Stand Tall, Young Man

24, wants to be power lifting champ.

[neilpeartprotectionsquad]

Rush + dril tweets

[benaya-trash]

@q-unsolved this is all ur fault. i hope u r happy.

[rybroskeez]

be still my heart

[ramhaus]

wow

[creatrixanimi]

I!! Love TAZ Amnesty!!!!!! I never want it to end!

[aprilcider]

when you realize that you’re no longer 14 and invincible like 30 seconds too late

[artlyloser]

I meant to post this earlier Anyway I miss the moth

[thiswasinevitableid]

For the college AUs 7 for Danbry or 61 for Indruck? (I’m super excited for any of these btw. You are definitely part of the reason I started shipping Sternclay jsyk ❤️)

Always makes me smile when I learn I write something well enough that I’m part of why someone starts shipping it  <3

I’m doing #61 first, #7 will come next. I’m putting a minor CW for bullying on this one, since some people on the confession page are dicks about Indrids appearance.

Prompt: our school has a student-run confessional fb page/insta/etc. account where people can anonymously submit things related to the campus and some of these posts are 100% about me???

Indrid should probably sleep. But he can’t. He’s been having weird nightmares. So instead he’s laying in the dark, refreshing things on his phone, like the “campus confessions” page.

There’s a guy in one my folklore classes who looks like a moth, y’know red eyes, looks like he’s bumped into one too many windows. Total weirdo.

Well, that hardly seems fair. But he supposes it’s vague that the other person won’t know they’re being insulted.

Dude who smiles too wide?

Maybe ;)

What’s with him? He’s always in like ten layers, never talks about anything normal. Should wash his hair too.

Indrid’s stomach drops. He touches his glasses (red lensed), pulls his sweatshirt tighter (he’s always cold), looks at his hair with a frown. Given he’s in one of the few folklore classes on campus, he’s sure they’re talking about him.

There’s a new comment. He may as well look, it can’t get much worse.

Hey y’all, this page is for talking about crushes or weird shit you pulled, not making fun of some fella who ain’t done anything to you.

He sets his phone down, rolls over onto his side.

At least someone doesn’t hate him.

------------------------------------------

He keeps his hood up, doesn’t make eye contact, doesn’t even look up as the other students come into the classroom. He doesn’t want to make anyone uncomfortable, really, he doesn’t. He thought he was being friendly.

There’s a plunk of a backpack next to him.

“Mornin, Indrid.”

He breaks his promise not to look at anyone. Because in the seat beside him is Duck Newton AKA the hottest guy in the whole school (according to Indrid). Indrid wants to look at him all day, would do even more than look if he thought Duck would like it.

“Good morning, Duck.” He starts to smile, snatches the gesture back before it becomes weird.

“You, uh, you okay? You look a little under the weather.”

“I didn’t sleep well.” He murmurs.

“That’s rough, buddy.” He peers at what Indrid is drawing.

“Wow, that’s real good. More cyrptids?”

“Yes, the hodag and the flathead lake monster. And thank you.”

They settle into silence as the lecture starts, although Indrid swears he catches Duck glancing his way more than usual.

----------------------------------------

It’s nearly midnight as he flips over to the “campus confessions” page. Reads over them, only half paying attention, until:

I got a crush on a guy in one of my classes. The “wanna see what’s behind those red glasses and get my hands into that white hair” kinda crush.

Funny, once again this sounds like someone’s describing him.

He writes it off as an anomaly. But then, the next night:

My folklore class is the only one I like because the cute guy I sit by makes it easy not to be bored. Plus he’s always drawing cool shit. I’m this close to offering him my jacket the next time he starts shivering.

Okay, maybe there is someone in that class who has a crush on him. Still, he’s not about to get his hopes up.

-------------------------------------

“Hey, stranger, this seat taken?”

Indrid looks up from his notes to see Duck leaning on the chair across from him, smiling. He wants to say something clever, instead shakes his head. Duck drops his backpack on the floor, puts his coffee down on the table between them.

“Midterms?” Indrid indicates the large stack of books Duck removes from his bag.

“Yeah, got two back to back tomorrow.”

“Oh dear.”

“Eh, ain’t the end of the world.” He sniffs the air, “what’re you drinkin’, smells good?”

“Eggnog Latte.”

“In October?”

“It’s never the wrong time for eggnog. And whoever makes the menu for the coffeehouse seems to agree.”

“Fair enough.” Duck grins at him, turns his attention to his notes. Indrid does the same, but he can never focus on one thing for long, keeps making comments or asking questions and he’s afraid Duck will get fed up with him and leave.

Instead, Duck matches him question for question, and ends up going on a twenty minute tangent about trees that Indrid finds captivating. When they eventually have to leave (Indrid to attempt to sleep and Duck to barricade himself in the 24-hour study room), Duck puts a hand on his shoulder.

“Hey, this was real nice. We oughta do it again.”

Indrid smiles, nods, “I’d like that, so very much.”

--------------------------------------------------

The compliments that are almost certainly about him continue, frequent enough that he starts taking time to make sure he looks nice before each class (which means he actually tries to brush his hair or put on clothes that are flattering). He and Duck have more study sessions, and he can sometimes bring himself to believe that Duck looks at him like he wants him during those meetings.

Of course, it can’t last.

Think my crush might be on to me, he’s been dressing extra nice, even got a glimpse of his moth tattoo the other day.

Indrid glances at the rosy maple moth on his arm with a smirk. His smile falters as soon as he sees the comment below the post

Dude, I know who you’re talking about and if you’re looking for a pity fuck there are way better options.

He doesn’t wait to see other responses, instead drags the covers over his head and falls into an unhappy sleep.

The next morning when Duck sits down beside him in class, all he can manage is a weak smile in his direction. He doesn’t really feel like talking.

That night, there’s another post.

If the guy in my folklore class likes me back, he should meet me on the red bench outside the coffehouse at six tomorrow night.

Which is how Indrid finds himself sitting on a bench as it gets dark and the wind picks up, hoping beyond hope that this was a genuine offer and not some kind of prank.

“Hey, stranger.”

He jumps, turns to see Duck standing there with a coffee cup in each hand. Oh no, if he sits down, the other person may decide not to come and Indrid will never know who his-

“Glad you got the message.” Duck gives him a crooked grin, sits down and hands him a cup that smells like an eggnog latte.

“I, you, wait, you’re my admirer?”

Duck snickers.

“Here I thought I was beein’ obvious, especially with the wantin’ to spend more time ‘studyin’’ with you.”

Indrid’s heart leaps up, then lands with a splat as he remembers one of the posts.

“No, no, this is some kind of pity thing, you, you must feel sorry for me-”

Duck sets his coffee down, reaches for Indrids hands.

“Contrary to what some assholes on that confession page think, pity ain’t got nothin’ to do with it. I did post the first compliment because it seemed like you mighta seen the mean ones and I wanted to balance it out. But I’ve had a crush on you since week three of classes, and I was pretty sure you liked me back. Kept hopin’ you ask me out.”

“I didn’t think you’d want me that way, you’re so handsome and I’m so..not”

Indrid blushes, notes the matching color creeping up Ducks cheeks.

“You think I’m handsome?” He says softly.

“Why wouldn’t I?” Indrid blinks, confused. Duck gestures to himself, mainly at his stomach and face

“You are soft and solid looking, which I like. and I enjoy your blue hair. I, on the other hand, am angular and skinny.”

“Which I like.” Duck wraps an arm around Indrids shoulder, pulling them against each other, “not to mention the best part of my week is the days I see you, cause I like talkin’ with you and you make me happy.”

Indrid’s not sure where the surge of bravery comes from, but he leans forward and kisses Duck, who makes a surprised “mphh!” before smiling into the kiss. It’s fumbly on account of his glasses and the odd angle he’s sitting at, but he can’t bring himself to care.

“Was that alright, I’m sorry I should have oh!” Duck grabs him and pulls him back for another kiss with enough force that he nearly ends up in his lap. From the way he’s hungrily mapping the shape of Indrids mouth with his own, Indrid guesses he’s not the only one who fantasized about this moment. He’s eternally grateful everyone else is sensibly holed up indoors when Ducks mouth drops to the crook of his neck, the shorter man yanking his scarf aside to kiss the sensitive skin there. Because Indrid gasps, follows it with a moan and fists his hands into Ducks jacket, which makes Duck growl against him in response. He looks up, cheek still pressed against Indrids shoulder, panting and smiling.

“Better than I imagined.”

“Me t-too.”

“Are your teeth chatterin’?”

“Y-yes, c-cold.”

“Can’t have that” Duck nuzzles his neck, “you wanna take this somewhere warm?”

“Please.”

“Your place or mine?”

“Whichever’s c-closer.”

“Mine it is. Come on, darlin’,” He stands, offering Indrid his hand. Indrid interlaces their fingers as he joins him and then they hurry off, together, into the night.

[chasespero]

thasmin in every episode.

[veralorraine]

“We’re friends.”

[daftpatience]

i love him…

[meru90]

cute lil airhead 🌱

[cromcruvh]

Binged watch Aggretsuko, and I’m in love with dis lil guy

[believeripley13]

Crowley loves Aziraphale so much it hurts my heart.

Smitten:

Little favours to make him happy:

Casually suggests running away together (more than once):

Devastation at losing him:

Aziraphale is his whole world:

Bonus:

And that’s not even talking about the fact he invented the use of “Angel” as a term of endearment.

[bearfeathers]

Ineffable Husbands: Crowley swears those ducks are plotting to ruin their picnic.

A little known fact: heaven was responsible for the creation of ducks, but hell was responsible for their personalities. Typically Crowley found this good for a laugh, but right this moment he can’t help but feel the threat of karma crawling up his spine.

Crowley is on a picnic. More specifically, he is on a picnic with Aziraphale in St. James Park. Crowley has finally smoothed out the blanket (a ridiculous tartan pattern, because what else would it be) to his satisfaction after ten minutes of fussing and the angel’s insistence that, really, it needn’t be perfect.

Anything less than perfect just won’t do for Crowley though. Not for this. Not for this tentative New Thing between them that is essentially the same as their Old Thing but is still markedly more involved. Neither of them had really said… anything specific. In their typical fashion they skirted around what they both wished to say without actually managing to say it and still somehow leaving the conversation with an understanding that things would be Different now.

He supposes things change on principle when one averts the apocalypse.

“Are you certain you’re alright?” Aziraphale asks, squeezing the handle of the picnic basket between both his hands. Crowley thinks if he squeezes any harder it’ll splinter. “You know, you didn’t have to agree to a picnic just because I suggested it.”

“I didn’t,” Crowley says as he plops down on the blanket.

He did.

But he’d agree to nearly anything Aziraphale suggests if it means an excuse to be near the angel. Not that a picnic is such a terrible thing, in theory. It’s just that he hasn’t been able to shake the feeling of being followed. Watched. Hunted?

“Do the ducks usually wander this far into the park?” Crowley wonders aloud, suddenly noticing just how many seem to be waddling around them.

“Well they’re hardly confined to the pond,” Aziraphale says, retrieving the bottle of wine and two glasses he’d packed in the basket. “I suspect they’re free to go wherever they choose.”

“…nnnnnnyeah,” Crowley agrees reluctantly.

Maybe they are free to go where they like, but in his opinion that’s even less reason to trust the little buggers. He narrows his eyes as the angel hands him a glass of wine, listening to the soft quacks growing in number and volume as Aziraphale retrieves a packet of crackers. There’s a predatory glint in all those soulless, beady little eyes, he swears.

“You’re quite certain that nothing is bothering you?” Aziraphale asks, threatening to turn the pack of crackers to breadcrumbs with his anxious hands. 

“Would you stop your fretting?” Crowley replies, sipping from his glass. “If I didn’t want to be here, I wouldn’t be.”

“I suppose that’s true,” Aziraphale muses. He fiddles with the package, taking his time opening it. “I’m projecting, aren’t I?”

“Projecting?” Crowley echoes curiously.

“Well, I mean, assuming you’re as anxious as I am by… er… all of this,” Aziraphale admits.

A light flush rises on his cheeks and Crowley catches his meaning. All of this. This thing between them that they’ve acknowledged but managed to neither define nor speak of in any explicit terms. Feathery threat forgotten for the moment, he leans in just enough to bump shoulders with the angel.

“Aziraphale. Relax,” Crowley says. “It’s just us. Just like always, yeah?”

If anything that only serves the fluster Aziraphale further, who is now wrinkling the pack of crackers in earnest.

“Of course,” he answers, clearing his throat. “Thank you. For being patient with me. For always being patient with me.”

Crowley rolls his eyes. “Shut up.”

That earns him a soft laugh and he feels some of the nervous tension leave the air. It’s easy to play cool when the angel can’t tell that his heart is beating fit to burst out his chest. 

“It’s funny,” Aziraphale says, slowly opening the package in his hands.

“What’s funny?”

“You’d think what with me being an angel it would be easier to say—”

Crowley has no idea what it is the angel was going to say, because the package of crackers has been opened. Normally this wouldn’t be something you would blink twice at. But in this case, the sound has the same effect as chum dropped in shark infested waters. Over the sound of loud quacking and flapping wings, Crowley can still hear Aziraphale’s high pitched shriek as the ducks descend upon them.

He knew the little bastards were up to something. But his vindication is short lived as he finds himself swinging their picnic basket in an attempt to disperse the ducks. There’s an offended gasp from someone nearby as he punts one of the feathery bêtes noires back to the watery pit it came from, but Crowley’s never been one to care about the opinions of the great unwashed and he’s not about to start now.

At last, admitting to himself that he’s fighting a losing battle, the demon grabs his companion by the arm and hauls him off, the ridiculous tartan patterned blanket trailing behind them like a flag of surrender. They don’t stop until they’ve reached the Bentley, hurriedly locking themselves inside. The two huff and puff inside the car, from either the run or a newfound case of anatidaephobia. Or both.

(It’s possible that Crowley jumps, just a little, when one of the little blighters lands on the hood of the Bentley. Aziraphale may or may not scream when it seemingly combusts of its own accord in an explosion of feathers. Neither party will admit to these.)

“What was it that was supposed to be easy for you to say?” Crowley asks, once he’s got enough of his breath back to speak.

“I…”

Aziraphale stares back at him, hazel eyes wide as he catches his breath. There’s wine soaked into his clothes, he’s covered in cracker crumbs and there are duck feathers stuck on his jacket and in his curly hair. 

He looks ridiculous.

But he looks beautiful, too.

“I love you,” he blurts breathlessly.

Yes, he’s ridiculous. But beautiful, too.

[luftballons99]

i had to turn it into a meme so as to not make myself sad

[jkthy]

“I lost my best friend.” “So sorry to hear it.”