#I should not be allowed to read epic fics | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

doonarose · 1 year ago

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Precarious, But Worth It

Rating: Explicit, nsfw, no minors

Summary: Aziraphale returns to the bookshop, more cynical and in need of Crowley’s help after months of frustration and failure in heaven. They have the fight they need to have, shouting a lot of the stuff that they probably should have said quite pleasantly to each other several centuries ago. Crowley pries a love confession out of Aziraphale and then one thing leads to another and that thing is exactly what you think it is: finally getting off together against the desk.

(Un)rationale: I tried to write a quick little fight and fuck fic based on all the wonderful headcanons floating around about Aziraphale and Crowley really just needing to scream at each other for a bit and then make out like teenagers.

It grew into an 8000 word fight and fuck epic that still achieves exactly what I set out to do, it just took over my life for 48 hours. Which is fine, I haven't committed smut in almost a decade.

You can read and see the warnings at AO3 of just read the fic under the cut.

Aziraphale returns to the bookshop at three in the morning on an uncommonly warm summer night. He tries to barge straight in and upon finding the door incomprehensibly locked, expends more energy that appropriate yanking on the doorknobs until the planks of wood are shaking in their frames. Aziraphale assumes he can swan right back in, but he can’t. The door doesn’t even unlock in response to a particularly demanding miracle because Crowley is on the other side, sprawled in his armchair, urging the doors with every ounce of available willpower to remain impervious.

Crowley flicks his wrist and an old, dusty pair of sunglasses wriggles out from under some papers on the desk and fly into his hand. He slides them on with a sigh that’s just a little bit shaky.

Finally, Aziraphale relents, and it goes quiet for a moment. Then he starts pounding, fast, heavy, hard-fisted knocks against the wood. “Crowley, I know you’re in there! Let me in! This is my bookshop!”

Anger boils in Crowley’s blood, anger and shock, that Aziraphale could even think for a moment that he would just come back and walk in and start up whatever again. Because that’s why he’s here, he needs help, or he got bored, or he decided it was time to come back. Crowley allows the front door to swing open but maintains the invisible barrier that protects the entire space from anything outside that he doesn’t want coming in. He doesn’t bother getting up and is extremely careful not to even look in Aziraphale’s direction.

“Not your bookshop, not anymore,” Crowley says, voice snaking from low in his chest, quiet and oh so dangerous.

Aziraphale seethes, “Let me in.”

“Absolutely not.” Crowley tips his head back and sinks further into the armchair.

“How are you even keeping me out?”

Crowley stares at the ceiling to stop from looking at him, he wonders exactly what Aziraphale is looking at, he wonders how he can look and not implode. “Not your bookshop anymore, not a heavenly embassy, it’s mine,” is the only explanation he offers.

“Well, you still can’t keep me out.” And Aziraphale moves to step over the threshold in a flourish of his new angelic light grey overcoat which sparkles with its silver embellishment. Now Crowley watches, as fascinated and cruel as a schoolboy with a beetle under a magnifying glass, as Aziraphale’s body shifts into the door frame only to be bolted back with a flash of white lightning that burns hellish hot through him, making him yelp.

Crowley doesn’t move, remains expressionless behind the glasses, holding still even as Aziraphale cries out and recoils. But now he’s looking at him. Aziraphale’s not wearing anything Crowley’s ever seen him in: beneath the long grey overcoat is a crisp white shirt and a necktie and slacks of muted slate grey. Even his white hair has been brushed flat into carefully controlled waves. It’s sterile and exactly what Crowley imagined. Even the embroidered pattern on the overcoat looks meaningless.

Eyeing the threshold again, Aziraphale whines, “Crowley, you have to let me in.”

Crowley chuckles darkly. “Done that one too many times, I reckon. Fool me once and all that.”

“It’s an emergency.”

“Second coming, I’ve heard.” He’s had enough, Aziraphale is back because he needs help, which doesn’t matter because there was never any reason that would have make him coming back now okay. Not after months of being gone, not after he left in the first place. Crowley stretches like a cat waking up, teases the idea of getting up and then settles back into place. He watches as Aziraphale notices for the first time the state of the bookshop, the dust and the scattered books and the dozens of lush green plants sitting atop them.

“That’s heaven’s plan, isn’t it?” Crowley says. “God’s judgement for all, erased to non-existent oblivion if you’ve ever stolen some bread, or used Her name in vain or any sin, really.” He grips the arms of the chair to stop from propelling himself up and over to Aziraphale, form saying it an inch from his face so he might actually listen. Too late for listening. “Any moment of pride or laziness or gluttony and you’re done for. Seems fair,” he says with a sardonic hiss. “Seems right.”

“Crowley, invite me in, I need to talk to you.” Aziraphale’s pleading but Crowley isn’t falling for it, acutely aware it’s a ploy, a manipulation, just the trickster angel employing the needy tone of voice he’s used for millennia to get Crowley to do his bidding.

“Absolutely not. How dare you even deign to return.”

“If you weren’t waiting for me to come back, then what are you still doing here?”

That makes Crowley pause because he’s worked very hard not to think about that, not to ponder how many centuries he will mope around the bookshop before he flings himself into some far-off corner of space – definitely not Alpha Centauri. He lies: “I wanted to be here when you realized just how catastrophically you fucked everything up,” he bites every word out, letting them trip bitterly off his tongue.

Aziraphale doesn’t look even the slightest bit bothered and Crowley hates him for that. No shame or embarrassment or regret, chin in the air, defiant, which just makes Crowley’s blood boil in his veins.

“You’ve being juvenile about things.” How dare he use that singsong, playful tone with him now. After everything.

He can’t sit still anymore, propels himself up and stalks the half a dozen steps to the door to say it: “Oh, fuck you. You destroyed everything; I’m allowed to be furious about it.”

Aziraphale looks around pointedly, leaning in as close to the bookshop as he dares. “Everything looks quite fine here, although you could have taken a moment out of your wallowing to dust.” It’s cutting, how easily Aziraphale swipes at him.

Low and warning, Crowley just says it again because it’s easiest now to just stay angry. “Fuck. You.”

Except for just a moment, Aziraphale’s countenance fails, his hands fidget in front of him and Crowley sees past the shimmery white-grey outfit, the flattened white hair, and he clocks the fear and uncertainty in Aziraphale’s eyes. Crowley thinks he looks astoundingly anguished with his pursed lips and his deadened, defensive eyes, looks like he’s on the brink of collapse, and then that’s gone.

“If you don’t let me in both of our names are going to be scratched from the Book of Life, it could happen any moment now.”

That is a serious threat, but Crowley is still so angry. “Frankly, I don’t give a flying fuck.”

“Liar.”

They stand in stalemate, Aziraphale now leaning against the doorframe, waiting, until Crowley asks, “Why would they want to scratch you, Archangel Supreme, Effervescent Warrior-Chief of the Angels, from the Book of Life?” But he is a liar, he does give a flying fuck, perhaps not about himself, but even in his darkest, most wretched hour, he never wished Aziraphale never existed. Just the thought twists tight around his heart and chokes the breath out of him. Never seeing Aziraphale again was awful, but he had made his peace with it. Never having known him at all was unfathomable. Crowley knows immediately that he’s going to give in and help, he doesn’t have a choice.

He clicks his fingers returning the bookshop threshold to normalcy and turns to walk back into the room, trying to get his heart and his skin and his face back under control and hoping Aziraphale doesn’t notice. “Tell me what you’ve done?”

***

The anger simmers just below the surface as Aziraphale explains the second coming and heaven and why he’s back. Crowley sits with his arm across the back of the sofa, skin turned overly warm even though he’s in his thinnest jeans and just a woollen turtleneck. Aziraphale sits primly, still dwarfed by the grey overcoat that he chooses to keep on, in the armchair pulled back from what used to be his desk.

Crowley’s still angry at him for leaving and now also for coming back, he’s livid that he’s being drawn back into something worse than life and death, but that’s nothing compared to how furious he is to have to care about Aziraphale again. He keeps circling back to the idea of him never having existed, that Crowley would never have known him, wouldn’t even know to miss him.

Perhaps, most of all, he’s angry that it’s becoming abundantly clear, that Aziraphale gets it now. He’s returned from heaven cynical and candid, no longer speaking about that place, or the people in it, with any sort of adoration or wonderment, rather like it’s all gone sour on the back of his tongue. He only shows any sort of respect for God Herself, and even that is fleeting and wholly immaterial to their predicament.

At the end of all the exposition, all Crowley can offer is a drawn out, “Wellll…” and then “We’re fucked, basically.”

Aziraphale huffs and silence falls between them. Crowley should just kick him out; the situation is dire, but he has as much chance of fixing it on his own as he does with Aziraphale there. The minutes tick over, the grandfather clock’s second hand audible in the stillness of the room.

Aziraphale’s voice cuts through, quiet and careful, “Why didn’t you tell me how you felt sooner?”

“Excuse me?”

“Why did you wait until I had to leave to say what you said?”

Crowley fights the urge to throw a punch, or at the very least the hardest backhanded slap he can muster. He grips the back of the sofa with one hand and his own thigh with the other and stares Aziraphale down from behind the glasses. “You don’t get to ask me that.”

“Was it because you were scared?”

Crowley stares at him harder, eyes locked, Aziraphale unflinching even though he must be able to feel the crackle in the air, the threat of bodily harm if he continues.

“Was it because you knew that if we started something it would get back to our respective head offices and there would be consequences – ”

Crowley cuts him off with a sneer. “They would have discorporated both of us in an instant, and then hell knows what the punishments would have been. Eternal torture for me, I reckon. And perhaps something worse waiting for you in heaven.”

Aziraphale just nods and folds his hands in his lap. “And then after Adam, when we finally had our own side and no head offices, what about then?” He gives Crowley the chance to answer but he doesn’t. Then, “Were you still too scared?”

It’s like Aziraphale’s needling at him on purpose and if Crowley’s entire being wasn’t burning up he might stop to wonder why. He holds his voice remarkably level: “Fuck you Aziraphale, and I really, genuinely mean that. Was the point of this whole night to come back here and mess with me? World’s ending, book of life, blah blah blah, last chance to go and mock the snake? Has heaven turned you that cruel, that quickly?”

Aziraphale looks taken aback, as though that wasn’t what he was going for at all, but that’s certainly where he hit. “I’m simply asking why you chose to do what you did when I’d already told you I had to go to heaven – ”

“Because when else was I going to get the chance to say it? I wanted to speak first – not that it would have made a difference – because you’d already made up your stupid little mind, chosen heaven, and you were leaving.” Crowley clamps his mouth shut, presses his lips together and casts his eyes up; Aziraphale does not get to see him hurting.

“And I was wrong,” Aziraphale says softly. “And I – I apologise, I’m very, very sorry Crowley. But I’m back now.”

Crowley keeps staring at the ceiling, hating that he can feel his eyes growing wet. He’d sooner scratch them out than start to cry. He keeps the crack out of his voice, “Don’t suppose any of it matters now. We’ll both pop out of existence sometime soon and this entire conversation won’t have ever happened.”

That should be reassuring, in a way. The pain and misery and heartache are all going to have never existed; no point crying over something that never happened. Crowley levels his gaze back at Aziraphale and presses back harder into the softness of the couch.

Aziraphale looks upset, angry, even, as though he expected something else from Crowley. “I really hate that you left us the way you did,” he says.

And the anger wells up again at the cruelty of him. “If you hate me you can leave. Again. I’ve gotten used to it.”

“That is so unfair – ”

“What’s unfair is that you left me, I told you the truth, and you chose heaven over facing up to that. You chose that shithole and all those arseholes and their bullshit instead of choosing me, instead of staying with me!”

“Because I had to,” Aziraphale snaps. “It was the only way to protect you and I thought, I thought, it was a way we could finally be together. And yes, I was wrong, but staying here, I knew Michael would end up in charge and Michael hates me almost as much as she hates you. If I was up there, I thought maybe I could fix things.”

“You thought you could fix me!” That’s enough, Crowley’s face burns with the shame of it and it’s only made worse when Aziraphale’s face morphs into pity and he reaches for him, shifting forward in his chair and reaching out. Crowley jumps to his feet and stalks straight across the shop floor, between the shelves, hiding pathetically, at least long enough to rake his hands back through his hair and slide his fingers behind his glasses to swipe away the tears that keep welling up and threatening to fall.

Aziraphale follows him, around the back of a shelf and appearing in front of him just as Crowley presses his glasses back against his eyes. “What are you even talking about?”

Crowley wheels around again, turning away with his shoulders hunched up high as he fights the urge to throw himself into the fight of it all. He only takes a few steps forward, into the centre of the shop, poised between the stairs up to his right and the door out to his left, both options promising a billion miles of space to run in any which direction. Except Aziraphale needs to admit his part in this, so Crowley turns back to him, stumbling backwards when he’s right there, brow furrowed and mouth set in a frustrated frown. “You just wanted to make me an angel again, all this time and the first opportunity to make me into precisely what I’m not and you thought that was right.”

“What? I didn’t – ”

Crowley speaks over the top of him, “Oh you did, you said, I’d be restored. That for all you cared for me, needed me, you could get heaven to fix me, to forgive me my sins. That’s what you meant when you say you wanted to save me. You didn’t even want me to be me, and instead of… You just forgave me.” It’s too honest an admission, too much, a weight lifted but just more anger settling in its place. When Crowley blinks, he feels the tears spill, catching in his eyelashes and gathering moist behind the glasses.

“That is not…” Aziraphale takes another step towards him and Crowley stumbles on the edge of the rug as he steps back, now trapped in the alcove with the desk and the armchair and all of Aziraphale’s dusty books. “I didn’t say that.”

“That’s exactly what you said.”

“But I didn’t mean it like that. I wanted you with me to help me. I wanted you with me so we could be us, together… And I didn’t know what you wanted me to say, you were so angry, you just gave up and – ”

“I wanted you to say you accepted me as is,” He didn’t want to have to admit that bit out loud but how could Aziraphale still not know? “I wanted you to choose me, I wanted you to say you loved me. Not that you forgave me, I’m a demon.”

Finally, realisation flickers across Aziraphale’s face, albeit, once again quickly replaced by anger. “But you must know that I didn’t mean it like that. I didn’t want you to come to heaven and turn into one of them – “

“Now that you know what they’re like,” Crowley sneers.

“Yes, I mean, no, even before, I wasn’t trying to change you. You knew how I felt about you, and… and honestly, Crowley, I don’t know how many times I can apologise when you are being so wilfully obtuse – ”

“Wilfully obtuse?! And you haven’t even apologised for that particular mistake!” Crowley shouts. “And what am I meant to think, angel? I put all my cards on the table, I’m ready to spend forever with you, but instead you offered to make me your second in command for the literal end of everything and when I said no – for extremely good reason – you fucked off to heaven, anyway. And now you’ve only come back because everything’s gone to shit.”

“That’s not true.”

“It is,” Crowley snarls. “You’re just back here because you want someone to talk to, someone to solve your problems. You hate that I was honest, that I kissed you, which is just fine because I hate you for leaving me.”

Aziraphale is practically shaking with barely contained rage, defiant in it but also seemingly about to stomp his feet and start screaming for the sake of it. “I do not hate that you were honest, or that you kissed me, and I do hate that I left you, but I am back now and I don’t know what else you bloody well want from me.”

Crowley laughs, miserable and half caught in his throat. “You still can’t even admit you love me!” he challenges, driving the knife into his own heart some more.

Aziraphale roars back: “Well, technically, neither can you!”

That stops everything in its tracks. It’s nonsensical to Crowley for a long moment – of course he loves Aziraphale, of course he does – and it’s unclear what Aziraphale is even getting at. It’s that delay in logical thought that lets Aziraphale say it, voice going soft, still angry, and fiercely honest, “I do, though, I do love you and I think it’s more than anyone has ever loved anything or anyone in over six thousand years. It’s… a lot.”

It punches the air right out of Crowley, square in the guts like a freight train; even though he knew it to be true, he’d given up on ever, ever hearing it. Eventually he takes in a shuddering breath. It doesn’t change anything, though. “I knew,’ he admits, as quiet as Aziraphale now. “I know.”

The anger remains, just beneath the surface, frustration at the world, at heaven and hell and God, pooling and mixing with the abject fear of non-existence and what comes next which provokes the tiniest, most pathetic glimmer of some sort of hope.

Aziraphale watches him, hands balled into fists at this sides. “Do you know, though, really?”

Crowley nods, “I do,” of course he knows but somehow Aziraphale doesn’t seem to believe him, his head shaking just slightly from side to side until it’s not, and he’s nodding to himself, like he’s made up his mind.

"You don’t.” And then Aziraphale’s on him and it’s too much, too fast, and it’s everything.

Aziraphale’s mouth, hot and wet and pressing so insistently at his, hard enough to feel the teeth through their lips and to know he’s stopped breathing. Aziraphale grabs him, rough scratching handfuls of the wool at his chest pulling Crowley into his body and then pushing him back against the desk, catching him there, and then not stopping, pressing up hard and close and Crowley’s forced to slide back, arse on the edge, wood digging into his thighs when Aziraphale step into the gap between them and is covering him completely.

Crowley’s hands searching blindly for purchase on the desk, three books and the plant perched on top of them tumble to the floor and then it takes a split second for Crowley’s body to give in completely and utterly. And then only a second beyond that for Crowley to consciously decide that if this is the moment they’re burned from existence, at least it’s at the very top of their game.

He kisses Aziraphale back, a hand into his stupidly coifed hair, intent on ruining it, and the other wrapping around the middle of his back, hand grabbing at the softer-than-it-looks velvet – he discovers – of the stupid angelic overcoat.

Aziraphale is licking at his lips, increasingly wet and demanding, and not very angelic at all. Crowley chases the touch and closeness, mouth falling open and he can’t help but moan at the feeling of Aziraphale licking inside, searching out the inner heat and slick of his top and then his bottom lip, back again and again and then inside, across Crowley’s teeth and then darting up behind. Aziraphale tastes and smells the way he’s meant to taste this close, the disinfected, bleached smell of heaven dissipating as it’s overwhelmed with earthy, sweet, Aziraphale.

They kiss raw and open and messy, without any finesse and there’s still a recess in Crowley’s mind that holds onto the anger, and another stuck cornered by fear. Any moment… any moment he won’t just lose this, it will never have happened.

The thought and Aziraphale’s teeth closing around his bottom lip, biting and sucking, pulls a pained whimper from him that he’s never heard himself make before and Aziraphale pulls back, eyes wild, a question there. Are we really doing this?

And Crowley drags him back down. More warm, flushed, heady kisses, too much spit and too many little sounds of surprise and surrender. Aziraphale’s hands eventually find there way up Crowley’s chest to his neck, dipping inside the turtleneck to skirt a thumb over his Adam’s apple, to scratch fingernails across the nape. Around his jaw and into his hair, angling him and guiding him until Aziraphale can pull his lips from Crowley’s mouth and kiss across his cheek, still too sticky-wet and remarkably tender as Aziraphale tilts his face to kiss and then nuzzle at his temple, sucking in the smell of his hair through his nose even as Crowley pants against his neck.

Aziraphale’s hands find Crowley’s glasses and tentatively, he slips them off to reveal Crowley’s amber irises, ignited, glaring, defiant and turned on, his lashes wet and clumped and the skin just beneath his eyes still tear-stained. A soft, gentle, “Oh,” escapes Aziraphale’s lips as he holds Crowley’s face in his hands. “Oh, I never, ever meant to hurt you. I’m so sorry I…” He presses his mouth to Crowley’s temple as Crowley’s eyes flutter closed. Azirapahle presses three small kisses, moving in towards the hollow of his eye socket and then down, ever so careful, kissing at the salt and his eyelashes. Aziraphale’s thumbs press and knead at Crowley’s temples and then he kisses up his nose, from the tip to the bridge to his forehead, and then across each closed eyelid. He traces that path again and again, soft and tender, until Crowley’s left clinging to him, a heavy, hunched weight in his arms, face upturned and revelling in the affection.

When Crowley smiles, easy and open, as his eyes glowing, Aziraphale takes it as his penance served, and returns to Crowley’s mouth. He kisses him deeply, pouring such heart into it that Crowley can almost feel his eyes welling up again. But then, Aziraphale tilts his head, and shifts to kiss from the other side of Crowley’s face, and very quickly, it all stops being tender and soft, and shifts to urgent and hot and desperate.

The unmistakable press and pull of Aziraphale’s tongue in and against Crowley’s, rhythmic and insisting, sets them on the course for more. It bolts straight down Crowley’s spine, out to his fingertips, and into his cock which was already half-hard, but now gives a twitch that he feels reverberate into his thighs. Even in his wildest dreams, he never imagined… Even twelve seconds ago, he thought he would take his chance to kiss Aziraphale until their lips were numb and the sun was high in the sky and then that would be it. That or they’d kiss until they stopped existing.

Aziraphale’s mouth has found his jaw again, no longer content just with wet, warm kisses, he’s biting, raking his teeth along the bone there and then stopping to suck until the blood vessels burst and blossom into marks. It’s pulling needy, downright embarrassing noises from Crowley but he doesn’t have the cognizance to care right now. Instead, he twists his neck to try to give Aziraphale the best access, choking on a moan as his eyes flicker open to catch Aziraphale throwing him a smirk before he latches back on to the spot just below Crowley’s ear and sucks.

Tugging the neck of the turtleneck down, Aziraphale murmurs something displeased, unable to get to enough of Crowley’s skin with the scratchy wool caught between his chin and the column of Crowley’s throat.

As Aziraphale bites another mark into Crowley’s jaw, he murmurs, “You don’t know how much time I thought about this in heaven,” and Crowley arches beneath him.

Crowley had been aware that he was fully hard in his jeans, straining against the denim and dribbling a wet spot into the cotton of his underpants, and now, with the forceful push of Aziraphale’s hips in to meet Crowley’s arch, inching him forward on the desk, he can feel the unmistakable pressure of Aziraphale’s own Effort. It’s equally hard, hot and over-whelming, and, still tripping over thoughts to respond to Aziraphale’s confession, it drags a plea from Crowley, “Fuck, Angel, really?”

Aziraphale kisses the underside of Crowley’s jaw. “I hated it there, almost as soon as I arrived. I missed you. And you’d just kissed me. And so I thought of this, of us.” He tries to kiss down beneath the turtleneck again and growls his frustration into Crowley’s ear when the wool gets in his way. “I wasn’t sure if they would know but I couldn’t help myself.”

Aziraphale’s hands race over Crowley’s shoulders, down his arms and his back, feather-light even through the wool, over his ribs and down to his waist. The material has already ridden up, escaped where Crowley’s jeans have slipped dangerously low around his hips, and there’s a strip of pale naked skin there. Aziraphale’s fingers find it before he pulls all the way back to watch as they caress across, from hipbone to the teasing line of flame-red hair just above the belt buckle. Crowley doesn’t breathe but somehow his belly still trembles, he wonders if Aziraphale can see that the hair grows thicker the further down he goes, that it’s ticklish and painful and burning hot all at once when Aziraphale scratches his nails through it, catching ever so slightly. Surely the unmistakable bulge in his trousers is obvious, too. And he just wills Aziraphale to touch him.

“I want more,” Aziraphale says, both hands petting back and forth across Crowley’s skin.

“Anything,” Crowley manages.

His hands slip instantly under the wool of the turtleneck, flat to Crowley’s stomach but not wasting any time. Aziraphale pushes them up, over Crowley’s chest and Crowley raises his arms obliging so that the garment can be slipped easily over his head.

Dropping it to the side, Aziraphale looks positively ravenous in the moment he takes to rake his eyes over Crowley’s chest – pale and flecked with red hair, dusky red nipples, and really nothing Aziraphale hasn’t seen before – and then press his whole face into Crowley’s neck.

Biting, licking, blowing cold air just to watch the stretch and tilt that Crowley reacts with, to listen to the sounds he can drag from him. He takes his time but works quickly, finding the spot where he can feel Crowley’s pulse against his tongue before he descends to mouth across one clavicle and then the other.

“My turn,” Crowley growls, only when it’s become a mantra in his head and he can’t stop himself. Aziraphale looks startled, like he was lost in the skin under his mouth. But Crowley doesn’t wait, both hands going to that dreadful, over-starched tie, ready to yank it free and drag it from Aziraphale’s neck –

“Hell, that’s a clip-on!” he’s utterly repulsed and Aziraphale laughs at him.

“I tried to get them to give me a bowtie, or even just a proper tie, but they said this was more practical.” Aziraphale pouts, his lips kissed red and slick, his hair increasingly back to the twisted curls and tufts that Crowley loves. “I think it’s ghastly.”

“Well fuck that then,” Crowley says and then yanks the offending item away, flinging it halfway across the shop. He then sets to work on the buttons of Aziraphale’s shirt which he instantly finds over-starched and the buttons, frustratingly, just a little too big for the buttonholes. Two buttons down though, and he can get a kiss to Aziraphale’s neck that draws a sigh of delight. More buttons and he can lean down his chest, burying his face in the white curls and breathing in before he bites across a pectoral muscle and closes his mouth around a pretty pink nipple.

“Jesus,” escapes Aziraphale, all high pitched and breathless as his hands thread into Crowley’s hair and twist.

That hitches Crowley’s breath and he rewards it with his teeth, gently nipping at the skin just beneath. “Blasphemy,” Crowley teases and then shifts to lick across to the nipple on the other side. In some dim corner of his mind, he really can’t believe he’s doing this, that Aziraphale is letting him do this.

Rather, Aziraphale is asking him to do it, because his hands are still racing tracks across the planes of Crowley’s naked back and his chest and his belly, rougher each time through the descending line of hair there, scratching lines across his belly button on the next pass, and then teasing at the belt with his thumb. And he’s babbling, still coherent and overly verbose, but clearly struggling: “Crowley… Crowley dearest, I… uh – I need you closer.” He pulls his face up to his and kisses him off-centre on the mouth. “I need – ” he keens as Crowley cuts him off with a bite to his lip. “I need all of you.”

“You have me,” Crowley admits, against his better judgement and all rational thought, and as Aziraphale’s hands drop to his belt with clear intent, Crowley’s own start to push back Aziraphale’s already hanging open shirt and the heavy velvet monstrosity of a jacket that lays on top of it.

Except he simply can’t get the garments off Aziraphale while Aziraphale still has his hands on him. Suddenly, the belt buckle springs open and the leather strap that encircles Crowley’s waist is being yanked all the way free and getting to Aziraphale’s shoulders stops being a priority. Crowley’s hands race to the clasp of Aziraphale’s trousers: another blaster button, then another and then a zip. It’s a race with only winners and a scramble of fingers and fabric and Aziraphale’s still trying to kiss him through it.

Then he gets his hands inside Aziraphale’s trousers, pushes his pants down his thighs, letting Aziraphale’s cock fall into his palm and it’s hot and hard and so very right. They should have been doing this for six thousand years. And then Aziraphale’s hand, hot and slick with spit or sweat – it doesn’t matter – has slipped under the waistband of Crowley’s pants and wrapped around his aching erection.

Aziraphale strokes maddeningly slowly from base to tip and Crowley groans out an, “Oh fuck,” as his own grip tightens around Aziraphale.

Aziraphale continues to stroke, too slow and not quite tight enough but still better than any feeling Crowley’s ever experienced. Crowley’s mouth hangs uselessly open in a permanent gasp and so Aziraphale gives up trying to coordinate kissing him and just rests his head against Crowley’s shoulder. Together, they stare down at the complete lack of space between them, trousers still caught, clinging to their hips, their cocks and hands shades of red and pink and pale cream, coarse curls of starkly contrasting hair scratching against each other. “I’ve got you,” Aziraphale murmurs, all wonderment and potent pleasure. “I’ve always got you.”

He lets his hand leave Crowley’s cock to twitch between them, catching against the backs of Crowley’s fingers where they’re still wrapped around Aziraphale. Aziraphale grips Crowley’s hips and pulls him forward, right to the edge of the desk and it instinctively makes Crowley’s hands loose from Aziraphale’s cock and hip, flung out to grab onto the wood so he can steady himself. His legs come up of their own volition to wrap tight around Aziraphale’s hips. His stupid jeans are still on though, the waistband across his ass cutting into the skin as it’s pulled tight and low, the cold sharpness of the undone zipper framing his dick, uncomfortably tight just below his balls and Crowley has to silently will more give into the material to let him stay like this, wrapped around Aziraphale.

Then their cocks catch between them, lined up perfectly, caught between bellies and scratchy hair and the heat of it all. Aziraphale gives an experimental rock of his hips and it’s glorious if entirely not enough and too dry and at an awkward angle.

And perhaps it’s all too much, too fast. Crowley had given up on ever seeing him again only half an hour ago, had despised him enough to want to never see him again even more recently. And now… now they’re this. Everything and raw and vulnerable and Aziraphale has him.

“This doesn’t mean I forgive you for leaving,” Crowley says and somehow he thinks maybe it will come off playful and teasing, but he still regrets it as soon as the words spill out. He’s baiting Aziraphale and for what?

Aziraphale pulls back but his hips remain tightly pressed into Crowley’s, holding him up on the desk. A flash of hurt crosses his vulnerable face and Crowley feels it prickle at his heart.

He wants to take it back, but he can’t, so he just tilts his hips down, rolls them and grinds and tries to get the leverage from his grip on the desk to make them both feel good in some sort of tactile, sybaritic apology.

Aziraphale chokes on a soft, mewling, desperate sound and then asks, “Do you love me, though?”

Crowley blinks, frozen, feels the heavy breaths being drawn deep into Aziraphale’s belly against him, the coolness of the sweat across his own chest, the thrum and thump of the blood in his veins, all the way down through his cock and right up against the heartbeat of Aziraphale.

He knows. He must know.

“Because you’ve not, technically, actually said,” Aziraphale says.

Oh. “Oh, yes. Yes, I – yes completely – ” He still hasn’t said it, and when he does it’s more matter-of-fact, less romantic than what Aziraphale probably wants. “I love you. I love you entirely, all-consumingly. I’ve loved you since… A long time. And I don’t think I’ll ever be able to stop.”

Aziraphale kisses his lips, simple presses, messy and hot with everything that’s come before. “We can work on the forgiveness stuff later then?” And Aziraphale breathes, reaching in between them, hand wrapping around them both and stroking again from root to tip.

“Yes,” Crowley hisses, head falling back for a moment, lax in his relief but his grip on the table and around Aziraphale’s waist still tight, straining. Aziraphale continues to stroke, both of them hard and in hand, haphazard and the pressure relegated more to one side because he can’t possibly make a proper fist around the weight and the heat of them but it doesn’t matter. “Yes, just like that,” Crowley encourages as he brings his mouth back to Aziraphale’s.

Another dirty kiss, sumptuous and slow, just tongues and heavy breathing, grunts and moans as Crowley tries to angle up just right, and Aziraphale tries for the right kind of friction. Unbidden, Aziraphale confesses into the corner of Crowley lips, “I really want to get my mouth on you.”

It draws a new, higher pitched keening cry from Crowley and he’s too close, that could be the end of it except he still wants more. “Next time,” he mumbles, “Next time, I promise,” and he wills that reality into existence.

Aziraphale grunts and his hand retreats, Crowley arches to maintain the friction, lets go of the desk for a moment but almost topples, and then whines to try to convince Aziraphale to touch him again. Aziraphale’s lips leave his and Crowley chases, eyes still closed as he tries to narrow in on the growing pleasure between them – that’s what he wants and he’s gluttonous for it, lusting after it, happily sinful if Aziraphale would just give it to him.

But instead it’s Aziraphale’s fingers on his lips, pushing inside, three of them, and Crowley’s eyes open with a start. “Suck,” Aziraphale says, low and rough in a way that makes Crowley’s balls tighten and his cock throb, a heavy drop of precome pulsing out onto their stomachs.

He sucks, diligently, wetly, refusing to swallow anything until the spit is dripping down his own chin and Aziraphale’s wrist and Crowley’s watching him look absolutely rabid with it. When Aziraphale wraps his hand around them again, it’s slick with precome and Crowley’s spit and from the drag of that first blissful stroke, Crowley wonders if Aziraphale’s miracled up even more slick than he could take from his mouth.

Lips against his, the squeeze and stroke of their cocks together is certainly too much now and Crowley can feel his spine turning to liquid. He can’t kiss, can only breathe and chase the touch with the tilt of his hips and the low, guttural groans escaping his lips.

Aziraphale remains strikingly coherent. “Tell me about next time, Crowley?” and he gives a devilish smile that Crowley can sense against his cheek. “What will we do?”

“Everything,” Crowley manages as Aziraphale’s hand catches just below the head of his cock and twists.

Aziraphale hums against his cheek, begging more.

“Anything you’ll let me,” Crowley confides, biting the inside of his cheek and then at Aziraphale’s neck to hold himself together.

“Tell me,” Aziraphale says and his thumb slicks across the wetness right at the tip of Crowley’s cock, pressing in on it and swirling it around and then grinning delightedly at the little, involuntary buck of Crowley’s hips.

Crowley breathes out, squeezes his legs around Aziraphale’s waist and he’s so close, he could come if Aziraphale would just let him. “Angel,” he warns.

“I’d let you do anything,” Aziraphale tells him and finally the crack in his voice gives away just how close he is as well. “I want you to take me apart.”

That would have been the end of him except Aziraphale grips the base of them both and then stills. As though he can feel just how close things are, and still wants to drag it out, he unwraps his hand and then and then dances his fingertips up along the damp line of hair to Crowley’s bellybutton. “Tell me about next time,” he demands.

Crowley leaves the mark he’s bitten into Aziraphale’s neck, knowing they can miracle it away afterwards but hoping desperately, that they won’t. He just wants and if Aziraphale wasn’t holding him up against the desk, Crowley’s sure he could have Aziraphale up against a wall or a bookshelf or on the floor. That’s next time, and his hips rock up at the thought. He grabs handfuls of Aziraphale’s arse, his grip under the overcoat but over the fabric of his trousers, and grinds hard against him.

“Next time, everything,” he says and Aziraphale scratches down his chest and grips their cocks together again. He doesn’t move though, stares at Crowley, eyes locked, waiting for the assurance, for a promise.

Crowley licks his lips. “Next time, you’ll let me fuck you, won’t you, angel?”

Aziraphale’s lips fall open and he nods. He starts to stroke again and immediately they’re both shuddering into it, half-aborted spasms of their hips as they both hold taut and try to make the moment stretch but now they really are too far gone, they’re going to come just like this, on a desk, in their bookshop, half dressed, and frantic and not quite forgiven.

Crowley wants to make him come first, though, wants to watch him fall apart, wants that small victory and he can see what his words are doing. Unfathomable reactions from his imperfect, beautiful angel, even as Aziraphale touches him like sin and presses him hard enough into the edge of the desk to leave bruises.

“Next time, you’ll let me open you up with my fingers, you’ll let me take my time, you’ll let me use my tongue.” Aziraphale moans and thrusts up into the fist of his hand, along the length of Crowley’s cock and it makes him stutter. “Or… or maybe you can do all that to me? Next time, or the time after – ”

Crowley doesn’t know how’s he’s still in one piece, the steady leak of liquid from his cock, from Aziraphale’s and now it’s almost too wet, too slick, too hot, too much, the sharp tug and drag of Aziraphale’s hand bordering on pain because he’s been holding himself back for too long, but he needs to take Aziraphale, need to see him fall apart, needs to know it’s just as bad for him.

Crowley arches back, forces his eyes open so he can see Aziraphale, sweating and breathing stop-starting and heavy, chest and cheeks flushed, and one hand working fast over both of them even as the other continues to hold on to Crowley by the back of his neck.

“Look at you, you’re gagging for it,” Crowley reveals before he can stop himself and Aziraphale’s eyes snap open and up and instead of being affronted, he just grins lascivious and shy in equal measure. “My angel and all you want in the world right now is to get those pretty little lips wrapped around my cock so you can swallow me whole and – ”

Aziraphale’s eyes fall shut and he clings to Crowley, hand tightening around them both as his cock spasms and he rocks hard into Crowley’s hips. He breathes out an almost silent ‘Fuck!’ as he starts to come.

And Crowley feels the throb of him, sees him spilling, pearly white, warm and viscous, between them with a look of such deep concentration and bliss painted across his upturned face, and that’s all it takes to push him off the precipice.

Precarious, but worth it, he lets go of the desk with one hand and wraps it over the top of Aziraphale’s, fingers sliding between his and grasping where they’re hard and blood-filled and intimate, tight and hot and sliding as everything inside him breaks like a wave crashing on rocks.

Crowley shudders and chases every last pulse of pleasure, every last twitch from either of them, the back and forth of friction and reaction dragging it out while Aziraphale breathes hot and hitched against his ear and Crowley finds skin to dig his teeth into. They hold there until their hands still, and then their bodies, and finally their breath. Then it’s just Crowley’s hand interlaced with Aziraphale’s around their softening, over-sensitive cocks, and an ungodly mess of spit and sweat and come.

They disentangle slowly, fingers refusing to leave each other’s and their linked hands settling clasped somewhere between their chests. Crowley’s legs unloop from Aziraphale’s back and his feet find gravity and support on the floor even as his jeans slip immediately down to his knees when Aziraphale takes a half a step backwards to give him just enough space to stand in. They lean forehead to forehead and Crowley debates what to do about his pants, about the mess, about the fact that he’s still thinking about Aziraphale’s mouth on him and that that feels like it’s making his blood change direction in his veins.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale interrupts his train of thought which is probably for the best. “I’ll clean us up?”

He mumbles something, finding his tongue heavy and not quite correctly connected to his brain yet, but it must sound affirmative because with a flick of Aziraphale’s wrist, everything is clean and dry and, even though it’s disgusting, Crowley instantly misses it. His jeans have even inched their way back up his thighs, to the point where they can’t make any further headway because Aziraphale’s still pressed too close to him.

With an obvious look of reluctance, Aziraphale steps further back and Crowley catches his jeans and hikes them back up over his hips.

Aziraphale clears his throat. “I think… I hope…. Well, I think we should probably save the earth. And if not the earth, at least ourselves.”

The hanging dread of everything comes crashing back in, but something in Crowley is defiant in having at least experienced this before he’s wiped from existence. Some romantic, irrational part of him even begins to think that the enormity of his love would survive him never having existed. “Yes,” he says in answer to Aziraphale’s hopeful, beaming face, still flushed and his lips kissed red, a scattering of red marks across his neck and chest and two that are already purple. Aziraphale hadn’t cleaned any of that up and it makes Crowley feel ambitious. “But probably the earth as well. I know you like it here.”

“Yes, please,” Aziraphale says. “And then I think we should talk.”

“Of course.”

Aziraphale’s tucked himself back into his trousers and done up both buttons. His hands find Crowley’s again, clean and smooth, their fingers interlacing and tugging. “Just… I think we can figure this out. I think one day you’ll forgive me, and I promise I won’t ever try and forgive you again.”

Crowley huffs at that, but it’s a foregone conclusion. “I can do better as well,” he admits. “And we will work this out. This and the Book of Life bollocks.” He brings one of Aziraphale’s hands up to his mouth to kiss across the knuckles, immediately turned on again to find them still, ever so slightly smelling and tasting of them both together. Metallic and bitter and filthy and he knows Aziraphale left that there, either for Crowley or for himself and his eyes go wide with the unexpectedness of it. “Just please, please promise we can do this again…” He sucks on a knuckle and looks at Aziraphale through his lashes as he does it.

“Yes,” Aziraphale breathes out. “Yes, most definitely.” Crowley moves to suck at another knuckle but before he can be too drawn into it, Aziraphale’s pulling his hand back with a pout. “Book of life, my love.”

Crowley thrills at the new pet name and tries to keep from preening. “Stop the second coming, save the world, and then lunch at the Ritz?” he asks, shifting to focus on the enormity of the task ahead even as he tries to draw one more smile from Aziraphale.

Aziraphale gives him a look, a soft little grin and an arch of his eyebrows, a playful warning. “I believe you already know what I’ll be putting my mouth around once all this is taken care of and it is most certainly not lunch at the Ritz. Best get on with it!”

And even though in that moment Crowley’s balks, a choked laugh escaping him as Aziraphale grins, they do get on with it. All of it. Everything.

#good omens smut #good omens fic #good omens fanfic #doonas fic #flies into the sun #this took a lot more time and effort that i expected #but i very much enjoyed it #and i find the whole relationship and fandom and fic writing rather delicious

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willesworld · 1 year ago

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angst! angst! angst! fic recs

Okay, so as I was curating my kinky fic recs, I came across a bunch of angsty fics in my bookmarks. So, of course, I decided to create another rec list just for some of my favorite angsty fics. Enjoy!!

Can We Just Pretend? by Scissorsandstone (E, 9.1k)

Summary: He knows that should he be able to keep functioning once this is done, he needs his head to stop. He needs to be rid of this uncontrollable, traitorous emotion that welled up within him that he knew he shouldn't be allowing himself to feel. He tries, futilely, to push it away, all the while knowing deep down that addiction is a disease and right now, the last thing he's looking for is a cure. He wants to be sick. If this is a sickness he would infect himself over and over just for the feeling of letting his body succumb.

A reimagining of the scene where Simon goes to see Wille in his room in S2Ep5 except Simon is a lot more conflicted in this version and things are much less resolved between the two of them.

R/N: Oh my god this fic is SO angsty. I know this is an angst rec list, but this one is epic. My stomach hurt the entire time I read it. It HURTS.

create a storm and bury it deep by paintersong (M, 9.7k)

Summary: The phantom touches haunt him as he tosses and turns, torn apart by the twin flames of grief and anger. Simon’s fingers curled around his waist, tracing trails of light onto his scalp, trembling from his temple down to his neck. The memories burn at the once-holy places on his skin, dragging matches in the wake of Simon’s touch until it’s red and blistered with the pain of what he’s lost.

Wilhelm knows he needs to change. He just needs to figure out how.

R/N: This is such a brilliant, masterful, and heartbreaking character study of Wilhelm over the winter break. I mean, it is so perfect. It perfectly encapsulates how he changes, his motives, and feelings. It is so tragically sad, but also so incredibly beautiful.

a palm to my mouth, I said it, almost by MyArtificalFlowers (M, 35.5k)

Summary: What if August never told Wilhelm he knew Simon was going to the police? In doing so things changed enough that Simon never ended up pulling Wilhelm aside to tell him he loved him. And Wilhelm never changed the speech.

R/N: When I tell you this is one of my favorite fics, I truly mean that this is one of my FAVORITE fics. I adore it. It is so, so angsty. I mean, so angsty. Please read the tags before diving into this one. But it is absolutely incredible and so worth reading.

The Thing in the Mirror by fandom_commitment_issues @zee-has-commitment-issues (G, 3.4k)

Summary: Wilhelm stares at himself in the mirror on the morning of his twenty-second birthday and fights every thought that comes into his head in a losing war. None of them are particularly helpful. None of them make him feel good. He’s pretty damn sure nothing would. Not at this point. They collect in his head and tighten his throat and make him feel sick. - - - Wilhelm turns twenty-two.

R/N: Gah!! The feelings! The love! The hurt! This fic is a delightful exploration of grief years down the road after Erik's death, and how Wille deals with it with Simon at his side. So beautiful.

losing a friend is the hardest part by pysanky (M, 34.6k)

Summary: “Wilhelm, we’re fighting because you won’t listen to me. Everything still has to be on your terms; you haven’t learned how to compromise. And I can’t, I won’t, keep killing myself trying to do everything the way you think it should be done just to keep us together.”

Wilhelm said nothing, just stared at him with a lost expression as the rims of his eyes began to redden. He sniffed quietly and Simon felt his heart break even more, but he didn’t take back any of what he had said. He wouldn’t allow himself to.

(or: in which Simon suggests that he and Wilhelm “take a break”)

R/N: I would not suggest reading this if you're not ready to bawl your eyes out throughout the entirety of the fic. It is GORGEOUS. It is HEARTBREAKING. Simon and Wilhelm have so much development in this fic, and it is truly hard to read and also truly and devastatingly beautiful.

my twisted knife, my sleepless night by paintersong (M, 11.4k)

Summary: Wilhelm was filled with so many things, fear and helplessness, and something new: electric, twisty and dark like an eel, a slithering, sparking anger burning the lining of his stomach, anger that he had never felt on his own behalf, because how fucking DARE they do this to Simon.

Wilhelm hasn’t spoken to Simon in nine months when Simon shows up outside his window in the middle of the night.

R/N: Um, yes, this is such a gorgeous version of what could have happened after season 1. It's actually so good and realistic. Possibly even more realistic than what happened in canon season 2 bahahah?!?!?! Soooo wonderful and ouchy.

Make Me Feel Something by photographer_of_thoughts (M, 25.7k)

Summary: After losing Erik, Simon and his mother - all in various ways - Wilhelm falls into a deep depression. He goes to school. He performs his Crown Prince duties. He breathes and sleeps. But he’s numb. And the possibility that Simon might be falling in love with someone else makes everything worse.

Or, the boys have to go through a whole lot of hurt and healing before they can find their way back to each other.

R/N: Another one of my ABSOLUTE favorite fics. I reread this constantly. Simon and Wilhelm care so much about each other in this fic that it hurts, but it's not enough to save either one of them. And just, the whole story and the relationship between the two of them hurts so good.

she didn't tell me to stop. by fishscalesky (M, 1.6k)

Summary: “I didn’t mean to,” he said quietly, so quietly, after his mother left. “It was an accident.”

The words weren’t for her.

R/N: Sigh. So ouchy good. Is it terrible that I love reading depressed Wille??

Eh... YES. I love angst. I hope you find something on this list to enjoy!

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dianneking · 2 years ago

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Unrelenting Love - Brienne of Tarth/ Reader

This fic was inspired by the Gwendoline Christie fandom here on Tumblr and it is dedicated to you. You are all amazing, each and every one of you.

It is based on the song Madeline by Kiki Rockwell, if you want to listen to it on YT as you read, this is the link, or there should be a embedded video at the end of the post

t is the tale of a stubborn love, in the face of which space and time mean nothing. It is the tale of your epic quest to stand by Brienne’s side. It is weird, it is full of sentiment, it might be heart-wrenching. It might leave more questions than it answers.

Cross-posted on AO3 here.

Here's my fanfiction masterlist.

Tags: Brienne x Reader, hidden relationship, the shitty world GoT is set in, pining, hiding’s one somatic sexual characteristics. aka chest binding, war, nothing graphic. Gut-wrenching epic lesbian love. < this should be its own tag

Madeline,

Tell me at what time do you set sail?

There's no one in this town left that could hold me

Already packed my bags, could leave today.

You were running through the palace, all pretense of propriety forgotten as you hiked your skirts up in your desperate dash. You had heard rumors in the months leading up to today, but you had been convinced it was only idle chatter. Surely she would have told you first hand if it had been true. She would have at least hinted at it.

But today was the day the ships were leaving, and she was nowhere to be found. Your heart was already beating a mournful tune, as you tore through the halls and the doors and the streets, hoping that at least you would not be too late.

You stopped dead at the docks in front of her, taking in her stern form as she directed the sailors and guards that surrounded her. She turned towards you, and the only show of emotion was a tightening around her eyes.

"So it's true. You're leaving."

"I am."

She had withheld the truth from you to avoid being confronted about it. You could read it in her rigid stance, in the tight line of her shoulders. She wanted to just disappear, like a thief in the night. She wouldn't have afforded you the common courtesy of a goodbye if she had had her way.

"I'll come with you, milady."

Girl at the front of the line

I'm sorry but I cannot let you sign

Your arms are far too skinny and you'd never

Last a single day upon my ship.

She let her eyes run over the wisps of hair escaping from your modest hairdo, your rumpled dress, the delicate slippers at your feet.

"No."

"I am in your service, my place is wherever you go, milady."

Your voice was strong, and strong was the sentiment in your eyes, the one you didn't dare to express in this public setting, full of unkind eyes and ears.

She understood both of the messages you were sending, you knew her well enough for that. But still, she was unshakeable.

"There's no place for you aboard this ship. No service you could offer. The best way you can serve me is by staying here, in Evenfall Hall."

Safe. That was what she was not adding aloud, but it rang in the air, unsaid. Like she was the only one allowed to go out and risk her life in the wide, unforgiving world.

The open sea is no place for a lady

There's reasons that they say we cannot board

Before you say, "But Maddie, you're a lady, too!"

I've long ago denounced that wretched word.

You lifted your chin in challenge. Although shorter, and softer, and weaker in appearance, you could be as strong-willed as her when you wanted. That was what had brought the two of you together, and what had kept you close despite all the misgivings around you.

Already as children, you were two misfits, too different to blend in with the rest of the court, and yet too willful to give in to the pressure to change. You had grown up together, entwined like the sprawling vines that grew on the southern side of Evenfall, supporting each other and becoming stronger together.

Your friendship had been as fierce and stubborn as you both were, and as you grew up, it became a fierce and stubborn love.

Without her there would be no life worth living here on Tarth for you.

"Then I'll just have to follow you on my own, if you won't let me board your ship, Lady Brienne."

"I'm not a lady. Regardless of birth, I never was," she murmured, harsh words barely audible over the ruckus of the port. "Farewell."

She turned her back to you, striding towards the ship without a glance back.

"Until we see again...Brienne," you whispered to the whipping sea breeze with its salty breath, salty as the tears that would fall down your face when you'd be in the safety of your room.

Madeline, tell me what time does your posse ride?

‘Cos I've been chopping wood

And starting fist fights

Surely this time let me at your side.

Once again you were running towards Brienne's turned back, but this time your hair was chopped short, and your feet were clad in too-big leather boots, your chest bound tight. The years had not been kind to you, nor had your voyage on Brienne's footsteps been easy or straightforward. You had taken many wrong turns and had stumbled on many obstacles. You had forsaken your feminine appearance, and your face only held a trace of your former beauty hidden behind gaunt features and grime.

You had finally managed to track her down to this encampment, just as she was leaving it.

"Brienne!" You called, as she was mounting her steed. She was resplendent in her armor, like a vengeful angel bringing divine justice to the world. She turned, looking as if she had heard a ghost.

You self-consciously licked the cut on your lip, courtesy of the latest fist-fight in an inn. In this war-ravaged world, tempers ran often high, and even masquerading as a young boy didn't shield you from the suspicious eyes of weary and angry townsfolk, looking to pin the blame on any foreign sacrificial lamb.

Girl at the front of the line

I'm sorry but I cannot let you sign

You've only tried a pony at the school fair

You wouldn't last a day amongst my men.

She recognized you.

Turning, one foot already on the stirrup, her eyes widened by a fraction, recognizing the familiar tone, and the known lineaments hidden within an unexpected form.

"I told you I would find you, milady."

You could see sorrow mixed with surprise hidden deep within her eyes as she took in your sorry appearance. As if she personally felt the weight of your hardships on her shoulders. You wondered if she had written, if there were letters in her small, precise handwriting gathering dust in your abandoned room in Evenfall Hall. Had she thought the worst, when she had received no reply?

"Let me come with you."

"You have no horse, and I am bound by my oath."

The canyon is just no place for a lady

There's reasons that they say we shouldn't ride

Before you say, "But Maddy, you're a lady too!"

I've long ago denounced that wretched word.

"I'll run by your side if I have to, milady. If you’ll let me."

Your eyes were burning with fervor, you knew it. She had always been the only North your compass pointed towards. Whether she allowed you or not, you would follow. You had made that decision long before you left Tarth.

But her companions had already started to leave, their warhorses' hooves trampling the street and you could see the tight hold that her honor still had on her.

You wouldn't begrudge her that, even if you could. That was the Brienne you loved, strong and unyielding as the best crafted of swords, and equally as able to cause pain. You looked at her, as she was already spurring her steed away, her pained voice reaching you from above her shoulder.

"I'm no-one’s lady, certainly not yours!"

Madeline

Yes, I might scream and sing and sob and dance

But I can swing a sword just like a soldier

So, Maddie, won't you give me just one chance?

The third time she was the one to find you, as you were meticulously sharpening your sword, shield carefully laid by your feet.

Your hair was long again, you belonging to the fairer sex no longer a closely-guarded secret. The rumors were probably what spurred her to come looking for you among the rows of soldier tents: looking for the woman who had managed to rise through the ranks of the army with none the wiser to her supposed intrinsic weakness.

You had proven them wrong day after day, and unrelentingly clawed your way past nepotism, sneering gazes and physical pain alike until you had both the respect and the loyalty of your own company of men. When you had been revealed as a woman, not one of your companions had turned on you, and they had stuck by your side as you ruthlessly, desperately fought for survival. Until today, the day before the Battle of Winterfell. The last battle against the encroaching darkness.

Girl at the front of the line

You'll work twice as hard for half the pay

But if you can deflect their filthy comments

One day you shall rise up and take my place.

"It is you."

Brienne sat by your side, the flickering light from the fires reflecting on her armor and in her eyes. She held her head high with pride, her face an unreadable mask for most people, her long fingers resting on the pommel of her sword, relaxed, but never caught unaware. Her hair shone pale in the orange light, cut as short as a soldier’s. She was harsh and unyielding, as always; and as always, so breathtakingly beautiful.

"This world is not big enough for you to get rid of me, milady."

"It's ser, now," she said, a sliver of emotion filtering in her voice. You accepted it as the present it was.

"So you did manage to fulfil your dream."

"I did."

"Felicitations."

"And what about you? Is this what you wanted from your life?"

She nodded towards your armor-clad body, the shield on the floor, the sword you still held in your hands.

You waited until her eyes were back on yours, so she could see the honesty, and the passion still burning in there.

"I only ever wanted one thing in my life, ser."

The battle field is no place for a lady

So no one would expect to see you there

And if you use this trick to your advantage, girl

You'll cut them to their knees as if in prayer.

With slow, controlled movements, you moved in front of her seated form, your knees meeting with the compacted earth as you kneeled before her, presenting her your sword.

"Tomorrow, let me fight beside you. My heart has always been yours. You now have my sword as well."

Brienne's warm, calloused hand rested upon your cheek as her eyes shone with tears she would never shed.

"If tomorrow has to be my last day, there's no one else whom I would want to fight by my side"

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adrift-in-thyme · 5 months ago

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I know I already posted a fic today but I was on a roll and ended up finishing this one too.

It's my first EPIC/The Odyssey fic yay

Set in the universe of @silvercaptain24's AMAZING fic Son of Poseidon, Child of the Sea (if you're an EPIC fan and haven't read it yet GO READ IT IT'S SO GOOD). Tysm for letting me write this, Silver!!

Fic beneath the cut

CW for descriptions of injury, blood, and death

Water is like a mirror.

He has seen them before, these shards of captured prism. They have lain on the beaches of countless islands, after countless storms of his own making. They have lain there like discarded beads, shining back up at him in the mocking colors of the rainbow.

Sometimes, they are splattered with the crimson gore the ocean didn’t have a chance to wash away. Sometimes, crystal clear, glinting with blinding strands of bejeweled sunlight.

No matter how damaged, no matter how sullied, they are all the same. Reflecting. Always reflecting.

That is what the sea does too. It traps the images that flit above it, ensnares them, paints them in traitorous color.

He matches them, those waters he is crafted from, that cover him in foamy waves of silken fabric and bleed into his aching irises.

Those waters that he breathes and consumes (that consume him more and more each day, that chase away the earthen shades of his hair and eyes — those steadfast browns and streaks of age-adorned silver, that devour his salt-torn flesh, sear his broken mind like ravenous flame).

The leafy emeralds, and stormy grays, and midnight blues, the hues that balance gracefully in between all these — they are the shades he is composed of now. When he looks at the sea, the sea looks back at him.

And he despises it.

It is odd to be certain. The Son of Poseidon should never fear the waters of the vast deep, much less abhor them. Then again, he has never truly been that volatile deity’s offspring, has he?

No, since his awakening in this strange world of familiar unfamiliarity, of mysteries and pain, he has known that this is not where he belongs.

He feels them often. Memories, recollections of a past he cannot obtain, a past belonging to the nameless, faceless person he knows he once was. They plague him all throughout the burdensome light of day. Only occasionally do they disrupt his sleep. Those vulnerable moments when his eyes slip closed, when his mind relaxes and his will along with it…those moments belong only to Poseidon. The god whispers into oblivion, words he can seldom comprehend, murmurs of plots and plans, shouted commands. Every utterance sets his feet moving…though often not by his own choice.

But the memories, these torturous wonderful things, they haunt every moment he is allowed freedom. They gather at the back of his mind, crowding in, hissing, then screaming that he notice them. That he…

Remember.

He reaches for them again and again, even while they slide out of reach like scaly fish, shimmering tantalizingly as they slip away.

Remember, they screech, taunting and kind, excruciating and lovely. Remember what you have lost. Remember them.

A babe without a face, beloved, beautiful. His giggles are like the songs of early morning, joy spilling over in rivulets of precious gold, as tiny, chubby hands grasp at a short beard.

A queen with blurred form, graceful and loving and sharp as a blade, more striking than a goddess. She looks at him with a sorrowful smile. He aches to caress her and wipe away her tears.

A woman with the weight of living carved in rivers upon her flesh and hair the same color as his own. A woman with worn hands and a caring touch.

A man with circular spectacles and eyes that smile. The Son of Poseidon cannot see his face, but he knows that he is kind.

And another man, a brother, stalwart, bold, and strategizing. Fierce is the way he loves. Cold and unyielding are the paths of his intelligence.

These people, this kingdom of ruin, he knows them. And yet they are as foreign as his own two hands, as unfamiliar as the eyes that gaze back at him from within a haggard visage.

Their voices pierce him like the pointed ends of a trident, whirl around him like the waves on the sea. Their cries suffocate him, rend him into pieces.

In their wake, he is nothing.

Not a son of a god. Not a warrior or a princely ruler of this yawning emptiness Poseidon claims is their own.

He is nobody. Nobody. Nobody. As dense and unsubstantial as the emerald liquid that rushes forward at his beckoning to plunge men into its eager jaws.

It is better, he supposes, better than how he feels when Poseidon invades his mind. For beneath his clawed grasp, he is dangerous, fickle, unrestrained by unspoken rules of mercy and kindness. He becomes someone…but that someone is a sadistic pawn.

He is well accustomed to being the pawn of those more powerful than he. That does not make it any less of a burden to bear.

A weapon and a wraith — those are the roles he fulfills. At least, for the majority of this mindless thing they call life.

With the young boy, with Telemachus, it is different.

Telemachus is unlike anyone he has ever met. He is as gangly and eager as a newly sprouted tree, shooting up toward the sun without heed to where it will go once it breaks through heaven’s gates. His hazel eyes, so similar to those the Son of Poseidon has beheld somewhere, somewhen in the past, are speckled with sorrow well beyond his years. But they are alive, bursting with determination, with youthful fervor and boundless emotion.

He is a garden of bursting bloom, rushing past its careful borders. He is a foal, daring to gallop, a hatchling plunging into the coursing tides. He is a mighty wolf pup, playing at being fearsome, but with a heart as soft as a silken carpet of moss.

When he comes close, when he touches the Son of Poseidon, when gods forbid he embraces him with that foolish, foolish, and wholly complete trust, he feels, oh he feels.

Suddenly, terrifyingly, he is more than what his father has made him, his mind has made him. He has a name, wrong though it may seem; he has a purpose, punishable though Poseidon deems it; he has hope, daunting though his tentative embrace of it may be.

Suddenly, terrifyingly, he is loved.

He does not know what he has done to deserve it, if anything (if he is even correct in his assumption about the emotion he detects in those sparkling eyes). But he treasures it. He holds it close and he wraps it in layer after layer of armor until none can take it from him.

Not even the God of the Seas.

He takes that love and, clumsily, awkwardly, fiercely, he offers his own in return.

He shouldn’t, though.

Your love is dangerous, something whispers, a part of himself not even a deity can bury. Your love is deadly.

Anyone who gets close to you is a corpse walking.

And so he tries to restrain it, tries to quash it, hide it from the light in which it flourishes. But then, Telemachus will come, all smiles and laughter and will point out the stars above them, or boast of his mother’s strength, or tell tales of his “harrowing” adventures with the family dog.

He will come and he will stand close, so close their shoulders touch. And a smile will tug on the Son of Poseidon’s lips. His heart will soften anew.

“You remind me of him, Zael,” Telemachus says, one day when they are resting on the deck of Diomedes’ ship staring up at the constellations. “Sometimes, I look at you and I see him. Or what I think he looks like.”

Telemachus lifts his head from where it had rested on his shoulder and turns to him. In the boy’s eyes is that same vulnerability he has seen in those shards of glass. Something precious, something perilous, something lovely.

“I look at you and I see Odysseus. My father.”

The other words are clear as crystalline waters. Yet, the name ushers from his lips slurred and nearly incomprehensible. It burns all the same, burns like Poseidon’s fury, like the blood that coats his hands, like the memories that vie for his attention and never come forward to receive it.

“I am not him.”

The words come out and the Son of Poseidon hardly realizes that he speaks them. He can feel nothing save for agony and horror. Fear that Telemachus has just done something he shouldn’t have, jostled a thought that should never be touched. A thought that is sharper than his father’s trident, more broken than the bodies of those he has slaughtered.

“I’m not your father. I beg of you not to place false hopes on someone such as I.” He thinks a tear slides down his cheek, its trail harsh and heated. It is difficult to tell. All liquid feels the same. “I am no one, Telemachus. Believing me to be someone would only lead to disappointment.”

“Of course!” Telemachus nearly sets a hand on his arm, then seems to think better of it. He pulls back. “Of course, you aren’t him. I know that! I wasn’t trying to…” He shakes his head, seeming to attempt and compose himself. “I apologize. I should’ve kept that to myself.”

The worst of the pain slips away, carried by a mighty wave. Remnant aches cling to him, like ghostly strands of seaweed. The Son of Poseidon heaves a sigh.

“Think no more on it.” He grasps Telemachus’ hand, tries for a smile. “You did not cause any harm.”

The shattered grin the lad gives him in return hurts almost as much as the sound of that name.

…

It takes a bit for Telemachus to relax again, even longer for him to drift off. When he does, he is slumped on the man whom he named after the sea, mouth slightly agape, cheek moving up to crease his eye. The Son of Poseidon spreads his cloak over the boy’s shoulders. He brushes his knuckles against his cheek. And he wonders why that action feels infinitely more familiar, more real, than those words of defeat had when they left his mouth.

#not me listening to ruthlessness and get in the water way too many times while writing this #i thoroughly enjoyed torturing ody hehe #and poor baby telemachus too #i love this au so freaking much #can't wait to see where it goes!!#trin writes #epic the musical #the odyssey #odysseus #telemachus #ficlet #prolly gonna post this on ao3 too #but i might do that tomorrow

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alectoperdita · 5 months ago

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Hey Alecto, I was wondering if you had any fic recs for me! I saw some puppyshipping art before where Seto was an emotional wreck/breaking down and it has me in a chokehold. Do you know any good fics that have something like this? 👀👀

Hi, sorry this took a bit! I had to scour my memory and AO3 bookmarks and tags for a while. But I've returned with a handful of fic recs that fit your request here! These are all puppyshipping fics since that is 99% of what I read, hahah.

(And I'm guessing the fanart you saw was @ladydraculena's recent art. Either way, y'all should check it out because it's gorgeous!)

So here is a list of fics featuring Seto breaking down in tears as an, at least somewhat, significant part of the plot. Mind the warnings on some of these.

---

Love Dares Greatly by Lafeae [Rated T, post-canon]

A hit and run leaves Jounouchi comatose, with the fear that he may not regain consciousness. Kaiba, at the same time, is in the middle of developing a new game device that allows for interfacing between players when they are asleep. The suggestion is made that he could use it to pull Jounouchi out. But for two years, Kaiba has managed to keep everyone from saying a word to him about Jounouchi Katsuya. Two years since he has argued with Mokuba, forbidding even his little brother the utterance of the name in his presence. Two years since he has moved on from a messy and public break-up. Will this new circumstance pull them back together?

I cannot recommend this enough. I cannot recommend any of @lafeae's fics enough! This one is epic-length, 100k+ words, so the breakdown moments are sprinkled throughout the fic, but believe me, it's worth every moment of your time.

---

Preferable Reality by Lafeae and MistressArafax [Rated T, post-canon, *major character death* and suicidal ideation]

Life is fragile. Delicate. The daily routine can change in an instant, shaking the foundations of the world, leaving those left behind fragmented and broken. When tragedy strikes, how can Kaiba cope? How can he move on? How can he possibly mend his shattered reality?

A somewhat ensemble fic, but Kaiba's grief over Joey's death is a major part of the narrative.

---

Their Hearts Were Soldiers Who Never Found Their Way Home by Five_seas [Rated M, post-canon, *character death but it's not Kaiba or Jounouchi*]

Defying death shouldn't be easier than living as your true self. And yet, somehow, it is.

Kaiba grieves the sudden death of an old friend, and Jounouchi is there at the right place and time to help him through it.

---

Limits Approaching by BDEblueyeswhitedragon (BDEblueyes) [Rated T, post-canon]

It took years to get them together. Only months to break them apart. Can one night solve all their problems?

Kaiba and Jounouchi's marriage is going through a rough patch. Just as Jounouchi has finally gathered the courage to propose divorce, he sees something that might change his mind.

---

Roses & Starlight by BDEblueyeswhitedragon (BDEblueyes) [Rated T, post-canon]

It's Mokuba and Shizuka's wedding reception. Kaiba needs a moment to himself. Jou follows.

Short and sweet. Kaiba breaks down a little after Mokuba and Shizuka's wedding.

---

This list is by no means complete. If anyone knows of any other fics that fit this criteria, please send them to the OP!

#replies #sassyresacon1990 #joukai asks #yugioh #puppyshipping #violetshipping #joukai #kaijou #themed fic list #happy reading!

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athena-xox · 8 months ago

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Hi! I've been wanting to send asks for a while but couldn't think of a good question until recently.

I have three questions (or perhaps I should say headers).

One: How's your rewrite progressing? At what stages is cannon altered? Are there going to be concepts/characters ignored entirely?

Two: I've seen your (humorous) plea for long/multi chapter eah fics what are some of the favorite's you've read already? Any chance you have an idea of your own outside the rewrite? long or short (chances are yes, for literally anyone in this fandom but it bears asking).

Three: What fairytale(s) would you

A: Like to repeat

B: Could functionally thwart if you had to live through it.

C: Die in, or flee the land to avoid at all cost's.

Omg love the questions. I will admit I’m a bit to brain dead to fully comprehend all the questions so if I answer I different question that what you intended feel free to correct me.

With that being said, the first chapter of my rewrite is done and basically fully edited I believe it’s around 6000/7000 words. Chapter two hadn’t been edited but it’s kinda a weird one so it doesn’t really need to be edited and it’s only around 2000 words.

Chapter 3 I’ve written a bit of it and it’s also a short and I have a layout for it. And chapter 4 is going to be on the longer side probably 6000-10000 words. But after those are done and edited hopefully I’ll publish the fic!!

So that’s the progress, for what parts of canon are being altered, I think a lot of characterization. Bunny, Alistair, Crystal, Milton Grimm, Snow White & EQ are all characters who were either portrayed as good or morally grey that I’m going to make evil (whoops spoilers) and then also kitty isn’t really going to have a redemption arc like she did in spring unsprung, she’s just going to continue to chaotically be herself.

And then just every plotline / character will just be slightly more mature and in depth. And it depends on how you see canon because the rewrite is going to be a mix the tv series + the books which vary a bit on canon. And then obviously a lot more queer representation.

I wouldn’t necessarily say that the epic winter arc is being disgraced but it’s going througu many changes. I’ll probably get ride of the whole through the woods concept because it doesn’t really add anything to the plot (although I am adding a musical that doesn’t really do anything for the plot except allow be to geek (theatre kid) out and give us some cute dizzie moments).

I really want to include her but I don’t think there’s going to be any room for Bella sister. Other things from canon that I’m not including is darise, Meeshell being a horrible singer, DARABELLA, Maddie having visions, the snow king, cupids crush on dexter, the revealer rays, probably lots more but I can’t think of them.

Onto the next question I definitely have some fic recs. I’ll probably make a separate post for it but my top 2 are rewrite ignite restart and a legacy of brambles and thorns.

I think the reason why I’m actually commuting to the rewrite is because it’s really the only eah fic I want to write since I plan to hopefully cover all the characters and ships I like. In my past fandoms I’ve had like 20 different fics I wanted to write but I never got a around to all or them.

Oh wait actually I guess I have one idea but I doubt I’ll ever write it since I want to focus on the rewrite. But during my transition stage from the mlb fandom to the eah I was thinking about an au. Either the eah characters with miraculous’s in the real world or mlb characters at ever after.

Okay and for the last questions im assuming you’re asking which fairytales I’d like to 1. Be a part of 2. Don’t want to be a part of and I could stop it 3. Would have to run away from ?

1. When I was little I had the yearbook thing that had you create your own eah character and I always wanted to be a princess so I made myself goose girl

2. Definitely wouldn’t want to be like Jack in the beanstalk so I just wouldn’t take the beans

3. Sleeping beauty was my fav when I was younger so I definitely wouldn’t want to have Faybelles destiny. Or be an ugly sister, that would kill my self esteem (no wonder Bella and Brutta ran away)

For the last 3 questions I wasn’t sure if you were asking all abt me or if any were for my rewrite.

Anyways tysm for the ask !!

#ever after high #eah #lizzie hearts #apple white #daring charming #raven queen #kitty cheshire #darling charming #Bella sister #eah ask #dizzie #eah rewrite #ever after high rewrite

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seyaryminamoto · 1 year ago

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Fic-to-Art #35: Sokka leads the charge into Ba Sing Se

Here's my monthly artwork! The prompt this time was a scene that excited the readers quite a bit, and it seems that Sokka's big campaign on Ba Sing Se was the idea everyone liked best! This isn't really the best rendition I could've hoped to do, but unfortunately time constraints didn't allow me to go much further. Hope it's good enough like this anyway!

I still don't particularly thrive in drawing animals, but we needed Foo-Foo in this artwork, haha. I hope he looks as cool as he should! As for Sokka and his cool helmet, I'm sorry, I have a hopeless case of forgetting-the-helmet-itis so I never seem to recall to put it on his head. Oops :'D

Anyway! I'm not even sure what else to say, haha. Hope you guys like some epic Sokka!

If you'd like to be part of the creative process behind these pieces, a $1 pledge on Patreon makes you eligible for suggesting and voting on monthly art prompts, as well as reading Gladiator snippets 6 days before the next chapter is released!

#gladiator #sokka #foo-foo cuddly poops #this is my first time drawing him #be merciful #creatures are never my forte #I feel like he's not that bad but eh #Sokka looking like he's about to break someone's skull is always such a mood #I love drawing him badass mode #that's the guy who makes Ozai shit his pants he is #good badass warrior Sokka <3

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rjalker · 11 months ago

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Title: "Male-presenting" Time Lord

Created November 26th 2023. Finished: November 28th 2023. Posted December 5th 2023 because I immediately forgot it existed.

Summary: The Doctor is not "male-presenting" just because ler new body is perceived as male. That's not how this works. That's not what those words mean. Donna and the Doctor have a conversation about gender, and not assigning it to other people. They also talk about the consequences of the Doctor erasing Donna's memories without her consent in the first place.

A fix it fic for Russel T. Davies' The Star Beast episode, because he currently fails at all crucial levels of understanding how transgender people work, so that the moral of the story just jumps straight back to biological and gender essentialism in the worst possible way that gets presented as "progressive". So now literally millions of people, cis and trans alike, think misgendering people by assigning them "x-presenting" language is tootally cool and epic and progressive. I hate it.

Word count: 4,237

Web archive version (Read and download in multiple formats)

Fanfiction.net version (read only because they're boring and outdated)

Tumblr version under the read-more.

(Archived read-more link)

The Doctor was in the TARDIS’ conservatory, lying on a bed of Orbisian nest fungus near one of the tidal pools, head propped up with one arm. Hea was watching the tiny flits of blue and black that were the Quilluci dancing lights flies as they darted through the air, pollinating the flowers of the Venusian trumpet vine climbing a dormant tree a few feet away, while above, in the higher canopy, a Terran boat-tailed grackle whistled and rattled to show off its territory.

All around the Doctor were various shades of every color imaginable, each species in the conservatory competing and synchronizing to form an adaptive ecosystem.

The circadian rhythm of this section was winding down, so the light was starting to dim into an artificial twilight. Already, a few of the more go-getting night-calling life forms were starting to begin their chorus of hoots, chirps, croaks, and buzzes, either trying to attract mates, marking their territories, telling their friends the events of the day, luring in prey or pollinators, or sometimes all of the above all at the same time.

The Doctor had finally changed out of the clothes hea had regenerated into, but hadn’t chosen a new outfit yet. Instead, hea’d found simple pajamas and sandals, since Donna’s family was spending the night in the TARDIS due to their house being destroyed, and the TARDIS being more comfortable, and exciting, than a hotel, and less intimidating than a stay in one of UNIT’s guest centers.

Plus, the TARDIS had refused to take off until Donna came in to catch up with her. She had missed her so much. The Doctor had left the two of them to talk in the control room while hea showed Sylvia, Rose, and Shaun to the rooms they’d be staying in, then gave them a basic tour of the more casual areas of the TARDIS, safe for them to visit with only the TARDIS’ supervision.

Lying there surrounded by singing nature, it was so strange to think that hea and Donna had spent more time apart than they’d known eachother in the first place. Nineteen years it’d been since hea’d last seen her on her wedding day, right before hea’d regenerated out of this face the first time. And now this face, this body, was back, but hea wasn’t the same. And neither was she.

She’d spent all the winnings from the lottery ticket hea’d left her. Gave it all to the poor, the hurt, the oppressed. Left just enough for her to buy her family a house, and then spent the rest on paying for her daughter’s gender-affirming transition so she wouldn’t be forced to wait even longer to be allowed to be happy.

Hea really should have known Donna wouldn’t keep it all. If she had, she wouldn’t be the same Donna Noble he’d come to care about so deeply, and hea wouldn’t care for her nearly as much as hea did.

It was peaceful here, and this was the first time since this new regeneration that the Doctor had been able to stop and rest. Hea was different this time too. This body was older, like it had felt the time that had passed.

Hea was tired. There’d been a lot of running, and a lot of emotions, and that was a lot to take in immediately following a traumatic regeneration. Not that hea could even remember what a benign regeneration felt like at this point…Which just compounded the exhaustion. Thinking about what had led up to this regeneration hurt ler hearts.

Hea laid down more fully on the bed of soft, cushioned mushrooms, fully intending to fall asleep right there in the conservatory, hoping to wake up to happier thoughts. It was the perfect temperature, it was peaceful, the sounds of the wildlife were soothing. And the nest-fungi below ler were releasing the still achingly familiar scent of Orbis, trying to lull ler into sleep, promising dreams of the ocean…

“Are you awake?” Donna’s voice was pitched softly, but still managed to cut straight through the Doctor’s drifting thoughts like a knife, bringing ler back to the present moment so abruptly it was shocking.

Hea opened ler eyes and looked up at ler friend, saying, as though hea hadn’t been about to fall asleep, “Yup, I’m awake.” then, “I was going to take a nap, though.” Something about this new brain compelled the Doctor to be more honest about ler feelings that hea had been the last time hea had looked like this. It was kind of nice.

But hea wasn’t about to turn Donna away just for the sake of sleepiness. “Come on, get in here.”

Hea scooted backward, propped ler chin up on one hand again, and patted the mat of fungus in front of ler invitingly, sending up a cloud of sweet-smelling spores. Donna, slower than she would have done the last time they’d done this, laid down on the mat across from ler, both in matching poses, chins propped up on one arm, a comfortable distance between them for conversation.

There were a few moments where they simply looked at eachother, enjoying the sounds of the nature around them, learning the changes in the other’s old, new face.

The Doctor was so happy she was okay. That the metacrisis had been resolved without her death. But hea couldn’t help but feel the hurt that was festering somewhere around ler hearts from what she’d said just two hours ago, and all the things that went along with it. It was shockingly upsetting, and hea couldn’t seem to shake it.

Maybe it was the recent regeneration, and everything that had come with it, maybe it was the scent of Orbis clinging to ler clothes, maybe hea really was tired...or maybe it was just that ler friend had hurt ler without realizing how deep it would cut.

Donna’s expression changed as she watched the Doctor, growing more concerned with every heart beat. “Doctor, what’s wrong?” She finally asked gently.

Once upon a time, the first time hea had had this face, the Doctor would have brushed the question off, avoided answering, avoided facing ler feelings, avoided admitting them. But that was then, so many years ago, and this was now, after so many things had changed.

Hea said, keeping ler tone soft to match hers, “What you and Rose said before. You said --” Hea closed ler eyes for a moment, trying to remember the exact wording. “You said, ‘It’s a shame you’re not a woman anymore, she would’ve understood’, and ‘something a male-presenting Time Lord will never understand’.” Hea opened ler eyes again to gaze across at ler friend. “That, well, that really hurt me, Donna. Deeply.” The fact that hea could just say, out loud, how much it had hurt, was still astounding. It helped, saying it out loud.

Donna’s eyes widened, her mouth falling open slightly in clear shock. “But I – you --” she said uncertainly, clearly lost and upset. “But I don’t understand? Which part hurt you? I didn’t mean to hurt you, I...I was just trying to make a joke...”

“I know you didn’t mean for it to hurt.” Hea said gently, “But it did. And I’m not…” It was getting harder to speak, but hea pushed on. “I’m not ‘male-presenting’,” Just the taste of the words was wrong. “And I really wish you wouldn’t call me that. It—” Ler voice broke a little. “--it really hurts.”

“I’m sorry—” Donna said, confused, regretful, “But I thought...you...I mean…but aren’t you male? This body? Isn’t it male? And the way you…” She trailed off, tongue tied, eyes begging for an explanation.

The Doctor knew what she was trying to ask. Of course hea knew what she meant. That was the whole problem.

Hea sat up, and the sweet smell of Orbis’ southern sea perfumed the air.

“This is my body.” Hea said, gesturing with ler freed hands at ler body, clothed as it was in a simple pearlescent nightgown. “Its DNA is randomly assembled when I regenerate. There is no part of this body that I chose for myself, or that I have any control over.” Hea lifted a hand to ler head, and tugged on a lock of short brown hair with a hand that was noticeably shaking. “I can’t grow this out. It stays this same length until I regenerate again. It would take hours upon hours to even dye it a little, and it’d probably fade within the day.” Hea gestured at ler chest, which was as flat as a board. “I didn’t choose this shape, this face, these hands.” Hea held them up for her to see. “I didn’t choose this.” Ler hands were both shaking now, so hea lowered them. But all of the rest of ler was trembling with emotion as hea continued, “I’ve never been able to choose.”

Hea was almost crying as hea said it, overwhelmed suddenly. It was like this regeneration had brought out all ler pent up emotions, dammed up for hundreds of years, now finally given an opportunity to break free. If only...

Donna had sat up to match the Doctor, and reached out to take ler hands in her own. Her hands were warm and conforming as she held lers. “Oh, I’m so sorry,” she said with heartfelt regret, “I never realized! Do you, I mean, do you want me to use she/her pronouns for you?” There was a little bit of desperation in her voice.

The Doctor wanted to drop ler head into ler hands, but Donna was still holding them, and hea didn’t want to pull away from the comfort she provided. She still didn’t get it. So many of them didn’t understand.

Hea shook ler head, suddenly unable to speak past the lump in ler throat. It took a few painful moments of trying and failing to finally get out the words, “Donna, I’m not a woman just because I’m not a man. I’m non-binary. I am not presenting myself as male or female, other people decides that for themselves based on what my current regeneration looks like, without ever asking me what I identify as.I don’t use she/her or he/him pronouns, or they/them, either. I—” And hea couldn’t speak again, struck still by hundreds of years of endless pain hea’d had to quietly endure.

Donna stared at ler, concerned, upset, still holding ler hands, massaging them soothingly. A thought flickered across her face, and she leaned forward, squeezing the Doctor’s hands as though in apology. “Doctor, I’m sorry, I should have just asked instead of assuming it was one or the other. My pronouns are she/her, same as before, just so we’re both clear. What pronouns would you like me to use for you?” She spoke the last words like they were a well-rehearsed script, and with a trans daughter, maybe they were.

There was a long, painful pause while the Doctor considered the pros and cons of being honest. On the one hand, it had been so long since hea’d had anyone who knew and used ler real pronouns. On the other hand, Donna seemed to only know about she/her or he/him pronouns, and maybe they/them.

How would she react to hearing pronouns that weren’t yet well-established in early-21st century British English?

Well...there was only one way to find out.

“Hea/ler”. Hea said, and cracked a teary, self-mocking smile in spite of lerself. “Can you tell I’m running on a theme?” The relief of just saying the words out loud almost managed to overwhelm the anxiety. It was silly. It was beyond silly.Hea was over a thousand years old. Hea shouldn’t, and normally didn’t care what people thought, but this was something so personal, and this was Donna, one of the best friends hea had ever had.

She gave a little laugh at ler joke once it registered, then pulled one hand away to hold it up as though for a pause. “Okay, healer. Hea/ler...” she let out a breath, and waved her free hand to gesture in a roundabout way. “So if your pronouns are hea/ler, that means instead of he like a man, I’d say hea, which sounds the same, but like a doctor. And instead of him or her I’d say ler? Have I got that right? What about the rest of it? Like his or hers?”

“They’re used the same sort of way as she/her, actually.” The Doctor said, starting to regain some composure now that she seemed to be accepting. This was the easy part, in comparison. “You’ve got ler as in, ‘that’s ler over there’, but you also use ler for the possessive – ‘that’s ler TARDIS’.”

Hea paused for a beat to see if she was following, and she nodded for ler to continue, so hea did. “And then like how you’d say ‘the TARDIS is hers’, you say ‘the TARDIS is lers’. I’d love tell you the grammatical terms for all this, but my brain can’t seem to remember that part right now.” Hea waved a hand around ler head for emphasis. It still felt weird having these hands back. Especially that one. Oh, almost forgetting -- “And then when you’d say ‘herself’, you just say ‘lerself’.”

Donna abruptly stood, startling the Doctor. Or at least, she tried to abruptly stand, but had to slow down with a wince, and struggled to get her knees to unbend fully. When she’d sucessfully stood up, she stepped backward and look down at the confused Doctor.

She squinted, then waved her hands as she spoke, as though illustrating her words. “So, alright, let me try this, and you tell me if I’ve got it right -- ‘This is my friend the Doctor, hea’s an alien, and hea’s not from Mars, hea’s from Gallifrey, which is so far away I forget the numbers. The Doctor is a...a...uhh, okay if I wanted to say like, ‘man’ or ‘woman’, what do you want me to use? Would just person be okay?” She looked at ler for guidance.

The Doctor pushed lerself to ler feet, and hopped over the rest of the fungi mat to join her. “If gender matters,” hea said, shoving ler hands in the pockets of the night gown and rocking forward and backward on ler heels, “Then you can say ‘non-binary person’, or ‘othran’ if you want. It’s a term that starts getting used around this time in English. Oh! Or enby! Enby’s always fun. You get it? Enby, N-B, short for non-binary, isn’t that fantastic?” Euphoria was buzzing through ler veins, just like little bees. Hea hardly felt tired at all now. “If gender isn’t relevant, then, yeah, person’s fine. Or Time Lord, if it’s a medical setting.”

“Alright,” Donna smiled back, “So my friend the Doctor is an enby who flies around in the TARDIS, who, by the way,” She raised her voice a little louder to address the TARDIS, “Is looking absolutely stunning, if may I say so myself!”

The TARDIS, in response, sent a pleased thrum through the floor, and made the Venusian trumpet vine glow with streaks of yellow and blue to show her appreciation.

“She says same to you.” The Doctor translated with a smile.

Donna came over and put her arm through the Doctor’s, leaning against ler side and resting her head on ler shoulder, still smiling. The Doctor leaned ler head on hers in return.

“Alright, which ones did I not do yet?” Donna asked, quieter now, “I got hea -- and, actually, I think I only did hea? I can’t think of any example sentences right when I need them! Rose even gave me a whole notebook full of them so I’d practice and remember her new pronouns, and now I can’t remember any of them!”

The Doctor laughed. Hea couldn’t help it. “How about if I make some for you?” Hea suggested, then took on a playful tone. “My friend the Doctor is the luckiest enby in the universe, because hea gets to have me as ler friend, and I am one of the best friends ever to exist, and no one could possibly be luckier than to be my friend. How’s about that?”

Donna was by this point blushing and grinning, trying to shake her head. “That’s not even using your pronouns!” She said, then held up one hand to cover ler mouth, “Shh, shh, shush! My turn!”

And, in an accent clearly attempting to mimick the Doctor’s she said, “My friend Donna is actually the luckiest woman alive, because she gets to have an amazing othran like the Doctor as a friend!” She threw her free hand out in front of her for dramatic affect. “Hea’s amazing, and brave, and kind, and selfish, and was the first person I ever met besides my granddad who treated me with respect.”

She seemed to be confusing who she was supposed to be speaking for now, but the Doctor was not going to interrupt, there was so much raw emotion suddenly in her voice.

“Hea helped me gain the self-confidance my mother spent my whole life tearing down and ripping to shreds, and I am so grateful I got to meet ler, not just once, not just twice, but three times. I don’t know what sort of person I’d have been if I’d never met the Doctor, but I know I would never have been as happy—”

Her voice caught, and it was a few moments before she could continue, clearing her throat heavily.

“I spent years not being able to remember ler. Hea erased my memories, even though I didn’t want ler to. Hea erased my memories to save my life, but they never really went away. A part of me was still missing, and it hurt so much…”

There was a vice around the Doctor’s hearts, squeezing tighter with every word she said.

“Every time I’d close my eyes, I opened them expecting to see someone, even though I could never figure out who. I would dream of other worlds, horrible or beautiful or empty or peaceful. And I’d always wake up, not knowing what I dreampt of, only that I’d dreampt. Not knowing who I was missing, but knowing I was missing someone. I felt like I was losing my mind. Sometimes I’d hallucinate, see or hear things that weren’t there, that no one else heard or saw.

“I lost my best friend in the whole world, and didn’t even get to remember what I’d lost. Because hea took it from me, even though I begged ler not to.” Her voice was breaking, and the Doctor knew without having to look that she was crying. Ler own eyes were burning with the threat of tears.

And Donna kept on talking, baring her soul to the person who’d hurt her so badly. “Hea sent me back to my abusive mother, without any memory of what it was like to be away from her, to be free and happy and feel like my life was worth something more than her disappointment.”

She threw her other arm around the Doctor suddenly and pulled ler into a hug, burying her head in ler shoulder as she began to cry, deep, gut-wrenching sobs of sorrow and pain and anger.

The Doctor couldn’t hold back ler tears anymore even if hea’d wanted to, and this regeneration seemed to have no desire to subdue its emotions. Hea was sobbing right along with her as they held eachother in an embrace that had waited so many years of sorrow to come.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Hea said over and over again into her hair, “I’m so sorry. I couldn’t let you die. I couldn’t watch you die, I couldn’t let it be my fault. I’m so sorry I was so selfish. If I’d just been – been braver, we could have had time to fix it. But I was a coward, I was selfish. I’m so sorry I hurt you like that, and for nothing.” The pain was heartbreaking. “All we’d needed was just a little more time.” And worse so because all of it had been for nothing. Hea’d lost ler best friend, and caused her a world of misery, for nothing. All hea’d needed to do was listen to her. But hea’d been selfish, and terrified of losing her. And so hea’d hurt her, just to spare ler own feelings.

Hea hadn’t thought about what it would mean for her, back then, having to go back to her abusive mum, hadn’t considered how deeply the scars of the abuse ran.

Hea’d known Sylvia didn’t treat her with respect, hea’d known Donna’s self esteem was at rock bottom, and for a reason. Hea’d known that suddenly waking up and losing more than a year’s worth of time would be shocking and traumatic.

But hea hadn’t wanted to think about those parts. Hea had just given her the lottery ticket and told lerself that it was for the best, that she was happy, that this was the best that could be done for her.

Donna mumbled into ler shoulder, “Don’t you ever do that again, space-enby…” She trailed off. “Space-othran.” A pause. “Martian.” said so tiredly.

“I’m not from Mars.” Hea rejoined automatically, laughing a little through ler tears, feeling the same wave of weakness that had clearly taken over her. Hea was back to feeling just as tired as hea had been before Donna had woken ler up.

At that moment, she somehow managed to pull the Doctor even tighter into the hug, then released ler, her face blotchy and red with crying. She punched ler lightly on the shoulder and said, mock-angry, “I know you’re not.”

Her eyes and shoulders were drooping, and the Doctor didn’t need the TARDIS’ helpful scan to know that she was exhausted. So many things had happened to her today that just on their own would have been enough stress for a week. It was a wonder she was still on her feet. It was a wonder any of them were. The Doctor could sense through the TARDIS’ scan that Shaun, Rose, and Sylvia were still taking a tour of the library.

“Come on,” The Doctor said gently, taking Donna by the arm to lead her out of the conservatory, “Let’s get you to your room—”

But Donna pulled away, shaking her head. “Huh-uh, no way. I’m sleeping right here.” She pointed to the Orbisian nest-fungus. “Do you know how long I’ve waited to sleep on this heavenly plant again? I dreampt about it so many times that I can only remember now. I literally slept in my dreams. And it was the second most peaceful sleep I ever had.”

“Ah.” That was where the Doctor had planned to sleep. “I’ll...just go somewhere else then.” Hea wasn’t going to make Donna go and find another bed of fungus, hea was the one who knew where they all were now, not her. Hea started to walk off, only for Donna to grab ler sleeve, keeping ler in place.

“Space-othran…” She suddenly seemed nervous. “I actually wanted to sleep here with you, if that’s okay.” Her eyes searched lers. “I know it sounds silly, but I’m afraid if I go to sleep you’ll disappear.”

The Doctor opened ler mouth, surprised, closed it, then opened it again. “But…I mean...” Hea scratched the back of ler head, befuddled. “Won’t your husband have a problem with that? I may not be a man, but you’re still married, and…”

To ler surprise, Donna cut ler off by laughed outright, loudly, complete with putting her hand on her belly and throwing back her head, like hea’d said the most hilarious joke ever to be told.

“What?” Hea demanded, completely bewildered.

“Oh, no, wait, you, you don’t know, do you?” She laughed breathlessly, and shook her head wildly. “Doctor, my beloved husband, Shaun Temple, is the most cuddliest person you have ever seen. I literally have to get my own bed when we have friends stay over because they literally all sleep piled on top of eachother like cats and hog all the blankets.

“Not only will he have no problem with us sleeping together, he’ll be sad if we don’t invite him. So, to formally ask your permission, my best friend the Doctor, would you consent to sleeping with me, and my husband, and probably my daughter too, because she inherited the cuddle-bug from her father, on this amazingly soft, dream-scented plant from another planet? I do have to warn you that you will probably wake up with an arm numb because Rose latches onto you like a koala bear and getting her to let go is a chore and a half. You probably don’t have to worry about sharing with my mum, she likes her own space. Please?”

She even pulled out the puppy dog eyes.

And how could hea possibly say no to that?

The last time hea’d had this face, hea would have grumbled about it, at least tried to joke about not wanting to. But a lot had changed since then. Including ler.

So hea asked the TARDIS to let the rest of Donna’s family know where they were, and to send blankets their way, and, smiling as hea stepped forward to take her hand, hea said, “I would love to, Donna Noble.”

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