#cw altermed mention

[tucuteboything]

I love how anti-KFF cry about KFFers and other alterhuman terms and even some abstract in-voluntary kin terms "hurting the community" while I look into the otherkin tags to find a fucking dude medicalizing alterhumanity/otherkininty by saying it's all just pathology and that they "Respect spiritual otherkin" while in the same breath saying spiritual otherkin are just pathological kin.

Almost like if your community gatekeeps the shit out of random shit with no historical sources ever linked, it causes people to gatekeep even further and medicalize shit.

Time to call these weirdos trying to medicalize alterhumanity (+otherkinity) Altermeds/Kinmeds b/c that's literally what they are 💀

[transgenderboobs]

a/c №3 drunk kissing plz

3. Drunk/sloppy kiss

tried to write something kinda sad for once but everything i write eventually just metamorphoses into fluff so i don’t think it worked out too well?

cw for mentions of drinking/alcohol (probs obvi)

They’re sitting on the floor, between Crowley’s expensive leather couch and his expensive coffee table. They started out on the couch, at the beginning of the night, but after a couple of hours and a couple of bottles of wine they’d just sort of… migrated, of their own accord, so they were sitting on the floor with barely any space between them.

Aziraphale doesn’t really remember why or when this happened. He doesn’t much care right now, either. On the list of things he needs to be concerned about, the way Crowley’s knees keep knocking into his when he moves is pretty far down the list. 

They’ve been talking for hours. At this point, they’ve talked through everything there is to talk through three times over, but Aziraphale doesn’t want to stop talking. He doesn’t think Crowley does, either. It’s just that, well. After everything, the idea of leaving each other, even just for the night, even if they’re just a few rooms apart, seems absolutely unthinkable. 

So neither one of them have thought about it, and they just keep talking, about everything and nothing. It’s almost like any other night, except they’re at Crowley’s flat instead of Aziraphale’s shop, and the world almost ended a few hours ago.

Aziraphale is… Well. Admittedly, Crowley’s been rambling, so he might not be listening entirely anymore, but he notices when Crowley falls silent.

And Aziraphale’s just been – oh, good Lord, he’s just been staring at him, hasn’t he?

And not just. At him. He’s aware Crowley has stopped talking because for some time now, Aziraphale’s just been staring at his mouth. At his lips.

How long has he been doing that? Aziraphale is mortified to realize he can’t seem to remember. And even more mortified when he realizes he’s still doing it.

Aziraphale snaps his eyes back up to Crowley’s, and, oh, thank. Er, someone, he doesn’t seem to have noticed. In fact, he’s not even paying Aziraphale any mind, his golden eyes unfocused and staring off at the far wall.

Aziraphale takes a sip of his wine. “Something on your mind, dear boy?”

Crowley frowns. He’d probably describe it as a scowl, but Aziraphale thinks it looks more like a pout. “S’a stupid idea.”

Aziraphale knows exactly what he’s talking about without needing clarification. “Maybe,” he allows, “but we haven’t got a better one.”

Crowley makes a sound in the back of his throat. “I don’t like it.”

“Nor do I,” Aziraphale says, “but I don’t see an altra– alterm– any other option.”

The frown (pout) deepens, and when Crowley finally turns to look at him, there’s something haunted behind his eyes. “Hastur likes fire,” he blurts.

“I–” Aziraphale goes back over their conversation. It’s a challenge with all the wine in his system, but he still can’t find any kind of connecting thread which could explains that statement. “Pardon?”

“You were gone,” Crowley says, and now Aziraphale has completely lost the plot, but Crowley keeps going. “Your blessed shop was on fire, an’I’d just soaked Ligur in holy water, and. And. That’s Hastur’s best friend, y’know? I killed him, and then your stupid bookshop is on fire, and I thought. He’s– he’s mean, and he’s veg– vensefu– Well. He holds a grudge, and the first thing I see is stupid fire stupid everywhere, and I thought – Or I wasn’t thinking, but I thought.”

He hasn’t even paused to take a breath (not that he needs to) so he doesn’t stop in his tirade the wipe at his eyes, just keeps talking around a lump in his throat.

“It’s his style. Eye for’n eye. Ligur gets a bath in holy water so he sends you up’n a pillar of hell fire. If I’m gonna kill his best friend, it’d make sense that he’d turn around and kill mine. They’re really mad at me Down There right now. They’ll wanna do their worst, and that’s really really bad, and I just got you back and you want me to let you walk into Hell t’face not-even-God-knows what, and I already lost you once and I can’t do it again, angel. I can’t.”

He says it all in one quick burst, lays it all between them, and then falls silent.

In the back of his mind, Aziraphale thinks maybe he should sober up, but in the front of his mind he’s too distracted by the hurt in Crowley’s damp eyes to do think of anything else at the moment. 

“Crowley,” he says, cautiously, as his mind tries to work out a proper response.

Crowley gives his head a jerky shake. “Don’t, angel. Just– I’m just–”

“Scared,” Aziraphale finishes for him, softly, because he knows that fear. He’d felt it, somewhere deep inside him, every time Crowley walked out his door after Aziraphale’d given him holy water a handful of decades ago. 

“Terrified,” Crowley chokes out.

Gingerly, Aziraphale sets his wine glass aside without looking away from Crowley. (Crowley abandoned his own glass some time ago in favor of drinking right from the bottle, but it seems to have gotten away from him during his speech.)

“’M not going anywhere, my dear,” Aziraphale tells him. “I’ll come back.” To you. To you. Bloody coward. “To you.” Ah. Liquid courage. Excellent.

Crowley sucks in a sharp breath. “Angel.”

Aziraphale’s hand is cupping Crowley’s cheek, now, seemingly of its own volition, but Aziraphale leaves it there, rubs his thumb over Crowley’s cheekbone, even.

They’re like magnets, honestly, unable to ever properly put any distance between themselves, always coming back together, pulling each other closer.

It barely takes anything to just close the distance entirely. 

At first, it’s simple. Just a press of lips on lips, a quiet reassurance, you’re here, I’m here, despite everything, this isn’t the end of us.  

But then Crowley lets out a choked whimper snakes his arms around Aziraphale’s neck, pulls them chest to chest and kisses back with everything he’s got in him.

It’s impossible, really, to put 6,000 years of wanting and loving into one kiss, but it should’ve been impossible for two incompetent entities like themselves to stand against the armies of Heaven and Hell and stop Armageddon from happening, so they’re very well going to try, anyway.

Aziraphale can’t decide where to put his hands, so he winds up running them all over Crowley’s body, through his hair, even under his shirt for one absolutely marvelous moment. Crowley has no such problem; he buried his own in Aziraphale’s hair early on and seems content to leave them there, to use his convenient grip to pull them closer like he can eliminate the space between them entirely.

It’s… oh, it’s a mess. Of course it’s a mess; Aziraphale lost track of how many bottles of wine they’ve had an hour ago, and Aziraphale has become almost certain Crowley’s never actually kissed anyone before (which is hopelessly endearing but not the most pressing thing on Aziraphale’s mind at the moment). 

But it’s good. As many times as Aziraphale has imagined kissing Crowley, it’s still better than he could’ve ever hoped for. It’s wonderful. It’s so right.

Aziraphale doesn’t want it to end, but it has to, eventually. 

It’s Crowley who slows it from a hungry, desperate, clingy thing to a series of lingering kisses, to a few, scattered kisses here and there. Aziraphale misses the intensity, but this gentleness is nice, too.

“Angel,” Crowley breathes against Aziraphale’s lips. At some point he wound up half in Aziraphale’s lap. He’s not drunk anymore, Aziraphale can tell by the clarity of his voice, so Aziraphale sobers up himself.

“Crowley. Dear. Dearest.” Aziraphale cleans his throat. “I’ll come back to you,” he tells him, “I’ll do whatever it takes to come back to you, and you will do whatever it takes to come back to me.”

Crowley nods, tightening his arms around Aziraphale’s neck. “I think that goes without saying.”

“No, I really mean it. That doesn’t just mean do something reckless and impulsive,” Aziraphale stresses. “It means do what you need to do to get out of there as quickly as you can. Don’t antagonize anyone. Don’t– don’t do anything that could– Oh, Crowley, please just be safe, because I can’t lose you either, alright?”

Crowley takes a long, slow breath, lets his head fall forward onto Aziraphale’s shoulder on the exhale. “Okay,” he says into Aziraphale’s shirt. 

Aziraphale lets out his own shaky, unnecessary breath, letting it take all the tension with it on its way out of him. He holds Crowley close, arms around his back. “Well, if I’d known that’s all it takes to get you to agree with me, I would’ve kissed you ages ago.”

Crowley gives a weak chuckle. “Should’ve.”

“Perhaps,” Aziraphale allows, “but we’ll have plenty of time to make up for that.”

They will. Aziraphale will be sure of it; they may have been too scared to love in the past, but the future they have together is infinite, and it is just beginning.