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Do You Need Help? — Let's Eat Together (Straw Hat Version)

When the Straw Hats notice that you're having trouble eating, each of them decides to help you, in their own way.

I. Luffy

At first, Luffy tries to eat your food and you let him do it so that no one notices that you're not eating. But in the end, it's Luffy who notices that something is wrong. He pays attention to you, you're his nakama, someone important to him. At the end of the meal, he asks you if you are sick. You tell him no, you just have trouble eating sometimes.

Luffy has an idea. He pulls you back into the kitchen by the hand and searches for leftovers. He finds your favorites and places them on a cool plate, one with dinosaurs on it. Like Makino did with him when he didn't want to eat his vegetables, Luffy takes your fork and imitates an airplane to make you eat. You open your mouth and chew a first bite. Luffy smiles.

II. Zoro

Zoro doesn't understand at first why you're having trouble eating. Eating is a mission, he accomplishes missions. But since he cares about you, he stays with you even after everyone else has left. He divides your plate into portions to give you goals to achieve and rewards you every time you finish a new portion.

He's patient with you, if not a little awkward. If you start crying because you're moved by his gesture, he totally freaks out and thinks he did something wrong. When he realizes they're tears of joy, he blushes and mumbles that it's normal because you're his crewmate and your well-being is important.

III. Nami

When that happens, Nami takes you by the arm and leads you under her tangerine trees. You lie down together under the blue sky, your head on her lap. She gently runs her hand through your hair and plays with your locks for as long as you need it. You don't need to justify yourself, Nami is here for you.

Eventually, she pulls a tangerine from a tree and, after carefully peeling it, offers you half of it. Her tangerines are her treasure, but so are you. If necessary, she feeds you each quarter by hand, without ever forcing you. It's up to you to decide. When you're ready to leave, Nami kisses your forehead, her lips sticky from the sugar.

IV. Usopp

Usopp notices immediately, because silences are sometimes the loudest. He doesn't ask right away, not in front of everyone, because you're a brave warrior of the sea and you deserve to be treated as such. He doesn't accuse you, he asks gently and he understands.

The days after, he sits next to you, because a warrior shouldn't have to fight alone. He tells you beautiful stories, entertains you and amuses you until you finish your plate. Once you're done, he winks at you and you know you're not alone.

V. Sanji

It takes you a while to notice that Sanji has noticed. But your food portions are slightly different from the others, smaller but more filling. Sanji offers you snacks during the day instead of a big meal at lunch and dinner. He takes care of you silently, without expecting anything from you in return.

When you ask him why, (shouldn't he be annoyed by the waste?) Sanji tells you that he knows what it's like to have trouble eating. No matter the reason, whether it's "important" or not, it's just as hard. And you deserve help, no matter if you did anything to "deserve" it. It's his role as a cook, and a friend, that everyone has a comfortable relationship with food.

VI. Chopper

Chopper is worried about you, eating is important. He doesn't want to overwhelm you but he wants to help you. You're his friend. He knows you take care of yourself alone but that doesn't mean you don't deserve a little helping hand (or hoof). Doing things together is easier, and funnier.

He makes shapes on your plate with your food, he puts little paper umbrellas in your glass. Everything to make you smile and appreciate what you're eating. Of course, he offers you food supplements and gives you advice on what kind of food you need, but both are as useful and important as the other.

VII. Robin

Robin makes you a cup of verbena tea with honey, she takes her time to do it properly, without using her devil fruit. She sits next to you on the bench with your thighs touching, and she takes your hand in hers before gently squeezing it. She takes out a book and start reading, not pressuring you but silently supporting you.

Slowly, you start eating and Robin encourages you to drink herbal tea between each bite. She stays with you, from beginning to end, even if it took hours. If you ask her, she reads you a passage from her book out loud to distract you. She never lets go of your hand.

VIII. Franky

Franky comes to you when you've been working too long and forget to come eat. No matter where you are, he finds you. He built the Sunny with the crew that would live on it in mind and he knows all your favorite places. He sets a plate down next to you and takes whatever you were doing out of your hands.

You need to take a break, he tells you amused. It's important for your body, you don't have any spare parts. He reminds you to drink water to avoid any future headaches. And, with surprising gentleness, and your permission, he places his hands on your shoulders and massages the knot of stress between your shoulder blades.

IX. Brook

When you're the last one to finish eating, pushing your food around on your plate and not being able to eat it, Brook stays behind with you. He makes sure that you don't face your difficulties on your own. He doesn't want you to suffer. You're not alone, those who love you are with you.

He pulls out his violin, his bass, or even drags the entire goddamn piano into the kitchen if you ask, and fills the room with music and joy. The melody carries you to new lands, each note telling a different story. And Brook weaves them in a beautiful song just for you. Because you are worth it.

X. Jinbei

Without you having to say anything about your discomfort, Jinbei takes you out onto the deck, the sun warming your skin, the waves hitting the hull, the wind playing with your hair. You inhale deeply, filling your lungs with sea air. Here, the smell of food that made you want to throw up is replaced by the salt of the ocean.

You continue your meal on the deck together, in the calm and serenity so rare to your crew. Being outside does you the greatest good. You laugh every time the Sunny hits a wave stronger than the others and sea water splashes across the deck onto you. You think of suggesting that the crew have a picnic while the weather is still nice.

+ 1 Vivi

Vivi suggests that you learn to cook together. She's a princess, no one has ever let her hold a kitchen utensil. You have no excuse. You accept anyway. Getting permission to use the kitchen is easy, Vivi just has to bat her eyelashes, but actually cooking is another story. But you're allowed to make mistakes and Vivi always seems so surprised at your failures that it doesn't bother you.

With your friend, you slowly learn to cook and love the food you prepare. You even pretend not to notice when Vivi "subtly" makes you taste certain foods to take note of what is easier for you to eat. She even has a notebook. You think it's adorable.

+ 2 Yamato

Yamato makes everything around him fun. He has a vision of life so different from yours but more than anything it is his thirst for discovery that fascinates you. Every moment is an adventure and he never forgets to invite you to share them. He wants to spend them with you, have fun with you. Meals are no different.

He challenges you, trying to eat as fast as possible and competing with the biggest eaters in the crew. He keeps asking questions about everything, about the taste of food, about the method of preparation. Despite you, his curiosity gets the better of you, you want to know too. He makes eating fun, even when it's hard.

Fun fact, tonight I didn't want to eat but I told myself that Tony Tony Chopper would be disappointed with me if I didn't. So I ate. That's why fiction is so important, it has such a big impact on our lives. So I decided to write this little something with all the Straw Hats to help you eat if that's what you need one day. If you want me to continue this concept, with other characters, other fandoms or other situations, do not hesitate. I will be very happy to do so. Disclaimer: I did not write this story while envisioning someone with an eating disorder. So it's not an accurate representation because it's not meant to be one. I just tagged it so as not to trigger anyone. Also, I am not a healthcare professional. Take care of yourselves <3

[bireads]

i.

imagine a family; a mother, a father and two little kids. a white picket fence daydream, complete with apple pie and cut-off crusts and warm hands and a shadow of a monster in the corner.

ii.

imagine a family: two scared boys grasping at each other in a world full of nightmares, one small step away from alone.

iii.

imagine a family that doesn’t end in blood, a man as worn out as his baseball cap, a student turned prophet, a hacker turned hunter, an angel of the lord turned human; imagine a plaid-woven patchwork happiness carved away from monsters, a bunker underground called home.

iv.

imagine two tired men grasping at each other in a decaying world. a question arises: is it better to have loved and lost or never loved at all? — for even an honorary Winchester is already damned. rivers of red upon white knuckles and trembling fingers; family doesn’t end in blood until it does.

(spn hiatus creations | week ten ↳ bunker family )

[bireads]

Cas being cursed to only tell the truth.

Cas still mostly speaks freely with Sam as they work to unlock the spell, but he’s very careful about what he says around Dean. If he’s at all in doubt about what’s going to come out of his mouth, he keeps it shut.

“Why’d you even grab that damn necklace instead of me in the first place?” Dean says. “You must have been able to sense it was cursed.”

Cas says nothing.

“Why are you still hanging onto that bookmark I gave you?” Dean says. “I can buy you a better one.”

Cas says nothing.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” Dean says. “They’re just glasses, I need them to read, now, okay?”

Cas says nothing.

Dean takes Cas out to a diner to try to take his mind off things, and also possibly try to get to the bottom of the fact that since the curse hit, Cas has hardly said two words together to him.

Cas keeps very, very quiet. He’s doing so well.

Dean picks a fry off his plate, and then another, and then reaches over and switches their plates so that he can do the job properly.

“Why d’you never complain when I do that?” Dean says, when the waitress has taken their plates away. “Take your food without asking.”

Cas thinks for a moment. Because I don’t really get hungry, anyway, is what he means to say.

“Because I love you,” is what comes out of his mouth.

Castiel only hates the curse for around thirty seconds longer. Ten for Dean to get over the shock. Ten more for Dean to really get over the shock. Ten more for Dean to say Cas, and reach over the table, and grab his hand.

Dean kisses truths out of Cas’ mouth all night, until every single one is spilled. I watched you raking those leaves. I killed a thousand copies of you in Heaven but I couldn’t kill you, the real you, not ever. I would have stayed with you as a demon, as the king of Hell himself. Because I love you.

The curse breaks by the dawn, all truths spent.

The magic, however, is only just beginning.

[bireads]

Ask Dean about the best part of being in a steady relationship and he’ll probably grin and wag his eyebrows. While that’s not strictly speaking a lie, it’s not really the truth either.

Because it’s not the sex that’s the best part (though Cas is surprisingly awesome at that, considering his lack of experience). Not the lazy weekend mornings when they spend hours in bed, or the heated and desperate encounters after a successful hunt while they’re still high on adrenaline and so relieved that they’re both alright.

The best part is a habit Cas somehow picked up a while back. 

He’ll walk up to Dean while he’s standing by the kitchen counter, cooking or cleaning, wrap his arms around his waist and drop his chin on his shoulder. Then he’ll press soft kisses on Dean’s neck until he melts into him and he’ll say, “Tell me.”

Dean never has to ask him to clarify but it always takes him a few moments to work up the courage to answer. He’ll blush and his stomach will turn nervously, no matter how many times Cas does this, and eventually he’ll be able to mutter, “I love you.”

Cas will smile, lips still pressed against Dean’s skin, arms tightening their hold just slightly. And Dean’s heart will start pumping in anticipation, because Cas will always answer, “I love you, too.”

[bireads]

You’re in charge of assigning every child on Earth the monster under their bed. One child in particular has caused every monster assigned to him/her to quit. You decide to assign yourself.

[bireads]

7 or 11 jmart for the kiss prompts??

thank you so much for the prompt!! asdfgghjkll i swear i didn't mean to post a post 200 separation fic on the same day as you (i was actually working on this last night).

this is a version of the scenario i wrote in love letters where martin and jon are separated after 200. but there is absolutely no need to read love letters to understand this.

warning for discussion of the panopticon scene in 200, and for a moment of jon wishing for the Eye to return (limited to the first section).

7. “I’ve missed you” kiss & 11. “I almost lost you” kiss

Waking up without Martin almost feels like dying all over again. That horrible moment where Jon opens his eyes in the hospital, on the other side, and doesn't see Martin… he'd take being stabbed a dozen times over this. 

When he wakes up and finds Martin gone, he thinks he's lost him. That Martin's died, that he's trapped on the other side buried in rubble, dead because of Jon, and Jon's survived somehow when he really doesn't deserve to… or that Martin's alive, maybe, just maybe, but he's somewhere else entirely. One of the other worlds Annabelle spoke of, or their original world—which maybe Jon should hope for; Martin would have the others, assuming they survived, and he'd be safe from the fears, safe from whatever horrible things they've unleashed on this world with one quick motion of a knife.

Jon should hope for this, that Martin is safe and that he has the others. But he's selfish, and they promised together, and he misses Martin with everything in him. 

He's at a hospital in London, he figures out eventually. The hospital closest to where the Magnus Institute was, in another world. The nurse reports that they found him on the site where Millbank Prison used to be, and isn't that weird? And that they found him there alone. (Jon's throat closes up at that, his eyes stinging, and he pretends he's tired so the nurse will leave, so he can cry in peace.) Martin wasn't with him. Martin didn't come through.  

But after a few days lying in the hospital with nothing but his thoughts, nothing else to do, Jon starts to question this. They have no idea how this all works, the tapes and the Web and the crack between the worlds… Surely he wasn't the only one to come through. Annabelle Cane thought she'd come through or die, and if Jon came through… and they didn't find her where they found Jon, either. (Of course, maybe Annabelle ran off before Jon was ever found, but somehow Jon suspects she wouldn’t. She strikes him as someone who likes to be at the center of things.) 

If there's a possibility that Annabelle came through, and landed somewhere differently than Jon, then there is a possibility that Martin came through, too. That he is somewhere, here, and maybe he is alive. 

It's a small possibility. But Jon clings to it with everything in him. 

He can't Look for Martin ( or for Annabelle, really). The Eye is gone. If it is here in this world, it has left him. Jon tries to be grateful for this, and a part of him is—he's been reaching for humanity for so long, all while sinking further and further into something he never wanted, he should be beyond grateful that it's gone, that he is alive and can live, without fading, somewhere else. (Although a part of him insists it doesn't matter if Jon hasn't made it.) But after so long with the Eye as a captor, a safety net, a part of him he thought he couldn't cut away… trying to live without it is strange. It hovers like a phantom limb, something severed by the gaping scar in his chest. He keeps reaching for it, for the horrible comfort of Knowing, and he hates it, but he wants it back deeply. Wants it because he knows he could find Martin with it, just maybe. He keeps thinking, Give it back, just for a moment. Thinks, I'll use it to find Martin and then I'll let go, I won't ever again, I hate it but I need it, I NEED to find him…

It doesn't come back. If Jon is ever going to find Martin, he'll need to do it on his own. 

He asks all the nurses and staff, anyone he comes in contact with, if they've ever met a Martin Blackwood. Asks if there's anyone in his files with that name, or a name like it, begs the nurses to please look around for anyone like that. No luck there. Jon asks for a phone book and gets an odd look; he guesses phone books are out of fashion in this 2018, too. He can't do much while he's in the hospital, and he's about to give up hope on making any progress until he's been discharged. 

But then he manages to get a hold of a laptop. After days of asking, a nurse offers to lend him one, if he promises to keep it quiet, and not to exert himself.  

Jon searches the Internet for hours. There are dozens of Martin Blackwoods, actually, more than he ever could've guessed, and none of them seem to be Martin. He has to consider the fact that Martin may not have existed here—just like Jon didn't exist here, or doesn't seem to have, before they woke up. Which will make it nearly impossible to find him using the Internet—using anything, until Martin has been here long enough to establish a paper trail—if Martin was ever even here in the first place… 

Desperation. Panic. Jon's last resort is to write a letter. To write down every single thing he's wanted to say to Martin, the things in his head when he woke up, the things in his head when he realized Martin wasn't here. He writes it all, says the things he knows only Martin would know, so Martin will know it's him if he ever reads it. And then he spreads it across the Internet. Posts it every single place he can think of. Every social media site. A lot of forums that are frequently visited. Comments on blogs he thinks Martin might read. Anywhere he can think of. He even prints off copies and mails them to every address he can think of that Martin might be at: his Prentiss flat, his post-Prentiss flat, his mum's care home, Upton House, the safehouse. He puts his real name on it, at the very top, and Martin's, hoping that if Martin is searching on the Internet, it might come up…

Jon's desperate. He'll try anything,  any desperate, silly scheme like spreading a love note all over the Internet. Anything to get Martin back.

-

By the time Jon leaves the hospital, his letter has gone viral. Plastered all over the place. There's people picking it apart, speculating about whether it's real, calling it an excellent work of fiction, speculating it's all a joke. There's even some commentary from other Jonathan Simses and Martin Blackwoods, swearing it's of no relation to them. 

None of it is what Jon needs. He checks every iteration obsessively: every comment, repost, retweet. None of it is Martin. None of them are Martin. 

He's still looking. Every single day, he looks, in places beside his letter and its hundred iterations. He searches as far as he can, in every record he can think of. He tries to find places in London that he and Martin frequented—the ones he can find. He even goes back to the Institute, or where it should be. It isn't there, of course. Probably never was. Jon can't decide whether to be relieved or disappointed. 

It's all he can do, to look and to keep hoping. It's all he can do. 

It's hard, being alone again, after so long always being at Martin's side… They'd craved space sometimes, and they'd had it, he supposes, but now… Weeks without Martin, one, two, three weeks, and it's excruciating. Jon had said together at the end, he'd promised , and he'd tried so hard to believe it, and now he's here, impossibly, alone. 

He has nightmares almost every night. Nightmares of the Panopticon and the end of the world, the ritual, words forced up through his throat—being at the center of the Eye, at the center of the world with Jonah Magnus at his feet and Martin dying in his arms. Martin forcing the knife into his chest. Jon hasn't dreamed of anything but the statements of others for so long, and he'd thought he missed it, but now… He wakes up almost every night shaking and crying, reaching for Martin. Like clockwork. He thinks he'd do anything for a dream that isn't his, a dream that's not an endless reminder of what he's done. 

He checks the forums. He searches in familiar places. He lies in bed and thinks of Martin, tries to look for Martin, silently begs for help from anyone who might be listening (the Web, the Eye, anyone). Nothing works. Nothing.

The reminders come like clockwork: Jon might be looking for no one, might be shouting out to someone who isn't there. Martin might be dead. It might be too late to get him back. 

-

Three weeks in, Jon finds a comment on the original forum, the original place he posted the letter on that first day. A comment from an m.blackwood . 

Jon reads it with his heart in his throat. Trembling with hope. Unable to hope completely. There's a dozen different things it could be besides him. 

The comment says I thought you were dead. It says, I'm sorry. It says, I love you, says, I'm coming. 

Jon's chin trembles, his eyes stinging. He fumbles at the keyboard with shaking fingers to instant-message m.blackwood, types out his address immediately, without thinking. (He has to type it out three times before he gets it right, his hands are shaking so hard.) And after that, I miss you. Even though he said it in the letter, even though it might not be Martin—it could be someone else fucking with him, a troll or whatever it's called; it could be the Web or the Stranger, luring him into a trap. But Jon doesn't care. He doesn't care. If there's any chance, any chance it's Martin… 

The reply comes a few minutes later: I'm coming. I'm so sorry. I miss you too. I'm coming right now. And Jon wipes his eyes, presses his face into his hands, and allows himself to hope. 

-

An hour and a half later, someone is buzzing for his flat. Jon runs so fast to the door that he almost slips and falls in the hall, hits the button with entirely too much force and breathes, " Martin? " into the intercom. 

Silence for a moment, long enough that Jon starts to wonder if this is just some random person he's practically sobbing down the line at. And then a voice answers, tear-choked: "Jon?" 

Jon nearly collapses with the weight of this voice, Martin's voice. He leans hard against the wall, his eyes burning, and says, "Martin, I-I'm buzzing you in," wiping his eyes frantically. 

He doesn't move from the door, stays leaning against the wall like it is the only thing keeping him up, until he hears a tentative knock on the other end. And then he's yanking it open, as hard as he can, and on the other side is Martin. Not something pretending to be Martin, not another Martin Blackwood, but his Martin. His Martin, standing there with the faded marks of bruising, his left arm in a cast and a new scar across his forehead, tears pooling in his eyes. Martin. Jon can't breathe for a moment, can't move, can't go to Martin because it doesn't feel real, none of it. 

And then Martin's saying, "Jon?" and bursting into harsh, frantic sobs. And Jon's rushing forward. He's rushing forward and letting Martin collapse in his arms, gripping Martin tightly, his fingernails digging into Martin's shoulders, his face pressed into Martin's neck. He's trying to hold on without squeezing or holding too tight, in case Martin's hurt worse than he knows—he's saying Martin's name over and over again, a senseless litany into Martin's skin: Martin, Martin. He's crying, too, hot tears dotting the fabric of Martin's shirt. He's burrowing as close as he can, pulling Martin into him, desperate to feel every part of him—it's him, he's here, it's Martin, they haven't lost each other. 

Martin's holding on just as tightly, trembling in Jon's arms where they've sunk to the ground, right in Jon's doorway. He's crying so hard, it's difficult to understand what he's saying, but eventually Jon begins to make it out. He's saying I'm so sorry. Again and again, muffled into Jon's hair: I'm so sorry.  

"No," Jon says, suddenly desperate. " Martin. No." He pulls back to look Martin in the eye, to try and wipe the tears off of Martin's face (even though he is crying, too). Leans up to press a kiss against Martin's forehead. "Martin, please, please… p-please don't apologize, please…"

"I killed you," Martin chokes out, his eyes shut, his dark lashes wet against his cheeks. "I killed you, Jon, I hurt you, a-and I… I thought you were dead, wh-when I woke up here, w-without you, I thought I'd never see you again, because of me… "

"I thought I'd lost you, " Jon says, quietly, through his own tears. He wipes the tears from Martin's face again and again. "A-and it really would've been my fault, because I lied to you, I-I was the reason you were up there… Martin, please. " 

" Jon. " Martin tugs him a little closer, burrows closer still, his face pressed into the juncture between Jon's shoulder and his neck. 

"It's okay." Jon kisses Martin's forehead again, his temple, his cheek, the top of his head. "Martin. Martin, it's—you're here, it can all be okay now…" 

Martin leans up abruptly to catch Jon's mouth with his. It's salty and lingering and desperate, every single thing Jon has felt in these long horrible days without Martin, every single kiss he wanted to give Martin while he was gone. Jon sinks into it, gripping Martin as tightly as he can, gripping onto his shirt, kissing Martin fiercely, with the panicked relief of being alive, of finding each other again. 

Even when the kiss finishes, they don't let go. They stay there, clinging to each other in the doorway, leaning against Jon's open door. Martin's still crying, still trembling in Jon's arms; he says, I missed you too, I missed you so much; Jon says, Martin, I missed you every single day. Every single moment. 

Martin whispers I love you against Jon's hair. Saying it back is as easy as breathing.

[bireads]

67 for the kiss prompts 👀

of course it's another safehouse fic! warning for some self-loathing on the parts of jon and martin. 

67. When One Stops The Kiss To Whisper “I’m Sorry, Are You Sure You-” And They Answer By Kissing Them More.

Jon's on the phone with Basira in the other room. Martin can hear the rise and fall of his voice through the walls. He halfway wishes he'd said yes to Jon's offer to put her on speaker—he wants to know how bad it is. Wants to know exactly how badly he fucked up when he followed Peter into those tunnels (in more than just the obvious ways). 

Jon's said it wasn't his fault. Said that this morning, over the eggs he'd scrambled on a whim that were going cold on Martin's plate, covering Martin's hand with his: "It wasn't your fault, Martin. It wasn't. I-it wasn't even just the Not-Sasha, it… Trevor and Julia…" And then he'd stopped, a pained expression on his face, and Martin knew he wasn't the only one feeling guilty for everything that happened at the Panopticon the day before. 

The reality of Jon being here is still so new, so strange, after not talking for months, for a year, what with the coma, and the Lonely… Martin doesn't think he ever even had Jon to his flat before this; he thinks he suggested it once, after a drink one night, if Jon wanted to come back and have some tea, and Jon had politely said no, thank you, with a look in his eyes that made Martin think maybe he was thinking about all the kidnappings. So, yes, this is the first time Jon's ever been here. After months of silence, months of Martin talking himself out of going down the hall and talking to Jon, telling Jon how glad he was that he's alive, how sorry he was that he couldn't stay, how much he hated this, every bit of it… After it all, Jon came for him. Peter's dead, and there's no reason for them to stay away now. 

It's a relief, beyond what Martin will ever be able to articulate, but it's still strange, after all this time. Waking up in his bed to find Jon lying on the other side, stiff and tentative under the covers. To find Jon in the kitchen after a shower, making eggs and tea. To have Jon halfway holding his hand. Even after everything—after that period before the Unknowing where they were really sort of friends… this is surreal in a way Martin can't really explain.

Jon had actually held his hand all the way out of the Lonely, all the way back to his flat. Had reached for it over the expanse of Martin's mattress and held on. Martin doesn't remember him letting go. He doesn't remember ever wanting him to. It's a good surreal, he thinks. It's good. 

Jon comes out of the kitchen, now, his hand clutched around his phone, his face grim. Martin startles a little, his hands clenching together in his lap. "H-how was it?" he says. "Is it… d-do they have any sign of…" (Basira had filled them in on Daisy last night.)

"No, no, no sign." Jon sighs a little. Sits down on the couch beside Martin, so close their knees bump together. He doesn't meet Martin's eyes. 

Martin feels a habitual lump of worry rise in his throat. "You can tell me, Jon," he says, in case Jon is trying to shield him somehow. "It's… it's bad, isn't it?"

"I… yeah. Yeah, it's not good." Jon looks at him finally, his expression suggesting that’s all he’s going to say, like he’s going to try and protect Martin no matter what Martin says. “Basira… Basira says they’ll blame me,” he adds. “Again. She says they were already asking questions, they… sh-she said they’ll be looking for me again.”

" What? " Martin's aware his voice sounds insulted, and he is, on Jon's behalf, framed again for murders he didn't commit. (Well. Jon did kill Peter, but. Martin's not mourning that, not at all, he deserved it, and Peter isolated himself enough that the police shouldn't be looking for him. And the thought of Jon being blamed again for something he didn't even do…) "You didn't do anything, h-how can they blame you?"

Jon laughs a little, quiet bitterness in there. "It's easy. A-and it is my fault, sort of. I'm the one who antagonized Julia and Trevor. I'm the one who… who kept that stupid table, and then destroyed it and let that thing out. I'm the one who…" He stops. Winces, shakes his head a little. "I-it doesn't matter," he says. "Basira's sure they'll blame me. She says I need to get out of London." 

Martin latches onto that, his heart leaping in his throat. Maybe he has no right to be this concerned, considering he's holed himself up for months, ignoring Jon and working with Peter for a plan that didn't even do anything —but he can't help but panic at the idea of Jon leaving again, going somewhere else, somewhere where they can't keep him safe… Not that Jon isn't entirely self-sufficient, he's been fine all this time, he's saved Martin, and not that Martin's been doing a good job at all, considering everything, Jon came into the Lonely because of him and could've just as easily been lost, and it would've been his fault. But after everything… America, Ny-Alesund, the Unknowing, every time Jon went somewhere and Martin didn't, and something horrible happened, and Martin just… 

He tries to force the panic out of his voice, tries to speak levelly when he says, "Leave… leave London? And go where? "

"Scotland, apparently. Daisy has a safehouse that she… that she obviously won't be doing, and Basira said…" Jon swallows hard, looks away. "Well, she said I should leave right away. She said she would bring me the key here, and I should leave on the next train." 

"Oh," says Martin. A part of him is nearly shouting, Don't go, don't leave me here, but this is ridiculous, Jon has to go, and he can't ask… not after everything Jon's done… (But he doesn't want Jon to leave, he doesn't want to be alone again.) "I… y-yeah. Yeah, that's best," he says, because he can't, and he'd rather have Jon alive and somewhere else than arrested or dead, again, and his throat is closing up a little. "If they're looking for you, you should leave as soon as possible." 

"Right," says Jon. "Right, a-and I would…" He's staring down at his hands, intently, like he's trying to find answers in the lines of his palms. Martin is thinking absently that he does that, too, and isn't it funny how many habits he and Jon share that he's never realized, when Jon looks up abruptly. He's got an expression that's almost shy on his face; he says, "I-I was wondering if you'd like to come with me."

They're quiet for a moment.. Martin's staring; he thinks he definitely might be staring. His mouth might be hanging open. Jon starts talking again, too fast and stammering and anxious: "O-obviously if you don't want to, th-there's no obligation, of course, i-it's just that I… well, I haven't seen you for such a long time, Martin, and w-we just started talking again, and I… I thought you might want t-to get out of here, maybe, the Institute, it's… and I don't want you to be alo—" 

Martin kisses him. Leans forward, just like that, and abruptly kisses Jon, cutting him off mid-sentence. Jon makes a little sound, a punched-out gasp, and his hand moves up, resting suddenly against Martin's jaw. 

It takes a moment for Martin to fully connect his actions— Jon just asked me to go to Scotland and You just kissed him —and he pulls away abruptly. "I-I'm sorry," he says wildly, thinking I should've asked, thinking Martin, you idiot, just because he followed you into the Lonely doesn't mean he wants to… 

Jon's looking at him. His eyes are dark and wet and full of some emotion Martin can't place, and he's just looking at him. His hand is still on Martin's jaw, his fingers warm against Martin's chilly skin. Martin's eyes dart to the side—to Jon's fingers, his bitten nails, resting against Martin's cheek—and then back to Jon. "I'm sorry," he says again, and Jon shakes his head, just a little. Rubs a thumb over Martin's cheek. 

The gesture is enough to make Martin want to break. Just shatter in a dozen little pieces inside. He's not sure what to say—his brain, wildly grasping, comes up with, "Are you sure you—" And Jon leans forward, just as abruptly as Martin did, and kisses him again. Kisses him gently, sweetly, with a sort of underlying desperation that sounds like it did in the Lonely last night. We need you. I need you. His hands are still on Martin's face. 

Martin makes a little sound of shock. Fumbles up with shaking hands to cover Jon's hand with his, to grasp it gently and desperately (the way Jon is kissing him) and not let go. Not this time.

Jon's the one to pull away, first, just far enough to rest his forehead against Martin's. He laughs a little, nervous energy, and doesn't let go of Martin's hand. "You don't need to apologize, Martin, you…" He laughs again, quietly. "I'm very sure. I am. I've been wanting to do that for… quite a long time."

"Oh," Martin says faintly, his thumb tracing the line of Jon's palm. "You have?"

Jon nods, his forehead thunking lightly against Martin's with the motion. Martin chuckles. "Me… me, too."

"Oh," Jon says softly. He squeezes Martin's hand. 

Martin looks down at their joined hands (on his knee, now), leaning into Jon a little. (Just a little.). "Yes," he says, and there is no tremble, no hint of hesitation in his voice. He's sure about this, maybe the surest he's been in a long time. "Yes, I'll go to Scotland with you."

[bireads]

another post MAG 200 fic, sort of exploring the idea of jon and martin becoming entities of love, or at least entities to counteract the fears.

____________

They say you can find him on Old Fishmarket Close, late at night, usually in colder weather. He is as tall as he is thin, and wears a long, dark coat with a high collar, and a wide-brimmed hat, and though you may catch sight of a nose or mouth, no one has ever claimed to have seen his eyes.

Though he has no voice with which to ask, he deals in stories, and if you have one to tell, he will listen. He hears stories of fear, of pain, of loss. The kinds of stories that are most difficult to tell.

To be heard by him is to be understood, when no one else will listen. As you tell your story, he will carefully listen, and he will solemnly nod, and perhaps, if it is called for, he will reach out and take your hands in his own, hidden by gloves of silken black, though they seem human enough.

His presence, despite his foreboding appearance, is a comfort, in the way a melancholy song is a comfort. He hunches over, as though trying to hide his stature, and his movements are slow and careful, as though he is afraid of causing any harm or fear the likes of which he hears in people’s stories. He walks with an odd gait, as though pained from old wounds.

They say that afterwards, it feels as though a weight has been lifted from your shoulders. Your story is not forgotten; on the contrary, you remember it with more clarity than ever, but now he remembers it, too, and such a burden is better shared. They say that if you thank him, he will shake his head, but at the same moment he will clutch your hands in his, as if to thank you in return. And some say that, though there is only darkness beneath the brim of his hat, you can feel his eyes on you as he bids you farewell.

***

They say you can find him near the shore, on misty mornings, when you are alone and feeling it. He is easy to miss, unless you need him, and then he is impossible to ignore: his figure broad and heavy, his clothing soft even to look upon, his hands seemingly big enough to hold the world.

No one can ever agree on precisely what he looks like, the color of his eyes or the style of his clothes, only that perhaps he appeared just as you needed him to, in just the way you needed him to be. No matter what, they say, his smiles are always as kind as his eyes.

His presence is a comfort, in the way a mug of tea is a comfort. His voice, when he asks you what’s on your mind, is quiet and warm, and it feels as though you are confiding in the closest of friends when you answer him. He shares in your sadness, in your fear, in your anger, as readily as your joy. Sincerity seems to lie in his very bones.

They say that sometimes, he has a packet of biscuits with him, or a book of poetry, and he offers to share them with you. They say not to read the poetry, but the biscuits are always delicious.

He says at least three goodbyes before he leaves you, and though you continue on your way alone, they say you do not feel it. They say that afterwards, every stranger you pass on the street seems as though they could be a friend.

***

They say that if you are very lucky, you may find them together, under lone, yellow streetlamps when it rains, down alleyways, through the windows of dimly-lit apartments, in empty parks when a cool wind rustles fallen leaves. They will be standing face to hidden face, both shielding the other from unwanted patrons, carefully forming a space all of their own, in a brief place and time where their purviews meet.

They say it is best to leave them alone during these moments, but if you spend a moment to look, you may see the tall, thin one take the broad one’s hands, as the broad one lifts the brim of his hat ever so slightly, and smiles at whatever sight beneath he alone is privileged to.

And it is then that a streetlamp will wink out, or a shadow will fall across the path, or a car will pull up to block your sight. And it is then, they say, that you should be getting along. After all, they have more than earned their bit of privacy.

[bireads]

Jon’s acquired many scars in his lifetime. Most of them are visible.

After the Prentiss incident, he stopped looking in mirrors and started looking over his shoulder. The feeling only intensified as he collected his marks, and once he awoke from his coma, he couldn’t look himself in the eyes, frightened to find the monster he felt himself becoming gazing back at him. 

But at Daisy’s cottage, things changed. There was always someone around. Someone who wanted to be near him, someone who kissed each and every one of his scars like they were something precious and not something ugly, like Jon was a person and not a canvas for others to mark as they pleased. Until one day he stood next to Martin at the bathroom sink and brushed his teeth and saw himself, content and alive and human.

Now, though, in this universe that isn’t theirs, his body reminds him of his failure with one long, jagged mark. He almost weeps at the sight of it.

It’s to be expected. He almost died, Martin stabbed him. And though it’s healed, it’s left a noticeable, raised mark down the center of his chest. It’s the one mark he chose. The one thing that reminds him why he’s still here, with the one he loves by his side. 

It’s a mark that reminds him of his selfishness. That at the last second, he couldn’t go through with it. He passed this curse along, himself and Martin with it, and now he’s got to live with that reminder every day. What have you done to this world? What will you do?

It’s nothing compared to Martin’s reaction when he sees it.

One day, when Jon doesn’t realize he’s left the door open and he’s looking at himself in the mirror again, performing his morning penance, he hears a sharp intake of breath. He jumps at the sound and sees Martin in the doorway, anguish written in the lines of his face.

It’s not that Martin hasn’t seen it before. He was there with Jon in the hospital, helped him care for the wound while it was still healing. But now, scarred over, it’s just one of dozens of hurts, a tithe for the collection plate that Martin’s now paid.

“Martin,” Jon whispers as he watches him fall to his knees, looking up at Jon as if begging for deliverance. “Martin, it’s-”

“I promised I’d never do this.” Martin can’t bring himself to touch it, his hand hovering over the mark as tears gather in the corners of his eyes. “I promised I’d never hurt you, and-”

“It’s fine.” Jon takes the hand and cradles it to his cheek, willing Martin to look at him. “It’s okay.”

“It isn’t, Jon.” Martin’s eyes never leave Jon’s chest as his voice breaks. “It really isn’t.”

Maybe everything works out, and we end up somewhere else.

They’re somewhere else. It’s not a safehouse, it’s not a haven, it’s a broken, fractured thing but it is theirs, for better or for worse. One day they will talk about it without tears or screaming or accusations, but they haven’t found the right words yet. For now, Jon shies away from the mirror again, he makes sure the doors are closed and locked as he changes. 

He pretends he doesn’t feel Martin’s fingers trace the scar through his shirt at night, and he smiles in the morning when he makes them breakfast in this world that is not their own.

One way or another. Together.

[bireads]

What if:

It’s almost too easy, the way Jon’s rib cage caves to the knife Martin pushes into his sternum. Jon gasps, a last push of breath that’s half shock and half relief, before he slumps forward for Martin to hold him. Martin holds Jon close and, as everything breaks and falls around him, he looks at nothing else. He tells Jon about all the plans he’d made for them years ago. About the house and the yard, the dog and three cats. About the kids he thought maybe they’d deserve and the names of all their friends. About how he’d wanted to watch them go grey and white haired. How he’d never wanted this for them. How he hadn’t wanted to die alone. When the final stones fall he stops talking. He doesn’t start again.

What if:

Martin closes his eyes and wakes to a gentle humming and lights so bright he has to close his eyes again. Oliver Banks leans over him, gloved hands hesitating at his sternum. “Oh,” Oliver says like he’s surprised, “Hello.” The coroner’s office is all stainless steel, meticulously clean in a way that makes Martin feel sick. He asks for Jon. Oliver motions to a covered body on a morgue table. Martin can’t bring himself to remove the sheet.

What if:

Jon gasps back to life in Martin’s arms, scrambling against him for a place to hang on to. They’re both drowning.

What if:

Martin opens his eyes to a foggy shore-

What if:

Martin opens his eyes to a soft, sandy beach. The sun is shining overhead and gulls cry out in their plaintive scratchy voices. Jon’s hand is in his own, warm and real and gripping him back just as tightly. Jon says “Martin.” and his voice cracks. Martin pulls him into his arms and clings as desperately as he knows how. They only separate when familiar voices call to them.

What if:

Jon laughs, when the tower has turned to rubble around them and they both know that they’ve been freed. He can taste blood in his mouth, but Martin is pleading with him to hold on, just a little longer. So he does. He can hear sirens in the distance.

What if:

Their house is an old, rickety thing with stairs that creak and a roof that likes to leak when it rains too heavy and a garden out back that Martin’s arthritis has a tendency to protest. Jon’s chest has a scar, in the place right over where his heart beats and beats and beats. His hands are wrinkled and spotted with age, and every night Martin gathers them up in his own and presses kisses to every bit that he can. Martin will bring in the shopping and say “you’ll never guess what I heard” and every time Jon will hum and ask what he’s learned. Martin still writes poetry, about Jon’s hair like spun moonlight and voice of deep velvet. It isn’t very good, but neither one of them really care. There is no room for fear here.

What if:

Basira, Georgie, and Melanie find two bodies in the rubble of-

What if:

The room is white and they don’t know where they are. There is a large crack in the floor. They jump through it.

What if:

Jon wakes in a body that’s too young to be his. He has an interview with the Magnus Institute. He doesn’t go. He smashes every spider he sees.

What if:

There is a river, and there is a boat on the river. Two oars sink into the water before splashing back up, rhythmically. There are two bodies on the boat. They smile at each other.

What if:

Jon guides the knife to his heart with shaking fingers. He says “No. But I love you.” He holds Martin’s face in his hands and smiles as gently as he can. “I love you too.” Martin sobs. He doesn’t feel the knife. He does feel the kiss.

[bireads]

Cotton Gloves

This had been a mistake.

Crowley had stopped by to take Aziraphale to lunch, but he’d been busy.  Promised Crowley his time for an early dinner, just a bit to do first.  Won’t be but two shakes of a lamb’s tail, he’d said.

How Crowley always ended up in these messes, he’d never know.

Aziraphale sits at his desk, an ancient book spread out in front of him.  Unbound and undone.  His shirtsleeves are rolled up to his elbow, strong forearms on display.  Muscle and tendon and bone, such very human things.  Such unangelic things.  Such very beautiful things.

But what had pushed him over were the gloves.  White cotton.  Soft and fitted custom to the angel’s elegantly manicured hands.  He’d pulled them on slowly, sighing as he had.  Sighing like coming home, like comfort.  

Crowley wants to be the one to make Aziraphale sigh like that.

He watches gentle hands ghost of the curve of ivory pages, tender and reverent.  Watches Aziraphale pull things apart and stitch them back together.  Feels heat pool in his stomach as he watches.  Crowley knows he’s staring, Aziraphale knows he is, too.

Crowley wants to hold Aziraphale’s hands the way the gloves do, encompassing and gentle, made to fit.  If any hands were ever meant to fit Aziraphale’s, Crowley hopes to whatever or whoever might be listening that they’re his.  

He wants to feel those hands.  Wants them to ghost over the sharp angles of him the way the ghost over these pages.  Wants to feel them on his face, on his body, on other things.  Wants to be cared for the way Aziraphale cares for these books.

Crowley has never believed himself to be broken.  Fallen, yes - broken, no.  He is who he is.  But as he sits here watching those bookbinder hands, watching them pause reverently over a bit of red foxing on one of the pages…he wants Aziraphale to take him in those hands.  To remake him, to put him back together.  To let him touch something of holiness, something of divinity.

The book closes with a loud snap.  Crowley quickly schools his face into something resembling coolness.  

“Well, that’s enough for now,” Aziraphale says, turning to face him with that smile that lights up the dark recesses of what used to be Crowley’s heart, “so, what are you in the mood for now?”

[bireads]

where are the biscuits? asks aziraphale, rummaging around.

erm. crowley fiddles with the edge of his shirt. gone, i think.

you think? aziraphale straightens from the cabinet he’s been poking through and turns to face crowley. do you have something to tell me?

crowley swallows. may have… had some of your biscuits.

aziraphale raises an eyebrow.

all of them, crowley amends, unable to meet his eyes. sorry.

you finished off my biscuits? aziraphale’s voice is very low.

mhm.

and a gentle hand comes up to hold crowley’s chin. there’s no need to apologize. they’re yours as much as mine, you know.

crowley blinks. s’your kitchen, though.

our kitchen, crowley. ours.

but– food’s your thing. you got those biscuits for yourself, i had no right to–

aziraphale presses a finger to crowley’s lips. he smiles. i don’t mind, i promise. i’m happy you enjoyed them. that’s what they’re for.

yes, but– they were yours.

aziraphale shrugs. didn’t we say we would share our lives? i know you remember. you were there.

wh– at our wedding? yeah, i was there, angel. crowley’s smiling too now, tentatively reassured, going soft at the memory. don’t recall the ceremony including anything about biscuits, though.

oh that’s all subtext, aziraphale insists. definitely. i distinctly remember thinking of biscuits when i said you were welcome to anything i had.

is that so? crowley’s grin makes an appearance. i noticed you were eyeing the cake a bit.

aziraphale has a hand on crowley’s waist now, drawing him close. a bit? don’t undersell it, darling, i was undressing it with my eyes.

that was some cake.

that was some wedding.

yeah, there was one particularly dashing fellow up at the front.

two, aziraphale says primly, and crowley laughs.

i meant you and you know it.

aziraphale kisses him. i do know. you looked very nice too.

crowley lays a hand against aziraphale’s cheek. promise you don’t mind?

dear, biscuits were meant to be shared. i’ll be sure to purchase this sort again, now that i know you’ve got a weakness.

exploitation, crowley grumbles. i’ve married a monster.

yes, truly dreadful of me. which flavor was it? i’ll get the shopping list.

[bireads]

names, pet and otherwise

Aziraphale is studying the dessert tray, and Crowley is studying Aziraphale. This is as a sort of warm-up to watching Aziraphale actually eat whatever dessert he selects, which isn’t the kind of thing you want to dive right into without preparation, lest the sheer radiant pleasure of it burn your eyes out.

Especially if there’s any sort of sauce involved. If there’s a sauce involved it can, frankly, border on the obscene. He’d seen Aziraphale chase a last drop of raspberry sauce, once, that had run down his hand and all the way up to his wrist, and he’d pulled back the cuff of his shirt and licked–

It occurs to Crowley that Aziraphale has just said something to him, and also that he’s gone slightly cross-eyed. “Hng,” he says intelligently, and then, mentally shaking himself, “What?”

“Did you want something, Anthony?” Aziraphale repeats.

“What?” Crowley says again, bewildered, and looks over his shoulder, as if there might be someone called Anthony standing there.

Aziraphale, apparently giving up on him, turns back to the waiter and says, “He’ll have an affogato.”

“I’ll what?”

“You’ll like it.”

“Bet you I won’t.”

“Then I’ll have it, and I’ll like it,” Aziraphale says, which Crowley has to admit seems reasonable.

While he’s been bickering on autopilot, his brain has had a moment to catch up to events. He waits until the waiter’s gone to say accusingly, “Did you call me Anthony?”

Aziraphale gives him a blank look. “Yes? I know I don’t often, but–”

“Don’t call me that. That’s ridiculous.”

“It is your name, my dear.”

“It’s not,” Crowley protests. “I mean it’s like you and Fell, it’s just for humans. They don’t like it if you’ve only got the one.”

“You’ve been using it for five hundred–”

“Yes, for humans,” Crowley says again, feeling obscurely that this is an important point. “Not for you. You know who I really am, I don’t need a human name with you.”

Aziraphale stops in mid-sentence, and his face softens. “Oh, Crowley,” he says. “That’s– and don’t argue, please– that’s really rather sweet.”

Crowley shuts his eyes and grimaces. “It’s not,” he mutters.

“It is,” Aziraphale says, and favors him with a soft, glowing smile. Crowley decides that, allergic though he is to being called sweet, if it makes Aziraphale look at him like that, he may be able to suffer through it.

It does also have its pragmatic benefits; Aziraphale won’t keep arguing, he’s pretty sure, now that he’s decided Crowley is being sweet. “So you won’t keep calling me by it?” he presses.

“If you don’t like it, of course I won’t. But I can’t just call you Crowley when we’re out like this, can I?”

“Why not?”

“Humans think it’s a surname. People don’t call their–” Aziraphale pauses, and gestures vaguely.

It’s understandable. There’s not a satisfactory word for what they are, really, not in any human language. “Lovers,” Crowley suggests anyway, just to see whether Aziraphale will blush.

“Partners,” Aziraphale says firmly, blushing absolutely scarlet and pretending not to notice Crowley grinning at him. “People don’t call their partners by their surname. It would stand out.”

Crowley looks down at his own outfit, and then, pointedly, at Aziraphale’s. “Yes,” he says solemnly, “of course you wouldn’t want to stand out.”

“Crowley.”

“You could call me Mister Crowley. Very proper. Suits your whole Victorian aesthetic.”

“Yes, very funny.” Aziraphale glares at him. “It’s easy for you, you’ve been sneakily calling me a pet name this whole time.”

Crowley rolls his eyes. “You call me ‘dear,’” he points out. “You’ve done it a dozen times just since we sat down to lunch. Isn’t that good enough?”

“Yes, but I call everybody 'dear,’ it’s just… habit.”

Which is a fair point, Crowley supposes; he hasn’t kept an exact count, but he’s pretty sure Aziraphale has called their waiter 'dear’ a half-dozen times as well.

“Well,” he says, “you’ll just have to come up with something else, then. Just– not Anthony. It’s too weird, coming from you.”

“I’ll think about it,” Aziraphale says.

Two minutes later, when the waiter comes back with their desserts, he says, “Thank you, dear–” that’s seven, Crowley thinks absently– and then, turning to Crowley and handing him a steaming cup on a saucer, “That’s yours, my love.”

“Ngh,” Crowley says, coming very close to dropping the saucer.

He has, he realizes, done it to himself again. He’s entirely used to Aziraphale saying my dear; he’s not at all ready for my love, deployed at close range and said with overpowering warmth and affection. Yet another thing Aziraphale does that’s going to take some warming up before he can cope with it; yet another thing Crowley has instigated that’s come around to cause him trouble.

And the cake Aziraphale ordered has chocolate sauce drizzled around the rim of the plate– which means at some point, as soon as he thinks no one’s looking, he’s going to drag a fingertip through it and, yes, there he goes, bring it to his lips and–

Crowley stares helplessly, his own dessert completely forgotten, and wonders despairingly how many more lunches like this he can survive.

[bireads]

25¢ pocket guardian angels

only require love and the occasional bite of your burger

[bireads]

The engagement, when it happens, is mostly an accident.

They’re at Newt and Anathema’s wedding, pleasantly tipsy on elderflower wine—normally too sweet for Crowley’s taste, but it’s a wedding, seems bad form to be picky. Besides, Aziraphale says it pairs nicely with dessert. Crowley’s lost in thought, bemusedly watching the Them attempt to teach Newt how to dance, smiling abstractly as Aziraphale prattles cheerfully beside him.

He’s in that agreeable state of mind where he hums or nods approvingly at the spaces Aziraphale leaves in his monologue, not so much taking things in as stashing them in his mental inbox to read later. In truth he’s deeply involved in a fantasy where Aziraphale is his date to this wedding, instead of his platonic plus one, and that they held hands during the ceremony and might play footsie under the table once they’ve had another glass or two. So it’s probably no surprise what happens next.

“Have you ever thought about it? Getting married, I mean.”

In his right mind, or in his sober mind, or perhaps even in a mind drunk on something less sweet, Crowley would recognize the question as abstract. But here, surrounded by so much love even Crowley can feel it, with Aziraphale next to him and a third—fifth?—bottle of elderflower wine half-empty on the table between them, with visions of the life they could have together dancing before his eyes, Crowley makes a considering noise and his mouth opens automatically without input from his brain. “Might as well, really. No one else I’d rather spend eternity with.”

There’s a clatter as Aziraphale’s dessert fork hits the plate, then the table, then the floor. All at once reality reasserts itself.

Crowley swallows. He wants nothing more than to run out into the night, possibly with the rest of that bottle for company. Instead he turns and meets Aziraphale’s gaze.

Aziraphale’s cheeks are pink with more than just the wine, his eyes bright with that look he gets, sometimes, the one Crowley knows his mirror more often than not. The sunglasses serve more than one purpose. He doesn’t look at all upset, Crowley realizes. He looks—he looks—

He takes Crowley’s hand under the table, perhaps because for once, he’s run out of words.

Warmth rushes through Crowley’s body, settling in his chest, his face, the soles of his feet. He clears his throat. “Assuming that’s not going too fast for you, angel.”

“Do you know,” Aziraphale says, interlacing their fingers, “I rather think I can keep up.” He pauses, and his eyes get kind of sly, and G—Sat—Someone, Crowley loves him. “As long as you promise to help with the paperwork.”

[bireads]

Discredit Part Three! (Click on each pic for something resembling quality!) 

Part One—contains translations, podfic, and related works—Part Two

Tagging, credit, and transcript all below the cut 💜

Okumaya devam et

[bireads]

Discredit Pt. 2: More Recommended Reviews For A.Z. Fell’s

Alright, folks. Some notes first: 

1. You all rock. I’m sending out 20k+ virtual hugs for all the notes I NEVER expected to get on this nonsense. 

2. This is probably the final section, just because I’m not sure I can adequately follow up part one and it might be foolish to attempt it here. Let alone twice. But for now, here we go. 

3. Kudos to the anon who reminded me of Aziraphale’s cash-only policy <3 

4. Nicole Y’s review is based off an actual comment I read years ago, but heaven only knows where online it was. I’ve got the memory of a goldfish. 

5. Trigger warning for the use of a queer slur in this. It’s the same review as above, number 5 if you want to avoid it. 

6. There’s a text-only version of just the reviews at the end, after all the images. I’ll upload that to my Sparse Clutter collection on AO3 in a bit. 

Bonus 7. People thinking this is a real shop deserve all the good things in this world. 

That’s all I’ve got. Hope you enjoy! 👍

Okumaya devam et