#writing prompt friday
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Drabble 39
39.
"Mean what?" Rex asked.
"What you said earlier." Mark reminded him, briefly pausing to punch a ninja square in the face. "Something about us moving in together?"
Rex snapped a sword, before ducking and driving his elbow into another's face. "Oh yeah, that! Well, you're in your final year of college and I've been gathering all this money, so... you know, thought I'd look!"
"Alright! What did you find so far?"
Rex slipped under a sai, wincing as it narrowly missed his cheek. He wrapped his arms around the ninja's waist and pulled hard, sending them crashing to the floor in a suplex manoeuvre. "Well, there's only about five of them we can afford in the entire state. First one's rent is pretty low for the area, but the landlord is an asshole!"
"Not worth it. If he's anything like my old boss at Burger-Mart, I'm not living there!" Mark replied, not missing a beat as he tossed a desk into a group of goons. "Or my Business Studies professor, actually, cause I'm still not over that!"
Rex would've chuckled at that, if he wasn't already busy trying not to get stabbed. "Uh huh. Two are inner-city, so rent's not that bad, but they’re pretty small and barebones. Oh, and- Jesus!- and there's two on the outskirts of the city that look pretty nice, but the rent is just way too high for my standards!”
“Barebones is fine. The money left over from my dad’s book sales should cover the cost of furniture and stuff, so that leaves the deposit and rent over. You can cover the first month, right?”
Rex chuckled. “Try the first year and then some!”
“Oh-hoh, really? And how much money did you save up, exactly?” Mark asked in an intrigued manner, not even noticing as a thug broke their hand trying to punch him.
“A fair few hundred, but there’s a lot more on the way. Trust me!” Rex reassured him.
“Alright. Well, either way, you still gotta meet my halmani!”
“Okay, my Korean is still a little basic, I’ll admit,” Rex confessed, “but... I’m sorry, did you mention your grandma? What’s up with that?”
Mark grinned. “Oh, I wouldn’t worry too much! From what Mom’s told her about you already, Nana Hei-Ran’s gonna love you when she flies over from Busan! Well, mostly at least. That reminds me, do you have a problem with K-dramas?”
“I... don’t think so?”
“Good, cause K-dramas are like one of the unavoidable things you have to deal with when you join my family, so... yeah, good start!”
#granny about to inspect the future son-in-law#gonna see if hes worthy of her grandson#invincible#invincible show#invincible amazon#mark grayson#rex sloan#rex splode#markrex#my asks#summerfrwrks#writing prompt friday
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"Hey constantine, who's that?" Someone asks and Connie looks down at Danny, blue eyes staring back at him.
"My coworker."
"He's my dad."
"What?"
"What."
—
Who knew John Constantine would gain a ward, one being such a little mischievous bastard with bright eyes and good heart.
He certainly didn't.
Nor did he expect the stabby Robin to get into a heated argument with his ward, gesturing to his form next to Batman and spit venom.
"But‐ Damian! Look at him! I can fix him!" Danny argues back and Robin, so done with this, rips his mask off and—
Oh.
They have the same face.
Connie looks at Batman, nervous what the reveal will change.
("I don't care if you can 'fix' him, danyal! Return to Father, to me!")
Batman stares back.
("Connie is dad shaped! I chose him myself, damian! Leave me and my choice alone!")
The day will only get longer, it seems.
#dcxdp#dpxdc#fic prompt#writing prompt#dc x dp prompt#danny looks at constantine and goes dad shaped!#hes such a cat tbf#demon twins#batman found out abt danny like#not even a day ago#and immediately brought robin in#danny and damian are close to throwing down and deciding with their fists#danny and damian are twins#danny: i see a pathetic man and all i think is dad shaped#damian: this man is less than the servants at grandfather's#damian is like pikachu face meme#danny is now in shared custody#friday + weekends at the waynes#hes brings damian a dragon fire sword that gets lit on command and everything is forgiven
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Happy Ending [masterlist]
Francisco Morales x F!Reader
Summary: Frankie’s spent the last twenty years with you on his mind. He’s watched a video you put in his pocket the last time he saw you more times than he can count. Have you been thinking of him too?
Warnings: 18+ MDNI, SLOW BURN, time skip (~20 years), friends-to-lovers, this is 100% from Frankie’s POV - refers to main female character/reader as “you”, she is physically described in some ways (shoulder-length hair, hair long enough to pull back, wearing glasses, having freckles and scars, wearing form-fitting clothing, being shorter than Frankie, Frankie is able to pick her up, reader’s pubic hair is described), reader has a definitive age - there is a 2.5 year age gap between her and Frankie, reader engages in different forms of sex work, talk of drugs and addiction, mention of the reader having children, talk of breakups and divorce, addiction issues causing estrangement from children, talk of death and grief, mention of TF canon death, general warning for any/all sex acts, a little bit of spanking🧀
Part I (5608)
Part II (4184)
Part III (3792)
Part IV (4028)
Part V (4292)
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AO3 Link
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Thank you to @iamasaddie for their prompt: "It's Always Been You" when I chose "slutty little knee" in their writing challenge 2.0 - I am SO sorry this is VERY late, but I took on a monster of a project (my own fault.) Thank you for your help over the last week, I could NOT have finished this without you - @strang3lov3 - you helped me come up with the idea, made me this amazing moodboard, made my summary.... you kinda did everything. Except write it I guess, I did that part. You're so amazing and I'm so lucky to have you in my corner. I love you. (and big thanks to @beefrobeefcal and @covetyou for the motivation and beta-reading)
#francisco morales#frankie catfish morales#happy ending#noxturnalpascal#frankie morales x reader#francisco morales x reader#triple frontier fanfic#triple frontier fanfiction#pedro pascal characters#Frankie Friday#writing challenge 2.0#iamasaddie prompt
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“I wish we could start over.” Civilian mumbled through tears, trying to earn themselves one more look from their hero ex-lover, but Villain saw right through them.
Protectively, they wrapped an arm around the crime-stopper’s deflated shoulders, before they retorted.
“You don’t deserve a second chance.”
#prompt#idk#bla bla bla#im tired#last final is friday#so let me rest until then 🙏🙏🙏#hero x villain#villain#villain x hero#hero#drabbles#fantasy#imagines#scenarios#hero and villain#villain and hero#protective villain#civilian#civilian x hero#heroes#villains#heroes and villains#villains and heroes#heroes x villains#villains x heroes#writing prompt
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✨ There's no denying! It's Flash Fiction Friday and it's time for writing!
FFF is here with a brand new prompt to inspire you!
✨ New to FFF? Let us fill you in!
Flash Fiction Friday is a fun writer event that’s meant to inspire, share and connect writings of all genres and writers of all ages. It’s designed to make people want to write, especially if they’re feeling blocked. Everyone and everything is welcome!
We always do our very best to keep the prompt’s genre open, entertaining, positive and encouraging.
Write between 100-1000 words. It can be any genre, in any text format and 18+ is fine by us, just please tag accordingly.
Use this Friday’s theme in your text. Any way you see fit.
Post on your tumblr blog and remember to tag us at @flashfictionfridayofficial!! So we’ll see it, read it and reblog it!!
Deadline is 24 hours after the prompt has been issued (12 pm CET).
And then, next Friday, we’ll mention your work in a showcase post on our main blog before our next prompt drops.
Please post your entries as regular posts, not screenshots — or provide the text as a regular post as well. Let’s keep everything as accessible as possible!
If you have a question, check out our FAQ page! If your question isn’t on there, don’t hesitate to ask!
You don’t need to ask for permission or need to get added to a list to join in. Just write, have fun and don’t forget to tag us!
We do not condone fiction, asks or comments that contain: direct hostility, unconstructive critique, LGBTQIA+ hate, slurs, racism and/or general no-no behaviors.
If you want to be closer to the epicenter, you can come chat on our open discord: https://discord.gg/rUWCE8a
✨ We also introduced our very own Wishing Well, a place for you to whisper your prompt suggestions into. And we’ll listen! Check everything about it out HERE.
✨All your amazing works from last week can be found HERE.
Go check them out and consider supporting your fellow FFF writers with some likes and reblogs!
✨ And now, the new prompt!
[#FFF241 Hour of Denial]
Denial can be so many things. Whether it is a part of grief, a bold lie or rejection - we want to hear about it! It is the time when we want to hear "it can't be", "it wasn't me" and all that fuels your creative thoughts! Tell us aobut that time, that hour when your character will accept anything but the truth! Get writing and let us know!
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The Collective <3
#flash fiction friday#writeblr#writeblr event#writing prompt#writing community#steal the banner!#fff241#hour of denial
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The end of denial
Summary
After so many years of denial, not having to hide who they are from each other and telling the world is the most wonderful feeling.
Notes
For the @flashfictionfridayofficial - Hour of denial
On Ao3
Rating G - 458 words
"Are you a bookseller, too?"
Crowley replied immediately, shaking his head, "Not even at gunpoint."
Aziraphale interrupted, "This is, um... Crowley. He and I..."
He looked at the demon in front of him, wondering how to introduce him, how to say he was important to him without saying what this was about.
He continued, "...go back a long time."
He was pleased to see Crowley's proud expression, but as always, he felt a tinge of sadness at having to deny what the demon really meant to him.
"Sir, you come in here every week, and every week Aziraphale tells you again that these books are not for sale."
Aziraphale, coming from the back of the bookshop, couldn't suppress a small, amused smile as he heard Crowley rebuff an insistent customer who came back every week trying to buy a book.
Apparently, this particular customer had reached the end of his patience, for he replied with obvious annoyance, "Who are you, anyway? I want to see Mr. Fell."
Aziraphale approached and calmly said, "I'm here."
The client turned sharply toward him, then, pointing at Crowley, said, "Your assistant is being very rude and I..."
Aziraphale shook his head and replied in a cold voice, "I'll stop you right there, Crowley isn't my assistant, he's..."
He paused and saw Crowley looking at him expectantly, waiting for him to continue, then he hooked his arm under the demon's and continued in a much softer voice, "...my partner."
Aziraphale had deliberately said it so that there would be no doubt as to the nature of the partnership.
Seeing the client dumbfounded by what he'd just said, the angel added, "And I have nothing more to say to you than what he's just told you."
Then he changed his mind and continued, pointing to the door, "Just one more thing, if you would do us the pleasure of leaving and never coming back. Good day to you, sir."
Ignoring the angry departing customer who showed his displeasure by slamming the door, Aziraphale turned his full attention to Crowley and, seeing his happy expression, knew he'd been right.
Crowley said softly, "Your partner?"
Aziraphale raised his hand and placed it on the demon's cheek as he replied gently, "Absolutely."
The time for denial was over.
They could be themselves now and show what they meant to each other, and Aziraphale intended to make the most of it.
With a light touch of his hand, he drew the demon's face to his and kissed him tenderly, in broad daylight, in the middle of the bookshop, where everyone could see them from outside.
They had nothing to hide anymore, and damn hell and heaven, they were no longer afraid to show their love to the world.
_________
Still not beta'd
Still not my native language
Still hoping you'll enjoy this story 🥰
Still thanking you for bearing with me 😝
Ineffable Growing Love series : (After season 2)
Part 1 Story 1-99
Part 2 Story 100-?
Ineffable Husbands masterlist : here (Before season 2)
#good omens#aziracrow#ineffable husbands#ineffable boyfriends#aziraphale#crowley#good omens fanfiction#aziraphale x crowley#crowley x aziraphale#GOS2Spoilers#writeblr#writeblr event#writing prompt#writing community#flash fiction friday#😈💗😇#fff241 Hour of denial
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HATCHETFIELD OC WEEK MARCH 2024!
Hi! Welcome to the first official Hatchetfield OC week! The dates for this week are from March 10th - March 16th! However, since it's such short notice + as well as the first week on the account, we are taking submissions until the end of March!
Let's get into how this works:
Each Day is centered around one word. From this word, there's two other words, one more lighthearted and the other more angsty. Feel free to write to whatever word tickles your fancy!
Along with these prompts, since its an oc week, there is a question that goes along with each day that you can answer! They're split between human and non human ocs if need be.
So that's that! Let's get on with this week's prompts:
DAY ONE - Deal: Assistance/Drawback
Human: what lord does your OC have an attachment to?
Non Human: what human does your OC have an attachment to?
DAY TWO - Apotheosis: Survival/Infection
What is your OC doing during the events of The Guy Who Didn’t Like Musicals?
DAY THREE - Capitalism: Feast/Famine
What is your OC doing during the events of Black Friday?
DAY FOUR - Loser: Attacker/Victim
What is your OC doing during the events of Nerdy Prudes Must Die?
DAY FIVE - Home: Family/Stranger
Human: What’s your OC’s home life like?
Non Human: Does your OC have a family? If so, what’re they like?
DAY SIX - Love: Sweetheart/Heartbreak
Who does your OC hold closest to them?
DAY SEVEN - Finale : Happily Ever After/Tragedy
How does your OC’s story end?
#tgwdlm#the guy who didn't like musicals#bf#black friday#npmd#nerdy prudes must die#lords in black#oc#hatchetfield oc week#writing prompt#hatchetfield oc#hatchetblr#hatchetverse#hatchetfield
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FINGERPRINTS | TODOROKI SHOUTO x READER
SUMMARY: When you’re outed as pro hero Shouto’s soulmate on national television, there are really only two sensible things for you to do: blame someone else and run.
TAGS/WARNINGS: pro hero au, fem + afab reader, romance, soulmate au, fluff, pining, not actually unrequited love, aged up characters, eventual smut, 18+ minors please dni!
LENGTH: 38k, STATUS: COMPLETE
NOTES: Now with amazing art by the incredible @volatilematters!! Also a huge shoutout and all the credit to📎anon for the prompt: “a soulmate!au shoto x reader except whatever soulmate-identifying interaction/feature they have occurs in front of the paparazzi and thus the entirety of social media so the reader is suddenly wrenched into public opinion as shoto's soulmate...and the reader is quirkless.”
CHAPTERS: one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine
[READ ON AO3]
#i know anon literally just prompted me on friday but i am UNHINGED#eta still tbd but i have plotted it and i am writing#and i'm excited as hell so here it is
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13!
Shut Up by Stormzy.
Hob is a literature professor. Dream is an underground electronic music artist who goes by Morpheus. They never would've met. Never would've even known about each other.
Except. Hob is bit addicted to Twitter. Except. Hob has a bit shit taste in music. Except. A student cancels her presentation because she got last-minute tickets to a Morpheus show and Hob looks him up and gets irrationally mad at a stupid skinny little goth that doesn't even play any real instruments or sing and whose photo of a sneaker drop, whatever that is, got a thousand retweets within hours.
This is the story of how Hob sends a petty tweet and then sort-of-accidentally starts iconic Twitter beef with Dream.
Death, acclaimed hip-hop artist and meddling older sister, is delighted by a random man in a sweater-vest rudely insulting her brilliant baby brother, and insists on catching up with Dream so they can collab on a diss track, because it'll be very interesting. Hob finds out about it at a lecture and plays it in front of his whole class. It's clever and funny and absurdly referential. He falls a little bit in love with the wrong person, because he thinks the lyrics are Death's.
He slides into Dream's DMs to tease him about his older sister to protecting him (and maybe ask for her number), and Dream cops to writing it. Hob reacts with so much earnest wonder that he has to swiftly follow it with calling Dream a pretentious cunt, just to balance things out. They continue talking, under the flimsy auspices of being mean to each other.
One day, Dream video calls him while stuck at an airport, wearing stupid glasses and a stupid hat like a some kind of celebrity traveling incognito - because he sort of is, Hob belatedly realizes - and that's when he sees Dream laugh for the first time. It's because of him. He realizes he wants to kiss the stupid skinny little goth. Wants Dream to be his stupid skinny little goth. Has no idea how to do that. He pines. Dream pines.
When there's a show playing near Hob, Dream sends him a VIP ticket, day-of, with no other message or context. Hob goes, of course, feeling tremendously uncool at the venue. But during the show he finally understands, in a way he didn't before, how Dream pulls whole worlds to life with his music, how he weaves something new and incredible from samples alone. How he tells stories without words.
After, awed, he goes backstage, and almost regrets it when he has to face half of Dream's entourage, whose ruthless teasing is absolutely secret screening to see if he's Good Enough For Our Morpheus, but he gives as good as he gets, and, unable to bear it any longer, Dream tells them all to fuck off. Then it's just them, and Dream makes some vulnerable little joke about whether Hob still thinks it's not real music, but Hob is just standing there, bluescreened before the sight of this man, who he wants to be his, who he's spent hours with online, who he's never even touched, so human and real suddenly. Dream is flushed and sweaty and a bit of his hair is plastered to his forehead. The energy of the crowd is still glowing underneath his skin. Hob is hapless. Hob can only think to ask to kiss him. So he asks, and that's how their first time ends up being in a shitty little greenroom in Manchester. And their second. The third, at least, is in Dream's hotel.
#asks#the sandman#dreamling#dream of the endless#hob gadling#mutual pining#enemies to idiots to lovers#my writing#actually obsessed with this sad to say#AUs i have secretly trained for#talking about sneaker drop drama and streetwear and loop pedals and the ivory tower#teasing as a love language!#making each other laugh as a love language!!#the dialogue for this#the mean tweets#the DMs#the banter#oh my pals i did not expect this of my friday but here we are#we’re 2K deep already#spotify wrapped prompt
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Free Day Friday: untitled Jak oneshot/ Daxter Snaps And It Doesn't Go Well
(This takes place right after Jak finally gets to return to Spargus in Jak 3, because I had some Feelings about the Dark Eco Oracle and its well-loved shrine having been either moved or destroyed in Haven. Also for reference: since the original Jak concept art was a cat/foxlike alien child, hence the ears being set so high on his head in TPL, I'm hereby deciding that their species can purr. Because I said so.)
This is Quite Long, so I'll probably crosspost to AO3 later.
TW: panic attack
Jak hadn't been surprised by the summons when he'd returned from Haven. He knew he was in for it. Damas had started trusting him with more and more responsibilities and then Jak had screwed it all up. Running off to Haven and then getting stuck there immediately after? Not a good look.
Honestly, Jak was just grateful he wasn't being "escorted" up by city guards.
Part of him wanted to go in fighting. That's all Damas cares about, right? a small, bitter corner of his heart muttered.
The rest of him was too afraid. He finally knew better than to look to anyone in Haven for affirmation or examples. Damas had been the closest he'd ever come to an authority figure he trusted. What if he lost that, too?
The second his and Daxter's heads were visible in the elevator shaft, Damas was already raising his voice. Perhaps he was simply projecting his voice to reach them, but Jak's stomach twisted into knots regardless, and his breathing became quick and shallow.
"Where have you been?" Damas demanded, rising from his throne. "It's been a month!"
The elevator locked, and Jak crept out onto the pathway like a skittish animal. He didn't meet Damas’s eyes. The confused anger and hurt he'd seen in them the last time flashed in his memory, and he winced. An oppressive silence fell for a few unnaturally long seconds, punctuated by the creak of the water wheel. Damas was waiting for an answer.
It's not our fault, Jak tried to reassure himself, Just another betrayal. We didn't do anything wrong.
When he didn't answer Damas, the king’s expression twisted between outrage and disbelief and-
And disappointment.
"Nothing? Really, Jak?" He took one step down from the dais, clenching his fist at his side. "Why didn't you tell anyone where you were going?"
Daxter took it upon himself to answer when Jak wouldn't -- or couldn't.
"Oh lay off!" he hissed, puffing himself up to look bigger, "Don't you have friends to kill in your gladiator ring?"
"Dax!" Jak gasped. Too late.
The words were already out and a black look fell across Damas’s face. His entire posture went rigid.
"Excuse me?" he asked in a frightful facsimile of calm.
"Daxter, don't," Jak pleaded, but it was far too late for that. When Daxter got this mad, he didn't even hear Jak.
"You heard me!"
Daxter leapt off Jak's shoulder and stood on the first stepping stone as if blocking the way between them.
"You tried to make us kill one of our only real friends, and threw a tantrum when we wouldn't! And if you think I'd trust you with Jak's location after that, those spikes must be diggin' into your brain!"
Jak couldn't breathe.
Either Damas was going to cut them off, or Daxter was going to get hurt, and either way everything was going to crumble. He'd finally escaped Haven and there was going to be nothing to escape to.
His core pulsed, obeying signals he didn't even know his brain was sending. It tried to respond to the fight-or-flight instincts quickening his pulse and shortening his breath. In Haven, he would have gone Dark in response. But he'd used all the dark eco. There was nothing left. Nothing but adrenaline and panic.
A strange, almost echoing sensation pushed at the inside of his skull, and the room spun. He couldn't breathe. His lungs felt like they'd been fused shut. He couldn't breathe!
"Jak!"
Between blurs of brown and green, Damas -- or an unfocused and staticy version of him -- approached rapidly.
As if from another room, Jak heard Daxter snarl, "Stay back! If you hurt him, I'll rip your spikes out!"
"I wouldn't hurt him!"
"You already did!"
It was too much. He couldn't- he couldn't focus. He couldn't find the light eco. Jak's knees gave, and it was a struggle to stay upright. Hands caught his upper arms, preventing him from collapsing entirely.
"Breathe, Jak!"
Damas sounded worried this time.
"You have to breathe!"
"Can't-!" Jak gasped, breath squeaking.
Then the world turned sideways and he was in the water. Or partly in the water.
His legs twitched with the shock of the new sensation, surprising him enough to suck in a deep breath. A compressing sensation against his chest and arms tightened in response.
"Focus on the water. Find your feet."
It took four tries to get his boots on the rocky bottom of the pool. His chest hurt, but he managed another deep breath.
"That's it. You can do this."
A small hand took his, pulling against the pressure around his shoulders, and pressed it against a narrow chest.
"L- like we practiced, bud-"
Oh. There's Daxter.
"Just breathe when I breathe, remember?"
Distantly, he heard Damas ask Daxter, "Has this happened before? In- in Spargus, I mean."
"Don't think about it, warrior," the other voice encouraged -- Damas? Is that Damas? But he's mad at us! -- "Just do as your friend does."
"If Jak wants to tell ya, he'll tell ya," Daxter said sourly. "You and I are not on speaking terms right now."
"...that is understandable."
One by one, his muscles relaxed. His breathing was much too fast, but it was easier to get full breaths at least.
When the ringing in Jak’s ears at last began to subside, he picked up a new sound. It was faint, barely audible at all, but he could just make out a nervous rumble. A laryngeal vibration he could feel through the back of his shirt. With conscious thought on standby mode, Jak's body responded to long-forgotten cues unbidden. His glottis rapidly dilated and constricted with his breathing, creating its own vibrations in a bid to self-soothe. It was how he'd learned not to cry out loud as a young child -- although blessedly, he would never remember that.
It wasn't the first time Damas had walked one of his people through a panic attack in the throne room, and it wouldn't be the last. But this one hurt.
"You're safe. There is no danger here. This is a safe place."
Shame raked its claws down his chest and Pain reached through the incision, grasping at organs and prying bones out of the way.
Jak didn't trust him.
And it was his fault.
"I'm sorry," he whispered- to Jak, to Daxter, to either-
A memory loomed damningly before his eyes. Mar had just started walking, and nearly toppled into the pools. Damas had yelled at him to get away from the edge, and the baby had burst into a loud, terrified wail.
"I'm- was it the shouting? I-"
"I'm sorry, it's okay, it's okay now- I know, I used the Big Voice, Daddy's sorry! You scared me, Bug!"
He hadn't gotten any better after losing Mar, had he? He still shouted when he was afraid. And look how that had turned out.
Damas tightened his hold on Jak and rested his chin on the crown of the boy's head. The apologies were bitter on his tongue, but necessary.
"I...I triggered this, didn't I? I'm sorry- gods, I'm sorry, Jak. I'm- you scared me. I couldn't find you! No one could!"
"You...thought we defected?" he asked through numbed lips.
The panic was slow to fade, still muddling Jak's mind. He couldn't quite make sense of what he was hearing.
"I thought the Marauders had taken you! Or you'd collapsed somewhere in the Wastes where we couldn't find you!" Damas answered. The dregs of that old fear still stained the edges of his voice. He shuddered.
He swallowed hard, interrupting the agitated purring for a moment. "I...did not handle the...situation as I should have. I damaged your trust. And I deserved worse than the silent treatment. I understand that. But to keep it from Sig, too?"
"You can't just run away like that! I- I understand why you didn't tell me-"
Painfully slowly, Jak drew his legs back out of the water and onto the rocks.
"They wouldn't let me," he mumbled. "They didn't let us leave."
Damas shot a concerned look at Daxter, who shrugged and looked away.
Shifting his grip to have one arm around the boy's waist, Damas heaved himself to his feet, taking Jak with him.
This promised to be a very unpleasant conversation, the least he could do was find them somewhere more comfortable to sit.
They were silent for a time, each processing the whirlwind of events. Jak was deeply, thoroughly, confused. No one had ever apologized like that before. Acknowledging his pain and the specific way their actions had caused it? It would be a cold day in hell before Samos ever did anything like that.
He didn't understand.
They'd defied Damas, then run from him. Daxter had just challenged him to his face.
Yet he spoke like a man anxiously awaiting the return of a prodigal son.
"Who wouldn't let you leave, Jak?" Damas asked him, far too gently.
Jak shut his eyes. "Haven."
"Haven?!" Damas sounded horrified. "What were you doing there?! Is that where you've been this whole time?"
Miserably, Jak nodded. "I was just- we were just scouting. Just- it wasn't supposed to be-"
He gritted his teeth.
"They locked down the air trains," he croaked. "And- and there's force fields blocking off the city exits. The only way they'd let us go was if I fought on the frontlines for three weeks first."
Fighting down his anger lest he trigger Jak's panic again, Damas forced himself to ask, "What made you go back to that city in the first place?"
A hostage. His boy- The boy had been a bloody hostage, and he'd had no idea! Damas felt something dark and dense fluttering between his ribs. If he found the person who ordered this, he would drown them in the sands.
Jak winced and passed several looks back and forth with Daxter.
"Ashelin...called me to the oasis," he said at last.
Damas stiffened beside him.
"She want- she wanted me to come back to Haven. After everything they did to me, she wanted me to come back."
He felt the hints of the anxiety returning, and wrapped his arms around himself for comfort.
"Ashelin Praxis?" Damas demanded. He curled his lip. "I might have known. I hope you told her where to shove that offer."
Daxter scoffed. "Oh, he did. Even told her "I have new friends now", which was a little too generous considering what you said to my pal."
Jak gave the ottsel a weary look, and Daxter grudgingly subsided.
"I told her to leave. She- she wouldn't drop it. Said the friends we still had were going to die. That it was my responsibility because of-"
He flipped a hand in the air in frustration.
"I don't know! Dead people I share some common blood with!"
"Pal, I'm pretty sure that common blood stopped bein' responsible for that dump when Princess Scribbleface's darling pappy took over," Daxter grumbled.
"Common blood?!" Damas startled, but Jak had already moved on, hastily trying to explain himself.
"We didn't believe her -- I- I mean, why would we? But when I asked the Oracle in the temple-"
"How did you find the Oracle?!" Damas spluttered.
"The stupid thing called me," Jak growled. He leaned forward and pressed his face into his hands. "Said the whole planet was in danger and my friends would die if I didn't find the catacombs."
He muffled a snarl in his palms.
"I hate them. I hate those rottin' things. They don't tell me when something is a trap. They only tell me what fits their agenda."
Jak could speak to Precursor Oracles.
Only monks were supposed to still be able to do that.
Monks, or Heirs of Mar taking the Trials.
"And...was it a trap?" Damas asked, fearing he already knew the answer.
A painful, wishful image of Jak in the Tomb of Mar wormed through Damas’s thoughts. If life had any semblance of fairness, or restitution, it would have been reality. It was not what he deserved, not after how many times he'd failed the people he cared about. But Jak deserved it. He'd been isolated enough.
Jak's face was like stone.
"All they cared about was getting me into Haven to find the catacombs before that nutcase Veger could. And all Haven cared about was keeping us there."
A deep, ominous creaking filled the room. Harsh shadows stretched and yawned as the terrible old statue beside the dais flickered, then lit up. A suffocating sense of dread filled Damas as he beheld the monolith. It wasn't a real Oracle. It was a shell, made to hold pieces of the water wheel. It wasn't made to have any kind of lights.
Daxter yelped and scurried up to Jak’s shoulder as the water wheel ground to a halt.
The silence was unnatural.
Jak's chest heaved, and Damas feared for a moment that he was going to panic again. But an answering light flickered in the boy's eyes. White, incandescent rage.
"What do you want now? You're not welcome here!" Jak snarled, standing up with a jerk.
"Angry one-"
It said in warning, a rolling, ancient voice that echoed off the stones and twisted in their eardrums.
Jak clenched his fists.
"No! I'm not afraid of you! You're no "holier" than Onin. You aren't even a Precursor!"
A sense of fury shook the room, and the water trembled.
Jak held his ground though his legs shook.
"You can't do anything to punish me," he challenged, angry tears glowing in his eyes. "The worst you can do is withhold information that would protect me, and you do that anyway! If- if you had power at all, you wouldn't have let Veger destroy Crius!"
Crius? Damas vaguely remembered that name. Hadn't he been one of the Bonekeeper's heralds? The memories were fuzzy at best. Father forbade Mother from speaking of the Bonekeeper when they married. Any communing with the patron of dark eco was done in secret, and as a child Damas had only caught her once.
"The dark shrine was all those people had!" the anger was slipping away from Jak now, replaced by something closer to grief. "He gave them hope! He gave- he gave me hope! And you couldn't save him. So what makes you think you can scare me now? Hu'mens are worse than you."
And the Oracle, miraculously, quieted. The waters stilled, and some of the dread receded. Jak fell back to the steps, having exhausted the last reserves of his emotions.
"Yeah! You tell him, Jak!" Daxter cheered, breaking the silence, "About time you put Sparky in his place!"
He ruffled Jak's hair -- the hair he could reach at least -- and leaned against his arm comfortingly.
"Next, we get Loghead!"
The Oracle remained lit, but speechless. All this time, had rebuking the heralds really been an option? Ever the pragmatist, Damas decided to follow Jak's example.
"As the boy said." His voice was quiet at first, but gained courage with each new word.
"This is not a place of seers and soothsayers. Respectfully: we do not require your guidance at this time."
"Heir of Mar-"
the Oracle began, almost wheedling.
Rage loosened his lips and he lost the last shred of reverence he'd held for the messenger.
Jak went rigid and Damas felt an anger of his own. How dare this entity try to leverage his bloodline when the Precursors had turned their backs on him!
"Hold your tongue! Unless you can comprehend the trouble you have caused, keep your counsel to yourself."
Resentfully, the Oracle's eyes flashed.
And with that, the lights were gone. The water wheel resumed its gloomy rhythm. The statue was hollow once more.
"So be it. You wish to hear no truth from me? Then you, Damas of the Wastes, shall hear no truth from me."
Something about the acquiescence -- or threat -- made Damas uneasy. Withholding information again, just as Jak had said. But he had the feeling it was hinting at something important. Taunting him.
Bloody seven hells.
He'd sooner cast the bones himself and call upon the Dark Lady directly as his mother once had than ever deal with that thing again.
"Little wonder you're always so on edge, dealing with that," he said; a poor attempt at a joke.
Jak dropped his face back into his hands.
"I'm so sick of them. Jak do this. Jak go there. Suffer for us, Jak! It's Fate!"
Damas scoffed. "Fate, eh? Wastelanders make their own fate. If this is who my monks consult, it's no surprise that they believe the world is coming to an end."
"They are pretty worried about the creatures in that space ship," Jak admitted reluctantly.
"Bah."
Damas waved it off.
"When the metalheads invaded our world, we survived with or without the Precursors they hunted. We will do the same if these creatures land."
He jostled Jak's shoulder -- shaking Daxter by proxy.
"Ey! No manhandling!"
Daxter slithered away down the steps and into the water. He glared up over the step like a little croc.
"You keep your emotionally constipated hands away from me!"
Damas let out a startled laugh, and Jak shook his head and grinned.
"I...guess you're right. Spargus is pretty tough."
"We are Wastelanders, boy," Damas declared, "We carved out a home in the places where nothing else survives. We'll carve out our fate the same way, with the same tools our ancestors used."
"...with eco," Jak said quietly, as if experiencing a revelation.
"Our minds think alike."
Damas’s wry grin faded.
"Jak...I'm...sorry. That I made you feel you couldn't contact me for help. If I had known you were being held in Haven against your will, I would have come for you."
The boy fixed him with a bewildered expression.
"You would have?" Jak asked, "You're serious. You. Leaving your people to come after me?"
The king met his stare evenly.
"Yes."
"After the- the thing, with the Arena-?"
Damas winced and looked away.
"I. I did not warn you, I was not permitted to. But the final trial of a Spargan is one they are supposed to lose."
Jak bristled. "What?!"
"It's a test of whether they can put loyalty to their city over the commands of a tyrant. Sig wasn't supposed to throw down his gun, he was supposed to goad you into a sparring match." Damas ran his hand over his shaved head. "I should have told him before he went in that it was you. I didn't know that you knew each other, but- maybe he wouldn't have panicked if he'd known it was a Final Trial. Maybe I wouldn't have panicked."
Jak stared at him in disbelief for several seconds. For reasons he couldn't quite explain, he blurted out an accusation with no bite to it.
"What, did you forget I didn't grow up here?"
When he was met with chagrined silence, his eyes widened.
"Oh my gods you did. How?! You're the one that found me out there!"
Clearly embarrassed, Damas shrugged his shoulders. "I don't know what to tell you. There are days when it just...seems as though I have known you for much longer than seven months."
Jak took that statement, turned it over in his mind. The version of Damas in his head wasn't quite matching the one in front of him. Even before things had become strained between them, he hadn't had the context to understand the way Damas saw him. He still didn't- not completely.
"Sorry," he said suddenly, and gestured to the soaked trousers. "I um. I don't usually...not in front of people, I mean-"
He leaned back against the stairs and stretched his legs out before him. The linen stuck to his legs in sodden wrinkles and folds, nearly transparent against his calves. It would dry quickly once he stepped outside again -- and the evaporating water would serve to cool his skin nicely. But for now, it drew his mind to his panic attack.
"Don't apologize." Damas laced his fingers together loosely and leaned his elbows against his knees. "May...may I ask what it was that sparked that kind of fear?"
Jak met Daxter's eyes, down in the water. The ottsel winced. He knew he'd taken it too far. He was just so sick of people acting like Jak was a trained dog with no autonomy of his own. And sometimes his desire to protect Jak’s emotions didn't mesh completely with what Jak needed at the moment.
Jak broke their gaze and began to pick at a scar on his elbow.
"...thought I was going to have to choose sides. Between you and Dax."
"Why would supporting Daxter cause you to panic?" Damas pressed.
"Because," he muttered with a shrug.
He'd assumed without question that Jak would take Daxter's side. Jak didn't know whether to be amused or grateful or just tired.
"Because?"
"Because I- I wanted this to still be home." Jak made a vague gesture encompassing the room, and its occupants.
"This is your home," Damas insisted. He glanced to the empty Oracle with a thoughtful frown.
Something lingered in the corners of Jak's eyes. A concern he wasn't voicing. Did he still believe he could be so easily forsaken?
"If this is where the desert brought you, then this is where the desert meant you to thrive."
But then, he had been cast out of Haven on the flimsiest of pretenses. His faith in hu'menity was shaken. For a moment, Damas considered changing the subject. He could talk about the coming trials, give Jak something else to think about.
Or he could meet him on his level. Show him the same vulnerability he'd so unwillingly displayed.
The words stuck to his tongue, stabbed like needles into the roof of his mouth as he forced them through his teeth.
"I...had a son. Some years ago."
"Had". Was there ever such a horrible word?
"He was like you -- or, he would have been, when he was older."
Under his breath he added, "if he ever got the chance to get older."
Jak's brows knit together, then went slack. From tiny pinpricks in the centers of his eyes, horror flooded out to the rest of his face.
"You have a child?"
After a moment to collect himself, the king nodded.
His head dipped lower, nearly brushing the steeple of his fingertips.
"I did. He was taken from me, by some of the same people who seem to have orchestrated your own suffering."
"I pray that my son still lives but- he was so young. So small. So-"
Damas’s voice cracked.
"So very small."
Guilt played across Jak's face for a moment, then was swallowed up by a deep sadness that welled up from within. Haven was a city of devils. He wondered if Damas’s child had been taken during the time when Praxis was snatching children en masse in his search for Jak's childhood self.
Did that make it his fault that Damas was so bereaved?
"That's-"
That's not fair. It's an abomination. Hurting a kid should be enough to make the Precursors strike you dead on the spot. Errol should've died the first time he put me in the Chair-
Jak's thoughts spiraled out of control, and he had to fight to return his focus to the moment.
"That's terrible."
Inhaling sharply, Damas raised his head and straightened his spine. One warm, callused hand found its way to Jak’s shoulder and squeezed.
He felt his throat closing up, snapping his voice into grating pieces.
"The reason I tell you this is so that you will understand this: It would take more than a little teenaged defiance to make me turn my back on you."
"I lost my son, Jak," he croaked, "I cannot lose you, too."
The laryngeal vibration began again -- from Jak, this time. The nearly autonomous response was as much a subconscious desire to comfort Damas as it was self-soothing. Even so, his chest ached dully. How old, he wondered, had Damas’s son been when he was taken? He must have been so scared! Did he call out for his father? Did Damas call out for him?
"In...war," Damas said hesitantly, "Sacrifices are sometimes required of us. In my case, I had to stay and rebuild the part of the wall the attackers destroyed. To protect thousands from the storms and the Marauders. I knew that, but it still took days for Sig to convince me to send him to Haven in my place."
"Yeah," Jak muttered, "I know about sacrfices."
But Damas shook his head. "It's hardly a sacrifice if someone else chose it for you out of convenience. That's just betrayal."
Silence fell again, but there was no tension to it. A sense of introspection lingered between them, each consumed with his own thoughts. Even Daxter's anger had muted itself -- now overlayed with guilt, berating himself for jumping to fight Jak's battles without bothering to see what Jak himself wanted.
The moment of quiet ended with a crackling of the city radio from which Damas monitored all official channels.
"Oh not now," the man groaned with a most unkingly attitude. "Can I have a moment of peace?"
"No way," Jak scoffed, finding a glimmer of humor in the situation, "You jinxed it by letting us take a break. Now something crazy is going to happen."
Damas narrowed his eyes. "Boy, if you will that into reality-" he warned, with no real way to finish the threat.
The second he picked up the receiver, he knew it was going to be a headache.
"Sire! We've got three different Marauder patrols converging on the city gates! There's a fourth on the radar crossing the river now!"
Daxter pulled himself out of the water and cringed. "How many cars is that?"
"Twelve, at least," Jak gulped.
Damas did not take this information the way he normally would have. He seemed to be fuming as he stood up and stomped up the stairs to retrieve his staff. Jak could hear him muttering under his breath.
His voice rose to something more audible. "I'm not in the mood for this, Egil," he snapped, addressing the thane of the Marauders as if he were present.
"Not the time, Egil, this is not the time to test me! Just got my kid back, got threatened by a bloody Oracle-"
Jak decided, for the sake of being able to focus during a fight, to just pretend he hadn't heard Damas referring to him as his own kid. He could come back to that and freak out later. Right now, there was a fight to be had. He held an arm down for Daxter to use as a ramp, then stood.
"Where do you need me?" he asked.
Damas gave him a searching look. For an instant, his gaze flicked to the lifeless Oracle. That seemed to reinforce his resolve.
"With me," he said shortly. "We're taking the Dozer. You're on the turret gun."
The way Jak's -- and even Daxter's -- eyes lit up almost made up for the hassle Damas knew this skirmish was going to be. He cast one last look at the Oracle before shepherding them to the lift.
Keep your counsel, he thought, and I will keep mine. I don't need your permission to add a son to my House. What of that, eh? The Heir and your renegade Pawn allied against you!
"Hey, maybe I should drive," Jak suggested as the lift began to move."
"Hm." Damas pretended to consider it. "No."
"Why not?!"
"You can't reach the pedals yet."
He could have simply explained that he preferred to drive his favorite vehicle himself. But, the slightest bit giddy at the thought of open rebellion against fate, Damas instead bent slightly to offer a teasing grin.
"What?! Oh come on!"
The elevator sank out of sight, and the water wheel trembled. The statue vibrated and the pools bubbled and boiled with the helpless fury of a falconer whose birds had long since slipped the jesses to fly free. But the boy had not spoken falsley: it was not a Precursor, merely the echo of one's memory. In the face of hu'men defiance, it was helpless to retaliate in any meaningful way. Even withholding the truth of the Hero's identity had been robbed of its intended effect, considering the Fallen Heir and the Hero had gone ahead and reformed the broken bond between them anyway!
The Oracle could not comprehend their motives, nor could it ever hope to understand the complexities of the hu'men mind.
It could only watch and seethe.
#fic prompts#writing prompts#free day friday#jak and daxter#dadmas#king damas#jak and daxter au#headcanon that the final arena battle is a Kobayashi Maru and Jak pulled a Kirk#i named the Dark Oracle after one of the mythological Titans#sneaky reference to sparguscituangel canon where Mictecacíhuatl is the patron of dark eco#tw panic attack#daxter was fully ready to End Damas right there 😂#Jak's species can purr now because the concept art started out vaguely feline#eldritch abomination oracle time!#except instead of humans being unable to comprehend the lovecraftian monster#its the lovecraftian monster that is wholly incapable of understanding humans without succumbing to madness#long post#oneshot
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Drabble 32~
32.
"Yeah. Better." Mark groaned, almost pawing at the fresh bandages over his thigh, stopping himself just inches short.
"Well, I for one appreciate you coming to my rescue back there!" Rex thanked his boyfriend, laying a hand on his shoulder. "Although, you probably should've avoided the creature made of literal spikes!" He teased.
Mark forced a grin. "Yeah, I guess so." He grunted, slowly climbing up off the medical cot, landing onto shaky feet. His breathing pitched up when he was upright, barely supressed pain forced out through his nostrils instead of his voice.
Rex's face stilled once he heard Mark's struggling. He was at his side, a supportive hand on his waist. Hey, hey, easy. Are you okay?"
"I'm fine." Mark grunted. He took a slow step, but almost fell over when it was completed, growling.
"No, you're not. Honey, listen..." Rex replied, now stopping him from toppling over by propping him up. "You can still float, right?"
"Y-yeah?"
"So float."
Mark looked confused. "Float? Why would I... float?"
"Because you might actually die if you try and force yourself to walk, Mark. Please, float." Rex pleaded with him.
Mark's breathing slowed. He gave a quick little nod, before looking down at his feet. He let go of that inner muscle, the one he kept tensed most of the time he was awake, and let go of the ground. Gravity's clutch seemed to slip from his body, and he drifted quietly into mid-air. Almost as soon as he let himself hover, his frame tensed, his shoulders hunched slightly, and he averted his eyes from Rex.
"What's wrong?" Rex asked, pulling off his goggles and cowl, letting his loose brown hair flop out unceremoniously.
Mark hesitated to speak for a moment. "I don't usually... use my powers like this. I don't use them... as Mark. Only as Invincible."
"Why?"
"It... my dad used to do it. Said it 'helped him relax'. Now, I... nevermind."
"Oh." Rex's face looked almost despairing when he realised. "You don't wanna be like him, do you?"
Mark shook his head. "I don't- I... I don't wanna scare you, Rex."
"Mark," He said, holding both of his hands in his own, "You could never scare me. And this? It doesn't mean you're gonna turn into that asshole! It's just... it's a part of who you are, and I love this part of you, because I love every part of you, human and Viltrumite!"
"You do?" Mark's voice was faint, and the glint of tears teased the corners of his eyes.
Rex nodded vigorously. "Of course I do, Mark. I can't love you if I can't accept you, now can I?"
Mark didn't know what to say. The tears grew, threatening to spill over. "You... thank you!" In an instant, he had swooped in and gathered Rex up in his arms, placing rapid kisses over his face. "Thank you, thank you, thank you! God, I love you!"
"Haha! I love you, too!
#love is acceptance#invincible#mark grayson#rex splode#rex sloan#markrex#my asks#summerfrwrks#writing prompt friday
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Hello! I love Lionheart (literally started four days ago and have read continuously since and am, in a word, Obsessed).
One thing I've noticed that is a common theme among Dramoine fics is how Draco gets away with his pureblood ideology and essentially has no consequences (besides Hermoine's anger/disgust) until his eventual redemption arc through their romance. However, I've noticed that your fic is unique in the way that Draco is constantly held accountable, especially backlash from Ron (btw, love the way you characterized Ron, my boy deserves some justice) and Harry, but especially through Hermoine, who fights back in any way she knows how. So my question is: what are your thoughts on this common trope within the Dramoine fandom? Do you think that Draco's eventual love for Hermoine negates the harm that he's done in the past?
I absolutely believe that love can be redemptive, but that doesn't mean you redeem yourself by loving. It's not about how you feel, it's about what you do. You can love someone a whole lot, but if you don't treat them well, and make a real effort to be good to them, well — I mean, I'm not saying it doesn't "matter," because everything always matters, but I wouldn't say that love has really changed you. Which is to say, I don't know that it's really love at all.
Draco can't be made better by the fact of loving Hermione, but he can make himself better because of it. Reasoning past, getting over, and making amends for his past wrongdoing should — ideally — be part of that development. Now, this is assuming that you want to do a real, honest-to-God, "I'm going to drag this horrible little wet blorbo kicking and screaming into Heroism" redemption arc. Maybe you don't! Maybe you want to write a story about two fucked-up people who fuck each other up more. Maybe you want to write about a bad man who isn't held accountable, and the kind of person that produces. Draco Malfoy can be many people, depending on where you take him, and many of them are interesting without being particularly nice or good. And you can still do great fiction about that! Romances with and between horrible characters can be totally delicious. I'm a big fan of 'em. But the kind of love I personally prize the most — the kind that makes us, if anything can earn this word, really, truly holy — is a love that's so selfless you are willing to be changed by it, and to change for it, and to constantly reforge yourself in order to do justice to the object of your love. It's veneration. It's finding in each other a reason for goodness. That's what I think real humans should look for, and so I guess I can't help trying to write about it when it comes to fake humans.
So when we talk about love as the catalyst for a redemption arc, I think what we mean is: love can awaken you to the personhood of others and ignite latent capacities for empathy that might not have existed otherwise. It opens you up to new ways of seeing, of being — James Baldwin in The Price of the Ticket has a brilliant quotation that captures it perfectly:
"If your lover lives in Hong Kong and cannot get to Chicago, it will be necessary for you to go to Hong Kong. Perhaps you will spend your life there, and never see Chicago again. And you will, I assure you, as long as space and time divide you from anyone you love, discover a great deal about shipping routes, airlines, earth quake, famine, disease, and war. And you will always know what time it is in Hong Kong, for you love someone who lives there. And love will simply have no choice but to go into battle with space and time and, furthermore, to win."
#thesis statement of my personality and all writing ever probably. so. guess i'll casually drop that on a friday afternoon#thank you for prompting this incredible long spill of rambling. I'm sorry. I love you. thanks very much. <3
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Happy Ending [I]
Masterlist (with all warnings)
A/N: tía - aunt, tío - uncle, primo - cousin, dios mío - my god, chulo - pimp, bonito - pretty (masculine), mala - bad, cariño - darling, guapo - handsome, mi amor - my love
🩷 🌅 🌴
Friday nights at the boardwalk with you. He buys all the tickets and you buy all the snacks. A corn dog you alternate bites of. A funnel cake he knows is getting powdered sugar all over his poor excuse of a mustache. Stale popcorn you pop in his mouth in-between throws of his darts. He watches you lick your fingers clean before he hands you the stuffed toy he won you. Your prize.
He makes you ride the ferris wheel even though he knows you’re terrified of heights and pretends to tease you when you sidle your body alongside his, grabbing at him to hold you because you’re scared. You retaliate by making him ride the carousel with you, a ride he hasn’t been on since he was a child, but when he looks into your eyes, how can he say no? He can’t.
You ditch your friends in the middle of a skeeball game and drag him towards the beach. Pulling his hoodie down until your head pops out of the neck hole, your hair mussed around your face but your smile peeking through. You always get cold when the sun goes down but you never bring your own hoodie, opting to steal his instead. Every time.
The sound of your voice coming from his right is almost drowned out by the roar of the ocean coming from his left. Cold sand kicks up on the back of his calves with every step and he fights the urge to grab your hand, so close to his that your pinkies keep brushing each other as your arms swing back and forth. Just Friends.
A thump to the back of his seat interrupts his dream, waking Frankie from the nap he didn’t mean to take. He hears a whispered apology coming from the parent of the offending kicker. He turns to look at them through the crack in the seat cushions and tells them not to worry, that he has a kid himself and understands how it goes. And just those words kick him in the gut, since he hasn’t seen his kid in almost a year.
He pulls the shade up halfway on his window seat and admires the fluffy white clouds floating below him, casting shadows on the sparkling blue water further down. If they’re over water like this it’ll be the gulf, and that means they’ll be landing on the island shortly. Maybe this weekend will be good for him, give him a chance to catch up with family and get his priorities straight.
It’s been almost a year since his old friend Pope showed up with an idea in one hand and a stack of money in the other, asking for favors. Almost a year since he went against every voice screaming NO in his head, and agreed to follow a promise of riches beyond his wildest dreams. Almost a year since they came out of that jungle laden with the weight of their friend’s body and the guilt of a monumental fuckup.
As a recovering addict, Frankie thought he’d already hit his rock bottom but it turns out he could go so much lower. He subjected his girlfriend, Stephanie, to further heartbreak and himself to further humiliation, coping with the consequences of his time in South America by shoving more white powder up his nose. His job wasted no time in firing him and Stephanie just as quickly took their infant son and moved back to Arizona to live with her mother.
The plane begins to shake with turbulence, causing the can of coke zero on the tray table of the person next to him to undulate towards the edge. Reaching out to grab it before it falls off, Frankie notices they have their eyes clenched shut.
“This is perfectly normal,�� Frankie soothes.
The young man’s eyes fly open and meet his, relaxing slightly at his words.
“It is?”
“Yeah, it’s just like hitting some potholes while driving.” He sets the soda can back in the center of their tray table. “Perfectly normal.”
“You fly a lot?”
“I’m- I used to be a pilot.”
He remembers telling you the same thing about turbulence the first time he flew with you. You were such a nervous flier. He’s able to grasp onto the last remaining tendrils of his dream before they slip out of his hands. He remembers that he was just dreaming of you. That’s been happening a lot lately, waking up with the ghost of you on his mind, hazy dream-thoughts swirling like fog around his brain, impossible to hold and harder to focus on the more he tries to. He’s not sure why you’ve been on his mind so much lately. Probably because he’s lonely and pathetic.
He’s got at least 45 more minutes until the plane lands in paradise, his home for the long weekend. He wonders if maybe he can get another quick nap in, pick up where he left off in his dreams of you. He thinks you were mid-laugh; your head thrown back and the shine of the moonlight reflecting off the water, highlighting your pinched eyes and wide smile. He just has to think of you hard enough and maybe he can make it happen.
---
He was just starting his junior year at the technical college on the other side of the state from where he’d spent his whole life. It was far enough away that he could revel in the freedom of getting to be an unsupervised adult but close enough that his mother didn’t cry (too much) when he told her he was going.
He was 20, wouldn’t turn 21 until mid-December, but he and his friends had been drinking at this bar for well over a year. His fake ID was pathetically bad but he’s pretty sure at least half the people in this place were underage. This bar was known to let anyone in, and that’s why they all came here. The bathrooms were filthy, the bartenders were rude, the floors were sticky, and the whole place seemed to reek of Axe body spray. There was a small dance floor in the back illuminated only by black lights, playing thumping music and giving a place for people to grind on each other once they’d plied themselves with enough cheap alcohol.
He was sitting at the bar with two of his roommates, drinking their quarter drafts and talking about the syllabus for their Vibrations and Controls course, when he felt a gentle tap on his shoulder. He will never forget the moment he turned and locked eyes with you. He knows that time didn’t slow down, the bar didn’t get fuzzy and quiet, slowly spinning like it was only you and him in the world. But that’s how he remembers it. You adjusted the glasses on your face and opened your mouth to speak, a giggle spilling out. Your laugh was adorable. You were really pretty. And you looked way too young to be in a bar.
“Hi,” you manage to get out before another giggle spills from your lips.
“Hi,” he answers back.
He knows he should be playing it cool but your laugh is infectious and has him smiling, awaiting your next words. He really can’t believe how pretty you are. This is a technical college and most girls who go here aren’t focused on their looks. Not that Frankie thinks he’s hot shit or anything, but the small amount of girls on campus definitely don’t look like you do. And you don’t look like you’re even trying.
Unlike the majority of girls in his high school you haven’t flat-ironed your hair, you aren’t wearing makeup, and you aren’t dressed in tight, revealing clothes. You have natural beauty. Your hair is shoulder-length and has a slight wave to it, your skin is smooth and supple and there’s a sparkle in your eyes, peeking out from under long lashes behind your wire-rimmed glasses.
“My friend over there wants to know if you wanna dance?” you finally manage to say.
“Oh yeah? Your friend?” Frankie pulls confidence out of his ass, hoping that you’re actually the ‘friend’ who is interested in him.
“Yeah, her,” you point your thumb behind you to a table of two girls who look even younger than you do. “The one in the pink shirt.”
Frankie’s eyes land on the girl in the pink shirt. She has almond-shaped eyes, long dark hair, and she covers her mouth, erupting in laughter with her friend beside her when he makes eye contact. That’s more like what most of the girls on campus look like, he thinks. Not ugly but not cute. Boring. Plain. Blah.
“Uhhhh,” he starts, wondering what he can say to keep you standing here talking to him. Should he ask more about your friend? No, he doesn’t give a shit. He runs his hand nervously through his hair. Should he ask if he can dance with you instead? No, that would probably earn him a slap. ‘I can’t dance,” he blurts out. Way to go Frankie, smooth move. That’s gonna spark a romance to last the ages.
“Oh,” you say, looking taken aback. You recover quickly. “Well maybe you and your friends could just buy us some drinks?
You point to the bar, covered in five dollars worth of quarter drafts and he feels his friends poking him in the ribs from behind him, urging him to say yes and give them all a chance to talk with a girl tonight. All he has to do is nod his head, and he gets to keep talking to you. There’s no way he’s gonna give up this opportunity.
---
The shuttle van from the airport was mostly empty, just one other couple from his flight joining him on the short ride to the dock. Once at the marina they board a boat even smaller than the van, a speedboat that just barely fits him, the couple, their luggage, and the guy standing behind the wheel. The captain’s name tag says Charles and he wears a pair of blue linen shorts with a white button-up shirt; long-sleeved but rolled up to his elbows. The resort’s logo is stitched in blue script over the pocket. Paradise Cay.
Charles tells them to hold on to their hats once they’re out of the marina, and Frankie takes his off, holding it tightly in his lap. Charles revs the motor on the sleek little boat and cuts through the water, the wind whipping through Frankie’s uncovered hair. When the boat docks thirty minutes later at a tiny barrier island, they’re greeted by several smiling resort staff. Frankie shakes Charles’ hand, thanking him for the ride, and attempts to smooth his wind-blown hair before plopping his Standard Oil cap back on his head.
Two men dressed like the boat captain pass by him to grab luggage out of the back of the boat. Two women stand in front of him wearing similar outfits; instead of shorts they wear skirts that hit mid-calf, and their shirts are short-sleeved. One of the women steps forward - her name tag says Kiki - and she welcomes him to Paradise Cay, greeting him with a tropical flower that she tucks behind his ear and a brown-husked coconut that she places in his hands. He looks down at the pink straw and tiny yellow polka-dotted umbrella sticking out of the coconut.
“Ohh I- I don’t drink-,” he starts.
“It’s coconut water, Mr. Morales,” she says.
Well shit, he didn’t realize Kiki knew who he was. He looks over at the couple who exited the boat after him and sees they are sipping out of pineapples, slurping down a white frozen slush that he can only assume is a piña colada. His family must have told the resort already that he’s maintaining his sobriety. Don’t give Frankie any temptations. He’s just over four months sober now and he’s doing really well. He takes a sip out of the coconut.
“Follow me, please,” Kiki says, and he trails behind her retreating figure, hearing the footfalls of the employee carrying his bag behind him.
He wishes he could take his dirty, stained army duffel out of this poor man’s hands and carry it himself. This resort is super fancy. He’s probably used to pushing expensive roller luggage, the kind with hard metal sides and combination locks. Or hand-stitched leather bags, the kind with the letters L and V patterned across them. He probably gets crisp twenties pressed into his hand when they arrive at the room and Frankie’s not even sure he has a five dollar bill in his wallet.
Through the trees he saw a large building, stretching along the beachfront, but they turned on a trail that took them away from that building. He watches as they pass several smaller buildings, each one surrounded by dense palms and looking identical to the one before it. After passing nearly a dozen, they go down a short path leading to a side door on the left of one of the smaller buildings. Kiki opens the large wooden door and directs him inside. It takes a moment for his eyes to adjust from the bright sun outside to the relative dim inside.
There is a king-sized bed against a wall of dark, rich wood while the foot of the bed faces four large sliding glass doors that open up to a small patio and private plunge pool, and look out onto the crystal blue waters of the Caribbean, seemingly just steps away. There is no ceiling, instead exposing the beams of the high roof, making the room feel even bigger. The side walls are a light-colored stucco and the room is dotted with plants, both large and small, that seamlessly blend the outside with the inside.
A plush sofa sits on the near side of the room while a small table and chairs sit in the middle past the foot of the bed. Kiki is walking around the room, motioning to the near wall, where there are bookshelves filled with some reading material, hand-crafted decorations, and some sleek electronic devices glowing with blue lights. She walks to the far wall where there’s a countertop with a small sink and a coffee bar. She opens an empty minifridge and then a double-drawer beverage refrigerator packed full - complimentary and non-alcoholic - she informs him.
Frankie is still taking in the sight of the incredible - and definitely expensive - suite before him when Kiki explains that there is a walk-in closet and a large bathroom at the back of the villa. She points to a door on the far side of the room.
“....and the outdoor shower is right through-”
“I’m really sorry but there’s been a mistake,” he interrupts
“A mistake? I don’t think so.”
“No, there's definitely been a mistake. This can’t be my room.”
“You are,” she pulls a small device out of her skirt pocket, flipping it open to double its size, “Mr. Francisco Morales, yes?”
“I- I mean, yeah, that’s my name,” he shakes his head. “But this is definitely not the room I booked. I just booked a regular room. Like one with a view of the parking lot.”
“No, we don’t have a parking lot,” she quickly corrects.
“Right, no… Sorry. I just meant whatever room was cheapest is the room I booked. And that’s…” he looks around, “definitely not this room.”
She presses several things on her tablet now, seeming to go back and forth on several different screens, scrolling and reading and trying to get to the bottom of this obvious mix-up. He most definitely did not book an oceanfront villa for his stay here. The rest of his family has been here all week, turning this destination-wedding into a vacation. He can’t afford that luxury. He can barely afford to be here at all.
Today is Friday. The wedding is tomorrow and his flight out would have been the next day if it hadn’t been two hundred dollars cheaper to fly out on Monday instead. With the wedding group-rate, the room cost him $180 a night, so even having to shell out one more night’s worth on the resort he still saved twenty bucks by staying the extra night.
“No, this is your room, Mr. Morales,” she finally says.
“But-”
“The outdoor shower is through that door,” she points again to the door and the sweeps her arm over to the bookshelves. “Please message me on your dedicated device if you need anything at all, Mr. Morales,” she finishes.
She passes him walking towards the door, causing Frankie to turn around and face the man who stands there, having been holding his stinking old duffel bag the entire time. Sorry, Frankie mutters as he juggles the coconut in his hands to pull his wallet out of his pocket, attempting to fish out as many crumpled ones as he can find.
“All gratuities have already been paid, Mr. Morales,” Kiki says as she slips out of the room.
The man gingerly sets down the duffel bag by the front door and follows Kiki out, seemingly not wanting to tarnish the spotless perfection of the room with Frankie’s filthy, well-traveled bag.
“Thanks?” Frankie manages to call out just before the heavy door closes, the sound echoing around him in the air-conditioned air of this gorgeous resort room.
---
Three hours later Frankie is walking through the double doors of the hotel’s main lobby bar. There’s a sign just outside the door set up for the private event that says: Thank you for attending the wedding of Rogelio Garcia & Liliana Schneider. Enjoy some drinks on us!
Rogelio - Elio - is Frankie’s cousin, his mother’s sister’s son, and someone he grew up living just two blocks away from, spending every holiday and most weekends playing with him and his brothers. Frankie knows Elio has been dating his fiance Liliana for many years, he’s heard her name out of his mother’s mouth countless times, but he’s never met her. Frankie’s been kind of a shitty family member for longer than he can blame his addiction for and he was honestly surprised to be included on the invite list of this destination wedding.
The decor inside the bar is bright and tropical, maintaining the island-vibe with steel-drum music playing over the speakers. Not putting enough foresight into his method of packing and the formal nature of the weekend’s events, Frankie is forced to wear an embarrassingly wrinkled outfit. He aimed a hair dryer at the khaki pants for a half hour and it didn’t make much of a difference. Luckily the busy pattern on his tropical shirt is forgiving enough to hide any imperfections there. He weighed wearing his emotional support hat versus having hat hair and left the hat in the room when he thought how his mamá would give him that look if he showed up with a ballcap on.
Frankie is sipping cranberry juice and talking to his mamá and some of his tías, waiting for the rehearsal dinner to be over and the wedding party to spill out of the private room at the side of the bar. Despite his mother’s dirty looks and attempts to change the subject, his one aunt keeps asking him questions he’s not even remotely interested in answering.
Do you miss your old army days? Are you ever gonna be a pilot again? Where are you living these days? Have you spoken to Steph recently? Do you know if baby Leo is walking yet?
The questions are grating on his nerves and he’s trying to remain polite but the clinking of ice in everyone’s glasses sound like cymbals in his ears. The too-loud laughter from his tíos, who are already over-served, is grating at the frayed edges of his composure and each question feels like a hundred pound weight being piled onto his shoulders. He keeps raking his hand through his hair, self-conscious without his hat on, missing the ability to lower the brim and hide his face away.
The side door opens and the wedding party spills out, a distraction of bodies and murmured conversation. He looks around for an exit, then back to the group, then back towards a door looking out over the beach. Wait a minute - for a split second he thought he saw you, coming out of the side room among a large group of other women. You’re decades older, sure, but it looked just like you. No, it can’t be. Jesus, his dreams have got him fucked up. He drags his eyes across the faces of the crowd spreading across the room again. He doesn’t see you. Of course he doesn’t, cuz you were never there.
Elio, the groom, bounces up to Frankie, pulling him away from the old hens he’s been surrounded by and introduces him to his bride-to-be, Lili.
“Lili-baby, this is my favorite cousin, Francisco.” Frankie takes her smaller hand into his massive one and they share a smile.
“Woah now Elio, we have a lot of cousins, that can’t be true.”
“Oh no primo, it’s definitely true, you’ve always been my favorite.”
“I’m so surprised I haven’t met your favorite cousin before, babe,” Lili teases him slightly.
Frankie winces, here comes the part where he has to explain why he’s been so absent all these years. The army. An addiction. His life falling apart. And then all the follow-up questions that come afterwards. He drags a hand through his hair before he responds, but before he can even open his mouth Elio is answering for Frankie, explaining how Frankie was in the service traveling the world and now he goes around to military bases helping to repair and maintain the same helicopters he used to fly.
At first Frankie isn’t sure if Elio was told this flowery-version of events by his own mamá or by Frankie’s, but when Elio winks at him over his fiance’s head, Frankie knows that he’s giving her the G-rated version to keep Frankie from having to get stuck in that inevitable uncomfortable situation he always finds himself in. Frankie smiles and nods slightly. He thinks Elio might be his favorite cousin too.
The happy couple break away for more introductions and shortly after the women all file out of the bar, heading to the spa for their evening of bachelorette activities. Once they’re gone the men gather around the bar, his uncles ordering shots of tequila, forcing them down all his cousin’s throats, and shouting loudly in Spanish. If Elio is too drunk to get married tomorrow, at least Frankie can say it’s not his fault.
Eventually he slips away from the raucous crowd and heads to the outside porch of the bar, which sits just above a large expanse of beach. He sits on the short staircase leading down to the sand and sips his third cranberry juice of the evening, watching the waves reflect colors from the setting sun. He can’t help but think about you again.
---
He’d spent that whole first school-year getting to know you, growing closer. Wednesday quarter-draft nights became a regular thing. Then you added Thursday study hall, Friday movie nights, Saturday evenings at the boardwalk, and Sundays at the laundromat. Pretty soon you were spending more days of the week together than apart, and on the days you didn’t see each other he was calling your dorm phone to talk to you for hours or chatting with you on AOL instant messenger into the wee hours of the night.
And yet you were nothing more than friends. The whole semester went by, and then phone calls and AIM chats all summer, but you never indicated you were interested in more and he didn’t dare make a move. You were just going to be friends, and that was okay. He wasn’t upset about it. He figured that you probably knew what he’d known since the moment he laid eyes on you - that you’re too pretty for him. The more he got to know you the more he learned that you were also probably too smart for him, too funny for him, and too outgoing for him. Too good for him.
He’d see the way people’s faces lit up when they met you and you smiled for them, made them laugh, made them feel like a friend, made them feel special. That’s exactly how you made him feel. You made him want to be the best version of himself. He felt lucky to be your friend and if that’s all you ever were, it was more than enough. His senior year was about to begin and after graduation he’d be getting his posting assignment and shipping out for training as a Lieutenant in the U.S. Army. He knew he had to soak up every minute with you these final two semesters.
He remembers move-in day his senior year, the Saturday before classes began…
You resumed your previous year’s tradition of going to the boardwalk with a combination of some of your friends, some of his. When you get there the sun is still setting and you grab his hand and drag him into the still-warm sand, saying that you have something important to talk to him about. Standing in front of him, wearing his sweatshirt, the pinks and oranges from the sky cast your face in a beautiful glow and you look like you’re illuminated from the inside out. Did you get even more beautiful over the summer?
Your hands feel cold even before the chill of the night air settles in, and he envelops them, trying to warm them as you begin telling him in a shaky voice the thing you’ve kept from him for months. Your mom caught your dad cheating and it blew up into a huge fight that ended with her kicking him out. He stopped paying the mortgage on the house and your mom had to sell it at a loss and find you all a new place to live. Their divorce still wasn’t settled and was already very contentious, your dad leaving your mom to pay for your school without his help.
Knowing how badly you wanted to go to this school, she took out some loans to cover the tuition for both semesters this year but the room & board bill as well as your bookstore account was on a payment plan that she needed help paying for. You’re trying not to cry as you tell him this story of how your life has been turned upside down over the last three months and he wants to ask why you hadn’t told him any of this sooner, but he can see how you are bearing the shame of your dad’s infidelity and your mom’s newfound poverty. This is a lot for you and you’re clearly still processing it.
“How can I help?” he asks.
You tell him that you need to get a job for the semester and he immediately takes over the conversation, offering to get you a job at one of the labs his professors maintain. They’re always looking for lab assistants, he assures you. You tell him that you already looked into that option and they only pay $6 an hour, you can only work 12 hours around classes during the week, and it would take almost two week’s worth of work to pay for just your $114 Statistics book.
He exhales in defeat, but you quickly tell him that you’ve already found a job. He wonders what you need from him if you’ve already found a job but then you tell him what it is. You’d be working downtown in a call center as a phone sex operator. He balks at this. You’d be working 3 nights a week, late at night, and you’d make $50 each shift, paid in cash. He’s not sure what to say until you laugh at his shocked expression, squeezing his hands.
“You okay, Pancho?”
Your pet name for him. On a late night phone call at the beginning of the summer he’d accidentally let slip that his whole family used to call him Pancho - a nickname for Francisco - before he turned eleven. The day of his eleventh birthday he got embarrassed about being called it in front of all his school friends, who knew him as Frankie, and insisted everyone switch to the more anglicized stylization of his name. Hearing that old nickname used to make him cringe, but now it felt like something just between the two of you. It was easier to hide his blushing when you were on the other end of the phone, but now that you’re face-to-face, he has to fight a bashful smile from settling on his face.
“Yeah I’m just…. are you sure about this?”
“Not really, but it’s good money and it’s not real sex, just talk.”
“Yeah,” he mumbles.
“I need your help,” you squeeze his hands again.
He can feel the flush creep up his neck and settle in his cheeks. How could you possibly need his help for phone sex? He gulps loudly and manages to grunt out a noise that sounds like, “Hm?”
“I need a ride into the city to work my shifts, I’m too scared to ride the bus that late.”
He exhales a breath he was holding. “Ohhh,” he says. You just need a ride. He’s the only person you know with a car, having been given his pop’s old Ford Ranger to drive last year when he and his roommates got a place off-campus. “No problem.”
“Really?” you squeal.
“Of course, anything you need.”
You usually worked three or four nights a week, earning more money than you would have working any on-campus job. Frankie would drive you twenty minutes into the city every shift you worked, helping you to avoid the hour-long late-night bus ride you’d have to take otherwise. Then at the end of your shift, sometimes three or four in the morning, he’d drive back and pick you up, making sure you were safely returned to your dorm.
You constantly offered to pay him for gas but he always refused. His tuition, room, and board was completely paid for by the ROTC program he was enrolled in, and he was fortunate enough to have a job back home that he worked all summer and every break, saving up spending money to use during the semester. He’d call you every night you worked, dropping $25 for each 15-minute phone call, paying with the debit card his mamá helped him get the summer before his Freshman year, and hoping she never looked too closely at his bank statements that got sent to their address each month.
He never wanted you to do your typical routine and talk sexy to him when he called, he just wanted to talk to you about regular things. How is Calculus going? Did you get your Chem homework done? What are you doing in your Systems Design lab? You’d tease him about waiting until after work so your conversation would be free but he’d say that’s 15 minutes you didn’t have to talk to some creep. You’d tease him by saying better the creep you know than the creep you don’t, and then have to stifle your laugh so you didn’t get in trouble.
---
Elio slaps him on the shoulder, drunk for sure but more sober than Frankie would have expected, breaking him from his reverie. He sits down next to him and asks how he’s doing. Frankie goes to give the scripted answer but Elio says no, seriously. Frankie tells him some of the truth, trying to balance being honest about the state of his life without overwhelming his inebriated cousin. Elio says that Frankie’s always been the smartest among all the cousins and he’s sure Frankie will find a way to turn things around.
“I think I’ve done too many stupid things at this point to feel smart anymore,” Frankie laments.
“Well I can’t speak to that, but at least you’re here in paradise and you can have a nice vacation,” Elio pokes him in the ribs.
“Oh shit that reminds me, they put me in the wrong room. They accidentally gave me an oceanfront villa!”
“Holy shit!,” Elio shouts too loudly, “See primo? Things are already turning around for you!”
“Sure,” Frankie laughs, clinking his empty glass with his cousin’s half-full pint of beer.
“Hey did you know Lili has three sisters?”
“Oh yeah? That’s coo-”
“You should totally hook up with one of them this weekend.”
“Dios mío, Elio,” Frankie huffs. “I don’t think a woman is interested in taking on all of this mess,” he motions to himself from head to toe.
“Three sisters though,” Elio repeats. “Well one of them is married… oh and one of them just got engaged.”
“My chances are rapidly decreasing, primo.”
“No, the third one is divorced and totally single,” Elio assures him. “Maybe you can take her back to your oceanfront villa, papi. Show her the front of your ocean.”
“What the fuck are you even talking about?” Frankie laughs and Elio joins him, both of them dissolving into hysterical wheezing. Elio recovers first.
“I don’t know man, I just think you should have a good time. It’s my fuckin’ wedding, chulo!” Elio shouts, and they dissolve into a fit of laughter again.
Frankie helps him up off the steps and carries him inside - putting Elio in the seemingly capable hands of his father and eldest brother, who appear to be the most sober out of everyone - and heads to bed.
#francisco morales#frankie catfish morales#happy ending#noxturnalpascal#frankie morales x reader#francisco morales x reader#triple frontier fanfic#triple frontier fanfiction#pedro pascal characters#Frankie Friday#writing challenge 2.0#iamasaddie prompt
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Spooktober Prompt #13
“I think your grumpy because you’ve been inside all day, let’s go outside for a while.”
“I’d rather not.”
“Why? The ‘bad luck’ thing?”
“13s in general are dangerous for me and those around me. But Friday the 13th? In October no less? The results could be catastrophic! I’m talking apocalyptic!”
#prompt#writing prompt#short prompt#writblr#writeblr community#writeblr#spooktober#31 days of spooktober#spooktober prompts#31 days of halloween#bad luck#friday the 13th
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Our oath
Summary
What was supposed to be just a romantic flight takes on a whole new meaning as Aziraphale and Crowley gaze up at the world from the starry sky.
Notes
I didn't plan them to take me there, but I don't regret it...
For the @flashfictionfridayofficial - #FFF242 Soaring Above
On Ao3
Rating G - 755 words
He spread his wings, made a few movements with them to make sure they were working properly, then took a deep breath and said, "Let's go."
He flew up into the sky, and as he soared higher, he saw the bookshop, the busy Whickber Street, and then the city lights grew smaller and smaller. Then he flew past some clouds until there was night and stars all around him, and he stopped to look at the Earth, now barely bigger than a small marble.
So small in this great universe, so beautiful and fragile.
But oh, so precious.
He felt, as he always had when it came to the little planet, this deep, strong, raw love that drove him to protect it and its inhabitants from all dangers and whatever else his and Crowley's ex-sides might think of doing, because for Heaven and Hell, Earth means nothing or just a means to an end.
At that thought, he feels anger growing deep inside him. The same anger he is filled with every time he thinks about how Heaven regards its own creation. He feels it growing inside him, intense, burning, uncontrollable.
"Angel?"
Then it immediately stopped.
Just that word, uttered in a soft voice, overcame the rage that overcame him, and the gentle pressure on his hand was enough to make it subside, leaving only the love for this planet and the fierce will to protect it, no matter the cost.
Then a caress on his hand removed the last vestiges of anger and he turned his eyes to the demon at his side. Crowley, in whose eyes he read understanding and the same fervor as his own.
This planet, so precious to them, for it was what brought them together in the first place. Before their shared love, it was the will to save the Earth and its people that made them overcome all the obstacles that fate had placed between them.
Once he's calmed down, he can also see the concern in the demon's eyes and blames himself for being the one who put it there.
Crowley asked him gently, "Are you all right, Angel?"
Aziraphale, without letting go of his hand, moved closer to him, his wings fluttering gently, then replied, "Yes, I'm fine. I'm sorry, I didn't mean for this flight in the sky to turn into a drama."
Crowley gently stroked his cheek and shook his head before saying, "Don't be sorry. I know how you feel. We won't let anything happen to them."
"How do you understand me so well?"
The demon winked at him and replied playfully, "Thousands of years of practice," then his expression turned serious again as his eyes focused on the planet far below their feet and he said quietly, "This is our home. So we will protect it. Together."
He wrapped his arm around the angel's waist, and Aziraphale rested his head on his shoulder, repeating softly, "Together."
They stayed like that for a few minutes, embracing in the starry sky, looking down on this world and its inhabitants that they loved so much.
Then Aziraphale slid his hand down the demon's arm and intertwined their fingers, saying softly, "Come on, let's go home."
Crowley smiled at him, nodded, and together they flapped their wings before diving toward the Earth.
They both felt their hearts racing as they approached the Earth. Crowley gripped Aziraphale's hand a little tighter as they flew over Tadfield, and a little later, Aziraphale's hand tightened around Crowley's as they passed over Whickber Street, where their family and the heart of their home lay.
They finally landed on the roof of the bookshop, still holding hands.
Aziraphale pushed back a lock of red hair that had fallen across Crowley's forehead during their flight and said quietly, "How about dinner at the Ritz to end the evening on a high note?"
The demon simply asked, "By land or by air?"
The angel immediately replied, "By land, among them."
Crowley planted a light kiss on Aziraphale's lips and nodded before saying quietly, "Let's go, Angel."
Some time later, they entered the Ritz and a butler escorted them to their usual table.
After their champagne glasses were filled, Crowley raised his to the angel and said softly, "Cheers, to the world."
Aziraphale clinked his glass against the demon's and replied, "To our world."
They said nothing more, they didn't need to as the same burning will to cherish and protect this world was shining in their eyes.
Their oath.
To the world.
To their world.
_________
Still not beta'd
Still not my native language
Still hoping you'll enjoy this story 🥰
Still thanking you for bearing with me 😝
Ineffable Growing Love series : (After season 2)
Part 1 Story 1-99
Part 2 Story 100-?
Ineffable Husbands masterlist : here (Before season 2)
#good omens#aziracrow#ineffable husbands#ineffable boyfriends#aziraphale#crowley#good omens fanfiction#aziraphale x crowley#crowley x aziraphale#GOS2Spoilers#writeblr#writeblr event#writing prompt#writing community#flash fiction friday#😈💗😇#FFF242 Soaring Above
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