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holycatsandrabbits · 3 years

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Tollense, an original serial romance by Dannye Chase, Chapter 1

A history professor falls in love with his best friend, a 3000-year-old vampire.

READ FROM THE BEGINNING: You are here!

Chapter 1

1993

Professor Liam Beyer was born a decade after the deaths of the last soldiers to fight in the US Civil War. Thus, he was not expecting to meet a Union Army veteran in his 4 o’clock symposium on the Battle of Antietam.

Liam noticed the man as soon as he walked in, and not just because it was odd for a member of the public to show up for a faculty lecture at the university. No, the man caught Liam’s attention because he was distractingly handsome. Literally, Liam was distracted enough to drop his pen onto the overhead projector, causing a giant shadow to loom over the map of Maryland on the screen behind him, as if a third army had materialized there in a dense offensive line.

The man was of average height, with a slender build. He had dark hair in a short, modern cut and wore a pair of jeans and a white t-shirt with a faded label. He looked like he might be thirty, which was about the age Liam was, and so Liam did not immediately assume that the man had seen action in the Civil War. But there was something faintly strange about him, just in the way that he walked, light on his feet like a dancer, but stepping firmly, without a dancer’s well-practiced grace.

“General Lee,” Liam continued, in a slightly strangled voice, “of the Confederate Army, was, of course, outnumbered, but the battle was Union General McClellan’s to lose. Had he understood how superior his force was, had he taken more risks, he might have been able to deal a decisive blow to Lee’s army as it retreated. In fact, McClellan’s performance at Antietam was part of the reason that President Lincoln later removed him from duty.”

Liam put up a transparency of a white church with peeling paint, standing alone on a grassy rise. “On September 17, 1862, 7,650 soldiers died at Antietam, making it the bloodiest day for Americans in history. Two days later, a man named Alexander Gardner took some of the first widely-seen battlefield photographs of dead soldiers. Some were awaiting burial, and some were still lying where they fell. It was very difficult at the time to take photographs of battles themselves, as the technology involved careful treatment of glass negatives, and that was nearly impossible under battlefield conditions. But the dead do not move, and these photographs were so clear that when displayed in New York, family members recognized their fallen sons.”

Liam put up a transparency of one of Gardner’s photographs, young men lying on the ground in an oddly perfect line. The unknown man looked away.

oOo

Liam had grading to do after his symposium, but he walked to the campus union to grab a sandwich first. He was definitely not expecting Handsome Unknown Lecture Man to appear out of the crowd and drop into the seat opposite him. Liam was very proud that he did not choke on his bite of ham and swiss.

“I hope you don’t mind,” said the man. “I enjoyed your lecture. My name is Kurt.”

Liam put his hand out to shake. Kurt’s touch was faintly cold. “Liam,” he said.

Kurt cocked his head slightly to the side, as if assessing him. “I know. Liam Beyer, 27, assistant professor of history, specializing in battles. Is Antietam your favorite?”

“Um— one of them. I did my dissertation on it. On McClellan, specifically.” Liam felt slightly odd about the fact that this stranger knew who he was, but of course, it was all publicly accessible information. “Are you a Civil War buff?”

“Somewhat.” Kurt leaned back in his chair. “Antietam, god. I remember Bloody Lane— that’s what they called it after. The road was sunken in because so many wagons had gone by over the years. It was like trying to fight your way out of your own grave trench.” Kurt spoke with a faint accent that Liam could not place, something that seemed to shift from one place to another.

“You talk like you were there,” Liam said, smiling. “Are you a reenactor?”

Kurt gave a sharp laugh. “No. You?”

“I’ve been a technical advisor. It’s nice to meet other people who share my strange obsession.”

“Those pictures you showed,” Kurt said. “Photography is such a bewitching art. Those boys are long gone, but remain ever present in death.”

“You know, the war helped make Spiritualism popular,” Liam said. “It was so hard on the families back home to lose contact with their soldiers, not knowing what happened to them, or when, or where. They couldn’t bear it, and turned to mediums.”

Kurt smiled, and it made his bright green eyes sparkle with amusement. “Have you ever been to a seance?” he asked. Liam shook his head. “Most I’ve been to were quite boring,” Kurt said. “But every once in awhile—”

“That sounds like a good story.”

“I’ll tell you sometime.” Liam’s brain was already far too occupied with how attractive he found this poor man, and that was probably why the sentence sounded more like a salacious promise than it really was.

“So what do you do?” Liam asked faintly, crumpling his empty sandwich wrapper. “Are you a student?”

“Not at the moment. Just a fan of history. Of battles, actually.” Kurt leaned forward a little. “Liam, would you mind if I came to your office tomorrow to talk more? I have some questions and I think you might be the one to help me answer them.”

“I— of course.” Liam told himself that he agreed solely because he liked to talk about history with people, and that it didn’t matter whether or not said people were ridiculously attractive.

Kurt smiled at him again. “Until tomorrow then.”

On his way out of the dining hall, Liam was stopped by a student with a question about an assignment on Gettysburg. “I didn’t want to interrupt your dinner,” she said.

“Oh, it would have been fine,” Liam told her. “We were talking about the Civil War ourselves.”

The student gave him a confused look. “Dr. Beyer— weren’t you eating alone?”

oOo

In the end, Liam decided that as he’d never dreamed up a handsome man in quite so much detail before, that the student had been mistaken and simply had not noticed Kurt’s presence at Liam’s table.

And yet. There really was something very strange about the man. Liam couldn’t quite pin it down, just that there was a disconnect between what Liam was seeing and what he was feeling about him. For example, Kurt appeared to be thirty, but Liam would swear he was older. Kurt had looked perfectly natural at dinner, but it had also seemed like he didn’t quite fit in with his surroundings. Like if you’d taken a photograph of him at the table, he would have been slightly too bright, out of focus, or without a shadow.

Kurt’s knock on Liam’s office door finally came around eleven, and Liam was, he realized, far too happy to see him again. At first, nothing about the visit seemed terribly odd. They discussed Antietam again, then traveled forward to the Somme, and then much farther back, Megiddo and Kadesh. Kurt seemed to know less about those battles, Liam noted, but he was quite familiar with things taking place after Thermopylae in the 5th century BC.

It was easy to talk to Kurt, especially about interests they had in common, and as the conversation went on, Kurt seemed to relax a bit, which made Liam do the same. The day before, Liam had thought Kurt moved without grace, but that wasn’t exactly right. Kurt had a different kind of grace, a fluidity of small movements instead of large ones, an artistry shown in the fluttering of fingers while the rest of the man kept entirely still. The emphasis on such small motions seemed to draw Liam in, narrowing his focus away from his surroundings and onto his visitor. But at the same time, Kurt had such an air of other about him, that it was almost like Liam was looking at him through beveled glass, never quite getting the whole image at once.

However, Liam’s sense of ease around Kurt vanished entirely when another student knocked on Liam’s door with a question about an assignment. That in itself was perfectly normal, but during the whole time that the student was in Liam’s office, she didn’t speak to Kurt or apologize for interrupting their conversation. She didn’t give a single look to the chair that Kurt occupied beside Liam’s desk.

When the student had left, Liam leaned back in his chair, trying to fake the calmness that he no longer felt. “All right,” he said, watching his visitor carefully. “You want to tell me why I’m the only person who can see you?”

********

READ FROM THE BEGINNING: You are here!

Updates Fridays on Ao3 and DannyeChase.com (rated E), and Tumblr (rated T)

Want to create fic, art, or other works based on this series? Please do! Just dm or tag me.

My previous serials are for Good Omens: Mr. Fell's Bookshop and Love's Endless Light

My Carrd

#Dannye writes #original fiction #serial fiction #tollense #vampires #romance

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theplatinthehat · 4 years

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2019 Good Omens Fic Post

I didn’t think I could let the end of the year go by without celebrating some of my favourite Good Omens fics and authors that I’ve read over the last few months. This fandom has really encouraged me, and loads of others, to write some really amazing and fun work. I just wanted to say thank you to everyone who has made my time in this fandom something to be treasured – it’s been an amazing experience!

Consider this a love letter to the fanfic writers of this fandom. I can’t include everyone in the list, but if you write fanfic – thank you so much for the time and energy you put into this fandom!

AUTHORS

Drawlight / @drawlight

Can you fall in love with a writing style? Because I honestly think I have. I, like many other, came across Draw’s amazing work after Michael Sheen tweeted about Salinity and now here we are! It’s been an absolute privilege to read the incredible fandom works by Draw, and we really have been blessed by his beautiful stories. I remember reading Salinity for the first time, and it totally took my breath away. Whenever I open it up to re-read I find myself taking a deep breath before diving in.

What I Love: My favourite thing about Draw’s writing is the way he weaves in references to music, poetry and other stories into his work (Hadestown makes a regular appearance). His writing often makes me very warm and very soft and are much like a literary hug after a long day.

Favourite Works: Salinity (And Other Measurements of Brackish Water); tell me who is victor; I Will Get Up Now And Go About the City

Atalan / @seaskystone

What. An. Author. Atalan has made me cry floods of tears and laugh until I’ve fallen out of bed! Their long-form stories are a particular favourite of mine, and whenever I get a notification that one of those has been updated I have to read it immediately (even if I’m in the middle of a lecture). Atalan is a superb writer in any style, and I cannot wait to read more of their work.

What I Love: I must confess, my favourites are definitely the comedies – their sense of humour is absolutely fantastic, and their witty writing style makes me grin like an idiot. I remember reading the opening chapter of ‘Instructions Not Included’ and messaging my sister to let her know that I had found the perfect fic.

Favourite Works: Pray for Us, Icarus (and check out this amazing video by @pinkpiggy93) and Instructions Not Included

JMA

My goodness where do I even start with this incredible author? JMA takes our favourite angel and demon and explores some intriguing and often dark concepts through them. JMA has a very erudite writing style, and I often find myself reading their work twice or even three times before I even begin to scratch the surface of what they’re saying. Absolutely beautiful prose – I can’t recommend enough.

What I Love: The fact that their work makes me stop and think. Each story is a rich tapestry, which you can admire as a whole, but each individual thread is beautiful in its own right. JMA also has excellent command of both plot and character, which I love.

Favourite Works: Rebuild you from clay (the full series is worth a read in my opinion). You might also like Suffer the Children, which was written in collaboration with Ineffable_Plans

weatheredlaw / @weatheredlaw

I think it’s safe to say that weatheredlaw is the champion of the AU. There’s not a world that they can’t turn their hand to, and not a setting that they can’t describe in vivid detail. Weatheredlaw is an absolute pro at making me feel all sorts of things, and honestly, it was their fic that made me go ‘Oh, I see why people ship the Bookshop and the Bentley’.

What I Love: What’s not to love in weatheredlaw’s work? If I had to pick a favourite thing, it would absolutely have to be their descriptions. This comes across particularly well in ‘with all your delights’ where the descriptions of the south were so eloquent that I thought I might be able to crawl through the screen and join Aziraphale and Crowley there.

Favourite Works: with all your delights; dream to me

racketghost / @racketghost

I only discovered racketghost’s work recently and I only have one question – how on earth did I manage without their writing in my life before? Oh my goodness, their stories are absolutely marvellous. The main body of their work imagines what Crowley and Aziraphale might have been getting up to during WWI – and let me assure you, they pull no punches.

What I Love: I absolutely adore their storytelling style – it’s fabulous. Their descriptions of war are unflinching, and feel so real. The relationship between Aziraphale and Crowley is explored so well, and their emotions are so well portrayed.

Favourite Works: Strange Moons

INDIVIDUAL WORKS

With Love, A Symphony – OneofWebs / @tantumuna

This is a beautiful tale of love and music. I remember when I first read this, I fell in love instantly. I have such a weakness for Crowley playing stringed instruments, and this gave me exactly what I needed. The exploration of Aziraphale and Crowley’s relationship through the different periods of music was just incredible. If you have an appreciation for classical music and slow-burn romance, this is the fic for you.

Full Circle – Hekateras / @futureevilscientist

Gosh, where do I even start with this series? The first two sentences grabbed me by the lapels and did not let go. An absolutely fascinating exploration into what happens at the End of Days – and beyond… This fic played my heartstrings like a fiddle and I loved every second of it. There’s a lot of angst, but it’s well worth sticking through until the end. I thoroughly recommend if you, like me, wonder what might happen if the Apocalypse comes round again.

Slow Show – mia_ugly / @mia-ugly_ugly

Is there anyone in this fandom that hasn’t read this fic? Well, if there are, here’s a reminder for you to set aside a day and devote it to reading this amazing story. This is a beautiful AU that imagines our favourite angel and demon as human actors; Avery Fell and Anthony Crowley. The narrative, the characterisation and the world-building are all absolutely stupendous, and like me you’ll be absolutely desperate to see Warlock on the screen yourself! Gosh, I don’t want to spoil this too much – go and read Slow Show! Now!

And once you’ve read that, be sure to check out the some faith remix of the fic by attheborder and curtaincall

Demonology and the Tri-Phasic Model of Trauma: An Integrated Approach – Nnm

Many of us have said that Crowley needs to go to therapy. But what would therapy with a demon actually look like? And what kind of a therapist would be able to unpack all that trauma? Meet Aubrey Thyme, professional psychotherapist. Nnm does a wonderful job with this story, and its equal parts humorous and heart-breaking. And the end… oh the end – I won’t spoil anything. You really must read this fic.

Acts of Service – seekwill / @jasmine-cottage-uk

Another stunning human AU. Aziraphale is a vicar, and Crowley is a mysterious bad boy that can’t seem to keep away, and Anathema is there being an absolute bad-ass, set in the heart of an inner-city community. What starts out simply turns out to be much more convoluted than I ever could have imagined, and there were points where I was literally at the edge of my seat! An intriguing story, with vibrant characters, told by an absolutely marvellous writer.

Made Flesh – rfsmiley / @redfacesmiley

What if two, were in fact three? This is the question that runs throughout this piece of work – where Crowley is shadowed by something that only Aziraphale can see. A thoroughly absorbing tale that explores the love shared by an angel and a demon, and how that love manifests itself. This story settles itself well within the 6,000 year canon, and is beautifully told. An absolute must-read.

The Demons Have the Phonebox – theplatinthehat

You didn’t think I could get through this list without a self-rec did you? I shan’t say much, but I will say that the overwhelming love and support I’ve had for this fic has meant more to me than you’ll ever know. Recommended reading for people who love Donna Noble, creative use of the English language and general hijinks.

#fic rec #fic rec post #my fic recs #fic #fanfic #fanfiction #good omens #crowley #aziraphale

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smallblueandloud · 4 years

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1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, and 7 for the writing ask- I AM SO SORRY I COULDNT STOP!!! xoxo

aaaah these questions look SO GOOD thank you so much <3 <3 for this ask meme, which will be open all weekend!

1. tell us about your current project(s) – what’s it about, how’s progress, what do you love most about it?

i pulled open all of my WIP google docs for this and my laptop started whirring ominously, lmao. this is going to be a Little Long but i love talking about my wips so who cares!! (under the cut because EXCERPTS)

guys and dolls but gay - very, very casual rewrite of guys and dolls if sky masterson was a woman. i’m loving how chill i’m being about this one because it’s so much fun to not have to worry how i’m going to write lyrics in a not-weird way and just focus on the story. this one’s first because it’s theoretically closest to being finished.

sky, laughing: “oh? people. all the people you turn down every day. well, i imagine there’s someone out there that’ll catch your eye.”

sarah, stiffening: “...yes, there will be.”

sky: “and what might this person be like?”

sarah: “he will not be a gambler, for one.”

sky does not miss the pointed pronoun. “i’m not interested in what he won’t be, i’m interested in what he will be.” she sits down on the desk, in a pointedly masculine pose, and sets her fedora next to her - at her most Hot Queer, basically. “how will you know when he gets to you?”

my fic for the aos rarepair fic exchange - i can’t give any plot or ship details, for obvious reasons, but it’s 1.3k and i’m having fun with it!

steven roadtrip of destiny - canon divergent fic set at the end of steven universe future where steven goes on a roadtrip instead of... canon. it deals with some heavy emotions and it’s also a character study so it’s tentatively shelved until i get around to rewatching suf. but i am projecting on steven like crazy and it’s really, really cathartic. it’s taught me a lot about myself too lmao.

He’s never been anonymous before. He kind of likes it. It means he can fold his arms on the table and put his head down without Pearl worrying about his posture, or someone asking him if something’s okay.

In the last few months, he’s grown to hate people asking him how he’s doing, or if he’s okay. He always ends up lying, because he doesn’t want to worry them, and he ends up feeling worse.

Probably because it’s more of him supporting other people without supporting himself.

He should have told someone how he was feeling. He should have reached out. Sadie could’ve helped him. Lars would’ve listened. Connie would have hugged him and then found him the appropriate mental health professional.

(God, Steven wants a hug. Also the appropriate mental health professional? Whoever that would be.)

untitled aos fic - i don’t want to give a lot of details because :eye emoji: and also i don’t know much about what the plot of this is going to be anyway, lmao. but here’s an excerpt:

daisy “that actor who doesn’t shut up about data harvesting” johnson (@daisyquake) tweeted: two weeks :eyes emoji:

Elena Rodriguez | Seven Cents S2 Streaming On Netflix Now! (@yoyorodriguez) retweeted and added: the problem with being friends with daisy is that you SHOULD have some insight into what her tweets mean but you still have no idea

Fitz (@justfitz) retweeted and added: Try being married to her

untitled star wars twins fic - because i am a total and massive nerd. i’m just kind of stuffing everything i have feels about from the post-anh era into this and planning on figuring it out later? i’m really loving talking about the culture of alderaan (and the culture of the survivors) and also i just love writing luke and leia’s relationship... so much......

(no excerpt for that one because i’ve basically posted all of it in various posts lmao)

aos ds9 au - i’ve posted a LOT about this already and i want to keep the plot a surprise but fsk is in this and married and half the cast is aliens, what else do you need in life.

“Good morning,” says Jemma, coming into the room with her hair wet and her uniform crooked. “Hello, darling.”

“Hi,” says Daisy, turning her face up for a kiss. Jemma obliges absently as she walks past, looking around the room.

“Has anyone seen my hair clip?”

“No,” say Fitz and Daisy in unison.

and of course, last but never least in my heart, chapter 3 of the magnum opus - writing this is on hold until my brain decides to stop hitting me over the head at every possible moment, but there’s like... 2k written so far? it’s. it’s going.

“Yeah, yeah,” says Coulson, and makes quick work of the right gauntlet. It’s only halfway through the left one that his fingers slow and he says, quietly, “Simmons designed these, didn’t she?”

She lets out a quick breath. “Yeah.”

He stays quiet for a few more seconds, finishing up the last of the straps, making sure they’re tight enough. Finally, he says, “She should be helping you with these.”

Daisy pulls her arms back and swallows down some words, or maybe a couple of feelings, or maybe a sob. “Yeah, well.”

2. tell us about what you’re most looking forward to writing – in your current project, or a future project

the last sentence of the magnum opus!!!!!!!!!!

no, lmao, i’m gonna try to be serious. i really, really want to write some librarians fic in the near future? also MORE OF THE SENSE8 AU. i’m DYING to write some stuff about that. especially sam’s cluster, for some reason? Let’s Make Him Suffer (Comedically)! one day i’m gonna finish that list of what cluster/situation each song is about and then it’ll be over for all of us!

3. what is that one scene that you’ve always wanted to write but can’t be arsed to write all of the set-up and context it would need? (consider this permission to write it and/or share it anyway)

i spent about eight months imagining a scene where riza hawkeye was really injured and mustang was holding her in his arms (basically the promised day scene but with more privacy) so does that count?

hmm, just for some other possibilities: glinda telling dorothy about elphaba, laura somehow seeing or speaking to natasha during catws, a good omens au of the good place (specifically the ”i don’t even like you!” / “you doooooooo” scene), kencyrath au of star wars (ESPECIALLY THIS ONE, except setting up the first scene alone would take 7k, but i want to talk about leia and luke and their MESSED UP TRUST ISSUES in this au).

oh, also, something about star trek tng where jean-luc and beverly and jack were in love and then jack died and picard left. more specifically a scene set during the pilot episode where jean-luc very cordially offers beverly the option to transfer off the enterprise, that he wouldn’t dream of holding it against her, and beverly very cordially telling jean-luc to go fuck himself. i want to write 30k of that broken triad. i want it so bad. i dream of that fic. maybe one day when i find myself with a completely empty month or two, i’ll binge all of tng and Write Some Stuff.

4. share a sentence or paragraph from your writing that you’re really proud of (explain why, if you like)

since you and i have tww in common, i’m gonna do a tww fic! otherwise i’d have to reread literally every fic i’ve ever written, lmao.

(this is long but i put this post under the cut so i have RIGHTS. also consider this a sneak peek for the j/d fic in the sense8 au?)

“It’s okay,” says Helen. She sits for a moment in silence, seeming thoughtful. “The Congressman and I are in the same cluster,” she says eventually. “I’d- I supposed that’s easier on the Secret Service?”

“Yes,” says Donna. “The-”

She stops herself from saying anything further. President Bartlet and the First Lady aren’t exactly quiet about who’s in their cluster, especially with senior staff, but that doesn’t mean she should go talking about it in an unsecured room in LA, of all places.

To cover for her blunder, she gives up something else: “The same with Josh. They got really lucky with him, actually. It’s just him and me, so they won’t have to worry about anyone threatening the Chief of Staff through the barista in the local Starbucks.”

Helen looks up from the Ohio numbers she’d drifted back to, a slow smile creeping up on her face. “Josh is in your cluster?”

“Uh-” says Donna, feeling like national security wasn’t worth whatever she’s just blundered into. Oops. “Josh- Josh is my cluster, ma’am.”

She catches her mistake the second it’s out of her mouth, but Helen doesn’t call her on it, more focused on other revelations. “No wonder you two look at each other the way you do!” she says, sounding delighted. Donna shuts her eyes, praying for this to go away. It’s not that she’s ashamed of Josh - it’s just so, so complicated, and other people never think about how difficult it was. Still is.

i’m just... i really liked the idea of donna fumbling and having to reveal this to cover up for what else she was going to say? i don’t know why i’m so charmed by this. i think it’s because it would be impossible in the show - you can’t show what someone was going to say on television, not without a lot of setup and very careful scripting. it’s just a really fun situation to write about and i’m really proud of this conversation in general.

also helen santos was a dream to write and i love her a lot. i kind of want to write one of the fics in the series about her and her cluster solely because like... look at her. she’s a delight in literally every scene. i love her.

5. what character that you’re writing do you most identify with?

daisy johnson!!! i love writing daisy johnson!!!! she is the most adhd character i’ve ever written and i literally just have to transcribe my own inner monologue and it works perfectly!!!!!

Swing shift: 1600 hours to 2400 hours. Daisy always ends up getting back to her quarters at like 0030 hours, when Jemma is asleep and Fitz is reading some kind of technical journal. Then she has to eat replicated pizza, alone, and freshly replicated pizza is actually pretty hot but it feels cold at that time of night, like, spiritually.

6. what character do you have the most fun writing?

...whoops i literally just answered that lmao. uh. i also really love writing sky masterson in the guys and dolls fic? she’s just weaponized hot queerness in a suit and i love her for it. she is intentionally trying to seduce this repressed lesbian and it’s really funny and also really hot of her and it’s so much fun to write.

also, i wrote chidi for the tgp fic and it was possibly the most fun i’ve ever had with a pov, although that was also because i was purposefully trying to mimic the tone of the show. i still think that line about michael and a grenade is, like, the funniest i have ever been in my life. but chidi’s panic was surprisingly easy to write? all of tgp’s characters have such STRONG voices, it makes writing fic ridiculously easy as long as you don’t get stuck on a plot for six months.

7. what do you think are the characteristics of your personal writing style? would others agree?

oof, this one is ALWAYS tricky. uh? uhh?? i’m going to ruin everything by saying this but i basically alternate between the same two sentence structures and i am really frustrated about it. i also alternate between the same two styles of endings and i always use the same beginning (set scene, main character pov, thoughts-as-exposition, back to scene).

BUT ON A MORE POSITIVE NOTE i like to talk about emotions and relationships and character development!! i have my “queer subtext goggles” superglued to my face, lmao. i like to think about how characters must have felt about things in canon and how it must’ve influenced them. i like making people deal with the consequences of their actions, especially how it’s influenced they themself. i also just really, really like writing people who love each other, whether it’s romantic or platonic or anything in between. i just want them to be happy! i just want them to stick together! doesn’t matter what fandom, i stand by it.

#loudwithlaughter #sb and l rambles #sb and l answers #sb and l is writing #thank you for sending this in!!!!!#now for literally All The Tags lmao #aos ds9 au #verse: fitzskimmons thingy #fic: you're a candle in the window #verse: and it's golden #mcu ideas #tgp ideas #st ideas #fic: help me hold on to you #fic: on that bumpy road to love #jesus CHRIST that was a lot of tags #okay okay i'm pressing post now #this was such a delight thank you SO much for sending it!#the steven roadtrip of self discovery fic

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mostweakhamlets · 5 years

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Good omens prompt, as requested: Aziraphale being sad because the other angels are Back On Their Bullshit, Crowley being a protective mother hen

omg idk what happened i tried making it angsty then i thought about how dorky crowley is and then it kinda turned funny

Below left Aziraphale and Crowley alone for a lot longer than Above did.

Aziraphale had thought they were safe. After their stunt with the holy water and Hell fire, he thought they would be considered off limits. They had started their new lives together as university students living away from their strict parents for the first time would. They drank wine, dined out, took walks in places other than St. James park, danced, laughed, and found a reckless adventure every so often.

They were happy. For the first time in 6,000 years they were truly happy.

There was a cottage in South Downs they had their eyes on. Aziraphale was approaching Anathema to take over the A.Z Fell & Co., training her to find authentic books and repairing them. They were going to embrace “retirement” as humans called it.

Everything was going well.

Until Gabriel showed up in Soho.

“I don’t want to be here as much as you don’t want me here,” he said, holding up his hands as he walked into the bookshop. “I just have a message.”

Aziraphale stayed behind his counter. “From who?”

He tried remaining impassive. He squared his shoulders and lifted his chin. The days of being intimidated by the archangels were long gone.

“All of us,” Gabriel said. “Turns out having a rogue angel on Earth is less than desirable for Heaven. Who would have known?”

Aziraphale clenched his jaw at the sarcasm. “And what does… She think about it?”

“She’s been AWOL. Needless to say, between Her and you, things haven’t been running so smoothly.”

“Oh, what a pity,” Aziraphale tutted. “What is it you’re having trouble with? Colluding with Hell to kill your own without Her permission?”

Despite having cut ties with Heaven, Aziraphale was still on the mailing list (annoyingly). There had been memos that God wasn’t pleased when she found out about the Hell fire incidence. No one knew if she knew about the holy water in Hell, but Aziraphale could only imagine how Michael was reprimanded.

“You have a lot of nerve talking about colluding with demons.” Gabriel’s voice was rising. “If you and your demon hadn’t made a mess of things with the apocalypse, none of that would have happened and we wouldn’t be in a mess now. So, shut up and let me finish.”

Crowley was taking his time getting ready. He didn’t like mornings, unlike Aziraphale who never slept so never knew the torture of waking up.

They had a routine. Crowley would wake up at a reasonable time and wrap his arms around Aziraphale, who had been sitting up reading all night. Aziraphale would play with his hair until he commented on how late it was getting and how they should really start the day. Crowley would tighten his hold, and Aziraphale would give him five more minutes. Once Aziraphale untangled himself from the bedsheets and lanky limbs, Crowley would pout for another five minutes before finally getting up, dressing, and meeting his angel in the bookshop.

He liked their routine. So, when anything or anyone disrupted it, he felt he had the right to be angry.

He had heard yelling.

“So, shut up and let me finish.”

It sounded dangerously close to “so, shut up and die already” and was definitely coming from the same person.

Crowley was dizzy with anger.

He ran through the apartment and down the stairs.

“Gabriel, I’m not going back--”

“You’re a pretty pathetic angel, you know that? You barely do what you’re told for millenia, you interfere with the Great Plan so that you can keep shacking up with your demon, and now you’re refusing to follow our judicial process? We’re trying to throw you a life line. Another trial, and you’re in everyone’s good graces again.”

“But I won’t really be in anyone’s good graces again, will I?”

“Of course not! It’ll just be on paperwork. Do you know how many people up there never want to see you again? You’ve made everyone miserable--”

“Hey!”

Crowley nearly tripped over a book as he ran to Aziraphale’s side, but he recovered. Gabriel rolled his eyes.

“Great, it’s here, too.”

Aziraphale glared.

“Whatever you’re trying to get Aziraphale to do,” Crowley began, but paused when he realized he didn’t know where he was going with his sentence. “Just stop it.”

He bared his teeth, hoping that made up for his weak threat.

It didn’t.

Gabriel looked as if he were going to say something to him, but then shook his head and turned back to Aziraphale.

“This isn’t something you can say no to,” he said.

“And yet here I am, saying no,” Aziraphale said.

“It’s a real miracle you haven’t fallen yet. You should have been sent down centuries ago.” Gabriel glanced at Crowley. “Maybe it would have been more to your taste and then you wouldn’t have wasted all our time.”

“Get out.”

“If you don’t show up for this trial soon, I’ll be back and I won’t be so kind.”

“Get out!”

Suddenly, a serpent was pulling itself up to hiss in Gabriel’s face.

Gabriel stumbled back. The serpent followed from the floor, wrapping itself around Gabriel’s shoes and feigning a few jabs up at him.

“I’ll be back,” Gabriel said, grabbing the door handle and trying not to fall over the snake.

There was another hiss. Gabriel almost lost his hand before he escaped through the door.

The shop was quiet.

Aziraphale sighed shakily and ran his hands through his hair. Crowley walked back to his side.

“Are you alright, angel?”

His eyes were filling with tears. “No. I’m not.”

Crowley took him in his arms and peppered the top of his head with kisses.

“This isn’t ever going to end is it?” Aziraphale sniffled.

Crowley tightened his hold.

“It will eventually,” he said. “And until then we’ll keep driving archangels out of here. We’ll do it for as long as we need to. I’ll do whatever to keep you safe. You don’t have to stand up to them alone anymore.”

“Yes, but you’re hardly intimidating unless you’re a snake.”

Crowley pulled back to look at his angel. He knew that, but Aziraphale didn’t need to say it.

“And,” Aziraphale went on, wiping at his wet cheeks. “What if someone were around to see what just happened? It’d be a nightmare with animal control. I’d have to get a muzzle for you.”

“I know you’re trying to use humor to cope, but I’m going to say right now that if you ever get a muzzle for me when I’m a serpent, I will tear up your favorite books as a person. I am not above eating them.” Crowley scoffed. “A muzzle. That’s humiliating.”

Aziraphale laughed. It was genuine, though it ended in more sniffling. Crowley smiled.

“There we go,” he said, kissing Aziraphale on the forehead. “That’s better.”

“I’m sorry. I’m being silly. It’s just overwhelming at this point.”

“You’re not being silly. You’ve been through a lot because of those guys. They literally tried killing you.”

Aziraphale took a deep breath, collecting himself. Crowley miracled a handkerchief and wiped away the tears.

“Should we close early for the day?” They had only been open for an hour. “We can go back to bed for a while and order in for lunch. After that, we can do whatever you want.”

“That sounds wonderful, my dear.”

Crowley lead him upstairs. They miracled back into their pajamas and curled up together in their usual positions. Crowley laid against Aziraphale’s chest, and Aziraphale pressed his nose into Crowley’s hair. They held each other tight, savoring the silence for a few minutes.

“Do they even make muzzles for snakes?” Crowley grimaced.

“Oh, there’s little tricks for makeshift ones for short-term use. There’s plenty of resources on the internet.”

“Why do you know that?”

Aziraphale closed his eyes. Crowley propped himself up on his elbow.

“Angel, why are you researching how to make snake muzzles. Angel, answer me I know you’re not asleep. Angel!”

#good omens #request #sorry this ended up being funny #well as funny as i can get #my fics #alexerion

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hashtagleh · 5 years

Text

This is What Would Be Considered a Morally Grey Area

read it on AO3

by HashtagLEH

“Will you please, kidnap me?” Warlock requested in the same tone of voice he had asked to go to the zoo the day before.

“Of course not, Warlock,” Aziraphale said immediately. “You are very safe here. The security is flawless.”

“Don’t lie to him!” Crowley hissed, clutching the boy closer to him as though it would make him forget the words the angel had just spoken. “Do you want the Prince of This World to remember you as a liar at the time of the Apocalypse?”

“Mommy and Daddy wouldn’t even care!” Warlock went on insistently, paying no heed to his nanny’s nonsense words. They made no sense, anyway.

“Of course they would, Warlock,” Crowley said immediately. “After they noticed you were gone, anyway.”

Words: 6152, Chapters: 1/1

Fandoms: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, Good Omens (TV)

Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply

Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley & Warlock Dowling, Aziraphale & Warlock Dowling, Nanny Ashtoreth & Warlock Dowling, Warlock Dowling & Brother Francis, Warlock Dowling & Adam Young, Brian & Pepper & Wensleydale & Adam Young (Good Omens), Warlock Dowling & the Them (Good Omens)

Characters: Warlock Dowling, Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale (Good Omens), Harriet Dowling, Thaddeus J. Dowling, Adam Young (Good Omens), Mr. Young (Good Omens), Arthur Young

Additional Tags: Protective Crowley, Godparents Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Softie Crowley (Good Omens), Kidnapping, Surprise Adoption Really, Crack, Crack Treated Seriously, semi-seriously anyway, Attempt at Humor, it came out more serious than I intended, Child Neglect, The Dowlings Are Terrible Parents, Aziraphale and Crowley Are Wonderful Parents, and kidnappers, they take their jobs very seriously, jobs as parents and as kidnappers, look Warlock literally begged for them to kidnap him, Crowley Can't Resist Puppy Eyes,��Aziraphale Can't Resist Crowley, He Can Resist Anything, Anything Except Temptation, Matchmaker Warlock, He knows they love each other, JUST KISS ALREADY Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Not Canon Compliant, Dad Crowley (Good Omens), Dad Aziraphale (Good Omens), Humor, Nanny Crowley (Good Omens), Nanny Ashtoreth (Good Omens) - Freeform, Gardener Aziraphale (Good Omens)

Crowley knew that the brunch was important.

Or, at least he assumed that it was. It was what he tried convincing to himself, so that he didn’t have to think about the fact that Harriet Dowling was not one he would count as a good mother. Neither of the Dowlings were fit to be parents, to be completely truthful about it. And when he let himself think about those things, he wondered if maybe they had only had a child because it was the Expected thing to do.

And Crowley liked Warlock. He was curious, sometimes a brat – but then all kids were. It meant he was doing his job right, to see the boy acting normal like that.

But what Warlock needed were parents who actually cared about him, and wanted to be around him and play with him. He needed to know that his parents loved him.

He told himself it was because if Warlock didn’t feel loved by his parents then he would have no real desire to destroy the earth when he was eleven and reached his destiny, and definitely not because it hurt something in Crowley’s chest when the boy was crying about missing his mom or wishing his dad could come play catch with him in the garden.

Harriet had told her son the night before that they could go to the zoo that day, if he just went to sleep right then and stopped trying to bother her. (This was particularly tempting, because the gardener had done a marvelous job at instilling a love of animals into the child, and his favorite books were generally ones with lots of different types of animals. Even Harriet had caught on to her son’s love of them and gifted him a large children’s encyclopedia at his last birthday. Well, she’d told Nanny Ashtoreth to go purchase it, but it was the thought that counted. It was one of the boy’s most treasured items.) The five-year-old had immediately lit up, not detecting the absentminded tone with which his mother spoke and believing her words in a way that only a young child could.

When Warlock had gotten up that morning, staying in his room until eight o’ clock because those were the rules Harriet had set out that she wasn’t to see him before then on any day, he had run to his mother’s room with talk of visiting lions and giraffes and monkeys on his lips.

But when Harriet had appeared in the hallway before Warlock had even gotten there, the boy had stopped in his tracks at the sight of her in a pink sundress, heels, and pearls, and it had only taken him a moment to understand. Yes, he was naïve enough to have believed her the night before, but he wasn’t stupid. She was dressed much too nicely for the zoo, and the heels were a dead giveaway that she had no intention to be walking around that day, much less among animals and food carts and suburban dads with fanny packs who reeked of sunscreen.

To her credit, she noticed Warlock as she was walking down the hall, but that was where the credit stopped building up. Without stopping or bending down to be at Warlock’s level (as Nanny did when she spoke with him), she said, “Oh, I’m sorry, sweetie – I have to go to a brunch with some of Daddy’s friends and their wives. We’ll try for the zoo another time, okay?”

And then she had been off in a flurry of pink, not even acknowledging Nanny Ashtoreth, who was standing at the end of the hallway and had watched everything that had just occurred.

Warlock had stood in the hallway a moment, and Crowley braced himself for the rage, for the earthquakes or fires or something to show how upset the Antichrist was. There was nothing he could do to stop it, so he just hoped that he had been a good enough nanny that Warlock didn’t want to set his sights on the demon, or on the angel who had probably just gotten to mangling tending to the rose bushes.

But Warlock had turned around then, tears in his eyes, and Crowley began to crouch down to accept the hug it appeared the boy was going to need, but then he just ran past the demon and back to his room, slamming the door decisively behind him.

***

Crowley allowed Warlock exactly six hundred and sixty-six seconds to cry alone in his bedroom, because he knew that that number was important to his infernal father so it was probably important to the son as well, and it just seemed a perfect number to round off of. After that eleven minutes and six seconds was over however, he rapped lightly on the door with his knuckles to let Warlock know he was coming in before opening it without waiting for a response. He was a demon, he wasn’t polite, and the only reason he knocked in the first place was because he didn’t want to startle the antichrist into discorporating him.

Warlock wasn’t crying anymore, but he still looked extraordinarily sad as he sat against the edge of his bed and brushed his fingers mournfully over the back of his stuffed lion. (Crowley had tried to get him attached to a better animal – a snake, perhaps – but the baby at the time was determined to like the lion the best. It wasn’t even a male lion – it had no mane. Harriet had mistaken it for a bear a few too many times because of it.)

“Why doesn’t Mommy like me?” Warlock asked when Crowley silently sat down beside him on the ground.

“I suspect it’s because she’s a terrible woman,” Crowley said blandly. What? He wasn’t going to lie to him – he didn’t want the antichrist remembering that his Nanny was a liar when the time for Armageddon came. That wouldn’t mean just an inconvenient discorporation – that was the path to definite destruction.

Warlock knew his nanny well enough that such a sentence was not out of the norm for her, and he didn’t say anything to try to argue with her. He thought privately that his nanny was probably right, though he didn’t want to say so out loud and make it true. Nanny always said he could control reality to his will, and he didn’t want to make his nanny’s words definitively true.

“Not to worry, Warlock,” Nanny said seriously. “One day, you will destroy every fool who’s ever wronged you and leave their corpses for the dogs.”

“You always say that, Nanny,” Warlock said glumly, and sniffed.

“Well, that just tells you it’s true!” Crowley posited. “Have you ever known me to lie to you, Warlock? No? I thought not. Trust every word I say. Now, come along. Brother Francis is probably wondering if we’ve forgotten about him, not having stopped by in so long.”

“We saw Brother Francis yesterday morning,” Warlock reminded her, but nonetheless rose to his feet.

“Yes, and he’s got just a terrible memory, so he probably won’t remember it anyway,” Crowley said in her usual no-nonsense tone. She raised an eyebrow at the way the boy raised both his arms in a clear directive that he wanted to be picked up. But this was a boy who would grow to be her master (though most days it felt like he already was, and it had nothing to do with him shaping reality but more to do with how she couldn’t deny the big brown eyes that looked up at her), and so with only a small sigh, she acquiesced, leaning down to lift him under the armpits and settle him on her hip.

“I don’t think Brother Francis has an awful memory,” Warlock told him seriously as they made the trek out of the room and down the stairs. “He ‘membered that you like the tulips more than the roses. Mommy likes roses more.”

“That’s because your mother is a basic woman, lacking in imagination,” Crowley sniffed. “And I should hope that Brother Francis remembers I like tulips. I destroyed the Dutch economy because of it.” Completely by accident, but it was still very memorable in history, even now, so he took credit for the economy drop rather than the gorgeous fields that the Netherlands boasted now.

“Daddy talks about economy,” Warlock remembered, likely picking out the only thing he’d comprehended in the last bit of that sentence.

“Your earthly father talks about anything if he thinks it’s important-sounding enough to know two bits about,” Crowley said drolly as he opened the back door to go out into the garden. One of the maids glanced at them, likely hearing the comment, before quickly looking away and finding something Very Important that she had to attend to immediately. “Now, your infernal father on the other hand only talks about Important things. Always remember, Warlock – if it sounds Unimportant or Stupid, don’t say it. And don’t agree with anyone else who says it either, because you are Above such things. Or Below, as the case may be.”

“D’you think you an’ Brother Francis could take me to the zoo sometime?” Warlock asked suddenly, perking up hopefully and lifting his head to look up at Nanny. He didn’t appear to have absorbed anything his nanny had just said.

“Er…” Crowley floundered, grasping at something to say. Take Warlock to the zoo? With Aziraphale? Not only did that sound like a disaster of epic proportions, because it was one thing to work in the same household, but going out in public was just asking for trouble from either of their respective sides – but also, what was he supposed to do if he did lose the antichrist along the way? Bless it, but he may as well descend into Satan’s lair himself and ask for destruction right then and there.

Warlock sensed his indecision, and like the manipulative little fiend that he was (Crowley may or may not have shed a tear or two of pride behind his sunglasses, but he would never say), he continued to wheedle for the answer he wanted.

“I wouldn’t run away, promise!” he exclaimed. “I’ll stay right next to you an’ Brother Francis the whole time, and I’ll be so quiet, you can just pretend you’re on a date with him!”

Crowley would never admit to gaping at the child at the last words that escaped this infernal child’s mouth, but anyone who saw it would say that that’s exactly what he did.

“Why would you think I want to go on a date with Az – with Brother Francis?”

The insufferable child actually rolled his eyes at that. “It’s obvious you like each other,” he said frankly. “He gives you tulips, and sometimes you look out the window when you know he’s working in the garden, and your face goes all—” He made a quite exaggerated impression of what could only be described as simpering, which Crowley definitely did not do. “—and when he talks about you sometimes, he gets this different little smile like he’s remembering something nice, and…”

“Alright, alright,” Crowley quickly shushed the boy as they drew near enough to be within Aziraphale’s range of hearing. Wouldn’t do to have the angel hear Warlock’s observations of why he thought they were in love – he would think the demon was filling the poor child’s ears with harmful nonsense again.

“I’ll take you to the zoo,” he promised, and when Warlock’s face lit up with excitement, he went on severely, “But only if you don’t tell Brother Francis anything you just told me. Keep it a secret, hm?”

“Now, what secrets could you possibly want to keep from me, Ms. Ashtoreth?” Aziraphale asked in his ridiculous accent as he heard the last bit of Crowley’s words.

“Warlock’s not telling,” Crowley said promptly, and Warlock nodded vigorously in agreement before wiggling to be let down. Before Aziraphale could press further, Crowley abruptly changed the subject. “When’s your next day off? Day after tomorrow, right? Excellent, we’re taking Warlock to the zoo, then.”

“We’re gonna see all the animals!” Warlock cheered, before going on his knees to be closer to a worm he found wiggling in the dirt. Crowley was disappointed that he wasn’t taking the initiative to slice it in pieces with a sharp rock as a young antichrist should, but perhaps that was because the gardener was right there. Harming the worm might make the angel cry, after all, and even Crowley didn’t want to see that.

Aziraphale’s eyebrows were currently raised very high on his face. Crowley wondered absently if the angel had intentionally made his eyebrows look like caterpillars, in some kind of homage to living creatures. It seemed like a thing the angel would do.

“Are you sure that’s allowed, Ms. Ashtoreth?” he asked carefully.

Crowley knew that Aziraphale was talking about their sides finding out and the wisdom in that, but he feigned ignorance on the matter and simply said, “The Dowlings will be out day after tomorrow, and there’s nothing wrong with Warlock’s nanny taking him out for the day. If you happen to be along, well it’s your day off and there’s nothing wrong with that.”

“Please, will you come, Brother Francis?” Warlock begged, looking up at the gardener beseechingly. Somehow, with the power that all children seemed to have to get filthy in just minutes, he already had dirt streaked across his cheek, lending to the whole innocent appeal. Crowley wondered if it was intentional, but he had also raised the boy long enough that he knew he got sticky and dirty with all manner of nonsense and couldn’t decide which option to chalk it up as.

Aziraphale was, of course, weaker than Nanny, and he agreed immediately to Warlock’s pleading. Crowley sniffed disdainfully, very carefully not thinking about how easy it had been for Warlock to convince him to go, either.

***

“She is quite a terrible mother,” Crowley mused that night as he sat in Aziraphale’s cottage at the back of the property. He was nursing a bottle of wine, though whether it was the second or the sixth he couldn’t remember anymore. Didn’t matter. He’d sober up before leaving so he wouldn’t be hungover for the rather taxing job of corralling a baby antichrist.

“Crowley, she is trying her best,” Aziraphale chided, but Crowley knew it was halfhearted at best, more out of a habit to argue with Crowley now than anything else.

“Except when she’s not,” Crowley countered. “She tells him things, promises him things, and then doesn’t follow through on them. What am I supposed to do here, angel? I can’t parent him.”

Aziraphale chuckled a bit. “No, certainly not. What’s a demon – or an angel, for that matter – supposed to do with a child?”

“Well, he’s only half human,” Crowley reminded him. “Other half is completely Satanic spawn. So maybe we wouldn’t screw it up completely.”

They were silent for a moment, staring at their bottle and glass respectively, and then they both looked up to meet each others’ eyes at the same time. It was a meaningful stare, one of suggestion, a what if?

A moment later, they both began laughing at the absurdity of it.

“As though we’d actually kidnap him,” Crowley chuckled, taking a swig off his bottle.

“Goodness, I’m an angel – angels don’t do these things,” Aziraphale chuckled, a trifle uneasily. “Kidnapping, honestly.”

***

“We should’ve kidnapped him years ago,” Crowley declared the next day as he patted a weeping Warlock’s back. “I don’t know what’s been keeping us, honestly. The Dowlings are clearly unfit…”

“Are you mad?” Aziraphale hissed in such a serpentine-like way that he could’ve been the one mistaken for the demon at that moment. “Don’t talk about these things in front of – of him!” he pointed his little shovel at Warlock, who was getting quite a bit of snot and tears on his nanny’s shoulder. “He’ll think we’re serious!”

“First of all, I am serious,” Crowley glared, partly because he wanted to impart the fact to Aziraphale that he was in fact serious, but also because he was resisting the urge to miracle the snot away. Honestly, this was his best blouse, and his shoulder was soaked enough that he felt it through to the skin. “Secondly, he’s crying loudly enough he probably can’t hear what we’re saying, anyway. Thirdly, he probably doesn’t even know what kidnapping means.”

“We can’t do things like this, Cr – Ashtoreth,” Aziraphale told him sternly. “And we certainly shouldn’t be talking about it, where anyone could hear us.”

“Think about it, angel,” Crowley said. “Don’t think of it as kidnapping the antichrist. Think of it as kidnapping a normal boy.”

“Is that supposed to make me feel better?!”

“A normal boy, who is neglected by his parents and feels unloved by both,” Crowley amended. “His father got home this evening, and Warlock wanted to show him the picture that he drew yesterday with you. You know what Thaddeus said? He said that he didn’t have time for little boys’ projects, and he was needed back at work quickly before shoving his son – his son – aside to get to the kitchen.”

“He shoved him,” Aziraphale repeated flatly, eyes sparking.

Sensing weakness, Crowley pressed, “Perhaps it was not meant to be painful physically, but now we have a crying little boy on our hands who just wants his parents to love him. We can do that ourselves!”

“Are you sure you love the boy, though?” Aziraphale asked, raising a skeptical eyebrow. “I thought demons weren’t capable of love.”

“And I thought angels were supposed to love and help everyone, regardless of their age or the size of their footprint in the world, and yet here we are,” Crowley said snidely, hardly noticing that he had inadvertently confirmed that he loved the little hellspawn. If it convinced the angel that kidnapping the little Antichrist was in fact the best option, he didn’t particularly care what he admitted to.

“This isn’t just a footprint though, Crowley – this is…” Aziraphale glanced at the boy, and then lowered his voice to a whisper so that Warlock couldn’t hear – “This is the antichrist. He won’t make a footprint; he’ll reduce the earth to mud.”

“If we leave him here, that’s certainly how it’s going to go,” Crowley agreed, continuing to pat the Dread Lord Junior on his back, an attempt to soothe. He never knew if he was doing this comforting thing correctly, but what he had deduced from the five years of raising the little brat, sometimes humans just needed to be held. Sometimes it worked, but sometimes – like now – they just kept crying.

Suddenly, said Lord of Darkness pulled back, and the angel and demon both silenced as the boy looked at Crowley through teary eyes that had suddenly become pleading and determined.

“Will you please, kidnap me?” he requested in the same tone of voice he had asked to go to the zoo the day before.

“Of course not, Warlock,” Aziraphale said immediately. “You are very safe here. The security is flawless.”

“Mommy and Daddy wouldn’t even care!” Warlock went on insistently, paying no heed to his nanny’s nonsense words. They made no sense, anyway.

“Of course they would, Warlock,” Crowley said immediately. “After they noticed you were gone, anyway.” They weren’t the most observant of parents, indeed.

“Cr – Ashtoreth, don’t say such things!” Aziraphale scolded. “Warlock, you can’t really want to never see your parents again, do you? They do love you, after all. In their own way.”

“Do not,” Warlock pouted, crossing his arms in front of him. Aziraphale appeared quite at a loss at what to say or how to try reassuring the brunette. Served him right – he was using faulty logic, anyway. Faulty because it was just wildly untrue and they all knew it.

“What did I tell you about lying, angel?” Crowley said with a raised eyebrow, first at Aziraphale and then at Warlock, still seated in his lap. “He can detect lies, anyway – he’s the Father of them.”

Warlock nodded emphatically, understanding enough from his nanny’s comments to know generally what they were talking about. “Daddy tells Mommy he loves her all the time, but he always leaves her alone. And he says he’ll play catch with me when he gets back from his trip, but then he shoves me away when I come to him with my baseball. And Mommy says she’s in love with Daddy, but she kisses Mr. Richardson when no one’s looking, and you’re only s’posed to kiss the lips of people you love. I know when people are lyin’ to me.”

“Be that as it may,” Aziraphale said in a slightly perturbed voice at the fact that the five-year-old was so caught up in the gossip of the house, though slightly altered to a child’s understanding, “We can’t just kidnap you, Warlock. It’s not right.”

“Nanny says that ‘right’ and ‘wrong’ don’t matter,” Warlock said, and looked at Crowley as though to test her on whether or not she would back him up or back up Brother Francis.

“He’s got us there,” Crowley said with a smirk. At Aziraphale’s flat look, his own expression became exasperated. “Oh, come on, angel! It’d be fun! I could replace him with a toad, and no one would even notice.”

“Yeah!” Warlock cheered, sensing weakness in the gardener. “And you an’ Nanny can be my new Mommy and Daddy, ‘cause mommies and daddies are s’posed to love each other so they love their kids more too, and I already love you guys, and you guys love me, and you love each other!”

Crowley and Aziraphale were both caught by a sudden coughing fit, and Warlock was curious to see the gardener’s normally ruddy cheeks flush even darker, and even Nanny’s cheeks pinked a bit. Adults were weird, he decided.

“Well, I think it’s just about your bed time,” Crowley said abruptly, rising to his feet with Warlock still on his hip. “You’ll need lots of energy to be able to go to the zoo tomorrow.”

“But Nanny,” Warlock whined, “I want you to kidnap me!”

“We’ll talk about it after the zoo trip, and not a moment before,” Crowley said strictly, ignoring the sudden sharp look that Aziraphale sent his way. “Remember that this is our secret though, alright? Don’t tell anyone what we’ve been talking about, or it’s a definite ‘no’ to the kidnapping.”

“Okay, Nanny,” Warlock said sullenly, leaning limply into the woman’s side, resting his head on her angular shoulder.

“It’s still a definite ‘no’,” Aziraphale muttered to himself, but smiled when Warlock waved farewell to him. He didn’t like the look in Crowley’s expression, though.

***

“Warlock, come see the lions!” Crowley called to the boy standing beside the gardener a few feet away. Warlock was licking at a popsicle in his hand that was somehow miraculously (heh) not melting, despite the hot August weather and the fact that he’d been holding it for ten minutes now. Aziraphale had a sugary-looking monstrosity of an ice cream cone, which he’d tried to convince Warlock to get too, but the boy had wanted a popsicle more.

“Yes, those ‘re your favorite, aren’t they?” Aziraphale cajoled the sullen child. He’d been in a mood ever since he got up that morning, and even said that he didn’t want to go to the zoo. For some reason though that Warlock could not understand, Nanny had insisted on their going anyway, saying that he would regret it if he didn’t go. Not in a threatening way of course, because while Nanny was known to make subtle threats to just about everyone else, he never did with him. Warlock thought she was weird, because he knew that she didn’t like people – especially lots of people all gathered together in one place, crying and carrying on and generally making lots of noise. She said it sounded like Hell, making Warlock wonder how Nanny knew that. (Because she was obviously alive, so she couldn’t go to Hell, at least not yet, though Warlock thought that maybe Nanny would like it there because it was dark and gloomy and she was generally a dark and gloomy person. He’d heard one of the cooks call her a “goth” before, which he didn’t know exactly what that meant but thought that it was a word that must fit Nanny perfectly, because it sounded right.)

“I don’t care ‘bout lions,” Warlock said with a frown, even as he followed the gardener over to where Nanny was standing in front of the lion enclosure.

“You can lie all you want to everyone else, but what did I say about lying to me?” Nanny said with an arched eyebrow.

“To not to.”

“That’s right, you impossible little fiend. Now come up here – I can lift you up so you can see them better.”

Although Warlock was excited to see a Real Live Lion, he still gave a deep, heaving sigh as though obeying his nanny was a great burden placed upon him, trudging forward to stand in front of her. She immediately lifted him up into the familiar place on her hip that he always sat at in this position, pointing a gloved hand across the embankment to the other side, where a male lion was sleeping beside its mate. As they watched, the male lion rolled onto its back, legs spreading like the oversized cat it really was.

“I think I’ll call him Sir Joystick,” Crowley said thoughtfully.

“Ashtoreth!”

“Lions aren’t like cars, Nanny – they don’t have joy sticks.”

“No, Warlock, you’re right – what was I thinking?” Nanny said, a laugh in her voice that Warlock didn’t understand. “Oh, calm down, Francis – he’s five. And am I wrong?”

Warlock didn’t really understand or particularly care what they were talking about, because his mind was on the fact that he had to go back home after the day was over, and have to go back home for many days after that because Nanny and Brother Francis for some reason refused to kidnap him. He wasn’t really excited to be at the zoo because of it, because he had hoped for a little bit that Nanny and Brother Francis would say yes, and now the hope wasn’t there anymore. They were going about everything like it was normal, and even though Nanny had said they could talk about it after the zoo trip, he knew enough to know that this “maybe” was almost definitely a “no.”

They stopped for lunch at a little cart selling corn dogs, and Warlock was gratified to see that Nanny remembered that he didn’t like ketchup and asked only for a strip of mustard on the food. He didn’t show his gratitude though, still upset with the two, and ate his corn dog in silence while Nanny and Brother Francis tried to draw him into conversation about the animals they had seen so far, eventually giving up and chatting with each other.

After lunch, they went to the monkey enclosures to see lots of different apes and chimpanzees. On the other side of the enclosure was a spot out in the grass where the gorillas could wander in the sun.

When they got outside, Nanny suddenly lifted him without warning, and though Warlock was startled because usually he was the one to ask to be picked up he still instinctively wrapped his legs around her hips to accommodate the usual position.

“Look at that one!” Nanny said, pointing at a random one in the distance that didn’t seem to be doing anything particularly special or different from the others, except that it was bigger than all of them. He didn’t really understand what was so exciting about that one. Or any of them, really.

Then Nanny pressed her lips close to Warlock’s ear, breath causing his hairs to move and slightly tickling him with the motion.

“Warlock,” Nanny said quietly, voice almost unheard in the sounds around them. “You’re not going home today, alright? Everything will be just fine.”

Warlock stared at Nanny when she pulled back a bit, not sure he understood correctly but hope blooming in his chest nonetheless. A moment later, he pressed his own lips to Nanny’s ear (the one with the cool snake tattoo next to it), because that’s how secrets were supposed to be told.

“Are you an’ Brother Francis gonna kidnap me?” he whispered loudly.

“I prefer to call it surprise adoption,” Nanny said smoothly with a wink he could see through the dark glasses.

Warlock turned that over in his head, and a moment later he positively beamed as he understood that he was correct. He looked over at Brother Francis, who was humming quietly to himself and glancing around casually – but maybe not so casually. Miraculously, no one else was around the fence that showed the gorillas across the grassy embankment. Warlock wondered if Nanny or Brother Francis was magic, to be able to make sure everyone left them alone.

“I can keep a secret,” Warlock said proudly. “I won’t tell anyone, ever.”

“Good,” Nanny said briskly in her usual no-nonsense tone, though Warlock thought her eyes maybe looked a little softer than normal. “Because we’re going to need your help with this, little hellspawn.”

Warlock didn’t know what kind of help Nanny and Brother Francis would need from him – they were adults, after all, and he was just a kid – but he was more than willing to do whatever his new mommy and daddy wanted of him.

The rest of the zoo trip was a lot more fun, too.

***

True to his word, Crowley replaced Warlock Dowling with a toad. He used a few miracles to change his appearance and make him able to grow with Warlock’s DNA, so he would appear to grow up totally normal, and Aziraphale contributed with his own miracles of giving him Warlock’s surface memories. Wouldn’t do to have a boy suddenly in the house with only the memories of a toad, after all. That might be too much for someone not to notice.

Crowley and Aziraphale quit their jobs in the same week, despite Harriet’s pleas that she would give both of them raises if they stayed on. The staff of the Dowling household were their usual gossipy selves, and drew the conclusion that the two of them had eloped. They largely ignored the toad-turned-five-year-old, as they always had, and the next nanny (because Harriet still wasn’t going to raise her son – he was much too young for her to relate to yet) didn’t care enough to notice that the boy was a bit odd and croaked when stressed or annoyed, or sometimes looked like he was hopping rather than walking. Rich people were eccentric, after all – no need to be alarmed.

The boy once known as Warlock Dowling became Warlock Crowley-Fell, though he wouldn’t realize for another few months where exactly his new parents had pulled the names from. He was a quite normal boy, aside from being lullabied to sleep with strange versions of “The Grand Old Duke of York” or being instructed to love spiders rather than shriek and squish them with the nearest shoe, as most were wont to do.

He lived out in the country, in a little town called Tadfield, because his parents always said that it was the “least likely place they would go looking for him”.

He wasn’t ever sure if they were talking about his old parents or someone else.

He was an odd boy, to be certain, but none of the town members blamed him. He would turn out odd, with parents like that. Not because they were gay, of course. But there was just something about that Mr. Crowley and Mr. Fell that was strange. A certain Arthur Young thought he might have heard the seven-year-old call his father (who looked vaguely familiar every time the man saw him, but he just couldn’t quite put his finger on it) “Nanny” once, which was quite odd, but he didn’t make a habit of judging other people and dismissed it. Besides, Warlock was such a nice boy – a bit of a brat sometimes but then so was his own son. They would certainly grow out of it, as most boys did.

It wasn’t as though either of them were the antichrist, after all.

Warlock was quite happy in this new life, too. He continued to enjoy digging around in the garden with Brother Francis – whom he had to remember to call “Pops” in front of other people – and took the news that Nanny was sometimes a man with the frank understanding that came from growing up around the unusual. Some things were just explained by the fact that “it’s Nanny”, and that was that.

On his eleventh birthday, Nanny – er, Dad, that is – and Pops seemed to be expecting something from him all day. They celebrated his birthday as usual, though they couldn’t help seeming a bit…on edge. Warlock dismissed it, because that was just his parents for you, always acting odd, and asked if he could go play with Adam and Them in the woods.

“Be back before dark,” Dad had called, glancing at Pops. “And if you see a dog, don’t name it!” Warlock sighed and rolled his eyes, hopping on his bike and riding away to meet with his friends.

A couple of hours later, he came back to the house, suspicions once again aroused that his dads were psychic, but not particularly good at it, because things always happened around him when they expected it to happen to him.

“Dad, Pops!” Warlock called as he stepped inside the house. The evening sun set everything inside the house in a soft yellow glow. It was familiarly calming – it felt like home.

“Did a dog come to you?” was the first thing that Dad demanded when he came into the living room, where Pops was reading a book in his recliner and the sun made it look like his head was surrounded by a halo.

“No,” Warlock huffed. “Mr. Young got Adam a dog, though. Well, he let him keep it, anyway. It was just running around in the forest.”

“Adam got a dog,” Dad repeated. Pops closed his book and blinked at Warlock in confusion, like things just weren’t quite computing in his head.

Warlock nodded impatiently. “Uh-huh. An’ it’s small enough that it’s not going to mess up their house, but he has to wash it first before it’s allowed in because it smells like poo. He named it Dog, though. That’s a boring name.”

Dad and Pops shared a very significant look with each other. Warlock rolled his eyes. They were always doing that, as though Warlock didn’t know that they were totally in love with each other, even though he’d never seen them kiss. Still, he knew when people were lying, and he knew that his parents loved each other.

“Warlock,” Dad said, turning his serpentine gaze to him. “We need to have a little talk.”

And then it all came out, that his parents were actually and angel and a demon (he really couldn’t even pretend to be surprised at that, because it made sense) and they had come to the Dowling house to raise him to stop Armageddon, which was the end of the world, which they had thought Warlock would start, but now it looked like maybe his friend Adam was the actual antichrist, and they would probably need his help to stop Armageddon anyway, and in the end he ended up being there on the American air base and did indeed help in stopping it, and when his dads were taken by Heaven and Hell to be put on trial he was safely ensconced in the Young household in a surprise sleepover to keep him safe and a secret from both sides, and Warlock thought it was a bit weird to know that one of his best friend’s parents were also his parents, but also not really his parents because Crowley and Aziraphale had raised him for much longer and he kept everything a secret from the Youngs, anyway, and when all was said and done he continued to grow up in Tadfield with an angel and a demon as his parents, and he may have finally (with the help of Them) gotten the two of them to officially get together, and a normal fairy tale book would call it a perfectly nice “Happily Ever After”.

But that’s another story.

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kanna-ophelia · 4 years

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Forgot to put this on on Tumblr! Day 5 of @drawlight‘s Ineffables Advent Calendar: Fire. And the 4th of my 31 First Kisses. If you’re wondering what happened to 4, it went all scope creep in both research and writing and is now going to be a chapter in my Big Bang fic (tease: 1976 Soho basement gay club), but I will open that day’s window soon. I’m determined to do all 31.

South Downs Cottage, because I am shamelessly doing all the tropes. Series!Good Omens. On AO3

On Wattpad

Home and Other Fires

Aziraphale tried to decide where to put Crowley's cup of tea. It was more difficult than it used to be, seeing that Crowley's head was dangling down towards the floor, his spine bent at what seemed like a terribly uncomfortable angle in order to keep his buttocks tucked in the depths of the couch, his long thighs extending up the back and his knees looped over.

What was even more disconcerting than the inhuman bendiness was how nicely Crowley fit the couch in that position. It led to the speculation that he had purchased the chair--no, it was Crowley, he would have had the couch custom made--to exactly the proportions needed to dangle upside down over it, baking his face and chest next to the fire.

Aziraphale sighed and put the cup near Crowley's dangling hand. The demon opened one eye, hissed "Thanksss," and apparently went back to sleep.

That was one of the unconsidered quirks of living with Crowley. He slept more of the time than seemed reasonable, and in more places than seemed possible. Another was the amount of heat Crowley liked. The fire tended to be stoked so high, on top of the central heating, that Aziraphale had reluctantly discarded all his layers one by one until he wore nothing but his shirt sleeves, not even a nice cotton vest underneath. After a few centuries of being fully clad, he felt naked.

The third was that Crowley himself apparently didn't wear a lot of clothes inside. That was probably, Aziraphale told himself irritably, why he needed the fire stoked so hot. Right now, Crowley's thin chest was bare, and like his face extremely flushed by proximity to the fire, his skin reddened and warm looking and--

Aziraphale himself felt like he was on fire a lot of the time. Maybe this whole South Downs thing was a mistake.

* * *

"You don't like my flat, do you?" Crowley asked one day, without anything prior leading up to it.

Aziraphale looked up from the dried dog food he was feeding the swans--a small child had lectured him on the wrongs of feeding bread to birds, and he had been mortified and seized with centuries of accumulated guilt--and tried to think of an appropriately tactful answer.

"It's a very impressive showcase for you, dear. Properly demonic."

Crowley made a sound between a snort and a hiss. "You always find a reason to meet somewhere else."

"You don't like your flat," Aziraphale said defensively.

Crowley stared out across the lake, the wind ruffling his short auburn hair. "Perhaps," he said contemplatively, "the thrones are a bit much."

"Perhaps, dear."

"After all, who do I have to impress, these days?" Aziraphale had the distinct impression that Crowley was looking sideways at him, although it was difficult to tell with those closed-in glasses.

"You just have to please yourself, now."

"Hmmph. Let's go back to the bookstore, I'm frozen and I need drinkable coffee." At some point, Crowley had installed a ridiculously expensive and complicated espresso machine in Aziraphale's office. He never seemed to buy coffee beans, but it produced heavenly--no, not heavenly, definitely an earthly pleasure--smelling coffee every time.

Crowley hadn't mentioned his flat again for several weeks, until he asked, "Mind if I borrow some of your things?"

Aziraphale, who had thought he was asleep on the couch, looked up from the book he was rebinding. "My things?"

"That light thing over there." Crowley thrust a casual hand out towards a priceless directoire table lamp. "And that little olive-wood figurine of Auxesia from Aegina, great century, the fifth BCE. And some books."

"Books?"

"Yeah. I think they feel, you know, home-like. So long as I don't have to read them." Crowley frowned. "Can you pick out some of your favourites? It will stop people buying them. And if you want to read them you can always come over."

"I--of course I will, dear boy." Aziraphale felt sentimental tears come to his eyes. Crowley was trying to make that dreadful flat comfortable for him. He should stop avoiding it so much.

But Crowley stopped inviting him over at all, although he kept borrowing things. One day, out of the blue, he announced that he had bought a cottage as a holiday home.

"You can come stay for a while, I suppose," he said, with an air of grudgingly giving into pleading. "Get you out of London for a bit, until you stop seeing angels on every corner. 'S'nice," he added, defending himself against accusations never made. "Near the ocean. And it's pink. Thought I could repaint it black, but apparently there's regulations and stuff. Might have to see what I can do about that. Anyway. Can't expect me to live in a pink house by myself, at least until I get used to it."

"It would be a kindness to come stay," Aziraphale said, thoughtfully.

Crowley made a disgusted face, but Aziraphale could tell he was pleased by the tiny quirk at the edge of that mobile face.

The cottage had been a revelation. More of Aziraphale's favourite things had travelled from the clutter of his bookshop to the shelves and mantlepieces than he remembered Crowley asking for. He knew he had perhaps become a little overenthusiastic in lending Crowley books, but the packed shelves everywhere were an unexpected delight, and he knew some of the books were not his own purchases.

There were cosy chairs and tartan rugs and a general, heady feeling that Crowley had been feathering a nest for Aziraphale, for his personal comfort. It wasn't something that could be spoken, but--

--there were twenty nine different teas in the kitchen, carefully arranged by region and levels of oxidisation and fermentation. A beautiful gramophone as well as a modern sound system. "The softer sounds and crackling are soothing sometimes," Crowley said, shrugging. Real velvety dressing gowns and fluffy slippers and merino scarves n the wardrobes.

"How long were you intending me to stay?" Aziraphale asked, feeling oddly shy.

Crowley shrugged. "Don't care. Long as you like, makes no difference to me. No reason not to, now. What's the harm?" Too many sentences, his voice too jerky despite his air of nonchalance, just a hint of a nervous hiss. "Look, there's fireplaces all over this place. I know you love a good fire."

The harm, Aziraphale suspected, in what it was doing to him to share living space with a demon who clearly felt shirts were optional and tended to stand with one hip jutting out, showing the top of an enticing hip bone. Or drape himself across counters, denim-clad behind perched--"It's a food preparation surface, Crowley, please"--on the counter-top, legs spread, leaning back on his elbows. Or doze spread out across any available surface, including the wall. Or lean halfway across the table staring fixedly at Aziraphale while he ate, like the serpent he was. Crowley was always there, and pretty much half naked all the time, and Aziraphale wasn't sure if the tight jeans or the silk pyjama shorts were more aggravating.

Crowley had also developed a new, and odd, habit of curling around Aziraphale at unexpected times, sliding hands around his waist from behind and leaning a bare chest against him, as Aziraphale made tea, leaning on his shoulder as they watched the bizarrely tedious television he seemed to enjoy so much, tangling half-bare legs with Aziraphale's legs as the angel read and Crowley did something dastardly on his phone.

"What brought all this on?" Aziraphale asked once as Crowley put his head on his lap and wound his arms around Aziraphale's arm. Aziraphale was torn between pushing him away, petting his hair or--no. He could be misunderstanding, mislead by the ache in his own body.

"Snake." Crowley said. "Like to wind around warmth. You're warm, angel. And it's not like anyone will stop us, anymore." He hesitated, and his voice was suddenly vulnerable. "Unless you hate it?"

"No, of course, it's fine," Aziraphale said, and let himself card his fingers through Crowley's hair. Crowley tightened his grip and went to sleep, and Aziraphale resigned himself to a couple of hours of fire raging through him and not being able to concentrate on his reading at all.

The worst of it was that there seemed nothing flirtatious in it at all. Crowley never said anything provocative or tried to kiss him, except in Aziraphale's secret mind. He just seemed content to be close, and revelling in all the heat, and the fondness--poor darling thing, he must have been starved of affection for thousands of year-- and completely aware of how unbearable it was all becoming to Aziraphale. That every exposed inch of skin, every casually intimate embrace made Aziraphale desperately want to touch and kiss--oh, yes, kiss and kiss--and everything that followed.

Friends. Open friends, without having to hide from the world or each other how much they enjoyed each other, was good. It was wonderful. It was just that Crowley's delicately protruding clavicles were unexpectedly fascinating, and the way his spine curved behind the waistband of his ridiculously tight jeans, and the way that, despite all his boniness, there was a slight soft rounding of his belly right before the trail of auburn hair down to that same waistband.

Six millennia of being uncomfortably aware that this demon creature was literally infernally pretty hadn't prepared Aziraphale as much as he had hoped for living with an accountably affectionate and half-dressed, infernally pretty demon creature. One that kept touching Aziraphale, and gazing at him like he was the most adorable creation in existence. Or snarling irritably at him in a way that also somehow seemed to suggest Aziraphale was the most adorable creation in existence, followed by making him perfect cups of tea. Or driving him across three counties to a book sale, where he would mope and glower and stab at his phone and stay just as long as Aziraphale wanted, then take him out to dinner somewhere lovely he had apparently just found on his phone.

It was bliss, and it was torture. Reward for saving the world and punishment for betraying Heaven, Aziraphale supposed. Trial by hellfire.

So long as they believed he could survive hellfire, he would be fine. And he could survive this. He would.

He sighed, and set his own cup of tea down on a side table, prepared to settle down and read and not at all stare with unabashed craving at an upside-down dozing demon who--

"Surely it can't be good to let your skin get quite so red, Crowley. Move away from the fire."

"It's not too hot. C'mere and see."

Aziraphale hesitated, then moved to the couch. It really wasn't too bad. Warm. Odd, sitting next to Crowley in this position, though. He arranged himself primly.

"But my dear fellow, you are so flushed."

Aziraphale reached out and down and, unthinking, brushed his hand down hot skin, slightly furred with hair. Incredibly, the skin turned even darker, and Crowley said, "Ngk."

Aziraphale pulled his hand down as if he had been burned. "Sorry. I shouldn't have touched you."

"Don't be sorry. Please don't be." Crowley managed to move to a proper sitting position, by way of swinging his legs over Aziraphale's head and across to his lap, revolving the rest of his body with them. It was a distinctly inhuman movement, and one that ended up with him sitting halfway across Aziraphale's lap. "You can touch me. Any time and in any way, angel. Do you hear that?"

"Yes," Aziraphale managed. It was suddenly very hard to speak.

"Angel. Aziraphale. I want--this is probably a bad idea, but you did--angel, promise that whatever I'm about to do, you won't get upset with me and go tearing back to Soho."

"i can't make an open-ended promise like that to a demon."

"Retired demon." Crowley cupped Aziraphale's chin with one hand and turned Aziraphale's face to look at him. "Retired demon who loves you and is going crazy and when did you stop wearing so many clothes, anyway?"

"Ah, yes," Aziraphale said, his vocal cords working automatically while his mind whirled in dizzying circles around the word loves. "It's hot. All the fires."

"The fires? Oh. Is that any reason to subject an innocent demon to your blessed provocative wrists?"

"Provocative wrists?" Aziraphale squeaked. "You don't have a shirt on!"

"The fire's warm!"

"Yes!"

They glared at each other for a moment, then Aziraphale said, "I promise. I--"

The rest of his sentence was lost in Crowley's mouth.

Some minutes later Aziraphale surfaced, discovering he was pressed back into the couch, his shirt somehow come unbuttoned, although he couldn't remember any of them doing it, and his skin was trapped against Crowley's bare chest.

"Oh, darling," Aziraphale said.

"Angel." Crowley pressed clinging, hungry little kisses all over the corners of his mouth, his chin.

"I'm not going back to Soho."

"Thank you." Crowley kissed him again, pushing his tongue against Aziraphale's, and oh, it was fire, fire licking through Aziraphale, fire licking down his veins and gathering at the pit of his belly.

"I love you too, Crowley. More than I could ever say."

"Angel. Oh, angel, I've loved you so long, so long." Crowley kissed his eyelids, his ears. "Imagined kissing you so many times, never thought it would be here... in our own nest, in front of our own fire. Not having to be afraid. Just you and me, my angel love."

"I never thought we would have this, either. Oh, you wonderful thing."

"I was beginning to think you were impossible to seduce," grumbled Crowley. "Didn't matter what I wore or what I did, you would pat me on the hand and call me your dear boy. Cold as ice."

"Cold? Oh, Crowley, I've been burning."

"But that's the first time you looked at me like that."

Aziraphale pursed his lips, blushing.

"Oh," said Crowley. "That's the first time I've caught you looking at me with lust." Crowley's mouth drew up into a smug smile. "Oh, I love you."

"You do pose very prettily," Aziraphale said defensively. "Oh, stop smirking and kiss me again."

The flickering light from the fire lit up Crowley's hair and eyes in dancing red and orange for one moment, and then they were kissing again, and the only fire Aziraphale could think of was his own.

#31 days of ineffables #fire #ineffable husbands #south downs cottage #Aziraphale/Crowley #goodomens fanfiction #so much fluff

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ineffably-good · 5 years

Text

I Will Follow You Into The Dark (10/10) (GO Fics)

Go read the whole thing on AO3

Summary: In which Crowley and Aziraphale throw an awesome party, a few members of Hell's secretarial pool make an appearance, and gifts are given.

Spring turned into summer, and although Aziraphale continued to research and plot, manipulate energies and dig through arcane sources, they made no real progress in restoring Crowley’s lost powers. Crowley, for the most part, handled it well – he occasionally found himself instinctively snapping in response to an immediate problem before remembering that he no longer could, but one look at Aziraphale would remind him what he had done it for and why.

The whiled the summer away traveling a little, spending long weeks out of town with Frederick (who’s house arrest was apparently over) in tow, and enjoying as many long, leisurely dinners and late morning brunches as they could.

Crowley slowly came to the full awareness that he now had a husband. Despite being the one to initiate the almost shotgun-style wedding, it took a while to settle in that the angel – the same angel who curled up next to him to read all night every night, who kept trying to sneak small tartan accents into his wardrobe and claiming complete innocence when called upon it, who kept showering him in almost more love, warmth, and affection than he could handle (almost) – was now bonded to him for life.

He liked to say the word, to himself, roll it around on his tongue. Husband, he’d whisper. Husband, husband, husband. He found he loved the sound of it. He took to calling to make reservations for them at dinner (now that he could no longer miracle the best table) and asking for a table for “my husband and I.” He occasionally interrupted a store clerk who wasn’t being attentive enough to point out that “my husband needs assistance.” He definitely took to stepping between Aziraphale and any young lovestruck fool who was eyeing him and finding a way to throw the word “husband” into the next sentence that came out of his mouth.

Aziraphale, for his part, continued to watch and worry over Crowley during the transition from powers to no powers. He could tell sometimes that Crowley missed them, and he suspected this would become a larger issue in the winter when he couldn’t conserve body warmth by relegating himself to snake form, but he had to admit that for the most part, Crowley seemed to be doing than he had expected with the change. He slowly found himself relaxing, fraction by fraction, as he realized that the demon was not going to change his mind about the bargain he’d made.

“I forgot to tell you something, angel,” Crowley said one morning. “I can’t believe I forgot this, it was really important!”

Aziraphale frowned and put down his coffee cup. “What? What happened?”

“Nothing happened,” Crowley said. “It’s just something from the conversation with God.”

“Oh?” Aziraphale said.

“She said something about you,” Crowley said, “when I said you were the best thing she’d ever created. I can’t believe I never told you this!”

Aziraphale dimpled up ridiculously and blushed a bright pink. “Oh, my dear,” he murmured. “You said that to her about me?”

Crowley grinned. “Don’t give yourself the vapors, angel,” he said, “and anyways, it’s the truth. But my POINT is, what she said next. I asked if I could tell you because I knew you would want to hear it.”

Aziraphale found he was holding his breath.

“She said that you had never disappointed her,” Crowley said. “Not once. Never.”

He watched as the angel took that in, first frowning a little as he considered it, then his face cleared as Crowley watched the most phenomenal look of peace pass over him. He raised his chin and squared his shoulders, giving Crowley a pleased smile.

“Well then,” he said. “That’s just lovely to hear.” He thought for a minute. “I don’t suppose she provided it in written form so we could send a copy to that bastard Gabriel, did she?”

Crowley laughed.

Soon it was August, and the date of their wedding reception rolled around. It was a perfect night for it; the champagne sparkled, the appetizers were scrumptious, and their friends gathered to share in their happiness. It appeared to be a wonderful success.

“Dudes!” came a familiar voice, as Crowley and Aziraphale were considering where and how to begin cutting the massive, four layered chocolate cake. They turned and found Rat, who had dressed up for the occasion in a slightly less dingy-looking suit and had clearly combed his ear-like points of hair until they were smooth and shiny. “Thank you so much for the invitation,” he said. “That was really decent of you.”

Aziraphale smiled. “Well, we are very grateful to you for the help,” he said. “Seemed like the least we could do was invite you to the party.”

Crowley nodded agreeably. “We are,” he said. “Enjoy yourself!”

“I brought a couple of my friends from the secretarial pool,” Rat said, pointing off to the side behind him. “Don’t worry,” he hurried to assure them as he saw Crowley’s eyebrows go up. “They won’t do anything to cause any problems. They’re HUGE fans of the yours, man.”

Crowley and Aziraphale followed his pointing arm to a cluster of three small, intimidated looking demons who were clustered around a single white plate and nervously poking at various appetizers as if they might be alive. When they saw Crowley looking at them, they each raised a hand and waved shyly, with smiles ranging from starstruck to terrified.

Crowley groaned and waved back, trying to ignore the way Aziraphale was grinning at him. He bid goodbye to Rat with a pat on the arm and literally pulled the angel away from the secretarial demons’ line of sight.

“I don’t want to hear a single word about that,” he warned him. “I mean it.”

Aziraphale giggled – he actually giggled, the bastard – but he made a locking gesture over his lips and tucked the imaginary key in his pocket. He knew beyond the shadow of a doubt that the existence of Crowley’s fan club was something he was going to get mileage out of for years to come. He could wait.

Crowley, knowing exactly what his spouse was thinking, pulled him out onto the dance floor to distract him. He pulled the angel close and laid a hand on the small of his back. Distraction accomplished, he thought, as the angel became soft and cuddly as they shared a couple of dances to the slower pieces that were being played.

Soon enough Anathema came up to cut in, dancing with each of them in turn, as did other guests, and after a while Crowley found he had lost sight of the angel all together. He scanned the crowd for him and was surprised to see a very familiar shock of blond hair jumping up and down to the beat of what Aziraphale would refer to as “bebop”, near the front of the dance floor. He grinned and made his way over to wrap an arm around the angel’s waist and kiss him from behind.

“Having fun, love?” he asked.

“Oh yes,” Aziraphale said, leaning up to plant a kiss on his cheek. “It’s almost as much fun as the gavotte!” He had ditched his suit coat somewhere, rolled up his sleeves, and loosened his bow tie. He was glowing with happiness and exertion and it was all Crowley could do not to eat him like a snack.

Second best, he decided, was to get his angel another glass of champagne. Which he did. Hydration was important, after all.

Then Crowley found himself pulled back into the fray by Adam and his friends, and he lost sight of him again.

Crowley found him a little bit later.

“Come with me,” he said, extending his hand. “It’s time.”

Aziraphale tossed back the rest of the champagne he was holding and allowed himself to be pulled out the side door and across the lawn. They moved away from the buildings and their light, and Aziraphale hand-waved a small miracle to dampen the light pollution from both the city and the full moon, so they could more easily see the sky.

Crowley had previous laid out a large, light blanket over the soft grass, and he plopped down on it and reclined onto his elbows, patting the space between his legs. “Come here, you,” he said. Aziraphale smiled and settled in, leaning back with his head resting against Crowley’s chest. They both looked up at the sky – and waited.

It wasn’t long before they saw the first one.

“Oooooh!” Aziraphale exclaimed, pointing as the first meteor appeared. “Did you see it? It was right there.”

It was the last day of the peak of the Perseid meteor shower.

“Oh, they’re always so lovely,” Aziraphale said fondly.

“I made them, you know,” Crowley said, quietly. “Well, I made the comet they came from.”

“You did?” Aziraphale said. “I don’t think I knew that.”

“One of my first creations, before the fall,” he said. “It was just for practice, making a comet. Baby steps. But I always loved it the most, because it was my first.”

“And every August, its trail of debris delights the humans,” Aziraphale said with a fond smile.

“Or frightens them,” Crowley said. “But most of us know meteors are good luck, not bad. It seemed like a good omen for starting a new phase of our lives.”

They sat silently for another twenty minutes, heartbeat to heartbeat, just watching each glimmering spark streak across the sky and feeling ineffably connected.

“Shall we go back to our guests?” Aziraphale asked eventually.

“If we must,” Crowley said, standing up and helping Aziraphale rise. Aziraphale gave him that soft, contented smile that he loved so much, and then they turned to cross the open field back toward the lights and music.

They’d only gone a few steps when a buzzing beam of light appeared behind them, infinitely bright.

They spun around, and Aziraphale instinctively stepped in front of Crowley in a defensive stance. Crowley might be the creator of the two, but he was the former soldier, and he knew better to let his powerless husband get in harm’s way.

To his shock and dismay, Aziraphale was met with the large, disembodied head of the Metatron.

"Greetings, Principality Aziraphale and Demon Crowley," he said, his voice pleasant but clinical. "I bring you tidings from the Almighty on this the celebration of your nuptials."

Aziraphale and Crowley exchanged a shocked look.

“May – may we speak with her?” Aziraphale asked.

"To speak with me is to speak with the Almighty," he replied, unflappable in his composure and certitude.

I bet this asshole just LOVES Gabriel, Crowley thought as he stepped forward to stand directly beside Aziraphale, shoulder to shoulder. He reached out and grabbed the angel’s hand. “What’s the message?” he asked.

"The Almighty wishes you to know that she bids you joy in your union,” the Metatron said. “Furthermore, she wishes you to know that she is moved by the selflessness with which you’ve both cared for each other in the light of the Demon Crowley’s altered circumstances. Your sacrifices and sincere, unselfish love have not gone unnoticed.”

Aziraphale cleared his throat. “Uh… thank you?” he said.

"Finally, in honor of your wedding, she wishes to offer you a nuptial gift."

The Metatron gestured vaguely with his eyes, leading them both to look up at a small, golden object that drifted slowly down from a point unseen. It appeared to be a box, Crowley thought, as it came to rest on the grass at their feet.

Crowley looked back at the Metatron. “What is it?” he asked suspiciously.

“It is a gift for you both from the Almighty,” the Metatron restated. “Do not dawdle in opening it, children. That is all.”

He faded away from sight.

They stood, staring wide-eyed at each other, then down at the golden box below them. Aziraphale, the first to recover his wits, bent down and picked it up, holding it away from his body as if he feared it might bite him.

“Should we go open it inside?” Crowley said.

“No,” Aziraphale said, shaking his head. “I think we should do this alone.” He pulled Crowley back to the blanket and they sat down, side-by-side, staring at the box still held in Aziraphale’s hands.

With unspoken agreement, they both reached for the lid and pulled it open.

A soft, golden glow filled the air, and a delicious aroma of roses became apparent. It took a moment to make out the contents against the glow, but soon Aziraphale lifted out a piece of parchment and a pair of small, golden cupcakes.

“Cupcakes??” Aziraphale said, puzzled.

“Cupcakes are for children!” Crowley said. “Didn’t we specifically say no cupcakes?”

“I believe we did,” Aziraphale hummed, unrolling the parchment. “’To a long and magical marriage’, it says.”

“A what?” Crowley said distractedly, still annoyed by the cupcakes. God and her ineffable sense of humor was getting on his last nerve.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said, grabbing him by the forearm with urgency. “It says to a long and magical marriage.”

Crowley blinked. “You don’t think…”

“I do.”

“No.”

“What else could it possibly mean?”

“Knowing the almighty,” Crowley muttered, trying to beat down a surge of something like hope and hating himself for feeling it, “nearly anything.”

“I think,” Aziraphale said quietly, “that we had better eat them.”

Crowley’s heart began to bound. “Should we, though?” he asked, peevishly. “I mean, should we really? Isn’t this just a bit too Alice in Wonderland for you? We’re going to take a bite and find ourselves too big for the Earth or too small to exist or fall down some kind of interdimensional rabbit hole and then —”

Aziraphale took Crowley’s face in his hands. “My dear,” he said softly, stilling him with his most loving look, “trust me. I have a feeling about this.”

Aziraphale had a feeling. Oh joy.

Crowley looked into Aziraphale’s eyes, his favorite sight in all the world, and noted the intensity of his trusting gaze. Every detail of the scene seemed to ingrain itself into his senses – the blue-black night sky still streaked by the quick milky spill of comets, the branches of the oak behind them susurrating in the warm breeze, the scent of crushed, warm grass beneath them, the gentle spill of music and laughter from the party on the other side of the field. The moment seemed to stretch and bend around them, infinitely, like they were poised together over a great chasm, deciding whether to fall.

Crowley shrugged, unable to resist both his love and whatever the hell this was, and picked up one of the confections. He crossed the fingers of his other hand.

“Ready, then?” he asked as Aziraphale did the same.

“Ready.”

And without further delay, they each took a bite.

Nothing happened for a moment, then Crowley felt a warmth bloom in his chest and spread through him. He felt its golden tendrils wrap around his physical being, then extend to his ethereal one. It should have burned, he thought, but instead it just felt like the most delightful touch of sunshine. It swirled through all of him and then it drifted away.

He opened his eyes to find Aziraphale watching him, an unreadable expression on his face. He almost looked, he thought, like he was praying.

“Did you feel that too?” Crowley asked.

“I did,” Aziraphale said, “but I think it was stronger for you.”

“Should I –” Crowley swallowed, unable to complete the thought.

“Try it,” Aziraphale said gently. “Try a miracle. The worst outcome is nothing’s changed, and we’ve already gotten used to that.”

Crowley stood and raised the hand furthest away from Aziraphale to snapping position and pulled up from the ground in his usual fashion. Something did happen, but his hand emitted only a small spark rather than the flare of fire he’d been trying to raise.

“Wait,” he said. “That doesn’t feel quite right. I’m doing something wrong.”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said carefully. “I think you need to try the other direction.”

Crowley froze. “I’m a demon,” he said. “I don’t pull my powers from Above.”

Aziraphale reached over and pulled Crowley’s now-clenched hand to his lips. “What if,” he said, “you’re something all together new?”

He placed Crowley’s hand in ready position at shoulder height and stepped back.

Crowley took a deep breath, snapped down, and then tossed a small, sparkling firework up into the sky over them. It broke into a golden chrysanthemum shape, and tiny gold petals drifted slowly to the ground around them.

Aziraphale gasped.

“I’m a DEMON,” Crowley repeated, desperately, feeling afraid and a little overwhelmed. “She didn’t just unfall me, did she? Because I don’t WANT that.”

Aziraphale frowned and scanned him with his more hidden senses. “I don’t think so,” he said. “You still smell like a demon. Pull out your wings.”

Crowley yanked his wings into their plane and Aziraphale caught his breath. They were still black and glossy, but sprinkled throughout them were tips of dove gray, just here and there, giving him a subtle, speckled appearance.

“What is it?” Crowley asked, craning his neck. “Oh, please tell me I’m not about to start really enjoying the Sound of Music for the love of –”

He caught sight of his wings and fell silent.

“Still a demon,” Aziraphale said, “or mostly so.”

“A demon who draws his powers from Heaven?” Crowley asked. “Who’s ever heard of such a thing?”

“You’re the very first,” Aziraphale said, beaming at him.

“What about you?” Crowley said. “What did you get?”

Aziraphale’s chin quivered with happiness. “I got you, fully restored, my love – what more could I possibly want?”

Crowley rolled his eyes, but gently. “Wings, angel,” he said. “Let me see ‘em.”

Aziraphale obediently pulled out his wings and Crowley circled him, observing. “Yours have changed too,” he said. “There’s some dove gray here and there that wasn’t there before.”

The angel looked thoughtful. “I wonder what it all means.”

Crowley took a deep breath and wrapped his arms around his husband. “We have, by my count, approximately forever to figure it all out, love.”

“As long as we figure it out together,” Aziraphale said. “Always.”

“Damn straight,” Crowley replied.

“I think it’s time to go bid our guests good night,” Aziraphale said. “You can miracle them up an endless supply of alcohol and we shall let the youngsters keep the party going until dawn. We’ve already paid for the cleaning crew in the morning.”

Crowley smiled. “And what will we do?”

He could hear Aziraphale’s answering smile even in the dark. “I would like to go home,” he said decisively, “and lie under the skylight in the bedroom with you and watch the rest of the meteors go by.”

“Home,” Crowley said, his heart as full as he had ever known it. “Home it is, then.”

#good omens fics #Aziraphale x crowley #ineffable husbands #anathema device #do you like really long fics?#with lots of tension?#well i might have a story for you

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legobiwan · 5 years

Text

Whumptober #9 (shackled)

TW: THIS GETS SCHMOOPY YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED. I RARELY WRITE ROMANCE BUT YOU KNOW, TIMES CHANGE, THEY COME TO AN END, FOR A START.

Fandom: Good Omens (Aziraphale/Crowley)

Notes: This not at all what I generally write, but these two have hijacked my brain in some weird ways. Less angst than usual, far more schmoop than I amn generally comfortable writing but it’s good to expand one’s horizons. Still grappling with these characters and universe, so thank you for bearing with me, the bar has been set high in the Gomens fandom, dear gods.

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To shackle (v.): to chain with shackles. See: shackles (n.)

Shackles (n.): a pair of fetters connected together by a chain, used to fasten a prisoner’s wrists or ankles together

Aziraphale hadn’t been there when it happened. He fought in the war, of course - everyone had fought in the war. The actual Fall had went by unwitnessed, however, save for the small tug Azirapahle had felt in his chest when Heaven had opened to that great maw, flinging no less than one-third of his angelic siblings into the impenetrable void.

No one knew for certain what happened after, and first-hand accounts from demons were rather hard to come by. Rumors spread - some had tried to crawl back to Heaven, they said, the enormity of their error made real by the loss of Her Grace. Others welcomed their Fall, dancing, reveling in the maelstrom of indignity and damnation, internalizing their pain to use as a cudgel against others. Still some struggled in the new order, neither desperate for a return nor willing to accept their new fate with open arms.

Soon enough, they all came to know their place, essences shackled to Hell, to their new master.

That, at least, had been the rumor in Heaven.

But Aziraphale had seen the angry, red welts on Crowley’s wrists and ankles in the beginning, and wondered if the rumors were true.

To bind (v.):

1. To tie or fasten (something) tightly

2. To cohere or cause to cohere in a single mass

3. To impose a legal or contractual obligation on; be hampered or constrained by

All things being equal, it wasn’t that difficult to summon and bind a demon. Aziraphale found this perplexing. For a mortal to summon and bind an angel - well, it just didn’t happen and woe betide the angel who found themselves caught in such an embarrassing (and dangerous) situation. One would think Hell might take better precautions, but if the multitude of accounts regarding demon-summoning in the 1800s were anything to go by, this type of activity was categorized more as an occupational hazard than existential threat.

Still, Hell almost always came out on top, as the humans did have a tendency to enter into ill-conceived arrangements with whatever demon they had managed to wrest from the occult plane. The maths worked out in Hell’s favor (between the two sides, it was widely accepted Hell had better accountants. The devil was in the details, after all), and the house always wins. Doubly so when it came to making bargains with the agents of Hell.

And besides, the humans - well, one generally didn’t call upon a demon to do good deeds, now did they? It wasn’t a net loss for Heaven - those sould had been written off the ledger years before Hell got involved.

(Not that demons were called on to do good deeds, in general. That was, excepting certain situations involving Aziraphale and one particular demon.)

Crowley had disappeared three decades into the 16th century.

And then one day, he staggered into Aziraphale’s quarters, complexion chalky, his hands shaking as he grasped the flagon of wine on the angel’s table, downing the contents in one long gulp.

“Where were you?” Aziraphale asked, hours later, neither he nor Crowley having moved from their spots on the floor.

“Summoned. Humans. Nasty business,” Crowley croaked, laying his head on the angel’s thigh. It took less than a minute for the demon to still, mouth open, snores soft as his chest rose and fell with a regular rhythm. Aziraphale wrapped an arm around Crowley’s chest, eyes shuttering closed with uncharacteristic sleepiness.

The next morning Crowley was gone.

To chain (v.): to fasten, bind, or connect with or as if with a chain. See: chain (n.)

Chain (n.): a series of usually metal links or rings connected to or fitted into one another and used for various purposes (such as support, restraint, transmission of mechanical power, or measurement)

Most humans used a calendar to mark time. Aziraphale, being an angel and therefore accustomed to thinking of events in terms of decades and not weeks, used Crowley as his personal calendar. Or more precisely, Crowley’s clothing.

Linens gave way to fitted garments. Heels rose, then tapered in concert with bottoms, which peaked and fell like the tides. And as fashion changed, so did Crowley, a serpent in new skin.

By the 1970s, Crowley had recycled his pants from the Victorian era (“Reusing pants, Crowley?” “Eh, everything comes back, angel. Besides, think of it as Sloth in action, er...non-action, this is. Why make the effort to miracle up something new when I can use something old?”) The long velvet jacket had been a nice touch, although Aziraphale had not been convinced by Crowley’s hair, and certainly not the mustache. It was during the contemplation of said facial hair (and how he might tempt - persuade, rather, the demon to shave it off) that the angel noticed the glint of silver, evidence of a long chain looped around Crowley’s neck. Aziraphale, having lost track of fashion fads somewhere in the eighteenth century, took it as another adaptation of the times and thought nothing more of it.

Except it was now the 1980s, and wide lapels and polyester had given way to egregious shades of neon and tight spandex pants that left little to the imagination. Cheeks flushed, Aziraphale was keeping his gaze trained on the demon from the waist-up, thank you very much, when something caught his attention. A raised outline, on the demon’s chest. If he concentrated, Aziraphale could hear the subtle scrape of metal against metal as Crowley sauntered through Soho.

By the time the 90s had rolled around, (and had thankfully ended the spandex era, there was only so much temptation the angel could withstand), Aziraphale had a working hypothesis.

“It’s nothing, angel,” Crowley responded to his inquiry. They were two bottles of wine in, inhibitions fading with the afternoon sun.

“Crowley, you’re been wearing that - that thing for the past three decades. You can barely keep the same style for five years! Just tell me what it is.”

The demon glanced down at his chest, silver links showing just above his collarbone. Crowley tucked the chain under his black shirt, not meeting Aziraphale’s eyes. “Why does it matter to you?”

The angel frowned. It didn’t matter, shouldn’t matter, but - two bottles of an exquisite Shiraz was making it difficult to remember why. It was something about consistency. Something about being marked, about the symbolism. It was like wearing an amulet, or...Aziraphale’s mind searched for an appropriate metaphor.

Or like a wedding ring, he supposed.

Crowley sagged in his chair.

“It’s Hell, angel.”

“What?” Aziraphale’s stomach sank.

“I mean, literally, Hell’s idea. A way, uh,” Crowley pulled at his collar, muttering at the floor. “A way of reminding me who I belong to.”

Oh.

“Crowley, this isn’t some kind of punishment, is it?” Aziraphale bit his lip, casting his eyes upwards. “For our, uh - you know?”

“Oh, well. No, I mean. The Arrangement - no one knows you’re involved, angel, don’t worry.” Crowley made a show of looking at his watch. It was new, large, and incredibly fancy. “Oh hey, look at the time, angel, I’d better be going.” The demon was already halfway across the room by the time he finished the sentence.

“Still on for the theater tomorrow?” Crowley called over his shoulder, jacket crumpled over his arm.

“Yes, but Crow - “

“Super! Great! See you later, angel.”

The door slammed shut.

“No one knows you’re involved, angel.”

But Crowley hadn’t said Hell didn’t suspect one of their own.

To cuff (v.): to handcuff. See: handcuff (v.)

To handcuff (v.):

1. to apply handcuffs

2. to hold in check; to make ineffective or powerless

They had both been cuffed, dragged to their respective organizations, wrists locked together, hands immobile, rough, celestial and demonic rope playing the part of handcuffs. An angel in the guise of a devil, at the mercy of Hell’s whims. A devil, masquerading as an angel, offering himself to a second Judgement.

A simple snap would have broken their bonds. The line between angel and demon was not the thick, measured boundary both sides pretended (they were of the same original stock, after all), but in this case, there was an important difference. Simply put, bindings for an angel would not contain a demon and vice versa.

There had been no other choice but to go ahead with the plan. If they ran, Heaven and Hell would follow, track them through every city, star system, every nebula of the universe. If they went to their respective offices as themselves, feigning contrition, they would be destroyed. And fighting, no matter how much Crowley protested otherwise, was not an option.

And so they went willingly, bound not in body, but to the promise they made each other.

To hold (v.):

1. to support in a particular position or keep from falling or moving

2. to cover (a part of the body) with one or both hands (as for protection or comfort)

3. to have or maintain in the grasp

It took a week after the cancelled Apocalypse for Crowley to break down.

Nothing of note had precipitated the event. They had gone to dinner - an adorable French cafe nestled at the edge of Hyde Park. It boasted a crepe bar, truffle gnocchi, and a delightful Rosemary Vesper cocktail, of which Crowley had partaken of three before hurriedly moving on to the wine list with more frantic zeal than seemed appropriate for the occasion.

Still, the dinner passed with idle conversation and the scraping of silverware, an altogether pleasant experience. Bellies full, they ambled through the park, Aziraphale chatting about nothing at all as the London sun gave up its struggle to break through the haze of mid-winter, ceding its territory to dusk, then to evening’s dark blanket.

A few ducks huddled near the Round Pond, no doubt to find warmth in the cooling air. Aziraphale envied their closeness, his gaze flitting towards the thin, shivering figure at his side. Ridiculous, really, to be jealous of animals only acting according to their nature.

Crowley shoved his hands further into his jacket pockets, shoulders taut, high around his ears.

“Crowley, is everything okay?” Aziraphale worried at his hands. The demon had been - well, for lack of a better word, off the whole night.

“Mmnnit’s fine, just a little chilly out here. You know, sssnake and all.” Crowley shrugged, kicking at some loose dirt.

“Really, Crowley just - “ In two steps Aziraphale was at Crowley’s side, arm poised above the demon’s shoulders, protective instinct hijacking his better judgement.

Crowley’s eyes went moon-wide.

And then the demon deflated, burying his face in his hands.

“I can’t do this anymore, angel.”

The next moment were a blur. Hands grabbed at thick, woolen clothing, wet eyes found sanctuary in the crook of Aziraphale’s neck, mumbled, broken confessions whispered into his shoulder.

They were on the grass, Aziraphale leaning against a sturdy oak tree, a tangled mess of demon in his arms. The angel stroked the soft, fiery air, whispering nothing syllables as he held Crowley in his arms.

It’s going to be alright, he said. And for the first time in centuries, Aziraphale believes it.

To tie up (v.):

1) To restrain from normal movement.

Aziraphale tightened the final knot. The demon certainly wasn’t going anywhere. Not without his help, that was.

2) To keep busy.

The angel chuckled to himself, running a hand through Crowley’s hair, tugging lightly at the roots. They would both by rather busy for next few hours.

3) Preempt the use of

Yes, well, Aziraphale flushed. That was rather the point, was it not?

4) To connect closely

It was a gesture of trust, all of this, the way Crowley allowed himself wholly into Aziraphale’s care. It was a responsibility, a solemn duty, to be gifted with the small, glowing orb of Crowley’s trust, and Aziraphale swore to never breach, never break what he had been given. Later, he’ll wrap Crowley in his arms, when it was all done, when love poured from the demon in tired, euphoric waves, their limbs tangled together, cocooned by thick, soft duvets and softer emotions.

Aziraphale smiled.

To secure (v.): To make permanent.

Aziraphale held his hand to his face, silver band gleaming in the moonlight. Long fingers intertwined with his own, the metal of Crowley’s own ring cool against the angel’s lips.

“You’re trapped now, angel,” Crowley hummed, waggling his ring finger. “Shackled by a demon.”

Aziraphale wrapped his arms around his husband’s neck.

He wouldn’t have it any other way.

legobiwan does whumptober

#WELL THAT HAPPENED #whumptober #whumptober 9 #crowley #aziraphale #ineffable husbands #good omens #good omens spam #yes i'm behind trying to catch up #i'm not sure if i will #whumptober might go into novemebr #i think i can churn out one more tonight but i gotta get to some applications first #as i listen to messiaen organ music #writing #the eternal struggle #honestly i'm not sure how much i like this one but i am committed to finishing this damn whumptober even if i do it late

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makumii · 5 years

Text

Good Omens Angst

I am kinda drunk but apparently this didn’t stop me from writing a small angsty thing for those two dorks.

This hasn’t been proof read and I am sorry for wonky grammar

Just a warning: this is ficlet takes place right after Az got discorporated and how Crowley deals with the loss of his best friend. So it’s pretty much all sadness and grieve.

Maybe I’ll upload it to ao3 once i get my account back

The bookshop is currently burning down, and he was gone. His best friend. His angel.

Crowley sank to his knees in middle of the flames, shoulders hanging in defeat. The firefighters outside were shouting in panic, since they didn’t expect a civilian to just run inside the brightly lit building. The demon ignored them. He also ignored the flames that started feeding off his jacket. ‘So, this is what it feels like’, he thought, ‘what it feels like when you lose someone dear to you’.

Next to him a bookshelf collapsed and sent another wave of sparks through the room. Crowley dared to look up from the ground to observe the once so beautiful bookshop. The flames swallowed everything. From rugs to ancient books. Nothing was spared. Not even his angelic companion, who he shared thousands of years with. Pain struck Crowley again. It felt like he was hit by a bus repeatedly, so he screamed. He was sad and furious and struck with grief and if it wouldn’t have been in his best friend’s sanctuary he was currently in, he would’ve lashed out, thrown stuff, set more things on fire. Right now, his only option however was to get out, to get away. He couldn’t take it any longer, so he ran. Out of the remains of the shop, out of Soho. He didn’t pay attention to the confused firefighters or pedestrians or cars. He just ran.

When Crowley stopped, he found himself in St. James’ Park. ‘Fuck’ he said. Memories of their time together in the park took away his breath. The picnics, the completely-unsuspicious meetings every other week, but also the times they fought. ‘Had minor disagreements.’ He corrected himself. Crowley shook his head and slowly walked along the familiar gravel path. Some ducks eyed him, hoping he would throw them some crumbs. The ducks are smart, they remember who feeds them. The park was surprisingly empty, Crowley noticed, so he sat down on their regular spot. As he watched the ducks swim around, he felt a tear slowly trickling down his cheek. He blessed himself. Since when did he cry. Since when did bloody demons cry. He swallowed hard and once more shook his head. A couple walked by and looked at him with pity in their eyes. Crowley took a second to look at himself and couldn’t blame them. Ash covered him and his jacked had burns all over. Usually he would just miracle himself into a presentable state again but this time he couldn’t care less about his appearance.

Hours have passed, or it could’ve been mere minutes, since Crowley sat down. The serpent didn’t care. Far away he heard some glasses clink and loud laughter and he knew what he needed right now. Extraordinary amounts of alcohol. He reached behind the bench and pulled out a bottle of wine. ‘Why.. just why’ He took a big gulp, the wine leaving a bitter taste on his tongue. ‘Are you happy now?’ Crowley shouted facing the darkening sky. It’s nearing dinner time. Some days he would just skip it, but other times he tempted his angel to some nice dinner at the Ritz. Crowley appreciated these moments. They both could forget about their sides and the rules and just enjoy a nice evening out, being themselves. Occasionally the angel would even invite Crowley over for dinner and they’d prepare a nice meal together. The human way, no miracles involved. ‘No more meals together.. no more angel.’ Another gulp. By now the bottle is half empty, the alcohol doing almost nothing to Crowley so far.

He decided to relocate to a more private place. With heavy steps he started walking in the direction of his own flat.

The next few hours involved lots of alcohol and blessing and screaming. Crowley didn’t know what else to do. The place where humans had hearts physically hurt. It pulsed and tugged and tore him apart. When it got almost too much to bear he would scratch and claw at the nearest piece of furniture. When he had nothing but walls within reach, he would dig his nails in his arms and throw himself against the solid wall. He wrecked the entire place and it would need more than just one miracle to get this place cleaned up.

As the sun started to rise, Crowley cowered in a corner surrounded by a dozen emptied bottles and wrapped in his wings. At one point it just took too much to keep them in. All the anger and sadness and grieve got replaced by a feeling of emptiness. Crowley didn’t want to get up. He didn’t want to leave his cocoon and face reality. Maybe if he wished for it hard enough, he would get Az-..his angel back. But Crowley knew better than anyone that She didn’t answer wishes. She always played her own game.

He lingered in this position until late afternoon. Slowly he pushed himself up the wall, every limb and wing stiff from being in the same spot for too long. Shuffling through the bottles on the floor the demon made his way to the bathroom to take a shower. He avoided looking at the mirror, because as confident as he was with his current look, he also knew he must look like shit in that moment. Turning the water as hot as possible he stood there, staring at the wall. Memories from long ago hit him again. Memories of the first rainfall, the first storm. But also, how the angel shielded the serpent from said rain with one of his wings. Crowley caressed his own wings, feathers all ruffled. Not as neat as usual. On time he proposed to his angel the idea of grooming each other. Crowley knew his friend almost agreed to it. Almost. He turned off the water, dried the heavy feathers and put his wings back where they belong. Once he was done in the bathroom, he finally dared to look in the mirror. He truly looked terrible and not in a ‘I’m a big scary demon’ way. More in a ‘I lost all hope and will to live’ way. He took a quick tour through his personal space and decided he really didn’t want to stay in this miserable place any longer. So, he headed out and made his way to an old pub he once discovered in the middle of the city.

When he entered the shabby building, he earned a few distrustful glances, but also a sympathetic smile from the bartender, a middle-aged woman who knows the look of a heartbroken man all too well. She also made sure the drinks were coming and Crowley never had an empty glass. So, Crowley sat there, drinking and thinking. He sat there for hours. Once the pub closes the bartender politely kicked everyone out, except Crowley. This would hardly be considered a miracle, Crowley thought.

So, he sat there, getting more and more drunk. Slowly the feeling of emptiness got replaced by despair. No matter how much he drank this feeling would get stronger with every passing hour. At one-point Crowley stopped keeping track of time and just focused on not falling apart.

On the third day he finally broke. It was early in the morning and no one was at the pub yet, when the tears started streaming down his face and uncontrollable sobs echoed through the empty room. He cried and cried and couldn’t stop. Occasionally he stuttered words, unintelligible for humans since they were spoken in a tongue not known by men. But they would roughly translate to ‘They took my beloved’ and ‘why him’ or sentences of equal meaning. For the first time in days he also spoke his friend’s name out loud. Just a small word against the loud sobs. ‘Aziraphale..’

In his sadness he reached out to something invisible, hoping he would be able to somehow take a hold of his angel. But nothing. Crowley let his hand fall flat on the table and just started out of the windows he was facing with an empty look. It all had no point. What was he supposed to do without his angel, his literally better half. Tired he rested his head on the table, arm still sprawled across the table. He could almost hear the angel. ‘Oh, my dear boy’ He would say. He would also gently touch his hand.

Crowley’s eyes snapped wide open. ‘Am I going insane?’ he thought to himself. He felt just the slights hint of an hand on top of his own. He didn’t dare to look up. It was surely his mind playing tricks on him. But he heard the voice again ‘Crowley, dear’ it said while his hand got gripped a bit firmer. The demon took a deep breath and prayed, for the first time in eons, that this wouldn’t be another one of Her cruel tricks.

Slowly he rose his head and turned to the window. Sitting there, beautifully illuminated by the setting sun, was his angel. His Aziraphale. A gasp escaped Crowley’s mouth as he gaped at the ghost-like appearance in front of him. ‘What happened to you? Oh, I am so sorry’ Now the hand gently cupped Crowley’s face, who was still pretty much in shock. Slowly he got a hold of his senses and stammered out ‘I.. you…. the fire!’. Aziraphale only looked at him confused so Crowley tried again. He removed his shades and looked at his partner with swollen eyes that held all the world’s sadness and pain in them. And Aziraphale understood. ‘Out of all these years we’ve been friends I don’t think I’ve ever seen you cry’ His thumb caressed the demon’s cheek, as if he was trying to wipe away the tears. Swallowing down a big lump in his throat Crowley replied: ‘I never had a reason to. It may not have been easy for me all the time, but never ever has someone killed my best friend.’ The angel just gaped at him with wide eyes, realizing what his partner just said. Crowley grieved because he thought he was dead. ‘Oh, Crowley dear, I got discorporated. But now I’m back, see?’ he put his second hand on the other cheek of the demon ‘I just need to find a new body, my dear’ Crowley nodded slightly, slowly calming down and processing what has happened and that he got his angel back.

For the first time in eons he thanked Her.

#this is the first thing i wrote in ages please be gentle with criticism #good omens #ineffable husbands #good omens spoilers #kinda #my stuff

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quentinsquill · 5 years

Text

Fic: “It’s a Wonderful Pride” (The Magicians)

It’s a Wonderful Pride

Author: Lexalicious70

Fandom: The Magicians

Rating: R (language, brief descriptions of violence)

Word Count: 4,272

Genre: Canon divergent, crossover, (Good Omens) fic challenge entry

Summary: It’s pride month but Eliot, still grieving for Mike, can see little to celebrate about his sexuality. Can a fussy-yet-benevolent angel reignite Eliot’s flame and show him the light before he sinks into depression, booze and drugs?

A/N: This is for the @whitespiresarmory’s Armory Challenge, week two: “Pride.” I don’t own The Magicians or Good Omens; this is just for fun. Comments and kudos are magic, and as always, enjoy!

Read it on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19358269

It’s a Wonderful Pride

By Lexalicious70 (all_hale_Eliot)

“You really aren’t going? El, come on!”

Eliot looked up from his third glass of wine in 40 minutes to find Margo standing over him, her hands planted on her slim hips in a way that told him, (if he cared,) that she was annoyed with him.

“I’m really not going.”

“We haven’t missed New York City Pride in the three years we’ve known each other! It’s a bigger deal than our trip to Ibiza!”

Eliot closed his eyes and Margo hesitated before she sat down on the arm of the couch.

“I’m sorry. But El . . . I feel like getting away from Brakebills, even if it’s just for the parade, would be good for you!”

“Because I should celebrate.”

“It couldn’t hurt!”

“And what exactly am I supposed to celebrate?” Eliot drained his glass. “The sound of Mike’s neck snapping? His body rolling to the floor like some fucking marionette with its strings cut? My complete naivety about our relationship?”

Margo’s upper lip thinned out and she nodded.

“Okay. I get that you’re mourning, and maybe I even get your necessity to literally turn into a living wine decanter. But I’ve told you already, El, that what happened wasn’t your fault! How long are you going to torture yourself over this?”

Eliot swung to his feet, picked up his glass, and took refuge behind the cottage bar.

“I’ll get back to you on that.”

Margo threw her hands in the air.

“Fine. Skip Pride, start denying who you are, marry a nice girl from Yonkers! I’ll be in the city if you change your mind.” She turned and swept up the steps and Eliot poured himself another glass of Chardonnay before returning to his prone position on the couch. Some wine slopped out of the glass and stained his paisley shirtsleeve and he frowned at the affront before taking a long draw on the glass.

“Maybe I will marry a nice girl from Yonkers,” Eliot muttered as people began to filter out of the cottage, leaving it silent. His hand tightened around the glass and he resisted the urge to hurl it against the nearest wall. “Fuck knows it’d be simpler than—” He made a vague gesture to the empty air and drained the glass. His stomach clenched in protest and he frowned at it. “Oh, nut up. I’ve put you through worse.” He set the glass aside and threw an arm over his eyes to block out the sun pouring through the cottage windows. His pulse pounded in his ears, but the sound of his abused body was infinitely more preferable to the sound Mike’s neck made when Eliot had twisted his head around, like stepping on a dry tree branch on a November hiking trail. Eliot heard it all the time, as if the echo had imprinted itself on his brain synapses and played constantly on a hesitant loop that ground out the sound, a faceless something that cranked a distorted hurdy-gurdy of loss in Eliot’s ear each time silence ruled his senses.

“Oh my,” a voice said in Eliot’s ear, “have I been sent to Clutter Cottage? But Druridge Bay is so damp!”

“Fucking—!” Eliot yelped, sitting up, his sock-clad feet drumming on the couch cushions. He turned, the room slightly out of focus, to find a slight, and rather fussy-looking man staring around the common room. He wore his curly pale blond hair short and stood before Eliot in tan slacks, a blue button down and a brown vest, a cream-colored waistcoat, and a wide plaid bowtie that might have looked silly on anyone else, but this man wore it as if it were as much a part of him as his skin. It was impossible to guess his age. He didn’t seem to notice that Eliot had spoken.

“It’s so glaringly bohemian,” the little man continued. “Rather too much so for Northumberland!”

Eliot blinked to assure himself he wasn’t sliding into the hallucinatory stages of acute alcohol poisoning.

“I’m sorry? I wasn’t—who are you, exactly?” He asked, and the man gave him a benevolent smile.

“I do apologize for not introducing myself. I was just rather surprised to be called here so suddenly.”

“Called? Who called you? Was it Margo?” Eliot asked, wondering in a dazed sort of way if she had called some sort of AA wingman or grief counselor before leaving for the city. The man shook his head.

“My supervisors. You may call me Aziraphale, and you, dear boy, would be Eliot Waugh, correct?”

“Yes,” Eliot nodded, the man’s correct way of speaking and upper-class British accent cutting through some of his drunkenness. It reminded him of the way some of the professors at Brakebills spoke, as if they wanted to be British and constructed their sentences so instead of affecting a phony accent. This man, though, seemed to be the genuine article.

“Excellent. Well! Let’s be off then.”

“Off? To where?”

“To correct some misconceptions you have about your life, Eliot.”

“Miscon—I’m sorry, who are you again?”

“Aziraphale,” the man said with what seemed like endless patience. “Come along now!” He held out a hand and Eliot took a step back with a flat chuckle.

“Recent events would warn me not to go anywhere with strangers who might be disguised as the Beast.”

“The Beast!” This Aziraphale huffed. “Well! That’s—how rude!”

“Is it? Because I—wait, what?” Eliot frowned. “You know about the Beast?”

“I know of him because of my line of work, but to suggest that I go around disguised as him?” The man eyed him. “Despicable!”

“I’m sorry?” Eliot’s wariness made it a question. “I didn’t mean to offend you. I only meant . . .” Eliot blinked and lost his trail of thought as this odd little man caught his gaze and held it. The blue eyes held no trace of obvious wicked intent and Eliot realized they were kind—extremely kind, and in a way that threatened to slam through every alcohol-soaked brick of the multiple emotional walls he’d built since Mike died.

“I do apologize,” Aziraphale said after a moment. “There was a bit of a mix up, but now I understand. I am not your Beast, my boy, but you are as in just as much danger now from your own thoughts as you were from it when it attacked.” The man held out his hand again. “Now do come along, it’s getting late.”

Eliot reached out his hand and slid his fingers between Aziraphale’s, and the little man paused.

“Whoops! Can’t have you inebriated for this venture—” He touched Eliot’s forehead and a peculiar sensation filled his body, as if someone had discovered and flipped a reverse switch somewhere in his abdomen. The wine bottles he’d left near the bar began to fill and the drunken fog he’d been in for nearly three days began to lift. “There we are!”

“What—how did you—”

“Your magic and my miracles are somewhat related. Like cousins, almost. I believe that’s why they sent me. You feel as if you are to blame for Michael McCormick’s death—”

“How do you know about Mike? And I am responsible! I broke his neck! He was in thrall by the Beast and I—I murdered him!” Eliot wanted to shout, but it seemed the brazen, bitter attitude he’d given Margo had deserted him along with the alcohol.

“I saw it when I looked into your soul.”

Eliot tugged on the little man’s hand. His skin was pale and soft, with no evidence of calluses or the particular muscle tone most magicians had in their fingers and arms. No, this Aziraphale wasn’t a magician. He—

“Wait.” Eliot gasped out a breath that was tinged with jagged amusement. “Did you say ‘my miracles?’”

“I did.”

“So you’re . . . uh . . .” Eliot gestured with his free hand, and Aziraphale nodded.

“An angel.” He smiled and touched Eliot’s cheek. “You believe that the world you know would be a better place if you weren’t the person you’ve become, that your sexuality has been a blight on the people around you . . .that believing in Pride makes no difference to the future because you are contemplating cutting that short. But you’re mistaken on all fronts, and I’m here to show you why. Shall we?” Aziraphale made a slight motion with one hand and in a rapid swirl of color, Eliot found himself standing outside of Dean Fogg’s office.

“What are we doing here?” He asked, and Aziraphale nodded toward the door.

“You think your influence on others causes negative effects? Look there.”

The door to the office slammed open and Margo marched out, her expression set, thunderclouds and damnation in her dark eyes. Eliot took a step forward.

“Bambi? Hey, what—”

Margo never slowed. She walked through him as if he were made of mist, and Aziraphale watched.

“We don’t exist to them, Eliot. This is a universe where you never came to Brakebills, never had the courage to become who you are meant to be.”

“Your expulsion and mindwipe will take place immediately, Miss Hanson,” Dean Fogg snapped as he followed on her heels. “We do not tolerate theft of Brakebills property from anyone, least of all a first-year student who decides to practice forbidden magic!”

“You can kiss my ass!” Margo shouted, turning on the dean, her expression a mask of hatred and fury. “I don’t need this! I don’t need any of it! Mindwipe me? Wipe your ass, you pompous nobody!”

“Jesus,” Eliot muttered as Fogg called security and they hauled Margo away even as she continued to hurl insults at him. “What happened?”

“This is what would have happened to Margo if you two had never met during your first year. She arrived here brimming with fury and forging an emotional suit of armor no one would have ever broken through. But then she met you . . . your obvious flair, your refusal to settle into the background, it turned her away from all that anger, softened her edges. Because you would not accept a minor role in the Brakebills community, it caused her to become protective of you. And in that, she learned to curb the anger that would have otherwise shut her out of the magical community forever.” Aziraphale snapped his fingers and the scenery morphed; they stood outside a grimy building, its brick surface painted a fading urine yellow.

“Where are we now?”

“New Jersey,” the angel replied, “twenty years in the future.” He took Eliot’s hand and they walked through the aging wall. Inside, about half a dozen girls tended to what looked like a failing clothing store geared toward tween and teenage girls. Circular metal racks of clothing, their bases tarnished, littered the floor like elderly soldiers. The beige walls carried the distinct stain of nicotine, and a few customers poked through the merchandise, most of them being the kind of thirtysomething Jersey Shore-loving mothers convinced they could wear their daughter’s clothing. An office door banged open somewhere in the back and Eliot swallowed a gasp as Margo emerged. Her dark hair wasn’t so much pulled back as it was being forcibly strangled, and deep frown lines cut into her complexion. A cigarette smoldered in her right hand, and Eliot noticed that her fingernails, which she’d always kept filed and lacquered, were brittle, broken and gnawed to the quicks. Her dark eyes, ensconced between gaudy green eyeshadow and deep bags that cast bruise-colored shadows beneath them, darted around the room, unblinking.

“Rene!” She bawled, her voice lined with a rough edge of years of tobacco use. “Why the fuck isn’t that order out on the floor yet? Are you stupid and slow? Huh?” She cut through the store like a torpedo, the cigarette trailing out smoke behind her. The young salesgirl flinched.

“No Mz. Hanson, I’ll unpack it now, I was just helping a customer—”

“What you were helping was your useless ass out of my shop! Go on! Beat it!” Margo brandished the clipboard she carried and the shopgirl fled as she burst into tears. “Yeah, go on, cry about it on the unemployment line, honey!” She then turned her baleful stare on the other girls. “And what the fuck are you dizzy cunts looking at, huh? Get back to work!”

“That’s what Margo turned into without me?” Eliot asked, watching her slam back into her office, where they could hear objects being hurled around.

“Without you, she never learned kindness or trusted anyone enough to soften her edges,” Aziraphale said. “It was your bond that helped mold her into the Margo you know now.”

Eliot pushed a hand through his dark curls.

“That seems awfully cut and dried,” he argued. “Besides, even if I did influence her for the good, that’s only one instance out of many where it didn’t fuck up someone’s life! And—and then later, we . . . I mean, she and I, and Q . . .” Eliot felt his ears flush with heat. “I can’t say this to an angel! And anyway, isn’t God a homophobe?”

Aziraphale’s eyes widened and sparked with humor as he chuckled.

“Oh, my dear boy, no! Whatever gave you that idea?”

“About 90 percent of Christians I’ve met.”

“Ah. Well that’s the fault of those who wrote the Bible, you see. Many of our admirers believe it’s the direct word of God. But it’s the desires of men, Eliot, men who want to control and erase much of what the lord has created, especially those like yourself. It’s something we never quite expected once Adam and Eve were sent out into the world to raise humankind. Now. Tell me about this Q.”

“Quentin,” Eliot sighed. “We’re—well—I don’t know what we are now, since he says I ruined his life. And he’s probably right.”

“Well. Let’s go have a look, shall we?” The angel flicked his wrist and transported them into Margo’s bedroom, where she and he and Eliot had all shared a dalliance just a few days before. Margo was applying a vicious smoky eye as Quentin sat with his hands clasped between his knees.

“And it took me awhile to realize what I was so pissed about,” Quentin was saying, and Margo flicked a glance at him.

“I could have told you why, Q.”

“I know you could have, but I had convinced myself that Eliot fucked up my life that night because—because, uhm, well . . .”

Margo waited, busying herself with her compact, and then Quentin blurted it out in that stammering way that Eliot found both frustrating and adorable at the same time.

“Because I wasn’t upset about what Eliot and I had done! It—it was Alice, it was how she looked at me, the way she called me a whore, it—because I felt like one, waking up and seeing her sitting there! But before that, when I woke up and felt Eliot’s arm around my waist and his body up against mine, it—it felt right, Margo! The way our legs tangled together, the way he looked when he was asleep.” Quentin ran a hand over his face. “It let me know what I’ve been questioning about myself for years, ever since I went through puberty and developed a serious crush on my best friend James—and then one on Julia.”

Margo nodded.

“Congratulations, Q, you’ve figured out you’re bisexual.” Her full lips twisted up into a smug yet affectionate smile. “Welcome to the club.”

“What? You mean you—”

“Bi, pan, girls, guys . . . hot asses that go bump in the night.” She shrugged. “Call it what you want, Q. But El is your sexual lightning rod. Without him, you might never have figured it out and ended up with some frigid, narcissistic bitch because you thought it was supposed to happen that way. Or kept on thinking you were meant to be with Alice which, by the way, I think you’ve both figured out was the result of Mayakovsky’s fox spell, the bastard.”

“And what if El and I were just emotion magic and booze?”

Margo set her compact down and pinned Quentin with her gaze.

“Do you seriously believe that?”

Quentin scowled and tucked his feet up under his thighs.

“No,” He sighed. Margo brightened and ruffled his floppy hair.

“Good! And don’t sweat our sex, Q . . . I really don’t remember it and was out of the game for good once El came around and found you willing.” She rose from the bed and looked over her shoulder. “Want to come to Pride with me?”

Quentin lifted his head and the frown lines on his forehead smoothed.

“Yeah!” He nodded, and Margo rolled her eyes at him even as a smile curved across her painted lips.

“Then get your bi ass in gear, Coldwater!”

Eliot watched them leave the room together before he turned to his guardian angel.

“Is this something that could have happened, like the other thing you showed me?”

“Oh no, not at all. We’re looking at the present, dear boy.”

Eliot closed his eyes a moment as that night came back to him in flashes that burned with a halo of booze; Quentin climbing into his lap, his naked skin filling Eliot’s field of vision, their mouths meeting, the way the back of Quentin’s neck, slender and fragile, fit in his hand as he gripped it to claim Quentin’s mouth once, twice, who knew how many times. He glanced at Aziraphale and then away, and the angel smiled and touched his arm.

“I’m an angel, not a priest. You needn’t confess anything to me.”

“The way he reacted the next day, I thought I’d forced him. That I’d ruined his life because of my own selfishness.”

“No. He was embarrassed and guilty because Alice found him out. And if not for you helping him discover his true nature, he might have never found a path to happiness.”

Eliot nibbled on his thumbnail as he gathered his thoughts. They were more lucid than they’d been in days, but that sound, like the snap of a dried branch, weaved its way through them.

“I appreciate what you’re trying to show me,” he said at last. “But it’s because of who and what I am that Mike died. There’s no way around that—” He groped for the name and the angel gave a sigh borne of patience.

“Aziraphale.”

“Right! Aziraphale. Unless you’re going to tell me that Mike was the reincarnation of Hitler or the next mass serial killer, he didn’t deserve to die because I loved him.” Eliot felt the tremble on that last word and clenched his jaw. “And that’s what they want me to go out there and celebrate? That me being attracted to men got an innocent person enslaved to the point where I had to—” Eliot wrung an open palm over his mouth.

“Oh, my dear boy. You sweet child,” The angel almost sighed it, and his tone caused a crack in Eliot’s walls. The cracks began to leak and then they burst open slowly, like a decrepit dam giving way to the onslaught of a flood. The emotional impact caused Eliot’s knees to buckle and he slapped both hands over his face in one last attempt to stem the tide, but it roared forth anyway. He began to sob, rocking back and forth, all his personal wards and defenses blasted away. A rustling noise registered in his consciousness and then smell of something sweet and warm, like the return of a childhood blanket, filled his nose before it seemed to enfold him. A wall of white, its touch like the sweep of his mother’s chenille housecoat, drew him into it. Eliot found the strength to raise his head and found himself cradled in Aziraphale’s left wing. It was enormous and he welcomed it, burying his face in feathers that were at least each a foot long. He groaned softly, his sinuses clogged, an acrid taste in his mouth, like rotten cloves.

“I didn’t want to kill him!” Eliot cried into the soft recesses of the angel’s feathers. “I only wanted to stop him but then I saw what he really was and how the Beast had fooled me and all the pain, it was like it rolled out of me and . . . oh God, Aziraphale, I didn’t mean to kill him!”

“No, child. What you wanted to kill was the agony of what you felt when you realized your lover was held in thrall. But, listen to me now . . .” The wing tip dipped under his chin and raised it so Eliot was looking into the angel’s eyes, so infinitely kind. “Mike isn’t dead because of who you are. He’s dead because of what the Beast is. He is an evil thing, twisted beyond all comprehension. It was he who put the poor boy in thrall, and it was he who sent him into your path. Yes, perhaps he understood your desires, as many evil things do, and he likely understood the temptation a handsome gentleman with your interests and tastes would represent.”

“I should have seen through it!” Eliot cried, and Aziraphale smiled.

“Many people say such things after the fact. But that doesn’t make it true. I believe the Beast chose you because you’re strong, and yet you have a great capacity for love. However, you must remember, Eliot, that he could have sent a thrall to Margo, or Quentin, or any other person on campus who might have fallen for a person of another gender. Your sexual preference isn’t the reason that boy is dead, Eliot.” Aziraphale reached out and brushed a few tears away from his damp, chapped cheeks. “He’s dead because evil works in ways that are just as surprising and mysterious as the Lord’s. You cannot deny who you fought so hard to become. You cannot throw away your pride. And something at Brakebills is waiting for you. Something real, a someone who loves you. One you will have several lifetimes to know and explore—but oh, dear, I can’t give away too much.” The angel helped Eliot to his feet and then the wings were gone, tucked away wherever they were kept. Eliot considered his words.

“You mean Quentin—wait, did you say several lifetimes?”

“Did I?” The little man cocked his head and gestured the question away with a careless motion of one hand. “Well! Never mind. It’s time for me to shove on, now, I have other people to see.” He touched Eliot’s cheek with the gentle manner of a loving father, a touch the magician had never known before. “Go find your friends, Eliot Waugh, and remember that you must always fight to remain the person you worked so hard to become.”

Aziraphale was gone before Eliot could reply, but that phantom touch remained on his cheek. Eliot put his fingers to it and smiled before he left Margo’s room and headed for his own.

***

“So this is Pride? It’s, uh—it’s crowded!” Quentin shouted to make himself heard above the joyful noise of the parade passing him and Margo. She whooped and hollered as she caught a set of beads thrown by some passing drag queens, and Quentin blinked. “Are those men?”

“Yes, duh!”

“They’re so pretty!”

“That’s the idea! You’re such a dork!” Margo grinned and looped one of the shiny sets of beads over his head. Quentin rolled his eyes and then jumped as a long arm dropped onto his shoulder and a voice spoke in his ear.

“Anal beads? I hope they’ve been cleaned!”

Margo turned, her dark eyes wide as another equally long arm slung itself over her shoulders. Eliot grinned down at them, resplendent in black drainpipe jeans and a tight white tank top that spelled out I YNY. The heart gleamed with rainbow colors. Reflective Ray Bans covered his eyes and his dark curls spilled over his forehead in a way that was artfully careless.

“El!” Margo threw her arms around him. “You shit! You came!”

“What made you change your mind?” Quentin asked, leaning close so Eliot could hear him. It was as simple as turning his head, and his mouth met Quentin’s. The younger man’s dark eyes widened in shock and then slipped halfway closed as Eliot pulled back slowly.

“The thought of doing exactly that!” He grinned, and Quentin blinked.

“You mean you—”

“Yeah, Q. It’s more than booze and emotion bottles this time.” He took Quentin’s hand, entwining their fingers, and Margo turned away so Eliot wouldn’t see the glee in her expression. Eliot pulled them both close, kissing each of their cheeks in turn before turning his face up toward the sun. Long rays of sunlight were breaking through the clouds and leaving smeary wisps behind.

To Eliot, they looked like angel’s wings.

FIN

#Whitespire's Armory #fic #The Magicians #my fic #Good Omens

8 notes · View notes

nottodaylogic · 5 years

Text

light.

Summary: EVEN MORE OF THE GAY LOGINCE! With a special question bECAUSE @shootingace / @ohbytheangel and I have NO. SELF. CONTROL. WHATSOEVER. Based on a post by @today-only-happens-once and dedicated, once more, to @sanders-sides-thuri :)

Pairing: Logince

A/N: Takes place after sun., part 3/3 of the Logince Fluff series, written, again, with @shootingace :) this is the last part, super fun (and frustrating since I’ve never been to Olive Garden) to write!

@hghrules @becca-becky @tinysidestrashcaptain

Hope y’all like it! :D

The tile in one pocket and the box in the other seemed to almost, nonsensically, burn as Logan walked. They’d talked over this topic before, multiple times, so there was no logical reason to be nervous.

And yet.

“Date night?” he asked his boyfriend, kissing him on the cheek. Roman startled, accidentally mutilating the word he was typing. He just looked at it, betrayed. “I’ve prepared some activities,” Logan murmured.

Roman looked very excited. “Ooh, activities! I like activities!”

“I like you.”

Roman flushed, deep and red. “Aren’t you sappy today. What’s the occasion?”

“No occasion. I was simply stating a fact.” He hummed, extending his arm. “I have made reservations. Shall we leave?”

“Hold on, just let me finish this sentence.”

This meant “let me finish this scene because I have no self control and must write a lot even though there are other priorities.”

“Of course.” Logan dropped a kiss to Roman’s head and walked away swiftly to get his coat.

Ten minutes later, as he expected, Roman staggered in, haphazardly yanking his jacket on. Logan looked at his watch.

“Precisely on time.” He opened the door. “Come. Our destination awaits.”

“Where are we going?” Roman asked mischievously.

“You shall see.”

“Tell me? Pleeeeeease?”

Logan smirked, leaning in and pressing a short kiss to Roman’s lips. “Will that satisfy you for the time being?”

“Mmmm, I don’t think so.” Roman tugged Logan closer, kissing him deeply. He set his hand on the small of Logan’s back, like he was about to dip him, making Logan go breathless.

“Now will you tell?” Roman asked, pulling back.

“It’s a surprise,” Logan breathed, though he wasn’t sure how much longer he could keep it a surprise if Roman insisted on making him fall even more in love.

Roman leaned in and whispered, “rude.” He then dropped him.

Logan scrambled to his feet, thankful for his 18 Dexterity. “Hey. We don’t have to go on the date if you don’t want to.”

“No, I want to! It’s incredibly romantic, my dear. Surprises are exciting yet it’s so hard to wait!”

“As Virgil would say, ‘because you are an impatient baby’.” Logan guestuted forward, towards the car. “After you.”

—

Logan pulled into the parking lot. There weren’t many decent spots, but he managed to grab one.

Roman turned to him excitedly, seeing their destination. “Ooh, Olive Garden?”

“I come prepared to woo the server into giving us extra breadsticks to take home.”

“You’re the best.”

Logan blushed softly. “Thank you. Now, our reservation awaits us.”

They entered the restaurant and were seated right away, thanks to Logan planning ahead and making a reservation.

“Your server will be right with you,” the host said, showing them to their table.

Roman pulled out Logan’s chair dramatically. “Monsieur, your chair?”

Logan rolled his eyes. He sat down, pushing out Roman’s chair with his foot. “There. Now we are even.”

“You’re a nerd,” Roman said fondly.

Logan inhaled, ready to refute this claim, but instead said only: “I know.”

“Wow. And you say I have an ego.”

“It is true, why are you pointing that out?” Logan was confused and a bit flustered by how sweet Roman was being.

Roman snorted. “You’re adorable.”

“No, I am very serious. I am not adorable. Patton is the adorable one.”

“That’s true, but it doesn’t mean you’re not adorable.”

That’s when a server came up to their table, preventing Logan from protesting more. “Hey, I’m Remy, can I get you anything to get started?” He set a menu in front of the couple.

“Breadsticks,” Roman said, at the same time Logan said, “water, please.”

“Of course. Some waters and a basket of breadsticks?”

They nodded and Remy left. The two chatted about movies that they hoped to watch, the drama that Logan heard from his students, how Roman’s characters were behaving.

“I try to get them to do something! And usually, they’re pretty good with cooperating. Just, these past few days, they just… won’t.”

“Can’t you simply… make them do it?”

Roman made distressed noises. “But I can’t! It feels weird then, and out of character! Okay, okay, enough about my distress. Spill the tea that you hear from your students.”

“Alright.” Logan adjusted his glasses. “You will not believe what Lizzie told me Justin K. did…”

Roman clapped excitedly. “Ooh, that idiot Justin! What did he do this time?”

“Well…”

Logan told him, Roman’s grin growing, becoming more and more mischievous.

“So let me get this gay. He told this teacher, who was literally eight months pregnant, that he didn’t think women needed a maternity leave?”

“Mhm.”

“Has he ever been pregnant? Or given birth?”

Logan laughed. He loved Roman so, so, much. “Not that I know of.”

“Wow.”

“Yeah. I know that teachers aren’t supposed to have favorites, but Justin is definitely on my ‘not a favorite’ list. Not that I have any such thing.”

“You know, I think we’re supposed to be deciding what to order right now,” Roman mentioned.

“As if you don’t get the same exact thing every time we come here.”

“You got me there.”

“That’s a meme.”

“You got me there.”

Logan stifled a laugh. “I love you.”

Roman smiled. “Love you too.”

That’s when Remy came back to take their orders. Roman ordered spaghetti and tomato soup. Logan ordered lasagna and a Greek salad. A chat and two baskets of breadsticks later, their dinner had arrived.

Logan ate his lasagna and laughed at Roman’s jokes, but the weight in his pocket—why did he bring the ring, it might get lost, he didn’t need it, this is illogical—was very present in his mind.

And worse was the nagging thought that Roman might say no. Of course, they had talked about marriage, but you could never be completely sure of an outcome.

“Something on your mind?” Roman asked, his foot brushing Logan’s.

Logan smiled. “You.”

Roman laughed. “You’re so sweet. It’s great.”

And with those words, that laugh, Logan felt himself drawn back into the moment, the fears of a future yes or no gone for the time being.

—

When they returned back home, Logan brought out the scrabble board.

Roman raised an eyebrow. “Not even gonna ask me if I wanna play this?”

“You’ve been bringing up how you want to play Scrabble for ten days now.”

“True.”

They set it up, Logan allowed his boyfriend to pick the starting word (LADDER) (“what? It’s the only thing I can do!”), and the game began.

“Your turn,” Roman said, gesturing to the board.

Logan set down the letters R, O, M, A, and N.

“Hey, no! That doesn’t count, it’s a proper noun!”

“I’ve let you get away with many proper nouns over the years. Cut me some slack.” Logan sat back, gesturing to the board. “You go.”

Roman put down O, P, and E to write NOPE.

Logan tried not to take this as a bad omen.

He then added L, O, V to the E in NOPE, making it LOVE.

“Awww, you sap,” Roman teased, swooning. “That’s so sweet.”

They continued playing, Logan adding FOREVER and DEDICATION to Roman’s words (OCEAN and DISBELIEF)

“Is something amiss?” Roman felt his forehead, looking overly concerned for the comedic effect. “You seem to be exceedingly sentimental today.”

Logan brushed this off with a, “It was simply what I could make with my letters and the board.”

Roman eyed him curiously, but dropped the topic. “Your turn.”

Logan wordlessly set down his piece, putting it right next to ROMAN, so that it read ROMAN, will you marry me?

Roman started to protest about how “that’s not in the rules of the game, Logan!”, but then he stopped, obviously having read the piece.

His eyes snapped up, meeting Logan’s.

“You… you… Logan.” It seemed he couldn’t say anything more.

Logan slid out his chair, dropping to one knee, holding the box with the ring in front of him. “Marry me, Roman Princeton?”

“Lo… Logan, oh my gosh. Oh my gosh.” And then he was out of his chair, too, stumbling towards Logan. He leaned down, taking Logan’s face in his hands, kissing him softly. “Yes, yes, of course, yes.”

Logan let Roman pull him to his feet, his arms around Roman’s waist, holding him tight. “Roman. I love you. I love every moment we’ve spent together. I treasure every memory I share with you. And I’d like to make more memories with you. For the rest of forever.”

Roman nodded, pressing his his forehead to Logan’s shoulder. “Yes,” he choked out.

“Hey, Ro, don’t cry,” Logan whispered, rubbing Roman’s crisp, clean shirt between his fingers. “Don’t cry.”

But he would be lying if he said that he wasn’t crying a little too.

Because finally, finally, he would be marrying the love of his life.

Because… because he just loved Roman so much, loved him so much that sometimes he didn’t know what to do with all the feelings.

Because Roman was going to be his, his, forever and ever and ever.

“I love you so damn much, Roman.”

“I love you too.” Roman pulled back slightly, holding his hand out. “You going to… you going to actually put that ring on me?”

Logan laughed softly and slid the ring onto Roman’s finger, then pull Roman’s hand to his mouth, kissing the back of it. “I love you. I love you so much, Ro.”

“I know.”

Logan laughed, pulling Roman close and kissing him. “You're wonderful, Princey.”

“Mmm, I know.” Logan stared at Roman, deadpan. “Just kidding, you are too.” Roman nudged Logan’s chin with his nose then kissed his cheek. “Love you. So freaking much.”

“Dance with me?” Logan asked, the words spilling out of his mouth before he could really process what he was asking.

“Where’s the music?”

Logan tilted his head. “Sing?”

Roman snorted. “Well, we need some sort of background music, Lo. I can’t sing if I’m gonna kiss you, and I’d very much like to kiss you.”

Logan blushed, his breath catching in his chest.

“C’mon, babe,” Roman said. “Music.”

So Logan grabbed his phone, pulling up the “romantic songs for my nerd” playlist Roman had made for him.

On came As Long As You’re Mine from Wicked, and Logan pulled Roman close.

They danced and twirled and laughed together, Logan falling more and more in love. Roman was so beautiful, so loving, and Logan got to spend the rest of his live with him.

“I love you, Roman.”

“Yeah?” Roman whispered.

“Yeah.”

“Prove it.”

So Logan twirled Roman, then pulled him back, dipping him and kissing him softly.

Roman let out a soft gasp. “I love you so much,” he murmured, tangling his fingers in Logan’s hair.

“Love you too.”

—

Later, they lay on the bed together, staring at the ceiling, tired, content.

Roman curled up on Logan’s chest, so beautifully exhausted. “How long were you planning to propose?”

Logan thought for a moment. “A little while.”

“How long did you know you wanted to marry me?”

Running his hands through his fiancé’s hair, he responded, “Forever, probably. I just—I never imagined my future without you. And then a few weeks ago I realized that why not get married?”

Roman seemed to think this through for a moment when he asked, “Why me?”

The question took Logan by surprise. “Why you what?”

Roman looked directly into Logan’s eyes. The expression there was raw, unable to be described. “Why did you want to marry me?”

Because you’re the only person I’d ever want to marry. Because you’re the only person I’d ever want. Because you’re stellar. Because you’re funny and sweet and dramatic and unique and loving and thoughtful and romantic. Because despite loving you, I can’t find the vocabulary to express all of this. “Because I love you.”

“Aww, Lo.” Roman reached up, kissing Logan softly. “Now we get to plan a wedding.”

“But first we should go to bed.”

Roman’s eyebrows raised as he smirked, and Logan only slightly regretted his phrasing. “As you wish.”

Logan blushed, but nobody could prove it, so what did it matter?

—

Logan woke first in the morning, a stream of light illuminating the room. He glanced down at Roman, snoring, the ring on his finger shining.

And Logan knew that they would get to spend the rest of their lives like this.

#sanders sides #logan sanders #roman sanders #logince #romantic logince #Logince fluff series #ajdkdkfhjs I love them aaahh #sabine writes #Sabine Creates #writing with friends

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artificialqueens · 7 years

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Older (Biadore) 7/? - nellie

A/N: We’re getting towards the end now. I think there’s only going to be one more chapter after this plus an epilogue, but the plot has changed itself on me a few times as I’ve been writing, so who knows. To be honest I’m not massively happy with this chapter and it’s a lot shorter than I planned, but I’ve had a bit of writer’s block so at this point I’m glad to just get anything written. I hope you like it anyway. If you get bored, you can count how many times someone says “yeah” in this chapter. I think it’s at least five!

When Adore gets home, she writes a list of all the ways she can win Bianca back. Then she reads through them and crosses almost all of them off, because stalk her and beg her to forgive me until she gives in isn’t exactly a sign of maturity and she’s trying to prove she’s grown up. The thing is, she doesn’t know how to make someone forgive her. She can be an asshole sometimes; she’s selfish and kind of immature and she has a bad attitude. But she’s also cute and a little lost, and nobody ever seems to stay that mad at her for long. “Coasting on adorable”, her mom calls it, as though she’s living up to her name. Adore is adorable and she doesn’t know what to do when that on its own isn’t enough.

She looks down at the list in front of her. The only two things she hasn’t crossed out are talk to Courtney and return Bianca’s clothes, which, she realizes suddenly, can easily be combined. Going to the bar to drop Bianca’s clothes off gives her a reason to force Courtney into conversation where she can hopefully prove she’s a changed person. Maybe Courtney will even encourage Bianca to give her another chance, she thinks. It’s a long shot, but Adore can’t help believing that love can conquer anything and it’ll all work out if she just tries hard enough.

It’s hard to decide what to wear. She doesn’t have an outfit that says “I’m heartbroken but I’m going to try to better myself instead of hiding out in bed crying”. She needs to look good, but not so good Courtney thinks she doesn’t care about what’s happened. She pulls clothes from her closet one by one until her bed has been transformed into a pile of colored fabric that she suddenly hates the sight of, before eventually giving up and settling on what’s basically her default look – fishnets, cutoffs and an oversized shirt that hangs off one shoulder. She does what she can with her hair and spends almost an hour trying to get her makeup exactly right, before checking out her reflection in her mom’s full length mirror. She looks fucking hot. Nodding approvingly to herself, she grabs everything she needs and then she’s out the door, hearing it slam shut behind her with a certain kind of finality that she thinks is probably an omen of something.

The nerves hit her when she walks into the bar. It’s busy, but Courtney still manages to spot her within seconds of her walking in and Adore winces at the expression on her face. She’d been half hoping Bianca had been too embarrassed to say anything, but it’s obvious Courtney knows the truth. Adore takes a deep breath and plasters a confident smile on her face as she heads over to the bar.

“Before you say anything, I just wanted to give Bianca back her shit. I thought you could give it to her for me.”

Courtney stares Adore down for a few long seconds before reaching over to grab the bag from her outstretched hand. “Fine. You have to go. You’re underage.”

Adore bites her lip. She’s not sure what she’d been expecting, but it wasn’t this. “I’m sorry, okay? I fucked everything up. I never meant to hurt her.”

“Look, Adore. I know you’re just a fucking kid, but let me give you some advice. In the real world, nobody gives a shit what you mean to do. Actions have consequences, you don’t get to just opt out of them by saying you didn’t mean it. You fucked up and you hurt her. Own it.”

Courtney’s right. It’s hard to hear, but she’s fucking right and Adore suddenly has to clench her jaw hard to keep herself from crying as she realizes that nobody’s going to forgive her for this. “She’ll never forgive me, will she?”

“Probably not.” Courtney can obviously tell that Adore is close to tears, because she softens a fraction. “If you’re looking for absolution, she’s not gonna give you that. You can’t force someone to forgive you just so you feel better. That’s not fair on her.”

“Have you always been this smart?” Adore has always thought of Courtney as cute, fun and a little ditzy. Now it turns out she’s some kind of relationship genius and Adore’s equal parts impressed and really fucking confused by it.

“Yeah.” Courtney grins for a second before obviously remembering their situation and quickly looking away. “You have to go,” she says again, her tone more sympathetic now. “I’ll give her the clothes.”

“Yeah. Thanks.”

Adore wants to stay, but there’s nothing more to say and she has the feeling Courtney will probably get her kicked out if she tries. So she nods a farewell instead and manages to make it out the door and halfway down the block before the tears spill over, ruining her perfect makeup as they run tracks down her face. She’s lost everything, and it hurts more than she expects as it suddenly hits her exactly what she has to give up. It’s not just about Bianca. For a moment she’d believed there was more to her than being a troubled, useless teenager with no prospects and no future. She’d seen into Bianca’s world and it had felt right. It was somewhere Adore felt like she belonged, more than she belonged at school, or at home, or really anywhere else she’d ever been.

But she doesn’t belong there. She doesn’t belong anywhere now.

She wipes her eyes, knowing she’s only making her makeup worse, but past caring. What does it matter, anyway? Fuck growing up. Fuck fucking everything, because Bianca’s gone and she may as well just go back to being the same old Adore. What’s the fucking point of trying? She’ll just wind up in the same place, so she might as well not bother.

Fuck it.

***

“Adore. I’m sorry, but you’ve been given ample chances.”

Adore tries to focus on what Principal Charles is saying, but it’s hard to focus and her attention keeps wandering. Occasional words filter into her brain, like potential, disappointed and reconsider. He hasn’t actually said the word “expelled” yet, but she’s been in this position more times than she can count and she knows it’s coming. She can’t even really blame him. She hasn’t spoken in class for weeks, let alone bothered to do any homework. She’s got papers due for every class that she hasn’t written and there have been two tests she failed for not doing anything but write her name at the top of the paper before staring out the window for the rest of the class.

She’s checked out. Fuck school, fuck her college plans, fuck everything. She was stupid for even thinking she could be anything else. She’ll get a shitty minimum wage job somewhere and live her life scraping to get by, knowing every day that she’s disappointed her mom who’s worked so hard to give her more. Sorry, mom, she thinks to herself. Guess I take after dad. Principal Charles is still speaking but Adore’s not listening anymore.

She gets to her feet in the middle of his sentence and turns to walk out of the office.

“But I really think that – Adore, what are you doing?”

Adore turns back to look at him, enjoying the way she can feel numbness spreading throughout her body, distancing her from this entire situation. “You’re kicking me out, right? I’m leaving.”

Principal Charles looks at her with what almost seems like concern. “As I was saying, once we meet with you and your mother we can talk through the options and ways we can best support you on this next step.”

Adore cocks her head, looking at Principal Charles with a distant kind of confusion. “No. No, I don’t think so.”

She hears him calling her back, but she ignores him. He doesn’t want to help her. All he wants is to make sure she can’t sue him later.

She opens her locker, staring at the contents for a long moment. There’s nothing in it worth keeping, just a bunch of books and half empty notepads, so she slams it shut, enjoying the way the sound echoes in the empty hallway. Let them clean it out later, she doesn’t care.

Adore feels invincible as she walks out the front door. If this was a movie she’d light a match and watch the building burn behind her, but she’s no arsonist and besides, Violet’s in there somewhere and she’d literally kill Adore if her face got burned off.

Violet. She’s the only thing Adore will miss. Sure, they might say they’ll keep in touch, but she knows how that goes. It’s just one more lie and Adore’s so tired of lying.

***

Adore is forced back to consciousness by the insistent ringing of her phone. She sees Bianca’s name on the display (yes, she should have deleted her number by now and no, she knows she never fucking will) and rushes to answer it, almost rejecting the call in her haste.

“Bianca? It’s three in the morning.” Adore’s voice is rough with sleep and she sounds every bit as confused as she feels.

“Did I wake you up? I had to… I miss you.”

Oh. Bianca is wasted. Adore can hear it in her voice. It’s the kind of wasted that makes you think drunk dialing your ex is a good idea, while protecting you from remembering exactly what you said the next day.

“You’re drunk, B.”

“So, so, so drunk,” Bianca agrees, every word crisp and defined in a way reserved solely for very drunk people who are trying to sound sober. “I miss you,” she says again, a slight whine to her voice.

“I miss you too.” Adore winces at the words, but she takes comfort in knowing there’s no way Bianca will remember any of it in the morning.

Bianca groans. “Why’d you have to lie to me? You broke my heart.”

“Yeah.” Adore’s voice is soft. She doesn’t want to have this conversation, even when Bianca is beyond trashed. “I’m sorry. You’re just really… I don’t know. I was selfish.”

“I hate you. But I love you, so I hate you more.”

Adore squeezes her eyes shut, trying not to let Bianca get to her. “Where are you?”

There’s a pause, as though Bianca is trying very hard to figure out the answer to Adore’s admittedly very complicated question. “I’m home. You should come over.”

Fuck.

A big part of Adore wants to take advantage of the situation. Who cares if Bianca’s drunk? They love each other and they miss each other and shouldn’t that be enough? But she knows it’s not that simple. Sure, she could leave right now and turn up on Bianca’s doorstep, but she can already picture the morning after; Bianca hungover and furious, kicking her out for a second time and screaming at her for being selfish and immature.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea. You know you won’t want me there when you wake up.”

“But I want you here now.”

“I know. Listen, are you okay or do I have to call Courtney to go make sure you don’t die in your sleep?”

“Fuck you, Adore.” Bianca is clearly trying for angry, but she misses the mark but several emotions and lands more on pathetic instead. “I was getting blackout drunk before you were born. Cause you’re seventeen.”

Adore laughs. The whole thing hurts, but there’s a funny side too and she can’t help herself. “You were getting blackout drunk when you were fourteen?”

There’s silence. “Fuck, I really was getting drunk before you were born. Oh my god. That’s gross. I’m gonna be sick.”

Adore hears a thump as Bianca unceremoniously drops her phone, and then silence.

“Bianca?”

Nothing.

Should she call the cops? Courtney? Her mom? A priest? What are you even meant to do in this situation?

There’s a rustling sound and Bianca thankfully comes back onto the line. “Hey. Sorry.” Her voice is rough. She obviously wasn’t kidding about the being sick thing, Adore thinks.

“You okay?” Adore asks carefully.

“Yeah.” Bianca sighs heavily and mutters what sounds like “fuck” under her breath. “I need to go.”

“Yeah,” Adore echoes. She doesn’t want this to end, doesn’t want to stop talking to Bianca, but she knows it’s not good for either of them. “Drink water, get some sleep. You know, all that.”

“Mmm.” There’s another pause. “Bye, Adore.”

“…Bye,” Adore says to the dialtone before setting her phone back on the table beside her.

She doesn’t think she’ll be able to get back to sleep tonight.

#nellie #biadore #bianca del rio #adore delano #lesbian au #high school au #rpdr fanfiction #submission #older

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tumblunni · 7 years

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okay HOLY SHIT

I just remembered that show Gargoyles that I loved as a kid, and I decided to rewatch it, and its SOMEHOW EVEN BETTER THAN I THOUGHT IT WAS?? Like holy fuck?? It has one of the best introductions to any show ever! Did I just never see the first episode as a kid, or did all the implications fly over my head when I watched it??

Okay so.. like.. I knew the PREMISE but I didnt expect it all happened in the least expected way! The friggin theme tune tells us that blablabla ancient magical guardian creatures fell under some sort of curse and now they’re revived in modern times, such and such, there you go a one sentence plot. BUT HOW IT HAPPENED HOW it happened oh GOD And like the show starts with a whole hour long flashback to the gargoyles back in olden times?? like thats a really bold move! usually in kids shows theyre like ‘you MUST establish the status quo/episode formula right away’. here we literally only saw two minutes of modern times america. TWO MINUTES! some person we dont know finds some mysterious monster. now lets throw that all away and spend a whole glorious hour establishing how much of an upstanding man that damn monster is, and how the universe treats him like shit. like weirdly enough it raises hype for the modern day episode formula even as it shows none of it?? it makes the audience think ‘WAIT WTF THEYRE NOT EVIL, OH NO WE ALREADY KNOW THE MODERN POLICE IS GONNA ATTACK THEM’ :< And then also we get ANOTHER HOUR AND A HALF of establishing the modern day status quo too?? theyre labelled on dvds and stuff as the first five episodes, but really this was just one big 2 and half hour movie premiere! i wish i could have seen it in its original form back when it first aired, i just remember that it was really hard to catch reruns of the multi part stuff cos toon disney had a lot of airing issues

anyway WHY IS THIS THE MOST AMAZING THING EVER?

okay

OKAY OKAY

Here’s our premise! We start off in some ambiguously set medieval kingdom where everyone dresses like a mashup of vikings and englishmen yet have scottish accents ok seriously thats kinda distracting And we’re introduced to this small castle kingdom that’s protected by mysterious guardian creatures of amazing character design. Like seriously i wish they didnt focus so much on this ‘all the main gargoyles have to look more human’ thing, the comic relief teenagers trio was my favourite and also THE COOL GRANDPA EYEPATCH GARGOYLE ok ok im getting offtopic So in this universe gargoyles are a sentient species of winged noble warrior doods, who just happen to have a problem of turning to stone in sunlight. And they protect these humans but the humans are all assholes who’re like WAH BUT THEY LOOK LIKE CHRISTIAN DEMONS THEY MUST BE EVIL even as theyre like.. mid-being-saved. Absolute dumbasses. And seriously YOU BUILT YOUR CITY ON THE GARGOYLES’S LAND! You should count yourself lucky their leader is Niceman Mc Patience who agreed to a peace treaty instead of kicking your ass. Seriously Goliath you kinda comprimised too much! It really fuckin sucks!! The gargoyles are like.. employed by the humans for no form of pay?? They get literally nothing out of it! Except less room to live in their own home, and constant degredation.

Okay so THE HUMAN CHARACTERS AND THEIR CONSTANT DEGREDATION

We’re introduced to the princess and royal vizier dude when the kindly knight captain is like ‘hey you should say thank you to the gargoyles, not me’, and she’s like HOW DARE YOU LET THE BEASTS INSIDE THE HOUSE! Like seriouslt the gargoyles arent even allowed to be seen by humans?? Theyre supposed to protect them every damn day but also should never speak and never have any form of rights as sentient beings. WHAT THE FUCK IS YOUR DAMAGE, MEDIEVAL DOODS?? So yeah here’s our brief summary of the everyone here: * Fucking asshole princess who acts like you let your dog shit on the floor if you give a friggin sentient being and king of another civilization the basic courtesy of being allowed to STAND INSIDE THE HOUSE * Cliche evil vizier lookin dood who doesnt really have much personality shown yet except being a sycophant to her anti gargoyle shit, and like.. from his character design you totally expect he’s gonna be evil. *shrug* * Niceman mc guardman who treats Goliath like a friend and is being all activist for gargoyle rights amoung the court. But also he’s really low ranking apparantly, and doesnt have any power to affect change. It seems that he’s been treated like shit by these royals for a long time... * One innocent nice kiddo who wants to hug the gargoyles for saving him, but his jerkass mum is all OMG HOW DARE YOU TOUCH HIM HEY EVERYONE YOU SAW THEY TOTALLY ATTACKED US RIGHT Like seriously he just fuckin tries to start a conversation with the younger gargoyles, and is all ‘youre my hero!’ and they have a nice talk that establishes a load of worldbuilding like how gargoyle culture doesnt have any form of names and Goliath only has one cos the humans gave it to him. Screw you, worldbuilding interruption predjudice mom!

Okay so now we have our premise, and we see some mysterious guy in a hood sneaking out of the castle to ally with some raiders who wanna overthrow the country and steal all its riches. Also a minor scene of the teen and kid gargoyle group being sent to their room for 'causing trouble’ even though seriously the humans started it >_> So like.. we all know where this is going, right? Its a pretty big omen when you give us a contrived circumstance for the children to be the only ones who can be safe from this impending catastrophe... And the voice was very gruff and deep so its probably not the princess doing this shit, plus duh she already has all the power so why would she need to stage a coup? Really, the question now is just what vizier man’s motives are for wanting to betray her!

... EXCEPT

This is where the story gets fuckin great, and also where My Soul Is Pained

hey guess who was really the traitor? its.... nice guard man! fffffuck its sooo creepy when the princess is running for help and she’s like HEY THANK GOD YOURE HERE and then he has this big slasher smile and reveals his plan T_T And like.. he’s still.. not really evil?? Nobody here is evil, except the personalityless plot device raider guys who just exist to set up this circumstance. The princess is an ungrateful predjudiced asshole, but she’s beloved by her human subjects and i mean., she never actually does anything evil, she’s just rude and nasty. And the vizier was a complete red herring and actually all his mysterious shit was just him hiding a crush on the princess, so he breaks down when he thinks she’s dead :( And then guard guy also wasnt lying about caring about the gargoyles. he tried to get them to leave so that only the humans would die, but then like.. his ambition overtook that one shred of loyalty he had to his friends. He thought he could get through all this without having to kill them, but when the raider guy insists upon it he ends up agreeing rather than lose his chance at stealing the throne. And then its really slimy how he’s all ‘BUT I DIDNT INTEND THIS ORIGINALLY, ITS ALL RAIDER GUY’S FAULT’ after goliath shows up and cries over the corpses of his family, like seriously what the fuck dude dont try and weasel out of consequences for your actions. But still it feels like he was once a genuinely good guy who just gave in to his selfishness and abandoned his morals?? And i mean its super justified for him to be angry at how he was treated by the princess, and to want to affect change in this society. WE WERE ALL ROOTING FOR YOU!! Seriously its so fuckin surprisingly deep to have some guy who’s a fakeout hero in the first damn episode. And some guy who’s a villain just because he stooped to any means necessary to carry out his once-heroic ambitions. Instead of changing society for the sake of the people, he’s sacrificing all the people just to gain the throne, and forgetting why he ever wanted it! SERIOUSLY HOW DID YOU MANAGE TO BE EVEN WORSE THAN ASSHOLE PRINCESS

so yeah then the plot just goes in SO MANY UNEXPECTED DIRECTIONS to get to the same expected conclusion! Instead of just being cursed by the bad guys, the gargoyles were betrayed by the one closest to them, while those bad guys all died innefectually offscreen. And the curse wasnt even an evil act! It happens because of a REALLY COMPLEX GREY MORALITY SITUATION, where the princess and vizier were gonna be sold off for cash, but then because the gargoyles tried to save them the guard guy decided to just execute them instead. So after their triumphant rescue of all the villagers, they find the vizier man sobbing over his dead love, and then he tells them its THEIR FAULT IT HAPPENED. And he doesnt want to live without her, so he makes a really stupid reckless decision and decides to attack the last few living gargoyles. And like RIGHT AFTER he casts the spell on them, he finds out the princess is still alive and its all oh Fuck What The Fuck Have I Done So vizier man tries to undo the curse, but his book of spells got damaged in the fight and (OF COURSE) coincidentally the page about curse lifting is gone. Cue fuckin Everyone Crying. SO FEW EVIL PEOPLE IN THIS STORY SO MANY EVIL ACTS DONE BY THOSE WHO THOUGHT THEY WERE THE HERO like even the vizier and princess realize they were wrong about their anti gargoyle bigotry after they have to see the consequences of it here but its just WAY TOO LATE FOR THAT

and then yo the EVEN MORE UNEXPECTED AND SAD BIT cos our protagonist gargoyle was the only one who didnt get cursed thats unexpected and he basically COMMITS SUICIDE TO BE WITH HIS FAMILY THATS KINDA MORE UNEXPECTED Well its more like a g-rated suicide metaphor?? Everyone thinks the curse will never be broken, so he curses himself too cos he cant live without them. And its really depressing cos even though we know they all eventually get uncursed, so many others just straight up died and also theyll never see their human friends again and also the castle is all destroyed so the fate of the kingdom is really ambiguous too?? we just know that the now-redeemed princess and vizier are gonna do anything they can to protect their citizens and atone for what happened. and they take the last few gargoyle eggs that werent destroyed, and promise to raise them with all of the love and respect they nevr gave poor goliath... and seriously they never say whose children those eggs were but he’s like the only person left who could have given them a proper gargoyle childhood. So like its morally grey that goliath is choosing death together with the people he knows, rather than living and trying to ressurect his dying civilization. i absolutely wouldnt blame him for it though, its not like suicide is an active choice, he wasnt exactly in his right mind at the time! But its just REALLY NICE AND COMPLEX! And raises a lot of questions about what will happen to these new gargoyles who’re raised by humans, how different would they be if goliath and co met them someday? i really hope thats actually a plot thats gonna happen, i cant rememebr ANYTHING about this show lol...

so yeah theres all the FUCKIN COMPLEX DARK MORAL AMBIGUITY IN ANCIENT ENGLANDSCOTLANDGERMANYKINDA and it is AMAZING and it absolutely baffles me how they ahve such great plots when other parts of the writing are kinda awful standard disney cliches?? like seriously they wasted so much screentime on Comic Relief: A Fat Guy Exists. Seriously he just.. exists. They show these really slow and overanimated scenes of him just.. eating things. not even exaggerated or comedic. he ate one pie, lets all make fun of him for twenty minutes but man, no show in the 90s was perfect, lol! this is still pretty damn great! AND VERY EMOTIONAL

oh oh oh and i didnt mention THE OTHER CRYING BIT cos the guard guy gets a cliche disney villain death, the whole accidentally falling off a cliff due to his own actions, so the protagonist isnt morally responsible for killing a man but then what makes it a really unique scene is that THATS NOT THE MORAL STANCE THE SHOW TAKES goliath WANTED to kill that damn man or, at the very least, give him some sort of punishment for what he’d done goliath has a fucking huge despair moment over the fact this villain man died and he wasnt the one who did it “you took everything from me, even my chance at revenge” cue ugly sobbing as this buff ass demon man screams at the heavens and cradles the stone dust that was once his damn wife what the fuck show why are you doing this to me

ITS REALLY GOOD

#blunni thoughts

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