would i be able to ask for some fics of what happened on the way up/down the elevator to/from heaven? Just some healing after the finale haha
thank you all so much!
We have some about the missing elevator scene from series one here. Here are some series three elevator fics...
Get Thee Beneath Me, Foul Fiend by Tartan_Temptation (E)
Let's get this straight gay - Crowley was canonically unable to perform miracles, so there is only one way he could have ended up in his Heavenly Disguise 2.0! This short PWP explores what happened in the elevator on the way up.
Frivolous Miracles and Heavenly Disguises by Ineffable Storm (G)
"If my attire offends you so much, resolve it yourself." Crowley snapped back, serpent eyes moving to look at the angel through the sides of his glasses. "Surely, the Supreme Archangel himself is allowed frivolous miracles."
A small splutter came, Aziraphale taken aback clearly at the reminder that Crowley was miracle-less. "I— well, I could. But you- oh alright then. Just let me…"
The missing elevator scene of how Crowley got his new attire, courtesy of Aziraphale.
Going Down by greenteaduck (E)
What if they took a moment to get a little frisky in The Trauma Elevator™ ?
like nothing matters by gaytectives (E)
"… What did you do?" he asks eventually, his heart pounding so hard that it shakes his frame.
"Dunno," Crowley says quickly, eyes darting around behind his glasses as he glances around the lift, his hand still raised and trembling ever so slightly. "Stopped it."
"How?" Aziraphale asks, voice strained. "You said Hell cut you off."
"They did."
Aziraphale glances at the buttons, his breathing shallow and uneven; they remain an unblinking, forewarning red, the entire lift quiet and seemingly stalled out less than a storey above London street level. Then he looks back to Crowley, his tongue darting out to wet his lips as he asks, lightheaded, "How long will it last?"
Welp, Ao3 is down, so I can't post the next chapter of my 5+1 fic. So, I will do something I rarely do, and post the entire chapter here for all my fanfic-starved survivors huddled on Tumblr till we can go back home. Each chapter is stand-alone, so even though this is the fifth chapter, you can follow along just fine without reading the first four.
Update with the fic link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/80156931/chapters/210429246
Five People Who Kept Their Mouths Shut + 1 That Did Not Have Any Chill
Chapter 5: The Referee
Summary: Rozanov assumes that no one on the ice can understand the russian he spouts when Shane is on the ice. Rozanov is wrong.
Before Notes: I do not know anything about how hockey works, and yet I have the audacity to write a referee-centered chapter. Sorry, not sorry. I refer to the refs as referees or officials. There is a difference from what I can tell, but I don’t feel qualified enough to explain it here in the notes. I probably use the terms wrong, and again, I say, the audacity of the author knows no bounds. Everything I know about hockey I learned from google.
I also don’t speak Russian. All russian translations are from google translate, I am a little sorry for that one.
This one got a little angsty folks. I was really on a roll with my all-fluff-no-angst fics I’ve written so far for this fandom (which is entirely out of character, for me), but this chapter literally begged me, ‘please, please put some angst in there, just a little bit, as a treat?’ And who am I to deny the fic what it needs?
The injury comes up again in this chapter (see aforementioned note on angst), and if I had known ahead of time that it would come up so much in this fic, I would have put some sort of warning at the front. I honestly could have done another whole chapter on the Paramedic, too.
Chapter 5
January 2014
People were often surprised to learn that Erik spoke fluent Russian. He didn’t have a Russian last name, and although Erik was a Russian name, it was a common enough name in the west that it didn’t even garner any questions. His mother was Russian, married a Canadian businessman, and came to live with him in Toronto, where Erik had been raised. She had made sure he spoke her language, though. Her English wasn’t very good, especially in those first years when he was young. When it was just him and her, she would speak only in Russian, only switching to English when his dad came home from work.
He held it close to his chest, especially on the ice, where the secret often gave him insight he might’ve missed. He had used it a few times to call unsportsmanlike conduct penalties, but not often enough to tip off the other Russians.
So when he skated to center ice for the faceoff between the two well known rivals, of course he was listening closely to the Russian spoken by Ilya. Given a thousand guesses, he would not have been able to predict what he heard.
The Russian narrowed his eyes in an intense glare before quietly saying, “Milyy dorogaya, ne zastavlyay menya zhdat' segodnyashnego vechera. YA khochu potselovat' tebya pryamo seychas.” My darling, don’t make me wait for tonight. I wanna kiss you right now.
Erik quickly schooled his features to avoid letting on that he understood every word.
Shane smiled at him before saying in English, “You ready for me to show you how it’s done?”
Ilya gave a sly smirk, “YA pokazhu vam, kak eto delayetsya, segodnya vecherom, kogda my budem za zakrytymi dveryami.” I’ll show you how it’s done when we’re behind closed doors tonight.
Erik came back to his senses after a much longer pause than typical. He dropped the puck and got out of the way of the face off. Trying to focus on the game, but distracted by replaying what he heard Rozanov say. Erik had heard his fair share of innuendos on the ice, but usually they were at the expense of the other player. Rozanov’s chirps read more like flirtation. And the thing of it was, Shane had no idea what was said to him.
The game, oddly enough, continued in typical MLH rival team fashion: fast-paced and brutal. Rozanov and Hollander certainly weren’t pulling any punches as they took turns slamming each other into the boards. Back at the faceoff for the second period, Rozanov and Hollander readied for the puck drop. The score was tied 2-1, with the Raiders in the lead.
“Kogda ya sdelayu khet-trik, ya vynesu tebya so l'da i poluchu svoyu nagradu.” When I get the hat trick I’m gonna carry you off the ice and collect my reward. The Russian whispered, then switched to English. “Don’t make me wait, I can’t stand it.”
“Haven’t you ever heard? Good things come to those who wait.” Hollander gave a cheeky grin as Erik dropped the puck. What the fuck is happening? Was Hollander flirting back?
Hollander won possession and scored, tying the game up.
The rest of the second period was neck and neck, but neither team managed to score again. Erik skated up to the face off with a trepidation he hadn’t experienced since working his first professional game. I’m reading way too much into this. There’s no way Rozanov is gay for Hollander.
“How’d you like that called shot, Rozanov?” Shane grinned.
“O, lapochka, takaya Umnitsa.” Oh, cutie, so clever. “But we both know you like it better when I’m calling the shots.” Rozanov switched to English right as the puck dropped and he took possession.
Erik shook his head. He didn’t even try to disguise that one.
At the end of the third period, the other official blew his whistle calling a penalty against Marlow for slashing.
During the power play, Pike scored with an assist from Hollander, putting the Metros in the lead as the time ran out.
The metros all piled onto Pike and Hollander. Erik skated down the ice trying to stay clear of the celebration. He passed Rozanov as he skated to the exit. “Bozhe, segodnya vecherom on budet nevynosim. No nichego strashnogo. On vsegda tak rvotsya vperod, kogda oderzhivayet pobedu.” God, he’s going to be insufferable tonight. That’s okay. He’s always so eager when he’s coming off a win.
~
2017
With referee crew rotations being what they were, Erik hadn’t worked a Montreal-Boston game since 2014. He thought about the rivals from time to time, especially when they did interviews, or at the all-star games when the league practically threw them at each other. He wondered if the rivalry was all an act, and if the talk he had heard on the ice was some inside-joke-chirping or something more. There wasn’t anything he would do about it, even if he knew, but it definitely piqued his curiosity. The only thing that dulled his excitement for the faceoff was the knowledge that Rozanov just lost his father. This was his first game back after his return from Russia for the funeral. He entered that first faceoff with his full attention on the rivals and anything they had to say.
So when the rivals faced off and said nothing to each other, he was a little taken aback. When they looked at each other with gleeful smiles, he was confused. They hit their sticks together in playful anticipation of the puck drop, and he could swear he heard the two fully suited-up hockey players giggle. The puck dropped, Hollander took possession, and skated off toward the goal. Before he could get very far at all, Marlow slammed him to the ground, and he stayed down.
Erik raced to his side, but Rozanov was already there, standing over Hollander, saying, “Are you okay, Shane, get up! Pozhaluysta, moya lyubov', otkroy glaza.” Please, my love, open your eyes!
Erik pushed Rozanov out of the way so he could check on Hollander, who still wasn’t moving. “Ilya, please, stand back.”
Erik knelt next to Hollander, quickly assessing his condition with Ilya still standing over his shoulder. Thankfully, Shane’s eyes opened. His forehead knit in a confused expression.
Ilya was mumbling in Russian, “Ne ostavlyay menya, ty mne nuzhna! S toboy vse v poryadke, mne nuzhno, chtoby s toboy vse bylo v poryadke, pozhaluysta, bud' v poryadke.” Don’t leave me, I need you! You’re okay, I need you to be okay, please be okay.
“We’re not alone, Ilya,” Shane slurred. “They can see us.” He tried to move his hand, reaching for Ilya, but stopped abruptly, his face contorting in pain.
“Shane, stay still! The paramedics are on the ice. They'll be here in a second. I need you to stay still.” Erik held his hand gently to keep it from reaching out to Ilya again.
The paramedics were there now, taking over for Erik. He stood and pushed Rozanov further back to give the paramedics space.
“Is he okay? Fucking tell me!” Ilya shouted as Erik guided him toward his bench. His eyes filled with concern for the injured player.
Erik was distantly aware of other players fighting on the ice in his peripheral, but he focused on Ilya, knowing if he let go, he would skate back to Shane.
“Moya lyubov', pozhaluysta, bud' v poryadke, ya lyublyu tebya. Ty dlya menya vso. Pozhaluysta, bud' v poryadke, Sheyn. Mne nuzhno, chtoby ty byl v poryadke.” Rozanov was just, stream of consciousness speaking in Russian. My love, please be okay. I love you. You’re my everything. Please be okay, Shane. I need you to be okay.
Erik’s heart broke. If he wasn’t sure before, this definitely confirmed it for him. Rozanov and Hollander were in love. “I need you to get back to your bench, Rozanov. The paramedics have him now, they’ll take care of him.”
“Mne nuzhno byt' s nim, on nuzhdayetsya vo mne. YA ne mogu yego poteryat'.” Rozanov looked like he was on the verge of crying. I need to be with him, he needs me. I can’t lose him.
“Rozanov! Look at me!” Erik shouted.
Rozanov stopped speaking and looked Erik in the eyes.
Erik continued, in a gentler tone, “You need to focus on the game now. The sooner the game is over, the sooner you can check on Hollander. There’s nothing you can do for him right now. He’s with the Paramedics.”
That seemed to snap Rozanov out of his panic enough to resume the game. The paramedics were off the ice, the fights had been broken up, Rozanov was on his bench for now, and Marlow was in the penalty box. The game continued, but it was far from normal. Any time Rozanov was on the ice, it was if a robot had taken control of his body. He went through the motions, but there was nothing but a glazed expression in his eyes.
“Chem bystreye zakonchitsya igra, tem bystreye vy smozhete provedat' Sheyna.” The sooner the game is over, the sooner you can check on Shane. Erik would occasionally hear him mutter in Russian, which stabbed him in the heart every time.
Eventually, the game came to an end. He heard in the official’s locker room that Shane had a concussion and broken collarbone. I wonder if Ilya knows yet. Should I tell him? Erik’s thoughts were racing a mile a minute while he changed out of his uniform. But no, although not strictly forbidden, he always erred on the side of caution and avoided all unnecessary contact with the players. It was important to maintain neutrality. How can I maintain neutrality now, knowing that these two archrivals are actually Star-crossed lovers?
“Erik!”
Erik jolted in surprise, at the interruption. “Wha-?”
“Woah, hey! I didn’t mean to startle you. Did you hear what I said?” The other referee for the night, and his friend, Patrick looked at him in mild concern.
“Uh…yeah sorry. I mean, no, I didn’t—I was just thinking about Hollander. What did you say?”
“Oh, I know. What a weird game. I hate it when a player gets hurt. The rest of the night you can just feel the tension in the air, you know?”
Erik nodded. “Yeah, totally.”
“I’m glad Hollander is going to be okay, at least.” Patrick continued.
“Yeah, thank god for that.”
After a moment, Patrick asked, “Hey, you speak Russian right? I heard one of the other refs say you did.”
Erik’s stomach sunk a little. “Uh, yeah. My mom’s Russian. Immigrated when she married my dad.”
“Did you…happen to catch any of what Rozanov was saying? He was in a complete funk the rest of the game. Every time I skated past him he was muttering in Russian.”
“Oh, yeah I noticed that too. Uh…he was—he was just saying stuff like, “god I want this game over.” Erik paused, “I just think that Shane getting taken off the ice like that shook him up a little. You know, another elite athlete goes down like that, it’s gotta remind you of your own mortality.”
Patrick shook his head. “Yeah, totally. Man. Nights like tonight just remind you that they're all just real people, you know? Not rivals, not players, but people with real lives and families and shit.”
Erik nodded. “Yeah, I feel for the guy. He just lost his dad too. It’s been a rough few weeks for him.”
“Oh shit, you’re so right, man. God, I hope he’s okay. I hope both of them are.”
Erik nodded as he shut his locker. “Me too. Let’s get the heck out of here.”
I give you a one-shot fic of my mini-series "Elain and Azriel, the Missing Scenes."
In this one shot we get a glimpse of Elain pre-Cauldron and the interactions between her and Azriel we missed because Feyre wasn't around to narrate them for us. Our beautiful Elain is very much in love and about to get married with Greysen, her fiancé. There is one particular problem, a very big, powerful, winged problem that has her rattled with his charged glances, small gestures and barely there touches. What is this male doing to her!
i want to see fiyero ride up to the train platform to see for himself that elphaba didn't return with glinda
i want to see glinda go back to her and elphaba's room and just stare at elphaba's empty bed
i want to see them struggle to go back to day-to-day life at shiz now that elphaba isn't there
i want to see morrible reluctantly teaching glinda sorcery
i want to see nessa struggle to establish herself as govenor
i want to see how nessa is treating boq and the other munkins
i want to see glinda struggle with her decision to stay behind
i want to see fiyero struggle to maintain his 'dancing
through life' attitude
i want to see fiyero out searching on his own for elphaba
i want to see morrible and the wizard planning and sending out search parties for elphaba
i want to see them spread lies and propaganda
i want to see elphaba helping Animals and planning the wizard's downfall
i want to see what happens in between act one and two of the show
Wei Wuxian leaves to go “prepare some things” before he’ll take Jiang Cheng to Baoshan Sanren’s mountain hermitage.
He leaves Jiang Cheng alone for three days.
In those three days, Jiang Cheng feels his meridians that are already scorched, then being to wither, starting from his lower dantian and spreading out. It becomes harder to move, more tiring. He’s not sure how he is even going to make it up the mountain when the time comes. The harsh training he had inflicted on his muscle and bones all throughout his younger years now come back to haunt him, pains that have no scars ache along with the very real evidence of Wen Chao’s intrepid cruelty with the discipline whip across his chest—inflamed and beginning to reopen.
Whatever healing he’d undergone while made to sleep, it’s starting to fade. Without the internal power of a golden core, there’s little to hold supernatural mending in place.
Wei Wuxian left food, but Jiang Cheng only ever has the stomach for a few bites, his jaw too tense to chew, his mind too distracted with the growing agony of, “What if he gets caught?” Wei Wuxian is out there alone and still being hunted.
Jiang Cheng doesn’t have any way he can help.
Not anymore.
He wouldn’t even be worth capturing this time.
His nails are ragged from how he’s torn them from scratching the dirt in the floor, trying to feel the qi of the earth and finding nothing.
His lips are chapped because he wants to feel the sweetness of heavenly qi in the sunlight, but even that only comes to him in wisps, pulled into his lungs only to be cast back out on his next breath because it can’t be refined in his spiritual system.
He’d rather die.
“No need to doubt it. You heard me right. I said ‘get your golden core back.’”
That energy that had filled him with those words has since ground to nothing, and doubt washes the shores of Jiang Cheng’s sea of emotions. He recognizes his willpower dying like the last embers of the only source of light in an endless barren, cinnabar wasteland.
When Wei Wuxian is here with him, he can leech some hope, some light, some way to hold back the darkness that reminds him that he’s nothing now. Useless. Spent. There will be no vengeance for his clan. No clan to revive. No way forward.
Why save him? Why heal him? Just to hear him scream?
A faceless Wen with delicate hands, pours tonics down his throat and makes him choke on it until he swallows. The blood pools around him, but Wen Chao orders it washed away and Jiang Cheng is splashed with buckets of artificially cold water until his teeth chatter and his muscles are rigid.
Wen Zhuliu begins first. He does not destroy Jiang Cheng all at once, but in quarters, melting the golden core part way so that the fiery backlash sears his very being, forcing the air from his chest and the plea for death from his throat.
Jiang Cheng blinks and watches motes of dust from the unpapered window of this small woodland hovel.
None of this is worth it if Wei Wuxian doesn’t come back.
This was all for him, this was all for Wei Wuxian. For his sister’s love, his father’s hopes, and his mother’s fury.
What will he do if Wei Wuxian doesn’t come back? He can’t do anything. He must, but he can’t. He must—
Why would Wei Wuxian…?
It’s a waste.
⟫————————⟪
Wei Wuxian finds Jiang Cheng in the corner of the woodsman’s house, alike to stone. Cold and motionless.
In a fit of something too much like violence, he falls to his knees, puffs of dirt layering on his filthy disciple’s black, and grabs Jiang Cheng’s wrists and pushes healing qi into a body that cannot seem to take it. It damages as much as it helps, swelling dried ravines and spilling over, uselessly directionless. “Jiang Cheng, Jiang Cheng you have to try.” He holds on tighter than necessary, the pressure to feel some sort of pulse barely discernible. “Jiang Cheng!” How dare he? Didn’t he say to eat and rest? Didn’t he say he had the solution?! What’s the point of wasting away now?!
Jiang Cheng shudders, his eyes squeezing more tightly shut as a gasp of pain breaks the barrier of his lips. “Too much—” He moans, thready like the dead newly awakened.
“It’s not too much. Stop complaining.” Wei Wuxian grimaces as he does the work, fixing this.
It’s just temporary.
He’ll make it better. Permanently.
Make it so Jiang Cheng can’t fall apart again.
It feels like hours on his knees, circulating his red qi into Jiang Cheng and directing it, the way Wen Qing said will need to be done until they meet for the transfer. To get Jiang Cheng’s body used to what kind of power Wei Wuxian will give it. Make Wei Wuxian acceptable.
He’s kneeled in the Yunmeng Jiang ancestral hall for longer than this. He knows Jiang Cheng’s spirit like his own. This effort is nothing.
As long as Jiang Cheng doesn’t waste it. “Jiang Cheng, wake up!”
A new flush of life blooms on Jiang Cheng’s face and his eyes open blearily, with a cloudiness to them that’s unnerving. His cracked lips open without a sound.
Wei Wuxian thumbs at Jiang Cheng’s palms, massaging more life into him. “That’s right, wake up. We need to get you to Baoshan Sanren.”
“You go,” Jiang Cheng says in a whisper as his head lulls to the side and he squints again like he’s trying to concentrate. “I’ll distract them.”
They’re no longer in Yiling, no longer under threat. There’s nothing that needs distracting; Jiang Cheng is obviously delirious. Wei Wuxian sighs. “You can’t do anything like this.”
“You go,” he says again, words broken and trembling.
“I’m not going anywhere.” His own hands shake as he tells him so. “I’m here, alright? I’m always going to be with you.” A golden light carried forward.
