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llflorence · 2 months

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When you are old - Rated E - human AU, professors, slow burn

It was possible Crowley was even more beautiful five days later.

(Five days? Had it only been five?)

However long it was, it had been an excruciating wait until year's end. Aziraphale's house had never been so clean, his kitchen never so full of homemade treats and delicacies. Stress cleaning and baking had never been one of his 'things,' but apparently, it was now.

When the day finally arrived, he found himself wide awake at the cleft of dawn, staring at his ceiling, second and third and fourth-guessing.

It wasn't that Aziraphale was displeased with himself, with where he was in life. It was just – they were so different! What could Crowley (handsome, intelligent, questioning, enigmatic) see in an overweight, undertoned, introvert of a man?

After breakfast, Aziraphale put on his hat and coat and slid into warm mittens and scarf and took his sad excuse for a middle-aged adult for a walk in the park. He lectured himself about the insecure feelings; he had plenty of things to be proud of. He'd written a book! He'd been to Chicago! He'd successfully designed and constructed a greenhouse in a backyard he owned! He'd –

He'd better get back home and prepare for his date.

Because that's what it was; no explaining it away. He and Anthony J. Crowley were, later that evening, getting in that long lank of a black car and driving north for snowshoeing and hot cocoa, and who knew what else?

It was the 'what else' that had Aziraphale in a panic. It had been a long, long time since he'd been on a date with the potential for 'what else.' What if he turned out to be a disappointment?

But no. That kind of thinking would only make things worse. He had to believe in himself, in Crowley, in – whatever it was they had. One certainly couldn't force one's – well, it was best to leave the future where it was, perpetually out of reach.

One very, very hot shower and a cold towel over the face later, Aziraphale stood in his bedroom staring into the closet. He faced a conundrum: wear something soft and comfortable for traipsing through the woods or something that conveyed how he longed to be rogered over the back of the sofa.

He settled for soft and comfortable (long-sleeved tee, cotton button-down, fleece-lined slacks), but left a few more buttons that he normally did unfastened. He did like the picture it made, exposing the thin skin at the base of his throat (and he wouldn't say no to a good rogering).

Nothing, however, would ever change what he looked like in snow pants. Puffy and voluminous, elastic stretched as far as it would go over his belly, it made him look like the Michelin Man. The large one, from the fifties.

Aziraphale slouched against the mirror in the hallway, forehead touching the cool glass of his reflection.

"OK, Bibendum," he sighed, unable to see his toes over the stack of tires that was his torso. "Time to get our sexy on."

He took off the ridiculous pants and rolled them into a ball, then stuffed them with more force than was necessary into the duffle he'd procured for the occasion.

His heart began to hammer a good half hour before Crowley was expected to collect him, and the vague rumbling in his stomach became a torrent thunderstorm. He started to sweat under all those layers, causing another button to be released, and his hands shook as he tried to tie his bootlaces.

And then, there he was. Dazzling smile, shock of red hair poking out from under his knitted stocking hat. He wore an overstuffed coat and the same scarf from Christmas, but his skin glowed and his eyes shone and he was somehow so much more lively and vividly colored than ever before.

"Hiya, 'Ziraphale!" he purred, voice seductive yet joyful. "Ready to see how absolutely unathletic I am?"

Aziraphale's cheeks were instantly warm. The organ inside his chest jumped and skipped happily along. "I quite think I beat you in that department, my dear."

Crowley positively beamed. He held out his hand to take Aziraphale's bag, offering the other arm like the gentleman he was.

He snorted. "Yeah. Right. Says the amazingly brave individual who bikes to work every day."

The gentle ribbing did something to Aziraphale's brain; he was suddenly not at all nervous, just eager.

And warm.

Crowley fired up the engine, talking animatedly the moment they pulled out of the alley, motioning with his hands, turning his head often to look at Aziraphale. For the first few miles, their smiles matched each other's, and Aziraphale's cheeks became sore from holding it for so long.

"I've always wondered," the energetic man mused, well into a cheerful lecture about Venus and her outstanding characteristics (the planet, not the goddess), "if the clouds of sulfuric acid could be smelled from space. I mean, as a ship full of oxygen approached, would it be overwhelmed by the stench of rotten eggs?"

Aziraphale shook his head and thought Crowley's cheekbones were absolutely perfect.

"The vacuum of space is devoid of molecules, so the smell couldn't even travel to the air inside the craft." Crowley shrugged, both eyes on the road for once. "It's sort of like the old saying, 'If a bear shits in the forest –"

Aziraphale guffawed. "Oh, my dear. I believe the saying is, "If a tree falls in the forest."

Crowley swiveled his head, a smugness hiding at the corner of those thin lips. His eyes pierced the dark interior of the car. "You've got such a lovely laugh."

Aziraphale wavered under the compliment, looking down at his hands in his lap. "Oh. Well. Thank you."

"So. I've told you the story of my inspiration; the nun that taught Astronomy my first year of college," (who, Aziraphale had learned, disappointed most of the students by explaining how it had nothing at all to do with Astrology and that they would find no fortune telling in that class. Not Crowley, of course. He'd been delighted by the nun's dry sense of humor and candid approach to the fact that the universe was much, much older than what her Catholic faith allowed). "How about you? What got you into the art of language?"

Aziraphale very much liked how his colleague – his date – described his profession. "Oh. I don't really remember. I picked up a book when I was young and never put them down."

In the glow from the dash lights, it was easy to see Crowley's gaze linger on Aziraphale's hands before returning to his face (and not the road where they should have been). "Do you remember your first?"

Something skipped in Aziraphale's chest. The man spoke of books as if they were people; Aziraphale felt a sudden kinship blossom between them, stronger than it was before. "Oh. You know," he stalled, finding it difficult to breathe normally. "It was probably some nonsense about a cat chasing a rat carrying a bat."

Crowley still hadn't looked at the road. "Wearing a hat?"

Aziraphale smiled, loving the man's brand of humor, so much like his own. "Something like that."

Crowley laughed and finally turned his eyes to the task at hand. His profile was lovely. "Tell me more. Who was your favorite teacher?"

Aziraphale knew how to answer that. It was both his most favorite at least favorite, at different times. "He – he was a linguistics instructor. Also while I was in college. He opened my eyes to the beauty of the romance languages and the vulgar things done to it when it devolved into English." He cleared his throat, trying to dislodge the instant blockage there. It still hurt to think about it. "And he made me realize what a harsh, cruel, lonely world it could be."

Crowley turned to look at him, although Aziraphale didn't meet his eyes. "He dumped you?"

Aziraphale nodded. "It was my own fault. I was young, and he was French – one tends to lose one's faculties when one meets a Frenchman."

There was a long, uncomfortable moment where Aziraphale regretted saying anything about it at all. He opened his mouth to say so when Crowley's warm hand covered his own.

"It was his loss, the absolute numpty."

Aziraphale smiled, turning his hand in his lap to be able to clutch Crowley's fingers. "Yes. It was indeed."

The conversation turned from the past to the future. They were headed thirty miles north of the city to a small range community where his uncle's farm was located. (Said uncle was currently living in a home with full memory care. Crowley said he visited him twice a month, even though he no longer recognized him.)

"Uncle Fur Fur was a bizarre old fart," Crowley said, squeezing Aziraphale's hand tightly. "Don't be alarmed by what you see there. He was – a bit of a collector, of sorts."

"A collector?" Aziraphale could appreciate a good collection; he fancied himself a curator of words in print form, after all.

"More of a hoarder," Crowley clarified, rubbing his thumb over the ridge of Aziraphale's first knuckle. "He didn't have any kids, and Hastur and Ligur wanted nothing to do with it, so I've been steadily working to move some stuff out. The old farmhouse serves its purpose, though."

Aziraphale rather liked the soft, mushy texture of his insides as Crowley held his hand. "How so?"

The smile on Crowley's handsome face had grown sadly fond. "Well. We don't need a security alarm, that's for sure. I'd be glad to pay someone to steal all the stuff inside the garage alone."

Apparently, it was an ongoing issue in such a rural area. People broke into older, unoccupied homes to steal anything metal they could get their hands on. The money was good, for aluminum and copper especially. Sometimes, people went as far as to rip out gas lines and pipes inside the walls to be able to sell them.

"But that's awful!" Aziraphale gasped, horrified.

Crowley shrugged again. "People have to eat, right? The economy is tough on marginalized individuals. The house should really be torn down. And if they can make money off things my uncle no longer needs — ?"

Still shocked, Aziraphale felt even more warmth toward his date. "I feel like you could find the goodness in anything."

Crowley arched an eyebrow and said nothing as they pulled off the highway and onto a side road. Aziraphale looked out the window and relished the way their hands seemed to fit so well together.

They took another turn and drove down a dirt road that looked as if it hadn't been plowed in some time. Crowley's car didn't seem to have a problem with it, but he did let go of Aziraphale's fingers to be able to grip tightly to the wheel. He piloted the vehicle through the deep snow and gunned it over the frozen sludge left by a plow, settling into a driveway next to a garage that had seen better days.

It was boarded up, the paint peeling and faded. Each of the two overhead doors were padlocked, probably to deter further broken windows. And as Crowley killed the engine, a security light turned on over the front door of the shoddy-looking house, shining on the glossy black hood of the car and nearly blinding them.

Crowley got out of the car and trudged through the snow to Aziraphale's side. "Come on," Crowley said, opening his door and offering that ever-present hand. "Let's go inside. Don't bother taking off your boots."

Aziraphale hoisted himself from the low-slung seat, and Crowley collected two bags, one for each of them, from the back seat. He clicked his tongue as he passed as if to a horse, jerking his head toward the house. Aziraphale followed (it was unlikely there was nowhere he wouldn't).

The pressure from opening the front door pushed a wave of warm air outside. Aziraphale hadn't expected the place to have electricity, let alone heat. He stomped his feet on the mat and stepped inside, totally unprepared for what he saw as Crowley turned on the hall light.

He hadn't been kidding that his uncle had a lot of stuff. There were assorted-sized boxes piled against both walls, furniture loaded with more boxes, some packed, some not. The floor in the living slanted dangerously downhill into the adjoining kitchen, which was also full to the brim with a variety of things.

"See what I mean?" Crowley drawled as he lifted both bags above his waist and moved between the stacks of boxes. There was just enough room for a walkway into the living area, but then no space at all to sit on the horrible yellow-flowered sofa, or the ratty-rust-orange overstuffed chair.

"Yes. I do," Aziraphale said, turning sideways to be able to fit.

He followed Crowley into the kitchen, where a bigger area had been cleared. One could make out the cracked-green linoleum that had begun to roll back on itself. It was warmer here; Crowley had apparently freed up the vent so that the heating ducts could work properly. The warm air blew out at their feet, filling the kitchen with a musty reheated smell that was just this side of unpleasantness.

"Fur Fur had cats," Crowley said, wrinkling his nose. He set the bags down on the slanted floor next to a small wooden table, two matching chairs tucked underneath. "I don't think I'll ever get rid of the smell."

More of a dog person himself, Aziraphale did like cats, as long as they were somebody else's.

"Take a seat. Figure we can dress inside where it's warm before we venture outside."

Crowley pulled out a chair for him, and Aziraphale took it. He pulled his duffle closer and watched as Crowley did the same, sinking into his chair with a weary-sounding exhale.

He looked up, cheeks pink, and smiled. "Would you like an energy bar before we go? Bathroom break?"

Aziraphale hesitated before saying yes to the loo. Who knew what kind of mountain he'd have to climb to get there?

He needn't have worried, though. It appeared Crowley had begun with the bathroom. It was completely emptied, ceramic tub and sink and toilet all sparkling clean. He did his business and returned to the kitchen, where Crowley had removed his boots so he could wiggle into his snowsuit.

It was like watching a snake shedding its skin, only in reverse. Like he was crawling back into it. Crowley arched his back and bent at the waist, pulling the one-piece contraption over his knees and thighs and then –

Oh, his eyes were so pretty.

"It's cold out," he said plainly, although his eyes said something more. Narrowed and teasing, that one eyebrow arched upward, he made a stunning picture as he threaded one arm through a sleeve. "No wind, but we better bundle up."

The one-piece garment was tight and fit incredibly well. It made his long legs were even longer, and it left little to the imagination (what exactly was the man packing in the region below his navel?).

Aziraphale averted his eyes and sat in the chair to remove his boots, too. He dug in the bag, refusing to even chance a glance at the man standing so close, zipping into his snow gear in a way that was almost –

Well.

He looked up and found himself being watched with a seductive smirk. Crowley had paused his zippering in the act, forefinger and thumb holding tight to the pull. His gaze fell on Aziraphale as he had put both feet through into his snow pants, as he leaned forward to get up out of the chair, as he shuffled clumsily into them, as his face flushed hot.

Getting dressed had never before been so sensual.

Crowley finished with his zipper and began with his boots again, tying them smartly and standing tall. "I'll just head out and get the snowshoes. Meet me by the car when you're ready."

Aziraphale, sweating under the close scrutiny, would probably never be wholly ready. But he smiled and he nodded and he collapsed back onto the chair the second he heard the front door close.

"Oh my lord," he breathed, sucking in his gut where the button pushed uncomfortably into his navel. "What am I getting myself into?"

Crowley was waiting at the rear of the car when Aziraphale shut the door behind him. He stood in the harsh overhead light, a pair of jet-black metal snowshoes slung over one shoulder. There was a tilt to his head and a tooth-baring grin. And a little white tag dangling from the end of one shoe.

"Are these – did you buy these new?"

Crowley looked over his shoulder at the price tag, ripping it off with bare fingers and stuffing it into his side pocket. "Of course!" he smirked, nonplussed by the omission. "Nothing but the best for my Aziraphale, after all."

Aziraphale tripped and nearly fell to the ground (to make snow angels, of course).

"Where are we going?" Aziraphale asked, not even trying to hide how it felt to be called such a name.

"The cabin."

"The cabin?" It seemed there was an echo.

Crowley handed over the snowshoes and returned to the trunk for a second pair, also brand new. "Yep. There's a river that runs alongside the property border. Fur Fur built a little place before he started losing his marbles. It's really very charming."

Aziraphale fumbled with the straps as he adjusted them to his size and did absolutely nothing but think about how charming his companion was.

Crowley was elegant, even as he sat spread-eagle on the ground. Even as he struggled with his own straps. He listened and watched carefully as Aziraphale showed him how to slide his boot all the way into the toe piece, then wrap the strap around his heel. He tried and tried and tried without success to copy him while Aziraphale smiled and smiled and smiled. In the end, he got down on his hands and knees with Crowley's boot between his legs, reaching under the man's knee to help him out.

"Be kind," Crowley joked, his low thrum of a voice close to Aziraphale's ear. "I'm going to look like a clown in these things. All elbows and knees and long, crooked nose."

Aziraphale finished with the binding and sat back on his heels. "You'll look nothing of the sort. And I'll have you know that I happen to find your nose attractive."

That one eyebrow peaked once again and Crowley waggled both feet back and forth. Aziraphale didn't try to hide his satisfied smirk, and finished strapping his own boots into the contraptions.

They set out slowly in the dark, taking the direction Crowley indicated. It appeared to be a trail, double wide, wide enough for two cars to pass, although there was no road. The man exaggerated each step, like a diver wearing flippers out of the water. Aziraphale kept a wide berth, giving him plenty of room for those elbows and knees, hiding the fact that he himself was well out of shape for that kind of exercise.

They stopped several times to laugh and tease and joke (of the gentle kind, of course). And as the twilight gave way to night, the stars came out in full force. Even without a moon of any sort, Aziraphale could see clearly how happy Crowley looked. He hoped it was the same for him.

At one point, they paused to rest and were assaulted by the bark of a coyote, followed by the excited yapping and yipping and barking howls of more.

Crowley reached for Aziraphale's elbow and squeezed hard. "That sounded close." He peered intently into the darkness. It was endearing how protective (or scared or both) the grip appeared to be.

"There's no wind," Aziraphale explained, sounding surer than he felt. "We seem to be in their territory."

Crowley stiffened, and Aziraphale laughed. "No cause for worry. They won't attack us; I'm too big and you're too scary for that."

Crowley frowned sideways at him. "In California, they come right up to you in the city. Aren't afraid of humans one bit." He shook Aziraphale's arm gently. "And there'll be no more of that self-deprecation as long as I'm here. Understood?"

The temperature had dropped below zero after nightfall. Aziraphale could see both of their breaths. His cheeks were still very warm. "Understood."

They continued forward for a time, Crowley reminiscing about where he'd been born, grown up, and lived. Aziraphale walked beside him, breathing deeply, loving the sound of the man's voice in the woods. The snow muffled it, and the trees bounced it back to them. And the fact that it was black outside made it seem that much more mysterious.

Just as Aziraphale was about to ask for another rest, they turned a gentle corner, and a large, dark shape loomed ahead.

"Is that it?"

Crowley paused to take off a glove and reach into a pocket. He pulled out some kind of remote and clicked it. A light on a pole turned on overhead, shining down on them like a phone call from god.

"Yep," he said, zipping the remote back into a pocket and hurrying back into his glove. "And we've got three minutes to punch in the security code before a call is made to the local police chief."

Aziraphale made a squeaking sound, and Crowley took off for the building, now bathed in pale yellow light, and not looking like a cabin at all.

It was a house. A rather large house. An A-frame with massive windows, all of it natural wood colored and dark inside.

Crowley hurried through the snow, shuffling his feet in an expertly way that didn't make him seem at all like an amateur. It was difficult to keep up, and Aziraphale couldn't help but smile as he considered the fact that his date had used the snowshoes as an excuse to get him way out there in the woods to show him –

To show him what, exactly?

Puffing great billowing clouds of moisture, Aziraphale caught up at the side door. Crowley had already typed in the security code into an outdoor pad, then reached through the open door to flip breakers inside an electrical box. Things inside began to hum, indicators flashed into on positions. And Crowley turned to look over his shoulder.

"Welcome to the cabin," he said, sinking to the snow-covered ground and deftly working his straps loose. He kicked out of both shoes before Aziraphale had undone one, then crouched forward to help him with the other.

He was sheepish when he spoke again. "You mad at me about the —?" He waved vaguely towards the discarded snow shoes.

Aziraphale smiled because there was nothing else to do. "Dreadfully."

"Great!"

And Crowley helped him to his feet, guided him through the door and into the building.

It was colder inside, the shellacked wood floors creaking and snapping under their booted feet. Built from all wood materials, the place had an open-air design. The large, square windows on one wall all faced what was presumably the invisible river.

"Ready for a tour?"

Aziraphale blinked in wonder at Crowley’s child-like eagerness. It was contagious. "Of course!"

Where the old house was cluttered and stifling and old, this new place was the exact opposite. There wasn't any furniture, the walls bare and undecorated. Everything was spotless, and, although every surface was covered with a fine layer of sheetrock dust and littered with lady beetle carcasses, unlived in.

"Old codger only stayed in it for one summer," Crowley mused, voice echoing in the large, uncarpeted space. "Some friends helped clean it out, and we helped pay for the security detail. Been sitting alone here, in the woods, for a few years."

The ceiling over the living space was at least two stories high. Crowley led them up a wide staircase to a landing above.

Aziraphale's breath had already been taken away from the exercise. The beauty of the place was captivating.

"Look up," Crowley suggested as they reached the top of the stairs. A row of skylights ran from left to right, with a larger one over what appeared to be a sleeping space.

Crowley walked carefully across the wood floor, not wanting to slip from the snow packed in his boots. He stopped mid-center and cranked his neck back.

"I'm going to put a great, big, fluffy bed right here in the middle. So I can lay here at night and look up at the stars."

Aziraphale did a double take. "What? You're going to live here?"

Crowley hummed without tearing his eyes from the overhead view. "It's why I moved north from California. Fur Fur designated me as executor, and my brothers want nothing to do with the maintenance. Figured I'd keep the old house to deter the locals. Live here in the summer and spend winter in the city until I retire. Then take up residence here permanently."

He dropped his chin and made the most startling eye contact. "There's no one about for miles and miles."

Aziraphale laughed nervously under such an intense gaze. "That's wonderful."

He sounded terrified.

Crowley showed him the little work-study off the landing, the single bath with the shower, then headed back downstairs. There he took Aziraphale to the larger bathroom with jetted tub, past the laundry room and out a second door.

The patio was narrow and sprawling, with a screened porch all the way around. Crowley allowed Aziraphale to pass into the space, gone quietly sullen, all of a sudden.

"It's very nice," Aziraphale said, unsure of himself now and hoping to recover. "Plenty of room for your pets and a lot of light for your plants."

"It's a little too much space for me," he responded sadly. And then, cheering up, "Are you hungry?"

Aziraphale welcomed the warmth of that smile. "Only if you are."

Crowley turned and muttered something under his breath, heading back into the house, where he lifted his backpack off his shoulders.

He set the bag on the long marble countertop. Out came a thermos, two cups, a container of fruit. A package of crackers. A long cylinder of summer sausage. A ziplock bag of cheese. A knife.

"I'm no Frenchman," he said with a smirk, ripping open each package and laying it on the table. "And I hope you'll forgive me, but I did bring wine."

Aziraphale took the thermos from him, unscrewed the cap, and let it breathe. A red. Fruity. Sweet. Just like someone else he knew.

Crowley rounded up a couple of stools while Aziraphale poured. He carried one in each hand, still grinning like he was up to something untoward. Even if it was the plotting of evil-doing, Aziraphale would have been none the wiser. He thought Crowley hung the moon.

Wine from a thermos with Crowley was divine, even in the frigid emptiness of a barely used kitchen. They sat together at the counter, smiling as they enjoyed the impromptu picnic and shared company alike. Aziraphale lost track of time; his nose grew cold, and his feet did, too. But he didn't care. Truthfully, it was all quite lovely for a first date.

Eventually, nature called, and they packed up Crowley's bag and locked down the house. There was an outhouse a ways back in the woods that didn't require plumbing, and what looked like a shed with a stovepipe off the porch. Possibly a sauna?

Crowley did his own strappings this time while Aziraphale felt mildly disappointed. It would have been nice to have a reason to get close. Especially now that he knew his companion had planned the whole thing. There was a suggestion in it, a hint at a hopeful future. And Aziraphale's chest felt tight as he thought about that future.

(It could also have been the food and wine, too.)

Without haste, they headed back the way they'd come. It was much later now, and the stars had come out in the thousands. Crowley stopped several times to point up and gape at the Milky Way. The starlight was so bright, reflecting off the snow, that they didn't need a moon to be able to see each other's faces.

"Pop quiz," Crowley said, practically bouncing on his heels. Aziraphale's toes were freezing. "Any idea what the brightest object in the sky is?"

Aziraphale nudged a little closer, until the toes of their snowshoes pressed right up against each other. He liked the shadows playing on Crowley's face. It accentuated his cheekbones and drew every ounce of Aziraphale's attention to his mouth.

"That's a trick question. You're trying to fool me."

Crowley looked down on him, a flash of white teeth as he spoke. "Who me? I would never –"

"It's the sun, of course," Aziraphale interrupted, garnering a sound of surprise and pride from his companion.

"Clever Aziraphale."

The praise was enough to start something brewing deep down, an ache that had been hovering somewhere about his navel the entire evening.

Crowley leaned forward for more teasing. "How about the second?"

If Aziraphale could sing, he would. "That would be the moon, my dear."

"Very good!" Crowley took off a glove and brushed his knuckles over Aziraphale's cheek. "And the third?"

Aziraphale shook his head. His nose dripped unhelpfully. If he were to open his mouth just then, he'd be proclaiming something he knew would not be well-timed. He didn't want to break the spell.

"The third brightest object," Crowley said softly, withdrawing his hand and leaning impossibly close, "is –"

It was too much. Aziraphale was done resisting. He never heard what it was that shined so bright after the moon. He reached up and wrapped a hand around the man's long, thin scarf. He pulled him in. He didn't care that his nose was running and his feet were ice, because his lips were warm. And so were Crowley's.

It was a brief thing, this first, fervent kiss, the angle awkward for each. Aziraphale was up on his frozen toes, and Crowley had been pulled forward and slightly off-kilter. And Aziraphale felt right away that it was unbalanced in more ways than one.

He pulled back, gave the man's space back to him. Oh, how stupid could one person be? Taking something so dear without asking –

"I – I'm sorry," Aziraphale began, stomach dropped clear to the ground as he looked immediately away. "I thought –"

But Crowley took a step forward where there wasn't any room to, carefully rocking up onto Aziraphale's snowshoes with his own. A bare hand slid over Aziraphale's cheek, under his scarf, to the back of his neck. And when he looked up, Crowley, head tipped slightly, mouth open and eyes wide, touched the point of Aziraphale's chin with his thumb.

"Aziraphale."

He hadn't gotten it wrong; he'd been so very right. Hearing his name said like that was proof enough.

Crowley hovered for an exquisite moment before tipping Aziraphale's head back with the thumb on his chin. His eyes were ablaze, his whole body leaning and determined, and Aziraphale was weak for it. With quivering lips, he closed his eyes and met Crowley in the middle. Chest pressed against chest. A hand on the man's upper arm. Breath hot and humid between them. And then –

Crowley kissed him, well and properly kissed him. And it was everything.

When you are old - on AO3

#ineffable husbands #aziracrow #crowley #aziraphale #good omens #llflorence

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foursprouthealth-blog · 6 years

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8 People Who Taught Us to Love Our Bodies in 2017

New Post has been published on http://foursprout.com/health/8-people-who-taught-us-to-love-our-bodies-in-2017/

8 People Who Taught Us to Love Our Bodies in 2017

Generally speaking, 2017 was pretty rough. We can all agree hate reared its ugly head way too many times. But it also forced us to find common ground—and realize we’re not so different after all, no matter what we look like.

With the year (finally) coming to close, we want to celebrate all the regular people who made the biggest difference in how we see ourselves. Check out these eight inspirational badasses who shared their stories and changed the way we look at our bodies.

1. The Woman Who Reminded Us to Love the Things We Can’t Change

This is apart of me I’m not changing. 🚫 Not only do I not have the finances to chance this part of my body, I don’t have the emotionality to change it. To actually undergo the surgery I’ve researched and phoned in about so many times, I can’t do it. ❌ I don’t blame others for going through it, it’s just not something that I can do. I honestly don’t even hate this part of me anymore, through #embracethesquish I have found more and more women who help me accept this part of myself. 🌸 There’s nothinggggg to be ashamed of. A body part that doesn’t look like the body parts you’ve seen PLASTERED in the media, doesn’t make it wrong. Yes it’ll feel wrong to embrace. Yes it’s counterintuitive to love yourself as is. Yes there will be moments where you’re not fucking good at accepting yourself. And you’ll truck through all of them, just like you have with the last x amount of years of yourself. When I get messages from my friends, people from my city, women from other countries, on different continents, within different cultures that tell me I help them love themselves a bit better, I end up loving myself a bit more in the process. GOOD ATTRACTS GOOD. If what you’re doing right now DOESNT feel good, STOP. Start doing something that might be a little scary (but may be a little fun) and try something new. Chasing yourself in circles fuelled by dislike, hate, negativity will NOT equal out to a positive, well balanced, harmonious, loving, soothing, body, mind or soul. If could all just embrace the squish a little more maybe we wouldn’t be as rigid to ourselves and to others. #selflovebootcamp #selfloveisthebestlove #beyourownhero #beautybeyondsize 💞💞💞💞💞

A post shared by K E N Z I E ⚡️ B R E N N A (@omgkenzieee) on Jan 30, 2017 at 8:40am PST

When Kenzie Brenna lost a ton of weight, it didn’t disappear without a trace. It became loose skin, which is what happens to pretty much everyone. So what makes Brenna so special? Rather than obsessing over and hating her imperfections, Brenna started the process of learning to love and accept them. She reminded us how important it is to embrace our bodies as they are instead of pinching and prodding and falling into a circle of self-hate.

Read the full story here.

2. The Guy Who Reminded Us Not to Take the Wellness World Too Seriously

COMPLEX CARBS // Still think that delicious beige food is bad for you? You’re wrong. Why? Let me spell it out for you… . . 1) They taste fucking great and make you happy. 2) They’re brain food. Your think tank runs on glucose and is actually your hungriest organ, using up a load of energy each day. Eating carbs keeps you sharp and awake. (Omg that’s actual science stuff. I’m not even taking the piss. I have no idea where that came from. It just slipped out, sorry.) 3) Dr Heinz and his Alphabet Spaghetti are a prime example of just how complex (and therefore great for your IQ as well as energy levels) carbs can be. You don’t see Algebraic turkey steaks or String Theory coconut oil, do you? Exactly 4) Is anyone else hungry looking at this picture? I am. And I’ve just eaten it. 5) sorry, I’m rambling now. Maybe my glucose is probably low. I should probably have a bag of chips. 6) Speaking of chips. Sunday hangovers would be a whole lot worse without the warming blanket of deep-fried beige to coddle you back to health after too many bottles of blue WKD the night before. . . So, actually, the issue of carbs isn’t complex at all. It perfectly simple. Tell TOWIE to fuck off and say yes to Carbs before, during, after, in and around Marbs. You deserve it.

A post shared by Wellness Ted (@wellness_ted) on Nov 19, 2017 at 5:42am PST

As the husband of Insta-famous health blogger @wellness_ed, Edward Lane (a.k.a. @wellness_ted) knows too well how artificial the online wellness community can be. (Does anyone actually flex like that all the time? Do they ever eat anything other than salads?!) Lane created a parody Instagram to tell the world that NOPE, nobody looks like that all the time. And there’s definitely no reason anyone should feel obligated to. In case you forgot, you don’t need six-pack abs to be healthy.

Read the full story here.

3. The 105-Year-Old Who Still Teaches Yoga

If you think you’re too old to do the splits, think again. Lil Hansen is 105 years old and still teaches yoga once a week at the senior center in her hometown of Ludington, Michigan. She’s been doing it for years and has no plans to stop anytime soon. A viral news article published by Hansen’s hometown news station reminded the world that yoga (and fitness) is for every body, not just young ones.

See the video here.

4. The Woman Who Called Out Shapewear for What It Is

Same girl, same day, same time. 💛 Not a before and after. Not a weight loss transformation. Not a diet company promotion. 💛 I am comfortable with my body in both. Neither is more or less worthy. Neither makes me more or less of a human being. Neither invites degrading comments and neither invites sleezy words. 💛 We are so blinded to what a real unposed body looks like and blinded to what beauty is that people would find me less attractive within a 5 second pose switch! How insanely ridiculous is that!? 💛 I love taking these, it helps my mind so much with body dysmorphia and helps me rationalise my negative thoughts. 💛 Don’t compare, just live for you. There is no one on this planet who’s like you and that’s pretty damn amazing don’t ya think. The world doesn’t need another copy, it needs you. 💛 We are worthy, valid and powerful beyond measure 💙🌟 (If you don’t pull your tights up as high as possible are you really human?)

A post shared by Milly Smith 💛🌻☀️👑 (@selfloveclubb) on Jan 29, 2017 at 10:45am PST

Celebs and regular people alike swear by shapewear and its (admittedly amazing) smoothing powers. But Milly Smith, a body-positivity advocate, took to Instagram to remind us how dangerous shapewear can be for our self-perception. It’s important, Smith said, to remember we’re all attractive and worthy whether we have our Spanx on or not.

Read the full story here.

5. The Plus-Size Model Who Highlighted the Beauty of Every Body

As a photographer and plus-size model, Silvana Denker knows how unwelcoming the world can be to plus-size women. To fight back and (literally) highlight the beauty of every body, Denker made a photo project called “Metallic Curves,” where she painted plus-size women in silver and gold paint to capture all their curvy beauty.

Check out the full series here, and read the story here.

6. The Mom Who Redefined What “Bikini Body” Means

Kirsten Bosly, a 41-year-old mother of two, spent years avoiding taking photos with her kids because of how self-conscious she was. But after realizing that one day, photos would be all her kids had left of her, she decided that how she looks in a bathing suit means nothing to the people who love her. The result was an adorable photo at the beach with her kids, which she posted on Facebook along with a super-inspiring message about letting go of shame.

Read the full story here.

7. This “Big Girl” Who Proved You Can’t Judge Someone Based on Their Appearance

Here’s to the big girls who work out. I’ll be honest — it still makes me cringe to refer to myself as big, but at 5’9 and 200+ lbs. it’s an accurate descriptor. I’ve worked out 4-6 days a week every week since February of 2010. That’s almost 7 years. I’ve been vegetarian since August 2015 and vegan since March 2016. I have practiced Transcendental Meditation for 2 years. I eat so many vegetables. I’m healthy AF. And yet my BMI places me squarely in the “obese” category. That’s right — not even overweight. Straight-up obese. My doctor’s office file says I have non-morbid obesity. I don’t think of it that way. I think of my body in terms of the fact that I just did a 52-minute @fitnessblender lower-body workout and I feel great. When I was young, a kid and a teen and even into my 20s, I believed the people who told me I was out of shape, unathletic. I love my dad dearly, but he was one of them. I felt humiliated to huff and puff and turn red and drip sweat when I exercised. I hated to be worse at *anything* than anyone. I saw exercise as punishment. I believed Jillian Michaels when she said I should want to die in the midst of a workout. But I overcame it. I still struggle with my body. But I don’t struggle with how I feel in it. I feel fantastic in it. So fuck BMI and fuck diet culture and fuck Lululemon for not carrying my size. But it doesn’t matter because my workout pants don’t need to cost $90. Here’s to the big girls. We are amazing. And if you’re a big girl who doesn’t work out, you’re amazing too. You have nothing to prove.

A post shared by Katie Karlson (@katieakarlson) on Jan 10, 2017 at 9:29am PST

Katie Karlson is a total badass. She’s 5’9″, weighs more than 200 pounds (yep, that makes her obese according to her BMI), is vegan, and has worked out four or more days per week for the last SIX years. In a powerful Instagram post, Karlson explained how messed up it is that everyone assumes big girls (and guys) are lazy or unfit and how the fitness industry doesn’t cater to her size.

Read the full story here.

8. The Nude Yogi Who Wants You to Love Your Naked Body

When I was younger I tried to make myself look shorter. At first when I was in primary school I was jelous of my tinier friends… They were so cute. People were lifting and holding them in their arms and it looked fun. I felt giant. Also at the same time I did team gymnastic and one year I didn’t qualify for the team like all of my friends did and it was obviously the “first team”. Nobody ever told me why but in my mind it was because I was too tall. I was one head taller than others in that team and because it’s also an aesthetic sport, it would make the team unbalanced. ❤ Eventually boys came in the game… I was taller than all nice boys and I hated it. In particular in all discos where the dance was slow… I tried to have bad posture on purpose to look as short as possible. ❤ Until I started to do modelling I thought that I’m never going to be able to use high heels. That I’m too tall to enjoy beautiful shoes. (And in the “model world” I was hoping that I would be even taller!) ❤ It would have been nice to know at a young age that one day my height could and will be my strenght which I really like. At festival concerts I can see well over all the heads. I don’t need chairs to get to the top closet. Etc. Now I’m proud and very grateful of my every centimeter. I just wanted to tell you how I struggled for many years with my height, if this can give hope to some who are in same situation. 😊 #NYGyoga

A post shared by Nude Yoga Girl (@nude_yogagirl) on Sep 8, 2017 at 10:03am PDT

Nude Yoga Girl might look like she has zero insecurities (she is posing naked, after all), but that couldn’t be further from the truth. In a candid Instagram post, the anonymous yogi-slash-photographer reminded us we’re all insecure—but that doesn’t mean we should hide behind our fear. She opened up about her journey coming to terms with her height and how yoga helped her love her body just how it is.

Read the full story here.

#Health

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