#the tragedy of getting one cup perfectly and then the other comes out wrinkled | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

magioftheseas · 2 years

Text

Conversations Overlying Rough Memories

Summary: Even as we try to move on and talk about fixing things, we still get shaken up by our past turmoil.

Rating: T

Warnings: References to trauma and implied abuse.

Notes: It’s Hinata/Kamukura day over in Japan right now! I figured I might as well finish up some WIPs for the occasion! And here’s one! I can’t exactly remember where I was going with it, just that it was one of those post-canon hurt/comfort pieces that I started before dr3 was announced. It’s rather short, but I hope you enjoy!

Commission? Donate?

It was just any other conversation at first.

“Recently, I went to a city that Naegi’s sister was working in...” Hinata stopped for a moment, wracking his head for the city’s name. “...Touya? Touka?”

“Towa?” Yes, that clicked in perfectly. Hinata nodded, but then gave Komaeda a silently questioning look. The white-haired male shrugged, smile twitching the slightest bit and laugh coming out like a puff of air. “Lucky guess.”

It sounded reasonable enough—Hinata was on the brim of the city’s name after all. Still, that smile on Komaeda’s face was really making him wonder. It wasn’t with the usual cheer when he made a correct assumption, it was more...downbeat. Suspicious.

“That’s a lie, isn’t it?”

“Not entirely.” Komaeda admits it so quickly it’s a surprise. “I’m a bit familiar with Towa City actually. Originally it was owned by a family of the same name. Relatives of the Future Foundation resided there for a while, and they had air fresheners to combat the toxic air that transpired over the course of...the tragedy. But I guess you know that, don’t you, Hinata-kun?”

Hinata stared at him, his red eyes piercing. “You seem to know more about it than I do.”

Komaeda looked unsettled at that. “I only remember bits and pieces, Hinata-kun.

He did. Naegi told him a few things and he’d even asked his sister about it, too. Komaeda must have bought the lie though, given that he looked a bit unsettled before perking right back up.

“Well, the more you know! I don’t know if that information’s going to help you on the next visit there, but background info’s a nice thing to have, I think. How are the people there though? Not too violent still, I hope?”

Komaeda chuckles like it’s a personal joke of his.

“You would hope,” Hinata mutters right back. He suspects there’s more to it. Why wouldn’t he? It’s Komaeda, after all.

But because it’s Komaeda, he doesn’t pursue the matter further.

It’s another night where Komaeda thrashes awake—one that comes admittedly sooner than Hinata had expected.

“Easy,” Hinata orders in a voice that sounds too cold—one that almost makes him flinch but mercifully makes Komaeda still in his grip. Hinata blinked, and before unease and panic can bubble up within him with the revelation of who exactly he sounded like, he pulls Komaeda close. He cups the back of his skull, pressing Komaeda’s face into his shoulder—dutifully ignoring Komaeda’s still harsh, heavy breathing—and presses his lips to Komaeda’s hair, his tone significantly gentler. “Easy, easy.”

Compared to how he’d been squirming earlier, this stillness should have been a relief. But instead, in a fashion he truly expected from Komaeda in all the time he’s known him, it’s like a switch was flipped in place of being settled. Komaeda was frightfully still, his breathing steadying, and Hinata not knowing what else to say other than ‘easy’ can only stroke his hair and gently murmur that word again and again.

He doesn’t even immediately pick up on Komaeda’s one hand—previously and furiously fisted in the sheets—now gripping onto the back of his shirt, still clenched and most likely bleeding out wrinkles that would be a pain to iron out.

Komaeda does squirm again, but this time it’s to adjust himself so that his chin is propped over Hinata’s shoulder, pants puffing directly into his ear with the change though Hinata doesn’t shiver. His grip starts to loosen, his swift heartbeat against Hinata’s beginning to settle along with his breathing, and Hinata runs his hand down his hair to note its softness despite the frailty and some of the tangles from his thrashing.

“Tsumiki-san said that a lot,” Komaeda murmurs, voice so low and soft that for a second it could have been imagined. Then he continued. “Then and now, she said that a lot.”

Hinata can’t say anything else.

“It’s not the same anymore, but sometimes it feels like it is. It still feels like everything that happens...happens for her sake.” That dip in his tone, how it was both brimming and breaking on the emotion bubbling up within on that one pronoun. Hinata knows who he’s talking about—Komaeda always had the same tone when speaking about her. On the boat and after his memories began to return like with Hinata’s. “She’s still there, isn’t she? Watching this with a sickening smile on her face as I squirm and Tsumiki-san is laughing...”

“No.” Hinata stops him, and it takes too long for him to realize that his hold on Komaeda is too tight. “She’s not there. No one’s here except me. She’s never coming back.”

“But you always will, won’t you, Hinata-kun?” That spontaneous change in tone again, but this time, it’s more of a lilt, and he can already hear Komaeda’s smile. It’s not a perfect change; he can still hear the breaking. “Whenever you leave, you’ll always come back to me, right? You always return...”

“Yeah,” Hinata agrees, tucking a bit of fringe behind the other’s ear and pressing a kiss to the corner of his jaw. Komaeda’s laughter is like the weak tinkling of dented bells. “I’ll never leave you alone—not if I can help it.”

Not when I know what you’re capable of alone.

“Right, because you have luck too, don’t you? I wonder who’s going to win. Probably you. Most likely you. You defeated her after all.” Komaeda trembled a bit, but it was with mirth, and he nuzzled into Hinata’s neck. “Even compared to a wretch like her, I know that I’m just...”

“Komaeda.” He does respond at the name, his voice trailing off into an incomprehensible grumble and Hinata’s so close to holding him close and telling him not to worry she’s gone you’re still here you’re not—

“Hinata-kun,” Komaeda returns, and his voice is low and almost dead. “If you win—if you break me... I don’t think I’d mind that at all. If anyone is going to win, I’d like for it to be you.”

Hinata shallows, and just shakes his head. Komaeda sighs, pulls back, and kisses him so that the actual protest can’t escape his lips.

“So tense...” The whisper then was another one so soft and low he might have imagined it. But he couldn’t have imagined the next words because his chest seized with them, “She was never...”

Next thing he knows, he’s the one kissing Komaeda to keep him quiet.

As he lies there with Komaeda snuggled up against him, he can’t help but wonder if the two of them will ever be able to shake off the specters of their past.

Kamukura is wrapped thick around his neck like tendrils keen on dragging him to the ocean’s depths. That might never change.

And as for Komaeda...

“How are the people at Towa? Not too violent still, I hope?”

Komaeda murmurs softly and sweetly in his sleep. He nuzzles into Hinata’s chest, and one could be fooled into thinking the two of them were lovers. Sometimes, Hinata wishes they were. At least things could be simpler.

Alas.

It’s best to not pursue that line of thought further.

“How tiring...”

#hajime hinata #hinata hajime #nagito komaeda #komaeda nagito #KomaHina #Magi fics #sdr2 spoilers #sdr2

11 notes · View notes

rosy-cheekx · 3 years

Text

I Want To Be A Real Fake

@kaiserkorresponds said: Black and White + "I want to be a real fake" + formal clothing <3

Prompted fic that I haven’t been able to stop thinking about since I received it! Hope you like it, Kaiser!

Jon would not consider himself fashionable. He has a distinct sense of style, yes, but that style lately has been Tired-Academic-Works-in-a-Cold-Office,-Steals-Sweaters-When-Necessary-core. Not exactly suitable for the business casual dress code The Magnus Institute “requires” (no one seemed to pay attention to the Archive staff’s choices of attire), but certainly not suitable for the small rectangle of cardstock Elias Bouchard hands him, on a quiet spring morning in the Archive.

“What’s…what’s this?” Jon asked, staring at the neat, printed text as if it was Greek. (If it were Greek, at least, he could decipher parts of it. He was an English Lit student, after all, and he had really enjoyed etymology.) The card was a stiff black and white, with the black owl logo, the symbol of the Magnus Institute, printed in the top middle. Glancing down at it, he saw a date, and the words: “black-tie.” Shit.

“My apologies, I forgot how tired your position tends to leave you.” Elias’s voice was prim and polite, but Jon still winced inwardly. “As a head of a department, you are now strongly encouraged to attend the fundraiser I host in April each year. Our donors are fascinated by our departments, and especially the Archives. Gertrude’s disappearance has raised questions as to her successor, and I trust you can assuage the concerns of our donors at your accomplishments in the position.” Jon chose to believe that Elias’s keen eye didn’t sweep the mountains of paperwork that surrounded his desk as he surveyed the small, poorly lit office. “I’m certain you’ll be able to find appropriate attire for the occasion.”

He turned on a heel, halfway to the door before seemingly considering something. “Ah, and Jon, one more thing. Gertrude always requested she bring an assistant. Would you like to do the same? I am happy to accommodate one more for the catering count.”

Jon snapped his mouth shut, utterly dumbfounded by the responsibility just thrust upon him, and nodded mutely, before clearing his throat. “Ah-um, yes, I would appreciate that. Does it matter which one?”

“Someone who can make a pleasant impression, please.” Elias raised an eyebrow, nodded almost imperceptibly, like he had made a decision, and rapped his knuckles on the doorframe on the way out. “I trust your judgement.”

Jon counted to thirty, to be certain Elias wasn’t coming back, and slouched into his office chair, scanning the save-the-date again, without the immense pressure of Elias’s eyes on him.

“The Magnus Institute Fundraiser Gala,” it read below the embossed owl, within a thin black border. “23 April, 7-10 pm. Black tie. Catered.” Jon traced the owl with the pad of his finger, flipping the card over to see, in Elias’s thin cursive: Make a good impression, Jon.

God, this is going to suck.

“Sasha, come on.” Jon wasn’t one to beg, but desperate times and all that. He had cornered her in the breakroom, while Martin was on a research trip and Tim was getting takeaway from the chippie down the street. “It’s only three weeks away, and you’re the one I trust the most. Please.”

“Jon,” Sasha sighed, smoothing her skirt patiently. “I would if I could, I swear to you. But my sister’s wedding has been planned for months, I’ve already requested time off, and I can’t undo all that for a work party.”

“Fundraiser,” Jon corrected instinctively, even as he signed in resignation. “Fine. I just really didn’t want to go alone.”

Sasha scoffed, shaking her head to herself as she opened the fridge and pulled out her bagged lunch. “You have two other assistants you know. What about Tim? Or Martin?”

Jon wrinkled his nose at the thought of bringing nervous, rambling, doe-eyed Martin to the gala. “God no. Martin would be too much; I need someone who can handle themselves and hold a decent conversation. I need someone who can attend a black-tie gala and look more at-home than me.” A withering look from Sasha.

“So why not Tim, then? He can do all those things.”

“Do all what things?” Jon jumped and spun around to see Tim, carrying a grease-spotted bag in one hand and a paper soda cup in the other. He surveyed Tim in a moment: the button-up shirt, red and printed with tiny black balloons, sleeves rolled to the elbows. Sunglasses pushed to the top of his head, dark black hair artfully mussed. High cheekbones dotted with freckles, and what Jon swore could be the faintest bit of eyeliner.

“Tim, would you like to go to a fashionable, catered work party with me?”

“Boss,” Tim lowered himself to a knee and held out his soda solemnly. “I thought you’d never ask.”

“Tim, that’s backwards. The kneeler isn’t the one who accepts,” Sasha chuckles helpfully.

“You’re just jealous of our love, Sash!”

Good Lord.

Jon was really hoping the food would be good. He was in Tim’s flat, in the toilet, checking himself in the mirror one final time. His hair was carefully braided, courtesy of Tim’s deft hands and coiled into a thick bun at the base of his skull, gold and emerald hairpin snugly in place. His suit was nice: a respectable white shirt, dotted with tiny lime-colored flowers he had to strain his eyes to see, under a dark green suit jacket and matching trousers. The suit itself was cut in a rather androgynous style, pulling tight at Jon’s waist in a way he rather liked, and contrasted beautifully, he thought, with the smooth brown of his skin. He flicked an invisible piece of lint from his thigh and, satisfied, stepped into the hall to tell Tim he was ready to go.

“Tim, I’m all-woah,” the exhale was accidental. Tim’s suit was certainly not subtle. He was wearing a deep blue turtleneck, hair perfectly coiffed. Over the turtleneck, the suit jacket was white, a spray of water-color flowers in all shades of blue and purple shifting with every movement. The navy blue heeled suede boots on his feet accentuated his already-tall frame “Tim, you look good,” Jon breathed.

“Ouch. No need to sound all surprised. I know I clean up well; I dirty pretty damn good too.” Tim chuckled and adjusted his sleeves. “You don’t look so bad yourself, Mr. ‘I don’t want anything too crazy.’”

Jon grinned shyly, rocking on his heels of his own, less intimidating dress shoes. “I like it, I think. It feels nice.” The excitement over how good he felt in the clothes had, all too briefly, suppressed the impending doom he was feeling about the evening’s events. “Are you ready for tonight?” he asked for what must have been the fiftieth time, spinning the solid black ring he wore around his finger.

“Yes, Jon. Talk about the reorganization process as a structural renovation, converting files to audio formatting for future accessibility, don’t talk about artefact storage even a little, don’t get caught up with anyone too pretty, I get it.” His voice was flat, bored by the repetition. “This is going to be fine.”

“What-what if it isn’t, though, Tim? What if they ask about Gertrude or how their money is being used, o-or how the restructuring is going? I can’t bloody well tell them I’m using a tape recorder that’s probably older than I am.”

“Jon,” Tim’s well-manicured hand was on his shoulder, nails the same blue of his turtleneck. “Take a deep breath. For Gertrude: be honest. It was a tragedy, and you hope she’s found, but until then you’re doing your best to act on her wishes as her replacement. And for the rest, be vague. Restructuring is going ‘as well as can be expected’ or ‘is running quite smoothly with the help of your three wonderful assistants.’” He winked. “And tell them you’re using a multimedia system, that’ll confuse those old boomers enough to move topics. And it is technically true. Laptops and a tape recorder are multiple medias. Anything else we can riff, you know? I can talk with the best of them.” He eyed Jon meaningfully. “This will be fine. It’s one night. And we’ll get chips after. Promise.”

Jon nodded and closed his eyes, breathing steadying. He was grateful Tim had been available. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad.

“So, how did you know what black tie meant?” Jon asked, eyeing Tim across the seat of the cab. They’re on their way now and Jon’s hands are steepled tightly, pressing his fingertips against each other until it hurts to do so. “I had to Google it last week when I went shopping, in case we had to wear literal black ties.” He needed to talk about anything, anything but this stupid fundraiser they drove steadily towards.

Tim grew silent for a moment, considering his words. “My brother was an extra in a movie once and started dating a stylist for one of the leads. He fibbed his way into getting us tickets for premieres, so I’ve made my way through a few high-fashion events.” He shrugged, fiddling with a thin silver bracelet along his wrist, were Jon knew the letter D was carved in delicate cursive. “I like it, too, you know? Dressing up for events. It makes me feel debonaire, like a spy.”

Jon shook his head in disagreement. “Makes me feel fake,” he mumbled, eyeing the lorry floor beneath them. “Like everyone knows I don’t belong. I hate having their eyes on me and knowing they’re better than me.”

Tim prodded Jon with his elbow gently, raising his eyebrows in a comforting manner. “That’s it though, isn’t it? We aren’t fake. We worked our way here. Hell, you’re the boss of an entire department, Jon. We’ve gotten to where we are in the Institute because we deserve to be here. And anyways, everyone at that party next week is gonna be fake. They’re pretending to care about our jobs, and we pretend to care about their money, and they pretend they’re even the ones who write the checks and not some snooty financial advisor in Wales.”

Jon shrugged, trying to keep himself from biting back that he wasn’t enough, didn’t earn this spot, that Sasha deserved it more than he did and was doing nothing to prove to Elias he was up to the monumental task of being the Head Archivist. He didn’t, though, and instead took a steadying breath, nodding to Tim’s comforting words.

“And anyways,” Tim continued, shrugging. “Even if we have to be fake for a night, it’ll be fun. We get to be a part of ‘the queen’s high society,’” he added in a high-pitched, overly fake RP accent, eliciting a chuckle from Jon. “And Rosie said the catering Elias orders is divine. Apparently we should keep an eye out for tiny samosas?”

As if on cue, the cab shuddered to a stop. Jon thanked the driver, paid, and followed Tim out.

The Institute looked different under the pretense of wealth and success. It was still the same building of course, but the floor was clear of the rain mats and the smooth marble floor paved the way to the library, the main sitting room of which had been cleared as a rather respectable grand hall to host a party. Tables lined the cordoned off books, hot plates and silver trays steaming slightly. Bottles of wine lined a bar, behind which a vested individual with slicked-back hair was pouring small glasses and taking orders. A quiet orchestra completed the scene, cello and piano in a delicate duet. Before tonight, Jon couldn’t have imagined this many people in the Institute alone, least of all the library. Not that it’s packed. There’s maybe thirty or so well-dressed individuals milling about, the din of conversation white noise in comparison to the floating of the music.

Tim’s hand is on his back, pressing kindly into his spine. Oh yes, he remembers dimly, and nods, allowing Tim to guide him into the library and hand him a glass of wine. They stand out a little, two beacons of color around what is a pretty drab spectrum of black and grey, save for a few spectacular dresses in the crowd. Jon finds he doesn’t mind it, except that it may lead to unwanted conversation. It’s not his looks he fears being judged on, but that he be found wanting when it came to his capabilities. He was always selectively self-conscious like that, some things utterly meaningless, others inexplicably important.

Jon isn’t a huge fan of wine, but he finds himself clinging to the glass as a lifeline as he and Tim meander through the crowds, largely ignored. The music is intoxicatingly simple; he finds himself caught up in the deep reverberations of the cello as they walk, feeling it deep in his chest. There were, in fact, samosas, as well as small cannoli, and he and Tim piled plates as high as they could without garnering stares.

There weren’t many people Jon recognized; he didn’t even see Elias as he scanned the crowd for faces. Wine in one hand, a plate in the other, he thought maybe the night wouldn’t be too bad.

Jon shivered, the sensation of being stared at prickling the back of his neck. He spun around, trying to appear casual, and spotted Elias at last. He was standing with a large man, broad and wearing a deep blue suit, scruffy beard a mix of tawny and white. Elias crooked his finger, smiling primly. As Jon made his way over to the pair-who he could’ve sworn he hadn’t seen previously, he was intercepted by a short bald man in a plum velour suit, leaning heavily on a cane.

“Ah, Archivist,” he smiled warmly, extending a hand to shake before seeing Jon’s hands were full, and nodding his head instead. “Congratulations on your promotion. Elias has told me he expects great things from you.”

Jon smiled politely, glancing over to see Elias and the other man gone again. Regretfully, he turned his attention back to the man. “It’s a shame about Gertrude, yes, but I’m hoping I can do her proud,” he said in a practiced tone. He glanced over his shoulder. Where was Tim? He was just with him.

“Of course, of course. I was hoping I could have a word?”

“W-with me?”

“Yes, you see, I was rather concerned when I heard Gertrude’s position had been left open. When Elias said you yourself where at the junction to take over, I wanted to meet you for myself. I worry about the Archivists in your institute, so many of you do such monumental work for so little recognition. Do you worry your work to be meaningless? Your name insignificant when it is all said and done?”

(It is this conversation he remembers, months later, when he demands to record Prentiss’ attack. He refuses to be another mystery, a name on a placard to be wondered about.)

“I-ah, yes? No?” What was the right answer here? Jon stammered out a half-assed reply about doing his best, midway through when he felt a hand firmly on his shoulder, where his neck and collarbone met. Glancing to his peripheral, he saw a golden ring, an eye, and was frustratingly grateful to hear the cool tones of Elias Bouchard over his shoulder.

“Now Simon,” he said, voice even, “you aren’t trying to scare my dear Archivist, are you?” He gave the shoulder a squeeze but remained put. “Jon, I believe you’ve heard of Simon Fairchild, a significant donor to our establishment.”

Jon nodded wordlessly, not really listening to the two bureaucrats delve off into some topic or other, craning his neck to look for Tim. The music had picked up, he registered dimly, a orchestral melody led by a violin, sharp and whimsical.

“Jon?” Another squeeze to his neck, and Jon tried not to wince. “Wouldn’t you agree,” Elias asked, voice patient at surface level. “That the best way to move forward is to restructure the Archive?”

Jon nodded, trying to recall the answer he had rehearsed. “Yes, ah—my team and I have worked quite hard at recording the statements a-and organizing them in a way that will last long-term.”

“Ah, what a delight,” Simon—Mr. Fairchild—said warmly. Jon was reminded of the voices adults would use when they spoke to him as a child, when his inane facts about space or etymology had moved from endearing to obnoxious.

The conversation lasted for what felt like days, Jon feeling rather like Mr. Fairchild’s cane: a statement piece, contributing nothing to the conversation but unable to find a smooth exit. Leading questions from Elias led to thankfully rehearsed answers before Simon found his own exit and walked away smoothly, eyes wide and taking the room in.

“I-I really should find Tim,” Jon muttered, glancing around the room anxiously.

“Nonsense. He’ll be back,” Elias said, releasing Jon’s shoulder and taking his elbow in turn, “I would like to introduce you to a few dear friends of mine. I believe Tim is keeping one occupied at present.” Jon sighed inwardly (and maybe outwardly as well) and allowed himself to be led around the room. His wine glass was empty, as was his plate and he found it snatched away by a member of catering. He had nothing to cling to, to keep his hands busy, and was struggling not to pull out his delicately-placed hair pin just so he could fiddle with something.

Jon was taken on a tour of old rich people of England. Names flew past him, conversation buzzed around him, and still Jon felt like nothing more than a well-dressed trophy to be ogled at. Did Gertrude do this every year, he wondered dimly. No wonder she disappeared. He fiddled with the ring on his finger, nodding and smiling at the appropriate times, speaking when needed, and feeling the swirl of the orchestra build up in pressure behind his eyes. The music was beautiful but hard to listen to. Something about it was ugly, hiding a dark secret behind the innocent melodies.

Eventually, the evening was so much of a blur that he couldn’t even begin to fathom how much time had passed. It may have been weeks, may have been merely twenty minutes. Jon glanced down for his watch before realizing he had taken it off at Tim’s flat and never strapped it back on. Pity. It only added to the dreamscape reality he seemed to be participating in.

At last, Elias led him towards the large burly man that was suddenly in view (hadn’t he always been? Jon wasn’t quite sure. The wine must have affected him more than he thought with the nerves) and Jon saw Tim, similarly trapped in conversation as he had been. He smiled apologetically as Jon and Elias approached and the larger man smiled warmly at the newcomers.

“Ah, Archivist. I hope you don’t mind I stole your companion away briefly. I was curious about the nitty-gritty of your Archive. Timothy here was very informative.” Tim winced at the use of his full name and a part of Jon smirked, relating to the sentiment of being called Jonathan or worse, John.

“I’m glad he can answer your questions.” Elias spoke before Jon could open his mouth. “I’m quite proud of the Archive staff. Jon chose well and I am sure the four of them are going to do great things together. Jon, you remember the Lukas family?”

Jon nodded, confused for a second before the man in front of him extended his hand. “Peter Lukas, at your service.” The hand was cold, and a feeling of dismay washed over Jon as he shook it. He couldn’t help the feeling that the shake of that hand was a seal of his fate.

The orchestral music had picked up, a swirl of strings and piano, ascending in pitch until it grated at Jon’s ears. No one else seemed to react to it, however, as the manic notes pulling at something inside Jon’s brain, something he couldn’t explain. It was almost like a migraine, but sharper and deep in his spine and in his ears. Elias let go of Jon’s arm at some point during the conversation with Peter Lukas, a discussion about boats, maybe? Travel? This was the conversation Elias was so keen on Jon being a part of?

As Jon felt that grip relax, the glint of the ring on Elias’ finger seeming to wink at him, Jon took a staggered step backwards. “Mr. Lukas, ah-Peter, it’s been a pleasure. Elias, ex-excuse me.”

Jon turned and dashed out of the library, feet carrying him on instinct through the winding halls and down the stairs of the institute, deep into the Archives. He stopped when he felt his feet echo against the cold, solid lino of the archival storage and bent over, hand on the wall, gasping in shallow, rapid bursts. It was too much, it was too much, he thought he could do this but it was too much and he wasn’t enough for them-

“Woah-boss.” Tim was there. When did Tim get here? Was he speaking out loud? Shit. “Jon, yeah-hey, Jon. I’m here. You’re okay. Take some deep breaths, okay? You’re going to black out if you’re not careful.”

Jon felt his suit jacket being shrugged off of him and the newly allowed freedom of his shoulder helped. He took a deep, sputtering breath, the sweet oxygen flooding his system and sharpening his thoughts.

“The-the music and the talking,” he said under his breath, Tim craning to listen without infringing on his personal space. “Too-too much.”

“The music? Jon, hey, hey, just focus on calming down, okay? That was a dick move of Elias to separate us immediately. I was talking to that Lukas guy for way too long. Not even sure what we talked about. I think he’s just one of those guys.” Jon smirked to himself as he focused on the floor beneath his feet, breathing slowly until his heart rate had resumed a normal rhythm.

“Says you,” he mumbled, eyes closing as he pressed his warm cheek to the cold wall.

“You bastard!” Jon felt a light swat on his shoulder. “I listen to people! I have meaningful conversation; just ask Martin and Sasha and Alexa from Library and Calvin from Artefact Storage. I am practically a professional listener.”

Jon smirked, satisfied with his jab and turned around, now pressing his back to the wall. “God, Tim, I do not want to go back in there.” It was hard to admit out loud, even if the evidence was written all over his face.

“Okay. So, we won’t.”

“What?” the answer was so mind-bogglingly simple, Jon reeled.

“We don’t want to be here. We’ve talked, we’ve eaten. Let’s just leave. I can tell Elias I had an emergency and you had to escort me home, like a true gentleman.”

“Lie to Elias? I feel like that cant end well.” The offer was tempting, Jon hadf to admit.

“I mean, Sasha has keys to my flat. I could ask her to start a fire, if you think that’s sufficient?”

Jon barked out a laugh at that. “Ah, no, lets save a fire for something big. Yes. Let’s-let’s go, Tim. And-er, I suppose I should thank you. For coming tonight. I know its not an ideal way to spend an evening.”

“Are you kidding?” Tim did a twirl, Jon’s own jacket slung over his shoulder. “I look hot. You think I’d pass up an opportunity to dress up like this? You’re dreaming.” He smirked and took Jon’s arm, leading him back up the stairwell. It felt different than Elias’s touch. That had been a cold tug, directional and leashed. This felt…snug, more like a link in a chain than anything else. Comforting, reassuring.

(Luckily, they weren’t laughed out of the Nando’s they popped into late at night. Lemon and herb and spices covered their hands, but they were careful to keep their jackets clean. Jon, when looking back on the evening; remembers this moment, talking and laughing and letting the fresh night air was over them. Elias, Lukas, and Fairchild be damned. He’d deal with that tomorrow.)

#the magnus archives #tma #tma fanfic #fanfic to a tea #jonathan sims #tim stoker #prompt fic #black-tie #elias bouchard #still a dick #peter lukas #simon fairchild #sasha james #me? write everyone BUT martin>#amazing

92 notes · View notes

dercolaris · 3 years

Text

Future

Another translation of a small Scriddler story. I was having a pretty bad day today, so I needed something reassuring. Something that reminds me that everything will be okay soon... Stay safe and sound.

Song: https://youtu.be/PAsY3aTmz2I

The faint rustling of paper sounded as his thin fingers carefully turned the pages of the antique book. A pleasant smell of much too bitter coffee and sweet pumpkin spice was lingering in the air, wafting slowly through all the rooms of the apartment. Jonathan took a small sip of the self-mixed brew, then sighed with a hint of satisfaction. Ever since Harley introduced him to different types of syrups, the former psychiatrist didn't want to do without the added pumpkin flavour in particular. The brown-haired man looked up from his book for a moment and stared out of the window. The icy rain pattered ceaselessly down from the deep grey sky, moistening the streets of Gotham with an even film of water. Again and again, hooded figures wandered the side walks, looking for protection under dark umbrellas and already soggy hoods. A typical late autumn afternoon. Jonathan wrinkled the meager remains of his nose and crossed his legs in a more comfortable sitting position. It was his very first week at home since his surprisingly early release from the Elizabeth Arkham Asylum for the Criminally Insane. His eyes fell back to the open page in his lap, read the next words of the chapter a little absent-mindedly, which, however, no longer made any sense due to a lack of concentration. The lean man put a hand to his forehead and massaged his tense skin vigorously. How could he have suspected that the effects of his own fear toxin could still be felt for several months after inhaling it and sometimes expressed itself in very ambiguous symptoms? The brown-haired man bit his lip. It was extremely frustrating. In addition to occasional panic attacks, terrible nightmares, and persistent paranoia, the inability to stay focused was an unbearable limitation for the Master of Fear. Jonathan snorted bitterly. Was it still right to call himself that? All of Gotham had finally been able to watch him being thrown in the dust by Batman. Live. On camera. Completely scared and on the verge of madness. The only downer was that he actually managed to unmask the Bat and break the spell of a faceless superhero with no weakness. Bruce Wayne. Actually, it should have been way too obvious to everyone. Technical equipment at this level required a huge amount of money, or at least enough resources, to get hold of these developments. The millionaire was the only one in Gotham to own both. Why hadn't any of them ever thought of this possibility? Normally, almost all villains of the underground were convinced representatives of genius and mentally superior in comparison to the rest of mankind. The gaunt man stopped and pushed his bulky reading glasses up his nose. Perhaps that thought had just been to absurd for everyone, because the playboy had played his double role perfectly. The weekly, public appearances at charity events and the other reticence about private life made the heir a typical, clichéd millionaire, who would logically never get his fingers dirty. Who on the right mind would have thought, that Bruce Wayne would actually slipped through the air at night in a stupid costume and beat up criminals in dark alleys? The brown-haired man tapped the dark book cover a few times. Batman was a phantom of the past. The millionaire was believed to have been torn to pieces by a massive explosion at the Wayne manor. However, persistent rumours still lingered that this was all just a farce of the Bat to elegantly disappear from the public viewers. Basically an almost understandable and necessary action, since in addition to countless onlookers, journalists and cameras in particular had besieged the villa without interruption after the unmasking.

Despite this consideration, there was currently no legitimate reason to doubt the millionaire's death. Batman hadn't appeared since the tragedy. There were no sightings and the Batsignal no longer shone in the nights. The superhero had fallen. For good. Of course, that didn't mean that the criminals could do whatever they wanted now. Robin in particular had almost seamlessly taken on the role of Gotham's guardian. He now single-handedly held the villains at bay. Little Red Riding Hood benefited from the fact, that on the fateful night, the Bat ensured that a large part of the well-known underground had already landed in jail and that the streets were reasonably safe. At such times, Robin could of course put a stop to all the small criminals without any major problems. The situation did not last very long, of course, as the main rogues were gradually released. However, it had been worth gold for his entry as sole patron of Gotham. Jonathan heaved himself out of the chair with a groan, then finally placed the book and reading glasses on the side table. He hobbled over to the slightly misted window, stared lost at the rain. Almost a whole year had passed him completely. The weeks in the asylum were like a dark veil in his memory - hardly comprehensible or reconstructed. Only feverish fragments from terrible, nightmare-plagued nights thronged him again and again and haunted him at the most inopportune moments. The former psychiatrist dropped his forehead carefully on the cold glass, closing his tired eyes. He still hadn't decided how to shape the rest of his life. What great opportunities did he still have? He could no longer take up a normal job within society and even if he tried, who would give him a chance after all that he had done to the people of Gotham? People feared or hated him, mostly they did both, and wherever the lean man appeared there was instant commotion. It was now safer for him to only leave the apartment in the late evening hours. Jonathan swallowed a heavy lump in his throat. Was there any other way than turning back to crime? The other villains at least harboured no grudges against him and let the Master of Fear continue to participate with them if he wanted to.

Despite the unexpected support, the brown-haired man felt that his time in the abyss of the city was over. He had practically given up his place in their ranks during long therapy session. In his current state, returning as Scarecrow was out of the question anyway. The former psychiatrist put his torn hand on the glass and gently wiped the haze from the surface. It hurt. It hurt so much. What had he fought for all these years? Teaching people to be afraid had been his job, his life-task and now? It was an irony of fate that a multitude of newly developed phobias in his personality severely hindered his participation in life and forced him to rot miserably like a snail, withdrawn in his own apartment. He was just a shadow of himself, a prisoner of his own fears. The brown-haired man whimpered barely audibly and felt the first tears want to press from his eyes. He had cried enough for his liking in the past few months. To get other thoughts, he pushed himself away from the window and stepped back to the armchair, fished for the coffee mug as he passed the table. The liquid was completely cool by now. Without further ado, the gaunt man left the living room. The dark corridor with the creaking floorboards was just as unbearably quiet as the rest of the apartment. This condemned silence around him. In the quiet, the agonizing voices and screams grew louder in his mind, eventually overlaying his own voice in his head. There was, of course, the possibility to listen to music or to watch some television on high volume, but actually the former psychiatrist didn't want to flee permanently from his inner demons. The Master of Fear strolled towards the kitchen, looking at the slowly emerging clutter at the sink. An army of used coffee mugs. Jonathan smiled a little and emptied the content of the cup in his hand in two gulps. After the work was done, he placed another soldier on the shrinking, free area in the sink. At the latest when there was literally no more porcelain to be found in the cupboards, he had to wash up for better or worse. The faint ticking of the wall clock made him shudder. He no longer had any feeling for time and space. There were days when he looked at his watch and hours had passed in the blink of an eye. At the same time, however, the incidents in which the minutes only passed in slow motion increased, especially during panic attacks.

This constant change made the lean man extremely difficult to stand his mental condition. He didn't want to think about it any further and walked out of the kitchen, considering going back to his book. His mind dismissed this thought after a moment. The concentration would no longer be sufficient for reading today. A loud rumble from the end of the hall made him jumped a little bit. He had gotten so scared. Jonathan turned to the source of the noise and stumbled leisurely towards the small level of light that shone through the slightly opened door. His fingers pushed the wood carefully inward. His room mate and now loyal partner came into sight. The black hair stuck out from his head in a tangled way, partly stuck to his sweaty forehead with a little motor oil, partly covering the dark welding goggles. The green shirt was torn in some places and the greyed-out T-shirt had also seen much better days. The man balanced a wrench in his hands, the other was tightening a nut on a turn. Edward paused for a moment and wiped his nose with the back of his hand, which was fairly clean. He mumbled softly: "Come on, Ed, just a few more screws, a little soldering and the baby will learn to walk again." Jonathan crossed his arms over his chest, watching the distracted inventor. Edward had also spent some time in Arkham, but had been released about four months before the former psychiatrist. Looking ahead, the black-haired man had looked for a spacious apartment outside the centre and meticulously prepared the return of his better half. Much of the underground still couldn't quite believe it. During his incarceration, Edward had touchingly taken care of his distraught partner, revealing unequivocally that they were more than just friends or occasional partners in crime. How long they had shared a bed, however, remained their well-kept secret. The thin man smiled a little, lost in contemplation of his lover. He was immensely grateful to the Riddler, but could rarely show this - he didn't even want to talk about speaking. Both sides knew about it and accepted it tacitly. Still, the tinkerer would burst out from time to time about the lack of affection. He needed constant validation that he was really doing everything right and that he was valuable, somehow useful to his partner.

The former psychiatrist was now ready to give him this confirmation without reservation, on the contrary at the time before his collapse, when such rallies were the exception. Basically, they helped each other in their own helplessness. To his amazement, Edward had also stayed away from crimes since his release and seemed to have no ambition to change it anytime soon. A few weeks after returning to normal life, the inventor found a well-paid job in a small, medium-sized security technology company. He was still eyed suspiciously, but no one spoke up or was visibly resentful. Apparently, the Riddler's deeds were more likely to be forgiven than the hated Scarecrow's destructive rage. A few minutes passed before Jonathan limped carefully towards the black-haired man. Edward still hadn't noticed him, completely absorbed in his work. The Master of Fear considered briefly whether to say something, but then decided against it. The battered arms wrapped themselves lovingly around the tinker's waist from behind, pulling the man close to his bony chest. Edward winced noticeably, but relaxed again in the same instant. He leaned against his partner and muttered, played a bit offended: “What the hell, John, are you out of your mind? Do you want to scare me to death?" The addressed laughed dryly, replied unexpectedly warmly: "This was actually not my intention, Ed, although I have to admit that the thought alone arouses certain desires in me." The Riddler chuckled softly, put the wrench regardless of the metal box in front of him. Finally, he placed the oil-smeared fingers on the former psychiatrist's, gently stroking the brittle and torn skin with his fingertips. The black-haired man was unusually warm. A fact that Jonathan secretly loved about him. He kissed the back of his partner's head gently, held him close to his chest for a moment and felt his own tension release with the passing seconds. Edward's amused voice nestled in his ear: "Don't get any ideas, John."

After a few seconds, the tinkerer freed himself from the hug, turned around with a swing and put his arms around the neck of the brown-haired man. Since they were about the same size, the former psychiatrist could look into the blue eyes of the lively soul in front of him. What he saw took his breath away. The usual arrogance was surrounded by an honest devotion and profound love for him. Jonathan couldn't help but smile. He let his forehead fall to his lover's, breathed unusually calmly against his lips. Edward's skin was covered in goosebumps, a signal that this undivided attention towards the inventor was not going unnoticed. Almost in sync, they both closed their eyes, enjoying the intimate closeness and security in each other's arms. The former psychiatrist whispered softly: "It wouldn't occur to me in a dream, Edward." With that, he further narrowed the distance between their lips, finally sealing them in an auspicious kiss. The black-haired man granted a low, muffled moan and surrendered to the touch. Jonathan let himself fall at that moment, pushing aside all the negative thoughts of the afternoon. The rare cells that were responsible for processing positive sensations began to stir somewhere in his head. Maybe not everything was as hopeless as he thought.

#DC #Batman #arkham knight #Arkham Asylum #Jonathan Crane #Edward Nygma #Riddler #Scarecrow #Riddlecrow #Scriddler #No Fear #Just Trust

19 notes · View notes

creacherkeeper · 5 years

Text

5 + 1 kisses through the years

1. kiss on the forehead

It’s 1148, and Aziraphale isn’t sure these wars are ever going to end. The Holy Land is drenched in blood, and he can only wonder if this was how it was all supposed to go. He doesn’t take questioning the ineffable plan lightly, but one has to pause sometimes, when one has seen something only described as an immeasurable tragedy, and ask if it was really meant to be seen at all. If it was meant to be seen by anybody, immortal and otherworldly or not.

He slinks into the room, just far enough away from the main fray that no one should be bothering him, at least for the night. This building has been abandoned, and he’s sure no one minds if he borrows a bed for a little while. He doesn’t need to sleep, but he wouldn’t mind if he slipped into it on accident. Mostly, he just wants to lie down. His body aches and his eyes sting, and he wants to grip his calloused hands around a pillow and just drift.

Something shifts, and his hand goes to his sword. It’s dark in here, but not so dark he can’t see. Just dark enough that he’d missed the figure sitting in the corner of the room, slumped against a wall.

“I should have guessed I’d find you here,” he says, and he isn’t sure if he means his voice to come out so harsh.

“Where else would I be?” Crowley responds, and he sounds tired. Bone-achingly, world-weary tired. “Where else would anybody be?”

Aziraphale glares, and then softens, his eyes too tired to keep it up. He closes them, one hand coming up to rub with his palm. “Shall we just agree not to bother each other for the night, then?”

Crowley scoffs, his head tilting back against the wall. “You’re the one who found my hiding spot.”

“It wasn’t on purpose,” Aziraphale says, crossing the room to sink down onto the bed. For some reason, the room seems too big, and his head seems too full. His chest aches. He stands again, and this time sits next to Crowley on the floor. The feeling eases.

Crowley lifts an ornate glass bottle and holds it out to him. When Aziraphale puts it to his lips, he expects it to be alcohol, but it’s only water. Somehow, that’s better.

He holds onto the bottle, swirling the contents inside as he stares down at it. Crowley’s head is tipped back, yellow eyes staring at the opposite wall.

“I want this bloody war to end,” Aziraphale whispers. His throat burns, and he takes another swallow.

“I just want to sleep.”

Aziraphale sighs, nodding. His eyes flick to the other side of the room. “There’s a perfectly good bed.”

Crowley swallows, and holds out his hand. Aziraphale passes the bottle back.

“Can’t,” Crowley says, and doesn’t continue.

Aziraphale nods again.

For a while, they sit, passing the bottle back and forth. Aziraphale jumps when Crowley suddenly slams it to the floor, the sound ringing in the quiet room. His body curls in as he raises a hand to cover his eyes. His shoulders shudder, breath shaking and wet.

Aziraphale sits, and waits.

Eventually, Crowley wipes his eyes and settles back against the wall, sniffing harshly in the quiet room. Aziraphale hands him the bottle again, and he takes a few swigs.

He doesn’t know if he’s overstepping, but what’s there to overstep in a war, so he tugs Crowley up by his sleeve and leads him over to the bed. Crowley sinks onto it, a little line wrinkling between his eyebrows as he closes his eyes.

Aziraphale watches him for a moment, the way his hand clenches and unclenches on his stomach, and then leans over to press his lips against the demon’s forehead.

Good sleep. Good dreams, he thinks, and by the time he pulls away, Crowley is already asleep. He turns and gathers the nearest chair, bringing it over to sit by the bedside. He can’t protect them all, but at least he can do this.

2. kiss on the hand

It’s 1612 and they’re getting swept away in the swell of people leaving the theater after the latest performance of Much Ado. It’s without thinking, really, that Aziraphale grabs onto Crowley’s hand to make sure they don’t get separated in the crowd. If he was a more honest person, he would admit that he’s had too much to drink and is a little off his guard, and if he was an even more honest person, he would admit that he’s been thinking about holding Crowley’s hand quite a lot, actually, and this seemed the perfect excuse.

But he’s not, so he doesn’t.

The crowd pushes and sways and jeers and hollers, all thoroughly taken with the comedic adventures of Benedick and the fair Beatrice. A lady too well dressed for this theater pushes past them, on the arm of an equally well-dressed man as she coos, “Well, it was obvious they were in love,” and Aziraphale blushes without knowing why.

“Fancy a drink?” Crowley asks him, shooting it over his shoulder as he finally manages to extract them both from the crowd.

“Oh, I’ve had one too many already, I’m afraid.”

Crowley looks away as he nods, as if to hide his expression. Aziraphale soon realizes he’s looking for something, twisting his head up and down the street. Their hands, he also realizes, remain clasped. He’s not sure what to do about that. He hopes his palm isn’t sweating, he feels awfully warm.

Crowley’s other hand rises and his fingers curl, and it’s probably a testament to his drink-addled head how long it takes Aziraphale to realize he’s waving to the coach that pulls to a stop in front of them. The coach driver peers down at them, and Crowley’s palm against his own burns.

“Ride for my friend,” Crowley says, fumbling in his pocket with his free hand. “Extra coin if you go easy on the turns.”

Money changes hands, and Aziraphale’s fingers come up to tug on his collar. The horse isn’t looking at them too, is it? No, he thinks, he shouldn’t be silly. It’s just a horse. If anything, it’s concerned about the snake by its hind leg. Its hoof lifts and taps a few times.

“He doesn’t bite,” Aziraphale whispers, tongue thick and fuzzy, and both Crowley and the coachman shoot him a look.

“Where ‘ya headed?” the coachman asks.

“Um.” He blinks a few times.

“Towards Leaden,” Crowley supplies, and the man nods and flicks on the reins. The door is opened, and Aziraphale stares dumbly inside.

“Well,” Crowley says, not looking at him. “Probably be around and about in a few years or so. Depends on what plays are on.”

He nods, still not entering the coach. “Well. Then I shall hope the bard’s next won’t be a sad one.”

Crowley smirks, just a little, and Aziraphale doesn’t know if it’s awkward at this point that they’re still holding hands. One of them should pull away first, but he thinks the process should have started a while ago.

“Right,” Crowley says, and clears his throat. Quick as a strike, he pulls Aziraphale’s hand up to his mouth and places a kiss against his knuckles.

By the time Aziraphale can blink, he’s lost to the crowd.

He stands and stares for a while, until the coachman grumbles about his dinner waiting at home and how it’ll have gone cold by now, and Aziraphale gathers his wits (what precious little he has remaining) and pulls himself into the coach. The ride home is bumpy, and the coachman most certainly doesn’t take it easy on the turns, but Aziraphale isn’t paying attention, anyway. The skin of his knuckles is tingling too much for that.

3. kiss on the cheek

It’s 1965 and if Aziraphale has to sit through another Beatles song he’s going to riot. He’s not sure where he’d be rioting, exactly. Not his shop, he’d hate to mess it up. The street? Seems plebian. Where do people go to riot these days? He hasn’t the foggiest. All he knows is that if another youth comes into his shop in a Beatles tee looking for records he’s going to turn into a kettle and scream.

He’s at the piano lounge sipping on a glass of Sherry that he may have aged himself. The pianist is particularly good today—he should know, he got her this job. It had only taken one particularly good recommendation to get her off the street and into a well-paying job. He hadn’t been assigned that one. He just liked her.

A man slips into the seat next to him at the bar, but he doesn’t pay much mind. He’s lost in the gentle swell of the piano and the taste of the alcohol on his tongue.

The man shifts, waving down the bartender. “May I buy you a drink?”

Aziraphale blinks. It takes him a moment to realize what’s been asked and who is asking it.

He smiles at Crowley with the corner of his mouth, not turning to look. “I already have one, thanks.”

Crowley nods, and the bartender pours him a bourbon, though he hadn’t said anything.

They sit in silence for a moment, sipping. It’s been a while since they’ve seen each other, though maybe not as long as it could have been.

After a while, Crowley holds out his hand. “Anthony,” he says, waiting on a shake, and, oh, that’s what they’re doing tonight.

Aziraphale sighs something fond into his glass. He sets it down and meets Crowley’s hand. “Mr. Fell.”

“Mr. Fell,” he repeats, nodding. “It’s a pleasure.”

“Likewise.”

Their hands drop. Crowley turns away and smiles. “Know anything fun to do around here, Mr. Fell?”

Aziraphale chuckles as picks up his glass. “Oh, you’re asking the wrong person.”

“Am I?”

“This is what I do for fun,” he responds.

“Drink by yourself?”

“Listen to music,” he shoots back. His head tilts. “And drink by myself.”

“Well,” Crowley says, laying hard on the ‘e’, “if it’s music you’re into, you ever listen to rock n’ roll? It’s all the rage, I hear.”

“Don’t even start with me,” he gripes, eyeing Crowley’s smirk. “If you even breathe of The Beatles, I shall have to find another seat. I’m serious.”

Crowley’s lips squirm as he tries to fight away a grin. “Just piano, then.”

“Not just. Violin is nice. I love a good trumpet.”

“I bet you do.”

They look at each other for a long moment, and Aziraphale turns away to smile into his glass.

“Well,” Crowley says again, quieter, “if you like music, you must like dancing.”

“I don’t dance.”

“I’ve heard from reliable sources that you do.”

Aziraphale hums, and the sound reverberates in his cup. “I don’t dance …”

“With me?”

“Here,” he finishes.

Crowley’s drink clunks onto the bar. “Then let me tempt you.”

“You are one for that, aren’t you?”

“With the right audience.”

Crowley holds out his hand, for taking this time, and not just a shake. The Sherry swirls in Aziraphale’s glass as he considers. Crowley’s fingers waggle.

“If you make a fool of me …”

“No one will remember, anyway,” Crowley assures him, and this is the first time that Aziraphale feels he’s talking to him, Aziraphale, as Crowley, and not as Anthony to Mr. Fell.

“Very well,” he says, and sets down his glass.

Crowley pulls him to the open floor, surrounded by a dim, orange light and white-clothed tables. Kim the pianist tips her head at him as they pass, and he gives her a smile. There’s no one else dancing, but no one seems to be paying them any attention. It’s just the two of them and the little specks of dust that swirl in eddies around their heads.

His hand goes to Crowley’s shoulder, and Crowley’s goes to his waist. The others are clasped together, held out to their side. They start to turn and twist, slow and languid, and it’s not dancing, not really. It’s the gentle sway of two people who can’t stand to be too far apart and don’t know how to say it.

“This is nice,” Aziraphale says eventually, sometime after Crowley’s hand has been replaced with a whole arm around his middle, and their chests are pressed together, and Aziraphale’s thumb has taken to tracing patterns on the side of Crowley’s neck. It’s not often they do this—the contact. It’s hard to justify when it could spell disaster for either of them. The wrong pair of eyes, the wrong ear, and that’s it, it would all be over. It’s easier to pretend they’re somebody else, two people for whom things are not so terribly complicated.

“It’s always nice to meet a fellow lover of the arts,” Crowley says, as if to remind him.

Aziraphale tries to smile, and he’s sure it doesn’t work, because suddenly a wave of sadness has crashed into his chest. “Quite.”

Crowley sees it on his face, because his lips pull down, and his arm gets a little stiffer as they sway. The song ends not long after, and another one fails to start. It’s the end of Kim’s shift. They’ll be closing up soon.

“Well,” Aziraphale says, throat bobbing. They stop, caught in each other’s arms. “I think I should be going soon.”

Crowley nods, and Aziraphale is glad he can’t see the disappointment behind the glasses. Aziraphale’s arms start to slip away.

“Perhaps we’ll see each other again sometime,” Crowley says, and before Aziraphale can say anything back, he leans forward to press his lips to Aziraphale’s cheek. The kiss lingers, warm and wanting, and Aziraphale’s eyes are closed by the time he pulls away. They don’t open as the warm body pulls back from his, and the sound of his shoes lead to the ring of the door.

He takes a breath and lets it out slow. His eyes don’t open until the hand falls on his elbow. It’s only Kim, the little figure of her at his side.

“He was cute,” she says, head tilting. “Did you get his number?”

He swallows, and his eyes linger on the door for a long while. “I think he’ll find me.”

4. kiss on the stomach

It’s 2019 and the world didn’t end, and his lips are hot on Crowley’s neck, and Crowley is taking quick little breaths beneath him, his fingers digging into Aziraphale’s shoulder blades. He wants to say careful dear, careful, because if Crowley keeps pressing like that, clawing and grasping, Aziraphale won’t be able to keep his wings in. Not that he has to. Not here, tucked safely away in bed, here, with Crowley, where they should’ve been all along. He doesn’t say that, though. His mouth is busy traveling downwards, down to the dip between his neck and his shoulder, down to nip at his collarbone. Crowley gasps and sighs, one of his hands finding Aziraphale’s hair.

I’m sorry I took so long, Aziraphale wants to say, and doesn’t. I’m sorry I waited. I’m sorry I was scared. I’m sorry I didn’t let us have this, what we could have had for so long. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.

He wants to be here, he wants to be present, but the feelings are building in his chest, a six-thousand-year ache of shame and guilt and worry. He wants to spread his wings out, just so there’s more of him, more surface to spread the feeling around. He closes his eyes and kisses down Crowley’s chest, nails scratching at the demon’s ribs. Crowley tugs, and his eyes open. He stops.

Crowley, once he notices, stills below him. His yellow eyes find Aziraphale’s face, and he stiffens.

“What’s this?” Aziraphale asks, moving his hand to trail along it. His touch is gentle, and Crowley’s skin jumps in a shiver.

Crowley swallows. “It’s nothing.”

It’s not nothing, Aziraphale wants to say. It’s a scar. A burn mark, in the shape of a feather. That’s not nothing. His thumb licks the edge of it. Crowley shivers again.

“Is this from …” Aziraphale doesn’t know why he’s on the edge of tears. It’s just that this is something they don’t talk about. Crowley will joke sometimes, sure, or make comments. But they don’t talk about it. Aziraphale always knew that was off-limits.

Crowley’s hand finds his, and he tries to steer him away, but Aziraphale holds fast. He may be the Southern pansy, but he’s strong, in more ways than one. If he doesn’t want to be moved, he won’t be moved, and Crowley knows that.

He’s also weak, and that’s okay too.

He blinks his eyes shut, and the few little tears that escape fall on Crowley’s stomach. Crowley’s fingers come up to brush the wetness off his cheeks, muttering a little, “Don’t. Please don’t.”

“I’m sorry,” Aziraphale says. “I’m sorry, I—”

He buries his face in Crowley’s stomach, his eyebrows furrowing and face pinching as he tries not to cry. It’s a losing battle, because he is, and he isn’t sure he can stop it. It’s just that everything is building up, all six-thousand years of it, the pining and the want and the longing, and the anguish that came along with it. It’s all come to the forefront, right here, right now, and then there’s this. The fall. It’s a little too much.

“I’ve—” Crowley clears his throat. “I’ve tried to magic it away, but … Yeah.”

Aziraphale takes a deep breath, two, then three. His thumbs rub little circles on Crowley’s sides. Crowley twitches as Aziraphale shudders out a breath. Forehead rests against ribs.

“I’m sorry,” he says, gathering himself. He isn’t sure if he’s apologizing for the tears or the scar itself. He pulls back, gazing at it again. It’s long, stretching from just under his ribs to the line of his waist, a perfectly etched silhouette.

“Can …” Aziraphale cuts himself off. He doesn’t even know what he was going to ask. He swallows, blinking a few times, and then leans down. His lips against the scar burn.

Crowley inhales, loud and sharp, and Aziraphale doesn’t pull his lips away. They’re tingling and itching, hot and cold at the same time, but he’s strong, and he holds steady.

Crowley’s hand curls against his neck, and finally, finally, he pulls away. On the edge of a barb, half on the scar and half not, lies the mark of the kiss. It’s fresh and red but growing dimmer already. Slowly, it fades until it’s only a shadow. But it’s there. And there it’ll stay.

5. kiss on the thigh

It’s 2031 and they haven’t left the hospital for three days. It’s been a long time since Crowley was in a hospital, since he was in one for a birth, and though the circumstances are much different, he’s nervous. He’s been pacing up and down the room for the last hour, three cups of coffee gone just today, snapping at every nurse who happens to come their way.

“Labor doesn’t last this long!” he snaps, and the nurse gives him a sheepish expression. “Can’t you- I don’t know- give her something? Is she in pain? Has she slept?”

“I don’t—” The nurse swallows. “-have any more information at this—”

“Then what good are you?” Crowley hisses, and continues to pace.

Aziraphale yawns as he watches him. He’s gotten quite used to sleep, in the years after the apocalypse-that-wasn’t, and sitting in this chair for the last three days, under the fluorescent lights and beep of distant machines, hasn’t done wonders for his brain. He’s foggy and tired, and, he’ll admit, a little cranky. Well. Maybe more than a little. He and Anathema have already gotten into a screaming match, were kicked out by the nurses, and had a tearful make-up in the parking lot. She’s currently asleep against his shoulder, so he knows all is forgiven.

“Crowley,” he grumbles, cheek propped on his fist. “If you keep pacing like that I’m going to make you wait in the car. You’re making me dizzy.”

Crowley stops, and Aziraphale is sure a little steam actually comes out his ears.

“Sorry, your highness,” Crowley gripes, hands waving. “I’ll just plunk down into a chair and not move for the next three days, how’s that? I’ll just sit there and stew until me and the whole building catch on fire, would that be better for you?”

“Anathema,” Aziraphale mumbles, his tired eyes falling shut. He knows she’s awake by how she stirs at her name. “Crowley is being mean to me.”

She hums, and Aziraphale cracks open an eye. She stars patting around for her pocket with hers still closed. The fabric of her skirt gives way to her, and the knife is out and open before either of them can blink. “Crowley,” she says, waving the knife in a sleepy motion, “if you’re mean, I’ll …” The knife drops a bit. “Mmmph.”

Aziraphale pats her arm. “Very intimidating, thank you, dear.”

She nods, yawning as she slips the knife away. “I’m gonna find food, I think.”

“Get me something sweet.”

She nods again, back cracking as she stands. She shoves half-heartedly at Crowley as she passes him, and he spreads his arms and scoffs.

“I want a coffee,” he calls after her.

“No,” she shoots back, and then is through the door.

Crowley grumbles, slouching over towards Aziraphale. Aziraphale pats his leg, and Crowley flops to the floor and rests his head on Aziraphale’s knee.

“Tired,” Crowley mumbles.

“Me too.”

“I want her to be okay.”

“Me too.”

“The baby, too.”

Aziraphale sighs, stroking Crowley’s hair. He’s growing it out again, but after three days here it just looks disheveled and messy. “I know, dear.”

Crowley turns to bury his face against Aziraphale’s leg, groaning. “Can’t you … do something?” he asks, voice muffled against Aziraphale’s skin. Aziraphale usually isn’t one for shorts, but it’s the middle of summer, and they’ve been hitting records for the past week. Plus, Crowley finally convinced him to get a new wardrobe.

Aziraphale swallows, twisting Crowley’s red locks between his fingers. “It’s been a long time,” he admits. “I don’t want to mess anything up. And with the baby’s parentage …”

“Yeah,” Crowley says, tired. “Yeah.”

They sit for a while, Aziraphale running his fingers through Crowley’s hair, growing sleepier by the second. He’s almost out when the door opens, both of them turning to look. They’re expecting Anathema. It’s not. Aziraphale’s heart clenches.

Adam looks exhausted. There are bags under his eyes, a shadow of a beard on his face, and his hair is as messy as Crowley’s. But he’s smiling. Praise where praise is due, he’s smiling.

“They’re both okay,” he says, and he looks like he might cry. “They’re fine, they’re healthy, everything’s fine.”

“No hooves?” Aziraphale says, because he lost his filter about two days into this stay.

Adam laughs. “Ten perfect little toes.”

“We’ll be right in,” Crowley says, and he sounds choked. Adam nods and exits through the door.

Crowley sighs, long and slow, and reaches up to his eyes for a moment. Now that the worry is gone, Aziraphale feels it was the only thing keeping them awake.

“Come on, angel,” Crowley mumbles. “Let’s meet the newest little antichrist.”

“Don’t even joke,” Aziraphale laughs, and his eyes are closed. “Maybe just a quick lie-down first.”

“Mm. Mm-mm, come on.” Crowley groans as he stands. “Where are your shoes?”

Aziraphale hums, his head growing heavier. “Don’t know.”

He can hear Crowley shuffling around the room, checking under chairs and tables. He finds them and gives a little “ah”, and crosses back.

Aziraphale feels the tap on his foot.

“Lift,” Crowley says, and so he does.

Crowley tugs the laces tight, but not too tight, and ties them off in a neat little bow. He continues with the other foot, but doesn’t stand when he’s finished. Aziraphale peeks open an eye.

Crowley is kneeling in front of him, staring up with a look of sleepy adoration. “Sorry I snapped,” he says.

“S’okay.” Aziraphale’s eyes blink slow. “Sorry Anathema pulled a knife on you.”

Crowley chuckles. “It happens.” His hand rises to fall on Aziraphale’s knee, thumb rubbing slow. “Love you,” he mumbles, and Aziraphale’s chest warms.

“You too,” Aziraphale says.

Crowley smiles and leans forward, pushing a kiss against the nearest available spot. The skin by Aziraphale’s knee, just below the line of his shorts. His skin tingles.

“Ready to meet our god-grandchild?” Crowley asks when he pulls back.

“As I’ll ever be.”

Crowley takes his hand, and together they stand. “It’s okay to be nervous,” he says, and Aziraphale laughs.

“I’m not worried about me.”

And together, they cross through the door.

+1. kiss on the lips

It’s 2117, and tomorrow they’re replacing the benches in St. James Park. Admittedly, the wood is getting old, and the bench is getting weak, and it’s quite faded. Still, Aziraphale will miss it. They’ve been sitting on this bench for a long time, and it’s put him in a rather contemplative mood.

“Do you ever think,” Aziraphale starts, “about getting old?”

Crowley turns to look at him, his braided hair shifting on his shoulder. Aziraphale likes that he can see his eyes, now. He stopped wearing the glasses a while ago. With all the new body modifications going around, most people don’t question it. “Just in general, you mean?”

Aziraphale sighs, looking back out at the pond. The ducks flutter and quack, and it’s a comfort. That’s one thing that hasn’t changed after all this time, they still love to come and watch the ducks.

“I mean us.”

Crowley hums, and his thumb strokes over Aziraphale’s knuckles. He turns to look as well. “Yes. Sometimes.”

“Do you ever wish we could? Grow old, I mean.”

Crowley takes a contemplative sigh, adjusting his slouch. “I mean, we could change these forms, if we wanted to. Nothing much would change, but we could.”

Aziraphale squeezes his hand and pulls them to rest on his lap. “I’ve gotten quite used to looking like this,” he says. “But, I don’t know. A change might be nice.”

Crowley turns and smiles at him, and he leans forward. Aziraphale meets him halfway. Their lips meet in the slowest and softest kiss. They’re not in a hurry, they haven’t been for a long time, and it’s enough just to feel each other’s heat and breath and presence. They let the kiss linger, and the change is slow. Slow and fast all at once. Aziraphale’s hair starts to thin, mostly at the front, and his cheeks sag a bit, and there are deep laugh-lines on the corners of his mouth. He can feel the change in Crowley, too, can feel the magical energy against his mouth and in the connected palms of their hands. He breathes in the scent of him, smiles against his mouth, and pulls back. He pushes another kiss against his lips for good measure, short and quick, just because he wants to.

There are new lines around Crowley’s eyes, now. His nose is less sharp. His hair is streaking grey, starting at his temples and twisting down into his braid. His hand comes up to cover Aziraphale’s, and both of them are veined and wrinkled.

“Is this what you wanted?” Crowley asks.

Aziraphale blinks back tears. “Yes,” he breathes. “Yes, it is.”

They sit on their bench and watch the ducks. To an outsider, they look like an old couple, quiet and content. They wouldn’t see quite how old, all the years they have between them, more years shared than the world has existed. But that’s okay. They wouldn’t see quite how content, either, not from the outside. But they are. It took six-thousand years, a lot of strife, a lot of fights, an almost-apocalypse, but they are. They’re together, and that’s how it’ll stay, and that’s more than enough in the end.

#aziraphale #crowley #good omens #ineffable husbands #FELLAS ARE YOU EVER JUST GAY?#five times theyre gay plus one time theyre more gay #you want angst? i'll give you angst. you want fluff? have some fluff #I OFFER THIS TO YOU #please send me prompts #luv u #THANK YOU CALLI AND CHARLY FOR GIVING ME THE IDEA FOR THIS AND HELPING ME CHOOSE KISSES #reblogging with the ao3 in a hot sec

1K notes · View notes

retvenkos · 4 years

Text

9 years

Tuck Everlasting - Miles Tuck x Rose and Thomas and Anna, angst

tuck everlasting month 2020, day 16

A/N: so, first of all, i changed miles' canon age for when rose leaves. also, in the books miles has 2 kids - a boy, and a girl named anna. i, of course, decided to include her because miles with a daughter would have been perfect - exactly what he needed. the emphasis, however, lies in the word would...

Summary: But time has a way of changing things. Her mother had told her once, when she was young enough to wonder what the world had planned for her, that what’s hidden wants to be found. The more you tried to hide something, the more it would work to show itself in small but meaningful ways.

9 years.

Rose had known the Tucks for 9, long years.

She first met them when the family came into town, having just settled nearby, looking for men to help build their would be home. Even then, Angus Tuck was a self-made man. He knew how to build houses (after all, he had made their first home, before it burned down) and was only looking for help on account of his age. He was nearing fifty and wasn’t as spry as he used to be, so he decided he could use the help of another man - someone young, who could follow directions efficiently. Rose’s brother had fit the description perfectly, and a deal was struck: he would help the Tuck’s with building their home, and they would let him use their horse for farm work.

Rose had met Miles Tuck that day and believed they were kindred spirits, of sorts. He was just as bookish and quiet as she, and while he was blunt and occasionally harsh with his words, his heart was well-meaning and made up for his shortcomings. He was 2 years older than her, at the time, and when the Tuck’s departed, her brother teased her relentlessly.

The next morning, she joined her brother in going over to the Tuck’s homestead, helping Mae unpack her things and cook a large dinner for the men on an open fire. They bonded, speaking of literature and culture, technology and faith. Those days were simple and happy, spent bonding with a family she adored and learning about the world they had come from. There was quite a lot of world, beyond Treegap, New Hampshire, and to hear about it was fascinating.

After a long day’s work, the four men would eat as though they hadn’t seen food in years. They would thank Mae and Rose, praising their cooking, and would have a smoke afterward. Jesse would sneak off sometime before the pipes were pulled out, and Miles would drift away from Angus and Roses’ brother, not caring for conversations of hunting or fishing. Rose would sit beside him, quietly, and start up a conversation with Miles, the two smiling and laughing in the firelight.

When the cottage was finished, Rose helped Mae move the last of her valuables indoors and sighed. “I suppose I no longer have an excuse to come and bake with you.”

Mae had smiled, and there was something in her eyes that sparkled as though she knew a secret. “As long as Miles lives here, I’m sure you’ll find a reason or two.”

Rose had stuttered, thoroughly embarrassed by the older woman’s words, and Mae said nothing further on the matter. When she said goodbye to the Tuck’s, Rose couldn’t look Miles in the eye.

As they walked home, her brother looked at her with raised eyebrows. Rose shoved him and told him to shut up.

Miles had called on her a few weeks afterward, asking her if she’d like to take a stroll through town. She had smiled, then, admiring the redness in his cheeks and the sincerity in his tone. They courted for a year, and on a beautiful autumn day, they had gotten married.

They had vowed to love each other. They promised to stand by one another and let nothing come between them. They had sworn to be honest with one another, no matter what.

That had been 7 years ago. Rose was 22 and naive to the ways of the world.

Now, staring at her mother, a six year-old Thomas playing on the ground beneath her, and another baby kicking in her stomach, Rose had seen much more of the vast, unexplainable world. Her mother handed her a cup of tea and she sipped at it politely, trying to wonder how to begin.

Her mother had told her once, when she was young enough to not believe her, that what’s hidden wants to be found. The more you tried to hide something, the more it would conspire against you to show itself in small but meaningful ways.

Rose had thought her mother to be too faithful, then - too reliant on the universe working in her favor. Then she had met the Tucks, and throughout the years, she learned bits of their secret.

“Nothing could make me love him less.”

“Of course, not.” Rose’s mother sat across from her at the table, her hair streaked with silver, her eyes heavy with wisdom. “You are his wife, after all.”

Rose nodded. She had never questioned her vows. She loved him and had no secrets. But something ate at the back of her mind, gnawing at her, asking her if perhaps Miles had broken his.

“But you are a mother and every mother loves her child more than anything else.”

Rose looked at her boy - his dark curls falling into wide eyes, his cheeky smiles and soft hands. “I would do anything to keep Thomas safe.” Her hand went to her stomach, and the baby inside moved. “Anna, too.”

“Then you know what you must do.”

At first, there wasn’t much to question. The Tucks had come from out of town to settle, and no one knew their prior family. They joked that youth ran in the family. Jesse looked as though he hadn’t aged a day from when he met Rose, but that was because he was a boy and excitement held onto adolescence tightly. Mae was no younger than her own mother, and yet her hair maintained the same vibrant red of her younger years. Not a single hair turned silver to match the few she had when they first came to Treegap. Rose only ever seemed to get older with time, but motherhood was exhausting and easily deepended wrinkled and added crows feet to smooth skin. If she ever mentioned it, Miles would kiss her, saying she was still the most beautiful woman he had ever met, and Rose would get lost in his love.

After a while, it was their health that Rose found peculiar. Angus and Mae were well into their fifties, approaching that heavy age where the world pulled them closer to the ground in which they would one day lay, leaving aches and pains in the morning, and tiredness in the evening. However, the couple never seemed to be bothered by time, and in the winter, when aches were at their worst and illness swept through the town like a breeze, the family stayed unaffected by the damp that set into their home or the draft that came under the doors.

What had frightened Rose the most, though were not trivial wrinkles or impeccable health. What had caused her to draw away from the family she had always loved and shook Rose to her core was Jesse’s fall.

When she thought about it later, she remembered how the sunlight seemed to bend around him like a halo, the branches falling with him like wings on his back - like an angel, her mother had said. Or, she said, in a quiet tone, like Icarus. A Greek tragedy - too reckless for this life, too young for his experiences.

Jesse should have died upon hitting the ground; a fall from that high, with his body hitting branches as he fell, his head bloody and his limbs lying at odd angles when he landed on the ground should have killed him. He was Icarus, after all, plummeting towards his grave. When he did not, the Tucks were relieved and Rose was, too. But she also had a mind that told her of mortal wounds - those injuries that people do not survive.

Something was broken that day, and it was not Jesse’s body.

Thomas had been four, then, still a toddler that needed a father to show him the way. Rose was still uncertain, in those days, believing in Miles and those vows she had made more than anything else in the world.

That was 2 years ago. She was 27 and growing fast.

Was she grown, now?

“What do I do?” She looked at her mother for guidance but already knew she did not want to hear her reply.

Amongst the Tucks was a fallen angel. They were no longer in God’s grace.

“You already know what must be done.”

“But I cannot.” Tears were welling into Rose’s eyes and she pushed them back, not allowing them to fall. Thomas had stilled in her games on the floor and stared at his mother, eyes wide and full of wonder. “I can’t leave Miles… I can’t leave my husband.”

“You’re not leaving Miles.” Her mother put her hands on top of Roses’. “You’re leaving The Adversary.”

“No...” Rose fell to the ground and wept. Thomas grabbed her skirts, rubbing them between his thumb and forefinger. “They’re good people.”

“They’ve been claimed by evil.” Rose shook her head, but her eyes were filled with fear. “You have your children to think of. You must leave.”

“Where will I go?” Rose asked, her voice cracking, her head bowed.

Her mother leaned down to pick Rose off of the ground. Rose was sobbing still, her body shaking with effort, her breathing laboured and broken. Her mother smoothed her hair and let Rose cry on her shoulder. Thomas hugged his mother’s legs and patted her pregnant belly.

“Go to the Lord, Rose, and pray. It’s all you can do.”

…

Rose stared at the empty page beneath her and willed herself to write something down. She had loved Miles for 9, long years. She had been by his side all the while, never once believing him to be something dark and sinister.

When Jesse had fallen, Miles had been right there, calling out his brother’s name, holding the boy’s body to his chest. When Jesse’s eyes opened and he coughed up blood, the deep red dripping down his chin and staining his shirt, Miles had carried him to their home with tears of relief in his eyes. He had borne the burden of almost losing his brother, determined to not let anyone else suffer.

Rose had borne the burden of knowing that he shouldn’t have survived.

To the Tucks, Jesse’s prolonged life was a miracle. But Jesse’s life was heavy on Rose’s conscience - like a curse.

It was only fair, now, that Miles shared in her burden. A letter was the only way he could ever know the reasons for why she would do what she intended. Miles knowing why would explain her actions and the guilt of what she was to do would be his, as well.

She was going to explain herself - like a good, honest woman should. Honesty was one of her vows to him. Miles may have kept secrets and cast her in shadow, but she would shed light on her action and give him the honestly she promised one last time.

Rose was 29, now, and time was stealing away her life, one day at a time.

She could not wait any longer for another explanation to arrive. The rumors in town were insidious. The Tucks were an unnatural family. There was no other way - no other path she could take.

Rose looked at the grandfather clock that she had been given as a wedding gift. In only a few more hours, light would start to fill the house. She had to go, now. There was no time for explanations or apologies.

Rose stood and crept to where they kept their money box. She took what little they had, and prayed that the Lord would provide the rest. She turned, one last time, to look at her husband, pain in her eyes.

He was still 22, the same as they day they met, no changes made to his mortal body. He did not look like the evil he was supposed to be, but evil was a master at deception.

Her baby kicked and Rose held back a sob.

Stealing into Thomas’ room, Rose prayed to the Lord. She prayed for guidance, for strength, for something to make the bile in her throat lessen, something to make her actions feel like less of a betrayal.

Thomas woke at his mother’s touch, and she told him they were leaving. He asked her if papa was coming and a tear slipped down her cheek. She bent down to look him in the eye, and when she spoke, her words were thick with sorrow, but clear and low. “Not now, Thomas. We will see him again, one day, but not now.”

He didn’t understand, but followed where his mother led. Their footfalls were quiet, with the grace of God guiding them outside and into the night.

Rose had a destination in mind - somewhere Miles would never find them, somewhere where she would not see him at every street corner and in the aisles of a store. She thought of her life with him; her mind combed through those 9 years in a moment's hesitation and lingered on her mother’s words, spoken with gravity.

You already know what must be done.

Rose held Thomas’ hand in hers, the other resting on her pregnant stomach. Inside, the baby put her foot to where her mother held her. She knew what must be done for her children - there was nothing that was too difficult, nothing too unthinkable when done in their name. She prayed that one day, when she told Thomas of all that had been done, that he would not hate her for her actions, done in his name.

She did not look back at the farmhouse as she left. She had to leave Miles behind her. Still, she closed her eyes as she traveled into the night, the wind stinging her cheeks, damp with tears, and thought of the man she had met in Treegap, 9 years ago.

“Forgive me.”

#tuck everlasting #tuck everlasting musical #tuck everlasting broadway #tuck everlasting month #tuck month 2020 #miles tuck #thomas tuck #rose tuck #miles tuck x rose tuck #angst #imagine #one shot #fic #milestuckoneshot #thomastuckoneshot #rosetuckoneshot

10 notes · View notes

glambitions-a · 4 years

Text

just one bite.

prompt: “it would warm my ancient heart if you could accept this modest gift on your birthday. just one bite... and a good fortune to the fairest of them all.” unhappily ever after collection

tags (open): @cherry-bxtch, @cosmosstarstudio, @go-sullivan, @tacobacoyeet

she wraps a finger in a stray curl of her hair, it’s not black enough. even with the yellow ribbon tied in dark brown waves it’s not enough. she huffs and tugs it out, the ribbon floats daintily to the surface of her vanity (a grace delilah herself could never achieve) and she stares at it with jealousy. she had tried so desperately to make herself light as a feather, her waist so petite it looks as if she had been squeezed into a thousand corsets. her skin so pale her mother swears that she looks like death, and you can see the veins in her her wrists. her friends had sworn they could see her ribs even through the sweaters she keeps over her.

delilah sighs and sucks in her cheeks, and she almost has no skin to pull in between her teeth. the rouge brush tickles her cheeks, but smiles give you wrinkle lines so she can’t afford a giggle to pass her rosy lips. she had perfected the perfect smile, it was unnatural, sure, but it minimized wrinkles so it was okay with her.

she sets down the brush delicately, presses her fingers to her cheeks anxiously, as if to get rid of the skin that had been raked by well-manicured nails several time before. she was only thirteen, but she had become so vain so soon, and she had to. her mother was only fourteen when she died.

and dying certainly wasn’t on delilah’s to-do list but if it happened maybe she could be the picturesque princess asleep on a death bed of flowers. all she wants is to be like her mother, people adore her. she has tried everything, but yet she hadn’t yet reached the beauty of her mother yet. well, she had tried everything but plastic surgery, but she was forbidden from that.

she had asked once when she was younger, but her mother had nearly fainted at the question and her father had given her the stern and noble ‘you’re beautiful just the way you are’. so she dutifully apologized and ran up to her room to sulk, as you do. delilah had learned what questions to ask, like ‘how lovely is the weather today?’ or ‘where did you get that dress?’ she knew better than to ask silly things concerning literally anything else. she was a princess, not a little girl.

she cradles her head in her hands as she glared into the mirror. delilah hates the way she looks, she’s not different enough to be pretty on her own, so people constantly compare her to her mother. ‘you look just like your mother! a splitting image!’ and at first she beams and thanks them. but then they tilt their heads and look harder at the practiced pinkish pout that doesn’t pass as red only slightly and the not quite ebony hair. ‘well, almost just like her.’ so she tried harder, she has to.

at first she may have been pretty, but it wasn’t enough to be pretty, she had to be snow white. delilah had to be the kind of pretty that princes would risk their lives over. even if the blue veins were very easily seen on her limbs, and the shadows under her eyes, and her lips had turned a sickly grey-pink, there was still something so delicate about her. pretty, almost, like glass.

and yeah, she had been taught to avoid apples like the plague but in secret she didn’t, not at all. the minute she heard princess audrey had been cursed by the daughter of maleficent (even by accident) delilah knew her time would come. she had begun looking for things to take from strangers, spending more time in the woods and even volunteering to help the survivors from the isle of the lost just in case the evil queen should see an opportunity.

over the week, all she could think about was how she looked, that she needed to appear perfect at all times in case a terrible tragedy should occur. delilah has scarcely eaten anything at all, and when she did eat she felt so sick to her stomach that she almost immediately coughed it back up. some days, she could keep it down, but others she couldn’t.

so here she was, seated at her vanity, clutching a lip tint with a deadly grip in her hand as she shakily traced it over her lips. it’s supposed to make her lips rose red, but it’s too pink. delilah purses her lips and sets it down, groaning. she needed to look just like her mother, she wasn’t enough on her own after all. the thirteen year old stood up, brushing off her pale yellow pleated skirt.

she adjusts the blue sweater on her shoulder, and pretends not to notice how dead she looks because it’s too big and keeps sliding off. she might as well have no skin at all with the look of her bony limbs. she practices her smile in the mirror before grabbing her bag to head off to school.

it’s around four in the afternoon before she gets back to her awaiting parents, who are seated at the table oddly silent. normally she’d catch them in post afternoon tea, where they would be discussing the weather, or how her mother’s career was doing. but today, they don’t even notice she arrives until she comes to next to them, because they were too wrapped up in their thoughts.

she touches the teapot in the middle of the table, it’s cold. their tiny cups are full of dark liquid, so she knows they have something to tell her, probably bad. they never waste perfectly good tea.

“darling,” her mother sounds so disappointed, so concerned. “sit down, please.” she grits her teeth behind closed lips. she obeys of course, she has to be a good daughter, and a perfect princess. “are you aware of what tomorrow is?”

she shakes her head, and pretends not to notice the dread filled fingers pressed into his pale temple. “of course you don’t.” her mother scolds him under her breath, but it’s too late. if her kindhearted father is disappointed, she must’ve really forgotten something important.

her mother purses her classic red as blood lips, seemingly preparing for her next words. “it’s your birthday,” is what comes out first. “tomorrow’s your birthday.” she corrects almost immediately afterwards. delilah almost hits herself, how could she forget her own birthday? her calendar was always correct one-hundred percent of the time. she wouldn’t forget to plan a party, her own party nonetheless.

she supposed it’s possible she didn’t mark it on purpose, after all the evil queen is loose, who knows what kind of havoc she could wreak on the birthday of a princess. (though that seemed much more maleficent’s style wasn’t it?)

“oh, i completely forgot.” that was true, she had forgotten, and she honestly doesn’t know how. “with all of these tests... i’m so sorry, mother.” paired with big guilt ridden eyes, she could get away from this without a scratch. her eyes found her fiddling fingers in her lap. if she could blow it off, she could go up to her room and do homework. that wasn’t really what she wanted to do. but she would do it to make her family proud.

“it’s alright sweetheart, me and your father have a party planned.” her breath caught in her throat. she had been sort of distant with her friends lately, so a birthday party would be awkward and strange. “it’s a quiet little garden party, but there will be quite a lot of people there, i suppose.”

she sucked in another breath, delilah could no way tell her mother she had been blowing off her friends to constantly pick at her insecurities and tiny flaws of her appearance, oh what would she say? “that sounds so lovely, thank you!” she walks over to delicately put her arms around her mother.

her mother seemed to stiffen in her arms, “delilah honey, you look like you’ve let yourself go.” she almost flinches at her words. she stands back up, and crosses her arms. “i can’t remember the last time you ate anything besides apples.”

delilah almost curls in on herself to wallow in self pity, “i’m fine mother.” her tone turns cold, but she’s trying too hard not to cave and tell her mother how she feels, “thank you for the party, i’m going to go find something to wear.”

and then she’s sitting in her closet, alone. her phone is next to her foot, and for the first time in weeks it was plugged in and the screen was lit up with texts. she looked over at it, it was the only thing she could see since she was completely concealed in the dark.

delilah gnaws on her lip as she reaches for her phone, her fingers hovering over the keyboard it takes her a little bit to muster up the courage to ask the girl on the other side of the phone if she wanted to go shopping, she had some christmas money left over after all.

to not press the send button was so very tempting, but she really didn’t want to be alone in her adventures of looking for something to wear so she pressed it. and in true delilah style she immediately regretted it afterwards. her head was buried in her arms atop her knees, and she really was starting to wish the party was cancelled. if it was this hard for her to talk to one person, how hard would it be for her to be at a party. and to make it even worse she would be the center of attention.

she waited with her nerves filling up her own body, all from just from not speaking to anyone outside of school for a while. the phone pings from where it sits and she picks it up, a sigh of relief flowing through her lungs as she read the words of agreement on the screen.

it didn’t take long to decide on a time, and it was equally as quick to get to the mall (probably due to her mother’s love of the mall, so the castle was close to it) the girl she was with was the daughter of rapunzel, so she was good with coming up with what to do.

the mall was fun, but it was over soon with delilah coming home with a navy blue and buttercup yellow dress that looked unnervingly similar to the one her mother wore, only shorter. but delilah persisted that it was what she wanted. the dress was now in her hands as she started to pick out other things to wear with it. her birthday was on a saturday, and today was friday. anxiety stirred in her stomach thinking about the party, even though all she had to do was show up.

the mary jane shoes at the bottom of her closet looked promising so she grabbed those and a pair of plain white socks with adorable little ruffles. there was a little necklace with an apple charm that she layed out next to the dress also before deciding the outfit as done and hanging it up in front of her wardrobe.

by the time her and her parents ate a silent dinner, all the worrying she had done had tired her out plenty. so much so that she almost immediately fell asleep as soon as she got into bed. even with how tired she was it was a miracle that the millions of thoughts in her head didn’t keep her up all night.

the next morning she felt sick, and she tried to tell her mother that and snow white simply brushed her off with a perfectly perfect laugh. okay, so she didn’t feel actually sick, but her stomach was twisting because she hadn’t hung out with anybody since forever. and yeah, she did hang out with rapunzel’s daughter the other day but there wasn’t a lot of talking. of course she turned down breakfast and although she didn’t miss the concerned look on her mother’s face, it was routine now so she didn’t care about it much anymore to be very honest.

she slipped on the dress and shoes before carefully latching in the golden necklace, after all she’d had it since she was a baby and didn’t want to damage it or break it in any way. her hands were practically shaking as she went over to the vanity. delilah pretended that she was just doing her makeup, covering up her shadows like she normally did. lips glossed red, cheeks brushed pale pink, it was normal.

she was used to this by now, and she knew how to make it look like there was no effort put in. a little extra sparkle on her eyelids made her feel like this was something new. she curled her hair, tied a ribbon over her head like she normally did. delilah adjusted herself in the mirror before leaving the room.

she stepped down the stairs quietly, delicate as she normally was, how she had to be. she was thirteen, turned fourteen and yet delilah white knew how to look small and feel small in almost every way imaginable. her shiny black shoes creaked on the stairs and she winced at the noise, even though a warm call of her name from downstairs immediately followed.

her parents were awake and sitting at the table with their morning tea, as normal. but the difference was that there was a little baby blue wrapped box on the table. she smiled softly, before reminding herself of the wrinkles that could follow. when she reached the bottom of the stairs, she kissed her mother’s cheek as affectionately as possible. “good morning, mother.” her voice was honeyed, but her parents didn’t know that.

“good morning dear.” she kissed her father’s cheek as well before sitting at the seat the little box was placed in front of. it couldn’t be bigger than a tissue box but still delilah felt a little warmth in her heart. she trailed her fingers over the soft fabric covering the box. her smile only widened as she felt the silky material.

“is this for me?” her voice was soft, maybe even childish, but the fact that she had forgotten her birthday had hit her hard enough so much so that she was surprised her parents remembered to get her a present.

her parents nodded cheerfully in response, but just as she touched the ribbon to start to pull, the door rang. she smiled apologetically and told them she would get it. delilah’s footsteps on the wooden floor seemed to echo in her eardrums. a twinge in her chest led her to think that something bad could happen, but she ignored it.

she opened the door and nearly gasped at the sight before her. a fairly ugly old woman wrapped in a black cloak stood before her with a soft wrinkled smile. “hello dear.” delilah nodded and forced out a quiet ‘hello’.

her wrinkled hand stretched out to reveal a shiny red apple, the color of blood, the color of her mother’s lips. “it would warm my ancient heart if you could accept this modest gift on your birthday.” now, delilah wasn’t stupid. she knew her mother’s fairytale forwards and backwards. and in her heart she knew how this would end. but all she could think about was fulfilling her mother’s legacy, how pretty she might look wrapped in a flowered deathbed.

she smiled gratefully and took it in her hands, trying to mask the shaking of her fingers. she didn’t need to be worried, right? it was just a sweet old woman giving the princess a gift on her birthday. delilah raised it up to her lips, the bottom of it touching the apple first. only when her teeth just pushed open the skin of the fruit was when she heard the woman say something, her voice sounding younger and meaner. “just one bite... and a good fortune to the fairest of them all.”

delilah didn’t even realize she had swallowed the bite that had made its way into her mouth until the room was spinning and her vision darkened, her mother calling her name and the woman cackling. but even then she knew she was dead.

ʚĭɞ | if you want to be on my taglist, all you have to do is like this post. hello darlings! this is my story for the writing event i started for fifty followers. please share the collection linked before the cut of this piece, i really want to get some more writers on this! i’ve been dreading writing this for some reason, but it feels good to get it out of my drafts!

#unhappily ever after collection #ofc #original female character #descendants original character #post descendants three #post d3 #my writing #disney descendants #descendants #descendants three #rory's fifty #tw ; angst #tw ; death #tw ; spells #tw ; eating disorder #descendants fanfiction

4 notes · View notes

nitewrighter · 5 years

Text

Of Blades and Broomsticks Pt. XVII

Previous Chapters: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16

Read it on AO3 here.

----

A crowd had gathered in a tavern, but there was little overlap of voices from the interior. No laughter, no clanging of glasses and steins and cups. No music, but it was packed to the walls, and even a few who opted to smoke their pipes out in the night air hung close to the windows and doors to listen to the speaker rail. On any other night she would probably be ignored and shooed away to let the tavern customers enjoy their food and drink after a long hard day’s work, but this was not that night.

“The fire surged up from the platform in a blinding column that pierced the very skies!” the old woman wailed, “I saw a man’s eyeballs boil and burst in their sockets with the sheer heat coming off of it!”

One woman sitting at the bar gagged and set down her cup at the mere thought of it, and the other tavern patrons kept listening, transfixed.

“I was lucky enough to escape with only these,” The woman pulled her sleeve up from her arm, revealing splashes of weeping blisters and pink and puckered flesh, burn scars all over her skin. Her shoulders bunched up, “But just when the worst of the fires died down, horrible shapes of darkness shot up from the earth, as well! Inky black limbs! Like great serpents! Tore men clear in twain! I lost my dear husband,” she continued, letting the sleeve slip back over her arm, “Our home, which we lived in for nigh on 40 years together... was burned to ash. I have nothing now. Only a warning on my lips, for all of you: There is evil in this world. There is evil and it will come for you and everything you love. Witches. Monsters. The dead, wrenched back up from the earth to walk as great abominations--They’re coming. Will you let your town be like Adlersbrunn? Will you watch it burn?”

“The comtesse will protect us,” one voice piped up and the old woman furrowed her brow, peering through the crowd to see a blonde boy in a blue hooded cloak, not even old enough to grow a beard.

“Your comtesse?” said the old woman, pushing through the crowd to his table. She put her hands on the table before him, her yellowed fingernails scraping across the wood, “Your comtesse will protect you?”

“She’s done it before,” the boy managed, not making eye contact, “The elders say--”

“Your comtesse is just as much a monster as the rest of them,” said the old woman, “The only reason she protects you because she sees you as livestock,” the old woman looked around the tavern, “A peaceful land, a quiet people... I suppose it’s easy to ignore what she is when she gives you that. You send your rapists and your murderers to her chateau, never worry about them again, and it seems a perfectly good arrangement. What would happen if her hunger deepens, I wonder? Maybe she’ll ask for the thieves. For the poachers. Maybe she’ll ask for those who speak up against her. How easy will it be for your neighbors to ignore it when it’s your neck beneath her throat?”

The boy in the blue hood swallowed hard and took a gulp of his cider, giving a glance to the group he had come in with. That hesitation on his end now transformed to that same enthrallment as everyone else in the tavern. Almost everyone else.

Gabriel watched as the old woman went on about horrible black tentacles and walls of flame and scanned the room. The glamour Moira had set on him itched--well, itched wasn’t the right word. He could see and hear everything clearly, but still had the sensation of having his head submerged in something thicker than air. He had to keep his distance from the crowd. Gabriel looked like a normal man, but if a careless hand brushed against his head they would feel not the cloth of his hood but the smooth outer rind of pumpkin. He wondered if people could smell the pumpkin on him. Gabriel’s eyes flicked away from the old woman to a figure dressed in black and scarlet in the corner of the tavern, his eyes obscured by the wide brim of his cavalier hat. He had chosen a similar position as Gabriel, albeit in a mirrored position--back to the wall, close to the exit, easy to keep an eye on the entire room. There were points when Gabriel could feel the man’s eyes on him, though he didn’t get a chance to see the man’s eyes himself.

“I’m not asking for money, good people,” said the old woman, “I’m not even asking for a place to stay the night. I’m only asking... that you do not let the tragedy at Adlersbrunn repeat itself. Protect yourselves. Don’t even give them the chance to make the first move, if your situation permits it.”

A murmur rolled through the tavern. Some, like the boy in the blue hood, were speaking quiet hesitating words to their fellow patrons--things had been good, hadn’t they? Things had been good for a while now. But the word ‘Livestock’ had struck a nerve with nearly everyone in the tavern. Adlersbrunn was far enough away so that the horror story was just that--but seeds of doubt had been planted, that much was clear.

The man in black and scarlet got up and Gabriel followed him with his eyes as he passed through the door.

Gabriel got up himself and stepped close to the door.

“Blessings on you all--god knows you’ll need them,” said the old woman as Gabriel passed through the door and she followed him out. They put some distance between themselves and the tavern in silence, the old woman hobbling grumpily at his side before they reached a copse that provided them significant coverage.

“If you weren’t a queen, I’d say you should join an acting troupe,” said Gabriel.

“My people invented theater. Play-acting sprung up almost as early as language,” the old woman said, with the shakiness of age completely removed from her voice as she straightened herself up from her previously hunched position. She frowned and muttered, “Stinks of metal around here. The sooner we get back, the better.”

“I don’t like this,” said Gabriel, as Moira cast off her glamour, the wrinkles on her face disappearing to reveal her true sharp and narrow features.

“I didn’t say you would like this,” said Moira, snapping her fingers and taking the glamour off of his own head, his pumpkin head casting an eerie orange light on their copse.

“You want to start a war,” said Gabriel.

“I want to find your witch. You say your first job as a witch hunter is to find out the truth of things, isn’t it?” said Moira, shaking her frazzled gray hair into a sleek red cropped cut, “Should these people not know the truth?”

“I’d say there’s a decent amount of distance between ‘knowing the truth’ and ‘being incited to panic,’” said Gabriel.

“You said yourself the comtesse was damned.”

“And you said she walks a line between two worlds.”

“Very soon none of us are going to have the luxury of walking that line. She can’t just play house with her little human pet. I have to make her see that--” Moira suddenly cut herself off, “We’re not alone.”

“The man in scarlet--” Gabriel started.

“I saw him too,” said Moira, looking around the copse. With a flick of her wrist she ignited a small sphere of yellow light over her hand, lighting up the copse. Gabriel walked around the copse as well, looking for a cavalier hat poking out from behind the trees. He found could see better in the dark with the new form the witch and Moira had cursed him with. There was a rustle of leaves overhead and Gabriel looked up to see the man in black and scarlet perched on a tree limb just above him. Now looking up at him, Gabriel could make out more of his features: dark skinned and handsome in his fine clothes, but shrewd and cold in his expression. Gabriel could hardly blame him. They had just been slandering his employer for most of the night, anyway. Gabriel could finally see his eyes now, as well--yellow. Glowing. Not human. No trace of fear even at Gabriel’s own true and horrible pumpkin-headed appearance. As soon as they looked at each other, the man hiding in the tree suddenly dissolved into red mist and there was the sound of fluttering wings and a screech as a massive bat--its wingspan as large as Gabriel’s own arm span---took off out of the copse.

“Eyes on wings,” said Moira, watching as the bat flew off as fast as it could.

“I take it we probably shouldn’t let him get back to the comtesse,” said Gabriel.

“No,” said Moira, the glowing yellow sphere in her hand turning purple, “No, we shouldn’t.”

She said something then. Something in a tongue-before-tongues that made Gabriel’s pumpkin head buzz, and the purple sphere hovering over her hand stretched and distorted and suddenly exploded into hundreds of crows, screeching and sweeping upward after the bat.

“Tear him apart,” Moira said softly, as the crows chased after the bat, their dark wings blotting out the stars.

-----

Jesse’s campfire crackled in the tense silence as he gauged the situation. The spymaster kept her two crossbows on both of them, her eyes flicking away from Jesse only briefly to make sure Pharah wasn’t moving toward her musket. The horses they had since blanketed and tethered watched the proceedings with dark glassy eyes, occasionally nickering nervously.

“Always a pleasure, Sombra,” said Jesse, still keeping his hands up.

“Afraid I’m here on business,” said Sombra, “Now. The Flame of creation. What do you know about it?”

“The flame of who, now?” said Jesse.

“Don’t play dumb,” said Sombra, poking the crossbow bolt more firmly against his chest, “The thing that burned down Adlersbrunn. The magic.”

“He wouldn’t know anything about it,” Pharah piped up.

“I’ve got this,” said Jesse.

“No, you clearly don’t,” said Pharah, slowly rising to her feet.

“Did I say you could get up?” said Sombra, she looked back at Jesse, “Who is this?”

“A friend,” said Jesse.

“And we all know things turn out so well for anyone who comes close to you,” said Sombra, flatly.

“I came on my own—” said Pharah, “I mean, yes, he invited me, but I’m here because of what you’re talking about. I was there when it happened. I was captain of the guard. He just showed up a day later.”

Sombra arched an eyebrow. “Captain of the guard? Seriously?” she glanced back at Jesse, “How much smoke did you blow up her ass to get her to come along with you?”

“She saw some shit,” said Jesse, “She wants to protect her town. I told her she might have a shot at tracking down the monsters that wrecked her town with me. Which is true.”

“Trouble is drawn to you,” Sombra conceded. She lowered her crossbow from where it was pointed at Pharah, but didn’t lower it from Jesse.

“I’ll tell you everything about what I saw there—” said Pharah.

“You don’t have to do that—” started Jesse.

“If you stop pointing those weapons at us,” said Pharah.

Sombra looked thoughtful for a few moments before lowering her other crossbow from Jesse.

“You’re lucky she’s here,” Sombra said, strapping one of the crossbows over her shoulder.

“Are you a hunter, like him?” said Pharah.

Sombra snickered. “I was,” she said.

Pharah gave a glance over to Jesse.

“We can trust her,” said Jesse, stiffly, “Trust her to be an asshole, at least.”

“We could discuss this in a far nicer place,” said Sombra, “You’re in the Comtesse’s lands--”

“Of course we are--” muttered Jesse.

“And there’s a lovely inn a ways north of here,” said Sombra, thoughtfully, “The owner owes me some favors---”

“Who doesn’t owe you favors?” Jesse snapped.

“You never were good at pricing your own skills, were you?” said Sombra with a sympathetic head-tilt before turning to Pharah. “Wouldn’t you like a feather bed? Something befitting of the office of guard captain and vagabond babysitter?”

Pharah gave another glance to Jesse in case he was sending her any “Please don’t agree to what she says or we will both die” signals but upon looking at him he just looked sullen.

Pharah looked back at the spymaster, “All I want is a way to stop that flame magic that destroyed my town,” she said, firmly, “Can your comtesse help with that?”

“Well that’s more complicated,” said Sombra, “But my comtesse has many years of experience in facilitating the... intricacies of two different worlds. If at least one of us hears the whole story, I’m sure we can help you in some way.”

“Show me your neck,” said Jesse.

“What?” said Pharah.

“Oh come on,” said Sombra.

“Neck,” said Jesse, his brow furrowed, “Or we’re not going anywhere.”

Sombra rolled her eyes and tossed back her hood, revealing a head of chin-length dark hair swept back from her face. She made an exaggerated gesture at her neck which was free of any marks, before bringing her hood back up.

“What was all that about?” said Pharah, glancing at Jesse.

“Don’t worry about it,” said Jesse.

“I’m going to worry about it,” said Pharah.

“Probably the smart thing to do,” said Jesse.

The horses suddenly snorted and restlessly thudded their hooves against the ground.

“What’s gotten into them?” said Pharah, moving to stand up.

“Hey! Nice and slow,” said Sombra.

Pharah kept her hands up and her eyes on Sombra as she stepped over to the horses to try and comfort them, but her own bay rouncey let out a frightened squeal.

“Jesse! Help me with them!” said Pharah, trying to avoid having her foot stepped on while trying to take the reins.

“Do you hear that?” said Jesse, tilting his head slightly.

“Yeah,” said Sombra, looking up as well.

Pharah was still distracted by the horses and wasn’t really sure what to listen for, but eventually the sound was inescapable. A dull roar of the calls and quorks of crows. Pharah glanced up to see a dark shape sweep across the gaps in the forest canopy, the only markers of its visibility were its wide wingspan blotting out the stars and the yellow eyes at its front, glowing like stars themselves.

“Friend of yours?” said Jesse, looking to Sombra.

“Shit...” Sombra said under her breath. They all covered their ears as the mass of crows swept overhead with a deafening swarm of caws. She noted their direction and frowned.

“Better go rescue your buddy,” said Jesse.

“Her buddy?” said Pharah.

“’I can see through the eyes of crow and hare and hound,’” Sombra repeated the words of the queen to herself.

“What did you just say?” said Jesse but Sombra ignored him and suddenly shoved past Pharah to the panicked horses.

“They’re coming from the north,” Sombra put a hand to the bay rouncey’s neck and whispered in its ear, “Calm.”

The rouncey stopped beating the earth with his hooves and looked at her. “Good boy,” she said.

“How did you just--” Pharah started but Sombra was already casting off its blanket and hopping up astride it. “That’s my horse!” Pharah protested but found herself looking down the stock of Sombra’s crossbow again.

“It’s nothing personal,” said Sombra, turning the horse around.

“They’re flying. You won’t catch up to them on horseback,” said Jesse.

“I’m not going to where they are, I’m going to where they came from,” said Sombra. She undid the tether and heeled its sides with a ‘Hyah!’

“Are you kidding me?!” Pharah called after them as Sombra took off into the dark.

“Come on,” said Jesse, undoing the other tether and climbing up onto his own courser, “Won’t go as fast but there’s room for two.”

Pharah huffed, picked up her musket from next to her bedroll and shouldered it before climbing up onto the horse behind Jesse.

“Do you have any idea where she’s going?”

“Nowhere good if a vampire was flying away from it,” said Jesse, urging the courser forward to keep Sombra in sight.

Pharah was quiet for a few seconds, her arms awkwardly around Jesse’s waist as they rode and she weighed his words.

“A what?” she said.

-----

The sun had set, but the wagon rumbled on and the monster snored, using the cloak one of the cultists had given him as a blanket. The road they rolled down had finally started to crawl inland from the coastal cliffs, and they passed through rolling green hills in their journey west. Mercy was frowning over the runes in the Vitae book and taking notes on them and their possible translations on little leafs of paper she had ferreted out from the library. Her charcoal pencil occasionally scratched out of place when they hit a bump in the road but she would smudge out the mistake with her thumb and do her best to scrawl it out correctly. Junkenstein kept driving their cart, his knee bouncing with his own manic stream of thoughts, and Genji’s own moans of boredom had quieted some time ago.

Mercy kept her voice low as she mouthed out the incantation on the page, holding the book in one hand and keeping her other hand at the level of her head, spreading her fingers.

Little flames no bigger than candlelights bloomed on her fingertips. She turned her wrist slowly, steadily, watching as the light of the flames streaked like gold ribbons, overlapping with each other into a wobbly gold ring of light and flames. She then traced out a rune within that ring of yellow-gold flame with her fingertip, and she flinched her hand back as the ring flipped and swiveled and spun into a fist-sized sphere of light, hovering, apparently of its own accord, over her hand.

“Oh hello, there,” she murmured, leaning in a little. She could hear whispers from the flame, just like the book had been whispering to her, then it fizzled out and disappeared.

“Hm,” Mercy furrowed her brow and looked back at the book. She felt Genji’s eyes upon her, and she glanced up to see him not moaning about his boredom on the floor of the wagon, but instead lying on his stomach, chin resting in one hand, watching her with fascination. He seemed to catch himself as soon as she made eye contact and cleared his throat and pushed himself up to a cross-legged sitting position.

“I was—I was just—um—You’re very good at that,” said Genji.

“Not really,” said Mercy, “If I could get the little flame to stay for more than a few seconds, then maybe I’d be good at it.”

“What sort of spell was that?” Genji tilted his head.

“Well from what I can translate—and I really hope I’m translating it correctly—it’s supposed to manifest healing power from my body—“

“From the flame of creation,” said Genji.

“Gramercy, we’ve barely had the wagon a day—can we not burn it down?” said Junkenstein.

“It’s a flame of creation, Jamison, I don’t think it’s going to burn down anything if I don’t want it to,” said Mercy, before turning her attention back to Genji and her book, “At least I hope not. Anyway, I just don’t think it’s very practical to keep slashing my palms open when I need to heal someone.”

“It doesn’t hurt, does it?” asked Genji, “Not the palm-slashing, of course that hurts—I mean the flame itself.”

“No,” said Mercy, “I can feel it…. moving within me sort of? I think everything that happened at Adlersbrunn woke it up. But it’s not distinct, it’s not like… gas. It’s more like it’s stitched into me… like my heartbeat, or when my arm’s asleep…” She pursed her lips thoughtfully, “Well, you’re 600 years old—you’ve never heard of it?”

“My master largely helped me explore the extents of my own abilities—shape-changing and calling the storm forth from my body. He helped my mind cope with the sudden… awareness of everything. If he ever taught me anything about what you have… I may not have been paying attention,” said Genji, scratching at his temple.

Mercy huffed.

“But that was well before I met you! Or was really aware that you had an ancient fire magic from the dawn of time,” said Genji.

“Well I didn’t even know what it all entailed, really,” said Mercy, “All I knew was spinning up paltry little fireballs and--and...” she caught herself and her stomach tensed.

“Witch?” Genji tilted his head, “What is it?”

“Genji, there’s something I have to tell you,” said Mercy. She glanced up to see Jamison looking at the two of them over his shoulder, made eye contact with him, and Junkenstein quickly turned around and started humming loudly to himself in the universal language of ‘Don’t mind me I’m not listening (except I probably am).’

Mercy just inhaled and closed her eyes.

Genji? she spoke in his mind.

He was at the outer doors of her consciousness in an instant. Feels like forever since we’ve spoken like this. I’ve missed it. His voice in her head was warm, flickering around, oddly vulnerable-feeling.

I suppose it was just force of habit after Adlersbrunn, thought Mercy, Not that we had much of a chance to get into the habit of it to begin with.

It’s all gone by very quickly, hasn’t it? We’ve only known each other a short time, but we’ve helped make a big monster, dragged a goddess back into this plane... made you leave your house... Oh gods, I’ve ruined your life.

You didn’t ruin my life, Genji. They threw rotten vegetables at me back in that village. They treated Jamison like a madman and a toymaker. They probably would have killed me eventually, if the crops failed or anything else inconvenienced them and they needed an excuse. And Jamison probably would have gone mad if he was stuck making the same things over and over for the rest of his life. I feel like... I actually have a chance to make my place in this world instead of shuffling along, keeping my head down and surviving. I’m glad you’re in my life. I’m glad I made that contract with you. Which is why--This is why I need to tell you---

The wagon suddenly shuddered to a stop and Mercy had to flail to keep from rocking onto her side with the sudden stop.

“Jamison?” Mercy broke out of her and Genji’s dark shared space and opened her eyes, “What’s going on?”

“There’s a giant flock of crows chasing a big, winged... thing,” said Junkenstein.

#witch mercy au #gency

23 notes · View notes

scintillating-galaxias · 5 years

Text

to hold the stars in our arms

“Will you tell me about the stars?”

A kiss.

“Alpha Centauri was one of mine, you know...” Crowley tells Aziraphale what it was like to hang the stars.

(read it here on ao3!)

“Tell me a story, darling.”

“Well whaddya’ wanna hear, angel?”

“Will you—Will you tell me about before?”

“Before what?”

“No, Before-before. Before you Fell, if you can remember.”

Silence.

“I—That was insensitive of me, I didn’t mean—”

“No, no, ‘s not that, Zira. You’re fine. Just… There’s just a lot. We’d be here for years.”

“...You know I love your stories.”

“I know you do.”

“Will you tell me about the stars?”

A kiss.

“Alpha Centauri was one of mine, you know…”

Thousands of strands of stars were glittered between his lithe fingertips. More lay dormant as tiny spots all up and down his arms, glowing bold and bright. Still many more were tucked into the feathers of his fantastical wings, fast asleep amongst the plumes. Every single one knew tenderness and devotion the minute they were cradled ever so sweetly in those gentle hands and given their first, Hello, I love you, welcome to this wonderful place.

They knew they would be cherished forever, before, during, and after their deaths, by the way the being those hands belonged to held them up before sun-bright eyes shining with pure love. There was so much love, in fact, that it overflowed in pale wisps around his face and transformed the gorgeous gold irises into soft, infinite glowing pools. It was here that the stars loved to twirl and dance about, soaking up as much as they could before Raphael gently went about collecting them in total reverence.

As a goodbye, he breathed a little portion of his soul into every single one of those brilliant gifts until they glowed and lit up the pitch void of night. Then he whispered to them to be good, and sent them out, and let them spin away until they settled amongst each other, creating scintillating nebulae and mesmerizing galaxies.

“Aren’t they wonderful,” Raphael murmured aloud. His companion made a non-commital noise. This bothered Raphael, and he turned, cupping a dripping handful of stars. “Do you think they’ll like them?” he asked anxiously. “The humans, I mean, do you think they’ll like the stars? Will they be afraid of them?”

Gabriel hummed again and dragged a finger through a cloud of gold dust. It stuck and clung there closely, prompting him to attempt to wipe it indiscreetly off on his stunning white robe even as they squeaked and protested.

“They must,” he said, still rubbing with no success. “You made them, after all.”

“Yes, but they’re not made by Her hand,” Raphael said. “And I am definitely nothing like Her.” His voice was distant; he was gazing off into the eternal lengths of the sky, watching a young star, still blue in its youth, collide into one of its blazing yellow sisters. They exploded and a shower of shimmering emerald and rose pink and sunset purple scattered in a gorgeous explosion of color. The stardust murmured to itself, surprised by the turn of events, before it fell in love with its existence all over again. It would do this again, and again, and again, as a beetle, a flower, a river stone, a human being. The stars would love themselves in any form, and Raphael would love them, too.

“Was that supposed to happen?” Gabriel asked, mildly disdained. He had been watching, too.

“It was bound to at some point.” Raphael fluttered his hand, and the new star nursery amicably moved itself aside so he could scoop up the gold dust from Gabriel’s finger. “Nothing I could do would be anything close to being like Her’s,” he continued, pressing his lips to his finger and gesturing the new stars off of his palm. “You’ll love it out there, just be yourself, don’t be shy,” he told them. That one would become the stretching white expanse that was the Andromeda galaxy, but not for a long, long time.

Raphael would not get to see it grow up.

“Oh, stop with the face. I really did talk like that.”

“Oh, I don’t doubt that, my dear. It’s that you spoke to Gabriel on a regular basis.”

“I know, I don’t get it either. Dunno how I could stand it. Anyway, he says…”

Gabriel chuckled in the mocking well, obviously sort of way. “They’re not meant to,” he said lightly, as though this were the first time Raphael had ever heard this sentiment. “Nothing we angels create is meant to an imitation of Her. It is blasphemy.”

“They’re not,” he agreed. “That means humans can dislike them. I hope they don’t.” Raphael sighed and pulled hydrogen from his pinky and helium from his breath. They gently stirred together in the wrinkles of his palm, glowing brightly under Raphael’s gentle yellow gaze.

“What are you hoping for, then?”

“I hope humans will love the stars as much as I do. I made all of this”—Raphael pushed the clingy galaxy gauzing his arms in gold out and away, holding his arms out for a beat as it sailed away—“for them.”

“They must,” Gabriel repeated. A slightly frostbitten note chilled his words.

“No,” sighed Raphael, “they don’t.”

The pair went quiet. Around they, the low thrum of a breathing universe washed through them.

“Why,” began Raphael, and that was a treacherous beginning of a thought. Why was a question, a question doubted reality, a reality She made that was everything Good and Pure and Perfect. Questions dared to say it was not. “Why have me make these, when She could do it herself and have them all be perfect? Why ask me and make them imperfect? Her’s wouldn’t explode like that.”

They wouldn’t, and can you imagine what a tragedy that would be?

He felt Gabriel’s heavy purple stare shoot through the back of his skull. “Because She made this your purpose,” he said incredulously, as though Raphael had shouted for rebellion against Heaven instead of asking a question—though, in these times, those could be considered one and the same. “She could have, but she blessed you to do it instead. Do you regret what She bestowed upon you?”

“No!” Raphael exclaimed. “No, not at all! I love these skies, I love every single bit of gas and dust, I love these galaxies and stars, and I will love what creatures She creates next—Did you know She let me make one animal, too?” he abruptly said, overcome in his excitement. “It will be called a ‘snake’ and they’ll crawl on their belly to see all of the wonders of Earth hidden beneath one’s foot.”

“Crowley…”

“Don’t say it.”

“I really must, though. You are absolutely incredible and I am grateful to be able to love you . ”

“I—You—A—I’m not done yet! Don’t make me want to kiss you in the middle of a story!”

“Oh, my sincerest apologies my dear. I suppose I’ll have to make it up to you later.”

“Hm.” Gabriel went silent. Raphael returned his full attention to the little stars clamoring for him. It was a while before Gabriel spoke again, and when he did, the stars hushed each other in fear of their whispers being overheard.

“You shouldn’t doubt yourself,” he said, oddly grave. “The Almighty gave you your purpose. It wouldn’t do you well you to question it, because She made it. It’s foolish to think imperfections are possible and done on accident .”

“‘Course,” said Raphael absently. One star that would later become the Sun huddled close to him, trying its best to escape the creeping frostiness coming off of Gabriel in blusters. “Thank you for your, ah, reassurance. You can, erm. Go, if you want.”

Gabriel nodded one time and left in a brilliant flash of lilac light. Raphael brought the star to his face and sternly told it, “You’ll shine brighter than anything else in this solar system. I swear it. Don’t be afraid of Gabriel, either, he loves you too. Yes, he does. We all do. ”

The Sun, if it had a mouth, would have smiled. As it was, it merely winked once, before Crowley hung it up to rest in the center of a Solar System that would be placed near the edge of the Sagittarius arm. A little ways away from the Sun, Alpha Centauri quietly began to shine. It was something new Raphael had been tinkering with for centuries now. He had dubbed a binary system. Two stars who depended on each other to stay alive. Criticize it too closely, and it’s obvious there are two stars at work. You’ll miss the intensity, the beauty of the starlight, when they appear to be unified. Gaze upon it from further away to fully wonder in its blazing glory.

These were some of Crowley’s favorite because so much depended on each other the stars. Too far, and they would be flung off into the void. Too close, and they’ll demolish each other. If they maintained their perfect orbit, they would always skate around each other perfectly, pushing and pulling the other with them in an endless dance in which they never touched. But the two always reached out for the other, annihilation be damned.

“A bit like us, I suppose.”

“...You’re right. God dammit, you’re right! ‘S like with the Apple too—”

“How so?”

“I dunno, remember how I asked why not just put it on a mountain or something? If humans weren’t supposed to eat it? Why not just not send you to Earth if I’m not supposed to be in love with you? Could’ve just kept you up in Heaven, but She had to put you in the Garden.”

“My goodness. It really all boils down to free will, doesn’t it? Is it that simple?”

“Aziraphale.”

“Yes, my love?”

“I would choose you over everything else in all of Creation any day. All you have to do is ask.”

#ineffable husbands #good omens #crowley as raphael #aziraphale #crowley #gabriel (good omens)#gomens fanfic #fanfiction #my writing #fluff

38 notes · View notes

olympivnshq · 5 years

Text

congratulations daisy ! your dedication to HEBE was truly inspiring, it made L & i feel like plebeians and sit up and pay some serious attention, because who are we and what kind of life choices are we making ?? we can’t wait to see what else you do with juliet and how she flourishes as hebe with your first faceclaim choice: ZOEY DEUTCH.

☆ﾟ*・ﾟ OOC INFO.

Daisy, PST, lover of baking and Starbucks

☆ﾟ*・ﾟ DEITY — GENDER. AGE RANGE.

HEBE, goddess of youth - FEMALE. 20-25

☆ﾟ*・ﾟ MORTAL NAME. JOB/OCCUPATION. BOROUGH/NEIGHBORHOOD.

Juliet Young. Make-Up Artist and Waitress. Chelsea, Manhattan

☆ﾟ*・ﾟ AESTHETICS.

mortal form: oversized sweatshirts, different earrings each day, dancing with or without music, “just for fun”, laughter at everything, heart-shaped lollipops, pink make-up brushes, commitment issues, decisions made by impulse, social media addict, one drink too many, lipstick stains on cheeks, crushes that last only a moment, a deep love for life, spots every dog within a 5 mile radius

goddess: forever young, smiles and sunshine, innocent on the outside, knowing her importance, the diligent daughter, always too perfect, ambrosia and nectar, golden goblets, delicate jewels, youthful beauty, patron of young brides, married to a legend (and a legend herself), a secret desire for mortality, the taste of honey, pink eyeshadow and flushed cheeks

“In her grandest form, she was covered in gold, iridescent jewels flowing. In her greatest form, she was barefoot in white cotton, the river-drenched skirts and grass stains her only adornment.”

☆ﾟ*・ PLAYLIST.

i. And I remember all my childhood dreams; I find it hard to get them out of my mind ii. Been 21 since 17, thanks to all the magazines; sometimes I just wanna scream and break my screen iii. When the sky was gold, and I needed no protection; when I was young, whatever happened it would do me no wrong iv. An urge to kiss you and let this secret pleasure out; this youthful slender, hallucinate my woes away

☆ﾟ*・ HOW WOULD YOU PLAY THEM?

Juliet Sinclair has experienced little tragedy in her mortal memories. She was carefully placed within a middle class family, given loving parents and a talented twin sister. They lived comfortable in Long Island for all of her “life”. They were happy - or so the pictures imply. She smiled alongside these people, these strangers who were not strangers at all, and she looked happy. Whatever vengeful beast cast aside the gods, they had shown her mercy with this naive life and innocent memories. Young and beautiful and unbothered - her luck was likely better than the rest. Juliet walks around the city with child-like trust, just as Hebe once walked the roads of Olympus. The connections established in these feeble memories had given her a clear path - one she had not questioned over the course of the past year. She is a waitress (once a cupbearer, always a cupbearer, it seems) at a hip Greek-fusion restaurant, and on her days off she is a fairly successful makeup artist, serving various socialites and the occasional C- or D-list celebrity. Her specialty is covering up wrinkles in order to give her client’s a “youthful glow”, or so her reputation says.

For whatever she has accomplished, Juliet is a severely naive girl. Life is perfect, life is beautiful - “Just smile and everything will work out!” She does not remember the trials of a goddess, but rather the innocence of mortal youth. Those doe-eyes exude hope, something many of her siblings had abandoned long ago. Rather than dwell on the difficult or even notice the bad, she lets a goofy grin spread on her lips as if she’s happy to simply be alive.

Her only trouble comes with something that plagues her entire “generation” - social media has consumed her, even in her memories. Perfect, pretty, poised. Juliet’s account is for business (she says), since many of her clients visit her page for samples of her work and even to judge Juliet herself. Each post is perfectly curated, each caption expertly written; she tracks the likes and despairs over a lost follower. She insists that it’s part of her business, but of course there’s more to it - both the problem and asset of youth is being seen. And she is seen, she’s made sure of it. But they don’t really know her, how could they? She doesn’t even know herself.

answer these questions: 1. are they more likely to stand with the pantheon or against it? Juliet has never considered breaking apart from the gods; she was their dutiful cupbearer (when she was Hebe, that is) and she did as she was told. But her desire to be mortal, her curiosity of what it is to live and die as a human, may create a fissure in her alliance. She would never lift a sword against her brothers and sister of Olympus - she has no reason to. Her life among the gods was idyllic. She was useful, needed; she was - is - an asset to their immortality. Juliet’s only concern is in her curiosity. Perhaps she would rather stay amongst the mortals than return to the mountain; perhaps she would like to grow up. What a shock it would be to see a wrinkle on her brow, with only skillful make-up as a solution and not simply a snap of her fingers to reserve the age.

2. what is their stand on mortals? Curious. That is the best word to describe her strange fascination with them. How can they be so comfortable with aging? Some fight against it, this is true - they cover their skin with liquid to blur their wrinkles, they use computers to enhance their features (or create new ones). Others accept the role of nature. They grow from child to adult and know that one day they will die. Hebe has never considered a death from age, not when she was able to so easily reverse it. She has always wondered what it was like to walk amongst them, to exist in their presence and in their world. The truth is, her youth might be better served in the ground than in the sky.

☆ﾟ*・ SAMPLE PARA (OPTIONAL)

A lollipop sat between delicate pink lips as Juliet tried to balance a plastic cup of iced coffee, a bulky makeup case, and a tablet (whose screen had already been shattered from a similar situation) in overflowing arms. The items were tipping over, precariously threatening to crash to the floor and embarrass her in the decadent lobby. Her savior came in the form of a stranger, a man she had never met but she was sure she had known intimately in another life. Those eyes - blue, so blue. She would never forget them, yet she also did not remember. He appeared out of nowhere, catching her case and her dripping coffee all in one fell swoop. “Ah, my hero,” she teased, although a smile of gratitude crossed her mouth. And as he replied, his voice deep and strong, that tugging familiarity only grew stronger. Her brow knit as she watched him, as if the longer she looked, the likelihood of her remembering would increase. “Do I know you?” The question appeared to shock him as well - perhaps he was thinking the same thing. “Maybe we knew each other in another life,” he shrugged, and Juliet couldn’t tell if he was serious. That was the answer she accepted, though, and with bright eyes she enticed him into helped her up to her client’s floor. ( She had a feeling he would have trouble saying no to her, as if he couldn’t in their “past life” either. ) “What should I call you, then?” It was a simple question. She was looking for a name, something like James or Charlie or Adam. But when he replied, “Well, if I’m your hero, maybe you should just call me Hercules,” her entire body froze. She had no idea why there was ice in her veins, why her heart was trying to escape her chest to reach him. Ignore it, don’t let it bother you - it’s probably nothing. Just a crush that will fade as soon as he leaves your sight. As she entered the apartment, leaving him behind with a polite thank you, the woman she was faced with was equally familiar. There were rumors about her, as there always are in New York’s high society - they said she was promiscuous, that she had a different lover each night. That the woman was more obsessed with the idea of love than actually loving anyone. Juliet preferred to give everyone the benefit of the doubt, but the feeling of familiarity tugged on her insistently. As she painted the woman’s plump lips red, she remembered watching them sip from a golden goblet; as she ran her brush along the woman’s nose, she remembered peering at its delicate slope from the corner of her eye as they sat side by side. How? How would she know these people without knowing them? And as she left she called her sister, someone she knew to be real and consistent and sensible. “I feel so weird,” she admitted, “like I forgot an entire part of my life. That’s so stupid, right?”

☆ﾟ*・ ANYTHING ELSE?

I went way overboard with pinterest.

#ohq:accepted #lsrpg #literate rp #zoey deutch #mature rp #hebe

2 notes · View notes

dreadhaus-literature · 5 years

Text

{Character Study} Diederich Frost

I have been reading a lot of research books lately, trying to hone my talent into something useable, and trying to get my head in the right space to write again. One of those books is, “Write Characters Your Readers Won’t Forget” by Stant Litore; another highly rated/recommended writing tool from Amazon, and that book comes with exercises! So we’re going to take a first pass at them with a newly created OC.

I won’t say it’s been a while since I’ve created characters, because it hasn’t been, but any practice is good practice, right? Right.

The book interested me simply because I want to write good characters--which I know is a stupid thing to say, lmao, as an author that’s like half my goddamn job. But that’s why I want to be good at it! And practice makes perfect.

This will be on-going, since there’s an entire booklet full of exercises, so I’ll just reblog and add to the post as I read. P:

The character I’ve decided to use is from my first group of 10 drabbles from my Shots in the Dark collection.

#10, Diederich, who will be henceforth known by his full name--

Diederich Karsten Frost

Exercise One - Write down your character’s critical ingredient, that one defining strength that everyone will know them for. If you don’t know yet, make it up.

Well I don’t know yet, because I only wrote about Diederich once and it was for like half a page--so we’re going to make it up.

Diederich’s defining strength is that he is unrelenting.

Exercise Two - Take another look at your character’s one great strength. How might that same strength set them up for disaster? Brainstorm a little.

Oh ho, this is surprisingly easy. I don’t know Diederich very well yet but what I do know about him is that he’s a ruthless businessman, has the money to show for it, because he’s unrelenting, unyielding, a mountain in the face of a hurricane--but where that strength will fail him? When he has to bend for love, for the one in his life who means the most. He’s a man used to getting what and who he wants, so when he’s told no...

It’s going to be difficult for all parties involved.

Water can eventually wear down rock but it takes centuries, and that’s the kind of patience I imagine Diederich’s lover will have to have if they want to gain any ground with this man. He’s going to be difficult to get to bend and similar to ice he’s likely to shatter into something sharp rather than give to the will of others.

Diederich’s strength makes him severe, which is not always a good thing, especially outside the boardroom.

Exercise Three - “What is the worst thing you could possibly do to your character?” It’s a great question to ask when you’re wanting to learn about what your character is made of, so ask that question now, with a bit of a twist.

“What is the worst thing you could possibly do to your character, that they would be least equipped to handle? Brainstorm that.

And once you’ve crafted their greatest tragedy, ask the next question: How can this character use their one great strength to help them meet the problem head-on?

When I first wrote Diederich he was just supposed to be a flash!OC for an Obsessives drabble set. He existed to fill a void, of a slightly deluded narcissist who was left reeling from rejection/abandonment, so taking that into consideration...I’m going to say the worst thing I could possibly do to Diederich is to take that desired love away.

His drabble opened and closed with him seeking the love he’d only held briefly and how it was sending him spiraling to lose it. Diederich is a controlling person; he isn’t going to know how to deal with the free will of his lover and what that means for him. He can’t 100% control love or the object of his desire and that fear becomes realized as soon as she’s gone. It’s going to cripple him in multiple ways; he feels he’s failed, an emotion he absolutely cannot deal with, and the abandonment, the loss, is a wound to his massive pride. It’s going to consume him like rot, until he can’t stand it marring his otherwise perfect life. He’s ill-equipped to sit with failure.

In short? He won’t be able to stand it. It’ll drive him insane.

But, it happens to work out perfectly: his one great strength, his unrelenting personality won’t allow him to quit, to rest, until he’s found his love and righted his world on it’s axis. Diederich can’t be, won’t be stopped.

No matter what.

Exercise Four - Write a 1-2 paragraph, unique character entrance scene. Try to make it impactful!

The illumination coming off the five star hotel shimmered as it split the night, parting shadows like the red sea to make way for one undeniably important man. The crowd on the sidewalk seemed to follow suit, halting in their steps to make room for broad shoulders near stretching the seams of finely tailored cloth as the occupant of the expensive towncar placed first one, then two polished dress shoes on the sidewalk. As he straightened up, onlookers hesitant to pass by were struck by an impressive stature attributed to fine breeding that could only come from living within the upper echelon of society for centuries.

Eyes so blue they were nearly ice white sliced cleanly straight ahead, no sideways glance because it was apparent this man had no time nor care to know who was around. The driver standing by the open door could possibly double for security but it was hard to imagine a man so tall, so statuesque truly needed it; his presence not only exuded importance but malice, so that small children might actually scurry out of his way. The sharp clack of dress shoes heralded his long strides, drawing one’s attention up from pressed slacks to the length of a wool-lined trench, buttoned against a no doubt trim and toned middle. Large hands were cradled in the softest Italian leather and when he reached up to his breast pocket for a single crisp $100 bill to hand to the doorman, all those onlookers could see were the cut of cheekbones that could no doubt make fast work of a piece of glass. This man had enviable bone structure; Old World in that his cheeks were square and his chin slightly pointed, angled to bring attention to a jawline that went on for days. His nose had only the faintest of a curve to it, right at the tip, so that when he was staring down at some unfortunate soul they’d only be forced to follow that curve right back up to those unforgivingly cold eyes. Complimentary to his pale eyes and skin, his blond hair was a silvery flaxen in shade and in cut the sides were shaved but the top left long and slicked back--akin to a shark’s white fin just barely breaking the surface of moonless ocean waves.

Anyone who didn’t know Diederich Frost was always left wanting to after laying eyes on him for the first time.

Exercise Five - Now, write a new entry scene for the same character, but if in the first attempt you used dialogue, now do the entry with no dialogue. And if in the first attempt you didn’t use dialogue, do it almost entirely through dialogue this time.

...Goddamnit.

I FELT REALLY GOOD ABOUT THE FIRST ONE BECAUSE I CAN WRITE ME SOME DESCRIPTION. But how the fuck am I gonna make this man’s entrance with DIALOGUE.

Goddamnit.

“Mr. Frost is on his way up,” came the understandably frantic voice of the aforementioned Mr. Frost’s assistant. The young man was desperate to make a good impression on the owner of this prestigious company and though fresh-faced and college enrolled, Sacha felt he was up to the task. He hoped, anyway.

“W-What should I do?” Unlike Sacha, who had been Mr. Frost’s assistant for the past six months, this new hire, Norbert, was struggling. Sacha thought it would be a miracle if the shorter brunette made it through the end of the week.

“Fix your tie,” Sacha hissed, his back to the elevator as he prepared Mr. Frost’s cup of coffee. “Stand up straight, don’t stare and don’t you dare call Mr. Frost by his first name again.”

Norbert flushed strawberry, pudgy fingers pushing the wrinkles from his tie. “It w-was an accident!”

“Yes well your firing won’t be if it happens again.” Sacha dropped the statement with the same finality he set the square cup of coffee on it’s saucer, steaming hot and waiting for Mr. Frost like the rest of his obedient staff. Sacha set the saucer on the top of his desk, facing the elevator as the car made it’s way up, announcing their arriving boss with each click of the lighted panel above the doors. Sacha spot out of the corner of his mouth, hands clasped behind his back, still facing the elevator. “Mr. Frost has a full day of meetings ahead, Norbert, so I’ll handle his refreshments and meals while you’ll take care of...?”

“His dry cleaning, getting his car washed, and picking up his tailored suits from Mr. Favero.” Norbert was proud to keep his usual anxious stammer from his voice but Sacha didn’t even seem to notice--and if he did, he didn’t care to remark on it.

The small victory was quickly forgotten when the gleaming elevator doors opened and Mr. Diederich Frost stepped out onto his office floor. The entire building was his company, but this top floor was reserved for the illustrious owner and his assistants, giving him plenty of room to work undisturbed.

“Good morning, Mr. Frost.” Sacha spoke first, almost eagerly, and Norbert had to quietly admire how easy it seemed to be for Sacha to speak to Diederich. Norbert sometimes forgot his own name when those ice blue eyes stared him down.

“G-Good morning,” Norbert had all but lost ground from his earlier feat of not stammering. He cleared his throat, knowing it wouldn’t help.

Their boss, Diederich Frost, was a statuesque man of impeccable breeding and class, born with a silver spoon in his mouth but he did the polishing himself. There was no resting on laurels for Diederich; ambition lined his already swollen pockets until there were rumors he could buy their country and have enough left over to still maintain his $500 a month haircuts. Normally, Norbert would think that was an exorbitant amount of money to spend on a haircut but Diederich’s silvery blond hair turned heads just as often as the rest of him did. Whether it was his flaxen hair, his sharp cheekbones, or his deeply accented voice, Diederich Frost was the man to know. Norbert just didn’t think he could get the sentence, “I know Diederich Frost,” out of his mouth without his blood pressure dropping.

“Messages.” Diederich’s voice was like an anvil, dropping period where others would hang questions marks, but Sacha didn’t miss a beat.

“Your brother called, he’s still insisting you come out for the weekend,” Sacha recited the messages by memory, even as he gave Norbert a pointed look to pick up Mr. Frost’s coffee and follow them into his expensive, lavish office. “Your aunt’s birthday is tomorrow and I confirmed the delivery of her favorite flowers as always, and lastly Mr. Price called for the fifth time, still looking to sell.”

Norbert took a steadying, albeit quick breath as he hurried to place Mr. Frost’s coffee on his desk, just in time for his boss to sit down in his desk chair and nail him to the floor with those icy eyes. Diederich didn’t say a word, merely met Norbert’s gaze evenly, giving the shorter male plenty of time to see Diederich’s expensive three-piece blue suit was a direct compliment to pale porcelain skin. It was also just long enough to see Diederich’s eyes narrow because Norbert had been staring. The male cleared his throat again and backed up to stand beside Sacha, who was giving him a pointed side-ways stare.

Diederich didn’t thank Sacha for his hard work or excellent delivery but that wasn’t unusual either. Earning a thanks from this hard-working perfectionist took far more impressive feats than simple recitation. Norbert had yet to receive a single one.

“My first meeting is in--”

“Thirty minutes, sir.” Sacha supplied before Diederich could outright ask. The older male simply nodded and took a small drink from his coffee.

“Then get my brother on the line.” Diederich directed to Sacha, before sparing Norbert another glance, disapproval darkening harsh features until it was akin to staring into the eye of a hurricane. “...And straighten your tie, son.”

Norbert was far more likely to hang himself with it in the employee bathroom.

BOY IDK IF THAT WAS WHAT THE EXERCISE MEANT BUT I SURE HOPE SO. Literally don’t know how to write only dialogue, that’s just not...idk, a mix of dialogue/description is fine with me? That’s about as dialogue-centric as my writing ever gets, I find it’s so important (at least for me) to add in little snippets of description, like sprinkling salt. just call me Salt Bae.

Exercise Six - Write the same entry a third time, but this time, change the setting and the situation. Try taking your character out of their comfort zone or put them somewhere they’re unlikely to be.

The joyous, loud cries of children at play announced Birthday Party! long before anyone could lay eyes on the balloons and banners that decorated the park’s picnic area. It was a large, usually populated public park but today was entirely off-limits to the general public, bought for a full 24 hours by the Frost family to celebrate little Alexandra Frost’s seventh birthday. Children of all ages ran and skipped, frolicked and played amongst the playground equipment and bounce houses, while adults sipped alcohol, ate finger foods, and escaped the waning Summer sun inside air-conditioned tents.

No expense was spared for the little princess of the Frost family, niece to none other than Diederich Frost, who had made quite a name for himself on the international business scene. The infamously ruthless billionaire was of course present, dressed in what to him was likely casual; pressed slacks and a designer sweater, but he still stood out in the crowd. He didn’t appear to belong at a children’s party; he was all hard, cold lines and nowhere was that more noticeable than standing beside his younger brother, who was a father of two. Diederich had no children and thus had not been softened by fatherhood; he was all business, all the time, and if one were to pay close attention the majority of the children steered clear of the long-legged Uncle to Alexandra. The birthday girl in question adored her Uncle but why wouldn’t she? He showered her with expensive gifts and she had nothing to fear from ice blue eyes and the hard line of his jaw. Diederich had never been cross with her a day in his life, but the list of people he wasn’t cross with could be counted on a person’s left hand. Diederich looked as mean as he was; high-cut cheekbones, a harsh line to his mouth, and silvery blond hair kept slicked back did everything to add to the air of crackling menace that surrounded the man heads and shoulders taller than most. He was a storm cloud, a single bolt of lightning one doesn’t see until it’s too late and you’re left singed from the contact you didn’t expect amongst the chorus of, “Happy birthday dear Alexandra, happy birthday to you!”

I’ll admit, imagining Diederich at a kid’s birthday party tickled me. He’s shaping up to be such a Type-A, no-nonsense asshole it’s hilarious to imagine him surrounded by balloons and shouting kiddos. He reminds me of the quote from Angela in the Office.

“I wouldn’t mind a pair of well-behaved boys.”

That’s about all I have time for tonight, but I will say, I’ve never really thought about character entrances very much before beginning to read this book. They liken to being out on a first date; it’s your reader’s first impression of your character and you want them hooked right away. Why should they give a damn about your character? You have to make them see what’s so special about them, sort of like...selling your character, I guess?

...I went from a date situation to human trafficking but whatever.

THE POINT IS. I am now realizing that the way characters are introduced is actually pretty important. I mean that was the majority of the exercises tonight, writing and then re-writing the entry scene to see how many different ways I could introduce you to Diederich. Even out of his element he still has to be himself, after all, and that right there is why I think this is important--you’re essentially creating a person, and people have to be adaptable. If your characters are so one-sided they can only exist in a very specific box...then they’re not very good characters.

All in all, I’m pretty pleased with the work I did tonight. I took a character that was interesting to me and actually made something of him. He’s around, now. I hear his voice and I can see him, and that’s pretty rad.

Looking forward to picking this back up soon and seeing what else Mr. Frost has to say~

#{theme} : character study #{character} : diederich frost

1 note · View note

thelifepartners · 7 years

Text

E. Ray

Photo by Duran

Her name is Carissa, and he met her through Ruby, and she’s a jewelry designer, which is unusual for Robert, because he sleeps strictly with other actors, as they’re happier with, even seek out only, temporary arrangements. Each of the other two times he’s seen Carissa, she’s been wearing azure blue, although Robert wouldn’t know that was the name of the color. The first time she was in a silk button-up, the second time in a sheath dress. The first had been at her shop, backlit by siding windows and framed by rows of Southwestern stones in sparkling wires. The second had been last Wednesday, across from him at dinner, her lips slowly growing more purple with wine stain as the night wore on. Both times, the color had brought out her eyes, the golden wisps in her mostly grey hair, her just-beginning wrinkles. She wasn’t old, maybe thirty, but Californian sun had clearly shone down on her, even if she was one of those women with bone structure so beautiful wrinkles only seemed to highlight it.

She clearly liked to laugh. She was kind and attentive and he kept thinking to himself she would make a good wife. He did not really want a wife. But he was tired. And there were moments when she was more than pretty and kind; there had been that moment in the shop where she’d shown him how she bent thick wire with fragile looking hands to cup a piece of turquoise, and he saw her feeling every texture she touched as she described it to him. There had been the moment when she’d walked out of the restaurant after their last date and took an inhale so long and deep he had time to realize he’d never taken one that full in his life.

He hadn’t slept with her yet. He had a policy of not sleeping with women until the third date. It made them hungrier. And he always knew that they would. He was famous, and his agent kept him a well-groomed animal.

Cuts to his glossy Italian hair were all well over three hundred dollars. He drank the right whey drinks and went to the right gyms with the right trainers. He’d been beautiful and sensitive looking enough to play all the male leads even before that.

He already had plenty of lovers. When he was in plays in New York, he lived at Glinda’s, who he’d known since NYU. She hadn’t changed. She still always seemed high even when not high and smelled like weed and muffins. She had sex like it was a perfectly natural bodily function; they got so sweaty, so caught up in each other’s everything, so slightly gross. He’d realized a long time ago he loved her whenever he was in that city because nothing about its cynicism or pace ever seemed to get to her. She just kept loving everyone, every moment she was in, kind of like a happy, slightly dumb golden retriever. His favorite golden retriever. But when he was outside of Manhattan, she just seemed slow and out of touch.

There was Mark, in London, who he’d loved as a young man and had somehow never gotten over. The old Mark, at least. The new Mark inhabited the body of the old, and Robert could only forget how self-involved and aggrandizing the new Mark was after enough wine. But after that wine they’d sit on Mark’s porch and watch the sunset and philosophize and drink another bottle. As soon as the sun set, they would go to bed.

And then there was Ruby. Ruby was the same as Robert. Acting was her life, sex was her free time, and when he was in LA and not on set, he was in her bed, the two of them mocking everyone they knew. Neither of them believed in anything other than the good life, even if they wanted to. He would be driving to her, rather than Carissa, but she was away filming in London, perhaps making fun of him with Mark.

Ruby had been the one to introduce Robert to the friend of the acquaintance who had introduced him to Carissa. Ruby was always doing things like that. It was if she had a second sense for people who’d introduce him to people he would sleep with. When he’d asked if she was doing it on purpose, she’d just smiled, adding she thought it was a tragedy for man who liked pussy so much to go too long without it. The world, she said, had enough sadness in it already.

Robert’s wrist cracked as he pulled up to the valet and put the car into park. He was forty now, and despite the green juices and the hundreds of dollars his agent was spending on supplements, he knew he was breaking. It made him feel more empty than usual, like there was something he should’ve found by now and the cracks and the stiffness were a clock reminding him that his time to do so wasn’t infinite.

He stepped out of the car and took out a clove cigarette. The character he was playing now was a chain smoker, and he was trying to build it into his own habits, make it such a part of his personality he looked wrong when he wasn’t doing it, even off set.

Carissa was already at the table, her lips already a little purple with wine, this time in a low cut tank top, again in the same color of blue as before. She was nervous. And she was going to sleep with him not just because he was handsome, but because he was famous. He’d been in this exact restaurant, he realized, when he’d first come to California, when he’d seen Rachel McAdams, fresh off of The Notebook fame in a seat in the back. He’d been forced by his old agent to sit with his back to her. The whole meal he’d snuck glances at her. Not because she was beautiful, although she was, but because she was famous. She was so much smaller in person. But still, she seemed more than human because of her fame, and his mind had been searching for that each time his eyes took her in, and each time he’d been unable to find what he’d been looking for.

Carissa rose to go to the bathroom. Her pants were clearly expensive leather and too tight. She was trying too hard. He tried to remember what they’d been talking about as he watched her weave through the restaurant. He couldn’t. He watched her shoulders drop as she moved out of the way of a waiter, focusing, he knew, on what was at hand rather than whatever was in her head when she was sitting across from him. He knew she must be beautiful when she was relaxed, that she must have more moments like when she wrapped the wire around the turquoise. Carissa had made it to the bathroom door and was resting her hand for a moment extra on the ornate, gilded handle. He imagined her admiring its craftsmanship, maybe the way the oils of so many hands had smoothed it over the years.

He looked down at his roll, which he’d covered in butter but still hadn’t touched, and imagined a conversation with Carissa. He imagined her coming back, her leather pants fitting better, her gait more confident than he’d seen it. You think you know me, she’d say. I saw you thinking it to yourself. You think I want you because of the symbol you are. But I want you because of who you are. I see you. I see things even you don’t see in you. She’d snatch up his roll, almost angry, take a bite of it, a little butter left melting on her lips. He’d lean in and take her hand saying, Let’s get out of here. They’d kiss in the parking lot as they waited for his car, the taste of butter still on her mouth. He sighed. He remembered a fan had tried something like that on him once already, almost a decade ago now. There’s been nothing behind her words.

When Carissa returned, more relaxed but still with shoulders too tight, he smiled and excused himself to use the bathroom too. The waiters moved out of his way long before there was any chance of them intersecting with him. When he made it to the door he put his hand on the ornate handle, but felt nothing. Out of the corner of his eye he saw an illuminated EXIT sign above the door next to him. Before he knew what he was doing, he checked behind him to make sure Carissa wasn’t looking, saw that she wasn’t, pushed down on the handlebar, and walked outside.

The sky had turned completely black since he’d come into the restaurant, and he could smell the heat of the day in the air, but was met only with coolness. He heard the ocean to his right, and began walking towards it.

When his feet hit the sand, he opened his phone and texted Carissa. So sorry, he wrote. Suddenly under the weather. Please order whatever you would like and put it on my tab. See you next time. He pressed send and closed his phone. He looked up at the palm trees above him, their fronds illuminated by lights attached just below them. He could not see the stars.

Robert took off his shoes and walked to where the waves were hitting the still-warm sand, finding the water was even a few degrees warmer. He turned his face towards the ocean so that no one would recognize him until he reached a less well-lit part of the shore. Afterwards, he looked back only towards the sand dunes, realizing he was looking for someone to talk to.

There was a retirement home along the water he liked to walk to when he felt like this. It was the only place he could reliably find someone who didn’t recognize him. The combination of senility and water had always seemed like a bad idea to him, but he hadn’t seen any deaths publicized, and he supposed it was the least depressing old folks home he’d ever seen. Still, lately, even people there had started recognizing them. He assumed one of the nurses was a fan of his movies, had them on repeat, allowing his image to seep into the brains of people too old to remember their own children or ages.

He was in luck tonight though. Through the gaps in the fence Robert could see a blind man, identifiable by his red and white stick, was on a ground floor unit’s patio. The man was sitting on the ground, his arms holding him up, his legs stretched out so that they bent where the patio ended, his feet in the sand. It was a strangely limber looking pose, and only looked stranger as he came closer and saw how wrinkled and saggy the man’s skin was. Apart from the pose, he looked to be in his nineties at least. Robert waited until a bored looking teenager walking the home’s therapy dogs exited the gate in the complex’s fence and slipped inside.

“You okay sir?” Robert asked, embarrassed immediately to be asking someone sitting on his own porch if he needed help.

“Just fine,” said the old man. “Yourself?”

Robert liked the sound of the older man’s voice. Its pace was slow, maybe once Southern, and as if he actually cared.

“Doing okay,” Robert said. “Mind if I join you?”

“Come on over,” the old man said, “Goddam, it’s boring here.”

“Thanks,” Robert said.

“You visiting someone?” the old man said?

“Yes,” Robert said. The old man turned his head towards Robert, but Robert had nothing more to say. He didn’t like to lie to people this man’s age.

“I won’t ask more then,” said the old man. “There are some hard visits here. I’m Hank. What’s your name?”

“Robert,” he said, hoping he wasn’t giving himself away.

“Robert,” said the old man. “Had a son named Robert.” This time Robert cocked his head towards Hank, but Hank did not continue.

“How’s your night been?” Robert asked.

“Good,” Hank said. “Just moved here. Sunset smells different here, better.”

“Tell me more,” Robert said. And Hank did. He talked about sunset that night, and the week before, and, with minimal prompting from Robert talked about the smells of all the sunsets of all the places he’d lived in. Robert didn’t listen to everything Hank said, but the whole thing was comforting, it reminded him of when he was young and the men on his block would just talk to each other and at him about nothing, it not really mattering if he was there or not.

But around the fourth neighborhood Hank was describing, Robert found he was bored. The different smells of sunsets in different neighborhoods described by a ninety year old slowly falling asleep at the sound of his old voice wasn’t what Robert had been looking for, which was to talk himself, and he found himself thanking Hank for his time, exiting the door to the complex and looking back into the ocean.

He realized he wanted to call Ruby. Ruby would know exactly what he was feeling, he always did. For a moment, his chest tightened and his heart felt lighter, and he thought he was on the verge of feeling something more for her. He knew that if this were a movie, this, this moment after talking with a blind old man who noticed things he never would’ve on his own, would be the moment for him to finally realize that Ruby was what he’d wanted all along. He braced for the moment to come. But there was no further tightening, no further lightness, and soon he was just looking into dark waves on the water, feeling the same sort of lost he’d felt all night.

Still, he picked up his phone to call Ruby. She’d be awake if she hadn’t had too much to drink with Mark the night before, and she’d give him all the new gossip. He could tell her about Carissa and the old man and how he hadn’t felt anything with his hand on the gilded handle. And she’d understand, and for just then, that would be enough.

#prose short story

2 notes · View notes

devilsknotrp · 5 years

Photo

Congratulations, Rose! You have been accepted for the role of Linda Goode (FC: Jodie Whittaker). We have our heartbroken momma! You captured Linda’s motherly nature so perfectly, I was smiling through the whole application. You’ve made it so clear that while her life may not have gone according to her dreams or plans, the children she got out of it make everything worth it. I love her passion for writing, too! Welcome to Devil’s Knot! Please have a look at this page prior to sending in your account.

OUT OF CHARACTER

Name: Rose Age: 23 Pronouns: she/her Timezone: so I accidentally got it wrong in the other app haha, it’s currently GMT +1, soon just GMT because I’ll be moving to the UK Activity estimation: Right now I have all the time in the world but in September I will start my masters so it will probably be a little less but I’m sure I’ll have time to work around it. Overall my activity would probably be around 7 or 8. Triggers: REDACTED

IN CHARACTER

Full name: Linda Elizabeth Goode (nee Holland) Age (DD/MM/YYY): thirty-nine (28-09-1957) Gender: Cisgender female Pronouns: She/her Sexuality: heterosexual Occupation: currently on the look for one. After living without Paul, her ex-husband, she has enough money to move and live for a few months with the kids but she’s been keen on finding a job and becoming a part of the community. Before that she was, and still is, a stay-at-home mom. Connection to Victim: Well, about as closely connected to him as one could be. She carried him for nine months, goodness sake. He is her baby. Brian is her youngest son who she loves so dearly. With the other two being older and a little more rebellious, Brian is all she has left to love and hold dear of her children before he gets older and more independent as well. Alibi: The Saturday that Brian went missing, Linda had been busying early in the morning. She had woken up at her usual time, seven in the morning, and prepared breakfast for her children. They all came tumbling down one by one, eating their pancakes bleary-eyed except her daughter who always looked ready to take on an army with her deep scowls. After that, she went food shopping and came back. She had just made lunch for herself and Brian, her other two children out for the day, while she loaded all the dirty plates and cups into the sink and started to clean. All it took was a split second while her hands had been in soap or while she had been drying the plates for Brian to leave. Linda left looked up through the kitchen window where Brian had just been, only to find him gone. She shrugged it off for a second as she tidied everything away first. After that, she decided to ask if he felt like coming in. When she went outside and found him nowhere to be seen, that’s when she started to panic. Faceclaim: Jodie Whittaker

WRITING SAMPLE

“Mom! Mom, come on!” Brian yelled from the car, his brown hair waving along on the breeze of the wind. Linda, feeling like a sumo-wrestler, walked towards the vehicle with two big bags in her arms. One on each side, swinging back and forth with every huge step she took. Pushing them inside the boot, she closed it as she moved to the front. As she did, she walked past the rest of the car where within lay her three greatest treasures. David, Beth and Brian. Her eldest son was sat in a corner, shading his eyes from the sun. The wrinkle between his eyes indicated what he truly thought about being trapped in such close vicinity with his two younger siblings. Beth sat in the middle, her unruly red hair tumbled down her shoulders while her blue eyes moved around the car to see everything that was going around her. In the other corner sat young Brian. His wide eyes, similar to Linda’s, watched his siblings with great interest. The smile on his lips seemed to brighten the entire world. Linda felt a surge of pride and pure happiness as she saw them. Moving to the front of the car, she sat down and turned to face her children.

“Who is ready to go to the beach?”

Linda enjoyed the gritty feeling of the sand between her toes as she slid them deeper into it. The big lime green towel that was their collecting point lay flat open with a parasol to keep create a little shade in this otherwise lovely warm weather. Through her sunglasses, she saw her whole new world unfold before her. The lovely warm glow that was cast on everything she viewed. Beth’s hair was the colour of live fire as strands of it almost seemed gold, David’s skin seemed slightly tan and warm and Brian’s smile and bright yellow sunhat seemed as bright as the sun itself. It created a warm feeling in her chest that spread through her, turning the corner of her lips up. Paul had left for a few days on a trip to another state so Linda wanted to make the most of her time with the children. It was summer and the weather was so nice, that when they’d come down in the morning she immediately asked them what they thought about going to the beach. They spend the entire day there until David had a slightly red-ish hue to him, Beth had managed to pick a fight with someone and Brian had stomped off because she hadn’t let him get every ice cream he wanted to try.

As they were about to leave, Linda called the three of them to her and told them to sit down on this wooden bench close to where they were parked. Judging by the annoyed groans and sighs she could tell that they weren’t in the mood for a picture but Linda had enjoyed this day so much that she wanted something tangible to remember it by. They were perched on the bench and faced her as she took a photo. She took a few extra ones for good luck, or so parents always said but she enjoyed having as many pictures of her children as she could.

A deep sigh escaped her lips as she looked down at the photo in her hand. She remembered so well David walking next to Brian as they chatted together. Laughing together. Beth running around them. Helping her younger brother get up after she’d pushed him too hard and caused him to fall down. Brian. It had been a week since she’d last seen him and the weight of that reality settled heavily on her shoulders. She’d walked passed the mirror, catching a glimpse of her ghoulish appearance. That’s the best way she could describe it. Sleep didn’t come easily but so didn’t getting out of bed. The dark shadows under her eyes revealed as much. Her hair, pulled back in a ponytail, hung loose and you could see the greasiness of it in the morning light.

It was her real face, but the town of Devil’s knot had no time for reality. They wanted to see a mother put together, one that was not a failure, that could stand up to the unbearable of a missing child. It was impossible, but she tried, stepping into the shower as if it could wipe away all that buried into her heart.

Her hair hung in its usual styled bob and a little make-up worked miracles to hide the dark shadows and harsh lines that had become prominent on her face. Once perhaps she’d have spent a moment to appreciate her features, wide doe eyes and small lips that had been admired for long ago. The notion of such fanciful ideas was laughable however, in the face of a tragedy such as this.

“Mom, are you ready?” David stood in the opening of her bedroom, seeming larger than life in the shadow of the hall lights. He’d become the man of the house, or at least tried to, and she found herself being so very proud of the effort. But it was too much to ask him and Beth to keep a brave face. The haunting of Brian’s absence was replicated on them as well.

Linda tried her best to conjure up the warmth and be the caring mother they needed, but a facade could only do so much. The practical was easy, making breakfast, doing simple chores, but when it came to the emotional, to actually looking them in the eye and saying it would be okay - she wasn’t sure she could really be there. Linda let out a soft sigh as she tried to rid herself a little of the pain and emotions that raced through her. She tried not to let her children see too much of what it was exactly what she was feeling, she wanted them to see her as strong and determined because that’s exactly what she was. Linda knew her son was out there somewhere and she was sure she’d find him, as sure as the earth goes around the sun.

“Yes, come on honey. Let’s go and look for your brother.”

ANYTHING ELSE?

→ Linda was a girl who didn’t look like a “nerd” but she was smart. During her high school years, she worked hard to get the best grades that she could get and worked for it. Her wide eyes and soft smile caused her to receive quite some attention from guys but she never pursued them. After graduating, she got into her state university and pursued her dream to become a journalist. Her love for writing grew as she read literature and got involved with extracurricular activities and what was going on in the world. At that moment in time is when she met Paul Goode, the darling of the political classes and one-time guest speaker at her university. He was the most charismatic man she’d ever met, and she fell, easily, dramatically, and most of all, foolishly. It wasn’t his wealth that got her, nor his position, but his passion. He had a drive that was infectious and a tendency to sweep you into his path whether you want to or not. And so, like a love-struck teen, she let him spin her into his web and he kept her there in every sense. Her pregnancy for one. They started dating in her second year and in her third year she found out she was pregnant. She was worried her mother would disown her, instead she fully embraced it. The woman smelt the opportunity with such a man on the up and up, and so, they were married. You’d think for someone so clever she’d have avoided that easy pitfall, but no, she ended up with David at the age of 21, with no prospect of finishing her course and no choice but to lean on Paul. Till unhappiness do them part…

→ Linda is a good mother. Perhaps too good. There’s such a thing as caring too much and that’s exactly what she does. But what else can she do? They were after all her life, literally. After giving up her own dreams and ambitions, she has close to nothing else to do except care for her children. It’s not her intention but its manifested into a deep, constant need to take care of them. From fussing over their hair to making sure their rooms are perfect to accounting for their location almost constantly. Over time the incessant has produced friction in the house, especially with David and to a lesser degree Brian. Who unlike their sister were unable to easily break out the chains of her overbearing nature and Linda tried her best to break habits far too old in the making. It makes Brian’s disappearance all the more stinging, knowing that she could have stopped it if only she’d loved him more and kept a closer eye.

→ The notion of putting on a good face is not exclusive to Devil’s Knot. In fact, it has been Linda’s recipe for life ever since she had gotten pregnant. No matter the abuse Paul threw her way, nor the stresses of essentially living as a single mother even when she was married, she could always be relied upon to put on the show of a happy housewife. The truth, however, beneath the mask, is that Linda has been unhappy for decades. It buries down to her bones, a dark stain, that clouds her mind in the moments that she was alone. All it would take would be a few visits to a therapist to know she had depression, but the notion doesn’t even enter her mind. Instead, she loses herself in her duties. When she makes the kids dinner or folds their laundry, she’s not ever really there. She’s just an empty shell, going through the motions, watching the world pass but taking no joy in it. She’s afraid that should she take a moment to really face what she felt, she would no longer be able to keep going.

→ She may be a housewife, but that didn’t mean Linda was without skills. She had been a journalism major for a reason, and she had a mean prose when she chose to wield it. In the fleeting moments of loneliness at home, she sometimes returns to her old flame, but she’s scared to really consider it again. Writing was hard enough when you’re young and unafraid, but she has a family to support, and a dismal lack of self-belief means that she often considers it a fancy that she has no right to indulge in, despite the deep joy that it brings. Watching the evening news and the morning paper will just have to do. She hopes one day to be able to pursue a certain kind of job that would allow her to write again like she’s always wanted to, but for now, that’s not something she’d want since she’s still completely focused on her children.

#dkaccepted #accepted #linda goode

0 notes