#even if i do know plenty of queer people there they flock around me | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

qlala · 3 years

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Is it cheating to submit a fic request for the pride post you just made? I neeeed the whole thing (I'm on my laptop, but insert the big gay eyes emoji)

fjskdgjslg "big gay eyes emoji" you know what? just for you. just for you i have written this. i'll clean it up and upload to ao3 later but for now: have 2.7k of len dragging a sunburnt, tipsy, and glitter-covered barry back to his apartment, and happy pride!

Len wasn’t the type to begrudge anyone a good time, especially when the good time involved loud music, leather harnesses, and throwing water bottles at cops. Central City’s annual pride parade came as close as it got to challenging that attitude; families, fellow queers, and queens descended on the city waving more flags than the United Nations after a hurricane, all decked out in color combinations that Len hadn’t been able to keep straight since the ‘80s.

The end result was the kind of crowds that could make a grown man feel claustrophobic in the middle of a city block, and that was without the visible haze of alcohol wafting off the whole event.

But what the parade lacked in personal space, it made up for with one very important commodity: unattended wallets.

The flock of sunburnt twinks in denim cut-offs made Len’s job almost too easy—a hand on a sweat-slicked lower back, a flash of blue eyes, and most of them wouldn’t have noticed their wallets going missing if Len had dangled their IDs in front of their faces afterwards. (While there were plenty of women dressed in just as little clothing whom Len certainly wouldn’t have minded getting within robbing distance of, he’d found queer women as a group to be less enthusiastic about uninvited touching and more enthusiastic about wallet chains, even when three sheets to the wind off of canned rosé.)

He’d taught a dozen visiting suburbanites the importance of not keeping valuables in their back pockets by the time he spotted a familiar profile in the crowd.

His usual red getup wasn’t much more modest than some of the outfits Len had already seen, but even knowing the shape of that body didn’t prepare Len for seeing Barry Allen stripped to the waist, bright-eyed and flushed and shimmering all over with a fine dusting of glitter. Len noted, on auto-pilot, that it didn’t seem like he’d put any of the glitter there himself; he was standing dangerously close to a drag queen throwing handfuls of the stuff on anyone who got within arm’s reach of her. It set the sun refracting off every dip and plane of muscle across Barry’s chest and stomach. Barry’s hair, already wild and dark at the roots with sweat, was full of it.

Len’s feet were carrying him closer before he gave himself permission to move. Barry managed to drag Len into his orbit at the best of times; visibly tipsy and dripping sweat, Len would’ve had better luck resisting the turning of the earth.

Up close, Len could take that Barry had lost his shirt somewhat recently; the slight touch of pink spanning his shoulders and chest had nothing on the serious flush across his cheekbones and the bridge of his nose. He had a spray of new freckles as well. They were barely distinguishable under the haze of glitter stuck to his skin, but Len noticed them at once, the change unmistakable on an otherwise unchanging face (not a scar to be seen, even after three years of running into burning buildings and jumping in front of bullets; Len was equal parts frustrated and relieved).

It looked like someone had painted a few strokes of color across one of his cheeks at some point, but it was smudged to hell and back. The back of one of Barry’s hands was stained a tell-tale matching purple, and Len could only guess at what it had been at the start of the day.

He stepped into Barry’s space as easily as he had the rest, taking care to keep Barry between him and the source of the glitter, and hesitated for the briefest moment with his hand above Barry’s spine. He’d never touched Barry like this, skin to skin; the gloves had never come off between them, metaphorically or literally. Kept things neat.

Nothing about Barry was neat right now. He turned even before Len touched him, and the movement brought Len’s hand into contact with his side instead. It took everything in Len not to pull it back in a flinch, and he met Barry’s curious glance with a tightly-controlled smirk.

He’d expected Barry to step back, maybe add a bit of blush to those already-pink cheeks. Instead, Barry’s eyes took a belated second to focus, and then he gave Len a face-splitting grin.

“Snart!”

That time, Len did have to pull backwards to avoid Barry dragging him in for a hug. To think he’d been concerned about a hand.

Barry didn’t seem the least bit put out, smiling loose and easy like Len hadn’t iced him to the door of a bank vault the last time they’d seen each other. He hadn’t taken Barry for such a cheerful drunk—he seemed inclined toward melodrama on a good day—but Len would take it over any of the alternatives.

“Barry. Fancy seeing you here. And so much of you, at that.” He let his gaze slide down his bare chest and stomach, pulse ticking up at the warm brown of his nipples and the sharp vee of his hipbones that invited his gaze further down.

“You’re overdressed,” Barry disagreed. He wasn’t quite slurring, but there was a careful deliberation in his tone that told Len it was a near thing. He took a step closer and peered at Len, suspicion evident in those pale green eyes. “And… sober.”

“I’m not here to score. Perks include keeping my shirt on.”

For the briefest second, Barry looked almost disappointed. But it was gone in a blink, confusion taking over. He glanced down at himself, puzzled. Then his expression cleared, and he looked up with another easy-going smile. “I got hot.” His gaze dropped again, to Len this time, and he licked his lips. “Aren’t you… you gotta be hot in all that.”

Len was wearing a long-sleeved shirt and thin jacket, and it hadn’t hit eighty degrees all week. But he wasn’t in the mood to argue with drunk logic. And besides, another scan of the nearby revelers had made something unpleasant begin to scratch insistently at the inside of Len’s chest, and he tapped Barry under the chin with one knuckle to bring his attention back up.

The contact startled both of them—Len’s control had slipped, something he could not afford to happen around Barry Allen—but Len recovered first. “Where’s the rest of your team of do-gooders?”

“Lost ‘em.” Judging by the return of Barry’s crooked grin, it was an accomplishment, not a concern. “Cisco said the shot was too strong, but I didn’t wanna go. He’s the d…” He faltered, brows pulling together as he frowned. “S’the designed. Designinated, superhero, anyway. Shh!”

He shot a pointer finger toward Len in a movement that Len clocked, alarmingly, as intending to be pressed to his lips, as if he were the one who’d been chatting about Vibe’s secret identity. Len had three years of dealing with the Flash to thank for being able to catch Barry’s wrist in time to stop him, and he glared at him for the attempt.

But Barry only gave him a crinkle-eyed smile and twisted his hand in Len’s grip to clasp his wrist back. “S’so good to see you here. I didn’t think…”

“Don’t tell me you had me pegged for straight.”

Barry made a frankly insulting noise halfway between a scoff and a hiccup and tilted Len a condescending look.

“Speedster, remember?” he asked, far too loudly, even for a crowd currently screaming along to a pop song that’d been bad enough the first time Len’d heard it in 2000. “I see it when you...” He let go of Len’s wrist to make a gesture with two fingers, parting them in a V and sweeping them up and down Len’s body, the muscles in his forearm shifting distractingly under Len’s hand. God, the kid had to be a hundred degrees. “When you check me out. In the suit.”

Len smirked. “It’s cute you thought I was being subtle.”

“You’re cute,” Barry muttered, childish and sulky, and Len took it for the compliment it wasn’t.

“You had a point, Barry.”

Barry still looked displeased with him, but his brow was furrowed again when he met his gaze. This close, it was impossible to ignore that Barry had an inch or so on him. “About what?”

“You didn’t think…?” Len prompted him.

Barry stared at him blankly, and Len rolled his eyes and let go of his wrist.

“Get out of the sun, Barry,” he said. “Find a park bench. Wait for your little friends to come find you. Shouldn’t be hard—you’re as red as your suit.”

Barry either ignored his last comment or didn’t hear it. “Iris is here somewhere,” he said, possibly to himself. “She’s…” He twirled his finger absently beside his head. “Curly, today. And… bikini.”

Len strongly considered abandoning Barry to his sunburn to go find out for himself. But Barry was beginning to sway a bit, and a man closer to Len’s age than Barry’s was giving Barry’s toned back a speculative look from a few feet away, and Len gave in to the unsettled feeling gnawing at his ribcage. He refused to call it worry. It was annoyance—or, at the very least, the feeling was annoying him, which was close enough.

“As much a sight for sore eyes as that would be,” he said, allowing a magnanimousness he didn’t feel to color his tone, “I doubt Miss West ran away from her group and got heatstroke. Unlike some people”

Barry didn’t look the least bit chastened, lips curving up mischievously in a way that drew another couple interested looks. Len needed to get them both out of the crowd before he started breaking noses.

“Tell you what. Give Cisco a call, tell him you went home. My bike’s on Kingsbridge, away from the parade route.”

Barry’s smirk sharpened. “Trying to get me out of here, Snart? I thought you weren’t here to score.”

Len gave him a flat look, ignoring the decidedly interested way his body was reacting to Barry’s tone.

“You can barely stand.”

Barry’s eyes glittered at the challenge, and Len realized his mistake.

“Barry—”

He hadn’t even finished biting out the second syllable when the world spun out from under him, the noise and the heat and the press of the crowd swallowed up in a hair-raising charge of yellow lightning. Exactly two and a half seconds passed in a blur of movement, just long enough for Len to realize Barry was supporting the back of his head with one too-warm hand. Then the world came skidding to a stop around them. Barry’s momentum carried them both forward several feet even after their new surroundings materialized, and they very nearly went straight through a window again before Barry seemed to remember how to stop.

Len considered pushing him out the window anyway for the stunt. True, he’d been itching to get another taste of that feeling, the ozone snap-drag of Barry’s power like a live wire under his hands, but he’d rather have waited until Barry could pass a breathalizer.

He realized Barry still had an arm around him and shoved him off. It did nothing to dim Barry’s self-satisfied grin, and Len had to look away or risk giving into the interested once-over Barry was skimming over his body again.

“Pretty sure the point of a designated driver is not doing that.”

Barry followed him when he took a step back. Len made a calculated decision, decided the risk of touching Barry again was worth it, and pressed his fingers to the middle of Barry’s chest—right where the Flash insignia would be on his suit, his brain offered unhelpfully—and pushed him backwards, hard.

Barry unbalanced and wheeled back a step. Then the backs of his knees hit the edge of the couch, and he toppled, satisfyingly, back onto the dark leather cushions.

It was a nice couch. The whole apartment was nice, actually. Len could’ve drawn a perimeter of possible locations based on Barry’s speed and how long it had taken them to reach it if he hadn’t already known the address.

“Sit,” he said. And then, with a smirk: “Stay.”

Barry rolled his eyes. “Gonna have to ask nicer than that if you wanna boss me around in bed.”

The way he threw it out there, easy as anything, almost made Len miss a step as he turned away. He wasn’t going to lay a hand on Barry, not when he was drunk on sunlight and skin and whatever concoction Cisco had apparently cooked up for him. But hearing him say it, like they’d already gotten all of the messy parts out of the way—it set off warning bells in Len’s head, flashing past all the possible off-ramps he would’ve taken if Barry had ever tried to have the conversation in a more linear fashion.

“You’re drunk,” Len said, which was a coward’s answer, and behind him, Barry made a vague noise of agreement.

“Probably,” he acknowledged. “You could stick around ‘til I’m not.”

Christ. Len didn’t trust himself to look at Barry again, not when he knew he’d find him sprawled out and shedding glitter all over what had looked like a very expensive couch. “Stay,” he repeated, and went off to find the kitchen.

By the time he got back with two glasses of water, the problem had solved itself; Barry was out cold on the couch, his painting cheek pressed to the throw pillow he’d curled himself half-around. He was shivering faintly in the air conditioning, all cooled sweat and goosebumps, and Len resigned himself to the now-familiar impulse to help him that stirred in his chest. He put one of the glasses down on the table and, not trusting his hands, knocked his knee into one of Barry’s where it was bent close to the edge of the couch.

Barry buried his face into the pillow with a noise of displeasure, and Len said his name again.

“Last warning,” Len said. “Ten seconds, you find out if I put on steel-toed boots today.”

Barry groaned, and if the sound hadn’t made Len’s pulse skip, the easy shift of muscles in Barry’s arm as he pushed himself up to sitting again would’ve done the trick.

“Water,” Len said, unnecessarily, as he passed him the glass.

Barry took it with the tips of his fingers, as if it were something personally offensive to him, and took a single, polite sip before putting it down beside the other with no small amount of distaste. Then he glanced between the glasses, and up at Len, a dirty spark already lighting behind his eyes again.

“Don’t get your hopes up. They’re both for you.”

Barry let out a breath with audible annoyance and dropped back against the couch cushions to glare at him.

Len felt a modicum of sanity return to him. This, at least, was familiar ground: Barry, frustrated, asking for too much, too soon. True, it had always been about the hero business until now, but Len knew a pattern when he saw one. Give Barry an inch, and he always took a mile.

Len gave Barry one last, appraising look. He looked ridiculous, all self-righteousness and bare skin. There was only one break in the otherwise even coat of glitter, there on Barry’s side: faint, but unmistakable, the outline of Len’s hand on his waist. The feeling in Len’s chest coalesced into something pleased and possessive. He met Barry’s glare with a slow curl of his lips, then gave him an inch.

“Call me when you’re sober, Barry,” he said, letting his voice slip into the Cold drawl just to watch Barry’s eyes go dark. “And you can show me how well you sit up and beg.”

He could see the impatience radiating off of Barry’s frame, the effort it was taking him to stay on the couch instead of closing the space between them.

“Call your friends,” he reminded him. “Enough people got a look at your face today without the CCPD splashing it on every milk carton, too.”

In the elevator, Len reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out the thin black wallet he’d liberated from Barry during their sprint across the city. Two and a half seconds: child’s play. A little extra incentive for Barry to track him down in the morning, not that Len thought he needed it. He flipped it open, noted the deer-in-the-headlights picture of Barry on his driver’s license with amusement, and then thumbed open the bill compartment.

Len smirked. Barry wouldn’t miss a few dollars; he owed him for the dry-cleaning it was gonna take to get the glitter out of his jacket, anyway.

#coldflash #leonard snart #barry allen #the flash #my fics #is 10 pm on a tuesday peak posting time? no! is it when i finished this? yes!#also this is blatantly nyc pride sorry #write what you know etc

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whitherwhence · 3 years

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Monstrous May Challenge, Day 6: The Lycanthrope

Honey Bear

A werebear comes out of hibernation, the townsfolk welcome her back. Some clumsy flirting, and a little bit of soft manhandling (bearhandling?). wlw. 1428 words, somehow.

She always came down from the mountain just before mid-spring, after taking a few weeks or so to shake her winter sleep off her bones and bulk back up a little. You couldn’t miss her as she strode through town, she was tall and broad, brawny and thick as hell, friendly with literally everyone she passed, and her laugh could be heard from a block away.

Her name was Rebecca, or maybe it was Rhiannon, something with an R — but all anyone ever called her was Bear. An unoriginal nickname for a werebear, sure, but fitting. Everything about Bear seemed big; her voice, her appetite, her arms, oh god, her arms, and she took up SPACE wherever she went. She was the only one of her kind in this part of the country, and the humans of the small town she called home for most of the year were grateful for it. It wasn’t that they didn’t like her, she was very well loved and respected in the community. It’s that werebears could be a bit territorial, or so it was generally believed.

Madeline couldn’t wait to see her. This spring, she would make her move. She would! She was definitely going to do it. Whatever ‘it’ was. Ugh. How is anyone good at this? Alright. It’s cool, be cool. She would come up with something clever to say, and Bear would laugh, and then she would ask Bear to… hang out or something? Yeah. Probably. Super good plan.

The unanimously favored queer club/tavern/bar was an absolute dive, nearly all of the bars downtown were, but it was the one everyone flocked to once winter had thawed because it had a big, comfortable patio space out back. It was also the one Bear frequented the most.

Madeline got a beer at the bar, and then made her way through the cool, dark, dingy, arcade-like interior, and through the back door to the shaded patio. Bear was on the deep bench built into the long back fence, and she was surrounded by a cluster of friends and neighbors, all chatting and laughing. It looked almost like she was holding court, if court was a group of townsfolk and a wooden table littered with half-full drinks, bar snacks, greeting cards, and small gifts — this was typical for the time of year, because everyone treated the first week of Bear’s return like it was her birthday.

“MADDIE!” a few would-be courtiers shouted out cheerfully, and someone conjured one of the well-used plastic chairs with battered metal legs for her to join them. She’d dressed carefully, it looked like everyone had, and it was so good to see them all showing off a little in the filtered afternoon sunlight.

After getting settled and saying hellos, Madeline dug her little gift out of her bag and set it on the table. “Hey, Bear,” she said, getting the woman’s attention, “I brought you something.” It was a jar of dark, rich, wildflower honey from her neighbor’s fall harvest. He always set aside a few jars for her, and this batch had been too good to keep to herself. She turned on her best wide-eyed, exaggeratedly innocent expression and aimed it at the werebear. “Bears do like honey, right?”

Thankfully, Bear laughed big and wonderful, and it sent blooming warmth from Madeline’s chest to her toes. “Well, this one does,” Bear said good-naturedly. She picked up the jar, tipped it, and watched the air bubble move down the side. She smiled at it and said, “Thanks, Maddie. Very kind of you, looks real good.” She looked back up at Madeline, and her smile softened into something really sweet. They just sat there for a moment, smiling and blinking softly at each other like a couple of goofballs. So, this was going well.

These springtime afternoons were always the nicest time to catch up with everyone. It was late enough in the day to get some good gossip, and too early for anyone to be out on the lash. The day slipped into golden early evening, Madeline switched to water, and the group filtered down to just a few friends. It got warm enough that she took off her leather jacket, and at some point Bear had rolled her sleeves up to the elbow. Those forearms. Madeline had to keep reminding herself not to sneak too many looks over at Bear, while she despaired over how to work up her courage to… what, ask her out? Seriously, why did it have to be so excruciating? But the thing was, as much as Bear caught her looking, she caught Bear looking back.

Okay, you know what? It was getting actually late now, and Madeline was starting to think maybe another day would be better. Bear had just gotten back, after all. They ran into each other all the time, no big deal. She’d just ask her all casual like, without all this build-up, yeah, that would be better, less pressure, good idea, okay, time to—

“Hey, Maddie,” Bear interrupted her spiral, thank fuck. “Help a gal out. It’s been months since I had a good look at you.” She leaned down, then grabbed one of Madeline’s chair legs and yanked, dragging it across the concrete a few feet. Suddenly they were very close, Madeline’s right knee and calf flush with Bear’s left. Bear inhaled deeply. “There, that’s better.”

“Whoa, haha,” Madeline uttered shakily. Had she just said ‘haha’ aloud? What the fuck. She blushed hard and tried harder to regain her composure. “Wait— did you just smell me?”

Bear laughed low and warm, and snuck an arm around Madeline’s shoulders. “Yeah, is that okay?” she asked, and then more seriously, “Is this okay?”

“Yeah. This is okay.” She meant it, obviously. This was amazing. Madeline was tall in her own right, or at least taller than most women she knew, but she felt tiny next to Bear. This was the closest they’d ever been to each other, and holy hell was it awesome.

“You smell nice, by the way,” Bear said, amused but sincere.

“Well, thanks? Must be my shampoo.”

Bear leaned in to get another sniff and pitched her voice down. “Mmm. Must be,” she rumbled directly into Madeline’s ear.

Because she was really going for it now, and because a hot butch woman was talking low into her ear, for fuck’s sake, Madeline shivered. But they were careening towards a cliche back and forth, and Madeline didn’t want to play. “So, this is the part where you say ‘You cold, baby? You’re trembling. How about you sit next to me here on the bench, and I’ll keep you warm.’ And I say ‘Oh thank you, Bear, you’re so big and strong’ for some reason and then I blink at you all coquettishly. Let’s skip it. Scoot over.”

There was literally no reason for Bear to scoot anywhere, as there was plenty of room next to her, but she did it anyway. “You don’t think I’m big and strong? You wound me, Maddie.”

Madeline snickered as she pressed her side into Bear’s, getting comfortable. “Of course I do, but you don’t need anyone to tell you.” Bear’s hand settled on her waist. It felt so good to be this close to her, to snuggle in her arms — well, one of her arms, rather.

“You know— oh, dammit,” Maddie faltered and looked down at her hands to gather herself. It’s cool, this is fine. It is. Time to be brave. She looked back up at Bear. “You know. You gotta know that I like you, right? Because I do.”

Bear was looking at her softly, her eyes half-lidded and dreamy. “You do, huh?” Her hand slipped down to Madeline’s hip and she started to knead the sensitive flesh there. “That’s lucky, because I like you too. Have for a long while.”

“But I’m not fast,” Madeline blurted. Bear’s hand froze on her hip. “I don’t know if I can jump in with both feet right away, Bear. You gotta give me a little time.” She took a beat to slow herself down. She could do this. “But, um. Can I take you to dinner?” She prayed to whatever deity that she had this right, that this is how people fucking talk to each other.

Bear grinned delightedly as she slid her hand back to Madeline’s waist, and squeezed her in a reassuring half-hug. “That sounds good to me, honey,” she said. “Just tell me when.”

~~~

—————

HOW LONG IS A LONG WHILE, BEAR. TELL US. Whew, this one fought me! And then it kept getting longer! Why!!! I just wanted to write a big ol’ butch wlw werebear and write another wlw who wants to snuggle with her 😭 Do you ever feel like you know where a story starts and where it ends, but the rest of it has to be fuckin’ wrestled out of your brain? I’m pretty sure I know what was going on, which is good, like, at least in the long run. Ah well, the important thing is that it’s done and I can release it to the wild. Right? Haha right, guys? Anyway. The two challenge days I’ve done so far have been heavy on the anxious, obvious long-time crush, so, I reckon something different for the next few. ANYWAY. <3

#monstrousmaychallenge #monstrous may challenge #day 6: the lycanthrope #werebear and the woman who wants to cuddle her #whence writing

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new-endings · 5 years

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The Nice and Accurate Guide to Courting

Ch. 1; ao3

Chapter summary: in which Crowley learns and yearns.

“And in reality, it was probably here where Crowley fully and undeniably faced the ill-tuned music that he fell treacherously and helplessly in love with the Principality Aziraphale— who wanted nothing more than peace and was willing to marry off the prince to one unlucky and unhappy Archangel to achieve it.”

Step 2: Gather Intel:

The castle wing generously bestowed to Crowley and the rest of his Legion was lavish in its towering ceilings and ornate tapestries; pristine in its Heavenly whites and creams and the dutiful servants keeping offending grime away; and above all—it was spacious. Wide and echoing. Fit for royalty, one might say. So, it was quite understandable how it really chafed away at Crowley’s (remaining) patience (and sanity) to find Hastur and Ligur squirreled away in his quarters.

Again.

Yes, he understood that they may be his footmen, but this was also precisely why Crowley tended to “disappear” for hours (even days at a time) in his own abode in Hell’s Kingdom.

Crowley paid little heed to Ligur’s scrutinizing gaze as he approached the attached study; to do so would show weakness before his subordinates and that was a decidedly unwise thing to do given his current position.

The position being smuggling another one of Hell’s scarce literary publications for his Guide’s reading pleasure.

But it was Hastur that broke the silence with a sly grin and a meaningful look as he eyed what was in Crowley’s hands. “Another tome, Prince Crawly?”

Well. Some greeting to your Prince. Crowley shot him a scowl. “Another remark out of you and you’ll crawling back to Hell.” Nevertheless, Hastur looked nonplussed as always so Crowley shrugged; he’ll get back at him later for that. “Besides, this is payment,” he protested. More so for the Angel’s delightful company than any real progress in his princely responsibilities, but they needn’t know that bit.

“Payment to the Guide assigned to you by the Queen herself?” Ligur added with a derisive snort. “Ah yes, what a great boon to have this queer Bird in our midst.”

“A Bird in hand is worth two in a bush,” Crowley assured. Not that he would even entertain the absurd notion of replacing Aziraphale as his Guide. “Nothing wrong with a little encouragement.”

Ligur was decidedly unconvinced. “You two spent the last week traipsing about every fine eatery in this God-be-damned Kingdom. I think he’s plenty encouraged.”

“Ah, but perhaps not in the manner the Prince would like?” Hastur said with gleaming eyes.

Crowley didn’t outwardly flinch. Of course he didn’t. “He’s—” lovely to be around. “More than entertaining—”

“But not quite like the rest of your toy soldiers, eh Your Highness?” Ligur remarked with a sneering curl of his lips.

“Certainly treats him better than his own lot!” Hastur supplied with a chortle, sneaking a conspiratory smirk at the other. “Looking to nest with this particular Bird before gettin’ shackled to the old ball and chain?”

And that’s when Crowley decided he’d had enough. “Bah. No need to be so crass.” He waved the insinuation off, wishing he could do the same to the twin annoyances holding in snickers and rude gestures at his expense.

It really wouldn’t do to have them meddling in his personal affairs.

And yes, his blooming—whatever it was he had with Aziraphale—was most definitely personal.

Crowley cleared his throat. “His company aids in getting accustomed to being flocked by other Birds.” A bit of a lie, but what’s the harm in that?

Aziraphale was hardly like the others. He was an oddity, certainly, but a rarity with his unabashed enthusiasm towards his indulgences, his general love for his comforts and all matter of life around, the soft glow about him, such a stark contrast from the lurid light and air of sterility the others exuded.

But that was why Crowley liked him so much. He gave a brief hum. “Though I suppose I am curious.” And a grain of truth to really throw them off— “Why, indeed, send such a queer Bird to sort me through this whole mess.” He’d meant the question to come out—detached. Perhaps just a bit pensive. But it didn’t. “Out of literally anyone else.” It came off rather hopeful, wishful.

Apprehensive. It’s not so often that my luck happens to turn out all right. Makes a Demon all sorts of anxious, Crowley thought.

Thankfully, it seemed neither of the two picked up on it. “If he can put up with the likes of your company, why not? Besides…” Ligur eyed the tome in Crowley’s hands. “He’s certainly got you on your best behavior.”

There were several responses Crowley could have chosen. He could have denied it of course, playing deeper into the Demons’ hands at his own expense. He could prove them wrong—which in all intents and purposes would have been the more entertaining option, especially if he could pin the ensuing trouble he’d been itching to cause on to them. Or he could have played the Royal Card—remind them of exactly who they were serving: rotten branch of the Royal tree or not, Crowley was their Prince—at the cost of letting them know deep down, that perhaps yes, maybe Crowley did care a bit more for his Guide than what was probably, Demonly, comfortable.

Instead, he opted for a scoff, a one-worded rebuttal, and a suave saunter as he exited the room. “Nonsense.”

He had no remark, however, for why he took the tome with him as he headed off.

He was already late in meeting Aziraphale as it was.

Why was it that whenever one was late, it couldn’t be for a few seconds—or even a few minutes?

Some impassable obstacle just has to miraculously (or cursedly, really) manifest to snowball a small hindrance to an entire ordeal.

And that entire ordeal came in the form of a balding Bird with an insincere smile, just outside his quarters. “Prince Crowley, if I could have a moment of your time?” Crowley frowned all the while and didn’t relent his pace. “I couldn’t help but overhear, Your Grace—”

Right. The halls echoed, after all.

Crowley did his best to pay it no mind, already picking up his pace, legs widening their stride. A scan to his side and—yep. It*** was following him. Fuck. After a tick or two of silence, Crowley sighed. “Our people have long lost Her Grace—no need to address me as such.”

“Right. Of course,” it replied easily. “Sandalphon, Prince Crowley,” it greeted, though it did not offer its hand as customary for other Birds. “You have questions, I’m to understand? About the Principality Aziraphale.”

That gave Crowley pause. “Principality, you say?” His Guide? The book-hoarding, sweets-loving, sunshine-smile Aziraphale— a warrior?

Birds often didn’t give Crowley a good feeling—save Aziraphale, of course—but this one was particularly unpleasant. “Indeed, but by title alone.” Crowley didn’t like the way it seemed far too excited to share whatever it had to say: “His ranking—is…In a dubious state.”

And there it was.

Crowley gave it an unimpressed look. “Is it now.”

Unfortunately, the Bird was simply undeterred. “Oh, yes.” It nodded, almost somber. “He was an absolutely adequate warrior. Lead his own platoons during the wars past—”

“Aziraphale?”

Crowley knew he made a fatal error from the wide grin spreading across its face. It leaned in, whispering low. “He even served as Archangel Gabriel’s subordinate.”

It all suddenly clicked into place. So that’s why he’s so familiar with the Archangels.

This was…indeed quite valuable information. But even then—Crowley couldn’t see it. Aziraphale obviously didn’t want war—seemed to be wholly devoted to the cause of keeping peace between their kingdoms—at least, when Crowley wasn’t purposefully distracting him with little gifts payments and banter. He had thought that perhaps the Angel had been too soft for war; he never considered the possibility that perhaps he was softened by it instead. Still, it wouldn’t do well to have a little chinwag with someone so eager to defame his Guide. Especially with a being that knew full well his relationship with Aziraphale.

The professional one, anyways.

And Crowley had to remember to keep playing that part. “Well, it seems they brought the right person for the job, then,” Crowley responded, almost testily. He knew what the Bird was baiting him for, but Crowley wouldn’t comment on the status of Aziraphale’s title. To do so felt like a betrayal to his Guide—and to do such an incredibly thoughtless sort of thing that would no doubt place Crowley far from Aziraphale’s good graces.

Not that Sandalphon needed encouragement in the first place. “Oh agreed, Prince Crowley. It’s certainly a mutually beneficial little arrangement. Well of course, Aziraphale has everything to gain from it anyways.” This Bird was more than content to sing like a canary. It gave a wheezy chuckle. “Probably begged the Queen herself to allow him some task to prove his worth to her again.”

Crowley made a show of rolling his eyes and heaving an exasperated breath. “Are you content to prattle on about another Angel’s business to anyone who pays you mind?”

It backed off, raising its palms in an inoffensive manner. “I’m merely giving you some insight!” It gave another slimy grin. “You asked a question, after all.”

And damnit all questions were always Crowley’s favorite weakness. He gave one, hard look at the Bird before relenting, carefully keeping the uninterested façade. “All right. I’m listening.”

“Rumor has it—” It gave a cruel smile. “—that he was dishonored and stripped of his flaming sword. And no one knows why—save for the Queen and Aziraphale himself.”

There was a beat of silence before Crowley’s resolve further buckled. “A flaming sword, you say?” he asked evenly.

And how Crowley detested that wicked sheen in its eyes. “Yes. It flamed like anything.”

Again—quite a bit to take in. There were several methods and modalities available at Crowley’s disposal to respond to this influx of information. He could very well give a curt nod and leave it as is—allow the Bird to believe he ruminated the information for a moment—just a moment—before tossing it away as just a fanciful fact. He could very well thank the Bird for the interesting intel, perhaps even bait the being into telling him more—but honestly, even the offhanded thought made Crowley’s stomach churn in a way that wasn’t even remotely pleasant, so that was obviously off the table.

So, wisely, Crowley settled for a derisive snort. “Ah. Must have been impressive, especially to give such a dangerous weapon to a pacifist,” tone disbelieving, uncaring. “But if he no longer has it, then this information really serves no purpose to me. I’d be more concerned were it the case that he possessed such a weapon and used it in an untoward way against myself or my Legion.”

“Err…I suppose…” It responded cautiously, perhaps unknowing of whether or not to be affronted by the utter disregard for what it had known to be reality-shattering knowledge.

And perhaps—in a way, this information was.

But it would take a lot more than hearsay to change how Crowley felt about Aziraphale. “And you say these are—” He gave it a scrutinizing look. “Rumors, is that right?”

Sandalphon startled. “Well, they may be rumors, but—”

“All baseless drivel when it comes down to it.” Crowley huffed.

It must have known Aziraphale cared more for peace than winning an expensive, horrendous disagreement for power. It didn’t matter that in times past that the Angel was out there in the bastions and fortresses, armed and ready to lay down his life for this useless struggle.

To add a bit of insult to injury, for his Guide’s honor, Crowley added, “Is that everything you wanted to say?”

Who he is now is all that matters.

The Prince made a show of rolling his eyes when he was met with a beat of silence. “And to think I believed you to have something useful to tell me.”

And right now his Angel—his Guide—is waiting for him, waiting for Crowley. And damn it all, Crowley was really late!

“I—” it stammered.

Crowley turned, continuing his way as he gave the Bird a wave of dismissal. “That is all.”

It was quite easy to turn tail and head away from that blathering Bird and its rather rude insinuations towards Aziraphale—

But it was quite different to get away from what he’d learned. Rather, it was impossible to unlearn and unlisten to the implications. Not particularly aimed at Aziraphale, and not even the insinuation aimed at their…well.

Work relations, as it were.

Besides, it normally wouldn’t bother Crowley to hear that he was just an assignment—a woefully accepted obligation—he’s been used to that all his life. But what did bother him was that this didn’t seem like Aziraphale at all.

Granted, he’d only known his Guide for a little over a week—but Crowley prides himself in being an excellent judge of character.

Which was precisely why it seemed like this Angel was the only being he’d ever truly felt drawn to.

He didn’t know everything about the Angel, but he felt like he had one of the most important basics down: the Angel loved his comforts. He loved his fine wines and lazy afternoons, cozy reading nooks and buttery pastries. He hardly seems like the type who’d thirst for blood for his scorching, battle-ready blade. It was quite like a adding a tomato to a fruit salad: you know it’s a bloody fruit, but it doesn’t quite fit the description, nor fill the role.

The thing about these niggling thoughts, however, is that the harder one concentrates on not thinking about it, the harder it becomes to ignore. And it’s hardly Crowley’s fault—that stupid Bird brought it up—and even now, with Aziraphale regaling to him of the Archangel Gabriel’s penchant for fine clothes—the question burned at the back of his tongue. So, Crowley did the only thing a Demon could do in a conundrum such as this:

Yield to temptation.

“Say,” Crowley interjected. “Didn’t you have a flaming sword?”

Aziraphale sputtered to a pause, a fragment of Fraisier slipping off his fork. “I—I’m sorry?”

“Yeah,” Crowley ventured, carefully casually. “Heard it flamed like anything.”

Aziraphale blinked, absorbing the words but not quite extrapolating its meaning quite yet. It’s fine. Crowley can wait.

He was prepared for the awkward silence and unrelenting tension that would no doubt follow. He was prepared for the Angel to deny it, lie with a flushed face and a nervous titter, and attempt to redirect the conversation. He was prepared for the Angel to sigh, soulful and deep, and ask who told Crowley. But Crowley, in his careless preparation to the consequences of opening this particular can of worms, forgot one, vital thing:

This was Aziraphale he was talking to. “I—I, well—uhm!” Prone to flustering. “That is…” And prone to being thrown into a prickly, nervous frenzy. “It’s—it’s hardly any of your business now!”

And prone to vehemently reprimanding Crowley about what should and should not be said in a public restaurant.

Crowley took a wary glance about them; most of the patrons and staff scurried from the Prince’s glare. He really ought to have chosen a better place to spring a question like this. “Angel—”

But it looked like Aziraphale was getting ready to leave—to flee.

And that was not something Crowley was prepared for at all.

“Angel—Angel, wait!”

But in a heartbeat or two, he’d vanished— strawberries and cream left unfinished.

Crowley supposed Aziraphale couldn’t be that mad. He didn’t fly off into the sunset leaving Crowley as just a sulking mote of dust behind him, after all. No, instead he simply chose to ignore Crowley as the prince helplessly, and hopelessly, trailed after him like an offending lover, ready to swallow his pride after a tiff gone awry while the Angel stomped all the way back to the castle.

“Slow down, you bloody Bird,” Crowley groaned and miraculously—

He did. He stopped right in his tracks and sat down on the stone bench overlooking the pond.

Crowley sagged against the garden bench, finding that while he was content to call out after the Guide, he wasn’t quite ready to lay out everything he felt like he should say just yet.

The prince cast his gaze to the scenery instead. The pond before them mirrored the vibrant pinks and indigos painting across the sky; the bustle of the castle and its inhabitants sounded so far away from behind the towering walls, encasing the sliver of paradise with silence and solitude.

Aziraphale had led them there, Crowley realized with a start, with the intention of talking without interruption and witnesses.

Beside him Aziraphale scoffed. “Really, Prince Crowley, to approach someone with such a personal inquiry in such a public area—”

“For the last time, Angel. Just call me Crowley.” He looked over to Aziraphale, seeing the mounting trepidation on his face and stiffness on his shoulders. But he was trying to keep the conversation open and he wasn’t running—that was better than what Crowley could hope for. “And better my asking than the other Birds,” Crowley countered. “Squawking behind your back, telling tall tales and spreading rumors—”

A pause. There went that nervous habit again. “Oh. So, you’ve heard from—one of them.” Soft, plump hands, tugging and straightening the whites and creams of his robes; delicate fingers and manicured nails, not meant to brandish swords and spill blood.

Hands Crowley wanted to take in his own, hold them still and feel those fingers curl and intertwine with his instead. “Not by my choice, mind you.” But Crowley didn’t. “The balding one—bit of a slimy fellow—”

“Sandalphon.”

“Yes, that one.” Aziraphale was avoiding his gaze, resolutely staring off into the still waters before them. Crowley swallowed and thought that at the very least—the Angel deserved to hear the truth. “Started raving about your title, or well lack thereof, and—” Quietly, gently, though it was easy enough for Crowley to say. “I didn’t believe it.” Because it was true. “Not the important bits anyways.”

There was a quick, darting look towards him and Crowley uneasily shuffled closer, facing the Angel fully.

“I know you’re a Principality—that seems to be common knowledge amongst the other Birds. But I don’t think you were stripped of your honor like that.” That response garnered him a questioning look. “At least—not for the reasons anyone else could think of.”

“What…what makes you so say that?” Aziraphale asked, and Crowley hated them all for making is Guide sound so unsure.

He gave a chagrined smile. “Do I really have to say it?” He blew a noisy sigh, hoping to ease the ascending tension with petulant humor. “You’re an Angel.” No, not like them. You’re better than the others. “I don’t think it’s actually possible for you to do the wrong thing.”

Whatever reaction Crowley was hoping for with a response like that, he certainly wasn’t prepared for the heartbreaking disbelief and awe in those Angel eyes.

“Crowley…” Neither was he prepared for that something in the quiet, tender way Aziraphale gasped his name—

—that made Crowley want to dive straight into the lake to douse the turbulent flood of warmth that sank its fangs straight into his chest, squeezing the bleeding organ with its lovely thorns.

Crowley coughed, suddenly finding his throat dry and chest pounding. “Well, my theory was that you probably didn’t even want a war in the first place—and there’s really nothing wrong with that.” Shit. Shitshitshitshitshit oh FUCK THIS CAN’T BE HAPPENING— “After all this war business is utter rubbish, I tell you. About damn time we made actual efforts in forming a proper treaty. Not that I completely agree with the modality they’ve chosen to enact in the name of armistice, but—”

“I GAVE IT AWAY!”

The thorns squeezed tighter. Crowley could barely let out a wheezing, “You…what?”

Aziraphale looked absolutely wretched.

And Crowley wanted to kiss that expression right off his beautiful face.

“The sword. The one given to me by the Queen.” The Angel raised his arm to gesticulate something before giving up halfway, letting his hand fall to his lap. “Oh, what was I supposed to do? Our platoon did our best to minimize the damage, but even then, that battle absolutely decimated that village! There could have been all sorts of terrifying beasts out there, not to mention marauders and the like with their defenses gone!”

“…What?” was Crowley’s ever-intelligent reply.

Aziraphale fortunately took that as a Please, do go on, I’m ever-so-intrigued by this turn of conversation and not at all finding myself at the brink of despair at the horrific realization of my own stupid emotions.

“So I thought, ‘Well, they need it a lot more than I do right now’ and I told the village leader Take it, don’t bother to thank me!” He rubbed his hands distractedly, frantic anxiety bleeding into his voice. “And—and, the magic on it should only protect them, it shouldn’t be used to start any—”

“You…gave your sword away. The sword given to you by Her.” Crowley’s heart was hammering now, driving the pinprick points deeper, yet it did little to calm the stone-drop of cold dread at the pit of his stomach. “To protect some vulnerable people? Angel…” That’s wonderful. You’re wonderful, you foolish, lovely git. “Well, where is it now?”

“In…” The Angel floundered, gaze darting to his lap again. “In a quaint village. Hopefully nicely repaired and thriving by now.”

“Well, go get it then!” Yes, please, let’s go—run, run far, far away— “Put an end to the rumors—stick it to Sandalphon’s grubby little face—”

--far enough that maybe then these feelings won’t reach you.

“It’s…not so easy,” Aziraphale answered apprehensively.

“Come now, Angel. I’ll even come with you—like one of our day trips!” Crowley himself was already warming to the idea. It was like a little adventure. Like seeking a lost treasure—a real one! Clearing the Angel’s name, off to conquer the Nosy Gossips of Heaven’s domains, to slay the evils of shit-talking— Prince Crowley and Principality Aziraphale—

Crowley and Aziraphale--

And maybe Crowley did want that. Maybe he did want to go off with Aziraphale, forget this Prince and Guide rubbish for just a while, escape to a small pocket in time where titles and responsibilities didn’t exist. Just them two, and a grand, old adventure laid out for them both. There were surely lots of places to see. It’s a great big world out there, just out or reach from the two borders of their respective kingdoms. The Other Side, where the maps ended but the skies continued on.

And where other lines blurred completely.

But. Baby steps. Crowley reigned himself in again, despite the frenzied beating in his chest. “I mean, you’ve been wanting to show off Heaven’s charming little towns—”

“Erm…” Aziraphale was starting to look panicked again. “That’s the thing.” He gave an anxious little smile. “It’s…not in Heaven.”

Normally, Crowley possessed a fine and rich vocabulary borne of years under strict tutelage all because his mum shacked up with the King of Hell and spawned him in the process. “What?” Today, all those lessons flew out his brain—

“It’s…a bit farther than that.” Aziraphale held his gaze to Crowley’s. “A bit further South, rather.”

—missed the pond completely and smacked straight into the white stones of the garden walls. “Angel…”

“Yes, okay?” Somehow, Aziraphale managed to look even more miserable—and dramatic, by far. “The village—my sword—It’s in Hell’s domain.” He gave an imploring and helpless look to the stone-frozen Crowley. “But shhh please, promise you’ll keep this a secret?” And just like that, he took Crowley’s hands in his own, asking, beseeching, “Just between us?”

Crowley would have confessed to all the Divines in the High Heavens that this was the moment Crowley fell—horrifically, dreadfully, disastrously, and absolutely— in love with Aziraphale. There, underneath the peaking moon and glitter of stars. In a garden, after Aziraphale shared with him his greatest burden—that this Angel had sacrificed his loyalty for love and protection for a people he did not know or understand, for a belief he didn’t know he had in himself.

“Yeah…” Crowley squea—no, no, that was not a squeak damn you. He hastily cleared his throat, covering those soft hands with his own. “Yeah, no worries there.” He met Aziraphale worried eyes evenly and vowed: “I promise. You have my word, Aziraphale.”

Aziraphale slipped his hand out of from Crowley’s and Crowley’s stupid brain had the fucking audacity to think the appropriate response to that was to instinctively whine at the loss of contact.

Aziraphale, luckily, did not take heed of this offense. “Thank you…” he breathed, shoulders sagging, as he held his hand to his chest. Crowley wondered if the Angel’s heart was beating just as obnoxiously as his. “And…thank you, for. Well...” If the Angel’s heart mirrored his own. “It’s nice to finally get that off my conscience, really.” The Angel gave a tired laugh, one that didn’t really meet his eyes, one that sank and fell flat on itself. “I always did worry if that was the best course.”

“Like I said, Angel.” His hand came forward, floundering before finding its way to the slope of Aziraphale’s shoulder. “I’m not sure if it’s actually possible for you to the wrong thing.” You’re too good for that.

Too good for me, a dark, traitorous thought echoed back.

Crowley would decree that it was here, beneath starlight and Aziraphale’s sunbeam smile that Crowley would embark on the path of rewriting his own stars for a change. He knew that he was endangering his entire Kingdom and the Kingdom of Heaven by choosing Aziraphale, despite his royal obligations— but he’s a risk-taker with a lot of imagination. He doesn’t know how to persuade two kingdoms to accepting his choice—if that could even become a possibility at all.

And if not…

Maybe running off wouldn’t be such a bad option.

Running off—together.

But—baby steps. Firstly, he must start with getting Aziraphale to accept his courtship.

Speaking of which… “Oh! This is for—you.” He reached into his pocket, wriggling the tome out from where it had been jabbing him while he ran after the flighty Bird. “I brought you a little something.”

There was that smile again. “Crowley, this is—oh my…” The one that likely damned him from the start. “It’s lovely—”

Crowley attempted a scoff, though it likely sounded like a sputter. “It’s a rather sad and dreary one, written over a millennium ago by a rather sad and dreary fellow. I thought it’d be right up your alley.” He watched carefully from the corner of his eye, seeking any discomfort from Aziraphale, any sign that the gift was not to his liking, not to his standards, not up to par with what he deserved. “Always preferred the funny ones myself.”

“I’m honored.” But he could find none. Only an excited smile and eyes of far-off skies poring over the text; just the look of an Angel utterly enamored at the prospect of reading a new tale, exploring another world within the confines of word and mind.

And in reality, it was probably here where Crowley fully and undeniably faced the ill-tuned music that he fell treacherously and helplessly in love—this moment where the evidence stared back at him so boldly in his face, that he realized the extent of these rather inconvenient feelings he had towards the Principality Aziraphale—the Principality who wanted nothing more than peace and was willing to marry off the prince to one unlucky and unhappy Archangel to achieve it.

Because damn it he wanted Aziraphale to look at him like that.

And upon accepting that foolish thought as truth, it all came crashing down in that very instant.

Fuck. I love him.

------------------

Fun fact: Sandalphon’s pronouns in the book and script are “it/its.”

Thank you for reading~

#good omens #ineffable husbands #crowley x aziraphale #top crowley #bottom aziraphale

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