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#but you have to squint a bit to see the good omens in it
variousqueerthings · 7 months
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okay I watched good omens s2 yesterday with my partner, and I was genuinely very surprised -- I think if you've grown up through superwholock/merlin/the 100/teen wolf type shows where (with the exception periodically of doctor who) you kind of had to make up the good show that something could have been in your head, that colours a lot of your viewing, and to be honest I thought season 1 of good omens was a fine little piece, honoured the book while modernising it somewhat, it was a nice, fun, low stakes time, with a couple of things I might have wanted a tad different but nothing overall awful.
so I was seeing all this meta and gifsets and discussion, while I was waiting to give s2 a watch with my partner and thought "ah, people have made up the good show in their heads again" not that I assumed s2 was going to be a bad show, but that people were taking extra deep plunges into possibilities, the way fandom does, and that was fine. I knew there was a big ol kiss, I had a sense of some kind of argument at the end, and that it was setting up a s3
I also knew that mainstream reviews were calling it (politely) self-indulgent and dependent on whether or not you enjoy david tennant and michael sheen having a good time for just under 6 hours
all in all, expectations of a somewhat mainstream show without too much to think about, a nice, fun low stakes time, moving on...
(EDIT: AND THEN I WROTE A LOT OF WORDS SO YOU CAN IMAGINE THAT MY REACTION WAS QUITE DIFFERENT)
as it turns out it seems these things that were being written on tumblr were discussing the actual text of the show and not things you could extrapolate if you squinted and tilted your head a little to the left as I'm so used to doing, so in fact there is much to think about!
and my first thought was "this is like when you read early discworld books that ask a question like a joke, only to find that over time the answer to that question becomes very serious (and also can be funny at times of course)." how terry pratchett would pick and pick at tropes and notions and social ideas and go "oh now hold on, this seems strange..." starting way back when he thought it was odd that women warriors always seemed to be dressed in metal bikinis and then realising he hadn't done a good enough job of subverting the trope, simply by depicting it and calling it a bit silly
why do goblins always get treated as the villains? what's with this divine succession of kings business? where are the female dwarfs? who do we treat as disposable?
good omens season one went: "haha what if heaven and hell were intensely incapable, bureaucratic, corrupt, and uncaring of the work they did, and we took an angel and a demon and had them actually care? wouldn't that be... a bit silly?" (and it was)
good omens season two went: "what are the consequences for caring when the people who have power over you are incapable, bureaucratic, corrupt, and uncaring? what are the forces that supersede systems built on fear, ignorance, and violent conformity? can people change and break out of/challenge/break down these structures by caring?"
and this was set up with a neat little sleight of hand (to reference aziraphale's switch-and-bait in the episode with the nazi zombies), because the majority of season 2 does feel a bit indulgent: hey, remember those two wacky angel-and-demon characters? watch some more wacky things they did through the ages, watch them take a sojourn through 1827 Edinburgh and do a magic show during the Blitz, and... stop the death of Job's and Sitis' children (actually maybe that whole segment ought to have been what they call "A Clue")
see them try to figure out a kooky mystery, all the while setting up a cute little same-gender romance on their street. watch as everything points towards a happy ending that's all about the two of them realising what they've been to one another all these thousands and thousands (and thousands and thousands) of years- but hold on. lest we forget - and the show has made this point over and over - there are powerful people who control them, who hurt them, and who plan on hurting others, throughout the whole season, and as it turns out they know what they've been to one another for far far longer, and know how to pull their strings...
season 2 then, has to show us these things, not because they're indulgent (well, maybe occasionally, but the apology dance is still important), but because in order to make the ending a tragedy, we first need to understand, properly, the impact that they have had on each other. we need to understand that Aziraphale relied heavily on Crowley to be his moral compass and leaned on black-and-white thinking in order to deal with things, because if it's all grey then where does he fit and what has it all meant and heaven has to be the good guys, even as Job's and Sitis' children are ordered to be killed, it's all he ever had...
and Crowley was always an anchor, needed to trust that Aziraphale was different, needed to bend to every whim that Aziraphale has, because otherwise what's his worth in all this? After having been already deemed worthless by the heaven that Aziraphale needs to believe in?
and that, simplistically described, is the narrative that we're seeing in s2, and alongside that the ways that the changes they have upon each other are noticed, and monitored, and placed under suspicion, and finally... broken up, not by the clumsy, brute force that's been attempted over and over again, but by a promise to return into a violent, controlling system and to "make it better from within"
and all of this is wrapped up in two queer relationships + a third queered-within-the-text relationship that creates the inverse of how it ends for Aziraphale and Crowley (so far). queer love -- whatever shape that has -- is explicitly the shape of non-conformity within this narrative, including within the symbolism of angel-and-demon love of Gabriel and Beelzebub, which in the context of the systems created is considered queer (and one can argue till the cats come home about casting cis actors, about angel-and-demon notions of gender/romance/sexuality, but the "queerness" comes from building something non-conforming to the systems they exist in), and enforced by the explicitly our-world-definition-of queer romance that Nina and Maggie have going on (which, while less high stakes, still contains the background controlling relationship that Nina initially is in)
all of this to say, that I disagree that s2 meanders, or that plotlines happen for the sake of showcasing Aziraphale and Crowley without purpose, or that characters get sidelined (I'd say it sets up a whole host of interesting characters to further get into actually), or that it's strictly mainstream easy-access narrative that's just an excuse for the main creators and actors to get back together.
the love is the point, and this show takes its time to show the love (and the unequal boundary-setting, and the fact that one of them has an undiscussed tragic backstory, and the desperation to belong again, and the fear instilled by oppressive systems, and and and), so that we understand why those last 15 minutes happen the way that they do
it's sleight of hand, and like all good magic, you don't notice until it's happened
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silkjade · 1 year
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maybe we're a forest fire
Featuring— alhaitham x reader ⤀ warnings: gn!reader, hurt/comfort fic, reader has a pyro vision, slightly suggestive at the end if you squint ⤀ summary: he comforts you when you overthink on certain aspects of your relationship | w.c. 1k+ ⤀ a/n: alhaitham strikes me as someone who's intelligent but doesn't overthink, so as an overthinker, this is so..so..so self indulgent
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“You’re overthinking things again,” al-haitham states matter of factly. He continues to read despite the soft thudding of your footsteps as you pace the room.
“I’m not.” You argue, stopping in your tracks. “It makes sense. I just think… what if we…” your words trail off as you hesitate, biting your lip, wondering if you should continue your train of thought. 
“...what if we… end things now. Before things get worse…” you falter, wringing your hands, your voice as small as you feel under the watchful eyes of the heavens. Al-haitham’s shoulders visibly stiffen, pausing for just a moment to look up from his book, before slamming it shut in his hand.
“And where’s all this coming from?” he inquires, a quizzical brow arched in skepticism. Your boyfriend leans back in his seat, arms crossed, waiting for an explanation; you weren’t one to make rash decisions like this.
“Where’s this coming from… al-haitham were you even listening to me?” you throw your hands up in frustration and continue pacing the room. The two of you had taken a stroll this afternoon through sumeru city and you had thought it a good idea to have your fortunes read; your colleague at the akademiya, setaria, had sworn by nabiya and the accuracy of her readings, claiming that this relationship you had with the scribe should undergo the young fortune teller’s divination before proceeding foward: “Lest you waste your time on a doomed love prospect,” your friend had warned. Besides, it wasn’t that you necessarily believed in divination, but it didn’t hurt to have a little bit of fun… right? How wrong you were.
As you once again begin to pace to and fro, you miss the way al-haitham rolls his eyes from across you. “Don’t tell me this is all because of what that fortune teller said. You know they’re almost never accurate right? And you’re telling me you want to end things because… her cats recommended it?” Nabiya had read that your relationship would burn up, like a dying star, that it’d be better to save the trouble before everything went up in flames.
“No,” you continue, ignoring him, “she said the gods spoke through her. But anyways, I’ve been thinking ever since and I mean… just looking at our visions should be proof enough that maybe we shouldn’t be together at all.” 
“And pray tell, what do our visions have to do with our relationship? If anything, I’d say it’s a good omen that our elements react so well together.” Ever the rational insight. Usually, al-haitham quite enjoyed listening to your theories, but this was getting absurd, making him wonder if perhaps, there was more troubling you beneath the surface than you let on. Because even he couldn’t predict the tangent you were about to go on when your pyro and his dendro vision worked wonders together, especially when encountering enemies during your investigations in the forest and beyond. 
“Yes, they do react well don’t they,” you chuckle, cynical. “Burning. In our forest nation.”
“Well actually only half forest,” he interjects, as a poor attempt at lightening the mood. In his quiet observation, al-haitham hears the slight shift in your tone, hears you struggling to choke back your true feelings in your tirade. And yet the more you processed your own reasoning, the more it made sense. Your lover is rational if nothing else, so he’s sure to see your point. The nails of your clenched fists dig into the flesh of your palms, your heart starts beating faster, the voices of a hundred different thoughts swirling in your head. Here in the knowledge driven nation of sumeru, it was a rare occasion that the head would agree with the heart, so when it came down to it, most chose to follow their head. You were no exception.
“Al-haitham I’m being serious.” As if your large, pleading eyes weren’t already enough to break his cool persona, your next words do. You turn around, unable to face him as you begin to speak.
“Pyro is destructive. When it spreads, it burns everything in its path, and what if I burn you. Maybe not literally but I’m sure you know the sages aren’t exactly happy their scribe is getting distracted lately. And the grand sage is rtawahist— he’s bound to connect the dots and say the same… I don’t want to be a liability to you al-haitham, or cost you-” 
Ah. There it was. Dating the infamous grand scribe had thrown both you and your relationship into the public eye, and the scrutiny of the akademiya itself was no exception. You felt the air escape from your lungs before you could continue any further. Al-haitham had all but jumped out of his seat, tackling your person and enveloping you from behind, in a rare embrace.
“Hey. Hey, it’s okay. We’re going to be okay,” he murmurs, “having a pyro vision doesn’t make you the fire itself. And the sages have no say in my personal life, so even if you do ever burn me, well, forests need fire to renew and regrow.” He turns your body around to face him, fingers lifting up your chin so he could look into your eyes.
“I don’t care about any sort of destiny the gods or stars want to show me. I-”
“-plan to discredit the entire rtawahist darshan?” Al-haitham ignores your interruption and continues,
“And? I’d go against celestia as well if they think the element of our visions is enough of a reason to seperate us. You know I’m no zealot.” When the only response he gets from you is the fact that you shift your eyes away from his, he opts to pull you into himself, a hand on your back, the other behind your head. At this proximity, you’re able to pick up the steady sounds of his heartbeat. It was calming; it settled the rapid pace of your own heart to match his. Slowly, you bring your arms to wrap around his waist and press a soft smile into his chiseled chest.
“I fight for what I believe in, and I believe in us. It’s going to take more than just some fortune teller to change my mind, so let’s not discuss this anymore… unless you’d like other ways to keep your thoughts at bay?”
“You know… despite the robot allegations, you’re actually quite romantic,” you tease, looking up. 
“And you’re strangely impulsive for an overthinker.”
“...shut up.”
© silkjade — do not steal, plagiarize, translate or repost any content onto any other platform
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avocado-writing · 7 months
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Hey 👋🏻 i just finished rewatching both seasons of good omens 🥲 can i request an ineffable husbands x r with an established relationship? after a night out they go back to the bookshop and r is pissed drunk so aziraphale and crowley tries to help them get comfortable and get settled but r keeps saying “back off i have partners.” and things like that because they’re too drunk to recognize the two which amuses them both. i read something similar online and thought it would be funny with the husbands. thank you so much ❤️
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notes: put this once again in tltdatsib, hope that's ok! also yall: anyway nightingale is drunk / me: YES lmfao
pairing: crowley x reader x aziraphale
rating: T
notes: excessive alcohol consumption; gn reader but one reference to them being a primadonna; tltdatsib-verse
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You’re all quite drunk.
The three of you are all impartial to a glass of wine or six after a nice day. Usually you can hold your liquor quite well, but you underestimated the vintage, and now you’re absolutely off your face. Crowley and Aziraphale are happy to sober up the miraculous way, the alcohol returning to its bottle, but you absolutely despise it happening to you and they’d never do it without your permission. So there you are, head-lollingly, body-flailingly drunk on the sofa in the back of the bookshop.
“Come on love, let’s get you to bed,” Crowley says, attempting to heave you into his arms. You push him away and make a low noise in the back of his throat. 
“Did… did you just growl at me?” he asks, both delighted and bemused; torn between actually trying to help you or recording this on his phone so that he can tease you mercilessly tomorrow. 
"My love - " begins Aziraphale, but you glare at him the best you can while barely being able to hold your head up.
“Oi! Back ‘ff sunshine,” you say, holding your hand up and wiggling your fingers, “‘m married! My husbands—spousesssss—won’t be too happy ‘f you chat me up!”
Aziraphale and Crowley exchange a look. You’ve not been this drunk since the three of you were invited to the Diamond Dogs release party in the seventies. Your hangover had lasted a week. 
“Darling,” says Aziraphale with a patient sigh, “we’re your husbands… spouses… oh, look, it’s us!”
"No-oo-oo! Lies! Won't be taken in by handsome strangerssss!" you cry, a primadonna of a show only you can see. You try to launch yourself across the couch for safety but get your foot stuck between two seat cushions.
"'Handsome', eh?" Crowely asks, grinning very wide indeed.
"Yessss, handsome! Very! But 'm TAKEN."
Aziraphale sighs, both wanting this charade to be over and charmed that even when you're too blotto to recognise them, you still find your husbands attractive.
"Look, let me show you proof, darling."
You squint, suspiciously. 
“Eh?”
Aziraphale reaches into his coat pocket to bring out his wallet. It has no cards or cash, nothing that one would actually need a wallet for - but he keeps it for one very particular reason. 
He flips open the leather and holds it out for you to inspect. It has a photo in it: a polaroid, taken for you by a kind passerby on the day of your wedding. It’s of the three of you, arms around each other, all smiling the widest in any photo where you are the subjects. You take it from his hands, scrutinise it, then cringe.
“Oh god, ‘m ‘n idiot…”
You collapse back into the sofa, letting your arm remain in its place so Aziraphale can take the precious wallet back safely. 
"It's alright nightingale. You're just a bit tipsy is all, my love."
"You're so kind to me even when 'm bein' silly..."
"For better for worse. For drunker, for sober...er," Crowley reasons.
“Should go t’ sleep…” you mutter, and before they can help you up, you turn over to face the pile of pillows and immediately make good on that threat. They cover you with a blanket, and Crowley does tease you the next morning.
-
@angiestopit @foolishprincipalitee @smile-eywa @staygoldsquatchling02 @underratedboogeyman @specter-soltare @candlewitch-cryptic @cool-ontherun-world @emilynissangtr @willbedecided @bdffkierenwalker @cool-iguana @ilyatan @civil-groupie @willyoubethepookietomypookster @lxsm2 @clarina04 @wtfhasmy-lifecometo @mrgatotortuga @wereallbrokenangels @night-affiliate @silcosmoke @kimqueenofhell @chewbrry @bajablast23 @h3k3t @am-i-obsessed---maybe @bakerstreethound
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bakerstreethound · 8 months
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🎻Send me a song 🎻 I’ll analyze it and tell you what fictional it reminds me of and the scenario that comes to my mind.
I know how much you love Sleep Token, I will pick their song 'Alkaline' for you. Have fun. 💙 ~ Bluebellinbakerstreet
I hope you are buckled up for the ride on this one because I adore Sleep Token’s music and will probably not shut up about it for a long time, so I thank you for sending one of their songs for I am chomping at the bit. I hope you enjoy some angst here! There is some softness if you squint.
Heart of Molecules
Contains spoilers for Good Omens Season 2; you have been warned! This is perhaps a love story, but not one you were expecting. Graphic by @firefly-graphics
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Every once in a while something changes, and she's changing me. It's too late for me now, I am altered. There is something beneath. 
In short, Alkaline reminds me of a love story between Angel Crowley and the stars and nebulas he created. The absolute joy he radiates at his creations and the wonder and joy on his face are unmatched. He’s so unbelievably poud and happy at his gorgeous conjurings he worked on for who knows how long, before the beginning of time itself!
I’ve said this is a love story (and will continue to say so) this nebula and stars he falls in love with the complexity of the universe, knowing the significance of it that it’s too important to be erradicated. I would go so far as to say Aziraphale and the nebula Crowley created are both loved equally in Crowley’s eyes. 
She's not acid nor alkaline, caught between black and white. Not quite either day or night. She's perfectly misaligned. I'm caught up in her design, and how it connects to mine. I see in a different light the objects of my desire.
Again, it is Angel Crowley’s love letter to the universe he created and this ends up all being in a dream. Then he gets the notion this is the universe beckoning him home (even though he’s now a demon and needing refuge), and when he wakes along some old country road, asleep in his Bentley, and it all crushes back into him everything he lost and he wonders about the possibility of escaping back to his first love, the wonder of the stars, because he finds confort in them, as if it was a fragment of a memory long gone but he can’t pinpoint them. He knows the dream he has is definitely a call back to where he could be welcomed back with open arms, without judgement. 
It was comforting to him, yes and he could nurse what was left of his shattered heart. Which is  a reason the nebula poked at his dream, there’s still a connection to the universe he holds dear and he can’t stop thinking about them, for a creator cannot forget their creation. 
Ooh, let's talk about chemistry, 'Cause I'm dying to melt through to the heart of her molecules, till the particles part like holy water. If anything, she's an undiscovered element. Either born in hell or heaven-sent. Either way I'm into it. 
When he does return to Alpha Centuri the nebula there welcomes him, burning bright, welcoming him into her embrace. His glorious nebula burns brighter than ever, shifting in its form (almost human but not quite), wrapping him in their own sort of embrace, though he doesn’t feel the burn of them or is singed. He offers them a small smile, his glasses resting on the bridge of his nose. 
 “Gosh,” he holds back a tear, “You’re gorgeous as ever.” 
The nebula swirls around him once again, in a show of excitement, bathing him in a cloakof stars and sunsets he recognizes. Almost akin to Joseph’s coat of many colors, it drapes along his shoulders shimmering and dancing amongst the stars, colors enhanced and forms to him as if it was always meant to be. In a way it was, for the creation had crafted it for their creator when they were no longer an angel, waiting for the day when they would return to return what rightfully belonged to them. 
Not acid nor alkaline, caught between black and white. Not quite either day or night. She's perfectly misaligned. I'm caught up in her design, and how it connects to mine. I see in a different light, the objects of my desire.
Crowley chokes back more tears for this was the more than he thought he deserved. Eons of having his heart broken the almost eternal pining for his angel up above. Perhaps one day they would meet again, but for now, he’s back where he belonged in a universe of his own creation, safe amongst the stars. Here they welcomed him home tenfold. Here he could perhaps find the peace to mend his broken heart. 
******
Ace's 5yr Celebration
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airbendertendou · 11 months
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I MISS THE WAY YOU SAY MY NAME! [the way you bend ; the way you break] ♡ murayama yoshiki
synopsis ; running into your ex seems to set off a chain of events — ones he could have prevented.
cw : darker content than usual! kidnapping [not by yama] , yakuza boss!murayama , manipulation , mind-break , probably not as good as you're hoping </3 , exes to lovers if you squint
dedicated to @straysugzhpe happiest of birthdays, bestie! ♡ released this later than i wanted to but i digress <3
song inspo ; the death of peace of mind by bad omens
if you have a blank blog [no bio, no user, no header or profile pic, nothing reblogged, etc] do not interact with my content. you will be blocked.
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The streets of SWORD weren’t new to you. They were where you grew up ; where you met your first love and he broke your heart. Not purposely, you think ; he told you long distance wouldn’t work, wouldn’t keep you as connected as he needed to be.
Your friends told you it was a bad relationship anyways ; a toxic, nasty thing you were lucky didn’t fester into more. But, you didn’t believe that. Sure, he was protective and always made sure to have one hand holding you at all times. He was never afraid to get bloody hands and bruised knuckles just for you. It was innocent — sweet and reassuring to your pre-adolescent mind. 
Letting out a sigh, you twist and turn in the mirror. The outfit you’d chosen was snug, but still comfortable enough to move in. Taking a break from school would be fun — relaxing. At least, that’s what you tried to convince yourself of. Coming back to your hometown of SWORD would be fine — there would be a slim chance anyone you grew up with stayed, anyways.
Taking in a deep breath, you shut and lock your door, heading to the Daruma district. The Rascals district was a bit too far from your hotel for your comfort, so you stayed close by. The bass in the club was booming when you arrived, nodding your head to the beat absentmindedly as you were welcomed in. 
Eyes were cemented into you as soon as you stepped through the door. Sliding down your figure and focusing on the curves of your body as you drifted through the club’s crowd. You ignore the stares, moving to the bar to grab a drink to calm your nerves. 
Looking around the club as the bartender made your drink, you frown. This place felt unfamiliar — new ; changed. The decor was modern ; songs playing overhead none you knew ; the people surrounding you even seemed different. Coming back to your hometown was supposed to bring fond memories to the forefront of your mind, not confusing emotions swirled with anxiety. 
Something about the club seemed dangerous. A dark cloud leering over as shady glances are exchanged and people are led to a more private area. The music was too loud to start a conversation, let alone overhear anything you weren’t meant to. 
You were starting to regret this — only a little bit. 
As your drink is slid over, you take a hefty gulp. Only to choke when your eyes connect with a pair you knew too well. Murayama Yoshiki is staring your way, a cigarette perched between his lips as he ignores the people talking to him. When your eyes meet, he tilts his head as if daring you to make your way over. 
You do the opposite ; spinning to face the bar as you down your drink. 
It’s not long before Murayama is sliding in beside you, elbow leaning on the bar as he gazes at you. You avoid his eyes, staring down at your cup and following its condensation trail with your finger. He hums, “you’re back.” 
“Just visiting.” You correct him. Glancing his way, you see his eyes are still wide and pretty as they stare longingly your way. You clear your throat, “I didn’t think you’d still be in town.”
A secret tilts up the right side of his mouth, a small chuckle leaving his lips. “Yeah. It wouldn’t be SWORD without a leader.”
“And that leader is you?”
“Who else?” Murayama snorts again — demeaning, it sounds — before knocking back his own drink. He motions to your empty glass before nodding at the bartender for a refill. As the worker gets busy, Murayama focuses his sights back on you — his gaze makes you tremble ; weak the way it had years before. “You jus’ in town to visit? That’s all ; nothin’ else?”
You lick your lips, smiling to the bartender when your new drink is slid your way. “What else would I come back for?”
A harsh, scoff-like laugh leaves his lips. Murayama repeats your question sarcastically, nodding to himself. He sips his drink, looking at you one more time before tapping the bar and standing. “If that’s all, then…”
Just like years before, he was gone without another thought.
Maybe you’d been a little harsher than intended. Seeing your ex again had been a shock, but maybe— no. This is exactly what your friends had told you. He has a way of getting into your head, [name]. You always end up going back.
You twirl your finger around the rim of your glass, frowning as your thoughts overcrowded the music. Was going back such a bad thing, after all? You were happy with Murayama — on the cusp of being in love. He was convinced the distance wouldn’t work — that you’d forget him and find someone better. 
You never did — you never would. 
Gulping back the rest of your drink, you pay and stand to leave. Curls of dark hair catch your attention and solidify your decision. Stalking after Murayama, you struggle to catch up to him with the crowd. The air is brisk and cold as the club’s door opens for you, taking your breath momentarily until you hear his laugh.
Just before you can tap his shoulder, your mouth is covered and everything goes dark.
——♡——
Your hands are tied behind your back, lips taped shut as you gain consciousness. Heaving in a breath through your nose, you blink a few times before realizing you don’t know where you are ; before remembering what happened. Panic crawls up your throat, coming out as whines against the tape. You struggle with the ropes binding you, your wrists growing raw and sore from the material.
The room you’re in is small, no sign of any windows and only a single door. There’s nothing but a lightbulb that hangs above you, illuminating the small area. 
A creak echoes in the room, the door opening slowly to reveal… nothing. No one was standing there. Heaving in a breath in attempt to control your panic, you tug on the ropes a few more times before stopping. Footsteps hit your ears next, tantalizingly slow as they approach the room you’re in. 
A mask — there’s a cracked, porcelain faced mask facing you. You inch back quickly, your back hitting the wall too quick for your liking. They inch closer to you slowly, crouching down when they finally get to where they want to be. Your lip trembles underneath the tape, tears filling up your lashline and dripping down your cheeks.
The masked person wipes them softly before standing and leaving abruptly. 
No windows ; no telling what time or day it was. The person would only come by once, forcing stale bread in your mouth and tipping hot water into your mouth soon after. You always choked on it, the water dribbling down your chin and to your torso, leaving a trail of hot water in its wake. On their fourth visit, they went as far to tug on the rope binding your hands, tutting sarcastically as if they felt sorry for your situation. 
The hotel you were staying in had to have given your room away by now. Your hands were sore, cuticles ripped and bloody from your attempts at leaving. Sniffling, you could feel your face burn with the tears that had made their own tracks on your cheeks. Your mouth was free from the tape now, but still felt chapped and raw.
You hadn’t said a word ; you didn’t dare to.
And then the door slammed open uncharacteristically. You flinched at the noise, eyes staying on the floor to avoid looking at the cracked mask. Heaving breaths echo around the room, stomping feet paralleling the sound as your kidnapper approaches you. Hands grip your upper arms in a tight, bruising hold as they lift you from your sitting position. They’re muttering to themselves, words you don’t bother to hear.
You get to what seems to be a sitting room, the tv playing a missing persons ad of you. Someone knew — they knew you were gone and they were trying to find you. Hope swelled in your chest briefly before dropping. What are the chances they’d find you ; the chances you’d go home alive?
You’re suddenly dropped to the floor as multiple footsteps head your way. The porcelain mask falls to the ground, only a vivid thunk, thunk, thunk! sound hitting the air around you. It stops soon — only after a crunch is heard. Your cheeks are being held by calloused, bloody hands as a voice begs you to focus. You can’t look away ; can only watch as the mask cracks even more.
“Look at me, baby,” it sounds like a whisper. Thumbs tap under your eyes, the hands shake your head gently in order to grab your attention. “It’s me, [name]. Look at me, jus’ me.”
Murayama’s face is the first thing you see. It’s the first thing that greets you outside of a swinging lightbulb ; outside of a porcelain mask ; outside of that dingy, dark room. He rubs your cheeks once more, the stranger’s blood smearing over your tears. “Come back to me, baby.”
“You found me.”
He wants to sob at the sound of your voice. It sounds so broken and cracked ; your voice fighting a whisper and climbing up your throat desperately. There’s a dazed look in your eyes that’s familiar to him ; one you’d get when overwhelmed. 
Your hands are untied — they fall to the ground lifelessly as you continue to stare at Murayama. He gulps, hands dropping from your face to lace through your fingers. “Of course I found you. Told you I would.”
“When we broke up,” you lick your lips. There were people in suits streaming past you both ; hushed and loud conversations passing by non-listening ears. Murayama nods, a soft smile on his face as his thumbs brush your knuckles. “You said we’d get back together when the time is right. I remember.”
“Time’s always been right.” It’s hushed, pressed against your forehead as he helps you stand. Numerous people in suits — the FBI, maybe? — allow you both to pass as if you don’t exist. It’s nighttime as you’re led out of the building you were held in, the sky dark and air cold. Murayama crouches between your legs as he makes you sit. A lady takes your temperature and assesses you medically — but your attention is centered on him. He looks down at your intertwined hands, “jus’ let you have a li’l fun first. That’s all.”
You don’t respond. Eyes fluttering, Murayama pulls you to his chest gently, patting the back of your head. “Rest,” he whispers against the night air. “Rest now, you’re safe with me.”
When you wake up, you’re pressed to a cloud-like bed, the scent of Murayama surrounding you. You groan, your throat still sore as you struggle to swallow. A hand guides you to sit, tenderly rubbing your back as you settle. Blinking to your left, a grinning Murayama greets you. “Mornin’, baby. Got some water here for you,” he helps you hold the glass as you take tentative sips. “Breakfast should be on its way soon.”
“Where am I?”
“My place.” He looks around the room as if it’s brand new to him, too. Clearing his throat, Murayama holds your hand in his. “Need’a let you heal for a while, hm?”
You lick your lips again, feeling a little more awake than you were before. You feel more present ; aware as his hands linger and brush around places bruises had been left. “When can I go home?”
“You are home, baby,” he chuckles. Murayama brings your hand up, kissing your knuckles before resting the back of it against his cheek. “I’ll take care of you now, keep you safe.”
“I need to go home, Yoshiki.”
He lets out another laugh — this one sounds cruel ; judgemental as he shakes his head. “This is home.” His eyelashes slide up as he finally meets your eyes with that darkened gaze you’d grown accustomed to. “Jus’ got you back. I’m not lettin’ you leave again.”
You’re pulled to his chest as every other thought leaves your mind. He was right, after all. Murayama was the one to find you — the one who took you from your kidnapper and kept you safe. Snuggling close to his chest, you fight off the hazy, blurred memories of being in that room.
“Okay,” you breathe. A barely there peck is placed on the center of his chest, right beside his heart. You move your face to his neck, arms wrapping around his torso. “I’ll stay here.”
Murayama grins. His plan worked after all, hm? As soon as he spotted you in the club, he knew you’d be coming home to him, one way or another. Hiring a lowly new guy to take you was easy — he did his job well, even if it ended in his death. But, it was all worth it in the end. You were back with him — back where you belonged.
You’re squished closer to his body with a hum. Murayama kisses the top of your head, “‘course you will. You’ll be safe now, [name]. I’ll make sure of it.”
——♡—— tagging my other h&l babies here! @star2fishmeg @rouzuchan @yuken-gf @strxwberrychocolate @simpforchuchu @thatpoindexterpixy if youd like to b tagged / untagged, let me know! ♡ airbendertendou © do not copy, plagiarize, repost, or translate my content on any platform. if you see my content under any other name than my own, let me know. i only have this tumblr and an ao3 account under the same name.
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perigilpin · 5 months
Text
I was tagged by @soloorganaas for a Saturday snippet but I’m slow moving so it’s a Sunday snippet instead. Here’s a little bit of a good omens fic I had in my notes!
“I’ve got a question for your lot. Why are religious sculptures always so… you know …” Crowley curled his lip upwards into a sort of smile, “horny?”
“Ah”, Aziraphale grimaced a bit, “that might be a bit my fault dear.”
“Exscussssse me?” Crowley set down the book he had been leafing through, “your fault?”
“Well you see” Aziraphale paused a moment, thinking, “First and foremost you must know I am a patron of the arts!”
“Of course you are Angel.”
“I’ve always loved the arts, and I thought it would just be so nice if I could lend some extra inspiration. Maybe they’d be inspired to create works inspired by the almighty!”
Crowley squinted, “And?”
“And, erm, at that time I was not aware that divine ecstasy was so close to what humans feel when they ,er, when they…” Aziraphale leaned over closely to Crowley to whisper despite there not being a single customer in the shop, “when they have an orgasm.”
Crowley let out a whopping laugh, “Oh Angel you did not!”
“I’m afraid I did.” Aziraphale looked down briefly fidgeting with his pinky ring, “I thought it was such a great plan to. Pop into a dream maybe, or a late night in the studio, drop in a little smattering of inspiration, a little divine ecstasy to get the artistic juices flowing.”
“When I realized...” the Angel’s cheeks were flushed pink, “I stopped that then and there. The divine ecstasy that is. Much more enjoyable the human way.”
The Demon choked on his drink, spitting dark red flecks of wine onto the carpet.
“Oh Crowley please fix that, you know it will stain!”
Crowly snapped his fingers and the red stain was gone from the plush off white carpet.
Aziraphale placed a gentle hand on the demon’s thigh, “I do say, the art is very beautiful though, so no harm done really.”
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pigeonsimba · 7 months
Text
Omen on the Range
For @weiselzelle, mostly, but I tried to include as many No. 6 week prompts as reasonably possible xD
Shion did not like the look of the sky. A mile back everything had been fine, sunny, balmy weather, and Shion had dared to feel optimistic. Now hazy gray clouds had begun to drift above like tumbleweeds, dampening Shion’s good mood. Rikiga would have called the sudden change in weather a bad omen. But then, Rikiga thought everything was an omen of some sort. The Chronos townspeople were a superstitious lot. Shion’s mother had warned him about the small-minded nature of small towns when he had told her he planned to set up his practice there.
It feels like an omen, Shion thought to himself.
“But it should be fine! Right, Lili?” Shion leaned down to pat his horse’s neck.
Lili chuffed and picked up her pace. Shion chose to believe the sound was one of encouragement and that the low rumble in the distance was the crash of wagon wheels and nothing more ominous.
A raindrop smacked the brim of his hat. Shion clamped his teeth together and prayed. The gods didn’t listen, however, and another drop sunk into the fabric of his white shirt like a smear of grease. Then another drop, and another, and Shion sighed and slumped in the saddle.
I should have turned around when I had the chance. I could still turn around now….
But he could see the ranch already. It was a large sprawling property, with a barn, a stable, a small home, and rolling fenced-in fields. He didn’t see any animals outside—another bad omen—but the path up ahead was lined with vibrant daffodils, which Shion considered a good omen. His mother had always said daffodils represented new beginnings, and that was just what Shion needed.
By the time he had reached the entrance gate, the rain was a steady stream and had the makings of a real storm. He had to find shelter quickly or he wasn’t going to be at all presentable to the owner and that wouldn’t do. He had already been warned countless times that the man who owned this ranch was a savage, and a cutthroat, and an all-fired bastard, and if Shion was crazy enough to show up and try “peddling his horseshit” all he would get was a boot in the behind. But adversity had always lit a fire in Shion’s belly, so, naturally, since the townspeople seemed so certain this was a fool’s errand, Shion was determined to succeed. He had to look his best, talk his best, and come back triumphant.
This rain had complicated that plan quite a bit, though. Shion pushed Lili to a canter, heading toward what he thought was the stable. He knew it would be better manners to go to the house and introduce himself before barging onto a stranger’s property, but Lili became skittish in bad weather and he didn’t want to abandon her unprotected. There were a few trees huddled to the side of the building, which would make good shelter for them both while Shion collected himself and figured out what to do next.
Shion slid off his horse and gave her a soothing pat. The rain was crackling and constant as a waterfall now. Thunder and lightning were all that were needed to make this a proper storm, and Shion felt like they weren’t far off. He squinted through the deluge. The buttery yellow lights of the house wavered in the distance.
Shion did a quick inventory of his person. His shirtsleeves were thoroughly drenched. He was really glad of his vest over it, otherwise, he’d be introducing himself to the rancher in a translucent shirt and that was not an option. Even Shion wouldn’t take a business proposition seriously from a man in such a state.
Not an auspicious beginning, but that’s okay. I’m here already and he appears to be home, I might as well introduce myself.
Shion drew in a deep breath and stepped toward the house.
Something snagged the back of Shion’s collar and he skidded in the wet dirt. The next thing he knew, he was plastered against the side of the stable, staring into a pair of merciless silver eyes.
“You picked a terrible night to trespass,” the stranger said.
His voice sounded pleasant despite the sentiment. It made Shion feel like they were friends, sharing a joke. He almost smiled and gave a playful response—that is until he felt the cold caress of a blade against his throat.
“Care to explain what you’re doing on my property?” the man asked. His tone remained friendly and his eyes never left Shion’s. The man’s eyes were dark and bright at the same time, roiling and thundering like captured storms. Shion’s skin pricked with electricity.
The man had the prettiest face Shion had ever seen: heart-shaped with delicate features, but there was a hardness to its lines that kept the man from looking too feminine. His skin was tanned—nothing new since ranch hands spent their days in the sun—and beneath the man’s wide-brimmed hat, Shion saw he had long dark hair.
He smelled good too. Most ranchers and cowboys wore their clothes for days on end without changing or rinsing themselves. Shion nearly gagged at the scent of sweat and muck every time the Johnson brothers sidled up to him at the bar. But this man smelled like horses and petrichor, two scents Shion found particularly soothing.
Shion held his hands up and out to the sides. The universal sign of I mean no harm. “I’m not here to steal anything.”
“Great. What are you here for, then?”
The flat edge of the knife traced its way over Shion’s Adam’s apple and up the curve of his jaw. Shion hummed nervously and swallowed. It was hard to think with all the stimuli flooding his brain.
“You,” Shion managed.
The man’s expression darkened. The knife’s blade skimmed Shion’s skin, prickling like a thorn. A warm bead of blood slipped down the side of his neck. Shion gasped and hurried to explain himself.
“No, not you as in you! I mean, I’m here for the horses!”
“So you are here to steal my horses.”
“No! No, I mean I’m here to talk to you about the horses! I’m a veterinarian.”
Gods above! Why can’t I talk right? Shion squeezed his eyes shut in humiliation. I’m such an idiot.
Behind Shion’s lids, lightning flashed and thunder crashed hot on its heels. They were in a full-blown storm now.
The knife withdrew and Shion cracked open his eyes. The stranger scowled at him.
“A veterinarian.” The man said the word like it was a foul-smelling thing he was holding an arms-length away.
“Yes,” Shion mumbled. The man’s gaze raked over his person. Shion could only imagine what he was thinking about the sopping wet, muttering fool standing before him. This was definitely not going well. He should have turned around when the first raindrop hit him. Better yet, he should’ve listened to the townsfolk and stayed far away.
Enough with the muttering, Shion scolded himself. Business! You’re a businessman. This is not unsalvageable!
“I’m new to town,” Shion said, trying to inject some authority into his voice. “And I’m trying to establish myself with the locals. I heard you haven’t had a vet come down to check your horses in a while. I’m here to offer my services. For a free trial, since we don’t know each other that well. But I’m certain that you’ll be happy with my qualifications.”
Shion let out a satisfied breath. There! That’s how it’s done. Totally competent.
“Where’re your instruments?” the stranger asked.
“They're right here, on Lili.” Shion moved to grab them, but the suspicious glare of the rancher made him stay put and he gestured instead. The man glanced at the saddle bag.
“I don’t need your services. I care for my horses myself—and for good reason. They don’t take too kindly to strangers.”
“It’s commendable you take care of them on your own and haven’t needed to call to town for anything. But if you’ll excuse my… erm… directness. I am a trained professional, so…” Shion cleared his throat. “I’d like to get a baseline of the horses’ health in case one ever does need my help. I’m very good with animals; I haven’t met a horse that disliked me. I think you’ll be impressed if you’ll give me a chance.”
“That’d be a pretty big feat because I’m certainly not impressed with what I see now.”
Shion fidgeted. The moment stretched on, fraught with the hiss of rain and the crash of thunder. The man exhaled noisily through his nose.
“What’s your name?”
“Oh! Sorry, I’m Shion.”
The man clicked his tongue. “Well, Shion, bring your horse inside. She looks like she’s about to die of fright.” He turned and headed for the stable.
Shion smiled. He took Lili by the reins and coaxed her forward.
“Thank you,” Shion said when they were safely inside. The rush of rain was much quieter now, and Shion felt immediately comforted by the smell of hay and horses. “I didn’t get your name.”
“You didn’t, huh? I’d’ve thought the townsfolk would sling it around like a curse the moment you asked directions here.”
Shion thought a moment. “They mostly said, ‘that dirty cowboy.’ I might’ve heard some other descriptors, but… I don’t think they warrant sharing.” Shion shrugged and smiled awkwardly.
“I’ll bet. Nezumi,” he said and pointed to Shion’s left. “You can put your horse in that stall. There’s some feed in the corner if you need it. The rest of the horses are down there. Come when you’re ready, Mr. Trained Professional.”
Shion’s cheeks heated. Nezumi smirked and stalked away.
“He’s very intimidating,” Shion whispered to Lili. “I think I might have bitten off more than I can chew….” Lili grunted in evident agreement.
Shion made sure his horse was settled in comfortably, then grabbed his medical bag and crossed the stable.
Nezumi had taken his hat off and laid it aside on a stool. It was a handsome hat, black with little wear on it, and freshly cleaned from the rain. Even more handsome was its owner. Shion tried not to stare too much, but he couldn’t help a furtive glance at Nezumi’s hair. He had braided the wet strands over one shoulder and tied it off with his neckerchief.
Nezumi extended his hand toward the stalls. “Go ahead, work your magic.”
Shion counted three Quarter Horses. They stuck their heads out, snuffling quizzically. They must not have had many visitors. Unsurprising, given their owner’s misanthropy. However, they didn’t look unfriendly. Shion approached the bay first, talking calmly while he did to establish a rapport.
“Hello, beautiful. Hear all that rain outside? You’re lucky you’re in here where it’s safe and warm. I, unfortunately, haven’t been so lucky today.”
The horse tilted its head and eyed him, ears swiveling. Shion extended a hand slowly, giving it plenty of time to decide if it didn’t want him near, but it didn’t seem to mind. The horse gave his hand a few sniffs and lost interest when it realized he had no snacks. Shion gave its neck a pat.
“Seems plenty friendly to me,” Shion called to Nezumi.
“So it would seem,” Nezumi drawled. “The damned traitor.”
Shion laughed. “What’s this one’s name?”
“He doesn’t have a name.”
“Is he new?”
“No. The horses don’t have names. I don’t see the point.”
Shion half turned. “So you just say, ‘horse’ when you talk to them? How do you differentiate?”
Nezumi made a face. “It’s not like they’re identical. I just say, the black one, the bay, or the palomino.”
Shion frowned and petted the bay again. “Seems sad. Horses like to be named.”
“Is that what they teach you at horse school?”
“Every companionable creature likes to be named, whether they understand it or not. How would you feel if people went around calling you ‘that human’?”
Nezumi’s mouth curved upward. The sudden sharpness of it reminded Shion of a poised scorpion’s tail. “Better than ‘that savage’ or ‘Miss Nancy.’ Though I would feel best if people didn’t call me at all.”
A tendril of anger curled in Shion’s stomach. He knew that the townsfolk had plenty of lewd opinions on what cowboys got up to when they were far from civilization. Cowboys loved to wear flashy, bright clothes and made a spectacle of themselves wherever they went, so the rumor mill had plenty of ammunition to run on. He didn’t like the idea of the townsfolk making assumptions about Nezumi based on his profession and he especially didn’t like the insinuation that the townsfolk had been insulting Nezumi to the man’s face.
Nezumi was wearing an olive green shirt with a dark brown vest over top, and all the rest from his hat to his boots were black. There was nothing showy about his style of dress and nothing in his demeanor that suggested anything worse than grumpiness. He presented himself as respectably as any townsman. Just because he was pretty and happened to be a native cowboy, they thought it was grounds to degrade him.
Disgusting. Shion wished Nezumi would name names so he could give those good-for-nothings a piece of his mind.
“Well that’s a scary face,” Nezumi said, chuckling. “Easy there, doctor. I don’t need you storming Chronos in defense of my honor. I can take care of myself just as well as I take care of my horses. Speaking of, are you going to look at the horses or are you just here to talk my ear off?” 
Shion flattened his fisted hands over the damp fabric of his pant legs. “Right,” he muttered, trying to shake off the cloud of irritation. “Sorry.”
Shion drew the bay horse out under Nezumi’s watchful eye and listened to its heart, lungs, and gut, then moved on to the condition of the rest of its body.
“Very nice,” Shion announced when he had finished. “You have a very healthy bay horse.”
“I know that. As I told you, I care for them myself.”
“Yes, alright. I’ll be checking ‘the black one’ and ‘the palomino’ next.”
Nezumi crossed his arms. “Uh-huh. Very cute.”
Despite the dry tone, Shion thought he saw the edges of a smile forming on the man’s face. He couldn’t help but smile back. Nezumi’s eyes dropped to his mouth. Or so Shion thought.
The air in the stable suddenly felt very warm. Shion’s fingers itched to loosen his necktie, but he didn’t want to draw attention to himself.
“Your neck alright?”
“W-what?”
“Your neck. I nicked it outside, didn’t I?”
“Oh.” He had forgotten all about that. He felt the spot. “It’s alright. It’s already closed up.”
Nezumi stepped close and tugged one of the trailing ends of Shion’s necktie. The silky fabric unraveled and slithered away. Nezumi peered at the side of Shion’s exposed neck. For a moment, the roar of the rain pounding the roof was the only thing Shion could hear. Or was that the blood rushing in his ears?
“Hm,” hummed Nezumi. “Yeah, it’s as you say. All closed up.”
Nezumi had the longest, darkest lashes Shion had ever seen. Thick as a horse’s and probably just as soft.
“You can have this back whenever you’re done admiring me.” Nezumi stepped away and waggled the necktie in front of Shion’s face.
Shion snatched his necktie from Nezumi’s hand and strode to the black horse's stall to hide and catch his breath.
Was that flirting? Was he flirting with me? Or making fun of me? He wanted to look over his shoulder but he was afraid of what expression Nezumi would be wearing. If he were laughing at him Shion didn’t know if he could stand it. Better to not look. Shion furiously refastened his necktie. He thought he might’ve heard Nezumi chuckle.
Horses. Check the horses, panic later.
All horses were in good health, and all three were perfect angels the whole time he conducted his checks. Shion suspected Nezumi had been lying about their fractious nature, either to discourage him or test his determination.
“I will admit,” Shion said as he secured the stall door behind the palomino, “you do take exquisite care of your horses. But they still need to have their teeth examined at least yearly.  Especially the black one, since she’s younger. You don’t have to bring them to me, but bring them somewhere.”
Nezumi shrugged. “Alright.” He plopped his hat back on, then cocked his head to the side. “It’s stopped raining.”
Shion strained his ears. “Oh, yeah. Seems so.”
“And it’s gotten late. You should head out. The missus will be wondering where you are.”
“Hardly,” Shion laughed. “There’s no missus to speak of.”
Shion paused in the middle of stuffing his stethoscope back in his bag. Wait a minute…. He hazarded a look. Nezumi’s gaze was guileless, but… There was a definite atmosphere. Or was he just imagining it?
“It’s late just the same,” Nezumi said. “And it’s a long ride back. You better get going.”
Shion smiled feebly and closed his bag.
They walked out of the stable together, Shion leading Lili by the bridle. The horse was leery at first, but she perked up when she stepped out into a wet, but clear night.
“Well, um. It was nice to meet you.”
“Mm.”
Shion frowned and pretended to check the fastenings of Lili’s saddle. He wasn’t sure how to close this encounter. Nezumi hadn’t given him much to go off of. He didn’t say he would employ Shion as his vet and he kicked him out the moment he had the opportunity. Shion thought there was something to the flirtatious remarks, but maybe he was leaning a little too hopefully into the cowboy stereotype.
What a long night… Shion sighed and tilted his head skyward. The storm had wrung the clouds out to nothing; stars shone down from the inky blackness, free as fireflies. “Well, guess I’ll— Oh, look, Pegasus!”
“What?”
“Pegasus, the winged horse. It’s a constellation.” Shion pointed out the star formation, but Nezumi wasn’t seeing it. “I suppose it is a bit abstract,” Shion confessed. “You have to really use your imagination to see it.”
“Are you calling me unimaginative?”
“I didn’t say that. Though, I will say a truly imaginative person would have given their horses names.”
Nezumi snorted. “This again. You’re such a horse fanatic.”
“And you aren’t? You’re a cowboy!”
“Eh. It’s complicated.”
Nezumi’s eyes glowed like slivers of moonlight, but his gaze felt more scorching than the sun. Shion could have stood on that stable’s threshold and stared for hours.
“I’ll get going,” Shion said at last. He swung up into Lili’s saddle. “Perhaps I… Perhaps I could come by again this weekend?”
Nezumi’s brows furrowed beneath the brim of his hat. “What for? You said the horses are healthy.”
“They are. It wouldn’t be to see the horses.”
Nezumi considered him. Shion wasn’t sure what was going on in the man’s mind. He could guess—he hoped he had interpreted the man’s actions correctly—but Nezumi was slippery.
Well. In for a penny, in for a pound.
“I can’t really explain it well yet, but… I find myself drawn to you.”
Nezumi made a face, but he didn’t immediately say anything, so Shion took it as a good omen.
“I’ll be busy this weekend,” said Nezumi. “I don’t have time to stand around and listen to you.”
“Oh. Okay.”
“If you can run your horse as fast as you do your mouth, then come. But only as long as you can keep up.”
Warmth blossomed in Shion’s chest. He sat forward in his seat, but before he could respond, Nezumi set off toward his house, boots squelching in the mud.
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unknownarmageddon · 9 months
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Hhey I just woke up from a dream about kross and it waS a lirrle neat
It was like
Cross was some online friend of killer's and they're like, 17 or 18
And like, everything is chill and they just like, game and do stuff together, calls n junk, eVentual face reveal and theyre like queerplantonic homo/homies for a while and like they're vibin
And the specific thing I dreamed about was cross calling killer and quietly asking him to tell him abiut his hyperfixations
And killer is like "...sure? Well, uh. The other night, I started a project on coding some temporary website, like a placebo,, or a nocebo[rambling]"
And cross is silent the whole time and killer evntulally runs. Outta steam and he's like "so. Wanna talk abiut it?"
And cross just.
"I think my dad hates me."
And killer is like, they've been friends for a while now, almost two years and a half, and when cross says this, its like, this is the first cross has mentioned abiut his home life, or like, any of his problems
and I'm not sure what happens after that bit, but it like, switched to another scene with them on some FaceTime call
And cross is like, dim lights and killer squints suspiciously and turns his own lights on, which makes Cross's screen super bright, and killer can see his face, and it is Not Okay
And killer is like, increasingly stressed and worried abiut him because he has only suspicions and hunches, and cross hasn't told him anything since that time he mentioned having a strained relationship with his father
And then it jumped again to killer using his niche hacking skills to get Cross's location, which was about a ten hour drive from Killer's place, and he's like, packed up with food and medical supplies and stuff and he like makes the drive, alk the while nervously checki ng his phone because he hasn't heard from cross in three weeks and that very unusual and not a good omen
So he like, drives straight to Cross's house [or what he's sure is Cross's house] and like, asks around to make sure the place is right, and he parks in front of Cross's house and has a really bad feeling so he like, grabs an unopened can of coke
And then it hardcut to killer smashing the coke into the side of xgasters skull and cross panicking as killer grabs em and drags him out of the house while xgaster is stunned/unconscious and they speed the fuck outta there
And then it cuts again to cross wrapped in a blanket and leaning against killer in the backseat, looking exhausted as fuck while killer holds an ice pack to the bruises on Cross's face and cross is like "thank you. For, uh. For coming." And killer is like
"...You're welcome, Crossy."
And they shared like a nice, warm [mildly uncomfortable] night curled up together in the backseat of killer's shitty little car and in the morning, after cross had another mini-panic, killer uses some cash he stole from his step mom to buy them fresh food
And then it hard cut again? But back in time, to killer talking to crosss and trying to talk him down and promising that he'd be there forever and cross was like "yiu don't even know me"
and killer spent the rest of the call listing every little detail about cross he knew, and when cross repeated himself, killer very boldly said "then I'd love to get to know you, properly." And cross laughed all sadlike and went "of course you would."
And then it went back to them eating some late brunch and chatting about random things and watching shitty quality pirated movies on Killer's phone and there was like, a weird change where they were watching the movie, and then suddenly were not, like a weird tension happened and neither of them did anything about it, but it was obvious that they weren't watching the movie anymore and were quite antsy about something
And on like, the fourth time it happened, cross sighed loudly and muttered, "of course the fuckin flirt wusses out of making the first move" and killer is like "h-huh???"
And cross grumpily pulled killer closer and very very tenderly kissed him and killer bluescreened
And then I woke up and immediately opened Tumblr to tell you about it because I've been getting dreams about kross more often and this was the most HD version I've had yet and the concept is so cool
And now I go back t o spleep
HOLY FUCKIN SHIT???? IM????
Oh my fucking GOD dude that is insane /pos/pos/pos
That concept is wild in the best way possible I’m like so invested in it now?? Like it feels like I’ve just read a teaser to a fanfic or somethin. I love that whole thing that is so good dude aughhh,,,,
Thank you for telling me about that dream I love them wawawa
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badgerette · 8 months
Text
sensory prompts, 3: snow being shoved down the back of your coat
Wanted to write something short while I plan stuff, teenagers trying to confess ensued.
Today. Today is when Marina will say it, get the words out. She had decided that in the morning while looking at herself in the mirror, battling with her unruly fringe. It had settled down more easily than usual, and she had taken that as a good omen.
Now it is afternoon, the February sun is low, her beanie is doing god knows what to her hair, and still she has not said anything. Meanwhile Ginny is all talk as usual beside her as they walk home, fresh snow yielding underneath their boots. As Ginny goes on about the latest TV show she has become obsessed with, Marina feels melt get into her shoes, her left big toe ache with cold.
Say it, she thinks, as they draw closer to home. They have lived in neighbouring houses for as long as she can remember. She has less than five minutes to do it until they get to their respective doorsteps. Say it, before Ginny waves goodbye and jumps across the fence into her yard. Say it, before yet another chance is lost, and she will have to gather up her courage all over again the next day. Say it—
”You’re being quiet.”
Marina jolts, spits out defensively: ”And you’re being loud, as usual.” Shit. That’s not what she meant to say.
”You’ve been quiet all day.” Ginny cocks her head and squints her eyes, deploying what Ginny likes to call her detective’s gaze. Marina thinks it makes her look more like a suspicious shrew. It’s cute. She looks down at her shoes.
Suddenly there’s a scream to their right, the sound equal parts delight and shock. Three young are boys chasing each other across a park, their clothes and hair dappled by snow. One kid is shaking out their hoodie, emptying it from a particularly successful attack. Even as he shouts vengeance on the other two, his face is split into a feral grin.
Ginny smiles. ”Y’know, can’t remember the last time I had a proper snow fight.”
They round a corner, and now Marina can see their houses approaching. She lifts a hand to fix her fringe, feels how snow and sweat has stuck the strands against her forehead. She must look like a soaked rat. The words that have clogged up her throat fall like heavy stones to the pit of her stomach. 
So, not today, either. She will try again tomorrow. 
(Fail again, tomorrow.)
They reach Marina’s driveway first.
”Wanna come over?” Ginny asks, balancing on her toes like a five-year-old asking for a playdate. ”We could watch Midnight Mass again.”
Marina shakes her head and lies: ”Promised mom I’d help her cook.” Her failure weighs too heavily in her chest, and the idea of sitting next to Ginny now is too much.
”Like hell you are,” Ginny says. ”Like she’d let you poison your whole family.”
”Fuck off,” Marina mutters. 
”Marina—”
She turns to leave—and gets an icy fistful shoved down the back of her coat.
”What—” Her voice climbs several octaves higher as she clutches at her neck. She feels bits of snow fall down the back of her shirt and yelps. Meanwhile Ginny is barely keeping herself from cackling. ”You fucking—”
”Oops, my hand slipped.” The grin is absolutely, thoroughly unrepentant. It makes Marina see red, makes her shove off her backpack, grab some snow and launch herself at Ginny. Her friend has a head start, is already over her side of the fence and sprinting towards the back of her house. The unplowed snow is deep though, trapping her while Marina can run in her footsteps. And of the two of them, Marina’s always been better at chasing.
She catches Ginny just before they reach the back porch and tackles her to the ground. The cascade of I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorrys and no no nos does goes unheeded, and she pays Ginny back by shoving snow down the collar of her jacket, by putting icy fingers up the hem of it. She knows where to attack, all the weak spots. She tickles mercilessly until Ginny is a wheezing, gasping mess. Marina should be laughing with triumph, but it all only makes her angry, and desperate, and—
She stops, lets her hands fall to her sides.
”There, you got your snow fight. Happy now?” Marina huffs, sitting on top of her best friend. The cold ground soaks her knees through her jeans, all the way to her bones.
Ginny looks up at her, her cheeks apple red from the trying to catch her breath. The dip in her neck catches Marina’s eye. It glistens with melting snow. She tears her gaze away, back up into Ginny’s face.
Ginny is still smiling.
”Yeah,” Ginny gasps, and then lifts up her hand to straighten Marina’s fringe. The touch of Ginny fingers feel like a brand on her skin.
”I forgot to say earlier,” Ginny continues, voice soft, eyes shining. ”Your hair looks really nice today.”
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myidic · 6 months
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I think a Good Omens fic I’d like to read would be Crowley realizing that he has a lot of unresolved baggage related to … existence, and so decides to go to therapy. He ends up finding a therapist he really clicks with, and is just COMPLETELY honest with the therapist about everything. Maybe something like this:
***
Crowley eyes the door, cross checking the number on it with the number written on the card in his hand. He knocks softly, and waits for a invitation. He enters the office and greets the unassuming human sitting behind a desk, who is getting up to greet him. After the usual pleasantries, the therapist asks Crowley what he does for work.
Crowley, having previously decided after much back and forth, plant terrorizing, and justifying, that the only way to actually get the advice and help he needs is for him to be completely honest.
“I’m a demon from hell.”
Therapist, not missing a beat, asks him in a neutral voice, “I see; have you previously been diagnosed with delusions or schizophrenia?”
Crowley, a little bit frustrated but not surprised presses on, “No, I’m literally a demon from hell, and I’m feeling a bit desperate. With work, losing my best friend, the whole world almost collapsing. Which is why I’m here.”
The therapist glances up at him with a critical, but not unfriendly, expression. “Right. I see. A demon. And how long has this been going on?”
Crowley squints. “About 6,000 years, give or take.”
“6,000 years? You look good for your age.
“The “not aging” aspect of eternal life helps.”
Picking up the notebook in their lap and jotting down some notes, the therapist continues. “You must’ve seen a lot during the ages.”
Crowley shrugs and rubs his hands down his thighs. “Mostly main events. Miss Rome a bit.”
The therapist nods, writing in their notebook. “Uh huh. That must’ve been a very interesting time. So, tell me about being a demon.”
“Oh you know, the usual. Temptations, corruptions. Being sneaky, me. Reporting to hell, paperwork. The wings, the eyes are a nuisance.”
The therapist looks up, coming eye to sunglasses with Crowley. “The wings and eyes…?
Crowley slaps his hands down on his thighs he’s been absently running his sweaty palms over. “Yeah. You know, my wings.” He stands up, fully extends his wings and takes off his sunglasses.
The therapist takes a minute to be flustered, beginning to become concerned, but hey. It takes all kinds, and they haven’t turned away a client yet for being too… unique. “That’s a very elaborate setup you have there. Do you wear these all the time?
Crowley looks at the therapist critically. Not used to being misbelieved, he feels a little out of his element. “You don’t believe me, do you?
The therapist eyes his wings. “I believe that you sincerely believe, and that’s what matters.”
Crowley, at a loss, turns into a snake.
The therapist, finally, seem to grasp what Crowley has been saying. “Oh my god!! Um… Satan! Oh, somebody.”
Crowley returns to his original form, and the therapist takes a moment to collect themself.
“To be honest, I’ve never been a therapist to the damned before.”
Crowley, having righted the lamp the therapist knocked over during their… moment, replies: “I’ve never been to a therapist before. But I’m desperate.”
The therapist takes a deep breath. “Well, alright. Perhaps we should start at the beginning.”
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secondsonaym · 1 year
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The Vessel Project - Sociable [Heket 1]
(read on Ao3 here)
---------
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So it’s my turn to recount events now? Sure, why not. 
The younger me would have been jumping for joy at this opportunity--and that’s not to say I dislike doing this, not at all! It’s just…
Well, my feelings aren’t particularly relevant at the moment. Let’s get back to the point.
So, Narinder left us off right when we had all first met, okay.
If I recall correctly, after he had introduced himself…
------------------------
“Narinder? Ooooh, that’s such a cool name!” I gasped, unable to keep myself from clapping my hands a little. “Well, it’s nice to meet you--All of you, actually!”
I looked to the other three with my usual big smile, oblivious to the fact nobody was really returning it. But I didn’t really care.
As a child, socializing was just second nature to me. I had many siblings, and no shortage of conversation partners or playmates. The concept of ‘restraint’  just wasn’t in my best interest.
The other four certainly seemed various levels of reserved, too, so I sort of hoped by expressing my energy a bit more, they’d lighten up. After all, we had each been selected for what was obviously a big deal in our orders. We should be happy!
 “Can’t say the sentiment is shared, considering after tonight, we will be on different sides of the battlefield.” Shamura said, rolling all four of their eyes--That was a cool trick! Could all spiders do that? I recall wishing I had four eyes in the moment, because I wanted to do that as well.
“Why, though?” Leshy suddenly asked, taking everyone else by surprise again. He sure did a lot of staring and not much talking, but when he did talk, it was when nobody expected him to!
“I mean… All of the sects--Chaos, Famine, Pestilence, War, and Death, they’re all lumped under the ‘Old Faith.’” He continued. “If they’re all different parts of the same thing, why don’t they get along?”
“That’s a good question.” Narinder said quietly from his spot, and I nodded along, seeing Leshy’s point.
“Perhaps they were, once,” Shamura spat. “But when things are compartmentalized, it is their nature to branch off and become their own thing. It is a natural progression.”
“Compart… Mental…?” Leshy asked with a tilt of his head.
Shamura sighed and rubbed their face.
“I hate talking to children.” 
“Um, but you’re a kid, too?” I couldn’t help but laugh. 
“A teen, actually.” They corrected, squinting at me, which only made me laugh more. It was silly, how much they seemed like their bishop.
“Whatever you say, I guess.” I snorted, before turning back to Narinder. “Say, I gotta ask… What’s the Death sect like?”
“Huh?” Narinder’s ears stood up straight, which I found quite cute. “What do you mean?”
“It’s not an evil cult that sacrifices young and old alike, is it?” I pressed. I had heard all manner of haunting stories from adults in my village, who spoke of Michael as an omen of destruction. Some had even told me he drank the blood of naughty froglings who didn’t go to bed on time! Though… That one may have just been to get me to behave.
“Of course it isn’t!” He stammered, fur standing on end as he frowned. “Nobody dies of anything but natural occurrences. Sacrifice is forbidden.”
“Forbidden?” I echoed. “Why would it be forbidden?”
“Lord Michael said that…” Narinder began, voice starting to shake as everyone fixed their eyes on him. “To give up one’s life just to prove your devotion was an affront to Death itself. You can only die once, and it is much more meaningful to accept what fate has in store for you than to claim you know better.”
We were all quiet for a moment, unsure what to make of his logic. I certainly didn’t understand it at the time, because sacrifice was commonplace in Phanuel’s order, and from what I had heard, was a practice in the other sects as well.
“Michael’s wrong.” I finally said, having uncharacteristically considered my words for a moment. “Sacrifice is probably the ultimate way to prove yourself.”
“Under Lord Raziel’s domain, traitors are sacrificed without hesitation.” Shamura said matter-of-factly. “If they shed their loyalty, then we take it back by force, with their last breath. Death is the ultimate punishment.”
“Um… Lord Verchiel says there’s a certain splendor in death.” Kallamar said slowly. “And when sickness crops up, if we show him a death that meets his standards, he heals us. Death is an amusement, really, to him, at least.”
“We see all deaths as sacrifice in the Darkwood.” Leshy mumbled. “Death could happen at any moment. We just don’t know.”
“And as for Lord Phanuel, He…” I started, looking at where my hands rested on the table. “He says that even when dead, bodies have use. The meat feeds creatures, the bones feed the earth. By sacrificing yourself, you open yourself up to become much more useful than you could have been alive. Giving up one’s body is the highest form of devotion.”
We all sat in silence after sharing these perspectives, looking to Narinder, who had shrunk down into his shoulders as we spoke. I wonder how it felt, to be told just how wrong your teachings were.
I could certainly see the perspectives from the others, though the idea of death being a ‘punishment’ didn’t exactly sit right with me either. But at least they all agreed that sacrifice was a natural part of worship.
It made me a bit concerned for Narinder, really. He definitely didn’t seem like a normal kid, and Michael’s teachings must have been giving him a really skewed perspective of the world.
“Anyway,” I then said, not wanting to dwell on that topic and make the cat feel any worse about his faulty logic, “Could you at least tell us a bit more about this temple, Mury?”
“What did you just say?” Shamura’s flabbergasted face made me grin. Had they never had a nickname before?
“You know, Mury! It’s a nickname for Shamura, ‘cause that’s a bit of a mouthful. And Kallamar, I could call you Kal if you want!”
“Lord Verchiel says nicknames obscure the beauty of one’s full name.”
“And yet he calls you ‘Opal’ when your real name is-”
“Like I said!” Kallamar interrupted. “He does it for everyone in the upper ranks, and it’s the rules, so I’m fine with it, really. R-Really, please stop calling me Kallamar. Opal is fine…”
He stared down at the table, starting to fiddle with his robe as bright red shimmered onto his skin. 
“I say go along with what Opal wants.” Shamura huffed. “Lest you get accused of trying to convert him.”
Oh dear, I didn’t want to do that! For starters, that wasn’t my job, and who knows how angry Verchiel would get if he thought I was trying to take away his disciple on Lord Phanuel’s behalf!
“Sure, Opal! Whatever you want.” I said with a smile.
“As for the temple,” Shamura said, “I’m not letting any of you step away from this table. Who knows what sort of sabotage and subterfuge you all could get up to in the library!”
“Well, if this place is a library, I’d probably find a dictionary, so I can know what ‘subterhuge’ means.” Leshy mumbled.
“Subter fuge. ” Shamura hissed. “There’s an F in it! It’s spelled S-U-B-T-E-R-F-U-G-E.”
“Then why isn’t it pronounced, ‘sub-ter-fudge?’” Kallamar asked.
As Shamura started to tremble with anger,  I looked back to Narinder, only to deflate a bit when I caught sight of him.
He was crying. He held his arms like he was giving himself a hug, and stared down at the ground as tears wet his cheeks. From what I could tell, he was doing his best not to make any noise, as he shook now and then with silent sobs.
“Hey…” I managed, moving over to him, though he recoiled away. 
I left the other three to their squabbling as I focused on Narinder. Guilt was already lumping up in my throat, and I hated it when people were upset… Especially because of me.
“I didn’t mean to…” I started, but was unable to think of what I didn’t mean to do. 
‘To tell you your bishop is wrong’? No, I still believed Michael was wrong about sacrifice. But… that was the only thing I could think of that Narinder might have been upset about.
“You all think I’m weird.” He managed, making me freeze up a bit. “Don’t you?”
“Of course not!” I insisted, clenching my fists. While he certainly wasn’t a typical kid, I didn’t think that was weird. I knew all sorts of kids! Not all of them are gonna be the same!
“I do.” Shamura said from the other side of the table. “I’ve never heard of any kid following Michael, that’s for sure.”
“Hey, don’t-” I started, only to be cut off.
“You really look up to him, it seems like.” Leshy commented. “Defending his views on sacrifice, and all. But worshiping Death itself… Isn’t normal.”
“I don’t worship it!” Narinder insisted, raising his head to show his reddened eyes. “I respect it! That’s what Lord Michael told me from the start, it’s not something to be worshiped, it’s-”
“Then why even have a sect at all?” Shamura probed. “Why be part of the Faith, and why involve himself in the business of the other bishops? Lord Raziel says Michael thinks he knows better than the other bishops, always telling them what to do and calling their ideas stupid, well-”
“ CUT IT OUT! ” I bellowed, stomping my foot so hard the table rattled. My loud voice probably hurt everyone’s ears--No! No, I didn’t care at that moment, because they weren’t cutting Narinder any slack!
“Can’t you see he’s crying? He doesn’t need any more of your dumb questions, Shamura!”
“All I’m doing is pointing out the inconsistency in his faith!” Shamura growled in return. “Lord Raziel says to think critically of outside information, and--”
“ ‘Lord Raziel says’ this, ‘Lord Raziel says’ that, are there any thoughts of your own in that brain of yours, or is it all--” I started to shout back, anger overtaking me. My retort didn’t get to finish, however, as I was cut off by a noise from the door to the main temple chamber.
A horrific screech, like shattering glass mixed with a dying owl, sounded from past the doorway, making all of us freeze. Though most of us hesitated to move, I could see out of the corner of my eye that Kallamar had gone sheet white. 
“L-Lord Verchiel!” He managed, finally bringing himself to move to the door. 
As he hurried, another scream, this one more guttural and ragged, let loose. It was Narinder’s turn to realize who it belonged to, as his fur stood on end before he darted after Kallamar. 
Shamura, Leshy, and I remained where we were, both unsure if we should follow and worried we may hear the sounds of our own bishops. Finally, curiosity overcame me, and I began to move as well, hearing Shamura and Leshy’s footsteps close behind me.
The first thing I saw was blood on the floor. The crimson color was off-putting in the pale light of the moon, and I desperately looked around the scene for details to distract me.
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The trail of red was distinct, forming a clear traced line from Verchiel’s taloned feet to Michael’s hunched form. The bishop of Pestilence looked absolutely livid , tense as if prepared to make another strike.
None of the other bishops looked surprised, or even interested in what was happening before them, let alone enough to intervene. They merely looked down at where Michael kneeled, waiting for his response.
Michael was on his knees, neck drooping so his head lay on the ground. The Red Crown had been knocked from his brow, laying a few inches away from his head, the eye staring up at the bright moon. I could see him breathing heavily, but it took me a moment to realize that some of the red on his robe was not, in fact, part of the usual design.
Verchiel had struck him in the neck, sending a spray of blood down to stain his robe and the floor. I could hear his haggard breathing from where I stopped, halfway between the door and the perimeter of the moonlight. Narinder stood just a bit in front of me, frozen in shock and horror.
“You dare mock my decisions as a bishop, when you can hardly call yourself one! I will not let such insults stand.” Verchiel hissed, oblivious to our arrival.
“Hah… You’re angry because I’m correct, though.” Michael responded, voice twisted into a hard to decipher croak. 
“ I should kill you right now. ” Verchiel said, voice so venomous it sent chills up my spine. 
“I’m not afraid of empty threats.” Michael managed, before he started to move. Slowly, with everyone’s eyes locked on him, he pulled himself to his feet, standing straight despite the ghastly wound. He picked up the crown, setting it on his head as if nothing had happened. 
“You won’t kill me.”
“And just how do you know that?” Verchiel asked with a tilt of his head. “The strike just was a warning. But I could go further.”
“Because,” Michael replied, head now turning so he looked into the shadows, right where Narinder and I were standing. “I know how I am going to die.”
He then turned around, ignoring Verchiel’s enraged growl. 
“Come, Narinder. We’re leaving now.”
Narinder twitched upon hearing his name, but took a moment to actually hurry after Michael, scampering as fast as he could. Before the pair stepped out of the large temple doors, I saw Narinder clutching worriedly to Michael’s robe, looking up to him and asking a question I could not hear.
And then they were gone.
“That serpent…” Verchiel grumbled after a moment of silence had passed. He turned his attention downward, immediately set on smoothing out any wrinkles in his robe. “Forcing me to get my talons dirty with his blood. This will be hell to wash off.”
“The children are back.” Raziel noted indifferently, having seen where Michael had looked and catching sight of the rest of us. “I suppose with that little outburst, along with how late it is, we should probably disperse as well.”
“Fine by me.” Lord Phanuel huffed, not needing to be told twice. “Heket.”
I jumped to attention when I heard my name, and began to stride after Lord Phanuel as He went to the door. I risked a glance back, but didn’t see much else aside from the other disciples heading towards their bishops.
“If I may ask, My Lord,” I began, looking back to Lord Phanuel. “What did Michael say?”
“The truth.” Lord Phanuel responded casually. I liked that about Him. He didn’t beat around the bush, and was honest about things when you asked. He kept no complicated secrets.
“Michael had said Verchiel was self-obsessed to the point of being so far up his ass, he couldn’t see the ruin Anchordeep was falling to. Verchiel didn’t like that, of course, so he, well…”
 “Will Michael be okay? N-Not that I care, but that kind of wound…”
Okay, the caring thing was a bit of a lie. Even if I didn’t agree with his views on death, I didn’t want Narinder to be without a bishop, that’s all.
“The crowns impart abilities to the wearer that can prove beneficial, though it varies with each crown.” He explained. “The Red Crown allows its wearer to endure much more than would otherwise be possible.”
Wow… 
“Unfortunately, there was not much to glean from tonight’s discussion.” He then scoffed. “The others bickered, as usual, and it was mainly Raziel who was focused on the project.”
“Do you know what’s out there, past the border of the Old Lands?” I couldn’t help but ask.
Lord Phanuel was quiet as was continued to walk. Normally, He would have opened a portal by now, but we were already out of sight of the temple, and still moving on foot. 
“Wouldn’t that be something for you to find out?” He finally asked, glancing at me. 
“Oh, um… I suppose that makes sense.” I apologized. 
Right, if I were to be His chosen disciple, I’d be the one going out to explore and claim new land for Him, just like He had explained when He had first selected me. 
But thinking on things, I was just so amazed by how big the world was. As a toddler, Anura seemed to sprawling and vast. Then I learned of the other territories of the Old Lands, and it all seemed so overwhelming. To hear there was probably even more out there, well… 
“Speaking of you finding things out.” Lord Phanuel said, stopping in His tracks to look at me. “What did you learn of the other children?”
“Hm? Well…” I stopped beside Him, putting a hand to my chin as I thought. I had definitely learned a lot about each of the others, but I knew Lord Phanuel well enough to know not everything was going to be to His interest.
“Raziel’s disciple, Shamura, is very loyal. They were saying a lot of stuff Raziel had told them, and wouldn’t let us look around the room we were waiting in.”
“Figured that much.” He said with a roll of His eyes. “Kid’ll probably tear out their own heart if she told them to.”
“Seemed like it…” I said, doing my best to block out the disturbing imagery. “I wasn’t sure what to make of Zuriel’s disciple, Leshy. He was very quiet. But as for Kalla-er.. I mean, Opal…”
“Go ahead, say his real name.”
“Kallamar… I tried calling him that for a bit, but eventually he wanted me to go back to calling him Opal, ‘cause it was the ‘rules’ or something…”
Phanuel let out a loud snort at this, a brief instance of amusement on His face. He quickly suppressed it, however, and returned to His typical deadpan expression.
“Verchiel sees others as little more than toys. You no doubt saw the results of xer explosive temper. This ‘Opal’ likely fears that.”
“Probably…” I agreed quietly.
“What about the cat?” He then asked, making me pause. 
“Narinder?”
“Michael called him that as well, so I’m assuming that’s his name. Yes, I mean him. Michael never said anything about taking on a disciple. It was a surprise for all of us to see the boy there in the temple.” Lord Phanuel explained.
“Well…” I thought a bit, wondering what I should pass along to Lord Phanuel. “Honestly, I’m… Worried about him.”
“How so?”
“He was talking about how sacrifice is an affront to Death itself. Whatever Michael is teaching him, it’s giving him such a backwards view of the world. He wasn’t really like any of the other kids, either. While Leshy didn't talk much to begin with, what little he said was at least appropriate. Narinder, meanwhile…”
Lord Phanuel remained quiet, staring down the craggy path that lay before us. After a few moments, He finally raised His head, making a motion with His beak so an angular black hole appeared before us. 
He stepped into it, dropping downwards as if descending a staircase, and I quickly followed suit.
“Michael is a dangerous one, to be sure. I’ve no idea what his plans are for that boy, but they cannot be good. If things get too bad, perhaps we can intervene.”
“Really?” I asked. I certainly liked the idea of helping Narinder… He seemed like a kind boy, warped views aside.
“It is a mere consideration.” He insisted, tone firm, though not overly so. “For now, we will leave them to their devices. When we return to the temple, you are to go straight to your sleeping quarters. Tomorrow, we will formally begin your training.”
“Yes, My Lord. Thank you, My Lord.”
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ngkiscool · 10 months
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Next please
The weekly prompt of @flashfictionfridayofficial was FFF202 The Devil You Forgot
Fandom: Lucifer (Good Omens if you squint), 830 words, no cw
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"Next please!" My station was empty, but no one approached it. On the one hand, if offered me a few seconds of relatively rest, but on the other hand, if forced me to shout. Can't be seen resting, not during the rush hour at the Higher Ground.
It was noon of a rather lovely day, finally a sunny day after a week of showers. People strolled in the street, couples shared brief kisses when they thought no one was looking, even the people with the really expensive suits walked a bit slower and enjoyed the rare weather.
Warm beams of sun filtered through the curtains and shed light on the coffee shop, colouring the place with picturesque shades. It also nearly blinded me unless I squinted, despite the many, many times I asked the manager to fix the curtains.
The queue was longer than I've seen in a long time, and not just because of the weather. As if the regular costumers weren't enough, there was a reinforcement – people from the comic con just around the corner.
All day long, I had to deal with costumers who gave me the most unusual names and throw a tantrum if I spelled their name wrong. Some, God forbid, had even asked me which costume they were wearing, and seemed genuinely hurt when I hadn't recognized which TV show it was from.
Honestly, I don't have anything against adult people who dress up as creatures who only exist in a fantasy world. Some of the costumes were pretty, and it was clear that making them required a lot of time and skills. But, just like I don't go around and show my latest sewing art to bus drivers, I don't pay too much attention to my clients' costumes. All I want from them is place a not complicated order and leave a big tip. Nothing more, nothing less.
"Next in line!" I called again, a bit louder this time, and it worked. A costumer approached me, and I started the usual drill of taking their order. Things went smoothly, or as smooth as can be expected when one orders coffee, and I started to relax. Maybe that costumer will act normal through our whole interaction, and won't demand me to guess what was his costume.
It was a good one, I'll give them that. The suit was expensive looking, but nothing a person of means can't find easily. The wings, thought, they looked almost real. They were white, and big, each feature moved separately, and the wings even moved in coordination with his shoulders. Even after seeing a parade of costumes all day long, they seemed special. Like I said, I'm not interested in cosplays myself, but as an artist (and yes, sewing is an art, thank-you-very-much) I can appreciate craftsmanship when I see one.
Usually, people love to get compliments on their costumes, but something vibed weird with this person, so I decided to refrain from commenting. The opportunity, thought, rose when he finished the order, and I asked for his name. The voice matched his outfit – silken, strong, and confident.
"Lucifer".
"I see you are really in the character, even the wings and everything!"
"In character?" A red glint shone in his eyes, gone before I had the chance to complain about the curtains. Maybe if the manages received complaints from customers, not just employees, he would do something about it. One can only hope.
"Yes, with the wings and everything. Very impressive, if you don't mind me saying. Are you participating in the cosplay contest? I'm sure you will win first place."
"Cosplay?"
The temperature in the coffee shop dropped suddenly, and I shivered despite being all hot from being near the oven. The air conditioner hadn't changed, and it didn't look like the other clients had noticed it. Weird.
"Never mind, it's been a long day. I'll just make the order, and here is a piece of lemon cake, on the house".
At last, the coffee was ready, the cake packaged and together napkin and utensils, the take-away bag was handed to him. Our fingers touched briefly, and I felt a chill running through my body, but it was very short. Long day indeed.
I turned to clean the coffee machine, and when I finished and turned to the till again, I was surprised to find a twenty note on it. It was unexpected for two reasons: firstly, it was quite a large sum, as usually people left a fiver or a tenner. Twenty was very rare. Secondly, and even more unusual, was the fact that I hadn't served any costumer in the past few minutes.
Anyway, as my experience at costumer service taught me not to question money, I took the note. Attached to it was a small, white feather, but that hadn't helped to explain how it got there.
Confused, I shook my head, and got back to my work. "Next please!"
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80roxy08 · 11 months
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LLLC Mermaid Pirate AU
*Vague squinting* Did I post this on Tumblr before or not ? Who the fuck care, here you go some blorbo writing
Mermaid Louis, Pirates Crows and Emilie
“Now let’s see what - ow !” Crows grunts, slamming into Emilie’s back as she brutally stops in the middle of the way. 
He rubs his nose and tries to see past her.
“Hello ? Emilie ? Captain ? Why are you - “
And his protests die in his throat as he finally sees what made Emilie stop dead in her tracks.
Further away, in the dark and damp ship’s hold, there lay a limp body.
The man has a skin that is slightly lighter than Emilie’s, but even in the low light it looks too pale, too greyish. His wrists are bound with thick, rough rope that digs into his flesh mercilessly. Scarlet tracks pool below his head, and the brownish red splashes on his bare torso tell a tale of violence. 
Not a fight, no, but one-sided violence. Assault. An execution, almost.
Emilie takes another trembling breath, and, following her line of sight, Crows gasps too.
This corpse is no man - for below the waist, there are no legs, but a long tail.
Delicate fins spread at the tip of the appendage, and scales that would probably glitter if there was a bit more light down here dots the human-like skin in some places.
“A mermaid…” Emilie mutters, reverent.
“The English captured and killed a mermaid ?” Crows frowns and curse ; “Fucking bastards.”
The fair folk of the sea are a special existence to the sailors.
All those who travel the great blue know of its dangers, and of its beauties, too. Mermaids are one of its inhabitants that fall in either categories - or both - depending on the way one encounters them.
There are many tales of curses, of spells, of ravishing but deadly beauties that led poor unsuspecting men to their demise, to slowly suffocate deep down in the water while a pretty face dotted with glittery scales mocks them. Or eat them while still alive, in some cases.
But there is an almost equal amount of tales of merciful half-human half-fish creatures deciding to guide the ones lost at sea back to the coast, to their family, lives saved with a small boat pushed in the right direction with the flick of a powerful tail, or some ancient water magic.
A mermaid is, whether a good or bad omen, somewhat sacred to sailors.
And here, the English corsairs all but committed heresy by catching and killing one.
“I suppose they were trying to round up a better sum at the end of the season… There are not many flies or signs of rot, it must have been a recent catch…” The captain wonders with a grimace. Sacred or not, mermaid flesh and scales would fetch quite a pretty price on any market. If the corsairs were falling behind on attacking Spanish and French boats, and somehow came across such an opportunity…
“No, it has been down here for longer than a few days. Weeks, possibly,” Crows growls, pointing at the creature’s tail. The crisscrossed rope that stops it from moving too much has caused rashes and scrapes all over the flesh, some of them half-healed, betraying that it struggled for a long time in these restraints.
“Fucking hell… Why would they even - ?”
“Didn’t we hear that some nobles back on the Old Continent were looking for… exotic pets ?” Crows adds with a disgusted grimace, “I think Captain Georges and his bastards were looking for a different kind of treasure.”
“One paid in blood,” Emilie adds, somber.
They remain silent a moment longer.
“So. What do we do with… that ?” Crows wonder, ever pragmatic. “I would feel bad selling part of it, but throwing it back in the sea just like that kinda feels disrespectful too.”
“I… Yeah, I have no idea,” Emilie admits. “We can’t burn it, for sure. Burying ? No, it's a mermaid, should go back to the sea… Bury it underwater then ? It would have to be in shallow waters, but…”
“There are some coast not too far - “
“Captain ! And mister Crows, are you - Uh ?!” 
The cabin boy that just barged down the hold calling for them abruptly stops, gawking at the creature.
“Oh, Tim ? What did you want ?”
“Is… Is that..?” The young boy mutters, the previous task forgotten.
“Unfortunately, yep,” answers the quartermaster.
The kid stares, transfixed, at the mermaid. Then he takes a couple steps closer, still focused on the limp form.
“Tim ? Are you - “
And then the kid is running back the way he came from, without a single word of explanation.
“Well, that was weird.”
“He’s not used to death, poor kid. Probably upset his stomach,” Emilie winces.
“Mh. So, back to the topic at hand ; should we try burying it in the sand of one of the northern beaches ?”
“I’m not sure, honestly. Perhaps we should throw it in the middle of the sea, after all. Sounds more like a real mermaid burial.”
“Well yeah, but - “
And then Timothée is running back in the hold, swinging a bucket heavy with sea water, and barrelling straight past his captain and quartermaster without stopping.
“Wha - ?“
The cabin boy throws the water at the mermaid -
And the creature weakly gasps, the gills on the side of its neck fluttering.
“Holy fucking shit,” Crows swears, eyes wide, “Its - He’s still alive ?!”
“I thought I saw movement. His chest. Moving. Maybe. So I thought… It’s a mermaid, right, so sea water…” Timothée splutters, hands still shakily holding the bucket, apparently surprised himself.
Emilie stares at the mermaid for a long minute, before straightening up, apparently having reached a conclusion.
“Tim, great job. You’ve got a keen eye, kid. Now get a move and bring back more of that water, that mermaid sure needs it !”
“On it, Captain !” Timothée hollers as he runs back to the deck.
“And call Benjamin while you’re up there ! He’s got a new patient !” She adds before he’s out of view.
“I guess we’ve got a guest on board,” Crows mutters, disbelief still clear in his voice. “Should probably see if we can salvage enough wood from the Rosbifs’ empty barrels and crates to make a tub or something in our boat…”
“Do that. I get the feeling he’s gonna stay for a while,” Emilie whispers back.
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Scathed
Author's Note: Wrote this little scene after reading one too many "Good Omens but they're all humans" fics. I do not remember specifics. It probably won't go anywhere. If anyone has questions or ideas, I'd love the inspiration.
Warning: A character gets beaten/lashed in front of other people as a punishment. This does not start out as a happy story at all.
Summary: When you grow up a certain way, figuring out how to live what society deems a regular life can be… jarring, to say the least. Aziraphale and Crowley can tell you this first-hand. 
The two groups called themselves polar opposites, but deep down they were just the same. 
Aziraphale found out first, when he tried to tell his assigned Brethren about a class he was struggling in because he didn’t have the book he needed for it. 
“What d’you need a book for?” Brother Ezekiel, snorted. “Aren’t you in, like, first grade?”
“Everyone else has it.” Aziraphale insisted. “It’s for the class to read along.”
“Well… guess you gotta go get it.”
 “What?”
“Get it for yourself. If you need that book so badly.”
“Gabriel said you’re supposed to watch over me.”
“Gabriel’s not the boss yet.” The older kid scoffed.
“I don’t know the city as well as you do.”
“You’ll figure it out.”
Aziraphale thought of saying something more but scurried out of the Big House instead. 
LINE BREAK 
He ended up at the old thrift store down the block from the Big House. It was the first place with books Aziraphale could think of, and he had no other ideas yet. The first thing he did was browse among the spaces that looked like they had books. There, he found plenty of interesting books that probably held wonderful tales about all sorts of things. Plants and animals of all kinds, how to make a meal, princesses and knights… Some of them had people with no shirts on the cover. 
“That’s not what you’re looking for.” A gravelly voice sounded from over his head. 
“How do you know?” He wondered. 
“It’s not a book I was able to comprehend at your age.” The person behind him offered. “I run this place. I know quite a bit about what certain people at different ages want to read. So. What are you looking for?”
“There’s a book I need for class. Everyone else has it, but the teacher doesn’t allow anyone to share.”
“Doesn’t sound like a very nice teacher.”
“Master Lionel teaches every child that passes through the Big House.” Aziraphale offered solemnly. “We are supposed to be thankful for his many years of service to the Brethren.”
“Oh, you’re one of the town’s protectors, eh? Master Lionel is a strict one, for sure. And I’m not surprised by your task at all. May I assume you have the money to make this purchase?”
“I have five dollars, sir.” Azirapahle said proudly. He’d gotten it for his first outing beyond The Gate.
“Well, let’s see if this book costs that much and we’ll go from there.”
The thrift store owner walked over to a different shelf, a much more interesting shelf where the books had bright colors and the words were something he didn’t have to squint to read. Aziraphale watched, astounded, as the man rifled through the colorful section and pulled out the book he wanted. 
“How did you know that was the book?” Aziraphale blurted out. 
“Well, you’re just starting school with Master Lionel. There are books for school, and there are books for the Big House. I happen to have some of both.”
“That’s amazing!” 
“Thank you, young man. You said you have five dollars?”
“Yes, sir.”
“This book costs two-fifty. If you want, you can get another one with the rest of your change.” 
Aziraphale agreed easily. Two books sounded way better than one, especially if another one of the Brethren didn’t get five dollars.
“Here you go.”
Aziraphale took the two books and waved to the thrift store owner. 
LINE BREAK 
Ezekiel was not in the same place he’d been in when Aziraphale left the house. In fact, no one was. 
“Go to the Big House.” One of the Angels on guard ordered when he reached the inner gate. 
“Yes, Brother,” Aziraphale responded instinctively.
“I’ll take those to your room.”
“Yes, Brother. Thank you.” 
Aziraphale booked it to the Big House. This would be the first time he was allowed at what he presumed was a meeting. Normally, there were people outside. There were kids his age and older reciting prayers in the sun or exploring the grounds or playing with equipment during Mandatory Exercise Time. There were adults keeping a masterful eye on them all, calling out correct prayers or correct stances or favorite places in the yards. For everyone to be in the Big House, something major must have happened. 
“Young Brother Aziraphale, just in time.” One of the older Angels murmured sweetly. “Let’s get you onto the stage, dear little one. You’ve got a big choice to make today.” 
Aziraphale gaped as he took his fellow Brethren’s hand and allowed them to lead him to the stage. Gabriel waited with Ezekiel, who was… attached to poles?
Each of Ezekiel’s arms and legs was tied to a separate pole that made him look like a giant human X shape. Aziraphale knew that was the twenty-fourth letter in the alphabet because Master Lionel had gone over it just last week. 
“Ah, there you are. I assume your quest for books went well?”
How did…? What was he saying? Of course Master Gabriel knew he’d gone off on his own. Master Gabriel knew everything about everyone around here. 
“Yes, Master.”
“Good, good… I need you to do me a very big favor, child. Come stand by me and say a number.”
Aziraphale went over to Master Gabriel without question. 
“A number?”
“Yes, child. You know how to count?”
“On my hands, yes, Master.”
“So pick a number you can count to.”
“Six, Master.”
“Very good, Young Brother. Go stand with Master Lionel now. He’ll take you to the Sun House.”
The Sun House was where the children of Angels went to learn, where Aziraphale and the rest of his yearmates discovered all that Master Lionel had to offer them. 
“Too bad the kid can’t count higher than his hands yet.” Someone muttered as Aziraphale made his way through the crowd. 
Master Lionel’s handhold was… gentler than he was used to, for some reason. 
“Come, Young Brother, we must move quickly. This way.” 
They weren’t fast enough to escape the shrieks that pierced the air. 
Master Lionel picked Aziraphale up and sped out of the Big House as fast as he could. 
LINE BREAK 
“Angel?” 
Zira blinked, snapped awake by a familiar voice. 
“Not today, Anthony.” He groaned.
“Well, you’re in quite a mood but that should change as soon as you, I don’t know, look around.” 
His friend’s sarcasm was usually welcome, but he’d just awoken from nightmares of a past life and-.
Someone coughed. Zira blinked. 
He was suddenly, or rather not so suddenly, surrounded by a group of students who crowded around the receptionist's desk with concerned looks on their faces. 
“Tried to tell ‘em you’d be fine, but some of them need books checked out. They came and got me after you almost broke one’s arm.”
“By the Stars!” Aziraphale blurted out, leaping to his feet. “I’m ever so sorry, dear children… let’s get you all squared away, shall we?”
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The crow had been largely absent the past few weeks of Dauntless' cruise. He'd appeared during breakfast, insisted on perching along the back of the frontmost chair during the midshipman's lessons and then asked private questions of James afterward, and then would vanish the entire rest of the day only to appear again for the evening meal and to find a place to sleep in the Captain's cabin. There were, of course, plenty of places for a bird to hide aboard a ship of the line, but he had not been causing any of the usual mischief either.
Despite being a trickster fey, and declarations that he was neither a sailor nor officer and thus, could not be expected to be constrained by such rules - he'd ceased tormenting the men entirely.
Except...a few days prior a few spare shirts had gone missing, then small clothes, stockings, a vest which vanished and then was found a couple of hours later only for a different man's waistcoat to go missing instead. All told, an entire ensemble of clothes had seemingly vanished within the confines of the ship. The crow, of course, had denied everything in his roundabout way which indicated that he was lying but couldn't voice an outright falsehood.
A stalemate then, until the day that the bird had missed the morning meal and even the midshipman's lessons.
When the midday meal came, however, there was a change. A tall and gangly young man approached the quarterdeck. He stopped at the bottom of the stairs and looked up at the huge wheel manned by the helmsman and the familiar figure of the Captain pacing near the rail. The young man had short dark hair that stuck up in all directions for a rather wild look, he squinted like he was unused to the way his eyes worked, had darkly tanned features, and most tellingly - wore a mismatched set of clothes that were clearly all the missing items.
After a moment of looking about the deck the young man mounted to the quarterdeck without asking for invitation. He teetered and stumbled a moment, clearly not having proper sea-legs but made it up and joined Norrington. Again he squinted and forced his eyes to focus properly. Up close it was possible to see glossy dark feathers in his hair and a very faint pattern of feathers on exposed skin. "Can I be an officer now?"
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Norrington had on more than one occasion reminded the fae that he was not an officer aboard, and had no pull or sway aboard to butt in lessons, but at the same time, whenever his officers approached him about the bird involving himself in their studies, or causing a ruckus he would show fair defense, as he was not human.
And when the clothing had mysteriously disappeared, he pressed the bird for answers , yet of course never got one, until he'd dismissed him in aggravation.  But the mystery would soon be solved as to their mysterious whereabouts.
“What the devil?”
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Of course, James was a bit baffled initially.  He'd not seen this young man before-- but that was only until he caught wind of the feathery hair, and the familiar voice and the faint imprint of feathers.  It was the fae! The bird he'd allowed to stay and had hand fed himself.  The one he found himself fond of even if he was considered a bad omen aboard, and even if he was a bit of a trickster.
It all made sense then why he had stolen the pieces of uniform, and why he wouldn't answer the questions about it. " Good Lord.. so that's what all this was about?"   He stares at him a moment .  While it generally took at least three years or a letter to obtain the title the bird clearly was looking for , he had been attending regular classes a while now.
"It's not that simple and are you certain you really want that? You hardly strike me as the type to buckle down and work effectively without trickery or some issue arising. These men need a fellow officer they can trust with their lives. "
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princip1914 · 3 years
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I saw the “export as animated gif” button in procreate and thought...hmm
So here’s a sketchy little attempt at learning animated layers (and also learning how to use the fill color tool along the way).
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