#classic wing fic be upon ye

[vitalazam]

Mapicc tries to ignore the ever increasing ache in his back, trying to distract himself by trading with villagers for spare gear sets. It’s a dull, but constant and pressing pain, and it’s making his damn head pound. Only after stumbling into a crafting table right in front of him does he decide the correct course of action is to curl up under his covers and wait until the pain subsides.

He’s not injured, he’s not bleeding, he was fine after his last respawn, so it’s not that either. It doesn’t really feel like he’s sick either, it’s just the pain that’s making him nauseous. Probably. God, is this what old people mean when they talk about back pain? He can’t be fucking old, he’s still a teenager.

At some point he registers Bacon return to the base; the other’s footsteps are familiar to him even through the fog in his head. Mapicc doesn’t move from his curled up spot. He could if he wanted to, he just – doesn’t want to. He stays there, until Bacon comes over to the bed.

“Are you just sulking, or is something actually wrong?” Bacon asks, not completely unkindly. Mapicc doesn’t sulk, so he doesn’t dignify the question with an answer. Bacon lifts up the covers instead, and Mapicc growls at him when the blinding light of the room hits his eyes and makes it feel like his brain is being stabbed. “Okay! Something is wrong. Got it.” He drops the covers, and Mapicc returns to blissful darkness. “Wanna talk about it?”

Mapicc doesn’t, really, but he’s not so pathetic that he’ll refuse to admit he could do with some help. “My back hurts.” He bites out eventually.

“Can I take a look at it?” Mapicc slowly decides to concede to the request, pushing himself, not without effort, deliberately pulling the blanket over his head to shade his eyes from the light. It has the bonus effect of meaning he doesn’t have to look Bacon in the eye. Bacon lifts the back of his shirt up gently, ignoring Mapicc’s hisses of pain. “There’s lumps here.” Bacon’s hand ghosts over Mapicc’s upper back and he nearly jumps up from the jolt of pain that goes through him. He also swears, colourfully.

Mapicc checked his back, when it first started to hurt, and had seen nothing in the mirror, no bruises, no scars, and definitely no lumps, so that wasn’t good news.

“Huh. I’ve never seen that before.” Bacon adds. “I might ask Parrot about it.” He pauses after that, as if to give Mapicc time to voice his complaints about the idea, but Mapicc just wants to not be in this pain anymore. If Parrot has any bright ideas, he’ll listen to that dumbass. “Here, a golden apple might help.” Mapicc takes the proffered fruit and sinks his teeth into the sickly sweet flesh. It does take the edge off, but his back still throbs, and the light still makes his head pound. He decides to lie back down, face down on the bed, head buried in the pillow.

“Turn the light off.” He mumbles into his pillowcase, but Bacon seems to understand the instruction. Mapicc is left alone then, other than Bacon leaving golden apples and water by his bedside. Bacon doesn’t leave the room, though, not for a while, at least. When he does, it’s only for a few moments, and he returns with Parrot. They don’t make him talk, thankfully. He would definitely try biting them if they poke at him too much right now.

God, he hates being like this.

As time passes, the constant ache slowly turns into a sharper and sharper pain. He munches on golden apples, but doesn’t want to get reliant on them, so waits as long as he can bear in between them. Neither Bacon nor Parrot are ones for fussing, and Mapicc is absolutely not one for being fussed over, but he silently appreciates their company. Bacon brings over the occasional cold, damp rag, which feel fucking incredible, Mapicc will happily admit that.

Eventually, the pain has to come to a climax. Mapicc doesn’t know how exactly he knows this is the end, some instinct maybe, but he’s sure of it when the time comes. He scrabbles at his shirt, pulling it away from his back as something under his skin pushes and pushes –

It’s over in a matter of seconds, the stabbing pain washing over him and ebbing away to a mere dull discomfort in moments. He looks in shock at the small, leathery red wings now decorating his back, right below his shoulder blades. He glances over to Bacon and Parrot, staring back at him with equal disbelief on their faces.

“I guess you’re gonna have to cut holes in your clothes now.” Bacon says after a moment of dead silence.

“You know you’re still not allowed to fly with those, right?” Parrot adds, ever the fucking hall monitor.

“Does it look like I can fly with these, dumbass?!”

[marcyvampire]

The Wildcard!

pairings ⸺ Mother! Harley Quinn x Child! Reader.

(PLATONIC FIC)

¿Request? Yes!

This is a Headcanon!

sinopsis ⸺ Being a kid raised under the Joker’s wing isn’t exactly what anyone imagines when they talk about a "good childhood." I mean, it’s not like you’re gonna get bedtime stories when your father figure is a psychopathic clown, right? Although, now that I think about it, he probably did tell you stories before bed—just that his versions ended with explosions and maniacal laughter instead of happy endings. You never really know with him.

But, hey! There was always mom Harley. And while she wasn’t exactly the classic model of a devoted mother, Harley definitely had her moments. Those times when she’d look at you with those big, wide eyes and promise she’d protect you from everything, even from herself. And that says a lot, considering that sometimes even she didn’t know who she needed to protect herself from.

warnings ⸺ Fluff and Angst, Platonic Cuddling, ¿OOC Harley? Idk, Disturbing Content, Street Fights, Violence, Blood, Trauma, Phobias.

Guide! Pt.2

A/N ── Yes, damn it, yes! My first request! Thank you so much, really, thank you! No need to clap, I’ll get all blushy uwu. I put all my love and care into this. Hope you enjoy it to the fullest!

In reality, you were not her biological child. She knew that very well, and moreover, she knew that Mr. J would never want a child with her. In fact, it had never been part of the plan. "Kids are a hassle" the Joker would say, with that shrill laugh that coursed through his body like an electric shock. And Harley, well, she didn't exactly want a baby either. Until she found you.

Harley found you among the rubble, covered in blood, although it wasn't yours (at least that's what she hoped). You couldn't have been more than five months old, and there was no trace of your mother. At that moment, her intentions weren't exactly maternal, but what could you expect from a criminal at 2 AM? However, something in your little eyes disarmed her. You were small, defenseless, and upon seeing you… well, she simply couldn't resist.

Thus began your life with Harley Quinn. It wasn't the most typical childhood, that's for sure. Mr. J saw it as just one of his whims, and as long as you didn't cry and stayed out of his business, you were welcome. According to him, it was easier to raise a little clown from childhood.

To begin with, your toys were not exactly "age-appropriate." Mr. J had a fixation with explosives, so more than once you found yourself playing with what you hoped was an innocent candy box, only for Harley to shout from across the room: "Honey, no! That's not a toy, it's dynamite! Give me that!"

Ah, motherhood. A tough job, yes, but also something Harley never thought would come to her in such an… unexpected way. In her former life, when she was still Dr. Quinzel, she envisioned a normal existence, perhaps with a good job that would provide stability. But well, one thing led to another, and there she was, raising a baby who wasn't biologically hers, but whom life —and Gotham— had placed in her arms. And although her life with the Joker was total chaos, she always made sure of one thing: that you were safe.

In her twisted way of seeing the world, Harley protected you even from him, from Mr. J himself. She knew how unpredictable the Joker could be, so she did everything possible to make sure you were never in the same room for too long. And even though it sometimes seemed like the Joker didn't even notice your existence, Harley made sure to keep that distance. "I want you to be different" she would tell you while fixing your hair with a smile, "I don't want you to end up fistfighting with Batman like mommy."

Harley loved playing with you, especially at being doctors. There was something almost nostalgic for her in that, as if every time she saw you healing your dolls, a small part of the old Dr. Quinzel awakened within her. She loved seeing you with your toy stethoscope, focused as if you were in the middle of a serious operation.

"Mom! Miss JeanieBeanie had a broken heart, and I healed her with words! Just like you told me." Harley smiled, that big, bright smile that only she could make, and although she always tried to maintain the toughness of her persona, she couldn't help but let a tear escape. "Ah, sweetie, you're a genius."

And then, of course, there was the topic of school. You couldn't attend school known as the Joker's kid, that was for sure. So with a little colorful dye, a lot of makeup in the morning, and some nice clothes, Harley would take you to school incognito, as if you were a completely normal child. At least, she tried to make you seem that way. The first days were a disaster, though.

It wasn't that Harley didn't trust the school's safety, but, of course, being the Joker's Queen left her paranoid. So there she was, lurking around the windows of your classes, hiding behind bushes, trying to ensure that no madman would come in with a Kalashnikov to disrupt your school life. Sure, she was kicked out most of the time, but she always returned. Harley always returned.

Sometimes, when she couldn't see you during recess, she'd send you hidden messages in your lunchbox, with little doodles and silly jokes that made you laugh out loud. She worried a lot about you not making friends. "Remember, sweetie, if any kid bothers you, just smile like me and show them who's boss. But don't hit them, okay? Save that for later."

When the Joker finally broke up with her, it was a disaster, like a train derailing in slow motion. But just like with everything else, Harley made sure that the blow didn't fall on you. She never let Mr. J's chaos reach you because you were her priority, her sweetie. So, holding her hand, you left with her without looking back, with her suitcase in one hand and a bat in the other.

Since then, life became a bit more complicated, but also freer. Harley and you had to make do by stealing to survive, moving from place to place until ending up in a small apartment in Gotham's Chinatown. It wasn't the best area, but hey, it had charm. There, the nights were long, the walls thin, and the sounds of street fights mixed with your laughter while you tried to do homework and Harley gave you "life advice" that included how to escape from the police in style.

"Do you know what's faster than a bullet?" she'd say while looking at your face painted in bright colors before running off with a stolen shopping cart. "You, with the right attitude!"

Harley let herself go with alcohol during some tough times, but she always kept you away from that dark side. Sure, she bought a hyena and named it Bruce, which was simply hilarious. Bruce, like that perfect man on the magazine covers that you both secretly adored. "Bruce, come here, let's go for a walk!" you'd hear her shout down the street, and the neighbors wouldn't even blink. It was Gotham, after all.

By then, you were almost done with school. Amid the chaos of your life, you made a friend... Damian something (Wayan or something like that, you were bad with names). He wasn't the friendliest person in the world; in fact, "brat" would be a kind description, but for some reason, he intrigued you. "Mom says that if a boy or girl seems cute to you, you should go for it!" you told him once, repeating Harley's wise advice. Of course, Damian just looked at you like you were the weirdest thing he'd ever seen (and mind you, he had seen weird things; he's 'friends' with the nerd Jon). And although he maintained his air of arrogance, you found him adorable in a way that even he didn't understand.

Some nights, Harley and you would just lie on the rooftop of some building, looking at the lights of Gotham. With bags of marshmallows stolen from a grocery store, you'd roast them with a lighter while she told you stories. But not normal stories, rather ones involving car chases and explosions. No princesses and castles, more like villains and spectacular escapes. Sometimes, Selina Kyle would join in. "It's easier than you think" she'd say, winking at you while showing you how to sneak into a museum without setting off the alarms. It was never a typical childhood, but it sure was entertaining.

When Harley joined (temporarily) the Birds of Prey, things started to improve a little. You had more people around you, like a dysfunctional family you didn't know you needed. The girls tried to be a good influence, although with Harley, that was always relative. But at least there were fewer explosions and more quiet nights; just that "quiet" in Harley's terms meant motorcycle races, sporadic thefts, and bar fights. Pure fun!

And occasionally, Ivy, her "friend," would come to visit them. You thought she was amazing, so elegant, so calm... You knew there was something more there. "Kiss already!" you shouted at them once, laughing, watching how Harley blushed slightly while Ivy rolled her eyes with a smile.

But despite everything, Harley never stopped being an incredible mom, in her own way. On the toughest nights, when you'd curl up in her lap after a long day, she'd stroke your hair and whisper, "You know, sweetie, I never thought I'd be a mom, but you're the best thing that ever happened to me." And although it wasn't a typical motherhood, there was something comforting in knowing that amidst all that chaos, you could always count on her.

So, amid thefts, stolen marshmallows, and moments filled with love, Harley gave you a childhood that wasn’t normal, but was filled with adventures, laughter, and unconditional love. And what more could you ask for when you have Harley Quinn as your mom?

A/N ─── My first request uwu~ I’m so excited! I really hope I did it well, and that you all like this little headcanon. I put all my love into it, so if you have more ideas or want to request something, don’t hesitate! I’m here for whatever you need.

Take a bath!

[kats-fic-recs]

The Best Batman fics I've read in 2022

As the end of the year comes closer, I've decided to make an Ao3 Wrapped for myself out of the best fics from every fandom I've read this year.

Here we go.....

The Best Batman fics I've read in 2022

Multi Media Marketing Mistakes

Gotham Gazette @gothamgazette

What did Oliver Queen and Bruce Wayne get up to in boarding school?! gothamgazette.com/baidguh24h

|

Oliver Queen @queenofficial

no comment

|

Bruce Wayne @brucewayne

@queenofficial you know that commenting ‘no comment’ on a tweet kind of defeats the point

|

Oliver Queen @queenofficial

@brucewayne shut up im not talking to you anymore

|

Bruce Wayne @brucewayne

@queenofficial then stop texting me

games without frontiers

“Pennyworth.”

When he turned, Damian was hesitating at the doorway. His face was white.

He recalled Thomas and Martha’s well-intentioned consolations and chidings -- little snippets of it’s just a bat and it won’t hurt you intermixed with please, just go to sleep, Bruce, I’ve checked all the windows, it’s silly--- and discarded them with a pang.

They hadn’t helped Bruce, after all.

“If the creature is so dangerous,” Alfred said neutrally, surfacing from the memory. “We’ll need to get it out of the house. For the safety of the others.”

“...For safety. Yes,” Damian said. When he turned around, the paleness in the boy’s face had faded. He seemed burgeoned by the impending responsibility. “I will assist you, of course.”

the politics of dancing

After months of silence following his mysterious resurrection from the dead, the prodigal Wayne heir shows up at an unlikely meeting.

“Where is Mr. Wayne?”

Jason crossed his legs, cracking his neck. “He’s not coming.”

“I was assured Mr. Wayne would be here.”

“Tough. Looks like you’ll have to settle for me, huh?”

Comes In Threes

Felicity Smoak has a bad track record with billionaires.

Scrub-A-Dub

Talon's new master has put him in water, and Talon does not know why. This new master, though...Talon thinks he might like this new master.

Frightening, But Not Afraid

When the family is hit by a new strain of fear toxin, safety is in numbers. Unfortunately, three members of the flock are still out there, afraid and alone. Bruce may not be the best at comforting his children, but apparently, he can let his wings do the talking.

((aka, the classic fear toxin hurt/comfort but with a splash of the classic wings-make-u-feel-safe hurt/comfort))

Reclaiming Innocence

Jason Todd was kidnapped at nine-years-old and given two options. Work for his keep, or be forced to to work for his keep.

His life was not pleasant, but Jason was nothing if not a fighter, and dammit if was he going to let the hell around him kill who he was as a person. Or his dreams of growing up and going to college.

Those dreams suddenly came a little more into focus, when his idiot of a pimp accidentally tried to rent him to Bruce Wayne. Poor bastard could have never guessed he was the Batman himself. Heck, not even Jason figured that out, at first. And Batman had practically adopted him.

What would you do, if it all came back to you?

"Still standing, Jason clicked on the folder and opened the first video – Jesus, there were quite a few – and suddenly Bruce was staring at him. He moved the mouse, thinking the video had frozen, but no, Bruce really did spend the first few seconds just staring. (...)

“I… I found the book in your bedside table. “The Picture of Dorian Gray.”” He paused, looked away, then back at the camera. “You were always reading. I can’t remember the last time I just read a book for fun.”"

The Jason Project

Jason had just wanted to see his autopsy report, he had only wanted to know what information Bruce had about his death. And when Bruce hadn't given it to him, he had stolen it. He hadn’t meant to stumble upon the bucket list of a dead child and the footage of a grieving father crossing one item after another off the list.

bad people don't live in our house

Bruce stirred when the bed beside him dipped, and the sheets across his chest were yanked hard.

“What,” Bruce said roughly. A small hand smacked against his face.

“Shh,” said a little voice. The sheets pulled again. “Go back to sleep.”

More Precious Than Gold

Most dragons sleep on their hoards.

Bruce's hoard sleeps on him.

Or: Bruce is a dragon. Predictably, he hoards orphans.

Gifts From the Sea

Bruce, aimless after abandoning his plans to become a special education teacher, takes an internship at Amnesty Bay Aquatic Zoo. His life changes forever when he meets the zoo's orphaned merboy. (AU where the Batkids are merpeople and Bruce is their human adoptive dad.)

I Was Lost For You to Find

Bruce never planned on having kids. After watching his parents die, the idea of starting a family of his own was foolishness at best and an impending disaster at worst. Never in his wildest dreams did Bruce think he'd ever be up to the task of raising a child, and he was okay with that. But when an orphaned acrobat starts weighing on his mind, Bruce makes the (questionable) decision to become a foster father. Everything after that is just dumb luck.

Yesterday's Voices

While trying to take down a drug cartel that deals with memory altering drugs, things go awry, and Batman wakes up with no recollection of the last five years.

As a result, his family must now race against time to find the antidote, while also having to deal with a Bruce who still thinks Jason is Robin. A Bruce who doesn't recognise most of them. A Bruce far less jaded and cynical than the one they're used to. A Bruce who still cares.

Take Care of Business

Summary: Bruce has a conference call with Wayne Enterprises. Having it at the Manor was, in hindsight, a really shitty idea.

“I don’t have your phone!”

The two boys began trading hits, yelling at the top of their lungs. Bruce turned back to the webcam just as Damian leapt on top of Tim’s back, a high-pitched battle cry torn from his lips.

“Mr. Hodges,” he said cheerfully, unflinching as Tim threw Damian into the wet bar sink. “Have you had a chance to examine the chart I pointed out?”

Brother Wanted

Well-behaved boy (10) is looking for big brother (11-15). Must meet up with me three times a week, for at least two hours each. Overall duties include helping me with homework, playing videogames with me, and showing me how to play catch. 10$ per hour.

Tim, lonely and in desperate need of company, decides that if his parents are not going to give him a sibling, he's going to hire one instead. Luckily, Jason Todd-Wayne shows up in the nick of time.

and i'll be two steps on the water

Studying his profile as she pours, the name clicks in her head like she knew it would. Even downturned, that face is unmistakable, and the realization thunders lightly in her mind.

Bruce Wayne.

All the Cups Got Broke

The police officers of metro Detroit had seen a lot of weird over the years, between the violence of the day-to-day, the year with all the freaky clown sightings, and that time with the tiger at the auto plant.

Their newest transfer - pretty-faced, former circus kid, son of a billionaire - might have been the weirdest, though.

his name was king

Everyone knows who the butler is.

The Bachelor: Robin Edition

Gotham loses its Robin and Bruce Wayne loses a son. Tim finds one of these too tragic to bear. In his quest to make sure Bruce Wayne lives to see the next year, he strikes upon the perfect solution: another son.

*

His best bet is, naturally, Crime Alley.

By 8 pm that day, Drake Manor is filled with ten black-haired, blue-eyed boys sitting around the large dining table, looking around the room suspiciously.

Well. Eleven. But Tim doesn’t think he counts.

Empty Graves

Swimming with the Fishes

The Bat rules Gotham with an iron fist. People do not come out of his Manor. They say he has a monster lurking within the building’s walls.

Jason is brought to the Manor as gift to earn the Bat’s favour.

*****

Mob Boss + Mers -> the combination you didn’t know you needed.

How to Train Your Mers

The tank lurched again and he silently begged for any sea god to please let him out of the dizzying, pitch-black hell. His body ached from getting beaten into the box’s side. The water was stale and disgusting in his gills. There wasn’t any light and he couldn’t see anything.

He was so full of fear he was beginning to get numb to it.

He didn’t know what these humans wanted with him, but he knew it couldn’t be good if they started by shoving him into this too-small box and tossing him around like a boat on an angry sea.

-----

Clark is an aquatic mammals trainer at the Metropolis Aquarium and Bruce is their very unruly new resident. Clark doesn't realise that Bruce is only the first of many mers that are going to live in the Aquarium.

Loading and Aspect Ratio

So, it didn’t start out like this.

Alfred would scoff at the statement, about how Bruce was trying to justify the whole situation to himself. It had started out as a simple design, black everything with black outlines and black hood. It got a little more intense as the world went on, got wind of his ghost on the streets, and became scared of The Bat . So Bruce got a little more creative with it, Alfred and him had a good laugh over the name, the scare, and Alfred had a vicious streak of humor that he had passed onto his ward-

So now the suit had a visible bat-theme, an insignia to drape in the shadows and to paint across the streets of Gotham.

It only took a year into the whole charade of heroism for Bruce to overhear a conversation between some goons- some low level thug hired by the Riddler this week- about nothing at all pertaining to what the hell the Riddler was doing in the sewers but instead:

“ The Batman can fly, you know, I’ve seen his wings.”

--

A world where nobody has wings, but people think they do, and that changes everything.

Bonus Superman fics:

Time travelers who plan to kill Superman never account for Martha Kent in their plans. She may not be the World's Finest, but she's a mother with a shotgun, and all told that might be scarier.

darling, so it goes

Clark shows up still wearing his suit—the sixth and final attempt—holding tight onto a little girl’s hand and looking terrified. The same symbol from his ship is displayed onto her odd looking clothes. Martha takes one look at the pair of ‘em and then goes to see if they’ve got any lemonade in the house

[eastofthemoon]

Last couple years, I've managed to write a muppet fic for the holidays. So, here's another one! Hope you all enjoy!

Spooky Christmas

Rating: G

Series: The Muppets

Characters: Kermit, Sam, Uncle Deadly, Miss Piggy and various others

Summary:It's time for the muppets to plan the annual Christmas show, however, Sam objects to the typical muppet style. Thankfully, Uncle Deadly has other suggestions.

Archive Of Our Own

Kermit hummed as he sat at the head table with his clipboard. He did a quick count of the chattering heads spread out around the table and it seemed everyone was here. He didn’t see the Swedish Chef, but he knew he was busy preparing snacks for break.

“Okay, settle down,” Kermit called out.

The chattering continued.

“I said settle down please.”

Talking still continued.

“I said-”

“EVERYONE, SHUT UP!” Piggy shouted as she sprang from her seat next to him.

Silence swiftly fell upon the room.

Kermit cleared his throat. “Uh, thank you, Piggy.”

“Welcome, Kermie,” she said with a smile as she sat back down.

“Now then,” Kermit started as he held up his clipboard. “It’s time to start planning our annual Christmas show. So, time for brainstorming. Any ideas?”

“How about we throw fish, but they’re covered in candy canes,” said Lew Zealand as he tossed a fish in the air and then it came flying back.

Sam huffed under his breath in his seat near the end of the table.

“Um, we’ll put a pin in that for now,” Kermit replied.

“How about a holiday rock concert,” said Doctor Teeth.

“That’s a good suggestion, but we did that last year,” Kermit replied.

“My ears are still ringing from that horrendous cacophony,” Sam muttered.

“I got a great idea for an act,” Gonzo cried. “I dance in a bucket of sugar plums, while twenty tinsel cannons go off.”

Sam’s grumblings grew louder. “Of all the ridiculous-”

“Um..we’ll also, put a pin in that one,” Kermit replied.

“I have a suggestion,” said Piggy. “I think this year we should do a play.”

“Oh?” asked Kermit. “What kind are you thinking of?”

“A classic, Pride and Prejudice .”

Kermit blinked. “Um, Piggy, that’s not really a holiday story.”

Piggy grinned as she batted her eyes. “It can be if we include mistletoe.”

Kermit felt sceptical, but he could hear everyone beginning to toss ideas around it. It honestly was the best suggestion so far.

Gonzo raised his hand. “Can I use my tinsel canons?!”

Kermit stared at him. “Tinsel canons? For Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice .” He gave a deep sigh. “Yes, you can use tinsel canons.”

“Woot!” “Well, okay,” Kermit said as he started to write on his clipboard. “If everyone is for it we can-”

“I OBJECT,” Sam said as he slammed his wing on the table. “This nonsense can go on no longer.”

Piggy glared. “What’s your problem?!”

Sam glared back as he leaned over the table. “My problem is that every year we put out some tomfoolery that we call a ‘Holiday Performance’. I say it’s time we do a Christmas show the traditional and American way with proper holiday symbols like Frosty, reindeer and Santa!”

The group began to groan and protest.

“But EVERYONE does those,” Fozzie replied

“Si,” Pepe snapped, “and I don’t know about you, but I don’t want a repeat of the snowman fiasco, okay?”

“No kidding,” Floyd called out. “Animal still get nightmares from it.”

Animal shivered. “So...cold.”

“If the floor is open,” Uncle Deadly said with his seat next to Piggy’s. “I may be able to provide some unique alternatives.”

Kermit frowned. “Oh, yeah? Like what?”

“It better not be more flying fish,” Sam muttered.

“Have you ever heard the Icelandic tale of the Yule Cat?” asked Uncle Deadly.

Kermit frowned puzzled. “I can’t say that I have?”

“I haven’t,” said Rizzo, “but anything that involves the word ‘cat’ instantly makes me suspicious.”

“The story goes,” Uncle Deadly continued, “on Christmas Eve the Yule Cat comes down from it’s home in the mountains to check to see if people are wearing new clothes.”

“Hmm,” Sam muttered, “not quite Santa, but I can appreciate a creature making sure people are properly suited for the occasion.”

Kermit continued to stare at Deadly. “And what happens if a person doesn't get new clothes?”

Uncle Deadly waved a hand. “Oh, it eats them.”

Sam choked. “What?”

“Ha! Called it,” Rizzo called.

Kermit felt a tug on his arm and glanced down at Robin.

“Uncle Kermit, am I going to have to start wearing pants?” he asked.

“I have a feeling the Yule Cat isn’t going to check on frogs,” he said quietly.

“That is horrible,” Sam bellowed.

Uncle Deadly gave a shrug. “Well, I have heard modern versions say the Yule Cat makes a mess of the house rather than consuming it’s inhabitants.”

“Hey, we could do stuff with that,” Rowlf said. “Make jokes about it clawing the curtains, it can’t deciding if it wants inside or out-”

“And,” Fozzie cut in as he raised a hand, “I got a lot of cat jokes that would be purrfect! Eh? Eh?”

“His jokes sure seem like something the cat dragged in!” Statler yelled while Waldorf laughed.

Kermit gave a nod. “Okay, we can use the Yule Cat-”

“Certainly, not,” Sam said sharply. “We can not endorse feline misdemeanor!”

Uncle Deadly drummed his fingers on the table in thought. “If that’s not your ‘cup of tea’, I suppose there are the Yule Lads.”

“And who are they?” Sam asked suspiciously.

“13 brothers who each come to visit home on the last 13 nights leading up to Christmas.” He folded his hands together as he leaned forward. “Children leave their shoes on windowsills and in return the lads will leave small gifts and a rotten potato in ones that have been naughty.”

Sam mulled this over. “That’s much more palatable. What are their names?”

“I don’t recall the exact order, but one of them is called Spoon-Licker.”

Sam froze as Kermit looked on curiously.

“What?” said Sam.

“Another is called Pot-Scraper, Door-Slammer, Sasuage-Swiper-”

“Those are horrible names!” Sam snapped.

“They are a bit of an odd choice,” Kermit replied.

Uncle Deadly raised a finger. “To be fair, they’re named after the pranks they pull in the houses they visit.”

Sam massaged his forehead. “Of all the stupid...”

“What kind of mother gives them those kinds of names?” Piggy asked.

“Well, considering their mother is the child eating ogress Grýla, who hunts for disobedient children to throw into her stew pot, I imagine appropriate names is not her top priority.” He paused and raised a hand. “I should mention she’s also the owner of the Yule Cat.”

“Interesting family,” Piggy replied, darkly.

Kermit tapped his chin. “Well, if we hold back on some of the child eating stuff-”

“No,” Sam growled.

“Then how about the Krampus?” Uncle Deadly suggested.

Sam sighed. “He’s not another member of the Lad family is he?”

Uncle Deadly placed a hand over his chest. “Certainly not, he is a companion of Santa Claus.”

“Oh, that’s better,” Sam said as he eased up. “He helps deliver the toys?”

Uncle Deadly waved a hand back and forth. “Yes and no. He does ride with Santa, but while Old Saint Nick hands out toys to good children, the Krampus whips the bad ones with branches and sticks.”

Sam buried his face into his wings. “Why am I not even surprised?”

“There are even some darker stories that say he throws them into his basket to take them back to his lair to eat them.”

Sam glared at him. “I’m rather concerned about how often cannibalism is coming up in these stories.”

“It’s not cannibalism though,” said Scooter. “I mean ‘cannibalism’ is when a person eats their own kind, and these creatures aren’t human so it’s just people eating.”

“Wait, hold it,” Bobo said as he sipped his coffee. “If we ate each other would that be cannibalism? I mean, we’re different creatures but we’re also all ‘the muppets’ so-”

“I’m going to stop you there before you go further down that rabbit hole,” Kermit said before turning back to Uncle Deadly. “Still, if we tone down some aspects we might be able to-”

“Why are you even considering this?!” Sam snapped. “Dangerous felines? Ruffians breaking into houses to lick spoons? What does any of that have to do with Christmas?!”

“Because there are people that do rather enjoy the spooky side to Christmas,” Kermit replied.

Sam blinked dazed. “Spooky side to Christmas? What are you talking about?!”

“Well, the holidays take place on the longest, coldest and darkest nights of the year,” Kermit said. “Isn’t it only natural that people find that a bit scary and make up stories to deal with it?”

“It’s true,” Bunsen chimed in. “The traditions of Yule are said to go back centuries.”

Beaker cleared his throat. “Meep, meep, meep! Meep, meep, meep. Meep. Meep, meep, meep. Meep, meep, meep? Meep!”

Everyone gave a unanimous applause.

“Well spoken,” said Uncle Deadly, “that was truly profound.”

“Indeed,” Bunsen said as he patted Beaker’s shoulder. “I do love it when you use your anthropology knowledge.”

“Nevertheless,” snapped Sam. “We are Americans and therefore we should do an American Christmas play. We should do A Christmas Carol .”

“Um, I do love A Christmas Carol ,” said Gonzo, “but we’ve done it a million times.”

“Yeah, we want something new,” said Rizzo.

“But it is American and has none of this dark Christmas stuff,” Sam stated firmly.

“A Christmas Carol?” Kermit said blankly. “The one written by a British author that is about three ghosts haunting a man to change his ways? That A Christmas Carol?”

“And let’s not forget how the Ghost Of Christmas Yet To Come is a grim symbol of our fear of mortality and grappling with death.”

Everyone turned to Fozzie stunned.

He shrugged. “What? Can’t a bear appreciate the classics?”

“Sure, he can,” said Waldorf.

“They’re as old as your jokes,” said Statler as both the old men laughed.

Sam gave a deep defeated sigh as he turned to Kermit. “Pride and Prejudice it is.”

“Great,” said Kermit. “Now how many cannons do we need?”

[abugwritesstuff]

Prank War: prologue and chapter 1

hey all! a bit ago i solicited for fic ideas and @chirp-a-chirp offered this idea: "Lou is sick and so he enlists Fenn in a prank war with the valets/princes". i liked this concept and have been writing it out for a bit, but as it's a bit longer than i anticipated (classic move on my part ofc), i'm going to separate it out into chapters.

enjoy!

Prologue:

Fenn had no clue what he’d done this time. 

As he made his way up the headmaster’s tower, he pondered the previous week. He couldn’t pinpoint anything unusual. Only his usual lecture-skipping and man-whoring, really, which had never been an issue before. And he’d heard nothing of any ill news from Luxure- not that his father would have consulted him or utilized him for any diplomatic missions anyway. He rapped a pattern on the door and was immediately ushered in by Nix, who to his surprise, led him in a different direction than usual. 

“Ah, Nix? Are we not going in the wrong direction?”

“No.”

Fenn frowned. The bird said nothing else, so Fenn followed, perplexed. The pair emerged into the bedroom to find the headmaster in bed, lounging with his shirt loose and unbuttoned, enveloped amongst an exorbitant amount of pillows. 

Fenn’s eyebrows shot up to his hairline. “Why, this is not the turn of events I was expecting at all. Isn’t this a rather taboo proposition? Not that I mind breaking a taboo here and there but…”

“Silence, Luxure,” Nix snapped. He gestured a wing to the chair at the bedside and Fenn obediently slid into it. 

At closer glance, Fenn could see the beads of perspiration on the headmaster’s brow and the way that his white hair stuck to his skin in damp tendrils. His chest rose and fell shakily, with a rattling wheezy noise.

“Master Luxure, I am pleased that you are here,” Lou croaked. He turned away quickly and coughed violently into the crook of his arm for a moment, then turned back, smiling uncomfortably. “I have called you here to ask for your assistance with a special project of mine. As you can see, I am rather ill at the moment…” At this, the headmaster’s face fell into a gloomy, almost childlike pout. “...so I am unable to carry out my plans for this week to the extent I’d prefer. But I recalled that you too enjoy this sort of thing, so I thought to have Phinney extend the invitation.”

Fenn blinked at him. The look on Lou’s face was entirely earnest. The thought of taking on extra work on top of teaching and writing made Fenn groan internally, but princes could hardly refuse requests from the venerable headmaster, so Fenn nodded cautiously. “...Of course. What is this task, exactly?”

Lou��s face lit up. “Wonderful!” Silently, he reached out a hand toward Nix who came near to drop a small leatherbound notebook into the headmaster’s palm. He flipped it open and presented the open pages to Fenn, who leaned forward to read the childlike chicken-scrawl handwriting on the pages. 

“Jelly… inside every other shoe but invisible… Spell the wine glasses to be unfillable… Replace sugar with hot Avarian mountain salt… Headmaster, what is this?” 

The headmaster beamed with delight. “This is my pranks book, and I’ve written in it some of my pranks for this week. I need you to carry them out for me in my place.”

Fenn blinked at him. “What…? Can you not just… take a week off from pranking…?”

Immediately Lou’s face fell into misery and gloom; Fenn could all but see the storm clouds brewing over his head. Beside him Nix glared as hard as a bird could manage to glare, so Fenn plucked the book from the headmaster’s hand. 

“Fine, yes, I will carry these out,” Fenn relented. 

Lou clapped his hands together in delight. “Wonderful! Thank you, Master Luxure! Please report to me on how it goes.” At this, the headmaster slid deeper into the mass of bedding and sighed, tossing his head dramatically across a pillow. “...That is all.”

Upon his return to his own quarters, Fenn threw himself down onto his settee and flipped open the notebook. At the beginning of it were just lists of prank ideas, some crossed out. A bit further back were notes with specific dates. 

March 29 - Prank on Prince Toa with the hot spicy spelled caramels- delightful!!!! He found the flavor most unpleasant and Knight was very upset. Should do again sometime I think!

June 7 - Prank on Prince Rio with the disappearing and reappearing potatoes - very good! Unfortunately jasper :( :( :( came and foiled my spell early so the fun ended much too soon… 

September 18 - Prank on Prince Fenn with shrinking potion - did not go as planned… Hawke stole his drink at the tavern and took on the spellwork instead… will need to try again in future…

Fenn laughed. He could recall that evening quite well but no one had been able to sort out the culprit: just that one moment Hawke was downing Fenn’s favorite cocktail in one solid swig and the next had shrunk to approximately pocket-sized. He’d had to spend the rest of the evening being shielded from being stepped on or lost. 

He flipped forward to the current week and found that the dates and planned pranks were written out, with varying degrees of detail and space left for reflections on their success. 

February 6 - Prince Roy - Truth serum

February 7 - Prince Guy - Ertl upside down prank

February 8 - Sir Grayson - sword !!!

February 9 - Masters Dia and Lance - glue prank 

February 10 - Miss MC - ??? 

Fenn frowned. What did “sword !!!” even mean? It was easy enough to sort out what “glue prank” and “upside down Ertl” meant, and “truth serum” was also fairly straightforward. That said, even just “sword” was better than the entry directed at dear Treasure- which was just question marks. Not that Fenn minded the excuse to bother her, but this provided no details. He supposed it must be free reign to decide on his own prank for her.

“Ah well. Nothing to be done about it,” Fenn muttered. First order of business was trying to figure out how to get the ever-poised Prince Roy to consume a truth serum, and luckily Fenn had a few ideas.

Chapter 1:

February 6: Prince Roy Reveals All

There were limited ways to get a truth serum into a person. Obviously one could sneak it into their tea or something else they were consuming, but truth serums often came with a flavor of sorts- a sort of industry precaution against unintentional use. It was possible to make it yourself, but that was time intensive. However- if a person was willing to push through unpleasant flavors for the sake of propriety, it wouldn’t be difficult to get enough truth serum into them to make them spill. That last fact made figuring out how to drug Roy fairly easy.

Fenn prided himself on a few things- well, more than a few things, but one of those things was his powers of observation. Roy was excellent at flattery, obviously, but he had tells for displeasure just as anyone did. A slight tension in the corner of his mouth when he laughed, a little too much eye contact when wanting to leave a conversation, a tendency to wring his hands when frustrated. In addition to that, Fenn had noticed that Roy never took more than a few polite bites of anything Sherry ever made for him, opting for cutting things into very small pieces and pushing them around his plate. Understandably so, as anyone who’d tried her concoctions knew that she freestyled with recipes to such an extent that the results were basically inedible. 

But these events also occurred in somewhat private settings, in and amongst the S-ranks or at some gathering reserved for royals: events where Roy could pretend to partake and then sneakily pass his plate to Grayson for disposal. The key was to pressure him into consuming the entire thing. And nothing- absolutely nothing -worked as well on Roy as peer pressure did. So, Fenn took advantage of the headmaster’s absence to concoct a perfect plan.

---

“I’ve heard nothing of this.”

Fenn sighed dramatically and nodded the most sympathetic yet put-out sigh he could muster. He tossed an arm around Roy’s shoulder and leaned against him, just barely sending him off balance. “It is truly an inconvenience, isn’t it? But it must be done, he says. I did try asking the others, but they simply don’t have the time to handle it, so it looks like it must fall to us.”

Roy frowned, mildly suspicious, and flipped through the papers Fenn had handed him. Plans for a get-together in the B and C rank common room were outlined there, including a small luncheon with a sampling of their country’s finest baked goods. It was meant as a constituency building exercise, akin to a town hall. 

“It’ll be the two of us together, of course. Showing off the finest things Luxure and Invidia have to offer, and then leaving it at that. Should only take an hour or two.” Fenn continued, then gave the other prince a hearty slap on the shoulder and a casual wave as he began to saunter off. 

“W-wait, Prince Fenn, I-”

“I’ve already told the headmaster you agreed, so I’ll see you there!”

Roy watched as Fenn disappeared around the corner. Standing alone in the hall, he stared back down at the instructions in hand and read them over again. Just then, a stampede of students brushed past, giggling to each other. 

“Did you hear? Prince Roy is going to be hosting an event tomorrow in the common room!”

“I’m totally going!”

“I’m so excited!”

Roy blinked, befuddled. He turned, looking across at the opposite wall to find several posters scattered along the hallway advertising the event, complete with “don’t miss it!”, “try the very best Invidian treats!” and “a one time intimate event with your very own Prince Roy”! The posters were lined with hearts and roses in sickeningly bright shades of pink and yellow. Roy crumpled the paper in one hand as he wrung them together.

Meanwhile, Fenn’s mood was soaring. Part one of the setup to Roy’s prank was done. All that was left was passing off the bottle of truth serum to Princess Sherry and convincing her to use it. Which would take some work, but Sherry was usually eager to come to her brother’s aid in time of need. At this time, Sherry and dear Treasure were usually studying together, so Fenn made his way to one of the study tables at the far end of the library and approached the group with a cheshire grin. 

“Hulloa Princess, Treasure,” he greeted them, leaning against the table.

The pair looked up and smiled. 

“Hello, Prince Fenn. You look as though you have a plan of sorts.” Sherry guessed, a light smirk on her face. 

Hm, perceptive. “As it turns out, I do. I don’t suppose you’ve heard yet of the luncheon in the common room tomorrow afternoon?” he asked.

Sherry blinked. “Actually, didn’t we just see something about that?” 

MC nodded. “Yes, we just passed those posters.”

Fenn beamed. “Brilliant, so you already know, then! Well, as it’s a rather last minute joint effort between Luxure and Invidia, I thought I’d ask for your help. Poor Roy seemed awfully stressed by it all and I figured he might appreciate the assistance from you.” At that, Fenn fished the vial out from his pocket, dangling it in front of the princess. “This is Luxurean vanilla extract. I’ve heard you enjoy baking scones?”

Eyes lighting up, Sherry took the vial and stared at it. “Why, yes! I do enjoy baking, and I’ve not been able to use Luxurean vanilla yet! I would love to assist my dear brother.”

“Excellent!” Beside them, MC’s brow furrowed skeptically. “But, uh… Sherry… maybe that would best be left to Grayson?” she suggested gently.

Fenn shook his head. “No, there’s no need to worry Grayson. Nothing made with this extract can go wrong, I promise you. It’s the finest there is.” He reached over and gave the bottle two little taps. “I look forward to sampling your creation, Princess.”

Sherry nodded enthusiastically. “Yes, as do I!”

As Fenn exited the library, he held in a laugh. Perfect. He whipped the headmaster’s little notebook and scribbled down his observations. Should go very well.

---

He was not wrong.

On the day of the luncheon the common room was as full as it possibly could be, with a hefty showing from Roy’s fangirls, who were vibrating with glee and anticipation. Fenn and Roy were sitting at tables at the front of the room, with a display of agricultural exports pertaining specifically to baked goods from each country. Beside him, Fenn could see the evidence of a late night barely contained by a faint layer of undereye concealer. The two took turns giving small speeches about the state of agricultural trade in the baking arts; Roy’s was as poised and perfect as ever. 

As the first half hour concluded, the valets entered, bringing platters of baked goods to be shared amongst the gathered students: cakes, cookies, pastries, and breads. As each item was laid out and revealed, Fenn counted down in his head for the crowning jewel to be revealed. 

Roy let out a quiet breath of relief as the students swarmed around the table. “Well, it seems to be a success, then,” he murmured.

Just then, the doors swung open to Sherry holding a large and perfectly wrapped box, complete with frilly pink bowl cascading off the top. “Sorry for being late!” she apologized, smiling widely, and then deposited the box onto the table. “It took me a tad longer than usual to make my scones.”

Fenn watched Roy’s usually pale complexion blanch of all color. “Y-your… scones? You made scones?”

Sherry smiled at her brother and nodded enthusiastically. “Yes! I wanted to contribute, and Prince Fenn gifted me a lovely bottle of Luxurean vanilla. It’s a joint effort between our countries.”

At that note, the students stirred, excited at the prospect of trying the pastries, which only grew as Sherry began to open the box. Inside, each scone was seemingly perfect with a sugary white glaze and pressed rose petals adorning the top. Roy squirmed in his seat. As the first student approached to partake, he stood abruptly from his seat, chair squealing loudly against the tile floor. 

“I… I will keep them for myself actually.”

The room went quiet. 

Sherry blinked. “...Brother…?”

Roy cleared his throat a bit. “Uh… yes. I am just… I cannot possibly share something so precious. It was made by my… beloved sister, after all.” He plastered on a tense grin and the room once again lit up with chatter. 

“Aww! That’s so cute!”

“Can you believe it?! They’re just the best, most perfect siblings ever!”

“I wish my brother was like Prince Roy!”

Roy quickly yanked the box from the pastry table and closed the lid with a decisive slap. “Well, anyway-”

“Aw, come now, Roy, you should have one and tell us all about it if you aren’t going to share! It’s only fair,” Fenn drawled, shooting a pleading puppy-eyed look in Roy's direction. 

The fellow prince shot him a covert glare, but it was no use- the room erupted into excited chatter, agreeing with the prospect. Roy stared out at the crowd and Fenn noted the beginnings of a nervous sweat developing at his brow. Carefully and ever-so-slowly, Roy fished a scone from the box and sucked in a nervous breath. Nearby, Sherry’s eyes sparkled with excitement. Roy wilted a bit, then took a reluctant bite. His face turned immediately and he coughed, swallowing hard and then downing a heavy swig of rose tea.

“Wow, it was amazingthankyousherry,” he mumbled, unconvincingly. “I am going to save the rest for later.”

Fenn grinned to himself and set the lid back onto the box, sliding it across the table to Grayson, who quickly picked it up and hid it behind his back with a concerned expression. The truth serum came in a fairly dense concentration, and knowing the Princess’s baking skills, she’d likely dumped the entire bottle into the dough. One bite was all that was necessary. 

Roy slumped down into his seat as the students returned to speaking amongst themselves. He massaged his temple and then turned to give Fenn a pointed look. “I didn’t know you recruited Sherry to bake for this,” he muttered. 

“It’s no problem, though, is it?” Fenn asked teasingly. “Didn’t you enjoy it? They looked lovely.”

“They’re inedible.” Roy responded immediately, then slapped a hand over his mouth, confused. “Uh… I mean, her scones, they’re… they’re bad. They taste horrible.” Again Roy covered his mouth and sat back, wide-eyed and bewildered. “Why am I…”

At that moment, one of the students approached the table, splitting from her gaggle of fanclub friends to hold out a small wrapped package. “Prince Roy!”

Roy sat at attention. “Yes? May I help you?”

The girl held out the package. “This is a gift from us, to you. Please open it!”

Roy said nothing and tore open the paper to reveal a gift- one of many he’d received that day, no doubt. Amongst the wrapping paper sat a framed collage of what looked to be several different pictures of Roy, cut and pasted together with pink and yellow heart stickers. Sickeningly sweet, Fenn noted. Roy stared at it awkwardly and smiled. “Wow…” he said.

“D-do you like it?”

“No.”

Their faces fell. “...What?”

Roy’s expression crumbled into horror. He held up his hands in defense and shook his head. “That’s not what I meant to say, I… What I meant to say is… it’s… it’s ugly.” His mouth fell open in shock just as theirs did and they stared at each other for several long seconds. 

One of the other fanclub girls spoke up from the back, her voice wobbling with tears. “Prince Roy… Do you not like our gifts?”

“Not particularly, no.”

The group of girls gasped in shock. “Prince Roy… we thought you liked them!” one wailed.

“I find them rather gauche.”

They wailed again and ran from the room in a flood of tears. 

Roy stood from his seat in a panic. “Ah wait, no! I’m sorry!” At that moment, he looked out over the rest of the room of attendees, who had watched the exchange and were now completely silent. His face flushed pink up to his ears. He bowed mechanically at the hips and after another moment of awkward silence, began to stumble as he extricated himself from between the tables and chairs crowding the room. “Very sorry- I must take my leave now,” he stammered, and disappeared from the room, the door slamming shut behind him. 

Fenn giggled and whipped out the headmaster’s notebook. Went perfectly. Truth serum via scones made by Sherry to disguise taste. Revealed to fanclub that he dislikes their atrocious gifts. With that noted, he stood from his seat and gave a perfunctory wave to the others in the room. “I will be off as well- please feel free to enjoy the rest of the pastries as long as you like.” With that, he exited the room and flipped forward in the notebook to the notes for the following day- a combination of the headmaster’s idea and his own notes for execution. 

Toppling a dragon would certainly take some effort.

[theroomofreq]

can you give me muggle jily recs pleaaseeee <3 :D

HOW MANY HIGH-QUALITY MUGGLE JILY FICS ARE THERE?? TOO MANY TO COUNT. *cracks knuckles* BUT I am here for the challenge. Jily AUs are my JAM.

Again, shoutout to our amazing @jilyarchive friends who tag every wonderful muggle jily au they come across. here is the link that will take you to their tags page. You'll find links to specific tropes and AUs :')

I've searched through my own AO3 bookmarks and history tabs, and I present to you 28 jily muggle fics that I LOVE. I am THRILLED thinking about all the good things in store for those that read these wonderful stories. This list took me ages to make because I went through and reread most of these brilliant fics. Happy reading !! xx

properly improper by @lizardcookie

“Marry me,” Mr. Potter repeats, closing the distance between them by striding back up towards the sofa, only to stop and crouch to one knee right there at her feet, looking up at her. Burning. “Pick me,” he elaborates. “Pick me, choose me, love me instead.”

- this fic is the reason why I comment the way that I do (spoiler it's because it's amazing)

The Wedding Ring by @mppmaraudergirl

What is undeniably worse than attending your sister's wedding looking as desolate and forgotten as a wilted houseplant? Drunkenly ringing your ex-boyfriend and asking him to be your date.

- SOBS UNCONTROLLABLY AT THE PERFECTION

Oh my god, they were ROOMMATES by @magic-girl-in-a-muggle-world

Silly one-shot, Muggle AU with Fem!Jily as pining roommates and Marlene as their matchmaker.

- the fic that brought me back to jily and inspired my deep obsession of fem!jily

Swipe Right, Swing Left by @downn-in-flames

The unspoken rule of using dating apps in D.C. is that you always start with where you work.

James Potter, it seems, never picked up on that one.

- giddy just thinking about this gem

'Tis the Damn Season by @petalstofish

It doesn't feel like Christmas for Lily Evans, not after losing her parents to COVID before the Holiday season. She anticipates spending Christmas all alone until a boy from her past shows up and offers her a mutually benefiting deal that has her calling him 'babe' just for the weekend. 'Tis the damn season, after all.

- cries in respect for lyrical writing

Watch Me Unwind by @maraudersftw

Lily Evans hates her job, hates the bigoted customers she has to serve as a bartender at the richest club in the city. But the one person who makes bearing all of it worth it has someone else in his arms tonight. (Rated: M)

- obsessed with the way the plot jumps around the time line in this

oil be there for you by @abby10fanfic

Texting/Social Media AU: Lily and James haven't spoken for 2 years. But that's all about to change thanks to Peter and his involvement in an essential oil pyramid scheme. Featuring boss babes, toxin-free lifestyles, binding contracts, and a very oily journey.

- YOU WOULD NOT BELIEVE HOW FAB THIS IS

a matchmaking mission by @downn-in-flames

James Potter has a mission: get Sirius Black and Remus Lupin to finally admit that they both fancy the pants off each other by Valentine's Day.

His partner in crime? Lily Evans, Remus' flatmate, who he also happens to be slightly in love with

- DOUBLE the amount of pining idiots in love :")

about time by @jilyss

'sure, yeah, I can accompany you to that black tie event for your work tonight. wait. why are we on a red carpet?'

- this is my emotional comfort fic, your honor

whiskey business by @elanev91

Sirius Black has a (bad?) habit of picking up hobbies that take over his and James' flat -- this most recent one? Homemade vodka that James now has to try and peddle to everyone in the building.

- hysterical! must read!

Fashion Disaster by @maraudersftw

James Potter is roped into an awful dare by his best-mate, which involves him wearing atrocious pieces of clothing for all days until Christmas as dictated by Sirius. If this wasn't terrible enough, he now has to contend with his maddening crush on the beautiful saleswoman at the clothing store.

- classic hijinks that I live for

it wasn't a pity invite by @elanev91

Part of the December "Winter Tropes" Jily challenge. Prompt: my family invites you to join our holiday meal as an obvious setup and omG i’m so sorry

- awkward Christmas date that owns my heart

spice and honey by @clare-with-no-i

tagging along with her food reporter sister to profile James Potter, London's hottest young chef, is not how Lily Evans pictured her Monday going - especially if he's anything like Petunia’s described.

needless to say, she's in for a whirlwind at Chez Maraudeur.

- I'm one re-read away from printing this out and putting it on my bookshelf.

Waffle Wars by @elanev91

There's only one waffle maker in the dining hall and it literally always breaks. So, naturally, the only reasonable course of action is to meticulously map out when it's working and, ultimately, do a heist.

- the witty narration in this fic can not be matched

You Can Hear It In The Silence by @alrightginger

Lily is non-verbal and deaf in a world where the things your soulmate says about you end up written on your skin. She has known about her soulmate since she was seven, but knows they don't have a clue she exists and possibly never will.

- exquisite, cue me sobbing forever

out the window by @displayheartcode

A new family moves to Ottery St Catchpole.

- everything I could ever want in a fic, forever in my mind rent free

The Christmas Guest by @thegodmachine

An Evans Family Christmas: Petunia is bringing her fiancé and Lily is bringing her…Friend…

- petunia pov that gives me WINGS

Football, Calculus, and Cappuccinos by @moonawrites

At eighteen years old, James Potter has a lot going on. He's a rising star navigating the politics of professional football, the pitfalls of sudden fame, the fallout from choosing his dream over his father's company... and a serious crush on the red headed new barista at his favourite coffee shop.

- I'm still working my way through this fic, but trust me when I say its a GEM

if u like pina coladas by @zephyrcove

Lily is desperate for a date to Petunia's wedding, James has been pining, and their friends meddle ;)

- explain to me how characters can be so perfect via texting fics?

Shelf Awareness by @ghostofbambifanfiction

It's too far out of her way and she's wasting so much money, but Lily can't help but return to the bookstore every weekend, where her passion for good literature has, perhaps, been unexpectedly reignited by the messy-haired, pun-making, rather handsome bloke who works there.

- you absolutely must know that I binge read this and then immediately REREAD it

How to win a witch in 10 days by @adenei

“She’s going to find some unsuspecting wizard, get him to fall for her, and then do all the things that turn men away to get him to break things off! Won’t it be the best way to see what witches do that drives men crazy?” But what happens when the man in question is a blast from Lily Evans's past? A Jily Magical AU based on the romantic comedy "How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days."

- fic based off of a rom com? YES PLZ :’)

The Fight Before Christmas by @ghostofbambifanfiction

The heartwarming Christmas tale of Lily Evans and James Potter - two plucky kids who hated one other, until the day they really, really didn't.

- complete sucker for this one

All This Time by @thejilyship

James and Lily grew up next door to one another. Their bedroom windows giving them glimpses into the others life, and also offering prime opportunities to argue with each other over every little thing. They never figured out how to be friends when they were kids, but now that they've graduated from college and are home for the summer, they have a second chance to get things right.

- one of my favvvv tropes

Let Me Love You by @thejilyship

With only a month until she's set to take the throne of Gryffindor, Lily is informed that she'll have to get married or choose to give up her throne. She never thought she'd have to even entertain the idea of an arranged marriage. Enter, James Potter.

- cries in princess diares AU

The Fabulous Baker Brothers by @frustratedpoetwrites

Lily walks a different route home from work and stumbles upon a cute little Bakery with an even cuter baker in the window.

- yes yes yes to embarrassed pining.

Marigold Mornings by @mppmaraudergirl

This is a fun game she thinks, as she removes her hand from his side and reaches up to run it down his chest.  He catches her hand in his own, takes a step forward so that her nose nearly brushes against his shirt. She can feel the heat radiating off of him—or maybe it’s from her. He licks his lips and her eyes are drawn to the motion.  She knows it is a bad idea, absolutely knows it.

- incredible storytelling featuring dynamic characters :') a favvv

Welcome to Pettyville by@women-inthe-sequel @alrightginger

When Lily Evans accidentally sends a text to the wrong number, she isn’t expecting to find the right person behind it. She can’t stop talking to Prongs. The only thing is, Prongs can’t stop talking about the girl in his class. What could go wrong, other than the number?

- LOVE SQUARE ANYONE

The Kiss a Stranger Project by @alrightginger

“What’s your name, then?” she asks, realizing they haven’t even properly introduced themselves yet. She nervously crosses her arms.

You shouldn’t kiss a guy without knowing his name first.

Right?

- THIS ONE WILL LIVE IN MY MIND FOREVER

[sooibian]

So Let's Runaway - Prologue

photocreds @tuanzie​

Pairing: Kyungsoo x Fem!Reader ft. bff!Chanyeol

Genre / Themes: Fluff, mild angst, travel AU, road trip through Spain, travel buddies Chansoo!

Warnings: Themes of grief / loss, heartache, toxic relationships, strong language, i guess..

Description: An unlikely group of three comes together for the journey of a lifetime.

A/N: This fic is part of @supermwritersnet​ “Around the world in 31 days event”. Inspired by the Hindi movie Zindagi Na Milegi Dobara. Uploading prematurely so as to stop obsessing over the prologue and get cracking on the travelogue which requires a tonne of research. Let me know if you’d like a tag on the upcoming chapter(s) due for upload on 19th July 2021.

Word Count: 3k *unedited*

____________________________

Doh Kyungsoo had dragged his feet up the endless flight of stairs seeking solitude...not drama.

A stranger, just one misstep away from a fatal fall, was the last thing he’d expected to find on the rooftop of Seoul’s Park Hyatt at three in the morning. He slipped the rooftop access key card (that he’d borrowed from the security guard in exchange for a 50,000 won bill) in the back pocket of his trousers while simultaneously dwelling on the depths of the rot of corruption. He had half a mind to turn away and forget that he’d just seen someone contemplating their existence on the ledge of a highrise but there was something about you that rooted him to the spot. Dressed in fine evening wear, you’d stretched your arms out like wings as you looked up at the vast expanse of midnight blue, the wind kissing your wild, waist length hair. From his standpoint, you looked oddly at peace.

Kyungsoo had never been an idealist or a victim of the white knight syndrome. He wasn’t one to delve into the ethical and philosophical conundrums for most things in life because to him it was all just a waste of time. Seeing you on the parapet filled him with neither sympathy nor worry. It was your life after all and with it you could do whatever you deemed fit as long as you weren’t inconveniencing others. Scratch that.

As long as you weren’t inconveniencing him.

But right now, unbeknownst to you, you were inconveniencing Seoul’s hottest financial broker, Doh Kyungsoo.

He wasn’t invisible to the hotel’s security cameras and being labelled suspect in an abetment to suicide investigation wasn't exactly what he was looking for after the day he’d had. Albeit inebriated and heavy-eyed, he could effectively calculate the logistics involved in pulling you off the ledge with the cacophony of the omnipresent Seoul traffic drowning out the sound of his footsteps.

Bracing himself for superficial bruises from the impact of falling to the right side of the precipice with the weight of an adult human pressing down on his 173 cm high frame, he took off his custom tailored blazer (that had been flown in from Vietnam especially for that evening) and folded it in half, making sure that the lapels touched. Some habits are hard to shake. He put the blazer on the ground as a makeshift floorcloth for the rest of his belongings. With his back facing you, he allowed himself a moment's peace as he loosened his tie, languidly rolled the sleeves of his pristine white dress shirt up to his elbows, freed himself off the Rolex Cellini on his left wrist, his Bottega Veneta fine leather wallet, and the cursed Tiffany Blue Box that he simply couldn’t bear to look at anymore and neatly placed them all on the blazer.

Letting out a deep exhale, he muttered curses under his breath before turning to your silhouette only to find it...gone.

Kyungsoo’s eyes narrowed and then immediately grew into large circles as he grappled with the shocking turn of events. An inexplicable heaviness bloomed in his chest and he felt sick to the stomach which, in a state of denial, he chalked up to the dubious mixture of spirits he’d downed not too long ago.

Before he could find his bearings and figure out what to do next, a light tap on his shoulder made him jump. His jaw went slack and his heart threatened to leap out of his chest to find you casually smiling at him. In that moment, he wanted nothing more than to climb onto the very same ledge and scream into the void but he simply stood there, mouth agape, wanting to say a million things but he could hardly muster a peep.

Reading the confusion painted across his sharp, well defined features, you uttered an unsure, “Hi?”

“I thought you’d jumped,” he whispered, head tilted to the side, his compelling, bloodshot eyes locked with yours.

“Says someone who’s unusually jumpy,” you jested, but your expression immediately turned solemn when you caught the tremble in his right hand. “Are you on something?”

There came about a sudden shift in his aura. Hands on hips, he deadpanned, “Why? Are you with the cops?”

“No, don’t worry,” you let out a soft chuckle and he started scrambling for his things, “How long have you been standing here?”

Hastily stuffing everything into the pocket of his well fitted trousers, he muttered something along the lines of ‘Chaos. Just chaos everywhere!’

Leaning into his frame, you quipped, “What’s that?”

Alarmed and goggle-eyed, he snapped, “Nevermind,” and turned towards the exit.

“Hey! You seem to have forgotten something!” You called out after him upon finding his blazer on the ground, the silken sheen of it reflecting a myriad of citylights.

No answer.

“I wasn’t going to jump!” You yodelled childishly but the man was long gone.

.

.

.

Seven Hours Earlier

“Natasha -” Kyungsoo huffed.

The feather light Tiffany 1873 Blue Box in his left hand had suddenly started to feel like a giant boulder weighing down on his entire being. The sparkle of the uncut diamond reflected in his misty eyes as her uncharacteristically stoic silence left him struggling for words. He searched Natasha’s face for a hint of mischief...he so desperately wished for her to crack a sly smile and pull him in for a kiss and whisper ‘Yes! Yes! A thousand times yes!’ against his lips like they do in the movies, that he’d almost started to imagine it. It had to have been some sort of an ugly prank.

What reason does she have to turn me down? he wondered.

Kyungsoo breached the uncomfortable spell of silence with a desperate plea, “Say something!” the throbbing in his head intensifying by the second.

Did these three years mean nothing to you? What did I do wrong? Do you hate the ring? Is this not the kind of proposal you wished for? Is it because I left the bathroom lights on all night? Or is it because I forgot to wish your mother on her birthday? A flurry of questions spawned in Kyungsoo’s mind only to die at the tip of his tongue.

“I’m sorry, Kyungsoo, but I can’t do this. I just -” Natasha spoke finally. Gingerly shifting the weight of the box onto the ebony restaurant table, she slammed it shut as if the ring had been eyeing her lecherously.

Meeting Kyungsoo’s gaze almost defiantly, she declared, “Kyungsoo, I don’t think that I could be the kind of wife that would make you happy and I don’t think you could make me happy either.”

.

.

.

Two Weeks Later

Setting your eyes on that distinct pair of Dumbo ears, you excitedly weaved through the peak hour coffee shop crowd with an Iced Americano held firmly in one hand. Slamming the beverage down on the table, you engulfed his giant frame in a back hug and squealed, “Park Chanyeol!”

His wide eyes turned into even bigger brown circles and his mouth rounded into an ‘o’ in surprise. Grinning, he got off the uncomfortably tiny coffee shop chair and wordlessly pulled you in for what was famously known in Uni as a ‘Classic Chanyeol Hug’. You didn’t know how much you missed it until you felt your worries immediately dissipate into nothingness.

He hugged you a little tighter the moment you started to pull away before taking your hands in his and stooping down to your eye level. “Shifu, my love! You’re back in Seoul?!” Chanyeol exclaimed with all the love in the world sparking in the depths of his dark eyes.

Even after all this time, it felt as if nothing had changed….you’d suddenly been whizzed into a not-so-distant ‘Gothic architecture and coffee shops’ past in which a cotton candy haired boy, dressed in a pair of freshly ironed beige chinos and a plain white tee, smiles his sweetest smile simply at the sight of you. Chanyeol always felt like home. Funnily enough, even more so at the moment.

Giving him a good natured smile, you nodded in response, albeit cringing a little on the inside. Having been President of the martial arts club back in the days, you got stuck with an ingenious moniker “Shifu” which you clearly couldn’t shake off even after half a decade since graduation. You did a double take when your gaze veered to acknowledge the person seated opposite Chanyeol who, dressed in an ivory business suit, almost blended into the background. Just the way you could spot Chanyeol’s ears from a million miles away, you could recognize those eyes anywhere and right now they were shooting daggers at you.

“OH! Hi!”

His response to your greeting was a curt nod accompanying a vague hand movement, something between a hi and a failed facepalm.

At this Chanyeol guffawed, “You two know each other?”, his keen gaze rapidly flitting between the two of you.

“Yes -”

“No -”

While gesturing you to take a seat at their table, Chanyeol slumped into his chair and pursued the conversation in a voice laced with amusement, “So which is it?”

You gave your head a little shake, signalling Chanyeol to drop the topic since his friend had made his apprehension quite evident with an unambiguous “No” when asked if he knew you. Which...wasn’t entirely untrue. Even though Chanyeol now seemed to be on the same page as you, for good measure, you deflected his question with a polite, “I hope I’m not interrupting anything?”

“Absolutely not!” Chanyeol assured, deftly steering the conversation back to you, “We could actually use your advice on something but first, Shifu, look at you! How long has it been? Five years?”

“Five years!”

“Wahhh! What brings you back to Seoul?”

With a wistful smile, you answered, “Appa passed away in April...”

“Oh, I’m- I’m so sorry -” stuttered Chanyeol, immediately placing his hand on your arm and giving it a light squeeze. From the corner of your eye you noticed Chanyeol’s friend chewing on his bottom lip and listening to this exchange with rapt attention.

“No, no, it’s erm...we’re doing okay now, I guess-”

It had been two and a half months but every time you talked about it, a black hole burgeoned right in the middle of your chest, sucking you within itself and rendering you breathless. You still hadn’t picked up the art of condoling the “condoler”. What were you even supposed to say to the faultless “I’m sorry��? Who came up with condolence jargon, anyway?

“I’m sorry we haven’t been in touch - ”

“Oh, please. You know how it is after Uni, isn’t it,” you turned to Chanyeol’s friend to make him feel a little less left out, “what did you say your name was?”

“I didn’t,” he answered in a clipped tone while mindlessly scrolling through his phone.

“Yah!” Chanyeol chastised him with a deathly glare before continuing with an impish smile, “He’s Doh Kyungsoo.”

“Ah! So he’s Doh Kyungsoo! I’ve heard a great deal about you!” Your enthusiasm invoked a quick cursory smile from him. Doh Kyungsoo had apparently made it his life’s mission to make this unexpected rendezvous as icky as possible, leaving you to wonder if Chanyeol had ever discussed your brief relationship with him. Ex-girlfriend meets best friend? Not an ideal scenario in any part of the world.

Chanyeol and you had gone out for a couple of weeks towards the end of freshman year until you both realized that you were much better off as friends. Despite being joined at the hip in Uni, the two of you had gone your separate ways after post-grad. While he returned to Seoul to join the family business, you’d stayed back in Milan to explore job opportunities. Messages and phone calls became few and far between and it wasn’t long before both of you had completely lost touch with each other.

And it wasn’t until you met him again that you realized how desperately you needed a friend considering everything that had been going on in your life. You selfishly wished for Kyungsoo to leave you two to catch up on all these years spent apart but clearly that was a lot to ask considering how tacitly territorial he seemed to be getting about Chanyeol.

“So what was it that you wanted to talk about?” you asked in another feeble attempt to water down the rancour.

Chanyeol’s features flared into a bashful smile but the moment he opened his mouth to speak, Kyungsoo held a hand up to him and insisted, “Allow me to spare you the blushes,” before starting to explain the situation in an uncharacteristically eager tone, “This idiot is getting married in three months -”

Boisterously thumping Chanyeol’s back, you showered him with congratulations which he accepted with a shy ‘thank you.’

Kyungsoo continued, “- and we have a road trip planned for next month. As per the pact -”

Head tilted to the side, you shot, “What pact?”

“Some stupid pact that I have no memory of - ”

“That you conveniently have no memory of!” interrupted a salty Chanyeol.

Kyungsoo grimaced. Rubbing the corner of his eye, he continued with a heavy sigh, “It was supposed to be the three of us...Chanyeol, me, and our school friend Yixing.”

“Oh, okay?”

“So Yixing fell off a tractor and broke his back -”

“Oh, my gosh!” You exclaimed.

Kyungsoo’s mouth fell open. “I wasn’t there but I’d bet my ass that’s exactly what he said at the time.”

“What do you mean?”

“Nothing.”

“Wait, wait, slow down, why- how- a tractor?”

“He quit his CEO position to become a full time….farmer,” deadpanned Kyungsoo as if it was the stupidest thing Yixing could’ve done which rubbed you up the wrong way and coloured your otherwise neutral expression.

“He basically did what Kyungsoo doesn’t have the balls to do,” quipped Chanyeol, lips stretched into a gremlin-like grin. Kyungsoo returned his jibe with a strike to his arm causing him to let out a dramatic wail thus inviting the attention of everyone around you.

But none of it deterred Kyungsoo. He continued nonchalantly as if presenting a well crafted business proposal, “Since one of us is unavailable it only makes sense to postpone the trip and that’s exactly what I’ve been asking Chanyeol to do but he just won’t listen.”

“You’re getting married in three months and you’re taking this road trip next month. Will you be left with enough time for wedding planning?” you reasoned with Chanyeol, well aware of the kind of family he belonged to and the kind of weddings these families planned.

“Mr. Park here was way too eager,” Kyungsoo butted in.

“Shut up, Kyungsoo!”

“Wahhh you must really love her ~ ,” you sang, moon-eyed.

“Clearly. He couldn’t even wait for the rest of us to finish singing the birthday song for his Eomma.”

“What?”

“Yeah! He popped the question to Aera right in the middle of it.”

“WHAT!”

“That’s a story for another day,” replied Chanyeol in an atypically calm tone, “but you’re right, Shifu, it’s not enough time and that’s why I’ve been asking this idiot to just -”

“All reservations are for three. It logistically makes more sense to reschedule,” declared Kyungsoo with a hint of finality in his tone.

It didn’t. It definitely didn’t make more sense to reschedule but as gullible as Chanyeol was, he said nothing to counter Kyungsoo’s illogical argument.

“Are you sure your friend Yixing would be okay with it, Yeollie? I’m sure you can wait for him to get better and -”

Firmly setting his jaw, Chanyeol looked you square in the eyes and stated, “It's now or never.”

Kyungsoo stole a glance at you and cleared his throat, hesitance betraying his voice when he spoke again, “Chanyeollah, you’re only getting married stop talking like you’re terminally ill.”

Chanyeol's expression softened to convey an implicit plea causing you to tweak your suggestion, “The two of you can still go? I’m sure Yixing won’t mind.”

But Chanyeol hit you with an unexpected proposal. He asked, “Do you want to come?”, in a tone that was way too serious for a road trip.

“What? No!”

“Why not? You’re here and - “

“- and Yixing’s not,” interrupted Kyungsoo.

Ignoring the sarcasm in Kyungsoo’s voice, you turned Chanyeol down gently, “No, Yeol, it’s just- it doesn’t make sense, bub.”

“Why not? We leave in a month and that’s plenty of time to get all your travel docs in order -”

“Travel docs? You mean….insurance?” You asked hesitantly.

“Yeah! Insurance...you won’t need a visa, though.”

“Visa? Yeah, obviously I won’t be needing a visa. Why would I need a visa for a road trip?”

Chanyeol slapped his forehead and wondered aloud, “Oh, shoot! We didn’t tell her, did we?”

Kyungsoo gave his head a little shake, prompting you to ask, “Tell me what?”

“It’s a road trip through uhhh northeastern Spain -”

Chanyeol’s elaborate account of the itinerary was drowned in the whirlpool of emotions that erupted within you at the mention of the country. That part of your life you had locked away in the deepest, darkest corners of your consciousness now stared you straight in the eyes, forcing you to acknowledge a reality far too jarring for your fragile state of mind. You took a sip of your long forgotten beverage to centre yourself but it didn’t take a genius to know that something was up.

Placing a hand on your head, he asked softly, “What is it, Shifu? I understand if you can’t leave Eomma alone at this point...”

“It’s not Eomma,” you took another sip of the drink to fight the lump in your throat, “Eomma is - Eomma is in Bucheon, visiting her sister. For I don’t know how long but...long.”

“Is it work?” contributed Kyungsoo.

“I quit my job,” you answered and he looked at you as if you, a total stranger, had just asked him his body count.

Chanyeol took your hand in his and reiterated, “Come, then? You need this.”

Your gaze bounced between the two men who wore the exact same expression in expectation of two entirely different answers. And whatever you chose to say next, you were sure to disappoint one of them.

Eyes unfocussed, a deafening ringing echoing in your ears, you declared softly, “I need this,” with a million unpleasant scenarios running through your head, making you sick to the stomach.

Chanyeol pulled you in for a bear hug. Kyungsoo rolled his eyes and let out a deep, disappointed sigh.

[nugnthopkns]

dance me to the end of love (i)

word count: 4.3k

warnings: fem!oc, cursing, potential spoilers for the west wing if you've never seen the show

series masterpost: here

a/n: hi!! i am so incredibly happy to finally be putting this fic out into the world. it means an awful lot to me and i can't wait to share the little world i've created :)) x

Magdalene is content with where she’s ended up.

Denver is wonderful. Her friends are there, her cat is there, and it’s the perfect place for a fresh start. She arrived in the city nearly six years ago – a wide-eyed University of Denver freshman and has stayed put ever since. Her hometown of Aspen holds a few too many bad memories, but is close enough that she can return if an emergency calls for it. So far she hasn’t left, too engrossed in finishing her degree and moving on. There’s a job offer lined up with the university’s library upon graduation that Magdalene is ecstatic about. It means she gets to stay right where she is – where she’s comfortable.

☼☼☼☼

The sun might be shining as she exits her apartment building, but it’s cold for March. Magdalene pulls the thick scarf her best friend Bette got her for Christmas higher up her face and walks as quickly as possible to campus. There’s a brief meeting to attend with her advisor before grabbing lunch with Bette, and then her plan is to spend the rest of the day holed up in the library working on her thesis. It’s due in two weeks, with the defence in just over a month, and Magdalene is incredibly nervous. Though she’d gone through submitting her undergraduate thesis two years ago, presenting her master’s research was going to be a lot harder. She’s heard through the grapevine that the committees are being tough this year and she doesn’t want to fail.

Dr. Williams is waiting for her in his office with a smile on his face. He’s a tall man, with thin facial features and wire glasses that box him perfectly into the intimidating professor stereotype. “Miss Stevenson, please sit,” he gestures to the chair across from him.

“Gerald,” she sighs, “You can call me Magdalene, I don’t mind. Besides, it makes you quite the hypocrite if you insist I call you by your first name but you won’t use mine.” There’s no malice in her voice, just a decent amount of teasing.

The older man scoffs but concedes. “I suppose you’re right. Well then Magdalene, tell me, how are your final edits coming along?”

Magdalene spends nearly twenty minutes detailing all the elements she has tweaked since their last meeting, from the title to the citation style. She’s out of breath by the time she’s done, rambling at an impressive speed, and takes a big gasp of air while the professor mulls over her words. Dr. Williams doesn’t say anything, causing Magdalene to shift anxiously in her seat. “Sir, is there something wrong?”

He shakes his head. “Absolutely nothing,” he beams, “Everything is perfect. It’s a shame you don’t want to continue researching. You’d make a fabulous academic.”

The compliment makes Magdalene’s heart soar. It means a lot, especially coming from the person who has seen her cry over the oxford comma. “Thank you sir, but I belong in the practical realm. Someone has to file all the documents you obsessively scan.”

She leaves the building soon after, promising to stop by after she drops off the final draft in a few weeks. It’s a bit later than she expected and hopes Bette won’t be mad. There’s nothing the blonde hates more than poor time management, but Magdalene prays she’ll understand. It wasn’t that long ago and Bette was scheduling her own appointments with advisors on how to graduate. Barn Owl Book Company is located halfway between the school and her apartment, making it the perfect spot to meet. In addition to being a used book store, Barn Owl sports one of the best cafés in downtown Denver. Bette is perched delicately at her friend’s favourite seat, a bay window converted into a small nook, and typing furiously on her phone.

“Sorry I’m late,” Magdalene apologizes, “Williams talked a lot more than I expected him to.”

Bette looks up and smiles, shoving a cup in the other girl’s direction. “As always. How is he?”

Sliding into the booth, Magdalene fills her friend in on what’s been going on in their former professor’s life. Bette graduated with a minor in Classics, and it was Magdalene's major, but the former decided not to further her education and is instead doing full time charity work for the Colorado Avalanche. Her boyfriend Tyson is one of their star players, and the two of them are so smitten it makes Magdalene sick. Conversation quickly turns from school to life, which she’s grateful for.

“So,” Bette says, “Are you in for the trip this summer? I’ve got to confirm the reservation in a week or something.”

“I don’t know Bee, I'm going to be the new girl. Asking for time off like two months into the job would be rude.”

“Linny,” the blonde whines, “Please? I want you to come.”

Magdalene scowls. Bette knows just how much the nickname sours her mood but she chose to use it anyway. “Don’t call me that,” she snaps with quite a bite. “Can someone else take my spot if I decide not to go a little closer to the date?”

“Of course! Gravy said he’d fill an extra spot if one comes up so we don’t lose the deposit,” Bette blabs before trying to switch gears entirely. Magdalene cuts her off.

“Who’s Gravy?”

If her friend is exasperated by Magdalene’s lack of knowledge surrounding hockey, she doesn’t show it. Bette calmly explains that Gravy, who’s real name is Ryan, is a defenceman with the Avalanche and a good friend of Tyson’s. She also makes a point of mentioning that he’s single, to which Magdalene rolls her eyes. Bette has a masterplan for her life – which includes her best friend becoming romantically involved with an Avalanche player so the two of them can live the better half life together. As the best friend, Magdalene is constantly barraged with potential players who are looking to date. Once she went on a few dates with Mikko, but that ended fairly quickly when the two realized they were better as friends. Every time since she’s turned Bette down as gently as possible, not wanting to get involved with anyone. Her life is just starting, and Magdalene wants to be secure before settling down.

The conversation eventually shifts to what Magdalene plans to wear for both her thesis defence and graduation. Bette is fashion savvy, while Magdalene is decidedly not. Her everyday wardrobe consists of collared button-downs and sweater vests, which is supposedly never going to back a comeback, according to Bette at least. The blonde eventually wears Magdalene down, and secures a position as stylist for the graduation ceremony. There was an attempt at the thesis defence, but the other girl insists she needs to be as comfortable as possible on such a stressful occasion.

A glance to the clock on the opposite wall has Magdalene stretching her arms and giving an apologetic glance to her friend on the other side of the table. “I should go,” she says. “I’ve got to put in some serious work on my citations today, and you know Caligula doesn’t like it when I’m gone all day.”

Bette rolls her eyes, but there isn’t any frustration behind the gesture. “I swear to god Mags, your cat has more separation anxiety than I do. Speaking of, I’m supposed to pick Tyson up at the airport and I’m running behind.”

“Tell him I say hi,” Magdalene says as she wraps her arms around Bette for a quick hug.

The two girls part ways on the sidewalk, with Magdalene heading back to campus and Bette sliding into the sleek Audi she shares with her boyfriend. Headphones find their way into her ears, and Magdalene listens to a random comedy podcast. Once tucked safely inside the library she’ll put on her favourite lo-fi playlist and concentrate, but for now she just enjoys the funny anecdotes of stories past.

It’s quiet in the library for a Tuesday, though Magdalene isn’t complaining. Her favourite table, the one she swears up and down is the only reason she ever gets anything done, is open, and she all but sprints to place her bag on the worn leather chair. While setting up her work station a few of the librarians come over to offer their congratulations for her upcoming job. News certainly travels fast around here, Magdalene thinks, but accepts their generosity with a smile on her face. They leave her alone soon enough and the tedious work of double checking the formatting of every single citation in the sixty-five page paper begins.

Hours pass, and Magdalene stays working in the library until as late as she possibly can. Caligula is going to start to worry about the length of her absence soon and his anxiety response of knocking over plants is not a mess she feels like cleaning up. She packs up her laptop and walks the short distance home as fast as possible.

“Little boots, I’m home,” Magdalene parrots in a sing-song voice as she slips her jacket off her shoulders and onto the hanger. At the sound of his nickname, the small cat bounds into the entryway. “Hi darling, did you miss me?” Magdalene gets an obnoxiously loud purr in response that she takes it as a yes. She reaches down to pick up the tiny animal before continuing further into the apartment, scratching behind his ears as she does so. The two of them settle into the respectably sized couch, where they stay for the rest of the night watching reruns of The West Wing before Magdalene falls asleep.

☼☼☼☼

“You fucking did it!” Bette shrieks as she bounds towards her best friend. Magdalene braces herself for the oncoming assault, and manages to keep them both upright after Bette jumps into her arms.

Her thesis defence had just finished, and the committee found Magdalene a worthy candidate for the Master of Information Science qualification. The presentation itself was open to the public, so Bette and Tyson sat in the front row to support Magdalene, but were escorted out for the conversation that followed. The two girls had developed a code so the news could be shared in a subtle way, though Bette threw the original plan out the window as soon as she saw her friend give a sneaky thumbs up when the conference room door opened.

“Congrats Mags,” Tyson says sincerely, doing his best not to add to the growing spectacle, but Magdalene can tell he wants to give her a bone crushing hug.

“Thank you,” she smiles softly, “And thank you guys for coming. It means a lot.” As two of her closest friends, both Bette and Tyson know that her family situation is rocky at best, and having them act as her support system means more than she’ll ever be able to articulate.

The couple shares a knowing look before engulfing their friend in a hug. “We’re always going to be here for you,” Bette whispers, “No matter what.”

Magdalene’s smile is so genuine it crinkles her eyes as she wraps her arms around Bette and Tyson’s shoulders and leads them out the door and into the sunshine. The group continues to the parking lot, where they climb into Tyson’s car and drive off campus in the direction of Magdalene’s favourite restaurant. Though she had tried to convince her friends they didn’t need to celebrate, she failed, and Magdalene soon finds herself laughing hysterically over a plate of carbonara as Tyson tells a story about the shenanigans the team got up to on their last road trip.

There’s a game tonight, and Bette has somehow convinced her into attending. Magdalene knows she should go, expand her social horizons a little, but all she wants to do is curl up in bed and sleep for three weeks. Her one condition is that she can go home straight after the game without being guilted into following the group to whatever nightclub they’ll celebrate the win or drink away the loss in. Tyson has to get ready so he drops the two girls off at Magdalene's apartment complex. She’s in charge of getting Bette to the rink, and she’ll leave with her boyfriend after the game.

Once inside the confines of her home, Magdalene promptly lies on the floor. “Holy shit,” she sighs, “I did it. I fucking did it.”

“You did!” Bette says as she lies down beside her best friend. “I’m so fucking proud of you, and Tyson is too. Even if he won’t tackle you in public to prove it.”

The comment garners a laugh from Magdalene, which alerts Caligula to the presence of others in the apartment. He pads over the rug currently being occupied by two adults, and snuggles into the small space between them. Bette and Magdalene continue to lay there, petting the cat and looking back fondly on all the times Magdalene called her friend in tears because she didn’t think she could push herself any farther. Bette was always there to pick up the slack, editing whatever section Magdalene was working on or to bring over a hot meal. Her support earned her the top spot in the acknowledgements section of the thesis.

Ball Arena is already crawling with people when Magdalene pulls into the small lot for player’s and their families. Normally she parks with the general public, but Bette insists they watch this game from the better halves box, and these spaces are closer to that entrance.

“Stop dragging your feet,” the blonde chastises as Magdalene takes her time cutting the engine. “I want to get a glass of rosé before they sell out.”

Sighing, Magdalene follows her orders. “Don’t you have a special bar in the box?” she asks while locking the car.

“Yeah, but the other girls are absolute fiends. They’ll drink it all before we get there with no remorse.”

The girls climb the stairs to the better halves box, Bette chatting excitedly about the game, but Magdalene stops just before the entrance. She’s met most of the others on multiple occasions and has nothing to worry about, but she can’t help but feel anxious. Her life is so different than everyone else’s in the space, and it feels like cheating when she’s there because she isn’t romantically involved with anyone on the roster. Bette likes to joke that she’s her better half, but Magdalene knows it’s said just to calm her nerves.

“It’ll be fine,” Bette whispers while squeezing her hand, “And if you get too uncomfortable we can find some seats in the nosebleeds.”

Once inside Magdalene’s nerves dissipate. Most of the other wives and girlfriends pay her no mind, but the ones that are especially close to Bette congratulate her on passing her defence. It warms her heart a little, and the small group Magdalene finds herself in settles down to watch the game unfold.

It’s a fairly intense one between Colorado’s division rival St. Louis. Both teams are fighting for first place in the conference, and a win for the Avalanche would put them three points ahead of the Blues instead of one. Players from both sides are amped up, and more than once a scrum at the net has turned into a dog-pile. Colorado is outplaying the other team, but have still managed to find themselves a goal short heading into the final period. At the buzzer Tyson takes the face-off and is immediately shoved by a member of the opposite team. He goes down hard, and Bette squeezes Magdalene’s hand so tightly she fears it will lose blood flow. Silence falls over the arena as Tyson doesn’t immediately get up. The inside of lip finds its way between her teeth and Magdalene bites down hard, worried about her friend. She’s so focussed on Tyson that she doesn’t notice a fight breaking out.

“Holy shit, Gravy is going to town!”

The remark is made by someone Magdalene recognizes as Gabe Landeskog’s wife, and it makes her peel her eyes off of Bette’s worried features and scan the ice for some action. Sure enough, a very tall man is laying right hooks to someone who looks significantly smaller than him on the Avalanche blue line. The referees let the fight continue until Tyson drags himself off the ice and onto the bench before separating the men and throwing them in the penalty box. Magdalene can tell words are still being exchanged from both sides of the glass, but she’s more focussed on the fact Tyson doesn’t make his way to the dressing room – a good sign that allows Bette to drop her hand and let out a shaky breath.

Nothing of great importance happens until MacKinnon ties the game with seven minutes left. It happens while the Avalanche are short handed, and the goal seems to light a fire beneath the team. Magdalene may not know much about hockey, but she’s smart enough to notice the insane amount of energy all the players suddenly have. Time ticks by slowly and before she realizes it, the final face-off is taking place. Luckily it’s in the St. Louis zone and won by Colorado. The puck is tipped back to the same player who got in the fight for Tyson, Gravy, and he one times it right into the back of the net. The buzzer goes off not a second later, and the entire team piles on top of the player who just won them the game.

Bette and Magdalene join in the shrieks of the other partners, jumping from their seats in excitement. Eventually they make their way down to the hallway outside the locker room and lean against the brick while they wait for Tyson.

“You don’t have to stay,” Bette insists, “I can wait by myself.”

Magdalene shakes her head. “No way. I want to make sure he’s okay too. What good is a friend with a black eye?”

The other girl laughs at her friend’s stubbornness but doesn’t shoo her away. Once Magdalene has made a decision it’s hard to get her to sway from it, and Bette knows better than to push. Besides, who is she to deny her friend a bit more social interaction? Magdalene has spent the past six years practically holed up in the library and deserves to stand in a crowded hallway.

The friends chat idly while they wait, with Magdalene sharing some of the most ridiculous questions she got asked in her defence interview that morning. She’s mid story when Tyson exits the dressing flanked by a man dressed sharply in all black.

“Hey guys,” Tyson greets, dipping his head to place a kiss to Bette’s cheek before doing an elaborately goofy handshake with Magdalene.

“Good game baby,” Bette compliments sweetly. She then turns her attention to the boy standing awkwardly on the fringes. “You too Graves.”

He smiles shyly, muttering out a small thanks. It’s then he seems to notice the final member of the group, and offers his hand in greeting. “Hi, I’m Ryan.”

“Nice to meet you. I’m Magdalene.”

She puts two and two together on the walk to her car. The Ryan Magdalene just met is the same who will take her spot on the trip, fought someone in Tyson’s defence, and scored the game winning goal. Though they’ve only said a few words, she likes him. He seems genuine, and those people are the rarest to find.

☼☼☼☼

Magdalene is walking across a graduation stage for the final time in two days. However, she can’t find anyone to take the third ticket. The University of Denver has a stupid rule where all graduates must have three guests attend the ceremony. Bette and Tyson are obviously occupying two of Magdalene’s seats, but she’s having trouble filling the third.

“I can ask Tys if one of the guys is free,” Bette shrugs. The two girls are sitting in the window of Barn Owl drinking iced lattes and discussing what Magdalene should wear to the ceremony.

“It’s okay,” Magdalene says, “I don’t want to bother anyone. Maybe I’ll just ask June.”

Her friend’s eye roll so far back into her head Magdalene isn’t sure they won’t stay there. “You can’t ask your boss to watch you graduate Mags! Besides, Gravy owes Tyson a favour and was already looking for something to do. I’m sure he won’t mind wasting a few hours as long as he gets drinks out of it.”

There isn’t a better option, so even though she barely knows the guy, Magdalene agrees. “Make sure he gets this?" she sighs, handing her friend an envelope with a single ticket in it. "I have to go. Caligula should be done at the vet soon.”

“Say hello to little boots for me,” Bette giggles as she waves goodbye.

Hours later, tucked into her couch with a glass of wine in one hand and Caligula playing with the fingers on the other, Magdalene realizes she invited a complete stranger to her graduation and how that could be a terrible idea. Sure, Ryan sounds like a great guy from the way Bette and Tyson talk about him, but he’s only ever spoken three words to her. Since that game she’s gone out with the team a few times, but the man with the piercing stare is yet to make an appearance. Magdalene considers that perhaps he’s more like her than his profession gives him credit for, and she feels a twinge of guilt about being worried he’d cause a scene at the ceremony.

There isn’t any more time for her to fret over the third and final guest on the list. At the last minute Bette decides there’s nothing in Magdalene’s closet that’s suitable for her to wear, so a trip to a local second-hand store ensues. While it’s nice that her friend has taken their carbon footprints into consideration, Magdalene wishes it didn’t have to happen an hour and a half before the ceremony is supposed to start.

“We have to be there in twenty minutes Bette,” she frets, tapping her foot nervously against the tile flooring.

If they can’t find whatever it is Bette’s looking for, Magdalene will have to walk across the stage in denim cutoffs and a faded t-shirt with Neil Young’s face on it, which is something she’s hoping to avoid at all costs.

“Have no fear, Mags,” she says with a knowing glint in her eye, “For I have found it.” Bette holds up a hanger that is holding a beautiful long sleeve dress adorned with a whimsical floral print.

Magdalene can’t help the gasp that escapes from her. “It’s beautiful,” she breathes, “But let’s hope it fits.”

The dress does in fact fit, and the workers are kind enough to let her wear it out of the store. Bette drives at a speed that might not be the safest to travel at in downtown Denver, but she gets to the school with minutes to spare. She shoos her friends out of the car so she can go pick up Tyson and Ryan, and Magdalene checks in with little hassle. The pool of graduates is fairly small, so she chats with a few classmates while they wait for the call to put their gowns on. Time passes quicker than expected, and soon Magdalene is being directed to her seat. She zones out while the dean gives a congratulatory speech and they go through the first few names. At one point she looks backwards into the crowd to find Bette, Tyson, and Ryan all giving her a thumbs up. The nerves she didn’t even know she had settle.

A faculty member signals for Magdalene’s row to stand up, and she smoothes her dress before dutifully following the person in front of her. Giddiness bubbles in her stomach at the thought of being done school forever. A hand from the stage crew give a cue, and Magdalene appears on the stage as her accomplishment is broadcast through the microphone.

“Magdalene Stevenson is being awarded a Masters in Information Science in Archival Studies and Records Management.” It feels so good to finally be finished that she lets a tear slip as she shakes the hand of the staff member handing her the package with her diploma in it.

The rest of the ceremony passes in a blur, and before Magdalene knows it her friends are approaching to congratulate her. Bette and Tyson wrap her in a tight hug, murmuring praise in her ears. Ryan stands awkwardly to the side before Bette drags him into the celebration. The four of them stand in the courtyard where the ceremony was for much longer than needed. Bette is crying enough to refill Sloan Lake if there is ever a drought and is yet to let go of Magdalene’s figure.

It’s only when the event staff ask them to leave so they can tear down the stage does Magdalene turn to leave campus for the last time as a student. She’ll be back in a few weeks as an employee, but deep down she knows this is the last time she’ll ever feel such a deep connection to the place.

“Victory is mine, victory is mine! Great day in the morning people, victory is mine!” Magdalene yells, quoting Josh Lyman as she skips down the path towards Bette’s car.

Both Bette and Tyson are confused at the sudden outburst, not knowing what she’s talking about, but Ryan responds without missing a beat. “Should I bring you all the muffins and bagels in the land?” His response doesn’t clear anything up, but it elicits a giant smile from Magdalene, who laughs and nods in confirmation.

Sitting in the back of Bette’s Audi, on the way to a graduation party she’s supposed to know nothing about, Magdalene decides that she wants to get to know Ryan Graves better. From what she’s garnered from Bette and Tyson he’s a class act, standing up for friends and giving good advice. He likes The West Wing and showed up to a stranger’s graduation, so how bad can he be?

☼☼☼☼

additional notes: see what magdalene's graduation dress looks like here // the quote from the west wing is from 1.02 if you were curious!

☼☼☼☼

taglist: @scrunchmakar @marcoscandellas @toplinetommy (add yourself to the taglist!)

[idanit]

possibly underappreciated Good Omens fics I enjoyed once upon a time

Indirectly inspired by a video series about fanfiction I watched, I decided to pull together a list of Good Omens fics I have bookmarked as stories I enjoyed, but which have less than 250-300 kudos at the time I’m writing this. No particular order. They’re accompanied by short excerpts from my private fic reading notes (not originally intended to be read by anyone but me, mind), sometimes slightly edited for clarity—and, sometimes, the comments I left on the fics.

This list sat in my drafts for a long time and the recent S2 announcement reminded me of it. I’d love it if it inspired you to do something similar! Spread the love.

And mind the tags, please.

△ = general and teen ▲ = mature and explicit 

thermodynamic equilibrium ▲ 7K the author has such an ear for dialogue and is unapologetic about what they want to write the characters like. They think of the characters as a mix of TV and book canon, but they feel like a homemade blend to me. (...) It’s very funny.

such dear follies ▲ 6K I can really picture this Aziraphale—Crowley as well, but her especially. She’s rather distinct. (...) Nice writing.

The Words Were With - △ 1.2K post-Blitz vignette, Aziraphale realizes what he feels and wonders if they're human enough for this. I liked it, and I liked the tag "transhumanism, but in reverse?", too—what an interesting idea. I'd say it's a vignette in a dire need of a follow-up, but, well, there's the show. The show is the follow-up. It fits very nicely within the canon and I totally believe it could have happened, like a deleted scene.

Gossip and Good Counsel △ 19K/? I love their companionship and how they're set up to be opposites by the management even though they get on pretty well. It feels very in keeping with the canon, but I feel like the fact that it's an F/F set in this particular time period adds a meaningful layer to the situation. It's women supporting each other in the world of men, working with the personas that are created for them, but, privately, being normal, well-rounded people. (...) and of course your writing is always a pleasure to read. (...) SDHDGDHDHDG Maisie is truly an Aziraphale.

Crowley Went Down to Georgia (he was looking for a soul to steal) △ 6K This was nice. Based on a song I didn’t know. Crowley goes to a funeral in the USA, one of a fiddler he knew and lost a bet to once. (...) The fic has not one but two songs composed for it and embedded inside it and that makes it even better. I really enjoyed the experience.

The Thing With Feathers △ 18K WARLOCK you'rE HORRIBLE AND I LOVE IT I would read an entire novel-length fic just of Crowley fighting his battles with Warlock. Written like this? It would be a blast. (...) The OCs are believably characterized and well-loved by the story. (...) Everyone seems to need a friend in this house. (...) This was so fun, and at the same time, their mission has weight here (...) We wonder about what the future holds even though we know it.

Here Quiet Find △ 11K This fic aimed for my head and the aim was sure precise. It was a story of Crowley sensing Aziraphale's distress and finding him in a self-quarantined English village in the seventeenth century, tired and anxious. It's hurt/comfort, so there was washing and bedsharing and I had to love it, so I did.

outside of time △ 2K Post-Almostgeddon, (...) nicely-written, short, but strung with a soft kind of tension and unspoken words. There's no drama, just "can we really", and "do you really" of sudden freedom. They fall into being inseparable. Book canon, which I like for this story (sitting on a tarmac). I liked the footnotes. There's a mention of Eliot. All in all, very much yes.

She'asani Yisrael △ 2K It’s Crowley going through a two-hour service and drinking blessed wine. He also keeps an eye on a boy he was asked to. It’s 1946. It was pretty good, so far the best Jewish GO fic, I think, from the ones I’ve read.

To Guard The Eastern Gate △ 11K  I loved it. You really made Sodom feel lived-in; the description of Keret, Hurriya and Yassib's house and relationship were great. I got attached to both them and the city (...) Aziraphale and Crawley’s interactions were generally very entertaining. I laughed (...) Your rendering of their voices just lands so well (...) But then oh, the entire ending (...) hurt, hurt a lot, and your descriptions are so vivid.

If you’ve been waiting (for falling in love) △ 14K AAAAA a good ending line. The whole paragraph, in fact. I love a good smattering of philosophy in my fics, and this was really nice. I can get behind Thomas Aequinus's and Crowley's view on eternity. It's (...) a pretty simple fic (...) - the courage to express yourself and take a risk is awarded with winning what was at stake by the virtue of reciprocity - but the way it was intertwined with a study of how they would experience a forever was done well. 

Holy unnecessary ▲ 2.2K It's well-written. (...) this is my type of sexual humour if I have any. So subtle. Blink and you'll miss it. Lovely.

The Parting Glass △ 17K Through the ages, they're dancing around their relationship until after the Armageddoff. (...) Wow, this was really, really nice. Very simple in its concept and nothing I haven't read before, but very well-executed. (...) AAAAH I LOVED the first chapter. I always like abbeys as settings, that's a given, but the banter, the good writing, the moral ambiguity!

Name The Sky △ 33K This Crowley is different, but very intriguing. Without his sarcastic talk, and much more animalistic. (...) I love how expressive Crowley is. (...) This fic has a very nice balance of drama and levity. I don't love Crowley-before-the-Fall stories very much, but with this execution I can read about it. (...) Okay I've read Crowley offering fruits, and even Aziraphale biting fruits, but the two of them sharing the apple? Outstanding. Ingenious. What a take.

A Flame in Your Heart △ 5K post-Blitz (why are so many dance fics post-Blitz?), they go to the bookshop and have an actually believable conversation. Then they dance the gavotte. It was really nice! Believable writing, emotions, the dancing! (...) Of course it's too early for them, (...) but the author's note? yeah.

Put down the apple, Adam, and come away with me ▲ 32K At this point it's just reading original stories with characters with names and some personality traits that I recognize. (...) I really enjoy this, the careful dance, the opposition between their views. (...) This is well-written, wow. (...) it's not an easy read (...) this story feels very believably 50s, but also reaches out to the present time. 

Liebestraum ▲ 10K/? It really is like music. I'm enjoying the writing a lot. (...) oh my actual god. This, this? Wow, uh. This came for my throat. (...) THE MUSICAL COMPOSITION, THE MOTIF RETURNING, THE AUTHOR KNOWS WHERE IT'S AT (...) Excellent. This hits the right beats so precisely, (...) and with feeling, too.

Down Comforter △ 2.4K and they lay down in angeldown, a soft rug ‘neath their heads– alright. Well, Crowley lies under Aziraphale's wing on a Persian rug after the Apocalypse, and they talk (...). It was sweet.

The Corsair of Carcosa △ 5K Crowley wakes up from a nap, visits Aziraphale for some drinking, and they read The King in Yellow that he happens to own. Good writing, so I'm bought. Aziraphale mentions Beardsley, so I'm bought twice over. My god, a discussion of etheral/occult madness? Caused by some wrong/true reading? Yes.

Very Good, Omens! △ 6K It's rather well-written, well-pastiched. People don't do that too often, nowadays - try to write in the style of a particular writer. (...) I love wordplay like this.

Reviving Robin Hood: The Complicated Process of Crème Brûlée △ 30K it's well-written (...), has a rhythm to it, and quiet humour. (...) Finally some nice, good, light writing. The attention to detail! (...) I'm still reading most of it aloud, the rhythm of it compels me to. (...) okay this does sound like Pratchett&Gaiman, the Good Omens itself (...) The fic is meandering, hilarious, sensitive in all the right places, and overall lovely.

my dear acquaintance △ 1K Oh. Oh. Yes, yes! Aziraphale in Russia, Russia I've never been in, but I can feel the snow and the evening of. Very real, and the bar, too. Attention to detail - vodka flavoured with dill, what on earth? Yes. He would totally have a distinct taste in operas and he would totally complain about a subpar one. I'm glad Tchaikovsky's there.

there is a crack in everything △ 1.8K This was good! Ah. Inspired by a comment (...), I went looking for Mr. Harrison and Mr. Cortese fics—really, what a big brain moment someone had and why have I never thought to look for them? This is Crowley getting suddenly anxious and Aziraphale going out of his way, through all his layers of not-thinking and denial, to console him. I also really liked how the Arrangement is a carefully unacknowledged partnership-marriage.

Scales And Gold And Wings And Scars △ 6K  No conflict, no plot, one tiny arc like a ripple on the surface of water on a calm sunny day - of Aziraphale discovering Crowley’s scars. It's the South Downs and it's early summer. They bask and swim in a spring. Non-sexual nudity, love in the air like a scent. Nice.

Nineteen Footnotes In Search Of A Story △ 0.4K This is a Good Omens story told only through footnotes. Your mind can fill in the gaps. Fascinating (...). Also, it’s an experiment so apt for this particular fandom.

Hell on Earth △ 6.5K Oh, I loved it! How could I not love it: it's Beelzebub-centric, it's historical, it has classical painting, and even a hilarious scene with a cuneiform phrase, as if I didn't enjoy this story enough already. There are so few Beelzebub fics out there and I find searching for them very difficult (I accept recs if anyone has any), and it's such a shame, so this was really like a gift to the fandom. I absolutely adore the way you portrayed them, small, frightening, powerful, and confident. Also, it was super fun to see how different Crowley seems when we're not in his POV or in a story about him and Aziraphale. (...)

Go Up to Ramoth-Gilead and Triumph △ 24K Daegaer is... pure class. (...) hdhdhdh what pfttt why you so funny (...) I love this Crowley. (...) This got unexpectedly intense. (...) I love the little nods to the fact that Israelites, especially the poorer ones, still believe in other gods. I also really like that they sleep on roofs. It's just the kind of detail that grounds the story and shows that the author is, in fact, a historian. 

[gallavictorious]

Gallavich Week Day 2: Fantasy AU

Summary: Prince Ian is offered up as a sacrifice to appease one of the dragons that haunt his father’s kingdom. Rather than being burned alive or eaten he is inexplicably left to wander the dragon’s lair in peace, as long as he never tries to leave and never enters the mysterious tower chamber. Then he meets fellow prisoner Mikhailo and starts to wonder if maybe this whole sacrificial gig isn’t such a bad deal after all.

Or, Ian Gallagher tells a bedtime story, and Mickey Milkovich is himself.

Fair Warning 1: There’s some Mickey-typical homophobic language in this one.

Fair Warning 2: I wrote all ridiculous 5K of this today (work? what work?) and it’s a little bit of a curious mess. Like, the sort of curious mess you get if you take Lip’s Hall of Shame, @gardenerian’s lovely bedtime stories, the novel “Dealing with Dragons” by Patricia Wrede, the Swedish picture book “Bröllop i Marsipanien” by Lena Karlin, the Greek myth of Andromeda, a bunch of folk tales about shapeshifting lovers, and the questionable old practice of MSTing fics, and then you stuff them all into a Kee and shake her around for a bit and then you pour it out into the shape of a 12 hour long and highly inadvisable speedwriting session.

Read it at your own risk, below or on AO3.

Very Important Note: I make fun of fic writing in this fic. Please note that I’m only making fun of myself and general tropes; any and all allusions to actual fic in the fandom is entirely coincidental.

---

Lest They Say, Here Be Dragons

Hush now, child; settle down. Close your eyes – yes, just like that – and listen:

Once upon a time and elsewhere, there was a kingdom. The people there were no happier than people anywhere else, and poorer than most, but they made do and lived and danced and grieved and died as people have always done.

Jesus, that’s gay.

That is, until the dragons came.

Okay, now you’re talking.

Like a plague they swept the land, winged beasts with fire for breath and ice in their hearts. Every night the fields burned, and the villages burned, and the cattle burned and was eaten. Many a brave people took up arms and went to confront the monsters, and then they burned too.

Heart-broken and terrified, the people went to the king to plead for aid. “Send an emissary to the dragons,” they said. “Reason with them and strike a bargain, or else we are sure to perish.”

What a bunch of pussies. What they should do is, they should use a bunch a cow shit to build a bomb and nuke the hell out of those dragons. Problem fucking solved.

Now, this king was a scoundrel and a drunk and the queen had an unfortunate habit of turning herself into a bird and flying off to more interesting lands whenever the mood took her. They had six children but rarely paid them any mind and fair Princess Fiona, eldest of the six, was left to raise her younger siblings as best she could. False King Francis would have been perfectly content to turn his desperate subjects away if it weren’t for the fact the dragons unchecked rampage threatened the production of the spirits the king so enjoyed. So, donning a mask of compassionate concern, for he was a skilled liar, he promised the people that he would help them. But as soon as they had left, comforted, he turned the task over to his children.

The second oldest child, foxy Prince Philip—

Foxy Prince Philip?

Yeah, you know. Foxy. Like clever.

Why not just say clever then?

‘Cause it’s not alliterative.

Alliter—

Starts with the same sound. Foxy – Philip. Fair – Fiona.

Oh, I get it. Like, Ian – idiot. Ow!

Foxy Prince Philip was known far and wide for being the cleverest in all the land, and by using all his cunning he managed to strike a deal with the leader of the dragons.

“By using all his cunning.” Skimming over the details a bit there, huh?

You really want me to turn this into a Prince Philip story? Hear me go on and on about what a genius he is?

…

Yeah, that’s what I thought.

It was agreed that the dragons would spread out over the kingdom, each one building their own place to live near a village, and that the villagers would bring them food and drink. In turn, the dragons would refrain from casual pyromancy and protect the villagers from harm.

Protection racket, huh. Classic. Starting to like these dragons, man.

In addition, the cruel leader of the dragons demanded that each dragon be offered a child of the land in sacrifice. No matter how Prince Philip bargained he could not change the dragon’s cold heart on this—

Guess he wasn’t so clever after all.

—and so, with heavy hearts and much lamenting, each village drew lots to determine which poor child would be sent as an offering to their new resident dragon. However, in the village nearest to the castle the people grew angry when the beloved blacksmith’s only child, a small girl of just four, was selected, and they went to the king and they said:

“It isn’t fair that some people are asked to give up their only child to appease the dragons while you, who have six children, are exempt from the lottery.”

King Francis, fearing an uprising as much as he feared the dragons (since each was as likely as the other to leave him without a drink), quickly nodded.

“That’s true,” he said. “And fairness must ever be the true monarchs first and most important concern. Though it breaks my heart, I can’t in good conscience watch my people sacrifice their own children without offering up my own. You may take Prince Ian and give him to the dragon.”

At this, the other princes and princesses raised their voices in furious protest, for they loved their brother even if their father did not. But industrious Prince Ian—

Industrious? That really the best you can come up with?

—stepped forward and declared that he’d be happy to give up his life, so that the child of the blacksmith might be spared. And so, as the sunt set, he was taken away to the lair of the dragon that had made its home near the castle.

So let me get this straight… The king is happy to toss Prince Ian to the wolves ‘cause he hates him, and his siblings are all sad and shit but they still let him go off to get fucking eaten by dragons?

Yes.

Uh-huh.

What?

…

Oh, fuck you. It’s just a story.

Totally.

Stepping into the lair, with heart a-hammering but on stubbornly steady legs, Prince Ian set eyes upon the beast that was to be his destiny. He was momentarily relieved to see it was not the terrible leader of the dragons, as he had feared, but a smaller monster he did not recognize. Black was its hide, its eyes a cold sparkling blue—

Gallagher, I swear to god, if you turn me into some lame ass henchman dragon—

Keep interrupting, asshole, and it’ll be a pink fucking unicorn. And hang on, you’ll show up in a little bit.

Setting his jaw, Prince Ian prepared to die a heroic death—

‘Course he did, the stupid motherfucker. Hey, if Prince Philip was so fucking smart, and if he gave a shit about his brother, shouldn’t he have given him, I dunno, a knife or something?

Prince Ian prepared to die a heroic death, because unlike some other people he was not a selfish prick and he actually cared about the people of the kingdom, but much to his surprise the dragon did not burn him. Instead, it just stared at him for a good long while, until suddenly it declared:

“You must never leave the lair, and you must never set foot inside the tower chamber. Abide by these rules and you may live. Break these rules and I’ll rip your heart out and eat it while you watch, and then I’ll burn the castle down with your beloved siblings inside.”   

You tell him, dragon.

With that the dragon took flight and disappeared, leaving Prince Ian to stand alone in the great hall of the lair, confused but alive. The young prince remained where he was for a few minutes, thinking that the dragon might come back, but when it did not he set out to explore his new home. It was big, with endless rooms and nooks and crannies, but it was badly kept, with strange bits and pieces cluttering up the hallways and chambers. Prince Ian found some old blankets and he used those to set up a pallet in one of the nicer rooms, one that had a view over a small, overgrown garden. And then, because it was very late and he was not dead, he went to sleep.

The next day he continued his explorations and managed to find the kitchen. It was full with the meat that the villagers brought the dragon once a month, and remembering that the beast had only forbidden him from leaving the lair and going into the tower chamber, Prince Ian helped himself to a piece of pork that he cooked over a small fire.

Hang on, was there a fridge in the kitchen?

No. This was the olden days.

But the villagers came once a month with the meat? How did the dragon keep from rotting?

That’s not really—

Was it dried? Like a Slim Jim?

… sure. It was dried.

As he was eating, Prince Ian heard a sudden scraping noise behind him.

The hell did he cook it over a fire for then, if it was dried?

He looked up and spied another young man standing in the doorway.

I’m just saying, it doesn’t make any fucking sense, man. Wait, is this me?

Prince Ian frowned. “Who are you?” he asked. “Are you a prisoner of the dragon too?”

The boy shrugged. “Uh, yeah. I guess. I mean, I do some work around here. Clean up and shit, in exchange for not getting eaten. Name’s Mikhailo.”

About fucking time. Only, how is it fair that you get to be prince and I’m a fucking cleaner?

Prince Ian tactfully did not mention how the lair was impressively dirty for a place with a fulltime cleaner but invited Mikhailo to share his meal. As they ate, Prince Ian studied his new acquaintance. He was the same age as but shorter than the prince, with skin as white as snow, lips as red as blood, and hair as black as ebony.

Hair as black as— The hell was that?

Nothing.

Yeah, okay, then why are you smiling? Eh, fuck you. Prince Ian’s fucking thirsty for Mikhailo, I get it.

Though his manner was somewhat brusque and uncouth, Prince Ian could not help but feel himself drawn to Mikhailo. The boy was funny and easy to talk to, even if he seemed reluctant to say too much about himself or where he came from. Prince Ian tried asking him about the dragon, but despite apparently having lived there ever since the dragon moved in, Mikhailo couldn’t tell him much.

“Hardly ever even see it, man. At dusk and dawn mostly, so I guess it spends the night flying around with the other dragons, terrorizing the peasants or whatever. During the day it holes up in the tower chamber. Guess dragons must sleep too, huh? Don’t fucking go up there,” he added sternly. “It ain’t fucking kidding about killing you if you do.”

Having found a friend, Prince Ian found that life at the dragon’s lair wasn’t all that bad. He missed his siblings and being outdoors and practicing with the soldiers at the castle, and he resented the loss of his freedom, but he enjoyed the peace and quiet, and enjoyed spending time with Mikhailo. However, one thing he soon grew very tired of was eating nothing but meat. The dragon didn’t seem to require anything else, for it was the only thing the villagers ever delivered, and Mikhailo – whose tasks included receiving the monthly tribute – just gave Prince Ian a weird look when Ian suggested he ask the people to bring some vegetables next month.

“That ain’t the deal they’ve got with the dragon,” he told Ian. “Ain’t nobody gonna listen to me if I go trying to change it.”

Yeah, real Prince Charming there, wanting Mikhailo to risk his life so Ian can stuff his face with fucking cucumber.

Undeterred by Mikhailo’s lack of enthusiasm and courage—

Fuck you.

—Prince Ian decided to take it up with the dragon himself. In the weeks since he arrived at the lair, he hadn’t met the creature again, not even once; he’d just heard the powerful swoosh of its wings when it came and went at dusk and dawn. Now he went up the stairs to the tower chamber and there he waited until night had fallen and he noted the scraping of claws against stone inside the room. Then he knocked at the door.

There was a long silence. Then the door slammed open with enough force to nearly undo it from its hinges.

“What are you doing here?!” the dragon roared, terrible in its fury. “I’ve told you to never come here!”

“You’ve told me to never set foot inside the room,” Ian reasoned, fighting to keep his voice calm. “And I’m not. I just wanted to ask if I may have the use of the small garden just outside the lair. I miss being outdoors and I could grow vegetables for Mikhailo and me.”

Jesus Christ, man, again with gardening? Thought you were over it.

“You may never leave the lair,” the dragon, a garden-hating meanie, snarled, and then he closed the door in Prince Ian’s face.

As he fucking should.

“Probably worried one of the villagers will spot you and, I dunno, mount a rescue,” Mikhailo said shortly the next morning when Prince Ian told him of his failed attempt. “Anyway, you’re a fucking idiot for going up there like that. You get it won’t hesitate to kill you, right?”

“Right,” Ian agreed. “But,” he added with a frown, “why hasn’t it yet?”

“You fucking complaining?” Mikhailo snapped, and then he stalked away, and Ian didn’t see him again for three days.

Listen, you get that I get that Mikhailo is the dragon, right? You’re not fooling anyone, Gallagher.

Then, one day, fed up with the dragon being a really annoying prick, Prince Ian grabbed a huge sword he conveniently found lying around in a cupboard, because the lair was a fucking pigsty, suitable for a pig like the dragon, and he went up the stairs and kicked in the door and he cut the dragon’s throat while it slept, and then he went off and found himself a nice prince to marry.

…

…

That’s not how the story ends.

…

Hey, where are you going? Come back- Jesus, I’m sorry, okay? Gallagher, I’m sorry. Just come back here. Tell me what really happened.

Prince Ian woke with a start on his pallet in the lair. He’d had the most vivid dream about killing the dragon—

A dream? That’s the lamest fucking— Ah, fuck. Sorry.

—but for some reason it hadn’t felt as satisfying as he had thought it would. For all that Prince Ian often fantasized about strangling the beast, it seemed he didn’t actually wish to see it dead. With that disconcerting realization in mind, Prince Ian went to break his fast, resigned to doing so on meat and yet more meat. But in the kitchen he found Mikhailo, and on the table in front of him was a pile of cabbage and carrots and onions. 

“Guess the dragon must have talked to the villagers after all,” Mikhailo muttered, refusing to look at the prince. “And, uh, there was this thing I wanted to show you.”

Without waiting for a response, he spun around on his heel and walked out the door. Curious, Prince Ian followed, through doors and up and down stairs he never knew existed. Eventually, he found himself standing in what appeared to be an inner courtyard. It was small and the walls surrounding it very high, but up above the sky was blue. Prince Ian turned his face towards it and for the first time since he came to live at the dragon’s lair he felt sunlight on his face.

“It’s a shithole,” Mikhailo said. For some reason he sounded a little nervous. “But if you wanna go outside, you can come here. And there’s dirt in those bins, so I guess you could grow stuff in them? Just gotta wear this hat. Anyone sees you, they’ll just think it’s me.”

Privately, Prince Ian wondered who’d ever be able to see him behind walls that high, but he wasn’t going to argue. Wearing an ugly had was a small price to pay for being able to go outside, and to have a garden.

He gave Mikhailo a small smile; Mikhailo smiled back.

“Mikhailo smiled back.” Yeah, you bet he was laughing his ass off, ‘cause he thought Prince Ian was a huge fucking dork.

Things were good for a long while after that. Prince Ian spent his days in the garden and in Mikhailo’s company, and though he still resented being locked away from the world it was easy to ignore that when he had something to do and when his plants started to grow and when he was with Mikhailo. The two young men became closer and closer with each passing week, and soon it seemed to Prince Ian as if they had always known each other. He could no longer imagine a life without his friend.

He suspected that Mikhailo felt the same. It was there in the way he laughed at Prince Ian’s jokes; the way he sought him out to do nothing but talk; the way his gaze sometimes lingered on the prince, the look in his eyes unreadable.

Prince Ian suspected that Mikhailo too wondered what it would be like to press their lips together and hold each other tight. Sleep together; map every inch of each other’s bodies.

Hang on a minute, you’re telling me they haven’t fucked yet? The hell they’ve been doing?

I told you. Hanging out. Talking. Laughing.

Jesus Christ, that’s so fucking gay.

Two men not fucking each other is gay? Yeah, that makes a lot of sense. One day we really need to talk about all your internalized homophobia.

My interna-what? Ah, shut the fuck up. Continue with the story. All these interruptions ain’t doing much for the flow, you know.

Really? I hadn’t noticed.

Prince Ian became determined to find out if Mikhailo felt the same way as he did. He realized that he needed to be careful, however, and not push too hard, lest he spook the other boy. Even though he was almost sure he could see longing in Mikhailo’s eyes, there seemed to be some invisible hand holding him back. Every time Prince Ian was convinced they were finally getting somewhere, Mikhailo would suddenly pull back, as if stung.

Or as if remembering something. Himself, maybe.

Bu then came a cold, clear autumn day almost exactly one year after Prince Ian had been taken to the dragon’s lair.

Whoa, wait, now you’re telling me they’ve been hanging out for one fucking year and they still haven’t banged?

What can I say? Mikhailo’s a pussy.

Whatever. This story is unrealistic as fuck.

Prince Ian and Mikhailo had spent the afternoon together in the garden, as they almost always did whenever Mikhailo wasn’t busy with any of his mysterious chores (which he still refused to tell Prince Ian much about, but which sometimes took him away from the lair for days at a time). Once it started getting dark they went inside and dined on chicken and potatoes from Prince Ian’s patch, and as so often happened they started bickering and play fighting.

If that’s something that happens a lot you might have mentioned it earlier. Established it or whatever. Those mysterious chores too. What’s that all about?

Oh, my bad. Maybe I should start over? Once upon and time—

Nah, man, you’re good. Just a suggestion for next time.

Thank you.

You’re welcome.

They were chasing each other around the kitchen when Mikhailo tripped over the muddy shoes he’d lazily left there the night before and fell to the floor.

You know these meaningful little comments ain’t actually clever, right? They don’t actually add anything to the story.

I like them.

Prince Ian, ever chivalrous, grabbed hold of his friend’s arm to break his fall, but ended up going down with him instead, pinning Mikhailo to the floor with his big, strong body.

Fucking finally.

Their eyes met and Prince Ian felt his heart starting to beat faster. He could see a faint blush spreading over Mikhailo’s face. Neither of them spoke; neither of them moved. Then, slowly, slowly, Prince Ian leaned in to brush his lips over Mikhailo’s. Mikhailo lifted his head to meet him in a kiss to end all other kisses, a kiss to inspire a thousand love songs.

Uh-huh, and then…

And then they went to Prince Ian’s room and had sex all night long. But when Prince Ian woke the next morning—

Wait, wait, what? That’s it? “They had sex all night long.” How about some fucking detail, man?

Fine.

After having great sex using lots of good lube all night long, Prince Ian woke up alone in his bed.

I hate you.

He went in search of Mikhailo but couldn’t find his friend anywhere. He looked in the garden and in the kitchen and he went to the sad little cellar chamber Mikhailo called his room even though Prince Ian had never actually seen him sleep there.

Because he’s the dragon and sleeps in the tower chamber. Great hint, Gallagher. Real subtle.

Fuck off.

A week passed and Prince Ian was starting to suspect that Mikhailo was gone for good this time. Perhaps the dragon had found out about their tryst and had sent him away? Or maybe Mikhailo was disgusted with what had happened and wanted nothing more to do with the prince? Prince Ian wondered and worried and feared, and when finally Mikhailo returned, stepping into the kitchen like nothing had happened, Prince Ian was so exhausted with terror and regret that his relief immediately transformed into fury.

He yelled at Mikhailo, called him names and demanded to know where he’d been. He named him a coward and—

…

Hey, what’s the matter? You okay?

Yeah. Yeah, man, I’m fine.

You don’t look— Listen, Prince Ian’s just being an asshole, okay? He saying a bunch of stupid shit ‘cause he’s sick and tired of not knowing if he means as much to Mikhailo as Mickhailo means to him. He doesn’t mean it.

…

Mick?

I mean… He probably means it a little. He’s not wrong.

No, he’s— Fine. He means it a little right then. But he is wrong, okay? He doesn’t really understand what’s going on with Mikhailo, but he’ll get it later. He’ll know he wasn’t being really fair.

… yeah?

Yeah. Okay?

Okay.

Great. Maybe we should speed this bit up a little—

Once Prince Ian had finished shouting, Mikhailo just stared at him for a long moment.

“You have no fucking idea what you’re talking about,” he spat, and then he spun around and disappeared through the door.

Prince Ian was immediately overcome with regret, yet he was still too angry and hurt and stubborn to run after the other. He went about his day in a very foul mood and when he went to bed that night Mikhailo was still gone. Prince Ian slept fitfully and in the middle of the night he woke to a loud crash, soon followed by several more. He realized it must have come form the tower chamber and after a moment of hesitation he grabbed his nightgown and rushed up the stairs.

So, he brought a nightgown with him when he thought the dragon was going to kill him?

Of course not. He found it in one of the rooms.

Yeah, okay, but why are there so many rooms in this fucking lair anyway? What’s with all the old stuff there? Didn’t the dragon build the place to live in like right before Prince Ian was sent there?

Mickey. It’s getting late and I’d really love to wrap this up and go to bed. It doesn’t really matter about the rooms. Can I just continue with the story?

Whatever, man. Just thought you should know there’s a bunch of plot holes in your little fairy tale.

 Once he reached the door to the forbidden room, the crashing noises had stopped. Instead, Prince Ian heard whimpers and moaning, as if from someone in great pain. It could only be the dragon – something must be wrong with it.

Yeah, ya think, Sherlock?

Prince Ian knocked on the door. There was no reply, other than more whimpers and moans. Steeling himself, he tried the handle. The door was unlocked.

That’s awfully convenient.

Stepping inside, Prince Ian found the dragon on the floor. It was clearly hurt, for there was dark blood pooling underneath it. As Prince Ian entered, the great beast lifted its head but said nothing and made no move to attack him. It seemed it was too badly hurt to pose any threat.

It occurred to Prince Ian that he could kill the dragon. He could go down to the kitchen and fetch the biggest knife there and then he’d be free and he could go back to the castle and his siblings and—

The dragon made a low, pained sound and let its head fall back to the floor, closing its eyes.

Prince Ian went down the stairs, but he didn’t fetch a knife, he fetched bandages instead. Though part of him cursed himself for a fool, he knew he couldn’t bring himself to kill the dragon, monster or not, and couldn’t bring himself to let it bleed to death either.

That’s a huge fucking mistake. Maybe the dragon never hurt him but it still kept him imprisoned. Prince Ian should be getting the hell out of there when he has the chance.

Hmm, yeah. Choosing to be locked up just to be the person you love does sound like a pretty insane thing to do.

Oh, fuck off. That’s totally different.

Sure, Mick.

By the time Prince Ian returned to the tower the dragon had lost consciousness. The prince set to cleaning and bandaging his wounds, having learned the art of it while training with a medical witch who lived at the castle. It took a great long while; the dragon was large and heavy and the cuts in its side long, if shallow. But Prince Ian was nothing if not determined and eventually he had the beast wrapped up.

As Ian moved to rise, the dragon stirred.

“The hell are you doing?” it muttered, blinking up at Ian. Then it spotted the bandages, and the ice blue eyes widened. “What the— Are you fucking insane? This is a... is a… real bad fucking idea… ”

It sounded… strange, and not just from the pain and blood loss, Prince Ian thought. Sounded not just slurred but softer somehow, in spite of the uncharacteristic cursing; sounded almost familiar; sounded like—

“Mikhailo,” Prince Ian whispered.

Ooooh, big surprise! I’m so shocked right now!

You know there are other uses for plot twists than to shock the reader, right? Or actually, I guess you don’t know, but if you picked up a book once in a while—

Yeah, yeah, whatever. What happened after this great and totally unexpected reveal?

The dragon lost consciousness again so Prince Ian went to bed and slept soundly and when he woke the next day he spotted Mikhailo leaning against the wall of his room, looking tired ad unhappy. He was even paler than usually and there was a stiffness to his posture that suggested quite a bit of pain, but other than that he seemed well enough.

“So,” Prince Ian said, trying for casualness as he sat up on his pallet. “You’re a dragon.”

Mikhailo shrugged. “Seems like it.”

“But only by night.”

“Yeah… We turn when the sun sets, and turn back again when it rises.”

“I didn’t know that about dragons.”

“No one around here fucking does. People realize how helpless we are during the day, they’d kill us in a heartbeat. My dad says— “

“Your dad?”

“The leader of the dragons. The really big, white one? This whole terror and extortion thing was his idea, once he realized that no one in this kingdom has a clue about dragons.”

“Oh.”

“He hates humans. Thinks they’re useless and weak. If he knew I kept you around instead of killing you, he’d have murdered us both.”

Jesus fucking Christ, laying it on a bit thick with the metaphysical shit there, don’t ya think?

You mean metaphorical?

I mean it’s fucking stupid, that’s what I mean.

Might be closer to allegory anyway.

Uh-huh. Nobody fucking cares, Shakespeare.

“So, anyway,” Mikhailo continued, “you should probably try to go as far away from here as possible. Find a ship and go across the sea or something.”

Prince Ian blinked. “What?”

“Yeah, man, you won’t be able to go back to your castle. No way to stay hidden there. I know this guy up in Dikno, he might—”

He fell silent as Prince Ian jumped up from the bed and crossed the space between them in two long strides, and then he gasped loudly as the prince’s lips found his.

It was another one to inspire love songs.

“You idiot,” Prince Ian said fondly when eventually they broke apart. “Of course I’m not going anywhere. Unless,” he added, suddenly shy, “you want me to.”

Mikhailo made a face. “No, you fucking moron, I don’t want you to go,” he finally said. “But my dad—”

“We’ll find a way to deal with him. We’ll figure out how to sort it out and set things right between humans and dragons. We’ll find a way, together. Okay?”

And Mikhailo the dragon looked at his prince for a long moment and then he smiled. “Okay.”

At his prince, huh. Surprised you got room for all those big words in your head when your ego’s taking up so much space. All right, then what happened?

They organized a rebellion against the leader of the dragons, I guess. I don’t really know. That’s another story.

What do you mean, another story? Is this it? You spend all that time setting it up but when you get to the good part with the fighting you just stop?

Yeah, it’s getting really late. Kid’s asleep anyway.

Kid’s been out cold since, like, before the dragons even showed up, man, don’t fucking pretend this story was for her. … you really not gonna continue?

Nah, I’ll continue. But for the next scene I figured we might try a little show, don’t tell…

Oh, really? What’s the next scene?

Make-up sex. Prince Ian fucking Mikhailo’s brains out. And hey, spoiler alert: Mikhailo comes four times.

Four times, huh.

Yeah. So… wanna know how it happens?

Okay.

Okay. It starts like this—

---

So, yeah. There we have it. The things we write for Gallavich Week… XD

I am halfway outraged that this is the longest fic I’ve ever written for Gallavich, but I’m rather pleased I managed to write something for this theme! Guess I’ll go to bed both proud and embarrassed and dead tired tonight. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Where I am, we’re half an hour past midnight, but seeing as it’s still Monday somewhere, I have decided that I’m posting on time. Yay me! @gallavichthings

[tchallasbabymama]

Potential Breakup Fic

Yes, this is inspired by the re-release of the classic “Potential Breakup Song” by legends Aly & AJ. Check out the rest of my Masterlist HERE. Enjoy!

Word count: 2223

CW: Niggas aint shit. Kiana sat on her couch and tried not to cry into her glass of merlot. She took off her heels and got up to unzip her dress and take off her bra since she knew she wouldn’t be going anywhere tonight. She checked her phone again and was met with an empty screen. No notifications, no missed calls. She threw her phone down in anger, and was thankful when she noticed the screen didn’t crack.

“I can't believe this nigga.”

She looked at the clock and shook her head. It was 12:07am, and her 25th birthday was officially over without so much as a word from her boyfriend. Just last night he had told her to be ready by 7, and she hadn't heard from him since.

They had been together, on and off, for three years. They met their junior year at Howard, but didn’t hit it off right away. He was too slick for her liking, but over time he eventually weaseled his way into her heart. His smile lit up the whole room and his big brown eyes could seduce anyone just like that. And he did, constantly. T’Challa was a huge flirt, and it was cute when they were still single and just getting to know each other, but even now T’Challa turns his charm on for every pretty face he sees. Kiana had brought it up to him many times, letting him know how disrespected she felt. He would always say the same thing.

“But entle, I’m just being nice. You know I only have eyes for you.”

She did know that once, but that ended about a year and a half ago when she was casually scrolling through twitter on his phone and caught him cheating.

“T’Challa!”

“Yes, my love?”

“What the fuck is this?!”

“Why are you on my phone?!”

“Don't fucking raise your voice at me, I’m not in the wrong here. I saw a funny tweet and started scrolling when YOU got a text from some bitch named Jasmine talking bout ‘I miss you daddy’ and sending you pictures of her pussy. Care to explain?”

He reached for the phone and she pulled it away from him.

“Nah-uh, talk.”

He sighed in exasperation. 

“If you give me the phone I can explain, sithan-”

“Don’t you fucking ‘sweetheart’ me, answer the goddamn question. How long, T’Challa?!”

“Just once. Eh, one and a half maybe-”

He was interrupted by a throw pillow to the head.

“How the fuck do you halfway cheat nigga?!”

“She just gave me head the first ti-”

“That’s still cheating!”

“Will you lower your voice? You have neighbors.”

“Fuck! Them! Did you even use a condom?”

“Yes, Kiana I’m not-”

“Stupid? You’re not stupid?” Kiana laughed. “Get the fuck out of my apartment.”

“My love, I-”

“Oh now I’m your love? Where the fuck was that energy when you were balls deep in this other bitch?!”

T’Challa stood there dumbstruck. He had never seen Kiana get this angry and didn’t know what to say. He knew he was wrong when he did it, but seeing the tears streaming down her face made him truly regret what he’d done. She had been so busy with school and work that she barely had time for him anymore. He had needs and just so happened to stumble upon someone more than willing to fulfil them. 

He cursed himself for not locking his phone or at the very least, turning it over. 

“How many, T’Challa...” Kiana sniffled.

“I told you, it was only twice-”

“How many women?!”

He froze, not knowing if he should mention Lisa since that was so much earlier in their relationship.

“Oh my god...oh my god...oh my- are you fucking serious?! I-I have to...I have to go get tested, I-”

“Kia-”

“What?!”

She looked at him with such fierceness that he shrunk under her gaze.

“I-I am sorry, I didn’t do it to hurt you, I was-”

He was stopped by a heavy-handed slap across his cheek that nearly knocked him over.

“Get the fuck out.” She said, barely above a whisper.

Six months later they ran into each other in the grocery store and decided to catch up over a cup of coffee. Kiana had healed and moved on, but T’Challa was still stuck on her. They had spent almost two good years together before he ruined what they had, and he just couldn’t let it go. He loved her, and he was determined to make it work this time.

Or so he really, truly thought before he met Marci...and Tanisha...

T’Challa knew he wasn’t a one-woman man, but he just couldn’t let Kiana go. His dalliances were never serious, just enough to scratch his constant itching. Sometimes they were a one-time thing, but others stuck around if they were good enough and knew how to be discreet. No matter what though, he always came back home to Kiana because despite his trash behavior, he really did love her in his own toxic way.

However, he didn’t love her enough to double check his calendar before leaving work on her birthday, or any day leading up to it. He had forgotten what day it was, and when he told Kiana to be ready at 7 he just meant for a regular date night. 

It had been a long day at the Wakandan Embassy and Kiana’s Prince Charming needed a drink more than anything. He stopped at the first bar he came across that looked halfway decent. T’Challa walked up to the bar and caught the eye of the beautiful barkeep.

“Hiya, what can I do for you?”

T’Challa smiled his panty-dropping smile and she smiled back, revealing her perfect, white teeth. There was nothing he loved more than a pretty smile.

“Well, miss…”

“Tanisha,” she responded while using both arms to mix a shaker full of liquid courage and ice. His eyes avoided her chest, slyly watching in the periphery only. 

“Well, Miss Tanisha, I had a horrible day at work and I am in need of a whiskey on the rocks. Preferably Jack, but truly anything will do.”

“We all have those days honey. Here’s a double on the house,” she said as she slid the drink to him across the bar top with a wink.

T’Challa licked his lips and lifted his glass to her before taking a sip of the warm amber liquid. He let out a sigh and his day seemed to melt away. 

Tanisha kept coming back to check on him and they would chat when the crowd died down. T’Challa was on his third double when she came over with a plate of wings.

“You’re an angel.” He dug into the wings and made a complete mess on his shirt, so he went to the bathroom to try to wash the stain out. On his way back to the bar he noticed a very tall and sweaty man leaning over the bar trying to talk to Tanisha. From what he could see, she wasn’t feeling the conversation, but he kept approaching her anyway. When T’Challa returned to his seat she immediately gravitated towards him. This angered Mr. Tall and Sweaty, who drunkenly attempted to punch T’Challa in the face. T’Challa dodged the lazy punch and knocked him out cold with one hit. Security saw the whole thing go down, and removed Tall and Sweaty from the building once he came to. 

“What you got planned for the night, handsome?”

“Nothing at all, why do you ask?”

“I get off at 9, wanna hang out?”

“Absolutely.”

“Good, now here’s a water.”

“Thank you, angel.”

By 10pm he was already halfway inside her, and when his phone started vibrating he was too wrapped up in her to think anything of it. Without looking he quieted the annoying sound and turned the phone off so he could focus on the task at hand.

Two and a half hours later, T’Challa was creeping out of Tanisha’s bed right as Kiana was sliding into hers. She had washed off all her makeup, but she didn’t have the emotional energy to tie up her hair. Normally she would wear one of T’Challa’s t-shirts, but she was too angry with him so she slept in a cute nighty she never wore. She admired herself in the mirror for half a second before bursting into tears and pulling the covers up to her head. She tried to stop crying, but the tears kept coming and she eventually gave herself a headache. How could he miss her birthday?

Kiana got up and threw on her plush maroon robe before she padded to the bathroom to grab some Advil. On the way she noticed her phone getting multiple notifications, the first of which was from her best friend Bebe.

“Have u seen this?! Sis, I’m so sorry. When we slashing his tires? Just 3 tho, this nigga needs to pay $$$.”

“What the fuck is she talking about?”

Kiana clicked the link and saw that it was Bebe’s cousin Darrell’s Instagram Story. Apparently there was a fight at the bar where he was celebrating a coworker’s promotion and he had filmed it for all of Instagram to see. Kayla stared at her phone in shock. There was her aint-shit boyfriend at a goddamn bar on her fucking birthday. She watched him punch a guy in the face on her birthday. At a bar. Without her.

She thought the kicker came when she saw him turn around and flirt with the bartender, but the story after that just about killed her. There he was, leading her out the back door with his hand too far down on her lower back to be simply platonic. Even the caption read “Ooooh someone’s about to get some ‘thank you’ pussy. That damsel in distress pussy hit different!”

Kiana saw red and almost cracked her phone for a second time tonight. 

She grabbed the remaining merlot and downed it before throwing the bottle at the picture of them on the fridge. She watched the glass shatter and cut their faces while the trace bit of deep red wine seeped down the picture like blood. She wanted to trash the whole place, but remembered she would have to clean it later. Kiana started to hyperventilate and felt like she needed to get some air when she heard the lock turn.

“Kiki, what are you doin- are you ok? What happened here?”

Kiana ignored him as she walked towards where she threw her phone, silently pulling up the story and handing it to him. She watched his face go from confused, to shocked, to fearful. No regret, though. 

“Ki-”

“Give me your key.”

“Kiana, please let me-”

“The key. Now,” she said with her voice completely devoid of any emotion.

T’Challa assumed she would be angry and yell or throw things, but this quiet storm terrified him. To him, it felt like she didn’t even care anymore. He was right.

He slowly reached his hand out and she snatched the key ring, removing hers and tossing the rest back to him.

“I’ll have your stuff packed by the morning. It’ll be outside my door by 8am. If it’s still there when I get back from work it’s going in the trash.”

T’Challa couldn’t bear the coldness in her voice. Tears rolled down his face and his knees buckled.

“Kiana, please. I can explain, I didn-”

“I don't give a fuck what you did or didnt do. You know why?”

“W-why?”

“Because it was my birthday, T’Challa. MY FUCKING BIRTHDAY and YOU forgot it. Not only did you forget it, my gift was you fucking some other bitch and leaving me lonely yet again. So no, I don't care if you fucked her or not even though I know your sorry ass did. I know she’s probably not the only one because I saw how easily you slid on in there in that video. You were way too comfortable, so I don't even want to ask you how many because it doesnt fucking matter anymore. Now you can stick your dick in every fine ass Black girl you see without remorse, oh wait...you were already doing that. So fuck you, get out my apartment before I call my brothers.”

“Kiana…”

“5, 4, 3,...” Kiana counted as she dialed her eldest brother Trey’s number, ignoring T'Challa's pathetic excuses. “2, 1… Hey Trey, I’m sorry did I wake you up?...Yeah I have a situat- oh look at that, his bitch ass is leaving-”

“I am sorry, Kiana,” T’Challa said one last time before she slammed the door in his face. He could hear her on the other side of the door explaining the situation to her brother, and when she started to cry it finally hit him. Her wails broke his spirit and more tears fell from his eyes. 

He knew Trey would be over soon to comfort his baby sister and he needed to get the hell out of dodge, so T’Challa left Kiana’s apartment and never came back. Not even for his things, which turned out to be the best thing for Kiana because she and her girls got to burn it all up in Trey’s backyard fire pit and finally release that toxic man from her life.

[juuls]

Podfics, podfics, podfics...

I'm looking to do some podfics of fics that have really hit me in strong (good) ways, and they're one of those I can't seem to track down in my usual manner (which is... probably on purpose, considering their received comments are set to be moderated and that they likely put up with a toooon of bullshit from people with Opinions.

(Keep reading to see which fics I'd love to podfic and why, and how you can help me find them!)

Also. Recs. Lots of really awesome fic recs, specifically for Tony-centric readers and those who really hit it off with Civil War Team Iron Man!

Does anyone know the Tumblr or Discord of: @TheSovereignofReality or @Wix from AO3?

Anyway, I'm a fan, and I just wanted to discuss maybe doing one podfic on a trial sorta thing, and then maybe doing a couple of my other major faves or a series of fics. As of my last major read-through of their fics, my favourite was definitely Mutantkind (this fic is so kickass, I love Logan). Not trying to spoil anything for any of this or the other fics, but taking up the chance at exploring the links between the X-Men and the Avengers (more Tony and even Pepper and Rhodey and such) was such a great move. A power move in so many ways, and I'm also really really eyeing the Transcendent Souls series that leads into the author's OC-linked series, Lennie Alice, and it all sounds like it's phenomenal and I just want to READ it, who cares about podficcing it??? I mean, I do, but most important of all: I'm just a fan who sees shiny fics all in a pretty series-row that I hadn't gotten around to yet (too busy reading Ramblings for the 10th time and wincing with each successive hit to the gut. Ouchies. But poor Tony too, woW. That one just hurts. In a cathartic way (even though I love Peggy, it's fascinating to explore these things!!)

Like Disney's "What If?" series if they weren't too scared to explore the really interesting things that make people tick and feel betrayed even decades later.

All of these authors, above and below, sure know how to throw those punches, and I like that.

I do have other podfic projects on the go, as well, yes, but spring is a great time for me and I get a lot of projects done pretty well on the regular. The Night King has been vanquished and the sun shines upon us again and offers me much Vitamin D and happy-stuff. :) :P

Doing a fic by @Wix would be awesome too, but I'm also not sure of their handle, unfortunately. Plus I've rarely spoken to them! Believe it or not, I can be shy. xD But there are so many of Wix's CW Team IM fics that I would just love to podfic and really sink my teeth into for the absolute wreckage and carnage that some of these characters would be feeling. Righteous anger, true anger, when you know you're right, when you just think you're right and the world crumbles down around you.... god I would love to really act those fics out and make people feel, just like we do and more when we're actually reading Wix's awesome body of work. It could be a real experience, and I would love to be able to help share that. All else fails, I'll just give these last two a message in their comments. ;)

And maybe @rayshippouuchiha might be interested in chatting with me about doing a (second) podfic of Hide a Heart of War? There can never be enough podfics of awesome Stuckony (or any ship, really), but I do also have my eyes on another few of yours that you don't have podficced, m'dear. :) I mean, Sore Must Be The Storm (wow, I relate to that title---and the fic itself---hard) would be really cool to do if the second chapter was up, (wing fics! CW Team IM! Woo!) Or the ever-so-classic "Assassination Attempts Are Not Flirting Toni" tag that epitomizes The Devouring of Hearts (which is hoestly epic and I am going to go re-read asap) or The (Not So) Great Pretender (it has a TextToSpeech podfic but those are hard for some people to follow along to --- I know my hearing issues mean I can't catch all of it, sadly, and none of it clearly! =/). Let's talk, if you're cool with me doing one of yours?? :) I would be so thrilled!

And @not-close-to-straight I cannot forget about you (ever) in this season of big eyes and planning out podfics all excited-like. Has anyone ever approached you about podficcing the entirety of your 3-part series Of Gods and Men that is ThunderIron, ThunderIron & FrostIron & Thorki, and then is PURE ThunderFrostIron with a super. special. twist. at the end omg???? Can we talk about that sometime? Whenever is good for you, if you're at all interested? Because there is NOT enough ThunderIron in the MCU, because I love Tony, because there is not enough FrostIron with Thor and Loki being awesome (usually), and then especially because there is NEVER enough poly ThunderFrostIron for my tastes and I just cannot when it comes to these fics. I just really would please love to podfic it, out of all your awesome fics this one just strikes right deep at the heart of me.

So. Um. Yeah.

This was going to be a quick "do you know this person!?!?! I'm desperate!" kind of Tumblr post, but it turned into me somewhat begging and complimenting at the same time, and it sounds totally shameless but I also haven't slept for about 48+ hours properly and I am in severe pain so the mania tends to be the Fourth Horseman of the Apocalypse with all that.

So. Yeah. Just let me know what you think, preferably via DM here or on Discord (Juulna#0508) or Ask or whatever. I'm happy however. And these are YOUR fics, I have zero claim to them whatsoever no matter how I may strongly relate to them or love them or think they should have their own awesome experience with me spitting angry lines back when required in response to pure sass. I would love to try/do it all. :) Spring and Summer is my podfic season, and I'm going to have a lot of fun with current and potential projects alike!

Ta, loves. And thank you for considering me for podficcing these awesome works! If you want a recent example of a fairly quick (and porny, hah) oneshot I did, I think you'd like what I did with @tsuki-chibi's The Shirt [fic]. Check the podfic out here, and then give the original author love because it is a DAMN FINE fic (and I want the shirt, hah).

[goodomensblog]

Afterward - Part 17

A Good Omens Choose Your Own Adventure Fic

Here’s how it works:

I’ll write a scene.

At the end of each scene, you’ll be presented with 2-3 options for what the characters will choose to do next.

Comment or reblog to vote for your choice. I’ll count all votes after the first 24 hours after each update is posted.

Read: part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5, part 6, part 7, part 8, part 9, part 10, part 11, part 12, part 13, part 14, part 15, part 16

(#2 definitely won - but #4 was a pretty close second, so we’re doing the classic punch and run!)

Afterward - - - Part 17

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Entropy, rising up, tilts its head and smiles a wide, infinitely deep grin. Pale, ephemeral tendrils squirm where the creature’s head and neck are rapidly reconnecting.

Gabriel has picked up the sword and is twisting it up.

Beelzebub, however, beats him to the punch. Literally.

“Mine,” is all Beelzebub manages, a low, rasping shout. Pushing roughly in front of the archangel, Beelzebub winds a bloodied fist back and strikes.

Their knuckles smack between its eyes - and with a wet sounding squelch, the head which hadn’t yet fully re-attached, flies off Entropy’s shoulders.

This time, however, Entropy seems to retain consciousness, and the head screeches in outrage as it careens across the room.

“Shoo, bitch,” Beelzebub spits.

“My angels,” the head shrieks, rolling across the floor. “Your master commands you! Attack!”

From the top of the courtyard, where tiled roofs curve above stone carved archways, movement draws Beelzebub’s gaze up.

Angels line the tile rooftop, their formidable white wings spread wide. In the place where the angels’ eyes should be, dark, sunken pools hauntingly stare.

From behind Beelzebub, Gabriel makes a low noise of distress.

Beelzebub scans the faces. There are none they readily recognize - Michael and Uriel, at least, are absent. But surely most of the dark eyed angels are - or were - under Gabriel’s command.

“No…” the archangel breathes.

Forcibly ignoring the pain they feel radiating off Gabriel in cold, nauseating waves, Beelzebub shakes their head and, squeezing their hands into fists, cracks their knuckles one by one.

“What are they?” Aziraphale asks, horror lacing his words.

The first angel steps from the rooftop. Where it lands, stone splinters around its feet. From its eyes, black ichor drips, trailing like tears down its pure, celestial skin. It takes a second step, and the floor cracks anew.

“That,” Crowley says, speaking up from the back, “looks like an angel on steroids. Bloody evil steroids.”

Another angel drops. Then another. Gray dust from pulverized stone rises in an ominous cloud.

“I - I have to-” Gabriel is muttering, and Beelzebub can feel him moving behind them, probably making up his mind to do something stupid.

“Yeah,” Beelzebub says, surveying the hoard of freaky angels. “Fuck this noise.”

Turning right the hell around, Beelzebub grabs Gabriel roughly by the arm. 

When he doesn’t move - like the absolute asshole he is - Beelzebub grits their teeth and yanks, violently hauling the lead-limbed archangel with them. When they look up and see that Aziraphale and Crowley are still standing there, waiting, they yell, “Oi! Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum! Fucking move!”

Crowley and Aziraphale retreat through the doorway, but go no further.

Beelzebub is panting, blood from a cut they didn’t even realize they had dripping into their eyes, and the room is tilting as a frankly annoying whine picks up in their ears - but this is no time to pass out, so Beelzebub doesn’t. 

At least Gabriel is finally moving; Beelzebub, all too happy to release him, shoves the archangel through the door. 

Upon crossing the threshold, Beelzebub is hastily elbowed out of the way by Crowley; Aziraphale, bracing a hand on the wall, traces glowing symbols on the floor.

“What’s-”

“That’s why we were waiting,” Crowley snaps.

Beelzebub reflects that if the room were spinning any less, they would have happily smacked that smug look off his face.

Instead, they crouch, bracing their hands on their knees.

Aziraphale straightens up with a satisfied nod. “That’ll do the trick.”

Then Crowley is swinging the door closed. Hand on the handle, he melts the lock. 

“If Aziraphale did what I think he did, we do not want to be here when they cross that threshold,” Crowley says.

“I did,” Aziraphale says with a grim smile.

Gabriel, who Beelzebub thinks is looking more like his usual insufferable self by the minute, claps his hands together. “Then let’s fucking go!”

“Right!” Crowley crows, pointing at Gabriel, “Your illicit sneaking out of Heaven door!”

Beelzebub and Aziraphale turn to look at Gabriel.

“Okay it’s really not as weird as he’s making it sound.”

 “It doesn’t matter-” Aziraphale says with a wave, but Beelzebub isn’t listening.

Blinking rapidly, they frown at the black dots blossoming across their vision. They immediately blink harder because they are not going to pass out; It is a fucking bad time for losing consciousness - and besides, they’d honestly rather die than look weak in front of these morons.

Crowley is turning, leading the way, and Beelzebub starts to step after him - when everything takes a sharp and sudden dip. 

And shit - Beelzebub thinks, consciousness slipping as a roaring white noise fills their ears. Blackness is spreading, sweeping across their vision.

They see outstretched, reaching hands - and then darkness swallows them whole.

Reality narrows to individual, isolated moments.

The press of fine, soft as silk fabric against their cheek.

A long hallway lit by a single flickering light.

Aziraphale, pale with purple bruises beneath his eyes, pulling a tapestry aside - pushing a doorway open.

Crowley’s hands cupped around that strange, blue flame.

Then white light - at the end of a long, dark tunnel.

Beelzebub stiffens, crying out in protest - because they know the saying about light and tunnels, and they straight up refuse to let that prick Death lay those frigid hands on them now.

This is followed by the soft, hesitant brush of fingers over their forehead and a whisper-soft murmur. “Don’t worry. It’s not that kind of tunnel.”

Again, darkness.

And then Crowley is exclaiming, shouting excitedly, and Beelzebub squints their eyes open to glaring sunlight - and a sleek black car, parked on what appears to be a random London street corner. 

When someone swings one of the rear doors open, Beelzebub has a sense of deja vu as they are laid down on black leather seats.

Voices drone, someone shifts beside them, and the car awakens with a reassuring purr; Beelzebub’s tired eyes close.

- - - 

Brushing his hands over the steering wheel, Crowley sits in the Bentley, taking a moment to enjoy the car’s energetic rumble. She doesn’t handle long periods of idleness very well. And though Crowley hasn’t been gone all that long, he imagines it must have been rather demoralizing to have been abandoned on a lonesome countryside road. He’ll have to make sure she’s still in working shape. 

“Just cause I gave you a little vacation,” Crowley says, tapping the dashboard admonishingly, “is no excuse for any slacking off, you understand?”

The car rumbles, and Crowley sighs, rolling his eyes. “See? I leave you for half a day and now I’m getting back talk.”

“Can we please just fucking go?” Gabriel snaps.

A glance in the rear-view mirror reveals the altogether unpleasant sight of Gabriel’s frowning face. 

The archangel is pressed up against the door, his large arms folded impractically in front of him. 

Beelzebub, in the few minutes after they’d been set down, had somehow completely rotated, and now they stretch out, arms flung out in either direction. Their booted feet are kicked up - one jabbing Gabriel’s side and the other shoved up against his face.

The archangel glowers.

From the passenger seat, Aziraphale clears his throat.

Crowley’s attention is immediately diverted.

Aziraphale is battered. Deep scratches scatter over the entirety of his person, and a bone deep exhaustion shows in his overall pallor and the bags like dark bruises gathering beneath his light eyes. 

Crowley has the impulse to stroke a thumb beneath that gentle gaze and burn a miracle to soothe some of the exhaustion marring his skin. 

He doesn’t.

Because he filled Aziraphale’s veins with demon blood, and Crowley isn’t entirely sure Aziraphale won’t come to resent him for it. 

The desperate transfusion had worked. Aziraphale is here. That is what matters. But the fact that the cost of this gamble - the cost of mixing that which was never meant to join - has yet to reveal itself, leaves Crowley deeply on edge. 

“Dear,” Aziraphale says, mercifully interrupting Crowley’s rapidly spiraling thoughts. “We fled the bookshop earlier because we believed we were dealing with a threat who knew us, personally. Entropy does not know us. And I presume that it does not know where I live.”

“...you want to go home, don’t you?”

“Yes I want to go home!” Aziraphale says in a rush, hands folded, his fingers twisting together. “It’s been a really long day.”

Crowley considers, drumming his fingers on the wheel. “I suppose we could ward the hell out of it.”

Aziraphale is eagerly nodding, “I already have a good few around the foundation as it is.”

“Is it defensible?” Gabriel asks.

“Better,” Aziraphale replies. “It’s hidden.”

“Though adding a few defenses wouldn’t hurt,” Crowley adds.

“As long as we get off the damned street,” Gabriel says with a weary sigh.

“That, we can do,” Crowley says, shifting the car into drive. 

“Wait!” Aziraphale says, grabbing Crowley’s arm. “First, we need food, Crowley.”

“....right this second?”

“As soon as possible. You do realize that we should avoid using powerful miracles at the moment, right?”

Crowley glances in the rear-view mirror, only somewhat mollified to see that Gabriel is also staring at Aziraphale with an expression of blatant confusion.

“Er - yes? I mean, we don’t want to go around putting beacons on our heads,” Crowley replies. “But what in the world does this have to do with food?”

Aziraphale is staring at him like he might be stupid - which he’s not. Right?

Crowley checks the rear-view mirror again.

Gabriel is squinting at Aziraphale. “Aziraphale. What are you talking about?”

Aziraphale looks between them, mouth agape.

From the backseat, Beelzebub groans. 

“Angel,” Beelzebub says, cracking an eye reluctantly open, “They’re both idiots. Don’t… strain their brains.”

Aziraphale glances back, relief evident. “You know what I’m talking about.��

“Of course I know what you’re talking about!” Beelzebub replies, and the other eye opens to a menacing slit. “Food strengthens your bloody corporation. You. Are. Living. In. It. So fucking feed it. The stronger your corporation is - the stronger you are.”

Aziraphale is nodding vigorously. “And we are all very injured. Beelzebub especially. A good meal will help kick start our angelic - and demonic - healing.”

“Ah,” is all Crowley manages.

“Honestly, dear. You really didn’t know that?”

Crowley, who will frankly never admit that he played hookie during the body orientation seminar to check out the strange angel he’d seen walking up on Eden’s wall, adjusts his glasses and shrugs. “I’m a demon. What’s the archangel’s excuse?”

“Corporeal bodies are not my department.”

Beelzebub blows a raspberry.

“Since you’re awake, your highness - mind moving your foot out of my face?”

Beelzebub’s only reply is a long, deep snore.

Crowley shuts both of them up by jerking the car into motion.

Food it is!” Crowley says, foot sinking satisfyingly down on the gas pedal. “And I know just where to take us.”

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

The angels and demons have managed to escape Heaven and flee from Entropy. Before holing up at Aziraphale’s bookshop and deciding their next move - Aziraphale insists they get something to eat. Crowley decides the best place to get a couple of angels and demons lunch is….

The grocery store! Crowded around a single cart, they will shuffle round the aisles of the local grocery mart, exploring the strange wonders of fluorescent illuminated human cuisine. 

The Ritz! Sitting elbow to elbow around a pristine white tablecloth, they will be sipping at champagne and making awkward small talk. Probably nothing will catch fire.

The drive thru! Packed in the Bentley, Crowley will drive them all to the greasiest of fast food establishments. With all three speaking at once, Crowley will attempt to order.

Please comment or reblog to vote! :)

Part 18

[antihero-writings]

Before It Kills You Too 

Fandom: Lore Olympus (Webcomic)

Fic Summary: Anger was a fire, it burned white hot and devastated the world around it. But then it faded...This was more than anger. 

Hera goes for a drive after a fight with Zeus, and has some time to think. Her internal monologue and memories, using Blackpink's "Kill This Love" as a prompt.

Character Focus: Hera

Notes: If you haven't listened to, and/or watched the music video for Blackpink's "Kill This Love" (I’ll put a link in the replies!), I highly recommend you do so either before or after reading, as the fic is based on the lines, and a few of the visuals of it!

Also, fyi, I am very new to the world of kpop myself... I deeply apologize if I didn't do the song justice!

I am a big fan of Greek Mythology (though I don't know it super well), and adore retellings of it, (as well as retellings of classic literature in general). But the two characters I've never liked in other retellings + the original myths are Zeus and Hera. But Rachel does such a great job with the characters in LO she managed to create a version of both Zeus and Hera not only do I like, they are in my top favorite characters of the series. 

I've wanted to write a fic for Lore Olympus for a while (as well as something using "Kill This Love" as a prompt), and I decided to write one about them, both because I don't think there are as many fics about them, and to honor what a great job she's done with these characters, and how much she made me like them (and because the song fit too well with her!)!

Chapter 1: I Owe It All to You 

Hera kept glancing from the road to the speedometer, the dial sneaking steadily upwards: sixty miles an hour to seventy in seconds.

She leaned over and took a cigarette from the pack, putting it between the fingers of the hand on the steering wheel. She took out the lighter and clicked it open, lighting the end, then closed it again and set it back down in the cupholder while she breathed in.

Smoke never tasted so sweet as when she was angry with him.

Eighty, ninety.

“Good to see you again, Bunny!”

“It’s only been a few days!” She laughed, “And who’s Bunny?”

“You are!” Zeus took her hands and gave her eskimo nose kisses. “Who else?”

The golden girl smiled, big and bright—

—the kind of smile one can only give when the world itself is big and bright. When one lives in a realm of hope, where beings keep their secrets, and their promises, and no one lies, or steals, or cheats.

She breathed out, smoke billowing like her mouth was the gates to the Christian’s hell—(they say hell hath no fury right?).

Sometimes she wished she had Zeus’s power; that she could set the world on fire with a glance.

A hundred.

The world was nothing but streaks of light across her vision. Not trees, people, and buildings; not distinguishable as life or meaning, just lines of color as she flew by. Maybe things were better that way. She could dance in the in-between, reach up and grab the ribbons, twirl around with them in beautiful absurdity. Only absurdity was beautiful; truth and sanity were far too ugly.

“Bunny I—”

“Don’t ‘Bunny’ me!”

She took another long draft, letting the smoke’s medicine filling her lungs.

And out.

Breathe out, feel the negative emotions leaving your body, all the meditation gurus say.

What a load of bullshit that was.

For every soothing inhale there was always an exhale that felt like it was clawing its way out of her throat. For every sweet hello there was a bitter goodbye, full of curses at his back, in return. For every incredible high there was a unfathomable price. That was the rule to life; what goes up, must come down.

And she had risen too high, once upon a time.

The test of life had no answer, let alone a right one. Even the gods were slaves to fate, and emotion.

The tires screeched hellishly as she rounded corner.

Hera walked around the corner.

“It just—I feel like the world’s on fire when I’m with him! You know?”

The queen stopped. It was that nymph’s voice. The one who came by earlier.

“Ahh I’m so jealous! Tell me more! Tell me!”

“Well he just…I don’t know! When he kisses me the whole world just kind of…stops. You know? And when he listens…I feel like he’s actually listening.”

“Ugh, too sappy! Tell me the dirty stuff!”

“Oh stop! I’m not gonna tell you about our sex life!”

Hera rolled her eyes, beginning to walk away when—

“Well he is the king of the gods. You’re right; It’s better if I imagine.”

The queen froze.

“Eugh I don’t want you imagining me in bed with him!”

“No, I’m imagining me in bed with him!”

Hera couldn’t hear them anymore. Couldn’t see the world in front of her. She was staring at a space before her eyes only she could see; a space, a memory, where the world was wide and she and Zeus were the only beings in it.

That space was shattering piece by piece.

Her breath was shallow in her chest, her blood pumping her ears.

“Mama?” Ares’ little voice brought her back to the world. “Mama, you’re hurting me.”

She immediately let go of her son’s tiny hand. “I’m so sorry sweetheart!” She crouched down and took his hand in both of hers, this time with the most gentleness she could muster, and kissed his fingers. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah…‘m okay.” He took his hand back and rubbed it.

He looked at her apprehensively.

“…Are you okay, mama? …Are you angry?”

She whizzed passed broken stop sign, catching her reflection in the rear view mirror; her hair in tattered locks like rags about her face, eyebrows permanently furrowed, lip permanently pursued, blue eyes dim and hollow, with nothing of the brightness they once contained; only a few lingering sparks of electricity in an abandoned power plant.

‘Okay’. ‘Angry’.

Such ugly words.

“I just…” the golden girl pushed her hair behind her ear sheepishly, her eyes bright, “I feel like the world’s on fire when I’m with him…you know?”

“Can’t say I do,” Aidoneus muttered softly.

She put her gently hand on his. “Don’t worry, I know you will one day.” She grinned.

And what made it better was that she really meant that.

He tried to smile back.

“So what’s that…like?” he asked softly.

“Well…when he kisses me the world kind of …stops. It feels like there’s nothing and no one in the universe but him and me. We can talk about anything. And when I talk it feels like he actually listens. He always makes me laugh. When I’m with him…it feels like nothing else matters…”

She hated that word: okay. It was too simple, too easy; one could always throw it out as an answer. It didn’t mean, I’m doing very well, or I’m doing poorly—(though it could mean either depending on the context). Okay was just, ‘fine’, ‘alright’. Okay could mean you were doing wonderfully, having a great day, and okay could mean you would rather be dead, and either way people would smile and say good! I’m okay too!. Okay was never truly satisfied, never fully living. Just existing. ‘Okay’ was a word for ghosts; for those who are neither dead nor really alive, neither sinners nor saints. Just floating through the world, caught in between.

She was always okay…and she was never okay.

She rolled down the window, cool air rushing in to the car and scooping up all the smoke, taking it out into the night, giving it to some other lonely Goddess who needed it.

“Ugh, this again? I thought we were done with this…Just leave it for now. You’ll feel better after lunch.”

And, anger, anger was a fire that blossomed like a rose high, and bright, and scorching for a while, eating everything it saw. Then it dwindled. Sometimes it could be lit again by a passing breeze, if the embers were still fresh enough. And sometimes that relight could touch a passerby leaf or bush, and from there desecrate forests and cities. But often, even then, once it had finished blazing it would wither and die. Anger burned white hot and violent at first, but eventually it would fade, and the world would be left to deal with everything it blackened in its wake.

She sometimes had a vague image of smashing Zeus’s head in, of him clutching his big ugly skull, golden trails of blood intermixing with his violet hair, draining down his cheeks. And there she was, holding the stem of glass, half of the vase, in her hand, the rest of it in pieces all over the floor before them. Sometimes. Sometimes it felt good to take out all that anger out on innocent paintings. Sometimes she had to destroy something, before it destroyed her.

“You’re acting crazy.” He had said.

Crazy, was she?

Crazy for believing visions in her head, which were always right in the past? Crazy for being angry? For kicking him out? No.

Crazy for staying with a being like him?

Yes. If she was crazy, that was why.

If I’m crazy, well, then…

She smirked, taking a long draft, and letting it out, grey wisps filling the air around her.

Thanks, baby, I owe it all to you.

She had a faint recollection of being sane once. Before him. He always made her crazy, be it when she was first fell in love with him, or when she rose in hate for him. But there was a time, when, before all this, she was a sweet, naïve little golden girl in the forest, with her sanity in tact, who loved animals, and taking care of broken things, her innocence still put together.

He thought he knew crazy. He hadn’t even scratched the surface.

But then that impulse would fade as quickly as it came, and she was left with guilt for even thinking that way. She’d never do that. She might burn his picture, but she wouldn’t actually hurt him…would she? She hoped it would never get that far.

No. That was anger. The boiling thing rising inside her that made her want to smash, and spit in, his face, and burn paintings, that was anger. Anger rose, vehemently, but in the end it dissolved.

This was more than just anger.

This, this feeling; this dull resounding ache at the back of her consciousness like an unending death knell; this thing that bored a hole in her stomach, making her feel constantly sick; this thing that hung as a weight in her chest; this thing wrapping around her, chaining her wings; this thing that stained her eyes with sleeplessness; this thing that broke into her mind and ransacked her thoughts, tainting all those happy memories, making them seem diluted with lies, and sickening to think of, and never, ever left her house—

This was heartbreak. Eternal, infernal, heartbreak.

She was on a long stretch of road now, out where nature still bloomed and she didn’t have to look at anyone’s faces or talk to anyone. The ribbons of light still outlining the air—(was it two hundred now? She’d lost track.).

Lucky me.

Everyone always told her she was lucky. Not everyone got to be the wife of the king of the gods. Just her. She was lucky she had a husband who was powerful. Who was rich. She was lucky she had a husband who adored her. Who doted on her. Who listened to her. Who she could talk to. Who made her laugh.

Not everyone had that. Some had husbands who were poor. Who were weak. Who didn’t love them, and whom they didn’t love. Husbands who didn’t dote on them, or give them so much as a wanton kiss. Who fixed a permanent scowl on their faces. Who they couldn’t talk to. Husbands who lied to them, and cheated on them.

She was lucky she didn’t have that.

Not everyone got to be queen.

Lucky her. So lucky he chose her. So lucky she got the crown. No one else.

No one but her.

So lucky she had that handsome face to wake up to every day.

(Every damn day)

So lucky could talk to him every day. So lucky could kiss him, and hug him, and make love to him.

(Sometimes she couldn’t even look at him.)

So lucky she had Zeus. That goofy, dumb, brave, arrogant king as her better half. So lucky she had a husband who was so sweet, and kind, and gentle, and funny, and patient, and forgiving. So lucky she didn’t have had a cheating, lying, conniving, backstabbing little weasel for a husband, who put that crown on his head, and walked into his office like he owned the world—!

And he was the one person who could say he did. Including her. Sometimes she couldn’t say a word against him.

He owned the world. Along with every fucking girl in it.

And he did fuck them.

After it all, what would he say?

We all lie, so what? Something like that.

So what.

Him; the illustrious king with his throne, and his lightning. Her; a jealous queen with a stolen crown.

The only one to blame was herself.

“I just feel like everyone’s lying, everyone’s—!” the golden girl cried, her hands over her eyes.

Someone took her arm, someone whose grasp was gentle.

He put his finger on her chin, tipping her gaze up to him.

“I’d never lie to you.” Zeus said, giving a gentle smile.

And what made it better was he meant it.

She returned the smile, placing her hand over his. “Nor I to you.”

That naïve little ray of sunlight darkened by his moon.

We’ve both lied, so what? That would surely be his excuse.

“You know what?! Why don’t we talk about you for a change?”

He’d said he was sorry before. He’d promised to be better.

And she believed him, then.

He’d spent enough time telling the truth that she believed he meant it when he apologized. When he made promises. When he spoke to her, she thought he meant the things he said.

I cheated on you, I’m sorry.

I lied to you, I’m sorry.

Now she questioned everything he had ever said. His apologies, his promises, his compliments, his kisses. Were those words so long ago just another lie? His promise to never lie to her, was that just the first lie of a thousand? As numerous as the hours they spent together. Did he ever intend to keep his words back then?

That was the unfortunate thing about lies; they could reside in even the most sincere of promises.

I’m sorry.

(I’m not sorry.)

Long ago she’d wanted him to apologize. She’d been more than desperate to hear those words falling from his lips.

Now she knew they meant nothing. They could, and usually would, be just another lie. And, even if he meant them, they wouldn’t fix this aching hole he’d left in her chest.

She remembered herself at her wedding; them, the picture of a perfect, royal couple, his violet a compliment to her gold. Both of them practically shimmering, wearing traditional wedding attire—(though impossibly embellished and adorned)—and those goofy, light-filled smiles. The whole pantheon applauding, smiling, wiping away tears at their back.

In other countries, at weddings, they said they’d be together in sickness and health, till death did them part.

Did this count as sickness? As death?

Didn’t he break that promise? Did her promises matter after he broke his? Was her faith and faithfulness worth nothing anymore?

She now imagined herself in a black dress, standing at the back of that ceremony with a bow, and an arrow made of adamant, laced with the venom from a certain many headed monster, its gleam reflected in darkened gaze. She breathed out as they spoke, and loosed that arrow, shooting that girl in the back. Olympus shouted in vain, as she watched all that gold flow out of her past self, those blue eyes fade to a cool grey, keeping her from making the biggest mistake of her life. And she’d look at Zeus’ horrified face and think

I’m sorry.

(I’m not sorry.)

That was surely better than this. Better than dying slowly, the blue in her eyes dimming day by day into lifeless grey still animated somehow, better than that gold leaking out of her with each forsaken sunrise she woke up next to him.

Would he be happy then? Without her? He could fuck around with whoever he wanted.

Would she be happier, dead, without all this?

There was no way she could have known, back then what their lives would become after a few millennia. How that god who held her hands and said he’d never lie to her, who hugged her and kissed her, and seemed so in love, could become dissatisfied. That lust would overtake him; he’d keep wanting more and more, gorging himself on it. She had no way of knowing that she wouldn’t be enough one day.

She was young, and innocent then, and didn’t know better.

She couldn’t forgive herself for that.

Something flashed gold in the headlights before her, and for a second her mind manifested before her; she saw that golden girl still, her own hair draining down the street like liquid, that white wedding attire—old, ragged, covered in burns—her own naïve eyes, still full of light and life, staring up at her, terror overtaking their innocent frames. And her own eyes boiled.

The sound of breaking glass was like a cooling rain upon a fire that had been left raging too long.

*****

Zeus was doing important business work. Focus was imperative.

Someone knocked on the door. “Your majesty.”

He fumbled with the spinner he was playing with, dropping it on the floor, sitting upright. He folded his hands on the desk, clearing his throat, trying to look professional.

“Yes? If it’s Hermes wanting to install racing tracks in the sky again—”

“Uh, n-no,” the messenger poked her head in the door, looking nervous, “It’s… about your wife.”

He blinked, then sighed, leaning back in his chair. “…What’s does she want this time?”

“Um…” she swallowed, avoiding his gaze, “S-She’s been in a car accident.”

*****

Notes cont.: Do you guys have any ideas for what song I could use for Zeus for the next chapter? (I want the next chapter to be framed like this one--based around a song, but for him, and from his perspective.) Let's see...In the simplest terms, I'm looking for a song about someone who knows they've made mistakes and/or hurt someone, and wants to do better. It doesn't have to be kpop, it can be anything XD

I'm not sure if this fic makes it seem like I hate Zeus and think she should ditch him or something...I really really don't. That's kind of the point; I actually like him a lot, and am very excited to write his chapter. Hera is just (understandably, and rightfully so) really angry with him for treating her so poorly. and I was trying to convey that to the best of my abilities...but it does make him seem pretty douchey (and, let's be fair, he definitely can be). Their relationship is broken indeed...but I hope it's not beyond repair. (though...the myths don't give me much hope...).

Speaking of the myths, I know Zeus and Hera might not have been in love in the way I describe in this. I'm not very familiar with their early relationship in the myths, but let's just say I know them getting married certainly wasn't all sunshine and roses. And Rachel's been pretty accurate to the myths in her own way, so it may be true of them in LO too. But when LO Hades was talking about them in the past I kinda got the impression maybe they were at least somewhat in love, so I decided to go that route. Also, I don't know if using Ares' in the memory places things to early, I might change it to Hebe later...I just like the symbolism of using Ares, especially as I have him acting very differently then we know him as. I might decide to alter parts of this fic if and when she reveals more about their early relationship though, especially if this ends up being super inaccurate...

Sorry, I'm rambling now XD

Anyways, I hope you enjoyed the fic!! I'd really apprecaite it if you could leave a comment and/or reblog to show your support!!!

[alice-beaumont-ravenclaw]

From Paris, with Love

A/N #1: Part 7 of my Celestial Ball series is here! In this fic, we meet Alice’s french grandmother and learn a bit more about her family... Anyway, here are the other parts of the series: You’ve Got a Friend in Me | Distraction | Something There | One Step Closer | Fashion Emergency | Get Your Head in the Game | Der Walzer von Alice | Of Quidditch and Ballgowns (there’s a sketch of the dress at the end of that fic) 

-----------------------

The Celestial Ball was fast approaching and Alice had yet to see her gown. Andre had taken her measurements a few days after they had selected the style, and she knew he was working on it, based on the plasters that were appearing on his fingers as the days went by. She also knew he had already made Charlie’s dress robes, as Charlie’s excitement was apparent during one of their dance rehearsals.

“You’ll see it on the day of the ball, but I’ll give you a hint so you can imagine how amazing it is: Dragons!” he had said as they waltzed with the other prefects.

Alice was pretty sure he was more excited about the dragon part of his robes than the robes themselves. Lost in those thoughts as she watched the first snow falling from a window in the common room, she didn’t hear Andre barging in and coming towards her. 

“Alice!” he exclaimed, standing right next to her.

“What?!” she said, turning her head towards him, her eyes wide in shock.

“Your dress is ready!”

“Really? Can I see it?” asked Alice, excited.

“Well, of course. We need to choose your accessories!” said Andre as he dragged her out of the common room.

“Accessories? I don’t think I brought many with me… Unless you put some in my trunk without my knowledge…” replied Alice, looking at her friend suspiciously.

“No, of course, I didn’t. I didn’t know there was going to be a ball. No… I invited someone over to help us with that,” replied Andre, looking away.

“Invited someone here? At Hogwarts? Was Dumbledore okay with that?”

“Well, seems like they know each other, so yeah, he was fine with it,” he replied as they stopped in front of a door.

“Who the hell does Dumbledore know that could help with accessories?” asked Alice as she opened the door. The person she saw inside the room made her stop dead in her tracks. 

That person was a tall and slender elderly woman with regal beauty. Her white hair was in a French twist, and she was wearing a navy Chanel skirt suit. When her piercing blue eyes met Alice’s green ones, a small smile appeared on her lips.

“Alice, ma chérie!” she said as she approached Alice before giving her two kisses on each cheek. 

“Grand-maman?” said Alice, too startled to reciprocate the bise as she stared at Andre.

“Yeah, well, I wrote to your mother regarding pieces of jewelry to go with the dress, but the letter I got back was from your French grandmother…” started explaining Andre while fidgeting with his hands. “She told me she would come to Hogwarts with a selection of jewelry we could choose from.”

“Albus was so nice to let me come! He hasn’t changed at all! I will go have tea with him while you two choose what you need! But before I go, Alice, j’ai quelquechose pour toi,” said her grandmother as she opened up a little box. Inside was a tiara adorned with stars and celestial waves. Strings were attached to it to fasten it to the wearer’s head.

“Une tiare?” said Alice, slightly frowning.

“Oui, bon, ça peut l’être, but you can wear as a headband or at ze back of your head. I asked my… hum… how do you say ‘joaillier’… Jeweller! Yes, well, I asked him to make something versatile zat could be worn in different ways because my granddaughter does not like wearing classic tiaras.”

“Wait! You had this made especially for the occasion? It’s too much, I can’t…” started saying Alice before being interrupted by Andre.

“It will look amazing with the dress!” he exclaimed.

“Andre…” muttered Alice, trying to get him to calm down, in vain.

“I know! When I saw the sketches you had sent my daughter-in-law, I knew my favourite jeweller would be able to create something wonderful!”

“Sketches?” asked Alice, looking at Andre with a raised eyebrow. “Plural?”

“Yes, I also sent a sketch of the shoes I made,” explained Andre.

“Shoes? You made shoes?” 

“Didn’t I tell you? Guess I forgot. Anyway, thank you so much Mrs. Beaumont!”

“Please, it was no problem at all! Now, I will leave you to it while I go see Albus,” she said, waving as she left the room.

“I can’t believe she knows Dumbledore… Then again, I shouldn’t be surprised,” said Alice as she stared at the now-closed doors. 

“How come?” asked Andre as he started opening the jewelry cases.

“Well, Dumbledore knows a lot of people, and so does my grandmother,” said Alice turning toward the jewelry.

“Oh, Merlin!” exclaimed Andre as he looked, wide-eyed, upon all the glittering pieces of jewelry laid out in front of him.

“Honestly, that’s just showing off,” grumbled Alice as she looked on, rolling her eyes.

“I’m sure she just wants you to have as much to choose from,” said Andre, who was already covered in jewelry.

“Maybe, but she likes to remind people of who she is,” said Alice as she took a pair of very small crescent moon stud earrings covered with white pavé diamonds and set it aside.

“She likes people to know she’s a Beaumont?” asked Andre, admiring the rings on his fingers.

“Not exactly… The Beaumonts are a very reputable family in France, but…” she started saying, before pursing her lips. “Anyway,” she interrupted herself, “you haven’t shown me my dress or my shoes yet. How am I supposed to make a decision if I don’t see what I’m going to wear?”

“Oh! You’re right!” Andre said, getting up from the table he was sitting up. Pushing a screen to the side, he revealed the dress and the shoes.

“Oh, Andre! It’s simply gorgeous!” said Alice as she looked at the dress and shoes. 

The sleeveless dress was covered in sparkles, except for the black shoulder straps. From the waist, it was a dark blue, and the blue got lighter as it got closer to the edge of the dress. From the waist up, the material was very thin, making the blue of it appear very light against the nude lining of the bodice. There was a little bit of tulle under the skirt to give it some volume, but not too much. The shoes were high-heeled sandals with butterfly wings at the back. They were in sparkling silver and navy blue, with a cross ankle strap and glittering stars.

“So… You like it?” asked Andre as Alice touched the skirt of her dress.

“Like it? I love it! It goes with the theme, but not in an ostentatious manner!” replied Alice.

“I’m so glad you like it,” said Andre, smiling. “Now, let’s go back to the jewelry and you can tell me everything about your grandmother.”

“Ugh… Do I have to?” asked Alice, making her way back to the jewelry case.

“Well, I’m intrigued. Such a stylish and regal woman, and it doesn’t have to do with the Beaumonts, but, I’m guessing, her side of the family,” said Andre, taking out a diamond bangle with moons and stars, and putting it with the earrings Alice had put aside.

Alice let out a sigh. “Fine… Before being Aurore Beaumont, she was born Aurore Valois, from the Capetian dynasty.”

“Is that supposed to ring a bell?” asked Andre, raising an eyebrow.

“Outside of France, probably not. In France, the Capetian dynasty is also known as the House of France. Starting with Hugues Capet, a King of France in the 10th century. All the Kings of France after that were his descendants. All the way down to Louis-Phillipe 1er. Technically, the Valois branch was considered extinct in 1589 and was succeeded by the Bourbons. But that’s on the Muggle side of the family. On the wizard branch, the Valois kept going. The first wizard of that line may not be entirely legitimate, but that didn’t seem to matter at the time. So they managed to maintain a certain level of influence in the wizarding world as well as in the Muggle world. In the Muggle world, they are seen as just vaguely being related to the House of France, but even that is enough to impress. France may be a Republic, but they do treat descendants of French noble families with deference,” explained Alice, looking at a necklace paved with diamonds in white gold. “Boucheron, of course,” she mumbled as she looked at the clasp, putting it with the earrings and the bracelet.

“Wow… That’s… detailed,” said Andre, staring at his friend.

“Yes, well, I have heard the story many times, and believe me, that was a summary. All this to say, my grandmother can be a bit of a showoff. She won’t say it, because it is just vulgar to do so, but she will make people feel how important she is.”

“Is that why you never told us? Because it’s vulgar?” asked Andre, smirking.

“What? Of course not. By now, you should know it’s not something I care about,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Honestly, I kinda regret muttering about my grandmother. If I hadn’t said anything, you wouldn’t have asked anything, and you would be none the wiser.”

“Oh, even without your mumbling, I would’ve asked questions. Like, why is she wearing Muggle clothes? Why didn’t you tell me you had such a stylish grandma? Can I come with you next time you visit your French family?”

“Yeah… Figures. She wears Muggle clothes because she likes them. She personally knew Coco Chanel and Christian Dior. I didn’t tell you because, why would I? And I guess you can come with me next time I go to France, though I don’t see why,” answered Alice, smirking as she rolled her eyes. Andre could be so predictable sometimes, hence why seeing her grandmother had shocked her. She knew that Andre would be curious about her, would want to know more about her. It was better if he asked his questions in an empty classroom than in a room full of other people that might ask questions themselves. “Now that I’ve answered your questions, you have to promise me to not breathe a word about it. It’s bad enough that people stare at me because I’m the ‘Curse-Breaker,’ let’s not add ‘French Royalty’ to the mix. I definitely don’t want Charlie to act even more strangely around me.”

Andre stopped what he was doing and stared at her. Was she on the verge of realizing her feelings for Charlie Weasley?

“I mean, ever since he saw my house in London, he’s been acting strange, as if the fact my family is well-off disturbed him. I’m pretty sure that if he hadn’t seen my house, he would have asked me to the ball way sooner. We are friends and prefects, after all, so it was the logical thing to do, but took him so long to ask me, I was on the verge of doing it myself!” exclaimed Alice.

“So… You would have asked him to the ball if he hadn’t? You wouldn’t have asked someone else, like, say… Barnaby?” asked Andre, doing his best to hide his smile.

“Barnaby? Well, if Charlie had asked someone else, then I would have asked Barnaby, but he’s not a prefect, he doesn’t NEED someone to dance with. Charlie and I were in the same predicament, so it just made sense to go together.”

“Yeah, but if none of you were prefects, who would you have asked to the ball?” probed Andre.

“No one. I would just have gone to the ball with all my friends,” said Alice as she started to close the jewelry cases.

“Ugh… You are hopeless,” muttered Andre.

“What did you say?” asked Alice, closing the last jewelry case.

“Nothing, nothing…” replied Andre just as Alice’s grandmother entered the room.

“So, you have found everyzing zat you needed?” she asked, looking at the closed cases.

“Yes, thank you. Very nice of you to come all this way,” said Alice with a stiff smile plastered on her face.

“As I said, it was no problem at all. Gave me a chance to catch up with Albus. He told me very interesting zings about you,” her grandmother replied. With a flick of her wand, all the cases floated towards her open purse and got inside it.

“I can imagine…” grumbled Alice.

“I was also very happy to see you,” she said, kissing her granddaughter’s forehead. “You haven’t visited Paris nor Sarrians in a while. You should come next summer.”

“Sure…” replied Alice.

“Andre, it was a pleasure meeting you,” said Aurore, turning to the other Ravenclaw. “I’m sure you will be a great fashion designer one day.”

“Oh! Thanks, but I actually want to be a Quidditch player,” replied Andre proudly.

“Really?” replied the elderly lady as she looked back at the dress. “Quel gaspillage… Oh, well, I hope you enjoy the ball. Au revoir!”

After she had left, Alice started placing the jewelry they had chosen in a little velvet pouch until Andre suddenly realized something. “We forgot to choose a ring!”

“I have one,” said Alice, unperturbed as she tightened the strings of the little pouch.

“You picked one? I didn’t see it,” pointed out Andre, rubbing his chin.

“Already had it. A white gold eternity ring with blue coloured stones. Parents gave it to me after I was sorted into Ravenclaw,” explained Alice as they left the room. 

“Are you sure it’s going to work with everything else?” asked Andre.

“It will,” replied Alice as they stood at the entrance of the Great Hall and could see their friends eating and happily chatting. “Now, remember what I told you. Not a word about my grandmother or her background to anyone, or your chance of ever coming to Paris with me will be null.”

“An empty threat. You didn’t look like you wanted to go visit your grandparents in France,” pointed out Andre.

“Well, maybe I’ll change my mind, especially if I know it’s something I can hold over your head,” said Alice, a sly smile appearing on her face as she made her way toward her friends.

“There are days when I think she should be in Slytherin…” mumbled Andre to himself before following her inside.

-----------------

A/N #2: Hope you enjoyed. I was loosely inspired by the 2018 HPHM Fictober prompt “First Snow” (loosely as in “the story does not revolve around it, but that prompt led me to write this fic”). So the main fic of the series is approaching... Which means I’ll have to write a ball scene with dancing and everything. If anyone has tips on how to write a ball scene, let me know. (I may have looked at the various ball scenes in War & Peace...)

[hopelessalways]

where the lights burn low and you’re only mine

After being obsessed with Good Omens for a while, I finally wrote a fic!!! 

Summary: For the most part, Aziraphale sees himself as a rational angel who follows a consistent moral code. That has been his identity for millennia, and it comforts him, gives him stability in an ever-changing universe.

What he feels for Crowley is decidedly not rational, and that's more terrifying than the Great Plan failing him.

(Or, Aziraphale and Crowley move into a cottage together after the world doesn't end, and Aziraphale tries to be brave.)

13,539 words, one-shot, Aziraphale/Crowley

Read on AO3!

“He's more myself than I am. Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same. If all else perished, and he remained, I should still continue to be; and if all else remained, and he were annihilated, the universe would turn to a mighty stranger.” - Emily Bronte, “Wuthering Heights”

Aziraphale liked to think that he was a rational celestial being. He took orders from Heaven without asking too many questions. He listened to God and believed in the Great Plan, believed in its divinity and ineffability. He could explain each of his actions in a logical manner; he did nothing without evaluating the relative morality of doing so and the subsequent consequences.

Of course, he could admit that sometimes he was irrational – he could be undone by a perfectly torched crème brulee, for example, and he’d been known to lose his senses over a vintage bottle of Cabernet. He would willingly describe himself as a hedonist who perhaps had taken “going native” a little too far, as Gabriel would put it, and he acknowledged that gluttony was not the most logical quality to indulge in.

For the most part, though, he saw himself as a rational angel who followed a consistent moral code. That had been his identity for millennia, and it comforted him. Gave him stability in an ever-changing universe.

What he felt for Crowley, meanwhile, was decidedly not rational, and, lately, that was more terrifying than the Great Plan failing him in the end.

...

1 Day After the World Didn't End

When the apocalypse-that-wasn’t is over, Aziraphale and Crowley simply look at each other. They’re sitting on the same bench they’ve always sat at in St. James Park, wearing the same clothes they’ve always worn (well, Crowley’s outfit is a bit more updated, naturally), feeding the same ducks they’ve always fed.

Nothing at all has changed, and yet – everything has changed.

They sit in silence for a while, and Aziraphale drinks in the incandescent blue sky, the nightingales chirping, Crowley’s solid warmth next to him. He can’t help but sigh a little. He almost lost this all, and his joy at it remaining is more than he can take.

“Tempt you to a spot of lunch, angel?” Crowley asks, in the same indulgent tone of voice he’s always used.

Aziraphale beams – literally beams – with celestial excitement. “Oh, my dear, please .”

They make their way to lunch in more companionable silence. Their hands brush as they walk, and Aziraphale suppresses an involuntary shiver.

(This has been happening more and more in the last few years, and Aziraphale has resolved to studiously ignore it.)

As always, they sit across from each other at the Ritz, a solitary candle giving off a warm orange glow. As always, Aziraphale takes his time with his meal, enjoying his exquisitely seared steak and scrumptious tiramisu. As always, Crowley drinks black coffee and watches him eat.

(They have a routine, after all.)

Every so often, Aziraphale catches a fond smile at the edge of his demon’s lips, but it’s gone before he can really catalog its precise shape or meaning.

The restaurant seems to quiet around them when they’re enjoying dessert, and Aziraphale closes his eyes, pretending he’s savoring his last bite of coffee-soaked ladyfingers, but really savoring the peace of this moment, the knowledge that there will be countless more moments like this.

“Penny for your thoughts, angel?” Crowley asks, in that gentle voice he uses when he forgets that he’s supposed to be acerbic.

Aziraphale blinks, then looks at his demon, unable to help the tenderness that floods his eyes.  “Just thinking about how I’ll still get to listen to Bach and keep my bookshop.”

Crowley smiles, unguarded, blinding. “Ah yes, I think you’d tire of celestial harmonies rather quickly. They’re bloody awful!”

“I hate to admit it, my dear,” Aziraphale says ruefully, “But celestial harmonies really are difficult on the ears. Even from Uriel, who has a lovely voice. It’s a shame, really.”

Crowley grins even more widely at Aziraphale, and the angel – well, ah, there it is. A rush of love so strong that Aziraphale has to grip his thigh to stop himself from dropping his wine glass. By all rights his divine power should be enough to keep the wine glass whole even if he did drop it, but Aziraphale learned long ago that his miracle-making ability is no match for that traitorous thump in his heart.

Because unfortunately – or fortunately, depending upon your point of view – Aziraphale can always feel love when Crowley is around. He’s gotten used to the hum of energy beneath his skin when the demon comes strolling into his shop, hips going every which direction and sunglasses perched haphazardly on his nose. But he can never distinguish how much of that brimming emotion is his own love, all-encompassing and all-consuming and threatening to spill out of his every pore. There have been moments over the past 6,000 years when he’s thought that perhaps Crowley returns his more romantic affections – a saved bag of books and a shared bottle of wine and “You go too fast for me” – but he long ago convinced himself that that was most likely delusional.

He is rather boring, after all, and Crowley is anything but.

When he has entertained the idea of Crowley feeling as he does, fear has stopped him. And he can say all he wants that he is afraid of what Heaven would do if they discovered their clandestine affair, how Hell would punish Crowley, how the delicate equilibrium his celestial status was based on would shatter. But really, that doesn’t scare him much at all. Not anymore. He’s already faced down both Heaven and Hell just to spend another day by Crowley’s side, and he’d do it again. He no longer feels any allegiance to the archangels who belittle him and are so attached to their superiority that they can’t fathom anything else.

The truth is, he is a coward, and he knows it. He is afraid of rejection. He is afraid of losing the only constant he’s ever known, the only thing in the universe that has never let him down. He is afraid of change, of falling, of burning.

And so, as he has done for centuries, he does nothing. He says nothing. He decides to simply let time pass, content with the status quo, with long lunches and drunken evenings in the bookshop and strolls through Soho. It has been enough for millennia, and it will be enough for millennia more.

At least, that’s what he tells himself.

…

2 Days After the World Didn't End

Aziraphale opens the bookshop in the morning. He isn’t planning on selling anything – not even the apocalypse could change his view on the importance of keeping precious things in their rightful place – but he’s a creature of routine, and besides, it settles him to bustle around the shop, taking inventory of the new books Adam left for him and stroking the spines of his favorite classics.

At about half past noon, the doorbell chimes, and he looks up from his ledger, frowning at the thought of having to entertain a customer.

He grins when he sees it’s just Crowley, dressed in his signature black jeans (so tight it’d take a massive effort to get them off, not that Aziraphale has ever imagined that very thing) and sunglasses, sauntering in like he owns the place. “Oh hello , my dear boy!” Aziraphale exclaims joyfully. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”

Crowley skims his elegant fingers across the books by the register, his expression inscrutable. “Nothing in particular,” he says breezily. “Just wanted to see how my favorite bookshop was doing.”

Aziraphale bounces on the balls of his feet, practically brimming with excitement. “Well, good thing you stopped by, then!” He says, rubbing his hands together with glee. “Adam added a great many books to my inventory, and I’ve been having an absolutely wonderful time cataloging them. Come along, let’s see!”

Crowley smiles, Aziraphale’s favorite indulgent smile, and the angel glows inwardly. He turns to the bookcase behind him, wondering where he should begin his tour. Perhaps the new collection of Charles Dickens? Or maybe Crowley would prefer to see the medieval art catalogs that Adam had so helpfully left in his eastern-facing bookcase…

He dithers for a few minutes, deliberating different options and routes, realizing too late that it is far too quiet in the bookshop.

If Crowley is in the bookshop, that usually means there’s noise in the bookshop. It might be snarky comments about how Aziraphale’s organization system makes no sense, or cluttering and creative swearing as Crowley explores and runs into things, or the rustle of wings as Crowley stretches luxuriously. Aziraphale has gotten quite used to the low-level buzzing that accompanies Crowley’s presence – you might even say he’s grown fond of it. So for it to be completely silent, that means – that means –

Something’s wrong.

Aziraphale swivels around slowly, carefully, scanning the bookshop for signs of his demon. Crowley is nowhere to be found in the immediate vicinity, and he starts to move through the shelves, searching. He feels for his wings, steeling himself to attack an intruder if necessary. He may not be a soldier of Heaven anymore, but he will always protect what is his.

After a few moments of fruitless looking, he finds Crowley tucked in a corner by a dusty window, curled into a small ball. He’s shaking, his narrow shoulders moving up and down, his wings tucked around himself, as if for protection.

For a second, Aziraphale isn’t sure what’s happening. Is Crowley laughing? Having some sort of manic breakdown? This shake of his shoulders isn’t familiar at all.

Aziraphale draws closer, moving as quietly as he can so as not to startle his prostrate demon, and then he realizes. With dawning horror, he realizes that Crowley is – he’s – crying. Crowley is crying.

Aziraphale has seen Crowley cry exactly three times. In Florence during the plague in the 14th century, kneeling over a girl who couldn’t have been more than six years old. In Vietnam, when the napalm destroyed everything in its path. In the bar at the World Didn't End, lips turned downward, bottle of gin empty.

And now. Now, in Aziraphale’s bookshop.

Aziraphale stills, unsure what to do next. He suddenly feels desperate, helpless, so agonized that it tugs at him, deep in his stomach. Something is very wrong for his demon to be crying, but what should he do? His hands hover uselessly above Crowley’s prone form. He wishes he weren’t so soft – he wishes he were braver – he wishes he knew the right thing to say to fix this. He wants to fix this. He needs to fix this.

Eventually, he settles for tentatively laying a hand on Crowley’s shoulder.

He expects Crowley to jerk back, to shove him off, to snarl at him and storm out of the bookshop, as he has almost every time Aziraphale has shown him affection or concern. But instead, Crowley leans ever so slightly into his touch. It’s almost imperceptible, barely there, but Aziraphale feels it nonetheless.

“My dear,” he says gently. “Are you alright?”

Crowley doesn’t say anything, still breathing heavily, shoulders still heaving to and fro. His face is turned away from Aziraphale, but Aziraphale can see the clench in his jaw, the way he’s holding himself so tightly, as if he’s afraid that he’ll shatter if he lets go.

“My dear,” Aziraphale begins again. “Are you -”

“Am I alright ?” Crowley spits out, his whole body tensing in one fluid motion. “Am I alright?”

Aziraphale’s brow furrows. “Yes, dear, I believe that’s the standard question when –”

“No, for Hell’s sake, I am not alright ,” Crowley continues, as if he hasn’t heard Aziraphale at all. “I am not anywhere close to alright, and it is all your fault .”

Aziraphale stiffens. “My fault? Crowley, if I upset you –"

“It’s all your fault because you had the nerve to get yourself discorporated , but I didn’t know, and I came into this bookshop, and it was up in flames, and I – I – and I –”

Crowley breaks off, gasping for breath, and Aziraphale’s heart constricts.

“I looked for you everywhere,” Crowley says, his voice a plaintive cry. “I couldn’t find you. You were just – gone, and I was still here. All alone.”

“Crowley, I’m so –” Aziraphale doesn’t know how to finish that sentence.

Neither of them says anything for a moment that seems to stretch for far longer, suffusing the air with regret and sorrow. Aziraphale stares at the side of Crowley’s face, trying to make sense of the jumbled mess of emotions welling in his throat. He’s angry at Heaven and Hell for causing Crowley this trauma, he’s disappointed in himself for not trusting Crowley when he had the chance, he’s confused and disoriented and unsure. He wishes he could see Crowley’s eyes. He wishes Crowley would look at him.

“I lost my best friend,” Crowley finally bites out. There’s such pain in his voice that Aziraphale feels his eyes filling with tears (oh, sweet, sweet Crowley). “I lost my best friend and then it didn’t feel like any of this was worth it anymore. Nothing was worth it anymore, not without my best friend.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale says softly. (He could pretend that he didn’t know who Crowley was talking about, but that would be a lie.)

He hesitates for a moment, biting his lip and debating the pros and cons of such a bold move, as he is wont to do, before reaching for Crowley’s sunglasses. He stops himself just before his fingers touch the black frames, knowing Crowley will never forgive him if he does this without permission. Crowley gives a minute nod, and Aziraphale slowly takes the sunglasses off.

He turns Crowley’s face toward him, swallowing when he sees the tears clinging to Crowley’s eyelashes, the raw terror and hurt in his sunflower eyes. Gently, gently, he caresses Crowley’s cheeks, sweeping his fingers up and down, back and forth, as soothingly as he can manage.

“I didn’t know it had affected you so,” he whispers. “I don’t think I had quite put it together that you came to the bookshop when it was on fire. I’m sorry you had to see that.”

Crowley tries to duck his head, as if embarrassed, but Aziraphale holds his gaze. He doesn’t want either of them to shy away from this moment.

“But,” he continues, “I have always suspected that you were a soft-hearted serpent underneath it all, so this isn’t exactly a surprise.”

Crowley scowls at him, all messy hair and yellow eyes and clenched jaw, and Aziraphale feels the pang of fondness that is almost second-nature to him at this point. “Way to kick a demon when he’s down, angel.”

Aziraphale chuckles, smoothing Crowley’s hair back from his brow. There’s no bite in Crowley’s tone. “But you’re not down,” he corrects softly, with all the tenderness he possesses for his demon. “Not anymore.”

Crowley arches one eyebrow, his eyes liquid amber.

“You got me back,” Aziraphale says firmly. “And I’m not going anywhere.”

Crowley shudders, closing his eyes. He nods quickly, then again, as if to reassure himself that this is reality. Aziraphale slides his hands from his face to his neck, then to his shoulders, looping his arms around his demon. This is more touch than they usually indulge in, more points of contact than either of them would normally allow, but – things have changed, haven’t they?

Yes, things have changed.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Aziraphale repeats. It feels important that Crowley knows. After all, he has spent too long pretending they don’t belong together. The least he can do is reassure Crowley that he knows better now.

So they sit on the floor for a long while, watching the endless stream of pedestrians through the window. The world keeps turning, and they hold each other.

…

5 Days After the World Didn't End

Crowley disappears after his outburst. It’s not unusual, of course – he’s always tended to shy away after he feels he’s revealed too much. And Aziraphale copes with his absence like he always does: reading in his favorite nook by the window, making endless cups of tea, trying not to wonder where his demon is or if he’s okay.

Crowley appears in the bookshop three days later – a much shorter interval than ever before. Aziraphale sternly tells himself not to read into this. It’s not as if the world not ending has changed anything.

(For Crowley, at least. For Aziraphale, everything has turned on its axis, and the only thing that keeps him grounded is those eyes, that smirk, those eyes .)

Crowley breezes in with his typical aplomb, banging the door open and shouting, “Oi, angel! You in here?”

Aziraphale puts down the book he was reading – a splendid first edition of A Tale of Two Cities, oh, that fellow Charles was so bright! – and smiles at Crowley. Sometimes it occurs to him that he should perhaps not be so obvious about his affections, but it’s such a pleasure to let his love shine through after so long of tamping it down. And he’s never been one to deny himself pleasure.

“Oi, angel!” Crowley says again. “Tempt you to a spot of lunch?”

Aziraphale looks at his friend (his confidante, his sunshine when skies are gray, his true north, his other half). After 6,000 years, he’s learned the signs of when his demon is merely faking confidence, but he’s also learned not to mention it. Crowley is shifting from foot to foot, scratching the back of his neck, eyes darting to and fro behind his glasses. He’s clearly still antsy in the bookshop, clearly still reliving both his breakdown a few days ago and the fire that started it all.

Aziraphale could say something, he knows. He could ask Crowley if he’s alright, or promise again that he’s here and isn’t going anywhere, or give him a hug. He could do a million things to acknowledge how scared and broken Crowley seemed the other day. But he knows that if he does that, Crowley will shut down completely.

So he only smiles. “I’d love lunch, my dear.”

They head to the tiny Italian restaurant down the street that is their haven when they’re trying to avoid being seen. It’s cozy and intimate, perfect for the grey sky and rain streaking the windows.

Aziraphale eats pasta and they drink a vintage bottle of Cabernet, and then Crowley says, apropos of nothing, “I think we should go to the country.”

“Oh, that would be delightful!” Aziraphale responds immediately, clapping his hands with glee. “Maybe tomorrow – a picnic would be miserable in today’s weather, and I think the rain is supposed to let up overnight.”

The wheels in his brain are already turning – it’s been so long since they went on a proper picnic! Perhaps he could stop by the bakery down the street and grab some strawberry tarts for them, and a baguette that would go perfectly with the brie he has in his fridge. He already has the tartan blanket they’d need, and he has just the right bottle of champagne in his wine cellar. Oh, and there’s a book he’s been meaning to read, and perhaps Crowley won’t mind if he naps while –

“I don’t mean for a picnic,” Crowley cuts in curtly.

Aziraphale stares at him, confused and a bit put-off. Crowley sounds almost…annoyed? Yes, that tone is definitely Crowley’s “annoyed” tone. But no, that’s not possible. Crowley is hardly ever truly annoyed with him. Oh, he’ll feign peevishness when Aziraphale takes too long to pick a restaurant, or roll his eyes dramatically when Aziraphale complains about him driving too fast, but he’s only been really annoyed with him a couple of times. That time at the bandstand comes to mind, of course, and outside his bookshop, screaming about Alpha Centauri. Aziraphale deserved his wrath then.

Has he done something wrong now?

Crowley must see Aziraphale’s angst in his eyes, because his face softens somewhat, and he says again, gently this time, “I don’t mean for a picnic. I mean I think we should move to the country.”

Aziraphale stares at him. “Move to the country?” He repeats, sure that he sounds as dumb as he feels.

Crowley nods.

Aziraphale continues staring at him. “My dear,” he says. “Together?”

Crowley nods, biting his lip, his telltale nervous tic. It makes Aziraphale realize that this conversation is about much more than a simple move, and he finds himself wishing that he could see Crowley’s eyes. Crowley must be able to read his mind, though, because he takes his sunglasses off.

His eyes flicker in the candlelight, and in them, Aziraphale can read all the things he and Crowley aren’t ready to say yet but are trying to communicate anyway: Come be with me. Come live out the rest of our lives together. No matter what the future holds or what we may be to each other, I know that my place is next to you. Come with me.

Aziraphale doesn’t need time to think about it, really. He thought he might feel adrift now that Heaven has cut him off, but Crowley has kept him anchored.

(Crowley has always kept him anchored.)

So he nods. “That sounds perfect.”

…

It goes very quickly, after that. It turns out Crowley has already purchased a cottage (it occurs to Aziraphale that he should admonish him for his presumptuousness, but he can’t be bothered when he is almost unbearably touched), complete with space for a garden and a library just waiting to be filled with books.

They pack up his flat and Aziraphale’s bookshop, and barely five days after their first conversation about the subject, it’s time for them to get in the Bentley and drive to the South Downs.

…

10 Days After the World Didn't End

Their first day in their new cottage, Aziraphale discovers there’s only one bed.

Of course, he could miracle another bed. Crowley probably wouldn’t even notice. But something stops him. Perhaps it’s the inviting navy blue duvet and cream-colored sheets, a harmony of his and the demon’s diverging tastes. Perhaps it’s the twin nightstands and lamps, the bible in one and Paradise Lost in the other. Or perhaps it’s the way the bed looks too big for just one person, looks like it was made for sneaking in close and breathing each other in.

Whatever it is, he can’t bring himself to add another bed, so he doesn’t.

They spend the day bickering over where all of Aziraphale’s books should go and planting wisterias for Crowley to glower at. They paint the walls a cheery light blue – Crowley complains that they should just use their powers, and then laments his past as a demon who “wouldn’t be caught in Hell with blue walls” – and move the couch around the living room five times before they’re satisfied with the feng shui. They order in Thai food and eat on their dining room floor, drinking far too much and listening to the wind in the trees. It’s perfect.

But finally, it’s time for bed.

They dither for a while, methodically putting away their trash and tidying their sparse living room. They head upstairs, their footsteps muffled on the wooden stairs, and Aziraphale can feel Crowley behind him, can smell that unique combination of brimstone, pine needles, and a touch of lavender.

How odd. How…lovely.

The queen bed looms large before them, but Aziraphale refuses to make a fuss; he snaps his fingers, miracling himself a soft pair of tartan pajamas, and climbs under the covers, not looking in Crowley’s direction. After a quiet moment, he finds that even though he doesn’t need to breathe, he’s very purposely holding his breath, afraid that he will make a noise that will give him away. He catches himself keeping very still.

He can feel Crowley hesitating, but before he can think of something to say to alleviate the tension that is suddenly stifling, Crowley says lightly, “I’m going to take a shower if that’s alright.”

“Of course!” Aziraphale says hastily, gulping.

He doesn’t watch as Crowley goes into the bathroom, but he hears the shower turning on, and before he can protect himself, he’s assailed by vivid images of Crowley in the shower. He’s never seen it in reality, but his imagination does the work for him: scattered snapshots, chaotic bursts of light and color running through his mind. He sees rivulets of water running down Crowley’s lean, bare chest, his head tilted back, the long lines of his neck exposed and inviting, his strong legs planted firmly on the floor, his…his…his…

Aziraphale bites his lip. He’s seen Crowley naked a handful of times – humanity wasn’t always so touchy about nudity, and celestial and occult beings don’t pay their corporeal forms much attention anyway. But he hasn’t seen the demon naked since long before he realized that he was in love with him, and now he realizes that he very much would like to.

He closes his eyes, shuts them tight. He wishes he were brave enough to join Crowley, to just walk into the bathroom, directly into the shower, and kiss him. He wishes he were brave enough to do something about the gnawing ache in his chest, the constant reminder that he wants more, more, more. He wishes he were brave enough to admit that their fragile peace is all he has ever needed.

But then, he’s never been very brave, has he?

(Not even when it counts.)

Several agonizing moments pass, and then, Aziraphale hears the water turning off. He faintly catches the slide of Crowley’s towel through his hair, the light patter of his feet on the tile, and that’s all the preparation he has before – Crowley’s steps are muffled by the carpet, he’s climbing into bed with him, the sheets rustling, the duvet skating across his sensitive skin, and Aziraphale is hyper-aware of his demon’s every movement, his every traitorous nerve ending alight and wanting.

They’ve slept in the same bed many times before – drunken nights crashing fully clothed on top of the covers, binging marathons ending in a cluster of sheets, sharing cramped corners after narrowly escaping discorporation – but this. This feels different.

This feels…dangerous.

Aziraphale wonders what Crowley would do if he leaned over and kissed him. Would he shrink from him in disgust? Would he scoff at him and say, “Oi, angel, I’m a demon, you know we don’t go in for that sort of thing”? Would he gently reject him, but reject him all the same?

Aziraphale doesn’t know, and he doesn’t have the courage to find out.

Crowley finds Aziraphale’s hand under the covers and entwines their fingers, squeezing lightly. Aziraphale knows he means it as a comfort, but all it does is make him wonder what those rough, calloused palms would feel like sliding over other parts of him. He swallows, hard.

Oh, dear. He is so gone.

Crowley turns over once, twice.

“Goodnight, Aziraphale,” he says softly.

“Goodnight, Crowley,” Aziraphale returns, and then he closes his eyes and tries to forget that he is in the same bed as the only person he has ever loved in the truest sense of the word.

But it’s fruitless. Aziraphale doesn’t think he sleeps at all the whole night.

...

They make a habit of sleeping together from then on, and waking up with Crowley, tangled together, just breathing as the world comes alive, becomes Aziraphale’s favorite part of living together.

…

They settle into a routine of sorts.

They wake when they feel like it – Crowley’s always been more of an early riser than Aziraphale, who may not indulge in sleep as frequently but who loves to lounge in bed when he does – and Crowley makes coffee and tea, catching up on the news of the day. Aziraphale eventually shuffles out in his tartan robe (which Crowley kindly does not make fun of – much) and whips up a quick breakfast. They sit at the table, eating their pancakes or bacon and discussing their options for activities for the day.

They go to the beach when the clouds are low and it’s not too hot, skipping rocks and dipping their feet in the water. Crowley seems most at peace by the sea, Aziraphale thinks; his face relaxes, and he never wears his sunglasses, his eyes gleaming golden in the brackish light. They bring a picnic lunch, snacking on salami and brie, stretched out on a blanket and talking about anything and everything.

Crowley creates a beautiful garden and tends to it when the sun is out; Aziraphale sits in the nook and reads by the window, occasionally popping his head out to smile indulgently at Crowley’s newest creative insults directed at his plants. He likes to look at the back of Crowley’s neck as he plants, at the ripple of the muscles in his shoulders as he bends his sinuous body to and fro. Their wisteria bloom madly, luxuriously, and if Aziraphale tiptoes out to the garden when Crowley is napping to whisper words of encouragement to his delicate buds – well, no one needs to know, yes?

Rainy days are Aziraphale’s favorite: they stay inside all day, vintage records spinning in a loop and heated games of Scrabble contested. They binge several seasons of Queer Eye – “Crowley, I do love that Jonathan individual, he has quite the celestial touch” – and The Great British Baking Show – “I wish Paul would not be so hard on David, he’s only a lad!” They curl up on their couch with hot chocolate – the richest dark chocolate from the hills of Bolivia, which Crowley had “zipped out” for one day because Aziraphale had mentioned he missed it – and talk about ineffability, about Gabriel and Beezelbub, about Adam and Anathema.

They don’t interact with the other villagers much, but they don’t mind. It’s enough to know that Heaven and Hell have left them alone for now, that the humans get to keep being humans, in all their chaotic, awful, beautiful, ineffable glory.

That the world keeps turning.

When the sun sets, they sit on their porch and watch as day transitions into night, as inky blue gradually takes over the endless sky. When it’s fully dark, their little slice of heaven quiet and calm, Crowley tells stories of the stars he hung, of the constellations he created, of the meteors he watched flare into being. Aziraphale listens with rapt interest, his angelic heart almost bursting with the force of his fondness for this beautiful, broken demon who has somehow let him try to mend the damage his Fall had done.

They make dinner most nights, making their way through Chrissy Teigen’s Cravings cookbook (Crowley guffaws for minutes on end when Aziraphale confesses that he has no idea what it means to be an influencer but he enjoys Chrissy’s authenticity on that “Instagram thing”) and indulging in every delicacy the countryside has to offer. As always, Crowley doesn’t eat much, but for once, Aziraphale doesn’t feel embarrassed about it. He can tell by Crowley’s barely perceptible smile that he luxuriates in settling at the table and watching his angel eat.

Sometimes they stay up late for no reason at all, drinking bottle after bottle of ridiculously expensive wine, getting so sloshed that they’re slurring their words and making no sense. They giggle for hours on end, regaling each other with stories of their travels over the last few millennia, always trying to strengthen the invisible ties that bind them. They’re touchier when they’re like this, less careless with the boundaries that have always been unspoken but known. A hand on a thigh, shoulders bumping, legs thrown carelessly over each other’s. Fingers running through hair, so comforting Aziraphale could cry.

They always go to sleep together, no matter what. They’ve never talked about it, but Aziraphale suspects that neither of them likes to sleep alone. It’s comforting to feel Crowley beside him, the same weight night after night. They’ve taken to cuddling, too – Crowley would never call it that, but there’s no other word for the way he drapes himself over Aziraphale as if he can’t get close enough – and neither of them brings it up.

Every night, Aziraphale falls asleep with so much love welling in his throat that he feels like he can’t possibly contain it all. And every morning, he wakes to Crowley.

Altogether, it’s a bliss Aziraphale has truly never known. He didn’t realize how heavy a burden the Apocalypse was. He didn’t realize how even before that, he was questioning his place, questioning Heaven’s intentions, questioning the Great Plan. He didn’t realize that what he needed was to be known, to be understood.

To be loved.

And he is loved, he knows that. Even if it’s not quite the shade of love he wishes it were, he knows he is loved. Deeply, unconditionally. Without shame and without agenda. He feels it every day, in every moment.

…

25 Days After the World Didn't End

Sometimes, Aziraphale has nightmares.

Aziraphale thinks he might have always had the capacity for nightmares, but he never knew. He sleeps regularly now, though – he’s surprised to find that he rather likes sleeping, although that probably has more to do with being in close proximity with his demon than with any REM cycles – so he supposes he shouldn’t be surprised that one day he wakes up shouting, tremors wracking his whole body, his eyes wide and unseeing.

The first time it happens, he’s rather alarmed. He’s having a particularly pleasant dream about walking along the sea with Crowley, and suddenly he’s wrenched into what looks like the Tadfield airfield, but this time Satan is dragging Crowley down into that gaping hole, and Aziraphale is running towards him, but he can’t reach him, he can’t get to him in time, and all of a sudden Crowley is gone, and he’s screaming, he’s screaming, sorrow and fear and regret, and he can’t –

He doesn’t recognize what’s happening right away – in hindsight, he’s never heard himself scream before – but once he realizes that it’s him making that terrified sound, he blindly reaches out for Crowley. It’s an instinct, something he’s seen in movies, and he’s not sure if it’ll work to quell the absolute terror flooding his whole corporation, but he has no idea what else to do.

(It worked for Crowley when Crowley was crying in his bookshop, anyway, and holding his demon isn’t a hardship.)

Crowley doesn’t wake up immediately, but just his proximity makes Aziraphale’s shivering slightly less pronounced, and he squeezes his eyes shut and turns his face into his demon’s neck. Aziraphale can feel Crowley’s even breaths on his skin, and he feels a rush of fierce protectiveness that almost knocks him over. Whoever – whatever – ever tries to take Crowley away from him will be decimated.

After a moment, Crowley stirs awake; Aziraphale can feel his eyelashes as he blinks rapidly. He must be confused as to why Aziraphale is curled so tightly into him that he can’t tell where one of them ends and the other one begins, but he doesn’t say anything.

Instead, he winds his arms around Aziraphale, tentatively at first, then more assuredly as Aziraphale only burrows deeper into his hold. Aziraphale squeezes his eyes shut tighter, trying to focus on what he knows to be true: they’re in their cottage in the South Downs. He’s in their bed. The fan is going above their heads. They are far away from anything that can hurt them. Heaven and Hell have left them alone. They’re okay. They’re together. Everything is as it should be.

After a few moments of this inner monologue, Crowley’s arms anchoring him to the here and now, Aziraphale’s breathing slows, and his trembling ceases entirely.

Crowley presses a kiss to the top of Aziraphale’s head, so light and offhanded that Aziraphale sighs, that telltale affection rising in his throat.

“You’re okay,” Crowley whispers, running a soothing hand up and down Aziraphale’s spine. “You’re okay, I’m right here, we’re okay, nothing is going to happen to you, I promise, I’ve got you.”

Aziraphale’s eyes fill with tears. His tender, precious, gentle demon. Always there for him, always trying to fix the damage that Heaven has wrought, always making sure they come out the other side, always holding him when everything falls apart. And he’d gone and taken that friendship and love for granted. How stupid he’d been.

He sniffles, trying not to be self-conscious about this wild display of emotion (he prides himself on always keeping composed, but lately he’s been trying to let his guard down with his favorite person). “It’s not me I’m worried about.”

Aziraphale can feel Crowley frown above him. “What do you mean? It’s not Heaven that’s frightening you?”

Aziraphale shakes his head, twisting his hands in the front of Crowley’s sleep shirt to keep himself from letting out a sob. “No, I haven’t been scared of them in a while.”

Crowley pulls back just slightly, rearranging them so they’re facing each other. Fragile morning light is beginning to seep in through the gauze curtains on their bedroom windows – it’s just barely dawn – and his eyes are liquid gold, almost unbearably soft. Lying side by side like this, legs intertwined, Crowley’s hands resting on his hips, their faces so close their noses are almost touching, Aziraphale feels like he can finally breathe again.

“Then what is it?” Crowley asks.

Aziraphale takes a deep, shuddering breath. Crowley waits patiently, his eyes steady and sure. Aziraphale supposes he’s had enough practice with Aziraphale’s reticence to know by now that filling the silence won’t prompt him to reveal anything. Giving him time and space to figure out his words is usually the best route.

(As usual, Crowley knows him better than he ever intended him to.)

Finally, Aziraphale admits, “My nightmares are usually about losing you.”

Crowley’s brow wrinkles in sympathy (he would never call it that, but Aziraphale knows better). “Oh, Aziraphale –”

Aziraphale shakes his head fervently, fisting his hands tighter in the collar of Crowley’s shirt. “No, no, you don’t need to do that, it’s just –” His voice cuts off in a sob that he can’t keep in.

“Yes?” Crowley prompts after a moment, his thumbs tracing delicate circles on his face. He holds his head like it’s something valuable.

Aziraphale shudders. “It’s just – the Tadfield Airfield. Satan coming up. I just can’t stop seeing it. If it had all gone wrong and he had taken you…I couldn’t bear it.”

Crowley nods, his eyes sad suddenly, and Aziraphale can tell he’s remembering the time he thought Aziraphale was gone. “I know what you mean,” he whispers, agonized. “When the bookshop was on fire and I thought you were really and truly gone, I didn’t know how I would survive it. It was just –”

Crowley can’t finish, and Aziraphale can tell the thought is so painful he can’t breathe for a moment. And even though they’ve had this conversation before, even though he’s reassured his demon that he’s here and not going anywhere, he understands why this still plagues Crowley. A world without Crowley would be no world at all.

Crowley wraps his arms around him again. “But nothing happened to us. We’re here now,” he breathes, a bit of awe in his voice. “I’m here now.”

Aziraphale nods. “Promise?” He whispers, and he wishes he could help the vulnerability in his voice, but it’s there, and maybe it’ll always be there, this fear that he might lose the most important thing in his world.

“I can’t promise nothing will ever happen to me,” Crowley says honestly, smoothing Aziraphale’s damp hair back from his feverish brow, and Aziraphale doesn’t resist the impulse to lean into his touch. “But I can promise that I will always be here when you wake up.”

Aziraphale looks up at him, his eyes shining with unshed tears. He knows he must look so fragile, so scared, and the unequivocal loyalty and fierceness in Crowley’s eyes have Aziraphale bracing himself against the tide of love that floods him. “Always?”

“Always,” Crowley says firmly.

Aziraphale nods, biting his lip. He closes his eyes and burrows back into Crowley’s neck. Aziraphale can feel Crowley’s warm breaths stuttering over his skin, and without thinking he twines their fingers together, letting the feeling of Crowley’s hand in his dispel the last vestiges of terror.

“Always,” Crowley repeats. “Always.”

Crowley keeps whispering it, stroking Aziraphale’s hair, holding him close, until his breathing has slowed and he’s at peace once more.

…

After that, Crowley seems to know what to do when Aziraphale has a nightmare. Aziraphale wakes up shouting or screaming, flashes of holy water and Satan streaking through his mind, and Crowley pulls him into the tightest hug possible. He whispers a stream of comfort, variations of “I’m here” and “You’ll never lose me” and “We’ll be together always.” Crowley cradles Aziraphale in his arms, rocking him back and forth as the angel’s breathing slows, little by little. Sometimes they talk about the substance of the nightmare when Aziraphale has calmed down, but often they merely linger in silence until Aziraphale can go back to sleep.

Sometimes, Aziraphale can tell that Crowley worries it’s not enough. Sometimes, Aziraphale can tell, Crowley worries that he can’t possibly fix the damage that Heaven and Hell have done to his angel. Sometimes, Crowley asks Aziraphale if he needs anything – tea, wine, chocolate, a bad movie.

Always, Aziraphale says, “I just need you.”

…

Crowley has nightmares sometimes, too. His are usually about Heaven taking Aziraphale away in the dead of the night; he wakes up clutching so tightly to Aziraphale that he’d be cutting off his circulation if that were metaphysically possible.

But Aziraphale knows exactly what to do the first time it happens (after all, he’s learned from the best). He rearranges them so he can look Crowley directly in the eye, and he simply says, “I’m here.”

He holds Crowley’s gaze until Crowley’s pulse has settled, and they stay like that until one of them falls asleep.

Aziraphale is grateful that after all this time, they’ve finally figured out how to be there for each other.

…

40 Days After the World Didn't End

About a month after they move into their cottage, Aziraphale takes a nap in the afternoon, lulled into sleep by a particularly dull Sherlock Holmes novel and the rhythmic breathing of Crowley next to him on their faded grey couch. He dreams of Alpha Centauri, a bandstand, holy water, Rome, the airfield. A million moments.

A lifetime of longing.

He awakens to soft blue light. His eyes find the window, streaked with rain. It’s completely, utterly silent in the cottage. Peaceful.

He rolls over, throwing out a hand to the other side of the bed. Empty. Oh, how curious. He was so sure he’d fallen asleep on the couch…

The heart he only has in theory squeezes painfully. Crowley must have put him to bed.

He slowly pulls himself to his feet, shrugging on his robe and his slippers. He strains his ears, searching for any sign of his demon. But their house is still, giving nothing away.

He tiptoes through the hallway, finds Crowley standing in the kitchen, nursing a mug of steaming tea at the edge of the cabinetS, where the window meets the open sky. There’s a pot of something that smells like tomato soup simmering on the stove. Crowley is looking out at the stars, probably tracing the constellations, and he’s bathed in the soft yellow light from the lamps around him.

He’s beautiful.

Aziraphale stops for a moment, leaning against the doorway, just watching him. He’s sure Crowley can feel his presence, but he doesn’t mind. They have very few secrets anymore (except the rather large one that Aziraphale has been keeping for going on a century, of course), and yet it still takes his breath away to see his demon like this. Sweatpants and henley instead of his trademark tight jeans and black v-neck, sunglasses nowhere to be found, stripped of all his defenses and pretenses. Just Crowley, just the person who has made a home in Aziraphale’s soul.

It’s a privilege and a blessing to see him like this, and Aziraphale doesn’t take it for granted anymore.

Without thinking too much about it, Aziraphale walks up to Crowley and wraps his arms around his back, pressing his face to his shirt. He’s breaking all his own rules, but Crowley is so warm and the soup smells so good and no one has ever taken care of him like this.

“Smells good,” he says lightly, thinking almost involuntarily that he’d stay wrapped around Crowley like this for as long as the demon would let him.

Crowley merely hums in response, and Aziraphale closes his eyes, so content he could fall asleep all over again.

“Thank you,” he says after another long moment, “For everything.”

Thank you for knowing we were on our own side when I didn’t. Thank you for fighting to stay with me even when you weren’t sure if I was fighting to stay with you. Thank you for never giving up on me.

Crowley twists in his arms to face him, his eyes the lightest he’s ever seen them, so unguarded that Aziraphale sways toward him. “Of course,” Crowley says, skimming his lips across his forehead and then leaning down to touch his forehead to his, their breath mingling together. “You forget we stared down Armageddon together. This is nothing.”

Aziraphale smiles. Ever since they moved into this cottage, it feels as if they’ve been moving toward something, something he can’t quite grasp. He thinks he should feel scared – after all, any minute change in his relationship with Crowley has traditionally left him off-kilter, disoriented and confused. He’s still not sure if Crowley feels the same shade of love he does, but here, in the home they’ve built together, in the life they’ve built together, he can’t feel anything but peace.

They stay like that for a long, long time, and for the first time, Aziraphale lets himself hope.

…

50 Days After the World Didn't End

Anathema, Newt, and Adam and the Them visit Aziraphale and Crowley about a month and a half after they move into the cottage. Sergeant Shadwell and Madame Tracy wanted to come, too, but they’re off on an extravagant trip searching for witches in northern Ireland.

They pass the weekend visit gardening, skipping rocks by the sea cliffs, and baking far too many lemon squares. It’s exquisitely pleasant, a distinct feeling of home suffusing their every moment together, and Aziraphale basks in the absolute rightness of it all. After millennia of questioning his place in the universe, he’s finally exactly where he was meant to be.

Their last morning together, Crowley, Newt, and Adam and the Them decide to take the Bentley for a spin, and Aziraphale and Anathema sit and have tea in the kitchen.

“How’s it been settling into the cottage?” Anathema asks as they’re enjoying their chamomile tea and watching the wisteria trees outside sway in the breeze.

“Oh, it’s been wonderful!” Aziraphale answers easily. “It’s so lovely to be away from the city. I didn’t realize how much more peaceful it would be out here, but we’ve really enjoyed being able to see the stars and having it be so quiet all the time. Crowley loves his garden, of course, and I’m enjoying having so much free time to catch up on my reading.”

Anathema smiles at him, a pure, lovely thing. “It’s good to see you guys together like this. I always thought it should be like this.”

Aziraphale opens his mouth, ready to offer his typical rebuttal that he and Crowley aren’t “like that,” that humans couldn’t possibly understand the complex bond they share, that romance is far too crude a word to describe the depth of their connection. But he stops himself. Aren’t he and Crowley together? Aren’t they how they should have always been?

They are. Of course they are. They were only ever apart because they had to be.

“You know,” he says thoughtfully. “I always thought it should be like this, too.”

They sip their tea in companionable silence, and when Crowley, Newt, and Adam come crashing into the cottage, yelling over each other about going 45 kilometers per hour and almost hitting pedestrians several times, Aziraphale grins broadly. He catches his demon’s eye, and when Crowley winks at him, he doesn’t hide his blush.

He’s so glad it’s like this now.

…

75 Days After the World Didn't End

They celebrate Christmas just the two of them. Neither of them subscribes to any particular religion, as it were, but they both like the traditions associated with the Christian holiday, so they make an event out of it.

They decorate a tree with gaudy ornaments, Crowley contributing several black orbs (“black like my heart,” he sneers gleefully, and Aziraphale kindly refrains from calling him out on that blatant lie), the string of lights twinkling merrily. They banter back and forth over whether they should have an angel or a demon as a tree-topper, before they finally just put both toppers on them (“Our side,” Aziraphale proclaims, and delights in the blush that steals over Crowley’s cheeks). Carolers show up on their doorstep every so often, and Crowley grouches and moans before joining Aziraphale, his voice ringing out in perfect pitch.

Aziraphale bakes different kinds of Christmas cookies every day of December (he’s following Ina Garten’s recipes because he definitely agrees that Madagascar vanilla is essential ). He uses Crowley as a taste tester; Crowley obviously doesn’t have much of a sweet tooth, but he’s a very willing participant in Aziraphale’s experiments, and the cottage always smells of vanilla and ginger. In return, Aziraphale samples every type of mulled wine imaginable so that Crowley can perfect his recipe from the 2nd century.

Christmas Day dawns with a fresh blanket of white snow, the weak English sunshine glittering and crystallizing on the drifts on their doorstep. Everything is quiet and serene, and Aziraphale pads downstairs in his red and green tartan pajamas.

He sees Crowley sitting at the base of their Christmas tree dressed in a matching set of tartan pajamas, and he is so overwhelmed by affection that his throat closes for a moment.

Crowley looks down at himself sheepishly. “Angel, don’t you dare.”

Aziraphale smiles fondly. “Oh my dear, I wouldn’t dream of it.”

They open presents for each other leisurely, playing old Christmas carols and eating the cookies Aziraphale left out for Santa (humans have the most delightful traditions, don’t they?). Aziraphale exclaims with joy at the first-edition books Crowley clearly took great pains to find, and Crowley hides a smile at the hand-stitched leather gloves and designer sunglasses Aziraphale has carefully wrapped in red gift paper.

After all the presents have been exchanged, Crowley unceremoniously drops an unmarked brown box in Aziraphale’s lap. Aziraphale stares down at it, dumbfounded.

He looks up at Crowley, who is sitting unnaturally still. “My dear, what is this?”

Crowley shrugs. “Just open it, you’ll see.”

Aziraphale raises a questioning eyebrow, but Crowley doesn’t say anything else, so Aziraphale slowly takes the lid off the box, reaching in to discover what feels like...another book?

“Crowley, if it’s a book why did you bother -”

“Just open the goddamn gift, angel,” Crowley says gruffly.

Aziraphale tsks disapprovingly but does as he’s told, carefully pulling the book out of the box. At first glance, the book looks like any other. It has what looks like a burnished gold finish, with no title, no author, and nothing on the spine or the back cover.

He looks up at Crowley, but his stubborn demon is giving nothing away.

Regardless, he treats the book as reverently as he treats any book that he’s lucky enough to possess: he strokes the spine, runs his fingers over the front cover, feels its heft in his hands. He can’t tell when it might have been published, and he finds no clues for what it might be about.

He opens the book, and on the first page there are two words: “Our Story."

He feels his eyes begin to fill with tears, so he keeps his gaze resolutely on the page. If this is what he thinks it is, he’s about to start crying in earnest, and he knows that will only embarrass Crowley.

He turns the page, and the chapter title, “In Which an Angel and Demon Meet and Everything Changes” hits him hard. Because that is what happened, isn’t it? Before he met Crowley, his existence was straightforward: he was loyal to God and Heaven, and he didn’t think about much, or question much. It was an easy and uncomplicated existence, but it was also boring, devoid of challenges and color, and certainly empty of feeling at all. He met Crowley, and suddenly he felt things he’d never had a reason to feel, questioned things he’d never had a reason to question, and experienced more than he ever would have experienced on his own.

Crowley changed him entirely. And he’s always known Crowley had changed his existence for good, but he’s never known it more viscerally than he does right now.

He pages through the book, catching snippets of different chapter titles - “In Which an Angel and a Demon Debate Whether The Flood was a Good Idea,” “In Which an Angel and Demon Have Oysters in Rome,” and “In Which an Angel and Demon Take Care of a Child for 11 Long Years,” to name a few - and lines that make him both want to cry and smile - “The demon was usually annoyed by the angel, but it was the kind of fond annoyance where you don’t want to be with anyone else”  and “The angel and demon often argued about the metaphysical realities of God, Heaven, and Hell, usually with many bottles of wine and too many tangents.”

The detail with which Crowley has chronicled their six millennia together renders Aziraphale nearly speechless. He can feel the affection imbued in every word, the care with which Crowley has written out their interactions and the threads that have made up their complicated relationship. He already knows that this will be the most precious book he ever owns.

He looks up at Crowley, who hasn’t moved. Anxiety is radiating out of the demon’s pores; he sits rigidly, the way he does when he doesn’t know what comes next and isn’t sure he’s going to like it.

Aziraphale smiles at him. It’s wobbly, but it’s more sincere than he thinks any other smile he’s ever worn has been. “You wrote our story?” He asks, wonder seeping into the words.

Crowley shifts uncomfortably. “It’s not a big deal, angel,” he says, and it’s clear that he’d like to downplay the significance of his gift as much as possible.

But Aziraphale can’t - won’t - do that anymore. They’ve spent too long pretending the gestures of devotion between them don’t mean anything, pretending they’re just colleagues, just two people forced into a situation that neither of them is comfortable with. He can’t do that to Crowley anymore. He doesn’t want to.

“My dear,” he says, his voice watery. He reaches out and grabs Crowley’s hand. As usual, his skin is a few degrees warmer than a human’s; as usual, it feels divine in a way Aziraphale would prefer not to examine. “It is a big deal. I am so beyond touched that you took the time to do this. This is the most special thing that anyone has ever done for me. Thank you so much. I’m going to read this over and over again.”

Crowley scowls, making a protesting noise, but his cheeks are turning a remarkable shade of fuschia. “You are such a cheeseball.”

Aziraphale’s brow furrows. “Cheeseball? What is a cheeseball? There’s no cheese here, why are we talking about cheese? Oh, should we get cheese? That would be lovely, let me - ”

Crowley squeezes his hand, a fond smile creeping over his face, and Aziraphale finds himself suddenly unable to speak.

“I’m glad you like it, angel,” Crowley says quietly, his eyes wide and honest, so vulnerable it almost hurts to look at him. “I wasn’t sure you would.”

Aziraphale smiles. “Of course I like it,” he says gently. “I love it, I really do.”

Crowley nods bashfully, and Aziraphale feels his human heart double in size. “Of course, your presence is the greatest gift of all,” he says teasingly.

Crowley just shakes his head, but he can’t hide the joy in his face, and Aziraphale is glad.

After a moment of contented silence, Aziraphale puts the book on the floor and pulls a folder out of his back pocket. “My turn!” He says excitedly, clapping his hands together.

Crowley raises his eyebrows. “Angel, you didn’t have to -”

“Of course I had to,” Aziraphale says impatiently. “Don’t be silly.”

He extends the folder, which he carefully labeled “Aziraphale and Crowley’s Next Big Adventure” with a black Sharpie, to Crowley.

After a moment’s hesitation, Crowley takes the folder and opens it, and Aziraphale watches as he flips through its contents: two round-trip plane tickets to Thailand; plane tickets to Bali, Vienna, Sydney, and countless other cities; printouts about Cape Town and Lake Como and Tokyo; reservations for hostels and five-star hotels (and restaurants of course); meticulous itineraries with space for Crowley’s input; frames for pictures; and much more.

Crowley doesn’t say anything after several moments, his eyes fixed on the folder as if he doesn’t know how to process what he’s seeing.

“I thought we could take a big trip,” Aziraphale explains haltingly when he can’t take it anymore, Crowley’s uncharacteristic silence making him self-conscious about his gift. “See all the places we’ve only gotten to visit alone, go to all the cities we were afraid to be seen together, potentially really anger Heaven and Hell, all that jazz.”

He giggles nervously, a pit settling in his stomach when Crowley doesn’t even blink an eye at his colloquialism.

A couple of moments pass, and Crowley still hasn’t looked up. “My dear,” Aziraphale ventures, trying not to let his hesitation bleed into his voice. “Is everything alright?”

Crowley visibly gulps, eyes still on the folder. “You’d want to take a trip like that with me?”

Aziraphale stares at him. It’s moments like this that make him realize just how much he has taken Crowley for granted over the years - just how much he’s failed to show Crowley that their partnership means the world to him.

“My dear,” he says gently, reaching out to cover Crowley’s hand with his (they touch so much more than they used to, and Aziraphale is glad), locking eyes with Crowley. “When the world was ending, the worst thing I could think of was that I’d never get to talk to you again. Who else could I possibly want to go on a trip with?”

Crowley’s answering smile is watery, but Aziraphale doesn’t call him out on it. He’s just happy he could make Crowley smile like that.

All in all, it’s the best Christmas he’s ever had.

…

81 Days After the World Didn't End

They ring in New Year’s Eve with a Dom Perignon from 1865 and cheese Crowley went to Paris to get (obviously Aziraphale’s favorite). They sit out on their porch and watch the village fireworks, tucked under mounds of blankets and surrounded by the perfectly brisk night air. Crowley’s feet are buried in Aziraphale’s lap, his whole bony frame pressed tightly against his soft one, and Aziraphale thinks he has never felt so complete.

“Have we ever been together on New Year’s?” He asks lightly, running an absent hand through Crowley’s hair. They both pretend Crowley doesn’t shiver at the contact.

Crowley hums. “I don’t think so? New Year’s is a big time for demons, we’re always trying to disrupt people’s resolutions. So I was usually off somewhere wreaking havoc.”

Aziraphale nods. “Ah yes, my dear, that makes sense. I was usually off doing the opposite.”

He smiles, a pure, soft thing. “It is quite lovely to be relieved of that duty and to be able to do what I want to do.”

Aziraphale feels Crowley still. He wonders what he’s said to put his demon on edge, but then –

“And what you want to do is be with me?” Crowley asks, his voice uncharacteristically small and uncertain.

Aziraphale strokes his hair more purposefully, hoping Crowley can sense his conviction and commitment. Even if Crowley never wants to be romantically and sexually involved the way he wishes they were, he’d still want to be with him, just like this. “Yes, it is,” he says gently, softly. “I love our life here. I love this new beginning we’re making. It’s perfect.”

Crowley’s breath catches, as if he might cry, and Aziraphale continues because he needs Crowley to know this. He’s still not certain whether Crowley loves him the way he loves Crowley, but he knows that Crowley wants to be with him forever. He knows that Crowley needs reassurance that they are done denying they belong together.

“You know,” he says, twisting his fingers in the hair at Crowley’s neck, the way he knows Crowley likes it, “Sometimes I think I’m more alive now than I have been for my entire existence. Here, with you, I feel more alive than I can ever remember. With you, I know I am exactly where I am supposed to be.”

Crowley is quiet for a long while, but he wraps his arms around Aziraphale’s middle and squeezes once, twice, three times. Aziraphale knows what he means.

Crowley lifts his head at last, biting his lip, and touches his glass to Aziraphale’s.

“To new beginnings,” Crowley says, affection so clear in his voice that Aziraphale’s chest warms. His eyes are liquid gold and indescribably tender.

Aziraphale nods. “To us,” he says.

( I love you , he thinks.)

They drink their champagne, and they eat their cheese, and they stay there for a long while, watching the fireworks burst into color, streaking the night sky, as another year begins.

…

125 Days After the World Didn't End

They’ve finished Chrissy Teigen’s cookbook, and now they’re on to Bobby Flay’s. They’ve taken to really experimenting with cooking, seeing what they can create. Well, Aziraphale has been experimenting with cooking, more accurately, and Crowley has been indulging his many (bad) attempts.

Tonight, Aziraphale tried his hand at coq au vin, and it just went awfully – the fire alarm went off, smoke filling the kitchen, and Crowley swiftly miracled away the burning remnants of chicken while laughing hysterically. They ordered Chinese food instead and ate out of cartons on the floor, passing a bottle of wine back and forth and doing incredibly bad imitations of Gabriel and Michael.

Aziraphale would say it’s one of his favorite nights of his very long existence, but then, all of his favorite nights have been with Crowley, and most of them have been in this cottage. “Favorite” has started to have very little meaning for him, when everything is so consistently wonderful.

When everything is as it should have always been.

They’re cleaning the kitchen when something…changes.

Aziraphale can feel it – the air has just slightly turned, the universe slowing for just a moment. He wonders if Crowley has stopped time by accident.

But no. Time is still moving. It’s just that there’s tension where there wasn’t before. It’s just that for some reason, he feels like he’s waiting for something.

And then –

“I wouldn’t have gone to Alpha Centauri,” Crowley announces suddenly.

Aziraphale startles, dropping the fork he’s holding. “My dear –”

“I wouldn’t have gone,” Crowley repeats. “I was desperate when I said we should go. I didn’t think there was anything we could do, and I was so worried that we’d get caught in the war and get obliterated. But I wouldn’t have – couldn’t have – left you to face that alone.”

Aziraphale just stares at him. His mind is blank.

“It wouldn’t have meant anything if you weren’t there,” Crowley admits, and there’s something defiant in his voice, as if he expects Aziraphale to fight him on this. “I stopped time rather than lose you. I would never have gone to Alpha Centauri, even if you hated me.”

“My dear, I never hated you,” Aziraphale can’t help but break in. “I was just a coward. I was just too beholden to Heaven to see that we were on our own side.”

“I know,” Crowley placates, reaching out to touch Aziraphale’s hand, as if wanting to comfort him (Aziraphale finds himself stilling). “I just thought that you should know that I wouldn’t have gone. I would have stayed with you until the end.”

Aziraphale doesn’t know if he imagines what Crowley isn’t saying: I would have loved you, if you’d let me.

“My dear –” He stops. He doesn’t know what to say. “I never –” He tries again, but something gets stuck in his throat.

Crowley smiles; it’s a sad smile. He looks away from him. “It’s okay.”

Again, Azirapahale wonders what Crowley isn’t saying: It’s okay that you’re not ready. I’ll wait for you. It hurts me, but I’ll wait for you forever if that’s what it takes.

Aziraphale wishes he had the words to explain himself. He thinks he’s ready – most of the time, he has to bite his lip to stop himself from telling Crowley that he loves him and probably has for almost a century – but somehow, he can’t quite bring himself to say so. He doesn’t know what he’s afraid of, really – even if Crowley doesn’t feel exactly the way he does, he trusts Crowley, and he knows his demon would never abandon him or respond with derision. So what is holding him back?

Maybe he’s scared of Crowley loving him back. Of how all-consuming and powerful that would be. Crowley is the person who knows him best in the world, who has always been by his side. What will happen if something changes and he loses him?

Regardless of what’s holding him back, he finds himself unable to say another word.

So he doesn’t say anything. He lets the moment pass, and Crowley lets the moment pass, and they keep drinking and laughing. And all the while, Aziraphale tries to find it in himself to be brave.

…

Later, much later, Crowley yawns widely. He stands up, extending a hand to Aziraphale and smiling Aziraphale’s favorite smile, soft and loving and containing all the millennia of their history together.

“Bed, angel?” He asks, and there’s nothing suggestive about it (in fact it’s what he asks almost every night), but still it ignites nerve endings all over Aziraphale’s skin.

Aziraphale nods nervously, hoping Crowley doesn’t catch the way his lower lip trembles. He’s shaken from their earlier interaction, and he’s trying to hide it, but he feels raw, exposed, as if everything he feels is written all over his face.

(He knows that’s a biological and metaphysical impossibility, and finds it an indictment of his current emotional state that he is resorting to metaphors.)

They go up the stairs together, Crowley leading the way, as he always does. It’s quiet and calm in their house, in the life they’ve built together.

Once they reach their bedroom, Crowley snaps his fingers to change into his black silk pajamas. He gets into bed, his expression warm and happy. Aziraphale goes into their bathroom to wash his face and brush his teeth - he technically doesn’t need to, of course, but over the years he’s found that adopting certain human routines makes him feel more settled - and stares at himself in the mirror. He looks old. Or maybe it’s that he looks tired: tired of pretending.

“Get it together,” he whispers harshly at his reflection. “You are a principality, you were made to withstand much worse than this.”

He shakes his head, trying to shake off the emotion that’s thick in his throat. He loves Crowley. He’s always loved Crowley. Why is that so hard to admit to Crowley?

Why is that so hard to admit to himself?

He turns off the bathroom light and steels himself, walking back into their bedroom.

Crowley smiles so big when Aziraphale climbs into bed, and impulsively Aziraphale throws his arms around his neck. Crowley chuckles, warm and fond, just the way he likes it, and he fights the inexplicable urge to cry. How could he have been so blind? How could he have even considered walking away from him? Being a foot soldier of Heaven could never be enough for him. He wants more. He wants all of Crowley, everything, forever.

“Woah there, angel,” Crowley says gently, his hands settling on the small of Aziraphale’s back, a touch so intimate that something in the angel just gives way. “No need to tackle me. Everything okay there?”

Aziraphale nods, too afraid to speak, and clutches him tighter.

Crowley lets him for a minute, rubbing soothing circles on the bare skin of his spine (making him shiver, obviously), but as always, he knows him better than the angel likes to admit.

“Really, Aziraphale,” Crowley murmurs, moving his lips to his ear, “Are you sure you’re okay?”

(What goes unspoken is that Aziraphale has only ever clung to him like he can’t breathe when he’s woken up from a nightmare.)

Aziraphale bites his lip. “I just –” He can’t continue.

They’re silent for another moment. Aziraphale can feel Crowley’s measured breath, the in and out of his chest against his cheek, and it helps a little. He tries so very hard to swallow down his fear and fall over the precipice. He wants to so badly .

He has to.

“Did you mean what you said?” Aziraphale asks finally, his voice shaking a little. He burrows deeper in Crowley’s bare chest, afraid to look at him, afraid to breathe in that distinct brimstone smell for fear of disrupting the haven they’ve created over the last few months.

(Afraid to lose him.)

“Did I mean what?” He can almost hear the furrow in Crowley’s brow. Like everything else he does these days, it only endears him to Aziraphale more.

“You –” Aziraphale pauses, tries to breathe through his fear. “You said you wouldn’t have gone to Alpha Centauri without me. You said you would have rather stayed with me, even if it meant we both died.”

Crowley goes rigid almost immediately, his hands tightening on Aziraphale’s waist. Aziraphale stills, too, fighting the impulse to look at him. He doesn’t want to know – can’t know – what his reaction will be.

Aziraphale plows on, instead. He might as well go out with a bang, as the kids say.

“If you – if you meant what you said,” he continues, shaking a little, but determined to get this out. “I’d like to know. I don’t quite know what you meant by it, but my dear, I want you to know that I –”

“Of course I did,” Crowley breaks in finally, as if he’s only just now managed to find his voice. “Of course I meant it.”

The words are soft, reverent even, and Aziraphale takes a risk and looks up at him. His eyes are full of – love.

(Has it always been love?)

“Aziraphale,” Crowley says, sweeping a hand under his chin like he can’t bear not to be touching him, and Aziraphale’s human heart starts to beat in staccato time. “Of course I meant it. I’ve never lied to you, have I?”

Crowley smiles, wry, and Aziraphale stutters, dumbfounded. “You–” He can’t finish.

Crowley leans forward, resting his forehead against his, and Aziraphale breathes him in. As always, he smells like leather and celestial power. He smells like Crowley, and Aziraphale feels himself relax. He knows how he feels about him. It may be terrifying, but he can do this. He wants to do this.

“I fell in love with you the moment you gave away your flaming sword,” Crowley says, slow, steady, as if he doesn’t want to scare him off. “I would never leave you.”

Aziraphale pulls away a little, just so he can look at him. Crowley is patient, serious.

Certain.

And somehow, after 6,000 years of second-guessing his every movement with Crowley, Aziraphale doesn’t overthink this moment. He just closes the gap between them and touches his lips to Crowley’s.

There’s a moment of resistance on Crowley’s part, a moment of hesitation where he must be processing what’s been said and implied, and Aziraphale worries, just for a second.

But then Crowley is kissing him back, licking into his mouth slow and sure, and light is bursting behind his eyelids, and he’s laughing, making it hard for their mouths to meet, and he thinks he might burst.

He pulls back to cradle Crowley’s cheek in his hands, and he finally whispers the truth he’s known for decades but been afraid to name, “I love you, you know.”

Crowley grins, a devilish thing that somehow still seems alight with joy. “I know.” He waggles his eyebrows dramatically. “Now prove it.”

Aziraphale rolls his eyes, but happily obliges.

…

They lie in bed later, Aziraphale tracing random circles on Crowley’s bare chest. The demon’s breathing is even, measured. The angel is watching the tidy shadow of their fan flashing on the ceiling. Neither of them is saying anything.

“I was scared,” he says after a long while.

Crowley stills beneath his touch, tenses just once.

“I was scared of loving you,” he admits, eyes still fixed on the ceiling. “I convinced myself that I was scared you didn’t love me back, but really I think a part of me always knew that you did. I think that’s what scared me. You loved me enough to give up everything, and I didn’t know if I was that brave.”

“You were, though,” Crowley says gently, stroking Aziraphale’s hair with steady, even touches, his body relaxing. “When it mattered, you were.”

“Only because I had you,” Aziraphale points out bitterly - bitter that he was a coward for so long. “Only because you were brave enough for both of us.”

Crowley shifts them so they’re facing each other. His eyes are gleaming in the moonlight, and he looks tender, much more forgiving than Aziraphale thinks he deserves. “You’ll always have me,” he says seriously. “And I’ll always be brave enough for the both of us. You’ll always be worth fighting for.”

Aziraphale smiles weakly. His chest feels inexplicably tight. “Oh, you wily old serpent. You always know just what to say.”

Crowley cups his cheek, his fingers skimming the side of his face. “Only because I know you,” he counters. “Only because I understand what you’ve been so afraid of. It’s scared me, too, needing you so much that I was willing to throw everything else away. I made my peace with it when I saved you from the Bastille –”

“Oh really, then?” For some reason, that surprises Aziraphale.

“Yes,” Crowley says, brushing a sweet kiss to Aziraphale’s forehead, the touch still so novel that it makes something in Aziraphale’s chest flutter. “I loved you for a long time before that, of course, but I had never been so terrified for you, and I realized that I would do anything to keep you safe. It didn’t matter that I might get in trouble with Hell, or that you couldn’t even admit we were friends. I needed you, and I would do anything for you.”

Aziraphale’s throat closes, tears pricking the backs of his eyes. “That’s very sweet, my dear.”

Crowley groans. “Yeah, don’t go spreading it around. I’m only that sweet to you.”

Aziraphale smiles. “We both know that’s not true, you’re much sweeter to everyone than you’d like the world to know,” he says, reaching up to kiss Crowley. The way Crowley yields immediately to his lips will likely never lose its sheen.

Aziraphale snuggles back into Crowley’s side after several joyous kisses, pulling himself as close to him as he can manage. They’re quiet for a long moment, love and peace suffusing the air like ambrosia. Crowley sweeps a hand up and down Aziraphale’s spine, tenderness imbued in his every touch. Aziraphale breathes in the smell of brimstone and lavender and says a silent prayer that they made it here at last.

“For me,” Aziraphale says finally, “It was when you saved me from the Germans in that church.”

Crowley doesn’t react beyond squeezing him just a little tighter, and Aziraphale is grateful - this is harder to say than he expected.

“I’m sure I loved you before then, but when you walked into the church, even though it hurt you to stand on consecrated ground, even though we weren’t talking, even though the last time we’d seen each other I’d said awful things to you, I realized - “He breaks off, overwhelmed by the epiphanies of that moment, and Crowley shushes him, whispering sweet nothings in his ear.

Aziraphale shifts so he can see Crowley’s face. It feels important that he see Crowley’s eyes - that Crowley see his face - when he says this.

“I realized the only thing that had ever kept me from loving you was my conviction that you and I were different, that you were a demon,” he says softly, framing Crowley’s dear, dear face. “And in that moment, I knew that had been a lie all along.”

He takes a deep breath, holding Crowley’s gaze. It’s so freeing to be able to love Crowley like this. He has always loved being with Crowley, even though he’d been hiding how he really felt. But he’s surprised by just how good it feels to stop pretending.

“You have always been incredibly compassionate” - he presses a kiss to the hollow of Crowley’s cheekbone - “Incredibly brave and fearless about who you are - “ he nuzzles Crowley’s nose with his - “Incredibly committed to the beauty and atrocity of the world and all its humans” - he traces the shells of Crowley’s ears with his fingers - “Incredibly loyal, even when I didn’t deserve it” - he kisses Crowley’s forehead with something like reverence - “And always, always, always incredibly loving toward me” - he drops a last kiss to Crowley’s lips, his heart swelling.

He pulls back, locking eyes with Crowley. Crowley, his true north. “I’m sorry it took me so long to realize that my place was next to you,” he says quietly. “And I’m sorry that it took me even longer to be brave enough to tell you that I’m in love with you, and that loving you is a part of me now.”

Crowley smiles, and it’s a pure, real thing. “Oh angel,” he says, and it’s the tone he uses when he’s feeling most fond of Aziraphale, a tone that Aziraphale finally recognizes for the lovesick feeling it holds. “Don’t apologize. I would have waited for you for six more millennia.”

Aziraphale knows he means it, and that makes him start to cry happy tears. “Crowley,” he bites out between sobs, “I will spend the rest of my eternal life loving you as you deserve. I owe that to you.”

Crowley brushes away his tears with the pads of his thumbs. “You don’t owe me anything,” he says. “But I plan to spend the rest of my eternal life loving you, too, so I guess we’ve got a deal.”

He smiles broadly, and Aziraphale can’t help but laugh. What an amazing future to contemplate.

Crowley pulls him in for another kiss, and then another, and then another, and Aziraphale joins him in the purest wave of joy he’s ever experienced.

…

365 Days After the World Didn't End

Aziraphale awakes a year after the apocalypse-that-wasn’t to hair in his mouth.

This is nothing unusual, of course. In the last few months, it has become abundantly clear that Crowley is a snuggler . Or, more accurately, he is a snake that likes to wrap every one of his limbs as tightly as celestially – demonically – humanly, whatever – as possible around Aziraphale. Of course, he was like this before also, but it’s become somewhat different since they confessed their love. He leaves no part of them not touching, and in the morning he whines when Aziraphale tries to get out of bed. Apparently all he needed to latch onto Aziraphale with his entire being was permission, which Aziraphale obviously happily gave.

Aziraphale just breathes for a few minutes, reveling in the feeling that has become second-nature to him recently. He feels surrounded by the purest love, and it’s all emanating from Crowley. For once, he can distinguish between his own love and Crowley’s, but now he doesn’t need to – they are one, as they were always meant to be.

Crowley stirs.

“Husband,” he murmurs, dropping a kiss to Aziraphale’s forehead.

“Husband,” Aziraphale returns.

They lay there for a long while, holding each other close, and another day begins.

fin

"I burned so long so quiet you must have wondered if I loved you back. I did, I did, I do.” - Annelyse Gelman