#Bentley POV

[caspianthegeek]

Nightingale May Prompt Two: Angels dining at the Ritz

The Bentley was not immune to the way Aziraphale’s hand traced over her dash as if in thank you as he climbed from the car at the Ritz. She hummed contentedly, ignoring the pleased humph from her demon as he hurried to the angel’s side. He had been excited tonight, her beloved, as he’d ushered the angel into the car. And Bentley was determined to find out why.

As she settled into her normal spot, she reached her senses to hear what was happening in the crowded restaurant. It was easy seeking out the two beloved auras. Yet so far, this meal seemed like any other. That was alright, she could wait.

A tug on her door forced her to hold them shut as she slammed the locks down.

“Damn it,” the man muttered. He was dressed in the dark hues her owner favored, but this shorter man was clearly not him. Brown hair snuck out from under his cap as he hurriedly dug into his bag and pulled out a lock-picking kit.

That simply would not do. Did he not know she had more important beings to focus on this evening? As the man tried to pick her locks she spared half of a thought to shifting them so they would be impossible to open as she tried to listen in on the angel at the table explaining something about Bookshop, her other beloved.

Perhaps the mention of Bookshop distracted her because a moment later the thief had her door open. With what would have been a sigh in a human, Bentley turned her radio up as loud as it would go.

Freddie’s voice blared through the car, causing the man to stumble backward. The words “I don't have no time for no monkey business” should echo in his head quite loudly if she’d got the volume correct. Bently primly shut her door and went back to her business. Crowley was pontificating about what wine to pair with dinner, that may be take a bit.

The thief hadn’t taken the hint and was back at the door again. She flicked her mirror, smacking him. This gave him at least a little pause where the deafening car radio-alarm had not, but a moment later he was back at it with the lock pick kit.

That was quite enough. Checking in on her two favorite breathing beings, Bentley confirmed they were still awaiting the main course and did some quick math. She knew every street in this town, and she had plenty of time. With a rev of her engine she threw the car door open.

Humans were not always the brightest, she reflected as the man greedily climbed into the seat. She wasn’t a monster and while she knew her regular passengers declined, humans did prefer seatbelts didn’t they?

If this one happened to tie the man’s hands down, there was no reason for him to touch her wheel as she pulled into traffic, already racing. Aziraphale had complained about doing a hundred miles per hour through central London, but he didn’t know that Bentley always slowed down just a smidgen for him. As she screeched to a halt in front of the police station and loosened the belt, the man scrambled from the car on his hands and knees.

A curious onlooker helped him to his feet as Bentley hurried back to her station, anxious to not miss anything important.

Crowley stood outside, arms crossed.

Fuck.

She had expected a brief lecture from the demon about driving unaccompanied. Instead, he leaned against her his lithe body pressed against the car door, “Didn’t hurt you, did he?”

Insulted, she revved her engine for a moment.

The demon chuckled as he rested a forehead against the cool glass of the window. “Good girl,” he whispered. She purred in response.

Aziraphale was not with him, she realized. With a quick check, she realized the angel was inside, feeling mildly worried.

Beyoncé’s voice rolled from her speakers “…put a ring on it…”

“Oi! Don’t you start getting involved,” the demon groaned. “I know, I will…eventually…”

Hopeless, that one was. She begrudgingly settled lower nestling into her spot once more.

“Don’t go judging me,” he grumbled. “Should get back though. You stay out of trouble.”

It was only half-heartedly that she let her senses fly once more, keeping a watch over her two beings. She daydreamed about what could be if they’d only allow it, she could have the angel visit her so much more often! In fact, she’d stopped paying attention at all by the time they returned.

That was until Crowley’s hands graced her wheel once more and she realized there, was, indeed a ring there. A piece of Aziraphale worn on her demon’s finger, clear as day to anyone who would notice.

If she was a bit joyful on the ride home, neither of them called her out on it.

[imabsolutelyticketyboo]

i wrote a poem i hope you like it :)

[chromiumhater]

You Forgot Your Brakes

As the almighty of the observable universe, one had certain privileges. God liked to think of it like the white space in between the panels of human comic books. In fact, comic books had been a clever artistic rendition of the way They saw the human world

Crowley keeps waking up in the Bentley parked in front of Aziraphale's bookshop, no matter how far he drives.

[weirdly-specific-but-ok]

pt XVI good omens season 2 (still not traumatic) episode 3 EDINBURGH

HELLO IT'S ME IT'S THE OFFICIAL GOOD OMENS MASCOT WHY DO I STILL KEEP INTRODUCING MYSELF IDK. If you don't know who I am, thank God and Satan for their mercy and flee. Also, the day after I post this, I'll be watching the last three episodes on livestream for the first time so. You know. I'm hyped on the energy of this being my last day not enveloped in tears. Take the summary:

Before the episode starts, someone asks why Crowley said in the last episode that Aziraphale couldn't fall because look at him, all angelic when Crowley looked the same as starmaker. I reply that "Crowley thinks he deserved it, he sees Azi as something beautiful and untouched while he probably sees himself as idk marked in some way so god kicked him down."

I am told that I am learning too fast to weaponise the narrative to induce angst. So then I say oh, I go too fast for you. Tears ensue.

The episode begins! Everyone shrieks about Edinburgh, David Tennant, how it is their favourite episode, and SCOTTISH CROWLEY.

We open with lesbians being gay, and then Muriel enters as Inspector Constable! They are very sweet and very determined to do their job right, and they are adopted by Crowley and Aziraphale just like Jim.

Crowley sits on Aziraphale's chair's arm. The maggots all swoon.

Fine, I also swooned.

Aziraphale gaslight-gatekeep-girlboss-mansplain-manipulate-manwhores his way into getting Crowley to give him the Bentley keys (BOUNDARIES. BOUNDARIES.).

WHAT PLENTY OF USE DO BOTH OF YOU GET OUT OF THE BOOKSHOP?

The really ineffable plan is whatever the fuck was happening in Aziraphale's brain when he somehow went from London to Edinburgh via Loch Ness (check the map) and then proceeded to disguise himself as a detective who pretends to be a journalist.

Crowley slays in sleeve garters and a cardigan keeping house in the bookshop meanwhile, does not sell books, instead cleans with Jimbriel and periodically yeets book stacks into corners when distracted.

Aziraphale reads his old diary entries about Crowley, a (6000+) 13 year old with a crush.

MINISODE MINISODE. They are in Edinburgh during the mid 1800s. Victorian outfits, check. Scottish Crowley, check. Capitalist Karen Aziraphale, che-wait what.

Huh. Well. There's a wee bit of body snatchin' going on, to sell to doctors for medical research because there aren't enough murderers, and to make enough money to survive.

Aziraphale channels his inner capitalist judgemental Karen and ruins that plan, come on Aziraphale you have religious trauma but you're better than this, and long story short, Wee Morag dies after Aziraphale realises his error, her friend Elspeth has to sell her corpse for pennies, and is about to commit suicide with laudanum. Azi, oh god. I'm glad you underwent character development at least.

NOW CROWLEY HERE SLAYS. I KNOW THIS IS AZIRAPHALE'S PERSPECTIVE AND IS BIASED. BUT WITH THIS POV, CROWLEY SLAYS.

He calmly educates Aziraphale about how his whole "the poor have more opportunities and you shouldn't give them money or they'll lose the virtue of poverty" is absolute bullshit, and he does this understanding Aziraphale's situation and not losing his temper.

The framing. The framing of the shot when they see Wee Morag and Elspeth sitting down on a step and explaining their situation. Aziraphale stands above, bustling with righteousness, and judges them. Crowley sits down. He sits down next to them, rather than taking the high ground. He meets them where they are and empathises. It is the fact that he is fallen and damned that makes him behave really divine and sorry I wrote a whole hymn on him have it I'll stop rambling just know I love him.

I think his amusement is a facade so hell won't think he's genuinely being good. I think he's morally grey and incredibly brave and kind.

When Elspeth is bouta kill herself with the laudanum, Crowley grabs it and drinks it himself, and grows tiny and then huge, absolutely high off his head. David Tennant takes the opportunity to travel Scotland from east to west in terms of accent variety.

He gives us the good message of NO DYIN'. NO MORE DYIN'. IT'S NOT ON. And then forces Aziraphale (who doesn't want to ruin her virtuous poverty) to give the girl all the guineas he has in his pocket, and tells her to go off and start a farm or something. BUT NOT JUST PRETENDY GOOD, BE PROPERLY GOOD.

He then gets pulled into hell. To be punished for this. Aziraphale is frightened and heartbroken for him, looking around desperately, and we find out that Crowley didn't meet him for a while after. And later he wanted holy water. To protect himself? He got punished by hell. For how long? The whole month in between the incident and the diary entry? There can't be anyone better at punishment and cruelty than hell.

Sorry I'm just screaming here.

Never mind fuck I started this summary really happy and bouncy and listening to a dance playlist. Dionysus by BTS and Italian pop is still playing and now I'm crying.

Is this the natural progression. Fuck I'm crying. Sorry guys something else happens with Aziraphale politely talking to a phone and Crowley smiling really beautifully while unsuccessfully trying to manipulate two lesbians into a relationship and something about a visit I don't care everyone's being morally dubious as usual and then lovely Scottish music outro I CAN'T FUCKING ELABORATE I'M SITTING HERE CRYING OVER CROWLEY.

right summary done, time to go sob, lmao i thought i wouldn't cry today over good omens HAHAHAHA still not traumatic eh HAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHAHA

[ineffable-suffering]

INEFFABLE META MASTERPOST

Because I'm slowly losing count and need to organize. So, here's all my self-written metas or ones that I reblogged with my own added theories and commentary! In rainbow colours, naturally.

1 – Aziraphale, I love you. But you lied. And here's why. My most lengthy and proudest meta about the Final Fifteen and why I think Aziraphale lied on purpose. (Also: The absolute darling @esthermitchell-author bravely fought their way through it and wrote up some more interesting points and different takes on what I came up with. If you want to go down a S2 rabbit hole with us, go read it here.)

2 – Why Aziraphale is an unreliable narrator (links below) A three-part meta in which I try to analyse and explain that all of the minisodes in Season 2 are not objective narrations but actually Aziraphale's memories.

Part 1: The Story of Job

Part 2: The Story of wee Morag

Part 3: The Story of the Magic Show in 1941

3 – The Jane Austen Ball and why it was never about Nina and Maggie A meta in which I go into unnecessarily great detail about how the Whickber Street Meeting Cotillion Ball was meant to be Aziraphale's confession to Crowley.

4 – Crowley & Aziraphale were never free (reblog) A reblog of @baggvinshield's post in which I explain why miscommunication is the single biggest ineffable enemy in Season 2.

5 – In Defense of Aziraphale (double reblog) A double try at explaining why I think Aziraphale's POV in the Final Fifteen is just as horrible as Crowley's and why I don't think him "choosing" to go back to Heaven was the only point of his character journey.

6 – The Art of Miscommunication: Ineffable Edition A meta in which i once again explain why miscommunication is the single biggest ineffable enemy in Season 2.

7– Season 2 Bookshop Shot Meta A meta where I briefly loose my mind because of a single bookshop frame in Season 2.

8 – What if it wasn't Aziraphale and Crowley who performed the 25 Lazarii miracle? A mini-meta in which I propose the theory that Jimbriel helped with the miracle to hide himself away from Heaven & Hell.

9 – Things in Good Omens Season 2 I still find weird (reblog) A reblog of @ok-sims and many other great OPs' thoughts on the weird loose strings in Season 2 and what unanswered questions I still have myself.

10 – The Deleted Bookshop Scene (reblog) A reblog of @skirtdyke's video and @i-only-ever-asked-questions' smart thoughts on it, with my own overly-excited 'what that could have meant for the "It's too late" line'-theroy.

11 – The Bentley Handle Easter Egg A meta I can proudly say has been liked by none other than Mr. Neil Gaiman himself about Crowley's Bentley handle that might have existed before the Bentley ever did.

12 – The F*cking Eccles Cakes A meta where I briefly loose my mind because of a pastry. (Addendum: People said very smart things in the comments of the post!)

14 – Re: "You go too fast for me, Crowley" A meta in which I make myself sad by connecting that infamous line to Aziraphale assuming Crowley wanted the Holy Water as a suicide pill.

13 – Trauma-Dumping on your plants: The Anthony J. Crowley Chronicles A meta on why Crowley treats his plants the way that he does.

14 – Demonic Mental Health Awareness Post In which I talk about why I want to get Crowley a therapy voucher.

15 – The Curious Incident of The Flaming Sword in Good Omens A meta on why the Flaming Sword has no deeper meaning. Or does it? (Updated: here's a reblog from @queerfables who did a wonderfully exellent job at calmly explaining all the swordy questions I was yelling about! Consider this meta solved.)

16 – Ceci n'est pas une plume A meta in which I'm a bit of a nerd for language and also explain why learning French and magic the human way says so much about Aziraphale as a character.

17 – The meaning of "I forgive you" A meta in which I explain what both "I forgive you"s mean and why Aziraphale will always fight for what is right until he wins. Also, the lovely @sharksbeerr translated it to Chinese on Weibo!

18 – Memory, or the lack thereof, in Season 2 A little reblog on how memory is a big and unresolved, leaky-bucket theme in Season 2.

19 – „It‘s always too late.“ (ft. Crowley‘s watch)

A short meta about that lines from Season 2 that won‘t leave my brain (and also Crowley‘s mysterious watch).

Addendum:

The one non-spoiler-y ask I could come up with about S2 that was actually answered by Neil, yay!

Also, this wholesome little post I added to that Mr. Gaiman also reblogged. :‘)

*** This is a work in progress and will get updated every time I post a new meta! ***

[scrapheapchallenge]

Mary the Bentley reference photos post 2. POV: You're Crowley. I got you a LOAD of angles so you can see what it's like to sit in the front seat (it's easiest to take them from the back seat), and from various angles from the driver's head position. You can see the sunroof up there better as well now. See post 1 for the rest of the reference photos, I ran out of space to add more to it.

[ineffabildaddy]

i have waited

(crowley pov poem - warning for suggestive content!)

-

I have waited for you, angel

As woman, as man

As both, sometimes

Red-lipped and hard as anything

Or a drag of lace under gathered breeches

Dew-flecked with my cloudbursts of want

I have waited as neither, a blank page

Fluttering in the breeze from the open window

While you dip your pen in your inkwell

I have waited for you, angel

As a young girl shuns the sunshine of an August afternoon

To sit by the phone until it rings three times

Or, indeed, until darkness falls at last

I have waited for you like an old man

Longing for a death which refuses to come

He sits on park benches and wonders

How he must endure the commotion of life

Just when his soul has found quiet

I have waited for you, angel

As an ocean wave

Which suddenly knows it shall dissolve into foam

Crashes harder than intended on the sand at the prospect of it

I have waited for you

In taverns, coffee houses, glittering ballrooms

In bookshops, in bookshops, in bookshops

On faded rugs and felt-covered armchairs

I have waited with the patience required to finish a Tolstoy

And the hunger that stabs as one devours a great mystery

I have waited for you, angel

Under the stars on a clear night

Thighs trembling around my own crooked fingers

I have waited for you, also

In the solace of my bedchambers

Twisting silk sheets across my chest

So they might soothe the ache beneath my ribs

I have waited for you, angel

In the lodging rooms of country inns

Even as I land face first on a bed of straw

And bend my knees before a brooding stranger

I have waited for you, angel

At the courts of countless monarchs

Arching my back like a good mistress

As one man pulls at the string of my corset

And another knocks over his silver chalice

I waited for you, angel

In a Soho pub over bottles of Talisker

A book by my side, kept as a souvenir

I waited for you, again

One elbow leaning on the Bentley

My glasses fogging up as you retreated one last time

I have waited for you, angel

Since before the stars began

Since the world was merely a funny idea

Which made cherubs giggle and archangels whisper

I have waited for you, angel

For years beyond counting

I can wait a little longer

You know where I am

-

thank you so much for reading!! comments and reblogs are endlessly treasured<3

also available to read on ao3 here!

this work is a gift for @foolishlovers and @omens-for-ophelia <3

tagging the usual suspects: @bowtiepastabitch @sabotage-on-mercury @crowleys-bentley-and-plants @tangerine-ginger @greenthena @and-his-hands-were-24-crows @amagnificentobsession @iammyownproblematicfave @ineffable-rohese @cottagecore-raccoon @crowleyholmes @createserenity @queer-reader-07 @nimbusalba @adverbian @ingenio-ira

pls let me know if u want to be added or removed from my taglist!

[captainblou]

Drive me to the Moon - A Good Omens AU, now complete.

To Build a Home

Summary:

After competing in a rally race for charity and claiming victory with now life partner Toni Crowley, Aziraphale, also known as The Angel, continues to surprise us with his dance exhibition Leaving the Garden, blending together classical and modern dancing. The show offers a vast variety of costumes and references in a breathtaking staging, and Aziraphale’s own closing performance steals the show entirely, leaving the audience dazzled.  Aziraphale, born Ezra Fell, offers a beautiful, sincere and harrowing ode to resilience through two hours of code breaking dancing.  Leaving the Garden is without doubt a must see on the West End stage this winter.  West End Review ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

Hello my dear readers!!!

This chapter is the last one for this fic (if you're good, I might post some saucy NSFW extra scenes that I wrote, but it'll be in a few weeks)

And it's very very special.

Why? Because half of it (the entire Crowley POV at the beginning) was written by my good friend @searchingforakeythatdoesntexistand and translated by yours truly!! So, yeah. Not only does she make stunning illustrations, she's also a very skilled writer (go check her AO3, it's worth it!!!)

This chapter also comes with carefully selected musics so don't hesitate to click the footnotes (I broke my own head making them so...)

I want to thank one last time @fearandhatred, @mamamissy and @crowleys-bentley-and-plants for betaing this and cheering me up during writing!

Happy reading!

Tag list: @itsscottiesstark @moralsofanalleycatsposts @gallup24 @beerok23 @handyowlet @eybefioro @naturallyteal @sparklyshinymagpie @hellsgardener01 @goodwomanbadlady @daisygrayce @tigerowltattoos @addledmongoose @gaiaseyes451 @goodomensafterdark

[somehow-a-human]

Whose POV is it Anyway?

"Your 'Something's Wrong' voice."

DO NOT ASK NEIL ABOUT FAN THEORY

Hallo assorted ethereal and occult beings! I'm back to break down the POV of different scenes in detail! Starting with episode 1, and notably, the coffee shop scene when Crowley comes to meet Aziraphale for the first time in present day & the argument about Gabriel!

For reference & context, I recommend reading these posts:

Whose POV is it Anyway? - Introduction

Lens Filters

Let's jump straight in!

We open Season one's present day with Crowley and Shax on the bench in the park, and in this scene the Black Diffusion FX filter is in Full Effect, and Crowley's sideburns are short.

The color is well saturated, but still cool-toned and bright, indicative of Crowley's POV.

Then when Aziraphale visits Maggie, listens to his music, and Gabriel arrives to Aziraphale, the Bronze Glimmer Glass filter is used.

The lighting is warm, golden, soft & hazy. Aziraphale's POV.

This brings us to the coffee shop scene.

I've stolen this photo from @embracing-the-ineffable 's post about The Appearing Honolulu Roast Sign which you should go check out if you haven't yet. But I'd like to draw your attention to something subtler here, the tone of the top two images and the bottom two. Pull up the episode and watch it if you'd like as well.

When Crowley walks into the coffee shop and sits down, the lighting is warm and hazy, because Aziraphale had been there alone so far. There is then a cut, Crowley's sideburns are short, the Honolulu Roast sign notably appears, but the scene is also noticeably (if you're looking for it) clearer and more vibrant, the warm haze is gone. I think we've switched from Aziraphale's POV to Crowley's POV here, and I think that's then confirmed by Crowley immediately beginning to give Aziraphale a bit of a a read about his "somethings wrong voice". We're broken out of Aziraphale's fairytale filter POV into Crowley's which is a bit colder and more realistic.

They then head back to the bookshop where Crowley discovers Jimbriel.

As soon as they're in the door of the bookshop the warm hazy Bronze Glimmer Glass filter is back and Crowley's sideburns are long. He removes his glasses, he's relaxed, and then he's jumpscared out of his boots by Jimbriel. Aziraphale's POV.

Crowley drags Aziraphale to the backroom and despite the warm yellow paint on the walls, the hazy warm tone is gone and I believe we've returned to the Black Diffusion FX filter, or Crowley's POV. Additionally, his sideburns are short again. Crowley is angry, terrified, and stressed now. He's not the kindest with his words and refuses to help Aziraphale.

When Crowley storms out, his walk back through the bookshop is marked by another POV change with longer sideburns, in the warm hazy tones of the BGG Aziraphale filter, and a notable shot of him retrieving his glasses beside the plate of eccles cakes. Two details that I believe would stand out in Aziraphale's imagination and mind. He would notice Crowley's eyes, and remember the eccles cakes.

Outside in the street, Crowley's sideburns are once again short, and the filter is cool toned again, indicating we've switched to BDFX or Crowley's POV again. He's angry, he's struck by lightning, and gets in the Bentley to angrily drive off.

NEXT

POV a Trip to Hell and a 25 Lazarii Miracle

[televised-eyes]

i’m determined to finish reading good omens tonight! just got to the part where crowley shows up at tadfield air base and the bentley falls apart ! poor bentley

i just love how any time the pov switches to aziraphale or crowley i start kicking my feet with happiness :3

[melbatron5000]

My murder board

Updated 4/22/24

I'll add links as I can, but here's what I've got so far on the Good Omens season 2 puzzle/game. I feel it's important to note that I think we've been given all the puzzle pieces and a bunch of helpful hints besides.

The continuity errors:

Crowley's hair (POV thing)

Crowley's sideburns (POV)

The Bentley, "our car" but then it is Our Car in 1941 also -- WTF (There is a line in the book about someone being powerful enough to make something change and then make it so the change always was that way, but damned if I can recall the line or context now. Need to re-read AND re-watch! Found it! It's when Crowley first meets Adam after he's come into his powers -- he reads Crowley's mind and history like it's a book and this is the impression it leaves Crowley with. Adam's power is very similar to how the Book of Life is described in the show. Curiouser and curiouser!) (POV!)

Eccles cakes when Crowley leaves the shop, it's still morning, the continuity of time is messing with me. When they get the eccles cakes, it's light out. When Crowley leaves, it's dark out. He throws a lightning temper tantrum. He comes back after 9 by the clock in the shop. I still think it's not unreasonable to assume Aziraphale simply tidied away the eccles cakes in that time. Nina would have liked her plate back, after all. But all of this begs another question: 4a. Why is it around 11:30 when Aziraphale leaves Maggie's shop with the record and says he knows what he'll be doing for 21 minutes, but after 4 pm when Gabriel shows up? What happened for those 4+ hours? See 6. Clocks are wrong. Time is wrong!! (4.b the eccles cakes are prominent in at least one promo poster. Even if they don't disappear, do they mean something else??)

Portal rug it's a faded rug right up until the ball, when it becomes a thick red rug, then it's back to faded once the ball is tidied away. It just got made pretty for the ball, then changed back. The change is a nothingburger.

Clocks are wrong -- all over the damn place!!

Cross on Gabriel's statue -- appears to disappear. (POV)

Honolulu roast sign -- appears out of nowhere. (POV)

Title/location cards -- but there are some spots where the S1 title cards are used, what's going on there? (POV clues? -- this needs a closer look)

Drawing of Gabriel -- the one Aziraphale draws in the shop is NOT the one he shows the pub owner in Edinburgh. Why? (POV)

Wet roads/series poster -- what is up with all the rain??

Lights at Marguerites -- on again, off again. (POV? Or is it just when she's closed and open? It's a cafe, after all, they won't be open in the morning.)

Aziraphale's chair position in the Final Fifteen

1941 photo, Crowely's hand

Repeating extras -- not just repeating, but acting oddly -- walking back and forth, touching things, not eating, dressed the same every single day, etc. Do the people on the street in Edinburgh behave the same way?? (POV?)

Resurrectionist sign at the pub -- one with a scalpel, one with a butcher's knife. And it makes me think -- was Mr. Dalrymple a surgeon and a scientist with a scalpel, or a butcher with a cleaver? (POV. Wait, Aziraphale is the only MC there -- whose POVs would we be seeing?? Crowley's. He calls to tell Crowley what he found, what we're seeing is Crowley's idea of what happened.)

Store front signs -- appear and disappear. (POV)

Whickber street as seen from Heaven vs. on location -- the one Saraqael looks at in Heaven is the Google Maps picture of SoHo from 2019 with the book shop added in. It's not even from 2023! There is a building being torn down in it. In person on the show, it's different -- and the building is long gone in actual Google Maps 2023. (I think Saraqael is trying to hide the big miracle. She's showing the arc angels the book shop when it got reset by Adam in 2019.)

When Shax talks to Crowley and he takes off driving. When she appears, he is parked further up the street than when he leaves. Noticeably so. (POV? Or scenes out of order and this is a different time than it looks like?)

Edinburgh castle -- when Aziraphale arrives in Edinburgh, the castle is behind him. When the camera switches angles to behind him, Edinburgh castle is in front of him. The street he is on (streets, actually) are real streets. The castle was put in the first shot deliberately, but exists for real in the second shot. (POV)

Edinburgh streets -- when Aziraphale arrives in Edinburgh, the street he parks on is cobblestone. When the camera switches to behind him, the street is paved. (POV)

Weird sounds of all kinds?? (POV? Some of them yes.)

Crowley's sunglasses. Could this be explained by POV switches? If so, why do they change halfway through and then stay that way?

Questions about things the characters do:

Where did Crowley go during the Job flashback? And why was he wearing his spy turtleneck? (To meet up with Saraqael, perhaps? Seeing as Shax interrupted their meeting earlier that day?)

Where else did Aziraphale go in Edinburgh? And why did he go to the graveyard?

What did Gabriel need to bring to Aziraphale? What happened to it? (God's voice? A message from god? The Book of Life?)

Why does Micheal do the magician's "nothing in the box" display with the matchbox? It's a very specific action. Something's in that up with that damn matchbox. We're being asked to look at it, while something else happens that we're missing. And someone noticed that her nails are in terrible shape when she does it, but our eyes are on the matchbox.

What else did the Metatron say to Aziraphale? (Anything? Are we getting the whole, accurate story? Most of it? Any of it?)

How long was Crowley in Heaven, and what happened while he was there? (Did he sneak around and steal something? Did they harm him? He's acting a bit weird when he comes back.)

What happened to Aziraphale's briefcase? The one he took to Edinburgh. Where he did who knows what. (Is that a POV thing??)

What, if anything, is wrong with Crowley's memory? (Or is he just dissing Furfur and Saraqael?) (OR! Given the Gabriel removed HIS OWN MEMORY AND PUT IT IN THE FLY, so apparently angels ((AND demons??)) can affect their own memories, did Crowley deliberately do something to himself to get rid of unwanted memories??? He seems pretty untroubled by not remembering Furfur or Saraqael or why they made gravity -- almost as if he doesn't care the memories are gone. Okay, maybe he's gotten rid of some memories himself, but then WHY??) This could be a big old nothingburger. Or is he dissing Furfur and offering plausible deniability that he's met with Saraqael before -- like, when he was wearing his spy turtle neck??

What is Shax's mission? She says she's Crowley's replacement, but then she asks for "what she needs" from Crowley on the bench. Huh? What does she need?

How does Crowley know about hand washing in the Resurrectionists minisode? (This strikes different than the "lead ballon" remark on the wall. It's hard to say if Crowley knows about lead balloons, or if they're speaking an angelic language and it's being translated for us and the translator has a sense of humor or is trying to convey Crowley's sense of humor. The hand washing is actual, concrete, specific knowledge of the future.) Ah, I just re-read the book, where he mentions helicopters to DaVinci, and also Neil said this. It's something Crowley can do. He's a demon, he knows things.

What is going on with Maggie? I don't think she's a demon, but there is something up with her. (Also, one of the men in the graveyard in Edinburgh has a tattoo that says "no regerts." That's a real tattoo that circulates around the internet every once in a while -- I think it's a subtle reminder that humans aren't necessarily great at spelling, either.) But she has a Mason symbol on her necklace, and I still think the Masons are significant somehow; Aziraphale can't miracle-influence her; Aziraphale expects her to feel the arc angels arriving.

Why does Gabriel speak with god's voice? (Was that what he needed to bring? That message? But he says he needs to give Aziraphale something, and both times he speaks in god's voice, it's to Crowley. Hmm. IS that God's voice? It's a woman, but who is it?)

How did the pub owner recognize Gabriel's picture so fast? He says himself, "Look pal, I see a lot of people -- oh, yeah, I remember him!" ?? Was it just because Gabriel was weird at him?

Why is Crowley throwing books? It gives us a laugh, but is there a reason for it? He even seems confused as to why he's carrying them right before he does. (This is a POV thing -- the lens is "Aziraphale's" lens, so I think we're seeing Crowley tell Aziraphale what happened while Aziraphale was gone, and how Aziraphale imagines it would go.)

Why is Saraqael the only angel to react with fear before anyone else recognizes the Metatron? (Is it because she's been working WITH Gabriel, Beelzebub, AND Crowley and Aziraphale to thwart the second attempt at ending the world? Neil says he had some secret things for Sandalphon to do, but the actor wasn't available, so Saraqael does some of those things instead . . .)

Aziraphale gently laughs at Muriel's Inspector Constable persona, but then IMMEDIATELY adopts a just as over-the-top reporter persona. Is he doing it deliberately, or is he that un-self-aware? If he's doing it deliberately, why? Who's he trying to convince he's not that savvy? The pub owner? Anyone who might be spying? US?? Is that a POV thing? And if so, whose?? (AHA! I think this is Aziraphale telling Crowley what happened, and Crowley picturing Aziraphale being adorable in his disguise. Aziraphale is not that silly actually, but probably not as slick as he wants to think.)

Why the heck did Maggie and Nina go talk to Crowley while the Metatron was talking to Aziraphale? What they had to say wasn't important enough to leave Nina's shop during a rush, and I definitely don't think they derailed Crowley from what he needed to say to Aziraphale, though it might look at first as if they did. So what was that about?

When Shax stops Aziraphale for a ride, he says, "Oh, I really need to get to --" and then is cut off. He really needs to get to where? It's an easy assumption to think he means the book shop, or London. But is that all he means? Or was he on his way somewhere else? And if it was just the book shop, what does he mean he's late? Late for what? And that lens is still Crowley's lens -- Aziraphale is relating the story to Crowley. Crowley also knows where Aziraphale was going besides Edinburgh.

Crowley can tell something is wrong. Something. What?

Good God, this questions list just keeps getting longer. Why would the Metatron allow Beelzebub and Gabriel to leave, after trying to stop Armageddon 2.0, but come after Crowley and Aziraphale like that? Just because of the big miracle? (Which I'm not sure they did.)

Why does Crowley say "Oh, God," right before his confession in the final fifteen? To let Aziraphale know that he understands what Aziraphale is saying? That God (or the Voice) is there? Seems possible.

Why didn't Gabriel come down the lift in the Dirty Donkey? He also says he had to carry that box for sooo long. Where was he wandering around?

When Crowley leaves Heaven, he tells Saraqael and Muriel to come, too. But in the elevator, Michael and Uriel are there! When the fuck did they show up??

The whole time Aziraphale is in Maggie's shop asking about Every Day, he is looking out the windows and is VERY nervous. Is he just concerned about leaving Gabriel on his own, or is he nervous about something specific? He does react to the car horn outside as others have noted, but he is already jumpy and checking the windows repeatedly, the car horn isn't anything particular, he's just already fixated on the windows.

Why does Beelzebub tell Shax to attack the bookstore? Aren't they worried about Gabriel being harmed? And they know Hell is understaffed. Maybe that's why they command it? Because they know Shax won't be able to get the demons?

Questions about the world:

What about the Masons? It's such a specific thing for the pub owner to bring up, what is the meaning of it? And Maggie has a Mason symbol on her necklace. Did the Masons carve the statue of Gabriel? When did they see him?

The only narration we hear in the entire season is Aziraphale in the Resurrectionist flashback. Why? (Maybe to throw us off? I think we have multiple POV characters in season 2, not just Aziraphale, but we only hear Aziraphale so we assume he's the POV for the entire season. But still, why do we only hear him narrate 1 flashback? Argh, is he reading the diary to himself in the present day? That would explain the end, "And that was the last I was to see of Crowley for some time." If he is reading it in the present day, why? What made him think to go back to THAT entry?? Oh, duh! He JUST heard the story of the jukebox from Maggie. And Gabriel appearing -- same city that statue is in. Of course he thought of something important from that diary entry! Now, what did he notice?)

Is the Book of Life a real threat? We hear two stories about it, that it's real and that its ability to erase beings was something to scare the cherubs with, this is inconclusive. Crowley gets nervous after Beelzebub talks to him, but he could just be upset that their little break is interrupted, and now Heaven and Hell have taken an interest in them again.

Is reality fucked up? How? Whickber street bubble, Aziraphale's power turned up (how?), etc.? A LOT of it is POV shifts!

Job 41:19 on the matchbox: 1941?? YES. Bullet catch/kiss scene!

Where TF is God? "There was nothing for Her to do" my ass. She narrates. That's it. So there was nothing for her to narrate? Hm. (Because there was a host of other narrators? Are the Crowley/Aziraphale through the ages flashbacks in S1 narrated by God? I don't think they are, but I need to rewatch. They are not! And they aren't narrated by God because Crowely and Aziraphale are the POV characters in them.)

So many promo posters show Aziraphale, Crowley, and Jimbriel together, or symbols of them. Three feathers: two white, one black. Tea cup, cocoa mug, wine glass. The three of them. Not with Beelzebub, not with Muriel, the three of them. And all three of them have been Jesus-coded in some small way. No one else. Those three. What. Why. Are they the sacrifice required to bring about the new world? Why not Beez, then?

Wait. Two Crowleys?? WTF. There are two Crowley puppets in the magic shop, and Crowley doesn't remember Saraqael or Furfur. Is he dissing them, or is that the second Crowley that never did meet either of them? Am I insane? I have no theory here, just some wild speculation that needs a lot more time to simmer. Two actual Crowleys, or two ideas of Crowley? Or something to hurt my head?

Why are they in a cave in the opening sequence? The guy who made the opening sequence says they are in the fly that Gabriel stores his memory in. Okay, why? And Crowley lights a match to see. Hm. What else was in that fly that Gabriel didn't take when he got his memory out?

An album on the wall in Maggie's shop says "Rat Keith." This seems to me to be an allusion to The Amazing Maurice and His Educated Rodents, by Terry Pratchett. In the book, some men have tied several rats' tails together to create a rat king that keeps the wild rats under control -- except that the rat king has too much power and is doing way more than just that. People die. So who's been given too much power and is now running the show instead of being a puppet? The Metatron, perhaps? Hm . . . Also, Keith is the young boy who plays the part of the Pied Piper for Maurice's scam. He leads all the rats out of town, never mind that the rats can talk and are in on the scam.

Things I think I know:

NEIL GAIMAN IS A LYING LIAR WHO LIES. Except when he's dropping hints or answering straight out. All of his answers to anything anyone asks about GO are suspect at best. (I cannot blame him or anyone else on the cast or crew -- they spent A LOT of time and energy building this very meticulous puzzle game for us -- why would ANY of them give ANY of it away? That would ruin all the fun!)

God has been removed/has vacated. Where did she go? I wonder if anyone knows. Is She just standing back and watching? In the book, Crowley says that anyone who can create a whole universe in six days doesn't let a war of rebellion happen unless they want it to. But that he and Aziraphale wouldn't understand, because if they understood, they wouldn't be them. It's INEFFABLE. He also then FORGETS what he was talking about a minute later.

God doesn't narrate because She's busy being Maggie. Aha!

The Metatron is working for himself. The dice on his tie seem to imply that while God does not play dice with the universe, this jerk surely does. Also, see the rat king observation above, #10.

Gabriel was bringing Aziraphale a message, the box is a red herring. But that brings me to another thing I suspect -- there was something else in the box, and the box is deeply important. Ah, damn -- is that what Crowley gave to Aziraphale in the kiss? Whatever was in the box? Was that what he found out while he was in Heaven? What Gabriel took? Did Gabriel put it in the fly with his memory?

Heaven did something bad to Crowley while he was there. That coffee is a red herring to draw our eye away from him. But that brings me to something else I suspect -- Crowley's knackered and a bit off when he returns from his TEN HOUR JAUNT in Heaven not because they did anything bad to him, but because he stole something very important. Maybe the thing he gives to Aziraphale during the break up?

Crowley and Aziraphale did NOT perform a huge miracle. I don't know what happened, but it wasn't them working together. (Or did they? Are angels and demons more powerful together? Did the Fall create a schism between them that weakened them all? Or are they and Saraqael hiding who did do the big miracle?)

This is a 2 man con. Of course it's a 2 man con. I read American Gods. Crowely and Aziraphale have a plan. This might be version B or C, they might be springing it sooner than they hoped, but that break up was a ruse. A hard, painful ruse, but a ruse. They knew their respite would be short-lived, they've been putting something together for years now.

Crowley put something in Aziraphale's mouth during the kiss. I don't know what, but something he had to swallow. obligateweirdo pointed out that he seems to palm something out of his mouth when he touches his lips the second time, and that Houdini's wife used to slip him the keys to his cuffs with a kiss before his shows. Whatever Crowley gave Aziraphale, it's physical. And Michael Sheen has said he doesn't want to share what's in Aziraphale's pockets -- because Aziraphale put whatever Crowley gave him into a pocket?? Was it the fly? (But didn't that go into Gabriel's eye and stay there?) And if it was the fly, what was inside it?

Gabriel went somewhere else before he went to the book shop. He didn't come down the elevator at the Dirty Donkey. Did he go to Edinburgh? Is that why the pub owner recognized that picture so fast? "Oi! That's that naked bloke was in here last week!" (Or was him walking down the street because we first see him from Nina or Maggie's perspective?? POV muckery?)

SECRET SONGS??? Why are the songs secret?? I'm losing my mind, what is happening??

Several narrators. I'm not even sure how many, but we're seeing the world through the eyes of characters, not God or a faceless narrator. This is part of why things are weird. I don't think that's the full explanation for the whole season, but I think it's a big part of the weirdness. A book that comes up often in the show is The Crow Road by Ian Banks. A brief description of the book says that it is written from the point of view of several characters and the story is told out of order and in no particular fashion, with changes from character to character POV coming at no particular interval and with no warning. AHA! (I did come up with the idea before I saw this post, but @highlandwhackamole beat me to writing it. Well done!) NOW I'm wondering if we aren't also seeing the story as told by the characters we see, but as heard but an as-yet unknown character . . .

The scenes are out of order. The DAMN SCENES ARE OUT OF ORDER! I don't know their correct order, but they are out of order. The Crow Road, again, is told out of order, forcing the reader to piece the scenes together (from a brief description, I'm thinking more and more I need to read this book rather than try to skim it). Is it as simple as watching the scenes in chronological order??

Our angel and demon have hidden something in the book shop. Something important. I have no current guesses as to what. Crowley still has his crank from starting up the nebula. What else might he have taken with him? Is that it? Or something else? HOLY SHIT ARE THEY HIDING JESUS??? Is THAT who did the miracle??

When Aziraphale tells Crowley that their Gabriel miracle set off alarms in Heaven, he sort of raises his eyebrows and says it in the same way he says other things he doesn't mean -- the same tone he says "I forgive you" after the Kiss, or how he says "He says he's Bildad the Shuite," in the Job minisode. It wasn't the Gabriel miracle that set off alarms in Heaven, it was whatever Saraqael was doing, or whoever Saraqael is hiding, and Crowley is well aware of it and whatever Saraqael is up to. Aziraphale just told Crowley that they have to take responsibility for whatever Saraqael did to allay Heaven's suspicions. They are talking in code through more of this season than we first think.

The rainbow lens flairs sure look like eyes. Like a pupil and iris. Is this a subtle hint that we are seeing through someone else's eyes?

When Crowley and Aziraphale argue about what to do with Jimbriel, behind Aziraphale is a privacy screen, and behind Crowley is an open door. Does this reflect how each of them feels, that Aziraphale believes they are speaking in private and Crowley believes they are being listened in on?

Repeating themes:

Beverages of all kinds -- tea for Aziraphale, wine or whiskey for Crowley, cocoa for Jim.

Time -- lots of clocks/mentions of time

Love/partnership/togetherness being stronger than separateness

Queer couples -- is literally everyone in season 2 in a non-cis-het relationship?? Even the guy in the graveyard says he uses his phone for Grindr -- a gay men's dating hook-up app. Nothing wrong with it, but it's an interesting writing choice. Why? Equality and representation -- or a Clue? (I think it's a POV Clue!)

Memories/forgetting/remembering

Payment -- money comes up in both the Resurrectionists minisode and the Flesh Eating Nazi Zombies minisode, but no one pays for anything in present. There is bartering, but no money.

Rising from the dead -- Job's kids (even though they weren't actually dead), bodies used for science, Nazi zombies, the Second Coming.

Unreliable narrators

Death in general -- but 9a., I'm a dirty pagan, why didn't I make this connection sooner, death always leads to REBIRTH, change, something totally new and 9b. there are tarot cards in the magic shop, and even if you're not a dirty pagan, the Death tarot card means transition, something must die before a new thing can be born. Hmmmm.

Morality and what is "good" and what is right

Recognition and identity

Repeating words and phrases OMG the list goes on:

Technically

Properly

Isn't it just?

Too late

Funny old world

Not as such

Made for each other

EVERYWHERE

Obviously

Hints:

Powell and Pressburg films

The Crow Road

Catch 22

The Amazing Maurice and his Educated Rodents, Terry Pratchett in general

Jane Austin

Book Good Omens

The titles of episodes, minisodes, places, etc. 7a. The Arrival: a book and a movie, though the book seems far more relevant. And lovely. The Clue: a movie. Companion to Owls: a line from a Bible story. I Know Where I'm Going: a movie. The Resurrectionists: two novels, each called The Resurrectionist, singular. Both look unhinged. The Hitchhiker: a Twilight Zone episode. Nazi Zombie Flesheaters: Literally no other reference. ?? Nazi Zombies do appear in a LOT of movies, comics, and video games, usually as a dark joke. The Ball: a video game. Irrelevant? It's a puzzle-based game, so maybe not. Every Day: a song AND a movie. Some themes repeat here: Puzzle games, being re-directed from one's path to find true love, death and being brought back to life in a gruesome and unpleasant way.

That's what I have so far. I'll try to update with new ideas and information, as well as links to things that support my theories as I find them.

[crowley-stardust]

the job minisode is so funny from Sitis (job’s wife)’s POV. your whole life goes to shit and your children are gone, and then your old friend bildad the shuhite shows up with his faggy friend, they eat your whole dinner and then queer eye your life back to normal with sleight of hand. what is going on. why am i being instructed to reach into my husband’s robes? who knows. trust in bildad the shuhite and his lover (?).

(this post is sponsored by my faggy friend/lover @yellow-bentley)

[bratbarzal]

On Your Side (NH13) / Chapter Three

Pairing: Nico Hischier x Fem!OC Poppy Jensen*

*I say it's an OC, it's just a name and third person POV. I use minor character descriptions because I don’t get on with writing vague reader inserts/YN for long-form, story heavy fics, but I will generally try to avoid including race and body type or really any physical descriptors. I’m always open to feedback on my writing, or how to be more inclusive.

WC: 13k

Chapter Warnings: angst obviously what would this story be without it, poppy and nico having an overdue conversation, nico moping again with his big sad brown eyes, nico being jealous again, drinking, cursing, meddling friends, being stood up, mentions of controlling parents as always, a little touching maybe a little more kissing too and even more meddling friends

Summary: Poppy Jensen’s job with the New Jersey Devils was supposed to be her first big step into adulthood - a way to prove to herself and her overbearing parents that she could make her own way in life. She was never supposed to become involved with any of the players. Becoming best friends with their captain was stupid. Getting her heart broken by him was tragic. Getting knocked up with his child was just plain messy.

Series Masterlist

Previous Part (Chapter Two)

A/N: I have nothing to say honestly just hope you enjoy I really don't know why I struggled writing most of this despite knowing what I wanted to do with it I think just figuring out how I want certain conversations to go and how to get from a to b is pure stresssss I'm not entirely in love with it but what can you do also proofread her? I hardly know her

but if you have anything to say pls send it my way lmao I'd really like to hear any thoughts or opinions 💓

Poppy

Poppy was once told by her good friend, Kelsey, that she would be able to tell everything she needed to know about a guy by the way they answered one very simple question. 

If you could have any superpower, what would it be?

She thinks about it more often than she really should, if she’s honest with herself, but Kelsey’s rationale behind each potential answer is actually a stroke of rare genius - and Poppy often finds herself applying the logic to most people that she encounters.

Guys who say super speed are the ultimate red flag. No one wants a quick finisher, no matter how fast they may be in any other aspect of life. Some things specifically require time and patience. Sacrificing your partner’s satisfaction all to say you can run the world record fastest 5k is the ultimate ick.

There’s an argument to be made for the endurance choosers, it sure has its perks, but Poppy thinks it’s a boring pick. To be given the option of any superpower, and to choose perseverance, of all things? Get a life. 

Anyone who chooses x-ray vision is a certified pervert, obviously. The same could be said for those wanting to read minds, although most of the guys Poppy has seen in her life struggle to comprehend the things she says in plain words, never mind whatever nonsense is circling through her inner thoughts. 

Those who choose flying are one dimensional, rarely able to see beyond what’s right in front of them, because, if they could, they’d choose the much better option of teleportation.

Who chooses flying when you could just think about somewhere and instantaneously arrive? With your hair in tact and no risk of bumping into any territorial birds.

Teleportation is what Poppy would have picked if anyone would have asked her a week ago, for the mere fact that commuting anywhere is the bane of her entire existence, and if she thinks too hard about it or looks to much into it, it always has been. 

She associates it with sitting in the back of her dad’s Bentley as a child, a tangible, frosty silence lingering in the air between her parents after one of their many even-toned arguments disguised as discussions, the fresh pine scent making her car sick and the leather seats making the back of her thighs sticky. 

Or the fragile bones of her hand being crushed by her mother’s tight grip as they rode the Amtrak over to Manhattan, Priscilla sneering at anyone who dared step too close on the crowded carriage, Poppy being dragged throughout department stores in the name of mother-daughter bonding time, and clutching to a tiny consolation Macy’s bag housing a sparkly lip gloss like her life depended on it the whole way home. 

She thinks of all the hours of her life she’s wasted on the Palisades Parkway, no longer able to enjoy the scenic route whenever she has to drive back to her parent’s house in Alpine after having watched one too many crime shows where a broken down car leads to a girl’s face plastered all over the news.

Even driving to work can feel like hell when the traffic is bad, what should be a 30 minute drive sometimes turning into an hour, Poppy’s fingers cramping around the wheel and her feet itching to touch solid ground after too long.

Teleportation sounds perfect.

And, there’s even a romance element to it. Being whisked away to Paris in the blink of an eye, suddenly sitting outside a boulangerie, decadent, rich hot chocolate on a table in front of her and a plate full of pastries, all because she mentioned a slight craving for a pain au chocolat. 

Teleportation has always been the only correct, green-flag answer to the question. 

Until Poppy properly considered time travel, that is.

The concept of it has always been a little too much or her to handle - too many strange loopholes, too many bad examples from the sci-fi movies her brother had loved as a kid. Travelling back in time to when her parents were her age and accidentally capturing her adolescent father’s attention à la Marty McFly? Sounds like hell and horror to Poppy. 

But that was before she screwed everything up.

If she could have any superpower right now, currently weighed down with the burden of hindsight - which people have always told her is a funny thing, but she thinks is actually somewhat diabolical - she would pick time travel a thousand times over.

Because if human beings have a specific part of their brain that is dedicated to forcing them to sit and stew on their every poor decision for days on end - lets them rethink and regret everything until they’re blue in the face, and can’t think of anything other than how idiotic they have been - it should also offer the kindness of being able to go back and change what they so royally fucked up.

That’s what Poppy thinks, at least, as she throws herself down onto her bed, her back hitting the duvet in a whoosh and all she can do is stare at the ceiling and wonder how and when she became such a certified moron.

There’s a part of her that suspects it’s in her genes. Inevitable. Unavoidable. Nature and nurture, she was born and raised to be a full blown fool.

Poppy comes from a long line of privilege, and while it does take a certain element of intelligence to amass the wealth her family has, it also tends to go hand in hand with ignorance in its many forms.

Behind every fortuitous business move her father makes are a million other mistakes - failed ventures, bad investments, shoddy pieces of advice accepted from the untrustworthy snakes he surrounds himself with. Hidden beneath every rung of the social ladders her mother has managed to climb, there are the ugly faux-pas’ slipping through the cracks of a former, more unsavoury life she can never run too far from. And her brother - well, she suspects he’s just an idiot, there are no two ways about it.

She knows that she needs to stop blaming her family, though. This time, it’s all her.

She can’t blame her father for the way she overthinks, the man who makes every decision in life with the littlest regard for how anyone else feels about it. She can’t blame her mother for the way she places such little value on herself, the woman who walks into every room like she owns it and refuses to let anyone make her think otherwise.

Except maybe she can.

If she had the nerve to talk to a therapist, they might disagree - might say her overthinking comes from her dad’s lack of communication skills, a part of her brain always filling in the gaps of a half-assed, other side of any conversation with him. Or they might say her insecurities come from her mom constantly putting Poppy down while telling her to be more sure of herself - stop slouching, Poppy, no one will take you seriously with the posture of a candy cane.

She’d love to know where her need to repress her feelings so deep that she becomes an impenetrable, cold, dark fortress comes from. The need to push and shove when someone tries to get too close, because God forbid anything is ever easy when it comes to her affections.

It would have made the past 4 days since Nico had walked into her apartment and kissed the life out of her a whole lot easier. 

4 days spent reminiscing, rethinking and regretting every single thing she had said and done since their lips parted, since he had put his heart on the line and she’d whacked it away, full swing, as if too desperate for the victory of a last-bat home run.

If she could time travel, she’d do the whole thing over.

-

“Don’t go on that date, Mohn.”

She had read the words on his lips before they registered through her ears, the sound of her blood rushing throughout her body occupying every sense for a brief moment.

What the hell is going on?

Nico had kissed her. He’d grabbed her, pulled her into him, and she’s pretty sure he had made her heart stop for a good second - there’s no other justifiable reason for the way it had been reverberating against her ribcage ever since. 

And then he stood before her, a desperate, pleading projection playing in his dark irises, lips still slick from where her own had just been, cheeks flushed, shoulders rising with subtle panting breaths, waiting for a response to a question she couldn’t even remember hearing.

“W-what?” She’d stuttered, blinking hard and shaking her head as if to rattle her brain into whatever semblance of cognisance she could muster.

Nico had kissed her, and then wanted to talk? As if she had the brain power left for any kind of discussion after that?

He seemed proud of the mess he had made of her, lips lifting at one side, drawing her gaze immediately to every movement they made, so focused on the memory of how pillowy-soft they had felt against hers that she didn’t notice him stepping a little closer, raising a large hand to tuck her hair behind her ear until she flinched at the contact.

“Sunday, Poppy,” he had uttered, unfazed by her skittishness, “Your date, don’t go.”

She had blinked again, completely overwhelmed on every front. She could still taste him on her tongue, he was so close she could smell his cologne, tunnel vision only seeing him in front of her and the hand that cupped the side of her face in her peripheral, her heartbeat echoing through her skull and every nerve, every slight hair on her body, standing as if trying to close the distance between his body and hers.

It was the sensory overload that made her go against all other instincts.

“I can’t.” Her voice had sounded like it hadn’t been used in weeks, croaky and unsure, her next words stammered, “I can’t not go, I mean. I have to go.”

“You don’t have to go, Poppy,”

“No, I do.” That had sounded a little surer, the fog in her brain slowly clearing only for something more tumultuous to pass through in it’s place. “I don’t understand what’s happening.”

Nico blinked once, then again, frustration clear in the furrow of his thick brows as he seemed to stew on his next words, desperate to say the right thing. There was a prolonged, tense beat, before he had asked, “Have you ever thought we could be more?”

“More?”

“More than friends.”

If her heart hadn’t stopped when he had kissed her, it must have stopped then.

His back straight, eyes looking directly into hers, a hopeful, inquisitive gleam shining from within them - he had never seemed so sure of something for as long as she had known him.

Poppy couldn’t stop the little voice in her head questioning, where the hell has this come from?

“Have you?” She had asked with a eyre of disbelief.

 Not once in the years she had known him had he ever made it seem like they could be more. There had always been an unspeakable, undeniable barrier between them. They were friends. They’d always been friends. Just friends.

Friends who spent most of their free, personal time together, friends who bought each other sentimental gifts they’d never get for anyone else, who shared intimate details about their lives and their pasts, and kissed each others heads like a goodbye ritual. Friends who broke each other’s hearts, seemingly beyond repair, without explanation.

“I think so.”

“You think so?”

“I mean,” He had paused, breaking eye contact for a second as if wracking his brain for the right answer, sensing a teetering tension between the two of them. “Yeah. Yes. I have.”

She had narrowed her eyes at him, weighing up the possibility in her mind that she wouldn’t have liked any response he gave to her, every prospective answer causing a flood of doubt and uncertainty to crash in rushing, destructive waves through her mind. “Since when?” She’d asked, trying to level her bite.

If he’d ever thought they could be more, what the hell have they been doing all this time?

“Since I met you, I think,” he had shrugged.

Wrong answer, again.

“And you only bring it up when I have a date with someone else?”

She watched a series of antithetical emotions pass through his features, understanding, confusion, acceptance, denial, resilience, cowardice. He had seemed to find the small margins between all of them, when he had come back with, “It’s not because of your date, Poppy.”

“Then why?” She tilted her head as she continued to analyse him, again not sure what she was looking for, or what she wanted to find. That something tumultuous was already whirling within her, too late to be stopped, and Nico could seemingly see the warning signs.

“Why are you getting mad at me, right now?”

“I’m not mad,” she had denied, not even knowing if she was lying or not, “I’m confused. 2 weeks ago, we weren’t even talking, Nico-,”

“You said you forgave me for that.”

“I didn’t-.” She’d cut herself off before she could say something that would upset him, the conversation spiralling so far out of control from the momentary bliss he had provided only minutes ago - but she was too far up shit’s creek without a paddle, there was no turning back. She’d been wanting to have a proper conversation with Nico all week, what better time than the middle of the night on what was now his birthday? “That’s not exactly what I said.”

He had taken a step back, lips parting with an unreleased gasp, the once-hopeful glint in his eyes transforming into hurt. “You don’t forgive me?”

“I didn’t say that either,” she sighed, wanting answers, not to cause him anguish. “Please don’t put words in my mouth.”

“Then tell me what the hell is wrong? What are you saying?”

“I’m saying I don’t understand where this has come from, Nico! You come in here and kiss me out of nowhere and tell me not to date other people and I’m just supposed to blindly follow along when I don’t get what the hell is happening with you!”

“I think me kissing you makes it pretty obvious what I want to happen, Mohn.” He had tried to ease the tension, his voice level and steady, stepping forward with his hands raised in an attempt to calm her, but she had taken a slight step back, clearly unaffected. 

“It doesn’t.” She’d stopped looking at him at that point, keeping an eye on his feet to watch his encroaching steps. “Nothing about you is obvious. You don’t tell me anything and all I can think about is what I did wrong.”

If he couldn’t see the tears pooling at her lashes, he had to have heard the break in her voice - a sure indicator that she was close to crying - but his steps had stopped, feet seemingly stuck to their place on the hardwood flooring of Poppy’s apartment, and she could feel her heart shatter knowing he wasn’t persisting again.

“You didn’t do anything wrong.” He tries to reassure her, but it’s no use.

Maybe she would have believed him if he’d held her while he said it, transferred the meaning through touch to her skin, gripping her with every word until she truly understood the weight of them.

“It had to have been something. You don’t just stop wanting to know a person for no reason, Nico, so what was it?” She made her way to her couch, perching on the edge of the seat with her knees pressed together, and looked over to where he remained standing.

She could feel her temper flaring again. 

How could he have the nerve to do this to her - to turn her world upside down in a matter of minutes - and not have the answers she needed to accept it?

“Poppy-,”

“I need to know. I can’t drop it and forget about it, and I’m sorry that I made it seem like I could, but if you want us to move on from this, if you want to come here and kiss me like that, and tell me you don’t want me seeing other people, I need to know what happened.”

“I-,” Nico sighed heavily, shoulders drooping, any confidence and bravado he had displayed after their kiss now a distant memory. “I don’t know.”

She had an immediate, striking thought, that maybe if she asked closed questions, he could give her an answer, and so, with misplaced courage, she asked, “Was it her?”

“What?”

“Your girlfriend. Did she ask you to stop talking to me?”

It was a thought that had been plaguing her for longer than she’d like to admit - unable to shake the idea that maybe Talia had seen one of the texts she had sent, had gone through Nico’s phone and seen any of their older messages, any photos he might have kept on his phone, maybe a memory had come up from snapchat, maybe someone had mentioned Poppy and her curiosity had been piqued. 

Poppy had always thought if she was dating someone, and they had a Poppy, she might feel some type of way about it. 

But her and Nico were just friends.

Nico rounded the couch, sitting on the cushion beside Poppy, their knees knocking as he reached into her lap and took her shaking hands in his.

“Do you really think I’d stop talking to you just because someone asked me to?” Their eyes had met again, sadness brewing in the dark coffee colour surrounding his dilated pupils, and a glassy film coating her own. “Poppy, I would never.”

“I don’t know what to think, Nico, because you won’t tell me.”

“Because it doesn’t make sense! I try wrapping my head around it, try coming up with some kind of explanation, but nothing I say is going to change what I did to you, Poppy.”

Her question before had gotten her an honest response, had elicited something real and undeniable within him - he’d never stop talking to her because someone asked him to. So it was his own decision, subconscious or not. Maybe she could help dig further, she thought.

“Why did you kiss me?” She asked after a beat.

“I,” Nico pondered over it before rushing his answer, a wave of emotion flashing across his face before his eyes locked on hers, ready to let her in. “Because I wanted to.”

That was a start - a simple question, a straightforward answer. 

“Was that the first time that you wanted to?”

“No.”

Poppy could feel some semblance of confidence coming back. Closed questions, concrete answers, she could keep this up.

“When was the last time you wanted to kiss me?”

She could have asked the first - she sure as hell wanted to know it, but if he’d thought of being more the entire time they’d known each other, there was a lingering possibility there were many times - and they would be there until sunrise if they started from the beginning.

“Finnegan’s.” 

“The bar?”

“We went there when we came back after we crashed out of the playoffs, do you remember?”

She remembered.

It had only been a couple of days before Nico had left for his summer back home in Switzerland.

Their loss in Carolina had been devastating, the boys came back broken and defeated, and all just wanted to drown their sorrows before they broke for their off-season. Poppy had been out with Nia and Kelsey and a few other friends at another bar when Jack had responded to her instagram story, saying they’d be at the Irish pub that was a staple within the team, and she should come over and join them.

She had made her way over pretty late, wanting to make sure her friends were okay without her, and arrived when most of the boys were completely shit-faced, past the point of tears and moping and deep into a mass state of hysteria and loud jubilation for the successes along the way.

She had found Nico in a booth in the far corner of the bar, head slumped over the back, eyes seemingly tracing the cracks in the ceiling until she crawled into the bench behind him, leaned over with her elbows resting on either side of his head, and took up his entire view. 

“What’cha doin’?” She’d asked, lips twisting at the sight of his dizzy eyes trying to correct themselves to focus on her. 

He’d quickly given up, pressing his eyes closed to shut out the risk of nausea taking over, the outer corners crinkling, the sides of his nose scrunching and his eyelashes fanning a shadow over his cheekbones - her own eyes were level with his lips, so he couldn’t really hide the way they curved at the quick glimpse of her.

“Suffering,” he had muttered, squinting one eye open to catch a brief, upside down glance of her. Nico was never this down after a few drinks. He was giggly, he was loud, he was touchy and clumsy - he was never the hide away in the corner sad type. “Wanna join me?”

“Always.” She affirmed, making her way around to his side of the booth and sliding in beside him until her bare thigh pressed against the somewhat scratchy linen of the pants he wore. 

“I’m probably not the best company tonight,” He remained in the same position, neck craning so the base of his head could rest atop the back of the seat, and his eyes closed - giving Poppy the perfect opportunity to properly look him over.

The few moments they’d had together, alone, over the past few weeks, he’d been pent up, stressed, overworked and on the brink of eruption, so this was the first time in a long time she’d managed to catch him without the weight of the world on his shoulders.

Only, that weight wasn’t so easy to shift.

She saw it in the bags under his eyes, in the unkempt playoff beard he was yet to shave off, in the stuttered way his chest rose and fell with his attempts at deep, calming breaths. 

As she watched him, the corner of her lip tucked between her teeth in contemplation, she knew there was nothing she could say to make him feel better about this. He just had to feel it out, process it in his own way without her interference - but she wanted to be there, at least.

And as much as she wanted to tell him it wasn’t his fault, that he did the best he could, and led his team through one of their strongest seasons in recent franchise history, she wanted to provide him comfort in the quiet, too.

“I don’t mind.”

And so, with little trepidation, she placed a hand on his chest, over his heart, and rested her head next to it, glancing up to see the push of a dimple forming on his cheek as his arm stretched around her and welcomed her into his warm embrace.

“You wanted to kiss me then?”

“Yeah,” he nodded, “Didn’t seem like the right time, though,” he followed up with an answer to a question she hadn’t even asked, yet. “I was leaving too soon and I didn’t want you to think I’d just kissed you because I was drunk and upset.”

Her eyes moved to his lips, a question for herself whirling around in her head. Would she have wanted him to kiss her then? What would have happened in the aftermath? Where would they be now? Would she have thought that? Would she have spent her summer stewing over what it meant, and how his lips had felt against hers?

Before she had much time to think it over, Nico continued, being spurred on by such a distinct memory that he was rolling towards the answer she had been waiting for, and she wasn’t going to stop him to try and decipher her own feelings.

“I couldn’t stop thinking about you when I went home, thinking about wanting to kiss you, or not kissing you, and what it all would mean, and I kept trying to distract myself thinking I could just figure it all out when I came back here but then I met Talia, and I felt wrong for thinking about you when I had her.”

That had made sense. Nico was always a guy that would do the right thing. If he had a girlfriend, he wouldn’t think of the prospect of something with someone else, even if that someone was Poppy, and that something was a culmination of years of pent up feelings finally coming together to form something potentially wonderful.

She didn’t quite need or want to hear the rest. Didn’t want to hear how he’d gone looking for a distraction, and found just that. 

Nico was loyal, and for him to maintain that essence of himself, he had to ignore the possibility of Poppy. Some subconscious part within him saw her as a threat to the stability he had with the perfect girl from back home, and he boxed her away to make room for what could be with Talia.

It stung, but he was right. Neither of them could change what had already happened.

“Do you think you could ever forgive me?”

She’d nodded after only a second, barely even thinking about it.

Jack’s words from New Years Eve rang through her, suck it up and move on.

Nico had his reasons, she had her answers. He wasn’t bored of her, wasn’t tired of her or annoyed by her. He’d been so caught up by his unspoken, untranslated feelings for her that he twisted himself into untangle-able knots that were only just starting to loosen up enough to be picked apart.

“Could you maybe say it?”

“Yeah, I could.” she had said through trembling lips, the hurt in his voice burrowing through her eardrums, lodging itself in her own throat, and dripping slowly but surely into the depths of her chest. “I will.” She had to be more sure, needing to erase any doubt she had planted within him. “I do.”

“You do?”

He still held her hands in his from when he had sat down, palms warm and slightly perspirant from his tight grip around her knuckles.

“I forgive you.”

His mouth twitched into a shaky smile, his eyes catching the soft light and twinkling with emotion, and she definitely wanted to kiss him, then.

She had wondered if this is what he felt when he’d kissed her before, this burning need. Her fingers twitched in his hold, her heart thudded in her chest, and her lips parted in anticipation, until she could finally slam the breaks on her torpedoing thoughts.

“It’s just a lot to process, and I don’t really know how I feel.”

She had wished she could take it back as soon as the words left her mouth, and Nico’s features had folded as he took them in. He broke eye contact almost immediately, head dropping to look down at their hands until he released hers back into her lap. 

“I get it.” He uttered, forcing a smile as he glanced back up at her, briefly. “I sprung this on you out of nowhere, I’m s-,”

“Please don’t apologise,” she interrupted before he could go there, knowing it would send her brain into overdrive if he let even the thought of regret fester between them, “I’m glad you did. I don’t want you to be sorry about it.”

Relief washed over the both of them in a warm, steady stream as he nodded, leaning into the back of the couch, legs spreading as an elongated sigh wracked through his torso. 

He ran a hand through his hair, and Poppy’s eyes flickered to the flex of his fingers, the strain of his wrist, the flash of protruding veins where his sleeve had pulled up with the stretch of his movements. 

His eyes closed, and she took him in just like she had that night in Finnegan’s bar.

She’d had an urge then, a desire even, to provide comfort - to share his burdens, make him forget the pain he had just endured, wash it all away with encouraging words, gentle touches. A shoulder to cry on, two ears to listen, and, albeit she didn’t entirely know it at the time, a whole heart that was his for the taking.

And take it, he did, held it all summer, bent it all sorts of ways out of shape up until New Years Eve, and it was still in his hands. Smushed, dented, squeezed to within an inch of his life, her heart was his.

It was up to her now to figure out what she wanted him to do with it. 

“I made a promise to my mom about the date, Nico, I have to go.”

“Yeah,” he sighed, seemingly resigned to the fact he had maybe been a little too lost in the moment to make such a crazy demand of her. 

“And I think maybe we both need a little time to properly think about what is happening here.”

“Time?” He practically shot up, alarm in his eyes.

“We’ve barely been apart all week, Nico, I think that might be why we’re both so,” she struggled for the right word - pent up, emotional, strung out, “Intense.”

She had known she was emotional, overthinking to the point of ruin, but maybe he was too. Maybe that’s what had led to the kiss, to the outburst of sentiment. They were both in the depths of a pressure cooker of emotions, and some space might do them good to gain a little clarity.

Maybe with a little more time to think on it, to consider what he was admitting to, have a little breathing room, and act more on something concrete than a fleeting in-the-moment feeling, he might change his mind. He deserved the opportunity to do so, she wouldn’t hold it against him.

“How much time do you think you would need?”

“I’m driving up to my parent’s house on Friday, so I would have been away for most of the weekend anyway, maybe we check back in on Monday and see where our heads are at?”

“4 days,” he muttered as if he’d just counted them in his head. “I can do that.”

“Yeah?” He had nodded in response, and there was something like hope that lingered between them, sharing small smiles and gazing through glassy eyes. “You’ll be so busy you won’t even get the chance to miss me.”

She believed it to be true - Nico had his family over, would be spending the latter end of the day with them, and had 2 big home games in a row to worry about. Poppy would be the last thing on his mind.

If she had blinked in the moment, she might have missed the way his observation slipped to her lips, lingered there for a brief second, and glanced back up to flicker between her eyes again. “Not possible.”

“Poppy, have you suffered some kind of brain injury I don’t know about?” Nia’s voice rings through the speaker of the phone pressed to her ear, already supposedly-styled hair fanned out around her as she lays staring at the ceiling, willing herself to get up and go before she’s late.

No matter how much she doesn’t want to go on this date, her mother will kill her if she hears anything other than a glowing review. On time, preened to perfection, polite and sociable. 

“Maybe I hit my head in my sleep at some point,” she thinks out loud, glancing back to the sharp edges of her bedside table and wondering if she could have thudded into it in the night.

Surely she would have a scar or a bruise.

“You must have,” Nia agrees, “That’s the only logical explanation why you’d ever consider telling the guy you’ve been hung up on since you first met him that you need time to think about how you feel,”

“Ni,” Poppy groans, “I called you for advice, not a lecture.”

“If you play stupid games, you win stupid prizes, and you my friend, are a dumbass.”

“In my defence-,”

“Nope!” Poppy doesn’t know what Nia is doing on the other end, but she hears something clatter as if being slammed down on a table in protest, “There is no defence, you’re an idiot.”

“I didn’t know how I felt about it, Ni,” Poppy sighs, sitting up and catching sight of herself in the mirror. She doesn’t know why so much of her time tonight has been wasted trying to look so good when she doesn’t even want to. When she’d gone to visit her parents, her mother had practically given her a full blown rundown of the guy she was meeting.

Tucker Lyon, she can’t help to instinctively roll her eyes at just his name, works in investment grade finance for one of the Big 4 - she hadn’t cared enough to ask which one. His family are property people, her mom had said, and own enough Manhattan real estate to hold some serious power. Priscilla had met his mother years ago at some luncheon in the city, and apparently the two had been in cahoots since then to set their children up.

Poppy doesn’t want to be set up with some walking red flag, biting her tongue over a plate of food too small to satisfy her hunger while he mansplains stocks and shares to her.

She wants to be in whatever bar the guys are holed up in, tucked under Nico’s arm, side practically glued to his, sipping cocktails and celebrating him like he deserves to be celebrated.

But instead, she can admit, she has been a royal idiot.

“I still don’t know, it’s all come at me full force and I don’t understand my feelings.”

“Bullshit!” Nia scoffs, “You knew you were into him the second he first flashed those dimples your way.”

She isn’t entirely wrong.

Poppy had once harboured a slight crush on him. In the very early stages of their friendship. One small enough that when she realised it was completely one-sided - and she was being delusional to ever think his cute nickname for her and his insistence on spending time only with her was anything more than his attempt to make a friend - she could swallow it down until it was barely anything.

She trained her heart not to stutter when he approached her, told her brain to shut up when he flashed her one of those perfect, all consuming smiles, and could cross her arms to restrain her hands from wanting to hold his whenever they walked side by side.

She’d become so good at suppressing her feelings, she’d forgotten she had them.

She had forgotten all the times they had hung out alone over the years, never second guessing all the looks and the touches, the times he’d let her stay over if it got too late to go home alone, and the times he’d waltz into hers like he owned the place.

She’d forgotten when she had seen him with Talia, always claiming the feeling in her gut was one of loss and reminiscence, not envy and bitterness.

She’d forgotten when the Hughes brothers had helped her move a couple months ago, and Luke had questioned the amount of Nico he was helping to scatter throughout her apartment. Pictures on her bookshelf, pictures stuck to her fridge with souvenir magnets from Swiss gift shops, a couple hoodies, Devils branded shorts and big t-shirts of his he’d come across in the boxes. 

“I didn’t realise you and Cap were so close,” Luke had picked a frame out of one of the boxes, the picture of Nico and Poppy at the Halloween party inside, and waved it in her direction as she stood with her hands on her hips, figuring out if she wanted to alphabetise or colour code the books she was displaying. 

“Huh?” Poppy tilted her head towards the tall boy, watching as he shook his curls back into place and ran a hand through them. He’d worked up a bit of a sweat lugging her boxes upstairs, and now that everything was finally moved, Jack had gone to get them food, and Poppy and Luke were getting started on unpacking the easy stuff. She looked to the picture in hand, reaching over and taking it to get a closer look. “I guess we were, I don’t really know.” She wasn't a good enough actress to properly pull off the nonchalance she was aiming for.

“You don’t know?” Luke scoffed, rifling through other pictures in the box - all framed, mostly of her and Nico, some just the two of them, some of them in groups, but always side by side. Always grinning ear to ear. “You’ve got like a shrine in here, PJ,”

“It’s not a shrine,” she had argued, “You don’t keep pictures of your friends? Sounds kind of cold, if you ask me, Moosey.”

“I keep pictures on instagram and my phone like a normal person.” He chuckled.

“Generational gap, you kids are done for when the cloud goes down, you know. Physical media is forever.”

“You sound like my mom.” Luke jibed, and true to his nature, unable to stop himself before he inadvertently crossed a line, he asked with a weird wiggle of his eyebrows, “So, you wanna keep Nico forever, huh?”

“Shut up, Luke.” If Poppy had something soft enough, she would have thrown it at his head. The photo frame in hand seemed like overkill, and she didn’t want to hurt the kid, just make him stop. She didn’t much like talking about him, what they once had, what they once were. Even if he did have the wrong impression of what they were. It was upsetting, and she didn’t want to get upset - not in front of Luke. “You can keep those in the box.”

Luke had reached out for the frame in Poppy’s grasp, had watched as she hesitated giving it back, as she looked down and took in the huge smiles on her and Nico’s faces, and as she made the decision not to put this one back. Maybe she could phase it out, wait until she took a nicer, more meaningful picture with someone else before she replaced that one.

“I’ll keep this one out. I look cute.”

"Sure." His sarcasm was not entirely appreciated.

She had heard him chuckle to himself as she stood the frame on one of the shelves, placing it between a scented candle she had no intention of ever lighting and a small faux lavender plant. Not shrine-like at all.

She’d forgotten about any suppressed feelings until Nico kissed her.

Until he opened up Pandora’s box, releasing all her pent up emotions to roam freely, creating chaos and causing havoc through every corner of her entire existence. 

For the past 3 days, she’s thought about him with everything she has done. 

On Thursday afternoon, sat alone in her office, going over emails and wondering what he would be up to with his family. Was he happy, were they having fun, did he think about her for a second?

On Friday evening, driving alone on the long winding roads to her parent’s house and listening to the commentary for the game on the radio. Making it to the house in time for the 3rd period, and seeing the team celebrate. Was he well rested, excited for his family to watch him play at home, did he look up into the staff suite at the Rock and wish she was there cheering him on?

On Saturday, retreating to her childhood bedroom after another tense family dinner, snuggling up with the dogs on her bed as she watched the game. Was he beating himself up, had he gone straight home on his own after the loss, did he have the same urge to call her as much as she wanted to call him?

Did he, on any of those nights, lay awake thinking about that kiss?

About how right it had felt? How he had exerted his subtle dominance over her with such ease, large hands encompassing her face and holding her to his lips like his life depended on it?

Did he think about where it could have gone if she hadn’t shut him down? Where they could be if he’d made a move before?

She’s been thinking about it. Non-stop thinking about it.

Thinking about that kiss, and the possibility of others - the moment in the bar, all the other potential moments he had wanted to kiss her and hadn’t. The fact that maybe her feelings had never been one sided, and she’s wasted years pushing them down for nothing.

“Do you think I made a mistake not cancelling this date?” She asks her friend in a moment of vulnerability, her mind reeling with the possibility that she has already fucked up what could be.

“No.” Nia assures her, surprisingly. She’s been calling her an idiot all night, what does she mean, ‘no’? “I think he needs to sweat a little, let him think about you out tonight with another guy, and come tomorrow, his mind will be made up.”

“You don’t think we might be overestimating how much it bothers him?”

“Don’t make me call you a dumbass again, Pop.” Poppy can hear the rolling of her best friend’s eyes through the phone. “And send me a picture of your outfit before you leave.”

Nico

Nico has never been so physically uncomfortable in his life.

For a man who plays contact sport for a living - has played it for a good chunk of his existence, and has suffered countless knocks and injuries, slept in one too many uncomfortable positions in planes, buses, trains and even hotel beds, and who’s face has had more than enough encounters with the wrong end of a pair of skates - that is saying a lot.

But every inch of him, every fibre of his entire being, feels irritated in some way.

It’s a feeling like unforeseen static shocks passing over every surface of his skin. Like little bugs crawling all over him and he can’t swat them away. Like random strands of fine hairs that can’t be seen by the naked eye but God, can he feel them. He feels them everywhere.

From the top of his head to the tips of his toes, he feels something prickling, stinging, burning. 

Itchy.

Like a scratch he can’t reach in the very middle of his back.

And it’s not like he doesn’t know what it is.

He’s felt it ever since he left Poppy’s apartment in the early hours of Thursday morning. He had hardly slept, getting maybe 3 or 4 hours in before his alarm shrilled from where it charged on his nightstand. 

He has tried to use the same coping mechanisms that get him through his bouts of homesickness - where he closes his eyes and tries to provoke a memory for each sense.

He pictures the views from one of his many hikes, endless fields of green grass, crystal clear lakes, winding footpaths and mountains that stretch as far as the eye can see. He imagines gathering around a fondue table back in his favourite restaurant, and can smell the freshly baked bread, can taste the melt-in-the-mouth flavour once it’s been dipped in oozing, melted cheese. He can feel the softness of the freshly washed sheets back in his childhood bedroom and can hear the chorused chirps of the birds outside his window in the early mornings. 

It’s a technique that has helped ground him in the past, and he had thought that maybe if he applies the same logic, it will dull the ache in his fingertips that yearn to reach for his phone and text the girl who has asked him for space.

If he thinks hard enough, he can still taste the sweet but subtle vanilla of Poppy’s lip balm. He can smell the fresh-cotton essence of her laundry detergent, can hear the melodic sounds she had hummed into his lips, can feel the softness of her skin on the pads of his fingers, can see, clear as day, the dazed expression etched into her features like she had gotten caught up in the fantasy too.

If it wasn’t so easy for him to mentally transport himself back, he wouldn’t have been able to make it 4 days without seeing her. 

He had known it would be hard, but, thankfully, he thinks he got himself enough of a fix to make it to Monday.

He’d taken all he could with just one press of his lips to hers, had taken more of Poppy than he had ever dared to take before, and his subconscious was clinging onto it for dear life, hoping with everything in him she could decide to give him more.

4 days.

He has never known time to be so cruel. For it to drag out every minute like it was an hour.

If his life had a remote control, best believe he would be jamming the hell out of the fast forward button. 4x speed, skip to the next chapter, not wanting or needing to know what happened in the in-between.

He’s always thought himself to have patience - good things come to those who wait, after all - but this had become the ultimate test.

He had tried to immerse himself in whatever was going on each day, hoping they would pass quicker, less painfully, but it had been no use.

His birthday had passed by in a dizzying blur. He’d had a late morning skate, had come home to his family waiting for him, had gone to dinner with them, caught up over Italian food in one of his favourite spots by his apartment, and had driven his parents, his sister and her boyfriend back to their hotel with the promise of dedicating some time to them before the game on Friday.

Every single thing had reminded him of her.

Being at the Rock and wondering where in the building she might be, and if she was reminded of him with the littlest things. If she was thinking about him, what she was thinking about him. Seeing his family, imagining her place at the table as they all exchanged laughter and stories over pasta and wine. Thinking about what she might contribute to the conversation, how she would get along with his sister, how they’d gang up on him and poke fun, but she’d hold his hand under the table and squeeze to let him know it was all in good humour.

In the locker room after the win against the Blackhawks, trying his best to get involved in the celebrations but just wanting to call her, to hear that she had watched, and was proud of him and the team. And even after the loss against the Canucks, he wanted to hear the same. He wanted to go straight to her place, the passenger seat of his car painfully empty as he drove himself home in complete silence. 

And he had tried his best not to get too into his head about the whole space thing.

Poppy was right, after all. Things had gotten intense.

He had been intense - marching over to her place and kissing her out of nowhere. As right as it had felt, it was stupid. It was hotheaded and impulsive and it wasn’t considerate of her feelings.

But, God, he was so caught up on her he couldn’t help himself. He should have seen in the days they had spent together prior that they needed to speak more about everything before he threw himself at her like a neanderthal. 

He’d only considered what conclusion he had reached, and as much as his conversation with the guys on the plane gave him an idea of Poppy’s mindset, some words needed to be exchanged before he planted one straight on her. The whole thing could have gone so much better if he just knew how to communicate everything with her properly.

Even before the kiss. Before New Years, before Talia, before Summer - if he knew how to speak about his developing feelings for her, this whole mess could have been avoided.

He wouldn’t be sat alone in a bar, yet again, as his friends surround him, partaking in the celebrations that are supposed to revolve around him, wallowing in self pity.

He wouldn’t be thinking about Poppy, out in some fancy restaurant somewhere else in the city, with some stick-up-his-ass loser who doesn’t deserve a second of her time, and imagining her giving him one of those earth shattering smiles - the one where her the outside of her eyes crinkle in the corners, and every time he sees it he imagines the lines settling there as she ages, and it’s always a version of the two of them, old and grey, side by side, smiling together.

He imagines her taking him back to her apartment, curling up with him on the couch Nico helped her haul up the stairs after she had found it for crazy cheap off of some sketchy ad on Facebook marketplace. He sees her slowly replacing all those pictures she has of her and Nico with pictures of her and him, phasing him out of her space like she would eventually phase him out of his life.

He thinks about her taking him to her bedroom - the one he had yet to see in her new apartment, but imagines it’s just like her old one; way too many pillows and throws, a thick, plush duvet that looks like she’s climbing into a cloud, and a beat up stuffed toy her grandmother had given her when she was young. 

He doesn’t want to wish that Poppy is currently welcoming someone into her life that doesn’t suit her, but he can’t help himself.

He hopes this guy is late - and doesn’t even apologise for it. He hopes he orders off the menu for her, or criticises her choice of wine for not pairing with her choice of food like a complete snob. He hopes he’s awful to wait-staff. He hopes he’s type of guy who writes a suggestion on the tip line of his receipt instead of leaving a minimum of 20%. He hopes he chews with his mouth open, spits when he talks and scrapes his knife along the ceramic of his plate as he cuts his food, causing that toe curling sound that makes Poppy want to scream.

He hopes he doesn’t offer her his jacket, because she always refuses to take one out. He hopes he doesn’t think to give her a piggy back, because she always wears shoes out she knows she doesn’t want to walk in, but always wants to walk home if it’s nice out. He hopes he walks on the inside of the sidewalk, leaving her to the dangers of walking roadside, and walks too quick for her to keep up with little regard for how she likes to take her time on a night and stretch the evening out. 

He even hopes he smokes. Poppy hates smokers. And if, God forbid, they kiss, he’ll have smoker’s breath, and she won’t want to do it again. 

She won’t stand in front of him, eyes glazed over, lashes fluttering, brows furrowing, lips still pouting and fingers twitching to reach back out, yearning for more.

She won’t even kiss him back.

Not like she had kissed Nico. Not like she had clutched at his shirt like she wanted to hold him close to her forever. He wouldn’t get to hear that sweet, subdued sound she had made when his tongue had swiped tentatively at hers, or feel that slight pressure of when her lips had closed around it, sucking almost at the muscle before opening back up to allow for more of a taste.

No one else can get that.

No one else will savour it like Nico has, thinking about is for days on end, replaying the moment over and over until he has perfect recall of every small detail.

It’s probably a good thing she hasn’t shared much detail about this date, Nico thinks as he swirls the ice around his empty drink, sat right at the bar away from the sectioned-off area that Timo had rented out for the party.

If he knew more about it - about the who, about the where - he probably would be in a cab by now, knowing he was crossing a line but unable to do anything about it, his will outweighing any common courtesy just as it had a few nights ago. Or he would have spent the last few days in a google deep-dive, trying to figure out the kind of man her mother would approve of. Enough to set her up, at least - he doubts Priscilla Jensen entirely approves of anyone.

Nico finally makes eye contact with the bartender, and as she starts to make her way over, he feels like a divine intervention occurs - an arm falling onto the bar top beside his, a glimmer of metal flashing into his dark eyes - the reflection bouncing from a bracelet that is welded around the base of a slender hand.

“I’ll take another of these,” he lifts his glass when the bartender arrives, gesturing to the old fashioned he’d somehow landed on over beer tonight, “And whatever she’s having, please.”

 “Vodka diet coke, please,” a voice rings out from beside him, and once the bartender busies herself with the order, she asks, “Shouldn’t I be the one getting you a drink? I heard it’s your birthday,”

“Why should either of us pay when it’s going on a tab?” He chuckles, angling his body better to face her. 

“Ooh la-la, a tab,” Nia mocks, “Now I feel like I’m a part of an elite club!”

“I find it hard to believe you’ve never had your drinks put on someone else’s tab before.”

“Not the New Jersey Devils captain himself, it’s such an honour!” She raises a manicured hand and presses it to her chest, a playful smile etched into her features. 

“Did you come over here just to poke fun at me?” Nico asks, touching on the dynamic that has long been between the two of them. She mocks him, mostly all bark and no bite, he takes it on the chest, knowing she’s doing it from of her warped version of almost sibling-like love, and Poppy usually acts as the mostly-unnecessary mediator, dividing her attention between them both. 

“Of course I did,” she affirms, “You looked all mopey and miserable, how could I not?”

“How is me waiting for a drink ‘mopey’?”

“Uh, let me think,” she taps her finger to her chin, before lifting it to point at each feature she references, “The huge pout on your lips, your giant caterpillar eyebrows all slanted and frowny-,”

“Forget I asked,” he mutters, lifting his lips into a quick smile and thanking the girl behind the bar as she brings them their drinks. “Didn’t know you’d be out tonight,”

“I’ll be sure to send you an e-vite to my google calendar when I get home later.”

Nico’s throat tightens slightly at how similar Nia and Poppy are - always quick with a response, most of the time sarcastic, most of the time able to elicit a genuine laugh to rumble from the depths of his chest. “I see why you and Poppy are so close.”

“Hm,” she hums, making a show of checking her phone, “You barely made it two minutes, but it could be a new record.”

“A new record?”

“For how long you can go in conversation without mentioning her.”

“She’s your best friend, the one person we have in common, it’s normal for me to bring her up, Nia.” He reaches for his drink to take a gulp, hoping the ice might make his throat feel a little better.

He doesn’t even know why he’s denying his lack of willpower when it comes to Poppy - 2 minutes actually seems like quite the achievement when he thinks about how long he’s restrained himself from reaching out over the past 4 days. Nia approaching him like this has been the perfect excuse to think about her - to talk about her without feeling like he’s overstepping or assuming.

He could use this to his advantage.

“Is she a good kisser?”

Or not.

He chokes on his drink, thankful the liquid isn’t coming out of his nose with how much he hadn’t been expecting that question.

“She looks like she would be. I’ve always thought about it but there’s never been a right time to try it out. Maybe I should take a leaf outta your book and lay it on thick and fast when she least expects it.”

How he even thought he could gain advantage in this conversation is beyond belief. He’s out of his depth with Nia, as usual. She isn’t afraid to call him out - she never has been - and she’s the one person in the world Poppy would confide in. Of course she knows about the kiss.

“Is that what she said, I laid it on thick and fast,”

“Wouldn’t you like to know, lover boy.” She chuckles, picking up her cocktail and stepping away from him, “Thanks for the drink, Nico, try to enjoy the rest of your birthday party.”

“Wait!” He reaches out to stop her, not wanting to let a golden opportunity slip from his hands so easily. “You would have bought me a drink before, for my birthday?”

“I think you earn about 5 times my annual salary in a month, so probably not.”

“How about you answer a question for me?” He proposes, “As a gift.”

“I could,” she sighs, sitting down in the stool beside him, “But I heard you get touchy after gifts.”

He immediately regrets asking, but not enough to let her go. He’s come this far, and he has 4 days worth of questions he desperately needs answers to.

“Funny,” he gives a condescending smile, which clearly pleases her as she gives a genuine one back, lifting her spare hand to gesture for him to carry on. As if it’s that easy to narrow down all the things he wants to ask her.

One question. 

What did she say about the kiss? Did she like it? Would she do it again?

What did she say about him? About how she feels? About what she wants?

Where is she right now? What did she tell Nia about the date? About the who?

“The guy she’s out with,” he can’t even bring himself to say the D word, “Is he nice?”

The look she gives him is almost pitiful. In fact, there is no almost about it. She clearly thinks he’s pathetic, but it’s too late to retract the question now that it’s out there.

“I don’t think so.”

He doesn’t like the way his stomach turns at her answer.

He had wanted this, right? For him to be a gratuity-withholding, uncouth slob with bad breath. 

But the thought of her being out with someone that has the potential to hurt her, hurts him. His chest feels tight, his head feels muddled, and that everlasting itch returns to the tips of his fingers - the weight of his cellphone becoming that much heavier in his back pocket.

“I mean,” she carries on with a shrug and reaches for her own phone, “He was a no-show, so we’ll never actually know for sure.” She swipes at her phone until she brings up her message thread with Poppy, turning up the brightness to show Nico the picture she had asked her to send earlier. 

It’s a selfie taken in the overly tall mirror she had once made him pick up from Ikea, claiming it wouldn’t fit in her car and his was much bigger, and he doesn’t know why his first instinct is to scan the background just to confirm his earlier intuitions about her bedroom. Too many pillows, cloud-like duvet. He can’t see the stuffed toy, but he assumes it’s somewhere in there.

Poppy looks unbelievable. 

Her dress is short, like the one she had worn on New Years, fits snug around her waist and emphasises her curves in all the best ways. Her legs seem to go on for miles, adorned in knee high boots no doubt to provide some semblance of warmth. Her hair is pulled back, and she wears gold jewellery - rings, some small hoop earrings, and he’s only just able to stop his fingers reaching out to pinch at the screen because he can see the gemstone bracelet without the need to zoom in.

“Can’t be that nice if you’re standing up a girl that gorgeous, huh?” Nia asks, suggestively, leaning her chin into the palm of her spare hand as she looks up at Nico. “Some guys just don’t know how good they’ve got it.”

He figures he actually should be embarrassed about the relief that floods through him - washes over his entire demeanour, expression changing from defeated to victorious in a matter of mere seconds.

The crease that seems to have permanently formed between his brows smooths out, posture corrects itself, and his lips even almost turn up into a smile.

There’s a childish, territorial voice within him that wants to exclaim, Thank God! But he’s grateful that he’s able to mute it.

And, despite being privy to Nia’s games - despite knowing exactly what trap he is being lured into, what he’s about to fall for - he can’t help but suggest, “You should tell her to come out.” Because, despite knowing he had taken the bait, he can’t find it within himself to care. “I think I asked her one too many times to ask again.”

The one thing he had twisted himself into knots over since first hearing her utter the word date, hadn’t actually come to fruition.

There is no date. There is no uncouth slob.

There is Poppy, dressed as pretty as she is, practically waiting for someone to show her a good time. 

He can do that. He wants to do it - to be the someone that’s good to her.

“Oh, should I?” Nia asks, a knowing smirk causing her lips to twitch mischievously. She’s been playing him this whole time, and once again, he doesn’t care. “I don’t know, she seems resigned to spending the evening on her couch watching New Girl,” she sighs dramatically, clearly looking for incentive - once again, reminding him too much of the girl he longs for. “I don’t know if there’s much convincing to be done.”

“I’ll add you to the tab for the night.”

Rookie mistake, offering something up so quick.

“Is that all my efforts are worth to you, Nico, a few measly drinks?”

“What do you want?”

“I’m actually out with a client tonight,” she looks back somewhere toward the other side of the bar, Nico can’t even bring himself to follow her gaze. “Been trying to sign them to my agency for a while, and if I can fix this deal, I’m up for a promotion.”

“Nia,” he warns, not liking how long this story is becoming. Forget good things come to those who wait. He’s waited long enough. “What do you want?”

“They’re big Devils fans, I think a night with the team could really open them up to the benefits of working with me.”

“Bring them into our section.”

“And maybe some tickets, too.”

“Fine.”

Nia gives him a triumphant smile, “Great, I’ll let them know.” She salutes him as she stands back up, gathering her drink and phone between the fingers of one hand before backing away. “Nice doing business with you, Captain.”

“Aren’t you gonna text her?”

“Oh, Nico,” she jeers, using her free hand to grasp him by the chin. “Dear, sweet, naive Nico,” she gives his head a subtle shake before patting at his shoulder condescendingly, “She’s already on her way.”

If anyone asks, Nico isn’t admitting to keeping an eye on the door since Nia had made her way back over to her side of the bar, but he knows as soon as Poppy has arrived. He watches her make her way over to her friend, watches the two of them embrace and talk between themselves for a good minute. He watches and waits until her eyes meet his from across the crowded room, and it’s like everything else stops.

He’d somehow managed to immerse himself in the party spirit since he had found out she was coming, fitting back into the group, toasting along with them, engaging in conversations with his teammates, his mood vastly improved in comparison to earlier in the night - of which he’s sure Timo is relieved after his short-lived exile from Nico’s good graces — but everything fades to black when he sees her lips curve upwards from afar.

Someone is talking beside him - hopefully not to him, he thinks, he doesn’t remember being mid-discussion with anyone - but it’s just drowned out mumbling right now, and all he can do is tilt his head toward the doors that lead to the bathrooms, and wait for her to respond. When she nods and separates herself from Nia, he excuses himself from the group, edging out of their section and following her path, losing her a little in the thick crowd of people - the bar still packed from where they had played the Giants game earlier.

When he gets through the doors, he’s thankful no one else is lingering back there - no rowdy queue for the bathroom, no staff, no one but him and the girl who seems to be holding his heart like a hot potato, not knowing the best way to carry it without getting burned.

“Hi.” It’s a weak starter for a heavy conversation, but if he’s honest with himself, she’s taken his breath away.

The picture from before hadn’t done her justice. She’s a little worn into her look for the evening now, hair not so neat, skin a little shiny, lipstick faded - but this is exactly how he likes her, especially when he takes in the way her eyes gleam and her cheeks puff out with her smile.

He makes a conscious effort not to let his eyes drift directly to the smile - to her lips, which even the thought of them elicits such a vivid memory.

“Surprise!” she sings quietly, arms outstretched and hands shaking theatrically.

He steps toward her with his hands behind his back, fingers clasped together until he’s confident that his knuckles turn white, fighting the urge to curl his arm around her waist and pull her into him, needing to be closer. He watches intently as her eyes flick down to where his hands should be.

She backs into the wall behind her, not to escape his approach, but more to prepare herself for it - like she’s settling in and embracing it.

She isn’t running. She isn’t pushing.

She’s waiting.

“I’ve missed you.” Nico wastes no time in telling her the truth - telling her what she’s refused to believe every other time he’s said it, but he can tell with the tilting of her head and the rounding of her eyes that understanding has settled within her. She has no comeback, no it’s only been a few days, and he thinks she must have felt the drag of them in the same way.

“I’ve missed you, too.” 

Whatever anxiety has rooted itself deep inside him for the past 4 days dissipates almost immediately. 

“I haven’t stopped thinking about you.” He admits, without shame or reluctance. After Poppy had helped him overcome whatever had been censoring him before, there is no point now in holding back or beating around the bush. “You look so good, Mohn.”

A rush of confidence allows for him to close the gap, standing right before her as she leans against the wall, neck craning ever so slightly to look up at him. He still won’t touch, hands laying against the stone at either side of her hips, not daring yet to let even a sliver of his finger graze at her flesh.

“You look good, too.” She breathes, eyes glancing down to do an appreciative once over of his outfit, and he doesn’t miss the glint of pride cross through her eyes when she catches the glimpse of the gold that peaks out from the neck of his sweatshirt. 

“I’m sorry about your date.”

“Are you?” Her lips twist into a knowing smile. It’s an example of one of her many traits that he loves - she can detect his bullshit a mile off.

“Mmhm,” he nods, “I’m sorry a world exists where any man is stupid enough to stand you up, Poppy.”

“I’m the stupid one,” she argues, and he misses her gaze as soon as she takes it away, eyes darting to the floor in embarrassment. “I should have listened to you and cancelled in the first place.”

“I was stupid to ask that.”

“Maybe we’re both stupid.”

“Definitely.” He probably shouldn’t be agreeing to her calling herself stupid, but it comes out before he can think too much on it. They’ve both wasted too much time. 

“Did you have a good birthday?” She asks, and a slight movement between them catches his eye, her fingers twisting together as if she’s withholding her touch, too.

“It’s better now.” He smiles fondly as she rolls her eyes. 

“How are your family?”

“They’re good.” He doesn’t want to go into too much detail about how shamefully miserable he has been over the past few days - doesn’t want to tell her how his mom had called him out on his lack of contribution to conversations, and he’d managed to pin it on the stress of the season. She still raises a brow at his insufficient answer, and he expands before she can tell him off. “Everyone but Luca made it out, my sister had to go back already for work, but my parents booked a trip to Halifax to visit the Phillips’, I lived with them when I played up there, they have a few friends to visit in Canada but they’ll drop back to see me again before they fly home.”

He feels the tickle of soft fingertips at the inside of his arm, slowly grazing down as he speaks, and as he watches Poppy, he thinks she must not realise she’s doing it - letting intuition take over as she’s distracted by the conversation. He lets her take the lead on initiating any touching, and it takes all the restraint he has left not to barge through the door she’s attempting to slowly eke open. She’s the only person in the world who could make him audibly hear the metaphorical creaking.

“Did they get to watch you win?”

He doesn’t even know why he finds himself grinning at the question, but the tone in which she asks it bears a hint of pride. She had watched the game on Friday.

“My dad was pretty much in the stands in full gear, everything but the pads and skates, and my mom was repping Foundation merch, she’s run off across the border with my beanie.” He likes the way her face lights up.

“I’ll get you another.” She raises her other hand to card her fingers through his hair, and, for once, he’s thankful not to be wearing any sort of hat. The soft scratch of her nails is soothing, and he just about manages to stop himself leaning into her touch and purring like a cat.

That would be embarrassing.

He feels outnumbered, both of her hands on him, and it feels unfair not to be touching her - so when his thumb extends itself on the wall just beside her hip and strokes at the soft fabric of her dress until it’s softly digging in, he watches intently for any hesitation before he lays a palm flat against her side.

It feels like things are progressing both torturously slow and overwhelmingly fast at the same time. His heart feels like it’s slamming into either side of his ribcage, and like nothing else occupies his chest, the sound of it echoing as if banging on the walls of a deep, empty cavern.

“Did I already tell you how much I missed you?” He honestly can’t remember, but he’ll tell her again if he needs to.

The hand that had run through his hair rests now on the side of his head, her thumb swiping softly at his cheek as she cups the side of his face, and before he can even make sense of what is happening, he’s being pulled forward. 

He bends to her advances with quick reflexes to avoid clashing, and their noses bump just before their lips meet.

Her chest rolls forward until it presses into his, and both his hands grab at her sides to pull her flush against him, legs tangling, hips pushing together, bodies touching everywhere possible all the way up to their mouths. 

He gives her all the control otherwise, allows her to determine the pace, responding to her every move and every touch with fervour and heat. She pulls at him, one hand grasping at his sweatshirt and the other cradling the side of his neck, and he quickly lifts one to stifle the blow to her head as she collides back with the wall, barely noticing the pain where his knuckles meet the stone.

Their tongues press together at the same time, and Nico doesn’t even realise his lack of patience got the better of him until their battle for dominance kicks off between their lips.

He can taste the same vanilla lip balm, can smell her signature coconut scent, can hear soft, subtle moans, can only see the back of his eyelids, not daring to open them, just wanting to feel. And he can feel everything. 

He feels the softness of her hair beneath the hand that is protecting her head from the discomfort of resting against the hard surface behind her, can feel the skirt of her dress bunching up in his grip, can feel her touch, fingertips dancing at the the base of his skull, thumb pressing into his jaw, her other hand making that same grabby gesture at the thick fabric covering his torso, squished between his heart and her chest, and he thinks he can feel the thump of her own heart on the other side.

He can feel her thigh pressed between his, the friction causing a heat to build deep in the pit of his stomach, swirling and whirling down, down, down until it culminates into the hard press of his hips into hers, and a rushed gasp combined with a guttural groan causes their lips to part.

They take deep breaths in unison, their chests bumping with every inhale, and he tries otherwise not to move.

He opens his eyes to find hers still closed, scrunched shut, even, and he tries not to be selfish - ignores the need to get a good look at her, to have this version of her ingrained to his memory too - and attempts to coax her back to him.

“Poppy,” he sounds just about as breathless as he feels. “Are you good?”

She hums in response, a subtle nod given, but he needs to hear her say it, and he tells her as much with a quick squeeze to her hip. Her eyes flutter open, gleaming and bright, framed by thick lashes and crinkling slightly at the outer corners as her lips turn up into a mischievous grin. “Better now.”

His chest feels like it’s about to burst open, like there’s a bear within him that is going to break out and pull her into its clutches, dragging her back safe to her home in his heart.

“Do you want to get out of here?” He asks, because he has to - he doesn’t care if it’s rude to leave his own birthday party, doesn’t care that he’s been the most ungrateful person in the world all night.

He’ll make it up to Timo, get him something big the next birthday of his that rolls around. Throw him a party. Or he’ll take care of the tab the next time they’re out. Maybe even let him have the window seat the next time they’re on the same plane home. 

Except, he won’t be doing any of that. He’ll be taking the reins on booking flights and putting Timo straight into economy, smack-bang in the middle of a row surrounded by a family of 5, screaming kids, arguing parents, the back of his seat being kicked the whole 8 hours to Zurich.

Because, just as Poppy’s swollen lips part to accept his advances - as her chin lifts, about to drop with a big affirmative nod, and he’s about to get everything he’s wanted the past 4 days and beyond - the doors to the back swing open, and his 6 foot teammate stumbles through, arms outstretched as he notices the two of them practically intertwined.

“Here you are!” He exclaims, voice booming in comparison to the soft breathy tones he and Poppy had been previously speaking in. “Poppy, you made it!”

“Hi Timo,” Nico feels her retreat, feels her legs brush past his and back to her own space, her hand on his chest now the only part of her that touches him, and he follows her lead, taking his hands back and trying not to clench his jaw or his fists as she converses with the man who was once his friend. “How are you doing?”

“I’m alright, should be back on the ice in a couple weeks.” Timo had suffered an injury in one of their games at the back end of December, and hasn’t been fit to travel, and Nico finds an unspeakably bitter part of himself wishing it was something to do with Timo’s legs that were injured so he couldn’t have interrupted their moment. “Glad you’re here, this one has been miserable all night.”

He can’t be this oblivious, Nico thinks. Why is he still here? Why isn’t he retreating back to the bar and leaving the two of them to whatever he had clearly barged in on.

And when Nico looks back to his teammate, his long time friend, he sees the oh-so-evident glint of mischief and disobedience in his grey-blue eyes.

He is getting his own back.

Nico knows he was petulant to blame Timo for Poppy not being invited, knows there was nothing he could have done to change her going out on a date, or them not speaking for months while he was with Talia.

He doesn’t need him to enact his revenge to see he was wrong to ignore his texts, or to mope around at the party he had put so much effort into. 

He tries to give him a pleading look to stop whatever he is trying to do, but it’s no use.

“The guys will want to see you, Poppy, Jack’s beating himself up about his shoulder, could use a friendly face.”

“Oh,” Poppy casts a glance back to Nico, and he gives her a nod, implying that she go see to her friend. “I’ll go find him.” 

He can wait. He’s waited 4 days. He’s waited years, in fact.

And, after that kiss, he knows he won’t have to wait much longer. 

“You’re a real dick, you know that?” Nico mutters in their shared native language once he’s watched Poppy disappear through the doors to the bar, with a quick glance back and an apologetic smile before they closed. 

“Just saving my brooding captain from being arrested for public indecency,” Timo shrugs with a shit-eating grin as he passes Nico and heads toward the bathrooms further down the hall. “You’re welcome!” He calls back in English, raising his hands and giving a patronising thumbs up.

Nico runs a hand through his hair, pushing it out of his face and wishing it was Poppy’s in its place.

It’s just an hour, maybe two, in the presence of his friends. Drinks, music, everyone in a good mood for the most part. It’s hardly like he’s walking out into a press conference after a 5 game losing streak and about to have all the blame placed upon his shoulders. 

It’s a party. 

Poppy’s here.

He can do this.

He can wait.

Next Chapter

taglist: @alwaysclassyeagle @bunbunbl0gs @idgaf-if-youre-here @youflowerr-youfeast @thearchersstuff @bellsdi0r @wonderheartz @jjgsunflower @butterflies35 @kenziepickle @josierosie @laheyxlover @mrsmattytkachuk (sorry if your tag hasn't worked btw or if I forgot you I'm a muppet tbh)

[crowleys-hips]

Touch Forbidden

another Crowley pov poem

i have never known how to be human i watch them, and i mimic  try to replicate their gestures, the way they breathe, move, speak, love my hands itch for touch forbidden  so instead i’ll bury my hands in soil grow a garden in barren land watch plants starve  for light they have never known as they inch closer, closer, closer to the sun i’ll light flames from my fingertips  and paint the whole sky  until time crashes and all my creations explode in supernovas  i’ll stroke piano keys no, pummel them until i or the instrument bleed i’ll drown the silence in the violence of grieving sonatas let the black and white between my fingers blur into shades of gray  as i try not to think of how your hands would feel interlaced with mine instead i’ll write you love letters you will never read until my hand cramps and breaks until i run out of ink or my veins are drained i’ll sink to the bottom of endless bottles of liquor until the image of you is a cloudy haze until i can’t feel my skin anymore crying out for the touch of yours i’ll render my hands useless as i grip the wheel of my car and try to outrun my thoughts bolting out at lightspeed  going interstellar and try to find a home hidden among dead planets that have never known warmth i’ll dig myself a hole there and become rootbound maybe then my soiled hands will forget your shape my skin will dissolve and cry no more for touch forbidden

tag list under the cut:

@wibbly-wobbly-blog @phantomram-b00 @crowleys-bentley-and-plants @charlotte-zophie @crowleys-curl @quoththemaiden @thewibblylever @genderqueer-hippie @lickthecowhappy @halcyonnnn @celestialcrowley

if anyone wants to be added/removed let me know

[inevitably-johnlocked]

Five Fics Friday: August 23/24

Happy Friday everyone!! Finally going on my 2 week holidays, so I'm glad I have some great fics I can read if I get bored!! Check out what's on my radar this week! Enjoy!!

RECENT MFLs

Serenity After the Turmoil (Part 2) by jawnscoffee (G, 2,467 w., 1 Ch. || Dreams, Nightmares, Sherlock's Violin) – John had always been someone with a vivid imagination - especially when it came to dreams. Nightmares, to be precise. This causes him a lot of trouble, especially after returning from the war. The only thing that calms him down is when Sherlock plays his violin. When John wakes up one night from another nightmare, he hears Sherlock playing the violin and decides to keep him company. Maybe he can't sleep either. Or maybe he's just playing the violin for John...

You Don't Live Here Anymore by elwinglyre (E, 3,104+ w., 1/5 Ch. || WiP || S4 Fix It, Angst, Bees, First Time, Third Person Alternating POV) – The lyrics of a song John introduced to Sherlock, haunts him. Sherlock leaves 221b because he can’t bring himself to live there alone without John. Mary is dead, and John still blames Sherlock. It takes a small tragedy to shake John into action. Will he come on home?

A Thrill Failed To Deliver by J_Baillier (E, 9,897+ w., 3/25 Ch. || WiP || Pre-TRF Divergence, Angst, Medical Hurt/Comfort, Serious Illnesses, POV John, Brain Cancer/Tumour, Medical Conditions, Romance, Slow Burn, Doctor John, Miscommunication, Meddling Mycroft, Everyone is a Mess, Harry Watson, Friends to Lovers, Strooppy Sherlock, John's Identity Crisis, Clueless Idiots in Love, Vulnerable Sherlock, Mental Breakdown, Sherlock Whump, Medical Realism) – When The Work is replaced with chemotherapy and restaurant dinners with radiation treatment, will a new, devastating normal bring John and Sherlock closer, or drive them apart — as Sherlock seems convinced it will?

Holy Wine by Silvergirl (E, 36,699 w., 13 Ch. || Sherlock/OMC & Johnlock || TEH Divergence, Addiction, Alcoholism, POV Sherlock, Mutual Pining, Sex Replacing Getting High, Angst with Happy Ending) – After Sherlock fails to amaze and delight John at the Landmark, he learns that John’s cut contacts and left London. Sherlock has to start his life over, without the man he gave up everything to save. Sherlock's version of the events of A Case of You. Part 2 of A Case of You

GOOD OMENS

how do we turn on the light? by moonyinpisces (M, 229,988+ w., 18/22 Ch. || WiP || Post-S2, Romance, Slow Burn, Angst with Happy Ending, Light Humour, Supreme Archangel Aziraphale, The Second Coming, Christianity, Drug Use, Book of Life, Death Threats, Suicidal Thoughts, Sex in the Bentley, Duke of Hell Crowley, Character Death) – Aziraphale ascends to the highest level of the Archangels. And he remembers—well. It’s not important what he remembers.

[aziraphales-library]

Lost Fic #182

1. Hi - I’m trying to find a fic in which Crowley has to abandon his flat because of “creeping holiness” spreading through it and bleaching the whole place white. Thanks! And thank you all for this amazing resource! - @stumblingoverchaos

2. Hi, First of all, thank you for all of the work you do on this blog, it's been very helpful to me. Second, there's this fic I'm looking for. Aziraphale found Crowley as a snake and took him home, but Crowley was acting like an actual snake. Over time, Crowley stole energy from Aziraphale overnight but he still wasn't acting like himself despite being able to retake human form. At the end, he was okay though. I think there was also a sequel, where to protect Crowley from the thing that caused him to be snake-stuck (snuck) Aziraphale had to trap him and use his (Aziraphale's) blood for a ritual. He also asked Crowley to trust him because he wasn't allowed to ask any questions. If you could help me find this, I would be incredibly grateful, as I could have sworn I found it through this blog the first time yet have been unable to find it since. Thanks! @alex-de-bayre

3. hello !! i know you have hundreds of asks but I've been looking for this fic for so long. it's adult omens, and i'm pretty sure it takes place in the Bentley? Crowley ends up on Azi's lap and there are some d/s dynamics to it, and Crowley ends up finishing from praise alone. it's definitely less than 2000 words, and has nothing too explicit. i know it's not the most conventional ask but I've been searching for a while, so maybe the librarians will have better luck? - anon

4. hello!!! ive got a fic to find, and i think i actually got it from here but idk what its called. the most distuinguishing thing i can remember is that aziraphale is discorporated after being hit by a bus, right before he started telling crowley about his feelings. the bus driver is a nice old guy on the brink of retirement who feels really bad, and crowley lectures/yells at the dead body before he miracles everyone to forget. i really looked that fic, but i mustve not bookmarked it :( thanks for the help in advanced, godsent mods! - @o-lord-heal-this-bike

5. Hi! I'm looking for a specific fic. It was an adult omens fic, and all I can remember is that it started with focus on Aziraphale and Crowley holding hands on the bus. I THINK it's from Aziraphale's POV, and he is nervous. Iirc, Crowley just stares ahead and the kind of don't mention it while it's happening. Any ideas? Sorry it isn't much to go on! - @acheemient

If you know any of these fics please include the number in your reply! Thank you :)

- Mod D