Aziraphale’s first indication that something was wrong was the loud thump of something—or someone—very heavy slamming onto the ancient floorboards. His second was the wince-inducing crash of porcelain shattering as it, too, hit the floor. And, lastly, his third was the hissed out obscenities that soon followed, no doubt coming from a very grumpy, and likely pained, snake.
“Crowley, dear?” Azirpahale asked towards the backroom, though he didn’t get up to check just yet. If Crowley was well enough to move on to cursing his way through every dead language they knew in history, he probably wasn’t in any real danger. “Everything all right?”
“I highly doubt that whatever you’re doing back there has anything to do with peaches.” Aziraphale set his book aside and primly took off his nifty reading glasses that were more for form than function. “You know I’d be awfully cross if it does and you didn’t share any.”
“No peachesss,” Crowley promised. The rasp of scales sliding furiously against the floors loud in the otherwise quiet shop. “If anything, I’d sssay ‘s more like a pretzel.”
Intrigued by that tiny admission, Aziraphale rose from his cushy armchair and mentally prepared himself for whatever Crowley could have possibly gotten himself into while he began the short walk into the backroom.
The sight that met him upon entry was not at all what he’d expected.
Crowley was in serpent form, sprawled out on the floor, littered remnants of an unfortunate mug of cold cocoa scattered around him, and absolutely tangled in the blanket Aziraphale had carefully laid over him while he had been dozing off in the sunbeams earlier. But, from the look of things, he had also managed to get a bit tangled up in himself too—if the giant mess of a knot in his middle, spine up in a rather nasty twist because of it, was anything to go by.
“Uh,” Crowley’s thin tongue poked out to lick his non-existent lips, strongly resisting the urge to hide his snout somewhere deep amongst his coils in embarrassment, “I can explain.”
“I’m sure you can,” Azirpahale desperately tried not to laugh for Crowley’s sake, “and I’d very much love to hear it, but how about I get you unraveled first? That can’t be very comfortable.”
“Oh, yeah, that’d be great.”
Gently, Aziraphale picked up the bundle of snake and went about inspecting the knot. Oh dear, Crowley had done quite a number on himself with this one, he tsked. It took him a couple minutes of poking and prodding for the knot to finally give way.
Inspecting his handiwork, Aziraphale stroked a hand down the smooth scales in a soothing manner. “There we are, good as new.”
“Thanksss,” Crowley slipped through the angel’s hands, collapsing onto the floor and back into his favorite human shape. But as soon as he materialized, he grabbed at his back with a grimace, leaning into the arms Aziraphale had brought up when his knees almost buckled under him. “Ow, that smarts.”
“Something wrong?”
“Think I pulled something in my back,” the demon explained with a wince before it turned into a disbelieving laugh, “didn’t know I could do that as a snake.”
“Neither did I,” Aziraphale chucked along with an undercurrent of concern, raising a hand to snap, “is it something I could help with?”
“Nah, don’t trouble yourself—I’m fine, really. Nothing a bit of sitting down for a while, stretching it out, and maybe having something to drink can’t fix.”
“Oh,” Azirpahale wiggled, though a more controlled wiggle as to not jostle the poor demon’s aching back too much, “I do believe I can help with that!” Together they hobbled their way over to the sofa so the demon could sit himself down, and then moved on to pour them some drinks from an ornate crystal decanter of Crowley’s favorite scotch. “Now then, I believe I was promised an explanation on how that happened?” He asked, offering a tumbler of amber colored liquor to a crooked sitting demon.
“Right.” Crowley accepted it, tongue flicking out to better catch the scent. Oooh this was the good stuff, leave it to Aziraphale to know him so well. “Let’s just say I couldn’t get comfortable, tied myself up in knots without something warm to wrap myself around in such a drafty old bookshop.”
“Well then,” Azirpahale smiled down into his glass, feeling brave, “perhaps I’ll just have to offer myself the next time you feel the need to cuddle something warm, shouldn’t I?”
Crowley sputtered into his drink, alcohol burning his nose, and tried to hold onto his cool attitude, even after the indignity of today’s events. “Sure, if you like.”
I've been wanting to try second-person POV, so here's this. (I feel like this is Mature, but put both just in case.)
Rated: Mature/Explicit | 1k | Teen Wolf
Relationship: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Characters: Chris Argent, Stiles Stilinski, Derek Hale
Tags: Second Person POV (Chris, Stiles, & Derek,) Major Character Death (Not Sterek,) Alternate Universe, Non-Graphic Violence, Injury, Dragon Stiles, Getting Together, Mature/Explicit Sexual Content, Top Stiles/Bottom Derek.
Summary: The one where a dragon takes care of a werewolf's Hunter problem and they get together.
Every decision — theirs and yours — has led to this. Your mother taking your father’s hand. Initiation and the knowledge of poison and steel. Days and nights spent on rooftops and underground chasing abominations.
And if the oaths were corrupted, silver tarnished and steadily dimmed by recklessness and cruelty, well, it was still bright enough beside the dark. The things that should not be. Your spine still strong enough twisting to look the other way.
You track your quarry through forest and over rocky inclines, a lucky shot to see through to the end. It is your purpose to rid the world of monsters and while you do not feel joy at the trail of heavy prints and splotches of blood there is a grim satisfaction.
You are skilled, you are tenacious, you are confidant. It will take quite some time to make it back to headquarters, but there will be proud looks when the report is made and proof offered. Some small trophy to be displayed with the others.
There is a deep slash in the hillside large enough for a man — a man-sized creature — to slip through. Drops of black near the entrance. Carefully you venture in, heart pounding as you pass through winding stone until light finds your eyes once more.
Slack-jawed, you step into the warm, amber-lit chamber and set down your bag. There is no sign of the Were or anything else, only piles of books surrounded by rich tapestries and flickering lanterns upon the walls. Thin layers of gold spread across the ground as if a puddle from a spring. You wander closer and reach to touch a bejeweled tome.
At a scraping from above you lift your head to see a great, metallic bronze head with spiraling black horns descend from the shadows on a sinuous neck. Nostrils flare and eyes of fire narrow meeting yours, dilated. A rumbled hissing grows and its maw of knives opens wide.
You feel a momentary chill as night fast approaches. Before you is the sun.
The Dragon
You were disturbed from your slumber by the sound of gasping and scuffing feet. The scent of fear and weariness, of blood and pain, from something born of earth and moon. A changing-wolf. One scrabbling at the fissure before staggering on. Sensing you or perhaps not willing to risk being trapped.
Interest piqued, you uncoil and rise from the bed of soft gold that soon forms wherever you rest in this shape. The only one you’ve lived in these past several years, your slender body the length of a cottage, long neck and tail with massive leathery wings of dark sienna. Yawning, you stretch and twist — popping your spine with satisfaction — and then move about your lair.
To seek out the stranger or not? It’s been a long time since you spoke to another. What if it only led to disappointment? Trouble. Refreshed the loneliness and grief.
But they were injured, needed help. You could try.
A different set of footsteps approaches quietly, the odor of old blood faintly clinging to stalking boots. Killing herbs. Once more there’s a pause, but no retreat. You quickly take to your hidden perch near the ceiling and wait.
The human — the Hunter — is amazed. Curious. Careless. Did he never read of dragons in one of his peoples’s little books? Hear stories around a childhood campfire? No matter. He came to the wrong place chasing the wolf, to the child of murdered “monsters.” Up close he reeks of destruction and emptiness and you end him where he stands with molten flame.
There’s no time to waste making your way to the larger opening on the other side of the mountain and then coming around to find the dying one. Concentrating, eyes shut and jaw clenched, you recall the trick and begin to shrink. To change. You stop at your in-between, man-shaped, but more.
You grab the Hunter’s bag and drape more delicate gliding wings around yourself, rushing into chill wind and bright of day.
The Wolf
For days you traversed the land weakened, grieving, and alone with death trailing after. At forest’s end you took the rightward path, which led you twisting high along the spine of the mountain. Foolishly (helplessly) you fell asleep and he caught up.
Wolfsbane bullets burning in your gut, you run until you cannot. Shifting back upright you stumble, searching for your final resting place. Somewhere you can see the sky, but the Hunter cannot reach. This is all you have left.
Your legs give out.
The chill spreads through your body and a young man smelling of coal and clay appears. As he approaches you can make out short dark horns and a whipping tail. His sand colored skin sparkles with tiny scales. Before kneeling his strange cloak flies backward. Wings. You only realize he isn’t a hallucination when clawed fingers dig into your belly.
You stop snarling when he removes the first bullet. After the second he breaks open more from a pouch, breathing upon the contents before slapping them over the wounds. You pass out screaming.
Waking atop a nest of tapestries is a pleasant surprise.
You exchange names with your stranger — a dragon — and he sets food and drink beside you. He offers you his home.
Days pass and strength returns, but you have no desire to leave. He is beautiful and clever, humorous and attentive. Post-broken and alone with fire in his eyes. You offer him yourself.
He crawls onto you, his body running even hotter than your own. Skin against skin, you kiss and caress, frotting and fondling each other. He uses his long tongue and your thick fingers to prepare you, producing a more viscous saliva. You moan when he spreads your legs wider, coating himself and easing inside. Together you move and breathe and cry out, spilling when he floods you with warmth in a rhythmic crescendo.
After, you rest with satisfaction under the blanket of his wings. Entwined.
“Nooo!” Detective Chief Inspector Greg Lestrade screamed then fled the room.
Greg ran down the stairs, shoving past other officers, nearly falling in his haste.
“Greg! Wait! It’s not…!” Sherlock Holmes bellowed above him.
~~
Seeing someone run into the building, but unsure, a constable was in the lead when she yelled for backup once she identified Wentz, the criminal they chased. Detective Inspector Sally Donovan was immediately behind her. They were three floors ahead of Sherlock Holmes who was a floor ahead of Greg and the others.
They chased the criminal to the top floor.
Greg heard a body hit the floor as Donovan screamed.
He heard when Sherlock came to a stop in the room.
“Sherlock, you can’t!” Donovan yelled.
“Oh, but I can...” Sherlock’s voice was dark and dangerous.
Being married to Sherlock’s brother, Mycroft, Greg was more attuned to it and felt when Sherlock pulled on his magic without shielding first.
Sherlock was one of only thirty known Master Casters globally. Meaning he was wielder of all known magics and likely some that should not be known. He was second best only to his brother. Like Mycroft and unlike most other Master Casters, Sherlock preferred to not use his magic unless necessary. Most on the Met were not aware of his abilities and he liked it that way.
That Sherlock used it now without thought and out in the open meant whatever it was – it was bad.
Greg reached the landing in time to see Sherlock shoot a glowing blast that blew out the window with Sally and Wentz along with it.
That is when Greg screamed and fled the room.
~~
In his mind’s eye Greg saw it in horrid replay as he thundered down the stairs.
The shock on Sally Donovan’s face when she saw Greg at the door. Her scream as she and Wentz suddenly flew backwards as though a cord yanked them out the window into a glow in the night.
He heard Sally screaming in her descent.
He heard when it suddenly cut off as noise from the ground joined in, then just as suddenly died down.
Greg mentally screamed as he ran.
It was a four-story drop; she could not have survived.
He saw her body on the pavement.
Her beautiful face bloodied.
Her spine twisted.
Her body laid out in a way no body should.
Sally Donovan had said more than once that one day they’d all be standing around a body on the ground and Sherlock Holmes would be the one who put it there.
No one really believed her, especially Greg, and goodness knows no one imagined that the body would be hers.
“Arrest Sherlock Holmes!” Greg screamed with what little breath he had left as he reached the ground floor at last.
“Did you see that? That was one hell of an arrest Donovan made. The woman is made of some strong stuff! Wentz was magicmummed and she was already reading him his rights when their feet touched ground and the bubble burst.” A uniformed officer was shaking his head speaking to another.
Greg looked past the officers to see Sally Donovan as she loaded Wentz into a police car.
Greg idly understood that meant the Wentz likely was also a caster and someone stronger than him had bound him so he could not use his magic.
“Somebody up there is a caster and sent them down in a bubble. Donovan claims she does not know who, but is thankful.” A different officer explained slowly.
Donovan saw Greg and immediately came to his side.
“Sherlock tried, but it all happened so fast!” Tears streamed down her face as she took his hands. “I’m so very sorry, Greg.”
Only then did it come together: The glow he saw. Sherlock had formed an air bubble and tossed the two into it. Donovan was never in harm. His mind went wild as it rapidly put it the pieces together.
Donovan was with the new constable. The new constable not with her now.
“Oh god no…NO!” Greg moaned as he finally understood.
“Whoa Greg, whoa! Don’t worry I’ve got you.” Donovan grabbed him when he collapsed against a wall.
Greg Lestrade counted to five then pushed himself from the wall and headed for the stairs.
Donovan ran before him and blocked him. “Greg don’t.”
“Get out of my way Donovan.” Greg growled and twisted past her.
“No, my love.” Greg startled when an apparition coalesced into the solid form of his husband before him.
“Mycroft. You’ve seen?” Greg accused.
“I have not. I felt your pain and knew. Sherlock has shielded his mind and Donovan’s, and thus the room from my innersight.” Mycroft shook his head. “I can break it, but I will not circumvent his efforts. The horror I feel from Donovan and my brother is…enough.”
Donovan gestured outside and Greg simply went numb as Mycroft pulled him into his arms. He knew it was Mycroft’s gift that he had no idea how much time passed until Sherlock appeared downstairs. A gurney floating by his magic followed. The gurney was attended by SOCO and the pathologist as they left the building. The officers that wore hats removed them respectfully for their fallen brother.
“I did not know Wentz was a caster until he attempted ~obliterate~.” Sherlock stopped before them. “I have gathered…all.”
Greg understood then why Sherlock did what he did. The shock of seeing Donovan fall is what stopped him from entering the room and seeing the fallen officer in pieces.
“Put that down.” No one stopped Greg as he walked to the now wheeled gurney.
He unzipped the bag to reveal the face within.
Greg beheld the face of the fallen constable.
The face that boldly followed him into the police force.
The face of his child from his first marriage.
The face of Constable Gwendolyn Annette Lestrade.
-----
Read on AO3
This little short for @flashfictionfridayofficial is based on a novel called "Two of a kind heart" by Nanci Griffith. It ponders an alternate story where Leota found out who her real father was.
"Mother please!" Kerry begged. "Don't be such a coward! You have to tell her!"
Julie shook her head firmly. "I will not Kerry!" She exclaimed. "It will kill your grandmother Leota and you know it!"
Kerry took a deep breath. She was getting worked up and she so hated behaving that way. But her mother clearly had her spine in a twist since she heard the news, completely unable to provide the support Kerry had hoped for.
"That's what Clair said too! And I refuse to believe it!" Kerry argued. "Leo deserves to know that Max was not her father!"
Julie's eyes went wide as Kerry uttered the words. "Shut it! Shut it! Your grandmother could be back here any..." the sound of a plate hitting the front porch and shattering proved that she was all too late. "Mum?"
Leota stormed in the door like a whirlwind. "Max is not my father! What is this foolery?!" Her face was red, tears threatening in her emerald eyes. "He was and is the only father I will ever have!" She has no idea why this is even a subject for conversation between her daughter and youngest granddaughter, but finds it offensive regardless.
Julie holds her youngest daughter tight. She can see her getting her knickers in a twist and feared the repercussions if they went any further.
Yet, no matter how hard she held her child, she could not stop her cursed mouth.
"No he wasn't! Howard Bates was your father!" Kerry exclaimes, breaking free to reach out for her grandmother. "Howard and Perlie had an affair in 1905 and then she had you!"
Leota was just about ready to faint. To think that Howard Bates, the man she so long despised for marrying her mother after her fathers death, would be her actual father, filled her with shame unlike everything else.
Suddenly the few good years towards the end seemed so overshadowed by decades of hatred and the fact that he never stopped trying became clearer.
"Noone wanted to tell you, Leo, but I won't lie. Claire...mum...even Howard, they all got their spines in a twist trying to hide things for their own good! But it isn't FAIR!" Kerry kept arguing, not caring that everyone would rather see that she held her mouth and not finished what she started.
Julie approaches her mother from behind, catching her falling weight and getting her safely positioned on the couch. "How about some ice cold ice tea, hmm? I'll have Kerry fetch some." She glared at the girl, who ran out the room at a speed which indicated she understood her place now that the secret was out.
Leota refrains from answering. She knows Julie will fetch it for her regardless so she saves her energy to overcome her own inner turmoil.
She didn't even know where her father was buried. She begins to weep, longing for Kerry to come back so she can ask. What did she do with Howard's ashes? Did she leave them in Saratoga? If only the old fool had had the balls to tell it to her face!
And Pearlie. Her blessed mother had kept the secret all those years and never let on. Yet, she must've known it was so. She must have seen the difference from her youngest daughter to her older children.
"That's why I never got along with them" She mumbled. "Horace and the others. We knew I wasn't the same." She buries her hands deeper in her face. "What will Corra say?!" She cries.
Kerry returned with the sweet tea, handing it to her mother to hold until her grandmother would be ready for it. "I felt you had to know, '' she repeated. "I know it hurts but it's what you deserved."
Julie rubbed her mother's back. "You despise your siblings anyway...and Corra...she has the sensibility to shut her mouth" she tries and fail to laugh it off.
But Leota wasn't laughing. Not in the slightest. "Weren't you ever going to tell me? Were you always going to lie?" she asks, to which Julie blushed a deep red.
"Mum...I never knew grandpa...but the letters are clear. Howard agreed not to make any claims on you for Pearlie and Max sake." Julie explains patiently to her shell-shocked mother. "Regardless, Grandpa always loves you."
Leota didn't find her words comforting. If she had known long before, perhaps her mothers choice of partner had not seemed so strange - but perhaps it would've made her own hurt worse, and her hatred would only have grown in the soil of this deceit.
She takes a deep breath. "Where is Thomas?" She asks, though she can tell the question is perplexing.
Julie looks around. "Probably still next door. He hasn't arrived for the party yet, mother." She says.
Leota nodded, standing up. Julie offers the tea but she refuses it. "I need to see him, '' she says, leaving the house and heading over to the garden next door. It's a graveyard, dead and unkept, but it never mattered because Leota kept hers nice for him to share.
She kept herself for him. Much like her mother, someone had eventually replaced her Edgar and she simply couldn't deny it any longer.
"Leota, what are you doing here? The party is not for another half an…" Thomas, as shocked as anyone else, is not given a chance to finish. Leota kisses him straight on the lips and holds on like she never wanted anything more.
Thomas, feeling reckless amidst his own shock, kisses her back and the two seem to mels into one in the middle of the hot Texas afternoon.
Julie and Kerry stand on her porch, observing the whole spectacle unfolding before their very eyes, the overwhelming afternoon showing its biggest surprise yet.
"See mama?" Kerry tells her, almost a little smug about the outcome of the whole thing. "See what happens when you don't have your spine in a twist?"
For @flashfictionfridayofficial 221 prompt: Spine in a Twist. Based on real life.
It was getting late and we are getting worried. He should have been home hours ago. We start making calls.
911 dispatch tells us where he is, in the ICU of the hospital. A scooter vs motor vehicle accident. The hospital is walking distance away.
We find him battered and bruised, unable to walk and in severe pain. It is the second accident he had riding a scooter on the highway. He is stubborn as a mule. Alive, thank God, he is alive.
The recovery is horrible. This grown man screams like a laboring woman when his road rash bandages are changed. His back, carrying the same rash, as well as supporting a broken pelvis, feels like it is being twisted, every time he is turned for care and cleaning.
It hurts my heart to see my good friend and roommate in this situation. Even with my own chronic pain, I make my way to the hospital every other day, to sit with him. I work on lifting his spirits and holding his hand through the hell of physical therapy.
Six weeks later, he is aloud to come home. He is transported in an ambulance, as he still isn’t able to walk. He is moved from bed to wheelchair via a transfer board. Later, he moves the same way from wheelchair to cab, to wheelchair, to table at physical therapy.
We see he gets there. We see he has all he needs. I take him to his follow-up appointments, to PT. Cheers when he moves from wheelchair to walker, to cane. More cheers when he graduates from PT.
We cover his part of the bills, cost of taxis, build him a low bed he can move in and out of. He is our friend. It is done without complaint.
Then another accident. This time from our neighbors. A fire. We all get out, thank God he is out of the wheelchair. The electric is turned off for all the duplex. We wait on our landlord ‘s insurance.
We wait, camping in our house. Despite all we did for him, our roommate decides he can’t live with the inconvenience. He moves in with his sister.
God rewards our faith. We now live in our own home. No matter it is a mobile home. It is ours.
