#the troubled production is glaringly obvious

[tackledkey]

Local person rewatches their old hyperfixation and is forced to realise that it's actually not as great as they remember. More news at 9

[dailyadventureprompts]

DM Tip: The Trouble With Treasure/ An Alternate Wealth System

If you’re a player or dungeonmaster who’s at all interested in game design you might’ve noticed D&D’s treasure and economy systems suck. You also might have noticed even if you’re not interested in game design, because the longer you play d&d the more it becomes glaringly obvious that the game doesn’t actually HAVE a treasure and economy system despite pretending otherwise.  This is a major problem given that seeking riches is one of the default adventuring motivations, and largely stems from the fact that back in ye-olden days gold was directly related to experience points, so wealth accrued exponentially in line with the increasing cost of levelling up. This is why magic items cost to damn much despite being not only a staple of the genre but absolutely necessary to the long-term viability of certain classes (as I discuss here in my post about gear as class features).  

After being cut lose however, nothing was really DONE with gold in d&d from a gameplay perspective: Treasure generation largely fell to dm discretion or random tables, and the useful things a party could buy steadily shrunk to the point where characters could be stuck with their starting equipment for an entire campaign.  “Too much gold and nothing to spend it on” became one of the major criticisms of d&d 5e, but only touched on the problem that without something worthwhile to spend treasure on the party has less and less reason to venture into the dangerous unknown, take dodgy contracts, or perform any of a half dozen other plot beats that make up traditional adventuring.

 The system likewise breaks down once you pass a certain threshold of wealth, or once you try to model larger economic activities: divvying up a lockbox full of dungeon plunder to reequip your heroes before launching out on the next mission works great for the first couple of levels, but completely falls apart when you're dealing common enough story tropes such as running a business, transporting cargo as merchants, or caring for the estates around a castle.

What I propose is splitting d&d’s economy into two halves: Wealth, which represents the piles of GP and other coins the party carries with them, and Resources, more abstract points which chart how plugged in the party is to local systems of production, trade, and patronage.

If you’d like an explanation of how these systems work, and how they can improve your game like they improved mine, I’ll explain both of these mechanics in detail below the cut, as well as subsystems that let your party open businesses, operate estates, build castles, and make a living as merchants.

Wealth:  I wanted to limit the amount of money my players kept with them without instituting an encumbrance system that might drag things down. Instead I wanted to rely on a more “common sense” method of tracking wealth, and get them thinking about their stores of gold as a physical object rather than a nebulous point pool they can dip into.

Conveniently, every character starts play with a coin pouch, which can hold up to 300gp (about 6 pounds). I use this as a “soft cap” for how much money a character can be expected to be carrying around with them, not including jewellery or small valuables like gems.

Theoretically a person could have more than one coin pouch, carry their wealth around with them in a chest (15,000gp) or a cartoon sack with a dollar sign on it (1500gp), but this becomes increasingly cumbersome and provides a greater and greater chance that the party will be targeted by thieves. I don’t need to add any more mechanical crunch to this factor, I just inform the party “ hey, you look like you’re carrying a lot of money, better be careful going forward” and plan my encounters accordingly.

Instituting this cap likewise prevents gold from losing all meaning once the party is high enough level to have found their second or third treasure hoard. Sure, they might be living it up in an aristocratic lifestyle back home, but when it comes to set out into the wilderness they suddenly have to think of GP as a resource along with spellslots and hitdie. Getting robbed, forced to give bribes, or simply losing their coin pouch suddenly becomes an actual threat to them regardless of level.

Resources:  The party has a pool refereed to as resources, representing their holdings, relationships with patrons, and personal enterprise. The party’s total resources are pooled, and are represented on a scale from 1-50.

Every week, provided they have contract with their economic network, each member of the party party receives earnings equal to 12.5 gp x (the party’s total resources) representing them drawing a living from the connections they’ve already made (working a trade, doing odd jobs, getting payouts from investments) 

In order to obtain a new level of wealth, the party must either invest 500gp per point of wealth they which to obtain into a new or ongoing business project (either their own, or that of a trusted contact).  Alternatively, the party can get their resource pool boosted by forming agreements with tradesfolk or wealthy patrons, who may grant the party such agreements out of friendship or as part of a reward for doing quests. Resources are recorded with a number beside them, representing how much of the party’s total resource pool they represent. This is so that if something happens to jeopardize that resource, the party knows exactly how much of their earnings are up in the air.

For example, a party that saves a merchant captain from pirates early on in their adventures might be rewarded with a share of her ship’s takings, gaining 1 point of resources. In the future, they may pour some of their adventuring loot into her business, increasing their total amount of holdings with her to 6, and their weekly payout to 75gp. If that captain and her ship were then lost in a storm, those resources would be frozen, halting the party’s payouts and encouraging them to discover just what it was happened to their friend as the base of a new adventurehook. 

Buying against Resources:  D&D is weird in that it prices magic items, ships and castles like they can be bought off the rack, when in any pre-industrial society most “new” things would have to be constructed from scratch with labours and artisans paid a steady amount over months or years until the thing was complete and then delivering it directly into the hands of the one who commissioned them. Sure a weaponsmith or apothecary would likely have a storeroom full of items to sell to clients walking in off the street, but shipyards aren't spending years churning out galleys to leave them waiting for a buyer like a used car lot.

Because plenty of games involve at least a section where a party might establish a fortress,  fix up a ruined estate, or commission a magical artifact, it helps to have a guideline:  Find the base price of the item, chop it in half if the party or one of their business contacts can source the resources (or if they’re fixing something that’s broken) Next they need to pay for labour, “reserving” points out of their own resource pool to hire on workers and supplementary materials, divide the item’s price by (500x the number of resource points the party is willing to spend) to find how many months it’ll take for the item to be finished. Note that during this time, the party’s effective resource score is reduced by the amount they’ve reserved. This makes it possible for a mid level party to start refurbishing their dream castle early, rather than having it simply poof into existence once they’re too high level to really get use out of it.

Ongoing Services: Rather than worry about keeping track of hirelings, or a number of other factors, I let my party reserve points off their resource pool indefinitly to retain the services of NPCs. Each “holding” the party has (buisness, ship, estate) likewise requires one resource kept in reservation for general maintenance, unless the party want to take a month off and maintain it themselves.

A party that owned a tavern then might reserve one resource to maintain their establishment , another to pay for the staff, and begin to think about hiring on some guards for a third as something is causing fights to break out more frequently.

Another party which owned a pirate ship, they’d reserve one resource to maintain the ship, another to pay the crew, and a third to bribe the harbormaster who looks the other way when they bring unsanctioned goods into harbor. After hearing about their big score however, their corrupt contact asks for yet another resource worth of bribes, potentially stretching the party’s resources a bit thin.

Using Resources to be a merchant:  If pirates come up often in this post it’s because I drove myself half mad several years ago trying to run a skyship campaign, and the logistics of hullspace v supplies v the staggering price of trade goods v market demand drove me up the wall. I lacked a simple system that would let my party FEEL like they were high-risk traders without having to slow the game down with accounting. Here’s my Alternative: there’s a special type of resource called “goods” connected to caravans and trade vessels, which can be expanded like any other. At the end of every month who’s ever in charge of that venture (Player or npc) makes a mercantilism roll ( possibly charisma, possibly wisdom, + some relevant proficiency) for each of those goods based against a DC set by the dm regarding how good trade is doing in that region.  If it’s a success, the markets are flowing, and the goods rating goes up by 1. If it’s a failure, they go nowhere, as no profit is made. If they fail by 10 or more, those goods loose one point due to bad investment, and if they succeed by 10 or more, the goods double. When the party receives their payment, they can chose to cash out for 500gp per point of good, possibly then reinvesting in the venture.

[brightlotusmoon]

Tesla's Cybertruck has a serious problem that only a complete redesign

https://www.fastcompany.com/90945689/teslas-cybertruck-has-a-serious-problem-that-only-a-complete-redesign-can-fix

It’s official. The Cybertrucks coming out of Tesla’s Texas factory are bad. Bad, bad, bad with a capital Musk, as shown by the judgment of the X-kingpin himself. After taking a production candidate of this polygonal horror for a spin, Musk wrote an internal email to Tesla employees, revealing his concerns in categorical terms: “Due to the nature of Cybertruck, which is made of bright metal with mostly straight edges, any dimensional variation shows up like a sore thumb.” However, the real problem here is that these aesthetic troubles are rooted deep in the very nature of its design, which may make them extremely hard—if not impossible—to fix unless there is a complete redesign, as we foretold back in January.

Musk’s observation refers to the problems in the body of the Cybertruck, which include misaligned doors and uneven surfaces that make the car look wobbly, weird, and very unlike the clean angled renders Tesla has presented over the years. It’s a mess that underscores the inherent challenges of the Cybertruck’s unique design. As Adrian Clarke—a professional car designer who now writes design critiques for the automobile publication The Autopian—told me back then: “The Cybertruck is a low polygon joke that only exists in the fever dreams of Tesla fans that stands high on the smell of Elon Musk’s flatulences.”

The problem, according to Musk, is the bright metal construction and predominantly straight edges mean that even minor inconsistencies become glaringly obvious. To avoid this, he commanded unparalleled precision in the manufacturing process, stating in his email that “all parts for this vehicle, whether internal or from suppliers, need to be designed and built to sub 10 micron accuracy. That means all part dimensions need to be to the third decimal place in millimeters and tolerances need [to] be specified in single digit microns.” Drawing a comparison to everyday products known for their precision, Musk added, “If LEGO and soda cans, which are very low cost, can do this, so can we.”

Professor X believes that Tesla can attain such precision, but Clarke questioned the demand in an email he sent me today."

[ddarker-dreams]

To Covet. Yan Zhongli x Reader x Yan Xiao

Warnings: Yandere themes, unhealthy relationship and forced marriage.  Word count: 2.4k. Note: this is yet another addition to the first contract universe! this time, with some xiao perspective. 

[The First Contract index]

Xiao always thought that he knew his place.

He was the sole surviving Yaksha, an illuminated adepti, and a dedicated follower of Rex Lapis. He owed a great debt to the Geo Archon that he could never hope to fully repay. Rex Lapis was the one who pulled him from his neverending nightmare, the one who gave him a name and a purpose, introducing him to a world of light. Whatever was ordered of Xiao to do, if it came from the lips of Rex Lapis, he would see it through to the bitter end.

That’s the approach he’s always taken, even in regards to you.

“Ah, yes, this sweet flower will do nicely,” you kneel down onto the patchy grass and rummage through the respective foliage. “Xiao, would you hand me the basket please?”

At your behest, he wastes no time going to your side and providing what you asked for. The handwoven basket is almost overflowing with the flora you’ve spent the past few hours foraging. His fingers twitch around the handle. The wicker feels foreign and scratchy against his skin, a far cry from the smooth polearm he would normally wield instead. All those decades spent shedding seas worth of blood that’s since seeped into Liyue’s ground, long forgotten by those who weren’t there for the carnage, to end up doing this. Accompanying you on a mundane task in Nantianmen to pick flowers and herbs.

You stand once more, satisfied with nature's bounty for today. It’s been a productive trip. Your lips part, as if you were hoping to speak, only to close again when you catch Xiao staring at your sleeves like they were a threat.

Xiao’s ever perceptive gaze caught the dirt that’s smudged against your hanfu’s flowing fabric, a frown curling his lips downwards as a result.

“Don’t concern yourself over this,” you lift your arm up to inspect the damage closer and nod reassuringly. “It’ll wash off easily.”

He wonders if he should even broach the taboo subject. It’s more trouble than it's worth — this is what he tells himself — and yet he can’t suppress the way his stomach churns in displeasure. Rex Lapis’ order to him hours before echoes in his mind as if his head were the expansive caves beneath Mt. Hulao.

“You will accompany my spouse wherever they would like to go, naturally, only within Liyue’s borders. See to it that no harm befalls them even if it means laying down your life. If they begin to act disagreeable, bring them back to me at once.”

Such an insignificant detail would go unnoticed by anyone else, but this is Rex Lapis; his omnipotent eyes notice the smallest intricacies like they were glaringly obvious. There’s no doubting that he’d be displeased with you for dirtying one of his favorite garments. Xiao can’t believe that he’s allowing himself to linger on something so foolish, so inconsequential in the grand scheme of things.

He is a warrior. A slayer of demons, devourer of dreams, the Vigilant Yaksha.

And above all else, he is hopelessly enamored with you to the point it was nauseating.

He shouldn’t trouble himself with anything above his orders. As long as there wasn’t a strand of hair on your head out of place, Rex Lapis wouldn’t consider the contract between them broken. What kind of impression would you get if he mentioned it? Would you think he was complicit in your chainless imprisonment? He supposes he is, in a way, the thought leaving a bitter taste on his tongue.

It’s not like he wants this for you anymore than you want it for yourself.

No, what he wants is far different, yet just as self-serving.

“Just— just clean it off before we go back.”

Xiao’s voice cuts through the heavy silence, sharp and straight to the point. He regrets how harsh it comes out immediately, but you do not cower or flinch at his biting tone. Of course you wouldn’t. You’ve been through far more hellacious situations than dealing with Xiao’s attitude.

It poses the question: what made you bend the knee to Rex Lapis? It was no secret on your behalf that your husband has earned your scorn, a well-kept secret amongst the adepti from the mortals. Accounts varied differently. Xiao, who usually had no interest in the past, trudged through numerous sources in hopes of securing the truth. He wanted to know. He needed to know.

If not for that… perhaps you could have belonged to him instead.

The thought alone sent shivers up and down his spine. You wave him over, prompting him to follow your graceful form while searching for more ingredients. Liyue’s bright, midday sun works wonders on your skin, making it appear to him like you were glowing. Your status of divinity is well-deserved.

He’d never spared a second thought to physical appearance, but your beauty was too prevalent to not notice. Everything about you was full of intriguing extremes. Your soft lips could both say the kindest words to those you cared for, or be used to scrutinize your husband. Your hands command forth the earth to lay waste to Rex Lapis’ enemies, and delicately pluck the strings of your favorite instruments, filling your abode with ethereal sound.

The urges and desires that engulf him when it came to you were dangerous, if not borderline treason. You were in Rex Lapis’ possession. The Geo Archon’s suffocating favor upon you was evident at every opportunity, who else other than you could cross him so boldly and face no dire repercussions?

“It’s getting late,” Xiao notes, whilst taking another flower that caught your interest into the basket. “We should head back.”

The content atmosphere around you chills like a river freezing over in the winter. All sense of levity is gone, replaced with neutrality and an unreadable expression.

He swears the ground beneath his feet trembles.

You readjust the hairpin on your head which had gone askew with your activity. “... Yes, I suppose you’re right.”

Without complaint, you turn around to head in the direction of Rex Lapis’ domain. There’s no longer a spring in your step, or the excited buzz in the air from you explaining the different flora’s medicinal properties to Xiao. This somber disposition was more in line with how you would be in your husband’s presence. The first time Xiao was introduced to you, he wondered if you were alive at all; you were as still as a corpse.

“Do you hate me?”

Xiao holds his breath, the both of you staring at one another in varying degrees of shock. The question had slipped out past the crevices of his subconscious in a way it shouldn’t have. What should he care what you think? It would be so much easier, so much simpler, if he could just shove this down someplace where it would never see the light of day again. Yet it never fails to claw its way up like acidic bile in his throat.

“Hate you?” You repeat his word choice back in a whisper, blinking. “Why should I hate you, Xiao?”

“I—”

This time, he has the wherewithal to bite his tongue and grimaces. “Forget it.”

Now he’s ahead of you, rather than lagging a few feet behind like he was for the duration of the trip. He picks up on the grass rustling behind him. You sprint to meet up with him, refusing to let the conversation die a merciful death. There’s that stubborn nature of yours again. Rex Lapis had accurately described it as both your most endearing and damning quality. You then circle in front of him and extend your arms, effectively blocking his path. It would be simple to get around you, and yet he’s too stunned to think, much less act.

“I’m only going to say this once,” you take a deep breath and square your shoulders. “I refuse to let myself wallow in despair and shove the blame onto others. This battle is mine and mine alone. You are simply doing as you’re commanded — am I correct?”

You take his stupefied silence as a reason to continue.

“Then I have no reason to hate you. All the hatred in my heart is reserved solely towards the one who wronged me, so that I might never forget and grow complacent. Please, spare me your hollow pity. I have no need for it.”

It feels like Xiao is being lectured. Not in a demeaning manner, but like an understanding master to their misguided protegee. So this is the resolve of a god, he thinks.

Sensing the tension in the air, your pursed lips ease into a warm smile. “Besides, I rather enjoy your company. You make for an excellent listener.”

“It’s hard not to with how much you talk,” Xiao replies. You laugh at his honesty, your shoulders shaking and the skin around your eyes tightening. He wishes he could immortalize the sight into his memory forever. When was the last time he had seen you laugh? Or would it be more accurate to say he’s never seen you laugh at all?

You pat him on the head and he almost shuts down. “There, there. That’s more like it. If I was in need of mind-numbingly boring company, I would have brought my handmaids with me. Never lose that sharp edge of yours.”

The rest of the walk back is in comfortable silence. Xiao’s heart is running at a thousand miles per second, his hands clammy and shaking by his side. He’s been reduced to such a sorry state from a single one of your touches. For a moment, he considers praying that you both will not run into anyone; but he decides against it when he remembers who exactly would hear his prayer.

The tall, ornate walls that surround and separate Rex Lapis’ domain come into sight.

You briskly walk towards the moon gate, muttering underneath your breath what you plan on doing when you get inside. Then, you pause where you stand, catching sight of Rex Lapis who has been faithfully awaiting your return. Xiao makes a point of staying as far away from the scene as he can.

“I take it your trip was a success?” Rex Lapis inquires, his hands behind his back and eyes set on nothing else in the world but you.

You stop and regard him with a stiff nod. “I believe so. I was unable to find lotus heads that meet my standards, but everything else was passable.”

Xiao’s heart sinks into his stomach at how Rex Lapis’ stony gaze softens. He then brushes his hand against the small of your back, gesturing for the garden in a graceful movement. He carried himself in a way Xiao could never hope to. 

“My dear, is that not to be expected? This time of year yields bitter lotus heads, you should know that as well as I do.”

You eye the hand placed intimately on your person but decide not to comment on it. “I suppose. I will begin to brew a new tea for us to try, as I promised.”

“The kettle is out and the fire stoked to your preference,” Rex Lapis hums. “I will join you shortly. I wanted to speak with Xiao on some matters first. Please, get started without me.”

That was the stipulation on Rex Lapis’ part. You spent a long time negotiating the right to wander about free from his presence, one of the many promises you made being that you’ll make him tea upon your return. Xiao wishes he would forget the other promises you had to make alongside that to secure your goal.

You shrug, thinking little of his comment and setting off to work. “If you insist.”

With you out of earshot, Rex Lapis takes long strides, approaching the adepti who has sworn fealty to him.

“Xiao.”

The aforementioned male hopes his companion doesn’t notice how his body tenses. “Yes, Morax?”

“Did you encounter any difficulties?”

Xiao knows what he is saying without him having to get specific. Rex Lapis is inquiring about your behavior and possible signs of disobedience, or any kindling of rebellion. He’s been through this conversation with your husband too many times to count. All the adepti that have spent time with you have gone through the same interrogation. It was expected for them to report anything that might be of note, however, nothing comes to mind in this instance.

“None.” He replies in truth.

Rex Lapis considers him for a long, seemingly eternal moment. “That’s a relief to hear.”

The two stare at one another without so much as moving a muscle. Rex Lapis’ silent authority and aura would have overwhelmed any other mortal, yet Xiao remains steadfast, refusing to crack beneath the weight.

“[First] is lovely, wouldn’t you agree?” Rex Lapis poses the question in a casual manner, though Xiao knows it’s anything but. He needs to tread carefully here or risk revealing his treacherous thoughts. Yes, he does find you to be lovely. He thinks much more than that. That you would be such a good spouse for him, greeting him with a smile every time Xiao returned home, welcoming him with open arms. You would warm his bed and acquiesce to every whim, desire, and perversion he could ever come up with.

Indeed you were lovely. However, you’d be far more lovelier if you were his. 

“I have no complaints,” is all Xiao chooses to say.

“Understandably so. Few have the privilege of interacting with them.”

Was he found out? You did touch him, even if it was for the briefest of moments; was that a transgression sizable enough for Rex Lapis to try and strike him down? Would there be no coming back from this?

“Morax! The tea is getting cold. I have dominion over rocks, not fire, so I won’t stand for any complaining over this.”

Your voice urges from behind the garden walls, interrupting the possible confrontation without realizing that’s what you were doing. Rex Lapis’ posture changes at once. His shoulders go lax and his face reflects his inner fondness, all signs of threatening behavior washing away. You had him wrapped around your finger, that much was obvious. It’s a shame that it was more of a detriment to you than anything useful.

“I will call for you when I require your services once again.”

Xiao nods his head at this, grateful that he could have time to himself again. There was much to ruminate over.

“And another thing…”

Rex Lapis’ eyes emit a glow for so brief a second, if Xiao blinked he would have missed it.

“Do be mindful of not allowing your eyes to wander over that which does not belong to you.” 

[itsclydebitches]

Hey there! Admittedly I'm a little bit nervous since this is my first ask, but I'll try to not be too rambly.

So, recently the main subreddit, r/RWBY, made a ban on active users of the r/RWBYcritics subreddit. As a result there's been discussion around bad-faith criticism in the latter subreddit. What are your takes on bad-faith criticism?

For me personally, I think a bunch of people are misusing the term "bad-faith" and using it as a way to shut down criticism, but I'm curious to hear your thoughts on it.

Hey there, everyone! We woke up to some drama this morning, huh? And hello to you too, Tortoise! I'm so glad you decided to send in an ask, even if it's following some pretty tumultuous events...

Right, I'd like to start with a story. The story of how I personally don't spend time on Reddit, but I have plenty of friends who will occasionally cross-post something for me to see. Yesterday (or the day before? Idk time is meaningless) a friend told me about a post — which, significantly, I'm now having trouble finding — that covers RWBY's inconsistent writing and the fandom's tendency to try and explain away those missteps. They'd thought I'd be interested because I'd just had a conversation here on tumblr where I made that exact point to someone who, also significantly, vehemently disagreed with me, but in a very civil fashion. Given everything going on, I feel like this side point needs emphasis: we debated, we did so in a sometimes heated, but nevertheless respectful manner, it was clear neither of us was going to sway the other, and the conversation ended. The two "sides" of the community interacted without Armageddon coming about.

But back to the purpose of this tale. I went to take a look at this point and found that it no longer exists. There's just some vague message about it not obeying the subreddit's rules. "What happened?" I asked. "Why'd they take the post down?" "People were getting too heated in the comments," my friend replies. So, given that the comments were still visible, I proceeded to read through them, expecting personal attacks, slurs, harassment, etc. Any number of things that would justify deleting the post itself to put an end to such behavior. Instead, I found a thread of people having a conversation. Was the conversation heated at times? Sure. Did one or two individual posters edge into the realm of petulant, "No. You're wrong and stupid" responses? Yes. Was any of this remotely what I was expecting given the post's removal? NOPE.

"This isn't allowed?" I said. "Well then what is? People were being civil! Or at least as civil as hundreds of strangers ever get when discussing a series they're passionate about online."

Then, this morning, I hear that the entire critic subreddit has been banned.

So to answer your question, Tortoise, I don't actually think that "good faith" criticism exists. Meaning, it's not just that fans are misusing the term "bad faith criticism," but rather that there is no unified, agreed up method of writing criticism that will meet their standards. It's not possible and we know it's not possible because fans have been trying to meet those elusive standards for years:

A fan posts nothing but praise for RWBY until changes make them criticize the show as it is now. Their entire body of work is dismissed as the product of a "hater," despite the overwhelming gap between positive and negative reviews.

A fan posts a review that's a pretty balanced mix between praise and criticism. They're dismissed because it's still too much criticism.

A fan posts a review that's 99% praise with 1% criticism. That's still too much, with fans focusing on the single problem they had with the work and using it as an excuse to dismiss the entire review out of hand.

(As an aside, the argument that critics are "obsessed" with only saying negative things and that the only problem here is that they're "too" negative ignores the argument that... RWBY has a lot of flaws nowadays. Few are willing to acknowledge the possibility that it's not fans insisting on making things up to be mad about/ignoring the good parts of the show, it's the that show is, as of now, legitimately more of a mess than it is a praise-worthy product. If I'd been writing recaps in the Volumes 1-4 days, my work would have been skewed far more towards the positive. The critics' stance is that RWBY has gotten worse, which yes, results a higher volume of critical posts. To say nothing of how criticism takes far longer to explain, likewise resulting in posts focused primarily on that side of the divide. I really enjoyed the image of a crying Jaune reflected in his sword. I did not enjoy that moment's context. Saying that you liked an animation choice is a one sentence thing. Explaining the complexities of Jaune securing emotional moments, the problems with Penny's second death, the hurt many fans experienced watching an assisted suicide, etc. takes a whooole lot longer. Hence, you get massive, multiple posts about these nuanced topics and fewer, smaller posts about the details that are working well.)

A fan talks about a topic that has been metaphorically banned by the fandom as a whole. They have something good to say about Ironwood. They dislike something about Blake/Yang. They enjoyed Adam as a character. They have a problem with Ruby's leadership, etc. There's a whole list of topics nowadays that will result in an automatic dismissal, regardless of the point the fan is trying to make or how well they make it.

A fan talks about the minority representation of RWBY — its black characters, its queer characters, its disabled characters, etc. — and as a result has something to say about the biases and missteps of those writing these characters. This is considered an attack on the writers and, therefore, automatically bad.

A fan talks about how they enjoyed RWBY as it was years ago and is having trouble reconciling the dark, complicated story with the simple, hopeful one we started out with. This is seen as an attack on Monty's vision and an unwillingness to accept that "everything is planned."

A fan does as asked and ensures that their post is meeting all the requirements of "real" criticism. They have an argument to make. They have a point. They provide evidence. They recommend a solution. They keep their tone respectful. They don't attack the creators. They provide disclaimers in every single paragraph about how they do not hate RWBY. It doesn't matter. They're considered too negative.

I have, quite literally, seen every one of the above examples on multiple occasions. I have had many of the above accusations leveled at my own work. When fans say that they're fine with criticism provided it's not "bad faith" criticism, they don't actually have a specific post-type in mind; a checklist of behaviors another fan can emulate and, provided they do that, no hate will come their way. Or, if an individual fan does actually go, "Yeah. That criticism I'm fine with" that response is in no way universal. One person's "They make a good, civil point" is another person's, "Omg stop bashing the show!" Because "bashing" has come to mean everything from curse-laden insults towards everything RWBY has ever done, to posts that just happen to say something other fans don't agree with.

It's a rigged game. There is no way to post criticism about RWBY in an agreed-upon, appropriate manner. This recent ban is proof of that. I think it's incredibly telling that almost immediately after I was going, "Wow. A pretty calm debate about the flaws of RWBY in the main sub. That's great to see," all posters from the criticism subreddit were banned. The main sub literally just had the sort of criticism that they claim to accept — people respectfully posting analysis-based arguments resulting in calm debate — and yet they implemented the ban anyway. I'm not going to pretend that I've never gotten too heated on my own posts, never made snarky comments when I'm frustrated, never used exaggerated reaction GIFs that can come across as insulting... but I'd say on the whole my RWBY work is precisely the sort of "good faith" criticism that other fans are supposedly looking for. I never make an argument I don't think I can back up with evidence. I try to allow for the nuance and differing opinions of complicated topics. I try — even if I don't always succeed — to write in a clear, respectful manner. Yet none of that work has stopped people from telling me I'm a "bitter... raging asshole," a "deranged, delusional psychopath," telling me to set myself on fire, threatening to smash my head in, or just messages to straight up kill myself. If someone like me who legitimately works hard to create fair, defendable criticism and who only ever posts on a personal blog that people can easily block, who never engages in debate until someone else starts it first, never seeks out other fans I disagree with to harass them about what they like... if someone like me is still a "bad faith" critic who "deserves" that kind of hate mail... then what kind of criticism do people want?

Nothing. That's the answer. No criticism whatsoever, of any kind, no matter if it's delivered respectfully, is making a good point, whatever. That's why "RWDE" was created. That's why the critic subreddit was created. The community at large has demanded a complete separation between Praise and Anything That's Not 100% Praise, which has now resulted in this ban. Any other explanations we see are excuses, which becomes glaringly obvious when you look at the mods' supposed reasons for implementing the ban:

"Constant arguments with r/RWBY users" - As opposed to the arguments surrounding things like shipping that never, ever happen?

"Vote manipulation and comment brigades" - The subreddit with 3,000 participants, with around 200 on at a time, is manipulating the votes of a subreddit with 155,000 participants, with over 1,000 on at a time? Those numbers just do not check out. If a positive post is downvoted, or a critical post upvoted, maybe that's because large swaths of the community actually agree/disagree with that assessment, not because the incredibly smaller group is somehow manipulating things.

"Attacking and harassing those they disagree with" — Again, as opposed to those non-critics that never, ever harass people? This is an individual problem, not a community problem. Both critics and non-critics have their sub-groups acting in ways they shouldn't. If anything, the main sub will have more individuals harassing other fans, simply by virtue of being so much larger. As the above examples attest, it's not other critics who have told me to light myself on fire and, just to be clear, the asks I've responded to are a miniscule number compared to the amount I've received. I delete the lion's share for my own sanity and to save my followers from reading the really graphic threats.

"Months-long NSFL spam brigades" — I am, admittedly, not sure what this is referring to. Spamming of NSFW content? If so, that's also an individual problem.

"Homophobic, transphobic, and racist attacks towards our users" — See the above points. Again. If someone is being homophobic, transphobic, or racist, then yes please, ban them. Don't ban an entire community for the actions of a few. It's like walking into a store and banning a customer for causing a scene... but then also banning everyone else who happened to be shopping at the same time. It's guilt by association.

The silver lining to all this? The community as a whole isn't pleased. At least according to the main subreddit comments and a few individual voices like MurderofBirds. Despite the increase (from my perspective anyway) of critical voices post-Volume 8, criticism of RWBY is still very much seen as taboo. As this ban showcases. But it's really reassuring to see so many fans, critics and non-critics alike, going, "This was a mistake." A community is meant to include all aspects of engagement: praise, criticism, and the gray area between. If anything, fans like the mods of the main subreddit should be creating a separate subreddit that is specifically for praise. In the same way that there should have been a tag for RWBY praise, rather than trying to eliminate any and all criticism from the main "RWBY" tag. The majority of fans, even those who claim to hate critics and all they (presumably) stand for, recognize that a blanket ban of all criticism is not the way to go, especially when "criticism" has come to have such a staggeringly broad definition. If you want your RWBY experience to be nothing but sunshine and roses (ha), then cultivate your own internet experience to reflect that. Create your own pockets with rules about how this is the space for praise and if you're not up for praising RWBY right now, don't interact with us in this particular space. Don't try to make the entire community — the main tools used to discuss the show online — conform to your preferences. As established, there is no "good" criticism that everyone in the fandom will accept, which just leaves a fandom with no criticism at all. I'm glad to see I'm far from the only one who, when presented with that extreme, is going, "Nope. No thank you."

[scarecrow-supremacy]

Arranged Love | Pt 4

Thank you to Mrs. Hatake for requesting this prompt to me!

In which: f!reader is interested in being in a fwb like relationship, but is forced into an arranged marriage with the one and only, Hatake Kakashi. Both (y/n) and Kakashi only agree to marry for the sake of convivence. (y/n) with her needs, and Kakashi with his wish to revive his clan.

AO3 Chapter

Lime/Smut warning 

*Lime, but the next chapter will probably be smut ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)*

Infinite things I could hate about you

The way you walk

The way you talk

The way you capture my mind

Tick tock, tick tock, tick tock, tick...

You counted the soft noises of the clock, knowing full well that your alarm clock was bound to go off at any moment now. You could have gotten up to start your day early, but you, quite frankly, lack the motivation to do so. Anyways, it was your day off. Being productive is highly overrated... You mentally uttered. Why get out of bed when you could cuddle with your plush lavender body-sized pillow all morning? You groaned, your actions making your further realize how friggen lonely you felt within. If only the pillow could have been a person...

You glared daggers at the rose gold engagement ring upon your finger. Technically, you really weren't lonely. Hell, there was a part of you that would have preferred to be alone again. Why him?! Annoyed thoughts swarmed your mind, keeping you from attaining proper relaxation. Of all people...Why him? You pulled your pillow closer to your chest, burying your face into the cool silken cover and squeezing it tightly. Why, why, why? Your mind paced. It wasn't that you were thinking about him, Hatake Kakashi, so much. It was how you thought about him that filled you up with despair.

New feelings...shining in a new light.

What is wrong with me?!

Your eyes traveled to your stomach, your diary still opened up to the page you were writing last night. The whole diary idea was Kurenai's, back when you were made jonin, around the age of 14. She knew you weren't the best with opening up to people. So to let out your pains, she had recommended writing about them. And in honesty, you were glad that you had decided to take her advice. Writing did make you feel better. Ranting out all of your troubles without any worries of being judged. As of these days, most of your entries were about Kakashi or how you wanted to relieve yourself. It's almost concerned you that you wrote about him so damn much. Just shove him aside!

"Urg!" Your groaned, gathering the willpower to get up from your blanket cocoon and take a nice and warm shower, "Sulking won't do any good..." With a sigh, you entered your kitchen, telling yourself that you'd shower after grabbing something to replenish your hunger. It was glaringly obvious that cooking wasn't your forte. In fact, you were absolutely horrendous at it. Honestly, you wouldn't be surprised if you somehow managed to burn water while trying to boil it.  You, the woman dubbed Ibara-hime, the Thorn Princess, could not cook if your life depended on it.

After contemplating what you could make without burning your kitchen down, you simply made yourself a cup of your favorite herbal tea to energize your body. It wasn't much, but it helped wake you up.

Ding dong, the bell to your apartment rang. "Gimme a sec!" You called out the person, throwing on your flak jacket just for formalities. "Oh..." Your face fell, yet your stomach fluttered, "It's you–"

"Yeah, it's me," one Hatake Kakashi mocked the tone you had greeted him with, running his fingers through his silvery hair. You didn't want to think much of it, but his hair just looked so soft...

"What do ya want, Hatake?" You put your hands on your hips and pouted.

Kakashi groaned as he made himself welcome inside your quaint home, "I'm bored," He simply told you, plopping himself right in the middle of your couch. What a dick, you muttered, having to sit on a chair instead of the sofa. "Wahh..?" You whispered as Kakashi's eyes took in ever single bit of you. Your skin started to burn, although his gaze wasn't exactly giving off a positive vibe. "Stop eyeing me like that, Hatake." You mustered up the courage to spit out.

"Oi, it's not my fault," Kakashi sassed, "Take a look at what you're wearing, yariman." Slut, his deep and rich voice had called you.

Anger stirred up inside of you, along with embarrassment, causing your skin to feel as if it was on fire. You felt yourself get flustered as you looked down at your short skirt, which had rid up your legs, and lacy dark green bra that had been reveled by your unzipped vest. "O-oh!" You breathed, your hand going to zip up your flak jacket, yet was slapped away before you could. "What the hell, Hatake?" You flashed him a bewildered look.

Kakashi chuckled smugly, the smirk under his mask apparent, "Don't... I kinda like you dressed like this." He stated matter-of-factly.

"But you j-just," You stuttered out, "called me a..." you trailed off, averting you eyes. Urg, the audacity of this pervert, your inner self spoke. "Perverted idiot."

"Call me what you want," Kakashi grabbed your hand, "I'm your perverted idiot, forever." He laughed softly. Woah, he never acts like this...

"Did somebody drug you?" you sweat-dropped, unintentionally blurted out your thoughts, "You normally don't act like this."

Kakashi sent you a wary look, but you could tell he felt slightly hurt by your remark, "No..." he replied cautiously, "I just thought...it would be good to loosen up."

Your expression softened ever so slightly, "Oh..." the two of you sat in pin drop silence.

"You know," Kakashi ventured, "dark green is my favorite color."

"Hatake!" You yelped, instinctively covering your chest, "I'm going to take a shower!" You turned you back to your dreaded fiancé, stomping out of the room to go bathe.

"I might as well join you then," Kakashi shrugged, causing you to stop dead in your tracks.

"I'm sorry what?!" you exclaimed

"I haven't showered yet today."

"Urg..!" He's drugged, I'm sure of it... you thought, finally giving in to Kakashi. "Kitanai yarō!"

 "Well," Kakashi tapped his foot, carefully placing his flak jacket upon the silken sheets of your bed, "aren't you going to strip down?" He asked as he started to remove the cloth bindings from his thigh and ankles.

"Y-yeah..." you flushed softly, "J-just gimme a second." You dashed off, tossing my clothes into your basket of dirty laundry and grabbing a towel to wrap around your bare body, "Okay..." you mumbled, peaking your head out from the bathroom. The tension in the room was heavy and hot, almost uncomfortable. It was...something you had never felt. Hence, you couldn't put your finger on a way properly to describe the situation. Yet heat rushed to your core, even the tiniest smidge of arousal turning on your mind. You felt like your every movement was being recorded in Kakashi's mind. His gaze digging into your soul like a kunai in delicate flesh. Like his– No, no, no, no! No pervy thoughts, (y/n)! Stay classy, you ordered your mind, preventing it from trailing off. We have a dignity, remember?

You hesitantly got into the shower, testing the waters for the proper temperature. "Ahhh," you moaned ever so slightly, the raining down of the water slipping down your body and rejuvenating your sores from the previous night's round of nightmares. "Oi..." Kakashi started to speak as he entered the shower from behind you, ending up grunting incoherently. You shook your head, sighing in disapproval whilst rubbing from body wash into your soft (s/t) skin. You felt a pair of hands brush past your hair, reaching for the hair conditioner, "Rose and sandalwood, eh? No wonder you smell like a garden and incense shop." Kakashi breathed down your neck.

You tried your best not to look back at him, your heart racing for reasons you tried to reject. Nope! We can't be falling for him! You let out a slight gasp as Kakashi's hands found their way to your hips, tracing the gracefully toned muscles of your stomach. "Kakashi...what are you doing?" You whispered, just loud enough to be heard over the running water.

"I read your diary," you could practically heard the smirk on Kakashi's face, "I think I can help you with your needs..." Kakashi licked the helix of your ear. A shudder went down your spine, a foreign though crossing your mind. Maybe, just maybe, we could make this work... your mind ventured. "Kami, I've been having some problems myself, big problems..." Kakashi told you, his voice velvety coffee as he nipped at your neck. His hardening length pressing against your round ass. You could feel your walls start to clench; you were surprised that your body was reacting to Kakashi's touch like this.

No disturbance could get in the way of this exhilarating moment, right?

"(Y/N)! RAIDŌ ASKED ME OUT! CAN YOU BELIEVE IT!" The voice of Mitarashi Anko screeched, she wandered into your bathroom, "YESS!"

"Anko..." You cringed, clenching your fists, "W-wrong t-time..." You moaned as Kakashi's finger teased your clit.

"What?" Anko called out, "I can't hear you over the water. Could ya speak up."

Kakashi pumped faster, "You heard her, louder." His intentions directing towards your moans, blessed music to his ears.

You sucked your breath, "N-never m-mind, Anko!" You managed to force out, trying your absolute hardest to not moan.

"Wait...Is that..." Anko's voice trailed off, "Kakashi's mask, and his..."

"A-anko! Pl-pleas j-just..." you bit your tongue, "go. Ju-just tell me l-later!" You begged her, turning to look at Kakashi with pleading eyes. Not now, Kakashi, you tried to convey with your widened (e/c) eyes.

"OH HELL NO! SORRY!" Anko cried out, causing Kakashi to pull his fingers out of you with a let down sigh. The smoke of Anko's hasty teleportation jutsu lingering for a few moments.

The mood had officially been broken. Thanks a lot, Anko, you mentally swore. But holy hell, you were about to get laid. Shamefully, you looked at the floor as Kakashi rinsed our your hair. "I–" you tried to speak, yet your voice faltered as you took a moment to observe Kakashi's face.

"Are you still in for it?" Kakashi raised his eyebrow; his left eye lidded.

"Oh! Uh..." your heart suddenly fluttered, "Y-yeah." You told him shyly.

Kakashi flashed you a smirk, "How about we just dry off, then..." He winked at you.

Yep, I'm convinced he's drugged... There's no other explanation...

Infinite things I try to love about you

They way you walk

The way you talk

The way you capture my mind

[tikoy]

Kinktober Day 17

Day 17:

Series: FGO

Diarmuid ua Duibne x unnamed female master

First person POV

Warnings: Sex

Rating: Explicit

On a Rayshift, Diarmuid gets injured so he reluctantly asks you for a mana transfer.

--

Rain poured heavily all through the night. Winds howled against the walls, sending occasional groans and rattles all through the dilapidated building. I twisted and turned, trying in vain to fall asleep. My body was exhausted, but my mind kept racing. It had been hours since I’d turned in, but I’d just lain awake, staring at the cracks in the ceiling. Thoughts of the earlier battle kept running through my head. Flashes of brightly emblazoned fur, enormous tusks, and glowing eyes seemed burned on the backs of my eyelids. I could still smell the fetid breath of the demon boar as it charged. We’d managed to scrape by, but my servants paid the price. I bit my lip.

Injuries were expected. This wasn’t the first time I’d seen blood spilled, and it probably wouldn’t be the last. But it had been months since my servants had gotten more than bruises or scrapes. We’d been doing so well. Guilt still sat heavy in my gut even after I’d patched them up as best I could. I’d hesitated for a second, and that was all it took. A second of indecision and paralysis that everyone else had been punished for. I turned and pressed my face into the pillow. It was pointless and counter-productive, but I’d wished that I’d gotten injured as well, to help lessen the guilt.

After a few more minutes of wallowing in guilt, I gave up and got out of bed. I made my way to the makeshift kitchen, hoping that a drink of water would help. The wooden floorboards creaked and groaned, but the storm outside was much louder. I felt my way through the dimly-lit halls and stairs, hoping that I wouldn’t fall through the holes in the woodwork. I arrived unscathed, but I wasn’t alone. A familiar dark-tressed knight stood vigil, staring out towards the barred wooden doors. At the sound of my approach, he turned.

“Master, is something the matter?”

Even in the low light, he was beautiful. His cheekbones were sharp, and his jaw strongly defined. His amber eyes sparkled in what little light it caught. For a moment, I stood transfixed, my purpose forgotten. A flash of lightning snapped me back to my senses. I cleared my throat and gave a sheepish smile.

“I couldn’t sleep. I was hoping that a drink of water would help.”

“Ah, then let me-“

“No! It’s fine, it’s fine. You’re still standing guard. I can do it myself,” I insisted, walking towards the sink before he could move.

As I held a relatively clean glass under the faucet, I glanced at him from the corner of my eye. He’d turned back towards the door, his two spears at the ready. There was a certain stiffness to his shoulders, and his grip seemed too harsh. A tension had hung between us ever since I’d given him chocolates earlier this year. It wasn’t as if it affected his ability or the dynamics between us during battle, but outside of combat we could hardly speak to one another. I always got tongue-tied whenever I addressed him, blundering through even the most mundane of small talk. He’d reply politely and calmly, making my awkwardness even more glaringly obvious. No matter how politely he replied however, I always got the sense that he was trying to pull away. It hurt, and I didn’t even have the right to be hurt.

Regret and guilt were a horrible combination in my gut. The valentine chocolates had seemed a great idea at the time. But all I got from that momentary glee was self-inflicted disappointment. I’d found myself turning towards him more frequently, and a flutter in my chest whenever I heard his voice. It was embarrassing. I was a grown woman. A crush shouldn’t affect me to this degree! Especially considering what I’d been tasked with doing. To be distracted by such trite matters was unthinkable. Unforgivable.

“Master, your cup overflows.”

I flinched, jerked back to reality by the sound of his voice. Water had been running over my skin now, the cold rendering it numb. Hastily, I turned off the tap and brought the glass to my lips. I drank, doing my best not to choke under his scrutiny. He’d left his post by the door and stood next to me, staring silently. His spears had vanished. While I had no doubt that he’d still be able to effectively deal with threats anywhere within the room, it was highly uncharacteristic for him to approach. When I’d finished drinking, I turned to him, an apology already upon my lips-

“It seems you have plenty of things on your mind, Master” he stated. “May I know what troubles you?”

-only to be tongue-tied once more.

“I-I… uh… the battle earlier.” I caught his split-second flinch. “I’m so sorry I hesitated and got you all injured…”

“It is a small matter. Nobody died and we managed a win. I remains a success,” he replied, waving the matter off easily as if he hadn’t gotten gored at the side earlier.

I frowned at him and stepped closer to prod at his chest. “You really shouldn’t be letting me get away with these things so easily, you know! Even if I’m the master, you’re still need to point out my mistakes so I learn from them.”

His eyes crinkled at the corners. “But it seems as if you’ve already learned your lesson however. Calling attention to your mistake again would be akin to tearing open a freshly lanced wound. It serves no purpose.”

“Don’t tell me that you don’t harbor even the least amount of resentment over it. I mean, even Cu and Hans flicked me on the forehead for it earlier.”

“You wish to be flicked on the forehead?”

“Argh! No I mean- uhh don’t you want even the teensiest bit of revenge for it?”

“I’m afraid I don’t quite understand…”

“Well, what I’m saying is that you get a free pass to do anything to me. Just this once because I messed up… I mean anything outside of outright killing or significantly injuring me!” I rambled

“Hm.”

Something flickered across his expression. He stepped closer, close enough that I felt his breath fan my face. His eyes seemed strangely intent. His hand clasped mine gently. My knees felt weak. I could hardly breathe.

A soft thud sounded in the hall, followed by a series of curses. We jumped apart, panicked. As I tried to calm my beating heart, Hans stepped out of the shadows of the hall, rubbing his head, his eyes clenched shut.

“Hans, are you okay?” I asked, doing my best to not seem flustered.

“Eh? Master, you’re awake?” he called out, squinting into the dimly-lit room. “Just had a bit of a stumble in the dark. I’m fine.”

“If you are unwell, I can keep watch for this next shift as well,” Diarmuid offered.

“Bah! Do not coddle me. I am not the type of writer that pries apart two lovers engaged in a late night tryst!”

My cheeks flared as I stammered out my denial. Diarmuid was equally as adamant, though significantly less flustered. Yet the author paid no heed to our words, merely ushering us out into the hallway. Resigned, we walked through the hall silently. Gone was the friendly air we’d managed to wrangle earlier. All we had left was our usual tense silence, now heavier with questions regarding what happened before Hans interrupted. I bit my lip. I didn’t dare hope.

We reached my door, but he didn’t depart immediately. He lingered, frowning at the ground. After a few more moments, he sighed and gave a low bow.

“I apologize for my behavior earlier. It was unbecoming of a knight.”

“I-It’s fine!” I stammered out. “I was the one who put you on the spot. It’s my fault.”

He firmly shook his head. “No. I am at fault. I shouldn’t have taken advantage of a lady’s offer t-to-“  He cleared his throat. “The fault is completely mine, I assure you, my lady.”

The title sent my heart fluttering once more. I bit my lip, doing my best to stamp down the glee of him addressing me as his. “Diarmuid,” I called out, “what were you planning to do earlier?”

He glanced to the side. “I wanted to ask for a bit of mana.”

“Ah! Um! Yes! Okay! N-no need to be ashamed of that!” I assured him. “I-I mean that’s normal!”

My hands trembled in a mix of nervousness and giddiness. It wasn’t an unusual request, but he’d never asked anything like that before. He seemed content enough with the supply that Chaldea gave. I tried to open the door, but my hands shook too much to turn the knob. As I struggled, his hands drifted towards mine and engulfed them.

“It’s not,” he muttered, keeping his gaze averted. “May we speak further of these matters inside your room?”

He held fast to my hand as we went inside my room. When the door shut, he closed his eyes and squeezed my hand.

“I… have affections for you, Master. It is unbecoming, especially since I had intended to ask mana from you.”

Glee shot through me like a firework, setting everything ablaze. My skin tingled. My chest seemed too tight, too filled with joy. I was quickly losing the battle to keep a smile from my face. It was getting difficult to form coherent thought.

“I don’t follow…” I wheezed. “W-why would that be a bad thing?”

He frowned. “My wish had only been to serve loyally and fight for a Master who wouldn’t betray me. And so far in my stay in Chaldea, I’d managed to get that. I greatly respect you, Master, and still wholeheartedly pledge my being to your cause. But-“ he broke off, biting his lip, “these feelings ruin matters.”

He let go and buried his face in his hands. “I had done my best to keep away from such matters, yet now my ruin comes by my own hand… Perhaps this is revenge for all the suffering I’d caused before.”

“Diarmuid, it’s fine. This… this doesn’t have to change things-“

He growled. His hands fell to the sides, clenched in tight fists. “It has already changed everything! I cannot stand to be alone with you. When we speak, I struggle to keep myself distant, to keep myself from pursuing the conversation further. Even now as I loathe these feelings, my arms still long to hold you.”

He sighed and leaned against a wall. Anguish colored his expression. His breathing was ragged. His eyes bore into mine, pleading for answers that I could not give. Everything was bittersweet. I slowly made my way over, careful not to startle. Ever so gently, I wrapped my arms around his frame and pulled him to a hug. I kept my hold on him until his breathing relaxed, until the tension eased from his body. I knew not how long we stayed holding each other, only that it settled a comforting warmth over my chest.

He pulled away just enough for me to see his expression. He looked much calmer now, though his mouth still dipped downward. “I apologize for my earlier behavior, Master. I am… unused to these types of feelings.”

“It’s fine, don’t worry about it too much. I… actually have something to tell you as well.” I bit my lip. “I uh… have affections for you too…”

Panic seeped into his expression. “I’m sorry. I can’t control the love spo-“

“What?! No! No! I mean, if this was entirely because of that geas, don’t you think I’d be more aggressive? And that I would have pursued you much earlier?”

He furrowed his brows, still unconvinced. Nevertheless, he dropped the matter and just continued to hold me close. He played with the ends of my hair. I traced patterns onto his back. Even through the fabric, I could feel where the bandages bunched up on his torso. Idly, I pressed a kiss against his chest in apology. He shuddered and lightly tugged at my hair.

“Do you still want that mana transfer?”

He hesitated only for a moment. “A small amount would be sufficient…”

I reached up to press a kiss against his lips. I trembled as I kissed him, leaving touches as delicate as spun sugar. There were no fireworks this time, just tiny little pinpricks of glee as our lips moved. I pulled away, breathless. His amber eyes were half-lidded. He leaned  closer and whispered a desperate “more” against my lips. I left a hundred butterfly kisses on his cheeks. When I’d run out, he cradled my chin. “More,” came the breathless plea. He slanted his mouth over mine, licking at my bottom lip until I opened my mouth. His tongue dove in, exploring every nook and cranny as if committing it to memory. When my chest burned for oxygen, he pressed his lips against my neck. “More.”

I led him to my bed as we kissed. He sat down and pulled me to his lap. I left tiny rosebuds on his collarbones. I tugged my shirt up half-way before I prompted, “More?” “More.” He helped ease off my shirt, and ran his fingers down the newly-exposed flesh. He grasped my breasts almost reverently, rubbing and squeezing as if afraid of breaking me. I sighed and arced my back, enjoying the gentle affection. Desire built up inside me. As he continued, he started to buck his hips. His arousal stood at full mast. I reached down and stroked, squeezing a drawn out groan from him. He pressed his face on my shoulder and hissed. “More?” “…More.”

I got out of his lap. I pulled at his tights until they dissolved under my touch. His arousal was flushed and curved. I knelt in between his legs and pressed a kiss against the base.

“More?” I asked, gazing up at him imploringly.

“More,” he choked.

I took as much as I could of him into my mouth. What I couldn’t fit, I stroked with my hands. I hummed around him as I sucked, drinking in his shudders and twitches. I bobbed my head faster and faster, doing my best to keep my gag reflex suppressed. He groaned out my name and grabbed my head. I glanced up to see him biting his lip fiercely, eyes grown dark with lust. His face and neck were flushed. I pulled away for a moment. “More?” “M-more…”

I pressed my breasts around his arousal and started stroking. He hissed, threw his head back, and swore. His entire body trembled. From time to time, I’d take the tip into my mouth and swirl my tongue around it. It left him keening and crying out my name. It was addicting to see him come nearly undone at my mercy. As the pace increased, so too did the volume of his cries. His hips started bucking faster. His body trembled and tensed. He gripped my hair tighter. He came in bursts, coating my face and breasts with his cum. He leaned down as he recovered, as if watching for my reaction. He wiped away as much he could from my face, doing his best even as he trembled.

“Are you alright, Master? Do you require assistance?”

“I’m fine. Just give me a minute,” I wheezed.

I climbed back onto the bed and lay down beside him. Our hands  were clasped as we both tried to recover our breath. I closed my eyes. Exhaustion hit and it was slowly dragging me down to sleep. I twitched and struggled, fighting back to stay awake. I felt Diarmuid shift beside me. Soft lips pressed against mine in a chaste kiss.

“Going to sleep?” he asked.

I shook my head. “N-no. I’m… I’m just resting my eyes…”

“More?”

“M-more…”

I felt him tug my shorts and underwear off. My legs were nudged apart. A few kisses and nips were planted along my inner thighs. A warm mouth descended on my core. I jerked and opened my eyes. He watched me as he ate me out. His tongue lapped at me eagerly, occasionally brushing against my clit. I hissed and bucked, but his hands kept me firmly in place. He pulled his mouth away soon after, and replaced it with his fingers. He slowly eased one finger in, eagerly drinking in my reactions as I squirmed.

“You look so beautiful, Master,” he crooned. “It’s just one finger but you’re reacting so much.”

I bit my lip to keep my voice back but he started thrusting the finger in even faster. I hissed and kicked at his shoulder as he increased the pace. After a few minutes, he added in a second finger. He began to spread them apart and rub more firmly against my walls. After he stroked a particular spot, I tensed and bucked into the air. A big spark of pleasure ran through me, leaving me breathless. He started rubbing more insistently at that spot. I shuddered as the sparks slowly built a raging flame.

“My lovely debauched Master! Moaning out my name while I pleasure you…  making such delightful little noises with that pretty voice of yours…”

I clenched tighter around his fingers. To hear the usually polite knight flatter me in such a bawdy way gave me a heady rush. I whimpered as he took his fingers out and gave a cursory lick, tasting my essence. As he continued to pleasure me, his other hand stroked his growing arousal. At regular intervals, he kept increasing the fingers until we were all the way to five. I was near delirious at this point, desperate for release. I reached my arms towards him, beckoning him closer.

“Diarmuid,” I begged, “fuck me…”

He smiled sweetly, as if I’d merely asked him to hold my hand. He lined his arousal up with my entrance and gently pushed it in. I squeaked and shuddered, holding close to him as he reached the hilt. Diarmuid was a gentle lover, letting me feel every glorious centimeter of his length as he ran it through me. He kissed my cheeks as I cried out. He kept at a slow gentle pace until I begged him to fuck me faster. He put my legs over his shoulders and set a faster pace. The angle made sure that he kept on hitting that spot consistently. He kept cooing and praising me whenever I clenched tightly around him. He peppered kisses down my neck as he whispered words of adoration. I scratched his back with my nails and hissed out his name. The fire inside me was now a conflagration, ready to burst out my skin. I clenched tighter around him, begging for release.

We came one after another, each crying out one another’s name. He kept moving even as he came, stuffing me full of his seed. We fell asleep in each other’s arms, holding on until morning light came. I knew not what we were to one another. It was no longer just a bond of a Master and her Servant. It wasn’t love, it wasn’t that brilliant or completed yet. It wasn’t friendship nor simple infatuation. Whatever it was, it felt warm and comforting, a refuge.

--

Thank you for the suggestion nonny! I’m sorry I went with female for this prompt because it was t*tfucking. 

I have many thoughts about Diarmuid. 

He’d probably have a LOT of reservation and hesitation before getting into any sort of romantic entanglements willingly. While I don’t doubt that he could probably still be attracted to people, I feel like he’d be the type to ignore it as much as he could. He’d even be more wary of people claiming they like him because a) the love spot geas, b) how people being attracted to him led to his downfall. 

Initially when I began this fic, I went in with the idea that well as far as falling in love goes he’d probably be the least hesitant if it was with the lord/lady he was serving, right? NAH. That love and adoration is going to color his loyalty and service. He’s not used to that so it probably really makes him nervous. Add to that the complication that is mana transfer. It is a physical thing, sure, and if you’re really determined it’s just going to remain that way. But if attraction is added to the mix, it introduces a whole host of problems. The question of “am I asking for a mana transfer because I do need mana or is because I want physical affection?” comes up a lot and is probably the one Diarmuid is primarily concerned with. (Tried to squeeze this into the fic but it was getting long and I was getting tired sorry)

I did my best to do justice to his character, tweaking and prodding at circumstances to make it still feel like this is still him willingly entering into something sexual with his master. Let me know which parts you thought needed more improvement! Thank you!!

Accepting suggestions!

[the-professor-of-gallifrey]

No-Voldemort-Hogwarts AU

Gilan, Crowley, and Halt are flipping Slytherins and no one can change my mind. One time the three of them all took a guided tour of the Ministry and, no one is quite sure how, but the Minister and the Wizengamont all ended up turning purple. All three claim credit for this. (Fred and George adore these three.)

Horace is a Hufflepuff, along with Duncan. (Horace loves having his common room so close to the kitchens.)

Alyss is a Ravenclaw, cause duh. George is also, obviously, a Ravenclaw.

Jenny is a Hufflepuff and an absolutely fabulous witch, especially with Charms and Transfiguration, but chooses to focus on the restaurant she plans on opening in Diagon Alley. She spends a lot of time in the kitchens learning recipes from the house elves and gets along with Mrs. Weasley famously.

Evanlyn is a Gryffindor through and through. She also gets in a lot of trouble for starting duels in the common room, but is the best Chaser that Hogwarts has seen in years.

Pauline is a Slytherin as well and is known for talking circles around the Minister of Magic until he has unknowingly agreed to everything she wanted. (Dumbledore loves hiring her against the school governors and, needless to say, she and Mcgonagall are best friends.)

Shigeru is a Ravenclaw who ends up teaching Herbology after Professor Sprout retires. He is a favorite among the students.

Selethen is a Gryffindor and later becomes one of Kingsley's best Aurors. His biggest problem is Halt's vigilante work causing issues in the Department.

Will, the Sorting Hat had a lot of trouble with him. He could be cunning, when the situation called for it, but he was loyal to a fault as well. His butterfly mind and ideas made him perfect for Ravenclaw, yet it was glaringly obvious that he was braver than all other Gryffindors that the Hat had ever sorted. It isn't until Will says to just put him in any house (because at this point he has been sitting in front of the whole school for longer than anyone else had and is very uncomfortable with the staring) that the Sorting Hat finally decides on Gryffindor.

BONUS:

Erak, Stig, and Svengal are Gryffindors as well.

Hal is a Ravenclaw. For obvious reasons, he is not allowed to try to create new spells anymore. At least, within Hogwarts.

Ingvar is not only a Hufflepuff but also a half giant. (his favorite class is Care of Magical Creatures and he loves spending time talking to Hagrid who understands what it's like to be the odd one out because of their heritage. They aren't related, but Hagrid becomes like an uncle to him.)

Ulf and Wulf are Slytherins and immediately get banned from buying any Weasley Wizard Wheezes after they got ahold of the portable swamps and put one in Erak's treasure room. (Fred and George now just sneak the products to them.)

Edvin is a Ravenclaw and takes an extra class on the weekends to learn about Magical Healing from Madame Pomfrey.

Jesper is actually a Squib who works for Fred and George, but uses muggle "magic tricks" so well that everyone believes he has magic. There is a running bet to try to find out what house he was in.

Stephen and Lydia are muggle borns who were both sorted into Gryffindor. Stephen became a Keeper for the Quidditch team while Lydia quickly became head of the dueling club.

[ringmaster-jack]

Lore

♠️ The wayward ringmaster had gained many a title over the passing years(both boastful and infamous), but only one name held any permanence-- and that name was Jack.  A common name, simple, yet among those who had the misfortune of dealing with him, it held a weight to it.  ♠️

Note: Lots of triggering content in the following expansion related to mental health, abuse, suicide, drugs, etc.  Be warned.

♠️  Born in the dregs of Dawnhold to an ex-aristocrat and a Shuriman immigrant, Jack was the second oldest of ten; proceeding his sister by a mere two minutes. Though his first three years of life were relatively unremarkable, everything changed after the mysterious passing of his father.

Coming from highblood society, his mother, Harper Farrowthrone, had been excommunicated from her family inheritance when she'd chosen to follow her heart, instead of adhering to the tradition of an arranged marriage. Pregnant with their fifth child, her husband's passing left her emotionally and financially crippled. It was the beginning of a long and miserable life-- for her, of course, but even more for the multitude of children she brought into the world.

His twin was provided a formal education, trumped up to be the one who would excel and provide for them in her later years-- but Jack and his younger siblings were not so lucky. Jack spent most of his formative years taking odd jobs and stealing what he could to help care for his family.  They never settled in one place for too long, as his mother's growing reputation as a courtesan often preceded her.

Jack was an obedient boy, quiet, if only to mask his stutter.  But his unbridled sense of curiosity would get him into trouble more often than not. He spent what free time he had teaching himself to read-- and after that, absorbing as much knowledge as he could through any means available. He had a interest in many topics.  Music, animals, magic--especially magic. It was forbidden in their homeland, after all, so like any overly-inquisitive child, he would seek it out--forbidden or not.

Unfortunately, it was this curiosity combined with an overabundance of childhood trauma that led him into a tumultuous teenage life, filled with excessive amounts of rebellion and a rapidly growing criminal record.  In and out of detainment for any number of reasons, it was rare for the youth to ever be home, except to aid his younger siblings whenever their mother was being particularly neglectful. 

His 16th birthday was marked by a suicide attempt.

Rather than addressing what were some glaringly obvious mental health issues, his mother--now only known as Harper by his word, had opted to take a more tough-love approach to dealing with her unruly son.  He’d barely been given time to heal before he’d been cast off to the military, deemed fit for battle if only because his seemingly unstable mannerisms were clocked as fraudulence, an attempt to dodge a duty that most able-bodied citizens of Demacia were fated to live.  

It came as no surprise that he only lasted a year or so before he ended up exiled from the nation entirely, a dishonorable discharge, and then some.   

Jack didn’t mind.  If anything, he found his newfound exile freeing; no longer bound by the walls, laws, or a system of belief that never did anything but bring him suffering.  He took to the lands to pursue a lifelong dream of becoming a famous musician, adopting the title of bard and performing for any and everyone who might care to listen.  Though he held a raw talent for music, and a captivating energy that earned him many a free drink or sordid love affair, he never gained much in the way of wealth.  He spent a couple of years bouncing from city to city, his starry-eyed conjecture and youthful determination quickly stifled by the harshness of the world outside the myopic views of Demacian society.

Beaten down by a vagabond lifestyle with little to show for his efforts, Jack’s luck seemed to change when his sister stumbled upon him.  Grown and graduated, Tabitha had followed her own path; though unlike her more creative sibling, she held an ambition for science.  With a bit of arm twisting, she convinced her twin to follow her to Piltover-Zaun; and give up on his childish pursuits so he could make a ‘real life’ for himself in the city of progress.      

Jack settled quickly into Zaun, though perhaps not for the better.  He’d dappled in the use of mind-altering substances in the past, and in violence-- but it was Zaun where he truly began forming habits that he’d later become known for amidst the shadiest districts of the city’s underbelly.  

His first feat of homicide had been justified, an act of self-defense over a trick turned horrifically sour. The following 14, however, not so much.  It hadn’t taken a lot to ignite his untapped bloodlust.  Sat on years of surplus trauma and a developing affinity for stimulants, he was selective about who he took down, however the personal code of morality in which he followed was deeply askew. He’d thought himself a vigilante of sorts; but more than one of those who he’d killed had earned their deaths for as little as a particularly offensive insult.  Getting away with murder in Zaun was surprisingly easy; so long as you were smart about it.

By the time his 15th victim met their gruesome demise, Jack had earned himself two nicknames in the local papers.  The first, ‘The Nightwalker’, which wouldn’t have been so bad had it not implied he was a female prostitute thanks to his penchant for killing mostly men.  The second, and one he proudly embraced in privacy, was ‘The Jackal’, a title he’d been dubbed in reference to the jackal-like gasmask he tended to wear on many of his ‘outings’, ever the stylish sort.  Neither of these personas were linked to that 15th murder; one of the only others where self-defense could have truly been claimed.  And it was; successfully, when his sister turned him over to the authorities. 

 It was an extreme act of betrayal in Jack’s eyes; he and his sister had always been close, and she already knew of his so-called ‘habits’.  Her streak of sadism was perhaps more vile than his own, merely cloaked beneath a thin but legally passable veil of ‘scientific progress’.  Little did he know how deep her betrayal ran, fueled by years of a lust for something greater than herself.

Jack’s follies had landed him in what was perhaps the most notorious asylum in the city, if not all of Valoran.  Incidentally his sisters place of occupation, Jack had never pieced together the direct connection between her and the two and a half years of ‘treatment’ he received; a colorful term for what was in essence torture. 

Rumors of the experimentation and abuse that patients suffered were commonplace among the denizens of Zaun-Piltover, though there’d never been any formal investigation into such matters.  Most of those forced to live among the padded walls were criminally insane, the lowest of the low in an already corrupt world that didn’t give a second thought to what happened behind closed doors. Many horrors took place in the iron penitentiary for those unlucky enough to dwell there, and the Demacian was no exception to that rule.

  Where Jack sought pleasure, his sister sought power--something she intended to achieve by any means necessary.  Obsessed with studying an ancient entity she’d attained from a generational blood bond, Jack had never thought much of the strange black bottle his sister kept with her throughout their childhood. A sentimental trinket she'd been gifted by their father before his passing, where he'd been left with nothing-- it was just another demotivational tic in an already lengthy list of family dysfunction.  Tabitha had convinced her employers to fund her experimentation with the promise that if successful, the eldritch being could be used as a powerful weapon for Zaun, much like Targon's incarceration of the star dragon Aurelion Sol. 

 Though there was some truth to this promise, the woman had much greater ideals. Rather than upholding a centuries-long duty to guard and confine this creature in secrecy and silence, Tabitha sought to directly bind herself to the beast instead, and ultimately gain access to what was a potentially limitless well of celestial power.  An attractive and intelligent woman, Tabitha had all the charms and wiles of her less fortunate brother, and she executed them to her advantage at every given turn.  Countless lives were lost in her quest to find a way to anchor this dark deity to a living human before she’d administer her unethical practices onto her own brother; an act that, much to her surprise, actually proved to be successful.

Successful to a degree, that was.

While the beast accepted Jack as it’s host(unlike those unfortunate souls who she’d tried to bind it to in prior times) Tabitha found difficulty in actually controlling it-- or her brother, who had, understandably, not taken well to being used for such horrific experimentation.  But Jack hadn’t the slightest idea that it was his own sister who had orchestrated these things, as well as the following attempts to brainwash and psychologically manipulate him.  

Always a stubborn man, Jack resisted the conditions he faced with fervency.  The power that came with being bedeviled by a dark god wouldn't have been so bad.  Though he was terrified of the creature, they eventually formed a symbiosis, a sympathy given to what he came to realize was merely another being that had undergone it’s own sequence of horrors prior to his arrival at the asylum.  

What had driven Jack past the breaking point was being told these things were a product of his own mind--that the people who ended up dead around him had been taken by his own hand, that he blacked out and had no recollection of it--that he was indeed, totally, utterly insane, and needed to be treated if he ever hoped to be anything more than this.  Jack knew he had some issues, but hallucinations and murderous blackouts had never been a part of that equation.  Almost constantly medicated and forced to undergo an assortment of studies which did more harm than good, it was inevitable that escaping became top priority.  At times, this notion extended to the prospect of escaping by means of death-- never successful, though it did land him in isolation for long periods of time.

With an intense fear of being alone, and a strange dynamic to the creature he was told didn’t exist, Jack found solace in speaking through the walls.  Often times he wasn’t certain if anyone was even there--but on rare occasions, he’d earn a response or two from the patrons on the other side.  He formed what he assumed to be a one-sided friendship with a very particular fellow--a man to whom he later found out to be a notorious murderer himself, and one that Jack held a bittersweet envy for in his own time on the streets.  When they’d first met face to face, it was in the medical ward, and incidentally the first time he’d made a successful attempt at escaping with aid from the other killer, who had unfortunately not been so lucky to reach the outside world.

He was free for only a few weeks before he returned, despite all common sense and the adamant disapproval of the being still bound to his mind. Jack had made a promise to his friend behind the walls, a promise to get him out of there, too-- and he couldn’t shake that thought from his consciousness.  Unsurprisingly, his shoddy attempt proved unsuccessful, landing him back in his own confinement and exposing him to tortures that far exceeded anything he’d experienced thus far.  

Unable to successfully control the man or the beast that inhabited him, Tabitha ordered their separation.  It was an incredibly painful experience, and one that didn’t go quite according to plan, as it ultimately resulted in nearly killing her brother, and later on, the escape of the creature who she tried to manipulate.  Though Jack survived this particularly gruesome procedure, it left him physically and mentally scarred, blocking out memory of the incident entirely-- though that could have been in part the brain surgery.  This worked in Tabitha’s favor, as several months after losing her prime subject, she’d sent her brother back into the world as a form of bait. Though no longer physically bound to the entity, Jack still held remnants of it’s essence inside him-- which she’d hoped would serve as a lure.  

For a short time, he’d occupied the home of one of his sister’s partners, Seraphina, to whom she had arranged his living-- but soon found himself at odds with her over any number of things.  Their personalities clashed, but it seemed the woman was rather persistent in staying with him-- especially after his sister’s untimely death in an accident that he never really did get much information on.  

Even when he took to the streets, Seraphina was persistent in her effort to keep him out of trouble, though more often than not he ended up dragging her into his shenanigans too.  Ever the astute charmer, it didn’t take too much effort for Jack to convince the woman to follow him into the world of showmanship-- an idea that had come to him and stuck there after a particularly eye-opening night witnessing a small but impressive sideshow.  Seraphina was an animal behavioral therapist by occupation, having formed her thesis on the language and habits of fire drakes after several years of living in the wilds, and the thought of being able to work with creatures like this again was an irresistible temptation-- not to mention she’d be given the freedom to use her elemental abilities without the risk of being patronized or imprisoned.

Though their act started off small, it only took a year for them to make their mark.  Coming from wealth, Seraphina provided the funds that got them off their feet, and did most of the paperwork and partnering needed to establish their place in the sideshow circuit.  Though Jack, with his natural charisma and assortment of talents(A Jack of all trades, as it were) had taken the title of Ringmaster, the firebreather ran things behind closed doors--something that the ringmaster all but forgot the more his own popularity grew.  He developed a small fan base who would follow them when they went on tour, something that only emphasized his already bolstered ego-- his dream of taking an almost rockstar persona realized in the performing arts.  

  By the third year, they’d made themselves known among Zaun and otherwise-- with a wide array of ragtag performers and freaks, many of whom were taken off the streets and welcomed in to their caravan with gusto.  Having formed a family of sorts, Jack and his posse opted to take base in the underground catacombs of Zaun, a place he’d frequently explored in his previous years on the streets but never fully realized the potential of until he brought others with him.  Styling it into their home, it wasn’t always the safest lifestyle, but they’d managed to cultivate and furnish much of the area enough to be quite comfortable.  For Jack, it was also a brilliant means to continuing pursuing his less acceptable hobbies without fear of persecution, carving out an entire sector for him and him alone.

Things continued like this for a couple more years without too much turbulence save for the usual array of misbehavior that Jack was prone to-- everything had finally started to fall into place.  He finally had a purpose in life, a calling, and he embraced it with the utmost passion-- perhaps too much at times, but it was a far cry from the life he’d led before, all but forgotten with the passage of time.

Until their 5th year.

[a-robin-among-thorns]

In The Shadows Of The Rising Sun Chp 11

Chapters 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10 

Once again thank you for your patience and for reading this story :)

Chapter 11: A Girl’s Best Friend

Word Count: 2,028

Their first week in the strange situation they found themselves in came and went. New routines became established, waking early to assure mutual chances at breakfast, scouring the library for any books related to the magical customs of japan. Evening snacks, and homework in the forest, followed by lessons in magic and language respectively. 

As Chise had suspected, Reina was unconcerned if she returned late and even seemed somewhat pleased she didn’t have to share dinner company. Even her teachers had reluctantly admitted that her assignments were improving. And to top it off Reina would once again be gone this weekend while she visited a friend from college. 

Not to say they were no hiccups. One such hiccup greeted her that Sunday morning in the form of Elias’ nose hovered worriedly over her stomach. 

Sleep covered her like a film of moss that stretched and cracked as she forced her eyes open. She had no reason to feel this lethargic, she thought, their day yesterday had been spent leisurely reading through tomes of Japanese folklore.   

Concerned wuffles whined through Elias’ nose as he looked her over again. “Elias,” She groaned, “what's wrong?” 

“Chise, are you injured?” 

She blinked. “What?”

“I smell blood.” Troubled pants racked his frame never ceasing his frantic inspection. “I don’t understand, I was here all night… I should have known... what could have…” he muttered in increasing frustration. 

“Blood? I’m not…” realization crashed into her like a tidal wave. She sat up quickly forcing her knees together in frantic damage control. The sporadic movement served only to further worry Elias, as he froze eyes flitting from her face to his claws and back again. Her hands came up in placating motions. “It’s ok! Just... please help me to the bathroom.”

Smoky shadow dissipated and reformed just as quickly as his arms gripped her back and under her knees. As he lifted her in smooth bridal carry Chise quickly inspected where she had laid on the futon thankful for the uninterrupted color that signaled her fear was unwarranted. His strong legs crossed the apartment in hurried steps till the pads of his feet hit linoleum. She wriggled slightly and Elias relented to let her stand.

“Thank you, now just wait out here for a moment.” He made to protest briefly before nodding as she closed the door. 

A brief search in the under-sink cupboard yielded exactly one product. Delightful. 

To say Chise’s cycle was irregular was a gross understatement. There were occasions where entire seasons would pass between the end of one and the beginning of another. As such, she rarely requested sanitary products and that morning happened upon the bad luck of Reina’s supply being all but empty. Her head fell back and her eyes winced shut in a grimace. Not only would she have to devise a way to calm Elias, who had almost certainly melted into a puddle of anxiety by now, but also they would have to run to town and buy more pads. 

So much for our nice day, she thought dejectedly. She supposed in a strange way she should have been grateful for this undeniable sign that her health had improved ever so slightly thanks to the steady influx of food she had enjoyed since Elias’ arrival. Gratitude was difficult to muster however, as her organs decided they had stood idle long enough in the form ripping spasms across her abdomen. She grunted as she strained off the floor. There was work to do. 

The door opened to the scene of Elias nervously fidgeting before fixing his eyes on her. 

She breathed deeply before exhaling an explanation. “Its Ok Elias, I’m not hurt. It’s perfectly normal for girls to bleed every so often.” She prayed silently that she would not have to explain menstrual cycles to him in detail.

His fingers flexed anxiously, making unclear whether this explanation had calmed him or worried him further. “You are...not in pain then?”

“Well I wouldn’t say that.” she blurted as immediately as she regretted. Elias’ entire posture stood on end ready to jump the second she showed discomfort. “I mean, it's uncomfortable but not unbearable. We’ll just need to run to town to grab a few things.” 

Through a truly herculean effort, Chise somehow managed to get dressed while keeping Elias stable as they headed out to town. A grueling trek later found Chise staring at a convenience store racks. She scratched her head in genuine confusion as to which size and amount she needed.  

She finally chose and mentally ran over any possible necessities. Her figurative and literal coin purse was slightly heavier as of late thanks to Elias’ habit of swiping free change off the ground. Thankfully he did refrain from the paper money as asked. As she was mentally debating the cost of painkillers, her attention was drawn to a pair of girls arguing across at the candy aisle. 

“Oni-Chan?" the younger girl whined, "Can we get chocolate for Haru?”

“No,” Her sister scoffed, “mom only gave me enough for dad and nii-san.” 

The little sister's tiny fists shot down spiking her shoulders in a heated attempt to appear larger. “But you have money!”

“Yeah, but I’m not paying for chocolates for your little crush.” The older sister continued unaffected. “You should have thought of it before the day of.”

“Pleaaase? I’ll do your chores for the week?” The younger one pleaded quickly changing tactics.

“...Make it two weeks and you have a deal.” 

Chise absorbed the meaning of her accidental eavesdropping as the sisters loudly made their way to the checkout. Why had they made such a fuss over candy? And more importantly, why did she feel it was so important to her right now? 

Shouldn’t have waited till the day of...the day of what? She mulled to herself. It couldn’t have been three separate birthdays...oh. Well, that made two glaringly obvious surprises before lunch. 

Chise was passingly familiar with holidays that forced family participation to at least acknowledge her as an occupant of the household. But a purely social holiday, Valentine's Day, was as foreign a concept to her as what it felt like to stand under the Eiffel tower. She had heard about, seen it on tv, even observed chocolate-coated rendezvous at school. But actual active participation? Well, that required several things, money, time, a recipient. All things she didn’t have. 

Didn’t have until…

Her eyes flitted down to her feet. To the passing observer, the odd branching patterns of her pale shadow cast in the artificial storefront light would be attributed to the irregular shapes of the snack aisle. That same snack aisle she quickly found herself striding towards where the sisters had stood arguing not a minute earlier. 

The electronic doorbell of the convenience store blared in her ears as Chise left feeling like a thief seconds away from apprehension. Despite having paid for the entire expense without dipping into the last of their food money. Her shopping bag’s weight felt as though it belonged to someone else but she strode forward. 

She was all but running by the time they reached the apartment and took the stairs two at a time. The door opened, shut and locked all in one motion. In the same second that her back thudded in emotional exhaustion against the door a wave of shadow surrounded her. His face formed first clearly desperate to see and speak to her before all else. His arms and legs took a full second longer to form as he scanned her for discomfort.

Summoning all her courage she plunged her hand into the grocery bag, fishing furiously. “Chise, what are-”

“Here!” she exclaimed louder than intended. But she knew that without considerable force neither the words nor the present would reach their destination.  

He was taken aback for several silent seconds, staring slack-jawed at the small package thrust forward in her palms. He shook his head and delicately plucked the present from her hands. “What is…”

“It’s a chocolate bar, for Valentine's day...for you.” She blushed fiercely.

“You were supposed to acquire provisions for yourself.” He accused in a surprisingly serious tone. 

“I know! And I did. I just...i-in Japan girls give chocolates to b-boys.” An odd thought questioned whether he considered himself to be gendered in any way. But that was for another time. “It’s how we celebrate Valentine's day. It's nothing special, but I... wanted to…” Her explanation had devolved into rambling and she forced herself to breathe. 

“I’m sorry…” I knew I shouldn't have done this she chastised. The warmth of his hand on her shoulder distracted her from his nose leaning forward. "Don't apologize," He breathed directly into her ear. He nuzzled her temple before pulling away, an odd heaviness settling in his expression. 

“I...wasn't expecting this,” he finally uttered. “Thank you for the gift.” He gasped. “Is there something I need to do for Valentine's Day?” 

Relief flooded Chise in a rush leaving her feeling giddy at the strange and adorable situation. “No, not until White Day. It's custom to give flowers to the person who gave you chocolates. You don’t have to though.”

“No, I want to!" He exclaimed, his jaw opening frantically, "When is White Day?” 

“It's not for a month or so.”

“Oh, please let me know when it comes.”

His eager desire to please caused a happy little smile to rest on Chise’s lips. A smile that was quickly broken apart as her ears rang and her stomach dropped. Her blood sugar and body fell in tandem, the later cushioned in Elias’ lightspeed grip. A miasma of terror permeated his being as he struggled to find words. 

“Sorry, I should have eaten before we left.” Chise offered feebly as she fought the pounding against her temporal lobe. Against his chest, she could feel him swallow forcibly as he brought her back to the futon. Any protest she had was stifled by gentle comfort as he laid her tenderly and covered her with their blanket. There wasn’t any harm in resting her eyes was there?

In the background, she heard clanking about the kitchenette but her sudden onslaught of fatigue made discerning meaning from the noise an impossibility. It wasn’t until Elias set the coffee table upright that Chise’s full attention was brought back to the present. The sound of cheap ceramic hitting wood followed by a light sloshing caused her to sit upright cautiously. 

“I...was unsure I could work the microwave.” Elias sheepishly offered as Chise took in the sight before her. The plastic cup she preferred to use had been filled halfway and beside it was a haphazardly filled bowl of cereal. She smiled. “Thank you...were is yours?”

“I don’t need any until you eat.” 

“Elias-“

“I am not the one collapsing. I can last a few minutes.” He argued pointedly.

Chise sighed at her foolishness and diligently began forcing down spoonfuls. Midway during her meal Elias rose and retrieved cereal for himself. Chise watched him intently between gulps. She chuckled to herself when he accidentally spilled milk on the counter. As he was looking for a rag to clean with, Chise spotted his candy had been placed on the counter. 

“Would you like to eat your chocolate?” She called gaining his attention. He nodded bringing the package along with him as he sat across from her. “How...do you eat it?” He asked.

She extended her hand to which he placed the candy, watching intently as she tore the plastic and returned it to his hands. “You just take a bite.” He delicately closed his jaws on the corner of the chocolate and bit down. The bar crumbled slightly leading Elias to worriedly struggle to catch the crumbs. Chise stifled a giggle. His jaw moved in an odd semblance to chewing with his teeth barely opening before he swallowed. 

“Well?” Chise questioned.

“It is,” his tongue flicked out swiping a spot of chocolate flecked on his incisors, “very sweet.” He broke off a piece offering it to her. She accepted, popping it into her mouth.

Chise smiled, “Yeah...it is.” The pain in her abdomen was present but considerably dulled. Very sweet indeed.  

[tell-me-when-ur-ready]

This Thing Called Love (part two)

Summary: When Shawn meets dancer Kellie in Toronto, he falls for her—hard. But Kellie has an invisible disability and thinks it’s impossible that someone could really love her the way she is.

Author’s note: I have multiple chronic illnesses that are similar to Kellie’s, but I don’t have the same exact health conditions she does. I’ve done lots of research, but I apologize if I get anything wrong!

Warnings: tiny bit of language

Word count: 1,200

Against Kellie’s better judgment, she said yes to lunch. She was in Toronto for dance, and nothing else; that was all she could physically handle. More than she could handle, actually, especially with the side effects from her new meds. But when Shawn had texted her, she’d answered Sure, tell me when (after several minutes, not right away; she did have some dignity left).

So that was how, the very next day, she found herself waiting outside a little café for Shawn to arrive. She’d gotten into town on Tuesday to give her body plenty of time to recover, if need be, before her dance competition; now it was Thursday, and the opening rounds of the competition started that night. She’d be dancing once tomorrow, a contemporary piece to a James Arthur song, and then hopefully two or even three times on Saturday depending on how she did—her main piece was her lyrical dance to In My Blood.

And that was what she should be focusing on, she thought anxiously as she tapped her foot on the sidewalk, not lunch with a celebrity she’d randomly met the day before (what even was her life?). But then she saw Shawn walking toward her and all coherent thoughts fled.

“Hey,” he said, raising a hand and flashing her that megawatt grin. He was wearing his signature skinny black jeans and a button-down shirt with the top few buttons gaping open, and anyone with eyes could see he looked really fucking good.

 “Hi,” she said back, smiling.

 “Sorry I’m a little late. I had trouble finding a parking spot.” He swept a few stray curls off of his forehead with one hand and gestured at the door. “Hungry?”

 The waiter seated them at the back of the restaurant and they made small talk about the food as they pored over the menu, Kellie looking at the ingredient lists a little more carefully than Shawn. After they’d ordered and taken sips of their water and flattened their napkins in their laps, the conversation dwindled and things started to feel a little stiff.

 “So what have you been doing lately?” Kellie asked awkwardly, and immediately felt like an idiot for asking it. What have you been doing lately? Who said that to a stranger? A strange boy? A strange celebrity?

 But Shawn didn’t seem to pick up on the awkwardness that Kellie felt was glaringly obvious.

 “Honestly, not much,” he said, leaning back in his seat. “I mean, I’ve been doing a lot of things—working on an album and doing photoshoots and sponsorships and stuff. But it feels like I’m not doing anything cause I’m not on tour or playing festivals this summer. You know?”

 “Yeah,” Kellie said, relaxing a little. “In high school I was a super competitive dancer; I was part of a lyrical dance team and we were on this T.V. show, it’s kind of like America’s Got Talent but just for dance, and we won. So we started traveling all the time—performing around the U.S. and Canada and Europe. But now, I just get up in my hometown every day and go to work, and then I sleep and then I work again. And that’s about it.”

 He laughed. “Yeah. You get it. And I’m still being productive and doing what I love, it’s just—”

 “Not the same,” Kellie said, and smiled back at him. Did she ever understand, she thought ruefully—more than he could know—how it wasn’t the same.

 The conversation ran smoothly from there; Shawn talked about his new music video and Kellie talked about her dance background. They found common ground over the ways they took care of their bodies for tour (Shawn) and dance (Kellie). Both of them liked yoga, it turned out, and were interested in holistic health in general (although Kellie didn’t bring up the reason she’d first gotten interested in the field). And once Kellie had started Shawn on that line of conversation, he didn’t shut up for several minutes.

 “So basically,” she said finally, leaning one elbow on the table and propping her chin in her hand, “you’re a hippie.”

 His mouth actually fell open.

 “What?”

 “Yeah,” she said. “It’s obvious. You avoid gluten, you meditate, you do yoga, you’re interested in holistic medicine… should I go on?”

 Shawn laughed out loud, his smile reaching ear to ear. “That’s ridiculous,” he scoffed, but he didn’t refute her claims.

 “Also, you’re a Hufflepuff,” she said firmly, crossing her arms and sitting back in the chair.

 That one he did refute.

 “Excuse you!” he exclaimed, still laughing. “I am not a Hufflepuff. Not at all. I’m totally a Gryffindor.”

 “No you’re not,” Kellie scoffed, but he brushed her off, emphatically shaking his head.

 “You’re wrong,” he said, one corner of his mouth lifting into a smirk. “Sorry.”

 They were both still laughing when the waiter brought the check, and Kellie looked up in surprise; she hadn’t even noticed how much time had passed. She reached into her purse, but Shawn had already handed the waiter his card before her fingers had even closed around her wallet.

 “I got it,” he said easily.

 “Are you sure?” (Which was a stupid question, because he was a millionaire, after all.)

 “Yeah, of course.”

 “Thanks,” Kellie said, sinking back into her chair. Must be nice to be rich and not to have thousands of dollars of medical bills hanging over your head, she thought grimly.

 “I had a really nice time,” Shawn said a few minutes later when they were outside the restaurant, shoving his hands in his pockets. His stance was relaxed, his face open.

 “I—I did too,” Kellie said, a little breathless. She silently willed him to return to safer ground. The music video. Business. The industry. Something a little more professional than the way he was currently looking at her.

 “So…” he said next, glancing down and scuffing the toe of his pointy boot on the pavement. “I’ll have my team send you details? About the music video?”

 Kellie was tempted to tease him again, something like but what if I’m still secretly an ax murderer or don’t you think they should see me dance first, but she didn’t. His wide hazel eyes were looking at her a little too closely and the fluttery feeling in her stomach was one she liked a little too much—because this was something she couldn’t have. Not now, not ever. This needed to end.

 “Yes,” she said with finality. “That sounds great. Thank you. And thanks for lunch.”

 “Sure,” Shawn said, but she didn’t miss the brief flash of confusion in his eyes as she turned and purposefully started down the sidewalk.

 As Kellie walked away into the Toronto sunlight, feeling the beginnings of a migraine pushing at the back of her head, she cursed herself for doing anything except what she’d come here for. It was time to focus on winning Saturday’s competition, because it just might be her big break—and God knows some kind of break was what she needed.

Taglist: @rosiemercy @learning-howto-be-myselfx3

[tragedybunny]

The Blade’s Edge - A League of Legends Fanfiction - Chapter 14

Happy Valentine's Day! I have been pushing myself to get this chapter out on the day of love! As always your playlist song:

Like A Prayer

❤TragedyBunny❤

They had a simple arrangement. She was the weapon to be used on his enemies. Things get more complicated when emotions bleed into what should simple. Now the two of them find themselves on the precipice of something that was entirely unexpected.

Thunk. The dagger hits the target, perfectly dead center. I’m hanging upside down from a ceiling rafter, throwing at targets scattered around the room, concentrating despite the dizziness starting to make my head spin. Behind me, I hear the whine of the opening door. None of the servants would dare interrupt me, not even Gwen. “Kitten, are you still not talking to me?”

I listen to his steps as he draws closer to me. I glance to my right and let a dagger fly in his direction. It buries itself in the wall next to him, he doesn’t flinch. “I’ll take that as yes.” We both know that I wasn’t actually aiming at him. He sighs, now the negotiating starts. “How about we go to the theatre tonight and then to that little cafe you like so much?” 

I throw a blade at another target and ignore him. I want to see what concessions he’s willing to make. “I’ll buy you something shiny.” Hmm, there are a few pieces at the jeweler’s that I’ve had my eye on.

I throw again, another perfect hit. “Fine, do whatever you want to do with the blasted garden.” He almost sounds pained saying it.  I feel a smile tug at the corner of my lips, I hadn’t expected to get exactly what I wanted. That’s what the whole argument had been about, he’d been staunchly against the expense. 

“All of the above.” I sit up onto the beam and drop down next to him. I almost let out a gasp when I get a good look at him, he looks so very tired and worn. He’d left before the sun was even up this morning. I’d barely fallen asleep after chasing a target most of the night when I’d felt him stir beside me. There’s been growing unrest in the south, sparking bands of rebels to spring up and need to be put down. I feel a bit guilty for all the theatrics just now. I lean up and brush my lips against his while wrapping my arms around his neck. “Darling, we don’t have to go out.” 

I watch his eyes stray to the now faded handprint on my wrist. The past couple of months since that terrible night he’s been overly indulgent, giving into nearly every request or whim of mine. It’s bittersweet, I no longer believe what we have means nothing to him, but he still will not tell me otherwise. Is it pride, fear, or am I imagining things? He leans his cheek on the top of my head. “No, it’s fine.” 

The way I’m pressed against his chest I can hear the steady rhythm of his heartbeat, strong and reassuring. “I'll leave it up to you.” I feel his arms tighten around me. I’m tempted to say more, but it’d make him cross if I fussed over him. 

When we first started going to the theatre we were the subject of extreme interest. Those same whispers that followed us at the Solstice revels consumed the theatre crowd. Winter was fading away and we were falling back into a routine after what happened, he found me idly sketching and stated he was bored and we should go out. I told him he never wanted to go out, which earned an annoyed huff. I’d had to kiss away his irritation before he’d let me agree to his suggestion. It became a bit of a regular occurrence as spring arrived full force, the two of us, ensconced in his private box, bantering and debating in hushed whispers, trying to keep as quiet as possible. As if anyone would actually admonish the Grand General for not keeping quiet at the theatre. 

“You really are spoiling me.” I twirl and show off the latest of his gifts, black lace and tulle, voluminous skirt yet somehow very revealing. 

“I would say it’s worth it.” His gaze roves over me appreciatively before his hands close around my hips and he pulls me close. “You’re stunning.” The way his voice drops low and he whispers those words in my ear, I can almost feel my cheeks going crimson. I hate it when he does that. 

“We will be late if you continue this.”  I hesitate for a moment, we could just stay home. Eventually, I pull myself from his grasp and climb into the waiting carriage. “You may further compliment me when we return.” 

It’s opening night for some unheard of playwright who’s managed to get the backing of a noble family. These productions that buy their way into a theatre are usually vanity pieces for their patrons and almost always end in spectacular disaster. Tonight is no exception, an overwrought affair based on an old myth, with glaringly obvious current parallels. “Really? Comparing me to Mordekaiser. I’m not sure if I should be insulted or flattered.” 

“I would say flattered, but the dialogue is so insipid I’m going to go with insulted.” I make a mock gagging noise. 

“We could just leave. That would cause a bit of a stir, walk out right now.”

“Tempting but whoever bankrolled this would probably think that was a victory. Oh, I know, let’s ask to meet the author. I heard he’s here. That will terrify him.” 

“That is evil. How do I sleep next to you at night?” He puts his arm through my mine, bringing us closer. 

“I always assumed very lightly.” I lean my head on his shoulder, relishing the moment.

He laughs in that subdued manner that’s typical for him, control to him is everything, and then squeezes my hand ever so slightly. I’ve come to know that gesture for what it is, his way of asking for affection, even if it is more proof of that constant need for control. I tilt my head up and brush my lips against his cheek anyway, I’ll not deny him. “I’m glad we came out tonight.” I’m taken aback at the unexpected honesty. I return my head to his shoulder and feel him ever so lightly kiss the top of my head.

“Me too.” Some intuition grips me and I realize there’s something he’s not telling me. I can feel the tension in his body as I lean against him. Between that and the tiredness lingering in his eyes, I’m troubled. 

I don’t really pay attention to the remainder of the theatrical debacle playing out before us, instead, we whisper back and forth and exchange soft kisses when we run out of words. When the whole dreadful thing has finally concluded neither of us is invested in our malicious scheme from earlier. We attempt to slip out of the theatre quickly before any of the high society crowd can attempt to small talk to us. “Madame Katarina, Grand General!” Coming around a corner into an open foyer we almost run down the owner of the cultured, smooth voice. 

“Rowan!” We stop short and I lean in to give them a quick peck on the cheek. “What a wonderful surprise.” I hear Jericho very quietly huff behind me, he knows why I'm so elated at the coincidence.

“Am I missing something?” They clearly sense the opposing forces at work here.

I met Rowan at a gallery show for Alrich about a month ago, we ended up deep in conversation and kept in touch after. It was only after our first meeting that I realized they were, in fact, the newly elected Head of the Mage’s Council. Jericho referred to it as quite a fortuitous connection, always politics with him.  “Since you asked, there’s a small favor I need to beg of you.” Gardens don’t really grow in normal Noxian soil, you either import it or have it enchanted or better yet, both. “Could you recommend the best green mage of your acquaintance?” I give deep emphasis to best, the cost isn’t a concern. 

“Planning to play in your garden a bit?” They give me a wry smile, they’ve heard my ambitions on this subject before. “I’ll see to it as soon as possible my dear. I hope you'll forgive my haste but I'm late to an engagement." He inclines his head politely to Jericho. "Grand General,  always an honor, Sir. And do stop by sometime, the both of you, I owe you a tour.”

“We’ll look forward to it.” We kiss cheeks again, Jericho returns their nod, and they fade into the now pressing crowd. 

Pushing through to the exit we finally find ourselves out in the mild spring night. I take his arm as we walk the short distance from the theatre to the cafe. “What’s troubling you, and don’t tell me nothing, I know better.”

“You are spending too much time with me. I had planned on having a discussion with you shortly. But first, other pressing matters. You are aware there is an intelligence briefing tomorrow, correct?” 

“Yes.” This again, I keep my tone purposefully terse. 

“And you know what time it is set to begin at?” I nod silently. “Then don’t be late again. Veera already thinks your position should be rescinded, stop giving her excuses. And please actually try to be in uniform.”

“She’s never going to like my being there anyway.” This is really the last thing I want to talk about. 

“I’d imagine that has something to do with you breaking her nose up north.” His tone is flat. 

I pull away from him to gesture wildly. “You know what she said! How was I supposed to know she was Intelligence.” 

“You could’ve not let her bait you like that. However, she’s your Superior and you will have to deal with her for now.”

“Until I’m promoted. That’s what you’re planning on, isn’t it?” Thinking of fucking Veera and High Command has me silently seething. I didn’t even want this position in Intelligence, it was regretfully forced on me as soon as I became Guild Commander. “Remember when she had the nerve to ask if I could even read High Noxian like I’m some sort of uneducated child. The Grand Whore apparently can't understand our official language."

He surprisingly chuckles quietly. “You spent a whole meeting only speaking to her in Old Noxian. It was quite impressive actually, I didn’t even know you spoke it.” Now he finds it amusing, he was irritated at the time. 

“I suppose it’s typical. People usually think killing is all I’m good for.” With that thought, melancholy starts to bleed into my rage. I trudge on in silence but he catches up and takes my arm again. He doesn’t speak though, giving me a moment until we reach our destination on the edge of an open plaza. There are a few cafes scattered amongst the now darkened shops that remain open for the crowds coming from the theatres, opera house, and galleries, but there’s one in particular I favor. 

We’d started coming here shortly after we began having theatre nights. I’d frequented it before on my own, but one night we’d both needed sobering up and weren’t ready to go home. There had been a painfully boring diplomatic dinner that had impelled us both to decimate our host’s wine cellar. Well, impelled me anyway, I may have drug him along with it. It makes me smile a little to think of myself being a bad influence on the Grand General. We’d scared the owner Tavi, a Shuriman immigrant, half to death. He had no idea what to do with Jericho seated at one of his outdoor tables, sipping coffee with his mistress. He has since thankfully calmed down a bit when we show up. 

We find our usual table, tucked into a darker corner of the veranda, affording us at least some privacy, as Jericho prefers. Sahar, one of Tavi’s daughters brings out coffee with a polite greeting before we even ask. They always have the best Shuriman brew here. You can tell by the number of Tavi’s fellow immigrants clustered inside, looking for a taste of home. Moments later Sahar reappears with a smile and one of Tavi’s famous flaky crusted pastries. “I saved one just for you, Madame, I know you are fond of them.” She’s a flatterer, but that’s what I pay for. 

“Many thanks, Sahar. ” The scent of strawberries and roasted nuts wafts up to me and as soon as she’s out of sight I ravenously stuff a large forkful in my mouth. 

Jericho smirks at me from across the table. “If only I knew before that all it took to mollify you was a decent pastry.” 

I feign being indignant “It’s the strawberries, they’re my favorite, and someone wouldn’t let me have them all winter.” 

“No, he said stop spending a fortune on them when they have to be imported.” He pretends to be stern with me. 

I play the brat and pout. “You were mean about it and I didn’t get any.”

“My poor Kitten, that must have been torture. Although I know full well you had Cress buying them and hiding the cost. How many bottles of wine did it cost me for you to bribe him?” He sits back looking triumphant, he’s won our little back and forth.”

“No fair, you always know everything.” I blow him a kiss and finish enjoying my pastry. With the last bite dispatched I turn my attention back to what’s bothering him. The silence that’s stretched between us seems to be alive with whatever it is, it’s heavy and oppressive, erasing the pleasantness of a few moments ago.  “So.”

“I suppose I owe you that discussion about what’s been on my mind.” I nod, hoping to just get it over with. My every sense is telling me to dread his words. “You know there’s been unrest in the south. Thus far the forces sent have failed to stamp it out entirely.” He pauses and once again tension fills the space between us. “I intend to go settle it myself.”

My heart freezes, I forget to breathe. He’s going to war. Part of me cries out to beg him not to, but that’s not the Noxian way and he’d despise it. Instead, I steady myself and bury that impulse. “Do you want me to go with?” That would be acceptable, I could make myself of use, like in the North.

He shakes his head. Of course, he won’t want it construed that he needs to take his little pet everywhere with him. “No, but the situation has given me much to consider and there is something I need to ask of you.” Another moment of terrible silence. I stare down at the cup in my hands that I hadn’t realized I was clutching tightly. Will he just get this over with? “It occurs to me I could use someone to watch over my interests while I’m away. Not with official power, of course, but to keep my allegiances strong and prevent my enemies from growing too bold.”

“And?” I urge him on, gesturing impatiently. 

“I would want you to have the respect due to you while acting on my behalf. And I’d like to make it clear in that case that anyone acting against you is acting against me as well.” I take a sip of coffee, completely lost. “All this is to say, I think we should get married.” 

A raspy cough escapes me as I choke on my coffee. “What!?”

“You and I, we should get married.” He says a bit more slowly as if it somehow makes it any less absurd. 

“Honestly, I’m a little surprised you’re even bothering to ask and not just ordering.” The shock leaves me defensive and lashing out. Get married, be his wife, this is lunacy.

Now he’s the one who turns his eyes away and contemplates his cup. “Fair enough. Although I would argue things have changed over time.” He reaches out to take my hand, thumb running along my knuckles. His voice drops into that soft tone that always persuades me to his point. “You would agree, right?”

Damn him for being charming. “I suppose they have a bit.” I give his hand a soft squeeze. 

“You have to admit it is a solid notion. I know Darius can be depended upon and Argos is very capable but has not been in his position long.  And soon enough we’ll have a new Commander of the Capitol Guard.” 

“I didn’t realize she was finally retiring.” I interrupt. 

“Not quite.” The insinuation is unmistakable. “I’ll need you to see to it personally. Back to the point, I’ll get what I need while I’m gone and if I should not return, you’ll be a very wealthy widow.” 

I roll my eyes at that last bit. “Don’t be ridiculous, something’s far more likely to befall me than you.”

He looks up brows furrowed. “Don’t say that.”

“Can I think about this whole thing?” I’m at a loss. All my work to accept the way things are between us, and he wants to complicate it all over again. 

“If you insist, my Warbands have been summoned though, and I plan to leave within the week.” Why am I the last to know about this whole thing? “Keep in mind, we can always get divorced if you find it disagreeable. In fact, since you have no assets of your own, I’m technically the only one at risk.”

It’s such a clerical way of looking at it, just what I’d expect from him. I almost wish it hurt, but I’m too used to how he is. So instead I simply rise and stretch. “I’m ready to go home.” I start walking away before he’s even out of his seat. 

“Right.” He leaves some coin on the table and hurries to catch up with me. I feel the weight of his coat drop around my shoulders and inhale the scent of him that clings to it, leather and parchment and that cologne he pretends he doesn’t wear. “There’s a chill in the air.” There’s not but it’s an unusually soft gesture so I let his little lie slide.

“Still trying to persuade me?” I slow my pace a bit so that we fall into step with each other. 

“Perhaps.” He takes my hand. “Is it working?” I only roll my eyes at him again, this time with a smile though. 

Thankfully he lets the subject drop the rest of the way home. Once Gwen has helped me out of my dress, I slip on my robe and take a precious few moments to think while running a brush through my hair. How can I even begin to contemplate marrying him? It’s absolutely absurd, and he’s arranged it all with the same cool detachment of ordering his soldiers into formation. And yet he asked, admitting when he did that things are not as they once were between us. With that admission comes the stinging awareness that for whatever his reason, he’d rather it remain unacknowledged. As usual, I’m expected to obey his wishes and follow along with his silence. But isn’t that what I’ve accepted time and again?

Nothing is clarified by the time I slip next door to find him hunched over his desk, pen in hand. “Are you seriously working right now?”

He puts a hand up. “I’ll only be a moment.” 

I stalk over and drop myself into his lap, he doesn’t get to propose to me and then spend the rest of the night obsessing over the Empire. “No.” He tries to write around me. “I want your attention.” 

I lean in and kiss his jaw just where it meets his neck, he shudders. My lips travel upward, I nip and pull his earlobe between my teeth, sucking for a moment. He gasps, pen clattering down onto the desk. “You are insistent on making a nuisance of yourself, aren’t you?” He wraps his hands around my hips.

“If that’s what it takes to get what I want.” I can feel that tension in him again and I’m reminded of the reason for his proposal. There must be some concern about this rebellion within High Command if he’s going to take on the task himself. He still hasn’t rooted out the conspiracy he knows is working in the shadows, no doubt that weighs on him as well. I kiss his neck and let my teeth graze it, he digs his fingers into my hips and thrusts lightly against me. I feel the heat of desire build inside me. “You’re so tense though, let me take care of you.”

I push his hands away and slide down to the floor between his legs. I trace my fingers along the growing bulge in his pants, causing more small noises from him, before opening them. He sighs when I grasp him and work my hand up and down his length. I feel his fingers dig into my shoulders when I run my tongue over his head and take him into my mouth. His hand grips my hair, pushing me forward, urging me to take all of him. Tongue pressed against him, lips tight, I move up and down, listening to his soft moans. When he can no longer stand my deliberately slow pace, he holds me still and drives into me, relentlessly using me. 

I hear his rapid breathing and know he’s taken himself close to the edge. I break away, clambering back into his lap, straddling his hips. I let my robe fall to the floor and lean down for a rough kiss, my hand once again wrapped around his cock. “Don’t tease me.” He growls. 

“Never.” Wet and aching for him, I impale myself on him and moan as his hips buck up to meet me. Again I start slow, rocking my hips against him, taking him as deep as possible. His hands hold me loosely, a sign he's given over control to me.  “You feel so good inside me.” I quicken, moving with urgency, breath coming rapidly, feeling the bliss of being filled with him. I feel myself tighten around him,  pleasure exploding inside me, crying out as I’m spent. I’m pliant as a moment later he pulls me down roughly, taking back that control, and finishing with a few deep thrusts. 

I lean my head onto his shoulder, suddenly exhausted, and feel his arms wrap around me. He means so much to me, will I lose him if I don’t do what he asks? Will he find someone else to play the part? I’m out of choices again it would seem. “You’re right, it’s a good idea.”

I leave it at that and wait for him to respond. “Look me in the eyes and tell me yes, if that’s your answer, Kat.” 

I oblige and sit up, staring into those unyielding dark pools. “Yes, I’ll marry you.” I brush my lips lightly against his to seal my promise. 

[ddarker-dreams]

Yandere Giorno, Jotaro, and Bucciarati handling jealousy

Giorno Giovanna: 

If by some rare chance you haven’t been kidnapped by the Don already, you should expect to at least be under constant surveillance. After the next unfortunate series of events however that limited freedom you’ve been enjoying will all but disappear in front of you.

Throughout Giorno’s life, it has been a reoccurring theme that very few people matter a lot to him. Even more so now as having people that he cares about is a liability, due to the nature of his occupation and the enemies it brings with it. But you were the crown jewel of those who mean the world to him. Invoking feelings of love that he never experienced, it holds a strong weight. 

In times where he isn’t busy, he treats himself by either observing you (essentially stalking), or interacting with you. In the beginning of his obsession he still wants to make a good impression on you, so he tries not to come off too strong. That’s why he’s contenting himself with watching you at one of you favorite cafe, a rare fondness in his eyes.

He had already gone out of his way to speak to the owner of this cafe, instructing them to give you anything you want free of charge. It’s only a little taste of what luxuries you’ll have access too once you’re in a full fledged relationship with him, but Giorno wants to give you what he as soon as he can. 

Settling himself at an outside table, he switches between observing the bustling businesses around him and you. It wouldn’t do for you to catch his insistent staring after all, so he appears as naturally as he can. But that’s when he catches onto a waiter that seems to be coming to your table a little too often for his liking.

The way you smiled naively at the waiters blatant advances served to irritate him deeply. It was almost offensive to him in a sense, that someone would even attempt to wriggle themselves into your life when you are Giorno’s. He isn’t one to make a public scene, but Giorno retrieves this individual’s information in record time. 

Eventually he can no longer stomach watching you interact with this trash, so he walks over to your table and politely asks if you’d mind some company. Having already interacted with you in the past works off, as you readily accept his suggestion much to his relief. It’s enough to ward off the parasite from before. 

If you were paying close enough attention, you’d be able to see Giorno is more on edge than he’d like to give off. His legs crossed over one another, grip on his tea cup a bit tighter than it needs to be. He still engages you in pleasant conversation, but his eyes have a malicious streak whenever he spots the waiter from earlier. 

Afterwards he’ll deal with this insult himself. For now he’ll settle on removing their body parts and healing them so they can experience the pain nonstop -- but once he bores of their cries for help, he’ll have an underling take over with the torturing. No one can have eyes for you but him, after all. 

This would further excel his plans of kidnapping you and keeping you to himself. Seeing how others are capable of acting around you cements the idea that they might attempt the grevious sin of taking you away from him.

Bruno Bucciarati: 

Bucciarati has been working tirelessly to earn your trust and hopefully your affection. He has a dependable presence to you, always offering you guidance if you ask for it and taking time out of his busy day to converse with you. Whether it be in person or over the phone, Bucciarati makes it a top priority to speak to you everyday. 

He worries about you frequently, knowing fully how cruel the world can be from experience. Someone as precious as you should be protected in his eyes, and he wants to keep you safe. There’s a silent pride to this, knowing that very few people could have the resources Bucciarati does to keep you safe. It becomes a part of his identity, being the most reliable person in your life. 

When speaking to you over dinner, you express to him that you’ll be busier in the upcoming weeks and might not be able to see him as often. Bucciarati, composed as over, would politely inquire what it is that’ll be so demanding of your attention. At this point he basically feels like you’re partners, even if it isn’t official -- he treats you out so often after all! But doesn’t want to pressure you into anything... yet.

You explain that one of your best friends from overseas is coming to visit for a few weeks, and that he’s going to be staying with you. It’s ever so brief, the way Bucciarati frowns at the news instead of sharing in your excitement as he normally does when you speak to him on your plans. But he’s quick to catch himself and expresses he hopes you have fun. 

Afterwards every piece of information on this “friend” is discovered, from their blood type to where they study. The thought of this insignificant speck taking even an ounce of your attention away from Bucciarati displeases him greatly, and he’s quick to think of what to do about it. 

Killing this friend would be easy but counter productive for now. He hates the thought of making you sad, since you mean so much to him! So he settles on pulling some strings and having this individual’s travel visa thrown into chaos. 

You’re disappointed obviously, but in this time Bucciarati does everything he can to distract you and cheer up your sullen mood. It proves effective as you grow even closer to him during this, wanting to spend more time with this reliable person in your life. He’s always so sweet and considerate of you, isn’t he? 

If this pest continues to present himself as a problem though, Bucciarati will have to continue escalating the situation. Whether it be disposing of him and hiding the information from you eventually, or simply threatening him to leave you alone -- it depends on Bucciarati’s mood. If you ever got combative with him after being kidnapped though, it would be in your best interest to stop as Bucciarati’s reservations of killing this friend would immediately disappear. 

Jotaro Kujo: 

Jotaro choosing to be around you is typically enough to have most people keep their distance from you. No one is even sure why (including yourself) Jotaro seems to hang around you as often as he does, not that you really mind. While he isn’t the most talkative person, he seems to care for you in his own way and always listens to you. He can even often good advice and help with your schoolwork if you need it! 

You’re not even fully sure how to describe your relationship with Jotaro. You guess you’re friends? He only seems to spend time with you out of everyone else at your university. But when he’s busy you hang out with your other friends. 

Jotaro is always your go to when you don’t understand something, but lately he’s been busier than normal with a variety of exams. This lead you to asking one of your friends, Liam, for some guidance on a lecture you had trouble understanding. 

The two of you busied yourself in the library, him explaining some concepts to you before you both got off track. Eventually it turns into more of a social meet as you exchange jokes and pleasantries about life. However Jotaro ended up needing to go to the library as well, and spotted you chatting in a friendly manner with this... lecherous looking indidual. It didn’t sit well with him. 

Jotaro already has a persistent dislike of your current friends, finding them obnoxious and a waste of your time. To add to his irritation it looked like the two of you had books out that normally Jotaro would go over with you. It felt like Liam was infringing on a sacred bond Jotaro silently prided himself in having with you. Even if Jotaro would complain about you needing his help, he loved being able to assist you. 

Suddenly all of the work he needed to do leaves his mind, and he walks up to you and starts talking. It’s almost glaringly obvious that he’s ignoring Liam, who stares at him in return. Sensing some strange tension in the air, you ask Jotaro if he wants to join you; to which he eagerly agrees.

Every time Liam begins to explain something to you, Jotaro finds every possible fault within his words. “That’s not how this works.” Or stuff like “Good grief. It should be evident this is a trick question.” 

It’s an embarrassing ordeal for the both of you, and Liam eventually comes up with an excuse to stalk off after Jotaro humiliated him one too many times. When you ask Jotaro what his problem is, he doesn’t really offer an answer. He instead says if you need help that he can make time, and that idiots like that would ruin your grades. 

He means it too. At the drop of a hat Jotaro would be by your side if you asked him to, even if he gave off the air of it being troublesome. Jotaro wants to assert himself as the most reliable person you could find, and will do anything he can to keep your precious attention on him. 

[journalxxx]

And They Rested on the Seventh Day

[I read the Good Omens book and watched the Amazon series, and enjoyed both a great deal: however, this story doesn't strictly follow the canon or characterizations of either. It's a bit of a mix of the things I liked the most from both versions (for clarity, this considers basically the plot and ending from the book + few selected elements from the tv series. Also Tennant. Definitely Tennant), topped with purely made-up bits of headcanon and character interpretation. The final result is that it’ll probably feel full of inconsistencies and OOC moments, but oh well. I had to take a few ideas off my head.]

To think that it had all started as a hobby of sorts. A wild bet on and against himself, just for the fun of it. 

Crowley hadn't thought much of the job he'd done in the Garden of Eden, at first. To be fair, he was still convinced that most of the responsibility for that big mishap fell on God Herself and Her inexplicable - pardon, ineffable - decision to dangle juicy bits of edible forbidden knowledge right in front of people who had literally been born yesterday. Honestly, what else could have happened? Crowley was sure one of the two humans would have given in to curiosity anyway, sooner or later: his intervention had simply sped up the process.

But Crowley’s superiors had been positively enthusiastic about it. God’s new and supposedly best creations, twisted and corrupted and exiled in less than a week since the beginning of the world? An astonishing success for the dark forces, they had said, very well done Crawly, you shall hereby be hailed as The Tempter (a title that would be handed out very freely in the centuries to come, in fact, since he had basically invented a whole new and very busy line of work for the entire Underworld). They had been so keen on putting his supposed talents of persuasion to good use that they had assigned him on permanent Earth surveillance duty, keeping an eye on things and easing the slippery slope of other innocent souls to the abyss. A simple enough job, he thought, and he wasn’t at all displeased with the idea of spending most of his time away from Hell. The place was, well, hellish.

He had been quite surprised to meet the Guardian of the Eastern Gate there as well, apparently tending to the exact opposite task as Crowley’s. What were the odds, uh? But in Aziraphale’s case, Crowley couldn’t help but feel that the new office was meant more as a demotion rather than as a reward. The angel didn’t seem exactly… suited to field work, so to speak. He was definitely the kind of guy who’d deal better with paperwork or with performing celestial harmonies or with whatever those guys up there got up to, these days - rather than with acting as an incognito emissary of the Light. He was simply too soft-hearted. It clearly pained him to witness the daily struggles of mankind without being able to relieve them, if not in a very roundabout and indirect way. He would have gladly handed out miracles and blessings as promptly as he had relinquished his flaming sword, Crowley thought, if he hadn’t directly been ordered to stick to spreading ‘positive influence’. 

He was a queer one, Aziraphale, but overall rather amusing to have around. And after the first mostly accidental meetings, Crowley had started to notice several very, very interesting things about him. 

First of all, the angel was a sinner. And a rather nonchalant one too.

The first sin Crowley noticed was pride. Now, pride was objectively quite intrinsic to all angelic beings, to some extent, with their perpetual holier-than-thou attitude and their unbending illusion of absolute righteousness. Aziraphale wasn’t an exception. He could have very well avoided Crowley, if he really thought so lowly of him and his shady dealings, but he didn’t. He met him, he primly and oh so very graciously tolerated his company, he pointedly corrected his faulty views on creation and the universe with the self-satisfied attitude of a conceited schoolmaster. It made Crowley’s skin, well, crawl. And he had this ridiculous habit of pointing out, at randomly fitting points during any discussion, that he, Aziraphale, was an angel and he, Crowley, was a demon, and therefore blah blah. He did that really often, inexplicably so. It wasn’t like either of them was going to forget what they were, after all. And it wasn’t like he needed to repeat that at frequent intervals to make sure that some undefined and distracted external audience was aware of their standing in the universe either. It was just plainly dumb and irritating. Crowley had taken to address him as ‘angel’ more often than with his proper name, out of sheer sarcasm. Sadly Aziraphale hadn’t taken particular notice.

Another very glaring sin Aziraphale keenly committed was gluttony. Oh, what a glutton he was. The first time Crowley had met him ‘socially’, he had been astounded to notice that Aziraphale actually ate. If his body was anything like Crowley’s, and Crowley was sure it was, it was conveniently free from most of the intentional design flaws God had installed on humans after Adam and Eve’s escape, such as illness, hunger and tiredness. Neither Aziraphale nor Crowley needed any sustenance or sleep (although Crowley had quickly taken a liking to the latter activity - but he was a demon, Aziraphale would have pointed out with his most slappable face, so he was allowed as many indulgences as he wanted). Even the most gluttonous human had some sort of excuse, what with needing to eat to survive and, while one was at it, he may as well do it decently, to build the temple of his body in the best possible way and so on and so forth. It was a very flimsy and poor excuse, considering the sort of folks who usually resorted to it, but humans clung to such moralistic drivel like limpets. Aziraphale didn’t even have that tiny pretext on his side. He ate (and drank) without any need to, and he did it often and with much gusto, out of sheer pleasure. If that wasn’t the epitome of gluttony, Crowley was an anteater.

And, after a few centuries, a hint of greed began to emerge too. It was a very specific sort, aimed at very specific material possessions, namely those that had to do with writing. Aziraphale had been inordinately proud when humans had begun to carve their funny little thoughts and grocery lists on very impractical clay tablets, he had called it a revolutionary intuition, surely sparked by divine goodwill. Crowley’s reaction had been more along the lines of a whole-body shrug. Aziraphale was fond of reading and, when it became possible, he even started collecting reading material. Papyrus, parchments, scrolls, anything he could find. When books started to become a thing, the angel ogled them like misguided shepherds ogled golden calves. He acquired them very sparingly and with a trace of guilt at first, when books were rare and their production was lengthy and expensive and holding onto some tomes for his own personal enjoyment effectively diminished the amount of knowledge available to the world at large. But after the press was invented, oooh boy. Yes, the excessive and self-serving accumulation of literary material goods was definitely among Aziraphale’s faults.

But that was only the tip of the proverbial iceberg.

In fact, for all his preaching and sternly-worded proclamations of faith, Aziraphale had perplexities. That much was glaringly obvious. Ineffability perplexed him, even though he unerringly presented it as the ultimate argument against Crowley’s own perplexities, whenever they ventured to discuss celestial politics. It had been perplexing him, at least to a certain extent, since the apple incident, Crowley was sure of that. And that was odd in itself. Crowley had believed that, after the Rebellion, Heaven had been purged of any angelic creature who wasn’t a hundred percent committed and trusting in God’s cause, but Aziraphale seemed troubled to a visible degree, at times. Crowley had known Aziraphale only very superficially before falling, and he couldn’t quite say if his doubts were a recent development or not.

So, a peculiar idea started to slither in the corners of Crowley’s oft bored mind.

What if, he thought, what if I could make this angel fall?

The premises for the evil deed were all there. Aziraphale already committed almost half of the deadly sins of his own accord, whether he knew it or not. And he had reservations, however intimate and rationalized, about God’s plan. That was all it had taken for Crowley himself to fall, after all. Just a couple of reservations and hanging around the wrong people. Crowley could provide both of those factors very easily.

It was, admittedly, mere speculation. Crowley wasn’t even sure it was possible for angels to fall after the Rebellion - something had seriously shifted in the balance of the universe back then, everyone had noticed. But the concept was absurdly inviting. Who else, after all, aside from the Morning Star Himself, could boast coaxing angels into corruption? It would be a stunning accomplishment in any demon’s curriculum, wouldn’t it? Forget about apples and tempting feeble human minds, that would be real bragging material. The more he thought about it, the stronger the itch got. In addition, despite his earlier doubts, Crowley had discovered himself quite naturally adept to that whole temptation business. He had thought his success with Eve a bit of a fluke, born of very favorable circumstances: deep down she already wanted that fruit, and so did her companion. They were already leaning towards disobedience, and all Crowley himself had to do was just to give the both of them a little nudge in that direction.

But then, he had found out that that principle was valid for all humans. Every human, literally every one of them, was inevitably attracted to Evil, at least a little bit. In some cases he had to resort to some delicate manoeuvres and subtle approaches to nurture that twisted tendency, in others he simply had to knock on an open door. A very easy and straightforward job, indeed.

But would it be that easy with a full-fledged angel? Presumably not. How should he go about it, then? He supposed that approaching Aziraphale with a rapid fire of existential questioning would be slightly too on the nose. Besides, ineffability. How did you even question that? It’s a brick wall of suspended disbelief and logic denial. No, theology speculations weren’t the right answer, only the most mind-numbingly boring one.

Crowley decided to roll up his sleeves and start with the basics. Adding the remaining deadly sins on Aziraphale’s list of misconducts would be a solid start, he deliberated. Whittling away at a soul’s integrity bit by bit was all the rage back then, in terms of temptation tactics. He’d slowly erode the angel’s rectitude as if he was your average human, and then he’d see where he could go from there. And he would take it nice and easy, spreading his influence over centuries, millennia if necessary. He wouldn’t risk ruining his chances by revealing his hand too soon. He had picked the most promising one among the four remaining sins, and he had started plotting.

He could still remember the indescribable sensation he had felt when he had succeeded, sometime around 1000 AD. It had indeed taken centuries of discreet suggestions and proposals, refuted firmly and scornfully at first, but with less and less passion over time, until Aziraphale had finally given in to the Arrangement, with nothing more than a curt and tense nod. Crowley had offered his assistance first, obviously. He was already about to head to Byzantium to tend to his own business, so he thought he may as well take care of Aziraphale’s too. Just an innocent favour, free of charge. Obviously, if for fairness’ sake the angel felt like returning said favour in the future, Crowley’d be obliged, but really, no pressure whatsoever. 

Unexpectedly, unlike all the previous times, the angel had accepted. It felt like a minor victory in itself, even though it was only the first step. Naturally Aziraphale followed him, although not quite as discreetly as he thought. And he followed Crowley the next time as well, and the third- the third he didn’t. 

Now, that felt like a triumph. Crowley’s skin had begun to tingle in sheer excitement when he had ascertained that the third time he had offered his assistance to Aziraphale, the angel had simply trusted him to carry out the task as requested. Not that Crowley wanted or could avoid doing what he’d been asked - their respective head offices may be careless about smaller details, but they were fond of keeping scores. If the holy work hadn’t been performed, Heaven would have noticed, therefore Aziraphale would have been reprimanded, and Crowley would have lost that hard-earned trust. What was notable, however, was that it had taken only two trips for the angel to trust completely a demon to perform honest, divine work. It was foolish of Aziraphale not to check that he would, it was lazy of him not to perform the job himself, as he’d been ordered, as he’d undoubtedly report he had. It was deception to his superiors, it was negligence, but more importantly, it was sloth.

It was a heady rush of adrenaline after a long period of forced calm, the kind of exhilaration a skilled hunter feels after waiting for hours - centuries, in that case - for the prey to fall into an aptly placed trap. It was indeed possible to tempt an angel, and he, Crowley the Tempter, the Snake of Eden, had managed to do it. It was riveting. That sensation of well-earned success alone would have been enough to brighten his days and put a spring in his step for the next century, but the best was yet to come, and it was something Crowley wasn’t even planning of.

He had been joking when he had suggested that Aziraphale should be the one to carry out the next bunch of long-distance duties for the both of them. He wasn’t expecting him to accept by a long shot, definitely not so soon at least - but he did. Sheepishly and uncomfortably, Aziraphale had listened to Crowley’s instructions and headed off with a half-muttered promise to ‘see what he could do’. That was a surprise, although Crowley didn’t believe for one second that he would see the job done. An angel (and not just any angel, Aziraphale), doing Satan’s work? What a joke. He’d chicken out of it before dawn, for sure, and either later inform Crowley that he had met with obstacles, or pretend to have forgotten about the whole conversation. And indeed, after seeing neither hide nor hair of the angel for the next month, Crowley assumed Aziraphale had just done that. The demon had then made the hundred-kilometre trip to take care of the business personally, only to find the couple of married lovers (married to other people, that is) already in the throes of the deep reciprocal passion that had been haunting them for the past three years, their families in turmoil and their small town in the middle of nowhere now enjoying the best bout of spicy gossip since that peculiar incident with the shepherd and his sheep forty years earlier.

Crowley was absolutely flabbergasted. That was much, much better than he’d even dared to expect. He felt like he’d basically already done it. It was going to work. If it had taken so little effort to convince an angel to tempt humans instead of blessing them, it was only a matter of time before Aziraphale eventually succumbed completely to Crowley’s scheme. Only a matter of time! He’d keep working on it, slowly and patiently, in a world that would soon start moving forward at an increasing and unimaginable pace, treating Aziraphale like his personal pet project, tackling one sin at a time. What was left? Lust, envy, wrath - oof, wrath was going to be a tough one, wasn’t it? The strongest negative emotion he’d ever seen Aziraphale display was ‘mildly peeved’ - but it would definitely, definitely work. He wouldn’t rush it, he’d wait for the perfect occasion to land in his lap and he’d seize it, to drag the angel to ruin in careful, calculated steps.

That night Crowley had gotten fantastically, gloriously, immeasurably drunk, and had dragged literally the entire village into his personal celebration, thanks to the inexplicable appearance of a good dozen abandoned carts on the main road, filled with jugs of excellent wine from the local vineyards. The huge, impromptu party that followed would have put Bacchus himself to shame, and it provided the village spinsters with enough gossip about the many depraved deeds that had been consumed on that night for the next 378 years, give or take.

That was roughly a thousand years ago.

Funny, Crowley thought as he was sprawled on an unimportant bench in an unimportant road of Lower Tadfield, Oxfordshire, feeling and looking like a puppet with cut strings. Funny, Crowley thought as he was looking up into the cloudless and starry sky of a world that hadn’t ended, how much things can change in just a thousand years.

Aziraphale stood up when two round headlights appeared at the end of the road, and glanced curiously at Crowley when he didn’t do the same. Slowly, with immense effort and groaning like a metal crane bent by a gigantic hand, Crowley gathered his strewn limbs and rearranged them vertically as well. The angel and the demon climbed on a bus that wasn’t going to Oxford, walked past an unresponsive conductor that wasn’t asking for tickets, and spent most of the trip sharing a bottle of wine whose quality vastly outmatched its price tag and whose capacity had long since exceeded the promised 750 millilitres.

The repetitive scenery of the the dark English countryside let Crowley’s mind wander back into the past. It occurred to him that it had been roughly 600 years since the last time Aziraphale had set foot into his house. You could count on the fingers of one hand the number of times the angel had ever accepted to visit his ‘den of iniquity’ (Aziraphale’s words, c. 310 AD), and always very briefly. They had always preferred meeting in public venues anyway, until Crowley had decided that Aziraphale’s bookshop definitely counted as one and had taken the habit of dropping by for the occasional drink. 

The invitation had slipped out of Crowley’s mouth easily, unthinkingly, while they were waiting for the bus. And, honestly, how could he not offer hospitality in such circumstances? All of the angel’s earthly possessions, including his very house, had gone up in flames. What was Crowley supposed to do, let him go to a random public bathroom, lock himself into a cubicle and miracle the inside of it into Croesus’ mansion? Seriously. Just because he was a demon, it didn’t mean he was utterly uncivil. Still, Aziraphale had taken up on Crowley’s suggestion with less hesitation that he’d expected. At that point, all Crowley could do was hoping that Hell hadn’t sent reinforcements after Hastur and Ligur’s failed attempt at ‘collecting’ him, and an apartment to invite Aziraphale into still existed in the first place... Oh, well. Worst case scenario, they’d hijack two cubicles.

“How long do you think we have,” Aziraphale said quietly, interrupting the disorganized flow of Crowley’s thoughts, “before they’ll decide to come after us?”

“Heaven and Hell, you mean?” Crowley answered slowly, syllables sticking to his tongue. “I don’t know, a while. I bet they have some serious internal mess to deal with first. Disappointed warmongers and whatnot. Bigger priorities than us.”

“But they will sort that out eventually.” Aziraphale stretched his arm towards Crowley, hand open in a muted request for the bottle. “And then what? I doubt they’ll leave any rogue agents be.”

“....Eh. They might, you know? The kid- whoops.” Crowley let go of the bottle when he felt Aziraphale’s fingers brush his own, but the glass slipped from both their grasps. Aziraphale blinked, and the bottle froze in midair a few centimetres above the floor. He calmly bent down to fetch it as Crowley continued. “The kid told us not to worry.”

“But do you think he has the power to grant us protection from both Reigns?”

Crowley shrugged. “He’s the boss’ son. And he just stopped the bloody apocalypse, if you haven’t noticed. He has power, all right. That’s good enough insurance for me.”

Aziraphale hummed pensively, his gaze lost out of the window. Crowley watched him take a measured sip, and then clean distractly the neck of the bottle with a handkerchief. His movements were quiet, harmonious, steady. Everything about Aziraphale was, and always had been. Crowley’s whole, brilliant temptation plan was centered on the expectation that sins would change his angelic nature, that they would change him. Instead, what had happened was the exact opposite. As the decades and centuries went by, as their meetings grew less and less ‘business’ oriented and turned into genuine divertissement, Aziraphale wasn’t changed by the sins: the sins were changed by him. A tasty nibble of food wasn’t a temptation any more, but a moment of genuine appreciation for the little, blessed pleasures God still allowed mortals to experience. His elegantly-worded notions about the order of the universe ceased to be a prideful display of superiority, and instead became an engaging debate capable of building dialogue between spiritual opposites. His love for books wasn’t a selfish desire of accumulation for accumulation’s sake, but an intellectual connection to the history and minds of the humans he was meant to protect, from all times and cultures. His acceptance to share duties with a demon wasn’t sheer laziness, but a very tangible olive branch offered to a former sworn enemy. Deeds that would have tarnished any human soul, made it revolting and beyond repair, hadn’t even dented the core of Aziraphale’s goodness. If anything, they had enriched it: like the light patina of a vintage Bentley, those sins adorned Aziraphale’s very soul like unique and distinguishing traits, all the more intriguing to a discerning eye.

And the most baffling thing was that Crowley hadn’t even noticed. He hadn’t noticed that his plan, ostensibly always in motion and always waiting, waiting, waiting for the next occasion to move further, was gradually being shoved into the most forgetful corners of his mind. He hadn’t noticed he’d stopped plotting against his enemy, and had instead started just coexisting with him. It had taken him so goddamn long to notice he’d stopped considering Aziraphale as an inconvenient obstacle to be removed from the world Crowley was meant to submit, but that the angel had rather become one of its most interesting and worthwhile features.

It had taken him until the end of the world to realize that.

As it turned out, Crowley’s flat hadn’t been obliterated by the forces of Hell. Yet.

“Make yourself at home.” Crowley said as he jogged from room to room to make sure there were no former colleagues of his lying in wait anywhere.

“This is where you live?” Aziraphale asked, peeking curiously from the entryway. Crowley interrupted his inspection just to make a face.

“Oh no, I’m just appropriating the humble abode of a millionaire manager perished in the latest fish tornado. He won’t need it anymore, will he?” Aziraphale gave him a dubious glance. Crowley rolled his eyes. “Yes, this is where I live. What kind of question is that, why wouldn’t it be?”

“Oh, you know, just wondering.” Aziraphale answered, visibly relieved. “I wasn’t really expecting your home to look like this.”

“And why not?”

“Well, it’s… rather neat and minimalistic.” Aziraphale hesitated. “It almost reminds me of the Upper Offices. Although it is quite darker, I suppose.”

Crowley stared at Aziraphale pointedly. Deafening silence was the only appropriate reply to such a statement, so he let it stretch leisurely until Aziraphale couldn’t help but look away.

“Are you going to come in anytime soon or…?” Crowley eventually said, gesturing around vaguely.

“Yes. Thank you.” The angel finally unstuck from the threshold and followed Crowley into the study. “I really appreciate your hospitality, by the way. I’ll be out of your hair by tomorrow, I’m sure it won’t be hard to find a nice spot for me to move in.”

“Oh, no rush. I barely use this place.” Crowley waved at him dismissively, his attention suddenly caught by the ansaphone. It wasn’t blinking exactly as he had left it. It definitely should be blinking exactly as he had left it. “Uh, right, the bedroom’s over there. If you don’t feel like sleeping, there’s the…” There was the tv, which Aziraphale hardly ever watched. There was the computer, which surely he didn’t even know how to plug in. There was the hi-fi, boasting an impressive collection of contemporary artists 95% of which the angel probably had never heard of. It suddenly occurred to Crowley that Aziraphale wasn’t the easiest guest to entertain.

“You don’t happen to have any books lying around, I suppose.”

Crowley shrugged. “‘Fraid not. But there’s some food in the fridge, if you want.” He offered lamely.

“Oh. Thank you, but I think I’ll be catching some sleep tonight as well.” Aziraphale smiled sheepishly. “I haven’t had a day as intense as this one in a long while. It takes a toll on you even when you’re indefatigable.”

“You’re telling me.” Crowley mumbled, watching Aziraphale head off into the corridor. He waited until his guest was reasonably far from the study before checking the new recorded message. He regretted it very quickly.

“What’s that?” Aziraphale inquired loudly, when the unmistakable noise of demonic torment and horrified screams erupted from the speakers. Crowley hurried to silence it with some chaotic button-mashing and removed the cassette from the machine. A single, fat worm fell from the tape. 

“Ugh.” Crowley grimaced, shoving the whole device into the trash can. All right, his mistake. He should have dealt with Hastur when he had the chance. But then again, what was one more demon free out there wanting him dead when he had already earned the eternal grudge of both Heaven and Hell? “Nothing. Nothing to be worried about.”

“That definitely sounded like something to be worried about.” Aziraphale insisted, rather alarmed. 

“Nah, just prank calls. I really need to find out who invented them and offer them a drink, now that’s some first-calls deviousness-” Crowley hurried to the bedroom before Aziraphale could decide to investigate the matter personally, and stopped abruptly when he saw the angel sitting innocently on his bed. “Uh. That’s my bed.” He felt it was important to state that fact aloud.

“Yes, I gathered. Excellent mattress, I must say.” Aziraphale replied genially, until Crowley’s silence prompted him to stand up hastily. “Oh, sorry, you pointed me to the bedroom and I thought you meant I could…?”

“No! I meant that you could make yourself a bed and get settled!”

“Oh! I’m terribly sorry, I just thought…” Aziraphale paused, looking at the object of the argument confusedly. “It’s a very large bed though. It looks like four people could sleep comfortably on it, so I thought-”

“I roll around a lot when I sleep, all right?” Crowley retorted with anger, with tangible and very obvious anger, and with absolutely no embarrassment whatsoever. “Look, just- miracle yourself some furniture, here or wherever you want, or sleep on the sofa, or anywhere that isn’t my bed.”

“All right, all right!” Aziraphale frowned and raised his hands defensively. “I’ll take the sofa then.”

Crowley collapsed face-first on his reconquered berth as soon as Aziraphale left the room, his sunglasses conveniently teleporting to the bedside table before they could bore into his skull. He felt positively destroyed. He’d give anything for another century-long nap, he hadn’t had one of those in a while. But it would be rather imprudent in the current circumstances. He’d have to make do with a dozen hours. He closed his eyes and exhaled deeply, welcoming that exquisitely human sense of physical relaxation that came with dozing off. He let the beginnings of sleep dull his senses and his mind, sweetly and mercifully-

“My, such luxuriant foliage…” 

Crowley’s eyes snapped open. “NO!” He bellowed, hurling himself off the bed and into the corridor with barely enough coordination not to trip on his own feet. “Stop it! Shut up!”

“What-” Aziraphale startled as Crowley suddenly appeared before him, arms spread in a clear effort to physically separate him from the potted greenery. “W-What’s going on?”

“Nothing. Leave the plants alone. Don’t look at them. And above all don’t talk to them.” Crowley ordered as he grasped the angel’s shoulders and steered him bodily out of the room.

“But why? I was just admiring the-”

“There’s nothing to admire here. Everyone’s just doing what they’re supposed to do.”

“But-”

“My house, my rules. The plants are off-limits.” Crowley snapped his fingers and two robust metallic doors materialized out of thin air to seal the area from the rest of the house. Crowley shoved Aziraphale past them, while he lingered on the threshold just long enough to glare at every single plant in the room.

“Don’t forget whose opinion really matters here, guys.” He hissed, his teeth bared. His warning was met with a collective, deferential shudder. 

“...Crowley, are you all right?” Aziraphale asked, eyeing him worriedly. Crowley looked at him like a naked Bedouin sitting on a glacier in the Arctic might look at someone asking him if he’s cold. The doors locked with an audible clang.

“...Yeah, I’m just peachy.” He eventually muttered, rubbing his eyes and heading back to the bedroom. He lay down again and closed his eyes, enjoying a grand total of ten second of peace before Aziraphale’s footsteps reached the room. Crowley sighed. “...What?”

“Actually, I think I would like to sleep here, if it’s all right with you.”

“Do whatever you want.”

“Are you sure you don’t mind-”

“What do you think ‘do whatever you want’ means, Aziraphale?”

“I’m guessing it means that I have free reign over any part of your house that doesn’t include your bed or your plants.” 

Aziraphale’s miffed tone got the tiniest smile out of him. “Yep, you got it. See? Wasn’t difficult.”

Crowley felt reality shift around him. Curiosity got the better of him, and he peeked to the side. The bedroom had conveniently enlarged just enough so that Aziraphale’s newly created bed could fit. It was a small, single one, all wood and fin de siecle linens and puffy pillows and creamy tones. It clashed with the existing decor something terrible, but Crowley barely took notice. He was more concerned with its owner, sitting somewhat rigidly on it and glancing around the room nervously. Suddenly Crowley understood why he’d chosen to sleep there.

“Relax, angel. No one will be coming after us.” Crowley couldn’t help but offer, lowly. “Not tonight, at least.”

Their eyes met. After a beat, Aziraphale nodded. “Yes. You are probably right.”

Aziraphale was still sitting up when Crowley closed his eyes. He hoped that the other could catch some rest, but he wouldn’t mind too much if he didn’t. Even a demon could use a guardian angel to watch over his sleep, after all.

Aziraphale did sleep that night, for a good two hours and a half. It may not sound like a lot, but considering that he hadn’t rested since that quick twenty-minute nap in 1732, it felt immensely refreshing anyway. Upon rising, he had to admit that creating his own bed had proven to be a wise choice: in his sleep, Crowley had somehow managed to scatter his considerably long limbs all over the mattress, effectively covering a flat surface that must be at least three times as large as that of his own body. Admittedly he looked quite endearing, arms and legs making a decent impression of a windrose and snoring away with his mouth open.

Aziraphale spent the rest of the night keeping himself quietly busy. He checked all the news from the radio and the tv, from which he gathered that Adam was mending reality with impressive speed and ease, considering how suddenly his powers had bloomed. It was truly a blessing that the boy was far more mature than anyone had credited him for. To think that Aziraphale himself had seriously entertained the notion of eliminating him… No, that guilt wasn’t going to leave him anytime soon.

The angel then proceeded to tidy up what little there was to tidy up in Crowley’s apartment. Some spilt water here and there, and a ragged, dark set of clothes oddly abandoned on the threshold of the study. They didn’t look like the type of get-up Crowley would choose for himself, and it certainly wasn’t one Aziraphale had ever seen him wear, but then again the demon had a thing for experimenting with mortal fashion. Aziraphale also repeatedly wrestled with the impulse to take another look at Crowley’s plants, entirely because of his exceedingly suspicious behavior. He didn’t do it, though. That would have been extremely impolite, almost traitorous. Utterly unworthy of his status. Although- no. No, he wouldn’t.

He even managed to find a few books, tucked away under the sofa or on top of unreachable shelves. They were atlases, maps, photography magazines, all focussed on naturalistic topics: pictures of panoramas from all over the world, animals, plants, even remote stars and galaxies. Aziraphale wasn’t an especially avid consumer of such publications: he vastly preferred both the written word and man-made illustrations, which did a much better job of conveying the divine spark of creativity God had blessed humanity with. However, as he was leafing through those pages and seeing ruins of cities he had inhabited, cute yet clumsy species he had discreetly saved from extinction, masses of gas and dust he had shaped into celestial bodies, he couldn’t help but slip into a lengthy bout of nostalgia for the halcyon days of creation. He wouldn’t be surprised if Crowley kept those books around for the same reason.

When he heard some muffled noises coming from the bedroom, Aziraphale decided to make breakfast. His noble endeavor, however, was thwarted by the complete lack of any sort of raw or packed ingredient in any cupboard of the house; the fridge, instead, offered a vast selection of gourmet brioches, fruit juices, bacon and eggs, pancakes and all sorts of scrumptious dishes that looked as if they had been cooked mere minutes earlier. Well, it would be a waste not to partake, he deliberated. He’d just finished setting the table when Crowley finally joined him with a half-yawned “‘Morning.”

It was a most refreshing and welcome change of pace, being able to chat of everything and nothing over a hearty meal again, instead of covertly panicking over the very real possibility of Doomsday disrupting the next weekend, as well as all the others that would never follow. The last week had been exhausting for the both of them - especially for Crowley. For all his trademark devil-may-care attitude, it was really quite easy to notice when the demon was genuinely distressed: from his eyes, thin slits of darkness in a pool of gold that Aziraphale could always see through the glasses and that darted left and right more quickly than usual, to his gestures, that lost their swaying languor in favor of nervous, reptilian jerks, to the sudden explosions of anger and aggression that were just as dangerous as the roar of a kitten. All of that was gone now. His cutting temper was still dulled by the lingering drowsiness, and soft, unguarded smiles curved his lips in response to Aziraphale’s casual chatter. The ruffled hair, the creased clothes and the lazy nibbles at his brioche spoke of the unhurried comfort that came after overcoming a trying ordeal, and they filled the angel’s heart with genuine tenderness. There were, truly, beauty and goodness in all the things and entities that existed, even in those who supposedly tried their hardest to antagonize them.

“Oh, you may want to take those to the cleaners.” Aziraphale pointed at the folded rags he’d put on the sofa, once he was finished with his breakfast. “What ever did you do to those poor clothes to ruin them like that?”

“Ugh, throw them away.” Crowley replied with a disgusted grunt. “That’s Ligur.”

“I see.” Aziraphale said, having never heard of the brand. He agreed that the quality of the tailoring was rather shabby, so he did as he was told. “Well, I was thinking of dropping by the bookshop this morning - or what’s left of it, anyway. Who knows, there may be some intact books among the rubble…”

“Mmmh. I guess there’s no harm in checking.” Crowley didn’t look terribly convinced. “Mind if I come along?”

“Oh, not at all.” Aziraphale replied, pleasantly surprised. “But don’t you have more urgent things to do, instead of helping me carry around charred tomes?”

“Right now, not at all. I’m pretty sure I’ve been fired, so I happen to have a lot of free time on my hands.” Crowley snapped his fingers, and in a blink he was as elegant and well-groomed as ever. 

“You aren’t going to keep performing your duties then? No more tempting innocent souls or spreading negative influence?” Aziraphale inquired as they stepped into the lift.

“Are you? Even if your boss doesn’t care?”

“Why, of course. Being a harbinger of the light is the very reason of my existence! It’s more than a job, it’s my very nature!”

“Aren’t you a model employee?” Crowley deadpanned. “Well, first and foremost, I think I’ve earned myself a vacation. Now, that isn’t to say that I’m going to pass up on any opportunities to have some fun if the occasion arises...”

“Of course you aren’t.” Aziraphale smiled, stepping out of the building. “Shall we take a taxi or- Crowley?” Crowley had abruptly stopped in his tracks, staring at something in the parking area- 

“Oh!” Aziraphale eloquently commented.

Crowley jogged to what was, without a doubt, his car. Not the scorched ball of molten metal and rubber he’d been forced to abandon at Tadfield Airbase, but his cherished Bentley in all its former glory and vintage elegance. The demon stared at it in evident disbelief, his brows so high that they almost disappeared into his hairline, his mouth shaped into a perfectly round O. He admired it, ran his palm along the chassis, hopped all around to inspect it from every possible angle - including under the bumper and over the roof.

“Did you do this?” He eventually managed, his gaze bouncing back and forth between the car and the angel.

“No, it wasn’t me. But I’ve heard that yesterday’s disasters are being reverted. Maybe this is part of it.” Aziraphale suggested as Crowley opened the door and basically dove head-first into the car.

“It’s exactly as it used to be! Custom leather seats and all! Even my CDs-” Crowley took one from the dashboard, one whose cover was a wordless black void with a glass prism refracting white light into a rainbow. He inserted it into the radio and a cheery band started to sing very enthusiastically about riding a bicycle. Crowley’s exhilarated mood seemed to dampen ever so slightly. “...Yep. Just as they used to be.”

“It looks like Adam knows what he’s doing.” Aziraphale smiled, knowing how much that little miracle meant for his friend. Then, a thought struck him. “Maybe…”

“...Maybe.” Crowley agreed, understanding him at a glance. “Hop in. Let’s go and see.”

Aziraphale’s empathetic joy waned very quickly when it was obvious that Crowley’s driving style wasn’t at all affected by the recent demise of his old vehicle.

“Out of curiosity, how did the fire start?” The angel asked, trying to think of anything but the absurd number on the speed gauge.

“I was about to ask you the same thing. Serves you right for quitting on me as you did though. Seriously, did you really have to pick the busiest day in the last six thousand years to leave this plane of existence? Where did you even go?”

“To Heaven, of course. And I didn’t exactly choose to leave, if you must know. I was… summoned.”

“Oh, you don’t say?” Crowley sneered. “Well, guess what? My lot summoned me too, but I ignored them because I had more important stuff to do, namely saving the bloody universe-”

“Also because they would have welcomed you less than enthusiastically, I imagine-”

“On my own, because someone ditched me without one word of warning-”

“That’s not what happened at all! It was… an unfortunate accident.” Aziraphale burst out, halfway between affronted and embarrassed. 

“What kind of accident?” Crowley frowned inquisitively when Aziraphale didn’t reply. “Oi! What kind of accident?”

“...Promise me you won’t laugh.” Aziraphale begged. Crowley merely raised an eyebrow in response. The angel sighed. “Well, the thing is… I was in my bookshop, and I opened a channel to Heaven, to see if I could… talk them out of the whole universal annihilation thing-”

“Talking people out of war. Yeah, solid plan. When has it ever not worked in the history of wars?”

“It made sense to try, at least. Anyway, Shadwell walked in-”

“What the heaven was Shadwell doing in your bookshop?”

“I don’t know- could you please stop interrupting me? As I was saying, Shadwell saw the ritual and… I fear he mistook me for one of your lot. He got rather worked up and…”

“He killed you?” Crowley guessed, genuinely impressed.

“Oh no, no! He just… started pacing here and there, muttering strange things, and… well, he got a tad too close to the summoning circle - the passage was still open, you see, and…”

“And?”

“I sort of… stepped on it. While I was trying to keep him away.” Aziraphale paused. “By accident.”

Crowley didn’t reply. He looked at Aziraphale, then back at the road, then at the angel again. His mouth twitched.

“Don’t.” Aziraphale warned him. Crowley’s face had already become a quivering mess of aborted expressions that devolved very quickly into hysterical half-snorts.

“Oh sure, go ahead and- don’t take your hands off the wheel!” Aziraphale squealed when the demon did exactly that, holding his sides and throwing back his head as he burst into a boisterous laugh. Luckily, the car seemed to be endowed with all the common sense Crowley had never had and it kept avoiding pedestrians autonomously.

“That’s so stupid.” Crowley gasped, making a show of wiping away a non-existent tear. “That’s so bloody stupid. How can anyone possibly be so stupid?”

“Oh, I don’t know. In the same way one can misplace an Antichrist for eleven years, I suppose.” Aziraphale’s jab sadly didn’t manage to penetrate the waves of hilarity Crowley was exuding. “Judging by Shadwell’s behavior, he must have presumed my disappearance was due to his own… peculiar powers.”

“Oh, is that what he’s been doing with his finger all day yesterday?”

“Well, yes. What did you think he was doing?”

“I don’t know! I thought you had tried to possess him and fried a bunch of his neurons… And it’s not like he had that many to begin with-”

“Now you’re just being needlessly nasty.”

Crowley shook his head, still giggling like a child as he put his hands back on the steering wheel, just in time to park the car as they reached their destination.

“Huh.” He simply said as he climbed out of the car, studying the building as if he’d never seen it before. 

“Ah, bless that boy!” Aziraphale glowed as he excitedly walked back and forth along the front of the bookshop. A rapid survey of the inside as well confirmed that his earthly abode was just as he’d left it, books and all. Actually, there seemed to be a few extras too.

“Ohoh, this is the kind of reading I could be convinced to try.” Crowley grinned, leafing through the flashy illustrations of one ‘Blood Dogs of the Skull Sea’. “Look at this beast! This stuff is inspirational! It makes you wonder why the hellhound didn’t turn into one of these beauties.”

Aziraphale didn’t reply. Yes, everything looked just as it did before, but… “Something’s off.”

Crowley glanced around the shelves in surprise. “Really? Is anything missing?”

“No, no. The place is fine… physically. But there’s a strange feeling in the air.”

Crowley groaned and rolled his eyes. “Are you going to start gushing about ethereal flashes of love again? I thought London was impervious to those.”

“It’s not love.” Aziraphale frowned, trying to focus on the odd sensation. It was different from what he’d felt in Tadfield: Adam’s love for his hometown was a deep-rooted, all-encompassing and aged feeling, a quiet yet powerful acknowledgement, indissolubly weaved into the very matter that composed its streets, its woods, its soil. What the angel was perceiving in his bookshop was more akin to an explosion - sudden and short-lived, yet extremely intense. “I think it’s the opposite of that.”

“Ooooh, you mean spooky? Nice. I love spooky. Still can’t feel anything though.”

“It’s… anger, I think. Rage. And…” Aziraphale paused. The sensation glimpsed in and out of his head swiftly, as if it was moving, pacing, speeding around the place almost like a physical entity, phasing through him and leaving a trail of suffocating heat-

BASTAAAAAARDS!

Aziraphale forgot to breathe. For the following seven minutes, approximately. It happened relatively often, for the most varied reasons. The most surprising thing was that this time it made his chest hurt. “...Grief.”

Crowley stood perfectly still. Very slowly, his features relaxed into what would have looked, to anybody else, like a perfectly natural neutral expression. He gazed around the shop and strolled away from Aziraphale to look out of the nearest window with equally studied nonchalance.

“Must have been one of your neighbours. It was a pretty big fire.” He said, his back turned to Aziraphale. “You know, mothers forgetting babies inside flaming buildings and all that.”

ALL OF YOU!

Aziraphale’s heart thrummed in sympathy with that whirlwind of emotion. By sheer force of habit, he blessed that painful feeling and the creature that had generated it, for nobly bearing the sacrifices that God’s plan required. Considering that Crowley didn’t instantly turn into a screaming, bubbling puddle of goo, Aziraphale guessed that God, in Her infinite wisdom, must have refused to validate that particular blessing, and he sent Her his heartfelt thanks for that as well. Aziraphale let the silence stretch for a while, quietly contemplating that powerful echo. Even when Crowley finally turned to face him, his expression still blank and his hands casually tucked in his pockets, neither of them spoke. It occurred to Aziraphale that his intent staring may have been interpreted as some sort of challenge only when the demon admitted defeat, sighing in annoyance and pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Look, what do you want me to say? Mh?” Crowley asked, spreading his arms. “What do you want me to say that you don’t already know?”

It was a fair point. It was also (it being Crowley’s ruffled demeanour, his flat tone, his casual evasion) so strikingly familiar and typical that it warmed Aziraphale’s heart enough to finally distract him from the lingering negativity of the ambiance.

“...Would you like some hot cocoa?” The angel offered with a kind smile.

“Far from me to twist the knife into what you undoubtedly consider a major flaw in your character,” Aziraphale said as he slid in front of Crowley a steaming cup of chocolate that the demon hadn’t exactly accepted, but that he hadn’t exactly refused either, “but why were you upset so deeply? It’s not like I’ve never been discorporated before.”

“‘It’s not like I’ve never been discorporated before.’” Crowley parroted him, without acknowledging the existence of the beverage. “I swear you say the most idiotic things sometimes.”

“Well, I’m just a tad confused about your reaction, is all-”

“Why would I care about you being discorporated?!” Crowley burst out. “I thought you’d been destroyed! You try to call me - urgently - and I can’t answer, I try to call you and you don’t answer, and then I arrive here and you’re nowhere to be found and everything’s on fire - on fire! The one thing that can damage you! What was I supposed to think?”

“But… You thought it was hellfire?” Aziraphale asked, confusedly. “Why would there be hellfire in my bookshop?”

“Oh, I don’t know. It may have had something to do with the fact that I myself had almost been murdered a scant ten minutes before-”

“You were what?!” Aziraphale gasped, aghast, his own cup freezing halfway towards his mouth.

“Yeah. That was probably it, now that I think about it.” Crowley snarled, tapping his fingers on the table. “You became unreachable five minutes after I received a visit from a couple of pissed-off demons trying to ‘collect’ me. I thought that Hell had decided to settle the score with you as well, while they were at it.”

“My dear boy, I had no idea…” Aziraphale trailed off. He gasped again when the gravity of the situation sank in fully. “Heavens, you said almost murdered?! Oh no… No, this won’t do…”

“Oh, well… Maybe ‘almost murdered’ was laying it on a bit thick.” Crowley admitted, his temper finally subsiding. “They were pretty pissed off, but they didn’t even get close to the murdering part.”

“Thank God for that. But how did you manage to escape from them?”

“Oh. Remember that thermos of holy water you gave me fifty years ago?” A malicious smile spread on the demon’s face. “Good insurance indeed.”

“..Are you trying to tell me that-”

“Oh yes.” 

“You’ve smitten two demons?!” Aziraphale gaped.

“One, actually. The other one managed to escape, but I’d say I was rather-”

“I’ve never smitten a demon!” Aziraphale added, suddenly facing a minuscule existential crisis. “And that’s supposed to be my job!”

“Really? How odd.” The only demon Aziraphale had interacted with in the last six thousand years replied. Still, the angel was too caught up in his own thoughts to pay any attention to sarcasm.

“Do you have any holy water left?”

“Uh, no, I’ve used it all up-”

“Then you’ll need some more. Lots more. It could save your skin if Hell decided to strike again.” Aziraphale stood up and headed towards the kitchen. “Here, give me a moment-”

“Hey, hey, calm down, I don’t need it right this second!” Crowley stammered, pointing at the other’s abandoned cup. “We can worry about that later, your cocoa is going cold-”

“It’s no matter, I need just two minutes-”

Exactly two minutes and seventeen seconds later, Aziraphale handed to a mildly astonished Crowley the biggest and sturdiest piece of tupperware he owned, filled to the brim with the precious liquid.

“Did you just make all this?”

“Well, yes. Blessing tap water isn’t exactly a lengthy or complicated process.”

“You can make literal gallons of holy water in two minutes, and it took you a hundred years to decide to give me two cups’ worth of it last time?!” The demon complained, without moving to grasp the container. “How very generous of you!”

“I didn’t know what you were planning to do with it! I was concerned!”

“Of what?!”

“That you might… mishandle it and get hurt! You wouldn’t give your sharpest kitchen knife to a five-year-old child just because he asked for it, would you?”

“I would. Anyway that’s a very unflattering comparison and I resent it.”

“Well, yes, here’s more holy water than you’ll ever need, hopefully.” Aziraphale impatiently held out the pitcher towards Crowley’s chest, who positively jumped back holding his arms out defensively.

“Wait wait wait wait! Your cuff is wet! Have you even dried your hands? Are you trying to kill me?”

“What- That’s just normal water! I blessed the one in the container after sealing it! Do you really think I’m that outrageously clumsy?”

“Considering that you’ve discorporated yourself through sheer clumsiness just the other day, yeah, kind of.”

“Oh, for Heaven’s- look, if you want it, it’s here. If not, do whatever you want.” Aziraphale put down the plastic carafe on the table primly, and then he finally set down to sip his cocoa. Crowley eyed the container from every possible angle, clearly expecting to find some traitorous droplet rolling down its sides, then he poked the lid gingerly.

“I don’t trust this thing not to burst open by accident before I can put it somewhere safer. Got any tape?”

Aziraphale fetched some packing tape from the cupboard and handed it to Crowley. He stood beside him, watching him secure the lid meticulously for a couple of minutes. Now that the idle bickering wasn’t distracting him any more, Aziraphale found his own soul attuning again with the background thrumming of the demon’s past anguish. It felt only natural for Aziraphale to squeeze the other’s shoulder warmly.

“You know, I’m very proud of you.”

“...Uh?” Crowley squinted at him as if the angel had just sprouted a second head. That is to say, not as if he’d done something utterly impossible, but merely something very random for no reason whatsoever.

“For showing up at Tadfield, even after all this. You were hunted down by your own brethren, you suffered a painful loss, and yet you reined in your wrath and braced your sorrow and still found the will to fight for this world. It was very brave, and selfless.”

“Uhm.” Crowley answered, with a strange dumbfounded look that instantly raised a few doubts in Aziraphale’s mind.

“That’s… that’s what you did, isn’t it?”

“Uuuuuuuuuuh- Yeah. Yeah, yeah, of course.” Crowley floundered with the elegance of a beached whale. “That’s what I did… eventually- which is to say- yeah-”

“‘Eventually’? What do you mean, ‘eventually’?”

“I mean- not right away, I needed a moment to... You know, my human operatives never managed to locate the Antichrist, so I was… kind of lost as to what I should have been doing in that moment-”

“What did you do?”

“And even if I had known where to go, what were the odds of me, all alone, averting the apocalypse? Realistically speaking-”

“What did you do, Crowley?”

“Well, since you were no more, and the Earth was going to be no more very soon regardless of what I did, I thought… you know, I may as well enjoy one last bottle of scotch in that old-fashioned pub in Hollen Street-”

“...Good Lord.” Aziraphale covered his eyes with his hand, his tone falling as flat as his expectations. “You were going to get hopelessly drunk and do nothing whatsoever about Armageddon, weren’t you?”

“Hey, don’t you dare use that tone with me! Not when I was the one who had to convince you to do anything in the first place! You were merrily going to let the sea bubble and all the creatures, great and small, be vaporized in a blaze of divine glory, remember?”

“For an entirely different reason! I was simply trying my best to follow God’s plan! You never cared a trifle about that! You only ever cared about your earthly pleasures - such as getting drunk while the whole world goes up in flames, apparently-”

“Look, what was I supposed to do?! I didn’t even know where to go! If it wasn’t for your book-”

”My book? What book?”

“Well, not your book, the American lady’s book. Agnes Nutter’s Something Something Prophecies.” Crowley resumed plastering tape all over the already foolproof lid. “I found it here while I was looking for you and I took it, because why not? And then I was leafing through it at the pub and I found your notes about Adam and the airbase and- and then this strange thing happened, you know? I opened the book on a completely random page and the very first prophecy I read was… I don’t remember how it went exactly, but it was… obviously aimed at me. In a very specific way. And it said that my ethereal companion hadn’t vanished, but I’d meet him again at the place of the final confrontation, or something like that, and I’d just read on your notes that everything written on the book is invariably true, and I thought…’Oh.’”

“Oh.” Aziraphale echoed.

“Yeah.”

While Crowley’s peculiar tale depicted a somewhat less virtuous attitude towards pain and unfavourable odds than what he’d first envisioned, Aziraphale had to admit that there was something undeniably noble in the idea of the demon abandoning his drunken stupor and speeding across the country on a flaming car the moment a few key indications and the promise of reuniting with his best friend reignited his hope. There was something undeniably touching about it on a very personal level too.

“Well... I suppose I can’t- that’s enough tape, don’t you think?” Aziraphale said gesturing at the carafe, which was by now mummified under layers of ugly brown tape.

“Uh. Right.” Crowley blinked at the container as if he’d just become aware of its existence before sitting down to finally take a sip of his own cocoa. As he sat back as well, Aziraphale took care of heating the beverage up to a pleasant temperature with a thought before it reached the demon’s lips.

“I was saying, I suppose I can’t blame you for taking a moment to… gather your thoughts, so to speak. I must confess that I myself haven’t acted quite as promptly as I could have in the last days.”

“Oh. Really?”

“Yes. Admittedly, by the time I called you, I’d been aware of the Antichrist’s whereabouts for… a little bit.”

“Yeah?” Crowley frowned. “How little, exactly?”

“Oh, roughly… twelve hours, I think.”

“Twelve hours?!” Crowley sputtered. “We could have got to Tadfield twelve hours earlier?! Do you have any idea how much trouble we’d have spared ourselves with a twelve-hour advance?”

“Well-”

“I wouldn’t have had to drive my car through a bloody wall of fire, for one!” Crowley threw his hands in the air in exasperation. “What have you even been doing in all that time?”

“I was… considering the situation. You’ll admit I was in a rather delicate position, and I felt that I had to choose my actions carefully.” Aziraphale argued. “Eventually I decided to tell you, and the upper offices as well. It seemed like a good way to help our cause without, you know, openly obstructing Heaven’s plans.”

“And?”

“And what?”

“What else did you decide?”

“Nothing. That was what I came up with, and so I-”

“And it took you twelve hours to decide that?” Crowley groaned, covering his face. “Quick thinking really isn’t your thing, is it?”

“Well, there’s no reason to dwell on recriminations.” Aziraphale stated briskly. “Everything turned out just fine, in the end.”

“If by ‘fine’ you mean that ten million demons’ and ten million angels’ best laid plans and efforts went completely into smoke for no purpose other than postponing the inevitable battle for another… I don’t know, one or two thousand years - then sure, everything’s just dandy.” Crowley muttered to his cocoa. “Do you seriously believe this was all God’s plan? All of this for nothing? What’s the bloody point?”

“You know I can’t answer that question. But I wouldn’t say this was all for nothing. From my very limited and imperfect perspective, for example, I can clearly see at least two creatures who have ultimately benefited from this whole Apocalypse ordeal. But I’m sure there must be many, many more.”

“And those would be?”

“Adam, for one. Armageddon truly brought out the best in him. Didn’t you hear him talk with the Horsepeople? His words were so humble and simple, yet such an inspiring embodiment of all virtues! Prudence and temperance above all, and then justice and courage-”

“Yeah, yeah, just wait until he reaches puberty and then we’ll see where all those virtues will go.”

“Still, you have to admit that, for someone who’s supposed to be the literal spawn of Evil, his spirit is remarkably untainted. I’m sure he wouldn’t have turned out like this without going through the process of human life, or if he had come into existence among demons in the depths of Hell. Maybe this was all this proto-Armageddon was about: offering a chance of redemption to what would have otherwise been unredeemable spirits.”

“Mmmh.” Crowley crossed his arms with evident skepticism. “And who’s the other one?”

“Why you, of course.” Aziraphale couldn’t hold back a smile at Crowley’s stunned silence.

“...Sorry, what?”

“Isn’t it obvious? As I said, during the past week you have displayed an admirably selfless side-”

“Watch it, angel.” Crowley muttered. “Keep casting aspersions on me and no miracle will be able to fix what I’ll do to your collection of Bibles.”

“Oh, don’t be a child about it. It’s perfectly understandable, considering how much time you spent around me. I am a Principality, after all-”

“Excuse me. I must have misheard.” Crowley raised his finger, then he leaned towards Aziraphale across the table with a malevolent squint. “Are you by any chance telling me that you’ve been trying to inspire goodness in me?”

“Maybe.” Aziraphale gave him an apologetic smile. “I didn’t hold much hope to succeed, but I’ll admit I was rather curious. A few good deeds now and then, less evil ones performed in person, after yours truly accepted to carry them out for you… I wonder if all that could tip the moral scales at least a little bit, so to speak.” Aziraphale let out a small laugh in response to Crowley’s stunned silence. “What? Haven’t you been trying to do the same since we met?”

Crowley’s eyebrows raised so much that they almost disappeared into his hairline, and he opened and closed his mouth soundlessly like a fish gasping for air before he managed to put together a reply. “I- You- you knew?”

“Of course I knew! Why else would a demon associate so freely with a sworn enemy?”

“But- then- why did you keep seeing me?!”

“Because there was no way you’d succeed, obviously. An angel being corrupted, in this day and age! And me, of all people! No offense, but the mere idea is laughable.”

“It’s no more laughable than a demon being redeemed!”

“I disagree on that. Demons used to be angels, after all. Evil is an acquired trait for your lot, and who’s to say your innate core of Goodness isn’t still there, ready to be unburied?”

“No. No no no, all right, this is much more than ridiculous. This is blasphemous. You thought you could pave the road to the redemption of someone who’s been irrevocably deemed unforgivable? You thought you could single-handedly overturn a sentence of eternal damnation issued by the Almighty Herself? You thought you knew better than God?” Crowley spread his arms in outrage. “And they said Lucifer had too high an opinion of himself!”

“I never said that God was wrong.” Aziraphale raised his hands defensively. “Your punishment was amply deserved. But that happened thousands of years ago. Some things have changed. Some demons may have changed too. And God has always been way more forgiving than your lot credited Her for.”

“You are out of your mind.”

“But… Oh, you must see my point! Think of the lives you saved- think of the whole world you saved!”

“Literally none of that was done out of goodwill. Especially not for the humans. I just like what they’ve done with the place, therefore I want it to keep existing. For myself. It’s entirely selfish. End of the story.”

“And,” Aziraphale pressed on, leaning towards Crowley as well, “you rebelled!”

“Uh… Yeah. Yeah, I did. That’s what I’m saying, it isn’t the kind of thing God just gets over with-” 

“No, I don’t mean against God! You rebelled against Satan! If you had reported to Hell about the baby swapping as soon as you learnt of it, they still could have found a solution- tailing the hound, for example. But you did not! You sabotaged them, you went as far as to fight other demons-!

“Out of self presevation! No one in their right mind would keep working for someone who’s just going to slaughter them at the end of the job! I was doing anything I could think of doing to save my skin! You know, selfishly! How are you struggling to grasp this basic concept so much?!”

“And then you fought Satan himself!” Aziraphale proclaimed, undeterred by the growing heat of Crowley’s answers. “You did not run, you did not turn sides-”

“As if you could just run from the boss. And fighting is a bit of a strong word, isn’t it? The kid didn’t let even the tip of his horns out of the pavement-”

“That hardly matters, what matters is the intent! You held your ground, proud and determined, ready to fight him ‘til the bitter end, armed only with the one thing you loved most in the world in your hand-”

“Oi, oi, oi!” Crowley sputtered. “Lay it on a bit thicker, will you? Where did that- You can’t just-”

Crowley’s confusion gave Aziraphale pause. The demon was growing considerably red. Oh dear. Could he ignite out of sheer rage? That would be a first. “I really don’t think I’m exaggerating. You were ready to die fighting him, we both were.”

“Not that! The thing- the ‘thing you love the most’ thing, what even-”

“That too. At least I had a proper weapon, but you only had that… what was that, a piece of your Bentley? I’m sure it had a huge emotional value for you, but in terms of offensive capabilities… Talk about David and Goliath…”

That shocked Crowley into silence. “...Oh. The car.” He eventually managed. “Yeah. The car. Yeah.”

“Yes. What did you think I was-” The answer struck Aziraphale before the question was finished. He had only two hands, after all. “...Oh, Crowley-”

“All right, that’s IT!” Crowley suddenly shouted, shooting up on his feet and banging his fist on the table. The sunlight filtering from the window behind Crowley was blocked by the magnificent pair of wings that spread from his back, casting a looming shadow above the sitting angel. The rest of the room grew inexplicably darker as well as the demon towered above Aziraphale, mouth twisted and teeth bared in an enraged snarl. He pointed towards his wings. “Look. Look at these, do you see them? Not a single white feather. Not a lighter shade of grey anywhere. Do you see them? Black. Charred. Tainted. Not by fire, or tar, or soot, or mud. By God. God changed them. Changed everything. And you can’t fix God’s work. You can’t get a bloody word in edgewise, actually. Believe me, we’re the ones who tried. Now,” Crowley bent downwards still, his back arched like a predator ready to strike, his nose mere centimetres away from Aziraphale, “I don’t know what gave you the impression of being smarter than the highest order of the universe, but I think we can agree that whatever little self-empowering game you’ve been playing hasn’t changed anything. Right?”

“Right.” Aziraphale replied without the slightest inflection, as he was starting to feel like he’d overstepped some boundary. Not so much with the universe as with his friend.

“Right. So quit yapping about goodness and selflessness and whatnot before I show you exactly what’s the difference between the two of us.” Aziraphale remained respectfully silent. Finally Crowley straightened up as his wings disappeared and the room cleared up again. The demon fixed his jacket, scowling at the surrounding shelves as if they had personally offended him. “Keep the water, I don’t need it. I have plenty of other tricks up my sleeve. Bye.”

“What? Wait! Where are you going?” Aziraphale startled, hurrying after Crowley as he walked off to the front door.

“Away. I’m busy.”

“I thought you were on holiday.” The angel almost bumped into the other as he stopped and turned on his heels abruptly, another snarling reply ready to fire. “And I was wondering if we could have lunch together at the Ritz.”

“Why? So that your ethereal influence can polish my spirit a bit more?”

“Really, now. You know me better than that.” Aziraphale gave him his most conciliatory smile. “No point in saving the world if we don’t get to enjoy it, right?”

Crowley hesitated just long enough to let Aziraphale know that he was well aware of being played. And then he did it anyway. “...Right. But you’re paying.”

“Of course.”

“What do you think would happen to us, if we were to die from now on?” Aziraphale asked, several hours and a lucullan lunch later.

“Well, aren’t you a bundle of laughs lately?” Crowley deadpanned. He was enjoying the fine afternoon breeze and the idle quacking of the ducks in St. James’ Park too much to embark in such grim elucubrations.

“I think it’s a legitimate concern. I don’t see either Heaven or Hell granting us a new body after all the trouble we’ve caused.” 

“I guess not. But I think we’re covered at least until Adam remains on Earth. He didn’t even have to snap his fingers to make you a new one.”

“You have remarkable faith in that child, haven’t you?” Aziraphale graced Crowley with an obscenely proud smile. The demon grimaced and waved at him dismissively.

“Faith has nothing to do with it. Faith is blind and deaf and groundless. Adam has put up a pretty effective and tangible demonstration of his powers. And he likes us. Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth. If you get discorporated, just knock on his mind and he’ll fix it.”

“But he won’t be here forever to help us. He’s still a mortal, just like Jesus.” Aziraphale insisted from above his newly acquired copy of Treasure Island. “What about afterwards?”

“I have a better question for you.” Crowley enunciated importantly, shifting to lean on the bench just a tad more composedly and deciding to change the topic. “What about his afterwards?”

“...You mean what will happen to him after his death? Well, won’t he just go back where he came from?”

“To Hell? Really?” Crowley leaned towards Aziraphale conspiratorially. “Do you really think that Satan will let anyone, including his son - especially his son - potentially endowed with the power to rival him, into his own Reign? Do you have any idea of the trouble it could cause? Demons have a strong tendency to question the authorities, you may have noticed.”

“I… I suppose you do have a point.” Aziraphale had to agree, visibly struck by the realization. “But where would he go then? Surely not to Heaven… The Antichrist in Heaven, could you even imagine it?”

“Not really, no. But there’s another possibility.” Crowley tipped his glasses forwards, staring pointedly at the angel from above the dark lenses. “If neither Reign will want him, he may… you know, carve his own place for himself. A new one. Create his own path.”

“What?” Aziraphale slightly leaned away from Crowley in sheer shock. “A third faction? For the love of God, Crowley, don’t even mention it! Aren’t things already difficult enough with two parties at war? Another schism, whether within Hell itself or from the outside, would only compromise the balance of the universe even further!”

“Looks to me like a third faction has been existing for a long time now.”

“Pardon?”

Crowley gestured vaguely all around. “How would you call the six billions humans currently living on this planet, and all the others who came before them?”

“They’re not a faction. They’re-”

“Sort of cattle, when you think about it-”

“Creatures.” Aziraphale corrected him sternly.

“Creatures that both our lots have been merrily cannibalizing for the last six millennia for the sake of our own petty squabble-”

“Oh, I don’t doubt that your lot has been indeed cannibalizing all the poor souls you could snatch.” Aziraphale pointed out primly. “We, on the other hand, have been educating them. Guiding them. Nurturing them. Cherishing them-”

“Oh yeah, those words sound so much nicer, don’t they?” Crowley sneered, barely repressing the impulse to hiss in annoyance.

“Are you seriously trying to tell me that you see no fundamental difference between what we do and what you do?” Aziraphale asked in dismay. “Do you really, honestly believe Heaven and Hell to be on equal moral ground?”

“All I’m saying is that it’s really easy for me to imagine these guys,” he insisted, pointing at a random couple of passersby who clearly did not appreciate being pointed at by a perfect stranger in the middle of a heated argument, “getting fed up with both our and your interferences sooner or later, and it looks to me like they may just find their own champion in our dear Antichrist.”

“This is ridiculous! We needn’t talk about such a hare-brained notion any longer.” Aziraphale asserted firmly, then a thought struck him and he eyed Crowley suspiciously. “I do hope you aren’t planning to put strange ideas in that child’s head.”

“Putting ideas in his head?! He has enough ideas of his own to build a brand new universe from scratch! He doesn’t need mine!”

“Good, because the last thing everyone needs right now is another Rebellion.”

“Why? Are you scared he might have better luck than we did?” Crowley couldn’t help but smirk.

“Of course not. It’s just… not the right way to go about it.”

“Asking questions and demanding a little more respect and straightforwardness from your boss isn’t the right way to go about solving a problem? ‘Cause that’s what we did-”

“You raised your hand against God.” Aziraphale’s glare was more scalding and cutting than his sword had ever been. “You took up arms against Her and your own brethren, and you did it first and without provocation, and don’t even try to justify that.”

“I-” Crowley started, but bit his lip not to continue. He hadn’t taken up any arms, surely not first, he thought. He hadn’t, but others had. Others on what he hadn’t realized yet would permanently become ‘his side’. And by the time he had finally grasped the severity of the rift that had formed between those new sides, it was already far too late for reconsiderations. He turned his gaze away from the angel, and focussed instead on a couple of black swans elegantly brawling for the possession of a floating chunk of bread. The park was oddly quiet, and their irked squawking was the only sound the demon could hear for several minutes.

“My point is,” Crowley suddenly said when he spied Aziraphale’s mouth moving to speak, because he would not let him have the last word on that topic even if it killed him, “that if one feels that he isn’t being treated fairly, you can’t really blame him for trying to look after himself. At least we can agree on that, yes? Yes.”

Aziraphale’s silence felt like a hard-earned victory. Neither Heaven nor Hell would be impartial when the moment to judge Adam would come, and if the Antichrist was to be shunned by both sides, wouldn’t it be only natural for him to-

“Is that why you rebelled?” The angel asked, eyes fixed on the book open on his lap. It took Crowley by surprise, how delicately Aziraphale had uttered that ‘you’, so very different from the spiteful ‘you’ of the rivalling group. It was a very personal question, the most personal question the angel had ever asked him.

Crowley didn’t answer. Aziraphale didn’t ask again.

“Well,” the angel sighed after a long silence, “I guess my point is that we’d better be extremely careful not to be discorporated in the future. Our sudden reappearance in our respective head offices might have rather unpleasant consequences.”

“You just can’t stop worrying about it, can you?” Crowley remarked, a tad mockingly. “I guess it comes with spending your entire existence as an upstanding Heaven citizen. Never really got on God’s bad side, have you?”

“Well, there was that little mishap with my sword...”

“Psh, I’m not talking about misplacing your toys. I mean Her really bad side. I’m talking about going openly against Her will - like you may very well have done by averting Armageddon-”

“Excuse you, I firmly believe I’ve been doing nothing but serving the Greater Good during these trying times.” Aziraphale countered, rather piqued. “And the Greater Good is God’s will by definition, so I don’t see why She should be in any way displeased by my actions… I believe.” A flash of uncertainty crossed the angel’s features, but he shook it off immediately. “Besides, everything that happens anywhere and at any time is part of Her plan, and therefore part of Her will, and therefore good.”

“Well, excuse you, but by that ridiculous logic the Rebellion was part of Her plan too, and therefore good, and therefore none of us should have been banished and doomed to eternal spite and damnation. And yet.” 

“No! That is an entirely different matter, and-” Aziraphale stopped talking abruptly. He pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed deeply. “Let us not talk about politics. It never ends well.”

“Yeah, I wonder why.” Crowley crossed his arms belligerently, but he didn’t push the argument further. Not that specific argument, at least. “Anyway, I still don’t see why you’re having kittens over this disobedience thing. If you think God Herself has no beef with you, what’s the matter? What’s the worst thing your seraphic superiors could do to you, uh? Call you back up to head office and confine you to a boring desk job where you couldn’t possibly hinder their holy machinations? Oh boy, oh dear, mighty scary punishment-”

“It’s not myself I’m worried about, Crowley!” Aziraphale interrupted him vehemently, hands tightly clasped in his lap. It took Crowley frankly too long to figure out the meaning of his troubled grimace.

“...You’re worried about me?”

“Of course I am! Desk jobs and bureaucracy will be the last of your worries if you end up within the grasp of a cohort of vengeful demons! They’ve already tried to destroy you once-”

“No, no no no, you don’t get it, it’s fine. I’m not in danger!” Crowley exclaimed, stretching the truth roughly to the size of Australia. “They’ll never manage to get their hands on me. The top brass wouldn’t come up here just to retrieve a small fry like me, they’ll just send a couple of brainless grunts now and then. And I’m not calling them brainless as gratuitous slander, they really are unbelievably stupid. Not even remotely a threat.”

“You’ve destroyed a demon! One of your own kind! They won’t overlook such an act so easily, for sure!”

“All right, listen. First of all, demons killing other demons isn’t nearly as outrageous as you think. Happens every other day. One day you’re chatting with Valak from Heat Management about the new strain of flies Beelzebub’s sporting and the next day, poof! Someone tells you that he’s been shoved into a furnace by a pissed-off Count because of a broken thermostat. Not even worth a slap on the wrist.”

“Still,” Aziraphale hesitated, “your case is clearly different. It’s outright treason! They’ll send some skillful operatives-”

“The ones they already sent were the skillful ones! Dukes of Hell, no less! And I dispatched both of them literally in five minutes! Want to know how?” Crowley stood up and started pacing back and forth in front of the bench, gesturing wildly to re-en-act his epic tale of cunning and strategy. “All right, here’s how. The holy water you gave me, right? I poured that into a bucket and put the bucket on top of the door of the study, which was ajar - what are you looking at? Get lost!” He added, glaring at a couple of nearby kids who had interrupted their aimless running around to stare at him as he stood poised on the tip of his toes to position an invisible prop on top of an invisible surface. The brats scampered away immediately. “Anyway, Ligur opened the door and bam, one Duke of Hell melted into nothingness, just like that. And the second? Well, actually I did have a plan involving holy water for him too, but that one didn’t really fly - but then!” Crowley pointed at Aziraphale suddenly and enthusiastically enough to make him flinch. “You called, and I - brilliantly - got inspired by that and trapped Hastur into my phone! ...For a while - but the point is that it was just that easy.”

“Why, wasn’t that ingenious of you?” Aziraphale said, his eyes shining with such disarming and honest admiration that Crowley completely lost track of his thoughts.

“I- well, yeah, I guess I-” He started, before his brain rebooted and he smacked his forehead in frustration. “No! No, it wasn’t! It was dumb! That’s my point! A bucket on a door, Aziraphale! Two Dukes of Hell tricked by the sort of pranks that some dumb human toddlers- Oi! Why are you still here?!” He suddenly shouted, as his gaze fell on a bush that did absolutely nothing to hide the same couple of brats he’d just shooed away, still spying on his little pantomime. As they ran away again, Crowley took care of summoning a couple of ringed snakes and sending them on their heels, just to provide that extra zest of entertainment that their afternoon clearly lacked.

“Ehr, you were saying?” Aziraphale asked, eyeing the hissing grass with mild concern.

“I was saying that my esteemed colleagues have the tactical prowess of drunk baboons, and they don’t even bother to keep up with what’s going on up here. A child with a mobile phone could outsmart them. So no, they’re never going to get me.” Crowley plopped back on the bench heavily, crossing both arms and legs and deliberately channeling a good three decades of macho cinematography in his stance. “Not on my turf.”

“That’s reassuring, but it doesn’t quite put all my worries at rest. Don’t you think we should at least keep a close eye on each other for a while?”

“How so?”

“Oh, just seeing each other. More often than once a decade, I mean. Exchanging information, checking that we’re still around in one piece.”

“And if we aren’t? What if one day I just disappear, uh? Are you going to march into the depths of Hell armed with your non-existent army and your lost sword?”

“I was thinking more of a tanker filled with holy water.”

Crowley snorted. “That would be a sight.”

“So? What do you say? Once a month? Once a week? At least until things get calmer.”

“Oh boy, I don’t know if I have all this free time to ‘keep an eye’ on you. I’ll have to check my agenda.”

“You’re still on a self-proclaimed holiday.”

“And do you have any idea how time-consuming that is?”

[wezzaner]

TV Couples-Tropes in Descendants

Ever heard of the TV tropes: Alpha Couple, Beta Couple and Omega Couples?

The alpha couple are basically the narratively undeniable couple. They are the centerpiece, the untouchables, they are the story. They are written in the stars. No matter how you try to spin the canon narrative, you have to venture into AU or future-verse territories to not have them together.

The beta couple are the secondary couple. They are, more often than not, friends or confidants to the alpha couple. They act as a foil to the alpha couple, meaning, they basically highlight the alpha couple’s traits by contrast. They also tend to get their brief time in the spotlight then will get shoved aside for the rest of the story.

The omega couples exist more in the movie musicals genre and are convenient couples. A pair the spares situation, if you will. They are getting together last minute for no other reason other than the fact that we have the finale number coming up. Nothing leads up to it, they’re just there.

In Descendants:

Alpha couple: Mal/Ben

Beta couple(s): Evie/Doug and surprisingly, we get a second in Carlos/Jane

Omega couples: Jay/Audrey (D1), Carlos/Jane (D1, before being promoted to beta in D2), Chad/Lonnie (D1), Chad/Audrey (D3)

Notice how I did not include Jay/Lonnie (D2), Jay/Gil (D3) or Uma/Harry at all? Well, I can’t, none of them canonically got together to be betas, and they had their own mini arcs so they can’t be omegas.

I’d assume that Jay and Lonnie dated briefly and separated for some reason: be it an amicable separation simply due to graduation and going their separate ways (Everybody knows that you don’t bring the girl with you after high school. - Chad Danforth, HSM) or anything else. Like Jay coming to terms with his bisexuality, perhaps, and wanting to take his time before doing anything serious.

Uma/Harry, I wholeheartedly believe, are canon. Just future canon.

Jay/Gil are a wildcard. Their bonding is adorable, whether as friends or more. Or current friends with the possibility of something more, I am just glad I am here for it. And I will forever be giddy inside whenever I remember Disney allowed them to partner-up and dance.

Why such a seemingly irrelevant post?

Because there’s a certain mindset you must be familiar with before you jump into the “they deserved more screen time”, the “why didn’t they officially get together?” and the “F you Disney for doing this to us” chants. It is just how it goes, especially in a movie when you have time constrictions, unlike a TV show where multiple ships can sail simultaneously or in different times. So, what you have to do is, learn to appreciate what’s happening in the background. The fleeting looks, the hand-holding, the reassuring glances and the deleted scenes (chemistry between actors automatically translates to chemistry between the characters). A lot of scenes don’t end up making it into the final product and a lot of takes and angles don’t end up making it as well.

This isn’t me being mad at Disney, it’s just me trying to fill in the gaps to make sense of the story. Like a lot of fanfiction writers do to plot holes, right? But then, for me, it turned into this genuine confusion and curiosity to find out why some characters, like Doug, are so hated while he’s pretty much unexpendable to the story. Or why some people are hell-bent on Mal and Evie being a thing even though we have a proposal, two true love’s kisses and a song about sisterly love and friendship to counter that.

Basically, you need to understand that Evie/Doug and Carlos/Jane are foils to Mal/Ben. The only reason Evie/Doug got the spotlight somewhat in D1 is primarily to develop Evie’s character and then, along with Carlos/Jane, served their purpose only in D2 and D3 which was contradict Mal/Ben’s relationship. And anything meaningful that is meant to happen, happens to Mal and Ben.

Let’s see how:

In D1:

1- While Mal spelled Ben, jump starting their relationship faster than most. Evie and Doug started rather organically, getting to know each other. I’d even argue that Evie and Doug were strictly friends throughout the first movie and part of the six months between D1 and D2.

2- Bal unknowingly started Audrey’s downward spiral, Devie’s relationship didn’t step on any toes.

3- Bal’s started because Mal had a motive (stealing the wand) behind spelling him, unlike what he assumed. Devie was selfless on both parties, he defended her (selfless act) and she became intrigued by the person wasting their breath on a VK.

4- Jock versus nerd. Glaringly obvious.

5- Tomboy with a sharp tongue versus a feminine princess, arguably with social-cue issues.

6- Mal’s turned good for Ben. That’s it, she liked him and wanted to explore the relationship further. Evie’s motive was her exploring herself and all she could be. She found herself with Doug’s help, I’ll give you that, but she grew all on her own. He can’t take credit for that. I can also use Carlos and Jay as foils for Mal, Carlos turned good because he saw the life he could have away from his mother’s abuse and Jay found the error in his father’s teachings.

7- Both Mal and Evie are magical, but only Mal gets to exploit said magic while Evie’s is all but erased from the movies.

In D2:

The difference was more on how they handled problems. Also, Ben being Mal’s motive to be good meant that at the first sign of trouble in paradise, she had an identity crisis and fled.

1- Evie was straight forward with Ben, helping him get to the isle to confront Mal and bring her back. Jay and Carlos lied to Doug, their lies and his insecurities created a problem that wasn’t even there.

2- Ben’s and Doug’s approach to solving their problems was the same: desperate confrontation. Their attitudes and reasons were drastically different. Ben felt guilty for pressuring Mal and belittling the effort she was putting in being his girlfriend. Doug was frantic, fear and insecurity fueling his accusation.

3- Mal initially refused to compromise, basically kicking Ben out. Evie recognized the motive behind Doug’s accusation and shot them down immediately. You know, like the queen she is.

4- Again, Bal saying their “I love you”s while Devie take things slow, enjoying their time. Of course, also Carlos spending six whole months getting to know Jane before he even asked her out.

In D3:

Now D3 was exclusively action-based with very little relationship developments happening. This movie, which is even more Mal-centered and benches Ben altogether, turned almost every character into foils for Mal.

1- Mal and Ben being together long enough (two months shy of a year) to warrant a proposal. Evie and Doug struggle to say their “I love you”s. And Carlos freaks out over Jane’s first birthday since they got together.

2- Uma, Evie and Ben wanting to free the VKs while Mal wants to close the barrier for good based on a threat made for show by her own father. Then she opens the barrier for good to have a relationship with her own father. Nothing selfish about the motives of Uma, Evie and Ben and nothing is selfless about Mal’s motive.

3- Mal being in a happy stage of her relationship while everybody else seems to be struggling. Evie and Doug with their L-word issues, Carlos with Jane’s birthday, Chad still trying to be with Audrey, Uma’s reluctance sending Harry into a chaotic-flirting frenzy, Jay’s supposed recent break-up with Lonnie.

I’m not entirely sure what I had in mind when I started writing this, I guess I was trying to make sense of what we got in the final cut of each movie. It feels like the same frustrations I had watching the High School Musical movies so long ago and being curious as hell about pretty much everyone but Troy and Gabriella. And I am certain I skipped major plot points that would have emphasized everything I’m trying to say, feel free to add to this.

[twinkledadwa]

Twinkledad’s #2

Dear Twinkledad,

Am I moving on too fast? I just got out of something super toxic... and not even 10 days later I’m hooking up with someone I just met. My ex really damaged me and I don’t know if I’m doing this to distract myself or if I’m really ready. I feel bad bc this new kid is very sweet and I don’t want to lead him on but also as of right now its just friends with benefits. also I’m talking to a old flame. I just feel lost and like I need a second opinion.

Anonymous.

 Dear Anonymous,  When I answered this question on air, I ran into a few technical difficulties with Serato. As a result, the first song had the audio quality of Never Meant earrape once it finally played. I hope it wasn’t too abrasive! Logan was a big fan of it, though.

 So. 

 Here at Twinkledad’s, we support healthy sex lives. The act of hooking up with someone, even right after a breakup, is completely okay. You have this freedom and it’s in your right to use it. Where you should be careful is your intent behind this FWB relationship. What are you getting out of it? Is it sex for the sake of sex, or are you reaching for something deeper?

 It is wholly possible you could be wanting the “emotional intimacy” often associated with relationship sex. That could be trouble for you and the other party involved.

 Toxic relationships, from common knowledge and experience, can leave a lot of emotional trauma. Now is the time for you to learn how to heal. Finding healthy coping mechanisms is a trial-and-error process. That is what essentially takes up most of the timetable for moving on; once it clicks, and you’ll know when, it’s a matter of days from then.

 The question could be, “am I trying to move on too fast?”.  Forcing yourself to move on, actively or subconsciously, does not allow you the respect you deserve. Applying what was previously said to your specific question, you could be ignorant to what your emotions need right now. Likewise, if your FWB or old flame are not on the same page as you, they could become more attached than you are. No one’s at fault for this. You’d be coping and that’s reasonable.

 You simply asked for a second opinion, and probably didn’t want this long of a response. To give an answer to your original question, yes, I believe you are. I know nothing beyond the question you’ve sent in, but I really wish you the best with everything.

 “Anniversary Song” was chosen for its subject matter. The entire album, Just Married, is a very bitter and real portrayal of breaking up, moving on, and dying angry. 

 “Heathers” is not only catchy, but (possibly) about a booty call. It is a fun introspection about staying up all night and needing someone to talk to.

Glocca Morra - Anniversary Song

Insignificant Other - Heathers

Dear Twinkledad,

How do I apologize to someone who doesn’t want to talk to me? Is there a way where I can apologize without it being self serving?

Anonymous.

Dear Anonymous,

 In essence, I feel like this is impossible.

 There’s nothing wrong with that. You should give your interests and the other person’s interests the same amount of respect. It is difficult when you have genuine regret over something and you can’t necessarily go across portraying that when the other person, reasonably so, is hurt/upset/any sentiment that results in them not wanting to talk to you. 

 Apologizing right now, in this situation, will realistically be seen as self serving. In Moral Philosophy we discussed the concept of psychological egoism. Egoism is pretty different from selfishness, as egoism is acting in one’s self interest with wisdom, charity, and kindness towards others. Common critique brings up the possibility that other interests (in this case, the feelings of the other person) could be prioritized and therefore egoism can’t be achieved. Yet a lot of classmates, including myself, argued for all actions being inherently self-interested. Apologizing to your person, how would you consider it? Are you apologizing because they are hurt, or because you miss them?

 That’s not to imply you don’t feel regret. We’re humans, philosophy was never meant to be taken as universal truth. It’s to suggest a possible answer on whether or not it would be self serving.

 I suggest waiting for them to reach out. They could not be fully over what happened, and that’s straight chilling. I’m sure they recognize how you feel. One point in the future will come a time where both of you are on the same page in the same book. 

 “Weird Dream, Conscious Stream” was chosen because A.) I Hate Sex is stellar and B.) suggests an impossible reality for the narrator where the subject and other coexist.

 “Do You Still Hate Me?” was chosen because of the title. According to Hugh, one of the best songs ever.

 “I’m Here for The Pizzah Partie” was an obvious choice. Very obvious. Glaringly obvious. Fact. It’s fact.

I Hate Sex - Weird Dream, Conscious Stream

Jawbreaker - Do You Still Hate Me?

Two Knights - I’m Here For The Pizzah Partie

Dear Twinkledad,

I’m becoming more aware of my sudden anger and sadness outbursts. but I’m scared to go and get checked out bc I don’t want to be drugged up or I guess Face the music.

Anonymous.

Anonymous,

 Let’s say you do get checked out. If you have a mental health diagnosis, good news! You have a mental “illness”. 

 Downside: you are stuck with this for the rest of your life. 

 Upside: you have all the time in the world to learn how to cope with it. 

 Getting checked out does not mean you’ll be drugged up. If you are of age, that’s entirely in your control. There are routes of dialectical behavior therapy (or just normal therapy) you can take. Nobody’s necessarily pro-medication in all situations. It’s hard not to have some ignorance of mental health problems if you don’t have the problem for sure. Take whatever path you feel best suits your needs. 

 We are not our diagnoses. However, it can be of great help to recognize your shitty behavioral ticks and understand why you have them. The start of your question implies you have been aware of specific behavior for some time now. With that, you have already begun to face the music. If you do decide to get checked out but give it a lot of time, a diagnosis could feel like a no-brainer to you. In fact, it could be a weight lifted.

  Misdiagnosis can happen. Wrong meds, taking the medication, can happen. It’s part of coping, it sucks major ass. Time will come where mental health can feel worse than ever and like it is inescapable. The important thing is keeping your head up. I really hope you find the answers you want and or need.

 I chose “As Cool As An Attempted Suicide”, beyond what the name suggests, for its energy. It’s a fun song for its subject matter. Being sad is not necessarily always bad.

 “Why Am I Not Going Under Water?”/Snowing as a whole was an emotional crutch for me when I went through similar struggles. Galm’s vulnerability made me realize I was not alone, and hopefully it does the same for you too.

Leer - As Cool As An Attempted Suicide

Snowing - Why Am I Not Going Underwater?

Dear Twinkledad,

I've never really been in a real relationship my whole life, haven't even lost my virginity. It bothers me more than it probably should, but I feel almost desperate for a more than just a platonic relationship with someone. Wanna be able to have somebody to kiss/cuddle but seem to screw up every opportunity to have something good with someone.

Anonymous.

  Anonymous,

  A few weeks ago, I matched with someone on Bumble. We had this conversation:

 “Heyy”

 “Sorry, my mom said I can’t talk to girls.”

 “Damn that’s crazy my dad said I can’t talk to boys *frowny face emoji*”

 Then I left her on Read. Point being, everything will be okay.

 Virginity is frustrating, in theory and in practice. It shouldn’t be a crime to not be sexually active or never had a serious relationship. Yes, love is great. However, one thing you’ll most likely learn when you experience love, because you will, is you can live without it. How we’ve constructed what virginity means has set pretty high expectations of what sex is like. In actuality, it’s pretty mediocre. Fun, but as you continue to open the bag of magic sex tricks, you’ll have plenty of mixed experiences. It is not a necessity by any means.

 Love, on the other hand, is uncomfortably tied to our values. For a lot of people, having a family is their primary goal in life. I’ve seen this referred to as “honorable” multiple times as multiple people. What it does, subsequently, is pressure people into viewing sex and love as an accomplishment the same virginity does. Falling in love is an awesome feeling. Falling out of love is a terrible feeling. Experiencing neither does not put such a great weight on your shoulders like love does. To quote Quarterbacks, “love is situational”. You’ll have it. No way in hell you haven’t. The situation has yet to arise.

 Dating apps are not worth it. Love is a feeling, right? There’s no need to force it. If you are relatively new in experience, your perception of love can be greatly skewed. I’m sure, whoever you are, you are in safe hands. You’ll be carried into the world of sex and love naturally, not at your own will, where it’s inevitably messier.

 Once YOU, not anyone else, are satisfied with your romantic life, please send a message back. I wish you the best of luck knowing you have it, and just want you to be happy.

 With a lot of music, worlds tend to be created through the instrumentals and not the lyrics. “Hardly Art” always forces a great sense of introspection and how I handle myself in situations of co dependence whenever it comes on.

 “Try to Sleep”’s vocals, lyrics, and stripped back, lo-fi production echoes loneliness from all fronts.

 Closer - Hardly Art

 Attic Abasement - Try To Sleep