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sillyswriting · 1 month ago

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: ̗̀➛ doomsday's luckiest

ㅤ ₊✩ˎˊ˗ apocalypse simon 'ghost' riley x reader

02 : i don't want to set the world on fire

cw : human trafficking, mention of sexual assault, murder, blood, death, chubby reader. words : 5.1K

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28 days.

Ever since the world ended, you’d considered yourself one of the lucky ones. Yet, you were stuck on the military base just outside Manchester, mostly alone. Your own private heaven and hell all at once.

You had woken up wrapped in Simon’s arms. It had been too early, but for a few fleeting seconds, it felt perfect. Peaceful.

Then came the explosion, ripping you straight out of dreamland.

Simon had been on his feet the second his eyes opened, gun in hand, ready to charge whatever threat was approaching. In your dazed, sleep-addled brain, you’d thought maybe he was being robbed. But no, the explosions came from outside.

All you could do was sit on his bed, confused, watching him rush to his radio. He turned it on, and instantly the air filled with overlapping voices—urgent, shouting what you assumed were code names.

Ghost.

After that, everything was a blur. Simon had dragged you out of bed, shoving clothes into your arms : his boxers, a random t-shirt, and sweatpants that hung off you like a child playing dress-up. The explosions kept coming closer, one even shattering the windows of his flat. Through it all, Simon moved with terrifying precision.

His face was locked down, no panic, just cold focus. He swept the apartment like he’d done it a hundred times before. Guns appeared from hidden compartments. Combat knives from beneath furniture. He even rushed to his bedside table to grab his dog tags.

Only then did it fully hit you. He wasn’t just some quiet guy with dark eyes and a mysterious job.

Simon was military.

Under any other circumstances, you would’ve been furious with yourself. Military men embodied everything you despised: egos the size of the moon, unchecked anger issues, chronic cheaters, and politics that leaned far too right for your comfort. The list went on.

But as another bomb leveled the building right across the street, Simon was nothing short of a godsend.

A man trained to face chaos without so much as blinking, while you sat frozen, silently crying, forced to watch as the structure collapsed in on itself. Dust and fire filled the air, and the soundtrack was nothing but screams, desperate cries, and the unmistakable, gut-wrenching sound of bodies being crushed.

Then his masked face filled your vision, cutting off the nightmare. He knelt in front of you, his gloved hands gripping your shoulders with just the right amount of pressure, firm, grounding. His lips were moving, trying to say something.

But you couldn’t hear him.

Your ears were ringing. Your vision was a blur. And your body was completely paralyzed.

When he disappeared from your sight, you thought he was leaving you behind. And honestly? You wouldn’t have blamed him. Anyone else would have.

Your body had shut down completely, refusing to respond to the chaos around you. Frozen in place, you were just another body waiting to be claimed by whatever horror had erupted outside.

But then you felt it—your weight suddenly lifted, your body slung over Simon’s shoulder with ease. His other arm was full of bags, packed with whatever essentials he had managed to gather from his apartment.

When he stepped out into the street, he was met with a kind of panic he’d never seen before. Not in the Middle East, not in Russia—not even during those near-apocalyptic missions where the threat of nuclear war loomed. This was different. This was raw, lawless, and utterly unhinged.

People were everywhere—running, screaming, smashing windows, looting stores, stabbing each other over bottled water. Bodies already littered the pavement, some trampled, others slumped lifeless under the chaos.

The upscale neighborhood you’d both fallen asleep in just hours before had morphed into something worse than any slum he’d seen. Civilization had collapsed in the time it took to dream.

He was glad your face was pressed against his back, away from the carnage. If you survived this, he’d have to teach you how to control that fear, how to think through it, push past it. Because panic would get you killed.

The sun had barely risen, casting a cold, gray light over the devastation, but enough for Simon to scan the street.

Your car was still parked where you'd left it. Without wasting a second, Simon bolted toward it. Fuck the keys—they were still in your purse, which left in his flat. He’d only taken your ID. But he didn’t need the keys anyway.

Smashing the driver-side window with the butt of his gun, he unlocked the doors and tossed the bags into the back seat. Circling around the car with long, determined strides, he opened the passenger door and gently settled you into the seat. You barely registered any of it.

Then he climbed into the driver’s side, ripped open the panel beneath the steering wheel, and hotwired the car with calm, practiced hands. The engine roared to life.

He threw it into reverse.

When he’d reached out to Captain Price moments earlier, the man had given him clear instructions: head for the Manchester Military Base, just outside the city—less than ten minutes away. Simon was to show his military credentials, and they’d let him in.

Hopefully.

Price had sounded worn, overwhelmed even. But he’d managed to tell Simon that Johnny and Kyle were safe in London—that they’d arrived a couple of days earlier, just like they were supposed to.

That was something. One less thing to worry about.

Thinking about how he was supposed to be in London with his boys wouldn’t help him now. He had told the squad he’d meet them there today, his train was meant to leave at 1 p.m. He just needed a little more time alone before rejoining the team.

He regretted it now. Of course he did.

But when his eyes flicked from the road to you, slumped and silent in the passenger seat, a new thought took hold.

Maybe you had a guardian angel, the same one who'd made him stay in Manchester. The same one that pushed him into that bar. The same one that made him find you.

The road had been chaos. Everyone was trying to flee the city. Blockades were up, military checkpoints were swarming, and soldiers were controlling every exit. Of course they were, the military had been the ones bombing the city.

Once Simon realized there was no getting through by car, he forced you to abandon it.

With you pressed close to his side, his sheer strength carved a path through panicked mothers, screaming children, and furious husbands until you both reached the edge of the madness.

Just as Simon had predicted, soldiers were stationed at the gates, barking orders, brandishing rifles, and controlling dogs frothing at the mouth. The few civilians allowed through were herded into military trucks heading for the base.

It was devastation in real time. The system meant to protect the people was now the one restraining them, holding them inside a city they were actively burning to the ground.

Under different circumstances, Simon would’ve been furious, would’ve stood with the people, against the abuse of power and the corruption that came with a uniform. But feeling your trembling body clinging to his arm, he made his choice.

You wouldn’t survive out here. Not without him. He had no other option but to play the role.

When he reached the gate and approached the private standing guard, the response was immediate: the young soldier barked at him like he was just another body in the crowd. A nuisance.

Like he wasn’t Ghost.

"Now, that's not how you talk to a ranking officer." He barked back, showing his military card in from of the soldier's face, tearing off his balaclava from his face. He had put his dog tags out of his shirt the moment he stepped out of the car.

"Sorry Lieutenant," the soldier barely whispered. "Lieutenant Riley coming through." He shouted at the soldiers behind him, those with the riffles. He apologised again ad he handed his ID back to Simon.

With a mocking nod, Simon shoved past the private without a second glance. But he halted immediately at the sound of your scream.

He whipped around to see the soldier holding you back—your hands no longer wrapped around his arm. You had only let go when he reached into his pocket for his ID, trusting him entirely. Waiting, patient. Safe. Until you weren’t.

"You better let go of my wife," Simon growled, voice low and deadly.

A white lie. A simple little one. But one that might save your life.

The private stiffened. "Oh—she... I thought— I-I thought she was pushing through," he stammered, backing down the moment he met Simon’s eyes. If looks could kill, he’d be six feet under.

Simon didn’t say another word. Just extended a hand.

You didn’t hesitate. You ran to him, colliding into his chest, arms clinging to his body like a lost child reunited with their parent, like the only solid thing in a collapsing world.

As you were both herded into the back of a military truck, the heavy doors slammed shut and locked behind you. Through the small slats in the metal, you caught what might be the last glimpse of a city still alive.

Just before the truck turned a final corner, another explosion rang out—louder, closer. You saw it hit near the barricades.

They were bombing civilians.

If Simon hadn’t lied for you, hadn’t claimed you as his, if he’d left you behind, you would’ve been just another body in the crowd.

Tears welled in your eyes as you watched them set the world on fire.

That had been twenty-eight days ago.

You’d been brought to a military base, and because Simon was a ranking officer, he was granted private quarters. The base still had electricity, hot water, a functioning canteen, everything felt normal, as if the world outside wasn’t falling apart.

As a lieutenant, Simon worked all day. He didn’t leave the base for recon or what they called “rescue missions”, a term that sounded more like a cruel joke, since they never brought anyone back. He was a strategist, a mind behind the planning of those missions and more.

Confidential, he had told you.

Truthfully, you didn’t really care. He gave you food, shelter, and kept you alive.

Inside the base, it was easy to get lulled into a sense of normalcy. You had a job : secretary. You answered military radio calls, transcribed coded messages that meant nothing to you, and delivered them to the right people. Simple enough.

But it was all part of the illusion. Keep everyone busy, keep panic at bay.

You’d been handling it all fairly well—until you saw something you weren’t meant to see.

You hadn’t done anything wrong. You were simply delivering a message to Dr. MacDouglas, the chief medical officer. As usual, you went to his office to hand it off to his secretary, but Sandra wasn’t there. Someone brushed past you in the hallway and mentioned her son was sick. They also said Dr. MacDouglas was down in the morgue.

And he was. But what truly froze you in place wasn’t the doctor—it was what was strapped to the examination table.

The man’s body was bloated, his veins black like ink beneath the skin, and his eyes—blood-red. Clearly dead, and yet… he moved. Groaning. Snapping his teeth at the doctors. Scratching at the restraints.

He had been the first one you ever saw.

That night, as Simon slept beside you, you sat in silence. Sleep was impossible. The illusion of safety—the false sense of stability the base had provided, shattered in seconds. Suddenly, it all felt real. your bubble was burst.

Your parents. Your brother. Your friends.

All gone.

You doubted your sixty-year-old parents stood a chance against those monsters. And your brother, born blind, had likely perished with them.

The weight of it all crashed down on you, tears slipping silently down your cheeks.

By early morning, you'd cried enough to mourn the entire United Kingdom.

That was twenty days ago.

Now, sleep came easier. But there were still nights you sat in silence, staring into the dark, imagining all the what-ifs. What if you had stayed home that night? What if you'd never gone to Manchester? What if you'd never let Simon take you back to his place? What if you'd just gotten in your car and driven back in the middle of the night?

Everything would have been different.

Those thoughts haunted you. And as you lay curled against Simon’s chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart, you knew you had to ask him.

“Simon?” you whispered softly.

He’d been back for about thirty minutes, ate the meal you saved for him, took a quick shower, and collapsed onto the bed beside you.

His days were long. Up before sunrise and home—if you could call it home—long after nightfall. You saw how it drained him, how it chipped away at him, day after day. The lines on his face deepened, the bags under his eyes darkened, and each failed rescue chipped at the hope he tried so hard to keep.

He grunted a tired “Hmm” into your ear.

Regretful, you hesitated, brushing it off. “Never mind. Go to sleep. It’s nothing.”

“No,” he said, voice low, kissing your shoulder over your shirt. “Tell me.”

“Don’t worry about it,” you whispered, pressing a kiss to his bicep. “I’ll tell you later."

Sleep was already wrapping itself around you.

What you had with Simon was a strange kind of intimacy. Familiar. Comforting. Like you'd known each other for years, like you were actually together. It was a mess, and it was starting to mess with your head.

You slept tangled up in each other every night. You made sure he ate enough; he made sure you stayed warm. His fingers would skim across your waist in the hallway, a fleeting touch that shouldn’t have meant anything, but it did. All of it did.

You knew your brain was playing tricks on you. That in a world falling apart, you were clinging to whatever made you feel safe. His touches. His steady voice. His presence. You needed it all to keep from unraveling.

But it could have been anyone. Him or someone else.

Simon wasn’t special.

He had just been there.

"Get up," a voice shouted in your ear as your body was shaken roughly awake. "Come on, get up."

Your eyes blinked open to the sight of Simon—already masked—moving quickly around your quarters, stuffing bags with things you couldn’t make out. It was still dark, far too early. He must have just gotten back.

"Simon, what—" you whispered groggily, sleep still clinging to your mind.

"I’ll explain later. Just get up. Now," he hissed, urgency sharp in his voice.

Simon watched as you slowly sat up, dragging yourself out of bed and heading toward the bathroom, still moving like it was just another early morning.

But it wasn’t.

You had to leave. Now. No one was safe here.

Simon had overheard something—quiet voices down the wrong hallway at the wrong time. A twisted plan to maintain order on the base. There were no rescue missions. Anyone found outside the gates was executed on sight. No questions. No survivors.

It made him sick.

He had suspected something wasn’t right—the inconsistencies, the vague reports—but he hadn’t imagined this. The military wasn’t rescuing civilians. They were eliminating them.

Looking back, the signs had been there. The entire base was military personnel—from fresh recruits to seasoned generals. Captains, lieutenants, medics, engineers, communications. A few spouses and children had been allowed in, but spots were limited.

Chosen. Not a single civilians.

There was never a plan to save everyone. Only to rebuild control—with the people they could control.

You both had been lucky—Simon’s rank had been just high enough to grant you access to the base, even though it wasn’t his official deployment site. The fact that he was SAS helped too. Special forces. Fucking legends in the minds of the privates.

But even that hadn’t been enough to make Simon deliberately test his luck outside. Not on his own. He could stomach the death of civilians if it meant you were safe from the world beyond the wire. He even swallowed his pride when they told him he’d be joining an upcoming mission. A man with his experience belonged in the field, they said. He couldn’t be locked inside.

He had agreed.

Simon was a vile dog. He couldn’t stay caged for too long.

But what had truly pushed him over the edge—what had made him decide it was time to leave—was what he stumbled upon on his way back to your quarters.

What looked like a returning rescue team turned out to be a sight he wished he could forget.

He should’ve been relieved. They were bringing people back. Had the general finally changed his mind? Had civilians been granted access again? Simon hadn’t heard of any new orders.

But the more he watched, the more wrong it all felt.

They weren’t just bringing back survivors. They were bringing back only women.

Women and little girls. The youngest couldn’t have been older than twelve.

It made him sick—his mind racing, struggling to accept what he was seeing. Maybe he was wrong. Maybe he was the twisted one. Maybe they had just stumbled upon a group of women—and only women…

But he had to be sure. So he followed. Quietly. Like he’d been trained to do. Like a ghost.

When they reached their destination, Simon felt bile rise in his throat. It couldn’t be.

It was a part of the base that very few were allowed to enter. He hadn’t even been shown this section during the general’s tour. He surely didn’t have the right to be there, but he couldn’t take his eyes off what he assumed were tinted windows.

Inside, the room was crowded with women and young girls—just like the group that had been brought in. Generals, colonels, and majors moved through the space, some adjusting themselves as they left, while others sat outside the tinted windows, pants around their ankles, watching like it was a show.

He couldn’t hear what was happening, but he could see the women screaming, crying, thrashing as they tried to escape the hands forcing them into unspeakable acts.

The older ones shielded the younger girls, trying to block their view, to offer whatever protection they could. The room was crammed with beds and couches, and a door at the back likely led to a bathroom—though nothing about it suggested comfort or safety.

What solidified his resolve was where his eyes landed: Sandra. The doctor’s old secretary. Her husband was part of the recon teams, those who ventured further and further every day. He’d been dead for weeks.

The same time you had told him Sandra had disappeared from the doctor’s office.

This was where they took the widows.

And he had agreed to go out.

This could be you—in a few weeks.

He rushed back to your room, no scenario in which he would let you suffer this fate. Never.

He didn’t have the power to save all those women. Didn’t have the team. He’d die trying—and they’d still be there. With you among them.

He hated feeling like a coward, but he had no other choice. He had to get you out.

It had been a bloody mess, the whole thing.

Simon left a trail of bodies in his wake as he carved a path to freedom, you tucked closely behind him, shielded by his frame. Who would’ve thought it would be this hard to leave a place of your own free will?

Curfew didn’t allow civilians outside their rooms, so when the soldiers saw Simon—with you clinging to his arm, terrified—they knew something was wrong. Simon was simply the first to pull the trigger.

He’d debated blowing the whole base to hell. Leaving nothing behind but ash and ruin. But then he thought of the innocent souls still trapped in that nightmare, wives who had no idea their husbands were monsters, children too young to understand that the world outside was rotting faster than the corpses shambling in it.

The man you were following now wasn’t the one who had quietly held you through sleepless nights, who kissed your shoulder in the dark, or tucked your hair behind your ear when you spoke. No. This was someone else entirely.

This was Ghost.

The name whispered through radio chatter like a threat. You’d heard it before, never really connected it to Simon. Not like this.

You hadn’t expected to see him like this—in action, violent and focused, lethal as a storm. Maybe it had been naïve, but a part of you truly believed you’d wait things out. That you’d leave the base one day when things had settled, when the world was calmer, when a better place opened its doors.

But Simon had decided otherwise.

He yanked you from bed, rushed you through the corridors, just as the sirens shattered the silence of the night.

The sound was deafening—piercing, unnatural. It echoed off the walls like a scream, and you knew, without needing confirmation, that every undead creature within miles had turned and begun to move toward it.

Simon had told you once: they were drawn to sound.

Whatever he had seen tonight—whatever made him snap into action without hesitation—must have been so horrific, so beyond what you could imagine, that even a man like him was scared.

And if he was scared… You should be terrified.

You were snapped back to reality when Simon lifted you and pushed your body up into a military vehicle, armored, reinforced, built for withstanding attacks from the dead. You’d never seen anything like it. A month locked inside that base had hidden so much from you.

Shouting echoed from behind, voices barking orders as confusion spread like wildfire. Lights flickered on across the compound, piercing the darkness—it was as if the sun were shining in the middle of the night.

There was no hiding now. Not even if you wanted to.

But Simon didn’t want to hide. He wanted to get away. And he was done playing by the rules. He was not above killing anyone who stood in his way.

Simon acted for you, reading the panic in your eyes. He buckled your seatbelt, turned on the engine, and took a deep breath. Luck was still on his side—the vehicle assigned to him for tomorrow’s mission was parked right in front of the fence. Fully armored and enhanced, it could plow through the gate without taking a scratch.

As gunfire rang out, bullets pinging against the bulletproof windows and windshield, Simon slammed his foot on the gas. The fence crumpled under the weight of the vehicle.

As if they’d predicted his move, soldiers had already been stationed near the exit, weapons raised and ready.

What they hadn’t accounted for was his madness.

There was nothing left tying him to this place—and nothing that would keep you in a cage, only to become a plaything for monsters.

Some soldiers fled at the sight of him barreling toward them, recognizing the look in his eyes. Others held their ground, believing he would stop. That he had a line he wouldn’t cross.

He didn’t stop.

Your scream joined the terrified shouts of the men outside.

Even if you trusted Simon, this was insanity. Maybe you’d been wrong to follow him. With his mask on, eyes deadset ahead, he looked like a maniac, a silent force of destruction. A killing machine you hadn’t been ready for.

He hadn’t told you what he saw. He’d just dragged you out of the only place you thought was safe.

"Price, do you copy, goddamn it?" he growled into the military radio he’d yanked from one of the soldiers he killed on the way out.

"The fuck do you want, Simon? It's the bloody middle of the night," a gruff, half-asleep voice crackled through the radio.

"Manchester base is a fucking scam," Simon snapped, speaking fast, the urgency thick in his voice. "They're not rescuing anyone. They're only taking in women and little girls—turning them into whores for their own sick pleasure. Just because they can." He barely paused for breath. "They take the widows too. It’s... it’s fucked up, John. So fucking twisted."

The car sped through the dark, racing away from the base you had just escaped. Looking out the window, you spotted a dozen bodies emerging from the woods—just like the ones you’d seen that one terrible time. If anything, they looked worse.

When you glanced back, your stomach dropped.

Two dozen more were making their way toward the base, drawn by the piercing wail of the siren still echoing through the night.

And Simon... he had destroyed the gate.

The only real barrier keeping them out.

Tears spilled down your cheeks. Everyone back there—everyone you'd lived alongside for the past month—was going to die. And it was all because of Simon.

But even after hearing the horrors he had uncovered, you didn’t feel angry. You weren’t scared of him. He had done it to protect you—to keep you from becoming one of those women.

Still, your heart ached.

Not for the monsters running the place, but for the pure souls. The innocent ones. People who had nothing to do with the twisted brothel buried deep inside the compound. People who were just trying to survive.

People like you.

More tears ran hot down your face as you turned toward the front of the car. Simon was still driving like a madman, far beyond any speed limit—but who cared? No one was going to pull you over.

Blood was splattered across the windshield, and the sight made your stomach turn. You gagged, a soft whimper escaping you.

Simon heard it. His eyes flicked to yours, then to the mess on the glass. Without a word, he reached for the controls and activated the windshield wipers, clearing away the gore in silence.

"Simon," the voice sounded fully awake now, sharp with alarm. "What the fuck are you on? Where are you?"

Simon glanced back at you briefly, his expression a little softer now. Calmer. If only just.

"Outside. I left. Couldn't stay, Price," he said, his voice low but steady. “Need a place to meet up, Cap'. I ain't going all the way down to London.” He looked at you again, his eyes lingering just a second longer. “Can’t.”

There was a long stretch of silence before the man on the other end of the radio finally sighed.

"Alright, lad. Alright. How about Birmingham, then?" the gruff voice offered. "It’s about halfway for all of us, yeah? Can you do Birmingham, Simon?"

The way he spoke sounded like he was trying to calm down a cornered dog, one that might bite if pushed too hard, but that he still wanted to help. His tone was steady, soft but firm, grounding Simon with quiet reassurance.

"Yeah. We can do Birmingham," Simon replied quickly, eyes flicking from the road to the rearview mirror, hyper-alert.

"We? Who’s we, Simon?" The voice was concerned now. As if Simon had lost his mind.

You didn't know it, but Simon was known as a lonely man. He never talked about girlfriend, family or friends.

"Don’t worry about that," was all he said in return. “Gotta let you go, Price. Need to find somewhere to hole up for a while. We said Birmingham—no matter what. We wait for each other, yeah?”

“Yeah, Simon. We wait. Over.”

And then—silence. Again.

It must have been about ten minutes of silence. Neither of you were ready to speak.

You were too afraid to trigger Ghost, afraid that even a gentle word might set him off—while Simon just had no idea what to say.

Of course, you understood why he did what he did. And yet, you couldn’t forget the look in the eyes of the men as he ran them over. Most of them probably hadn’t even known what the higher-ups were hiding. They’d just been following orders—orders to keep people inside, to not let anyone leave.

Especially not someone like Simon. A man who’d already killed half a dozen soldiers on his way out.

Men who would’ve killed him, yes—but still. When you closed your eyes, flashes of the blood-streaked hallways haunted you, uninvited and unwelcome.

He was a beast. But a beast who had saved your life.

He could’ve left alone. Slipped out under the cover of night, vanished into his mission the next morning. It would’ve been quieter, easier, cleaner. You would’ve never known. He could’ve stayed silent. Could’ve let them have you. But he didn’t. You were grateful.

And yet… this side of him terrified you.

At some point along the way, he had taken off his mask. His hands had loosened their grip on the wheel, and his breathing had finally settled.

You glanced at him quietly, your eyes tracing the sharp lines of his face, his focus unshaken, eyes locked on the road, ready for any danger.

Just as you opened your mouth to say something, a sudden flash of light burst behind the car, followed seconds later by the deep, echoing boom of an explosion. Judging by the distance, it could only be one thing.

The Manchester military base was going up in flames.

You didn’t know if it was a suicide or a massacre. Truthfully, you didn’t want to know. You probably couldn't handle the truth anyway. More tears welled in your eyes, sliding down your cheeks—for all the gentle souls unlucky enough to have crossed Simon’s path.

Wanting to distract you—or maybe to muffle the sound of your quiet sobs—Simon reached for the car’s radio and shoved a random CD into the player.

A soft, crackling tune spilled from the speakers, filling the uncomfortable silence between you.

I don’t want to set the world on fire…

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curiouspupsicle · 7 months ago

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Good Omens Fan Fiction Friday (12/6/24) - Illustrated Stories

Whoever decided that adult books didn't need artwork? I enjoy reading 19th century stories with line art from when they had been serialized (Dickens, Doyle, etc.) And who doesn't love Howard Pyle's beautiful illustrations for Robin Hood and King Arthur? So today I'm pleased to share a few of my favorite fan fics (but not all; some I've shared previously) accompanied by illustrations or in comic form. Like many illustrated fics, Butterflies in a Bell Jar (T) came about when a Big Bang united a writer and an artist. Writer Still_Not_King and artist @wyvernquill tell the story of co-workers Crowley and Aziraphale who team up at karaoke night and feel a spark. But it turns out, the company's no-fraternization policy is specifically directed at them and no one else. A surprising story that flies under the radar despite being truly unique and quirky. Rain in Avalon (M) by @snowfilly1 is set in Wessex after the death of King Arthur. Heaven wants peace. Hell wants war. Aziraphale and Crowley make a plan to keep both happy and themselves out of trouble. Start of The Arrangement. Sadly, I can't make out the name of the artist of the beautiful kiss illustration at the end. But worth stopping by to check it out. The latest from @klikandtuna, Naked and Afraid: Jingle Hell (T), is a Human AU in which Crowley and Aziraphale are competitors on reality show Naked and Afraid. This one-shot has great banter. I laughed out loud. And the writer also created the illustrations. Bonus is that it's set over Christmas for those looking for new holiday reads. Fan favorite @mrghostrat, wrote and illustrated Big Name Feelings (E) in which Crowley is a big name fan fiction writer who invites artist Aziraphale to pretend to be his boyfriend at a fan convention. Love the story and the style of the illustrations. Stalwart sun, wily moon (M) is a long, twisty tale in which Crowley is an art thief at the top of his game and Aziraphale is the former art conservator swept up into his world. Can't give much away without spoiling this tense and engaging story. But the writer/artist @dustandhalos decided that both our heroes are serious clothes horses. And provided stunning illustrations of their amazing outfits in the form of magazine cover art. Loved it!

I adore the style of @dreamdust who has been releasing two illustrated stories on tumblr. The first is Six Thousand Years in Love (NR) in which we see the developing relationship of our favorite pair starting in Eden. Each story comprises about 6 parts before going to a new setting. If you liked the cold open of episode 3 of the first season of Good Omens, don't miss out on what it inspired in dreamdust. And the second is Charmed (and Witch) (NR). A beautiful femme depiction in which Crowley is a witch and Aziraphale is the maiden caught in her enchanted grove. It is a WIP updated regularly. Purrchance to Dream (M) is a lovely collaboration between writer Calico and artist @vavoom-sorted-art. It's a WIP on hiatus but absolutely worth reading and subscribing in hopes they're able to get back to it. Crowley is suffering since Aziraphale returned to heaven. But he finds himself being stalked by a fluffy white cat who won't leave him alone. The comic form of One Night in Bangor (and the World's Your Oyster) is by @anotherwellkeptsecret based on the original fic by Atalan (found here - rated E). Heaven and Hell hold their annual joint meeting. But this time, the demons have made a bet about which hellish employee will be first to bed an angel. Both versions are hilarious. Do you have any favorite illustrated fics? Bonus points if the writer is also the illustrator. Please leave them in the comments. I'll be back next Friday with more great Good Omens fan fics on a new theme. In the meantime, check out my other favorite fics on this pinned post of weekly Good Omens fan fiction recommendations.

#good omens #good omens fanfiction #good omens fanart #fan fiction recommendations #fan fic rec #fan fiction #ao3 fanfic

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aziraphales-library · 3 months ago

Note

Hiiii! Thank your for your hard work, lovely mods!

I have a bit of a broader ask which makes filtering a bit difficult. I'm not looking for a specific fic or a specific trope but for fics that are a bit 'silly' (or maybe crack treated seriously) in one way or another while still set in the GO universe (so no human AU). Like 'One Night in Bangor' where there's an office party of Heaven/Hell or, or 'Do you know what eternity is' where Crowley fake proposes to set up a real proposal or those fics where one of them sets up a social media account (and accidentally confesses online - I've looked through the social media tag already :)). I hope you get what I'm trying to say. If any fic springs to mind that is a bit silly I would be glad to hear your recs :)

If this was too vague an ask that's also alright. Have a lovely day!

Hey! We have #crack and #social media tags, and I'd also recommend our #outsider pov tag as those fics often have a silly element to them. Here are more to add to the crack tag...

Game Night by amtm1017 (T)

Crowley strides back to the table with purpose, setting the sherry down in front of Aziraphale with a little more force than necessary. “You’re going to win this, you’re going to win trivia.” “Well, my darling, thank you for the enthusiasm, but what’s brought this on?” Crowley exhales, pressing his fingers to his temples. “I just got trash-talked by a man who sells cheese for a living, angel. Looked me dead in the eye and told me you weren’t smart enough to win a stupid pub quiz. Man probably spends his entire life talking about stilton, but apparently, we’re the ones who aren’t intellectually prepared.” Crowley leans in, bracing his elbows on the table. “I need you to crush them. I need you to obliterate them. I need you to make cheese-man question his entire life’s purpose. I need him to wake up at three in the morning for the next six months and think, I should never have doubted Aziraphale Fell." ---- Or It’s game night in Whickber street, and Aziraphale just wants to have a nice evening of trivia. Crowley, on the other hand, has somehow declared war on a local cheesemonger. things escalate. rapidly.

Snatched by demonsandpieohmy (M)

Aziraphale couldn’t just leave the body here. But what to do with it? A cemetery burial? He didn’t think Crowley would like being six feet closer to hell. Cremation? Absolutely not, he didn’t need to be burned again. Maybe he could arrange a burial at sea. Or shot into space - did humans have that technology yet? All this, while Crowley was still alive. Hell would never give him a new body. Crowley was going to be stuck down in that awful place forever, unless… ---- Crowley gets himself discorporated, so Aziraphale has to engage in a wee bit of body snatching.

What We Do in Tadfield by AetherBunny (T)

A Good Omens parody fic a la What We Do in the Shadows. There are demons living together in a house in the English countryside. A documentary crew follows them around for a while and discovers MUCH more than they bargained for! This is an AU that’s hard to describe in a few words, but easy to understand in the course of the story!

Cursed Creatures by MurphysScribe, pommedepersephone (T)

Hastur hits Crowley with a nasty curse, dooming him to a flu where he coughs up bizarre wild animals. Yes, you read that right. Aziraphale takes care of a miserably sick Crowley, and has to figure out how to get rid of an increasingly weird series of fauna. Because of course, miracles are off the table. (Note- tagging for nausea, but more of what happens is coughing, and more fantastical than bodily graphic)

The Art of Prestidigitation by DiningAtTheRitz9 (T)

Crowley invites Aziraphale to a costume party in the eighties. Shenanigans and feelings ensue.

The Ineffability of Fanfiction by HedgePodge (T)

Officially Muriel still works for heaven observing Aziraphale, but heaven's been quiet about it lately so they have time to work at the bookshop. One day, a human girl catches Muriel watching Crowley and Aziraphale pine at each other and invites Muriel to her writing group. A fanfiction writing group, specifically, whose primary subjects are Crowley and Aziraphale. Crowley and Aziraphale are too busy hopelessly pining for each other to notice the writing club at first, but nothing stays secret for long. Surely a bunch of fictional romance stories won’t have any real effect on Crowley and Aziraphale’s relationship. Then again, it could be the push they need to finally sort themselves out. (Set mid season 2. Features lots of fake fanfiction and real Aziracrow)

- Mod D

#good omens #ineffable husbands #crack #crack treated seriously #mod d

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golswia · 2 years ago

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REVERSE CROWLEY IS HERE

his demon spouse still in makin

Some elaboration:

So, for sure in this au, angels also have an animal equivalent. They either choose it or are gifted by God, not sure here Kelevs ( i literally called him a “dog” in a different language, help-) animal form is originally a huge white wolf, but as humanity progressed and people domesticated them, he altered his form to that of a dog to not scare them off. Be closer to them. He adores earthly creations, protects them like a loyal dog and feels "leashed" by heaven. but also Crowley, the biggest simp. what is the simpiest animal? dog- In Heaven he is rather "respected" (ADORED by cherubs and other low ranking angels, they treat him like an idol sort of) for his demon-slaying (he does ✨slay✨ too, tho) Mostly recognized in hell by all demons as " that bloody, bastard, mongrel of Her's" Kelev was really dead set on whipping off as many demons as he could. He was ruthless in the Great Heavens War. Than he grew more and more conflicted, about the whole angel demon thing. Confused even, by a c e r t a i n demon. And God’s actions, that he had more and more trouble blindly agreeing with (smth like our Aziraphale). As he wanted be loyal to Her and Her creations.

That’s it for now ✨ but there will be more ✨ ✨ (I feel like, for the lil Fiat i have to do whole another post bUahah)

#AHH MY GREMLIN IS GETTIN PROPER INTRODUCTION #JUST U WAIT FOR THE OTHER GREMLIN TO ARRIVE SKSJSKDS #good omens #good omens fanart #reverse crowley #reverse omens #good omens reverse au #golswia reverse au #BadProphecies

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beescrafting · 5 months ago

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Through heaven and hell...

Price is now retired... Living in a slow town with a small population further up in England's more rural area.

During one night at the pub and a near PTSD attack, he finds himself talking to a gentleman named Nikolai.

______

Life was slow now. With creaking old joints, pains from active duty, John found himself in a small little town far out into the country side of England.

It was quiet.

It is nice.

It was boring.

Compared to the normal loudness of a battle feild, the gunfire, the yelling, the bombs... Then again those silent missions... Either way John found himself bored out of his mind.

Theirs only so much a man can do with gardening or trying to learn how to knit.

So alot of the time, he found himself jogging and working out, doing small jobs with helping the community, and then drinking.

This is where John found himself every Friday night, at the pub at the edge of town. It's not the most popular pub, but its a good one.

That's where John found himself right now. Sitting in a corner of the bar, cradling a whiskey to drink.

The bar was briming with life, from workers taking a moment to calm down for the week ended talking with friends and watching sports, to some young men on a few dates with their girlfriends or boyfriends.

This town truly was something else.

Drinking his whiskey John sighed. The noise in the background was slowly startling to frazzle out, sounding like background noise as he more focused on the tv. It was a program about a war going on...

John tapped his finger against the table slightly, taking a deep breath. He was starting to hear the voices of the men he failed to keep alive... The men who died by his side due to his faults.

Their screams of pain over the coms as they suffered and died by the enemies hands.

The sound of gun fire and bombing ringing in his ear it was-

"are you an angel, because I want to pray to you~" A thick russian accent suddenly broke his train of thought from such a wild thing to say.

John turned to face the man only to be met by a older gentleman with a smirk amongst his face. His stuble was nice it really brought out a strong mans exterior if you were to ask anyone.

"pardon?" John said raising a brow as he studied the man.

"ha sorry, just trying to get you out of that head of yours мой друг" (мой друг = my friend) the man said while taking a seat next to John. He was wearing a dark brown leather jacket with some jeans and a nice random t-shirt from something John didn't know. "My name is Nikolai, friends call me nik, and you are?" The man- no... Nikolai asked.

"John... John Price" john replied back, he found himself smiling slightly, he had been lacking a bit with human connection lately after all... And John had a feeling Nik understood him more then he let on.

"well John, care to explain what's got you stuck in that brain of yours?" Nik asked leaning a bit closer after ordering for another round for the pair. Another Whiskey and a cherry vodka.

Mhm very nice.

Maybe this truly is what he needed, someone to talk to and drink with. He hadn't had much contact with anyone from his job in a bit, Ghost and Soap were still in the army serving under a new captain now no doubt, and Laswell had her wife and job in the CIA...

"Well, I use to be in the army" John mumbled before talking more to Nik about what it was like, he and nik both learned a few things from one another. They truly had alot in common.

~~~

This is just the intro for what's going to be started, its not very long but its a ground breaker for what I have planned. Thank you for reading, and if you wish to be tagged for me updates to this, then please let me know, and if you have any questions my ask's are always opened! Their will be other updates too other then short little writings such as art, thoughts, and chapter idea's. I do hope you enjoy this project among the many more I'm work on. - Bee

but i do think i know of two people who'd like this, @panchulien and @hexxedghost ,w,

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addledmongoose · 17 hours ago

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Good Omens Fanfic Friday (4 Jul 2025)

I don't normally have themed weeks, but apparently it's fluff week at Casa Mongoose, because every one of these stories are free of angst. If this week has been a rough one for you, then you should be able to find something here to give you peace.

(I couldn't find tumblr usernames for any of these stories. If you know the tumblr names of any of these, feel free to let me know).

Of Swords and Flames (20K; Rated E)

Aziraphale and Crowley are both on assignment in Rome during the reign of Nero. This is an established relationship story, though still hidden from Heaven and Hell. You get a jealous Nero, BAMF Aziraphale, BAMF Crowley, and no relationship angst—with a side of plot.

***

The War Of The Pie Dish (3K; Rated G) by @sodiumazideandothertoxins

Human AU. Zero angst; only fluff.

A fluffy battle of wills and desserts. Who will be left holding the pie dish?

***

Showstopper (40K; Rated E)

Human AU. Crowley is a famous actor who's had a crush on the gorgeous, blond judge of a British baking competition ever since they ran into each other months ago, so when he gets the chance to compete in a celebrity episode of the competition, he agrees immediately. Includes SFW art.

***

All Along (5K; Rated T)

When Adam returned the world to the way it was, he also moved a box of secret, unsent letters that Aziraphale had written to the flat of the demon he loves.

#good omens #good omens fanfiction #fanfic friday

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mckiwi · 4 months ago

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Good Omens Fic Recs - Modern

Title* || Author || Rating** || Category || Genre*** || Words || Summary

*any title in blue is locked to AO3 users only

**(G) General Audiences - (T) Teen - (M) Mature - (E) Explicit

***(A) Angst - (H) Hurt/Comfort - (F) Fluff

Organized by alphabetical order, not my ratings of them. These are just some of my favorite fics, not to be taken too seriously.

See the Collection on AO3

Last Updated 25 Jun. 2025

"Adventures of a mystery shopper in the bookshop" || azzfell, fellshish || T || M/M || F || 3,090

From the confidential journals of A.Z. Fell Volume 999 Can an angel trust a demon to mind his bookshop while he’s away? Of course not, he’s a demon. But what if a very mysterious and extremely anonymous shopper tried to buy a book?

"And Let the Heavens Falter" || Imagined || T || M/M || AF || 30,982

“You’re needed in Hell,” Dagon says. Crowley waits for a second. Perhaps he waits for the floor to fall away and for them to drop back into the badly-lit and smelly hallways of Hell, or perhaps he waits for Dagon to say another thing. When neither of these things happen, he slowly nods. “Right,” he says. “Hell. Yeah. I think you got the memo that I’m not really affiliated anymore?” Or: After Aziraphale leaves for Heaven, Hell offers the position of Archduke to Crowley. With a shortage of demons, there's very little chance of Hell winning the War, and fortunately, Crowley and Aziraphale have already stopped the end of the world one time before. Two sides, two broken hearts, one united goal. Shouldn't be too hard, right?

"Atonement" || LollipopCop || T || M/M || H || 7,232

What an awful thing, to be an angel so terrified of the unadulterated love pressed to his lips that he rejected the frightened, vulnerable heart Crowley offered to him. Aziraphale wishes he could go back in time and stop himself, but all he can do is plead for forgiveness.

"A Touch of Heaven" || EdosianOrchids901 || T || M/M || H || 4,589

Just after averting the Apocalypse, Crowley has trouble breathing. He assumes it’s stress, but his condition worsens until he collapses. Aziraphale discovers that he has pneumonia—but not the ordinary kind.

"Balanced There, Between Those Eyes" || stinkybarnacles || G || Gen || H || 15,481

"Crowley! Please!" Aziraphale repeated. A mixture of desperate and assertive. Crowley held his breath and tried not to move a muscle, since it seemed the slightest movement would launch him into agony. "Just - open the door! You're frightening me." The angel cruelly knew the exact buttons to push. Crowley's chest ached and he couldn't tell if it was his abused ribs, or just burning guilt. If he was smart, he'd stay exactly where he was. He wouldn't make another noise. He'd wait until Aziraphale got annoyed with his stubbornness and left, and then he'd put himself to bed the minute he could drag himself across the floor without being heard. But he wasn't smart. He was desperate. He just wanted to see him. OR Crowley recieves a demonic beat-down for his good deeds and has a lot of trouble allowing Aziraphale to help him afterward.

"Bonding Over... Bebop?" || Waiting ToBeBroken || T || M/M || F || 3,067

When Maggie sends that note to Mr. Fell, she expects to have a stern conversation about fiscal responsibility and unpaid rent. Followed by, possibly, her begging for one more week for her to pack her belongings and leave the shop. She doesn't expect the wrong part of "A. Z. Fell And Co." to visit her.

"Brilliance" || animeangelriku || T || M/M || H || 7,906

Aziraphale himself has never dreamed. Honestly, he finds the whole process incredibly vulnerable, if anything, and he can’t help feeling just a little bit sorry for the humans’ need to sleep. Part of the grand design and all that, he supposes. In a way, though, that same vulnerability makes the fact that Crowley is perfectly comfortable sleeping with Aziraphale around that much more heartwarming. It means that Crowley trusts him to look after him, to make sure nothing happens to him while he’s unconscious and defenseless. Aziraphale has never betrayed that trust, and he does not plan to start doing so now. So when terrible nightmares begin to plague his darling Crowley’s slumber, Aziraphale is decided to do everything in his power to help him.

"Demonology and the Tri-Phasic Model of Trauma: An Integrative Approach" || Nnm || T || Gen || AHF || 99,423

As soon as Aubrey Thyme, psychotherapist, had opened her office door and seen her new client, Anthony J. Crowley, sitting in her waiting area, she was observing and assessing him. At first glance, she paid attention to the following: --His clothing was expensive and stylish; --He wore very strange but noticeable cologne; --His relationship to the seat he occupied could only, very loosely, be described as “sitting;” --He looked angry; --He was wearing sunglasses. What Aubrey Thyme, a professional, thought, upon first seeing her new client was: you’re going to be a fun one, aren’t you?

"Devil's Game" || AlatusNora || T || Multi || AHF || 18,145

Angels do not have souls. This is a fact all beings know. But even with the taste of ash and death still fresh upon him, Crowley has only one goal. To bring Aziraphale back. Even if that means challenging the All Mighty Herself. Crowley will unravel time itself if it means saving his angel. Consequences be dammed. ———————— At the end of the world, Crowley challenges Death and God to a game of cards for Aziraphale’s soul.

"Game Night" || amtm1017 || T || Multi || F || 6,743

"Getting It Sorted" || lucky_spike || T || M/M || F || 22,893

Aziraphale's book-sorting strategies are maddeningly obscure, Crowley's got snake eyes which are tragically bad at reading, and the local vicar is a little bit bored. When the new retiree at the end of the lane asks Father John for a hand in solving a mystery around his house, it seems like a benign enough offer. Read some books, gather some intel, occasionally attend a clandestine meeting in a leaky old garden shed. Surely nothing can go too wrong.

"get your vile soul dry-cleaned" || NeverNooitNiet || T || M/M || AF || 9,331

“I think,” Aziraphale said, “that I’m going to kill Jesus.” “If you say so,” The Angel said politely. Aziraphale set his pen down. “Does that make you feel anything?” He asked, with sudden intensity. “Do you have any— questions?” “Erm,” said The Angel, “should I?”

"Good Deep Down" || Cafelatte100, LadyWallace || G || Gen || H || 5,877

It is the fate of angels who fall in love with humans to turn human themselves. Crowley comes across one whose daughter is dying. With Aziraphale off performing his duties in Heaven, Crowley is the only one who can help. However when demons heal humans there is a price. But to save a child and prove he's not all bad, Crowley is willing to take the risk, even if it has dire consequences.

"Hell Freezes Over" || charliebrown1234, Turcote || M || M/M || H || 17,789

The year is 2002, and Crowley and Aziraphale are sent to Alaska to investigate a decommissioned entrance to Hell. What could possibly go wrong?

"Hell Itself Breathes Out" || EdosianOrchids901 || M || M/M || AH || 4,693

Aziraphale is dosed with a hallucinogen that forces him to experience his worst nightmare. Crowley, knowing the effects of the drug, uses it to join Aziraphale in the hallucination. Will they be able to find their way back to reality together?

"In All Things, Balance" || Kedreeva || T || M/M || AH || 16,771

The world had failed to end over a year ago, and Heaven and Hell hadn't so much as looked sideways at them since the kidnapping. As they had taken six thousand years to plan the apocalypse, and their first move against Crowley and Aziraphale had failed so miserably, the duo had assumed they had more than a little bit of time to relax before they had to start watching their backs again. Crowley had moved his flat into the upstairs of the bookshop – quite literally, much to Aziraphale's dismay to find one afternoon – and life had continued on exactly the way it shouldn't have: happily. Unfortunately, the ever after part proves trickier after only a year.

"In Somnis Veritas" || PinkPenguinParade || T || M/M || AH || 10,844

Aziraphale put a hand on his shoulder. "Bad dreams," he said. It wasn't a question. He'd seen it before, but never quite this bad. "Yeah. Just... happens. When I sleep, sometimes. Nothing to worry about." "I, um... I get assignments, from time to time. To talk to people in their dreams. I know the bad ones. I didn't... I couldn't, I won't step into your dreams without your leave," Aziraphale continued. "But I could help. If you want."

"i wanna grab both your shoulders and shake, baby (snap out of it)" || midnightdragons || T || M/M || AH || 24,072

“Hello, demon,” said the angel coolly, tilting his head to one side and grinning broadly in a crude imitation of Aziraphale’s warm, comforting smile – and it took Crowley perhaps half of a second to decide in certainty that this angel was absolutely not Aziraphale. Two hundred and seventy-three days. That was how long it had been since Crowley had seen Aziraphale, how long it had been since the angel had left him, how long it had been since he had yanked the angel into that horrible, awful, desperate kiss, a plea disguised as an act of undying love. And now, on the two hundred and seventy-fourth night, he finally reunited with . . . someone. Someone who looked like Aziraphale, and sounded like Aziraphale, but was – and Crowley knew this with every fiber of his trembling being – not his angel. Crowley isn’t the only one who needs saving.

"Just a Little Bit Longer" || EdosianOrchids901 || T || M/M || H || 17,655

After swapping appearances with Aziraphale, Crowley discovers that Heaven is holy ground. Imagining that he’s fine is enough to power him through the trial and lunch at the Ritz, but the pain of his burns overwhelms him. While Aziraphale cares for him, will they be able to discuss their feelings for each other?

"Knocking on Heaven's Door" || Mirach || T || Multi || H || 13,030

Raphael has spent the last 6000 years over his research, believing that Heaven is in good hands and he doesn't need to concern himself with politics. He's in for a surprise after he finds out that his knowledge was used in a attempt to execute an angel immune to hellfire... Meanwhile Hell doesn't want to embarass itself anymore in case a second execution doesn't work. They have other ideas about how to punish their traitor.

"Like All Creation." || JetiiCrow || T || Gen || H || 2,999

After the world didn't end, Aziraphale spends the night at Crowley's flat. They have a plan to fool Heaven and Hell. Everything should be fine, but Aziraphale can’t help but feel afraid of what’s to come. Afraid and so, so guilty. (In which an angel and a demon try very hard to forget the sword pending over their heads and reminisce about the time spent together. Six thousand years is a long time to know someone. When you thought you'd have eternity, it's not nearly enough).

"Loopholes" || GayDemonicDisaster || M || Gen || HF || 24,712

When Aziraphale finds out that Crowley has only been passing him the easiest jobs to do as part of the Arrangement, he insists that Crowley lets him join in on a more difficult one. When the next hellish order involves tempting criminals to smuggle humans, angel and demon must find a way to subvert the instructions to fulfil the task without harming any innocents. Crowley and Aziraphale pose as fellow gangsters to infiltrate the mob and take things in a more wholesome direction. Expect lots of comedic bickering.

"Many Years Away" || cyankelpie || T || M/M || AH || 15,080

(An attack from Gabriel robs Aziraphale of the last 87 years of his memories. Crowley tries to fill him in, but he can't possibly be telling the truth.) “You don’t remember…” Crowley twisted something on his own hand. He wore a silver band on the same finger as Aziraphale’s gold one, which couldn’t possibly mean— “Hang on.” Crowley knelt in front of him and took his hand, and Aziraphale’s breath caught again. Crowley watched him cautiously, as if afraid he might spook the angel, and slid the gold ring off his hand. “Look inside,” he said, placing the ring in Aziraphale’s palm. “Might—jog something.” Trying to swallow, Aziraphale examined the ring. There was an inscription inside. Our side. The demon searched his face pleadingly. “You don’t remember any of that?”

"Momentum Deferred" || Kedreeva || T || Multi || AH || 9,029

What if Crowley really meant it when he said he only sauntered vaguely downward? What if someone besides Aziraphale finds out he didn't really fall? What if they decide to do something about it?

"On Poison, Rats, and Clouds" || kaliawai512 || T || M/M || AHF || 2,588

Crowley tags along on one of Aziraphale's assignments and falls back on an old trick when things go wrong. Aziraphale is not amused. (Or: Aziraphale learns some things about his friend he never wanted to, and gets a reminder of some other things he already knows.)

"Out of the Frying Pan, Into the Fire, and Back Again" || 29Pieces || T || Gen || HF || 13,932

A demonic assassin. A bank robbery in the wrong place at the wrong time. An angel and a demon forced to outwit their enemies without using miracles. They've been in bad spots before but this is one Crowley might not survive. Whump, shenanigans, and of course comfort.

"Parting Gift" || Aliencritters || T || M/M || H || 3,230

“Crowley, you don’t have to lie to me any more,” he said. “There’s something wrong, I can feel it in your aura.” “Just— just leave me, angel,” Crowley said. “You don’t need to see this. I can get through it alone.” “Get through what alone?” Aziraphale asked desperately. — OR: Crowley suffers from chronic pain, and Aziraphale eventually finds out at a suboptimal time. He helps Crowley through it, and they learn something about each other.

"Pietà" || crowleys_hips || M || M/M || AH || 6,014

In the final moments of the last battle to save Earth, Crowley deals the last blow and he watches triumphantly as the Metatron collapses before him. But he doesn't come out unscathed. With a holy weapon pierced into his abdomen and time slipping away from him, he makes peace with his doomed fate as he awaits death in his angel's arms. Aziraphale will -not- have it though, as he does everything in his power to save the being he loves the most, risking everything to keep him.

"screaming birds sound an awful lot like singing" || midnightdragons || T || M/M || AH || 10,310

“Where are you hurt, Crowley?” Aziraphale asked, his voice no-nonsense and to-the-point. Crowley frowned lopsidedly, looking almost pouting. He was still wobbling, even lying down, and his lips were trembling as he spoke in a feeble voice. “I’m . . . nnnn . . . m’not.” Aziraphale sighed exasperatedly, crossing his arms over his chest and casting a disapproving eye down to the clearly-in-a-lot-of-pain demon. Aziraphale comes to Crowley's aid when the latter is attacked and left beaten by demons, and the angel takes care of him while he's too weak to do it himself. Very unapologetic whump and BAMF Aziraphale.

"The Art of Creation" || Bookwormgal || T || Multi || AH || 15,498

Once upon a time, long before humans set foot outside of Eden and long before his inelegant landing in a pool of boiling sulfur, Crowley had been an angel. An angel with a very different name and far less cynicism. And that angel was made to build Her creations. He built stars, nebulas, and other beautiful and complicated things far out there in the cosmos. He shaped fundamental elements and materials into new creations. He molded burning fires and sculpted dust into breath-taking patterns. He started bright and powerful reactions, serving as a catalyst to spark the birth of stars. He set various celestial objects spinning. He built. He took raw materials and built wonderous things with them. He built because that was the role that She made him for. In the end, was rebuilding that much different than building? And wasn't rebuilding fairly close to healing? When it was his angel's existence on the line, Crowley was willing to grab at any chance available. He would find a way to fix what had been damaged. He would find a way to save him.

"The Feelings Catch Up" || Dragonfire42 || T || M/M || H || 19,352

The following preview has been approved for appropriate audiences: A drama / action-adventure / healing journey with just a hint of romance Narrator: Aziraphale and Crowley are celebrating each other's company after the averted Apocalypse. At least, until the feelings catch up. Aziraphale struggles with dissociation. It's hard to feel like himself, and it's easy to drift. Crowley helps ground the angel, while struggling with his own challenges. He can only pretend he's fine for so long before the burn from the fire finally catches up. Tagline: Can they help each other cope with the hidden costs of saving the world? Dramatic music plays under these quick edit cuts: > Crowley panicking and trying to get Aziraphale's attention, > Aziraphale holding Crowley in his arms as he's burning, > Crowley jumping into Aziraphale's thoughts like a telephone line, > Aziraphale reciting a poem amongst flames holding his flaming sword like a BAMF, > Crowley making new stars out of his pain. Screen fades to black: "The Feelings Catch Up" Now available on an AO3 fanfiction reading device near you. A bit inspired by my healing journey, too.

"The Last Green Days of Eden" || Gearsmoke || T || M/M || AHF || 38,878

Crowley has a secret he doesn't know he's been keeping, and in the midst of mutual exploration, Aziraphale is the one to discover it. It turns out to be a box of trouble rivaling Pandora's. Raphael is dead, murdered by his own kind, but Crowley is alive, and there must be justice.

"The Night Before the Rest of Their Lives" || AnonymousDandelion || T || M/M || H || 5,212

“Who was it you lost?" Aziraphale says softly. “When I was… ah, when I was looking for a body. You said you lost someone. Your best friend.” Crowley stares. Whatever the expression on his face, it is evidently sufficiently outraged that it makes Aziraphale take half a step backwards. “Crowley…” “You. Bleeding. Idiot,” Crowley grits out. "That was you." ~ ~ ~ The obligatory night-after-Armageddon't. Featuring emotions, expression of emotions, misunderstandings, resolving of misunderstandings, long-overdue words of affirmation, comfort, communication, cuddling, sprinklings of banter, and the interpretation of a prophecy.

"The Stars Are Not Wanted Now (Put Out Every One)" || AZeroPhil (lookinglass) || T || M/M || A || 4,400

Aziraphale looks back for one moment that lasts an absolute age, and then he’s gone, the Heavenly elevator swallowing him up and disappearing as if it never even existed. Crowley’s chest stutters. Funny old thing, this corporation of his. Acts of its own volition sometimes. He doesn’t need to breathe, but suddenly it feels like he’s drowning. He waits a half second too long, and suddenly someone is there at his elbow, gazing off down the street in the same direction as him. There’s nothing to see. “You alright?” Nina asks. He doesn’t trust himself to speak just now. Swallows thickly—there goes his body doing human things again—and shakes his head. “What’s happened?” “He’s gone,” he manages, after a moment, and lowers himself into the car. Nina stops the door with her hand before it can close. “Gone,” she says, like it’s silly, like it’s a mistake. “What d’you mean, gone?”

"The Sword and the Shield" || 29Pieces || G || Gen || HF || 2,482

It is far too easy, Crowley reflects, to mistake Aziraphale as a helpless, hand-wringing bookshop keeper. It is far too easy to think him prey. Three evil men make the mistake. The angel clenches his fists and there's a crackle in the air. Crowley can read the signs. And he knows how this is going to end.

"this is not a love story (but love is in it)" || taizi || T || M/M || F || 4,400

“Crowley is no longer affiliated with you.” The angel manages to sound indignant, of all things. “I—that is, he even got it in writing. Signed by three of Hell’s kings. It’s all very official.” “Well, we’re not here in any official capacity,” Hastur says. “It’s more of a personal visit. Friendly chat, that sort of thing.” If he was indignant before, Aziraphale is outright angry now. “You’re not his friends. You hurt him.” “Of course we did,” Ligur says, as if the angel is particularly slow. And he might well be, if he needs this much spelled out. “We’re demons.” “You tortured him,” Aziraphale presses, unrelenting. “It’s Hell,” Hastur says impatiently. “It’s ninety-nine-percent torture on a slow day.”

"Thus saith the Lord" || TheManicMagician || T || M/M || AH || 14,028

Angels were created to serve as tools. Obedience was woven into their very being. Orders straight from the Almighty were obeyed, whether the angel in question wanted to or not. Weeks after the apocalypse was averted, Aziraphale was issued a direct command from his Lord: The demon Crowley shall die by Principality Aziraphale’s sword.

"Workin on empty (is that the kinda way to face the burning heat?)" || LilyTheNinjaGirl || G || Multi || HF || 7,157

"Because you have done this, cursed are you among all the animals, tame or wild; On your belly you shall crawl, and dust you shall eat all the days of your life." Genesis 3:14-15. After the failed Apocalypse, Aziraphale finds out something startling that Crowley has been hiding for 6,000 years. He intends to do something about it. More revelations follow.

"You're a dream, darling" || Somedrunkpirate || T || M/M || AH || 11,094

There are two very important facts: 1) Aziraphale is dead. 2) None of this is real. ----- Crowley’s throat tightens. “My angel,” he says. “My best friend. He’s dead, you know.” Aziraphale blinks and then blood drains from his face. “No, no. Crowley. No. I’m here. I’m right in front of you.” “I know,” Crowley says. “Isn’t it amazing, what a dream can do?”

#good omens #good omens fanfic #good omens fanfiction #good omens fic rec #aziraphale #crowley #good omens season 1 #good omens season 2 #good omens season 3 #ineffable husbands #aziracrow

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inhonoredglory · 2 years ago

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Good Omens Season 3: Heaven and Hell dividing humanity; humanity as Leviathan; and Aziraphale locking the doors of Heaven and throwing away the key [A Meta]

(This meta is long, but I swear there's some good stuff in here. It took me 2 months to get it together for these two longsuffering Anons. Thank you so much for asking me these very important questions.)

In preparation for answering two Asks above (and to aid my own predictions of Good Omens 3), I read and reviewed the Book of Revelation, W.B. Yeat’s iconic poem “The Second Coming,” Terry Pratchett’s Small Gods, Neil Gaiman’s deleted scene from American Gods (Shadow meeting Jesus in America), and Doctor Who showrunner Russell T Davies’ 2003 miniseries The Second Coming (starring Christopher Eccleston!). The first two are definitely going to be referenced in season 3, Davies’ show is one of the few stories dealing head-on with the coming of Christ, and Terry and Neil’s bibliographies are probably the biggest resources for how Season 3 will shake out thematically.

🕊 How Aziraphale Will Change Heaven

I think GO s3 is the season we see Aziraphale really come into his own, when we see him implement the moral vision he’s taken this long to coalesce, when all the pieces he and Crowley have put together are finally put on stage in a terrifying, beautiful display (all that righteous anger and conviction, merged with his kindness and empathy is going to be Something Else).

There’s an angel in the Book of Revelation who stands between the Earth and the Sea. This angel wears a rainbow halo and speaks with the voice of seven thunders, and yet John (the writer of Revelation) is told not to write down what this angel speaks. (Sounds like someone has hit on the Ineffable Plan?) If Neil and Terry were going to pick up an image from Revelation for Aziraphale, I really like this one, because it feels like an intermediary role (between two Sides), one that god dare not make public because it speaks an uncomfortable truth. And it’s about speaking and revealing knowledge, instead of fighting or destroying something.

Because even though we know Azi and Crowley will fight to stop the second End Times, fighting itself is not a theme Neil Gaiman or Terry Pratchett really champion. Instead of war, Aziraphale will oppose Heaven in all the little ways he and Crowley opposed it before: By enjoying human comforts (Azi will definitely bring food and trinkets to Heaven and send scrivener angels and seraphim alike to tour earth). By asking questions (Heaven’s new suggestion box). By telling stories about humanity and why it’s important to know who these humans are before anyone kills anybody (Azi was, after all, brought on board because of his human expertise).

Aziraphale will become what Crowley wanted to be before the Fall, but Azi’s got the benefit of thousands of years of knowledge, cunning, and intelligence about how both Heaven and humanity work. He knows Heaven’s weaknesses, he knows humanity’s strengths, he knows his own capabilities, and he knows where Heaven will turn a blind eye. He’s going to be such a bastard the likes of which we’ve never seen. And he’s going to drop truth bombs like there’s no tomorrow.

Season 2 brought back the book banter about “the lower you start, the more opportunities you have.”

Season 3 will bring back Aziraphale’s most badass book moment. This scene takes place after Azi possesses an American televangelist talking about the fire and brimstone of the End Times and the Rapture (the mass teleporting of all worthy believers to Heaven). Says Aziraphale,

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Aziraphale is fed up with Heaven’s hypocrisy and he's scathing in his condemnation of both Heaven and Hell. Everyone will die and become collateral damage, no matter which side is doing the killing.

Sound familiar?

That's the arc Aziraphale is heading towards: that blazing conviction of Crowley's, spoken out loud and fearless and in spite of his eons of trauma. And Season 3 will see Aziraphale get to that place, where he gets to tell off Heaven, but not just in the privacy of the bookshop or the bandstand, but to their faces in Heaven's hallowed halls.

The demons and angels in Season 2 were much less icky and ethereal (respectively) from their appearances in Season 1. Because it's working towards a further humanization of both sides in Season 3. Because one of the biggest themes in s3 will be Aziraphale humanizing Heaven in all the little quaint ways he loves humanity. All in preparation for the endgame of Heaven and Hell not existing at all.

(Season 3 deep dive continues under the cut...)

Because angels and demons won’t be fought, but changed. Maybe not by much, but just enough to break the loyalty they have to a Great Plan no one understands. This is how both Neil’s American Gods and Terry’s Small Gods conclude, with the build-up to an incredible battle, and then for the human hero to step in and talk down the gods and armies into seeing sense and reason.

I don’t think Aziraphale himself will be that person. It might be a very human Jesus. Or (more likely) a random human being caught up in this craziness (maybe someone in Tadfield, per the working title of the second GO book: 668: The Neighbor of the Beast). But Aziraphale will be fundamental in changing the atmosphere of Heaven in the little ways Earth changed him.

🗝 Season 3 Themes: Morality and God

In the Job minisode, Aziraphale casually but boldly assumed that god didn’t want the goats and children to be killed. Because Aziraphale has a firm and dogged idea about what god should be. It’s his own personal morality, but he calls it god’s because he doesn’t want to imagine the symbol of ultimate goodness being anything other than what he Aziraphale himself feels to be true.

And I don’t think that’s a theme that Good Omens will deny for Aziraphale. Because it’s not really about how evil or good god is. It doesn’t matter what god thinks or is. god doesn’t answer questions, doesn’t deliver messages we can understand, doesn’t show up when needed. god is inscrutable, shifty, absent, “a Dealer who won’t tell you the rules, and who smiles all the time.”

What’s important is what humanity has done with god, what humanity has said about god, what they do in god’s name, what they interpret god to be. That’s the real danger.

And Aziraphale, in his profound goodness, will become the person he wants god to be. Because that’s the injunction we all have. To live up to the ideal we have made for ourselves: In many ways, that’s what god is.

Aziraphale is now in a privileged place that allows him to affect basically the entirety of Creation with that driving idealism. He will level the playing field in Heaven. I firmly believe Aziraphale will be the one to close the doors to the pearly gates and throw away the key.

So, like you asked Anon, will Aziraphale try to make Heaven better or stop the Second Coming? I think those are the same goal. Changing Heaven will fundamentally change how the Second Coming happens, because just like the End Times in Season 1, Heaven and Hell’s scheme will be turned on its head because the Chosen One refuses to follow the script.

The Second Coming will end, not with a bang, but a whimper, because everyone decides to turn in their guns and forget the whole thing.

⚔️ Heaven and Hell v. Humanity

But before that ending happens, I think there will be another threat the world has to face: the individuals who are so sure of their own righteousness that no amount of sense could stop them from destroying anyone who thinks differently. This is an important theme in both Neil and Terry’s works (see Vorbis, the Exquisitor in Small Gods, who tortured unbelievers for the Church), and I believe it will show up in the new season.

There's never been a true war that wasn't fought between two sets of people who were certain they were in the right. The really dangerous people believe they are doing whatever they are doing solely and only because it is without question the right thing to do. And that is what makes them dangerous. –Neil Gaiman, American Gods

Because it’s humanity who takes Faith and shapes it into Religion. We are the ones who created the Heaven we see in GO: cold, unfeeling, strict, judgmental. And I think Season 3 is going to address this fundamental belief of both Neil and Terry: that humans are just so damnably human (fundamentally innocent and stupid and wonderful) and yet there’s a few of us who will take things too far and think that Someone wants them to destroy everything in the Name of God. And in these changing contemporary political times (the passage of an old generation, still clinging to their old ways and growing more extreme by the minute *cough*Trump*cough*), the dangerous people become even more vocal and violent, like the frightening, monstrous creature in WB Yeats’ poem “The Second Coming,” a devastating scourge on the world born in the name of God:

Surely some revelation is at hand; Surely the Second Coming is at hand. […] A shape with lion body and the head of a man, A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun, […] And what rough beast, its hour come round at last, Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born? –WB Yeats, "The Second Coming"

That’s who I think the Metatron will team up with in the end, someone like Vorbis. Because we’ve already seen how petty and small Heaven and Hell is, especially in Season 2. Only the Metatron really carries some heft and foreboding. I believe he’ll team up with some extremist faction of humanity who wants to see the End of Days and divide the world into Yours and Mine, with Heaven taking a portion and Hell taking a third and calling it a day. Not a War, but a divvying out of souls. With no consent or permission on the part of humanity.

That’s what I think the zombie reference is all about. Like Gabriel said in 2x03:

Yes, we’re going to get zombies. And it’s going to be insane and funny and horrifying (and I think we’ll get to know one or two historical figures who pop back up to earth). But the thematic and fundamental metaphor of zombies is how they have no free will. They’re not alive, they have no souls, they have no choices. That’s what Heaven and Hell want humanity to be: To do away with the dance of choice and free will and divide humanity once and for all between both sides. That’s how Heaven and Hell team up against the human race.

🐳 Leviathan (Job 41:19) as Humanity

And that’s how I believe the Leviathan fits in, who is the subject of the quote from Muriel’s matchbox:

The Leviathan is a magnificent creature, and this passage goes on and on about how fearsome this being is:

Who can penetrate its double coat of armor? Who dares open the doors of its mouth, ringed about with fearsome teeth?… Nothing on earth is its equal—a creature without fear. It looks down on all that are haughty; it is king over all that are proud –Job 41:13b, 33-34

And yet why does god want to explain how amazing the Leviathan is? To show how god has control of it. God says,

Can you pull in Leviathan with a fishhook… Can you make a pet of it like a bird or put it on a leash for the young women in your house?… Can you fill its hide with harpoons… No one is fierce enough to rouse it. Who then is able to stand against me? –Job 41:1, 5, 7, 10

The reasoning is that because god created this dangerous and terrifying being, then god must be even more dangerous and terrifying. And if god can so easily abuse and humiliate this beautiful monster, then god must be worshipped and respected. (Yes, it’s as messed-up as it sounds.)

I can’t help but think of this Leviathan as a metaphor for humanity. A beautiful, ferocious being whose ownership and control is the focus of god’s attention and qualification for worship? Of the Leviathan, Job says: “Will traders barter for it? Will they divide it up among the merchants?” (Job 41:6). That’s how humanity is going to be treated in Season 3.

Because both God and Satan want to control humanity. They want to put their thumb on human souls and claim them for each side. But humanity doesn’t have to be so easily fooled, because we are more powerful than we realize. Our hearts and imaginations can forge a path of purpose and goodness without the entrapment of organized religion and fundamentalism. We, like Leviathan, are ferocious and angry and fed up with being treated like this. We can and will fight back.

🌟 Becoming Gods

Ultimately, we will shuffle off the need for Heaven and Hell (symbolized by the shutting down of both at the end of Season 3). We will lose the need to unquestionably defer to a Being who plays dice with our lives. I’m reminded of the opening passage to Terry’s Small Gods:

The lowly tortoise will learn to be the eagle; humanity will learn to be like god. Because we are as powerful as god, since we created god. Adam Young pointed out that having a god figure to solve all our problems doesn’t make humanity any more responsible for the evil things we’ve done. We need to learn that we are all we’ve got, and we have to answer for the shit we’ve done to each other and to the world.

I like how Russell T Davies put it in his show The Second Coming, where Jesus comes down again in the body of ordinary human Steven Baxter and tells humanity:

You are becoming gods. There's a new master of creation, and it's you! Unraveled DNA, and at the same time you're cultivating bacteria strong enough to kill every living thing! Do you think you are ready for that much power? You lot? You lot? Cheeky bastards. You're running around science like kids with guns, creating a new world, while the world you've got is stinking…. If you want the position of god then take the responsibility. –Russell T Davies, The Second Coming

youtube

I legitimately think that’s how Jesus in Good Omens 3 will come down. In the body of a regular 30-something off-the-streets guy, who thinks the pomp and circumstance made about him is insane. And Aziraphale will be his minder, trying to tell him how the whole scheme is supposed to play out and giving him wise asides on how warped Heaven’s standards are and trying to tell him how to go about changing things for the better. (Jesus will be terribly confused, meanwhile; he just wants to go out for a pint and get on with his human life, none of this god business.)

🐍 Crowley’s Growth

There will be some big things at play in Season 3. I think Aziraphale will change how Heaven operates and close Heaven for good. I think Aziraphale will initially try to get Jesus on board with Azi’s own private mission of Goodness. I actually think Crowley will end up becoming Aziraphale’s “back channels” to Earth, and they’d exchange trite, bantering messages about the state of affairs from secret rendezvous points in America. (There was a whole thing about Jesus getting lost in Times Square, according to Neil Gaiman.)

I think Crowley will learn how to trust Aziraphale and learn that doing the right thing means being brave and selfless. He’ll realize that humanity is worth saving, even if it means dying. In fact, his depression at the start of Season 2 will probably only get worse after the loss of Aziraphale, and his altruism might get colored by the taint of suicidal recklessness, because he might as well go out for what he believes in, if what he wanted most in the world chose being selfless over being with him. (If Crowley’s character takes a suicidal turn like the Tenth Doctor after losing Rose, I’m gonna scream.)

This is how Aziraphale helps Crowley be brave in the finale of the Good Omens book. That’s what I think will happen in Good Omens 3:

Aziraphale here displays a gentleness and kindness that comes from a place of grounded knowledge and responsibility. He knows how much he and Crowley have in their own ways fucked up humanity too, and he knows that no matter what their own personal feelings, they each need to do something to defend the human species they've come to love so much.

Crowley is scared of risking everything to help save humanity, but with Aziraphale's encouragement and wisdom, he realizes that doing the right thing is the only option he can choose, no matter the risk to his own happiness and safety.

So I believe Crowley will learn to understand why Aziraphale chose to return to Heaven and fight in the trenches. Crowley will see it as a choice made to save, not just each other, but the world they love so much.

Ultimately, I think Crowley on earth will take on Aziraphale’s strongest qualities: being selfless and bold to protect humanity at costs, and connecting to humanity on a personal, individual level.

While Aziraphale in Heaven will become like Crowley: asking questions, sabotaging the System, and condemning Heaven with all the uncomfortable truths they need to hear.

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zoesblogsposts · 1 year ago

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o 625 words to know in your target language o

There is a really interesting blog called "Fluent Forever" that aids foreign language learners in tricks, tips and techniques to guide them to achieving fluency "quickly" and efficiently. One of the tricks is to learn these 625 vocab words in your target language, that way you have a basis to start delving into grammar with ease as you can understand a lot of vocab right off the bat. Plus this list of words are common across the world and will aid you in whatever language you are learning. Here is the list in thematic order

• Animal: dog, cat, fish, bird, cow, pig, mouse, horse, wing, animal

• Transportation: train, plane, car, truck, bicycle, bus, boat, ship, tire, gasoline, engine, (train) ticket, transportation

• Location: city, house, apartment, street/road, airport, train station, bridge hotel, restaurant, farm, court, school, office, room, town, university, club, bar, park, camp, store/shop, theater, library, hospital, church, market, country (USA,

France, etc.), building, ground, space (outer space), bank, location

• Clothing: hat, dress, suit, skirt, shirt, T-shirt, pants, shoes, pocket, coat, stain, clothing

• Color: red, green, blue (light/dark), yellow, brown, pink, orange, black, white, gray, color

• People: son, daughter, mother, father, parent (= mother/father), baby, man, woman, brother, sister, family, grandfather, grandmother, husband, wife, king, queen, president, neighbor, boy, girl, child (= boy/girl), adult (= man/woman), human (# animal), friend (Add a friend's name), victim, player, fan, crowd, person

• Job: Teacher, student, lawyer, doctor, patient, waiter, secretary, priest, police, army, soldier, artist, author, manager, reporter, actor, job

• Society: religion, heaven, hell, death, medicine, money, dollar, bill, marriage, wedding, team, race (ethnicity), sex (the act), sex (gender), murder, prison, technology, energy, war, peace, attack, election, magazine, newspaper, poison, gun, sport, race (sport), exercise, ball, game, price, contract, drug, sign, science, God

• Art. band, song, instrument (musical), music, movie, art

• Beverages: coffee, tea, wine, beer, juice, water, milk, beverage

• Food: egg, cheese, bread, soup, cake, chicken, pork, beef, apple, banana orange, lemon, corn, rice, oil, seed, knife, spoon, fork, plate, cup, breakfast, lunch, dinner, sugar, salt, bottle, food

• Home: table, chair, bed, dream, window, door, bedroom, kitchen, bathroom, pencil, pen, photograph, soap, book, page, key, paint, letter, note, wall, paper, floor, ceiling, roof, pool, lock, telephone, garden, yard, needle, bag, box, gift, card, ring, tool

• Electronics: clock, lamp, fan, cell phone, network, computer, program (computer), laptop, screen, camera, television, radio

• Body: head, neck, face, beard, hair, eye, mouth, lip, nose, tooth, ear, tear (drop), tongue, back, toe, finger, foot, hand, leg, arm, shoulder, heart, blood, brain, knee, sweat, disease, bone, voice, skin, body

• Nature: sea, ocean, river, mountain, rain, snow, tree, sun, moon, world, Earth, forest, sky, plant, wind, soil/earth, flower, valley, root, lake, star, grass, leaf, air, sand, beach, wave, fire, ice, island, hill, heat, nature

• Materials: glass, metal, plastic, wood, stone, diamond, clay, dust, gold, copper, silver, material

• Math/Measurements: meter, centimeter, kilogram, inch, foot, pound, half, circle, square, temperature, date, weight, edge, corner

• Misc Nouns: map, dot, consonant, vowel, light, sound, yes, no, piece, pain, injury, hole, image, pattern, noun, verb, adjective

• Directions: top, bottom, side, front, back, outside, inside, up, down, left, right, straight, north, south, east, west, direction

• Seasons: Summer, Spring, Winter, Fall, season

• Numbers: 0, 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20 21, 22, 30, 31, 32, 40, 41, 42, 50, 51, 52, 60, 61, 62, 70, 71, 72, 80, 81, 82, 90, 91, 92, 100, 101, 102, 110, 111, 1000, 1001, 10000, 100000, million, billion, 1st, 2nd, 3rd, 4th, 5th, number

• Months: January, February, March, April, May, June, July, August, September, October, November, December

• Days of the week: Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday, Sunday

• Time: year, month, week, day, hour, minute, second, morning, afternoon, evening, night, time

• Verbs: work, play, walk, run, drive, fly, swim, go, stop, follow, think, speak/say, eat, drink, kill, die, smile, laugh, cry, buy, pay, sell, shoot(a gun), learn, jump, smell, hear (a sound), listen (music), taste, touch, see (a bird), watch (TV), kiss, burn, melt, dig, explode, sit, stand, love, pass by, cut, fight, lie down, dance, sleep, wake up, sing, count, marry, pray, win, lose, mix/stir, bend, wash, cook, open, close, write, call, turn, build, teach, grow, draw, feed, catch, throw, clean, find, fall, push, pull, carry, break, wear, hang, shake, sign, beat, lift

• Adjectives: long, short (long), tall, short (vs tall), wide, narrow, big/large, small/little, slow, fast, hot, cold, warm, cool, new, old (new), young, old (young), weak, dead, alive, heavy, light (heavy), dark, light (dark), nuclear, famous

#second language #language #learning #rory gilmore #smart #tips

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tuckboroughdays · 5 months ago

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⋆.˚ ᡣ𐭩 ⏖ ’ lotr hdc! DATING pippin's version 🫶🏻

so, there is some headcanon about my boy. at the beginning i wanted to do a sfw alphabet, but it quickly annoyed me to order my ideas by themes (affection, cuddles, etc). so i just wrote random hdc.

BUT you can find in this all the themes of a sfw alphabet ! its just chaotic lol.

+ in my head i imagine the reader as a human but its not truly specific, its also for a hobbit!reader too. and i tried to make it the most non-genred as possible.

just remember that english is not my first language !! i do a lot of mistakes but i prefer use my brain than an a.i...

you can reuse my hdc but make sure to tag me ! :D

enjoy this post about my bf :3

he baby

he's so gentle, both emotionally and physically

pookie just needs love and hugs

holding hands !! he loves playing with your fingers.

likes to braid your hair

loves hot baths with a lot of candles all over the edge, and when you wash his back and hair. hes a fan of massages btw

loves being cuddled by you, and falling asleep in your arms. he doesn't need a specific moment for this, this is why you both can sleep a whole afternoon and being wake up all the night after it.

breakfast to bed !! and he can stay in the bed all the day if youre in too, he would never leave your arms if he could. he loves being in the bed with you the morning, bc your body is all warm from sleep and when he's snuggled against you, its like heaven.

does nightmares bc of the war of the ring. A LOT. mostly about the time when he had been kidnapped by the orcs with Merry.

he wakes up all sweaty and trembling, frightened of every sound around him. he'll take some shaky breaths into the crook of your neck while you wrap your arms around him and eventually fall asleep.

or if its a really hard nightmare, he'll cry a lot, and thanks god youre here to stay with him. whisper gentle things in hear until he calms down, and after make him a sandwich or a toast of jam, with hot milk, and he will tell you what his nightmare was about.

he's pretty open about it, and tells you a lot about hard memories that stays in his mind most of the time : the orcs, Moria, the Palantir, and also Minas Tirith, with Denethor burning alive.

in a more global way, i think Pippin is really open about all his life, talking about everything to everyone, so you might know all about him even before your relationship lmao

you can always see when he's upset : his mood changes completely. he'll tell you whats happening or maybe not, if he's angry (maybe he argued w Merry or smth like that).

but he doesn't get angry a lot. never yelling at you, etc. when he's upset (because of you), he'll pout or being sad rather than angry. you'll also know it if he's not eating or talking as much as usual.

counts a lot on Merry's advices for your relationship, for example if he's scared to do or tell you something. btw im sure Merry will coach him for losing his virginity, if it happens w/ you

loves to be with you, your heads under the covers, and just staring at your face

TOUCH HIS HAIR. he's just craving for it. its better than a foreplay, especially if you run your fingers trough his curls while you're kissing.

doesn't know how to use his tongue when he hisses you, he panick and will slobb on your nose or smth like this lol. so he prefers just made out softly ; its quite more simple and it gives him butterflies

if you have some oversize clothes, like a sweat or a large t-shirt, he'll wear it. and if its not too small-sized for you (human!reader), he'll give you his own shirts sometimes and will be very proud.

loves touching and kissing your skin where its so soft, for example your inner arms or tighs. yeah bc he loves your tighs too

it doesn't matter for him if you are fat or thin. that's the best thing when youre dating a hobbit : the wheight doesn't matter for someone who eats 6 meals/days. if youre thin hell try to make you eat a lot, and if youre not he'll find this totally normal. he loves bellies btw.

things to do to make his heart flutter : kissing his nose, his fingers, hugging him when youre asleep, talking very close to his ear (im sure hobbits ears are sooo sensitive !!!!), running your fingers in his hair, or on his back under his shirt.

some random sensitive spots : his ears, his lower back, his hair. he also has a spot in his neck, veeery sensitive, where you can feel and also see his pulse. (THIS IS CANNON. you can see this in rotk when he talks with Gandalf during the battle of Minas Tirith, and Gandalf says that the journey doesn't end here, etc. i noticed it when i saw the movie on great screen and i was like : KJEFKJHZEFHJHFBJBHJHHFJHJRAHHHHH)

loves body milk which smell like honey, almond, shea butter, or vanilla. so put some of it on you and hell smell you all day.

his fav thing ? slipping his head under what youre wearing and just inhaling your scent. he can sleep like this, layed under your clothes on ur chest or belly.

Pippin wants to marry you as soon as possible and spending the rest of his life by your side, but its not a big new : he sooo idealistic, and a bit delusional.

btw, this may be some of his defects. this guy is amazing but i think he lacks maturity and can't be realistic for the responsabilites of life sometimes.

also, since he's dating you, he spends all his time by your side ; so he might have abandoned some of his habits like hanging out with Merry, go at parties, etc

LOVES childrens. he would kidnap Sam's or his sister's ones if he could. loves to babysit but not really responsible... but he makes babies laugh and he's an icon for young lads

fav dates spots : in a forest, a midow or a field.

likes rolling in the grass, making flower crowns, doing picnics.

put flowers in his hair

loves being adventurous with you in random places, like in a barn ; he'll pull you in a haystack and kiss you everywhere he can, and will have a lot of straw in hir hair and his cheeks all red at the end. (just make sure to run fast if the barn owner surprises you both)

when he gets jealous, he never shows it obviously or gets angry, but he can be a bit sad. he will impose himself in front of other lads who are trying to fancy you (hobbit!reader), but if its a human who are trying to, (human!reader), hell being a bit insecure, bc he doesn't understand how you can love him, a small hobbit, and not a tall, badass human. so just put a lot of kisses on his cutie face and tell him he's amazing, and he'll be alright.

doesn't know how to cook. he's also veeery messy. sometimes its fun but its also a bit annoying.

he doesn't act like "you're my wife/husband then to make the dinner and clean the smial" ofc, but because he doesn't know how to do all of this by himself, he needs someone to help him.

so maybe the best option is to learn him how to cook, and romanticing the idea of daily chores. i think that doing this with Pippin could quickly be fun.

random hugs in any places, any time. he will just jump on you and wrap his arms around you

loves nuzzling his face into the crook of your shoulder or your neck

fav sleep position : your nose in his hair with your arms around him, and him flushed against you

is mostly the one being cuddled

he's the little spoon ofc

and when having sex, mostly missionary or when youre on top. i just can't imagine others. imagining Pippin Took having sex is already too weird, so lets say its all gentle and soft, never doggy position or something like this BRUH-

dy imagine him as a bad boy in a dark romance ?! he's such more the dominated one than the dominant one

he's not selfish or vainglorious. but i think after the war, he liked to tell everyone about his "exploits". and also to staring at himself in a mirror, to see "how strong and tall he becaome". if you catch him, he'll be all red and embarrassed, and won't admit what he was doing.

i aslo think hes a bit insecure about your height difference (human!reader) and jealous of other human guys.

becomes all red when you compliment him

often brings you flowers, rocks or random things that are just remind him of you. his flowers are not like a wonderful rose bouquet, but rather a crumpled flower that he found really pretty.

if you have some hobbies like yarning, knitting, drawing, he will appears behind you, his head on your shoulder, "what are you doing ? is that for me ?" etc, and will love to distract you in any ways possible

also when you're doing selfcare, like painting your nails (fem!reader), brushing your hair, putting cream on you, or even shaving, he'd like to do it for you

he shows his love and affection toward you by actions rather than words, but can say a random "i love you" in a middle of a conversation (IMAGINE HIM SAYING THIS WITH HIS SCOTTISH ACCENT KJHEBHJZEHBJZHB IM SCREAMING)

your arms = his safe place

will remember every. single. thing. you told him about yourself

always try to be the best for you, even though you're telling him that he's already perfect, it's never enough for him.

#no one of yall love him as i do #lotr sfw alphabet #pippin took headcanons #pippin took sfw alphabet #lotr #peregrin took #i love this huhu #my boy 😩😩😩#i love him so much #pippapolline is real #pippinposting #lotr headcanons #lord of the rings

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agattthaa · 7 months ago

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A pearl

Paring: Anna/Lane

Angst

Heavily inspired by Mitsuki's song with the same title.

Word count: 508

Rating: T

Summary: Soon enough, Anna would grow tired of Lane.

Tagging: @rc-catalog

It was as clear as the morning light, soon enough, Anna would grow tired of her.

She would grow tired of Lane’s absence.

She would grow tired of Lane’s empty touches.

She would grow tired of all of the things Lane didn’t want to talk about.

And honestly, it almost felt like it was taking longer for that to happen than it should. Because although Anna tried her best, Lane would never be able to love her as much as Anna loved her.

Because despite all of the kind smiles and the genuine worry and all the care and affection, Lane still couldn’t genuinely want Anna’s touch.

Because despite how much Anna tried to always be there and create a safe haven for Lane, the cryptographer still couldn’t sleep at night.

Because despite how much Anna loved her, it would never be enough to bring Lane peace.

Because it was too good. Too genuine. Too much. It was too pure and too warm and too soft.

And that was not Lane.

Lane wasn’t one to waste her time on long embraces or nightly talks. She wasn’t one to daydream about being cared for or finding a home or solace in someone.

No. Lane was too important for that, she had always been.

Lane was not someone who could give herself the benefit of humanity. She could not give herself anything that others considered important, that others considered essential.

She could not waste her time on feelings or happiness. She was the key to solving something that not even immortal beings could.

She was the key to the beginning and to the end. Of the apocalypse. Of the war.

She was too important to waste time on such frivolous things as feelings.

So she couldn’t want Anna’s touch.

She shouldn’t want.

And she wouldn’t.

No matter how much she wanted to lean into Anna's hands whenever the woman touched her face.

No matter how much she wanted to hide under the covers on Anna's bed and be completely enveloped into the other woman's scent anytime things got too hard for her to handle.

No matter how much she wanted.

Love was for ordinary people. Anyone could find love into someone's eyes. Anyone could become soft on someone's touch.

And Lane was everything but ordinary.

Only Lane could ever translate the book of the apocalypse. Only she could ever change the odds of that war in favor of the human race. Only she could shift the current balance of the world.

Lane was everything but ordinary.

Love was a luxury she could not allow herself to have. Love was for ordinary people. And Lane had been raised to be anything other than that.

She could not love Anna.

She was already in love with the war from humanity against the heavens and the hells and anything that could destroy them.

She had to be.

So when Anna tried to smile at her, Lane simply got out of the room, hoping not to hear her own heart break.

#rc anna #rc lane #rc hsr #heaven secret requiem #fuck you aleksandra #romance club #fanfic #ask

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curiouspupsicle · 5 months ago

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Good Omens Fan Fiction Friday (1/31/25) - Resistance!!

Being a well informed American living under an administration determined to dismantle our democracy (already stressed) and cause as much damage as possible has even my comfort moments turning to resistance. After all, evil people have always existed. And good people have always resisted. So is there anything my Good Omens fixation has to say about resistance? Given Terry Pratchett's moral universe, we could argue that all of Good Omens is steeped in resistance. But I'm going to limit myself to a few specific favorite fics that highlight different forms of resistance.

Let's start with the series that got me thinking in this direction: Demon and Angel Professors (G) by Ghostinthehouse (@ineffableghost). This is 200 ficlets, each exactly 666 words, hanging on a silly premise. Everyone loves literature Professor Fell who goes on regular tangents about his sweet husband Anthony. Everyone fears grumpy botany Professor Crowley who treats his students like he treats his plants. And anytime Crowley goes near Fell, the first-year students go into protective mode. Because surely Crowley must be up to no good and a potential harm to dear Prof Fell and his precious Anthony. But beyond that bit of fun repeated every year with a new group of incoming students are amazing stories of resistance against those who would cause mental harm or physical violence to disabled people, folks with a variety of gender identities and presentations, queer individuals, people dealing with trauma--basically anyone who might be vulnerable in a thoughtless and even wicked society.

Sometimes resistance is persuading someone to do better. Other times it's offering a hint that makes someone think. It may involve a hands-on approach to someone who only knows violence. Or it may be getting someone to a safe place as quickly as possible.

I read it over a weekend. But I think there's a better approach to reading this long series--bookmark it in your phone when you are doing a hurry-up-and-wait activity (jury duty, medical treatments, picking up kids at school, etc.). The short length of each fic makes it easy to pick up and put down. The variety of "ducklings" tales (what the ineffable pair call the students they help) will keep you interested. And the sense of joy and hope will make it a good way to spend time on a challenging day. Resistance fics aren't all human AUs. Check out The Last Angel (E) by @bellisima-writes. For millennia, Crowley has been Hell's Grand Inquisitor. He never served on earth. After Hell won their war against Heaven, they finally track down the last remaining Angel, Aziraphale. Crowley's given the job of torturing him for information. I don't want to give too much away. But Crowley's form of resistance involves being true to himself no matter what Hell demands. And Aziraphale has a more direct form of resistance planned. It's an exciting read as well as thought-provoking.

@snae-b writes the kind of fics you don't want to start reading before bed--at least not if you plan on getting up early the next day. Echo (E) is no exception. Each day, barista Aziraphale wakes up and goes into work. He serves a chauffeur, Crowley, who seems strangely familiar. Asking questions like "what makes one human" and "how do you fight against an evil activity that no one knows about," Echo is also just a plain old compelling story. And a resistance tale that, despite its futuristic setting, would not feel out of place beside a tale of the French underground resisting Nazis.

Mutual Aid (T) by malicegeres predates the Good Omens tv show. So presumably that makes it part of the Book!Omens universe. In it, radical bookseller Ezra Fell ends up hiding anarchist Crowley from the police after he's injured by skinheads. As the title indicates, they find a common cause and start working together. Loved the depiction of Adam as a leader. And the fic includes a listing of leftist political resources at the end.

Many consider The False and the Fair (E) by @princip1914 to be one of the best human AUs in the Good Omens universe. I certainly do. Aziraphale Wright's family runs a coal mine. Anthony Crowley, his former best friend, is the son of a mine worker. I don't want to spoil the story if you haven't read it. But what appears to be a story of regrets and making amends has a strong thread of accountability that results in wrongs being made right after a powerful act of resistance (with some help from the press). If you haven't read it, check it out. And if you have, read it again--with an eye towards resistance.

Finally, I'll end with a WIP, Good Works (E) by @majnoonathelibrarian. Set in 1987, Aziraphale is an assistant parliamentary secretary in the Thatcher government who finds something strange in the documents he's handling. Crowley is a mysterious "fixer" for a consulting firm who finds himself drawn into queer activism. Both of them have to navigate their day jobs along with increasing activism in a couple of different streams. The characterization is fascinating and the writer strings out the mysteries through the tale. This WIP is regularly updated and nearly complete. Remember, the fan fic community is a COMMUNITY. So don't forget to encourage writers of works underway by leaving kudos and comments. Writers are a gift to fans and we need to show them our appreciation. Finally, I'll give my pitch as someone who has been around much longer than most of you reading this. The yucky things happening in the world can be overwhelming. But it's a backlash. Because we've already made so much progress (both The False and the Fair and Good Works are good reminders of just how deadly the 1980s were for queer people). So resist. By making art and telling stories. By protesting. By contacting the people in power making decisions you disagree with. By caring for the vulnerable. By speaking out at local political meetings. By amplifying the voices of marginalized people. By using any of your unearned benefits to advocate for others. And by just existing as the beautiful and unique individual you are.

I'll be back next Friday with more great Good Omens fan fics on a new theme. In the meantime, check out my other favorite fics on this pinned post of weekly Good Omens fan fiction recommendations.

#good omens #crowley #aziraphale #good omens fanfiction #go fan fic recs #fan fiction #go fan fiction recommendations #go fan fic rec #go fan fiction #resistance #let your fun reading inspire your resistance

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aziraphales-library · 3 months ago

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Hello! I got this comment and asked for permission to pass it on.

“The real reason I wanted to get in touch with you is that I read a GO post-apocalyptic story about two years ago where Aziraphale returns to Earth after (apparently) being discorporated at the beginning of the 'last' war. London is gone, at the bottom of a huge dent in the shoreline, ditto with the South Downs. Except Crowley isn't in (what's left of) the UK that Azi has traveled to. There are people who have recovered, and there are lovely references to (local) embroidery on quaint rain-gear, and I have just one problem: I can't remember the name of the story or the author's name... I thought it might have been you, but you don't seem to have anything even close to it. I've tried searching for it, but I never get close to whatever it is. Do you have any suggestions on how I could find it?”

Thank you so much for everything you do!! 💛

Oh yes, this is a wonderful fic...

My Favorite Ghost by cassieoh_draws, DiminishingReturn (T)

Decades after the world didn’t end, Heaven and Hell got their war — and nearly destroyed everything in the process. When Aziraphale finally manages to reacquire a corporation and return to Earth, he discovers he was gone longer than he thought and the planet has become unrecognizable. As he searches for Crowley and tries to figure out how he fits in a world that Heaven, Hell, and God have all wiped their hands of, nature works around him to reclaim the bones of an old civilization as the scraps of humanity build a new one. A lush and optimistic post-apocalypse story, told from the POV of an immortal who can't let go of the past.

- Mod D

#good omens #ineffable husbands #mod d

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my-stories-vault · 2 months ago

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Chapter 13 ~ The Supernatural Wars.

Pairing: English Dean Winchester X English Y/N L/N

Blurb: When the residents of this Earth found out that they were but a draft in God's numerous stories, they decided to make noise in hopes that their creator would return. Nothing can be louder than the begs of the powerless, the cackles of the ruthless, or the unending destruction left in the wake of the most merciless wars any universe can ever see—here the bloodshed never ends. So, tell me how can two young soulmates, then, find love's shade of red under all this crimson gore?

Warnings/Trigger Warnings (18+): Language, gore, violence, major and minor character deaths, thoughts of suicide (not graphic), substance abuse (alcohol and cigarettes), mentions of wars (I mean, it's in the name).

{ Series Masterlist ; Main Masterlist }

Chapter 13: A Walk In The Flood.

Dean's eyes itched from the dust, and he couldn't see too far out into the sudden smog; it didn't help that it was pitch black out.

He'd only had enough time to scramble for the front door to shield his head when the ceiling started raining down on him. He couldn't surface until the whole structure was rubble.

His ears were ringing, suspicious of the silence. His eyes blinked, watering heavily because of the polluted air. Near him was a thick black cloud of smoke, snaking all the chemicals towards the sky; it made him cough and gag on reflex.

'Y/N?!' his voice sounded parched, and not loud enough.

His eyes tracked up towards the onyx sky, which was alive with shooting stars or meteors or . . .

'Angels,' Dean realised. 'Fuck.'

He pushed the house off of him, his terse eyes scanning the ruins of the lodge more alertly, finding you nowhere. Out of his periphery, he could spot that the illusion that hid other people was now shattered, and he could see all the other humans. His sense of hearing finally latched onto the agonised screaming and desperate shouts, and if he concentrated, he could make out the wails of the bereaved.

Thinking ahead, he grabbed the blanket that had been covering you two's bed. And he unearthed the metal bottle placed on his nightstand; by sheer luck, he also found a torch and his phone. He couldn't find a first-aid kit or a weapon, though. This would have to be enough somehow.

His chest trembled, waiting to cave in at a sight that would sear him forever.

The sky rumbled with angry thunder. His brows furrowed in confusion as sudden clouds started moving, slowly, but as if they were being shuffled around by some unseen entity—they were all corraling together so that no inch of sky was visible, and inevitably, no one could see where the next angel might fall from.

He decided to start with the most obvious place, the lodges next to yours. He shone his flickering torchlight in all directions, taking your name.

'Help!' rasped a new voice when he hadn't gone much farther.

Dean was detoured towards the voice. His searching, wild eyes found a six-year-old kneeling next to a pile of plaster, tugging on a dead hand, the human having been crushed under the fallen ceiling.

'Hey, kid,' he tried to be soothing.

'My mom—' he sobbed, unable to finish.

Dean's jaw clenched, and he had to swallow past his lump. He crouched next to him. 'Are you alone?'

The child's eyes locked with his, crazed with anxiety and foreboding. He couldn't speak a word, but he shook his head, tears wading down his dust-speckled cheeks.

'Where's the rest of your family?' Dean asked.

The child's head turned to the forest, eyes haunted as he searched for nothing visible to him. And then he looked down back to the cold hand he was clutching against his chest.

He croaked. 'My sister—' he stared fearfully at the forest again.

The child had had two options, the open stormy sky or the forest, and he must have been scared of the great forest.

But it was dangerous out here.

You'd shown him a documentary on Heaven and Hell by some prophet named Kevin Tran, and if it was right, then the angels would be falling from the sky all night, incinerating all that clashed with them. The storm was new but one fucking disaster at a time.

'Alright, buddy,' Dean said, grasping the lad's shoulder. 'I'm going to help you find your sister, okay?'

'My Mom—!'

Another angel soared over their heads and snapped the first tree of the forest in sight in half. Dean used his body to shield the child; the heat from the explosion licked down his spine, and his whole body warmed as if he had been standing under the radioactive sun all day.

'We'll come back for her!' Dean assured him, over the noise. He checked the hand for the faint chance of a pulse though, disheartened when he found none.

'C'mon!' he ordered, gripping the child's shoulder, gentle but firm, and leading him into the trees. He decided the trees were worth searching for you, too; if you were conscious, that's where you'd have run to for shelter, or you could've been thrown there . . .

He had rolled the blanket around his arm socket as if it were a hose he was carrying, and he asked the boy to call for his sister while Dean did the same for you. The boy had opted to cling to Dean's hand, much to his surprise.

'Lana!' the child tore from Dean's side and rushed to a prone form on the floor. Dean's longer strides caught up with the kid, and he crouched next to the teenager. The age difference between the siblings seemed to be around ten years. The girl will be memorable to Dean for her long hair: they came to her knees in two plaits; at first, Dean had thought that they were snakes surrounding her.

'She's alive,' Dean delivered, two fingers on Lana's erratic pulse. He shook Lana, who stayed unresponsive. He sprinkled a few drops of water on the girl's face.

Lana grimaced awake.

'Slate,' groaned she, recognizing her little brother. 'Where's Mom?'

Slate stared up at Dean, helpless. Dean pursed his lips, shaking his head dully for Lana's understanding. Lana's face contorted with devastation and tears pressed into her eyes.

'I'm sorry,' was all Dean could offer.

The young woman choked back a gasp, the noise stifling in her throat when her brother climbed to her side and started crying again, just because he saw her in pain.

She hid his face in her chest. 'It's okay,' her own maternal instincts kicked in for her kid brother. 'We're okay.'

Dean wasn't even sure the child, Slate, understood what exactly had happened to their mother. And the girl, Lana, was barely holding onto any form of composure. His heart broke for them.

'I need to get him to safety,' Lana demanded, clucthing her brother possessively. Her eyes turned sharp and met Dean's with challenge and determination.

'I can help you,' Dean replied, solemn. 'The Druids have got a bunker down west for emergencies.'

She nodded, standing up, and slinging a tight arm around her little brother.

'Let's go.'

'I need to find my . . . friend first,' he said. Just the word "friend" tasted wrong in his mouth.

'Are they a hunter?' the girl quirked a brow. 'Can't they take care of themselves?'

'I just need to check on her,' Dean responded.

'Dude, if she's an adult, she can take care of herself,' the surly teen snapped. 'Or she's dead. Either way, she doesn't need you.' Her features were riven with anger and agony.

'Or she's hurt,' Dean said alternatively.

'Mister, listen—'

'No, you listen,' he adopted an edge of scolding. 'I'm going to take you to safety, but you better pipe that attitude down.' He was about to leave no one behind.

Her tiny face hardened, but she obviously had no choice. Dean ushered them deeper through the forest.

Your heartbeat was unusual. Your thinking was surrounded by nothing but pain; pain that radiated from your upper right side, where your right lung should be. You were standing very still, knowing movement could hurt you more than help, but your knees were protesting because they were bent as if you were sitting down on an invisible chair, your hands on your knees.

All you wanted to do was slide down, but you could sense a roughly circular object that had nailed your right lung to the tree - you thought it was a broken branch, about two inches. You were vaguely aware of the warm blood trailing down in rivulets inside and outside of your night shirt; the crimson was pooling and soaking into your sleep shorts.

But the worst sensation was the itching, for some reason, the place where the tree had pierced you felt like it was a red-hot iron poker covered in itch powder used for pranks and not a cold branch on what quickly seemed to be a stormy night.

Your face and body were extremely rigid. Earlier, when you'd awoken to a world of pain, you'd quickly deduced that groaning or crying out in pain only made the pain in your lungs worse. Your options were an occasional whimper and tears steadily streaming down your face. Other than that, you feared twitching a single muscle lest it make the pain unbearable.

You tried to count the fallen leaves on the floor; you would rather spend your minutes awake in pain and aware of your fate than be unconscious and clueless. Helplessness was intolerable, unlike a physical ailment like this.

You could also detach yourself from the branch, but it posed the risk of the darkness towing you under. Plus, it would bleed more, and you would have no means to stem the flow.

You concentrated on your other fears— the lightning was cackling in the sky. It made you want to crawl underground after digging a hole with your bare fingers and never resurface.

'Y/N!' Dean's gravely baritone jolted your brain into excitement again. 'Are you here?'

Earlier, you'd heard his voice (minutes after you'd been volleyed from the lodge into the trees in quite a straight line) and you'd hoped he would come straight for you. Instead, his calls had drifted off in another direction, and you regretted not yelling back. This time, you wouldn't make the same mistake, even if it hurts like - to quote Dean sometimes - a son of a bitch.

'Dean!' It was a half-yell, and a half-cry of shock.

Your entire body complained against that move, even brought claret to your throat for your efforts. You coughed it out, spitting it out to the side. It fell atop the roots of the tree you stood against. To your horror, the blood sizzled after a few seconds of contact.

You were once again brought to the present by Dean's shouting. He seemingly hadn't heard you.

A sob built in your throat, mostly out of anger and frustration. But you grit your teeth - you're not dying like this.

'Dean!'

Your screech was long.

This time, you only had time to turn your head to the side before you vomitted more blood. Your ears were ringing, and your eyes were leaking more. You rubbed your mouth against your left shoulder.

'Please stop hurting,' your breath hitched as you fruitlessly begged your body. 'Stop hurting, stop hurting, stop hurting.'

Your organs were as stubborn as you; they refused to listen, snapping their pain to the brain through your writhing nerves. It built more cries in your chest, making you want to bawl like a baby. But you bit your lip and closed your eyes, letting the salt in your eyes free-flow down your cheeks and neck where it met the blood and sweat.

Dean called your name again, much closer. He was the only thing keeping you grounded, yet you hated him for making your scream over and over again - that's it, you decided, I'm adding red flares to my pile of sleep weapons.

Currently, you have a sliver-iron switchblade, a double-edged knife, in your pocket, and the Colt. Dean liked to keep his weapons under the pillow because he thought it granted easier access that way, but you deserved points for this one.

'Just scream for me one more time, darlin'!' his voice pleaded, apologetic at the same time as if he understood your silences just as well as your screams.

You gritted at him, filling your lungs with unwanted air, and knowing it'd be too much to handle already.

Dean'll save me, assured your logic. Yes, you won't be helpless with Dean.

'DEAN!'

It was blood-curdling, followed by thunder as if it was fucking competing against you.

You only registered as much before your eyes rolled into your head.

It felt like it had been a minute. You thought you were unconscious, but then why would your body be feeling like it's decomposing?

You wishfully hoped for a long second that this is all just a bad dream and you were still in bed with Dean, but that delirious thinking was dispelled when Dean's voice called for you; this time the closest, and saturated with relief—before you heard him curse.

You heard the sound of cloth ripping, but your eyelids were too heavy to lift anymore.

Your skin was too hot—where was all the fucking sweat coming from? And the metallic taste of your RBCs graced your tongue and nose, it made you want to cringe, but your brain refused to trust your judgments about reactions after you made your body make that last sound.

Your face jerked to life when two hands lifted your head, but their texture was all wrong.

The callouses you'd become accustomed to in Dean's hands were missing, and it lacked warmth of his skin. Even though the touch was as gentle as his.

Your eyes peered up at a masked man, his lower face covered with white cloth. You would have flinched and tried to get away from the touch if you hadn't noticed the forest greens. The thunder whipped the sky and lit his orbs with golden specks. Those were the same eyes you'd spent hours memorizing; even in your half-dead state, you knew them.

Belatedly, you realised that he was tying a similar cloth around your face. You arched your brow at him, unable to utter an actual sound.

'The tree is Manchineel,' he explained.

You shook your head. 'Only in America,' you mumbled. You didn't know the tree specifics like how to recognize them, but you know where most of them grew and what they could do.

His eyes seemed to harden, 'The Druids have magic, they grow all trees here and enhance their capacities. This one's used to line their perimeter to kill their enemies.'

Okay, made sense why your back was feeling inflamed and why it felt like someone was evaporating your organs, starting with your right lung—the Manchineel tree is the deadliest, one of the most toxic trees known to mankind.

You have been poisoned.

You scoffed weakly. 'Should've taken that tree course at Treexcel, huh?'

Europe offered far more detailed courses on trees than any other Continent; just like your once tree skills, your tree knowledge lacked.

He didn't answer to that, eyes focused. His hands were wrapped in a similar cloth as his face, tied with . . . were those rubber bands?

'I'm going to have to pull you out,' Dean warned. 'We need to stop your exposure to its toxicity.'

You nodded, dazed at simply the idea.

'Hold my shoulders,' he instructed. He came down to hover above you, putting his hands on your back, below and above your point of injury. You heeded his advice, filled with trepidation.

He must've moved you an inch forward when you whimpered pathetically. The irritated skin around your wound made it feel like you were rubbing salted sandpaper on it.

Dean froze, but he couldn't stop much longer. Maybe this will have to be like ripping off a bandage, but then if he was too fast and if a piece of the tree snapped and entered your bloodstream, you'd be much worse off.

'Do you trust me?' he quietly asked.

You nodded feebly. 'Please help,' you gritted back a sob. 'It hurts.'

Your tear-stricken face felt like someone was boxing his heart with knives.

'I'm not going to let anything happen to you,' he affirmed. 'D'you understand me?'

You nodded, inhaling a shaky gasp. 'Make it stop.'

'Soon,' he promised.

He leaned to kiss the tears on your cheeks (besides the shape of his lips, you only felt the cloth that wiped your tears). Though, it lured your mind away from the pain and towards the intimacy of his gestures.

'Hold on,' he requested.

He started tugging you out again. His whole body tensed, and his jaw clenched as the trees echoed your horrible scream; he'd remember it.

By the time he'd gotten you off the branch, your knees had buckled under your weight and the redness oozing from your strengthened. You slumped into his arms, and it's with effort that he hefted you up in a cradle-carry.

He brought you back to the safer tree zones where Lana and Slate had been witnessing the whole thing.

Dean released his hand from the torn blanket and handed back Lana her scrunchies; without them, she looked the definition of a ghost whose hair flew with the wind.

Dean used water to wash your wound so the effects of the poison would slow down. He tore a few more clean portions of the long blanket and placed one of them, balled up, as a packing against your wound to stop the blood, and tied a longer piece over your left shoulder and under your right arm. Lastly, he made a thin and sturdy sling to put your right hand in.

He was dripping water past your lips when you stirred again.

'The winds are picking up,' Lana said nervously. She was hugging her brother so his face was in her abdomen, and she didn't want the child to see any of the gore.

Dean had felt it; the dead leaves had started swirling in small rotations, making and breaking mini tornadoes. He realised that it was going to be one of the worst storms that hit the world.

He needed to get you to the bunker.

'There are people out there,' you said, eyes hazy and tired, head swimming in shock and body rejecting coherence.

'Let me get you to safety first,' he replied, lifting you once more in his embrace.

'The fuck are you talking about?' Dean growled.

He felt aggressive enough to grab the doctor by the collar and bang her head against the wall—he fisted his hands instead, allowing his nails to draw blood from his palms.

The four feet tall Druid was old and experienced. She eyed him with wariness but kept her voice levelled with a clinical tone.

She repeated her words in a simpler format. 'Mr Winchester, Ms L/N has suffered from severe poisoning; her right lung has completely necrosed, and her left lung as well as her heart are slowly dying. We've given her the antidote, but it doesn't seem like she'd survive the morning for the medicine to take full effect.'

She let that sink in.

Dean shook his head adamantly. 'Fuck that, okay? You're the mystical creature. Lay your mojo on her! Give her a voodoo cocktail!'

'Our magic has limits. If she'd been brought in earlier, we may have been able to reverse the necrosis or at least stop its spread . . . .'

Dean was late. The throb in his arms and legs became more prominnet, telling him that he did run with you in his arms for three miles, making it back in twenty-five minutes instead of the usual hour it would've taken; but his mind rejected that argument, demanding for his heart to sink into his stomach where the unbearable guilt churned. His face was blank, his muscles didn't know how to react anymore.

The doctor let some sympathy bleed into her manner. 'We've gave her several litres of blood, hoping a full blood swap would reverse the poisoning, but it didn't work. We've put her on a magical potion that'll act as a ventilator and pump her with oxygen, but that'll only last so long. We're sorry—'

'Don't be fucking sorry!' he roared. The people in the hallway paused; Dean and the Druid were standing right outside your room, which was located on the uppermost floor of the underground bunker that went numerous floors deeper; Dean had literally put you in the first bed he could find. 'Show me some fucking results! Go in there and heal her!'

She shook her head persistently. 'You're welcome to see her, if you'd like.' And she walked away.

'Come on! Come on!' Dean kept mumbling as he dialled someone, pacing the length of your room.

You could only assume that he was told what the petite doctor told you: your death sentence. And in a very Dean-ish manner, he refused to give up on you, yet you couldn't imagine what solution he'd come up with to save the day.

'Cell phone towers are down,' you gently told him, cringing at how raspy your voice was.

'Told the Druids to save one tower with their magic,' he off-handedly said, putting the phone to his ear again.

'Who are you calling?'

'Jack,' he said while having a staring match with the wall. 'He must have a connection, I think. Got to, right? Magic and all.'

Before you could answer, he hung up. 'Dammit, pick up!' he gritted to himself and re-dailled the number.

'Dean?'

'Yeah?' But he wouldn't look up.

You decided to unclench your jaw and utter a guttural groan (wasn't hard considering you'd been holding it back for his sake) that drew his attention to you. He rushed to your bedside, putting his phone away and his frantic hands traced the air an inch above your body as if he was afraid to touch you.

'What's wrong?' he asked with note of panic. 'How can I help?'

'It hurts,' you breathily gasped.

'I know, I know,' he licked his bottom lip, his hand finally graced your slick hair, and he soothingly stroked you. 'I can get you those piankillers.'

You shook your head. You wanted to be awake for the rest of your life, you wouldn't let painkillers conk you out for whatever hours you have left.

You purposely mouthed something so he would have to lean in, and you could swipe his phone from his pocket.

'Could you repeat that, darling?'

You mouthed again.

'I'm sorry,' he leaned in further so his ear was over your lips. 'One more time?'

'I'm sorry,' you whispered properly this time, and flung out your arm on your injured side.

The phone shattered against the wall with moderate precision, and you groaned loudly in pain, panting from your effort while Dean was dumbfounded for a solid fifteen seconds.

'What the—What the fuck did you just do?' he straightened, staring at you like you'd grown a green skin.

'You can't call Jack,' you said.

'Why the fuck not?' he glared at you incredously.

'There's a reason why he's shut off prayers from the human faction, Dean,' you explained what he already knew. 'Too many humans die every year. He can't keep healing all of them.'

'Well, you're different!' he said. 'You're a Leader.'

You didn't even make the "I-am-a-Temp" argument - as history had it, Dean tended to go ballistic whenever you brought up your non-tenure.

'What example would I be setting if I healed and the hundreds here died?' you patiently said.

'So this is about your reputation?'

Dean's anger had melted into pure icy hatred. You'd sidestepped a landmine to walk onto another.

Having a great day here, thanks for asking, you sarcastically thought.

You sighed. 'I know you don't care about my reputation or—'

'You're right, I don't,' Dean snapped. 'I'm not going to argue with you about the goddamn media while you're on your deathbed.' He rounded the said bed, 'I'm going to borrow a phone and then I'm calling Jack,' he said with a full stop.

Except, 'What was Jack's phone number again?'

Dean froze midway to the door. Your phones had everyone's numbers - yours was lost, you broke Dean's.

'Oh, right,' you said. 'I remember and you don't.'

You remembered your family's, the Leaders' and your team's phone numbers, along with a few very resourceful Governors'. And Dean knew you'd remembered it all because he often teased you about it.

You resisted the urge to grin like a Cheshire cat—you did enjoy riling the man up.

His chin fell to his chest in defeat. He turned sharply with thinly veiled rage. 'Give me the phone number, Y/N.'

'Nope,' you popped the p.

If you weren't dying, he would've strangled you.

'I won't ask you again, Y/N,' he said with dangerous stillness in his tone.

Even pale and sickly, you narrowed your eyes. 'Then you won't have to hear "no" again.'

'Do you want to die!?' he burst out. 'Do you want to die?'

'No—'

'Because from where I'm standing it looks like you've given up!'

This situation seriously sucked and you were seriously done. 'Then grab a chair,' your lip curled into a sneer. 'And fucking look again.' You cleared your throat when the scratchiness got too much.

'Don't be a fucking child, alright?' Dean tried again. 'Just gimme the fucking number, or I swear on the Universe—'

'You'll do what?' you scoffed. 'What we're having is a battle of stubborness—I can be stubborn. I can do this all my life - literally!'

He deflated with an expression of betrayal; he wiped a hand down his face but the look wouldn't go - you had to avert your gaze because that look stung.

Dean sat beside you again, taking your hand in his, prompting you to look back up. Your eyes were shining with brand-new tears, and you were shocked to find . . . so were his.

'I'll take the blame,' Dean said. 'We'll tell them you were unconscious and I called Jack. I don't care about my reputation. Please just give me—'

'Dean,' you sighed. 'This isn't just about your reputation or mine,' you retrieved your hand. 'See to reason, you'd be staking Jack's life.'

He blinked as if it hadn't occured to him. If he'd only let you finish earlier: you would've given him the real reason why Jack was a bad idea.

'I-I don't—'

'Closing of Heaven Gates bars angels from Heaven,' you said. 'The archangels and the angels stationed on Earth remain unaffected.'

'Thus, the storm,' Dean's shoulders slumped. 'Micheal and Lucifer are up there, creating the storm because whoever shut the Gates, pissed them off.'

'Yep. And, as you know, Jack's tuned the angel radio off,' you said. 'And made Australia a dome so he wouldn't ever be kidnapped by his own damn father—'

'And the storm's across the world,' Dean completed. 'Like the Druids said. He flies and he'll be on their radar. He'll be—'

'Captured,' you finished.

Dean fell into a silence that was too depressive for your tastes.

'He probably shut his phone off,' you said, nodding like you did during small talk.

'I-I need some air,' and he left like the room was on fire.

'You're poisoned?' Selina skrieked over the phone.

'It's okay, they've given me the antidote,' you answered casually, even if your voice was unhealthily low.

You squeezed Dean's hand, wishing he would snap out of his daze; he hadn't spoken a word since he re-entered the room and dragged a chair next to your bed. You took his hand, trying to get him to talk; but he'd picked a point on the wall and was staring at it, in shock and probably denial.

All he did do, was give you the phone. You think he did so you could say your goodbyes - though, if you were being honest, you would rather not distract anyone with sad goodbyes - they can grieve you when people are better.

'That's good. When are they doing the surgery?'

'The what?'

'They'd have to remove the dead tissue in your lungs,' Selina said. 'Before it spreads.'

You were regretting calling your team medic for this. You should've called Boa, at least he wouldn't ask too many questions, or figure out your ill-concealed lie about your healing process.

You'd only even thought about contacting the Palace because one, Dean wasn't in a condition to. And two, you wanted to see how things were running there; your pager had been blowing up and there wasn't a thing you could do about it.

The world was ensued in a single, largest thunderstorm the planet had ever seen. If the Druids hadn't offered you a bit of magic, you could've never called - most of the towers (those unprotected by magic) and all the transportation was down.

You sighed through your nose. 'Selina,' you said, using her name to make sure she knew the weight behind your words, 'I suppose I'm saying that you'll need a new Maid Of Honour.'

Out of the corner of your eye, you noticed a single tear track down Dean's cheek. His eyes were red-rimmed and his glare had sharpened, his face had stilled into the statue of a tortured man.

So he was listening.

You didn't have the slightest idea of how you'd console him after you hung up with her. You felt the most useless you had in the entirety of your life, and you'd been made to feel useless plenty.

'If that's a joke, you're not fucking funny.'

You closed your eyes, exhausted from all the talking. Your breathing was too shallow for you to be wasting it on so many words.

'My lungs have given up,' you informed her.

'There's always a cure!' she defied. 'I-I mean, Sal had . . . I remember. . . He would go on about . . . His research might have something!'

Dean's face flickered with hope for the first time, his body twitched to life.

'You think?' you asked, sceptical of that plan.

Sal hadn't exactly proven to be trustworthy. He's the one who got Jessica killed . . . At the same time, his research had saved plenty of lives back in the day.

'Call me in an hour,' demanded Selina.

She was gone before you could get a word in edgewise.

'Do you think she's right?' Dean wondered, his voice thickened to the point of suffocation.

You nodded, albiet hesitantly. 'Ms Doll goofs about medicine almost never.'

'Geez, sound less confident.'

'I'm just worried that the solution might not be available to us,' you stated practically. 'I don't want—' you shook your head. Telling Dean that he wasn't in a position to handle hope might only aggravate him.

'What?' he pried.

'I guess I'm sorry,' you said, changing the topic.

'Why?'

'Our date was going well until I impaled myself on a poisonous tree,' you said with bemusement.

You traced his knuckles with a featherlight touch, hoping you could improve his mood somehow . . .

'I should've gotten you here sooner,' he blurted, tense all over.

That's all he could think about. Besides all the people he'd lost . . . Of all the people he'd failed to save: Cole, Mary, John, Jessica - these were ones he remembered. And now, you.

'Excuse me?' It hadn't even occured to you that Dean might be blaming himself because it simply wasn't his fault.

His hand retreated from yours to run down his face; his blank mask went with his hand and naked remorse stared back at you. He looked at you as if he'd been the one to take the branch and shove it into your lung; like a accidental murderer staring at their victim.

'This is not on you,' you said before he could explain.

'I couldn't protect you,' he refuted a dissolvent for his misery. 'And I brought you here.'

It struck a chord in you. For the first time since this shit happened, you were able tocompare your situation to the one where John and Mary had died . . . Or the one where Jessica had passed away. At 10.23 p.m., you could still hear the time of death.

'Oh, darlin', come here,' you shifted to the edge of your bed, patting the space you left for him.

He frowned, 'I don't want to hurt you more—'

Your frowned at him. 'You can join me, or I can climb out to you.'

Dean was familiar with the tenacious twinkle of your eye. He went with the option acceptable to him and perched on the edge of your bed, not touching a single part of you. You pulled him by his shoulder - well, you kept your hand on him, and he went because your strength was a joke right now.

You manuvered him till he was backed into your pillows, to your left, and then you curled into his side into the cuddle of your bet.

'Y/N,' he said in protest.

You firmly brought his hand around your waist, taking his other hand to have you circled. His hold on you was still fragile though; you glanced up at him in annoyance - only to be met with teary eyes.

'I'm trying to show you that it's not your fault,' you desperately said. You wished you could shout it from the rooftops if that'd get into his head, but you were keeping your voice low and your breaths shallow to save oxygen.

He rolled his eyes, looking away.

'Why would I let you close to me if I thought you had hurt me?' you persisted. 'I'd want you gone, if you had,' you said.

'I should go,' he said.

You let out a sound of frustration, and cuffed him on the head. Surprise made his head turn to you.

'You took that from what I said?' you scoffed. 'Are you a born idiot, or did you lose your mind in that?' you gestured to the ceiling where the thunder constantly boomed; you'd probably be hiding under the blanket if Dean wasn't here.

Dean's chest arched inwards, as if trying to cave on him. There weren't words he could use to explain how he'd witnessed two men he'd admired the most in the world, lose their soulmates, in front of him, and how he'd seen them . . . give up.

Mary had died first, and so had Jess. He couldn't imagine a worst pain in the world than what he'd seen in John's and Sam's eyes and now, he was about to experience it in a few hours' time. So, yes, he might be losing his mind.

All those sentences crowded in his throat and they died on his tongue.

'Dean, if it had been your fault, the other eleven people you saved wouldn't have lived!' you pointed out. While he was taking you to the Bunker, he'd adopted eleven more persons on the way.

'Don't do this,' he said. He doesn't deserve to be consoled. Especially when you were his . . . he couldn't think it, if he thought the word in corelation to you, he'd break.

'Then see some sense,' you offered. 'You put out all warrior Druids to harbring the rest of the survivors—you saved so many lives.'

He only did that so he'd be nullified of his responsibilities and then he could fret over you. A plan you crushed along with his phone.

'I'm so proud of you,' you said with a soft smile.

He had to blink his tears back, but his arms finally tightened around your torso. He lifted you carefully and placed you between his legs so you could easily sleep on him, instead of leaning into his side.

You smiled faintly, turning your head to drop a kiss over his heart, and sigh as you let him envelope you completely. You remained unaware of half the crap Dean was thinking . . . And unless Selina pulled though, he'd never be able to tell you all of it.

At least she'll go happy . . . His breaths scratched his neck as if the oxygen wanted to stop interacting with his windpipe as soon as you were gone - as if you were the element that made this world breathable.

'I see the appeal of cuddling you,' you broke his train of thought. Your fingers curled fingers into his chest and closed your eyes with a sigh. 'I'm never felt more comfortable. Or safe.'

'Too bad I kept losing the bet, huh?' he said, too low, so his voice wouldn't break.

You hummed. 'Too bad,' you smiled wider, looking up. 'I'd've enjoyed the privilege of sleeping in the arms of the strongest man more.'

'I'm not nearly as strong as you think,' he broke it to you, along with a tiny break in his voice.

'Well, that doesn't look very friendly,' said a new voice that made you jump, Dean's hands protectively pulled you closer before they relaxed.

'What the hell?' he said. 'This is a private room. Get out!'

Your eyes drifted to the young girl in the door. You vaguely remembered her from her hair, that were now tied into a single long plait which come over her shoulder down to her knees.

'Relax, old man,' she said. 'I just came sto see her.'

You were stuck between calling her out on her audacity, and being fakely polite as you were used to with strangers.

'What would you want from me?' you decided to say.

'You're Dean Winchester,' she crossed her arms. 'Knew I recognised you from somewhere.'

'Good on you. Now, get out.'

'And you're Leader Y/N L/N,' she continued, turning to you. 'I don't trust your celebrity memory, but still - do you remember me?'

You exchanged a look with Dean; he stayed where he was, no point in moving now that she'd already seen you two.

Without the earlier bluriness in your eyesight, you got the feeling that you had seen this child somewhere. If you assessed her features right, and if you were thinking her age correctly . . .

'Lana Sanderson,' you recalled. 'Aren't you the one from the Survivalist Camp who said you wanted to be Cupid for a career path?'

She raised her chin defiantly. 'That's right; color me impressed. Just FYI, I've changed my mind. I want to work for you now.'

You pursed your lips. 'That's a generous offer, I'm sure,' you flattered, 'but however do you think you'll be of use?'

'A botanist. I'm good with plants,' she responded, stepping closer to your bed. 'It's why our mother brought us to this place. For me,' her voice wobbled. 'And now she's . . . .'

You caught on. There was an emotion in her that you'd noted in Dean these past few minutes.

You tried to answer her diplomatically, sensitive of her loss: 'My condolences, dear. But I'm afraid this is a bad time for us—'

She just took a deep breath and marched on though. 'The Purgatory Flower will cure you. The Druids have it here.'

Your forehead creased. 'Have you heard of it, De—Mr Winchester?' you cleared your throat. You didn't know how to conduct your discussion with him when he held you at such an intimate position in front of a complete stranger.

'I can keep your secret,' she waved a hand, almost reading your mind. 'Even if you don't give me a job - because I will have earned that on my merit,' she said, confidently.

But Dean was already distracted. 'We should call Selina,' he said, grabbing your phone from you.

She offered more information to make it concrete: 'I don't know if this other person knows; the Purgatory Flowers are rare. They grow in, surprise-surprise, Purgatory; the good monster souls in there, which are extremely infrequent, come back as the flowers when killed. They are such a unique growth that one flower can cure a hundred. The Druids have some in stock - as of recently, when one of the younger Universe Travellers decided to give Purgatory a shot and returned with his discovery.'

Dean chatted with Selina for the next few minutes and relayed every little detail the little child mentioned.

'Then, that's it!' Selina said, gleefully. 'I've never heard of the plant being practically used, and I didn't think either of you would have access to Purgatory, but that flower is known to have magical properties!'

Dean scowled at the phone. 'Then why would the Druids lie to us?'

The Three Elders of the Druids and the Doctor who treated you crowded your room. Dean stood beside your bed along with Lana, who was just trying to become a wallflower at that point.

'As the ones who rent out this establishment,' the meek and middle Elder said, 'it was our duty to send out recruiting forces, Mr Winchester, to bring them to the Bunker. We cannot ask of our people to risk their own lives for someone who's already inside.'

You suppose you could understand that. While you nodded though, Dean bristled.

'You're fucking kidding me, right?' he barked, his glare deadly.

Even you were intimidated slightly. You latched onto his wrist, as if that would hold back this bulky man.

'We are sorry for the losses,' the Doctor said, stressed. 'But it's not our right to swap a life for a life.'

'And what do you think I'm here for?! I'm a hunter, your fucking Leader,' he returned. 'You're frigging morons if you think I'd have preferred to sit back and watch people lose their lives!'

'It's flooding outside, Mr Winchester,' said the squeaky Leader to the right.

'Then we go by the trees,' he affirmed.

'The Flowers are locked in a special locker that only opens by our retinal scan,' the third and the youngest Leader said. 'I would go if you're ready to.'

The Druids protested but the younger one waived their concern off, his face grim but set. 'Druids are capable of sacrifice as humans are. I'm ready if you are.'

'Can't we wait till the morning?' you interjected. 'After the storm recedes?'

'What are you doing?' Dean snapped at you.

'It just feels like a suicide mission!' you hissed at him.

'You don't have all night,' he countered.

'Very well,' the bravest Druid said. I'll meet you at the door in ten minutes, Mr Winchester.'

Dean came to see you one last time after he'd laid himself with weapons and other essentials; Lana took a hint and announced for a coffee, leaving you alone with him.

He leaned down to kiss you on the forehead, resuming his seat at the edge of your bed. He ran a hand down your head, ending up cupping your cheek.

'Stay alive for me, will you?' he said.

'Look, I know you're a hunter,' you began, 'and you have a right to choose the hunts, but this feels impossible!'

'Thought you thought I was the strongest man in the world,' he teased you lightly.

'You're not going up against a monster,' you reminded him. 'It's a full-blown storm.'

'Weapons of angels, as you'd once put it.'

'Stop acting like it's a walk in the fucking park,' you reprimanded. 'You're taking a walk in the flood!'

'What else do you want me to do, Y/N?' he scoffed. 'There's no other solution.'

'Dean, you don't have to do this for me,' you tried to persuade him, 'if you are. I don't want to swap my life for someone else's.'

He looked at you as if you were crazy. 'Did you think I was lying the other day?'

It felt so long ago when he told you he'd be willing to risk his life for you.

You frowned at him. 'You're a nice guy, Dean,' you tried another angle. 'While it was soothing to hear the depths of your care, you are allowed to break your word.'

'Would you?' he asked suddenly; it wouldn't change his decision, but he wanted to know if you said it for the sake of it.

You genuinely gave it a thought, and found no trace of a lie in your promise. You shook your head at him in answer.

'I'm just worried about you,' you bit your lip.

It wasn't Dean's mistake that you got hurt, but he was heading out into a storm, for you. You won't ever be void of guilt if he lost his own life while trying to save yours.

He swiped a thumb over your jaw, tipping your head back to lay another lingering kiss to your forehead. You sighed, clucthing his elbow, wishing he wasn't leaving you alone.

'I'll be back,' he whispered. 'And I'll be fine as long as you are. Just don't give up on me, okay?'

'Never.' You implored him, 'Be careful, please.'

Your heart was like an anxious bowling ball that was trying to break the pins of your ribcage. You lay on your pain-free side, staring at the door Dean left from. You were overthinking way too much to sleep like the little Druid Doctor had adviced you to.

In a split moment of concflict, you dialled a number from your memory.

She picked up on the fifth ring, and you were relieved that it was her.

'Hello, Mother,' you said, placing the phone on speaker because your fingers were too brittle to hold anything.

'Oh,' she said, in somewhat surprise. 'It's you. It didn't have a Caller ID, I was just so surprised a phone was working.'

You tried not to read too much into that.

'Do you have a good reason for calling?'

Except paralysing fear, nothing much. You had tried to hide it in front of Dean, and it was much too easy to focus on his plight than yours; but you were terrified of what could happen.

This is not the literal hill you'd want to die on.

'I'm . . . kinda dying,' you said, rigid and awkward. You would've called your brother if you could, but you didn't want to worry the man.

'Unfortunate,' she sighed. 'But you're just one of many,' she continued. 'You're not famed yet, Y/N, why should one find a loss in losing you?'

Perhaps you'd been expecting a more motherly reaction from her; maybe a gasp - what would you not give for a fucking gasp . . . But why didn't you expect this?

You let not the sting in your eyes drop across your cheeks.

'I-I never thought of it that way,' you said timidly.

'Honey, you should stop spending your time and mine in a wasteful call like this. I'd've been happier if you worked. You have a cell phone connection - miraculously - put it to good use.'

'Y-Yes, ma'am,' you said.

Why was this cutting you deeper than literally all the other similar conversations you'd had with her in your whole life.

'There's my good girl.' She changed the topic, 'Is Dean around?'

For the first time, that question angered you, coming from her.

'He's gone to bring me a cure,' your features twisted with pain and fury.

'Ah, always the busy bee. It's too bad he focuses his energies the wrong way; he'd be much happier if he didn't correct others' mistake,' she said, subtly hinting that you weren't doing enough, and that it was your own fault for not being good enough. Your shoulders slumped inwards and you brought the blanket closer to your chest.

Thunder cackled more, laughing at your foolishness.

'Even your Dad and brother are working,' she continued. 'Tough times - with the gates closed.'

'Are you okay?' you asked tentatively. 'I'm worried about you too.'

'Except for the bad mood, and, as you children say, shitton of work? Good.'

Your lips quivered, and you forced your voice to stablaise. 'Good. Is . . . Can I talk to Dad?'

You hoped that that conversation might go better. You'd be remiss if you died before you could hear both of their voices - the people to whom you'd dedicated your entire life to.

'I just said he's working, Y/N,' she said impatiently. 'Not everyone has the luxury of being bedridden and using cell phones,' she laughed as if she was making an intelligent point. 'You always had a special gift of weasling out.'

That felt like a rubber band snapping back into your heart which stuttered on her words.

'I've never weaseled out of work,' you suddenly said. She'd said that millions of times, and all those times, you'd managed to laugh - but somehow, this time, you couldn't let it go.

'Lighten up, dear,' she chided. 'I just said I was in a bad mood! Your sensitivity has always been your flaw.'

Your fuse short-circuited.

In the past few months, you hadn't talked to your parents; maybe that's what changed - her comment startled you. You were being too sensitive? How could she even imply that when you hadn't shown a single emotion to the outside world before it?

Did your mother even know you at all?

'Anyhow, I shall get back to work,' she said, casually, 'I do hope for your sake that you make it. What a shame it would be to our family if you died without making a good reputation.'

You didn't have to end the call.

You simply stared at the silent phone with the most loathing you'd ever given to anything. Your heart felt shattered in it's place, and its shards were slicing you on the inside. You had to run your hand over your face to stave off the tears.

What the hell was wrong with you? This shouldn't be bothersome. You should have expected this. Why did you hope for something better? Why did you hope that she might have changed too, as you had?

You didn't have the energy or the state of mind to call your father separately, or your brother or your sister-in-law.

Your brain was computing some facts that were somehow mind-blowing to you—your own family didn't care if you survived but Dean, a person who had no previous relation to you, was endangering himself to save you?

It was as if your brain was rebooting because of this.

You didn't hear the knock or see the child peeking in until a young boy came up to you and extended a blueberry muffin.

You stared at him like he was an alien until a taller figure came up behind him, placing her palms on his shoulders, a grimacing smile on her face.

'Slate, this is the Mr Winchester's girlfriend.'

Your face jerked in shock and you had to sit upright with some effort. 'Girlfriend?'

'Oh, don't lie to me,' she said, crossing her arms. 'I caught you two red-handed.'

'Oh, we haven't—no, we aren't—he's not my boyfriend!'

She whistled lowly. 'Harsh, lady. Don't let him hear that. You realise he's out there embracing literal disasters for you, right?'

You narrowed your eyes at her. You were not going to argue with a teenager. You glanced at the young boy who was still holding the muffin up for you.

'And what's your name, dear?'

'Oh, nice. Deflect.'

'I'm Slate,' the young boy said, showing you the muffin again. 'Mommy says that good food will heal you.'

'I . . . She sounds like a wise woman.' You cleared your throat of your heartbreak. 'Why . . . are you both here?' you settled on.

Lana raised a brow. 'It's rude not to visit your boss in the hospital.'

You would have smiled if you had been feeling better. In fact, just for that sass, you would've like the girl.

'Thank you,' you said. 'Though you should eat it, kid. I'm saving my oxygen to breathe, eating will only utilise some of it in digestion.'

The child peered up at his sister with thinly hidden hope. She nodded at you, 'Smart,' before, 'go ahead,' she told her brother.

He happily flounced onto your bed, near your feet and started munching hungrily on the food. Lana took the seat Dean had earlier and sat next to your bed.

You were confused with this scenery; what was the protocol for handling stranger children who barge into your room while you sit poisoned and weaponless? (The Druids changed your clothes into a hospital gown, and your weapons went with your pajamas.)

'Are you going to ask why I wanted to be Cupid and now I don't?'

' . . . You don't have to talk to me,' you hinted. It was kind enough that she was accompanying you; it took your mind off things.

'I'm still going to,' she quipped, giving you a sly smile.

Fair enough.

'My parents were going through a nasty divorce,' she tried to muster non-chalance, but you could see the thread of trauma in her young irises. 'Bringing me here, to the Plant Central was mom's way of making me choose her, of winning custody.'

That would make sense. Girls needed to prove that they were worthy, boys just got things. It was a supremely annoying fact of your world.

'You wanted to plink them with arrows so they'd love one another?' you guessed.

'Bulls-eye,' she made the pun.

It brought a laugh from you. 'I could've helped you—'

'You are the greatest marksperson,' she grinned.

'I try,' you shrugged.

'For the record,' she said. 'My mom is . . . was at least nice. Lesser of the two evils.'

You didn't have a good answer to that. She didn't need one either.

'But your mother is a downright bitch,' her random jab jolted you.

'Excuse me?' your eyebrows touched your hairline.

'I wasn't eavesdropping,' she said. 'I just happened to hear you on a call, and I didn't make an effort to move from the door.'

'I don't think it's any of your business,' you said, voice razor-sharp.

She raised her hands in apology, the only one you realised you'd get.

'Just sayin',' she mumbled, watching her younger brother lick the wrapper, peacefully oblivious. 'My Dad used to physically and mentally torture us—I know the difference between a good parent and a bad one. I don't know if you know—maybe you never had someone good to compare notes with.'

'For a person as young as you, you're quite the blabbermouth,' you snapped defensively.

Although, you could now see her in a new light; her desperation for a job, so she wouldn't have to return to her alive father, and where she couldn't go to her dead mother. Where she was being a responsible sister.

It made you weirdly long for a familial connection like that; and the longing immediately resolved when you understood that . . . maybe you're just looking in the wrong place for it.

Sebastian's words came back to you - when he said that your parents didn't need your loyalty . . .

She snickered at that. 'It's my one move; I'm at that cute age where I get away from stuff.'

You couldn't supress your smile even if you wanted to. You had to admit, she was reminding you of your younger version; before the diplomacy kicked in.

'You'd fit right in at the castle,' you realised.

It was only now that you could begin to see the stark difference between your pervious life and this new one; thodd old Palaces where everything was political, and this new straightforward one where "life is too short to play games with".

It was becoming clearer to you, which one your favored.

Dean wore goggles that had a flashlight; even then, he could only see about three feet out. The water was winded and harsh, every branch was slippery and the droplets seemed to be slapping his face. He was chilled to his bones despite the windshield he had donned over his night clothes that was only a pair of track pants and a black undershirt. The Druid he was traveling with was named Elder Yew, who was the personification of a Yew tree deep in the forest somewhere.

He pointed towards the right, and Dean couldn't make out any tree there; he had been blindly swinging, and only barely balancing when he did reach the other side. This was the hardest climb he'd ever made.

He set his jaw, and jumped with the rope. He went sailing across to the other end, noticing the other tree's thick bark in time to prevent his nose from flattening into his face. He hugged the tree so that his wobbly feet won't betray him.

A second later, the Elder came hurtling towards him and Dean's muted grunt went unheard in the stormy night as he stablised the other, shorter man.

This went on for a long while. Dean had been checking his watch, but it wasn't waterproof so it died quick. He couldn't tell where the sun or moon were in the sky. He didn't know how much time he was passing away from you, when this very well could end in failure.

But I have to try.

Upon the mark of forty-five minutes, they finally reached the tree where the treehouse with the storage should've been.

'Where is it?!' bellowed Dean over the raging winds. It was pointless to speak, no one would be able to hear anything over the howls of the rattling breezes, he only spoke out of habit.

The Yew was inspecting the river next to the tree they stood on; his better eyes had already spotted the broken branch the treehouse used to be on. His hand rose and a shaky finger signaled to the broken house that was merrily streaming away with the river flow, and heading for a waterfall where everything would be lost.

Dean's curses could've awed a pirate.

The sight of the river was slightly better since there weren't any leaves to obstruct anything. It was mostly open with the sky unleashing cats and dogs. Currently, the treehouse was stuck against some uneven ground, progressing very slowly towards the abrupt downstream.

Dean climbed down from the tree, the Yew followed. The water reached his thighs, and the Yew's chest. He unraveled a rope and slung it around the tall, sturdy tree, tying fast knots to make an anchor. He fastened the other end around his own lean waist. Without a word, he shouldered the Yew who yelped and clung to his muscular frame.

Then, Dean dived into the tumultous and overflowing water that had broken across the banks and was infiltrating the forest, killing the smaller shrubs and rippling with boundless superiority.

Elder Yew touched a magical spell on Dean's flashlight so it managed to glow underwater. They both held their breaths so that Dean could swim better, away from the perturbed surfaces, and in the compatitively calmer underwater. There were vortexes in the water that pulled at Dean's skin, his body ached while he tried to fight them. He could see how many things were being ripped away into the water, being smashed against the stones, and being thrown off the cliff.

He surfaced thrice for air, and to relocate the fallen house. He dodged many floating and viscious branches that could plummel his sinews and muscles, but some snagged him anyway.

At long last, he touched upon the treehouse. The friction it recieved from the banks was the only thing keeping it from cruising downwards where it would shatter into a million fragments. But as the water level rose, the house became that much more threatened.

'Go, go, go!' he yelled at the Yew who scrambled atop Dean and used the man as a handhold to stand on the house which had fallen sideways, so he was really standing on the front wall of the house.

The Yew blasted the wall and jumped inside after taking a deep breath.

Dean pulled himself up with a strain and panting, and fell on the housewall. His eyes strayed to the edge of the water, there was only ten feet between him and his doom now.

That reality motivated him to crawl to the entrance the Druid had created. His light shone inside the wrecked house where half the things had drowned. The Elder Yew was swimming frantically, diving occasionaly, and Dean could spot that he now carried a bounty bag.

Dean's mind diverted when he heard a loud clash of water. His body tensed and his eyes searched the horizon, the place where all the water was coming from.

With no small amount of horror, he saw a ten foot wave of flood was headed their way.

'HURRY!' he screamed at the top of his lungs.

The Elder Yew dived once again, surfacing with a bunch of flowers in one hand and the other hand with the bag.

Dean jumped in and grasped the desk of the treehouse. He pushed the table out the hole, then manhandled the Yew out, and lastly pulled himself up. He placed the Yew on the upside down table, and the smaller man clung to one of the wooden legs, eyes widened with fear, trained on the mounting water five feet away.

Four feet, three feet, two feet . . .

Dean adjusted himself on it as well before he threw the wooden surface into water, hoping that would surf up to the surface in somewhile, or it would at least sheild them both from harmful stray objects in the water.

There was a moment where they both were submerged completely.

Dean had bent his body around the Elder Yew to protect the little man and the ingridients. His goggles helped him pull with the rope; it dug into his palms, taut with strain. Dean's strength was tested and he let a loud agonised scream under the water as he pulled them all closer to the surface.

At some point, one of the table legs broke behind Dean's back and gifted him with a long deep scar, making him yell in pain, and making him swallow seemingly gallons of water as a result. He would have lost the grip on his rope, which would have soon snapped under pressure, had it not been for the Elder's magic.

Something about the wooden table shifted and it grew to curl around them, a faint green glow soothed Dean; they were pulled back and forth by the current for the long minute like the wagging tail of a dog, as the rope stretched and it's strands came undone

His head breached the surface; it was also when the vindictive waters smashed them into the nearest tree on the banks. Their makeshift surfboard broke but at least it had been buoyant enough to tailspin them into the nearest tree; Dean hardly had time to sling one arm around the tree's bark and other to cling to the Yew who almost got captured by the mean-spirited water.

Dean gritted his teeth, his body stretched to its limit as he bought the Yew in front of him who gratefully climbed the tree they were at.

Dean didn't even realise he had been coughing until all the water sprayed out from his burning lungs, he retched weakly, his sore arms clutching the bark, his cheek rubbing harshly to leave behind rashes. While he heaved, he climbed a few steps upwards, his limbs felt like jelly but at least then the water beating down on him painfully, reduced. His glance to the side told him that they were at the second-last tree from the ledge of the waterfall that would have killed them in the thousand foot drop.

He contemplated letting go, and just falling - which would be so easy - as the water beat down on his thighs mercilessly. But it occured to him that his job wasn't done - he needed to get the Yew back safely - he used the last of his energy to climb the tree he was at, too exhausted to feel even relief.

The Elder Yew temporarily healed his injury back on-site itself so at least he wasn't bleeding while he swung back in the pitch black; he gave Dean a single leave of the Flower to chew on: he had felt like someone had shoved acid down his gullet, but he chewed it until his wound healed and then he was ordered to spit it out. Or well, since he hadn't been able to hear what the Yew said, the Old Tree Man had to retrieve his used leave from his mouth; it had made Dean grimace in disgust. The Yew himself had gotten a branch to his kidney, but he simply waved a hand, and the wound hardened into a tree scar.

The Yew explained to him when the winds swirled down a little into vague calmness (the storm was dissipating very gradually): the Yew only had powers of a tree, which meant healing and floating, he shared why a human's presence had been necessary for the trip when Dean demanded why the man just didn't go by himself if he had all those cool powers. He'd needed the human for tree-climbing, and someone who'd be willing to keep going when the Yew got scared.

Dean's wound began to unseal again as they approached the Bunker; it was every bit as painful as the first time, only more prolonged.

'What the hell!' he moaned, his hands coming away with blood when he touched his back.

'Oh, yes,' the Yew said, contemplative, on the first step of the Bunker. 'That happens. The Flower shouldn't be swallowed raw, but without it you aren't cured.'

'How are you going to heal the others?' he demanded, his voice ruined and scratchy. Too rough for it to be okay.

'We'll make a potion,' the Yew said. 'Get bandaged, you will get it in an hour,' he confirmed. But the Yew paused, making Dean bump into his back. He turned and smiled a secretive smile on his face, 'Congratulations though,' he said. 'You did the impossible.'

He grew bashful at that. 'It's fine,' he downplayed. 'Just get the damn cure ready.'

The Yew shook his head. 'Only a resilient soulmate could do that.'

Dean watched him walk off, his mouth agape. How the hell were people figuring that out? Where were the fucking signs?

Dean had got his wound checked and changed into something that wasn't wet; the shirt he found was three sizes too large, and his pants too.

'You look like crap,' greeted Lana when he stepped into your room.

'What the hell are you still doing here?' he arched a brow at her.

She shrugged. 'Had nowhere else to be.'

He frowned at her; she made it hard to be mad at her. Slate was asleep in the armchair in the corner of the room while she sat next to your bed.

Your s/c was much too pale from your usual colour, and you were breathing shallowly. His eyes strayed to the clock on the nightstand: the green numbers told him it was seven in the morning.

It doesn't seem like she'd survive the morning.

'She passed out,' Lana said. 'I don't think she realises it; drifting in and out of conversation.'

He didn't know what to do with that.

'She wanted to be awake for you,' Lana added, getting up from the three-legged stool. She walked around your bed towards Slate and picked him up with ease. She moved to the door, facing Dean one last time.

'Just FYI,' she said. 'She was staring at the door like a kicked puppy the whole time and her heartbeat hasn't been normal once.'

His mouth parted to be a wisecrack but somehow his mouth didn't take his command right; 'Thanks,' he surprised himself.

'You saved my brother and I,' she said. 'We're even,' she smirked with an edge to her that most adults never carry. 'You better pick us at my room in a few hours. It would suck to show up at your Palace for my new job by myself.'

'Does your father know?' Dean asked. He wasn't about to take home a child like that and commit a crime.

She got a guarded look about her. 'I'm sixteen, I've decided my career, he can't interfere.'

'What about your brother?' he scowled.

'Leaders have to protect all citizens who show up at their Palace,' she invoked. 'Just consider us runaways.'

He wasn't convinced.

'Lady Y/N agreed,' the child said, challenging Dean to contradict you.

He sighed, too tired to be thinking with clarity. 'Okay,' he said, giving in. He'd debate it with you later; right now, he was just taking a win: you both were alive at the same time: a huge victory.

'Awesome!' the kid cheered, leaving the room to both of you.

Dean paced without really thinking about it. He glared at the clock in a predatory way, as if he wanted to kill Time itself, and that would save you.

According to the nurse, who came to jack up your herbs which were keeping oxygen in your body, the herbs lost their affect over a short period of time as the human body built a higher tolerance to it, an immunity—after a certain amount of dosage, it would stop working on you altogether. And the nurse said that the dose she injected you with a half an hour ago would be your last; and it would work for an hour.

He'd already flagged three Druids in the last thirty minutes; it was eight forty-five now; your literal deadline was nine-fifteen; Dean's skin was crawling and his heart was in overdrive. He had too much adrenaline to rest.

You'd woken once during his unrelenting pacing but you had been too weak to open your mouth. You'd smiled faintly, and raised your hand for him to hold, staring at him for a while before you lost consciousness again.

He hadn't been able to keep holding your hand after that; it was too firgid, it scared him.

He was about to storm out and hold another Druid by the collar on the nine o'clock mark when the door pushed in. Elder Yew came with a saline stand and a bag filled with the revolting kale-green liquid. He also had a goblet in his other hand, half-filled with the same.

'About time,' Dean gritted out. 'What took you so long?!'

But inside, the clenching in his chest was easing a great deal. It was like he was getting his lungs back.

The Yew needled you with a smile, unbothered by Dean's anger. 'She'll be just fine in a few hours, Mr Winchester.'

'I'd hope so,' he mumbled, retaking his seat at your side, his hands finding yours unconsciously. He wished for their sake that you got cured; otherwise he was already (unhealthily) imagining the ways he'd take down this place.

'There,' the Yew said, pleased with his work. 'Now your turn.'

Dean drank his potion sans complain but it did taste like feet; yet, it was better than the raw flower he ate.

He gasped when the drink worked immediately. Outside of rain, he could actually feel his injury disappearing this time. Soon, he could feel that his bandages were pressed against nothing but a scarless skin. His other smaller scratches and cuts also vanished.

'Orally, this drink works best,' Yew explained. When Dean's glance went to your I.V., he added, 'In Ms L/N's case, we didn't want to risk it not going down her foodpipe. But do consider her out of danger.'

Dean could only nod, his mind reeling. His shoulders relaxed, and he felt like melting into the ground out of sheer tiredness; there wasn't a worry to keep him up now.

'Thank you,' he addressed the man. The last few hours have been hell for him; he's just happy it's over.

'You can sleep, Mr Winchester,' he said kindly. 'You've achieved a feat beyond our beliefs.'

He didn't have the power to be away from you, so the armchair was out and he couldn't sleep on the stool. He made space on your bed and curled around your body instead, very aware of your right hand where your medicine was entering your system. He didn't need much preamble to soon be snoring.

That's the first thing you heard when you woke up. Your body was still a touch too warm but you attributed that to the man clinging to you like a koala bear to its bamboo; the clarity of your mind astounded you, you were reminded of how much you depended on your body and without its support, how weak you had truly grown. You took in a celebretory lungful of air, your smile fluttering into place.

All thanks to Dean, said a voice.

His head was on your chest, his straight hair prickling your chin slightly. His left hand and leg were thrown over you, caging you in; your left hand was numb from being still under him for too long.

You raised your other hand with the needle and carressed the side of his face, 'Dean?'

His mouth closed for a moment, swallowing; but he turned his face away from your hand and buried it deeper into the crook of your neck. His nose brushed your neck and his beard tickled your shoulder. He was like your own personal heater; your cold sweat was gone, and now your were sweating for real.

'Dean?' you tried again. 'Darling, wake up,' you said, blushing a little because you'd never used that word before today but you just thought it might be about time.

He was your . . . you didn't even know.

A swell of emotion tided in your chest. Whoever he was to you, he set out like that for you; everytime you thought of it, more gratefulness surged in you, and you simply didn't know what to do with all that new and spare emotion.

'No,' he whined, running away from your fondling again, making you guffaw. He could be too delightful sometimes.

'Okay, can I just take my hand out then?' you offered.

He gave you wiggle room to bring it out; you also used the opportunity to roll to your side: your healed right side - you could feel not a dredge of pain any more, your saline was almost empty. The clock told you it was ten in the morning, you don't remember when you'd slept. You also don't know where the Sanderson siblings went or when Dean came in.

Dean's hold on you tightened, as if you were prohibited from going away from him. You saw the appeal of being pressed upto your man like that all over again, your bodies curving to one another so perfectly; maybe you didn't need those pillows Dean detested after all; he could be your one giant body-pillow.

You aligned your hand to his that was curled around your torso. He let his face nuzzle into your hair again, seemingly unaware that you'd woken up at all.

You couldn't explain the undisrupted happiness in your chest on feeling him alive and well. Since when did you care so freaking much about another human's well-being?

You've cared, but this was a new level.

'I was so scared when you were gone,' you murmured.

'I'll have the coffee later,' he replied indistinctly. 'Five more minutes.'

You had a feeling he wouldn't remember this when he woke up next; it made you take the chance you did.

'I believe,' you hesitated, 'this is a new thing I'm feeling,' you nervously conveyed. 'But I find no other explaination to it,' you admitted. 'Perhaps, I'm falling for you.'

There was silence and you wondered if he'd heard you. But then he snored, and you sighed in relief.

'I'll tell you again one day,' you promised.

A/N: They're progressing . . . 🙃. What'd you think of the (fl)angst 👀?

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