#qorktrees

[buildarocketboys]

53 + peterick lmao

Haha this one was so perfect for them! Fluffy early band ficlet, Pete takes Patrick out on a 4am ice cream date!

53. “Who crawls through someone’s window at 4am to go for ice cream?!”

It's 4am, and Patrick is wide awake.

Not that this is such an unusual occurrence for Patrick. His preferred sleeping schedule lingers somewhere between 3 or 4am and 12 or 1pm. But as a high school student, that's not really sustainable so he's usually at least trying to sleep by this time.

Right now he can't, though. He's thinking about the conversation (argument) he and Pete had earlier. Replaying it over and over in his mind.

Ugh, but Pete just makes him so angry sometimes. They were rehearsing a few of their songs in preparation to record them at Joe's next week. 

And then Pete had wanted to change a lyric.

And another.

And another.

They weren't sensible changes, either. Half the time, Pete seems to want to replace one word with forty. It's ridiculous.

And he's so smug about it too! As if he thinks-knows-that his lyrics are so much better than Patrick's.

The worst part is, Patrick can't help thinking he's right. Patrick knows he's no poet, or wordsmith. His lyrics are juvenile at best. He's all too aware of this, as Pete well knows.

Pete's words are beautiful, poetic, the metaphors winding and flowing through his writing like a river to the sea.

But at least Patrick's lyrics fit the rhythm of the damn song!

After one too many of these changes, Patrick had lost his temper.

He'd yelled, "If you know so much better than me, maybe you should write the fucking lyrics!"

Pete had gone quiet at that. He hadn't talked for the rest of the rehearsal, which they all mutually decided to cut short. Which doesn't bode well for the recording. They all need the practice.

Patrick knows he went too far, but also - he can't see how he's wrong. Pete needs to put up or shut up when it comes to the lyrics - he could at least work with Patrick when it comes to making the lyrics fit. But the man has no sense of rhythm, at least not on purpose. He doesn't seem to see an issue with adding another twenty words to a verse.

He just gives Patrick an infuriating little smile and tells Patrick that he knows Patrick will make it work.

Pete seems to think Patrick is some kind of musical genius. Which is flattering, he guesses. Except he's really not.

Patrick's perseveration is interrupted by a tapping at the window. He jumps, then twists around, pulling the curtain back to reveal Pete's face at the window.

He groans.

"What the fuck are you doing here?" he hisses once he's opened the window.

Pete pouts at him. "Now that's not a very nice way to greet your best friend, is it?"

Patrick grits his teeth. "It's four in the morning!"

Pete shrugs. "So? You're awake, aren't you?" When Patrick continues to glare at him he says, "Also, be quiet - don't wanna wake your mom up."

Patrick rolls his eyes, arms crossed tightly over his chest (only partly to hide his Batman pajamas), then sighs. Relenting, he scrambles back so Pete can climb into his room proper.

"Shut the window," he says, "It's freezing." January in Chicago is no joke.

Pete does so, a grin playing round his lips. It fades when Patrick says, "What are you doing awake at 4am anyway?"

Pete presses his lips together. Instead of answering, he says, "I could ask the same of you."

Patrick stares back at him, stony-faced. He asked first.

Pete sighs, pushing his hair back. "Couldn't stop thinking about earlier," he admits.

Patrick lets out a sigh of relief. "Yeah, me too."

Pete looks up at him, eyes sparkling hopefully. "Thought I could make it up to you."

"Make it up...to me?" Patrick asks. He'd figured Pete was mad at him. Too late he registers Pete's raised eyebrows, and scrambles to correct himself. "How?" he asks, crossing his arms again.

Pete grins, so effortlessly charming that Patrick kind of hates him for it. Patrick could never be so laid back in a million years.

For some reason, Pete likes him anyway. God knows why.

Sometime after they became best friends, Patrick resolved to stop questioning it. Sometimes it's best not to look a gift horse in the mouth.

"I'm taking you out for ice cream," Pete announces.

For a moment, Patrick's not sure he's heard correctly. "Ice cream?" he splutters. "Pete. It's 4am in midwinter in Chicago. We are not going out for ice cream."

"Why not?" says Pete. "You once said that if you could choose one food to eat for the rest of your life, it'd be ice cream."

"Well, yeah, but..." Pete remembers that? How many of the stupid things Patrick says on a daily basis has Pete retained? It doesn't bear thinking about. "Who crawls through someone’s window at 4am to go for ice cream?!"

Pete waggles his eyebrows. "C'mon, Patrick. You know you want to."

Patrick's stomach flip flops in excitement. Pete is always doing shit like this, getting Patrick to step out of his comfort zone, while always, always being there to hold his hand. He pretends to be annoyed, but really he loves it.

"What if my mom finds out?"

Pete shakes his head. "She won't. Just sneak out the window with me. We'll be back before she wakes up."

Patrick moves to the window and looks out dubiously. He's seen Pete do it before - shimmy down the drainpipe and onto the garage roof, before jumping down.

But Pete's athletic. If Patrick tried that, he'd probably break an ankle. Or worse. 

"I think I'll go out the front door," Patrick says. He's pretty sure he can make it without his mom waking up. He's an expert at ninja-ing down the stairs in the middle of the night.

Pete shrugs. "It's your funeral." He heads for the window, obviously planning to return the way he came. "Wait, you do want to come, right?"

"Yeah!" Patrick exclaims - a little too loud and enthusiastic. He cringes, and they both listen for any sound of his mom stirring in the next room. "Yeah," he says. "I just need to put, like, ten layers on."

Pete's got a shit-eating grin on his face now. "Alright. See you on the other side, sport." He punches Patrick's shoulder and has disappeared out the window before Patrick can object to the childish nickname.

Patrick sighs and then starts pulling on clothes at random, grateful for his floordrobe for once, as it means he doesn't have to open his squeaky closet door. He darts down the stairs, ninja-style, and stands at the front door for a full minute, pricking his ears for any sounds from his mom's room. When none come, he slips on his shoes and unlocks the door, closing it softly behind him before half-jogging to Pete's car.

Pete smirks as he slips in. "Impressive," he says.

"Oh shut up." He rubs his hands together as Pete starts the car, waiting for the heaters to warm up. "Where do they serve ice cream at 4am in Chicago in January anyway?" he asks. "It's, like, 20 degrees."

Pete grins as he pulls out of Patrick's driveway and guns the engine. "I know a place."

The place turns out to be a diner on the edge of the city.

When they enter, there's nobody else in the place. No customers, no waitresses, not even anyone behind the counter.

The lights are on but nobody's home, thinks Patrick, then giggles.

Pete glances at him. "What's so funny?"

Patrick shakes his head. "Is this place actually open?" he asks.

Pete nods. "Sure it is. The lights were on, the door was open, right? They're probably just out back, having a smoke. Hey!" Pete calls loudly. No answer. He sighs in frustration. "Just wanted to get my boy some ice cream," he mutters under his breath.

Patrick feels his stomach lurch. Something about Pete calling him his boy does things to him. It's kinda like Pete calling him his boyfriend.

Kinda, but not really, he tells himself firmly, as Pete dings the little old-fashioned bell next to the register.

They hear footsteps coming their way. "Finally!" Pete says, as if they've been there for hours. Patrick rolls his eyes fondly. "Why don't you go pick out which flavors you want?" He nods toward the glass box under which a smorgasbord of ice creams are displayed.

"Woah," Patrick says. He scans the flavors, trying to pick his favorite, wishing he hadn't forgotten his glasses. A waitress arrives behind the counter to serve Pete.

"Hey there, darling, sorry about that. You been waitin' long?" she says to Pete, batting her eyelashes, and suddenly the ice cream is the last thing on Patrick's mind. He watches her flirt with Pete, nails digging into his palms, thinking that is the fakest accent he's ever heard in his life.

Pete seems to fall for it though, much to Patrick's disgust. He grins up at her and says, "Not long, no," in this breathy little voice he uses whenever he flirts with girls. Patrick feels sick, for absolutely no reason whatsoever.

"What can I get ya?" she asks.

"I'll have a coffee," Pete says. "And for my friend here..." he trails off, obviously waiting for Patrick to give his order.

Patrick realizes he's been staring at them, open-mouthed.

He slams his mouth shut as the waitress says, flatly, "Oh. Hey there."

"Pete, I...I don't have any money," he admits. He'd been so focused on getting out of the house undetected, and so excited about sneaking around with Pete in the middle of the night, that it hadn't even occurred to him to bring his wallet.

Pete reaches out and grabs his arm, pulling him close so he can wrap his arm round Patrick's waist. "That's OK, honey. My treat."

The waitress purses her lips. Patrick feels a zing of delight in the vicinity of his stomach, even as he can feel his cheeks burning.

"Uh, are you not having anything?" he asks Pete.

Pete shakes his head. "Just coffee. I'm not hungry."

"I'll just have some vanilla then," says Patrick.

"Aw, no, c'mon Patrick," Pete says, eyes crinkling in disappointment. "I'm taking you out on an ice cream date, you've gotta have at least two flavors."

The waitress looks at him dubiously - 17, chubby, wearing about 15 layers of clothes. Privately, Patrick agrees with her - why would Pete want to take him on a date, of all people? Even a friend date, which he's sure is what Pete means. But he raises his chin and looks her in the eye.

"Um, OK," he says after a moment, when the waitress has looked away. "I'll have, uh..." he glances at the flavors again, and chooses pretty much at random, "Bubblegum and rocky road."

"Good choice,' says the waitress, smiling a little.

"And put those in a cone!" Pete says as she goes to scoop the ice cream. He nudges Patrick. "It's not ice cream if it's not in a cone, right?"

"Do you remember everything I've ever said to you, or just the ice cream-related things?" Patrick teases.

Pete looks at him, deadly serious. "Patrick Stump, I remember every word you've ever said to me."

Patrick rolls his eyes, but he can't help but smile. He takes the ice cream cone the waitress offers him and they go sit in a booth in the corner.

Then he remembers their argument this afternoon. "Even the bad stuff?" he asks, swallowing nervously.

Pete's eyes soften. "Yeah, not that there's much. But I don't hold it against you." He sips his coffee. Patrick's pretty sure he's just being kind - they argue a lot, and Patrick's not always the most objective or logical when his temper gets the better of him. "Besides, you're usually right, anyway."

Patrick snorts. "Am not," he says, because that's definitely not true, and he doesn't need Pete to mollycoddle him.

Pete flashes him a grin. "Yeah y'are. Like this afternoon-"

Patrick sighs. "Can we not talk about that?" He realizes his ice cream has started to drip down the cone and onto his hand, and launches a rescue mission with his tongue. Pete is silent for long moments and Patrick thinks he's dropped it, but when he looks up again he catches Pete watching him.

Pete clears his throat. "You were right," he says. He sounds kinda weird. "I was being annoying, making all those lyric changes."

Patrick sits back in his seat, satisfied that they're finally in agreement. "Yeah, you were."

"But was I wrong? I mean, didn't my changes make the songs better?"

Patrick snorts. "If changing one word to forty makes a song better, sure." Now that he's cooled down, though, he actually thinks about it. "Your words are better than mine," he admits quietly. "They're more poetic, or whatever."

Actually, Pete's words are kind of really fucking beautiful, but he'd never tell Pete that. It's one of the things that annoys him the most when Pete asks to change the lyrics. Not only are they almost always better than Patrick's lyrics, they also make Patrick feel things. Things he's not sure he wants to feel.

"Exactly!" says Pete, then cringes when Patrick scowls at him. "That's not...that's not what I meant," he says quickly. "I love your songs, Patrick. You know that."

Patrick does. Sometimes he thinks Pete's the only one who likes them.

"But you're a musician. I...I get the feeling you don't really care about the words."

Pete picks his words carefully, but Patrick can't help feeling a little offended. Patrick does care. Sure, he cares about all the other stuff - the melody and the rhythm and the harmonies - way more, but it's not like he's not trying! He tries really hard with the lyrics, they just never come out any good!

"It's not that I don't care-" he starts, then sighs.

"But you see what I'm saying?" Pete asks, pressing his advantage.

"Yeah. I guess." Patrick pays attention to his ice cream for a while before he speaks again. "What's the point of this, Pete? I mean, what can we do different?"

Pete's face lights up with a grin. This is clearly the point he's been wanting to get to the whole time. "I write the lyrics. You write the music."

Patrick considers this for a while, his tongue worming its way into the bright blue ice cream. He doesn't miss the way Pete is staring at him, but for now he just lets it happen. Pete isn't like other people - he likes being under his gaze.

"How would that work through?" he says. "If I write the music, we'll still run into the same problem, trying to fit your lyrics to it." In fact, it'll probably be worse, Patrick thinks.

Pete shrugs. "It's just an idea," he says. "I don't know, maybe I could write the words and you could fit the music around them?"

Patrick screws his face up. Nobody does it like that. That's just not how songwriting works.

But.

Sometimes when he looks at Pete's lyrics, he hears the beginning of a melody. Usually he pushes it back, annoyed at the distraction when he's trying to fit them to the tune he's already got.

But what if he let that impulse run free? What would happen then?

"We could try it," Patrick says tentatively.

Pete's face is split with a grin. "Yeah?"

Patrick shrugs. "Yeah. I'm not saying it'll work, mind you. Nobody writes songs like that for a reason."

Pete lets out a breath. "I know. But we're not like everybody else." He claps his hands together, satisfied, breaking the tension between him and Patrick. "We'll do the recording like we were always gonna, with your lyrics. I'll try not to mess with them too much."

Patrick raises an eyebrow.

"But after that, we try this, yeah? It's an experiment. And if it doesn't work, we can go back to you writing the songs."

Patrick nods. "OK," he says, and attacks the rest of his ice cream with gusto, while Pete sips his coffee and watches him openly.

Pete drives him back at 5:30am. His mom gets up at 6. He should be fine.

Patrick's quiet on the drive back. Just thinking.

"You OK?" Pete asks as he pulls up on Patrick's driveway.

Patrick nods, offering him a small smile. "Just thinking," he tells Pete.

Pete nods encouragingly, and Patrick adds, "Do you actually have words to give me? You know, if that's what we're gonna do?"

Pete nods. "Oh yeah." He leans over Patrick and opens the glovebox, pulling out a hardcover notebook. Patrick's seen him writing in it before. "Here you go." He hands it to Patrick.

Patrick takes it reverently in his hands. "Pete... isn't this basically your diary?"

Pete nods, not looking at him. "Technically it's a journal. But yeah." He breathes shallowly. "But I trust you."

The gravity of that trust is not lost on Patrick.

Pete turns around finally to find Patrick staring at him.

"What?" he says, but his cheeks are ruddy. "You're my best friend."

Patrick blinks, his eyelashes fluttering. "Yeah..." he breathes.

Pete leans forward and brushes his thumb over the corner of Patrick's mouth. Patrick's heart stutters in his chest.

Pete's eyes flicker to Patrick's lips, and for a moment, Pete thinks he's going to close the distance between them.

Then he leans back, breathing hard. 

"Might want to wash your face when you get in. Your mouth is blue."

Patrick chokes out a laugh. "Yeah. Will do." He opens the passenger door.

"See you tomorrow?" says Pete hopefully, and Patrick smiles.

"Yeah," he says, squeezing Pete's hand. "Tomorrow."

[tinydance]

@qorktrees wanted jason and damian meeting at the league of assassins while jason is recovering there :^)

[27-royal-teas]

tag nine people you’d like to know better!

I was tagged by the lovely @qorktrees !!!! thank you love !!!! <33

Last song - good luck, babe! by chappell roan. I have been listening to a LOT of chappell roan lately, im so obsessed with her, it’s bad.

Favorite colors - orange, blue, and brown!!!

Currently watching - I don’t watch a ton of tv but i started watching schitts creek recently and it’s really good!

Spicy / savory / sweet? I love all three but I LOVE sweet stuff

Relationship status - single 👍 which normally I wouldn’t be too bothered about but pride month always makes me feel a tad more single than usual

Current obsessions - fall out boy, which ive been obsessed with for like two years now; chappell roan, music psychology

EDIT: WAIT I FORGOT TO TAG PEOPLE LOL OKAY UM. @bsideheart @weallpartyatybcpatricksfuneral @pisshandkerchief @pnuk-r0ck @spirallingstarcases @le-velo-pour-dru @roscoe-me-and-this-fuckin-kid @rocket-angel @stellarmagu no pressure ofc!!!!! only if you want to!!

[floralegia]

Tag Nine People You'd Like to Know Better

Tagged by @pyrchance !!! <3

Last song - All I Wanted (Paramore)! Sometimes you just need Hayley Williams idk man

Favorite colors - Definitely changes. Lately I've been loving sort of desaturated midtones--sage green, mustard, rust, etc. I'd say my long-running favorite is purple, but right now I'm favoring, you guessed it, a desaturated midtone purple. I think of it as "Kate Bishop purple," lmfao.

Currently watching - The Stanley Cup Final series! In terms of like, narrative stuff, I keep meaning to start s2 of Heroes. Uhhh, and technically I'm in the middle of a rewatch of s1 of The X-Files as well, though I haven't watched any in like a couple months at this point.

Spicy/savory/sweet - Sweet for sureeeee. I am a big sweet/salty combo person, though. I am unfortunately the tiniest whitest baby w/r/t spicy food, which is like the one trait I would actually change about myself in a heartbeat if I had access to some sort of Create A Sim function IRL.

Relationship status - I have one romantic partner at the moment and, eh, 2-3 (occasional/not regular) sexual partners, as well as a couple of platonic play partners on the kink side. I'd classify all of those as pretty casual relationships, though. (I swear it's not as wild as it sounds? Or maybe I'm just blinded to the insanity of poly relationship diagrams at this point, IDK.)

Current obsessions - Well, definitely FOB's new festival set, but also, I've been on a Taking Back Sunday kick lately. And in the past couple of weeks, I've been reading hockey RPF for the first time in literal years, with a whole smorgasbord of ships that didn't even exist last time I was in hrpf space (Lars/Dunn, Hischier/Hughes, Tkachuk/Draisaitl... of course I go back to my ol' reliable Benn/Seguin too because I am a simple man with predictable tastes).

Tags: @qorktrees @aarlert @judasisgayriot @buildarocketboys @fobnsfwdoodlesbackup @doggerell @woah-thats-haikyuute @foliejpg @goingextinct (and open tag anyone who wants to!!!!)

[ursafootprints]

Tag Nine People You'd Like to Know Better

tagged by @qorktrees!! ty for the tag friend (I missed it at first bc tumblr ate it lmao)

Last song - the last song that was playing from my driving playlist on the way home from work was I Wanna Dance With Somebody by Whitney Houston!

Favorite colors - blue and purple! I'm slowly decorating my newish apartment and it's a struggle not to make blue the color theme of EVERY room, loool. I like what I like!

Currently watching - I'm a Dropout devotee (Dimension 20 especially) and I'm currently waiting on The Bear s3, Severance s2, and Arcane s2! And I keep meaning to pick up Interview with the Vampire.

Spicy/savory/sweet - I have a huuuge sweet tooth, haha. The idea of "too sweet" is foreign to me! Gimme all the syrups and toppings and flavors. (But I do also really enjoy rich savory flavors as well! Spice I am unfortunately not great with both from a tolerance standpoint and from a "I have severe GERD" standpoint, lmao.)

Relationship status - single!

Current obsessions - I watched "I Saw The TV Glow" earlier this week and haven't stopped thinking about it since! It's sooo good.

I TAG: @pastself @dumpsterdrawings @shivanessa @king-of-kaoss @weatheredskies @lyricalvicki @aisalynn @jammerific @fruityhappiness (tumblr I stg if you keep eating half my tags,)

[wingdingery]

wip ask game

thank you @wildsofmarch and @chejuu for the tag!

Rules: Post the names of all the files in your WIP folder, regardless of how non-descriptive or ridiculous. Let people send you an ask with the title that most intrigues them, and then post a little snippet or tell them something about it! and then tag as many people as you have WIPs.

i have an absolutely ridiculous number of WIPs because i finish, edit, and post probably only 1% of everything i write 🙈 so this is the list of files that haven't yet been moved into the icebox and still have a chance of seeing the light of ao3:

all that might happen [slade/dick]

and then they were neighbors [slade/dick]

au switcheroo [bruce/dick]

dick vs khoa [bruce/dick/khoa]

disaster! at the club [slade/dick]

dkos au 2 [gen unless you squint]

everyone thinks they're Not dating [bruce/dick]

fake date for fun and profit [slade/dick]

how to date a superhero [poly chaos]

ill-advised road trip [slade/dick]

leverage au [gen unless you squint]

meow meow mfer [slade/dick]

mercyverse 2 [slade/dick? gen?]

mermay [slade/dick]

mermay 2 [slade/dick]

moral obligations [bruce/dick]

play pretend [gen]

red hood and the bludhaven love nest [slade/dick]

sladick x utrh [slade/dick]

through a mirror [gen]

unfun amnesia hours [slade/dick]

tagging @ataraxetta @faiasakura @qorktrees @towine @unicorncoalition and anyone else who sees this who wants to play!

[towine]

Hi! I really enjoyed your post about your writing process (or I guess your answer?) It was really thorough and lovely 🥰 If you're still taking questions, I'm curious to know which authors/books have inspired you. (I think I read one post about Cormac McCarthy, but I'm curious to hear about any others 😊)

gio!!! hello! 🥰 i was so rambly but it makes me happy to know you enjoyed it! i'm always open to questions because i'll take any excuse to talk 😆

i'll confess that i don't read as many books as i ought to... it's true that cormac mccarthy's the orchard keeper inspired my username! ("—as if the very air had gone to wine.") as for authors that more directly influenced my writing, i have to admit richard siken's crush was a very formative influence, of which "scheherazade" is my favorite ❤️ (i think this makes it obvious that i was urged into writing by being on tumblr 10 years ago LOL). i'm also an enjoyer of pablo neruda, mary oliver, and william carlos williams, but i'm not as dedicated a poetry reader as i also ought to be...

honestly? my biggest inspirations are other fic writers. among the biggest is gyzym—who is on ao3 but also here on tumblr, and as a young writer i constantly turned to his work for inspiration. i remember reading this post about arachnophobia and this post about a book falling in love with its reader so, so many times. idk. i'm pretty sure he's like 40% of the reason i started writing.

another writer i admire and have drawn so much inspiration from is brella on ao3. some of their fics are like, my favorite ever. their prose is so... lovingly crafted, i can't find the words to describe it. i also love coloredink on ao3, particularly their final fantasy xii fics. they dig into canon in the most delicious way.

i also have to mention my spouse @qorktrees, aka artenon on ao3. if gyzym is the reason i started writing, artenon is the reason i'm the writer i am now. reading their fics taught me so much about narration, about parsing emotions and thoughts, about how to envision a character's inner world. i needed that. i still think about it, even now.

i think i learn a little bit from every writer i meet (yourself included, you know!!!). i'm lucky enough to be surrounded by so many skilled folks. people still surprise me, after all these years. it's awesome.

[cultofspidey]

Welcome to Peter Parker’s Birthday Bash! Peter 1's birthday is coming up on August 10, and we’re celebrating with a bingo full of tropetastic prompts! RULES 1. To complete the challenge, you must create fills for five squares in a row (can be horizontal, vertical, or diagonal) on your 5x5 bingo card. Each fill must center around Peter Parker (any Peter is fine) and relate to the prompt you’re creating for in some way. A single work may be used to fill multiple squares, if you wish. 2. For an extra challenge, fill more squares! Make a shape like T, L, or X, or go for blackout by filling the entire bingo card. 3. Any form of engagement is welcome—also, just because a prompt says “fic” (e.g., “future fic”) that doesn’t mean it has to be a fic! HOW TO ENTER DM @qorktrees the following information to enter: 1. If you’d like a SFW card, NSFW card, or half SFW/NSFW. 2. A comma-separated list of numbers for any prompts you DO NOT WANT to have on your card. Prompts are listed here: https://docs.google.com/spreadsheets/d/1PaV5jY0SypbH7yQ7-ch5xDMIamFCVIFMsqHouVOurm4/edit?usp=sharing Qork will provide you with a randomly generated bingo card based on your request. POSTING 1. The posting period will be August 1st to 31st for Peter’s birthday month. 2. An AO3 collection will be made and shared late July for you to post your works to. 3. Use the hashtag #cultofspidey or tag us @cultofspidey on Twitter and/or Tumblr so we can share your work!

This event is hosted by The Spider Verse Discord. You do not have to be a member to participate, but if interested in joining, please DM us @cultofspidey!

[faiasakura]

Latest Line Tag Game

Rules: in a new post, show off the last line you wrote and try to tag as many people as there are words.

Tagged by @disniq

For now, he’ll keep the amnesia problem to himself.

Tagging 9 people: @sayasays @qorktrees @tinydance @bookwyrmling @overzelos @surefireshore @khashanakalashtar @alasse-irena @cardinal-paperback-historian

If you see this and want to play, tag you’re it!

[theowhy]

thiam betty au: “i know where it all went wrong / your favorite song was playing / from the far side of the gym / i was nowhere to be found / i hate the crowds, you know that / plus i saw you dance with him” // theo, watching liam from a distance: >:’( // liam: flossing with mason

PLEASE I CAN’T STOP LAUGHING

[tinydance]

i can finally share my piece for @iamironmanzine!

a collab with @qorktrees, you can read their fic on ao3 here!

[limrx]

can you draw anything fluffy with merhartwin? ;v; if the ship isn't your jam that's ok!! more merwin is also always adored

hiya! hope you don’t mind if i combine this with some much needed fan art for @stronglyobsessed ‘s latest fic :D

[ursafootprints]

For the tropes: "Main trans character"

C (neutral)! Yeah this one is a true neutral for me-- I don't seek it out, but I'm certainly not opposed to it, so if I see Trans [Character] in the tags list on a fic it doesn't move my "wanna read" needle in either direction!

For a rec, blending in by @qorktrees is a great little smutty SpideyDevil oneshot with transmasc Pete that I really enjoyed 👀

Thanks for playing 💖

[beautifulmonster]

for the ask meme: 2, 5, 10, 28

2. what’s your feel-good movie?

uhhh that is actually a good question. I have shows more than movies but really, anything from my childhood can do it. when I’m feeling really bad, there’s usually a sense of being lost so having something fun and safe helps.

5. who do you feel most you around?

it’s a good split between my mom, my brother, and my best friend (who is pretty much my sister). I still hold something back even with them because I’m a work in progress there but they’ve seen me at my best and my worst and my in between. I don’t have secrets from them. there’s also a certain someone who could easily get there too, eventually. she and I started bonding over quarantine though because we have terrible timing.

10. what’s something you’re excited for?

well, I have three episodes left of mr. robot and the whole show has been intense so I’m excited for the conclusion. I’m also excited for this thing to arrive.

28. hugs or handholding?

hugs!

[jatpdaily]

hi hi i just signed up for the secret santa a few hours ago and i just wanted to make sure i correctly put qorktrees as my tumblr url. my twitter is qorktree without an s which is why i’m worried i might have written it wrong. 🙈 sorry for the trouble!

yes, you wrote it with an s! thanks for double checking!

[c4t1l1n4]

Warm, Cozy, Loved

Gift for @qorktrees​​ from the Good Omens Holiday Swap 2019

Thanks to @scintillating-galaxias​​ for betaing!! 

Here’s the AO3 Link just in case Tumblr butchers this post: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21676567

Hope you like it!!

My gift was a fic, but here’s a little drawing to go along with it!

Warm, Cozy, Loved

Crowley is drunk. 

It is cold, and Crowley is drunk. 

It’s winter in England, which means the weather is absolutely horrible. Less due to the fact that it is winter, and more due to the fact that it’s England, and the weather in England is always absolutely horrible. Except in Tadfield, for the 11 years leading up to the almost end of the world, but that’s not the point. 

The point is Crowley is drunk and it’s cold.

It had been a lovely night. Crowley and Aziraphale spent dinner at the Ritz before heading back to the bookshop for a drink or twelve, moments of shy, romantic tension stretching out between them, almost to the point of breaking. Crowley definitely did not spend most of the evening pointedly not staring at Aziraphale over a glass of wine, across a dimly lit room. He firmly reminds himself that he’s too drunk to think about it. He’s not sure how drunk though. It’s hard to tell how much you’ve had to drink when your glass never stops being full. He stumbles to his car, carelessly throwing a hand over his shoulder to wave goodnight to Aziraphale, who watches from the glowing warmth of the bookshop, peering just as lovestruck through the front windows. But Crowley is too busy fumbling for the keys of his car to notice, only to remember the Bentley doesn’t need keys to run and wrenching the door open. He plops inside, scowling at any snow—when did that start—that dare traps itself inside and tarnish his meticulous upkeep.

He drives off towards his flat with an air of drunken confidence and figures he’s allowed to drive drunk because he’s a demon so he doesn’t have to follow the rules, but mostly because he sternly told the Bentley she wasn’t allowed to crash. He stalls at a traffic light, watching it turn green and then back to red, much to his amusement as the car behind him honks the horn. It’s nearing 2 am, certainly no one is in any big rush, so he fiddles around with the radio as he waits for the light to turn green once more. The same three Queen songs repeat themselves, even as he changes the radio stations and inserts a CD. 

The lights flicker green for a second time, and Crowley snickers as a multitude of beeps resonate from the line of vehicles behind him, so he waits a few more seconds before driving through the intersection, just for the hell of it. Believe it or not, he actually wants to get home too. He can’t wait to park his car somewhere not quite illegal, but definitely in the way, waltz up the stairs, and curl up in his nice warm bed. It’s too late to yell at plants tonight, Crowley supposes as he drapes his jacket neatly over one of the hooks on the wall next to his door. He walks into the main room, takes a deep breath and freezes. Like, literally. He continues to shiver as he shoves off his shoes, nudging them next to the couch and hurries to his bedroom. Why is it so cold in here? Crowley takes off his sunglasses, placing them on the small table next to his bed. He disregards the need for comfier clothes and immediately crawls under the heavy blankets on his bed, curling into a tiny ball in attempts to regain some of the warmth that he’s lost since leaving the bookshop. 

Surely there is something he could do about this, but he can’t quite remember. Something about miracles and this and that and- Crowley rolls over, pulling the covers tighter around himself as his teeth start to chatter. What’s this all about? Wasn’t alcohol suppose to give you a warm and fuzzy feeling? Or maybe he just gets that from being in the book shop. Alcohol. Al… co… hol… Oh! That’s right! Alcohol! He’s drunk! Crowley giggles to himself once more. He promised his angel he’d make it back to his flat safely—which he did thank you very much—and now he’s cold. And he’s cold because it’s winter and it’s England and it’s horribly miserable and other descriptive words his foggy mind can’t think of right now. He supposes he could clear up his mind but that would require a miracle, and he can’t quite remember how to sober himself up. So as Crowley falls asleep that night, his mind settles on the fact that the cold is a lingering after-effect of the harsh, nighttime wind and fails to realize what really is going on: the heating in his flat is broken.

-----

Aziraphale is worried.  It’s noon and Aziraphale is worried. 

It’s cold, it’s noon, and Aziraphale is worried. 

It’s a blustery day and he is waiting on a bench in St. James’s Park and Crowley isn’t here yet. 

Aziraphale is worried. 

It’s not that Crowley’s ever on time, it’s just that he’s never not fashionably late. Now he’s way past fashionably late and he’s just plain old late. Which for Crowley is totally unacceptable because that’s what humans do. Angels are prompt, they’re on time. Humans are late because they’re humans and that’s what humans do. Crowley is a demon, neither on time or mundanely late and never early because that looks desperate. So that fact that it’s now nearing half past noon only means one thing. Crowley is in trouble.

Aziraphale is worried.

He miracles himself over to Crowley’s flat because his nerves are too frayed to take the time to walk there, even though it is a lovely day, if not on the chilly side. He knocks on the door—he’s an angel, he’s polite—and frowns when he doesn’t get a response. But the door is unlocked, purely due to the fact the Aziraphale wants it to be. Crowley is never too careful about locking it, especially after the little stunt they pulled at the end of the apocalypse. But the door swings open without even so much as a squeak of the hinges, and Aziraphale shuts the door behind himself, trapping the cold outside. 

“Crowley?” Aziraphale’s voice rings out into the empty air and his breath crystallizes in front of him, disappearing after a few seconds. “His apartment usually isn’t this cold,” he mumbles to himself, seeing as he had gotten no other response. He wanders over to the thermostat on the wall on his way to other parts of the flat, peering at the numbers on the tiny screen. He taps the side of the little device and, despite never being good with technology, he knows the numbers on the display do not match the temperature of the room. “Must be broken,” he looks around but isn’t sure how to fix it. “I wish you wouldn’t be like that,” he informs the little panel, and suddenly a blast of warm air is rushing into the room. With a satisfied nod, he continues his way through the flat.

“Crowley?” he calls again, shivering despite the machine’s best attempts to warm the flat back up. The bedroom door shifts open and Aziraphale carefully steps inside, feeling slightly like he doesn’t belong. He comes face to face with Crowley’s sleek, black sheet bed and takes a second to soak up the sight. He smiles gently to himself at Crowley’s sleeping form, legs tangled with the sheets, thick blankets covering every inch of available bed space, and tufts of auburn hair in a messy blaze like a fire, haloing his head. Aziraphale melts, just the tiniest of bits, before turning to leave. Crowley overslept, that’s all. He did sleep through a whole century, you know.

 He’s halfway down the hall, thinking about Crowley as he goes, his companion all the way back from the beginning of time when it hits him. Crowley is a demon. He was the original tempter, a snake in the garden of Eden. It was ridiculously cold in his apartment, for who knows how long. Crowley always complains about the cold, something about... snakes and being cold-blooded. 

Crowley wasn’t moving. 

Aziraphale spins around and hurries back to the bedroom, rushing right up to Crowley and placing a hand on his skin. He was cold. He was absolutely freezing. But he wasn’t shaking. He wasn’t like Aziraphale who shivered as the air still had a bite to it, even though he had fixed the heating unit. 

Crowley wasn’t moving. 

“Crowley.” This was a statement, not a question. A hesitant statement that feared to get no response. And it didn’t. Crowley lay there, just as quiet as ever, even as Aziraphale shakes his shoulder, and pulls back the covers. 

Crowley wasn’t moving.

Aziraphale scooped up his dear friend in his arms, unsure how to feel about the fact that he was still wearing the same clothes from the night before, and marched out into the main room of the flat. “You can have him back when you are warmer.” He sternly scolded the flat. Then, he promptly opened his wings and fled. After all, he wasn’t given the role of ‘Guardian of the Eastern Gate’ for no reason. 

----

The first thing Crowley feels when he wakes up is: warm. Well, he feels a lot of things when he first wakes up. In fact, he’s hit with a wall of warmcozyloved. So it’d be more accurate to say, the first thing Crowley notices when he wakes up is how much warmer it is compared to what he last remembered. 

The second thing he realizes is: he’s not alone. But there are no warning bells going off in his head, and he’s comfortable and he’s hit with another wave of warmcozyloved so he figures he’ll be alright.

The third thing he decides is: he should figure out what exactly is going on. He eventually opens his eyes and a little “ngk” sound escapes his mouth as he tries to sit up and survey his surroundings. He quickly settles back down into his previous position due to the fact that any movement is greeted with a throbbing pain in his head and he has to combat the urge to throw up. He takes a moment to steel himself, but can’t quite work up the nerve to try moving again, so instead, he cautiously opens his eyes. What he is confronted with, is definitely not anything he owned. Crowley was swaddled in a terribly oversized, downright atrociously ugly beige sweater, and sprawled across his lap was an equally atrocious tartan blanket. 

Angel, Crowley’s mind suggests. But when did Aziraphale get here? The last thing he remembered was getting outrageously drunk, as usual, and falling asleep in his bed. But his mind is still foggy and his head is hanging to avoid looking at the overhead light, so he’s sure he’s missed something. It’s not normally this bright in his flat anyway. He briefly recalls being cold and… what time is it? He looks down at his watch, or where his watch should be, then remembers, it’s probably still on his nightstand. 

Crowley blindly reaches out in the direction that his nightstand would be in, and freezes when his hand hits a wall of feathers instead. He glances over in surprise and then carefully lifts his head to survey his surroundings. This is not his flat. Actually, he can’t really tell, because he is cocooned in a set of white wings. Angel, His mind supplies for a second time.

“Angel?” Crowley grimaces out and immediately regrets the way it leaves his head spinning so he forgets to listen for a response. 

There’s movement—the world shifts the slightest bit on its axis around him—and “Oh, Crowley! You had me so worried.” It’s only when Aziraphale’s voice chimes very close to his right ear that his brain puts the pieces together, and Crowley realizes he’s sitting in someone else’s lap. “How are you feeling?”

“Ow,” comes Crowley’s graceful response, screwing his eyes shut.

“Oh, you forgot how to sober up again, didn’t you?” Aziraphale sympathizes and reaches over to run a hand through Crowley’s hair. Just like that, his headache died down a considerable amount, and Crowley could think again. 

“Thanks.”

“Anytime, dear.” 

A moment of silence lingers in the air, ways to restart the conversation dangling in front of them, and Aziraphale almost snatched one, but Crowley lays his head back on Aziraphale’s shoulder, so the silence persists. Aziraphale doesn’t point out the fact that he had Crowley cradled in his soft, white wings as a way to trap warmth inside their little cocoon in front of the flickering fireplace in the bookshop, but Crowley hasn’t said anything either. Maybe he just hasn’t noticed yet. He had just recovered from being hungover. Besides, Aziraphale enjoys having the one person he loves so much curled up in his wings. It gives him a sense of control and calms his protective instincts. 

“What happened?” Crowley asks, his mind still foggy as he tries to recall the events of the night before.

“I think your heating unit broke.” 

Crowley groans in annoyance. 

“I think I fixed it,” Aziraphale admit, but is unsure. “It was freezing in there when I came to see about lunch, so who knows how long you had been suffering with no heat.”

“You came to see about lunch?” Crowley furrows his eyebrows in confusion.

“We were going to meet in St. James Park, and inevitably end up somewhere to get you a hot cup of tea—you do always complain about the winter weather and such—and we were gonna—”

“What time is it!?” Crowley exclaims, cutting Aziraphale off, jerking his head up to stare at the angel in disbelief. 

“Oh, I’m not sure now.” Aziraphale turns his head and peeked outside the warmcozyloved wing cocoon to look. “Well, it is dark outside.”

“Dark outside?” Crowley splutters. “I slept all the way through dinner? I’m sorry Angel, even when I forget to sober up, I wake up in time for lunch.”

“I think you were hypothermic, with being a snake and all. I mean, Crowley, you were stone cold.”

“Were cold!? I’m still cold,” Crowley half-heartedly grumbles under his breath, pulling the atrociously warm sweater tighter around himself. A sweater knitted that chunky has no right to be as warmcozyloved and reminiscent of his angel as it is. Crowley pouts, just the tiniest of bits, but a small smile creeps its way onto his face as Aziraphale fusses over him. 

“My dear boy, you should have said something earlier,” Aziraphale admonishes gently. 

A moment of silence passes. “I didn’t mean to scare you,” Crowley admits, in a very small voice. He suddenly realizes that he doesn’t have his sunglasses to hide behind and felt very exposed, so he drops the angel’s gaze and looks elsewhere. 

“I know dear. I feel better just sitting like this.” Aziraphale admits, and his wings sag, just a little bit. He’s exhausted, worn out from worrying about Crowley for so long. And everything for so long. The apocalypse is over now, surely they can stop holding their breath. “Even though we prevented Armageddon, we’re still on our own side, aren’t we?”

Crowley lifts his gaze to Aziraphale, who stares back at him hesitantly, his wings drooping a little more as he second-guessed his words. 

“Of course, Angel. You and me against the world.”

“Well, that’s good then. I just like to know you're safe. I want you to know that I care about you.”

“Angel, you’re important to me too.” Crowley tilts his head and studies Aziraphale, who averts his gaze, flushing slightly red. “Are you saying what I think you are?” A sly smile grows on Crowley’s face and he shifts closer, slinging his arms around Aziraphale’s shoulders. 

“I don’t know whatever you could be implying.” Aziraphale shoots back, but this is familiar territory, and he is growing more confident.

“I think you do.” And without further prompting, Aziraphale pulls Crowley close, one hand shifting to wind around the demon’s back as they kissed. “I love you, angel,” Crowley says as they pull away.

“You never cease to amaze me,” Aziraphale says in lew of a proper response, but another wave of warmcozyloved said everything for him. “You wily old thing. I bet, in all these years, you never thought the moment we confess our love for each other, you’d be wearing such an atrocious sweater,” Aziraphale says mischievously, now that he knows the feelings are mutual.

“Oi, watch it,” Crowley teased back, his arms casually resting on either side of Aziraphale’s head.  “This is my partner’s atrocious sweater, and I happen to like it, thank you very much.”

They looked at each other for a second longer before a grin broke out on Crowley’s face, and both of them broke out into quiet laughter. Once their giggles died down, they took a moment to catch their breath and Crowley used the moment to kiss Aziraphale again. He then curled back up into Aziraphale, laying his head on his shoulder and securing himself to his side. Silence lingered in the air, but everything was alright now.

Crowley was no longer cold and Aziraphale was no longer worried.

A consistent pulse of warmcozyloved radiated from both of them, filling the bookshop and lulling them to sleep.