#iphone flap cases

[dezinomania]

(via "The Gamer Dream" iPhone Wallet for Sale by DEZINOMANIA)

[iwaoiness]

Oikawa's problematic phone case

Without any doubt, Iwaizumi is the only person in the world who is able to look so fucking hot in his ID picture without even trying. His golden skin, his hair in that natural state of spiky, his forehead relaxed without any wrinkles, that piercing in his eyebrow that he got in his first year at Irvine and that Tooru still shivers over, his eyes staring at the camera with an intensity in their greenish hue that takes breath away, his lips curved in a small lopsided smile, a shadow of dimple on his cheek, his jaw well marked by the lights, his chin slightly elevated.

Hajime sent it during one of his video calls while telling him about his day; the soda Oikawa was drinking at that moment shot out of his nose when he choked while opening the picture. Early in the morning, he stood in the nearest copy shop to his house to request eight copies, still blushing, heart racing, and ears still ringing from Iwaizumi's deep-playful-stupid-hot laugh and his Do I look so hot that it makes the great Oikawa-senshu this nervous?

One of those copies ended up in his grey silicone case (which actually matched Iwaizumi's, his with a chubby dinosaur drawing in the bottom corner asking What are u doing?; Oikawa's, with another smiling dinosaur hugging the rest of Iwasaurus missing tail, answering Miss you, hug me!), accompanying him everywhere for months along with a small family photo with his parents, sister and Takeru.

However, one night, during an interview on a popular and prestigious TV show, Oikawa completely forgot that he changed his usual cover for a transparent one and took out his mobile phone in the middle of the interview to show the presenter a really embarrassing video of Matias, his friend and San Juan's starting blocker.

And, of course, Tooru's loud and intense fandom erupted the minute they noticed (thanks to damn high-definition cameras that might as well show gaping pores in close-up as reveal a years-long relationship with a really hot athletic trainer) Hajime's photograph on his IPhone case.

Social media was abuzz with dozens of screenshots from different angles, threads about conspiracy theories (Hanamaki's favourite was that Oikawa had the wrong phone and used the phone of a technical member of the programme; Matsukawa's that Hajime was Tooru's older brother), civil wars between fans over who was more right until only a day later it was revealed (thanks to one Suna Rintaro) that the strange boy was Iwaizumi Hajime, the hot athletic trainer of Birtwistle University and the Japan Men's National Volleyball Team.

And there was no shortage of hashtags like #IwaizumiHajime27AthleticTrainer, #LGBTooru, #BiRighToorus, #IwaOi that became worldwide TT and the grotesque rise of followers on Hajime's official account and also Oikawa's own.

"You had to use a fucking transparent case" Hajime speaks when it's finally his turn to come to Argentina. He's sitting on the bed with Tooru propped up next to him, blinking at the memes that continue to pop up on his TL even though it's been a month of what Oikawa's fans have already dubbed IwaOi National Day. "You have a drawer full, full, of ridiculous phone cases and you pick the one that's transparent."

"I already said it was unintentional, Iwa-chan! Unintentional!" Oikawa protests, crossing his arms as he makes a pout that Hajime finds truly endearing. "I'd better have kept the picture that auntie took of you when you were nine years old and got stuck in the cat flap," he mutters, but Iwaizumi hears him clearly and Tooru squeals as a pillow hits his face, nearly knocking him off the bed.

...

the cute phone case inspired this drabble

as always thank u sm and u can find me on my ao3 🍉

[nurseshannansreviews]

📱 I surprised my husband with this early Father's day gift from @safesleeve! It's a versatile anti-radiation and rfid blocking wallet case! It contains an innovative FCC accredited lab tested shielding technology that can block up to 99% of radio frequencies (5G, Wi-Fi, cellular, etc.) and up to 92% of ELF (battery, AC power, etc.)  What an easy way to reduce cell phone radiation!!

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[ilovelisasstuff]

Check out this listing I just added to my Poshmark closet: Celine New in Box White Leather Flap Top Sunglass Case Phone Pouch Crossbody Bag.

[houseofgerrard]

Check out this listing I just added to my Poshmark closet: Roots Black Leather Cellphone Flap Wallet Folio.

[bitchystrangerqueen]

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The holster features a secure magnetic closure, ensuring that your iPhone is safely enclosed within the case. This magnetic flap not only provides protection but also adds a touch of convenience by allowing quick and easy access to your device.

[mamahuggiebear13]

Check out this listing I just added to my Poshmark closet: iPhone Wallet Case.

[24kmedia]

Vena’s iPhone 14 Pro Max 📱 Case Doubles As A Stand & Wallet 🧳. I like how strong the magnets are on the foldable origami flap. Designed in Minnesota. ad

https://www.instagram.com/reel/CqMt_qRLzDR/

[anantradingpvtltd]

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[dezinomania]

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[foodiotdotin]

Homava Army Camo Molle Bag for Mobile Phone Belt Pouch Holster Cover Case, 16.5 X 9.5 X 2.5 cm, Green

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[trustplanning]

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[bhellion]

School Of Magicks and Misery

This excerpt from an abandoned draft in which Karkat and Dave realize Hogwarts has no wi-fi:

Only two boys remained in the Gryffindor's first year dorm room, the rest off to the dining hall for breakfast. Should be called the breakfast hall in that case...

"YOU HAVE GOT TO BE FUCKING KIDDING ME!"

It's a school of magic and aliens are invited. Not the weirdest thing you've ever heard of, though it was kind of surprising you guess. But hey, if trolls can be tech wizards, why shouldn't they be normal wizards?

Your name is Dave Strider, and you were named ages ago when your Bro found your scrawny baby ass in the middle of a crater surrounded by debris and broken records like some sort of freaky alien in a movie where you're supposed to become a superhero. You happen to be an actual human, unlike your loud roommate there.

"Yo, chill it with the caps," you tell him.

"HOW ABOUT YOU SHUT YOUR FLAP, STRIDER, I'M HAVING A MONUMENTAL RAGEDOWN AT THIS SHITTY SCHOOL'S BAFFLING DISREGARD FOR BASIC TROLL RIGHTS..." he keeps going, but you sort of tune him out while you scavenge your chest for some DEAD THINGS to put up on a shelf or something. Make the room a little more homey.

Plenty of jars on the shelves later and he's still messing with his "husktop" with worrying force. He kinda has claws where your fingernails are, and you know girls with long nails that can use a laptop without damaging it or their nails, but he's going off on the poor piece of tech like it's an anime and he's blindfolded, ready to go down on a watermelon with a baseball bat. Worrying.

The ongoing ragedown eventually extends past the point of making a point and goes right through the tunnel of tantrum levels of loquacity.

"Dude."

"...FEW HUMANS COULD POSSIBLY COMPREHEND IT'S NECESSITY, I UNDERSTAND..."

"Hey, man."

"...IT'S A FRANKLY DISGUSTING DISPLAY OF THE LACK OF SOCIALIZATION ON THE PART OF YOUR WEIRD HORNLESS SPECIES..."

"Whoa, rude."

"...BUT I AT LEAST EXPECTED THIS PATHETIC SCHOOL OF MAGICKS AND MISERY TO HAVE THE FUCKING DECENCY TO PROVIDE WI-FI!"

Is he done? Is he finally finished? Has the train finally arrived at the station? How far was this station, it was a pretty long-ass ride. How far do these tracks fucking extend? Is it even legal for trains to go across entire oceans, because you're pretty sure the Tantrum Train (an admirable freight powered solely by the abundant resource that is every single word that leaves the troll's mouth) has just made a round trip around the whole fucking world, and it took the long way.

Wait. What did he say? No...no wi-fi?

"Wait what."

You aren't old enough for a captchalogue deck, but you've got this corpulent trunk for a reason, and that reason is to hold your various interests. Many of those require fucking internet access.

You reach into your pocket instead and take out your iPhone, the most easily accessible computer at the moment.

"No no," you deny it, "there's gotta be, like, a signal that we can ask the password for, right? How the fuck are we supposed to keep up with our family? And why won't my phone turn on!? I had it charged to the boons before getting on the train."

You're starting to see why the troll dude was going down so hard on his top.

"SOMEONE GETS IT."

Troll dude has given up on the wi-fi access, though it looks like his husktop at least turned on. He was lying at an awkward angle on his bed, groaning and moaning at different intervals, letting the blood rush to his head and waiting for someone to step on his hands.

You grab your own laptop and press the power button. No dice. What. the. Fuck.

[justkeeptrekkin]

A gift to all my followers!

This is something I whacked out a couple of weeks ago- just a thank you to all my followers who’ve stuck around, or who have just found me within the Good Omens fandom! It means the world to see you guys enjoy my fics. This is my gift to you guys, now that 2019 is coming to a close!

Enjoy! x

***

It’s hard to keep track of time when they're together on a good day. It’s even harder on the best of days. 

The Ritz is busy. The lunch table is inappropriately large for just the two of them. They’re sat right next to each other. Champagne is bitter-sweet on Crowley’s tongue and he could watch Aziraphale for hours, listen to him talking for hours. He measures the way Aziraphale leans towards him with a hand stretched across the table, sharing a story. Eyes bright, typically taut posture unusually relaxed. Entire aura relaxed. The feeling in his own chest, relaxed.

And so it’s harder than usual to keep track of the time. People leave after tea; people arrive for dinner; people leave after dinner. The waiters stare at them from the kitchen doors, waiting for them to ask for the bill, which they don’t. Crowley barely has it in him to glare at them. 

Their knees touch for almost the entire time. 

For Crowley and Aziraphale, time has only ever been a construct. However, it has also, always, been bound by celestial responsibilities. Now, they have no such responsibilities. And they are no longer being watched. 

The sky is darkening just a little when they finally leave. Green Park remains busy at-

Crowley checks the time on his phone.

-Greek Park remains busy at five thirty on a Tuesday night. People line up at the bus stop, heading home from work. Tourist stands filled with union jacks litter the streets outside the park. The colonnade of The Ritz shelters them from a light bit of drizzle. 

Crowley slides his hands into his negligible pockets and considers what comes next. Dining at The Ritz has always comes with a time limit, and somewhere to go immediately afterwards. Some sort of agenda. He doesn’t know what that is now. 

He looks over at Aziraphale, who hovers. Hovers and fiddles with his hands. Gaze flitting about as if he’s nervous, smile flickering on and off as if he doesn’t want Crowley to notice. He makes a feeble attempt at smiling again and gestures to the rain with a small nod. “Lovely weather we’re having, eh?” he says. It’s followed by a shaky half-laugh. 

Crowley frowns at him, the bottom half of his face forming a smile. He feels as if he’s watching the Angel of the Eastern gate, introducing himself at Eden. And something about the sudden awkwardness fills him with intrigue- more than that, anticipation. 

He leans back against a column, hands in pockets, and surveys Aziraphale’s anxious flapping.

“Well, go on, then,” Crowley prompts. “Something’s on your mind.”

“Not on my mind, per se,” Aziraphale concedes. His eyes darting up to the roof of the colonnade, to Heaven- a habit that may take some time to kick. “An idea of sorts.” “You’ve intrigued me,” Crowley drawls. 

“Nothing exciting. Only.” 

The look Aziraphale gives him in the brief moment of hesitation is heart-breaking. It’s filled with hope, and a healthy dollop of apprehension, too. As if Crowley would ever deny him anything. Crowley has experienced these moments of heart-shattering, heart-squashing, heart-pummelling love many times before, and he very much hopes that he’s done an alright job of concealing it from his expression.

He raises his eyebrows at Aziraphale and waits. 

Aziraphale sighs, looking uncomfortable and apparently having no intention of expanding. He expects Crowley to make the move. Unsurprising.

“I could…” Crowley starts. Aziraphale looks at him in hope again. Christ on a bike I’m a pushover, he thinks. “I could. Invite you round to mine for a drink. If… you were thus inclined.” A great beaming smile. “Oh, you took the words right out of my mouth.” Crowley huffs an almost-laugh. They look at each other. And they both let the weight of that sink in. Slowly, like the rain that’s currently seeping into the stone pavement beyond the Ritz’s colonnade. 

“Right,” he announces quickly, before thoughts can escalate any further. “Off we go, then?”

“Yes, just so. Tip top.”

Crowley conjures an umbrella. It’s not as if anyone would have noticed, he tells himself, though he sees the doorman at the Ritz recoil a little in shock. They share its shelter until Aziraphale miraculously hails a cab. 

***

“Best idea you’ve had all week, angel- and that includes the body swapping nonsense.”

Aziraphale is sat on Crowley’s sofa. He has been handed a glass of wine. He holds it between cupped hands like he plans to take communion. His legs are hidden behind a tartan blanket. (Crowley will never admit that he conjured such a thing long, long ago, just in case something like this might happen. Something like Aziraphale staying for a movie night, or even, staying for the night. It had always seemed so unlikely. In fact, the moment he’d created said blanket, Crowley had been so infuriated by his blind hope of ‘having Aziraphale round’ that he’d burned it. 

He’d restored the ashes to its original, tartaned form just a couple of hours later.)

“It seemed like the next logical thing,” Aziraphale explains pensively, brows raised and peering down into his Malbec. “If I had a ‘to do’ list, this is what I would put on it. I haven’t sat down and watched a movie all the way through in such a long time.” This may well be true, Crowley considers, as he rifles through his DVD collection, knees against polished concrete and painted nails tapping the spine of Monty Python and the Holy Grail. Meanwhile, he’s simply marvelling at the fact that they’ve never sat down and watched a movie all the way through together, the two of them, ever. They’d always had more important things to be getting on with, like saving the world or performing miracles or negotiating the terms of their Agreement. And now. Now they can-

Now they can what?

He looks back over his shoulder at Aziraphale. Aziraphale is looking at him. The angel’s gaze flicks away instantly, staring back down into his wine. It hurts something in his chest. A nice kind of hurt, like a dash too much wasabi. 

Crowley takes a moment to recover from this. Then- “You. You still haven’t given me any clues. What you in the mood for, angel?”

Aziraphale’s eyes widen for the briefest moment as if he’s alarmed by this question, for whatever reason. Then he frowns to himself, purses his lips in thought. Casts his eyes around the room, for inspiration. “Something…” “If you say nice,” Crowley warns, knees hurting a little on the hard floor. 

“I wasn’t going to,” Aziraphale retorts. He pauses. He adds, more quietly, “I was going to say fun.”

Crowley groans. Turns to the DVD cabinet.

“I don’t do fun,” he says slowly, emphatically. 

“Alright, well. Something at least a bit light-hearted. I think saving the world rather calls for it, don’t you?” Crowley tilts his head from side to side in consideration. “It’s a fair point,” he concedes to himself more than Aziraphale. Pouts. “Don’t want to bring the mood down. Not sure I’d want to…”

The reason he doesn’t finish his sentence is because he’s just been, unfortunately, reacquainted with the more mushy end of his DVD collection. He’d forgotten that he has several Audrey Heburn films, as well as a couple of Julia Roberts classics. He glares at them. Hidden amongst the arthouse silent movies, they’re betraying just how soft he is. And Aziraphale’s watching.

The DVD boxes quiver under his stare. 

“How about we start with discussing what you have,” Aziraphale tries, reasonably. “Since we can’t reach a consensus. We don’t even have to watch a DVD if you don’t want-”

“Netflix,” Crowley remembers, standing up abruptly and immediately closing the cabinet. Then, “Netflix! That’s a thing. That’s a thing that we can do.” “Oh yes- I’ve heard of that,” Aziraphale says chirpily. 

“Oh, yes, well done, angel.”

Aziraphale glares. 

And so the Netflix loading screen bongs into life, Crowley collapsing onto the sofa beside Aziraphale. The red wine is jostled; Aziraphale tuts. Crowley props his heels on the coffee table. 

“Do you mind. I almost spilled Malbec on my shirt.” “Lots more choices now,” Crowley ignores him and begins flicking through. “Look, it’s all organised nicely in rows of genre. Love how tidy this is, look. And the search function is so much easier. Have you tried the search function on Amazon Prime, lately? Nightmare.” “I have no clue what you’re talking about,” Aziraphale replies lightly, spinning the wine in his glass like a whirlpool.

“Look, ‘s’got a whole section called ‘light-hearted movies’.” 

“Very helpful.”

They flick through the row. They go through all of them without choosing, and end up at the beginning of the loop again. Crowley growls and hangs his head off the back of the sofa.

“Oh, pass it here,” Aziraphale sighs, putting down his wine with a decisive clink and picking up the remote. He holds it with one hand and presses the directional buttons with his other hand, as if it’s far more complicated and delicate a process than it actually is. Like an octogenarian trying to use an iPhone.  

“How about this lovely looking Christmas film.“

"N- no. Anything but that. It’s October. And more importantly, no.”

“It looks ever so sweet, though. How lovely and romantic-”

“We are not watching The Christmas fucking-well Prince.”

He’d had a hand in inspiring that, and he’s too embarrassed to admit it even to himself. His evil deeds really are shit. 

“No need to snap,” Aziraphale mutters.  

“If you’re determined to watch something romantic and seasonal, I will accept The Holiday. If I must. Jack Black makes it bearable.”

Aziraphale lets the screen rest on the thumbnail of the movie. Then, quite thoughtfully, he says: “I like Kate Winslet. She seems like a nice woman.”

“Mm. Yeah, that’s. OK. I’m sure she is, angel.”

In all honesty, the idea of watching a rom-com with Aziraphale is border-line torture. It’s not quite as bad as waterboarding, but it’s close. More on the same level as those nightmares you get where you have to do a maths exam in your underwear, on stage, and all of your exes and crushes point and laugh at you. Not only are rom-coms pretty hit and miss- some influenced by Heaven, some by Hell, you never know what you’re going to get- they’re also a fantastic way of making Crowley feel incredibly exposed. Incredibly hot in the face from second-hand embarrassment. Incredibly aware that he’s meant to be sneering and heckling, when he’s just trying to concentrate on holding himself together. Stop the feelings from spurting out of his heart like water in a dam: feelings that he thinks are, embarrassingly, rather a lot like longing.

And yet, because it is Crowley, and this is what Crowley does, he lets Aziraphale select the movie and they watch The Holiday. They remark on the general cheesiness, the (at times) witty dialogue. The staggering amount of disbelief that has to be suspended for the plot to work. How nice Jude Law looks in glasses. 

Crowley’s only sort of watching. He’s concentrating on Aziraphale. Not outright staring at him (although he does often do that, it’s a wonder he hasn’t noticed and told Crowley to sod off). Rather, letting his brain tick over the knowledge that he is right beside him. Too much of his daft, devil mind is unable to ignore the fact that Aziraphale is there. 

Sometimes, it sends unhelpful thoughts his way. Like, you could touch his hand. Or, imagine feeding him popcorn- wouldn’t that be interesting. Or simply, there he is. He’s here. He’s with you. He’s chosen this. 

About half-way through the film, Aziraphale starts with those sad sighing sounds, making woebegone eyes at the television- which tells Crowley that he’s getting peckish but doesn’t want to bother Crowley with it. So, Crowley casually announces that he’s heard there’s a good new Chinese restaurant around the corner, and Aziraphale brightens up again immediately. And they have to pause the film to choose what to eat, because Crowley reckons he might actually order something for himself this time, and Aziraphale ums and ahs about these things for hours anyway. And once they’ve ordered- over the app, thank God for avoiding human interaction- the food arrives, quite miraculously, three minutes later. 

And once the food is gone, the film is almost finished. And Netflix seems to have decided what they should watch next, because it puts on the first episode of The Crown without asking them. Which they watch, although Crowley’s not really watching. And Aziraphale is complaining about the inaccuracies. 

And at some point they end up sitting very close.

No. That makes it sound as if Crowley has no idea how they ended up that close. He knows exactly when this happened, because he hasn’t taken a breath since. 

It happened like this.

They’re halfway through the first episode of The Crown, and Aziraphale has returned from the kitchen with a new bottle of red- a Pinot, this time- and he pours for both him and Crowley. Aziraphale has been sat on his own side of the sofa, and Crowley has been on his, draping his arms and legs wherever he sees fit. Now, as Aziraphale resettles on the sofa, he sits right beside him. The way Crowley is angled, his legs dangling off the arm of the sofa, means that he’s leaning in Aziraphale’s direction. Very obviously. 

So he’s using all his (very little) core strength to keep himself sitting upright enough not to fall into his lap. Even if it would be very nice to let his head rest on Aziraphale’s lap. And even if he’d really like to relax a little bit and lean his shoulder against Aziraphale’s. 

And for Heaven’s sake, it shouldn’t be an issue for a couple of six thousand year old beings to sit side-by-side on a sofa, and yet, here’s Crowley, having a crisis about it. It’s not as if he thought twice about pinning him against a wall. 

Although he probably should have. That was a lot.

His eyes follow the way Aziraphale’s legs stretch in front of him, crossed over at the ankles. A little slouched on the sofa, shoes off. It’s about as relaxed as Crowley’s ever seen him. 

“Why do you think they decided to make this TV series now, when the Queen is still alive,” Aziraphale remarks. It almost makes Crowley jump a little, so deep in thought that he’d forgotten time hadn’t stopped entirely.

“Whassat?” “Well, why do you think they’ve made the series now? It seems a bit-”

“Right,” Crowley says brain finally processing the question. “No- dunno, angel.” They both go quiet. Crowley’s hand grips the back of the sofa. The fear that he’s going to slip and lean against Aziraphale is too real. As nice as it would be-

Perfect. Miraculous. Wonderfully human. 

-It would also be mortifying. 

He can hear Aziraphale’s breathing. Slow. Precise and even, like he’s measuring out ingredients for a recipe. It makes Crowley’s mouth go dry with painful self-awareness.

“Do you remember,” Aziraphale starts quietly, “when you and I bumped into each other in Camden Town?” He takes a few seconds to pretend to think about this. “Yeah, ‘f course. Nineteen seventy-seven. What made you think of that?” Aziraphale shifts a little, looking at Crowley. Crowley doesn’t look back, watches the screen. If he turns towards Aziraphale, they’ll be-

“You were wearing that awful t-shirt.” That makes him laugh. A tipping-the-head-back laugh. “Oh yeah- my God Save the Queen t-shirt. Sex Pistols. Yeah, those were the days. Don’t knock ‘em, they were a good band.” “I’m sure they were.” “Don’t use that voice, they were. Anarchic music at its finest.” “I believe you, but bebop is still a little too baffling for me, I’m afraid.”

Crowley doesn’t expect it. He doesn’t know where it comes from- he thought he knew himself quite well at this point, but apparently not well enough. He feels something take over from out of nowhere. Rather, feels something erase everything else- a whiteboard rubber cleaning all the bullshit away. 

And now he’s turned to Aziraphale without the babbling voice of anxiety in his head. 

“It’s punk music, not bebop. And. I reckon you’d like it.” His voice is a murmur and his eyes are looking at Aziraphale’s lips. Thank Christ for sunglasses. 

When he looks back up and meets Aziraphale’s gaze, he’s watching Crowley. Looking for something. 

He feels his lips part, hears himself take a breath through his mouth. 

“Oh, really?” Aziraphale asks weakly. A small quirk in one eyebrow. 

“Y-” Fucking Hell. His throat’s all dry and he’s forgotten what words are. And now Aziraphale is definitely looking at his mouth. Fuck fuck fuck fu- “Yeah. You’re a rebel now, after all. Sort of. Breaking all those rules.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale replies in a whisper. Then, regaining his voice, “I suppose that’s true.”

“S- uh- mm- w- some of the songs, anyway, not all of them. You’d uh- h- some of them are a bit explicit than others and you’d probably not. Not get on with those ones.”

“Crowley…?” That’s all it takes. Thousands of years of keeping his feelings to himself and taking it slow, and all it takes is that little inflection in Aziraphale’s hushed voice. That hesitant request, draped over the sound of his name. Crowley leans in and presses his lips gently against Aziraphale’s. 

There’s that horrible moment when it stops, and everything else seems to stop, too. The what next? hangs in the air and Aziraphale stutters a shaky breath against Crowley’s skin. 

“Too fast?” is what Crowley ends up asking. Just to break the pause. 

And then the most dazzling, drunken smile spreads across Aziraphale’s face. Brows knit together. An expression that looks a lot like “To the world.” 

“No,” he half laughs, shaking his head infinitesimally. “For once, no. We… we saved the world, I rather think we deserve this.”

Something in Crowley relaxes, unhinges, collapses. It lets all the feelings free and they flood him till he swears he almost goes blind. And that is how they both end up falling asleep on the sofa, still wearing the days’ clothes and kicking off a tartaned blanket. Wrapped up in each other- starting this new era as they mean to continue.

***

Crowley wakes up and finds his head on Aziraphale’s chest. He’s splayed on top of him, arm hanging off the edge of the sofa. He feels Aziraphale’s hand, warm between his shoulder blades. 

“What would you like to do today?” Aziraphale asks with a smile in his voice. 

That is how it starts. They think of the things they were too scared to do together, the things that they never found the time to do together, the things they always liked to do together. 

They go for a walk through Hampstead Heath, just as the weather’s beginning to turn- their breathes steaming in front of their faces as they walk. They haven’t been here since 1815. They both try to avoid the muddy parts and fail spectacularly. They make fun of each other for the mess they’ve made of their shoes. They begin by hooking their fingers together, until they’re brave enough to hold hands completely. 

They go home and cook together. It goes disastrously. 

“What are we doing today?” Crowley asks the next morning, when they wake up on Crowley’s sofa again. 

They go to some hipster bar in East London- Tobacco Docks, it’s called. They find that there’s good food, lots of good booze and an ice rink- which Crowley absolutely point-blank refuses to go on until Aziraphale makes that wide-eyed, pleading face. They have a tipsy and very clumsy skate around the rink before returning to their drinks. Crowley’s better at wine than ice rinks. 

“What are we doing today?” Aziraphale asks, when they’ve woken up in Crowley’s bed. His white hair against his white sheets. A new part of the landscape of his room.

They end up doing very little. They read together on the sofa and make tea.  Crowley introduces Aziraphale to the best music ever created- disco, of course. They dance in the living room in bare feet and laugh till they can’t see through the tears. 

“What are we doing today?” Crowley asks the next morning. 

“What are we doing today?” Aziraphale asks the next. 

They’ve saved the world, and that still seems surreal. But there’s waking up on Crowley’s sofa after a movie marathon, too. A dinner date, or a night in. 

And that feels perfectly real. 

[idlepear]

Sophia Smith || Revolve in the Hamptons || July 3rd, 2017

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