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shirtlesssammy · 3 years

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5x21: Two Minutes to Midnight

Then:

The End is Nigh

Now:

Davenport, Iowa

We begin this episode with Pestilence paying an ailing woman a visit. He’s riddled her with more diseases than she can handle. What an experiment!

One Day Earlier

At Bobby’s, Sam’s getting an earful from Dean about his plan to say yes to Lucifer. Dean gets a call from Cas. Dean wants to know where he is --they all thought he was dead. He’s in a hospital. He’s not one for conversation at the moment, but does tell Dean that he just woke up in the hospital. Dean tells him their next step: get Pestilence.

For Hospital Bed Science:

Cas groans in pain and tells Dean he can’t fly anywhere. He’s thirsty, and his head aches, and he has a bug bite, and he’s all so very... Dean finishes his thought with, “human”. Cas needs money for pain meds and travel expenses.

Also, he stops Dean from hanging up and says that he owes him an apology. “You are not the burnt and broken shell of a man that I believed you to be,” he confesses. Dean’s awkward about such a solemn apology. I’m soft about how soft this moment is.

The brothers head out to scope out the convalescent home where Pestilence chills. They knock out the security guard to watch video footage of the place.

Eventually Sam notices the camera flickering with one person. They head out to find him.

As Pestilence is taking care of Cold Open Celeste, a demon comes in to warn him about the Winchesters. He’s upset over what they did to his brothers, and wants revenge. The demon reminds him he’s not supposed to hurt “the vessels”. He doesn’t care and starts hurting everyone in the building.

Sam and Dean start coughing, and struggle to keep walking. They both collapse outside Pestilence’s door. They’re now riddled with disease, just like Celeste. While the boys struggle on the ground, Pestilence gets to monologue a bit about the frailty of humans.

Enter one VERY human-like angel. Yeah, poor Cas is just as affected as the Winchesters. Pestilence laughs, “There's not a speck of angel in you, is there?” Cas then lunges at him, and cuts his ring finger right off. “Maybe just a speck.” Oh Cas, you badass. Never change.

The demon attacks, and he knifes her. Pestilence disappears, but not before ominously stating, “It’s too late.”

And now they have three rings.

At Bobby’s, Dean asks for some good news. Bobby tells them that Chicago is about to get hit with the storm of the millennium. Three million people are going to die.

GOOD NEWS, Bobby! Or as Cas deadpans, “I don’t understand your definition of ‘good news’.”

Bobby points out that Death will be there. They still need his ring.

Sam wonders how Bobby knows all this. Enter Crowley.

Bobby admits to selling his soul to Crowley. Dean demands that Crowley give it back. Sam wonders if Bobby had to kiss him. Bobby denies it --but Crowley’s got proof. Of course.

Crowley won’t give back Bobby’s soul as insurance that the Winchesters won’t kill him. I mean, I kind of have to side with Crowley here. He’s being REALLY generous even considering giving back Bobby’s soul. Bobby sold it fair and square. He’s getting information from Crowley in return.

Later, by the Impala, Dean and Sam talk. Sam admits that he has his doubts about his plan as much as the rest of them. “You, Bobby, Cas...I'm the least of any of you.” Like, OUCH, Samuel. We deep dive into Dean’s self-worth issues on the regular, but let’s just pause and reflect on the younger sibling right now.

Sam’s all they got though, so they have to try.

Crowley interrupts the broment with news about the world. It seems that Pestilence was spreading Swine Flu, and Sam’s old buddy Brady’s company was cranking out the vaccine --only it was full of Croatoan virus not a cure. If this vaccine is distributed nationwide, it’ll all be over.

Cas and Bobby pack up the van. Cas is...moody. He mourns the loss of his angelic might. The only thing he has available to him now...is a shotgun. (Starts humming) Bobby tells him to quit whining and load the truck.

The teams finish packing for their respective hunts. Sam waxes nostalgically about the simpler days of hunting monsters. Dean doesn’t think it was ever simple. Crowley interrupts and presents Dean with Death’s own scythe (in travel-sized form).

Crowley urges Bobby to stand up and get ready to fight. He reveals that he inserted a little healing clause into Bobby’s soul deal that healed Bobby’s paralysis. Bobby stands up triumphantly.

Later, Sam, Bobby, and Cas drive towards the Croatoan virus operation. Cas reflects on Sam’s idea to toss himself into the pit along with Lucifer. He thinks it’s a solid plan.

Cas passes along some new intel about the archangel prize fight: Michael has taken Adam as a vessel. He warns Sam that failing to control Lucifer means that the apocalypse will happen, do not pass Go, do not collect $200. Oh, and “there’s also the demon blood…” Sam will have to drink gallons of blood in order to be strong enough to contain Lucifer. BLEGH.

The next morning, they lurk at the distribution facility. A truck tries to leave and Cas takes out the driver and jams the gate controls. Sam and Bobby head into the warehouse, only to find that the demons have already infected some of the workers with Croatoan. Sam races off into the warehouse to save (uninfected) civilians.

Dean and Crowley enjoy their first date, tracking Death to a little warehouse.

There’s a lovely clip where Crowley mentions that the area is swarming with reapers, and we get a reveal…

Crowley zaps into the warehouse, discovers that Death isn’t there, then meets Dean outside again. He suggests hightailing it out of Chicago and waiting for the next doomed city in order to find Death. That’s not good enough, though. Dean wants to find a way to save people, even if they can’t track down the Horseman. While Dean despairs, Crowley peers into a little pizza place and then heads back to Dean. He found Death! With his work done and not even a high five to show for it, Crowley zaps out of there.

Back at the warehouse, Sam’s finishes evacuating the uninfected civilians. Just as they think they’re home free, Sam gets attacked and Bobby’s gun jams. Enter Castiel, who shoots Sam’s attacker and says, “Actually these things can be useful.”

For Angel with a Shotgun Science:

Dean creeps through the pizza parlor, which is full of dead patrons and waitstaff. Death’s scythe heats up in his hand and, agonized by the red hot handle, Dean drops it. The next thing he knows, his Death super-weapon is safely by Death’s side.

Death sits at a table savoring a piece of pizza, and invites Dean to join him.

Dean wants to know if he’s about to die, but Death informs him that he has other plans for him. Death quietly reminds Dean that he’s as old and vast as the universe. No biggie though. Dean’s a bacterium, practically, but it’s fine. Death serves Dean a slice of pizza and I desperately long for some good Chicago deep dish.

Death says that he’s as old as God, and maybe older. “At the end, I’ll reap him too.” (And while I appreciate that they didn’t kill Chuck in the traditional stabby manner, I’ll always mourn that we didn’t get to see this line fulfilled in one of the finale’s endless montage sequences, and that Billie didn’t survive to do the job.) (Boris, huddled in the corner: Death didn’t reap Chuck because he won, and the story isn’t over yet...)

Anyway, Dean’s appropriately awed by Death’s power. “This is way above my pay grade,” Dean mutters. Death reveals that he’s been waiting for Dean to catch up to him - Lucifer’s spell has prevented him from directly seeking out the Winchesters. “I’m more powerful than you can process, and I’m enslaved to a bratty child having a tantrum,” Death spits. Preach! Death proposes depowering Lucifer’s Death weapon. He’ll hand Dean his ring willingly.

“What about Chicago?” Dean asks, ever the hunter.

Oh, Chicago can survive. Death likes the pizza. He hands Dean his ring and tells him that he has to do whatever it takes to trap Lucifer. “You’re going to let your brother jump right into that fiery pit. Now, do I have your word?” Dean takes the ring as Death issues one final warning. “You know you can’t cheat Death.”

Back at Bobby’s, Dean looks at the rings. They’ve got all four of them and together, they form into a magic little bundle of rings. Bobby finds Dean for a little heart to heart.

Dean reveals that he lied to Death - he’s not okay with Sam tossing himself into the pit. However, Bobby thinks that Death may be right about Sam’s plan being their best option. Bobby watched Sam save all the civilians in the factory before they blew it up, and he thinks that Sam can handle it. “Sam will beat the Devil, or die trying. That’s the best we could ask for. What exactly are you afraid of? Losing? Or losing your brother?”

O, Quotes:

I don't understand your definition of good news

We'll catch Death in the next doomed city

Think how you'd feel if a bacterium sat at your table and started to get snarky. This is one little planet in one tiny solar system in a galaxy that's barely out of its diapers. I'm old, Dean. Very old. So I invite you to contemplate how insignificant I find you

Want to read more? Check out our Recap Archive!

#spn recap #dean winchester #sam winchester #castiel #cas #bobby singer #death #crowley #spn 5x21 #Two Minutes To Midnight #supernatural season 5 #and that's it for season 5

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jay-and-dean · 4 years

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Firefly Chapter 9 : Twenty eight years old, Come what may

By Roonyxx and Jay-and-dean

Pairings : future Dean x reader ?

Summary : 40 years in Hell, but he didn’t spend all this time all alone, he had her.

Prepare to know what happened during those years Dean never talks about. To immerge yourself in Hell, only lit by the mysterious kid growing here…

And to see some of your favorite villains again : Crowley, Lilith, Lucifer… And also Sammy and Jack…

Serie Warnings : Hurt!Dean, Hell (torture, even if we tried to not give it graphic descriptions, creepy demons, blood, violence), swearing, angst, future fluff and smut.

This story is in both Reader’s POV and Dean’s POV

Wordcount : 5900

Note : This is our second collaboration. We can’t both edit the same post, so we decided we would post 1 chapter/2 each, like we did for Same.

We both worked as much on this story and it’s the result of both our brains but also both our hearts.

Please, if you want to show love for this story, don’t forget we were together in this.

This story will be around 10 chapters and we intend to edit it every Saturday if nothing delays it.

Firefly Masterlist

Jay’s Masterlist

Roonyxx Masterlist

——————————————————————————————

9. Twenty years old : Come what may

Reader’s Pov

She opened her eyes in a gasp, almost like she had slept holding her breath. She put her hand on her chest and immediately, the smell of the bunker calmed her.

This was no Hell, and even if it had been, the Winchesters had made sure Hell would never be what it was before : No Lilith or Alastair, no Lucifer, no knight of Hell…

She let go of the pillow she was holding like she once used to hold Mister Teddy bear; and looked around at the grey room. A little smile appeared on her lips : Everything was perfect.

She didn’t own anything, since Lucifer didn’t really let her pack before locking her back in Hell, but Dean had made sure that her room was welcoming enough. A little alarm clock on the nightstand, next to her glass of water and little bag of candies, a few books behind her bed, because she had always loved books so much ; he had also given her a few extra pillows.

She looked at her open closet, smiling at the memory of going to buy clothes with Dean on the second day. He didn’t want to take the risk to take her far, so they went to the closest store in Lebanon, a tiny store, where only one pair of jeans suited her, so she had bought two of them, two shirts, a few underwears, and a pair of sneakers. But her perfect items were the one Dean had given her. She really didn’t need anything else.

She sat and looked down at her wrists, they were now healed from the deep wounds caused by years of tugging at the chains but a mark was left, a scar. She rubbed her thumb on it, wondering if it would stay, thinking of the books she had read about those people who suffered slavery, their scars couldn’t disappear…

Her eyes wandered in the dark, and the red light of the alarm made her frown, she shivered.

6:28 am.

That meant the bunker would probably be silent... And silence wasn’t her favorite sound.

She got up on her tiptoes, tugging at Dean’s t-shirt to cover her panties. And, as discreet as she used to leave her princess room with her teddy bear in her hand, she sneaked out.

No blood all over the corridors and no scream anywhere. Dean wasn’t being tortured, he was sound asleep in a bed, not even too cold or too hot, just perfectly surrounded by pillows and safe.

A sound caught her attention in the kitchen, the calming, already familiar sound of the coffee machine in the morning, and the intoxicating smell that came with it.

A light smile on her face, still on her tiptoes, she walked to the kitchen to see who was at the origin of that comforting morning sound.

“Hi Sam” she smiled, when he appeared in her field of vision.

“Oh, hi Firefly” he said, immediately correcting himself. “Y/n.”

“You can call me that” she smiled sincerely, earning an awkward chuckle from him. “Is Dean still sleeping ?”

Sam nodded and handed her a coffee, she took it and started blowing on it. The feeling of the flavored steam on her face was one of the things she loved so much about life. One of the million things.

“D-Dean told me about what you’ve been through to lock Lucifer, and save us all, and me, from his cruelty” she started hesitantly. “I know it isn't worth much next to what you had to live but… Thank you. Thank you so much.”

His eyebrows raised a little, and he looked down while nodding.

“No, it- it means a lot actually” he said. “Thank you for helping my brother in Hell.”

“I didn’t” she answered right away. “I tried. But he still got tortured everyday, he still had to bleed to death on that concrete floor; cold as death or hot enough to make the blood puddles boil… And I still slept in a bed.”

Sam frowned, biting the inside of his cheek once or twice.

“You…” he finally spoke. “You had more than your share of horrors. You can’t blame yourself.”

She smiled kindly, she wasn’t ready to stop blaming herself, and as long as she would hate her kind, or at least half her kind that much, she couldn’t really forgive herself. But she had tried, and she was holding on to this.

“I’m going to get back to bed, with Dean” she stated. “Unless you need me for anything.”

“O-okay” he said, surprised, blinking a few times. “No, I dont… Be careful though, Dean is an angry sleeper.”

“He wasn’t angry last morning” she shrugged and left the kitchen still on her tiptoes, her mug close to her face.

She pushed the 11 door slowly, immediately smiling at the strong smell of Dean filling the room. He had been sweating, the room was a little warmer than the corridor, like his body had created a lot of heat during the night.

He was sleeping on his back, the covers crumpled next to him, his black t-shirt bunched up, slightly showing his lower stomach.

She entered slowly, carefully closing the door behind her. She walked to the nightstand to put her coffee there, Dean loved the smell of coffee waking him.

Then she put one knee on the bed, then the other, to join him in the middle of it.

“It’s me” she whispered when he reacted in his sleep to her movements. “It’s me Dean.”

She laid next to him , not daring to touch, just enjoying him being so close.

“Morning Firefly” he grunted, stretching his arm to reach the first part of her he could.

His hand landed on her bare thigh, grasping it to bring her closer.

Her hand flattened on his chest and her leg snuggled above his, his soft blond hair tickling her ankle. She looked up at the side of his face, her lips against his shoulder.

“I’m going to get up” he said sleepily.

“You don’t have too” she whispered, lifting her arm to stroke the hair on his temple.

She had held him so often, she had stroked his hair countless times… But now that it wasn’t to escort him to his millionth death, everything was different, a true Heaven.

“Yeah…” he said, wrapping his arm around her. “So tell me more about Sue.”

She smiled wide. For once, she also had stories to tell, she could finally debate about the best songs of Led Zeppelin -she hadn’t forgotten one- and tell him what food she liked the most.

Dean’s pov

The bar was not too busy, and just the good, enveloping amount of loud.

Sam kept looking around worriedly, like some monster was going to show up to hurt them because he had recognized her. But Dean was unfazed, sipping at his beer, his arm on the back of her chair. He had seen her power, and now he was sure of something : Not much could really hurt her, and if anyone tried, he would just rip them like he did Death, Abaddon and Lucifer. Nothing would stop him.

“I was so drunk !” she laughed out loud, telling her story, joy lighting up her whole face, her entire body living her words.

He smiled, engrossed by the sparking in her eyes.

“Sounds like a great evening” Sam nodded.

“Yeah” she said. “It was the first night I knew exactly where I was going to sleep” she added with a serious shadow on her face.

Dean wrapped his arm around her and used his big hand to put her head on his shoulder. She sighed in content and put a hand on his chest.

They stayed like this for a few moments before she got up.

“I need to pee, Jesus beer !” she said before she left.

Dean watched her leave, drinking a sip of his beer. His flannel made her look small, he remembered how her dresses used to make her so tall.

“You just let her go by herself ?” Sam asked.

“What ?” Dean gave him a mocking face. “I know she is not a big fan of loneliness but I’m pretty sure she likes to be there alone.”

“Someone could recognize her” Sam insisted, ignoring his brother’s comment.

“I gave her a phone, a necklace with sigils to keep her hidden, put a tracking chip in her shoe… You heard what Billie said, no one can recognize her, she learned to vanish into the crowd when she faked her death, her powers are hiding themselves” he stated in a deep voice. “She has been a prisoner all her life, give her a break.”

“I know, I’m… I’m worried sometimes” Sam said. “I really like her, but there are moments when you seem blinded by her, Dean.”

He didn’t answer and leaned to the back of his chair, looking at the restroom door to see her come back.

Dean was not blinded by her. He knew what everyone was thinking.

They were not hating her, and, after they met her and saw the light within her soul, they even grew pretty fond of her, who wouldn’t ?

They just didn’t understand that bond Dean and her had, no one did.

And Dean himself knew it was strange. He had seen her grow, and she had seen him die a thousand times. They had fought and hoped together, and they had suffered. What she had seen all of him, kneeling in his guts to hold his hand… No one could really understand that.

Having her in his home, in his life, was confusing, scary and disturbing. Thinking so much about Hell was unbearable the first three days, and at some point he really feared that it would stay insufferable. And so he stayed occupied, buying her clothes and some girl products, reading on Cambions, interrogating Demons and Angels… Even Billie.

But Firefly was not the darkness of Hell, she was the light out of it.

The next three days became easier. He felt relieved, like somehow, his hope being alive was a closure for him. A way to give some of his memories more sense and to let go of a part of it.

And so their bond grew. He remembered their kiss, so long ago, and spent a few hours in his bed wondering if their connection was this kind of bond, or not. And obviously, he had no idea. Of course she was pretty, beautiful even, and had the most radiant smile… But for now all he could really think, was that he needed her there, and that she needed to live for real.

He was confused, and, the more he was failing, for once, to find the right words to explain to his family why she could sit in the driver seat of Baby and turn on the engine without a flinch of him ; why she would always know when he was cold or hot, hungry or bothered before he even noticed ; how well she could know every details of his story… The more their bond made everyone wonder.

Castiel had been the most suspicious, his too serious frown hiding almost entirely the blue of his eyes. He had stared at her, and warned the brothers a hundred times about what a Cambion could do. Sam had reassured him like he could to avoid any poor choice from the angel, and Dean had just ignored him.

But when Firefly jumped in the angel's arms, her big eyes wet, thanking him a thousand times for freeing Dean, taking his hand to kiss his knuckles… even Castiel didn’t seem so sure of her dangerosity after all.

Sam was trying his best to understand what was going on, to hide his worry behind his usual kindness. Firefly coming to their life was even more disturbing than Jack’s birth, because it wasn’t new the same way for both brothers.

But once again, each time he felt slightly threatened by the connection between the young woman and his brother, she said or did something that showed how admirative she was of him, and how much she was ready to work on earning his trust, and possibly his friendship.

Jack was never worried, but curious, somehow craving answers about himself in the being that was both so opposed and so close to what he was.

She finally came out, meeting his eyes the second she passed the door and grinned at the music playing. She stopped in the middle of the bar, slowly swinging on the blues notes of guitars, her now shortened but still pretty wild hair nonchalantly moving on the red and black flannel, her hips moved by invisible waves…

And that’s when Dean knew the bond was indeed Love, and that, even if she needed freedom and to leave for other men, he would never stop being desperately in love with his Firefly.

While his heart was pounding at the realisation, she came closer and took his hand.

“Dance with me” she asked him.

Dean gave her an awkward chuckle and he could see his brother smirking in the corner of his eye.

“I don’t really da-” he cut off his own sentence and stared at her smile, who was he to put a damper on her mood, how could he resist that smile of hers ?

With a little groan he got up from his seat and grasped her hand tighter.

“Of course” he went with her to the jukebox, leaning down to her ear and whispering. “What song do you want, sweetheart ?” he stood behind her with his hands on her hips, feeling her move underneath his palms.

“This one” she put in a coin and as the song started to play.

Dean turned her around to guide her to the middle of the floor.

“Elvis Presley ?” he questioned,amused, as she put one hand on his chest and another on his shoulder.

“Yes” she murmured.”I love this song”

Her head came resting against his chest, making a small smile form on his face at the sweet gesture. He wrapped his arms around her protectively, enjoying the feeling of her against him, ignoring Sam’s look, and some other people glare on them. He knew perfectly well how silly they looked, like a prom in the middle of a small town bar. And he didn’t care the slightest.

They swayed slowly to the song, held by each other, floating in the song. And after a little while, Dean couldn’t help but whisper the lyrics in her ear.

“Take my hand. Take my whole life too. For I can't help falling in love with you” his lips brushed against the shell of her ear, his nose in her hair.

His heart was beating fast, he was even a little afraid she would hear it.

And when she looked up at him, he just fell harder for her. Her beautiful Y/E/C eyes shone in the dim light of the bar, those eyes that could make anything bearable, her smell surrounded him and at that moment it was just the two of them, all he could feel was her and that’s all he ever wanted to feel from now.

By the time the song slowly came to its end, they both had stopped moving, lost in each other.

He cleared his throat and let her go with a slightly awkward smile.

“We should head home” he said with a hoarse voice, his eyes having a hard time not looking at her lips.

“Yes, home” she smiled as she said it, like she was testing out the word for the first time and liked how it sounded.

And Dean would be wrong if he didn’t admit he loved the way it sounded from her lips.

Reader Pov

Dean parked the impala back in the silent garage. They all got out and made their way inside.

“Thank you for tonight, I really enjoyed it” she told the brothers as her hand rested on the doorknob of her room.

“Yeah it was fun” Dean said as he looked at her, his tongue peeked out to lick at his lips, so Y/n knew something was making him a little nervous.

“Yeah, it was” Sam repeated, his eyes flickering between his brother and Y/n.

She could see a faint smile on his lips when he wished them a goodnight as he rounded the corner to his room.

“So…” Dean started. “You think you will sleep okay, Firefly ?” he asked.

“I will Dean, you too ?” she kept her hand on his chest, the need to touch him and have him close all the time was so strong.

He nodded, smiling at her worried face, his hand pushing a stray hair behind her ear.

“Yeah, I will” he whispered. “No one is going to hurt me, or you.”

She gave him a small smile, reached up on her tiptoes to peck his cheek.

“Goodnight Dean.”

“Goodnight Firefly.”

She entered her room, her cheeks hurting from smiling. The entire night she couldn’t stop thinking of that one time they kissed, in Hell. It was so long ago and in the heat of the moment, but she cherished that memory like her most precious gift, it had sheltered her from being depressed in the street, and it had kept her sane in the cage.

She had been in love with him for so long, she didn’t even remember not loving him with all her heart… but did he like her that way ? Could he look past the fact she wasn’t human ? That she could, like Castiel said, be dangerous…

She crawled into her bed with all these questions turning over in her head.

_______________________

A familiar scream woke her.

“N-No stop !” she heard.

Dean.

She jumped up and ran to the room next to hers. She could hear his whimpers through the door, her heart aching at those familiar gasps of pain, she carefully opened it and went inside.

He was sweating, his hands tugging at the sheets, panting and a worried frown on his face. She couldn’t stand to see him like this.

She made her way to his bed, sitting next to him to stroke his hair out of his sweaty forehead.

“Dean, it’s okay you’re safe.”

She sat up against the headboard and pulled him into her the best she could, his face immediately nuzzled into her chest, looking for safety. Her hand came up to stroke the back of his head, he was shaking. She started humming the song they danced to earlier, and when she did, his hands let go of the sheets and wrapped around her, holding her tight against him as his breathing slowed down.

She could feel his eyelashes brush against her neck as he slowly woke up.

“You’re safe Dean, I got you. No one is going to hurt you” she whispered to the top of his head.

“T-Thank you” his voice sounded just like it did when he was in Hell, right after his body was healed but his mind couldn’t yet process what had happened.

“It was Hell” she stated, she didn’t need to ask, she knew how it sounded, she had grown up with it after all.

“Yeah, and then purgatory, Micheal,...” he sighed.

She angled her head back to look at him, she could see the weight in his eyes, the horrors he had seen. Knowing he had been freed from Hell was her biggest joy, but knowing he had known more horrors in his life made her both desperately sad, and raging with anger.

“Life has been impossibly hard on you” she said as she stroked the short hairs at the nape of his neck.

“Yeah, you can say that… I did some stupid things too” he said with a defeated voice.

“If you do them for the right reasons it’s not stupid Dean” she told him.

“I… I killed people, I used to have this mark, The Mark of Cain” he swallowed hard. “It turned me into a demon” he whispered.

Her throat closed up for a second, she knew of the mark, she read about it when she was looking for a way out of Hell.

“A demon ?” she asked, a little shocked.

“A knight of Hell actually” he said. “I thought of you when I was… I- I was horrible, I hurt so many people… I was the very thing I hunt” he whispered.

“It wasn’t the real you, Dean” she said.

“I know, Sammy cured me. He saved my ass so many times” he scoffed.

“I’m so glad you have him. You protect each other...” she inched down the bed to lay next to him, their noses almost touching.

It was just that easy, being with him, that comfortable. He didn’t move, he didn’t look away, his lips so close to hers that she almost could feel them, his glistening freckled skin roamed by shivers.

“I’m sorry I thought you weren’t real… If I had known I-I would have looked for you, Firefly” his voice wavered with emotion.

She put her hand on his cheek.

Dean needed comfort and tenderness, he was carrying so much, he always had been so brave… Maybe he didn’t want any of the tenderness she could give, but maybe, just maybe, what she was craving to give him would actually be a great comfort for him.

“Dean. We found each other. I’m never losing you again” she whispered against his lips.

“I’m never letting you go either” he moved his face closer to hers, his lips brushing hers.

The tips of her hair started floating a little in anticipation, she could feel the rage she had always contained in herself fall totally silent for the first time, and her powers slightly vibrate at his touch. Her eyes were flicking from his to his lips.

Her heart was pounding in her chest, and she could feel his, and all of him, whole and alive under her touch.

How many times she had dreamed of holding him like this, just not to hold him together, to keep his head out of his own blood, but just to feel his hair and his skin.

He let his tongue run on his lips, like he did so often, and she thought about kissing him so hard her lips trembled. She thought about the things she experienced without him, even if he never left her mind.

When his beloved lips caught hers in a tender kiss, she closed her eyes again, like she had the first time, to focus on the heavenly feeling of him. But Dean didn't give her time to draw it out.

He moved above her, claiming her mouth deeply, his burning tongue taking advantage of a moan escaping her to find hers. He was so tall and big, his body on hers looked like an eclipse. His broad shoulders rolling to support the weight of his back, giving this man, who already was the most noble, something feline.

“Firefly, I…” he stopped, panting above her. “That’s probably not a good idea.”

He was afraid of breaking her heart, she knew it, he was afraid of making their relationship blurry. He was probably disturbed by their common past. She knew he was troubled, but she wasn’t.

“I think we both need this” she stated calmly. “It’s a harsh night in the middle of a harsh life, Dean. Let’s just make it softer. Tomorrow, come what may.”

“Come what may” he repeated, leaning to kiss her again, his hungry mouth drifting to her jaw and the pulsating vein on her neck.

And Y/n had a thought for that guy she had slept with the first time, how his kisses felt weird and his desire uncomfortable… This was different, and new.

“Why are you smiling like that ?” Dean’s soft voice brought her back from her mind.

“I’m just experiencing something new” she whispered, her hands going under his shirt on his lower back to feel the delicious curve here.

“I…” he stiffed a little. “You told me you had already had sex.”

“Yes, I wasn’t talking about that” she smiled, but his questioning frown didn’t fade right away, his body and mind were still on alert from his nightmare. “You won’t let a smile stop you, will you ?”

“No” he almost growled, bending to nibble at her neck again.

Her hands slipped inside the back of his pajama pants, happy to find no underwear on her way. She pushed him down on her a little by his ass cheek, fingers digging in his muscles there, earning a low moan against her chest when his hips met hers, and his cock got trapped between them.

His body was desperate, hands trying to touch everything at once, grazing her neck and collarbones, grasping her sides, seizing one of her breasts through her shirt… Her eyes opened on the ceiling, and she noticed a few tiny stars floating in the air.

She gasped when she felt his cock twitching, calling for attention on her pelvis, growing between them. That man she had loved for so long, the Prince Charming Sue wished she would find, her Dean… feeling desire for her.

Trying to spread her legs for him, she realized her too large pants, the one Dean had given her, was stuck under his strong and heavy knee.

“Dean…” she whined trying to get free.

“What is it ?” he lifted his head, his warm green eyes searching her face.

“My pants” she started but he didn’t let her finish, moving above her to tug at her pants, taking them off all the way.

She smiled looking down, he was kissing up her legs. Her hands reached his head, pushing her fingers through his still sweaty locks. Once again, his hands couldn’t have enough, short nails digging in her thighs and going up to meet her panties.

He flattened his large palm on her underwear, covering it totally with a smirk she didn’t know yet on his face. She felt small, he felt even bigger.

“Can I touch you ?” he almost groaned against the shivering skin of her thigh.

“Please do” she nodded, shyly spreading her legs.

Of course he was talking about this part of her, he had already touched all the rest….

His hand didn’t leave her panties going down between her thighs when he could, feeling her folds through the white fabric.

And the little stars multiplied.

She arched her back, her core tightening in an exquisite pressure. She gasped in a jerk of her thighs, surprised that touches so soft could bring a pleasure so intense. She had never known that. She was aware of everything that was Dean on her, all her senses high on him, and her body reacting to the electricity roaming her whole body.

Love, she thought. It was love making her insides burst in such delicious flames.

“Oh wow” he groaned. “You’re soaking those poor panties.”

And the new grin she had just discovered appeared on his lips again. The tiny stars were now numerous enough to make the ceiling look like a clear summer night.

His lips travelled up to her lower stomach, his nose tickling the skin here while his lips feisted on it.

“Firefly…” he whispered before his bright white teeth caught the hem of her underwear, to drag it down with him.

She needed him. She painfully needed to feel him, close wasn’t enough, he had to be inside of her.

So she sat with her legs on both sides of his strong thighs, making him sit back on his ankles, his knees digging on the mattress, and grabbed his face to kiss him, to feel her hero anywhere she could. He seemed to need the same thing : his arms grasped her ass cheek, carrying her up his thighs to rest on his crotch.

She moaned loud when she felt him, so hard, pressed against her bare folds.

“I need you” she whined. “Dean, I need you so much.”

“I got you” his voice was deep and warm, his parted lips leaving a layer of steam all over her neck.

They were both too eager to wait a second more.

Dean held her strongly with one arm while he almost got on his knees, pushing his pajama pants down with the other hand before he sat on his ankles again.

She looked down, her delicate hand reaching between them to wrap around him. He was hard and twitching, but his skin was soft.

“Yes…” he moaned.

“I need you” she just repeated while he was panting against her shoulder.

Saying that, she lifted her hips slightly and lined him with her to slowly sink on him.

“Fuck…” he groaned when the head of his cock entered her and kept gasping and moaning as she took more and more of him.

She hummed at the stretch of him inside of her, her walls throbbing softly to adjust.

The little stars started to fill the room a little more, like hundreds of fireflies surrounding them. But, even if they acknowledged them, they both were too engrossed in each other to really pay attention.

Y/n breathed out in relief, like she had needed Dean inside of her as much as she had needed air all this time. Her head fell back when her pelvis reached his, filled so completely by him.

“Firefly” he moaned, like it was now the only word he knew.

His hands, still holding her ass cheek, grasped her tighter and moved her on him, making her grind on him hard.

“AH !” she cried out at the pressure on her clit mixed with his cock moving against her walls.

Her hips started to move along with his hands, in back and forth moves, in circles, until he started trusting up in a trail of growls and she couldn’t move anymore, holding on to him, kissing and licking his neck with a raging hunger.

Hearing his groans and moans, she looked up to look at him, to actually see what pleasure looked like on a man she had seen suffer beyond everything. And it was beautiful.

More than the stars and the sea, more than snow in the trees… It was more beautiful than all she had dreamed of when longing for life.

The expression on his face could have been confused with pain, but Y/n knew better. His mouth was open and his eyebrows were up above his nose, and the little stars were reflecting in his eyes.

Bending on her, he caught her lips, trying to kiss her during their speeding dance, and failing to just pant loudly in her mouth.

Her whole body was shaking with pleasure, she could feel every inch of him deep inside of her, and her body react to it. Her skin was on fire. In a loud whimper, she let her head fall on his shoulder, her fingers sliding along his sweaty neck.

“Look at me” he said. “Firefly, look at me.”

With great effort, she looked up, resting her forehead on his, unable to focus on anything else than the orgasm preparing to hit like lightning inside her core.

She had felt pleasure before, and even came a few times, but what was growing inside of her was way more powerful than anything she had known…

And when it blew up, she silently screamed, her whole body falling back on the mattress as she clenched around Dean, her thighs shaking, her arms limply falling above her head. He was still trusting inside of her, holding her hips up on him.

“OH FUCK” he groaned after a few sharper thrusts.

His hips jerked and his stomach and thighs trembled when he came, falling too above her. He caught his body on his arm to avoid crushing her, keeping her up on his lap with the other hand to not slip out of her body just yet.

“Firefly” he murmured again, in the aftershock of his own orgasm.

“Dean” she answered in her high.

Her fingers went up, wiping the golden dust, vestiges of the little stars’s explosion, off his shoulder, a lazy smile on her face.

After a minute, he carefully moved next to her in a grunt, slipping out to lay on his side toward her. She stayed on her back, in the same position she had fallen too, only her head turned to him to give him a large smile.

“You’re covered in gold” he chuckled softly.

“You too” she reached his head to shuffle his hair, but it was too wet and she only spreaded the dust on it. “Oh oops.”

His eyes were glowing with joy, roaming her face, a small smile hanging on his lips.

She enjoyed every second of this peaceful moment, knowing too well that it couldn’t last. Dean was a complex man, hurt and abandoned too often, he wouldn’t let go to a peaceful tenderness so easily.

What she hadn’t anticipated was how fast his defences would grow back… His smile faded and the bliss vanished from his face. Something she didn’t like shadowed his features : Guilt.

“Firefly…” he sighed.

“I know, Dean” she cut him. “This was one time. This was to feel better. A good moment in a harsh life.”

She didn’t want him to feel guilty because of her. He cupped her face and pecked her lips before he grabbed the band of his pants to put it up.

“Do you want me to leave ?” she asked very low.

“No” he shook his head right away. “No stay… I didn’t say that to… you know, but just so you don’t imagine that I… I just… can’t really be with someone, and you… We… are complicated.”

She nodded and turned to her side to take him in her arms, nuzzling on his chest. She could wait for him all her life, she could even wait for something that would never come, that didn’t frighten her.

“Fall back asleep” she said. “I’m chasing the demons.”

Dean’s Pov

He held her close as he watched her sleep. A little smile on his face as he was drawing patterns in the golden dust that covered her entire body. She was so precious to him. She was too good for this dark and rotten world.

She was too good for him…

He had never felt this way about someone, this intense feeling, as if all the little stars that flew over his head mere hours ago were now blooming in his chest. But this life didn’t allow those kinds of feelings.

A deep sigh left his mouth as he thought of all the people that used to be close to him. Charlie, Kevin, Bobby, Jo, Ellen,... so many of them had met a merciless fate because of him.

Because he was poisonous. He would never let that happen to her.

He looked down at her as he felt her nuzzle deeper in his chest. It was then that he promised himself he would do anything to protect his Firefly. Even if that meant breaking his own heart, because after all...

Wasn’t he the biggest danger for her ?

(Next and last chapter on @roonyxx blog last week)

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aethelflaedladyofmercia · 4 years

Text

Birth of a Star

Another Good Omens Prompt from the DIWS server! This one suggested by @angel-and-serpent - and it’s a good one - Crowley Realizes he’s in Love!

Can also be found on my AO3 - hop over and leave a comment!

Night had fallen while the angel slurped down a truly impressive number of mollusks and Crowley sampled several cups of wine that was more than drinkable. The conversation meandered – work, politics, music, theater – and slowly, he felt his bad mood melt away, one terrible joke at a time.

All the while they reclined upon the couches, facing each other across the table, Crowley felt an odd warmness bubbling inside, percolating a little stronger every time Aziraphale smiled in his direction, or even just asked him a question. Something as simple as that, how are you finding the city? He couldn’t put his finger on why it affected him so, except that no one – no one – had asked him anything of the sort. Not in the entire time he’d been in Rome.

In fact, come to think of it, not since the last time he’d spoken to Aziraphale.

As they stepped out into the street, he caught himself thinking that maybe…maybe this city wasn’t so bad after all. Not if it brought evenings like this.

Aziraphale walked beside him, looking up at the sky. “Oh, it’s too cloudy to see the stars. More’s the pity. I always like to see them, you know.”

“Do you?” Crowley hated it. Didn’t even look at the sky, not if he could help it.

“Oh, of course. They’re so lovely. Truly works of art. I always envied the Starmakers, you know, the angels of Creation. Such a glorious task.”

“I…I was one of them, you know.” He didn’t know why he was saying it. The wine was the easy excuse, coiling warm in his belly, but he didn’t think that was the case. It took more than an amphora or two to loosen his lips. But something inside of him seemed trying to work itself out, something that had sat, listening to Aziraphale all night and…perhaps…wanted to reach back across the divide. “I helped build the stars.”

“Did you? Oh, that’s – that’s truly wonderful! Why, I can’t even imagine – what a gift, Crowley!”

“Nh. Well. Not anymore.” He tried to smile as he said it, but his face wouldn’t cooperate. He tipped his head back to stare at the clouds. Misty and cold and distant, like the remnants of the fires that once had run inside him. “Only angels can Create. Demons Manifest. Not the same thing.”

“Oh, my dear…” He felt a soft hand brush his arm, just for a second, before pulling quickly away. “I’m so…truly sorry. That was a great loss, I should think. I can’t even…”

“S’not that bad,” Crowley sniffed, walking a little faster.

“But it is!” Aziraphale hurried to catch up. “Why, I’ve always wished I could Create! It’s a true wonder, to be able to – to shape the raw matter of the universe. I even tried—” He stopped, horrified.

“You’ve tried making stars?” Crowley’s eyebrows shot up. Would this angel ever cease to surprise him? “You’re a Guardian, aren’t you? That’s forbidden!”

“I…” Aziraphale looked at him, aghast. “Oh, no I-I-I didn’t mean…that is…naturally a Guardian would never attempt an act of Creation that’s…that’s…that would be a breach of-of everything…”

“You can tell me,” Crowley leaned against the concrete side of an insula, the shop window beside him boarded up for the night. “Let me guess. Blew up in your face? Forces too much for you to control?”

But the angel turned pink, looking suddenly a little angry. “I’ll not be mocked by you, Crowley. You know perfectly well nothing happened!” He slumped a little. “How could it? I’m not designed that way. I never had the spark of Creation in me.” Then, in a softer voice, “You truly had something special, Crowley, something the rest of us…”

Something about his posture, his tone of voice, the air of utter defeat, made Crowley’s heart shudder in his chest. “Look, you want to know a secret?”

The words were out before he knew what was happening. He shouldn’t tell Aziraphale this; he’d never told anyone this. The questions he’d asked – the things he’d learned – had led to his Fall. He wouldn’t put anyone through that, not his worst enemy, and Aziraphale was far from that. But one little secret would be safe. He pushed off from the wall, stepping closer, leaning in to put his mouth close to Aziraphale’s ear, so that his sharp cheekbone brushed lightly against the soft curve of Aziraphale’s face, sending shivers of lightning through his body.

“There’s no reason you can’t,” he whispered. “All angels were created the same. The classifications, the categories, the ranks…it’s all lies.”

Aziraphale’s head snapped up. “You – that’s – Crowley!” But he didn’t pull away, didn’t shout. His voice was almost as hushed as Crowley’s own. “That’s got to be blasphemy of – of some kind. The Archangels—”

“The Archangels want you to think they’re different. That they’re better somehow. They aren��t.” He stepped back to look Aziraphale in his wide blue eyes. “And any angel is capable of Creation.”

“You’re lying.” But he didn’t sound like he believed it. “This is a trick…a temptation…”

“I can prove it. I can teach you to make stars, right now.”

He bit his lip, eyes wide as a dwarf star about to go nova. “Oh, I…I…” The angel glanced up at the cloudy sky again. “Could you really?”

“Hold out your hands. Like this.” Crowley cupped some air between his palms. Hesitating, Aziraphale followed suit. “Now close your eyes. Run your fingers through the atoms. Can you feel them? Feel their weight? You just need to find the smallest ones, the lightest. Those are Hydrogen. Don’t worry, they’re everywhere.” Aziraphale’s brow furrowed in concentration, reminding Crowley of the first time he’d tried to light that fire, accidentally smothering it with every grasping attempt. “Don’t struggle. Just…feel for them. A little at a time. Pull them into the center and push them together.”

For a long moment, nothing seemed to happen.

Then, slowly, a tiny spark ignited at the center of his hands, glowing, growing, expanding as atoms crashed into each other, colliding, fusing. Shining.

The first star Crowley had ever made had been a tiny, fitful thing, flickering between his fingers, fading now and again, but oh, how he’d loved it. Carried it everywhere until he was told it would never be strong enough, had to be dissipated and made anew.

Aziraphale’s was healthy, strong, lovely. A perfect star. He should have been jealous, but he felt proud.

When the core was the size of a marble, Crowley carefully reached over and plucked it free – no need for this to explode in the center of the world’s largest city.

He hadn’t realized how much he missed it, the endless heat between his fingers, illuminating the darkest places within him. He felt lighter than air, he felt alive, he felt –

He felt like he was home.

“No, I told you Crowley, it’s no good. I can’t…” Aziraphale’s eyes fluttered open and landed on the tiny glowing bead between Crowley’s fingers. “Is that…it can’t be…”

“You made it, Angel. All you.” Crowley handed it back, carefully placing it on Aziraphale’s palm. A wave of cold struck him, sharp as the ice in the deepest pits of Hell, the moment the bead left his fingers. But somehow, he didn’t care.

Aziraphale held it up to his face and the glow lit him, the pure, perfect light filling him, like a candle covered in glass. The starshine danced off his eyes. And his smile, oh, Crowley didn’t think he’d ever seen anything more beautiful than that. He wanted to stare at him, drink it all in, hold on to this moment forever.

And then it all ended when Aziraphale held out his hand, giving him the star back. “What? Angel, that’s yours—”

“No, it isn’t. It’s ours. I never could have made this without your help. And I think you should have it.”

Crowley tried to step back, bumping into the wall behind him. “No - look - I relinquish my claim, whatever you need to hear.” He couldn’t believe Aziraphale actually wanted to give it to him. Surely it was just some polite nothing.

“Ah. Then it is mine to bestow upon whom I choose.” Aziraphale’s soft fingers caught Crowley’s hand, lifted it, until he felt the spark of celestial fire pressed into it again. “You must understand, I love it dearly. But...I can make another. You can’t.” He wrapped Crowley’s fingers closed around it, gave them a gentle squeeze. “It’s as radiant as you are, my dear friend. Please, take good care of it.”

Crowley stared down at the little perfect light, the piece of his past he’d never thought to reclaim, and found that his eyes were wet, that he had to blink back tears, for the first time in four thousand years. A warmth filled him, one that had nothing whatsoever to do with the star.

He looked up at Aziraphale and, quite without meaning to, smiled.

“Ah, that’s more like it,” the angel said, with a smug little grin. “You’ve been so sullen it was giving me indigestion. Perhaps now we can have a proper conversation.” He turned and walked away, as if nothing had happened, as if nothing at all had passed between them, with that bastard smile that Crowley loved—

Crowley loved—

Ah. Shit.

Crowley loved Aziraphale.

#good omens prime #good omens fanfiction #aziraphale and crowley #crowley loves aziraphale #starmaker crowley #falling in love #aziraphale #crowley #ineffable husbands #crowley loves his angel #ancient rome #bastard aziraphale #My writing #good omens prompts #tiny baby star

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sushiandstarlight · 4 years

Text

“Scarf”: NaNoWriMo 30 Days of Prompts

Today’s Prompt

Read this story on AO3

Personal note: today I bring you tooth-rotting Christmas fluff. Also, I do not knit or crochet, though I have poked at both hobbies. Mostly, I take what little I know from the knitters and crocheters in my life.

“I've joined a knitting circle in town.” He had said it without preamble over dinner at their favorite restaurant.

“Knitting?” Crowley tried to recall what knitting looked like, “Something to do with string and big needles, right?

“Well, crochet actually. Right now, anyway. Apparently they go back and forth for new people. Crochet, they said, was easier to learn.”

“Crochet.” That, he assumed, also dealt with string and needles.

“Yes. I thought- I thought, you have your garden to muck about in... I should have something, too. Aside- aside from my books, of course. But, having no shop or customers-” the way Aziraphale said the word customers: it dripped, ever so, with disgust, “I wanted to find something to do with my hands, you see?”

“Sure, Angel. You crochet now, it's cool.”

And nothing more had been said about it that night. Or any of the following. On Thursday evenings Aziraphale would kiss his cheek and disappear for a few hours.

The house started filling, little by little, with bits of yarn. Squares at first, some parts of them loose or tangled, other parts stiff and tight. Tension, he said, he was learning tension. Crowley thought he knew plenty enough about tension, but didn't mention it.

He would come in from the garden once it was too dark to work (not that he couldn't see, but it was the human thing to do and they were living among humans) and find the angel in the living room, in his chair, lap full of yarn- the string was called yarn, he had learned- and tiny hooked needles. There was muttered counting and some amount of grumbled curses over “dropped stitches.”

Eventually they had a big pile of what he called pot holders in the kitchen. They were squares of all sorts of colors, Crowley supposed to go with the seasons. Or maybe Aziraphale got tired of one color and went to the next, hard to be sure. They were more uniform than what he had done before, perhaps he had learned about this “tension” he muttered about for weeks.

And then he became secretive. New projects stopped showing up around the cottage. Crowley would come in for the night and have the feeling that Aziraphale had hidden something swiftly right before he returned. Something about the near-manic way he would be staring at the book sprawled out on his thighs.

Their first Christmas after the events of almost-megeddon was fast approaching. He might not have guessed except the pot holders in the kitchen were red and green now, as opposed to fall colors. He wondered if he should get Aziraphale something for Christmas. He probably should.

“Don't come in here, Crowley, I'm on Christmas business!” Crowley stared at their bedroom door, now barred from entering it. He supposed that answered that.

“I'll be back, Angel, I'm headed to town.”

“Kisses!”

Crowley stared at the door for a further minute before shaking his head and heading out to the car. He returned some hours later with large bags from all the local craft stores. Who could have guessed there were so many kinds of yarn? What on earth were they all for? He had spent some time before he left, going around and touching all of the crochet projects he could find around the house, trying to guess the material. Or at least know it when he found it again at the store. But, that was an impossible method, he had found. Dumbfoundedly, he had stood in the yarn aisles- AISLES, plural- touching them one at a time.

“Whatever project you're getting them for, you should get the colors in one dye lot,” The overly-friendly employee of one store had said, “so they'll match.” Whatever that meant.

It wasn't so much that he bought out the stores, at that point. That would have taken a miracle to get home and would definitely have been noticed by his angel. But, he did settle on buying the softest of yarns. The ones that drifted through his fingers rather than dragging. Aziraphale enjoyed, nay deserved, soft things. He was soft and he had not had enough softness in his centuries.

“Oooh, what have you got there, my dear?” Crowley startled, clutching his packages to his chest, suddenly grateful that the stores had elected to give him unmarked bags. He was pretty sure they were all giggling about him, even now. Their smiles as they helped him and rung him up had been... conspiratorial. 'Happy Christmas, Mr. Crowley,' they'd smiled, 'I hope he likes them!' He wondered if they worked on commission.

“Nothing!” his voice hadn't squeaked, it really hadn't, “Christmas business, as you say. Nothing here to see.” He swept upstairs and hid the bags under the bed.

Christmas morning had dawned colder than expected, crisp even. He was happy enough to give the angel the gifts he had picked out, but he was even happier to stay right here, tucked snug and warm under the covers with him. But, fingers tickled along the tattoo on his face.

“Five more minutes,” he grumbled, not opening his eyes.

“You said that five minutes ago,” Aziraphale was smiling at him, he could hear it in his voice. Yeah, it was possible he had asked before, and it was possible he would ask again. He grumbled some more and slid further under the covers, wrapping his arms around the angel's waist.

Time passed, how much he couldn't say because he drifted. He felt fingers comb through his hair.

“Five more minutes,” his voice was muffled by the angel's bed clothes pressed against his face.

“Really, Crowley!” Aziraphale chuckled softly, Crowley enjoyed the bounce of his chest, squeezing him and nuzzling closer- the sound and feel of Aziraphale's happiness made him giddy. It also had the side effect of waking him up completely, at last.

“Happy Christmas, Angel,” he rolled on to his back and stretched, feeling the blankets fall down around his middle. It wasn't nearly as cold as he remembered it being... how ever many minutes ago, how ever many minutes he managed to bargain for.

“Happy Christmas, Crowley, you beautiful creature,” Aziraphale was draped over him and kissing him softly, a bit teasingly, his smile pressed to Crowley's lips. It was like drinking happiness, Crowley decided, this was like drinking Aziraphale's very joy. It made the already giddy part of him crow inside.

“Maybe,” Crowley snaked his arms back around Aziraphale's middle and tugged him down onto his chest, “maybe five more minutes.” He was smirking, himself, as he muttered against his soft lips. They pulled down into a frown. When he pulled back he saw it was mostly for show.

“I suppose you don't want your gift, then.”

“Got all I want, right here,” he squeezed him.

“Soppiness is not going to get you any more five minute reprieves.”

“It was worth a shot.”

“Hmm.” And then Aziraphale did his worst: get left the bed and took all his warm softness with him. Crowley groaned and pouted dramatically.

“Bastard.”

He heard chuckling fading as the angel padded down the stairs. He sat for a few moments more, hoping he would return, but then gave it up. He threw back the covers- extra messy so Aziraphale would make a fuss later- and stepped into his slippers. Slippers. He had slippers now. Who'd have thought? Grabbing his robe, he donned it and went downstairs.

The night before he had waiting for Aziraphale to fall asleep and then he had snuck down with his packages and piled them under the tree. Every skein was wrapped individually in shiny, red wrapping paper, tied with white ribbon. There were... a lot of little red packages. When he got to the bottom of the stairs, Aziraphale was in the sitting room, staring at them.

“Looks like St. Nick really delivered this year,” Crowley walked up behind him, hugging him and resting his chin on his shoulder to peer at the piles of packages, “You must've been a good boy.”

“Oh, Crowley, it's too much, isn't it?”

“Nah, could be half of them are fake. You won't know until you open them,” he was getting distracted by the line of Aziraphale's jaw and nuzzled his nose against it. Aziraphale's arms came up and rested over his, squeezing his hands.

“You're planning to spoil me, aren't you?”

“What? I got you nothing. This is all Santa's work. I might have to have a chat with him, he thinks he might win you from me with presents.”

“Pssh, really.”

“You should be spoiled,” he placed a soft, gently sucking kiss where his jaw met his neck and delighted at the shiver he felt, pressed as close as he was, in response, “I won't have it any other way. Sorry, you're gonna have to suffer it.”

“I suppose I'll survive it, somehow,” there was a beat of silence, “but I did not get you this many things.”

“It's not a competition. No tally's here. I'm sure I'll like whatever you give me, Angel. Just enjoy your presents, alright?” He let him go and went to the kitchen to put the kettle on. Something strong and earthy for him, something light and slightly floral for Aziraphale. When he returned with tea, there were three more packages under the tree: these wrapped in silvery tissue paper with black ribbon.

“Oh, did St. Nick make another stop by? Find something at the bottom of the bad did he? Bad form, should be more organized. He would be hell to live with, you know?” Crowley sat their tea on the coffee table and then sprawled on the sofa.

“I can feel the mussed bedsheets from here, you fiend. You're hell to live with.” The statement held absolutely no fire.

“Just so,” Crowley propped his slippered feet on the coffee table, to be a further annoyance, “Go on and open them.”

“All of them?”

“Sure, why not?”

“We could take turns?”

“Oh, go on, I want to watch you.”

Aziraphale dithered another moment before sitting on the ottoman beside the tree. He picked up the first one, pulling off the ribbon and finding the tape to pull it off gently. Crowley watched in growing madness as he carefully removed the paper, folding it and setting it aside.

“It's yarn!” and then his fingers dug into the skein, “Oh, it's angora yarn!”

“Best for you, Angel,” Crowley took a sip of his tea.

“Tell me they aren't all angora.” Aziraphale was staring, wide-eyed at the packages.

“Well, not all of them. There's some different wool blends. Some of it's alpaca? I think. And a few are made from bamboo. Amazing, humans, eh? I never would have looked at a bamboo plant and thought yarn. But, oh Angel, it's so soft. You had to have it.” Crowley watched him over the rim of his mug as he opened them all one by one, cooing over the softness and the variety of colors. And stopping to fold every. Single. Piece. Of. Paper. He couldn't decide if it was endearing or crazy. When he had them all unwrapped he stacked them gently under the tree. Then he grabbed the silver packages and strode over to the sofa. He sat them down next to Crowley and picked up his own mug, pausing to allow Crowley to snap it warm.

“Perfect,” he smiled over the rim, tucking his feet up under him and angling himself towards the demon, “your turn, love.”

Crowley put his mug down and picked up the first package. It crinkled under his fingers. Something soft. He looked over at the neat pile of wrapping paper Aziraphale had left behind and then back over at the angel himself. Then in a flurry of movements, he had the paper flying everywhere.

“You're such a child!” But Aziraphale was laughing, batting at the paper that drifted his way.

“Oh, but it's...” he picked up the pile of yarn and let it unspool over his knees, “Angel this is beautiful!” He lifted it, almost against his will, and rubbed it against his cheek. The scarf, black on one side and red on the other was buttery smooth against his skin. He wrapped it around his neck a couple times and then let the rest hang over his chest. Only now could he see that the ends were tasseled in the same colors, alternating. At the ends, just above the tassels were designs. On one side they matched his tattoo. On the other was a pair of wings. It would depend on if he was showing the red or black side, which one would show. He stared at the designs, a lump forming in his throat.

“You really like it? I mean, I'm still learning, but I thought it was okay.”

“Okay,” the word came out strangled and a moment later he was climbing over the sofa cushions and into Aziraphale's lap, “I love it, really.” And he leaned in and kissed him soundly, slipping his fingers into the hair at his name. Aziraphale kissed him back, holding him close for a moment. Then he pushed against him, smiling against his lips again.

“There are two more, you know? Do I get a kiss like that for every one of them? I might have tried to make you some more,” his eyes were twinkling with mirth and happiness and it made something in Crowley's chest ache with joy. He wondered if a demon could be discorporated from feeling this good. Surely, they weren't built to contain it.

“I could have the kisses now and the presents later,” Crowley peered at him through his lashes, nuzzling his chin into the scarf around his neck.

“Oh, do open them.”

“You don't want my kisses,” he pulled his face into a pout.

“Now, you know that's not true!” He was starting to look honestly worked up.

“Alright, let's see what's in package number two,” he pulled the ribbon off and put it atop the angel's curly hair and then he destroyed the paper in the same fashion as before so it fell like confetti over both of them. It was matching gloves in the same black yarn with his sigil in red on the backs. He reached for the final package, shredding it mercilessly, and found a black beanie with his sigil on the front. It was a whole set, just for him. He reached up and pulled the hat down on the angel's head, sitting back and smirking at him, “oh, I like that look, I do.”

“The mark of the beast, for sure.”

“I do say,” he tugged it down until it covered his eyebrows and nodded, his work complete.

“But you like them?” The angel's voice was small, quiet.

“I love them. I love that you made them for me. They're perfect. I'll wear them until they fall apart and when I do,” he rubbed his cheek against the silky yarn, “I'll think of you, even when I'm away.”

Aziraphale wiggled happily, grasping the ends of the scarf in either hand. Crowley cocked his head to the side in question.

“I'll have those kisses now!” and with a tug, he pulled Crowley to him by the scarf and took them.

Previous Prompt Ficlets:

Family / Hearth / Frosty / Ribbons / Wrapping / Cardinal / Coal / Unwrap / Blustery

#aziraphale x crowley #crowley x arizaphale #good omens #good omens fic #ineffable husbands #star light-reads #30 days of prompts #nanowrimo #nanowrimo 2020 #also in case i haven't made it clear:#you are more than welcome to reblog these ficlets!

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theres-a-goldensky · 4 years

Text

26 + 2 Various BL Series Fic Recs

Fandoms included in this fic rec list: Love By Chance, TharnType, Until We Meet Again, My Engineer, 2 Moons, HIStory3: Trapped (plus a bit of bonus Theory of Love and WHY R U?)

I’ve found a handful of good fics for all of these tiny pairings that I am newly obsessed with, and I thought I’d share them with you if you’re also looking for something good to read. Please, if you have recs of your own, point me in the direction of any other good stuff!

As ever, feel free to reblog and check out my other rec lists for the following fandoms:

The Untamed list one and two - various pairings, mostly Wangxian

IT chapter 2 list one and two - Reddie

Good Omens - Aziraphale/Crowley

Or just head over to my bookmarks on AO3.

(All recs are complete) (I’ve noted pairings, length, and rating, but not any warnings or additional tags.)

** denotes personal favorite

LOVE BY CHANCE / THARNTYPE

1. the count up series by sweetiejelly - Tin/Can - ~34,000 words, explicit - A fix-it fic post-canon where Tin and Can slowly work out their issues with some missteps and learning along the way.

So two weeks later, when Can first does it, Tin doesn't know what to do. For the longest while, he just turns off his phone screen. And then turns it back on.

good night, tin. it's been a while but i promised to say good night. so, good night, sleep well.

Every damn time the text is still there.

In the end, Tin deletes it.

The next morning, Can does it again.

good morning, tin. looks like rain today. don't forget your umbrella.

Tin deletes it.

The texts keep coming.

2. ** LBC Aftermath series by Mara - LBC/TharnType crossover- ~6700 words, mature - Were you too horrified by Techno’s ending in LBC? This author feels your pain and did her part to get some justice for Techno. This fic has zero sympathy for Kengkla, which I deeply appreciated. This will help you work out some of your anger. It features LBC!Techno and the TharnType versions of Tharn and Type. Mind the warnings, since this deals with the serious consequences of Kengkla’s actions.

Kengkla stayed at the house through the morning and Techno was so jumpy he nearly leaped out of his skin every time Kla looked at him or talked to him. Even though Kla had explained what happened and how he wasn’t upset to be dating, Techno still felt weird. He kind of wished he remembered what had happened. A guy should remember how he lost his virginity, right?

Kla grabbed him in a big hug and Techno froze, managing a weak grin when Kla pulled back to smile at him. “I’ve got to go home now. But I’ll call you later. Let me know if you go somewhere.”

“O-okay.” Techno stared as the boy let himself out the front door.

3. 5 + 1 by strokeofluck - Tin/Can- ~3600 words, rated general - This is a sweet story about the times when Pete sees Tin having feelings for Can.

Pete weighed his options as he glanced back and forth between Tin and Can. Can didn’t seem to be bothered by the whole thing, he even had a shy smile on his face. Or at least, Pete thought it was a shy smile, he had never really seen this kind of expression coming from Can before.

He could let this whole thing go, he supposed, but he didn’t really want to. It was time for him to finally say to Tin: I told you so.

“You were born in Bangkok,” he said, casting a wide net and hoping Can would find himself caught in it.

Can did.

4. That Testified Surprise by Mara - Techno/Tharn/Type - ~7000 words, mature - This is a LBC canon rewrite that stars the TharnType version of all three characters. Type realizes something is not...quite...right with Kengkla and invites Techno to stay with him and Tharn instead of going home drunk.

Pouring Techno into the passenger seat, Type sat down in the driver’s seat and pulled the phone out to check it, entering the passcode. (The passcode was the birthday of Thai national football team captain Siwarak Tedsungnoen, of course. Duh.)

Fuck, it looked like Nic had been either texting or calling every 20 minutes since they got to the bar. What was up there?

Scrolling back through the evening’s texts, Type scowled harder. Loving brother or not, this was fucking creepy. Going back farther, it looked like it was a pattern. Did the kid do anything other than pester his brother about his whereabouts?

THARNTYPE

5. everything he wants by minkit - ~5100 words, explicit - Type accidentally ruins one of Tharn’s shirts and agrees to do whatever Tharn wants to make up for it. Which means it’s porn stretched over the bare bones of a plot, and it’s great.

Tharn’s hands moved across the bed, slowly, inch by inch and it was frustrating because Type knew they were heading to him, but Tharn took his sweet time. And then they were covering his hands and Tharn’s face was mere centimeters from his and Type could barely breathe. It took everything he had not to lean forward and capture those lips that also belonged to him, but he had a feeling if he tried, Tharn wouldn’t let him. He had that look on his face and Type knew what it meant.

He knew he was in for a long rest of the night.

6. You’ve Got Mail by perthbysaint - ~7800 words, explicit - Type sends Tharn nudes at the most inconvenient times.

A selfie? From Type? Tharn was thanking all of his lucky stars as he happily taps to load the image. The picture loads and Tharn’s phone slips from his suddenly lax grip. Convinced he couldn’t have just seen what he thought he just saw, he picks his phone up hastily and stares very intently at the picture.

It’s a mirror selfie, obviously taken in a changing room, but that thought comes secondary to thighs. Type is holding the camera in front of his face to take the picture, shirt clenched in his other hand and pulled up slightly to show off the shorts. The fucking shorts. He had seen Type in his soccer gear before and yes, Type has most definitely asked for the wrong size and Tharn is more grateful than he’s ever been for anything in his whole life. The shorts are riding up so high they can’t cover more than a few inches of skin, Type’s smooth, powerful thighs on full display. On the inside of his left thigh, there’s a tiny purple mark peeking out from under the bottom of the shorts. Tharn knows exactly what it is because he was the one who left it there just two days ago when he sucked marks into Type’s thighs for a half-hour before he slung Type’s legs over his shoulders and ate him out until Type was sobbing fat tears and begging Tharn to let him come.

7. pet names series by LokelaniRose - ~50,000 words, explicit - A series of post-episode fics that gives us the sex that the show only hinted at, starting with the shower scene.

Tharn prides himself on his self-control. All his passion and intensity is saved for his music, when he’s safely behind a drum kit and can let it all out. He’s never been as irritated by anyone else as he is by Type and all his playground bullying nonsense. Something about the other boy just shakes something loose inside him, rattles at Tharn’s iron discipline until he has to grit his teeth constantly not to just – what? Kiss him? Kill him? Tharn has enough composure (and pride) to put up a front that’s all smiles and wry amusement, but really he regularly skips between one of two daydreams – twisting Type’s head off or fucking him into the ground.

(Tharn is absolutely not going to admit to the third set of daydreams, of curling up around Type when he’s cold or cheering him on at matches or bringing him home to meet Tharn’s father. Nope, no, definitely not.)

2MOONS SERIES

8. ** The universe where we do not commit reckless, unlubricated buttsex by startledoctopus - Forth/Beam - ~8700 words, explicit - This is a great story about Beam giving in and trying to seduce Forth the same way he seduced all of those girls in his past. This Forth is great, and the story retcons their first time to something far more pleasant for Beam.

��"We're heading into a unit on disorders of the spine and I need to review my basic skeletal and muscular anatomy. But it feels stupid to keep studying these weird-looking diagrams and drawings." None of this was, strictly speaking, factual, but an engineering major wouldn't know any different. Beam gathered up all his bravado, walked behind Forth, and began rucking up his shirts as if this were completely normal.

"What! I..."

"Shut up, I need to look at a real back so I know what I'll be looking at as a doctor." Forth let him take the shirts off, glancing back at him several times but giving in meekly to Beam's stern look. Forth shuffled the papers some more.

"All right. Okay, um...Ah!" Beam smirked at Forth's reaction as he ran his thumbs down the nape of his neck.

9. Good Things Come To by sweetiejelly - Ming/Kit - ~4300 words, explicit - Kit gets drunk and reveals more of his feelings for Ming than he probably means to.

"Hmm." Kit closes his eyes and leans his head back on the headrest. "Ming, Ming, Ming. Do you know your name's a kiss? I'm kissing the air everytime I say 'Ming'!" Kit pops his mouth and it pops Ming's mind a bit. "And then I think about kissing you. Why do you make me think about you so damn much? You're so annoying, Ming. No one's ever..." and Kit leans to the side, almost like he's going to conk out or throw up, only to straighten back up. "... made me this crazy."

Oh shit. Ming doesn't know what to do with all of this information. He knew somewhere deep down that Kit likes him. Kit's eyes can't lie. Kit's mouth can't either, the cusses coming out whenever he's keyed up and flustered, and then there are his kisses.

10 + 11. ** how to fail flirt your way into his heart (a guide by Kit) and a little conversation (and a little action please) by sweetiejelly - Ming/Kit - ~30,000 words, explicit in the second part - This story makes a tiny plot divergence. It has Kit put a little more effort into finding out if Ming is really into Yo and then from there, it loosely follows the plot of the show with some key differences. I really enjoyed this.

"Can I have your number?" Kit mentally face-palms. Why? Damn Pha. Damn Beam. Just damn everything, ugh. He has never flirted in his life. Pin asked him out, okay? He doesn't know how to do this. "I'm Kit, Phana's friend," he says, trying to make it less weird.

"I'm Ming. And of course, P'Kit!" Ming flashes him an easy grin and holds out his hand.

Oh right, the phone. Kit shoves it at Ming, nearly hitting him in the chest. Great, he's acing this.

Ming smiles at him, bemused or confused, probably both, and brushes his hand, totally unnecessarily, over the back of Kit's hand as he takes the phone. "In case of emergency, right?" Ming looks up at him from under his lashes and boy, this nong is brazen.

12. ** In Control series by LokelaniRose - Ming/Kit - ~27,000 words, explicit - Kit struggles to tell Ming that he wants something other than the careful, gentle sex they’ve been having. Ming discovers that Kit has some anxiety and panic problems. He also discovers what helps him feel better. [spoilers: these two things are connected.] I love how attentive and caring Ming is throughout this series. The anxious Kit also rings true to the character we saw on the show.

But now that Kit is fretting over things, he might as well fret over this as well. So Ming is great in bed. And let’s be honest, Kit probably isn’t. He hasn’t had a hundred previous partners – okay, tiny exaggeration, but still – and doesn’t know all the fancy moves and techniques and tricks…and just like everything else, in bed Ming is somehow casual and sincere at the same time. He never seems to want anything except what Kit wants, is always happy to do whatever, to take his time making slow, gentle love to Kit. Kit knows that he always comes at least – he secretly really likes it when Ming comes, he’s not quite sure why – but what if there’s more that Kit could be doing, to make it better for him? If Kit was better in bed maybe it would make up for being a shitty boyfriend in other areas, one who can’t be nice in public or talk about his feelings.

UNTIL WE MEET AGAIN

13. another nightmare fic by itsmylifekay - Win/Team - ~2300 words, not rated - Team tries to sleep without Win and it doesn’t go well.

Team’s room feels suffocating, the air too thick and the space too dark and the covers sticking to his skin with sweat. His breaths are too loud in the quiet, but the quiet itself is deafening. It reminds him of the water. The muted sounds. The frantic pounding of his heart. (The same one he feels now echoed in his chest.)

Flashes of the dream come back to him unbidden.

Everything is too dark, too bright, no way to see what way is up or what way is down. He’s trapped. Can’t get out. Can’t breathe.

14. ** Different With You by blackrose9212 - Win/Team - ~6900 words, teen - It’s open swim week, which means that the swimming club offers free lessons to any of the students who would like to participate. Team doesn’t understand why his teammates hate it so much - until he does. Great jealousy in this one from both sides.

“Nice to meet you,” the boy gushes. “I hope you don’t mind, but I’d like to join your group. Auntie said there needs to be at least three people, and no one was sitting across from you two. I’ve been paying attention so I already have ideas. Is that okay?” Team watches as he pulls out his books and drops them onto the table, pushing them a little farther out so they’re nearly touching Win’s notebook.

Team shrugs. “Sure, that’s fine. I don’t think Win has been paying attention so I’m glad you have an idea of what’s going on.”

Win hits him lightly at the back of the hand and Film giggles behind his hand. “Oh, no, P’Win looks very smart. I’m sure he’s been listening.” He looks at Win and smiles a little, blushing when Win gives him a smile back.

Team looks between the two of them. Then back at Film, who’s watching Win leaf through his literature textbook like he’s never seen anything so beautiful, and then past Film at the table he left from, where he sees three boys, laughing behind their hands and making cooing faces.

15. seven hundred thirteen by Kiranokira - Win/Team - ~6800 words, mature - Win spends two years abroad in England, and he and Team have to navigate a long distance relationship. It’s very sweet and written very true to life.

“I kind of hoped you were going to show up at the airport tomorrow morning and chase the plane,” Win says. He kisses Team’s hair, lingering there to memorize the fresh, clear scent.

Team says, “Is it weird that I thought about doing that?” and Win feels him smile against his shoulder.

It’s late, nearly nine thirty, and Win had plans of how to spend tonight that can’t be realized anymore. He wanted to invite Team to dinner with his family. He wanted to play video games with Team and View. He wanted to talk about London with Waan and Team. He wanted to include Team in his family’s warmth in some small way, to make him feel less lonely.

He can’t do any of that now but he still wants to sneak Team upstairs and have him in his arms all night. He wouldn’t, but he wants to. It’s been a month since he moved off campus permanently, and weeks since he was last able to spend a night alone with Team.

16. ** You Can Cry by Kiranokira - Win/Team - ~19,600 words, mature - Win goes missing while on vacation with some friends. Team is left at home trying to handle it. I like the way the author built up to the accident happening. They did a good job creating tension and showing us exactly how Team felt about Win. And spoilers, this story has a happy ending.

“You’re going to fail out of university,” Team tells him. “You’re not really going, are you?”

Win rolls onto his side and perches his cheek on his hand. “What if I say yes?” he asks. “Will you miss me?”

Team’s warning look is more venomous than usual. “Not at all,” Team says, and Win smirks because that isn’t true and they both know it. “You still shouldn’t go. What if you miss the flight back? You’ll fail out and I’ll break up with you for being a dumbass.”

The very recent phenomenon of Team acknowledging that they’re a couple has its usual melting effect on Win’s heart.

2GETHER

17. ** Love Songs on Our Skin series by Kari_Kurofai - Sarawat/Tine - ~15,700 words, explicit - A soulmark AU where Tine is born with the notes to a song that hasn’t yet been written wrapped around his chest. I enjoyed how Tine’s obliviousness in the show carries over to this fic.

Only Mr. Chic would have a song no one had ever fucking heard of permanently etched on his chest. For fuck's sake .

Still, he waves it off, and he tries not to look too closely at other people's marks. Tries being the key word. He doesn't envy the elegant watercolors of a guitar pick and an open novel he catches sight of on the wrists of some couple's interlinked hands when he's in town. And he certainly doesn't envy the dude he once saw in a coffee shop with the words " I hate you " scrawled across the back of his neck. But yeah, okay, he might be a little jealous of the people who are lucky enough to have something as simple as their soulmate's name on their skin. That definitely isn't fair.

"Why couldn't it at least have been a Scrubb song?" he asks the mirror as he wipes it clear shower-born condensation. The mirror and him are well acquainted with this conversation by now. In fact, the mirror sees the stupid mark more than anyone, so it might as well put up with his equally stupid questions. "It could have been 'Together.' Just think of it, how romantic it would be to meet some cute girl's eyes after bumping into them at a concert, my favorite song playing . . ." He draws a nail over the winding bars of the music on his chest, frowning. "That would be so much easier."

18. Drown Your Sorrows by HyacinthsSoul - 2gether/Theory of Love - Sarawat and Third meet at a bar and bond over being in love with oblivious men.

“No, he’s an angel,” Sarawat says. “Unfortunately he’s a very stupid, very straight angel.”

“Mine’s stupid too,” the other man admits. “But definitely no angel. I’m Third, by the way,” he adds, offering a slender hand to shake.

“Sarawat,” says Sarawat. “Can I buy you another? I think we’re drinking the same thing, although I can’t remember what it’s called.”

20. ** Your Body Is My Instrument by Kari_Kurofai - Sarawat/Tine - ~12,000 words, explicit - This fic does a good job doing what, in this reccer’s humble opinion, the series failed to: showing Tine attracted to Sarawat. There’s great first time sex and some fun sexual tension. Plus, we get to see them switch off, which is extremely rare in BL. And most importantly: hand kink.

It starts innocently enough. Or, well, innocently enough for a guy whose first words to him were, “Keep looking at me like that and I’ll kiss you till you drop.” So, you know. It starts kinda like that.

They’ve been officially dating for a grand sum total of three days and altogether not that much has changed. Except that Sarawat touches him more now. Normally this would be fine, no big deal, right? But Sarawat has magic, evil hands, and apparently all he has to do is glance Tine’s way to deduce the exact right places and ways to touch Tine to drive him up the fucking wall.

And the worst part is it’s almost never the same place or the same way twice, and the only warning Tine ever gets is that sneaky little glint Sarawat gets in his eyes just before he does it, the bastard.

MY ENGINEER

21. Cool Boy(friend) by HyacinthsSoul - Ram/King - ~22,000 words, explicit - So this is technically a WIP, but each chapter feels like a completed fic without a cliffhanger or anything. This is a very sweet, comfortable story about King and Ram getting to know each other as their relationship develops.

In the selfie King sends, he’s holding up a full shot glass while someone’s arm reaches into the frame to hand him another kind of drink, something tall with a straw and a paper umbrella. Ram frowns. Whose arm is that? The person is wearing a red long-sleeved shirt, which doesn’t match what any of their friend group was wearing, and the engineer bar doesn’t offer table service.

Frowning, Ram looks back through the previous photos until he spots a detail he’d overlooked before: a red-shirted man at a neighboring table. He’s visible in the background of two or three pictures taken by Tee, and in each of them he’s staring intently at King.

Not that it’s any of Ram’s business. Not that he cares.

HISTORY3: TRAPPED

22. it’s too late (to turn back now) by stebeee - Tang Yi/Meng Shao Fei - ~7200 words, general audiences - Canon divergence fic where Tang Yi pushes Shao Fei away after he saves Hong Ye in order to try and protect him. Shao Fei reacts to that about as well as you’d expect.

“Tang Yi, what do you mean-“

“I think you’ve fooled around for long enough,” Tang Yi interrupts, his voice cold, nothing like the man who had dabbed at his lips with a cotton bud last night, the man who had smiled at him when he made the cannon joke.

“You’ve disrupted my life, and the life of my family and friends in the past few weeks, Meng Shao Fei. This has gone for long enough,” he continues, unwavering. “I don’t want to have anything more to do with you. Take a good rest here in the hospital, and I’ll get someone to pack up your things back at the house. Jack will deliver it back to your apartment.”

23 + 24. ** just waiting, waiting (on you) and between you and me by stebeee - Tang Yi/Meng Shao Fei - ~16,000 words, general audiences - These are stories about how Shao Fei and the rest of the gang deal over the years when Tang Yi is in jail. Found family fics are my jam, so I loved this.

The thing is, it’s been almost three months of this. 90 days, give or take. 2,160 hours. 129,600 minutes. And more than 7 million seconds of this — not having Tang Yi at his side.

Shao Fei wonders for a moment if he will ever stop seeing Tang Yi in every corner of the house. When he comes down the stairs in the morning, some part of him expects to see Tang Yi standing at the kitchen island with a bright smile, asking him if he wants jam with his toast that morning. Shao Fei sees Tang Yi in that apron he loves, cooking at the stove when he fixes himself dinner, alone in the spacious kitchen. Seeing Tang Yi’s favourite blue bathrobe, Shao Fei can almost see Tang Yi leaving the bathroom, his hair all wet and falling over his eyes.

25. amuse bouche by sarahyyy - Jack/Zhao Zi - ~2400 words, general audiences - This is more of Jack seducing Zhao Zi through food and attention. So basically an extension of the show. Mother hen Jack is the cutest.

“Jack?” Zhao Zi murmurs blearily. “Why are you here?”

“Why didn’t you tell me you were sick?” Jack shoots back, herding Zhao Zi back into the house. He checks for Zhao Zi’s temperature with the back of his hand. “Fever?”

“Just the flu for now, I think?” Zhao Zi says.

Jack purses his lips. “Have you had anything to eat?”

“I had some bread earlier?” Zhao Zi says, but he also looks shifty enough that Jack mostly takes it with a grain of salt.

26. Absolutely Nothing Goes Wrong by anon - Jack/Zhao Zi - ~4500 words, teen - This is an AU where Zhao Zi is the son of a rival mob boss, but he’s still, you know HIMSELF. And when his father says he’s useless, he decides to prove him wrong by seducing Tang Yi’s second-in-command. It’s absolutely adorable.

The man pulled him by the arm, resisting Zhao Zi’s attempts to unhook his claws without causing a scene.

“Hey, stop grabbing me!” he shouted, as the other man played deaf.

“While I admit this is a very loud bar, I didn’t think it was quite so easy to mishear what this young man just yelled straight into your ear,” a newcomer who’d witnessed their conflict said lightly as he walked up to them. His words were accompanied by a wide, almost chilling smile. Zhao Zi blinked once and the odd peculiarity of that smile vanished, leaving just a regular smile in its place. He must’ve just been imagining things under the harsh shadows of the dimly lit bar.

AND +2

Because I’m shameless, I’ll add my own two fics to the end, if you’re interested.

WHY R U?

27. Sorry A Thousand Times - Fighter/Tutor - ~3200 words, explicit - This is a canon divergence for the series finale. I needed more catharsis after the intensity of episode 12.

Tutor narrowed his eyes and clenched his fists at his sides. He took a deep breath. “How many times do I have to tell you to leave me alone before you listen?” he asked. I don’t know how many more times I can bring myself to say it.

“Only once,” Fight said and then added, “if you mean it.”

Tutor crossed his arms over his chest and said, “What makes you think I don’t mean it now?”

The corner of Fight’s mouth turned up and he took a step closer. Tutor stumbled back until he was stopped by his legs hitting the edge of the bed. Fight reached out a hand and gently ran the back of his fingers over the line of Tutor’s jaw.

Until We Meet Again

28. Dream On - Win/Team - 8900 words, explicit - Takes place alongside show canon, so that we see how the bed sharing began and how Win and Team’s relationship developed over that year.

“Do you want to do well tomorrow?” Win asked, throwing one of his legs over both of Team’s.

“Yes,” Team said as he did his best to put some space between them on the tiny mattress.

“Then you need to get some sleep. I’m helping.”

“How is this helping?” Team demanded.

“Would you stop…” Win said, shifting closer every time Team pulled away. “Five minutes, Team. Just be still for five minutes, okay?”

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tranquil-space-ninja · 4 years

Text

Bookworm (DRLAMP)

Based on this.

Note: Roman and Remus are not in a relationship with each other, just the other sides.

Tw: cursing, spoilers for Be More Chill (book), furries are mentioned, homophobia mentioned, Good Omens spoilers, Game of Thrones spoilers/references

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

It was 3 AM. Logan woke up to the sound of something banging in the kitchen. Remus had better not be playing bongos again. He slid out of bed and tiptoed out of his room, closing the door gently so as not to wake the others. On his way down the hall, he met Patton as he was slipping out of Roman's room. Logan leaned down and kissed his forehead. "Hello, Patton," he murmured. Patton smiled sleepily at him.

"Hello, dear."

"Did I wake you?"

"No, no, the kitchen did." Logan put his arm around Patton and walked to the kitchen with him. When they reached the kitchen, they heared hushed shouting along with the banging. Logan slowly opened the door as Patton tried to wake himself up more, both fully expecting to have to coax Remus up to bed or take a set of drums by force.

They were half right.

Remus was indeed there, but instead of bongos, he held a thick, hardcover book with a blue and white cover. Roman was also there, and he was holding a purple paperback of a similar length. The twins were fencing with a couple of frying pans and arguing. There was hot chocolate dripping off the table with two mugs on their sides in the middle of it, and the shards of broken dining ware across the kitchen.

"Be More Chill has shorter chapters to appeal to less avid readers and book addicts alike, a full cast of quirky characters, and the whole book was a dramatic romantic gesture for Christine!"

"Cursing isn't bleeped out in real life! Teenagers say fuck, ass, shit, dick, etcetera! And what's with the big deal about how straight Jeremy is? Dear Evan Hansen is so much better. Like, Jarred."

"First of all, while there is admittedly a weird emphasis on Jeremy's straightness, at least no one's homophobic. Like, Mrs. Heere even added, 'We're good parents,' after she told Jeremy that they would be fine with him being gay. If anything, it throws shade on homophobes. Be More Chill also gives furries much needed positive representation. And, if Jarred is your only reason why Dear Evan Hansen is better, then you may as well give up now."

"The plotline of the Dear Evan Hansen book is closer to the musical."

"The Be More Chill book was written before the musical!"

"I like them both," Patton mumbled sheepishly. Roman and Remus froze and turned to look at Patton. Logan crossed his arms at them. The twins lowered their frying pans and turned to face their boyfriends.

"Hey, Daddy, hey, babes," Remus said guiltily.

"It's three in the morning," Logan said.

"We couldn't sleep," Roman said. "I wanted to read for a while, but I didn't want to wake you up, Pat."

"Sorry," Remus added. Patton sighed.

"It's alright. I'll help you clean up. Sweetheart, we can clean up the table. Sweetpea, could you sweep up the broken dishes? Logan, dear, you go back to bed." Roman and Remus nodded.

"What about the dishes," Roman asked.

"They can wait till morning."

***

Janus tried in vain to comfort Roman as he bawled in his lap. "It's going to be okay," he said awkwardly.

"No, it's not," Roman sobbed. "George lost his partner in crime, and Lupin and Tonks are never going to meet their son, and J. K. Rowling's such a TERF that I can never read the books the same again." Janus rubbed his back gently.

"I told you, my love, Harry Potter was removed from Rowling's custody the minute she posted that tweet. We, the fandom, and Starkid adopted it so it could live its best life." Roman sniffled as Janus wiped away his tears.

"Can I still make Thomas bitch slap her if we see her in public?"

"Sure."

***

Roman burst into Virgil's room. "Buggre alle thif for a Larke." Virgil set his spider into her terranium and looked at Roman expectantly. "Crowley calls Aziraphale angel. They go on lunch dates to the Ritz, they drink together, they know each other better than anyone in the world, they bicker over Crowley's speed like a fucking old married couple, and everyone assumes they're gay. But suddenly that asumption is wrong because, 'angels are sexless unless they make an effort,'? Does Aziraphale not love Crowley? Or is it secretly implying that Aziraphale and Crowley are making an effort so they can fuck? Or are they gay asexual? What does it mean? Are they together? Are they--"

Virgil cut him off with a laugh. "You spend too much time with your brother, babe."

***

Roman and Virgil were cuddling on the couch, watching Good Omens. Roman sighed as Aziraphale appeared to Crowley in the bar. "That didn't happen in the book." Virgil sighed this time.

"I know. I know you read it at least twice."

"Like, I love Ineffable Husbands. They make me want to run around the Mindpalace wearing a rainbow tartan cape and sunglasses and call all of you angel, but like. That wasn't in the book."

"I know, I know."

"This scene was so much better. Az just popping in on everyone asking, 'Where am I?' Amazing."

"Ro?"

"Yeah?"

"Shut up and let our gay occult beings flirt."

"Angels aren't occult. They're ethereal."

***

"Sweetheart," Patton yelled. "Dinner's ready!"

"Coming," Roman yelled. He needed a bookmark. This fight between Percy and Antaeus was critical, and he could not loose his place. Roman frantically scrambled around until he found a small yellow shoelace. He picked it up quickly and placed it in the fold between the pages. The shoelace hissed as he closed the book. Roman screamed and dropped it on the ground, scrambling backwards. Janus ran into the room, a panicked look on his face. "Roman? Are you okay?" He glanced down at the floor as the yellow shoelace crawled up his keg. Janus sighed.

"Roman, did you use Luci as a bookmark again?" Roman nodded, tears in his eyes. "How does she keep getting out of her enclosure?"

"S-sorry." Janus sighed.

"It's alright, love. Just check and make sure something isn't alive before you use it as a bookmark."

***

Roman leaned over the book and carefully highlighted a sentence pink. He wrote next to it, 'Ship. Ship. Ship.' He tucked the highlighter behind his ear, only to draw it back a second later. This time, he wrote, 'foreshaddowing?' above the sentence. And he continued reading.

***

Roman was practicing his panflute. He gently blew over the pipes to create a softer, lower sound. He struck a wrong note. "Damn it," he muttered. "It's like little, tiny shells drifting in the cold. Brave soldier boy comes marching home." He started the song again, playing each note with care. He had to start over several times.

Patton walked by with a laundry basket just as Roman was starting over again. He stoped to listen. As he recognised the song, he began to sing along softly. Roman finished it perfectly this time. Patton walked over and kissed the top of his head. "That was good," he said. "Grover would be proud." Roman's face lit up and Patton smiled.

"Really?"

"Really." Roman hugged Patton tightly.

"I love you so much."

***

Remus snorted. "That's dumb. Those dragon eggs are dead. They're never gonna hatch." Roman left the room silently. The other Sides glanced at each other nervously. They wanted Roman there at Game of Thrones night, but they didn't want to break up a fight. Then Roman came back, heaving a giant textbook. He set it down on the floor and opened it, flipping through the pages. Finally, he stopped and pointed to a passage.

"Well, it says here that dragon eggs heat up when they get closer to hatching time. Besides, they don't call Danaereys Mother of Dragons for nothing." Everyone groaned.

"Spoilers," Patton scolded.

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

Taglist:

@kawaiikat54

@obsessedalli

@royal-arts

@baka-monarch

#sanders sides #logan sanders #roman sanders #drlamp #patton sanders #virgil sanders #remus sanders #janus sanders

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gottagobuycheese · 3 years

Text

Opening Lines

Rules: List the first lines of your last 20 stories (if you have less than 20, just list them all!). See if there are any patterns. Choose your favorite opening line. Then tag 10 of your favorite authors!

Thanks for the tag, @internetkatze! I have uh, way less than 20 published fics, let alone finished, and some are noticeably Older™, so this’ll be reaching way way WAY back into the “semi-coherent draft” pile (some of which are also, noticeably, older). Without further ado, in no particular order:

손 : The Guest (TV) (Unpublished WIP): She jolts awake with a scream in her throat and salt on her lips, and for a moment, she’s still collapsed on the cold, wet sand, drenched in seawater and shouting a name that will never hear her.

비밀의 숲 | Stranger (Unpublished WIP): The text came almost as soon as her new co-workers so graciously left her the entire office for her lunch break again.

비밀의 숲 | Stranger (You Wouldn’t Download a Hotel Room): Yeo-jin blinked, then blinked again. “Wow, that receptionist wasn’t kidding.” “Is that all you have to say?” snapped the voice next to her. “Even the dormitories are more luxurious than this. This is — this is a broom closet.”

Good Omens (Don’t Bite the Hand that Breeds You): The air was hot and thick with humidity when Crowley finally stepped out onto the street, carefully balancing a pressed-leaf bowl of miraculously unmelted kulfi in one hand as she swatted away some of Earth’s most detestable inhabitants with her other.

Good Omens (Please Wait for Assistance): Truthfully, Ciara just wanted to go home.

Good Omens (All the Way Home I’ll Be Warm): “First jump?” shouts the girl in front of him, and Crowley deserves an award for not glaring her into a puddle of boiling sludge.

BNHA (Serendipity): This is how it started: a bag of groceries in one hand, an unremarkable rock in the other, and the burning, reckless bravery that comes with forty-three sleepless hours.

Ace Attorney (Post-AA5 WIP): Her brother was nine years old and his feet still didn’t touch the ground when they sat at the dining table. She had a feeling he was going to be a tiny beansprout forever.

Good Omens (Ex-BB Fic WIP): It was a nice day, meteorologically speaking.

Good Omens (Unpublished WIP): Warlock Dowling was seven years old when his nanny handed him his first lock-picking set.

Good Omens (Unpublished WIP): “Okay, so, three options.”

Over the Garden Wall (Unpublished WIP I am so so so endlessly sorry about how long this is taking but I SWEAR I WILL FINISH): It was strange, that she could have forgotten this. How warm sunlight felt on skin, how a breeze running through her hair could feel like the playful fingers of an old friend.

Deltarune (Unpublished WIP): You only have the courage to say it once everyone is gone.

Undertale (Unpublished WIP): You can barely see Asgore through your tears, but you know by heart how this goes — his hands tremble, his breathing hitches, and for a moment you think he’s going to cry right along with you, but then he lowers his head and raises his trident and your vision is full of fire. (You almost feel sorry for him. It must be hard to find the stomach to kill a bawling child.)

Spiderman: Into the Spiderverse (Unpublished WIP): “Are you sure this is okay?” “Peter, please, I’ve tested this model through the simulator dozens of times. There’s one little hiccup I can’t seem to get rid of, but it shouldn’t bother us as long as we stay below a hundred.”

Spiderman: Into the Spiderverse (Unpublished WIP): She wakes up, which is the first thing that tells her something’s gone wrong.

비밀의 숲 | Stranger (Unpublished WIP): They met, of all places, at the convenience store.

Mob Psycho 100 (Part-Time Bonding): Wear something you don’t mind getting messy in, the text had said.

BNHA (Homeostasis): Kirishima was the first to catch his breath after hauling himself over the last ledge. “I can’t believe we fell for that again,” he wheezed, clutching at a stitch in his side.

BNHA (Growing Pains): “Put it back, Sami-chan. We still have to finish the box at home.”

Knowing that I’m biased towards dialogue, I’m honestly pretty surprised more of these don’t start immediately with someone talking. And I don’t know how obvious it is from these lines in isolation, but looking at all of these back-to-back makes me realize how many of my openings are based on some kind of irritation/impatience by the opening character XD. The present tense ones seem to all be the sort that start in the middle of some kind of action, whether real or perceived, but I know I’ve gone back and changed present tense drafts to past tense sometimes, so we’ll see if those last (if I ever go back and finish them lol).

Dunno that I have a favorite among these, but there are definitely some, especially with a bit more context, that I’m more fond of than others. Like in 9, the whole opening paragraph is describing what a nice day it is, and then it cuts to the next paragraph where it’s like “Crowley hated nice days.” Love me some contradiction and grumbling. Or 15, where you think Peter’s wondering if it’s okay to speed down the highway in an experimental vehicle, but the next line he clarifies he’s TOTALLY CHILL with that part, but was just wondering if his principle investigator really had nothing better to do than drop him off at home. And more of them, but I feel like this is getting really long already so I’ll leave it here

Tagging @jessicafish, @imperiousheiress, @yeswevegotavideo, @beingjanee, @idanit, and anyone else who hasn’t been tagged yet but would like to participate! (But feel free to modify the rules to less than 20, this was really hard to find sjfksfjksjs)

#tag game #writing stuff #if you're reading this and want to share whatever you've written I would LOVE to see it!#I've probably forgotten a lot of people and will smack my forehead immediately after hitting post #but such is life #aww look I thought I could write #gosh there is. so much stuff to finish #I haven't been actively working on most if not all of these since like the middle of last year or something #except the yuletide fic which was written in a delirious frenzy of procrastination panic #turned out pretty well for that I'd say!#for some reason it is only Drawing Juice Time now #which is great except for the fact that the only creative obligations I have coming up are writing ones #fun times I tell you fun times

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anotherhystericalqueen · 5 years

Text

As Easy As Breathing

Modern AU!Brian May x OC

Word Count: 3.7k

Warnings: None

Moodboard and Summary

A/N: Hey guys! I have been working on starting this new story for a while and I am so excited to finally be posting it. Please let me know what you guys think and I hope you all like it!

What do you think of this one Darlings?” Freddie spun in the store mirror, admiring his reflection as he modeled an old off-white leather jacket.

“Fred, it’s falling apart at the seams,” Roger stared at his roommate in disbelief. “There’s no way we can sell that as it is and there’s no way you can wear that onstage without it literally falling off. Where did you even find that thing?”

Freddie Bulsara huffed and turned around to face the two other owners of the Rag Trade, Roger Taylor and Josie Crowley, still modeling the falling apart jacket that he dubbed as ‘vintage’. “I have my ways Rog.”

Josie perched herself up on the counter, letting her legs hang over the side. ‘Let me guess, Kash?”

Freddie shrugged off the jacket and handed it to the redhead. “It doesn’t matter how it was discovered, it just needs a little bit of Josie Crowley magic. I’ve seen you bring garments in worse shape than this one back to life, maybe we have another miracle on our hands.”

Josie sighed and took a closer look at the jacket, running her fingers over the cream colored fake leather to assess the damage. There were some holes on the front and the arms and the zipper was falling off at the bottom, but those could be taken care of with some patchwork and embroidery. The seams were also close to falling apart in some places, but there wasn’t anything that could deem the jacket completely unsalvageable. In fact, it was the right amount of beat up that she could use it for another design she had already been planning out for Freddie.

“I don’t think we need a miracle here,” She shrugged, hopping off the counter and digging out her sketchbook from her bag. “Gimme a few days and I can give you a brand new jacket. I already have some ideas in mind.”

Before Freddie or Roger could give either of their input on the jacket, Roger’s phone went off over the stall’s speaker and cut off the music that was playing from Roger’s YouTube app. The blonde leapt up from his place on the couch and disappeared into Josie’s workshop in the back of the stall. The other two shop owners shrugged it off and went back to comparing the design Josie had been sketching, to the jacket’s current worn out state. They started going over details that Freddie wanted when Roger popped out from the back.

“Fred, can you come back here? It’s about the band.” He called back. Freddie got up from his place on the couch next to Josie and disappeared into the tiny backroom where Roger was.

Josie manned the register while her roommates hid in the back to take what she guessed to be a very important phone call. It was a slow day all around in Kensington Market, so the Rag Trade didn’t get as much foot traffic as it usually did. Josie managed to keep herself busy by getting to work with when she heard a wooden clacking noise coming from the stall’s entrance. She pulled her attention away from her work to find that she had a new customer, but instead of browsing around the racks of new and old clothes he looked like he was looking for something specific.

Josie Crowley wasn’t a girl to get easily flustered by a boy, but this guy was about to make an exception. He was tall, really tall for starters. His bright blue NASA jacket was too short for his arms, leaving his wrists exposed to the cold. Loose deep brown framed his long face and brought out the different shades of hazel in his eyes. She studied the details of his face, from how his lips were slightly parted to how the tip of his nose was a rush of pink from the cool fall air, to how his hair fell in front of his eyes.

“Hey,” She regained her composure to greet her potential client. “How can I help you?”

“Yea.” The stranger pulled out a light denim jacket, running his thumb on the worn out seams. “I think you may be just the girl I’m looking for.”

Josie studied the jacket in his hands. It wasn’t in as bad shape as Freddie’s but it looked like it could use some love and care. “Ye-yeah sure, I think?” She reached out for the jacket, which the stranger handed to her. She analyzed the denim and found that it was in better condition than she first thought. “Nice jacket, a little worn but overall in good condition. What do you need done with it?”

“Well I found it in my parent’s attic and my dad said I could take it.” As he explained how he found the jacket, Josie noticed that his cheeks were turning from a light pink to a flushed red. “It fits for the most part but the sleeves are too short. One of my friends suggested that I come to you to get them lengthened.”

Josie examined the sleeves, “Yea I can totally do that. I would have to get some measurements really quick to make sure they don’t end up too long or too short. Do you mind?” Josie gestured towards the stranger before fishing around in her bag to find her measuring tape.

The stranger nodded and put down his bag. Josie placed the measuring tape at the top of his shoulders and took his measurements for both arms, making notes on a blank sheet in her notebook for later.

They tried to make some small talk as she finished up the measurements. “So is there anything else you want done to the jacket besides getting the sleeves lengthened? Maybe even put some of your own customization into it instead of just being a repair?”

“Yea that would be nice.” He laughed. “What do you do for that?”

“Mostly embroidery and patches for denim jackets, but I can do whatever you would like.” She replied, her mind already spinning with ideas.

“Embroidery and patches sound really interesting.” The stranger smiled at her.

“Yea! I can put on anything you want on it.” She continued making notes.

“If you’d like, I can give you my number so if there’s anything else you want done you can just let me know?” She suggested before quickly backtracking. “Unless you think that’s too forward.”

Space boy laughed and pulled his phone out of his pocket. “No of course we should swap numbers. I’d love to stay in touch.” He handed his phone over for her to add her number to his contacts.

“I’ll text you later when I get home.” He offered. “It was really nice to meet you today….”

“Josie.” She reached out her hand. “Josie Crowley.”

The stranger reached out and took her hand. “Brian May. It was very nice to meet you Josie.”

“It was nice to meet you too, Brian” Josie felt heat was over her face as she watched Brian walk out of the stall, She kept running her thumbs up and down the worn seams of Brian’s

Unknown Number: Hey, thanks for your help today! I hope this will be an easier way to keep in touch. -Bri

Josie grinned at her screen but was suddenly interrupted by both Roger and Freddie bursting out of the back room, their faces lit up with excitement.

“Jo! You’ll never guess what just happened!” Roger called out, making the redhead jolt up and juggle her phone in her hands.

“Fucking hell Roger,” She gasped, clutching her phone to her chest. “What? You scared the daylights out of me.”

“Oh don’t be so dramatic darling.” Freddie rolled his eyes. “We have incredible news.”

Josie put her phone down on the counter, “What’s up?”

“We got a gig!” Roger exclaimed before Freddie could even open his mouth.

There was a long pause between the three of them. Freddie and Roger’s band, Queen, had been doing gigs around the London pub scene for the past couple months so it wasn’t huge news anymore whenever they got a gig somewhere. So Josie stood staring at her roommates with a confused look on her face.

“What kind of gig?” She broke the silence. “You usually don’t get this excited over one Rog.”

Freddie laughed. “Jo this isn’t any old pub show. This is a legitimate performance! We just heard that we are going to be part of a rising musicians showcase at Royal Albert Hall next month. I sent them our demo last week and they want us to perform!” Josie could tell that Freddie was really excited about this, so she had no choice but to join in on the excitement.

“That’s awesome!” She knew how hard they have been working to take their band to a more serious level, even if she hadn’t been able to make it to one of their shows yet or have even met the other members of the band. “Have you told the other’s yet? Or did they get a call too?”

Roger shook his head. “Not yet, we want to ask you something before we tell them.”

Josie cocked her head to the side out of confusion, she wasn’t part of the band so what would they have to ask her before talking to their bandmates?

“We want you as our band stylist.” Freddie asked. Josie felt her eyes widen and her heart started to pound. She knew that they wouldn’t be able to pay her much or at all since they were barely making it by at Rag Trade as it is, but she knew this would be a huge next step for both them and herself if the band took off.

“I know you hang out with us enough so if you don’t want to we get it.” Roger chirped in, pulling Josie out of her thought process, “But you’re really talented with clothes and we need to look our best for this show so-”

“I’ll do it.” Josie cut him off. “I’m in. I don’t care about money or anything like that. If you want me and the others are cool with it, I’m in.”

Both Freddie and Roger immediately lit up in excitement.

“But I do have one question though,” She added on. “How do you guys exactly expect me to style two guys I haven’t met yet? I can’t style someone that I don’t know, let alone have ever even seen.”

Freddie waived her off. “Don’t worry about that darling. I already alerted them of you joining our team as it was a given that you would say yes. They’ll be meeting with you in a few days since both of them have such busy lives.”

“You can use clothes from Rag Trade!” Roger piped up. “We got some clothes in the back we haven’t put out on the floor yet. We can set aside whatever you pick out to keep for the band.”

Josie blushed from Roger’s offer. “That is very thoughtful of you Rog. I swear that you guys get total input into whatever you wear. The last thing I want is for you to go onstage in something you aren’t comfortable wearing.”

“You don’t have to worry about that Jo,” Roger reassured her. “We know whatever you do is going to be amazing.”

Josie smiled at Roger’s comment. “Thanks guys, I promise I won’t let you down.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~

After the Rag Trade closed down for the night, Josie and the guys made their way back to the small flat the three of them shared a few blocks over. They were immediately greeted by Freddie’s two cats, Miko and Delilah and Josie’s cat, Chip. Freddie and Roger hung out in the flat’s common area while Josie retreated to her room for the night. She changed out of her street clothes into a comfortable oversized t-shirt and shorts before scrubbing off her makeup for the day and climbing into her bed.

Josie pulled out her laptop and started scrolling through Pinterest for ideas not only for Freddie and Brian’s tasks for her, but to also get some tips and inspiration for Queen’s new stagewear, primarily focusing on what she would pick for Freddie and Roger. She was meeting the other members of the band tomorrow to get their measurements and start planning their stagewear for some upcoming shows.

She was soon distracted by Freddie’s newest kitten, Miko, jumping on top of her sketch and demanding attention. He paced around her legs and meowing insistently at the designer until she gave in and replaced the jacket in her lap with the tortoise-shell colored kitten, scratching right behind his ears.

“You’re just like your Daddy, aren’t you?” She laughed. “You know just how to get my attention.”

The kitten purred in content, kneading on her blanket covered legs. Watching Miko knead her lap, Josie reached for her phone and sent a photo to her roommates in the next room.

TO: Oh My God They Were Roommates👀👀

Josie: I have been graced with Miko’s presence, If you need me I will be in my room the rest of the night with him

Freddie: Give back my son

Josie: Never. He’s mine now

Freddie: Traitors, both of you. If you’re taking Miko then I’m taking Chip in return

Josie: Leave Chip out of this, he’s innocent!

Roggie: You two are weird

Freddie: Says the one who’s obsessed with his car

Before Josie could respond to her roommates, she saw a notification from her newest client- Brian.

“Hey it’s Brian. Thank you so much for helping me out today on such a short notice!”

She grinned and immediately switched over to his messages, ignoring the budding argument between her roommates that was going on over text.

Josie: Hey! You’re totally welcome. I should have your jacket all fixed up in the next week or so, feel free to swing by next week and it should be done!

Brian: Thanks! Please let me know whenever you finish it, but there’s no rush! My band just got called about a huge gig so I’ve been a bit preoccupied.

Josie: Oooooooh you’re in a band? What do you play?

Brian: Yea, I play guitar. What about you, do you play any instruments?

Josie: That’s so cool! Unfortunately my talents are more in the design world than the musical world. I do want to learn how to play the guitar someday though

Brian: Well maybe I can teach you sometime

Josie: I would like that. Are you busy this week?

Brian: Not too busy, my band does have a gig next week so I have been held up with rehearsals whenever I’m not busy with my work. It’s nothing big, just a pub by Imperial College. What about you?

Josie: I just got a new long term project to work on so I’m still in the early stages of working on that. And I’m looking at your jacket too for what to do for embroidery or customization besides lengthening the sleeves. Do you have any interests or hobbies that could help?

Brian: Well outside of playing the guitar, I’ve actually been interested in space and astrophysics. I have been actually working part time on getting my PhD in Astrophysics.

Josie mentally exited out of the conversation for a moment and turned back to her . She immediately went to her profile and made a new board that she named “Ideas for Brian”, noting that he really likes space and to look for space themed embroidery prints. She had a few ideas in mind now that she knew for sure that he had a strong interest in space. Josie also made a mental note to see if there was any way that she could combine both space and music into one design to make it special just for him.

“Note: see if Bri has photos of guitar he would like used.” She muttered under her breath as she typed out the note before jumping back into the conversation with Brian.

Josie: Oh wow that’s so cool! I had a feeling that you were into space from your jacket you wore today. And that has to be rough working and finishing a PhD AND being in a band

Brian: Yea I guess it was kinda obvious. Luckily we are on a short holiday right now so I can catch my breath and focus on my music.

Josie: I know how that feels, my last year at uni I thought I was going to break down from burnout by the end.

Brian: What did you study?

Josie: I double majored in apparel design and finance.

Brian: That’s cool, how did you get into two completely different subjects like that?

Josie: It’s a long story, remind me and I’ll tell you about it sometime. I have an early shift at Rag Trade tomorrow and need to get to bed soon.

Brian: Yea, I’m about to head to bed too. Goodnight Josie

Josie: Goodnight Brian, talk tomorrow?

Brian: I look forward to it :)

Josie shifted on her bed in a way that disturbed Miko from his nap in her lap. The kitten meowed at Josie before leaping off her bed and made his way out of her room. She noticed that the light in the common room was now out, so she guessed that Freddie and Roger were both asleep, or at least in their own rooms. She placed her phone on the nightstand right next and plugged it in to charge for the night. As she drifted off to sleep, her mind kept drifting towards the curly haired guitarist she had only met a few hours before.

~~~~~~~~~

Josie spent the next couple days working on Brian’s jacket and focusing on what she was going to do with Freddie and Roger’s band as their new stylist. Unfortunately, she had been so busy with her roommates and her own work that she hadn’t been able to meet the rest of the band. Today, she was finally able to meet the remaining members of Queen.

John, their bassist, was the first of the two to arrive. They were holed up in Josie’s back corner of the store that she used as her spot to meet up with clients. In the first few minutes of their meeting, Josie dubbed John as her favorite member. He was a lot more calm and subdued than Freddie and Roger, which was a relieving change. She learned he was still a student, which is why they haven’t met yet since John was busy with his classes whenever he wasn’t rehearsing or performing with Queen. Josie could barely juggle working here with being in school before she graduated, so she gave him props for going after both the band and an honors electrical engineering degree.

She had her tape measure slung over her shoulder as she leafed through a rack of clothes she picked out for the bassist. “What do you think of this?” She asked, holding up a black silky button down shirt. The chest was covered in small white pearl-like stars to add detail. “Freddie picked this one out, though it would look good for one of your upcoming shows.”

John shrugged, holding the material in his hands. “I don’t know. Are you sure it isn’t too flashy for the band?”

The designer laughed. “You’re in a band with Freddie. He would go onstage in red and white booty shorts and suspenders and nothing else if he could so I wouldn’t worry about you looking too flashy.”

Her comment warranted a small laugh from John. “Yea, I don’t really put that past him. But I really do like that shirt.”

Josie smiled and put it on the rack closest to her that she had labeled “Queen Wardrobe.” She was happy that John was warming up to her and her abilities as a stylist. She had heard from Freddie that the kid would go up on stage in plain jeans and a t-shirt if the frontman would let him. Unfortunately a band that had both Freddie Bulsara and Roger Taylor would never allow such a thing so they always had the bassist borrow clothes from one of the two. She made it her goal to find anything that would help John come out of his shell and stop having to borrow appropriate stagewear from his bandmates, but she still wanted him to be comfortable and have a say in what he wore.

Josie and John ended up deciding on three shirts, a pair of black flare jeans, and a pair of white skinny jeans that were also suggested by Freddie. Josie’s favorite thing that they found was a pair of tan platform boots that John was immediately drawn towards when she first pulled them out. She wrapped the clothes hangers together with a rubber band and tagged them “Deaky” to keep with the nickname Freddie had given him and so she would know they were picked for John. She already did the same for Freddie and Roger and was planning to do the same for their guitarist.

As Josie was setting up for her next client, she heard a familiar clacking enter the shop. She turned to see who it was as Freddie greeted them and she immediately froze in place.

It was Brian.

“Brian! I am so glad you were able to make it darling.” The singer exclaimed, abandoning his post at the counter. Brian still hadn’t noticed Josie yet, even though the Rag Trade wasn’t that big of a shop she was still in the back semi-hidden behind the varying racks of clothes.

“You told me to meet you here for the band.” He answered. “Something about us bri new stage clothes?”

Josie watched as Freddie led him back to her station, she saw the gears turning in Brian’s head as they made their way to the back of the shop. When Brian’s eyes finally laid eyes on the new stylist, he froze in place and his eyes went wide in surprise.

“Brian, I would like to introduce you to Queen’s official stylist, the one and only Josephine Crowley.”

#My writing #Brian May #brian may x oc #brian may fic #Queen #queen fic #modern au

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apocryphalia · 5 years

Text

Ghosts

[This was written for day 23 of @drawlight‘s 31 days of ineffables prompt list. It is only somewhat related to ghosts, and contains a single Christmas reference, but I wanted to write about Aziraphale and Hirschfeld, so here we are.

CW on this one for Nazis, vague references to things that Nazis did, and historical homo/transphobia. It’s also rather long, so the rest is under a cut, or you can read it over on AO3.

Thank you to @moveslikebucky for the beta/reassurance on this while I was at work with it stuck in my head. <3]

---

England, 2020

Aziraphale was an angel. As such, he knew exactly what happened to the souls of the dead, and he did not believe in ghosts. Still, there was a certain box of books he had kept in the back room of his shop for the better part of a century which he rarely dared to open, unable to shake the feeling that it was haunted by the horrors inflicted on its authors.

When he and Crowley relocated to their new home in the South Downs, the box miraculously found itself at the bottom of a pile of similar-looking boxes in his new office. Over the following months, Aziraphale slowly and meticulously unpacked the boxes in the pile, shelving each book according to a haphazard system that made Crowley twitch. It was autumn by the time he made it to the bottom of the pile, the first truly cold day of the year. Aziraphale had wrapped himself in a thick blanket and carefully piled logs into the fireplace. When he finally lit the tinder, ready to curl into the sofa with a book and Crowley in his lap, he was instead confronted with the demon's distant stare, with Crowley's hands balled into fists at his sides, his jaw stiffly set. Suddenly, a year’s worth of tiny moments came crashing down on him: candles mysteriously extinguishing themselves, matches disappearing from the bookstore, Crowley hovering over him anxiously while he lit the stove for tea. Of course, Aziraphale realized. Of course he doesn’t like fire anymore.

Later, when the fireplace was long since extinguished and Aziraphale was assured of Crowley’s safety, he settled himself into his office with a glass of rich red wine. After carefully extracting a number of delicate scrolls and some medieval illuminated manuscripts from their crates, the angel lifted the lid of a particular box and found its contents wrapped in a worn red cloth. He froze, the tips of his fingers aching with the ghosts of old burns.

Berlin, 1933

A fire raged in the midst of the public square. Aziraphale stood among a crowd of onlookers, watching uniformed men in red armbands haul the contents of the Institut für Sexualwissenschaft’s archives from the building and prepare to destroy Magnus Hirschfeld’s life’s work. Aziraphale knew Hirschfeld himself to be abroad at the time, and sent up a silent thanks to someone for his friend’s safety.

He had met Magnus some 28 years prior, while the German was in England. They had bonded over their shared grief for Oscar Wilde, and Aziraphale had received regular letters from the man ever since, updating him on the establishment of the Institut, Hirschfeld’s scholarly publications, and his campaign to repeal the German law which outlawed homosexuality. Things had been growing more difficult in Berlin for some time, though. Aziraphale remembered coming to Hirschfeld's aid the previous decade after he had been beaten nearly to death for his research and activism. He could still feel the blood, slick on his hands, as he willed Magnus's veins and arteries to knit back together, his bones to heal, his heart to keep beating while the angel worked.

Aziraphale now watched as Nazi soldiers began to toss his friend’s work into the flames. He could hear the speech being given to the assembled crowd, and his mind automatically translated the vile German words, but he was not processing its full meaning. His world had narrowed to red and orange, to the dull brown of burning paper, to the smell of smoke. He watched the edges of book covers and pages curl in on themselves as they caught flame, saw the sparks fly across the square as the inferno grew and grew, fueled by the knowledge and bravery it consumed.

The angel willed himself to go unnoticed by the crowds and the soldiers and the Minister of Propaganda as he took a deep breath and approached the fire. He stood at the edge of the flames, next to the young man who was currently tossing the last of the Institut’s books onto the pyre. His hands followed them into the blaze, retrieving the volumes one by one until his fingers were raw and their prints nearly gone. He carefully piled the rescued books into a hastily miracled bag and left the square, resigning the remainder of the library’s thousands of volumes to their fate.

London, 1941

There was a brown leather bag sitting on Aziraphale’s desk, thrown unceremoniously on top of the existing mess of papers and books in various stages of careful restoration. The angel stared at it in the flickering light of a spare few candles. The shades of the bookshop were still drawn, the air raid sirens ringing somewhere in the distance. Aziraphale was alone, a glass of wine in one shaking hand, his face burning with a confusing mix of shame, love, and painful memories.

He left his glass on the desk as he stood, clutching a single candle, and made his way over to a particular box in the back room of the shop. He went to his knees in front of it, blowing away the fine layer of dust that had accumulated on its lid. He lifted aside the cloth protecting its contents and picked up a single book with trembling hands. As he turned it over, thumbing its charred edges, he remembered the shining pink skin he had been left with after rescuing it from the bonfire. He could have healed the burns, yes, but it hadn’t seemed right somehow. Instead, he had clumsily slathered his own fingers with the gel of an Aloe vera plant that had been rescued from Crowley, and wrapped them awkwardly in cotton bandages. The week he spent aimlessly wandering the shop without use of his hands felt like penance, a too-brief but appropriate mourning period for the books and the men he had left behind in Berlin.

He considered returning the box to Magnus, but received word of the German’s death before he had the opportunity. Over the following years, he heard nothing but terrible news concerning the rest of the staff and patients at the decimated Institut. So in London the books stayed, packed away with the ghosts of those who had written and read them.

When Aziraphale was offered the opportunity to infiltrate and betray Nazi agents in England, recruited by a woman he believed to belong to British intelligence, it felt like revenge. The angel glowed a little more brightly in his skin as he sat with the woman calling herself Rose Montgomery. He had to hold himself together carefully to keep from sprouting wings and extra eyes, from transforming into a true avenging angel as he listened to her plans. His hands ached with phantom burns, with the echo of long-dried blood, with the desire to tear out the hearts of those who dared to round up and slaughter their fellow men.

Now, Rose was gone, the Nazis were gone, he was in love with Crowley, and still, something inside him felt hollow. He was alone in a war zone with another bag of books touched by flame, his friends were still dead, and the camps were still open somewhere out there on the Continent.

A Cottage on the South Downs, 2020

Crowley found Aziraphale later that night, still on the floor of his office with an empty glass beside him and a charred book in his hands. He was staring at the cover, but clearly seeing something else entirely. His unfocused eyes were shining with old grief and unshed tears.

“Hey,” Crowley said gently, falling to his knees beside the angel and laying a carefully, deliberately steady hand over the shaking fingers clutching the book. “Aziraphale?”

"I didn't save them," Aziraphale said, still staring down at the book. "I should have tried harder."

Crowley gently pried the object out of the angel's hands to examine it, sucking in a breath when he realized what he was holding. After a long moment of silence, the demon spoke, gazing somewhere off into the distance. "The Nazis were one thing I never took credit for," he said quietly. "The Spanish Inquisition, the sack of Constantinople, bloody trench warfare… I let Hell think I had a hand in all of it, but not… them." He shifted his gaze over to Aziraphale. "I tried to stop them, you know."

"So did I," Aziraphale replied bitterly. "But I was a fool, and I failed."

"No, angel," Crowley answered softly. "Look at what you have here." He gestured with the book still in his hand. "They tried to destroy these, and you saved them."

"With my own bare hands," Aziraphale said, looking down at his fingertips. "But the people…"

"I know," Crowley breathed, looking troubled. "Come on, angel. Leave them be for now." He replaced the book gently in its box and closed the lid, tugging on Aziraphale's arm until he stood and followed Crowley out to the living room.

Two steaming mugs appeared in Crowley's hands, and he pulled the angel onto the sofa, offering him one of the mugs. They drank their tea in silence, leaning on one another, as they each remembered the ghosts of fires past, of human lives loved and lost over six long millennia.

The box sat untouched for weeks, as Aziraphale slowly unpacked everything around it, wondering whether to banish its ghosts once and for all or leave them be. Finally, one day it disappeared, and the local historical society found itself with an anonymous donation of extremely rare German books on human sexuality, just in time for Christmas.

Two years later, they opened an exhibition on Magnus Hirschfield and the Institut für Sexualwissenschaft, and Aziraphale and Crowley were in attendance. As they walked in, Aziraphale spied a familiar book, now carefully propped open on a foam support and protected inside a temperature-controlled case. He pressed long-healed fingertips to the glass that covered it and smiled softly, leaning closer into the demon at his side.

#31 days of ineffables #good omens #fanfic #ineffable husbands #aziraphale/crowley #material culture series

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thetunewillcome · 5 years

Text

Somewhere Alive and Green

Fandom: Good Omens (TV)

Relationship: Crowley/Aziraphale

Rating: Teen

Word Count: 2,100

Notes: This is for anyone who has encouraged me these past months with kudos or kind words. After I finished Whumptober, I thought I needed a break, but the very next day, I found I just couldn't not write something. Your encouragement is partly to blame for this passion: thank you. This is also for our dear characters, who truly deserved some love and fluff after all I put them through this past month. I wanted something that would bring a sense of closure and contentment to my recent work. I hope this accomplishes that goal.

Somewhere in the South Downs, there is a house for sale. The road turns to cobblestones on the way to it, and the driveway twists around a pond, a field, an overgrown orchard, and two fox dens before arriving at the tree-blanketed entrance. Abandoned years ago, the house desperately needs repair: the roof leaks, the wallpaper is peeling off in patches, the floorboards have twisted with the dampness of the springtimes, the kitchen tap never fully turns off. The house doesn’t know it, but it’s waiting for a certain buyer, one who will stumble upon it, cursing the cobblestones for roughing up his tires, squinting through dark glasses at its facade before deciding: it could work. They could find peace there.

Somewhere in London, there is an angel who wanders the streets. He walks to escape his ghosts, though they trail behind him. It’s hard to shake thousands of years of repression and denial, nearly impossible to lose instincts conditioned through ages of abuse. The terror of a war narrowly avoided; the possibility of another on the horizon. The guilt of the arguments, the times he pushed him away with cold, trite remarks he’d first heard on the tongues of other angels. The pain of letting go of a hand that had just transformed into his own, of not saying “I love you” or “goodbye” but “Berkeley Square, soon as we can” instead and watching him walk away for what might have been the last time. The uncertainty and newness of it all now: the sweet taste of confessions lingering on his tongue, the memory of hands in his hair and on his hips, the thousand questions rattling in his head. Even when sitting still in his bookshop, attempting to read, Aziraphale’s mind meanders down mental avenues of what-ifs and worries. He knows he should feel immense relief – after all, the world was saved, and they haven’t heard from their head offices in months now – but he feels, instead, like one sinking slowly in a patch of quicksand.

Somewhere in A.Z. Fell & Co., there is a demon lurking. The angel is dealing with a would-be customer, so he is bored and annoyed. He hides between the bookshelves, absentmindedly rearranging the titles until they’re in alphabetical order, which he knows will earn him a half-hearted scolding. Something is still wrong. Still, even though the apocalypse did not come. Even though they’re not being watched any longer. Even though he woke up that morning in Aziraphale’s four-poster bed and was met with a mug of tea and a kiss when he finally dragged himself into the kitchen, eyes half-closed with the foggy remnants of sleep. Something is still wrong, and he suspects it has to do with this place, for him at least. Adam restored what he could. He brought back the structure, the rugs and chairs and sofa, the desk, the flat upstairs. He supplied new books, though not exactly ones Aziraphale would have selected if he’d had any input. What Adam couldn’t fix was the smell of burning paper, the memory of flames licking at his heels and loss eating away at his core until he had to scream from the anger and pain. As he touched the spines of the books, he recalled picking up Agnes’, not thinking but feeling the need to save something, anything, whatever he could, if he couldn’t save Aziraphale. Something is still wrong, and for Crowley, it is the way London has become a graveyard: the shop where he thought Aziraphale had been lost forever, his flat where they spent an anxious night preparing for their trials, the park where the flutter of black wings had signaled their abductions, the bandstand and the sidewalk where Aziraphale had twice refused to escape with him, the bar where he had settled in, alone, to wait for the world to end. Humans visit graveyards to pay their respects, and then they leave; they don’t live in them, and for good reason. Healing requires distance. If it was distance they needed, then Crowley would find it for them.

(Continue reading on AO3 or below.)

Somewhere in the tendrils of the cold October winds, there is a question waiting to be asked. It is not “Should I go back to mine now?” because Aziraphale makes it clear that he wants Crowley to stay close, so it need not be asked. Bit by bit, his flat becomes theirs, plants and records appearing slowly enough that Aziraphale fails to notice for weeks. It is not “Are you alright?” because Crowley has asked this already, one chilly evening when he caught Aziraphale completely ignoring the film they had picked out to watch together. As a snow pile gives way when warming temperatures melt the support beneath its icy outer layer, Aziraphale had visibly collapsed inward, covering his face with trembling hands. Gently, Crowley had pulled Aziraphale to him, holding him while he sobbed, and he had shed a few of his own tears, too, though he did not know if Aziraphale had noticed. The time would come when Aziraphale could put words to his pain, but in the meantime, Crowley had matched his silence, using touch to tell him I am here, and I understand. We’re safe now. It’s okay. The question is not “Do you love me?” The answer is clear in Crowley’s hands and in his eyes and in the little gifts he brings home: pastries, flowers, films he thinks Aziraphale might like, wine he knows he does. And the answer is clear in Aziraphale’s smile and in his saccharine compliments that redden Crowley’s cheeks and in his habit of reading in bed each night, instead of in his usual armchair, so he can keep watch as Crowley sleeps. That is one question neither will ever need to ask; they have known the other’s answer for years already, as plainly as one knows one’s name.

“What would you say to relocating?” When Crowley finally builds up the courage to ask, he spits it out like a confession, slurring his words more from nervousness than intoxication. His eyes don’t leave the television screen. On it, Indiana Jones is fighting desperately to free himself and his father from a room being consumed by fire. The red-orange of the television flames casts flickering color onto the walls of the dark room, making Crowley’s heartbeat quicken.

He feels Aziraphale turn to look up at him. “To the bedroom, you mean?” A hand slides over his thigh.

Crowley laughs at that, surprised. “No. Well, uh, sure, I’m game, just… not what I meant. From London, I mean.”

The hand stills. “Leave London?”

“Mm, well, yeah. Just a thought.”

He knows Aziraphale’s eyes are still on his face. He’s watching Indy and his dad take shelter in a fireplace, and he can feel his face flush with self-doubt. He wonders why he ever thought this was a good idea. Aziraphale, he knows, avoids change at all cost. He rereads the same books over and over. He cycles through the same old records time and again. He has worn nearly the same clothes for over 150 years. Of course he doesn’t want to uproot his life, move hours away, from city to countryside, sell his bookshop, downsize, leave his old life behind, and for what? For a tiny town and quaint, nosy neighbors and a dull, monotonous existence in a run-down cottage with Crowley?

“A thought that has honestly never occurred to me,” Aziraphale admits, “but one worthy of consideration now, I believe.” Thinking about selling his shop, packing up all of his books, and leaving his familiar orbit was overwhelming, but he had grown bolder lately. He could envision leaving the noise and bustle of the city for someplace quieter, more peaceful, as long as he did not leave alone. “Where would we go?”

Crowley blinks and turns to meet his gaze. He sees the hopeful trust in his pale blue eyes and all doubt within him vanishes. “Anywhere you like, angel.”

“Hmm.” Aziraphale thinks for a moment. “Somewhere green and spacious, where it’s quiet at night.”

“And properly dark?”

“So we can see the stars.”

“Be nice to have water nearby, too,” Crowley adds, thinking of the magnetic push and pull of waves.

“Oh, yes, being close to the coastline would be just lovely.”

They smile at each other, enjoying the vision of the future each can see sparkling in the other’s eyes. “Got a place in mind, then,” Crowley says. “Just south of here. Bit damp and boring, but it checks all those boxes.”

“After all we have endured recently, ‘boring’ sounds quite nice to me.”

“Alright, uh, I can take you to see it sometime, if you like.”

With a sound of contentment, Aziraphale turns again and settles back under Crowley’s arm. He gazes around the small, cluttered room, imagining his belongings in a house they truly shared, somewhere far from London’s ghosts. He takes a deep breath. “Tomorrow?”

The rise and fall of Crowley’s chest against Aziraphale’s back pauses. “Sure,” Crowley says quietly. “Tomorrow.”

Somewhere deep inside them both, there are knots starting to relax. Moving day will slacken the lines, Crowley breathing a sigh of relief as he says a silent goodbye to the bookshop, holding the Bentley’s door open for Aziraphale. Aziraphale smiling at the gentle warmth of the afternoon sun and the crisp cleanliness of the country air as he walks toward their new front door. Both laughing as they bicker playfully about their clashing tastes in home furnishings, unpacking and rearranging rooms with waves of their hands. Crowley will eye the long-neglected orchard, promise to get it into shape, and Aziraphale will take his hand, thinking of Eden and the hope that lies in fresh, green worlds. The knots will slowly wind themselves away, their tension releasing as autumn turns to winter.

“I should have gone with you,” Aziraphale will whisper one evening. The first snowflakes of the season will be dancing down from the heavens outside their window. They’ll have a fire in the fireplace and a soft, worn tartan blanket for warmth.

Crowley will sit up slightly from his reclined position on the sofa, baffled by the random declaration. “What? Where?”

“Alpha Centauri.”

“Oh.” After a frozen second, he will fall back down, turning his head to hide his face from Aziraphale. “Nah, dumb idea.”

“It was not,” Aziraphale will insist. “I couldn’t see it at the time, but I know now that… well, my trust was most certainly misplaced.” He will fidget nervously with the edge of the blanket. “I should have followed you. I’d like to think I would have, eventually. That is, if I hadn’t gotten myself discorporated.”

A long enough silence will follow that Aziraphale will pick his book back up, having time to read half a page before Crowley speaks again. “Couldn’t have followed later. Wasn’t going by myself. Not the point. But don’t apologize. It’s not like I handled it all well. Shouldn’t have stormed off and left you to figure it out alone.”

Aziraphale will smile sadly at his words, reaching for his hand. “Well, this house is much cozier than any star system, anyway. I am so glad I accepted your invitation this time around, my dear.”

Lacking the words for a response, Crowley will stand, grabbing their wine glasses and stepping toward the kitchen to refill them when he sees what he is doing and stops. He will remind himself he does not need to run any longer; he can allow this, even admit he may deserve it. He will lean in close and stoop to kiss the angel’s wine-stained lips.

There will be many more nights in front of fires, huddled together for warmth. There will be experiments in cooking (mostly successful) and knitting (largely disastrous, though Aziraphale will stick with it stubbornly) and home repairs. There will be tacky Christmas decorations and snow angels and lights. There will be kisses that taste of cocoa and oversized sweaters from the local souvenir shop: Aziraphale will have to pout for a good half an hour before Crowley relents and puts his on. There will be deer grazing in the fields and snow blanketing the ground. Eventually, the knots of fear and doubt will fall away entirely, and they will settle into their own lives, on their own side, together, in their house that is so much more than a house. A refuge for two weary souls in need of rest. A sanctuary, where each will heal with the other’s help. A house, somewhere in the South Downs, that will become a home.

#good omens #good omens fanfiction #good omens fic #ineffable husbands #crowley #aziraphale #aziraphale/crowley #south downs #healing #fluff #light angst #moving in #my writing #if you enjoyed this please let me know #reblogs are appreciated #thanks for reading

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invaderdoom78 · 5 years

Text

Well, does he leave a little note to tell you You are on his mind?

Soon after the apoca-wasn’t Aziaraphale and Crowley had decided that it would be a good idea to move in with each other, eventually settling on the demons flat as nearly every nook and cranny of the bookshop was crammed full of different types of literature; leaving it much too crowded for the serpent's tastes. Thankfully though, they were quickly able to find a balance between Crowley's minimalistic preferences and Ariraphales hoarding of books. It was quite nice as neither of them had to worry about the potential of going years without seeing the other and, even though he didn’t sleep, Aziraphale enjoyed laying in bed next to a sleeping Crowley either reading one of his books or just taking the opportunity to be alone with his thoughts. It got even better once they got into the habit of leaving little notes for the other around both the flat and book shop. It had started out as a way for them to remind the other of something that they needed to do that day but it quickly turned into little love notes, each trying to outdo the other with their declarations of adoration. This is where Crowley's imagination gave him the edge needed to win. Even before moving into the demons flat Aziraphale quite enjoyed taking baths, even more so once he’d been introduced to the concept of bubble baths, but he found that the act was ten times more enjoyable when taking one in the flat as it’s tub was a Jacuzzi tub thus making it much larger and nicer than the clawfoot he had in the bookshop. Lounging in the warm bubbly water Aziraphale was enjoying a glass of wine as he listened to some soft music and jotted down ideas for his newest love note. Unfortunately, he was having a very difficult time doing so and at this point his wine was gone and the water was turning cold so he decided to get out; wrapping a fluffy white towel around his waist, and almost missing what Crowley had done to the mirror. Written in the steam was a multitude of tiny hearts surrounding a much larger one that was not only sprouting a pair of angel wings but also held both of their initials inside of it, causing his own to melt in his chest.

Send you yellow flowers when the sky is gray?

It was a rather gloomy day in London, a heavy rain thundering against the sides of the building, and Aziraphale had decided to settle in by one of the windows in Crowley's plant room, curled up in his favorite chair, a comfy blanket covering the lower half of his body, and reading from one of his Oscar Wilde first editions.

“Angle?” Crowley called out from the entrance of the foyer

“I’m back here, dear” Aziraphale said, not bothering to look up from his book as he turned he the page

Once they heard the footsteps of their masters approach the plants began to tremble for fear of what would happen if the demon believed they were allowing themselves to be coddled without his permission. Noticing the plants sudden distress, but unaware of what caused it, Aziraphale closed his book and reached up to gently caress the trembling leaves of the poor things in an attempt to comfort them. The moment Crowley stepped into the room Aziraphale could tell that, despite the fact that he still had on his sunglasses, he was eyeing his plants suspiciously daring any of them to fail his expectations for them.

“Where have you been out in weather like this?” Aziraphale asked, noticing that the demon was hiding something behind his back “what have you got there, dear?”

Crowley didn’t respond, rocking back on his heels and smiling smugly before pulling out a very elaborate bouquet full of different types of flowers all variations of yellows, whites, and other cheerful colors.

“They’re beautiful, Crowley” Azriaphale said, taking the bouquet, smiling softly at the flora

Holding the flowers up to his face, the angle was about to smell them when he noticed a small box hidden nestled between them. Pulling the box out of the flowers Aziaraphale didn’t even have a chance to open it and see what was inside as he’d noticed that Crowley had gotten down to one knee in front of him.

“Angle” Crowley said removing his glasses “...will you marry me?”

“Oh, Crowley” Aziraphale said becoming teary eyed “yes!”

Aziraphale didn’t bother opening the ring box as the moment the word yes left his mouth, he was on the floor with Crowley, allowing the demon to pull him into a tight embrace as he kissed him. When the two finally pulled away Crowley grabbed the ring box and opened it, pulling out the golden ring and slipped it onto his angles finger. Neither of them bothering to get up, preferring to just enjoy the others company, Crowley cradling his angle in his arms as he sat in his lap and Aziraphale soaking in his soon to be husbands love as he snuggled into the demons embrace.

“You know it’s funny, my dear” Azirahale said, holding up his hand so he could examine his new serpentine ring “I was actually planing on proposing to you myself” he resched into his jacket pocket and pulled out a ring box of his own “I even bought a ring”

“Oh really now” Crowley chuckled, taking the box from his angle, opening it up to examine the angle wing themed ring “I love it”

Slipping the ring onto his own finger Crowley looked back over at Aziraphale and saw that he’d started to laugh, slowley filling his own chest with joy until it spilled out into his own fit of laughter.

Because he'll wear your favorite color Just so he can match your eyes

After barely any consideration the two decided on having their wedding in Tadfield, so it would be easier for Adam and the Them to attend, and went out to hand deliver the invitations to their nine guests, the very first invitation being delivered to Warlock, who was overjoyed about receiving an invitation because it meant spending a few days with nanny and Brother Francis, Adam (and by extension Dog), the Them, Anathema, Newt, Shadwell, and Madam Tracy, much to Newt and Warlocks surprise as they'd been convinced that the two were already married. With the assistance of Madam Tracy, who insisted on helping them set everything up, they were able to make all of the arrangements in no time at all as the older woman was very efficient at cracking the metaphoric whip in her efforts to make sure that everything was perfect and set up the ceremony in a small local church, at Crowleys insistence, as a bit of last fuck you to the archangels, specifically Gabriel, regardless of the fact that he would be unable to keep his feet planted on the ground. When the priest asked if there were any objections, everyone froze, some glancing up nervously while the others scanned the room suspiciously, no one daring to breathe until they were positive nothing was going to happen. For the vows Aziraphales were long, thoughtful, and he was obviously pouring all of his soul into them and while Crowleys were shorter they were just as thoughtful, swearing that he would protect his angle from whatever heaven or hell would dare to throw at them.

“With the power invested in me, I now pronounce you husband and husband. You may kiss the groom”

Once Aziraphale and Crowley pulled away from their kiss they looked out at their friends and spotted the Archangel Michale standing at the back of the pews clapping along with the others, giving them a small smile that said you idiots finally figured it out before disappearing never to be seen again. Maybe. (Why you ask? Because I think it would be hilarious if during their investigation into Aziraphale they became convinced that the two had already confessed their love for each other a long ass time ago and was absolutely mortified to find out they were still pining.) Glancing at each other Crowley tightened the hold he had on his new husband, both of them waiting for something to happen but, just like with the objections, nothing did. Letting out a sigh of relief the newlyweds walked back down the isles and out of the church; miricaling up two bouquets, one full of white roses, the other full of black. Once they reached the Bentley the flowers were tossed out to the small crowd The Them, minus Pepper but with the addition of Warlock, fighting each other over who would catch Crowleys while Newt was almost hit in the face by Aziraphales before he caught it. Stepping into the passenger side of the Bentley Aziraphale just barely managed to notice the blue tartan socks Crowley was wearing, hidden away under his pant legs.

“I thought you didn’t like tartan, dear” Aziraphale said, looking down at his husbands feet

“I don’t” Crowley said, closing the door to the Bently

“Then why are…”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about, angle” Crowley said starting up the car, the smallest of smiles gracing the corners of his mouth

Well does he take you dancing just to hold you close?

After the ceremony was over everyone migrated to Anathema’s home for the reception since it was a BBQ potluck type deal with only a few things being ordered in, namely the tier cake, and the DJ was a playlist of classical and Queen music Anathema had created on her phone and connected to some bluetooth speakers she'd bought specifically for the reception. To make sure there was enough room Newt, Anathema, and the Them had moved all of the furniture either as close to the walls as they possibly could or just took them out of the room completely so there would be plenty of room for when the angel and demon had their first dance together. It was to Love of my Life and once that was over Aziraphale excitedly suggested that he teach everyone his favorite dance and since it was his wedding they agreed. Standing in the kitchen Crowley watched as his husband taught everyone, minus Shadwell who refused to dance and Anathema as she was currently standing next to him, how to dance the gavotte.

“You should join him” Anathema said taking a drink from her wine glass “it looks like they're having fun”

“Fun?” Crowley asked, more harshly than he’d intended “what could possibly be fun about a dance that went out of style ages ago”

“No one’s gonna judge you; not only is it your special day but the only one who’s actually doing a good job is your husband”

“Eh” Crowley shrugged causing Anathema to roll her eyes

“Come on ya big baby” Anathema said, dragging the demon out into the living room

Once he saw that Crowley was going to join the dance Aziraphales face lit up even more than it already was and he immediately linked his arm with his husbands pulling him along, instructing him along with everyone else on what to do.

“Thank you for joining, dearest” Aziraphale said quietly, giving the demon a kiss on the cheek once the dance was finished

Dedicate a song with words meant just for you?

After all of the dancing was done it was time for the cake to be cut and food to be had, everyone managed to find some place in the house to sit so they could dig in. The moment he noticed that Crowley and Aziraphale had settled into their seats Warlock dragged Adam along with him as they snuck over to the speakers the two of them very excited to enact their plan. It had started when Adam happened to notice a Velvet Underground CD mixed in with the Queen ones the last time Crowley had given him a ride in the Bentley and when he brought it up to Warlock he remembered that Nanny had often played their songs for him when he was little. This lead them to coming up with a plan to use one of their songs to play a bit of a prank on Crowley and got to work on researching the band until they found the perfect one. Quietly cackling from their semi hidden position Warlock quickly found the song he was looking for as Adam was on the lookout and it wasn’t until the instruments began playing did both boys looked over at Crowley as the demon choked on his wine, doing his best to hide the panic he felt running through him when he heard Pale Blue Eyes playing through the house. He knew he’d never mentioned liking Velvet Underground to Anathema and he was positive Aziraphale hadn’t mentioned it either. Readjusting his sunglasses Crowley leaned back in his seat so he could glance around the room, noting that no one seemed to notice, or really care, that the song that was playing wasn’t a Queen song. So he casually turned towards the speakers and saw Adam and Warlock standing there, Anathemas phone in hand, both boys making sure to keep dead ass eye contact with the demon when he looked over at him.You little brats. Crowley mouthed to his godsons, attempting to suppress his smile as the ex-antichrist smiled at him as he and Warlock strolled back over to their friends; partially hiding amongst them in case the demon decided to come for them.

“Well, that was a lovely song” Aziraphale said, taking a bite of the cake that sat on his plate

“It was wasn’t it” Crowley said slouching back in his chair, taking a drink from his wine.

Rent a private picnic By the fire's glow

A few years had passed since they had gotten married the angel and demon now found themselves the proud parents of three beautiful children, their oldest, who Crowley had found abandoned when she was very young who also coincidentally had red hair that was a similar color to Crowley's along with one grey and one blue eye, Rose, their toddler Eden, who had longish curly light strawberry blond hair and yellow eyes, and the baby Raphael who had the same loose curls Crowley had when he and Aziraphale had first met but wasn’t quite as long just yet and blue eyes, the two youngest being literal gifts from God herself. It was the angel and demon’s anniversary and they had decided to rent a cottage by the sea for the weekend to celebrate it. Thankfully, Rose was old enough that she could watch over her siblings by herself as their parents had some time to themselves and enjoy the adult activities that one normally participated in on during an anniversary. Because of how cool the nights were the family often found themselves sitting outside to watch the night sky. Just like they were doing this night Aziraphale looking up at the stars, pointing out the different constellations to baby Raphael as he held him in his lap and Crowley got to work starting a small fire to help keep them warm while Rose followed Eden throughout the garden as she chased after fireflies. It wasn’t until the sun was almost gone did both girls come back to the blanket. “Papa. Daddy!” Eden exclaimed, happily running into Crowleys open arms “yook at how many fireflies we caught, show them Rose” Plopping down next to her papa Rose held up the mason jar she and Eden had filled with fireflies so baby Raphael could get a good look at the jar and what was inside it before unscrewing the lid, freeing the insects back into the night sky, one landing on Raffy’s nose before flying off to join the others. Letting out a content sigh Aziraphale leaned into Crowleys side, the demon wrapping his arm around him as Eden moved so that she was sitting on both of their laps, and Rose leaned back against the serpents side, the back of her head resting on his shoulder.

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justjessame · 4 years

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Hellfire and Angelic Grace Chapter 2

LI-Li was sitting in her office, tapping at her computer when the door opened and Ali walked in. Her best friend waited until she was finished typing in the last order and hitting send. She smiled and looked up. “Why are you hovering by the door?” She asked and pointed at the comfy seat in front of the desk.

“Cause it’s closing time and you’re locked away in here like Scrooge.” Ali said, sitting down and propping up her feet. “I wanted to check in with you before heading out.” The grin on her face told Li-LI everything.

Rolling her eyes, she sat back in her own chair. “Tell me you carded him first?” She asked, worried that one day she’d have to bail her bestie out of jail for statutory.

Ali laughed. “Met me at the bar, he’s of age.” She assured, and still looked like the cat that ate the canary. “While you’ve been in here counting profits, the rest of us are out there enjoying the human interaction.”

Li-Li giggled. “If I don’t count the profits, then you guys won’t get the right bonus for one of our BIGGEST weeks! As for human interaction,” she rolled her eyes again. “You know I prefer a more mature vintage.”

Ali groaned. “Then you REALLY should have been out there tonight.” She leaned forward, after dropping her feet back to the floor. “FOUR older guys, all various stages of HOT were out there, and let me tell you, Li-Li, they ALL watched you walk in here like they wanted to worship at your altar.” She wiggled her eyes at her friend in the worst version of innuendo ever.

Li-Li chuckled. “You’re horrible.” She sighed then, “I have TOO much work to do. Between here and the restaurant.”

“All work and no play,” Ali warned, standing and heading for the door. “I’ll think of you while I’m-”

“EW,” Li-Li groaned and grimaced. “Don’t, don’t EVER think of me during your debauchery!” She shooed Ali out as her friend’s laughter echoed behind her. She turned back to the computer and opened the tab for the restaurant. She had to place an order for supplies, then hopefully, she could head home before four o’clock.

EARLIER~ AFTER LILANE HAD ENTERED HER OFFICE

A waitress came to the booth and took their orders. She had been friendly, but not overly so, clearly Lilana had trained her staff to be good at service, but not overly open to anything more. Once she returned with their drinks, Crowley felt three pairs of eyes on him. Sighing, he took a drink of the high end scotch he’d ordered and thought about what to tell them. Feeling at a loss, he realized the truth would have to be it.

“She’s my daughter.” He said, barely loud enough to be heard over the noise of the bar.

John blinked, shocked clearly. Dean choked on his drink and Sam studied him. “Why does that make her so special?” Moose asked, clearly the smart one.

“Because, Moose, her mother was an angel. Literally.” He said, meeting Sam’s eyes. He could feel the tension return, to himself as well as the three men he sat with. “Abigail, she liked to be called Abigail.” He felt the pain of her loss still, he tried to not think about her, but that was impossible. Like not breathing when you’re a human, thinking of her was just natural, and fighting against it was unbearable.

“What does that make her?” Dean asked the question directed at his father.

John squinted at his drink trying to think if he’d ever heard of such a pairing in his life. “I don’t know.” He answered, biting his lip. “I’ve never heard of it happening.”

“Because it never has,” Crowley answered. “Her mother and I, it’s forbidden, and not in the usual way.” He closed his eyes and tried desperately not to think about that day. “Abigail evaporated the day Lilana was born. Gone. That was her punishment for simply loving me.”

He could hear Sam gulp. “She died?”

Crowley met Sam’s eyes, “No, Moose, she didn’t die. She ceased to exist, period.”

“They don’t know about her.” John said, not a question, because he knew if the mother was removed, they wouldn’t have left the child if they knew.

“No, they don’t. There were ways to conceal that at least.” Crowley confirmed. “Abigail knew, she knew that Lilana would end up becoming irresistible to everything. I truly don’t know how, but she knew. She made me promise to keep her safe, and part of that was leaving her on Earth. Her mortal guardians, her adopted parents died three years ago.”

“When you came to help us,” Dean nodded, realizing that was why he’d been buttering them up.

“Yes,” Crowley answered, continuing. “Abigail also told me that the three of you would be her safest allies. And-” He stopped, closing his eyes against the pain of the promise he’d made as the love of his existence had known she was leaving forever. “Let’s say, you’re not only protecting her.”

John squinted at Crowley, he didn’t like how that sounded. “No.” He answered, standing up and about to walk away. “The whole story, or we’re out.”

“Sit, Winchester.” Crowley growled, hating that this useless human was important to his daughter’s livelihood. “Fine, fine.” He said, trying to pacify the patriarch. “The WHOLE story is this: my daughter is going to save all three of you. Not from monsters, demons, or angels, but from something deep inside of each of you.” He closed his eyes and sighed again. “Her mother wasn’t specific, she just said her Grace would make right that which was wrong.” He opened his eyes to see that John had fallen back into his chair. “Angels, they’re always cryptic, even when they’re dying.” The pain clutching his heart made the joke sound wrong even to himself.

THREE THIRTY IN THE MORNING

Li-Li walked through the empty bar, making sure that her staff had locked everything up nice and tight. She knew they were great people, but Spring Break was rowdy and everyone enjoyed themselves a little much. Everything seemed in order, so she walked to the back door so she could get to her car easier. Locking the door behind her, she beeped her car even as she felt a cold chill go down her spine.

She glanced around her, and saw nothing. Walking briskly to her car, she opened the door and jumped in, closing and locking the door behind her. She looked at herself in the rear view mirror as she started the car and laughed. Jumpy, aren’t you, she thought. Pulling the car out of the employee parking lot, she headed home, wanting nothing more than a hot bath, some breakfast, and sleep.

Dean and Sam sat in the Impala and watched from the lot next door to the bar as Lilana rushed to her car and jumped inside. Dean chuckled, wondering if she was always so skittish. Remembering her on top of the bar, her tank showing the impressive curve of her breast as she poured that body shot made him think not. And she’d walked past them with that swagger. Definitely not jumpy.

He started the car and followed her home. He wondered what Crowley meant about her saving them. It wasn’t like they needed fixing, did they?

Sam was lost in his own thoughts. He had to admit, he had been somewhat let down by the fact that they hadn’t seen her again in the bar. While he wasn’t really into the whole rowdy bar scene, she’d been pretty impressive in holding the crowd in awe. She was tiny, even compared to the rest of the men in his family. Tiny, but with all the right curves. And the confidence that she sent off in waves, damn.

Trailing her from the bar to her house on the beach, the boys noticed their dad’s truck parked down the street from her driveway. They drove past her turn in, and pulled in behind his truck. Watching from their new spot, they saw her open her front door and disappear inside. Once she was out of sight, they got out of the car and went to the driver’s side of the truck. Their dad was writing in his journal when they tapped on the door.

“Just writing down what we know so far,” John offered, putting down the book and looking at his boys. “Do you think we can trust him?” He felt like he’d asked that a lot lately. Or for the past three years.

Dean sighed, and shrugged, but Sam’s answer was firm. “Yes.” They both looked at him. “You two didn’t watch him when he told us who she was to him. He cares for her, he’s terrified of losing her, even if he wasn’t there physically for her.” He shut his eyes wanting to explain what he’d seen flash across the demon who insisted on calling him ‘Moose’. “I’ve never seen Crowley show that much weakness, that much pain flash across his face.” He’d seen it, when he spoke of the angel he’d loved. “He lost the mother, he won’t lose the daughter, even if it means putting her in our protection.”

Dean nodded, he could admit he wasn’t watching Crowley during the story. He’d been too shocked at the thought of Crowley and an angel making the hot chick he’d watched on the bar to focus on much else. “It makes sense that he’d only do it for her, because let’s face it, he’s hated us forever.”

John glanced at the house she’d walked into, “How are we going to do this?” He was honestly at a loss. Innocents were usually IN danger when they met them, but she wasn’t, not yet anyway. “How do we insert ourselves in her life?”

The silence surrounded the three men as they all considered what would work best.

#supernatural fanfiction #alternate universe #crowley/daughter #john winchester #Dean Winchester #sam winchester #angel/demon

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frenchibi · 5 years

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quiet places

(what, a fic? on tumblr? by me? in 2019? It’s more likely than you think!)

Crowley gets a cold. (1k, fluff)

-----

“I’m a demon,” Crowley croaked. “Demons don’t get strep throat.”

“Don’t be fussy,” said the angel, clearly fussing. “Drink your tea.”

Crowley scowled, but brought the cup to his lips nonetheless. The hot liquid burned the inside of his throat, but he welcomed the feeling. It’d serve all those bacteria right, for infecting this body.

It was, indeed, quite ridiculous. And the only thing stopping him now from using a quick miracle to rid himself of this inconvenience was Aziraphale, propping up a pillow behind his back. Aziraphale, who had hurried over with tea and lozenges and an extra blanket when he’d heard Crowley’s voice on the phone.

Maybe, Crowley decided, having a cold for a few days wasn’t so bad, overall, if it came with all this extra care and attention.

“Perhaps you’ll gain a proper appreciation for illness if you experience it yourself,” the angel said, not without humour. “Would’ve done you all some good, before sending plagues upon humanity.”

Crowley wanted to argue that he hadn’t done that, anyhow, even if the commendation he’d received for the Plague suggested otherwise – but his throat was starting to feel miraculously soothed, so he settled for a scowl.

Aziraphale saw the expression and tutted, waving his hand. “Oh, you know what I mean. Them, obviously. Not you.”

“’s not very demonic,” Crowley said, put out. His throat protested, and he clamped his lips shut.

“Best not talk for a while, dear – it’d cause you pain, I’d expect.” Aziraphale didn’t sound particularly bothered by this. “It’s alright though – I’ve brought books.”

Of course he had.

“Angel, I don’t-”

“Oh, hush. I’ll read to you.”

Crowley hesitated. An evening in with the angel did sound quite lovely, cold or no, – but he felt duty-bound to resist. Not that anyone Below would notice, especially if there was no miracle-working involved, but still-

Even as he hesitated, Aziraphale had smoothed out the far side of the covers of Crowley’s too-large, too-stylish bed and planted himself beside him, small stack of books teetering at his side as he made himself comfortable. Crowley’s protests died in his throat (alongside plenty of pesky micro-organisms, hopefully). Instead, he leaned back into the pillow (much plumper and more homey than he remembered it being) and drew the mug back to his lips. Tiny miracles like this usually flew below the radar.

The inability to comment on what the angel was reading soon proved to be a gigantic nuisance – Crowley, as always, had plenty of sarcastic remarks at the tip of his tongue, and Aziraphale clearly noticed him squirming, for after finishing the first chapter, he lowered the book and gave him a reproachful look.

“Oh, stop fidgeting.”

It took all of Crowley’s self-control not to hiss at him, and the angel sighed.

“Well. Music, then, I should think.”

An old record player in the corner creaked into motion. Certainly not the type of thing Crowley would have invested in, but there it sat anyway, and soft, hesitant music filled the air.

Crowley frowned. “…Satie?”

“I’ve always found his work rather lovely. Experimental, surely, but lovely nonetheless.” He stopped, a small crease in his own brow. “I can change it, of course.”

Crowley considered this, but then found himself unexpectedly touched by the gesture, a clear attempt on the angel’s part of finding some middle ground between their respective tastes. A little misguided, maybe, but it wasn’t like Crowley hated classical music to begin with.

He shook his head, eyes sweeping the room idly as he listened.

The slow, melancholic notes that surrounded them rather called for more sombre weather outside – a muffled storm would have well suited the mood. As it was, the sky was unexpectedly uncooperative – it was a mild evening, slowly darkening, as the sun had already set. Not quite as unfriendly as might have been appropriate.

Still. Crowley set aside his mug and sank back into the pillow, allowing his posture to droop slightly towards Aziraphale, who had lifted up his book once more, to continue reading in silence.

The angel barely raised an eyebrow – he did, however, raise his arm, just so. Enough to not be an accident, but an invitation.

There was a brief moment of apprehension, but Crowley swallowed hard against it. He knew Aziraphale was not flippant with physical affection – an after-effect of heaven, no doubt, and prolonged exposure to its sterile, cold atmosphere. He’d often found himself wondering, idly, if his flat reminded the angel of Upstairs. But then again, it wasn’t nearly so empty and cold anymore, not with Aziraphale’s fingerprints all over the place; books he’d left behind, small trinkets, plants gifted once he’d figured out Crowley’s ambitions with them. Pieces of the angel that stuck out like splashes of colour on a blank canvas, and made the minimalist flat feel almost like a home.

Not that he would admit it. But this, this offer – it was not something he was inclined to turn down.

A part of him, in the very back of his mind, chided against what he was about to do. They’d only recently learned the End was approaching, and faster than anticipated – in a few years, they’d have to take on their respective roles to ensure the antichrist was raised normal and human, rather than evil incarnate, in a last-ditch effort to derail an ineffable plan. It all felt rather surreal, still, but the threat of Consequences was ever-present in the back of his mind whenever he spent time with the angel, no matter how much he cherished it.

Well. He’d always come back, until then, and he supposed that somewhere along the line, this had become his truth, and not a decision he would consciously change anymore. Frankly, they’d been tied together for quite some time, even if the angel was loathe to acknowledge it out loud. Crowley was content to proceed at his pace – or, well, he had been, since the future seemed to stretch so wide ahead of them.

So why not indulge, now? All things considered?

Crowley let himself tip sideways, until his head came to rest in the angel’s lap.

Aziraphale’s lip quirked into the smallest hint of a smile, and he shifted the book into one hand, placing the other lightly on Crowley’s back. His fingers traced miniscule patterns that left a trail of warmth in their wake, and Crowley let his eyes fall shut. The touch washed over him like the tentative keys of the piano on the record, and he could already feel the exhaustion ebbing away.

Maybe demons could, indeed, catch colds – but perhaps they also recovered much quicker. In fact, his throat was almost back to feeling normal again.

“…d’you put something in that tea?” he mumbled, shifting slightly.

Aziraphale turned a page. “Oh, yes,” he said idly. “Honey.”

“No, I meant… never mind.”

He could hear the angel’s soft smile without having to look up to see it. “No miracles involved, if that’s what you’re asking. Just me, dear.”

But really, right then, with Aziraphale’s warmth surrounding him, “just me” actually felt quite miraculous.

-----

(am around on all kinds of sites y’all, ao3, insta, twitter, all under the same name. Come say hi! And don’t hesitate to yell if you liked this, you’re 100% motivating me to write more!)

#my writing #good omens #ineffable husbands #aziraphale x crowley #fanfiction #this was fun but also 100% projecting cause I'm getting sick oops

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sushiandstarlight · 4 years

Text

“Feather Duster”: NaNoWriMo 30 Days of Prompts

Today’s Prompt from @hellandholywater

Personal note: the first ~800 words are in Crowley's perspective while the rest is not. This was not a stylistic choice. I literally wrote that much of the wrong perspective before I realized my mistake. But, as this is nano, I've decided to leave it as is. *narrowly avoids the editing abyss*

Rated G

Summary: Your home is my home because my home doesn't have you.

Read this story on AO3

They spent most days following the failed apocalypse at the bookshop. Aziraphale was always happy to be amongst his books and Crowley was just happy to be where the angel was. There were countless hours spent there before the world didn't end and, when the bookshop was miraculously restored in the aftermath, they saw no reason not to enjoy it. So, dinners out. Theater, sometimes. Museums by day (to critisize the assumptions on the plaques- it was hard sometimes watching humans piece together history when they had been there, but mostly it was funny). When the sun dipped low and places of interest and amusement closed, they found their way back to the bookshop for a drink or seven and a good laugh.

Most of the time, Crowley didn't even go home. His eyes would droop and he would eventually stop laughing. He would wake in the morning to find a tattered throw blanket draped over him and an angel that didn't even mention it.

It wasn't that he hated his own flat, really. It was nice enough: modern, with amenities. Minimalist. He did visit it to water and threaten his plants. It was just that... it was cold. He hadn't furnished it to be a home, not really. It was a base. He put some of himself in it, sure, but not a lot. The other demons were constantly dropping into his life and the idea of having himself laid bare for them to see was not appealing.

The bookshop, on the other hand, was like being surrounded by Aziraphale.

The books- “in a very particular order, Crowley, honestly!”- and the trinkets collected- “there's nothing wrong with keeping material objects that remind you of things!” all around. Everything was imbued with meaning and memory and knowledge. It was an extension of himself. For Crowley, there was nothing more comforting than being with Aziraphale, surrounded by all the things Aziraphale loved. It made him feel like part of the collection, something treasured and sat on a shelf all his own. He felt worn and used and a bit dusty, but here he was wanted, treasured even, for those things.

“Why don't we go to your flat today?” Aziraphale didn't even look up at him, peering through the tiny spectacles on his nose at the book in his lap.

“What for?” Crowley tried to keep his voice flat, but incredulity crept in anyway.

“Well, we've spent plenty of time here and I've enjoyed that immensely... But, it doesn't have to be all about my comfort. We can spend time in your home, too. Surely, there are things you have been neglecting there to be here with me,” he glanced up and met Crowley's eyes and then back down at the book, “unless there's some reason you don't want me there. I wouldn't want to intrude on your space.”

“Neh, no. There's not- Angel, you're always welcome in my spaces,” the sentence, if it could be called that, came out wrong. He could make sentences, really he could. Just. Maybe not always with his angel. His. Hmm. And, that was part of the problem, wasn't it? It was all good and well to dwell in Aziraphale's world. That's how they had always done things. Crowley visited Aziraphale's life. Popped in and out. He was a fixture there. But, Aziraphale rarely visited his world. That had once been a purposeful choice on his part, to keep the angel safe. There was no real reason for that, now, was there? It made Crowley wonder if he'd had other reasons all along, buried under all that protective instinct. Though really, he admitted to himself, he didn't need to wonder. His home might not be quite the extension of himself that Aziraphale's was, but it was still his home and it would speak about him, he was sure, in ways he wasn't even aware.

“That settles it, then,” Aziraphale smiled down at the book, eyes still scanning as he spoke, “we'll head over after lunch. A little bistro opened up just down the street from there and I've been positively dying to try their soup- I've heard such good things!” He turned the page, absolutely unaware of all the turmoil going on over on the couch across from him.

“Okay, Angel,” because when had he ever had an ounce of will to deny him anything he asked for, “after lunch then.” Crowley sunk down into the sofa cushions and wondered when he'd last even considered cleaning his flat.

Normally, Crowley would be watching him enjoy his soup. It seemed a strange thing to miss, but here he was missing it. Crowley was preoccupied with staring at the table between them, somewhere between the salt and pepper shakers and the napkin holder. Aziraphale had tried to draw him out a few times, mentioning how good the soup was. What was in it that made it so good. The yelp reviews that he had read. The one he was planning to write tonight. Usually Crowley hung on his words, but he wasn't right now. It seemed a selfish thing to want, but it was their normal.

“Ready to go to mine, then?” Still, Crowley smiled at him as he dabbed his mouth with his napkin. Maybe he was just having a quiet kind of day.

“Yes, of course!”

The trip from the bistro to Crowley's flat wasn't long- less than five minutes- but the quiet was a bit strained. Aziraphale sat with his satchel (full of a few choice books to pass the time) clutched in his lap and wondered, for the first time, if Crowley really didn't want him in his home. But, surely he would have said when Aziraphale asked, right? Maybe not.

The elevator up was just as quiet and he followed Crowley down the hall from there, watched the demon wave the locks open and then went in when he was ushered with a hand on the small of his back.

“Er, make yourself at home, Angel,” Crowley shifted from foot to foot for a moment, “tea? Something stronger than tea?”

“Yes, perhaps a bit stronger,” Aziraphale put his satchel down beside Crowley's sofa and sat, deciding immediately that it was chosen for it's looks and not for comfort. In for a penny, he thought, he would make do. He was becoming stubbornly fixated on making Crowley feel accepted in his own space.

The demon returned with two tumblers of whiskey and handed one to him, taking a gulp from his and wincing as it went down.

“Should I come sit with you here, then?” Crowley didn't look very enamored with the idea. Perhaps, Aziraphale thought, because he was absolutely aware of how uncomfortable this sofa was. He wiggled down into the unforgiving cushions and smiled.

“You can if you like, but I can entertain myself. I'm sure there are things you need to tend to, yes? You're not here much. You sit on my furniture while I organize my books. Just... do whatever you would do if I wasn't here.

Crowley stared at him for a moment and then nodded slowly and shrugged, downing what was left in his glass and then turning and walking out of the room. Aziraphale listened and heard the sound of spray bottle in the other room. Then some disgruntled grumbling about leaf spots. There, see? They could cohabitate in Crowley's space. He reached into his satchel and pulled out a book. Turning to the page with a ribbon holding his place, he slipped on his spectacles and started reading.

He heard Crowley putter around the atrium for a while, and then further away in the kitchen. For a time, he heard nothing and wondered if the demon had crawled into bed for a nap. That would certainly be acting like no one was there. But then he head more puttering in the atrium and Crowley reappeared.

He had changed his clothes. That was something Aziraphale had not been expecting. A deep blue hoodie and a pair of worn, black sweats. And he'd removed his shoes and replaced them with fuzzy blue socks. They looked ridiculously soft. Aaaand, he realized he was staring. Dragging his eyes back to the book in his lap, he pretended to keep reading. No reason that Crowley should know this move had made him... what, exactly? Nervous? Excited, maybe? Confused, certainly. Curious, yes.

Crowley never let anyone see him- even Aziraphale- in less than impeccable clothing choices, the kind that somehow looked both expensive and also thrown together. This was Crowley being actually comfortable. How... how was seeing LESS of him somehow more fetching than when he wore the skin-tight trousers and shirts?

He turned a page, thinking it would probably be good timing for that. Really, he hadn't read any of it. He glanced up just in time for Crowley to cross in front, back turned to him. His eyes were immeditatly drawn to the feather duster that was tucked into the top of his joggers. It... wiggled when he walked, making the feather sway with his hips.

“Alright there, Angel?” Crowley was plucking up the feather duster and flicking it along the painting on his wall.

Aziraphale just stared. He could feel his jaw hanging down, but there didn't seem to be a thing he could do about it. Crowley stopped when he felt the silence and walked back over to him, standing over the sofa.

“Whatcha thinking about?”

“... fan worms.”

Crowley was staring at him blankly.

“They're, uh, well they're oceanic filter feeders. Nice big fans that spread out and catch little things floating around in the water. Very clever way to keep the oceans clean, I think...”

“Did you miracle your glass full while I was cleaning the other rooms?”

“What? No!”

“I mean it's one thing when I'm spouting off about kraken and dolphins, but what are you going on about filter feeders for?”

“I'm a bit nervous!”

Crowley stared some more then, “since when do you talk about- wait, what have you got to be nervous for?” He was standing with his hands on his hips, feathers still floating around the hand holding the duster.

“Well, right now it's that you're towering over me asking me lots of questions!”

Crowley looked struck for a moment and then he laughed. He sat down on the other end of the sofa, angling towards him, feather duster now laying across his right thigh. He ripped his eyes away from the feather duster and back up to Crowley's face.

“Is this better?”

“Is what better?”

“Are you absolutely sure you didn't fill the glass a few more times? It's okay if you did, I just need to catch up.”

Aziraphale shifted uncomfortably. Maybe this was all a terrible idea. He wasn't sure how he could have seen it going this way, but he should have. Somehow. He shook his head slowly.

“Do you just... not like it here?”

“What? Of course I like it here.”

“Aziraphale, here is nothing like the places you enjoy inhabiting.”

“It is, too!”

“Angel, it's uncomfortably warm in here for anyone who's not me. It's spotless and I'm making it moreso at the moment because I clean when I'm nervous- nono, this is about you!- it's spartan, to say the least and the only books in sight are the ones that you brought. What is it about this place that would make you want to be here? I hardly want to be here and it's my home.”

“Why wouldn't you want to be in your own home?” Aziraphale watched Crowley as the man looked away from him.

“I asked you first.”

“Well, I asked you second.”

“That doesn't count!” Crowley picked up the feather duster and shook it at him.

“I just...” Aziraphale sighed, “I'm not used to seeing you in this state of undress.” He could feel his cheeks heating up and he tried to suppress it. His capillaries would not listen.

“My...” Crowley's jaw worked for a moment, hanging open and then closed and then hanging open again, “I'm wearing more than I usually do when we're out, though.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale toyed with his own fingers nervously, “but you look so comfortable, dear. I'm not used to you looking comfortable, I think. Your fashion isn't built for it.”

“I could change.”

“I wish you wouldn't.” The words were out before he could stop them. He kind of wished he could grab them from the air and eat them. His face was flaming now and his ears had joined in the game.

“Hmm, you're not nervous because you dislike my clothing,” Crowley leaned toward him, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, “does that mean you do like them?”

“Oh, stop.”

“You like me dressed down?”

“Crowley, really.”

“You're always so layered and buttoned up, I wouldn't have thought.”

“You look... snuggly.”

There was another stunned silence in which Aziraphale was sure his face found a whole new, heretofore unknown, shade of red to turn.

“You want to snuggle with me?”

“I didn't say that.”

“You're also not denying it.”

“... no, I suppose I'm not.”

“You could, you know.”

“Co-could do what?” The air was getting a little thin, he was sure of it. Definitely not enough air in this room.

“Snuggle up with me.”

“You,” Aziraphale chanced a glance at him, “you would like that?”

“From you? Yeah, I think so. You pretty much look snuggly all the time.”

“Well, that's... something.”

“Maybe not here, though.”

“Oh, you really don't like me being here, do you? Do be honest with me.”

“Already told you, Angel, I don't much like it here. I would rather be at your shop with you.”

“But it's not as warm.”

“You have blankets.”

“And it's dusty and cluttered and there's a television but it's decades old. I don't even have the internet.”

“I mean, I'm pretty much used to all those things... But the things aren't why I like it there better than here.”

Aziraphale stared at him. He could feel the shoe about to drop, he just wasn't sure what brand it was.

“You,” Crowley said, “I like it there because you're there. And it's your space. You're happiest in your space. I'm happy if you're happy.”

Aziraphale continued to stare, digesting that.

“Also, you're furniture is way more comfortable to use than mine.”

“This is a dreadful couch.”

“Hey! It looked good in the magazine.”

“Crowley, would you like to take me home? And stay... with me?”

“Will there be snuggling involved?”

“If you want.”

“Yes, Angel,” Crowley's smile was lopsided and filled with warmth, “I think I'd like that. I'd like that a lot.”

Previous Ficlet Prompts:

Scarf / Family / Hearth / Frosty / Ribbons / Wrapping / Cardinal / Coal / Unwrap / Blustery

#aziraphale x crowley #crowley x aziraphale #good omens #good omens fic #ineffable husbands #star light-reads #30 days of prompts #hellandholywater #nanowrimo #nanowrimo 2020

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