#the target audience for this fic is me

[daturaamanita]

Like a Russula Loves an Orchid

[ikeasharksss]

hey im curious

feel free to rb & explain your answer in the tags!

[idyllcy]

saccharine - mike schmidt x reader

You taste like divine honey.

Mike decides that on a random Wednesday afternoon, Abby still at school, his face still buried in your cunt. 

You're a dripping mess around him, your slick sticking to the stubble of his half-shaved face, back arched as he curls his fingers in you again, taking the moment to breathe, but refusing to leave your pretty pussy alone. He has to be attached to you in some way. If he isn't. If he isn't. If he isn't, then he's sure the nightmares will come again. He'd pick drowning in your messy cunt than those dreams in a heartbeat. 

He pants, catching his breath as you clench around him again, tears in the corner of your eyes as you cum for the nth time. His name comes off as a weak whine from your lips as he fingers you through your orgasm, refusing to stay still as you cry about how you didn't have any more in you. He knows you do. Even if you don't want it, you haven't called your safeword yet, so he's free to continue with you.

He pulls his fingers out of you with a lewd squelch, bringing them to his lips, sucking on them as you recover from the orgasm, head turned to the side as your chest rises and falls with each breath, the thin layer of sheen on your skin. Then, when he's sure they're clean, he delves back into your cunt, tongue forcing past your folds, causing you to jolt, fingers flying to his hair and digging into his scalp, almost crying as you try to tell him you can't take any more, but it falls on deaf ears. 

He mumbles for one more as he presses a kiss to your inner thigh, one of his hands going to lace with your fingers, giving you a gentle squeeze as he forces one last orgasm out of you, drinking it up as his head spins from the lack of oxygen, but oh heavens do you taste divine.

[flowercrowngods]

still on my journey to get better at smut, so uhhhh

chubby!steve fucking eddie at a highschool reunion

(explicit, ca. 1.1k | dom-ish top steve, belly kink, light degradation kink, multiple orgasms, semi-public sex, reunion sex??)

Eddie lets out a high-pitched moan as Steve lifts him off the ground, crowding him against the wall with all that glorious, glorious strength, manhandling Eddie like it’s nothing. If his dick weren’t already painfully hard and throbbing with need, it would be now, trapped as it is against Steve’s belly. It’s the hottest thing Eddie’s ever experienced.

“That what this is, baby?” Steve taunts, slowly grinding against Eddie, the bulge in those preppy-ass pants hot and hard against him.

Eddie moans again, shaking his head in denial even though they both know it’s useless, pointless. He’s been exposed. Quite literally, too.

“You think I’m sexy like this? I make you hard just from looking at me? Don’t think I didn’t see you there, Munson.”

God, the mouth on this man! Eddie never did stand a chance.

“You wanna fuck me so bad it makes you look stupid, letting me manhandle you like that. Think I can fuck yon against the wall, Eddie? Hold my dainty little princess up while I fuck all the words right out of your dirty little mouth, hmm?”

Eddie moans again, his hands finding their way into Steve’s hair, tugging and pushing and pulling him closer, closer, closer. He needs more. He needs Steve to do all of that and more. Come inside him, mark him up, let it trail out of him while they return to the gym — or leave him like that for everyone else to see, everyone else who happens to walk by this abandoned classroom in search for some privacy.

It’s been ten years. Ten years since Steve Harrington in all his glory graduated school and left Hawkins behind.

And oh, those years must have been glorious for him if he looks like this now. Bulky. Strong. Magnificent. Like he’s finally grown into that muscle he’s always had and polished it up with some softness.

Eddie was hard the moment he laid eyes on him.

And now here they are — in their old science classroom. If there were any coherent thought left in his mind, he’d make some quip about finally getting some biology lessons.

As it is, though, Steve surges up to claim his lips in a searing, filthy kiss while he divests Eddie of the rest of his clothing.

Eddie is naked now, trapped against the wall by that magnificent bulk of a man who is still fully dressed save for his suit pants being unbuttoned and that white dress shirt open all the way, exposing his hairy chest and tummy. The need to touch him is stronger now than the need to be fucked brainless, and Steve’s groan when Eddie runs his hands up and down those large pecs is absolutely worth the momentary lack of friction.

“You’re so pretty,” he whispers, unaware of the words leaving his mouth until they find their mark, making Steve falter in his frantic movements.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Eddie swallows. “Always wondered what you’d look like now. Hoped for this.” He trails his hand down the prominent happy trail, all the way to where Steve’s cock is still trapped, leaking against his underwear.

They both moan as Eddie feels him up, gently jerking him as much as the angle allows, and Steve meets his movements with thrusts of his own, which in turn provides friction for Eddie’s throbbing erection.

God, this man is glorious. He wants to shout it from the rooftops.

“That so?” Steve murmurs, hands coming up to Eddie’s hair again, one of them trailing down to his lips. “King Steve was never enough for you, hmm? You wanted more. Always knew you were a greedy little slut, Eddie Munson. Practically begging for it with your little stunts. Wanted my eyes on you, didn’t you? We’re always so stupid for me.”

He moves his hips in a particularly mean thrust that makes Eddie keen, one finger moving past his lips for Eddie to suck while the one in his hair pulls meanly before coming down to his cock, jerking so hard and fast that Eddie’s legs quiver. Not that it matters, with the hold Steve has on him without even using his hands.

Eddie has nowhere to go; one finger in his mouth and a skilled hand on his dick. He doesn’t want to go anywhere. He wants to stay in this moment forever. Wants to tell Steve as much — stupidly — but all that comes out is a series of “Ah—ah—ah—ffffuck!” as the man renders him useless.

“All you had to do was ask,” Steve taunts, condescending in every possible way, and Eddie almost blows his load just then.

“P—Please,” he manages around Steve’s finger in his mouth, and the asshole speeds up. It’s all Eddie can do to shake his head, to whine between his moans and let him know that, No, not like that! “Want you. Need you.”

“You have me,” Steve whispers, his lips touching Eddie’s in an almost-kiss that is so intoxicating Eddie loses all sense of self for a second there.

“Fuck me,” Eddie whines. “Please. F—Fuck me against the wall, fuck the words right, right outta my mouth, fuck— like you said. Like that. Please.”

And oh, Steve does. Prepares him on four fingers until there are no words in Eddie’s brain anymore, clamps his hand over his mouth because “I don’t want anyone to find you just yet, baby. Want you all to myself. Want your cum on my belly and have you clean it up, eat it all like the filthy slut you are.”

He fucks him deeper than anyone’s ever fucked him, leaves him trembling with need even after he’s come twice, splattered Steve’s soft belly with it and almost came a third time just from that vision alone.

“One more, baby,” Steve tells him. “One more for me, then I’m gonna fill you up just like you want it, yeah? Fill you so good, mark you up so everyone knows you spread your legs for the King like my pretty little concubine. My pretty little princess, hmm? You gonna come again for me? Can you be a good boy for me?”

Eddie can. He comes with a muffled shout, adding a third load to Steve’s skin, framed by his otherwise pristine suit in what must be the most obscene vision Eddie’s ever seen.

Steve strokes him through it, gentler now, telling him how proud he is, how good Eddie was for him as he thrusts his hips one, two, three more times before he, too, finds his release in Eddie’s body. Well, in the condom; they’re not stupid. But a man can dream.

And, oh, does he dream. With Steve still inside him, his hips bucking with aftershocks as he buries his face in Eddie’s neck, licking and sucking and biting.

Eddie will always dream of Steve Harrington. Especially after tonight.

was gonna put this in @hotluncheddie’s ask box but then it hit 1k so here we go instead i guess

[everwalldigan]

Damian Wayne and Rubeus Hagrid would be best friends. Allow me to elaborate

It would maybe go like this: Damian is having a bit of trouble taking care of Goliath and nowhere in his unusual and extensive curriculum was he taught how to take care of baby dragon bat. Naturally he does some research and comes across Rubeus Hagrid, who by now has made a good reputation for himself as expert on all things magical creatures.

He convinces Bruce to take them to England for a few weeks and sneaks away to corner Hagrid outside of a bar, demanding to be taught about the proper care of dragon bats.

Hagrid is immediately charmed by the open care and love Damian has for all animals, not just the ones that fit a certain standard (it also doesn’t help that Damian reminds him painfully of a younger Harry with his sharp green eyes and thirst for knowledge. Hagrid did not stand a chance)

He takes Damian back to his cottage, watching as the hard shell Damian has built around himself immediately fades away when he meets Fang. They immediately take to each other, the old dog looking more lively than he’s been in years as Damian starts ranting about his own dog Titus and his array of other pets while Hagrid makes them some tea.

They sit down and Damian takes a sip of his tea, immediately spits it back out and becomes the first person ever to have the heart to inform Hagrid that his food sucks. Instead of being offended, Hagrid laughs so hard he starts crying because all the faces people were making while eating his food suddenly make sense and he can’t believe in all these years nobody has bothered to tell him! They strike an agreement that Hagrid shows and teaches Damian about all the magical creatures he knows and in exchange, Damian teaches him how to improve his cooking so that it becomes halfway edible.

Damian makes then a new batch of tea, listening intently while Hagrid takes over the talking and tells him all about the development stages of dragon bats, even offering to house Goliath if things get out of hand, and offers to buy some supplies from Diagon alley for him that Goliath would like. (For the sake of simplicity: the statue of secrecy has been long lifted and British wizards live freely amongst the population). Damian has never been so impressed in his life when Hagrid mentions the giant three headed dog he calls Fluffy and suggests to set up a play date with Goliath and Fluffy when Goliath is old enough to fly.

When Damian sneaks back to their hotel room to a pissed off Bruce, he explains where he’s been manages to only get two weeks no patrol as punishment (Bruce is barely holding himself together from aweing out loud) and insists that Bruce come with him to Hagrid’s the next day.

Bonus:

Hagrid immediately recognises Bruce (despite not recognising Damian) and Bruce is panicking thinking their identities are busted (cause how can he explain to the media how Bruce Wayne’s son come in possession of a dragon bat??). Father and son then proceed to be utterly gobsmacked when Hagrid goes “yer pennyworths kid aren’t ya!” And explains how he’s recognised Bruce from a photograph Professor McGonagall showed him of her old military friend who writes to her every now and then.

Bonus 2:

Bruce comes to bitterly regret ever letting Damian hang out with Hagrid cause instead of sneaking in normal animals like cows, Damian has started finding and collecting magical creatures around Gotham and now that he’s aware and looking for them, they are everywhere. The headaches Bruce gets rival no other.

[wine-wrtj]

The party at the Prom

But soberness turns out to be the friends we made along the way

I literally just got possessed and woke up with my this piece finished two weeks later

Mind you as much as deranged teenager I am, for everything to be ✨legal✨ you could tell this is my self-indulgent polish Byler au. Because I was inspired to draw this after my school’s prom and I know NOTHING about American proms lmao. Anyway here’s some more context:

And yeah Will is totally the person to run the fuck away randomly and Elmax would probably be on the side quest. Somewhere outside of the state. Most likely.

[ladygata]

Mike Flanagan really said wow the queers love Succession so much I’m gonna give them exactly what they want this year (a horror Succession au).

[padam-in-padamm]

okay so. I've had dnd on the brain for the past few weeks, so naturally I've had some thoughts about a joker out fantasy/dnd au, assigning them all races and classes and subclasses (and making some moodboards for them)

I am still very much a beginner when it comes to dnd and most of my knowledge comes from scouring the internet rather than having any actual experience, so this is 90% based on vibes, but here we go!

Bojan: human bard

I mean come on, this guy was born to be an entertainer. I couldn't see him as any other class, naturally charming anyone he comes across and inspiring his friends to keep going. I feel like he'd be college of eloquence, just to really ramp up those charisma skills, and the Universal Speech feature is perfect for him. I could also see him multiclassing in swashbuckler rogue just for fun, those vibes are very fitting for him as well. Poor guy rolled terribly on Constitution though so he keeps getting sick

Kris: half-elf wizard

Look at that man and tell me he isn't an elf. The wizard mechanics just scream Kris to me, I think he'd love the organizational aspect of it all. School of divination subclass would be perfect for the guy who loves to make plans and to-do lists and to be on top of things. Also I could see him having the noble background, or at least his family being notable and famous in some way, his dad being a former adventurer who Bojan used to idolize or something to that effect

Jan: tiefling rogue

Sneaky and quiet and fades into the background, but also very good at what he does. I admit this one was the most based on vibes rather than rational thought, but idc it works for me, and it gives him a very fun vibe contrast with the class I gave Nace. As for subclass I could see him being an arcane trickster, that also gives him some ability overlap with Kris the same way they have overlapping roles in the band as guitarists

Jure: tabaxi fighter

Yeah Jure being a tabaxi is non-negotiable for me. As for his class, this one I was the least sure about - I definitely see him being a martial class rather than a spellcaster, but I'm not sure if a fighter specifically works best. I could also see him being (or multiclassing as) a barbarian or ranger, something with more thematic ties to nature. Either way Strength is his highest stat, but he's also not a brainless fighter, I could see Battle Master working for him as a subclass. Also I'm assigning him the two-weapon fighting style, let him smack monsters with two swords or axes like drumsticks

Nace: human cleric

The token healer of the party, but I actually think it works really well for him. He wanted to be a vet after all, and I think he'd be very comfortable protecting and supporting his friends. Him having the highest Wisdom in the party works well with him being the oldest and most experienced of the bunch. Life domain for sure, and I'm having fun imagining his holy symbol being a turtle, because longevity and good health and protection or something

[geraskierfanficprompts]

Prompt 4

Geralt is the captain of a pirate ship, named "Kaer Morhen." Perhaps he's still a witcher, perhaps he's just a regular old human (with white hair and golden eyes? Lol) His brothers (and "cousins" from other witcher schools) are his crew Now I can see this going two different ways, so choose a favorite (or make up your own, I am only the beginning, I hold no affront of being anything more) Jaskier is a nobleman's son, aboard his family's ship, possibly on his way to be forced into a marriage to a woman he doesn't love. And either he falls overboard or he's shoved off as a murder attempt, but he's lost in the ocean. Lambert (or someone else, but I love to imagine how Lambert would attempt to call this out to his captain who he doesn't take seriously 90% of the time, #brothers) calls that he spots a man bobbing in the sea, and they haul him up. The majority of the crew sees sight of his jewels and finery and insists on holding him ransom. But when the prisoner wakes up and isn't afraid of death, Geralt looks into this a little more. Apparently their prisoner won't get a ransom because his entire family despise him and his want to run away and become a bard. Funny. Most pirate ships have entertainers aboard to help the pirates deal with months of nothing but ocean. Perhaps they'll have use of this dumb twink after all. OR, option number two Jaskier is a nobleman's son, chained and starved for the crime of wanting to become a bard and not wanting to marry some prissy noblewoman. He hears a lot of loud noises and screams and then a bunch of burly men in fur cloaks stomp down and start rifling through their supplies. One catches eye of him and immediately yells to the captain. The captain is a very handsome man with silver locks and bright eyes, and the dreaded pirate captain is treating Jaskier with more kindness and gentleness than his family or their workers ever have. The pirate hauls Jaskier up into his arms and carries him to their own ship, laying him down in his own bed, and looking over his injuries and sending one of his crewmembers to make hm a fine meal. Jaskier begins telling the captain of his abusive life beforehand and mentions that all he's ever wanted is to spread music and love, and shockingly enough, this big scary (gorgeous) man doesn't even laugh at him for it.. Oh fuck he's falling in love-

♡!Optional addons!♡ • Geralt gayly teaching his bard how to swordfight!!!

• Perhaps Jaskier's family is crueler and has done more than beat him, perhaps they've stabbed him or something, and the very last thing he sees before he passes out from bloodloss is Geralt (Maybe he even thinks he's an angel! Lmfao)

• Geralt getting lovingly bullied by his brothers for taking care of his songbird so well

• Geralt's crew revenge-robbing or revenge-killing Jaskier's family if we do Option one for the story (attempted-murder route), since it's implied it happens in Option Two while they ransack the ship-

• Perhaps I'll do a sequel for this prompt one day for Mermaid Jaskier, I do LOVE mermaids, take this as a much smaller and much less detailed prompt for if you want that idea, too! Perhaps the Pankratz ship has a captured mer aboard, parched and dehydrated (I just mostly think it'd be funny if Geralt was checking his pulse and if he has any injuries while random other witches dump buckets of sea water on him-)

[candyskiez]

I'm not a super big ekurei shipper but I have to admit the fact that Dimple can possess Reigen while he's unconscious and yet Reigen will be fully present anyway is Very compelling regardless of your explanation for it. Dimple was very specifically trying to wake Reigen up and used most of his power to do so? Hell yes, love it. Reigen being very atune to spirits because of. Well. The past four years. And going WHAT THE FUCK and waking right back up only to immediately go "oh. It's just dimple." Fascinating scene idea. Looking directly at it. So much potential for a fascinating missing scene there. Ekurei is growing on me at alarming rates. Help.

[cacodaemonia]

The struggle of editing a fic and trying to find a balance between 'how many people are even going to read this and care, though? just call it good and post it' and 'but when I reread this in the future, will all the mistakes I didn't catch annoy the hell out of me?' ಥ_ಥ

[asthedeathoflight]

VICTORY IS MINE. This fic brought to you by 14 hours spent in airports this weekend. The Devil's Minion first words soulmate au that everyone (me) has always wanted.

Tagging @platoapproved and @vampirejournalist for making the posts that started this whole thing and @lesbians4armand and @whathehe11 bc you both expressed interest while I was writing it

[tunastime]

80 for spotify wrapped writing game!

hi midna!! long time no see!! so I know it's not target audience per se, but you got 24 by flor, and that's such a xisuma SEN (space au!) song that I had to make something for that, it overcame me. I don't know what happened. slight tw for injury!

(421 words)

Xisuma stands up.

The mirror beside him is still shattered down the side, large chunks of square plasti-glass scattered over the floor. Each of them is cracked in such a way that Xisuma’s marred face makes fractals when he looks through them—bits of eye, bits of bandage, bits of cheek and chin, bits of dull hair. He sweeps, collecting the shards into a small pile. The sink is still cracked, too, from the force. He sweeps to the edge of the bathroom, a long stretch of glass and dark red-brown blood, dried to a tack on the floor. It stretches from the point of impact (sink) to where Xisuma managed to pool the blood in his own hands, desperate for gauze (cabinet) and to where it dripped through his fingers (door).

He catches a second glimpse of himself in the shattered mirror—his face looks tired, eyes underlined with grey half-moons and his suit more rumpled than usual. It takes him a moment to look away. It’s like he’s not even looking at himself. Every picture he owns with his face in it, he’s a young captain—the youngest, they always said, not even 20 by the time he’d had his own ship—unmarred and bright-eyed and so different than what he is now. He supposes he expected to be the same, at least a bit, somehow. 

He scrapes dried blood from the floor. There’s movement in the hallway, around the corner, people passing in and out of rooms as they clean the ship. They’ve long since started their trip back at this point—tidying and fixing up broken parts for the ship to be reused, both by Xisuma himself and by any seconds in command at his stead when they return. Seconds. Right. Yeah. He’s not spoken to Doc since they lost Tango, has he?

Xisuma puts the broom down. He’d forgotten that, actually. Shame that is. That they’d not talked in a minute. It’s neither of their faults, really, just, with cleaning, and with the paperwork Doc had to fill out, for the arm, and the calibration, and telling Xisuma he’d talk to the Chief about everything, so that X didn't have to. Yeah. He’d just gotten so distracted trying to fix everything before their arrival next week, so it had just happened that way.

The shards get swept into the dust pan, and the contents dust pan disposed of in the trash chute. The bathroom looks dull, now, along with himself, sleek and grey and cold. Xisuma squares his shoulders.

It’s fine. At least the blood didn’t go into his eyes, right?

He takes up the broom and leaves the room, leaving the shattered mirror behind him. His visage disappears in chunks—shoulders, legs, neck, head.

(spotify wrapped ask meme)

[floralcrematorium]

Arthur allows himself to catastrophize over his insecurities, but Francis is there to bring him back down to Earth.

Words: 3,426

Relationship: FrUK

Characters: England, France

Additional Tags: Comfort, Self Doubt, Established Relationship, The French dialogue may be a bit botched but it's FIIIIIIINE

[your-stranger-halfblood-things]

"I wish I was named after someone cool," Will said. "You're named after that guy from the bible, right? Why can't I be named after someone?"

Jonathan looked at his brother. "That's because you already are named after someone. You're named after Ziggy Stardust," he said, ruffling Will's hair, making it a mess. "You're named after one of the most flamboyant idols of rock these days. You should be proud."

"But Ziggy is just the nickname you gave me," Will said.

"So? Ziggy is the name that you can own if you really wanted to." Jonathan pulled his brother in for a hug. "C'mon Ziggy, you can make history with your own name."

Will smiled.

"Or you can base your future off of Bowie's character. Either way, you have a bit of a glam rocker in you," Jonathan finished.

There was a moment of silence as Will thought.

"I am named after Bowie's character," he said proudly, "and I take inspiration from Ziggy all the time, but I would also like to write my own story."

"Cool cool," Jonathan said, going back to the tapes that were in front of him. "So... Ziggy still?"

"Of course," Will said with a grin, starting to continue his drawing.

[avocado-writing]

i absolutely ADORE the little universe you've made for the light the dark and the spaces in between and i don't really have any specific requests, all i'm requesting is whatever work in that universe that you've already come up with or if you do get an idea for something for my favourite throuple this is an excuse to post it hihi

Notes: first of all, fav throuple? 🥹 I’m asking for your hand in marriage. Second of all I got an ask about reader being nonbinary in this series but this fic explicitly discusses them being AFAB (but GNC, could be read as trans or not). set in TLTDATSIB verse, ish, the time period is a bit wonky (14thC ish) — consider this an au where reader follows aziraphale to France after their initial meeting, finds Crowley there too and everyone is pointing at each other like that Spider-Man meme going !! Immortal!!!

words: 2k

rating: T (sex references, mild peril)

pairing: crowley x reader x aziraphale

tags: TLTDATSIB, polyamory, Fem/Masc!Crowley, Fem/Masc!Aziraphale, GNC!Reader, historical, jousting

“Are you sure? It’s terribly dangerous.”

“Aziraphale,” you sigh, “I don’t do it because it’s safe.”

“Well why do it at all?” she whines, grabbing onto your hand beseechingly. Crowley looks up from where she’s been admiring her reflection in your armour. You turn to her for support, instead she shrugs. 

“I don’t know. For glory? For honour? To prove that I can?”

Aziraphale glares at Crowley to join in but is met with the same reaction. It seems that Crowley is determined to stay neutral in this scenario. How annoying. Just like a demon to find the most awkward solution for both parties.

You tie the linens around your chest a little tighter. Under your full plate it should be difficult to tell the shape of your body but you don’t want to take any chances. Aziraphale pouts and you sigh, turning back to her to take her hand in earnest.

“My darling, I’m not like either of you. When they look at me, they will only ever see one thing. I can’t change my body around and be whoever I want to be. I have to take these measures to be viewed as anything other than what I was when I came squawling from my mother.”

You cup her cheek and she nuzzles into your touch. 

“Besides,” you add, wickedly, “am I not good at wielding a lance?”

You grin, thinking back to the three of you laying together last night. Aziraphale harrumphs and Crowley laughs at her.

“They’ll be fine, angel,” she finally pipes up. Aziraphale doesn’t seem certain but finally relents, letting Crowley adjust her surcoat and take her hand.

“Good luck,” Crowley says, but the smile on her face suggests she doesn’t think you’ll need it. You give her a wink.

“With my two ladies cheering from the crowd, how could I lose?”

You give them both a kiss goodbye before Crowley finally wrestles the angel away, likely to get her a drink and a pep-talk before the tourney starts. As they leave, your squire begins to enter, his face turning beet red as Crowley ruffles his hair.

“Hello, Oliver. Make sure our good knight doesn’t fall from his horse, will you?” she says as she goes. Oliver tries to form a sentence, fails, and winces as Crowley sways away. 

A tiny slip of a lad, you took on Oliver not only for his immense courage despite his small stature, but because you both shared a secret - one which you uncovered when accidentally walking in on him changing. You’d recognise a bound chest anywhere. You thought no less of him for it, and told him he needed not beg for your silence: you’d keep it gladly.

“Sire, I’m here to help you finish dressing,” he states, when he finally manages to get a handle over his own tongue. 

“Well timed, Oliver. Help me with this breastplate.”

He heaves and helps with the leather straps, buckling you in place. You’re swelteringly hot. Ah well, time for that to get even worse when you ride out into the sun. You take a moment to check yourself over, only noticing Oliver’s quietness when he fails to point out one of your pauldrons is loose. You furrow your brow and turn to him.

“What’s on your mind, lad?”

“Might… Might I ask a question, sire?”

“Me saying no has never stopped you before,” you jest, but when you see him scuff his foot against the floor, you drop down to be able to look him in the eye. “What’s the matter, Oliver?”

“Your ladies… you’ll fight for them both, yes? For their honour as one?”

“Yes, I will.” You don’t go into great detail about your relationship but you trust Oliver with the truth. He sees Aziraphale and Crowley clucking around you like hens before a joust all the time anyway, and the boy isn’t a fool. He can do the arithmetic of it.  

“And they’re happy with that arrangement?”

You laugh a little, but put a comforting hand on his shoulder.

“Those two love each other as much as they love me. My life would not be a happy one without them both in it, and they feel the same.”

Sacrilege, but really, little in this room would be considered holy by the church. And besides, you have an angel as one of the willing participants of your relationship. You think it’s probably fine.

Oliver nods. He seems to understand, but still appears like something else is weighing on his mind. You really do smother your smile this time.

“Oliver,” you tell him, gently, “I also think that you might be a bit young for Lady Crowley.”

He blushes.

🗡️

You can barely see with your helmet on, so you keep it under your arm for the time being. You cut the figure of a man well enough anyway so for the moment there’s no need to worry about your face being on show. In fact, you’ve gained a reputation for being quite handsome.

Handsome but very spoken for. Apparently there was a lady discussing giving you her favour to joust, and Crowley spilt wine all over her skirts. Then again, she did the same when a knight rode up to ask to fight for Aziraphale’s honour, and suddenly found that his helmet crest had inexplicably burst into flames. 

Crowley knows how to mark her territory.

You run a hand over your horse’s nose, humming a soothing little note as she nickers and whinnies.

“I know it’s hot, girl. Let’s give them a show and then we’ll both get out of this damned armour.”

You saddle up, letting Oliver pass you your helmet and your shield. You ride as a freelancer so neither of them are burdened with some noble’s crest; instead you ride under your own: a pair of wings, one white, one black. A little nod to the two who matter the most to you.

You ride onto the field as horns herald the start of the joust. You know a few of the knights competing, and are well aware of your first opponent - Kenelm the agile, a man you’ve faced several times over and are at equals wins against. He nods at you from his steed, hailing the crowd as he’s announced. You look across the seating, and see Aziraphale and Crowley in the front row. Where they always are, whenever you compete. With an ineffable inevitability.

“And, riding under his own banner, Sir Kerkylas of Andros!”

Even with her glasses on you know Crowley is rolling her eyes at your chosen pseudonym. You ride up to the pair of them, grinning.

“Be careful,” Aziraphale begs for the umpteenth time. She passes you her favour: a little ring, golden, set with a pair of wings on it. 

“I will be,” you say, kissing her hand, then quieter: “You do remember that I can’t die?”

“Yes, but we don’t know if dismembering will do you any good!”

Crowley reaches over to present you her token, a pin embellished with a silver snake. You stow both in your saddlebag. 

“I’ll buy you a drink if you take the helmet clean off his head,” she whispers. 

“You’re on,” you agree. Crowley reaches out to caress your face, then stops and retreats abruptly.

“Better not lay that on too heavily. I think I might kill your squire.”

A glance over your shoulder reveals that Oliver looks like he might combust. Taking mercy on the poor boy, you nod your goodbyes to the two of them and ride up to greet Kenelm.

“Ken! Didn’t think I’d see you back in the saddle so soon after that humiliating defeat in Dover.”

Kenelm rolls his eyes but holds his tongue.

“Ah, Kerk. Sorry, didn’t see it was you. I was blinded by the pomp of your armour. I forget that you need to compensate for something.”

Ha, if only he knew. 

Despite the ribbing the two of you exchange a smile.

“Good luck, Ken. And remember, aim the lance at me. Poor Cynisca was dreadfully irritable after last time, when it seemed you were trying to skewer her flank.”

He grimaces at being reminded of the faux pas before putting his helmet on and readying himself. You trot to your side of the tilt where Oliver is heaving up your lance. 

“You’ll win,” he says confidently, “Kenelm always rides worse the earlier it is in the day. If you can get a solid enough hit in, it’s over, one round.”

“I hope that your faith in me isn’t misplaced, Oliver.”

You helmet up, resigning yourself to see what little of the world you can through the frog-lip, and clutch your lance. It’s heavy but you’re used to it by now. 

An expectant silence settles over the crowd. Aziraphale buries her face in Crowley’s shoulder.

“Oh, I can’t look–!”

The flag is waved, and you charge.

🗡️

You reflect on how Crowley never bought you that drink. She insisted that knocking a man clean off his horse didn’t count as taking his helmet off. A technicality, flimsy at best - but Aziraphale was too relieved at your victory to argue either side. You went on to place second at that particular tourney, the fire of it inciting you to ride to victory in your next. 

You stopped for a while after that. It was doing Aziraphale in a little, and you loved him too much to keep his nerves that frayed.

But, nowadays, reenactments are becoming somewhat of a fad. Usually you find them a little gauche, and it’s more than a bit uncomfortable to relive some aspects of your past, but you never truly lost your love for jousting. So you allow yourself a little vice in it. Your heart aches whenever you’re reminded of Oliver, but you kept tabs on his family, and his descendants are doing quite well. One of them lives in London and works for a charity helping LGBT youth. It seems fitting. 

Plus, Aziraphale is a lot calmer about you jousting this way. 

“Are you alright?” you ask the man you just took off his horse. He looks a little winded and gladly takes your help getting up.

“Yeah, I’m fine. Think it’s just my pride that’s bruised. You’re really good at this!”

You beam.

“I’ve had practice.”

You exchange socials so that he can follow up with any questions he might have, then turn to take your horse back to the tent the organisers have set up for you. Aziraphale and Crowley are waiting. Your angel has an ice-cream for you, which he passes over before tucking into his own.

“Who was he?” Crowley sniffs, peering over your shoulder. You roll your eyes.

“Just some kid interested in the sport. Stop being jealous.”

“I’m not jealous,” he says, jealously.

“You did marvellously, my love,” Aziraphale interjects. You smile at him.

“Thank you, darling. I can be a fiend with a lance when I want to be. Even if I am a little out of practice.”

“Hmm, not out of practice as of last night,” Crowley says and Aziraphale chokes on his soft-serve. It’s good to know that even after seven hundred years, your sense of humour hasn’t changed a jot.

“Oh, and,” you say, reaching into your bag, “your favours. Returned to you after they brought me luck.”

Aziraphale slips his ring back on, Crowley affixes the pin to his jacket. Your hands linger on each other’s, as they usually do.

“Let’s go get a drink.”

“You didn’t remove his helmet, so I’m not buying.”

“Oh, you utter bastard.”

-

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