⚽ A Good Omens Meet-Cute for @beerok23's birthday! Happy birthday, dear 💜
🥞 Football Manager Crowley | Lousy French Translator Aziraphale | Meet-Cute | Voice Kink | Flirty Bitches Going At It | No GO Besties were pestered in the writing of this fic
In a series of improbable circumstances, antiquarian bookseller Aziraphale Eastgate ends up in Paris for a translating job he is woefully unprepared for.
Man United gaffer Anthony J. Crowley has lost the Champions League semifinal against PSG and is having a spectacularly terrible time with the press.
Could they possibly join forces and turn the night around?
⚽ Read it here on AO3 🥞
Excerpt:
“This was a very important match,” said a deep, sultry, British voice straight into his ear. “So sorry to hear about your loss.”
Crowley went very still, taken off-guard like a dumbfounded goalie watching the ball sail right past him after what was supposed to be just a round-of-the-mill goal kick from the opposing team’s keeper. He distinctly felt his carefully-cultivated indifference crack, the sudden awareness so acute it was almost painful.
Somewhat winded despite not moving an inch, he turned to the French reporter, who was staring at him expectantly. Only it wasn’t him speaking, Crowley realised, it was the translator. Wherever he was.
“You must be, er, acclaimed? No, that’s not it,” the deep voice continued, now laced with a specific type of breathlessness that, for some reason, had Crowley thinking of tangled sheets, warm hands and liquid moans. “Anyway, if you could have another chance at your back, what would you do differently?”
It was so unexpected, so unlike anything he’d had to face in a press room before, that it completely threw him off balance.
A shiver skittered down his back, heat crept up his face, and before he could quite catch himself he felt his lips twitch and he shifted forward on his seat, sitting properly rather than slouching for the first time since he’d come in.
And given that his media training didn’t exist, Crowley took out his earphone and blurted out, “Very erotic voice by the way. The translator.” He scanned the crowd for whoever the voice belonged to. “Where are you?”
The room erupted into sniggers and even Crowley couldn’t fight a very off-brand chuckle. He was still searching and squirming a little when he spotted Muriel pointing to a man huddled in the far corner of the room, the lapels of his beige trench-coat flipped up to… was this pale-blond, better-groomed, cherubic version of Columbo hiding his face on purpose?
With special thanks to @littleweezel for beta-reading💜💜💜
Victory! Barely! Hello, completely unnecessary cold, and fuck you very much. Hopefully, the cold meds and the sniffling and sneezing didn't affect the coherence of this too much.
“I’ll be gentle as I can be, I promise.”
“Yeah, I’m calling bullshit on — FUCK!”
To Piers’s credit, he didn’t flinch even when Kennedy did, hands steady as ever. One held the burning knife to the gruesome hole in Kennedy’s leg, the other hand held the bloody leg down. Kennedy cursed and swore, voice damp and choked, and the fire crackled beside them in soft mockery. Piers clenched his jaw and focused on the wound. This was something he only wanted to do once.
The muscles under his hand pulsed and Leon’s leg jerked. Piers focused on the skin and bloodflow, lifting and replacing the knife in short bursts to assess the wound and surrounding skin. Focused on that and not how fucked they would both be if Kennedy landed a kick right then.
Or if Piers lost his cool and threw up. He was tough, he had to be, but the scent of Kennedy’s burning flesh and Kennedy’s pained sobs and the knowledge that it was Piers’s fault were enough things to break a man.
What a fucking shitshow of a day. Just a complete fucking mess.
As soon as he was sure the bleeding was done, Piers pulled the blade away and dropped it on the bricks in front of the fireplace. Kennedy was still gasping and weeping, and Piers couldn’t bring himself to look at him. He wasn’t done yet.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he repeated, stupidly and inanely, as he grabbed the next part of this gruesome process.
Rubbing alcohol.
“I’m so sorry,” Piers said again, and then he poured it on Kennedy’s leg.
Kennedy screamed.
By the time Piers needed to add more wood to the fire, Kennedy was no longer making pained noises, and Piers had washed his hands so many times his skin felt raw. This little cabin didn’t actually have running water, but there was plenty of snow and Piers was creative.
Was creative. Now he simply felt exhausted, dragging himself back to the main room of the cabin where Kennedy was sprawled by the fire. Piers forced himself to check Kennedy’s leg before he allowed himself to collapse. It was wrapped firmly with no signs of fresh bleeding. He had given Kennedy some antibiotics but knew he needed to keep an eye out for infection. All types of infection. Another thing he didn’t really want to think about.
“You know,” Kennedy said, still a little breathless but coherent, “when I imagined meeting Chris’s new second-in-command, I imagined a bar and some beer involved. Should have known better, right?”
Piers cringed a little. Maybe he had imagined something similar, too. Share their war stories over cheap beer and shots, hear some of Leon Kennedy’s infamous stories first hand. Instead… “Probably. Ah, probably, sir.”
Leon laughed but didn’t move from his sprawl. Getting stabbed by a mercenary transforming into a BOW and then having that same wound cauterized in the field would probably leave most people unconscious. Him laughing right then seemed wild. “You just cut off my pants and then held a burning hot knife to my thigh. I think you can call me Leon.”
Piers had been trying hard not to think about that part, actually. Any of it, but…
Fuck, he was in a cabin in the middle of nowhere with the hottest man he had ever seen, had literally cut his pants off of him, was sitting with him in front of a romantic fireplace, and it was still a nightmare scenario. He could barely remember the rush here, just yelling about the ranger’s cabin and an explosion in the distance and Leon bleeding all over them both.
“Leon,” Piers agreed, instead of thinking about all that. “You can call me Piers.”
Another weak laugh. “I usually like to call the men who strip me by their first name, so yeah. Hi, Piers.”
God but Piers would love to hear that under any other circumstances. Trying to hide his misery, Piers scooted closer. It was freezing outside, but between the fire and adrenaline and exertion, Piers was sweating. He only hesitated a moment before he started stripping. “How are you feeling?”
“Not how I usually feel when a hot guy strips in front of me.”
Piers almost knocked himself out taking off his jacket. Fortunately, Leon had closed his eyes again and hadn’t noticed. His skin looked horrifically pale in the firelight.
“I might pass out, though, so sorry for being bad company,” Leon continued after a moment, looking completely oblivious to the near-stroke he caused. “Feeling a bit out of it at the moment.”
Piers recovered from almost swallowing his tongue and knelt beside Leon. “Blood loss and trauma can do that to a man. I’m going to look you over and then you can get some sleep, okay?”
Leon opened his eyes. Gorgeous blue eyes, Piers thought, if a little dazed and bloodshot. He definitely didn’t look like he was going to be able to stay awake much longer. He barely looked like he knew where he was. “Okay, okay,” he murmured. “Hey, Piers?”
The area around the wound looked all right with no current signs of infection. Leon’s pulse was a little fast, but his skin was within acceptable temperature range and Leon didn’t look like he wanted to rip Piers’s throat out. Overall, acceptable. “Yeah, Leon?”
“Next time we meet, how about we do it without the BOWs and you show me how rough you can be. Sound good?”
Piers’s last assessment spoke highly of his quick thinking and steadiness under pressure. Piers thought he did that assessment proud as he said calmly, “Why don’t you ask me again when you have a normal amount of blood in your system and we’ll talk?”
Leon’s mouth quirked in a smile. He let his eyes slide shut. “Sounds like a plan to me. I’m going to pass out now.”
As soon as the last word passed his lips, Leon went limp. Piers absolutely did not panic as he dived to check his pulse again. Still alive, just passed out, true to his word. Piers exhaled slowly and leaned back on his heels. Only then did he allow himself to start shaking.
“Why the hell did I ever think I would meet the Leon Kennedy somewhere as boring as a bar?” he murmured to himself. Shaking his head, Piers let himself settle beside Leon, placing himself between Leon and the door. “I should stay awake… keep watch. I really should —”
He passed out before he could finish his sentence, Leon out cold beside him, oblivious to the fact that in ten years, Chris Redfield would be the best man at his wedding, teasing him and Leon terribly for their awful, bloody first meeting. He slept well that night, regardless, Leon a strangely comfortable presence behind him.
Wade gets to meet his all-time favorite superhero/celebrity crush in the middle of a fight. Peter doesn't know whether to be flattered or offended, but he is definitely confused.
Words: 419, Chapters: 1/?, Language: English
Fandoms: Spider-Man - All Media Types, Deadpool - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Categories: M/M
Characters: Peter Parker, Wade Wilson, White Thought Box (Deadpool), Yellow Thought Box (Deadpool)
Relationships: Peter Parker/Wade Wilson
Additional Tags: Crack, Wade Wilson's White and Yellow Thought Boxes, Kind Of, Meet-Cute, Sexual Harassment, Morally Ambiguous Wade Wilson, Horny Wade Wilson, Bad Flirting, crackfic
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