Let our favorite characters go on vacation!
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I'm looking for a fic where Crowley shows up with Adam in a sling at Aziraphale's library (or bookshop maybe?) and asks for books about parenting because he's been left with a kid. Adam ends up wanting Ezra and his Dad to get married and the two of them have this slowburn taking care of Adam, would you know it?
Hello, I believe the fic you are looking for is called ‘Barriers, and the Breaking Thereof’ by Cardinal Daughter. You can find it here.
Enjoy your reading!
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suffer not in silence
The holy light is like clawing hands, like tearing fingers, reaching out from beneath the door and into the depths of hell, pulling everything it touches into its grasp.
It burns everyone in its path
Michael does not care.
continue on ao3
Another thing I love about good omens is the realistic happy ending. It basically said: look if you're happy with the everyday that's ok, because as long as you have people in your life you care about that's all you need. There was nothing showy about it either, it just shows that everything will work out in the end.
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You're Just What I Need by Kuneria
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Good Omens but filmed like an episode of The Office—side commentary, close-ups, and of course Crowley looking directly at the camera. Just a thought.
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The boy finds home
(If you wanna read on AO3 and avoid Tumblr’s awful text formatting Click Here)
The small outlier sat in the corner of Kohga’s throne room, ignoring the commotion in the middle.
“Look newbie, I don’t know what you want to do with the brat but he’s not my problem.” Kohga declared to the foot-soldier who stood in front of his throne.
“But Master, he’s just a chi-“
“Not. My. Problem.” Kohga shooed the man away, and the solider had no choice but to comply, “Boy, come over here.”
The boy did not. In fact, he made no movement at all, acting as if Kohga was not in the room.
“Boy.” Nothing still, “At least tell me your name then.”
The boy spoke for the first time, “Why? If you’re just gonna chuck me out.”
The man on the throne sighed, “Well I am the great Master Kohga. Now you know my name, tell me yours.”
Again, the boy did not.
“Kid, I have better things to do in life then sit around and wait for you to talk.”
The child spoke again, “Then do them, ‘cause your gonna be waiting a long time.”
“Why you aggravating little- Kohga stopped himself, this was a child after all- Keep calm Kohga, keep calm”
He stood himself up from his throne, “Fine, have it your way.”
Kohga was just leaving the room as a spark of panic flooded through the child. He didn’t want to be alone, not again. “I don’t know.”
Kohga turned his head back, “You don’t know what?”
“My name. I don’t know it.”
“Well that’s sad.”
“Yeah – the kid looked towards the man, puzzled– I know.”
The boy had stayed there that night, and the next, and the next and then for a week. It had become clear to the Clan that this boy was staying, if only for a while.
“SOOGA! COME OVER HERE!” Master Kohga’s voice shrilled through the halls surrounding his bedroom late one night and his right-hand man appeared beside the man’s desk in a such small time it made Kohga jump.
“Master Kohga, How may I be of assistance.” Sooga asked looking down to Kohga.
“Firstly by easing up a little, sheesh.” Kogha gestured to another chair in the room and took off his mask, getting Sooga to do the same, “Sit down, your gonna be here a while.”
Sooga sat but by no means looked more comfortable.
“Right then, the boy.” Annoyance dripped in Kohga’s voice. He clearly did not want to be having this conversation, which was a surprise to Sooga. Normally if the Master didn’t want to have a conversation, he just wouldn’t. Why was this different?
“What about him?” Sooga pushed for Master Kohga to finish his thoughts.
“If he’s staying here, he’s going to have to be called something other than ‘the boy’.” Kohga leaned on the back on his seat, his legs too short to touch the ground.
“He does not have a name though, Master.” Sooga watched apprehensively as Kohga swung back and forth.
“Exactly, so what am I getting at?”
“I’m… not sure.”
“C’mon Muscles, dig down in that cavern of a brain.”
Sooga was bothered at this comment. Everyone knew that he was the brains of the operation. The entire clan would be dead if it weren’t for him, especially when Master Kohga got put in charge. Now, Sooga didn’t want to take credit away from Kohga, in fact that was the last thing he wanted, but Kohga knew that Sooga was far from an unintelligent man and he would appreciate the recognition.
Sooga caught on.
“Please tell me you aren’t suggesting we name the child, Master?”
“Bingo, Big guy!”
Sooga looked bewildered by the proposal.
“Sir, with all due respect are-“
“No respect needed lackey; this is what we’re going to do.”
“Sir. Listen to me.” Kohga glanced towards his right-hand man, “by naming this child we claim a sense of responsibility for him, whether we like that or not. Are we prepared to care for a child? Is the Clan prepared to care for a child?”
“Come off it Sooga, you’re making us sound like a married couple.” Kohga laughed completely ignoring the question.
Kohga sighed. “I don’t know, but the kid’s staying now so it’s a bit too late to be asking that question. And anyway, ‘we’ aren’t caring for anything, I’ll still be preparing to the Great Calamity’s revival and you’ll still be assisting me or whatever, we’ll leave the boy under the Clan’s care. I’m sure with the hundreds of them there are, they’ll cope with one measly kid.”
Not the answer Sooga wanted but he must settle for what he got.
The conversation carried on for a while, discussing the different names for the child. They first threw out a few random suggestions, none of which sat properly. Sooga suggested Hayle, Kohga suggested Sooga start thinking of good names before he’s kicked out.
The ideas were just a melting snowball before Sooga stated “He’s Sheikah, isn’t he?”
Kohga tapped his chair, “I mean, yes with that hair but it’s not like he knows. Why?”
“We could name him after the Sheikah naming conventions.” Sooga suggested.
“As a Yiga Master this goes against every one of my core values.” Sooga laughed lightly at the Master’s response to his suggestion. “And who would name their kid after fruit anyway, it’s ridiculous.”
“To us maybe, but this boy isn’t Yiga. We should respect his culture Master Kohga.”
Kohga rolled his eyes all too dramatically before giving in.
“Fine. We’ll call him Apple.”
“Master, Sheikah name’s derive from fruit, they aren’t directly named after it.”
“Oh! Oh! Oh!” Kohga jumped off his seat in his excitement, “We should name him after the mighty banana. He could be called like, Na…Bana… yeah, Bana?”
Sooga just stared towards his boss.
“Fine maybe not, but my fruit Knowledge is not too great y’know!”
Sooga looked around Master Kohga’s room, for any and all inspiration that may come his way. His eyes settled on a tiny, framed painting, one that the Master insisted he hated but had never put away. He felt like Master Kohga’s notion towards this painting may be similar to the one of the child.
“How about after strawberries?” Sooga suggested.
“Oh don’t tell me your looking at that horrible painting- Sooga smiled endiringly- What would we even call him, Strawman?”
Sooga thought about it.
“How’s that connected to Strawberries? Strawberry… straw-robbie… Oh! that’s actually nice.”
And it was decided.
The boy was no longer just ‘The boy’, but was Robbie.
He woke up early in the morning, as he normally did. It took him a minute remind himself he was safe… ish. He wasn’t in the forest preparing to go rummage in the trash for food, so it was a step up in his book. He had been told to sleep in the dungeon, in one of the cells. This didn’t make him feel all too comfortable, but the cell door stayed open so that’s nice. He walked around, with aim of going to the mess hall for food. But the Yiga Hideout was windy and treacherous for someone who didn’t know it, especially to the mind of a small boy. He got lost far too quickly for his liking, so looked for landmarks as he did in the wild. He recognised the frog statue that had a crack in its head, it was different than the rest. He was on the right track. He passed the hallway with the holes in the ground (he didn’t know what those were for, but they looked menacing) and then took a left and he was completely and utterly lost. Crap. It wasn’t his fault, all the rooms here looked the same, how was he supposed to know the difference. He was surprised that the people who lived here could tell the rooms apart. He sat down in the dark dingy hallway and waited. There were loads of people in this place, someone would pass him eventually.
While the boy waited for another person to see the light of day went to the closest room and examined. It’s what he did best. He decided to go over the room top to bottom. From the ceiling to the walls, he would know this room better than anyone who lived here by breakfast.
It was big. That felt like a good start. It was huge in fact. The boy knew it may just be his brain playing tricks on him as he was so small, but the hole in the middle of the room must have been the size of at least 20 moblins. A fact for you, the boy did not have the best idea of size.
The boy felt himself getting wrapped up in this room, wanting to know every secret it could ever hold. Why was there a hole in the middle? Why put a lantern over the hole, what if it fell in? How did they make the actual room round? Bricks are square! He had so many questions for this room, all of them he wanted to answer himself, through his own intuitiveness. But that opportunity was cut short by the huge man with kinda dumb hair.
“There you are boy. Come now, you’re needed.”
“Why?” The boy asked.
“Master Kohga needs you in his office.” The big man, who the boy remembered was called ‘Sooga’, put out his hand for the boy to take. He just looked at it.
“I can’t leave. I’m not done yet.”
“Done with what?” Sooga knelt to be on The boy’s level. Patronising.
The boy rolled his eyes at the fact Sooga didn’t know, it was pretty obvious to him what he was doing, “Examining the room. I still have questions to ask it.”
Sooga didn’t quite understand what the child meant but played along anyway. “Could you ask them after the Master talks to you?”
“No, I need to do this first. I’ll forget the questions otherwise.”
Sooga reflected. Normally people here would drop everything if Master Kohga needed to talk to them, but this boy wasn’t a Yiga. He didn’t know the importance of the Master.
“Well the Master needs to talk to you now,” The boy was about to protest before Sooga cut him off, “So how about we write down the questions you want to ask. Then you’ll remember them for after. I can help answer them too, if the Master allows it.”
The boy thought about it. He had never even considered writing his questions down, mainly due to the fact he didn’t know how to read or write, but if this Sooga guy could help him, maybe it wouldn’t be too bad.
“We need to write them down now though.”
One wrong turn! He was one turn away from the mess hall! And sure, he was glad he made the wrong turn, otherwise he wouldn’t have found that cool room, but he was still annoyed at himself. Sooga had stopped in front of a big red door.
“Behave, okay.” He looked to the boy, who rolled his eye’s in response.
“It depends if he says something dumb or not.”
“Boy.” Sooga’s voice got stricter, “Behave.”
The boy shuffled where he stood, tears forming at the sides of his eyes. He didn’t like getting told off.
“Master, I’ve got him.” Sooga entered the room, ushering the boy to do the same.
“Boy! You’ve been a right pain in my side!” Kohga was sat at a heightened table, eating a banana. He pointed to the chair opposite. The boy made no sign to sit down so was guided to the chair.
Kohga raised an eyebrow, but the boy couldn’t see it behind the mask, “Where have you been?”
“In that cool circle room.” He answered, the thought of his questions came back to him, “Actually can this be quick, I still have questions to ask it.”
Sooga sighed and placed a hand on the child’s shoulder, prompting him to stop. The boy moved away from the touch.
“You hungry?” Kohga pointed to the bowl of bananas on the next table over. The boy shook his head, why were there so many tables if it was one guy’s room?
“Your loss, anyway. I got some news for you. After a week of you being here, I don’t think I’d be forgiven if I sent you back into Hyrule. So, welcome to your new home.”
The boy looked confused.
“What?” He said.
“What?” Was the only answer that Kohga gave back.
“What do you mean, ‘welcome to your new home’?”
“I mean, you can live here. With us and the clan,” He looked to Sooga who just shrugged in response.
“Why?” The boy asked another question.
“Well done kid, you know the 5 W’s.” Kohga paused, “What do you mean why?”
“You were talking about kicking me out only a week ago. What’s different now?”
“Kid, you only arrived a week ago. Of course I wasn’t keen on keeping you around then, but let’s say I’ve warmed to you. You aren’t half bad, and as long as your not a little… pest, you can stay.”
The boy paused. The thought of a home. In his brain he was jumping for joy, so this was home now. Home.
“Well that’s news one out of the way-“
The boy jumped in his seat, “There’s more?”
Kohga laughed a little, maybe childhood excitement was more contagious than he thought.
“Yeah, there’s more.”
The child waited in anticipation.
Kohga was really playing it up now, “So, I’m guessing your getting pretty sick of people calling you ‘the boy’”.
The child shrugged in response, “I guess I’m used to it now. It doesn’t really bother me.”
Ouch. Well if that didn’t tug on Kohga’s heart strings. “Well you definitely don’t like not having a name. I could see that from the day I met you. So, if it’s not too imposing or anything. Me and good ol’ Sooga here thought of one for you. Robbie.”
The boy and Sooga had the same look of surprise, but one was hidden by their mask. Sooga wasn’t expecting credit for the child’s name. If he didn’t feel a sense of duty before, he did now. Sooga was a loyal soul and vowed to himself right then and there to protect this child, Robbie, with his life.
robbe. robby. Robbiy. Robbie. A name all of his own. Given too him by the people who he now shares a home with. Holy Hylia. Robbie was now crying. Normally he was good at holding back emotions, tears would form but never stream down his face. He’d be over it before it mattered. This however was so entirely different. He was crying. Sobbing at the idea of having a home, of being Robbie. 7 years he’d just been ‘boy’ or ‘child’, maybe that affected him more than he once thought. Because having Sooga kneeling in front of him saying “It’s okay Robbie, you’re alright” put a band aid on his scared, damaged soul. And it would be one of many as he became a part of a family.
I really enjoyed writing this, It’s cute wholesome fun and I will definitely be writing more of this AU.
Also god bless This Post by 7spaceace7. I wouldn’t even know where to start about writing the hideout so this was such a help.
Anyway, have a nice day!
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It makes me happy to think that crowley and aziraphale can literally spend eternity together.
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Not to be that person but um. River Song saying "Happy ever after doesn't mean forever. It just means time." completely changed the way I look at things ending, both in real life and not.
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Secret agent AU💥
I have decided that they are married in this AU😌 #agenthusbands
And yes, Thomas proposed during a mission.
If I’m being honest I just like drawing them with wedding rings.
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The Seven Husbands of Evelyn Hugo
❥ like or reblog if u save
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#7 for the fanfic ask!
7) what is you favourite sentence/paragraph? read it to us! (asker can choose what fic)
I’m just going to assume this is for I Will Always Find You, but one of my favorite lines hasn’t been posted but I’ll put it here anyway. Consider this a treat before the chapter is up.
“Fedyor’s laugh was a warm sunrise overcoming a cold night, even in Ivan’s dreams.”
I just think it’s sweet even though I am the one who wrote it lol. Send more asks my way, I love them!
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I may be plotting a Stuckony sequel for All flowers in time bend toward the sun. 👀
Meanwhile I'm losing my fucking mind over the fourth chapter of Torn: it's turning so long I think I'll split it two and just go on with a fifth chapter, hoping this'll be the last for real ffs!
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the single dad ivan modern au is QUITE intriguing 👀👀👀👀👀👀👀👀👀👀👀👀👀👀 since you asked — ivan being soft with Nina, the pinning after each other but trying to be professional for Nina, and ofc the one night stand trope
i also think the fish out of water story could be really cute, angsty and have a lot of good hurt/comfort. and honestly a pretty accurate depiction of challenges they’d face together but my heart needs that sweet sweet warm acceptance at the end
Also i agree with you that i wouldnt be shocked if we dont see Ivan again — which would be such a shame because Simon Sears is so talented in that role so hopefully the louder we are, the more they’ll notice.
It would be a bummer if Ivan doesn't come back, but his story doesn't have to end if it ends in the show! Fanfiction and fanart is real storytelling, and I know so many of you have wonderful stories about Ivan and Fedyor just waiting to be told. I look forward to seeing all of them. Still, I love how Simon Sears brings Ivan to life, and I hope we get to see more of him.
I've done messy worldbuilding outlines for both options but still can't decide which AU I want to really dive into! I'm leaning towards the single-dad story since I'm sort of in the mood for humor and fluff over angst right now. If you have any headcanons you think would fit, let me know in the DMs or in the ask box!
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hc that sam gets used to get super overwhelmed with bullying and things and max was never really sure what to say but he knows hugs help
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More coloured pictures of my Good Omens Animatic. Aziraphale being worried because Crowley isn´t picking up his phone.
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Within the Circles chapter 3
The third chapter of my summoning fic is now posted! I'm sure things are starting to look up as we reach the middle of the story, right?
Lots of content warnings on this chapter, but like the previous one it's not graphic and most of them are mentioned only briefly or part of flashbacks.
As such, the excerpt below is only the first half of the first scene, minus any CW-content (apart from the fact that Aziraphale is being held against his will and his mind is confused).
“There we are.” The woman brushed her fingers across the final ring, and looked up to smile at Aziraphale. The genuine happiness dancing in her pale blue eyes sent a shiver through him, though he couldn’t think why. “Go ahead and try crossing if you like. You’re not going anywhere.”
“Great work,” the leader said, inspecting the changes over her shoulder. “Can you alter the other spells to match?”
“The containment spells, yes, I think so. Those are pretty similar to these. The harnessing spells we’ll have to test as we go, but I’ve already got some notes. Summoning…” she sucked her teeth. “That’s going to be difficult. Should only be one or two changes, but there’s a lot of possibilities to try, and it’s not going to be easy to narrow them down. But now that we know it’s possible…”
“It’s an excellent start.” He walked around the outer circle, counting sigils. “Have you ever studied demonology, angel? It’s a fascinating field.”
Aziraphale sat in the center of the circles, turning and shifting now and then to keep his eyes on the human. The others buzzed about in the background, shadows in the dark, too much to keep track of. Who were they? Scientists? Scholars? He liked scholars, generally. Did he like them?
“I’ve studied many things,” Aziraphale answered. The wave of pain was fairly easy to ignore by now. He just wished his mind would clear. “Spell books. Prophecies. Grimoires. As much nonsense as sense in all of them.” He giggled. “Does yours have that one demon, the lion with duck feet? Utter nonsense.”
“Oh I agree. What do you expect from backwards medieval minds? From so-called sorcerers ready to believe every rumor, and bored scribes who altered and embellished every copy? Four thousand years of practice, and yet every text contains misinformation and fairy tales. Hardly a science at all. That’s why we’re building our own grimoire.”
Aziraphale’s brow wrinkled. That should be important. If he could work out what it meant. “Are you…planning to summon every demon in Hell?”
“Perhaps.” He crouched down tapping a few of the sigils on the ring at his feet. “We’ve also been working through the old spells and rituals. Collecting them, compiling them. Taking a more scientific approach. Once you really understand how it works, you know how one little change…” he pulled out a wax pencil, adding a single line to one of the symbols “…can make a tremendous difference. You should be able to show us your wings now.”
Did he want to do that?
He could remember that he’d tried to manifest his wings, several times, though he couldn’t remember why. Was this human helping him? That didn’t seem right at all.
“No…I think…I’m more comfortable like this.”
“Come now.” The man smiled, but it didn’t reach his dark eyes. It hardly reached all the way across his lips. “I’m sure they’re nice wings.”
“Oh, yes.” Aziraphale felt himself smiling back. “Very lovely, soft and white. Humans seem to find them very impressive.”
“Isn’t that nice? I would really like to see your wings.”
It was very nice. It couldn’t hurt to show them. Crowley had just groomed them the other day, and he always left the feathers so smooth and beautiful, though he would complain about how little attention Aziraphale had been giving them.
He closed his eyes, remembering. Crowley’s chiding, almost angry voice a contrast to the oh-so-gentle fingers running across Aziraphale’s wings. His touch so reverent, even after all this time, as if he couldn’t believe he were allowed such an honor. Now and then his grumbling would get out of hand, (nothing actually cruel, there was no cruelty in him, just an edge to his tongue he’d honed for thousands of years, to keep him safe from threats he would never discuss, never name), and Crowley would stop himself, wrapping an arm around Aziraphale’s waist, pressing his forehead to that spot between his shoulders where the wings sprouted.
And then he would get back to work, softly kissing Aziraphale’s neck and shoulders, until Aziraphale reached up to stroke that red hair, guiding his face closer…
With a shuddering breath, Aziraphale blinked open his eyes, trying to clear the tears. “I…would be happy to show you if you let me go. Please.”
The human smirked and pulled something—an amulet, perhaps—out of his pocket, pressed it to the ring before him.
The metal began to glow, a brilliant blue, brighter and hotter until Aziraphale had to shield his eyes, until the air was too thick and dry to breathe, until—
Read the rest on AO3!
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simonsears: What!? I like trees 🌳 and @juliankostov pretty face was in the way.
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So like. What if there were a fic of Ivan and Fedyor falling in love? Just saying. Someone could write that...(and could that someone be you?!)
Fedyor Kaminsky is brought to the Little Palace when he is nine years old. Before that, he has lived his whole life in the place he was born: a small village about twenty miles southeast of Kribirsk. It is just close enough for him to be constantly aware of the Shadow Fold, looming like a thunderstorm on a hot summer day, and to know, also, the honor that it is when the examiners arrive, he receives a sharp prick in the arm, some sort of strange result takes place, and he is formally declared to be Grisha. His parents know it too, and are eager to tell him of it. They are not well off, and Fedyor is the sixth of seven children. The payment for their patriotic service will be welcome, and while his mother hugs him tightly and tells him to make the Saints proud, he feels, somehow, that they are not that grieved to see the back of him. He is the only child from his village that has been picked, and they all assemble to see him off. Just think. One of their own, in the Second Army.
Fedyor cries himself to sleep his first night in the dormitories, as most of the children do. But he wakes fully rested, hungry for breakfast, and eager to throw himself into his new life. He has a sunny temperament, a personable nature, that serves him well here, and any talented Grisha can climb high in the ranks, almost as high as the Black General himself. Back home, what did he have to look forward to, aside from the taunts and punches of his brothers, who always saw him as more like one of their sisters than one of them? He is learning things here. Religion and medicine and geography and history. And, of course, the arcane art of the Small Science, the one thing that binds these young people from all across Ravka. Their power, their responsibility, and their upcoming effort in the endless wars.
His first few years pass rather well, all things considered. When he is thirteen, it is officially declared that he will be taken onto the Order of Corporalniks, and – somewhat to everyone’s surprise, including his – he is best suited not as a Healer, but a Heartrender. It turns out that unassuming, smiling, friendly Fedyor, who knows everyone’s name and is always given an indulgent second portion of dessert from the doting canteen ladies, packs quite a punch.
It’s here where he first puts Ivan Sakharov on his back, and his whole life changes.
Fedyor and Ivan have known of each other, ever since they arrived in the same class of recruits. Ivan is a tough, taciturn northern boy from Chernast, skinny and scowling and always displeased about something, no matter what. Fedyor once saw him brood through the whole Winter Fete, and he has taken it as a professional challenge to get Ivan to smile. Once Fedyor plays a practical joke on him, to the awe of the entire dormitory, who would not dare to even imagine such things themselves. Ivan scowls at him like the Black Heretic himself, and stomps off to have his important life problems somewhere else. But now they’re both thirteen, Ivan is shooting up like a weed and channeling all that pent-up resentment into some really effective Heartrending, and Fedyor is regretting all his previous liberties. As they face each other and bow, thus to commence the duel on Botkin’s word, he thinks, Please don’t kill me. Please don’t kill me.
Then he remembers that he’s the same Order, he has the same red kefta awaiting him when he finishes his trials, that he has as much right to be here as some tight-arse bastard from the frozen northern wastes, and that is why, thirty seconds after the duel has begun, Ivan is flat on his back and looking astonished. Everyone is applauding, and Fedyor feels somewhat confused. He strides over to his fallen adversary and offers him a hand. “Good job.”
Ivan glares at him, exquisitely sensitive to the possibility that he’s being mocked. “You’ll regret this, Kaminsky,” he says, low-voiced. “Mark my words.”
After that, for several months, Fedyor lives in terror of going anywhere in the Little Palace alone, lest Ivan suddenly leap out from behind a shrubbery and murder him. He and Ivan spar in their classes, in practice, in trying to outdo each other in Baghra’s ridiculous lessons, throwing all their effort into the sort of stupid, pointless rivalry that can only be maintained by teenage boys with too much pride and too little sense. They start to look for each other wherever they go, waste no opportunity to glare heatedly, and they are sixteen years old when Fedyor notices to his extreme vexation that during all this time spent staring at him until he has memorized his face, Ivan has gotten a little… handsome.
(What? No? Ivan? Horrifying.)
Fedyor himself isn’t exactly cursed in the face department, once a persistent bout of acne clears up. With his wavy hair, dark eyes, and easy smile, he provokes his fair share of sighs and pining among the female Corporalniks, but he is oddly uninterested in reciprocating their advances. Then he and Ivan get paired together on some training exercise that goes horribly wrong, they are trapped in the woods for hours until someone comes to find them, and with nothing else to do, they are forced to actually talk. Ivan has that northern chip on his shoulder that they all seem to, and probably started fighting Fjerdans when he was two years old, but what he says next takes Fedyor completely aback. “You’re… not that bad,” he says grudgingly. “You’re the only one who’s brave enough to actually talk to me, not just tiptoe like a mouse.”
“Well.” Fedyor throws a stick of wood at him. “Have you considered being less of a total grouch all the time?”
Ivan scoffs, lunges at him, and they end up wrestling in the leaf mold, an exercise that both of them enjoy a bit too much and take extreme care that the other not notice. By the time the search party from the Little Palace comes to retrieve them, they have forgotten all about being lost. In fact, as they were lying on the ground together, tangled up and panting and staring at the stars, Fedyor had the strangest thought that it was the best night of his life, and he doesn’t have a clue what he should make of that.
After that, an even stranger thing happens: they become friends. Well, sort of. Ivan maintains his default posture of appearing to hate everything and everyone, but Fedyor is the only person he tolerates, or allows to yank his chain in any way. And in turn, though Ivan Sakharov is the last person who would seem to need any kind of protection, the favor is returned. Once, when a city boy from Os Alta starts going on about how savage northerners are, staring pointedly at Ivan the whole time, Fedyor launches him halfway across the room. He gets in trouble, but it’s worth it. And they do undoubtedly work better together, Fedyor fighting right-handed and Ivan fighting left. They cover each other’s weak sides, learn to anticipate each other’s moves, and…
It’s a deeply inconvenient fact of life that when you are a Heartrender, and are exquisitely sensitive to pulse rates, you notice when yours starts going consistently haywire around certain people. Especially when, the year they turn eighteen, they are assigned to room together. The Little Palace is spacious, but not enough for every Grisha to have his or her own room, and since they’re no longer children, they’re not expected to share with the entire class. So Fedyor and Ivan end up in a garret room of their very own, and it is here, to his extreme consternation, that the next phase of Fedyor’s torment re: Ivan begins.
It is difficult to share a small room with Ivan and not want to look at him, and unless he is much mistaken, Ivan always seems to be concentrating a little too hard on his books whenever Fedyor is changing clothes. Fedyor is self-aware enough by this point to know that he prefers men, but he has absolutely no idea as to Ivan. Do they do this sort of thing in Chernast, or does it distract from arm-wrestling bears and shooting drüskelle? Ivan is so constantly unwilling to admit any kind of weakness or effeminacy that Fedyor figures gloomily he’s just doomed to suffer in silence. Naturally.
Except then both of them start rejecting any other romantic overtures, and they even go to the Summer Fete dance together, and Fedyor is taken aback when Zoya Nazyalensky asks bluntly the next day, “So, you and Ivan? Really?”
“What?” Fedyor is aware that Zoya and Ivan cordially hate each other, though she and Fedyor have always gotten on. “We’re not – Zoya, it’s not like that!”
“At least,” he adds guiltily. “It’s not like that as far as we’ve said?”
Zoya gives him a look silently agreeing that for the sake of their friendship, they will never mention Fedyor’s terrible taste in men again, though that doesn’t mean she has to like it. As for her, she’s pining after Kirigan, as almost all Grisha do at some point. Fedyor did so himself – the Black General is gorgeous, all right, shoot him – but he cares about nothing except finding the mythical Sun Summoner and engaging in a busy schedule of brooding even more intense than Ivan’s. Ivan, for that matter, seems to have struck it off with him, as Kirigan always values talent, and Fedyor has to fight down an unbecoming surge of jealousy. It’s not like they’re something. Not really.
(Though not for lack of wanting.)
After that, an even stranger thing happens, which is that people start assuming that Fedyor and Ivan are, in fact, a couple. Fedyor gets asked how his boyfriend is doing (sometimes sardonically, sometimes in a tone that turns genuinely surprised when he hastens to correct them) and he minds it less and less. Of course, for his part, Ivan is utterly oblivious. They’re sitting in a sunny hallway one day, Ivan tolerantly letting Fedyor play with his hair (though he keeps it military-short and it’s not like there’s that much of it) when Genya Safin walks by, glances at them archly, and says, “You know, Ivan, you’re much nicer now that you’re going out with him.”
Ivan turns such a deep shade of purple that Fedyor’s afraid he’s going to blow a gasket. “What?!” he splutters. “We are not – we are not – we are not going out! Never! I don’t – what are you talking – I don’t even like him!”
Fedyor’s lip quivers, despite himself. “Come on,” he says, failing to make it entirely lighthearted, wounded deeper than he wants to admit. “You don’t mean that, right?”
Ivan turns to him, flustered. “No,” he says convulsively. “Don’t look sad. Don’t look at me like that. Shh. Of course I like you.”
Genya gives them an obnoxiously knowing look and walks away.
By now, they’re twenty-one, old enough to be properly deployed as soldiers to the front, and Fedyor can’t help but thinking about where Ivan is, what he’s doing, if he’s all right, whenever they’re apart. He doesn’t like it, it feels wrong and unnatural, they always did better side by side anyway. Finally, they both get back to the Little Palace after a grueling campaign of many months away, Ivan against the Fjerdans and Fedyor against the Shu Han. They see each other, and it’s like lightning, rooting them to the ground. They’re dusty, dirty, banged up, bruised and bloody, but they know as a simple truth, beyond any doubt or questioning, that Fedyor will be coming to Ivan’s room tonight, and that Ivan will sit up and wait for him.
And that, therefore, is what happens. Fedyor can barely concentrate on washing up and fetching supper because he is so fixated on the knowledge of what’s coming later. He goes through the motions, barely hears his friends, barely tastes what he’s eating. He scarcely manages to wait until it’s dark. Then he gets up, slips through the corridors – they no longer bunk together, but he knows the way – and reaches the door. Fights a final attack of nerves, about how long he’s been waiting and how it might go wrong – then knocks.
“It’s open,” Ivan calls from inside, his voice dark with wanting. Of course it is.
Fedyor steps inside, and looks at him. After all this time, it feels like he should make a speech, have something more grand to say, or perhaps even an I-told-you-so. He doesn’t get around to any of that. He can’t stand it. Instead he shucks his kefta in a quick, practiced movement. Runs across the room, and climbs, claws, into Ivan’s arms.
Their kiss is rough and wet and wild, mouths open, teeth dragging, tongues scraping, trying to get as close as they possibly can, and then closer. Ivan’s hands, deft and eager, rough with calluses, spread across Fedyor’s arms and shoulders, the neat muscled column of his torso. “You should have let me do that,” he scolds between kisses, evidently referring to the business of undressing Fedyor. “I’ve been waiting long enough.”
“You’ve been waiting long enough – ?!” Fedyor Kaminsky really does love this man, but Saints help him, he is dense. “You could have said something!”
Ivan looks at him with pure wickedness in his eyes. “I thought I just did.”
Fedyor groans, grabs Ivan’s head to kiss him again, and they roll down onto the covers together, tearing at the remaining clothes in their way. It’s raw and agonized and real, this coming together, this needing, this consummation and completion, and afterward, as Fedyor lies gasping on Ivan’s chest and Ivan sleepily strokes his hair with a tenderness that seems totally inconceivable to anyone who has met him at literally any other moment, Fedyor knows, in some way, he will never truly leave this room again. That he’s here. Home.
(Later, Fedyor finds out that Ivan actually asked his boss for help with his romantic quandary, and Kirigan’s advice was evidently so terrible that Ivan decided to just give up and go for it with Fedyor rather than trying that again. Even if Aleksander Kirigan is the Black General, the Shadow Summoner, the most powerful Grisha in the world, Ivan does not intend to let him forget it. They are all fortunate that Aleksander thinks it’s funny.)
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Crowley took his eyes off the road for a moment to look over at him. “Angel, I said it then, and I’ll say it now. Anywhere you want to go. Any direction, any speed.”
Velocity by @cyan-kelpie
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