| She/her | Call me Lis | GenX | I'm Gfawkes for stucky | llflorence for spideypool and dreamling and dead boy detectives and good omens | Header by Murkycrush
RatedE, Reluctant Lumberjack Wade, verse boys, no powers, Spideypool
Created for @marveltrumpshate 2025 by Llflorence/Gfawkes
Wade sets it on the table, then pauses. He pulls something else from his wallet: a business card with a chainsaw-created bear statue pictured on the front. Peter just balances his plates, and stares at it.
"Hey," Wade whispers, leaning in so customers around them can't hear. "Logan doesn't mean to make people uncomfortable. He just has no filter."
Peter finally smiles into those amazing eyes. He can't think of anything to say.
"Me, on the other hand," Wade hisses. He places the card atop the cash, touches Peter's elbow, and winks. "You can take me or leave me. Here's my number if you decide to take me."
Killing everyone in the universe to make a new one is exactly what god did with Noah, and then he made the rainbow and promised he'd NEVER DO IT AGAIN.
Round 2 Match 62: Elizabeth Harlander (Frankenstein 2025) vs Dream of the Endless (The Sandman)
Elizabeth Harlander (costumes by Kate Hawley)
N/A
Dream of the Endless (costumes by Sarah Arthur)
You see Dream's wardrobe change across centuries, from period costumes to modern designer-inspired looks to full-on fantasy pieces when he's outside the human realm, and yet all of it has a cohesion that reflects his personal style and personality.
It's been an absolutely lovely morning. The sea breeze is rich with jasmine, warm and friendly as it tickles his bare legs beneath his pajama bottoms. The terns and gulls cry overhead, showing interest in the perfectly light and flaky pastries arranged around the plate of thick, creamy pudding. He smiles and shakes his head; there will be no interruptions to this piece of heaven he's found for himself. That they've found for themselves.
Hand curled around a large mug of hot cocoa, Aziraphale takes in a deep breath. It rained the evening previous, and the soil in the raised beds around the sprawling garden smells renewed, fresh. The ocean has calmed down extensively since the moderate squall that blew up just after midnight. He can hear it caressing the shore, flowing over the pristine sands, then pulling back, like a sigh. Like a happily contented sigh.
Aziraphale copies the noise. A paperback book lies before him on the tablecloth, bookmarked at the end of a chapter. A cliffhanger. He'd finally been able to force himself to stop, instead of relentlessly turning pages, eager to discover if the buxom young woman does indeed lose her skirt, ripped beyond saving, trapped in the door of the dashingly handsome Captain's quarters, while the vessel tossed and turned on killer waves. It's a ridiculous premise, but he finds it scintillating. No one needs to know he enjoys trashy Harlequin novels. It's a guilty pleasure he is not ashamed of.
No one but his beloved, of course.
In fact, it was the Demon who 'got him hooked,' so to speak. He'd complained that the library in the quaint South Downs cottage needed variety. Thus, he'd brought in several boxes of dime-store erotica on one particular visit to the town peculiarly named 'Crawley,' about an hour's drive away. Naturally, Aziraphale's hour in Bentley was quite a bit different from that of a person with a red-headed complexion. It's something he's secretly enamored by.
Aziraphale thinks he hears him now, whistling, puttering around with his spades and trowels and fiddly little syringes that have the capability of planting the most infinitesimal of seeds. He doesn't dare suggest there are faster, easier ways of doing such things; to do so would offend someone very dear to him. And with all this glorious beauty enveloping him, not to mention the fruits and vegetables and herbs that grace their table, Aziraphale wouldn't dream of putting a toe out of line.
He loves their home. He loves his Demon.
Without opening his eyes, Aziraphale imagines what Crowley looks like this morning. He's most likely in his gray nightshirt, scandalously naked underneath, wearing black gloves and his ever-present motorcar glasses. There will be dirt on his chin and in his hair, both knobbly knees coated as well. He'll be mumbling words of encouragement to the petunias, since they've been rather shy this season, while eyeing the flowering cactus shrewdly.
"It's all your fault they're frightened," he'd snarl. Then he'd put the fear of - someone on them with that golden glare.
Or, perhaps Crowley will be out surfing, awake early and roaring to 'catch a few waves.' He's wholly mad about it, especially after a storm. And while Aziraphale is more interested in the creatures washed ashore, set on returning them to the water before the horrid winged predators take them (unfairly), he will admit that the Demon looks incredible in his tightly fitting wet suit.
(He thinks he understands why it's called a 'wet suit.' Lord have mercy!)
Aziraphale takes a sip of his cocoa, still with eyes shut, and savors the liquid as it warms his throat. As he lifts the mug for another one, though, the hairs on the back of his neck rise suddenly. Not enough to raise an alarm, but enough to ruin the peace and quiet. While he's always been able to sense love, he's also been just as talented at recognizing the opposite emotion.
He turns his head towards the water and opens his eyes, immediately frowning at the sight. The calming water beyond the rolling dunes is churning once again. The horizon looms dark and threatening. The birds have disappeared. The wind tips over the chair by his side. And a dark figure appears atop an incoming wave.
On every side of this person, the sea swells, rising higher and higher until Aziraphale is sure it is taller than the house. It continues to build and build while the surfer nears. By the time he's certain the tidal wave will crush the house and wash everything away, red eyes turn on him.
"Aziraphale," says an angry voice, terrifyingly familiar. The surfer floats continually on a single frozen wave, towering over him.
"Aziraphale," the voice repeats, and it's very much like the naughty cactus would hear. "You idiot. We could have been an US!"
This isn't right. Crowley would never speak to Aziraphale like this. They're together, and have been for several years. They've furnished their home together, chosen paint and curtains, and the color of the stone for the walkway from the road. They haven't argued in forever.
Aziraphale stands, accidentally knocking the unfinished cocoa into the tray of desserts. He's feeling angry, now, too. His perfect morning has been ruined, all because this imposter for his Crowley seems to think they haven't promised to die for each other.
"Now, listen here -"
The False Crowley raises his hands, arms spread wide in the air, and the ocean runs blood red, like lava. Flames lick at the surfboard, at the vegetation on shore. The ground begins to tremble. A plant falls off a windowsill somewhere inside the cottage. Then the water hardens into rock, changing colors from bright red to burgundy to charred black. Aziraphale stares in horror as the siding on the house begins to pop and sizzle, paint bubbling and cracking.
"You've destroyed everything," False Crowley declares, laughing cruelly as Aziraphale cowers. "Everything we could have had together. It's all your fault."
This infuriates Aziraphale. Light sparks at his fingertips, his cheeks glow hot. He balls his hands into fists and opens his mouth to shout back.
"That's not true!"
This is when Aziraphale falls out of his bed and lands on a white marbled floor, directly on his tailbone. It hurts.
"Ouch!"
His environment has changed. He's surrounded by sterile walls, plain furniture, polished chrome and glass and white, white, white everywhere.
Oh.
It was only a dream. Aziraphale is still in heaven, still Supreme Archangel, still alone and miserable. He lies on his back on the cold floor and clenches his jaw against the pain, blinking groggily and feeling ten different kinds of wrong.
There's that old familiar feeling of being not quite solid, like an apparition, or a spirit. His thoughts buzz around unkempt and unmoored, and as he reaches to understand them, they flit away like butterflies from flower to flower. He cannot feel his fingers or toes, and his eyelids are heavy as stones. Even his tongue is thick and uncoordinated.
Aziraphale thinks he's felt like this before and had figured out why, but he can't be sure.
He looks around the room, knowing it must be his at least. There, on the back of the chair, rests his overcoat. The shoes that fit too tightly and hurt his feet and are tucked neatly beneath. His walking stick rests against the door, the fedora hanging from a hook. It's all very neat and orderly, and dreadfully plain. He must be safe here. Mustn't he?
A little voice that sounds a lot like a certain record store owner says, 'That's when they beat you! When you let your guard down. You have to stand up for yourself!"
This doesn't make any sense.
Confused, Aziraphale attempts to push to a seated position, but the room doesn't cooperate. Every time he tries, the floor becomes the ceiling and the walls wobble dangerously. Also, some kind of weight holds him down - or up, he can't determine which. It's frustrating and wholly exhausting.
Aziraphale closes his eyes again and breathes deeply. His lungs expand and shrink orderly. He listens for his heart and nearly panics until he remembers: Angel. No need.
Keeping his eyes shut, he feels for the bed, then rolls up and into it. He uses the frame to support his weight, and he manages to fall back without spinning out of control.
He rests. Unbidden worries flood his mind. About why he's unable to move, unable to think. Why he feels out of sorts, out of body. And why he's so -
Stupid.
Stupid as tortured, tongue-tied Crowley had called him when Aziraphale chose heaven over earth? Stupid for thinking a Demon, tossed out of the Heavenly Host for asking questions, could rule at his side? Stupid for missing his friend, feeling guilty and responsible for their argument?
But, no. He is very intelligent indeed. Something must be wrong in his brain. Some kind of interference.
That's when Aziraphale remembers the hot cocoa. It had been delivered too hot, so he'd set it to rest at the side of his desk while he continued working on something. He'd forgotten about it like he always did, and when he'd returned to it, it had gone cold.
Not to be deterred, he'd drunk it anyway, and he remembers thinking it tasted odd. Too sugary or too chocolatey, or maybe the milk was off? He couldn't put a finger on it, and a headache had begun, a stabbing behind his eye. So he'd given focusing up. And that was when -
No. It couldn't be. Could it? Had heaven conspired to keep him here in this room, signing bogus orders and dummy contracts, taking his meals in and only speaking when he was visited by Metatron? Had he been made an artificial leader, pumped full of falsehoods and hypocrisy, and made harmless by sleeping pills?
Lost Jesus? Missing Book of Life? If they throw in a slim jim, I wrote something like this.
Temptations and Technicalities (Rated E)
“How long has it been missing?”
Feet shifted and thumbs twiddled and nobody seemed ready to answer. Finally, after a tortured silence, Michael sighed heavily and leaned into their circle and whispered. “Around six thousand years. Give or take.”
“From the beginning!?” Aziraphale roared. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “You sent me down there,” he pointed at the suspended rotating model of the Earth, “knowing full well the Book of Life has been missing for six thousand years!?”
