass the counter, each giving Cyril a pat on the head as they walk by the dog's bed. Charlie looks shy for a moment, sitting next to the dog again, before waving at the teenagers as they head for the door. They happily wave back at him, making Charlie laugh. Tommy feels himself smile.

"Regulars," Alfie says, placing a glass of milk next to Tommy's latte. It takes Tommy a moment to realize he's talking about the kids that just left. "Most people coming here, are, in fact," he goes on, sounding thoughtful. "Not you, though," he add, lifting a finger to briefly point at Tommy across the counter, smiling. "Haven't seen your face here before. I'd remember."

Tommy parts his lips, but no words come out. There's a glint of something in Alfie's eyes, something that makes Tommy's heart miss a beat. He waits for the man's smile to twist into a smirk, for that look in his eyes to turn into something suggestive. Something familiar. But it doesn't happen; Alfie's smile remains soft and genuine.

"We just moved from Birmingham," he admits, taking out his wallet.

"Ah," Alfie says, hands flat on the counter as he leans back. For a moment Tommy feels exposed, prepared for Alfie to get nosy and ask questions he doesn't feel like answering, but then Alfie hums. "Well," he grins. "Welcome to fucking London, mate."

Tommy scoffs, relaxing his shoulders. He looks over to Charlie, but the boy is too busy with the dog to hear the bad word. Alfie seems to remember himself and makes an apologizing gesture. Tommy just smiles, nodding in thanks.

"Charlie," he calls out once he's paid for their good, loud enough to catch his son's attention. "Let's pick a table."

With one last pat on the dog's head, Charlie jogs over. Tommy takes their drinks, one in each hand, while Alfie leans over the counter to hand Charlie their plate.

"You got it, mate?" He asks before letting go. "Be careful, yeah?"

Charlie nods, focusing as he holds the plate steady with both hands. He follows Tommy over to one of the tables next to the windows, letting Tommy take the plate from him once he's sat the drinks down.

It takes Charlie approximately half an hour to finish his bread slice.

Mainly because he's a slow eater, but also because the world is full of distractions. He has to look over every time a new customer walks through the door, giggling every time they pet Cyril and the dog's tail starts slapping against the bed again.

At one point a lady comes in with another dog on a leash, and Charlie stares in awe as the dog follows the woman up to the counter, standing on its back legs to receive one of those bone-shaped biscuits and a pat from a grinning Alfie. The lady doesn't stay, just grabs her coffee and goes, but not before the two dogs get to say a brief hello. Alfie looks over to their table when Charlie laughs into his hands at the dogs' wagging tails, and Tommy automatically returns the man's smile.

When Alfie comes over to wipe off the table in the corner, Charlie has to pause from eating to watch what he's doing. Once Alfie notices, he chuckles and asks if they liked the bread. Tommy lets Charlie answer for them, the boy nodding enthusiastically. Alfie grins, pointing to Charlie's glass and reminds him to not forget drink his milk before disappearing behind the counter again.

Once they're finished eating, nothing but bread crumbs left on the plate, Charlie jumps off his chair and bounces over to Cyril. The dog is lying down, curled up on its belly, but it happily lifts his head when Charlie sits down on the bed again. The dog licks Charlie's hand, and Charlie shrieks happily.

Tommy takes their plate and empty cups back to the counter, Alfie giving him a thankful smile.

"I'll be seeing you," Alfie says, sounding a  bit like he's trailing off at the end.

"Thomas Shelby," Tommy offers, extending a hand.

Alfie smiles, sliding his hand into Tommy's to shake it, firmly. His palm is warm, rough from labour.

"Alfie Solomons. Hmm. Well. I'll be seeing you, Tommy."

Tommy almost opens his mouth to ask, how he can be so sure, but decides not to. He just smiles faintly, nodding before withdrawing his hand.

"Tell Mr. Solomons bye now, Charlie," Tommy instructs, ruffling his son's hair as he comes over to the dog bed to help him put his jacket back on.

Charlie makes a little protesting noise, but doesn't fuss. He gives Cyril one last pat on the head before waving at Alfie.

"Goodbye!"

Alfie waves back, his smile all teeth and sparkling eyes.

"See you, mate."

Tommy helps Charlie open the door for them, the chilly air welcoming them as they step back out on the street. Once again Tommy's hands itch to reach for a smoke, but then Charlie is there, wrapping his little hand around his dad's fingers.

"Are we going home?" The boy asks, looking up at him. He's still got bread crumbs around his mouth.

Tommy swallows, feeling his heart clench inside his chest. The new apartment doesn't feel like home, not yet, and Tommy is worried that it never will. Its walls are empty and dull, a lack of life that makes you feel cold even when you're not. But it's free of memories, free of ghosts.

"Yes, Charlie," Tommy says, smiling down at his son. "Can you make it? Or do you want a ride?"

Charlie grins, reaching his arms up. Tommy laughs, lifting him off the ground and putting the boy on top of his shoulders. Charlie giggles, the weight of his hands coming to rest on top of Tommy's hat, trusting his dad to keep him balanced.

"Let's go home," Tommy says, allowing himself a smile.

[winklerfyhn60-blog]

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[sevi007]

Concept with time paradoxes tho: Adult Atreus ends up being spell shifted back in time and has been hiding out somewhere until he eventually has to interact with his younger self and dad but he can't call himself by his Norse name to throw them off even. He's just wearing some kind of mask similar to the Valkyrie and they call him The Trickster the same way Bauldr was called The Stranger. Every once in a while a "Why are you always SO Stubborn" @ kratos slips and K and mimir start to catch on

Okay so this really just hit a nerve for me,and the idea for a little fic-snipplet tormented me since getting this ask, soI sat down and wrote it all in one sitting.

I don’t really have grip on these charactersyet, the subject is tricky to write, and I haven’t written in months, but I hadfun writing it, and thank you @smallest-turtle  for the inspiring idea, I hope you like thisat least a little bit! =D

 The dayKratos notices it, it doesn’t feel like a revelation, sudden and harsh like apunch to the stomach.

The momentTrickster laughs and bows his head forward, nodding in agreement to somethingAtreus said, strands of shoulder long auburn hair parting over his neck andrevealing the familiar etching (blue, almost black, instead of the gold she hadusually used – this is different, Kratos,this color carries meaning just likethe gold does, you would know if you would listen to my stories, you stubbornman), the slowly-becoming-more-familiar-runes that Atreus has been sodedicatedly teaching him in the last months still only making sense to Kratosbecause once upon a time, Faye had explained their meaning to him before gentlycarving them onto their son’s neck –

“Steady mind”

Its’ rightthere, right in front of his eyes, the same color, the same familiar-unfamiliarrunes, just… not on a boy’s neck.

On a man’s. Years older than Atreus shouldbe, than Atreus is right now, becauseAtreus is right next to the strangerwho doesn’t seem all that strange anymore and…

And itshould feel like a revelation, shouldn’t it, but instead…

It feelslike a confirmation, like a final piece slipping into its supposed place and fittingperfectly.

Because he knew, didn’t he, Kratos thinks as hekeeps his eyes trained on that tiny crack in an otherwise absolutely perfectseeming disguise. Because deep down, the stranger that appeared in their liveswith the suddenness of a thunderclap in an otherwise calm summer night hadnever been a stranger, not to him,not to Kratos.

Because hewould never have trusted a stranger who refused to show his face, would neverhave let him come so close.

Because “You can call me Trickster, I suppose”would never have been enough to satisfy Kratos’ need for an answer to thequestion “Who are you?” otherwise.

Because hewould have recognized him anywhere,anytime and Kratos’ heart had recognized who was hidden behind the mask andthe added years and the sheer impossibilityof it all before his conscious mind really could grasp it.

There wassimply no way Kratos could ever not recognize the clear blue eyes so similar tohers, even hidden in the shadows of amask, twinkling at him when the younger man got excited while talking aboutsomething that had caught his interest.

No way couldhe ever not recognize the way the younger would tip his head just a tiny bit tothe right while soaking up new information. Or the way he paced when thinking,feet carrying him in useless circles while his mind wandered far ahead of allof them.

The suddenjolt that would go through him at the proposition of adventure waiting ahead of them, as if it took all the experiencesand years as a warrior to stay still and not jump ahead in his impulsivenesslike he had done in his younger years.

The way hishand would wander to his chin while muttering about different options, talkingout loud until he would snap his fingers in sudden understanding and rush off,having found his own path, calling for Kratos to follow him.  

(And Kratoswould follow, because he always had, always would, be it to stop him and tughim back into his protection, or to support him in any way he could. Becausewasn’t that what he was supposed to do? Wasn’t that what a-…)

“…father?”

Kratosblinks, fond memories and musings receding as he is met with two pairs ofcurious, if not worried blue eyes.

Even withone of them crouching to be the same height as the other and wearing a mask, Tricksterand Atreus look like twins in the way they gaze up at him.

(Really.How did the younger ever think he wouldn’tnotice?)

 Kratosgrunts, not knowing if more amused or exasperated at that thought, but it just ends up assuring Atreus that he’slistening.

“Are youalright, father?” The boy frowns, worry evident in his young face. “Did youhear something?”

“No, boy,” Kratosfinds himself saying, even though his focus was never on the ancient, rotting templearound them or on possible enemies that could be approaching. “I would havesaid so.”

“Oh…”

“Probably…,”Trickster shifts, easily gliding from the crouch he was in back to his feet,nearly the same height as Kratos himself as he stands. “…we’re starting to boreyou with our stories?”

(- and byall the gods, there is a sort of fierce prideswelling in Kratos’ chest, now that he knows, now that he sees… he had grown up so well -)

Anothergrunt, this time of acknowledgment. “You talk almost as much as the Head.”

Quickamusement flashes over Atreus’ face, quickly swallowed back down with a snort,while their companion has no problem laughing aloud, mirth not covered in theslightest by the ever-present mask. “Only almost?!I need to try harder!”

“Sorry,father,” Atreus is quick to add, nudging his older friend as if to admonish him,even though he looks still too amused for that. “We weren’t trying to bore you,it’s just… this place is so great! Could…could we, just, explore… a little bit more? Just, until sundown… there could bemore old texts to be found? And I’m sure Mimir wouldn’t mind terribly to wait a little longer untilwe return, even though he always complains when we leave him with Brok andSindri, he’s having fun teasing them, I know it, and it’s still day out and… wecan leave as soon as you say I would just like to…”

Kratoslifts a hand, and Atreus falls still immediately, eyes wide and hopeful, energybarely contained in his fairly-bouncing young body.

“I see noharm in staying a bit longer,” Kratos declares, not giving into the urge to letthe corner of his mouth twitch upwards as Atreus gives a whoop of joy and all but fliesahead, towards where the dusty hallways of old vanish around another cornerthey have not yet turned. “Don’t go too far, Atreus!”

“Thank you,father!” It’s all the answer he gets before his son has vanished in the bowelsof whatever this place once had been.

Perhaps he should have listened to the stories thetwo had been exchanging, then he would know if there were any old surprises of days past that he should belooking out for.

“Don’tworry,” as if he has read his thoughts, Tricksters shifts next to him, his armbrushing the older one’s in a reassuring gesture, gaze sweeping over to where Atreushad vanished before returning to Kratos, eyes softening. “He will be able tohandle himself should something happen, you know.”

This time,Kratos hums. “I know he can.”

(The pride inhis chest is burning - )

Kratos’gaze returns to Trickster – the stranger who is oh-so-familiar, the boy, no,the man who is almost the same heightas him, the man who can call lighting down and set fire to the air with a fewsharp words, the man who trades riddles and stories back and forth with Mimiruntil even the wisest of them all has talked himself hoarse, who fightsalongside Kratos with an ease as if they have never done anything else than standside by side in battle…

(- fierce,bursting like a star -)

… the man whois a warrior but so unbelievably gentle beside the battlefield, who meets Kratos’bristling harshness with a kindness unparalleled as if everything about hisharsh words is endearing and not tobe taken as an insult, who plays harmless pranks to Brok and Sindri even theyhave to laugh at, who snickers at Kratos’ horrible abilities at storytellingbut asks for more every time, who laughs aloud and with so much joy everyonearound him smiles back, who tells stories with wildly gesturing hands and the gleamingeyes of an innocent child…

(- beforeit mellows down into something much softer, warm, but not as sharp as the pridehad been.

He had grown up so well.)

This time,Kratos doesn’t fight the urge, let’s some of the warmth in his chest spreaduntil one corner of his mouth curls upwards as he says, softer than before butwith no less sincerity. “I know you can, Atreus.”

There is apause so long one could think his quiet words have gone unnoticed, the worldstill around them.

Then atension appears along Trickster’s frame, muscles stiffening, and blue eyeswiden behind the curved eye slits of the mask, head snapping around to stare atthe older man. A sharp intake of breath-

Kratosmeets the flurry of motion with crossed arms, eyebrow raised, and waits – the warmthhe had been feeling still present, if not strongerthan before at the blundering display.

(How had heever thought he wouldn’t notice?)

 - and allbreath leaves Trickster in a whistling sound, shoulders slumping… before hestarts laughing. Quiet at first, just a chuckle, before he bursts intofull-blown laughter that shakes his whole body and has him gasping for air. Hehas to bend over, place his hand on his knees as his side starting hurting fromit.

He laughsand laughs and laughs, and Kratos lets him, understanding that all the tensionof this game of hide and seek the younger man has been playing with them justnow finds an outlet finally.

Finally, Trickstercalms, takes deep breathes. He straightens slowly, and manages to speak whileshaking his head, words hoarse, but full of mirth, “They should have made you theGod of Seeing through All Lies or something similar. It would be… much morefitting.”

“As fittingas Trickster?” Kratos gives back,noting with satisfaction that it gets him another round of snickering.

“Now thatyou saw straight through me, it seems more embarrassingthat I decided to call myself that. Trickster, the one who doesn’t trickanyone!”

“Hm. Atreusdidn’t notice,” – oh, but even after knowing, it feels odd to think that thereare two Atreus’ now – “Nor did theHead, or the dwarves.”

It seemsimportant to tell him, that his frantic tries of hiding it from them hadn’t been all for naught.

The mask isstill firmly in place, but it’s clear by the way blue eyes crinkle and softenthat Trickster – Atreus, because it’sAtreus, always was, always will be no matter how much he ages and changes,Atreus, his son - is smiling behindit. “No. No, they didn’t, did they? Only you. Father.”

He doesn’tknow what does it. Perhaps it’s that they are on the same page now. Perhaps it’sbecause of the way the word – father - soundsso different in that much deeper voice yet so achingly familiar. Perhaps it’sthe warmth in those blue eyes that look at Kratos’ so full of love as if he’snot a Ghost, not a monster, not a man who never knew how toraise a boy properly all on his own…

Father.

 … He doesn’t know what does it butKratos finds himself reaching out for the younger abruptly, wanting, needing to touch, pull, hold him just for a moment, just to makesure…

Just toshow some of the warmth he felt.

“Heeeeey! Areyou guys coming?!”

Atreus’voice, loud and yet soft because of the distance between them, rattles themboth. Kratos lets his half-outstretched arm drop, sees how Trickster flinchesjust slightly as if he had forgotten where they were, too, for a moment.

The momentis over, gone, and Kratos clears his throat – his hand itches still with theurge to reach out, he squashes it vigorously – and calls back. “Atreus?!”

“I’m okay!”The words come back instantly, faintly, but still brimming with excitement. “ButI found something! You guys need to see this!”

With themstanding next to each other, gaze fixed on the entrance Atreus’ voice is wavingback from, Kratos more feels thansees the jolt going through the younger man next to him, but he recognizes itstill. Barely contained energy, just held back at the last moment, before theyounger could run off.

He almostrolls his eyes at it, but the warmth is back, lodged somewhere between his chestand his throat, and it makes it difficult to even pretend to be annoyed. So hegrunts instead and nods to the doorway. “Go ahead.”

Tricksterhesitates, even though his whole frame isvibrating with restless energy. “You sure?”

“You wantto see it,” Kratos points out, trying to sound more exasperated than fond.

He doesn’tmanage, if the amusement dancing in the blue eyes is any indication. “Are you really sure, because….”

“I said go.”

“… I feltlike we were interrupted there…”

“Atreus.”

“… I mean,if you really want to hug me, I couldwait a second longer, you know, it’s such a rare occurrence, it should be…”

“Boy.”

“… fine, ifyou’re really sure, I will of course go ahead. We can continue this later.”

Kratosfairly growls and the younger instantlydashes off, taking off like the arrow released from the bow, racing down thehallway and around the corner, his laughter trailing after him and echoing offthe old stone walls.

He reallytries to, but Kratos can’t bite back the smile curling around his lips for thelife of him. There is only darkness and stones to bear witness to it, so justthis once, he lets it go.

He can’tfight it, can’t deny it, the feeling of happinesssitting like a glowing ball in his chest, making him feel light and warmfor the first time in ages.

Becausedespite all his mistakes, past and present and future, despite the fact that hedoesn’t believe in fate, despite knowing that the future could change at anytime-

He knows,right at this moment, thanks to a coincidence and a trick of magic and time,that there is a realm, a time, a future,where he did right by his own flesh and blood. A future where Atreus grows intoa man to make him and Faye proud.

Kratos isgrateful he was allowed to see the proof for that.

And nowmore than ever, he will fight for that one future.

He willfight for Atreus.

Because that’s what a father does.

[mycstrade]

Sherlock x Killing Eve

Imagine, Mycroft knows Eve (MI6 mates) and knows about Villanelle. Of course he's suspicious, the relationship between Eve and Villanelle seems to be something big, but he's not sure if it's obsession, because Eve wants to catch Oksana, or it's some kind of affection. OF COURSE Mr Umbrella is too busy to take care of that so he involves Sherlock.

Sherlock tries to know Villanelle better, to deduce her, so he takes John with him to Paris ;;;) leaving Rosie with Hudders. OFC Mrs H implies that Paris is such a romantic place etc but John is not gay and they are going here for a case.

They keep observing Villanelle for a couple of days but OF COURSE she recognize John after a few times she have seen him before on the streets (John sucks at disguising, sorry) AND she thinks it's perfect occasion to make some fun so she tries to seduce him. Of course she don't know his name nor what he's trying to do, but she obviously feels its nothing good, and she want to check what exactly it is.

Meanwhile Eve know what's going on so he's flies to Paris to warn Villanelle. They haven't seen each other since that day, but Eve track where she lives now and tries to save her.

John likes women but he also likes solved cases, so he tries to go along with flirting. It's a very thin line between seducing and being seduced in that case, because Villanelle is very clever, but John has nerves of steel and knows what to do with the clever ones.

They both have guns tucked in the back of trousers and both know about it. Sherlock finds it absolutely thrilling. Watching how John is toying with super dangerous assassin. No. How they both are toying with each other. And of course a tiny speck of jealousy appears for a split second in Sherlocks mind, but John seems to be so professional about it, he can see his mask, not his nice, soft John, nor a soldier. Just someone on a mission. It seems overwhelming how good he become in these things through the years.

Villanelle reminds Sherlock about Irene. Self confident, dangerous, clever, gay.

Of course he knows she's gay, so that speck of jealousy disappears very quickly. And he knows Eve Polastri will appear.

John tries to ask clever questions, something that Sherlock would deduce from, but Oksana waffles so they stuck again in a starting point.

A few days later Sherlock is totally frustrated with the case and that Villanelle girl slipping from his hands. She has fake id, killed a lot of people and is threatening but they can't do anything without evidence.

"Calm down, we are useless at the moment. She barricaded herself in her flat so perhaps we should relax, eat something and refresh your mind."

"Digestion slows me down."

"We know that's not true. Listen, we can sit in the restaurant next to her flat, keeping eye on her and eating, okay? You haven't eaten anything for a very long time... and we're really obligated to taste some french cheeses."

And of course Sherlock says yes, because John is staring at him with those eyes, they are in Paris, and that case is really irritating so perhaps John's right.

After half an hour they are sitting in a fancy restaurant, close to the window and observe asian woman walking into Villanelle's apartment. Sherlock could swear he knows her, but his mind palace can't recognise her face. Something with the government, that doors opens in Sherlock's mind unconsciously so he knows it must be it. And although he really doesn't want to call Mycroft, he has to.

"Let me guess" He never starts with 'hello' "Eve Polastri appeared, nowise to help you."

"Female, 5' 55' height, asian, black hair, Londoner."

John's jaw drops to floor. Sherlock doesn't stop to amaze him.

"Yes, that's her indeed. Works for MI6, she is very good, well trained, smart-"

"-stop daydreaming Mycroft, find someone for yourself, but now I need informations, quickly."

"I'm not... Just trying to help you imagine how good she is, and how bad it may turns out if she will cooperate with Villanelle. Two ticking bombs, professional and sharp."

"Shut up, you're being poetic Mycroft. Not good."

Sherlock hangs up and decides to go to Oksana's flat immediately, alone because she could recognise John.

Meanwhile Eve knocks the door until Villanelle open with a gun perfectly focused on her.

Eve pants from fear, rush and excitement because she haven't seen her for so long and she wants to ask about everything, how I she, is everything all right, is it still hurts? She also wanna apologize, but there's no time.

"You don't trust me, okay, but you have to run away, Oksana, they sent two guys here to catch you, it's really dangerous."

"I know" Villanelle answers calmly "I met one of them, harmless."

"No, you don't understand. Sherlock Holmes is the best, he's genius, and trust me, it won't be easy, Oksana look at me, you have to get away." Eve shakes Villanelles arms. "Please"

But it's to late. The door bell rings.

"Don't open" Eve says.

"I'm not scared of some boys, calm down." Villanelle answers and opens anyway.

Sherlock appears, standing still as a statue, dark shirt contrasting with his pale skin.

Oksana is suprised, he doesn't look dangerous at all. Just very handsom posh boy in nice suit. She smirks.

Sherlock wants to pretend he's some lost tourist or something but he sees in Villanelles eyes that he doesn't need to.

"Mrs Polastri I hope you're here for the same reason as me."

Eve hesitates for a second.

"No, I'm not" she says firmly.

"I don't think its good to your career."

Villanelle tenses watching theirs conversation. Slowly reaches to his jeans...

"For God's sake, pull out this gun if you must x just don't sneak like that" Sherlock smirks. He's ready to fight, he can cope with a gun with is reflex and bare hands.

Villanelle pulls out her weapon and Sherlock knows what to do, but then Eve also aims her gun at him. Two guns, not good. Sherlock raises his hands defenseless.

Eve looks at Oksana with a grin. There is something weird about that closeness. They points guns but not to each other. Cooperating. On the same side. With adrenaline in theirs veins.

And Sherlock somehow sees, sees his relationship with John illustrated besides him. John grins at him in the same way when they work. Enlightening.

"You fucking moron!" John yells from the frame door. "I knew it will end like that." He also pulls his gun and Sherlock still is the only unarmed one. John don't know where to aim.

"You okay?" he adds looking at Sherlock. He is okay, of course he is, but it's so good to see John.

Sherlock want to tell him Look John, they are just like us. Insane, adrenaline-addicted. It's amazing, John. John you see it? But Sherlock knows it's "not good" so he stays silent.

Villanelle points his gun at Sherlock, Eve at John, and John still doesn't know what's the best option.

"Eve" Sherlock quietly suggests, so John turns his gun to Eve.

"What? No, no, no. C'mon John, I'm a better target. Bigger." She smiles at him just like when she was flirting.

"Oksana, calm down, I'm okay" Eve says.

"If you kill her I will kill both of you, or better. Shot you and leave here to bleed out." Villanelle yells.

John, look, look at them. I'd die for you too. John I hope you're not an idiot and you can see it. Please, John.

"If you pull the trigger" says Eve to John "I'll pull too"

"We will be death, she will shoot Sherlock and leave alone" John says tactically.

"NO. Eve won't be dead, shut the fuck up, she won't be dead" Villanelle shouts.

"John has a daughter" Sherlock mutters. Eve seems to be touched, but Oksana not at all.

"I don't give a fuck" she grins

"Oksana" Eve looks at her and wants to say something else but don't know what and how.

John, look at them, they are like you and me, exactly.

"Ya lyublyu tebya." Villanelle says and everyone in the room understand.

Oh Sherlock thinks So, they love each other. No, Villanelle loves Eve. He can't take Eves pulse to check if she feels the same.

"John" Eve says "I obviously know you two from the papers, I know you're good, you help people but also kill when you need to. No one is saint" John smirks but she continues "Please, let me leave with Oksana. I'll take care of her, she won't kill anything anymore. Please. She just wants to have calm life"

Villanelle smiles listening what Eve is saying, perhaps she wants to share this life with her.

"John" Sherlock starts but doctor already knows what he wants to say

"She was bloody assassin, Sherlock!"

And Sherlock doesn't want to say it, but he has to "So was Mary"

John stiffs. He's right.

"Please, do it for me, but also for you" Eve says "we all have someone to love. You'll leave me Villanelle, and she will leave you Sherlock."

Villanelle's heart flips. Eve loves her back. And they're gonna watch films, and have sex and perhaps Eve let her touch her hair.

"How am I suppose to let you go so easily?" John says staring at Eve

But Sherlock is sure Eves tells the truth. SHE IS gonna take care of Villanelle, he can see it in her eyes. Presentiment.

John is gonna feel guilty if he let them go so easily. John needs distraction, exscuse.

Sherlock doesn't think anymore, he comes closer to John, followed by Villanelle's gun. John doesn't know what's happening. He looks at Sherlock's eyes with what the heck are you doing?

Sherlock kisses him. Puts his hands on both sides of John's head, crooking it to have a better access.

Sherlock doesn't know what's happening. He wanted to distract John, but now, his own mind is spinning and shaking and oh god John kisses back, bites Sherlock's lower lips, right hand on his back, left tangled into Sherlock's curls.

When John pulls back they are the only people in the room. Or in the world.

[iceice-baeby]

Was tagged by: @scarlet--holmes Answer 11 questions and make up 11 new ones, then tag people to answer the new questions again. Do you believe in conspiracies? That really depends on the conspiracy. If it actually has any backing and sounds logical, like “Erdogan planned the Putsh on himself to make himself look better and gain more power” I think that sounds perfectly logical. And honestly, who would be surprised at that one. Would you rather go to the past or the future? Why? That is a good questionnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn. But I think into the future, new technologyy and science ficiton, if humanity makes it so far! How did your parents meet? No idea, and dont care. Pinapples on pizza: yes or no? Yes. Because its tasty, deal with it Which city would you like to visit? Oh god. There is way too much cities I wanna visit... BUTTTTTTTTTTTT I think London again. I really loved it when I visited there, and now I actually speak the language properly xD Tell us something about your OCs (if you have any)! DUDE. Which one? I have too many. I can just go with like... four for a moment here.

Okay, here we go then. 1.) Melissa Hummel One of the infamous Failures, a fairy that is still very tiny and doesnt even have wings big enough to support herself, so she cant even fly. She may be the most useless fairy around, since her magic doesnt even work as well as it should, but se still has some bite. The most grumpy, agressive and antisocial fairy you can find around. Will always drag her friends into the biggest bullshit. What she doesnt have in literally anything else, she gained in her will to fuck up the life of everyone around her. Senior Student in “The Academy of Failures” 2.) Ophelia A mild mannered Dryad, seemingly completely harmless, friendly, and only shy’s away from people a lot. However, she is not a normal Dryad, bound to a tree. Instead, she is one of the rare Flowerbound Dryads, her flower being an Orchid. With her flower she was born with the power to suck the life out of other Dryads, like Orchids suck the life out of trees, and she is the specific type of Failure known as “Parasyte”. Considering how Failues are treated in Orchid society, she was originally planned to be killed right after her birth, but her family was one of the most influencal ones in her world and she was spared thanks to them. Her family still thinks that it could be useful to have her as a threat in their backhand, and send her to the Academy of Failures to integrate her into normal society well enough to blend in. Ophelia does not mind. If it wouldnt be for her family she would be dead, so she accepts their will. 3.) Feliks Yuriovich Dubinsky Now to an OC from another story of mine, Feliks. He is a russian, kind hearted plant-fanatic, and works for the “Organisation” as an agent for special cases. The Object his powers are tied to is his headscarf, and the powers he DOES possess thanks to it is life control. Well, only plants so far, control or making of more complex life forms would need a lot more training. He lives together with his husband Louis, their Munchkin cat Baguette and his Partner in the Organisation, Nora. He is one of the most valued members of the Organisation, if only for the fact that he makes the least of trouble and goes through with the most solved cases. He is loyal, upbeat and stays calm even under a lot of pressure. He never really looses his nerves and can work with a lot of different people really well, he has quite the calming aura. 4.) Nora Klein And as for the last OC, Nora, the main character of one of my stories! She is of German nationality, cynical, suicidal and immortal. She discovered that she accidentally got superpowers with her new little hourglass when she had planned on shooting herself in the head, but failed to die through it. Now, she is understandably pissed, and the fact that the Organisation found her through it and recruited her sort of against her will and now keeps the little hourglass with her superpowers locked away so she cant destroy it does not help her at all. She is sarcastic, snarky, depressed and hates her job, but still has to do it. The only thing that does make her life better is her Partner Feliks, who slowly warmed up to her and won over her heart, and now does his best to make her life as bearable as possible. And she appreciates him a lot for it. She also slowly befriended his husband as well (and his Ex but thats another point), and becomes more and more open as time goes on thanks to her beloved partner. (The story will end up in a poly relationship btw, between Feliks, Nora and Louis)

Do you have any “guilty pleasures”? I do, but nothing I will admit to xD What is your Zodiac sign? Does it suit your personality? Capricorn, and... only half. Only a little bit, not as much. Do you have a favourite period in history? Victorian England, if only because I really love Steampunk a lot. Are you planning to enter a university? Why or why not? I am, but I fear I do not have the grades for it. However, I would learn to learn some things I could not learn otherwise. How did you discover your favourite fandom? I wish I could remember. I love Hetalia and I wish I knew how I started with it.

Now to my questions: 1. Which answer of the “Would you fuck your clone” meme would be your response? 2. Tell me about your favourite of your OCs 3. How many Exes do you have? 4. What is your favourite animal, and if you could have ANY animal as a pet, which one would it be? 5. The OTP of your OTPs? 6. Most hated character that deserves to be flinged into the sun? 7. Worst fandom that deserves to be flinged into the sun? 8. What is a game you really love the characters from, but where the story is weak? 9. A game where the story is great, but the characters weak? 10. Russia or America: If you would visit one or the other, which one and why? 11. Rifle, Bow and Arrow, Gun or Crossbow? Tagging: @softestconnor, @theeggshavelegs, @giripans-googlehistory, @artsbysmarty, @askbountyhunterjones, @wait-what-pancakes, @paachubelle, @askhunterludwig, @asktheitalianempire, @spitfire-diavolo-lovi, @hetaliatime

[luna-xtinta]

After the non-apocalypse, Crowley and Aziraphale had only thought of that night, the night Aziraphale spent in Crowley's place. At the same time, they had done nothing but to avoid speaking of it, although after that evening, they felt closer to each other than ever.

Crowley had thought to mention it at the Ritz to Aziraphale, however he had made up an entire situation in his head that would end up with him denying the whole situation or even fighting. He never wanted to fight Aziraphale again, he never knew how long their fights would last. For them it could be years, decades, centuries. And knowing himself as he is, he knew his pride sometimes could get the best of him. He decided to let the whole thing go, that he would never mention it as long as he could be close to Aziraphale as he was in that very moment.

"Are you okay, Crowley?" Aziraphale asked, interrupting his thoughts. He stopped eating his crêpes and swallowed "You seem distracted. Are you still worried about your... Or my side?"

Crowley smiled, his glasses had slipped a bit through his nose, so the angel could perfectly see his yellow eyes. Aziraphale had always secretly thought that that tiny and harmless detail made him look very cool.

"I couldn't care less about those wankers, angel. Like I said before, after the scare we gave 'em , I don't see them risking coming after us in a while." He watched his untouched and intact crêpe on his plate and hissed.

Aziraphale laughed, remembering the scene of a Michael giving him a towel. "You're right, dear. You must be. We souldn't worry, of course. What were you thinkikg about, then?" He had resumed his job with the crêpe and then sighed in satisfaction. It was delicious. Crowley felt his human back get a chill after seeing that face on the angel. A silence suddenly came between them. Crowley gazed the angel's eyes and stood quiet. Aziraphale, realizing Crowley would not want to speak on the matter, tried changing the subject.

"Are you gonna eat your crêpe, dear?" he asked, a bit nervous "It's gonna get cold and that would just be an a..."

"An abomination" The demon interrupted "Yes, nk, you can have it for me. You know I'm not all into human food." Crowley took a sip to his wine and then took the white plate and slipped it through the table without even looking to it. He felt a touch in his hand and freezed. He gazed at the plate, and saw a hand, the angel's hand, Aziraphale's hand above his. His stomach felt light but his chest felt heavy. Bloody human bodies, he had thought. So contradictory.

The angel's look was in the plate, he seemed to be studying it, on a light pause. Crowley wondered if he had even realized of the hand-touch, maybe he was just excited about the crêpe. His hand is still in Crowley's. He doesn't know how long that pause has been so far, but Arizaphale's gaze seems serious, like he is analyzing. Is he looking at our hands or at the crêpe? Crowley asked to himself.

"Is there anything else I can offer you, gentlemen?" A voice said, making Aziraphale jump in his seat. The touching was gone and Crowley grumped to himself.

The angel looked at the waiter and smiled. "Oh, no, thank you very much. Perhaps you could give us the check." He said.

"Would you like your crêpe to go, sir?"

"Indeed. You are very kind." The waiter took the plate and left. Crowley was looking at the window, again lost in his own thoughts.

"Seriously, demon. Whatever it is you're thinking about, you seem pretty engrossed to that. Is there a problem?"

Crowley snorted "Weren't you gonna eat the crêpe?"

"I'm afraid I feel quite full, dear." Neither of them was looking into each other's eyes. Somehow their tension grew, but neither of them would even think of recognize that, much less the cause of that tension.

A bunch of claps caught their attention behind Aziraphale. They looked at a man on one knee hugging a woman on her seat. It was easy to asume they had just got engaged.

"Weird, isn't?" The demon asked. "Humans create all sorts of useless rituals to prove something to themselves."

Aziraphale gazed at him. "What do you mean?"

"I mean weddings. Humans swear to love each other for their whole lives, their lives aren't even that long. And they don't know what eternity is. I mean, not like you and I. And the thing is they don't have enough time to even make those kind of promesses because they don't even have enough time to get to know a person well enough." Aziraphale realized Crowley was a bit past drunk. He looked at the table behind him, the happy couple laughing and holding both hands, whispering things to each other. The lady had a few tears of happines sliding through her cheeks. The male kept cleaning her tears with his thumbs, speaking to her. They didn't even realized the whole crowd they had created.

"I have a question for you, Crowley." Aziraphale said firmly. The demon freezed at the tone of voice of the angel. "What is it that upsets you, the whole 'wedding/ritual' situation, or the promess of eternal love?"

Crowley turned his eyes to Aziraphale's. The blue in his eyes where half covered by his dilated pupil. His hands were under the table and he looked almost like a statue, calmly waiting for the demon's response. He sighed, feeling almost... Exhausted?

"You see, angel. Can you feel the love in the air? Is strong, I believe in their promess. I do, truly. But it annoys greatly how foolish of them it is to make those promesses when they are not meant to last. Humans die, they do not discoporate, they die, angel. Eighty years? Seventy? These days most don't last until their fifties. Don't get me wrong, it amazes me how easy it is to them to partner to their loved one that fast. I mean, it's been six thousand years and I'm still waiting to..."

"Your check, gentlmen" The waiter appeared leaving a piece of paper inside a leather notebook and a plastic box with the crêpe inside of aluminum on top of the table. Aziraphale was looking at the demon with fear. Waiting? Waiting for what?

"Thank you." The angel gazed at the waiter, with a forced smile. He signed something on the paper and as soon as the waiter was gone he miracled the money on top of the table. "Ehm, what were you saying, dear?" Aziraphale suddenly seemed agitated, he looked at Crowley, who was gazing at the table. The angel waited for his response. Crowley looked up, into the angel's eyes and stood there for a few seconds.

"Crow..."

"Doesn't matter. We should get going. The love air in here is sofocating me." He stood up, took the box of the crêpe and walked fast out of the restaurant.

Aziraphale walked behind him trying to follow his step as best he could. Outside the Ritz, the angel watched how Crowley almost gets hit by several cars and tries his best to catch him. For a moment he thought he was gonna have to miracle a car to make it stop before it hit Crowley, who kept walking fast without even realizing the danger he had put himself in.

"Crowley, wait!" Screamed Aziraphale, now almost running in the grass of the park. It was getting dark and people were leaving. "Crowley!"

The demon did not slowed his step.

"Anthony!" Screamed Aziraphale firmly, now breathing heavily.

Crowley stopped walking, he turned around and from the angel's place, he seemed almost angry.

"What is it, angel?" He stared at Aziraphale's eyes, firmly, loud and, yes, angry.

"What is the matter with you!?" He sighed after bringing air to his human lungs. "You're going too fast for me, Crowley"

"I know that, Aziraphale. I know, you've told me that before. I know." He was being loud. He didn't had his glasses on, he must have taken them off when he was walking out of the Ritz. His yellow eyes were open wide.

"What? Crowley, what are you talking about?" The angel was confused, but mostly he was worried.

"When you gave me the holy water, rememeber? You said those exact words. You go too fast for me, Crowley." He imitated Aziraphale's voice. "How fast is that? Please, tell me. How come humans take an average of... What? Four years? Six? Six years to fall in love and promess to love each other and we..."

"We? Crowley, do you realize what you are saying?" Aziraphale stepped closer to the demon, even though he felt scared. Not scared of Crowley, but of what he might say.

"I do, angel. And you do too. What are you doing? They're gone! Your side, my side. They aren't after us anymore! We are on our side! Our side! That's you and me. Before I asked you to run away with me to alpha centauri, twice! For fucks sake" he laughed nervously. "I- I asked you twice, and you rejected me both times. That I can understand because you were still hung up on heaven's shit. But now they're gone. And now you are with me, and still you won't be with me.

"Crowley..."

"No, don't you say that. Because I know you feel it. I know it. You can't say this goes only one way because that's crap."

"I'm... I'm so sorry, Crowley" Aziraphale looked down, he couldn't bear to look into the demon's eyes. He was still so confused and it was hurting his best friend.

"Really?" Crowley walked to be right in front of the angel. "You won't admit it, will you?" Crowley seeked for the angel's gaze. He finally looked back at him. "Alright, then. Tell me something, tell me about that night, will you? You know, the night we kissed."

Aziraphale freezed.

"What? I-I don't know what you mean" The angel stuttered.

"Are you sure?" The demon steped forward until he was face to face to the angel. "What? Now you're gonna say you never went to my place at all? Because, if I recall, Aziraphale, it wasn't just that we kissed"

"Stop"

"No, not at all. If i remember correctly..."

"Shut up!"

"You. Kissed. Me."

"Stop it!" Aziraphale yelled loudly. His gaze were everywhere but on Crowley. His hands were fixing his tartan tie nervously. The demon kept seeking the angel's look. He noticed how scared and vulnerable he looked. Crowley looked down, he sighed heavily, he was tired, exhausted really.

"Why are you doing this to me?" Asked the angel, weakly.

Crowley was in shock. Why am I doing this to you?

"Because of six thousand years, Aziraphale. I am sick of waiting. I am sick of waiting for you."

Aziraphale had now tears rolling down his cheeks.

"But... I've been sick for centuries now. And tomorrow I will still be sick. But I'll still wait, angel. Because that's my punishment. Not the fall, no. I get it now. It's been six thousand years, but..." The demon raised his hand to the angel's cheek, and wiped the tears with his thumb. They stared at each other's eyes, broken. Crowley put his forehead to Aziraphale's and closed his eyes. "...for now..." he moved his hand to the back of the neck of the angel and put his lips to Aziraphale's.

Contrary to what he expected, the angel corresponded the kiss, took his jacket and pulled him closer to him to deepen the kiss. Their's lips danced for a few seconds until the demon stepped back.

"...we're even" he turned and kept on walking away from the angel with a, you might call it a sad but a satisfied smile.

Aziraphale was frozen. He was surprised for Crowley's actions and even more surprised for his own. He felt so confused still. He watched the demon get farther and farther.

"Wait!" Aziraphale yelled.

"Don't worry, angel" The demon turned his head to Aziraphale, putting his glasses on again. "I'll pick you up tomorrow. I will give you a lift, anywhere you want."

------------

I'm sorry for any spelling mistake. English is not my first language.

Would you like to know what happend at Crowley's place?

[evolutionsvoid]

If anyone has even the slightest idea of what a mancer is, then they would know well enough that Mancer Syndrome is a dangerous and deadly affliction that humanity faces. The use of mana and magic can already be dangerous enough if put into the wrong hands, and history has already proven this time and time again. Mancers are an even greater threat, as they lack any form of humanity or reasoning. They are primal creatures of immense power, capable of wiping out towns and leveling castles. Not only is it a major threat to the citizens of the land they inhabit, but to those who train in the art of magic. With great patience and practice, one can use mana to gain great powers and bring about change to the world around them. Mages who use ice to preserve food for trade, water magic to save sinking ships and flames to warm freezing villages during brutal winters. Those with morals and a conscience can help many people, but even the purest of heart is vulnerable to Mancer Syndrome. No matter how noble your intentions or how great your control is, those who do not practice safe mana usage will slowly poison their internal mana and can potentially lose everything. That is what makes Mancer Syndrome so insidious, as it can effect anyone at any time. Many who go into magic and mana training often do not take the warnings seriously. No matter how often the teachers or mentors may warn them, there are dozens of students and users who do not think such a disease could affect them. Some would think "oh its just one little spell. It won't hurt too much," or "this spell isn't tied to an element, so it shouldn't cause any harm." So many times people think that they know best, that they found some loophole that they can exploit. In the end, though, they are always proven wrong, as their mind degrades and their bodies warp. For so long, people work on assumptions and half-baked ideas to get the maximum usage of their mana while supposedly avoiding mana poisoning. This is where we get these scourges, from people who think they know better or believe they are invincible. In fact, there is a type of mancer that was birthed solely by the belief that "this type of magic doesn't cause poisoning." That would be the Psychomancers. Before records revealed their existence, many believed that magic that birthed Psychomancers was "safe." There was no element tied to it, and it came so naturally that many schools claimed it was a pure form of mana use. To this, I am referring to telepathy and telekinesis. Powers that rely on the mind and use one's thoughts as a tool. Sending messages directly into one's brain, or using your mind to create false images out of thin air. All magical abilities that relied purely on thought and the human brain were thought to be safe from mana poisoning. It was spells that used real elements, like fire and ice, that caused such problems. Using mana on one's mind and natural body surely couldn't do any harm? It turned out that it did. It caused a lot of harm.

The stages of Psychomancy are not as obvious as ones for Cryomancers or Mycomancers, as they mainly occur in one person's head. Those who are focusing solely on mental powers and telekinesis will seem perfectly normal for the longest time. They will just seem a bit too reliant on telepathy and telekinesis. Some colleagues may point out that their friend is using their normal voice less and less, or that they hardly pick up anything with their hands anymore. To a watchful eye, this would be signs of mana poisoning, but many miss it. Mages, sorcerers and wizards are always guilty of showing off, and mental powers are an easy way to show their abilities. Students in schools and colleges love to use these simple powers for tricks and day to day routines, seeing it as perfectly harmless. The use of telepathy never raises any eyebrows, and people using their mind to pick up objects is just as normal as a knight sparring with a friend to hone their skills. With this mindset, mana poisoning in the department of Psychomancy is usually missed until it is too late. At some point, the user will cease all bodily movements and activities. No more walking, talking or moving in general. Every word is sent through their mind, every object needed is used solely with their mental abilities. The infected mage will become bedridden, voluntarily, as they see any form of physical movement as "primitive" and "obsolete." If it ever comes to this stage, it is too late. I do not care what any other professor or master says. They can ramble on about cures and ways to nurse them back to health, but I say it is all rubbish. The whole reason why no one does what is necessary is because they want that power. An esteemed school would never want to lose such a genius headmaster, so they make excuses. An army would never wish to remove a mage of such power, so they act like nothing is wrong. In the end, it is always the lust for power that causes such downfalls. So I beg of the reader, if you know someone who is gone that far, kill them. Don't believe in the cures or the remedies. Do not believe that they could get better, or that they are strong enough to resist. Kill them before they can achieve the final stage. The final stage of Psychomancy is a horrifying one, as the poisoned mana warps the body and brain. Those who succumb to Mancer Syndrome will feel their muscles turn to dust and their brain surge through their own skull. Body and limbs will atrophy, as the head splits open to reveal a massive brain. Membranes and tendrils will form from the warped tissue, as the body twists itself into a new shape. What remains of the mage is a drained useless husk dangling from a wrapped, pulsating brain. A human turned into some kind of jellyfish, who drifts through the air on waves of mental energy. Though disgusting in appearance, many do not see the threat Psychomancers pose when they first encounter them. Floating in the air as if it was water, they will see the Psychomancer drift across the landscape. Limbs dangling in the breeze as it lazily floats along. If they didn't look so gross, people may find it beautiful. The rustling of leaves, the quiver of grasses as the Psychomancer drifts upon the breeze. That is until they realize that there is no wind. Psychomancers do not use such obvious things as fire and ice, as their powers are more subtle. It is all in the mind, and many do not see it until they get too close. Seeing the movement of grass or leaves on a calm day is a way to spot a Psychomancer's field. If one is especially daring, they can chuck a rock at the creature and watch it stop in midair. Though they may appear harmless, a Psychomancer has mastered the skill of telekinesis to a terrifying degree. They are surrounded by a field of magic that they have absolute control over, allowing them to pick up and shatter boulders without a second thought. Ranges may vary between individuals, but most exude a sphere of influence of about fifty yards in diameter. To some, this may seem insignificant, or exploitable, but it is much more powerful than you would imagine. Though they cannot affect anything outside of their field, those that enter their range will be exposed to every ability they have. Worst of all is their telekinetic abilities, which has ascended to a point that it is literally the way they see the world. Looking at a Psychomancer, one would assume that they are blind, deaf and completely lost to the world around them. This may be true in the realm of sight, sound or taste, but a Psychomancer is much more aware than one thinks. To make up for their lack of sensory organs, Psychomancers use telekinesis to an extremely refined degree. They can use their mental powers to feel the world around them, creating millions of tiny hands to feel around their environment. Every inch, every crook and cranny is felt and registered. They use this to such a degree that they can "see" and "feel" everything that falls within their sphere of influence. Anything that is not within their range is just darkness to them, but they honestly don't care. If it truly matters to them, it will eventually enter their sphere, or they will simply run into it as they drift. This field is emitted constantly as they drift along, using their millions of invisible hands to feel the new environment that enters their range. That is why the grass ripples as the Psychomancer moves, or why the trees shiver at their presence. They are just checking them out, constantly keeping an eye on every little thing that is around them. Though it is used primarily for navigation and observation, their telekinesis becomes terrifying to behold when a new moving object enters their field. Be it a wandering leaf, a fluttering bird or a charging warrior, the Psychomancer treats it all the same. When something new enters the field, they will seize it in an invisible grip, stopping it in its tracks. A bird that flies into their field will be snagged out of the air, as the Psychomancer wonders at the new presence. It will feel over every bit of the animal, enjoying the soft feathers, marveling at the sharp talons and curious about its desperate struggling. Like a child, it will play around with the bird, moving its wings, spinning it around in the air and eventually tearing it to pieces. Anything that gets too close to a Psychomancer's field will be subject to its curiosity, and it loves to explore and discover to a dangerous degree. Their mental strength can bend steel and pull apart armor until it is mere shards. This is a strength they do not fully understand, as they will turn animals into dust without a second thought or an ounce of guilt. They just see it as exploring and understanding, curious observations that cover every fiber and drop of a being. If they shred a human being during their studies, oh well. It was a curious thing, and they had their fun. Something else of interest will eventually wander in. To fully understand the abilities and dangers of a Psychomancer, it is best to know their mental state. With a glance at the brain, people will instantly assume that it is an all knowing being, one that could understand every aspect of the universe. It turns out, though, that it is the opposite. Psychomancers are extremely dumb. They have zero understanding of what is going on around them and are bewildered at the simplest of creatures that get near them. This is because of their abilities and brain growth. As you should know, the massive wrinkled brain is the source of all their power and their very existence. It is this organ that creates the sphere and allows them to manipulate matter at a microscopic level. It also allows them to exude their mood and feelings into the air, which any person in the field can pick up and feel. It allows them to enter minds with ease and read thoughts as if they were books. All of this power, though, takes up a lot of brain space. Every square inch of the wrinkled mass is devoted towards these powers, allowing them to function at such a high degree. Anything else is seen as useless and is promptly erased. So while their powerful brain can pull the legs off a gnat with ease, it can't remember anything past five seconds. The memory parts of the brain are severely reduced and practically atrophied. Any memory that is older than a few moments is forgotten and lost forever, as the brain simply cannot hold it. Thus, Psychomancers have the power of gods, but the mind of a baby. Everything that enters their sphere is brand new and exciting, and they are quick to poke and prod it. They are extremely simple of mind, where they like the things that are good and absolutely hate the things that they perceive as "bad." It is not uncommon to see a Psychomancer drifting about with several objects floating within their sphere. This is because a Psychomancer may favor a certain texture and will keep it around so that they can always enjoy it. Stories tell of Psychomancers drifting about with entire trees caught in their field, as they are pleased by the feel of bark. Another Psychomancer was said to love the feel of fur, and thus had several  desperate, dying mammals hanging around them. Terrible to imagine, but just think, that is what they do to things they like. Anything that is seen as dangerous or "mean" is met with unstoppable destruction. I have seen a Psychomancer turn a hunting hound into a fine mist after the trapped animal growled at it. Things that squirm too much in their grip may be seen as "annoying" and then quickly dispatched. If the being within their field exudes any feeling or thought of aggression or anger, the Psychomancer usually gets mad and then promptly obliterates them. When it comes to dealing with mancers, Psychomancers are one of the hardest to fight. Their sphere of influence creates a 50 yard death zone to any person or projectile that enters it. Arrows and catapult shots are turned to dust, and any stupid warrior that rushes in will be turned into a red stain within moments. So I highly advise that anyone trying to fight a Psychomancer should stay far away from their field. Don't even risk it, stand 100 yards away. You don't want to be anywhere near them. If they grab you, you're dead. There is no escape from that grip. If parts of your body start to tingle or vibrate, start running. That is a sign that the field is getting close. Even if you are clear from their field, be mindful of what direction they are headed. Since they are dumb and blind to the outside world, a Psychomancer just picks a direction and goes with it for hundreds of miles. This makes them easy to individually avoid, as one just needs to step aside from their range and let them drift by. It is not so easy when the thing is drifting straight towards a city. It has no clue what is ahead of it outside of the field, and it doesn't really care. If you are caught in a situation where a Psychomancer is floating towards a populated area, the first thing you should do is get it to change direction. Fighting a Psychomancer takes a lot of time, so don't think you can stop it before it starts liquidizing peasants. The best way would be to find which direction is the safest for it to travel, and then try to draw it that way. If the northeast direction has no cities or towns in its path, then stand to the northeast and start chucking stuff at the Psychomancer. Fire volleys of arrows and launch dozens of rocks at its field. Do everything you can to get its attention or arouse its curiosity. All you need to do is make it think "hey, what's over there?" just for a single second. It will then change direction to head towards the source of all the weird stuff, promptly forget why it changed direction but then keep drifting that way regardless. Once its path is clear of all bystanders, than try to fight it. One should throw away all physical weapons immediately, as they are worthless. No physical object is going to last within the field long enough to hit the brain. What you need is magic. Spells and magical projectiles can still be affected by telekinesis, but they are harder for Psychomancers to grab and can move fast enough to overwhelm them. It would be nice to say that all you need to do is toss one fireball at it and call it good, but that is not the case. Most likely you will need to call in a platoon of mages so that they can throw hundreds of spells at the mancer until one makes it through and strikes the brain. Thankfully, Psychomancers are incredible frail and will often go down after a single solid hit to the brain. The hard part is just getting something to do that. Other tactics can be used. Trapping the Psychomancer in a field of fire may work, but it needs to be very strong and very hot. It will use its field to push away the flames and keep its body from frying. A long enough burn, though, will dry out its brain and cause it to weaken, giving a chance for the fire to overwhelm it. The best way to do this is to burn an entire forest around it, adding more fuel to the fire to keep it raging hot. (Note: Do be aware of dryad habitation within the area. You start lighting up trees near their homes and they will flay you alive.) This tactic can be flipped around, using ice instead of flame. Long enough exposure can freeze the brain, which can disrupt the field long enough for someone to land a hit. All of these are extremely hard to do and very time consuming, but it is worth it in the end. One less Psychomancer haunting the land makes for a safer world. One final note for dealing with Psychomancers: NEVER TRY TO MENTALLY LINK UP WITH IT. There are those who think they can communicate with it telepathically or use their superior minds to outwit the beast, but they are all dead wrong. Exposing your mind to a Psychomancer is a fatal move, and those who try to reach out to it never last more than a few seconds. Though they are dumb, their mental strength is ungodly. Mages who think they can override the dumb brain will have their own minds ripped from their skulls, as the Psychomancer senses a new thing and pulls it close. Some of the most well trained sorcerers in their time have had their consciences yanked out of their brains, leaving their bodies as empty, drooling husks. The mind that is seized never takes such a violent separation well, and will promptly panic. This irritates the Psychomancer and it will literally tear the conscience to pieces. Even if it didn't, it would mean an eternity trapped within a primitive mind that could end you in a moment. Your spirit floundering in a maelstrom of mental energy and insanity, desperately trying to appease the Psychomancer while not falling into the void of forgetfulness. Imagine that death, fading into oblivion because someone literally forgot about you. It chills me just thinking about it, and hopefully should be a good enough deterrent from such a stupid idea. Cavarious Shaid