#smolalienbeewrites

[smolalienbee]

s1 geraskier // When the bard first joins him on the path, Geralt doesn’t think he’ll remain by his side long. Jaskier, though, repeatedly proves him wrong.

The first night they spend together, Geralt half expects the bard to try and jump his bones. He doesn’t, though, apparently too occupied composing his next song.

“How about -” he strums the lute, making a series of noises that Geralt doesn’t think he’ll ever get accustomed to.

They sit by a fire together. Two bedrolls nearby, next to one another, and that, also, is a new sight. The bard was quick to claim a spot right next to Geralt, all while muttering something about needing to keep warm at night. Geralt didn’t protest it.

“No, that’s not quite right, is it - I should try -”

“Bard,” Geralt grunts.

Finally, the bard looks at him. His eyes widen when he notices the food that Geralt is holding out towards him.

“You haven’t eaten since we left Posada,” Geralt says simply.

And it’s not so much that Geralt is worried about him. It’s more so that he doesn’t want to have a dead body on his hands and, for some reason, the bard refuses to leave.

“Oh. Oh, how lovely. Thank you.”

He will. It’s just a matter of time before he does, Geralt thinks.

Their first fight happens when the bard stubbornly refuses to let Geralt cross through Blaviken. He learns quick, apparently, because after that first punch, not only does he not bring up the tales of a butcher, but also his scent fills with both concern and rage whenever someone else does.

Now, he stands stubbornly in front of Roach, arms crossed as he looks up at Geralt.

“No, no, no, Geralt, you don’t really want to go there, do you?”

“It’s the quickest route.”

“And it is also Blaviken! We can go around, why are you in such a rush all of a sudden?”

“I’m going,” Geralt growls at him, already steering Roach to step around him. “You can stay behind if you so choose, bard.”

This will be it, Geralt thinks. No more of lute melodies or irritating songs. Just blessed silence that he now so dreads.

“Oh for Melitele’s sake.”

To Geralt’s surprise, there’s a heavy sigh from behind and then footsteps follow. The bard rushes after him.

“Geralt, slow down! I’m coming. I’m coming! Gods, you can be so stubborn sometimes. Did you truly believe I was going to let you go there alone?”

“Hm.”

Geralt doesn’t say that he did.

The first time the bard sings Toss A Coin in front of an audience, Geralt sits in the back and fears the worst.

They have just arrived in this town and most of the people gathered at the tavern seem blissfully unaware of a witcher’s presence. The bard has gone through his usual repertoire of jaunty tunes and Geralt hasn’t been expecting him to get to this one - in fact, he’s certain the reason the bard hadn’t brought it up before is because he knew Geralt would protest it.

Now, though, it’s too late. The bard sings of elves and devils, a nicely colorized version of what had happened in Posada.

It doesn’t go well.

But rather than blame Geralt for it, the bard is furious with the crowd around him. Even if Geralt hadn’t believed the bard’s words, his posture, his scent, they all give it away. The way he puts himself in front of Geralt when they leave, as though trying to shield him from the townsfolk.

“Absurd, this is simply absurd,” the bard huffs and puffs once they’re outside. “They know nothing! How can they claim that - gods, they don’t even know you, if they had known the things you’ve done for them -”

“Bard.”

“No, no, don’t give me that, don’t tell me this is fine, it is very much not!”

“You don’t even know what I was going to say.”

“Well, I think I’ve been around you enough to be able to guess, my dear friend.”

Friend.

It’s the first time the bard has called him his friend.

After a particularly bad hunt, Geralt stumbles into their room still high on potions, black veins running through his face and all senses heightened, painfully so.

The moment he opens the door, the bard begins to ramble, except he cuts himself off as soon as he looks up and his eyes land on Geralt.

The bard blinks, slowly, and the movement of his body rings loudly in Geralt’s ears. He tries not to read too much into the bard’s expression or the way his heart skips a beat as he continues to stare. Instead, Geralt continues forward on unsteady legs until his knees hit the edge of the bed and buckle underneath him. He sways, but to his surprise there’s a hand on his shoulder that steadies him

“Alright, big guy, slowly,” the bard says, his voice barely a murmur. As though he knows how loud everything is, how overwhelming. As though he listened when Geralt had told him about the potions, about their effects.

He must have.

“Come on, now. Let’s - yeah. Let’s get you sitting.”

And the bard sits with him, not a trace of fear on him, even as Geralt trembles with the aftershocks, more beast than a human.

It’s the first time Geralt dares to believe that Jaskier will stay.

#smolalienbeewrites #geraskiersource #geraskier #twn #geralt of rivia #geralt x jaskier #jaskier x geralt #jaskier the bard #julian alfred pankratz #the witcher #witcher #jaskier #geralt #ever since i rewatched 1x02 yesterday this has been plaguing me #just early s1 geraskier #immediately after posada #and geralt constantly thinks jask wont stick around #and they're both still learning each other #just #yeah #i have a lot of thoughts but i only managed to get out this 800 words #we'll see if thats enough for me to deal with these thoughts #fully abandoned my rewatch mid 1x04 just to write this

[smolalienbee]

Makeshift Saints and Sacred Sinners

Chapter 1: Should I Stay or Should I Go?

good omens // aziraphale/crowley // a human AU set in the 90s with punk!Crowley // rated M // chapter 1/10 His entire life, Aziraphale's been taught that what’s different is wrong. Sinful. He’s supposed to fit into the mould carefully crafted by his family and the society at large - pray regularly, attend university, marry young, buy a little house and have two children. And then, he meets Crowley.

read full chapter on AO3 here!

There’s something holy in the silence and the stillness of an empty church.

Aziraphale walks down the aisle, his footsteps echoing underneath elaborate wall paintings and tall stained glass windows. It’s pretty. Everything is lined with gold; the artworks depict biblical scenes that Aziraphale is all too well familiar with. He could spend hours here just marvelling at the craft that went into designing this place, its architecture… perhaps another time.

For now, as he walks, each step measured, he keeps his gaze directed upwards - towards God, of course. As he approaches the confessional, he murmurs a silent apology for encroaching upon this holy ground. He knows that, technically, he isn’t barred from entry or even prayer in a church such as this one, but it still feels… wrong, somewhat.

He hopes he’s welcome regardless.

With a deep inhale, he steps inside the booth. He has never been in one before, he realises just then - it’s smaller than he’s imagined it to be and the wooden bench is, frankly, rather uncomfortable. Well, perhaps it’s all part of repentance.

Once he’s seated, Aziraphale is silent. He stares ahead at the purple fabric separating him from the rest of the church. He tries to gather his thoughts - he’s not entirely sure how to go about this, a confession. Should he merely pray, the way he usually does? Or would it be more appropriate to speak, the way Catholics do it?

“Take your time, my child.”

A small yelp escapes Aziraphale at the sound of a gravelly voice speaking in the other part of the confessional. He composes himself quickly, huffing at being so rudely brought out of his thoughts.

“Right. Hi. Hello!” he says, attempting a smile. He glances at the latticed opening that separates the two sections, but there’s fabric hanging on the other side of the booth, effectively hiding the other person from view. “I apologise, I suppose I must’ve… forgotten… this part.”

“This part?” the priest asks, confused.

“Well, as it happens, I’ve never done this with an… intermediary,” Aziraphale admits, fiddling with the rings on his fingers. “In fact, I’d really appreciate it if you could leave. Thank you!”

There’s a moment of silence. Not even a rustle.

“My… role is actually quite traditional. It’d be best if I stayed.”

“Yes, yes, I know, that’s how your people do it, of course, but I’d really like to have a chat with God. On my own, that is. Alone.” There is an intake of breath on the other side, but Aziraphale continues before the priest can speak. “I’ll tell him you said hi! Now, shoo.”

That does the trick, at last. Aziraphale hears the man stand up. “I wish you well, child,” he says simply and steps out of the booth.

The moment he’s alone, Aziraphale breathes out. He hadn’t even realised how tense he’s gotten - gosh, it must be nerve-wracking to always have to do this with someone listening. Well, besides God, that is. God always listens. Aziraphale is acutely aware of the fact.

With another deep inhale, he folds his hands and then, he prays.

Having finished his prayers, Aziraphale feels much lighter. He’s always found prayer to be cleansing - not necessarily cleansing of sin, but of anxieties, of anything weighing him down. The entire process, to him, is meditative - even more so here, in the calmness of solitude, away from the prying eyes (and ears) of his family and the surrounding community.

It’s all rather lovely.

He takes a step outside of the booth. He lets out a long breath. He folds his hands on top of his stomach and smiles to himself, a man renewed, tipping his head back to appreciate the surrounding architecture in a new, stress-free light.

That is, until a whistle draws his attention.

“Oi!”

Aziraphale turns his head, searching for the source of the voice. That’s when he sees… him.

The first thing that really sticks out is his hair - tall, bright red spikes, shining with the amount of gel that must’ve been put into them to hold them in such an unusual shape.

Then, there’s the rest of him - just as obnoxious and intimidating. The piercings covering his face, several of them in his ears, by his brows, nose, and even the one in his bottom lip; the eyeliner smudged across his eyes; the tattoos, such as the snake winding around itself by his ear; and, of course, his clothes. He’s dressed in all black, with just subtle flashes of red all throughout - ripped black jeans, a black t-shirt with some band logo and then, to top it all off, a black leather jacket studded all over with long, sharp spikes. He’s even wearing sunglasses. In a church!

He’s a punk. Aziraphale has never met a punk before.

read full chapter on AO3 here!

#smolalienbeewrites #makeshift saints fic #good omens #ineffable husbands #gomens #azcrow #aziraphale x crowley #crowley x aziraphale #human au #punk!crowley #good omens fic #good omens human au #fanfiction

[smolalienbee]

KIM KITSURAGI - “You were right, detective.”

The lieutenant speaks in a hushed tone. You strain to hear him over the surrounding hum - the city talking, the murmurs of the past and the nonexistent future.

PERCEPTION (HEARING) - Here, at the centre of the known world…

REACTION SPEED - And now also it’s very edge.

PERCEPTION (HEARING) - …everything is loud.

LOGIC - You remember the two-millimeter hole in the world - the way it swallowed sound and sensation around it - this is different.

EMPATHY - Surrounded by the pale like this, you hear, you feel, everything.

YOU - “Of course I was.”

RHETORIC - Right about what? You realize that you have no idea what the lieutenant is talking about.

YOU - “What was I right about, Kim?” you ask.

INLAND EMPIRE - In the far far distance, somewhere out to the east, you hear gunshots. Screams of the fallen revolutionaries, a bitter wail of failure.

Then, in the south, a child’s laughter, echoing all the way from Jamrock.

REACTION SPEED - It’s your laughter. You must’ve been six… Or eight. You can’t tell.

INLAND EMPIRE - Another familiar sound cuts you off from reminiscing further.

The call of the Kineema, from that fateful morning when the sound of its engine brought you back into the world of the living - with no memory, but with the first inkling of the approaching end.

CONCEPTUALIZATION - That morning, your life began - and ended.

KIM KITSURAGI - Back in the present, the lieutenant snorts.

His lips are wrapped around the butt of a cigarette. This one is nothing like his usually preferred brand - it’s thicker, stronger and it burns unpleasantly in his lungs.

EMPATHY - In the last few weeks, ever since the pale has gotten noticeably closer, he’s been smoking a lot more than one a day.

ESPRIT DE CORPS - This abandonment of his carefully crafted habits is what makes the gravity of the situation truly sink in, more so than the porch collapse stretching on in front of you.

KIM KITSURAGI - “The Gloaming?” He glances over at you. “The end of the world.”

VISUAL CALCULUS - You were wrong, though. About the timing of it…

YOU - “No.”

KIM KITSURAGI - Your curt response makes the lieutenant turn towards you fully. He regards you curiously, but says nothing.

YOU - Noticing the look on his face, you explain further, “It came sooner than I thought.”

KIM KITSURAGI - “Ah,” he exhales. The cigarette smoke is white, much like the odourless nothingness surrounding you. It curls, mixes into the pale until one is indistinguishable from the other. “Yes, you did say it would be…”

REACTION SPEED - He’s trying to recall the exact number.

YOU - “27 years,” you finish for him. “It would’ve been 24, now. If I had been correct.”

KIM KITSURAGI - “Mhm. I thought I’d live to see 70.” A sad smile.

INLAND EMPIRE - He was supposed to. But something has changed, some shift in the ever turning wheel of events, just out of your reach - he was supposed to see 70.

VOLITION - Don’t worry. He will. In another life - another universe.

You will, too, Harry.

YOU - “Perhaps in the next world,” you whisper. The words echo loudly in the surrounding memories.

KIM KITSURAGI - The lieutenant hums in acknowledgement. By now, his cigarette is nearly a stub. He pulls it away from his lips and ponders it for a moment before outstretching his arm towards you in a silent offer.

YOU - Rather than look at the cigarette in his hand, your eyes linger on the lieutenant’s lips.

VOLITION - Stop it already. This isn’t appropriate.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY - Oh, would you loosen up for once? None of that matters anymore. In fact, you could…

COMPOSURE - Pay attention. He’s looking.

KIM KITSURAGI - He is. Noticing your hesitation, the lieutenant meets your gaze and nods towards the cigarette.

YOU - At last, you take it. You take a long drag, until there’s nothing more left.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY - Your body buzzes - not with the nicotine smoke curling in your lungs, but rather with the warmth of his skin against yours as your hands brushed against one another.

INLAND EMPIRE - You will never feel this warm ever again.

KIM KITSURAGI - “Well then, detective…” he pauses.

YOU - “Kim?”

SHIVERS - The pale swallows you both and with you, the city. You hear it, for the last time…

YOU - What does it say?

SHIVERS - SEE YOU TOMORROW, OFFICER. IN ANOTHER WORLD - AGAIN. YOU CAN STILL SAVE ME

ESPRIT DE CORPS - And another voice, overlapping…

KIM KITSURAGI - “See you soon, Harry.”

ESPRIT DE CORPS - You can still save me.

#smolalienbeewrites #disco elysium #kimharry #harry du bois #kim kitsuragi #harry x kim #kim x harry #de #disco elysium fanfic #fanfiction #fanfic #harrykim #the pale #the disco elysium brain worms are real #i have so many tidbits of ficlets and various thoughts #feeling normal

[smolalienbee]

KIM KITSURAGI - “It’s nice to meet you, detective.” The lieutenant extends his hand towards you. For some reason, you feel compelled to take it - and so, without thinking much of it, you do.

YOU - Why did I just do that?

LOGIC (Failure) - Uh… Um…

ENCYCLOPEDIA (Failure) - The ritual you’re currently engaging in with the lieutenant is named hand holding. It is a gesture shared between lovers or close friends, typically signifying a deep bond between them.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY (Failure) - Why does a man hold another man’s hand? To feel its warmth?

REACTION SPEED (Failure) - Just don’t let go! It’d be weird if you let go now!

KIM KITSURAGI - “Detective, is everything alright?”

YOU - If this signifies a deep bond… then who is he to me?

ESPRIT DE CORPS (Failure) - Your half brother.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY (Success) - Oh that is definitely NOT why you’re holding his hand right now.

VOLITION - You’ve been silent for the last ten minutes. You should say something.

YOU - “Kim… do we share a more profound bond?”

KIM KITSURAGI - The lieutenant stares at you, wordlessly. Despite his shock, he does not let go of your hand.

NEW THOUGHT GAINED: Hands?

#smolalienbeewrites #disco elysium #kimharry #kim kitsuragi #harry du bois #kim x harry #harry x kim #de #ficlet #kind of #more of a shitpost really #this happened because of a convo in the feral server because of course it did

[smolalienbee]

1x05 except Geralt and Jaskier are already married by the time they meet Yennefer // 226 words of some crack-y nonsense

“Jaskier. Is she flirting with me?”

“Is she - Geralt, are you really asking that?”

Geralt doesn’t respond at first. He turns to look at Jaskier, brows furrowed. Of course he’s asking that - there’s no good reason why Jaskier would still need clarification - except Jaskier continues to just look at him, as though waiting for him to say something.

“We’re married,” Geralt elaborates slowly. “Why would she flirt with me if she knows I’m married to you?”

“You - if she - you think she knows?”

“Yes.”

“Geralt, are you forgetting the part where she quite literally asked you if I was just your friend? To which you responded with… oh, what was it? Right, nothing. You never did respond to that question. And this entire time you’ve really thought that she knows?”

“Hm.”

“Oh, don’t you dare just hm this, husband mine, your absolute lack of words is how we’ve ended up in this situation in the first place! And no, don’t give me that look, either, you know very well I couldn’t have said anything while I was still choking on my own blood.”

A third voice joins them then and they both look over at where Yennefer stands, right in front of them. In fact, she has been standing there for the entire duration of their conversation.

“...You two do realize that I’m still here, right?”

#smolalienbeewrites #geraskier #twn #geraskefer #witcher #jaskier x geralt #geralt x jaskier #married!geraskier #the witcher #witcher netflix #geralt of rivia #jaskier the bard #i keep trying to rewatch twn #and keep getting new ideas in the middle of it #today's was just 'okay but wouldnt it be hilarious if the reason why geralt #went all scrunkly face when yen asked about them being friends #is because they're already together or even better MARRIED' #but like obvs he doesnt say shit #so then this happens #this is literally just nonsense #i metaphorically wrote it on a restaurant napkin #so like enjoy ig #or i dont! i cant tell u how to live ur life

[smolalienbee]

❛ my heart is so full of you i can hardly call it my own. ❜ <- literally this is 100% jaskier core 🥺

omg slinky hiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii. you’re so right actually

geraskier // loose continuation to this ficlet

"I don't think my heart has ever been my own."

Geralt lifts his head and stares.

It hasn’t been long since they have finally gotten it back, Jaskier’s heart and soul and the sum of his existence - finally returned to his body, finally at their fingertips once more. It has been... nice is perhaps an overstatement, but Geralt is glad that for the first time in weeks he can finally relax. Glad that the person in front of him is truly Jaskier, complete with his tender loving heart and not just a broken, empty shell.

And yet, even now, there is something not quite right with Jaskier’s expression, with the way he looks out the window, as though still searching for a part of him that is missing.

“Of course it is, Jaskier,” Geralt speaks. He has to say it because that pinprick of fear is still insistent at the back of his neck. This fear that Jaskier could be taken away from him again.

“No, you - you don’t understand, Geralt.” Jaskier shakes his head and as his gaze flickers over to Geralt, he smiles and that helps. That smile, it always helps, because there’s no one else that could smile in the way Jaskier does. Geralt exhales.

“It’s... funny,” Jaskier continues, moving his gaze back towards the window. “Hearts are such funny things. You believe them to be your own, after all they sit in your chest, they pump your blood, but then... they’re so fickle and so... easily stolen,” he muses. “And I... ever since we met, dear, my heart is so full of you that I can hardly call it my own. I believe... perhaps that is why it was so easy for it to be taken away from me, because it wasn’t mine to begin with. It hasn’t been mine for decades. Yours, Geralt. It was yours. Still is, in fact.”

And Geralt, struck by the intensity of Jaskier’s words, moves. He crosses the room at nearly an inhuman speed because he has to, he has to, he has to feel him.

Jaskier laughs when he’s being lifted up and into Geralt’s arms and his laughter is a song that accompanies the beating of his heart.

“And so is mine,” Geralt admits, his voice muffled as he presses his face into Jaskier’s hair. “It’s yours.”

#smolalienbeewrites #geraskiersource #geraskier #twn #the witcher #geralt x jaskier #jaskier x geralt #jaskier the bard #geralt of rivia #julian alfred pankratz #witcher #the witcher netflix #geralt #jaskier #witcher fanfic #ficlet #wow i really went off on this one #the whole 'jaskier's heart being stolen away' idea is still clearly rattling around in my brain #so i saw heart in this one and i was like #yeah i gotta do a sequel #of sorts

[smolalienbee]

A. J. Crowley��s Handbook on Flirtation at Height

good omens // aziraphale/crowley // a human AU meet-cute with construction worker!Aziraphale // rated T // 6.7k words The 5 times Aziraphale got away with breaking work policy and the 1 time he got fired for it. read on AO3 here!

As stated in clause 3.4 of the Heaven Construction employee handbook:

“During active construction work, employees on site should take care not to invade on the privacy of the residents of nearby buildings. As to avoid causing any discomfort, employees are strictly prohibited from engaging with the residents unless strictly necessary (as such as in case of an accident).”

Today, in so far as Crowley is aware, is a Good day. So good, in fact, that he’s up at the whopping hour of five thirty in the morning - and no, for once it’s not because he hasn’t slept at night - and when he moves through his flat, it’s with a certain swagger in his hips that only happens when he’s in a particularly good mood. On a more average day, he prefers lurking and slithering and sauntering - certainly not pirouetting, dancing almost, as he slides in his socks on the slippery tiles.

It’s dark outside, but still, he pulls the blinds open. Then, he cracks open the window and inhales deeply, taking a whiff of London and its rather questionable quality of air. There's scaffolding, right outside his window. It’s been there for a few days, but so far there’s been no sight of any construction work happening, fortunately for him. He isn’t even sure what the work is gonna be nor does he care to find out - there’s always some bloody construction or other going on in Mayfair. As long as there’s no one glaring into his window, he’s fine.

He puts on music - Queen, of course. He’s fairly certain all his files turn into Queen somehow because last he checked, there were not this many Queen MP3s on his phone. Well, at least it’s Queen. Could’ve been worse; as it is, he’s always up to listen to Queen.

When he gets into the shower, it’s to the tune of Good Old-Fashioned Lover Boy; as he washes his hair, he listens to It’s A Hard Life; and, by the time he steps out from under the stream, he’s accompanied by Fat Bottomed Girls. It’s still a Good day and so he wraps a towel around his hips and then more or less dances his way out of the bathroom, all while loudly belting out the familiar lyrics

“Across the wire, across the land,” he and Freddie sing at once, one of them (Crowley, it’s definitely Crowley) louder than the other. The bathroom door slams shut behind him and he moves further into the flat. “I seen every blue-eyed floozy on the way,” the song continues as Crowley throws his head back, eyes closed, and then - oh.

He blinks them open and stops directly in front of the open window. The bloody scaffolding, he remembers as he stares right into a pair of bluest, prettiest eyes he has ever seen on a guy dressed in an ugly hi-vis vest. The construction, he thinks desperately.

He must be a sight. He’s still dripping wet, naked save for the towel covering his most private bits. His mouth hangs open.

At least the other party involved, the construction worker standing on the other side of the glass, seems to also be in quite a state. He’s staring, wide-eyed and completely frozen. Pretty really does seem like a fitting word to describe him - there’s white, curly hair poking out from underneath his hard hat; a softness to his cheeks and laugh lines clearly etched into his skin. Looking closely, Crowley can also spot a hint of muscle, toned arms peeking out from underneath the neon vest and the white t-shirt. So not only pretty, the guy’s clearly strong as well. For Heaven’s sake, it truly is Crowley’s luck that he happens to be exactly his type. To top it all off, he’s blushing, furiously so, even as his gaze never strays from Crowley.

As if the universe was mocking him, Crowley hears Freddie continue from the bathroom, “Oh, won’t you take me home tonight?” How fitting.

It’s at that same time that the construction worker is brought out of his stupor as well. There’s a noise, outside, a clank and a bang and then a distant voice yelling, “Oi! You, up there! Fell! Watch what the bloody hell you’re doing!”

The guy - the angel, Crowley can’t help but think - jumps a little, startled, and twists his head to look over the railing and down. It’s only a few seconds at best, but it’s still enough time for Crowley to finally shut his stupid mouth and compose himself. Right, he can still salvage this one, certainly. He might be - well, he might still be naked, technically, and he might have just been caught belting out Queen lyrics by the most gorgeously angelic construction worker he has ever seen, but… he’s nothing if not transcendentally confident, even at the most absurd of times.

The moment the worker turns back towards the window, Crowley gives him a rakish smile and blows a kiss in his direction. Somehow, the angel manages to blush even harder, smiling sheepishly as he waves at Crowley. See, situation salvaged. Crowley’s still managed to come out of this looking smooth as hell, if he does say so himself.

All in all, today is not just a Good day, but a Spectacular one. After all, Crowley has learned at last that outside his window there’s an angel.

As stated in clause 1.2 of the Heaven Construction employee handbook:

“During active construction work, employees on site are required to be in appropriate personal protective equipment at all times. The type of equipment required will depend on the type of construction work currently being performed and includes, but is not limited to, items such as: high visibility clothing, hard hats and helmets, ear defenders, goggles [...]”

Today is the day Crowley will, for the first time in his life, commit actual bloody murder. He’s certain of it.

The drilling began at a little past six in the morning. While it’s been unpleasant from the very start, it was at least bearable initially. But now, three hours in and with no end in sight? Well, Crowley truly is ready to kill someone, consequences be damned. Hopefully prison is quieter than this absolute hell.

Worst of all, he’s actually been hoping to get some work done today. As it is, though, he sits at his laptop and simply suffers since not even the music blasting into his ears is enough to drown out the incessant drilling.

Finally, fed up with it all, he stands from his desk with a newfound resolution. In a few strides, he makes it over to the window then wrenches it open.

“Oi!” he yells. “Mate! Sod off already with all that bloody noise, driving me - absolutely - bonkers…” he trails off, suddenly realising who he’s yelling at. That angelic face, again. “Oh. ‘s you. Angel.”

Noticing that he’s being talked at, the angel stops drilling and stands up straight. He’s wearing a pair of blue ear defenders and he makes a move to pull them down so that they rest on his shoulders instead of atop his ears. It’s at that moment that Crowley realises he hasn’t heard a word of what he’s been yelling - although admittedly, Crowley still feels a bit bad about it.

“Excuse me?”

“It’s you!” Crowley repeats, trying to squash the feeling. “From the other day. When I - ngk…” He waves an arm uselessly, unable to find an elegant way of phrasing something like when I was dancing and singing naked in my flat and you saw it all. Also, you happen to be the most gorgeous man I’ve ever seen, could we kiss maybe?

Bugger. Crowley’s a disaster.

“No, yes, I know, of course, I remember you, but - sorry, what was it that you said?”

“Ah.” Crowley scratches at the back of his neck. “Er, well, ‘s just that you’ve been drilling a hole into my head this entire morning, angel. But, part of the job, I suppose, not your fault.”

“Oh. Oh, dear, I’m terribly sorry, I don’t intend on disturbing you, truly, but the work is what it is…”

“No, yeah, I know, I know, ‘s not on you, it’s just, well… a bit aggravating, really.”

Looking at him up close like this, Crowley’s beginning to feel even worse over the whole thing. The angel looks genuinely apologetic and a little distressed, as if being a nuisance to Crowley caused him physical pain. It’s not a fit look for a guy as pretty as he is. Besides, Crowley knows well what it’s like to have to do your job while getting in the way and on the nerves of everyone around him. With a soft sigh, he leans against the window frame.

“Look, it’s fine. Don’t worry about it. I’ll just turn the music up a bit or, I dunno, go out, do some work from a Starbucks while you finish up your… drilling.”

“Dear boy, I’d hate to inconvenience you…”

Crowley is about to argue, but before he can say much of anything, there’s a pair of ear defenders being shoved in his direction. Or, well, shoved is perhaps the wrong word to describe what’s really happening - it’s more that the angel is offering them, gingerly, like they’re a treasure. Or a wedding ring, Crowley’s mind supplies helpfully. Right, great one, brain.

“Here,” the angel says.

Crowley stares, dumbfounded. “What?”

“You can use these. While I drill. They muffle the sound quite efficiently, if I do say so myself.”

“Isn’t that exactly why you need them?” Crowley asks, pushing himself off the window frame and standing up straight. The angel is still holding the muffs out and so at last Crowley relents and takes them from him.

“Well - yes, certainly, but it’s no trouble for me to grab another pair.”

“You’re sure you can just… give them away?” The angel nods. “Are you sure you’re sure?”

“Quite sure, indeed.” He clasps his hands, clearly chuffed that he’s managed to talk Crowley into this. “Jolly good, then! Off you go, dear, best not to dawdle.”

“Suppose not…” Crowley turns the muffs over in his hands and considers them for a moment. “Thanks, angel,” he says eventually, giving him a small smile.

The rest of the afternoon is blissfully silent. He sits at his desk, clad in the blue ear defenders and protected by the will of a construction angel.

As stated in clause 2.1 of the Heaven Construction employee handbook:

“While performing work at a construction site, employees should only take breaks in areas designated for that purpose. Employees should not consume their meals in areas not meant for such activities, this includes, but is not limited to: scaffoldings, buildings in which construction is being performed, vehicles [...]”

It’s lunch time, by the time Crowley gets home, and yet the construction work outside his window seems to be going in full force. He sees him, the angel, walking across the scaffolding in his silly hard hat and silly vest, though to Crowley’s eye he seems… a bit more crestfallen than usual; tired, perhaps.

Crowley can’t help but feel a pang of concern and wonder, has he even taken a break today? How do I cheer him up? because he’s that kind of a romance-inclined idiot. Anyway. He can think of one offering he can make to the angel and it comes in the form of a tupperware container full of badly folded sushi. He’s already ingested enough fish food to last him a lifetime during the sushi-making class Anathema had taken him to and so, really, it’d be a waste if he didn’t at least offer some of it to someone, right? The sushi might not be his best work, for sure, but hopefully it’d still be enough to satiate the angel.

And so, with a tupperware container and a set of chopsticks in hand, he makes his way over to the window. He pulls it open and raps his knuckles against the windowsill to get the angel’s attention.

“Oh! Hello,” he greets with a smile and a wave.

“Taken your lunch break yet, angel?”

The angel pauses at the question. He glances at the work around him then back at Crowley and the container that’s still cradled against his chest.

“Right! Yes. Lunch. That is to say, no, I haven’t - if you’d be so kind, what time is it, dear?”

“Like, one. Nearly one, anyway.”

“Rather late already… I’ve gotten so caught up in the work I didn’t even realise. I suppose I shall pop down for a quick bite, then, thank you -”

“Wait.” Crowley holds up a hand. “I thought - er, thought I could tempt you to have lunch with me? I, well, a friend of mine dragged me out to a sushi class, now I’ve got so much sushi leftover there’s no chance I’ll ever finish it on my own so I figured… could share it?”

He raises his eyebrows, gestures at the container and waits. It’s as good an offer as he can make, a chance at a proper conversation with the kindest man on this scaffolding. The angel does appear to consider it, his expression shifting in ten different, miniscule ways as he thinks.

“I could get in trouble,” he says slowly. He chews on his lip, conflicted. “There’s all sorts of rules about it, designated areas…” he trails off. His gaze flickers down to the sushi.

“Surely one time couldn’t hurt? Get a slap on your wrist at worst and at best… no one will even notice.”

Despite not getting a clear response, Crowley places the tupperware down on the windowsill. Carefully, he perches down next to it and then holds his arm out, offering the chopsticks to the angel. With a soft sigh, he relents and takes this offering before joining Crowley on the windowsill. They sit, back to back, the container between them, but still their heads are turned in such a way so that they can look at one another.

“You really didn’t have to,” the angel says fondly, picking up the container. Despite the small protests he’s been putting up, he seems rather pleased by the turn of events.

“Sure I did.” Crowley grins. “Wouldn’t want an angel to go hungry, now would I?”

Chopsticks hovering in the space above the container, the angel pauses. Crowley raises an eyebrow.

“You keep doing that.”

“Doing what?”

“Angel. Calling me angel.”

“Oh. Nyehhh, you know, you’ve got those curly white little -” Crowley gestures at his face. “And your - cherubic… cheeks…” He really should cut it out right about now, before he makes a complete fool out of himself. “And - you’ve never told me your name.”

“Aziraphale,” the angel says. He looks a bit flustered and Crowley wonders what did it, the pet name itself or perhaps Crowley’s terribly eloquent description of his cheeks. He’s not going to ask. “It’s lovely to make proper introductions at last…”

“Crowley,” he supplies with a nod of his head. “Well then. Now that we’re properly acquainted, dig in. And let me know what you think.”

Glancing at the container in Aziraphale’s hands, Crowley’s once again reminded that it is a rather sorry attempt at sushi. While he’s always thought he has a knack for using his hands, it’s clear he hasn’t yet mastered this particular art. The rolls have already mostly fallen apart, loose rice sticking to the walls of the container rather than, well, other pieces of rice. At least, he thinks, the ingredients used are of a high enough quality that the experience shouldn’t be a horrible one, taste-wise. That, and he also hopes Aziraphale is hungry enough not to mind particularly much that this creation is nowhere near proper sushi quality.

Propping his chin on his hand, he watches intently as Aziraphale picks up a roll - squished between the chopsticks it falls apart some more because of course it does - and then carefully places it in his mouth. He chews, agonisingly slow, his eyes fluttering shut - how in the hell are his eyelashes this long? - and then, once he’s finally swallowed - what if I swallowed you, Crowley’s singular braincell says, unprompted - he breathes a tiny, satisfied sigh. To make matters even worse, he, honest-to-Someone, does a full-body wiggle. All in all, it’s quite the sight. Crowley can’t look away.

When Aziraphale finally opens his eyes, their gazes meet instantly - no other way about it, considering how Crowley’s been staring at him, unblinking, for about two full minutes. Crowley doesn’t even try to shy away from it; and, really, it is a bit too late for Aziraphale not to notice that he’s been blatantly ogled this whole time.

“Liked it, then?”

“Oh, it’s lovely.” Aziraphale smiles at him and it’s blinding. “Although…” His eyes flicker down, up, then down again. He carefully picks up another roll. “Well, there’s certainly room for improvement here, wouldn’t you agree?”

Crowley stifles a laugh, opting for an offended pout instead. “Hey, now… you can’t just diss my hard work like this.”

“Oh, but it’s hardly that. Take it as a compliment, dear, you can only go up from here.”

Oh, wow. So Aziraphale is not only a strong-armed, beautiful angel, but he also has a bastard streak. There it is, then. Crowley’s utterly, properly, fucked. And, worst of all, smitten.

“You really know how to praise a man,” he teases.

“Most certainly I do,” Aziraphale says primly, sticking his chin out. He pops another piece of sushi into his mouth, not breaking eye contact. Blasted soon-to-be-buggered-if-Crowley-has-it-his-way bitchy infuriating little - “Next time, you shall treat me to a proper lunch. I know several lovely Japanese restaurants in the area, I believe they’d be wonderful places to draw inspiration from.”

“Oh, I shall?” Crowley hisses, leaning in closer.

It’s at that moment, when Crowley breaks the barrier of his personal space, that Aziraphale seems to realise the level of overfamiliarity he’s just shown in the last couple of minutes. His face flushes and he looks away, far less confident than he was just a moment ago. Crowley doesn’t like this look on him.

“If you’d be amenable to it, that is, of course,” he says, softer. Unsure. Crowley wonders, how many times have you been shot down, after showing someone this side of you?

“Well,” he hums, leaning back and giving Aziraphale his space back. “Research, right? I couldn’t possibly say no.”

He sticks a hand out. Aziraphale looks at it, confused.

“It’s a deal, angel.”

At last, that brings the smile back to Aziraphale’s face. He shakes Crowley’s hand.

As stated in clause 3.2 of the Heaven Construction employee handbook:

“During active construction work, persons not employed by the company nor involved in the work should be prohibited from entering the construction site. In particular, employees should make sure that only permitted personnel is allowed access to areas of the site that could prove to be particularly dangerous without proper training, such as where: injuries from fall are possible; toxic substances are used [...]”

The clock ticks away loudly, the only noise in the otherwise silent flat.

That’s a lie. There’s not a single analog clock in Crowley’s flat - but, what Crowley does have is an imagination. Looking at the minutes passing by on the digital clock that stands on his nightstand, he can imagine the sound of ticking well enough.

6:01. Tick. 6:02. Tick. 6:03. Tick.

His sleep schedule is all fucked, again. There’s not much of a chance that he’ll be able to fall asleep for another three hours or so and, by then, he’ll end up sleeping through all of the daylight instead. Wonderful.

He wonders if Aziraphale’s started work yet.

That thought is what finally gets him out of bed. He grabs a pack of cigarettes, a lighter and then pads out of the bedroom wearing just his pyjamas - or, more precisely, an old, faded Queen t-shirt, ratty sweatpants and duck-print socks.

It’s just his luck, it appears, that Aziraphale does start work early. Sun hasn’t even risen yet and so Aziraphale’s white hair ends up being a stark contrast against the darkness of the early morning sky. Crowley grins and pulls the window open with more force than is strictly necessary.

“Oi, angel!” He waits a beat, until Aziraphale turns towards him. Once he has his attention, he leans an elbow on the windowsill and, for the added effect, waggles his eyebrows. “What’s a handsome guy like you doing in these parts? Hm?”

In response, Aziraphale shoots him what is most likely supposed to be an exasperated glare, but, really, comes across far too fond for its intended effect.

“Dear, I’m at work, must you really?” he asks, shaking his head.

“Yes, I must,” Crowley says, perching on the windowsill. He then swings his legs over the window frame in one smooth motion until his socked feet are firmly planted on the scaffolding.

Instantly, Aziraphale freezes and stares.

“Crowley, what are you -”

“Going out for a smoke,” Crowley replies casually. He pulls one cigarette out, tosses the remainder of the pack carelessly back into the flat and then flicks his lighter.

“But my dear fellow, you can’t -”

“Oh, if anyone asks, just tell them you tried to stop me, but I wouldn’t budge. Besides -” He pauses to light the cigarette, then gestures with it at the surrounding construction. “- no one’s even paying attention to us. ‘s fine, angel.”

Aziraphale opens his mouth, then closes it, but, of course, not without a frustrated huff. Still, he makes no move to actually shoo Crowley back inside.

They both fall silent after that. Crowley leans against the building wall and Aziraphale, dropping any pretence of displeasure, comes to stand next to him. The tension seems to have been drained from his shoulders, not as worried about anyone catching them anymore. In the distance, the first rays of the morning sun begin to shine.

Crowley takes a couple of puffs and then clears his throat.

“I gotta ask, angel, why construction? I mean, no offence, but you don’t strike me as the kind of guy to do manual labour like this out of passion. Bit too…” he waves an arm. “Bit too… something for that.”

“Queer?” Aziraphale supplies helpfully, an amused smile tugging at his lips. “Posh?”

“Eghhhhh…” Crowley makes a vague noise and shrugs. “Both, I guess.”

“Ah, but certainly there’s many posh, queer men such as myself working these jobs,” Aziraphale laughs. Crowley can’t argue with that. “That being said, when it comes to me… you aren’t wrong, dear.”

“Just pays the bills, then?”

Aziraphale nods. “That, it does. I suppose it’s… well, I’ve always been strong enough to do this kind of work. Like you said, it does pay and is fairly easy to come by. And - for all the prejudices that there might be, in a field such as this one, the people I work with tend not to care what my sexual preference is or how manicured my hands are, just as long as I can do the work.”

Instinctively, Crowley’s eyes flicker down to Aziraphale’s hands. They’re littered with callouses, tiny cuts and scars, various signs of hard physical work, yet they really do look well taken care of, nails perfectly trimmed and shiny. He distinctly remembers the time they shook hands, too - how soft Aziraphale’s hand felt, despite the strain of the work. Good hands, they are.

Needing to stop his thoughts from running wild before he starts considering what those hands could feel like against other parts of his body, Crowley takes a drag of his cigarette. “What would you do instead, then?” he asks, blowing the smoke out. “If money was no object.”

Aziraphale doesn’t need to consider the question long. “I’d run a bookshop,” he smiles as he says it. “Or work in a library… some place that’d let me introduce people to the joys of reading.”

“Books, huh,” Crowley hums. “See, now that does seem like you.”

Aziraphale laughs softly.

The silence they fall into once more is a companionable one, neither of them eager to let this moment come to an end just yet. It takes about a minute or two before Aziraphale speaks.

“Would you be so kind as to share a fag, dear?”

Crowley smirks. He can’t possibly pass up an opportunity like this. “Well… that’s forward, even for you.”

Aziraphale puffs his chest out. “That is not -” he begins, but cuts himself off the moment their eyes meet.

Something in the air between them has just changed. All of a sudden, the moment feels charged, something unspoken, and Crowley, provocative as ever, intends to make good use of it. He presses the cigarette to his lips and takes a long drag, eyes never leaving Aziraphale’s. Nicotine smoke billows between them and Crowley drops his arm, letting the cigarette hang loosely between his lips. He raises an eyebrow, what do you say, angel?, and then simply waits, still as a statue.

Aziraphale’s tongue darts out as he wets his lips, his gaze flickering down to Crowley’s own. He seems to get the hint, the clever angel, and without hesitation reaches out to pluck the cigarette directly out of Crowley’s mouth. He presses it to his lips, tips his head back and breathes in, deeply.

Crowley can’t take it anymore.

The moment Aziraphale pulls the cigarette out of his mouth, Crowley pounces. He grasps at the collar of Aziraphale’s shirt and pulls him in, just in time for Aziraphale to exhale the smoke into Crowley’s mouth right as their lips meet. A small gasp of surprise escapes him as well, but he doesn’t seem displeased by the turn of the events; the opposite, really.

Oh, isn’t it a delightfully decadent thing to be kissing an angel on this scaffolding, out for anyone to see, with cigarette smoke clouding in the shared air between.

They stay like that a while, lips moving lazily while the cigarette continues to burn, nested between two of Aziraphale’s soft fingers. Eventually, Crowley’s too-gay-to-function mind finally gets about half a thought and it goes something like fuckfuckfuckbuggerfuck -

At once, he lets go of Aziraphale’s shirt and pulls back, lips parted and breath coming out heavy. Aziraphale, too, is a sight - cheeks flushed, lips pursed and shiny with saliva, shirt mussed up where Crowley had just been holding on. The moment they’re parted, Aziraphale brings a hand up, presses his fingertips to his reddened lips. Fuck, Crowley wants to kiss him again, badly.

He doesn’t, though. Instead, he scrambles away, one hand grasping at the windowsill lest he slips and ends this otherwise wonderful kiss in a rather unfortunate tumble to the ground.

“You can finish it off,” he mumbles, gesturing at the cigarette in Aziraphale’s hand. It’s pretty much burnt down to the butt by now, seeing as how they had gotten too distracted to pay attention to it.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says and his fingers are still pressed to his lips and Crowley should really just leave before he does anything stupid and gets this angel into trouble.

“Nice seeing you, angel.” He hurriedly swings his legs over the windowsill, all while making a half assed attempt at a two-finger salute. “Ciao!”

So that’s how Crowley first kisses an angel. It’s also how he manages to cock it all up the very same morning. Bollocks.

As stated in clause 1.1 of the Heaven Construction employee handbook:

“During active construction work, employees on site are not permitted to leave the site during their scheduled work hours. The only exceptions are: scheduled breaks, in which case employees may leave their work assignments and head to the designated break area; as well as emergencies and accidents.”

There’s a knock on Crowley’s window. He can hear it, clear as day. He considers, for maybe a second or two, if he should ignore it.

He hasn’t spoken to Aziraphale in a few days. He sees him, day in and day out, as he continues his work right by Crowley’s window, but each time, he makes a point to look away, to stay away. All because of the Kiss - and yes, it definitely deserves the capital letter.

Crowley’s not stupid. He knows Aziraphale enjoyed it, could see it in the way he responded so eagerly to it, trailing after him once they parted, how his fingertips pressed against his own lips as if savouring it. He also knows that Aziraphale has been flirting with him as much as Crowley himself has. So, all in all, it seems like there’s certainly no reason for Crowley to be having this giant queer freak out. And yet.

There’s a knock on Crowley’s window and, freak out or no, he can’t ignore it.

He opens the window and raises his eyebrows the moment he’s met with Aziraphale’s bashful face.

“Wassup?” Act casual.

“Ah, yes, hello, terribly sorry to bother you, and you can of course say no, but it seems that Ligur has rendered our portapotty out of order, and well. I was just wondering, that is -”

Oh, as if things weren’t awkward enough already.

Aziraphale is rambling and Crowley is still freaking out, but he likes Aziraphale and so he takes pity on him. “Yes, angel, you can use my bathroom,” he sighs and takes a step back, giving Aziraphale the space to climb inside.

“Oh, oh thank you.”

There isn’t much finesse in how Aziraphale climbs through the window and into Crowley’s flat - in fact, he nearly loses his balance not just once, but twice, and Crowley resists the urge to hold his hand to help him. Eventually, he makes it through and stands up straight, smoothing out his clothes before giving Crowley a tight-lipped, but thankful, smile.

“Ah yes, where do I -”

“Down the hall, second door to the left.”

Aziraphale nods and without another word, walks past Crowley and into the hall in search of the bathroom. The moment he’s gone, the bathroom door clicking shut behind him, Crowley lets out a long sigh of suffering and slumps against a nearby wall. God, what was he thinking…

Outside, he hears first raindrops hit the scaffolding. He turns to look out the window, watch the rain as it falls, heavier and heavier. It’s a gloomy day. It’s a gloomy day and there’s an angel in Crowley’s home and Crowley is an absolute stupid idiot twat -

The bathroom door clicks again. By now, the rain outside pounds heavily, a typical English downpour. Aziraphale comes out of the hall and all Crowley wants to do is wrap him up in a blanket and watch the rain together. He really is an idiot.

“Ah, I suppose the rain was to be expected,” Aziraphale says, another small, fleeting smile on his lips. He’s nervous. Crowley can’t blame him.

“Yup,” he responds.

“I better get a wiggle on, then! Back to work…”

Crowley watches him - as he comes to the window, as he clumsily climbs over the windowsill and as, eventually, the rain catches up to him. Even with the scaffolding in the way, Aziraphale gets drenched immediately and Crowley finds himself doing the impulsive, kind, thing once more.

“Oh for Heaven’s - come back here,” he calls out, leaning out the window to grasp at Aziraphale’s arm and tug him back in before he’s had a chance to walk off. Aziraphale doesn’t resist much - their eyes meet and then Aziraphale’s making his way back inside of Crowley’s flat.

They stand like this for a moment, in front of the window, Aziraphale dripping onto Crowley’s floor while they both stare at one another. Finally, Crowley lets out a frustrated huff and walks away, only to return moments later with a towel. Wordlessly, he pats the towel over Aziraphale’s shoulders, his chest, then gently rubs it over his hair, doing his best to dry him off. Aziraphale lets him. Aziraphale bloody lets him.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” Aziraphale says quietly.

Crowley continues the motions, not meeting his eye. “No I haven’t,” he lies because it’s what he does. Then, he sighs. “Yes, fine, okay.”

Aziraphale sighs as well. “I would love to hear an explanation as to why,” he says. “You… do realise I enjoyed it, yes?”

Crowley groans and, feeling utterly defeated, he lets go of the towel so that it hangs over Aziraphale’s head while Crowley presses his face to the back of his neck. “Yeah, angel, hard not to notice,” he says, voice muffled.

Aziraphale makes a small noise in response and Crowley can easily imagine the flush that’s painted his cheeks now. He still says nothing, though. He waits, Crowley presumes, for an explanation.

“I suppose I’ve been… worrying about getting you in trouble,” Crowley says, lifting his head to speak clearly. He rests his chin on Aziraphale’s shoulder instead. “Making things awkward, me. Anyway. I’m a bit of a - a lost cause, if you haven’t realised, went and did that and then you bloody stare into my window every day so it’s - I just - am I even making any sense?”

He’s fairly certain that he doesn’t. He wonders if that’s enough.

“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale sighs, carefully pulling away so that he can turn around and face him. “You’re being silly.”

Crowley opens his mouth to protest, but is cut off by a hand on his cheek and then lips meeting his. He leans into it easily, his hand finding its way towards Aziraphale, fingers tenderly clutching at his work shirt. It’s different from their first kiss - where their first kiss was intense, this one’s calm, gentle. All Aziraphale, he thinks.

It’s also Aziraphale who pulls away first, though then they both hover in the shared space, close, breathing in each other’s air.

“I’d love an opportunity to get to know you better, dearheart,” Aziraphale says softly. “Perhaps, though, under circumstances where I’m not breaking work policies and neither of us is at risk of a fall injury.” His hand slides down, from Crowley’s cheek to his chest and then rests there. “Buy me lunch sometime, will you?”

Crowley laughs, amused by the way in which Aziraphale demands, never asks. “Sushi?”

Aziraphale beams. “Yes, that’d be splendid!”

They stay like this for another moment before eventually untangling themselves from each other and turning to face the window. The rain continues to pound heavily.

“You know…” Aziraphale begins, his eyes flickering between Crowley and the window. “I do work in the rain, typically. It is England, we would never get anything done otherwise.”

“So what you’re saying is I’m getting you into trouble again?”

“I don’t mind,” Aziraphale reassures quickly, flashing a smile. He pats Crowley’s shoulder gently. “Although - perhaps it’s best if I get back to it now, lest I receive another strongly worded note from Gabriel.”

“Sounds awful, that,” Crowley agrees.

They look into each other’s eyes and Crowley, cheesy as it is, wonders if this is what he’s been looking for all this time. Maybe it is true, what they say about some people being made for each other.

Dear Mr Fell,

We regret to inform you that, effective immediately, your employment with Heaven Construction is to be terminated on the basis of multiple violations of the health and safety regulations, as outlined in the employee handbook. [...]

Something is wrong. Something is very, very wrong.

When Crowley comes up to the window, two mugs of coffee in hand, he expects the familiar, angelic face. What he sees, instead, is an entirely different man, with a far more angular face, short dark hair and eyes that seem to glow purple in the sunlight.

Crowley freezes. The man notices him and, unaware of Crowley’s crisis, gives him a smile and a wave. Who the hell is this twat?

So, something is wrong. Aziraphale is… gone and Crowley’s doing his best not to panic because really, this isn’t a good reason to panic, not at all, except this makes him realise that they’ve never even swapped numbers or… anything, really. If Aziraphale is gone, truly gone, then Crowley has no chance of ever finding him again. Bugger, Crowley’s going to be sick.

The shrill noise of his doorbell makes him jump, some of the coffee spilling onto the floor. Crowley curses under his breath, practically slamming the mugs down onto the nearest surface, ignoring the sting of hot coffee on his fingers. He stomps through the flat, ready to tell whoever is at his door to fuck right off because now is not the time.

“I don’t know what you’re selling but whatever - Aziraphale?”

“Yes. Hi. Hello.”

It’s him, standing in all his angelic glory at Crowley’s doorstep. He looks… well, different from how Crowley’s used to seeing him. Instead of work clothes, he’s dressed much nicer and, as much as Crowley’s enjoyed the chance to see Aziraphale at work, sweat-soaked t-shirts clinging to his skin and toned arms on display, this feels much more like him. It’s old-fashioned, terribly so, a beige suit and a bloody tartan bow tie to top it all off. Crowley wants to kiss him - Crowley realises that he can do just that.

And so he does. Before Aziraphale even has the chance to explain what’s going on, Crowley pulls him in for a kiss. It’s quick, though it leaves them both flushed from the sheer unexpectedness of it.

“Hey,” Crowley says once they part.

“Hi,” Aziraphale repeats and he’s smiling.

Remembering that they’re still standing in the doorway, Crowley steps back and lets Aziraphale come into the flat.

“What the hell are you doing here?” he asks as he shuts the door behind him and then leads him further into the flat. After all, he still has a warm mug of coffee waiting for him. “Not that I’m not happy to see you, but - I was expecting you up there -” He gestures to the window. “- and not over there.”

“Ah, yes - oh, thank you,” Aziraphale interrupts himself as Crowley hands him his mug. “Well, about that…”

He trails off. His eyes flicker over to the window and, as Crowley looks over his shoulder, he sees That Other Guy giving another overenthusiastic wave in their direction. Crowley huffs and pulls the blinds close. It really is wrong to have someone other than Aziraphale looking into his home.

“Yes, angel?” he prompts gently now that there’s no one looking at them.

“I got fired,” Aziraphale admits at last, moving to sit down in a chair. Crowley’s eyes widen and he opens his mouth, but Aziraphale cuts him off. “Oh, do not start apologising, this is entirely on me. And, to be perfectly honest, I don’t find myself upset over losing this job, although, well, it does mean I’ll have to start looking for something new…”

“Angel…”

“Crowley, really, I don’t want to hear a single apology out of you -”

“No, angel, that’s not what I was going to say.” Crowley shakes his head. He comes closer and crouches down in front of Aziraphale who looks down at him with such fondness that Crowley feels like he’s just been shot through his heart. Still, he continues on, “Said you wanted to work with books, didn’t you?”

“Oh, yes. But - well, it’s terribly difficult to -”

“Shhh - shush.” Crowley raises a finger, cutting him off. “Lemme finish. Point is - my point is, I have a friend, book girl, she works at a library. They have an open position, I think, and I could… y’know. Put in a good word.” He raises his eyebrows, letting his hand rest on Aziraphale’s knee. “What do you say?”

“Oh - would you, really?”

“‘course.”

Aziraphale’s smile lights up the entire room. “You’re a darling, Crowley.” He grasps Crowley’s hand and Crowley rolls his eyes.

“Shuddup.”

“Well, you are! And I’m very grateful.”

Crowley grumbles something under his breath. He presses a kiss to Aziraphale’s hand, needing to find an outlet for this warm emotion that’s threatening to burst right out of his heart.

“Buy you lunch about it,” Crowley mutters, lips still brushing against the skin of Aziraphale’s hand.

“Hm?”

He clears his throat, tries again. “I’ll buy you lunch. Today. As soon as you finish your coffee.”

Crowley didn’t think it was possible for the look on Aziraphale’s face to get any fonder and yet somehow the bastard’s done it. Crowley can’t even look him in the eye anymore, too overwhelmed by the love radiating off Aziraphale.

“Lovely,” Aziraphale whispers. “I better make haste, then.”

#smolalienbeewrites #good omens #aziraphale x crowley #crowley x aziraphale #gomens #aziraphale #crowley #good omens fic #good omens human au #human au #fanfiction #azcrow #good omens meetcute #meetcute

[smolalienbee]

And a Silver Sixpence in His Shoe

Day 1: Something Unexpected

good omens // aziraphale/crowley // a human AU childhood friends fic // rated T // chapter 1/6

At age 15, Aziraphale made a Promise. At age 25, he had an Earth-shattering fight with his childhood - and closest - friend. At age 35, that same friend shows up at his doorstep and suddenly, Aziraphale’s entire world is thrown upside down. A story of something unexpected, something old, something yellow, something stolen, something new and something promised. (It’s going to be a long week.)

read full chapter on AO3 here!

“Azira.”

Anthony calls for him from his peculiar perch on Aziraphale’s bed - sprawled out on his back, with his head hanging off the edge, long hair flowing down to the floor. He stares ahead at a wall; his eyes are still reddened. It’s been a long day.

“Yeah?” Aziraphale responds. His attention, the whole of it, is now on the other boy.

He is - has always been - Anthony’s complete opposite. It shows, quite clearly, in everything about the two of them. Even how Aziraphale sits is a complete contrast to his friend - cross-legged, hands folded neatly in his lap, stiff where Anthony is loose, like liquid. He feels an urge to rock himself back and forth, and he knows Anthony won’t mind, but still, he resists it, straightens his back instead. He listens; just as his parents have taught him - ‘if you care, Aziraphale, you will not move a muscle’.

He needs Anthony to know that he cares.

“Let’s make a promise,” Anthony says. He shoots up like a spring unfurled and before Aziraphale can even blink, Anthony is in front of him, nearly-yellow eyes peering directly into his. Aziraphale doesn’t startle. He stares right back, head cocked to the side.

“What about?”

“Well…” Anthony mirrors him, cocking his head in much the same way. He clicks his tongue. “Let’s promise that… if…”

He’s dragging it out on purpose. Aziraphale knows him. He waits, patient.

“...by the time we’re… hm. By the time we’re 35…”

He leans in. So does Aziraphale. Their foreheads bump and they grin. It’s the first time Anthony has smiled that day.

“...if, by the time we’re 35, we don’t have a - wife or a husband or a girlfriend or boyfriend or anyone, we’ll marry each other. Okay?”

There is no hesitation.

“Okay.”

“Promise?”

“I promise, Anthony.”

If there is one thing to be said about Aziraphale Z. Fell is that he leads an ordinary, quiet life.

He lives in Soho, London, above an old bookshop that he’s been fortunate enough to inherit in his late twenties. He likes sushi and good wine. He has a few friends - like Nina, who works at the coffee shop across the street; or Maggie, who runs the record store that he takes an absolute pleasure in frequently purchasing from.

(He’s lonely. Terribly so. He’s been lonely for about ten years now, since - he does not want to think about that.)

Today is his 35th birthday.

That fact in of itself may be shocking to some people - people’s first impressions of Aziraphale tend to be that he’s awfully, gleefully gay; that he’s extremely eccentric (with his speech, his mannerisms and the whole of his being); and that he’s at least 45. He never corrects them.

He’s planned for today to be another ordinary, quiet day. He has, rather firmly, refused his family’s invitation to a big birthday dinner - they’ve been inviting him, repeatedly and unsuccessfully, for the last five or so years. Perhaps that is one thing that he’s kept from Anthony - this sudden, unwavering confidence that everything will be okay, even when it feels like the world around him is shattering whenever he has to say no to his family.

In any case, his plans for his birthday are simple and painstakingly ordinary. First, he’ll go out to his favourite sushi restaurant and have a perfectly ordinary meal there. He may even, if the fancy strikes him so, buy enough sushi so that he can take some of it back home and treat himself to a breakfast sushi the following morning. It is his birthday, after all!

Then, once he’s full of sushi and sated, he’ll stop by Maggie’s store and buy a new record. A record that he most definitely doesn’t need, considering the rather extensive collection he’s already in possession of, but, well. Birthday!

By the end of the day, nothing will have changed. Much as he’s woken up, Aziraphale Z. Fell, an ordinary bookseller, he will, too, go to sleep as Aziraphale Z. Fell, an ordinary, lonely bookseller. There is not even a second when he entertains the possibility that something unexpected might happen today. Not one. Not a moment.

(He’s turning 35.)

That is until, not long after he’s had breakfast and came downstairs to the main shop floor, there’s a knock on the front door. Aziraphale huffs - his bookshop is most definitely closed today - and then makes a beeline to the door, purely for the satisfaction of shooing away whoever has dared to bother him on his birthday.

(He’s turning 35 and he doesn’t hope.)

He opens the door. He knows, even before his brain has the time to register what’s in front of him. Or who, rather.

“Hey, angel. Been a while.”

read full chapter on AO3 here!

#smolalienbeewrites #sixpence fic #sixpence gomens #good omens #ineffable husbands #aziraphale x crowley #crowley x aziraphale #gomens #crowley #aziraphale #good omens fic #good omens human au #human au #fanfiction #azcrow

[smolalienbee]

YOU - When you step into the shack offered to you by the Washerwoman, what draws your attention first is the window on the wall opposite the entrance.

PERCEPTION [Medium: Failure] - There is more to see here, but you can’t focus on it. Instead, you step closer to the window. It’s a strange pull, but you find that you can’t resist it.

WINDOW - You look outside.

The world beyond the window is grey. It’s snowing. Spring will come soon, you know, but there’s no sight to be seen of it just yet. Only the grey.

CONCEPTUALIZATION [Medium: Success] - Grey, like the asphalt and the muddy sidewalks. Grey, like fear and sadness and misery.

REACTION SPEED [Challenging: Success] - Like YOU.

SHIVERS [Medium: Success] - You see the busy streets of Jamrock. In this weather, the citizens walk faster, eager to get out of the snow and back to their loved ones, the warmth of their homes.

EMPATHY [Easy: Success] - The ones that have anywhere to go to, anyway.

SHIVERS [Easy: Success] - A woman in an expensive coat walks down the sidewalk. She passes by a homeless man, but she pays him no mind - too busy dodging the sludge splashed in her direction by a reckless driver.

No, actually - she wouldn’t have paid him any attention no matter what.

WINDOW - You blink. The window is still there. There’s no one outside.

COMPOSURE [Challenging: Failure] - What’s the matter? It’s just a window.

LOGIC [Legendary: Success] - This isn’t about the window.

EMPATHY [Easy: Success] - Winters are hard on you. Seeing the snow brings you back there - to the sluggish January days filled with a bone-deep chill that not even a bottle of Commodore Red could warm sufficiently enough

ELECTROCHEMISTRY [Trivial: Success] - But what about two bottles… Or three…

EMPATHY [Medium: Success] - This is a dangerous slope to go down. You fear what this thought will bring. You fear -

HALF LIGHT [Godly: Success] - Kim. You fear showing Kim another one of your weaknesses.

LOGIC [Medium: Success] - The lieutenant has already seen you at your lowest, multiple times. It’s unlikely he will be affected by whatever happens when the grey outside gets to your head. When it truly gets to you.

COMPOSURE [Medium: Failure] - Move on, Harry. It’s just a window.

YOU - You do. Or you try to - move on. You can’t shake this feeling off, though, not really. This trepidation, the kind that makes you shiver.

When you step outside, he’s there, waiting patiently for you.

LOGIC [Easy: Success] - It is not the first time he’s waited for you.

HALF LIGHT [Medium: Failure] - But don’t get too complacent - he could still change his mind about you.

SUGGESTION [Easy: Success] - Convince him! Convince him to stay.

YOU - How?

SUGGESTION [Challenging: Success] - Surely he’d rather not spend another 20 reál in the Whirling. It’d save him money, if he were to stay with you here.

VOLITION [Medium: Failure] - That’d be lying.

SUGGESTION [Easy: Success] - It would save him money. It’s a half-truth.

DRAMA [Challenging: Success] - No! Show him your fear. Make a real show of it! With yelling and crying and begging… Be desperate. He can’t leave you if he’s afraid for your life, sire.

VOLITION [Medium: Success] - That would be manipulation.

COMPOSURE [Easy: Success] - Unnecessary dramatics.

PERCEPTION [Challenging: Success] - Something must show on your face because the lieutenant’s brows furrow in the kind of worry that is barely noticeable, but is still, inexplicably, there.

KIM KITSURAGI - “Harry,” he says, so softly that only you can hear it.

ESPRIT DE CORPS [Challenging: Success] - He still prefers to call you detective or officer - he likes those walls of professionalism that he’s put up around himself a long time ago. But sometimes, when it’s just the two of you, no one else to hear it, he will call you Harry.

EMPATHY [Godly: Success] - You’re not yet used to hearing your name fall from his lips. You’re not sure if you ever will be.

KIM KITSURAGI - “What are you thinking?”

INLAND EMPIRE [Medium: Failure] - What are you thinking?

HALF LIGHT [Easy: Success] - (Don’t leave me.)

[Suggestion - Legendary 14] Tell him it’d be cheaper if he stayed here with you - and effectively omit the truth.

[Empathy - Impossible 18] Be honest - tell him that you’re afraid of being alone.

[Drama - Medium 10] Start crying! No, better yet, wail, like a wounded animal.

”You know what, it’s nothing. Let’s go.” (Move on without trying to convince him.)

CHECK FAILURE

SUGGESTION [Legendary: Failure] - Yes! He won’t be able to resist this argument.

YOU - “Why don’t you stay here? There’s no use spending more money at the Whirling if this shack is free - right?”

KIM KITSURAGI - The lieutenant is silent as he raises an eyebrow.

EMPATHY [Challenging: Success] - He can tell there’s something more to it.

ESPRIT DE CORPS [Medium: Success] - He might not be well-versed in the matters of the heart, but he is a skilled lieutenant of the citizens militia. And he knows you, Harry, perhaps better than you know yourself. There’s no lying your way out of this one.

AUTHORITY [Easy: Success] - No, you’ve already chosen your path. Don’t show weakness, just stick to it. He’ll listen to you.

EMPATHY [Challenging: Success] - He will. But only because he can see just how uncomfortable you are. How afraid.

YOU - “It’s - I just thought -” Faced with the lieutenant’s piercing gaze, you stumble over your words.

PERCEPTION [Easy: Success] - The lieutenant’s expression softens.

EMPATHY [Challenging: Success] - He seems sympathetic, almost. And perhaps a little guilty.

KIM KITSURAGI - “I’m not leaving just yet, detective,” he says gently. “And after we do part ways for the day, you’ll see me first thing in the morning.”

HALF LIGHT [Easy: Success] - There it is, that familiar pressure in your chest and a panic rising up your throat.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY [Easy: Success] - If only you could swallow it down with some hot, hot liquid courage… actually, you could. You should.

YOU - “You’re right,” the words tumble out of you quickly.

PERCEPTION [Medium: Failure] - Are your hands shaking? You’re not sure anymore. You’re not sure of anything.

KIM KITSURAGI - “Harry,” the lieutenant says fimly.

HALF LIGHT [Medium: Success] - Your name again. This is serious, then. Is he angry? Disappointed? Oh god no, he must think you’re pathetic -

KIM KITSURAGI - Suddenly, the lieutenant grabs a hold of your shoulders and everything falls into place.

HEALED +1 MORALE

PERCEPTION [Challenging: Success] - There’s a sudden intensity in his gaze. A flicker of light bounces off his glasses.

EMPATHY [Godly: Success] - He is trying to be steady for you.

CONCEPTUALIZATION [Easy: Success] - Gentle like the wind, strong like an oak. Someone you can lean on.

YOU - You exhale. The breaths that follow come much easier.

KIM - “Tell me, what is this about, really?”

ESPRIT DE CORPS [Medium: Success] - It’s clear that the question comes to him with considerable difficulty. The lieutenant doesn’t enjoy discussing personal matters nor such emotions. He doesn’t want to deal with vulnerabilities - his own, or yours.

EMPATHY [Godly: Success] - No, it’s not that he isn’t interested. It’s that he doesn’t know how. The walls around his heart are tall and nearly impenetrable.

ESPRIT DE CORPS [Easy: Success] - He is your opposite, Harry.

CONCEPTUALIZATION [Medium: Success] - Two puzzle pieces, fraying at the edges.

(Cough.) “Asthma attack.” (No, you do not have asthma.)

“I don’t know how to be alone anymore.”

“I’m sorry. Forget it - I’m sorry.”

KIM KITSURAGI - The lieutenant tenses at the honesty of your response.

EMPATHY [Medium: Success] - Perhaps in some way he expected you to say something like this - that doesn’t mean he was any more prepared for it. This conversation has already been uncomfortable enough for him.

COMPOSURE [Challenging: Success] - Yet he chooses not to shy away from it. Curious.

KIM KITSURAGI - “We’ve never spent a night in the same room,” he points out dryly.

LOGIC [Easy: Success] - It was different at the Whirling, though, wasn’t it? Only a thin wall separating you.

INLAND EMPIRE [Easy: Success] - In the night, surrounded by the terrors of your own making - if you screamed loud enough, he’d hear it. Here, though…

YOU - “Our rooms were next to each other.” Your voice comes out steadier than how you feel.

EMPATHY [Medium: Success] - The lieutenant hesitates. It’s obvious he doesn’t know how to handle this - stubborn as he is not to engage with personal affairs while also afraid of sending you into hysterics.

KIM KITSURAGI - “Look, detective…”

There’s a pause and then he sighs, heavily. It seems like he’s finally made up his mind, though he’s not happy about it.

“Fine, okay,” he mutters. “I’ll stay.”

SHIVERS [Challenging: Success] - Elsewhere in the world, though not too far away, sun peeks in through the clouds and into a bedroom. Someone opens a window, a breath of fresh air, while another figure behind them stretches, a smile spreading on their face along with the movement of their arms.

The city exhales.

The world carries on. And spring - spring, too, will come soon.

YOU - “You know, Kim, there is only one bed, we’ll have to share it…”

KIM KITSURAGI - “No. You’re sleeping on the floor.”

AUTHORITY [Trivial: Success] - The lieutenant’s tone leaves no room for argument.

#smolalienbeewrites #disco elysium #kimharry #harry du bois #kim kitsuragi #harry x kim #kim x harry #de #disco elysium fanfic #harrykim #wow! i have no idea how to write them lol #honestly i feel like i struggled the most with harry and kim #more so than with the skill voices #anyway here a random ficlet #originally it was supposed to be post-canon about kim helping harry deal with his depressive episodes in the winter #but then i got to the shack in the game #and i yelled a bunch about how kim should stay in the shack too #and then this happened #so anyway have fun ig

[smolalienbee]

'don't look at me like that' with geraskier or geraskefer for the prompts?? ❤

thanks, Chrysa!!

ended up going with geraskier for this one and I feel like this should have another 5k of backstory to fully make sense but hopefully it’s good as it is too!

They've been walking side by side for hours and Geralt has yet to take his eyes off Jaskier. At first, it seems like the bard is oblivious to the yellow eyes piercing into his side, but it's only a matter of time before he glances over as well, once, twice, until eventually he huffs in annoyance.

"Don't look at me like that," he mutters and walks faster, though not so fast that Geralt wouldn't be able to keep up.

"Like what?"

"Like you don't recognize me anymore."

Geralt drops his gaze. He says nothing - doesn't know what to say. Because the truth of the matter is... Jaskier is right. He doesn't recognize him, not anymore, not when the man in front of him feels like the shell of a bard Geralt used to know. There's a haunted look in his eye, a hollowness to him, like something is missing...

"You have... changed."

"I'd hope so. It's been decades, since we last saw each other."

"That's not..." Geralt sighs.

"Spit it out already."

"It isn't a good thing."

Jaskier laughs. He tosses his head back and laughs with his whole body, but the sound rings hollow in the air that surrounds them. Geralt flinches.

“And whose fault do you believe it is, darling?”

When Jaskier stops laughing, it’s as sudden as it was when he started. He doesn’t move anymore and the blue of his eyes is dull as their gazes meet. Geralt doesn’t want to look at him, doesn’t want to see him like this. He finds that he’s desperate to remember Jaskier as he used to be, to remember the youthful joy that used to be in his expression.

Jaskier holds his gaze steadily, though, and Geralt knows that if he looked away, he’d just make matters worse.

(Is it even possible, for this to be any worse?)

“Yeah,” Jaskier breathes out after a moment, when Geralt doesn’t respond. “I thought so.”

With that, he puts a clear end to the conversation. He walks forward once more and for the first time, it is Geralt’s job to follow and follow he does - all while aching for something that is long gone, despite the reminder of it being right in front of him.

Not just any something, Geralt realizes in that moment.

It's the heart, that is missing. Jaskier's heart.

#smolalienbeewrites #geraskiersource #twn #geraskier #geralt x jaskier #jaskier x geralt #the witcher #witcher #the witcher netflix #geralt of rivia #jaskier the bard #julian alfred pankratz #witcher fanfic #angst #wow there is another plot bunny hopping around in my brain #i don't need more ideas #but since i really didn't want to set this just post-s2 #now i have some vague idea bouncing around about jaskier's heart or soul actually being taken away from him #by some curse or something #so like 5k of backstory and then 10k of healing as they either get his soul back or perhaps figure out how he can be himself without it #😐 did i mention i don't need more plot ideas

[smolalienbee]

geraskier // absolute fluff // in which Jaskier puts some makeup on Geralt and Geralt is just... incredibly in love with him

The moment he walks in, the sight of him knocks the wind out of Geralt.

All because Jaskier is... gorgeous. Not that he normally isn’t, but his beauty is especially striking when he’s all dressed up and in full make up - blush on his cheeks, red lipstick, winged eyeliner that seems to stretch out all the way to his temples. Geralt feels like a weaker man just at the sight of him alone.

Jaskier, of course, notices Geralt’s eyes on him instantly and, bloody tease that he is, does a little twirl, showing off the lengthened tails at the back of his shirt, sparkling with the many tiny gemstones sewn into the fabric. Geralt is vaguely aware of him asking How do I look? but truthfully, he’s not paying much attention to the words at the moment, too enraptured by the look of him. His feet carry him forward on their own and then he’s pulling Jaskier into his arms. Jaskier is, naturally, completely pliant under his touch and only laughs at his affections.

“Pretty lark,” Geralt rumbles into his neck as he nuzzles close, breathing in the scent of Jaskier’s perfume.

“Geralt, you’re going to ruin both my make up and my hair if you keep pressing yourself up against me like this,” Jaskier whines, though makes absolutely no effort to push him away. Good.

“Your fault. For looking so... pretty.”

“Oh, of course,” Jaskier snorts. He pulls back, just enough so that he can cradle Geralt’s face in both of his hands. “Come here, you,” he hums.

He strokes Geralt’s cheekbones with his thumbs and leans in to press a kiss to his lips. They both linger there for a moment, Geralt nearly melting into the touches. When Jaskier pulls away, he tries to follow his lips with his own, but Jaskier stops him with a hand against his chin.

“Maybe we shouldn’t be going out anywhere,” Geralt grumbles while Jaskier busies himself with swiping his index finger against Geralt’s lips. Geralt raises an eyebrow at him, barely resisting the urge to nibble at the rough skin on Jaskier’s fingertip, toughened up after years of playing the lute.

“No, we definitely should...” Jaskier murmurs, but it’s clear by the tone of his voice that his thoughts are elsewhere entirely.

“What is it, Julek?” Geralt prompts gently.

“My lipstick,” Jaskier muses. “It suits you.”

He turns his finger towards Geralt to show off the lipstick that now stains it, clear proof that he had tried to wipe it off Geralt’s lips after they kissed. Geralt, as though on an instinct, leans in to press a kiss to it, but that is exactly the moment Jaskier decides to suddenly disentangle himself from his arms. 

Before Geralt has the time to complain about it or even figure out what’s happening, Jaskier is already grabbing his hand and pulling him further inside the flat rather than out of it.

“Jask, what are you -”

"Don't worry, darling, it won't take long!"

Jaskier moves like a whirlwind, his steps easy and smooth as he lets go of Geralt’s hand and twirls around so that he’s behind him and can, quite literally, shove him into the bedroom. Soon enough Geralt is being told to sit down and so he does, unable to deny his songbird anything. He watches as Jaskier continues moving around until there’s a ridiculously giant cosmetics bag in Jaskier’s arms.

“Really, what is it -” Geralt makes another attempt at the question, but Jaskier, entirely undeterred, plops down next to him and shushes him gently.

“Shush. Let me work.”

And work he does - which in this case means various powders and pencils and brushes passing through his fingers in a flurry of movement. Geralt can’t be sure what it is that’s being applied to his face and if it was anyone else, that thought would’ve made him incredibly uncomfortable. This, though, Jaskier’s giddiness, it’s contagious and Geralt can’t help, but relax under his attention.

Fortunately for Jaskier, it’s not at all difficult for Geralt to remain silent. Despite the lingering confusion, he doesn’t dare to question his lark - and that’s certainly made easier when the sight in front of him is so endearing. The way Jaskier grins, how he pauses just to scrutinize Geralt’s face. How he scrunches up his nose and sticks his tongue out as he focuses on keeping his hand steady to do Geralt’s eyeliner.

(At some point, Jaskier tells him to close his eye and Geralt does, but he still keeps the other one open, not wanting to miss even a second of it.)

Geralt doesn’t know how much time passes before Jaskier is done - though he’s fairly certain they’re very late by now, but he doesn’t have the heart to tell Jaskier that.

“Well, all done,” Jaskier hums as pulls away, smiling in that brightly fond way of his. “Now we’re ready to go, my dashing beloved.”

Geralt grunts an acknowledgement and then, with Jaskier still so close, he can’t stop himself from leaning in to press a kiss to his cheek. Before his lips can touch skin, though, Jaskier squirms away from him.

“No! No kissing,” he protests. “You’re going to rub off your lipstick if you do, dearheart, so kisses are banned for tonight.”

Right. Even with the unusual texture now coating his lips, it’s already slipped his mind that Jaskier had just slathered lipstick all over them. Geralt pouts and Jaskier gives him a warm smile and boops him on the nose.

“Don’t you look at me like that. It’s only for tonight, I’m sure you can survive. Come, now, see for yourself how pretty you are now.”

Geralt huffs at that - pretty, right. He certainly can’t be pretty when next to his lovely lark - though he doesn’t resist when Jaskier tugs him towards a mirror.

He doesn’t know what to really expect from his own reflection. Other than occasional eyeliner, Jaskier has never put much make up on him before (no one has, in fact). When he’s finally faced with a mirror, Geralt blinks owlishly, as though not quite recognizing himself. There’s blush on his cheeks, blue on his eyelids, dark red on his lips. He is...

“Gorgeous,” Jaskier breathes out. He’s hanging off Geralt’s arm still, chin rested on his shoulder as he too looks at the reflection.

While Geralt would not usually describe himself as such, this time he finds that he can’t really argue. With a slight smile on his face, he hums his agreement then turns towards Jaskier. Before his songbird has the time to realize what he’s doing, he plants a kiss to his cheek, leaving a deep dark smudge of lipstick on the skin there. Jaskier squeals loudly, tries to wiggle away, but there’s still bright laughter dancing across his lips and his entire face even as he does.

(And Geralt falls in love just a little more.)

#smolalienbeewrites #geraskiersource #geraskier #twn #geralt x jaskier #jaskier x geralt #witcher #witcher netflix #the witcher #geralt #jaskier #jaskier the bard #julian alfred pankratz #geralt of rivia #witcher fic #geraskier fic #theyre in love ur honor!!! #this is literally just so much fluff #and geralt consistently thinking about how pretty jask is and how much he loves him #let the witcher be stupidly in love with his bard #and by 'let' i mean i'll force him to be by writing it myself

[smolalienbee]

28 for the touches ask game, for Geraskier if you please.

hey Jess!! thanks for the request! i wasn’t sure which number 28 you were asking for so I kind of tried to do... all of them?

grabbing the other’s hand so they don’t fall // quick hugs // neck kisses // feeling for each other in the dark // geraskier

“Geralt?”

It’s dark. It’s so bloody dark, as though the void itself has wrapped its arms around them, has placed its hands over his eyes. Jaskier keeps on blinking, hoping to adjust his eyes to this overwhelming darkness, but it does nothing. Everything is pitch black.

“Geralt!” he calls out again and stumbles forward, arms outstretched in a foolish search for the witcher.

“Jaskier?”

A voice responds from somewhere, nearby. Jaskier turns towards the sound of it and in his rush to reach Geralt, trips over his own feet. Before he falls deeper into the darkness, though, a hand grasps his and Jaskier gasps as suddenly he’s pressed up against a firm body, a warmth enveloping him from all sides.

“Geralt,” he repeats, relieved. He wraps his arms around him, presses in closer, but then leans away almost immediately. “It’s you, right?” he asks, head tipped up as though to look into Geralt’s eyes except it’s still just that same inky blackness.

“Yes,” the familiar voice responds and Jaskier slumps against him. No matter the void surrounding them, they’re together at last and he is safe. They’re safe. “It’s me, Jask.”

Blindly, Jaskier reaches up, until his hands cup Geralt’s face, until he’s touching over the lines of his skin. In the wake of his fingertips, his mind conjures up a clear image - the worry etched into the corner of Geralt’s lips, the tiredness in the bags under his eyes.

He pulls him in, closer and closer until Jaskier’s face is nestled in the crook of Geralt’s neck, until his lips are brushing his skin, not quite a kiss but it might as well be. Here, in his arms, the darkness does not feel as scary as it would otherwise.

“You’re here.”

#smolalienbeewrites #geraskiersource #geraskier #twn #geralt x jaskier #jaskier x geralt #witcher #the witcher #geralt of rivia #jaskier #jaskier the bard #julian alfred pankratz #the witcher netflix #witcher netflix #i have NO idea what this is #it just happened #no thoughts just words

[smolalienbee]

geraskier // inspired by The Oh Hellos’ In Memoriam

Well, it's a long way out to reach the sea,

But I'm sure I'll find you waiting there for me.

"There you are, love."

In front of Geralt, on the dirt road leading towards the very edge of the coast, stands a familiar figure. He seems thinner, now, brown hair turning to grey, but still those blue eyes sparkle in much the same way they used to.

Geralt stops at the sound of his voice and Jaskier takes that as his cue to move. His arms swing wildly as he approaches, slow at first, then faster and faster until he comes crashing into Geralt's chest, like a wave, like the sea crashing into the rocks, unafraid of how they might split themselves open on the jagged edges.

And Geralt feels the walls around his heart tumble down.

"I knew you would come," Jaskier says as Geralt's arms wind themselves around his middle.

"Did you?"

"Of course. Eventually, I knew you would find your way back to me. I've been waiting for you."

Geralt doesn't know what to say to this. Doesn't know what to say to Jaskier's unwavering trust and loyalty. He hums and presses his nose into the bard's hair. He hopes that he will understand.

"I've missed you," Jaskier continues. "Do you know? My treasured witcher. I've missed you so much."

He pulls away and as he looks up at Geralt, a wide smile spreads across his face.

“You don’t have to say anything,” he adds, always the one with more than enough words for both of them. “I just wanted you to know.”

“I won’t leave again.”

“I’d hope not!” Jaskier exclaims and finally he untangles himself completely from Geralt, though reaches for the witcher’s hand as soon as he does. “Come along, now. Let me show you home.”

Home.

Without a word, Geralt follows him home.

#smolalienbeewrites #geraskier #twn #geralt x jaskier #jaskier x geralt #the witcher #witcher netflix #jaskier the bard #geralt of rivia #julian alfred pankratz #geralt witcher #the witcher netflix #witcher fanfiction #ficlet #it was a matter of time before i wrote smth inspired by that song #mostly slapped this together yesterday #then just added a wonky ending onto it today #but yeah #ive been mostly posting art and not so much writing the last week or so so here's some writing instead

[smolalienbee]

Just found your page and its amazing, especially your Geraskier content.

Could you maybe do Geraskier short fic with prompt 10 or 39 from the kissing prompt list. (I'm on mobile and cant figure out how to copy/paste the prompts)

hi!!! thank you, glad you've been enjoying your stay!!! went with prompt 10 for this one - "a hello/good-bye kiss that is given without thinking - where neither person thinks twice about it"

geraskier // Yennefer POV // modern AU; crack-ish fluff or fluff-ish crack

(send me a character/pairing and a prompt and i’ll write you a ficlet!)

Yennefer sits calmly on the couch when it all happens.

Geralt is meditating on the living room floor, cross-legged and with his eyes tightly shut. While she doesn’t quite get the concept of meditation in general, finds it too frustrating and with too little practical result, she doesn’t dare bother him. It’s what he does and she’s plenty occupied reading anyway.

And so their shared flat is completely silent, peacefully so. Or, at least, it is until Jaskier, who is without a doubt the nosiest housemate in existence, barges inside.

“I’m home,” he loudly sing-songs all the way from the front door. It’s an unnecessary announcement and so both Yennefer and Geralt react appropriately - she with a roll of her eyes while he grunts under his breath. Neither of them pauses their respective tasks, though, far too used to Jaskier’s rambunctiousness to let it get to them.

Jaskier, either oblivious or deliberately ignoring their annoyance, saunters into the living room with a bright grin on his face.

“Witch,” he greets Yennefer with a mock little bow and then he moves onto Geralt. And this - this is where things start to get interesting, enough so that Yennefer lowers her book to watch the scene unfold.

Jaskier steps close to Geralt, close enough that Geralt clearly picks up on his presence and grumbles something yet again. Jaskier, entirely undeterred, coos at him in response and then he... leans in. He leans in and kisses Geralt, straight on the lips.

Yennefer is sure that, last she checked, the two of them have still been dancing around each other without any definitive resolutions as to the state of their relationship. She is also fairly sure that they have never kissed.

(She would know if they did - Jaskier would certainly never shut up about it.)

And yet, Jaskier had just kissed him and Geralt, for his part, hadn’t even flinched. In fact... he’d leaned into it. Curious, indeed.

The kiss doesn’t last long, more of a gentle peck than anything else. Jaskier pulls away, pats Geralt’s shoulder casually as he does.

“Well, don’t let me interrupt you any longer,” he chirps happily and then has the gall to hum to himself as he walks away, as though nothing out of the ordinary has happened.

Yennefer stares at him as he goes, though he doesn’t seem to notice. She waits until he’s out of view before she gets up and follows him.

(She doesn’t bother checking on Geralt. The more the kiss surprised him, the less likely it was that he’d tell her anything.)

She finds Jaskier in the kitchen, cheerfully unpacking his groceries with some melody still on his lips. She pointedly taps her heels against the floor to get his attention and waits until he looks up before she speaks.

“So I see you two have figured things out, then?” she asks, leaning her hip against one of the counters. Her eyes remain on him.

“Hmm? Whatever would you mean, my dear?”

She raises her eyebrows pointedly, but Jaskier just stares at her blankly, as though not grasping what she means. Silence stretches on until she grows frustrated with his clear lack of comprehension.

“The kiss, Jaskier,” she tells him on an exhale. “You just kissed him.”

“The... oh,” he gasps softly. “Oh. I did. Oh fuck. Oh fucky fuck, I kissed him. I just - AND HE KISSED BACK?”

And just as Jaskier raises his voice, there’s a thud in another room, presumably of Geralt fully dropping onto the floor. Yennefer sighs heavily.

#smolalienbeewrites #geraskiersource #geraskier #twn #witcher #geralt x jaskier #jaskier x geralt #yennefer #geralt of rivia #jaskier the bard #sort of #geraskefer #vibes too #julian alfred pankratz #yennefer of vengerberg #witcher fanfiction #witcher netflix #the witcher #ficlet #fanfiction #modern au #this one is just silly tbh #and as soon as i decided what would happen i knew i NEEDED to do write this from yen pov #just cause neither jask nor geralt have any braincells in that moment #i wrote that last angsty one same day as this one #and it feels a bit weird to be writing this ridiculousness after all those painful emotional descriptions lmao

[smolalienbee]

“this was a mistake” for the angst prompt 💖

hey Jin! thanks for giving me an opportunity to inflict pain >:)

went with geraskier for this one as they’re the perfect angst fodder for me

"Do you ever wonder if..." Jaskier trails off. He stares up at the ceiling, the cracks running along the rough stone. The more he looks at it, the more it feels as though it's about to cave in on him, the way everything in his life seems to always, repeatedly, collapse.

(He wouldn't run, if it did, he thinks.)

"Hm?" from beside him, Geralt hums a question.

Unlike Jaskier, spread on his back and looking up, Geralt is laying on his side, a finger tracing patterns over Jaskier's chest. In its wake, he leaves a burning sensation and Jaskier doesn't know if he should seek out more of this touch or get away before it burns him completely.

"If this was a mistake," Jaskier finally finishes, all said on a single exhale. He turns his head to look over at Geralt who freezes.

For a brief second, it seems like some hurt passes over his expression, but it's gone as quickly as it appeared, replaced by something far more neutral. And it breaks Jaskier's heart to know that even now, he's not so privileged to see the truth of Geralt's emotion for more than a second at a time.

"What do you mean?"

Jaskier hesitates. He has to tear his eyes away from Geralt before he continues. "Back in Posada,” he elaborates after a moment of silence. “If choosing to follow you was a mistake. If allowing me to go with you was a mistake. If us - if all of this was mistake.”

“Jaskier, are you -”

“Do you?” Jaskier cuts him off because he needs to know. He doesn’t know what response he’s hoping for - whether it’s to know that he isn’t the only one or whether it’s to have a reassurance that perhaps Geralt doesn’t ever regret it. But he needs to hear it, either way.

Silence stretches on. There’s a moment when Jaskier thinks he won’t get any response after all, but then Geralt shifts. He pulls his hand away and moves until he’s on his back as well, looking up.

“Sometimes,” he says.

Jaskier’s eyes flutter shut. Everything collapses, he thinks, as his chest caves in on itself.

(Still, he stays.)

#smolalienbeewrites #geraskiersource #geraskier #twn #geralt x jaskier #jaskier x geralt #the witcher #witcher #geralt of rivia #jaskier the bard #julian alfred pankratz #the witcher netflix #angst #witcher fanfiction #ficlet #wow i hurt myself with this one #anyway this was fun!

[smolalienbee]

Birdwatching, or: How Lost Birds Flock Together (chapter 1)

The Witcher (Netflix) // Detroit: Become Human AU (Witcher characters placed in DBH universe) // rated T (Teen And Up) // 5.6k/???

When Yennefer quit the Oxenfurt Police Department, she swore to herself never to get involved with another android case - that is, until an old mentor comes knocking at her office door. Suddenly, she finds herself with an android in her care and a new job - to identify and neutralize the Sandpiper.

But how does one go about finding a myth? Worst of all, there’s much more at stake than just her paycheck. The deviants’ existence is at risk and then there’s also… the girl.

read the 1st chapter in full on AO3

“Yennefer. It’s been a while.”

“Tissaia.”

Even now, it’s an instinct for Yennefer to stand up at the sight of her old… boss? Mentor? Surrogate mother? She’s never been able to find the right words to describe fully just what Tissaia is to her. Tissaia is simply… Tissaia.

“You’ve settled in well in your new office, I see.”

Tissaia paces around the room, slowly, and Yennefer tries to keep an eye on her - but it’s difficult not to let her gaze flicker to the only other figure that’s in the office. It’s an android, modeled to look like a man in his late 30s or 40s, with white hair tied back into a bun and striking yellow eyes. It’s also unnerving in how it stands by the door, unblinking and completely still. Yennefer forces her attention back to Tissaia.

“Why are you here?” she asks, ignoring the comment. She’s not in the mood for small talk, not with her, not after everything that’s happened. It’s been months - months, since Yennefer has left the force and started her own investigative practice; months, since Tissaia has been scouted by CyberLife.

Tissaia sighs. Her eyes linger on the only window in the room and then she turns towards Yennefer.

“I have a job for you.”

“You or CyberLife?”

“Both.”

Yennefer laughs. She falls back into the chair, though she keeps her head held high. Why Tissaia thinks she’d be willing to work with them is beyond her.

“You’re aware that’s not going to happen.”

Tissaia doesn’t respond immediately. All she does is shake her head and then wave a hand, gesturing for the android to come closer. It does - because of course it does; because it’s been programmed to take all orders, never questioning, never independent. It’s frightening, how much she sees a younger version of herself in it - the version of her that was much younger and searching for someone that’d notice her.

“This is WR160,” Tissaia points at the android, now standing at her side. “It is the most advanced model CyberLife has produced so far. It comes equipped with a full field forensics kit and state of the art analysis software. It’s a tool that CyberLife has kindly offered to entrust you with for the purpose of this job.”

She pats the android’s shoulder. The android continues not to move. He’s attractive, but Yennefer knows that most people would find him off-putting; creepy. He doesn’t exude the artificial friendliness that most other androids do.

“Its name is Geralt.”

“Get to the point, Tissaia,” Yennefer says, refusing to acknowledge the android even after she’s already spent an excessive amount of time just looking at him. “What’s the job?”

“To identify and neutralize the Sandpiper.”

Of course. The myth, the legend.

“Neutralize. Funny way to put it. Have you forgotten I don’t work for the police anymore?”

“That is exactly the reason why I’ve come to you, Yennefer.” Tissaia approaches and each of her steps is so carefully measured. Yennefer, desperate to keep both her composure and poise, especially in front of her old mentor, straightens up. “The OPD has been trying to locate the Sandpiper for… months, but their work simply does not bring any satisfactory results. So, I’ve managed to convince the board that I know someone better for the job.”

“Me.”

Tissaia nods. Yennefer doesn’t know whether to laugh or scream.

“You must be joking,” she says instead, calmly.

“Yennefer, I know what really happened to Ciri.”

Hearing the name, Yennefer freezes. She tries not to show it, but just the mention of it causes a pit to open inside her stomach and with it comes the rage - that rage - which has always simmered deep down inside her. She digs her fingernails into the desk, like a bird’s claws, not caring when one of the extensions cracks under the force. Her next words come out dangerously low.

“Do not bring her into this.”

Tissaia, well-accustomed with the depth of Yennefer’s emotion, leans in closer. Her expression softens and it only serves to anger Yennefer further.

“If you want to protect that girl, you will take this job.”

The next few moments are filled with charged silence. Yennefer doesn’t break eye contact with Tissaia, even as she feels the android’s - Geralt’s - gaze boring into her.

She thinks about the little girl she had saved, months ago - the same one she’s been looking for ever since then.

She thinks about what would happen to her if CyberLife found the Sandpiper before she does. And then, she makes her decision.

She doesn’t have to say anything. She breaks eye contact knowing that Tissaia already is aware of her choice - that the moment she had walked into her office, she knew Yennefer would agree. That it’s, ultimately, a job she can’t say no to.

Sensing Yennefer’s surrender, Tissaia leans back. She moves towards the door, walking past Geralt on the way there.

“Why are you doing this, Tissaia?” Yennefer stops her at the last moment.

Tissaia lifts her hand to the doorknob and considers her next words carefully. “Because I know you have so much left to give,” she says finally, glancing over her shoulder at Yennefer. “Because we can’t let this chaos continue on.” She pulls the door open. “I’ve already sent you all the details. Find the Sandpiper, Yennefer. If not for CyberLife… then do it for me.”

She leaves then, without saying another word. Yennefer feels a desperate urge to break something.

read the 1st chapter in full on AO3

#smolalienbeewrites #twn #the witcher #yennefer of vengerberg #yennefer #jaskier #jaskier witcher #geralt of rivia #cirilla #witcher cirilla #geraskier #yennskier #geraskefer #the witcher netflix #dbh #detroit become human au #witcher #witcher fanfiction