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fuckyeahgoodomens · 4 years

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You wrote the original novel with the late Terry Pratchett. What did you love about Terry as a writer?

He was the most wonderful writer. He was a craftsman who regarded art in the same way that a really good medieval craftsman regarded his craft. If you build it right, it will be beautiful. You don’t set out saying: “I’m an artiste and I’m going to make something beautiful.” You set out saying: “If I craft it right, it’s going to be beautiful.” It’s like a 12th century cathedral or a piece of Chippendale furniture. It will inspire awe and beauty because it’s so well built.

Why is Michael Sheen so well suited to the role of Aziraphale?

He is a massive fan of the book. He read it as a 20-something at drama school and loved it. When this production was being discussed, he was the first person I went to. He said: “Ah, yes, you want me to play Crowley.” “No,” I replied, “I want you to play Aziraphale.” Crowley is the sexy dude in the sunglasses, but Aziraphale is the heart of this story. He is also the one that changes. That’s very important to the story - who changes? The Crowley at the end is the same as the Crowley at the beginning. But the Aziraphale at the end is not quite the same as the one we went in with. He’s grown and changed. I needed someone who could show that progress.

Why does David fit the role of Crowley so well?

In my head, David was the dream casting for Crowley, but I felt sure it wouldn’t happen. That’s the best way to avoid disappointment. So when David said he’d love to do it, I was just delighted. He brings an insouciance and a slouchiness which I love. He’s not playing it as Doctor Who or any other previous characters. His Crowley is so much loucher than that. He’s a slightly cynical, wonderful demon.

How did other castings happen?

We got a lot of people because they were big fans of the book. For instance, Jon Hamm read it and loved it, although he confided in me that he thought it was unfilmable! I wrote him an email saying: “I’ve written the new part of Gabriel. He is the leader of the angels. I need someone to play the coolest, smoothest, best-looking angel. Will you do it?” I quickly got reply saying: “Oh my God, I thought it was unfilmable, but I love these scenes!”

What did Douglas McKinnon give to the show?

What he brought to the production was even more than we were expecting. He and his director of photography have made something stunning. But the most amazing thing is Douglas’s eye for detail and just how unexpectedly beautiful he has made this world. It absolutely gives me a kick to see it brought to life. It’s magical.

So Douglas has endowed Good Omens with an amazing look?

Definitely. This world has its own visual language. It’s gorgeous and glorious. I showed an early version to Jeff Bezos, the head of Amazon. His reaction was: “It doesn’t look like anything I’ve seen before.” What a lovely thing to say.

For many years Good Omens was going to be a movie. Why does it work better as a TV series than a feature film?

Because when you have got six hours, you throw away less of the original book. You can even add stuff. When I broke down episode three, I realised there was not much of Aziraphale and Crowley in it. So I wrote a whole new 20-minute, mini-movie of Aziraphale and Crowley through the ages - in Roman times, with medieval knights, during the Second World War. How much fun was that! I got to indulge my inner fantasy. I was writing my own fan fiction!

Everyone is really committed to this production, aren’t they?

Yes. It’s a hugely loved book. A lot of the cast are huge fans of the book, which means that they’re very passionate about the project. For instance, Josie Lawrence, who is the only original cast member from the radio version of Good Omens, was desperate to reprise her role as Agnes Nutter, but at first it was impossible. She was opening that week in Mother Courage. But we really wanted her, so her director very kindly stood in for Josie at the technical rehearsal for Mother Courage - which never happens - so Josie could do Good Omens. People are willing to go the extra mile to be in this, which is wonderful.

Why is the book of Good Omens so popular?

People love the relationship between Aziraphale and Crowley. When I was writing the script, I was determined never to lose sight of the fact that on some weird level it’s a love story between Aziraphale and Crowley. People might grab the wrong end of the stick, but it’s a relationship that develops over 6,000 years. It’s a rather strange and glorious friendship between two incredibly different characters.

While Aziraphale means well, he’s wrong an enormous amount of the time. Meanwhile, Crowley is a demon who sees the worst in human nature and yet is right a lot of the time. There is a line from the book, where Aziraphale says: “Imagine how terrible it would have been if we were at all competent!” They are gloriously incompetent, and the fact that they’re more human than they care to admit drives the plot and is one of the things that people love about Good Omens.

What do you hope that viewers will take away from Good Omens?

I hope people will fall in love with the characters. I want to make something that bears rewatching and gives you something more every time you rewatch it. I know moments in Good Omens pay off with repeated viewing. When you rewatch it, you think: “Oh my God, that’s why they set that up.” Mostly, I want audiences to walk away in love with Michael and David and want to spend time with these characters. The best thing about good TV is that you’re spending time with characters who become part of your family. I hope the characters in Good Omens will become part of your family.

#good omens #neil gaiman #interview #aziraphale #crowley #bts

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webcricket · 5 years

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Winter’s Eye

Pairing: AU!CastielXReader Word Count: 1803 (Ch. II) Summary: Season 13 canon tells you how AU!Castiel’s story ends, this is how it begins. The deranged and damaged iteration of Castiel we met in the apocalypse universe - an obedient soldier to Michael’s cause barely in control of his vessel’s frayed and erratically firing nerves whose inherent kindness toward humankind appeared entirely obliterated - wasn’t always an unfeeling angelic weapon of interrogation. Once, he sympathized with the plight of humans; one, he loved. A/N: Multi-chapter origin and love story. No happy ending here, folks; just a bittersweet illustration of an angel’s devotion and the sacrificial ends he pursues to protect the object of his affection. New chapters post on Mondays.

Series Masterlist

II.

Illumined by a flickering glow, frost curtains the corners of the cabin’s paned windows as sheets of snow continue to envelope the world without. A fire crackles in the wood stove; the cast iron door yawns to reveal a burning bedlam of deep orange and silvery embers forfeiting their fervor of warmth to temper the chill from the single room.

The fury of light silhouettes two figures stationed directly before it; the one, insensate with cold and settled on an overstuffed leather chair, houses a soul lately saved, the other, operating on righteous instinct, a being in a body borrowed.

The latter leans in constant worried motion over his unconscious ward. He loosens the layers of damp clothing, consigning a coat no longer equipped in its damp state to insulate to the floor beside already discarded boots; the melt of caked-snow clinging to the laces and heels coalesces into a shimmering pool on the broad pine planks.

Still dissatisfied by the sluggish return of consciousness, he rubs and rearranges the lax limbs repeatedly to restore circulation. His unrelenting efforts find rapid reward in a spasm of shuttered eyelid and the initiation of a bodily shiver suggesting the brain of the afflicted has thawed enough to rejoin the struggle for survival.

Tapping a finger to the rewarmed temple, his irises refract an internally rising radiance of blue; the otherwise unseen glory gifted him by heaven hurries to confirm the signs of recovery. Evidently pacified with the direction of progress given the small sigh of relief passing his lips, he ceases fussing to slide the chair in closer proximity to the blaze; stoking and feeding the fire, he steps back, content for the moment to watch the unfolding symptoms of revival.

The breath of both flame and rekindling life further thicken the frosty condensation on the window’s glass from within as he waits.

Castiel’s concerned blues occasion, after some minutes observing the sameness of your state, to lift from you in order to sweep over the shadow-obscured stacked log walls; in them and, too, a roof sound enough to keep out the blasting wind, he notes something of greater consequence than he felt hereto before when tarrying there - something consoling; a something verging on comfort.

The only variable altered is that of his not being alone – an amendment to his exile he finds not at all unpleasant; and one which - as regards comfort at least - watery sheen of blues dipping again to you, he wonders whether you will feel equal easement in upon waking.

In the firelight your features flush as blood steadily surges to sooth ice-nipped skin; he is struck once again by the delicacy of peace predominant in your expression despite the subtleties of pain weathering pale pink lips and stamping a sallowness into the hollows beneath your lowered lashes. The natural advantage of beauty he appreciates as affecting your particular aspect, much like those wonders of his Father’s creation once resplendent in a now desolated world for which he held the highest esteem allowed an angelic creature supposedly steeped in inherent apathy, appears no less diminished given what you must have endured before stumbling into these woods.

A series of restless moans murmuring on your lips, you squirm in shallow slumber in search of some unknown solace which seems to elude you.

Trance broken, giving you space, instinctively he shifts backward and stills to stone. He hasn’t yet considered what he’ll say – hasn’t fully fathomed how to handle the consequence of confusion sure to follow fast upon your rousing, nor how to allay the fear certain to be aroused in the requisite explanations offered of how you came to be here and what he is.

A compassionate heart guided by an innate sense for what is right, and the selfish potential - in the soldierly sense, of course, of once more having order and purpose to the passage of time - for the immediate improvement of his own dejected condition to be provided by your company, fix him to the spot.

A moment passes; then another. You do not wake.

A spark of cinder bursts forth, bounces, and sputters in the drips of wet gathered round your socked feet; his notice veers from you to follow the extinguishing complaints of the slag until it is no more than a fleck of gray ash and a withering of smoke.

“Hi.” Your throat, raw from long exposure to cold air, cracks out the faintest of greetings.

Blues flick to meet your blearily blinking gaze. Caught off guard, he states the obvious. “You’re awake.”

“No, I’m Y/N.” Woozy, weak, and uncertain of where you are or who he is, you default to wit such that you might start by assembling the strewn vestiges of it now returning to you.

His gaze narrows; after a second of deeply furrowed contemplation of your curious response to his observation, the crease of his brow eases in realization of the verbal play. “Ah, I’m Castiel.”

Stranger with a strange name, you think, and, a stranger accent.

Straightening from a slouch to obtain a better vantage on your whereabouts, half-expecting some indication to present itself you’ve been transported to Europe, you chance a cursory glance at the surroundings; your best guess: You’ve simply been deposited in a hunting cabin replete with a requisite decapitated White-tailed deer – a vacantly staring specimen sans four legs and anything else below the neck - mounted on a plaque to one wall. Despite the deer’s dead stare, it’s better than the last place you remember being which is riverside freezing to death under the similarly impassive survey of an oak.

In your periphery, a well-aimed lurch of two, maybe two and half feet from the cozy confines of the chair, your eyes glint on a brass fire poker laid against the stove. You have no idea who this guy is; not that you aren’t grateful, but you’re keeping your options open.

“Castiel,” you repeat, regard roaming over his distinctly regimental attire and the squared stance ingrained by association as that of a soldier standing at attention. “I think I owe you a thank you.”

Dropping his gaze in a gallant gesture of humility suggesting saving you was a mere trifle, he bows his head.

The civility of his manner instantly eases your wariness. In its place, you feel the overwhelming urge to fill the silence and elucidate how you came to be in the predicament of wanting rescue. “Damned stupid to dare that river crossing in a storm. I could hear the ice cracking, but I also heard a squad of angels coming in close behind me. Not much of a choice, you know?”

His eyes rise to yours – you discern the tranquility of their color markedly disturbed by the mention of angels. This reaction fortifies your impression of him as friend, not foe. Slightly relaxing caution, you lean forward to fold your palms together before stove.

The strong line of his jaw sets, stalling in choice of just the right words to answer to your story without creating alarm. Coughing to clear the gravel from the lower register of his voice, he calmly utters them a second or two before you become aware of the delay. “There are no angels on that side of the river.” In review, it occurs to him it would’ve been wiser not to stress any one part of the statement above another.

“Oh.” You swallow the syllable; embarrassment blossoms on your cheeks as the enormity of the damned stupid sinks in and the reality of the damned lucky surfaces.

You duck your chin and redirect, hoping perhaps along with his knowledge of where angels aren’t, he also knows something of the refugee encampment you were looking for. “Are you with the resistance?”

The disquiet unsettling his blues and agitating the minute musculature of his jawline wends down his spine to work inflexible mischief into his shoulders. He’s glad you failed to latch onto the ill-spoken that, less glad the interview persists in being directed upon himself.

Unpracticed talking to people – skills of conversing rusty as a result of many months of isolation – he grapples inwardly to determine how to change the subject; outwardly, he clasps his hands behind his back to preserve composure.

Evading causing you discomfiture by further delay in speaking, he replies, “In a manner of speaking.”

Although superficially affirmative, the awkward avoidance of an explicatory answer should excite your alertness; it doesn’t. The strangely alluring accent he’s in possession of implies he’s a visitor from foreign lands; wherever he’s from, perhaps the resistance is called something entirely different, like, for example, the opposition.

The cohesive framework of international news, or news of any shape beyond word of mouth and unfounded rumor (which, strictly speaking, is not so different from when international news stood strong), ceased to exist the day angels dive-bombed the planet. Whomever he’s with, his answer signifies a sympathetic attachment to the resistance, and that’s good enough for you.

“You’re military then?” you ask, utterly naïve in your progress toward the horrifying truth.

“Yes.”

If angels prayed, he’d pray - for your sake - you end your inquiry there. You were willing to risk hypothermia or worse to escape angels you only imagined were trailing you; there’s no guessing what you’ll do when you discover yourself occupying a room with one.

Short of hastily vacating the cabin without any clear rationalization of why he is running out into a squall, he’s at a total loss as to how to stop you; he ignores the gust of wind just then temptingly rattling the door.

Surrendering to the security represented in his confirmed status as a soldier – whereby, in so far as you understand, a soldier universally being a shield to defend against wrong, thus makes him worthy of your confidence – and suddenly aware of a recommenced shivering as the strength of the fire wanes, you stretch your fingers toward a blanket draped out of reach on a footstool.

Casually – fatally, to your carelessly formed faith in his goodness given the little you know - you prod further. “So … what army?”

He stoops to retrieve the blanket for you and encounters, in a separation of only inches, your unsuspecting and thankful look as you offer him a diminutive but delightful smile in exchange for the chivalrously proffered fringed edge of fabric.

You peer expectantly into his blues, ready to learn which leg of European power has crossed the sea to help stand humanity’s ground here in the states; peering back at you, veracity gleams brightly beneath a widened ledge of lashes begging pardon for what he is about to say.

Your rapt attention diverts to his lips moving in articulation of an answer that steals your breath and stops your heart.

“God’s army.”

Next Chapter: III

#castiel x you #au!castiel x reader #castiel x reader #spn x reader #reader x castiel #au!castiel #you x castiel #castielxreader #castielxyou #castiel fanfic #spn fanfic #castiel reader insert #castiel imagine #castiel fanfiction #castiel #cricket writes cas

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themerrysous · 5 years

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Comic-Con Preview Night Thoughts:

(yeah I’m like a week behind but seeing as Pennyworth debuts tonight, it seemed like a good time to chime in)

Batwoman (CW, airs in October, I think?): Wow. They went like...gay-gay. Not like gay, like gayyyyyy-gay. Here for it. Sadly that's about all I'm here for. Heavy-handed dialogue and establishment of character relationships (expositional dialogue is so 2000-never, please stop this travesty today), possibly some of the worst fight choreography and filming I have ever seen (hard to explain succinctly but fight choreography elements need exposition when new elements are added, and need a variety of wide shots, close ups, and specials/inserts, and this was ALL wide shots sans necessary establishing elements), and super angsty lesbian drama worthy of The L Word. It's like they knew they would get fans simply for having Ruby Rose and wlw content and didn't attempt anything more. A bit insulting, really.

If I watched this show, it would be purely to see Rachel Skarsten’s performance as Alice. In a role that could easily devolve into caricature or simply a regurgitation of any version of the Joker or the Riddler, Skarsten found a way to walk the line between “outright mad” and “playing at being mad because it’s her aesthetic”. Her Alice definitely has a wink-wink nudge-nudge air that keeps her lines (most notably the infamous “why is a raven like a writing desk?” riddle) from being too forced. She’s working deftly with what little she’s been given. Kudos, girl.

My genuine hope is that CW sees how badly Batwoman did at SDCC and reshoots a few scenes (god please reshoot the unbelievably creepy “rescue” scene because that was like...uncomfortable to watch. please don’t make batwoman a creeper.). I would love for this series to be good, right from the start. None of this Breaking Bad “oh you just have to get through the first three seasons and then it’s great” bullshit.

Pennyworth (Epix, airs July 28): Oh my god. Oh. My. Gaaaawd. First, stellar opening credits (JauraProps and I have A Thing™ about credit sequences). Second, beautiful cinematography and a colorist who knows their stuff. Third, nice bit of wink-wink nudge-nudge foreshadowing in regards to Alfred Pennyworth’s future. Fourth, PALOMA FAITH IS KILLING IT, Y'ALL. I haven't really seen her stretch her legs, acting wise (granted I haven't seen her in anything else besides St. Trinian’s, but love her music!), but she's already proving delightfully deranged in her role. Fifth, I'mma be real here: I have less than pure levels of admiration for Dorothy Atkinson, particularly when she gets to be just a little bit vicious. I love her in Harlots, I adore her in Mum. I would probably watch this show just for her face. At the start, I was afraid she was going to be put in a flatter, quieter version of her turn as Jane in Call the Midwife, stuck playing a sighing and beleaguered housewife--but without spoiling too much, let’s just say she ends her part of the episode with a kick. Then entire ballroom erupted into cheers and laughter at her moment of victory. I can’t wait to see where her character goes in this series, as well as the rest.

All in all, this is a story that makes you lean in. Even secondary and tertiary characters have distinct voices and enough of a backstory to make you want to know more. Stellar crew, adept and well-matched cast with a Peaky Blinders vibe.

Prodigal Son (Fox, airs Sept 23): I’m gonna be a bit petty here: Tom Payne legit has one of the most unsettling faces I have ever seen. I was shocked to realize he played Paul “Jesus” Rovia on The Walking Dead--because in this role, he looks nothing like the laid back dude from the zombie apocalypse. He’s lost weight, his hair style is...not flattering, and the whole unshaven thing definitely gives credence to the idea of a character who’s coming unhinged from insomnia and debilitating nightmares. If he showed up at my police station to help find a serial killer, my first question would be: “yo, bro, you sure it ain’t you? because you look like someone who makes human skin lamps in your free time.”

The story follows a young man (Payne) who happens to be the child of a prolific serial killer (played by the incomparable Michael Sheen). In fact, the son was the one who found his father’s last victim and called the cops. For years, he met with his father in a high security asylum as they attempted to “crack the code” of psychopathy and serial killers. However, at this point, it’s been a decade since he’s seen his father--and now he’s a profiler for the FBI. His ability to think like a killer makes him a prime candidate for solving murders...and yet it’s also what has him living in fear of his self.

Michael Sheen is the reason to watch. Who else could instill such genuine sweetness into a performance that actually has you looking at a horrific serial murderer and going “ah, he’s not so bad”?! And by sheer witchcraft, ineffable holy miracle talent, Sheen is able to give warm smiles that seem truly deep and genuine at a glance, while maintaining a cold calculating deadness in his eyes. He’s the kind of guy you want to believe, the guy you want to trust, even when you know that perhaps you shouldn’t. Every Sheen scene is a masterclass in acting. If nothing else, literally fast forward through everything else and simply watch his scenes.

My one issue: these bitches have freaking BELLAMY YOUNG playing Payne’s mother. Like she ain’t legit barely 13 years older than him. I’m assuming they’re going to address how youthful she looks eventually (at least give us a throwaway line about botox or something) because it literally kills the whole “suspended disbelief” vibe. Though Sheen is also only 14 yrs older than his “son”, at least he was able to grow out his beard, the added silvers giving a little more credence to a wider age gap, whilst Bellamy is looking dewy as always. Also that reminds me: note to self, stalk Bellamy Young’s skincare regimen.

#random thoughts #comic con preview night #batwoman #pennyworth #prodigal son #rachel skarsten #dorothy atkinson #tom payne #michael sheen

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jtownraindancer · 5 years

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“Hell was fluid, ever-adapting, designed to corrupt and punish any who walked through its gates. Its image shifted in a mimicry of its rulers’ innermost values, the remnants of their soul or their Grace. Hell was its own plane, existing between the Earth and the Abyss, slightly shy of overlapping with Purgatory, built as a punishment for any who dared to cross the Almighty.

Pandemonium, however, was an ever-fixed mark, an unchanged paradise that almost rivalled Heaven itself.

Lucifer had carved the very foundations in a careful imitation of the palace he had once called home, designed each staircase and column with contempt. If Hell is to be my Eternity, he had once believed, I will embellish it so as to make the Angels weep in envy.”

He had been limited, of course. But as he paced the corridors once more, for the first time in ages, he felt a flicker of pride at his former achievements, dimming again at how lacking it truly was.

Naphtha fueled each light, each flicker merely a dim comparison to the stardust he had studied and grown by. The halls were gilded in tanzanite and zircon, each passage carved from quartz and ametrine.

It was an abomination, a weak mimic of halcyon mist, of the verdant glory, of the sheer iridescence of the Paradise he had abandoned.

It was, however, still his personal sanctuary. The arching ceilings, the marbled floors, the fountains flowing from the deepest springs, the furniture carved from trees older than civilization- It all was his.

His palace.

His kingdom.

His home.

Only the most loyal of his followers had been granted admittance, back in those glorious days when he had still been impassioned optimism, roiling hope. They had been Fallen, but they still had faith in their cause.

The Princes, his Knights-

Then, formidable legions of some of what had been some of Heaven’s brightest, fiercest.

Now, all but gone, ashes of their former glory.

Pandemonium was all but silent, all but abandoned.

The only other occupant, save his bitter memories and wisps of nostalgia for former magnificence, was the soul currently stationed in his library. The very human soul, the only living being he would ever begin to consider letting into his haven, past all of his defences and riddles. They were the only being he trusted enough to collapse into, in those moments when the lingering black hole of that First War- the scar of Michael’s blade- became too much for him to bare, before he Fell into the cavernous chaos of his mind and the cruellest of his memories.

And oh, his Father must be laughing at the sheer irony of this situation, commending Himself on a job well done.

The very creatures he had once despised so much, he now regarded with wary acceptance, some with a more begrudging fondness, comparable to that which he had only once felt for his brothers and sister. And that other, the vibrant, flickering spirit of pure curiosity, whimsy, and compassion-

He found himself flying to the library with only a thought, watching as this human positively glowed in contentment, shining nearly as bright as the morning whilst they took in the millions of tomes he had collected, the very hoard of knowledge leaving them with only awe and pure, iridescent joy.

He felt a smile of his own growing as the human- his human- skimmed their fingers across each binding, a sheen to their eyes reflecting the warm glow of the candlelight. Their lips were slightly parted, whispering with each title, faltering at names in languages that had come and passed long before the Silk Road, before the Persians, before the Greeks, before even the Ethiopians.

There was a reverence to their every motion, a gentle devotion to each book, every scroll. Each page was precious, each word a treasure beyond all compare, each letter worthy of devout worship and fidelity.

He found himself leaning against one of the many tables, arms folding in a habit formed during the time with his most loyal Vessel. Bemusedly, he noticed that they were pulling out a volume bound in stardust and white gold, shining with pearly opulence. Doubtful they could perceive the novel in its full glory, limited as their Sight was.

It had been written in the words before Enochian, a dialect spoken only by Chaos, by Amara, by his Father, by the other Archangels, by the Horsemen. It was a language older than all Creation, rumbling through the Abyss and refracting off all the untouched quintessence his Father praised so highly.

It had been one of the many books he had shared with Raphael and Gabriel, one that had lead to many a long-winded debate with Michael.

By human standards, it would be comparable to a children’s book, perhaps The Hobbit. But he had memorized each brushstroke, could recite each passage upon request. It had been his favourite, since the first flutter of his Grace, since before Raphael had brought them wind and flight.

They were still skimming each page, turning away from the shelves to instead lean against them, eyebrows drawn together in concentration, in a feeble hope to comprehend markings older than the Cosmos.

With a slight lilt, he found himself speaking. “I could teach you the language, but it’d probably fry your brain.”

Startled, they straightened their posture, almost slamming the book shut in their surprise. “Lucifer!”

He couldn’t resist chuckling. “Sorry, sorry.” His arms unfolded, hands moving into a gesture of surrender. “I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

The mild annoyance still lingered in the depths of their soul, but it was being cast away, stubborn denial rising in its place. “You didn’t scare me.” They closed the book with a mildly dispassionate huff, gently sliding it back to its place.

“Ah, my mistake.” He bit his lower lip, arms refolding, amusement coursing through him. “Clearly I misread you, again.”

“Obviously,” came the haughty reply, playful in intonation, and in the half smile they wore as they approached him. Casually, they joined him at the table, mimicking his posture, sliding until they were all but touching.

Their amusement faded, their sparkling energy shifting to more somber tones, cautious, concerned. “What’s up, Luce? Y'alright?”

He offered a sneer. “Your affinity for bastardizing English beyond what has already been done for Latin and German is truly disturbing.”

“Shut up; you love me.”

He huffed out a laugh at their confidence, but was soon all but falling apart when they dropped their head against his shoulder, eyes still full of wonder tracing over the wall of literature before them, warmth and care offered in each heartbeat.

It was silent for what he knew to be only moments, brief even by human standards-

But it felt like an eternity.

“Thank you; it’s beautiful.”

Each breath tingled across his skin, each inhale drawing his devotion, each exhale securing his vulnerability.

His eyes closed, a wary long-standing defence against the havoc of the Cage, suddenly fearful that these sensations were yet another punishment, one in Epochs of torment.

The warm weight on his arm, the fingers weaving with his own, the cricking of the nearby candles, the trails of smoke and the lingering hints of apple- all fabrications of his cell, handcrafted and detailed by the very entities that his Father had forsaken.

When his eyes opened, it would be gone, nothing except the reaching, mawing nether of the Abyss beneath him, Chaos and His Court always waiting for him, escape eluding him when his wings were burnt and severed and polluted by millions of years of torture.

He was surely alone, a son who still loved his Father beyond measure, unable to do nothing as his kin surrendered to the corruption of Hell, Fallen almost indistinguishable from the demons he had created.

When his eyes opened, he would wake up from this dream, in a world without redemption, without hope, without the promise of a brighter future shining in his son’s eyes.

He was surely alone.

The press of a thumb caressing his wrist, tracing each vein, lingering at the sensitive juncture between arm and hand, gently summoning surrender from compiling nerves and veiled nebula- It was a fiction.

Father did not distribute mercy, and this-

His had was being lifted, two sets of fingers clasped around it, weaving between his own. Rough lips, gentle breaths fluttered over the pads, vivid phantoms from a world he would never know.

“Lucifer…”

Hazy whispers of a ghost in another life, where each syllable was whispered like a prayer, with a reverence and love he did not deserve-

It clouded his mind, brought him so close to opening his eyes.

“Please, Starshine.”

Warmth shifted away from him, though his hand remained entrapped, by his will, in one of their own. Their other was an unexpected presence on his cheek, firm and solid, even as it shifted back, fingers carding in his hair, pulling his head down. They were warm, insistent, and radiated an inherent adoration that sparkled through even his closed eyelids.

“Come back to me.”

He inhaled sharply, reflexes urging him away, muscles tensing as he pulled himself together, Lieutenant-Strategist-Inventor determined not to submit to the trickery, to the Cage’s cruellest deception yet.

But the hands held firm, one the gentle brush of stardust on his open palm, tracing sigils and the patterns of his name, ceaselessly, endlessly, faithfully.

The other was a firm vice, holding him fast to the realm he knew could only be a fiction, fingers clawing desperately into the base of his neck, his head bowed in forced acquiescence.

“Lucifer.”

It was a yearning sigh, a desperation in their voice that drew his desire to remain, to cling to this dream, hold fast to the fervent peace it offered.

But it was just a dream, nothing more.

It would never be more.

His Father had encaged him, his brother despised him, his True Vessel damned him-

There was a warmth against his forehead now, all thoughts short-circuiting, falling away at the familiar pressure of their lips, the pleading tremor in each breath that fell into his hair. They pulled away slowly, crowns meeting almost immediately.

“Open your eyes.”

It was an order, a command.

They spoke with the righteous dominance of any Infernal general, of each Empyreal commander, the rumble ricocheting through every single doubt, the demand carving away each layer of disbelief and fear and dread.

To the very depths of his core, every flickering ember of his Grace, all remaining Glory and Majesty-

He was still a soldier of God, originally bred for full faith and blind obedience.

With the surging force of a tsunami, the determined flight of a hurricane, and the confidence of a comet, he launched away from Doubt, fought away from the clinging webs of Panic, ripped away from the grasping claws of Pain, ignored the remaining jibes of Rumour.

Lucifer opened his eyes, nearly blinded by the brilliance of the relieved soul clinging to him, holding fast to him, wisps of their aura clutching to him as if he were their most cherished possession, nearly lost to Time and Space.

He regarded the last few moments- hours? days?- critically, suddenly very aware that, perhaps, they most definitely had almost lost him, forever.

With a sigh, his arms wrapped around them, a dozen mangled wings folding forward to provide a barrier around them both. It was a presence they could feel, never see. They let out a breath of surprise, falling into his frame, their own arms instinctively wrapping around him.

For a moment, just a moment, he simply breathed.

Offered a silent prayer to his Father for the miracle that was holding him as if he were the most precious thing in all Creation.

He pressed a soft kiss to their crown, silently pledging himself once more to their happiness, humbled once again in the face of their compassion, their longing to protect him.

And now, entirely unbeknownst to them, they had saved him, bringing him back from the depths of Ruin, saving him from succumbing to the Emptiness that lay beyond Creation, beyond the Empyreal, beyond Perdition and Purgatory.

Single-handedly, unwittingly, this human had helped him draw away from the brink.

He owed them everything.

“Wanna get some gelato? I know this great place outside Vatican City.”

His words startled a laugh, warm and gentle and most assuredly real.

He allowed himself to melt into it, a small chuckle of his own escaping in his relief, his delight.

“I thought you wanted a night in?” The soft puff of air teased his hair, lingered near his ear. A hand rubbed circles in his back, unconscious movements of a restless mind.

Turning his head, he gently bumped it against their own. “Who said anything about leaving?”

“Devious little shit,” they whispered, shivering at his playfulness, at the intentional way he hovered near their temple, the fingers in his back lightly clawing into his jacket as he held onto them, his lips curling at their imminent surrender.

“I say some gelato, some cider, a little jazz, maybe a blanket fort-” He trailed off, withdrawing only just enough to study their eyes, to commit the thousands of flickering emotions to memory, to float in the heady rush of their thoughts.

He was alarmed to discover that there was no fierce optimism, or the bright longing he expected, only concern, worry, sympathy. “What is it?”

Their lips parted, closed, were drawn in by teeth in an attempt to restrain free thought. It was a grievance that only mildly irritated him; he understood the value they placed on their words, respected their faith in the power of language.

Finally, a moment, a lifetime, an age later, they gave reply. “We don’t have to stay here, Lucifer. We can go to Rome, if you’d prefer.”

“Sunshine-”

“Lucifer.” They said his name in that sharp tone again, full of majesty and condemnation, eliciting his pride and his adoration. He granted them his submission, pulling away enough to gesture for them to continue.

They offered a small smile, the tremulous flicker of an apology marring their features before they continued. “Thank you for this. For showing me Pandemonium, for sharing this with me, for proving my theory that you have obnoxious dragon-like hoarding tendencies.”

The words summoned a chuckle out of him, brought to the forefront of his mind the idea to introduce them to the draconian creatures hibernating not even four chambers over. During another visit, perhaps.

His amusement earned a watery smile from his companion, their hand rising to his cheek once more as solemnity reclaimed them. “You’re haunted, sweetie. I can see it; this place is beautiful, but it’s clearly stained with a lot of bad memories. We don’t have to stay.”

He allowed himself to relax into the comfort of their touch, anchoring himself in this moment, in the familiarity.

He considered, the offer a temptation worthy of surrendering to.

But he knew that they wanted to stay, their curiosity and awe a lingering tangibility in the air around them. Being here, surrounded by all the words that his Father and Humanity and the Angels and the Gods had ever written-

For his beloved, this was a Heaven in Hell, their own Paradise in the heart of Pandemonium.

And yet they were willing to abandon it forever, cast it all away in favour of his happiness, his comfort, his desires.

He shouldn’t be surprised by that singular, overarching difference between them. He was proud and steadfast, rarely willing to compromise, and they were always putting others before themself.

So foolish.

So humane.

Carefully, he lifted his hand to cover their own, guiding their fingers from his cheek to his lips, lingering on each knuckle like some romanticized knight, pledging fealty to their monarch. His thumb traced their wrist, exploiting the weakness, and he savoured each tremor in their breath, each skittering hiccup dancing through their pulse.

“Someone once told me that the best way to banish bad memories is to replace them with good ones,” he hummed, eyes drifting shut for a moment.

There was nothing between them for several breaths until a small snicker escaped their lips. “I’m so gonna tell Charlie that you’re stealing her philosophies now.”

His eyes flashed open, narrowing at the lighthearted sparkle to their smile. “Do so, and so-help-me-Dad, I will smite you myself.”

They pressed most of their amusement away, their own eyes narrowing in determination, brows lifting ever-so-slightly in challenge. “I am immune, sir, both to your charms and to your threats.”

He hummed, pondering for scarcely an instant before he was spinning them around and then lifting, moving with fluidity faster than a breath, faster than the shuttering of a blink. By the time they could process what he was doing, he was halfway to the nearest loveseat, laughing at their protests and the frantic way they threw their arms around his neck. “Lucifer!”

“Yes, darling?”

There was a grumbling from his side, one that was fully irate. “You’re despicable.”

He beamed, setting them carefully onto the red velvet. “And you, my dear, a divine delight.”

Their expression summoned another laugh out of him, one that slowly melted away their faux disgust at his words.

He dropped his weight beside them, intentionally angling himself to cause them to lose their balance, frantically flailing as they fell into his side. Before they could right themself, he wrapped a firm arm around them, trapping them into his side.

There was a huff, a folding of arms. “Definitively diabolical.”

He played mock offence, turning to face them as his free hand pressed to his chest. “Moi? Excuse you, but I am an Angel.”

The fond exasperation eclipsing their bemusement relayed how decidedly annoyed they were with his charade. “You are literally the Devil.”

“How astute of you.”

“I try.”

Silence fell once more, interrupted when he summoned Cosmopolitan Orchestra, a blanket, and the book his human had been so curious about earlier.

Their eyes met his cautiously, shining in restrained wonder and hope. He fought a smile, offering his own curiosity, sincerity lacing his every annunciation. “The offer still stands; do you want me to teach you?”

They watched him carefully, offering no judgement, only appraisal. Something they found in his eyes eased their tension, brought a sigh of surrender. “I’d prefer you just read it to me, actually.”

“You sure?”

They shifted, back in his side, their legs propped onto the opposing arm of the loveseat. He didn’t resist the urge to temporarily burrow into their hair, patiently waiting for them to grow comfortable again.

There was a nod, slow as not to harm him, and a whisper. “Please, Lucifer?”

He could no longer restrain the wave of fondness, turning away with contentment he had not experienced in Eons. “As you wish.”

The story rumbled from his chest, the sheer opulence and magnificence of the tale limited, descriptions lost in translation. It was still enough however, his voice weaving together images of Light and Grace and Hope and Adventure and all those other good things he had basked in before the Fall.

And as the brilliant, incandescent flickering soul in his arms shifted, had him pause to answer their inquiries, laugh at his anecdotes-

Lucifer felt the flickering forges of his faith ignite again, the gusts of their adoration stirring the smouldering embers of his Grace.

If this human could forgive him, could find comfort and warmth and joy in his presence-

Maybe there was reason to hope for him yet.

Synchronously, somewhere deep in the forgotten nethers of fire and brimstone, Chaos roared.

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vomiting-out-words · 6 years

Text

Boyfriend’s Background Commentary - The Twilight Saga Part Dos

Movie: Twilight - New Moon

Director: Chris Weitz

Cinematography: Javier Aguirresarobe

Budget: 50 million USD

Release Date: November 20th, 2009 (Canada)

Watched: August 30th, 2018

Boyfriend: @shiftaria

Part Uno - Part Dos - Part Tres - Part Cuatro - Part Cinco

After literally taking five minutes to even getting to the movie, due to the boyfriend shitting around and making many references made about my breaks due to the position he got me into, we finally pressed play. Shifter is telling me all about how he barely remembers the movies, and he’s very confused about the opening scene. Very professional. He’s also making the connection between the heavy reference Romeo and Juliet.

Oh, and sexual comment, commenting on Jacob’s long, beautiful hair. Right, it’s Bella’s birthday. Edward is fucking jealous of Jacob… Apparently, Edward is also a fuck boy, which I wouldn’t put past him, mainly because they imaged him that way. Kind of bothered by that since he’s much more respecting. The acting is much better than the first one, at least that’s my opinion.

We have gotten to the wonderful birthday scene by this point. Now, Shifter was really hyped about it due to the Volturi. I mean, Michael Sheen is a really good actor and makes a wonderful addition to the cast. Also, the phase with the painting was beautifully done, and just really makes it a cool way to get the backstory on characters. Now, when the party actually starts, I actually get rather confused. Wrapping paper does NOT cause that bad of a paper cut, and like I get Jasper is still getting used to blood, but like, none of these reactions have happened before. There have to be other times before that moment for Jasper, so why react now? He knows Bella is taken, he’s been around her when she was dying on the floor of the ballet studio. Yet now he’s reacting, what stopped him before? So many questions and like no answers.

Que sad cutscene about the soul and sad music video; while music lyrics are connected to anything Shakespeare related, Shifter is really picking up on that, he has been since the movie started. I’m glad he is, but it seems like the movie got that point across a lot better than the book did, as the book only gave the reader really angsty teenage girl diary for the most of it.

Finally, Edward appears again, like he’s off to a funeral. He tells Bella that his family and himself are leaving, using a very half-ass excuse about Carlisle. Really, Edward starts using emotional manipulation to get her to understand, bringing a real dick about all of it. Oh, and why the conversation has to be so far out into the forest? Great question, Shifter, we honestly have no clue. It was actually really stupid because as soon as Edward leaves, she chases after him, eventually getting herself lost. Would really help if we knew what Charlie was doing during all of this.

Shifter made an excellent point about the camera angles that were used for the goodbye when Edward gave that final kiss. As the angle started normal, Bella’s world felt right, it was perfect, then the angle started to become tilted, showing that Bella’s world was falling about in those very seconds.

“Oh! One pec! And called it!” -Shifter

Now, at this point, we paused because we were having a conversation that all the natives in this movie are from Canada, and it seems to be true.

Fun Fact: Shifter and I are both Canadian.

Back to the movie. We get a really nice time transition, with a really good monologue, showing what Bella was going through, what Charlie was dealing with. Finally, we get back to character conversation, where Charlie is trying to do the proper thing for his daughter. It’s really amazing that Charlie is trying to so hard to help his daughter. He loves her, yet stepping up into full-time father mode, it’s still pretty hard. Charlie will support his daughter in any way he can.

This next scene was really strange, because of ghost!Edward. Like I know in the book Bella is literally going crazy with grief at this point, but doing something stupid and dangerous to invoke those hallucinations should be red flags. Personally, I think it would have been better if Edward actually looked like he was there, rather than like cigarette smoke, kind of made it less of an impact to the movie. Thanks to Jessica literally putting the idea into Bella’s head that she needs to do the crazy shit to invoke an Edward Episode, she gets two dirt bikes, taking them to Jacob, because she needs help to rebuild them.

We once again paused because Shifter pointed out does twilight, a new moon, an eclipse, or the first light of dawn vanishing the horrible night have to do with vampires? Like that’s all werewolf stuff, none of that can be traced back to vampire myths. I actually had to take a step back, quest what this story was even about anymore like none of it made sense. At least now. Really messed up with this.

Ah, the famous age conversation strikes again, it’s interesting, but very unnecessary truthfully. Especially since it started to turn into a cougar joke.

“I am very confused by my teenage daughter. Send help.” -Charlie Swan, 2018 (Shifter)

I really like Jacob being around Bella like their relationship is nowhere as toxic has her’s and Edward’s. It’s healthier for Bella too. Jacob is a really great person as well. Shifter needed to point out that when Jacob and Bella were driving that is was really old school Hollywood, something I never really paid attention to before. Anyway, more backstory about Sam and a bit about why Jacob is really paranoid, well, bothered by him. It’s a good way to get information since the movie was getting to the point where it would be picking up its pace due to oncoming conflict about plot movement. Jacob and Bella ride bikes, Bella gets her Edward Episode, only to hurt herself, which leads to Jacob becoming shirtless, which was very welcomed by myself since these wolf boys are very good looking and a lot more character development than any of the vampires, at least in the movie, both parties were given equal development in the books, and you knew more about them.

Anyways, with Bella spending time with Jacob, she’s becoming more human again. With that, she’s becoming social with her friends again, even planning a night to the movies with her friends. Only for Bella to be stuck between Mike and Jacob, who both have a thing for her. Though, Jacob, he makes a move, even understands her. Only Mike to return and somehow gets under Jacob’s skin.

We actually all know why.

Bella is once again in distress, trying all her options to get ahold of him until she finally just drives to his house, in the pouring rain. Now there is Jacob; short hair, tattoo, and no shirt. Very hot. And Bella accuses Jacob of breaking up with her, fine choice of words, Bella. They exchange ‘It’s not you, it’s me’ conversation, but Jacob is really worried about hurting Bella due to seeing what can happen if he loses his temper in front of Bella. All of this leads to Bella coming up with the bright idea to travel out into the forest to the field. Not safe at all.

Seriously, it’s a terrible idea considering she runs into Laurent, who came to Forks on a favor to Victoria. Bella can’t lie to save her life either, almost leading her to get killed once again. The only reason she was saved this time was huge ass wolves, that everyone decided to think were bears, even Angela mentions about them a few scenes back. Bella rushes home to tell Charlie and Harry is over. It’s very clear that Harry knows about the wolves, so he agrees to help Charlie.

That very same night, someone comes knocking at her door, well, window, and it’s Jacob. Who really is trying to tell her what is up, and the kicker is; as Jacob verbally says on screen, Bella already knows. Thankfully, it only takes her a night to sleep on it, with a really fucked dream to go along with it all. Cut to her bargaining into the Black Household, needing to see Jacob, only for her to find Jacob sleeping. All seemed well with the world until her eyes locked onto Sam Uley and the others showing up. Storming out as Bella ‘Fight Me’ Swan towards them, yelling, even going as far as to slap Paul Lahote; who fought back, Really dumb on Bella’s part, almost leading to herself getting killed again, under twenty-four hours. Embry Call and Jared Cameron take Bella back to Emily Young’s house; Sam’s fiance. Emily has a really bad scar on the right side of her face due to Sam accidentally losing his temper. The pack is rather welcoming of Bella, Paul even apologizes to her once he returns from fighting with Jacob.

Now, it’s finally known why Victoria keeps coming to Forks, the only issue, the pack never knew until now. This leaves the movie to show what is going on when Bella decides to go cliff diving a few days later because she needs her Edward Episode. Only issue is, Bella doesn’t pay attention to the condition of the ocean. And considering Victoria jumping into the water to get away from Jacob earlier, not surprising that Victoria sees Bella in the water. Que Bella hitting her head and start stinking.

“I thought Edward’s power waw to read other's mind, not Force Projection.” -Shifter.

“Oh! Sexy McWet!” -Shifter @Jacob

How Jacob found Bella is something I totally forgot from the book, but sadness; Harry Clearwater is dead due to Victoria. Now, Jacob is really starting to open up to Bella about all of this, telling her about Sam and Emily. They almost kiss, I might as well scream because Jacob is so much better than Edward. Just Bella is stupid and doesn't listen to Jacob when she sees Carlisle’s car, because she’s going to take the risk. And surprise, there is Alice, making Bella really lucky, because it could have easily been Victoria as well. This is where the viewers find out that Alice can’t see past the pack. Oh, and Jacob doesn’t give a shit about rules and there’s apparently something totally between Jacob and Bella- Oh, wait, phone rings. Great, cockblocked again and Bella, you fucking suck.

Road Trip to Italy, to save the asshole that is an emotional manipulation, but whatever. Alice also steals a car and speeds, all calm, like nothing is wrong. There’s Bella in the passenger freaking the fuck out because they only had five minutes. Skip to Bella literally telling Edward that she can let him go, so just let her go, Edward! In comes, the Volturi, who are all wonderfully cast, and Shifter clearly has a boner for Aro; who is played by the wonderful Michael Sheen (I wouldn’t stop writing his name). Just the Volturi is beautiful, and very well played. This entire scene is just masterfully done, it suits such an old coven that is the government of all vampires. Also, Michael Sheen speaks beautiful Italian.

I literally don’t speak Italian, so this is just my observation. It sounds like he’s been practicing it for years.

Then surprise, Bella is in bed, back home in Forks. Edward is back, I am just upset, he could have just let her go, the Volturi wouldn’t be marking the Cullen’s down in their black books. They even go as far as to put Bella’s immortality to a vote, really torturing Edward, which he deserves. Sadly, Rosalie is the only one who’s said no. Kind of wish that more of them said no because Bella deserves so much better. Thank god Jacob is a no too, but he’s so wounded. Bella, you damn bitch.

Also, HOW IS A PROPOSAL A GOOD WAY TO END A MOVIE?!

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