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merryfortune · 2 months

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Ideal Woman

Written for Femslash February 2024

Day 8. Grey

Title: Ideal Woman

Ship: not applicable | Emi/Tome

Word Count: 1,192

Universe: GX - canon compliant

Rating: T

Tags: Ageing, Flirting, Getting Together, Humour

Ayukawa Emi was a vain and vapid woman but she would be the first to admit it.

A woman who didn't acknowledge her flaws was a woman doomed, or so Emi theorised.

Her greatest vice, of course, was this self absorption. But what to do with it? That, Emi thought, was the most important thing.

Well, there were just a couple of things she could do. She could tweak and pluck, shave and wax. She could pick apart and cover it all up. Her appearance in the bathroom mirror was what mattered most to her. She wanted to be beautiful. And smart. But mostly beautiful.

She wasn't getting any younger, either. Contrary to popular rumour - because heaven forbid you ever ask a woman her age - she wasn't just pushing Christmas cake status. She was well and truly passed it. Expired, even. The proof was in the pudding: Ayukawa Emi was going grey.

Grey!

All of the Obelisk Blue Dorm must have heard her scream. It was shrill and resounded up the halls, through the courtyard and the school itself. The whole island likely heard her scream as she found that errant grey hair - singular - amongst her glossy red swirls.

Of course, once she recovered from the shock of finding such an errant aberration in her beauty, Emi acted quickly. She plucked it, with only a little wince from the pinch and that was that.

For a couple of days.

It seemed there was no stopping the march of time. Emi predicted that if she continued as is, she would have a whole head of grey hairs in… in… in ten years! That was practically tomorrow and that was assuming the best. If her students were going to drive her up the wall like that particular cohort, the stress would absolutely accelerate her greying.

Emi would not stand for it so she began to stockpile and style. Hair dye was every greying woman’s best friend but being a natural redhead, it was hard to match. She could go fake, yes, but then she would always look fake and Emi didn’t want to let go of her youthful, ruddy colour. Everyone would know if she covered it up by going to that extreme and that would be no good either.

Though the retail therapy was kind of relaxing, she had to admit. Even if the products on their way to the island via snail mail were destined to gather dust on her shelf now.

Maybe she needed to consume more consumerism to feel better. Plucking out her no good worries was good enough in the meantime but Emi simply sighed to herself. She needed to vent. Really, that was the cheapest option but who to?

Not her students, obviously. That would be crossing lines and boundaries. Same for Samejima but he had the added bonus of being a bald man. He wouldn’t get it at all and what if people got the wrong idea? Emi so did not want nor need a rumour going around that she had female pattern baldness when all it was that she was going grey.

Emi sighed again.

“What’s the matter, buttercup?” Tome asked with a chuckle. “That was a big sigh, tell me all your troubles, bubbles.”

Her pet names made Emi’s nose wrinkle fondly. They were cute. She lifted up her head off the perch of her knuckles, tried to make herself seem somewhat presentable but she was a full grown woman moping in the cafeteria so… The point was negated.

Tome set down the tray of lunch that she had been bringing over for Emi. She set herself down, too, right next to her on the aluminium-tin pew.

Emi studied Tome over once then twice as she tried to gather her thoughts… Only to discard and replace them as she became charmed by Tome’s smile. It was waiting and judgement-free.

Tome was… homely but she was beautiful. She was free. She seemed happily herself and that made Emi a little envious, even though Tome’s hair was a mousy brown without a single sheen of lustre and she wore her age freely. Not minding at all that she had crow’s feet (laugh lines) or prominent jowls, a double chin and pockmarks from the wear and tear of living her life.

“How did you age so gracefully?” Emi asked, sincerity kept her tone hushed as she tried to invite genuine conversation.

“I just did.” Tome shrugged her shoulders. “It never mattered much to me. I just wash my face with water, keep the mirror clean, and smile.” She sounded apologetic since there was no grand secret to her happiness.

“I wish I could be like that.” Emi said, pining.

“You still can be.” Tome replied. “I think its mighty clever of you, having the self-discipline to make all your potions and remedies, sticking to them. I hear yer having a rough time now that your going grey.”

“You know?!” Emi exclaimed, she squirmed in embarrassment.

“Everyone kinda heard.” Tome said.

Emi began to drown in her mortification. She had really been hoping she’d exaggerated her own noise of despair and dismay when she had discovered her initial grey hair but apparently not.

“Aw, your awright,” Tome said, “your a pretty woman. All you really need is a smile, I promise. You are a smart woman, it's cliche, I know but it really is what’s on the inside that counts.”

“Tome…” Emi murmured.

Her heart began to pound. Her eyes glittered as she took in Tome’s words and her appearance. She was frumpy and she was dowdy, her cardigan was faded and fuzzy at the edge. And yet, Emi found herself falling in love with Tome because her good, kind heart truly was what mattered deeper than anything else.

Her heart still pounded. A heart which had been broken many times before because for all her good looks and brains to match, she couldn’t pick a keeper. She had picked flakes and cheaters and people who didn’t appreciate her for her. Only for her make-up.

But she could feel herself change as she savoured the sensation of a racing heart as caused by gazing upon Tome and breathing in her scent.

“You might be my ideal woman…” Emi murmured, flirting. Her eyes wide and starstruck.

Tome laughed and she waved Emi off, “Now yer just being nice.”

“No, really, I think you are.” Emi said and she shuffled closer along the bench.

She nudged her shoulder up against Tome’s. It was thick and flabby but she radiated a wonderful warmth. Daring, Emi touched her more, leaned into her side and took her hand to hold it. She closed her eyes.

“I think you are a wonderful woman, Tome.” Emi said, cuddling. “I really do mean it when I’m telling you, I think you are my ideal woman.”

“I know,” Tome replied and she rested more of herself against Emi, she reached over and placed her large, chore-worn hand on Emi’s forearm, “you haven’t a mean bone in yer body, you’d never lie. I-I think you're beautiful, inside an’ out, and heck, that might just make you my ideal woman.”

#yugioh gx #femslash #femslashfeb2024 #femslash february #yugioh #gx #emi x tome #tome x emi #ayukawa emi #emi ayukawa #tome (yugioh)#writing tag #ideal woman #clover and violets #clover and violets 2024 #i'm gonna backdate this on ao3 later

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bleachbleachbleach · 1 year

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Fic: Heart Weather

Genre: gen Timeline: post-TYBW Rating: T Characters: Matsumoto (POV), Hitsugaya; visitations by Hinamori, Kyouraku, Renji, Hisagi, Mayuri, Akon Word Count: 16,666 Summary: Living to see the end of a war is not the same as surviving it. In the wake of the Thousand-Year Blood War, the cosmic fabric of Soul Society has been fundamentally altered--and when Hitsugaya gets put in charge of managing the weather, it seems the prognosis can only get worse. Meanwhile, the consequences of his battle with Gerard are starting to catch up with him; and as the body count ticks up ever higher, the tolls of war are going to catch up to everyone.

No body can contain all this grief.

Read more on AO3!

#matsumoto rangiku #hitsugaya toushirou #bleach fanfic #last backdated fic! next step figuring out how I want to do my masterlist… HAHA…#I wrote this over the course of five dark months in 2020 #given it’s an ~anniversary post~ i feel like I should say something more about the fic #but i am feeling anxious and shy about it #maybe later!#bleach #no brain just bleach

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fizzyorange-v2 · 1 year

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i have so many jrwi fic ideas (and fics that i’ve actually already started and finished!) but my brain will NOT let me post them until my huge backlog of unposted but complete fics/unfinished but sizeable WIPs has first been dealt with. most of which are dsmp canon or dsmp au. for some reason i cannot start posting stuff for a new fandom until i am completely unchained from all of that.

idk why but i find actually formatting, tagging and posting a fic i’ve made the most draining part. i think my plan is to try and post one of them at least once a week until they’re all gone. just a big fic dump. i’ve honestly been meaning to post some of this stuff for years, and at this point i don’t care if anyone sees it i just need them uploaded for my sanity.

#maybe I’ll announce one or two of the complete ones i think are half decent when i post them #but i think most i’ll just silently upload and then later backdate #and then it’s jrwi it time baby!!! new fizzyorange era #fizz rambles

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depressinggreenie · 1 year

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✨ New (side) Blog ✨

I've had it on my mind for some time to create a side blog where I can have all my works by itself. Just so it's easier for me to find things. The tagging on my main blog is a mess due to the way I've changed tagging things over the years.

So! I've created this blog. And came up with a simple tagging system so that I can find things easier, and people can blacklist things they'd rather not see 💜.

#Blog Tag #Posting this announcement now so that I can save the date I created this blog.#(Later tag: I've spent 4 long days setting up this blog and it's tagging system 😅#How long am I going to spend reblogging my work here + tagging + backdating the posts + reformatting the posts that need cleaning up?#*Sighs* It will be worth it #I've also fond a nice (Creative Commons 0) page divider for a line break ((Given that Tumbles doesn't support them. Has for years))#Finished Cleaning up the formatting and posting all my works to this blog (3rd May 2023) - 11 Days #Now to Tag all the posts...#Had a day break then got to work #Finished Tagging (9th May 2023) - 5 Days #DONE!!! 🎉🎉🎉#Quickly Realised that the order I reclogged the work with the tags is the order they'd show up in the tags (*Facepalm*).#I had deleted all the reblogs and moved all my works into the drafts (9th-13th May 2023) and am now posting them in the right order(13May23 #Finished posting and backdating (19th May 2023). Actually done now!!#An entre 31 days of work on this

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lgctaeha · 2 months

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「 ❀ 」 ━━ ˗ˏˋ JUST RIGHT !

A bit of Seollal shenanigans with @lgcminseo !

Taeha is no stranger to bouts of homesickness, but something about this time of year always leaves her feeling a bit low. Family traditions, if not completely tossed to the wayside in favor of more training, were always a bit lacking ( if not completely ruined by technical difficulties ). Still, she puts on a smile, appreciative her parent's efforts to rearrange their schedules and place her at the family table while they all ate and chatted. Though, even the act of sitting alone in her dorm room watching them through her phone only made them seem farther and farther away.

And while she felt nothing could compare to being present with them, surrounded by her family's warmth and laughter ( and hearing brother's occasional taunts live and in stereo ) - spending a bit of the holiday with her best friend got pretty darn close.

"Uh, Minseo..." She steps out of the fitting room, trying her best not to stumble over the skirt of her hanbok, extending her arms out to her sides as she waddles over to a standing mirror. "I don't know about this one," she frowns, spinning to face her best friend, whipping her ponytail so forcefully in the process that it fans into her face. "Does this seem a little too big?" She gives her arms a flap and her hands immediately disappear beneath the loose fabric.

#╰ ❮ ❀ threads ⁄ just right ; ❯#╰ ❮ ❀ backdated ; ❯#lgcminseo #( 100000 years later kladsjgd )

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iceskatingmobsters · 1 year

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does anyone remember what time ao3's weird publishing bug is where the work kinda gets eaten? is that still a thing anymore?

#emmy shut up #I wanna publish this before midnight pst anyways but like I swear to god there used to be a thing #where if you published a work at a certain time it would get backdated or disappear until later or something #I also swear it was near 10pm pst or smth too

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aph-japan · 2 years

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* D o . N o t . r e - b l o g

So... this happened

(I haven’t really been re-bl0gging it/following the last few newest series lately {dropped off mid-Zex@l} but...)

{I don’t know if anyone noticed but I’m slowly getting old @.M.V.s onto A03} I did share a few here already but

[I’ll probably start on my old Y.G.O D.M. ones next but... (Yeah this...)] (It’ll probably take a while still though)

#aphjapan personal #(I was hoping it wasnt real but)#(And I was just getting ready to start on the Y.G.O.D.M A.M.V.s)#(but I still have to draft them all)#(I wasn't sure if I was going to backdate or not)#(theyre um quite Old)#(from the 10+ years ago era)#(but I still really love them)#(And they were from an era I really began to brush up on my skill)#(after the initial DigiAdvs slideshow type ones but when I was still newish to vid-edit's)#(I taught myself how to make A.M.V.s ever since that time)#(and I didn't really talk about it but yeah)#(that was after I found out I was di@gnosed)#(but before I was in later sch00l etc)#(So... yeah that time of my life)#(Sorry I didnt talk about it much but)#(Yeah I always knew I was di@gnosed since that era)#(but I'm still really proud my A.M.V.s came even this far)#(I'm still really lazy with using H.Q. footages but I try my best with whats accessible)#(And the A.M.V.s are much more L.Q. looking now after changes to H.D. formats)#(but theyre still barely watchable just kinda pixelated in places)#(Soooo watch my A03 for A.M.V.s things in future I guess but yeah I may back date depending on which are better quality or not)#(everyone else has started to share their old works again because of this and I would I just feel... kind of awkward its been so long orz)#(And that f@ndom too has been through So Much and just . Yeah)#(I hope at least if I share my WishShip and such ones now that I can just like throw them into the void and that'll be that)#(Using symb0ls etc in some places to keep this from showing in Se@rch)#(I keep forgetting but there was also a super old Y.G.O.D.M. x S0nic one I made once too to one of the S0nic ones)#(I never did re find that one after P.C. crashes and I'm still upset about it since it was the first Y.G.O one I made)#(Anyway I dont really want commenting on this I'm just mentioning as like a notice if you see me put things on A03)#(I highly doubt anyone had or even saw the oldest one but if SOMEHOW you remember my old site and saved the oldest ones PLEASE let me know)

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akakumoeteru · 6 months

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Thinking of you.

#��道祖師 #忘羨 #mdzs #wangxian #my art #my art 2021 #忘羨ワンドロワンライ #drawn for JP fandom's WX 1 hour drawing/writing challenge #prompt was poor physical condition #my notes for this say that i ran out of time #so it's very messy #and yeah #i can see that #backdate later

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vidavalor · 5 months

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I LOVE your meta where you say that there's more of the flood and that's when you think they kissed. We got another part of 1941 so we could get more of another scene but do you really think they will? I want it to be a long time ago so much.

Yes. I mean, obviously I don't know because I'm neither involved with GO nor psychic lol but if you asked me to put money (or, worse, my book collection) on one predictive thing I've said on here, I'd put all of it on the ancient times vavoom. At minimum, I'd say it was a bonkers amount of time ago but I'm pretty sure for a few reasons that there's more of The Flood coming in S3 and that it was then. A kiss isn't even the only thing we could see from that part of the timeline, actually, which S2 suggests with the Job minisode, and is another reason to think we might revisit The Flood... we're missing the first time that Crowley called Aziraphale "angel."

We all know Crowley's been calling Aziraphale "angel" for awhile and we know that Aziraphale knows it doesn't just refer to his occupation/species but most of the instances we've heard it are in our modern era. If you're looking at how long this has all been going on for though, S2 already knocked the floor out from under us a bit by backdating the romantic "angel" to 2500 B.C. during the Job minisode. So, now, look again at what we've seen of The Flood in S1:

The Flood: "Hello, Aziraphale."

Crowley barely ever calls Aziraphale "Aziraphale" in GO. He refers to him by his name in front of angels and demons constantly. That is the one time he doesn't call Aziraphale "angel". Probably because he is absolute rubbish at not making it sound affectionate lol. In theory, "angel" is a perfect coded way to be loving towards Aziraphale when they could be overheard and, sometimes, Crowley can make it sound like he's just referring to Aziraphale in the less familiar, despised term and not his name, like it's supposed to sound like. Sometimes lol. (See: "you sound jealous, angel" in the Job courtyard. It's *almost* there lol.) It's supposed to sound mildly dismissive but that demon is mush for that angel so he struggles not to make it just sound like "sweetheart" everytime he says it because that's how he means it. When they're in riskier situations around angels and demons, Crowley doesn't even go there because he knows he can't pull it off and so he just uses Aziraphale's actual name.

The only other times he refers to Aziraphale by his first name is something like when he learns about The Book of Life in S2 and grumbles to himself while alone "Aziraphale, what have you gotten yourself into?" Other than that, there's basically the bit when he's drunk in S1 and isn't actually sure he's seeing Discorporated!Aziraphale or not and whispers "Aziraphale" and there's the above bit from Mesopotamia in The Flood scene, when he shows up and greets Aziraphale by using his name. That's it. Every other damn time, it's "angel", right?

So when he shows up and greets Aziraphale with "hello, Aziraphale" during The Flood scene, that hints that "angel" is not yet a thing in Mesopotamia, right?

So, if it comes later than that, when did it start and... well... what prompted it? Generally speaking, you might have a nickname for a friend you've known for a long time or you might use terms of endearment in a general way with people but neither of those things are the way that Crowley calls Aziraphale "angel." I call my closest friend a shortened version of her first name and I call you all on here things like "my loves" and "babe (platonic)" and you know that I don't know you personally and that we aren't in a relationship lol. It's not tonally the same thing as calling your partner a term of endearment with a more intimate meaning and that's what "angel" is in Crowley and Aziraphale's relationship. By making it so that "angel" wasn't something Crowley was saying in an "angel (dismissive or attempted dismissive way)" that evolved into "angel (romantic)", they're coming out and saying that "angel (romantic)" is all that's really ever been there, with some attempts at making it sound more dismissive if they could be overheard. If it's all that's ever been there, then it had to start at some point and if it's always been "angel (romantic)", then we could assume that some bit of romance might have prompted it.

So, we're saying you can probably track how long their relationship has had a romantic element to it that they've acknowledged by tracking how long Crowley has been calling Aziraphale "angel" and if you start doing that, well...

It wouldn't make sense for it to be when they both were angels so anything pre-Eden is out (plus, Crowley might not really remember it anyway). While Crowley calls Aziraphale "an angel" on the wall in Eden-- "you're an angel, I don't think you can do the wrong thing"-- it's not the same as the affectionate "angel" he has basically made a substitute for Aziraphale's name in the future. So, it's not in Eden and it's not the next bit that we've seen chronologically, which is what we've seen of The Flood since, as we know, Crowley showed up and said "hello, Aziraphale", indicating that "angel" still isn't a thing by what we've seen of Mesopotamia... but then, the next part we see on the timeline is the Job minisode in S2 and, well...

Job: Four. separate. different. instances. of "angel"...

The first is "you sound jealous, angel" in the courtyard when Aziraphale says that demons can do whatever they want. To date, this is technically the first time we've heard this, chronologically-speaking. Only, it's not the first time Crowley's said it as it's familiar to both of them.

This same scene also results in the birth of "Crowley" in the future. It's why Crowley chose to call himself "Crowley" when he changed his name and what makes "Crowley" the same thing as "angel", just in reverse. What's of note there is that S1 gave us the scene at the crucification of Jesus wherein we see Crowley tell Aziraphale that he changed his name to "Crowley" and we don't really fully understand it in S1. We're happy for him. Seems a healthy thing to change his name when he's been through a lot of things. We're happy to refer to him as "Crowley" from here on out, right, but we don't really know what the meaning of his new name is to him or why it seems to have significance to Aziraphale. They don't tell us that until S2, when they give us the Job minisode and are all 'here is the origin story of what Aziraphale has called Crowley for thousands of years' and what does it do? It makes that scene between them in Golgotha kinda smolder, doesn't it? Because now, that scene you didn't have all the information to understand fully at the time is now something you understand as Crowley telling Aziraphale that he changed his name to something only the two of them will ever really understand. That's some passion at The Passion of the Christ, eh? lol

Following the courtyard instance of "angel" in the Job minisode, there's "are you sure, angel?" when Crowley is lighting everything on fire. This one is playful. This one is a little knowing, like he absolutely knows for sure that Aziraphale gets what he's saying and they're both bemused by it. Aziraphale responds that he's "quite sure" and he isn't disappointed. The "angel" here is coded. It's "sweetheart" in the middle of playacting at being demonic and Crowley knows that Aziraphale gets the joke but also for Aziraphale to get it-- for him to hear Crowley saying it here and in the courtyard prior and for him to get the tone of it... to be that sure, he'd have had to hear it before. The first time Crowley said it in the courtyard, it did not sound like it was new to either of them. This started before Job.

Later, there's "Blasphemy, angel? That doesn't sound like you" after Aziraphale says "oh my God" when they run into God talking to Job. This is the first instance of Crowley using "angel" when they're alone and unlikely to be overheard. It's not even an isolated one because then we have the last scene in the minisode and "I'm not taking you to Hell, angel." The Job story establishes that Crowley's just been calling Aziraphale "angel" in every instance where he can make it work since some time prior to 2500 B.C. and we still haven't seen when that began. We've seen the origin story of "Crowley" but they haven't shown us the first time Crowley called Aziraphale "angel" in that way he does... but they *have* told us via the same minisode in which they also explained the "Crowley" origin story that it first began an absolutely ridiculous amount of time ago lol. They've slapped it right down immediately after what we've seen of Mesopotamia on the timeline. They even make Aziraphale and Crowley establish that timeline for us at the start with Aziraphale saying "haven't seen you since... The Flood?" (with the most 'he knows damn right well when the last time he saw Crowley was' tone ever lol) and Crowley agreeing. This means we're missing more of The Flood, which is also hinted at in the plot of Job, which hinges on the idea that Aziraphale doesn't think that Crowley is murderous, which seems like it needs more than just Crowley being like "wow, this is pretty horrible" in his reaction to God's plan to drown everyone in the scene in The Flood that we've already seen.

So, if it's "hello Aziraphale" in what we've seen of The Flood already but then it's "angel" every other word in the Job minisode that follows it, the origin story for "angel" that we're missing is set between those two stories and if they haven't seen each other in Job since The Flood, then there's a The Flood, Part 2... so, if the first kiss was Mesopotamia and it's also the first "angel"... then we're talking about Aziraphale reacting to that first romantic "angel" in the same part of the story as this whole vavoom-y kiss. Every. single. "angel". in the series. is going to be tied to that kiss if they put them in the same scene. What are we all going to do when the secret language, sleight-of-hand show reveals the vavoom they've been stealthily referencing in every other fucking scene for the entire series? lol

#ineffable husbands #good omens #good omens 2 #crowley #aziraphale #good omens meta #aziracrow #good omens speculation #good omens theory

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radical-sky · 8 months

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Shelter, part 1

don't you ever leave me alone, my war is over, be my shelter from the storm

One year post-Fallout, Ilsa joins the IMF, partnering with Ethan and his team. After their first mission goes catastrophically wrong, Ethan sacrifices himself in a desperate bid to save Ilsa's life. Believing he failed and she's dead, Ethan suffers the consequences of the unsuccessful mission. Five months later, the team - and Ilsa, get him out.

pairing: Ilsa/Ethan

wordcount: 4.1k

warnings: 18+ minors DNI, violence, graphic depictions/descriptions of torture and the aftermath, pregnancy, very minor mention of a suicide attempt.

AO3 (user restricted) here

ENDLESS thank you to the truly amazing @agentfaust for the most thorough, in depth, and detailed beta anyone has ever given me. You are phenomenal babe!!

Ilsa can’t remember the last time she was tempted to fidget, all nervous ticks trained out of her before she was even with MI6. The old habits have never been as tempting as they are now, standing in a cold and damp third-world prison waiting for Ethan to be brought out to her.

Well, not just her. The White Widow stands next to her, her brother not far away. He scowls at Ilsa, not happy to be here and not happy to risk his and his sister’s lives on a job for her. It’s nothing sanctioned (if any members of your team are caught or killed, the secretary will disavow any knowledge of your actions) but the moment Benji had finally, finally found Ethan the team had gotten things moving as quickly as possible. Luther and Benji worked their computers nearly 24 hours a day, and Ilsa called favors and made connections in country wherever she could. Even Brandt was helping, pulling strings and doing as much as he could legally behind the scenes while staying their inside man at the IMF.

Luther or Benji (it doesn’t matter now because they both had been trying their damnedest to get it done) had hacked into the security system in the prison; cameras in every cell, interrogation room, the hallways. Not that any of them needed to see what they were doing to Ethan (in the two weeks since she first saw him on the grainy camera feed it’s all she sees when she closes her eyes, doesn’t need audio to hear his screams and the sounds they rip from his throat, or backdated footage to catalog what tool made each scar or bleeding wound on his body. Those pictures will be seared in her brain for all eternity. She wants and yearns and rages at the sacrifice he made for her, for them, and falls asleep with a screen playing live footage from his cell in her lap, showing him pressed back into the corner of the tiny cage, curled up protectively, shivering or trembling she can’t tell. Wishing she could tell him somehow I’m coming. I will get you out. I haven’t forgotten about you. you’re not disavowed to me. I’m sorry. I’m so terribly sorry Ethan).

They don’t have to watch the footage for long to decide that any escape that depends on Ethan getting himself out won’t happen. Without government backing and even with Brandt’s help they don’t have the resources or the manpower to storm the prison and break him out. That left one option, and it wasn’t one that any of them liked. The White Widow hadn’t been the least bit interested in taking a call from Ilsa until she’d said John Lark needs your help.

The team had debated on how to refer to Ethan, desperately wanting to keep his identity as an American agent secret. They knew he hadn’t revealed it, the terrorists would have auctioned him off or killed him if he had. The White Widow knew him as John Lark, and that was all it took. From there Alanna was easily bargained into breaking him out. To Ilsa’s trained eye she could tell Ethan intrigued the other woman. It wasn’t a jealous realization, wasn’t even a shock. It’s Ethan - people are drawn to him, he’s magnetic without even trying or meaning to be. Without even being in the room he can convince people to take jobs that are completely against what they usually do. Ilsa can speak to it herself, she knew she was burning a bridge when she saved him the first time, but despite her past, she couldn’t watch Vinter kill him in the most painful way possible. She’s never been in a relationship like the one with Ethan, drawn in and ready to sacrifice the mission for someone else. Ilsa had been ready to be out of the game for a long time, before Kashmir had believed that it would never - could never - happen. Ethan changed that. Changed her reasons for wanting out. She didn’t plan on falling in love when she tossed him the key in London.

Breaking him out had been the original plan, but when Zola studied the camera footage, guard patterns, and security he decided it would cost too many men. A second plan was formed, and the White Widow had brokered a trade as diplomatically as she always had; the prisoner who was arrested after a motorcycle accident on terrorism charges 5 months ago traded for cash and enough weapons for a small personal army. Ilsa knows she should be as worried about what the weapons will be used for as the rest of the team, but even though she is part of them now, she operated differently for so long that she’s almost forgotten what it’s like to have those concerns. It’s Ethan, surely any price is worth his freedom? (Deep down Ilsa knows Ethan would disagree, loudly, with his dying breath, that his own life is not worth a single innocent life.) Benji and Luther had come up with a secondary mission, running alongside the retrieval to guarantee there would be no innocent lives lost because of the weapons traded for him. It took another week for Alanna to acquire the weapons, leaving ample time for the team to gather the cash for Ethan and the separate cash for Alanna, one-half of the price for her involvement in the exchange. Alanna, just like the terrorists, had also required a two part payment, unable to pass up an opportunity when it presented itself to her. Ilsa doesn’t worry about the other half of Alanna’s fee, it's a problem for later. After Ethan is back and healed and whole again. She hopes he won’t be too furious with her for agreeing to it on his behalf.

So, now here she is. Not fidgeting. Not twisting her ankle or flexing her calf muscles and imaging she can feel the rods and pins holding her leg together, or the scar where her tibia bone punched through the skin of her calf, not twisting her arm and feeling knitted scars where the bones ground together excruciatingly.

And above all else she’s not resting her hand on the barely there bump on her stomach, the bump invisible and hidden beneath a loose blouse and trench coat. Invisible to everyone who doesn’t know her and Ethan’s secret.

———

The first mission wasn’t supposed to be like this.

It was supposed to be easy and wonderful and the start of the greatest partnership of his life.

So of course, like everything else in his life, it went to shit in 5 minutes.

He and Ilsa had never exactly named The Thing between them, except that it was theirs. He didn’t tell Benji and Luther (although greatly suspected Luther knew and Benji was suspicious), and Ilsa being a free agent didn’t have anyone to tell. They were each other's greatest secret, greatest weakness, greatest compromise. Because they did compromise each other. There was no question after they’d saved each other so many times, sacrificing the mission for them. The Thing started simply. After handing Lane off to MI6 they spent a week in London exploring each other's bodies carefully around broken ribs and bruised necks (and how he had enjoyed adding his marks to her neck and having her hands on his chest) telling stories and sharing the private, secret parts of themselves no one else knew - then a night Cape Town, a weekend in Moscow, six hours in Brussels, two days in Paris, traveling 8 hours to spend half that time in her hotel room in Athens. Whenever they could and their schedules overlapped enough, or if they even happened to be in the same time zone, they were together.

After Julia, he didn’t think he’d ever feel this way about another woman.

Any chance he could he’d pull her into his missions. Anything to have her by his side. Ilsa was always available and never said no. She was traveling a lot, but he didn’t think she was taking any other jobs as a free agent, waiting for him to call her and almost always close by. Ethan had wondered many times if she declined jobs and traveled to follow him, just close enough it was convenient. When Brandt told him Sloane had given him the approval to extend the offer of a permanent position with the IMF - with Ethan’s team - to Ilsa he was perhaps the happiest he’d ever been. The two of them together - partners - properly, permanently.

He never thought he’d be considering marriage again either.

So it really shouldn’t have come as a surprise when it fell apart. The plan failed. His backup scenarios ran out. There were no more moves, no more chess pieces. So when he wrecked and went down, Ilsa dead in his earpiece, Benji too late to save her, a part of him, all hope, died with her. When he saw his pursuers approaching he was relieved, he’d never been so ready or willing to meet death than in that moment. To go where Ilsa would be waiting for him. He was already halfway there, a piece of rebar in his chest, internal injuries too numerous to catalog, his leg didn’t feel right, arm wouldn’t lift. Ethan closed his eyes, ready for the bullet that would end his life.

He certainly hadn’t expected them to take him alive, put him in the hospital, and get him just healthy enough that he’d survive the torture, and survive he did, but not as Ethan Hunt. As something else, a shell of a human. All hope lost. No prayer of rescue. He knew he was disavowed and no help would be coming. He tried to escape, more than once. Each time failed and each time it got worse. So he kept his mouth shut and took what they gave him. Didn’t utter a word except for the screams and shouts when it became too much. He’d already failed everything and everyone else. He couldn’t fail here. Couldn’t stand to betray his country on top of it all.

When his captors told him he was being traded for goods more valuable than him, he knew he had to end it or escape. He couldn’t do this indefinitely. Eventually, he’d break and the shell would crack and he’d be human again. So he plotted and planned, and when they came for him he knew what he had to do. His final mission, the last plan, the one to end it all.

———

The far door opens with a clang and three guards file in, dragging a body by a chain between them.

She’d known it would be shocking seeing him again and was already braced for what condition he’d be in, but she wasn’t quite prepared for how awful it would be to come face to face with the consequences of her own failures. How jarring it’d be to see Ethan so still and lifeless, compliant. She would’ve guessed he’d die before giving up.

Ilsa is the cynical one, she knows the harsh realities and cruelties of this world. She’s practical. She’s been the torturer and the assassin with no regard for the lives she’s affecting. But not Ethan, it was never supposed to be him that faced down the darkness of her world and had to, somehow, come out the other side. Ilsa has already done that. Too many times to count. It’s made her who she is and she’s not prepared to be on the opposite side of that. Ilsa had been alone for so long before him and no one had ever protected her like this before - sacrificing themselves to shield her from her own mistake. She hopes it hasn’t destroyed Ethan. Taken away his loyalty, compassion, the ability to see goodness in everyone, or the desire to protect everyone. It takes every bit of her not to step forward and cradle his body to hers when another guard grabs his legs and the two men toss Ethan into the center of the room.

Ethan hits the ground with a thud and multiple wet coughs.

“Fucker tried to kill himself. Been a long time since he’s had that much energy.”

Fury, hatred, and grief all ripple through her at the words, but the man spoke in his native tongue, one she isn’t supposed to speak. She keeps her face and body language impassive. This isn’t a man she’s deeply in love with. He’s a job, a mission required in the course of her duties. Nothing more than the man her employers want her to hunt down and bring to them.

If only it were that simple.

Ilsa steps forward and crouches in front of Ethan, fisting her hand into his hair. She pulls up harshly, detaching her mind from her body and what she is about to do. (Her mind is raking her eyes over him, unable to focus on one thing because her attention is immediately drawn to something else. There’s a thick chain fastened around his neck, tight to his skin and surrounded by some of the deepest bruising she’s ever seen. The end of it trails out from his neck, a mocking and sick impersonation of a leash. His hands are bound behind his back with rope that’s splotchy bright red with new blood and dark almost black of old, dried blood. She can’t see the skin of his wrists. She doesn’t want to. He’s shirtless and Ilsa can count his ribs where they protrude from his chest and the vertebrae of his spine down his scarred and bleeding back. She can identify where and what bones of his bare feet and hands have been broken and healed wrong because she’s done that, she’s broken those bones on prisoners before. She wonders what his legs look like under the ripped and torn tac pants he’s still wearing from the mission. Each breath rattles in and out across lips that are cracked and bleeding. Her eyes jump across him and she is seething, furious, ready to burn down th-) Ethan’s glare is still defiant when their eyes meet, and before he recognizes her he spits a wad of blood and saliva into her face. He starts to speak in a hoarse, raspy voice completely foreign to him “you might as well just kil-”

He cuts off as he realizes it’s her. Almost instantly his face collapses into the most profound display of grief and heartbreak and utter relief she’s ever seen. It’s an expression meant to be carved in marble, painted and displayed in a museum, or preserved in a book for all eternity but not on someone's face. Human beings aren’t supposed to look like that, especially not at her. Not for her, when she’s done so much wrong. There’s blood running from his bruised nose and congealing in the sparse hair on his lip. The smack she delivers to his face adds more to it.

“Хуй!” She swears in Russian and wipes her face as she stands and pushes Ethan away.

There is a simmering beast of rage burning within her. She has killed and tortured and maimed and done things that haunt her. Nothing will haunt her as much as the way his face instantly shuts off, all the emotion in his expression a moment before disappears. He doesn’t flinch or wince with the slap. Just takes it, and flops motionless to the ground. He’s nothing, a blank slate as if Ethan is gone, and here is his corpse.

“This is the target.” Ilsa still speaks in Russian, accent perfect, with no hint that it’s not her native tongue. No hint of the swirling emotions within her. She nods to the prison warden. Alanna, face a perfect mask, passes the backpack stacked full of cash to him.

“We can continue with the exchange then. I assure you, it’s all there. Couldn’t stay in the business like this if we didn’t ensure all terms were met on both sides.” Alanna says, perfect smile in place. Underneath it though, her skin has paled a shade. Shocked by the brutality Ethan has suffered.

The man takes it, a slimy grin exposing yellow teeth as he hands it to another man who excuses himself to count it.

“When my man confirms it you’re free to leave with him.” He rakes a dirty hand through his greasy hair and sends both women another nauseating smile.

Only in your wildest dreams, Ilsa thinks as she nods to him again. She expected nothing less, to everyone else this is nothing more than a business transaction.

The room waits in silence, save for Ethan’s rattling breaths. She glances at the White Widow whose face has gone another shade paler as she looks more closely at Ethan. Her brother behind her looks grim but is no longer glaring at Ilsa.

She refocuses on Ethan. He hasn’t moved since she slapped and pushed him back to the ground, hasn’t even turned his head so his face isn’t resting on the floor. His breaths begin to take on a wet quality and she steps over to him with less urgency than she feels. Ilsa pauses when she gets to him as if she’s considering, and carelessly uses her foot to push him up and onto his shoulder, the closest she can get him to the recovery position.

“Can’t have you dying before my employers get their hands on you can we?” She says, her voice low as she crouches back in front of him, trying to meet his eyes and communicate with just a glance like they used to. His stare is dead ahead, eyes unfocused. There’s a small pool of blood where his face was just resting on the ground, more running from his nose and mouth. It’s concerning, but not enough to be immediately life-threatening alone. She’s not sure if paired with the rest of his injuries and the disassociation it’s a significant concern.

She stays crouched by him, listening to his breathing and watching his chest rise and fall jerkily, winces as she can his broken ribs flex and expand under the skin that’s practically molded to them he’s so thin.

Ilsa stands when the outer door opens and the man who counted the money nods.

The warden looks at them, “It seems our terms have been met, the terrorist is yours. My men will move him to your vehicle. It’s a pleasure to do business with you, perhaps next time we’ll meet under more pleasurable circumstances.”

Ilsa wants to punch the man square in his smug face, maybe whip around his back and break his neck with her thighs. Instead, she nods and motions two guards forward.

“Carry him. My employers will not appreciate any more damage to the goods.”

The warden translates, and there is a brief bickering back and forth before the guards begrudgingly scoop Ethan up by his feet and under his arms. It’s not a long walk to the roof of the compound, but it still concerns Ilsa that Ethan doesn’t move or flinch throughout the journey no matter how many times the guards carelessly let him bump into the walls of the corridor.

Outside on the roof, the light rain from when they arrived has lifted, leaving the air damp and chilling to the bone. She instantly wants to shiver and pull her coat tighter around herself.

Ilsa points to the helicopter she arrived in, indicating where she wants the guards to set Ethan. They toss him in, none too gently. She dismisses them with a flick of her hand and they retreat back inside. She nods at Alanna and Zola, as they climb into their own helicopter.

Alanna has to shout over the sound of both helicopters spinning up, “I trust you’ll ensure he’s well healed by the time I need to call on the second half of my payment.”

Ilsa nods again, not needing another reminder of the other half of the agreement, “You have my guarantee.”

She nods to them in dismissal before ducking under the spinning rotors, stepping up into the helicopter, and sliding the door closed with a satisfying thunk when it latches. She reaches forward and taps Brandt, behind the stick of the chopper, on the shoulder, giving him the signal to fly to their first rendezvous point with Luther and Benji. His gaze is focused on Ethan, worry written in every wrinkle of his face.

As gently as she can she rights Ethan, crouching on the floor and leaning him against the fuselage of the helicopter. He’s still out of it, gaze empty and unfocused. Ilsa blinks back sudden wetness in her eyes and swallows a choking feeling rising in her throat before dragging the first of the multiple medical bags towards her, fishing a pair of medical shears out of a front pocket. She begins to reach behind Ethan to cut the ropes on his hands when he makes an almost imperceptible sound of pain, barely audible over the sound of the helicopter as it lifts in the air. She’d have missed it if she wasn’t leaning over him. As quickly as she can she leans back, gently cradling his body to rest back against the fuselage. His eyes are red and bloodshot, one swollen, and the other already surrounded by bruising. But they are staring directly at her, locked onto her face, his expression a mix of fear and hope, an open book to her always.

“Ilsa?” He asks in the same shattered voice as before.

“Yes, it’s me. It’s me.” She drops the medical shears and cups his cheek with one hand, the other cradling the back of his head, her fingers tangling into his hair.

Ethan is staring at her with so much intensity it’s almost overwhelming. Like she’s an oasis in the desert and he’s drinking her in, a dying man and she’s the thing he needs to survive. He leans his cheek into her palm, pressing into it and nosing into her wrist, eyes falling shut for the briefest moment before they snap open and he pulls his head up like it’s the hardest thing he’s ever done, eyes locked back on her.

“You’re real? You’re alive? This is all real?” Ethan’s eyes are brimming with tears and he’s not even trying to blink them away, afraid she’ll disappear if he takes his gaze off of her for even a millisecond.

She presses a kiss to his forehead, “It’s all real. I’m real, I’m alive. You’re alright, you’re okay.”

Ilsa swipes her thumb over the bruise under his eye, catching a tear as it falls and watching as his face crumples with relief. She pulls him into her, tucking his face into the side of her neck, pressing her own cheek on top of his head, one hand still tangled in his hair, holding. I’m here. I’m here. I’m here. We’re both alive. You’ll be okay. The other arm wraps around him carefully, avoiding the worst of the wounds on his back and holding him close for the first time in five months, pressing them together, and wishing she could lay her claim on him. She’ll never be able to protect him entirely, but damn if she doesn’t wish she could. Soon she’s crying too, silent, as Ethan shakes in her hold.

I love you. I love you. I love you. She thinks.

They’re safe. Together. Alive. A weight she didn’t know was on her shoulders lifts, relief coursing through her so powerfully it leaves her feeling breathless, overwhelmed, and exhausted. There is a fine tremble running through her hands. She almost didn’t get this; holding him, kissing him, loving him.

The baby kicks, shifts inside of her and she holds back a gasp. The doctor who had performed the surgery on her leg had consulted an OB after confirming she was indeed pregnant. After the surgery, there had been conversations - what to expect and when, how often she should be coming in for check-ups, and more dietary and health recommendations for herself than she wanted to think about. The list had been endless, but she had been out of it with pain, grief over losing Ethan, and overwhelmed with shock that she was pregnant after a lifetime of being told she couldn’t conceive children. But now, thinking back, the doctor had told she’d start to feel kicks and movement around five months. Even with tears on her face, she smiles a bit. He’s already like his father with perfect timing. She presses more kisses to Ethan’s hair, making her way down his face with gentle touches of her lips to his skin, ghosting over his eye, trailing across his cheekbone, and collecting salty tears until she gets to his mouth. He surges up to meet her, pressing them together desperately and with more force than she thought he was capable of. Ilsa smiles into him, god she missed this.

Meet your dad, little man, he’s the best of us.

an: anyone catch the sneaky little line of dialogue i stole from rogue nation in there?? title of this fic and the lyrics at the beginning are from the war, by syml. also, xуй means dick in Russian

taglist (i made this from people who showed interest, please don't hesitate to ask to be removed (or added!!), absolutely no hard feelings): @valmare @thethistlegirl @alcafrach @izzypuppybutt

#mission impossible #ilsa faust fanfic #ethan hunt fanfic #mission impossible fic #ethan hunt #ilsa faust #ethan x ilsa #ilsaethan #ethanilsa #ilsa x ethan #rad writes #my writing

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jedusaur · 10 months

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PSA to fic authors because I just realized I've been missing new stuff because of this: if you save a work as a draft on AO3 and post it days or weeks later, it will backdate to the day the draft was created unless you specifically change the date when you post, and it will show up in date-ordered searches below everything that's been posted since you created the draft. if you want your fic to be seen by people who check the tag often, you gotta make sure to change that date!

#fandom #text #my shit

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freyjawriter24 · 10 months

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AO3 is down, so I'll have to post this there later and backdate it, but...

Today's 10th July, which means there's only 18 days left until Season 2 of Good Omens!

To commemorate this momentus point in the @gomenseveryday countdown, please enjoy the little fic below the cut...

August 2008: 11 years until Armageddon

Aziraphale was trying desperately not to think about it too much. He was failing, of course. But really, how could he be expected to just forget? This was, quite literally, the end of the world. And even if it was still eleven years away, well, that really wasn't long at all, if you thought about it. Which, despite his best efforts, Aziraphale certainly was.

He'd tried putting on some music to distract himself, but that had failed dismally, too. What a Wonderful World, Louis sang, and the angel couldn't help but picture it as a mourning song, covering everything Aziraphale would be heartbroken to lose when the war destroyed it all.

He'd quickly changed the record, but for some reason the next, usually upbeat track suddenly sounded sinister.

Everyday it's a-gettin' closer,

Goin' faster than a roller coaster...

Oh dear. Eleven years really wasn't much at all, was it? He wished Crowley were here. Why had he only agreed to meet with him the following morning? That was hours away. And in the meantime, he had to sit with memories of destruction and the echo of Buddy's words circling around in his head.

Everyday it's a-gettin' closer...

August 2009: 10 years until the Apocalypse

A decade left, now. Only a decade. Crowley had slept through more than one of those by accident, and now it was all the time they had remaining until either the Earth was annihilated or they, impossibly, miraculously, succeeded. Ten years.

You wouldn't think it, looking at him. Warlock Dowling, the Antichrist. It didn't feel real, watching the rise and fall of his chest as he slept. He was still so small. One year old, and so much potential held within him. He looked like any other human child.

Still, ten years. Just a drop in the ocean in Crowley's lifetime, but for a human – a human child in particular – that was aeons. They had time. Time to guide him, time to encourage him, time to carefully balance the good and bad impulses in him so that Hell would fail and Heaven would be denied their war. They could do this. They still had time.

August 2010: 9 years until the End of the World

"It's admirable, really," Michael mused, only half sincere.

"Naïve, is what it is," Gabriel grumbled. "And now we're getting yearly check-ins, as if anything at all is going to change."

Michael nodded sympathetically, and shuffled some paperwork on her desk. She wouldn't have minded Aziraphale's visits really – it often made for an entertaining change of pace, watching him attempt to make his busywork sound important – except that they always seemed to leave Gabriel in a bad mood.

"Well, at least you've got less than a decade left of that to go."

"Yes!" Gabriel said, brightening. "Only nine years left, and then war. What a delightful thought."

Michael smiled. "Glorious indeed."

August 2011: 8 years until the End Times

"I don't get it," Beelzebub muttered.

"He always did like going above and beyond," Dagon reasoned.

"Yeah, but yearly check-ins? It's just pointless. We know the child is going to be evil, he's the Antichrist, for Satan's sake. We don't need constant updates just to state the obvious. Certainly not every year."

Dagon shrugged. "I think he just likes showing off. Fair enough, really. He's been doing some outstanding work up there. It's only demonic that he come and gloat." The Lord of the Files rifled through a damp-looking cabinet, and pulled out a mouldy-looking folder. "Have you seen what he did with the global economy the other year? I'm thinking of sending him another commendation for that."

Beelzebub hadn't, but didn't want to let on in case Dagon launched into an explanation. "Why doesn't he come and give us presentations on that, then, rather than some snivelling child?"

Dagon raised an eyebrow. "Because you'd hate that too, and understand it even less. He's not stupid. Don't you remember the M25?"

Beelzebub groaned. "Okay, yeah, fair enough." There was silence for a moment, broken only by the steady drip of yet another broken pipe. Then: "Do you trust him, though?"

Dagon snorted. "No. Of course not."

"Good. Just checking."

"Like I said, he's doing it for his own benefit, not ours. Self-obsessed little prick, prancing his pet project in front of us every year. But at least it's only for another handful."

"Mmm. Suppose so."

Beelzebub looked gloomily into a corner, lost in thought.

Dagon sighed and slammed the filing cabinet shut. "Want to go torture someone for a bit?"

"Fuck yes. I thought you'd never ask."

August 2012: 7 years until the Destruction of Earth.

Everyone was so happy this year. London was buzzing with the energy of it all, the weather seemed determined to echo the mood, and Warlock was picking up on the collective indulgence in the simple joy of living.

You wouldn't think there was only seven years left of all this.

They took him to the Olympic Stadium, and the O2, and the Velodrome, even though he was probably still too young to understand all the rules and nuances of the sports they were watching. He loved clapping and cheering, though, and would do so regardless of who won, calling out with pride when Kenya got gold, when France did, when China did.

Thaddeus was getting more and more red in the face with each passing win for another country, but Nanny Ashtoreth's sharp gaze stopped him from doing anything about it. She'd had the forethought to warn him in advance that there would be no stifling of Warlock's joy this summer, as he was far too young to be trying to understand the nuances of the geopolitical landscape his father occupied.

Harriet sat fairly quietly the whole time, trying not to look bored, and clapping politely whenever either the USA or UK did well.

When it came to his birthday towards the end of the month, Warlock's parents got him a bike. A simple gesture, but one surprisingly aware of their son's interests.

Nanny carefully fitted a pair of stabilisers to it, and Brother Francis gifted Warlock a set of knee pads and elbow pads, alongside a helmet printed with an illustration of grass and ladybirds.

Warlock learned quickly, and took great joy in shouting out garbled imitations of Olympic commentary as he cycled around the garden.

"And Warlock Dowling cwruches his enemies under his heel, shooting stwaight into first place and winning five hundred gold medals for Team GB. And, uh, America."

Nanny watched with pride, and ignored the flutter of nerves that whispered that she might be doing a better job at influencing the child than her counterpart, and all that would mean.

August 2013: 6 years until the start of the Second Angelic War

Brother Francis tried not to think too hard about it all while he neatened up the flowerbeds for the garden party that afternoon. Warlock was turning five, and miraculously the weather had speckled the garden with enough rain overnight to keep everything looking green and vibrant without threatening any ruination to the outdoor celebration that was to come.

Five years old. Six years left.

He tried not to think about flaming swords and burning wings. Tried not to consider what might become of this garden in a few short years if they failed. Tried not to imagine what would happen to the Antichrist himself if he accepted all his inborn power.

"Brovver Francis!" came a high-pitched call, and the gardener turned to see Warlock – still tiny, really, barely more than a toddler – running across the grass towards him, Nanny following protectively just behind.

"Hello young Master Warlock. And happiest of birthdays to you! How old are you now?"

"Four," Warlock said, a little uncertainly.

"Ah, you were four, weren't you my little Prince of Darkness," Nanny said, crouching down. "But today is your birthday, and that means you get to add one year to your age! So how old are you now?"

"Five!" Warlock said brightly.

"Yes, you clever little cherub!" Brother Francis beamed.

Cherub? Nanny mouthed over Warlock's head.

Francis raised his eyebrows and shrugged slightly. Ashtoreth rolled her eyes.

"Almost halfway to conquering the world, aren't you, my little charcoal dove?"

The gardener gave Nanny a look then, too, but she just smiled, a touch wickedly.

"Come on then, Warlock, let's let Brother Francis finish his work so everything's ready for your party."

"Okay Nanny! Bye Brovver Francis!"

"Goodbye, Warlock!"

Only six years left.

August 2014: 5 years until the End of Humanity

Warlock was turning six this year. He was very excited.

Six was bigger than five, and four, and three, and two, and one. It was much bigger than zero. Not quite as big as seven, true, but six was a very good number. It did lots of clever things with factors and division, which Warlock liked, and it had a special sort of meaning when three of them were next to each other, which Nanny liked. And three was half of six, too, so even better. Warlock liked maths a lot.

Six was also over halfway to eleven, which Nanny said was going to be important. That was when he'd come into his powers and rule the world. Mummy said it was when he'd go to big school, too, so maybe that was what Nanny meant. But either way, he was over halfway there now. Six was a very good number.

August 2015: 4 years until the Events of Revelations Come to Pass

Warlock had been looking forward to his birthday, as usual, until he'd learnt from his father that seven-year-olds don't have nannies, they have tutors, and that meant Ashtoreth would be leaving him soon. The child was heartbroken, and even Nanny couldn't console him for several days.

He seemed to cheer up a bit, though, when he met the first of his two new tutors – Mr Harrison, it appeared to Thaddeus and Harriet, was exactly the sort of no-nonsense teacher that little Warlock needed to get over his childish attachment to his Nanny. Warlock looked up at his new tutor in awe, and chose not to suggest otherwise to his parents.

The changeover day was to be his birthday, when neither Nanny nor tutors would be required, and it thus marked a turning point in young Warlock's life. But he knew he would be safe. Growing up wasn't all that scary when you had trusted people there to protect you. And, as it turned out, Mr Cortese looked rather familiar too. Maybe the future was going to be okay after all.

August 2016: 3 years until the End of Days

"Maths! Why did it have to be maths?"

"I don't know. I can't imagine where he gets it from."

"Makes no sense at all."

Warlock was thriving in his lessons, but that was the one thing Mr Harrison really couldn't get over. Maths.

"I mean, if it had been anything else..."

"Well, perhaps it's our fault. We really should have learnt enough by now to keep up with him on it."

"Yes, but..." Mr Harrison spluttered for a moment, unable to articulate his thoughts. "It's maths."

"Point taken."

The only maths Mr Harrison was capable of doing at the moment was subtraction. Specifically, counting down from eleven. And he was getting shockingly close to zero now...

August 2017: 2 years until the Day of Reckoning

Mr Cortese was getting rather into this teaching lark. He hadn't done much of it for centuries, but the knack hadn't left him, and he was rather enjoying things. Pity about the maths, but he was less distraught about that than his counterpart.

He just had to remember that this wasn't forever. It was a temporary measure, designed to prevent the end of the human race and all life on earth.

He didn't like reminding himself of that. But needs must. He shouldn't lose sight of the goal.

Not that Buddy was letting him forget any time soon.

August 2018: 1 year until Judgement Day

The tutors both got Warlock's birthday off, and so Crowley and Aziraphale were holed up in the bookshop, celebrating dismally the one-year-left anniversary.

"It will be fine, won't it?"

"We've done all we can."

"Not quite yet. Still a year left."

"Yes. A year."

They sat in silence for a long while. Well, the outside world was silent – Aziraphale could still hear the echoes of an earworm he'd had for the last decade, insistent and unrelenting. He began to tap his foot absentmindedly.

"What's that you've got there, angel?" Crowley asked after a few moments.

"Hmm?"

"What's in your head? You're tapping."

"Oh. Yes." He sighed. "Buddy Holly."

"...Buddy Holly?"

The angel sighed again, then got up and put the offending record on. The upbeat music filled the bookshop, and the demon winced.

"Ah. Buddy Holly."

Everyday it's a-gettin' closer...

August 2019: Adam Young's 11th Birthday

Adam opened his eyes. Yes. Today was the day. Eleven years old. He he grinned up at the ceiling, then scrambled out of bed, still grinning, and headed downstairs.

Today was going to be a brilliant day.

#my writing #fanfiction #good omens #GOmensEveryday #everyday it's a-getting closer #aziraphale #crowley #warlock dowling #archangel michael #the archangel fucking gabriel #beelzebub #dagon #adam young

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