Pining - Tumblr Posts
Punk Harry Series Part One
How You Meet:
You sighed as you payed another 20$ to fill up the rest of your car’s tank.
Being a makeup artist wasn't easy, sure you were talented and you had very many clientele. You were well known, and successful and you loved that. You had everything you had ever dreamed of.
You just hadn't planned on spending all your money on bills, gas, food, and makeup.
The bills, gas, and food you had expected. That was what it was like living on your own.
But being a makeup artist meant you had to have the right shade for all your clients. So basically when you found a new foundation you liked, you had to purchase every finish in every shade they had. It was the same with everything, concealer, powder, blush, bronzer, eyebrow kits, and even nude lipsticks. And that cost you a lot of money.
You just got hired by Modest! Management and they had already assigned you to be the head makeup artist for their next touring band, The Giants. You had to go to meet the band and then match their skin to the types of makeup you had. You also had to find out whether they would need a dewy finish or a matte finish. It will most likely be matte even if they have dry skin because the lights. You wouldn't want to be the reason that they shined like a spotlight on stage thanks to your dewy finish foundation.
You finally made it to their hotel in New York City and walked in. You smiled at the receptionist and she smiled back as you got in the elevator.
When you got up to their floor and found their room you were surprised to find a tall, curly haired, tattooed, pierced man standing in front of it.
"Um hi." You said as you walked up to him. Surely they weren't that popular. Right?
"Name?" He said slowly in a British accent that made you smile.
"Y/N Y/L/N, I'm their makeup artist." You said and he smiled.
"Oh right hi, I'm Harry Styles, head of security. I'm sure we'll be seeing a lot of each other for the next 8 months." He laughed and you smiled.
"Right." You said and he just continued to smiled at you. You were waiting for him to open the door. You had to get back home to feed your bird and your cat. "Um, may I?" You asked, trying to remind him.
"What?" He asked before you gestured to the door and he smiled shaking his head. "Oh, right sorry. Got a little distracted." He said and you nodded. Walking into the room, pulling your giant suitcase with you.
He's going to be a real pain in your ass that's for sure.
Word Count: 467
Punk Harry Series Part Two
Read Part One before this!
He Admits He Likes You To Someone Else(his POV):
"Believe it or not, but you've been staring for, 20 minutes now and you actually haven't blinked once." Vince, my fellow body guard said. "I uh, I don't, I don't want to miss anything. You know, it only takes a second for someone to pull a trigger. Could happen any minute yanno?" I said trying to play it off that I wasn't just starring hard core. "Don't lie to me, you've been watching her like a hawk. Why don't you just ask her out? I mean, Y/N's really cool, and I think you guys would do well together." He said and I laughed. "Yeah, right after she stopped hating me. She can't stand me. She literally tenses every time I walk into a room. And I don't like her, that wouldn't be appropriate. We're coworkers, we couldn't. Even if I did like her, which I don't, it wouldn't work." I said and he smiled. "Okay, so why don't you just convince yourself of that before trying to convince me yeah? Also just talk to her? There, problem solved." He joked and I laughed. "Yeah no, I don't think it's my personality she hates. More like the piercings and tattoos." I said and he laughed. "Have you ever looked at her face up close? Or seen the back of her neck? She had her nose pierced and like her whole ear pierced. And she has a watercolor tattoo of a tree on the back of her neck. She'd be a bit of a hypocrite if she didn't like you for your looks." He said and I frowned. "Then why is she so hostile towards me?" I questioned. "Well, I may or may not have overheard her talking with the stylists. I guess she just had a pretty bad break up with her last boyfriend like, two weeks ago. He didn't like the fact that she would be leaving for the tour and he wanted her to quit. But she told him no, because her career is more important. Guess he didn't like that, so he fucked another girl in her bed. And I guess he had looks similar to yours." He said and I nodded, taking it all in. "What a dick. She put her career before him so he cheats on her, in her own bed?" I asked and he nodded. "Guess he told her roommate that she was going to help him rearrange her room as a going away present and he told her to tell him when she came home so he would know. Roommate never even suspected it." He said and I nodded. "So, she's just reminded of him every time she sees me?" I asked and he nodded. "Looks like I'm going to have to change that." I smiled and he nodded. "So, from what I'm hearing, you do like her?" He asked and I laughed. "Wow, what gave it away?"
Word Count: 496
Punk Harry Series Part 3
Part 1, Part 2
Punk Harry: He Asks You Out "So, bananas or tomatoes, which is more fruit like?" You asked as you picked at the end edge of the playing card. "Banana is more fruit like, I mean, come on. They're a monkey’s favorite thing to eat and monkeys don't eat veggies. So, conclusion, it must be a fruit." Harry stated as he tossed the hacky sack into the air again. He was laying upside down, his head hanging off the sofa in the hotel room we were cooped up in. The band was asleep and we were assigned watch duty. So here we were chilling in the large living room, doing literally nothing. "My turn, so square balloons, freak of nature or brilliant invention?" He asked and I smiled, looked over at him, then focused back on my card. "Brilliant. Best thing I have ever seen. And the triangle ones. Those are cool. I would kill to get some of those on my birthday." You said laughing and he smiled. "Let's get a little personal now." You suggested sitting up and turning to him. He smirked and sat up straight as well. "You're on. Bring me your worst." He challenged and you laughed. "Would you rather do all the work, or let her ride you like a pony?" You asked and he laughed. "Yee haw." He whispered and you burst out laughing. "Really?" You asking in between your laughs. "Well, I'd much rather her on top. I mean, this way, she'll enjoy herself too. I won't have to worry if it's good for her and me, because let's face it, it doesn't matter which position, it's good for me. But when she's in charge, it's going to be good for her because, well she's controlling it. It's all about the give and take Y/N." He said and you laughed. "Okay, threesomes, gross or hot?" He asked and you smirked. "Lava." You said and he sucked in a breath. "I mean, with another girl though. Not another guy. That typically means anal and like, no. No thank you. I'd much rather get eaten out by a girl who knows what she's doing then get my anus torn apart by a guy who has no clue what the proper way to handle anal is. Two girls, one guy. That's my kind of threesome." You said and he nodded, completely dosed into space. "You're picturing it aren't you?" You asked and he nodded. He was just staring at you when suddenly he leaned right over and planted his lips right on yours. You say there, eyes wide open for a good ten seconds before you pushed him away harshly. "No, no, no, not again. No." You just kept repeating the word "no" as you quickly stood back up and walked out.
Word Count: 467
(Ok this pic has nothing to do with the outcome of this part I just thought it was funny as fuck and super fucking cute so..)
Punk Harry Series Part 12
Part 11
Masterlist
Make Up Harry's POV "So how are you and Y/N?" Lacey's asked wiggling her eyebrows. I wasn't planning on doing anything just staying in my motel and working out all day. But she called and asked me to lunch so here I am, sitting on the deck portion of some cafe in Los Angeles eating some weird salad and talking about my maybe ex-girlfriend. "We're um, we're on the rocks right now." I said, not wanting to really get into it. When I talk about Y/N I get all emotional. And don't get me wrong I'm not afraid to cry in front of a anyone but, I'm head of security for Lacey's band. If I break down and cry in front of her, I could make it look like I can't keep them all safe. "What? Why? You two are perfect together!" She exclaimed sitting forward. "I'd really rather not get into it." I said, smiling to her even though I'd like to crawl into a corner and die. "No, not acceptable, tell me what happened." She demanded and I sighed. "Fine but when I start explaining don't interrupt me, I know what I did was wrong but I’m too nervous and stubborn to admit it.” I said and she sat back and nodded. "About a week ago, I took Y/N to a concert and then after we went for dinner. It wasn't anything fancy just The 1975 and burgers and shakes after. But, Lacey I swear everywhere we went I caught guys and even some girls checking her out. I got jealous quickly. Yeah, I know, she loves me, not them, I'm aware. But, like hell I was thinking like that when I saw some prick go for a feel. I grabbed his hand and yanked him away, but did Y/N see that? No. After that I kind of started to answer for her, kind of hide her away. I tucked her into me, had an arm on her at all times, and when someone asked her something I didn't even give her the chance to answer. She got angry, I called her a whore basically, and then she got out of the car and I left her in the street. I know it was bad, but I was angry then, I wasn't thinking." I said and she nodded. "Are thinking of apologizing to her?" She asked and I nodded. "Yeah, I've just been too nervous to actually do it. I mentioned cheating Lace. Y/N's ex cheated on her, it's her biggest fear, her deepest scar and I just tore the scab off. I reopened that wound and it makes me scared she might not take me back now." I said and she nodded. "Well, why don't you ask her." She said and I looked at her questioningly. It wasn't like she was here or- I slowly turned around to find Y/N, standing on the other side of the fence, she has clearly heard everything. I slowly stood up and walked over to her. "You know that when I commit to something, I don't go back. What is making you think otherwise?" She asked taking my cheeks in her hands and pulling me closer. "Look at you Y/N. You're the most beautiful girl I've ever seen. When I was growing up with all these tattoos and piercings, a girl like you looked at me one time, it was only because I standing in her way. Girls like you didn't acknowledge my existence in high school or even after. And now, here I am, tattoos and all, and there's this smoking hot girl who wants to be with me. That isn't something I'm used to. I guess, I thought that when you saw a guy was interested in you, you could easily see them as better than me." I confessed and she smiled. "I highly doubt anyone other than you could put up with all this for more than a week, and I highly doubt he would run out to get me tea at 2 am because I asked him nicely. Harry, I don't know about you, but if things keep going the way they're going, you sir, may just be it for me." She said and I smiled. "I think you may be it for me too." I said before leaning down and pressing my lips to hers. "One questions though?" I said, pulling away from Y/N. "How did you know she would be behind me?" I asked Lacey and she smiled. "Y/N called me to tell me you two had had a fight, and like, you guys are our tour mom and dad, you can't fight. So I may have taken it into my owns hands to invite you both to lunch, and get one of you to confess. Wasn't all that hard really." She said and I smiled before kissing Y/N again. "Well, I'm pretty glad you did." I said looking at her.
Word Count: 836
If a book has angst and pining I won’t care if they end up together in the last chapter. Like torture me idc
White Walls and Dead Air
They were dying. They were dying and there was nothing Aziraphale could do to stop it. He had his orders, and he couldn’t interfere. He was the protector of humanity, the Guardian of the Eastern Gate, and all he could do was watch as they dropped like flies. He was touching them, mostly. No one else would. No one else could. He was smoothing his bare hands over their fevered and blackened skin. They would wheeze and cough and stretch out for him as he walked away to the next body, pride crushed long ago by hours of agony, but it was somehow even harder to leave the thousands of people he had yet to reach than it was to walk away.
He thinks this must be what starving feels like. To call out for something so desperately with every fiber of your being, something to end the pain. He hasn’t stopped praying in days. Begging. He thinks he’s dying with them--he feels it in his chest, seeping into his lungs with every breath of the rancid air. Flies buzz over the bodies, like vultures, and rats hold back in the corners of rooms and alleys, and Aziraphale can’t interfere. He can’t.
He doesn’t understand. No one told him why and he doesn’t understand.
It’s after the fourth day that he decides he hates God. He’s too tired to hold it back. Too miserable. Too busy dying. He knows he’ll go back on it later. He knows that he’ll repent later, and he’ll mean it, he thinks, once he gains some perspective, but there is nothing that could stop this bone-deep agony from churning and rising into something ugly. He’s not supposed to feel this way. He’s an angel, he really shouldn’t be thinking these things. Blind obedience is what they were created for. It’s in this moment that he can admit to a flaw in the Almighty’s design. If she wanted soldiers, she shouldn’t have given them the capacity to love.
It’s on the seventh day, and isn’t that ironic, that his saving grace appears. Crowley. Through the haze of sick and death and flies, Crowley emerges--Aziraphale can do nothing but watch after his eyes catch on Crowley’s form, purposeful and sure--walks to him through the maze of bodies, takes his arm and tugs him away. “Crowley, stop, please, let me go,” he’s protesting, but it’s weak. He’s not even trying, just letting himself go. He’s the protector of humanity. The Guardian of the Eastern Gate. He could destroy Crowley if he wanted. As much as they bicker about who will win in the end they both know hell will lose. God doesn’t say much, not anymore, but She did say this. Hell will lose. Aziraphale was built for that inevitable battle. He could tear Crowley apart. He doesn’t. He doesn’t do anything. In the end, even his protests die out in favor of silence and he just lets himself be pulled.
A part of him, a part of him that he hates, is glad to leave. He wishes he continued to argue. Wishes he didn’t want to leave with Crowley. Wishes he was a better angel, or maybe a worse one, depending on your perspective. He’s never thought in terms of perspective before. He doesn’t think he likes it.
He doesn’t know how long they’ve been walking. It feels endless. Crowley is walking quickly, or he wants to, but every once in a while he’ll glance at Aziraphale and adjust his pace to the dragging of his feet. Aziraphale is so tired, and so, so full of hate. He’s starting to understand why Crowley sleeps so much. Is this what it’s like to be a demon? To be so full of bitterness?
It’s slow going. The streets are cramped and filthy, and weaving in and out takes time, despite the lack of people. They’re all inside. Hiding. Every once in a while they pass a cart stacked with bodies and Aziraphale doesn’t even have it in him to be horrified, doesn’t feel anything at all anymore. The sky is a beautiful blue, and there’s crying coming from an alley to their left, a woman, and Aziraphale isn’t going to check on her. He doesn’t even think he’s dying anymore. He thinks that maybe he’s finished, a wandering wraith, and Crowley has come to take him to hell for his sins. Except that heaven and hell are only for humans, and nothing is supposed to happen to angels and demons when they die. Maybe this is all he gets. This nothing. He wouldn’t be surprised if God didn’t want him anymore after this; if she just let him go, let him slip between the cracks.
It’s only after the streets have started to open up, only after the dirt turns to grass and things have stopped dying that Crowley lets them slow. He pulls Aziraphale up a grassy hill and sits him down under an apple tree. Aziraphale can’t help but laugh when he sees the apples. The laughter is rattling around his insides, bouncing off of his walls and coming out hollow, the way a voice sounds when it has nothing to echo off of. He’s changed his mind. This must be what a proper angel is supposed to feel like. He’s always hated the emptiness of heaven--the pristine white walls and the dead air--and he knows he’s never been quite right to think so, but now. Now look at him.
He’s still laughing the nothing laugh of an empty chapel and Crowley is looking at him like he’s the most terrifying thing he could have imagined, but the horrible irony of the Original Tempter taking him to an apple tree in this moment is cracking him open to reveal all of his cobwebs and there’s no stopping it. His wings burst out of the aether without his permission, powerful white sails that envelop his quaking corporation. His feathers are messy and dry, he didn’t think to groom them until it didn’t seem to matter anymore, and are so unkept that some feathers are starting to come loose in protest.
It’s like this, hunched over in sprawling laughter, that he feels the first touch. It’s tentative, shy, but undeniable. A hand on one of his primaries, straightening and smoothing it. His laughter dies at the touch, slowly sliding away to remind him of the exhaustion that’s been hounding him for days. His wings droop and open to reveal Crowley sitting parallel to Aziraphale, kneeling on the ground in front of him as if he would have waited patiently for Aziraphale to pull back the protective cover of his white feathers for centuries. His crimson hair is long, cascading down his back and over his shoulders in gentle waves, and his sharp features are softened by something flickering in his eyes, lending him a tenderness that Aziraphale hasn’t seen since Mesopotamia.
Crowley gets like this, sometimes. Lets his sharp edges fall away. Lets his defenses down for Aziraphale. He’s usually drunk. If he’s not drunk, he’s hurt. Or Aziraphale is. He’s… sweet like this. Peaceful. Aziraphale has caught him with children before, playing. The mothers would let him, smile at him, and slip children into his arms with ease and trust. It would make a throbbing pain go off in Aziraphale’s chest to see him like that and he’d have to look away. He’d then spend however long he could spare pretending he wasn’t stealing glances.
Crowley reaches forward, slowly, like Aziraphale is something wild that might run at the snap of a twig underfoot. His fingers are soft as he cards his them gently through Aziraphale’s hair, and his hands are warm, and there is something so knowing in this action that Aziraphale feels like he might shed his skin and slip into Crowley’s to get closer to it. He leans into the touch, a cat in the sun, and his eyes fall closed for a long moment before blinking open heavily. He doesn’t look up again--doesn’t need to when he has the touch to ground him in whatever this warmth is--instead his tired gaze stays on the grass and he lets himself feel: the rough texture of the thick blades beneath his fingers, the cool night air, so sweet after the miasmic haze of rot, Crowley’s hand on his cheek. Aziraphale lets his wings spread out around him, open and vulnerable and impossible to lift, he wonders how he ever managed to lift them at all, and he’s slumping forward into Crowley before he can stop himself.
Crowley moves forward to catch him with natural fluidity, like it’s easy, like he doesn’t even have to think, pushing up with his knees so that Aziraphale’s head is resting against his chest. Crowley’s arms wrap around him, one around his shoulders, another holding the back of his head carefully. Aziraphale wonders if anyone has ever been so very careful with him. He doesn’t know how long they stay there, but at some point he’s closed his eyes again and by the time he opens them the blue of the sky is streaked through with oranges and pinks and Crowley has wrapped his own sable wings around them both loosely in a protective shelter to block out the breeze, chilled by the sun’s impending disappearance over the horizon.
Aziraphale shifts against him, and when Crowley speaks Aziraphale can feel the soft rumble in his chest, “What can I do? What do you want from me?”
Aziraphale pulls himself up to press his eyes into Crowley’s neck, “Nothing.” There’s a long pause as neither of them move, “Stay.” His next word is a whisper, tentative and reaching, “Please.”
Crowley moves backwards, and for an awful second Aziraphale thinks he’s pulling back so that he can leave, but the catch in his breath is soothed by Crowley’s hand running down the length of his back, stopping to hold over the small of it, “Okay. Okay, angel. I’ll stay.”
Aziraphale lets out his breath in a gust of relief, and when Crowley continues to move he lets himself be maneuvered until he’s lying flat, cheek to the earth. He’s stretched out and pliant in the slightly damp grass and the soft sensations of the night are lulling the aching in his bones to a quiet hum. He thinks he should be surprised when he feels Crowley's fingers sink into his feathers but he’s really, really not. It makes sense that he’s there, that he saw the grime and the disorder to his feathers and he decided to make it right. He’s always been caring in a way Aziraphale has never managed. In an easy way, like giving these things to Aziraphale is nothing more than an extension of himself, like breathing.
Aziraphale can’t help but wonder what he did to deserve this from him. It feels like all he does is take from Crowley. He’s worried that there isn’t enough left of him to give after he’s exhausted so much of himself on heaven, on humanity, on all of the ways he’s tried to help and has come up wanting.
Crowley is working on his feathers properly now. He’s miracled up a damp cloth and is wiping each one clean of grime meticulously, pulling out any loose feathers and down he comes across along the way and dropping them into a forming pile at Aziraphale’s hip. It’s silent as he works. There are crickets, and frogs somewhere, but no one is crying, and no one is choking on their own life force, eyes wide and begging wordlessly for him to help. He’s so tired of helping. No. He’s not tired of helping. He’s tired of comforting. He knows he could stomach it all if he was helping, but he’s not, and he hasn’t in so very long, and what is even the point of him anymore?
Silent tears are slipping from his eyes and dripping into the grass and he’s shaking with grief and when did this happen? When did his emptiness start to feel like knives to his insides? Crowley makes a broken sound when he sees Aziraphale’s tears. Moves one of his steady hands to the center of his back and presses him down with it, just slightly, lending him comfort through the weight of it, tethering him. Crowley must decide this isn’t enough because he leans over his prone form and rests along his back, sliding the hand between his shoulder blades up to brush away the tears he can reach. Aziraphale can feel his breath on the back of his neck, cool and dry, and lets himself get lost in the sensation of the warm blanket of Crowley’s body. It’s sealing him up, whatever this is, patching his cracks and stoppering the holes that have been letting in water to drown him, and Aziraphale holds himself back from letting a low whine escape his throat before he can seem even more desperate than he already is.
After some time Crowley levers himself up again to continue, eventually tugging at Aziraphale’s shoulder, signaling for him to flip over and give him access to the underside of his wings. Aziraphale obeys ponderously, and it’s strange to feel the cold night air on his damp clothes, his skin still itching with indentations from the coarse grass. Crowley sets to work on the other side, and Aziraphale watches the pile of his discarded feathers grow.
His wings had been a constant discomfort, although he wasn’t aware of it, and having them groomed is akin to how he imagines Crowley feels after taking his hair down after a long day and shaking it out. Aziraphale hasn't seen this end-of-the-day routine often, but when he has the chance he always watches with fondness as Crowley runs his fingernails over his scalp and closes his eyes in pleasure at the freedom. It’s such a simple comfort. A loose relief.
Crowley touches his shoulder again, his fingers are cold now after being exposed to the chill of the air for so long, and Aziraphale rolls over onto his stomach, bringing his arms up to cushion his head. Crowley works the oil from the gland at the base of his wings, coating his palms, and sets to work on the second round.
He takes his time, laying each feather flat as he coats it with fresh oil. It’s another hour before he finishes, the sunset has brightened and faded, leaving new stars in its wake, but he never wavers. Crowley has taken care of him like this twice before, after both the flood and the crucifixion. Actually, they took care of each other after the flood: curled together in the corner of one of the few unoccupied roofs left to stand on. They were soaked by then, and it took a steady stream of miracles from them both to keep from being swept away by the current, but neither of them could leave. They didn’t discuss it, simply sat together in the perpetually rising rapids and listened. They took turns mourning, falling apart and putting each other back together as they watched the world die. It took days. The animals went first, then the humans. The last to go were the birds, but the two didn’t stick around to watch them drop from the sky in exhaustion. They didn’t mention it, would never mention it, would never let the horror of those days rise up from the secret places they buried them in.
The crucifixion was three days of agony. The Son of God gave up his spirit, taking his light, the light of the Almighty, with him into death, and for three long days and nights there was nothing but a devastation so complete the humans were left groping their way across the earth, helpless and lost. It pressed in and ate at them, a despair so profound children didn’t stop crying until the sun finally rose on that third day. Aziraphale was shaking with it, anguished and breaking apart. He was created to serve, to be in the presence of God, and her absence… he had never felt anything so horrible in all of his existence. Crowley held him through it, whispered to him, touched him, reminded him again and again, “I’m here, angel, I’ve got you. You’re not alone.” And he wasn’t. He clung to Crowley like a life raft in a storm, and for the first time comprehended what it would be like to fall. He couldn’t… he wouldn’t.
Never again.
By the time Crowley finishes Aziraphale hasn’t been able to focus on anything but his touch for a long while and his wings are sleek and perfectly ordered in the moonlight. When his touch finally leaves Aziraphale misses him, but he makes no sound, simply flips back onto his stomach and raises his wing in invitation. They’d done this before. Crowley knows what he is asking. Aziraphale is breathless with anticipation, with longing, with hope, his heart beating double time at his small offering.
Crowley doesn’t hesitate, but crawls forward and wedges himself against Aziraphale’s side. He’s freezing, Aziraphale feels horrible that he didn’t notice before and shifts so that he’s lying on his side. He should have known, should have realized. Demons run cold--so deep under the earth, so far from the light--and Crowley has nothing to replace that glow, nothing but skin and bones. He pulls Crowley closer against him and wraps him up in his warm arms. If nothing else he can provide Crowley with this comfort.
Crowley reaches out slowly in return. He attaches himself to Aziraphale in increments: first coiling his arm around Aziraphale’s side, keeping the other furled tightly between their chests, then sliding a leg between Aziraphale’s knees. Aziraphale hugs him tight. No one has ever been so very aware of him. Of his corners and cracks. Aziraphale tries not to think this way, tries not to think about Crowley at all when he can help it. About the reverent way Crowley treats him. The way he steals glances and touches. The way his eyelashes cast shadows on his sharp cheeks and he leans towards Aziraphale like a plant in the sun.
The more he thinks about it the more he aches with the loss of him, and if Aziraphale lets himself feel the way his insides tear to pieces whenever Crowley leaves without saying goodbye he’ll never stop. So he doesn’t, even though the warm glow of being close is stealing his breath away and setting off a minefield’s worth of explosions in his head, he doesn’t think about it. He screws his face up tight and pulls Crowley’s shivering body closer and lets his wings thrum with the memory of his touch and he does not think about it.
He just doesn’t know what goodness is supposed to look like if it isn’t white walls and dead air. He hates it, he hates it with everything in him, and he thinks it makes him horrible, but the reality of his twisted existence is that he doesn’t know if he could stand without the crutch of heaven’s vague orders. So he pulls Crowley closer and tucks his head under his chin, letting his lips hover over the crown of Crowley’s head, don’t touch, careful not to touch, and he doesn’t think about any of it.
Crowley will be gone in the morning. He always is. Aziraphale can’t bear to think about that either. He thinks that if he feels Crowley slip out of his arms he might give himself up to it with wild abandon. Drag him back down. Beg him to stay, stay next to him forever, they’ll never have to untangle their limbs and no one will ever have to go, but he can't. He can’t make himself. Not after all this time. Instead, he lets himself drift off to the soft whir of the tender warmth in his chest, and he pretends that tomorrow he’ll wake with the sunrise, and everything will sparkle in the new light, and it will all be okay. Like this, Crowley curled close to his chest under a blanket of constellations, letting himself believe is as easy as falling asleep.
Final chapter up!
The Ineffability of Time: A Bond Omens Story
Chapter 4: Just call me a Lumberjack is up! It's time to face those Feelings(™)...
“So, spill, Mr. James Bond, have you told that brilliant Q what you feel, or you hoping he’ll figure it out? ‘Cause, the brilliant ones never do, y’know. And he’s tooooo in his own head to tell you what he is feeling," Crowley told Bond.
MEANWHILE
“Oh gods, okay, yes, I want to climb that man like a Scots Pine,” Q told Aziraphale.
Words: 9,290 words | Chapters: 4/4 | Rating: Teen and Up
Relationships: James Bond/Q , Aziraphale/Crowley
A fun story that started in a rambling chat with @murphysscribe!
what if I played the Juliet to your Romeo, because there were no girls around? what if there was always something strange about kissing you as if it was nothing? what if on the last night, you pulled me into a broom closet and kissed me like it was the first time?
Focus
Tim stares across the room at the laughing blonde, breath stolen.
He can’t believe they’re here, they’re alive, they’re okay.
He steals another glance towards Stephanie, who tosses her hair over her shoulders, and swears he can feel the age old butterflies that have always come when he’s around Steph. It’s just the charm of a childhood love story.
She turns and flashes a smile at him, and Tim swears the world stopped moving.
Damian tells him the look on his face was disgustingly besotted, but that someone lowly like Brown and Drake would work out perfectly. Tim tells him to piss off.
Tim wants to walk over to her and feel her warmth, envelop himself into her arms, breathe in her scent. But he can’t.
After all, they did agree on the whole “just friends” ordeal. It’s what Stephanie wanted, and he’ll bow down to her wishes until she changes her mind.
Standing by the door, she nearly glowed, calling everyone’s attention onto her. How did she do it? How did she keep that sunny personality, become the light to the end of the tunnel?
Jason tells him to stop looking at her like she’s the one who hung the moon and sun up in the sky (she did though).
Tim also tells him to piss off.
Yet still, he can’t turn away. He watches as she turns to him, face flashing with that determination he loves so much. She advances towards him, so confident, so sure of herself.
“Screw this,” she says, looking at him. “Just friends are for losers."
Steph reaches out and pulls him close to her and Tim is complete.
Hello Wolfstar fandom!
Could anyone grace me with any Wolfstar fics where Remus or Sirius has a boyfriend and the other has to deal with it and wait?
It’s such a good plot, angsty af and I just know the smut would be great.
Let me know! :)
Wild Hearts by foolishlovers (E, 17/23, 108k)
In the idyllic English countryside, far from the hustle and bustle of the big city, two teachers at Willowbrook Hall set out to transform their students’ lives through the world of theatre. But for Mr. Crowley, the challenge of navigating his long hidden feelings and dear friendship with Mr. Fell may prove to be the greatest drama of all. [subscribe here]
And there was him, laughing. Lighting up the whole room as he always did. When he was near me I would always feel like my heart is finally at peace, so much like bathing in the sun on a warm mid-July afternoon as the breeze gently blows.
And then there was the smile. The smile he gave everyone on this planet, the smile that always reminds me I will never be someone who is more than this. But it was beautiful as always, brutally beautiful if I dare say. It really is.
“Hey” He greeted first.
“Hey…” Words slipped out of my mind as soon as I open my mouth. “I can see you did good job on concealing that bushy brows”. Shouldn’t have said that.
He raises his drawn thin eyebrows. “I didn’t think you’d recognize me right away. I thought I did pretty good job on this time’s theatrical make up.” I could see him blushing underneath the thick ghostly white face paint, his ears were basically on fire. I couldn’t help but basically chuckle secretly.
Of course I’d recognize you. You are always lingering inside me, you are always wandering around my mind. Even if I forget all the beautiful things that are left in the world, I would still remember your face, your eyes, your voice.
This pain, that is either longing or nostalgia will definitely never reach you.
I’m leaving tomorrow.
I’m so tired of loving you. You didn’t ask for this, all you wanted was to look down and all I wanted was to look up at the stars. The stars are so pretty out here, and I haven’t been staring long but they make me feel so small. You. You are the stars. You are so beautiful, so amazing and so vast. So deep and enchanting, but I know I can’t keep staring. I’m so tired of staring and you looking up. The sun will rise and I will no longer see you. I hope the sun rises soon.
Ugh me n who 😭😭😔😔😔
i want you carnally *shoves a knife into your abdomen*
“Jedidiah fell first, but Octavius fell harder.” ☆☆☆
I’m reposting this since I realized some of the line art was erased >_>
They make me want to believe in love LOLL
I made this really late at night as I was watching natm2 (Amelia has my heart). I’ve been wanting to draw them for awhile now (2 years…) and I’m really happy with how it turned out. Especially Octavius’ helmet.
The relationship between them actually makes me wanna hurl they’re so cute
all art is by yours truly,
these two make my brain hurt - - 💤
Harry Potter drabble.
Wolfstar pining.
Cross-posted on AO3
Remus Lupin sat in the Gryffindor common room, a book in his hands but his mind far away. He couldn't concentrate on the words on the page, his thoughts consumed by a certain messy-haired boy with twinkling eyes and a mischievous smile.
Sirius Black.
They had been friends since their first year at Hogwarts, but lately Remus had been feeling something more than friendship towards Sirius. He couldn't deny the way his heart raced whenever Sirius was near, or the way his stomach fluttered when Sirius flashed him a grin.
But Remus knew he couldn't act on his feelings. He was a werewolf, an outcast, and he didn't want to burden Sirius. After all, he and James and Peter had already done so much for him. asking for more would be selfish. So he kept his feelings hidden, buried deep inside where no one could see them.
"Hey, Moony," Sirius said, plopping down on the couch next to Remus. "What are you reading?"
Remus glanced down at the book in his hands, realizing he hadn't even turned a page since Sirius had sat down. "Oh, just some Defense Against the Dark Arts textbook," he mumbled.
Sirius raised an eyebrow. "You know, you don't have to pretend to be studying all the time. We're in our seventh year, Moony. Live a little."
Remus couldn't help but smile at Sirius's easygoing nature. He was always so carefree, so full of life. It was one of the things Remus loved most about him.
"Maybe you're right," Remus said, closing the book and setting it aside. "What do you suggest we do instead?"
Sirius grinned mischievously. "I have an idea. Follow me."
Remus followed Sirius out of the common room and down the winding corridors of Hogwarts, their footsteps echoing in the empty halls. They finally came to a stop in front of a tapestry depicting a group of dancing trolls.
"Watch this," Sirius said, pulling out his wand and tapping the tapestry. The trolls suddenly came to life, dancing and twirling around in a lively jig.
Remus couldn't help but laugh at the sight. Sirius always knew how to make him smile, even in the darkest of times, like after a particularly bad moon.
As the trolls continued their dance, Sirius turned to Remus with a twinkle in his eye. "You know, Moony, I've been meaning to tell you something."
Remus's heart skipped a beat. Was this it? Was Sirius finally going to confess his feelings?
"I... I think you're the best friend I've ever had," Sirius said, his voice soft and sincere. "I don't know what I would do without you, Moony."
Remus felt a pang of disappointment at Sirius's words, then immediately felt guilty. Sirius hadn't done anything wrong. He had hoped for something more, something deeper. But he pushed those feelings aside, plastering a smile on his face. It was selfish to want anything else.
"I feel the same way, Padfoot," Remus said, his voice steady despite the turmoil in his heart. "You're my best friend too."
Sirius grinned, pulling Remus into a tight hug. "I'm glad we're on the same page, Moony. Now, let's go cause some more mischief, shall we?"
And as they walked back to the Gryffindor common room, Remus couldn't help but feel grateful for the friendship he shared with Sirius. Maybe one day, he would find the courage to tell Sirius how he truly felt. But for now, he was content to bask in the warmth of their friendship, knowing that Sirius would always be by his side, no matter what.
Harry Potter drabble.
Wolfstar pining.
Cross-posted on AO3
Remus Lupin sat in the Gryffindor common room, a book in his hands but his mind far away. He couldn't concentrate on the words on the page, his thoughts consumed by a certain messy-haired boy with twinkling eyes and a mischievous smile.
Sirius Black.
They had been friends since their first year at Hogwarts, but lately Remus had been feeling something more than friendship towards Sirius. He couldn't deny the way his heart raced whenever Sirius was near, or the way his stomach fluttered when Sirius flashed him a grin.
But Remus knew he couldn't act on his feelings. He was a werewolf, an outcast, and he didn't want to burden Sirius. After all, he and James and Peter had already done so much for him. asking for more would be selfish. So he kept his feelings hidden, buried deep inside where no one could see them.
"Hey, Moony," Sirius said, plopping down on the couch next to Remus. "What are you reading?"
Remus glanced down at the book in his hands, realizing he hadn't even turned a page since Sirius had sat down. "Oh, just some Defense Against the Dark Arts textbook," he mumbled.
Sirius raised an eyebrow. "You know, you don't have to pretend to be studying all the time. We're in our seventh year, Moony. Live a little."
Remus couldn't help but smile at Sirius's easygoing nature. He was always so carefree, so full of life. It was one of the things Remus loved most about him.
"Maybe you're right," Remus said, closing the book and setting it aside. "What do you suggest we do instead?"
Sirius grinned mischievously. "I have an idea. Follow me."
Remus followed Sirius out of the common room and down the winding corridors of Hogwarts, their footsteps echoing in the empty halls. They finally came to a stop in front of a tapestry depicting a group of dancing trolls.
"Watch this," Sirius said, pulling out his wand and tapping the tapestry. The trolls suddenly came to life, dancing and twirling around in a lively jig.
Remus couldn't help but laugh at the sight. Sirius always knew how to make him smile, even in the darkest of times, like after a particularly bad moon.
As the trolls continued their dance, Sirius turned to Remus with a twinkle in his eye. "You know, Moony, I've been meaning to tell you something."
Remus's heart skipped a beat. Was this it? Was Sirius finally going to confess his feelings?
"I... I think you're the best friend I've ever had," Sirius said, his voice soft and sincere. "I don't know what I would do without you, Moony."
Remus felt a pang of disappointment at Sirius's words, then immediately felt guilty. Sirius hadn't done anything wrong. He had hoped for something more, something deeper. But he pushed those feelings aside, plastering a smile on his face. It was selfish to want anything else.
"I feel the same way, Padfoot," Remus said, his voice steady despite the turmoil in his heart. "You're my best friend too."
Sirius grinned, pulling Remus into a tight hug. "I'm glad we're on the same page, Moony. Now, let's go cause some more mischief, shall we?"
And as they walked back to the Gryffindor common room, Remus couldn't help but feel grateful for the friendship he shared with Sirius. Maybe one day, he would find the courage to tell Sirius how he truly felt. But for now, he was content to bask in the warmth of their friendship, knowing that Sirius would always be by his side, no matter what.