#he was flipping my bag into the fourth fucking dimension trying to look for

[fagtainsparklez]

it’s a non-christmas christmas miracle. my tits didn’t set off the tsa scanner war is fucking over

[ineffably-good]

Prompt: Cursed

Just a little Pirate cosplay with our two favorite ethereal beings. :)

This is for the Good Omens 30th Anniversary Celebration prompts! 

Read all the ones I’ve completed on AO3!

_______________

Aziraphale, dressed in high black boots and tight breeches and a billowing white shirt that was much too clean for his current role as a brigand of the high seas, knelt down to open the first of the chests they’d dug up from the sea cave on the eastern Canadian coast. Inside was a heap of silver and gold coins, badly tarnished, velvet bags of jewelry that would need to be sorted through to see if the items they were looking for were amongst them, and, interestingly, a small black box, on the very top of the pile.

The box was about six inches square, lacquered to a high shine, with a large, heavy looking clasp and no further decoration. It was oddly enticing. Aziraphale forgot what he was doing and made a noise of fascination as he reached for it, picking it up to examine it in the firelight.

“Don’t touch that!” Crowley shouted from beside him.

Something in his tone frightened the angel into immediately dropping it to the ground.

Aziraphale brushed his breeches off in frustration and stood. He flipped up the stupid eye patch from his left eye so he could focus more clearly.

“What is your problem?” he said acerbically. 

Crowley paused to wipe the sweat off his face and lean on the shovel handle with his arms. Crowley had been doing most of the digging and the puffy white shirt and red bandana he wore were wet and filthy with sweat and exertion.

“Bad feeling,” the demon said. “I don’t think you should be touching that.” 

Aziraphale raised an eyebrow but complied. “Pirate curse?” he asked.

“Something cursed it. Might not’ve been pirates who put it there,” Crowley replied. “Perhaps that’s why they never came back for their treasure, you know? Picked up some cursed loot somewhere, sank to the bottom of the sea.”

Aziraphale uncapped a wine cask that was slung at his side and took a long swig. “Why are we digging up these chests, anyway?” he asked for the fourth time. “We could just – you know – miracle them up.”

“Oh, come on, angel,” Crowley said with a grin. “Where’s the fun in that? We went to all the trouble of disguising ourselves as pirates and getting a ship and hiring a crew all to bring us out here to this god forsaken northern island to follow this ridiculous map and try to retrieve the Queen’s jewels, and you want to just cheat on the last step and miracle the booty up out of the ground?”

“Oh sure, now you become a stickler about verisimilitude,” the angel groused, but halfheartedly. He knew Crowley had always wanted to be a pirate. When they’d both gotten orders to retrieve a certain set of stolen jewels for different aims, it seemed like the ideal time to indulge the demon’s long-held fantasy. He hadn’t even made Crowley work that hard to convince him. The 17th century had been rather boring so far, his responsibilities were at a natural lull, and it seemed like a good time for a quick maritime adventure. That said, that didn't mean he was about to shovel.

“So, what’s in the little black box?” Aziraphale said, nudging it with a foot towards the demon.

Crowley poked at it with the shovel. “Not sure,” he said. “Feels demonic. Not entirely sure we should open it.”

“But you’re a demon,” Aziraphale said, frowning. “Surely it’s safe for you.”

“Possibly,” Crowley said, “but you’re here. And I don’t want to let anything in there harm you.”

Aziraphale smiled. “Very thoughtful of you,” he said. “But we’re pirates. We can handle it.”

Crowley frowned and then pointed Aziraphale towards the mouth of the cave. “Stand over there. I’ll raise a shield.”

Aziraphale moved to where he was pointed and watched as Crowley unfurled his wings from the ether and raised a shimmering strip power that acted as somewhat of a barrier between them. He placed his own body between the angel and the cube, and then prodded at its clasp with his shovel until it sprung open.

A howl filled the cave, along with an amorphous, whirling cloud of vapor that appeared to be screaming. Crowley stepped back, shovel held out defensively and his attention split between the cloud in front of him and the angel behind him. The cloud whirled and began to condense into the size of a figure, and after a moment it settled down into the recognizable shape of a man.

A man who appeared to be dressed in drab, tan-colored robes, grimy and in poor repair, with gloved fingers riddled with holes and his white shock of hair standing up in spikes. Aziraphale blinked in surprise – he’d seen this person before, he was sure of it. It wasn’t until the face came into focus with its smear of boils and the grubby toad on his head that he knew for sure who it was. It was the demon who he’d run across once or twice in the last few centuries – what was his name? He knew it, it was right on the tip of his tongue –

“HASTUR!” Crowley shouted. “What in the name of – what were you doing locked up in a box?”

Hastur rolled his unkempt head around on his shoulders, producing a series of surprising loud crackles and pops as various muscles and bones clicked back into place. He took a deep breath and looked around him, obviously working to bring his eyes back into focus.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” he said. “Crowley? You’re my rescuer?”

Crowley laughed. “You got yourself captured? How does a Duke of Hell end up locked in a little black box and how did I not hear that you were missing?”

Hastur scowled. “What year is it?”

“1680 something,” Crowley said. “When were you taken?”

“About a decade ago,” Hastur said. “Idiot magician in the court of Spain accidentally did something right. Put me in that box, laid a curse on it so it couldn’t be opened by mortals. If you hadn’t come along…” He looked around and noted Aziraphale by the cave entrance. “Oh great. An angelic witness. What are you doing consorting with the enemy here? I’ll be sure to report about your bad habits of fraternizing with the enemy when we get back home.”

“Seems to me,” Crowley drawled, “that if we hadn’t come along, you’d still have been stuck in that box for a long time to come. Possibly centuries. The tides here are brutal – no human could have been in here long enough to dig you up without drowning. You owe us.”

Hastur hissed and clenched his fingers into and out of fists, clearly wanting to smite something. A few maggots dripped from one of his hands and burrowed into the sand. “Don’t think you’ll get any favors from me, you colossal moron.”

Crowley grinned. “Well that’s all right then,” he said, picking up the black container. “Let’s just take this box –” he stopped and sniffed it dramatically. “—which, by the way, is full of your psychic residue, absolutely confirms that you were locked inside for a decade. So, let’s just take this and pop back to Hell and update Beelzebub and the council about where you’ve been and how you were stupid enough to get locked in a box by a magician, shall we?”

Hastur paled.

“I’m sure they won’t be too angry,” Crowley continued, syrupy sweet. “Probably only send you to the pits for a few years at most. Been a while since you’ve been flayed, hasn’t it?”

“Fine!” Hastur shouted. “What do you want?”

“I want you to forget that you saw either of us here, and I want no reports made about the angel’s presence. We are both here simply pursuing the orders of our direct superiors, who each have an interest in the contents of these chests. There’s no fraternizing going on.”

“No indeed,” Aziraphale said primly from the entrance. “I don’t care for him at all. He’s quite an arse.”

Hastur smirked. “You’re right on that front.”

Crowley made a feint at Aziraphale with the shovel, just for effect, and snarled convincingly. “Please. Like I’d hang out with him. He’s a total drip.”

Aziraphale looked up towards the heavens in his best long-suffering manner.

“So?” Crowley said, flourishing the box. “Are we heading to the dark council right now, or do we have a deal?”

Hastur sighed. “Yes, fine, I won’t say a word about the suspicious circumstances I found you in. In return, you give me the box.”

“Ohhhhh no,” Crowley said, “I don’t think so.” He made a hand motion and the box disappeared, tucked neatly into a small pocket dimension where he kept one of his stashes of valuable things. “I’m keeping it for insurance. Because I don’t trust you, Hastur. Not for one second.”

“That’s the first sensible thing you’ve said all day, Crawly,” Hastur sneered. “Should never trust another demon. Stay away from me from here on out, all right?”

He stood up more fully and brushed off his clothing, assembled his tattered robes into something approaching order, and offered them both an insincere and disturbing wave, and melted into the ground.

The last thing they saw was his toad, eyeing them suspiciously, and then that too was gone.

Crowley whacked the ground where Hastur had disappeared with the belly of the shovel. “Good riddance,” he muttered. He dropped the wings and his power and turned to Aziraphale. “Safe now, you can come back in.”

“That was… surprising,” the angel said mildly. “Thanks for stopping me from setting him free myself. One of us would have ended up smiting the other, for sure.”

“Wouldn’t have really minded if it was you smiting him,” Crowley said with a grin. “As long as it didn’t start some long, drawn out war.”

“Well,” the angel said, “shall we get back to it? The crew is probably near onto mutiny by now; if we take much longer we will be flying home.”

Crowley picked up the shovel again and spaded it down into the sand. “On it, angel,” he said, flinging a shovel-full of sand into the corner. “Just a few more feet and we’ve got the second chest. We’ll take them back to the ship and sort it all out there.”

“On the way home, perhaps we can stop at that former Viking colony on the big island up north? I hear there are mermaids about!” Aziraphale said. “Oh, and perhaps we can magic up some proper tea and some little cakes for the trip?”

“You’re a horrible pirate, Aziraphale,” the demon said. “Just the worst.”

[hanalwayssolo]

Somewhere Between The Music and Lyrics: Ch. 2 - End

A/N: Songs featured for this last half are: Jordan Rakei’s Eye to Eye, Justin Timberlake’s Say Something, Tori Kelly’s I Was Made For Loving You.

Tagging pals! @blindedstarlight @raspberryandechinacea @gowithme @valkyrieofardyn @emmydots @hanatsuki89 @noboomoon @lazarustrashpit @animakupo @mp938368 @boo-dangy @bleucommelhiver

(Links in AO3) Alternate Universes in Which You and I Belong Together: Noctis | Gladio | Prompto | Ignis | Nyx | Cor | Ravus | Ardyn

The primly cultivated front garden and the violet bougainvillea that crept up the walls of the house before you looks nothing like a recording studio. At least, that’s what you have assumed from all the films you’ve watched, anyway. You reread the address on your phone: 1130 Citadel Road. As far as your adequate knowledge of Downtown Insomnia is concerned—plus the guidance of Moogle Maps—you’re certainly in the right street. The numbers 1130 plastered by the metal railing clearly says you’re in the right lot, too. The only thing keeping you now from ringing the doorbell is the anxiety churning in your stomach like a raging sea. Overhead, a security camera is watching your every awkward move.

Maybe it’s not yet too late to turn back, you think.

And as soon as the thought leaves you, you hear the sound of your own voice belting out from a passing car, its windows rolled down and its speakers all the way up for the entire neighbourhood to hear.

Your fingers tighten around your phone. This is the fourth time you’ve heard yourself on someone else’s radio, and it is bloody jarring to say the least.

A part of you is still reeling in from everything that has happened ever since that video got out. Who would’ve thought that the band you admired from the comfort of your earphones would suddenly appear right outside your doorstep? And have you lost your mind that you agreed to collaborate on a song with a band as popular as The Lost Boys? You still wonder how on earth they can consider someone like you after one fucking cover when, in fact, you have no formal training in music in the first place. Besides, you have already been perfectly honest with them—with Prompto, most especially, since he had been the one most eager to know more about you—regarding your background and what you do for a living. Which, frankly, had been a tricky discussion since you’re not that fond of talking about yourself without the hint of self-deprecation. But you did manage. As succinctly as you could, you told the boys that you’re simply a bumbling corporate slave by day and a struggling songwriter by night, with hopes of consistently paying your share on rent and amenities with your pesky Internet-famous friends.

Maybe this is all a mistake, you think this time.

You glance at your phone again to check the time. Or rather, you’re hoping to see a message that they have cancelled the deal. But there’s nothing on your lock screen from any of The Lost Boys except the time that beams four-thirty p.m., a couple of unopened messages from Nyx (“u go blow their minds away but call me as soon as they fuck shit up” the initial sentence says, then followed by three eggplant emojis), Libertus (“drop by @ ostium’s tonight & we’ll celebrate!”) and a missed call from Pelna. Even with your friends’ show of support, you feel like you’re still dreaming. But what if this is really just a dream? What if right now, you’re actually still—

A low voice sneaks up behind you. “Can I help you?”

Startled out of your wits, you turn around and you find a tall man in a gray coat, eyeing you with great concern. He’s carrying a bag of groceries on one arm and a handful of books on the other. There’s something awfully familiar about his stern face, his silver-shaved head and magnetic blue eyes, that you cannot quite put a finger on it yet.

“I, uh—” you hesitate for a moment, scratching your cheek— “I don’t know if I’m in the right place, but would you know if there’s a recording studio nearby?”

“You’re actually standing in front of one.” The man flashes you an amiable smile. Your cheeks begin to burn red. Then, he says, “Wait, are you here for Prompto and the boys? I heard they’re expecting someone coming over.”

You nod. “Well… yes.”

“Perfect.” He jerks his head towards the gate. “I was just about to head inside myself. Please, come in.”

The man ushers you along the gravelly path, up the staircase, and into the blue door. Inside, you are welcomed by the sight of a lovely foyer, its pristine white walls tastefully decorated with framed photos and vinyl albums. A sharp aroma of black coffee wafts through the air. It is impossibly cold.

As the man carefully unloads his things on the center table, he tells you, “They should be in the booth right now. Follow me.”

You trail behind the man down the narrow carpeted hallway. You look around and you see more framed records hanging on the wall. You recognize some of it, and it’s like taking a stroll along an impressive hall of legends: The Beatles, Jackson 5, Joy Division, Nirvana, James Brown, Jimi Hendrix, and a few other names that you’re certain have made it in the Billboard charts. But you notice that most of the photos on a couple of shelves are that of the five-man band The Regalia, and you remember how your mother used to play their songs on the your old stereo, all because she could not get enough of Clarus’s vocals and...

The realization hits you like a speeding freight train.

“Holy fuck.”

The crispness of your words echoes throughout the corridor that the man turns around to look at you with a confused smile on his face. “Is something the matter?”

“I’m sorry. I, um… you’re...” You sigh, trying to quell your utter disbelief. Gods, how could you have been so blind? “You’re… Clarus Amicitia.”

His smile turns into an amused grin. “I am, indeed. At your humble service.” He regards you with a brief nod. “And you’re the fellow with the lovely voice.”

Your heart leaps into your throat. Gods. Did the Clarus Amicitia—living legend of the Insomnian local music scene—just call your voice lovely?

This is too much for you to handle in one day.

“Uh, well, I—um, thank you. Sir.” You smile at him, but you lower your eyes on your shoes, realizing that your words of gratitude came out in a torment. If Clarus had noticed it, he was kind enough to pretend that he didn’t.

“No need to call me sir—Clarus is fine.” He smiles again right back at you. You’re quite certain that your mother would fucking flip if she finds out about this.

As Clarus leads you to the last door at the far end of the corridor, you can already hear an indistinct melody and the swell of the bass vibrating from the room.

“Here we are,” he says, opening the door. “After you.”

Entering the studio oddly feels like stepping into a different dimension. From the homely elegance of the hallways, the whole room is an air-conditioned sanctuary of hardwood floors and neatly-arranged equipment: massive speakers, rack systems, audio mixers and soundboards, and a bunch of other controls you can hardly name. A pair of acoustic guitars are tidily displayed beside a black couch. Here, strangely enough, the air is thicker with the scent of coffee.

And here, behind the glass panel and amidst all the polish is The Lost Boys, oozing a velvety riff and a soulful tune, steered by a flawless voice that belongs to none other than Prompto.

It’s the birth of a star Earlier than sunset It’s the galaxy’s water Flowing like a riverbed

You hold your breath, immediately drawn to Prompto’s honeyed melodies and the guilt of poetry in the lyrics. Of all the times you have listened to their music, you immediately notice how the rhythm departs from their signature sound. Then again, they have been known to take risks, may it be in their own songs or otherwise.

This, you realize, is their true magic. The minutes seem to have stopped ticking. Behind you, even Clarus has fallen silent.

Yes they shine bright like a million Let them bleed twice for a minute Pleasure to have met you You’re my star tonight—

The music stutters into a halt when Prompto’s gaze falls on you, his eyes meeting yours. A bright grin spreads all over his face, and he waves a hand at you, beckoning you to join them.

Clarus waves back at the boys, and rests a hand on your shoulder. “Make yourself at home. Don’t be afraid to let me know if these grown ass men cause any trouble for you. My son, most especially,” he says cheekily. “And might I just say—“ he folds his arms over his chest, his voice now employing a pensive tone— “I’ve had the pleasure of listening to your rendition of Prompto’s song. All these years, and my ears have not failed me. I know a good singer when I hear one.”

A rush of heat rises to your cheeks. “You’re far too kind to me,” you say, unable to help the smile that tugs the corners of your mouth. You spare one look and nod at Clarus as he leaves, while you awkwardly make your way inside the booth.

As soon as you step inside, Prompto greets you with a warm hug.

“Glad you made it!” he says as he pulls away. You actively ignore how good his cologne smells, or whatever scent he is wearing. “I was starting to think you changed your mind.”

“No. Actually… well, I thought about not coming here,” you admit sheepishly. “I got really nervous.”

“Hey, don’t be!” Prompto says brightly in reassurance, looping an arm around you. Okay, he really does smell nice that you can actually forgive his lack of consideration for personal space.

“And you have nothing to be nervous about,” Noctis adds, fiddling with the strap of his bass guitar.

“Did my old man scare you on your way here?” Gladio asks from behind the drums.

“Oh, no. Not at all.” A lie, kind of. But Gladio looks like he’s buying it. To be fair, Clarus didn’t exactly scare you, though scare is synonymous to intimidate—because who wouldn’t be intimidated in the presence of Clarus fucking Amicitia? “Though he did say I should be careful of you,” you say truthfully.

Prompto and Noctis erupt in a gale of laughter. Even Ignis is amused. Gladio shakes his head and with an apologetic smile, he tells you, “Please don’t mind my dad. I promise, I’m completely harmless—”

“I think your father is less concerned with your inclination to violence and more on your inclination to romancing… well, anything that moves,” Ignis chides as he returns his electric guitar on a stand, taking a seat next to the speakers.

Prompto unloops his arm around you and rests it on your shoulder as he says, “Don’t worry about this monster—I got you." At that, you feel like your heart skipped a beat. You could only wish that you're not blushing like a fool. "Though best believe he’d flirt with a lamp post if you dress it right.”

Gladio quickly shoots Prompto a threatening glare, and then he smiles at you. “Please don’t believe them.”

“I can’t promise anything, but I’ll try, I guess?” You laugh, and they do, too. It’s bizarre how being around them reminds you of being around your circle of friends. You shift on your feet a little, hesitant to the comfort of their company. Then, turning to Prompto, you gingerly ask, “Um, by the way. Were you guys recording a new song earlier?”

“Oh, that?” Prompto gives you a sheepish smile. “Not really—we’re just experimenting on some of the lyrics I wrote.” His eyes widen. “Speaking of, not to put you on the spot but—” Prompto dashes to take a mic stand and sets in front of you— “I was thinking this might help you ease into… all of this.”

You glance at Noctis, Gladio, and Ignis, all three of them looking at you expectantly. You narrow your eyes at Prompto. “Are you… trying to make me sing?”

He tilts his head. “Um, yeah. What else?”

“Really? Like right now?”

“Yes, like right now.” Prompto is grinning at you. First, he smells nice and now he’s being painfully charming. “Name any song. We’d play it with you.”

You cross your arms over your chest. “Any song? Seriously?”

“Yup.” Prompto laughs. “Why, you doubt we can’t play something mainstream like Rihanna? Or Queen Bey, even?”

“No, it’s not that—alright, then.” You chew on your bottom lip, and heave a long, shuddery sigh. Static rings from the microphone. You look around and out of the corner of your eye, you spot a spare guitar—in an instant you know it’s a Les Paul, gods bless your poor ass soul—sitting beside a Steinway piano. To Prompto, you say, “Can I borrow that guitar?”

He nods. “Yeah, sure.”

You take the blessed thing, equipping it as carefully as you can. You’re finding it hard to concentrate when all eyes are glued on you. Prompto, most especially. You draw a deep breath, and release your inhibitions in a loud exhale.

Then comes the crisp strum of your fingertips against the chords. The steady pace and pulse. You catch a glimpse of Prompto smiling at you, and that unmistakeable glint of recognition in his eyes. He knows the song. The rest of the boys know it, too. And as if by some form of telepathy, Gladio prepares the percussions. Ignis tunes his guitar, Noctis readies his bass. Prompto picks up another guitar to accompany you as you sing.

Everyone knows All about my direction And in my heart somewhere I wanna go there

It’s almost frightening how easily you slip into their dynamic, as if you have been a part of them for as long as can remember. You can feel yourself slowly relax, the nerves leaving your body and aptly replaced by the swelling notes. The cadence intensifies. It is when Prompto sings along with you that a jolt of electricity runs down your spine.

Everyone knows all about my transgressions Still in my heart somewhere There’s melody and harmony For you and me tonight

This, you realize, is a different kind of sorcery. His voice blends with yours so perfectly that you see Noctis and Gladio exchange wide-eyed glances. Prompto’s eyes locks on yours, and he flashes you that charming smile of his.

And all you can think to yourself is: Where have you been all my life?

Prompto knows that this was supposed to be a temporary arrangement. Still, he finds himself stealing away most of your days.

Not in a bad way, of course. After your first session with the band, he had insisted to accompany you home—quite a long walk, sure, but you said you were fond of walking and he wanted to spend more time with you—which somehow ended up with the both of you hanging out in your couch, exchanging playlists and punch lines and feasting on your Kenny Crow’s leftovers. Thankfully, your roommates didn’t seem to mind him being around the apartment, though he could not help but notice how they would purposely stay longer by the kitchen counter across the living room just to keep a watchful eye on you. Prompto found it equal parts endearing and frightening, but he really could not blame them. If he had someone like you, he would probably do the same thing.

Every second with you, he'd always find himself wanting another. So he treasures each day with you as it drifts onto the next, and all the nights that come along with it. With the limited time you spend with him in the studio writing and making music, he would make it a point to always walk you back to your place, if this is what it takes to be with you a little while longer. If he had to admit, apart from your insane talent, he adores your smile, and how it crinkles the corner of your eyes whenever you talk about your friends or any of your favourite things. He adores it even more when you do it on occasions he tells you a corny joke or two. He adores how your eyes brighten whenever your beautiful mind works its wonders into music. But he adores your laughter the most, how it's like a soothing melody he wants to listen to on repeat, so he tries to crack you up with an abundance of his silliness just to hear that bubbling laugh.

But he has seen you at your worst, too. If he could, he would trade all of his good days just for you to overcome your bad days. He’d write all the songs for you until his hands bleed, if need be.

Such a constellation are you to him. Who would have thought that his own song would lead him straight to you? But still, Prompto wishes he had the courage to say all these things. But as his adoration for you blossoms into something else, he lets his feelings known the only way he knows how: by letting the words leak into the page, letting it dry into a song.

Even though we may be hopeless hearts Just passing through Every bone screaming I don’t know what we should do All I know is, darling, I was made for loving you

You are startled to find Prompto alone in the studio, tuning his guitar.

“Where are the others?” you ask, as if by way of greeting. You drop your things by the couch, taking a seat beside him.

“Um, they’re—they went out to buy some food! Or something,” Prompto says nervously. He avoids your eyes. Weirdly, his nervousness is making you nervous, too. “I, uh—” he takes a piece of paper from his jacket and hands it to you— “I wrote down a couple of lines to complete the chorus. You wanna give it another go?”

You unfold the piece of paper and read the lyrics.

Shit. It’s beautiful. It’s too beautiful that you cannot help but wonder to whom he wrote it for. In the weeks you have known him, you’re aware that he isn’t exactly seeing anyone. The thought of the song has been written for another person makes your heart wince.

“Wow, this is… really good, Prom,” you say as evenly as you can. “I guess whoever’s on your mind when you wrote this must be a lucky person.”

Prompto looks up at you. “Well, yeah. But I think I’m luckier ‘cause I have them by my side right now.”

A strange silence settles between the two of you. The only sound you can hear is your own heart racing in what seems to be a hundred miles per hour. You want to say something, but the words are locked somewhere down your throat.

Prompto sighs. “Look, I’d totally understand if you don’t feel the same way. I just want you to know what I feel—”

“Actually, I do feel the same way,” you say. You bite your lip to stop the smile trying to escape your lips, only to fail miserably.

“Wait, really?”

“Yes, really.”

“Are you serious—”

“Prom, if you don’t stop talking and if you don’t start kissing me right now, I’ll hate you forever.”

In that moment, he crosses the space between the two of you, cupping your face in his hands. This time, the silence sings. Its music dances at the beat of your own heart. Prompto takes his sweet time as he presses a kiss on your forehead, traveling down to the tip of your nose, and slowly but surely, his lips finally finding yours.