#did this for another spront

[finwritesthings]

Bonding

The room is filled with the gentle hum of music and the chatter of relatives, the smell of holiday baking drifts through the air. Pidge shifts in their seat, tugging at their shirt hem as they watch people mill about. Their eyes dart around the room quickly before slowly inching their hand up to the side of their ribs, adjusting their binder through the thick sweater. Pidge had spent the whole day helping set up for tonight’s party, and the realization that they’ve been binding for almost 11 hours is starting to set in. Their ribcage feels tight.

“Hey there Pidgeon.” Pidge jumps in their seat, head shooting up to find the owner of the voice and the hand on Pidge’s shoulder.

“Matt.” Pidge’s voice sounds strained, even to them.

Matt’s mouth dips downwards as he stares at Pidge carefully, “What’s going on?”

“Nothing.” Pidge’s response is too quick, too high.

Matt pulls a chair up next to Pidge and flops down, watching Pidge carefully, “C’mon, I know something’s up. You haven’t moved from this chair since family started showing up, you haven’t spoken a word to anyone, you haven’t even tried to go pet anyone’s dogs yet. Which is so not like you.”

Pidge digs their fingers into the material of their pants, shoulders hunched. “I just-” Pidge’s words are cut off abruptly as a second cousin or something of the like walks by. They lower their voice before continuing once more, “I’m afraid of what people will say.”

“What do you mean?” “I mean-” Pidge takes a deep breath, pinching their eyes shut. “I mean, I used to be Katie. But now I’m Pidge, who uses they/them pronouns because I’m “confused about my gender” because no one seems to understand the concept of there being more than two genders despite that on a chromosomal level there are over 30 different combinations of X and Y chromosomes and I’ve been binding for almost 11 hours but I can’t just go and take it off for a bit because mum will get upset that I’m being anti-social and if I explain it to her she’ll just tell me to go without it and-”

“Hey.” Matt reaches out to Pidge’s shoulder once more, “If you need to take your binder off for a bit then go. I’ll tell mum you’re taking a dump or something.” Matt’s smile is goofy and teasing, but it eases some of the anxiety in Pidge’s belly. “And then, when you’ve had a little time, we can make the rounds. Together. And I’ll make sure everyone uses the right name and pronouns for you. And then we can hang out with the dogs once we’ve had our socializing quota for the day. And if anyone says anything at dinner I’ll just kick them under the table and pretend like I was trying to kick you. How’s that sound?”

Pidge lets out a breath they hadn’t realized they were holding. They open their mouth to respond but realize they can’t speak around the lump in their throat. They lean over to Matt and wrap their arms around his shoulders, squeezing. Matt laughs into their hair and hugs Pidge back, patting them only somewhat patronizingly on the head.

Pidge laughs into his shoulder as they speak, “You’re an asshole.”

“Yes but I’m the best asshole.” They both laugh as Pidge jabs Matt in the side, none too gently.

Perhaps, this party won’t be too bad.

[aethelflaedladyofmercia]

Sweet Victory (Good Omens Fic)

On April 21, 2021 - Aethelflaed and Elf-on-the-Shelf met in frantic Discord Sprint Competition. The goal: be the first in the DIWS Discord server to reach Level 1000. The reward: the coveted title of Spront Lord. In our final sprint, we chose the shared prompt of "Sweet Victory." My results follow...and can also be found on AO3

--

“Ready?” Aziraphale said, resting primly against the kitchen wall.

Crowley, meanwhile, crouched, braced himself to charge forward.

“Go!” the demon shouted.

They dashed to the kitchen counter, where two sets of equipment and ingredients sat waiting, and began sorting through them as fast as possible.

Crowley had seen his angel cook before. Aziraphale took great delight in following every recipe to the letter, selecting only the finest ingredients, measuring each precisely, scraping a knife across the top of each cup to ensure not a single extra grain of sugar was added.

Crowley’s own methods were more…Crowley-esque.

He tore open each bag and container, scooping out the flour and dumping it into the bowl. Half of it wound up around the bowl, but that’s why he used big scoops. Sugar by the fistful, salt one pinch at a time. Butter. Milk. Cocoa powder. Everything that he needed to create the perfect cake.

The electric mixer screamed along at its top speed, brown dust flying in every direction, batter spattering up his shirt and across the wall. Four different eggs smashed on the floor, and he swept them aside with his foot.

The oven was pre-set to the correct temperature, but there would barely be room for two pans. The one who completed his mix first would get the coveted spot in the middle of the oven; the other would have to make do with another rack.

Crowley dumped the batter into the cake pan and slid it into place, slamming the oven shut while Aziraphale was still carefully counting the strokes of his spoon.

“Ha!” he crowed, leaning against the oven, then quickly danced away. “Ow, ow, ow, door hot.”

“Yes, dear,” Aziraphale said placidly. His pacing hadn’t altered, steady as a metronome.

He carefully measured and poured his batter into two small pans and placed his cakes in on the lower shelf, setting an egg timer down in his counter space.

Crowley, on the other hand, knelt and watched through the window, a trick he’d learned from Bake Off. The cake cooked quickly, puffing up just a little. When it looked done-ish, he snatched it out.

They had made the icing the previous night, though failed to agree that Crowley had definitely won that one. He snatched it out of the refrigerator now, and started slathering it atop the cake, thick as he could. Aziraphale raised an eyebrow at him and glanced at his timer, but continued waiting with patience that was rarely reserved for non-food-related activities.

The timer dinged, and Aziraphale pulled his cake pans out of the oven as Crowley put the finishing touches on his own: showering it with three different kinds of sprinkles. He folded his arms and gave the angel his smuggest grin.

Aziraphale’s cake cooled, and Crowley’s began to drip.

First the icing…melted off the cake, turning back into a runny glaze. He attacked it with spoon and knife, trying to pile it all on top where it belonged, but it was no good—now the cake began to crumble, sections breaking off, collapsing inward.

By the time Aziraphale finished his, glancing at the clock with a little bastard smile, Crowley’s had been reduced to a pile of chocolate crumbs mashed up in icing.

“You have another minute,” Aziraphale said. “if you think you have a plan.”

“I always have a plan.” Crowley scraped his cake into a clean bowl, mashed and stirred frantically with a fork, and looked up just as the clock struck noon. “S’pudding,” he explained with a grin.

“I…suppose…” Aziraphale looked skeptically at the mess. “I suppose I should taste yours first.”

“Yeah. Because I won. Sweet victory!”

“We were racing for the oven, yes, but we agreed victory would go to the best dessert, not the fastest.”

“Same difference.”

Aziraphale frowned, dipping first a fork and then—when that didn’t seem to work—a spoon into Crowley’s pudding. He lifted the bite, sniffed it, and popped it in his mouth.

Then promptly spat it into the sink.

“Darling,” he said with immense patience. “Did you mix up the sugar and the salt again?”

“No!” Crowley looked at the counter where he’d worked, white powder covering every surface. “Possibly.” He scraped his finger through the pudding and licked it with a forked tongue, then gagged. “Yes.”

Aziraphale smiled, cutting off a small section of two-layer cake, buttercream evenly spread with a whimsical pattern drawn in dark red piping. He lifted the forkful to his mouth and took a delicate bite. “Perfection” he said, licking his lips. “Absolutely delectable.”

“How do I know?” Crowley scowled, reaching grab a handful, though Aziraphale batted his arm away. “It isn’t fair if I can’t at least taste it.”

“Of course.” Aziraphale cut off another forkful and offered the bite. Crowley leaned forward to take it, but the angel pulled it back and popped it in his own mouth.

“Oi! How am I—”

Aziraphale pulled his husband into a kiss, a warm, chocolate-flavored kiss.

Defeat had never tasted so sweet.

--

Thank you for reading! Yes, this WAS all written in a single 20 minute sprint...except for the last few sentences, because I ran out of time...and also all the edits.

Regardless, the results of Elf's and my competition was: we both passed Level 1000 after this sprint! But Elf had enough bonus points to get up to Level 1001. So we both got the title of Spront Lord, but she technically did slightly better.

SLIGHTLY.