#quill writes

[bloodyquillink-blog]

Thinking about the “I’m slowly forgetting your face” meme but it’s either

• Elias/David forgetting Mrs. Walker’s face but all they see is Logan

Or

• Logan trying to remember what Elias looked like but only seeing David

Or

• Logan forgetting David while he’s in the pit.

[fateisfiction]

Well, That Bites ... (Part 2)

Ask and you shall receive.

Vampire!Shouta, (temporary)Werewolf!Hizashi, Human!Reader

Part 2 of ???

Hizashi is bitten by a werewolf and undergoing treatment to reverse the transformation, but in the meantime, Shouta needs a reliable blood source. You're a friend from school and aware of Shouta's condition and volunteer yourself as a temporary solution. It's decided you'll move in with them to make everything easier.

NSFW (Get your Smut here)

Part 1

When Shouta came home from teaching the next night, he caught you swiping on some dating app. You should really be proud of the restraint he showed in not immediately smashing your phone. The hair on the back of your neck stands on end, but it’s different than when he’s hungry. He shifts, his weight resting on the couch cushion behind you causing you to jump. “W-were you hungry?” He is now, but he knows better than to eat when he’s like this. Whatever … this is.

Shouta pulls Hizashi aside when he comes home for a little discussion. You were looking to date? But you’re theirs. Part of their colony, their pack. Weren’t they enough for you? Their behavior changes after that. Hizashi is clingy. All over you when he’s at home, more than usual. You start finding his clothing mixed in with yours when you go to do laundry. Not that you weren’t already picking up more of the housework. After your incident, the three of you agreed that you would take a step back from hero work, at least for now.

Shouta, on the other hand, becomes colder toward you. He stops sleeping in the bed with you, he doesn’t join in Hizashi’s cuddle piles anymore, he keeps his feedings to a minimum until they stop altogether. When you try to talk to him, he shrugs you off, retreating to his bedroom to brood. Even Hizashi is on edge around him. When you make a joke that he must be getting “hangry,” Shouta storms into the room dragging Hizashi away. He barely acknowledges you, snaping a harsh, “I’m fine,” as the door slams shut behind them.

You can hear them arguing in the next room. Hizashi’s fears that by pushing you away, Shouta is damaging whatever relationship the three of you have built over these few months. When Shouta finally admits that he hasn’t fed in nearly a week, Hizashi throws a fit, reminding him how dangerous that is. You stand by the doorway throwing out that you’ve been offering. Of course you had been worried, but you figured he made other arrangements.

Accusations are thrown around. Hizashi lets it slip that Shouta saw you swiping through the dating app. Why were you leaving them? Did you really think it was a good idea to bring someone else into this situation? It dawns on you then what it must have looked like. You assure them that you have no interest in dating right now. All, well most, of your needs are fulfilled. An associate was suspicious that her husband was cheating on her, and she asked you to see if he was on one of the apps. Your friend wasn’t exactly pleased with what you found (he was), but Shouta and Hizashi are put at ease by your explaination.

What was that about only most of your needs were being met? They’ll need to fix that. Go on, tell them what you need. You’re so shy. You’re all friends here. No secrets, right?

You’re already in their bedroom. It doesn’t take much for them to have you backed up against their bed. You swear you catch a flash of Shouta’s red eyes as they stand at the foot of the bed, waiting for an invitation. And invite them you do. Holding out your wrist as you normally would to let Shouta feed. He shakes his head, chest rumbling with a chuckle at the thought of taking you like this.

It’s a sight to behold as you sit there, fearless before them. They stalk closer, hunger in their eyes as they descend upon you. Hizashi’s behind you, lips on your neck as his hand slips just under the hem of your shirt. Shouta’s above you, kneeling between your legs as he grabs a handful of hair tilting your head back, forcing you to look him in the eye. “You have no clue how long I’ve been waiting for this, kitten.”

Sharpened fangs rake a long your neck, not yet piercing the skin. Quickening breaths fill the room with an erratic harmony of whines. Moans. Pleas.

Hizashi's erection digs in against your hip. You're turning to kiss him, and then Shouta, and then Hizashi again. Your shirt rides up exposing more skin for them to grope. Jeans are unbuttoned and belts unbuckled, the sensual slide of a lover’s hands as they ease tight fabric down thighs and over heads.

Minutes pass and the three of you are are enthralled in one another. It's almost as if they're waiting for you to give them permission to move further. Thumbs catch on the lace of your bra, your panties, digging in and kneading your supple skin.

“Please-” the rest of your words are gone before you can finish your sentence. Sharpened nails tearing what little fabric remains, your body bare before their predatory eyes.

Hizashi guides your hand down to his cock, rutting into it as copious amounts of pre fall from the tip, coating your hand as he chases his release. He stuffs his fingers into your open mouth, preventing you from silencing your cries as Shouta takes his place between your thighs.

Shouta's hands settle on your knees, spreading them apart. Your breath hitches as he leans down, a sly grin stretching across his lips as he assures you that you’ll make a lovely feast tonight. You had already forgotten how long it's been since he last fed. His words doing little to reassure you, you begin to squirm, but you're no match for the two of them.

Hizashi's fingers slip from your mouth. The thread of saliva disconnecting to fall on your chin. “How are you doing, sweetheart?” he asks. Those few words reassuring you that you're safe. All you need to do is say the word and they'll stop what they're doing.

You lick your lips, eyes meeting his. “I'm good.”

He smiles, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “That's right. You are a good girl.”

You're distracted, barely feeling the pinpricks when Shouta sinks his fangs into the femoral vein running down your thigh. You groan in … pleasure? Mind foggy with the promise of pleasure, clouded by endorphins and the venom seeping into your blood.

When Hizashi's spit-soaked fingers find your entrance, you see stars. The gentle flick of his thumb across your clit has your hips bucking against Shouta’s strong grip keeping you in place. Lifting his head from your thigh, he tsks at Hizashi, reprimanding the blond for making you squirm.

You can't help but be entranced at the sight of your blood coating his chin. Reaching out, you collect the trail as it runs along his neck. There’s a certain intimacy with how he takes your hand in his, kissing your fingertips before his tongue collects the traces of his meal. The reverence with which he lowers his lips to your wrist, kissing the barely noticeable scars from his past meals. The way his now clear eyes study your face, taking in the ecstasy from your other lover’s fingers curling into you.

[thetanzanitequill]

(prompt: Wind and Blob)

"You call this a monster? Ha! It's just a big blob," Wind scoffed.

"Oh yeah, that's just one of my chuchus- those blue ones are pretty harmless," Wild called.

Wind scooped up the chuchu with a gleeful grin, slime already dripping from his fingers. "I love it already."

[writing-quill]

Doodled this to celebrate finally uploading chapter 1 of the OT2 x CotC fic on AO3 woooo

[fateisnotafactor]

Why not just throw part 2 here while I'm at it? Just throwing these on Tumblr as I write, I'll probably clean it up and throw it on AO3 when I get to it.

Continuation of whatever got into my head yesterday, <800 words. (Part 1)

Three days later Shouta and Hizashi are pulling up outside your apartment complex in their SUV. The vehicle is already weighed down with gear, but with a bit of Tetris, Shouta finds a place for your things. Your tent, backpack, sleeping bag are loaded into the back with everything else and Hizashi is already holding open the door and helping you into the back seat.

He doesn’t need to, but he buckles you into the seat, smoothing the strap across your chest as he murmurs a sleepy hello for the fifth time.

“He’s really not a morning person,” Shouta says, dragging the blond away from you and shoving him into the passenger seat. “Hope he didn’t cross any lines, he’s a bit of a cuddle bug,” he adds, smirking as even the mention of the word ‘bug’ causes a shiver to rush through his partner.

You don’t catch it though. You’re too busy rummaging through your bag to grab a quick granola bar to snack on. “You don’t mind if I eat in here, do you?” you ask, the wrapper already torn open, so used to your friend’s crumb-filled car, it didn’t even occur to you how spottless the vehicle was.

“Shou doesn’t mind, just don’t make a mess,” Hizashi says. He yawns loudly as he drops the back of his seat so that his head is just inches from your lap.

You jump a little at the sudden movement, but laugh when he breaks off a piece of your granola bar for himself sending a few crumbs raining down on him.

“As I recall, the only one who makes a mess in here is you.” Shouta gives Hizashi’s knee a squeeze.

Hizashi grins at his partner and reajusts his seat, a middle ground where he’s not leaning all the way back, but can still see you when you talk.

The drive to the trailhead passes quickly as you get to know the pair you realize you know next to nothing about. You learn about their students, a roudy batch of aspiring heroes, always getting into trouble. Shouta’s been pushing for a summer training program for years, get the kids outdoors to show them that not all hero work is done in the big city. There’s plenty of times when emergency rescues will send them out of the city, wildfires, landslides, floods.

Shouta could go on about his students for hours, but Hizashi is getting restless. Itchy. Scratching at his collar as the SUV takes you further into the mountains. The reminders of bug bites, poison ivy, and everything else he hates about the so-called “great” outdoors. He’ll take the climate-controlled studio at the radio station over this anyday.

You perk up as Shouta continues driving past the entrance you normally use. He catches the flash of worry in the rearview as he hums to himself, turning on the radio as he tunes in to a pre-recorded Put Your Hands Up Radio show. Hizashi can’t help but gush about every song that plays, from the date it was released, to trivia about the artist, to the particular version he chose and why. Practically a walking, talking encyclopedia about music, he holds you in rapt attention, hanging on every word.

Finally, Shouta reaches the pull off he was looking for, slowing as he turns up what looks to be an old logging road. The deep tracks tell you that someone still comes up here from time to time, though the fallen log about a mile and a half in appears to the signal the end of the road.

The doors unlock and you’re the first one out, taking in a deep breath of the fresh mountain air. Crisp with the scent of pine playing together with sweet notes of honeysuckle and the earthy dampness of moss. The trees aorund you are brimming with life; bird calls and the hum of insect life echos around you as you take in your surroundings. It feels like home.

Shouta is already lifting the hatch and sorting through the gear as Hizashi complains trying to scrape the mud off his no longer pristine hiking boots with a stick.

“Do we really have to hike anywhere? Isn’t this far enough? C’mon Shou, we’re miles from civilization already.”

“Suck it up,” Shouta orders, gruffly shoving a backpack into Hizashi’s chest.

You can’t help but laugh at the two of them. Shouta continues to sort through the back of the car, dividing the gear into piles. He’s clearly used to Hizashi’s over dramatic antics, paying no mind as the lanky blond cries out as he walks through a spider web.

---

Part 1 (SFW) Masterlist (And where I try to post my fics)

[mortal-kombatants]

Hi! Can I ask for Kuai Liang and Hanzo headcanons, where the reader feels insecure because think they might like someone with good fighting skills (and the reader is completely unaware of this), but they are so nice and cute on their own, that those two are already in love with them?

Good luck growing your blog!

Thanks for the ask and encouragement!!

Instead of going for the "nice and cute" thing, I didn't specify personality traits

Also, Hanzo's probably doesn't seem as romantic as Kuai Liang's does because I usually headcanon him as aroace, so writing him romantically was a challenge, but I tried my best.

Also, since this is a specific scenario, it's a little shorter, so sorry about that

GN!reader, no pronouns used

Kuai Liang/Sub-zero

He doesn't really try to hide the fact that he's in love with you. It's just that he's really bad at showing his own emotions; he does his best, but it usually doesn't end up being enough.

He does think that he shows his love for you well, despite the fact that he can be cold at times without meaning to be, which is what leads you to believe he doesn't care about you.

He spends more time training than with you, so you think that he would prefer someone he could spar with.

When you end up confronting him (because you'll have to do it first), he's immediately apologetic, which doesn't make you feel any better. Once he notices, he tries to explain.

He takes your hands and tells you exactly how he feels about you, just every thought he's ever had.

To your surprise, he didn't have anything bad to say — there wasn't anything even remotely critical.

He talks about all of his favorite things about you, from your appearance to your personality, which ends up just being him talking about you

He only stops talking because you make him. First you tried verbally, but he ignored you and kept going, so you kiss him, which does make him stop

"Do you understand now? I love you."

Hanzo Hasashi/Scorpion

This man is so clueless when it comes to emotions, both yours and his own. It took him what may have been months for him to realize he liked you.

Because of this, he doesn't immediately notice that you has become withdrawn. When he does notice, though, he talks with you about it as quickly as he could.

When you tell him about your insecurity, his first response was "Why?" Because him making an offhand comment about wanting a new sparring partner shouldn't have been able to make you think he didn't like you.

At your expression being more upset, he tries to reassure you.

He tells you how much he likes seeing you do your hobbies, even if he didn't share them. He likes seeing you happy while doing them, and he wouldn't rather have anything else.

"I love you for you, and I don't expect you to change yourself for me. I would never want that from you."

[quillofspirit]

The Shadow of Sorrows

Cleia was supposed to follow a Lieutenant in the hopes of learning their plans. She followed him. She learned the plans. She just might not be alive to spoil them.

Word count 1,700

Status Chapter 1/2

Trigger warnings Violence (only alluded to)

There was a shadow on the wall.

Blinking, appearing and disappearing at a steady pace, assisting in settling her breaths. Cleia found it easier to think about her lungs expanding, filling with heavy air, especially since it took all of her energy. After determining it was in fact not a code, she realized the dot was appearing on all four walls of the small garden. Slowly circling, like a leaf dragged down a whirlpool.

Later, if there was a later, she might think it somewhat of a good thing, since she had a good excuse not to listen to the man babbling away in front of her. Truly, she initially wanted to listen, as she was sent to do, it would be useful information. That plan had, however, been scraped when he discovered and stabbed her with that sword of his.

If anything, it lived up to its name. The weapon was known across the vales and seas, and it brought fear to the hearts of mortals. A traditional looking two-handed sword, but there was nothing traditional about wielding it. It was said to have a mind of its own, to know the quickest way to each soul it sought. When it cut through the skin, it did so quickly enough one might not recognize the wound in the heat of battle. That might be a small mercy, considering the blade had a deep groove running from its tip to the hilt, said to siphon one’s soul to its master. Some believed it would do so slowly, for its victim to feel every last shred of memory, joy, and passion being extracted, leaving nothing but a husk behind, discarded like an old moult. Drained of its very life source.

Or so she’d heard.

The sword had felt like a white hot rod piercing her stomach, and she was sure she would burn from the inside. When he’d taken it out, she had fallen to her knees and felt herself grow cold all at once, body throbbing and heart pumping loudly in her ears. She saw the blade burn red, as her blood ran up the hilt, disappearing somewhere underneath the hand that held it. As she fell on her back, she heard him talking about his plans, boasting about it like he thought she wouldn’t repeat it. He was probably right.

She looked at the sky, clear and a soft blue, unable to turn her head or do much anything else than stare and breathe, though even that was becoming tedious.

The shadow on the walls had stopped circling and grown from a dot to a small silhouette. It remained still, details becoming more clear with each moment. It looked like a bird. How she wished it would guide her soul if by some miracle it didn’t end up in a sword.

She smiled, and almost regretted letting herself enjoy the thought when he mistook it for mockery. Hamund did always have a pride problem, taking everything to heart and doing whatever he thought would gain him favours. He’d changed since they’d shared a bench at dinner, but so had she. At least Cleia wasn’t a hypocrite.

Hamund overtook her field of vision with his face. She could see the scar on his cheek, still red from the last time they’d met. He should have received stitches for it, but he probably had refused them vehemently, and given his worse to the person pointing out a vulnerability. Now, the surrounding skin was a dark red, swelling and moist. Cleia felt a twinge of pride that it would remain on his cheek for a few years at least.

She smirked at him, deliberately now, remembering exactly how she’d given it to him. No doubt he did too, as he squinted and grabbed her collar, pulling her closer.

“You are going to die here, alone,” he spat, and a dark smirk lifted the corners of his mouth, “and they won’t know you are missing until I tell them how pathetically you fought for your life.”

“Oh please, Hamund, you’ve never been able to hold your tongue when you thought you had the upper hand.” She sneered back at him. “That’s how you got your shiny new face decoration.”

He snarled at her, a small twitch animating his darkening eyes, but his attention was taken away. They suddenly found themselves in the shade, when seconds ago they’d been under the full weight of the noon sun. It was like a great cloud had passed. She let herself take a deep breath, as his brow furrowed and his pupils dilated. A quick gust blew sand in their faces, and they heard four thuds.

Hamund took a second to control his shock, putting on a calm facade. When he was sufficiently composed, he stood up, pulling her weak body up with him. She had no energy to fight him, but she could let her body stay limp. She cringed at the idea of being dead weight.

As he barely struggled, Cleia guessed his rapid breathing was not an indication that he lacked strength..

He held her up, one arm circling her shoulders, exposing her neck to the edge of his blade. For a moment, Cleia thought she could hear it singing to her, like the rattle of a snake about to strike. But she couldn’t dwell on that.

All she saw was a great bird-like shadow, silhouetted against the sun. With a powerful beat of its wings, it stepped down the wall, coming to stand before them. No longer blinded by the sun, they stared, and a small gasp left Cleia’s lips, shuddering from disbelief and relief all the same.

Her feathers, a rich brown, were accentuated by bronze, bringing out the almost golden hue of her skin. She still wore the bronze breastplate, and the necklace she swore she’d remove before battle.

Cleia felt her body grow light with newfound energy, having the desire to run to her, but was held back by Hamund. He pulled the blade until it was barely a breath from her skin, but Cleia kept her eyes on Kalendora.

Her hair was a dark brown, the same warm chocolate colour as her wings, still held in a braid. And she wore that calm, focused expression she had before a fight she knew she would win. When had she not won one?

Cleia tried to catch her gaze, but Kalendora was staring at the blade, inches from her skin. When her eyes lifted to Hamund’s, they hardened, and she could have been made of marble. All determination, focus and certainty.

If Cleia had not known her better than herself, she would have felt safer with Hamund. But she did know her. And so did Hamund. His sword was losing stability, so much so that he held the blade further, not wanting to sign away his only bargaining chip.

“This doesn’t concern you, Kalendora.” He barked.

She lifted an eyebrow and considered him.

“You said it yourself!” he tried, “this war doesn’t concern you. You said you wouldn’t fight for a cause that you don’t believe in.”

A drop fell on Cleia’s exposed shoulder, and she realized he’d started to sweat. He thought Cleia would be easy to kill, alone as she appeared. The truth was, Cleia and Kalendora had not been apart for long since they’d met, and the few times they had gone their own way, they always held each other dear.

Hamund had tried to secure his victory by pushing Kalendora to the sidelines; if she didn’t fight neither for him nor for them, he could win his war. Her loyalties would not interfere with his plans. Ironically, his concern with factions and favours had him forgetting why he had considered them friends as kids.

Kalendora’s wrist was resting on the hilt of her sword, the very model for composure, but Cleia saw her her hand itching to grab it. The warrior kept her eyes on Hamund.

“I did say that,” Kalendora said, keeping her tone clear and steady.

She took a step forward and Hamund tutted.

“Dark Void has been calling for her soul,” he said. “Do not tempt me to give it.”

Kalendora stopped and her hands moved to her sides. He gulped and the blade quivered.

“If you spill her blood again, I will feed it yours,” Kalendora spoke, enunciating each word.

Hamund let out a painfully deliberate laugh.

“But I’ve got a much better proposition,” he said.

She looked at him, waiting, and he knew her patience was running thin.

“If I promise to give her back and never let this sword pierce her skin again, you’ll let me go” he stated.

“Deal” Kalendora spoke.

Taken aback by the quickness of her answer, Hamund hesitated, but pulled his sword back and released Cleia all the same. He took twice the steps backwards as Kalendora did to get to Cleia. Reaching for her, Kalendora kept her hands gentle as she helped the woman stand. Cleia looked at her, eyes wide and full of questions. She didn’t get to ask any of them.

“You see Hamund,” Kalendora spoke.

He stilled, halfway to the entrance. His hopes of quietly slipping away were crushed and he was frozen, desperate to make himself one with the wind.

“I’ve known you long enough to understand that you’ll hold your word.”

Kalendora lifted dark eyes to him, and he wondered if the heat was affecting him. Her eyes had always been brown, and she’d always had an ethereal aura about her, but with her great wings protectively embracing Cleia and her eyes flashing gold, he wondered what exactly she had become since their school years.

“I know you’ll do only what you promised. So I can’t expect you to promise that no harm will come to her, from you or from your men, can I?”

His mouth opened and he made a few sounds but no words came out. His eyes were wide, but his pupils slits. His flickered a glance at Cleia, still wrapped in the arms and wings of her protector. When Kalendora let go of her, he started backwards. She turned fully to him and started towards him.

“This isn’t about the war, Hamund.”

She was standing very close to him now, and he made to lift Dark Void. She caught his wrist easily and he felt the bones give under her fingers.

“You made it personal.”

He saw a flash of gold, felt his blood boil under his skin and he was gone.

Maybe one day I'll write all of the winged-characters out of my system...

I still have one in the making

Thank you for taking the time to read this! If you enjoyed, do leave a little comment, let me know what you thought 💚

------

I do not give permission to repost or translate this story or any of its parts.

These are my personal dividers, please do not use them.

[quillomens]

Book Omens Day 2: Book Era

So I didn't post this yesterday because I thought the week wasn't happening, but @book-omens-week came to life, so here it is one day late!

Also here at Ao3!

In the summer of 1984, both Aziraphale and Crowley went into moult.

Moulting was, in the opinions of Earth’s longest serving supernatural agents, approximately as irritating and pointless as hereditary Satanists and televangelists.   Angels and demons lacked both breeding seasons (and reproductive parts, generally) and (in the modern day at least) any dependence on their wings for warmth. This was the twenty-first century, not the fourteenth.  Or the fourth.  Or…the negative thousandth.  Aziraphale, who was especially allergic to anything that stood in the way of his planned hours of reading, avoiding customers, and enjoying meals, declared moulting as “antiquated and bothersome.”  Strong words from heaven’s most British angel.

There were relatively few repercussions to being a supernatural being in a human suit, but the itching, scraping, tickling sensations that assaulted their wings every century or so was one.

Generally, an angel or demon’s wings existed in a sort of “pocket” of ethereal or occult space that didn’t exactly remove them but did keep them in a non-intrusive plane of semi-existence.  This allowed earthly agents to walk the planet without constant worry that they might knock things over or having to sit awkwardly in chairs designed for wingless humans (heaven’s plush office chairs were specifically designed with the comfort of wings in mind; hell’s splinter-ridden wooden straight backs were engineered to crush wings as much as possible).  During the centennial moult, however, the irritation crossed dimensions.  Most agents (all but two, if we’re being honest) immediately scarpered off to their particular home office at the first sign of loosening feathers (even hell had steam baths, relaxing once one blocked out – or grew to enjoy – the screaming of the damned).  Only Crowley and Aziraphale remained stubbornly earthside for the duration.

Chancing opportunistic reassignment to a desk job by certain unfriendly superiors wasn’t worth avoiding a little feathery discomfort.

It was on July 16th in the sixth year of the Antichrist’s existence on Earth that Aziraphale’s antique phone rang pleasantly to indicate a caller.  (It had not always rung pleasantly, but one too many angelic glares and caused it to tone down its original shrill bell.)  The angel plucked it up absently.

“A.Z. Fell Books-”

“’M moulting.”

Aziraphale sighed.  Crowley and his determination for bad manners.  All he said aloud was, “Ah,” and then, “no meeting then?” 

He pretended that he wasn’t disappointed.  The two of them had been meeting nearly weekly for five years now, to go over the reports from their respective agents on the Dowling boy, and Crowley had such an instinct for inconspicuous little restaurants that served absolutely amazing food.  They tended, also, to be rather quiet and empty – most likely due to mob connections, honestly – but having an angel around was known to encourage Good Deeds even in Al Capone, creator of soup kitchens, so Aziraphale didn’t worry about the exact financial backing of Crowley’s collection of little-known brunch spots. As with most things concerning the pair of them, it would all come out in the wash.

“Mm…no,” Crowley agreed.  Then, with smug mischief: “Means you’ll be next, angel.”

What, Aziraphale thought unangelically, a demonic brat.

Aziraphale huffed loftily.  “I am aware, you old serpent,” he snapped, and Crowley snickered down the line.

Their moults hadn’t always been coordinated. Aziraphale’s had been set to his creation, while all demons were reset to their individual Falls.  In the first millennium, they’d never been foolish enough to allow the other to see them in moult.  In the second, Aziraphale had accidentally stumbled upon Crowley moodily moulting in South America, but had been polite enough not to mention the scattered remains of feathers.  In the wake of the Agreement, however, more regular association over the last millennium had come with the extremely unexpected side effect of coordinating their moults.

It was frankly a little embarrassing.

“Well, enjoy!” the demon said cheerfully, mood always buoyed by sharing his frustration with others.  “May the itch be with you!”

He hung up without saying good-bye.  Of course.

(It took several minutes for the joke to properly register, but it did.  Crowley had insisted Aziraphale watch the Star Wars films as payback for attending the opening night of Jesus Christ, Superstar on stage.  “I’m telling you, it’s a classic Greek story, minus the tragic ending,” he’d urged.  “You’ll regret it if you don’t see it on the big screen!  Televisions won’t be nearly big enough for decades!”

Aziraphale had grudgingly admitted that Crowley had been right, though naturally he never said as much out loud.  Couldn’t let Crowley get too full of himself.)

--*--*--*--*--*

Three days later, Aziraphale was a kind-looking being of absolute annoyance.

Apparently, we would be going for a full moult this century, and the musty air of the bookshop was no help to dry and itchy skin.  The last few mobsters he’d sent off had nearly wet themselves, but then, they shouldn’t be trying to buy his bookshop, should they?  And intimidation was such poor taste.

The phone rang.  Even it sounded petulant.

“A.Z. Fe-”

“I have a sort of sauna,” Crowley said, without a greeting and apropos of nothing.

“How lovely for you.”  Aziraphale’s voice didn’t match that word, lovely.  It dripped with sarcasm, instead.

“What I’m saying,” the demon continued, unbothered, “is I have a sort of sauna with a huge tub that would fit two to maybe five human-shaped beings, or two with wings that could use some hydration.”

Aziraphale’s eyebrows rose.  “Are you inviting me to your flat?  To moult?”

A pause.  “I’m…informing you of a possible adventitious situation.”

“In your bathroom.”

“Psh,” Crowley said, though he would deny it under oath, “’s more than a bathroom. More a bath……ah…throne…room.”

Aziraphale let that one slide. 

“Very well,” he said, mood lifting at the thought of steam and warmth and maybe cajoling his friend into plucking a few especially loose feathers he couldn’t easily reach, “I’ll take it under advisement.”

“Right,” the demon growled, and there was the dial tone.

--*--*--*--*--*--

It wasn’t that Aziraphale and Crowley were especially fussed about nudity.  You couldn’t be, living as long as they had, in as many cultures as they had.  Besides, even with the closer connection they’d formed to these latest corporations over the last few centuries, they were still, well, bodies.  Nothing to get excited about.

It was just that Aziraphale could count on one hand, with some fingers taped neatly together, the number of times he’d been to Crowley’s Mayfair flat.  They met covertly all over London to discuss their current…project…and Crowley occasionally popped by the bookshop with wine or dessert or lunch or a book or…whatever else caught his fancy.  But they didn’t meet in Crowley’s flat.  Which Aziraphale was more than fine with – it was much too open, empty, and white for his scattered and cluttered taste.

But the promise of a good steam got him up and moving. 

--*--*--*--*--*--

Crowley wasn’t nervous about having the angel in his flat, because Crowley didn’t get nervous.  Crowley was calm, cool, and collected.  He was the epitome of all the good c’s.  Calm, cool, collected, comfortable Crowley, definitely not bouncing his leg nervously as he guided Aziraphale through his open flat, past the terrified plants, through the bedroom (“Two beds?” Aziraphale asked, but Crowley pretended not to hear.  Two beds was perfectly reasonable.  What if he needed a second bed?  Who was the angel to question his decorative choices?  It didn’t have anything to do with Aziraphale and the possible, if unlikely, scenario that he would need somewhere to stay that was well-warded against angels and demons and less generally known than the bookshop.), and into the promised bathroom.

He heard the happy little sigh as they entered the steam-filled chamber and grinned to himself.

Crowley’s flat wasn’t really his home – he wasn’t the sort to need a home, as he reminded himself on a regular basis.  It was a place he stayed when not out and about doing evil.  As such, the only rooms he really dedicated attention to were the bedroom, because he loved sleeping, the plant room, because they did have certain requirements beyond threats and beratement, and his ridiculously oversized and luxurious bathroom. 

“It’s lovely,” Aziraphale said, a little pink cheeked already.  The recessed pool was already filled with plenty of hot water, the air heavy with steam, the rain-style shower heads keeping up the heat and humidity.  Where most of his apartment was white, this room was a dark charcoal-gray.

Crowley didn’t blush or clear his throat or mutter a random syllable (he did).   “Strip down and step on in,” he said instead, trying to sound officious. 

He was able to slide right in, being of demonic stock, but he had the opportunity to snicker his way through the angel stepping in one toe, ankle, shin at a time.  Aziraphale certainly wouldn’t boil, but he’d be plenty pink after this soak.

Aziraphale shot him one of his patented bitchy looks.  Crowley grinned back toothily.

It was interesting, seeing Aziraphale bare for the first time in a few centuries.  He still wasn’t making an Effort, but his heaven-assigned muscles were covered with a soft layer of fat and downy gold hair.  There were dimples at the small of his back, and a comfortable jiggle to his thighs completely absent in Crowley’s own corporation.  Aziraphale looked comfortable and lived in and…content.  Well, besides the whole end of the world thing. 

Crowley glanced down at himself, mostly hairless, tannish skin slick with sweat, slender from top to bottom.   He fancied he liked his own lived-in body as well.  What a strange old world.

Once they were settled in the seats – “This does remind me of that lovely bath in Turkey, do you remember?” – “’Course I remember.  Why do’ya think it reminds you of it?” – they took twin breaths, leaned forward, and let out their wings.

The angel gave out a low groan that made Crowley laugh, head thrown back, until he caught sight of the poor things.  Their wings were similar in a great many ways – the same bluish-white, strong and broad (if not broad enough to lift them off the ground in any logical or scientific fashion), a little shine in the right light – but where Crowley’s were as neat as possible aside from the crumbling feathers here and there, Aziraphale’s were a mess.

“Still, angel?” he asked.

Aziraphale huffed.  “They’re fine.”

“You look like a feathered hedgehog.”

“Well that, my dear, is just rude.”

Crowley pressed a wet hand to his chest.  “Who, me?  Rude?  To an angel?  Never!”

Aziraphale did not grace him with a response.

The silence relaxed into comfortable familiarity for a time.  Crowley curved his wing close and began the slow process of preening.  Aziraphale closed his eyes and leaned back in the hot water. 

“At least we don’t have to do this every year,” the angel said eventually.  “And it doesn’t take weeks.  Or months.” 

“Months?”

“Saw a film.”

“Right.  Thought you read books.”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes.  Crowley smirked. 

Crowley let his legs float up, scaled toes poking out into the steam.  Aziraphale studied them a moment.  He looked…soft and lazy.  Crowley liked it.  Aziraphale was certainly better at relaxing than he was, but it still didn’t happen every day.

Crowley wiggled his toes. scales rubbing pleasantly.

“Do they shed?”

Aziraphale raised a wrist and waved it lazily.  A find brandy appeared in his hand and, to Crowley’s pleased surprise, the demons.  It didn’t occur to them that perhaps heat didn’t go do well with alcohol, but then, a great many things didn’t occur to them on a daily basis, and it was rarely a problem.

“Birds?”

“No, snakes.  Or.  You.  Your….” Aziraphale waved a hand.  “Your feet or.  Your spine.  Do they shed?”

Crowley took a gulp – he never was much of one for classy sipping.  “Curiosity, Aziraphale?  That’ll get you into trouble.” His smile was sly.

“Do they?”

Ah well, not taking the bait today.  He could never be certain with Aziraphale; that was the fun part.  If he was too easy to fluster, it’d be boring.  And Aziraphale, prim and proper and bitchy and annoying and holier-than-thou and intelligent and sarcastic, was never boring. 

“Yeah.  Sometimes.” 

Aziraphale hummed. 

“Itches.”

Aziraphale nodded.  If the angel slept, Crowley would think he was cozily half- asleep. 

Really, it was a shame the angel didn’t sleep.  Crowley’d love to snap a picture of the angel with his faced squashed in a pillow, maybe drooling a little bit.  Lovely blackmail material. 

Daring and mischievous, he poked one plush knee with his toe.

The angel shot him a half-hearted glare. 

From there, the conversation began along the customary rambling paths, unfamiliar setting not preventing comfortable old arguments or the occasional tipsy giggle.  In the miraculous heat of the bath, as feathers fell and new ones wiggled in, an angel and a demon who certainly weren’t friends chattered and teased and managed to forget, for a few precious hours, about the end of everything they held dear.

(Even, perhaps, each other, though they didn’t say as much.  Of course.)