#canon typical behavior

[rcreveal]

The Trouble with a Keen Manager, Ch 20, finale

It took a minute to bring this one home, but hope you like it. 1990s, canon compliant through the ages. Crowley lost, and regained, his demonic powers with the help of more than one human, and a particular angel on Whickber street. Things have changed. But what kind of trouble will he get into if he does anything about it.

Chapter 20-finale

Anthony, the young Scottish bloke in a kilt, was finishing up his business on Whickber street for a bright new future, while Crowley, the demon, was restored as one of Hell’s ‘most effective’ operatives.  Being both of them at the same time was a grift that Crowley just couldn’t run anymore.  Anyway, he’d only been ‘Anthony’ so he could get back his demonic powers, right?  Just as he’d never dreamed of staying on Whickber street.  For someone who’d always found leaving the easiest part of any meeting, Crowley was finding himself strangely perturbed with ‘Anthony’s’ farewells.

Pulling a pile of boxes from the back of the Bentley, both of them headed in to say goodbye to Madame.

Looking up from reading in her sitting room, Madame raised an eyebrow at the boxes Anthony was encumbered under today while wearing his signature kilt and black leather waistcoat.  A week or so ago, she had not been surprised when the youth arrived in a sharp bespoke suit, no tatters at all, to tell her that he’d gotten back on his feet and had lodgings secured elsewhere.  She did make him show her his current bank statement and a bill with his apartment address in Mayfield before she sanctioned him moving out of Whickber Street Intimate Massage and Correction.  But then, he’d stayed on.  For someone with nothing but a couple of sets of clothes and a beautiful vintage car, he’d certainly dragged out the moving, she thought wryly.  There had always been one more fry-up in the kitchen with the girls, taking her on one more trip to the bank, just one more little thing to fix or adjust in her house of negotiable affection, but today it seemed that he was finally sincere in his decampment.

He’d brought her a parting gift, well, two.

“I’ve brought you a computer,” Anthony stood back with hands on hips from where he’d plugged everything in, ‘booted’ mysterious things up, and left the cursor blinking to a ‘chat room.’  Looking down at a thick bundle of manuals he had handed over, she smiled as Anthony gushed, “I think you could really expand into the ‘world wide web’.”  The rakish grin on his patchily shaveable face suggested what sort of services he thought she might offer.  Considering the Internet Cafes starting to pop up, she considered it would be a good market opportunity.

“And you’ll be by from time to time to check on how I’m getting on with it?” she said, more a command than a question.

“I’ll be around,” he evaded gently.  

Taking a wallet from his inner pocket, he produced a business card with ‘Anthony J Crowley’ and a number on it.

Enjoying the little show he was putting on, Madame waited for whatever finale he had planned.  She had suspected that he had been working himself up to leave, permanently leave, for some time. What he did next certainly confirmed that intuition. 

Suddenly, no longer, in some way, the unfinished youth, but a sharp man, Anthony executed the most courtly bow she had ever seen, ending by pressing his card into her hand while saying into her ear, “May your purse always hold a coin or two, May the sun always shine upon your window pane, may a rainbow be certain to follow each rain, May the hand of a friend always be near to you.”

He kissed her cheek as he drew away.

“I think you left the last line off, Anthony,” she said, holding his gaze steadily, before completing the old phrases herself, ‘And may God fill your heart with gladness to cheer you.’”

“You’d know more about that than me, Madame,” he replied, before he turned and sauntered out of her house as the blessing settled onto it like sunshine sparkling on dew.

Out in the alley, Crowley tipped his head at the Bentley before he headed over for his last shift at the Dirty Donkey with Dave.  Anthony greeted the regulars, charmed the patrons, mixed the drinks, and said his goodbyes.  Viv was turning out to be a natural, eagerly taking over Anthony’s shifts, so it wasn’t so much that he was leaving abruptly.  More that young Anthony was fading away. 

That night as he and Dave finished cleaning up the pub together, eating one last meal, Anthony pulled his card out of his spog and pushed it across the table to Dave who picked it up and cocked an eyebrow at the lad.  

No, Dave corrected himself.  Anthony had changed, he wasn’t a lad anymore.

While Dave was looking at the finely engraved calling card, Anthony said, evenly, “If you need a hand sometime, call me.” 

“If you fall on your arse in the gutter again, you’ve always got a job,” Dave replied gruffly, tucking the card away.

Anthony laughed and gathered their plates, taking them into the kitchen to start the final load.

As Anthony headed out the back door, Dave saw him pause to look slowly around the pub, before he raised his chin in farewell with a surprisingly soft smile and said, “Slainte mhor agus a h-uile beannachd duibh.”

“Uh, sláinte agatsa, “ Dave replied, but Anthony was just looking at him, something unreadable in his face.  Bantering back to break the tension, Dave asked, “Are you whitening your own name there, Anthony?”

With a little self-deprecating grimace, Anthony replied, “Me? Never! Just a traditional thing to say in a pub, innit?” before heading out into the night, not glancing back to see the changes wrought upstairs.  Dave and Ester would find out at her next doctor’s visit soon enough.

The Bentley waited in the alleyway outside the Dirty Donkey, ready for him to drive back to his apartment in Mayfield.  Leaning a hip against her door as he looked over at the bookshop, Crowley felt her roll forward a little bit before rolling back.  Patting her roof, Crowley sighed, he’d done the easy ones first.  Reluctantly, he stood up and walked towards the bookshop.

They’d seen each other rarely since the Take Back the Night march, he and Aziraphale.  Going to the bookshop nearly every day had been an absolute necessity during his time without powers.  Crowley was willing to admit that he wouldn’t have succeeded in his Hellish paperwork fight, der Paperkrieg, without Aziraphale.  So just when had seeing the angel turned into his biggest temptation?  

Crowley found himself looking forward to popping over with a morsel and a story about some trivial thing he’d overheard at the Dirty Donkey or Madame’s just to watch Aziraphale’s reaction.  But since Crowley had gotten his powers back, he’d shut that line of thought down, turned his treacherous feet away from walking to the shop. Hiding their meetings in the reports had worked when he was powerless.  Now, though, Crowley would light up the shop like some infernal spotlight. 

Old habits of mutual self preservation urged them to stay away, of course, along with the whole being on two vastly opposing sides thing.  Anyway, he’d never heard the angel say he enjoyed Crowley’s company.   Aziraphale didn’t come into the pub again, either.

So why was he standing in front of Mr Fell and Co.s now, well after the vindaloo places had closed?  Oh, right, they…he couldn't risk leaving any evidence.

Taking a deep breath, Crowley tapped lightly on the bookshop door which immediately opened under his hand.  Almost as if Aziraphale had been waiting up for the demon.  

Ridiculous thought, that.  Crowley pulled the door closed behind him, but did not enter further.  

Before Aziraphale could say anything, Crowley announced, from the shadow just inside the closed door, “I’m here for the rest of my kit, angel.  I’m going to be out of pocket for a while.”  Digging into his spog, so as not to look at the angel’s face, Crowley produced the remaining sum he owed for laundry, mending, storage, and bathing privileges.  Crowley held the money out to Aziraphale who looked from Crowley to the pound notes uncomprehendingly.  After a long moment, Aziraphale visibly got himself in hand, and took the money. 

Moving slowly back over to his register, Aziraphale finally said, in his carefully polite voice, “Hmm, ah.  Exactly what we agreed on,” counting the notes into the till, “Down to the last pence.”

Now that Aziraphale had moved from the door to the till, Crowley could see a tray with an unopened bottle of whiskey and two empty glasses laid out.  Crowley looked at the spread with an eyebrow raised. 

“What’s all this?” Crowley asked.

Aziraphale had closed the till, but made no further move, just stood playing with his gold signet ring nervously, not quite looking at the demon.  

Crowley bit his tongue.  This little bit of business was the only thing that was allowing him to stop by, so he wasn't going to rush things if Aziraphale wanted… He chided himself for the thought.  Why would Aziraphale want him around?  Why did he want to be around A-, an angel?  Standing in the shop, still in Anthony’s form, Crowley supposed there must be more to this camouflage than just looking like a human youth.  Some other influence that made Crowley miss something no demons shared, made these leave takings…different.  Still, incarnate influence or not, Crowley felt a flutter in his chest that his clothing and shoes weren't waiting in a bundle by the angel's desk, which was how Aziraphale prepared for the most ill-tempered and least desirable customers.  Needs anticipated and met to minimize the unpleasant contact.

Brightening, Aziraphale looked at him again, beaming like he did when one of his complicated plans worked. “Just a little send off for a young man who got a start on Whickber Street,” the angel explained, walking over to pour a generous amount of whiskey into both heavy cut-crystal glasses and waving his hand to offer Crowley a seat as he took his accustomed chair.

They looked at each other measuringly before Crowley stepped fully into the shop.  Taking his normal seat on the Chesterfield with unaccustomed hesitation, Crowley picked up the whiskey, while taking off his dark glasses.

Sniffing the whiskey appreciatively, Crowley said, “This’ll go to the young man’s head, he’s not had a chance to sample much fine single-malt.” 

“‘He’ worked in a pub this whole time and boarded at a brothel!  I should think he was swimming in drink?” Aziraphale sat back across from the kilted demon.

“Not even a wee tipple before tonight,” replied Crowley, taking a small sip and letting the alcohol evaporate up into his nasal passages. The demon sighed, “Not that anyone would believe him.”

Aziraphale raised his glass with a gentle smile, watching as the camouflage of Anthony, the young man, melted away, leaving Crowley still wearing the kilt, spog and Doc Martens the angel had given him at the beginning of this business.

They sat sharing inconsequential gossip about Whickber Street, but more often lapsing into companionable silence, nursing their whiskeys.  Then Crowley pointed to some books that looked weirdly different.

“Here, the books moved!  Did you get some new stock in?” he asked, casually, moving back towards the easy, empty nattering they’d practiced for ages.

“Oh, yes! I got a shipment from some American booksellers! Always nice to bring something from across the pond,” the angel replied.

“But Angel, you don’t like to sell any of these books, so why not hide them in the back?” Crowley asked, genuinely puzzled.

“I’ve got to read them all before I do that!  And just because I don’t want to sell them, doesn’t mean that people shouldn’t know they exist!” Aziraphale made to pour another measure into Crowley’s glass, but the demon put a hand over it, pursed his lips and shook his head.  The whine of the peril this contact put them under, the itch of his renewed duties breaking through their little refuge, dragged out Crowley’s next words.

“I’ve got to be off.  Don’t want to be driving under the influence,” Crowley said, standing up.

“You could sober up, if you needed,” Aziraphale offered helpfully, looking up at him, bottle still in hand.

“That would be a crying shame with such a fine vintage,” Crowley replied, gruffly.

“Well, then.  I’ll just go and fetch your things, shall I?  Then you can go?” There was only a very slight, very small question on the end of that statement.  They stood in the suspension of that moment as long as possible, drawing out these last exchanges.  Each paltry statement become huge like some bright refraction of light through stained glass.

“Yeah, got some projects to attend to,” Crowley dropped into the silence.  When next they met, they'd be the Best of Adversaries once more.

“Then I might see you when I’m thwarting,” replied the angel, only a little hopefulness evident in his voice.

“Might.  If you catch me,” replied the demon, hands in pockets, scuffing his shoes on the rug, looking at the angel from the corner of his amber snake-eye.

“I just have to nip upstairs,” Aziraphale swung his hands at his sides, “To get your laundry,” he turned to walk up the stairs

“I’ll still be here when you get back, Angel,” Crowley promised softly.

Upstairs Aziraphale walked into his butler’s space where Crowley’s remaining clothing and polished shoes were neatly packaged where they’d been waiting to return to the demon at a moment’s notice these past few weeks.  Passing his fingers over the soft black silk shirt at the top of the bundle, Crowley’s favorite, Aziraphale was reminded of all the hours they had spent together while Crowley was inconvenienced by hellish bureaucracy.  

Oh! The food!  Watching Crowley devour so much food to keep himself incorporated!  Feeding him up had been such fun!  

Having Crowley about the place, every day!  But rather than being an intrusion, how Aziraphale had enjoyed the clatter of Crowley typing on the new computer keyboard!  Even the particular buzzing noise of the dot-matrix printer brought a smile to his lips (tho’ he’d blessed the machine into best behaviour after it had printed every word of a thirty page document onto a single line of paper and Crowley had nearly gone apoplectic).  

Even Crowley’s creative invective rants set off by Usher’s requisition denials were amusing.  The times Aziraphale had been able to interject his own little digs at the demon manager surprising a great laugh from Crowley had been the best.  

Bantering with the demon over their very different aftershave and unmentionable preferences as Crowley continued to bathe over at Aziraphale’s would be missed (as would the demon’s charmingly affronted innocence about how often his solitary ablutions at Madame’s had been ‘accidently’ interrupted).  The lack of those daily interactions since Crowley regained his demonic powers were harder to bear than the angel had expected.  

Respecting Crowley’s privacy while the demon figured out what sort of Hellish oversight he’d have to operate under with his powers restored meant that Aziraphale found himself waiting patiently.  For what, though?  Crowley didn’t owe him anything, they’d kept the accounting scrupulously even.  After all, Crowley had only been spending so much time with him out of necessity.  

They weren’t… They couldn’t be… 

It had been…

Squaring his shoulders, clearing his throat, Aziraphale put on his pleasant face before picking up Crowley’s things and heading back downstairs.

While the angel puttered upstairs, Crowley wandered restlessly around the new book displays.  This place had been a sanctuary, but the feeling of that time irrevocably ending was percolating up in how the small changes of the displays irritated him.  Riffling through the new books, he sneered at the annoying novels, but found a largish book over to the side, tucked under a silly low-fat cookbook.  Taking it up in his hands, Crowley’s eyes drank in the red and yellow swirls of a nebula on a black background.  The book!  The one he’d been searching for! Here!  Hardly stopping to consider, Crowley slipped the book into the small of his back, under his kilt and leather waistcoat before replacing the cookbook in the display.  Steps from upstairs signaled that he’d managed his shoplifting just in time.

Aziraphale came down the stairs to find Crowley already waiting by the door.  “I’m sorry it took me so long upstairs!  I had to find what I’d done with your shoes, and some other things got scattered about, but here’s the whole lot,” Aziraphale said with barely forced lightness as he handed the bundle into Crowley’s arms, slipping the shoes to hang on Crowley's left hand, fingers sliding along the demon’s, but they had to, didn’t they? to manage the exchange. One being’s hand closed into a fist to preserve the fleeting feeling while the other clutched the shoes reflexively.

“See you around, then,” Crowley backed towards the door, looking at the angel and the cozy shop like he was memorizing it all.  Something to keep by.

“Do take care, Anthony,” Aziraphale moved by to open the door for the encumbered demon.  Outside the shop, over the click of the lock, Crowley couldn’t be sure, but he thought he heard the angel say,  “It’s been a pleasure.” 

***

In his apartment, Crowley gently tucked the bundle of hand washed and mended clothing into one of the empty dresser drawers.  The clothing still smelled of the bookshop.  Crowley wondered how long he could preserve that scent so that every time he opened the drawer he could be transported back to that brief time he’d shared with… his friend, his oldest friend.  Closing the drawer, he turned off the bedroom light and headed back out to his austere office.  

At his great black desk, Crowley pulled the “Hubble Vision” book out from where he'd tucked it in the back of his kilt under the waistcoat.  Some sharp shopkeeper, the angel was missing him pilfering this right under his nose, Crowley thought with only a little pang.  Stealing was allowed, wasn't it?

Snapping his fingers, a bottle of Talisker whiskey and a glass appeared on his desk to silence the pang.

“Let there be light!” Crowley commanded. A circle of daylight warmed the desktop.

Rubbing his hands together in anticipation, Crowley flipped back the cover and stopped.

Written on the end papers in the angel’s unmistakable copperplate was an unsigned inscription:

“Look at it! It's gorgeous!”

Chuckling fondly, Crowley shook his head.  Just like the bastard to get the last word in.

Standing up to walk over to his couch where he might admire the pictures more comfortably, a postcard-sized advertisement fell out of the book.  Stooping, Crowley picked it up, disregarded the self addressed stamped side and flipped it over to the back, ready to chuckle at the little temptation sure to be waiting there.  His confident smirk melted away as he stood, arrested by the words printed on the little card.

“Speak up, speak out, get in the way. Get in good trouble, necessary trouble, and help redeem the soul of America.” –John Lewis, American Civil Rights leader- from a collection of quotes and essays of the American Civil Rights movement.

In Crowley's hand the card burned to ash, but it was too late, much too late, the dangerous words were already seared into his battered heart.

***

They said there was a knight in Soho during those years.  A kilted Galahad with a hand crank in one hand and chain in the other.  Though some spoke of a flame-haired Bodicea, her chariot a black vintage car.  Accounts varied, these were urban legends after all.

Legend or no, years later, women talked of a red headed woman turning up to give them a ride at the intersection of Hope and Despair.  Men and their husbands spoke of a benefactor sauntering in front of a pack of toughs with a grin, standing over his fallen enemy screaming to the rest, “Come on! If you think you're hard enough!” Shopkeepers from far-flung parts of the realm didn't have to pay protection or live fearful for their family’s safety in that neighborhood at that time.  

And Crowley made trouble up there, good trouble.

Thanks so much for your kudos, reblogs, and comments! They really make my day.

If you enjoyed this, check out my Masterlist.

[damianbugs]

magically!deaged batfam trope and duke is a baby but now im thinking about deaged duke still having his powers... so on the happy side of things everytime someone makes him laugh they need to duck for cover as light shoots out of this giggling baby. but then on the horrible side of things duke is inconsolable because the darkness around him keep subconsciously taking the shape of nightmares he doesn't understand but knows to be afraid of. cassandra watches him stare off into space, the baby uncharacteristically quiet and pensive, and wonders what duke sees there that they can't as his eyes flash gold. jason turns his back for one damn second and suddenly baby duke is INVISIBLE and now everyone is scrambling to try and find him (he was asleep in the same spot the entire time). "he can't teleport... right?" damian asks for the fourth time as duke definitely appears on the complete opposite side of the room. bruce never should've held duke when he was still dressed as batman because now there's a life-size shadow construct of batman guarding the temporary nursery.

[rebloggerandy]

this is how the meme goes, right?

[crustyfloor]

Till and Luka are so difficult they are the reason Ivti and Hyuluka are slowburners of the 14k word fic type (and hyuna and ivan are the reason why it amounts to 2 chapters to make 19k words)

so many possibilities for the eye thing I'll implode (the likeliness that it's an art style choice, and I'll implode again)

if the hearts are symbolic of attraction Hyuna and Ivan fell first

Luka and Till don't know what to make of their feelings initially, so they can't express themselves outwardly without understanding, no heart eyes, but their hearts are pierced.. even though Luka sees the situation, for what it is and seemingly moves to avoid it he still lets his feelings control his heart, and Till can't help it once he's come to realize there is something there, for Ivan, maybe. the heart eyes will soon follow once they accept it

[nanamineedstherapy]

Hollow Worship: It was never about him

Summary: Gojo Satoru was used to being admired. Worshipped, even. That was the natural order of things. But worship isn’t always devotion. Sometimes, it’s possession. Sometimes, it’s something far worse. Trigger Warnings(Contains Spoilers): MDNI, Non-Con. A/N: The people who feel close to someone call them by their first name. Those who don’t—or don’t see themselves as a living being or a human—use surnames. This is my dark little gift to my muses @mullermilkshake & @TheVillagerandtheSea—hope you both enjoy your dose of brain rot. Hehe.

Your POV

Gojo Satoru was used to being admired. Worshipped, even. It came with the territory—being him.

His power? Unmatched.

His looks? Otherworldly.

His charm? Debatable. But that was your problem, not his.

The first time you met him, you were busy existing like a normal, competent jujutsu sorcerer with a stellar track record.

That lasted exactly five seconds.

Because then he walked in, all six-foot-whatever, grinning like an idiot, and your brain just—

Flatlined.

Your eyes dropped.

Not to his ridiculous sunglasses.

Not to his stupid smirk.

Lower.

His chest.

His stupidly big, indecently sculpted, menacingly perky chest.

The fabric of his uniform stretched obscenely across his pecs, and you were stuck staring at them like a sleep paralysis demon locked in combat with intrusive thoughts.

“Uh,” you said, completely forgetting every word you’d ever learned.

Gojo wasn’t surprised when you immediately froze upon meeting him. Awestruck, clearly. Like a rookie catching their first glimpse of true greatness.

His smirk widened. “Oh? Speechless? Must be my overwhelming presence—”

You didn’t respond, still frozen.

Satoru knew what people usually looked at. His blindfold. His jawline. Sometimes his hands (for some weird reason).

But you? You looked like you’d seen God’s greatest creation.

Right there.

On his torso.

It was bizarre.

Your love for Satoru (or Toru, as you lovingly called him in your dreams) didn’t start that day. It had been brewing for years—long before you ever laid eyes on him in real life.

Back when he was just an unattainable god-tier existence on your timeline, you already knew he’d be yours.

Because there was one thing that separated others from you, your special grade technique was a bad match for his.

When someone dared to call him overrated? You were there, bombs locked and loaded.

When a hater tried to say he wasn’t that strong? You had an entire thesis, six sources cited, and a clip of him soloing special grades in 4K.

And when anyone tried to downplay his assets—the sheer, disrespectfully sculpted divinity of his existence—?

Oh, you were feral.

“I wonder if sex eyes replineshes his cum output too and efficiently releases cum to the point where he releases massive cum while releasing almost close to 0 cum. Also, would it look blue? Would it be stronger than normal cum? Lot of questions.”

“How much do you love Gojo?”

“How much water have you drank all your life?”

"Honestly, at this point, if he fucked my Grandma, I’d lick her asshole just to taste his cum.”

The Gojo fandom was a lawless wasteland, and you thrived in it.

You had favorites, of course.

The thirst edits that sent you into a spiral.

The fanart that made you question if you needed to start paying tithes.

The slow-mo clips of him laughing, walking, existing—each one a religious experience in its own right.

And then there was The Video. The one where he cracked his neck before a fight, his uniform stretching just right across his chest.

That was the day you learned true spiritual enlightenment.

“Daddy Gojo needs to be locked in a mating press IMMEDIATELY. I’m tired of this.”

“I will open my mouth and take big bites of your huge breasts. Then I will open my anus behind me and let you impale me with that huge dragon-slaying eagle. Until the flowers fade, until my room becomes sticky, until your semen rushes from behind me toward my esophagus and out of my throat. Until the blood flowing in my veins becomes your semen. Until I howled loudly, which made me very happy.”

It was true love.

Except now you were here.

You had spent years preparing for this moment. Practiced your greeting. Rehearsed a perfectly normal, non-feral introduction. Told yourself you were above the insanity.

Then he walked in.

And your brain just left the building.

It wasn’t just the face. Or the voice. Or the aura that made everyone else in the room seem insignificant by comparison.

No, it was worse.

Because Gojo Satoru in real life?

Was so much more.

---

A few days later, you were on your first mission under Tokyo Jujutsu Tech.

Supposed to be dealing with a curse. A minor one, at that. Easy work for someone of your caliber.

Barely a threat.

But then it happened.

Satoru’s chest bounced when he dodged an attack.

The moment he’d moved, his uniform shifted—just slightly, just enough for the fabric to pull taut, for muscle to flex, for the weight of him to move in a way that was, apparently, devastating to you.

Your brain short-circuited like a Windows XP error.

You stopped mid-step, completely entranced, like a deer staring down an 18-wheeler made of raw pectoral muscle.

You almost died.

Over boobies.

Gojo had saved you, obviously. He yanked you back, put down the curse like it was nothing.

Then he turned to you, expecting at least a little bit of shame.

Instead, you were still looking.

Not at the curse.

Not at the aftermath.

At him.

At something beyond, something in, something he couldn’t quite put his finger on.

His fingers twitched at his sides.

“…Newbie nerves?” he said, tilting his head. “You know, I could give you some pointers—”

Nothing.

No reaction.

Just that same, unblinking, fascinated look.

“Huh,” he frowned.

And, like a curse magnetized to a ten-pack, you kept staring.

---

Gojo’s POV

The first time he met you, he thought you were a normal, competent jujutsu sorcerer. Maybe even impressive.

Then he noticed the staring.

It wasn’t the usual kind—no awe, no fear, no giddy admiration at his reputation.

It was fixed. Heavy.

It took him longer than it should have to realize what you were staring at.

Not his uniform.

His chest.

At first, it was easy to ignore. Gojo was used to people looking at him, analyzing him, wanting something from him.

But this was different.

Your gaze didn’t waver, didn’t break away when caught—it just locked on, paralyzing, suffocating, an unspoken weight pressing against his ribs.

Gojo wasn’t used to feeling watched.

Not like this.

Sure, people stared at him all the time—students, sorcerers, civilians, enemies. Everyone wanted a piece of him, whether it was his power, his reputation, or just the sheer spectacle of his existence.

But your gaze?

Your gaze felt different.

He laughed it off.

Because what else was he supposed to do?

He’d gone to Nanami first.

“She stares at my chest. Constantly,” Gojo said, sitting backward on a chair like the human embodiment of a red flag.

Nanami didn’t look up from his paperwork. “And? I have important matters to handle, Gojo-san.”

“No, but seriously. She stares like—like she’s buffering. It’s like she’s studying them. That’s weird, right?”

Nanami’s pen stilled. He glanced up. “You mean the sorcerer with a higher kill count than you?”

Gojo blinked. “...What?”

“She’s a special grade.”

“Huh—”

“She’s more competent than you.”

Gojo frowned. “Okay, rude, but—”

“You should be grateful she even looks at you.”

“How can you—”

“She has more important things to do than entertain your delusions.”

He tried Ijichi next.

“Ijichi, listen, she stares. A lot. You believe me, right?”

Ijichi sighed, exhausted. “I believe you’re tired and hallucinating, Gojo-san.”

Surely Shoko would believe him, right?

Shoko took a drag of her cigarette and, without looking at him, said, “Sounds like a skill issue.”

No one believed him. No one.

And that’s when Gojo knew: he was alone in this.

That should have been the end of it. But it kept happening.

You were competent, respected, powerful—and yet, Gojo would catch you frozen, staring at him.

Not at his face.

At his chest.

It happened during missions.

It happened in meetings.

It happened when he was simply breathing in the same space as you.

And then, the first incident happened.

It had been a nasty mission.

Multiple special grade curses.

Gojo handled it like always, but the last one caught him off-guard.

Just for a second.

Then the mission went wrong.

Fast.

Gojo got clocked.

Hard enough to black out.

It wasn’t often that he felt truly helpless.

It would be fine; you were there; you’d take care of it.

But when he woke up, there was cold floor pressing against his back.

Did he tear off his clothes in the fight?

But there was warmth too.

Something was off.

Pressure. Softness.

Something was… moving?

His brain caught up at the same time his eyes adjusted.

He tried to sit up, but—oh.

Oh, no.

He looked down.

It was you.

Your face was buried in his bare chest.

Fully.

And—oh God, were you moterboating his chest?

Gojo was a man of many words.

Right now? He had none.

Your hands clutched his uniform pant’s waistband, face buried between his pecs like you were trying to merge with them.

“...The hell?” Gojo rasped.

You froze.

Stared at him, unblinking.

You had been waiting for this.

Didn’t look embarrassed but... devastated?

A long, long pause.

Then:

“...Can I—”

“No.”

“Just one more—”

“Absolutely not.”

You sat back with the heaviest sigh known to man.

Because you were disappointed.

Gojo scrambled away from you, grabbing his uniform coat, almost tripping on his own feet and putting it on hurriedly before teleporting away.

---

Your POV

You loved his chest.

And Gojo Satoru, for all his confidence, was confused by the sheer devastation on your face as he pulled away, as if he’d just denied you your one purpose in life.

Meanwhile, you?

You had been thriving.

You had touched him.

Felt him.

Got a taste—no, an experience—of the divine creation that was his body, and it had been just as glorious as you always imagined.

Better, even.

Your fingers still tingled.

Your face still burned.

Your soul? Ascended.

And he had moaned.

Not a little gasp, not a sharp inhale—he had moaned.

The moment his consciousness had flickered back into reality, before his brain even had the decency to register what was happening, a soft, breathy, utterly wrecked sound had left his lips.

For you.

He could deny it all he wanted. Could try to act like he wasn’t completely gone for you, but you knew the truth.

It was only a matter of time.

And time was something you were ready to bend.

You’d always admired him—Satoru, the strongest sorcerer, the most beautiful man alive, the reason why your entire search history was a carefully curated shrine of edits, thirst posts, and questionable thoughts.

You were the one who lived and breathed Satoru. The one who had a folder on your phone labeled “Toru’s Temple” filled with pictures and clips (taken of him when he wasn’t looking) of him doing the most mundane things—like adjusting his blindfold or his fingers intertwined when he sat waiting for his hot coffee to cool—because even the smallest movement felt religious.

But admiration had limits.

Love didn’t.

And what you felt for him?

It was love.

Because if Satoru told you to jump off a cliff, you’d ask how high?

Because if he ruined your life, you’d apologize for wasting his time.

That’s why, as you watched him stumble out of the infirmary, still slightly dazed, still rattled from your little touch, you knew exactly what you had to do.

Toru baby needed guidance.

Someone to make him understand.

And that someone was you.

You smoothed out your uniform, lips curving into a soft, sweet smile as you watched him head toward the training grounds. The first-years were waiting for him, clueless to the fact that their beloved teacher had just moaned like a two-bit whore under you.

Adorable.

But you weren’t worried.

You had a plan.

All you had to do was wait, when he was just tired enough, just distracted enough—

And then?

You were going to corner him.

And you were going to make him see.

Make him understand that what happened between you wasn’t just a coincidence.

That his body knew what his stubborn little brain was taking time to accept.

That he belonged to you.

And if you had to break him in to make him realize it?

Well.

That was just love, wasn’t it?

---

A few days later - Gojo’s POV

Gojo had always assumed there were limits.

There were things he could stop, things he could overpower, things that no one—no one—could ever do to him.

Because he was the strongest.

Because he had Infinity.

Because he was untouchable.

Because—

Because—

Because he was wrong.

It happened fast.

Too fast.

He saw the shift in your eyes before he even registered that his body was already reacting.

Already activating Infinity.

The barrier was up.

Infinity was absolute.

That’s what Gojo had always known.

A law of physics as natural as breathing. No one—not even a special-grade—should have been able to touch him without permission.

But your fingers wrapped around his wrist anyway.

Like Infinity wasn’t there.

Like he wasn’t there.

He had never seen you use this technique before.

Something that bypassed Infinity like it was nothing.

Not time manipulation, not a Domain Expansion—just something else.

Something made for this.

He had seen cursed techniques used in ways that violated human limits, but never like this.

Never against him.

Never against his body.

Gojo didn’t understand.

Didn’t want to understand.

His breath stuck in his throat. His body locked.

His vision tunneled, and it wasn’t because of a fight, wasn’t because of an opponent stronger than him, wasn’t because he had made a mistake in battle—

No.

This was something worse.

His body wasn’t reacting the way it should have.

His instinct screamed at him—pull away, push back, destroy—

But he couldn’t.

Because his body wasn’t obeying instincts of war anymore.

It was responding to something else. Something he had never prepared for.

Fear.

Not of death.

Not of losing.

But of you.

Your hands touched his chest first, like before.

Then lower.

Lower.

The horror didn’t hit all at once.

It came in waves, in wrongness, in realization.

He had never been touched like this.

Never been unable to stop it.

His body was screaming at him to move, but he couldn’t.

He wasn’t fighting a curse.

He wasn’t facing death.

He was frozen.

He wasn’t the strongest.

Not in this.

Not when it was your weight against him, your voice—his own name slipping out of your mouth in a way that made his stomach churn—

Not when he realized his body was obeying instincts that had nothing to do with power.

He wanted to disappear.

His body was betraying him.

Why?

Why?

His arms twitched—move, move, fucking move—

The world tilted when you shoved him back onto the floor. It wasn’t forceful enough to hurt, but it was enough to make one thing painfully clear—

He wasn’t in control.

You straddled him, your weight pressing down on him like a cage. Your fingers tangled in his hair, yanking his head back, forcing him to look at you.

Your hands slid over his body, exploring, claiming, violating.

Everywhere you touched felt like fire, but not the kind that burned away impurities. This fire was corrosive, eating away at him, leaving behind nothing but ash and shame.

Gojo wanted to die.

His body—his own body—betrayed him.

Heat pooled under his skin, a sick, involuntary reaction that made his stomach churn.

It meant nothing.

It meant nothing.

It meant nothing.

He wanted to laugh.

He wanted to vomit.

It wasn’t supposed to happen like this.

Not to him.

The strongest. The untouchable. The undefeated.

That’s what everyone thought.

That’s what he had always thought.

Until now.

Your voice cut through the haze, cooing words that sounded sweet but felt like poison.

Like nothing was wrong.

Like he was a willing participant.

Like he wasn’t lying there, wishing he could sink into the floor, wishing he could dissolve into nothingness, wishing he could sit under water and watch as his skin shredded away layer by layer until there was no trace of you left on him.

Until your touch became a bad dream, a distant memory, and not his reality.

He closed his eyes, desperate to escape, but his Six Eyes betrayed him.

They showed him everything—the way you looked at him, not as a person, but as meat.

As something to be devoured.

His arms refused to move, heavy and useless at his sides.

Was this the freeze response people talked about?

The body’s way of protecting itself when fight or flight wasn’t an option?

He shut his eyelids tighter, as if he could block out the world, block out you, block out the unbearable reality of what was happening.

But he couldn’t.

He could still feel your hands, your weight, your breath.

He could still hear your voice, soft and sickeningly sweet.

He could still see, even with his eyes closed, the way you looked at him—like he was nothing more than an object for your pleasure.

He waited.

Waited for it to end.

But it didn’t.

And all he could do was lie there, trapped in his own body, wishing for it all to be over.

Wishing for the nightmare to end.

Wishing for the strength to fight back.

But it never came.

And so, he waited.

And waited.

And waited.

And then—

A crack!!

The weight was gone.

Gojo barely felt himself collapse back on the floor, his body folding in on itself like a marionette with its strings cut.

His body still wasn’t listening.

Then he heard the sounds.

The sickening crunch of bone against bone.

The sharp, wet slap of flesh meeting flesh.

The guttural cries of a fight that wasn’t his to finish.

His body did not move.

He didn’t move.

Didn’t help.

Even as the fight broke out around him, even as voices—familiar, urgent, furious—got lost through the fog in his mind, even as he felt the warm splatter of blood against his skin, he remained still.

Paralyzed.

Helpless.

When the silence finally fell, heavy and suffocating, he felt something solid.

Warm. Safe.

A hand.

“Satoru.”

His whole body shuddered at the sound of his name, at the weight of it, at the way it anchored him back to reality.

Nanami was there.

Gojo’s hands, trembling and weak, gripped Nanami’s coat like it was the only thing keeping him from being swept away.

Nanami was real.

He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think.

The world had tilted off its axis, and he knew, deep in his bones, that he would never be able to straighten it again.

So he asked, because he had to.

“You believe me now, right?”

The words clawed their way out of his throat, raw and broken, the weight of them thick enough to drown him.

He was drowning.

Then, after what felt like an eternity, after everything, Kento finally spoke.

“I believed you then, too.”

Soft. Solid. Unshakable.

“She had ears on us. I couldn’t risk tipping her off.”

Gojo’s stomach dropped.

Because that meant—

That meant he had never been alone.

That meant Kento had known.

That meant someone had taken it seriously.

Gojo’s chest collapsed inward, the weight of it crushing him.

Like he had been bracing for something that never came.

Like he had been drowning alone this whole time when, in reality—

Kento had been there.

Had always been there.

His breath broke, a ragged, shuddering thing that tore through him like a storm.

He broke.

The strongest man in the world.

He didn’t let go of Kento.

He couldn’t.

His body still wasn’t listening, still frozen, still trapped in the aftermath of what had happened.

Because it knew.

It finally, finally knew.

And the knowledge was worse than the violation.

The realization that he had never been alone, that someone had seen, that someone had cared enough to take it seriously—it was too much.

Too much to bear.

And so, he clung to Kento, to the solid, unyielding presence of the one person who had believed him, who had been there all along.

Because if he let go, he wasn’t sure he’d survive the fall.

---

She was dead, but Gojo Satoru was afraid.

Of women.

Of touch.

Of himself.

Of what had already been taken from him.

And of what would never come back.

Gojo didn’t talk much anymore.

He laughed when he needed to, the sound hollow and rehearsed, a performance for the sake of those around him.

He joked when expected, the words slipping out like a reflex, but the humor never reached his eyes.

The mask fit perfectly, molded to his face over years of practice, but it was heavier now.

Heavier than Infinity.

Heavier than the weight of the world.

Because beneath it, he was breaking.

He didn’t touch anyone.

Not casually. Not intentionally. Not unless it was absolutely necessary.

And he didn’t let anyone close.

Not physically. Not emotionally.

The space around him became a fortress, walls built from the rubble of what had been done to him.

But the fortress wasn’t impenetrable.

It couldn’t keep out the memories.

The phantom sensations.

The way his body betrayed him, flinching at the slightest brush of a hand, freezing at the sound of footsteps behind him.

He felt it every time someone’s eyes lingered a little too long.

Every time he caught a glimpse of a smile that felt too familiar.

The weight of hands on his chest.

The warmth of breath against his skin.

The disgusting truth of it all.

And no one noticed.

Except for Kento.

The disgusting truth of it all.

And no one noticed.

Except for Kento.

Kento, who didn’t comment when Gojo’s hands shook as he reached for a cup of coffee.

Kento, who didn’t force a conversation when Gojo’s responses dwindled to single syllables or silence.

Kento, who—one day, in an empty hallway, when a female walked a little too close—stepped between them without a word.

It wasn’t just the hallway.

It was the little things.

The way Kento would subtly position himself between Gojo and anyone who got too close during meetings.

The way he would linger in the room after everyone else had left, fiddling with his phone, giving Gojo the space to breathe without the pressure of being watched.

The way he would hand Gojo a file or a pen without letting their fingers brush, a small but deliberate act of consideration.

And then there were the things Gojo didn’t even realize he needed until Kento provided them.

Like the time Gojo froze in the middle of a mission, his body locking up at the sight of a curse that bore an unsettling resemblance to her.

Kento didn’t ask questions.

He didn’t demand an explanation.

He simply stepped in, taking over the fight without a word, giving Gojo the space to retreat without shaming him for something that wasn’t his fault.

Or the time Gojo found himself unable to enter a room—that room, his feet rooted to the ground at the sound of laughter—her laughter, or at least something close enough to make his stomach churn.

Kento didn’t push him.

He didn’t tell him to get over it.

He just stood there, a silent presence at Gojo’s side, until the laughter faded and Gojo could breathe again.

Gojo didn’t thank him.

He couldn’t.

The words stuck in his throat, tangled up with everything else he couldn’t say.

But Kento didn’t seem to expect gratitude or even think of it.

He didn’t seem to expect anything at all.

He was just there.

Steady. Reliable. Unshakable.

Reminding him, even in the darkest corners of his mind, where the memories lingered like shadows, there was a light.

Faint, but there.

Kento didn’t touch Gojo. Didn’t even look at him.

But he was there.

A barrier.

A shield.

Gojo had never needed a shield before.

Now, he couldn’t survive without one.

A/N: The comments in this fic are real comments people have actually made about Gojo on Twitter & Reddit. "How would this actually play out in a realistic setting?" I’ve always had this thought lurking in the back of my mind whenever I read some of the feral, lawless thirst comments people make about Gojo. So I did what any sane person would: I turned it into a horror fic. Also, if you thought Gojo was too OP to be a victim… yeah, so did he. Now, tell me—be honest—what’s the worst Gojo thirst comment you’ve ever seen? 👀 Drop it in the comments. (Or, if this broke you emotionally, just leave a 🍞 emoji so I know you’re still breathing.)

All Works Masterlist

[pinkopalina]

no one:

batman: WHAT IS THE JOKER PLANNING? I KNOW HE'S OUT THERE, WAITING FOR ME! I HAVE TO FIGURE OUT WHAT HE'S UP TO, GET INSIDE HIS BRAIN, BECOME ONE WITH HIM! HE HAS ABSOLUTELY NO HOLD ON ME WHATSOEVER AND YET... SOMEHOW... I AM drawn to him... almost as if...

[charlioak]

don't cry darlin

[hanakihan]

i absolutely beg that if one day Tchaikovsky will end up as a servant in FGO he’ll be an archer class purely because of his 1812 overture

‘Sir you can’t use canons in music’

‘Watch me’

[rcreveal]

The Trouble with a Keen Manager-Ch7

A 1990's Through the Ages story set pre-Antichrist. Crowley and a keen new manager are getting deeper into a battle of paperwork while Crowley's been cut off from most of his demonic powers due to an Accountability drive in Hell. Aziraphale and other new Whickber St characters help out. (Terry Pratchettesque banter and hijinx)

Dave looked up from the bar where he was polishing a glass and pointed his chin to the kitchen when Crowley walked in. The hungry demon made a big plate of pub fare and polished it off before putting his dishes and the dirties from the bus bins into the industrial washer. He set about cleaning the kitchen since it wasn’t yet time for his shift out front.

After a while Dave came into the kitchen looking for Anthony, eyebrow raised at the unrequested industry of his unlikely new hire.  Freshly washed and shaved, the lad still sported his kilt and heavy soled boots, knobby knees and elbows poking out so the redhead didn't look completely filled out yet, despite his lanky broad shoulders.

“Good job, lad.  I like the initiative,” Dave set down an official looking employment form on the only dry, clear space in the kitchen pushing the paper and a pen towards the lad. “Just fill these out for me, so I can hire you officially.  Just the usual stuff,” he explained.

Anthony picked up the form like he’d never seen one before, reading it quickly, then glancing up at Dave, an awkward smile that seemed to be trying for shifty on his face.

“Do we have to be so ‘official’?  I’m happy to save you the extra paperwork and just take cash?” Anthony offered hopefully.

Grabbing the other kitchen stool, Dave sat across from the lad, “Sorry, Anthony, I don’t employ people under the table.  I’ll need these filled out with your National Insurance Number and copies of your birth certificate or passport, to prove you can work in the UK.  It’s a bugger, paperwork, but it keeps me open an’ operatin’, you understand.”  

Mouth open, the kid came up with a plausible lie on the spot, “I understand, Dave, I’ll fill it out.  I just don’t have my ID on me.  An’ I don’t have me National Insurance Number memorized, yet…”

Dave fixed Anthony with a measuring look, the lad was fairly vibrating with keen, terrible hope.  The kid obviously needed the job badly, surreptitiously scrounging leftovers while bussing the tables last night.  And he was making a good impression so far…

“Fine, lad. I can pay you cash until you can get your IDs sorted,” a relieved smile broke over the kid’s newly shaved (and nicked) face.  Dave held up a hand, “I can’t run it that way for long, two weeks, tops.”  

Anthony popped up from his seat and grasped Dave’s raised hand, shaking it vigorously. “You’ve got a deal!”

The next few days fell into a new rhythm.  Crowley slept in the Bentley, sometimes in alleyways, sometimes on the street in the Whicker neighborhood, sometimes as the Bentley moved around the neighborhood.  For some reason, the car didn’t seem to want to venture past Soho.  Crowley hadn’t walked to his Mayfair apartment, since the doorman wouldn’t let in the unfamiliar young Scottish kid.  Plus, there was no point.  Crowley didn’t keep any documents.  He’d never needed real, actual documents before, always pulling the appropriate official paperwork by miracle for whatever situation was needed.  Anyways, he’d always thought all that paper just cluttered up the place and didn’t go with his minimalist aesthetic.  Shame.

Everyday he went into the bookshop, which started a rumor that the new barkeep liked history, and was writing a book.  He certainly had some colorful stories to tell of historical events and left the bookshop everyday with an ever enlarging stack of computer printouts.  In reality, Crowley was running reports for Usher’s requisitions.  Waging a war by form, now with the additional Daily Standard Requisition for official identification documents needed for holding a job, and energy or monies to run a body.  Aziraphale was a canny help suggesting new requisitions, but Crowley couldn’t ask him to miracle documents for him, too obvious.  Unfortunately, Usher didn’t seem likely to break before the two week deadline was up. 

The regulars at the Dirty Donkey were taking a shine to Anthony, which allowed Dave to step away from the bar to pop upstairs to help his wife. If the lad didn’t have to work under the table, he’d truly be heaven-sent.

***

Shax collected another sheaf of reports from a less harried Furfur.  “Your department seems to have grown considerably, Furfur,” she observed.

“Yeah, lookit them all!  Workin’ away like maggots on a carcass,” Furfur looked proudly over the demons at ranks of desks with inkwells and fountain pens at the top.

“I see you found a solution to the pencil problem,” Shax said.

“Usher understands an empty ink bottle, and they stay put on the desks,” Furfur smiled at the inkwells locked into the desks, fingering a shiny new key.  A demon with a strange contraption attached to his back went around filling the inkwells.

Shax looked at the new ‘Inbox’ which had been turned into a chute that fed into a huge hand cart, like the kind for industrial laundries.  Sheets of paper with regularly spaced holes on either side and attached to one another on their short sides were continuously feeding into the pile while pieces of paper, scraps of receipts, scribbles on envelopes floated around them.

“Did Usher get more demons to manage?  There’s considerably more coming in from Earth.” Shax observed.

“Nah.  Actually he’s got less demons reportin’ in.  There’s more coming in by the reincorporator, and they tend to lurk around until they’re forced to go back out,” Furfur said, going over a report that one of the demon clerks handed him.

“They were discorporated? By angels?” asked Shax, an edge of anger in her voice.

“Some of ‘em,” explained Furfur, “But some of them by humans more often now.  Also,” Furfur looked shifty.

“Also, what!?” hissed Shax. 

“Some of ‘em have been goin’ quiet for days or weeks, then pop down here in the re-incorporator.  Said they lost the ability to move and just laid there til they dissolved,” Furfur shuddered a little.

“Why would that happen?” Shax asked.

“Dunno, but one demon’s making up for all the others and then some, an’ ‘e’s been asking for energy to run his corporation. He’s the one sending down the reports on that funny connected paper,” Furfur indicated the nearly continuous fall of white connected paper landing in the handcart.

“Who is it?” asked Shax, noting that Furfur seemed negatively disposed to whomever was managing to oppose Usher.

Face distorting in dislike, Furfur said, “Crowley.”

Ah, thought Shax.

“So Usher is giving Crowley energy to run his corporation and all his other requisitions?” asked Shax, thinking that any preferential treatment of Crowley was sure to pull Furfur’s tail.

Grudgingly, Furfur admitted, “Nooo.  Usher actually gives Crowley the least of all of ‘em.   Though he’s started giving some of the discorporated demons part of the “Standard Daily Requisitions” that Crowley requests.”

“The what?” Shax asked and Furfur handed over a piece of paper from his clipboard.

Shax looked down the list.

“Usher is giving the other demons requisitions, but not Crowley.  And Crowley’s still operating?”

“Bugger me how.  I’ve checked for help from,” Furfur pointed over their heads, “After catching him with that angel in 1941, but he’s not registering any angelic support,”  Furfur said.

Shax looked up from the reports at a sudden outburst.

“I won’t go back!” a demon with spider legs extending from their back came through from the reincorporator accompanied by a slender demon with hair raised into two vague horns. “You’ll be fine,” Demon Eric encouraged, “Lookit all the stuff we get to have this go!” 

“That’s the spirit, Eric!  Get up there and give ‘em hell!” said Furfur.

“Oh, I didn’t requisition for all of Hell, sir,” Eric said, walking by towards the transporter, “Imagine me requisitioning all of Hell,”  he said, shaking his head.

Eyebrow raised, Shax said, “I’ll take the reports.” 

Furfur turned back to his desk and handed her a full banker’s box, “Here ya go,” dropping it into her outstretched arms.

Shax easily took the weight of the box and clicked away efficiently.

Walking until she didn't feel any eyes on her, Shax ducked into an unregarded corner to read the reports.  Maybe there was a clue to how Crowley was doing it?  This was information that was sure to help her get ahead!

Thank you for reading! If you liked this story, there are more Good Omens fanfic at my Master List.

[alohaasaloevera]

I MAKE THE RULES NOW. LANCE IS OVERLY AFFECTIONATE AND WILL OFTEN ACCIDENTLY CROSS THE LINE WHEN HE IS IN A FWB-TYPE-OF-RELATIONSHIP WITH KEITH?!!!?1

Lance softly peppering kisses all over Keith while Keith is literally paralyzed because he’s so flustered??

Keith literally shutting down when Lance wraps an arm around his waist???

Lance putting Keith in his lap while they watch a movie????

Making ten-times as much innuendos when sparring together?????

Lance brushing and braiding Keith’s hair??????

THAT’S CANON-TYPICAL BEHAVIOR TO ME!!!

[soleberlandieri]

Ci sarai

La sua potente presenza mi attrae lontano dalla squadra. Sto cercando Sasuke. Non è lui, ma è simile.

Itachi. Il sangue mi si gela, mi catturerà.

«Voglio solo parlarti, Naruto.»

È un inganno. Avanzo, i suoi occhi non sono terribili, non è lo sguardo di un traditore.

«Perché sei così interessato a Sasuke?»

«Lo considero un fratello, io.»

Sorride, non è come lo descrivono. Ha il volto dell’amore.

Usa una tecnica che non comprendo, poi va via.

Le lacrime mi scendono, Itachi sa che custodirò l'avvenire. Capirò quando il suo tempo verrà, farò in modo che Itachi ci sia.

«Capisco. Ti proteggerò dall’odio.»

Parole, 103

[some-anonymity-preferred]

The Love of a Pet Befouls the Ship

How did Ed and Izzy end up with such different memories of why Fang had to get rid of his dog, anyway?

[curlygrant44]

Hey. Felt something weird, wanted to check in. You alright? Spill something?

@mistake-responsibility

The message isn't one he expects to see; it's not typical for him to get any messages so 'late', but dutiful as ever, Curly checks. Because it might matter. It might be someone who's counting on him.

It's Jimmy.

Immediately, his blood runs cold, and he glances down at the doll held in his arms along with two others. Was he squeezing it too tight? Did he hurt him?

The light of the phone illuminates the darkened room just enough for him to see a faint shadow here and there on the fabric, and he worries for a second that he'd drooled on it in his sleep.

But no, with this pattern of splotches , dotted all over...

He knows what he was doing. He knows how he woke up.

I'm fine, thank you. I think I drooled on it in my sleep. I apologize for bothering you.

As easy as breathing, he lies -- he can't burden Jimmy with something stupid like this, can he? That wouldn't be fair, or reasonable. He's always troubling Jimmy, and even if they're friends, it's not right that the help is always going one way...

In the hopes of distracting him, he sends a second message as a follow-up.

Maybe I can make it up to you with something that feels nicer one of these days...

There.

With any luck, Jimmy will latch onto that and not ask him any more questions. He turns his phone off and rolls over to hopefully get more sleep...but he makes sure to set Jimmy's doll to the side, tucked in neatly to keep him warm -- just to make sure he doesn't make a worse mess of him if the grief for a life he's never even had the chance to live, and possibly never will, hits him once more. At least he can't bother Sunshine or Jim if he cries on their dolls.

[confusedfeelsfangirl]

These JonElias fics are ~nasty~ and I’m loving it.

[thejadecount]

So like Cup’s Sep! Leo would totally be jealous of the other Leos right?

TMNT AU Competition Masterpost

Because don’t get me wrong a lot (if not all) of the other Rise Leos in the comp had it rough but DAMN many of them still joke around (even though a lot could be acting to cover trauma and shit) and smile a lot while he’s always being serious.

Now Cup recently just said her Sep Leo acted serious for a long time and didn’t start joking and being witty until he got super comfortable so he’s almost like the opposite, the antithesis (am I using that correctly?) of the Leos (at least the Rise ones). Instead of joking less as he gets more comfortable opening up to his brothers it’s the exact opposite.

Anyways, I feel like before understanding that a lot of the other Leos went through a lot of stuff, he’d be at least somewhat pissed off. Here he’s been Two, working for the Foot Clan under the influence of a memory-distorting drug and magic his entire life while some only recently got traumatized (B.E.A.S.T., DFTM, etc).

Of course I have no say on how he ACTUALLY would feel (bc I don’t control the AU duh) but least to say he’d be somewhat irritated by them, kinda a lot like the Future Leos.

I can almost imagine a scene where his older brother Raph or even heck a Future Leo like OMO talks to him about it. The large complex all the AUs are housing at are big. There’s a rooftop. Sep! Leo is sitting on the edge and looking out to the night sky like the main character Edgelord™️ he thinks he is. Earlier he had gotten an earful of the other Leos and snapped, maybe insulting one or heck even punching them. He ran away up to rooftop in defense before he could hear it from Raph. However said Raph (or maybe a Future Leo or screw it they both run into each other going up to talk to him and decide to talk to him together) comes up anyway. Eventually after some back-and-forth and arguing Sep! Leo snaps, saying that it isn’t fair. They get to be all carefree and joking and blah blah blah and he’s stuck here all fucked up by the Shredder and Kitsune.

More talking. Soon enough Sep! Leo gets it that the other versions of him didn’t have a such a great rock-and-roll life either. A lot of them are actually using said jokes to hide the self-esteem issues and the trauma. Of course it isn’t his fault that he didn’t know that, but he also shouldn’t have been so brash to assume that he was the only one who had a lot of trashy, dumpster-fire stuff happen to him. He couldn’t try to compare their trauma and say he had it better or worse. But they all definitely had it at some point.

And through that it’s what makes him realize that’s what makes them all Leos, whether they like it or not: they get shit thrown at them, and they take it. They take it, and that’s it.

In that way, the other Leos are actually the most likely to understand him, huh?

[rcreveal]

The Trouble with a Keen Manager-Ch 4

Ineffable Husband banter as Crowley applies for a job, Aziraphale does a good deed, and Crowley has to find bathing privileges as the extent of his loss of powers (thanks to the new Hellish manager) continues to be revealed.

“You want to hire me!”

The barkeep and owner of the Dirty Donkey looked around the ‘Help Wanted’ sign held in his face by a fist.

The fist and ropey arm were attached to a young bloke with a mop of unkempt red hair to his chin, but nevertheless, glaring at Dave through dark sunglasses with a determined expression under a two day beard. God Almighty, the lad was wearing a great kilt like he was born to it topped with a black leather waistcoat over a black undershirt.

“Why on earth would I want to hire you?” retorted Dave to the kilted apparition.

Which seemed to knock the bloke back, he dropped his head and arm, momentarily despondent.

Dave heard the lad mutter, “Alright, we do this the old fashioned way,” then to Dave with a winning grin, “How about a wager? I manage this horde,” the lad stuck his thumb over his shoulder at a crowd of impending customers, ”And you hire me as your new barkeep?” The cheeky bastard held out his hand.

Dave glanced at the crowd and the hand.

“If you can sort out this lot, you’ve got a deal,” said Dave, shaking the demon’s hand.

While Crowley was engaged over at the Dirty Donkey, Aziraphale closed up his shop for a stroll.  He generally strolled at unplannable intervals, all part of his long term success in not selling books to the public, but this stroll had a specific goal in mind.  Backtracking Crowley’s most recent walk to his shop, Aziraphale soon found the Bentley, parked in the neighborhood, but uncharacteristically bedecked with parking tickets.

Tutting gently from across the street, the angel looked at the sheaf of tickets under the windshield wiper.  A tow truck was just turning down the street with the vintage car in its sights, (the tow truck driver, after running the Bentley’s plates, had found that it wasn’t exactly registered, so he reasoned that it wouldn’t exactly be stealing if he were to tow it away and sell it to the highest bidder of his extensive underground network).  Aziraphale made a little shooing motion at the tow truck before walking across the street and letting himself into the car whereupon the tow truck driver suddenly remembered that the Bentley was very definitely registered and to a feisty gentleman.  He drove on, thinking it would be a good idea to let others in his circle know to leave this car alone.  Raising an eyebrow at the departing tow truck, the angel reached around to gesture at the tickets, evaporating them.

Patting the dash gently, he told the car, “You are under my protection.  I don’t know what Crowley would do if you came to any harm!”  The Bentley’s engine made a purring noise, and one travel sweet popped into existence. “You’re very welcome. Now, don’t tell him I was here!” With that good deed done, Aziraphale let himself out of the Bentley and continued his stroll in the neighborhood.

Dave had to hand it to the rough Scottish stranger, he knew his way around a bar.  The red-haired hellion charmed the old biddies from the Agatha Christie reading group, reminisced with the old gaffers back from their venerable association meetings and trash talked with the blue collar workers coming off their shifts.  Completely ignored the come-ons of the co-eds, serving them with an impenetrable professional calm, while timing his round of clearing up the empties with somehow deflecting a couple of toughs that came in to bother the young ladies.  He made every drink flawlessly and never once missed an order.   All while he made perfect change, mixed drinks and engaged with the public.  The lad was an answered prayer.

After the crush of people had filtered out and even the patron set on getting himself messily drunk had been sent on his way, Dave walked up to the kilted red-head with a look of grudging respect on his face.  

“Alright then, you won the bet fair and square.  You’re hired.” Dave extended a hand to the grinning youngster to shake.   “What’s yer name, lad?”

“Anthony.  Anthony Crowley,” said the young bloke with the unfinished look of one who hasn’t quite filled out into his shoulders, yet. 

“So, Anthony, rules are, you work your whole shift.  You don’t go home with the customers.  No drinking on the job. And I’ll fire you the second I see you do something out of line.  Come back this evening.  And take a bath, lad!  You reek!  The only thing dirty about my pub is the talk!” Dave said.

Combing his hair out of his face with his fingers and scrubbing one cheek with his palm, Anthony admitted, “I’m fair skint at the moment, so I’d appreciate a forward on my wages.”  

Dave reached over to the tip jar, handed it to Anthony, “You earned this today.  Be back here at 5 o'clock.”

Crowley poured the contents of the tip jar into his spog, and waved jauntily at Dave as he headed out the door.

When Crowley arrived back in A. Z. Fell’s Bookshop, he found Aziraphale at his large desk reading a newspaper with a cup of tea at his elbow.

“I thought you were fixing my clothes!” complained Crowley.

Looking over the top of his paper, Aziraphale remarked calmly, “The cleaning agents have to have the proper amount of time to work.  Did you have any luck with that job?”

Grumbling at the indignity of it all, Crowley replied, “Yes.  As a matter of fact I start tonight, but I need a shower.”

Aziraphale raised an eyebrow, eyes back on the newsprint, “Then go back to your place and bathe.”

“They turned the water off at my place,” admitted Crowley.

Aziraphale let the paper fall to his lap.

“And the electricity.  Actually, I had to pick the lock to get in the last time.”

“Crowley!” 

“So it wouldn’t work for me to walk back there, anyway.”

“Walk!  I thought you drove over here.”

“Used my last miracles to drive the Bentley over.  Haven’t been issued any new one’s yet,” replied Crowley.

“You could always use petrol,” Aziraphale said reasonably.

“Put petrol in the Bentley?!?” Crowley said shocked, “Do you have any idea what that would do to her engine?”

“It might make her turn over,” suggested Aziraphale.

“I am not putting petrol in the Bentley and I can’t use my place to shower, anyway, so,” digging around in his spog to a rustle of specie and clink of coinage, Crowley came up with a tuppence which he held up to the angel.  “So I have payment for the use of your facilities.”

Aziraphale folded his paper and crossed his arms.

“My bathing facilities are certainly worth more than a tuppence public bath, Crowley!” 

“How about as much as a Turkish bath?  I’ve got a shilling in here somewhere,” Crowley replied, still digging.

“If you think that I don’t know how much a bath costs at the YMCA, in today’s money, then you had better think again!  You obviously don’t, but I’ll let you walk yourself down there to find out!” 

Crowley recognized that the angel was getting quite perturbed, and as he was Crowley’s best bet to get a bath, he didn’t know why his natural tendency to antagonize the angel was so present today.

“Ok, ok, sorry, sorry!  What do you think is a fair price to use your magnificent bathing facilities?” Crowley oiled.

Aziraphale gave him the look of one who is not to be gotten round that easily.

Then they got down to haggling.

Unfortunately, for Crowley that is, Aziraphale had kept premises for a very long time and not only had a better idea of VAT than the demon, but had paid his bills (on time, of course) as well.  Not only could he calculate the gallons per minute to his bath and cost to heat said bathwater, he could haggle like a Victorian Cockney housewife.

Aziraphale was saying, “That's the absolute best deal in the neighborhood for a week of bathing privileges,” hand out as Crowley counted pound coins into it, ”Now, if you're in need of housing, I've a spare bedroom and I can offer you a reasonable rate of…”

But Crowley snatched the towel out of Aziraphale’s hand and headed to the bath, saying over his shoulder, “I'll kip in my car before I pay you room and board, angel!”

Taking the view that he could clean his underthings and himself most efficiently with the undergarments on,  Crowley lathered up from toes to nose and sluiced off with as much efficiency as possible.  Clean and steaming mad, (he could still regulate his body temperature, so he figured he could dry his clothes that way) he stomped back down the stairs toweling his hair.

“Why do you even have a bed? I thought you said sleeping was inefficient?” Crowley complained to the angel.

“People don't bat an eye at a bookseller who reads books in bed, but they do get curious if I stay up all night in the shop too often,” answered the angel, not to be goaded. “Feeling better?”

“No! I am not feeling better! I'm feeling humiliated having to get a job to be able to do my job!”

“Were you able to think of all the things you’d need to do that ‘job’?” Aziraphale asked politely.

“Yeah,” growled Crowley.

“Well then, write it all down and requisition it. I find that several requests a day can really get your point across.  Do you need any paper?” The angel reached for a spare ledger.“No!  Forms are the only thing I have got in abundance!” unable to bear the angel’s smug looks any longer, Crowley stormed out the door in a flash of dark tartan.

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