#tower of god good omens au | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

honklore · 3 years

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is nothing sacred? | quackity

(4.6k+ word count, prince!alex, augur/seer!reader, gn!reader, angst, alex has a sucky dad, reader has a sucky family, karl appears as a time traveler ofc, neg and pos religious themes, deification is the belief that when a monarch dies they will become a god, the rapids is a kingdom in this but it isn’t an smp au)

listen to: evermore by taylor swift, foreigner’s god by hozier, (the end) by levi weaver, exile by taylor swift

There’s a warm spring just outside the monastery. It’s hidden in the mountain, a few miles away from the castle walls and yet you find that it’s too close for comfort.

Every bright and loud fanfare that announces the prince’s coming and leaving echoes off of the hills and pours through your peaceful respite. It’s just enough to make you grumpy.

It’s one of those mornings again, and you find yourself floating in the hot spring, eyes open towards the sun, wishing you had more patience with the dear prince you call your best friend.

Your robe is heavy across your torso, floating around your bare legs as you ponder your plans for today. That is, if the prince doesn’t come visit you.

That would be wishful thinking, though. You don’t have to close your eyes to know that someone has blocked the sun. With a sigh, you sink your body beneath the warm water and submerge, blinking the water off of your lashes. “Alex, this is sacred ground.”

“I know,” the prince replies, squatting down to see you. “I tied my boots around my neck, see?”

You stare at the boot he’s proudly holding up, then shift your eyes to his bare feet. “Why are you here? This is my day off.”

“Excuse me for wanting to see my best friend,” Alex sneers mockingly, rolling his eyes. “Listen, are you coming back to the castle tomorrow?”

“We literally have an augury lesson at one in the morning,” you say. “So, yes.”

“Good, I’m going to disprove all of your theories.”

“They aren’t theories, Alex. I read patterns for a living, alright? I know what I’m talking about.”

“It’s not science.”

“Neither is your father deifying your grandfather,” this time you mock him.

He holds a steady gaze, lips quirked into a cheeky smile. “You’ll tell me about the night of my coronation again, right?”

“Because it warned of extreme change,” you say, voice level. “Yet I can’t figure out what’s going to happen. There’s something the stars aren’t telling me, and I have to figure it out to protect you and the kingdom.”

Alex’s eyes are a deep brown that you could probably get lost in, if he wasn’t such a little shit. “Protect me, you say?” He’s flirting now, eyes alight with the thought of annoying you, and if this spring wasn’t so important to you, you would’ve yanked him in already. “Didn’t know you cared that much about me, Y/n.”

Your robes are clinging uncomfortably to your body, accentuating the lines and curves — or lack thereof. “Hand me my towel and look away please.”

Alex closes his eyes and turns his face away, holding out the towel. “Learn anything divine from your swimming trip?”

Alex holds the towel out like a makeshift screen, and averts his eyes while you dry off and change into the clean robe he brought you. As annoying as he is, the prince is thoughtful, and he fills in the places where you lack.

“I was reflecting,” you say, buttoning the front of the robe. “It’s good for you; clears out your soul.”

Alex tosses the towel over your head and ruffles your hair. He chuckles at your protests; taunts you with warmth in his eyes. “You’re so spiritual.”

You glare at him. “I’m an augur.”

“Right,” Alex says, holding the now-wet towel close to his chest. “But you take it so seriously, sometimes.”

“I hate you,” you say, no venom in your words.

“I love you, too,” Alex says. He leans forward, almost as if to kiss your forehead, and then remembers that you’re on sacred ground, and kissing is forbidden.

Still, the very thought of what he might’ve done sends an unwanted flutter throughout your chest.

Wax drips onto the closed letter. You dip the silver stamp into the dark purple puddle, leaving the royal seal behind.

Inside is a letter to your family. It’s a prophecy you’ve received just for them. Despite them disowning you for your gift, you still find it important to warn them of upcoming woe. Like now, for instance, when you wish to warn them about the upcoming rainstorm that could ruin their crops if they don’t take precautions.

You rub your temples and blow out the candle, leaving you in silent darkness.

Your room is on the highest tower of the castle. The turret is small; a circular room with a circular bed and a circular desk and a glass, circular ceiling that showcases the stars to you each night. There’s a telescope standing against the window, a chest for your clothes, and the writing desk you’re seated upon. However, your bathroom is a few stories down, near the bottom of the tower and closer to accessible plumbing.

The door behind you bursts open, and you know it’s the young prince and his lack of basic manners when it comes to privacy. Your privacy, anyway. “What is it, Alex?”

“I’ve been waiting for you in the tower for an hour now, silly,” Alex’s words get softer as the light from the corridor pours in, and he can see what you’ve been up to. He stills, smile faltering. “You had another vision of them.”

“I wish they would stop,” you mutter. If you clench your eyes tightly enough, you can will any tears to suck back into your head. Then you can suffer through a headache, like you always do. You’ve had this “gift” since you were a little kid; you know the ups and downs of using it.

Not that it gives you much choice sometimes.

“Are you drinking the–“

“No,” you snap at Alex. “Look, suppressing them only makes it worse. Prophecies become... darker. I see things I can’t unsee. I have to allow them through.”

Alex has a hurt look on his face, but you can’t tell if it’s because you snapped at him or because he doesn’t want to see you in pain. You selfishly hope it’s the latter.

“We can talk about something less harsh on the mind.” Alex sits on your chest, avoiding your bed. It’s another sacred place for you, same as the monastery grounds. Alex knows the rules of being a seer; the ancient laws you practice. He’s read the same books as you — if just to understand you better. He’s the most loyal friend you can think of: the only person in the entire kingdom who has never questioned your beliefs.

“I can’t stand the thought of them getting hurt,” you admit. “And with the vision about your coronation... I’m so scared this kingdom is going to crumble and it’s going to be because I couldn’t prevent it.”

Alex fiddles with his necklace. It’s a rune, one for protection. You used to wear a similar one beneath your robes, but with your fear of something happening, you’ve made Alex promise to wear it.

“It’s not your job to keep the kingdom from crumbling,” Alex relays. “All you need to do is tell me what you see. Then I hint to my father ways to change the kingdom. After that, it’s up to fate.”

You bite your lip. “Fate has a tricky way of playing its own hand.”

“Then it was never in your hands in the first place, yes?” Alex speaks honestly, but there’s a bit of cheek to his voice that eases your nerves.

You smile sadly. “Your father is too prideful, Alex. I can see it; the ravens, they flock the castle whenever he makes a speech. He wants to become a god. He wants something that’s impossible.”

“He deified Grandfather,” Alex quips, no emotion backing his voice. “Like you said earlier. It’s just to start the tradition, so that when he dies he’ll become holy, too.”

“I told him it was wrong. I told him that the stars foresee ruin if he stays on this trail of pride.” You cast your eyes down to your family’s letter. “No one believes me.”

“I believe you,” Alex’s soft voice urges you to look at him.

He’s quiet. The rune is resting on his outstretched palm and he’s looking at you. “Do you think I’d take these lessons and wear these trinkets if I thought you were wrong?”

“Maybe you do it because we’re friends,” you say. You're well aware of the fact that the prince is the only person in the entire kingdom who advocates for your beliefs. But with the rest of the realm against you, you can't help but think that deep down, he's making fun of you, too.

"You sure do worry a lot for someone who can foresee the future."

You choke out a laugh and run your hands down your face. "I'm sorry, Alex. I'm so sorry. I just– I feel like if I can't prevent every bad thing I predict, then it's my fault when they happen. I wish I was ignorant to omens."

Alex tuts. He pouts at you, dragging his lower lip between his teeth and holding it there for just a beat too long. “Let’s skip lessons today. You should rest.”

“Alex—“

“Ah!” Alex stands up. He begins to unclip his cufflinks from the hem of his sleeve before he passes you a coy glance. “That’s Prince Alexis to you, and if I say you should rest, then you should rest.”

You grumble, but inwardly you’re thankful.

There’s an altar, rectified in the middle of the castle courtyard. Though it was once a place of healing — a place seers would go to cleanse their minds — it is now standing in ruins.

You lay down your offerings anyway. Dried rose petals, and a few copper coins saved up. You wait with the objects until a few crows come to diligently take them away. To where? You don’t know. You’ve never asked.

Alex’s father plans to take down the altar and replace it with a shrine of himself. The knowledge of change reeks the air with a foul scent only you can smell.

It’s as if the entire kingdom is rotting and you’re the only one who knows.

You lift your hood off of your face and continue your walk throughout the court. Those you pass politely ignore you, though some choose to sneer at your mannerisms. The king has them wrapped in his prideful rule, and your heart aches for them.

There is no freedom in serving man. This much, you know.

You find yourself in the tower, waiting for the prince to come in time for his lessons.

“Father says he wants me to study more practical subjects,” Alex relates to you.

He’s lying across the balcony floor, and you are perpendicular, with your head on his stomach. You feel every breath he takes, and something about the closeness comforts you in a way you refuse to analyze.

“I’m not sure what else you could learn,” you say. Your eyes are stuck on a chip in the balcony railing. Stone that hardly cracks, and of course your foundation is crumbling quicker than your resolve. “You have lessons from dawn till dusk.”

“And you’re the only tutor I care for,” he says with a flippant sort of tone. “I don’t know what I’d do if I saw you less. I already wish I had more time with you.”

You’ve spoken to nuns and monks and those who swear off love in servitude to the one they worship. Most admit that it’s a lonely existence, and a torture to make up for their sins. You understand that true love must be as sacred as an old god, and to worship another person would be the greatest act of devotion. For how else do you serve a creator than by worshiping the created?

You don’t think kings are meant to be worshipped. No one with that much power should be revered with such ignorance.

But a prince is different. To worship a prince alone, in secret, for just yourself... perhaps that is the most spiritual devotion of all. Perhaps it is the most torturous.

Hearing Alex’s words makes your heart yearn for a future that can never be. You don’t need a vision to tell you that his father will soon grow tired of you. Of course you will soon be sent out of the kingdom, and Alex will forget about you in time.

You know this without a doubt in your heart, and yet Alex still clings to these moments with you.

You’d do anything to keep him safe.

“Where will I go?” You ask. “Where will I be accepted?”

Alex’s breath hitches; you feel it. And you know what he wants to say — you know what lingers at the tip of his tongue.

With me.

Your family sends back the letter, unopened. You try not to cry about it, but the truth is that you feel more alone than ever. Surely you are the last of your kind, and no one cares in the least about what you have to say.

Except maybe Alex. Lovely, beautiful Alexis. He could no sooner harm a butterfly’s wing than deny you your beliefs.

But Alex is not king. He is merely a prince, and the king does not like you. It’s a miracle you’ve lasted this long.

“You fill my son’s head with nonsense,” the king paces back and forth in front of his empty thrown.

You hide your hands in the sleeves of your robe. “Your Majesty, I only relay what I see. I fear your kingdom is in danger.”

“And you think it my fault? Tell me, what if the stars told me to deify my father? What if I am following my own visions?” The royal cackles. “You have no sensible argument. All you have are silly dreams and lies to propel your own agenda. I will not have you spoiling my son’s brain.”

“Your Majesty—“

“I forbid you to speak on anything of the sort from hence forth. The altar will be torn down, and any peep from you regarding these readings will result in instant banishment.”

The sentence hurts more than it should, considering you aren’t being willed to die. You’re quite lucky in this sentence, considering you can still see Alex. Though, a part of you cracks and splinters to think of suppressing your visions.

The vision of Alex’s coronation still remains. You fear for the prince’s life. You fear the king will have something to do with it.

How do you tell the boy you adore that his father may be his downfall?

How do you get him to believe you?

The warm spring only gets hotter as the seasons change. You sink your head under, and the heat of the water burns your closed eyelids. Your head is killing you; pounding from holding back your emotions: your tears.

The monks don’t even worship the same as you. They lend you their springs and advice, but they aren’t the same. There are no other augurs in The Rapids, so no one else really knows how taxing the job is.

More visions come to you when you’re stressed, so you try your hardest to calm yourself. The water scalds your skin, but it distracts your mind enough to keep the visions away.

It’s all the same. All the visions are the same — Alex gets crowned king and overturns the deifying decree. And only days later, he’s assassinated, and the regent — his father — takes back the throne.

As the old proverb goes: pride cometh before a fall, and the king certainly has enough pride. You just don’t want Alex to get caught in the fall.

“You’re so predictable.” Alex’s voice is warbled.

It takes a minute for the water to release from your ears.

Surfaced, you can see Alex crouched by the bank, careful not to fall in. He’s got that same gentle smile — thin, rouge lips and eyes that seem to shine when they look at you. Alex never judges. He never makes fun of your methods. He’s simply there for you, and your heart longs to be there for him as well.

“This place is sacred,” you blurt. Seeing Alex’s face in the light of the sunset just makes you think of your visions. What would a world without Alex even look like? You aren’t sure you want to find out.

You start to cry, and Alex holds a hand out silently.

He helps you out — holds out the robe for you. His boots are around his neck, and you focus on the thinness of his ankles while you clothe yourself.

“You can’t hold me.” You say plainly.

“I know,” Alex’s voice is watery. “Let’s get you back to the palace, yeah?”

“Yeah,” you sniff. “Okay.”

“I’m not dead.” Alex lightly scratches your arm. Up and down. Up and down. “I’m not going to die.”

Your shoulders are braced against his side. You keep your gaze on the white smoke rising off of his incense cone.

This is his room, and his bed, because those aren’t sacred. His bed can be slept in and snuggled in and kissed in and loved in. He has scratchy cotton sheets and incense that is too old to really smell like anything.

He’s a prince with messy documents surrounding his desk and curtains that haven’t been dusted in days. Some days you wonder if the entire castle has forgotten about him. You don’t want to bring it up — don’t want to ask — but it flummoxes you.

You reach for his hand and stop its motions. “I’m sorry I bring you into all of this.”

“I want you to bring me into everything,” Alex slurs. He’s staying awake for you, and you know it. He rests his temple against your head. “I don’t want you to keep anything from me.”

You hum. His body is warm against yours. Too warm, to the extent where you know you’ll wake up in the uncomfortable sort of sweat that comes when a child falls asleep on you, or when you fall asleep without the window open.

Something heavy squeezes your chest. It feels like your ribcage is sentient — hugging and pressing into your lungs until it’s nearly impossible to breathe without an uncomfortable stutter.

Alex falls asleep quick, so you don’t worry about him noticing.

You settle against him and breathe through your nose. The feeling will pass — it always does. You feel this way whenever Alex reveals something so vulnerable to you. You reckon it’s something to do with the tenderness of his voice, or the earnest squeeze of his hand.

There’s a need to protect him. You want to be there for him, more than anything else in the world.

Stripped of your job — the altar torn down — you resort back to your first and foremost activity: Alex’s best friend and (unofficial) advisor.

In this position, you’re confident in your abilities. You know just as well as anyone that you’d rather die than see the prince harmed in any way.

You’re kicked out of the tower, and your telescopes are left to dust. The king locks the door personally, ardent in his attempt to keep you away from any visions that might harm his reign.

You stay in Alex’s room, on a spare bed mat near the fireplace.

Of course, Alex has offered his bed, but you refuse to bother him any more than you have to. And now, with your rituals forbidden, you need a place to privately gather your thoughts.

The flames lick the stone furnace and you lie still. You watch them dance and close your eyes, hoping to rest without any visions or nightmares.

But the nightmares come, and they’re always the same.

When you wake in a fervent sweat, you know that only one thing will keep you from fearing Alex’s death. So, you crawl beneath his scratchy sheets.

You don’t snuggle into him or bother his slumber. All you need to do is know that he’s here. You rest your smallest finger against his bare arm and fall asleep to the sound of an owl hooting outside the window.

On the morning of Alex’s coronation, fog rises from the earth. You see it as a sign: this day will be confusing and blurred.

Alex is just excited to have cooler weather. The blistering heat has been plaguing the kingdom for days, so to have a day of fog and hollow wind sounds like heaven to the prince.

You wear your runes beneath your robe, and the weight of them is less than the weight of knowing you’re dead if you’re caught. But you need them; need this day to come and go without blood and tears.

Alex cannot see you. He’s far too busy with final rehearsals and receiving guests from far and wide.

You stray beyond the castle, into the square, where traders and travelers have set up shop in the hopes of making a profit.

There’s a sign. Fortunes Read Here. It’s tacked over a purple curtain, and you can see amber light shining through a thin slit. Like maybe someone is in there. Like maybe you aren’t alone.

You walk in.

Disappointment smacks against your ribs like a heavy wave against jagged rocks. It’s a scam. A boy no younger than yourself is sitting behind a table, with a green sash tied over his forehead. There’s a mystical rune of some kind that looks like a portal, and it’s tacked to nearly every surface you can see with dripping green paint. The place looks like that of a madman, and you fear you’re about to be mocked.

“Hello,” he says. He doesn’t offer a name. The blues of his eyes flicker from time to time with a shimmery purple, and you think it’s a trick of the light.

“Are you going to laugh at me?” You sit across from him. “Once I leave, are you going to think of me as just another gullible customer?”

“Can you not tell the future?” He says, and he grabs the crystal ball and tucks it under the table. “I can sense it. You want answers, genuine answers, not some promise of success.”

“Who are you?”

“Karl,” he says. “I’m from the village of The Rapids, but you know, magic is looked down upon. I doubt anyone would believe me if I told them what I know.”

You trace the lines of the rune. Your brain fogs, but as you repeat the motion, it clears up, and you suddenly see Karl, clear as day, standing in a crowd and watching Alex make a speech. “You’ve been there? You’ve been to the future?”

“Look closer,” Karl mumbles.

So you focus on the details, and you can see the black banners of mourning, and the redness of Alex’s eyes. “Oh. This is his grandfather’s funeral. This is the year before I became Alex’s tutor.”

“Walk closer.”

Unsure what he means, you continue to trace the rune, and imagine yourself walking through the crowd. Only Karl moves instead, so you pause your tracing and look at Karl.

He’s got his eyes closed, and his eyebrows furrowed. “Why did you come here? What did you want to see?”

You brought me here, you think of saying, but you wonder if this is what Karl can do. If he can travel to the past and show people what he sees. “I- I suppose I want to know why he was deified. Was it a plot?”

You trace the rune again, and Karl walks over to the king, where he stands apart from the podium. Even though his son is giving a heartfelt speech, he’s not listening at all. Instead, he’s talking to one of his trusted advisors.

“I will make a wonderful god.”

“Prince Alexis hates the new creed,” the advisor observes. “Surely he’ll overrule it once he is king.”

“Yes,” the king says. “Well, I suppose we’ll just have to make sure that doesn’t happen.”

You gasp, and even Karl seems winded as you stop tracing the rune.

He places his palms on the table. “So that’s what you wanted to find out. A regicide plot.”

“I have to find Alex,” you mutter. You stand and rip one of your runes off of your neck. Intuition. “Here, take it. You should go.”

“I can’t go into the future,” Karl warns. “I don’t know what’s going to happen.”

“No,” you think of Alex’s words. “None of us can predict fate. I have to go.”

You run out of the tent, and when you look back, it’s gone, left with nothing but a dirty sign labeled Fortunes Read Here.

Perhaps it’s past tense now.

Your purple robe billows behind you as you rush into the castle in search of the prince.

The staff says they haven’t seen him, the lords are already drunk off of mulled wine. His own tailors are running around, fearing they won’t be able to dress him in time.

So he’s gone, and that means you’re too late.

Or rather, maybe Alex is smarter than you give him credit for, and he’s gone to the one place his father won’t go.

You head up to the tower.

He’s there. Of course he’s there. And he’s in only part of his ceremonial clothes, leather pants and a cream-white collared shirt. He’s leaning his palms against the stone railing and staring out against the wind, like he’s waiting for it to speak to him. Tears slip down his cheeks and drop into the air.

“Alex…” You wrap your arms around his soft waist, squeezing tight to try and convey how thankful you are that he knew to get away. “Your father… He’s—”

“He poisoned my breakfast,” Alex whimpers. He grabs blindly for your arms, and at the touch of your skin, he folds in on himself; shifts around to face you, and buries his face into your neck. “My taster… He thought my taster was out. But he wasn’t. Now he’s dead, and the counsel are trying to figure out what to do with my father.”

“Alex, I’m so sorry.”

He cries harder, and you think your hug must feel weak compared to the comfort he so clearly needs right now. “I have to go tell the lords and the staff. We have to postpone the coronation until everyone involved is apprehended.”

You think of what he does when you feel alone. He visits your spring, and he takes off his shoes. He takes you to his bed and scratches your arm. He kisses your head and hums old lullabies from his childhood until you fall asleep.

So you grab his hand, and you pull him down the few stairs where your old bedroom lies. And you bring him toward your bed, but he stops you.

“It’s sacred to you,” he hiccups.

“You’re sacred to me,” you finally decide, and you let him crawl under your sheets.

You untie his boots and pull them off of his feet, along with his socks. Then you take the blanket and pull it up to his chin. You kiss his forehead and crawl in next to him. And you scratch his arm, up and down, and you hum old lullabies from your own childhood until he falls asleep.

While he’s asleep, you trace the moles across his cheeks and close your eyes. Suddenly, it’s like Karl’s tent, only you can see into the future, not the past. And you aren’t Karl, you’re Y/n.

The sun is bright on Alex’s back, skin tanned and warm. You’re swimming with him in the spring, and all that is sacred to you is him. All that matters is him, so he can float in the spring, and he can kiss you on holy ground, and if he can’t be deified in the kingdom, he can be deified in your soul.

And when you stop your motions, you’re back in your bed. Alex is there, sweet Alex, snoring softly and snuggling into your warmth, like you keep him safe. Like your visions aren’t the ones he believed in at all.

He has always believed solely in you.

#quackity fluff #quackity fanfic #quackity scenarios #quackity angst #mcyt fanfiction #quackity x reader #quackity x you #mcyt x reader #pixiecap//

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antikate · 3 years

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So a thousand years ago some lovely folks tagged me in a game to share the first lines from 20 of my fics! That seems like WAY too many so I’m going to share 10 instead. Thank you to @saretton and @ineffable-houseplants and @racketghost for inviting me to play!!!

And I’ll be honest, I’m always so scared to tag people for fear of leaving people out so I’m giving anyone who sees this carte blanche to do this game too (tag me in it if you do, I’d love to read it!)

Ok, so here’s the most recent 10:

1. Not everyone who attends a magic show is a person of faith. From Gods in the Gaslight, which we published last week. Full disclosure, @redfacesmiley, my amazing co-author, wrote this line. But I think her writing lifted me up and I’m proud of this fic in a way I’m not of anything else I’ve done (Alexa, play You are the wind beneath my wings.)

2. Two weeks after the world hadn’t ended, Crowley warded Aziraphale’s bookshop with a web of subtle demonic power. From Vapour in Your Love, which is ... a silly PWP IDK I am not very good at PWPs so they tend to turn into PWPs with 11 special plots and spices.

3. The bookshop wasn’t haunted, but it might as well have been. This is from The Ordinary World aka 25,000 words of Crowley having a very bad time. I’m proud of this fic but I know it is a lot of angst.

4. They came with the smell of ozone and the crackle of lighting. Neither Flesh nor Foul, which is another PWP with too much plot and probably not enough other P?

5. Somehow he’d forgotten it was today, even though it was all over the papers and all the radio announcers spoke of. An Ending, Ascent. This is my not abandoned 1960s Doctor AU. I think about these two versions of Aziraphale and Crowley all the time, and I’m hoping to get back to it really soon.

6. Aziraphale slid down off his horse and stretched his back, easing the sore muscles with a tiny miracle. And No Birds Sing. Naga Crowley, the middle ages, a curse, a spooky tower... I am trying to get the next chapter of this done right now, and it’s SO CLOSE to being finished but apparently I’m incapable of writing anything quickly these days.

7. Antonio burst into the saloon through the swinging doors like an angel of vengeance and Zachariah knew at that moment that there would never be another man for him. Romancing The Tome aka my cheesy romcom. I am proud of this fic even though it feels like someone else it wrote it? It’s been a long year.

8. It happened sometimes when he slept. Bite The Hand, another PWP with too much plot, good god I should stop trying to write PWPs. If I was writing this fic now I’d change this first line and probably all the lines that follow it, but anyway, rewriting fics from ye olden days (of 2020) is madness.

9. Crawly was hanging around the markets, causing the fruit in the most expensive stalls to go rotten, encouraging fleas to migrate from stray dogs to the prettiest of the women gossiping by the fountain, and upping the alcohol content in the beer in the hopes of starting a few fistfights as the day wore on. A Complete Beginner’s Guide to Understanding Human Sexual Behaviour. Gosh that’s a long sentence, innit? Get this, this is another PWP with a stupid elaborate set-up.

10. The first time Aziraphale made holy water for Crowley, he’d taken it straight to the porcelain sink in his back room and dumped it out of the pitcher immediately, and had stood trembling with the horror of it, unable to move. Left With No Trace. This is a 1920s Berlin ... PWP with too much plot again. Surprise! Insert Janet cactus meme here.

Ok I lied, here’s 11: In the beginning was the sword. This is from A Hell of His Own Making, which was the very first thing I wrote for Good Omens, and the first fiction I’d written in more than a decade.

Right yeah that’s about it! A smol dog is chewing on my chair so I’m going to wrap this up here.

#first line ask meme #11 first lines #tag yourself and play along if you'd like #thank you Saretton and Jars and Racket #ask me anything anytime

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mirach · 4 years

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Good Omens recs

Here are some of my all time favourite stories, but be warned that my taste is rather specific and can get into darker themes. I especially like hurt/comfort focused on Aziraphale, but that’s not the only thing you’ll encounter in this list.

The Strong Tower by @aziraphalelookedwretched (M, 41,458)

After the failed executions, a vengeful angel takes it upon herself to neutralise the threat presented by Crowley and Aziraphale.

All stories by BuggreAlleThis are wonderful even if they get very dark in places. There (almost) always is comfort that’s more than worth the hurt and I love them all, but this one remains special to me as one of the first stories I read in this fandom and awaited every update eagerly.

White Walls and Dead Air by BabyHoldMyFlower (G; 3,382 words)

It’s after the fourth day that he decides he hates God. He’s too tired to hold it back. Too miserable. Too busy dying. He knows he’ll go back on it later. He knows that he’ll repent later, and he’ll mean it, he thinks, once he gains some perspective, but there is nothing that could stop this bone-deep agony from churning and rising into something ugly. He’s not supposed to feel this way. He’s an angel, he really shouldn’t be thinking these things. Blind obedience is what they were created for. It’s in this moment that he can admit to a flaw in the Almighty’s design. If she wanted soldiers, she shouldn’t have given them the capacity to love.

Beautifully written and bittersweet, with lovely wing grooming and insights into the characters.

A Demon Would A-Wooing Go by @shinyhappygoth (G; 301 words)

“Heigh ho,” said Anthony Crowley, and just drove anyway.—Good Omens

Filk of "A Frog He Would A-Wooing Go".

I just love a silly take on a silly folk song that was actually referenced in the book, okay?

Flaming Sword by Bookwormgal (T; 8,576 words)

A dark shape in the not-quite-empty darkness. Dressed in black robes. Humanoid. Skeletal. Then wings unfolded. Angel wings, but not ones of feathers. Wings of night. Wings that Aziraphale could sense more than see in this strange place. And even if the thin thread didn't truly exist except as a concept to better understand what was happening, one skeletal hand rested on the weakening connection. Waiting patiently.

Azrael. Creation's Shadow. The Angel of Death.

"Oh," he said quietly, his voice swallowed by the emptiness.

Aziraphale remembered what happened. He remembered moving. He remembered the blade sliding in, sharp and sudden. He remembered pain. And then…

"I died, didn't I?" he asked.

I like the exploration of the theme of self-sacrifice here. This is just my personal pick from several of my favourite stories from this author.

Courage by Anonymous (E, 21,595 words - WIP)

Ten years after the world didn’t end, Heaven and Hell want to punish Aziraphale and Crowley for their treason. Gabriel decides that the perfect way to punish both of them is to torture Aziraphale and force Crowley to watch; Hell agrees to the plan. Aziraphale and Crowley are kidnapped from their South Downs cottage and taken to a neutral location; Aziraphale is tortured and raped and Crowley is forced to watch; they are then returned home, Aziraphale critically injured.

This is the Prologue (the first three chapters; all of the violence is confined to chapter 2, which can be skipped).

The real story begins in chapter 4; it’s the story of how Aziraphale and Crowley recover from the trauma. They are both profoundly traumatized; it takes a long time, but they work through it together, and their marriage recovers. There will be a happy ending.

Aziraphale and Crowley heal each other.

This story is a WIP, but it already got to the part where things are getting better. It’s very (very!) heavy, but absolutely beautifully written, it’s giving me goosebumps.

Love Seeketh Not Itself to Please by die_traumerei (T, 14,645 words)

After Aziraphale is left gravely injured by a summoning, Crowley must take him to heaven and bargain with the angels for his life. It doesn't go as he'd expect.

A hurt/comfort story that’s focused on the comfort part, really satisfying to read!

Evolution by @lady-divine-writes (M; 1,455 words)

Five times Aziraphale wasn’t the most confident Dom, and the one time it finally clicked.

Again I’m only picking one story, but there are so many more from this author that I love! I bookmarked this one because I don’t usually see Aziraphale as Dom, but here he is fully in character and gets there through conscious effort, and it feels very empowering.

The Longest Night by @charlottemadison42 (series rated T-E, 34,747 words)

The night the Apocalypse doesn't happen, an angel and a demon share a bus bench on the way home to face their fates. This is the story of their evening spun out line by line, all the little moments that carried them through the night they knew might be their last.

A wonderfully written series giving a detailed account of the night before the trials, complete with drunken talk, with wonderful grasp of the characters. Again just a personal pick from the stories by a really great writer.

Who Needs Heaven (when we have each other)? by Kat_Rowe (series rated G-M (so far), 48,057 words so far)

Now that they're independent of Heaven and Hell, Aziraphale and Crowley become even closer. Friendship eventually turns to romance, and emotional intimacy to physical. (Slow-burn friends-to-lover fic series.)

A very gentle series starting with wing grooming and continuing through the exploration of a relationship in which one of the partners (Aziraphale) is asexual.

Fancy Patter on the Telephone by @hotcrosspigeon (G, 12,854 words)

A series of telephone conversations between Aziraphale and Crowley during the Lockdown.

They get steadily more desperate and ridiculous as the weeks go on.

Featuring a moping demon, a teasing angel, a pub quiz, an explosion, extraordinary amounts of alcohol, a bubble bath, awkward flirting, several love confessions... and an ill-conceived bet on who can last the longest without seeing the other.

What could possibly go wrong?

HotCrossPigeon is an amazing hurt/comfort writer who writes absolutely delightful Aziraphale ahurt/comfort from Crowley’s spot-on POV, so definitely check their other stories as well, but I just had to pick this one that’s actually humorous and doesn’t contain even a drop of blood because I couldn’t stop laughing with it.

Feathers by @29-pieces (series rated G; 23,247 words)

Pre-Apocalypse shenanigans. In this AU, when an angel and a demon fight, the victor customarily takes a feather from their opponent signifying victory over them. Usually followed by killing them, naturally. But sometimes the defeated angel or demon is left alive, minus a feather, so that everyone KNOWS. Neither Crowley or Aziraphale ever took part in that sort of thing because it's really just a mean thing to do.

A series of three stories, two with hurt Aziraphale and one with hurt Crowley.

5 Times Aziraphale was Almost Discorporated and One Time He Actually was by @charliebrown1234 (series rated T-M; 29,011 words)

This series is an absolute match for my need of Aziraphale hurt/comfort, just like their more recent story Ex Infirmitas, Sinceritas. One of the authors I’m subscribe to and read everything they write.

The Whole Sky Fell by @thepaisleyelf (T, 9,692 words)

“Okay, Aziraphale, out with it,” Crowley said finally. “What’s wrong?”

Aziraphale blinked. He suddenly seemed very interested in looking anywhere that wasn’t at Crowley, fiddling with the napkin in his lap.

“I don’t -- I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean.”

Aziraphale really was a terrible liar. Under other circumstances Crowley might have found it charming, cute even, but his concern had been growing ever since he’d picked Aziraphale up for breakfast that morning....

Same as above, Turcote just knows what I love to read. Definitely check their other stories as well!

Desperate Ground by @desperateground (M, 55,883 words)

After they prevented the apocalypse and escaped execution, Crowley and Aziraphale thought they were safe from the machinations of Heaven and Hell. But there are still some demons with scores to settle - and since the angel and demon have made it clear to the world how far they're willing to go for each other, Hell has plenty of leverage on them.

A breathtaking story with torture and unwavering loyalty of the characters to each other.

***

And if you find these recs to your taste, then you might also enjoy

Back to the Roots by me (M, 90,946 words)

"We always knew it would end. Like mortals know that they'll die." Crowley closes his eyes, finding the stare of his own reflection unbearable. "When you're immortal, you can afford to pretend and hide and go slow. And then, when you finally figure it all out, it turns out that what you have can end anytime. It's unfair..." ---------- The morale in Heaven and Hell is low after the failed Apocalypse. Punishing the traitors (effectively this time) seems like a good idea to raise it for both sides - the angels would see what awaits them if they dare to disobey and the demons could just use some fun. And then there is someone else as well - someone whose grudge is even more personal.

Also torture and unwavering loyalty, breaking the characters and then putting them together with great care. This is the darkest from my stories, so if torture is not your thing, you can check my other ones (mostly Aziraphale hurt/comfort too).

#good omens #good omens fanfiction #good omens rec #hurt aziraphale

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tropical-gothic · 3 years

Photo

To the world

Angel/Demon AU headcanons for Yasha and Sasori

@multisasori Well, it’s technically a Good Omens AU. Take a guess on who’s the demon (who is just a little bit of a good person), and who’s the angel (who is just enough of a bastard to be worth knowing).

Special thanks to @thatshipcat for fueling these headcanons and for sharing quite a few that I’ve incorporated here.

1. Angel and Angel turned Demon

Sasori started out, like all demons, as an angel. That was, until he made one fateful trip down to earth to Babylon.

“I’ve received a notice about a tower outside building regulations—-“

Said tower may or may not have been the base of a handful of demons. The angel who came to inspect may or may not have liked the aesthetic—- Sasori thinks he would look more beautiful in black, even if his beauty was already beyond mortal comprehension.

“Where is Sasori?” Yasha had long since finished his own job, and ended up stumbling on a bunch of confused people who couldn’t seem to understand each other. “He’s never been late.”

“Yasha,” rang a voice in his head, with some static— likely calling from an underground source. “Can’t make it back today. I’m being indoctrinated into demon hood. I’m going to have such awesome black wings.”

“Cool, cool, cool,” Yasha said, brushing his own white wings. They looked awesome enough to him. “Okay, you stay safe.” The static stopped and Sasori’s voice disappeared. Yashamaru sighed. “Michael’s going to be pissed.”

2. The Aesthetic

So, there are good and bad things that come with the whole demon aesthetic, Sasori realized.

Yes, black looked absolutely wonderful in him. He was drop dead gorgeous and people have even more languages now to tell him how beautiful he was. Except that he wasn’t a fan of the whole… snake skin issue. That was Orochimaru’s thing and somehow that becomes everyone’s thing as well (at least in “Akatsuki”— which Sasori also found a cool name for demons).

But it definitely wasn’t Sasori’s thing. He complained to Yasha about it often enough— even carved himself his own set of wooden clogs. Better the clogs than snake skin— /oh, okay, all shoes become snake skin when I wear it. Perfect./

Another thing Sasori liked about being a demon was the black wings that came with the indoctrination. It was his color, after all, and it made him feel larger than life— even if the wing size didn’t actually change.

Except that demons didn’t quite groom their wings the way angels did and Sasori did not take to change very well. So he still kicks down the door of whatever mortal space Yasha is occupying on earth and insist that he help Sasori comb the spots he can’t reach.

Which Yasha does, with a certain gentleness that Sasori will never admit to liking.

3. The Black Plague and the Renaissance

Somewhere during the Middle Ages, Sasori was convinced that Yashamaru was an angel of death (the last heavenly meeting he was in, they were discussing this— though no one was assigned the part… as far as Sasori could recall). Either that or he was just a strangely morbid angel.

See, the guy always hovered very close to death. Be it a war or this century’s plague that’s ravaging Europe. Not that Yasha would admit to it—- he insisted that it was because this was where people needed the “comfort of God’s love” the most. (That may be why Sasori has worked a few miracles here and there too— keep them alive long enough for them to become selfish bastards again.)

“You need to get out more,” Sasori said, poking at the bird beak of the angel’s protective suit. “Air this out so you don’t smell like death. We won’t be able to have dinner if you smell like that.” Yasha would pout— but he would miracle out of the fashion disaster and into better clothes.

Yashamaru, on the other hand, was convinced that Sasori has made it a project to influence every art movement on earth. He’s always there when the big ones happen— so Yasha knows that something will happen after the plague (that would be called the Renaissance, later on).

“Back when these black wings were still new, I used to create my own gods— and have humans create them as well. Give their offerings of gold and blood to these beautifully carved idols.”

Yasha doesn’t believe him, of course. Sasori likes to create things and finds things beautiful— in and of themselves, without the work of temptation weaved into them. Sasori wouldn’t listen, of course, so Yasha just gives a few words of encouragement every so often.

4. The Antichrist

Sasori’s biggest assignment to date was a delivery. A package of sorts, straight from hell. He was to deliver the Antichrist— the Adversary, Destroyer of Kings, Angel of the Bottomless Pit, Great Beast that is called Dragon, Prince of This World, Father of Lies, Spawn of Satan and Lord of Darkness.

Straight forward job— get the parcel, dive around town in his new car (which matches his aesthetic and even has a name), switch it with someAn other pre-selected baby, perhaps get a tip for the fast delivery service. Well, it should have been a straightforward job. Except that Sasori took a peek a the baby.

And was, perhaps, a bit more taken by the tuft of red hair, the large green eyes, and the little arms that reached out to him, than he would like to admit.

In another part of the city, Yashamaru was predictably hovering near death once more. This time, it was the death of a mother— still young, with blonde hair, and two children waiting for her at home. There should have been a third child, but the baby has already been wheeled into the ICU, and then wheeled out looking even smaller and a lot more limp. The little one had been born too early.

Yashamaru hovered near death, and stood beside her husband— a tall and stern man who bore the heavy weight of grief. It was too early to think about the future--- if he thinks of a life without his wife, it might come true. They were both leaning against the wall by the glass window, waiting for the hemorrhaging to stop— for better or for worse, when—

“So, Yashamaru,” Sasori suddenly appeared, sticking his head through the window. “What sort of diapers do you think the Lord of Darkness would prefer?”

“I— what? Wait— Sasori, now is not the time. I’m in the middle of—— /oh, he’s so cute./“

“Right!”

For a moment, Sasori told Yashamaru about Hell’s plans to bring the Antichrist over and then eventually the end of the world. With some added gloating as Sasori was won’t to do. For a moment, Yashamaru considered what to do with the child— now that the babe was in front of him. Ethically speaking? Morally speaking? As an angel? He should have the answer to this, innately, but he doesn’t. If the Antichrist were to kill everyone—-

“Excuse me?”

For a moment, Yashamaru and Sasori forgot that there was another person standing close by.

“You’re not humans?” the human asked.

“Oh no! We’re absolutely—“

“Of course, we’re not,” Sasori shrugged. “He’s an angel, I’m a demon, and this is the antichrist.”

“Right…” Yashamaru refused to let go of his smile. Positive thoughts.

“You can do miracles,” Rasa said, pointing to labor and delivery room. “My wife. She needs to live. We’ve already lost the baby.”

Sasori leaned close to Yasha— “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

“I’m thinking that we’re imposing on a family undergoing the worst tragedy of their lives.”

“Worst tragedy so far—- but that’s a stupid thought. What I’m thinking is that— I take the dude’s soul back to home with me and the world gets to keep the lady.”

“Sasori! That’s deplorable!”

“He’s handsome!”

Yashamaru smacked Sasori on the side. “Focus! I don’t even know what we’re thinking about— I understand this is a great deal for this family. But the greater deal is the future of the whole world. And that’s dependent on him—“ he pointed at the little red haired baby, who was making little spit bubbles while they deliberated his fate.

“You’re right,” Sasori nodded his head. “We should adopt him.”

“What! No— “ Yasha said, more than a little taken aback. “I don’t think we’re ready for this responsibility. The finances alone— did we ever settle that diaper question? Wait! No, we can’t— we’re not allowed to intervene in human lives. Raising someone would count.”

Sasori paused. “How about indirectly?”

They both turned to the human who looked too confused to follow the conversation.

“What’s your name?” Sasori asked.

“Rasa.”

“Okay, Rasa. He can get your lady love back from the clutches of death—“

“Sasori—“

“Make it happen, Yasha. But in return, you have to take this little one.”

Rasa looked at the child. “The Antichrist?”

“Yep. And he also comes with two godfathers. If we are to prevent him from realizing his full powers which could annihilate all of us and cause the end times, then we need to be present in his life as well.”

“That’s a lot to take in,” Rasa said. Nevertheless, he took the child and cradled him. Rasa told himself that this was the child they had been waiting for— even if the circumstances weren’t as expected.

“So—“ Yasha turned to Sasori, “we’d be like godfathers, then!”

“Yasha, go save the girl.”

“Right!”

Bonus:

“You’re telling me,” Sasori said, rocking the antichrist to sleep (for his parents who were fast asleep and too tired to tend to the child). “That she thinks you’re her brother? I thought she was an only child.”

“I panicked!” Yasha said, placing the milk into a tiny cup. “She asked who I was and I couldn’t say I’m an angel… I gave her good childhood memories if that’s any consolation.”

Sasori sighed.

#multisasorimonth2021 #YashaSaso #SasoYasha

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ineffably-effable · 5 years

Text

further good omens fic recs

It’s been awhile since my last reclist post so here goes, please enjoy the rewards of my complete lack of self-control when it comes to this ship.

Please reach out if I’ve missed a tumblr tag, or drop a note if you have any recommendations I’ve missed! ( 31 recommendations underneath the cut )

(51k) Acts of Service by seekwill / @jasmine-cottage-uk

After receiving direct instruction from God, village reverend Aziraphale leaves his countryside congregation to serve the underserved and in-need at an urban church in London, a transition made all the more complicated by the mysterious and handsome Crowley, who always seems to appear when Aziraphale least expects him.

mood: pining, denial, secrets, idiots-in-love.

(Warning: Don’t start reading this one at midnight expecting to put it down. Learn from my mistakes.)

(44k) Mirror, Mirror by ImprobableDreams900 / @improbabledreams900

Crowley from an evil!au swaps places with our Crowley.

mood: butterfly effect, identity theft, Aziraphale!whump, badass!Aziraphale

(40k) The Strong Tower by BuggreAlleThis

After the failed executions, a vengeful angel takes it upon herself to neutralise the threat presented by Crowley and Aziraphale.

mood: aziraphale!whump, protective!crowley, hurt/comfort, pining and fantastic world building.

(23k) You Might Think I'm Crazy (All I Want is You) by soft_october / @soft-october-night

Since the next shop over closed down, Aziraphale's had a peaceful few months, barring those unpleasant interactions with the men in cheap suits who keep trying to persuade him to sell his shop. But now a (handsome) new owner has taken up residence beside him and, horror of horrors, he wants to open up a coffee shop.

mood: fledgling friendships, obviously-in-love-to-everyone-but-themselves, almost-letting-your-doubts-and-insecurities-ruin-things, if-only-these-dumb-bastards-knew-how-to-communicate

(23k) names in history by lagaudiere

Maybe he’d shown Crowley how to perform a few miracles, but that Crowley had taken to them so well was surely a sign that he wasn’t all bad. And maybe Aziraphale had let himself be called upon to perform a few temptations, but that was just testing the will of the faithful if you looked at it from a different angle.

mood: slow-burn, through-the-ages, beautifully written.

(22k) This Soul Outstreaming by Rend_Herring

Aziraphale constructs intricate rituals to touch the skin of other men (by “men” I mean Crowley).

mood: slow-burn, through-the-ages, forbidden love, UST, beautifully written.

(29k) 5 Times Aziraphale was Almost Discorporated and One Time He Actually was by charliebrown1234 / @charliebrown1234

What it says on the tin.

mood: Aziraphale!whump through the ages, protective Crowley, hurt/comfort, wonderful characterizations.

(20k) In Pleasure's Clothes by obstinatrix, wishwellingtons

Three Times Aziraphale Stalked Crowley In Gay Clubs And One Time He Moped At Wilde’s Grave.

mood: jealousy, pining, miscommunications, idiots-in-love

(18k) Soft (A Love Story in Three Bites) by mia_ugly / @mia-ugly

Crowley was an angel, once. Before she fell. Aziraphale was a warrior (she fell too. It just took a little longer.)

mood: ineffable wives thoughtfully done and beautifully written, pining, emotional vulnerability, hurting the ones you love, references to gothic romances that absolutely slay me, switching POVs between Aziraphale and Crowley.

(18k) On Earth as it is in Heaven by JMA

Aziraphale was at Crowley's trial...the first one.

For six thousand years Aziraphale felt like an angel who has fallen, waiting for Heaven to realise. His fear and doubt has shaped and defined him. Now, with the Armageddon over and Heaven and Hell off their backs it is finally time to come clean.

mood: betrayal, pining, misguided attempts at atonement, miscommunication and forgiveness

(15k) Through Every Door by darlingred1 / @darlingred1

After thwarting the end of the world, Aziraphale begins to avoid Crowley, and Crowley accidentally awakens his own repressed lust.

mood: mutually-pining-idiots, miscommunication, immortal-beings-taking-turns-with-their-single-brain-cell, surprisingly-Crowley-has-first-dibs

(16k) Least of All by stereobone / @stereobone

Every so often, Crowley talks to God.

mood: Crowley worrying after Aziraphale through the ages. Beautifully written, fantastic Crowley perspective.

(14k) Wine Fraud and Other Worthy Pursuits by ImprobableDreams900 / @improbabledreams900

When Aziraphale, rare book dealer and part-time wine collector, encounters a bottle of 1844 Château Lafite-Rothschild he suspects isn't all that it claims, he becomes determined to track down the truth.

Unfortunately, the finger of suspicion seems to point at fellow wine collector Anthony J. Crowley, whom Aziraphale is already well on his way to befriending.

mood: suspicious Aziraphale and fledgling friendships

(12k) Laugh When It Sinks In by Tenoko1 / @tenoko1

Crowley stopped them in their trek, slipping his arm from Aziraphale’s grasp to face him, hands on his shoulders. “Are you sure you’re alright? A-are you having, like, a mid-life crisis or something now that Heaven’s cut you loose? You’re worrying me. What’s next? Cherry red sports car?”

mood: making a home for yourself and your charmingly oblivious life partner

(10k) The Original Bar Joke by deathbycoldopen / @deathbycoldopen

The way Crowley saw things, it was all one big joke, with him as the punchline.

mood: drunk!pining, idiots-in-love, jealous!Crowley, straw-that-broke-the-camel's-back moments, drunk!confessions

(8k) did you open up your heart there? by weatheredlaw / @weatheredlaw

Aziraphale and Crowley meet over and over and over again. Aziraphale doesn't know what Crowley is, or why their souls can't seem to be parted, but he is a creature of love, and he's not going to argue with that.

mood: ready to have your heart broken over and over and over?

(7k) The Ark by rfsmiley / @redfacesmiley

We’ve all been assuming that it takes them 6,000 years to figure it out, but what if it takes 6,300?

Or: the ineffable husbands evacuate a dying Earth.

mood: ineffable dystopian sci-fi romance (and yes, I love that this is a mood I can use to describe a good omens fic).

(7k) Where Thou Art by Mottlemoth / @mottlemoth

A late-night bus to London, a few human comforts, and a long overdue confession... nothing will ever be the same for an angel and his demon.

mood: we-might-be-dead-by-tomorrow-love-confessions

(5k) Love Stories by goodomensblog / @goodomensblog

Crowley goes too slow, Aziraphale drinks copious amounts of alcohol, and the bookshop is (very nearly) set on fire. Again.

mood: drinking because you’re an idiot in love (or because you’re in love with an idiot), looking after your drunk mate (only he’s not your mate he’s the love of your life and he’s finally starting to get that)

(4k) A Metaphor Of Some Kind by copperbadge / @copperbadge

After the world doesn't end, Hell gets Crowley and Heaven gets Aziraphale, but not for very long.

mood: witty with great voices, loads of fun

(4k) One Sweet Moment Set Aside For Us by Arej

Tattoos are like stories you write on your skin, and they'll say things for you if you'll let them. Or perhaps prompt other people to say things.

Or, Crowley is just drunk enough to get bold and let his guard down, and it leads to something he never thought he'd be allowed to have.

mood: pining, touching, reverance, love confessions

(3k) Something To Talk About by iamtheenemy (Steph)

Aziraphale jumps to some very inaccurate conclusions.

mood: pining and misconceptions, let’s see if we can make Crowley have an aneurysm.

Wow! Thanks for scrolling this far! You’ve unlocked the secret “I’ll be in my bunk” section of the rec list! ;)

(That’s not to say the fics above don’t have their own hot scenes, or that the fic below are only pwp, but these are the fics where the plot is either focused mostly on sex or the build-up to sex.)

(4k) left with no trace, as if not spoken to by drawlight / @drawlight

Aziraphale's finger brushes against the edge of Crowley's hand. The theater is packed, it is dark. Everyone is watching the stage (no one is watching them). "Do you - ?" "Yeah, angel."

mood: Shakespeare may not have deserved this, but this reader is glad this exists.

(4k) I Tempt, You Thwart... Right? by AEpixie7 / @knightofthesevenfandoms

Crowley accidentally-on-purpose roofies Aziraphale and then feels bad about it because Aziraphale is so high that he can't remember how to sober up.

mood: serious wing kink, drug-induced-loss-of-inhibitions

(6k) Appetite by spunknbite / @spunknbite

Crowley places the macaron against Aziraphale’s lips with more reverence than the angel had thought him capable. “It’s alright, angel. Just take a bite.”

mood: drunk sex, overcoming inhibitions, first time, hand feeding

(6k) The Better Part of Valour by obstinatrix

Said I, a few weeks ago: "I feel there’s also room for e.g. bedsharing fic where the apocalypse has Not Happened and they’ve fallen into queerplatonic (or so they think) bedsharing and Crowley thinks he’s alone in being driven slowly to distraction by it, so he says nothing. Then one night he wakes when it’s still dark, and at first he doesn’t know why, until he hears Aziraphale’s breathing a little raspier than usual, and feels the very slight trembling of the bed."

mood: bed-sharing-with-serious-insecurities-and-misunderstanding

(7k) a treatise on your fingers in my hair by Nimravidae / @tooeasilyconsidered

Crowley sleeps for two days, his hair is a mess, and all it takes is a touch. Like a catalyst. Like striking flint, like a matchstick, like touching fire to gunpowder

mood: all that pent up UST has to go somewhere

(9k) Released by vaguely_concerned / @vaguely-concerned

After they get together Aziraphale has some lingering Ideas about his brief stint in the Bastille; Crowley is happy to help him explore them. Hijinks, as they say, ensue.

mood: french revolution era role play w/ feelings, fantastic dialogue.

(17k) One Night In Bangor (And the World's Your Oyster) by Atalan / @seaskystone

Heaven and Hell share a corporate party once per millennium. This time someone's had the bright idea of issuing a challenge to the demons of Hell. Crowley has no intention of missing the opportunity; Aziraphale's just enough of a bastard to make him work for it.

mood: flirting and first times

You’re still here? Can’t get enough? Well check out these amazing WIPs!

Slow Show by mia_ugly / @mia-ugly

The Ineffable Pining Showmance AU that no one asked for.

mood: a more accurate summary would be the: ineffable pining showmance AU that no one knew to ask for, and everyone wanted more of. The characterizations in this are amazing. Crowley as a fallen film star is perfection.

Shifting Heaven and Earth by BuggreAlleThis

For most of history, since he narrowly avoiding Falling from Heaven with Lucifer, Crowley has been working for the Angelic Corruption Unit. This ended up being far more boring than he hoped it would be, but things change when he is assigned to go undercover on Earth. His mission is to investigate Aziraphale, an infamous angel who has been on Earth since its Creation, and whom Heaven is sure is guilty of corruption or dereliction of duty.

mood: slow-burn, betrayal, regrets, aziraphale!whump, bamf!aziraphale

the bucket list by darcylindbergh / @forineffablereasons

If you’re going to go native, you might as well go all the way.

mood: saying the absolutely wrong thing at the wrong time, reaching your breaking point, miscommunication and heart break.

Still here? :)

My previous good omens recs post can be found here [x]

#good omens fic #good omens recs #good omens fic recs #my fic recs #good omens #ineffable hubands #ineffable husbands fic #good omens fic rec

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rex101111 · 4 years

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She Is The Moonlight, Shining Down On Me, Chapter 1

BOY DID THIS TAKE A WHILE.

Hey guys! This is a bit different than my usual fair, in that I actually planned this out and had a beta! That’s right. @imbeccablee actually sat down with me and pointed out all the tiny little mistakes in grammar (of which there were over a couple dozen), tenses misplaced (all of them), and in general helped me clean this up and make it much better than it would have been otherwise. So you really have her to thank for how good this is!

Anyway this is a fantasy AU inspired by one post from a few weeks back calling Miruko a moon goddess. Literally that’s it, hope you enjoy it! I got some GOOD STUFF planned for down the line ;D

Princess Fuyumi's kingdom is burning.

That's the nightmare she'd been waking up from for weeks now, the sight of her home crumbling and her people screaming at her to help them. Their faces swirling into ash and fire before she would bolt up in bed, her hair plastered to her brow with sweat and her heart pounding.

Every few days it would come to her again, the fires burning bright and the screaming louder, the last time it happened she swore she could smell smoke. She manages to keep it from her brothers and father, washing her face with ice cold water and having her handmaidens put an extra layer of makeup to hide the growing bags under her eyes.

Though they do not miss her requesting more and more patrols on their borders, nor the way she furtively looks out windows looking for war banners on the horizon. Her dreams are glad to provide her with all the ways her kingdom would burn, but fall smugly silent whenever she tries to see the enemy that will light the torches.

She refuses to let that hinder her responsibilities; still she goes out to the people near the castle grounds, still she takes a tour of the knights training, still she keeps up her visits to her mother and her tutoring of her younger brother.

She feels foolish, allowing a nightmare, even a reoccurring one, to haunt her as it is, but every time she takes a moment to catch her breath, the sound of fire and screaming invades again.

Old wise women speak highly of dreams, of how they are messages from the gods above, signs to prepare and pray and hope for aid, and nightmares as omens of impending doom.

Fuyumi grew up on tales of gods and heroes, same as almost any child growing up under the light of the sun, tales of the unparalleled strength of the mighty king of gods and his once mortal wife, legends of the god of wind flying with his mighty red wings, and myths of the moon goddess with beauty unmatched and courage unrivaled.

She heard stories of demons too, creeping things of mangled flesh and rotten souls, things told to children to make them behave and go to bed on time.

Before she thought legends were just that and nothing more, that there was no king of gods, that the moon was not some heroic maiden, and that demons did not hide under her bed to make sure she didn't sneak off to the library after her parents had retired for the evening.

(At least she never saw any when she did, perhaps the space under her bed was too small, perhaps demons had bigger things to plan…)

She thought that up until soldiers came back from their western border, barely twenty men injured and limping that used to belong to a battalion of some of her father's most elite guard.

They whimper of monsters encroaching in the capitol, twisted shadows riding during the fall of night with their sights set on the lives of everyone they come across. Panic sweeps across the city, people abandoning their homes to run, knights being drilled night and day with no breaks, her father spending every second of waking planning and strategizing with his advisers.

She overhears them speaking of plans to spirit her and her siblings away to a neighboring kingdom, to fulfil the promised union between her youngest brother and the only daughter of king Yaoyorozu a full decade early, to cut Shouto's childhood tragically short, to put her so impossibly far away from her mother.

Her nightmares worsen. Now shadows lick at the walls of her home along with fire, and the shadows have jagged teeth and rotten flesh like all her forgotten childhood memories. She stays in the fire longer, long enough to see the walls of the city crumble and the shadows rushing forth to devour all she holds dear.

And right before she wakes up, she would look up at the sky, and see the moon.

Glowing a brilliant ivory, it's shine blinding the stars, looking down at her as if it is waiting for something.

Waiting for a prayer.

Gods descending from on high to save mortals in their times of greatest need, that was another one she heard frequently. Is that what the moon wanted from her, a request for aid? A hope and a wish for her family to be saved? Is that all she needed to do? Simply ask?

But nothing is ever simple with gods, the tales where they rescued kingdoms and kings never ended there, there was always a catch. Gods do nothing for free. Prices were steep, deals set in stone and enforced with blood.

If the lives of thousands hung in the balance, what could her kingdom possibly offer the moon in exchange?

She didn't have long to wonder, her worsened nightmares only had three days to fray her nerves before the omen came creeping over the horizon.

It is late at night, a full moon hanging in the middle of the sky, just low enough for Fuyumi to see it from her window as she packs her bags. The monsters are closer now, far too close for comfort as far her father saw it, and so her and her two brothers would pack light, dress like commoners, and flee before the hell nipping at their heels closes its teeth around their feet.

She's nearly done packing her things, her hands shaking and her heart heavy, eyes glued to the bright moon outside her window as her mind got pulled in a hundred different directions. Would King Yaoyorozu be faithful to his promise? Would Shouto be able to handle that responsibility so soon? What would become of Natsuo in all of this? Would he be stubborn and try and stay and fight?

Will she ever see her mother again?

Fuyumi's kingdom may be strong but her house is a broken one, one brother dead, the other endlessly angry, and the last scarred and destined to be bargained off. And she herself lost in the middle, reaching out to them and their father to try and salvage what she could of her family.

It's what defined her, she kept busy to keep herself sane, doing a million things a day so her mind wouldn't wander down dead ends. But now she's limited in what she can do, only pack her bags and keep her guard up; her family will be forever torn to pieces and there is nothing she can do about it besides hope that whatever is left of it will not slip through her fingers. And perhaps for some divine salvation.

"What would it cost?" She whispers as she closes her travel case and stares at the moon through her window one last time, "What do I need to give to save my home, my kingdom, my family?" She bites her lower lip hard enough to draw blood, feeling sick to her stomach, "Please, tell me what I need to do."

The moon simply shines down quietly among the stars, refusing to answer so easily.

She's on the verge of getting on her knees and praying when Shouto bursts through her doors in a panic, his usually stoic face shivering and eyes wide with alarm. He grips the door frame with whitening knuckles as he breathes heavily, "Fuyumi, you need to come with me, now."

She's flat footed, so suddenly torn from her thoughts and shocked at the face her brother was making, "S-Shouto what are you-"

He grabs her hand and begins yanking her out of her room hurriedly, his steps harsh against the marble floor as he quickly stomps towards a tower on a higher floor of the castle, overlooking the city and the hills outside the gates.

"Shouto! What is going on?!"

"We were too late."

She feels her stomach sink through the floor, hoping against hope that she is sleeping, simply tossing and turning in her bed as her mind ties itself in knots over childhood nightmares.

Shouto squeezes her hand, one of his nails digging slightly into the skin of her palm making her wince in pain.

Awake now, fully and completely, Fuyumi Todoroki, beloved princess of the Endeavour kingdom, watches a hoard of snarling shadows crest the horizon of a hill. Her brother says something, something about calling the army back, calling Natsuo or their father, to do what she isn't sure.

She turns to him, sees him full of panic and alarm, and she feels a familiar strength raise in her, a strength she only found when he came to her late at night because of nightmares. She put her hands on his shoulders, squeezing gently and keeping her gaze locked with his, and said, "Everything is going to be okay." The words come out with no real conviction, but it is simply the only thing an older sibling can say when the world is ending, "Shouto, find Natsuo and father, it will still take them about half an hour to reach the walls, and our walls are strong, do you remember how strong they are Shouto?"

He looks aside at the gathering hoard, but she puts her hand on his chin and pulls his eyes back to her, her grip firm until he starts talking, "…As strong as a mountain," He recites from memory, a thing she had him remember whenever he had nightmares like her own, "our walls reach to the sky…" There is barely conviction in his voice, but the tremble subsides for the moment as he takes a breath, "Fuyumi…"

"Natsuo and father," She repeats firmly, the soft smile on her face thin as paper, "go to them and have them evacuate as many of the people as they can, I'll do the same and be waiting for you all by the back exit of the city." She lets go and leans away, and she can see in his eyes that he doesn't believe her at all. She swallows back the bile in the back of her throat and forces her smile again, so weak she isn’t surprised her little brother can see right through it, "I'll come find you once things calm, now go."

Shouto could be oblivious, bless his soul. He says his piece and takes situations as they appear, no more and no less. More than once she and his other tutors had to hold back a groan when he ignored court niceties and continued on as if nothing happened. But he is no fool; no, the crown prince is still a sharp young man, and when you lay the pieces before him he is very capable of putting them together.

Which is why his stricken face doesn't surprise her. She expects him to object, to grab her by the wrist and drag her to father so they can all flee together, but she stares him down and he folds. He grits his teeth regardless, "I will see you at the back entrance." He says stubbornly, almost petulantly, but she simply keeps smiling. "Promise me."

Lying always leaves a poor taste in her mouth, but she has grown used to ignoring it to keep her family happy and advisors appeased, "I promise." Her words feel weightless as she says them, and again Shouto seems to know, but he nods and turns to run to the throne room, leaving her on the wall alone.

She turns away from his shrinking form to walk to the rim of the wall and stare out at the horizon again, the mass of shadows growing steadily bigger, the sounds of gnashing teeth and scraping claws slowly gaining volume.

She reaches into her jacket, and pulls out a small knife. It's unassuming in every respect; a simple wooden handle, a simple iron blade, but it's adequate in doing what every blade needed to do and that is all that will ever be required of it.

It's an old blade, given to her ages ago by Natsuo a few weeks after her mother was sent away. She never really knew what he expected her to do with it, she never so much as threw a punch by the time he gave it to her, but it was a gift from her brother regardless, so she sharpened it and polished it and kept it clean merely on principle.

She never had to fight anyone, never had to defend herself or her loved ones outside of a throne room or courthouse, but still the knife remains near her, more as a reminder of what she had to protect than a weapon she ever intended to use.

It has a use now, but still not what Natsuo probably thought it would be, at least not for now.

Every part of her reoccurring nightmares is creeping towards the city, every sinking feeling she's had for the past few weeks is going to be proven true within the hour. But there is one part she has yet to figure out, the shadows and the flames and death she has already puzzled out.

Only the moon remains.

A beacon in the night sky, a light house in a sea of stars, only its purpose remains vague to her. But she does have an idea, an idea born from dusty old tomes that she read ages ago when she still believed in fairy tales and legends.

In those legends the gods saved mortals from danger as often as they damned them for their hubris and disloyalty. More than once she read of the heavens parting and a gracious figure resolving a trouble far beyond mortal ken. But never for free, never without a price, never without a demand.

A deal is always needed; a god does not leave their perch in the clouds without reason. Fuyumi supposes that is fair enough. How many screamed at the gods to save them from disaster, betrayal and death? How many of those prayers and pleas went unanswered?

…They always answer in the legends though, every myth is about when a true believer was rewarded, every legend, every fairy tale, every old story she read is about a time the gods showed some measure of benevolence.

She's now in her own little myth it seems a kingdom long plagued by a severe king and his broken family, soon beset by a hoard of monsters, only to be saved by an act of sacrifice. Or at least, hopefully saved.

And she's ready to sacrifice anything.

She looks up at the moon, the shadow across its face (some call it a man but she only ever saw a rabbit) unmoving as clouds pass it. She squares her jaw, unsheathes her knife, and grips the naked blade in her bare hand. "Please save my kingdom."

The glow of the moon remains silent, so she grips the blade with more force, a sting and a pearl of blood quickly following.

"Please, save my kingdom, my people, my family!" She grips the blade harder, more and more blood trickling out. "I'll do anything! Give you anything! It doesn't matter what you ask of me! It doesn't matter what you demand! I'll give it! I'll give you all I am worth!" Tears start flowing down her face, the sounds of the demons howling and snarling barely half a mile away, "Please! Help us!"

She bleeds, and cries and pleads, but the moon says nothing.

Her blood forms a small pool at her feet, staining her shoes and beginning to soak her socks. Her tears turn to sobs as she lowers her head from the moon in the sky to look down at the pool she formed to see her own despairing face, the drops flowing down her cheeks and into the crimson blood on the floor, disturbing the mirror image of the moon reflected in it.

The ripples her tears kicked up slowly die, and the shadow of the rabbit on the moon blinks.

She freezes at the sight of it, her grip on the blade of the knife easing off as she stares at the reflection in the pool. Just as she's sure she imagined it, the head of the rabbit moves, moves to look at her directly, blinking with eyes of pure starlight.

She looks up slowly, her heart picking up speed as she tries to grasp what is happening. When her eyes reach the true moon in the sky she sees it is no illusion dreamt up by blood loss and desperation. Indeed, the rabbit on the moon is looking at her, looking directly at her even though it is a million miles away.

She opens her mouth to say something, anything, but words fail her, her mind simply cannot reconcile what it is seeing with the reality she knows. Myths and legends are for children needing a good night's sleep, and yet here she is, staring up at an image she never even saw in paintings.

She fails at her words long enough for something even more impossible to happen. The rabbit on the moon glows, its obsidian body shimmering a brilliant silver. The glow grows brighter and brighter, so much she has to shield her eyes from it, and in the distance she hears the demonic hoard reel back in alarm and pain.

She dares to open her eyes to the blinding light just in time to see the rabbit leap out of the moon, to see it transform into a ray of pure ivory light and race across the sky towards her. Some deep seated panic raises in her chest and she takes a step back, but before she could back away further the light lands on the wall she had been leaning against a second before in a blast of air that knocks her off her feet and onto her backside. The knife clatters out of her hand, and the light kicks up a cloud of dust as it lands that made her close her eyes

When she opens her eyes again, she is met with the most striking sight she has ever seen.

A woman stands on the wall, surrounded by an aura of ivory light. Her stance is confident and proud, one foot planted on the ground while the other curled up, her skin a brilliant bronze shining in the star light. She's dressed in a silver garment that hugged her figure, showing off curves that makes Fuyumi blush like a teenager whenever her eyes rest on one spot for too long.

A golden crescent moon adorns her chest, the garment leaving her arms completely bare, displaying an ample amount of muscle, and her legs are covered in a shimmering black silken fabric that seems to merge into her skin and hide nothing of the sculpted build of her lower body. Her feet are long, furred, and padded like a rabbit's.

Her most striking features, however, are further up. A pair of cotton white rabbit ears where human should be, with silver hair flowing down her back and passed her hips, eyes whose shade matches the crimson blood she spilt to summon her, and a smile, full of gleaming teeth, sharp like a wolf looking at an especially tasty morsel.

Fuyumi could recognize her anywhere, her visage adorning temple walls all around the continent, her likeness and deeds immortalized in countless books and endless folk tales.

In front of her is the brilliant Moon Goddess Miruko, she who challenged the sun, the bravest warrior of the heavens, tales of courage and brutality following her in equal measure. The unbeatable, merciless, unstoppable Miruko.

She is beautiful.

She is terrifying.

She is walking towards her.

Her steps are dew drops on the grass, not a sound is made as she draws closer to the princess, her razor sharp smile unmoving. Fuyumi's heart speeds up more and more with every step, the pain in her palm ignored as every nerve in her body is focused on making sure no movement the goddess makes is missed.

Soon she is above her, her strong figure casting a shadow over her as her smile shines with starlight.

The first sound she hears the goddess make is a deep throated chuckle, making her bones tremble and her heartbeat skip, before at last Miruko speaks, "Anything?" Her voice is strong and clear, cutting through the air like a moon beam, "Is that what you're offering me, Princess, anything?"

The way she said Princess makes something curl up and burn in the pit of Fuyumi's stomach, a hint of amusement at her predicament that doesn't sit well with her at all. But she swallows her sudden indignation with practiced ease born from a lifetime of royal matters and nods gravely, putting pressure on the wound she made in her hand with Natsuo's knife, "Yes my lady, I offer you all I can give, if you would save my kingdom…I will pay any price you wish to name."

Her smile turns sharper, the sight of it nearly enough stop Fuyumi's heart, and then she laughs, the sound echoing deep into the night and reaching the hoard of demons now knocking on her city's gates. "So brave! Been a while since I even heard of a mortal ready to throw everything away like this, so noble! So selfless!" She continues to laugh, the sound harsh but honest; there is no mockery in her for the Princess it seems, only condescension, "What else am I to do but answer in kind? I think I like you, Princess, so I'll take you up on that offer."

She turns away, Fuyumi suddenly able to breathe now that the weight of those crimson eyes is absent, and begins walking back to the edge of the wall, the sounds of demons banging on the steel gates increasing in volume. Somewhere to her left, she can vaguely hear the sounds of hurried footsteps getting closer.

The goddess jumps up on the rim, the muscles of her legs tensing under the fabric, her shoulder bunching up to gather force as she moved her weight to the tip of her toes. Looking at her from behind Fuyumi could see a small ball of fluff under the small of the goddess' back, a rabbit tail to complete her image.

Of all the things that she has seen so far, to see a goddess with a smile like a drawn blade and legs strong enough to crush a boulder sporting a bunny tail is nearly too much, and so, nearly hysterical at this point, Fuyumi can't help but crack a tiny smile and giggle softly at the sight of it.

One of Miruko's ears twitches and she looks back, just quick enough to see Fuyumi's smile before the Princess nearly swallows her tongue in fright. To her surprise the goddess apparently isn't insulted, instead flashing her sharp smile again with a low chuckle, "Oh, you and I are going to get along just fine, Princess."

Fuyumi barely has a moment to ponder what Miruko means by that, the smile promising something she feels she's wholly unprepared for, before the sounds of footsteps finally reach the both of them. She turns to see her brothers and father standing flabbergasted as they stare at her and the radiant figure standing on the wall.

Her father is the first to gain his bearing, stomping forward past his sons with a stiffness in his shoulders. "Fuyumi!" He bellows, stealing furtive glances at Miruko as he looks down at his daughter and her bleeding hand, "What is the meaning of this? What have you done?"

"She saved your asses is what she did, jackass." Miruko laughs with a snort, "While you chicken-shits were shaking in your boots, she came up here and actually called for help from someone who can actually do something."

The whole crowd turns to her as one, Fuyumi feeling her face heat up at hearing a goddess speak such foul language, her father's chest puffed out almost on reflex, "Who are you to speak to me like this? What is-"

"Father!" She shouts at him, finally getting back on her feet, panic surging some power to her core, "Calm yourself! This is the moon goddess!"

She can hear Shouto gape and Natsuo chocking on his spit, but her father's reaction is what captures her attention. Some deep dread flickers across his face, a mix of wounded pride and disbelief flashing in his eyes before he grits his teeth and his signature glare places itself on his features again.

"She's-" He sounds choked, like he can scarcely believe his ears, looking between his daughter and Miruko at a loss, "That-that can't be!" The screech of bending metal sounds from the direction of the city gate, howls and screaming beginning to ring in the air. His face twists in a furious scowl, bending down and screaming at her, "Fuyumi forget that, what are you still doing here?! You should have left the city ages ago! You and your brothers could die if you delay them any longer! There's nothing for you to do here! This isn't one of your damn fairy tales!"

"On the contrary!" Miruko exclaims, suddenly between of the irate king and the panicking Princess in a flash of moonlight, "It’s a brand new legend your Majesty." Despite barely reaching his chin, the broad shouldered king can only take a step back from the goddess as she speaks down to him, "Years from now, future generation are gonna be telling the tale of how the valorous moon goddess descended from on high to defeat a hoard of ravenous demons about to kill a thousand innocent people."

She takes easy steps, almost casual in her gait, while the king nearly scrambles back from her whenever she got too close, her aura of light burning bright with each word she speaks until it nearly hurt to look at. Eventually the king is with his back to the wall, and far away from Fuyumi, his anger wilting in the face of uncompromising divinity.

"…Of course, they'll only do that if you get out of my way." Miruko's voice echoes through the crowd, the sound reverberating near the end as Enji takes careful steps aside from the goddess' path. Miruko turns her head to follow the king, Fuyumi catching a glimpse of a glow in her eye when she did, before the goddess scoffs, "Good job, your highness."

She can practically hear her father grinding his teeth from where she's standing, but her father does nothing more rebellious than clenching his fists and glaring with all his might at Miruko, the act being repaid with a smug, unaffected grin.

"Now," The goddess rolls her shoulders idly, hopping back up on the rim of the wall facing the quickly deteriorating city gate, "What was I doing?" She looks back at Fuyumi with a smirk, one hand on her hip, "Well Princess? Does your offer still stand after all of that?" She points at her fuming father, who says nothing in return.

After a moment of catching her breath and exchanging a quick glance with her brothers, who are stunned silent this entire time, utterly at a loss at what to do, she wraps her still bleeding palm in the fabric of her cloak, "Yes, it does, if you will save us from these demons…I will honor it."

Natsuo speaks up at last, the sight of her wounded hand stirring him into action, "Fuyumi, what happened to your hand?" He stops, his breath hitching, before he throws a glare at Miruko, his hand reaching for his sword, "What did you do to my sister!?"

"Natsuo don't!"

His sword flies out of its scabbard and he runs towards Miruko, lifting his weapon into the air with a savage cry. He swings his blade down with all his strength, blood in his eyes, but just before the blade meets its target, the goddess catches it between two fingers. It stops dead, like it's embedded in stone, and refuses to budge no matter how much Natsuo tries to pull it free.

"Seriously kid?" The goddess smirks, a tone of amusement in her voice, like a lioness being challenged by a mouse, as she casually moves the weapon in her grip from side to side like a blade of grass. Natsuo is pulled along with it like he weighs nothing. "I came here to kill demons, not waste my time with royals who have a death wish." She pulls the sword closer with a laugh so she and Natsuo are nose to nose, her brother ceasing his struggle out of shock. "I didn't touch her, Princess over there did that to herself."

"She-what?" Natsuo pulls his head away from her to look between Miruko and his sister in confusion, "Fuyumi why-why would you do that?"

"To prove she was ready to make a deal," Miruko answers for her, letting Natsuo go with a toss before turning back around to the hills outside the wall once more, leaving him to nurse his aching wrists, "that she was ready to pay any price I care to name so long as I take care of your little demon problem."

Shouto finally comes to his senses, rushing over to Fuyumi while ripping his shirt to make a bandage for her hand, "Fuyumi…" He mutters as he wrapped her bleeding palm, "How did you know that would work?"

She didn't, but she doesn't say it out loud; she can't tell her little brother that little plea of hers was born of overwhelming desperation, he deserves a sister stronger than that. As he finishes wrapping her wound, she looks at the back of the goddess as she looks out at the demons, clenching her muscles.

"And since she gave me her word, I intend to keep my end of this little bargain." She clenches her fists, crouches, and looks back one more time, straight into Fuyumi's eyes, the look conjuring something between dread and hope in her stomach, "Be right back, Princess."

With a flash of light and a jump that shattered the stonework she was standing on, she flies into the sky, whirling in the air for a quick moment before she races towards the outside of the city wall, crashing into the demon hoard with whoop of victory.

The sounds of demons attempting to break down the iron gates halt almost at once. After a brief moment where they are apparently stunned at the appearance of a god, they howl as one with a war cry and advance away from the city. The goddess is the bigger target, her glow visible even above the high walls of the city.

Very soon, the roars of violence are replaced with cries of horror and panic.

Fuyumi can feel the impact of every blow Miruko struck all the way from the tower. Every crack of breaking bones and every sickening sound of flesh torn like paper. The demons, the very same monsters who had plagued her dreams for days on end, seem like ants fighting a forest fire.

Above the sounds of violence, the roars and howls of the goddess are the clearest. She mocks the demons like they were children as they are crushed under her blows, she screams her triumph with every earth shattering attack and never does she ever sound like she's even trying, much less in danger.

She is doing her part, just as she promised, and just as Fuyumi pleaded for her to do. She is every bit as amazing as the legends told, she flies and soars through her enemies with grace and ease. And she laughs too; her laughter is a war drum, echoing high above the battleground and making Fuyumi's ears ring and ache.

It is vicious, a bloody cackle to rival all the gnashing teeth of the shadows in her nightmares.

People begin flooding the streets, on their knees praying in thanks to whoever called the wrath of heaven down on the demons. She can hear, very faintly, the sound of a chorus of her people calling out to the gods, calling out for their savior's victory.

Fuyumi is frozen on the spot, her heart beating loudly in her ears. This is what she prayed for, what she begged for with every ounce of her being. It surpasses every hope she had, utterly dwarfs every childhood fairy tale of divine victory her mother ever told her.

She can imagine her, ripping apart the demons with a flourish, that same razor sharp grin adorning her features as she did. This is a goddess, every bit as awe inducing as she hoped and more so, it is almost too much to believe.

She should be relieved, her city is being saved, her people will no longer need to hide away in their homes, she has succeeded. But the longer the fight drags on, the more the goddess howls and laughs, the more doubt begins gnawing at the pit of her stomach. This is the one she has bargained with, this feral rabbit goddess cracking skulls and ripping flesh outside her city walls. She has promised her all she can give, all she has, and she is sure that she has nothing that can possibly satisfy someone who laughs louder than hell.

But it's too late for regrets now. Fuyumi knows this well, knew it from the moment she had drawn her knife. She will not turn away from her fate now. She will look it in the eye with a proud heart and strong spirit, no matter who will deliver it.

Soon the sounds halt, the battle much shorter than Fuyumi ever hoped it would be, the last demon breathing their last breath at Miruko's hands. A moment later a light suddenly appears far above the battle, a round ball of ivory moon light that houses the silhouette of a powerful figure with rabbit ears. Fuyumi can hear people begin to cheer at the sight of it, many recognizing it from tales they heard when they were children much like she did.

Natsuo stares wide eyed at it, utterly taken aback by how thoroughly Miruko had vanquished a foe that had completely decimated their elite forces with so little effort. Shouto bites his lip quietly and looks at his sister from the corner of his eye, as if he can see past this display of victory.

Their father's face is empty of expression as he stares at the goddess as she takes in the praise, but his fists are shaking quietly at his side. He turns fully away from the light and walks to the opposite rim of the wall, showing nothing but his back as he leans heavily on the stones with a sigh.

Fuyumi can only focus on her people, happy and alive.

The feeling of dread and fear that had gripped her beloved city vanishes in an instant as the sight of the moon goddess triumphant above the demons glowed in the sky. Fuyumi smiles at the sound of them giving praise, the sight of men, women and children standing in the street and on their roofs to cheer Miruko.

This happiness, this small moment of relief and peace, if that is all she will accomplish with this choice, then she will be content with it.

The light floats there motionless for a moment, as if to fully soak in the praise the people shout and cheer. If Fuyumi strains her eyes, she can barely see the figure, Miruko, crossing her arms with a grin.

And then the goddess turns back to the princess, and Fuyumi straightens her spine at the sight of it, taking in a deep breath to steel herself for her part of the deal. She puts a hand Shouto's shoulder, giving him the same paper thin smile from when she told him to leave her on the wall, before slowly stepping towards the light as it began to race back to her.

Within a moment, the goddess is in front of her again, her silver hair in disarray from the fight, her smile feral with adrenalin, but otherwise completely untouched and unharmed, the breeze high in the air apparently doing the most damage to her out of anything else that night.

"Woah!" She cries out in delight, all her teeth on display as she laughs lowly and catches her breath, "Man, those guys were angry! Haven't had this much fun fighting demons in centuries!" She smooths her hair down with a hand and lets out a breath, her wild grin shrinking into a more controlled smile as she looks back at Fuyumi, "Well then, I did as you asked, Princess, you know what that means, right?"

She nods quietly, trying to stop her mind from racing to a conclusion as to what the goddess might possibly ask in return for her help, "Yes, my lady, you saved my beloved subjects, my family, and so I stand to honor our deal, please," she bows deeply at the waist, her eyes closed to stop the tears from flowing out, "name your price."

Gods ask for many things, riches from kingdoms, children from heroes, complete devotion from priests, and everything in between from everyone else. She does not know what she will need to give to Miruko, but she offered all that she could give, and so the goddess can only ask for what Fuyumi has in her power to bestow.

If her father had somehow been convinced to swallow his pride and ask for help from the heavens, the entire kingdom could have been the price demanded. Her brothers might be forced to give up their futures for one dictated by a god.

But her? The Princess of the Endeavor Kingdom? She who snubbed countless offers of marriage to princes and heroes alike? The one with her nose stuck in books since she was six? The teacher, the quiet sister, the smiling face in the public square feeding birds and talking to the merchants about the little goings on in the capitol?

She has nothing for the goddess to take, not really. All her money is from the royal treasury, she has no power despite what people believe her to possess, she has precious few things that she holds dear and has the authority to give away.

Her diary, her flowers, a toy bird her mother gave her when she was an infant.

Nothing of the sort a goddess would demand, nothing that equals the value of a deal that saved tens of thousands of people. No, the goddess can take nothing from her kingdom, nothing from her family, nothing from her people, the only thing she can take from Fuyumi is something she was always willing to give for the happiness and safety of her family.

The only thing the goddess can possibly ask for is Fuyumi's life, and that she was ready to surrender from the moment she looked up at the moon and cut a blade across her palm.

But she forgot one thing about gods, they never acted as they should, never as mortals thought they would, so when Miruko puts a gentle hand on Fuyumi's chin to lift her eyes, meeting the goddess' gaze as she kneels before her with a pleased smile, what she demands next comes as a complete shock.

"Princess Fuyumi, eldest daughter of King Enji Todoroki," Her smile becomes a grin again as she declares confidently, all her teeth gleaming with starlight, "You requested a deal between gods, and so you have declared you are prepared to pay me my due."

So far, it was all as Fuyumi expected it to be, excepting the rather distracting finger on her chin, but something in her gut is telling her that things are taking a turn, the only thing she can do is nod quietly to Miruko's words and await her demand.

The goddess draws closer, until their noses touch and all Fuyumi can see is the crimson sky in her eyes, "Fuyumi Todoroki, my price is thus;" The Princess holds her breath almost painfully, wishing for her to simply take her life and get it over with- "You are to come with me to the heavens, to spend eternity with me, as my bride."

A stunned silence drops on the crowd like an anvil, Fuyumi finding it impossible to breathe all of a sudden. She can feel the blood leaving her face, and in her surprise she was absolutely sure she had misheard, but the goddess goes on, heedless of the fear and terror no doubt building on the Princess' face.

"To repay me for saving your kingdom, my demand is this," Her grin grows feral again, and this time Fuyumi does not shrink away, "I want you to give me your heart."

#My hero academia #Rumi Usagiyama #Fuyumi Todoroki #fuyumi x miruko #MiruYumi #snowbunny?#whatever the hell is their ship name #stuff rex wrote #She is the moon #miruko

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theonceoverthinker · 4 years

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When Will My Life Begin? (Fair Game, 6/?)

Summary: Tangled AU. Clover Callows has been confined to a tower for all of his life, and given the threat that his Uncle Tyrian says his semblance poses to his safety, he accepts that fate. It’s the only life he’s ever known, after all. But when he’s offered the opportunity to fulfill his greatest dream after a chance encounter with a thief -- or bandit, as Qrow Branwen insists there’s a difference between the two -- both Clover and Qrow will discover joys that they never knew life could offer them before. AO3

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A/N: New chapter time!!!!! ...You guys are going to f**king KILL me for this one... And all I can say is...I’m not sorry. At all.

Anyways, enjoyyyyy!!

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Clover Callows didn’t really panic -- he wasn’t the panicking sort.

Besides it just being a part of his personality, in his life, there was very little to panic about.

But when Clover heard the signs of someone climbing his tower’s walls, someone that was absolutely not his uncle, Clover couldn’t help but panic just a little.

Well, just a little was probably a bit of an understatement.

How was he found, and who was it that was about to meet him in his tower?

Something that Clover could tell was metallic made scraping noises as it brushed against as well as in the spaces between the tower’s bricks.

Whoever was climbing up the tower had a weapon.

He remembered what Uncle Tyrian would often say about those outside the tower and what their weapons were capable of about as well as he remembered his own name.

That was something worth panicking over.

Still, even as he panicked, Clover remained careful at the notion of this stranger. With everything on the line -- his safety, Raven’s safety, and his uncle’s when he returned, he could hardly afford not to be. Cautious as to not step on any of the tower’s squeaky wooden planks, Clover rose from the chair he sat on, slinked up to where Kingfisher sat to grab it, and stealthily backed up from the window, hiding himself in the darkness the raised sun finally allowed the tower to have again.

Clover felt his heart beat in time with the sounds the stranger made as they made their way up the tower’s walls bit by bit.

Whoever it was that was about to enter...they seemed strong…

What was he going to do?

He thought back to Uncle Tyrian’s words.

Uncle Tyrian told Clover so often that he couldn’t hope to successfully fight against someone from outside the tower. That was probably true.

But all the same, he had to do something. What was the alternative?

With a loud grunt, the stranger seemed to complete their climb. A visual of this stranger was finally given as he climbed inside the window, but because the stranger closed it just as quickly as he entered through it, all Clover could see was their silhouette through the tiniest bit of escaped light.

The stranger had clearly not noticed Clover, instead, more interested in the closed window as well as whatever it was that was in his hands.

It looked like a bag.

A story that his uncle told Clover long ago sprang to mind -- a story of a child who snuck away from home and was suffocated by a kidnapper with just a bag at their disposal.

Was that what this intruder was planning to do to him?

Oh Gods, it was far too possible for Clover’s liking.

What happened next was a borderline blur -- Clover knew his mind somehow thought it through in the millisecond before it occurred, but as it was happening, it was all so fast that he could barely process it all as it took place.

Clover cast Kingfisher’s line towards the stranger’s ankles, moving himself in just the right way so that the line would wrap itself around the intruder’s ankles and hook back onto itself.

Then, he pulled and watched as the stranger fell on his side and hit the floor with an almost deafening thud.

Clover wished he could say that not a sound left his mouth as he watched the intruder fall to the floor.

However, the squeal that Raven absolutely heard didn’t come out of thin air.

Unable to fully believe what he’d just witnessed despite having the best seat in the world to it, Clover simply blinked.

Careful to not fully surrender his element of surprise, Clover stood silently in place for a moment with a vice-like grip on Kingfisher’s rod, waiting to see if the stranger would move.

He didn’t, and when the stranger’s body limply sunk from its side to the floor face first, it was clear that that wouldn’t be happening anytime soon.

Clover rushed over to the intruder’s body, thankful that a sliver of sunlight that managed to pass through the tower’s shut window finally gave the intruder’s silhouette a true form.

The light that touched the stranger’s face made it clear that the stranger was a man.

He’d never seen another man before besides his uncle, and never one even close to his own age.

And he’d attacked him…

Oh Gods, was he even alive?!

Clover knelt down and looked at the stranger’s stomach, hoping for some kind of movement.

Thankfully, a gentle, normal movement was exactly what he saw, as the man’s chest rose and fell with his breathing.

That meant the man was still alive.

Clover let himself sigh, relieved, and after thanking his deities, turned to examine the man.

The man was tall, about Clover’s height, if he had to guess. He had a thin form about him, with long legs. Messy wisps of black hair covered his head, concealing his face, and he sported a grey shirt with a red vest over it, black pants, and brown boots.

All in all, he didn’t look too bad -- healthy, though he looked like he could absolutely stand to eat and sleep more.

At least the latter sentiment was somewhat being addressed right now.

Clover then remembered himself, blinking and shaking his head as he stood up and took a step back.

This man came from the world outside his tower. That meant he was a threat, and a threat that needed to be evaluated so he could plan his next move.

What was his next step towards doing that?

Signs…

Yes, he just had to look for the signs.

While Clover knew all humans had the potential to be quite dangerous when faced with the prospect of having his semblance all to themselves, he knew that there were some humans that were simply more dangerous than others. It only made sense. After asking, his uncle had told him the signs of the absolute most dangerous ones, the ones who would attack him regardless of his semblance without a second thought.

Pointy teeth were featured in many of Uncle Tyrian’s stories.

Did the stranger have them?

Well, there was only one way to find out…

Clover turned to Raven, who had been by his side from the moment he knocked the stranger out.

“Keep an eye out on him.”

Raven gave a small, affirmative squawk before turning to the man, glaring at him.

Satisfied, Clover quickly went to the kitchen table and grabbed a butter knife before returning to Raven and the man. Clover knelt down once more in front of the man, placed the handle of the butter knife against the man’s inner lip, and then lifted it.

No -- the man’s teeth weren’t pointy.

They were just like Clover’s and his uncle’s -- mostly flat, save for their tiny bumps.

The teeth Uncle Tyrian described as pointy were far sharper than those the stranger had.

Well, that turned out to be a good sign of how dangerous the man truly was, but Clover also knew it wasn’t the only sign.

Weapons...that was another thing he knew he had to look for.

Half of the threat a human could pose came from their strength, but the other half came from their weapon.

Clover knew for a fact that the man had his weapon on him -- he’d heard it on the stranger’s way up the tower.

The weapon that the man had -- a scythe, if the crescent shape was anything to go by -- was at his side.

A scythe...now that was an odd choice of a weapon...and one that absolutely spoke of dangerous omens...

But despite clearly using it to climb the tower, it was now sheathed in its leather scabbard.

That...was another good sign.

Clover didn’t really know what to make of that…

But before he could think on that, or even check for the next sign of his potential dangers, he was suddenly stopped in his tracks.

One of the stranger’s eyes opened.

Clover wanted to say he didn’t panic and let the man wake up as he normally would have to question him.

However, Clover wasn’t a liar.

His movements happened in what for the stranger was probably a flash, and for Clover, was somehow even faster than that -- Clover flipped Kingfisher so that its denser rod was the end held up high and smacked him over the head with it, knocking him out once more instantly.

...It wasn’t the calmest of responses, but Clover argued with himself that it was the correct one.

What was he going to do with this man?

He couldn’t let him escape -- not when he knew where the tower was and had no reason to protect its privacy. Even if Clover took his weapon away, the man might have had allies.

They’d find him, and this safe haven his father had so lovingly provided for him would be destroyed…

No, Clover wasn’t about to let all that Uncle Tyrian fought for fall to ruin just like that.

He’d just have to keep him here until he could think of a plan to make sure when he did leave the tower, it would without a doubt be with a held tongue.

Clover grabbed one of the stranger’s feet and pulled him until they reached the closest closet. His gaze shifted between the stranger and the closet door a few times before turning to Raven.

“Shouldn’t be too hard, right?” he asked her with something resembling a self assured snort in his voice.

Raven squawked, sarcasm somehow as clear as crystal, even through the mouth of a bird.

“Thanks for the support, Raven,” Clover snarked, giving her a facade of a deadpan look. He then took a deep breath, grabbed the stranger’s body, and got to work.

Even though he lived his entire life in a tower, Clover made sure that his body was in a healthy state, and he took pride in his physical strength.

However, as he held the stranger’s body in his arms, that strength was tested more than it had been since he first tested out his pulley system.

It’s not that the man was heavy -- Clover could handle heavy -- it was the limpness of his body, partnered with all of his limbs falling and swinging as gravity commanded them to do that made the task of getting him into the narrow closet as annoying as it was. Not only that, but unfortunately, like all of his closets, this one was not only narrow, but also elevated, the bottom of it a couple of inches off the ground thanks to the decorative raised support at the closet’s base. That meant that in addition to pushing the stranger into the closet, he had to lift his limp body all the while, too.

Additionally, while the man’s legs were initially bound up by Kingfisher, Clover reasoned that continuing to do that also meant that he had to balance Kingfisher on his person as well, so he reluctantly decided to free his legs from his weapon’s grasp, but kept it close to his person just in case.

This was going to be fun...

Clover started with the most obvious-seeming solution. He surrounded the man’s body with his arms and tried to push and lift him into the closet in one fell swoop.

However, gravity looked to take issue with that. The man’s body, slack from unconsciousness, proved to be too heavy, and when Clover lifted him to get him into the closet, the first half step he took knocked him off his balance, sending Clover falling on his back with the man’s form right atop him.

It took Clover longer than he’d like to admit it did to get back up before he tried again, but he did it all the same, and that’s what mattered.

Clover then lifted the stranger once again, but this time, pushed the man’s back against his own. Maybe, if he could push most of the stranger’s body into the closet that way, then he could get the rest of it in more easily, and his back would make for more supportive leverage.

Things got off to a good start...that is, until it came time for the lifting. With Clover’s back to the closet, he couldn’t make out when it was that he had to start lifting the man’s body, causing him to be late. The stranger’s feet hooked onto the bottom of the closet, and Clover found himself unable to undo the hooking. As he tried to, he once more lost his balance and fell down to the ground.

As a consequence of the fall, the man’s unconscious face fell beside his head when that happened, and as Clover moved to get himself off the floor and try this again, he couldn’t help but look at it. The man had two well defined brows, a strong, prominent jawline, and a small nose. His expression was soft, as one would expect from someone unconscious, but a little harsh too. It only made sense -- after all, this man had now been knocked out twice, but Clover couldn’t help but think that despite how unorthodox these circumstances were, this wasn’t an expression that was all that foreign to him.

What kind of existence could lead that kind of expression to be anything resembling a norm?

Despite a sense of curiousness that came with the prospect of knowing another human for the first time since his infancy, Clover wasn’t sure he wanted to know.

That said, there was a handsomeness to this stranger, Clover had to admit -- a rugged, scrappy kind of beauty that was easy on the eyes and made Clover delay himself for just a little bit as he started to get back up to get a nice look at.

However, as Uncle Tyrian had told him many a time before in the past, wherever beauty made itself known, ugliness did too, and if he learned of Clover’s semblance...that ugliness would probably reveal itself in all the time it would take Clover to blink.

It wasn’t a pleasant reality -- in fact, it was one his parents paid the ultimate price for living in -- but it was a true one all the same.

Clover took a deep breath. He had to get this done, for his safety, for Raven’s, and for his uncle’s too.

For this attempt, Clover combined the best elements of his previous approaches. He had the man face him while he used his own shoulder as leverage. With the ability to see where he was going, he was able to lift up the stranger’s form at just the right time, and push him in.

However, like the frigid air in winter, his enemy gravity showed up again to complicate things. As soon as he got in the closet, the man’s knees started to buckle, and he started to fall in on Clover.

“No,” Clover grunted as he fought to keep the stranger where he was. “Stop. Stay there. Come on. Not a word from you, Raven! Not. A. Word.” With his current task underway, he couldn’t look at Raven, but he was willing to bet that she was getting some joy out of watching him struggle like this. She liked that kind of humor, and just as he felt her stare on his back at breakfast, so did he feel it now. On some level, he couldn’t blame her for her reaction. After all, fresh entertainment in their tower wasn’t always the easiest thing to come by.

It still didn’t make that inclination a nice one.

Neither did the sassy squawk that left her beak.

“Smart ass,” he scoffed.

Yet another squawk met his comment.

Clover kept struggling to keep the man in place, and after minutes of combatting his unconscious form push-for-push, a lucky push pushed him far enough into the closet for Clover to shut it fully.

As soon as the closet’s doors slammed shut, Clover grabbed a nearby chair and stuffed it under the door.

Now, the man was trapped.

A man was trapped in his closet...

Oh Gods…

“Okay, okay,” Clover said, trying in vain to calm himself as he backed away, taking hold of Kingfisher once more. “I’ve got a person in my closet.” He looked to Raven and they shared a look.

“I’ve got a person in my closet,” he repeated, shock ringing through his voice in the same way music ringed through a bell. He stopped moving and looked at a mirror that he now stood beside.

Then...as Clover stood opposite the locked closet with his weapon in hand, he realized something...an implication of his actions that until that moment, he hadn’t even considered.

Clover’s tower had been intruded. His and Uncle Tyrian’s greatest fear had come to life right before Clover’s eyes...and Clover had won.

That meant that against all odds -- against everything Uncle Tyrian thought he could do, Clover could, in fact, protect himself.

Clover smiled at himself.

“I’ve got a person in my closet!” Clover turned back to Raven, who gave an amused squawk in answer to the laughter that bubbled just under the surface of Clover’s words.

If he could face this man and win, well, then how hard could a single day trip possibly be, right?

He looked at the mirror, and dreamed about how he’d tell Uncle Tyrian about this. “Still think I’m just a naive, funny boy, uncle?” he bragged to his imaginary uncle in his pretend scenario. “Well, look at me and my little fishing pole, now! So what do you say we head towards those lights? Don’t worry -- I’ll protect you.” He smirked to himself and flipped Kingfisher by its handle.

However, Clover got a little lost in his fun, for the trajectory of his catch was off for the first time in years, letting his rod hit his head and fall to the floor.

As Clover moved to pick it up, he noticed something over by the window where he’d first fought against the stranger.

There was a bag on the floor.

Clover went over to where the man first fell, opened the window to better see, and carefully took hold of the bag.

Upon getting a feel for the bag, Clover took comfort in the fact that it clearly wasn’t intended to suffocate him -- yet another good sign.

No, it wasn’t a bag, but a satchel...and there was something in it -- just a single, angular object, no bigger than his hand, that Clover could feel through the satchel’s fabric.

Clover reached into the satchel and pulled out the object.

What came out of the bag was something unlike anything Clover had ever seen before.

As Clover put together exactly what it was he was looking at, he couldn’t help but marvel at how the shiny precious green stones the object was composed of glimmered against the light of day.

He rearranged the object in his hands.

The back of the object -- a flat, metal, ebony surface -- had a clasp on it.

Clover made his way back to the mirror and without putting it on, arranged the back of the it so that the clasp would align horizontally with his shirt.

So it was just a pin?

It was a gorgeous pin, but a pin nonetheless.

Not only that, but while it was made of gorgeous jewels, it was crooked. The pin was likely supposed to be a cross -- a symbol from the kingdom he and his parents lived in before they died, according to Uncle Tyrian -- but it was poorly aligned, so that the top of it was a gap of space rather than one of the cross’ points.

“Awful craftsmanship,” Clover commented, with Raven giving an agreeing squawk.

“Clover!”

Clover and Raven looked at each other.

That voice -- its sound, its tone, the timing -- meant one thing, and one thing alone: Uncle Tyrian was home.

A smile overcame Clover’s features.

If Uncle Tyrian was home, that meant Clover could try to convince him to take him to the lights again, and unlike earlier today, he’d have actual proof that he could keep himself safe in the outside world.

His uncle was a smart man -- he’d called himself as much many a time in the past, and Clover knew it to be true. He’d be receptive to this kind of evidence -- he just had to be.

The lights...suddenly, a trip to see them was a possibility once more...

In fact, with evidence like the man in his closet, they were more in his sights now than ever before.

He was going to make it happen -- finally, he had exactly what -- or rather, who -- he needed to do so!

As Clover approached the window to greet his uncle for the second time today, he took pride in the fact that for the first time today, he wasn’t panicking anymore.

#fair game #qrow branwen #clover ebi #rwby #raven branwen #tangled au

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