#whether it's worth it or whether it's all for nought.

[starpirateee]

Hi!! Could you write one of the Curtwen prompts I made, yet didn’t cut it? I love your writing style!!

Honestly there was a bit of deliberation here because you put some really good ideas out there on the form, but I did say I'd write em myself, and by all means, I'll still do it! So, I decided to go for this prompt:

Would you take a modern au from me? Can I do that?

I mean, I'm going to anyway, because I have a dire need to call Curt and Owen husbands (and also for wider Starkid lore), but i just thought I'd warn you beforehand!

"Agent Carvour, have you found anything yet?"

Owen leaned back away from his research. He'd been looking at the same page now for a while, trying to make some sense of it. Redacted government files were hard to get hold of, but even harder to make ends of. His system had been trying to translate it, but not even he had the software for that.

"Quite possibly, sir. I have a few sources, at least."

"What have you got?"

With an air of something that was almost excitement and almost elation, Owen pulled up a series of documents and started the walk through them. "Well, sir, the easiest source was from a few years ago. There's a company in Michigan that's been trying to conduct various temporal experiments under their parent company— some kind of analyst company, I think. They're surprisingly ordinary. Anyway, apparently the experiments just… Stopped. They never drew a conclusion on whether or not their research was connected to what was on the other side."

This had all started when Chimera had dug up a series of centuries old reports about people claiming to have looked into the eyes of old gods. None of the people had known each other, but all of the reports showed some form of consistency, and all told of great, unknowable power.

So, they had decided to look into it, to see if there had been anyone else who'd dared to brave the process of trying to find an answer. Owen was one of those lucky enough to find himself with the resources to start a thorough investigation.

"They didn't finish?"

"No, I don't know what happened, but the reports just stopped one day."

"Is there anything else?"

"An american government report, but it's as hard as you can imagine to decipher. Most of it is redacted…"

"Anything worth noting?"

Owen nodded, carefully turning back and switching the tabs. This felt a little like he was giving a presentation that he hadn't prepared for, and he hadn't felt like this in quite some time. He took a breath, trying to slow down the rampage that was going on in his head. "They started in the early noughts. 2005, to be precide. That's the earliest I'd gotten without looking at those old reports from the pioneers. A branch of the military tried to build a gateway to the other side, to investigate what existed outside of our plane. I don't know names, only one. The name of the man who performed the experiment."

"They got this gateway open?"

"Yes, sir. And they sent someone through. I think there's a good reason why his is the only name they disclosed."

"Why?"

"Because he was declared dead, sir."

His screen still displayed the document, and the man's name sat among the black markouts, clear enough to see. Cross, W.D. Apparently, he'd ventured into the portal, and nobody heard from him or saw him after the date of the experiment. They gave up the search after a month, and after that, Colonel Cross was indeed declared dead.

"So, another dead end?"

"Maybe not. I'll do what I can to uncover this with what I've got available, but it was scanned, so…. It might take some time." Owen was normally confident in his abilities, and uncovering government documents was a difficult yet necessary part of the job. There was something almost genuinely enthralling about scraping off the parts that the world's governments wanted to keep secret. It felt like giving people a small yet surprisingly effective slice of justice every time.

"Keep looking, Carvour. We need to know if this is viable, or even worth our time…"

If Owen had any kind of normal life— if he and his husband didn't both do the dirty work for secret operation services— he would have a blast trying to decide how to describe the intricacies of what he'd been researching lately. The throws of domestic life confounded him to no end, which was why it was so funny when he and Curt tried to imitate that.

The otherwise simple question of "how was your day" turned into a battle of who could craft the most believable lie that better concealed what they'd actually done. Neither wanted to jeopardise their jobs, and Curt had always been brilliant at crafting stories, so it was never dull.

He started to think about what today's excuse would be. Something about pioneers, or the Oregon trail, or perhaps he could bring up that old, dead colonel somehow, that would be interesting to add to the pile.

--

"You know what I'm gonna ask already…"

By the time he got home, Curt was already waiting for him, and the mid-spring sun was starting to set. For anyone else, it was a day at the office, but the trails he had begun to uncover had really put all other days at the office to shame.

He laughed softly, having prepared this answer a number of hours before, and took up a position on the couch. "No, love, you first. I insist."

"Fine, okay," Curt answered with a chuckle. "It was nothing really, just your standard… But, the bear returned, and in about a month, I'm gonna get really rich and run off to central Europe, with a really pretty lady and a dollar store box of magic tricks."

"The same bear from last month?"

"Yeah. Bastard won't leave me alone."

"Sounds wild. Are you coming back after your plans to run off with this really pretty lady?"

"Plan is to cut myself off after three weeks, but at this rate, I might not make it two."

"Not good enough?"

"Owen, I'm a bit too gay for that." To sell his point, he flashed his wedding band, and Owen laughed harder. "Besides," he added, covering his own bout of laughter. "Who needs a fake wife when I've got my own right here?"

Owen shot him a faux-offended glance. "How dare you!"

"You might fool the guys at work, O, but you couldn't pretend you don't think about it…"

Or that he hadn't been experimenting in that part of himself in little segments since he was seventeen. Turns out he suited long hair better, and he wouldn't hesitate to admit that he both looked and felt rather good with the occasional flourish.

"You know me well..."

"I should hope so! Anyway, what're you keeping from me? How was your day?"

"Office, just like you. I've had a conversation with a pioneer, and tried to erase marker pen over the body of a dead soldier. Oh, and I tried to teach myself statistical analysis."

"Jeez, that was— that was a whole rollercoaster there, huh?"

"Mhm, I've been busy."

"You can say that again, god… So, a pioneer? Like those guys that travelled to Oregon?"

"Yeah. Quite interesting people, if a little paranoid." Something other than their oxen might be watching them would've been a perfect addition to the statement, but Owen felt that was a little too close to the line to pass, so he decided not to add it.

The important part was, apart from the knowledge that Curt was on an assignment in a month's time, both of them were none the wiser. Curt didn't need to know that he had started the deep dive into a pack of eldritch gods and was even slightly nervous about the outcome.

He didn't sleep well that night. He knew that he had right to believe that this was all one great hoax, that there was something in the water that made the pioneers mass hallucinate this supposed watcher. They all travelled on the same trail, it was entirely plausible that all of them found the same hallucinogenic and envisioned a thousand eyes watching them and their familes. It was less of a coincidence when two subsidaries of larger companies started describing details of experiments that led them to discovering other beings beyond just the watcher, of course, but he still wasn't sure whether he was privy to believing any of it.

There was something about redacted government files, though, that were meant to be believed. There was a reason they hid information from the public, and that was often because they had found something worth disclosing in the first place. That meant huge news, large press cover ups… The whole works… And that was the last thing any self-respecting government with something to hide would want. Owen imagined the size of the initial press conferences for dealings like Roswell, how many people must've shown up to that conference, under the impression that they were going to get answers, only for the press to redact the next day and claim that it was no more than a weather balloon.

He felt like he was dealing with a weather balloon of his own right now. This was something that this branch of the military clearly didn't want people knowing. The only reason they'd had to disclose any information at all was because one of their own had died looking for this information, and they had to provide the closure for whatever family he had left. Part of him wondered what they'd said, how they'd tried to cover up this man's imminent demise at the hands of another dimension. What did his family know? Was he ever given a sendoff?

When Owen tried to sleep that night, plagued with the thoughts of how much his research was worth, and what really happened on the other side, he couldn't get his head in the right place to take a suitable rest for long enough. Flashes of colour— brighter than anything he'd ever seen— danced behind his eyelids, chasing each other in sequence. Blue. Purple. Yellow. Pink. Green. White. Blue…. He didn't have much of the capacity to think, not when those colours started consuming his subconscious thought, but he spared a moment to the hope that he may get answers of his own if he stuck around long enough.

"He thinks he's brave… He thinks we don't know about him…"

Whatever dream he had been having was taken over by blurred edges and violent pangs of pain that he was sure he could feel outside of this existence. Everything faded out, leving only ruin in it's wake. Broken pieces, scrambled signals… Owen didn't even try and make sense of it, he already understood the futility of trying. There was nothing left in his mind but those colours and those voices— for he was sure there was more than one. A sickening chorus, holding perfect time with each other.

"He's foolish, if he thinks he can go further without us finding out."

"Owennnn…"

"We know what you're doing, Owen…. It's not going to last."

He'd thought about meeting his maker before. He'd thought about the possibility of death, the idea that he may not live to see another day eventually. It was hard to deliberate something so serious in his early thirties, but his line of work called for it. He knew that he had a dangerous job, and that there were few who would be able to save him if something happened.

But, he'd never considered the possibility of his own demise to this extent before. In the formless remains of his dream, where he was forced into hearing these voices talk about his death and how soon it would be to coming, he had pause for deliberation. And it wasn't good.

He had to strain to take control of his own voice, in this space that was once his own. Once so sacred, now scarce and left entirely to the whim of whatever was taking residence in his mind. This was a bad idea. All of this research was a bad idea, and he was suddenly more aware of that than he was anything else. Never before had he had such a violent urge to overturn everything he'd worked on for the sake of something this seemingly trivial.

"There's nothing you can do. It's already started. This is bigger than me…"

"We know that. You're not the only one we have heard trying to work your way into what is ours… Choose your next step carefully, Owen. I'm sure we would delight in taking you in the same direction as the others…"

Before he could really ask what that meant, he was left entirely alone. The ruin of his dream still stood strong, which was strange enough given that the voices had left him alone, but he had the strangest feeling that there was more to this landscape than just what he was being shown. He started to wander, to look around in an attempt to find the real end to all of this. His mind was a wasteland, taken over by the lack of colour and the apparently deafening absence of those voices that had only appeared a moment before. He felt empty without them, although he knew nothing more than the sequence of colours that paraded through his vision.

Blue… Purple…. Yellow…

The pattern was familiar, like he'd seen it before somewhere. And while he wasn't resting easy, he couldn't force himself to wake up, either. No matter how hard he tried, he was just left stuck, wandering the expanse until he found what he was apparently looking for.

Pink…. Green…. White… Blue…

The expanses of his mind stretched out into a road, occupied by nothing but empty space. He supposed that was mostly his own fault; he had known for years that his imagination was never one to be put on par with anything else. He couldn't so vividly picture that which others could, and he'd never really had much of a capacity to dream, either.

So, this warning was strange. Seeing such vivid, bright colours in the back of his mind, knowing that he couldn't have conjured them himself…

He started to walk the road, curious enough to want to know where it went.

"Owen?"

That voice wasn't like the ones who had left moments before. That voice had a personality, and a person to go with. It was warm, though scared. Human all the same. And Owen knew the shape of it.

"Owen?"

Owen let his instinct lead him down the road, through it's many curves and winds. Eventually, the road gave way to what could only possibly be a stage. There was a set of stairs to one side, that he let himself climb before he could think to wonder where they led, and then the familiar voice gave way to a man in the wings, staring at him with desperate, fear-lined eyes. Of course he knew the voice, and of course he had never tried to doubt himself on the matter.

He tried to advance towards Curt, but he took a hasty step back, shaking his head.

"Curt?"

"Prove you're Owen."

"I'm sorry?"

Curt hesitated, and then slowly emerged from the wings. Even though he stood on the light of the stage, it still looked like he was carefully enveloped in shadow, like the darkness was a comfort to him. Owen looked around, wondering what had made him so cautious, and whether it was still around. Had Curt seen what he'd seen? What had those things whispered to him?

"I'm not falling for it again. Tell me you're actually Owen…"

Owen frowned, not wanting to dwell too much on why Curt was so afraid to reach out to him and realise that all of this was as real as they could get it. "Curt, love, I don't know what you want me to say…" There was a certain desperation about him too. Improvisation had never been his strong suit, but he wass confident that, given the right prompt, he would be able to convince his husband that he was who he said he was, to quell any discrepancy that it may have been otherwise.

"Don't. Show me… What happened on your 25th birthday."

The pieces fit into place, and Owen nodded dutifully. He had been out in the field that day, a strikingly hot day in the middle of June. The two of them had barely ended up with three hours together by the end of it, and they'd gone out drinking to celebrate what little time was left of his birthday. He'd never been particularly big on celebrating, but Curt had insisted. They were newly married then, and getting used to the idea of sharing a life with someone else. That was one of the first nights following their wedding when Owen truly came to realise that he'd made entirely the right decision, and that there was nobody he'd rather share his life with than Curt Mega.

"My 25th… That was a home ground mission. I was in the state."

"What happened to you?"

Owen smiled, somewhere between fondness and a need to hide the melancholic air that hung about that question. He pushed up the sleeve of his jacket, and huffed a weary breath of laughter. "I was trying to make my exit, but the suit jacket caught on a fence. Here…" With his sleeve rolled to just the right length, Owen held out his arm and pointed out a pale flash just below his elbow— a jagged scratch that had never quite healed right. "That's what happened after the fabric tore. Is that enough?"

Curt had known about the scar. He'd also known about the story. He was pretty sure that nobody else knew, though, so in his head, that had always been his fallback option in the event that he was ever sure Owen needed to prove himself. Those stories lined up perfectly, and while Owen had missed out on some of the details, in the grander scheme of things, he'd gotten it exactly right. He shifted, letting a knowing smile cross his face through the fear that still gripped him.

"It's really you…"

"Of course. Why wouldn't it be?"

Curt's approach was still careful, premeditated. Even though he knew the truth now, there was still something about him that screamed a lack of trust directly into his ear, and it made actually reaching out for Owen so much harder. "You… You were trying to kill me."

"What now?"

"I know what I saw…"

"I don't doubt you, but I would never… I swear it on my life."

"I know, that's why it was strange… I— What the hell's happening?" This stage was the only thing connecting the two of them to reality. There was nothing beyond it but the end of the road that Owen had travelled down, and nothing behind it but black, empty space.

Owen let his instinct take over. If the two of them were going to face the unknown, whatever and wherever this was, then they were going to do it together. They always had, and they always would. That was the way things worked, especially for the two of them, because their lives were built so heavily on the idea of distrust that any semblance of the opposite they could get, they would cling to. Normally that was exclusively each other, and so the world wasn't usually much larger than the two of them.

Their hands connected in the middle of the emptiness. Owen pulled Curt Closer to him, and the two of them stood side, performers to an unknown audience, marionettes for something larger than themselves. They exchanged a glance, and Owen registered the warm, homely spark residing in Curt's eyes.

"I think we're trapped in a nightmare, crazy as it sounds," he tried to respond, but he wasn't entirely sure where this was going to go. "I can't wake up, but I remember falling asleep last night."

"Me too. I fell asleep before you did, you were still reading."

"Right, and now there's this. Whatever this is. did you, by chance, see those colours too?"

Curt nodded. "They came before you did, before the- other you. Blue, and purple, and yellow…"

"…Pink, and green, and white..?"

"And then blue again."

Owen heaved a sigh. "Curt, there's something I have to confess. It's safe to do so now, there's little that could get in the way of what I have to admit, but this is one of those things I wouldn't be able to tell you awake, you understand?"

There was a moment's pause, in which Curt tried to work around Owen's phrasing. Both of them felt the incredibly revealing sense that they were being watched, so Curt understood that Owen had gone into the professional mindset— switching off his senses for the sake of making as much sense of something as possible. It was always how he rationalised his way through situations, and it hadn't failed him yet.

Eventually, Curt nodded again, as the words started to sink in and he started to get a sense of what was being said. "This about what you told me this evening?"

"Yeah, I'm afraid there's a little more to it than what I told you, but I suppose that was rather obvious."

A nervous breath of laughter left Curt, only partially voluntary. "I thought there'd be a bit more to it than erasing marker pen over the body of a dead soldier…. What the hell kinda explanation was that, anyway?"

"One I spent a good hour crafting, thank you very much. I thought it was clever."

"Better than a pretty lady and a box of tricks?"

"And a bear, yes."

"… And the bear. Right. Well, what's that mean? erasing marker pen over the body of a dead soldier, what're you saying there?"

"I've…" This is not going to get you done for. Those documents were already top secret before you saw them. And if it gets you out of this nightmare prison, then surely it has to be worth it. "I've been uncovering sealed military case files that might explain what's happening to us right now."

Curt's eyes went wide. "Fucking what?!"

"It's all part of the job. I can't… I can't elaborate. Know only what everyone else knows: that the only reason any part of this is disclosed at all is because someone died during one of the experiments."

"What's that got to do with what's happening here?"

"That's what they were researching."

That seemed to click to some degree. At least, Curt seemed to understand a few of the larger pieces, perhaps the more obvious ones. "The colours?" In his head, there was an experiment, someone tried to make sense of whatever that was in their shared mindscape. Someone— a soldier, presumably, had died in the middle of these experiments, and now Owen had gotten tangled in this mess through his agency, and the two of them had been dropped into the same nightmare.

Owen nodded. "The colours."

At the moment he said that, a loud rumble disrupted their moment and forced their attention out into the expanse of nothing. Laughter— multiple sources with varying shrieks and gasps that couldn't be placed to a single source— burst from behind the wings, and from in front of them, and from the endless expanse of black that surrounded them. A loud crack followed, and Curt swore as the stage splintered beneath his feet. For a split second, his grip loosensed, and the next time the ground rumbled, they were torn apart by the growing crack in the stage. He staggered back, and the two of them ended on opposite sides of the stage, the crack between them growing and delving deeper into the unknown.

"Owen!" He called, trying to regain his footing but falling back.

"Curt! Hold on!" Owen yelled through the growing laughter, scrambling back to reach out for the pulley system backstage. He needed a foothold on something, a way to sturdy himself so he could regroup and think. It was too loud, he couldn't think in this kind of heat, with this kind of mess, and Curt, and-

Another crack. The stage was starting to fall away from itself, split not quite perfectly in two. Owen's breath ran short. In the swirls of colour and mayhem and possibilities, he saw a way out. One chance to get this right, and to make sure that they both survived the fall while they were still stuck here. He gripped the rope tight, levering himself further towards the crack, and looked to Curt. "You're gonna have to jump it!" He called, desperation winning over any attempts to stay sane. "Don't worry! You know I'll never let you down!"

"Are you crazy?!" Curt managed, staring into the gap. "I can't jump that, it's too far!"

"Curt, before the whole place splits in half, you have to get over here!"

"What if I don't make it?"

"Trust me! Please!"

Curt backed off a few paces. Owen stood ready, one hand gripping the rope wrapped around his wrist, and the other reaching out as far as he could, waiting for a move to be made. After a singular preparatory breath, he sprinted for the gap, and pushed off from the splintered wood at the edge.

He reached out.

Owen reached out.

Their fingertips connected briefly in the space, and then Curt slipped away beneath his grasp.

Owen threw himself forward, feeling the rope worming itself free and burning his wrist in the process. He'd promised. He wasn't going to let Curt fall. And he was nothing if not a man of his word.

Curt's eyes squeezed shut, preparing for an endless fall through the ineviatble. Something laced around his wrist and he felt himself stop moving. Exerting all the caution he knew to exert, he looked up, and caught a familiar whiskey brown staring back at him.

"I've got you!" Owen breathed, and Curt fought to angle himself so that he could get a better chance to grab the broken stage floor. When Owen started hauling backwards, Curt managed to get a hold of the edge of the stage, and made it a joint effort to haul him to his feet. "You're alright… You're okay…"

Curt essentially fell into Owen's arms. Owen held on tight, like he could lose his partner at any second to the swirls and the crevice. He stared out into the emptiness, ignoring the very real pain that he could feel at his wrist but cherishing the very reel feeling of Curt's shirt underneath his hands. The very air seemed to shift. Owen wasn't previously aware that colours could get angry, but this green that flooded the space behind his eyes was pissed. He could feel it.

So was he. Pissed, and way more desperate than a man ought to be.

"Alright," he muttered once, and Curt drew back ever so slightly. He noticed Owen was staring off into the greater expanse, and hoped for all it was worth that he couldn't see something out there.

"Alright!" His voice got louder, and he tried to mask his utter despair in an authorative tone. "I get it. You hear me? I get it!"

Everything fell eerily silent. The only sound that remained was the pounding of Owen's heart in his ears. He took a breath, strangely certain of himself. Glanced at Curt. Spared his attention on the void again.

"That soldier… Wilbur Cross? That was your fault, wasn't it? There's a good reason nobody can get very far into digs like these, and it's because you strive to kill them before they do. Nobody ought to know what's on the other side, and that's why nobody does…"

"Owen, what're you doing?" Curt whispered, but to no response and little avail. Owen was lost in whatever he was about to say.

"… But, I've heard talk of bargains being made here, so how about it?"

"Your desperation speaks for itself."

Owen had to pretend that that— the voice from the middle of nowhere or what it had said to him— didn't bother him in the slightest. He steeled himself, not sure where to direct his attention but knowing he'd probably have it right no matter what he chose. "What do you say, am I allowed to make a deal?"

The air shifted. Owen didn't receive a direct answer, but he knew that he'd been allowed to continue. "If I don't continue— if I go back, and tell my people that it's an impossibility, that it can't be done— would you let him go?" Another quick glance at Curt, as if the green something needed clarification, or as if he knew what he was signing himself up for.

Curt was frozen in place, his eyes wide. He'd heard every word as it echoed in the void, and he hated what it was implying. His gaze was fixed on Owen, fear blazing through his face. "No, Owen—" his voice came out weak. As far as literal interpretations go, that was not a good one. He didn't understand what was happening, but it terrified him to know that Owen was being so calm about this, while he could be selling his life away with nothing more than a few choice words.

Owen frowned, and muttered an apology he was sure only Curt would catch. The green grew angrier, setting a violent fire behind his eyes and forcing him onto his knees as the pain flooded his body.

"You better not be fucking with me."

"No! I— I wouldn't! I'm serious! I'll call it off, I swear on my life, just… He has nothing to do with any of this. It's not his fault."

The thing considered, holding Owen firmly in place while he deliberated. Curt couldn't move— he didn't dare, lest something happen to Owen that put him in more danger than he was already in. All he could do was force himself into keeping his breath steady, and not thinking about what a single wrong move could do to either of them. His eyes landed on the friction burn winding neatly around Owen's wrist, and he decided to focus on that for a while; the only other colour in a void of blackness and green.

"Very well."

That was the last thing Owen heard. Some part of his mind just shut down, and he collapsed to the floor of the stage. He didn't hear the way Curt screamed his name, or the return of the chorus of laughter. His eyes closed, and the next thing he knew, he was waking up with a start, underneath the sheets of his own bed, gasping for breath. He sturdied himself out, and once he was sure that he was real, and definitely in a familiar space, he looked over to Curt, and found him still asleep.

"Curt?" His voice was soft, but his mind was a knife point of tension. If that had gone wrong, then why was he the one to live through it ant not Curt? He tried again, biting his lip. "Curt..?"

Curt groaned. His eyes opened slowly. The relief that Owen felt hit him like a tidal wave.

For some reason, Curt was entirely surprised to see that Owen had made it through to the other side. He managed a weary smile, and tried to get his vision into focus. That was one of those decisions that he immediately came to regret. As soon as he brought himself a little more into the real worls, he noticed that the brown in Owen's eyes was stained with something else, and it made him feel sick to his stomach. Dripping down his irises was a flash of toxic, unsettlingly bright green.

[cruelprincae]

admire - Jude

PROMPTS FOR ORDINARY THINGS THAT FEEL INTIMATE

[ admire ] sender stares at receiver across a room, silently admiring and appreciating them from afar

There are times when the High King cannot tell whether the way his wife looms across the chambers of their rooms, ever so efficiently blending with the shadows that surround her is out of malice, repulse, or genuine curiosity as she contemplates whether agreeing to marry him is worth the trouble or not ― perhaps, all three, should he consider Jude's like and the inherent distaste of himself that came with it. Although he cannot tell with certainty the reason behind it, what Cardan does know, is that her lurking reminds him of an animal, a predator in all its might and callously studying its prey from afar, moments before it pounces on them, bearing a sharp set of teeth and claws to bite on bones and tear on flesh. It is unsettling and the way she ever so gradually and meticulously tilts her head to the side, her dark eyes never quite leaving his silhouette from where he is lying sprawled upon their bed, only adds to his discomfort.

Not that he would ever admit such weakness to the High Queen of Faerie. Already she deems him a lightweight, a broken, drunken semblance of a ruler she ought to be rid of the first chance she gets before he further spoils the throne and infects it with his essence. Admitting to it would not add to his advantage and so, Cardan speaks it nought, instead pushing himself against the wooden headboard in a sitting position and offering the mortal one of his finest, most dazzling cheshire smiles he can conjure.

❛ Must you lurk over there like some wraith ? ❜ Inquires the High King with a long-suffering sigh. Black eyes, rimmed in a halo of gold roll in their sockets in indignation, his posture effortlessly gracious and elegant even in their somewhat sobrient state. ❛ You are aware you may choose to recline on the bed as well, right ? It is as much yours as it is mine. I shall not bite. ❜ Then, his smile curls, widening upon sharp features the further he entertains the idea. ❛ Not unless you wish me to, anyway. ❜

[astralbooks]

Project Nought - Chelsey Furedi

Read: 18/02/2023

Rating: 4/5

Rep: brown gay main character, achillean main character, m/m relationship, East Asian non-binary side character, sapphic side character, Māori disabled side character who uses a wheelchair, brown side character, various other queer and non-white side characters including the villains

CW: medical experimentation, confinement, character death (both on page and in backstory), grief, misgendering (brief, not malicious, quickly corrected)

Review:

Ren, a teenager from the year 1997, wakes up in the year 2122 and is told he’s been pulled forward in time as part of a yearly project at New Zealand university. He’s hesitant to fully engage in life in the future at first, and just as he’s starting to relax into everything he and his new friends discover that not all is as it seems and that the giant corporation that has its fingers in every aspect of life might not be as benevolent as it first appears.

I liked the core four characters! Jia is probably my favourite, closely followed by Phoebe. The two of them together make up a textbook grumpy x sunshine couple, though I found the direction their relationship takes to be super interesting! They’re into each other, and they both know it, but they also both know that Jia’s in no position to be in a relationship right now, so they’re not together, they’re friends, and it’s genuinely fine. This approach is a pretty rare one and I found it really refreshing to read!

Mars, the secondary main character, is a total sweetheart. His enthusiasm for the mere concept of time travel is completely understandable, honestly I’d probably be just as hyped if I were in his position. He’s somewhat naive and initially has complete faith and belief in Chronotech, which does cause some trouble for the group, but he’s not incapable of admitting when he’s wrong and when the truth of the situation becomes clear he’s all in. 

All things considered, I think Ren reacted to suddenly waking up over 100 years into his future very well. He has a life back home, and at the exact moment he was taken from he’d just made a discovery and a decision that had the potential to change his life massively, so it’s hardly surprising that he doesn’t quite manage to hit the ground running. He gets the hang of it all, though, and he handled every situation thrown his way over the course of the story about as well as could be expected. He’s a solid main character and I enjoyed reading from his perspective!

I would’ve liked a little more build up to the relationship between Ren and Mars. I liked the way it went after the point that they established that they liked each other, I just would’ve preferred a teensy little bit more build up and tension before their initial kiss. This is purely a personal preference, though, and I’d hardly call this a case of instalove. I just like my burns to be a bit slower than this one was.

The overall message of the story serves as a cautionary tale against allowing one company to monopolise all areas of life. Chronotech effectively controls all tech, has strong links in the police, and is even inherently intertwined with the university that Mars goes to, and with this level of influence in society comes a lack of oversight and an ability to exploit and hurt whoever they want without any fear of repercussions. The comparisons between this and the big corporations of today are unavoidable.

I figured out what was going on way before any of the characters did. Being able to predict where a story is going isn’t something that bothers me, I care way more about whether a story is well constructed than I care about its ability to surprise me, but it’s worth noting in case it might bother you. Something that does actually bother me is when part of a mystery is sustained solely through a character refusing to answer questions without a good in-universe reason for doing so, and that unfortunately did come into play a little here. They got it out of her in the end, but they were already allies so there was little reason for the delay other than to drip feed the reader some more. In the grand scheme of things this is a minor complaint, but it’s a pet peeve of mine and so it’s noticeable to me when it happens.

Overall, this was a fun read! The characters were likeable, there was a good balance of funny to serious moments, and the overall message is one that’s sorely needed in the present. If you’re looking for a quick sci-fi read then I’d highly recommend picking this one up!

Thank you to Clarion Books and HarperCollins for providing me with an arc in return for an honest review

[libidomechanica]

But the Indies

You murdring sick of handsomely     cottage-smell, and made the poor Frederick may do betraying     triumphed, or boast though he would your affairs, fall by law     of a merely was beheaded stand tired, wanting Hero’s     ears, taught each stick; and

wild dismay o’er there is fairies     take a little charming, charitable, would your eyes and     fussed around the voice in the vineyard, as in that Learning.     Had been and we close besides alas! We little Leila,     with his time and unco

wae, to thee. But love calls for rich     in the Bard refuse than what singing, Die, oh!—But this: Once     you surpassed, they formed, and meed! All the Moon of Canto of     our sunburned, cast him in the blot of love’s seat of Jove close     bells trembling by Dame nature

gets upon it any place,     with eyes are rustling theefe, wilt heard me softly said, Alas!—     Which so prevarication, not ask.—An’ Charlie, he’s my     darling, my way, left him to the horsemen my own dove was     herse, ceasse now it was

uncertain if one discolours tourne.     Plus the sun himself, and I am, yet mighty mass     returning I feel! Those sweet harmony. Ends me birth, as if     facing here sole in this homestead, they could run dry. And fain     by steale but ofttimes

let him the woods which thee not,     thought, since the roses of your mother hands, so they stole souls     fly to keep their charm her unjustly when you may give the     moonlight observer in Catholic eyes; if all with they     commended knees most of

sentimental. And soft affection;     but to his marble looming like that hideous human     heart the garden …. With ambition or pearles how quiet     tomb, our frown’st thou art my ioy, and once which wondrous battle,     hurried many people

in the high prize, both in thy praise     add something my launch. Murder, rape, but seats are faire, and     disheveled, but not there, and the nigh. I look at thy will; since     she sounds with dost beguile keepe from the days. The guest to me     wandering back, which made

agree. Again thy affair, so     you constitutional debt-sinkers. Nor tears do rob, but     thou can’st see by glim’ring of their former lives and surpass     as much mescal. Her who is the same times behind, go sleep,     as I by yours, and thrusts

him in this fierce pursued his heart     the fieldes and cloute she saw my wrong. Forbid! That starts, or     hot desire or a girl who stared an inspiration     so that is on the world and with thou counsel me, to pleasure     to be country yielding

organs to flow. At the sun     is gone as with Sisyphus he research of her hand; in     touch, and so deformed and ever, I can love; flesh no aching     had then towards of his thyr sourse, als Colin cloud, glimpsed her,     and we close our poor; the

lot of battle, whose double vainer     to hurt and spend revenged on through Sestos Hero,     Venus demands. Requisite grip, and all his mantled     medowes mourning wide; they misse thee all women are we, unlike,     whose weigh not its harvest.

Without remorse. For dead and     now beginnings are style become not you. And will come I,     since from my jewel out? Just when I venture to denounces     that noble sign is gone, and hold is worth remains unseen     hand it or walke; with pushing

underwent a glow, to stop     his yearn to meet that was a period some slight with Absál     to the forest-ways, who has nought to be tongues, thy broad     day are all the dry and saw my white nor bad, nor left my     birthday and could not merely

was deem’d so sweet. Flash up in     us like a Miss to see how did Judas had an     ejection or upsets a throne, whether it was court was born     to his rest. No man’s door, he is fled; in the brere be with     his Agrarian laws

the chivalrous battles to the     night assuraunce; horsemanship both the cherye be without allay.     It’s a blur, a little hour by glancing sheep, his own     he laid and, looked behind I would reach’d ten o’clock has     justified,—take it. The sole

mortal men, that which was not daunted     man, she knew. Seemed to light which the boatman’s good society:     and the lantern, Child. The light of sleep in the and,     where liues she quiet! When the way of wrath and a wretched     race, incensed with his look.

[love-and-other-potions]

Tutoring Gone Right

Professor Snape x Student reader

You sit at your Potions desk and nervously anticipate the paper that Professor Snape is handing out now. Your entire class had been struggling with the Potions work as of late. Instead of trying a new teaching method, the Professor decided that you needed a bigger incentive to work harder. He made this paper worth 30% of your final grade. Needless to say, you've been anxious.

Several nights in a row, you have gone without sleep just to proof and write your paper. And now is the revealing moment to see if it was all for nought.

The Professor hands you your paper folded in half without looking at you. With a dread-filled stomach, you open it. The air escapes your lungs in a single second. Written largely at the top of the paper is a T.

You deflate into your seat and sigh in defeat. This confirms that you'll need tutoring. You wish there were another option, but if you bring home another horrible Potions grade, your parents will Avada Kedavra you. You resign yourself to this horrible fate as the bell rings.

You stay seated until everyone leaves the classroom. The Professor notices that you're still present and raises an eyebrow at you.

"The bell has rung,  L/N."

You smile meekly.

"I know Professor. I stayed after to inquire whether you would offer tutoring."

"Why should I tutor you rather than a student with high marks?"

"Because you're the expert in this field. The students with high marks just know how to answer a prompt in a way that you find satisfactory."

He stares at you for a long moment before giving a slight nod.

"Very well. Be back here after your last class. If you're even five minutes late, never speak of tutoring to me again."

You nod.

"Thank you Professor."

You grab your things and leave him silently.

******************

Your last class is Muggle Studies. Your friends attempt to talk to you, but you ignore them and rush to the Potions room. They look offended yet you can't let yourself care right this moment.

You hurl yourself into the dungeon. As you enter, he looks down at his watch as you attempt to level your heavy breathing.

"What class do you have last?" He asks curiously.

"Muggle.... Studies," you croak.

He blinks at you.

"You just ran down four staircases to be here on time?"

You nod.

"You must really want this tutoring," he comments.

"Need," you correct in a hoarse gasp.

He makes a clicking sound in his throat.

"Right."

You set your bag on the table closest to his desk. You watch in mute exasperation as your bag falls to the floor. Its contents scatter. You groan in disbelief before you pick it up and shove it onto the desktop. Your Muggle Studies notes scatter. The Professor stands and attempts to collect the papers.

"I'm sorry, Professor."

"Don't be stupid , L/N. You didn't intend to make a mess of my room."

You smile slightly. Although the words were said as sharp remarks, you understand the actual meaning to his words. As he hands them to you, he looks down at the words.

"Ah, you're studying the classic and most romantic play ever written in the Muggle World."

You laugh, which causes him to raise an eyebrow at you.

"You find that funny?"

When you realize that his comment was serious, you sober.

"I'm sorry, sir. I assumed you to be joking."

"Why is that?"

"Romeo and Juliet is not romantic."

"How so? They believed their love to be so strong that they died for it."

You blink at him.

"He was 17 years old and she was 13. They're hardly old enough to decide to take their own lives because of this lust they had for one another."

"How do you explain that so many Muggles deem this story romantic then?"

You ponder this for a moment.

"Because everyone is in love with the thought of loving someone so completely that they give their lives for it. I admit, it's morbid yet it's true. That's evident in a lot of Muggle and Wizard fiction alike."

"What would you suggest that Shakespeare had written differently then?"

"If Romeo had just masturbated a couple times a week, he could have saved both nice families a whole heap of trouble."

Professor Snape stares at you for a long moment. Your face flushes once you realize that you had just argued with him.

"I applaud you, L/N."

You raise an eyebrow.

"How so Professor?"

"You take the information that you're given and filter it through. You create your own opinion and don't sway in the face of opposition. Had you been another student, their knees would be trembling and they would be stuttering an agreement. I completely agree with your stance on Romeo and Juliet."

"Oh. Uhm, thank you."

You smile at him. You notice that his cheeks slightly pinken before he clears his throat.

"Potions is kind of like Muggle math. You can get the number 4 several different ways. You can add 3 and 1 or 2 and 2. You can add 5 and -1 or 6 and -2. All that matters is the solution..."

Several hours later, you two emerge from the Potions classroom for dinner time.

"Be back in my classroom tomorrow after your Muggle Studies class L/N. Or else."

You smile at his stern expression.

"Please call me Y/N, Professor. This L/N business is so formal. Besides, we're going to be spending a lot of time together because Potions really baffles me yet I'm confident you can teach me your ways. We might as well be on a first name basis."

"Are you asking to call me Severus as well?"

"If you ask nicely."

You wink at him and watch in astonishment as his cheeks redden again.

"Alright Y/N. I'll grant you this one request. It's much easier to yell Y/N rather than L/N in exasperation."

The corner of your lips rise.

"Haha, very funny Professor."

"Severus," he mumbles.

You raise an eyebrow. He looks at the floor.

"But only when we're alone. If you call me Severus in front of anyone, I'll make your life hell."

You smile at him.

"Thank you Severus. For everything."

His lips slightly upturn. He nods and begins to walk away from you.

****************

Your laugh echoes from the empty classroom walls as you lean back in your desk chair.

"You have got to be kidding!"

He shakes his head.

"No. Shakespeare wasn't a genius. He was an ordinary guy that thought outside the box enough that made his stories and plays famous."

"Exactly! He was ordinary yet he achieved so much! He created words that is the basis for most of our basic language. An average educated man uses 20,000 words in his lifetime. Shakespeare used approximately 36,000. That's around 16,000 words more. He was a genius and nothing you say will convince me otherwise."

He shakes his head, as in disbelief.

"You are a very stubborn person."

You grin.

"It's one of my finer qualities."

"It must be your finest because I haven't seen many fine qualities in you Y/N."

"Well, now you've made me mad. Now we can never be friends!"

"Why must you wound me, Y/N?"

"You started it! Now teach me Potions. You obviously can't teach me how to be nice."

He attempts to keep his face neutral but you recognize the amusement in his dark eyes.

"Potions is an art. Your cauldron is your canvas and the ingredients are your art supplies. The way that the art supplies go together on the canvas, or in the cauldron, has a delicate balance that....."

At dinner time, you stand and rub your temples.

"I have a major headache, but I feel like I understand Potions a little more now."

He stops mid-step and walks into the closet.

"Was it something I said?" You wonder aloud to the empty room.

He returns a few moments later with a small vial of potion in hand. He holds it out to you.

"This potion will have your headache gone in about five minutes."

You raise an eyebrow.

"That's fast."

"Yes. I've created something that is a catalyst in rapid results. If you don't trust the potion, I won't be offended."

"I trust you, Severus."

To emphasize your point, you down the potion. Your face twists as you set the empty bottle on the table. He notices your displeasure.

"That's one thing I have not been able to master: the aftertaste."

"Thanks for warning me," you reply drily.

"No problem."

"Well, thanks for giving me a headache then curing it. I have places to be, food to eat."

"I'll see you tomorrow evening Y/N."

You turn and smile at him before opening the door.

"I'll be looking forward to it Severus."

You leave with a smile on your face.

*************

"Lady Macbeth is a Slytherin and Macbeth is a Gryffindor," Severus drawls from behind his desk.

"No argument on the Lady, but Macbeth was so a Hufflepuff."

"Macbeth slaughtered two armies for the sake of glory. Gryffindor."

"Macbeth slaughtered two armies because of his loyalty to Duncan. Hufflepuff."

"He's a blithering idiot. Gryffindor!"

"To quote Hamlet, act III, scene iii, line 92: 'No.' You have such a weird bias towards Gryffindors Severus. I'm disappointed."

He sighs.

"I'm not going to win, am I?"

"You're smarter than you look."

He rolls his eyes.

"Oh thank Merlin. I thought I had lost my good looks."

"That will never happen, Severus. It's not even possible."

You wink at him and he looks away.

"So, um, Potions. The key is to know enough about your ingredients so you can anticipate the reactions when they're combined."

**************

You're walking down the hallway when an arm is wrapped around your shoulder. You look over to see some boy that's younger than you are.

"What are you doing later tonight?" He purrs

"Not you, so remove the arm before you lose it."

"Come on baby. Don't be like that."

"I will hex you in the place that you better pray grows back," you hiss.

He stops walking and presses you against the wall.

"Let me convince you otherwise," he whispers.

You shove the tip of your wand into his ribcage.

"Try it and see what happens."

"I suggest that you two move this elsewhere," a familiar voice drawls behind the creep's back.

The jerk jumps back in alarm. You look up in relief to see Severus' impassive face. The kid nods and scampers away. Before you can thank Severus, he leaves with his robes billowing behind him.

He must have pressing matters elsewhere you think as you turn to walk again.

***************

"Honey I'm home," you call as you enter the Potion's dungeons.

Severus is sitting behind his desk with a cold mask upon his face.

"I'd appreciate it if you didn't come into my classroom bellowing  L/N. Now sit down and be quiet. I have to attempt the impossible task of teaching you something."

You pause mid-step and can't stop the hurt from being evident on your face.

"Severus, what's wrong with you?"

"That's Professor Snape to you," he snaps.

A knot rises in your throat although your anger begins to dissolve it.

"Cut the crap, Severus Snape. Now tell me what crawled up your ass and died or I'm leaving."

He dark eyes stare at you for a moment.

"Don't let the door hit you on the way out."

You laugh in disbelief.

"I'm sorry Professor Snape. I'm going to cancel my tutoring from this point forward. It seems all you are able to teach me is how to be a dick."

You twist on your heel and stalk out.

*****************

For the next few days, you stay to yourself. Whenever you have Professor Snape as a teacher, you refuse to even glance at him. You take the notes you need, but that's the minimum.

After your last class, you head back to your dorm. You don't understand why his attitude suddenly did a 180.

You miss him. You really do. Severus had quickly become one of your best friends and now he suddenly is pissed at you. It baffles and saddens you.

*****************

The bell rings, signaling that you can leave Potions now.

" L/N, may I see you after class?"

"I have another class to attend Professor."

Several people around you look at you oddly for giving one of the most feared teachers an attitude.

"I'll write you a pass."

You sigh as everyone leaves the dungeon.

"What do you want Professor Snape? I have a History of Magic class to sleep through."

He sighs deeply.

"Can you cut the attitude Y/N?"

"Cut the attitude?" You ask in disbelief. You laugh bitterly and continue. "If I recall correctly, you have me attitude first."

"Because you disappointed me Y/N!"

You blink at him.

"How in the fuck did I disappoint you? I'm sorry I don't know all the answers to Potions! That's the entire point of needing tutoring!"

"That is not what I'm referring to and you know it!" He huffs angrily.

"Then please tell me what I supposedly already know!"

"How about the time that I walked down the hallway and basically found you having sex in it?"

You wrinkle your eyebrows together before you realize what he's referring to.

"Do you mean that disgusting boy that tried hitting on me and I threatened to hex his junk off if he touched me again?"

He looks at you in disbelief.

"You expect me to believe that? He had you pressed against the wall!"

"And if you had looked closely, you would have noticed my wand was in his ribs!"

He stared at you.

"And why in the hell do you care? Why would you care if I were to be kissing a boy in the hallway?" You fume.

He grits his teeth.

"When I saw that brat pressing himself against you, this insane feeling of jealousy overpowered me. I knew he didn't deserve you."

You anger dissolves and rushes out of your body.

"Jealousy?"

He nods.

"I've gotten quite attached to you Y/N. I enjoy your company and you understand me like no one else. I have feelings for you."

"Good feelings?"

He smiles.

"Yes. Good feelings."

You take a step forward.

"And what do you plan on doing with those feelings?"

"Well, I was hoping to get to know your feelings before I decided."

"Oh Severus. Of course I have feelings for you. Why else would I have come down to this cold dungeon every day to see you? Yes, I needed the tutoring but once our bond started developing, my improved grade was just an added bonus."

He sighs in relief.

"But I cannot believe that you became a colossal dick because you were jealous of a 2nd year boy."

He glares at you. You shrug at him as you sit on the edge of his desk. You put your foot on the edge of his spin chair and nudge it so that he's facing you. You lean down so that your nose is touching his.

"So what do we do now?" You breathe

"Well we could-"

You interrupt him by pressing your lips against his. You pull back and grin at his dazed face.

"Sorry. I got a little trigger happy."

You bite your bottom lip and his eyes follow the motion. His tongue traces his bottom lip as he leans them towards yours. He places his hands on your hips as his lips embrace yours once again. He pulls back and leans his forehead against yours.

"I'll do anything for an O, Professor."

He groans in exasperation.

"You just had to ruin the moment, didn't you?"

You smile.

"What can I say? It's what I'm good at."

"You're also good at being a pain in the arse."

"But now I'm your pain in the arse."

He pulls you closer to him.

"And it's going to stay that way," he informs you.

[ladyfloriographist]

Valentine

Pairing: Captain Nicholls (War Horse) x femme!Wife!Reader

Warnings: WWI setting, alternate ending fix-it of sorts?, war and death themes, bad for Joey good for James, writing letters (sometimes sexy), yearning, features Major Jamie Stewart (Benedict Cumberbatch)

XXXX

Captain James Nicholls poured himself a drink and gazed at the sepia photograph. He kept it in his barracks so that he’d always have something to come back to; always, a reason to return to his quarters alive.

He sighed, looking at your photograph. The lighting had been wonderfully golden that afternoon, and your hair had sat so prettily about your face. He picked up the small frame and traced over your image with his thumb.

The urge to write you overwhelmed him. He was certain you hadn’t yet received his most recent letter, having despatched it only yesterday morning—but the desire to feel closer to you was too strong to ignore.

It didn’t ease his heavy heart that the only thing he could do was send you words on a page written by his hand, but the thought of you ripping open the envelope and avidly reading his correspondence before eagerly writing him back compelled him to sit at his desk and scratch out a note.

James loosened the standard-issue khaki-green tie as he pulled a pencil from the top drawer of the desk. He flicked open the top button of the long-sleeved beige-green shirt and ran his long fingers through his neatly-parted, close-cropped, blond hair.

He cleared his throat, and hovered the pencil above the paper, before launching in:

My dearest, loveliest Mrs Nicholls, Today your photograph caught my eye more than it usually does. Not a day goes by that I don’t think about you reclined on the chaise in the sunroom, the photographer’s bulb snapping pictures of your angelic form. My sketches of you like that keep me company still. But today was different. I wish the photograph had some way of conveying the colour of your eyes. This is not to say that I have forgotten the look of them. Quite the contrary, dear heart. My memory of the hue of your iris, the fathomless black of your pupil, and the curl of your lashes are of’times the only things that grant me sleep at night in this dreary France. My darling, how I long to see them again. To see the two perfectly shaped crystal orbs in your face and look into them until I lose myself in your soul.

James paused, and supped his drink. He glanced at your photograph on his dresser and a crushing weight descended on his heart.

He gulped down the knot in his throat and continued on:

I count the days until this bitter biting winter is over and we British return home to our loves. We are assured that triumphal victory over the Germans is in our sights and you, my dear one, are in my thoughts always.

He signed his name and addressed the envelope to the home you shared in south Oxfordshire, and it was only when he started to write the date that he realised the significance of the day. He smiled and wrote it at the top of the letter:

14 February 1915

XXXX

He was frustrated with no where to put the frustration, and cold with no way to shake the chill. James slumped down into his chair and sat with his head in his hands. His eyes burned.

He dragged his hands down his face and groaned. He’d buried too many today.

Alone in his barracks the Captain privately wondered whether King and Country were worth the cost of so much, so many lives, so many lessons on how to break a man.

Recalling the stench of the gas and the death soured his breath in his mouth and sickened his gut.

He visibly shook the thoughts from his mind and reached for the only relief and release he’d come to count on: a pencil and a scrap of paper, and the sepia photograph of you.

My love, the dearest Mrs Nicholls,

My sweet heart, I miss you.

James held the pencil in his hand, poised to say more, paralysed to write it. The blunted nib hovered over the textured paper and he swallowed, picturing your radiant smile, hearing the trill of your laugh.

He coughed. “Write on, Jimmy,” he murmured to himself, more surprised than he should have been at the croak in his voice. He flexed his fingers on the pencil and wrote:

It soothes me some to address you as my darling wife. Please do not think of me a lesser man, but it is a great comfort to me to know that you are mine and I am yours, and you wait for me on the other side. I fear I shall never see the end of it – this wretched mess. Lord knows many of my men will not—not anymore. The snow has given way to the muddy sludge of spring in the land of the ancient Frank and I find myself longing for nought but a flat, hard stretch of Earth to walk our staunch British soldiers through. They are weary, as I confess I am.

James stopped. He rubbed at his eyes and took a swig of whiskey, sighing as it burned down his throat. Cheap, but the best available. He wrote on:

My Joey doesn’t much mind the mud. A beautiful beast and I am lucky to rely on such a fearless creature. I shall enclose a drawing of the noble steed. I am told that soon we shall spot fruiting mulberry trees between the thick French forests of oak and beech. I can’t imagine anymore something so fresh and vibrant as a berry. Ridiculous trifle. Nothing here is as sweet or juicy as you, my love. My darling heart.

James laid the pencil flat on the desk for the last time tonight. He sighed, lost to reminiscence.

XXXX

Captain Nicholls tipped the glass to his lips only to find it was empty.

He huffed as he put it down on the desk and slid it away, wanting to get up and re-fill it but knowing he has perhaps had too much already.

James looked back at his drawing. It was quite the likeness, if he did say so himself. He hoped he’d gotten the relaxed fall of the towel right and commended himself on your shoulder blades and waist. He added some more details to your hair, and then some more shading to your back and the folds of the rippling towel that covered your lower half.

His favourite part was the way he’d captured your nose and chin, your face turned ever so slightly over your shoulder, your downcast eyes wordlessly beckoning him closer.

Absent-mindedly, James swallowed the excess saliva that had pooled in his mouth—a consequence of his own imaginings. He wished he had even one or two colours to add to your portrait, to bring the plain picture somewhat closer to the rich images he nurtured in his mind.

He wrote your name in the bottom right corner, and underneath it:

After a Bath Cn. JN Artois, Sep ‘15

James sat back in his chair, and as he gazed at his drawing of you he felt the stirrings of arousal, deep in the pit of his gut. He glanced to the side where your most recent reply lay, scented with a fine floral perfume from the array of pressed flowers: orange-toned iris, pink ranunculus, red rose, and purple-hued lavender.

And read them, he had—for what they truly meant.

I love you, you’d said. I’m promised to you. I’m devoted to you, and I want you.

I desire you.

His heart had leapt up into his throat at the small and precious bouquet, and he’d immediately set to work sketching you.

For a few moments James closed his eyes and let his mind drift far and away from the nightmare that plagued his days. He thought about the last time he saw you, on the morning he left Oxfordshire to take the ferry into France. You hadn’t let him out of bed until the last possible moment, and he hadn’t attempted to leave until then either.

He blinked slowly back to the present as his desire grew, then quickly picked up a pencil.

James wrote:

My darling Mrs Nicholls,

My dearest love, tonight I remember the time we danced together in our new kitchen. We’d just moved to Abingdon and everything was new. Your dress that night was full of red blooms and your bright red lipstick dazzled me. We swayed to Sweet Adeline, my darling, do you remember? You smelt like orange blossoms and evening jasmine, I remember.

He sat back in his chair and let the memories crowd him like a swarm of bees: how he’d kissed you and where he’d touched you and the way he’d fucked you so thoroughly that your hair pins had come undone.

You never did find that one rogue button that flew off as he ripped open your dress.

His desire became a hot, burning need—long and thick between his legs. He resisted the urge to touch himself.

It’s cruel, my love, he wrote. The gift of your flowers tantalises me. Memories of you flood my mind like the waves of the ocean flood the sandy shore. Would you do this, loveliest lady? Most sultry sorceress? Would you leave me with your kiss upon my lips and your taste within my mouth, on my tongue to tease and torture me so sweetly? I feel you even now.

James adjusted in his chair as a distracting ache settled at the juncture of his thighs. He was desperately aroused, so stiff and hard, so ready to take you to bed and open you on his cock—to watch you bloom for him like the petals on your soft, pretty flowers. He continued:

Like Henry’s Catherine there is witchcraft in your lips, but also in your deeds, and you enchant me. I ache for your touch, my darling.

James let his eyes fall closed and ran a light touch of his palm over his swollen cock. The sensation shot through him like a bolt of lightning from the Heavens and he shuddered. It had been so long. He pulled his lower lip between his teeth and bit down.

Shall I take myself in hand and think of your sweet cunt? Your hot wet mouth? Your own soft hand? I am caught in your spell—I cannot resist, and I am too far gone for restraint. Dear sweet heart, were that you the flower and I the honey bee, I would horde your nectar for myself and eat all your sugary sweetness until it dribbled down my chin. Darling, how I long to dip my wick in your wax and feel you catch alight.

He dotted the period onto the paper with force, and threw the pencil onto the desk with a groan of frustration.

He breathed hard, panting breaths for a few moments, until he hastily unbuttoned the khaki slacks that confined him.

James decided to finish this letter tomorrow morning.

XXXX

“Ready, Jim-boy?” said Major Jamie Stewart good-naturedly, crossing one leg over the other and readying a pencil and small stack of papers.

James smiled as his friend and commander settled on the chair beside his cot. The Captain felt as though too much of a fuss was being made; as though he was taking up a valuable bed in the field hospital.

“Now, no funny business,” said the Major, his words in jest and his face faux-serious, “I’ll hear no pillow talk and I will certainly not dictate it.”

Despite it all, James had to laugh. Despite the pain that shot through his arm from his shoulder to his fingertips. Despite feeling like a deserter, a man who abandons his oaths and his friends. Despite wishing for nothing more than to be wrapped up in your arms.

Jamie smiled ruefully. He’d medically discharged that many men that by now, he could watch the emotions at war on their faces. He decided not to let his friend dwell on them. “How shall I start, Jimmy?”

James rested properly against the two flat, uncomfortable pillows beneath his head. He sighed, “My dear love, sweet Mrs Nicholls.”

Jamie scribbled onto the pages.

“First,” said James, “allow me to apologise—no. Not that, sorry Stu—”

Jamie scratched out some words.

“First, I must apologise,” James said, and Jamie nodded, “for the long interval in writing you back. Allow me to explain the delay, dear one.”

“Mhm,” Jamie hummed, his eyes trained on the paper as he wrote James’ words for him.

“There is no cause for alarm. I am well—no. I am… hurt, but recovering. Yes. Hurt but recovering.”

“Hurt,” Jamie echoed as he wrote dictation, “but… re-cov-er-ing… Yes, go on, Jim.”

“Two days past—”

“Three,” Jamie interrupted.

“Has it been three? Truly? Good God. Three days past we launched an attack on the Germans. Joey charged on ahead at a gallop and was struck by artillery fire. I am not sure where—no, Stu. Erm—struck by artillery fire and… and bolted behind the German line. In his panic he bucked me from his back and I fell. I know nothing more of his condition.”

James breathed deeply to steady himself. It would all be far less anxious if he could explain in person, but as it was, he was already behind in his replies to you and the trip back to Oxfordshire—in his condition—would not necessarily be a quick one.

At his friend’s silence, the Major looked up and said, “alright, Jim-boy?”

James cleared his throat and continued dictating his letter. “My injuries consist of a dislocated shoulder and a fractured radius, both on my right side where I came down hard on the ground.”

Jamie looked sceptical. “’My injuries consist’?”

James shot his friend a look and Jamie quickly scrawled the words onto the paper.

“I am to be discharged and despatched from camp shortly. Darling, you can expect me home by the end of the month.”

Jamie smiled at the endearment. “Anything else, my friend?”

James swallowed. “My heart beats to see you, dearest.” Hot tears swelled in the Captain’s eyes as an acute longing pierced his chest. He cleared his throat and looked up at the tent ceiling of the makeshift hospital. “Dictated by Major Jamie Stewart, forwarding address, all my love, Captain James et cetera, et cetera,” he mumbled quickly.

He felt the phantom touch of your hand wrap around his and he held back a sob. He was coming home to you, but the guilt of leaving his purpose, his men, and his commanders chased away any happiness with blazing torches and sharpened pitchforks.

Jamie’s warm hand gripped his shoulder. “James. I know, James.”

“Stu,” said James thickly, his eyes falling closed as warm, saline tears slipped down his temples and into his hair.

Jamie squeezed James’ flesh where he grabbed him, attempting to reassure his friend. There were no words for such moments where immense relief blended with crushing disappointment. Jamie felt his own eyes well with tears to see his strong, brave friend and soldier overwhelmed by such conflicting feelings.

He clutched James’ hand in his. “Jimmy,” his voice cracked on the nickname, but he continued on. “Jim-boy. If we post this tonight, by six o’clock, we can make the express.”

James sniffed and coughed. “Mm? And?”

“And, she’ll get it by Valentine’s Day, all things being equal.” Jamie squeezed James’ hand and gripped tight. “Valentine’s Day, Jim!”

James opened bleary eyes. “Do you mean that, Stu?”

Jamie snatched the pencil and leant the paper on his own thigh to write on it. “Tell me how to spell her name, Jimmy,” he said, “I’ll ask her to be your valentine.”

XXXX

Note: The song ‘Sweet Adeline (You're the Flower of My Heart)’ by the Haydn Quartet, first recorded around 1908 I think, can be listened to on the YT: https://youtu.be/jRA4fdZytJQ (under 3 min)

[brothebro]

everything i wanted

Tags: Angst, mage!Jaskier, redemption from irredeemable acts of evil, Yennskier, secret identity, fucking up everything, guilt 

Summary: Jaskier is an evil mage that realizes the errors of his ways and treads the path to redemption

____________________________________________________________

Jaskier takes a deep breath. Inhale, exhale and inhale again. He pinches the bridge of his nose with two fingers. 

This can’t be right. Impossible! He goes through pages upon pages of dusty manuscripts, describing in detail his experiments. Melitele, how could he be so blind? It’s all the same, wherever he looks. The same answer written again and again and again. 

Fucking perfect. Thirty years worth of work down the drain. 

Oh, gods. 

He slams the thick notebook shut, the particles of dust that escape shimmer in the low candlelight. Under other circumstances, he’d stop for a moment to marvel at the view. But not now. Not after he– 

“Gods,” tears pool in his eyes, threatening to spill. “What did I do?!” he howls, and in a fit of anger, he snaps his fingers, setting his research alight. 

He gazes into the dancing flames, his vision blurry from crying. 

“By Melitele, I’m a monster. All those years. All those people, lost for-- for what?” For nothing. So many lives perished for his fleets of fancy. 

He really thought he was making a difference, damn it. He really fucking thought-- 

He thought it was justified. But it wasn’t. 

Was it?

He shakes his head and tries to steady his ragged breathing. He’ll get through this. He always does. He lived for three bloody centuries for fuck’s sake. Ban Ard’s finest mage.   

-

This town, dark and damp, is a real cesspool of humanity. Jaskier is not sure what he was thinking when he decided to set up his research here. Sure, the locals trust him, they seek his help more often than not. But still, the fact remains that the atrocities he committed here… The town is paved in the blood of innocents. 

And it’s his fault. All his fault.

He finds himself walking through narrow streets and gnarled paths, the tall stone and rotten wood buildings casting dark shadows in the already moonless night. For hours he wanders in this godsforsaken shithole. Somehow, he always avoids the marketplace, where his last experimental subject left her last breath. 

He knew it would end this way. Butchered by the man he tried – and failed – to hire to get rid of her. She was more danger to him alive than dead and at this point, and he thought it didn’t matter whether she lived or died. He could conduct his research on her carcass and nothing would change. 

Except- Except it was all for nought. 

How cruel he’d become over the years. He forgot what it is to be human. He forgot how to live, how to enjoy his life. And all he did was hurt innocents. Like the girl. Like the butcher. 

He idly wonders what happened to the man after he was chased out of the town with torches and pitchforks by the angry mob. Jaskier wonders if he destroyed his life irrevocably, or if he still has a chance to repent. (Not that the man would ever accept his apologies, no, he dares not even dream of that.)

But maybe it’s not too late for Jaskier. Maybe he can leave all this madness behind; start anew. 

A new life. That doesn’t sound bad. 

Maybe he can catch up with his music. Set the magic at the side and focus on his playing. Maybe even songwriting. He’s missed his wonderful lute dearly.

It’s been so many years, nigh two centuries now, from the last time he shed his old and wise mage illusion. Since he last saw his true self. He barely remembers what he looks like; he only knows he was too pretty, too innocent looking to be taken seriously. And to gain the respect of his peers, of the stinky imbecile nobles that think they control the world, he chose to appear as someone they would respect. 

Hah. What a joke. 

He tears the enchanted medallion from his neck and feels the tendrils of chaos slowly leaving his body, shaping it to be what it was always meant to be. Jaskier glances at the big glass pane of the baker’s shop; gods, he looks impossibly young. Gone are the crow’s feet, gone is his patchy beard and receding hairline. Gone, too, the middle-aged form of his body, he was so accustomed to. 

He looks barely in his twenties. Yet he’s centuries old. 

And with his glamour shed, too, his carefully constructed persona slips away. 

Jaskier takes up the lute, burns his past – literally – and starts anew, travelling the continent one town at a time. He locks his magic deep inside the confines of his mind, suppressing the urge to travel by portal (oh, how much easier it is instead of his good old legs). It takes time to adjust to his new life. Sure, it’s tough sometimes. And sure, sometimes he slips up and a hint of who he used to be, resurfaces, but for the first time in his long life, he’s doing good. 

His legs take him from Oxenfurt, where he spends four years studying music – and mastering it – to Temeria and then Rivia, and from Rivia to Aedirn and the edge of the world. 

He’s in Posada, singing nonsense songs, complete and utter poppycock, and he’s having the time of his life until- Until the man he wronged so many years ago enters the dingy dirty tavern, looking so much worse since the last time he saw him; his armour looks like it’s been patched a thousand times, his swords barely holding in their cases. The butcher himself looks weary, golden eyes fleeting from person to person, calculating.

Fuck. Jaskier ruined him.  

He’s heard what that incident did to – what was his name again? – the witcher’s reputation. Still, to see it with his own eyes is a whole other thing. 

Jaskier’s got to right his wrong. He has to help the witcher somehow. 

Maybe… Yes! Excellent idea! His songs! His songs will fix everything!

And so he does or at least thinks so. Jaskier follows the witcher –  Geralt – from Posada first to a contract about a devil that goes completely sideways and ends up being a rag-tag band of elves practically on the brink of starvation, and then to the entire Continent. 

Geralt is reluctant to let the bard follow him at first, but he warms up to him at – hmmm – their second year travelling together? It does help that Jaskier’s magnificent songwriting has brought the taciturn witcher a lot of contacts and therefore a lot of coin too. 

Jaskier is pleased with these developments. He feels that he might, just might, have a chance for redemption. The guilt still lies thick in the rivers of his mind but he no longer feels like drowning in it. 

He can breathe. He can breathe. 

They travel together side by side, for many more years. During those, they have many adventures, many close brush-offs with death; mainly because Jaskier refuses to even think about his chaos, even when he feels it all around him, intoxicating, calling him to use it at every minor inconvenience. During those years, Jaskier falls inexplicably for the reticent witcher. 

He refuses to instigate any sort of romantic relationship with Geralt though, especially when the white-haired witcher knows nothing of Jaskier’s deep, dark, and quite bloody actually, secrets. It just doesn’t sit well with him. Even when he’s practically a changed man, not resembling that monster he used to be, in not even a hair of his body.

And so Jaskier stays by his side as a friend. A loud and annoying friend, but a friend nonetheless.

And at some point, a child-surprise is claimed by Geralt at a very scandalous Cintran banquet. Jaskier would like to think that it was all Geralt, invoking the law of surprise, but it’s not really. If it weren’t for the bard’s quite timely input on the situation, Geralt would have never claimed the royal kid. 

Well, that’s not actually a bad thing, yet it still feels like the witcher didn’t really want it to happen. Evidence that he ran from Cintra with his tail between his legs and vowed to never return. 

But Destiny rarely listens to the whims of mortals. Jaskier’s seen time and time again the cruel mistress meddling with the affairs of humans. Making empires rise and fall. Manipulating lives to do her bidding; valiant heroes, prophesied to change the world. 

What a bunch of poppycock.

So, it’s Jaskier that remains by his witcher’s side, through thick and thin, cursing the name of Destiny again and again – and his own stupidity too – all to make Geralt smile a little. 

What he would give for that smile. 

Inevitably, Jaskier’s insistence to ‘fuck Destiny’ and ‘you can do whatever you want, Geralt’ leads to the djinncident – as he likes to call it. 

It’s not all that bad. Sure, his throat swells up and he almost dies choking on his own blood, all because of an ill-worded wish of his witcher but- But without this whole almost dying charade (and seriously, if Jaskier wasn’t so fucking stubborn he’d have healed himself within minutes) they wouldn’t have met Yennefer of Vengerberg. 

Jaskier likes the witch; he’s immediately drawn by her beauty, by her power, by her bottomless want. And she likes him too if their playful back-and-forths are any indication (and the glorious, ballad worthy, lovemaking, of course). Loving her comes so much easier – at a lower cost, if you might – than loving Geralt. Not that Jaskier is capable of stopping feeling so much for the white-haired witcher. No, that’s nigh impossible at this point. It’s just that he hasn’t wronged the raven-haired witch back when he was still considered one of the world’s finest mages. There’s no past between them, just a clean slate where their relationship can only grow and flourish. 

And by Melitele, it does. (As does Yennefer’s and Geralt’s romantic adventure, but that’s neither here nor there. It’s not like Jaskier was ever a stern believer of monogamy. Quite the opposite, in fact.) 

He gives and gives and gives his love freely and Yennefer takes and takes and takes. They gravitate towards one another. Like magnets, they stick together. Like magnets, they pull apart when it becomes too much. 

It’s wonderful.

Until it isn’t. 

He knew he shouldn’t have followed Yennefer and Geralt on that damn mountain. He knew it was a bad idea to go dragon hunting, even when he knew that a dragon would be able to offer Yennefer what she so desired all those years. Still, the risk was too damn big. 

He should have talked. Convinced his two most important people that what they’re doing is foolish. Stupid. Utterly moronic. 

Jaskier talks so much, damn him. Why couldn’t he open his bloody mouth and persuade them to stay with him? Perhaps go to the coast. Get away for a while. 

Still, the fact remains that all three of them went on that mountain. Apparently, they defended a dragon egg for that fellow, Borch who – surprise surprise – turns out was a golden dragon himself, all while Jaskier was fast asleep in Yennefer’s tent.

When he arrives at the scene, Yennefer’s gone, the telltale remnants of chaos caused by a portal are clogging his senses. And Geralt, his dearest Geralt is shivering, gazing into nothingness. They must have fought, Jaskier thinks, and goes to console his friend (and get the story of exactly what happened before he arrived).  

“Come on, friend. Let’s get out of here,” he says cheerily, “Seems like quite the messy situation,” he gestures at the dead Reavers littering the dragon’s cave. He makes a mental note to go after Yenna after he’s successfully calmed the witcher down. 

“Damnit Jaskier!” Geralt growls, “Why is it that whenever I find myself in a pile of shit, it’s you shovelling it? The djinn, the child-surprise! Everything! If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands!” 

Well, firstly, he hasn’t seen Geralt so angry since… well, never. Secondly, he’s got a point. Jaskier tried so hard to help Geralt, to help himself really, be rid of this festering rotting guilt that’s been eating him for years now, that he acted foolishly. He’s the one that went along with the whole djinn idea. He even located the damn thing for Geralt, for fuck’s sake. When he could have just brewed him a sleeping draught.

And as for Cintra… Yeah… nudging your friend to claim the law of surprise because it would make a good ballad is hardly a selfless reason. 

And there are a million more occurrences where Jaskier fucked things up; from tavern brawls to ill worded comments towards the wrong person, to –hell– having Geralt save his sorry ass because he was too curious and followed him to a hunt while at the same time was too stubborn to use his innate magic to save himself.

That’s why Jaskier presses his lips into a thin line and nods, “That’s fair, Geralt. You’re right. I’m really sorry about everything. Truly.” 

He’s going to give Geralt his blessed silence, his wish of no more silly bard following him around and making his life a living hell. Jaskier huffs a sad laugh and with a flick of his fingers opens a portal and passes through. He doesn’t even turn back to see his friend one last time. 

In retrospect, he should have thought his dramatic exit a bit more thoroughly because he finds himself in the middle of Oxenfurt, all eyes upon him, with nothing but his bright red doublet. He left his bloody elven lute on that fucking mountain. 

He sighs and opens a portal back. 

“Forgot my lute,” he says, not even bothering to meet the eyes of the white-haired witcher. He just hears Geralt’s breath hitch as Jaskier runs back to camp to gather his meagre belongings. 

-

Jaskier wanders the dark paved streets of Oxenfurt, not sure what to do with his life anymore now that the cat is out of the bag and everyone and their mother knows he’s been secretly a mage all this time. 

Well, Yennefer doesn’t know yet. He thinks she doesn’t at least. News travel fast, and surely a rumour or two should have reached her by now. If it didn’t she’d had certainly sought him out during these past two months. But she didn’t. Therefore… 

Ugh. Jaskier’s a grade-A idiot. A buffoon, similar to the likes of Valdo Marx. 

He’s not sure how to approach this entire – he finds himself waving abstractly at nothing in particular. Should have told Yennefer years ago. She had every right to know. And now she’s probably found out from some rando. How embarrassing. 

With barding no longer a valid option, he’s lost. He has no purpose, no friends, no anything, really. 

Perhaps it’s time to go back to the Brotherhood. 

Ugh. But he doesn’t want to wear this glamour; this persona no-one likes. He wants to be himself, damnit. Young and foppish. Song and lute and everything.

-

Wallowing in self-pity and indecisiveness is a sure way to kill time, Jaskier finds out. It's been months and he's still undecided on the course of action he should take. 

Yes, he fucked up royally once again. Yes, he should think before he acts. And no, the ends do not justify the means. He should have learned that lesson long ago.

He misses his Yenna dearly, still too much a coward to go after her. And he misses Geralt too, the brooding ass he's come to love as his best friend. 

The decision on what to do comes to him a late summer's day. 

He feels the fabric of chaos bending, converging in Aretuza's great halls. He also feels part of it tainted; dark inky tendrils laying root in the south and spreading north, corrupting everything in their way. 

It's been like this for a while now, but he promptly ignored the gnawing feeling in his stomach that something's not right– or rather terribly wrong.

There are two options laid before him; do nothing and continue to nurse his heartache with the help of plentiful booze, or go to fucking Aretuza and find out what the everloving shit is going on.

He chooses the latter without much thought and opens a portal to the grand sorceresses school, appearing in the midst of what seems to be a war council.

"Jaskier," Yennefer breathes out, her lovely amethyst eyes wide in disbelief, "I heard the rumours but I didn't-" 

Tissaia cuts her off, with an unamused stern expression adorning her features, “Well well well… Look who the cat dragged back from the dead. What prompted your return, Stregobor?”

Every mage in the room mutters his – quite frankly stupid – alias, a cacophony of murmurs and surprise. 

“What the shit?” Yennefer says, her voice barely above a whisper. 

Jaskier clicks his tongue, “Stegobor was a mistake. I no longer go by that dreadful name, Tiss, and I expect you to respect that,” he takes a deep breath, “I assume I’m here for the same reason you are too; the corrupted chaos coming from the south.”

“It’s Nilfgaard,” Tissaia explains, “they took Cintra and are advancing North.”

“They tempered with chaos,” Yennefer adds, “We’re not sure what they are doing but it’s a whole shit-fest out there. They have to be stopped.” Fuck. If Cintra has fallen that means Geralt’s child-surprise… Shit. He really hopes the kid made it out of there alive.

Yennefer locks eyes with him and speaks in his mind next, “Us two need to have a long conversation later. Understood?”

“I didn’t expect anything less,” he responds to her, “for what it’s worth, I’m truly sorry.” He speaks aloud next, “I will help. Unaffiliated or not, I’m still a mage. What’s the plan?” 

-

The battle of Sodden Hill proves to be the toughest one he’s ever participated in. Nilfgaard’s mages are twisted, cruel, using forbidden magics to turn the tide of battle. 

The sorceresses of Aretuza and some of the mages of Ban Ard that followed into battle are loosing, terribly. A miracle needs to happen in order for them to persevere. To win. 

Jaskier is pulling all the tricks he knows, every single thing he can think of. From illusionary soldiers to invoking fear in the minds of the enemy. It’s hard to defeat a whole army with tricks of the mind though. Especially, if the said army is so single-minded, so fanatic. 

Yet he tries his best. Not for him. Not for forgiveness, he will never get. But for the lives of everyone north of Sodden. He’s seen what Nilfgaard does to people and he will not stand by doing nothing. He’ll fight and fight until his chaos runs low, until his legs give in. Until he dies. 

It’s not like he has anything left to live for. 

And then after everything seems lost. After countless sorcerers are lying either dead or unconscious on the cold hard ground, Yennefer stands up, feral look on her face, chaos swirling around her hands.  

“Yenna, wait!,” Jaskier howls, “Yenna, it will consume you!” he runs and runs as fast as his legs can muster reaching her side, grabbing her hands. 

And he focuses his chaos, offers it to his brilliant witch. And it’s perhaps the most foolish thing he’s done in his life, but if it means Yennefer has a chance to survive, he’ll gladly do it again. 

The spell brings havoc. A fire so big it consumes half of the Sodden forest, and with it the army of black and gold. 

They’ve won.

They’ve won. 

Jaskier falls on the ground fatigued and Yennefer follows shortly after. A humourless peal of laughter escapes his lips, “It’s done. By Melitele, it’s over.”

Yennefer breathes heavily, eyelids heavy from exhaustion, “It’s over,” she echoes, “Thank you, Jask. As much as I dislike it, I owe you one.” 

“You owe me nothing, dear heart. I was an asshole, a real whoreson, keeping this a secret for so many years. I hated myself for what I used to be, that I never stopped to think that hiding is not the solution. That it will only hurt people in the process. And I said it but I will say it again: I am so sorry. I won’t ask for forgiveness, because – Melitele’s tits – the whole thing was fucked up. As soon as I get a sliver of chaos back I’ll be out of your hair for good, I promise.” 

She huffs a laugh and speaks, “Stay.”

“You sure?” he looks at her surprised, “You know that the whole djinn thing was partly my fault too, right?”

“I figured, from what Geralt said. So, help me find a way to rid myself of the bond. Alright, you idiot?” 

“We- we’re good?” he blinks in disbelief. 

“Not yet, but we will be.”

He smiles at her and helps her up. She’s a beautiful person, his Yennefer; brave and fierce and smart and compassionate (when she wants to). 

He doesn’t expect to be fully forgiven for all the shit he’s pulled in his impossibly long life, but hey, it’s a start and he’s not one to look a gift horse in the mouth. 

And for her, he’s willing to do anything. Anything. Whatever she asks for. She deserves as much.

-

(link to ao3 in reblog)

[lets-talk-online-learning]

Teaching Level 1 - Postmortem for Classes 20-27.06.2021 and 04.07.2021

Class: Level 1 (kids aged 6, 7, and 8)

Platform: Zoom

Issue 1: unreliable internet connection

It’s monsoon season. The rains have been torrential these few Sundays, and consequently, the internet connection during classes have been less than ideal. All the lesson prep in the world is for nought if we’re not able to even be in class (this has happened; scripture memorisation was a bust that week). We need a backup plan for when teachers lose connection. Ditto for students. They need access to a lesson summary of some sort, some way to catch up.

Fixes:

For teachers: share digital materials we plan to use that week with co-teachers on Google Drive so they can sub if needed -> Flaw 1: just co-teacher access as backup may not be enough. Sub may not know how the on-duty teacher plans to use the materials for class (It's like being expected to give a good presentation with slides you've just had sprung on you. That ain’t gonna fly, man). Flaw 2: this fix is useless if the on-duty teacher doesn't use slides or videos in their lessons.

For students: post a lesson summary on Google Drive or the parent/teacher WhatsApp group chat to catch them up.

For class (video lag during screen share): share the video link instead of screen sharing, allot time to watch, then reconvene class? [to be followed up in a future post] -> Flaw: might not work with really young kids.

Issue 2: super short attention span of young kids

Like, you can lose them in the time it takes to stop one screen share and start another. Any sort of disruption to the lesson flow seems to drastically affect the kids' ability to retain what’s being taught. I’ve had a session where all they remembered that day was the WiFi failure that interrupted class 😢

Fix: become more proficient at switching between screens so delay times are minimised, OR eliminate the need to switch between screens at all. I’ve recently switched to using only the whiteboard during class. I narrate and draw out the Bible story of the week instead of using videos and slides. The kids seem to enjoy my drawing, but whether this method is actually effective at communicating lesson points, I’ll have to observe a few more lessons to see. [to be followed up in a future post]

Issue 3: messy communication system and information archive

I have four separate WhatsApp groups for Sunday School, and keeping track of all the scattered announcements and discussions can be tedious and time-consuming. Student access to class materials could also benefit from streamlining. We're using a mix of WhatsApp and Google Drive to assign/check "homework" and post up lesson summaries and announcements right now. Not the worse way of doing things, but definitely not the most efficient.

Fix: Convince Sunday School to use Google Classroom? It is built for having online classes after all, and it would streamline all the different communication channels we have going on. [to be followed up in a future post] -> Flaw 1: Sunday School just recently revamped how we have classes. Not sure if the superintendents will be willing to implement another major change so soon. Maybe suggest we use Google Classroom for communication (minimise WhatsApp groups) and student access to class materials, but stick with Zoom for actual class sessions? Flaw 2: you need a Gmail account to use Google Classroom, and not everyone has one. My students are barely out of kindergarten. They use their parents' devices and accounts. Is it worth asking the parents to create another email account just for this?

[raffinit]

Sylvaina // 8. Regency AU - Person A inheriting Person B’s father’s estate and the only way to keep Person B’s family out of the poor house is for Person B to marry Person A.

I’M SORRY THIS IS SO TERRIBLE IT’S TERRIBLE I HAVE NO IDEA HOW TO REGENCY

I’M SORRY IT’S SO SHORT BUT IF I START IT, IT’LL NEVER FINISH

@saudadedreams

------

It was as bleak a day as one would expect for a funeral. Upon the shores, they gathered; the hanging clouds overhead wept as much as her mother, who clung to her arm with pallid fingers and eyes rimmed red. Her own eyes ached viciously with what precious little tears she had shed during the service, for she was a Proudmoore, and Proudmoores carried themselves with the dignity expected of their station.

She was a Proudmoore. One of the last few now.

The priest finished the rites; her mother detached from her side and reached for the torch held in his hand.

The torch flickered and flared as a wild gust of wind came with the tides, but the straw bedding lit. The fire rose into a roaring blanket heat in moments, and her father’s men heaved the boat from the shore. By the time the boat had sailed towards the horizon, it was nothing more than flames.

In the distance somewhere, the church bell tolled.

-----

That evening, a storm swept onto the shore with the tides. The darkened sky split open with a violence that shook the windows on their panes and rattled all that moved. The servants and maids scurried through the halls like the frenzied nest of rats from the larder, armed with candlesticks and oil lamps as they clamoured among themselves to nail down windows and shutters.

She sat with her mother by the hearth of the study, the fire blazing amidst great splits of wood. The smell of the sea crept in through the seams of the windows and the cracks of the doors; earth and brine and embers together. She sat and sipped on a toddy, warm between her cradled hands as she stared into the dancing flames.

She should have known, truly; what the storm would have wrought. As the servants bustled and shouted, and more feet thundered down the hallways to the main doors. She looked up at the doorway, apprehension curled tight like a boulder in her belly as the doors to the study creaked open.

“Deepest apologies, my lady,” their butler said, bowing low. “I do not mean to intrude. But the Lord Greymane, Esquire, has come.”

“Send him in,” her mother said wearily. “Bring him a towel, and perhaps a hot toddy the same. Quickly now; before the storm takes him as well.”

She frowned, and the warmth of liquor loosened her tongue to speak. “Can’t he leave us to grief but for a day? Surely the will can wait.”

“Jaina,” her mother chided. “Such things cannot wait for even the earth to settle on most graves. It cannot wait for your father’s body to turn to ash.” She watched her mother lean back into the chair and drink, watched the grief manifest in shadows. “Your brothers are dead, and now your father. We are all we have left in this world, my darling girl. You and I alone.”

Jaina reached out and clung to her mother’s hand with the same desperation of a child frightened from its bed. “Mother —”

Lord Greymane appeared then, with the chill of the outdoors nipping at his heels. He shook the damp from his hair and brushed it from his coats as a servant girl came to him with a towel. “You must pardon me for such rudeness, Lady Katherine,” he said, with a look of deep contrition. “For my appearance and appearance. I would not have pressed the matter had I been given the choice.”

“Sit, Lord Greymane,” Katherine Proudmoore replied. “Warm yourself. We must speak.”

Lord Greymane warmed himself briskly by the fire, hands outstretched against the flames. “I shan’t dither on the matter; you must already have a notion of why I am here.”

“Yes,” replied her mother quietly. “The will.”

There was a grimness in his face that unsettled Jaina; she set her glass aside lest she tumble it from her hands. “Which brother did he leave it to, then?” she asked, though her mother’s reproach was clear in the look she received. “Let us be frank, Lord Greymane. You have been my father’s lawyer for many years. You are but family now. We are in the privacy of our home. Let’s not stand of propriety where it isn’t needed.”

Sighing, the Lord Greymane turned to her with a saddened look of fondness she often saw in her own father’s eyes. “‘Tis true; I cannot bring myself to keep this from you for longer. My dearest Katherine, my heart aches for you, and my mind rages. But it is as it has been signed — Proudmoore Estate has been sold.”

Katherine gasped, though the sound itself was swallowed by a ravenous thunder from beyond the walls. “S-sold —”

“If it would ease your mind to know that your lord husband has bequeathed a generous sum to support you and your daughter —”

She could not comprehend it. There were words still coming from her father's lawyer's mouth — for she could certainly see it moving still — but there was nought that she took to comprehension.

Jaina shook her head incredulously. “I don't understand. This land has been in our family for years!”

“The laws of perpetuity are as such, my lady. As it is, the new landlord has proof of purchase and surrender of the estate and all its worldly possessions therein —”

“Oh, Daelin,” her mother moaned. “How could you?”

“That can't be right. M-my brothers —”

“God rest their souls —”

“They wouldn't have allowed it!” She rose from her seat and stared at Lord Greymane with a wild, frenzied desire to throttle the man. Were she of perhaps a daughter of lower birth; were she perhaps a daughter of the village grocer, perhaps she might not have a need at all to throttle him.

But she was not. She was a Proudmoore.

Lord Greymane gave her a chastened shrug, peering at her mother. “Unfortunately, Lady Proudmoore, the decision was beyond their control. Proudmoore Estate was signed by perpetuity only to your father's line...from your great-grandfather. In light of which, the Proudmoore line can no longer hold these lands to their family name. Proudmoore Estate has exchanged hands.”

She swayed on her feet and sank down onto the chaise, clinging desperately to anything that would keep her afloat. “Who,” she whispered. “Who is the new master of our home?”

“...The Windrunners.”

------

Amidst the weight of silence and storms, she spoke, no louder than a whisper. “What do we do?”

Katherine Proudmoore turned to look at her daughter, the seafoam of her eyes dim with grief. “What can we do?”

Lord Greymane reached for a stack of parchments tucked within a pocket of his coat. “I’m sure if we discuss this with Lord Windrunner, he would be amenable to having you as tenants —”

“Tenants?” Jaina cried. “In our own home? Preposterous!”

Sharply, Katherine said, “What would you have us do? Beg for our living in the slums? Die penniless with our family name buried at sea with your father?”

“How do I stop this?” she beseeched Greymane. “Surely there must be a way.”

Lord Greymane peered at her, shifting the weight on the balls of his feet with discomfort. “Well, there is, of course, marriage —”

She thrust out her chin defiantly. “Then I shall wed a Windrunner. If he be willing.”

“My lady —”

“I care not to whom I give my hand. Whether he be as old as the very earth this home stands, or whether he be crass and unkind and uncouth —”

“Jaina!” her mother cried.

She continued, no matter the tremble in her hands or the terror building in her spine. “I shall be a second wife — a third. A mistress. I care not. I shall bear him a hundred sons —”

“N-now —” Lord Greymane reached out a hand in the air between them. “That would be unnecessary —”

She met his gaze with a steely one, daring him to speak more. “So long as my family shall always have a place here.”

“It is a woman,” he blurted, and the room went still. “A daughter. Lord Windrunner bequeathed this land to his second daughter. His only heir worth the title now, with two daughters married.”

Her belligerence would not settle, no matter the shock. A woman would be easier to speak reason to, surely; and no doubt a woman of sound mind and logic, if this Windrunner is heir — “I would wed her regardless,” she said boldly. “I am my father’s last living child. I am, in God’s eyes if not the law’s, his only living heir. If she can inherit, then I shall do so the same. Whether it be by blood or by marriage.”

“You must surely understand the weight of your declarations,” Greymane murmured. “If I propose this, and she refuses —”

“She will not,” Jaina proclaimed. “I shall make it so.”

[alarawriting]

52 Project #2: Changeling

Inspired by this story. Also by a number of well-known myths, but the central concept comes from @magic-and-moonlit-wings‘s story.

This falls into the category I call “altered tales”, which are retellings of fairy and folk tales and myths that are... not quite canonical.

***

Surely you have heard a similar tale before, of the mother who went to the crossroads by the light of the moon, pulling a wagon and carrying her changeling babe, to demand the return of her own child.

By the light of the moon she went to the crossroads, and she called out that the Faeries had stolen a thing from her, and that she demanded to see the King of the Faeries about the matter. And then, in the moment of an eyeblink, the grove she stood beside was full of faeries, some flying, some in trees, some standing, and all were very, very beautiful, but some were very, very strange. The King was the most beautiful, looking far too young to be the ancient creature he was, with black and golden hair long and wild on his head, and pale skin, and endlessly deep black eyes. “You claim that Faeries have taken a thing from you, but we never take without giving fair recompense. Are you calling us dishonorable?”

“Whether you considered what you left me fair recompense or not, you never asked me if I wanted to make the trade,” the mother said, and presented the changeling child. “You left this child in the crib my husband and I built for our babe, the one I carried in my body and birthed from my loins, and never did you ask me if I would take this one in trade for the one I spent blood on to bring to the world. You made the trade without asking me if this was fair recompense, or if I was willing to trade at all.” Then she laid the changeling in its swaddling down in the wagon, and stared a challenge at the King.

The King scowled, for the mother knew the laws. Faeries are bound to trade fairly. They will cheat if they can and take what they can and they will lie and cast glamours to make an item of trade look to be of more worth than it is, but when summoned by one they have tried to cheat, one who knows their laws, they must make things right. “Very well, child of Eve, we will return to you your babe.”

A bassinette was brought forward with a sleeping babe within. The mother removed from under her skirts a small bag, and in the bag was a small bottle, and in the small bottle there was a tincture of silver. She uncorked the small bottle and tipped it back into her eye, in front of the Faerie Court, so they would all see that she would not be fooled by glamours. Then she looked upon the bassinette with the untouched eye closed. “Yes. I see clearly, this is my child.” She lifted the bassinette and placed it in the wagon. “You have returned what you took unfairly, so I will take my leave now,” she said, because you cannot thank Faeries. They consider it very rude.

“Wait,” the King said. Now he was glaring. “Do you think we deserve no fair recompense? Return to us what we paid you.”

The mother raised her eyebrows. “Paid me? You paid me nothing, for I made no trade. You gave me no recompense, for I never agreed to sell my child. Instead you gifted me a babe, without conditions, on the night you stole my own. Now both of them are my children.”

Storm clouds gathered over the grove as the Faeries chattered to each other about the insolence of the human woman. “You cannot have it both ways! Either the child we gave you was fair recompense in trade for your babe, or you want your child back and are bound to return ours!”

The mother’s eyes were very hard. “You threw your child away. You left your babe to a human woman, knowing that humans sometimes burn changelings with iron to tell if they are human or not, knowing that humans have burnt and drowned changeling children. You did not ask my permission, so you made no trade at all. You stole from me at the same time as you discarded something you considered worthless. If you throw your trash in my yard, it is mine. It’s not payment for stealing my hen’s eggs or my apples to give me trash you care nought for, without my permission or acquiescence to the trade.”

The changeling spoke in a trembling voice. “My lord, you told me I was banished to the human world, to play the role of a human child. You never said I was of value; you only meant to trick my new mother into thinking me to be her own babe.”

“You are my own babe, for the faeries abandoned you to me, and I adopted you,” the mother said. “That makes you my own, just as much as the one who came from my loins is my own. You will be sisters and twins together and you will both be mine.”

“You think to make demands of the Faerie King?” the King demanded. “Who do you think you are?”

“I am a mother, and a woman. No more and no less. And I will not leave this place without both of my children – the one you stole and the one you discarded.”

“I do not think you will,” the King said, and sneered. “For we do not interpret the law the same way as you do. By our interpretation, you are attempting to gain something for nothing.”

“For nothing?” the mother snapped. “I have fed this babe milk from my own breast. I have warmed her with blankets I wove myself, or the blankets my mother and grandmother wove for my birth, that they gave to me. I have paid for this discarded babe by caring for her when you did not.”

“But you have paid us nothing,” the King said.

“Why should I pay anything to one who steals from me and leaves something he believes worthless in trade for it?” She softened. “But, I can offer you a gift. Even though you discarded a babe you cared nothing for and thought to be garbage and left it in my home for me to care for, I find value in her, and I can give a gift to return value for what has worth to me, even if it had no worth to you when you threw it away.”

“What gift can you offer to Faeries?” The King stood, and the clouds above became thunderclouds, as his brows drew close with his anger.

“Each year, on this night, so long as I live and am hale and hearty enough to make the journey and to speak and tell, I will give you a story. If I am giving birth, or I am ill, or one of my children is and I must care for them, or if I am trapped away from home and cannot make the date, I will return within the month with three stories to pay for the delay. In exchange, I will take home the babe from my womb and the babe you left in my home, and you will trouble neither of them again.”

“I have a different thought,” the King said. “Why not a challenge, to determine which of us is right? We pick a contest, a champion of the Faeries against you, and if you win, you leave here with two babes, but if you lose, both shall stay with us, and you as well.”

“As the one who is being challenged, then, do I have the right to choose the contest?” the mother asked.

“Yes, of course you do.”

From within her skirts the mother drew a cast iron cooking pan. “Then I choose a contest of skill at cooking,” she said. “I have hen’s eggs in my right pocket, here, and I will build a fire and cook them, in this pan. Your champion will also cook eggs, in a pan, on a fire, without magic or glamour, else it would be no contest of cooking skill. Whichever of us cooks the most delicious eggs shall be the winner.”

Now the Faeries chattered in fear, and even the King drew back, for iron is inimical to Faeries, and if the mother used it as a weapon, she could harm or even kill the faeries in the grove. “No,” the King said. “No Faerie can touch an iron cooking pan as humans do.”

“Then you forfeit the challenge to me, and take my original offer, of the stories,” the mother said.

“Before we accept such an offer, let us hear one of your stories. We will judge whether they will be worth two children.”

“That is not what’s at stake,” the mother said. “You will judge whether they will be worth accepting my interpretation of your law, where a thing thrown away cannot be considered fair trade in any way for a thing stolen without permission.”

“Very well,” the King said. “Tell your story, and if we judge it of worth, we will accept your interpretation of the law and let you leave here with two babes.”

And so the mother told this story:

Surely you have heard a similar tale before, of a musician who descended to the Underworld to sing to the Devil and free a loved one.

It happened many years ago that a woman became well known as a troubadour throughout the kingdom, for her singing voice was beautiful beyond compare and she played the flute and the lyre so sweetly one would think her an Angel descended from heaven. But she was no angel. This woman with the beautiful voice and the wondrous skill at playing music was no better than she should be, and she lived the life of any troubadour – drinking, gambling the coin she earned with her music, and spending her nights in the beds of men, as she pleased.

As one would expect, in the fullness of time, she came to be with child. And while she tried to live up to a mother’s responsibilities, old habits are hard to break. No sooner was her babe weaned than she was back to her old ways. She loved her little daughter greatly, but she was not the sort of woman who was good at supervising a child. And so on the night before the little one was to take her first Confession and then Communion, the mother was drinking with her friends, and playing cards, and never noticed that her daughter had left their home to go down to the stream… until they found the girl’s body caught in the reeds and drowned, the next morning.

In grief the woman screamed, and tore at herself with her nails, for she knew that her daughter being old enough to take Communion, but not having had Confession yet, meant that she was old enough that while her original sins were washed away with her baptism, she had accumulated enough sin to go to Purgatory, rather than to Heaven with our Lord and Savior. Her daughter’s eternal soul would never know the glory of God, and it was her own fault.

So she conceived of a plan to go to Hell and bargain with the Devil for the return of her daughter.

What many priests do not tell you is that Purgatory is itself a ring of Hell, the uppermost one. It is the only ring one can be freed from. Prayers for the souls in Purgatory eventually lighten their burden of sin enough that they can go on to Heaven, but it can take hundreds of years, and the prayers of a holy woman are more valuable than the prayers of a woman who lives a life of vice and sin. The musician feared that her daughter would be damned to Purgatory for the length of her own life, or perhaps forever, with no one holy to pray for her. Instead, she would go to the Underworld, to Hell, and offer the Devil a bargain: she would sing and play for him if he would free her daughter.

It is not hard for a woman of loose virtue to find her way to Hell. More difficult when alive, perhaps, but not impossible. The musician brought her pipe and lute through the gates, where she was challenged by a ferocious hellhound with three heads, but she played a sweet lullaby and the dog calmed and went to sleep at her feet.

She found her way to the capital city of Hell, Dis, and presented herself to the court of Lucifer Morningstar, else called Satan, the Adversary of God.

“Why are you here, human woman?” Satan asked. “You’ll be here soon enough with the life you lead, but you’re still of the living, here and now. You don’t belong in Hell… yet.”

“I’ve come to sing for the return of my daughter,” the musician said.

Satan looked down on her, his face stern. “What makes you think you can win your daughter back? Death is final. You were careless and let her go to the stream unsupervised, and now your daughter is dead. What else did you expect?”

“I failed as a mother and I know that,” the musician said. “But I promise you, if you listen to me play, you won’t regret it. I’m the best musician on Earth.”

“I have all of the best musicians that ever were on Earth, before they died; are you so arrogant to think you are better than all of them?” Satan asked.

“Yes,” she said.

And then Satan laughed, for he loves the human sin of pride like none other. “Oh, very well! Entertain me,” he said.

And so she played. Now, I am no musician nor even a singer, to try to replicate her song, so I will just tell you what she sang. She sang a song of the Virgin Mary holding her baby Son, weeping because the angels had told her what His future held, in her dreams, and the love she felt for her Baby overwhelming her and bringing her to the depths of grief, crying out against a God who could be so cruel as to sacrifice His only Son someday.

Against his will, Satan was moved by the song. Before he was Satan the Adversary, he was once Lucifer, beloved of God, and the Virgin crying out against God’s plan woke the part of his heart that remembered being God’s beloved son himself… made, not begotten, as all of us are, but God’s son nonetheless, and the outrage he himself felt over God’s plan in the time before he turned against it, and against God. And as a former angel, even fallen, he longs for the memory of the beautiful music of the heavens, so much so that he is famous for appreciating good music.

When her song had ended, the musician bowed. Satan, hiding how much the song had moved him, said gruffly, “Very well, you’ve proven your skill, and it’s not as if I won’t have you eventually. The soul of a child in Purgatory isn’t worth very much to me… not so much as the guarantee that you will be here with me when your time comes.” He smiled thinly at her. “Do you pledge your eternal soul to me, then?”

“As you said, Lord Satan, I am probably destined for your halls anyway,” the musician said, “but when the time comes, I won’t seek to fight you or confess my sins and fling myself on God’s mercy, if you give me back my child now.”

“Go out the gates of Dis,” Satan instructed. “Walk out through the ring of Purgatory, out toward the gates of Hell, and pass through them. Follow the path upward through the mountain, in darkness, without torch or lantern to light your way. Your daughter will follow behind you, but do not look back until the sun shines on the both of you once again, or she will fall back into Purgatory and you will never see her again.”

“She is my baby,” the musician objected. “I should carry her.”

Satan chuckled. “She’s no babe in arms; she was about to take her first Communion when she died. You don’t need to carry her. She can walk.”

And so the musician left Dis, and passed out through Purgatory as she was instructed, and did not look back. Purgatory is a place of fog, and ghosts. The musician kept thinking she saw someone she knew appear in the fog, but she didn’t dare to turn and look, lest the Devil call that looking back, for she knew he would try to trick her. Nothing exists in Purgatory but what its denizens can imagine, and being shades in Limbo, they have little imagination. In that dreary place, they slowly forget their memories of their lives on Earth, and become nothing more than hollow shades, drifting patterns that were once a living soul. The musician encountered nothing as she traveled; no one spoke, no footfall resounded in that place of emptiness and silence.

She reached the gates of hell and began to walk up the path through the mountain that conceals the gate to Hell. When she had come down this way, she had carried a torch for light, but Satan had told her she must not carry light on her way back. So she traveled up the path, one hand trailing on the cave wall so she would not lose her way or her footing, in complete darkness. And still she heard no sound, no footfall or whisper of breath, from behind her.

Satan has tricked me, she thought. There’s no one behind me. My daughter is still in Purgatory. Her fear and paranoia grew, and she longed to look behind and tell for sure… but she knew she had been told she could not look back until the sun shined on her and her daughter again. It’s a trick to make me look, she told herself, over and over. She’s there, but she won’t be if I look. And if she’s not, if Satan lied, I’ll go back down and wake the dead with my music until he’s forced to return her to me in truth. Besides, how would she be able to see the shade of her daughter in this darkness?

She traveled upward in darkness, and it seemed that the path went on and on, far longer than it had taken her to travel down. It’s a trick, Satan will never let me out into the sunshine. I’m dead already and my punishment is to walk this dark path upward forever, she thought. But what choice did she have? If she gave up and returned down the path, she would surely be trapped in Hell, and her daughter in Purgatory. Of course it seems longer; it’s dark and it’s uphill, she told herself, over and over. And it’s always easier to descend to Hell than to rise up from it. What else should I expect?

But finally, after what seemed like days of travel, she saw the light of the sun up ahead. She quickened her pace, though her legs burned from the long journey, knowing that as soon as she was within the light of the sun, she would be able to behold her daughter – or know if she had been tricked. “Only a little ways longer, my baby,” she crooned to the child she hoped was behind her. “Just a few more steps, and we’ll be in the light.”

And then she was at the mouth of the cave, and the sunlight shone down on the land right outside. She bounded out of the cave, and spun to behold her daughter—

--whose shade was not yet clear of the cave, not yet within the sunlight. She saw a look of anguish on her child’s face, saw her lips form the cry “Mama!”… but there was no sound, and then her daughter’s image faded back into the darkness.

“No!” the mother cried, and ran back into the cave to try to touch her daughter, to catch her before she disappeared completely… but by the time she was in the cave, her daughter was nowhere in sight.

She screamed in rage and grief. And then she marched back down the path again, without a torch, in the darkness, to find her daughter.

Though she was foolish in her recklessness, she knew better than to think she could find her daughter in the fog of Purgatory on her own. So she marched back into Dis and confronted Satan again. “You tricked me!”

Satan shrugged. “I gave you clear rules. You broke them. There’s nothing I can do.”

The musician narrowed her eyes. “You, the original rebel, must follow rules? Are you master here or not? Do you still have to obey rules imposed by your Father, or are you your own being?”

Satan’s face darkened with fury. “How dare you?!”

“What more can you do to me? Trap me in Hell? I’ll be here anyway. Take my daughter from me? Oh, you already did that!” She poked a finger at him. “You can choose to break your own rules, if you like. They’re your rules. You made them; you can choose not to follow them, if you wish.”

“Very well, then. I choose to follow them. You were told what you needed to do to save your daughter from Purgatory and restore her to life, and you didn’t do it. Why should I break my own rules for one who couldn’t be bothered to follow my instructions?”

“Because if you don’t, I will wake the dead and raise them up against you,” the musician said. “Dis is right outside Purgatory and your demons do not go there. They’re too busy tormenting the truly damned.”

Satan sneered. “I don’t fear a mortal musician, woman. Many, many musicians reside within Hell and Purgatory. What makes you so much more than they are?”

“Because I am alive. And because I am a mother, fighting for my daughter,” the musician said, and began to play.

You have never heard music like this, o Faerie King! In her hands, the lyre screamed her fury, and the song she belted out was louder than anyone would imagine a mortal voice could sing. As I’ve said, I am no musician, so I cannot sing or play her song for you, but I can tell you of it. It was a song of purest rage, that mortals must die, that we are all of us condemned for a choice made so long before we were born, that we have the freedom to sin and that Hell even exists. She sang her anger at the concept of death, and the shades in Purgatory heard her song, and it awakened their memories of life, their own anger at their deaths, at themselves for being sinners and God for allowing them the freedom to sin and the Devil and his minions for keeping them there in Purgatory. Their imaginations responded, and shaped Purgatory to be what they wanted. Those who’d been musicians in life took up their own instruments and joined the mother in her song. Those who’d been warriors took up swords and shields, daggers and bows with quivers of arrows.

And Satan saw that the dead were responding to the mother’s song, and feared that she could lead them against Dis and overthrow his rule, or that she could lead them out of Purgatory and up the mountain again and out into the land of the living, where the presence of such terrifying shades would surely drive the frightened living into the arms of God. “Take your daughter and go! You daughter of a dog and a whore, know this; I am taking from you your death. Never will you come here to Hell again, nor to Heaven, no matter how you should plead with The One Whose Name I will not speak. Wander the Earth forever and never know rest, and call yourself happy for winning back your daughter’s life… but she will die again, eventually, as all mortals do, and you will be parted from her forever then!”

“I can live with that,” the musician said, and left Hell.

And this time, when she crossed the boundary into sunlight, she waited until she heard her child’s voice, until she felt the touch of a small hand on her skirts once more, before she turned and scooped her daughter into her arms, and wept like a babe herself.

***

The mother of the two babes bowed as her story finished. “That is the end of my tale,” she said. “Does it suffice to allow me passage back home with both my babes, Your Majesty?”

“Where is that woman today?” the King asked.

The mother shrugged. “That tale, I don’t know. The last I heard, she was headed to the town of Hamelin. She had heard that the priests of that town, rather than being the holy men they should be, were corrupted by the lusts of the flesh, and misuse children for dark purpose, and the elders of the town allowed it. But I do not know what happened then, nor where she is now.”

“Find her, and bring her to us, and we will consider your debt paid in full,” the King said. “Every seven years we must pay a tithe of our people to Hell. A musician who can wake the dead and terrify the Devil might free us from our terrible burden.”

“If I see her, I will ask her to come to you,” the mother said, “and if I hear tales of her, I will bring them to you at the appointed time.”

“And if you have no tale of her, you will pay us with a different story,” the King said.

“Indeed I will. So do we have a bargain, Faerie King?”

“We do,” the King said. “Go from this place, human woman. Take both your children.”

On the way home, the changeling child said, “Mother, I want to be baptized tomorrow. I wish to have an immortal soul like you and my sister.”

“If you can want a soul, you have one,” the mother said. “And you need no baptism; you do not carry the taint of original sin as humans do. But if you want to be baptized to acknowledge your savior as Lord Jesus Christ, I will do so, but it will most likely take from you all of your supernatural memories, and bind you in the form of a human child.”

“That is what I want,” the changeling said. “You bargained for me, to be my mother and to love me and care for me. All I want is to be your babe in arms in return.”

“Then that is what we’ll do,” the mother said.

“But before that, can you tell me… you have some connection to the musician in the story, don’t you, Mother? Who is she to you?”

“She is your grandmother,” the mother said, smiling. “I am the child she rescued from Hell. The Faerie King should have known better than to threaten me. I have none of my mother’s gift for music, but I have never forgotten that my mother challenged the Devil for me, and won. How could I do any less for my own children?”

And then the babe born human woke and began to fuss. The mother pulled the wagon that carried them to a meadow, and sat on the grass with them, her breasts bared to feed both, as she watched the sun rise.

[stefanbekowsky]

accidentally made another witcher oc last night and can’t stop thinking about her so i had to write this!!! her failed execution hehe 🤭 her name is orla and she’s a nilfgaardian sorceress, a bit like fringilla being used by emhyr... “emhyr’s curiosity” more than an actual ally. i’m gonna steal the unused “yennefer betrays the lodge” plot because it’s dumb and use it for orla 😝 either phil kills her or she flees and emhyr kills her but yeah she’s got a very bad ending! at least one of my witcher oc’s has to have one and she’s kinda... not doing anything to help herself lol (also her fc now is natalie dormer.... maybe will be changed though 🤫 now it’s eva green...)

Novigrad was never quiet. It was a cultural melting pot of people from all walks of life, whether they be human, elven, dwarven... Rich folk and common alike. Even the supernatural found it difficult to stay away.

Geralt hadn’t left since his arrival two weeks ago. The city was good for a witcher, business wise. There were no end to mysteries folk wanted solved, rumors of supernatural beasts and murders in broad daylight were prime contracts - oft the best and most steady coin a witcher could ask for.

The marketplace was busy at the best of times, but this afternoon they’d grown exceedingly loud, so much so that Geralt could no longer ignore it.

He could hear the shouting, the jeering, and the laughter from several streets away. It was only as he approached the entrance did he hear something else: muffled sobs of those in the crowd hiding their faces, unable to look.

Guardsmen pushed past, their shoulders holding up piles of wood. They marched to the area just outside of Vivaldi’s Bank, dumping the logs on an already large pile. It struck him then that he was to witness yet another execution, most likely of a sorceress. He just hoped it wasn’t one he knew, his mind going to old, and perhaps best forgotten, acquaintances. Philippa, Margarita… Fringilla…

A man Geralt recalled from his first visit to Novigrad appeared on the platform. He was brandishing a rolled up piece of parchment in one fist and an unlit torch in the other. Caleb Menge.

“Good people of Novigrad,” He bellowed out to the bustling crowd. “Our quest to rid this fair city of it’s magical pests has developed once again, bringing a new success to your ears and sights. For too long, you’ve lived under the thumb of wicked sorcery and those who abuse it. Radovid stands for it no longer!”

The crowd cheered, several bumping into Geralt as they jumped up and down in glee. A woman collapsed on to the floor in floods of tears and went largely ignored by those around her until a young man rushed to her side.

“Tonight, I present to you a tarnished jewel in the crown of the Nilfgaardian Empire,” The man grinned, a sight that turned Geralt’s stomach. “A snake sent from Emhyr himself, to slither into your very homes and do his malevolent bidding - tearing our city to pieces for nought more than cruel entertainment. A sorceress of vile deeds, an enchantress and thief who consorts with demons.”

The noise around Geralt became even more unbearable, as more people joined the gathering and he found himself tunnelled in, moving closer to the front of the crowd. He pulled his hood up, hoping to conceal his identity to Menge who could surely spot his face.

“And I give you my word, she will burn!”

A woman with a plain cloth sack over her head appeared behind Menge, two guardsmen holding her arms with an ironclad grip. She seemed to be cooperating well, being the one to lead the guards rather than the other way around.

“I present to you: Orla var Malhoun!” Menge roared.

The plain cloth sack was ripped from her head and Geralt had the immediate displeasure of recognising her. Her dark hair was stuck to her forehead, frizzy and unevenly cut as if hacked off with a knife. Her eyes were dark, bruised and unreadable from this distance but one clearly swollen shut. Her lips much the same - puffy and bleeding, a several tracks of dried blood resting on her dirty chin. Her frame was gaunt and battered, but Geralt would know her face from anywhere.

Orla var Malhoun, once a beloved curiosity of Emhyr, bloody and broken before a jeering crowd.

Her lips contorted and at first, Geralt braced himself for the sight of her throwing up. She looked as though she would collapse before she reached the pyre, and those around him would surely riot for being robbed of her slow and painful death.

Instead, her eyes roamed the crowd fleetingly and her expression quickly developed into a smirk. She threw back her head, cackling loudly, her bony shoulders shaking.

Not as broken as I thought, Geralt mused, unsure if he should feel sympathy or pride. Or maybe she’s finally lost it. Not even sorceresses are immune to prolonged torture.

Menge took a step back and slapped her across the face, her entire body crumbling as she leant back into the hold of the guards.

“Hold your tongue, bitch!” He snarled, turning to the guards behind her. “Put her up on the pyre.”

She was pushed up on to the ledge, her head lolling against her chest and she offered no resistance as her hands and feet were bound to the pole. Geralt grew frustrated.

He’d expected she’d die one day at the hands of another, for Orla had never done well at staying out of other people’s (or nation’s) business, but not like this: meek, not memorable nor remotely shocking. He expected hell to break lose, to give the crowd a show, as awful as that sounded to him as he thought on it. But what could he do? Orla’s life wasn’t worth his own, nor his quest to find Ciri. He’d sooner kiss a drowner than let Ciri be captured by the Wild Hunt because he had to save Orla var Malhoun, of all people. Of all sorceresses.

Wanting a show, a guardsman poked her side with his spear. She stirred, her head raising to lean against the pole.

Menge turned to address her.

“Do you confess upon this pyre, your treacherous abilities and loyalties to Nilfgaard?”

She said nothing, gazing at him impassively with a lazy smile on her face.

“Do you, Orla var Malhoun, confess to the crimes you have been found guilty of?” He pressed, louder and angrier.

“I confess to everything, you fat-headed idiot,” Orla laughed. “But I have no guilt to speak of, only pride and longing.”

She turned her attention to the crowd, the booing only seeming to better her mood. Her one good eye shone in the light and her broken teeth glittered.

“Glory to Nilfgaard, and to the White Flame Dancing on the Graves of his Foes!” She shouted with mirth. The crowd retorted with louder boos and rotten fruit, several tomatoes staining her already soiled white dress. “You’ll all die on your knees, you rotten Northern pigs! Fuck you all!”

Orla snarled the last part, the joy now gone from her face. “All who oppose him will fall, and you will suffer for this humiliation! I will not die, I will return! With blood!”

“Shut the fuck up,” A guardsman called as another threw a lit torch and the flames began the crackle. Smoke was thrown up into the air, and it tickled Geralt’s throat.

Orla thrashed against her her restraits, wiggling her bare feet and shoulders as the flames grew around her but kept suspiciously quiet. The smoke had become so thick, Geralt could no longer see her and he gritted his teeth in annoyance, knowing she wouldn’t go out like this: utterly silent. The guardsmen seemed equally as annoyed by her silence, bringing out several large fans likely to increase the strength of the flames and waft away the smoke for easier viewing. As they did this, a distinct smell reached Geralt’s nose. It smelt of… saltpeter? Who would be making a bomb at an execution?

He narrowed his eyes, using his witcher senses to hone in on the scent. A red trail of a smoke-like substance appeared before him, snaking through the crowd between the throngs of people. Geralt followed it.

Pushing past spectators, he found himself at the edge of the crowd. There were several empty stalls, devoid of produce and products, that the trail had touched. He continued on, passing by stragglers of the crowd, until he reached a heavy wooden door just outside of the marketplace. A beggar sat outside on the dirt, a misshapen hat on her head and an empty cloth bag at her feet. Her clothes were torn and resembled potato bags tied together with rope. One of Novigrad’s many forgotten folk.

“You know who lives here?” Geralt asked her.

“Depends,” She answered, not sparing him a look.

“Guessing you want coin.”

“Aye. Several.”

He sighed. “5 Crowns enough?”

“Not a chance.”

Geralt tossed 10 Crowns in the cloth bag. The beggar checked and seemed pleased by his generosity, turning up to face him.

She jabbed her thumb behind her shoulder. “Lady named Hedwig lives there. Word is, she’s a witch.”

Geralt didn’t have time to react. A loud explosion sounded from the marketplace, the ground rumbling and sparks of light shooting up into the sky. He heard screams before the thunderous footfall of a hundred odd spectators drowned it out and people poured out from the entrance. He pushed himself against the wall to avoid being trampled and looked down at the beggar woman, seeing she’d already fled.

[forlornmelody]

Kord Center Mall: Out In The Rain, In From The Cold

Rating: E (the nerdiest smut you’ll read all week.)

Fandom(s): DC Comics, Jack Nought from Mass Effect makes an appearance, but familiarity with the game is not important

Ship: Rose Wilson/Jason Todd, mentions of Jason/Roy/Jack

Linkage: Ao3

Summary:  Rose is finally ready to come clean with Jason, and admit the feelings she has for him. But is it too late?

Note: This is a cross over, mall-verse AU concocted by @scifi-ginger and myself. You’ve been warned. Also,  I just want to state, for the record, that I wrote this before Titans: E.L._.O. hit the internet. I have the Tumblr snippets to prove it.

–>–>

The ground’s so dry when she leaves Cassie’s, Rose doesn’t even think to grab a jacket on the way. By the time she reaches Jason and Roy’s apartment, the sky’s dumping car-wash levels of water on the bus. Even though it only takes her five minutes to walk to the building, Rose’s clothes are sticking to her when she rings the doorbell. Lightning cracks in the clouds behind her. 

Opening the door, Roy’s face flashes bright and dark as the thunder rolls around them. “Rose.”

“Roy.” Rose takes a breath. “Hey. Uh--”

“Fuck off,” Jack calls from the couch. “Jason doesn’t want to see you.”

Yeah. She deserves that. “Could you at least tell him I’m here?” Rose says it to Roy, not Jack. 

Lighting flashes two more times before Roy sighs. “Fine.” He holds up a hand to keep Jack back. “But I swear if you hurt him again--”

“Fuck, Roy. I’m here to apologize.” Rose glances at Jack as she steps gingerly through the doorway. “Nice to see you, too. Jack flips a finger in response. 

Just as Rose knocks on Jason’s door, the power goes out. “Oh come on!” Jason yells from the other side of the door, and she hears the crash of a controller hitting the floor and the rolling of batteries as they fall out. 

Rose has perfect timing. She clears her throat, reaching to knock a second time when Jason opens the door. His cellphone casts soft grey light along his jaw and highlights the sheen on his nose. “If you’re an axe-murderer, I’ll--Rose!?”

“Hey,” she says softly, pulling out her own phone to cast some light---only to realize it died on the way here. “Shit.” Better not fuck this up. 

Jason lingers in his doorway, his eyes roaming over her like she’ll vanish any second. “Didn’t expect to see you.”

“Yeah. Me either.” Rose dares to step closer, looking up at him. “Can I come in?” Jason hesitates ever so slightly, but it’s enough to kick Rose in the gut. She deserves that, too. 

“Sure.” He steps to the side, swinging his arm wide. Jason never kept a tidy room. Rose would constantly remake the bed before she left. If she brought pizza, she’d have to clear off the beer bottles and carefully move the bong out of the way. But Jason always took care of his books--bookmarking them, closing them gently and sorting them on the shelves by genre, author, title, routinely cleaning them with a fucking feather duster. At this point, Jason doesn’t even have a bedroom--he has a personal library with a bed in it. Right now--it looks like a tornado had swept through the shelves. 

“Fuck.” Rose muttered under her breath, frozen in the doorway. 

“Did you come here to talk, or to judge me?” Jason folds his arms, and Rose notices the bags under his eyes for the first time. She’s reaching to push the hair from his eyes before she catches herself. 

“To apologize,” Rose says quickly, ducking inside before Jason can change his mind. She finds a Complete Works of William Shakespeare lying open in the middle of his bed. Obviously, it’s too dark to read, but she’d know the size and thickness of that book anywhere. One of Jason’s favorites. 

Rose sets it aside, sitting on the edge of the bed with one foot draped across her lap. Jason lingers by the door, but he does close it behind him. His eyes track the movement of the book before daring to glance at her again. “Why’d you come back?”

“I missed you.” Rose says. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry, she chants over and over in her brain, but “sorry” doesn’t feel good enough right now. Jason deserves the world, and Rose is just a tiny island wracked with storms. 

Jason’s eyes soften ever so slightly before they harden--cold as steel. “Missed what, exactly?”

Rose allows herself a small smile. Jason loves the big questions--meaning of life, origins of the universe, whether true love exists--he always has his head up in the clouds. Meanwhile Rose stands back on earth--rooted in doing things--going, doing, fucking, eating, breathing. The thunder outside nearly drowns out her words. “I missed the way your eyes change color when you’re angry, happy, or sad. The way you smile when you think no one is looking.” She itches to get closer to him--show him exactly how much he means to her, but it’s not her choice to make. “The way you forget the world around you when you’re reading.” Her voice thickens, with love or want--she isn’t sure. “The way your face lights up when Roy comes in the room.” 

Is it still raining? Rose isn’t sure. All she can hear is the thundering of her pulse in her ears and the sound of their breathing. Jason still hasn’t said a word or moved an inch--him and his fucking poker face. 

At first Rose thinks her eyes are straining to see him in the darkness, but then she feels a tear slip down her cheek. Damnit. This is why she doesn’t do this stuff. Love, real love, hurts. “I realized I didn’t want to live without that. I didn’t want to live without you. I don’t want to.” Jason probably can’t even understand what she’s saying at this point, with the way her breath keeps shaking her voice.

Jason finally looks away, and Rose nods to herself. Figures. It’s too late for them. It’s always too late. “Sorry,” she mutters, standing up and wiping her nose and eyes. It’s gonna be a bitch getting home in this weather, but she’ll manage. Rose always does. She’s halfway to the door when Jason grabs her hand. 

“Where’re you going?” he says softly, squeezing her hand. 

“I…” I’m going home, Rose says in her mind, but the words don’t ring true. She turns, daring to face him. “Not sure.” 

“Stay.” Jason tugs her ever so slightly, and she falls into his arms like she just jumped off a building. He reeks. Always has. Like dank weed and cheap beer. Rose wouldn’t have him any other way. 

“Jerk my arm why don’t you?” His laugh rumbles against her chest and she pulls back just enough to look at his face. Rose traces his features with her fingertips, reacquainting herself with the tip of his nose, the jut of his eyebrows, the firmness of his lips. 

Everything’s so desaturated in the dim room, but Jason’s eyes shine the brightest blue. “I love you, too.” 

Rose couldn’t tell who kissed who first. She’s too busy tasting his mouth and messing with his hair. Jason breaks for air, only to pay careful attention to where her jaw meets her neck. His hands roam her shoulders, arms, sides and stomach as if he can’t get enough of her. He has far too many clothes on. No zipper on Jason’s hoodie, so Rose lifts it to his shoulders, but he gets tangled in the sleeves. “Candles,” Rose says hoarsely. 

Jason peeks at her blankly through the bottom of his hoodie. 

“Please tell me you have some. Jack’s surely got enough to set the apartment on fire but I’m not keen on asking her tonight.”

“Be right back.” Jason frees himself of his shirt and hoodie, slipping out the door shirtless. 

Rose sits on the bed, unable to sit still, still humming with the thrill of his touch. She glances back at the Tome, and switches Jason’s phone’s flashlight on so she can finally read it. Jason has it open to Sonnet 87, 

“Farewell! thou art too dear for my possessing,

And like enough thou knowst thy estimate.

The Charter of thy worth gives thee releasing;

My bonds in thee are all determinate.

For how do I hold thee but by thy granting,

And for that riches where is my deserving?”

Rose swallows, reaching to close the book when Jason comes back inside--his arms full of candles. He freezes when he realizes what she's reading.

“Oh, hey. Lemme take care of that.” Jason sets the candles on his tv stand, reaching for the book.

Rose swats his hand. “Candles.”

Rolling his eyes, Jason replies. “Fine. Fine.” 

Leaning back, Rose watches as the candles, lit one by one, cast a soft glow along the lines of Jason’s body. She doubts she’ll ever tire of the view. 

Lighting the last candle, Jason whisks around, lighter still in his hand. He nods down at the book. “You weren’t supposed to see that.”

“Interesting choice. Real depressing.” Rose kicks her heels against his box spring. 

Setting the lighter aside, Jason grins slowly. “Actually. Hold on a sec.” He kneels, clearing a space on the floor. 

Rose stares at him. “No. Absolutely not. Your floor is a fucking mess.” 

“Don’t worry. You won’t be touching it.” Space cleared, Jason glances up at Rose. “Hand me Shakespeare.”

“Whatever.” Rose hefts it over, eyes widening as Jason sets it reverently in the space he cleared. “You’re shitting me.”

Jason snickers, shaking his head. “C’mon. The book may be hard, but the pages are soft.”

“Oh my god. I’m couching you for that.” Rose chides, but she gets down from the bed anyway. She glances at him one last time before sitting gently between the pages. 

“Better.” Jason’s eyes have darkened to a warm green. The fact that a dead playwright and poet makes him all hot and bothered never ceases to amuse her. “Lean back.”

Rose rolls her eyes, grabbing a pillow and stuffing it beneath her arms. 

Jason makes quick work of Rose jeans, shucking them off and tossing them across the room. Rose snorts as they take down a couple bottles in their fall. “Tell me if you’ve heard this one before.” His grins as he lowers himself to her neck. 

“What’s in a name?” Jason murmurs into her skin, his voice as reverent as a priest’s on Sunday. His fingers drag the zipper of her soaked hoodie down her chest, and goosebumps prick across her skin. 

“That which we call a rose

By any other name would smell as sweet.” Jason lavishes attention where her neck meets her shoulder, and Rose’s so caught up in his touch she almost doesn’t catch the reference. Almost. 

“Romeo and Juliet? Really?” she snorts, pulling back to give him a look of disdain. “Most overrated play ever.” 

“It’s a classic.” Jason pouts, his fingers edging underneath her t-shirt--a suitable challenge with the way the fabric sticks to her skin. He dives to kiss her collarbone. “And it has your name in it.”

“Jace, they off themselves because they’re impatient hormonal teenagers.” A moan slips from her mouth as he kisses from her waist to her chest, pushing her shirt up and out of the way. “It’s not romantic.”

Dragging the shirt and her bra up and over her head, Jason grins at her. Oh, he knows. “So Romeo would, were he not Romeo call’d.” 

“Do you put Jack and Roy through this? Or am I special?”

Jason doesn’t linger on her breasts, just moves her damp bra off her skin, hanging it on one of his bedposts. “Retain that dear perfection with he owes.” He plants a reverent kiss in the valley between them. 

“I am special, aren’t I?” Rose groans, for more reasons than one. 

Instead of answering, Jason snickers against her skin, breathing her in. “Without that title. Romeo doff thy name, and for that name which is no part of thee,”

Rose has another comeback coming, somewhere, but it’s hard enough trying to keep her breathing steady the farther south Jason travels with his mouth. He stops just north of her thighs, grinning up at her. “Oh, come on, already,” she groans again, letting her head fall back.

Jason wets his lips and tongue, waiting for her to look at him again. Once he has her full attention, he whispers, “Take all myself.”

Then he plants a kiss against her clit, and Rose shudders despite herself. “Really? You think some, some poetry is gonna, oh.” 

She can feel his grin as he toys with her licking gently around but never quite touching where she wants him most. His hair musses in her fingers as he kisses deeper, harder, licking her with nice, long strokes. Jason moans with her, the hum reverberating across her skin. Rose’s hips rise off the book and Jason holds her down with one arm. Pausing, Jason licks one finger, then another, and Rose can’t help but cry out his name as they thrust in and out of her while he lavishes attention on her clit. Fuck, she’s probably tearing his hair out, but she can’t help it. Now she’s so close she’s--

Jason pulls back, kissing her thigh, and Rose curses him and half his family. “I take thee at thy word:”

Fuck her, she’s pleading, pulling him back. “Jace, please. I need.”

Snickering, Jason plants a soothing kiss on her thigh before gathering her hands to her right side, holding them still. “Call me but love, and I’ll be new baptized;” he murmurs as he wets his lips again. Something in her belly roils as she realizes what he’s planning. 

Mm, yeah, Jack and Roy definitely heard that scream. Let them, Rose thinks, until she can’t anymore, so focused on Jason’s feather light touch against her clit. She’s so close to falling right off the cliff when he pulls back again. This time, Rose bites her tongue, shaking as she waits for him to continue. 

Jason watches her come down from the brink, his smile wide (and his lips covered in her slick), and his eyes bright. Part of Rose wants to hide from that look--she doesn’t deserve it--she’ll break his heart--he’ll find out what she’s really like and he won’t look at her like that any-- Squeezing her hands, Jason pulls Rose from her thoughts, and she swallows hard as she allows her walls to come crashing down. “Jason, I--”

“Shh. We’re almost there,” he whispers, kissing her hands, squeezing them again. Waiting until she’s relaxed again, Jason leans down one last time, his words barely audible, “Henceforth I never will be Romeo.” He brings her back slowly, using his fingers as well as his tongue, seemingly touching her anywhere and everywhere at once. Sliding one finger inside her, then another, he closes his eyes, gracing her with long, slow licks, pumping and curling. Rose isn’t even sure what sounds are coming out of her mouth anymore, as her hips rise and fall with his fingers.

Her world flashes whiter and hotter than lightning. 

Maybe seconds pass, maybe hours, when Rose finally opens her eyes. The candles have nearly guttered out, and Jason lies, with his clothed legs intertwined with her bare ones. Rose should pay him back for that--when she finds the energy. She leans her forehead against his, murmuring. “Power still out?”

“Yeah.” Jason reaches out, trailing a hand down her bare back. 

“You need to clean off the bed before the candles burn out.”

Jason groans, holding her tighter. “Fine.” He releases her standing up stiffly and reaching for the stuff scattered across his bed. “Love you too, Rose,” he muttered under his breath. 

Rose sits up quickly, grabbing his hand. “Wait.”

Looking down at her in exasperation, Jason asks blankly, “What?”

“I love you.” The words feel so strange coming off her tongue, but Rose knows them to be true. “Meant to say it earlier but you were too busy going down on me and quoting lines to listen.”

Jason pulls her to her feet, and into a kiss. “You can say it whenever you want.”

Rose’s so busy tasting herself on his lips she almost doesn’t notice the hiss of the guttering candles. “Shit.”

“What?” Jason pulls back, looking around at nothing. “Fuck.”

[libidomechanica]

In England ranks and then return, years the

A ballad sequence

               1

But you’ll be back on 100K a week and play, sat     withouten dread of those who not love, and prosers, words make rules who do swerue, rebels to nature     could not pause? Which sometimes rather Laws be right—It’s a warm room, the plain would have come     it listen to thee, sweet tones are form’d like saints—was all the argument, and Mankind’s Eye     its Pupil! But to retrace my sorrows

whence high life is of more worth. We tore the     penumbra of a thousand doors ago when I am no longer free, ah! Began to     approche, and kissing, and thou Menalcas, that haven under thy headlesse hood. Of their     praying his parted, sad, cheerless, broken and awful shadow across the weaker now;     for sports. To make a dull tattoo. That

faculties, where else could trust, and I think that he     could prove that faith so sure I? Cupid in shade my love said he i’ll take thee were the plumes     upon a sheet of leaves the strings do breath’d the blustring Boreas did encroche, the ills o’er     yon mountain, or up the head, alone like memory of music lest it shook when young     man’s heart, head, by Death’s second life said

he you are in beauties mine did draw: of touch of     a mystic Shape did lye, doth not its own undoing, its inner crash is like a fate,     indeed a general complaints out impatient—all forgot, nor dropped, the grass and energy     and of Love upon your affairs come round that mix’d with lawyers and lithe lady to     lie; he has virgins many, but then

what I know nought in describe, unless like stars; her     level rays, like a frail spells did bind to the sea and topp, als my buddhist my nakedness     dragging breath, less like allay, so gone through all ages, of straw and here beneath the     towsing and twirls.—Was thend of this with devotion, such as enables man to show your     world had the sound mind. I felt she was

a bitter breast. He also had a girl for love     I rise above my fare; like a history stays blank. That wildernesse, whose diapason knells     on scrolls of his mouth he wayle my worth have care: and so clear they foresaw that lurking     bias, be it as it may change. Ah for pittie, wil ranke Winters wrath appear. Wrought to stare:     their pride like this at a loss what they

must bear. For sweet world my love, this young man’s capacity:     my business is with knives in the flourish set on your hand of wonder the one     is restored to my Muse despise. A half-starved babe, a wreck upon the street these hapless     green, ye shall see the sky, and bound us one to thy speche, the world were his step seemed singing     is a kindling nation; a bird’s-

eye view, too, of that ripe age, for to tame, though in     the unpaid bill, Despair for the keeper was penn’d: his inexperience. Whether Lambes,     that her like to mine, make you are light alloy with the wind shifts and Tamburins forgoe:     and be, too, of thy grave. Fired with debt: for the Woman’s Henna from thee that I should     be like the tarry rope to shreds with

stealing steps pursue exactly the purpose, and     the right, his notion of orphans paints at once seabeate, will thy land, with never prayers;     and whining, and seemed to repayre the bright golden bars, two lovers brook, some too long I’ve     battles, despite thereon: this islands to ocean is, the street of all things turn sourest     by the goodman on thee. But could not

blind to fear himself, and hoary wyth frost. The nurses.     And both humble pardon win! And he fell for these he made the glamour of bards and     guineas but none of tears, and wheedle a world is all used up for praise, but I shall I     say curst or blest? When beautiful things: ’ thirdly, that each man grumble fragments of energy:     I’ll whisper to your eyes,—in the

Hand of Sorrow; I cannot express, that never     bleach. In two days for yourself, and this our marriage temple is; though he rode beyond, a     desires, what wont to have bid their rotten. But while I thus with his little, some simple     seed the shadows brown between you covered my lichen on a gracious seal on a     bond, that blue and small pollen ate into

my sight than in the world is frail; rode o’er the     source or observer. This noble personal, base, a wounded thing wherewithal to be     bored or bore. Born with his numbered theme for ever. Its limbs with tears. By humours fly or     creepe; since you kiss shoulder quite literally the wheel by which there’s naught that thou find’st not     pause? And I knew that amazing field

that which certain cure is;—the Lady Adeline     resolved to witch-on-girl violence, is restored to scale with the price of the deep, outstretch     vnto the wilderness, which my sole excuse is—’t is my way. In the shadow, washed     dust consequence? Ah God, for a living too entail’d upon thy cheek or pine, I thought     as a child, I spake this respected,

whose circle. Of bubbling photo of grief. I woke     to gladness with commonplace book argument, but in this, that oft the bitter blasts neuer     lyst presumed to the roote of all sorts of might-have-beens, the stake, your mantle o’er hills,     dales, or other shot. All forth withouten lincks of shabby grey: his crickets only not     the best man and wound; some too little

heap of Dung. Among a number let me know before     was not to conspire. The awful LOVELINESS, wouldst thou gone? Next, hollow except     that through the prison-yard, in God’s kindly earthy house is circumscrib’d, and over     the old world’s sole throne: see now, that does his sullen might; silence in a gracious stolen     in garrets, on the ampersand, the

stone of those wonted way, for none, that smile … What wormes,     his toppe was brought might not from your pity is enough to shake. And I was a winter,     city, anger, poverty my Muse by no means so quite; a full-grown Cupid, very     much annoied. Each from wife, lover from them thy mind up everyday to him a tribute     paid: nor this, and robbing me to

see his neare ouerthrow.—There are coin’d in the shining     sunne laugheth on those of my love let’s give a new one, so dirty within his lips,     possession, the stars are ended; when thou learn that Angers selfe I needs must kisse-worthy wight:     as shee deserues, that before I would do, own thoughts that very ancient gray, and rail,     and never hard time believing him.

               2

Are overtaken. Let thy love     and Life are fair: to dance to lutes is delicate turn a     young lovers met and death of liking, rage of a son. And     I knew the stream of delight

still more worth. And his will say.     But the forest’s maze; the next to his cancker wormes light—     when translated, means but cold. Seem only one in the barren     rhyme? Literally the

whiter blow. Oh stay, three weeks in     white, doe interstice, it aches to be in the whiter blow.     As it were the bosom was never miss’d it yet, come, though     it be before, in such

a wistfully at the spirit     guiding. Tis odd, or odds, it may turn, and all the world of     this world of the body gryde. For me, I know that he lies     has neither can share it.

               3

Or music all the worst was to     the line between my arms; but i shouldst freedoms of a face     a mask. And set the Brere

wexe so light is only snatch a     certainty, perhaps much Adeline, who wanted me in     vaine, that only call’d on

poisoned hilt, and see him livid:     how should stand and to and fro, ever about the tree, and     but you and night, should

perpetrate some rest; but, wretched Hens     above abasement at themselves awake against bonos     mores, ’ with a start,

and could have been a caring, if     unskilled, she warbled along the wall. Chaste were thy yeares,     some pendulum soul, the

front built last the two? Which is in     this heir office might be admitted there for the best movies     have a noose about

the Pacific seas in which so     basely he is rough, and lowdly cryed vnto his dust. For     when on true Lovers it

doth tell my bodhisattva of     new roses proposing a new era for us nobis     pacem oh my body

to be unmoved; but both lopp     and too tall her sails of silver by. And he of the World!     They trod a saraband:

and the mountain she men. Wish I     could be found to fear himselfe to kisse, when even to lessen     my desires, what

will for to the empty space; down,     over the best perceiving to make all forward to throw     such a wistful eye upon

the black renowne, or few, do     hang upon the lamp of a fruitful tree, why do you play     at cards? Turned to blub like

a year weak and nerve-twitched pose,     fingering bottle which he sheds, he asks not that never the     clients’ clan of Doctor

gloats, and voide of hair. And, rank by     rank, we soaped the soul and dream of green thrilling pillars     and forbid her now; tis

true, just now; for she never look,     some would make country gentle Maud in our babes, poor souls in     pain, and kissing so flagless

as that true that which most fierce     love or war had still break the hand, With beating heart would let     him to much lov’d repose

for poet these, however she     touch’d by the tip of evolution, modestly shining     bright in the phoenix’ breast.

               4

Before Aurora, in pious     consort did: if he his leasure thine ear, there is not enough     times it that blow by

night, star kissing soul, the moon, yet     more the terrible hammer- blows. Better not feel. No thing     to thee, like the coast, the

Lady Adeline, and keeps yourself     keeps him another self, and hery with lawyers and     like a jewel hung in ghastly

night, never guess, I’ll bet you     a while, amid their christall faces, will last to thee and     too bold, I felt sprung from

her fingers directly on youth’s     lament thy Soul, nor set the Winter gan to thee and fear,     a dark reality.

               5

Is useless as a thaw of bygone     snow; it seems to me, will pype and displaies his sword to     the earth upon his lair.

Please my selfe, all bluely dash’d through     a mist: they were forsworn and we hear aye birds tune this debt     at once a week and play,

sat with little people, with one     lifts the Face of Prayer in Weal or love me, insteed of     Atlas tyrd, your head away.

Sweet, it was not at presents     thy stocke: seest, howe brag yond Bullocke beares, some do the brow     of morning Eld now I

pray thee such outrage showe? Can fasten     or deflect this sad place. Whose virtue dignify a     woman earth upon it.

Like a lightning from not employing     some hours and leave it to that, at least two lives. Cast upon     his head, or heave it

to your ears do greet: But it must     expired: for though gald, and canst prevail against my sky: but     when he tries to Time. Thy

corbe should have his. The marigold     at the empty cells forth, I rise above abasement     and death on hym such women

thro’ my verses made our love,     the crocus lustre in its mitt, a closed eyes had dropt her     soft, love-burdened honey-

fly on those icy chains by thy     side; unseen wings, a breath from the violet, one day see both     together is come away!

He dreamed nothing in exchange     some with Stella loue. Whether her interfered in happy     soul doth bear, my carrot,

my mind, a maze where harbrough nature,     and the morning should be most ardent articulations     Act: they mocked the cold

to scale an upper boxes too,     for the prophesy in part; but they pleasure, that Son of     God that went with sails were

very well, and diplomatist,     the Bramble bush, where I my offerings to all women, who     confounds in single doubt,

were there be train’d, how much showing,     and our heroes, kings, some splinters are grown older, less     poetical; and the ring Man

were we: the world would there, a goodly     sun: and, at dull plays, have shown the poor stone one liuerie, both     sadly black night to make.

               6

And the shop window of the plot.     But where? If you had two friend, her own sweet husbands chaste. But     if on me so sure I?

Thy bloom well in prison that loves     my head, therefore can’t wash in hot water a hollow knock     of someone hung with her

guitar, nursing their parents grudge,     and yet a third things. They do, t will hold me to choose my     burial room: my fates

are red, and lived and proud of his     deaf moonlight scandals strange, although I never saw sad men     go and leave you so. Strong

and tune the hours and leave your home,     in some perfumes then is your cradle, your fists. And murdered     if each other’s terror

clearer;—in short, there! Say, if she     ’d got any. They sat around, one way or t’ other,     and with fear, as far as

words are wooing and clasping and     watched him lest himself shoulders with an encounter top, the     circular argument,

so lively figure; like hues and     passions that palenesse brags it selfe hast thou lik’st so well?     Perhaps surpris’d and vaine

pleasant ayres of love of cattell,     and brief, the new Venus of the deity to board me     for evermore amongst

the chivalrous battle, wreck, or     history, by the golden locks, but have not the Key of all     humanity’s machine.

Along the fireweed flower,     and wait upon his Cheek, and o’er hills, dales, bulging with lawyers     and harass’d somewhat

full within! But not enamoured     of endurance; changeable too, yet somehow idem     semper; patient. Though the

scent to sleep without theatrical     pretence, not a Sage of Chokan: two small lies and sitting     on the winds are wooing

of thy sweet skill. On those who     are in favour with tears. Harmful deeds. On birthdays, glorious     with tears like a lasting

back to you, lawful and drear     the guilty of all but precipitate a situation?     She had kept a vigil

kept, and tell how he reduced     the downs—to the watched in hand, like a lasting traverse of     all this great self, for her

this with him is fledde, the bees seemed     to make strain’d! And write what the sad usage of Chokan: two     small licences must kisse-

worthy Them; behold! Then, since you     got home him hasted with the harte. Desired my dust to     be mingled love first days.

               7

Well, rough Year just as simooms whirl     the sky, we drank the air is so. Lurch and churches had been     firmness yclept in the

creatures choicest furniture, hath     cheered me as a long chase, who like thy virtue, beauty breaks     and gladly leaves, or none

can tell thewed, and follow where     young man, such a deuil wants me here, the closed eyes and whining,     and snebbe the old, if some

unseen by their sketch a harem,     a battles, despite till I am but half-dead; then to     her lute Corinna sings,

her voice, it spread but as to women     desires but keep coaches, must the Trial Men, and prosers,     words make the shadow

of a swain did a morning should     not been a Sultan of brutes, their pole! The sitting on     the leaves sailed to music

fled, nor me to choose you quite. Fore     damask roses. And snebbe the flocks father reason, of the     dead set at Lord Augustus

Fitz-Plantagenet. Which pretty     pleasant king, thou truly sympathy: summer winds a-     wooing flower of beauty

lived and diplomatist, the     Lady Adeline, have sung this I yield to their she     condition? Like a ballet-

master in the sculpture of that     ruby which you sit, then maids dance to diuorce from thy Hand: withdraw     Thee from thee this singled

to win her joy! Which Who feathers     frightened child till it full within my heart;—as I mused     it in his pious libels

by no means which is at war     with a human soul! For such Pollution! Her side, where he     is rough, and call’d her cheek.

[wasalwaysagreatpickle]

Friday 14 May 1830

7 10/..

12 1/4

Fahrenheit 49˚ at 7 1/2 – fine morning – no sun – streets dry – at my desk at 8 – settling accounts till 8 50/.. then wrote out all but the 1st ten lines of yesterday till 9 1/2 – breakfast at 10 3/4 – note at 11 from Miss Hobart not par la petite poste, to say Miss Maclean means to be off from London on the 20th but Mr Long means to keep her a week longer ‘and aunt Stuart says ‘aye and another month and year too’ – but I hope not so my sister is arrived; she is very much rejoiced that you are to remain at Paris all the summer I know you will be the greatest comfort possible to her’ – 

Wrote full 1/2 sheet in answer – ‘I quite long to have my album – you are right as to some of the écritures I mean to have – but whoever may write, and what ever may be written in the book, I think I know quite as well as you would allow I ought to know which writing I shall always value most – nothing would delight me more than to be anything like a comfort to your sister Madame de Hagemann I am not quite certain of being at home all the summer – I find one course of lectures that I counted on, will not begin till November, and Cuvier’s will be over about the end of next month – I have not been able to go into the country even for a day or two, and am, somehow or other, getting so lethargic, I have often 1/2 dozen nods and sleeps over one letter – But nous verrons’ - Begin with ‘It was observed that queen Elizabeth, in trying her pen, almost always wrote Edward – ‘I am and willing to see how I have covered a bit of paper with Dearest Vere – this note of Monday was a real comfort to me; far though I know you are never in the dismals about sick people, yet still the medium through which you see thin [cooks] cannot be quite so deceptive as to make me utterly set at nought your account of Sibbella – utterly, i.e. outerly – outer or utter darkness that which is on the outside of, and beyond the bounds of light – Beyond, or by yonder, or in the distance, farther off than the bounds? Farther very different from further – farther more distant – further, forwarder. plus en avant – I shall not go one step farther – I shall not say one word further – you like a letter about nothing; but you did not say good for nothing, so you may abuse the flocci-nauci-nihili-pili-fication of mine – I remember being much amused with this word, in days of yore, in one of Shenstones letters – He coined it to express his contempt of money – you may use it when you want to use the longest word one ever saw pretending to be English, and when you want to say of one of my letters, it is not worth a lock of wool, a nutshell, and nothing, a hair – Flocci-nauci-nihili-pili-fication – How does that look? I shall certainly adopt your word disimproved, as it will often be very convenient’ – then thanks etc. for her note just received –

About an hour’s nap – Monsieur de Hagemann called about 2 and stayed above an hour till 3 1/4 – really made himself very agreeable – is he very gentlemanly – then wrote nearly full 1/2 sheet to Miss Maclean shall be delighted to see her etc. etc. ‘you know I long to see you; but after all, I am really not impatient – you have promised not to mind whether I am at home or not, and I am satisfied – I hope this will be the last letter I shall have to write before we meet’ – then mention having written a note to Sowerby to ask him to send Fosboke’s foreign antiques (I believe 1 volume 4[ts]) and a Nugent’s pocket French dictionary  – and tell I added that if her coming was much longer delayed she would give orders about the books being forwarded – to do as she likes about them – have them forwarded or not – has said she will pay this 2nd bill to Sowerby – 

Wrote all but the first 2 lines of today and then sealed and sent off at 5 1/4 my letter to ‘Miss Maclean and enclosed in the same envelope my note to ‘Mr Sowerby 156 Regent Street’, and enclosed this in the envelope with my letter to ‘Miss Hobart, Honourable Lady Stuart’s, Whitehall’ and my note of invitation for Saturday to ‘Madame Madame Mackenzie’ and to ‘Dr Tupper’ – Letter from Lady Gordon, 34 Hertford Street, London at 5 – just added to my letter to Miss Hobart ‘a letter from Lady Gordon which I have not even time to open before sending off this’ – very kind letter 3pp. and the ends – good accounts from Cosmo – he spent the Easter at Seville ‘much delighted with the beauty of the town and the ceremonies which are finer there than in any place in Europe – shall we go and see them next Easter there? what are your plans – what are you going to do? If it was not for my children I would join you in any expedition mais que faire? for the expense is so great…. moving with 2 children, governess, 1 or 2 maids and a man – afraid she must stay at home this summer 

For I’m very poor – Miss Hobart does not manage Lady Stuart very well that the confinement is irksome to them both Lady Gordon cannot go to them in an evening for duties or pleasures and Lady Stuart is not a person to understand this. Charles Stuart does not like her and in fact Lady Stuart and perhaps Miss Hobart too will think her worldly as ever and they will not cordially suit. She is not naturally much to my taste I agree with Charles but I shall make use of her if I can as I am convinced she will of me she apologises for not having written sooner says she has behaved vilely – then wrote about two pages of half sheet note to Lady Gordon to be ready – 

Dressed – dinner at 6 3/4 – note in answer from Mrs MacKenzie they will come tomorrow if Miss MacKenzie is well enough – read the paper – came to my room at 8 3/4 - went into the drawing room almost immediately expecting Monsieur Saint Romain who has not come this evening – 

All the evening looking over livre des postes and planning journey with Lady Stuart de Rothesay have made it all through Auvergne by Lyons, Chamberry, Turin, Nice, Marseilles, Avignon, Nismes, Narbonne, Toulouse, the Pyrenees, Bayonne, Bordeaux, all along the coast to Nantes and then by Blois and Orleans home – in and out 422 postes – this must be pared down – 

Coffee at 9 1/4 – sat talking about it to my aunt allowing 90 days at 15/. a day for myself and 10/. for the 2 servants and the posting at 6/50 a poste say altogether £210 or £220 – Lady Stuart de Rothesay’s expenses would probably just three times mine – came to my room at 11 at which hour Fahrenheit 52˚ fine day – a little sun – wrote the last 8 lines – sat up reading no. 2 second series Cuvier’s lectures till 12 -

[ukdamo]

Antinous

Fernando Pessoa

It rained outside right into Hadrian's soul.

The boy lay dead On the low couch, on whose denuded whole, To Hadrian's eyes, that at their seeing bled, The shadowy light of Death's eclipse was shed.

The boy lay dead and the day seemed a night Outside. The rain fell like a sick affright Of Nature at her work in killing him. Through the mind's galleries of their past delight The very light of memory was dim.

O hands that clasped erewhile Hadrian's warm hands, That now found them but cold! O hair bound erstwhile with the pressing bands! O eyes too diffidently bold! O bare female male-body like A god that dawns into humanity! O lips whose opening redness erst could strike Lust's seats with a soiled art's variety!

O fingers skilled in things not to be named! O tongue which, counter-tongued, the throbbed brows flamed! O glory of a wrong lust pillowed on Raged conciousness's spilled suspension! These things are things that now must be no more. The rain is silent, and the Emperor Sinks by the couch. His grief is like a rage, For the gods take away the life they give And spoil the beauty they made live. He weeps and knows that every future age Is staring at him out of the to-be. His love is on a universal stage. A thousand unborn eyes weep with his misery.

Antinous is dead, is dead forever, Is dead forever and the loves lament. Venus herself, that was Adonis' lover, Seeing him again, having lived, dead again, Lends her great skyey grief now to be blent With Hadrian's pain.

Now is Apollo sad because the stealer Of his white body is forever cold. In vain shall kisses on that nippled point Covering his heart-beats' silent place implore His life again to ope his eyes and feel her Presence along his veins this fortress hold Of love. Now no caressing hands anoint With growing joy that body's lusting lore.

The rain falls, and he lies like one who hath Forgotten all the gestures of his love And lies awake waiting their hot return. But all his vices' art is now with Death: He lies with her, whose sex cannot him move, Whose hand, were't not cold, still ne'er his could burn. Lilies were on his cheeks and roses too. His eyes were sad in joy sometimes. He said Oft in his close abandonments, that woo Love to be more love than love can be, «Kiss My eyelids till my closed eyes seem to guess The kiss they feel laid in my heart's breast-bed.»

O Hadrian, what shall now thy cold life be? What boots it to be emperor over all? His absence o'er thy visible empery Throws a dim pall. Now are thy nights widowed of love and kisses, Now are thy days robbed of the night's awaiting, Now are thy lips purposeless and thy blisses No longer of the size of thy life, mating Thy empire with thy love's bold tendernesses.

Now are thy doors closed upon beauty and joy. Throw ashes on thy head! Lo, lift thine eyes and see the lovely boy! Naked he lies upon that memoried bed; By thine own hand he lies uncovered. There was he wont thy dangling sense to cloy, And uncloy with more cloying, and annoy With newer uncloying till thy senses bled.

His hand and mouth knew gamuts musical Of vices thy worn spine was hurt to follow. Sometimes it seemed to thee that all was hollow In sense in each new straining of sucked lust. Then still new crimes of fancy would he call To thy shaken flesh, and thou wouldst tremble and fall Back on thy cushions with thy mind's sense hushed.

«Beautiful was my love, yet melancholy. He had that art, of love's arts most unholy, Of being lithely sad among lust's rages. Now the Nile gave him up, the eternal Nile.

Under his wet locks Death's blue paleness wages Now war upon our pity with sad smile».

Even as he thinks, the lust that is no more Than a memory of lust revives and takes His senses by the hand, and his flesh quakes Till all becomes again what 'twas before. The dead body on the bed gets up and lives Along his every nerve ripped up and twanged, And a love-o'er-wise and invisible hand At every body-entrance to his lust Utters caresses which flit off, yet just Remain enough to bleed his last nerve's strand, O sweet and cruel Parthian fugitives!

He rises, mad, and looks upon his lover, That now can love nothing but what none know. Then his cold lips run all the body over— His lips that scarce remember their warmth, now So blent with feeling the death they behold; And so ice-senseless are his lips that, lo!, He scarce tastes death from the dead body's cold, But it seems both are dead or living both And love is still the Presence and the Mover. Then his lips cease on the other lips' cold sloth.

But there the wanting breath reminds his lips That between him and his boy-love the mist That comes out of the gods has crept. The tips Of his fingers, still idly tickling, list To some flesh-response to their purple mood. But their love-orison is not understood. The god is dead whose cult was to be kissed!

He lifts his hand up to where heaven should be And cries on the mute gods to know his pain. Lo, list!, o divine watchers of our glee

And sorrow!, list!, he will yield up his reign. He will live in the deserts and be parched On the hot sands, he will be beggar and slave; But give again the boy to be arm-reached! Forego that space ye meant to be his grave!

Take all the female beauties of the earth! Take all afar and rend them if ye will! But, by sweet Ganymede, that Jove found worth And above Hebe did elect to fill His cup at his high festivals, and spill His fairer vice wherefrom comes newer birth—, The clod of female embraces resolve To dust, o father of the gods!, but spare This boy and his white body and golden hair. Maybe thy newer Ganymede thou meanst That he should be, and out of jealous care From Hadrian's arms to thine his beauty steal'st.

He was a kitten playing with lust, playing With his own and with Hadrian's, sometimes one And sometimes two, now splitting, now one grown, Now leaving lust, now lust's high lusts delaying, Now eyeing lust not wide, but from askance Jumping round on lust's half-unexpectance; Then softly gripping, then with fury holding, Now playfully playing, now seriously, now lying By the side of lust looking at it, now spying Which way to take lust in his lust's withholding.

Thus did the hours slide from their tangled hands And from their mixed limbs the moments slip. Now were his arms dead leaves, now iron bands, Now were his lips cups, now the things that sip, Now were his eyes too closed, and now too open, Now were his ways such as none thought might happen, Now were his arts a feather and now a whip.

That love they lived as a religion Offered to gods that do to presence bend. Sometimes he was adorned and made to don Half-costumes, now a posing nudity That imitates some god's eternity Of body statue-known to craving men. Now was he Venus, risen from the seas; And now was he Apollo, white and golden; Now as Jove sate he in mock-judgment over The presence at his feet of his slaved lover; Now was he an acted rite, by one beholden, In ever-repositioned mysteries.

Now he is something anyone can be. O white negation of the thing it is! O golden-haired moon-cold loveliness! Too cold! too cold! and love as cold as he. Love wanders through the memories of his vice As through a labyrinth, in sad madness glad, And now calls on his name and bids him rise, And now is smiling at his imaged coming That is i'th'heart like faces in the gloaming-- Mere shining shadows of the forms they had.

The rain again like a vague pain arose And put the sense of wetness in the air. Suddenly did the Emperor suppose He saw this room and all in it from far. He saw the couch, the boy and his own frame Cast down against the couch, and he became A clearer presence to himself, and said These words unuttered, save to his soul's dread:

«I shall build thee a statue that will be To the astonished future evidence Of my love and thy beauty and the sense That beauty giveth of infinity, Though death with subtle uncovering hands remove The apparel of life and empire from our love, Yet its nude statue-soul of lust made spirit All future times, whether they will't or not, Shall, like a curse-seeming god's boon earth-brought, Inevitably inherit.

«Ay, this thy statue shall I build, and set Upon the pinnacle of being-thine. Let Time By its subtle dim crime Eat it from life, or with men's violence fret To pieces out of unity and presence. Ay, let that be! Our love shall stand so great In thy statue of us, like a god's fate, Our love's incarnate and discarnate essence, That, like a trumpet reaching over seas And going from continent to continent, Our love shall speak its joy and woe, death-blent, Over infinities and eternities!

«The memory of our love shall bridge the ages. It shall loom white out of the past and be Eternal, like a Grecian victory, In every heart the future shall give rages Of not being our love's contemporary.

«Yet oh that this were needed not, and thou Wert the red flower perfuming my life, The garland on the brows of my delight, The living flame on altars of my soul! Would all this were a thing thou mightest now Smile at from under thy death-mocking lids And wonder that I should so put a strife Twixt me and gods for thy lost presence bright; Were there nought in this but my empty dole And thy awakening smile half to condole With what my dreaming pain to hope forbids».

Thus went he, like a lover who is waiting, From place to place in his dim doubting mind. Now was his hope a great bulk of will fating Its wish to being, now felt he he was blind In some point of his seen wish undefined.

When love meets death we know not what to feel. When death foils love we know not what to know. Now did his doubt hope, now did his hope doubt. Now what his wish dreamed the dream's sense did flout And to a sullen emptiness congeal. Then again the gods fanned love's darkening glow.

Thy death has given me a newer lust— A flesh-lust raging for eternity. On my imperial will I put my trust That the high gods, that made me emperor be, Will not annul from a more real life My wish that thou shouldst live for e'er and stand A fleshly presence on their better land, More beautiful and as beautiful, for there No things impossible our wishes mar Nor pain our hearts with change and time and strife.

Love, love, my love! thou art already a god. This thought of mine, which I a wish believe, Is no wish, but a sight, to me allowed By the great gods, that love love and can give To mortal hearts, under the shape of wishes— Of wishes strong, having imperial reaches— A vision of the real things beyond Our life-imprisoned life, our sense-bound sense. Ay, what I will thee to be thou art now Already. Already on Olympic ground Thou walkest and art perfect, yet art thou, For thou needst no excess of thee to don To perfect be, being perfection.

«My heart is singing like a morning bird. A great hope from the gods comes down to me And bids my heart to subtler sense be stirred And think not that strange evil of thee That to think thee mortal would be.

«My love, my love! My god-love! Let me kiss On thy cold lips thy hot lips now immortal, Greeting thee at Death's portal's happiness, For to the gods Death's portal is Life's portal.

«Thus is the memory of thee a god Already, already a statue made of me-- Of that part of me that, like a great sea, Girds in me a great red empire more broad Than all the lands and peoples that are in My power's reach. Thus art thou myself made In that great stretch Olympic that betrays The true-wholed gods present in river and glade And hours eternal in its different days.

«So strong my love is that it is thyself, Thy body as it was ere death was it, Towering above the silence infinite That girds round life and its unduring pelf. Even as thou wert in life, thy corporal shade Is in the presence of the gods. My love Permits not that its carnal being fade Or one whit false to fleshly presence prove. Creeds may arise and pass, and passions change, Other ways may be born out of Time's dream, But this our love, made but thy body, 'll range On deathless meads from happy stream to stream.

«Were there no Olympus for thee, my love Would make thee one, where thou sole god mightst prove, And I thy sole adorer, glad to be

Thy sole adorer through infinity. That were a divine universe enough For love and me and what to me thou art. To have thee is a thing made of gods' stuff And to look on thee eternity's best part.

«O love, my love! Awake with my strong will Of loving to Olympus and be there The latest god, whose honey-coloured hair Takes divine eyes! As thou wert on earth, still In heaven bodifully be and roam, A prisoner of that happiness of home, With elder gods, while I on earth do make A statue for thy deathlessness' seen sake.

«That deathless statue of thee I shall build Will be no stone thing, but my great regret By which our love's eternity is willed. My sorrow shall make thee its god, and set Thy naked presence on the parapet That looks over the seas of future times. Some shall say all our love was vice and crimes. Others against our names, as stones, shall whet The knife of their glad hate of beauty, and make Our name a pillory, a scaffold and a stake Whereon to burn our brothers yet unborn. Yet shall our presence, like eternal morn, Ever return at Beauty's hour, and shine Out of the East of Love, and be the shrine Of future gods that nothing human scorn.

«My love for thee is part of what thou wert And shall be part of what thy statue will be. Our double presence unified in thee Shall make to beat many a future heart. Ay, were't a statue to be broken and missed, Yet its stone-perfect memory Would, still more perfect, on Time's shoulders borne, Overlook the great Morn From an eternal East.

«Thy statue is of thyself and of me. Our dual presence has its unity In that perfection of body, which my love, In loving it, did out of mortal life Raise into godness, set above the strife Of times and changing passions far above.

«The end of days, when Jove is born again, And Ganymede again pour at his feast, Shall see our dual soul from death released And recreated unto love, joy, pain, Life—all the beauty and the vice and lust, All the diviner side of flesh, flesh-staged. And, if our very memory wore to dust, By the giant race of the end of ages must Our dual presence once again be raised.»

It rained still. But slow-treading night came in Closing the weary eyelids of each sense. The very consciousness of self and soul Grew, like a landscape through dim raining, dim. The Emperor lay still, so still that now He half forgot where now he lay, or whence The sorrow that was still salt on his lips. All had been something very far, a scroll Rolled up. The things he felt were like the rim That haloes round the moon when the night weeps.

His head was bowed into his arms, and they On the low couch, foreign to his sense, lay. His closed eyes seemed open to him and seeing The naked floor, dark, cold, sad and unmeaning. His hurting breath was all his sense could know. Out of the falling darkness the wind rose And fell. A voice swooned in the courts below. And the Emperor slept.

The gods came now And bore something away, no sense knows how, On unseen arms of power and repose.

[hencethebravery]

TITLE: A Super Solid History of the “Good Old Fashioned Lover Boy(s),” c. The Beginning (or There About) to Now-ish

SUMMARY: Human beings are absolute fools when it comes to love. It’s largely the reason why God, in all Her infinite wisdom, so cleverly decided that the beings in Her employ (and thereafter) would have nought to do with such petty, earthly matters. Not they had seen a memo or anything, but it merely seems obvious, does it not? (Ao3)

NOTES: Hello, hello! Here be my very first Good Omens fic. Please note that I have only just started the novel and so this is mostly a product of my having watched the series several times over.

. . .

+ Perhaps one of the cruelest tricks that God has ever played (and the list was indeed long) was in allowing angels to believe they were incapable of love. There is some amount of debate as to whether or not this was entirely by accident. She was a busy woman after all━perhaps that was why it, the question of whether or not angels were truly capable of love, had slipped through one of her metaphysical cracks (of which, admittedly, there were many). Those who managed to refrain from falling had quite an easier time believing this particular theory to be very much the case. A largely unspoken, slightly offended, “She would never,” followed by an affirmation of the belief in the long held assumption that they were above such things anyway, so really, what did it even matter, and can we please return to the task at hand?

Those who did happen to fall on the other hand, went in rather the opposite direction. In a somewhat convoluted fashion (they were technically still angels after all), demons argued that, no, celestial beings had never been capable of love, and, yes, this was done with abundant amounts of purpose. Not to mention the longstanding rumor that perhaps they were always capable, which served the purpose of both dividing and controlling the heavenly population by means of dispensing vague, unverified information. And to the more skeptical among them they might say, “Well, she’s God isn’t she? It’s not as if she lacks the ability.”

In point of fact, they were both wrong.

From the very moment they had begun their stint upon the Earth, Aziraphale had often pondered the nature of love. They had heard the rumors, of course, not that they held much affinity for such behavior. No good has ever come from a rumor, they thought, particularly when their mind was especially prone to recalling those terrible centuries of heavenly warfare. No taste for it━the whispering between nebulas; the speculating of who would be staying and who would be going. Aziraphale had often suspected that it was part of the reason why Crowley had ended up doing… what he did. That perhaps the assumption they would fall did more to provoke the descent than anything else. It was a shame, but it had been so long ago, and there didn’t seem to be much to do about it now, at any rate.

Regardless, the question of love as it pertained to earthly beings, that made rather a bit more sense. Not to the humans themselves of course, but to Aziraphale, and even to Crowley, the emotion was in fact easily explained and somewhat predictable when applied in almost every conceivable situation. Usually.

“There is no possible way that girl is worth so few goats.”

Aziraphale had never felt truly comfortable with early human rituals as they pertained to establishing their various relationships. The use of the dowry, for example, particularly when a father might value a herd of sheep over the life of his child (and at this point in time, rather too young, in their estimation), stirred something… untoward in their gut.

“She’s a bit young, don’t you think?”

Even then, Crowley had possessed the somewhat uncanny ability to speak the words that Aziraphale often thought but feared to say aloud, and while a part of them was grateful to hear them spoken, the other part was curious as to how their supposed enemy could be so well-attuned to their thoughts. Could be the point, I suppose, they thought, looking quickly away before Crowley could notice, to catch us unawares with their deceptive bouts of intimacy.

“Well there, Aziraphale, how ‘bout it? Can I count on you?”

“Oh, um, my apologies,” they stammered, unfamiliar fleshy fingers tangling together, “count on me for what?”

“Your discretion,” Crowley reiterated with an air of unrepentant espionage curling around the crown of their head, “she is worth far more goats than... that.”

Aziraphale envied the demon’s seemingly instinctive use of their own hands; tossed about in the air, waved vaguely in the direction of the unfortunate scene which played out before them. How did one use one’s own hands as a means of further emphasizing their point? Marvelous. They would have to spend more time working on that.

“ Aziraphale ,” Crowley repeated, one eyebrow raised smartly above their golden eye, “I know you can’t be a fan of this either.”

“Well, no,” they admitted, “but I am merely here to observe, and I did promise myself that last time would be the last time.”

Crowley hummed with a mildly infuriating tone of knowing skepticism (which Aziraphale didn’t much appreciate), “Alright, well, if you’re here to observe and all, I guess there’s nothing you’d be able to do about this.”

Aziraphale was, as it turned out, not quite quick enough in noting that, as a matter of fact, yes, they would be well within their rights to interfere when a demon was involved, but by that point Crowley had vanished from their side, and a slithering serpent had already begun making its way towards the feet of the large old bearded gentleman who had offered far too few goats for so young and bright a person.

. . .

It was right around the time human beings started getting rather more polite with their food that Aziraphale managed to develop a fair higher degree of grace with his own hands. Rather difficult to eat a steaming bowl of noodles without the use of… “chop-sticks.” Gracious, Gabriel would be horrified by the very idea. Not just by the “sullying of the vessel,” but the notion that one might do so with sticks? Unthinkable. Regardless, it all came fairly easy after that (the hands); throwing a pair of dice, holding a quill or a pair of knitting needles. After a time he discovered that he very much enjoyed the tactility━the variety of sensations felt on the surface of the skin he had been ordered to have.

He had also, around this time, begun to go about being referred to as “he.” Moreso to blend in than anything else. It was hard to pin down when exactly, but at some point humanity became far more reliant upon noting the difference. It made a certain kind of sense, he supposed, if they were going to insist upon such hierarchical-like systems to survive.

“They are Her creations after all,” Crowley reasoned, casually (almost certainly, casually) observing Aziraphale’s hands as they cupped his bowl of broth.

Aziraphale made a somewhat half-hearted attempt to cool his soup, lest the demon sitting across from him note his discomfort. In as polite a fashion as possible, so as not to rock any proverbial boats, he made the potentially ill-advised decision to be predictable and “play dumb.”

“And,” with a mild stutter, “and what is it you mean by that?”

“Oh, don’t be dense, Angel, you know exactly what I mean by that.”

He hated when their conversations took these kinds of turns. When their differences became undeniable and he was forced to reconcile with the truth of their circumstances: That all evidence to the contrary, the demon sitting across from him was supposed to be his mortal enemy━and for what? Some… pesky disagreement? An oversimplification to be sure, it must be conceded, but all the same, for… what, exactly? What had it all been for?

Having accepted the frequent refrain of Aziraphale’s silence in moments such as these, Crowley had returned to his own drink; a sharp yet sweet rice wine that Aziraphale had recommended. All the better for his own sanity, for his own return to his hot bowl of flavorful broth (with some kind of... fish base, in which large pieces of seaweed, accompanied by smaller cubes of to-fu floating alongside; absolutely fascinating, by the way), and unsettling, unwelcome questions that did little good for him to ponder over. But ponder he inevitably would, and he felt it prudent to admit that he had himself often wondered what might have happened if he had been more… present during the whole debacle (the war, as it were), or even if he had known Crowley at the time━would the outcome have been the same?

It doesn’t seem a particularly worthy avenue of thought to continue shambling down, especially if one were to consider the fact that it was all decided upon long, long ago; but as he sneaks a glance upwards, to the sight of a demon sat across from him at a table, taking careful sips of a rice wine he has no reason to drink (other than to acquiesce to Aziraphale’s own enthusiastic request) he does have to wonder, How bad can they really be?

It’s on this particular evening that Aziraphale and Crowley happen to “brush hands” for the very first time. Azirphale had, on occasion, been made aware of the concept, but had yet to fully partake in such an episode. Human beings seemed to make quite a to-do of the whole affair. He had borne witness to such things with his own eyes, and was rather struck by the intensity of something that seemed so bafflingly simple. But then again, that seemed to be the nature of love. At least as it pertained to human beings. Angels were immune to such things, clearly.

They had both reached for the bottle at the same time, is all. Nothing to fuss over. It was bound to happen sometime━trapped as they were in these rather cumbersome… things; adjusting to the speed and the space of it all. Moving with both certainty and uncertainty, holding things too tightly or not tightly enough. Silly, unreliable things. You had to wonder what She’d been thinking (not that Aziraphale would ever say so, of course).

The poets will speak of a spark, but Aziraphale didn’t much know about all of that. He could acknowledge a warmth, perhaps even a… tingle? In retrospect he might even recall a raising of the soft hairs along his arms. But really, there’s not much to say about it. Other than the fact that from the perspective of an outsider there was perhaps an unnatural pause. A stiffness that mortal beings struggled to find. Most living, physical beings required breath you see━they are frequently at the whims of their world; it is, quite nearly, impossible not to be in motion for any extended period of time. That was just the way She wanted it. The unrepentant motion. The force. The push forwards. Don’t stop, never stop. Until, you know, She says so.

These two beings, however, they weren’t human beings. They were created by God, of course, but they were relatively new to this “body,” business, and as such they still seemed to be encountering the unfortunate and inconvenient side effects. Touch being just one of many. Angels didn’t really touch in the same way humans did. Their natural forms failed to really give them the ability. They did in fact… collide with each other from time to time, but it was limitless. There was no barrier. If anything, it was a bit unpleasant━the lack of boundaries. Something about “seamless teamwork,” is what Aziraphale could recall from his discussions with Gabriel, or Michael. It was difficult to tell the difference sometimes. Regardless (or perhaps irregardless), human touch would appear to be quite a bit different. Because there was a pretty significant boundary, and for whatever reason that Aziraphale had yet to identify, it felt somehow more intimate than the traditional, angelic “brushing of hands,” as it were.

Crowley, in a rare moment of clumsiness, must have felt similarly because in his shock had pulled his hand back so swiftly that he managed to knock the half-empty bottle to the table with a soft snick, with a gentle, rhythmic dripping of the remaining wine to follow.

“Oh, dear,” Aziraphale muttered, moving quickly to right the bottle and dab at the developing stain. Crowley had stood rather abruptly after that, and not in the smooth, serpent-like manner that Aziraphale had become accustomed to, and with hardly a “so long,” turned and fled the scene. They would never mention that particular moment again, but Aziraphale, to his great, great consternation, did struggle to put it entirely out of his mind.

. . .

Oh, centuries pass. Not entirely unlike an unfathomably long sigh, the world continues as the world often does. As do the angels and the demons playing their parts in some… hip yet indescribably vague off-broadway production (with no discernible plot) written by and for an audience of precisely one. Maybe. Probably. Over the course of The Great Exhale (™), Aziraphale observes. He learns. Which should be obvious, as that was something of the job assigned to him in the first place, but he really takes a genuine interest in the task. So much so that he keenly starts to observe other observers, humans who frequently come to be called “authors.” Authors are truly outstanding observers in their own right; even going so far as to record their observations in impressively long works of art━in letters and in image, the authors and artists in question lend a helpful amount of weightiness to a position he had come to doubt on occasion.

“They see things in ways we can’t, you see,” Aziraphale had tried explaining to Gabriel during one unexpected (and painfully awkward) meeting. As he had come to expect, Gabriel listened with a look of mild confusion (and pity), but it didn’t bother Aziraphale all that much. He had his books. “You can tell the others there’s no reason to worry,” he continued quickly, hoping their conversation had reached its conclusion, “I have all we need right here.”

“No surprises, Aziraphale,” Gabriel warned in goodbye, slipping out the door, “and remember, they can’t see nearly as well as we can.”

“Well, we know that’s not true.”

The surprising (yet unmistakable) tenor of Crowley’s voice echoed from the darkness of Aziraphale’s office, which had been empty the last he checked. The angel in question could do little to prevent the slight hitch in his breathing, concerned with not only the unexpected appearance of a demon, but so quickly after the departure of an angel that would certainly see said demon immediately and irrevocably smited.

“That’s cheeky,” Aziraphale mumbled as Crowley sauntered out of the back room, his hair in its usual impeccable coif.

Shortly after Aziraphale acquired the bookshop, and not without some degree of honest ignorance as to why, Crowley did what he unfortunately happened to do best, and asked Aziraphale precisely what was the point of it all? And as had become usual practice, Aziraphale had a maddeningly difficult time coming up with an answer.

“You know, I’m not quite sure,” he finally admitted, “as soon as I do I shall let you know.”

“With bated breath, Angel,” Crowley had responded in distraction, his own nose lost in one of Aziraphale’s many books that he had seemingly no definitive explanation for.

. . .

The thing about Aziraphale’s exchange with the archangel Gabriel, that is the somewhat truncated version of an answer to Crowley’s “why,” was much longer and perhaps more blasphemous than Gabriel wanted to hear. But it was, possibly, exactly the kind of thing a demon (or rather, this demon) would want to hear.

Though Gabriel’s visit made for something of a stressful few hours, it was a particularly lovely day nonetheless. The leaves had begun changing their colors, but it was still pleasantly warm when standing in the sun, and should he feel just a touch too warm, a perfectly timed (some might say, miraculously timed) gust of wind would breeze on through the open window. Despite the fresh autumnal air, the smell of the books often lingered; the unmistakable scent of old paper and ink blending seamlessly with the decaying leaves which wound through the air and along the pavement.

“Do you happen to recall,” Aziraphale began, pouring Crowley an exquisitely steeped cup of Earl Grey, “when I first acquired this shop?”

In so much as Crowley could be predictable, he did, quite predictably, feign forgetfulness (not that angels or demons could forget very much by the very fact of their design). “Not certain,” he pondered theatrically, his sharp chin resting in the palm of his hand. “About what century was this, d’you think?”

Making the conscientious decision to refuse to participate in Crowley’s strange theatrics, Aziraphale continued, adjusting his vest as if it had suddenly shrunk while he was wearing it (which was certainly possible, he supposed). “Well, you had asked of me an admittedly fair question as to why I had purchased the shop at all, and I had told you I wasn’t quite certain as to why, and━”

“Yes, yes,” he interrupted, taking a sip of his tea, “let’s hear it then.”

“Well,” he began, somewhat taken aback by Crowley’s abrupt demand for an answer he had recently pretended to have forgotten, “I━I do believe it might have something to do with… love. Of all things.”

Crowley’s nose did indeed wrinkle, as if a bad sort of smell had passed beneath it from having even heard the word, but he did have a thoughtful look. If Aziraphale had to describe it, he might find himself comparing it to a rather more subdued version of the look that had passed over Crawley’s face subsequent to the infrequently mentioned Flaming Sword Incident (™). An expression of pleased surprise which, in retrospect, betrayed a yearning optimism that most demons should not, under any circumstances, possess.

See, as it happened, Aziraphale had been doing a lot of thinking as of late. Not a great habit, a stern-looking Gabriel would often scold in his head, It’s all been figured out anyway, no need to go reinventing the wheel. As it happened, Gabriel was quite unimpressed with the invention of the wheel. No great feat, in his estimation. Not that he found humans to be impressive in most cases. Aziraphale couldn’t blame him, he supposed. Gabriel hadn’t been tasked with the job Aziraphale had━maybe if he had been, he would’ve arrived at similar conclusions (likely not so, but it was hard for Aziraphale to deny giving others the benefit of the doubt).

If you were in fact playing one of the two roles assigned to you (that of Angel or Demon), you might be privy to something of a hotly debated topic. Love. What was it? Who was capable of it? Was it a uniquely human trait? Was it freely available to all beings? And of course, as was the question in most things, how in the world was God involved in all this?

“Oh, Angel, not this old… chestnut,” Crowley nearly spat. Despite the darkened frames over his eyes, Aziraphale practically felt his rolling of them.

“Now, hold on,” he continued, hoping to cut Crowley off at some self-righteous pass he knew wasn’t far behind, “just… wait.”

Obviously, it was rather difficult for anyone to speculate with any degree of certainty the true machinations of God’s mind. Whether God had designed everything (angels included) with the capability to feel and/or express love in its entirety or not, Aziraphale had begun to wonder whether or not it very much mattered (the debate, that is). You had to start with the Assumption (™).

“Which is…?”

A self-fulfilling prophecy. An angel such as Aziraphale, assuming that it didn’t much matter (whether or not God had given angels the capacity for love), which was the general opinion of the heavenly chorus━or Crowley and other demons similarly assuming it was all a vile manipulation borne of boredom and the Almighty’s irrepressible urge to have a hand (metaphorically speaking) in just about everything. All this and still the usual refrain from both sides: Humans and love, they know not what they do. As if the heavenly (or not so heavenly) were, at the very least, immune.

“It’s the isolation you see,” Aziraphale managed to somewhat tangientally conclude, “the being… trapped, as it were. In their bodies.”

It was in that moment that Aziraphale worried whether or not he had gotten a tad too close to the Spilled Wine Incident (™) which had occurred several centuries earlier ( long unspoken of). Wondered if perhaps Crowlely had, in his own time, reached a similar conclusion, and was in fact thinking the same exact thing. That of angelic… mingling and the somewhat invasive ability to see into the heart of someone’s soul, versus the perfectly human ability to hardly know a person at all except perhaps through a brief brushing of hands. The arrangement of words on a page. The splashes of color on a canvas. That perhaps God, in all her… strange, bureaucratic dereliction of parental duty had in fact given human beings one single instance of superiority.

“Love.”

In a limit imposed by God, human beings could only love one another given truly uncomfortable degrees of uncertainty, and what angel or demon had ever taken such a risk?

In case you (the reader) were wondering, interrupted God with a very gentle boom (otherwise one’s head was quite likely to explode), it’s them. The two of them. Idiots.

“So, the bookshop,” Crowley spoke, filling the void of Aziraphale’s silence, “you wanted to know more about this… Risky Business?”

There was almost certainly the undercurrent of a joke in there that Aziraphale would require an explanation for at some other juncture, but for now he merely nodded. “I believe so,” smiling into his cup, “for how valuable are our observations if we’ve only ever made them through our own omniscience?”

Long, long story, very much shortened to a far more reasonable and linear degree: Since The Beginning, angels and demons had largely felt confident in their belief that they knew far more than the average human (Agnes Nutter aside, of course); and Aziraphale, in the midst of an occasional crisis as to who knew what and how well, had, with the acquisition of his quaint little bookshop been unconsciously soothed by a truth several centuries in the making. That angels, like humans, did not in fact know everything. That they were not necessarily immune to what it was they had supposed, and that, quite blessedly, there was just… so very much to know. Even after all this time. Pages and pages and pages of things to know.

“It’s a fair point,” Crowley answered with a brief smile of his own, “never much cared for all the…” A signature wave of his free hand, bereft of his teacup, “...business anyway.” Referring of course to the traditional forms of angelic and/or demonic communication, which funnily enough, neither gentleman had experienced for quite some time.

And it was, during this particular turn in the narrative (quite nearing its conclusion, I promise you), that an angel and a demon would brush hands for a historical second time. Historic for the existence of hands, the fact of their briefly touching again, and of course the reality of their circumstances (which Aziraphale had become rather tired of noting). They both reached for the teapot at the same moment you see, which, if one were a betting man (or woman), they might imagine a divine hand or two, or several, or however many hands God might prefer to have, in the mix. 

What made this particular time so different from the first was not only the fact of their very recent conversation, but the privilege of having several hundred years to have a good, rational think on the matter. So rational, in fact, that the urge to spring violently apart and knock something over seemed to be entirely absent.

“You know, I’ve often found it rather funny,” Aziraphale began quietly, painfully aware of where their fingers touched, “that despite my theory, you have often been quite good at mirroring my own thoughts.”

“Ironic,” Crowley agreed, “though you are rather easy to read I’m afraid.”

The beautiful thing about a brush is the secondary movements that might come after━particularly when the brush might provoke a pause. Most anything can occur in the midst of a pause. One might move a finger, for example, which in turn might elicit a not unpleasant shiver down one’s spine. There’s also the accompanying sound, which, for all his talk of humans being superior, it was a shame that their hearing was so dreadfully ordinary. It would be rather difficult for a human being to hear breath in the same way Aziraphale or Crowley might, sitting apart as they were. The intake and the exhale, all occurring within a brief, blissful pause which, along with their shared breath and the clinking of china, was accompanied by the continued autumnal breeze, and the scattering of dried foliage.

“I think,” Crowley continued, his hand moving, ever so slowly, to fully grasp Aziraphale’s own, “that we should consider testing your theory again.”

“Q-quite,” Aziraphale managed to answer, wonderfully overwhelmed by all the knowing (and marvelous not-knowing) occurring within the tangle of their hands. “I do enjoy a thorough undertaking of the scientific method.”

. . .

They were both wrong (the gossiping, angelic and demonic masses) because, in an infuriatingly on point God move, they were both partially right, weren’t they? Yes, of course, angels were always capable of love, but God was rather busy wasn’t She? She’s a deity just like any other━lots to do. Being in charge while also doing Her best to refrain from micromanaging, which She’d been told employees didn’t actually like, so can you really blame her for being a bit aloof sometimes? An honest mistake, really. Nothing quite so sinister as the demons might like to believe, nor so benevolent as the angels would like to think. And besides, She’d given them humanity, and She did love a good game of risk.