“Let me guess,” he said, “you’re the one that’s been leaving all those bottles of honey around.”
Loyal glanced around as if they thought he might be talking to someone else.
“Uh—”
They swallowed.
“Yes? It was good honey. I got it from a bee hive near a clover field.”
“Right.”
“Your honey is made from dandelion pollen,” they said, pointing towards the bee house.
“That would be because of the dandelions I planted,” he said, tone of voice deadpan though one eyebrow lifted slightly.
“Mmhm.” Loyal nodded. “Did you try the honey? It’s good. I collected it myself.”
“Okay, that’s great and all, but I don’t even know who you are! There’s just some crazy person, leaving honey and sticks around my house!”
As he spoke, his voice rose in volume, hands moving with the words.
Part of them was scared, heart racing in their chest. He was large, imposing, and heavily armed. The other part of them was amused, mouth twitching as they tried not smile. He wasn’t anything like the stories they had heard.
“Berries.”
He stopped.
“—heh?”
“It wasn’t sticks, it was berries,” they said.
“Right, right. I wouldn’t want to forget the BERRIES that you left on my PORCH!”
Loyal shrank back, a weird, nervous laugh bubbling up. The pigman looked down at them, the nostrils of his snout-like nose flaring.
“I’m sorry,” they said. “I thought—”
The annoyance faded from his face.
“No, it’s fine. It’s fine. It was berries and you didn’t steal anything.” A pause. “Did you?”
They shook their head vigorously.
“No! I didn’t take anything.”
“So you’re just a weirdo that sneaks around people’s houses and leaves honey.”
There was a low buzzing as Loyal considered his assessment of them.
Prompt: Man Accidentally Ends Business Call With "I Love You" (x)
Fandom: Good Omens
Worlds: 799
The Arrangement was established in AD 1020. Even before that, Crowley and his angelic counterpart had been on vaguely friendly terms, but hadn't really had any need to contact each other with any regularity.
Once the Arrangement was in place, the pair settled on meeting for drinks every century or so (to keep up with favors owed, and the like). This quickly evolved into meeting for frequently for drinks and gossip, then for dinner and existential discussions, then walks through the park and the sort of mundane details that occupied the majority of any long-term relationship.
As their meeting frequency and purpose evolved, so too did their communication methods, both to arrange physical meetings and to pass on tidbits of gossip about new purchases (Aziraphale), new inventions (Crowley), and new acquaintances (both). They mailed letters back and forth, then sent telegrams, then started exchanging phone calls. Aziraphale hadn't quite worked up to texting or email yet (which suited Crowley fine, as he was mostly bluffing when he said he knew what "emoticons" were), but Crowley had eventually pressed a mobile on him for ease of frequent contact.
There were quirks to their communication. Aziraphale always signed his letters with whatever human pseudonym he was using at the time. Crowley's always held mention of something he would tell or bring the angel the next time he saw him. Aziraphale always abbreviated Crowley's name in written communication with a C ("It saves space, my dear!"). And Crowley...well Crowley had a silent addendum on every conversation since 1793.
It was a perfectly ordinary day in June, about six years after the Business They Didn't Talk About Out Of Fear Their Superiors Might Remember To Punish Them. Aziraphale had called to schedule tea at the Ritz (as if they didn't already have a regular schedule). Crowley had hemmed and hawed about his availability, but ultimately agreed to the suggested date (as they both knew he would). Crowley ended the phone call the same way he had every letter, telegraph, and phone call for the last two centuries. A snarky send-off and an I love you, angel. It was only after he hung up that he realized he'd actually said it out loud this time.
This cued ten minutes of hyperventilating while he stared at his mobile waiting for Aziraphale to realize what he'd said and call back, followed by forty-five minutes of failing to convince himself that Aziraphale hadn't even heard him and two hours of drinking himself into an eleven-hour coma. He checked his messages when he woke up; Aziraphale hadn't called. Crowley got drunk again.
Fourteen hours later, as he miracled away the most blessedly awful hangover known to man, Crowley admitted that Aziraphale wasn't going to call him and ask about it. He mournfully contemplated the empty bottles (which obligingly refilled themselves), but decided that was probably a terrible idea.
Two days later, he and Aziraphale met at the Ritz, the same way they had every week for six years. Aziraphale greeted him warmly and proceeded to talk about a first edition of Children's and Household Tales that was coming up for auction later in the month. Crowley tentatively responded to each point his counterpart brought up, but Aziraphale didn't mention his uncharacteristic hesitance.
The topic of the Grimm brothers lasted through a plate of smoked salmon sandwiches, two trays of scones, and three glasses of champagne apiece while Crowley waited for the other conversational shoe to drop. A third tray of scones with clotted cream later, and the pair gathered themselves to leave.
"Would you care to take a turn through St James'?" asked Aziraphale as he straightened his jacket over a tartan vest.
Crowley, who had had enough of slinking his way over eggshells for the day, thank you very much, demurred with "I don't think so, angel. Not today."
"Ah, well," Aziraphale looked slightly disappointed at that, but not enough for Crowley to change his mind. "Perhaps another day."
"Perhaps so," Crowley echoed. They were outside the Ritz on the pavement by now and Crowley was about to set off in the opposite direction from Aziraphale in order to make his way back to his Mayfair flat. "I'll see you later, angel."
"Of course. I love you, my dear," Aziraphale said in parting as he turned away towards the bookshop.
Crowley missed a step or three, but by the time he had turned back, Aziraphale was a block away, strolling blithely back to his bookshop. Crowley stared after him for a good minute and a half, long enough for Aziraphale to disappear around a corner and then some, before turning towards Mayfair again and slowly walking away.
If Crowley had a distinct bounce to his step the rest of the way home, no one mentioned it.
unrivaled in its complex form gathers in the quiet sky.
Unspoken power and still, silent strength,
An unspent energy grows and builds
Below as above in tense, worried hearts, in
restless animals clambering into laps,
disrupting that last rush of frantic typing before you have to shut off the computer, because the dog has chewed up the (mercifully unplugged) surge protector.
The beast is blameless.
It feels all the oppressive, terrible power of the approaching Juggernaut,
without the sanctuary of reason to remind it:
This is normal, this is natural, this happened last Tuesday.
Even plants seem charged with anticipation, standing
Up on end like electrified hairs,
Stretching forward to drench parched cells
Beyond sustenance,
Beyond satisfaction,
Beyond debauchery.
A distant rumble shakes the skyscape,
The marching footsteps
Of an endless sea of soldiers,
Relentless,
Ever nearer,
Until that last silent rush, and the inevitable crash.
War erupts across the sky,
Cosmic energy lances across the battlefield,
Cannons boom
To jolt the heart and soul
Of even the most placid, rational mind.
The weapon of the gods slips its lead, charging out in blind madness.
Here, a mighty oak, venerable, splinters into charred nothing.
There, the data of a life's ambition
Blinks.
Out of existence.
Yet this same destructive conflict pours life
into the very roots and tunnels of the world.
Existence can turn lethal in an instant.
The balance is a wisp of cloud
Between fire and water.
Life and Death entwine above
In an endless, sacred, violent dance.
But never mind that background stuff.
Her wedding is ruined,
His X-box is fried,
My power is out,
And the dog will not shut up.
hey so i guess there’s a nano website? i just created a profile there if you want to add me, feel free: https://nanowrimo.org/participants/loyalcrowlist
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: The Untamed/CQL/MDZS
Rating: General
Relationships: Xiao Xingchen & reader, platonic
Additional Tags: Mild Hurt/Comfort, Comfort, like mostly comfort okay, but there's definitely parts where you're gonna squint at me, I'm Sorry, this is mostly an exercise in 'xiao xingchen's heart is too big for his gotdamn chest', and the fact i think he'd be a great shoulder to cry on, Hugs, what is dialogue, what is correct characterization, we certainly don't know here, i finished this at exactly 3:34 a.m., Platonic Relationships, Reader-Insert, Gender-Neutral Pronouns, for the reader i mean
Summary: “It is. If someone is hurting, what else can I do but try to ease that?” he asks, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.
A platonic reader insert fic because Xiao Xingchen is a good and kind person.
*disclaimer: it's me, ya hug gremlin back at it again because i got inspired by the sheer amount of kindness present in a lot of the characters from the untamed. it's very comforting and well, i like that so here you go. i tried my best.
also because i was slightly emboldened about this, here is the part of my ‘god please i just want to be held’ fic i’m most proud of:
You nod and pull away even though it pains you to do so but you can’t risk exposing yourself further. You return with a cloth and wipe the blood away from his face.
“I’m sorry to make you do this so often,” he says.
I don’t mind.
“Despite everything, you have a very kind heart.”
You stop with your hand pressed against his cheek. You want to tell him that it’s because he makes it easy for you to be kind; when you look at him, you want to kind and gentle, the same way that he is. Without thinking, you almost brush your thumb over his lip. Because when you look at him, you also want to kiss him.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: Bungo Stray Dogs
Rating: General
Relationships: Akutagawa Ryuunosuke & reader, platonic
Additional Tags: Hugs, Fluff and Angst, Platonic Relationships, so i know all my fics are an exercise in self indulgence but uh, this one really takes the cake, for when you just really need to hug an eyebrowless gremlin, as in character as possible, dazai atsushi and higuchi make slight appearances, and i ripoff canon because i'm tired and writing is hard, is hair stroking too affectionate? - is a question i asked while writing this
Series: Part 12 of Comfort Hugs
Summary: Set sometime after the Guild events, the reader is an ability user who has begun working for the detective agency and has a run-in with Akutagawa.
*disclaimer: this one i hesitated on posting for two reasons. one, i needed more reason for the characters to interact and it started to feel like a longer fic instead of a one shot (i even had more ideas for after this) and two, this one felt even more personal because things have been very rough for me. despite everything he's done, i didn't think i'd feel better until i wrote this for Akutagawa.
