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thecandywrites · 3 years

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The Beginning of Stormbreaker Part 1

So, my treat to myself, for Orctober this year. Is going back to Heaven and Fire, how Warchief Drad and Warchieftess Rhosland got to be the head of the clan. Now there is an overview of this story that is in Of Heaven and Fire. But I wanted a chance to really tell this story that would explain a lot about Brock and his upbringing through his parent’s eyes.

So lets go around and introduce people shall we? Top row from left to right. Top left- Tar, next to him, Orcoth, Middle- Esri. Over towards the right- Sarg.

Next row down, Shadi, middle- Our Gurl, our Queen- Rhosland.

Bottom row, left bottom corner, Baka, and then to the right Drad. handsome, handsome Drad.

The Beginning Of Clan Stormbreaker

Part 1

Rhosland was washing the pearls she had collected that day from the oysters and other shellfish she and her sister had gotten while her mother was cooking yet another seafood stew with the meat from the shellfish while Esri took what meager tools she had to carve and shape the shells, shaving off the ugly sides and shaping up the pretty sides of the shells into jewelry for the Warchief’s eldest son Tar and his two wives Baka and Shadi since they were both due to give birth in the next couple of weeks since Tar's other brother's wives and even Tar’s sisters had already given birth in the last few months and all the previous births had produced daughters and Tar's wives were the clan's last hope for a male heir this year.

However Rhosland took the fact that all of the pearls collected not just today but all summer were green or a pale yellowish green as an omen of the opposite since in orcish culture, green was associated with girls, because green signified the goddess Angja, the goddess of fertility and her primary colors were black- signifying black, fertile soil and green- the color of rich foliage and food. Red was associated with males, and specifically Zighorh, the god of war and the battlefield- since orcs were a warring species and red signified the color of blood that the male would spill onto the ground, making it extra rich and fertile which in turn would be a blessing for Angja.

Rhos and her twin sister Esri had even searched far and wide for pearls that would either hopefully be white which was neutral, or any shade of pink or red. But all they had found all summer was green pearls and thus all their gifts to the new mothers in the warchief’s family had been green, which was appropriate, but disappointing and all Rhosland could feel as she washed these was dread because if Shadi and Baka gave birth to daughters again, she knew Tar would get another wife, as his brothers had done, while their wives were still healing from the births and therefore could not give or receive carnal pleasure, had taken more wives and whether those wives were with child, was still too soon to tell but it had stirred quite a bit of contempt between the elder wives and the new.

Shadi and Baka were supposed to be birthing males for their husband Tar, they had done all kinds of rather bizarre rituals and ceremonies so that they believed that they had conceived sons and would succeed where their sisters in law had failed and Tar would finally have at least one, if not two male heirs to continue his lineage after the last five years of having only daughters by Shadi and the last three years of just having daughters by Baka and he was getting desperate to have a son besides his combined eight daughters, all of whom he did not care for at all and was beginning to take offense that his wives had only given him daughters so far while others in the clan were having sons, everyone except himself and his brothers and other sisters.

Tar’s father, the Clan Chief- Zash was equally desperate for at least one of his five sons to have a son themselves because his shaman had foretold that the Skull Screamer Clan would die under a lone Clan Chieftess or even a Warchieftess. So male heirs to continue the clan was of paramount importance.

Once Rhosland would be done washing the pearls, she would need to sort them and arrange them by size and hue of color and would be using a special needle to pierce each one to go on thread or cords for a necklace or earrings before there was a knock on the door before Rhosland’s mother Shari left the cooking fire to answer it to find Tar there.

“Well hello! Welcome Warlord Tar.” Shari greeted him respectfully.

“Thank you Shari, is Rosey here?” He asked hopefully as Rhosland looked at her mother’s back with disgust, she hated that nickname almost as much as she hated the man that gave it to her, who was her current caller and suitor and has been after her for the last thirteen years of her already 18 year old life and she had been repulsed by him since childhood, and into her teens and now into adulthood.

“Yes, she’s here, won’t you come in, we’re making a seafood stew for dinner, won’t you stay and have some with us?” She offered hospitably before she showed him in as Rhosland quickly tried to wipe her disgust off her face and put on a pleasant, respectful smile when he came into their mud brick hut and smiled at Rhosland as Esri was just grateful he wasn’t here for her this time as she stayed in the corner and paused in her working to keep from making any noise or movement and therefore attract any attention, wanting to blend in with the walls.

“I’d love to, the smell is what drew me. Did Rosey make it?” He asked.

“Of course!” Shari answered as Rhos had just rinsed the soapy water off of her hands and got up from the washing basin where the pearls were, grateful the soapy suds on the surface of the water concealed what was in it.

“Rosey has always made the best stews.” Tar praised as Rhos begrudgingly took her own meager wooden bowl filled it for him and handed him her own wooden spoon so he could eat the stew her mother had spent the last several hours making as he sat down and helped himself and quickly scarfed it down and then had seconds and then thirds so that he ate over two thirds of it all by himself and of course most of the meat in it, leaving some broth and chunks of vegetables behind.

“Oh it’s amazing. Well this is a good sign, the day after tomorrow, we will be going on a raid and I came by to inform you all that when we come back successfully, my father is stepping down and making me Clan Chief's Warchief, and my wives should be delivering sons to me in the next couple of weeks and I wanted to inform you that when I come back, I will give you all the spoils that I will be taking on the raid and it should be more than enough gold especially to give you Shari- for supplies for a proper house that I and my captains and commanders will make for you so that you can live in a proper house of timbers instead of a house of mud and mud bricks because no mother in law of a Clan Chief Warcheif should ever live in a mud house.” He announced and Rhos felt like she was being put into a coffin and Tar was the one driving the nails of the lid in as panic and dread filled her as she looked pleadingly at her mother to please decline the offer but her mother’s own excited smile told her that her own mother would not rescue her from this fate this time.

“Oh that’s wonderful, of course Clan Chief Warchief Tar, which of my daughters will you be taking?” Shari asked as Esri practically shrunk down as Rhos was too frozen in fear to move, much less blink or breathe.

“Why Rosey of course since she is the eldest twin because she is by far the prettiest in the clan, but if I am to elevate her I must also elevate your whole family and then once your house is built, then I will happily take Esri after that.” He answered happily.

“Oh happy day, may you know nothing but victory on the battlefield then!” Shari offered as she elbowed her eldest daughter as Rhos offered a polite smile but inwardly she was panicking.

“Well I know you’ll be successful, you should take your Rosey home with you so that she can be with child before you go!” Shari suggested as she tried to push Rhosland towards Tar but Rhos was rooted into the ground she was standing on.

“No!” Rhosland blurted in a booming voice as Shari and Tar both looked surprised by her objection.

“Please, no, Clan Chief Warchief Tar, I would hate to aggrieve your wives who are due to give birth soon and I would hate to give them any reason to be jealous of me and chance them going into labor too soon and something bad happening to your future sons. I think it would be best if we waited until you’re back and my mother’s house is built to her comfort and by then your sons will be born and your current wives will still be healing and will not be able to receive their pleasure from you at that time so you’ll need us then.” Rhosland offered desperately grasping at anything she could think of to give him a reason not to take her right then and there.

“Oh that’s a good point, yes, for now,” Tar said before he forced a kiss onto her lips as Rhosland forced herself not to bite his face and endured it before he did the same to Esri before he left and they both quickly wiped his kisses off their lips as spit out onto the ground in disgust.

“What is wrong with you girls?” Shari asked her daughters.

“He has no affection for me outside of feeding him or draping him and his family with pearls.” Rhosland bit out hatefully as she washed her bowl and spoon so that she wouldn’t taste any more of him than she absolutely had to.

“And he is selfish for claiming both of us at the same time and eating most of our dinner.” Esri complained.

“But you two would only be only the third and fourth wives of the Clan Chief Warchief who would be second only to his father, your father in law, the richest and most powerful family in the whole clan, it’s not like you would be the sixth and seventh or 12th and 13th or anything. And he promised to elevate our whole family, that means that all of us would be taken care of and all we have is what’s around us which isn’t much of anything. Why must you fight this so insistently?” Shari urged her daughters as Esri and Rhosland both shared a meaningful look.

“Esri? It’s getting to be fall, we need to go on a hunting and gathering trip, try to get something for the winter, we should leave first thing tomorrow and since Tar is going to Rush Fang which is to the Southeast, let’s go in the opposite direction, Northwest, over in the neutral land between us and Hurricane Breaker, they would take no quarrel with two women gathering and fishing there, especially unarmed ones.” Rhos pleaded with her younger twin sister who nodded yes emphatically.

Then Rhos gave herself a third of what was left of the seafood stew and quickly ate it then left again to go for a walk to cool her head and try to see the positives instead of feeling like she was going to die as she found a little stream near the estuary and sat on one of the rocks on the shore and stuck her feet into the cooling waters and just cried into her hands, surrounded by a cocoon of tall marsh grass as her crystal tears came flooding out of her eyes as she did her best to catch them all and put them into her little and mostly empty coin purse.

Meanwhile Drad was feeling panic grip his own chest as Tar was proudly bragging in the town hall about his latest soon to be conquests of “his Rosey”, and after he would come back, he was going to actually be taking both Rosey and Esri, as he continued to eat the roasted wild boar on the spit as Drad and his brother Sarg both looked guiltily and worriedly at each other before Drad could hear no more of it and got up and left, and went to his house and got his old bow and set of arrows. Since he had just made himself a new bow with new arrows just for this raid and went looking for Rhos, letting his heart lead him to her and found Rhos sobbing in the thick tall grasses that the little streams flowed through and knew just by the sounds, it was Rhos and it broke his heart to hear her be so upset as he wanted nothing more than to go to her and soothe her hurt and take her far away from here.

Because Rhos had made it abundantly clear to everyone that she was not interested in Tar since childhood and Drad had loved her from afar ever since they were toddlers and was just waiting on Tar to lose interest so he could move in on her himself because she was not just the most beautiful woman in the clan in his eyes but the most excellent one as well.

She danced with more grace than any water sprite and sang better than any singer and played wonderful music on any instrument she picked up and she was a natural healer and had healed Tar and himself and their warband on so many previous occasions and even though she was in one of the poorest families in the clan and lived in a mud and mud brick hut, it was always clean as were her clothes and her person. She was also the most humble, unassuming, discrete, modest and meek and mild but didn’t let others trample on her either.

But she had dignity and grace and self respect and he held her in such high esteem and always took her excellent council when he sought it and they had always been good friends and he had always been attracted to her and he knew in his bones that she must have felt the same way at least a little bit, because she looked at him differently than she looked at anyone else. Because she had admitted to him that she had always admired him and especially the loving and caring way he treated his own mother and the other elders in the clan and always treated her with respect and dignity even though she was of a lower station and class than him.

She smiled more at him than anyone else, she laughed with him more than anyone else and she sought out his company just as much as he sought hers and they got along amazingly and had so much natural chemistry but because of Tar, he couldn’t claim her as his own and thankfully no one else could either and vowed he would never marry unless she did. And now that she was officially betrothed to Tar, he felt he was going to swear off women forever because if he could not have Rhosland, no other would do.

He had even flirted with the idea of swearing off the clan and taking her away and start a new clan or join another. They would be alienated from the rest of their families but they would have each other because right now, even at his position of First Commander of Captains to Tar as Tar was Warlord of his own warband, it didn’t matter as much as losing Rhos to Tar and he resented Tar more in this moment than ever had before. And he felt if he didn't at least make an effort now, he was going to regret it forever.

“Rhos?” He called out as he was a little ways away and saw her head bolt up but the tears were streaking down her face as she tried to use her sleeves to wipe them away after she put the crystal tears away.

“Who’s there?” She asked.

“It’s just me, Drad.” He answered before he came over and saw that she was curled in on herself as her hair was down to cover her face, that gorgeous gold neck tattoo on the back of her neck glimmering and shimmering in the sea of green and tan seagrasses as her dark curly hair was a curtain of soft black silk.

“I take it you’ve heard “the news”.” Rhos croaked as even more tears welled in her eyes.

“I have, I’m sorry.” Drad offered as he came and sat down next to her and took his boots off to put his feet in the water with her and smiled sadly at their wavy reflections in the water side by side, wishing he could capture this as being one of the few moments they could be together.

“That’s a weird way to say “congratulations”,” Rhos tried to tease as she tried to wipe her new tears away and force herself not to cry and was failing miserably.

“If those were happy tears, I would be offering congratulations, but since they are clearly not, I will offer my apologies and sympathies.” Drad stated simply.

“Please don’t say anything…” Rhos tried pleading.

“About what to who? I take it he didn’t give you a choice this time.” Drad gathered.

“No he did not, neither did my mother, he offered her more than she could refuse. He offered her all the spoils of the raid you’re all going on so that she could buy enough wood for a timber house and have all of his commanders and captains help build it for her, because ‘no mother in law to a warchief should live in a mud house’.” Rhos paraphrased in a condescending tone as Drad frowned deeply and if only he had known that that was her mother’s price, he would have done that for her a decade ago when he was building his own house for himself.

Orcs aged quickly, they were considered grunt sized at 10 or 11 which for them were their teenage years, adults by 12 or 13, fully mature by 15 and middle aged by 17 or 18 and getting old past 20. But because Rhos was only half orc she grew and matured at a much much slower rate, being a child still at 13, barely a teenager at 14 through 17 and only in the last year had she seemed to physically mature and “finish” growing up, just in the last year, finally getting her last big growth spurt so that she wasn’t less than half the size of everyone else, she was now only about 20% smaller than everyone else, getting that final growth spurt at 17 instead of at 12 for all the other orcs, which is why Tar had not claimed or mated with her yet cause she had been too young and way too small before now, but with her finally getting that last growth spurt and her previously barely budded breasts getting larger growing fuller along with her hips too so that her shape was now perfect and voluptuous even though she was still on the petite side, that must have been what Tar had been waiting on as was Rhosland’s own mother as well it seemed. But for Drad, for her to take so long to mature as a child, teen and young adult, that meant that, provided no one killed her off and cut her life short- she would live much longer as would her children after her because obviously whatever her father was- was also something that lived long too and such a long life would surely lend to stability.

“So what will you do?” Drad asked.

“Esri and I are going on a hunting and gathering trip, I’ve heard Tar talking about going to raid Rush Fangs, so my sister and I will go in the opposite direction, over towards Hurricane Breaker since there’s another estuary that’s neutral land between us that might have some good fish or shellfish in it or even some game, last winter we all froze so if we could get a deer hide, at least we would get leather for decent boots this year, or if not, I can still hold out hope that a bear will come and eat me so I won’t have to marry Tar.” Rhos answered as she looked at their shared reflection and sadly much preferred this reflection to Tar’s ugly face and even more hideous personality.

“Then take this, I hope it serves you as well as it has me.” Drad offered his bow and arrow and even his good hunting knife to her.

“Why are you giving me this?” Rhos asked suspiciously as she looked at them but made no move to take them.

“Because you’ll need it. I just got done making myself a new bow with new arrows, I have no need for it and you do. It’s not that I’m at all happy about your match with Tar, because I’m not. And I’m not condoning it or celebrating it or encouraging it in any way because you have never liked him and always made it abundantly clear that you never wanted him and you’re being forced into it and it’s wrong and I’m sorry. But you shouldn’t give up hope, not yet anyway. There’s still a dangerous raid between now and then. Plus Tar could always fail in the raid or fall to his death in a sink hole or something on the way there and he hasn’t come back successfully yet and he hasn’t mated with you yet so there’s still hope that you won’t have to go through with it. So take the bow and arrows, and use them and show Zash, Tar, Shadi and Baka that you’re not one to mess with or dominate and they are the ones who will have to watch out for you. And if anyone else asks though you can always say it’s a gift. Aren’t new brides supposed to receive gifts from the future Warcheif’s family and stuff? And if you do face off against a bear and can kill it, Tar’s wives might think twice before being domineering or aggressive towards you.” Drad tried to console, wishing he had the balls and the guts to say more but his hands were figuratively tied at this point, had been all his life. Because once a Warlord even claimed a woman in name, all others were forbidden from taking her and Tar had had his eye on Rhosland since they were kids and she had managed to keep Tar at bay until now because of her slow maturity rate.

“Thank you Drad.” Rhosland thanked him as she took his gift and put the bow and it’s quiver of arrows into her lap and put the knife in its sheath on her belt.

“You’re welcome Rhosland.” He answered as he gave her a lopsided grin because even when she was in pain, she was beautiful.

“You’re not going to be calling me ‘Rosey’ too?” Rhos asked, trying to be teasing but all that came out was bitterness and resentment.

“Nope, because that’s not your name. It’s either Rhosland or Rhos. You’ve never liked that particular nickname so I would never use it because you don’t like it. Because even though you’re prettier than any flower I’ve seen around here, you definitely don’t smell like a rose, you smell like creek water or river water or seawater most of the time.” Drad tried to tease her which got her to laugh away the last of her tears.

“Thanks, I appreciate your honesty. Well I wouldn’t say no to any rose scented soap if anyone ever found any.” Rhos hinted as she gave him a fond, adoring, appreciative smile.

“I’ll keep on the lookout then.” Drad offered as he returned her smile.

“Rosey! Rhosland! Where are you?!” They heard Tar’s wives Shadi and Baka hollered for her.

“Oh for fuck’s sakes.” Rhosland growled under her breath before she stood up.

“Over here.” Rhos waived them over as both of them waddled over, their heavily pregnant bellies wavering with their steps on the uneven land.

“Shouldn’t both of you be in bed?” Rhos asked as she closed the distance between them and met them halfway to keep them from seeing Drad alone with her to keep Drad out of trouble.

“No, Tar told us to go ahead and give you welcome gifts, so here.” Shadi spat particularly hatefully as she pulled off her own pearl necklace that Rhos had made her as tribute instead of accepting the last attempt Tar had made to try and marry Rhos and put it over Rhos’ neck but used it to pull Rhos closer.

“If you ever come between Tar and I, I will see to it that you never leave the water and sleep with the fish you’re so fond of swimming with- permanently.” Shadi growled as Drad was still sitting in the grasses and just shook his lowered head in shame. If only Tar could hear that as Baka did the same as Drad wanted to burst out of the grasses and confront them but stayed where he was because he didn’t want to make trouble for Rhos.

“Why do you have Drad’s old bow?” Baka asked Rhos after Rhos had assured and reassured them that she would never dream of coming between them and their husband.

“Because as Tar’s First Commander, he wanted to be the first to offer me a present for joining the warchief’s family. I’m also going on a hunting and gathering trip tomorrow, and he didn’t want me to lose my life to a bear or whatever.” Rhosland explained.

“Well then there’s still hope. Don’t forget if you shoot down deer, to save all the tenderloins for Tar and all the backstraps for us and all the roasts for our sons.” Baka and Shadi smiled smugly as they each tenderly rubbed their heavily pregnant bellies before they turned around and walked each other back before Rhos made an ugly face at their backs and walked back to where Drad was still sitting and waiting.

“That was a really nice warm reception.” Drad sarcastically quipped.

“Oh you heard that, did you? Well no point in saying you did. Tar would believe them over you. Because they are the mothers to his children.” Rhos sighed tiredly as she slumped back into her spot she had previously taken up, her shoulders sagging in defeat.

“And that’s exactly why I didn’t want to marry Tar because he has such lovely wives, how could I possibly compare?” Rhosland sarcastically quipped right back which got Drad to bark a laugh.

“Yeah, they’re real sweethearts.” Drad muttered before he made a gagging noise which made Rhosland laugh.

“Well I can tell you what, no son of mine would ever court or marry a daughter of theirs on the off chance they would turn out anything like their mothers.” Drad muttered lowly as he leaned over to her so he could say that softly so the whole world wouldn’t hear him.

“Me either.” Rhosland shook her head no.

“Thanks for the gifts though. I will put them to good use, good luck on your raid Drad, I hope you come back safe, if not for my sake, then at least for your mothers.” Rhosland offered before she left him be and walked back home, much happier and more at peace than she came to the marsh feeling. If only she could marry Drad instead.

Meanwhile Esri had left the house and walked in the opposite direction to do the same thing as Sarg found her already in the stream, staying under for way longer than normal, almost as if she was trying to drown herself as her own crystal tears fell to the bottom of the stream before she noticed he was on the shore and came up for air.

“I don’t see any...shellfish in this stream, so...what are you diving for?” Sarg asked awkwardly.

“For practice, to exercise my lungs to make sure I can keep staying under the water’s surface long enough to catch them.” Esri easily excused as she swam over to the edge and got out and sat on stream’s edge but simply sat there and sulked before Sarg came over and sat beside her.

“Have you heard the news?” Esri asked with a huff.

“About your impending betrothal to Tar? Yeah, the fucker won’t stop bragging about it. I’m sorry, I know you didn’t want this.” Sarg answered.

“That pig came and ate almost all of our dinner, told my mother that he was going to be giving her all the spoils from the raid so that she could get a timber house and then tried to take Rhosland tonight and will be taking me when he gets back. Thankfully Rhos bought us some time and we’re going away on a hunting trip tomorrow in the marsh between us and Hurricane Breaker while you guys go to Rush Fang. If my sister and I had been able to sell those god damn pearl necklaces instead of having to give them as tribute we would have been able to buy axes and cut down our own trees to make ourselves a timber house. But instead everything we have that’s good, Tar and his wives and the rest of the Warchief’s family just help themselves to and call it “tribute”. It’s not fair. I don’t want to be Tar’s fourth wife, or any wife to anyone in the Warchief’s family period, which is just another slave in his house and neither does Rhos, but Tar is Warlord and is so entitled and no one dares to go against him.” Esri complained as she scanned the area to make sure no one else was around to hear her as she sniffed and hugged her knees.

Sarg felt like an idiot for not realizing how much worse off they were than he realized and if he would have just traded a carved shell totem for an ax. Her mother wouldn’t be so desperate to give her daughters away for just one raid’s worth of goods for such a simple thing as a house of timbers. He should have done that years ago. He should have spoken up and said something years ago. And because he waited, he was losing her altogether because just being friends was all he could manage until now and just like Drad had been waiting for Rhos, he had been waiting for Esri and now that Tar was taking her, he had never felt more anger or resentment towards Tar. Because Tar and all of his brothers were just being greedy now in their quests for sons.

“You’re right, it isn’t fair. What if…” Sarg began before he stopped himself.

“What if what?” Esri asked curiously.

“What if I don’t go raiding, and instead go with you on this hunting and gathering trip? That’s still a dangerous area, I’ve seen bears over there. I don’t want you getting hurt.” Sarg offered.

“If you were to do that, Tar would demote you or pug you and call you a traitor for not supporting him. Plus your mother depends on what you and Drad bring home especially since your father died. Your mother is a widow just like mine. At least your mother had sons instead of daughters to help take care of her and go on raids and support her in the clan. It’s not worth the backlash.” Esri gently argued.

“I appreciate the thought though.” Esri offered as she reached over and squeezed his hand as he gently held her hand, wishing he could be holding all of her and just about the time he was mentally saying ‘fuck it’ and would be throwing the hierarchy of the clan out the window and take her anyway because he wanted her more than he wanted his place as Drad’s First Captain in Tar’s warband, he wanted to spend these last moments giving Esri the greatest pleasure he could because he knew for a fact that Tar was a shitty lover and Esri deserved to recieve so much more than he could ever give her before they heard Shadi and Baka hollering for Esri.

“Stay here,” Esri whispered to Sarg before she let go of his hand and got up and waived them over and went over to them so they didn’t need to go too far and see that she was alone with Sarg and possibly get him in trouble.

“Ugh! Why are you always wet? You’re betrothed to the Warlord and future Clan Chief Warchief, you can’t go around with your clothes sucked to your body, it’s inappropriate and unseemly or do you just like to walk around like a whore?” They chastized her as Esri bit back her argument because she didn’t want to start anything with them especially if she was going to be sharing a roof with them.

“Why are you here? Aren’t you supposed to be resting?” Esri asked.

“Yes we should but Tar insisted that we needed to give you bride gifts, so here, the totems you made for us. I’m sure they’ll be just as prosperous to you as they have been to us.” They said as they grabbed her wrists roughly and put the leather ties that had the carved shell totems on them and tied them to her wrists.

“If you ever get between Tar and I, I will see to it that you carve your own fingers off.” Shadi hissed.

“And I’ll see to it that you go swimming and never come back up for air if you ever come between Tar and I either.” Baka growled before the two of them left and went back home, happy that they had dealt with Esri and Rhosland and made their points in private and if Rhosland and Esri were smart, they would never say a word about it to anyone.

Sadly, once a betrothal gift was given, the potential bride was never allowed to sell or trade it or else it was seen as bad luck.

Sarg though was practically seething in the grasses as he obediently hadn’t moved but had heard the whole interchange. If only Tar had been there to hear it but he also knew that if he tried to say anything Baka and Shadi would most likely kill him themselves and get away with it too because any word said against a Warlordess or Warchieftess was seen as disrespectful.

“Is it too much to hope that they get eaten by wolves?” Sarg offered to Esri when she came back and sat back down in her original spot.

“Is it too much to hope I get eaten by a bear so I don't have to marry Tar? Probably. So don’t invite bad luck or ill fates, they will reap what they have sewn soon enough.” Esri countered even though the thought did bring her delight, except that they were both pregnant and no baby deserved to die or suffer on account of their mother.

“But they are spoiled brats!” Sarg argued.

“I know they are, and I have to be subordinate to them because they are the first and second wives. I can’t afford to offend them or give them any cause to treat me any worse than they already do. Besides, it would be a bad reflection on my own mother who has suffered from their own mothers. Too much is at stake. Just...good night Sarg, I hope your raid goes well and you come back home safely, especially for your mother’s sake.” Esri offered before she got back up and went back home only to find that word had spread to the whole village and every family had come to give their “bride gifts” as suddenly their little mud hut was full of food and goods for the first time in their lives as Esri began going through it and taking what would be useful to Rhos and herself and packed it into the rowboat to use on their trip as their mother was so happy and at ease to finally get something instead of always giving when she had so little to give.

“Where did you…?” Shari asked when she saw Rhosland come home with the bow and the quiver of arrows around her back.

“Drad gave me the bow and arrows and the hunting knife, as my bride gifts, also just in case we run into a bear or something, we have a fighting chance.” Rhosland readily defended.

“Oh good, that will be very helpful.” Esri smiled happily.

“It will be.” Rhosland readily agreed as her mother was telling her girls who had given what to them before she started making bread dough to rise overnight so she could bake it first thing in the morning as Esri was getting things packed up and loaded up into their little row boat with two mismatched oars.

Meanwhile Sarg and Drad had met back up and brain stormed about what they could do and how they could help Rhos and Esri and were now buying two special stone timber axes from the blacksmith since Sarg had already bought a really good fishing net from the best net weaver and extra fishing lines with hooks on them for fishing and special poles for them to be tied to as they did their best to think of things that Esri and Rhos would need and like to use on their hunting and foraging trip to make it as easy and successful as they could since all the other men in the raiding parties and warbands were in the clan hall eating and drinking and not noticing their absence at all, before they seemed to be satisfied that what they had managed to collect would be good enough for Rhosland and Esri before Sarg went home since he still lived with his mother, being the younger son while Drad was on his way to his own home and found a wounded shaman stumbling into the clan village and immediately came over to help him.

“Do you know anyone here?” Drad asked as he helped carry this elderly man down the village’s main road.

“Oh I know you are Drad, son of Grat and Wolvish, and that in less than a week’s time you will mate and pairbond to the most beautiful woman your eyes have ever been on and she will bear you many children, the first of which will be a son.” He answered before Drad brought the shaman to his own home that he had built for himself, it was basically a one room hut of timbers, it wasn’t much but it was all he had and all he needed because he was a bachelor. It had the basics, a stone firepit that had a chimney of stones up around it in the middle surrounded by a bed on one side, a kitchen on the other and on the back wall was where he stored his clothes and armor and weapons.

“How do you know that?” Drad asked as he helped the shaman into his chair at his little table in his kitchen.

“I saw a vision of you and knew I had to make my way here to you, to tell you myself, but my hip has long since been injured for many years and the path to get here was much more tiring than I thought it would be.” He answered.

“So...how can I help you?” Drad asked.

“If you will allow me to rest for a short time, and permit me to stay here while you raid. I shall adopt you as my honorary son since my own sons have left this world without me.” He offered.

“Of course, you’re more than welcome to stay. What is your name?” Drad asked him.

“My name is Orcoth.” The shaman stated.

“Well my name is Drad, First…” Drad began.

“Oh yes, First Commander of Captains under Warlord Tar Skull Screamer, first born son of Clan Chief Zash and Clan Chieftess Zorba.” Orcoth finished for him.

“So what is the beautiful woman’s name?” Drad asked Orcoth curiously.

“You already know her name. Here, the rose scented soap you promised her in your heart. She will be better to you than seven wives and is smarter than seven wisemen because you have already discerned that the other half of her that is not orcish, is in fact a very special being, known for long lives, extraordinary gifts and wisdom beyond age and experience. Her natural instincts are enhanced, as is her intellect. She will be best for you as your only wife, and as long as you treat her as the cherished companion she is and not a slave, you will make her happy and capture her heart and loyalty forever and she will see to it that you not only prosper, but live longer than any other orc you have ever heard of, for you know she is a long lifer, and being paired with her, will lengthen your own life considerably. Her betrothal gifts will be beyond perfection and without equal and they will set the standard until your own daughter in law sets a new standard of perfection when she gives betrothal gifts to your son- in time of course.” Orcoth offered as he pulled a bar of rose scented soap from his satchel and handed it to Drad whose eyes got wide as he took it reverently and sniffed it as his pupils got wide and smiled when the scent was something he had never smelled before but it smelled better than anything else he had ever smelled in his life.

“When you come back from the raid, build her a house where you find the wild roses growing, whose scent is in the soap- so that she can make her own from now on.” Orcoth advised as Drad took the bar of soap and wrapped it in the nicest piece of cloth he had, wanting to get at least some silk to wrap it up in for her as he felt so happy and pleased that Rhosland, the most beautiful woman he had ever known was going to be his wife and would be courting him and giving him courting gifts as he knew that this would be the first of hopefully many courting gifts they would exchange in the future.

“How do you know such things, are you a mage or a shaman of some kind? Practice some kind of magic?” Drad asked.

“I am a shaman.” Orcoth confirmed as Drad noticed that Orcoth’s eyes were that of dragons and could plainly see that Orcoth was wearing dragon wool.

“Then since your sons have left you, will you take me as your adopted son since my father has left me also?” Drad requested.

“Of course, that is why I came Son.” Orcoth smiled proudly as she clasped Drad on the shoulder and gave him a proud smile.

“Thank you, I am especially honored to have you as my father then. I will take your council all my days.” Drad promised.

“And you will reap the benefits of it. When you go raiding, there will be a very thick fog, where it will be almost impossible to find your way through, death will be all around you but will not take your life, follow the scent of the smoking venison and smoking fish, it will lead you to safety and will be your salvation.” Orcoth advised.

“Thank you father, I will do as you say.” Drad vowed.

“Good, so what will we be having for dinner Son?” Orcoth asked curiously before Drad immediately got to work feeding Orcoth what he had, giving Orcoth the better and greater portions which Orcoth appreciated before Drad put Orcoth in his own bed and took his camping roll and rolled it out onto his own floor to sleep as Orcoth waited until Drad was asleep before giving him a sweet prophetic dream of Drad’s house that he and Rhos were going to be building together and the family that they would be having in it and the happiness that would be found in his own home. All the peace, joy, love and contentment he would have in it and how handsome his sons would be, especially his eldest son, how smart and amazing and great he would be, but always saying that he was only following in his father’s footsteps and how proud Drad would be of him and how he would look quite a bit like his mother as he set a spell to give Rhosland the same dream while giving Sarg a similar dream about Esri and gave to Esri - Sarg’s dream as well along with giving Drad and Sarg’s mother Grat a dream of her own so that she would know what to do while they were gone on the raid.

#Of Heaven and Fire Prequel.#The Beginning of Stormbreaker #The Beginning of Stormbreaker Part 1 #orc love story #orctober 2021

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owlsinathens · 3 years

Text

20 Questions: Writer’s Edition

Thanks for the tag @salty-wench and @st-clements-steps

How many works do you have on AO3?

As of Monday, 100 ❤️ Some are ficlet collections

What’s your total AO3 word count?

962835 😳 I swear I have a life (Voice from the off: She didn't, in fact, have a life 🤣)

How many fandoms have you written for and what are they?

Almost exclusively GoT, and one (1) tiny Good Omens ficlet as a gift. I dabbled in Harry Potter with a different AO3 account, but my heart just wasn't in it.

What are your top five fics by kudos?

Law of the North (this one is faaaaaaaaaaaar ahead of the others lololol)

The Fighting AU

The Master of Pricks

The Fake Marriage AU

Sweet Girl

Do you respond to comments, why or why not?

Comments are the best, comments are love, I feed off of them!

I always respond to comments eventually. My MO is to answer comments on the latest chapter right before I post a new one. Comments on last chapters or one-shots I answer whenever I have time/headspace. Longer comments (which I of course adore ❤️) sometimes take me longer to answer because I want to do them justice!

What’s the fic you’ve written with the angstiest ending?

Everyone who reads my stuff knows I'm always trying to go for the big HEA. Probably the Soulmate AU, but that doesn't count because the sequel has a big, fat happy ending.

(But ooooooh just you wait for the Superhero AU to drop... *evil laughter*)

What’s the fic you’ve written with the happiest ending?

Um. All of them? 🙈

Do you write crossovers? If yes, what’s the craziest thing you’ve written?

Not as of yet and I don't think I will.

Have you ever received hate on a fic?

Twice! One was a comment calling me foul and disgusting etc on the Vamp AU, the other one was on The Best of Friends, complaining that I made Jon too feminine (because he doesn't like to eat in bed re: crumbs, guess men are all secretly fakirs) and that Theon and Jon don't hate each other (they just met for the first time at the start of the fic)

Do you write smut? If so what kind?

I do write loads of smut, all kinds I guess? (there are different kinds of smut? 🤔)

Have you ever had a fic stolen?

Not stolen, no. There *is* a Greysnow soulmate AU out there somewhere that has many specific elements of my own Greysnow soulmate AU, but that could be a coincidence, and if not, well I just choose to see it as having possibly inspired the author. But no one ever stole actual parts of my writing.

Have you ever had a fic translated?

I've had several requests from kind people who wanted to translate some of my fics into Russian and Chinese, which I always enthusiastically agreed to, but I never followed up on those or looked if they are out there.

Have you ever co-written a fic?

YES! I did a whole Jondry series with @quicksilvermaid and had so much fun doing it! There is another collab on the horizon (Gendrya and Greysnow, next year) with the very talented @thereluctantbadger which I'm very much looking foward to!

What’s your all time favourite ship?

....this is going to surprise y'all so much. Greysnow! Gotcha 🤣

What’s a WIP you want to finish but don’t think you ever will?

I have several WIPs in my docs that involve Robb POV, and since he's being a dick and not letting me hear his voice, those probably won't ever happen.

What’s your writing strengths?

Humour, I guess. I love infusing even the darkest fic with some bits of light here and there. I'm a comedic genius, what can I say (and so humble 😬)

What’s your writing weaknesses?

Action scenes, like fights or such. Always feels flat and blah to me. Also, I'm kinda bad at including side plots and characters. Too fixated on my OTP 😅

What are your thoughts on writing dialogue in other languages in fic?

I've never done it, but have encountered it in reading. Only bothers me if it's so much I constantly have to use google translate or scroll to the bottom when the author has a translation there. A bit is fine I guess.

What was the first fandom you wrote for?

Game of Thrones lol

What’s your favourite fic you’ve written?

That's STILL Smile of a Ghost, my first baby. I wish I found the time for a proper rewrite, alas... too many WIPs, not enough time.

Tagging everyone who wants to do this!

#tag meme #my writing #greysnow #please go and read my fics lol

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justkeeptrekkin · 4 years

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A gift to all my followers!

This is something I whacked out a couple of weeks ago- just a thank you to all my followers who’ve stuck around, or who have just found me within the Good Omens fandom! It means the world to see you guys enjoy my fics. This is my gift to you guys, now that 2019 is coming to a close!

Enjoy! x

***

It’s hard to keep track of time when they're together on a good day. It’s even harder on the best of days.

The Ritz is busy. The lunch table is inappropriately large for just the two of them. They’re sat right next to each other. Champagne is bitter-sweet on Crowley’s tongue and he could watch Aziraphale for hours, listen to him talking for hours. He measures the way Aziraphale leans towards him with a hand stretched across the table, sharing a story. Eyes bright, typically taut posture unusually relaxed. Entire aura relaxed. The feeling in his own chest, relaxed.

And so it’s harder than usual to keep track of the time. People leave after tea; people arrive for dinner; people leave after dinner. The waiters stare at them from the kitchen doors, waiting for them to ask for the bill, which they don’t. Crowley barely has it in him to glare at them.

Their knees touch for almost the entire time.

For Crowley and Aziraphale, time has only ever been a construct. However, it has also, always, been bound by celestial responsibilities. Now, they have no such responsibilities. And they are no longer being watched.

The sky is darkening just a little when they finally leave. Green Park remains busy at-

Crowley checks the time on his phone.

-Greek Park remains busy at five thirty on a Tuesday night. People line up at the bus stop, heading home from work. Tourist stands filled with union jacks litter the streets outside the park. The colonnade of The Ritz shelters them from a light bit of drizzle.

Crowley slides his hands into his negligible pockets and considers what comes next. Dining at The Ritz has always comes with a time limit, and somewhere to go immediately afterwards. Some sort of agenda. He doesn’t know what that is now.

He looks over at Aziraphale, who hovers. Hovers and fiddles with his hands. Gaze flitting about as if he’s nervous, smile flickering on and off as if he doesn’t want Crowley to notice. He makes a feeble attempt at smiling again and gestures to the rain with a small nod. “Lovely weather we’re having, eh?” he says. It’s followed by a shaky half-laugh.

Crowley frowns at him, the bottom half of his face forming a smile. He feels as if he’s watching the Angel of the Eastern gate, introducing himself at Eden. And something about the sudden awkwardness fills him with intrigue- more than that, anticipation.

He leans back against a column, hands in pockets, and surveys Aziraphale’s anxious flapping.

“Well, go on, then,” Crowley prompts. “Something’s on your mind.”

“Not on my mind, per se,” Aziraphale concedes. His eyes darting up to the roof of the colonnade, to Heaven- a habit that may take some time to kick. “An idea of sorts.” “You’ve intrigued me,” Crowley drawls.

“Nothing exciting. Only.”

The look Aziraphale gives him in the brief moment of hesitation is heart-breaking. It’s filled with hope, and a healthy dollop of apprehension, too. As if Crowley would ever deny him anything. Crowley has experienced these moments of heart-shattering, heart-squashing, heart-pummelling love many times before, and he very much hopes that he’s done an alright job of concealing it from his expression.

He raises his eyebrows at Aziraphale and waits.

Aziraphale sighs, looking uncomfortable and apparently having no intention of expanding. He expects Crowley to make the move. Unsurprising.

“I could…” Crowley starts. Aziraphale looks at him in hope again. Christ on a bike I’m a pushover, he thinks. “I could. Invite you round to mine for a drink. If… you were thus inclined.” A great beaming smile. “Oh, you took the words right out of my mouth.” Crowley huffs an almost-laugh. They look at each other. And they both let the weight of that sink in. Slowly, like the rain that’s currently seeping into the stone pavement beyond the Ritz’s colonnade.

“Right,” he announces quickly, before thoughts can escalate any further. “Off we go, then?”

“Yes, just so. Tip top.”

Crowley conjures an umbrella. It’s not as if anyone would have noticed, he tells himself, though he sees the doorman at the Ritz recoil a little in shock. They share its shelter until Aziraphale miraculously hails a cab.

***

“Best idea you’ve had all week, angel- and that includes the body swapping nonsense.”

Aziraphale is sat on Crowley’s sofa. He has been handed a glass of wine. He holds it between cupped hands like he plans to take communion. His legs are hidden behind a tartan blanket. (Crowley will never admit that he conjured such a thing long, long ago, just in case something like this might happen. Something like Aziraphale staying for a movie night, or even, staying for the night. It had always seemed so unlikely. In fact, the moment he’d created said blanket, Crowley had been so infuriated by his blind hope of ‘having Aziraphale round’ that he’d burned it.

He’d restored the ashes to its original, tartaned form just a couple of hours later.)

“It seemed like the next logical thing,” Aziraphale explains pensively, brows raised and peering down into his Malbec. “If I had a ‘to do’ list, this is what I would put on it. I haven’t sat down and watched a movie all the way through in such a long time.” This may well be true, Crowley considers, as he rifles through his DVD collection, knees against polished concrete and painted nails tapping the spine of Monty Python and the Holy Grail. Meanwhile, he’s simply marvelling at the fact that they’ve never sat down and watched a movie all the way through together, the two of them, ever. They’d always had more important things to be getting on with, like saving the world or performing miracles or negotiating the terms of their Agreement. And now. Now they can-

Now they can what?

He looks back over his shoulder at Aziraphale. Aziraphale is looking at him. The angel’s gaze flicks away instantly, staring back down into his wine. It hurts something in his chest. A nice kind of hurt, like a dash too much wasabi.

Crowley takes a moment to recover from this. Then- “You. You still haven’t given me any clues. What you in the mood for, angel?”

Aziraphale’s eyes widen for the briefest moment as if he’s alarmed by this question, for whatever reason. Then he frowns to himself, purses his lips in thought. Casts his eyes around the room, for inspiration. “Something…” “If you say nice,” Crowley warns, knees hurting a little on the hard floor.

“I wasn’t going to,” Aziraphale retorts. He pauses. He adds, more quietly, “I was going to say fun.”

Crowley groans. Turns to the DVD cabinet.

“I don’t do fun,” he says slowly, emphatically.

“Alright, well. Something at least a bit light-hearted. I think saving the world rather calls for it, don’t you?” Crowley tilts his head from side to side in consideration. “It’s a fair point,” he concedes to himself more than Aziraphale. Pouts. “Don’t want to bring the mood down. Not sure I’d want to…”

The reason he doesn’t finish his sentence is because he’s just been, unfortunately, reacquainted with the more mushy end of his DVD collection. He’d forgotten that he has several Audrey Heburn films, as well as a couple of Julia Roberts classics. He glares at them. Hidden amongst the arthouse silent movies, they’re betraying just how soft he is. And Aziraphale’s watching.

The DVD boxes quiver under his stare.

“How about we start with discussing what you have,” Aziraphale tries, reasonably. “Since we can’t reach a consensus. We don’t even have to watch a DVD if you don’t want-”

“Netflix,” Crowley remembers, standing up abruptly and immediately closing the cabinet. Then, “Netflix! That’s a thing. That’s a thing that we can do.” “Oh yes- I’ve heard of that,” Aziraphale says chirpily.

“Oh, yes, well done, angel.”

Aziraphale glares.

And so the Netflix loading screen bongs into life, Crowley collapsing onto the sofa beside Aziraphale. The red wine is jostled; Aziraphale tuts. Crowley props his heels on the coffee table.

“Do you mind. I almost spilled Malbec on my shirt.” “Lots more choices now,” Crowley ignores him and begins flicking through. “Look, it’s all organised nicely in rows of genre. Love how tidy this is, look. And the search function is so much easier. Have you tried the search function on Amazon Prime, lately? Nightmare.” “I have no clue what you’re talking about,” Aziraphale replies lightly, spinning the wine in his glass like a whirlpool.

“Look, ‘s’got a whole section called ‘light-hearted movies’.”

“Very helpful.”

They flick through the row. They go through all of them without choosing, and end up at the beginning of the loop again. Crowley growls and hangs his head off the back of the sofa.

“Oh, pass it here,” Aziraphale sighs, putting down his wine with a decisive clink and picking up the remote. He holds it with one hand and presses the directional buttons with his other hand, as if it’s far more complicated and delicate a process than it actually is. Like an octogenarian trying to use an iPhone.

“How about this lovely looking Christmas film.“

"N- no. Anything but that. It’s October. And more importantly, no.”

“It looks ever so sweet, though. How lovely and romantic-”

“We are not watching The Christmas fucking-well Prince.”

He’d had a hand in inspiring that, and he’s too embarrassed to admit it even to himself. His evil deeds really are shit.

“No need to snap,” Aziraphale mutters.

“If you’re determined to watch something romantic and seasonal, I will accept The Holiday. If I must. Jack Black makes it bearable.”

Aziraphale lets the screen rest on the thumbnail of the movie. Then, quite thoughtfully, he says: “I like Kate Winslet. She seems like a nice woman.”

“Mm. Yeah, that’s. OK. I’m sure she is, angel.”

In all honesty, the idea of watching a rom-com with Aziraphale is border-line torture. It’s not quite as bad as waterboarding, but it’s close. More on the same level as those nightmares you get where you have to do a maths exam in your underwear, on stage, and all of your exes and crushes point and laugh at you. Not only are rom-coms pretty hit and miss- some influenced by Heaven, some by Hell, you never know what you’re going to get- they’re also a fantastic way of making Crowley feel incredibly exposed. Incredibly hot in the face from second-hand embarrassment. Incredibly aware that he’s meant to be sneering and heckling, when he’s just trying to concentrate on holding himself together. Stop the feelings from spurting out of his heart like water in a dam: feelings that he thinks are, embarrassingly, rather a lot like longing.

And yet, because it is Crowley, and this is what Crowley does, he lets Aziraphale select the movie and they watch The Holiday. They remark on the general cheesiness, the (at times) witty dialogue. The staggering amount of disbelief that has to be suspended for the plot to work. How nice Jude Law looks in glasses.

Crowley’s only sort of watching. He’s concentrating on Aziraphale. Not outright staring at him (although he does often do that, it’s a wonder he hasn’t noticed and told Crowley to sod off). Rather, letting his brain tick over the knowledge that he is right beside him. Too much of his daft, devil mind is unable to ignore the fact that Aziraphale is there.

Sometimes, it sends unhelpful thoughts his way. Like, you could touch his hand. Or, imagine feeding him popcorn- wouldn’t that be interesting. Or simply, there he is. He’s here. He’s with you. He’s chosen this.

About half-way through the film, Aziraphale starts with those sad sighing sounds, making woebegone eyes at the television- which tells Crowley that he’s getting peckish but doesn’t want to bother Crowley with it. So, Crowley casually announces that he’s heard there’s a good new Chinese restaurant around the corner, and Aziraphale brightens up again immediately. And they have to pause the film to choose what to eat, because Crowley reckons he might actually order something for himself this time, and Aziraphale ums and ahs about these things for hours anyway. And once they’ve ordered- over the app, thank God for avoiding human interaction- the food arrives, quite miraculously, three minutes later.

And once the food is gone, the film is almost finished. And Netflix seems to have decided what they should watch next, because it puts on the first episode of The Crown without asking them. Which they watch, although Crowley’s not really watching. And Aziraphale is complaining about the inaccuracies.

And at some point they end up sitting very close.

No. That makes it sound as if Crowley has no idea how they ended up that close. He knows exactly when this happened, because he hasn’t taken a breath since.

It happened like this.

They’re halfway through the first episode of The Crown, and Aziraphale has returned from the kitchen with a new bottle of red- a Pinot, this time- and he pours for both him and Crowley. Aziraphale has been sat on his own side of the sofa, and Crowley has been on his, draping his arms and legs wherever he sees fit. Now, as Aziraphale resettles on the sofa, he sits right beside him. The way Crowley is angled, his legs dangling off the arm of the sofa, means that he’s leaning in Aziraphale’s direction. Very obviously.

So he’s using all his (very little) core strength to keep himself sitting upright enough not to fall into his lap. Even if it would be very nice to let his head rest on Aziraphale’s lap. And even if he’d really like to relax a little bit and lean his shoulder against Aziraphale’s.

And for Heaven’s sake, it shouldn’t be an issue for a couple of six thousand year old beings to sit side-by-side on a sofa, and yet, here’s Crowley, having a crisis about it. It’s not as if he thought twice about pinning him against a wall.

Although he probably should have. That was a lot.

His eyes follow the way Aziraphale’s legs stretch in front of him, crossed over at the ankles. A little slouched on the sofa, shoes off. It’s about as relaxed as Crowley’s ever seen him.

“Why do you think they decided to make this TV series now, when the Queen is still alive,” Aziraphale remarks. It almost makes Crowley jump a little, so deep in thought that he’d forgotten time hadn’t stopped entirely.

“Whassat?” “Well, why do you think they’ve made the series now? It seems a bit-”

“Right,” Crowley says brain finally processing the question. “No- dunno, angel.” They both go quiet. Crowley’s hand grips the back of the sofa. The fear that he’s going to slip and lean against Aziraphale is too real. As nice as it would be-

Perfect. Miraculous. Wonderfully human.

-It would also be mortifying.

He can hear Aziraphale’s breathing. Slow. Precise and even, like he’s measuring out ingredients for a recipe. It makes Crowley’s mouth go dry with painful self-awareness.

“Do you remember,” Aziraphale starts quietly, “when you and I bumped into each other in Camden Town?” He takes a few seconds to pretend to think about this. “Yeah, ‘f course. Nineteen seventy-seven. What made you think of that?” Aziraphale shifts a little, looking at Crowley. Crowley doesn’t look back, watches the screen. If he turns towards Aziraphale, they’ll be-

“You were wearing that awful t-shirt.” That makes him laugh. A tipping-the-head-back laugh. “Oh yeah- my God Save the Queen t-shirt. Sex Pistols. Yeah, those were the days. Don’t knock ‘em, they were a good band.” “I’m sure they were.” “Don’t use that voice, they were. Anarchic music at its finest.” “I believe you, but bebop is still a little too baffling for me, I’m afraid.”

Crowley doesn’t expect it. He doesn’t know where it comes from- he thought he knew himself quite well at this point, but apparently not well enough. He feels something take over from out of nowhere. Rather, feels something erase everything else- a whiteboard rubber cleaning all the bullshit away.

And now he’s turned to Aziraphale without the babbling voice of anxiety in his head.

“It’s punk music, not bebop. And. I reckon you’d like it.” His voice is a murmur and his eyes are looking at Aziraphale’s lips. Thank Christ for sunglasses.

When he looks back up and meets Aziraphale’s gaze, he’s watching Crowley. Looking for something.

He feels his lips part, hears himself take a breath through his mouth.

“Oh, really?” Aziraphale asks weakly. A small quirk in one eyebrow.

“Y-” Fucking Hell. His throat’s all dry and he’s forgotten what words are. And now Aziraphale is definitely looking at his mouth. Fuck fuck fuck fu- “Yeah. You’re a rebel now, after all. Sort of. Breaking all those rules.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale replies in a whisper. Then, regaining his voice, “I suppose that’s true.”

“S- uh- mm- w- some of the songs, anyway, not all of them. You’d uh- h- some of them are a bit explicit than others and you’d probably not. Not get on with those ones.”

“Crowley…?” That’s all it takes. Thousands of years of keeping his feelings to himself and taking it slow, and all it takes is that little inflection in Aziraphale’s hushed voice. That hesitant request, draped over the sound of his name. Crowley leans in and presses his lips gently against Aziraphale’s.

There’s that horrible moment when it stops, and everything else seems to stop, too. The what next? hangs in the air and Aziraphale stutters a shaky breath against Crowley’s skin.

“Too fast?” is what Crowley ends up asking. Just to break the pause.

And then the most dazzling, drunken smile spreads across Aziraphale’s face. Brows knit together. An expression that looks a lot like “To the world.”

“No,” he half laughs, shaking his head infinitesimally. “For once, no. We… we saved the world, I rather think we deserve this.”

Something in Crowley relaxes, unhinges, collapses. It lets all the feelings free and they flood him till he swears he almost goes blind. And that is how they both end up falling asleep on the sofa, still wearing the days’ clothes and kicking off a tartaned blanket. Wrapped up in each other- starting this new era as they mean to continue.

***

Crowley wakes up and finds his head on Aziraphale’s chest. He’s splayed on top of him, arm hanging off the edge of the sofa. He feels Aziraphale’s hand, warm between his shoulder blades.

“What would you like to do today?” Aziraphale asks with a smile in his voice.

That is how it starts. They think of the things they were too scared to do together, the things that they never found the time to do together, the things they always liked to do together.

They go for a walk through Hampstead Heath, just as the weather’s beginning to turn- their breathes steaming in front of their faces as they walk. They haven’t been here since 1815. They both try to avoid the muddy parts and fail spectacularly. They make fun of each other for the mess they’ve made of their shoes. They begin by hooking their fingers together, until they’re brave enough to hold hands completely.

They go home and cook together. It goes disastrously.

“What are we doing today?” Crowley asks the next morning, when they wake up on Crowley’s sofa again.

They go to some hipster bar in East London- Tobacco Docks, it’s called. They find that there’s good food, lots of good booze and an ice rink- which Crowley absolutely point-blank refuses to go on until Aziraphale makes that wide-eyed, pleading face. They have a tipsy and very clumsy skate around the rink before returning to their drinks. Crowley’s better at wine than ice rinks.

“What are we doing today?” Aziraphale asks, when they’ve woken up in Crowley’s bed. His white hair against his white sheets. A new part of the landscape of his room.

They end up doing very little. They read together on the sofa and make tea. Crowley introduces Aziraphale to the best music ever created- disco, of course. They dance in the living room in bare feet and laugh till they can’t see through the tears.

“What are we doing today?” Crowley asks the next morning.

“What are we doing today?” Aziraphale asks the next.

They’ve saved the world, and that still seems surreal. But there’s waking up on Crowley’s sofa after a movie marathon, too. A dinner date, or a night in.

And that feels perfectly real.

#good omens #ineffable husbands #crowley #aziraphale #my writing #fan fiction #fic prompt

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thinkingisadangerouspastime · 3 years

Text

‘author’ self interview

thank you for the tag @itsmoonpeaches!! sorry im a few days late getting to it 😩

Name: thinkingisadangerouspastime / faerialchemist / amy

Fandoms: all of them, lmao? well, according to ffn:

Author has written 61 stories for Teen Titans, Fairy Tail, Fullmetal Alchemist, [redacted], Ouran High School Host Club, Miraculous: Tales of Ladybug & Cat Noir, Avengers, Dragon Prince, Good Omens, She-Ra and the Princesses of Power, Fruits Basket, Percy Jackson and the Olympians, Avatar: Last Airbender, Falcon and the Winter Soldier, and Winx Club.

right now, i am active(ish) in atla and the mcu as well as monk and medium, although those last two don’t really have fandoms (at least not large ones, lol)

Where do you post: faerialchemist on AO3 is where my better works are, lmao, but i also post on FFN, Wattpad, and Quotev under different handles. and when i remember, i try to promo my works on Tumblr, too!

Most popular multi-chapter fic: in terms of true multichapter fics (i.e. not a oneshot collection), No Ordinary Exchange wins for hits, kudos, everything. i think that can be attributed to the fact that a) it’s long, b) it’s complete, c) it’s rayllum (most popular tdp ship), and d) it’s a college!au (a popular trope in fandom overall). although tbh, i only have like one or two other true multichaps posted, one of which is incomplete and the other of which is half-focused on an extreme rarepair, so there’s not much competition 😂

Favorite story you’ve written so far: i am going to cheat and say my favorite fics i’ve written so far are the three in my why’d you have to go and make things so complicated? series. here’s the series “summary”:

A series of (mostly) Flash Thompson-centric fics set in a canon-divergent AU beginning after Spider-Man: Homecoming. Niche headcanons*, one-sided rivals to friends (to lovers), and Flash Thompson appreciation abound!

*Headcanons I have pioneered so far: Flash Thompson has dyslexia, Flash Thompson likes art history, Flash Thompson likes origami. Stay tuned for more. ;)

basically, it’s 50k worth of fics (so far) that serve as a testament to how much i love mcu flash thompson 🥺💛 he deserves the world!!

Fic you were nervous to post: i was pretty nervous to post one of my more recent fics, actually! the fic is called Is This Love?, and i was nervous for a few different reasons:

- it’s half sambucky, which was fine bc sambucky is popular lmao, but it’s also half sarahmay, which is a sapphic rarepair i came up with between sarah wilson and may parker. the mcu fandom has a heavy preference for mlm pairings, so i was nervous by virtue of the fic being partially wlw-centric, but it all ended up being fine! i have converted so many people to sarahmay 😤

- the fic also features my demiromantic!sam headcanon. i myself am aspec but (maybe) not demiromantic, so i wanted my portrayal to be respectful, and as such i was nervous despite everything i’d looked into prior to writing and posting the fic, lol

- it’s a multichap. multichaps make me nervous solely because they are multiple chapters. adds stressTM 😂

How do you choose your titles: song lyrics, randomly coming up with them, a specific line/word used in the fic, and brainstorming with friends are probably the main ways!

Do you outline: sure do 😤 it varies from fic to fic, so some outlines are a detailed list of events in the appropriate order, while others are a more general idea of “here’s stuff i want to include,” lol. generally speaking, though, i always try to go in with some sort of plan!

Complete: all of my recent fics are complete! (although that’s bc i primarily write oneshots 😂) on ao3, i think i only have one fic that’s truly incomplete. (oneshot collections are a weird in-between, because they essentially are always complete unless i feel like adding to them.) on ffn, though, i have four incomplete fics, three of which are from middle school. i don’t think they will ever be finished 😩

Do you accept prompts: technically, yes! but my policy is that i am under no obligation to write any of them. i write fanfic for fun and as a stress reliever, so if im not inspired by a prompt, i am not going to stress myself out trying to write for it, lol

Upcoming story you’re most excited to write about: i actually just finished writing this story today (by hand, it’s not typed yet lmao), but im gonna let it count for this question anyways! it is probably the most self-indulgent fic i’ve ever written: a monk and medium crossover. that’s right, two fandoms absolutely no one in the world cares about but me. i wrote this fic solely bc it was something i wanted to read 😂 it is - if i counted correctly - 78 1/2 pages long, which is probably in the range of 30-35k words? once i type it up (in like,, december lmao) i’ll have more specifics, although the “patching” that occurs when i type handwritten drafts could push the word count closer to 40k. but who knows? time will tell!

anyways, im just so excited about this fic bc it has so many things i like lmaooo (examples: allison whump, joe x allison content, sharona being her wonderful self, and what i hope is an interesting murder mystery!)

Stories you’re most excited to read: literally anything and everything my friends are working on! off the top of my head: @shifuaang’s tysuki fic, @praetorqueenreyna’s dark!zukaang fic, @itsmoonpeaches’s fruits basket fic, and @ambivalentmarvel’s spider kids fic 🙌

i think a lot of my atla mutuals have been tagged to do this already, so tagging some marvel friends! (this is starkravinghazelnoots, btw 💛)

tagging: @ambivalentmarvel, @friendlyneighborhoodsecretary, @lunannex, @kalliopecosmos, @omg-just-peachy, and anyone else who wants to do this! just say i tagged you 💕

#me? confusing all my marvel mutuals by tagging them from my main sideblog? it's more likely than you think #amy gets tagged

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bitsandbobsandstuff · 5 years

Text

never let you go (2)

Summary: After losing the woman they love, Bucky and Steve make a desperate decision with unimaginable consequences.

Characters: Stucky x Reader

Warnings: Violence, blood, mentions of demons and gore. Brief hints of SMUT. Swearing. Bucky and Steve are not exactly nice. A very brief appearance by my favorite Hunter (SPN crossover).

Prompt: “Heartache is one thing, but this…this is worse.”

A/N: This is my submission for the fantastic @sherrybaby14 for Sherry’s Fall Into You challenge, thanks babe for hosting. This is a dark story fam, different than my usual writing. Bucky and Steve really do make some bad decisions, so please heed the warnings. This is a short series, only 3 parts.

Want to find all my stories? Search #bitsmasterlist or try the link in my bio!

Previously...

“How did you do it?”

“Hmm?” Steve murmurs, drifting toward the balm of sleep. Bucky says nothing, simply snuggles closer, his steady breaths puffing warm on your skin.

“I remember what happened.” Softly the confession falls. “Please don’t lie to me. Tell me how you did it. How you brought me back.”

Both men stiffen. Bucky stops breathing. Steve stops stroking his hair. Dread fills you, cold as ice. You know then, whatever price they’ve paid? It will tear the world apart.

Breath tickling the back of your neck, Steve murmurs so quietly, you strain to hear.

“We made a deal.”

*****

“The greatness of humanity is not in being human, but in being humane.” Mahatma Gandhi

*****

Along the glass smooth lake, the tufts of grass are wrapped in furry white frost. Fog rises in slow curls from the mirror of dark blue, warm water battling cold air, while white ice crackles along the edges in paper thin sheets. Each morning you walk out to the lake, the ice creeps further, a bitter omen of what will come.

It all feels surreal. Impossible and improbable. An endless winter waiting in the wings.

From the outside, life is the same. The world turns, the sun rises in the east. Bucky still giggles madly at cat videos on YouTube and Steve still argues that cough syrup tastes delicious. For the three of you, nothing has changed.

But for the world, it has.

Part of you wants to hate them. It was the most selfish, self-sacrificing act either has ever committed in their long lives, but no matter how monumentally fucked up the situation, it changes nothing. Regardless of the road ahead, there are no limits to the love you feel for them both, and one truth burns with a steadfast certainty - you will always follow in their footsteps.

Perhaps that fact will be your downfall.

Staring bleakly across the clear lake, you think back to that night, when they explained everything. With the proverbial cards on the table, the most complicated question of your entire life now looms.

What will you do to save them?

*****

Eyes downcast, they sit beside each other on the edge of the bed, overgrown children awaiting punishment. Fingers linked atop your head, you pace a short path in front of them, back and forth, breathing fast, words locked in your throat. When they finally burst free, both men flinch.

“Explain what you mean. I don’t understand, Steve. What does a deal with a demon mean? What is that?”

Refusing to look up, Steve remains silent, nervously pinching the callouses on his palm. Bucky stares mutely at his toes, wiggling them into the ropey blue rug beneath the bed. He cracks his knuckles and you can tell he’s mustering his courage. Wetting his lips, he finally meets your gaze.

“It means exactly what Steve said. I know it sounds insane, but it was a real demon. Like the kind you find in - in fairy tales or something. We met a couple guys and they told us how to find her. Said you can make a deal, whatever you want, the demon’ll give it to you...” Bucky trails off, losing steam; another deep breath and he plows on. “...she gives it to you in exchange for 10 years. Those are the contract terms, the regular deal. At the end of the 10 years, that’s it. She comes back to collect, and you’re sent - down. To hell.”

Disbelief clenches like an iron fist, heavy and suffocating. It makes no sense - demons don’t exist. Something else must have happened, some unknown magic, a wormhole, an alternate reality, a time loop maybe. Each ludicrous option seems more likely than their calm explanation, they must be wrong. If demons existed, SHIELD would know. There would be a documentation, strategies, fighting methods.

There would be safe guards to stop idiots in love from making disastrous decisions.

“Bucky, what you’re saying makes no sense. Demons aren’t real,” you say carefully, and goosebumps flare across your skin when Steve lifts guarded eyes to yours. “Steve? They’re not real. It was something else…right?”

“I’m sorry,” he whispers.

Every fiber of your being screams this must be a nightmare, any moment you’ll wake up. Maybe you weren’t on the roof that day, maybe this is all a sick lucid dream. Maybe you’re alive and asleep in bed, and when you wake up Bucky will have stolen all the pillows and Steve will be in the kitchen making oatmeal.

Wake up, you chant to yourself. Wake up, wake up, wake up.

Nothing happens. Chest heaving, you spin away, hot tears burning your throat.

“So that’s what you did? You sold your souls to a demon? And in 10 years she comes back and - drags you to hell?”

“Wait,” Bucky says earnestly. “You didn’t let me finish, it wasn’t that. We didn’t sell our souls. That was the regular deal, but not for us. There’s no 10-year limit, we’re staying with you. All three of us, we get to stay together.”

He pushes off the bed and comes toward you, arms reaching for a hug. Surprise blooms over his face when you place both palms flat on his chest and shove. Stumbling back, he hits the mattress with a shocked bounce.

“No,” you grit out, “Tell me you’re not that naive. It had to cost something, so what was it. What did you give her?” Stubbornly, Bucky’s mouth tightens. Fine then. Turning to Steve, you cup his chin, tilting his face until you glimpse the swirl of shame glowing in his blue eyes. “Steve. Tell me what you gave her.”

It takes all of five seconds for him to give in; Steve never could keep a secret. Not from Bucky. Not from you.

“It wasn’t our souls,” he mumbles. Misery seeps from his skin and he stares intently, begging a forgiveness you never realized you had to give. “She asked for - humanity. That was what she wanted. We gave her our humanity.”

At his admission, a fresh urgency, a new panic, fills the hollowness in your heart.

“Your humanity? What does that mean? What happens now?”

Shrugging helplessly, Steve looks back to his feet. “I guess since we gave her that, then maybe we’ll - change. Maybe we’ll become - different.”

It clicks, then.

Different.

Two battle hardened soldiers, potent super strength flowing through their veins. If you take away their good hearts, strip out the kindness and patience and compassion, extinguish the beautiful tenderness that illuminates them from the inside, what remains?

Brutal violence powered by deadly strength. Something cold and destructive. It seems obvious now, why the demon offered this choice.

Stay above and be in love, happy and content for 10 years before death comes calling.

Or stay above and be in love, happy and content for as long as life allows, with one chilling caveat - abandon who you are.

Without a conscience to keep them in check, the scale of violence two super soldiers could wreak across the globe is breathtaking. And if they leave their humanity in the dust and use the serum thrumming in their veins for something dark and terrible? The outcome remains the same.

Someday in the future, death will still come for them. And with a list of innocent deaths attached to their names, it all means the same thing.

No matter what, they’ve damned themselves to hell. It’s only a matter of time.

“But she promised nothing changes between the three of us,” Bucky interrupts the morbid train of thought, gesturing at you, at Steve, at himself. “Other things might change, but she said the three of us, we’ll stay the same. We won’t change, not when it comes to you. We can make this work, I swear.”

His words make you want to scream. How could they be so stupid? How could they not realize?

“God dammit Bucky! You’re telling me that eventually every bit of goodness that makes you human, that will disappear? What then? The world has two psychopaths with fucking super powers? Is that what you’re saying?!”

“But we can fight it,” Bucky argues, rising again. He takes one step and you shove him harder, knocking him back. Frustrated, he slaps the bed. “We can. I know we can. This was a way around it.”

Before you, they both melt into blurry shadows as the tears spill over, rivers of sticky heat dripping down your neck, soaking the ragged collar of your shirt. Hopelessness shatters your voice.

“No you won’t, Bucky. You can’t. So now what? Huh? How am I supposed to save you?”

Deflated, Bucky hesitates before standing again. Cautiously, he steps forward, ignoring the hand you push against his chest, ignoring the bite of your nails scratching his skin. He murmurs your name, an imploring plea, and the sound breaks you. Trembling fingers curl into a fist and you slam your knuckles against the steel of his sternum, anger fading into fear. He says nothing, lets you expend your rage all over him, wild fists punching him over and over, until you collapse. Then he catches you easily, sitting on the bed, cuddling you in his lap.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, holding tight to your halfhearted struggles, before you finally give up. Burying your face against his neck, he rocks you gently, terrified tears drenching his skin like a spring rain. “But she gave you back. That was enough for us to say yes. You were worth the price.”

“I’m not, nothing is worth this,” you sob hysterically. Guilt pours out, overwhelming and soul-shattering. “This will kill you both, it’ll ruin you. I ruined you.”

“No.” Steve says fiercely. Gripping your arm, he gives a harsh shake. “You did not do this. This was our decision. We knew exactly what we were doing, sweetheart. This wasn’t a mistake.”

Steve moves closer, wrapping his arms around you both, one palm on the warm heat of Bucky’s shoulder blade, the other cupping your face. Pressing his lips to your forehead, the solidity of his presence a quiet reassurance. Tangling your hand in his hair, you tug hard, aching to bring him closer.

Maybe, you think, if you hold tight enough you can keep them intact. Humanity. Souls. Hearts. Whatever they’re made up of inside, maybe if you love them hard enough, you can save them.

“He’s right,” Bucky murmurs, trembling lips at your temple, “This was all on us. But if we had to choose between losing you and doing this again, we’d still do this. We’d choose you. We’ll always choose you.”

*****

There are five people who know the truth.

Nick Fury and Maria Hill. Steve tells them but keeps the specifics of the deal vague. Deep down, he knows Nick would lock them up if he knew everything. They were furious, but in different ways. Fury screamed at them for 30 straight minutes, before storming out in a swirl of black leather. Following close behind, Maria gave them a tight-lipped nod and somehow, that silent disappointment was worse.

And then there were the other three.

Natasha, Tony, Sam. All three received perplexing text messages asking them to meet at Bucky and Steve’s apartment; when they arrive, Sam knocks on cautiously and Bucky meets them with a blank face, wordlessly handing each a fresh bottle of whiskey.

“You’ll need it,” is all he says.

With each Avenger clutching their liquor, Bucky and Steve proceed to explain everything. Their sorrow, their grief. The inability to find any future without you. Their anger at everything, at the world, at each other. Calmly, they each offer their perspective and they see Tony looking confused, Sam looking uneasy, and Natasha looking - strangely resigned.

When they finally finish, there’s a long silence, until Natasha snaps the cap on her bottle of whiskey and takes a long swig. She wipes her mouth and asks.

“What did you do?”

Steve looks at Bucky, who stares determinedly at his feet. Nodding to himself, he rises slowly, walking into the bedroom. Beyond the doors, they hear the hum of low voices and then it creaks open. Bucky hesitates for a breath.

Then he leads you forward.

At the unexpected sight, Tony tumbles off the armchair with a garbled shout and Sam leaps to his feet.

Natasha still sits calmly.

“So. You met the Winchester boys,” she states. Defiance in his eyes, Bucky shoots her a cool glare.

“Yes,” he says shortly, and she simply nods. Carefully setting her bottle of whiskey on the floor, she rises gracefully and tiptoes toward you. Instantly, Steve and Bucky lean into a protective stance, mirrored snarls on their lips, but Natasha brushes them aside. With no hesitation, she wraps you in a fierce hug.

“I’m so glad you’re home,” she whispers in your ear. Burying your face in her hair, the sweet scents of lavender and leather swirl, so unequivocally Natasha.

They explain everything then. The deal, the magic, the price. All down to the last, gruesome detail. At the end of their story, the room is silent. Tony is the first to respond, ashen faced, shaking with unspeakable anger. He heaves his full bottle of whiskey into the fireplace and it explodes with a crash of flames, before he barrels through the front door with a resounding boom.

Sam sways where he stands, his vision folding along the edges. He wants to understand, he does. More than anyone, he saw the depths of grief into which they sunk, but this? He never considered this. But instead of screaming, he says nothing, just hugs you gently, thinking bizarrely of delicately spun glass. Shoulders sagging under the burden of knowing, he silently follows Tony, his footsteps as heavy as his heart.

And Natasha? Well. Standing in the doorway, she smiles sadly.

“I spoke to them too, you know. Found a crossroad in Colorado. Nine years ago,” she confesses. “One year to go.”

The door clicks shut, leaving them to ponder a new horror.

*****

The official SHIELD report stamps your return with CONFIDENTIAL block letters, and the file is buried deep in the vaults. It leaks to the press as a simple solution, a fake out, a way to throw the bad guys off the trail. Here you are, alive and well, on leave for an indeterminate period.

New York becomes too much. Hostile and loud, too many questions, too many opportunities to let the truth slip free. In the middle of the night, the three of you tangled in a mess of sleepy limbs, Steve offers a solution.

At sunrise you leave.

Refuge comes at a secluded cabin in upstate New York, a mossy pile of logs Steve fell in love with years ago and purchased on a whim. Hidden deep in the trees, it overlooks a crystalline lake and when you step inside, it smells of dust and mothballs. With a mop, a few dust rags, and a bit of elbow grease, it quickly becomes a home.

There, life finally moves forward.

Mornings with bitter coffee, mornings with breathless runs, mornings lazing in a massive claw foot bathtub, big enough for three.

Evenings by the crackling fire, evenings full of books and music, evenings filled with Bucky’s sweat slicked hair tangled in your fingers, with Steve’s quiet groans between your legs, with your shaking cries echoing off the walls.

Sheer perfection. Every waking moment.

After a few weeks, Bucky and Steve tentatively return to combat, agreeing to short missions that never tear them from your side for more than a few days. Stepping up together, they take on the world once more, protecting the innocent, righting the wrongs. Each time they return, they come refreshed and relaxed, full of sweet words and excited laughter, familiar bits of your former life spilling into the comfortable home the three of you have made together.

They seem so happy. So bright and wild and bursting with love.

It makes you wonder. Maybe, just maybe, Bucky was right. Maybe they found a way around the inevitable. Maybe the demon changed her mind. Maybe they’re safe.

Maybe it worked.

*****

Until slowly and certainly, things begin to change.

*****

Bullets are pinging around them, sparks flying through the air. Steve moves confidently, smoothly dodging every bullet slung their way with a flick of his shield. Behind him, Bucky slinks along, his gun at the ready. When they cut around the corner, three men put up a cursory fight, before all three are taken down with a flick of the shield and two well-placed bullets.

“Like taking candy from a baby,” Steve mutters. Sifting through a pile of paper, he gathers up the files, stuffs them in a secure pocket at his hip and motions for Bucky to leave.

They hear a faint moan.

Propped against the wall, sits a hostage. Mouth taped shut, feet tied together. Blood streams thick and heavy down his face, congealing in a warm pool along his collarbone. Death is imminent, even across the room they can smell it coming. As they come closer, the man registers footsteps and opens his eyes, blinking blearily at the two men looking down. Recognition when he sees the familiar red, white, and blue, a glimmer of hope cutting through the pain.

Staring down, Steve twitches his fingers, an unconscious motion to help, before something inside denies the move.

How peculiar.

Turning away, he issues a rough order at Bucky.

“He won’t make it. Put him out of his misery.”

Bucky gazes at the dying man at his feet.

Shrugging, he raises his pistol and pulls the trigger.

*****

Sunlight streams through the tall windows of the living room, as you laze on the couch. Down the hall, you hear the shower running, the sound of Steve’s off-key baritone singing as he soaps the red stains of death from his skin.

When he shuffles into the living room wearing sweatpants and a soft green shirt, his tired eyes find you. The lingering stress falls away and he bounds forward, flopping on the couch with a careless oompf. Dropping a kiss on your forehead, he carefully arranges a pillow in your lap, and plunks his head down. Post shower, his blond hair is wet dark and squeaky clean, the spicy scent of body wash still lingering.

“Scratch my head?” he asks, adding a sweet pout that never fails to make you give in. Dragging your fingers through the damp strands, you rub his scalp and he sighs happily. When he stretches his feet over the edge of the couch with a wide yawn, his muscles shift and twist, reminding you of a lion you saw once at the zoo. Big and lazy, soaking up the warm golden sunshine.

“Nothing but a big lazy cat,” you murmur, one hand in his hair, the other rubbing slow circles over his heart. Closing his eyes, he grins at the comparison. Catching the hand at his chest, he brings your palm to his lips and presses kisses along each finger, before linking his hand to yours. Moments pass, and his body goes lax, a low stream of steady breaths as he drifts to sleep.

In the shifting afternoon sun, you stay there, watching the light play off his pale eyelashes. You think about Steve. Warm skin and golden hair. Sharp claws retracted; teeth hidden. Deadly to everyone, except those he loves.

*****

“I gave you the intel, I gave it to you!”

Bucky stabs the knife into the muscled meat of the man’s thigh, and the responding scream reverberates off the walls. Like flame hot metal through butter, the pale skin is splayed open, revealing marbled streaks of yellow fat, white bone gleaming beneath. Blubbering incoherently, bloody spit foams in the corners of his mouth, wild eyes rolling back in his head.

“I gave it to you, I did, I did, I did, please!”

There is a pause and for a blessed moment, the man believes he has a reprieve. Swollen eyes fly open, meeting bright blue and Bucky smiles.

And then he punches the knife handle straight through the man’s thigh bone. It cracks and splinters apart and the man screams and screams and screams and Bucky laughs and laughs and laughs.

“Did you think I fucking cared?”

*****

The sticky scent of maple syrup wakes you.

Crawling from the empty bed, you wrap the feather down comforter around your shoulders and shuffle from the bedroom, eager for the source.

The sight catches you off guard. Unimaginably soft.

There in the kitchen, Bucky stands in nothing but skintight black boxers.

Hair twisted in a messy knot, he shimmies through the small space, dancing absently to the music tinkling from the small speaker propped on the windowsill. On the stove, he has a flat skillet coated in butter and filled with bubbling silver-dollar pancakes. Along the edge of the counter, he taps out a rhythm with his spatula, tap tap tap-a-tap-a-tap, and your heart swells at the gentle domesticity.

When he whirls around, he discovers you watching from the doorway, sleepy and rumpled. He lights up, a honeyed smile on his lips, and stretches out a hand, a wordless request. Tripping into his arms, he tucks you safe against his chest.

“Morning baby,” he murmurs, warm breath tickling your ear. “God you look beautiful. How’d I get so lucky?”

The words are simple, lovely phrases he’s shared a million times before, but still your belly flips. Rubbing your cheek against his hot skin, you relax. Let yourself believe everything is perfect, while Bucky dances you slowly around the cozy kitchen until the charcoal crisp of pancake flavors the air.

“Buck, I think your pancakes are burning,” you breathe against the sandpaper stubble along his neck.

He merely hums.

“Let ‘em burn. I’m dancin’ with my girl.”

Mellow notes of smoky jazz drift through the air and you burrow closer, until Bucky pulls you down to the smooth kitchen tiles. The feather comforter pillows beneath you, the searing heat of his mouth tracing down your neck.

*****

“We’re out of time, set the bombs off. Now.”

In all the time he’s known known Steve Rogers, Sam has never heard his voice like this. Brittle. Cold. Devoid of emotion. On the ground below, amid soaring walls of steel and glass, screaming voices echo off the tower buildings. From his perch high above the melee, Sam stares watches people streaming from the front doors. He hesitates.

“There are still people inside,” he responds.

On the other end of the line is a bone crunching thunk, a truncated scream. Steve’s voice returns.

“Did I fucking stutter? Set it off. Now.”

Again, Sam hesitates, the trigger clenched in his sweaty hand. He shakes his head.

“Negative, Cap. There are still - “

“Jesus Christ, Wilson, you fucking pussy,” Bucky snarls. He rips the black box from Sam’s numb fingers and shoves him aside. Without pause, he flips the switch.

Across the street, the building rumbles and sways and in the space of a breath, the world is rent apart: glass shatters, steel beams screech, concrete explodes. All those still inside, fighting their way to freedom, go down in a crush of rubble, screams and shouts silenced by the thundering rush of crumbling stone.

Stalking around the corner, Steve is sliding the shield onto his back. Without a glance at the crowd below, he rushes at Sam.

“When I tell you to do something, don’t you ever fucking hesitate. You understand?”

Beside him, Bucky snorts and flings the device to the ground. He grinds it under his heel and strolls away, resuming his stance above the disaster. Blanching at the rage in those blue eyes, Sam takes a wordless step back.

“Yeah. Yeah, I understand.”

*****

The last time Steve came to the familiar meadow, was because he needed space to let the rage in his heart spill into the world. In the desolation of those black nights, he screamed his fury into the heavens, broken beyond repair.

This time is different.

Velvety night drips through the sparse tree branches as you walk through the dense forest, Steve leading the way, Bucky close behind. Slivers of moonlight streak through the dark trees, illuminating the huffs of frosty white breath.

When you reach the clearing, Steve slips his warm hand through your gloved fingers, Bucky curves a protective arm around your shoulders. Together, they lead you toward the middle of the field, until they come to an abrupt halt.

Bemused, you stare at them. Under the shy glow of white moonlight, they look carved from marble.

Fallen angels, maybe.

“Is everything okay?” you whisper, eyes roving uncertainly between them.

From the depths of his pocket, Bucky pulls free a black satin box. It sits in the palm of his hand and he looks nervously at you, over to Steve, back to you. He clears his throat.

“We’ve been talking about this forever.” A crooked smile lifts his lips. “Since the first night you spent with us. This here, what we have with you, it’s the only thing we want. We don’t need anything official, but we thought you should know. We’ll love you forever, sweetheart. If you’ll let us.”

Gently, he opens the case, revealing a dark ring set against white silk. Eyes wide, you watch as Bucky lifts the simple band, two strings of delicate black vibranium twisted into an infinity circle. As he holds it aloft, Steve nudges him, and they both fall, kneeling to worship at your feet.

“What do you think?” Steve murmurs. Tentative, hesitant. As though the answer could ever be anything other the words rolling from your tongue.

No matter the circumstance, the love you have for Bucky Barnes and Steve Rogers is the one shining light in a world of darkness.

“Yes,” you breathe. “Of course. I love you both so much, nothing will ever change that. Forever.”

Under the raw, naked gleam of the bright night, you kneel before them, face to face with their delighted smiles. Together they reach for you, pulling you into the safe haven of their arms.

*****

“God dammit Rogers! You’re out of line with this shit!”

Leaning over his desk, Nick Fury wipes irritably at the fat beads of sweat dripping down his temple.

Across from him, Steve and Bucky sit in matching leather chairs, both still wearing their combat uniforms. They look like heathens, covered in dust and blood, the pervading reek of death defiling the pristine shine of the SHIELD office. Bucky sits with his legs sprawled open, Steve with one ankle balanced on the opposite knee.

Both are smirking.

“Are we though?” Steve shrugs, eyes wide. “If you’re not gonna do your job, someone has to pick up the slack. Like always.”

Nick grinds his teeth so hard they nearly crack. He sees red.

“That’s it, you cocky sonofabitch. We’re done with this. Effective immediately, you’re relieved of your duties. Both of you.”

Steve tips his head back and laughs, an inhuman sound. Nick feels his gut twist.

“Really? Buck did you hear that? We’re ‘relieved’ of our duties. How’s that sound?”

“Sounds like a fucking relief,” Bucky drawls. He picks at his fingernail, scraping dried blood from beneath and flicking it away. Tilting his head, he looks up at Fury with a poisonous smile. “But I dunno, the thing is Director, we’re pretty happy with our jobs. Pays the bills and gives us something to do, so I don’t think we’ll accept your offer. Another day, maybe. That sound good Stevie?”

“Sounds great, Buck.”

At a loss for words, Nick stares. Over the decades, he’s encountered some genuinely fucked up people, a common currency in this line of business, but this? This right here? This is a whole other level. Every hint of remorse, every bit of humanity, every last fragment of goodness is gone. Disappeared. Nothing more than ashes in the wind.

It is a bleak world, when superheroes become the monsters they hunt.

Steeling himself, Nick presses his fists into the desk to hide the shaking tremor of nerves.

“One last warning Rogers. Turn in your weapons and go home. Stand down, or I will make you.”

“Oh please,” Steve sneers, delight in his voice, “give it your best shot. I can’t wait to see how that goes.”

Smoothly simultaneous, they stand. The sound of raucous laughter follows them through the door and into the hallway, before abruptly ending as the heavy wood slams shut. Wide-eyed, Nick sinks slowly into his creaking leather chair.

The skin along the back of his neck tingles.

“Motherfucker,” he whispers.

*****

Standing at the edge of the dark lake, gentle ripples slide along the edges of cracked ice. It grows so fast now, stretching frozen fingers to claim the sheet of blue. Like a parasite, hardening the shoreline, freezing the world to stone.

The wicked irony of the metaphor is not lost.

Staring at the mobile phone clenched tight in your icy fingers, you turn it on for the first time in weeks and the screen lights up with a sea of notifications, red blips and blinking green lights, texts, emails, voicemails. Indicators of an increasingly desperate world beyond the confines of your comfortable bubble. Scrolling through, the names are an endless loop and your heart plummets.

Natasha, Sam, Tony. Nick Fury.

While Steve and Bucky have said nothing, the question itched at your brain. Upon each return, you begged them to tell you: what happened, how were they feeling, what did they see, was anything changing? And over and over, they answered with bashful shrugs and dashing smiles, fervent kisses pressed to your lips as they murmured the same response.

Nothing changed. Everything is good, we feel fine.

Nausea rises, thick and sour. Why did you ever let yourself believe them?

Before, they agonized over morality, what was right, the cost of their decisions. But now? The evidence of their lies glare up in black and white. Thumbing through, you see the increasing alarm in every message, descriptions of all they’ve done. Bombs, gunshots, torture. Blatant disregard for lives, for their team, for anything and anyone other than themselves.

Any semblance of humanity whittled away to nothing. Shattered by a desperate wish and a bargaining dance with a red-eyed demon.

Fuck.

Finger hovering over the latest message from Natasha, you brace yourself and click it open. The words jumble together, swimming black letters.

Nat: Dean Winchester. 785-555-0128. Call him. Please.

Eyes shut, you tip your face up to the sky, sucking in a lungful of sharp air.

For all the darkness circling their souls, the truth is, it remains pure and clear when it comes to their love for you. Bright smiles in the morning, rich laughter teasing through the day, sweet caresses in the night. The unconventionally beautiful relationship among the three of you created remains flawless.

Just as the demon promised.

Selfishly, you want that to be enough - if only it could be - but no. Some wrongs need to be righted, and this tragedy now rests squarely in your hands. Maybe you can save them. Maybe.

And if you can’t?

Heart hammering wildly in your chest, you punch the number, lift the phone to your ear and wait. It rings for so long, you nearly give up, until a gruff voice finally answers.

“Hello?”

*****

End

*****

#stucky x reader #bucky x reader x steve #bucky barnes #steve rogers #stucky #stucky fic #bucky x reader #steve x reader #supernatural #spn #crossover fic

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macmazatlan · 3 years

Text

Venator Star Destroyer 114 call sign “Colossus” Ship Log 354

[The following is a recording taken by commander Mason during a discussion with Era, Kenai, Titus and Pride]

Era began, “We are here to pass judgment on what both of you have done. Both former commanders Pride and Titus have been charged with conspiracy and treason against the legion. How do each of you plead?”

Titus was the first to reply, “I plead guilty.”

Soon after Pride also replied in favor of accepting guilt for their actions. Era continued the herring stating that Kenai was there to observe and pass the judgment whereas Era and Mason were to present evidence. The hearing lasted for five hours, evidence being presented through secret logs and testimonies from the various units within the legion. Evidence was also presented from the sentients of Primus Dawn when Omen and Sovereign presented findings as well. Following this Kenai decided to speak alone to commanders Pride and Titus before passing his judgment.

Kenai began, “The evidence presented against you both is undeniable. You both accept this yet only commander Titus seeks atonement… I only ask for one fact from each of you, why? Considering the situation even myself, a neutral individual would have come to the same conclusion as commander Era.”

Pride responded angrily, “You’re a second generation commander, both you and commander Era were among the first of our people to wage war against the sentients. You BOTH HAVE FOUGHT FOR YEARS AGAINST THEM! YET YOU SEEK TO UNDERSTAND THEM? ALLY WITH THEM? YOU DISGRACE US ALL AND THE WARBORN WHO DIED IN THIS WAR!”

Kenai responded by punching Pride, knocking him down hard since he was still in retrains. Commander Titus stepped back in surprise as Kenai collected himself and replied, “You are too emotional Pride. I suppose that is merely the flaw within your development. It is true that both Era and I are from the first and second generations of developed warborn… I will share some facts with you both regarding the truth of our development. Did you know that has each generation of warborn developed observable flaws?”

Titus shook his head while Pride now kneeling on the ground began to shake in anger staring at Kenai. Kenai continued his lesson staring down Pride, “Those of the first generation such as commander Era tended to be logical, cold, and devoid of emotion or empathy except in rare cases. Era himself being one of the few first generation warborn to develop a sense of empathy for those around him, but unlike yourself he can control his emotions. Those of the second generation like myself tend to balance the trait of logic with empathy. The third generation were excessively warlike but lacked the capability to be flexible and think critically in complex situations. The fourth generation were rebellious and cruel in their methods to each other and the populaces we were meant to protect. The fourth generation was a good reason why so many worlds rebelled against us in the first Sentient counter offensive. You Pride, are a part of the fifth generation and unlike those of the second, your generation is overly tainted by emotion over logic. A flaw that saw the loss of so many legions due to the rashness you show being controlled by your emotions. Yet your generation Pride, similar to the base species template that gave birth to the warborn. Titus, you and Mason were among the few born of the sixth generation, one capable of adapting and overcoming obstacles. Your generation was meant to turn the tides of the war in one way or another but you’re lack of extensive training and adequate experience nullified your contributions as you’re generation was the smallest developed during this war and quite possibly the last.”

Kenai ended his lesson and remained silent, allowing the information to soak in until Titus responded with his answer to Kenai’s question, “I did it because of Apocalypse. He directly threatened our legion and I wasn’t sure of how sentient consensus works. I worked to develop the bomb as a safeguard to protect what is left of my own legion and those of my fellow commanders. If I am seen as an enemy because of my actions then so be it, but I acted with the best intentions for the legion… I don’t deny that I failed to see the potential consequences of my actions. If I need to fall to ensure the safety of our men now then I will not hesitate in accepting any sentence bestowed upon me, as it was a choice of my own making.”

Kenai satisfied with his response then looked back to Pride, who was now standing with tense body language until finally he fell down to his knees. Pride began to shake and sobbing could be heard from under his helmet as he spoke quietly, “I… I just… I did it because I sought right the wrongs done to all of us warborn. These… machines have taken so many of us in this pointless war that it seems that our suffering will never end. When my legion was dispatched from the homeworld, I knew every trooper under my command. I knew their hopes and regrets… some wanted to live lives as civilians, others wished to be things that they were not nor could ever realistically be… What every one of my men seemed to wish for as a whole was the protection of our fellow warborn. A dream tarnished into nightmare as my legion felt the reality of war…” He looked up to Kenai and continued now with certainty, “You asked why? It’s because I feel that if I could end this threat to the last of the warborn on this world, then I can fulfill the remnant wishes of those long gone to protect the warborn who are left within this legion, put together by the legacy of the many. I stand by my actions, but if my punishment requires a severe sentence… then I will not hesitate in facing my fate, as that will be my atonement for my actions.”

Kenai remained silent, then moved near Pride and kneeled down and put a hand on his shoulder, “I know you meant well. What you didn’t realize was that the war is over now, we have peace with the sentients. It may not be in the way that any of us intended, but it is peace never the less. The fallen can rest easy, you can rest easy in knowing that you will continue to fulfill the wishes of those fallen in the present by being here with the legion and your men, not trapped bearing the burdens of the past. Let go Pride, for if you continue to shoulder the regrets of the lost, then ultimately you will become lost as well.”

Pride regaining his composure stood proud. Titus moved to his side and both looked towards Kenai and nodded their heads indicating readiness. Kenai while he inputted a command code into his gauntlet. Once the command code was entered then commanders Era and Mason entered the room. Captains Frey, Reed, Aurelius and Ferrus also entered to bear witness. The guardians Harbinger, Omen and Sovereign also wired into the hearing while Commander Kenai began, “I have made my to pass judgment. I have reviewed the objective and subjective evidence within this case. I’ve heard the testimonies of condemned. My sentence is as follows, both Titus and Pride will be placed under probationary command. Their service will be meant to give back tenfold to those they wronged whether it be through labor or sacrifice, they will atone for their actions. They will be subject to all, regardless of rank, or state of being. Through Continued service to the warborn, the sentient and other allies, they will redeem themselves tenfold for their actions. Death will not be accepted as due atonement as there is not redemption in the void, nor will there be with continued detainment. We were alone, but now we’re linked by something never thought possible between the warborn and the sentients… Peace, a unity that is needed more than ever as to end a conflict that lasted decades. My decision is final given the criteria and evidence placed before me. For disgraced commanders Titus and Pride to overcome their current status, then they will need the unanimous approval of myself, Era, Mason and the four guardians of Primus Dawn.”

With the last statement made, the restraints were taken from both commanders Pride and Titus. They were then dismissed from the room along with the witnesses until only Era, Mason and Kenai remained with the guardians on the line.

Mason stated, “Thank you Kenai. You and Era always had a way with words.”

Kenai and Era remained neutral while Omen responded over the com link, “I approve of this outcome, however there is still one last topic to discuss that wasn’t mentioned in the trial.”

Harbinger finished Omen’s statement, “That would be the Ion bomb. Warborn commander Kenai, what is you verdict for the device?”

Kenai responded, “Your concern is valid Omen and Harbinger. I’ve discussed it with my peers and we’ve come to an agreement to give it over to you.”

The sentients took more time than expected to respond, of which Sovereign replied, “An unexpected outcome… Extensive resources was put into the project yet you each are willing to relinquish the device?”

This time Era stated, “Yes. We gain nothing from cooperating within an aura of distrust, trust must be equal equally between all beings within an alliance such as this. Thus we are giving up the device as to assure the sentients that we do not intend ill upon you.”

More time passed before Harbinger replied, “We’ve reached a consensus, you will keep the device.”

The news shocked the warborn commanders as even Era was unsettled by the news, Mason responded urgently with confusion, “but… why?”

Omen took the time to respond length, “Because, throughout our recent encounters we’ve done much to impose on you warborn. You’ve sacrificed extensively to make this alliance work, obviously putting yourselves at risk by allowing us to shelter within the ship.”

Then Soveriegn added, “It is no secret that our troops set you men at unease at times with some exceptions within the warborn engineering unit.”

Harbingered continued, “Hence, this was an unexpected branch of trust you extended to us that we as a unity never thought would come to pass. We intend to do the same, you will keep the device.”

With that last statement the guardians logged out from the com link, leaving the awed commanders in the CIC. Plans were quickly made to secure the device only where the present commanders would know, in tandem measures were taken to ensure it’s security. Thus passed the judgment and redemption of Pride and Titus, the atoning warborn of the 1st Legacy Legion.

Venator Star Destroyer 114 call sign “Colossus” Ship Log 354

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lady-wallace · 4 years

Text

Whumptober: Day 1 (Supernatural)

*Dances* It’s here! Day one of Whumptober! And starting this off with my Winchester boys!

Quick note: All my stories are going to be crossposted to Ao3 and FF.net. I’m doing SPN, Good Omens and JoJo this year so each fandom will have it’s own collection but all of them will be grouped into one series on Ao3 if you want to find them all easily.

Hope you all enjoy, and I cannot wait to see what everyone else comes up with as well ^_^

~~~~~~~

Day One: “Let’s Hang Out Sometime”

Prompts used: waking up restrained, shackled, hanging

Fandom: Supernatural

Read on Ao3

Read on FF.net

~~~~~~~

Perhaps it was telling that Dean could instantly distinguish just how much trouble he was in before he had even opened his eyes.

The way his body hurt, the specific pressure on his shoulders and wrists, his chest tight, each breath difficult and painful…yeah. Looked like it was gonna be a fun day.

"I know you're awake."

A heavy blow whipped Dean's head to the side and he grunted, prying his eyes open. Which was easier said than done. One was sealed closed with blood, making it impossible to open. He figured it was a product of his aching head.

"Couple more minutes," he grumbled. "Not like I'm going anywhere."

His captor, the demon he and Sam had been hunting, sneered at him, flashing his eyes to black. "Yeah, well, I'm on a time limit. And I'm not gonna let you stall any longer just so your brother will get here."

Dean spit contemptuously at the demon's feet. Okay, waiting for Sam had been his original plan, but he hadn't had a lot of hope that it would work. The demon snarled again and reached out, grabbing a fistful of Dean's hair and wrenching his head back.

"So, Dean, where's that pretty little thing you stole away from me, eh?"

Dean forced a smirk. "You think I'm gonna tell you?"

The demon chuckled. "Ooh, yes, that's right. Big bad Dean Winchester. Alastair's apprentice. I know you think you can probably endure any torture, but pain's pain, sweetheart. And there's a hell of a lot more repercussions up here."

"Don't have to tell me that," Dean smirked.

The demon slammed his fist into Dean's nose, whipping his head backwards and making it ache even more. He felt blood slide down the back of his throat and hoped his nose wasn't completely broken.

"And yet, you Winchesters never seem to learn. You keep trying to take things from us. Didn't you learn after your own deal that you can't just break a contract?"

"The girl was ten when you made that contract with her. She didn't know what she was doing," Dean growled.

The demon slammed a fist into his stomach and Dean wheezed, swinging back and forth in his chains.

"No age restrictions on deals, Dean. If someone can wish for something and confirm they want it, then it's fair. Ten years is ten years."

"Yeah, and you should get a lot more than that in prison for kissing ten-year-old girls," Dean growled.

The demon chuckled, and pulled out a knife, testing it on his thumb. "The girl's soul is mine. Your little damsel in distress is going to be paying her debt soon enough. As soon as you tell me where she is."

Dean heaved a sigh. "I already told you that wasn't going to happen."

The demon shrugged as if it didn't really matter. "Well then, I guess I get to have my fun. Lucky me."

He slashed the blade down Dean's chest and ripped his t-shirt in half. Dean grunted as the blade cut through flesh on the way, leaving a shallow trail of blood beading from his neck to his belt buckle.

"A little blood loss will do you good. Maybe put you more in the mood," the demon said, carving a deep furrow across Dean's chest. The hunter grunted, then was unable to help a cry as the demon slowly started to burrow the blade into the meat of his shoulder. The pain from the hanging position Dean was already in only worsened the deeper the knife went. His breath hitched and he gritted his teeth.

The demon seemed amused. "Feeling a little more cooperative now?"

"Up yours," Dean snarled, then cried out as the demon yanked the blade from his shoulder. Blood dripped down over Dean's chest and the demon brought the blade up, licking some of the blood from it.

"Hmm, there's an idea…but we'll save that for later." The demon lashed out and slammed the hilt of the blade into Dean's ribs. "A few cracked ribs can't be good while you're hanging like that."

"Son of a bitch," Dean gasped out, swinging in his chains, unable to protect his ribs at all.

The demon cackled and dragged the knife slowly across his belly. "How does that feel, Dean? Feel like giving up any little tidbits yet?"

Dean grunted, feeling slightly dizzy. Maybe it was from the pain or maybe the blood loss, but he felt sick and like everything was starting to spin. Hell, maybe it was his head or the lack of oxygen getting into his lungs. It didn't really matter. Only the fact that he was having trouble focusing.

The demon slammed a fist into his chin and his head snapped back again. This time Dean let it hang, blood dripping from his mouth from a bitten tongue.

The demon gripped his chin and shook him. "What's this? Giving up so easily, Dean?" Another slash of the knife across his ribs caused Dean to jerk, letting out a sound of pain. "You want it to stop? Tell me where you hid the girl."

"I'll tell you," Dean murmured, opening his eyes as he met the demon's. "In hell."

The demon sighed, releasing him, and snarled, slashing another deep cut across Dean's chest.

"You're really too confident in your ability to withstand pain. You're already fading."

"Yeah, maybe," Dean said, spitting again. "But I think you've also become too confident. Or at least too distracted."

"What are you talking about?" the demon demanded.

Dean just smirked, glancing over the demon's shoulder at the shadow approaching from behind.

The demon's eyes widened and he spun around, raising his blade, but another one streaked out of the darkness and slammed into the demon's throat. The demon howled and sparked out before collapsing to the ground, dead.

"Sammy, thank god," Dean sighed tiredly.

"Dean!" his brother cried as he kicked the demon out of his way and hurried the final few steps to his brother.

"Can you get me down?" Dean asked as Sam looked around.

"I'm working on it," Sam told him and grabbed a crate from nearby, bringing it over and putting it under Dean's feet. Dean gratefully stepped onto it, gasping as some of the pain subsided. He still couldn't breathe very well, but Sammy was climbing onto the crate next to him with the keys to the shackles. He reached up and unlocked the manacles and Dean's arms fell limply to his sides, as he also started to list, no longer having any support.

"Hey," Sam called softly as he caught his brother before Dean could fall off the crate. "Easy."

"Damn," Dean murmured, trying to grab hold of Sam to help his brother, but his hands were numb and his chest and shoulders ached horribly, not to mention the cracked ribs, making breathing still incredibly painful.

"It's all right, I got you," Sam told him, practically lifting Dean off the crate with a grunt as he stepped down, wrapping one of Dean's arms over his shoulders before starting them on their way out of the warehouse.

"You took long enough, little brother," Dean grunted, stumbling then gasping as Sam heaved him up more securely.

"Sorry, thought you were doing okay on your own," Sam said with a small smirk.

"Bite me," Dean growled.

"I think you've taken enough damage for the day."

Dean snorted. "Is the girl safe?"

"Yeah, she should be fine now."

"Good," Dean said. "But next time, you're gonna play distraction."

"Sure," Sam replied with a smile. "Now let's go get you fixed up, okay?"

"Yeah, okay," Dean replied tiredly as he leaned on his brother, making their way to the Impala that was waiting to take them home.

#whumptober2020 #no.1 #supernatural #my fics #ficlets #dean whump #captured dean #sam to the rescue #torture #shackled #demons #waking up restrained #hanging

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pengychan · 4 years

Text

[Good Omens] Winging It - 1 Corinthians 3:3

Summary: Shockingly, attempting to destroy an angel without consulting God first comes with consequences. There is more than one way to fall, and a thousand more ways to inconvenience an angel and a demon who just wanted to be left in peace. Characters: Gabriel, Crowley, Aziraphale, Beelzebub, Michael, Uriel, Sandalphon Rating: T

Prologue and all chapters are tagged as ‘winging it’ on my blog.

A/N: Well, this is where Warlock accidentally brings up something none of the two idiots who raised him ever thought about. Plus, Beelzebub gets a mug.

Art by @lunaescribe

***

“Well. I have to admit, this will speed things up quite considerably.”

Leaning on the door he’d just opened, Crowley grinned. Said door would normally lead into a backroom in Aziraphale’s bookstore, but with some imagination from his part it now opened right on the spacious loft of the very nice cottage they had only just purchased in the South Downs, with a generous and perfectly valid check.

“I can’t believe you considered putting everything in boxes and calling a moving company. How do you keep forgetting what we can do?”

Much of it, Aziraphale suspected, came from the fact Heaven seemed much better than Hell at keeping track of miracles performed and part of him still expected to receive a strongly worded letter against frivolous miracles from Gabriel if he pushed it too far. Well, maybe not from Gabriel, but from… whoever replaced him.

And besides… “Well, I’m hardly the only one who occasionally forgets,” he said.

Crowley frowned. “What do you mean by that? I never just forget I can miracle my way--”

“Why did you not use this trick to get to Tadfield last summer?”

A few rather amusing things happened on Crowley’s face, and Aziraphale watched it all unfold with keen interest. His eyebrows shot up, his mouth opened, then closed, opened again. His forehead scrunched, and finally he opened his mouth again. He stammered a little before catching himself.

“Well-- I-- ngh-- I had to make a proper entrance, no?”

“Oh?”

“Come on, the flaming Bentley - it was cool, is what I’m saying.”

Aziraphale was, in general, rather charitable. It came with being an angel, he had thought for a long time, but now he suspected it was more of a personal trait of his (a concept that was novel and somewhat exciting to him). Now, however, a slightly less charitable side of him almost quipped something on how Crowley hadn’t precisely looked like he’d planned for the flaming part when he’d fallen on his knees before the remains of the Bentley.

Almost, but no.

“It… was a rather memorable entrance,” he finally conceded, and Crowley grinned.

“Oh, I know. It may have been my very last dramatic entrance, I figured had to make it coun--”

“Hello? Is anyone in?”

The voice that suddenly reached them from the entrance of the shop, followed by the sound of the heavy door closing, caused Crowley to shut his mouth and stare at him. Aziraphale stared back, two thoughts suddenly writhing around his mind like ferrets locked in a struggle. The first was that ah, he must have forgotten to shut the door. The second was that he knew that voice.

It wasn’t one he’d expected to hear again anytime soon.

“Hey! Is someone in?” Warlock Dowling called out again, now just on the other side of a large bookcase. Crowley recoiled, seemed to realize he was still holding open a door leading to something that was very conspicuously a loft in an entirely different building, and slammed it shut before shoving his sunglasses back on his face.

And just on time, too. When Aziraphale turned, Warlock was only a few feet away.

“Hey, Brother Francis! Is that yo-- huh. The hell happened to your teeth?”

Ah, yes. Yes, the teeth. He had changed his teeth back then. “Ah, er… those… I--” Aziraphale stammered, fervently praying he would not recognize him as the magician at his birthday party, or Crowley as one of the waiters. Thank God, there seemed to be no such realization.

“Braces,” Crowley spoke quickly. “He got braces. Work miracles, don’t they, angel?”

Relieved as he was for being provided an excuse, Aziraphale knew right away Crowley had made a mistake. Warlock had heard his nanny calling the gardener angel a few times growing up - they hadn’t been terribly careful - they had managed to convince him Nanny Ashtoreth had meant to mock kindly Brother Francis when he’d asked questions, but if he remembered--

Warlock Dowling’s eyes grew wide as saucers. Oh no, Aziraphale thought. He did.

“Nanny Ashtoreth?” Warlock exclaimed, clearly stunned, and Crowley stammered a little for the second time in only a few minutes. “What is she-- what are you…?”

“Uh, that-- isn’t really--” the thought of trying to lie his way out of that crossed Crowley’s mind, sure enough, plain as day, but in the end he seemed to realize it would only make the boy all the more suspicious. “I mean, these days I don’t go by that name, but I guess-- er--”

“What-- oh!” the boy shook his head. “Ah, shit, I didn’t-- fuck.”

“Young man! Your language!” Aziraphale protested, unable to keep himself from cringing a little. Crowley didn’t mind the language at all, of course; he’d taught him most of those words. He seemed busy panicking over... everything else.

“We can explain everything--”

“I didn’t mean to, uh. Use that name,” Warlock said quickly. “So, what is it now? Sir?” he went on, uncharacteristically flustered, and it dawned on Aziraphale what one would logically assume upon seeing their old, very much human nanny presenting as a very much human male. His reaction was enough for the distress over his language to fade away into a fond sort of pride.

Maybe some of Brother Francis’ lessons had stuck, after all. With all that had been going on in the days before the Armageddon’t, after realizing they had the wrong boy from the start, thoughts of Warlock had rather slipped in the back of his mind. He now found he was very, very glad that neither him nor Crowley had been able to find it in themselves to kill the child in order to prevent the Apocalypse.

Crowley, who was putting two and two together, seemed somewhat proud himself. Whether for the quick recovery or for the foul language he’d certainly had a hand in teaching him, Aziraphale was not sure. “Anthony J Crowley,” he said. “Crowley will do.”

Warlock seemed to consider it for a moment. “It’s kind of a crap name,” he finally said.

Well, maybe not all of Brother Francis’ lessons had stuck, but then again he had been raised with a literal demon talking in his left ear.

Crowley frowned, crossing his arms. “Your name is Warlock, kid.”

“Well, I didn’t choose it,” the boy pointed out, and Crowley seemed rather cross to realize he didn’t have a good retort to that.

“What are you doing here, Warlock?” Aziraphale asked. “Not that we don’t appreciate seeing you again, dear boy, but did you not move to the Middle East?”

“It sucked. Too hot. Too much sand. Didn’t know anyone and dad is a prick.” Warlock shrugged. “I got to come back here in a boarding school. Just had to be enough of a pain in the ass to get them to want to send me away,” he added, and grinned up at Crowley, entirely ignoring the way Aziraphale cleared his throat to show his displeasure at his language.

Crowley grinned back, like… well. Like a proud nanny.

“So I figured I’d drop by,” Warlock went on, glancing around. “Thought you were taking the piss when I saw the address was that of a bookstore, though. But you’re really here. The hell?”

“Well, I-- we are in the process of moving,” Aziraphale muttered, only to be taken aback when Warlock’s face suddenly split in a wide grin.

“Ha-ah! I knew it?”

Aziraphale blinked, and turned to Crowley. He couldn’t see him blink through the glasses, but the message behind his raised brows - “No, I got nothing either” - was easy to infer.

“If I may ask you to elaborate…?”

“You fucked!” Warlock exclaimed, getting a choking noise out of Crowley and making Aziraphale wish he had not, after all, asked for him to elaborate.

“What!”

“Warlock!”

“Language!”

“What the fuck--”

“Crowley!”

“You totally fucked! I mean, sh-- he called you angel all the time, you were really obvious, and now you’re moving together--”

“My dear boy, we-- we most certainly did-- not,” Aziraphale stammered. If the heat he felt in his face was anything to go by, he was now about the color of a ripe tomato. As a matter of fact, that had never… really come up. He saw no reason why it ought to come up, neither of them was human and therefore-- therefore-- well. That was not the moment for needless speculation. “Where did you even learn…?” he began, glancing towards Crowley, who lifted his hands.

“Wasn’t me,” he said quickly. Aziraphale sighed, and decided to let the matter drop.

“You are a child, I’d really rather you don’t bring up such matters,” he finally managed.

Warlock huffed. “I’m twelve,” he said, as though informing them he had a failed marriage under his belt and a mortgage on his shoulders. Crowley huffed right back.

“Not yet, you’re not. We remember when you were born.”

“Hmph.”

Aziraphale cleared his throat, trying to collect himself. “Well-- er. Why don’t you come upstairs? I have cake, and I suppose you have been up to a lot these past months.”

“Up no no good, I should hope,” Crowley muttered, gaining himself a shrug.

“Did my best. Uh, worst.”

“So, cake!” Aziraphale spoke quickly before Crowley could be any more of a bad influence, and hurriedly ushered Warlock upstairs, turning just a moment to raise an eyebrow at Crowley.

Crowley just grinned, and followed.

***

“I ought to have incinerated that mortal on the spot.”

“I’d say it’s for the best that you didn’t.”

“He dared raise his voice at me.”

“You were about to walk out with a mug from the gift shop.”

“And…?”

“Without paying.”

“First of all it’s their own fault for calling it a gift shop. You aren’t meant to pay for gifts, are you?”

“Well-- no, I suppose not.”

“It’s dishonest advertising, that’s what it is. I would know, we invented it. And furthermore, the arrogance to demand payment from the Lord of the Flies--”

“He really didn’t know any better. I think his ignorance can be forgiven.”

A snort. “A Prince of Hell is not meant to be forgiving,” Beelzebub muttered, but decided to let the matter drop for the time being. After all, they did have the mug after a paper bill had passed from Gabriel’s hand to that of a mortal who had absolutely no idea how close he had come to a violent death that day.

“Right. Either way, now you have the mug.”

Yes, they did have the mug. Not that they needed one, to be entirely honest, but they’d decided to take it after seeing the Titanic painted on the side. A good mug, celebrating what had been a very good day in Hell. It might just replace the skull they were currently using, which honestly was there mostly for intimidation and was a very impractical thing to drink from.

And they supposed that it had been rather nice of Gabriel to pay for it, though they were not entirely sure whether it had been for them or just to avoid a mysterious case of spontaneous combustion of a gift shop employee. It was a gift, all right. Odd.

They were not used to the concept of receiving gifts. Sacrifices, a long time ago, sure. Boons. Pledges, but all of it for something in return, or as a token of respect borne of fear. Not this time, it seemed, because that fool neither asked for anything nor he feared them.

... Perhaps they were overthinking it. It was a mug, Titanic print or not. Not much of a gift either, only… definitely a first. Since the Fall, at least, and they were not sure how to react - until they remembered they had a plan, sort of, and were supposed to stick to it. “Thank you.” Beelzebub, Prince of Hell and Lord of the Flies, spoke without looking up. Giving thanks was unfamiliar and not precisely pleasant, but it came easier than the apology he’d had to utter the previous night.

“Huh?” Gabriel blinked, glancing down at them, then at the mug - and, thank Satan, he seemed to catch one without need for Beelzebub to specify. “Ah, that. You’re welcome,” he said, and looked away, clearing his throat - which turned quickly into a yawn.

Beelzebub frowned. “Am I boring you now, or…?”

“Apologies, I have been up since four in the morning. I had a very early shift.”

“Ah, I see. You do need sleep at night,” Beelzebub conceded, the hint of annoyance fading. Gabriel smiled a little, and the Lord of the Flies suddenly wasn't sure what to make of the pang somewhere in their chest. That was unfamiliar, too, and somewhat unsettling.

“You’re curiously prone to forget that, considering how often you appear at my place at night,” he said, but he didn’t sound precisely annoyed. “Well, I would appreciate being able to sleep tonight, but I will be free tomorrow. If you wish to meet--”

“Works for me,” Beelzebub replied quickly, and disappeared suddenly in a cloud of sulphur, back to Hell, the cheap gift shop mug held firmly in their hands.

***

If Dagon noticed the mug sitting where the skull cup had been for millennia, she made no mention of it. Nor did anybody else, for the matter, while Beelzebub sat on their throne, scowling at the file in their hands.

But then again, hardly anyone was foolish enough to talk unnecessarily around an obviously scowling Prince of Hell. They steered clear, which was precisely what Beelzebub wanted. Truth be told, being alone with their thoughts was the main reason behind their scowl.

Not that they didn’t have reasons to be scowling: reading through Gabriel’s file showed them they had failed to really get any sins out of him. Maybe they should think of ways to speed it up - this was getting nowhere - but on the other hand… they were supposed to play the long game. Make him grow to trust them more, and surely it was working.

Maybe they could give the current plan a little more time to start bearing fruit, after all, before they considered more direct action. It would mean having to bear more encounters with that moron but, all things considered, it was a sacrifice they were willing to make.

***

“It was nice to catch up, wasn’t it?” Aziraphale finally said once out of the train station again.

“Yeah, guess it was.”

“Maybe we should have driven him back to his school, he did like the Bentley…”

“He’ll be fine. Someone gave him a blessing to ensure an absolutely safe trip back with no one noticing his absence, no?”

“Of course I did, after giving him a good stern talk about how foolish it was to come all the way to London without telling anyone!”

“Please, you think that was stern? Kid wasn’t even listening to you. Brother Francis cannot do stern to save his life,” Crowley muttered, elbowing him a little. It gained him a huff.

“Well then, why didn’t you say something?”

“Because as far as I’m concerned, he did a great job and I'm not one to stifle talent,” he replied, entirely honest. He was pretty impressed by the deception Warlock was able to pull at only eleven. He was going places. Would probably be a better politician than Thaddeus Dowling, who had several facial tics revealing his each and every lie the moment it was uttered. Amazing he’d even made it as far up the ladder as he had, really.

Unaware of his thoughts, Aziraphale gave a sigh that faded in a sort of resigned smile as they climbed in the Bentley. “You fiend.”

“Thanks,” Crowley said, and… didn’t start the car.

“... Everything all right, dear?”

“I, uh-- yes. All good,” he replied, and did start the engine. Right, right, so they were not going to talk about the nonsense Warlock had spoken, which was all well and good, of course. It had never even crossed their minds, the mere thought of doing anything carnal. It was simply not in their nature. There were some demons who kind of made it their thing when it came to corrupting mortals, but Crowley was not one of them, and Aziraphale-- well. He was an angel, so certainly not… or so he assumed.

Not that he knew many angels well, on a personal level. But still-- not the angel sitting in the passenger seat, surely. What Warlock had said was nonsense. No reason to speak of it. No reason for it to keep lingering in his head.

“Is… anything on your mind, or…?

“No, no. Nothing at all,” Crowley said quickly, pulling out of the parking spot, and Aziraphale did not insist. Part of him was relieved and part of him disappointed, which was weird, but Crowley did a pretty good job at ignoring both.

***

“What are you doing?”

“Running.”

“I can see that, don’t get smart. Where to?”

“Around the park and then back.”

“... For what purpose?”

“It’s called jogging. A human thing.”

Moving alongside him on an electric scooter - where had they found that? - Beelzebub made a face. “Human habits are getting to you,” they said, and patted the handlebar of the electric scooter. “You should try one of these. They piss off absolutely everyone, whether you’re on the sidewalk or on the road. It’s amazing. Also, they are causing an increase in accidents.”

“None of it sounds good.”

“Exactly my point.”

The statement made Gabriel chuckle. “I believe I’ll leave it to you. I’d rather jog.”

“Why are you doing it in the first place? It looks stupid.”

“To keep fit, I suppose.” Truth be told, Gabriel was jogging mostly because he rather enjoyed it, even now that he had an actual physical form and thus his breath would get short if he pushed himself too far. And well, as he now had a human form, he supposed he may as well try and keep it in decent working order. Which would also mean drastically changing his diet into something with more greens in it, if what he’d read was to be trusted, but he was in no particular rush to experiment when he could simply stick to food he knew his new form appreciated.

“Fit for what?”

“Well, for… for…” Gabriel couldn’t think of a single thing in his current existence that required physical prowess, and therefore he was unable to really come up with an answer. “You know, in case-- the War does happen.” It was the first thing to come to his mind, even though now he had no idea if the War was actually ever meant to happen in the first place and, if it was… then Gabriel certainly wouldn’t be part of either army.

Beelzebub was aware of all that, as the brief silence that followed told him plainly. However no mockery followed, no stinging comment about his current state as a mere mortal. Just a hum, barely audible beneath the steady buzzing of the electric scooter and Gabriel’s own steps.

“Still trying to figure that one out,” Beelzebub muttered. “If the war to end all wars is meant to happen later, or-- not at all. Was it ever part of the Great Plan? What the Heaven was that about if not? Are we supposed to do something else to make it happen?”

“You were supposed to see the Antichrist delivered to Earth.”

“Which we did, as you know. But I cannot imagine how that went so wrong. He was the son of Satan, he was meant to do as his nature commanded. And then he just--”

“Rebelled?” Gabriel asked, unable to keep himself from smiling faintly at the irony, and glanced sideways. Leaning on the handlebar of the scooter, Beelzebub was frowning.

“Yes. He rebelled. I know. Hilarious.”

“I believe humans have a saying on apples not falling far from trees.”

A scoff. “You’re talking nonsense.”

“I take it his father did not appreciate the irony of it.”

“He’s no longer his Father, the brat rewrote reality,” the Lord of the Flies muttered. “He certainly did not appreciate it, but he hasn’t made his displeasure known to the rest of Hell so far.”

“Oh?”

“He keeps to himself, of course. We have our instructions - mostly - and he has ways to make his will known. We don’t need to talk to him unless he decides to personally see someone which is usually not good news.”

Gabriel thought back on the conversations over the millennia with the Voice of God, trying to remember last time God had talked to any of them personally. It had been so long, he couldn’t even quite recall. The chuckle that left him was somewhat bitter. “That sounds rather familiar.”

“What!” Beelzebub let out an outraged buzzing noise, head whipping toward him as though he had insulted them personally. “Don’t you dare compare Satan to God! The insult will not stand.”

Not too long ago, Gabriel might have considered it blasphemy and would have been aghast of hearing it himself, if for precisely the opposite reason. Now, he shrugged as he kept running. “I am not precisely-- well, the ruler keeping away, not really talking to anyone, giving instructions that are not always exactly clear or giving none. I don’t understand, why rebel to the absolute authority of God to pass absolute the absolute authority of Sat--”

“You know nothing, Archangel!” The Prince of Hell snapped, clearly forgetting in the heat of the moment that he’d long since been kicked out of the celestial host. “His plan is no mystery, and we are given precise instructions to follow it, unlike--”

“But it was God’s Great Plan you were fulfilling. The Antichrist was meant to be part of God’s design, so you were still following--”

“This insult will not stand! You take it back right no--”

Two things happened in quick succession: first, Beelzebub forgot they were standing on an electric scooter and turned to grab his sweater. Second, related to the first thing, the scooter lost thrust and caused Beelzebub to nearly fly, ironically, off it. “Agh!”

“Hey! Careful!” Gabriel acted out on instinct, reaching out, and was somehow able to snatch up Beelzebub before they had a rather unpleasant meeting with the pavement. “Are you all right?”

It was a stupid question to ask the Prince of Hell, all things considered. The same Prince of Hell he was currently holding up bridal style in his arms while standing in the middle of the park. If anything was bruised, it would be their pride - in which case Gabriel expected there would be, quite literally, hell to pay. However, as he glanced down, Gabriel saw no fury and a frankly astounding amount of incredulity on Beelzebub’s face.

You didn’t, that gaze said. Their hand had grasped the front of his sweater out of instinct, they were… not letting go.

“I, uh… apologies, I--”

“Hey, get a room!”

“Gah!” Gabriel jumped back, Lord of the Flies in his arms and all, as a youth rode past on a bike, laughing. Of course, laughter was rather quick to turn into screams when the bike’s wheels erupted in flames and the vehicle veered off course, hurtling towards the pond. Gabriel raised an eyebrow. “Will he survive this, or…?”

“I assume he can swim, so probably. If not, it’s his issue. If a swan gets him, that is also his issue.” Beelzebub said flatly. Gabriel glanced down at them, and found himself chuckling. It was odd, how easily he’d picked them up - how well they fit in his arms.

“Looks like I did manage to keep fit,” he tried to joke. Beelzebub looked up at him again, their expression going from satisfaction to an odd sort of surprise before quickly turning cold.

“You. Unhand me. Now.”

“Ah-- yes. Of course.” Gabriel immediately put down the Lord of the Flies, smile dying on his lips, and stepped back. He cleared his throat, ignoring the realization that he hadn’t really wanted to put them down. “You know, trying to help. I didn’t mean to grab you, but you fell and--”

“I have no need for help,” Beelzebub snapped, and in a sudden burst of flames they were gone - but not before Gabriel was able to put a name to the expression on their face. It was not anger, or annoyance, or incredulity: for a moment before they left Beelzebub, Prince of Hell and Lord of the Flies, had looked flustered.

***

"For you are still of the flesh. For while there is jealousy and strife among you, are you not of the flesh and behaving only in a human way?" -- 1 Corinthians 3:3

***

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robbyrobinson · 3 years

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OWL HOUSE X CTHULHU MYTHOS: GODS AWAKEN (Pt. XV

The next day, Hexside opened its doors to begin the school day. Willow was once again at her locker and was withdrawing some of her class books. Gus walked down the hallway and casually glared at the other students. Seeing Willow, he galloped over to her.

“Morning, Willow,” he said.

Willow smiled. “Good morning.”

Before he could say anything further, Gus glanced around as if looking for something. “Hey, where’s Luz?” He looked over at the popular clique of girls. “Come to think of it, where’s Amity?”

“I think it was Eda who got into contact with me about some kind of experiment the two were doing. She said that they would be gone for at least a day or two at worse.”

Gus’ eyebrow raised in curiosity. “The two of them doing an experiment together?”

Given how he knew about Amity having feelings for the human girl, one side of him couldn’t help but wonder if she was perhaps experimenting around with chemicals to create the ultimate love potion to give to Luz. He quickly shook that idea from his mind. Sure, one could not deny that Amity was head over heels for Luz, but she wasn’t the type of witch who would play with someone’s free will in that fashion. Even if it pained her for Luz to be seemingly ignorant of her feelings, it would equally pain her to force her to love her.

Skara and the popular girls caught sight of the two and walked over to them. Typically, seeing the popular kids approaching the “misfits” of the school’s social system would otherwise be a bad omen (befitting the Social Darwinism of the world), but Willow and Gus greeted them with little anxiety.

“Hey, guys,” Skara said, “you guys doing good?”

“Yes, we are,” Willow said, “we saw your performance on Penstagram last night, it was really good.”

“Aw, thanks!” Skara proclaimed. “The girls and I were going to go camping out and we thought if you’d like to come?”

Willow scratched her chin in deep thought. “I could use the occasion to better my talents.”

It was a bizarre sight. At best, the popular clique of girls would voluntarily grace the two with quick glances, but now, they were having civil conversations with them. It started shortly after the Banshees won against Luz and her friends, but they were graceful enough to compliment Luz and Willow for their teamwork. They would have loved having them on their team too, but Boscha, as the team leader, quickly shut that down. But with the three-eyed girl having been missing for roughly a few weeks, that created enough of a schism that they ingratiated themselves with Luz and the others. With Boscha out of the picture, the girls revealed themselves as not sharing the same malice. One could say that they would be total sweethearts to the trio of misfits if Boscha did not exist.

“So, you will come?” Skara asked.

“I will keep it mind,” Willow replied, “but I appreciate the offer.”

Principal Bump sat at his desk troubled. He tapped his bony fingers on his desk in an effort of figuring out what he could do. He had broken out in a cold sweat with the hairs on his arms and legs sticking up. Starting a few weeks ago, Bump could sense something amiss in the Boiling Isles. An indescribable, inhumane calamity was about to happen, but he was uncertain when it would come. He found himself gawking at the clock on the wall in a daze.

“Calm down, old man,” he said to himself, “maybe in the few hundred years I may’ve misinterpreted the signs.”

He picked himself out of his chair and opened the door to his office. Goggling around, things continued to appear to be of order at the school. Relieved, Principal Bump stepped out of the door and trudged down the hall. He ended up seeing the Abomination Teacher talking with another teacher.

“Aw, Principal Bump! What is the occasion?”

“Oh, nothing,” Principal Bump answered, “I was actually on my way to the library.”

Principal Bump turned to leave. “You seem to have a lot on your mind.”

Principal Bump chuckled and placed his hand behind the back of his head. “Oh, it’s just about this year’s curriculum is all.”

The Abomination Teacher glared at him. “What about it?”

Principal Bump staggered for answers. “Uh...something about the...lunch choices?” He picked up the pace without staring at the teacher again. “I’ll announce it later.”

The Abomination Teacher shrugged and head his way down the opposite side of the hall. Principal Bump arrived in the library already seeing that a few students were there to study or conduct research. He advanced towards the chief librarian’s desk. The librarian was an aged turtle with glasses and chains to keep them from falling down.

“Ah, Principal Bump,” she said, “what brings you here?”

He had a stern look on his face. “I am sure that you know why I am here.”

As she was a turtle, the reptile took longer time to digest the brevity of the situation and slowly pushed herself out of her chair. “Follow me.”

Principal Bump groaned to himself, but he decided to follow the ancient beast anyway. The librarian wobbled on her short, stubby legs and clutched her cane to keep herself from falling on the ground. One instance, she fell on her back and remained in that defenseless state for a whole day. “Is your week going good?”

“Oh, it is,” Principal Bump lied, ��just that I feel that some horrible force of evil is going to arrive at any minute as we speak.”

“Right, I completely understand,” the turtle replied, “steamed roots gives me gas.”

The turtle neared a book case and paused for a moment. Her heavy beak opened and closed. The loose skin on her arm vibrated when she reached for one of the books. Her claws withdrew a book, and she slid it out between two other books.

“Oh, would you look at that?” she asked “it’s the story of Otabin. Have you ever read it?”

Principal Bump face palmed. “Yes, I have; 65 years ago.” He stomped his foot impatiently. “Please, just hurry.”

“I’m going as far as I can,” she interjected.

Once the book was removed from its shelf, the ground shook. The middle of the case descended to reveal a secret door behind it. The turtle librarian lifted her finger in the air and swirled it. Fire formed above her finger to which she cast it into the entrance. The fire was that of a living creature with a mind of its own. It danced in the darkness of the secret room and jumped onto a series of torches. It gracefully plopped itself over the tops of the torches and lit them.

“Oh, I remember that it was lunch time,” the turtle librarian announced, “I’m going to head back; if you need anything, call me.”

“I will, thank you kindly,” Principal Bump replied. “Having steamed cabbage again?”

The librarian chuckled. “It either eats me or I eat it.”

She turned around to reveal the faded colors on the back of her shell. Much like Bump, she was an old soul in the Boiling Isles. So old enough, in fact, the library was built over her. The library was her home; she was familiar with every scrap of information native to the demon realm but ironically was unfamiliar with what happened outside of her sanctuary.

Principal Bump followed the lit torches down the hidden room. Cobwebs lined the wall and floors of the ancient halls. Taking a left, Principal Bump came upon a room containing ancient objects and artifacts. Spears and clubs. Torture devices such as ones designed to rip off fingernails or iron maidens. Even the bones of prehistoric anomalies alongside cases of animals forever asleep in jars filled with an entombing substance. Claws and teeth on shelves and basilisks and bowls meant to collect the contaminated blood of the victims of the basilisk’s deadly bite.

“I see that the turtle didn’t tidy this place up in years,” Principal Bump noted.

He skewered the room for the item of his inquiry. In the right side of the room was a desk made out of a petrified wood. Curious, he walked over and sat down on the chair. The splinters were poking into Principal Bump’s rear. He bit his tongue to keep from hissing. He sat there for a few seconds to allow the pain to fizzle out. Opening a drawer, Principal Bump allowed a slight smirk. He reached his hand into the drawer to obtain the object.

It was a book of indescribable size. The cover of the book possessed a bumpy, leather texture of some unknown material. Principal Bump held it with both of his hands and took a deep breath. “The Necronomicon; I never thought in my lifetime that I would face this book again.”

The Necronomicon; an ancient, dreaded piece of literature detailing information that no one – not mankind, or witch kind – should know. Information of the gods of old and where they once trekked and where they will once more. Spells of how to raise the dead and of essential salts. This book, baptized in a dark, malevolent evil, was one of a few copies of the original iteration of the book that was made thousands of years ago by the savior of the Boiling Isles when she sensed that Nyarlathotep could likely return to the Isles to bring it back to its days of chaos.

He slipped the book into his cloak’s pocket and turned to leave the macabre room. He had feared the worst: the very idea that someone or something managed to find his copy of the Necronomicon and intend on using it for their own nefarious purposes unsettled him greatly. As far as he was concerned, he could have sworn that other copies of the decrepit texts were purged during the time of the Savage Ages. The hooded figure had appointed several disciples with taking copies of the Necronomicon and distributing them to the furthest regions of the Boiling Isles. Generation after generation, witches passed down the task of protecting a copy of the book and taught the next generation of the dark magic.

As Principal Bump traversed down the hall, the school day was about to begin. Once more, everything seemed to be running smoothly, but something about it was growing unsettling. Everything was going too perfectly. Principal Bump’s trudging ceased to a stop.

Voom. Voom...voom..

A tremor shook the foundations of the school threatening to collapse. Cracks formed on the ceiling. Powdery balls sprinkled down accompanied by larger chunks of the ceiling caving in. Debris fell from the ceiling in the direction of some of the students.

“Look out!” Principal Bump yelled.

He swirled his finger and a green aura came out of his fingertip. Before the debris could fall on a group of students, he caught it with a shield made of the same aura. “Get out from under it before I lose grip of it!”

The students obeyed and fled. With them gone, Principal Bump dropped the piece of the ceiling, shattering it on the floor. At first relieved, from the corner of his eye, series of cracks formed on the ceiling. He repeated the magical spell, temporarily using it as a glue to hold the ceiling for as long as his elderly body could muster.

“Where did that quake come from?” Gus yelled.

“I have no idea,” Willow replied, “we may have to evacuate the school to avoid being buried alive.”

A blast of magic blew the entrance of the school off its hinges. The figure was initially unrecognizable from the thick smoke, but some students could vaguely make out who it was.”

“Hello, all! Your star has arrived!”

That voice. That bossy, demanding, condescending voice. The type of voice that would pierce your brain and throw you through the wringer. The smoke clearing away only made it more evident who it was.

“Boscha?” Skara announced. “Girl, where have you been?”

Boscha staggered herself into the school with her crutches. “Yeah, it’s me.”

She locked her three eyes on Willow. “Hello again, half-a-witch.”

Unnerved by the deathly coldness of her words, Willow spoke up. “Now Boscha, I want you to know that I had no intention of breaking your leg.”

Boscha held one of her crutches up and pointed it at her. “I don’t need any explanation from the likes of you.”

Willow noticed someone standing beside Boscha, a man she did not recognize. A tall man, roughly around six feet, and short black hair and a finely groomed mustache. He wore a classy uniform comprised of a dark black color. He had a vastness to him, most assuredly originating from his eyes. He struck Willow as a man who was always inquisitive and knowledgeable. He held out his hand to the three-eyed girl.

“Wait, dear protégé, remember what I told you.”

Boscha glared at him. “But you promised me that you’d help me get revenge on Willow.”

“There will come a time for that, I assure you, but may I remind you that we are here for one thing in particular?”

Boscha sighed. “Fine.”

Principal Bump took out a whistle and blew it. Within minutes, the guards arrived to detain the two. Principal Bump then ran in the opposite direction to avoid confrontation. The tall man chuckled in his monotonous tone and walked forward. He moved around gracefully like a swan his feet barely touching the ground. He hummed a tune to himself when the first guard made a grab at him. The man lifted his finger to the ceiling and without the guard having time to respond, he levitated the man and held him in the air for a few seconds.

“I apologize for the abruptness of my arrival, but I have an important date with your principal, so...”

He snapped his fingers and pitched the guard towards the lockers. The lockers shifted and contorted by the time the guard hit them. Instead of a hard metal, they were replaced with a clay-like substance. He sank deeper into the wet, squishy goo until only his chest and face stuck out. The man snapped his fingers again and returned the texture of the lockers to their metallic selves. The guard grunted and pulled but he was deeply wedged in the lockers.

He continued his uninterrupted waltz down the halls casually lifting the guards into the air and smashing them together to make them unconscious. The tall man continued to chuckle in the likeness of a hyena whilst carelessly pummeling legions of guards and tossing them into a pile. Making his way down the hall, he turned to look at his apprentice.

“Make sure that no one leaves until I have received what I wanted.” He could see that Principal Bump boarded himself in his office. “This could take a while.”

Boscha nodded and held her crutch out to direct the students. She forces them to huddle in the halls and demands them to sit. “I have been gone for a long time, you know.”

She eyed her classmates to see if they would respond. “I cannot even begin to think this is the same school; I have been away for a long time, but with my mentor’s help, I can bring the school back to its glory days.”

She noticed her rival and walked over to her to get down on her level. “Don’t think that the moment he allows me to enact my revenge that I will go easy on you.”

“What is it that you are suggesting, Boscha?” Willow asked. The half-witch spoke in a tone of utter defiance mixed in with annoyance. In some ways, she practically celebrated when she first heard that Boscha was missing. In fact, rumors had spread claiming that she was eaten by some monster. She knew it was too good to be true, but at the least she was having a field day of believing that she was free from her harassment.

“Much like how Amity did a duel with round eyes at that convention, I want to challenge you to a witches duel,” Boscha explained, “the loser becomes the punching bag for the rest of their lives.”

Willow rolled her eyes clearly not wanting to humor Boscha’s challenge. “If I win, will you not only leave me and my friends alone, but be forced to accept defeat?”

Boscha snickered in her typical superior way. “It’s not like you’d win, but if you want to die slower, it is a fair idea.”

Willow extended her hand so they could finalize the deal, but Boscha pulled out her purple scroll and browsed it. “My teacher always complained that I am rotting by brain by looking at my account, but his old butt doesn’t know a thing about how the Isles changed.”

She looked through the posts. “How is Amity?”

“She is with Luz now,” Willow mentioned passively, “they are doing...some odd experiment.”

“What does that human trash have that I don’t?” Boscha asked. She did not really anticipate an answer as it was more of a rhetorical rambling on her part. “Amity had gotten soft because of hanging out with you losers.”

Willow shrugged. “I don’t know...maybe because Luz is nice to her?”

Boscha ignored her response and paused on a picture. She brought the scroll down to Willow’s eye level. It was a picture of Skara and the others attending Cat’s birthday party. Willow, Luz, and Gus were there. “How in Titan’s name did you lame-os get invited anyway?”

“Skara invited us,” Gus said.

The three-eyed girls looked at Skara with scorn. “You’re friends with these losers now?”

Skara shook her head. “They’re not losers, they’re pretty cool.”

Skara took her bag and slipped out a flower that had a face similar to hers. “Willow made this for me.”

Boscha grabbed the flower and set it on fire. “You are sacrificing your social life for this nonsense!?” She face palmed and took a deep breath. “What else happened while I was away?”

Principal Bump cowered behind his desk but he also had a vase in his hand. He held it firmly between his hands. “I order you to leave the school at once!”

The man chuckled from outside the door. “So you are expelling me, old man?”

“I am warning you, if you don’t leave, I’ll...I’ll...”

The tall, lanky man was already standing in the room.

“Now, enough tomfoolery and let’s get to business.”

He sat in a chair paralleled with Principal Bump’s desk and held his hands up in a dipping motion. He intertwined his fingers before placing his chin on top. He stared at Principal Bump in a mockingly affectionate expression. “It’s been...how many years now, Mr. Bump?”

Mr. Bump did not say anything at first due to the dread causing his stomach to churn loudly. “What do you want, Nyarlathotep?”

Nyarlathotep chuckled in his deep voice. “My dear man, you of all people should have known already that I would be back.”

“If it is the Necronomicon you are seeking,” Principal Bump started, “I will have you know that the one page detailing the incantation to release your powers – page 217 – had been removed from every copy of the Necronomicon including the one that I was assigned with protecting.”

Nyarlathotep leaned back in his chair, gripping his chest. “You wound me immeasurably, old boy. But I must be the bearer of bad news.” He seized Principal Bump’s mug and drank the hot contents inside of it before speaking again. “I am well aware that you are hiding a secret from me.”

Principal Bump leaned forward. “Oh? Pray tell me what it is.”

“Since my return, I have been studying up on a few archives of the Isles,” Nyarlathotep explained, “and I discovered a lovely little monster.”

“I don’t like where this is going,” Principal Bump stated.

Nyarlathotep grinned. “Precisely; I am sure you are familiar with Grometheus the Fear Bringer?”

Principal Bump tensed up. That terrible, blob abomination that every year they had to elect a Grom Queen to fight against it. An entity that could masquerade as the worst fears of its victims with the threat of its release spelling devastation for the denizens of the Boiling Isles. Months back, Grometheus was already bested. For Nyarlathotep to threaten to unleash this unholy beast, Bump shook his head.

“You can’t be serious?”

Nyarlathotep kept his grin pasted on his face. “I am afraid, old boy, that I am not bluffing.”

Principal Bump stammered. “But that beast could probably kill everyone on the Isles if you do such a thing.”

He clasped his hands together in a praying motion. “Please, Crawling Chaos, do not; please do not harm any of the students.”

Nyarlathotep gasped. “Oh, you worry your silly little head there, good sir; not one hair on their precious little heads will be disheveled.”

Principal Bump sighed in relief.

“As I am sure you can see, I am a fairly busy man,” Nyarlathotep explained, “we are both men in this scenario; I have been around making deals, biding time and drinking apple blood, the usual rendezvous.”

He leaned in again to stare at Principal Bump. “We are both reasonable; let me cut to the chase: I know that you have some ally on the Earth realm, and I would hope that you’d enlighten me on their whereabouts?”

“But I have made an oath years ago to protect the Necronomicon.”

Nyarlathotep raised an eyebrow. “I will present you with two events: either Grometheus is free to stretch his legs again and ravage and sow endless nightmares on you and your students; or subsequently, there lies a world where I receive the information I desire and you and your students will be safe and they will further their education unharmed.”

Principal Bump scratched his chin. “And I can trust you at your word?”

Nyarlathotep nodded. “Of course; shall we shake on it?”

Wary, Principal Bump extended his right hand and shook Nyarlathotep’s. Unbeknownst to him, Nyarlathotep had crossed the fingers of his other hand.

Boscha waited impatiently for her master’s return. He walked out with his smile even wider than before. She trudged towards him with her crutches. “What is the plan?”

“Once Miss Blight arrives with the Necronomicon containing the incantation for my powers, everything will change on the Isles.”

Boscha smiled. “So you’re going to rule the Isles again?”

Boscha’s smile dropped when she heard what her mentor said next.

“No; this world had grown ungrateful of the sacrifices I had given for them in order for them to perform magic. This world will be wiped clean and from there shall come a blank slate. From there, I will create a group of people who will have no inclination of resistance for they will not know about the insolence of the old generation. They shall become my people and I will become their god.”

Boscha almost fell backward. “But what about me?”

Nyarlathotep pet her shoulder. “You will be by my side as my acolyte. We shall watch together as this world dies and is blown away like dust in the wind.”

Boscha looked down to think. “But you promised me that I could get my revenge.”

Nyarlathotep held his hand up. “You can still have it; this world’s destruction will be imminent, but I do love a good duel.”

As they existed through the gaping hole that used to be the entrance, Nyarlathotep turned to face his protégé. “Did you keep the debris from falling?”

“Well, thanks to some of the power you gave me, sure,” Boscha replied, “but would it be better to just have it fall?”

“Boscha, Boscha, that would be wasting time that you could have preparing for your fight. But, please, do create a mirror field around the school. We wouldn’t want to have anyone potentially foiling our plans.”

The three-eyed girl nodded and held her hands out. Glass began to form around the outer portion of Hexside. Before long, the glass completely encased the school. One of the students ran towards the entrance only to bounce off the glass. “We’re stuck!”

Nyarlathotep chuckled. “That is how it felt to be trapped in glass for thousands of years; it gives you such displeasure.”

Boscha looked at the school. “Why this?”

“Much like observing a mouse in a vivarium to study, the students and faculty will be trapped, desperately searching for a way out of their maze, but all points lead to a dead end.”

With that, the two made a leave for Belos’ empire.

#owl house #the owl house #nyarlathotep #crossover #fanfiction #owl house fanfiction #the owl house fanfiction #cthulhu #cthulhu mythos

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jace-the-writer-guy · 3 years

Text

Comfort

"For Talisa's entire life, she had faced an immeasurable amount of strife, all starting from her being born with black hair. It was a bad omen to many light elves, and Talisa left her home at a young age due to the treatment she received. And now, she was in a successful and influential guild, and she met someone she felt she had grown so attached to. That person's name was Viera Aria. Talisa had struggled constantly over these new feelings she felt for the woman, and soon she was going to tell her about these feelings."

Word Count: 1,942

The struggles that Talisa had gone through in her early life were something no child should ever face. Shunned by her light elven peers as a child only because her jet-black hair was considered a bad omen, she did not have it easy. She left the village when she felt she was ready with the skills she taught herself, never looking back to the people that had treated her so horribly and just leaving her original name with them. The fact that she didn't even remember what her birth name was stood to show what she thought of the people she used to think of as her parents. Talisa was the name she had chosen for herself, and that's all she was known as while she struck out on her own.

And then she met Aurora and Cronus.

The memory of how she met them brought a small laugh from her and she shook her head. Caught with her arm down in a bag of holding, and taken to the dark elven sorceress. Instead of punishing her, Aurora had taken her in and let her begin to start on the next chapter in her life. And that had taken her along the path to Eagle's Splendor, the ancestral shortsword of her former family wielded by Aniril Eriluin. She had found her last name in that crypt she found the mithril blade in as well, and she had once more had a full name to be known as.

Then, she had met Viera Aria when she and her sister had joined with New Dawn. Over time, Talisa had begun to feel something within her when it came to the then-simple worshipper of Ayukoi. Talisa didn't know what the feeling was, and it admittedly scared her. Viera had loved to tease her and Talisa had grown to love spending time with Viera. Viera's teasing was nothing malicious but playful, and sweet most times. The young rogue never knew how to respond to the teasing, but she liked the feeling it left her with. They slowly began to sleep together in the same bed some nights with Viera holding her closely to her, and they have had sex a good few times as well. The way Viera held her was so comforting and warm, her kisses soft and gentle, and her hands were experienced and caring. She had never felt the touch of another person like that before, and that first time she felt that touch, she had cried. She never noticed it before then, but she had been so starved of affection her entire life up until she met Aurora and when Aurora started acting so... motherly to her and show her such motherly affection, and when Cronus started showing the affection of a big brother, it was enough to bring tears to her eyes. And then with Viera, feeling the priestess' soft and loving touch as they had sex for the first time, she had just broke down in Viera's arms and hugged her tight. That night was a turning point in their relationship, and now Talisa's feelings for Viera had manifested into something she didn't know about at all.

One night in New Dawn Keep, Talisa roamed the ironstone and wooden halls until she came to the door of the red dragon descendant's chambers. The feeling she felt inside her had grown almost unbearable, and she needed to speak with Viera about it before it affected her in her next quest. She took a few moments to collect her thoughts and take a few deep breaths, and she lightly rapped on the door with her knuckles.

Soon, the door opened to reveal Viera in her night robes, worn loosely much like the robes she wears casually. When Viera saw who exactly knocked on her door, she gave a soft smile. "Oh, hello dear. Did you need anything?"

"Viera, may we... speak?" Talisa asked her quietly.

Viera knew that Talisa was a soft-spoken person most of the time, but she heard the tone of the smaller woman's voice and knew it was nothing like how she had spoken before. "Of course, Tali. Come in."

Viera stepped to the side and Talisa entered the room, and Viera closed the door and locked it. She went to sit on her bed and patted the spot next to her, and Talisa sat down next to her. "What is on your mind?" Viera asked her.

"I've been feeling... strange lately," Talisa replied, holding her hands in her lap, "I feel this strange feeling in my chest but it isn't bad and I feel a lump in my throat that I can hardly speak over. I have no idea what it is, and it... happens every time I think of you."

"Oh?" Viera's smile returned and she tilted her head a bit, "Can you explain what you feel when you are around me, other than that feeling in your chest?"

"I'm... happy. That is the main one. You've made me feel happiness like I've never felt before, and I will never be able to give you enough thanks for that. The comfort you have given me has made me feel... like a completely new person than what I used to feel about myself. Aurora has given me the affection and love of a mother with her child and Cronus is more of an older brother, but you... I can't explain it..."

"Hmmm... and the feeling in your chest?"

"I'm... not sure if I can explain that either," Talisa admitted and sighed a bit, "It feels like it... flutters, in a way. Every time I think of you, every time I am near you, I feel that in my chest a-and that lump s-starts to form in my throat like it is now..." Talisa gulped past the lump that had indeed grown and she looked into Viera's face, "I-I need to know wh-what this is, Viera. I-I can't-"

Talisa was silenced when Viera placed a finger to her lips. "Tali dear, take a moment and breath. We can speak for as long as you need to. I have gone through much of the same feelings before, before Zennia and I left Riverhelm."

"You have? Did you f-find out what the feeling was?"

Viera's smile grew and she chuckled softly. "It was love, dear. You just described how I felt when I spoke with the man that I first began to fall in love with."

Talisa's voice caught in her throat when she heard that. "I-I-Is that wh-what I am feeling?"

"Yes, it is."

"I'm... in l-love with you?"

"It certainly seems so. I have noticed your feelings for me for some time now," Viera said softly to the confused and blushing elf, "I never wished to mention anything to you, because I know you know nothing of being in an romantic relationship. I never wished to push you into something that could make you uncomfortable, but I never knew that this had been on your mind so much."

Talisa swallowed the dryness that grew in her throat and she looked down at the floor. "I-I don't know wh-what to do..."

Viera gently took Talisa's hand in her own, rubbing the top with her thumbs. "If it makes you feel better, I love you as well."

Talisa's eyes went wide and she looked back at Viera. "Y-you what?"

Viera giggled softly. "I love you, Tali. Since we have met, I've grown very attached to you and all I began to wish for was to give you the affection a young, beautiful woman like you deserves. I'm very glad that I was fortunate enough to meet you. I would be more than happy to return your love, if you wish to be with me.

"I... think I would love that."

Viera's smile grew when she heard the words leave Talisa's lips, and she removed her hands from the young elf's. She placed them on Talisa's shoulders and gently pulled her in close, and she softly kissed her on the forehead before wrapping her arms around Talisa in a comforting, warm hug. Talisa slowly put her arms around Viera's waist and returned the hug, and she felt a wave of emotions wash over her and tears began to fall from her eyes and down her cheeks, soaking into the robes Viera wore. Viera placed a hand to the back of Talisa's head and gently ran her fingers through her hair, and she just held Talisa close like that for several minutes.

Talisa slowly began to feel that feeling in her chest start to fade, and it was replaced by a comforting warmth. Before New Dawn, Talisa never truly knew what love was. She was hated for so long, and then she was alone for a bit longer before she finally met Aurora and Cronus. The platonic love they gave her was so comforting, and now this new love that she felt and learned about from Viera was something else entirely. It was... more than nice. It made her feel so good and now in Viera's arms, she felt rejuvenated. She felt a bit like a new person in a sense. It was an amazing feeling.

Viera took her arms from Talisa and pushed her back a bit, and looked into Talisa's eyes. Viera's warm smile returned and she placed her hands on the sides of Talisa's head. She wiped away the tears of happiness from Talisa's cheeks with her thumbs, and then she leaned in and place a soft kiss to Talisa's lips. They had shared kisses before in the heat of passion, but this one was different. This one had much more feeling than just carnal pleasure, and Talisa loved it.

The kiss soon ended and Viera placed another to Talisa's forehead. "I don't know how long I will live with this dragon blood inside me. I may live as long as a normal human, I may live as long as a dragon, or somewhere in between..." Viera spoke softly into Talisa's ear, "But, I do know this. I will stay with you as long as you will have me, and I will give you the love you deserve to have."

"Th-thank you, Viera..." Talisa murmured into Viera's shoulder, "I... love you."

"I love you as well, Tali."

Talisa's life was filled with so much pain and strife. Overcoming the treatment she had received from her birth family and setting out on her own were the worst and hardest moments of her life respectively. But, it all led to the best moments of her life with finding her new family, finding the blade of her ancestor and earning the last name of that ancestor and her blessing to use Eagle's Splendor, and she had discovered what love was with the help of Viera Aria. To see the look on everyone's faces if she strolled back into her birth home with tattoos marring her skin and with her old family's ancestral blade would be so satisfying, but she could do without it. She was happy with her life with her new family, and now she was happy with her new and first significant other.

That was all that mattered.

#oc #talisa eriluin #viera aria #fantasy au #the world of palara #original story

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pulaasul · 3 years

Text

Encounter with the Grim

Billy encounters a grimm, an omen that has killed a lot of wizards and witches upon seeing it.

[FFN] [AO3]

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Billy, still in his Captain Marvel form he named William, just watched Professor Mcgonagall and Colin exit the shop, no doubt returning to Hogwarts.

The journalist shook his head as he gathered the quill and parchment he had brought to for his meeting with Creevey. For all the boy's faults, Billy can see the boy's potential as a photojournalist both in the magical world and the non-magic world,

Billy couldn't help but chuckle as he remembered everything he knew about the boy. He had to admit that despite the boy's tendency to be overexcited and to hero-worship someone, he was a quick study and was enthusiastic to learn.

In fact, Billy can see himself in the boy, overexcitement and all. He had once fanboy-ed so hard after meeting some of the heroes in his home universe. He can still remember how he and Freddy gushed about meeting Superman in person.

Billy's twin, despite her disapproval of his and Freddy's hero-worship at both Superman, Batman and many others in the league, Mary was also prone to bouts of being a fangirl over the female heroes like Wonder Woman, Hawk Girl, Black Canary and even Supergirl, even if the both of them had arguments when the two of them met.

Billy was thankful that the league, and their respective proteges, were open minded and accepting of their quirks, even after his age was revealed to the whole team.

Can you blame them? They were kids doing an adults job. It was the ultimate power fantasy, a dream come true.

Of course, when they met Eugene, Pedro and Darla, they also expressed the same kind of open mindedness to the three of them, despite their blatant fanboy and fangirl attitudes towards them, especially after the six of them were placed in the same group home.

It was only right to show the same courtesy to Colin because he too was once in the same boat as him.

Billy shook his head as he deposited the quill and parchment inside his pockets, after reducing their size, and bid farewell to the shopkeeper.

-------

As soon as William exited the shop to the cold air of Hogsmeade, a black dog was growling and barking at him. He couldn't figure out why the canine was hostile towards him.

"There boy, there, there." William cautiously approached the growling black dog. "I won't hurt you." He raised his hands in the air, as if in surrender.

Suddenly, the black dog bit on his jeans, the dog's teeth sunk unto his pants and impatiently pulled on his legs that told William to follow him.

"Calm down boy, I can't follow if you keep dragging my legs," William chided. "I would pretty much prefer to follow you with my legs intact rather than lose them."

The black dog heeded the request and released his hold unto William's jeans, gave out a growl then barked impatiently before running off.

----------

"The shrieking shack."

At the very end of Hogsmeade's territory, was the infamous abandoned house that a lot of villagers thought was haunted as some had heard screams coming from inside, hence the name 'Shrieking Shack'.

As soon as William closed the door, one more person entered the house from a different entrance, one Professor Remus Lupin.

"I see, so this must be the infamous Sirius Black."

One of the many advantages of the Wisdom of Solomon was that, if he chose to, he can instantly learn of anyone's identity alongside their strengths and weaknesses. In utilizing this power, he immediately knew of the black dog's identity, that being of the dog animagus, Sirius Black.

Without the need to hide his identity, the dog transfigured himself back into his human form.

"I was not aware that we knew each other." The man who had been a dog glared at William in distrust. "I don't remember telling anyone of my status as an animagus."

"You didn't need to." William shrugged. "I simply cast a spell to know your identity, which I will not divulge, it's a spell that only the higher-ups of MACUSA know about."

The explanation was not an outright lie, it just wasn't a conventional spell in this world, acquiring the knowledge through the Wisdom of Solomon and all.

"So you were a MACUSA auror." Remus deduced. "That's why you remained collected when a simple muggle studies during dinner revealed Peter Pettigrew's survival."

"So Ron Weasley was telling the truth." Sirius muttered to himself.

"You actually met your godson?" William raised an eyebrow. "I hope you didn't try to drag one of his friends through their feet, like you did to me today. For a dog you have a surprising amount of jaw strength, comparable to that of a wild wolf."

"I did entertain the idea," Sirius grinned. "But no, I ultimately commissioned the services of one half-kneazle and half-cat to bring them to the shack."

"So that's how you were able to get inside the Gryffindor dorms!" Remus raised an accusing finger. "Poor Neville got chewed out by Professor Mcgonagall."

"Is there any particular reason why you felt the need to drag me here Mr. Black?" William raised an eyebrow.

"Right, knowing now that you're an auror, I would like for you to protect me, against any and all who would say that I should be kissed on sight by dementors." Sirius explained. "I would like to spend some time with my godson without trying to evade the ministry's department of magical law enforcement."

"Why come to me?" William asked. "As I recall, you were a member of Professor Dumbledore's Order of the Phoenix."

"Y-you know of the order?" Remus gasped.

"That's irrelevant for now." William shook his head. "I'd like for an answer if you don't mind."

"I came to you because I knew you were from the Americas from what Remus told me" Sirius admitted. "I knew that the ICW would be involved, or at the very least MACUSA would be involved, if you were there to witness how the ministry would react."

"Huh, a Slytherin trait, I suppose it's to be expected considering your family name."

"They were my first teachers before entering Hogwarts." The dog animagus shrugged.

"Don't take him!" A voice exclaimed from the entrance Remus walked through. "He's innocent."

"Messers Potter and Weasley and Ms. Granger, please show yourself."

From the entrance were indeed Harry Potter, Ron Weasley and Hermoine Granger. All three of them immediately rushed to the Black as if to protect the older man from William.

"Relax, the three of you." William assured. "I know he's innocent."

"But you're still going to hand him over to the ministry." Harry exclaimed. "They'd have him kissed immediately."

"Calm down Harry." Remus soothed his student. "That is the very reason why Mr. Batson's here." He assured the boy. "To make sure that nothing would happen to your godfather."

"Please show yourself Professor Snape." William sighed.

Another person went through the entrance Remus walked through and it was indeed Professor Snape.

"It's quite a gathering we have here Black." Professor Snape sneered. "You may have escaped the first time, but it won't happen the second time."

"Please calm yourself Professor Snape." William sighed. "As of this moment, Mr. Black has just surrendered himself to me as such he falls under my protection."

"What do you mean Batson?!"

"I mean what I said Professor Snape." William bluntly stated. "If you so much as harm a single strand of hair from Mr. Black there will be consequences."

"Is that a threat?" Professor Snape growled.

"A mere statement." William shook his head. "I take it that you followed Mr. Potter and his friends here?"

"Yes, it was past curfew."

"You children should've just stayed put inside the castle." William chided."

"But-"

"I know how you feel Mr. Potter, the injustice done against your godfather needs to be corrected however in doing what you have done now, further complicates the situation," William explained. "As for you Mr. Black, had you surrendered when Pettigrew was still in Ministry Custody, things would have been simple and clean," He sighed. "As it stands now, your former friend has escaped custody and complicates things further."

"Escaped custody?"

"You mean he managed to escape, like what Ron said a month ago?" Hermoine gasped. "I thought that couldn't be true, the ministry couldn't be that incompetent. Could they?"

"I trust the words of the department head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement over your minister, no offense." William sighed. "An unforgivable curse was used and as we all know those curses cannot be countered."

"In any case, I will make sure Mr. Black is given a dose of veritaserum after he visits a mind healer, Azkaban couldn't have been good for you."

"As for you Professor Snape, I suggest that you deduct 25 points for each student for their stunt today alongside detention for them with you." William offered. "Would that amenable for you considering you came here in the hopes of capturing Mr. Black for yourself?"

Professor Snape remained silent, mulling over what the best course of action was.

"Tell me Professor, were you aware that Mr. Black wasn't given any sort of trial?"

"No trial?" Remus questioned.

"From what I had heard, he was simply thrown into Azkaban as soon as he was found within the vicinity of dead no-maj people with Pettigrew's dismembered finger."

"How totally barbaric!" Hermoine gasped. "No trials!"

"You must understand Ms. Granger, everyone was on edge and the prominent figure on the other side was seemingly killed, in order not to give time for their faction to retreat and retaliate, they needed to round up any and all suspected members of the enemy faction to stop the war entirely."

"Surely they could've given Sirius a trial afterwards."

"Fear, Harry." William shook his head. "People were afraid and wanted the war to end, hence their negligence to provide Mr. Black a trial."

"To be fair for the aurors, by the time they found me, I was laughing like a maniac." Sirius offered. "I was wrought with guilt for what happened to James and Lily."

"There you have it, in consideration of Mr. Black's actions when he was found and the dead bodies within his vicinity, it was natural that he was immediately thrown to Azkaban for they felt what they've seen was concrete and overwhelming evidence."

"In any case Professor Snape, would my suggestion be amenable?" William asked. "Either way, he'd be sent to the ministry just under my protection and would likely be qualified for a trial."

"Yes." Professor Snape nodded.

"Very well, you three head out with Professor Snape and you will accept any punishment he deems you should be facing for your stunt."

"Potter, Granger, Weasley come with me."

"Wha- You can't do that!" Ron exclaimed indignantly.

"I can and I will, you have endangered yourselves and are out of your beds after curfew." Professor Snape snapped.

"Just shut up Ronald, we deserve this."

"B-but."

William mere shook his head.

As soon as the teacher and his students had exited the house.

"What about you Lupin? Aren't you still teaching at Hogwarts?"

"I resigned weeks ago." Remus admitted. "Someone leaked my status as a werewolf and to avoid howlers from parents, I resigned immediately."

"That's unfortunate," William sighed. "But there is a silver lining, what do you say with helping your friend in his recovery step by step?"

"Would the ministry okay with that?"

"There are no laws passed that prevents those with your affliction from taking care of their friends." William nodded.

"Then I accept." Remus smiled.

--------

The Mudblood

Sirius Black Surrenders

By: Oscar Ollerton

Sirius Black has surrendered to a former auror who was once employed by MACUSA and now owner of the Mudblood, William Batson. According to Mr. Batson, Mr. Black surrendered to him so that he won't be kissed by a dementor as soon as he was inside the Ministry of Magic.

When Mr. Batson was asked why he gave the escaped convict protection from the Ministry's aurors, he simply stated that the man was innocent until proven guilty.

With Mr. Batson's declaration, Sirius Black was deemed to be unable to participate in trial due to his stay in Azkaban with that assessment, Madam Bones of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement has deemed the need for Black to visit a mind healer and undergo the necessary treatment before being able to participate his trial.

Madam Bones has assured that the truth about that night will be revealed and that the rightful criminal will face the might of the ministry's justice.

It can be remembered that on November 1, 1981 Sirius Black was convicted to Azkaban for being a Death Eater and the betrayal of James and Lily Potter by Bartemius Crouch Sr. He was found laughing in the middle of twelve dead muggles and what seemed to be the remains of one Peter Pettigrew.

Late last year, during an impromptu muggle studies at night at Hogwarts's Great Hall, Peter Pettigrew was found alive masquerading as a pet animal for one of the students in the school with a finger missing, the same finger that was found near his supposed site of demise. He was immediately arrested and sent to the Ministry.

When questioned about Pettigrew's custody or escape, Minister Cornelius Fudge has repeatedly insisted that Pettigrew was still under the Ministry's custody belying the rumors of Pettigrew's escape.

#billy batson #harry potter #sirius black #remus lupin #severus snape #encounter with the grim #shazam #captain marvel #ron weasley #hermoine granger #story

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mydisenchantedeulogy · 4 years

Text

In Chains (Chapter Six) Mapped Emotions (Trafalgar Law)

Anxious barely described how she felt at the moment, waiting in the galley for word from Law. Samira wasn’t sure how long she had been sitting there, but her thoughts were eating her alive. She was certain Law was going to demand that she leave his company once he heard what Arsenio had to say about her. The fact he brought the portly man aboard his sub was another reason she was sweating bullets; he was unpredictable and violent. Law was insane.

Samira buried her face into her quaking arms and took a breath. The tension was already extreme; her own was not needed. Law mentioned that her power roused emotions in a person that were often hectic. If what he said was accurate, then her power spreading at this time was not ideal.

She honestly wanted to cry, but to save herself the embarrassment, she focused on her breathing until the door opened. Samira brought up her head and forced a smile. It was Bepo and not Law who had entered.

He was taken back, but approached her regardless.

“How is Shachi? And you; and Penguin. I never wanted to––

Bepo lifted his paw to stop her. “Don’t worry about us. We know too well the risks.”

He watched her smile fade. It wasn’t the answer she wanted to hear – Bepo knew – but Law had instructed him to keep the condition of the party a secret. Samira was a guest, and once Law spoke to her; she may not be a guest for long.

Incidentally, Law also instructed him to bring Samira to him. Bepo mentioned this to her and saw her eyes widen in fear. He felt sorry for her, but orders were orders.

Samira hesitantly stood and followed Bepo through the galley and down a level to the crew bunks. No one was around, but she wondered if the sub was at rest on the water; her breath was steady and as she waited in the galley, she heard no sound otherwise suggesting that the Polar Tang had submerged. It felt like a bad omen to her; an end to beautiful days.

At the hatch door near the end of the hall Bepo left her. Samira watched his large figure as it departed up the stairs and sighed in despair. She assumed that she’d better knock. Doing so gently Law allowed her in seconds later.

He was turned – back towards her – searching through a thick tome from his bookstand. Samira took a reluctant seat in the open chair in front of his desk and sat quietly as he flipped through the pages in a rush. She occupied this brief moment of peace by searching his workspace; it was cluttered with interesting things.

She grew suspicious over the amass of bounty posters scattered around, but decided to ignore them. A pocket-sized chest of coins interested her more. And they were all unalike; shapes and colors that Samira had never seen before.

“You have an amazing collection of coins, Mester (mister) Trafalgar. How long have you been amassing them?”

Law hummed and turned to face her. “Since I became a captain. It’s an unnecessary interest I’ve yet to kick.”

“Why stop? It seems exciting to me.”

He snorted; she was easy to rouse. Law brought the tome over to the desk and laid it open. His money chest and the posters he relocated to make room – much to her disappointment.

“The Isle of Red Sands; it’s where you escaped from according to Frog-ya.”

Samira frowned. She hoped that he wouldn’t learn much from Arsenio, but whatever Law did to him apparently was enough to scare him into telling him the truth.

“That’s right,” she confirmed.

Law turned the book towards her. She recognized it as a map; a small and dated map of the Grand Line. The section she could see had a series of misshaped lumps that reminded her of islands; each one eventually connected to an island right before the Red Line.

“Where’s it located? I asked Frog-ya but he wasn’t too sure.”

She raised a brow. Too sure? Lifting a finger, she pointed to a place on the map with no name. There wasn’t even an island; it was directly at the base of the Red Line.

Law was shocked. “Your island is near the Red Line?”

Samira shook her head. “It’s inside the Red Line; a cave island. The reason no one knows where it’s located is because it’s never been found by sailors or the Marines. Foreigners seldom come to the Isle; storms and poor navigational skills bring them to our shore line.”

His eyes widened in realization. It never occurred to Law before that Samira was so unusual; her island was a relic to the past. It was located beneath the nose of the World Government – how ironic.

“Have you heard of the Void Century before?”

Unfortunately, no. Samira again shook her head. Law grinned; he assumed this was the case.

“It’s a century long gap in recorded and archaeological history so important and relevant that by learning them, one is said to become aware of the true history of the world,” he explained. “The World Government forbids the study of the Void Century, but many people choose to be ignorant about it; fear of being wiped out. Our language and currency are mostly the same wherever you go in this world, but there are ones like you who don’t fit.”

Samira frowned. “I had no idea. My country is isolated and I doubt anyone knows about the Void Century. Honestly, I’m not sure where you’re going with this, but I’m sorry.”

“No reason to be sorry, Samira-ya. It goes to show just how incompetent the World Government is.” Law shut the book and stood up to place it back in the case where he took it from.

Now to the matter at hand.

“Frog-ya confirmed that you have Devil Fruit powers.”

She assumed so.

“When you ate it; either it was a fruit of some kind with swirls on the peel or chunks of similar design, you would have learned its name. For some reason you don’t seem to remember, or know what a Devil Fruit is for that matter, but Frog-ya told me; in case you wanted to know,” he explained.

Law turned and waited for her to decide. Samira seemed to be in a heated debate with herself. She eventually sighed and nodded.

“The Kaosu-Kaosu no Mi is its given name. You spread and amass chaos and misfortune.”

Her eyes stung with tears. Shouldn’t she be ecstatic? All this resulted in was more dread. Her arms tightened around her waist. “I never wanted this; I thought by eating it I could avoid unnecessary casualties, but it mattered not to them. Arsenio and the others used me to ruin so many lives. I just … wanted to protect my people … but I––

“It doesn’t matter what you did in the past,” Law interrupted. He clutched the bridge of his nose in annoyance; so many tears for such a tiny woman. “You have no control over your power because no one ever allowed you a chance to learn. Who’s to stop you now?”

Samira widened her eyes. He was right. Arsenio and the others couldn’t stop her from learning. She rose up and without reasoning draped her arms around Law; her tearstained cheek rested against his collarbone.

He was at a loss on what to do. The rational response would be to embrace her back or ease her away, but Law was powerless. He allowed her to continue for now; his face was warm with embarrassment.

“Please teach me. I haven’t a clue where to start,” Samira begged.

Law grunted. He really had no time for this? The crew had an agenda of its own; training her wasn’t in the plan. However, it had occurred to him upon learning the extent of her power from Arsenio that she might come in handy when collecting the hearts he needed to sway the Marines. Samira was trained to fight; Shachi even said this. He could ask for her help for a little while until he learned what to do with her.

“You owe me so much already, Amunet-ya. Do you honestly want to add to it?”

She agreed with a nod. “If it means I can learn from you, then I don’t mind forever being in your debt.”

“You’ll regret that,” he assured her.

Samira snorted; she felt him shiver. Heat spread to her face. No doubt this was awkward for Law. She released him and stepped back. “Thank you … I don’t know much else to say.”

“You could start with an apology,” he mentioned.

What for? Samira was confused. She lifted a brow in uncertainty.

“Shachi is resting in his room.”

Her eyes grew in understanding. He got hurt because of her. She bobbed her head to agree. “May I be excused? I’d like to apologize to him and the others.”

Law nodded and sat back at his desk. “We have much to discuss, Amunet-ya. Don’t assume that I am done, and don’t get too comfortable with our guest; he’ll be departing our crew on the next island.”

“Yes sir.”

It may have been in good fun, but Samira felt a sudden ease wash over her. Yes sir; she saw herself as one of the crew for a moment. Before Law could scold her, Samira rushed from his room. She had a new found resolve burning in her chest.

Law and the crew were something precious she wanted to protect with her power. With time, she hoped to achieve this.

“Have you located them yet?”

She certainly had. Her dark wings beat relentlessly to keep up pace with the yellow sub. She was lucky that it hadn’t submerged yet, having found it before it disappeared again.

“I’m following them right now, master. How should I proceed?”

The voice on the line hummed. “Keep with them for now. Once you locate Arsenio and are capable of speaking to him, give him the message and return back. The pirates my asset is with is much too strong to deal with alone.”

“And about Daiane sir? If I see her should I do the same?”

Hissing, the voice slammed down the receiver and ended the call. Her Transponder Snail tied to her foot went silent. The woman laughed. Daiane and Arsenio were in trouble when they returned to the Isle. It brought her great pleasure to see them punished for their failures; Mariposa got a warning, but she too would soon be punished, once she returned to the Country of Love.

Yes. She couldn’t wait. A chirp of excitement left her beak; she began to whistle a happy tune.

Master loves when I whistle.

#trafalgar law #one piece #heart pirates #law x oc #one piece fanfiction

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lady-divine-writes · 3 years

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Good Omens - “Death Takes a Holiday” (Rated PG13)

Summary: Azrael and Raphael are stuck trying to give relationship advice to a woman stuck in a literal Hallmark Christmas Movie, but she's just not getting the message. Raphael is having the time of his existence, but Azrael isn't too sure how much more Christmas cheer he can take. (2257 words)

Notes: Written for @theantichristmaszine 2020, and inspired by @dianacrimsonia's Ineffable Opposites au where Aziraphale is Azrael, the Angel of Death, and Crowley is the Archangel Raphael. Diana's art for this fic can be seen on their Insta: dianacrimsonia. Please go give them all the love :)

Read on AO3.

“So let me get this straight …” Azrael plants both hands on the table, staring down in frustration at the starry-eyed red-head in front of him “… you’re prepared to leave it all, your entire life, everything you’ve built from the ground up on this miserable cesspool of a planet … for love?”

A smile, serene in its decision, content with a shiny vision of the future, answers him before a single word slips past perky, coral-tinted lips. “Yes. I am.”

Azrael slaps the wood as he pushes himself upright. “That’s rubbish, that is.”

An amused tilt of the head sends crimson curls spilling over a narrow shoulder. “How can you possibly believe that? How can you go through life not realizing that love is the greatest God-given force in the universe?”

“How did he get you to do it? Hmm?” Azrael asks, purposefully dodging the question. “You’ve been here, what? Three days? A week tops? What magical spell did he cast that would lead you to make such an asinine decision?”

“Well … we went on a hayride,” manicured fingers count off, “we went Christmas tree shopping, watched the candy puller make candy canes, listened to carolers ... Oh! We had hot chocolate and then ...” A pause, followed by a dreamy sigh “… he kissed me. At this cafe. Right here at this picnic table, as a matter of fact.”

Azrael jerks his hands off the table top as if burned, scowling at the bench beneath his bent right knee as if it were diseased. “We had hot chocolate and then he kissed me,” he mimics, dreamy sigh and all. “You are, without a doubt, the most insufferable creature I have ever met! And if you had a clue who I play Pinochle with on Thursday nights, you’d know that that’s saying something.”

“In her defense, the hot chocolate here is very good,” Raphael offers, taking a careful sip of the steaming liquid in his own Frosty the Snowman mug.

Azrael’s eyes shift away from the infuriating woman sitting in front of him to the equally infuriating angel seated down the bench from him. “Please enlighten me, sunshine, on how you keep getting us into these unsavory situations.”

Raphael raises his eyes, countering Azrael’s glare with a mischievous grin as a rousing rendition of Jingle Bells - Azrael’s least favorite Christmas tune of all time - begins from out of nowhere. “I read. A lot.”

“I may have to confine your literary resources to picture books from now on.”

“We’re here because we’re needed,” Raphael explains to his unamused companion. “Obviously there’s something we need to accomplish. A message we need to send. It’s kind of what angels do during the holidays.”

“Seeing as we’re stuck in a movie on what’s apparently called The Hallmark Channel,” Azrael divines, squinting at a golden emblem that follows them around like a puppy no matter where they go, “I would say that part is accurate.” He turns back to the woman who has done nothing since the moment his attentions went elsewhere, as if she only exists when he’s interacting with her. And even though he’s an Angel of Death, regarded as one of the spookiest, most sinister omens in all of recorded history, it creeps him out.

“Does he have any investments?” Azrael implores, returning to their lost cause. “A retirement plan? A 401K?”

Sara shakes her head.

“Does he at least collect commemorative plates!?”

“Those things aren’t important to him,” she announces superiorly. “Besides, I have enough money socked away to take care of the both of us. We’ll want for nothing, as long as we have …”

“Love. Yeah. I get it. Probably what he’s counting on, the leech. Man almighty,” Azrael grumbles, running a hand down his face in frustration. “Unbelievable! This dillhole should be working downstairs with us!”

“Simon doesn’t want to raise his son around a den of corporate greed!” Sara argues passionately.

“Really?” Azrael scoffs. “What about a den of good schools and culture? Does he believe in those things?”

“All we need is love.”

“What you need, lady, I can’t seem to say out loud.”

“That’s because this movie is rated PG,” Raphael interjects. “You can’t curse here.”

“Pity. Give me exactly five seconds and I’ll make their ratings go through the roof.”

“More like in the toilet. Guidelines for these movies are extremely strict.” Raphael stirs his cocoa, staring wistfully into his cup. “Darling? You do believe in the power of love, don’t you?” he asks, a deep, abiding concern coloring his voice.

“Of course I believe in the power of love!” Azrael stares up at the too bright, too blue sky, mentally venting using every four-letter word he can think up. “But sometimes the power of stupidity is stronger!” He sighs, so long and hard it deserves its own backstory. “Look, lady, love is grand and all, but so is carving a name for yourself and being able to make your condo payments!”

“Love will provide,” is the only reply she gives him.

“This is a nightmare!” Azrael groans, taking a seat opposite his angel and burying his face in his hands.

“I don’t know,” Raphael says, gaining a chipper lilt and a gleeful little wiggle. “I’m having a grand time!”

“Yes, well, you’ve eaten seven Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer cookies, drunk three mugs of cocoa, and you bought a quilt!”

“It’s Amish! Hand stitched! Did you see the craftsmanship?”

“You won’t be able to take it with you,” Azrael points out in a taunting, sing-song way.

“The Hell I won’t,” Raphael murmurs, diving into the mound of marshmallows swimming at the top of his mug.

“This Holy Holiday Messenger gig is all well and good, but did you really have to go and get us stuck in an American movie?”

“I had no control over that, love. But look on the bright side (for you) - we’re not going to be here forever.”

“No?” Azrael blows out an incredulous breath through tightly pursed lips, producing a rude sound that turns a few heads. “It’s only going to feel like it.”

“The spell will wear off in twenty-four hours, I assure you. Which should give us plenty of time to …”

Azrael cuts Raphael off with a look that could melt lead. Raphael puts his hands up in surrender.

“Fine. Here - let me give it a go. Maybe all this needs is a touch of Grace.” Raphael scoots closer to Sara, who’s gazing blankly at a tall, overly decorated tree, with moony eyes. “Look, dear, as much as I hate to admit it, my gloomy but pragmatic friend is right.”

Sara turns on him, glaring like he just spit in her cocoa. “Excuse me?”

“Yeah,” Azrael says. “Excuse me?”

“It seems as though you have just as much wrapped up in your life in New York as your young man does in his daydream of fixing up a run down horse ranch that he doesn’t even have the capital to purchase yet. If I were you, I would go home, back to your life and your job. And either the two of you work things out apart and see how it goes, or find someone whose ideals better line up with yours. Someone who is worthy of you, who wouldn’t ask you to give up everything to live here with him. Because love - true love, the kind of love that lasts - doesn’t come from the sacrifices others ask you to make. It’s about the sacrifices you’re willing to make for others, freely and unsolicited.”

Sara stares open-mouthed at the traitor sitting beside her. But as aghast as she appears, there’s a moment when both Raphael and Azrael think a light bulb has gone off. She’ll agree with them, thank them for their time and their sage advice, then be off, winging her way back to NYC. But after a few blinks, she slowly shakes her head, tsking with every turn of her neck. “You guys just don’t understand the meaning of Christmas.”

Raphael shrugs and slides back to his original seat. “Guess not.”

“Don’t fret, my pet,” Azrael teases. “You tried your best. Guess it wasn’t a matter of Grace after all. There’s no getting through to her, is there?”

“We don’t need to,” Raphael says, reconvening with his cocoa.

Azrael frowns. “What do you mean?”

“I mean the person who needed that message has heard it, and has changed their mind about giving up everything for someone who isn’t willing to meet them half way.”

“Who was it?” Azrael asks, sweeping his gaze around, trying to spot the love lost soul in question.

“Someone out there.” Raphael gestures off to his right. “A real life person out in television land.”

Azrael grins at this turn of events, giddy with relief. “That’s … that’s wonderful! Now we can get the Heaven out of here!”

“Uh … n-no.” Raphael fidgets sheepishly with his mug. “I-I’m afraid we’re stuck here for the full twenty-four hours.”

“Wha---? How!? How can that be!? We fulfilled the requirements of the spell, didn’t we!?”

“Y-yes, but …”

“I know the rules behind these ultimatum locked spells! Once you fulfill your duty, then …” Struck by a sudden realization, Azrael turns wide, scolding eyes on his angel. “Raphael! What did you …?”

“I’m sorry, dear! But when I felt the spell start to pull us out, I just … shrugged it off!”

“But I didn’t shrug it off! How come I didn’t leave?”

“Funny thing that.” Raphael giggles nervously, peeking up at Azrael through glittering lashes. “I sort of … overrode it.”

“Raphael!”

“Azrael! It’s Christmas! I have been trying and trying to get you to take time off and go away with me! This twenty-four hours outside of time could be a holiday for us! Look at all the neat stuff they have planned!” Raphael snaps up a festively decorated flier. “Apple cider tasting, cookie decorating, a peppermint eating contest … and look! A Mistletoe Forest! Do you know what that means?”

Azrael crosses his arms over his chest. “It means this entire town has a huge fungus problem?”

“It’s a forest covered in mistletoe! Mist-le-toe!” Raphael repeats as if talking to a stubborn toddler. “You know … if you’re into that sort of thing.”

“Parasites?”

“No.” Raphael wraps a glimmering curl coyly around one slender finger. “I was thinking more along the lines of dozens of hidden corners to get caught under and kiss.”

“My star …” Azrael inches closer, lowering his voice in the hopes that only his love will hear him “… if you want me to kiss you, all you have to do is ask. In fact, you don’t have to say a word. Just look my way and bat those golden eyelashes of yours. I’ll kiss you anywhere you want, wherever you want,” he emphasizes with a cheeky bounce of his eyebrows. “We don’t need mistletoe for that.”

“I suppose you’re right.” Raphael breathes in deep, exhales long. “If you want to leave, I’ll understand. I’m sure that I can summon a portal and send you back to your mortuary. Your grim, dreary, lonely mortuary, with that single, sad wreath on the door …”

Raphael sniffs theatrically.

Azrael rolls his eyes.

“Would spending the day here make you happy?” Azrael asks with the enthusiasm of someone about to have teeth pulled sans anesthetic in preparation for a lengthy root canal. “Really happy?”

“Yes,” Raphael answers hopefully, sparkling a vibrant gold like the nebula he is. “Effervescently.”

“I can see that,” Azrael mutters. “All right.” He drops down onto the hard bench, level with Raphael’s beaming gaze, and despite this whole headache, he smiles. What can he say? He loves to see his starshine happy. “Finish your cocoa and come along. We have a PG rating to tank.”

“Ooo! Is that one of your fantasies? Whisking me off to the woods like a cad and having your way with me?” Raphael asks, blithely misreading Azrael’s mood. Too eager to be on their way, he snaps his fingers, transforming his snowman mug into an argyle-printed Thermos to transport his cocoa in. He wouldn’t want to waste good cocoa. Real or not, it’s way too tasty to leave behind. “Oh! Shall I change into a dress? I know! Something Victorian! With a red-trimmed corset and …!”

Azrael catches Raphael’s hand before he can snap his fingers again.

“Raphael! You are a strong, fiercely independent archangel! I would not think to insult you by acting out a fantasy that employs such a flawed and sexist stereotype!”

“Oh,” Raphael squeaks, equal parts stunned by Azrael’s response as disappointed, causing his shimmer to dim. “Oh, I apologize. Yes. Yes, I see your point. I …”

Azrael brings Raphael’s hand to his mouth, a wicked grin spreading his lips as he kisses Raphael’s knuckles one at a time, stopping to swirl the tip of his tongue on the soft web of skin in between, making Raphael’s glow go from brilliant to blinding. “That said - yes. Yes, it is. So please, if you don’t mind … wear the dress.”

***

The Hallmark Channel movie ‘Death Takes a Holiday’, which network execs couldn’t recall green lighting, not a single director remembered directing, nor likewise any of the writers recalled writing, was so insanely popular that, by virtue of a voracious, fan-led letter writing campaign, it ran for three weeks into the New Year, and prompted a sequel for Valentine’s - ‘Death Takes a Spouse’.

#good omens #good omens fanfiction #ineffable husbands #ineffable opposites #aziraphale x crowley #azrael x raphael

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