Can't Stay Away - A QZ!Joel Miller Fic
Years after you turned to Joel for help getting out of a bad relationship, he can't seem to stop coming back to you.
Pairing: Joel Miller x Female Reader
CW: Angst (duh), Joel is a bit of an asshole (that's the point and it makes him even hotter, I fear), mention of past domestic violence (not described), injury from past domestic violence, threat of continued domestic violence. unprotected P in V sex, breeding kink, fantasizing about pregnancy (doesn't actually happen.) Minors DNI 18+ only, no use of Y/N.
Length: 4.1k
A/N: Shared for the Joel Miller Birthday Celebration found on Tumblr here. This is QZ!Joel with Secret Relationship and Breeding Kink. I hope you enjoy!
Masterlist | AO3
“Where the fuck else is there to go?” Tommy asked, shucking his mud-covered boots and leaving them in a pile by the door.
“Just got business to take care of,” Joel said, voice rough.
“It’s pourin’ rain, man,” his brother said, dropping his drenched pack to the table as if to make a point. “We didn’t even know we were makin’ it back tonight until fuckin’ tonight. Just stay home.”
“Wanna get this done,” Joel said, taking his portion of their haul from his pack and piling it on the table. He left just one thing inside the pack. “Probably won’t be back ’til morning.”
Tommy just pursed his lips, shaking his head a little.
“Just don’t do anything stupid, Joel.”
Joel didn’t say anything back. What did he have to say?
Tommy had every reason to worry about him being stupid. Every reason to believe that Joel was going to do something that would hurt their smuggling operation. Every reason to believe that Joel was going to do something that would hurt himself.
Which, he supposed, wasn’t particularly far off.
You were, indeed, something stupid and something that would hurt him.
You were his biggest indulgence and his biggest risk, the thing that was the largest threat to him here in the Boston QZ.
Ex-wife of a FEDRA guard, Joel should avoid you.
His work was dangerous enough as it was, he shouldn’t make it more dangerous by messing around that close to the people who could execute him if they really wanted, especially not with someone they seemed to take pleasure in tormenting.
But he couldn’t seem to stay away from you.
He couldn’t put his finger on what it was. It wasn’t that he loved you. Not that he’d ever really loved a woman - he’d tried with Sarah’s mom and was sure he’d come up short - but he knew he didn’t have it in him to love anything now. The aching wound of loss took up too much of him, there wasn’t space for anything else.
But he did care. Whether that was because he was attached to you as a person or because you made him come so hard he forgot the world ended for a moment, he didn’t know.
He supposed the why didn’t matter. He cared. He cared enough that he couldn’t lose you without it adding to that wound, one that had damn near killed him and had seemed to have only grown worse with time.
That should be enough of a reason to stay away from you. Hadn’t he learned his lesson by now? That giving a shit only led to pain? That if he was going to keep surviving any of this, he had to be far, far away from something like you?
Still, he made his way through the QZ, the pouring, cold rain fitting the grim environs. Everything here was slightly wrong. It looked something like a city from before but not. It appeared as though things could be normal, somewhere, except they weren’t. It seemed as though Joel had been tailor made for this place, this time. Living some kind of half life where everything was shades of gray, nothing left to live for but - apparently - not able to die. The last gasp of humanity left in him clinging to this world.
That made you a shade of gray, too, one he wasn’t sure what to do with.
It had started years earlier, when you were desperate and willing to trade sex for a gun.
Joel hadn’t taken you up on the offer then, frowning as you watched him with wide, desperate eyes.
“The hell do you need a gun for?” He’d asked. “If you don’t already got one, hard pressed to see someone like you startin’ in on a business that needed one.”
“Does it matter?” You asked. “I’ll give you what ever you want, please.”
“Matters to me,” Joel said. “Not about to arm someone looking to move in on my business.”
“It’s not for that.”
“Then you shouldn’t have a problem tellin’ me what it is for,” he replied.
You looked around, cagey, before lowering your voice further. As though talking about an illegal weapons trade wasn’t enough of a reason to keep quiet.
“I’m leaving my husband,” you said, those wide, soft eyes watching him so closely. “He’s FEDRA and he’s made it clear that he won’t let me go without a fight. I need to be able to protect myself, please, I can give you ration cards as I earn them, I can… I’ll do anything else you might want, I…”
“Stop,” Joel cut you off, tears starting at the edges of your eyes. He took his hand gun from its place tucked in the small of his back and passed it to you as discreetly as he could. “There, now you got somethin’. Meet me here tomorrow, same time, I’ll get you more ammo. Know how to use it?”
“Don’t I just point it and pull the trigger?” You asked, brows raised.
He just sighed.
“Think you can keep from usin’ it until tomorrow?” He asked. You nodded quickly. “Good. I’ll show you.”
“Thank you,” you said, stashing the weapon quickly. “What… what do I owe you?”
The fear in your voice made his stomach turn.
“Nothin’,” Joel said. “Fine on ration cards at the moment. Don’t trade in the other shit. Tomorrow. Don’t be late.”
You just nodded quickly, thanking him with too much earnest hope in your voice for something being spoken to him.
Joel spent the afternoon the next day teaching you how to shoot as best he could inside the QZ. Turns out, the reason you didn’t already know how is that you’d been in Boston during the outbreak. You’d just moved there with your shitbag of a husband a few weeks before it all came crashing down. You’d never really needed to fight, let alone shoot or kill. You never needed a gun.
Until your husband started hitting you.
Joel learned quickly exactly why you felt like you needed to be armed. He’d put a hand on your ribs to adjust your stance and you hissed in pain. Joel pulled away quickly, frowning as you tried to hide your pained expression but it didn’t work.
“You gonna tell me what that was?” He asked, brows raised. You clenched your jaw and stared at the ground.
“It’s not your business.”
“I’m helpin’ you, your husband is a fucking FEDRA officer, if you’re about to haul off and kill him I should know why,” he said, voice heated. “So tell me, he do that?”
Your eyes finally met his and he didn’t need to ask again.
“Lemme see.”
“Joel…”
“Show me,” he said, voice sharp.
You sighed and lifted your sweatshirt, revealing discolored and swollen skin along one side.
Joel clenched his jaw.
“It’s gotten worse,” you said quietly. “I can’t keep pretending it’ll be OK if we just get through this, I can’t pretend like he hasn’t been building toward this for years. I need to get out before he kills me.”
Joel stepped back and you lowered your shirt, your eyes on his.
“He bigger than you?” He asked. You nodded. “Alright, gonna teach you a few more things, too…”
He showed you how to protect yourself without a gun and how to end a conflict with one. He hoped you wouldn’t need to use either. After a few days of showing you how to do the things he’d assumed just came with the territory of surviving the end of the world, you went your separate ways.
But Joel still thought of you, an odd twinge in his chest when he did, something like concern. He wanted you to be OK. He couldn’t put his finger on why that would matter to him but he wanted that, he wanted you to be safe and happy.
So when he ran into you on the street a few months later, he couldn’t help but ask. And you smiled at him, brighter than he’d ever seen you look, when you told him that you had your own place now, that the gun he’d given you had never been fired. It was hard, but you’d survived.
The two of you went to the speakeasy and you bought Joel a drink, saying you owed him for helping you get out of your situation. He let you buy the first round. He bought the second. Before too long, he was in your apartment, pulling off your clothes and touching your body without you flinching away from him.
You became like a drug to him then. Every few nights he found himself outside your door, desperate for the reprieve you and your sex gave him. Some sense of normalcy, the ability to feel something beyond the crushing weight of loss, that brief moment when he was buried inside you and reaching his peak that the rest of the world fell away and he existed on a plane where nothing bad had ever happened to him and he’d never done anything to deserve it.
He tried to pretend like that release is all it was. But then there were moments where he couldn’t deny that it was more. The time where he passed you on the street and your eyes met his and he wanted to go talk to you, to see why your eyes seemed dark and sad, but there was a FEDRA guard watching you from the corner and he couldn’t risk it, not for either of you. The time he showed up at your door and heard yelling and he pretended to be a neighbor to intervene. All the times he held you as you fell asleep nestled against his skin, soft and beautiful and trusting, all things that should have been driven out of you in the QZ. All things you should never have been with him in the first place.
He swallowed those moments, tried to not let the fear and panic they sparked inside of him take over. The last time he loved someone, they died. The last time he loved someone, it almost killed him. He couldn’t love you. He couldn’t risk it.
But here he was, at your door again, anyway.
He tried to stop himself from knocking but all it did was make his hand stutter before he did what he always did: wait for you to let him in.
“Joel?” You opened the door in an oversized t-shirt and boxers, looking groggy. “You’re back.”
You threw your arms around his neck and pulled him inside, pressing your body against his, burying your face in the hollow of his throat and he let himself breathe you in, remind himself that you were safe.
“I was so worried about you,” your voice was muffled in the wet fabric of his shirt. “I heard some things from people at the gate and…”
“The gate?” He frowned, pulling back from you. “The hell were you doin’ down there?”
You looked at him, your lower lip going between your teeth, fingers twisting on themselves.
“What. Were you doin’. At the gate.”
“I heard something at work,” you said quietly. “About a patrol getting overrun by infected and… I wanted to see if there were signs of other people getting hurt, I’m sorry, I couldn’t just sit here and wait for you and not know…”
“You can’t do shit like that,” he said roughly. “It ain’t safe, your fuckin’ husband is always looking for a reason to make your life hell, he would have me and Tommy killed if he knew about us, you can’t just…”
“I know.”
“Then why’d you do it?” He smacked his hand against the tabletop, making you flinch, hating himself for scaring you even for a moment. “I know you fuckin’ know better!”
“Because I care about you!” You yelled, your voice thick. “Is that such a crime?”
Joel crumpled at that, shoulders slouching.
“That’s…” he sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “That ain’t what this is, honey, you know that.”
“I know,” you said again, voice soft. “I’m not expecting anything from you, Joel, I know better than that. I just… I’m not just going to pretend that you’re nothing to me. Life is too short for that.”
His heart thudded against his ribs, so hard it felt like a bruise.
“I can’t…”
“I know,” you whispered, reaching up and cupping his cheek. “It’s OK. I know.”
He should have turned to leave then, he was smart enough to know that. But your hand was soft on his skin, your body was warm next to his, your eyes were welcoming and understanding in a way that nothing else had been since he’d lost the only thing that mattered.
So he kissed you.
It wasn’t something that was soft and romantic, nothing like what you deserved, nothing like how he would have kissed you if he’d known you before. Instead it was fierce, devouring, harsh enough that he knew his stubble must be scratching your skin and he didn’t care. All he cared about was getting more of you.
You tugged him back toward your bedroom, Joel stepping out of his boots as he went. He dropped his pack on the floor and tugged your shirt up and over your head, casting it aside. He ran his hands over your bared skin, your flesh pebbled where the cold, wet of his shirt touched you. He pulled that off, too, before he could do anything that hurt you, even for a moment. Christ knew you had enough of that behind you, the look on your face when he’d lost control just a minute before already a scar in his mind, adding to the scars on your skin from your marriage he wished he could go back and stop.
You undressed each other quickly, desperately, and he all but threw you on the bed once you were naked. He followed you there, shedding the last of his clothes before crawling up your body, his finger tracing your slit to spread you open just enough that he could get his thick, hard cock inside.
He should be more careful with you, he knew that. But he didn’t have the patience and you’d never, even once, asked him to slow down or be gentle. So he pushed himself inside with one sharp, hard stroke, making you gasp and arch beneath him as he groaned at the feeling of your tight cunt. You whimpered as he stilled deep inside, adjusting to how you held him, fighting to keep from coming too quick because you felt too goddamn good but he couldn’t waste it, not this fast.
“You’re OK,” he panted, his mouth against your shoulder. “You can take it, baby, know you can, take it so well.”
He felt you nod against him, your hands trembling as they went to his back, holding him close.
“Just take it,” he said as he started to fuck into you, caving to his baser instincts and letting himself have you the way you seemed so willing to give yourself to him. “Just take it, honey, just let me… let me…”
Your hips rolled to meet his, your nails digging into his skin.
“Feels so good, Joel,” you whined against him. “Fuck, I missed you, you feel, you feel, I…”
He kissed you, swallowing your babbling before you had a chance to complete your thought. He couldn’t hear what he was afraid was coming, a line he couldn’t bring himself to cross. There was so much he couldn’t give to you, so much that he knew you deserved but was too selfish to give you up so you could find it.
But fuck, did he wish he could give you that. In another time, another place, another reality entirely, he could. He knew that. In some other world, one where humanity wasn’t gone and his daughter was still breathing, he would give you everything. In that world, he would love you. He would open your car door and share inside jokes and care for you in a way no one else could. In that impossible world, you and him lived in a little house with a garden out front and a spare bedroom where Sarah stayed when she came for a visit because she would be an adult now, with a life of her own instead of forever frozen at 14. In that reality, you were his in every way. His ring was on your finger, his roof over your head, his baby in your womb. He wouldn’t need to hide it then, wouldn’t need to tiptoe around FEDRA, wouldn’t need to be afraid of what loving you might mean. He could fuck you until you were full of him, so full that you carried part of him inside of you for months, your body growing and changing with it and then no one would ever question that you were his, fucking his.
Your pussy drew tight around him as your fingers wound tight in his hair. Your nipples were hard against his chest, the plush of your breasts pressed to his front as your thighs tightened around his hips.
He pulled his mouth from yours to kiss and suck his way down your neck to your chest, pressing himself deep inside you and letting himself pretend - just for a moment - that the reality he occupied was one where he could have you, really have you. That the two of you were in a cozy bedroom with furniture he built for you with a room a few doors down that you’d already started looking at cribs and changing tables to fill it with.
“Gonna come,” you panted, your hips stuttering against him as he pressed inside, forcing the head of his cock against the soft, tender place deep within you. “Fuck, don’t stop, don’t stop, I’m gonna… I… I…”
He was so close to his peak that he almost wanted you to say it. He wanted you to say it while he came deep inside you, leaving himself there so it could take, so he could watch you grow his child and take care of you through it, so he could take care of both of you after. Claim you so thoroughly that when you were in the QZ there was no question that you were his, not with his baby inside you and his arm around your shoulders.
He wanted it. He wanted it so bad that, in that moment with his cock buried inside you as you keened below him, he didn’t care if it fucking killed him.
Joel came apart when you did, the fluttering of your tight little hole sending him over the edge, the high of nothing else in the world mattering outside of you and the hot clutch of your body swallowing him whole for one glorious moment.
But, as always happened, he came back down to earth, still held in the cradle of your hips, still breathing the scent of your skin, still lost in the wasteland that was once the world.
He didn’t kiss you as he pulled out of you, collapsing on the bed next to you, closing his eyes for a moment to keep from looking at you too long.
“You gotta be more careful,” he said after a moment.
You were silent long enough that he looked over at you, finding you on your side facing him but staring down at the mattress.
“I know,” you said eventually.
“I’m not trying to be an asshole,” he said, his voice gentle. Or as gentle as he seemed to be able to make it now, anyway. “But you know what happened the last time he thought you were seein’ someone. If killing him would fix it, I would, but I can’t kill every fucking FEDRA guard who’d take it out on you and I’m not gonna be the reason you get hurt.”
“I know,” you said again, looking at him this time. “But I… I just…”
“I know,” he said it this time, his stomach twisting.
You just nodded.
“You deserve better,” he said eventually. “Shouldn’t let me treat you the way I do.”
“I don’t mind.”
“You should,” he snapped and then sighed, staring at the ceiling again. “Sorry for scarin’ you before. When I hit the table. I… I would never…”
“I know,” you said, more confidently then. He looked back to you, frowning. “I’m not afraid of you, Joel. I know better about that, too.”
He was silent again, going back to staring at your water-stained ceiling.
“Should probably take a break,” he said eventually. “Not see each other for a bit.”
“It wouldn’t change anything,” you said quietly. He frowned, watching you again. “I know myself. I know how I feel. It’s OK. I don’t expect anything from you. Not even this.”
His eyes searched yours and he let himself try to reach some other version of him on some other plane, one where things were safe and he was in the bed you shared with him in the home you made together. A version where he could be honest with you and it wouldn’t destroy him.
“I’d give you more if I could,” he said instead.
You smiled ever so slightly, a gentle curve to your lips.
“I know,” you said softly. “Believe it or not, I know you, too, Joel.”
He let himself look at you for a moment, let that terrifying wound at the center of him hurt where he could really feel it, to feel the horror of what letting himself love you would be.
“It’s OK,” you whispered as you reached out and brushed his curls back, your fingertip grazing the scar at his temple. “I’ll just love you, anyway.”
He stayed in your bed that night, lying awake as you slept against him, ignoring the scream of panic at the core of him to run while he still could. He knew it couldn’t last. He knew he couldn’t rest like this, not with you this close, not in this awful place with that awful hurt. But he couldn’t leave you either. Not like this.
“Oh,” he said the next morning when it was still dark so he could slip back to his own apartment before some FEDRA prick was awake to see him leaving your place. “Almost forgot.”
He pulled a scarf from his pack, the one thing he hadn’t left at home after this run. It was thick, the knit heavy, a color that made your eyes shine. Not that he had pictured you wearing it with those eyes of yours when he’d picked it up. He held it out to you and you frowned, confused, as you took it.
“Winter is around the corner and you were cold all the time last year,” he said gruffly. “Don’t want you freezin’ to death.”
You smiled a little, running your fingers over the pattern knit into the yarn.
“Thank you,” you said, holding it to your chest and looking back to him. “I really needed this, Joel.”
He just grunted, pulling his pack on and heading for the door.
“I’m gonna stay away from you for a while,” he said, trying to ignore the pain in his chest at that. “Don’t want anyone catching on.”
“OK,” you said, eyes searching his before you stepped close to him and slowly, cautiously, pressed your soft, warm lips to his own. “Take care of yourself for me, OK?”
You said it like you would say I love you.
“You, too,” he said. He wondered if it sounded the same to you, too.
Staying away from you took work. He wanted to see you, be next to you, get lost in you. But he knew where that would lead and he couldn’t let it, not now, not like this.
So he stayed away for weeks. He stayed away until the first snowfall of the season in Boston and he made an excuse to go stand outside your job. He couldn’t help it. He needed to make sure you were warm and safe so he stood there and watched you leave, his scarf around your neck, You caught his eye with a small smile as you passed a FEDRA guard and he knew, with sinking certainty, he’d be back at your door that night.
He just couldn’t seem to stay away from you.
242 notes
·
View notes
Podcast Interview With Idling in the Impala: "Y/N and Let Y/N…"
Here we go! Sandra and Kasey, the lovely hosts of @idlingintheimpalapodcast — the podcast for all things SPN and fanfiction — invited me on the pod for an interview…
We chatted about Dean Winchester and Jensen Ackles’ early roles, the best and worst seasons of SPN, the joys and pains of writing Soldier Boy, and much, much more.
That’s right, there be some hot takes coming in this convo, and I had an absolute blast with these two! (And like I said in Sunday's announcement, I’m also putting my name and my voice out there for the first time! 😆)
So if any of that sounds interesting, feel free to dive in!
(**Important Note: Just to preface, we recorded this back in June, so it was before I posted certain stories or even started developing Lost on You. It was also when Tumblr activity/engagement was going through a spring/summer slowdown lol.
Links to all the fics and podfics we mentioned are at the end of this post.)
Have a listen: ⤵️
Interview Timestamps –
(Plus fic recs, SPN writer shoutouts, and more!)
1:44 – Who’s your guy: Sam or Dean?
3:35 – Getting into Supernatural for the first time (and seeing “Deanisms” in Jensen’s early roles).
10:15 – We debate the best and worst seasons of SPN: talking Mary Winchester, the British MOL, MOC Dean vs. Demon Dean, Chuck/God villainy, “jump the shark” moments, and that ending.
30:29 – Favorite SPN characters besides Sam and Dean.
32:34 – Writing fanfiction, joining Tumblr, and writing reader inserts vs. OCs.
38:05 – To “Y/N” or not “Y/N,” and the power of 2nd person. (**Disclaimer: Despite my hot take on this, I’ve loved a lot of stories by authors who use Y/N in reader insert stories.
Also, if I’m remembering the book You and its characters incorrectly forgive me, it’s been like 5 years since I read it lol.)
51:00 – Favorite fanfic tropes in romance, the joys and challenges of writing Soldier Boy (AKA: the Original Asshole), and attempting to humanize Ben in Break Me Down.
Shoutout to @deans-spinster-witch always for giving me the inspiration to write BMD. 💚
Why We Love The Boys – A review of Supes Ain’t Always Heroes
1:07:57 – Engaging with readers, tips on increasing engagement, optimizing your Tumblr blog, writing schedules and processes, and incorporating reader feedback into stories.
1:26:38 – Sandra graciously narrated Midnight Espresso (Dean Winchester x Plus-sized Latina!Reader). We chat about what sparked the idea for the ME-verse, self-representation in fanfic, feeding Dean, loving Dean, and writing about culture and ethnicity in the fandom space.
1:38:26 – Chatting about the inspirations behind Smoke Eater, a firefighter!Dean AU; law enforcement procedurals, House MD, and researching for stories.
1:44:30 – Which Jackles character is the easiest or most fun to write?
1:47:39 – The challenges of writing Sam vs. Dean.
1:53:15 – Shoutouts! To some of my favorite SPN authors. I could only remember a few people off the top of my head (stupid me), but I love all of you!!
@waynes-multiverse @dean-winchester-is-a-warrior @luci-in-trenchcoats @rizlowwritessortof @waywardxwords
@deanwinchesterswitch @deanbrainrotwritings @deanwritings @spnbabe67 @thatonewriter15
@justagirlinafandomworld @kaleldobrev @artyandink @princessmisery666 @wayward-dreamer (– and many more.)
2:00:40 – How I came up with my username.
2:05:04 – Kasey’s Secret Question…
2:07:38 – Advice to fanfic writers and creatives for inspiration and/or wisdom.
2:16:35 – Sandra and Kasey’s lovely outro: self-representation in fandom, escapism, diverse voices, and more. (“Reach out a hand. Touch somebody. …Not like that.”)
📖 Fics Mentioned:
Sandra: @talltalesandbedtimestories -
Some Sunny Day Series – Dean Winchester x OFC - (I'm in the process of reading this entire series and it's been a joy to read! 💜)
Past Due – Dean Winchester x Reader
The Iceman Cometh – Dean Winchester x Reader
Cowboy Canter (Original Fiction) – Inspired by cowboyish Dean/Jensen.
Kasey: @sam-is-my-safe-word -
English Cottage-verse – Sam Winchester x Reader (I've read it and it's fantastic! 💜)
(K)not for sale – Soldier Boy x Dean Winchester
Alex (Zep/Me) -
Break Me Down – Soldier Boy/Ben x F. Reader
Midnight Espresso (& the Series Masterlist) – Dean Winchester x Plus-sized Latina!Reader
Dream With Me – Dean Winchester x Plus-sized Latina!Reader
Smoke Eater – Firefighter!Dean Winchester x F. Reader
Every Second Counts – Russell Shaw x F. Reader
🎙️ Stories/Podfics Sandra has narrated for me:
Podfic Playlist
And please remember to check out all the other awesome interviews, narrated podfics, and fun topics covered by Sandra and Kasey on the Idling in the Impala Podcast!
86 notes
·
View notes
Haven’t been on tumblr in a long time.. I remember your streamer au, but nothing more. Id appreciate a small recap! :3
HII! for anyone who hasn't read it, it's a very slice-of-life collection of scenes for the most part, so there's loads of lil scenes i'll leave out of this. but here's a look back at the overall friends-to-lovers plot!
and they were streamers (10/16) (unfinished wip)
aziraphale and crowley are full time twitch streamers who live together in a london townhouse. crowley streams whatever he wants, usually toxic pvp games and "just chatting" hanging out and drinking. aziraphale streams all kinds of wholesome crafty content, such as cooking, baking, reading, and book binding.
crowley has been in love with aziraphale since... god, far too long. he'll never say anything because he knows aziraphale only sees him as a friend
aziraphale is bombarded with a hate raid during pride month, and is severely ill-equipped to moderate it himself. crowley jumps in to shut it down and fix his security settings to protect him further.
aziraphale brings crowley a cup of tea one stream (standing off-camera) when he's heavily focused on a game. he startles at the sudden presence, shouting "angel" accidentally for everyone to hear. aziraphale doesn't mind, but the chat go nuts speculating over the pet name and his relationship with his roommate
furfur, a sub-par streamer and tea-spill investigator, notes a connection on twitter between this "angel" and and old stream clip where crowley is caught ranting and rambling (very smittenly) about an "angel" in his life.
aziraphale's chat starts to wonder about the fondness between him and his elusive off-screen roommate
crowley posts in aziraphale's chat asking if he can have a bite of what he's cooking. he goes to the kitchen to try some, but the chat is too distracted freaking out that the notorious crowley is watching an aziraphale stream to realise aziraphale has actually handed a plate off camera. aziraphale seems troubled when he notices the chat is so beserk, so crowley makes a secret side account to send him a donation and tell him to keep up the good work
aziraphale comes home to find crowley in a discord call, playing party games with anathema, newt, and nina. he settles in beside him on the couch to join in.
crowley surprises aziraphale by raiding him at the end of his stream. he uses his 3,000 viewers to ask if aziraphale plans on going to a twitch meet-up in edinburgh. when crowley finally asks himself, aziraphale says yes.
the dark council, a huge and popular UK twitch team, tweets their curiosity about crowley's elusive roommate, wanting anyone with sleuthing abilities to spill the tea for them.
shaxx encourages furfur to investigate his theory that aziraphale and crowley live together, wanting him to impress the dark council twitch team to grow both their streams.
aziraphale and crowley drive to edinburgh together, playing games in the car, answering questions on twitter, and have a tense conversation on what to do if you harbour a secret crush. aziraphale thinks you should go for grand gestures, but crowley thinks it's best to bottle things up.
they attend the meet-up at a packed pub. crowley introduces aziraphale to beelzebub and promises to stick by his side, but as the drinks start flowing, they both get more comfortable to mill around and socialise on their own.
furfur, hired as the photographer for the event, arrives only after crowley and aziraphale separate from one another. but at the end of the night, gets a photo of them leaving the pub together in a drunken giggle fit, looking like smitten lovers. shaxx and furfur speculate they might be more than just roommates.
back in london, aziraphale makes plans for his holiday fundraiser stream. his viewers suggest a "roommate reveal" for £5,000. both he and crowley are flabbergasted that anyone is even slightly interested. furfur rushes to compile a tea spill twitlonger before the fundraiser.
while planning for his christmas events, aziraphale bakes a practise batch of angel cake on stream, crowley's favourite. he jumps up from the couch to eat a slice, accidentally wandering straight onto camera-- spoiling the fundraising surprise, and ruining furfur's tea spill. they're trending on twitter the next day.
aziraphale is hate raided again, but this time the raiders hack into his chat bot. crowley rushes in to reset the bot's data before they can export years of chat logs and sensitive viewer information. when the raid is halted, aziraphale is relieved, then devastated to realise everything has been wiped, until crowley assures him he made a backup of the logs, a la saving his books.
aziraphale finally realises he loves crowley. he's so overcome with affection for him, it starts to freak crowley out. crowley thinks he's getting swept up in the christmas season and is reading into affection that isn't actually there, and aziraphale thinks he's making crowley uncomfortable by upsetting the status quo
aziraphale becoems downtrodden by how closed-off crowley is being, and crowley panics when he realises he hasn't been subtle at all. he promises aziraphale hasn't done anything wrong and that he's just in his own head about their upcoming christmas party with their mods. aziraphale tries to believe him.
58 notes
·
View notes
Stan Says Goodbye
I have never posted to tumblr someone pls tell me if it is abnormal to post a text this long.
Word count: 1764
____________________________________________________________
“Stanford, you can’t keep hiding away in that cabin forever. Ma’s memory is fading and she’s not going to be around for much longer. Don’t you want to say goodbye?”
Shermie had left a million messages on the Shack’s phone. Each one a mirroring plea of the last call, begging Ford to come see their mother before she passed.
But it was Stan listening to these messages, not Ford. He had no right to go see her.
The last time he had seen his ma, he had been hiding behind a curtain and a pillar at his own funeral. He nearly blew his cover when he saw her. Her hair was greying, and she was standing a little less tall than she used to, but it was her nonetheless. Those warm eyes that used to come down to level with him and the smile she would give him when she called him her special boy — all of that was the same.
He didn’t think his mother would show up, not after ten years. He knew she had no way of knowing where he was, but he thought she felt the same way everyone else did. That he was the fuck-up of the family. The no-good son that ruined their one chance of having a better life. Who could think anything else?
And now he had pushed her other son into a portal, forsaking him to some unknown world without knowing if he was alive or not. He couldn’t face her until he brought Ford back.
He had to watch as she cried over his casket and it damn near killed him the way it broke his heart.
But he had promised that day that he would bring Ford back soon and drag him along to ma’s house to show her that he was alive, and Ford was alive, and that they got along… Just like in the old days. They would sit in the kitchen and finally have tea with her — maybe even let her read their tea leaves once they were done. He would have saved Ford’s life and the family would gather again. For the first time in years, he wouldn’t be the fuck-up; he’d be his mother’s free-spirited Stanley.
Things didn’t quite work out that way for Stan. As they usually didn’t.
After 25 years he still hadn’t succeeded in bringing Ford back. After 25 years of sleepless nights and lonely desperation, he had nothing to offer to his ma in reconciliation.
Now he was sitting on his couch pressing through message after message from Shermie begging him to come see her one last time.
“Whaddya want me to do Shermie…” Stan muttered, folding forward to put his head in his hands.
Did he want him to lie to his own mother on her deathbed? Or to tell her that her other son was most likely dead and gone somewhere they’d never even find his body?
Stan wondered if Ford would have even gone to see her. The way he was the last time Stan had seen him, it was like the last thing Ford wanted was to see anybody.
The phone rang again and Stan let it ring. The answering machine beeped and Shermie’s tinny voice came through the speaker.
“Stanford I’ll be away from the city tomorrow to get a few things in order for ma’s funeral… You’ll get a break from my calls at least,” Shermie paused for a long while, and Stan thought that maybe that was the end of this call until he said, “She keeps saying your name, you know. Yours and Stanley’s… She‘s waiting for you,” he sighed. After a beat of silence, Stan heard the click of the phone hanging up.
He couldn’t sleep that night.
Stan watched the shadows of the pine trees dancing across his ceiling. What did his father used to say about the men in the Pines family?
He closed his eyes and listened to the wind outside his window. He could almost hear the sound of gulls and the crashing waves of Glass Shard Beach. He could picture Ford, red from being sat in the sun all day scribbling away the plans for their boat.
That Ford would want him to say goodbye to ma.
In his memory, Ford smiled up at him as he ran over and they raced towards the waves, letting them pull out their little bodies to the water.
Stan finally fell asleep.
The next morning he closed up the shop, and put on his cleanest suit. He wore Ford’s glasses, and found some six-fingered gloves lying around to slip on. Nothing fit quite right. The glasses were a little too loose, and Ford’s jacket was a little snug around the arms.
Looking up in the mirror, he looked like his brother.
When he got in the car he sat there for a long while. Not having the courage to turn on the ignition until the sun came at just the right angle to blind him. He finally began the car and started driving.
What would he say to ma? What would Ford say? Probably something smart, and then he’d invent the machine that would save her life.
That damn know-it-all, showing him up even in his own damn mind. If it weren’t for Ford trying to send him away 25 years ago, maybe they would have made up. Maybe they would have taken ma in when she started feeling unwell.
Maybe Stan wouldn’t have to say goodbye to ma alone.
Damn it. Was he crying?
He wiped at his eyes with his sleeves, steeling his nerves so he could drive straight.
He picked up some flowers at a shop down the street from the home she was in, and he checked into the home using Stanford’s name. Stan stood in front of her door for a long time, listening to see if anyone else was in the room. The silence was almost worse. He had no excuse to turn tail and run. He had to go in there and say goodbye to his mother.
He knocked, a quick three raps.
“Who is it?” His mother’s voice asked, as strong as ever.
Stan smiled and opened the door. “It’s me ma, Stanford!”
“Stanford?” She looked up at him from her spot on the bed, her eyes narrowed like she couldn’t see him quite right. “Sit down over here so I can get a good look atcha.”
Stan set the flowers on her bedside and settled into the seat next to her. She was wrinkled and all grey now, but her brown eyes were still the same.
“How have you been doing, ma? Shermie’s left me a million messages saying you’re on death’s door!”
She smiled. “That Shermie can be even more of a nuisance than you are, Stanley.”
Stan froze for a single second before smiling. “Ma you’ve got the wrong twin. It’s me, Stanford.”
She reached a shaky hand to pat his. “Stanley you think I wouldn’t recognize my own boy?” She smiled. “You must think so little of your old ma.”
He took a deep breath to compose himself. Her memory isn’t right, that’s what Shermie said. She’s just misremembering.
“Ma Stan passed away twenty five years ago, remember?”
It took everything in him not to choke on his words.
“And Stanford didn’t show up at all?” She asked, raising an eyebrow. “You can’t scam your old mother, Stanley, I taught you everything you know. Stanford would show up at your funeral. That boy isn’t as cold as he thinks he is.”
He couldn’t answer.
His mother pat his hand. “Oh, there, there, sweetie.”
It took him a second to realize she was comforting him because his vision had begun to blur. He felt the damp trail of tears on his cheeks as he took in a shaky breath.
She tugged on his hand lightly so he would lean in, and he did. She put her arm around his shoulder as best as she could and gave him a weak squeeze. “Whatever fight you and Stanford have going on now, you’ll figure it out, sweetie. Ya always do...”
Stan tried to stop himself from shaking so hard in his mother’s embrace but he knew he was failing. He held on a little tighter to his mother’s hand.
“My sweet Stanley… You’ll figure it out.”
“Ma what if he doesn’t come back?” Stan asked shakily.
“Your brother is stubborn as a bull, he’ll come back just to prove you wrong.”
Stan laughed at that and pulled away a little, to look into her eyes again.
He missed her. So much.
“Your breath is awful,” she said, grimacing. “Did I not teach you to brush your teeth?”
Stan burst out laughing. “You don’t even have any teeth left, ma.” He didn’t want to tell her that he didn’t either.
“I’m on my death bed, what do I need teeth for?”
A loud knock came at the door and Stan turned away, making sure to wipe his tears dry. He stood when the person entered.
It was Shermie, holding a binder in one arm and a coat in another.
“Stanford!” He said, his eyes widening in surprise. “You came.”
Stan cleared his throat.
“Uh… yeah, I couldn’t not come. It’s just been so… busy.” He tried to keep his voice low, hoping Shermie had forgotten what Ford sounded like at this point.
“Well I’m glad you came,” Shermie looked over at their mother in her bed. “Aren’t you glad Stanford came by?”
“Why would I be glad that this little brat ignored me for years just to say goodbye?” She asked gruffly.
Shermie laughed. “Same as ever, ma.”
Stan took the lighthearted mood as his means of escape. He began walking towards the door but took one last look back at his mother.
She smiled warmly at him, her hands folded neatly in her lap. He wanted to burn this image of her in his mind, sitting tall and confident, reassuring him that things might turn out after all.
When he found Ford, he would tell him about her on this day. How she knew without hesitation, how she made all of his loneliness melt away, and how she gave him the hope to finally bring him back. He would tell Ford that she loved them both until the end, just as much as she did the day she brought them home.
Ford would cry with him
“I’ll be back, ma,” he said with a smile.
She winked at him before saying, “Doncha dare come back!”
41 notes
·
View notes