#i can't even stand tracy

[thoughtlessthinkythoughts]

I think the key to understanding show!Aziraphale is in some lines that are in the book but not the show. Because these lines represent a place that our show Aziraphale hasn't hit yet.

Before I get into this, let me explain why I think things that aren't in the show can be so important to understanding where the show will go.

For another example, let's look at the ending of the book/s1. In the book, Adam is not impressed with Aziraphale and Crowley. There is no pep talk. He actually has a pretty stern message to them about "not messing people around."

A lot of s2 might not have worked the same way if they had gotten that message. It would have cut off room for growth. The whole plotline with Nina and Maggie for one would have been much less likely. So by holding off the stop messing with people message to the end of s2 (and then only giving it to Crowley), it provides more room for the characters to change at a pace befitting a multi-season show.

So what else do I think will end up working this way?

Well, there's a scene I love in the book that hasn't made it into the show yet. It happens after Aziraphale is discorporated. In the show, he goes to heaven, then to Madame Tracy. In the book, he bounces around possible hosts first, including a televangelist. The televangelist is going on about the rapture and such, and Aziraphale cuts in with this:

"Well, nice try...only it won't be like that at all. Not really.

"I mean, you're right about the fire and war, all that. but that Rapture stuff well, if you could see them all in Heaven - serried ranks of them as far as the mind can follow and beyond, league after league of us, flaming swords, all that, well, what I'm trying to say is who has time to go round picking people out and popping them up in the air to sneer at the people dying of radiation sickness on the parched and burning earth below them? If that's your idea of a morally acceptable time, I might add.

"And as for that stuff about Heaven inevitably winning...Well, to be honest, if it were that cut and dried, there wouldn't be a Celestial War in the first place, would there? It's propaganda. Pure and simple. We've got no more than a fifty percent chance of coming out on top. You might as well send money to a Satanist hotline to cover your bets, although to be frank when the fire falls and the seas of blood rise you lot are all going to be civilian casualties either way. Between our war and your war, they're going to kill everyone and let God sort it out-right?

"Anyway, sorry to stand here wittering, I've just a quick question-where am I?"

Because even this more cynical version of Aziraphale is adorable, the scene ends with "Gosh," he said, "am I on television?"

We didn't get this in the show, but I can't help feeling that it might be in season 3, assuming we get a season 3. It might even fit in better there, assuming we are going with a "second coming" plot. In the show, Aziraphale hasn't reached this level of cynicism (yet). I can't picture s1 or s2 Aziraphale giving this speech. Sure, he's seen what a mess the archangels are, he was willing to go against heaven to stop them from starting the end of the world, but I'm pretty sure show Aziraphale still believes in the goodness of God if not the goodness of the way heaven is run. It makes sense that show Aziraphale sees heaven as a fixable mess, an organization that isn't living up to what it should be. Because the show is taking Aziraphale's struggle with morally complex situations and questioning God and making it a longer arc.

My guess it that, as his tenure as archangel is likely to go terribly and not give him any more answers (or at least not answers he likes), he will get to the point where he could give this speech in season 3. My guess is that he's likely to also end up in a horrendous mental state once he reaches these conclusions (a perfect opportunity for some hurt/comfort). He's likely to build himself back up after that, but with a clearer look at the world.

End conclusion: if you are telling a longer story, sometimes you need to hold some things back to give your characters room to grow. So, it isn't a sign something is wrong with a story when partway through a character hasn't hit upon an obvious point.

"

#good omens #good omens spoilers #aziraphale #good omens meta #good omens season 2

[sidekick-hero]

(steddie | teen | 1.4k | cw: blood, the aftermath of a beating | tags: hurt!eddie and protective!steve, running away | @steddielovemonth prompt Love is letting him pick the music by @sparklyslug | @steddiesongfics Tracy Chapman "Fast Car" | AO3)

Someone's banging on his door, the noise so loud that it drowns out Queen blasting from his speakers. His first thought is, "It's back," quickly followed by panic that grips his heart, squeezing it tight as he thinks, "Someone's hurt".

Steve runs to the front door and flings it open before the second thought fully registers, his fears seemingly confirmed when he finds Eddie standing on his porch, fist raised to knock again. The adrenaline pumping through his veins makes everything laser sharp, his mind running a mile a minute as he takes in the man in front of him.

The man who owns his heart and who looks seconds away from collapsing. The dark bruises on his face are a stark contrast to the pallor of his skin, and Steve's stomach drops at the sight of one of those beloved eyes swollen shut. There is blood on Eddie's face, dripping from his nose, which also looks swollen and slightly crooked, and from his mouth, where his lip is split open. He's hunched over, his other arm wrapped around his own middle in a protective grip. 'Please don't let him be hurt any more than this, I can't lose him,' he pleads to a god he doesn't even believe in.

He would beg any deity and any demon for Eddie. His life, his soul, they could have it all if it meant Eddie would be okay.

It's not healthy or well-adjusted or whatever psych-speak there is to say that what Steve feels for Eddie might be fucked up in its intensity. It's not like Steve gives a fuck. He has more important things on his mind.

"Eddie." He wants to say it in a calm and soothing voice, knows that's what Eddie needs to feel safe, but all he manages is a broken whisper, his fear ringing in every syllable.

"Hi baby," his boyfriend says with a smile that turns into a pained grimace before it's fully formed, "sorry for barging in on you like this but I didn't know where else to go."

It breaks Steve's heart to see Eddie like this. The man he knows, the man he loves, is larger than life, with a big grin and an even bigger heart. He shouldn't look like this, so small and still trying to make himself even smaller, and the only thing Steve can do right now is open his arms and let him sink into his body so Steve can hide him away from a world that doesn't deserve someone like Eddie.

Eddie falls right into him, and Steve wraps him in a careful hug until Eddie pushes even closer, obviously needing to be held tight enough that he can fall apart without losing a piece of himself.

They're still on Steve's doorstep, out in the open for anyone to see, but he doesn't care. Steve has a feeling that he won't be in this shithole of a town much longer anyway.

"Oh baby, it's okay, I got you, you're safe here," he coos into Eddie's ear. He wants to ask what happened. He wants to ask what (who) did this and rush upstairs to grab his bat and bash in the skull of whatever (whoever) did this to him.

A pained whimper is all the warning he gets before the weight in his arms grows heavier as Eddie lets himself crumble and break, trusting Steve to hold him through it.

Steve does, almost carrying Eddie to the couch and pulling him onto his lap once they're there, never letting go of him, not even for a second. Once they're both settled, Steve continues to just hold Eddie as he continues to tremble in Steve's arms, silent sobs tearing through his body.

It takes a long time before Eddie slowly lifts his head from where it's nestled against Steve's neck. "I'm sorry," he says again, as if it was ever a hardship for Steve to have Eddie in his arms. As if it's his fault that they live in a world with sharp teeth that likes to sink them into anything soft.

"Don't be, none of this is your fault. Whoever did this to you should be sorry." He doesn't add that they'll be sorry if he has anything to say about it, because he knows that would upset Eddie. That's why Steve keeps those ugly things away from him.

Eddie laughs humorlessly. "I'm pretty sure the only thing they're sorry for is not finishing the job. Some days I think the next time will be the last. That this time they will finish it, finish me. I'm pretty sure that if I don't get out of here soon, I'm going to die here, Steve."

And that's... Steve knows deep down that that's the truth. It's not Eddie being dramatic, like the time he fell to the floor as if Steve had mortally wounded him by refusing to watch the thing with him for the tenth time. It's Eddie speaking a truth that Steve has been trying to hide from them both for months.

Steve knows it's time to make a choice. For himself and for Eddie. For them. Either they leave this town, tonight, or they may never leave it again. Not alive. Because where one goes, the other follows, and Steve knows he can't protect Eddie forever from the hate and violence that bled into the heart of this town long before either of them were born.

"If we leave now, we can be in Indiana before midnight," Steve hears himself say, the decision already made, because the alternative is blood and pain and sorrow.

The kids graduated a few months ago and are about to leave for college. Robin, Nancy and Jonathan are long gone, many miles and just a phone call away. It doesn't matter where they go, any place would be better than here. They have nothing to lose but each other.

"Are you saying what I think you're saying?"

"What I'm saying," Steve replies, "is that we can pack up my car right now and be on the highway in about an hour. It's not far to Indy from there. Or Chicago. Hell, if you still wanna go to California, we can do that. I don't care, Eddie. As long as it's with you, we could go to the moon and I'd be happy."

Dark brown eyes search his, one still so swollen Steve wonders if Eddie can see anything with it, the other bloodshot but still beautiful.

"You would do that? Just up and leave everything behind. For me?"

Steve wonders how someone as bright as Eddie (because grades don't make you smart, they both know that) could sometimes be so dense.

"There's nothing I wouldn't do for you." It's not a grand declaration of his undying love, no poetic words as Eddie would find them. Just the simple truth of his irrevocable devotion.

Another searching look before Eddie climbs off his lap and back to his feet. He holds out his hand for Steve to take, and when he does, Eddie pulls him to his feet to kiss him. It's hard, a desperate, hungry edge to it, raw like the blood Steve tastes from the cut in Eddie's lip.

Eddie's lips are red when he pulls away, blood staining them like lipstick. "You even let me pick the music while we drive?"

Wondering if his grin looks as bloodstained and wild as Eddie's, Steve teases, "I wouldn't go that far."

Eddie's eyes (at least the one Steve can see) finally sparkle again, and his grin softens to a gentle smile as he cups Steve's cheek and wipes the blood from his lips. "I love you, Steve Harrington."

"I love you too. You have no idea how much."

"I think I'm starting to."

It's Steve's turn to smile softly at Eddie, pressing a kiss into his palm. "Believe me, this is just the tip of the iceberg."

Eddie's grin turns wolfish at Steve's words, breaking the solemn mood. "Just the tip? I think I heard that one before, big boy."

"You're a menace."

Another kiss, another promise ("I'm your menace"), and then they're almost running to Steve's room, hastily packing only what they consider absolutely necessary. After that, they go to Eddie's new trailer to do the same and leave a message for Wayne, explaining what happened and promising to call as soon as possible.

Then they're off, flying down the highway in Steve's car, and when Eddie reaches for the radio, Steve lets him. As if there had ever been any doubt that Steve was going to let Eddie choose the music for every single day of their life together.

With one hand on the wheel and the other arm wrapped around Eddie's shoulder, Steve feels like he's right where he belongs.

#steddie #steddie fanfiction #steddielovemonth #steddiesongfics #steve harrington #eddie munson #stranger things fanfiction #day 21 #love is letting him pick the music #my writing

[greenthena]

Metatron is the Murder Hornet

Hear me out. The Metatron is a bitch no matter what. Way back before the bookshop burned, he was a manipulative twat to Aziraphale, but we only ever saw him as a Wizard of Oz style giant floating head. So when we meet The Metatron's corporation is S2 E6, we assume that this is the man behind the curtain, yes? This is the "heavenly" authority who stands between God and the rest of the angels. Are you with me so far? So tell me, why is he wearing Hell's color palette? Black topcoat over a black (or at least very dark gray) sport jacket. Even his shirt has black stripes. His tie is black with his signature sapphire blue sigil design. You know why? Because The Metatron is a demon. Now that I've probably pissed off about half of the fandom, let's dive in.

I'm going to accept that the corporeal form of The Metatron that we meet in S2 E6 is the man behind the curtain. But I'm wondering if, in the same way that the Wizard of Oz floating head spectacle is just a projection the actual wizard (a two-penny magician from Kansas), the Floating Head Monstrosity (FHM) is a projection The Metatron has rigged up rather than The Metatron himself. Essentially, the FHM is the projected "essence" of the asshat with whom Aziraphale spoke before the bookshop fire, the same one who wanted to discipline Gabriel and strip him of his memories. And if it is merely a projection, like the Wizard of Oz floating head, the man behind the curtain is likely in a different physical space.

If The Metatron can control the FHM remotely that suggests that he (the corporeal form or spiritual essence of the Metatron) isn't necessarily stationed in Heaven. Perhaps he can't even get into Heaven, but has managed to project his presence there to manipulate the Heavenly Host throughout the course of history.

Sidestep along with me while I take a quick detour. I promise it's relevant and necessary to understand the implications of The Metatron's arrival in Soho. (But I'm a demon. I might be lying.) Good Omens relies heavily on mirroring* as a narrative technique. One of the most obvious places we see this structure is in character sets: Crowley and Aziraphale, Newt and Anathema, Shadwell and Tracy, Nina and Maggie, Gabriel and Beelzebub. The character sets function as mirrors of one another (angel and demon, witch and witchfinder), while simultaneously reflecting other character sets in the story (Nina and Maggie reflect Crowley and Aziraphale, etc.) But we also see it repeatedly through plot structure--the pair of 1941 flashbacks in S1 and S2; the way S2 begins with Azirphale moving toward Crowley and ends with him pulling away. My personal favorite reflected imagery in the whole damn show is when Aziraphale shields Crowley from the first rain in Eden and Crowley shields Aziraphale from the celestial hailstorm Before the Beginning.

Alright, let's re-route back to Soho, to The Metatron's introduction in S2 E6 and how it embodies mirrored structure. The first shot we get of The Metatron in Soho in S2 E6 is when he's buying a cup of coffee from Nina. He's not actually identified as The Metatron in this scene, and Nina just views him as a regular customer. Next, we see him enter the bookshop and approach the Archangels, none of whom seem to know who he is. In fact Michael just assumes he's a human, tries to shoo him away, and even asks him, "And who are you?" The Metatron never gives his name; instead he presses the angels, "You don't know me?" He then addresses Crowley, "What about you, demon? Do you know me?" It's at this juncture that Crowley identifies him as the big giant floating head, and Aziraphale, in a rush of comprehension shouts, "Oh, The Metatron!"

This scene's other half is the introduction of Bildad the Shuhite in the Job flashback sequence. Crowley presents himself to Job and Sitis, who do not recognize him. When questioned about who he is, he says to Sitis, "You tell me." Sitis proceeds to identify as him Bildad the Shuhite. Crowley shrugs and agrees to the suggestion. This mirroring of dialog shows us that in both scenarios, there's deception in the presented identity. Just as we can't trust that Bildad the Shuhite is who is says he is, we similarly can't trust The Metatron's identity at face value.

When it comes right down to it, The Metatron is a pretty sketchy character. During his S1 interaction with Aziraphale, our angel doesn't even know who he is. The Metatron has to introduce himself as the Voice of God, a go-between, if you will, whom Aziraphale, in all his ageless time in the universe, has never even met or heard of. Dodgy? You betcha. When we see him in the Gabriel trial sequence during S2, he's just one of the several floating heads overseeing the progress of Armageddon Round Two. We're able to gloss over the fact that he's presented as a floating head fairy, because all the angels appear as floating heads in this sequence. However, unlike Uriel, Michael, Saraquel, and Gabriel, we never see The Metatron interact with the other angels in anything resembling a corporeal form.

So with this evidence, let's return to mirroring structure as a narrative device: a Clue to point us to the crux of the deception that The Metatron is performing. But to get there, we'll need to look at the reflected plot beat for context.

At the end of S2 E5, Crowley needs to get into Heaven to access information about Gabriel. Problem is, since he's a demon, he can't just waltz into the Heaven-Hell-evator and go to the up. He needs an angel to escort him, so he tricks our beloved Inspector Constable Muriel into arresting him: "I'm a demon with knowledge of a crime against Heaven. I demand that you arrest me!" Crowley uses the art of deception to sneak his way into the Heavenly hive.

Once in Heaven, when Muriel starts to fret that she's been tricked and will get in trouble for bringing a demon into Heaven, Crowley tells her, "Angels are like bees, fiercely protective of their hive if you're trying to get inside. Once you're in....I mean....is it even faintly possible that an unauthorized demon might be just wandering around in Heaven unescorted? Bees." Muriel then worries over Crowley's outfit, telling him he looks like a murder hornet, so Crowley changes into his most wonderful and excellent angel disguise.

Still with me? Have a gold star to match Crowley's nail polish.

Crowley's gambit to get into Heaven is a clever tactic, no doubt, and necessary for the final beats of the narrative. But I believe it's also there as the first half of a mirrored plot point that we will see play out in S3. Ya see, Crowley's not a murder hornet. He doesn't infiltrate Heaven to plunder their proverbial food stores or to destroy the hive. He does his quick bit of reconnaissance and is on his way. I think Crowley's ploy ultimately functions as foreshadowing for the real murder hornet: The Metatron.

To get his full essence into Heaven, his spiritual body and not just his projection, The Metatron needs an angelic escort. That's why he's so insistent that Aziraphale joins him on his journey up to Heaven. He needs an angel--one he perceives as an easy target--to break him into the hive. And Aziraphale fits the bill. He's vulnerable, having been implicated in the business with Gabriel, which could earn both him and Crowley extreme sanctions, being struck from the Book of Life. So The Metatron coaxes and manipulates Aziraphale to accompany him to Heaven, implicitly reflecting the way in which Crowley manipulated Muriel into arresting him and accompanying him as his Heavenly escort.

Do I still believe that The Metatron manipulates Aziraphale in order to divide the angel and the demon who, when working together, can produce miracles of un-paralleled power. Oh, hell yes! But that's not something only Heaven would want to mitigate. The sheer miracle force Crowley and Aziraphale manifest when working together is a threat to any oppressive structure that wants to consolidate power, and that certainly includes Hell. The fact that The Metatron realizes he can separate the angel and the demon in the same stroke as infiltrating Heaven is icing on the cake.

So there ya go. That's all I've got for today. Is The Metatron a Demon? Honestly, I don't know. But it's too interesting a theory for me to leave it alone.

*Please note, I'm intentionally using the term mirroring rather than chiastic structure to make this analysis. I deliberated for a while, but decided that it'd be a little loosey-goosey in this situation. So, yes, I am aware of chiastic structure and it's use in Good Omens, I just don't think this quite matches up.**

#good omens #the metatron #metabitch #muriel #anthony j crowley #aziraphale #heaven and hell

[reve-writes]

—why are you at the wake? [2]; leon kennedy.

ʚ leon kennedy x reader | resident evil | 2,4k words. ʚ chapter one. | he wishes he can hate you, but when push comes to shove, he can't help but come to your aid anyway. ʚ non-canon timeline, loosely based on leon's mission to save ashley but most of the details are made-up; injuries; violence; profanity; reader is morally grey (?); suicidal ideation. ʚ a/n long notes from me at the end if you want to read through it.

“We can rest up here. Wait for evac.”

Leon closes the door behind Ashley after she enters. The room is not too big—enough to have space for himself, but also small enough for him to keep an eye on the President's daughter. There are windows for quick escape, covered by grimy curtains that shield them from view, just in case any infected villagers wander this far out.

“Are we safe, Leon?”

The blond girl is shivering. The two of them are drenched from head-to-toe. The rain outside doesn't look like it's letting up anytime soon, too. They're alive. A little cold, but alive. That's all that matters to Leon for now.

“Yeah. We're fine.”

A beat barely passes after he finishes reassuring her when the door swings open with a hard thud. Ashley lets out a startled shriek. Leon has his handgun ready and aimed at the figure stumbling inside. He curses under his breath, already standing to shield Ashley from the doorway.

You slump forward to the floor, the door closes behind you with a quiet click. Breathing heavily, you look up, thinking that you've stepped one foot into death's door. Maybe you've chosen the wrong house. Maybe you've stumbled into a hostile and they're ready to hack you down with an axe.

You blink the rainwater out of your eyes. It doesn't take longer than a second for you to recognise him.

Your posture loosens, shoulders slumping as you heave against the door. Your pistol clatters from your hand, freeing it to push against the blooming red wound on your side.

“Hey,” you stutter out, breathing still very laboured, but you try to sound casual, as if you're not potentially bleeding out to death on some filthy hardwood floor. “Just—give me a second. I'll get out of your hair.”

“Who are you?”

You don't recognise the girl. You assume she's his mission.

“It's okay,” Leon answers for you. His gun is returned to its holster. “We know each other.”

Know is an understatement. You know each other, yes, but also so much more than that. You know the brand of shampoo he has in his bathroom. He knows how you like to take your beverage. You cut the bread crust from his toast for breakfast. He lets you take the olives from his dish because you love them. You haven't eaten an olive in years because it reminds you of him.

“Co-worker?” the girl asks.

“Was.”

Past tense.

“Hi.” You wave meekly towards the girl and tell her your name. She tells you to call her Ashley. You dart your eyes to Leon. Even though he's silent, you can sense the anticipation in his pose, as if he's expecting you to just go and shoot Ashley the way you did to Tracy.

Sighing, you kick your pistol towards him. It skids surprisingly smoothly over the floor, landing just beside his boots. “Calm down, Leon. I don't intend to kill her.”

He stares at the pistol for a second, recognising the carving along its grip. Your initials. He remembers being the one who scratched them into the wooden material. His glare returns to you.

You're a walking contradiction. You left him back then, bid him farewell so coldly without much of an explanation. There was so much blood. The blood of the one he was supposed to protect—the two of you were supposed to protect. He didn't understand until he was told that your loyalty had defected.

He still doesn't understand why you changed your mind as easy as turning the palms of your hand. Doesn't understand why you abandoned him. It frustrates him. That frustration bears fruits of anger. The anger burns with so much hatred for you.

He realises that he, too, is a walking contradiction. He hates you for what you've done. He hates you for what you didn't do. The hatred grows everyday, but it grows along with the longing to see you again. It tries and fails to grow over all the love he has for you. All the love he doesn't know where to put now.

“Do you have a death wish?” Leon sneers. “I told you to stay away. You can't help yourself, can you? Always so stubborn.”

Ashley looks taken aback by the hostility. For all the time she's known him, he has been nothing but kind. A reassuring presence.

“If I had known you were in here,” you hissed. “I wouldn't have entered. Believe me, I'm not purposely trying to seek out the person who wants me dead.”

You inhale, tightening your jacket around you. “I'll take my leave.”

“That's what's best for the both of us.”

You push yourself off the ground, despite the tremble in your legs. A surge of light-headedness wash over you and you fall, barely catching yourself with your hands. Leon doesn't even think before he surges towards you, already placing a hand on your shoulders. His eyebrows knit together.

“Fuck,” you curse, swallowing hard. Your face is blanched. You clench your eyes shut in an attempt to recenter yourself.

“What's wrong?” His voice is gentle. His eyes scan over you to analyse the situation. “Dammit, ___. What's wrong?”

“Fine,” you breathe out, biting your lip. “Nothing's wrong.”

“Something is clearly fucking wrong,” he mutters, tugging on your jacket, noticing the unmistakable slick red of blood. “Jesus, ___. What happened?”

You lean back against the door, letting him tug the jacket off of you. You huff out a laugh. “You used to ask before taking my clothes off.”

He doesn't laugh. Not even a snicker. “What happened? — Ashley, can you find any medical supplies?”

Ashley immediately starts moving around the room, pulling out drawers haphazardly.

“Come on, it was funny.”

He says your name with a heavy emphasis. “I can't help you if you don't tell me what's wrong.”

“You don't want to help me, Leon,” you sigh out. “I killed Tracy, remember?”

This is pathetic. You've accepted your death way before it happens. Maybe, years ago, you would be more willing to put up a fight, struggle like hell for just one more day. But you're tired. So fucking exhausted of the missions and the guilt slowly eats you alive.

Leon pushes up your shirt slightly, trying to locate the source of the wound. He's so angry at you for giving up that his hands shake. He's biting down on his teeth so hard his jaw is starting to hurt. You can't die. He won't let you, even when you're so willing to walk yourself to your grave. He won't let that happen. He can't.

What will he do with all this hatred then? All this love?

His hand is smeared with your blood when he places them under your chin, turning your face towards him.

“Tell me what happened right now.” His eyes frantically search your face. “Or — or I'll never forgive you. Not if you die right here, right now. I won't ever forgive you.”

His voice shakes. He's making a demand but it comes out as a desperate plea instead. Ashley kneels beside you, setting down a tin box cramped with medicines and first-aid supplies.

You let out a scoff. “You of all people know I deserve to die right here, right now.”

“Stop wasting time, ___.” He's begging now. Panic sinks into his bones as all the colour drains drom your face. “Let me — You have to let me save you. I can't—”

His vision blurs. He takes a deep breath and blink the pooling tears away. “Please.”

Stop. You want to yell at him. If anyone should be pleading for anything, it was you. With your heart in your throat, you whisper, “Okay.”

“Okay,” he clears his throat. “Okay, what's the damage?”

“Knife,” you wheeze out. “A cut, I think, on my side. There — Stop looking at me like that. It's not as bad as it looks. I've just been bleeding out for a while, trying to get away.”

He's capable. It's not a handful of times he's ever had to patch himself or you up from various injuries. His hand works swiftly, disinfecting and suturing the laceration, ignoring your little quips and sounds of protest. He keeps his focus, even when everything feels so unsteady around him.

It's not until your wound is dressed in bandages and the bleeding ceases that he lets out a relieved sigh. The tension in his shoulders melts away.

“You really do have a death wish.”

One corner of your lips quirks up. “You have no idea.”

“Don't die, ____. Let me hate you in peace. You owe me at least this much.”

“You can still do that when I'm six feet under.”

“I can't do that, so” —his jaw tenses— “don't die.”

You only hum in response.

“I mean it.”

You roll your eyes, biting back a smile. “I'll try not to.”

He moves around the room, gathering blankets and cushions to bring towards where you're seated. He's unsure if he can move you without reopening your wound and he doesn't want to risk it. Not when you've lost so much blood. The silence stretches long, accompanied by the constant pitter-patter of the rain splattering on the roof over your head.

“Where's Ashley?”

“Other room,” Leon replies. “She looked like she was going to throw up.”

“Understandable.”

It's silent againt. He props a pillow behind you and spreads a blanket over you. You scrunch your nose.

“Smells like shit.”

“Half the smell is your fault.”

You roll your eyes, trying to focus in the earthy soaked-dirt scent the rain brings instead of the metallic tang left behind or the stench of the old blanket covering you.

“Thank you, Leon.”

“Why did you do it?”

He blurts the question out as you're expressing your gratitude. The room is quiet enough that you still catch his question. His gaze falters, moving to scan over the wall to your right instead of directly looking at you.

“Does it matter?” You ask, tasting bitterness on your tongue. “The reason doesn't change the fact that I still did it.”

“That's the thing.” Leon walks over to where your gun lies on the floor to pick it up. “It doesn't seem like you want to do it. Hell, if there's one damn thing I know, it's that you cared for her. So, help me understand this. Why did you do it?”

His thumb traces over the wooden grip, turning the pistol over in his hand as he walks up to you. He stops at the ridges of your initials, turning to look at you questioningly.

You gulp. “It's — It's the same one.”

The same one he gave you all those years ago. The same one that got you out of Raccoon City. The same one you kept using mission after mission since then.

“This is what I mean.” Leon sets the pistol down by you, taking his place to sit next to you, facing you. “If it didn't matter to you, you wouldn't have kept this.”

Your throat feels dry.

“I keep running it over in my head, trying to pick out what's real and what's fake,” he admits, grabbing your hand in his. His calloused fingers rub over your hand, “and I can't. Everything feels real.”

Because it is real. Can you tell him, though? You don't want to put that on him—the burden of someone's life.

“From Raccoon City. Then, everything that we were after that up until—” He lets it hang in the air. Your ultimate betrayal. “You can't tell me everything was a fucking act and expect me to believe it.”

You want to reach out, desperate to smooth the creases on his forehead, brush your thumb over the plump of his lips. He's so close—the closest he's ever been in the past five years.

He's not stupid. You know he's not. He knows none of this adds up. You were with him for over a year since your faithful meeting in Raccoon City. You were recruited by the government together. You survived together. You even—

It was never official, but you had something. He had told you he loved you and you had said it back.

Then, you left. You said you were working for someone else. Always had the whole time. It didn't make sense.

“They made me choose.”

Your answer comes after a long silence. Too long that Leon has already given up and gotten lost in his own head. He's not sure if he's hearing you correctly, not sure if you've even spoken in the first place. He blinks, searching your eyes.

You clear your throat. “Either they kill you or i kill her.”

“What are they going to do? Huh?” He scoffs. “I would've been able to—”

“That's not a risk I wanted to take,” you retort. “You're capable, yes, but you can't expect me to gamble on your life.”

“You shouldn't have made that choice for me,” he snaps, swallowing harshly. “She died because you were a coward.”

“Yes.”

“Her death is on me, too.”

“I pulled the trigger.” You're reliving it now and it does nothing but worsen your headache. “It's on me.”

There's no taking it back now. You'll have to tell him the whole truth and so you did. How your employer 'recruited' you as you were escorting Tracy Miller, how they threatened your life, and when it didn't work, they threatened his instead. You've been stuck working with them since. Being labelled a traitor by the government. It's not ss if you have much of a choice.

You're blinking away tears as you close out your explanation. “They sent me here to investigate whatever's happening here. I didn't know you were here until I landed. If I'd known—”

His attentiveness spurs you on as you're stringing sentence after sentence together frantically, spilling out everything that has gone unsaid the past five years.

“Do you regret it?” He asks after a beat of silence passes.

“Every single day, but I would make the same choice again.”

He sighs. “We were a team, you know. Maybe we could have done something if you had talked to me.”

You bite your lip. “I'm sorry.”

“I know you are.” He tilts your chin up towards him. “Just don't ever do that again. Don't put my life above anyone else's.”

You pull back, turning away from his gaze. “I'll try.”

He grabs your hand. “It's okay. It'll be okay. Let's just — leave this all behind, yeah?”

Your eyes widen, some of the weight on your shoulders suddenly sloughing off. “What are you saying?”

“We should go. Somewhere Asia, maybe? Disappear from this mess,” he says it with too much certainty. It sounds easier than it actually is. “Leave this all to rot. It'll just be us.”

“Can we?”

He nods resolutely.

[ ]

i'm the first to admit there are so many plotholes in this fic and the timeline is confusing, but basically: raccoon city incident > one year into government recruitment is when reader's forcefully recruited & ordered to kill tracy > for 5 years after that. reader works for the same people who recruited them still. > six years since raccoon city, reader crosses path with leon (who's trying to save ashley graham). reader met leon during raccoon city incident and they were inseparable ever since, becoming lovers. also obviously sherry isn't really a part of this bc leon joined the secret agent to protect her. the ending won't work if she exists. ive been sitting on this for a couple of days because i don't know how to properly end fics?? i imagine reader and leon packing things up (after getting ashley home) for a rural town far far away from all the resident evil chaos, living their best domestic life, trying to heal themselves from their past. i realise i shouldve planned this better because having the reader murder someone is SUPER HARD to justify when writing this part. i wrote myself into a corner. i kept thinking that there's no way in hell reader would get forgiveness??? the titles for the two part are taken from taylor swift's my tears ricochet. it's an angsty song about betrayal. that's it from me. thank you for reading!

#leon kennedy x reader #—ki writes 🍯

[barbwritesstuff]

After playing the Thicker Than demo I can't help picturing the newly titled Blackwell still learning to navigate vampire politics asking the LI

"Okay I know I'm still new to this whole undead thing, so I may be off base here, but from what I've seen of the Night Court and how things run. It's sounding more like the entire thing is just a really old Pyramid scheme. Is that just me or have others noticed it too?"

Tracy: "That's an unfair comparison to make. Most pyramid schemes are fairer than this shit-fucking-show."

Marcel: "Don't say the word 'pyramid' around here. I'm worried the king might decide to bring those back into fashion."

Erin: "Yeah. It's a pyramid alright, and it's about time we flipped it."

Nathan: "It's not a pyramid. It's a pit. And the deeper you go, the darker it gets."

Iliya: "да. But, on plus side, the parties are good."

Ravima: "Vampire societies might seem momentous... but even the grandest structure will crumble and fall. My advice? Stand back and enjoy the view. The collapse of an undead dynasty is a show most people have to wait millennia to see. You and I, darling? We've got front row seats."

(Freya, Minjo, and Chris were excluded from this because they're not part of vampire society... even a little bit).

[wardenparker]

Vampire Waltz - ch 6

Max Phillips x female reader Co-written with @absurdthirst

A mysterious inheritance, sprawling mansion, eccentric roommates, friendly bat, and coven of New England witches are the newest chapter of your life after being unceremoniously dumped and kicked out by your boyfriend. For Max, the biggest change in his life is you, and what exactly he's going to do about the fact that he is stuck living with you as long as his sire continues to punish him for that incident at his last office...

Rating: Mature, but this blog is always 18+ Word Count: 14.6k Warnings: *Blanket warnings for this series: deceased parents, cursing, food, blood and blood drinking, depictions and references to abusive relationships. Anxiety and trauma responses. Self-worth issues.* brief mentions of medical procedures/accidents, protective Max, imaginary friend nostalgia, telephone anxiety, secrets revealed. Summary: An important conversation with Max takes more sharp and unexpected turns that a labyrinth and is followed by even more revelations from another source. Notes:  Again, deep apologies for the erratic posting this week. I swear we're back on track now!

Ch 1 ~ Ch 2 ~ Ch 3 ~ Ch 4 ~ Ch 5

The developing rhythm of the days is overtaken with masquerade planning, and it occurs to you somewhere in the first few days of going through decorations and flyer wording with Allison, Tracy, and Candance, that what you're doing here isn't that far off from the life of one of the Gilded Age hostesses that you're imitating with your party theme. Tonight is for relaxing, however, as Dancing with the Stars night has come around again. There was a lot of debating back and forth with yourself but here you are standing outside of Max's room at ten minutes before eight and shaking in your stylish yet affordable boots while you knock – unsure if you're hoping that he's been looking forward to tonight or if you'll be surprised if he even gave it any thought.

There is no answer after the first knock, and his door is closed, so you're left with a dilemma: try again and be disappointed when it seems as though you're being ignored...or just give up after one try and go watch your show alone like you would have done otherwise. Like you would have done before Max watched with you last week and shared a part of himself with you on that couch. Before he insisted on being your escort to the masquerade. Before he danced with you in the ballroom. Before you think he was about to kiss you. It's the culmination of everything that gives you the smallest semblance of hope, and you knock again – a little louder – only to receive no answer all over again.

With your head hanging a little lower, you take yourself to the sitting room alone and turn on the tv.

******

"Cutting it close Max." Mrs. Taylor tuts at him as Max rushes around the kitchen.

"I know, I know." He hisses as he tries to make sure the hot chocolate has the perfect ratio of cream to chocolate. Nearly burning his blood that is warming up in the process. Burnt blood stinks and he can't waste the few minutes that he has before the show starts trying to air out the kitchen. "I couldn't watch it with her without snacks, though."

"She liked the tray you brought up last week that much?" The housekeeper makes no effort to hide her smile as she cleans up the kitchen from prepping tomorrow morning's breakfast. She found a new baked French toast recipe that soaks overnight that she thinks you will love.

“She ate it.” That is a high praise in his mind because all this food tastes like shit to him. The point for him is to make you feel good.

"Then you had better get going." The clock on the wall reads three minutes until the hour and she smiles privately as Max hurries to finish when he realizes the time.

"I know, I know." As soon as the hot chocolate is on the tray, along with his own cup of blood, Max is out of sight. Using that speed to make it from the kitchen in the basement to the floor where you are in less than a few seconds. Having to take extra time to keep the hot chocolate from spilling or the snacks from rattling around too much. "Good, I made it." He huffs like he’s out of breath when he comes into the sitting room to find you already curled up on the sofa like before.

“Max?” Even though you practically jump three feet in the air when he appears — you didn’t hear him coming — the smile on your face is a complete betrayal of how glad you are to see him. With his tray of snacks in hand Once more, you immediately scoot over on the sofa to make room for him. “I…went to knock on your door to see if you wanted to watch with me again. When you didn’t answer…” you shrug instead of finishing your thought, mostly just relieved to have been wrong.

“Sorry.” Max shoots you a small grin. “I was down in the kitchen. I realized about ten minutes before that I hadn’t figured out the snack situation.”

“I wasn’t sure if after…the other night…” It was two days ago that you’d danced in the ballroom together and somehow you could still swear that you feel his hand on your back. But that’s not to be dwelled on, and you shake your head to pitch the thought away. “Never mind. Come and sit down?”

“Gladly.” Max sets the tray down and picks up the hot chocolate to hand to you. “Who’s your money on tonight?”

“Jason Mraz did really well last week, but the Marvel actress might be a ringer. It’s hard to tell if it’s that, or just that she’s young and picking it up quickly.” The smell of the cocoa is already a sense memory locked away in your mind, and you inhale happily before telling yourself it’s far too hot to take a sip right away. Mrs. Taylor had made you cocoa one afternoon this past week but — you hate to admit — it didn’t hold a candle to Max’s. “Latin Night is always fun, though. Somebody’s Cha Cha is bound to go wildly wrong.”

“Cha Cha is so hard to do when you don’t have natural rhythm.” Max snorts and waggles his brows at you playfully. “Not everyone has it like me and you.”

It feels like he’s flirting with you — if you can even remember what flirting feels like anymore — and before you can even blink your cheeks are flushed hot in response. “It’s not fair, ya know,” you mumble sheepishly. “My competitions were filmed. But…after you said it…I looked for yours. They weren’t.”

“No, they wouldn’t have been.” Max smirks slightly, pleased that you had been searching for his own videos. “Romanian Ballroom Dancing competitions aren’t filmed.” He snorts. “Kind of like Russian Ballet practices I guess.”

“Is that in case Dracula shows up?” You snort slightly at your own joke and take a first sip of the cocoa he’s brought you. It’s just as amazing as you remember and you hum happily at the rich, creamy taste.

He chuckles and shrugs. “Maybe, you never know. Or maybe it’s not filmed since vampires couldn’t show up on old film? Since it was processed with silver back in the day? Tradition, I guess.”

“Ballroom dancing vampires.” Another soft laugh escapes you and you reach for a few pieces of popcorn from the bowl he brought. “That would be a sight to see. Imagine a vampire doing a Viennese waltz? That sounds like it would be the most elegant thing in the world.”

There’s a moment where Max considers telling you. Like this is the segue into the ‘I’m a vampire’ conversation that he wants him to have with you. “Very elegant.” He hums. “As if they are gliding.” Call him a coward, but he’s gotten used to your warmth and he doesn’t want to have you terrified of him just yet.

“Maybe you should be a vampire for the masquerade, then.” It’s bold, at least for you. To joke and tease and flirt like this. For so many years this kind of behavior simply wasn’t allowable in your life. But with Max — and even with Eddie and Renee and everyone else in this house — it’s like the old parts of your personality are starting to come back to life.

“That will be easy.” Max grins. “Does that mean you’ll be the Vampire Bride?” He asks. “Big, blood red gown with a veil?”

“I bet I can find an old wedding gown at a thrift store and get some red fabric dye at the craft shop in town.” It sounds silly and light, and like the kind of thing that would have made you laugh a long time ago. What you won’t do is let yourself have any illusions about it meaning anything to Max. Eventually you’ll have to admit to yourself that you have a crush on him, but not just yet.

“You should ask Mrs. Taylor to take you to the dress room.” Max snorts. “Use one of Ms. Brown’s dresses.”

“There is a dress room?” Suddenly this knowledge is far more important than the fact that the show is starting, and your eyes widen at Max. “Is that where the dresses we wore last week came from?”

“I assume so.” Max shrugs. “One of the storage rooms in the attic is where Mrs. Taylor has everything.”

“This house is insane.” You huff, shaking your head and turning to the tv for a moment before looking back at Max. “Everybody seems to be very into vampires around here. I think it sounds fun for costumes. A—as long as you do.”

“No reason not to be into vampires.” Max snorts with a small smirk.

“I guess I’ll have to see what’s in the dress room.” Returning his smile seems so much easier than you had thought it could be, even just a few days ago.

He chuckles and nods towards the tv. “Op, here’s our first contestants on ‘Who’s Gonna Twist An Ankle’.” He adopts a smarmy TV persona voice just to see if you will laugh. It earns a snort and a giggle from you, and you pull your sweater around your shoulders and shift unconsciously closer to him. He isn’t a warmth so much as he feels safe, which is a welcome change from the brash teasing of the first few days of knowing him. “Christ, look at those heels.” Max winces when he sees the clunky shoes on the female performer. “She’s gonna break an ankle, not twist one.”

"I always liked the sequined and bedazzled sneakers on the swing dancers at my studio in high school." You muse, comfortable enough to get lost in a memory while you sip your cocoa beside him. "I swore up and down that I was going to start competing in swing, too. Just to get some."

“Those are cool looking.” He nods as he watches the screen, hyper aware of you beside him and he’s happy your pulse is nice and slow. You’re relaxed. “You know, you could always start up again. You have the perfect practice area.”

"I have nothing but time, I guess." Right now you spend all your time reading, with the girls from the coven, or planning the masquerade. You really have become like an upper-class Gilded Age lady in no time flat. "But..." Glancing over at him, you find his attention on the tv and not on you, which makes you bury your face behind the mug again. "Lessons are always...they're awkward unless you have a good partner."

“So you find yourself a good partner.” He makes it sound like the easiest thing in the world and it honestly is. It just requires you to ask him.

The moment of quiet that stretches between you is where you struggle with yourself. Personal inner strength hasn't exactly been a strong suit of yours in the last few years – or more – and you don't really know if he'll accept if you ask him anyway. Being so afraid of the question means that you start to shift nervously beside him until finally the show's first commercial break blasts across the screen and you scrub both of your eyes with the meat of your palms. It doesn't have to be romantic. You don't even know if it should be romantic at all. But you know you won't enjoy dancing with anybody else nearly as much. Not if the other night was any indication. "If you're too busy or you don't want to find a studio with me, I would totally understand..." you manage, not quite able to look him in the eyes. "But dancing with you was...it was really natural."

“It was, wasn’t it?” Max grins and turns to face you. “Like it was meant to be.”

“You…don’t mind?” That surprises you more than it probably should. Especially because he actually sounds happy about it.

"Dancing with you?" He shakes his head and rolls his eyes. "Why would I mind?" He asks seriously. "It was the most fun I've had in years."

“I’m just…” When you blow out a breath it feels a lot more self-deprecating than you mean it to be. You were only trying to state a fact. “Not usually people’s first choice.”

"Not people's first choice or not your ex's first choice?" Max asks, wanting to know why you think so lowly of yourself. To see how badly this asshole damaged your self-esteem.

“I already told you.” Curling in on yourself again is instinct, and your eyes drop to the pillow you’ve been holding in your lap. “The night I met him I had gotten stood up at a bar. So it’s clearly not just him.”

"Do you know who stood you up?" You had said it was a blind date, so maybe it’s one of those issues like 'fuck the dude got into a car accident' or something.

“It was a friend of a friend. Some guy that my roommate was taking her art history elective with that she said was so cute and so my type.” You shrug again, burying deeper on yourself. “She said he agreed to it and then dropped off the face of the planet. Stopped coming to class and everything. But…at the time I didn’t care as much. I’d met Derek instead.” Now though…for years now…you’ve wondered time and time again what that guy would have been like and how your life would have been different if he had showed up. “Probably took one look at me through the windows and decided he’d rather drop out than have to have a drink with me.”

Max frowns and shifts in his seat. The memory almost completely obscure and faded through time. There had been other pressing matters, other things that had consumed him that he had completely forgotten about it. He hadn't meant to, but the idea that he was supposed to meet you the day that he had been expelled shakes him to his core.

“What?” The frown on his face makes you frown even more deeply, and the impulse to smooth away the furrow between his eyebrows with your thumbs has to be squelched immediately.

"It's— it's nothing." He shrugs casually, or in a way that is supposed to appear casually. "It's not like your roommate was Shandra Taylor or something."

Now it’s your brow that furrows, the deep ridges marked with confusion. “You knew my roommate?” It’s not impossible, of course. You went to the same college during overlapping years. He could have known Shandra. She was exceptionally outgoing and kind, lots of people knew her.

Max blows out a breath, completely fabricated but he enjoys the little nuances that remind him of human life. “I knew her.” He shakes his head. “You were supposed to meet the blind date at that shitty little bar down from the dorms, right? The ones with the great wings and darts?”

“Bowen’s…” It’s not like it’s a difficult guess, considering that particular bar was a frequent haunt of Vanderbilt students. They notoriously ‘forgot’ to ID so undergrads loved it there.

Max closes his eyes and drops his head into his hand. “In October, that Friday the 13th?” He doesn’t wait for you to answer but he gives a small chuckle. “I promise you I didn’t take one look at you and run away.” He huffs. “That’s the day I was expelled.”

“Oh gods…” The way that idea twists in your gut is haunting, making you feel instantly sick as you shrink back in your seat — a move that accidentally spills cocoa on your sweater and you curse and apologize for the mess as though you’d gotten it on him and not yourself. “Fuck— sorry. I’m so sorry, I—shit—” Your breathing picks up as you start to panic, pulling off your sweater in the process and curling in on yourself on the couch beside him while your mind spirals. It was him. It was Max. He was supposed to meet you. It was Max—

“Hey, hey.” Max doesn’t know how to interpret the fact that you are about to have a panic attack, but he doesn’t like it. He takes you by the shoulders, turning you towards him and ignoring the way you flinch. Looking into your horrified eyes and trying to ignore the way his dead heart clenches, he starts to speak. “Calm down.” He tells you slowly, using his powers of suggestion. “Breathe slowly. In.” He pretends to inhale. “And out.” He slowly exhales even though air does nothing for him. “Everything is fine…”

The calm that washes over you is instant and consuming, even if being told to calm down doesn’t usually help at all. This time it seems to be the magic charm of the whole situation, and you feel yourself relaxing easily in his grip. “I’m sorry…” you murmur, squeezing your eyes shut tight and slumping softly against him with your sweater balled up in your hands. “I just—I’ve spent years wondering what happened…and thinking of it as something awful that happened to me. And that’s so fucking selfish when I finally know what a terrible thing happened to you that day…”

“You didn’t know.” He reminds you quietly. His hand on your arm and stroking the back of it lightly. “You couldn’t have known. Shandra didn’t know what happened.”

“I’m so sorry.” Not a single second of your own unhappiness stands up to the way his life was basically ruined in one fell swoop, and you wish you were brave enough to push past self-consciousness and hug him.

“It’s okay, sweetheart.” Max promises, giving you a vulnerable half smile. ���You didn’t do it. I just wish I hadn’t stood you up that night. I just— I completely blanked out on it.” He admits.

"You had much more important things on your mind." Life changing things. Although now you can't imagine all the ways your life would have been different if you had met that night.

“I still shouldn’t have stood you up.” If he had known then what he knows now, there’s no way he would have missed that date. His thumb rubs over your birthmark gently.

"Sorry." The instinct is immediate once again, and you move to put your sweater back on to cover the birthmark that Derek had hated so much.

“What are you sorry for this time?” Max huffs, smirking at you slightly and not letting you move out of his embrace.

“The—my—I mean—” Letting out an exaggerated sigh at your own very clear trauma responses (you know what they are, you’re self-aware enough to realize), you shake your head when Max doesn’t let go of you. “Derek hated my birth mark,” you explain quietly. “He was completely anti-soulmate. So I got used to covering it. You just…you touched it a second ago. That’s all.”

“Probably because the motherfucker didn’t have one.” Max sneers, his opinion of your ex falling even lower than it had been, and it was in the dirt. It sounds like this asshole wouldn’t even be a man Max would eat. He would just rip his throat out. “Can I see it?” He asks quietly. This is the moment. If you say no, he won’t press. If you say yes, you’ll learn that he’s your soulmate.

“Um…sure, I guess…” It’s just an oddly shaped set of marks in your skin that your mother insisted looked like a clover, but you just always thought it was a little muddled. Maybe roughly diamond shaped if you squint. Not sure why he would care, you turn in your seat to let him see the back of your right shoulder where the marks have sat your whole life.

“There it is.” Max swallows, his mouth suddenly dry when he sees your mark as a human. “Do you think it’s more diamond or clover shaped?” He asks you, tracing it with his finger. “I always thought diamonds because they are expensive.”

“I’ve kind of thought it was more of a diamond but my—” His comment registers just a moment too late and you pause. “Always?”

His eyes watch you carefully as he nods. “Always.” He confirms softly.

“What do you…?” Straightening up again, your head tilts uncertainly.

Max bites his lip and stands up. He knows he will have to show you. Already out of his suit jacket, he starts to unbutton his vest. “Always wondered what they looked like on someone else.” He admits as he shrugs out of it and starts to undo his cufflinks.

“Max…” Watching him undo himself is a level of arousing that you hadn’t expected, but it’s far more confusing because you’re trying to wrap your head around what he’s saying to you.

“If you are disappointed, I’ll understand.” He tells you, wanting you to know that despite the marks that he shares with you, he doesn’t expect you to do anything. Not when you just got away from a monster. Ironic, coming from him.

When his shirt is finally moved aside, your gasp fills the room loudly enough to drown out even the applause on television. “Oh gods…” It’s right there — the relatively small marks look bigger on his skin but they’re unmistakable. Max is wearing your mark. “I—but—how?” You manage, holding your breath and trying to contain yourself so you don’t reach out and touch him without permission. “I lost my soulmate’s marks four years ago. How do you still have mine?”

Here comes the part that you aren’t going to believe. “There’s an explanation for it, but, you’re going to think I’m nuts.” You frown slightly, but you don’t say anything so he continues. “I—uh, I died four years ago. I mean, I was destroyed. And when I was brought back…all my tattoos and shit, scars, they were gone.”

“You…died and were brought back?” Chewing on your bottom lip, you can’t quite fathom what the hell he might mean by that but all that comes to mind is those fast-paced scenes from medical dramas. “Were you…in an accident or something?” It wouldn’t explain how his scars and tattoos are all gone unless…you suppose skin grafts would explain it. But that’s a lot of skin grafts.

“Not exactly.” He gives a wry grin, looking down at you with a small shrug. “I got staked.” It still irritates him how Evan won, but he could admit he got cocky. Made mistakes. At least he was brought back for a second chance.

“Sure. Sure. Of course.” Once it finally registers with you what he’s said, and that he’s decided to make up a story instead of telling you the truth, your heart sinks. The evidence that Max is your soulmate is right there on his skin, but as he buttons his shirt back up you frown that he clearly isn’t taking this seriously. “You were staked but somehow came back. How did I not think of that?”

He can hear the sarcasm in your voice, seeing the way your eyes clearly display your disbelief. “Well, how else do you kill a vampire?”

The way your heart clenches and then deflates is nearly instant. It’s broken without even realizing he had the power to break it. Finally seeing your birthmark on someone else’s skin has been your literal dream — and to be teased about it makes you feel like you should have just stayed in Tennessee with Derek. “Sure.” You murmur, shaking your head in disbelief and aching sadness. “You’re a vampire. Of course.”

“I am a vampire, Queenie.” Max had never flashed his fangs casually since he’s been brought back, and it feels foreign to let them slide down. Exposing the razor-sharp incisors to you.

“Fuck!” Surprised and more than a little scared, the way you jump backward on the couch would easily be called recoiling by anyone else. But it’s more about utter confusion on your part, if you’re honest. Witches exist, yes. And ghosts. And folk magic. But vampires? They were supposed to be one of those things that was fabricated by humans.

“I’m not going to hurt you.” Max’s fangs disappear the second you recoil in horror. Stepping back from you to give you more space. “I just— didn’t want you thinking I was lying.” He sighs, looking down at his shiny loafers and then glancing back up at you. “I wouldn’t lie to you. Not my soulmate.”

“How…how long?” While your mind works to keep up with the information you’ve just been given, your heart aches at the way Max has reacted to your understandable shock. It’s a lot all at once and you’re reeling from overload. But evidence is evidence, and you can’t get much more concrete evidence of vampires being real than having your soulmate be one. “I— want to understand.”

Max keeps his distance, making sure that he doesn’t move. He knows that he can move quicker than you can see, or react to, but this is about making you feel safe. You haven’t run away in terror, so he’s taking that as a good sign. “When I was kicked out of Vanderbilt…the only college that would accept me was in Romania.” He tells you, snorting slightly. “You would think they wouldn’t lean into the legends, but you’d be wrong. The MBA program was run by vampires and I was— well, to graduate, you have to become one.”

“That sounds…simple.” Unexpectedly simple. In all honesty you had expected a long tale about illness or an accident and being offered the chance to pull through. Maybe it’s because of its simplicity that you’re inclined to believe it. It has none of the theatrics of good storytelling which makes it all the more likely to come from real life.

“I guess it does.” Max snorts. “My sire turned me and when I was…staked, he brought me back.” He’s surprised that you are still talking, but maybe it’s not that you don’t completely disbelieve him.

“That…seems less simple?” If you’re going to choose to believe him — which it seems like you are because you aren’t running and something in the back of your head is warming subtly but you can’t explain it for anything in the world. “Staking is supposed to be…it? That’s…in the stories, anyway?” Blowing out a breath, you sigh and trying to resettle yourself. “There are going to be a lot of questions.”

“As far as I knew, it was.” Max admits. “But he could and did bring me back. He’s a powerful vampire.”

“So…you’re…” Breathe. Remember to breathe. “You’re…not alive?” It’s almost an afterthought, the way your mind is starting to connect dots. “I guess…that explains why your hands are always kind of cold. I just figured you had bad circulation.”

“Technically.” He huffs, grinning slightly. “My heart hasn’t beat since I was changed. It won’t…until.”

“Until?” You prompt. That isn’t exactly something you just trail off on.

“There’s something that makes a vampire’s heart beat for a moment.” Max nods, as if that reinforces the statement. “A vampire’s soulmate can make their heart beat for a split second.”

To say you are incredulous would be generous, but the entire situation has you incredulous. Not just him. “I would say that I’ve never heard that before, but I’ve also only ever heard of vampires having soulmates in romance novels.”

“Well…now you have.” He wonders what you are thinking but for once, your eyes aren’t giving away what you are thinking.

“So…what is it?” You ask, shifting on the sofa a little to face him. The show and everything else have been forgotten. The only thing that matters tonight is this conversation.

“What makes our heart beat?” He asks, wondering what you would say to the answer. “A kiss.”

“As simple as that?” Years ago, you might have considered it a cheesy pickup line. Or at least cute, seasonally-themed one. But the story that Allison told you at the bonfire and the fact that Max has fangs are tied together in your mind.

“Simple as that.” He shrugs. “Or so I’ve been told. I don’t know if it’s true or not.” He bites his lip and sighs. “There’s also something else you need to know.”

“More than that you have my mark, you’re apparently a vampire, and you got revived after being staked?” More seems impossible. But considering you’re the daughter of witches living in the mansion of a mystery relative you never met who simply left you everything in her will? Sure. Let’s go for more. “What is it?”

“You know the bat that’s been visiting you?” Max shoves his hands in his pants pockets and shrugs his shoulders slightly, giving you a sheepish look.

“How do you know about that?” You know the girls from the coven haven’t mentioned it, and you haven’t told a soul. It had felt a little too silly to admit to anyone.

“Because…” he shrugs again. “It’s me.”

“It’s a bat.” Somehow this is truly the thing that you can’t wrap your head around, only associating bats with vampires because of the Dracula story — a novel. It isn’t real just like novels about witches aren’t real. The truth is always a bit different than those pages portray.

"Yeah." He nods, "a really cute bat that you call Cutie."

Your eyes widen, mouth falling open, and an instant later you’re sinking deeper into the couch in embarrassment. “That’s…how I’ve ended up in bed…” you murmur, disbelief evident in your voice. “The nights that I could swear I fall asleep on the chaise and then next morning I wake up in bed?”

"Yes." Max can see that you are curling in on yourself and he hates that. "I just— I didn't want you to be uncomfortable." He explains lamely. "I didn't – it wasn't anything, uh, touchy or anything."

It’s almost too much information, the facts at least how they have been presented to you, are working in your mind and clouding a deeply buried instinct of trust. As if the mark on your shoulder that binds the two of you together has reached into your consciousness and turned your mind on to all many of extra possibilities. Composing yourself enough to pick up the remote and turn off the tv, you blow out a puff of air like you’re somehow knocking the dust out of your mind. “I’ve…been reading to you almost every night. The bonfire at Mabon…the night last week when I just made up stories?” Every time you wake up in bed instead of in your chair. Every time he’s snuggled up to you in bat form and trilled happily, he understood every word you said to him. “That means…you saw my birthmark two days ago.”

He nods slowly, keeping his eyes on you as he tries to figure out what the fuck you are thinking. How you are coping with this. "I did." He snorts. "Damn near fell out of the air."

“This is…kind of insane.” Yet, somehow, you don’t actually think he’s lying. That is the strangest part of all.

He decides that the best way to prove this is to prove it. He pulls his hands out of his pockets and winks at you. There's no poof of smoke, no sound. One minute Max the human is standing there, and the next, Max the bat is flapping his wings in the air in front of you.

“Oh my god!” It happens so fast that you barely have time to react, but you cover your mouth with both hands and nearly shriek when your little bat friend is hovering in front of you as clear as day where Max was just standing. “Ohhh gods…it’s…it’s been you this whole time?” You manage to sound insistent and authoritative but only just.

He squeaks and then finds that he would rather talk to you as a human, so in the blink of an eye, Max is standing in front of you again. Rolling his shoulders slightly to work out the feeling of wings as he hums. "It's been me."

“Does anyone else know?” This time when you shift on the couch it’s to make room for him. If witches are real, and folk magic is real, and apparently vampires are too? Then you have questions.

"That I'm a bat? Or that I'm your soulmate?" He asks, unsure of which conversation you want to have.

“Both?” He seems to want to talk about them one at a time, though, so you swallow down your nerves and try to go about this in a rational way. “Vampire first. Soulmate second.”

"Um...." he shrugs, "Everyone?" He tells you. "I've not exactly hidden what I am. As far as the soulmate thing? No one but my sire."

“Everyone knows?” You just can’t believe that, along with everything else. It’s too out there. “Eddie knows? Mrs. Taylor knows?”

Max doesn't know if he had wanted him to tell you everything, but he's not going to lie. "They do." He nods. "Of course they know."

Suddenly the raw beef appetizers and blue rare steaks come back into your mind and you could just slap yourself for not seeing clues earlier. Although, technically? No one could blame you for not assuming your roommate is a vampire. “So you can eat regular food, then? You don’t only…drink blood?”

"I can eat regular food, but I prefer blood." Max grimaces. "Most food, like that orange cake thing the other week, tastes almost rancid. But it’s more palatable if its raw. Or has blood in it."

“Okay…” you nod slightly and are slightly mollified when he sits down beside you on the couch again. “I’m sorry if I’m asking a lot of questions, I’m just trying to wrap my head around this.”

"You can ask me anything." He promises, settling out amongst the cushions and looking at you expectantly. "Hit me with your best shots."

“So…” Of all the three thousand questions in your mind, you try to pick just one to start with and end up floundering until you can pull in the thread of a thought. “You don’t speak to your family anymore but Eddie said you were adopted brothers. Does that…mean he’s a vampire, too?”

"Bingo." Max knew you were smart, that you are so much smarter than you think that you are. "We are 'brothers' because we were turned by the same vampire. But actually, Eddie is older than I am. He was turned in the nineties."

“So it’s just…non-biological family? Like your sire is your new father?” There’s something instinctively human about that, but you won’t say so. Not when you’re trying to get your facts straight.

"Kind of." He nods. "Eddie was, is more human than vampire at times. He was here before I arrived. And our sire thought he could teach me a few things. Like how to be a better human I guess."

“He eats more than you.” It was something that you had noticed and just filled away under likely useless knowledge, but Max never eats much at dinner unless it’s on the raw side and never shares the snacks he brings you. At most he’ll have a drink. A drink. You glance at his mug now and then back at him. “Is that blood?” You ask, extremely tentatively, looking back at the mug again. It’s a black mug with a lid and dark liquid inside so it’s impossible to tell what’s in it.

"Yes." He admits quickly. "Normally we would have ‘wine’ with dinner," he even uses air quotes. "So I would just be a person who preferred a dark cab. But I have to admit that I like those double walled tumblers. Keeps it warmer longer."

“That…” You groan, annoyed with yourself for having gotten in the way of things you didn’t understand. “That’s why you got upset that Mrs. Taylor hasn’t been serving wine with dinner. Not because you wanted alcohol. I’m so sorry.”

"Don't worry about that." Max shrugs slightly. "I understand why you don't like alcohol." He clenches his fist at the thought of someone hurting you in a drunken rage. Even if it was to make you cry. "It's not like you knew that the wine was non-alcoholic."

“I’ll talk to her tomorrow,” you promise him immediately, wanting to set things right. “It’s not fair that I get to eat whenever or wherever I want to and you can’t.”

"Don't." Max shakes his head, almost reaching out to touch you, but he's afraid you will recoil. "It's been okay with just having it in mugs or tumblers." He doesn't want you uncomfortable. It's a strange thing for him, considering his past, but Max wants to make sure that your comfort is the primary priority. "I won't die eating a rare steak."

“Max…” When he takes his hand back you instinctively feel yourself reaching forward, trying to close that gap for the two of you. Who knows if it’s more for him or more for you. “I may not…really understand this, but I do understand that even if you never want to be more than platonic soulmates, we’re still connected. And we live together. So some adjustments are going to have to get made if we’re both going to be comfortable.”

"I'm not—" He shakes his head. "I want you to be comfortable." He murmurs quietly. "I'm not a 'platonic' kind of man, right? But you— you've obviously been through a lot and despite some thinking I'm a douchebag, I'm not the type to fucking push myself on someone. Especially a woman I'm supposed to love and protect." He almost feels like he's trying to convince his parents that he didn't cheat, begging them to believe him. Instead, this time he's begging you to believe that he's not the type of man, vampire to ever push you for more than you wanted to give him.

“I want you to be comfortable.” Which puts you at an odd sort of stand still, if you’re honest, but that’s okay. At least, it’s a hell of a lot better than what you’ve had before. “I don’t want you to think that I expect anything from you. Hell, I don’t even know what I’d do if you said you wanted a relationship. It’s— I don’t expect you to say that, obviously, and I— I don’t know. Considering what I just got out of, I’m probably a terrible person to even think of like that.”

"Why?" Max frowns and shakes his head. "This asshole you were with obviously mistreated you. Abused you. You were probably emotionally detached from the relationship for months, maybe years before it ended." He had listened during the psychology classes he had to take. He had just pretended that it was just to get inside clients and competitors’ heads, to get an edge in business, but he had always been curious about the human condition. There were plenty of 'self help' books he had read during those sleepless hours. Theres only so many hours you can surf porn. "You are—" he huffs. "You're beautiful and kind. Caring. You deserve to be happy."

“Emotionally detached doesn’t mean I wasn’t still there every day. Dealing with the anger and the threats and whatever else he feels like dishing out that day. It’s just…” You want so badly to take his hand, but fear is a very real thing for you in this moment. Being unsure and afraid means your fingertips barely bump his before you’re worried about overstepping. “You shouldn’t have to deal with a partner who could crack or break down at any time. And at this point my list of triggers is a mile long. I’m broken.” And that fact has you near tears just from the simple fact of it, but you have to do your best to blink them away. “You deserve so much better than that.”

"You aren't broken." Max hisses, trying very hard to control his anger. It wouldn’t be directed at you, but at the bastard that had convinced you that you were somehow lacking because he had been. "No one broken would have the strength to travel to a new place and start their life over." He growls. "No one broken would accept the strange circumstances they are faced with. You damn sure wouldn't be as kind and giving as you are. If you're broken, you can't possibly dance the way that you do. You couldn't."

“I feel broken, then.” Sniffling quietly, you wipe away an escaped tear with the hand that isn’t near his. “And I have no idea how long it will take me to not feel that way.”

Max can't help but reach in, hating how you are crying because of him. His fingers brushing yours and he's happy that you don't pull away in fear as he wipes the tear away. "I'm a vampire, sweetheart." He reminds you with a quiet chuckle. "I've got eternity if that's what it takes."

It’s cheesy and sweet, and you crack a smile when his cold hand touches your warm skin. “Would you really do that?”

“What else do I have to do?” Max asks softly, grinning back at you. “I don’t—I was always wondering about my soulmate. I have been drawn to you.”

"I kind of...brushed it off in the beginning," you admit with a note of guilt in your voice. "Tried to tell myself if it's just that you're my type and I shouldn't think that you're cute because you're my roommate. But...this sort of changes things."

“Don’t worry about what you did or what you might do.” Max protests. “I’m not going to yell at you. Mrs. Taylor would tear me apart.”

"She might have a little trouble with that." A small chuckle escapes you, unable to believe the reality of the situation. But Max's cool hand in yours is very real proof. "With you being a vampire and all."

"Not as much trouble as you might think." After all, the housekeeper is a much older vampire than he is. He doesn't even know how long she had been working for him and Cookie.

“No!” The implication of that and the amused smile on his face has you sitting up in surprise. “Mrs. Taylor, too? Is everyone here a vampire and I was just completely oblivious?”

“We try very hard to not make it obvious.” Max excuses your oversight easily. “But you are the only person with a pulse on this estate.”

“I—” Somehow this time it’s amusing that you didn’t know instead of concerning, and you huff out a laugh. “Cookie knew, right? She had to have known.”

“Of course she knew.” Max snorts. “Hard to not know when her soulmate was also a vampire.”

You have never been so acutely aware of your breath as you are when you’re blowing out a sigh in front of a man you now know to be a vampire and you shake your head in that age-old signal of disbelief. “The story Alli told me was true, then? About the witch and her vampire soulmate and all that…gods I feel like such an idiot.”

“It’s true.” He nods, smiling slightly. “Cookie was a powerful witch. And her soulmate is my sire.” It seems like an important piece of information for you to have.

“This just gives me so many more questions.” You admit, laughing quietly. “But I guess…having a vampire for a soulmate runs in the family.”

“I guess.” He doesn’t know why he had wanted you to have a vampire soulmate, but that is a question you can ask him. “I know it’s a lot.”

"It is." And you won't pretend otherwise. That would be worse than disingenuous, given that this is your soulmate and these are the people around you. This is your entire life now. And honestly? You don't want to change it. Which is a whole other issue you will grapple with privately – the fact that some of the nicest people you've ever met are vampires seems to go against every story about the creatures that has ever been told. "But I have my baggage and you have yours. It's...it's honestly not nearly as bad as how some other people have it. Or even anywhere near as bad as my last relationship."

“Do you want me to kill him?” Max asks. “I normally don’t waste food, but it seems like he would taste disgusting.”

The question is startling but not necessarily out of bounds, but you shake your head without even giving it consideration. “I’ll be happier if I can just forget he ever existed,” you tell Max honestly.

“Okay, but you let me know if you change your mind.” He insists.

“I’m not going to ask you to kill someone.” The idea is too much to even fathom and you shake your head again. “Is that…do I want to ask how you all get your blood?”

“Blood bank.” Max smirks. “Or donors. Willing donors.” He adds. “We don’t really have to skulk in shadows and trick people into giving us their blood in today’s society.

“That’s reassuring.” It’s downright relieving, actually, because with your hand in his you don’t really want to think about how he’s had to survive.

He doesn’t mention that he used to play with his food before. The new lease on life or immortality he had been given had come with a ‘sanctity of life’ outlook. He didn’t think you would be okay with him as your soulmate if he kept eating people anyway. “Absolutely.” He gives you an innocent grin.

"This has been an...enlightening night. To say the least." All of the information weighs on you and on your mind, making you feel heavy but in a very different way than the heaviness would feel when someone like Derek used to be upset with you. It's different. Like you know this time it will all settle.

“I’m sorry that your show has been ruined.” Max glances at the clock and realizes that the entire show has ended.

"You're more important than a tv show." There isn't a single note of hesitation in your voice and you give his hand a small squeeze. "And that will always be true. I always said that if I ever met my soulmate that they would be my first priority in everything. I'm standing by that."

It’s been a long time, maybe even never, when someone put Max above anything else. It’s oddly sweet and he looks down at your hand in his. “I—okay.” He nods quietly. “What else do you want to know?”

"Is there anything you want me to know? Or anything you want to know about me?" He looks so surprised that you would make him a priority that you have to wonder if his parents weren't the first people to not have faith in him. Which is pretty heartbreaking, and unfortunately you know exactly how it feels.

He frowns, hating the next part, so he huffs slightly. “Being that I’m—well, dead technically, if we ever got to the point of…intimacy…” He breaks off and looks down at your hands again. “I can’t give you kids.”

That...is a very good point. And one you hadn't thought of. But since it seems to upset him you're not going to harp on it. Not even a little bit. "Well, I think you know I like pets a whole lot," you joke, laughing softly. No one knows that better about you right now than he does. "When we get to that point, it will all be fine."

He gauges your eyes, wanting to see if you are just telling him what he wants to hear and when he finds that you are serious, he chuckles. “Okay.” He nods. “I’ll get you a real pet bat then.”

"I looked it up," you can't help but grin, a slightly guilty laugh coming out of you. "They're kind of illegal to have, and you can get rabies from petting them. You were just...too cute to resist."

“Well, I don’t have rabies.” He snorts and pretends to look offended. “So I’ll change into a bat when you’re missing Cutie.”

"Is it cheesy to say you're cuter like this?" It feels cheesy, and it definitely feels presumptuous to say, but it's out of your mouth now and there's nothing you can do about it.

“Yeah?” Max preens, smugly grinning like he’s just struck the winning lottery ticket. “It’s not cheesy at all, sweetheart.”

"The suits are nice, too," you mumble, feeling the heat rise in your cheeks at both the admittance and his obvious glee hearing it.

“They are nice.” He admits, scooting a bare inch closer to you. “Tailored is the way to go. Better quality than off the rack stuff.”

"I'll have to trust you on that." From warm to burning, your cheeks get hotter instantly, and you duck your eyes away for a second to bite back an unaccustomed smile. "You have much better fashion sense than me."

“Doubtful.” He tuts, shaking his head. “I saw your competition outfits and you can’t tell me you didn’t design them.”

“I learned a little bit from my mother,” you admit with a shrug. It won’t do any good to tell him that Derek had you on strict allowance after always making you use your paycheck for bills and groceries and his beer. The few new things you’ve bought in Newport are the first clothes you’ve had not from a church basement in years. “But I’m pretty sure I’ve forgotten it all now.”

"Then it will be fun remembering it all." Max reasons, making it sound simple. He has a good idea from your reaction why you are insisting that you don't have fashion sense, but you also need to remember that you have more money that you could possibly spend in one shopping spree.

“I trust you to pick.” The submission is so easy, so ingrained, that you don’t even think about it. Which speaks volumes about the kind of dictation you’ve been living under. “Whatever you want me to wear is fine.”

"What if we picked together?" He's sure that you have natural style, but you've been so stifled, it's almost natural to repress it. He wants you to start realizing that you can do whatever you want.

“Is that something you would want to do?” You would never go so far as to consider it a date, but spending more time with him after this newfound revelation has an undeniable appeal. You’ve liked Max almost since the beginning. This is an extraordinary next step to take.

"It's not like I would hate it." Max doesn't want you to feel obligated, but he gives a small shrug. "I know the coven has been showing you around, but maybe they haven't taken you everywhere."

"We certainly haven't been clothes shopping." Somehow you can't imagine Max even in a regular mall, but shopping with him sounds like it might be all the more fun for it. A unique experience. "I..." you chuckle softly. "I have nothing but free time these days."

He smirks slightly, finding it ironic that you have the life of leisure while he had work. He was the one that was immortal. "That's not a bad thing, Queenie."

"I'm still getting used to it." Though you highly doubt that you ever truly will, if it will make him less embarrassed to be seen with him you will definitely work harder on your wardrobe.

"Nothing wrong with that." He chuckles. "I can imagine it's hard to go from worrying about your hours, your pay, to not having to anymore."

"I'm honestly kind of surprised to hear that you still work as hard as you do," you admit. "In the stories, vampires are always fabulously wealthy."

"I'm still a baby vamp." Max snorts, shrugging slightly. "Those vampires are also hundreds of years old. So I've still got to create that wealth."

"Ah." Nodding in understanding, you can't help but smile that he's still holding your hand. "Starting from the ground up. Got it."

He snorts and nods. "Exactly. But don't worry, I'm pretty damn good in a board room. Making deals and money."

"I fully believe that you could sell ice to a Norwegian." From what you've seen, he has the confidence and swagger to do just about whatever he wants.

Your outrageous comment makes him laugh, completely charmed by the faith that you have in him when you haven't even seen him close a deal. "I should use that." He admits, rubbing your warm skin with his thumb.

"If anybody ever remarks that you have cold skin after a handshake, you just tell them it's how your soulmate teases you about it." Gods you just ache when he laughs, and you feel like you might explode with smiling.

Max smirks slightly and reaches into his pocket with his free hand. Pulling out a warmer packet. "I try to make sure that I warm my hands up right before I need to shake hands." He admits bashfully.

"Clever." It's something you never would have thought of in a million years and the fact that he's utilizing it so effectively proves your point that he must be extremely good at what he does.

"A good handshake can make or break a deal." Max admits, having learned that when a pharmaceutical exec had told him that he couldn't trust a man with poor circulation. It had cost him a fifteen-million-dollar contract. "I really like warm places." He hums. "Like right there." He reaches up and touches your clavicle where he had snuggled in as Cutie. "And I can hear your heartbeat."

"Is it loud?" You blurt out the question before you can stop yourself, but it's one of those things that when you read fantasy books you had always wondered.

"When I'm close by, it seems like that's all I can hear. But it's gentle." His fingers brush your skin gently, caressing you. "I like when you sleep. It slows down, like your breathing. You are a very peaceful sleeper."

"I very rarely have vivid dreams." The fact that he's listened to you sleeping seems so utterly romantic that it steals your breath for a long moment. "They only started up again maybe a week ago. But they're not bad. Just kind of...nostalgic."

"What do you dream about?" He asks curiously. Wanting to know what you think about when you are lost in your dreams. He hopes they are sweet, kind. A reassurance that you deserve only the good things in life.

"Um..." Suddenly terrified that you shouldn't have said anything, you try to swallow that impulsive fear and be open with him. Since he's been so open with you tonight, he deserves that. "I had an imaginary friend...when I was a kid. And I've started dreaming about him again. But...also...sometimes...you."

His brow raises, surprised that you dream about him. But he's intrigued by your admission of an imaginary friend. "What was your friend like?" He asks, smiling slightly at the thought of a little girl with her friend, playing by herself in the room.

"He's very kind. And encouraging. And gave oddly good advice for being the figment of a child's imagination." Which makes you smile in turn, and you lean in to Max's side slightly. He feels safer than almost anywhere else in the world right now. "With curly black hair and a big smile and I always imagined that he gave the best hugs in the world."

Curly black hair. Max stares at you in shock. He had been visiting you when you were a little girl. That had to be what it was. He had convinced you that it was dreams. Probably coming at night so it would be more plausible. "You didn't hug him?"

"Invisible friend, Max." You laugh softly. "I imagined that I did a hundred thousand times. But it's not like he ever existed anywhere other than my mind."

"What would this friend. talk to you about?" He asks.

"Everything I guess." Sinking a little closer in to Max's side, you tilt your head slightly like you're trying to let a memory drip out. "School. Dance classes. My parents and my friends. I guess I must have used it like a sounding board. Working out all my little kid problems by talking to Yayo and then playing tea party with him afterward once everything was better."

"Yayo?" Max tilts his head. "Did you name him that or did he tell you to call him that?"

"Who knows," you shrug slightly. The memory is nostalgic enough that you don't notice how he reacts to hearing the name. "I was a little kid the first time I remember him, so I must have made it up somehow."

"Cute." He smirks slightly, imagining him coming into your dreams and spending time with you. He needs to find out why you are so important.

“Everybody has imaginary friends, right?” It had always just seemed like such a natural thing to you. Sure it was unusual that your made up friend was a grown ass man, but it’s not like it was a manifestation of abuse or anything. Yayo had always been your biggest fan and biggest supporter. Whether it was soothing your childhood fears, getting excited with you to start dance classes, or just listening to you babble about your day as kid are want to do. “Mine just wore fancy clothes and had a Spanish accent. Who knows? I must have seen an Antonio Banderas movie as a little kid and made up a character with the voice or something.”

“I am sure that your Yayo was a good thing for you.” Max frowns slightly, wondering why he had skulked in shadow and come to you in the night. “It sounds like he was.”

“Imaginary friends fill a gap.” You shrug your shoulders a little, leaning against him. “I’m sure you had one, too. Most kids do.”

“I didn’t.” Max admits. “But that’s because I was normally trying to surround myself with people. To pretend I was better than I was.”

“Better than you are?” Brows furrowing immediately, you tilt your head back to look at him and frown. “But you’re fantastic.”

“Not really.” Max snorts. “If I were better, my parents wouldn’t have abandoned me. I wouldn’t have needed my sire to bring me back.”

“The person you’ve been with me…the person I’ve gotten to know?” You shrug your shoulders again, wondering if a compliment from you is worth anything at all. “I think he’s pretty fantastic. Maybe you were just finding yourself.”

Your words are probably some of the most soothing he’s ever heard and he bites his lip. “I really want to be a bat right now so you will scratch my head.” He admits with a huffing laugh.

“C’mere.” You can’t help but grin, and you cradle his head against your shoulder with one hand before starting to scratch, gently and soothingly, over his short-cropped hair and scalp. “Does it feel as good when you’re like this?”

“Oh shit.” Max’s eyes close and he leans into your touch. “How— it’s so good. This is why dogs love people. It has to be.”

Your blunted fingernails take over his scalp and you shift so he can cuddle closer if he wants to. “But they don’t love vampires?” Somewhere in your memory you remember him remarking that dogs were not terribly big fans of him.

“Nah.” He grumbles slightly. “Knows we are a more dangerous predator.”

Humming in understanding as your nails find a rhythm gently running along his hairline, you revel in the closeness without expectation. Without demand. Without rules. Just simple intimacy without conditions.

How he ended up with his head in your lap, he couldn’t tell you, but it’s the most relaxed he’s ever been. “This is nice.”

“You don’t have to be a bat to get scritches and cuddles,” you promise him with a quiet giggle.

“Yeah?” He grins up at you. “Might have been my favorite part of the day. Your reading voice is really nice.”

“I can still read to you.” The idea that he actually enjoys it makes your cheeks heat up again, and you rub his shoulder with your other hand. “And you don’t have to carry me to bed anymore. Though it was very sweet of you.”

“I liked doing it.” He pouts slightly. “I’m either a wicked vampire carrying you off, or a valiant hero saving a damsel in distress.” He grins. “You pick which one I imagine.”

“I guess it will depend on my mood.” It’s intimidating, and a little embarrassing, realizing that he’s heard every time your heart has skipped a beat around him. But at least this time when it happens, he’s smiling right at you. “You can…keep doing it if you really want to.” It’s utterly romantic, as far as you’re concerned, but you didn’t want him to feel that he had to.

“You sleep, you should be comfortable.” He doesn’t mention that he had wished he could lay down beside you. That would be too far, at least as a human.

“Well, we’ll have to find a new way to curl up.” The way you are now is so nice. So calm. And deeply domestic, which you would never point out. “You won’t exactly fit on my shoulder for me to read to you like this, and that chaise is not built for two.”

Max smirks, resisting the urge to tell you that it could be, as long as you are laying on him. Instead, he hums, surprised you want to give up your furry little friend.

“If you want.” It will always be up to him. You’ll never push or impose. But you want him to know that — as small as your steps forward might be — you’re willing to take them.

“I want.” He closes his eyes and burrows his head into your lap more. “I think I’d scare you with what I want, Queenie.”

“I’m used to being scared,” you admit, fingers still raking through his short hair. “I’d rather be intimidated by something good than afraid of darkness.”

“I don’t want you to be afraid at all.” Max nearly growls, but he doesn’t want to make you nervous. “I’d rather be staked again than hurt you. Or let someone else hurt you. Just think of me as your own, personal guard bat.”

“Life is scary.” Looking down into his face, there is something there that you can’t identify, but it’s less so than in the beginning. There are fewer secrets now. Fewer. Not none. But you would never ask anyone to change for you, and especially not in the course of just a few hours. “And I guess…so is the afterlife. But it’s less scary with an actual partner, I think. At least, I have to think that it is. Hope that it is.”

"I can be rude, downright inconsiderate. Selfish. Maybe too much of a flirt, but I've never, ever wanted to make my soulmate cry." He admits quietly. "Always said that whoever she was would get the best of me."

“Nobody’s perfect.” Your hand stills, leaving only your thumb stroking along the shortest of the hairs on the back of his neck. “I’m certainly not. I would never expect you to be. All that matters is that we try to be the best we can for each other.”

"Why are you so sweet?" He's slightly confused by it. It's obvious you've not had an easy time, and yet you are so willing to accept this when you had just sworn off relationships. "So accepting?"

It’s confusion in his eyes, not criticism, and you frown slightly at the question. It seems fairly obvious to you, but there is more than one answer. “Part of it is just…me. And I haven’t been able to be myself in so long that I thought I had forgotten her. But I guess that’s not the case after all. But also…you’re my soulmate. If I was ever going to accept anyone, wouldn’t it be you?”

"I never thought my soulmate would accept me." It's a hard thing to admit, a sobering one. After he had been turned, he had been certain that he wouldn't be accepted. When he had refused to let him put any marks back, it had just be a silent confirmation of those deeply internal views.

“Surprise.” Sniffling back a laugh, your fingers trace his cheek and jaw in a move far bolder than you thought you could feel. That deep thread that connects soulmates truly is stronger than you ever thought. “I thought I’d lost you when all of your marks disappeared. So surprise for me, too.”

Max sighs, closing his eyes in regret. "My sire— he didn't want me to put the marks back." He explains. "Said it would cause confusion. Ordered me not to. And since I'm dead, I can't really scar anymore."

“If I got a tattoo do you think it would show up?” It’s not really something you had ever considered before, but he’s right. Wounds probably don’t affect him the same way anymore. But ink? Ink might.

"I don't know." He admits quietly. "Your birthmark is the only thing I have."

“The next time you speak to your sire, you could always ask him.” Whoever Max’s sire is, he sounds a bit like a strict father. But there’s probably a reason for that even if you don’t know what it is.

He chuckles. "If he decided to answer me, it would be in a riddle."

“Maybe I should ask him, then.” You offer him a valiant smile, like you’re offering to go into battle. “If you wanted, I mean.”

"You would do that?" His amazement is astounding, nearly making the blood in his system rise to the surface again.

"If you want me to." He seems so genuinely shocked that anyone would do something nice for him that it breaks your heart a little. After all, you know that feeling all too well. "We could pick out a design together, too."

“I- I honestly don’t know what to say.” He confesses softly. “I really don’t.”

“If you don’t like the idea, it’s okay to say so.” But from the expression on his face says otherwise, and it softens your own smile into something akin to dreamy. “But I think it would be nice.”

“No, I like it— it’s just— it’s surprising.” He tells you. “In a good way.”

"I...liked having your tattoos. Having that part of you." He lights up when he smiles and it makes your heart skip again. "Now that we know each other a little, it would be nice to have that to share."

“You never wanted tattoos?” He asks curiously, wondering why you never put a mark on him besides the odd scars that were now gone. “Or did the asshole not want any on you?”

He has hit the nail on the head, of course, and you bite your lip. "Big tattoos aren't great for competition. But...Let's just say he wasn't sad when they disappeared one day."

Max blows out a raspberry. “He sounds like a dick.” He would say more, but he doesn’t want to upset you. “I’m glad you’re here and not still around that prick.”

"I'm glad I'm here, too." Especially now. Now that you know what he is to you.

Max is quiet for a moment. Letting the seriousness of this settle and he doesn’t have a quip, or a joke about it. No snide remark comes to mind. He just feels…peaceful around you. “Do you want to dance with me tomorrow?” He asks finally.

"Yes." You don't even have to think about it. Or consult a schedule. Or second-guess. "Definitely."

“Yeah?” He grins, twisting his head to look up at you. “We do dance together really well, don’t we?”

"Not bad for a few turns around the ballroom." Dragging your fingers through his hair again, you can't help but smile, feeling warmed all the way through. Ironic considering Max is so cool to the touch. "We'll have to go for something a little more complex this time."

"Oh...are you thinking of something special for the opening dance of the ball?" He asks with a smirk. "It's supposedly tradition for the hostess to start the dancing."

"You just want to show off." Still, it sounds sweet. Like he wants to show you off, which seems entirely foreign but utterly romantic. "It might be sweet, though. We'd have to pick a good song, of course. And make up the choreography."

"Tempo should be lively, celebratory." He tells you. "Starting things off with a bang, as it were."

"An upbeat Viennese Waltz?" It seems like the thing to do, traditional but good for an ice breaker. "I don't want to do something that feels staged and showy...even if that's exactly what it is. A salsa or something like that would feel out of place."

"Especially at a Gilded Age party." Max agrees. "Plus it will almost convince people they could do it with a little practice."

"Maybe we can put flyers for the tickets up at some dance studios around town?" Not that you know of any, but there is a decent chance that he might.

"Perhaps we should invite the teachers to the ball." He offers after a moment.

"It would certain be beautiful for the dancing." You hum dreamily, imagining all of those whirling dresses in the ballroom that is now so familiar to you. "Maybe we could go to a free dancing night at each studio to give the invitation and talk it up a little? Since it's for charity and all."

"There are several dance studios in the area." He knows you will be all dreamy about it. "I'll email you the list and you can call them tomorrow. Set something up."

Alright. Looks like overcoming phone anxiety is on the schedule for tomorrow. You nod and give his shoulder a squeeze. "I guess we'll be dancing together a lot."

He sees the way you freeze for a split second before you try to push it aside. "What is it?" He asks softly, wondering if you will pretend everything is fine or if you will confide in him.

"Nothing," you insist immediately, knowing that previous to the last few weeks you would have been expected to shut away every ounce of your anxiety in order to make sure everything got done precisely the way Derek wanted. The fact that Max gives a damn how you feel about things is so strange to process. "It's—" Letting out a sigh, you close your eyes briefly but force a smile. "I'm not always very good on the phone. You know...anxiety. But I'll manage."

"How about I take a portion of the calls?" Max offers. "And if you find that you can't do it, I'll take them all."

"No, it's okay." The fear of being a burden is instant. It seizes like ice water through your veins, and even though you know logically that Max isn't the same kind of man that Derek is, you still shake your head tightly. "I can take care of it. There's no reason for you to do extra work."

“It’s not like I would mind.”

“You work all day. I don’t. I can manage it.” There is no way on earth you’re going to let this slide backward and you shake your head. You’ll make those damn phone calls yourself just so he doesn’t start to think you’re untrustworthy or — like you said you were before and he didn’t believe you — broken.

“If you’re sure.” Max doesn’t want you to be overwhelmed. “You’ve got a lot on your plate with planning this event. I don’t want you to get overwhelmed.”

“If I get overwhelmed, I’ll split the calls into two days.” You promise him, not really knowing if that will help at all but willing to give the — as they say — old college try.

“It’s okay.” Max promises you. He doesn’t want to call attention to it, but he captures your hand and brings it to his mouth. He kisses it softly. “You will be settling into your nickname of ‘Queenie’ before you know it.”

******

Sitting in the teahouse with your cell phone, a notebook, and a list of dance studios had seemed like a good plan for the afternoon. You’ve called three of the four studios on the island but the fourth seems always to be too busy to pick up their line and it has you frustrated and anxious that you can’t finish your task. At this point you feel like you’ve been twiddling your thumbs waiting for Max to get home, and you finally decide to pack up and go inside, intending to catch Mrs. Taylor before she starts making dinner for the night. She should know that you know — and that you have no intention of keeping her or Max or Eddie or anyone else from having the blood they need.

Renee had told you before about the reason for the call buttons in every room of the house. How they shouldn’t be looked at like ringing a cow bell to demand service, but as a polite way of requesting to speak with a staff member when you need something. Rather than the old-fashioned families a hundred years ago or more barging into their servants’ areas, you press the button as a polite request. Trying to keep that in mind, you choose the library as a place to sit once you reach the house, and press the button hidden in the wainscoting before settling down at the desk. Whether Mrs. Taylor or Renee answers will be up to them.

“Ms. Dolly?” Mrs. Taylor’s voice immediately comes over the intercom, like she had been hovering next to it. You don’t know that she was across the kitchen, but that’s the beauty of being able to move so fast. It’s why her and Renee can handle the housework and keep the place spotless.

“Do you have time to speak for a moment before starting dinner, Mrs. Taylor?” The little speaker box on the desk is reminiscent of the 1950s and makes you smile. It’s odd. But it works.

“Of course, Ms. Dolly, I will be right up.” In the time it would take a normal human to come upstairs, she will put together a light tray for you with the fresh apple cider that she had thought you would enjoy. You seem to like the fall theme.

It takes the housekeeper only five minutes to appear in the library doorway with a tray of assorted snacks and a large drink, and this time instead of feeling like a burden that she is serving you, you find yourself amused that she had so much time to fix the tray. Max had demonstrated his vampiric speed for you last night by zipping across the second-floor hallway so now you have a better idea of how fast your housemates can move. “Thank you, Mrs. Taylor. I know your time is precious.”

“It was nothing, ma’am.” She nods her head and sits down across from you when you motion her to sit. “Did you wish to discuss the menu for the party? I’ve already made several varied menus for you to choose from.” She pulls cards out of her sweater to hand to you.

“Well…yes. But I wanted to speak to you about the…general dinner menus as well.” Just because you had been trying to hype yourself up for this doesn’t mean that you had figured out how to go about it gracefully. Grace is only something you have when you dance — not really in conversation.

“Is there something you don’t like?” She looks positively horrified by the prospect and curses herself. She had been treating you like Cookie, and there’s a very real chance your palette is completely different. “If you give me an idea of what you wish to have, I will make sure to adjust accordingly.” She assures you.

"It's not that. Your cooking is wonderful. In all honesty it's high above what I'm used to and I couldn't possibly ask you to change a thing. Not for me." You shake your head profusely to dispel any worries, practically reaching out to take her hand, but you have a feeling that she would find that improper. "It's just that...I have been made aware that...Max and Eddie and...well, everyone else in the house...you all have rather a different diet than I do. And that there have been a few things hidden from me until now, which I presume was done so as not to stun or panic me."

Surprised would be a mild way to put her reaction. Mrs. Taylor’s eyes widen to the size of dinner plate and her stomach drops. “Who told you that?” She had been assured by the coven on the first visit to the manor since you have befriended them that the witches would not tell you.

"Max did, but please understand that he did it for the most noble reason possible." After talking it out with him last night, the two of you had decided that your soulmate status would be impossible to keep quiet in the house so it was probably best just to let people know. If it had taken the two of you only a few weeks, it was sure to come out quickly to everyone else. "We had a long discussion last night about some very important things. And I...I appreciate that you all did your best to make me feel comfortable here. I do feel comfortable here. But I don't want any of you to have to hide your blood anymore. That would be incredibly rude of me to ask when I am the only human in the house."

"It is not a problem." She insists, leaning in slightly. "We are used to being...more formal about things than the average vampire. Cookie had been pleased with it as well as her soulmate. He was the one that had set that formality in place. However, this is your home and what you wish will be."

"The formality is...it's sort of nice, if I'm honest. It's comforting to have an order to how things are supposed to work. But it's really fine with me if Eddie and Max just want to have blood at dinner instead of...well...food. I understand that it used to be served in wine glasses and that my dislike for drinking sort of threw a monkey wrench into that habit."

She smiles softly and tilts her head, a motherly sort of affection for you making her squeeze your hand gently. "It was not vexing to anyone save for Max and well, he likes to make a nuisance of himself at times." She confides. "I think it was that 'only child' syndrome he had."

"He likes to feel special." There's something soft and affectionate in your tone that you just can't help, but you swallow down any sort of guilt that bubbles to the surface from it. Max is your soulmate after all. And it's been weeks since you left Derek's house. There doesn't need to be any guilt whatsoever.

Her brow raises at the change in tone, pursing her lips in amusement. "I gather that the snack trays he has been putting together for you during your show has changed your mind about Max?"

"It's not—" Your cheeks burn hot and you suddenly wish you were a turtle so you could just bury yourself in your shell at the first mere hint of embarrassment. "It's more than that," you tell her quietly, acknowledging that this is surely the opportune time to tell your vampiric housekeeper the truth about what you and Max are to each other. You're just not sure how she will react. "We...discovered...last night..." You take a deep breath, suddenly very aware of that action around so many people who don't need to do it at all. "That Max and I are soulmates."

It's like the key to the riddle of why Max was brought here suddenly slides into place. Her eyes light up and even if she is surprised, she is charmed by soulmates. Her own dear Mr. Taylor is her own, so very fortunate to have found each other so many years ago and to continue to be deeply in love. "That is...spectacular." She hums, sure that he was always aware of the connection, even if he had not confided in her.

"It's very unexpected." And it has you smiling like a lunatic, but you clear your throat and try to compose yourself. "But it really has shown me that I would prefer to have fewer secrets around me from now on. I used to be utterly surrounded by them, and I don't want this next chapter of my life to be that way again."

"Understood." While there is still one secret that she must keep, Mrs. Taylor is determined to make sure you are aware of most of what happens here. She is bound by her sire to keep his secrets, and that unfortunately predates your wishes.

"I appreciate that, Mrs. Taylor." There is some reticence in her – years of having to read Derek's moods at the drop of a pin have made you sensitive to things like that – but you won't push. Just because you've asked for openness doesn't mean it is an easy thing to give, and it means nothing if it is demanded. "I have nothing but respect for you and I'm so grateful to you for helping me to feel at home here so quickly."

"This is your home." She promises. "It was always meant to be your home."

"I'm sure there must have been other relatives along the way that the house could have gone to." You can't imagine that there were no other options for an heir, but you would be lying if you said you weren't grateful for Cookie's choice.

"No." Mrs. Taylor looks down at your joined hands and smiles sadly. "Unfortunately, due to a...family issue, you were the only choice in Cookie's mind for a recipient."

"I wish I could thank her." Your mysterious and enigmatic great-aunt has changed your life entirely and you only wish you could tell her how much it has meant to you. Because of Cookie, you know your soulmate.

"I know she would have loved you." Mrs. Taylor looks a bit misty-eyed, even though vampires don't cry often. She smiles again. "But I know that she knows. Wherever she is now."

"She was very important to you." That much is obvious, and it gives you an equally unexpected reason to smile. Knowing that your great-aunt was loved so dearly is reassuring.

"She was a wonderful lady, in every sense of the word." She nods and looks down again and clears her throat. "Please look over the menu cards I've created and let me know what you are thinking?"

"Of course. I'll look them over now. Thank you, Mrs. Taylor." It's obvious that she doesn't want to continue the conversation and you respect her too much to push, so you simply nod and pick up the cards that she laid out in front of you. "Everything you make is wonderful so I'm sure the only difficulty will be choosing between delicious options."

She smiles proudly and nods. "The apple cider is fresh." She tells you. "I thought it would pair nicely with the pumpkin scones that I had experimented with."

"You very quickly nailed down my weakness for fall flavours." There are crunchy sugar crystals on top of the scones and something that smells suspiciously like honey butter in the ramekin sitting alongside the small plate and full mug.

“It seemed like the cozy comforts would be to your liking.” Mrs. Taylor admits with a smile. “I enjoy having a human in the house.” She admits. “Vampires can eat, but normal food does not taste as appetizing to us as it does to humans, and I enjoy cooking.”

“I am very grateful for that, and for you.” A small smile cracks your face, as uncharacteristic as that may seem for you sometimes. “And I am more than happy to eat anything you feel like cooking. I’m pretty abysmal at it myself.”

“That is no concern.” She waves off your comment about yourself. “I am here to make sure you eat well.”

“Do you mind if I ask you one more thing?” Still working through all the questions you have about the circumstances and about your distant relative, there is really only one more you wanted to ask for now.

“Anything.” Mrs. Taylor was halfway out of her seat, but she sits back down and looks at you expectantly.

“I was wondering…how long you had worked for Cookie? The real answer. Allison told me the story about her soulmate prolonging her life and I didn’t believe her then. But I do now…so I wondered. That’s all.”

Mrs. Taylor smiles, the twist of her lips slightly melancholic. “Two hundred and eighty-seven years.” She admits. “Her soulmate brought me to care for her right after they found each other.”

A split second of quick math has your jaw on the ground, and you press one hand to your heart instinctively. “That…she…1736? And they met right here where the house is built?”

“Back when it was the colonies.” She nods, chuckling quietly.

“Gods…” Exhaling a shaky breath, you nod, trying to wrap your head around this extraordinary piece of information. “She must have had a remarkable life.”

“When I tell you we have an extensive collection of Cookie’s things, her clothes, I mean extensive.” She’s proud of that, because it had been her idea to preserve it. It had been meant for someone else, but now, it’s yours.

The endless possibilities flow out in front of you in every direction but you wrap your hands around the large mug of cider and smile, nostalgic already for a past you can’t possibly remember. “I hope one day you might feel open to sharing some of her stories with me. And yours, as well.”

“Since you are aware of our nature and feel no concern, I have no issue sharing.” She pauses for a moment and then decides to share a vital piece of information. “We did not start the formality with the blood until Cookie had decided to no longer prolong her life.” She admits, folding her hands in her lap. “Then it was a measure of respect to make it seem like we were drinking wine.”

“That seems very respectful.” This household is nothing if not respectful. You know that. “It doesn’t need to be hidden anymore. I know you were…being respectful of me in different ways. But besides the initial shock? It seems…well, I feel a bit silly for knowing that magic is real my whole life and not even entertaining the ideas that vampires could be, too.”

“Some things are viewed as too fantastical. Like werewolves.” She hums as she stands. “I will have dinner ready at seven.” She promises before disappearing in the blink of an eye.

The immortal housekeeper is gone before you can open your mouth again, and you slump backward in your chair with her menus in front of you and a furrow between your eyebrows. Now you can’t help but wonder if werewolves are real, too…

______

Master Tags: @pixiedurango @chattychell @winter-fox-queen @lady-himbo @artsymaddie @princess76179 @paintballkid711 @missminkylove @pedrosbrat @ew-erin @sarahjkl82-blog @sharkbait77 @justanotherblonde23 @lv7867 @recklesswit @mylittlesenaar @f0rever15elf @gallowsjoker @steeevienicks @athalien @sherala007 @skvatnavle @thatpinkshirt @jaime1110 @girlimjusttryingtoreadfanfics @goodgriefitsawildworld @greeneyedblondie44 @katheriner1999 @littlemousedroid @harriedandharassed @churchill356 @ajathegreats-blog @haylzcyon   @beardsanddetectives @kirsteng42 @ladykatakuri @adancedivasmom @madiebear @tanzthompson @emilianamason @bigsdinger @xocalliexo @pedr0swh0r3 @avaleineandafryingpan @charlyrmv @avidreader73 @iceclaw101 @loveslide @elegantduckturtle @becsworld @julesonrecord @its-nebuleuse @itsrubberbisquit @mikeyswifie @guelyury

VW: @haileymorelikestupid, @miraclesabound @nastiasnow @vabeachazn @oberynslady @grogusmum @kittenlittle24 @8-900 @survivingandenduring @guelyury @ktmadden86 @inept-the-magnificent

My Masterlist!

#Pedro Pascal #Pedro Pascal character fanfiction #Pedro Pascal fanfic #Max Phillips #Max Phillips x you #Max Phillips x reader #Max Phillips x female reader #Max Phillips x f!reader #Eddie BtVS #Bloodsucking Bastards #soulmate au #mysterious inheritance

[aziraphales-library]

I’m not looking for any specific fics, but Season 2, for some reason, has me itching for Really Rich Aziraphale and Escort!Crowley. Maybe Businessman!Aziraphale??

You can check our #sugar daddy au and #sex worker crowley tags for fics you'll enjoy. Here are more in which Aziraphale is a man of means...

The Hand That Feeds You by saretton & TawnyOwl95 (E)

1950s. When Dr Fell takes on queer sex worker Anthony Crowley to help with his illicit research on the physiological aspects of homosexuality, neither of them had imagined that things were about to get so personal. The things one does for science.

Prince and a Prostitute are so titled when chained together by Augenblickgotter (E)

Crowley is a smart streetwise and very attractive prostitute that had been working his trade in the commune of Tadfield. Life took a sharp turn for his line work and is even harder now that his chained in a dungeon with injuries. A naïve young high class man enter his life and may or may not be the key to escape, even if they can't seem to stand each other. Initially.

Love For Sale by ranguvar82 (E)

Baron Aziraphale Fell has no time nor inclination to form any sort of relationship. He simply wants sex. To that end, he routinely hires a monthly companion. This way, there's no strings, no feelings, and no problems. This routine has served him well. But then Madam Tracy, the owner of the brothel he frequents the most, sells him Anthony Crowley, and the Baron can't help but be fascinated by the fiery redhead. Anthony is a Rose, a highly trained and skilled escort. He knows just how to behave, how to be Baron Fell's perfect companion and lover. He just wishes he knew what to do about the fact that his heart races every time Baron Fell smiles at him. A tale of love for sale, love for rent, and how even the most jaded can still fall.

what i call life (what would you do?) by Vagabond (E)

Crowley lives a life of indentured servitude to Lucifer, a man who runs an escort and companion service. His life is one client after another, until a man named Aziraphale Fell hires him to be a companion at a sibling's wedding. Crowley had no idea that this chance encounter would put him on a path to freedom, and, just maybe, to finding love.

The Prince's Consort by IneffableToreshi (E)

Anthony Crowley has spent the majority of his life in Lucian's brothel, being specially trained and kept 'pure' for his eventual master. When he is finally purchased - despite Lucian's true wishes - he finds his world being very dramatically turned on its head. Not only has he been purchased for the man who will be the most powerful in the kingdom, but he also, unexpected, finds himself falling head over heels in love.

Temple of the Muses by AJ_Constantine (E)

It’s the start of the Season in 1841 Victorian England. Mr Anthony Crowley has left a life of working at a luxurious high end bordello in Paris behind him and is now a courtesan intent on climbing the social ladder in London to increase his status and social connections. After unexpectedly inheriting the title of the Earl of Eastgate, Aziraphale finds himself trying to navigate the complicated world of the aristocracy. Duke Gabriel purchases a month-long contract with Mr Crowley for Lord Fell as a surprise gift to Aziraphale’s astonishment and dismay. He declines to take full advantage of Crowley’s charms but agrees to an arrangement of pretending to be Crowley’s paramour in exchange for lessons on the etiquette and expectations of Society. It’s a practical arrangement, nothing more. Certainly no feelings will be involved...

- Mod D

#good omens #ineffable husbands #sex worker crowley #adult omens #mod d

[thoughtfulbearpanda]

*sigh*

look some of you bout to be real mad at me...but it must said. so after reading the post by @paigeagainstdamachine where it is confirmed/alluded to that bree n nick might have had sex in the bloodwalk, something irked me.

i thought like every one else in the comments in the post that it was just an aether exchange or something. but now reading that passage they might have actually had sex. so now i cant help but wonder:

what does bree really want?

this is why i say that i can't stand love triangles because the constant back and forth she was having with both boys was just very infuriating and tiresome. like bree spends the majority of the book wanting sel to admit that he has feelings for her (the whole 'your king' convo and the 'cariad' conversation towards the end) but when she doesn't get what she wants out of sel she goes to nick (who is her safe space i understand that).

and then when it came to nick's 'betrayal' she then begins finding comfort in sel? and so quickly? and right after they had dreamscape sex? like i am selbree all the way of course, but the way the selbree kiss came soon after 'the betrayal' scene upon re-read just bothers me.

and then the line, "i meant to kiss you, sel"

but why though? like what made you want to kiss him? what changed your mind so suddenly? and the line in the chaptr where it says she wouldn't be doing this or even talking to sel if nick was there. it just.....

dont get me wrong i love the series, i love the characters but i can't help but call out some criticisms and grievances that i have with the story. the whole love triangle aspect soured the book for me but not completely. i just wish the series didnt have it. i love bree, i love her journey, and im glad that tracy is showing a character who is allowed to change her mind but

what happens when she does reunite with nick? then what? i know a lot of fans are gunning for a poly relationship but i personally dont see that happening. you can't have your cake and eat it too, especially not in a story like this where actions have consequences and the fact that the ending is alluding to some characters not surviving this journey so.... (is bree going to have make a choice?)

ik this post is all over the place but something about that eye-opening factoid just brought up some feelings

#legendborn #bloodmarked #tracy deonn #briana matthews #selwyn kane #nick davis #bree x sel #bree x nick #selbree #breenick

[this-is-an-open-letter]

What are your thoughts on the PD finale and hailey leaving? I have a lot of thoughts

I waited 3 days to answer this and I still feel like my answer is the same.

It was not good.

It was a good finale in terms of concluding the story of the serial killer which really was the seasons strongest storyline and I really really liked it. But in terms of sending off Hailey, it was not good.

There's so many tangents I want to go on about everything that happened, including all the interviews Gwen gave about their choices but I am almost so over it? to even have the energy to get into it all again - its done and finished, Tracy's gone, Hailey and Jay will likely only be mentioned once more in the next season and then like literally every other character who has left, will be ignored. And honestly? I am okay with that because fanfic writers are going to give her a better conclusion than the show did.

However lol I do want to say - for all the narrative Gwen is throwing around about Hailey looking to Voight as a father figure because her father abused her....HAVE YOU EVEN WATCHED THIS SHOW BEFORE! Literally the first half of season 9 was Voight using his power over Hailey to keep her quiet about killing Roy and basically bullying her to keep her mouth shut, even from Jay. And when Jay finally found out and confronted Voight he blamed Hailey and Jay for their choices to get involved. Voight is an abusive piece of shit and he is in no way a father figure to anyone let a lone a stand up guy. A Cop who enforces the Blue Wall even when his own Team member was being harassed. Someone who murdered the man who killed his son, burned the body and hid it, same thing with Roy. And this list is endless.

I just can't fathom why the pushed so hard on that connection, it grossed me out, it made me uncomfortable- it infantilized a father-daughter relationship between two grown ups .

Second, the missing Jay of it all. For Gwen to say they wanted the finale to be all about Hailey but then write an entire script wherein which her whole purpose is to find Voight and for her to get his permission to leave. It could not have been more off course if she tried.

Bringing Jay back into the mix is a direct correlation to what Hailey has been going through all season - their relationship had no resolution. He left, she filed for divorce, they're now divorced. A relationship that was helmed as being so important to both of these characters, there was literally no effort to repair it. Its also a repair that Hailey is still running from even in the finale. I just don't get it.

Anyway -as expected it wasn't great. I am glad Hailey's future is open ended but it still feels so ofc for her to still be so directionless and for nothing that she went through this season to give her any new purpose.

#chicago pd #tracy spiridakos #I am not sad about leaving this show behind - also it being at 10pm like thats so late #who knows maybe theyll bring in new characters that boost the show in the same way Tracy did... #unlikely but the beauty of shows like this is they can adjust easily to added and removing people #now lets hope its not too long before we see Tracy on our screens again

[nichenarratives]

A Doggone Shame: Part 1

An Obscure Oneshot

Inspiration art by Tracy J Butler

It's a rarity Mordecai finds himself home before sunrise, so it is with great delight he's enjoying some time to himself that fine autumn evening in 1926. He'd made dinner - a warming and nostalgic Matzo ball soup, with enough for tomorrow - had a shower, made a hot cup of tea and had just settled into his favourite armchair to continue reading Soldier's Pay by William Faulkner when there's a hurried, desperate knock on his apartment door.

The monochrome tom glances up, stilled in place with book in hand and cup halfway to his lips. He's not expecting to be bothered. The Lackadaisy would still be in full swing, which would keep most everyone Mordecai knows occupied until gone three tomorrow morning. It's possible Atlas has sent someone to fetch him at the last minute, but Viktor would not knock so gently, nor not announce himself.

Another knock, this one faster, more urgent. Mordecai sets his teacup down on its saucer and closes the book without saving the page, placing it on the chair. Slippered steps are silent as he crosses the room, habitually drawing a pistol from within his dressing gown on the way. He's tense as he presses his body to the wall beside the door - not the wood, as it's too flimsy - and cranes his neck to peer through the peephole, expecting at least an enemy.

Familiar large, yellow eyes framed by a deep brown bob cut stare back. The black feline sighs, though he's unsure if it is out of relief or vexation, and slips his pistol away. Taking a breath, he composes himself once more before answering the door. "Miss Pepp-Urgh!"

There had been more to his greeting, some formalities and an honest query for her visit, but Mordecai can't help but recoil when he sees what Ivy holds; a mangy animal, beady black eyes and nose standing in sharp contrast to scruffy, white fur. The creature is small enough to fit in an austere lady's handbag, sharp, unkempt claws loosely grasping Ivy's sleeve as its ratty tail swings uselessly between its legs. 

A dog, he realises with disdain, scrunching his nose at the scent of slobber and damp fur. He takes a step back into his apartment and half-closes the door between them, as if the partial physical barrier might make it less revolting. Sadly, it does little. "Miss Pepper," he tries again, forgoing formality for precision. "Why is that… thing, outside my apartment?"

The girl puffs out her cheeks. "He's not a thing, he's a dog!"

Mordecai scowls at the creature, which seems to find joy in his discomfort; the thing wags its tail more intensely and in a fit of excitement, begins to squeak and struggle in Ivy's arms until unable to get free, begins frantically licking her chin. Ivy giggles and tries to block the slobbering tongue lashes with a hand, with very limited success. "Isn't he cute? I found him running about on campus, no collar or anything. He might be a stray!"

The very prospect of being slathered with dog germs makes Mordecai feel nauseous. He has no idea why anyone would willingly cohabit with such a beast, let alone allow it to share its microbiome so recklessly. Ivy has also pointedly avoided his questions. "If it's a stray," he asks carefully, choosing his words to evoke an accurate response. "Why bring it here? Why not transport the infernal thing straight to the pound-"

Ivy gasps and foregoes protecting her face from more licks to pointlessly cover the animal's ears with her free arm and hand. "Mordecai," she admonishes through grit teeth, yellow eyes wide and judgemental. "You can't be serious? They put strays down in the pound." She uncovers the dog's ears and snuggles him close, trapping its head under her chin. "I'm going to keep him! I just have to convince someone he'll be a great addition to the cafe!"

"Wonderful," the tuxedo tom cat answers flatly, ears laying flat and eyes narrowed with resignation. He doesn't want to run into this animal again, certainly not at his place of work. Unfortunately, given their unique brand of relationship, explaining as such would only encourage Miss May to keep the thing. He'll just have to pretend not to care. Starting now. "If that's all you wished to discuss, my tea is going cold. Good evening."

"Actually," the student interjects, even pressing a boot into the space between the door and frame before it can close, bringing the dog even closer while doing so. It's difficult for Mordecai not to hiss in discomfort at the renewed proximity. "I was hoping to ask a favour."

Green eyes fixed on the mongrel within inches of his pristine home, the statement snaps his gaze to wide, hopeful yellows. Ivy looks almost as pitiful as the animal she carries, gazing up at the man her Godfather would take everywhere like his personal shadow, batting her eyelashes and offering the soft smile that always works on Viktor.

He doesn't need to hear her question. "No."

"Come on, please?" The university student begs. Apparently still oblivious to his aversion, she holds it at arm's length towards Mordecai, forcing them within an inch of each other. Its tongue lolls absently, eyes devoid of intelligent thought, and its breath is faintly tainted with an unidentifiable stench. Mordecai grimaces. "It's just one night, and Atlas is so small! He won't get in the way or anything!"

Gingerly pushing her arms - and by extension, the dog - back into the hall, Mordecai snorts humourlessly. "Naming it after my employer does not garner additional sympathy for its wretched existence," the sharpshooter responds flatly. He feels like he needs another shower just being in the same building as the creature. "What on Earth led you to believe I would willingly shelter this creature at all?"

Her mouth twisting and brows knitting together, Ivy looks away. "Actually, I… you're kinda my last choice," she admits, holding Atlas tightly as he begins to whine and squirm anew. A few gentle pets calm him down, but her eyes water when their gazes lock once more."We're not allowed to keep pets in the dorms, so I asked Viktor and Freckle and even Miss May already if he could stay, but they were all yoo busy to talk tonight. I just need time to convince someone to keep him for a night or two while I convince Atlas to keep him. Please?"

Factoring in his own sacrifices and discomforts, Mordecai can see two possible outcomes to this request. First, he can refuse to assist and force her to take the dog to the pound. While this option would make his evening more pleasant, it could also incur negative affiliations with his character, of which he already has plenty. While unbothered by their perceptions, Atlas would likely find fault, something Mordecai does care to incur.

Alternatively, he could agree to house the glorified rat for a night or two, bolster his social standing with the few people he cares for the opinions of - namely, Atlas and Viktor, who are both fond of Miss Pepper - and garner appreciation from Ivy. Factoring in time to feed and clean up after the dog, it's a substantial and exhaustive alternative, but the potential benefits could outweigh the short-term detriments.

Despite the logical analysis, Mordecai feels like he's making a mistake when he sighs and opens his door wider again. "It can stay in the bathroom tonight," he concedes, but raises a stilling palm when Ivy begins to vibrate with excitement on the threshold. "A single night, Miss Pepper. I don't have the time nor patience to coddle the mongrel beyond that."

"Thank you, thank you, thank you!" The young feline speaks as she steps inside, bouncing on her heels as she heads for the bathroom backwards, so she can continue talking to her newest benefactor as she goes. "I'll bring him some food in the morning and go straight to Miss May to talk about Atlas after! I promise, you won't even know he's here! We just have to set him up with some old blankets for a bed."

Dark ears fold back, already regretting his decision. He'd not considered the messier components of a dog staying in his apartment, having assumed it would sleep on the tiles. "I do not own any old blankets; they are of the finest-"

"That's okay, he won't mind!" Ivy deposits the small bundle of problems onto the tiled bathroom floor and pivots straight to the airing cupboard, opening it up and extracting a slew of pristine, carefully folded sheets. To the tuxedo's horror - and before he can object - said sheets are dumped onto the likely bacteria-ridden tiled floor next to the toilet. "There! It's perfect! Now, some newspapers."

Mordecai has yet to recover from his dirtied sheets, hackles raised and tail fluffed when he dares to ask as Ivy retreats into the living area: "Newspapers?"

"Of course!" She yells from the next room, a sifting of paper as she rifles through his magazine rack. Mordecai stares at the little dog sniffing around his bathroom and the bundle of sheets with great interest. Its nose creates an obnoxious, displeasing snort with every breath, like a wheezing vacuum cleaner in dire need of a filter change. "In case he needs to go potty!"

Ivy reappears with an arm full of old broadsheets just as this new information clicks into place. The tom turns on her with a sharpness that could dislocate a lesser man's neck, his disgust evident on his usually carefully modulated muzzle. "Potty-? No, he is not… relieving himself in my bathroom. He will have to refrain until morning."

The black feline glances back to see Atlas is making himself at home in his borrowed sheets, climbing all over them while his nose works overtime. Mordecai shudders, deciding that once this ordeal is over with, he'll burn them, just to be sure whatever contaminants the beast left behind are dealt with. Ivy seems less concerned as she kneels down and sets out a number of sheets of paper. "He's a dog, not a person. He can't just hold it until you take him out."

Sitting back on her haunches, the university student studies her handiwork with a look of satisfaction. "There!" She says, leaning over to scratch behind a flopping ear. Atlas tilts his head slightly into the attention and begins jerkily twitching a back leg, his tongue lolling stupidly from his drooling maw. Ivy giggles. "You're all set, little guy! Now, be good for Uncle Mordecai, okay. Of course you will! Yes, you will!"

Mordecai watches the pair exchange idiocies with a sense of dread. He feels foolish, for being so shortsighted with his expectations. What had seemed to be a simple favour has already evolved into discomfort in his own home. The oddly overly-affectionate farewell Ivy offers the dog only intensifies those feelings, though he can't pinpoint a distinct emotion to associate it with as she kisses it's revolting head and stands back up.

"Thank you so much!" She reiterates as she turns back to the older feline lingering in the bathroom doorway. To both his surprise and relief, Ivy seems to step toward him for a hug, only to reconsider and falter at the last moment. An awkward second of silence passes before she clears her throat and edges around him, towards the front door. "I really mean it. Thank you! You saved that dog's life, Mr Heller. I'll make sure Atlas knows what a good man you are! See you tomorrow!"

She lets herself out, and Mordecai finds himself alone with a panting mongrel, the warm scents of saliva and dog seeping into the air as they stare each other down. The tuxedo tom cat wrinkles his nose, takes a step back into the living room and closes the bathroom door with care, eliminating the new problem from his peaceful evening. One night, he reassures himself as settled back into his chair, book in hand and a sip of lukewarm tea, trying to relax. How difficult can a dog be?

#lackadaisy #lackadaisy cats #lackadaisy mordecai #mordecai heller #fanfiction #no beta we die like atlas may #fanfic #tracy j butler #oneshot fanfiction #oneshot #two shot #silly #humour #lighthearted #inspired by art #inspired #puppy #doggo #1920s #niche narratives #obscure oneshots #tormenting mordecai is my new hobby #ivy pepper #lackadaisy ivy

[direwombat]

5 songs, 3 outfits

tagged by @corvosattano, @carlosoliveiraa, @voidika, @g0dspeeed, and @socially-awkward-skeleton, @inafieldofdaisies, and @aceghosts to do this fun little game 🧡🧡🧡

sun bleached flies // ethel cain

"god loves you but not enough to save you," so, baby girl, good luck taking care of yourself; so i said fine, 'cause that's how my daddy raised me: if they strike once, then you just hit 'em twice as hard.

crossroads // tracy chapman

all you folks think you own my life, but you never made any sacrifice. demons, they are on my trail; i'm standing at the crossroads of hell

knockin' on heaven's door // bob dylan

mama take this badge off of me, i can't use it anymore. it's getting dark, too dark to see. i feel i'm knockin' on heaven's door

baptize me // x ambassadors, jacob banks

i been prayin' for redemption, learnin' my lessons, my pain is my therapy

eight // sleeping at last

i want to break these bones 'til they're better, i want to break them right and feel alive

dear reader // taylor swift

dear reader, bend when you can, snap when you have to

bastards // kesha

i got too many people i got left to prove wrong; all those motherfuckers been too mean for too long

them dirty bones // mike waters

here i go, i'm not shaky but i'm weak at the knees, and i don't even know if anybody's even listening to me, but i'll grow old; lead the way so i might as well risk it, I don't wanna die and never know

hercules // sara bareilles

i miss the days my mind would just rest quiet. my imagination hadn't turned on me yet. i used to let my words wax poetic, but it melted at a puddle at my feet

heroes & thieves // vanessa carlton

well, i'm stubborn and wrong, but at least i know it. i keep moving along and hope i can get through this

tagging: @marivenah, @cassietrn, @trench-rot, @harmonyowl, @fourlittleseedlings, @purplehairsecretlair, @locustandwildhoney, @testyfestyenthusiast, @strangefable, @sharkyboshaw, @finding-comfort-in-rain, @alexxmason, @deputyash, @josephslittledeputy, and anyone else who wants to give it a go! (taglist opt in/out)

#syb's default fashion really is just: tight jeans. tanktop. (leather) jacket and stompy boots #i had such a hard time finding good pics for hers :'( like i had a few touchpoints/insp #but most of the images i found just didn't showcase the actual outfit enough. or the lighting was atrocious. #also there was a moment where i considered just making syb's mini-playlist entirely ethel cain. i could've. but i didn't. #no paola this time because she's remarkably difficult to find fitting songs for so you're getting saoirse instead #oc: deputy sybille la roux #oc: saoirse monaghan

[edutainer2022]

In celebration of your blog being unblocked:

@whumpster-dumpster prompt list:

Five Word Prompts:

28: “See where bravery’s gotten you?”

Dealer’s choice

@janetm74 Thank you! I did a little thing, because I love the Hood being the literal devil, digging deep into the lies Scott's mind tells him.

***

The voice slithered and hissed around him, like a snake. In many ways, the Hood was the serpent. Scott had to suppress a disgusted shudder - it was a disservice to a perfectly innocent animal to be compared to that... man.

"Such dashing bravado! So much empty pride! And for what? So that nobody ever learns your secret?"

The Hood circled behind him, leering, then grabbed his shoulders so hard Scott winced. A drastic push to shrug the vicious claws off did little with his hands tied back. The voice was now pouring right into his ear:

"The biggest secret of all is you're a coward, Scott Tracy. You're so afraid to step out of your father's shadow. You're afraid to stray away from his legacy. You're afraid everyone will see you can't stand on your own two feet and leave you behind! Because you're NOTHING! You hold HIS fort, you carry HIS mantle, you give yourself up for HIS dreams, you raise HIS children. So tell me, Scott Tracy, who do you see, when you look in the mirror?"

Even without the gag Scott had little to object to that, as he hung the head down. His blood ran cold and his heart went numb. It was true, all of it.

#methinks i have astronomy #thunderbirds are go #scott tracy needs a hug #the hood #my fic

[the-90s-music-colosseum]

Round 4 Match 15

propaganda below the cut! (massive wall of text warning)

Tracy Chapman:

"I can’t think of anything clever to say because I’m too busy sighing dreamily"

"GUYS ITS FUCKING TRACY CHAPMAN VOTE FOR HER OR ELSE ILL EAT PLAYDOUGH"

"Tracy Chapman made the best song of all time (fast car)"

"ik im the hope sandoval guy but if hope doesn't make it tracy has to she made me realize i was a lesbian i just thought i was bi then i listened to her and now im a lesbian she is powerful she is strength if you looked at her and looked at my art you would see 20 years of inspiration from one single woman"

"she's too good to commit atrocities to me but im the gore guy and you aren't for that. i would let her take out my vocal chords and use them as floss. i would have her saw down my bones to make a vinyl of her music. i would go on all fours and let her slaughter me like a pig. i want to be her cat"

"The most powerful written and performed voice of the 90s. Everyone, of any nationality or belief system, could feel the words Tracy Chapman sang. She gets her dues but deserves even more."

Stephen Malkmus:

"i can't even stand stephen malkmus but there's a very special girl out there who needs this win"

"My perpetually stoned, nonsensical girlfriend...if we don't invent the time machine soon I might die. He's like 6 ft tall so unfortunately I'd be like one of those birds that ride on giraffes and eat bugs out of their fur. And then I'd die in a weed accident during the recording of Wowee Zowee? Before that though I'd spend 25 hrs a day in bed with him. Alright thanks"

"Stephen Malkmus chronically addicted to moaning and gasping in Pavement songs like he’s getting the best dicking down of his life in the back of the tour bus while everyone else is asleep"

"This is the indie-label match, right? Then it has to be Malkmus, he *made* the scene. And he's still releasing excellent music today. He's just the most influential rockstar of the 90s."

"my gay pavement fan uncle gets out of prison tonight and he knows you ratted him out in '06. the only way to make this right is to vote for stephen"

"Pretty please vote for him, my friend loves him and he really wants him to win"

""There were times he refused to speak to his bandmates, pulling a jacket over his head and referring to himself as "the little bitch"." I have also heard him refer to himself as a brat, a queen, a primadonna, a sociopath, and a narcissist. All of these descriptors have made me want to slam him against a wall and turn his neck fun new colors."

"I mean, Pavement is THEE indie band of the 90s. The lowkey snark, Koreaaaa, so much style that it's wasted. And Malkmus is an understated cool rockstar: the hair, the face, Silver Jews! He never ever sold out. He's the 90s."

"the most beautiful man ever he looks like a gorgeous fairytale prince. he has been hot since he emerged on the scene and continues to be so as their reunion tour comes to a close. stephen forever"

"we have to consider the autism swagger. find me a pavement write up that doesn’t spend three paragraphs waxing lyrical on his inability to make eye contact. find me a YouTube comment section that doesn’t have hoards of moms swooning over his flat affect. his refusal to wear anything more formal than a flannel for the first decade of his career? genuinely culturally influential. 30 glorious years of expressionless performances. sunglasses in the dark. so many straight men falling over themselves for him they made a joke about it in the Barbie movie. raw tbh sex appeal. and he’s got a great nose"

"he had a couple of unfortunate haircuts during this period but highkey i would break both of my arms to just be able to make out with him. please vote for SM my life is in danger if you don't"

#most attractive 90s musician #poll #polls #90s music #tournament #tracy chapman #stephen malkmus #pavement

[thesherrinfordfacility]

LWA: Just some random stuff on a Sunday morning!

Missing scenes: Furfur's book of angels includes "bishop" as one of Aziraphale's jobs, and as we've already seen all the others on the list, even if only in deleted lines (the music tutor was originally in the Rome scene), I would guess we'd see that one as well. Not necessarily a good fit for 1650, though, although since Gaiman has done things like have the Bastille still standing in 1793, anything's possible.

Assumptions about character progression: I think there's a tendency to assume that Crowley and Aziraphale develop or ought to develop towards something "better" as the series progresses, but that's not quite right. They become more /complicated/, which is a neutral--dare I say grey?--concept. The novel and series both deny that good and evil are steady-state aspects of character: you /aren't/ good or evil (or something in-between), you /do/ good or evil (or something in-between). S1 Crowley, as both Gaiman and Tennant have said, has no real character arc, but one of the reasons I think the fandom needs to pay attention to my favorite bugbear, the child murder manipulation subplot, is that it is also about moral complexity. Flood-era Crowley offers the moral absolute "you can't kill kids." Armageddon-era Crowley runs Aziraphale over with a trolley problem in order to duck the more unpleasant reality that if you're fine with someone killing a kid for you, you're fine with killing kids. (I have to say that the sentimental "Crowley wuvs Warlock" headcanon is one of those instances where supposedly-positive fanon constitutes outright character assassination, right up there with "Aziraphale had an affair with Oscar Wilde" [oh, do /not/ get me started on why that's horrifying].) The series is on the side of Flood-era Crowley and Madame Tracy, not the "developed" Crowley. Meanwhile, Aziraphale learns how to lie, which is a skill that can be put to different moral purposes in different contexts. Sometimes it's unambiguously good, like saving Job's children; sometimes it's ambiguous-to-evil, like concealing the Antichrist's whereabouts from Crowley (revealing this knowledge to Crowley would mean more pressure to murder the child, but his rehearsed speech suggests that he's willing to let Heaven handle it, perhaps, which is not a viable moral alternative).

AWCW and being "impressionable": one of the funniest things about Crowley is that in some respects, he's every bit as conformist as Aziraphale is, and sometimes more so. His unreliable narration about the Fall hints very strongly that, as you say, he just went along with the "cool kids"--which, despite his protestations to the contrary, /is/ a moral failure on the terms set out by the novel and series. Even later, both Crowley and Aziraphale rebel in ways that maintain the fiction of the overarching system (the Arrangement) rather than dismantling it entirely. Crowley also enjoys his job, especially in the novel. Which, to be clear, is also a moral failure: slacking off is, hilariously, the most moral choice he and Aziraphale can make. FWIW, for me, neither the novel nor the series are "burn it all down" narratives, in part because they both advance a theory of humanity that suggests burning it all down just gets you the same thing from a different direction. The most radical political ideas are given to a conspiracy theorist and to children, and the Antichrist concludes by rejecting all of them and hitting a literal reset button. Pratchett may have co-written the book from a place of "anger," but anger can lead to a lot of different political practices. Obviously, YMMV.

LWA✨ woke up today and chose analytical violence, what a legend

1. see, i feel like 1650 could work for aziraphale's bishop occupation, even if only mentioned retrospectively. theoretically, he could well have been a bishop before the abolishment in 1646, and exploring the episcopalian polity vs presbyterianism argument of the time could be really interesting narratively (especially if handled somewhat like the resurrectionist episode)... but detail aside, even if by the time we see him in 1650 it's only mentioned casually that he was a bishop "a few years back", i don't think it would be entirely out of field. we don't necessarily need to have everything played out on screen!

2. okay, a lot to unpack here, but essentially i agree. the issue it seems to me is to posit moral absolutes in the first place; there will almost always be a contextual 'except'/'but' clause that comes along with it that turns it on its head.

it's bad to kill children, except when they are the antichrist and could bring about the apocalypse.

it's bad to lie, except when it would prevent unimaginable cruelty and grief being wrought on those that don't objectively deserve it.

it's bad to manipulate and brainwash a group of people, except when there's no lasting harm done, and you were only trying to demonstrate to someone that you love them.

it's good to try to further human medicine and prevent needless suffering, except when doing so puts the desperate as the first to fall in the figurative battlefield.

it's good to forgive a huge debt when you don't have any necessity of it being paid, except when it's primarily borne out of materialistic selfishness.

neither character does anything so completely reprehensible, or alternatively so inarguably irreproachable, that someone, somewhere, can't or won't argue a justification for their actions. we individually, according to our own moral compasses borne of our experiences, may justify or condemn what they've done in the narrative - objectively, the morality behind their actions as we've seen them so far is never absolute.

eg. for me, crowley's plan on killing the antichrist, a child, in the specific context of GO is not the condemnable action here; its the manipulation of getting aziraphale to do it because he, personally, will not do it himself. i understand why, but the thing that i personally consider to be unambiguously bad is not killing the antichrist itself, but instead the fact that crowley considers that the only solution to the hellhound being named - ignoring the 'running away' that crops up later, for a moment - is to underhandedly manipulate someone he cares about into doing it instead of him. however, others may see it differently.

who is to say what is 'better', anyway? what even is 'better'? is 'better' to do things only when it's for the benefit of other people? is doing 'better' for your own self not also worthy of consideration? is 'better' wholly only when doing something that is kind or generous to others, rather than being kind or generous to yourself?

whilst crowley hits certain moral epiphanal milestones before aziraphale does, neither have the full right of it - aziraphale should not hold morality to being plainly black or white, dictated to by a set of absolutes that are so basic and lacking in complexity that they are by all accounts redundant. and crowley should not dismiss alternative choices or solutions just because they do not fit his perspective or reasoning, nor hold that his understanding of morality is the only viable one or is the only one with any weight or validity. ep6 imo succinctly demonstrated this.

both of them are still so young at the flood. aziraphale holds that whatever has been decreed by the source 'of all that is good' must therefore be good (and choosing to not see beyond it) and crowley acts so incredulous that something he sees as being absolutely bad would ever be entertained (despite, you know, having been cast out of heaven for 'just asking questions'....). both of them by the time of job have had a pretty seismic shift in that respective naivety - aziraphale begins to question what god actually intends, and crowley acts stoutly bitter and unsurprised by the assignment. neither reactions are compatible still, they constantly circle each other, and literally indicate that some level of understanding (of god, of her will, of morality 'in the real world' itself - take your pick) is still lacking.

re: Oscar Wilde and warlock hcs (i couldn't let these stroll by without comment)... god, where to start. re: warlock, i never begrudge any hc where it's borne out of a developed fanon background. that's arguably one of the main benefits of having the fanon side of things: to develop a point/event/gap in the story for yours and others' amusement - that's cool! for this example, any fic that gives more insight into their years in warlock's life, and therefore gives legitimacy to crowley having a fondness for warlock - yep, i like that! that's awesome, i could see it as an unrealised narrative, but that's where it firmly stays, for me - in fanon.

but i do get frustrated when certain narrative points are pointedly ignored in order to establish a character trait that would otherwise not exist. crowley in canon does not - to me - demonstrate any fondness towards warlock. he literally proposes the option of his murder! i don't think him refusing to entertain killing warlock himself indicates any sentimentality towards the kid - thats a bit of a stretch, imo - but instead it reflects on his character being, put reductively, a bit of a knob sometimes.

as for aziraphale and oscar wilde... yeeaaah. i think anyone that holds that hc seriously needs to reevaluate the implications of it, and whether or not beyond professional (?) respect for his work aziraphale would willingly want to associate with him... ultimately, i refer back to my above point about "...anything so completely reprehensible...". and, respectfully, perhaps there needs to be a little more separation between michael sheen's filmography and aziraphale's narrative - whether in hc or canon.

3. right, AWCW time. i agree re: his conformity to the 'cool kid group' being something that is deserving of scrutiny on his own morality, but i feel like this only is viable once that association goes beyond a certain point (and an arguably arbitrary one at that). essentially, i think it's possible to still see AWCW's decision to associate with the group as understandable and empathetic. we know from the narrative that a) AWCW starts hanging out with them at some point, and b) that lucifer et al. are in the end considered bad people. but were they actually bad at the time that AWCW comes across them? if they were, did AWCW himself know? we don't really have enough narrative to reliably confirm this.

but we do know that AWCW fell, and it's therefore rather likely that he continued associating with them past a point where he would have known that they were Bad News Bears. in the beginning, he may have just been glad that these people seemed to listen to him and make him feel valid for having questions - that's understandable. but as time goes on, as lucifer etc. hypothetically get more and more questionable in their actions and beliefs, AWCW presumably choosing to stick with them, possibly even defending them, confers the deserving of negative judgement onto AWCW in turn (presuming there's no element of coercion or blackmail involved, mind you).

i like the point you raise of aziraphale and crowley respectively not conforming to their inherent purposes (being an angel or demon respectively) when it benefits them personally, being an almost accidental 'good thing', especially when the story puts forward that, however you look at it (ie. whether bc they are lazy, or it poses more excuses to see each other - immaterial), the arrangement is entirely self-serving. 10/10 narrative irony. but this is kinda going back to one of our first asks, LWA - it is for me once again the key difference between rebellion, and revolution:

(never been more grateful for making the LWA masterpost, thank you past-me)

so whilst i agree to a certain point that the 'burn it all down' narrative may not be a viable option, or is at the very least a reductive one, i think that the question is what it is replaced with, if at all. adam hit the reset button and put earth back to how it was, because what humanity and earth was - by my interpretation - was just fine as it is. it's not perfect, but not worthy of being destroyed in totality.

so what can we say about heaven? is it a mirror to earth in this respect? i don't think it is. heaven may well have been intended originally as a neutral party with the best of intentions, and then pigeonholed into being the 'good side' following the fall, but it has been allowed to fester and corrupt. maybe we will see more in s3 that there are other angels that feel that heaven as a system is flawed (personally, i think we see this in saraqael's introduction to GO, but that's just my interpretation of the character so far), and maybe those angels will represent the part of heaven that is still redeemable.

so okay, yeah, maybe heaven shouldn't be completely gutted and dismantled, but it is not in the same place as earth is at the time of adam's reset. earth and humanity were arguably the innocent parties in their prospective destruction, whereas heaven has sown their own seeds for it. i don't think the two are entirely comparable. heaven does need a major realignment, and i personally don't think this can happen without some form of systematic reform, without revolution (especially if the wider fandom's evaluation of metatron is true come s3!). it needs reworking with an alternative system that works to be fairer, and removes any binary rhetoric of good vs. evil. don't ask me for the minutae of how this should happen, because i have zero idea (well, very little, anyhow), im not that clever.

but this is what i hope aziraphale will actually be successful in come s3. he can't just - in anger at the injustice of it all - set heaven on fire and walk away from the ashes; it will invite for the original regime to rebuild or something worse to take its place. that being said, it's not just him that needs to do it - to build an alternative to heaven in his own image is equally questionable. again, this is the suggestion that i liked in the armageddon 2.0 meeting in ep6; the idea of democracy in heaven, even if the current board is less than ideal (and the point could poetically hark back to the hypothetical 1650 flashback...?).

#“just random stuff” no you came for the throat LWA own it #i had written like another 4 paragraphs on the anger thing but it got personal really fast so i opted to delete it #youre welcome for being spared from it #once again never sure if ive ever made an Actual Point in my LWA responses but make of it what you will #good omens #ask #the fall/the great war spec #AWCW spec #heaven theory #s3 narrative spec #crowley meta #aziraphale meta

[chaifootsteps]

(long ask, sorry!) the new media HH/HB thread on TV Tropes is doing the 'Viv gets scorn no matter what because she's a queer woman who makes things' routine atm (they're blaming TADC fans for toxicity and discussing the 'write like HB' trend, for context)

I've definitely seen creators (anyone, really) get far more hate online when they're female for stupid reasons, but it's frustrating to see them do the 'Viv can't win no matter what she does' thing because I can't really think of an instance where she hasn't responded to criticism she doesn't like, or has actually tried behaving like a professional for a minute - even some of her fans on subreddits have said she needs to step away from Twitter for her reputation's sake or hire someone for PR.

The reason she 'can't win' is not because she's a woman - she's not Rebecca Sugar and she's not Tracy Butler who know how to behave professionally (and before Viv started mudslinging at Lackadaisy, neither Tracy nor the LD crew had any drama attached to them despite Tracy being a woman herself... curious)

Viv's a creator who acts as though she doesn't have the confidence to let her work stand on its own merits and can't bring herself to ignore criticism (given she seems to disagree with practically all of it; the only thing I've seen Spindlehorse try to improve is not using red as a bg color so much and cutting down on the constant sound effects), & as a result she has cultivated a fandom who feel rewarded when they make tweets either defending her or explaining the show on her behalf because she keeps liking those tweets, which only makes it happen more. the lack of distance she keeps from her fans and the way she actively rewards the ones who put down criticism of her makes them act like she's their friend instead of someone whose show they like and someone who is actively using them as both a shield & sword. This is why the fandom has a bad rep, it's not just that the Hellaverse shows suck - it's that their creator will paint all criticisms as bad faith and only makes the effort to address fans not when they harass, bully or threaten people, but when they do something that affects her personally (like celebrate a ship on the same day as her birthday). and I understand social media feels like overwhelming toxic noise: but that's why creators need to learn to step back and not engage so much. enabling toxic fans aside, this level of enmeshment strikes me as bad for anyone looking to hone their craft and create something meaningful

as much as I want to offer some pushback in that thread I feel the plagiarism accusations will be immediately downplayed or ignored and any mention of bad pay or treatment in the workplace will be met with accusations of 'debunked!!' or 'some of the reviews were fake therefore all of them are, even the ones that line up with consistent accounts of bullying or misgendering or a pattern of no deadlines being given!!' asking 'I don't understand what she's done to attract this level of vitriol' kind of suggests they haven't looked that hard or listened to anyone who would want to tell them

but if I was to put it to them, I think I would say - Viv will 'win' when she behaves like a professional, credits people properly, doesn't just drop people when they're no longer useful, stops burning bridges with other people working in the indie animation space, stops vaguing and painting all criticisms as bad faith and understands that even behaving professionally will not make people stop criticizing her show, because every artist in the world has to deal with the fact that people will want to discuss and critique their work. and though I doubt the writing on her shows would ever improve, I'm sure people would at least respect her trying to act more like the professional showrunner she's supposed to be. no one can 100% control their own narrative with her level of Internet fame, but the best way not to make it actively worse is to stop trying to imo

Agreed, and also I feel like it's been years since TvTropes was right about anything. Although even the Viv pages on TvTropes have been very slowly getting more and more critical.

#Anonymous #viv stuff #actual blog post

[forest-falcon]

WIP Wednesday

Adding to my Thunderbirds fic with OC Lieutenant Tamara Fielding & Jonesy (both firefighters who work with Chief McCready). The fic is written completely out of order (my brain refuses to be anything but chaotic!)

💙👨‍🚒👩‍🚒🚀☔

Tam set her coffee down on the countertop of the front desk and dragged an office chair towards her.

God she hated paperwork, especially during the winter months. Maybe she could shred the whole pile...create a fire in the foyer - anything to thaw out her frozen hands. Then again, arson, as a rule, was somewhat frowned upon within the firefighting community. Killjoys.

Tam cradled the quickly cooling coffee, attempting to leech the remaining heat from it. 

"You gonna drink that or buy it dinner?"

"Oh I'd take it to bed with me if I could, but I've somehow gotta make your numbers look good so Chief McCready doesn't fire your ass."

"Sounds like an easy day to me. I am, after all, Jonesy... the living legend."

Tam arched a brow as he flexed 

"Hmmm...those weren't the words I was thinking of."

"Well I'm not sure you can use ruggedly handsome in a report?"  

Tam took a sip of her coffee.

"I've known cats with smaller egos than yours."

Jonesy grinned. 

"So why's Chief got you hooled up here anyway? I miss my partner in crime. The probie ain't bad, but I want my work wife back."

Tam took an elongated slurp of her now-iced-latte, before the phone mercifully rang.

"Hold up, I've gotta take this."

Jonesy gave a mock salute, winked, then headed in the general direction of the lockers.

"London Fire Brigade"

"Guess who?"

"Scott?"

"Guilty as charged!"

"How...err...how are you? Sorry, I wasn't expecting it to be you. Is everything okay, I mean, is there a situation we can assist with?"

"Oh! No, it's just a friendly call. I've asked EOS and John to cover any incoming calls to the station  while we chat."

"That's...erm...thanks?"

"So! In answer to your earlier question - I'm well. Bored as hell, stuck doing paperwork, but you know what they say...no rest for the wicked!"

"I'm not sure anyone in your family really fits that description."

"Honestly? Even after Gordon switched the letters  around on your keyboard?"

"That was him?"

"Like I said, wicked."

There was a brief pause.

"How's everyone else? I don't think I managed to catch Virgil before I left."

"Ah yes. Tyre factory fire in Madrid. To be fair, he's not one for goodbyes. But yes - the rest of the family's well. Kayo, I think, is missing the female company already as she's being proper ornery today. I think Alan's gonna have to game standing up as she kicked his arse good n proper sparring this morning."

Tam chuckled despite herself. 

"Poor Alan." 

"Anyway, just thought I'd drop you a line to see how life back at the station was going?"

"Oh. Well...s'been okay. Chief McCready has me on desk duty today thanks to the whole surfboard incident. Told her my head was fine, but, yeah. Here I am checking fire alarms, fitting car seats and making coffee. Life in the fast lane..."

"Hey, don't knock it. I've spent the day crunching numbers."

"You love numbers."

"Yeah, not these numbers though. Hey! We could swap? You do my Tracy Industries calcs and I'll brew the coffees?"

"Sure, I mean, only if I get to work in your office? The London drizzle and concrete doesn't quite stand up to your sea view."

"Deal! I'll bring One around as soon as I can suit up!"

"Oh, and I should warn you...don't drink the coffee. It's the cheapest instant sh*t they could find...and it's decaf."

"Ah now, that may be a deal-breaker you see..."

"Damnit"

"Yeah. Can't be pulling all night rescues on weak wanna-be-coffee."

"You wouldn't cut it here then Commander...better stick to your paperwork."

"Touché! Anyway...I better head off and let you get back to it. It was nice hearing your voice. Maybe we can grab lunch whenever I'm next in London?"

"I'd like that."

"Great, I'll get John to locate the nearest McDonald's for us."

There was a click as Scott hung up.

Tam chuckled.

"Jackass."

#thunderbirds are go #thunderfam #thunderbirds fanfiction #scott tracy