#cigarettes + coffee + a good book heaven on earth

[orpheuslament]

sorry for romanticising the mundane. i have little else

#cigarettes + coffee + a good book heaven on earth #dante.txt

[gambleofstars]

Electrician Reader as Vox’s Assistant (Pt. II)

₍ ⌨ ᶻᶻᶻ gambleofstars is typing ... ₎

↳ ❝ [a/n: i’m on a roll, expect a third part also haha, i kind of love this concept to be honest, not to mention i work an office job too so, pretty relatable to me. also minor content warning for smoking, but it's just casual, really] ¡! ❞

Part I

⋆♡* In fact, you liked hell, because people were much less judgmental.

⋆♡* In the overworld, your coworkers would judge you for every move. You were polite? You were a suck-up. You were cold? You were rude. You were professional? You were distant. So when you started calculating your every move? You were scheming.

⋆♡* But here? Your scheming qualities were greatly appreciated and utilized.

⋆♡* Your boss would let you stay in the conference room for business holder meetings. He doesn’t want you to know, but Vox definitely observed your reactions during these meetings. Every twitch of your brow and rolling of eyes you thought went unnoticed, were important.

⋆♡* And having a boss who sees your abilities is a sure way of making a loyal employee. Maybe this was also scheming on Vox’s part but hey, who judges who in hell?

⋆♡* If Vox’s honest, the 8am coffee and your faint groan of annoyance at his client was a bit of a highlight of his day, if you will.

⋆♡* He has to listen to either: boring meetings or other vees’ tantrums every day, so your small presence is welcome as a solidarity of someone seeing what he has to deal with.

⋆♡* (Even though his own hissy fits are no less ridiculous and much more dangerous)

⋆♡* You do get bonuses for putting up with them though. Don’t be mistaken, this is a business transaction, after all.

⋆♡* Sometimes though, you wonder who he was on earth? Or if you crossed paths in any way. You get this sentimental feeling at times that you can never explain…

★゜・。。・゜゜・。。・゜☆゜・。。・゜゜・。。・゜★

“FUCK!” Vox exclaims as he slumps down on his desk (?) chair after raging about the PR management team messing up their work. Yet again. At this point, his bowtie is all messed up and his button-up is half wrinkled.

He’s still seething, but you can see the anger is slowly sizzling out. Good, you were really not in the mood for playing therapist this evening. You already had a long day of sorting out the PR nightmare that is Valentino’s social media (which was partially the reason for Vox’s current exhaustion).

Usually, you’d listen to Vox yap about 99 problems in his vicinity. Let him let it out and then distract him with an upcoming business opportunity - kinda dealing it like you would with a teenager.

For some reason though, this evening the soft breeze coming through the open windows of the office and purple dust color of the hell’s sky, you felt an olive branch form in your heart.

“Would you like a cigarette?”

It always worked for you. After the stress of sorting out numerous affairs for the Vees (primarily your boss), a cigarette felt like a piece of heaven, really. So, why not? Bonding time with your boss or whatever.

He eyes your outstretched hand that’s holding a pack of Malborry Red (delivered straight from the gluttony ring); he seems almost suspicious, which makes you laugh.

“Don’t worry boss, drugs is Mr. V’s style. This is just tobacco”

“Fuck it”

He grabs the cigarette out of the pack and sighs like a single dad of 50 kids. Before you can laugh at this pathetic little man, you get out your lighter and light the cig up as courtesy, seeing as you’re the one who offered it.

There’s a tense moment when he just looks at you. You don’t know what he’s thinking at times and this is one of them. It bothers you a bit, like you can’t read an open book.

Either way, when he takes the first drag, he slowly goes to lean over the balcony railing with his elbows as you light your own stick. You don’t join him though.

Both of you stay silent in the comfort of an otherwise empty wing. The only noise is from the city down below and the quiet whirring of Vox’s fans to filter out the nicotine-filled smoke.

It’s kind of relaxing, in all honesty.

“Maybe I should just jump off here” he says out loud. The casual tone makes you scoff with amusement as you join him on the balcony as well. You stay close to the door though.

“Please think of the company’s integrity sir” you remind him, taking a drag of your own cigarette “Also, you can’t really die here. There are 75 electricians and technicians on standby at all times.”

Vox groans and puts the screen of his head down onto his forearm, his cigarette hanging off the 50 story building with just his two fingers as a safety measurement.

“Then maybe I’ll go out of commission for a week and ignore everything and everyone for once” he concludes with the same casuality.

“You need to be present at the shareholders meeting tomorrow afternoon or it won’t commence” you explain, honestly a bit delighted in deliberately pissing him off.

“You go do it then”

“No thank you”

Another sigh and a comfortable silence. You’d think Vox fell asleep if his fans weren’t still whirring. Even though feeling pity for the rich is a bit ridiculous, you find yourself approaching him and leaning with your back on the railing.

“Tell you what boss, I think you need to present the angelic security plan by tomorrow at 4:45” you suggest, eyeing his reaction.

He looks up at you a bit confused “Right after the meeting?”

You chuckle a bit mean-spirited “What are they gonna do? Leave?”

He picks up at what you’re putting down and a wicked smile crosses his face “So that means I won’t have any meetings until Friday”

You pick up an ashtray on the coffee table next to you and hold it out for him. But seeing as he doesn’t even notice how his cig is burning away as he plans his Thursday, you pluck it out of his hands to put it out for him.

It’s almost laughable how perplexed he looks, but you resist as you put your own stick out too and place the tray back down.

“Do you need me to plan anything for Thursday sir?”

“Do you think on earth we ever crossed paths?”

Well that was out of the blue “I don’t know sir, never thought about it” that’s a lie, you’ve thought about it every time you left the office with a feeling of deja vu.

“Whatever, who gives a shit” he said, aloof and walked back into his office “You’re more useful as my assistant down here anyway”

Maybe. Not like your life was any less stressful on earth, right? (please, do note the sarcasm).

Still, watching your boss blow up like a bomb every other morning was enough entertainment to make this job amusing.

Not to mention, on earth, this fleeting moment of fondness never crossed your heart. How ironic that you find the most vulnerable part of yourself in the flaming pits of hell filled with sinners alike you.

Maybe that’s why. The fact that you found someone who can keep up the pace with your deliberate chess-piece kind of thinking with no guilt, is a bit of a blessing in disguise.

How a string of your heart happily tugs at his victories.

You won’t let him know that though.

i'm really liking writing out my office work frustrations in these small drabbles ahaha >:) anyway, my request box is open if you wanna drop by :) <3

signing off, gambi 💋

#hazbin hotel #hazbin vox #hazbin husk #hazbin charlie #hazbin alastor #hazbin angel dust #hazbin valentino #hazbin velvette #hazbin x reader #hazbin hotel x reader #vox x reader #the vees

[namusthetic]

The Weird Relatives at the Family Reunion

Half the rumors at the dining table involve them, but they attend family reunions just to cause drama. Their alliance still stands, and gets stronger each gathering.

No.1 - The Chaotic

Is made 70% out of anger issues and 30% out of spite

Does not care about people's opinions and judgement

Has no patience

Mom friend, scolds you first and then takes care of you anyway

Has their life organized, knows what they want

Only listens to a few selected people whom they trust

Devours sexists for breakfast

Their resistance to caffeine is the same as that of a 5-year-old to sugar

"Bold of you to assume I've reached my peak of dumbass"

Avoids physical touch

Their love language is food giving / cooking

A public danger when driving (and in general)

Eats cereals from the box

Falls completely silent when angry

Probably made a deal with the devil for clear skin

Hates the government with a passion

Listens to hard rock, metal and techno, not necessarily in this order

Helps children with mischievous plans

Ready to throw hands and chew people out if someone is getting bullied

Slapstick humor

Plots new, fun ways of causing mayhem

Catchphrase: "Improvise, attack, overcome."

Playlist:

Don't Stop Me Now by Queen

Istanbul (Not Constantinople) by They Might Be Giants

all the good girls go to hell by Billie Eilish

Cigarette Ahegao by Penelope Scott

LA ESPADA by Eternal Raijin

Scopin by Kordhell

Besos I by Bo Burnham

Supermassive Black Hole by Muse

My Ordinary Life by The Living Tombstone

Maneater by Nelly Furtado

spy? by WHOKILLEDXIX

Let's Groove by Earth, Wind & Fire

No.2 - The Neutral

Always looks half asleep or annoyed or both

Sarcasm and dark humor

Done with everyone's shit

"save the bees, punch a racist"

comes off as kind and easy-going, but would watch the world burn and not bat an eye

Is inclined to tollerate you better if you offer them coffee or cookies or if you start talking about books

Will cover for you if they like you, tell on you if they don't, you'll never know which one it is until the last second

They'll sit down in a spot away from the family chaos to either ignore or judge everyone

Has a keen eye for body language and nonverbal communication

Bad at managing anxiety and stress

"binarism is for computers, do I look like a fuckin MacBook to you?"

Says they don't like kids but carries candy in their pockets for their nephews

Commitment and trust issues

Starts yelling when they get really mad

Their love languages are acts of service and quality time

Not easy to impress, unless you start the conversation quoting Shakespeare or Dante

Passive aggressive

Listens to literally anything except country music

Hates parents who don't take their children seriously, so they're always ready to lend a ear and give advice

Helps no. 1 plotting by giving technical details and suggestions

Catchphrase: "Oh, I haven't told them good morning simply because I don't think they deserve one"

Playlist:

These Times by Far Caspian

Treehouse by Alex G, Emily Yacina

Tired by beabadoobee

Summer Child by Conan Gray

Young by Vacations

Fourth of July by Sufjan Stevens

Heaven Knows I'm Miserable Now by The Smiths

The Adults Are Talking by The Strokes

O Children by Nick Cave & The Bad Seeds

Sex, Drugs, Etc. by Beach Weather

Bitter Taste by Billy Idol

Obstacles by Syd Matters

No.3 - The Lawful

Sensitive, must protect

Love languages are words of affirmation and physical touch

Cannot cook for the life of them

Made of sunshine and rainbows

"Please, assume I have dignity"

Sweet but awkward

Wears sunglasses to hide the eye bags

Always rushing somewhere

Loves children

Takes things personally and thus gets hurt too often

Quotes cringy positivity lines

Hard working

Always brings something to eat

Is actually the most insecure about themselves and their body

No.1 and no.2 are ready to physically fight anyone who is mean to them

Cheers you up and has your back

Ready to forgive and forget, rarely blames people for stuff

Too willing to give second chances

Gives stern scoldings if they're mad

When something goes wrong they take it badly and get really sad

A cinnamon roll inside and outside

Knows how to play several instrument so they sing and play for children

Tries to keep no.1 and no.2 from achieving world domination

Catchphrase: "Even if the world is big, you're enough for it"

Playlist:

El Mismo Sol by Alvaro Soler

Brazil by Declan McKenna

OUR SUMMER by TXT

Baby I'm Yours by Arctic Monkeys

Hey Lover! by Wabie

Watermelon Sugar by Harry Styles

NIGHT DANCER by imase

HOME by BTS

Love Grows (Where My Rosemary Goes) by Edison Lighthouse

Bossa No Sé by Cuco ft. Jean Carter

Swing Lynn by Harmless

Promise by Jimin

#moodboard #aestethic #character aesthetics #types of people #tag your aesthetic #character concept #tag yourself #song suggestions #playlist #chaotic #lawful #neutral

[johnconstantinejld]

London Tales-Woman in Green

She barely slept, the energy to keep the woman down keeping her up nearly every night. June sat amongst the stones, the mid-autumn sun cold upon her. It was snowing. It’d be snowing all over the county now. The Woman in Green braced. She sensed someone coming slowly from behind.

‘Hello, June.’

He lit a cigarette. The succubus gripped June’s shoulders tight. This man felt good. 

‘You are a weak one, John.’ The voice said, ‘Is that why you lose people? Is that why they die?’

‘Is that you’re spending your time just talking and talking?’ He asked back. Not a trace of emotion. Cigarette ash fell to the ground. He shuffled in his pocket. He seemed to be more concerned with a hip flask.

‘You’re alone. There’s nothing beyond. Every inch of this world is covered.’ Constantine said. ‘You’ll be defeated. You’re reduced to a totem. No reinforcements, no hope, no rescue. Nothing above, nothing below. The Angels don’t care, and Hell doesn’t either.

‘They will scream my name instead.’ The woman in green growled, ‘Scream hosannas to me!’

‘Rice pudding. Piss.’ Constantine muttered. The woman in black shuffled. John smelt like he had pissed against a wall last night. He had, unaware a ghost was standing there. Didn’t go through the ghost either.

‘I will see to it living life survives.’ She smiled, ‘They will then know which of them was right.’

‘And it’ll take June with it, as well.’

Enchantress snarled. ‘She’s a weakling. Quite like all the people who befriend you. Who is the real Constantine? Hmm? The man in the suit? The scared man?’

‘Fuck Keanu.’

Constantine sorted through his pockets, picked out a cigarette and looked for something to light it on. He scratched it on an old rune and it set alight. 

‘You mistreat your symbols, Hellblazer.’ She smiled. ‘Heaven doesn't have your back.’

‘Never figured this one out.’

He threw a symbol roughly to the ground. ‘Make the Earth tremble, luv.’ He sighed and turned his back.

‘Look us in the eye before we switch off the lights of the world and rebuild in our light.’

‘Yeah, yeah. I’ve heard that before. A woman in white told me bigger stuff. Guy on a white cloud was kind of big. You’re just a totem.’

‘A totem? I am a goddess!’

‘Oh, they all are! They all take different names and they all take different books but they’re all the same. I’m a bastard! I’ve kicked demons in the bollocks and out-witted so-called creators who saw the whole thing coming. And yet you hesitate to step on this little thing! Go on, step on it. May, June, July…I haven’t got all year.’

‘You’ve never had anyone, Constantine. They all go away.’

‘I asked the woman, Greenie. June, read it.’

There came a screaming. A dozen screaming cries; June’s, the succubus, the souls of others. The Enchantress held on. June pushed forward. She stumbled and stepped onto the relic. She screamed again. But not her. The woman in green.

‘What does it say? What is it?’

‘A nightmare for slags like you. You’re going to meet some very real power. They’ll be your nightmares.’

June dropped to her knees. She was holding a bland piece of lead in her hands. 

‘What is it?’ She asked. ‘I can feel my heart.’

‘She’s going to a place where things like her are real uncomfortable. She’s still alive, but no archaeologist is going to find her totem for a long time. Want a coffee?’ First try at a Hellblazer work. I don't own any of the rights. Could do with some work, so I'm prepped for any complaints.

#john constantine #Enchantress #hellblazer

[allegra-writes]

Just some super fluffy arvin Russell smut will do, our wee southern boy deserves a happy ending 🥰

I can't say no to that now, can I?

"Going to California"

He didn't know it could be like this. He had fooled around with girls in his car before, of course. And behind the bleachers, but it had always been rushed, under the shadows, inevitably followed by the shame and that damn guilt that seemed to stick to him like gum to a shoe. 

It had never been this unhurried, this wild. This free, in the middle of an open field, under the silver moonlight. 

Under you.

He was a little wary at first of hopping into your van when you and your friends had pulled up next to him on the highway, he knew grandma Emma wouldn't approve. He knew what she would have said if she saw your colorful clothes, your too long hair, your naked legs and bare feet. If she saw your friends' hairy faces, the little cigarettes you passed around that sure as hell didn't smell like tobacco: Wilder than june bugs on strings, the bunch of you. Y'all weren't fearful of god, you weren't good christians. You weren't children of the Lord.

But the aching in his feet had been matching the one in his heart, as the dark grey skies fell open to release the wrath of god over the earth, and he was cold and oh so tired, he had said yes, without even asking where you were going first. 

You had books with you, but none was the holy one. You had a guitar, but you didn't play sunday hymns with it. And whenever you sang, it was never about God's word. Nevertheless, he had found religion in your lips, absolution between your legs, a love worth worshipping in the altar of your hips. 

"Arvin" You sighed. No one had ever said his name like that, like a secret, like a prayer. As if it was you the one on your knees for him instead of the other way around. 

Well, you were currently on your knees for him, he supposed, but he was still beneath you, right where he belonged, as you rode him gently, leisurely. 

"What d'ya need, pretty girl?" 

"You… I need you"

Arvin understood right away, because he needed you too. He sat up, wrapping you in his arms, holding you close, every inch of your skin against him feeling like heaven, as you kept rocking your hips against his. This was paradise, your fingers in his hair, your soft kisses on his eyelids, his cheeks, his jaw, everywhere you could reach. He captured your lips, sweet as peaches, with his own, devouring your moans as he started bucking up his pelvis to meet yours, to bury himself deeper and deeper in your amazing grace, getting higher and higher, until all the secrets of the universe exploded in a million colors behind his eyelids. 

After the earthquake, he laid back on the grass, naked as the day he was born, arms still around you, your head pillowed on his chest. And it occurred to him that there couldn't be a higher calling, a more important mission in life, than that: being your personal pillow, your lover, your protector. 

"I think I've fallen for you, Arvin Russell" You confessed, softly, the first sun rays of the new day breaking over your skin. 

"I didn't" He replied, cool as a cucumber on the outside while his heart hammered like a wild hummingbird inside his chest, "I used to think I had fallen from grace, but then you found me, raised me high when I thought I was sinking. You gave me my hope back. And my faith. You're all that to me: You my hope and my faith and my grace" He took a deep breath, as if the crisp morning air could give him the courage he needed to finish. 

"I wanna make an honest woman out of you, y/n" 

You chuckled,

"You know I don't believe in that stuff" 

"Humor me, then." You felt him shrug under you, "If it ain't that big of a deal, marry me" 

You lifted your head slightly, any logical reply forgotten as you met his coffee eyes, brighter and more open than you had ever seen since picking him up on the highway, all those weeks ago.  

"Ok" The breathless word hadn't even finished leaving your mouth, until his was on it again, big hands on either side of your face, holding you in place as he kissed, and sucked and nibbled your abused lips to his heart's content.

No, he didn't know it could be like this. He didn't know sinners could be angels. That children of the sun could be purer than any pious christian. That he would find glory amongst heathens. But he had. And he had found light and happiness again, against all odds, in a girl with love in her eyes and flowers in her hair, going to the land of perdition. Going to California.  

#arvin russell #arvin russell x reader #arvin russell x reader smut #arvin russell imagine #the devil all the time #tom holland #tom holland x reader #tom holland x reader smut #tom holland imagine

[reflectionsofneptune]

little things about the saturn signs

little dreamy, abstract things about the Saturn signs in Astrology.

Aries Saturn

― Skin stretched across the ridges of the knuckle. Screaming into a pillow. Droplets of sweat formed at the base of the neck. Fight or flight mode. A slow tick in the jaw. Ice cold showers. One rep too many. Steam coming from the spout of a kettle. Boxing gloves, in a corner. Paying the price for impulsive decisions. Tunnel vision. Giving the ego props, but not all the credit. Pacing oneself. Coal catching light at a barbecue. Rugby uniform, two sizes too big. A toddler falling down on soft grass.

Taurus Saturn

― Pennies in a jar. A set, of fine china, accumulated over time. Vinyl played on a Crosley Cruiser. Scrambling to make rent day. Multiple bank accounts. Paying cash over card. White lilies, a centrepiece on the dining table. Buying the same product over and over again. Loyalty cards. Slow cooking. Aeration of bread. A short stroll after dinner. Shoes buffed and shined, by the front door. Crystal cut glass housing clear liquid. The finest dinnerware brought out for special occasions.

Gemini Saturn

― A tickle in the throat. Coughing before a point is made. Audiobooks. The chewed cap of a pen, between the teeth. Stuttering. Restless eyes. Amber glow of a traffic light. Staying up all night to consume information. Aux cables. Permeant creases to the spine of a thick reference book. Last call in a library before closing time. Indentations on a stress ball. A silver tongue. Taming the mind to find peace. Soft vibrations from an electric toothbrush. A keyboard resting on the wall. Breathing exercises before a presentation.

Cancer Saturn

― Photographs in a photo album. Tea stained letters of endearment. Arms crossed over the chest recreates a sense of safety. A tried and trusted recipe passed down. Hot cocoa before bed. Lullabies. Trepidation when it comes to emotionally charged situations. Casserole dishes containing humble portions of heaven. Birdsong as the sun rises. Family heirlooms kept in a velvet pouch. Height marked by notches on the wall. Necklaces made out of macaroni. Friendship bracelets.

Leo Saturn

― Trophies catching dust, behind a cabinet. The definition of achievement drilled in from a young age. Beads embroided on the curve of the back. Scarlett stained pointe shoes. Being painfully aware of a truth embedded in a joke. Bristles of a paintbrush splayed. Finger paintings. Heart playing Scatato notes. Fringing running along the back of a leather jacket. Slicked back hair. Opera glasses observing the scene from a height. Playing small. Playstation cables tangled. Cherry cola.

Virgo Saturn

― Suduko’s on a long train journey. The smell of fresh linen permeating the house. French horn-rimmed glasses. Filter coffee. Sticky notes poking out of an organiser. Multiple alarms set. Sneaking meditation in during lunch. Rush hour. Sweating the small stuff. Employee of the month. Burnout because enough isn’t good enough. Trips away that no one knows about. Tension released on the mat. Vitamins nabbed at bargain prices. Normcore. The curve of a nail bed. The quiet carriage of a train ride.

Libra Saturn

― The tall stem of a Martini glass. Spoken word in an intimate setting. Finding gems in a vintage shops. Mascara running down cheeks. Scented candles. Vintage perfume bottles. Elocution lessons. Fluffy slippers. Holding on too tightly to whats just. Learning forward in conversation. A Minor scale. Wind chimes blowing in the wind. Satin eye masks. Opening up to another requires a bit more effort. Frilly socks. Pouring into a diary at the end of the day. A blue box. Pearls around the neck.

Scorpio Saturn

― A toothpick hanging from the side of the mouth. Alarm bells set off at the slightest inclination of an intruder. Black latex pants. Street lights flickering in an alleyway. Fearful of deep bonding with another further solidifies a notion of isolation. A silver chain hanging from belt loops. The cold tiles of the bathroom floor. The point of incisor teeth. Silver tipped boots. Black matches with a red tip. Vantage point. Riding shotgun. Tight spaces. Sharp corners. Eagles circling the air. Lowered eyelashes.

Sagittarius Saturn

― Left ear ringing. Ted talks with breakfast. Neon lights flashing between the trees. Coins under the sofa. A cork board filled with memories. Floorboards vibrating because of music. Digging deep to find the light in a dark situation. A stainless steel water bottle. The smell of rain. Just catching the last train. Raw space. A painting on a wall, slightly crooked. Recognising a familiar face in a crowd. Fingerless gloves. Boy Scouts around a campfire listening to an Elder. Jumping off a diving board. A little pocketbook shoved into a back pocket.

Capricorn Saturn

― Wanting to fall off the face of the face of earth, not forever, but for a while. A five year plan. Engraved working buttons. An empty playground. Two kisses upon meeting someone new. Country clubs. Freshly mowed lawn. The nib of a fountain pen. Not wanting to fail can actually mean nothing gets started. Socks peeking out from suit trousers. A stiff upper lip. A three course meal, and then dessert. Dry cleaning home delivered. The heavy pressure of water at the crown.

Aquarius Saturn

― Licking postage stamps. A number written on a bar reciept. Blue light from an aquarium. Feeling the weight of upholding one’s personal truth. Drawers that won’t shut. Organised mess. Red booths in a diner. Reading glasses hanging from the neck. A tray filled with trinkets accumulated over the years. Struggling to feel confident to put one’s unique spin on structures in society. Cult movies on video. A soft hue from lava lamps. Tongue-in-cheek graphic t-shirts. Frayed jeans. Floorboards creaking under pacing.

Pisces Saturn

― Alpha brain waves. A packet of cigarettes, opened but full. Escaping to deal with responsibility. Feet dangling off the edge of the bed. Reaching for something tangible in the dark. The calm before the storm. Right ear ringing. Dreams, felt vividly in dream state but in waking state, difficult to pinpoint. Crystals under the pillow. Wanting to help in the world but unsure of where to start. Shadows creeping up a white wall. Guilt. Kiss of life. The soft glow from a pink salt Himalayan lamp. Putting money into a cup outside of a train station.

| little thoughts about mercury placements

| little thoughts about venus placements

| little thoughts about mars placements

#astrology #aries #taurus #gemini #cancer #leo #virgo #libra #scorpio #sagittarius #capricorn #aquarius #pisces #saturn #mine #thoughts #zodiac signs

[writingonacloudblog]

I Will Always be His Daughter

I remember when I was six-years old, my father would deadbolt the doors so no one could get in, but also so I couldn’t get out. I couldn’t go outside to play with the other kids or even run around in the backyard. I always wondered why he did that but even when I was a teenager, I never had the courage to ask. Mostly because my father looked at me like I was a monster he was required to live with. I always thought he would kill me one day, but I actually came out of that house alive. I saved up all the money I could find around the house as my father drank his life away and promised I would never see him again. And if he died, I wouldn’t care.

As I sit in my kitchen with a cup of coffee in my hand, I can’t help but think of what my father is doing right at this moment. Mostly because it’s been twenty years since we last seen each other, and I remember that day vividly. I was sixteen years old at the time and I finally saved up enough to leave his house for good. So, I grabbed 2 outfits and put them into a small trash bag to go on my own journey to find my identity. Sadly, it was a special day for me, the mother I lost, and a tragic day for him.

“You ungrateful little bitch…” He mumbled under his breath as I walked into the living room with my bag in hand. Even though I was 16 I knew I needed to act like an adult and take my life into my own hands. I needed to make sure the life I was given isn’t wasted away on a drunk old man who can’t remember he has a daughter to take care of. I wanted the life I would see on all the TV shows like My Wife and Kids and Good Times where the family would laugh with each other and be understanding even when there are struggles. I wanted a family that would love me unconditionally and not push me towards a dark abyss of depression.

I looked at him with tears in my eyes trying to keep them from cascading down my face. I didn’t want to show weakness as I was about to leave. I wanted show that I was stronger than what he thought I was. I wanted to show him the “monster” that he didn’t create.

“So, you want to leave? You are just like your mother you know?” He laughed as he took another swig of whiskey.

“How can I be someone I never met? She died before I was born, or did you forget? Are you that drunk that you can’t remember that? That drunk that you can’t for a second remember her!” I asked feeling the suppressed frustration being released for the first time. I could feel tension in the room as I said these things most 16-year-olds wouldn’t mouth to their parents. It’s always respect your elders but never respect children as well.

“You should ask yourself that question. Don’t you realize everything I have done for you? The long nights I have worked to make sure you had food or the clothes you are wearing, “

“You made that money so you could drink it away. I am not that innocent child anymore. I know exactly what you have done for me! Nothing. All you have done for me is make me resent you,”

“LAYLA MARIE!”

“You have no right to call me by my name. No right to have kept me locked up in this house. And the audacity to call me the name that my mother gave me? You are a real piece of work.”

“Watch your mouth…”

“No, I won’t. I am tired of not living my life! I have no one here. I am alone here. I am tired of being treated like I am some murderer!” I yelled with every breath I had left. I remember feeling my throat become scratchy from all the yelling. I remember clenching my fist wanting to harm him in some way. I remember hearing him laugh at me and mocking me with a smile like a Cheshire Cat.

“I should have let her give you up you know. Because if you weren’t here, SHEwould be here!” He yelled at me his smile changing like the weather. From sunshine to a thunderstorm his whole demeanor became dark. This man was my father and I had to get away.

________________________________________________________

I put my coffee cup down into the sink and go into the fridge to grab the cupcake with a candle on top that I bought after work. When I place it on the counter all the memories of my father flash before my eyes. Him sitting in his recliner after he got off work, watching the NBA playoffs as I sat in my room wondering why I wasn’t allowed to eat that night. The smell of whiskey and cigarettes in the living room wafting up my nose even though I am in my own house, like my father was right beside me. I lit the candle on the cupcake with my lighter thinking of all the birthdays I had before. They weren’t happy at all.

“Happy Birthday Layla….” I say to myself before I blow out the candle not making a wish. I never made one in the past so why make one now. I could hear my phone ring in the other room. I check the time on the oven and it’s too late for anyone to call me. I have no friends or a lover. Its just me against the world as it should be. But for some odd reason I get a feeling that I should answer immediately. Like my world will crumble if I don’t. So, I walk into the other room and pick up my cell phone, hesitant to answer.

“Hello?” asked the voice on the other line. The words wouldn’t form from my mouth.

“Hello? Is this Layla Jones? I am calling about your father, Fredrick Jones,” Hearing his name for the first time in years made my heartbeat rapidly like a drum. Why am I getting a call about him?

“Y yes this is her. Who am I speaking to?”

“I am a nurse at Matagorda General Hospital. I am sorry to inform you of this news, but your father passed away this morning.”

My heart and time stopped. I didn’t know whether to celebrate or to cry. I didn’t know whether to tell her to go away and leave me alone or to cry and ask if she is lying. 20 years later and no call or an apology from him. And now he’s gone from this earth.

“I’m so sorry Ms. Jones. If you would like I can connect you to,”

“No no that won’t be necessary. Thank you for letting me know,” I said before hanging up the phone and sitting on the floor staring at the wall. I knew I have to go back home and bury him since he didn’t have anyone else. At least that’s how I left him. I left him there with his whiskey in hand drunk like he always was.

I take few deeps breaths to calm my nerves and get up from the floor to pack my suitcase for my flight back home. I know don’t have a ticket, but I know that I can get one for 2 days later. I grab my nice black suitcase with leather handles and grab the clothing that is suitable for the humid weather that makes your hair frizz up into an afro. I close my suitcase up after getting everything packed away neatly and set it to the side in my room. I always thought one day I would have to face him, but I didn’t think I would be facing him in a coffin.

________________________________________________________

A few days later, I landed in my hometown feeling a sense of myself again. The humidity embraced me into a tight hug as I placed my bags into the car I rented for the few days I would be here. I put my old home’s address into the GPS hoping that when I arrive my father still hadn’t moved out. Driving down these small-town roads and seeing places I never got to explore like the schools or the small shopping center, makes me feel like I don’t know this place at all. The only place I remember is my fathers’ house and the airport. The only memory being my father and that’s all.

I pulled up to the house and saw about ten cars parked on the side of the road along with 3 cars parked in the driveway including my dad’s old 1990 Chevrolet Impala. I didn’t think my dad had anyone in his life when I left. He never had friends that came over to watch the game or have a couple drinks. He never really talked about his family or my mom’s family since he was practically disowned, and he felt a lot of guilt about my mother’s death that he never told them that I was still alive.

I got out of my car and locked it, walking up to the front door that has changed since I was last here. I remember staring at the old front door analyzing the rusted screws and the dents on the top and bottom. Now it has changed to a door as white as dove with bronze screws and a beautiful flower wreath that makes me think of the gates to heaven. I try to calm myself taking a few deep breaths as I lift my hand to knock on the door wondering who I will face.

A woman opens the door staring at me, and I don’t recognize her. She was about 5’5’’ with a salt and pepper braided bun greased down to perfection, her eyes red but her demeanor stronger than a bull. I could smell her perfume and felt a sense of nostalgia to the old ladies in church who would always sit in the front of service and fan themselves while singing every church hymn loud for everyone to hear.

“Can I help you?” She asked staring me down like I was a threat to her.

“Yes, ma’am I am just wondering if I am at the right place actually.” I said looking past her and seeing about 20 people in a house with a changed interior from what I left it. The recliner he used to sit in is gone. The smell of smoke and whiskey doesn’t waft towards my nose anymore, but a scent of lavender incense mixed with this woman’s perfume surrounds me.

“Well, I can only tell you if you let me know what you are looking for chile,” She placed her hands on her hips and stared at me like she was trying to figure out who I was.

“A man I used to know lived here and I heard he passed away, so I came to pay respects. But I think I might be at the wrong place,” I stared at the ground and sighed preparing to be on my way to the hotel I booked. I could feel her eyes analyzing my face and my clothing wondering if I was some good for nothing child who is looking for trouble. Most likely asking herself why I had showed up at her house?

“Well, the only man who stayed here was my husband, Fredrick. Are you a friend of his from his old job? Or from the grocery store?” She asked, her eyebrow arched up. I couldn’t tell her I was his daughter because I doubt he ever mentioned me. His daughter who left him behind to find her own life. And imagine being the wife of a man who had daughter you didn’t know about?

“Yes, ma’am I knew him from the grocery store. I am sorry for you’re lost.”

“This gathering is only for family but thank you for the condolences. I am sure Freddie is in a better place.”

“Mom” a feminine yet bright voice called from behind her. When the older woman turned around, I caught glimpse of a girl who looked similar my dad with light brown eyes and his nose. She looked to be in her early twenties with a beautiful black designer dress you would see in Vogue magazine. She must be my fathers’ pride and joy since she doesn’t look like she has suffered at all.

“Yes Kayla?” the older woman asked back.

“Who’s at the door?” Kayla asked catching a glimpse of me before I put my head down looking at the ground, praying to God that I can just run back to my car and get the hell out of here.

“Just a bagger from the grocery store baby girl.”

“Well Aunt Shelly needs help with the potato salad she’s about to put raisins in it again.”

“I swear this woman is gonna make me lose my damn mind…” She mumbled as she turned to look at me. “Thanks again for coming by Honey, we all appreciate it. These last 2 days have been very hard on us. I used to go to the hospital everyday to go check up on him and it hurt me to see him in pain. I am just glad he is back home with the lord. He was such as good father and an even greater husband you know?” She tried to hold back her tears. I couldn’t agree on anything she was saying at all. The father I had was not good at all. He wasn’t some angel sent from heaven, but I guess that’s just her view of a devil in disguise.

As she and I said our goodbyes and the door closed in front of me, I regretted going back to my father’s home. I got back into my car with my suitcase in the trunk and drove back to the airport. There was no reason for me stay there when I’m not his family anyway. The way he treated me I shouldn’t want to pay respects to him at all. He had a new wife and daughter while I was struggling to come to terms that I never will have a sitcom relationship with him. I had to go to therapy and find love within myself because I lacked the love and support of a parental figure. He made me look like a fool again except in death.

I drove back to the airport straight from the funeral. I didn’t care how much a plane ticket would cost me, I just wanted to go back to my life again. I wanted to leave the past behind and pay attention to my future again. I sat in the waiting area and all I could do is stare at the carpet, watching the patterns expecting it to change and have some type of relief. I remember sitting in this airport with a trash bag, a plane ticket, and no plan, crying for someone to save me from him. I begged God to end my suffering and let me be with my mother. Yet, he was a good father?

When I got on the plane, all the comprehension of what just occurred just wouldn’t add up to me. He had a whole replacement family that doesn’t even know about me. I bet they don’t know about my mother or how he was a useless drunk so many years ago. The man who I begged to be my father for years until I had enough.

When I arrived back at my condo from my overnight flight back, I went to check my mailbox for my usual credit card bills and rent reminder. But instead, there was an envelope with a scent I knew too well. I looked at the envelope and read Fredrick Jones on the left-hand corner. A part of me wanted to burn the letter in the fireplace, especially since I wasted a trip to be confronted by his new family that he most likely treated in the way I always hoped he would treat me. But the other side of me wanted to open the letter carefully and cry until my eyes became sore. I wanted to open and see an apology for the way he treated me all those years. I wanted to finally hear him say that I am not a disappointment or a murderer.

So many things in one letter that I wanted to be said so I can cry until I can’t cry anymore. The years of hatred I had for this man and the love I was looking for in this man will be buried 6 feet under. But I will never open this letter. I will never forget my father and I know I will always be his daughter.

#shorts #original work

[thirstforfleck]

you belong to me~Arthur Fleck x Reader

summary: it’s a rainy day in gotham. you and arthur have a romantic dinner at home and slow dance to romantic tunes.

warnings: none? just lots of fluff

word count: 1,774

notes:Hello, all. This is my very first piece of writing I’m posting to this site. I’m not the BEST writer there ever was (some of you are absolutely amazing and my writing does not compare to yours) so please don’t be too hard on me. I was heavily influenced by You Belong to Me by Jo Stafford for this piece of writing. I think my writing went downhill at the halfway point because I’m three glasses of wine in and have just been writing from my feels. Been feelin’ romantic all day. (also I made this as gender neutral as possible) hope you enjoy :)

Gotham City was damp, chilly, and more uninviting than usual that night. The severe thunderstorm warning was not to be taken lightly. Bright flashes of lightening lit up the sky, followed by Earth-shattering rumbles of thunder. You watched out the window as the rain fell at a 45 degree angle. Debris and leaves in the filthy streets below danced in a funnel shape. You loved thunderstorms. The sound of the rain pelting the roof was soothing and the smell of petrichor delighted your senses. 

The sky’s grumbles and the low vocals of Al Bowlly lilted through the apartment. Arthur hummed as he moved about in the kitchen. He was preparing fettuccine alfredo for dinner. Arthur was an amazing cook, preparing some of your favorite comfort foods on a weekly basis: blueberry pancakes on Sunday mornings, grilled cheese and tomato soup on Friday afternoons (provided he wasn’t working), and spaghetti with marinara on Wednesday evenings. You usually got off work earlier than Arthur, so most of the time you would fix a hot meal for when he got home from a long day at Ha-Ha’s. 

“Darlin’, dinner is ready,” Arthur called to you.

You turned from the window and walked to the kitchen. “I’ll help you set the table.”

You set the table in the corner of the living room while Arthur poured the pasta into a bowl. In the meantime, you aggressively pulled the cork out of your bottle of Chardonnay. You poured yourself a healthy amount. Arthur took a glass from the cabinet and filled it with water from the faucet. Alcohol messed with his many medications so he didn’t drink.

“Artie, this smells absolutely amazing,” you enthused, taking a seat.

“Anything for my love,” Arthur smiled from across the table.

You and Arthur ate in comfortable silence, exchanging sweet glances. The creamy sauce melted in your mouth. You hummed as you savored the meal bite by bite. Arthur was a self-taught cook, serving his mother for many years. There were stacks of recipe books throughout the apartment, from which Arthur took inspiration. 

After cleaning your plate, you helped yourself to another serving. Arthur only enjoyed a small portion. He never had a large appetite. He lit a cigarette for dessert. “This is incredible,” you spoke. “Seriously.” You took every chance you could get to boost Arthur’s self-esteem. You have helped him so much in the past year you’ve been together. He was more confident in his comedy, his cooking, and even just in his daily interactions with the public.

Arthur was glowing. “Thank you, darling,” he smiled. He started to clear the table, when you reached your arm out to stop him.

“I’ll do it,” you insisted. “You cooked, I’ll clean.”

Arthur paused. “Are you sure?” Arthur hated asking people for help. In the past, he was always denied help from those he asked. He was always used to completing tasks himself. The only time he truly asked for help was from his therapist, and even when it came to her, Arthur didn’t think she truly cared to help. Arthur was still not used to you assisting him, whether it was with housekeeping or ideas for jokes, or even something as simple as trimming his hair. 

You nodded. “Just let me finish eating and I’ll clean.”

Arthur gave you a toothy grin. He leaned across the table and planted a kiss on your lips. The blend of butter, salt, and cheese on your lips tasted heavenly to Arthur. You giggled into the kiss. “I love you,” he sang.

“I love you, too,” you said. 

You devoured your second helping and started clearing the table. Arthur sat on the couch, relishing another cigarette. After storing the leftovers and washing the dishes, you poured yourself a second glass of wine. The thunder and lightening seemed to have left the atmosphere but the rain was still coming down strong. 

The dim light of the apartment combined with the gloomy clouds just barely seen through the windows made for a romantic setting in the apartment. You walked towards Arthur, making intense eye contact with him. His legs were spread, feet flat on the floor. He put his cigarette out in the ashtray next to him. You placed your wine glass on the coffee table. Gently, you climbed onto his lap and straddled him. Your hands brushed the hair out of his eyes and gingerly held his face. His brilliant green eyes twinkled. For a man as young as he was, he had deep forehead wrinkles and crow’s feet carved into his face. You didn’t mind: in fact, it made him more handsome if that was even possible. You adored the scar above his lip, from an accident he was involved in as a child (he didn’t go into great detail). You pressed a kiss to his upper lip, then to the corners of his mouth. “You are so good to me, Arthur Fleck,” you sighed. Your hands found their way to the nape of his neck, entwining your fingers in his thick, dark curls. 

Arthur’s breathing eased. Playing with his hair was his biggest weakness. He adored your tender strokes throughout his mess of hair and your fingernails giving him light scalp massages. “I could say the same thing about you, Y/N,” he whispered. 

Your lips touched his. Kissing you was the closest place to Heaven on Earth for Arthur. The way you treated him and cared for him made him feel like the only man in the world. He never thought he would find his one and only, but he did. It was you.

You pulled away with a soft smile. You just noticed the Al Bowlly record stopped playing, the fuzz at the end of the record playing on loop. “Oh, geez!” You jumped off Arthur and on to your feet. Shuffling over to the record player, you began to examine the records. There were ancient 78’s from his mother, a few 45’s of his absolute favorite songs, and mostly the standard 33 1/3’s. You found your favorite album: the latest compilation album of Jo Stafford’s greatest hits. Arthur gifted it to you last Christmas and you listened to it on repeat for weeks. You’re surprised you didn’t wear out the needle on the turntable. 

The first song of the album was ‘You Belong To Me,' arguably Jo Stafford’s biggest hit. Her deep, elegant voice sent chills down your spine. This song in particular made you shed tears many times in the past. It reminded you of Arthur. You placed the record on the turntable and set the needle on the first groove. The marimba and Jo’s vocals played softly through the speakers. You turned the volume up almost as loud as it could go. 

“Come on, Artie. Dance with me,” you approached him with your arms extended. Arthur couldn’t resist dancing with you. Every night after Live! with Murray Franklin, he would dance with you to the closing song, ‘That’s Life’. He was truly a romantic at heart, and his actions proved it. 

Arthur grabbed ahold of your hands and you tugged him off the couch. “How can I resist you, Y/N?” he smiled at you. Your right hand and his left hand clasped together. Your left hand snaked its way up his back and clasped onto his shoulder. His right hand found your waist and caressed it. 

See the pyramids along the Nile

Watch the sunrise on a tropic isle

Just remember, darling, all the while

You belong to me

Jo Stafford’s passionate ballad carried through the apartment as you and Arthur swayed to the tune. 

See the marketplace in old Algiers

Send me photographs and souvenirs

Just remember when a dream appears

You belong to me

You held your gaze with Arthur, never breaking the connection. He was stunning, caring, intelligent, gentle, talented, all the positive words in the dictionary. And he was yours. Your soulmate. Your person. The love of your life. Yours. 

I’ll be so alone without you

Maybe you’ll be lonesome too and blue

You couldn’t help but tear up at that line. It was true. Before Arthur, you were lonely. Living a life that consisted only of work and sleep. You didn’t think such a love like his existed. 

Fly the ocean in a silver plane

See the jungle when it’s wet with rain

Just remember ’til you’re home again

You belong to me

Arthur noticed the tears that created a film over your eyes. “My love, what’s wrong?” he spoke softly. His hands embraced your cheeks. His thumbs stroked over the tears that sparingly dripped from your eyes.

You shook your head, your eyes now making contact with his socks. “Nothing, I…” your voice trailed. Your eyes met his once again and you smiled tearfully. You could hear the thunder come rolling back in and echo throughout Gotham City. Jo Stafford’s beautiful voice was building with vigor, overpowering Mother Nature. 

I’ll be so alone and without you

Maybe you’ll be lonesome too and blue

“Nothing is wrong, Arthur,” you spoke softly. “I just… I don’t deserve you and I love you so much. I don’t know what I would do with myself if you left me.”

Arthur’s right hand trailed down your shoulder as his left hand held your chin. He felt the exact same way. Before you, he was the shell of a man. In his mind, he had nothing left to live for. Until, he met you. You sincerely loved him for who he was. He didn’t know what he had done to deserve you, but he was grateful. He counted his blessings every day because of you. “Hey, silly. I’m not going anywhere. I am never, ever leaving you. You are the greatest thing that’s ever happened to me. Letting you go would… well, it would be the biggest mistake of my life.” You chuckled shyly, more tears falling. Arthur kissed away your salty tears. “I love you, Y/N.”

Fly the ocean in a silver plane

See the jungle when it’s wet with rain

But remember, darling, ’til you’re home again

You belong to me

“I love you too, Arthur,” you smiled. You and Arthur locked lips. Arthur’s arms encircled you and squeezed, holding you as close as humanly possible. Your arms found their way around his neck. The warm, romantic embrace gave you both a fuzzy feeling inside, something you both couldn’t describe. Nevertheless, you both knew it was something you never wanted to let go of. You had found each other: you were soulmates. It was as simple as that.

tagging my girl @freewriterofdarkness​ bc she wanted to read it :) also, if you would like to be tagged in future works, please let me know :)

#joker #arthur fleck #joker imagine #arthur fleck imagine #arthur fleck x reader #joker x reader #Joaquin phoenix #fanfic

[ladyoutlier]

Earth Angel

In which Crowley accidently miracles a love song for Aziraphale

Read on AO3 | Listen to the song for context

________________________________________________________________

Crowley didn’t spend much time across the pond. Didn’t matter much whether he wanted to or not. The fact was that he didn’t need to. Ever since the colonies broke off and forged their own path ahead (a path that was quite destructive to anything and anyone that wasn’t an ex-settler), they had done quite the good job of spreading evil into the world themselves.

For Hell’s sake, the Americans were doing Satan proud with their segregation laws. Dehumanizing people because of how much melanin was in their skin. Crowley thought it would be a real kick to let them all know that Adam and Eve had been black, but his lot probably wouldn’t be too happy with the miracle it would’ve taken to convince these stubborn Yanks that he was telling the truth. He didn’t much feel like outing himself as the demon that caused humanity to fall anyways.

Still, he wasn’t in much of a mood to be partaking in these backwards American habits, much like how he wasn’t all that interested in involving himself in the horror of the previous World War. Minus, of course, a small dip in with his angel friend. So he found himself in the most progressive diner in Los Angeles which wasn’t saying much with the segregated seating, bathrooms, and drinking fountains. 1954 America was a mess, and Crowley couldn’t wait to get out of it.

He wouldn’t even be having nearly as bad of a time if Aziraphale were here. But no, Crowley had lost the coin flip, and as their Arrangement stated, he was the one to go to America on both their behalves. It’s not that he hated the country. Rather it was a case of the wrong place at the wrong time. He actually appreciated the American spirit with their rowdiness and party-going nature. It’s just he wasn’t in the mood to enjoy it. 

The location hardly helped either. Los Angeles of all places: the closest Earth had to a Hell of its own and the one place that literally translates to “The Angels.” Wasn’t he already homesick enough? He had a right mind to think this was all some sick practical joke She was playing on him. As if She hadn’t tormented him enough these past 6000 years with Aziraphale.

He didn’t even really understand what he was supposed to be doing over here. Something about inspiring a witch hunt, but that nonsense had burned out centuries ago. He would’ve thought it was just another case of Hell being behind the times, but they threw in some major keywords that’d shown up on almost every newspaper he came across. Some dickhead named McCarthy and this looming “Red Scare.” As far as Crowley could tell, nothing about the States seemed all that red or all that scary, but humans always made a bigger fuss of things than he did.

“Can I get you anything, dear?” A waitress pulled him out of his self-pity session. “Coffee perhaps? Or well, I guess you folks are more fond of tea, aren’t you?”

“Coffee’s fine.” He gave her a wide smile that all but added on: Now, go away.

Truth be told, Crowley didn’t feel much like socializing with humans, well, ever, but specifically not today. What was the point of chatting any of them up when their short life spans meant they could croak before you’d get a chance to finish your thought? 

Really, he wanted to head back to his hotel room and sleep until this McCarthy guy did something evil enough for him to be able to go home. And that’s exactly what he would’ve done if it wasn’t for the simple fact that he had to handle Aziraphale’s miracle as well.

Do general goodness. That was it. That was all he had to go off of. When he had expressed his annoyance to Aziraphale, he had just shrugged and said that sometimes it was about finding where miracles were needed rather than where they’d be the most profitable.

Couldn’t he have given him any tips? For Satan’s sake, he was a demon after all. Picking out where good was needed wasn’t exactly his expertise. Sure, he hadn’t asked Aziraphale for advice, but a demon would think after 6 millennia he wouldn’t need to.

So he was stuck in this sorry excuse for a place to grab a bite, surrounded by these no-good Americans for Aziraphale. Er, well not for Aziraphale. For their Arrangement. Which he purely posed for self-gain and not at all because he wanted a reason to see the angel more. Not at all that.

He was making a bigger fuss out of all this than he should have, and he knew this. Finding someone in desperate need of a miracle wasn’t all that hard. He could probably walk in any direction for less than a minute and find some poor homeless bastard that would consider even a week’s worth of wages to be the greatest miracle they could receive. Everyone needed something after all.

The problem was that Crowley was quite good at lying to himself. Well, not good at it. He had been failing to lie to himself about his feelings towards Aziraphale since the beginning of time itself. So deep down, he knew his difficulty with providing a miracle had absolutely nothing to do with him being a demon or with the company he found himself around. It actually had everything to do with the fact that he wanted to impress his angel. THE angel. Impress the angel. Not his.

It was quite the internal conflict. His feelings of course, but also deciding on a miracle. What he wanted to do was snap his fingers and end this whole racism thing, but even if Hell didn’t figure out it was him that did it, Heaven would be pretty pissed at Aziraphale for abusing his powers. A bunch of bollocks, wasn’t it? That an angel could cause too much good. How stupid did that sound?

No, he had to find a way to do something that would make Aziraphale beam without completely redesigning this awful country. Something that would make Aziraphale look at him the same way he had back in 1941 after Crowley had saved his books. It was a once in a lifetime look -- well, a once in a 6000 years look -- that Crowley really wanted to see again.

Maybe he would just drown himself at a bar and start fresh tomorrow. It’s not like the atmosphere was doing him any good. The air was just not putting him in a good mood tonight.

Usually, that had never mattered. Aziraphale could make a war zone enjoyable. Not that Aziraphale was required for him to have a good time. But it did help. Or no, it didn’t. He got along perfectly fine on his own. Aziraphale was completely optional, and Crowley couldn’t care whether he was there or not! Yeah, couldn’t care less.

“Oi, hun!” he called to the waitress. “Why don’t you make that coffee something a bit stronger, yeah?”

The waitress gave him a nod and ducked into the kitchen. 

Crowley sat up in his booth. Enough of the internal sob story. There had to be someone here that needed a miracle, right? The next Charles Dickens, or more likely the next Mark Twain, that he could help along on their path towards success. Aziraphale had been really fond of him throwing Shakespeare a bone back in the day, so he just needed a modern day literary genius he could do the same thing with. Simple.

The diner was a lot more lively than when he came in. He must have been lost in thought for quite a while. Businessmen sat at the counter reading newspapers with cancer sticks smoking from their lips. Crowley did wonder when humans were going to figure out that cigarettes weren’t all that healthy. Influencing them into breaking bad habits would count as a miracle but that was hardly all that special.

A group of teens were tucked into the corner, drinking milkshakes. What could he do for them? Help them with their homework? Point them in the direction of a good college? Yeah, boring. Wasn’t going to work.

Four young men sat over in the segregated section having a rather intense conversation. The two guys closest to the door were leaned over the table. One of them tapped on it as he spoke. Crowley figured a bit of eavesdropping couldn’t hurt. Plus, it was in his nature with the whole demon thing.

“Okay, how about this? It’s you, you, you my dear. Always been you-ou-ou.”

The one across from him shook his head. “Too much like The Ames Brothers. We need our unique sound.”

The first man sat back down against the seat, and the guy next to him spoke up. “Duncan, it’s not like either of us know that much about love. We both had, what? One date for all the school dances we went to back at Fremond?”

“But love songs are what’s popping. What the people wanna here!” The man now known as Duncan replied.

Crowley rolled his eyes and turned to look out the window. Funny that humans thought they knew anything about love when he still hasn’t figured it out in the whole time humanity has existed. Maybe they did know more about it than him. They had a good 60 or 70 years to figure it out before they’d have to deal with never knowing. Maybe that made all the pins click into place quicker.

He, on the other hand, wasn’t on much of a time restraint. Sure, there was the whole End of the World thing Hell was so dead set on rolling into action, but if he had to guess, that wasn’t going to occur for another millennium or two. Not really the same as a human that barely gets used to the world around them before needing to figure out the whole love thing.

All he knew was that he was indeed capable of feeling love which was something he didn’t know he could say about the other demons. If he couldn’t feel love, then why the Hell did Aziraphale make him–

Nope. That thought ends there. Not entertaining that at all. He was not going to think about any of that. Not about their first meeting in Eden where Aziraphale had surprised him not only by giving away his flaming sword but by also telling him about it. Or about how Aziraphale was the only angel in all of Heaven that seemed just the tad bit concerned about drowning the human race. Or-or even about the little things like the bashful smile he’d oftentimes wear on his face. Or how his fun hobby of book collecting had turned into a full blown obsession. Or how he straight up refused to modernize because God damn it he had found something he liked and was going to stick with it. Of course, Aziraphale would never put it that way. Blasphemy and all. But the point still stands! And even just the way Aziraphale says his name. It was enough to make him forget he was a demon at times. And oh, oh in the name of Lucifer. He didn’t just do that, did he?

“Guys, if I haven’t just had a stroke of genius!” Now Duncan was the one leaned over the table. 

One of the four passed by Crowley on the way back to his group. “What’s buzzing, cousin?” he asked, taking a seat.

“Got the song and it’s a real good one,” Duncan replied.

“Let’s hear it then.”

Just a coincidence. Surely he didn’t.

“Earth angel, earth angel.”

Fuck.

“Will you be mine?”

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

“My darling dear. Love you all the time.”

“Hold up, Duncan. Let me write this down. It’s gold. The Penguins are going international!”

Yes, he had done it then. He had just accidentally miracled a love song. And an all too personal love song at that. God’s really got it out for him, doesn’t She?

If Aziraphale was here he surely would’ve said that Crowley’s mistaken miracle was ineffable, and if Crowley wasn’t too busy trying to conceal his embarrassment, he would’ve sneered in response because of course that’s what Aziraphale would say. 

But the angel wasn’t here, and Crowley instead promptly left a wad of cash on his table and got up to leave. He’d most certainly overpaid, but who could be bothered to figure out American currency when the Americans couldn’t even be bothered to figure out equality? He’d count it as Aziraphale’s miracle anyway. The waitress could probably do with a bit of extra money.

As he left the diner, Duncan continued, “I’m just a fool. A fool in love with you.”

The door slammed behind him. Surely he had nothing to worry about. Yeah, he had accidentally given away 6000 years worth of secret emotions as inspiration to this band of musicians, but on the other hand, he had never even heard of The Penguins. They’d become a local phenomenon at best. Whatever this song was, it wasn’t going any further than Los Angeles. Definitely not past California. 

He’d keep Aziraphale out of the whole country until the turn of the millennium just to play it safe. He’d rig their coin flips for future American assignments if he had to. As much as he wasn’t fond of coming back any time soon, he hated the idea of Aziraphale finding out about this song all the more.

He’d just blacklist the whole western hemisphere. Didn’t exist to him. Really, he didn’t even have to be this extreme! The song was NOT going to be popular!

*

When “Earth Angel” came out that following October, it definitely didn’t stay local. By the following year, all of America was spitting out Crowley’s love song. The Penguins were happy with their first, and to be only, Top 40 hit, but Crowley sure wasn’t.

It was an absolute nightmare, and though the song was still mostly American-based, Crowley had no plans of facing Aziraphale until he was sure it was dead. He’d wait another century if he had to, and perhaps he would have if the angel hadn’t approached him first in 1967.

When Aziraphale left him with a thermos full of holy water in his Bentley with the words: “you go too fast for me” still crisp in the air, Crowley wondered if he had heard the song after all. Even if he had, he wasn’t planning on asking.

Flash forward 42 years. The Antichrist was born. The End of the World came and sputtered out before it could really begin. An angel and a demon got comfortable in each other’s skin and were now faced with the rest of their lives without any sort of guidance. And when faced with infinite choices, they chose to continue what they already had been doing. 6000 years makes any habit hard to break.

While Aziraphale had always loved the Earth, he found himself appreciating it all the more post Armeggedon’t. Although it had been two months since Adam had quite literally told Satan that he wasn’t his real dad, it might as well have been yesterday as far as the angel was concerned. Two months was hardly a lot of time when one has seen the rise and fall of civilizations.

In his reawakened joy of the world, Aziraphale found himself outside his bookshop more often. The blues of the sky were brighter. The giggling of children was all the more heartwarming. Even the crisp, cool air of autumn felt refreshing. The Great Plan had been weighing him down for some time without him realizing it, and now, that weight was finally gone.

And after his and Crowley’s stunt, he was more-or-less free to do as he wanted. No more waiting to hear word from Above. Yes, Heaven likely wouldn’t leave him alone forever as Hell wouldn’t with Crowley, but for the time being they were radio silent. The freedom strangely felt more heavenly than Heaven itself.

The park was exceptionally lovely with the birds singing up in the treetops and the few remaining bees buzzing from blossom to blossom. He watched one particular bumblebee lazily land on a hydrangea.

If Crowley was here, he would have made some off hand remark about how he couldn’t remember whether they were yellow with black stripes or black with yellow ones. Aziraphale would’ve told him that he was thinking of zebras, and Crowley would say but they don’t have a hint of yellow on them. Instead of further clarifying that what he meant was that zebras were the ones with confusion about their base color and not bees, he would say quite right, dear boy and they’d keep on walking. But Crowley wasn’t with him today.

They had spent a lot of time together since the End of the World that Wasn’t. Hardly a day went by where Aziraphale didn’t see the demon. Other than when raising Warlock, which hardly counted because they couldn’t be themselves, they had never spent so much time together. It wasn’t uncommon for years to go by in between their visits. Perhaps the past eleven years had made him used to it. Aziraphale found himself quite fond of the recent companionship.

He smiled a half somber sort of smile to himself as he left the bumblebee. Crowley would also say that this whole garden needed a good thrashing looking the way it does. And Aziraphale would remind him that it was fall after all and this is what happened to plants in the fall.

Crowley was to be seeing him this evening where they’d clink a few glasses in the back of his bookshop. Still, Aziraphale wished that they had decided to spend this afternoon together as well. He did enjoy Crowley’s commentary on things. In fact, he had been enjoying everything about Crowley. Maybe now with how things were, that was okay.

Now that he wasn’t under the pressure to behave like a proper angel, he could pay a bit more attention to those feelings that had been swirling much more violently within him for the past 78 years. He and Crowley were on their own side now. There was no longer any ifs, ands, or buts about it. They only had each other to depend upon for the rest of eternity. Maybe this should have been a scary thought to Aziraphale, and not too long ago, it probably would have been, but now, it was more of a comfort than anything else. The rest of existence with Crowley was hardly a bad thing.

When he really looked back on it, Crowley had been the only one there for him in all his time on Earth. Whether he needed rescuing to keep his miracle numbers to quota or someone’s company over lunch, Crowley had oftentimes been there. He couldn’t say that about his fellow angels. Whenever he had seen them, it was strictly business. Crowley had proven himself as a friend, and although Aziraphale had denied it in the past, they were friends. And perhaps there was more to it than that.

There had to be a reason he would find himself lost staring at Crowley’s face or found himself taking a quick glance to the demon to read his thoughts on the situation. A reason for why he chose to sit beside him at a table rather than across from him. Why he’d catch himself smiling at the sight of Crowley without meaning to. The demon meant an awful lot to him. That much was certain. But how much. Now, that was an actual scary thought to think.

“...angel. The one I adore. Love you forever and ever more.”

Well, that most certainly brought him back to his stroll in the park. What was, that is, who sang that? At such a—such an odd moment no less! He turned back to the source.

An eldery couple sat on a bench. A man holding a woman’s hands. He continued singing. “I’m just a fool. A fool in love with you.”

Aziraphale cautiously approached them and, seeing that they were at a break in the song, spoke up. “Excuse me. I’d hate to interrupt such an intimate moment, but please, what is that song?”

The woman turned to him. “Oh, this was the song we met to. I was on holiday in America. Went to a party and this lovely man asked me to dance.” She kissed the singer on the cheek.

“Why that’s very lovely.” Aziraphale fumbled with his hands. “But what’s the name of the song? When-when did it come out?”

The man answered him this time. “‘Earth Angel’ by The Penguins. Was early on in their career because they never wrote a song like that again. Although I may be a bit biased.” He glanced to the woman and back. “Couldn’t have come out earlier than 1954 though. That’s when we met.”

“1954. America. Earth angel…” Aziraphale replied, becoming rather lost in thought. “Yes, thank you.”

As he walked away, the older gentleman picked his serenade back up. “I fell for you and I knew… The vision of your love-loveliness. I hoped and I pray that someday… I’ll be the vision of your hap-happiness!”

Just a coincidence, obviously. That—that this song would be sung as he passed by. And that this song would just so happen to have come into existence when Crowley was over in America. Just a coincidence that Crowley had been rather scarce on the details on what he had done over there even though he was usually a bit more thorough regarding the miracles he did on Aziraphale’s behalf. And it was nothing more than odd that he had been the one to next engage Crowley who then wouldn’t engage him again until the Antichrist was born. Just a strange set of events that only seemed to be related but weren’t.

He really wanted to believe that, but he was an angel, and when it was this obvious, he could tell when God had placed pieces in a certain order. It was entirely what he was thinking, and if he didn’t admit that it made his heart jump just the tiniest bit, well that would be a lie. Feeling were so much easier to admit when reciprocated.

*

Crowley met up with Aziraphale just like they planned. They had gone into the backroom where Crowley had noticed a new edition of a vintage record player. Odd, but he didn’t mention anything about it. Within the hour, he had completely forgotten all about it as he and Aziraphale finished off a bottle of Bordeaux wine.

“Crowley, I heard the strangest song today,” The angel said, swirling his glass.

“Really?” Alarms began to go off in the demon’s head although he didn’t exactly know why.

“Well, it was quite nice actually, but I found myself perhaps reading into it a bit much.”

“Yeah, how so?”

“You were in the States in the 50s, weren’t you? You were there for both of us.”

Ah, so that’s what the alarms were for.  Crowley sat up, straightening his shirt. “I, uh, fail to see how that’s related.”

“This particular song is American and released a few months after your visit.”

“So?”

“I was wondering if you, perchance, had anything to do with its creation.”

Trapped. Completely and utterly trapped. Aziraphale had figured it out, and Crowley was not going to be able to talk his way out of this one. He needed some time. He hadn’t expected to ever actually have this conversation, and now, it was all moving too fast. Too fast, huh. Funny that.

“I uh hardly remember anything I did over there. America really was rubbish at the time. Just wanted to get our jobs done and leave.”

“It’s really sweet.”

“Say again?” He blinked rapidly. Fuck, where were his sunglasses when he needed them.

“The song. It’s really sweet.”

“Oh, then it must not have anything to do with me then.”

“I think that means it has everything to do with you.” Aziraphale smiled.

“Angel, how many times do I gotta tell you? Sweet, nice, good-hearted is absolutely as far from me as you get. I’m scary nightmare fuel. Black demon wings and snake eyes and—”

“Crowley, I love you too.”

That shut the demon up. In that short moment, Aziraphale’s heart fluttered, and he worried he’d gotten this whole thing wrong, and it really was a set of coincidences that led him here, but then Crowley spoke up.

“You really mean that? You’re not just throwing me some sympathy for making a fool out of myself?”

“Yes, I really mean that.”

Crowley stood up. A bit too quickly for the amount of alcohol in him, but he held his balance. “I’ve been wanting to hear you say that, angel, since the dawn of time.”

Aziraphale stood as well. “So, are you going to say it back then?”

The demon stumbled over to his angel and pulled him into his arms, breathing onto the back of his neck. “I love you so goddamn much.”

“Language, dear,” Aziraphale replied, wrapping his arms around Crowley as well.

“Oh, shut it.”

They stood like that for a while. Perhaps only a few minutes or perhaps hours. Perhaps long enough for the world outside to have become completely new. Just holding one another and making up for 6000 years of never embracing. It was a still silence, but not that of an awkward variety. The kind of silence that is more comfortable than anything else. A silence that let’s one know they are exactly where they need to be. One where they’re free to melt into each other and become one and let souls entwine in a never-ending dance that’s stronger than any marital bond. It felt like hardly a moment had passed when they finally pulled away.

“The song then?” Aziraphale asked.

“Yeah.” Crowley stared into his angel’s face as if it was his whole world which was hardly a jump from the truth. “It was one of mine.”

“Oh, well, would you like to dance to it?”

“Dance to it?”

“Isn’t that what songs are for?” The softest smile painted Aziraphale’s face. “For dancing to?”

“Suppose.” He couldn’t help but return the smile. “Do you even know how to dance to a song like that?”

“Modern dances aren’t that complicated. Nothing like they once were. Isn’t it little more than swaying back and forth?”

“Angel, only you would call a song from the 50s modern.”

“Relatively speaking, it is. So would you like to? Dance that is.”

“S’pose.”

Aziraphale snapped his fingers and a record appeared on the player. The disc spun, and the song began to flow. The two grabbed onto one another once more.

“Funny that Shakespeare thought he knew what star-crossed lovers were.” Crowley swayed as he laid his head on top of Aziraphale’s. “Romeo and Juliet? Pah. I’d say we’re a better example.”

“We have a happier ending too,” Aziraphale hummed from the demon’s chest.

“Always been a bigger fan of the funny ones.”

And they were silent once more, listening to a song that was little more than a happy accident. An accident Crowley most certainly no longer regretted. Eternity really wasn’t all that scary anymore. If every day was like this, he’d be just fine. He fell back into the lyrics his heart had written for his angel 65 years earlier:

“Earth angel, earth angel

Please be mine

My darling dear

Love you all the time

I'm just a fool

A fool in love with you-ou (you, you, you)”

________________________________________________________________

Special thanks to my test readers:

@avuck @justkeeptrekkin @fandomens @booklover223

#Good Omens #Good Omens fic #ineffable husbands #my writing

[helaintoloki]

apocalypse {f.h.}

pairing: number five x reader

warnings: death, some angst, lots of language

notes: trying to fight my writer’s block and finish pieces I’ve forgotten aha im posting this at midnight rn

/inspired by the song apocalypse by cigarettes after sex/

you’ve been locked in here forever and you just can’t say goodbye

your scraped knees and twisted ankle were the only things you could feel as you limped along the abandoned roads. they used to be a freeway, you think, but it’s hard to tell considering everything looks the same in the new post apocalyptic world: destroyed and desolate. death wasn’t a very good decorator, but it probably had other things on its mind.

today marked one week since the apocalypse had swept away any and all life from the earth, besides you, of course. somehow, you’d been (un)lucky enough to survive. who knew hiding in the dryer during a game of hide and seek with friends would pay off in the long run. and now, here you were, injured and alone-

“shit.”

or so you thought.

“hello?” you called out desperately, and the voice you had heard seemed to vanish in thin air. “i-i need help. my ankle’s twisted and i just need a place to rest.” nothing.

with a sigh, you sat yourself down amongst the rubble and pulled out your water jug from your flask. yet as you held it over your mouth you were met with nothing but air. only a few drops landed on your tongue, escaping the jug once you tapped the bottom with your palm. at this rate, you’d be dead in a few days. it’s almost impossible to survive the apocalypse on your own... unless you’re number five.

with a gun suddenly pointed at your face, a voice on the other end of the barrel demands, “who are you?”

“y/n,” you reply calmly, a sense of tiredness in your voice. he notices, but maintains his death grip on the weapon and his finger on the trigger.

“are you alone?”

“i was, then you showed up.” the boy, as you can tell by now, narrows his green eyes at you. “listen, if you’re gonna kill me, all i ask is that you do it quick. put me out of my misery.”

he’s quiet, his brows furrowed as he contemplates his next move. then, with the gun lowered, “i’m not going to kill you.”

“that’s too bad,” you reply calmly, setting your jug aside before letting your back rest against the piece of debris behind you. “guess i’ll let Mother Nature do it herself.”

“are you always this depressing?” he asks slightly annoyed.

“not usually, but when the world you once knew goes to shit... well,” you shrug, “people change.”

“self-pity isn’t a good change.”

“yeah, well neither is violence.”

“trust me, that’s the one thing that’s stayed the same,” he murmurs, almost as if he’s speaking to himself. his posture has relaxed significantly and the gun is on safety. “i’m Five.”

“well, Five, looks like it’s just you and me.”

~~~

it had been three years ago since you had first stumbled upon five, and since then you two had been inseparable. you were the apocalyptic duo (plus delores), and nothing could get in your way. in fact, it was safe to say you were in love with him, and unbeknownst to you, the feeling was somewhat mutual.

today had been like any other day. you’d woken up next to each other, eaten breakfast, gotten ready for the day, then continued your trek to god knows where. you sat in the wagon with Delores while five pulled, admiring the post apocalyptic beauty of everything around you. it was kind of poetic, really. how things seemed prettier when destroyed. or maybe you were just a big masochist. you wouldn’t be surprised after all the time you had spent with five.

“i’m hungry,” you stated aloud to no one in particular. “you hungry, Delores?”

“...”

“five, we’re hungry,” you chimed, causing him to roll his eyes in slight annoyance at your whining. honestly, he sometimes thought of you as a big baby he had to take care of. a small being who needed constant care and attention otherwise they’d die. but for some reason, five always took care of you. always. if he wasn’t such a tough guy, he’d consider it to be love. but to five, it was a silent agreement the two of you had come to; he’d take care of you and you’d make things less lonely. to five, this was enough. there was no place for love in the apocalypse.

“what do you want?” he grumbled, continuing to pull the weight of you and Delores as well as your few belongings within the wagon.

“hmm... spaghetti!”

“why do you two insist on making things so difficult?” five huffed, stopping for a moment to scan his surroundings. “i think there used to be a super market a few blocks from where we’re standing. they might have something there.”

the super market, once known as john’s grocery, was nothing but rubble and broken building, but a good survivor always knew not to judge a book by its cover, which is why you and five managed to find some pretty good shit. it wasn’t spaghetti, of course, but a can of Pringle’s and beef jerky sandwiches was like heaven to your rumbling tummies.

while Five was busy evenly splitting the sandwich Delores had so graciously offered to the two of you, you rummaged through your bag and pulled out your find: a Polaroid only slightly damaged from the blast. it only took a minute for you to insert the film and a few seconds to snap a photo of an unsuspecting five concentrating on the precision of slicing the sandwich.

“what the hell was that?” he asked, looking up at you and scowling slightly at the sight of the camera. he hated pictures.

“i found it,” you grinned, snapping another photo.

“Jesus, enough with that,” five scolded, blinded temporarily by the glare. “you’re going to get us killed.”

“no one’s out here, you’re being paranoid,” you said dismissively, smiling at the developed film. “besides, look at how adorable you look!”

five merely rolled his eyes and took a bite of his jerky sandwich. you were too trusting of the world, too naive. believing that no one could touch you, that nothing could go wrong. it’s what had gotten you killed.

it all seemed to happen in slow motion, really. one minute you’re smiling, the next there’s a bullet in your chest and you’re struggling to breathe. the blood is oozing freely from the wound, dribbling down from your mouth as you fall back with wide eyes and a terrified face.

“y/n!” five yells, not recognizing his own voice as he quickly scoops you into his arms and desperately clutches you to his chest. “shit, shit, shit.”

“five?” you gurgle, and his eyes begin to well with tears.

“you’re going to be okay, you’re going to be fine,” five repeats over and over into your hair, and he’s not sure if this mantra is for him or for you.

he feels the warm liquid spreading in between your bodies, staining his jacket and seeping through your clothing. it’s so warm, it scares him, scares him as if it’s the first time he’s seen blood in his life.

he’ll never forget the strangled cry that left his mouth as he felt you slump against him, the sudden chill he got from the cold of your body. it was what kept him awake for several nights, what kept him going, what caused him to go rouge when he had learned of the commission’s true power, their true crimes. the blood on their hands, your blood on their hands. they’d pay.

~~~

“shit.”

after explaining what was basic science to his now much older siblings and coming up empty handed in his search for caffeine, five hardgreeves decided to take a drive. a scrawny thirteen year old driving a car would have been comical if not for the situation and stakes at hand.

griddy’s is the only place he can think of to go for a decent cup of coffee, and he hopes it’s still there. and it is. it’s comforting to know that some things have remained the same since his departure into the future with you..

it’s almost empty when he walks in, except for a truck driver at the front and a girl at the very back in her own booth. books are scattered around her, a clear sign of procrastination. she reminds him a lot of-

“Y/N?” five asks bewildered. you peek up at the sound of your name, eyebrows furrowing in confusion at the sight of a stranger asking for you.

“do i know you?” you ask and shrink back against the booth as he approaches quickly. this boy you’ve never met before may be cute, but he’s approaching like a mad man.

“y-you’re here, you’re alive!”

“last i checked,” you say with an uneasy laugh. “h-how do i know you?”

“it’s a long story, i’ll explain it as we go home,” he rushes, grabbing hold of your wrist that you quickly pull back.

“go back?? i-i don’t know you!” you sputter. he sighs annoyed, impatient. he knows it’s not your fault that you have no idea who he is, but he doesn’t have a lot of time to waste.

the bells over the door chime, and five is on alert immediately. he thought he’d have more time before they found him.

“listen, i know you don’t know me, but i need you to get under the table right now, okay? you’ll be safe.”

you didn’t have time to protest as he was shoving you under. but as you watched the next scene unfold in front of you, you were suddenly very grateful you had chosen the corner booth that night.

#number five x reader #number five #five hardgreeves x reader #number five imagine #the umbrella academy #tua

[unsettlingshortstories]

Miriam

Truman Capote (1945)

For several years, Mrs. H. T. Miller lived alone in a pleasant apartment (two rooms with kitchenette) in a remodeled brownstone near the East River. She was a widow: Mr. H. T. Miller had left a reasonable amount of insurance. Her interests were narrow, she had no friends to speak of, and she rarely journeyed farther than the corner grocery. The other people in the house never seemed to notice her: her clothes were matter-of-fact, her hair iron-gray, clipped and casually waved; she did not use cosmetics, her features were plain and inconspicuous, and on her last birthday she was sixty-one. Her activities were seldom spontaneous: she kept the two rooms immaculate, smoked an occasional cigarette, prepared her own meals and tended a canary.

Then she met Miriam. It was snowing that night. Mrs. Miller had finished drying the supper dishes and was thumbing through an afternoon paper when she saw an advertisement of a picture playing at a neighborhood theatre. The title sounded good, so she struggled into her beaver coat, laced her galoshes and left the apartment, leaving one light burning in the foyer: she found nothing more disturbing than a sensation of darkness.

The snow was fine, falling gently, not yet making an impression on the pavement. The wind from the river cut only at street crossings. Mrs. Miller hurried, her head bowed, oblivious as a mole burrowing a blind path. She stopped at a drugstore and bought a package of peppermints.

A long line stretched in front of the box office; she took her place at the end. There would be (a tired voice groaned) a short wait for all seats. Mrs. Miller rummaged in her leather handbag till she collected exactly the correct change for admission. The line seemed to be taking its own time and, looking around for some distractions, she suddenly became conscious of a little girl standing under the edge of the marquee.

Her hair was the longest and strangest Mrs. Miller had ever seen: absolutely silver-white, like an albino’s. It flowed waist-length in smooth, loose lines. She was thin and fragilely constructed. There was a simple, special elegance in the way she stood with her thumbs in the pockets of a tailored plum-velvet coat.

Mrs. Miller felt oddly excited, and when the little girl glanced toward her, she smiled warmly. The little girl walked over and said, “Would you care to do me a favor?”

“I’d be glad to if I can,” said Mrs. Miller.

“Oh, it’s quite easy. I merely want you to buy a ticket for me; they won’t let me in otherwise. Here, I have the money.” And gracefully she handed Mrs. Miller two dimes and a nickel.

They went over to the theatre together. An usherette directed them to a lounge; in twenty minutes the picture would be over.

“I feel just like a genuine criminal,” said Mrs. Miller gaily, as she sat down. “I mean that sort of thing’s against the law, isn’t it? I do hope I haven’t done the wrong thing. You mother knows where you are, dear? I mean she does, doesn’t she?”

The little girl said nothing. She unbuttoned her coat and folded it across her lap. Her dress underneath was prim and dark blue. A gold chain dangled about her neck, and her fingers, sensitive and musical looking, toyed with it. Examining her more attentively, Mrs. Miller decided the truly distinctive feature was not her hair, but her eyes; they were hazel, steady, lacking any childlike quality whatsoever and, because of their size, seemed to consume her small face.

Mrs. Miller offered a peppermint. “What’s your name, dear?”

“Miriam,” she said, as though, in some curious way, it were information already familiar.

“Why, isn’t that funny—my name’s Miriam, too. And it’s not a terribly common name either. Now, don’t tell me your last name’s Miller!”

“Just Miriam.”

“But isn’t that funny?”

“Moderately,” said Miriam, and rolled a peppermint on her tongue.

Mrs. Miller flushed and shifted uncomfortably. “You have such a large vocabulary for such a young girl.”

“Do I?”

“Well, yes,” said Mrs. Miller, hastily changing the topic to: “Do you like the movies?”

“I really wouldn’t know,” said Miriam. “I’ve never been before.”

Women began filling the lounge; the rumble of the newsreel bombs exploded in the distance. Mrs. Miller rose, tucking her purse under her arm. “I guess I’d better be running now if I want to get a seat,” she said. “It was nice to have met you.”

Miriam nodded ever so slightly.

It snowed all week. Wheels and footsteps moved soundlessly on the street, as if the business of living continued secretly behind a pale but impenetrable curtain. In the falling quiet there was no sky or earth, only snow lifting in the wind, frosting the window glass, chilling the rooms, deadening and hushing the city. At all hours it was necessary to keep a lamp lighted, and Mrs. Miller lost track of the days: Friday was no different from Saturday and on Sunday she went to the grocery story; closed, of course.

That evening she scrambled eggs and fixed a bowl of tomato soup. Then, after putting on a flannel robe and cold-creaming her face, she propped herself up in bed with a hot-water bottle under her feet. She was reading the Times when the doorbell rang. At first she thought it must be a mistake and whoever it was would go away. But it rang and rang and settled to a persistent buzz. She looked at the clock: a little after eleven; it did not seem possible, she was always asleep by ten.

Climbing out of bed, she trotted barefoot across the living room. “I’m coming, please be patient.” The latch was caught; she turned it this way and that way and the bell never stopped for an instant. “Stop it,” she cried. The bolt gave way and she opened the door an inch. “What in heaven’s name?”

“Hello,” said Miriam.

“Oh…why, hello,” said Mrs. Miller, stepping hesitantly into the hall. “You’re that little girl.”

“I thought you’d never answer, but I kept my finger on the button; I knew you were home. Aren’t you glad to see me?”

Mrs. Miller did not know what to say. Miriam, she saw, wore the same plum velvet coat and now she had also a beret to match; her white hair was braided in two shining plaits and looped at the ends with enormous white ribbons.

“Since I’ve waited so long, you could at least let me in,” she said.

“It’s awfully late….”

Miriam regarded her blankly. “What difference does that make? Let me in. It’s cold out here and I have on a silk dress.” Then, with a gentle gesture, she urged Mrs. Miller aside and passed into the apartment.

She dropped her coat and beret on a chair. She was indeed wearing a silk dress. White silk. White silk in February. The skirt was beautifully pleated and the sleeves long; it made a faint rustle as she strode about the room. “I like your place,” she said. “I like the rug, blue’s my favorite color.” She touched a paper rose in a vase on the coffee table. “Imitation,” she commented wanly. “How sad. Aren’t imitations sad?” She seated herself on the sofa, daintily spreading her skirt.

“What do you want?” Mrs. Miller asked.

“Sit down,” said Miriam. “It makes me nervous to see people stand.”

Mrs. Miller sank to a hassock. “What do you want?” she repeated.

“You know, I don’t think you’re glad I came.”

For a second Mrs. Miller was without an answer; her hand motioned vaguely. Miriam giggled and pressed back on a mound of chintz pillows. Mrs. Miller noticed that the girl was less pale than she remembered; her cheeks were flushed.

“How did you know where I lived?”

Miriam frowned. “That’s no question at all. What’s your name? What’s mine?”

“But I’m not listed in the phone book.”

“Oh, let’s talk about something else.”

Mrs. Miller said, “Your mother must be insane to let a child like you wander around at all hours of the night—and in such ridiculous clothes. She must be out of her mind.”

Miriam got up and moved to a corner where a covered bird cage hung from a ceiling chain. She peeked under the cover. “It’s a canary,” she said. “Would you mind if I woke him? I’d like to hear him sing.”

“Leave Tommy alone,” Mrs. Miller said, anxiously. “Don’t you dare wake him.”

“Certainly,” said Miriam. “But I don’t see why I can’t hear him sing.” And then, “Have you anything to eat? I’m starving! Even milk and a jam sandwich would be fine.”

“Look,” said Mrs. Miller, arising from the hassock, “look—if I make some nice sandwiches will you be a good child and run along home? It’s past midnight, I’m sure.”

“It’s snowing,” reproached Miriam. “And cold and dark.”

“Well, you shouldn’t have come here to begin with,” said Mrs. Miller, struggling to control her voice. “I can’t help the weather. If you want anything to eat you’ll have to promise to leave.”

Miriam brushed a braid against her cheek. Her eyes were thoughtful, as if weighing the proposition. She turned toward the bird cage. “Very well, she said, “I promise.”

How old is she? Ten? Eleven? Mrs. Miller, in the kitchen, unsealed a jar of strawberry preserves and cut four slices of bread. She poured a glass of milk and paused to light a cigarette. And why has she come? Her hand shook as she held the match, fascinated, till it burned her finger. The canary was singing; singing as he did in the morning and at no other time. “Miriam,” she called, “Miriam, I told you not to disturb Tommy.” There was no answer. She called again; all she heard was the canary. She inhaled the cigarette and discovered she had lighted the cork-tip end and—oh, really, she mustn’t lose her temper.

She carried the food in on a tray and set it on the coffee table. She saw first that the bird cage still wore its night cover. And Tommy was singing. It gave her a queer sensation. And no one was in the room. Mrs. Miller went through an alcove leading to her bedroom; at the door she caught her breath.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

Miriam glanced up and in her eyes was a look that was not ordinary. She was standing by the bureau, a jewel case opened before her. For a minute she studied Mrs. Miller, forcing their eyes to meet, and she smiled. “There’s nothing good here,” she said. “But I like this.” Her hand held a cameo brooch. “It’s charming.”

“Suppose—perhaps you’d better put it back,” said Mrs. Miller, feeling suddenly the need of some support. She leaned against the door frame; her head was unbearably heavy; a pressure weighted the rhythm of her heartbeat. The light seemed to flutter defectively. “Please, child…a gift from my husband.”

“But it’s beautiful and I want it,” said Miriam. “Give it to me.”

As she stood, striving to shape a sentence which would somehow save the brooch, it came to Mrs. Miller there was no one to whom she might turn; she was alone; a fact that had not been among her thoughts for a long time. Its sheer emphasis was stunning. But here in her own room in the hushed show-city were evidences she could not ignore or, she knew with startling clarity, resist.

Miriam ate ravenously, and when the sandwiches and milk were gone, her fingers made cobweb movements over the plate, gathering crumbs. The cameo gleamed on her blouse, the blond profile like a trick reflection on its wearer. “That was very nice,” she sighed, “though now an almond cake or a cherry would be ideal. Sweets are lovely, don’t you think?”

Mrs. Miller was perched precariously on the hassock, smoking a cigarette. Her hairnet had slipped lopsided and loose strands straggled down her face. Her eyes were stupidly concentrated on nothing and her cheeks were mottled in red patches, as though a fierce slap had left permanent marks.

“Is there a candy—a cake?”

Mrs. Miller tapped ash on the rug. Her head swayed slightly as she tried to focus her eyes. “You promised to leave if I made the sandwiches,” she said.

“Dear me, did I?”

“It was a promise and I’m tired and I don’t feel well at all.”

“Mustn’t fret,” said Miriam. “I’m only teasing.”

She picked up her coat, slung it over her arm, and arranged her beret in front of a mirror. Presently she bent close to Mrs. Miller and whispered, “Kiss me good night.”

“Please—I’d rather not,” said Mrs. Miller.

Miriam lifted a shoulder, arched an eyebrow. “As you like,” she said, and went directly to the coffee table, seized the vase containing the paper roses, carried it to where the hard surface of the floor lay bare, and hurled it downward. Glass sprayed in all directions and she stamped her foot on the bouquet.

Then slowly she walked to the door, but before closing it she looked back at Mrs. Miller with a slyly innocent curiosity.

Mrs. Miller spent the next day in bed, rising once to feed the canary and drink a cup of tea; she took her temperature and had none, yet her dreams were feverishly agitated; their unbalanced mood lingered even as she lay staring wide-eyed at the ceiling. One dream threaded through the others like an elusively mysterious theme in a complicated symphony, and the scenes it depicted were sharply outlined, as though sketched by a hand of gifted intensity: a small girl, wearing a bridal gown and a wreath of leaves, led a gray procession down a mountain path, and among them there was unusual silence till a woman at the rear asked, “Where is she taking us?” ”No one knows,” said an old man marching in front. “But isn’t she pretty?” volunteered a third voice. “Isn’t she like a frost flower…so shining and white?”

Tuesday morning she woke up feeling better; harsh slats of sunlight, slanting through the Venetian blinds, shed a disrupting light on her unwholesome fancies. She opened the window to discover a thawed, mild-as-spring day; a sweep of clean new clouds crumpled against a vastly blue, out-of-season sky; and across the low line of rooftops she could see the river and smoke curving from tugboat stacks in a warm wind. A great silver truck plowed the snow-banked street, its machine sound humming on the air.

After straightening the apartment, she went to the grocer’s, cashed a check and continued to Schrafft’s, where she ate breakfast and chatted happily with the waitress. Oh, it was a wonderful day more like a holiday—and it would be so foolish to go home.

She boarded a Lexington Avenue bus and rode up to Eighty-sixth Street; it was here that she decided to do a little shopping.

She had no idea what she wanted or needed, but she idled along, intent only upon the passers-by, brisk and preoccupied, who gave her a disturbing sense of separateness.

It was while waiting at the corner of Third Avenue that she saw the man: an old man, bowlegged and stooped under an armload of bulging packages; he wore a shabby brown coat and a checkered cap. Suddenly she realized they were exchanging a smile: there was nothing friendly about this smile, it was merely two cold flickers of recognition. But she was certain she had never seen him before.

He was standing next to an El pillar, and as she crossed the street he turned and followed. He kept quite close; from the corner of her eyes she watched his reflection wavering on the shop windows.

Then in the middle of the block she stopped and faced him. He stopped also and cocked his head, grinning. But what could she say? Do? Here, in broad daylight, on Eighty-sixth Street? It was useless and, despising her own helplessness, she quickened her steps.

Now Second Avenue is a dismal street, made from scraps and ends; part cobblestone, part asphalt, part cement; and its atmosphere of desertion is permanent. Mrs. Miller walked five blocks without meeting anyone, and all the while the steady crunch of his footfalls in the snow stayed near. And when she came to a florist’s shop, the sound was still with her. She hurried inside and watched through the glass door as the old man passed; he kept his eyes straight ahead and didn’t slow his pace, but he did one strange, telling thing: he tipped his cap.

“Six white ones, did you say?” asked the florist. “Yes,” she told him, “white roses.” From there she went to a glassware store and selected a vase, presumably a replacement for the one Miriam had broken, though the price was intolerable and the vase itself (she thought) grotesquely vulgar. But a series of unaccountable purchases had begun, as if by prearranged plan: a plan of which she had not the least knowledge or control.

She bought a bag of glazed cherries, and at a place called the Knickerbocker Bakery she paid forty cents for six almond cakes.

Within the last hour the weather had turned cold again; like blurred lenses, winter clouds cast a shade over the sun, and the skeleton of an early dusk colored the sky; a damp mist mixed with the wind and the voices of a few children who romped high on mountains of gutter snow seemed lonely and cheerless. Soon the first flake fell, and when Mrs. Miller reached the brownstone house, snow was falling in a swift screen and foot tracks vanished as they were printed.

The white roses were arranged decoratively in the vase. The glazed cherries shone on a ceramic plate. The almond cakes, dusted with sugar, awaited a hand. The canary fluttered on its swing and picked at a bar of seed.

At precisely five the doorbell rang. Mrs. Miller knew who it was. The hem of her housecoat trailed as she crossed the floor. “Is that you?” she called.

“Naturally,” said Miriam, the word resounding shrilly from the hall. “Open this door.”

“Go away,” said Mrs. Miller.

“Please hurry…I have a heavy package.”

“Go away,” said Mrs. Miller. She returned to the living room, lighted a cigarette, sat down and calmly listened to the buzzer; on and on and on. “You might as well leave. I have no intention of letting you in.”

Shortly the bell stopped. For possibly ten minutes Mrs. Miller did not move. Then, hearing no sound, she concluded Miriam had gone. She tiptoed to the door and opened it a sliver; Miriam was half-reclining atop a cardboard box with a beautiful French doll cradled in her arms.

“Really, I thought you were never coming,” she said peevishly. “Here, help me get this in, it’s awfully heavy.”

It was no spell-like compulsion that Mrs. Miller felt, but rather a curious passivity; she brought in the box, Miriam the doll. Miriam curled up on the sofa, not troubling to remove her coat or beret, and watched disinterestedly as Mrs. Miller dropped the box and stood trembling, trying to catch her breath.

“Thank you,” she said. In the daylight she looked pinched and drawn, her hair less luminous. The French doll she was loving wore an exquisite powdered wig and its idiot glass eyes sought solace in Miriam’s. “I have a surprise,” she continued. “Look into my box.”

Kneeling, Mrs. Miller parted the flaps and lifted out another doll; then a blue dress which she recalled as the one Miriam had worn that first night at the theatre; and of the reminder she said, “It’s all clothes. Why?”

“Because I’ve come to live with you,” said Miriam, twisting a cherry stem. “Wasn’t it nice of you to buy me the cherries…?”

“But you can’t! For God’s sake go away—go away and leave me alone!”

“…and the roses and the almond cakes? How really wonderfully generous. You know, these cherries are delicious. The last place I lived was with an old man; he was terribly poor and we never had good things to eat. But I think I’ll be happy here.” She paused to snuggle her doll closer. “Now, if you’ll just show me where to put my things…”

Mrs. Miller’s face dissolved into a mask of ugly red lines; she began to cry, and it was an unnatural, tearless sort of weeping, as though, not having wept for a long time, she had forgotten how. Carefully she edged backward till she touched the door.

She fumbled through the hall and down the stairs to a landing below. She pounded frantically on the door of the first apartment she came to; a short, redheaded man answered and she pushed past him. “Say, what the hell is this?” he said. “Anything wrong, lover?” asked a young woman who appeared from the kitchen, drying her hands. And it was to her that Mrs. Miller turned.

“Listen,” she cried, “I’m ashamed behaving this way but—well, I’m Mrs. H. T. Miller and I live upstairs and…” She pressed her hands over her face. “It sounds so absurd…”

The woman guided her to a chair, while the man excitedly rattled pocket change. “Yeah?”

“I live upstairs and there’s a little girl visiting me, and I suppose that I’m afraid of her. She won’t leave and I can’t make her and—she’s going to do something terrible. She’s already stolen my cameo, but she’s about to do something worse—more terrible.”

The man asked, “Is she a relative, huh?”

Mrs. Miller shook her head. “I don’t know who she is. Her name’s Miriam, but I don’t know for certain who she is.”

“You gotta calm down, honey,” said the woman, stroking Mrs. Miller’s arm. “Harry here will tend to this kid. Go on, lover.” And Mrs. Miller said, “The door’s open—5A.”

After the man left, the woman brought a towel and bathed Mrs. Miller’s face. “You’re very kind,” Mrs. Miller said. “I’m sorry to act like such a fool, only this wicked child…”

“Sure, honey,” consoled the woman. “Now, you better take it easy.”

Mrs. Miller rested her head in the crook of her arm; she was quiet enough to be asleep. The woman turned a radio dial; a piano and a husky voice filled the silence and the woman, tapping her foot, kept excellent time. “Maybe we oughta go up too,” she said.

“I don’t want to see her again. I don’t want to be anywhere near her.”

“Uh-huh, but what you shoulda done, you shoulda called a cop.”

Presently they heard the man on the stairs. He strode into the room frowning and scratching the back of his neck. “Nobody there,” he said, honestly embarrassed. “She musta beat it.”

“Harry, you’re a jerk,” announced the woman. “We been sitting here the whole time and we woulda seen…” She stopped abruptly, for the man’s glance was sharp.

“I looked all over,” he said, “and there just ain’t nobody there. Nobody, understand?”

“Tell me,” said Mrs. Miller, rising, “tell me, did you see a large box? Or a doll?”

“No, ma’am, I didn’t.”

And the woman, as if delivering a verdict, said, “Well, for cryinoutloud…”

Mrs. Miller entered her apartment softly; she walked to the center of the room and stood quite still. No, in a sense it had not changed: the roses, the cakes, and the cherries were in place. But this was an empty room, emptier than if the furnishings and familiars were not present, lifeless and petrified as a funeral parlor. The sofa loomed before her with a new strangeness: its vacancy had a meaning that would have been less penetrating and terrible had Miriam been curled on it. She gazed fixedly at the space where she remembered setting the box and, for a moment, the hassock spun desperately. And she looked through the window; surely the river was real, surely snow was falling—but then, one could not be certain witness to anything: Miriam, so vividly there—and yet, where was she? Where? Where?

As though moving in a dream, she sank to a chair. The room was losing shape; it was dark and getting darker and there was nothing to be done about it; she could not lift her hand to light a lamp.

Suddenly, closing her eyes, she felt an upward surge, like a diver emerging from some deeper, greener depth. In times of terror or immense distress, there are moments when the mind waits, as though for a revelation, while a skein of calm is woven over thought; it is like a sleep, or a supernatural trance; and during this lull one is aware of a force of quiet reasoning: well, what if she had never really known a girl named Miriam? That she had been foolishly frightened on the street? In the end, like everything else, it was of no importance. For the only thing she had lost to Miriam was her identity, but now she knew she had found again the person who lived in this room, who cooked her own meals, who owned a canary, who was someone she could trust and believe in: Mrs. H. T. Miller.

Listening in contentment, she became aware of a double sound: a bureau drawer opening and closing; she seemed to hear it long after completion—opening and closing. Then gradually, the harshness of it was replaced by the murmur of a silk dress and this, delicately faint, was moving nearer and swelling in intensity till the walls trembled with the vibration and the room was caving under a wave of whispers. Mrs. Miller stiffened and opened her eyes to a dull, direct stare.

“Hello,” said Miriam.

[jeidafei]

D.Gray-Man Vol.26: Komui’s Lounge (Extended) 3/5

>> Part 1 <<

>> Part 2 <<

Question 13: How is the cover image for the tankobon (comic book) and Jump SQ. RISE (the magazine) decided?

Lavi: The author has full liberty for the comic book’s cover, but in the magazine’s case, the exclusive designer will ask the author to draw it according to their image of the cover.

Allen: You know so much, Lavi. I’d expect no less from the author’s bosom friend!

Lavi: Are you dissing me, Allen-san?

Marie: So the designer is the one who decides the character and their pose?

Lavi: Yep. I heard sometimes they even request color tones as well. Because the cover is the face of the whole magazine, Hoshino’s nervous when drawing the magazine’s covers, unlike the comic book’s.

Link: On a side note, on the cover of this latest Volume 26, General Cross is holding a toothpick in his mouth.

Allen: Do we have to go into such detail?

Link: I thought there might be those who are wondering.

Lavi: That’s because back in Volume 14, she drew General Cross holding a cigarette and got scolded.

Bak: What’s wrong with that? Couldn’t she draw whatever she wants to?

Lavi: Well, after all, this is still a shounen manga 

(T/N: comic written for teenage boys).

Wisely: Grown-up issues, indeed.

Question 14: Link, between English and French tea, which do you prefer?

Link: We’ve received a number of beverage-related questions. For example, How many sugar cubes does the Millennium Earl consume during teatime? and Exactly how delicious is Lenalee Lee’s coffee? As for my preference, I’d probably say English tea. Inspector Lvellie prefers French tea, though, so I’ve had a great deal of that as well. The Earl prefers English, doesn’t he?

Wisely: Correct you are. The Earl has an awfully sweet tooth. He puts in 20 sugar cubes and lots of milk for a cup of tea. He’s such a dear. He’s moping lately after Desires told him to cut back on his sugar intake. What a dear.

Allen: I wonder why he would consider that adorable.

Lavi: There’s more sugar than tea in your tea, too, right Allen?

Allen: SUPER SWEET TEA WITH SALTY THINGS IS A MATCH MADE IN HEAVEN!!!

Lavi: Do you really have to yell it?

Link: Make sure you brush your teeth well, Walker. You’re always sleeping right after your meals.

Allen: Roger roger roger.

Link: Only once is enough!

(T/N: In Japan, saying “yes” (hai) more than once is considered rude, as it shows annoyance. I get that a lot from my coworkers.)

Marie: You had tea parties with Lenalee and Miranda sometimes, right Allen?

Bak: WHAT!? Walker! You!

Allen: Eh? Wait! It’s just because they said they’ll give me sweets. There’s no ulterior motive on my part! Besides, it’s more like Link and Lenalee’s tea discussion with me tagging along than a tea party, actually.

Link: What are you talking about? I was the one accompanying you!

Allen: Well, aren’t you the one who did the most talking?

Link: That’s because you were busy eating the whole time, isn’t it? Lenalee Lee seems to make a hobby out of serving the Science Division coffee and tea, so we simply exchanged ideas on tea leaves and brewing. She’s more of an expert than even me on tea, after all.

Marie: Looks like she’s been studying up for the Science guys’ sake. She learned coffee brewing straight from Head Chef Jeryy himself too, and her coffee’s simply awesome.  

Lavi: Plus, you also get to behold that adorable face as she hands you your cup with a smile, and it enhances the experience. Hey, Allen, Lenalee’s been taking really good care of her hands, ya know? Said she wanna serve us tea with beautiful hands. Ah, she really is a lady...

Allen: I’m getting all choked up right now.

Bak: Lenalee-san...you’re wonderful. (in love♡)

Question 15: Does Lavi wash his face with his eyepatch on? Or wash his face in secret?

Allen: He leaves it on.

Lavi: I TAKE IT OFF! OF COURSE I TAKE IT OFF! But yeah, I do wash my face in secret!

Allen: You always leave it on when we use the Order’s communal bath together, don’t you? Why do you have to be so secretive about it? Stop being so stuck-up and let us see it already!

Lavi: Argh! Stop, Allen! Stop yanking! Aaaaaargh! 

Marie: Oi, Allen! Lavi told you to stop, didn’t he?

Link: Walker, stop wasting our precious paper bullying Bookman Jr.

Wisely: There, there. It’s fine, isn’t it? Our readers will get stressed out if we keep it all stiff and heavy. Besides, the boy hasn’t seen Bookman Jr. in ages and he’s just thrilled.

Allen: That’s not it! 

Bak: That aside, why do you need to hide it? Is there some secret behind it?

Lavi: Well, about that...I really can’t say anything.

Question 16: Since when did Supervisor Komui and Head Chef Jeryy become close friends?

Marie: When...? They already seem close by the time Head Chef Jeryy transferred to Headquarters, though. 

Bak: That’s because Komui was the one who recommended Jeryy for the transfer. Jeryy was a cook in the Asian Branch at first, and he went to all sorts of trouble taking care of Komui back when he just joined the Order. Komui was a completely different person back then, you see. He had this slightly dangerous streak about him, so Jeryy probably couldn’t find it in him to just leave him be.

Komui seemed prejudiced against Jeryy for a while there, but then he might’ve lost the battle of wills, and before I knew it, they’ve already become close. After that, when Komui was promoted to Supervisor, Jeryy was the first he called over to Headquarters. It might’ve been to help Lenalee-san who was mentally ill back then, I reckon.

Link: I don’t mind them being close, but calling each other by the likes of “Komie-sweetie” and “Jerry-deary” in the vicinity of Order members is quite out of line in my opinion.

Wisely: That Jeryy-summat lad’s food seems real delicious to me. I’d love to try some.

Allen: Negative. Jeryy-san is mine.

Lavi: He’s not yours...

Question 17: Are Noah Memories comprised of only original memories of the past? Though the Noah Memories are passed on from person to person, can we conclude that the human memories of previous Noah hosts are not passed on to the next Noah host as well? 

Lavi: Now this is an interesting question.

Wisely: Hmmm. Yes, the memories are passed on. When we are awakened as Noah, an enormous amount of memories and data would come rushing into our heads, and among them are also the memories and emotions of those who were previous reincarnations of Noah.

Allen: I had the memories of Suman, who became a Fallen One, flow into my head once. Back then, I felt like I’m going to lose my very self. My head felt like it was breaking apart, and I was really scared. Though you’re all Noah anyway, you guys really are something, living carefree even with memories and feelings of countless other people within you. 

Wisely: We’re not carefree, boy. In the past there were also Noah whose selves were devoured by the memories and were destroyed. In order to keep that from happening, usually most Noah unconsciously suppress those memories. By doing so, we can shut out the memories of the previous incarnations. However, if Noahs are injured by Innocence, they might not be able to suppress it anymore, and those memories would come flooding back. We Noah also have it tough as well. 

Allen: Now that you mention it, the Noah really do seem to become more violent the more we attack them.

Wisely: The profound hatred towards Innocence within the memories is what makes us so. That’s why we’d like you to be gentle with us ♡.

Allen: That tendency to joke about is just what drives me up the wall.

Lavi: Is it true that even among Noahs, the Millennium Earl is the only one who lives for several thousands of years?

Wisely: Correct.

Bak: Do all humans have the possibility of awakening as a Noah?

Wisely: They do.

Marie: And that awakening cannot be prevented?

Wisely: No. Furthermore, once they learn of Noah’s mission, they would accept it with their own free will.

Link: And what is Noah’s mission?

Wisely: Oh dear. That’s a secret~♫

Link: Tch.

Question 18: Looks like Allen’s hobby is saving up money. Was he doing other part-time jobs apart from helping out at the cafeteria as well?

Lavi: Nah, mostly it was just the cafeteria right? ‘Coz you got to sneak some bites.

Allen: It was the best part-time job on earth. At the Order, looks like it’s just the stint at the cafeteria and helping out the Science Division. Actually I’d wanted to earn a bit more, but what with rewriting reports, studying and trainingーeven on holidays I’m still quite busy. 

Link: What’s with that disgruntled look? Fulfilling your duties as an Exorcist is just natural. Besides, you’re being paid to be one anyway, aren’t you? 

Allen: But that’s totally not enough at all!

Wisely: Can’t be helped, with that much debt on your tab.

Bak: Such hardship at such a young age, Walker. Unimaginable to me, though, well-bred as I am.

Allen: If your heart pains for me, then please donate. (whips out donation box).

Marie: “At the Order”, you said. You mean you’ve worked elsewhere before?

Allen: Back when I was still training, I worked with Master as guards for caravans. Functions as battle training, too. It was a rough job, but the pay really was wonderful. To top that, we also got free meals, and debt collectors didn’t pursue us into deserts, too. 

Lavi: You really seem to be able to survive anywhere, huh.

Link: Caravans...? So that’s how you’ve been mingling in and lying low. No wonder we hadn’t been able to track down General Cross.

Question 19: What became of Kanda’s underpants that Lavi hid back in the Weekend Schedule? 

(T/N: From Gray Log. Argh dammit haven’t got round to translating Lavi’s)

Marie: Oi! Lavi! You really are such a pain!

Lavi: Ack! Sorry! But Yu’s always so calm and cool, you see. Makes me wanna see him freaking out for once.

Bak: You must really have balls to try that out.

Link: So uncivilized... (T/N: I feel like I’m quoting Obi-Wan a lot...)

Allen: So? Did Kanda freak out?

Wisely: You seem to be enjoying this, boy.

Lavi: Naaaaah～Actually, he just got dressed like nothing happened then went out to the forest for night practice.

Allen: ーwith NO UNDERPANTS ON!?

Marie: Well, it’s not totally unexpected...or rather...Kanda probably won’t get worked up over such things?

Wisely: I see...It’s the same with Tikky too. Is it just that gorgeous men do not need underpants to be gorgeous men?

Allen: I have completely no idea what you’re talking about here.

Lavi: To top that, looks like Yu just slept in the forest like that with no underpants on, too. It really wasn’t worth the trouble hiding his pants. Ah, bummer.

Marie: It's not just ah bummer, is it!? Give Kanda back his pants!

Lavi: Whaaaaat!? Even if I did return it to him, the way things are Yu wouldn’t remember it anyway. He’d probably just say something like “Huh? What’s this about?” then just stalk off! And I’d be left looking like a dork who bombed a pant-stealing prank! It’s embarrassing!

Marie: You got it backwards. What’s embarrassing here is the fact that you hid someone’s underpants, good grief (weary face).

Allen: Marie, you have to be more seriously angry, otherwise you’ll never get through to Lavi. Gotta look more strict.

Lavi: Youーyou traitor! You were all grins back there when you heard how I hid Yu’s pants, weren’t you, Allen!?

Allen: Was I? Of course not. Unlike you, I’m not a little kid.

Lavi: Ha! You’re one to talk! Whenever you do part-time at the cafeteria, you’re always stealing bites out of Yu’s food before you serve it to him. Think I didn’t know!?

Allen: That’s because Kanda’s always mocking my hospitality skills. Befitting punishment, I say! It’s not like you’re any better, Lavi. I know you’re always stuffing Kanda’s bag full of porn whenever he goes on a mission. And then there’s the time you tampered with Kanda’s toothpasteー

Lavi: You were with me that time, weren’t you!?

Bak: There’s more?

Wisely: A-ho-ho-ho (laughing). Somehow I feel like we can be good friends, boys.

Marie: Would you guys stop it already? Look, I’m grateful that you boys care about Kanda, since you guys are around the same age, but tone down the pranks! He’s still not used to these things. 

Allen, Lavi: Aw, come on~!

Link: We shall not let our precious word count be depleted further by such a nonsensical topic. This conversation ends here!!

>> Part 4 <<

#dgm #d gray man #dgm vol 26

[tessacxstello]

hello im (F, 24) an idiot and forgot to post tessa’s (F, 22, fictional) intro!

pls bare in mind most of this was written 5+ years ago n i haven’t written tessa since 2015...... but lets get this show (LOCKWOODRP) on the road (DASHBOARD). 

tw school shooting, tw bipolar disorder

art hoe. always covered in paint. why?? she bad at painting

the mark rothko jackson pollock kind of bad tho wher people are like.... omg.... revolutionary..... its a badly drawn vagina

fuckin loves astrology, but cant take it that seriously bcos one of her bfs was a gemini so there’s some lenience there. but she WILL blame her hormones and mood swings on the positon of mars

embodies pure sunshine. 

one of those really annoying people that can go through the most traumatic shit and still find a positive spin. 

cares so much for others but does not really care for herself n it’s meant she just bottles up all this shit n when someone asks her how her day has gone she just falls on the ground like tht bit in midsommar when florence does that loud wheezy noise and sits down 

has never really had much money at all. learns to make-do with what she has. loves upcycling!! her bookshelf is made from cardboard which she’s reinforced by pappering it over with pages ripped out of thrifted books. her sofa is an old car boot which she’s repainted, put on wheels and stuffed w cushions so that it’s actually bearable to sit on.

her knitted cardigan? its made out of wife material.

knits all the time. will crochet you a christmas scarf. if ur lucky you might get a knitted jumper with a penis in a santa hat

still sleeps with cuddly toys n then wonders why ppl dont think she’s mature enough for a serious relationship

very passionate about Sister Doing It For THemselves!! raised by a single mom who worked her ass off so that tessa could do fun activities after school, have lelli kelly shoes, and go to college (not necessarily in tht order of importance)

tessa was born out of wedlock as the result of an affair between her mom (a journalism intern in her early 20s) and a new york times editor. 

the editor offered to pay tessa’s mom off to have an abortion, but she was like fuck u and told the papers he’d done that and used the money to cover the cost of her internship which they refused to pay her for

and because of the scandal, he ended up going through a pretty messy divorce with his wife, and losing custody of his kids. so as a child  tessa was seen as the cause of a divorce and received mutliple letters from the editors wife (to tessa personally!) and his kids saying how she had ruined everything, but her mom moved them to another town so tessa didn’t have to deal with that crap. 

her mom worked 3 jobs to put her through school, so in return tessa pushes herself incredibly hard to succeed. needs a break and a hug and to get laid to be honest. 

an old soul. likes old films, old music, old people. only recently got an iphone 5s so not really with this century yet

very sweet and soft and kind but also a fucking mess and won’t listen to anyone else’s opinion. she’ll take comfort, but not advice. 

feminist buddhist bisexual vegetarian for human rights and animal welfare. standing on a soapbox shouting about the climate in the quad, shoving flyers into your hands. flyers everwhere. she turns up at your grandmas funeral and shoves one into her mouth. she’s stolen the mic from the vicar to talk about pandas.

says “mother of pearl” and “heavens to betsy”.

had an affair with her married piano teacher and he’s now facing a custody battle and his wife is leaving him and tessa has completely internalised that guilt despite her being the victim in the scenario

aesthetics: paint splattered jeans, loose curls spilling from a scrunchie, thrifted blouses in bright yellow, guzzling coffee in the library at three am when a term paper’s due, shoddily illustrated campaign posters to save endangered species, polaroids plastered to your bedroom walls with scribbled dates on the frames, jumping into a stack of autumn leaves, jumping off piers in the summer months and stripping off your wet clothes on the beach, digging your thumbs into peaches to leave a bruise, smoking with the extractor fan on to hide the smell, bath bombs, letting the girls at lush rub samples all over your skin, cacti with knitted bobble hats, decorative pillows and sun and moon blanket throws, basic bitch fairy lights hanging from every single window, painting the name of the boys you’ve loved inside your wardrobe door.

studies fine art and philosophy, and wants to become either a lecturer or the first woman president. vibe wise, very similar to leslie knope, missy from big mouth, and basically the naive everygirl with a high opinion of themselves trope

gets drunk off like one double vodka lemonade because she’s small and she’s a pretty messy wild drunk. it’s when slutty tessa comes out, and the next day she’ll thoroughly regret every choice made and decide she’s never drinking again and cutting out all men and starting daily sudoko

on the cheerleading team and is a flyer, which she sees as a HUGE responsibility and she works really hard to make sure she’s on it for her team. one of those get up at 7am and go to the gym before school types its sickening

she had a really traumatic time at high school because there was a shooting in her school. she was in the next classroom when it happened, and she lost one of her friends in the shooting. she had to take two months off school, was diagnosed with depression and put on anti-depressants because of it. in her 2nd year of uni she was rediagnosed with bipolar disorder and anxiety, which she’s now on medication for. she can be really good for several months at a time and feel super creative and determined (she actually finds manic periods helpful for her creativity n art, n sadly sometimes doesn’t take her meds in these periods to push herself more which is obvs super bad.....). but when the bad periods come they can also last months n she had to take a semester out of school last year because of her mood, so she should be a senior by now but she’s retaking junior year

she attends weekly stress-management sessions prescribed by her doctor which she finds pointless.

very childish in the sense that she can only see her own point of view and kind of views herself as the “protagonist” and thinks her ideas are super important and life changing and she IS Destined for Greatness! despite being pretty much average af

pinterest board.

STATS

age: 22

height: 5'2"

positive traits: kind-hearted, gregarious, selfless, philosophical, open minded, idealistic, courageous, feisty, charismatic, loyal, adventurous.

negative traits: stubborn, hot-headed, reticent, escapist, self-destructive, easily led, naive, troubled, complicated, stepford smiler, envious, overdramatic, explosive.

distinguishing Marks: heart-shaped birthmark on the right of her chest, splattering of freckles across the cheeks during summer months, full lips, large eyes, porcelain features, long wavy hair, tattoo of a bird and a cage on her ankles and a basic bitch arrow tat on her wrist (srry to anyone with an arrow tat).

skills: jack-of-all-trades, talented pianist, perceptive, knows the correct way to throw a punch, good survival instinct, is able to remain calm in stressful situations, endures, artistic, excels in academic studies, hard-working and self-motivated, expert liar and talented actress.

likes: wolves, vintage thrift store fashion, old leather-bound books, left-wing democratic politics, cigarettes, poetry, John Hughes movies, cold coffee, hot tea, the sound of laughter, staying up til 4am having deep conversations, Tchaikovsky, having deep conversations about life, stationary, DC Comics, horoscopes, winged eyeliner, cats, knee-high socks, house music, abandoned buildings, studio ghibli, the smell of the earth after rain, Wes Anderson films, herbal tea, old people, solitude, esoteric things, the smell of freshly baked bread, Charles Bukowski, the moon.

fears: death, oblivion, global warming, losing those she loves, isolation, clowns, guns, enclosed spaces.

nicknames: Tess, T-Dog, Tessie, Socrates, Princess, Sunshine Girl, Florence Nightingale.

alignment: Neutral Good

MBTI type: INFP

BIOGRAPHY

tw school shooting

Her story begins with Cordelia Costello, a twenty-three year old college drop-out, turned beautician, turned columnist, turned intern at a local publishing company. She was a youthful, beautiful, siren of a women, always surrounded by an aura of enigma and an entourage of men. It was no surprise to the gossips in the office that within six months working at the company, Cordelia had added to her list another title – mistress to Franklin Hozier, the Editor of the New York Times. After two blissful months and three hundred and twenty seven orgasms, Cordelia decided she wanted a baby. Franklin laughed in her face. Feeling isolated and used, Cordelia continued her affair with her boss’ boss for another month, before deciding to take matters into her own hands.

It started with a turkey baster.

Soon the infant cries of a baby girl graced the world, her wrinkled skin puckered and pink as her mother held her in her arms, glancing upon the most beautiful thing in her life. Once Tessa, named after Cordelia’s favourite literary heroine, entered the world, Franklin left her life and things took a turn for the better. Despite living in a rented one-bedroom apartment in Staten Island, on what little money Cordelia had saved, Tessa’s childhood years were filled with nothing but the happiest of memories. Times were tough, but what they lacked in money, the Costello’s made up in love. While Tessa was at school, Cordelia did odd jobs cleaning, child-minding, working in local nurseries, in order to save up enough money to give her daughter the best start in life.

Despite what she had been led to believe by television shows and teen movies, the first few years of High School were some of the best years of her life. Tessa threw herself into a multitude of activities that High School offered her, including the drama club, the orchestra, choir, badminton and the school newspaper. While she certainly wasn’t considered ‘popular’ at school, Tess had a wide circle of friends and acquaintances. In fact, High School was a place where she made some of the greatest memories of her life, but come her final year, it was also a place where she was haunted by some of her worst.

On the January 17th of Tessa’s senior year of high school, a shooting took place in Westville High School. For two hours Tessa locked herself in a supply cupboard, her head between her knees as she tried to stay silent despite the screams of horror from the corridor. Eighteen students were caught in the crossfire, two of which were Tessa’s best friends. Bouquets of flowers, laminated photographs, Teddy Bears in cling-film bags attached to balloons littered the streets as families and friends came to pay tribute to the eighteen students withered before they had a chance to bloom.

It took two months of therapy before Tessa could return to school. Some of the survivors could never return due to the horrors that their eyes had laid witness to. Sometimes Tessa felt like a part of her had died with the friends that were stolen from her too soon, but one thought kept her going through: she had survived, she was alive and breathing, and she could not afford to loose a second of the precious time she had been granted on this earth. Despite the nightmares that continued to haunt her each night, Tessa found in the aftermath of the disaster a new sense of motivation. She began applying for scholarships for colleges without her mother’s knowledge, in the hope that her academic success would be enough to carry her through further education. Thankfully, it was, and after three torturous months of waiting Tess was offered an arts scholarship to her dream school, Lockwood University, where she hoped she could finally start to rebuild her life.

THE PRESENT:

Life at university was like a separate world. Students came and went like moths among the whisperings and the tequila and the stars. In this new world, Tessa was exposed for the first time in her life to alcohol, drugs, and the sexual appetites of other students her age – though she politely declined all three. Instead, Tessa threw herself into the vast array of activities in the hope that by distracting herself she could escape the terrible flashbacks that continued to haunt her. Tessa joined the lacrosse team, despite never having played before, and took up cheerleading discovering a new talent; she joined the musical theatre group, and the film club, and even set up her own acapella singing society. But despite how much she tried to throw herself into student life, her past hung around her like a bad smell, and with the added pressure of the Sinking Ships zine, Tess began to feel the weight of her secret tying her down like a pair of shackles around her wrists.

PERSONALITY:

If someone was to describe Tessa in a single word, it would most likely be ‘bubbly’, ‘open-minded’ or ‘sweet’. But they would be wrong – Tessa is not bubbly, or sweet, or stubborn, or hotheaded, or fiesty, or infectious, or any of the things the world see her as, but merely a numb and lonely echo of the gregarious, halcyon girl she once was. Tessa Costello was one of life’s enigmas. No one knew who she was, for to each person she met she wore a different mask – she dripped confidence, or was painfully shy; she was an exhibitionist, or a brooding wallflower; she took things too seriously, or not seriously at all. She was an actress and the world was her stage, each person she met a different member of the audience in the performance of her life. In truth, Tessa no longer even recognised herself. Insecure, and self-destructive, she tried to hang on to the extroverted, mischievous pieces of herself that everyone had once loved, but day by day it got harder to know what lay in the vacant holes blown through her mind. While she was stubborn and hot-headed, Tessa always saw the best in people, which meant that she was easily led astray. While she had grown up learning to be street smart and astute, she was idealistic and allowed silly fantasies to cloud her mind. By nature, she was passionate, which lead her to misimagine and romanticise those she met. Despite the hell she had witnessed, and the anxiety that feasted upon her, she believed that people were innately good and that to have courage and be kind could cure anyone of their sadness – yet she was unable to cure herself.

TWITTER:

@500daysoftessa: i blame disney films and musicals for my high expectations of men

@500daysoftessa: i am in love with the boy who works at starbucks. today i asked for a double latte and he gave me a tripple, which i think is proof that my love is requited. our children will be smart and talented and beautiful.

@500daysoftessa: little known historical fact: pharaohs were burried with their hands crossed over their chests because it was a popular belief there would be countless water slides in the after life.

#huntingtonintro #pounce on me for plots #tw school shooting #tw bipolar disorder #tw depression

[luckyspike]

Adventures in America, Ch. 5 - In which Adam has a dream, and supernatural beings enjoy a nice breakfast at the Waffle House

they also plot extensively but no one knows what about

alright maybe Raziel does

but he ain’t telling

ch 1 | ch 2 | ch 3 | ch 4

-

In the cool and slightly-lemon-scented room of the Microtel, Adam Young and Warlock “Lucky” Dowling slept. It had been years since Adam had had one of his … dreams. The dreams where nuclear power sources disappeared and left only lemon drops in their wake, the dreams where long-dead islands rose from the sea, the dreams that left huge swaths of South America so densely forested - where just previously there had been roads and malls and cities - that people were lost in the jungle just outside their front door. Over seven years, in fact, since he had had such a dream.

He doesn’t have one tonight, either. Tonight, he dreams about the character from the book he was reading on the airplane, and in his dream that character has to solve a puzzle or he will never be able to use green markers again. It’s a somewhat distressing dream, and Adam turns over in his sleep with a frown. Nothing happens in real life.

There were several beings in the universe who would have been slightly disappointed to know that, although likely most would have been greatly relieved. While Adam slept, two disappointed beings were standing in the parking lot of an International House of Pancakes. One was dressed all in white and was practically glowing in the flickering blue fluorescent, although nobody seemed to notice her. The other, in spite of standing in the same light as the first, gave off a distinct impression of lurking, and was smoking a cigarette.

“The boy is unprotected here,” said the first, without courtesy of a greeting. The second did not seem to mind this, and grunted noncommittally before blowing a stream of smoke into her face. 

“Got those two idiots with him, dun’t he? ‘Course, he dun’t know they’re there.”

She looked at him coolly. “As I said: unprotected.” She scowled when the second figure offered her a cigarette*. “Disgusting.”

[*It was, to be fair to him, the least-crumpled cigarette in the packet. It also had the fewest grease stains on it. He might be on the opposite side, but he could still be cordial when the occasion called for it.]

“Suit yourself.” The taller, filthier figure looked thoughtful. “You want me to kill him, then?”

“Don’t be crass - that would be too obvious,” she scolded him. “Who knows what wrath you might incite with a stroke like that.”

The taller of the two rolled his eyes, although it was hard to tell given both eyes were completely black as pitch. “Not from your people. Prob’ly not from mine, either.”

“I thought Beelzebub and Dagon were -”

“We’re just waiting for the next go round,” he snapped, more harshly than necessary but not more than expected. The other looked unconcerned. “Once the old kid’s out of the way we can start over again.” 

She sighed. “Of course. What is your plan for … the removal?”

“Kill him.”

She snarled. “How, you idiot?” 

The taller one took a contemplative drag off his cigarette. “I love a good storm.” He smiled, in a not very nice way at all. A maggot crawled from his ear into his mouth. “Think he’ll probably come across a few.”

“And storm chasers do die on occasion,” she said, nodding with approval. “Make it look like an accident.”

“Obviously,” he mocked, affecting her accent for a beat and scowling down at her. “Your boss know about this?”

She snorted. “Gabriel isn’t my boss. And no, he doesn’t know. He’s been … preoccupied.” She paused, and then risked a sidelong glance at the taller one, mischief in every line on her face. “And certainly Beelzebub sanctioned this, what with getting ready for the next go around.” He grunted. “Only, I hear there’s a bit of a dust-up down there, and Lucifer has gone missing -”

He viciously chucked the butt of the cigarette to the pavement, and ground it under his heel. It combusted in rather more flame than one might have expected. “He’s around. All official-like. We done here, Michael? ‘Cause you can piss off.”

“Hm.” She buttoned up her white coat, and, in the light of the parking lot, two glorious brown and speckled wings - falcon’s wings - spread from her shoulders. “As always it was a disgusting displeasure, Hastur.” He opened his mouth to respond, but before he could, her wings snapped, and a nimbus of blue light shot upwards, into the sky and out of sight. Hastur watched her go, scowling all the while. When he was well sure she was gone, he spat on the ground. The asphalt began to dissolve.

“Bloody archangels,” he grumbled, before he stepped out from under the parking lot light, and disappeared into the darkness.

Fifty feet away, through the window of the Waffle House across the street, four figures were seated at a booth, three of them watching through the window as he disappeared. One figure, who looked to be a slender, middle-aged man with sharp features and a large-brimmed brown hat, did not look up from his book. The tallest of the figures - a dark-skinned woman with long dreadlocks, pulled back neatly out of her face, sighed, staring with a considerable amount of exasperation into her cup of black coffee. “They think they’re so clever, don’t they?”

“Tragic,” the second figure agreed, from their seat next to the reader. They were thin, brown-skinned, and dressed in boldly-colored clothing that looked more suited to a night at a club with $50 drinks than a Waffle House. They too were cradling a mug, tea with a strong herbal scent to it, and also a hint of vanilla, and had a half-eaten plate of pancakes in front of them. “How closely do you think we should watch them?”

“I hardly think we need to,” the third figure replied. They were short, possibly female, and blonde, long hair braided and flipped over her shoulder - she looked like a college freshman that had gotten lost just before being adopted by her new parents, the trendy one and the college professor. As she spoke, she slurped another cup of coffee down and reached across the table for the pancakes, her hoodie strings dragging through the leftover whipped cream from her waffle. “How’s the tea?”

“Delightful, thank you for bringing it,” the nightclub one answered. “What makes you think we shouldn’t at least … nudge the situation along to a more favorable outcome?”

“Aziraphale and Crowley are here, aren’t they?” said the third, scooping a forkful of pancakes into their mouth. The college professor looked to her with a small amount of despair. “Back off, you know how often I get planetside to eat these?”

“Just please try to chew with your mouth closed,” the dark-skinned woman sighed. “Please?” She frowned at a fleck of whipped cream on her sleeve. “Oh, honestly, I can’t take you anywhere.” Diagonally across the table, the reader idly swiped a dollop of whipped cream off her plate and deposited it into his coffee, stirring it in and having a long drink.

The trendy one chuckled. “Go on, let ‘em have their fun.” They drummed their fingers on the back of the booth, thoughtful as they looked out of the window and into the night. “While I appreciate your absolutely-misfounded faith in Aziraphale and Crowley, may I please point out that they are complete morons.” They waved a hand, and bracelets clattered. “Of course, Crowley wasn’t always that way -”

“Eh, he kind of was,” the shortest one said. “Even back in the Beginning he -”

“Original sin,” the trendy one sighed, “was brilliant.”

The college professor shrugged. “I’m still not convinced he didn’t do that by accident.” The reader smirked.

“Good thing, too, then, all things considered,” replied the trendy one. “I give him credit where it’s due, but suit yourself.” They paused to take another sip of tea. “I don’t think they’re quite as incompetent as their track record indicates.”

The short one laughed, and the college professor looked amused at that. “Aziraphale gave his flaming sword away within the first week of Earth.”

“Been pretty good at his job aside from that, though, I’ll wager,” the trendy one countered, pointing to her. “He was always a good egg.”

The college professor considered it. “True. He is, as you say, an exceptionally good egg. Still, with Hastur and Michael -”

“And Crowley doesn’t miss a beat,” the shorter one chipped in. “Not when he’s paying attention, anyway. Which he doesn’t always do.” She gestured with her fork, splattering her other three companions with syrup. The syrup considered soaking into their clothes, really getting good and sticky, but before it got to work it realized who it was dealing with, and re-considered. “But he will if he cares about something.”

The trendy one cocked an eyebrow. “And you believe he cares enough about Adam to not require any additional assistance?”

“Oh, absolutely.”

“If you’re wrong, there will be no more pancakes. Ever.” The trendy one pointed to the ceiling of the Waffle House. “No breakfast foods in Heaven.”

“Which is a damn shame -” the college professor made a noise of vague disapproval, but looked entertained nonetheless “- but yes, even knowing that, I have complete confidence that we will not have to intervene at all in this mission.” Under the table, she kicked the reader, who looked up from his book. “What do you think, Raziel?”

The reader smirked and sat back, finger marking his place in the book and arms crossed over his chest, hunched into his brown overcoat. “I don’t know about confidence, but I know that we shouldn’t play a part. Yet. Strictly hands-off. For now.” He shrugged.

“No secret insight on what She wants us to do later, little brother?” The blonde asked, sticking one of her hoodie strings into her mouth and sucking the syrup off of it. “Your book of secrets doesn’t have like, a clue or something?”

He paused, confused, and then looked to his book. “Book of - Raphael, this is an absolutely terrible fiction novel. I don’t carry my notebook with me everywhere.” He tapped his hat. “Keep most of it up here.”

“Really?” The trendy one looked surprised. “I was going to forgive you for reading through breakfast if that was your notebook.”

“He reads through everything,” the college professor sighed. “So, for now, hands off. What about monitoring?”

“Oh, you should definitely do that.” Raziel nodded eagerly. “Or, rather, I will.”

“Is that why you’re dressed like a reporter from 1948?” The trendy one was smirking at him, and prodded him in the ribs slightly. “You know that’s not how humans dress these days. Certainly not reporters.”

Raziel raised his eyebrows, looking his seat-mate up and down. “I’m not taking my fashion advice from you, Verrier.” He sighed, and sat back again, opening his book back up to where he’d stopped. “I’ll find something more appropriate later, then. But yes, for now, we only watch.” He turned the page. “It’ll change.”

The college professor narrowed her eyes. “How do you know that?”

“Ineffable. I’ll let you know if and when we receive additional instructions.”

“You’re a very frustrating little brother,” Raphael grumbled into her refilled coffee mug.

Verrier grinned and nudged his shoulder, eliciting a small smile, but nothing more. “Little brothers usually are.” They finished their coffee, and stood, stretching. “Right. Thanks for breakfast as usual, guys. Tip’s on me?”

“Don’t know why you always say that, you never leave one,” said the college professor, studying the waitress that had been seeing to their table, almost as if she were weighing the young woman’s life right then and there**. She nodded when she found whatever she was looking for, and set a stack of bills on the table. $100s. Verrier sighed.

[**Which she was.]

“Really, Sachiel?”

“Really.” Sachiel nudged Raphael in the ribs, prompting the other archangel to slide out of the booth and stand, stepping aside to allow Sachiel and Verrier to embrace and exchange kisses on the cheek. “Always good to see you again.”

“It’s been too long,” Verrier agreed, not letting go of Sachiel’s shoulders. “Since Adam was born -”

Sachiel shook her head. “Hopefully, if Team Oblivious doesn’t manage to somehow make a mess of this, we can do it rather more often.” She sighed. “The lines between us blur a little more every day, it seems.”

“Part of the Plan, do you think?” The three standing figures turned, as one, to look to Raziel. He didn’t look away from his book, but he did shrug.

“I don’t know why you think I know the whole Plan, I just know the parts of it that I get told to write down.”

“More than anybody else knows,” Verrier pointed out. Raziel took a sip of his coffee and made a noise that was neither in agreement or disagreement, and Verrier rolled their eyes, exasperated, before turning to Raphael. “And so glad you could come, Ralph.”

“I’m a slut for pancakes, what can I say?” Sachiel covered her face with her hands, and Verrier laughed, honestly laughed. “No, seriously, I … Well, you know.” She shrugged. “I just can’t get on board with killing kids. Among other things.” She glanced around at the Waffle House, smiling more fondly than anybody has potentially ever smiled at the interior of a Waffle House before. “Never was a fan of the apocalypse.” She fluttered her hands a little. “I was kind of one-and-done on the whole celestial cataclysm thing.”

Verrier patted her shoulder. “Don’t blame you.” They gathered their scarf up, and slung it over their shoulder. “Well, I’m off. Should be back before anybody notices I’m gone.” They laughed again, but there was something brittle to it. “Although I don’t know who would notice anymore.”

“Stay in touch,” Sachiel encouraged, gently, and Verrier smiled, nodded, and brushed past on their way to the door. “Right.” Sachiel clapped her hands when the doors had swung closed, and turned her eyes to Raphael. “We should get back as well. I certainly have work to do, I can’t imagine you don’t.”

Raphael frowned. “Well …”

“Well?”

She hemmed a little more. “Hey, uh, Raziel, you have a car right now, right?” In response, the other angel pointed to the parking lot, where a lone gray Ford Escape sat. “Can I get a ride?”

“Sure,” Raziel answered, while Sachiel asked, more prudently, “Where?”

Raphael looked repentant. “Just … Okay, can I do just one childrens’ hospital? Just one?”

Sachiel looked like she wanted to be stern. Really, she did. But it didn’t last, and Raphael knew the battle was won even before she’d finished speaking. “This is why you never get to come down here,” Sachiel grumbled at last. “Okay you can do one - one - but listen, you have to stay within plausible deniability and you come home right after.”

Raphael nodded eagerly. “Definitely.”

“I’ll send someone after you,” Sachiel warned.

“I said I’d come back as soon as I’m done.”

“It’ll be Sandalphon.”

“Oh, please, no.” Raphael grimaced. “Fine. One hospital, keep it reasonable, and then straight back to Heaven. Got it. No arguments from me. Don’t send Sandalphon.”

“Keep an eye on her, too, until you’re sure she’s on her way home,” Sachiel said to Raziel, who responded with a thumbs-up. She turned back to Raphael then, kissed her on the forehead, and winked, before she clicked her fingers and vanished from the Waffle House altogether.

Raziel didn’t look up from his book when the seat next to him bounced and sank, creaking its protests, while Raphael slid in next to him. “Come on, little brother, I need a ride.”

He sipped his drink. “Not done with the coffee, yet.”

“I’m going to get in trouble if I’m not back in a reasonable span of time. You heard that, right?”

“I hear everything said around me.” He looked up from the text then and smiled at her - smug and teasing. Then, with a heavy sigh but the same smile, he dog-eared the page of his book and shut it. “Fine, I’ll leave the coffee. Let’s move.” They fell into step on the way to the car, walking in companionable silence until Raziel opened the passenger side door for the archangel. 

“Hey, you’re gonna be driving a lot,” Raphael pointed out, clicking her seatbelt into place. Raziel nodded, shut the door, and then strolled around to the drivers’ side, sliding into the seat and turning the key in the ignition in one smooth motion. “How’re you going to keep up with your reading?”

He turned to her and grinned, genuinely excited, before looking back to the empty parking lot and pulling out, toward the freeway. “You ever hear of books on tape?”

-

Now with Chapter 6!

#good omens #good omens fanfiction #adam young #hastur #michael #some other angels and demons #i wish i didn't enjoy fanfiction so much #the one where they go to america

[dropsofletters]

prince of hearts

Title: prince of hearts Pairing: Wong Yukhei/Reader Genre: Prince!AU Summary: People were aware of how beautiful and funny the Prince could be, but they weren’t aware of how annoying he was with his devious smirk and teasing words. Wong Yukhei is a nightmare but he can win hears easily. Note: This is a pre-birthday gift for @hitchhikingbabeh so I hope she likes it, love you! (also this picture isn’t mine, credits go to owners)

Oh, she swears she has never met someone as stuck up as Wong Yukhei.

In the entirety of her fairly short life, she has met enough people who thought they were better than anyone else simply because they were rich and really, she shouldn’t be bothered by them, but she was. For, the prince that was supposed to be the epitome of perfect was anything but and she was tired of having to look at his huge smirk as he talks in public television and makes people believe that he is an angel, a very funny one too. Yet, she knows just how irresponsible he is…because she was supposed to be her tutor for some of the classes he is supposed to be taking at university…but he never goes, so she thought that it would be a great idea to use her curriculum and find a job as his tutor. Indeed, it was the worst idea she could have but the paycheck as heavenly, even if it took an entire month for Yukhei to understand the simplicity of renaissance literature, which he truly doesn’t want to learn and, he really won’t for all she knows.

This time around, he arrives two hours later than he should have and he smells a little bit like cigarettes and his typical cologne as he drags a seat on the huge library and interlocks his hands as he looks at her. Yukhei just has the pleasure of making people wait for him, listen to him as if he was god himself and then, he acts like nothing is wrong. Perhaps, he does it because he loves when people have a reaction to things he does…but she never gives him the pleasure of it, if only she was not paid as much as she did then she would gladly pick up her books and go, but she sucks it up and tries to teach him something, anything that could make him sound like less of an asshole and make the royal family happy. After all, he was the only prince that united two lands together because of his parents and…if only he wasn’t so much of an idiot, the movement of peace he was creating would be so much more interesting.

“Did you do the research I asked you to do?” Her voice is leveled in a professional way and she opens the book on the page they were in. With any other student that tried to pay attention, she’d be in the hundredth page or so…but with Yukhei, she is only on the twentieth and she still has to repeat things that they had checked before. Yukhei combs his fingers through his light brown hair and he shakes his head as a smirk appears over his face.

“I forgot.” Yukhei says honestly in the earth-shaking deep tone of his, moving forward until his knees barely touched hers under the table. Then, she notices that he was wearing a black coat with a red shirt underneath, contrasting the olive color of his skin that shines with the light that sweeps through the huge windows of the library that belonged to the prince. The tall walls and spacious area were only for the two of them and the silence that surrounded them for a second breathed out anger, the same anger that she feels towards Yukhei. “Was it really that important? I can just make up some answers and I’ll be fine.” And that is the worst part of it all…that people like her, ones that seclude themselves in a library to study for a test, do not get the recognition they deserve, but people like Yukhei…who simply make up their answers and sugarcoat their words do and that makes her boil with anger.

Stop using that smug face on me, she thinks. “Yukhei, you need to study.”

“Not really,” Yukhei points out intelligently as he shakes his head, taking the pencil from her hands to instantly start playing beats with it while smacking it against the wood of the table. “I have my life figured out.  I’ll just buy big buildings and make a few businesses here and there, if the king thing doesn’t work I’ll just be a businessman and I will not learn about business in a literature book.” Indeed, she knows that he is right but education is really important for normal people…so for him it should be even more important. Yukhei watches as she blinks dumbly at him before clicking her tongue and in the matter of seconds, her eyes are re-reading over the page they left off last time. “One question, though.” His big hand ends up covering most of the page as he stops playing the drums on the table, making her look up at him through her mascara coated lashes. Yukhei is the epitome of beauty…but she thinks that on the inside, he is just a blank wall with nothing to give, not the tiniest bit of personality either. She hums, hoping and praying that it is a question about the subject they were studying and nothing personal. “I made you wait for two hours.  Why did you stay?”

“So you did it on purpose?”

“Well, yes, I didn’t wanna come.” Yukhei shrugs his shoulders and she bit her bottom lip. In another occasion, she would have forgiven his antics but for now she felt like she couldn’t even be in the same room as him. Yukhei’s ego was just as big as the library that he had inside his castle and with a soft sigh escaping her lips, she parts them to say a few words.

“Yukhei, I am sure you know this…” She tells him softly before swallowing the lump on her throat. “I really don’t like you, but I get paid to make you have good grades…and you’re not getting them, so I could lose my job because you think you’re funny when you’re not.” The sincerity in her voice doesn’t seem to face him the slightest bit and he nods his head in understanding, but his smirk remained plastered over his features. Yukhei was like a hot cup of coffee, always burning her tongue with a new reminder that he was always ahead of her and while it’s tasty, she can’t stand it…and then, once he was cold and absent-minded, he wasn’t the same and it became uninteresting to even deal with him. “Why are you smiling?”

“You don’t like me and you still come here.  That’s sweet.” Yukhei says before pinching her cheek and that makes her roll her eyes.

“You missed the part where I said that I do it because it’s my job.”

Yukhei leans back on the chair and he extends his legs, his right leg settling in between hers as he lets out a soft sigh. The sound of the leather of the seat touching his clothes fills the air properly before his voice complemented the sound. “I can read you like those books I don’t read.  You’re prideful and hate me just as much as most people do, but you don’t stay here because of the money…you wouldn’t sell your dignity like that.”

He believes in himself too much. “You think wrong.”

“…Some say beauty is perspective, I say wrongness is perspective too…and I also want to add that I think those clothes look cute on you.” Yukhei adds with a smack of his lips after he licks them and she can’t help but frown, picking up her belongings as he stares up at her. “Are you leaving?”

“Yes.”

“Bummer.” Yukhei says with puckered lips and she rolls her eyes, trotting out of the library as she hears the sound of Yukhei’s deep laughter. Either the man is a fucking sadist and wanted her to feel her worst just so he could pull out a boner or he just really wanted her out of his castle. However, she wants to remind herself just how good of a paycheck she gets for standing Yukhei…yet, she doesn’t think she can do it anymore.

She has a crush –one of those misconceptions of romance, friendship and hatred that lets you say that you like someone but not fully to want to make a move. His name is Jung Yoonoh and he has the best good boy look with sweet smile that she has ever seen in her life. Yoonoh is a neighbor of hers that just enjoys walking his dog around the neighborhood with messy hair and pants that hang perfectly on his hips to make his legs look amazing. His lips are plush and he has a little bit of a hard time controlling his need of singing at all times, but her heart is filled with happiness as she sees him at the bus stop that usually she sits at before taking a bus to the nearest place to the castle, even then she has to walk twenty minutes to get to the secluded castle. Still, Yoonoh smells like heaven and his thigh is touching with hers, causing a smile to creep internally into her heart.

Should she say something?

Yet, she decides against it, as if the dandelion yellow color of her dress made her feel insecure or the fact that Yoonoh doesn’t even look at her just makes him seem like a one time love that she will forget about eventually. Eventually means one day and one day seems further than she’d like to admit, she doesn’t have time for an unknown day where her mind decides that enough is enough about Jung Yoonoh. Nevertheless, it seems like life thinks that the most inappropriate of times are times for a change and when she hears the sound of a car’s engine roaring in front of them, she doesn’t even look up from her thighs until she finally hears the sound of someone’s voice. Deep. Annoying. God, Satan itself created that person.

“Hey, you grumpy cutie!” The words that leave Yukhei’s mouth lets her cringe and until then, she doesn’t know how Yukhei is still the first one in line to become a king…once he is older, probably over fifty. He acts as a rich boy who had it all, with his big black car and the smirk that leaves him when she finally looks up at him, enraged as always…but there is something about her frown that captures his attention. Yukhei adores touching the nerves inside her head with his words more than he’d like to admit, it’s the fact that she creates the feeling of oxytocin inside his body without even trying to touch him –she’s magical, annoyingly so. “Get on the car, you have some tutoring to do.”

She would spend quite a bit of money in the bus…maybe she should take the car and pretend this never happened. However, she feels pressured by Yoonoh’s eyes resting over the two as if he was trying to understand the situation. Famous prince is picking up the girl that he always sees and that he somehow had gotten to know without words…weird. “Yukhei, y-you’ll catch people’s attention!” She says those words as she stands up to talk to him, hands pressed to the edge of his door as Yukhei runs his fingers through his light brown hair, shrugging his shoulders as he puckers up his lips.

“I’m doing this town a favor.”

“…You’re the biggest idiot I know.”

“Big idiot, big heart, big car, big…” Yukhei raises an eyebrow at those words and she scrunches up her nose, shaking her head as she was about to walk towards the bus stop once again to wait for the right moment when the bus arrives. She can’t possibly share a car with Yukhei without throwing up on his expensive shoes or crying over the leather of his seats out of exasperation. Still, he grabs her wrist delicately and he rolls his eyes playfully. “Big seats, I meant.  I can take you to the castle and then back home, it’s no issue.”

She scoffs. “I know you failed your driving test.  You shouldn’t even be driving a car!” Yukhei gasps at her words but her unimpressed expression shows that she is more observant than he thought initially. Yukhei just didn’t pay attention to a lot of things other than smoking cigarettes in the back of the castle and trying to get pretty girls like princesses to give him the time of the day, it only so happened that he thought it would be a great idea to know how to drive a car and he was putting it to use…because that yellow dress makes her stand out and he didn’t know she had a mole on her leg that he somehow notices now. “So…how did you get your license?”

“This boy over here learnt how to drive just so I could take pretty ladies to my castle.” Yukhei says and he sees a hint of embarrassment over her features, also the man behind her seemed to be trying to stop himself from getting in an awkward situation. Yukhei unlocks his car and then he wiggles his eyebrows. “I couldn’t find a pretty girl, ended up settling for a regular one…and you were here, so-”

“Just give me a ride and shut up.” When he hears those words exasperatedly leaving her previously closed mouth as she moves to the passenger seat, Yukhei feels a smile creeping on his face. She wasn’t his type and for a while, he thought that she was the woman that he would want less in this world –too serious, too meticulously perfect, too stuck up and too stupid for him…not logically but emotionally, but he was curious. She was the epitome of a good girl and he wasn’t a bad guy…but he wanted to know if he could get the bad side out of her, click the right buttons just so he hears her professional voice finally turn into a sarcastic melody- “Start the car, Yukhei, I don’t have all day.”

“You don’t have other people to give classes to.” Yukhei says after getting out of his trance and starting to drive, she is looking out the window, too busy watching the tall trees in the street as she tries her hardest not to pay attention to the infamous Wong Yukhei. She doesn’t answer and Yukhei takes that as a time to tease her a little bit more. “Maybe you would like to be taught something for once.  That guy in the bus stop seemed like a pretty intelligent one.”

Yukhei is really dumb, but he is not dumb enough to not realize her interest in Yoonoh. Godly Yoonoh with the mannerisms of a prince (ironically, Yukhei was the prince here) that would always open her door for her whenever she was carrying too many books from her tutoring hours with the prince. In all honesty, Yukhei is not the type to judge…but he expected something else from her. Maybe a man with a beret and a cigarette in between his lips that recited Shakespeare to his loved one, in this case it could be her, but she liked a man that looked like the epitome of a boy-next-door. “What do you mean?”

“Oh, come on.” Yukhei leans back on his seat and he gives a harsh turn, making her sigh as she clings onto the seatbelt in case something happened. His deep voice sounds a bit different, though she can’t quite pinpoint why it does, but what she can do is stare at Yukhei as he speaks. There he shows the length of his body, long legs covered by skin-tight jeans that showcased his good physique, he was also wearing a black t-shirt and his coat must be thrown somewhere in the backseat. His jugular is barely visible over his neck but the rich skin matches his face, with lips plump and kissable and eyes that were wide and big. Totally different from Yoonoh, still quite attractive on his own way. “You’re overthinking it.  You have to talk to him; don’t let him have control over the situation.”

While she had flirted with a lot of people in the past, Yoonoh was a whole different case. No matter how hard she tried to show her interest in him or she tried to spark up some conversation, he was always oddly quiet. His replies were short and while his actions were sweet, they never talked about things that weren’t about the apartment complex or their general lives. “I talk to him.” She doesn’t want to tell him anything else. After all, Yukhei is a big asshole and telling him about her failed attempts on getting Yoonoh to flirt with her back would mean an instant kill for him. Yukhei remains silent for a few seconds and he sneaks a glance at her to see her already looking at him. The man smiles widely and his ego seemed to be boosted up by the attention he received…that he always received, actually.

“Helen of Troy, for example!” At the mention of the name of Helen of Troy, she frowns but she waits for Yukhei to continue his train of thought. “I tell you:  That woman was a bad bitch.  She didn’t have two men fighting for her only because she was pretty, like she probably played around with their heads and that got them interested.”

She should be concentrating on his metaphor, how he tries to appropriate Helen of Troy to contemporary life and make it into an analogy, but she is far more impressed by the fact that Yukhei remembers something from literature. “You know Helen of Troy?  I thought you hated Homer’s literature entirely.”

“The man could make a shit load of money if he only showed who he was; for starters, that’s a wrong business move.” Yukhei explains quickly in a mix between various languages and she can’t help but smile at his way of making himself be understood. “But anyways…Helen of Troy didn’t have that Paris dude and the Italy dude fighting for her just because.”

“Paris and Menelaus, Yukhei.  They weren’t named after places.” Yukhei laughs at her serious words and then, she decides to take upon his thoughts. “And I am not Helen of Troy. Also, I don’t think Yoonoh has to fight anyone to get to me.”

Yukhei sees the gates to the castle as he nears the place and he shrugs his shoulders. “Make Yoonoh believe that he has competition.” Those words settle inside of her head like an echo and even when Yukhei was stupid in the whole sense of the word, he sounded intelligent when he said those words. It made sense, bringing someone to the edge of their seats pondering if the person they liked could like someone else would surely bring a confession in most situations. Yukhei rolls his window down and he speaks through the speaker and the gates open almost instantly, his black car driving through easily.

“Still, you didn’t tell me how you remembered that Helen of Troy was involved in a love triangle according to Homer.”

Yukhei smiles widely. “That was the only interesting part.” He says as he parks his car, leaning back on his seat after turning off the car to take his seatbelt off. Long are his fingers, she realizes, elegant yet so hypnotizing. They looked warm, warm enough to bring a sense of security trailing down her body and spine if he ever were to hold her hand. Would they look pretty trailing over her bottom lip, opening it slightly before stealing her life away with a kiss? Okay, that is a thought she has to erase. “I read a resume and I thought that a love triangle was frisky.”

Once he opens the door to his car, she repeats his actions and while holding tightly onto her books, she asks him out of curiosity. “Have you ever been involved in a love triangle?” Yukhei had dated around, or so the rumors said whenever they passed through the hallways of his own castle like a disease searching for people to hurt. In this case, Yukhei wasn’t necessarily hurt by people talking about him, but his reputation could be destroyed if only he made a mistake to the eyes of the world. How pretty would the headlines look with Prince Wong Yukhei smoking a cigarette as he holds onto some hooker’s waist, kisses trailing down her neck?  Probably not so pretty, but highly interesting is another option to describe it.

Surprisingly enough, Yukhei shakes his head as he walks by her side and she has to slow down to match his pace. “Oh…no.” Now the idea downs him and he shrugs his shoulders. “I don’t like hurting people.  If I am not into them anyone, I break it up.”

“Pretty human from you.”

“The fact that I am inhumanly good looking doesn’t have anything to do with me being a bad person.  Not that I am a bad person…wait, I worded that wrongly.” Yukhei presses his hand to his temple and she fights every urge she has to laugh at him. Within her mind, she guessed that Yukhei’s rumors would be true….there was a reason why Yukhei did most things while hiding and also, his attitude didn’t help his case into making him look like a good person. “That’s why my parents want me to take classes…like I can’t speak for shit.”

Though, she thinks he has a nice voice and while his sentences aren’t always perfectly intelligent, his honesty always brought the best reactions from people.  It only showed that he said what he thought and he thought what he felt. “I understand.” Those words are enough to bring a smile to his face and while they walk to the secluded, huge library that waits inside of Yukhei’s castle, a comfortable silence fills them. After all, she wasn’t used to talking to the prince as much as she had done that afternoon. The sound of her flats is barely audible as they go up the stairs, quicker because she had stepped up her pace.

“Why did you start tutoring, though?” Yukhei asks absentmindedly and she doesn’t dare to watch him, after all, he had caught her staring once. The truth about it all is that she didn’t particularly dream of tutoring a prince ever in her life. At this point, she should have followed the methodic way of life and she should be studying, but not everyone is lucky enough to get accepted in a university. That’s why she works so hard, hoping that one day she has enough money to pay her education by herself…and even when she was paid enough by Yukhei’s family, but she wanted to be able to pay for her entire education –a big dream, but she didn’t want to have to go through the heartbreak of stopping her dreams ever again.

“I’m a good teacher, I guess.” She tells him and Yukhei chuckles.

“You’re very proud of your own work.”

“I had other students before you and let me tell you, they learnt. Maybe you’re the problem.” Her sharp words don’t hurt Yukhei and she knows it. He stays tall and strong, not completely silent as he replies to her with some sentences that spoke sarcasm fluently. However, the moment they reached the door to the library, she expected Yukhei to pull a move like Yoonoh did most of the time –maybe open the door for her, a small smile with a nod and then she was inside, but instead he opened it and entered the library without a second thought.

“Okay, I forgot everything you taught me before…so let’s start again!” The problem student exclaimed and then, she realized that his good actions had hidden just how much of a nuisance he is. Yukhei looks like a prince, he is a prince in the literal sense but he will never be the dream-like prince that everyone wrote in books as heroes.

Yukhei never goes to the library unless he has to attend tutoring with her, but other than that he prefers spending his time with his friends in his expensive car attending even more expensive places. However, the moment she stepped inside the library she was surprised to see a copy of The Little Prince in Yukhei’s big hands. The book looked tiny compared to his hands and it almost seems like something taken out of a fantasy. Yukhei didn’t look that interested in the book, even when he is nose deep on probably the fifteenth page, but she was even more surprised by the fact that Yukhei was earlier than her to one of her classes. Bickering was never out of the picture for them, even when they held a few normal and friendly conversations after that one time he picked her up in his car around three months ago.

Peaceful he looked but he mixed his look with a bit of sleepiness. His body is not covered in fashionable clothing like it usually is –hell, he even let his hair down and from a moment of looking at him, she realized that he never left the castle on the first place…the perfect reason why he was there earlier than usual, as well. Yukhei’s upper body is covered by a gray tank top and his legs are halfway uncovered because of the basketball shorts he was wearing. Anyone looking at him from afar wouldn’t guess that he was a born rich, bratty but funny prince that had never known the term studying, but he was the epitome of a college student now.

She doesn’t close the door just to remain silent when his plump lips open to read the title of the book out loud, already tired of reading the infamous fantasy book. The French words sound foreign on his tongue and he tries his best to add an accent to it, but he fails miserably, closing the book loudly and putting it in its place before turning around to look at the person that had closed the door. Yukhei’s cheeks immediately lift up in a smile when he sees his tutor, not a smile but a smirk out of all things but he is interrupted by her voice.

“Le Petit Prince is a nice novel.  Short, sweet, leaves you with a nice message…you should read it.” At the sound of her voice pronouncing the name of the book, Yukhei tries to imitate the pronunciation inside his brain before he is brought back to reality. The prince didn’t read books and in all honesty, he didn’t know how he could relate to a prince that came from another planet. If anything, books like those were boring versions of sci-fi comics. “You should read, period.  But maybe a short novel would work best for you.”

Yukhei shakes his head and he takes a seat on the table that they usually shared, extending his legs and crossing his arms over his chest. If only he wasn’t so stubborn, he’d be godly looking. “How can a man…well, this little prince, fall in love with a rose?” He asks and by that, she knows that he must have read the first part. A smile grazes her features as she sits down in front of him, her backpack hitting the surface of the table as he keeps speaking. “I don’t get it.  I don’t get what kind of drugs the writer was using…but they were strong, man.”

“It’s called imagination.” She tells him and then, she opens their textbook. By now, she already knows she has to give Yukhei a revision of all the subjects before explaining to him the newest one. Inside her head, she hopes that he really learns something from her, too. “It’s a pure and sweet love, metaphorical, but it represents love.”

“You make everything sound so romantic but I am sure the writer just thought that it was cool.” Yukhei tells her, probably thinking of life as a simple thing. Writers do have that power of seeing normal actions, people and situations and then they turn it into a story. Some even say that The Little Prince, in all its glory, was inspired by something that happened in real life…just hidden by analogies. Yukhei’s big brown eyes look at her before returning his gaze to the book and then, he clears his throat. “Don’t you like any other books?  Like, books that are actually new?”

“I do, but I like classics better.”

Yukhei shakes his head as he laughs. “You’re boring.”

“Yeah, yeah, let’s study.” She tells him in between a soft breath and before she could start her class, Yukhei takes her by the hand, stopping her flickering fingers that were about to turn the page. Her eyes look up to connect with his and Yukhei has a bit of a frown over his face, as if there was something that bothered him…but she was far more bothered by the fact that she was right. Yukhei’s hands were warms, visibly bigger than hers, like the warmth of hot chocolate on a winter day. His eyes look around her face and then, she notices how wet his lips are when they are parted. Yukhei’s tongue peeks out to wet his bottom lip and he rolls his tongue when he asks her-

“How did you pronounce it again? Le Petit-” Yukhei was trying to get her to say the French words that he couldn’t pronounce and then, she remembered just how good and interested Yukhei was when it came to languages. She repeats it and in the matter of seconds, Yukhei was saying the name of the book perfectly well and a smile appears over her face. It’s a relief when he lets go of her hand and he raises an eyebrow. “So if I was a book…would I be The Big Prince?”

At that exact moment, she let out a laugh at how ridiculous Yukhei can be. “No, you’d still be an idiot, probably not the main character.”

“Ouch.”

“So, today’s class-” She decides to ignore him and that makes him let go of her hand. Thankfully, since she was about to go crazy by the fact that she was getting used to having him hold her hand.

Life is not a fairytale, even when fairytales tried to impersonate life. There wasn’t a perfect story, not even a perfect character in the form of a human being and while everyone knows that their lives can’t be perfect, feeling disappointed downs people like the first shot of rum, burning their throats and creating an acidic feeling inside their stomachs that suddenly becomes too much to bear. Disappointments, she had many of those, plenty made by her and others caused by people around her, but she couldn’t even count them with all her fingers. She could never expect her life to be as perfect as the books she read, the shows she watched, the stories she heard from other people…but why is disappointment so easy to approach someone?

It feels like she could never say any of her desires out loud because something always backfired and she ended up feeling disappointed. How could she be disappointed if her moves never worked, if she tried to flirt with Jung Yoonoh only to be downed with the reminder that he will never like her back? It was only a mere reminder of reality that she could never dream too much…because dreams are not plans; they are mere images that appear on a person’s brain. Yet, life mocks her for dreaming…just like how it did with the big amount of rejection letters from universities and now, it’s in the form of a thump against her wall.

More like a bang, actually and she blames the thin walls for hearing Yoonoh’s act in full display. It wasn’t like she saw with her own two eyes as another woman hugged him from behind and kissed his neck as giggles escaped their lips when she got home from going grocery shopping, but she also needed to hear the creaking sound of the bed in Yoonoh’s apartment that must be thirteen years old on a minimum. Not only that, but she gets to hear a few glimpses of gasps and sharp intakes of breath, making her wonder where she could hide in order to stop the second-hand embarrassment. The kitchen wasn’t an option, neither was the bathroom in her small apartment and the first thought that pops to her head is, sadly, the castle.

But Prince Yukhei is nowhere to be found for the next five days, considering he had to travel with his parents to some international conferences, so she is left with an enraged mind as she looks for the keys to her apartment and she steps out of the door with only a hoodie on, her coat left forgotten somewhere in her small place. Her steps are heavy and she has her bottom lip caught in between her teeth out of anger. She had tried so hard to get Yoonoh’s attention and his sweet antics had only been gentlemanly antics that he had learnt throughout his whole life. How could the sweet boys be her kryptonite and how in the world do they end up being sweet to someone else?

She’s grumpy, to say the least, and she ponders if she should stop being responsible for once and she could just drink her worries away. Not that she is scared of being lonely, neither did she think that Yoonoh was the love of her life (she wouldn’t have complained if he was, though) but she is not used to losing. Love was an easy game to play, a soft movement of eyelids that created a fan with your eyelashes and a smirk and it was already a game. In this game, she had started playing with a man who wasn’t even willing to play at all and as if words were mocking her, she ended up being played. God, she hates the verb ‘play’ now.

First thing she sees when she passes by the shops near the center of the city are the magazines, newspapers and little informative prints that were displayed behind the glass of one of the most famous book shops around. Her eyes scan through the headlines quickly and she is met by a picture of the one and only Wong Yukhei. His broad shoulders are hugged tightly by a black jacket, golden decorations in perfectly parallel lines covering from his shoulders to his pectorals and they looked sewed on the fabric. The jacket is closed so she can’t see if he wore a shirt underneath but his waist is showcased by the slightly high fitted pants and the tight jacket. His smile is big as he poses with another group of royalty and she scoffs at the thought. Not even people like Yukhei –a real prince- had a fairytale as a life.

Because princes are not supposed to smoke cigarettes in their free time and they weren’t supposed to smell like expensive perfumes and nicotine. They weren’t supposed to have a smile that dangerous, instead, they had to have the sweetest, most angelic smile…and she thinks Yukhei is not leaning so much on the adorable side. Princes from fairytales arrived in horses to catch their girl…surely not on a black convertible with a big grin and a possibly missing license that no one cares about because he has ‘rich kid privilege’.

Princes are not supposed to be like Yukhei but she finds him pleasingly realistic.

As much as she likes literature and no matter how beautifully written “Romeo and Juliet” is, she doesn’t find it realistic. Surely, some characteristics of certain characters were somewhat relatable, but most of the time things weren’t going to be like how you had planned it out. Yukhei was probably trained to be an excellently mannered beautiful prince, but he was just another guy with a fitted suit and too much money. You won’t see Yukhei acting like someone he is not, you won’t see Yukhei leading someone on just because it feeds his huge ego…you see, she had always looked for fairytale-like people who acted like princes, but she looked up to the rawness of Yukhei’s personality. He is a dork…but he is himself.

At least in front of her, he is. Yukhei didn’t give a shit about letting her know what he thought, even if that was a rant about how he didn’t quite understand The Little Prince but the movie made him cry. He was the best version of himself…and now she thinks that maybe, she should follow after the dumb man’s steps.

Maybe, he is not so dumb after all.

Whoever is successful will say that there are two main points for success. One of them is that you should never get distracted by anything, neither love nor daily struggles. The other fact states that success is a long road and you’ll be tired once you reach the top of the big mountain that united your dreams with reality. Her inspiration from a non-love disappointment and her recognition that Wong Yukhei was intelligent even when he didn’t look like it inspired her to apply to one of her dream universities, now with enough money to enter in case she wasn’t accepted yet again. It seems like for once, time was good to her and she was accepted without a tuition, but she had a spot in her dreamed career.

Her hands flatten the material of her loose shirt and she watches the textbook under her, reading over the main points that she had to explain to Yukhei. The music in the background is the clock ticking and the white noise of the air conditioner around the library. Strangely enough, she was never quite too fond of the feeling of nostalgia…she was never too attached to things and missing someone was not usual for her, but maybe the place held too many feelings to her. She remembers the first time she stepped inside the library and she was welcomed by the Queen herself. At that time, she had been nervous of causing a wrong impression on the ever-beautiful young prince but he had eased her into disliking him almost fifteen minutes after they were left alone when he made fun of her seriousness.

The linoleum floors shouldn’t feel quite as cold that morning, but they did. The tall bookshelves shouldn’t work as barriers, but they did. Her mind should stop thinking of how much she’ll miss this, but it can’t. Yukhei wasn’t the reason for this, obviously, how could the prince be the main reason as to why she was sighing heavily?  If anything, she had dreamt of the day she left that castle with her last class ever since the first week she started working there. She would have an easier job, maybe not quite as fun, but being a worker at her campus’ library was the closest thing she could find to her actual job. Well, almost previous job-

The sound of the big doors of the library opening and closing in a quick frenzy match the sound of the deep voiced male’s pants as he enters the library. Yukhei’s hands rest over his knees as he tries to catch his breath, a trail of sweat touching his hairline and by how his cheeks were reddened, he must have been running there. She didn’t even hear his car being parked and he wasn’t there when she arrived, according to one of the maids he had gone out to eat with some of his friends. “Why is my butler telling me that this is our last class together?” Yukhei can barely form the sentence without letting a tired breath escape his lips and his head must feel dizzy because he rests it against the table when he takes his usual spot beside her. Yukhei’s perfectly gelled back hair had let a strand fall over his forehead after his quick run and his plush lips were a bit dry after puffing out breaths so much.

“Because it’s true.” She replies as she takes a pencil and she marks down a special sentence on the textbook, only to hear the sound of Yukhei’s hand slapping against the textbook and her line of vision is covered by his big hand. She swallows thickly and she looks up at him, fear does not coat her eyes but her blank expression probably freaked Yukhei out. “I’ll be going to university soon and the castle is too far away from my usual route, so I found a job at my own campus so I can go home at a reasonable time.” Her answer sounds logic but Yukhei’s expression tugged a string in her heart. Normally, she compared him to an overly cocky adult but his widened eyes showed the expression of a kid who had lost his best toy. “…They pay me less, but I’ll manage.”

Yukhei shakes his head. “I’ll hire a chauffeur so someone can pick you up and bring you here and then take you back home.  I don’t care.”

“Yukhei, this is our last lesson. End of the story.” She tells him and strangely enough, she scene reminds her so much of the encore of one of her favorite books. Her eyes don’t dare to look at his powerful ones and instead, she tries to move Yukhei’s hand away from the textbook but he didn’t seem to budge. “They will find you someone just as great.” She lifts her eyebrows with exasperation because of Yukhei’s antics but the prince replies too quickly for her liking.

“Yeah, I know.  I had like a hundred tutors before having you.” Yukhei’s scoff surprises her and his serious expression would have made her laugh in any other occasion, but now it seems to be bringing her back to a feeling she doesn’t recognize. Her gaze lifts up slowly to meet his and Yukhei runs his fingers through his hair, ruining it completely. “And guess what?  You’re the only tutor that can stand me.”

“Thanks.  That still doesn’t change my decision, though.”

Yukhei takes her face in between his hands, probably out of exasperation, but from the closeness in between the two she can see a little pimple on the bridge of his nose and his glistening eyes that were even more gorgeous from up close.  The smell of cigarettes lingers from him and he talks quickly in his deep voice. “I support you,” Those words felt as warm as the sun hitting her skin during summer, perhaps too warm for her liking but pleasantly it made her happier. “But why do you have to leave?  You can still tutor me.”

She remains silent for a few seconds, staring at his eyes before shaking her head. “No.” That’s all she has to say because she has already made a decision and truthfully, it didn’t feel right to have Yukhei paying someone to drive her around…and she knew he was serious about that preposition. However, the biggest mistake was made when her eyes trail down to his lips. Plump and big, parted and looking like the tastiest cherry that she has never had the pleasure to try. Yukhei seems to notice that and then, a tiny smile appears over his face.

“I’ll miss you, come on.” His deep voice sounds tantalizing and seductive as he says such meaningful words. One of his hand trails down from her cheeks to brush a strand of her hair behind her ear, fingers caressing down until his hand rested over her neck. In any other occasion, she would have pushed him away –screw that, if it was someone else she would have done so, but it was Yukhei and somehow, she didn’t feel like stopping his ministrations. “Stay?” Now that she looks into his eyes, she sees the contrast in between the danger of his lips and the sweetness of his gaze.

“What do I get if I stay?” She asks in between a chuckle, trying to loosen the atmosphere but then she notices how Yukhei raises an eyebrow. Oops, the thought that crossed his head must have not been good.

“You already get a good paycheck…” Yukhei’s big eyes gaze down to her neck and he plays with the necklace she has around her neck, gliding his index finger over it and softly caressing her skin in an obnoxiously teasing manner. “And I’d get you your personal chauffeur too…” His voice dropped a bit and before she knew it, Yukhei tilted his head to the side, smiling widely soon after. “What do you want so you can stay?”

In retrospective, she knows that she would have replied that she wanted him to kiss her with such passion that her lungs bloomed with daisies and lilacs, lips apart and tongues interlocking as his hands explore further around her body, spreading the warmth of his fingertips like a politician spreads second handed promises. However, the trance that he has over her doesn’t work and she takes his wrist in between her hands before sighing. “I want you to actually study, so we have less tutoring during the week and I have time to study.”

Yukhei senses the change of mood and with a deep sigh, he leans back on his seat, crossing one leg over the other. “Can I cheat on tests so I get better grades?” What would it feel like to place her hands over his thighs and lean towards him just to steal a kiss? Would his eyes close immediately and soon after he would take the lead?  Could it be that Yukhei would become nervous under her bold actions and he would end up only caressing her lips with brief hesitation?

“I mean…you already cheat on tests.” The comment makes Yukhei laugh joyfully and she scratches the back of her head. “But we’ll have tiny quizzes before every class.  I’ll ask you questions and you need to answer correctly.”

“What happens if I don’t answer correctly?” The question makes her look towards him out of exasperation and it doesn’t help that he had left her curious to taste his lips, see his reactions, study him like every textbook she has read. Yukhei seemed to have asked innocently, long fingers moving a pencil in between them as he keeps a controlled expression.

“I leave.”

“Oh,” Yukhei puckers up his lips with the word and he widens his eyes. Soon after, he puckers them up and he drags the textbook to his side of the table, reading over the lines quickly before scoffing. “Latin American poetry?  I can learn this.”

The determination he has to make her stay surprised her, much more when Yukhei is eager to start the class and he listens to what she is saying, even commenting on a poem from Pablo Neruda since he found it pretty interesting. However, her mind could only concentrate on the little flirty exchange they had before and she wonders if she is willing to throw her professionalism to the side just for a taste of Yukhei’s lips.

There was not anything more embarrassing than being picked up at university by a black car with tinted windows, waiting for her every Monday, Tuesday and Thursday outside of her university. A sigh of shame would leave her lips whenever she had to rush to the automobile, feet moving quickly before she opened the door of it and closed it quickly, saying her greetings to the old chauffeur that always picked her up. Most of the time she would look out the window, maybe take the long time that it takes to drive from her campus to the castle to complete some homework or re-read over the pieces she had to study, but she always had to feel useful in order to be at ease. It was a habit of hers, how her body thrived for more things to do even when she was already stressed out about a lot of things It’s weird but it is the way she lived her life.

Though, she once believed that her work as a tutor for Yukhei was useless. The man did not make any signs of bettering his grades when he was with her, which lead her to think that maybe her way of teaching wasn’t reaching him. However, Yukhei had been more attentive ever since he promised to study more and while he wasn’t so much of a perfect student, he still got better ever since the moment those words escaped his lips. Now things seemed to flow easier in that sense.

Part of her still believes that deep inside his body, hidden in between his veins in the pure color of gold, there is a man that lives his life in pure egocentrism of how powerful he is. Yukhei would be Narcissus if he could, in love with himself and everything he does, he would look at his reflection and fall in love…How could he not, actually? Nonetheless, Yukhei loves the idea of being a King with people cheering his name like a mantra and a world upon his feet, not only for his looks but also for the depth of his voice, the candidness of his actions, the generosity of his non-humble events. Wong Yukhei would never want to be known as intelligent, he thinks intelligence is overrated and somehow…he is right.

Oh, she claims that she is the first one at fault for this. The intelligence that a person has brings the worst in them at times, too many thoughts or a seeking need to always be better than anyone else. People who are upstanding because of their intelligence bath in self-gratification and they feel like they have the power to correct people. Who could be worse: a prince that thinks that he can do anything he wants without anyone discovering him or a woman who was once too confident of her intelligence and for that, she delved in frustration when she figured out that outstanding grades were never the bones holding her personality?

They are similar, not in shape or in worlds, but they were similar in thoughts. That’s a thought that crosses her head when she watches Yukhei scribbling down the answers to the mini test she had prepared for him. His handwriting is messy, just like hers, he has the habit of stopping to read over what he writes and she does, as well. There are similarities in between their personalities, even when they are so different, there is some type of connection between the two. The over-confidence when it comes to something they know how to do, the need to always show that they are better, the mocking tone lingered with sarcasm but there is something that differentiates them…and it is everything.

How polar opposites attract never made more sense. They are so different that they are the same, even when the phrase doesn’t make sense…but it also does. She was not supposed to drown on the thought of Wong Yukhei, but each day it became a little bit more difficult.

There is something about him that attracts her, whether in the good or the bad sense. It seems like the prince can get her where he wants her with only the roll of his tongue against his lips to create words. Sometimes he wants her angry, fuming with the annoyance that she feels towards him and he loves when a frown appears over her face and she moves the pages of the book harshly, almost as if she was trying not to run away from there at that exact moment. Yukhei likes her astonished, flushed when he gets a bit too close, when he touches a bit near her hand, when he says something so deeply meaningless that she ponders on thoughts she shouldn’t have. Either he is a master of manipulation or Yukhei sincerely knew her better than she ever intended on.

“One Hundred Years of Solitude.” Yukhei interrupts in the middle of the class when she describes the story of said book, highlighting the parts that were the most important in the way that it was written, how the author showed solitude to the best of his abilities. She hums, opening her lips to continue explaining the book that Yukhei had recognized from only the mention of the Buendía Family, but he interrupts her. “I remembered you when I read the resume.”

Should she feel offended? The book spoke about loneliness, after all, tragedy as well, mixed with a bit of bad luck. The metaphors used were hard, even for someone who had read a lot like her, and the mixture of colors as metaphors added in couldn’t have been easily understood by Yukhei. “Because I am lonely at the end, losing everyone that could have ever loved me?”

Yukhei chuckles. “Well, no.” He tells her and then, he completes. “While the story itself is…dramatic and gross and a bit too fucked up, I think that it has a message. Every cause has its effect, so they say.”

“That’s physics. Wow, Yukhei, you’ve been studying-”

“I learnt it from a movie.” Yukhei adds and she expected it, making her chuckle as she shakes her head and she stops looking down at the book to look into his eyes. Powerful eyes, as powerful as the hurricane that destroyed Macondo. They take the breath away from her and now that she ponders about it, could Yukhei be the bad luck that revolved around her? “I think you had so many years of injustice and then, boom!” Yukhei claps his hands together in emphasis before smiling widely. “Everything that has stopped you from being who you really want to be disappeared.”

She wanted to show that her heart was warmed up by his words, but instead she raises one eyebrow and then, she scoffs. “Yeah, right. I guess-”

“Do you think you’re worthy of the life you have right now?”

She taps her pencil against Yukhei’s knuckles, capturing his attention but he still doesn’t pull his gaze away from her. “You see, Yukhei, I’m not a conformist and while I live a good life right now, I still have many things to do.”

“Like Aureliano?” She recalls the character of said book and it surprised her that Yukhei had read to that extent on a resume. He was the last upstanding member of the whole book, making her ponder if she was really like what Yukhei said. “Wait, that name is hard to pronounce.” Yukhei starts pronouncing the name over and over again and she chuckles, shaking her head as she sees Yukhei’s smile widening. “Hey, don’t laugh at me!” His voice booms, loud and clear, and she rolls her eyes at his antics.

“You tried.” She tells him and Yukhei pouts, leaning forward and looking down at her lips in the matter of seconds. Her smile suddenly disappears when she notices the closeness between the two and Yukhei’s direct gaze to her lips made her nervous, somehow. “What?”

“Say the name of the character.  I want to learn how it’s really said.” Yukhei’s eyes don’t even go up to talk to her while looking into her eyes. Instead, he licks his lips as if to prepare for repeating what she said. She takes a deep breath, lets her lips part soon and she pronounces the name of the character. It was ridiculous, she shouldn’t be thinking much of Yukhei looking down at her lips, but she would just like to take him by the neck and steal his mocking smile with a kiss. After five tries, Yukhei can pronounce it well and she smiles, taking him by the shoulder to push him away but he doesn’t budge. “Now say my name.”

“Your name?  Why?” She asks and she should have taken that chance to push him away, but she didn’t want to.

“Just because.” Yukhei says in that deep voice of his, shattering her earth with the tone of it and she sighs. Soon after, she lets his name escape her lips and it sounds like the best music Yukhei has ever heard in his life. There are many ways that she had said his name, in an angered manner or in a serious one, there was never such a hidden message behind his name. Her tone was breathy, as if she was struggling to breathe because of the closeness between the two and for once, Yukhei looks up to see her glistening eyes that hid some kind of wish behind them. Yukhei’s smile appears once again but just like she had wished for, she grips the fabric of his expensive black sweater in between her fingers and with a soft breath, she leans forward to take a kiss from his plush lips.

And as she said before, Yukhei is a man of showing his feelings even when he plays them off with his mocking smile, so it wasn’t a surprise when he leaned forward to kiss her as well, pulling her up to her feet and making her sit on top of the table at the library. Yukhei is not forceful but the force in between their hidden feelings pushes them together like they had been needing each other for air. His hands end up over her thighs, resting in between her knees as his head tilts to the side and he parts his lips, poking his tongue out slightly and grazing it over her bottom lip before he felt her give in, too. Her hands are running over his shoulders, a little bit over his back and then she rests them over his biceps, catching Yukhei off-guard when she nibbles on his bottom lip slowly and she goes once again to kiss his lips, leaving him breathless as a small, guttural groan gets caught in the contraction of his throat.

Long fingers trail up her thighs, holding her by the waist to pull her closer and then, they are behind her neck to make the kiss even more profound. She had been right, there was something that united the two in their best work and it wasn’t unexpected when they pulled away only to kiss once again. Oh, how mighty of her to be kissing the Prince Wong Yukhei, whom she tutors and she shouldn’t even get this close to…but it felt like everything she ever wanted. His lips pull away from hers and he is panting, lips reddened and swollen as he keeps his eyes closed before opening them slowly. In the matter of seconds, his high pitched laugh fills the air in between the two.

“Let’s go back to the class.” She tells him and Yukhei clears his throat, looking to the side before helping her get off the table. Her feet grace the floor and she sits back down, reading over the paragraph that they had left off on before a phrase made contact with her gaze, leaving an imprint inside her heart after sharing such a scene with Yukhei.

Like Garcia Marquez had claimed in the book that Yukhei compared to her: It’s enough for me to know that you and I exist at this moment. Right at that moment, Yukhei and she existed in something that they had created, a ‘nothing’ that had made itself into ‘something’ and she was more than intrigued to see what could come next, what their next move will be if it ever were to happen. Is it too much to want to save a moment like a photography that hides deep in box under her bed?  Probably not.

Yukhei is exuberant, he likes the attention that he receives and most importantly, he enjoys laughing with the people that are around him, though his charismatic personality had earned him a good title both nationally and internationally for how sweet he could be to those who followed him. She thinks he is a bit of an exhibitionist but she would like to see him falter for once. She was left with the sudden need to know just how far she could take things from him. Would the guttural groan that got stuck on his throat be heaven to her ears if they turned into full gasps of air for her?  Would Yukhei be the one to show her every little secret of his to her?  Tell her about his antics as a Prince, for example, smoking a cigarette as he tells her about his day. Yukhei never meant comfort to her, she would never guess that the man would be into her either, not as much as he was to kiss her that way…but she also never thought she’d end up kissing Yukhei, out of all things. She still remembers the blush on his face when he covered his obvious need with his silly smile.

Though, she never minded giving him the attention that he always looked for. Now, she realized that she loved his proud smile whenever she told him that something he did was great, she liked it whenever Yukhei tried harder because he was getting good outcomes from it and deep down, she knows that he enjoys their classes just as much as she does. However, she has to know that things are mostly temporal when it comes to working with people like Yukhei, like a tutor out of all things. There weren’t teachers that stayed around or semesters that lasted a lifetime even if it felt like it, and she wondered what would happen when she would have to leave for real.

The thought passes her brain as she rests her head against the desk she usually took in her classroom, earlier than anyone else as it seemed because the classroom was empty. Strangely enough, she longs for a man she hasn’t lost and that she shouldn’t be thinking about, but there was something about Yukhei that she had grown used to. The soft caresses of their thighs under the table, the way that he would place his hand over the page they were reading when he needed to add something, how he chuckled whenever he heard a story from a book and he always made fun of the obnoxiously romantic metaphors. Yukhei didn’t like romance as a genre, is far too insincere.

And as much as she loves books, she agrees. Though, she likes to think that what she had with Yukhei was worth of writing down on a book. Thankfully, she doesn’t have the talent to write as much as she would like to, but other than that she knows that she would be interested in the forbidden desire that they felt for one another. She enjoyed Yukhei’s presence, she longed for his kiss like she needed air and even though she had liked (and loved) people before, she thinks that what she feels for Yukhei doesn’t enter in those terms. It’s not love, a crush or simple lust, it’s something else.

Something so commanding that she couldn’t stop it, but she urges to give it a name. Yukhei feels it too, and she knows it by the way he would suddenly steal a kiss in the middle of the class. Those kisses normally left the two frustrated and bothered, pulling away to continue with what they really had to do and in all honesty, she is growing used to it. Yukhei had the softest lips she has ever tried, the sweetest reactions to her touch, the most beautiful words when he mutters against her lips that she is the most beautiful woman he has ever seen. She knows it’s a lie, Yukhei has met many outstandingly pretty women…yet he decides to call her that and it feels so sincere.

A part of her brain says that only, if only, she tried to take the upper hand in the situation, everything would work out. Yukhei likes to think he has the world upon his feet but she knows by the way he reacts to her that there is something about her that suddenly takes that egocentrism from him. It feels like Yukhei suddenly becomes humble whenever he is around her, asking for more of her…breathing out her name in the sweetest manner in that deep voice of his that she almost wondered if Yukhei just needed the right person to be by his side. Maybe, he was just as lonely as he claimed she was.

She knows that underneath that prince-like personality that breathes out an air of arrogance, there is a young man that gets embarrassed easily. Maybe, if she worded her thoughts out correctly she could have Yukhei exactly where she wanted him. In love with her, so in love that his cheeks suddenly become red and his lips can only pull apart to kiss her.

But ignorant she is, as well, realizing only soon after that she was in love, too.

Yukhei was never nervous –if anything, when he was younger he would take the microphone from his parents’ hands to greet the population that followed them, earning the coos from people who thought he was the cutest round cheeked baby. Even so, he can’t help but cover his mouth a bit out of embarrassment as he watches his tutor, starting yet another textbook for his new semesters and he is more than in awe by how beautiful she was. He wants to touch her hair, caress her lips, lay his head on her shoulder and probably hear her voice until his eyes finally closed down with sleepiness. He never thought he’d like anyone how he liked her…with so much passion and need that he almost surprised himself. Yukhei didn’t only think of how attractive she was to him, but past the flirtatious gazes and the teasing to get her to have a reaction, he had grown attached to who she was as a person.

He hasn’t heard much about her personal life, but he has heard enough to know a few things. Some of those facts came from her mouth and others were asked to his butlers in order to get to know the woman better. However, he’d like to hear her story from her lips like how she explained to him brief synopsis of the books he never read but he knew only because of her. Yukhei wants to discover every single piece of her puzzle, join them together and create a figure that was her. Not only had he realized that he used to love making her mad because it gave him a reaction…but he also noticed that he didn’t want her out of his life, ever.

It’s a change of space from their usual spot by a table on a library, now they were in Yukhei’s garden, seated on a bench as they read over another class. Yukhei’s fingers are close to her thighs as he leans over to look over her shoulder, reading over whatever she is saying in case he doesn’t understand something and over all, the view is beautiful. There is a fountain cascading water down onto itself, big bushes and beautiful flowers that led to a little house that was secluded from the castle itself, but Yukhei claimed that one of the security guards slept there. Speaking of the Prince itself, his hair is tickling her cheek slightly, brown strands of hair parted in the middle with the quick swipe of his fingers, plush lips parted as he mouths the words that he doesn’t know and that she explained to him, oversized t-shirt falling over his thighs softly and the atmosphere around them is of ease. She can only hear water, her voice and the occasional interruption of a deep voiced male asking a question.

But the words that leave his lips, effective and straight to the point, are the best interruption she has ever had in her class. “Do you want to go out on a date with me?” is all he asks, voice confident and a hundred times sweeter. Her eyes stop reading over the lines of the book and her lips part when she looks over to her left to see Yukhei, too close and too beautiful as he asked her such a question. She would like to imagine that their date would be something like a movie night in her small apartment, but she knows that he will probably go an extra mile. Maybe a five stars restaurant, at least. His eyes take in her expression and he giggles, covering his mouth the slightest to show just how excited he was to see her surprised expression. She gives him a tight lipped smile, soft and engaging like the moment in between the two unknown lovers.

“Yeah,” She tells him with ease, the word slipping from her lips before she could process what she was doing and then, she sighs. Yukhei seems to be happy by her answer, gripping her thigh with his hand after giving it a light smack out of happiness. He was always touchy and lively, coating her usual winter days with a bit of summer. Yukhei presses his lips into a tight smile when she continues. “That was unexpected…but okay.”

Yukhei scoffs, chest pushing forward to show pride before replying. “You like romance; I had to make it romantic.”

“Interrupting me to ask me out on a date is romantic?” She teases him as she reads over the textbook, making Yukhei whine.

“Man, it was romantic!” Yukhei tries to explain himself and she can only smile, looking at him before pressing a soft kiss to his lips when he starts to explain just how romantic it was. Yukhei smiles widely once she pulls away and he shakes his head. “Now you interrupted me.”

“You deserved it.”

Her hair is covered by the hood of her gray hoodie, feet trying to balance her body properly so the cake that she held over her hands didn’t fall. Currently, it was Yukhei’s birthday and while she shouldn’t be in the castle that day, she decided to give him a visit. His spontaneous personality must have rubbed a bit on her after three dates that they had shared together, not counting the weekly meetings that they have for tutoring, because she had been preparing a little surprise for him ever since the week before that day. She tries her best not to make a sound but she finds an issue the moment she is met by Yukhei’s door and she realizes that there are two possibilities. Either he is locked inside or she has to balance the cake on one hand to get the door to open.

But luckily, she was able to open the door to Yukhei’s room without having to call his little brother to help her. However, the moment she closes the door with her hips, she realizes that there are a few things in Yukhei’s room that represents him completely. It is a big, spacious, elegant room…a perfect example of what a Prince would have, but it is very messy. There is a box of cigarettes over his white nightstand and it seemed like he had already smoked three cigarettes since they were missing. There were a few clothes thrown here and there, one shirt falling over a book that she doesn’t recognize because she is not there because she wants to read. Her eyes look around the room to find Yukhei, not dismissing the big man over his bed that had a thin blanket covering his lower body as his gray t-shirt rid up his body to showcase his abdomen, one arm sprawled over his eyes to cover the light that seeped through the champagne colored curtains.

She takes a seat beside him, the cake resting on her hands as she calls his name softly. At first, she wants to level her voice to make it sound pleasing for someone who was sleeping but when she realized that Yukhei wasn’t waking up by her sweet antics, she called his name a bit clearer…almost as if she was commanding him. Yukhei drags his arm away from his face, running a hand through his messy brown hair before sighing deeply. However, once he realizes that the voice that was talking to him was the voice from his tutor, he opens his eyes confusedly and he frowns deeply. “What are you doing here-?” His own question is cut off when he trails his eyes away from her face, watching her casual attire as she holds a cake on her hands. Yukhei sits up straight and the smile on his face appears in the matter of seconds. “Oh shit, why did you bring me a cake?  How did you get here?  What time is it?”

“Eight in the morning.  I asked one of your butlers to let me in because I had a surprise for you and oh…happy birthday.” She responds to all his questions in a leveled voice and Yukhei smiles even wider as he watches the cake on her hands. It was definitely yogurt cake, covered by slices of strawberry and mango. Yukhei licks his lips, perhaps because he can’t believe that the woman of his dreams is there or maybe because it’s morning and Yukhei is always hungry, but much more when he wakes up.

“Thank you.” Yukhei says and then, he tries to reach for the cake to swipe his finger over it and try a bit of the frosting, but she stands up before he could do so. “Hey, that’s my cake! I get to try it!” His booming voice says but she shakes her head.

“You need to blow the candles.  I’m not a good singer so I won’t sing happy birthday to you, but…we can pretend I did.” Yukhei laughs at her and he reaches for his nightstand, picking up the lighter that he used for cigarettes to place a flame over the candle and with a smile, he looks up at her.

“Who even baked this cake?  Did you bake it for me?” The excitement in his eyes and his voice was evident, but she only chuckled before shaking her head.

“I asked a guy from my class to bake it and I paid him for it.” She replies but Yukhei didn’t seem the least bit put off by that fact; instead, he leans forward and blows on the candle before clapping for himself. The man stands up from his bed, reaching towards her to place a wet kiss over her lips before caressing her cheek with his thumb.

“Do I get to eat it now?”

“We have to look for a knife in the kitchen and put it on a plate, so no.” She tells him and Yukhei whines, but she can’t help but smile at the thought of the man being happy because of her. Yukhei takes the cake from her hands, promising not to ruin the cake before he could even try it and they take a trip towards the kitchen. She still wonders how Yukhei was able to talk to her and steal a few glances her way without falling off the long stairs that led to the first floor –where the kitchen was positioned.

And it was a nice sight to see Yukhei’s broad back and muscular shoulders as he slices the cake in two big pieces, placing them over the plates that she had brought with the hugest smile on his face. She would never say it but the man was the type of person that she never knew she dreamt of. A prince that was the real version of a prince, not the fairytale version that everyone sold with farfetched princes that weren’t really into their role. Yukhei could be an asshole at times and sometimes, he lingered with the smell of cigarettes mixed with perfume, but he was the sweetest asshole she has ever met. She just had to know the reason behind his teasing and it was because he loved getting a reaction.

Her lips tug into a smile when Yukhei serves her the cake on a very expensive plate, accordingly drawn with figures that seemed to be handmade, but she concentrates on watching Yukhei’s expression as he tastes the good that she had bought him. Yukhei licks his lips to take the white frosting off them and he hums in approval, thanking her with another quick kiss to her lips before continuing with his breakfast. Maybe, she shouldn’t have given someone as hyperactive as him cake for breakfast, but he seemed to be enjoying it. After all, he was the birthday boy.

While she is munching on a bite of the sweet treat, her hand reaches for Yukhei’s neck and she rubs it softly, earning a shiver from the man that she liked. His skin felt prickly because of his goose-bumps and she swears she saw a shadow of a stubble over his chin, but he was far more immersed in responding to the birthday messages on his phone and eating another slice of cake. However, her hand runs through his hair and she tugs on it a bit, making the wide eyed male look at her with curiousness and when she realized just how deeply immersed she was in how beautiful he was, in how much she liked to spend time with him, in how she got to see every little secret of his in full display…she realized that she liked him far more than she would have ever thought.

She stands up, feeling Yukhei turn towards her as if she was attracting him and his arms end up wrapped around her waist as she looks into his eyes. In this position, she is a bit taller than Yukhei and she gets to see his recently woken expression. “What if I ask you something?”

“What would that be?” Yukhei asks with his usual smile and she uses her other hand to touch his bottom lip, eager to kiss him but also begging to talk to him. She had a lot of people in her past, none of them were even close to the title of a prince and she knows that if she ever were to be discovered by the public she will get a lot of backlash. People would probably love her for getting a prince to fall in love with her, but others would be hateful thinking that she wanted his money. However, she needs to get it out her chest.

“What if I wanted you to be my boyfriend?” She expected Yukhei to stop, ponder about it before laughing loudly at her idea. However, Yukhei rests his fingers on the small of her back when he simply shrugs his shoulders and nods his head soon after.

“I’d agree to it.  I like you, you like me too, why wouldn’t I be into it?” He asks her and she raises her eyebrows in surprise, even much more when Yukhei reaches for her thumb and he gives it a playful bite before chuckling. “Stop looking like you just saw a ghost.  It’s the truth!”

“Mhm…I guess…” That’s all she can manage to say and Yukhei lets go of her with one hand, slicking another piece of cake before plopping it inside his mouth. Even when he was a prince, he didn’t have enough manners to swallow his food before talking once again.

“Then, are we boyfriend and girlfriend?” Yukhei asks with his mouth full of food and she chuckles, nodding her head at the sight of the Prince Wong Yukhei accepting her offer. Yukhei continues with his life as if nothing happened, not forgetting to give her one of those breathtaking kisses of his that always leaves her with a bit of apnea.

Things were far simpler than they looked since life was never a fairytale. But oh, it’s so much better.

#lucas scenario #lucas nct #nct scenarios #nct #kpop scenarios #writing #lucas angst #lucas fluff #nct angst #nct fluff #nct au #lucas au #prince!lucas #okay but first off this took so long to write and i tRIED SO HARD WITH IT #like in this piece of writing a lot of finger cramps happened #i had to move my knuckles a lot lmao #but hopefully you like it!!!!!! #please tell me what you think i'd appreciate it a lot #also happy almost birthday darling!!!! #let lucas bias wreck you shhh

[brooklynislandgirl]

Married/Ship Meme for Beth and Marion :)c

Married Life Meme || Accepting

leaves their dirty clothes on the floor

Tatters of clothes like forgotten steamers of ribbons litter the ground. Darkly wet and sticky not even close to drying in the humid heat. A few lay there, trampled in the victory that had snatched them in the first place, others consigned to the earth in an effort to escape.

Further into the thickets of cypress and moss cloth is occasionally replaced with flesh for all the same reasons. It’s a grisly scene to come across, the implications of it both nauseating and fearsome.

Startled birds take loud wing, squawking warnings to their fellows but the swamp swallows that up. What’s worse though is the spectral echo of laughter and rough, ragged shrieks no human mouth can make. This is how legends are born. How they seed themselves into the earth and shadow below, and breathe just under the surface of algae-green carpeted pools.But then again, who ever said hide-and-seek wasn’t a full-contact sport had never Beth and her rougarou. 

forgets to run the dish washer

“I gotta dishwasher, sha,” she says. “M’own two hands.”Beth lays curled up on the couch, wrapped in a sheet as she watches Marion from across the room. The woman sounds a little offended and she’s not sure why. It was meant innocently, not as a social commentary on the way she lives. 

“Can I help a’least?”“Non.” The word is a little harsher than it’s meant and rests, quivering in the air. And she knows guilt is gnawing on Marion even though Beth has told her a hundred times that there’s nothing to be ashamed of. While she doesn’t walk in two worlds like Marion does, she understands it, otherwise she’d never even think to have made the offer.The bites will heal in a few hours, less if she speeds up the process, but the wound here only continues to atrophy.

pumps gas for the car

Marion resists the urge to light another cigarette as she sits in the driver’s seat, her thumbs tapping out a staccato rhythm on the steering wheel that has nothing to do with music and everything about the tension making camp between her shoulder blades.Outside, Beth is pumping gas and chirping away in undimmed enthusiasm for La Fete Louisiane up in Baton Rouge. She flits between asking for the dozenth time who Bienville and Évangéline are as if she can’t keep it in her head ~and bless that girl, maybe she can’t ~ and wondering if they should have made their own tintamarre. She talks about the presentations from the Houma Nation and asks after the origin of zydeco music, if Marion’s ever played pétanque. And maybe the last straw is when she talks about the first time she’s ever eaten crawdads, because she mentions the Other One.

It’s enough to make the beast snap and she does everything she can to keep it caged. “Ya done yet?”

drives when they’re going somewhere

And she’s still talking when she climbs back into the car; she might be adorable but Beth certainly doesn’t have the sense God gave a goose. That’s all youth and the undiminished innocence she manages to hold onto despite everything. And just maybe, Marion admits when she puts the truck into gear and pulls away from the gas station, she envies the little woman for that. And her man even more, though she avoids thinking about that. She breathes in the first tainted breath of the cigarette she promised herself and then switches on the radio to put a little distance between those bleaker thoughts and it’s as though someone, somewhere’s cursed her.

Beth sings along, to Marion. To the road. To the open road. She’s not very good at it but she makes up in volume and enthusiasm what she lacks in skill. One little hand comes to rest on Marion’s shoulder. “Love is in the water, love is in the air. Show me where to look, tell me, will love be there? Will love be there? Teach me how to speak, teach me how to share...”

She doesn’t seem to notice the way Marion’s body stiffens or the not quite affectionate look slanted her way and carries on with the impromptu serenade, right against Marion’s ear now.

“Beth?”

“Whoa…heaven let ya light shine down. Whooooaa, heaven let ya light shine down…yeah?”

“Go to bed wit dat.” Pointed, sharp.

The singing stops. There’s silence for a few precious minutes and then…“Is dat like one come on or one bad thing?”

For fuck’s sake.

“Eiddah way, pass a good time, yeah?” And oh how she giggles bright as sunshine.

rearranges the furniture

Weeks later and the hairs on the back of Marion’s neck stand as she makes her way back to her place. There’s sweat in the air and the slightest rasp of heavy breathing and she was not expecting company. Except that she should have. Under all of it is the smell of sandalwood, cinnamon and those flowers from across the sea.

When she makes her way inside there’s the little witch. Bare feet balanced on the balls of her toes, arms stretched out and straining as she fights a new couch. She’s losing ground as she tries to push it into place, and that alone demands the question how she got it here in the first place, how she’d moved the old one on her own and a moment later she’s on her knees with a loud gasp of surprise.

Only then does she seem to notice Marion and grins. “Su’prise?”

falls asleep with the TV on

So maybe the couch isn’t the worst. It’s certainly soft enough and the only memories attached to it are the ones they’re making. And maybe Marion doesn’t mind so much that someone so small manages to take up so much room, both physically and emotionally. The book she’d been reading out-loud falls to the floor and Marion doesn’t bother to reach for it, her hands are otherwise occupied. She’ll never really admit it but she likes the feel of Beth’s unruly locks beneath her fingers and if she moves, the girl was likely to wake up and realise just how late it was.Tells herself that she’ll send Beth away tomorrow, tell her that she can’t keep coming over when she pleases, that she doesn’t need the poetry and the softness. She’ll say a hundred cruel things, only half of which Beth will understand; the language is easy but maybe the witch is made of Teflon because no clue seems to stick.

The same promise Marion has made a handful of times, same promise she knows she’ll break when she drags the old afghan over those tiny shoulders.

gets to use the bathroom first

And it’s singing again that Marion wakes up to, this time from the bathroom where the door is open and bleeding steam into the rest of the house. The smell of coffee competes with soap, bacon with something softer, more delicately layered.

“But when we rise, is like strawberry fields. If I treated ya bad, ya bruise m’ face. Couldn’ love ya more, ya got a beautiful taste….”

And fists clench in the sheets. Half convinced that maybe she’s not as sweet and innocent as she appears, and is in fact, trying to kill Marion a little bit at a time. It’s almost insidious and that makes it all the more appealing.

With a half-swallowed groan, Marion drags herself up out of bed and chases the song.

decides the temperature for the ac/heater

She never complains about the heat. No matter how humid ~the kind where you shower on Monday and are still wet come Friday~ the air gets, no matter how much vitality it saps from every living thing for miles, Beth delights in it.She tells Marion stories about sandy beaches and the murmur of the ocean under skies that are endlessly blue. She talks about thriving jungles full of exotic plants and taking what you wanted to eat if you can reach up and grab it. She talks of riding the sea, compares Snowballs to Shave Ice. She talks of old friends and relatives, though never her parents. To hear her talk is to imagine she was born right out of the waves and given over to this fabled hero of a man who looks just like her. Marion has suffered graciously through endless pictures of him.

Once in a while, she says she misses snow, the only thing she ever really liked about New York aside from the people she knew. Says she prefers the bayou because it’s less crowded and quieter and it never really gets cold.

She doesn’t really know, does she, that sometimes the chill has nothing to do with the weather, and how heat is leeched out of the body as it cools under the snap of jaws. If she’s very, very lucky, she’ll never find out.

sets up holiday decorations

Days melt into one another, from spring to harvest. Days shorten in length until night becomes dominant and in the deeper parts, the glaring eye of the sun fails to thrive at all. Marion marks the passing of the seasons by what there is to hunt, and what grows. She doesn’t have much use for gourds that will only rot from the inside out, or trees pulled indoors and strung with lights and tinsel; proof against the long, hungry winter. Paper-hearts aren’t any substitute for the once-living kind.

But she indulges Beth because it’s harmless and it’s sweet and those are things that Marion isn’t so familiar with. And because trying to stop her is roughly like sifting through the Sahara with a child’s shovel and pail. She draws the line at matching costumes, though, even if it is Mardi Gras.

leaves the lights on

Marion asked about the lights, once. What she got was a tangled web of answers, all of which only made half sense. The fear of the dark had filled Beth since childhood, maybe before she’d ever left the womb. There were things that lived in it, a writhing mass of shadows. One in particular had singled her out and came to her in the night, stealing her ability to move, to think, to breathe. That even the smallest of lights could keep it away, or at least that’s what her brother had told her, which in turn, made it Gospel truth.

Marion’s not so sure. Some of the other things she’s said that her brother told her sometimes were wildly inaccurate if not flat-out wrong. But it seems to make the little witch feel safe in some ways. Makes her easier to find at night when she carries the lantern out to her grove.And maybe the one thing even the Rougarou isn’t so keen on snuffing out is that little glimmer of hope that radiates out from her.

uses the bathroom with the door open

Standing on ceremony wasn’t a thing for them, that sense of privacy used up after the first two months they’d known each other. She says body functions are all natural and that skin was the first clothing and weird things like that, and Marion is pretty sure it’s all just an excuse. The one thing though that she’s always hated is having her bare legs showing.So she waits.Perfectly motionless until she hears the sink running and the sound of bristles scraping teeth.  Leans a shoulder in the door way and takes a good long look.The scar is pretty bad, jagged in its pattern and runs from the back of her knee to just above the ankle on an otherwise shapely limb. There’s a marked lack of muscle that leaves it shrivelled, stunted in comparison. How strange it was. Marion knows how much of Beth has been consumed, and how savage the tearing of flesh, almost down to the bone. She’s watched as slowly the witch’s body has rebuilt itself time and again without blemish, without anything more than a sweetly muffled sigh or an agonised cry that becomes something else entirely {the girl’s wiring is off, the way pain and pleasure for her are so intertwined}, and she eventually dances away without any evidence of the feeding. So why was that different.She almost feels guilty again when she looks up and sees Beth staring at her from the cracked mirror, green eyes for once bearing a light of anger uncommon to her. 

She speaks in her Haole tongue, not the pidgin so reminiscent of Creole. “It’s from before. Nothing I can do now can fix it. Nothing anyone else can do can fix it. A reminder that all magick comes with a price and it’s usually paid in blood.” From a limb.From a brother.From her soul itself.“Excuse me, mele, I need to get dressed.”And she shuts the door. 

fixes the plumbing (or calls the plumber)

The miasma of piss, sweat, and fear vies with the natural wet decay of the bayou. The Rougarou had been patiently hunting it down for most of the night, toying with its source, baiting it. Had chased it to ground...and dropped the scent for mere moments. Thick saliva dripped down its wicked teeth, carrion breath hot and fetid pushing out from the spaces between. It snarled at this new development, unhappy by any stretch of the imagination. Had chased the pitiful creature into the witch’s domain, and that warding around her grove had interrupted the prey’s tracks.But even so, it couldn’t soak up her words as she condemned the cowering, pitiful mass of regrets and weapons.“I know what ya huntin’ for. An’ dis is where ya vigil against da dark ends.” She raises her blade but doesn’t strike the Hunter with it, merely points with it’s sharp tip. Her other hand contains a roughly man shaped doll, made of bleached bone, tanned sinew. “When it’s done wi'ya, wha’evah is lef’ gonna get scattered across da swamp as a warnin’.” She snapped a limb of the effigy and bone shatters in the man, his wail loud. “Any of ya kind dat makes it into da bayou gonna meet a similar fate.” Another snap, another limb and the man collapses to his knees, hands in fists supporting his weight.He tries to plead with her but her face is a mask as luminescent and impassive as the moon above the canopy. “This place is my home, an’ da beast belongs t’ me. T’ink of me as very jealous an’ vindictive.” Another limb, another scream. “An’ unnerstan’ dat I’m da last t’ink ya eyes will evah set upon.”

She continues to break the hunter, bit by bit, occasionally using her powers to keep him conscious and a live to prolong the pain and the suffering.

The hunter manages to almost make it to sunrise.

#Mahalo!Marion <33333 #In Murky Moonlight|Marion LaCroix #The Rougarou and the Witch|Marion and Beth #Gris-Gris of a Good Heart|The Rougarou and Beth #Edge of the River Bed|The Rougarou #A Little South of Heaven #Born on the Bayou|Louisiana #tw: blood #tw: cannibalism #tw: murder #tw: torture #in fact unless you're Cajuncur or me you probably don't want to read this