#purely self indulgent drivel

[kelzebub]

Chapters: 2/? Fandom: Zombies Run! Rating: Not Rated Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Janine/Peter, Paula Cohen/Maxine Myers Additional Tags: Sickfic, Illness, Flu, Caretaking, Season 10 Spoilers Summary:

Peter is supposed to immortal. In perfect health. He's not supposed to get sick. But then he does. Things escalate quickly, and Maxine needs help figuring out why an ordinary virus is wreaking havoc, and how to treat it, before it's too late. Takes place about a year after season 10, if season 10 ended with everyone living sorta happily ever after.

Chapter two: Janine is taking care of Peter but his condition worsens, requiring medical care. Maxine’s about to solve a medical mystery (hint: it’s not lupus).  (Hint #2: Yeah, I’m a nurse, but I don’t feel like being medically accurate - I’m just here to make it dramatic)

[number-one-van]

i’ve come to realise how dang important it is to have seperate projects that are catered to an audience and others catered to self indulgence. muses shift constantly, and i’m learning to broaden that to include projects i take quite seriously, to follow a narrative clearly (i try, anyway), to choose my words wisely and to write dialogue carefully and deliberately. these are stories i want to be proud of, to reflect a deeper meaning, connect the characters and reader to a story they can perhaps relate to or simply understand, or in some cases, be absolutely befuddled. most times it reflects heavily on my own observations.

on the other hand, in self indulgence i am catering much more to a fun little fantasy. i mean, you always are when writing, and there should always be a level of self indulgence in your stories, otherwise you’d be writing meaningless drivel. but in this case, you don’t restrict yourself quite so much to the “rules” of storytelling, you let your imagination run rampant, let the story toss and turn and at times, mean nothing. but sometimes those are the best, even if you’re not inherently proud of those works. they allow you to fully unleash your creativity without thought.

in fact, what i have just written before you today, is pure self indulgence and yet, completely true to myself. i’m not even gonna check for typos!

[fatal-rewrites-warriors]

FAQ

Can I...?

Yes, you may take inspo from, use designs from, and write your own fanfic using my work on this blog. Please do not claim any art or written work as your own.

Why did you give them knives? Aren't claws good enough?

Cat claws don't do the kind of damage that a knife can. They don't really deal lasting, fatal wounds like canon depicts. Cat claws are largely for holding onto shit and climbing.

Knives are also tools for other things, like cutting through tougher materials, harvesting plants and herbs, and skinning and prepping animals. This is largely what they're used for in the rewrite.

Also knives are cool.

Who is [insert name here]?

If they don't have the original name in brackets in the allegiances, then they're either an OC or I've forgotten.

Why did you change [character]'s name?

Sometimes I didn't like the name, or thought it was a little ridiculous, or it didn't really fit with the worldbuilding. Some name changes are forgotten to history though because I changed them like...three years ago.

Who is Owlwhisker?

He's a background Windclan cat from PO3 era who I grew unreasonably attached to while I was thinking about a PO3 rewrite, before I wrote Into the Wild. He's pure self-indulgence, babey.

Do you plan to rewrite TNP and PO3?

Maybe. The only thing I can say for certain is that I will finish rewriting the first arc, and then see where life takes me from there.

So...when are we getting Darkest Hour?

We'll get there when we get there, junior.

Are you aware of [insert fandom discourse drivel here]?

If you ask me about fandom discourse, and you are nice about it, I will ignore you. If you ask me about fandom discourse, and you are mean about it, I will block you.

Requests/trades/commissions?

No.

Do you mind reposts?

Actually, this is going to shock you but look. I'm never going to use a different social media site. You have my express permission to crosspost my work as long as you:

Do not alter the image in any way.

State the name of this blog in the comment.

Link directly to the my blog in a visible and sensible location.

Do not, under any circumstances, pretend to be me.

If you see someone reposting my work without fulfilling those criteria, let me know so I can go report them (since I know most sites don't let you report on behalf of others).

Do you have other social media?

This is it, babes. Tumblr is the last bastion of Fatal on the internet, so hopefully it doesn't go anywhere. That said, if you see someone on an (active) account claiming to be me, it's not.

[lightdancer1]

Well, I've found my first book since I started doing this to get a 0/10 rating:

This book is the equivalent of watching a video of a dog licking its nuts for three hours. Pure self-indulgence of the kind that is, once one starts it and finishes the first chapter and realizes all the others are like pure unreadable narcissistic drivel.

0/10.

[salvador-daley]

High Altitude

✈️ NOW BOARDING ✈️

The Flight Attendant!Klaus and Pilot!Dave AU slow burn enemies-to-lovers smutty (eventually) super cheesy rom com no one asked for

A/N: I know, I know. This is pure self-indulgent drivel and some of you are waiting on the next chapter of Chained (it’s coming, I swear!) But I’m just really in love with this nonsense fic and I can’t help myself. No regrets.

Acknowledgements: Thanks to @allisoooon for the beautiful Photoshop work (see above) and the EnKlave crew for encouraging the incorrigible.

Warning: Tray tables must be stowed in the upright position before landing

SNIPPET from Chapter 3: Lila was right. Klaus doesn’t have any real power. Airlines have a hierarchy and Klaus is very much at the bottom of the aviation food chain. It doesn’t help that he’s constantly skating on thin ice around Eudora and the rest of the crew, turning up late for pre-flight briefings and trying to hide the bags under his eyes with a dab of carefully applied concealer pickpocketed from duty free. He’s sure everyone thinks he’s a screw-up. Well, everyone apart from Lila, of course, with whom his reputation for hard-drinking and not-so-hard-working was forged in the first place.

Nevertheless, he’s found ways to make New Guy’s life miserable through petty acts of retribution, providing Klaus with an endless source of entertainment. He has, for example, never served New Guy a hot cup of coffee. He always makes sure to give New Guy’s soda a good shake before handing it to him. He arranges 3am wake-up calls to New Guy’s hotel room on layovers and he once bribed a housekeeper to put a red sock in with New Guy’s laundry. One night in Vegas, Klaus even sent an elderly hooker up to his room.

But the lynchpin of his revenge strategy came to him in a flash of inspiration during one of New Guy’s first flights with the crew. The pilots take turns to eat and Klaus had been bringing Geoff his evening meal when it happened.

“Here we go. Brought you your favourite - ribeye steak with fondant potato,” Klaus had said, placing the tray in front of the moustachioed older pilot. “And I swiped you an extra chocolate mousse from first class.”

As Geoff had settled in to begin his meal, New Guy had sniffed the air and raised an eyebrow, inspecting his colleague’s food with interest.

“Hey, that looks good. You got another one of those?” he’d asked Klaus.

And that’s when it came to him. Divine, vengeful inspiration.

Read the rest on AO3

Tagging because relevant to your interests: @badsext @katplanet @softforklave @anglophile-rin @falloutby @goldieknocks @merry-melody @neist @purblzart @quezadaas @santacarlahorrorshow @maerenee930 @firstpersonnarrator @theanxioushobbit @allisoooon @cemeteryklaus @super-unpredictable98 @wcrmboy @spookyfbi @squishitude @courtneytarynofficial @mokolataddict @pickledbeefwastaken @love-is-dirty-baby @rina-cydonia @inspiremeandsetmefree @jender123 @vonkimmeren @narnianaos @sylvertyger @hucklebunny @spideyxalmighty @faceache111 @rob-private @pietro-t1me

[iwrestlenow]

Many More To Die - Chapter 2

TITLE: Many More To Die (Chapter 2)

FANDOM: Sanders Sides (Necromancer AU)

SUMMARY: Names are powerful things--and after ten years, Logan's has acquired quite a bit. The restoration of his power is something he has to fight viciously to keep secret...But he's not the only necromancer who's in hiding. Above his head, Roman is being introduced to the people of the Kingdom's as his father's successor--but someone in the shadows is coming for the royal house of Sanders, of which Roman is part.And Logan will not stand for someone laying figurative hands on anyone that belongs to him.

SHIPS: Logince (Logan/Roman), future Moceit (Patton/Janus) and Dukexiety (Remus/Virgil)

WARNINGS: lots of death because necromancy, slash, and more to come as I figure it out ‘cause it’s late and I’m tired. In this particular chapter, CW for angst--I’ll post what kind at the end if you want to avoid spoilers, but I’m warning because for me? It’s a triggery subject. Be safe, you’re all so sweet and ILU.

Also, no betas, we die like men.

NOTES: This is based on the gorgeous piece of art by @gretacticdraws that can be found here. I ended up writing a ficlet for it, and then my brain got swallowed up. Breathe at me wrong, and I’ll write more…hell, who am I kidding? I’ll write more anyway because this? Is self indulgent drivel. XD

Also located at AO3 over here.

1025, A.A.

“Berry?”

Logan was yanked from a sound sleep by the utterance of his name—not the sound, but the feeling of it. Crawling around inside his skull like ants, static electricity shocking his neural pathways and the core of his essence. It was red strings and his first meal after that one stretch in the dungeon's blackout cells after he punched the guard that dislocated his shoulder.

Logan Berry. Logan Berry. The gift from his guardian angel was two years old at this point...and Logan was starting to wonder if it was more than just a small reminder of his personhood, to keep the harsh world around him from breaking his spirit.

Sitting up, Logan rubbed his eyes and reached for his glasses where they sat on the floor beside his pallet. When they had finally given them back to him two weeks after his arrival, the right lens had been all but shattered. The guard who had returned them—the same one who injured him—smiled far too wide for Logan's liking, inciting the attack that had gotten him punished.

“I am awake.” he announced softly, sliding his glasses on and rising from his pallet to approach the bars of his cell. Squinting in the low torchlight, he searched...

A point of bright yellow sunlight, slit down the middle by a reptilian pupil gleamed in the shadows before the body it was attached to came into view. Swiftly, it was joined by another eye, very much human and dark as chocolate. A sweep of hair as black as Logan's own fell across his forehead, and the torchlight gleamed across the burnished surface of the scales that covered half of the young drake's face and neck.

“Of course.” the drake shot back dryly, not quite managing to hide the sibilant accent inherent to his species. “That's why you were snoring.”

“What do you want, Janus?”

The eighteen year old Janus narrowed his mismatched eyes at Logan—but quickly gave up on trying to look intimidating. He hardly needed it, being not only older, but the son of the captain of the guard.

“A favor.” he admitted, sparking enough of Logan's interest to banish the last of the cobwebs lingering in his head. Janus didn't like being indebted to anyone—and, to that end, usually came to Logan for favors, as Logan was always perfectly willing to trade his assistance for some commodity, be it books, food, or the repair of his glasses.

“What is the favor?” Logan asked.

Janus said nothing for a long moment, staring into Logan's face...no, not his face. Squinting, he realized Janus was quite deliberately avoiding direct eye contact by focusing on a point just above Logan's eyes, somewhere around his forehead.

“Janus?...”

Shutting his eyes, Janus ducked his head.

“I...need a name.”

“A...what?”

“A name, all right? Like the one you picked for yourself.”

Logan was startled by that request—he told no one about the boy who came to him, claimed he made up his own surname to replace the Name that was stripped away. Some of the guards disliked it, stirring fresh retellings of the legends of the Lazari: necromancers with the power not merely to raise the dead, but craft true, living souls from sheer force of will.

He even heard some new ones about the Animata: a theoretical balance to the Necromata, magic practitioners that could manipulate life the way necromancers manipulated death. From the stories Logan overheard while pretending to sleep with guards outside his cell, the Animata had been wiped out by the rise of the Animator, the First of the Necromata, leading to his rise and attempted enslavement of the Kingdoms. With the Animata gone and unable to keep the balance in check, the king had been forced to slay the Animator and had outlawed necromancy soon after.

All stories, of course...but over the last two years, as his name wormed through his brain the way the power of the prison mages had, it sometimes made him wonder. After all, mythology and legend served two functions in human history: explaining natural phenomenon that were not yet understood, or hyperbolic retellings of one or many actual events.

So the prison guards talked, wondered if Logan had designs on restoring his own Name through the adoption of a new one—but Janus, for all his trust issues and ilicit dealings, was an intelligent boy with a good head on his shoulders. He wasn't one for fanciful stories—only those that he could tell in the name of manipulating others.

Perhaps that was why he felt some measure of shame or embarrassment for asking Logan this favor? There was clearly some...unidentified emotion behind the request, and Logan wasn't particularly good at coping with emotional issues. He highly suspected that, when he still had a Name, he had been essentially the same.

“...I want to be allowed to keep books in my cell.” He hadn't meant to say anything indicating agreement—but the words fell out of his mouth without any conscious permission.

Janus's head snapped up sharply. This time, he met Logan's gaze with an intensity that was decidedly threatening.

“That's all?” he asked, squinting after a long moment. “No...commentary?”

Logan shrugged. “You know I do not care for sentiment. Your obvious flirtation with it, in this situation, does not interest me so much as what I can gain from the moment of weakness on your part.”

“Are you sure you're only fourteen? You sound way too much like my grandpa sometimes.”

Logan rolled his eyes, declining to rise to the bait. Instead, he gave the matter what he felt was a comically superficial amount of consideration.

“Hart.” he finally decided.

Janus raised an eyebrow at him, mismatched eyes losing focus for a moment before he nodded to himself.

“That...works surprisingly well.” he mumbled, seemingly more to himself than anything. Refocusing on Logan, Janus straightened and once again resumed his attempts at exuding as commanding a presence as he could manage.

“You'll get your books.” Janus assured him. “I always pay my debts.”

“Past performance indicates this is an accurate assessment. Hence my request.”

“Oh...go back to bed.”

“Gladly.”

********** 1033, A.A.

“Ladies, lords, non-binary royalty, and all of my valued subjects!”

By the gods, I'm going to throw up.

Roman stood behind the curtain on the balcony, his heart in his throat. Every part of him was screaming to run, to hide, to sink into the floor and vanish through sheer force of his desire to not be there—to push Remus out to take his place when the king made his proclamation. Already, he could feel the weight of his impending responsibilities threatening to crush him, the world narrowing and the walls closing in...

He couldn't do this. He wasn't ready. He wasn't smart like Remus or as patient as his father, he wasn't commanding enough—he couldn't be king.

But he would be. One day.

Peering through the curtain, he saw his father turn...and though the pride in his face only made the terror worse, at the same time...

He could do this. He had to.

Smiling, King Thomas Sanders IV extended a hand towards him in silent encouragement. It was the same hand he offered to those subjects that knelt before him at court to have their grievances heard, the same hand he offered to both Roman and Remus as children when they felt shy or had fallen down while playing...

...or leading him back into the house when he was out to hunt a Lazari...

“I give you your future king—Prince Roman Sanders!”

A hand fell to his shoulder, squeezing hard enough to bruise.

“Give 'em hell, Ro Bro!” Remus hissed gleefully in his ear.

It was strange, but some of the weight lifted itself off of Roman's shoulders, with his brother's hand there instead as he stepped out onto the balcony and into the sunlight.

For a moment, it was...magical. The ghost of Remus's fingers pressed into his shoulder, his father's hand curling warm around his nape—the people of the Kingdoms below, smiling and cheering in a symphony that filled his lungs as readily as it filled his ears, turning his heart into pure starlight.

For a moment, basking in his father's pride, his brother's confidence, and his people's love—he didn't just feel like he could do this, he knew that he could.

For a moment—that was all he got before his heart stopped beating.

It happened suddenly, but somehow it felt as natural as breathing. The tension of that missing engine powering the body and soul, the inability to draw breath. It was the peace of sleep, the flow of one step into the next while walking down an evenly paved road—he knew something was wrong, and yet he could not escape the manner in which it felt so normal.

Standing there, dying in front of the very kingdom he was meant to serve with no rhyme or reason for it.

Let it go...it felt so right, it felt proper.

As his vision began to dim, and the hand he'd raised to wave to the crowd started to fall by his side, he felt the urge to fight sliding out of him, eyes already slipping shut...

Easy as existing. Getting dark, time to sleep.

Until he heard a sigh next to him that was chilling.

The king.

Death no longer felt so inevitable, nor did it feel right. It was wrong, but...it was inside him, twisting and warping to form words that echoed inside his head. Something was slipping into the void left behind by the absence of a heartbeat, speaking to him in the Reaper's voice...

The necromancer.

**********

Logan was only aware of it in passing—however, Logan wasn't supposed to be capable of even that, and had to take such painstaking care to make sure that no trace of his magic could be felt anywhere. He had to keep the fact that he had power hidden, had to beat back every trace of it.

So he was aware of his magic, far more than he was aware of the distant stars that were the lives of every creature within the palace and beyond.

And the feel of his power waking, straining towards death? That hit him hard, made him focus on that awareness of what was happening.

“Lo? You okay?”

Logan spun in his seat and stood, stalking up to the bars of his cell. It was little more than a voice in another house, reaching him barely through thin walls and great distances...but it was growing closer, crossing that distance, too close too close too close...

“Logan? You're scaring me.”

Patton was at his side, watching him with wide, fearful eyes.

“Someone is killing the king.” Logan breathed.

“What? How can you possibly know that?” Patton hissed.

Logan opened his mouth...and nothing came.

Until that voice, hollow and honeyed, was suddenly in his house and in his veins and in his...in his.

For the first time, Logan understood why the Necromata were so feared—why he was locked below ground, why he had no Name of his own and why it was so desperately important to make sure no necromancer could ever practice their art.

The moment he sensed that foreign power encroaching on something that belonged to Logan alone, everything was chilling instinct and cold, calculating fury. The power swept up and took over, took action to reclaim what was being stolen.

The king was dying, but so was the Green Man.

Logan's last rational thought before an eerie blue light swallowed up his eyes and the power wiped his mind clean was that, if the Green Man was close enough to the king, he might actually be able to save them both.

********** The necromancer in the dungeons. Roman could feel it, he was certain of it...it felt cold and airy, thick morning fog swirling through his marrow yet rendering his mind strangely clear. It was familiar, not all that different from the way it felt when they touched in Roman's dreams.

The necromancer was there. He was...helping Roman.

You have to get to the king.

He didn't know, even after all these years didn't realize who Roman was, and that was the way it ought to be, and yet...he was warning Roman, he was--

The wrongness of it filled his chest in the space of a blink, filled his lungs, forced breath into his body. The fight squeezed every muscle, including his heart, in a steady rhythm that started his blood moving again. Roman tried to clutch at his chest, but he couldn't.

He felt cold all over, but his body was working, warring with some outside force, struggling to stay alive.

His body was no longer his to control, he realized with a rush of fear. The necromancer...chill fog, thick and light and clear, in his head and his veins and his heart...

Roman's body was turning, his head swiveling around, obeying an order he did not give.

The necromancer was animating him now, manipulating his every move—and all Roman could do was stand there and let it happen--

Go.

...Father!

This time, when he tried to move, his body obeyed him, his will and that of the necromancer uniting as one.

He rushed forward, reaching out...

In just enough time to catch the king as he fell, a corpse gone cold by the time the both of them reached the ground. ((CW: parental death--but this IS a necromancer AU. Just keep that in mind. XD))

[bougiebutchbitch]

me every couple months: aaaah cbty is so bad.... :( I started off writing it as pure self-indulgent drivel before I tried to make it Good, and it shows....... :( 

me once a year, actually reading cbty: wtf this is actually pretty awesome

[rangerofpelor]

under the cut because this is long and highly self indulgent

but i’ve been obsessed with the concept of modern au valko/grisha where they’re assigned this guy to assassinate, but they also have to con some information out of him as well. thing is the guy is super secretive and stays holed up in his gated community, so valko and grisha have to go undercover as a newly wed couple who are moving into said gated community

valko is mostly the one hefting moving boxes from the van while grisha gets things set up inside. valko chit chats with the neighbors when they walk by on their daily jogs or while walking their dogs, and he’s super good with the neighborhood pets and kids, and it’s eventually revealed that he’s actually working as a groundskeeper for the community, so they’ll be seeing a lot of him around

and after they’ve settled in, a few days later, the neighborhood ladies come poking around the house during work hours, trying to get a glimpse of the mysterious person valko is wed to. they’re shocked to see a man, but they’re all quickly very excited to have a “gay best friend” to join their gossip ring, and they’re even more intrigued when grisha vaguely mentions that he’s a small businessman (”you’ve seen the way my husband dresses, obviously he’s not the one bringing in the money”)

anyway after dethroning the reigning queen bee (purely by accident, but he has a compulsive need to be in control and he just absolutely eviscerates her verbally), grisha gets roped into the ladies’ book club, where he “befriends” the target’s wife, and he uh...gets swept up into wine-mom facebook culture against his will, but he fits in so well

( “This house is awfully big for just the two of you. Have you considered adopting a dog or something?” one lady asks

to which grisha responds: “Susan, I have a husband. I can’t be picking up after two animals.” and everyone gets a good laugh)

anyway, the book club starts reading 50 Shades because of course they do, and for some reason the books really get under grisha’s skin. to the point where it keeps him up at night

*two am*

grisha: Valko, how do I let these ladies know that this book isn’t an accurate portrayal of BDSM without inviting questions about our sex life?

valko: *half asleep* what?

grisha: this is absolute drivel! and it’s not even good drivel! 

valko: grish...it’s just a book...go to sleep

grisha: no! you don’t understand! we work because we have complementary needs. a woman who’s not into the lifestyle and who really doesn’t know what she wants is a really poor partner choice for this guy

valko: grisha...i have to be up in four hours. i’m going to sleep

grisha: no! listen to me! it only works if both parties are getting what they want out of it! 

valko: ok darling

*later*

karen: *talks about how sometimes when she and her husband are feeling particularly kinky, one of them will tie the other up using his ties*

grisha: *literally had valko collared, bound, gagged, and blindfolded, while he carved his initials into valko’s chest the night before and the bloody sheets are currently going through a cold wash cycle in the laundry room* how scandalous

meanwhile valko has been slowly befriending the husband, and they’ve bonded over hunting. a number of the husbands go out during the fall to go hunting, and as the newest member of the group, valko is invited. the guys initially think about hazing him, but once he reveals that he knows his way around guns and that he’s a fuckin’ phenomenal shot, they welcome him in like he’s one of their own. they talk guns, previous trophies

anyway grisha and the target’s wife hang out a lot while valko and the husband are gone, and grisha starts working his claws into the wife, manipulating her and convincing her that she should poison her husband since she’s so unhappy. 

in the end valko manages to get the info out of the target and grisha manages to convince the lady to kill her husband and he even helps her transfer the life insurance money to an offshore account and gets her set up somewhere nice. 

[ao3feed-harrydraco]

by teenagefanclub

Eighth year AU wherein a new muggle device is introduced to the students of Hogwarts: the mobile phone. Chaos swiftly ensues.

Words: 2816, Chapters: 2/?, Language: English

Fandoms: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Categories: M/M

Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley, Harry Potter/Ginny Weasley, Minor Seamus Finnigan/Harry Potter

Additional Tags: Hogwarts Eighth Year, Texting, Slow Burn, Fluff, An Attempt At Humour, Snape is still alive purely for the meme, Alternative Title: Self-Indulgent Drivel, Pining Draco, Oblivious Harry

[journalxxx]

And They Rested on the Seventh Day

[I read the Good Omens book and watched the Amazon series, and enjoyed both a great deal: however, this story doesn't strictly follow the canon or characterizations of either. It's a bit of a mix of the things I liked the most from both versions (for clarity, this considers basically the plot and ending from the book + few selected elements from the tv series. Also Tennant. Definitely Tennant), topped with purely made-up bits of headcanon and character interpretation. The final result is that it’ll probably feel full of inconsistencies and OOC moments, but oh well. I had to take a few ideas off my head.]

To think that it had all started as a hobby of sorts. A wild bet on and against himself, just for the fun of it. 

Crowley hadn't thought much of the job he'd done in the Garden of Eden, at first. To be fair, he was still convinced that most of the responsibility for that big mishap fell on God Herself and Her inexplicable - pardon, ineffable - decision to dangle juicy bits of edible forbidden knowledge right in front of people who had literally been born yesterday. Honestly, what else could have happened? Crowley was sure one of the two humans would have given in to curiosity anyway, sooner or later: his intervention had simply sped up the process.

But Crowley’s superiors had been positively enthusiastic about it. God’s new and supposedly best creations, twisted and corrupted and exiled in less than a week since the beginning of the world? An astonishing success for the dark forces, they had said, very well done Crawly, you shall hereby be hailed as The Tempter (a title that would be handed out very freely in the centuries to come, in fact, since he had basically invented a whole new and very busy line of work for the entire Underworld). They had been so keen on putting his supposed talents of persuasion to good use that they had assigned him on permanent Earth surveillance duty, keeping an eye on things and easing the slippery slope of other innocent souls to the abyss. A simple enough job, he thought, and he wasn’t at all displeased with the idea of spending most of his time away from Hell. The place was, well, hellish.

He had been quite surprised to meet the Guardian of the Eastern Gate there as well, apparently tending to the exact opposite task as Crowley’s. What were the odds, uh? But in Aziraphale’s case, Crowley couldn’t help but feel that the new office was meant more as a demotion rather than as a reward. The angel didn’t seem exactly… suited to field work, so to speak. He was definitely the kind of guy who’d deal better with paperwork or with performing celestial harmonies or with whatever those guys up there got up to, these days - rather than with acting as an incognito emissary of the Light. He was simply too soft-hearted. It clearly pained him to witness the daily struggles of mankind without being able to relieve them, if not in a very roundabout and indirect way. He would have gladly handed out miracles and blessings as promptly as he had relinquished his flaming sword, Crowley thought, if he hadn’t directly been ordered to stick to spreading ‘positive influence’. 

He was a queer one, Aziraphale, but overall rather amusing to have around. And after the first mostly accidental meetings, Crowley had started to notice several very, very interesting things about him. 

First of all, the angel was a sinner. And a rather nonchalant one too.

The first sin Crowley noticed was pride. Now, pride was objectively quite intrinsic to all angelic beings, to some extent, with their perpetual holier-than-thou attitude and their unbending illusion of absolute righteousness. Aziraphale wasn’t an exception. He could have very well avoided Crowley, if he really thought so lowly of him and his shady dealings, but he didn’t. He met him, he primly and oh so very graciously tolerated his company, he pointedly corrected his faulty views on creation and the universe with the self-satisfied attitude of a conceited schoolmaster. It made Crowley’s skin, well, crawl. And he had this ridiculous habit of pointing out, at randomly fitting points during any discussion, that he, Aziraphale, was an angel and he, Crowley, was a demon, and therefore blah blah. He did that really often, inexplicably so. It wasn’t like either of them was going to forget what they were, after all. And it wasn’t like he needed to repeat that at frequent intervals to make sure that some undefined and distracted external audience was aware of their standing in the universe either. It was just plainly dumb and irritating. Crowley had taken to address him as ‘angel’ more often than with his proper name, out of sheer sarcasm. Sadly Aziraphale hadn’t taken particular notice.

Another very glaring sin Aziraphale keenly committed was gluttony. Oh, what a glutton he was. The first time Crowley had met him ‘socially’, he had been astounded to notice that Aziraphale actually ate. If his body was anything like Crowley’s, and Crowley was sure it was, it was conveniently free from most of the intentional design flaws God had installed on humans after Adam and Eve’s escape, such as illness, hunger and tiredness. Neither Aziraphale nor Crowley needed any sustenance or sleep (although Crowley had quickly taken a liking to the latter activity - but he was a demon, Aziraphale would have pointed out with his most slappable face, so he was allowed as many indulgences as he wanted). Even the most gluttonous human had some sort of excuse, what with needing to eat to survive and, while one was at it, he may as well do it decently, to build the temple of his body in the best possible way and so on and so forth. It was a very flimsy and poor excuse, considering the sort of folks who usually resorted to it, but humans clung to such moralistic drivel like limpets. Aziraphale didn’t even have that tiny pretext on his side. He ate (and drank) without any need to, and he did it often and with much gusto, out of sheer pleasure. If that wasn’t the epitome of gluttony, Crowley was an anteater.

And, after a few centuries, a hint of greed began to emerge too. It was a very specific sort, aimed at very specific material possessions, namely those that had to do with writing. Aziraphale had been inordinately proud when humans had begun to carve their funny little thoughts and grocery lists on very impractical clay tablets, he had called it a revolutionary intuition, surely sparked by divine goodwill. Crowley’s reaction had been more along the lines of a whole-body shrug. Aziraphale was fond of reading and, when it became possible, he even started collecting reading material. Papyrus, parchments, scrolls, anything he could find. When books started to become a thing, the angel ogled them like misguided shepherds ogled golden calves. He acquired them very sparingly and with a trace of guilt at first, when books were rare and their production was lengthy and expensive and holding onto some tomes for his own personal enjoyment effectively diminished the amount of knowledge available to the world at large. But after the press was invented, oooh boy. Yes, the excessive and self-serving accumulation of literary material goods was definitely among Aziraphale’s faults.

But that was only the tip of the proverbial iceberg.

In fact, for all his preaching and sternly-worded proclamations of faith, Aziraphale had perplexities. That much was glaringly obvious. Ineffability perplexed him, even though he unerringly presented it as the ultimate argument against Crowley’s own perplexities, whenever they ventured to discuss celestial politics. It had been perplexing him, at least to a certain extent, since the apple incident, Crowley was sure of that. And that was odd in itself. Crowley had believed that, after the Rebellion, Heaven had been purged of any angelic creature who wasn’t a hundred percent committed and trusting in God’s cause, but Aziraphale seemed troubled to a visible degree, at times. Crowley had known Aziraphale only very superficially before falling, and he couldn’t quite say if his doubts were a recent development or not.

So, a peculiar idea started to slither in the corners of Crowley’s oft bored mind.

What if, he thought, what if I could make this angel fall?

The premises for the evil deed were all there. Aziraphale already committed almost half of the deadly sins of his own accord, whether he knew it or not. And he had reservations, however intimate and rationalized, about God’s plan. That was all it had taken for Crowley himself to fall, after all. Just a couple of reservations and hanging around the wrong people. Crowley could provide both of those factors very easily.

It was, admittedly, mere speculation. Crowley wasn’t even sure it was possible for angels to fall after the Rebellion - something had seriously shifted in the balance of the universe back then, everyone had noticed. But the concept was absurdly inviting. Who else, after all, aside from the Morning Star Himself, could boast coaxing angels into corruption? It would be a stunning accomplishment in any demon’s curriculum, wouldn’t it? Forget about apples and tempting feeble human minds, that would be real bragging material. The more he thought about it, the stronger the itch got. In addition, despite his earlier doubts, Crowley had discovered himself quite naturally adept to that whole temptation business. He had thought his success with Eve a bit of a fluke, born of very favorable circumstances: deep down she already wanted that fruit, and so did her companion. They were already leaning towards disobedience, and all Crowley himself had to do was just to give the both of them a little nudge in that direction.

But then, he had found out that that principle was valid for all humans. Every human, literally every one of them, was inevitably attracted to Evil, at least a little bit. In some cases he had to resort to some delicate manoeuvres and subtle approaches to nurture that twisted tendency, in others he simply had to knock on an open door. A very easy and straightforward job, indeed.

But would it be that easy with a full-fledged angel? Presumably not. How should he go about it, then? He supposed that approaching Aziraphale with a rapid fire of existential questioning would be slightly too on the nose. Besides, ineffability. How did you even question that? It’s a brick wall of suspended disbelief and logic denial. No, theology speculations weren’t the right answer, only the most mind-numbingly boring one.

Crowley decided to roll up his sleeves and start with the basics. Adding the remaining deadly sins on Aziraphale’s list of misconducts would be a solid start, he deliberated. Whittling away at a soul’s integrity bit by bit was all the rage back then, in terms of temptation tactics. He’d slowly erode the angel’s rectitude as if he was your average human, and then he’d see where he could go from there. And he would take it nice and easy, spreading his influence over centuries, millennia if necessary. He wouldn’t risk ruining his chances by revealing his hand too soon. He had picked the most promising one among the four remaining sins, and he had started plotting.

He could still remember the indescribable sensation he had felt when he had succeeded, sometime around 1000 AD. It had indeed taken centuries of discreet suggestions and proposals, refuted firmly and scornfully at first, but with less and less passion over time, until Aziraphale had finally given in to the Arrangement, with nothing more than a curt and tense nod. Crowley had offered his assistance first, obviously. He was already about to head to Byzantium to tend to his own business, so he thought he may as well take care of Aziraphale’s too. Just an innocent favour, free of charge. Obviously, if for fairness’ sake the angel felt like returning said favour in the future, Crowley’d be obliged, but really, no pressure whatsoever. 

Unexpectedly, unlike all the previous times, the angel had accepted. It felt like a minor victory in itself, even though it was only the first step. Naturally Aziraphale followed him, although not quite as discreetly as he thought. And he followed Crowley the next time as well, and the third- the third he didn’t. 

Now, that felt like a triumph. Crowley’s skin had begun to tingle in sheer excitement when he had ascertained that the third time he had offered his assistance to Aziraphale, the angel had simply trusted him to carry out the task as requested. Not that Crowley wanted or could avoid doing what he’d been asked - their respective head offices may be careless about smaller details, but they were fond of keeping scores. If the holy work hadn’t been performed, Heaven would have noticed, therefore Aziraphale would have been reprimanded, and Crowley would have lost that hard-earned trust. What was notable, however, was that it had taken only two trips for the angel to trust completely a demon to perform honest, divine work. It was foolish of Aziraphale not to check that he would, it was lazy of him not to perform the job himself, as he’d been ordered, as he’d undoubtedly report he had. It was deception to his superiors, it was negligence, but more importantly, it was sloth.

It was a heady rush of adrenaline after a long period of forced calm, the kind of exhilaration a skilled hunter feels after waiting for hours - centuries, in that case - for the prey to fall into an aptly placed trap. It was indeed possible to tempt an angel, and he, Crowley the Tempter, the Snake of Eden, had managed to do it. It was riveting. That sensation of well-earned success alone would have been enough to brighten his days and put a spring in his step for the next century, but the best was yet to come, and it was something Crowley wasn’t even planning of.

He had been joking when he had suggested that Aziraphale should be the one to carry out the next bunch of long-distance duties for the both of them. He wasn’t expecting him to accept by a long shot, definitely not so soon at least - but he did. Sheepishly and uncomfortably, Aziraphale had listened to Crowley’s instructions and headed off with a half-muttered promise to ‘see what he could do’. That was a surprise, although Crowley didn’t believe for one second that he would see the job done. An angel (and not just any angel, Aziraphale), doing Satan’s work? What a joke. He’d chicken out of it before dawn, for sure, and either later inform Crowley that he had met with obstacles, or pretend to have forgotten about the whole conversation. And indeed, after seeing neither hide nor hair of the angel for the next month, Crowley assumed Aziraphale had just done that. The demon had then made the hundred-kilometre trip to take care of the business personally, only to find the couple of married lovers (married to other people, that is) already in the throes of the deep reciprocal passion that had been haunting them for the past three years, their families in turmoil and their small town in the middle of nowhere now enjoying the best bout of spicy gossip since that peculiar incident with the shepherd and his sheep forty years earlier.

Crowley was absolutely flabbergasted. That was much, much better than he’d even dared to expect. He felt like he’d basically already done it. It was going to work. If it had taken so little effort to convince an angel to tempt humans instead of blessing them, it was only a matter of time before Aziraphale eventually succumbed completely to Crowley’s scheme. Only a matter of time! He’d keep working on it, slowly and patiently, in a world that would soon start moving forward at an increasing and unimaginable pace, treating Aziraphale like his personal pet project, tackling one sin at a time. What was left? Lust, envy, wrath - oof, wrath was going to be a tough one, wasn’t it? The strongest negative emotion he’d ever seen Aziraphale display was ‘mildly peeved’ - but it would definitely, definitely work. He wouldn’t rush it, he’d wait for the perfect occasion to land in his lap and he’d seize it, to drag the angel to ruin in careful, calculated steps.

That night Crowley had gotten fantastically, gloriously, immeasurably drunk, and had dragged literally the entire village into his personal celebration, thanks to the inexplicable appearance of a good dozen abandoned carts on the main road, filled with jugs of excellent wine from the local vineyards. The huge, impromptu party that followed would have put Bacchus himself to shame, and it provided the village spinsters with enough gossip about the many depraved deeds that had been consumed on that night for the next 378 years, give or take.

That was roughly a thousand years ago.

Funny, Crowley thought as he was sprawled on an unimportant bench in an unimportant road of Lower Tadfield, Oxfordshire, feeling and looking like a puppet with cut strings. Funny, Crowley thought as he was looking up into the cloudless and starry sky of a world that hadn’t ended, how much things can change in just a thousand years.

Aziraphale stood up when two round headlights appeared at the end of the road, and glanced curiously at Crowley when he didn’t do the same. Slowly, with immense effort and groaning like a metal crane bent by a gigantic hand, Crowley gathered his strewn limbs and rearranged them vertically as well. The angel and the demon climbed on a bus that wasn’t going to Oxford, walked past an unresponsive conductor that wasn’t asking for tickets, and spent most of the trip sharing a bottle of wine whose quality vastly outmatched its price tag and whose capacity had long since exceeded the promised 750 millilitres.

The repetitive scenery of the the dark English countryside let Crowley’s mind wander back into the past. It occurred to him that it had been roughly 600 years since the last time Aziraphale had set foot into his house. You could count on the fingers of one hand the number of times the angel had ever accepted to visit his ‘den of iniquity’ (Aziraphale’s words, c. 310 AD), and always very briefly. They had always preferred meeting in public venues anyway, until Crowley had decided that Aziraphale’s bookshop definitely counted as one and had taken the habit of dropping by for the occasional drink. 

The invitation had slipped out of Crowley’s mouth easily, unthinkingly, while they were waiting for the bus. And, honestly, how could he not offer hospitality in such circumstances? All of the angel’s earthly possessions, including his very house, had gone up in flames. What was Crowley supposed to do, let him go to a random public bathroom, lock himself into a cubicle and miracle the inside of it into Croesus’ mansion? Seriously. Just because he was a demon, it didn’t mean he was utterly uncivil. Still, Aziraphale had taken up on Crowley’s suggestion with less hesitation that he’d expected. At that point, all Crowley could do was hoping that Hell hadn’t sent reinforcements after Hastur and Ligur’s failed attempt at ‘collecting’ him, and an apartment to invite Aziraphale into still existed in the first place... Oh, well. Worst case scenario, they’d hijack two cubicles.

“How long do you think we have,” Aziraphale said quietly, interrupting the disorganized flow of Crowley’s thoughts, “before they’ll decide to come after us?”

“Heaven and Hell, you mean?” Crowley answered slowly, syllables sticking to his tongue. “I don’t know, a while. I bet they have some serious internal mess to deal with first. Disappointed warmongers and whatnot. Bigger priorities than us.”

“But they will sort that out eventually.” Aziraphale stretched his arm towards Crowley, hand open in a muted request for the bottle. “And then what? I doubt they’ll leave any rogue agents be.”

“....Eh. They might, you know? The kid- whoops.” Crowley let go of the bottle when he felt Aziraphale’s fingers brush his own, but the glass slipped from both their grasps. Aziraphale blinked, and the bottle froze in midair a few centimetres above the floor. He calmly bent down to fetch it as Crowley continued. “The kid told us not to worry.”

“But do you think he has the power to grant us protection from both Reigns?”

Crowley shrugged. “He’s the boss’ son. And he just stopped the bloody apocalypse, if you haven’t noticed. He has power, all right. That’s good enough insurance for me.”

Aziraphale hummed pensively, his gaze lost out of the window. Crowley watched him take a measured sip, and then clean distractly the neck of the bottle with a handkerchief. His movements were quiet, harmonious, steady. Everything about Aziraphale was, and always had been. Crowley’s whole, brilliant temptation plan was centered on the expectation that sins would change his angelic nature, that they would change him. Instead, what had happened was the exact opposite. As the decades and centuries went by, as their meetings grew less and less ‘business’ oriented and turned into genuine divertissement, Aziraphale wasn’t changed by the sins: the sins were changed by him. A tasty nibble of food wasn’t a temptation any more, but a moment of genuine appreciation for the little, blessed pleasures God still allowed mortals to experience. His elegantly-worded notions about the order of the universe ceased to be a prideful display of superiority, and instead became an engaging debate capable of building dialogue between spiritual opposites. His love for books wasn’t a selfish desire of accumulation for accumulation’s sake, but an intellectual connection to the history and minds of the humans he was meant to protect, from all times and cultures. His acceptance to share duties with a demon wasn’t sheer laziness, but a very tangible olive branch offered to a former sworn enemy. Deeds that would have tarnished any human soul, made it revolting and beyond repair, hadn’t even dented the core of Aziraphale’s goodness. If anything, they had enriched it: like the light patina of a vintage Bentley, those sins adorned Aziraphale’s very soul like unique and distinguishing traits, all the more intriguing to a discerning eye.

And the most baffling thing was that Crowley hadn’t even noticed. He hadn’t noticed that his plan, ostensibly always in motion and always waiting, waiting, waiting for the next occasion to move further, was gradually being shoved into the most forgetful corners of his mind. He hadn’t noticed he’d stopped plotting against his enemy, and had instead started just coexisting with him. It had taken him so goddamn long to notice he’d stopped considering Aziraphale as an inconvenient obstacle to be removed from the world Crowley was meant to submit, but that the angel had rather become one of its most interesting and worthwhile features.

It had taken him until the end of the world to realize that.

As it turned out, Crowley’s flat hadn’t been obliterated by the forces of Hell. Yet.

“Make yourself at home.” Crowley said as he jogged from room to room to make sure there were no former colleagues of his lying in wait anywhere.

“This is where you live?” Aziraphale asked, peeking curiously from the entryway. Crowley interrupted his inspection just to make a face.

“Oh no, I’m just appropriating the humble abode of a millionaire manager perished in the latest fish tornado. He won’t need it anymore, will he?” Aziraphale gave him a dubious glance. Crowley rolled his eyes. “Yes, this is where I live. What kind of question is that, why wouldn’t it be?”

“Oh, you know, just wondering.” Aziraphale answered, visibly relieved. “I wasn’t really expecting your home to look like this.”

“And why not?”

“Well, it’s… rather neat and minimalistic.” Aziraphale hesitated. “It almost reminds me of the Upper Offices. Although it is quite darker, I suppose.”

Crowley stared at Aziraphale pointedly. Deafening silence was the only appropriate reply to such a statement, so he let it stretch leisurely until Aziraphale couldn’t help but look away.

“Are you going to come in anytime soon or…?” Crowley eventually said, gesturing around vaguely.

“Yes. Thank you.” The angel finally unstuck from the threshold and followed Crowley into the study. “I really appreciate your hospitality, by the way. I’ll be out of your hair by tomorrow, I’m sure it won’t be hard to find a nice spot for me to move in.”

“Oh, no rush. I barely use this place.” Crowley waved at him dismissively, his attention suddenly caught by the ansaphone. It wasn’t blinking exactly as he had left it. It definitely should be blinking exactly as he had left it. “Uh, right, the bedroom’s over there. If you don’t feel like sleeping, there’s the…” There was the tv, which Aziraphale hardly ever watched. There was the computer, which surely he didn’t even know how to plug in. There was the hi-fi, boasting an impressive collection of contemporary artists 95% of which the angel probably had never heard of. It suddenly occurred to Crowley that Aziraphale wasn’t the easiest guest to entertain.

“You don’t happen to have any books lying around, I suppose.”

Crowley shrugged. “‘Fraid not. But there’s some food in the fridge, if you want.” He offered lamely.

“Oh. Thank you, but I think I’ll be catching some sleep tonight as well.” Aziraphale smiled sheepishly. “I haven’t had a day as intense as this one in a long while. It takes a toll on you even when you’re indefatigable.”

“You’re telling me.” Crowley mumbled, watching Aziraphale head off into the corridor. He waited until his guest was reasonably far from the study before checking the new recorded message. He regretted it very quickly.

“What’s that?” Aziraphale inquired loudly, when the unmistakable noise of demonic torment and horrified screams erupted from the speakers. Crowley hurried to silence it with some chaotic button-mashing and removed the cassette from the machine. A single, fat worm fell from the tape. 

“Ugh.” Crowley grimaced, shoving the whole device into the trash can. All right, his mistake. He should have dealt with Hastur when he had the chance. But then again, what was one more demon free out there wanting him dead when he had already earned the eternal grudge of both Heaven and Hell? “Nothing. Nothing to be worried about.”

“That definitely sounded like something to be worried about.” Aziraphale insisted, rather alarmed. 

“Nah, just prank calls. I really need to find out who invented them and offer them a drink, now that’s some first-calls deviousness-” Crowley hurried to the bedroom before Aziraphale could decide to investigate the matter personally, and stopped abruptly when he saw the angel sitting innocently on his bed. “Uh. That’s my bed.” He felt it was important to state that fact aloud.

“Yes, I gathered. Excellent mattress, I must say.” Aziraphale replied genially, until Crowley’s silence prompted him to stand up hastily. “Oh, sorry, you pointed me to the bedroom and I thought you meant I could…?”

“No! I meant that you could make yourself a bed and get settled!”

“Oh! I’m terribly sorry, I just thought…” Aziraphale paused, looking at the object of the argument confusedly. “It’s a very large bed though. It looks like four people could sleep comfortably on it, so I thought-”

“I roll around a lot when I sleep, all right?” Crowley retorted with anger, with tangible and very obvious anger, and with absolutely no embarrassment whatsoever. “Look, just- miracle yourself some furniture, here or wherever you want, or sleep on the sofa, or anywhere that isn’t my bed.”

“All right, all right!” Aziraphale frowned and raised his hands defensively. “I’ll take the sofa then.”

Crowley collapsed face-first on his reconquered berth as soon as Aziraphale left the room, his sunglasses conveniently teleporting to the bedside table before they could bore into his skull. He felt positively destroyed. He’d give anything for another century-long nap, he hadn’t had one of those in a while. But it would be rather imprudent in the current circumstances. He’d have to make do with a dozen hours. He closed his eyes and exhaled deeply, welcoming that exquisitely human sense of physical relaxation that came with dozing off. He let the beginnings of sleep dull his senses and his mind, sweetly and mercifully-

“My, such luxuriant foliage…” 

Crowley’s eyes snapped open. “NO!” He bellowed, hurling himself off the bed and into the corridor with barely enough coordination not to trip on his own feet. “Stop it! Shut up!”

“What-” Aziraphale startled as Crowley suddenly appeared before him, arms spread in a clear effort to physically separate him from the potted greenery. “W-What’s going on?”

“Nothing. Leave the plants alone. Don’t look at them. And above all don’t talk to them.” Crowley ordered as he grasped the angel’s shoulders and steered him bodily out of the room.

“But why? I was just admiring the-”

“There’s nothing to admire here. Everyone’s just doing what they’re supposed to do.”

“But-”

“My house, my rules. The plants are off-limits.” Crowley snapped his fingers and two robust metallic doors materialized out of thin air to seal the area from the rest of the house. Crowley shoved Aziraphale past them, while he lingered on the threshold just long enough to glare at every single plant in the room.

“Don’t forget whose opinion really matters here, guys.” He hissed, his teeth bared. His warning was met with a collective, deferential shudder. 

“...Crowley, are you all right?” Aziraphale asked, eyeing him worriedly. Crowley looked at him like a naked Bedouin sitting on a glacier in the Arctic might look at someone asking him if he’s cold. The doors locked with an audible clang.

“...Yeah, I’m just peachy.” He eventually muttered, rubbing his eyes and heading back to the bedroom. He lay down again and closed his eyes, enjoying a grand total of ten second of peace before Aziraphale’s footsteps reached the room. Crowley sighed. “...What?”

“Actually, I think I would like to sleep here, if it’s all right with you.”

“Do whatever you want.”

“Are you sure you don’t mind-”

“What do you think ‘do whatever you want’ means, Aziraphale?”

“I’m guessing it means that I have free reign over any part of your house that doesn’t include your bed or your plants.” 

Aziraphale’s miffed tone got the tiniest smile out of him. “Yep, you got it. See? Wasn’t difficult.”

Crowley felt reality shift around him. Curiosity got the better of him, and he peeked to the side. The bedroom had conveniently enlarged just enough so that Aziraphale’s newly created bed could fit. It was a small, single one, all wood and fin de siecle linens and puffy pillows and creamy tones. It clashed with the existing decor something terrible, but Crowley barely took notice. He was more concerned with its owner, sitting somewhat rigidly on it and glancing around the room nervously. Suddenly Crowley understood why he’d chosen to sleep there.

“Relax, angel. No one will be coming after us.” Crowley couldn’t help but offer, lowly. “Not tonight, at least.”

Their eyes met. After a beat, Aziraphale nodded. “Yes. You are probably right.”

Aziraphale was still sitting up when Crowley closed his eyes. He hoped that the other could catch some rest, but he wouldn’t mind too much if he didn’t. Even a demon could use a guardian angel to watch over his sleep, after all.

Aziraphale did sleep that night, for a good two hours and a half. It may not sound like a lot, but considering that he hadn’t rested since that quick twenty-minute nap in 1732, it felt immensely refreshing anyway. Upon rising, he had to admit that creating his own bed had proven to be a wise choice: in his sleep, Crowley had somehow managed to scatter his considerably long limbs all over the mattress, effectively covering a flat surface that must be at least three times as large as that of his own body. Admittedly he looked quite endearing, arms and legs making a decent impression of a windrose and snoring away with his mouth open.

Aziraphale spent the rest of the night keeping himself quietly busy. He checked all the news from the radio and the tv, from which he gathered that Adam was mending reality with impressive speed and ease, considering how suddenly his powers had bloomed. It was truly a blessing that the boy was far more mature than anyone had credited him for. To think that Aziraphale himself had seriously entertained the notion of eliminating him… No, that guilt wasn’t going to leave him anytime soon.

The angel then proceeded to tidy up what little there was to tidy up in Crowley’s apartment. Some spilt water here and there, and a ragged, dark set of clothes oddly abandoned on the threshold of the study. They didn’t look like the type of get-up Crowley would choose for himself, and it certainly wasn’t one Aziraphale had ever seen him wear, but then again the demon had a thing for experimenting with mortal fashion. Aziraphale also repeatedly wrestled with the impulse to take another look at Crowley’s plants, entirely because of his exceedingly suspicious behavior. He didn’t do it, though. That would have been extremely impolite, almost traitorous. Utterly unworthy of his status. Although- no. No, he wouldn’t.

He even managed to find a few books, tucked away under the sofa or on top of unreachable shelves. They were atlases, maps, photography magazines, all focussed on naturalistic topics: pictures of panoramas from all over the world, animals, plants, even remote stars and galaxies. Aziraphale wasn’t an especially avid consumer of such publications: he vastly preferred both the written word and man-made illustrations, which did a much better job of conveying the divine spark of creativity God had blessed humanity with. However, as he was leafing through those pages and seeing ruins of cities he had inhabited, cute yet clumsy species he had discreetly saved from extinction, masses of gas and dust he had shaped into celestial bodies, he couldn’t help but slip into a lengthy bout of nostalgia for the halcyon days of creation. He wouldn’t be surprised if Crowley kept those books around for the same reason.

When he heard some muffled noises coming from the bedroom, Aziraphale decided to make breakfast. His noble endeavor, however, was thwarted by the complete lack of any sort of raw or packed ingredient in any cupboard of the house; the fridge, instead, offered a vast selection of gourmet brioches, fruit juices, bacon and eggs, pancakes and all sorts of scrumptious dishes that looked as if they had been cooked mere minutes earlier. Well, it would be a waste not to partake, he deliberated. He’d just finished setting the table when Crowley finally joined him with a half-yawned “‘Morning.”

It was a most refreshing and welcome change of pace, being able to chat of everything and nothing over a hearty meal again, instead of covertly panicking over the very real possibility of Doomsday disrupting the next weekend, as well as all the others that would never follow. The last week had been exhausting for the both of them - especially for Crowley. For all his trademark devil-may-care attitude, it was really quite easy to notice when the demon was genuinely distressed: from his eyes, thin slits of darkness in a pool of gold that Aziraphale could always see through the glasses and that darted left and right more quickly than usual, to his gestures, that lost their swaying languor in favor of nervous, reptilian jerks, to the sudden explosions of anger and aggression that were just as dangerous as the roar of a kitten. All of that was gone now. His cutting temper was still dulled by the lingering drowsiness, and soft, unguarded smiles curved his lips in response to Aziraphale’s casual chatter. The ruffled hair, the creased clothes and the lazy nibbles at his brioche spoke of the unhurried comfort that came after overcoming a trying ordeal, and they filled the angel’s heart with genuine tenderness. There were, truly, beauty and goodness in all the things and entities that existed, even in those who supposedly tried their hardest to antagonize them.

“Oh, you may want to take those to the cleaners.” Aziraphale pointed at the folded rags he’d put on the sofa, once he was finished with his breakfast. “What ever did you do to those poor clothes to ruin them like that?”

“Ugh, throw them away.” Crowley replied with a disgusted grunt. “That’s Ligur.”

“I see.” Aziraphale said, having never heard of the brand. He agreed that the quality of the tailoring was rather shabby, so he did as he was told. “Well, I was thinking of dropping by the bookshop this morning - or what’s left of it, anyway. Who knows, there may be some intact books among the rubble…”

“Mmmh. I guess there’s no harm in checking.” Crowley didn’t look terribly convinced. “Mind if I come along?”

“Oh, not at all.” Aziraphale replied, pleasantly surprised. “But don’t you have more urgent things to do, instead of helping me carry around charred tomes?”

“Right now, not at all. I’m pretty sure I’ve been fired, so I happen to have a lot of free time on my hands.” Crowley snapped his fingers, and in a blink he was as elegant and well-groomed as ever. 

“You aren’t going to keep performing your duties then? No more tempting innocent souls or spreading negative influence?” Aziraphale inquired as they stepped into the lift.

“Are you? Even if your boss doesn’t care?”

“Why, of course. Being a harbinger of the light is the very reason of my existence! It’s more than a job, it’s my very nature!”

“Aren’t you a model employee?” Crowley deadpanned. “Well, first and foremost, I think I’ve earned myself a vacation. Now, that isn’t to say that I’m going to pass up on any opportunities to have some fun if the occasion arises...”

“Of course you aren’t.” Aziraphale smiled, stepping out of the building. “Shall we take a taxi or- Crowley?” Crowley had abruptly stopped in his tracks, staring at something in the parking area- 

“Oh!” Aziraphale eloquently commented.

Crowley jogged to what was, without a doubt, his car. Not the scorched ball of molten metal and rubber he’d been forced to abandon at Tadfield Airbase, but his cherished Bentley in all its former glory and vintage elegance. The demon stared at it in evident disbelief, his brows so high that they almost disappeared into his hairline, his mouth shaped into a perfectly round O. He admired it, ran his palm along the chassis, hopped all around to inspect it from every possible angle - including under the bumper and over the roof.

“Did you do this?” He eventually managed, his gaze bouncing back and forth between the car and the angel.

“No, it wasn’t me. But I’ve heard that yesterday’s disasters are being reverted. Maybe this is part of it.” Aziraphale suggested as Crowley opened the door and basically dove head-first into the car.

“It’s exactly as it used to be! Custom leather seats and all! Even my CDs-” Crowley took one from the dashboard, one whose cover was a wordless black void with a glass prism refracting white light into a rainbow. He inserted it into the radio and a cheery band started to sing very enthusiastically about riding a bicycle. Crowley’s exhilarated mood seemed to dampen ever so slightly. “...Yep. Just as they used to be.”

“It looks like Adam knows what he’s doing.” Aziraphale smiled, knowing how much that little miracle meant for his friend. Then, a thought struck him. “Maybe…”

“...Maybe.” Crowley agreed, understanding him at a glance. “Hop in. Let’s go and see.”

Aziraphale’s empathetic joy waned very quickly when it was obvious that Crowley’s driving style wasn’t at all affected by the recent demise of his old vehicle.

“Out of curiosity, how did the fire start?” The angel asked, trying to think of anything but the absurd number on the speed gauge.

“I was about to ask you the same thing. Serves you right for quitting on me as you did though. Seriously, did you really have to pick the busiest day in the last six thousand years to leave this plane of existence? Where did you even go?”

“To Heaven, of course. And I didn’t exactly choose to leave, if you must know. I was… summoned.”

“Oh, you don’t say?” Crowley sneered. “Well, guess what? My lot summoned me too, but I ignored them because I had more important stuff to do, namely saving the bloody universe-”

“Also because they would have welcomed you less than enthusiastically, I imagine-”

“On my own, because someone ditched me without one word of warning-”

“That’s not what happened at all! It was… an unfortunate accident.” Aziraphale burst out, halfway between affronted and embarrassed. 

“What kind of accident?” Crowley frowned inquisitively when Aziraphale didn’t reply. “Oi! What kind of accident?”

“...Promise me you won’t laugh.” Aziraphale begged. Crowley merely raised an eyebrow in response. The angel sighed. “Well, the thing is… I was in my bookshop, and I opened a channel to Heaven, to see if I could… talk them out of the whole universal annihilation thing-”

“Talking people out of war. Yeah, solid plan. When has it ever not worked in the history of wars?”

“It made sense to try, at least. Anyway, Shadwell walked in-”

“What the heaven was Shadwell doing in your bookshop?”

“I don’t know- could you please stop interrupting me? As I was saying, Shadwell saw the ritual and… I fear he mistook me for one of your lot. He got rather worked up and…”

“He killed you?” Crowley guessed, genuinely impressed.

“Oh no, no! He just… started pacing here and there, muttering strange things, and… well, he got a tad too close to the summoning circle - the passage was still open, you see, and…”

“And?”

“I sort of… stepped on it. While I was trying to keep him away.” Aziraphale paused. “By accident.”

Crowley didn’t reply. He looked at Aziraphale, then back at the road, then at the angel again. His mouth twitched.

“Don’t.” Aziraphale warned him. Crowley’s face had already become a quivering mess of aborted expressions that devolved very quickly into hysterical half-snorts.

“Oh sure, go ahead and- don’t take your hands off the wheel!” Aziraphale squealed when the demon did exactly that, holding his sides and throwing back his head as he burst into a boisterous laugh. Luckily, the car seemed to be endowed with all the common sense Crowley had never had and it kept avoiding pedestrians autonomously.

“That’s so stupid.” Crowley gasped, making a show of wiping away a non-existent tear. “That’s so bloody stupid. How can anyone possibly be so stupid?”

“Oh, I don’t know. In the same way one can misplace an Antichrist for eleven years, I suppose.” Aziraphale’s jab sadly didn’t manage to penetrate the waves of hilarity Crowley was exuding. “Judging by Shadwell’s behavior, he must have presumed my disappearance was due to his own… peculiar powers.”

“Oh, is that what he’s been doing with his finger all day yesterday?”

“Well, yes. What did you think he was doing?”

“I don’t know! I thought you had tried to possess him and fried a bunch of his neurons… And it’s not like he had that many to begin with-”

“Now you’re just being needlessly nasty.”

Crowley shook his head, still giggling like a child as he put his hands back on the steering wheel, just in time to park the car as they reached their destination.

“Huh.” He simply said as he climbed out of the car, studying the building as if he’d never seen it before. 

“Ah, bless that boy!” Aziraphale glowed as he excitedly walked back and forth along the front of the bookshop. A rapid survey of the inside as well confirmed that his earthly abode was just as he’d left it, books and all. Actually, there seemed to be a few extras too.

“Ohoh, this is the kind of reading I could be convinced to try.” Crowley grinned, leafing through the flashy illustrations of one ‘Blood Dogs of the Skull Sea’. “Look at this beast! This stuff is inspirational! It makes you wonder why the hellhound didn’t turn into one of these beauties.”

Aziraphale didn’t reply. Yes, everything looked just as it did before, but… “Something’s off.”

Crowley glanced around the shelves in surprise. “Really? Is anything missing?”

“No, no. The place is fine… physically. But there’s a strange feeling in the air.”

Crowley groaned and rolled his eyes. “Are you going to start gushing about ethereal flashes of love again? I thought London was impervious to those.”

“It’s not love.” Aziraphale frowned, trying to focus on the odd sensation. It was different from what he’d felt in Tadfield: Adam’s love for his hometown was a deep-rooted, all-encompassing and aged feeling, a quiet yet powerful acknowledgement, indissolubly weaved into the very matter that composed its streets, its woods, its soil. What the angel was perceiving in his bookshop was more akin to an explosion - sudden and short-lived, yet extremely intense. “I think it’s the opposite of that.”

“Ooooh, you mean spooky? Nice. I love spooky. Still can’t feel anything though.”

“It’s… anger, I think. Rage. And…” Aziraphale paused. The sensation glimpsed in and out of his head swiftly, as if it was moving, pacing, speeding around the place almost like a physical entity, phasing through him and leaving a trail of suffocating heat-

BASTAAAAAARDS!

Aziraphale forgot to breathe. For the following seven minutes, approximately. It happened relatively often, for the most varied reasons. The most surprising thing was that this time it made his chest hurt. “...Grief.”

Crowley stood perfectly still. Very slowly, his features relaxed into what would have looked, to anybody else, like a perfectly natural neutral expression. He gazed around the shop and strolled away from Aziraphale to look out of the nearest window with equally studied nonchalance.

“Must have been one of your neighbours. It was a pretty big fire.” He said, his back turned to Aziraphale. “You know, mothers forgetting babies inside flaming buildings and all that.”

ALL OF YOU!

Aziraphale’s heart thrummed in sympathy with that whirlwind of emotion. By sheer force of habit, he blessed that painful feeling and the creature that had generated it, for nobly bearing the sacrifices that God’s plan required. Considering that Crowley didn’t instantly turn into a screaming, bubbling puddle of goo, Aziraphale guessed that God, in Her infinite wisdom, must have refused to validate that particular blessing, and he sent Her his heartfelt thanks for that as well. Aziraphale let the silence stretch for a while, quietly contemplating that powerful echo. Even when Crowley finally turned to face him, his expression still blank and his hands casually tucked in his pockets, neither of them spoke. It occurred to Aziraphale that his intent staring may have been interpreted as some sort of challenge only when the demon admitted defeat, sighing in annoyance and pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Look, what do you want me to say? Mh?” Crowley asked, spreading his arms. “What do you want me to say that you don’t already know?”

It was a fair point. It was also (it being Crowley’s ruffled demeanour, his flat tone, his casual evasion) so strikingly familiar and typical that it warmed Aziraphale’s heart enough to finally distract him from the lingering negativity of the ambiance.

“...Would you like some hot cocoa?” The angel offered with a kind smile.

“Far from me to twist the knife into what you undoubtedly consider a major flaw in your character,” Aziraphale said as he slid in front of Crowley a steaming cup of chocolate that the demon hadn’t exactly accepted, but that he hadn’t exactly refused either, “but why were you upset so deeply? It’s not like I’ve never been discorporated before.”

“‘It’s not like I’ve never been discorporated before.’” Crowley parroted him, without acknowledging the existence of the beverage. “I swear you say the most idiotic things sometimes.”

“Well, I’m just a tad confused about your reaction, is all-”

“Why would I care about you being discorporated?!” Crowley burst out. “I thought you’d been destroyed! You try to call me - urgently - and I can’t answer, I try to call you and you don’t answer, and then I arrive here and you’re nowhere to be found and everything’s on fire - on fire! The one thing that can damage you! What was I supposed to think?”

“But… You thought it was hellfire?” Aziraphale asked, confusedly. “Why would there be hellfire in my bookshop?”

“Oh, I don’t know. It may have had something to do with the fact that I myself had almost been murdered a scant ten minutes before-”

“You were what?!” Aziraphale gasped, aghast, his own cup freezing halfway towards his mouth.

“Yeah. That was probably it, now that I think about it.” Crowley snarled, tapping his fingers on the table. “You became unreachable five minutes after I received a visit from a couple of pissed-off demons trying to ‘collect’ me. I thought that Hell had decided to settle the score with you as well, while they were at it.”

“My dear boy, I had no idea…” Aziraphale trailed off. He gasped again when the gravity of the situation sank in fully. “Heavens, you said almost murdered?! Oh no… No, this won’t do…”

“Oh, well… Maybe ‘almost murdered’ was laying it on a bit thick.” Crowley admitted, his temper finally subsiding. “They were pretty pissed off, but they didn’t even get close to the murdering part.”

“Thank God for that. But how did you manage to escape from them?”

“Oh. Remember that thermos of holy water you gave me fifty years ago?” A malicious smile spread on the demon’s face. “Good insurance indeed.”

“..Are you trying to tell me that-”

“Oh yes.” 

“You’ve smitten two demons?!” Aziraphale gaped.

“One, actually. The other one managed to escape, but I’d say I was rather-”

“I’ve never smitten a demon!” Aziraphale added, suddenly facing a minuscule existential crisis. “And that’s supposed to be my job!”

“Really? How odd.” The only demon Aziraphale had interacted with in the last six thousand years replied. Still, the angel was too caught up in his own thoughts to pay any attention to sarcasm.

“Do you have any holy water left?”

“Uh, no, I’ve used it all up-”

“Then you’ll need some more. Lots more. It could save your skin if Hell decided to strike again.” Aziraphale stood up and headed towards the kitchen. “Here, give me a moment-”

“Hey, hey, calm down, I don’t need it right this second!” Crowley stammered, pointing at the other’s abandoned cup. “We can worry about that later, your cocoa is going cold-”

“It’s no matter, I need just two minutes-”

Exactly two minutes and seventeen seconds later, Aziraphale handed to a mildly astonished Crowley the biggest and sturdiest piece of tupperware he owned, filled to the brim with the precious liquid.

“Did you just make all this?”

“Well, yes. Blessing tap water isn’t exactly a lengthy or complicated process.”

“You can make literal gallons of holy water in two minutes, and it took you a hundred years to decide to give me two cups’ worth of it last time?!” The demon complained, without moving to grasp the container. “How very generous of you!”

“I didn’t know what you were planning to do with it! I was concerned!”

“Of what?!”

“That you might… mishandle it and get hurt! You wouldn’t give your sharpest kitchen knife to a five-year-old child just because he asked for it, would you?”

“I would. Anyway that’s a very unflattering comparison and I resent it.”

“Well, yes, here’s more holy water than you’ll ever need, hopefully.” Aziraphale impatiently held out the pitcher towards Crowley’s chest, who positively jumped back holding his arms out defensively.

“Wait wait wait wait! Your cuff is wet! Have you even dried your hands? Are you trying to kill me?”

“What- That’s just normal water! I blessed the one in the container after sealing it! Do you really think I’m that outrageously clumsy?”

“Considering that you’ve discorporated yourself through sheer clumsiness just the other day, yeah, kind of.”

“Oh, for Heaven’s- look, if you want it, it’s here. If not, do whatever you want.” Aziraphale put down the plastic carafe on the table primly, and then he finally set down to sip his cocoa. Crowley eyed the container from every possible angle, clearly expecting to find some traitorous droplet rolling down its sides, then he poked the lid gingerly.

“I don’t trust this thing not to burst open by accident before I can put it somewhere safer. Got any tape?”

Aziraphale fetched some packing tape from the cupboard and handed it to Crowley. He stood beside him, watching him secure the lid meticulously for a couple of minutes. Now that the idle bickering wasn’t distracting him any more, Aziraphale found his own soul attuning again with the background thrumming of the demon’s past anguish. It felt only natural for Aziraphale to squeeze the other’s shoulder warmly.

“You know, I’m very proud of you.”

“...Uh?” Crowley squinted at him as if the angel had just sprouted a second head. That is to say, not as if he’d done something utterly impossible, but merely something very random for no reason whatsoever.

“For showing up at Tadfield, even after all this. You were hunted down by your own brethren, you suffered a painful loss, and yet you reined in your wrath and braced your sorrow and still found the will to fight for this world. It was very brave, and selfless.”

“Uhm.” Crowley answered, with a strange dumbfounded look that instantly raised a few doubts in Aziraphale’s mind.

“That’s… that’s what you did, isn’t it?”

“Uuuuuuuuuuh- Yeah. Yeah, yeah, of course.” Crowley floundered with the elegance of a beached whale. “That’s what I did… eventually- which is to say- yeah-”

“‘Eventually’? What do you mean, ‘eventually’?”

“I mean- not right away, I needed a moment to... You know, my human operatives never managed to locate the Antichrist, so I was… kind of lost as to what I should have been doing in that moment-”

“What did you do?”

“And even if I had known where to go, what were the odds of me, all alone, averting the apocalypse? Realistically speaking-”

“What did you do, Crowley?”

“Well, since you were no more, and the Earth was going to be no more very soon regardless of what I did, I thought… you know, I may as well enjoy one last bottle of scotch in that old-fashioned pub in Hollen Street-”

“...Good Lord.” Aziraphale covered his eyes with his hand, his tone falling as flat as his expectations. “You were going to get hopelessly drunk and do nothing whatsoever about Armageddon, weren’t you?”

“Hey, don’t you dare use that tone with me! Not when I was the one who had to convince you to do anything in the first place! You were merrily going to let the sea bubble and all the creatures, great and small, be vaporized in a blaze of divine glory, remember?”

“For an entirely different reason! I was simply trying my best to follow God’s plan! You never cared a trifle about that! You only ever cared about your earthly pleasures - such as getting drunk while the whole world goes up in flames, apparently-”

“Look, what was I supposed to do?! I didn’t even know where to go! If it wasn’t for your book-”

”My book? What book?”

“Well, not your book, the American lady’s book. Agnes Nutter’s Something Something Prophecies.” Crowley resumed plastering tape all over the already foolproof lid. “I found it here while I was looking for you and I took it, because why not? And then I was leafing through it at the pub and I found your notes about Adam and the airbase and- and then this strange thing happened, you know? I opened the book on a completely random page and the very first prophecy I read was… I don’t remember how it went exactly, but it was… obviously aimed at me. In a very specific way. And it said that my ethereal companion hadn’t vanished, but I’d meet him again at the place of the final confrontation, or something like that, and I’d just read on your notes that everything written on the book is invariably true, and I thought…’Oh.’”

“Oh.” Aziraphale echoed.

“Yeah.”

While Crowley’s peculiar tale depicted a somewhat less virtuous attitude towards pain and unfavourable odds than what he’d first envisioned, Aziraphale had to admit that there was something undeniably noble in the idea of the demon abandoning his drunken stupor and speeding across the country on a flaming car the moment a few key indications and the promise of reuniting with his best friend reignited his hope. There was something undeniably touching about it on a very personal level too.

“Well... I suppose I can’t- that’s enough tape, don’t you think?” Aziraphale said gesturing at the carafe, which was by now mummified under layers of ugly brown tape.

“Uh. Right.” Crowley blinked at the container as if he’d just become aware of its existence before sitting down to finally take a sip of his own cocoa. As he sat back as well, Aziraphale took care of heating the beverage up to a pleasant temperature with a thought before it reached the demon’s lips.

“I was saying, I suppose I can’t blame you for taking a moment to… gather your thoughts, so to speak. I must confess that I myself haven’t acted quite as promptly as I could have in the last days.”

“Oh. Really?”

“Yes. Admittedly, by the time I called you, I’d been aware of the Antichrist’s whereabouts for… a little bit.”

“Yeah?” Crowley frowned. “How little, exactly?”

“Oh, roughly… twelve hours, I think.”

“Twelve hours?!” Crowley sputtered. “We could have got to Tadfield twelve hours earlier?! Do you have any idea how much trouble we’d have spared ourselves with a twelve-hour advance?”

“Well-”

“I wouldn’t have had to drive my car through a bloody wall of fire, for one!” Crowley threw his hands in the air in exasperation. “What have you even been doing in all that time?”

“I was… considering the situation. You’ll admit I was in a rather delicate position, and I felt that I had to choose my actions carefully.” Aziraphale argued. “Eventually I decided to tell you, and the upper offices as well. It seemed like a good way to help our cause without, you know, openly obstructing Heaven’s plans.”

“And?”

“And what?”

“What else did you decide?”

“Nothing. That was what I came up with, and so I-”

“And it took you twelve hours to decide that?” Crowley groaned, covering his face. “Quick thinking really isn’t your thing, is it?”

“Well, there’s no reason to dwell on recriminations.” Aziraphale stated briskly. “Everything turned out just fine, in the end.”

“If by ‘fine’ you mean that ten million demons’ and ten million angels’ best laid plans and efforts went completely into smoke for no purpose other than postponing the inevitable battle for another… I don’t know, one or two thousand years - then sure, everything’s just dandy.” Crowley muttered to his cocoa. “Do you seriously believe this was all God’s plan? All of this for nothing? What’s the bloody point?”

“You know I can’t answer that question. But I wouldn’t say this was all for nothing. From my very limited and imperfect perspective, for example, I can clearly see at least two creatures who have ultimately benefited from this whole Apocalypse ordeal. But I’m sure there must be many, many more.”

“And those would be?”

“Adam, for one. Armageddon truly brought out the best in him. Didn’t you hear him talk with the Horsepeople? His words were so humble and simple, yet such an inspiring embodiment of all virtues! Prudence and temperance above all, and then justice and courage-”

“Yeah, yeah, just wait until he reaches puberty and then we’ll see where all those virtues will go.”

“Still, you have to admit that, for someone who’s supposed to be the literal spawn of Evil, his spirit is remarkably untainted. I’m sure he wouldn’t have turned out like this without going through the process of human life, or if he had come into existence among demons in the depths of Hell. Maybe this was all this proto-Armageddon was about: offering a chance of redemption to what would have otherwise been unredeemable spirits.”

“Mmmh.” Crowley crossed his arms with evident skepticism. “And who’s the other one?”

“Why you, of course.” Aziraphale couldn’t hold back a smile at Crowley’s stunned silence.

“...Sorry, what?”

“Isn’t it obvious? As I said, during the past week you have displayed an admirably selfless side-”

“Watch it, angel.” Crowley muttered. “Keep casting aspersions on me and no miracle will be able to fix what I’ll do to your collection of Bibles.”

“Oh, don’t be a child about it. It’s perfectly understandable, considering how much time you spent around me. I am a Principality, after all-”

“Excuse me. I must have misheard.” Crowley raised his finger, then he leaned towards Aziraphale across the table with a malevolent squint. “Are you by any chance telling me that you’ve been trying to inspire goodness in me?”

“Maybe.” Aziraphale gave him an apologetic smile. “I didn’t hold much hope to succeed, but I’ll admit I was rather curious. A few good deeds now and then, less evil ones performed in person, after yours truly accepted to carry them out for you… I wonder if all that could tip the moral scales at least a little bit, so to speak.” Aziraphale let out a small laugh in response to Crowley’s stunned silence. “What? Haven’t you been trying to do the same since we met?”

Crowley’s eyebrows raised so much that they almost disappeared into his hairline, and he opened and closed his mouth soundlessly like a fish gasping for air before he managed to put together a reply. “I- You- you knew?”

“Of course I knew! Why else would a demon associate so freely with a sworn enemy?”

“But- then- why did you keep seeing me?!”

“Because there was no way you’d succeed, obviously. An angel being corrupted, in this day and age! And me, of all people! No offense, but the mere idea is laughable.”

“It’s no more laughable than a demon being redeemed!”

“I disagree on that. Demons used to be angels, after all. Evil is an acquired trait for your lot, and who’s to say your innate core of Goodness isn’t still there, ready to be unburied?”

“No. No no no, all right, this is much more than ridiculous. This is blasphemous. You thought you could pave the road to the redemption of someone who’s been irrevocably deemed unforgivable? You thought you could single-handedly overturn a sentence of eternal damnation issued by the Almighty Herself? You thought you knew better than God?” Crowley spread his arms in outrage. “And they said Lucifer had too high an opinion of himself!”

“I never said that God was wrong.” Aziraphale raised his hands defensively. “Your punishment was amply deserved. But that happened thousands of years ago. Some things have changed. Some demons may have changed too. And God has always been way more forgiving than your lot credited Her for.”

“You are out of your mind.”

“But… Oh, you must see my point! Think of the lives you saved- think of the whole world you saved!”

“Literally none of that was done out of goodwill. Especially not for the humans. I just like what they’ve done with the place, therefore I want it to keep existing. For myself. It’s entirely selfish. End of the story.”

“And,” Aziraphale pressed on, leaning towards Crowley as well, “you rebelled!”

“Uh… Yeah. Yeah, I did. That’s what I’m saying, it isn’t the kind of thing God just gets over with-” 

“No, I don’t mean against God! You rebelled against Satan! If you had reported to Hell about the baby swapping as soon as you learnt of it, they still could have found a solution- tailing the hound, for example. But you did not! You sabotaged them, you went as far as to fight other demons-!

“Out of self presevation! No one in their right mind would keep working for someone who’s just going to slaughter them at the end of the job! I was doing anything I could think of doing to save my skin! You know, selfishly! How are you struggling to grasp this basic concept so much?!”

“And then you fought Satan himself!” Aziraphale proclaimed, undeterred by the growing heat of Crowley’s answers. “You did not run, you did not turn sides-”

“As if you could just run from the boss. And fighting is a bit of a strong word, isn’t it? The kid didn’t let even the tip of his horns out of the pavement-”

“That hardly matters, what matters is the intent! You held your ground, proud and determined, ready to fight him ‘til the bitter end, armed only with the one thing you loved most in the world in your hand-”

“Oi, oi, oi!” Crowley sputtered. “Lay it on a bit thicker, will you? Where did that- You can’t just-”

Crowley’s confusion gave Aziraphale pause. The demon was growing considerably red. Oh dear. Could he ignite out of sheer rage? That would be a first. “I really don’t think I’m exaggerating. You were ready to die fighting him, we both were.”

“Not that! The thing- the ‘thing you love the most’ thing, what even-”

“That too. At least I had a proper weapon, but you only had that… what was that, a piece of your Bentley? I’m sure it had a huge emotional value for you, but in terms of offensive capabilities… Talk about David and Goliath…”

That shocked Crowley into silence. “...Oh. The car.” He eventually managed. “Yeah. The car. Yeah.”

“Yes. What did you think I was-” The answer struck Aziraphale before the question was finished. He had only two hands, after all. “...Oh, Crowley-”

“All right, that’s IT!” Crowley suddenly shouted, shooting up on his feet and banging his fist on the table. The sunlight filtering from the window behind Crowley was blocked by the magnificent pair of wings that spread from his back, casting a looming shadow above the sitting angel. The rest of the room grew inexplicably darker as well as the demon towered above Aziraphale, mouth twisted and teeth bared in an enraged snarl. He pointed towards his wings. “Look. Look at these, do you see them? Not a single white feather. Not a lighter shade of grey anywhere. Do you see them? Black. Charred. Tainted. Not by fire, or tar, or soot, or mud. By God. God changed them. Changed everything. And you can’t fix God’s work. You can’t get a bloody word in edgewise, actually. Believe me, we’re the ones who tried. Now,” Crowley bent downwards still, his back arched like a predator ready to strike, his nose mere centimetres away from Aziraphale, “I don’t know what gave you the impression of being smarter than the highest order of the universe, but I think we can agree that whatever little self-empowering game you’ve been playing hasn’t changed anything. Right?”

“Right.” Aziraphale replied without the slightest inflection, as he was starting to feel like he’d overstepped some boundary. Not so much with the universe as with his friend.

“Right. So quit yapping about goodness and selflessness and whatnot before I show you exactly what’s the difference between the two of us.” Aziraphale remained respectfully silent. Finally Crowley straightened up as his wings disappeared and the room cleared up again. The demon fixed his jacket, scowling at the surrounding shelves as if they had personally offended him. “Keep the water, I don’t need it. I have plenty of other tricks up my sleeve. Bye.”

“What? Wait! Where are you going?” Aziraphale startled, hurrying after Crowley as he walked off to the front door.

“Away. I’m busy.”

“I thought you were on holiday.” The angel almost bumped into the other as he stopped and turned on his heels abruptly, another snarling reply ready to fire. “And I was wondering if we could have lunch together at the Ritz.”

“Why? So that your ethereal influence can polish my spirit a bit more?”

“Really, now. You know me better than that.” Aziraphale gave him his most conciliatory smile. “No point in saving the world if we don’t get to enjoy it, right?”

Crowley hesitated just long enough to let Aziraphale know that he was well aware of being played. And then he did it anyway. “...Right. But you’re paying.”

“Of course.”

“What do you think would happen to us, if we were to die from now on?” Aziraphale asked, several hours and a lucullan lunch later.

“Well, aren’t you a bundle of laughs lately?” Crowley deadpanned. He was enjoying the fine afternoon breeze and the idle quacking of the ducks in St. James’ Park too much to embark in such grim elucubrations.

“I think it’s a legitimate concern. I don’t see either Heaven or Hell granting us a new body after all the trouble we’ve caused.” 

“I guess not. But I think we’re covered at least until Adam remains on Earth. He didn’t even have to snap his fingers to make you a new one.”

“You have remarkable faith in that child, haven’t you?” Aziraphale graced Crowley with an obscenely proud smile. The demon grimaced and waved at him dismissively.

“Faith has nothing to do with it. Faith is blind and deaf and groundless. Adam has put up a pretty effective and tangible demonstration of his powers. And he likes us. Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth. If you get discorporated, just knock on his mind and he’ll fix it.”

“But he won’t be here forever to help us. He’s still a mortal, just like Jesus.” Aziraphale insisted from above his newly acquired copy of Treasure Island. “What about afterwards?”

“I have a better question for you.” Crowley enunciated importantly, shifting to lean on the bench just a tad more composedly and deciding to change the topic. “What about his afterwards?”

“...You mean what will happen to him after his death? Well, won’t he just go back where he came from?”

“To Hell? Really?” Crowley leaned towards Aziraphale conspiratorially. “Do you really think that Satan will let anyone, including his son - especially his son - potentially endowed with the power to rival him, into his own Reign? Do you have any idea of the trouble it could cause? Demons have a strong tendency to question the authorities, you may have noticed.”

“I… I suppose you do have a point.” Aziraphale had to agree, visibly struck by the realization. “But where would he go then? Surely not to Heaven… The Antichrist in Heaven, could you even imagine it?”

“Not really, no. But there’s another possibility.” Crowley tipped his glasses forwards, staring pointedly at the angel from above the dark lenses. “If neither Reign will want him, he may… you know, carve his own place for himself. A new one. Create his own path.”

“What?” Aziraphale slightly leaned away from Crowley in sheer shock. “A third faction? For the love of God, Crowley, don’t even mention it! Aren’t things already difficult enough with two parties at war? Another schism, whether within Hell itself or from the outside, would only compromise the balance of the universe even further!”

“Looks to me like a third faction has been existing for a long time now.”

“Pardon?”

Crowley gestured vaguely all around. “How would you call the six billions humans currently living on this planet, and all the others who came before them?”

“They’re not a faction. They’re-”

“Sort of cattle, when you think about it-”

“Creatures.” Aziraphale corrected him sternly.

“Creatures that both our lots have been merrily cannibalizing for the last six millennia for the sake of our own petty squabble-”

“Oh, I don’t doubt that your lot has been indeed cannibalizing all the poor souls you could snatch.” Aziraphale pointed out primly. “We, on the other hand, have been educating them. Guiding them. Nurturing them. Cherishing them-”

“Oh yeah, those words sound so much nicer, don’t they?” Crowley sneered, barely repressing the impulse to hiss in annoyance.

“Are you seriously trying to tell me that you see no fundamental difference between what we do and what you do?” Aziraphale asked in dismay. “Do you really, honestly believe Heaven and Hell to be on equal moral ground?”

“All I’m saying is that it’s really easy for me to imagine these guys,” he insisted, pointing at a random couple of passersby who clearly did not appreciate being pointed at by a perfect stranger in the middle of a heated argument, “getting fed up with both our and your interferences sooner or later, and it looks to me like they may just find their own champion in our dear Antichrist.”

“This is ridiculous! We needn’t talk about such a hare-brained notion any longer.” Aziraphale asserted firmly, then a thought struck him and he eyed Crowley suspiciously. “I do hope you aren’t planning to put strange ideas in that child’s head.”

“Putting ideas in his head?! He has enough ideas of his own to build a brand new universe from scratch! He doesn’t need mine!”

“Good, because the last thing everyone needs right now is another Rebellion.”

“Why? Are you scared he might have better luck than we did?” Crowley couldn’t help but smirk.

“Of course not. It’s just… not the right way to go about it.”

“Asking questions and demanding a little more respect and straightforwardness from your boss isn’t the right way to go about solving a problem? ‘Cause that’s what we did-”

“You raised your hand against God.” Aziraphale’s glare was more scalding and cutting than his sword had ever been. “You took up arms against Her and your own brethren, and you did it first and without provocation, and don’t even try to justify that.”

“I-” Crowley started, but bit his lip not to continue. He hadn’t taken up any arms, surely not first, he thought. He hadn’t, but others had. Others on what he hadn’t realized yet would permanently become ‘his side’. And by the time he had finally grasped the severity of the rift that had formed between those new sides, it was already far too late for reconsiderations. He turned his gaze away from the angel, and focussed instead on a couple of black swans elegantly brawling for the possession of a floating chunk of bread. The park was oddly quiet, and their irked squawking was the only sound the demon could hear for several minutes.

“My point is,” Crowley suddenly said when he spied Aziraphale’s mouth moving to speak, because he would not let him have the last word on that topic even if it killed him, “that if one feels that he isn’t being treated fairly, you can’t really blame him for trying to look after himself. At least we can agree on that, yes? Yes.”

Aziraphale’s silence felt like a hard-earned victory. Neither Heaven nor Hell would be impartial when the moment to judge Adam would come, and if the Antichrist was to be shunned by both sides, wouldn’t it be only natural for him to-

“Is that why you rebelled?” The angel asked, eyes fixed on the book open on his lap. It took Crowley by surprise, how delicately Aziraphale had uttered that ‘you’, so very different from the spiteful ‘you’ of the rivalling group. It was a very personal question, the most personal question the angel had ever asked him.

Crowley didn’t answer. Aziraphale didn’t ask again.

“Well,” the angel sighed after a long silence, “I guess my point is that we’d better be extremely careful not to be discorporated in the future. Our sudden reappearance in our respective head offices might have rather unpleasant consequences.”

“You just can’t stop worrying about it, can you?” Crowley remarked, a tad mockingly. “I guess it comes with spending your entire existence as an upstanding Heaven citizen. Never really got on God’s bad side, have you?”

“Well, there was that little mishap with my sword...”

“Psh, I’m not talking about misplacing your toys. I mean Her really bad side. I’m talking about going openly against Her will - like you may very well have done by averting Armageddon-”

“Excuse you, I firmly believe I’ve been doing nothing but serving the Greater Good during these trying times.” Aziraphale countered, rather piqued. “And the Greater Good is God’s will by definition, so I don’t see why She should be in any way displeased by my actions… I believe.” A flash of uncertainty crossed the angel’s features, but he shook it off immediately. “Besides, everything that happens anywhere and at any time is part of Her plan, and therefore part of Her will, and therefore good.”

“Well, excuse you, but by that ridiculous logic the Rebellion was part of Her plan too, and therefore good, and therefore none of us should have been banished and doomed to eternal spite and damnation. And yet.” 

“No! That is an entirely different matter, and-” Aziraphale stopped talking abruptly. He pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed deeply. “Let us not talk about politics. It never ends well.”

“Yeah, I wonder why.” Crowley crossed his arms belligerently, but he didn’t push the argument further. Not that specific argument, at least. “Anyway, I still don’t see why you’re having kittens over this disobedience thing. If you think God Herself has no beef with you, what’s the matter? What’s the worst thing your seraphic superiors could do to you, uh? Call you back up to head office and confine you to a boring desk job where you couldn’t possibly hinder their holy machinations? Oh boy, oh dear, mighty scary punishment-”

“It’s not myself I’m worried about, Crowley!” Aziraphale interrupted him vehemently, hands tightly clasped in his lap. It took Crowley frankly too long to figure out the meaning of his troubled grimace.

“...You’re worried about me?”

“Of course I am! Desk jobs and bureaucracy will be the last of your worries if you end up within the grasp of a cohort of vengeful demons! They’ve already tried to destroy you once-”

“No, no no no, you don’t get it, it’s fine. I’m not in danger!” Crowley exclaimed, stretching the truth roughly to the size of Australia. “They’ll never manage to get their hands on me. The top brass wouldn’t come up here just to retrieve a small fry like me, they’ll just send a couple of brainless grunts now and then. And I’m not calling them brainless as gratuitous slander, they really are unbelievably stupid. Not even remotely a threat.”

“You’ve destroyed a demon! One of your own kind! They won’t overlook such an act so easily, for sure!”

“All right, listen. First of all, demons killing other demons isn’t nearly as outrageous as you think. Happens every other day. One day you’re chatting with Valak from Heat Management about the new strain of flies Beelzebub’s sporting and the next day, poof! Someone tells you that he’s been shoved into a furnace by a pissed-off Count because of a broken thermostat. Not even worth a slap on the wrist.”

“Still,” Aziraphale hesitated, “your case is clearly different. It’s outright treason! They’ll send some skillful operatives-”

“The ones they already sent were the skillful ones! Dukes of Hell, no less! And I dispatched both of them literally in five minutes! Want to know how?” Crowley stood up and started pacing back and forth in front of the bench, gesturing wildly to re-en-act his epic tale of cunning and strategy. “All right, here’s how. The holy water you gave me, right? I poured that into a bucket and put the bucket on top of the door of the study, which was ajar - what are you looking at? Get lost!” He added, glaring at a couple of nearby kids who had interrupted their aimless running around to stare at him as he stood poised on the tip of his toes to position an invisible prop on top of an invisible surface. The brats scampered away immediately. “Anyway, Ligur opened the door and bam, one Duke of Hell melted into nothingness, just like that. And the second? Well, actually I did have a plan involving holy water for him too, but that one didn’t really fly - but then!” Crowley pointed at Aziraphale suddenly and enthusiastically enough to make him flinch. “You called, and I - brilliantly - got inspired by that and trapped Hastur into my phone! ...For a while - but the point is that it was just that easy.”

“Why, wasn’t that ingenious of you?” Aziraphale said, his eyes shining with such disarming and honest admiration that Crowley completely lost track of his thoughts.

“I- well, yeah, I guess I-” He started, before his brain rebooted and he smacked his forehead in frustration. “No! No, it wasn’t! It was dumb! That’s my point! A bucket on a door, Aziraphale! Two Dukes of Hell tricked by the sort of pranks that some dumb human toddlers- Oi! Why are you still here?!” He suddenly shouted, as his gaze fell on a bush that did absolutely nothing to hide the same couple of brats he’d just shooed away, still spying on his little pantomime. As they ran away again, Crowley took care of summoning a couple of ringed snakes and sending them on their heels, just to provide that extra zest of entertainment that their afternoon clearly lacked.

“Ehr, you were saying?” Aziraphale asked, eyeing the hissing grass with mild concern.

“I was saying that my esteemed colleagues have the tactical prowess of drunk baboons, and they don’t even bother to keep up with what’s going on up here. A child with a mobile phone could outsmart them. So no, they’re never going to get me.” Crowley plopped back on the bench heavily, crossing both arms and legs and deliberately channeling a good three decades of macho cinematography in his stance. “Not on my turf.”

“That’s reassuring, but it doesn’t quite put all my worries at rest. Don’t you think we should at least keep a close eye on each other for a while?”

“How so?”

“Oh, just seeing each other. More often than once a decade, I mean. Exchanging information, checking that we’re still around in one piece.”

“And if we aren’t? What if one day I just disappear, uh? Are you going to march into the depths of Hell armed with your non-existent army and your lost sword?”

“I was thinking more of a tanker filled with holy water.”

Crowley snorted. “That would be a sight.”

“So? What do you say? Once a month? Once a week? At least until things get calmer.”

“Oh boy, I don’t know if I have all this free time to ‘keep an eye’ on you. I’ll have to check my agenda.”

“You’re still on a self-proclaimed holiday.”

“And do you have any idea how time-consuming that is?”

[kill-your-idols]

first draft of the first part of my second shitty au is done. and now to pretend i never wrote it, hiding from its existence for all eternity (or until i gather enough to gumption to edit it)

[thethespacecoyote]

“work it out”

On the counter sits a stack of mail Ben had presumably brought in before leaving for work, and to Hux’s dismay he sees one of those detestable maternity magazines sitting right at the top. He’d told Ben to cancel their subscription but he must not have gotten around to it yet. At first, Hux had wanted to read all he could about pregnancy, absorb any tips and tricks from other expecting couples, but as his own wore on he’d soured on these publications. Pure drivel— nothing but pages and pages of omegas showing off fake smiles and fashionable sweaters and blouses and cute, petite baby bumps. Doing yoga and eating salad with their airbrushed skin and snug Lululemon leggings. Idiots. They have no idea what a special kind of suffering it is to lug around a pair of Ben Solo-sized offspring.

Hux hates them.

Combined my enjoyment of personal trainer Kylo with my enjoyment of pregnant Hux. Modern AU, fluff, self esteem issues, probably a touch OOC and indulgent. Enjoy. 

Check it out on ao3 too!

Hux wakes up in the tail end of the morning, as he’s fallen into the habit of doing. It’s easy to sleep late, especially when he’s up periodically in the night to pee or indulge his cravings or merely lie in bed, miserably, while the unborn children in his belly decide to throw a party.

Hux sighs heavily when the world comes back to him, first in fuzzy shapes, then a bit clearer. In his sleep, he feels lighter, blissfully removed from reality. But now that he’s awake, the familiar heaviness settles into his body, and he remembers just how large and uncomfortable it’s become.

He blearily looks downwards, placing a palm on the swollen lump visible beneath his bed covers. Grumbling, he peels them away, sticking out his lower lip as he takes in the state of his belly.

Hopelessly round and weighty, just like he’d left it last night. Probably grown imperceptibly bigger in the hours he’s been tossing and turning, if he’s being honest. The pregnancy likes to sneak up on him as he sleeps, taking him unawares and inflating his stomach to grotesque new proportions.

Hux stays on his side, not yet willing to try to sit up or turn around, and looks over his shoulder. Though he knows he probably won’t find what he wants, part of him hopes to see Ben lying there asleep, messy black hair spread all over the pillow, awaiting a couple kisses to wake him up. But no—of course the bed is empty, covers clumsily straightened back into place, with only the faint scent of Ben clinging to the fabric. Hux’s face falls, and he thumps his head back against the pillow. He noses into the hood of the jacket he’s wearing, searching for a stronger source of Ben’s scent. He rarely borrowed his boyfriend’s clothes before, but ever since falling pregnant he’s almost become obsessed with them, especially his outerwear. The one Hux has on right now is one of his favorites—well-worn and soft, emblazoned with Ben’s alma mater and utterly soaked in his smell. The cords of the hoodie tip in little metal aglets, which Hux likes to fidget whenever he’s anxious.

Unfortunately, it’s still no substitute for his boyfriend’s presence.

Bless his heart, Ben tries to take more time off of work. He already has a bit of an irregular schedule, so it’s easier than if he had a nine-to-five job, but still there’s been many times where Hux has needed him and he’s had to leave for one of his sessions. After all, even with Hux on paid leave, Ben has to keep working to save up money for when the twins finally arrive.

Rationally, Hux knows they’ll be fine in terms of finances, with at the very least Ben’s parents helping to foot the bills, but some days it’s just another worry threatening to tip the tottering pile of emotional distress right over.

It doesn’t help that, in moments of extreme weakness, Hux has begun to wonder what Ben sees in him anymore.

He’s become ugly. Utterly undesirable. Hux never considered himself some high standard of omega attractiveness in the first place, what with his underwhelming frame and average looks. Yet somehow, a verifiable heartthrob like Ben, who’d  made an entire career out of sculpting muscles and tightening abs, had found something salvageable there—consequently inspiring Hux to frequent the gym more. Ben had even gifted him a discounted pass, and though it was difficult with his job’s schedule, he’d started to seriously work on his arms and upper body as well as increase his cardiovascular fitness. It’d been a meager improvement, but improvement nonetheless, and Hux had felt he was finally on his way to becoming more worthy of his boyfriend.

Then he’d fallen pregnant.

At the first, joyous outset, the inevitable changes to physical form hadn’t even crossed Hux’s mind. He and Ben had been far too busy scurrying about, planning for the imminent arrival of their children. Hux remembers feeling a little afraid, in that giddy, tickling sort of way, but mostly elated at the thought of finally building a family with the man he’d loved for years. And though he escaped the worst of morning sickness and other typical early pregnancy woes, he’d soon started to change in ways he didn’t feel particularly fond of.

The fact that they were having twins hadn’t helped. He’d rightly blimped up in the middle of his second trimester, and things had only grown worse from there. Now, in the beginning of the third, Hux considers himself a bloated shell of his former self. Like an overfilled water balloon, heavy and ponderous and ready to burst, yet he still has a few months left before their children are born.

Hux hates looking at himself in the mirror anymore, pointedly glancing aside when he has to wash his hands or strip to take a shower. Thanks to his slender frame, he’s never quite had the “typical” body of an omega, but now there’s a new, disconcerting roundness to his thighs and hips, and it doesn’t stop there. The weight gain is obvious all over, even in his face, where his cheeks and chin have grown a little chubbier. And of course his belly is the worst offender—a big pale blob, striated with red marks like he’s been stricken with some kind of infection. He detests washing himself now, but having Ben do it is almost worse—Hux can’t help but imagine he too dislikes every distended inch.

Overall he feels wholly unattractive and overweight, but what’s worse is that he knows it’s normal, that his slim build and short torso probably caused him to carry larger, that he probably needed to gain some weight to remain healthy, but it’s still screwing with his emotions and making him feel like a weak-minded and feeble child.

Even getting out of bed is a chore now. Hux puffs his cheeks out with exertion as he props himself up on one arm and swings his legs over the edge of the bed. His other hand cups the curve of his belly as it settles right atop his upper thighs, obscuring everything below. Hux takes a moment to steel himself, before pushing up hard, using the edge of the nightstand to help steady himself as he swayed to his feet.

Immediately, his ankles smart at the weight. Fantastic.

He ambles from his bedroom to the kitchen as best as he can, forcing himself to go slow though he’s eager to snag a warm drink to help calm his unruly insides. Beneath his sweatshirt, his belly moves, which he almost feels in his kidneys. He’s not totally used to the sensation of something solid shifting inside of him. It’s a nice sensation, considering he knows where it’s coming from, but also a bit unsettling.

“Easy,” Hux whispers hastily to his belly, giving it a small pat as he continues shambling towards the kitchen, his bare feet padding against the tile floor. One of the twins rolls back against his palm but seems to settle after that, leaving Hux a brief respite to grab something for his stomach.

He used to drink those berry protein shakes Ben favored, but thanks to some quirk of pregnancy he can’t even stomach the smell of them now, much less the taste. Ben has to prepare them when Hux is out of the room, or else he’ll gag, something he feels very ashamed and guilty of. Ben has had to shift around so much in his life to accommodate Hux—far too much, in his opinion.

He wishes he hadn’t become such an unsightly burden on his boyfriend.

Hux glumly searches for a mug, finding most of his usual ones in the wash, and finally decides to choose a dark, space-patterned cup that belongs to Ben. It’s part of a collection, actually—nine in total, each emblazoned with a design of one planet in the solar system that only properly appears when it’s filled with hot water. The one Hux finds is Jupiter, like this is some sort of cosmic joke at his expense. That big and ugly red mark certainly sticks out in a similar way as his belly button, and his children do love to kick up a storm inside him. Perhaps it’s more fitting than he wants to admit.

Hux sets the mug on the counter before filling the hot water kettle and flipping it on. He waddles over to the cupboard, scrounging for the brand of decaf tea Ben bought him recently. It’s a blend that’s supposed to help his stomach, yet Hux isn’t all too fond of it. It has a strange taste, reminiscent of anise, but he’s sipped worse. At this point, he’s grateful for anything that helps him relax.

He drapes two tea bags into the mug, resting his hip against the edge of the counter as he waits for the water to boil. When he glances over to the clock on the oven, he finds it’s a lot later than he thought—past noon, in fact. Lord, he’s really let himself go, hasn’t he? Before, when he still had the energy and ability to go into the office, he would wake up every day at six o’clock and run through his meticulous morning routine with ease. Now, he can hardly drag himself out of bed for a cup of tea before it officially becomes the afternoon.

On the counter sits a stack of mail Ben had presumably brought in before leaving for work, and to Hux’s dismay he sees one of those detestable maternity magazines sitting right at the top. He’d told Ben to cancel their subscription but he must not have gotten around to it yet. At first, Hux had wanted to read all he could about pregnancy, absorb any tips and tricks from other expecting couples, but as the pregnancy wore on he’d soured on these publications. Pure drivel— nothing but pages and pages of omegas showing off fake smiles and fashionable sweaters and blouses and cute, petite baby bumps. Doing yoga and eating salad with their airbrushed skin and snug Lululemon leggings. Idiots. They have no idea what a special kind of suffering it is to lug around a pair of Ben Solo-sized offspring.

Hux hates them.

The kettle pings behind him, a little jet of steam streaming from the spout. Hux nudges himself off the counter, grabbing the mug and carefully pouring the water into it. He lets out a small yawn, the passable scent of the tea filling his nose as he sets the kettle aside and carefully lifts the mug.

He’s ready to settle into one of the chairs at the kitchen table and fritter the rest of the day away, at least until Ben returns, when one of the twins suddenly shifts and kicks him hard in the diaphragm.

“Ah!” Hux shouts, one hand clamping to the side of his belly, the surprise and pain causing him to lose his grip on the mug and sending it crashing to the floor. Hux flinches at the sound of shattering ceramic, unable to even see where it’s fallen or how badly the cup has broken with the bloat of his belly in the way. He hunches over, trembling hand braced against the edge of the counter as he takes several deep breaths, suddenly feeling his lungs tighten even as the smarting pain of his pup’s movement ebbs away. Hux grits his teeth in frustration, feeling warmth rise up in his cheeks. He can’t even make a cup of tea without messing up, can he? He doesn’t even get to have that, does he?

Screw it. Hux throws up his hands, leaving the mess on the floor and stomping to the living room. With tears building in his eyes, he flops himself down sideways on the couch and curls his legs up as best as he can manage. Even lying down, his belly still sticks obtrusively in front of him, like a taunt. He tosses an arm over his eyes, not wanting to look at it any longer.

Hux stays that way for a long while, sniffling, trying to phase into the couch cushions so maybe he won’t have to occupy the physical body he hates for a moment longer, until the door to their apartment clicks. The tell-tale heavy, measured footsteps that could only belong to Ben follow. Hux curls up tighter, hugging his other arm around his waist, anticipating—

“Armie? You in here?’ There it is.

Hux puffs pathetic breath through his lips, wishing he could pretend to be asleep and avoid a conversation he does not want to have right now. Yet Ben always has some kind of sixth sense when it comes to his boyfriend’s distress levels, and in a moment he’s poking his head around the corner from the kitchen, eyes immediately falling on Hux.

“You okay?” Ben asks, the rest of his body promptly following. Hux grimaces once he sees those broad pecs and sculpted shoulders, just barely concealed beneath a compression shirt spotted with perspiration. Ben’s whipped his damp hair back in a messy bun, and his cheeks are a little flushed. He must’ve just come out of a training session—most likely with one of his more athletic clients, if he’d broken a sweat. Training post-op patients or middle-aged ladies isn’t exactly so strenuous.

“What’s up? Is something wrong?” Ben asks again, placing his tennis shoes atop the little metal rack near the floor before padding on over. Hux averts his eyes and nibbles his lower lip, not wanting to talk about it. If he does, he feels like he might start to cry again, and he doesn’t want to act so disgracefully in front of his boyfriend.

But Ben is notoriously bad at leaving him alone. He crosses the living room and kneels at Hux’s side, the smell of sweat and deodorant following him.

“Can you tell me what happened? Is it the twins?”

Hux shakes his head quickly. Irrationally upset as he is, he doesn’t want his boyfriend over-worrying about the twins. Ben looks relieved.

“That’s good. Are you just sore again or something? I can run you a bath or rub you down if you want.”

Hux shakes his head again, now frustrated with Ben’s niceness, his willingness to give him all that he doesn’t deserve. Ultimately the longer this drags on, the more silly he feels, so he ends up just blurting it out.

“I broke one of your mug,” he states, fiddling with one of the hoodie’s cords. “I’m sorry.”

“I saw,” Ben replies slowly, resting his hand on Hux’s shoulder and stroking it with his thumb, “it’s okay. It broke into big pieces, so I think I can fix it.”

That should be a relief to Hux, should help to ease his guilt over breaking one of Ben’s favorite mugs, but it doesn’t.

“You shouldn’t have to fix it.” He can hear his voice wavering, but tries to keep pushing the words out. “I shouldn’t have broken it in the first place, but this one—” he points accusingly at the side of his belly, “—jabbed me and it really hurt!”

Hux’s voice breaks on the last word as he rapidly blinks his eyelids, trying to prematurely stave off tears. It had hurt, he’d been so shocked at the sudden punch of pain in his side. He’s doing his best to carry his children, and it feels like they already didn’t like him, already want to harm him. Like he isn’t doing enough and this is his preemptive punishment for being a rotten father.

“It’s just a cup,” Ben tries to soothe, but Hux can feel himself already working up to hysteria. He can’t stop himself, and even as his boyfriend tries to quiet him his breath starts to hitch in distress.

“This is miserable. I’m already such a failure of a parent...and a partner...I can’t even be left alone without ruining things. Everything feels r-ruined.”

Ben presses his lips together, eyebrows following suit. He lets the silence settle between them, broken only by Hux’s messy whimpering, before speaking up.

“It’s not about the cup, is it?”

It wouldn’t surprise Hux if he did cry over something as silly as a cup. But no, it’s not just about that, of course. And when Ben asks him so earnestly, in that soft voice of his, as if Hux could admit to murder and he would still understand, he can’t help but let it out. Unwilling tears spill over his cheeks as he lets out a damp sniffle.

“Look at me. Look how large I’ve gotten. I’m disgusting,” Hux hisses miserably, scrubbing at his eyes. “And foolish. Crying like this. I should just accept how horrible I look, and not winge on about it.”

“Strawberry, everything you just said was totally wrong.” Ben flinches as Hux whacks his arm, glaring. “I—wait, let me rephrase that—”

“What?” Hux growls, annoyed despite the use of his favored pet name.

“It’s just…” Ben sighs, moving his hand up and down his boyfriend’s upper arm. “You’re not disgusting. You don’t look horrible, and it’s alright if sometimes you need to cry. Okay?”

“You don’t need to lie. It’s grotesque. Obviously no one could ever find...this attractive.” Hux gestures at his horribly swollen belly. He must look even more pathetic, his eyes inflamed with tears and his cheeks puffy and stained. “Especially not someone like you.”

Ben frowns.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Hux huffs through wet, wibbling lips. Did Ben not understand? To him, it was obvious.

“Because you’re...I dont know…you’re so….you,” Hux finishes lamely, but seems to get his point across when he gestures at Ben’s bared shoulders. “Strong. Fit.”

“It’s my job to be...me,” Ben starts cautiously, rubbing Hux’s arm. “But it’s your job to keep the twins safe until they’re ready, and I think you’re doing pretty great at that.”

“Yes, yes. I just wish I didn’t look so….plump and slovenly in the interim,” Hux grimaces as Ben wipes at his tears with his other hand, though he doesn’t swat him away. “Whenever we go out together...it feels like people are thinking you’re too good for me.” Even when they’re buying things for the baby, or even mere grocery shopping, this kind of doubt lingers in Hux’s mind. Surely there’s plenty of fit, slender, protein-guzzling omegas his boyfriend would rather breed with?

“You don’t have to be like me,” Ben soothes, “I don’t want you to be exactly like me, if you don’t want to.”

“So you’re saying you find this attractive?” Hux rubs his hand against the side of his belly, disbelieving. Ben’s eyes darken, and an uneven smirk picks at his lips.

“Very. Did all the sex we were having not convince you?”

“I figured you were just giving me what I wanted because I wouldn’t stop bothering you…” Hux groans, though he feels a bit less disconsolate than he had before. As his alpha, Ben has a calming effect on him, his words easily assuaging all his most dreadful fears. But apparently, he’s not content with just verbally comforting him.

Ben starts unzipping his hoodie, and though Hux’s fingers twitch to stop him, to hide his body from his boyfriend’s eyes, he stops himself and instead fists them into the fabric. He watches Ben pull the zipper down over his chest, then over his middle, until the garment hangs completely open over his pale skin. Hux shivers softly, cheeks glowing as Ben carefully pushes it apart, exposing the immense swell of his belly.

Hux instinctively grimaces at the sight, but Ben doesn’t wait for his complaints, instead leaning in and pressing a kiss to the side of his stomach, working a little trail down. He shivers at his boyfriend’s softness, the way he flatters every inch of his skin he can reach with his mouth and the careful cradle of his palm. Ben even kisses those awful red stretch marks that won’t fade no matter how much lotion he uses. When he gets near his protruding belly button, Hux feels one of the twins shift, pushing out the skin just below his boyfriend’s lips.

“Hmph.” Ben snorts softly against his stomach. “Afternoon to you guys too.”

“They like you a lot,” Hux whispers, heart jittering each time Ben presses a kiss to his skin. “They’re always excited to feel you.”

“I’m excited to feel them too,” Ben sighs happily, brushing his cheek against the side of Hux’s belly as he lightly rests his head. His soulful brown eyes drift up to Hux’s face, imploring.

“You believe me a little more now?” He steals one last, sideways kiss against Hux’s skin. “Or do I need to do some more convincing?”

Hux hates to admit how easily Ben gets him to melt and forget his woes. It’s almost sad, how they flee so quickly whenever he’s around with his soft words and gentle touches, only to creep back whenever Hux is alone. Ben really needs to negotiate some more spare time around his training sessions, especially as they get closer to the due date.

“I suppose if you thought I was ugly, you wouldn’t be lavishing kisses all over me,” Hux admits with a fond sigh, ruffling his fingers through his boyfriend’s hair. “Though you do give affection away as readily as an oversized puppy…”

Ben lets out a soft, playful chuff and shakes his hair in response. That gets Hux properly chuckling, before he quiets, consumed with the unwashed sleekness of his boyfriend’s hair. Eventually, Ben lifts his head off of Hux’s belly, though he keeps close so he can continue petting him.

“I think you’d be more comfortable on the bed, or in the bath.” Ben leans in to steal a quick kiss from Hux’s lips, even as they sour into a frown.

“Ideally, but it took quite a bit of effort to get all the way over here. I don’t particularly want to wobble back to the bedroom at the moment.” Hux had just dispelled the worries over his appearance. He doesn’t want them rekindled too quickly.

“Alright, I’ll carry you. No big deal.” Ben rethreads his ponytail, before rising up into a crouch. Hux’s eyebrows shoot up in alarm.

“Ben, wait, I don’t think—” He yelps as his boyfriend slides his hands underneath his body, cradling his knees and upper back as he hefts him up in his arms. Hux scrabbles, expecting Ben to falter and drop his cumbersome body to the floor, but he holds firm. Muscles in Ben’s chest and arms bulge out as he supports his boyfriend with little effort, lips parting in a breathless smirk.

“See? Doesn’t matter how big you are, strawberry, as long as I’m strong enough to lift you.” Hux rolls his eyes, swatting Ben’s chest in rebuke for his sentimentality, but relaxing into his steady embrace ever the same.

“It won’t be so easy when they’re born and growing. I expect you to be able to carry all three of us then, you beast,” Hux replies as he leans his head on Ben’s shoulder, letting his boyfriend tow him back to the bedroom. He feels a chuckle rumbles throughout Ben’s chest, muscles flexing in confidence.

“Think I’ll be up for the challenge.”

[epiproctan]

Hi! Can you tell us a bit more on the fics you're currently writing? I don't have a twitter account but I keep seeing you talk about your writing on Twitter (so excited for that homewrecker (?) Keith fic bc I'm nasty lol) and need to know moreeee - if that's OK of course! Happy holidays :)

hey!! thank you so much for asking! i’m always excited to talk about my fics haha

the one you probably saw me talking about on twitter isn’t exactly a homewrecker fic (though i’m also nasty and may write one sooner or later), but shiro does do something pretty questionable with keith the day before he gets married to curtis. the plot itself actually mostly takes place after shiro’s divorce. pidge ends up dragging him, a very depressed lance, and hunk on a space road trip, of course not telling shiro that their end destination is keith. but keith’s been up to his own adventures, and thinks he may know the whereabouts of one presumed-dead space princess. ofc it’s pure self-indulgent fix-it drivel but it’s been a blast to work on!!

i’m also gearing up to start a pretty big project in 2019 that i’ve been sitting on for a while. the basic idea is frat president shiro is out in the desert alone for his astronomy homework one night and sees something streak through the sky and crash land in the distance. it turns out to be bom keith’s ship, and shiro takes him back to his frat house and nurses him back to health. now while searching for the blue lion, keith has to learn how to blend in at the house while also accidentally falling in love with shiro. it’s probably gonna be the tropey-est thing i’ve ever written...frat boy shiro, sharing a bed, fake dating, mutual pining, college au...but i’m SO excited to get started on it

i have a few more wips but i’ll cut myself off there before this gets too long haha. thanks so much for asking!!

[ajora]

An internal debate I’ve been having with myself: Do I post the ff5 fic bits to AO3 now or wait until I have everything in chronological order?

Points regarding now: 1) small fandom is small and ship fans are even fewer, so it ultimately doesn’t matter either way because no one’s going to read my shit; 2) get the stuff out of the way and not have to worry about it; 3) let’s be real, when am I gonna have time to write the whole thing properly anyway?; 4) this is purely self-indulgent drivel

Points regarding later: 1) not confusing anyone who might want to read, 2) better chance of presenting stuff to a beta if I have everything in order; 3) there is a practice of people taking on grand projects in the fandom and just leaving them to rot after a while because of low feedback/small fandom/lack of interest and I don’t really want to do that.

¯\_(ツ)_/¯

[sabrinaprotectionsquad-blog]

AU Yea August 12 - What your Lady won’t see

@auyeahaugust

Day 12 - Royalty

Ao3 https://archiveofourown.org/works/15662928

Chloé scoffed, examining the beautiful necklace between her fingers, her mouth a thin line and her piercing eyes brimming with distaste. Sabrina stood next to her mistress, worried that this would end beyond badly.

“They are blue sapphires from the depth of Africa.” Nathaniel put on a brave smile, trying to pierce through Chloé’s tough exterior. “I saw them and was reminded of your beautiful eyes.” His honeyed words did little to melt away the girl’s tough exterior.

“I only wear purples and yellows right now. They suit me better.” She said matter of factly, extending the extremely expensive piece of jewelry to her handmaiden who gasped, having to throw herself forward to catch it as the blonde let it slide out of her hand mercilessly.

The orange haired handmaiden sighed in relief as she made sure the necklace was unharmed. She knew the two nobles were wealthy, but it was still ludicrous to her to think that neither of them seemed to care much about the safety of the necklace.

“Chloé please, I know a thing or two about accessorizing, the piece will really help bring some complex depth into your darker outfits.” Nathan explained.

Sabrina couldn’t help but look over the young man’s outfit. He wore a tight black jacket with a crimson scarf to make the color pop. Deeper and darker red hues played in symmetrical patterns across the jacket. He wore thin gloves in the same matted red hue as on his jacket. A bright silver chain link hung from his pocket, attached to his belt, attached to a pocket watch Sabrina assumed. On his legs, matted red vertical stripes we carried down over black pants, almost merging with black boots with red tongues.

His long red hair draped over his face making him look positively gothic. Sabrina wondered how Chloé could so easily disregard the handsome mans advice and advances.

Chloé and Nathaniel’s conversation had devolved into the usual back and forth, barely contained anger flew from both of them as Nathaniel grit his teeth “I don’t know why I even bother with you!”

Chloé practically snarled back “maybe you shouldn’t! Go die somewhere, save me the trouble of having to poison you later!”

“Poison me?! Please, you don’t have the guts! You’re all bark and no bite!”

Sabrina stood there like a statue caught at the center of a battlefield. She feared any moment now that the cavalry would charge and she’d be crushed between the two opposing forces. She dared not speak up, it wasn’t her place, and even if it was, she wouldn’t want to try reasoning with the hotheaded nobles.

Chloé’s eyes narrowed to slits, staring with shaking anger at him before storming off. Nathaniel ran a hand through his hair, sighing deeply, letting the anger slowly disappear from his chest. He sat down at the table, looking over at her with a soft smile.

Sabrina swallowed, quickly bowing to him before dashing out to retrieve tea and biscuits for him. His visit had devolved so quickly that she hadn’t even had time to offer him anything.

She slowly poured the tea for him “I’m… sorry about Chloé, she really does mean well.” She placed the necklace in front of the red headed man, next to his tea.

He chuckled softly “no need to apologize. I’ve come to expect this from her.” His fingers played along his lip contemplatively, “Honestly it feels nice, her loathing this arrangement as much as I do.”

Sabrina nodded slowly, taking care of Chloé’s needs wasn’t always an easy job, but for a servant girl she had a good amount of money and she got to live in an amazing estate. She got a piece of noble life, but wasn’t forced to marry anyone for wealth or status. She pondered if maybe she had it as well as anyone, if she’d threaded the needle between the security of money and the relative freedom of peasantry.

Nathaniel ran his finger along the rim of the cup, deep in thought. “Do you like the necklace?” he asked without looking at her.

Sabrina nodded “it’s brilliant, it looks like little moons caught on a string of stars! Chloé will love it once she calms down, she’s just not keen on accepting your gifts right now.” She smiled assuringly to him.

He nodded slowly “I like the way you describe things, you have the soul of a poet. I so love the arts but I struggle to put words to it.”

Sabrina blushed “you flatter me sir, I just say whatever comes to mind, it’s nothing special” she shrank.

He chuckled again “that’s what poetry is I’m told. Mine tends to be overly dreary and uninspired however. I much prefer painting the beauty around me, but I’ll admit I sometimes dream I could create images of pure beauty and expression out of nothingness. All I capture is an imitation of life, the greats they saw through the drivel of the everyday and captured something beyond. But how such skills elude me…”

Sabrina hid her mouth as she let out a soft laugh “for someone who claims no skills with words, you sure seem a master at putting thoughts to your lack of mastery.”

Nathaniel laughed loudly “Perhaps I’ve fallen too in love with the Gothic’s; my thoughts begin to carry a self indulgent pity.” He sighed with a smile on his lip.

“I envy you, that you can spend your time reading and painting” Sabrina admitted, immediately regretting her words, she’d gotten vastly too forward with the man who was from a completely different world.

He nodded slowly “I suppose I forget my luck… Tell me, can you read and write?”

Sabrina nodded “well enough, but I imagine not half as well as you.”

He smiled retrieving something from his inner pocket, it was a small booklet, newly printed pages sown together. He handed it to her, but she didn’t reach out to take it.

“What’s this?” she asked carefully, knowing that she was blurring some lines between the two which should not be blurred, it wasn’t the first time, and every time she thought to herself afterwards that she was becoming to friendly with the beautiful artist.

“A story, or the beginning of one anyway. A friend asked my opinion on it. I like it, I feel the need to read the rest, but I find it hard to find the words to describe to him what I felt when reading it. I thought perhaps you could read it, tell me your thoughts, I would like to sound smart when meeting him next.” He shot her a sly smile. She could tell that this was his new way of giving her a gift, as last time she had refused quite adamantly. By making it a favor to him, he absolved her of much of the guilt of taking it from him.

She hesitantly took the booklet, looking over the front page. “The modern Prometheus” she read, regretting having read aloud as the difficult third word required her to take a few tries. She blushed, hiding her face from the extremely well read man. “What’s it about?”

“I’m sure you could easier tell me than I could tell you. It’s about a doctor whose pursuit of knowledge goes too far, the rest I’ll let you discover for yourself.” He stirred his tea, taking a small sip before adding more sugar. “The author might end up being one of the greats, if she can keep writing like this.”

Sabrina’s mouth opened slightly “she?” she blinked, he must have misspoken.

Nathaniel laughed “yes, she. Mary Shelly, she’s proving to be beyond competent as an author. Her mother Mary Wollstonecraft was quite the creator as well, I may not have noticed your wit had I not read her book. She opened my eyes to the guile and wit of women, she argued that you should be educated and respected just as men are.”

Sabrina scoffed at the idea “and this girl grew up with a mother like that?” she chuckled, only scarcely able to imagine the kind of lunar ideas someone could have with such a role model.

Nathaniel sighed, a sad expression creeping onto his face “the two didn’t know one another I’m afraid, they only existed together for scarcely ten days…”

“Oh… I’m sorry…” Sabrina was reminded of her own mother, whose face she didn’t even know.

“So you’ll read it?” he asked hopefully, clearly already sure of the answer.

Sabrina sighed “of course, I’d be happy to help you seem smart in front of your friends” she shot him a teasing smile which he returned with gleeful beaming.

“You know, I think Chloé’s right, deep blue doesn’t go that well with her style.” Nathaniel stood, holding the necklace out in front of him with a thoughtful expression. “No. Blue like this is much better with orange colors.” He smiled knowingly at her.

Sabrina’s eyes went wide “You cannot! Just because Chloé refused it!”

Nathaniel shrugged “What if when I saw it, the first thing I thought was how nice it would look draped around your neck?”

Sabrina gasped “you… you knew she wouldn’t accept it.”

He nodded “Please, I want you to have it”

She shook her head “it’s much too expensive!”

“It’s a rock and some metal. If you do not take it, it’s going to lie unused somewhere. This beautiful piece is art, and art has no value if we don’t see it.” He held the jewel up in front of Sabrina “but if we are able to notice the beauty behind something, discover how much more is there than we first thought, that’s when something becomes art.”

Sabrina felt her heart beating faster, she felt petrified by his sensitive yet piercing eyes. He moved towards he, standing so close that she could almost feel his warmth. She didn’t stop him as he laid the cold artpiece around her neck, closing it behind her.

The string around her neck felt heavy and cool against her skin, it was pleasant and terrifying. Nathaniel’s hands slid down to her shoulders, he looked at her with his deep gazing eyes, so close to hers.

“We… can’t… You have to marry Chloé…” Sabrina whispered, everything in her telling her she was wrong, to surrender to her feelings.

Nathaniel looked at her with sad, longing eyes “I have to marry Chloé… and I’m… I’m sorry about that. But I promise. I’ll only ever love you”

Love, the word that broke the last pieces of her façade. The word that tore down her resistances and made her realize that it didn’t matter that this was a bad idea, she couldn’t keep herself from living just because it wasn’t perfect.

She held him close, pressing her lips against his. Marking their forbidden union with a beautiful kiss, then another.

[iwrestlenow]

Many More To Die, Chapter 15 (Epilogue)

TITLE: Many More To Die (Chapter 15, Epilogue)

FANDOM: Sanders Sides (Necromancer AU)

SUMMARY: Logan goes home for the first time in ten years--and ends this story so he can start a new one at Roman's side.

SHIPS: Logince (Logan/Roman), Moceit (Patton/Janus) and Dukexiety (Remus/Virgil)

WARNINGS: implications of violence, but mostly schmoop

This story is over, but THE story is just beginning. Still, I want to thank literally everyone that's been reading and enjoying this. Your kind words and comments, your support and kudos and encouragement...

For a while now, I've lost my passion for writing. This lit a fire under my ass. Thank you for helping to fan the flame.

I am your biggest fan. All of you reading this. Every single person. <3

Oh also this is unbeta'd so if it sucks it's on me, hope you have fun reading anyhoodle. :P

NOTES: This is based on the gorgeous piece of art by @gretacticdraws that can be found here. I ended up writing a ficlet for it, and then my brain got swallowed up. Breathe at me wrong, and I’ll write more…hell, who am I kidding? I’ll write more anyway because this? Is self indulgent drivel. XD

Also located at AO3 over here.

“You're nervous.”

“Falsehood.”

“I'm the one that's supposed to be nervous.”

“Roman, I am warning you...”

Roman's mouth was abruptly on his, warm and sweet and firm. His arms were secure around Logan's waist, pulling Logan's back against his chest, and Logan was helpless in the face of liquid golden warmth trickling through his limbs and pooling sweetly somewhere low in his belly as he leaned back into Roman's embrace.

It had been a week, and technically, Logan and Patton were still prisoners until a vote could be put to the people. As prince regent, with the king convalescing, Roman was already spreading word of the events in the castle, and the fact that necromancers had defended the life of the royal family.

Thomas, despite being alive, seemed hell bent on abdicating, claiming Roman was ready. Logan was in full agreement, but Roman refused to even consider it.

Not until he made sure his reign would be welcome.

Logan forced himself from the blissful reverie of Roman's embrace just in time to open his eyes and spot a figure on the horizon. People were appearing, but one towered above all the others.

Grandpap. Logan blinked hard against the sudden burn behind his eyes. Roman must have sensed his unrest, because a hand smoothed up the length of his spine.

The closer they drew, the more restless Logan became. His stomach was tightening, his chest compressing, a strange chill causing him to shiver when the air was perfectly pleasant...

Logan wasn't nervous. Logan was afraid.

Roman brought the horse they were riding to a stop once they were there—a dozen feet from the line of people that had formed to wait for their arrival, just at the boundary of the settlement.

Grandpap towered over them, but among the throng were Logan's parents—and endless others, so many he'd grown up with and around...

Roman gave him one gentle squeeze before he carefully dismounted and reached up to help Logan down. Taking one last breath, Logan walked up to face his grandfather as calmly as he could, where he stood, flanked by his child and goodchild—Logan's geni and his pari, Elliot and Talyn..

“Who claims this Weaver?” Josiah called out, raising his voice to be heard by the people around him.

“We do.” Elliot replied, their eyes too bright as they stared at Logan with a ferocity that made it hard to breathe. “We claim this Weaver, and grant him--”

“I will take no Name.”

Josiah regarded Logan sharply. “Scuse me?”

Logan took a deep breath. “I will take no Name, for I already have one.”

A gasp went through the group, and Talyn's hands flew to cover their mouth, tears slipping from their eyes.

“I am Logan Berry.” Logan continued, emboldened by the weight of a hand on his shoulder from behind. “Son of Elliot Crofter. Fruit of Talyn Crofter...heart-name of Starlight, recalled to life by the power of the Lazari.”

Logan paused, turning to face Roman.

“And I am claimed by the keeper of my soul.”

Roman smiled at him, bending to kiss Logan's cheek before he faced Josiah.

Only then did Logan realize Roman wasn't wearing it.

“Roman!”

Ignoring Logan, Roman stepped forward—and then dropped to one knee in front of Logan's grandfather as he drew his sword, offering it to him pommel first.

“To you, Lord Father, I submit my fate. If you have not the care to look into my soul, then it is better that you should run me through with my own sword and claim me as your thrall lest you believe me incapable of pure intent.” he declared without hesitation, his voice clear and strong. “What say you?”

Logan stood, breathless, as Grandpap gaped down at Roman with shock and anger in his face. His gaze flicked up to Logan, as if he couldn't help it--

Before he took the sword from Roman and hefted it into his hand with an ease that was unnerving. Logan had never seen his grandfather wield a blade, always fighting with bare hands and sharp words...

For the first time, he could see it: the blood of kings, the head that bore the weight of the crown, the noble blood that had passed from him to Geni and into Logan's veins.

Josiah used the flat of the blade to lift Roman's chin to meet his gaze.

“You know what you're askin', son?” he replied quietly.

“Yes, Lord Father.”

“To walk the grave and call it home?”

“To walk the grave, and call it home.” Roman replied, then continued with an ease that made Logan's chest tight with pride. “To give the dead my voice, to speak their will, to care for the lowest of the low as gods and as kings, for I seek no greater honor than to humble myself as a steward of the dead.”

“And why is that?” Josiah asked.

“For it is in the stewardship of death that we understand the blessing of life.”

Josiah slid another look up at Logan, raising an eyebrow. Logan had to bite back a smile—it was the same look Grandpap gave him whenever Logan asked for another new book or telescope or a third helping of jam with his breakfast as a little boy.

“You ask for death and resurrection as one of the tribe—what gift would you deliver for the honor of death and slavery?” Josiah asked, refocusing on Roman.

“The throne of the Kingdoms, and the crown that goes with it.”

Josiah blinked, the people around him dead silent with pure shock.

“Lies kill among this tribe, little prince.” Josiah warned.

Roman held steady, his breathing even, his voice colored with a softness that Logan knew meant he was smiling.

“Only a fool would come to the Lord Father of the Necromata with a lie on his lips—and while I am a fool many times over, I am not a fool in this.”

There was a startled, barely there ripple of tittering through the people at Grandpap's back—including the familiar roll of thunder that was Josiah's quiet chuckle.

“And the compensation you would ask for the soul you've gifted to my grandson?”

“I would ask for nothing, and accept only that which you would offer, Lord Father.”

“...then I offer you the throne of the Kingdoms, and the crown that goes with it. Didn't wanna be a king in my youth, and that ain't changed.”

“Grandpap--”

“Logan, hush your mouth.”

“But Grandpap, he's not--”

“Starlight, hush yer mouth.”

Logan's mouth snapped shut at the use of his True Name by his grandfather. Josiah watched Roman as he set the point of the sword against Roman's throat.

Roman was asking for the right to be with Logan not as a suitor or a spouse, but as a rightful member of his tribe. Such initiation required a blood sacrifice, usually represented with the symbolic slicing of a red thread or mutilation of a piece of red fabric.

And Roman wasn't wearing the thread Logan had knotted around his neck.

“It is done.” Josiah declared flatly, launching Logan's heart into his throat.

There was a soft twitch, and Roman's deep red travel cloak slipped off his shoulders to pool around him.

“The king is dead—and the king is reborn unto the tribe.” Josiah declared, lowering the sword and offering Roman his hand. “Rise, son of Shadow...and next time, wear the damn thread 'stead of showboating.”

Roman shrugged as he stood up. “I didn't want to give myself an out. I wanted you to know I meant it, I...I'm willing to die to be with your grandson, sir.”

“Well, now you are.” Grandpap replied, glancing at Logan again. “Provided this ain't an act?...”

Logan shook his head, then reached into his pocket and pulled the Soulstone free with shaking fingers, moving to Roman's side and handing it to Josiah.

“I apologize for stealing it, but I felt I had no choice.” he confessed. “For what it's worth, it protected me from the Cleansing—and likely protected Roman from far worse. Has news reached here?”

Josiah nodded, fingers curling around the Soulstone. “It has.”

“Then you know that Roman has had little memory of what led me to steal that ring—had the Soulstone not been present and working, the Animator might have done Roman harm much sooner to ensure he could successfully wipe out the royal family...and, without the king's protection, ours as well.”

Josiah just nodded, looking between the pair.

“So that's it? You two show up just to make the little prince Necromata and get my blessing? Where's your damn brother, and if the king lives why the hell did your soulmate just try to offer me the throne?”

Logan smiled, leaning into Roman's side. His arm came to settle around Logan's shoulders, the line of heat and pressure doing worlds to calm his nerves.

“It's a long story, Grandpap,” Logan offered, “but I think there's finally time enough to tell it—not just to you, but to everyone.”

Josiah smiled at that—a real smile, slow and broad and warm as fresh bread.

“I hope you mean more 'n just the Necromata, son...c'mon, let's go inside.”

With that, there was chaos, joyous and enveloping—and that word, once again echoing in Logan's head.

Necromata.

Once upon a time, Logan had nothing but that word to hold onto, alone in a dungeon cell, in pain and afraid.

Then Roman found him, for a second time, and saved him. Now, Roman had a future as king, and Logan...

Logan had that word again, but now that word also meant Roman. It meant his family, it meant his future...it meant real and lasting hope.

Necromata. It no longer meant the necromancers, or the legions of the Animator.

It meant his geni and pari, who chose that moment to leave Josiah's side and fling themselves at him.

It meant his Grandpap, snickering at them over his shoulder.

It meant Roman subjecting himself to the curious onslaught of questions from Logan's parents, not as a ruler but as Logan's future husband.

It felt like a Name now—a Name, freely accepted and made his own.

A life, restored.

For the first time, Logan could allow himself to have hope, because he had the power of the Necromata at his fingertips—and it was only a matter of time before that power and that hope brought the world back into balance once again.