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#the paper size is bigger ig

bidisasterevankinard · 9 months

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tease tidbit tuesday! 🎸🎙️

Tagged by @heartbeatdiaz thank you love 💙💙💙

rule: share whatever scene or snippet from your fic that has you excited, ig???

I shared part of it for sss but I needed to share part with Bobby cause his my fav here and I actually excited about this scene

more enemies to lovers au

“Let's get started. Buck, you're the first, play that tune that you showed me a few months ago,” Bobby points Buck to the instruments. Buck goes to the guitar to play a melody that he started six months ago, but the text never came to him and he never finished it. Maybe someday. He almost reaches the chorus, when the damn brown-eyed begins to sing and his as it was called "a wonderful angelic drawling voice that makes you think sinful things"(Buck literally read it in twitter once) fills the room. And it took you five whole minutes To pack us up and leave me with it Holdin' all this love out here in the hall I think I've seen this film before And I didn't like the ending You're not my homeland anymore So what am I defending now? You were my town Now I'm in exile, seein' you out I think I've seen this film before They end the chorus and both are looking at each other shocked. Buck can admit lyrics are good and go with music fantastically. Well, he can admit it for himself, never to anyone else. “I wrote it after Shannon sent the divorce papers,” the only explanation Eddie gives to Bobby, and the old man nods. Buck feels the urge to be a jerk and doesn’t stop himself. “Couldn't satisfy your wifey?” Eddie turns to him so quickly that Buck is sure his neck will hurt for weeks. Fires of anger and hatred are burning in brown eyes and Buck wants to pour more gasoline. But he doesn’t have a chance to add more. “Well, at least I got into the label not through the bed of one of the producers,” Eddie says with the smirk that Buck hates from the first day he found out about Eddie Diaz, it always makes him want to start a fight. “I slept with Abby after joining the label. And I didn't know she was a producer,” “Come on, you're with your story and you haven't whored your way here? How many pussies have you licked and dicks sucked to get there?” Eddie continues and Buck abruptly gets up and in a few steps overcomes the space between them, standing so close to the brunette jerk, using all his height and size, trying to seem bigger and intimidating. Bobbie’s quiet but rather intimidating voice scares both. “Both shut up and in the corners,” he points to two different chairs in different corners of the studio. “The lyrics and music are perfect together, so whether you like it or not, we are finishing it. And you better start being a team. Otherwise, both of you will fly out of the label with a scandal that no one will ever want to work with you. Now you both have to stick to each other as if you haven't drank water for days, and the second one is a fountain of pure delicious water. Is that clear?” “Clear,” they both say looking at Bobby like kicked puppies, but then send each other looks that can set someone on fire. “Buck, do you have more for music?” Bobby looks at him and Buck just shakes his head in denial and slight shame. He had never had to sit for so long with a draft of one song. And moreover, only with a melody. There are no words at all to put his heart in them as much as music does it. “Eddie, more lyrics?” The old man changes his attention to brown-eyed but Buck prefers to look at the guitar or he might say something again, and maybe Bobby is a good man, and with the patience of the saint, but he has his limits too, and Buck pushed them enough in the past that almost lost his place in the label. “Only three more lines in the start,” the voice of a jerk playing an angel says and Buck can’t stop himself from rolling his eyes. Well, looks like they are going to work long together. “Ok, Eddie, give your lyrics to Buck to read. Buck, give Eddie notes to look and Eddie, try to play it. Maybe while you look at the project of the other one it will inspire something. Learn from each other a little. I will go and work in my office, only try to start another fight. I’m serious about ending your careers,” on that Bobby leaves them alone in the studio.

Tagging if they want to share : @honestlydarkprincess @911onabc @alyxmastershipper @transbuck @cowboy-buddie @heartshapedvows @bekkachaos @panbuckley @rogerzsteven @the-likesofus @shortsighted-owl @buddierights @housewifebuck @thewolvesof1998 @wildlife4life @wikiangela @hippolotamus @transboybuckley @devirnis @spotsandsocks @monsterrae1 @spaceprincessem @userdisaster @caroandcats @mandzuking17 @useramor @paranoidbean @sibylsleaves @jobairdxx @translasso @bigfootsmom and anyone who wants to share

#enemies to lovers singers au wip #buddie #evan buckley #eddie diaz #911 #evan buck buckley #tease tidbit Tuesday #my writing

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mixelation · 10 months

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notes about how fuinjutsu works in plasticity, with some minor spoilers ig

*Fuinjutsu conceptually mirrors how a jutsu would work in a body; they are near universally circular because humans pull from a chakra 'core.'

*Fuinjutsu can therefore (theoretically) mimic any non-elemental ninjutsu and vice-versa. However, some jutsu are considered easier to do by hand and some are easier to do with the assist from paper (because seals help twist your chakra in unnatural ways). A lot of high-powered complicated justu started as fuinjutsu and were adapted to hand-signs later because hand-signs are more convenient for battle.

*Advantages of fuinjutsu:

A trained, steady hand can pull off more complicated jutsu than the user could "by hand" without needing insane Tsunade-level control

Sometimes jutsu take a very long time to execute. Fuinjutsu can shave time off the execution part (even if preparing your seal could take hours of prep time)

You can set up a seal and then walk away

You can easily pass a technique between people for reuse and without having to make sure everyone has specific training (such as a storage scroll!)

Cuts down in variation between jutsu -- very important for research, medical stuff, exploding tags, etc

Most villages have developed a decent number of "plug and chug" seals-- basic barriers, basic exploding tags, etc to make mass production/use by rando ninja without specific training easier

*Disadvantages:

Prep time: even basic bitch seals take minutes to draw (and bigger ones can take HOURS) AND even a small mistake could make it useless or, like, explode. It's not practical for most combat situations, so either you have to carry around a bunch of pre-drawn seals, or you need a way to distract an enemy for however long to make your seal.

Tools requirement: you don't need special paper and ink for fuinjutsu, but it definitely makes it easier, and most ninja don't even know you can free-hand carve a seal into someone's skin as long as you do the right modifications. So for most people, even if you get the rest of your team to distract an opponent while you draw a seal, environmental factors (temperature making ink run, uneven surfaces, limited paper/ink, wrong sized brush on hand, etc) decrease fuinjutsu usefulness.

Takes a lot of time and effort to learn to the degree you can start making your own jutsu, and unlike a lot of other jutsu training, it's very academic in a way that's not necessarily going to help other ninja skills. Most ninja know enough to copy a basic seal, and one COULD argue that in-depth fuinjutsu knowledge corresponds to in-depth knowledge of chakra, but it's not worth it for most ninja

Complexity vs chakra trade-off: the more complex a seal, the more chakra-heavy it is. This can be mitigated by requiring the user to modifying their chakra themselves WITHIN the seal. So in order to do the truly insane techniques with fuinjutsu, you either have to be a chakra powerhouse (or have other ninja do the technique with you) or have very good chakra control, which immediately shoves fuinjutsu into the "not worth it" category for most people

*For Tori, my concept is she sort of..... just breaks a lot of the "rules"/assumptions? Like, because of the circumstances she's been honing her skills in and because she literally can't do jutsu any other way (and also because people have neglected to tell her she shouldn't be doing this), she's been working very hard on nixing the "tools" requirement. And also (here's the spoilery part) she's ramping up to getting really into using non-humans as her chakra source, to nix the complexity vs chakra trade-off. yeah it takes more math to use tree chakra but also in a forest that means basically unlimited chakra

i really want to mirror that last part with her telling orochimaru about how most biological advances in our world is just hijacking other organism's evolutionary adaptations, because it sort of gives an explanation for why her way of thinking is different enough she comes up with alternate solutions............ i don't really like when SIs come up with some new revolutionary thing and they're just like "oh, i guess i'm just the first person to do this because i'm really smart /shrug" and there's NO reasoning for why some equally smart person hasn't already come up with it >.> Tori's attitude towards the natural world is "yeah, if bacteria naturally clipping out pieces of virus genomes leads to human gene editing techniques, why WOULDN'T i be able to hijack someone else's chakra?" which is very different from the attitudes we see in canon, aside from whatever senjutsu is (so like, what se's doing has a BASIS in what other have done, but it's considered very niche sage stuff)

reborn au kushina, watching tori do something with a tree in a time of great need: oh no. ooooh no. oh no

#fic: plasticity

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kookie-doughs · 3 years

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Y/N L/N AND THE HALFBLOODS

Percy Jackson X Reader

-Y/N L/N met Percy Jackson and everything is now ruined.

Chapter 22: Then It Ended

As soon as we came, Annabeth ang Grover tackled me. We were the first heroes to return alive to Half-Blood Hill since Luke, so of course everybody treated us as if we'd won some reality-TV contest. According to camp tradition, we wore laurel wreaths to a big feast prepared in our honor, then led a procession down to the bonfire, where we got to burn the burial shrouds our cabins had made for us in our absence.

Annabeth's shroud was so beautiful—gray silk with embroidered owls— Percy told her it seemed a shame not to bury her in it. She punched him and told him to shut up. Percy being the son of Poseidon, he didn't have any cabin mates, so the Ares cabin had volunteered to make his shroud. They'd taken an old bedsheet and painted smiley faces with X'ed-out eyes around the border, and the word LOSER painted really big in the middle.

As I was still unclaimed, Hermes cabin had made me one. (Just... IDK go crazy with your shroud IG) It was fun to burn. As Apollo's cabin led the sing-along and passed out s'mores, Percy and I was surrounded by my Hermes cabinmates, Annabeth's friends from Athena, and Grover's satyr buddies, who were admiring the brand-new searcher's license he'd received from the Council of Cloven Elders. The council had called Grover's performance on the quest "Brave to the point of indigestion. Horns-and-whiskers above anything we have seen in the past." The only ones not in a party mood were Clarisse and her cabinmates, whose poisonous looks told me they'd never forgive us for disgracing their dad. That was okay with me. Even Dionysus's welcome-home speech wasn't enough to dampen my spirits. "Yes, yes, so the little brats didn't get themselves killed and now they'll have an even bigger head. Well, huzzah for that. In other announcements, there will be no canoe races this Saturday...." Going back to the cabin I finally had time to talk to Luke. Who just expressed his relief of me being fine, and how he was scared when Annabeth told everyone about me. No wonder everyone was so shocked seeing me come back with Percy. On the Fourth of July, the whole camp gathered at the beach for a fireworks display by cabin nine. Being Hephaestus's kids, they weren't going to settle for a few lame red-white-and-blue explosions. They'd anchored a barge offshore and loaded it with rockets the size of Patriot missiles. According to Annabeth, who'd seen the show before, the blasts would be sequenced so tightly they'd look like frames of animation across the sky. The finale was supposed to be a couple of hundred-foot-tall Spartan warriors who would crackle to life above the ocean, fight a battle, then explode into a million colors. As Annabeth, Percy and I were spreading a picnic blanket, Grover showed up to tell us good-bye. He was dressed in his usual jeans and T-shirt and sneakers, but in the last few weeks he'd started to look older, almost high-school age. His goatee had gotten thicker. He'd put on weight. His horns had grown at least an inch, so he now had to wear his rasta cap all the time to pass as human. "I'm off," he said. "I just came to say ... well, you know." I tried to feel happy for him. After all, it wasn't every day a satyr got permission to go look for the great god Pan. But it was hard saying good-bye. I'd only known Grover a year, yet he was my oldest friend. Annabeth and I gave him a hug. She told him to keep his fake feet on. I asked him where he was going to search first. "Kind of a secret," he said, looking embarrassed. "I wish you could come with me, guys, but humans and Pan ..." "We understand," Annabeth said. "You got enough tin cans for the trip?" "Yeah." "And you remembered your reed pipes?" "Jeez, Annabeth," he grumbled. "You're like an old mama goat." But he didn't really sound annoyed. He gripped his walking stick and slung a backpack over his shoulder. He looked like any hitchhiker you might see on an American highway. "Well," he said, "wish me luck." He gave Annabeth and I another hug. He clapped Percy on the shoulder, then headed back through the dunes. Fireworks exploded to life overhead: Hercules killing the Nemean lion, Artemis chasing the boar, George Washington (who, by the way, was a son of Athena) crossing the Delaware. "Hey, Grover," Percy called. He turned at the edge of the woods. "Wherever you're going—I hope they make good enchiladas." Grover grinned, and then he was gone, the trees closing around him. "We'll see him again," Annabeth said. July passed. I spent my daysplanning out strategies with Luke for capture-the-flag and making alliances with the other cabins to keep the banner out of Ares's hands. I got to the top of the climbing wall for the first time without getting scorched by lava. From time to time, Percy and I would walk past the Big House, he'd glance up at the attic windows, and think about the Oracle.

I tried to convince him that its prophecy had come to completion. "You shall go west, and face the god who has turned." "Been there, done that—even though the traitor god had turned out to be Ares rather than Hades." "You shall find what was stolen, and see it safe returned." "Check. One master bolt delivered. One helm of darkness back on Hades." "You shall be betrayed by one who calls you a friend." Percy recited. "Ares had pretended to be our friend, then betrayed us. That must be what the Oracle meant.... Or maybe Nereid?"

"And you shall fail to save what matters most, in the end." He sighed. "I had failed to save my mom and lost you..."

"So why are you still uneasy?" The last night of the summer session came all too quickly. The campers had one last meal together. We burned part of our dinner for the gods. At the bonfire, the senior counselors awarded the end-of-summer beads. Percy and I got our own leather necklace, and when I saw the bead for my first summer. The design was pitch black, with a sea-green trident shimmering in the center.

"This is so beautiful..." I smiled to Percy. "The choice was unanimous," Luke announced. "This bead commemorates the first Son of the Sea God at this camp, and the quest he undertook into the darkest part of the Underworld to stop a war!" The entire camp got to their feet and cheered. Even Ares's cabin felt obliged to stand. Athena's cabin steered Annabeth to the front so she could share in the applause. I'm not sure I'd ever felt as happy or sad as I did at that moment. I'd finally found a family, people who cared about me and thought I'd done something right. And in the morning, most of them would be leaving for the year. * * * The next morning, Luke called me. He gave me a paper, telling me to fill it out, and asked me to meet him as soon as I could. I knew Dionysus must've filled it out, because he stubbornly insisted on getting my name wrong: Dear (WRONG NAME) , If you intend to stay at Camp Half-Blood year-round, you must inform the Big House by noon today. If you do not announce your intentions, we will assume you have vacated your cabin or died a horrible death. Cleaning harpies will begin work at sundown. They will be authorized to eat any unregistered campers. All personal articles left behind will be incinerated in the lava pit. Have a nice day! Mr. D (Dionysus) Camp Director, Olympian Council #12 That's another thing about ADHD. Deadlines just aren't real to me until I'm staring one in the face. Summer was over, and I still don't know what to do. I had no where to go to. The only option I had was Percy's or maybe Hades was not joking about inviting me back to the Underworld. Sighing I decided to just meet Luke before filling it for second opinions. The campgrounds were mostly deserted, shimmering in the August heat. All the campers were in their cabins packing up, or running around with brooms and mops, getting ready for final inspection. Argus was helping some of the Aphrodite kids haul their Gucci suitcases and makeup kits over the hill, where the camp's shuttle bus would be waiting to take them to the airport. I was walking around looking for Luke. I jumped when I felt someone tap me from behind. I instinctively unsheathed my knife and turned only to see Luke with his hands raised.

"Whoa! Calm down just me." He laughed.

"Kinda weird seeing someone laugh at a knife pointed at them." I smirked sheathing my knife.

"I only laugh since its you." He smiled and ruffled my hair. "Are you done with everything?"

"Not really. I don't know whether to leave or not yet. That's why I came. Help me?" I asked him.

He turned to me and to the forest. "How about you hear me out about something... important and private... then decide?" He gestured towards the forest.

"Not planning on killing me are you?" I squinted at him.

He gasped. "Not you. Never. I would never hurt you."

I let him lead me to a shrouded area of the forest.

"How serious is this thing that you can't let anyone see? I am blindly trusting you here Luke." I laughed nervously. But when he didn't reply I felt something was off. "Luke, okay this isn't cool. How deep into the forest do we have to go?"

"Y/N remember when you said... You want to be the person I trust...? How you promised to help me?"

"Luke?" He took my hand and pulled me sharply. I winced at how hard he pulled me. "That hurts! Let me go!"

He snapped back and let go of my wrist. "I-I'm sorry... Y/N..."

As much as I knew I had to leave, I couldn't I was worried about him. I reluctantly placed a hand on his shoulder. "What's happening?"

"I did it..." I said and sat on the ground. "I swear I didn't mean to get you hurt. But, I confess to everything. I stole bolt and helm, I summoned the hound, I gave Percy the cursed shoes... And just now, I tried to kill Percy Jackson." He looked at me with empty eyes.

I shot up and looked at him in emotions I couldn't put in words. "W-Wh---" I wanted to leave and check on Percy. But once again, seeing him right now... I need to stay with him. "Why are you telling me this...?"

"Join me... please?" his voice was weak. He sounded vulnerable. "Let's serve my Lord together..."

"L-Luke... no. I-I can't do that!" I took his shoulder, "Y-You should stay with me instead. How about that, huh? L-Let's explain to Chiron and the others... come on please. I could help you!"

Nothing was working.

"Come with me..." He muttered.

"Luke, I won't join you. You have to change your mind. You can't do this."

"I can't change my mind."

"I can help you with that? How about you go with me huh? I could spend all my time doing this and that. Please, just change your mind."

He didn't reply for a while until he whispered, "Promise me."

"Promise you what?"

"You'll stay with me."

"What? Luke I wo--"

"You won't join... Just...don't stay here for the year... and stay with me."

"I-If I stay with you... what would that mean?"

"Yo-You... might change my mind."

"I'll go." I replied with no hesitation. "I'll leave camp for the year. And I'll find my parent to prove to you that Gods and Goddess aren't all bad. We'll find my parent together."

"I do my lord's bidding--"

"You can still do it. If you want to. But whatever happens... stays only between us. I'll stay with you until I change your mind. And I'll bring you back to camp."

"I would never do anything to ruin your trust in me." He knelt down. It was kinda awkward but hey... "I need you."

Worry not hero. We shall stay.

"Please..."

We'll meet again. Wait for us, we shall join you soon. Now leave.

I had no idea what happened since when I came to Luke was gone and there was no sign of him anywhere. How were we going to st---

We will meet him once we leave. Now go as our hero needs us.

I suddenly remembered Percy's state that Luke had told me about. So I ran. I ran to the Big House

***

Percy finally opened his eyes. He was propped up in bed in the sickroom of the Big House, his right hand bandaged like a club. Argus stood guard in the corner. Annabeth and I sat next to Percy, I was holding his nectar glass and she was dabbing a washcloth on his forehead.

"Here we are again," Percy said. "You idiot," Annabeth said, "You were green and turning gray when we found you. If it weren't for Chiron's healing..." "Now, now," Chiron's voice said. "Percy's constitution deserves some of the credit." He was sitting near the foot of the bed in human form. His lower half was magically compacted into the wheelchair, his upper half dressed in a coat and tie. He smiled, but his face looked weary and pale, the way it did when he'd been up all night grading Latin papers. "How are you feeling?" he asked. "Like my insides have been frozen, then microwaved." "Apt, considering that was pit scorpion venom. Now you must tell me, if you can, exactly what happened." Between sips of nectar, he told them the story.

I bit my lip trying to keep what happened between Luke and I private. It was a risky move that would not be approved by anyone after all. The room was quiet for a long time. "I can't believe that Luke..." Annabeth's voice faltered. Her expression turned angry and sad. "Yes. Yes, I can believe it. May the gods curse him.... He was never the same after his quest."

Percy was looking at me as if checking what was my reaction to his story. "This must be reported to Olympus," Chiron murmured. "I will go at once." "Luke is out there right now," Percy said. "I have to go after him." Chiron shook his head. "No, Percy. The gods—" "Won't even talk about Kronos," Percy snapped. "Zeus declared the matter closed!" "Percy, I know this is hard. But you must not rush out for vengeance. You aren't ready." "Chiron... your prophecy from the Oracle... it was about Kronos, wasn't it? Was I in it? Y/N? And Annabeth?" Chiron glanced nervously at the ceiling. "Percy, it isn't my place—" "You've been ordered not to talk to me about it, haven't you?" His eyes were sympathetic, but sad. "You will be a great hero, child. I will do my best to prepare you. But if I'm right about the path ahead of you..." Thunder boomed overhead, rattling the windows. "All right!" Chiron shouted. "Fine!" He sighed in frustration. "The gods have their reasons, Percy. Knowing too much of your future is never a good thing." "We can't just sit back and do nothing," He said. "We will not sit back," Chiron promised. "But you must be careful. Kronos wants you to come unraveled. He wants your life disrupted, your thoughts clouded with fear and anger. Do not give him what he wants. Train patiently. Your time will come." "Assuming I live that long." Chiron put his hand on Percy's ankle. "You'll have to trust me, Percy. You will live. But first you must decide your path for the coming year. I cannot tell you the right choice...." I got the feeling that he had a very definite opinion, and it was taking all his willpower not to advise me. "But you must decide whether to stay at Camp Half-Blood year-round, or return to the mortal world for seventh grade and be a summer camper. Think on that. When I get back from Olympus, you must tell me your decision." "I'll be back as soon as I can," Chiron promised. "Argus will watch over you." He glanced at Annabeth. "Oh, and, my dear... whenever you're ready, they're here." "Who's here?" Percy asked. Nobody answered. Chiron rolled himself out of the room. I heard the wheels of his chair clunk carefully down the front steps, two at a time. Annabeth studied the floor. "What's wrong?" Percy asked her. "Nothing. I ... just took your advice about something. You ... um ... need anything?" "Yeah. Help me up. I want to go outside." "Percy, that isn't a good idea." Percy slid his legs out of bed. Annabeth and I caught him before he could crumple to the floor.

I said, "I told you ..." "I'm fine," He insisted.

He managed a step forward. Then another, still leaning heavily on me. Argus followed us outside, but he kept his distance. By the time we reached the porch, his face was beaded with sweat. But we had managed to make it all the way to the railing. It was dusk. The camp looked completely deserted. The cabins were dark and the volleyball pit silent. No canoes cut the surface of the lake. Beyond the woods and the strawberry fields, the Long Island Sound glittered in the last light of the sun. "What are you going to do?" Annabeth asked us. "I don't know." Percy replied. "I got the feeling Chiron wanted me to stay year-round, to put in more individual training time, but I'm not sure that's what I want. I also don't want to leave you both with Clarisse only." Annabeth pursed her lips, then said quietly, "I'm going home for the year, Percy." He stared at her. "You mean, to your dad's?" She pointed toward the crest of Half-Blood Hill. Next to Thalia's pine tree, at the very edge of the camp's magical boundaries, a family stood silhouetted—two little children, a woman, and a tall man with blond hair. They seemed to be waiting. The man was holding a backpack that looked like the one Annabeth had gotten from Waterland in Denver. "I wrote him a letter when we got back," Annabeth said. "Just like you suggested. I told him... I was sorry. I'd come home for the school year if he still wanted me. He wrote back immediately. We decided... we'd give it another try." "That took guts." She pursed her lips. "You won't try anything stupid during the school year, will you? At least ... not without sending me an Iris-message? Both of you?" Percy managed a smile. "I won't go looking for trouble. I usually don't have to."

"You already know my plans."

"When I get back next summer," she said, "we'll hunt down Luke. We'll ask for a quest, but if we don't get approval, we'll sneak off and do it anyway. Agreed?" "Sounds like a plan worthy of Athena."

She held out her hand. Percy shook it. She gave me a hug. "Take care, Seaweed Brain," Annabeth told Percy. "Keep your eyes open."

"You too, Wise Girl."

Then turned to me, "Good luck on your own quest Droopy."

"Of course Peabody." We watched her walk up the hill and join her family. She gave her father an awkward hug and looked back at the valley one last time. She touched Thalia's pine tree, then allowed herself to be lead over the crest and into the mortal world. "I made my decision." Percy said. "What's yours?"

"I'll be leaving camp... I'm going to look for my parent..." He looked at me in shock. "I'll be back next summer," I promised him. "I'll survive until then."

"Alone?"

I smiled at him.

"Don't you want to stay with us? Mom said---"

"I want to find my parent. I need to. I'll be fine Percy."

I helped Percy to his cabin so he could pack and went to mine. To my surprise I see a middle-aged man with an athletic figure slim and fit with salt-and-pepper hair, and a very familiar sly grin. He had bags at his foot.

"Delivery for Y/N L/N."

"Uhm..."

"Hermes." He said.

I froze and looked at him with wide eyes.

"Personally packed. As a thank you for what you're about to do." He smiled softly and handed me the bags.

"H-Huh...?"

"For helping Luke."

"I..."

Don't forget her mail!

Ooh! And tell her to bring us snacks next time we meet since it'll be often now!

No it wouldn't be often! She'll be with Luke!

"Both of you keep quiet." Pulling out a mail he handed it to me. "Luke... prayed to me telling me about your plan. He asked me to help you. I don't know what or why he did it. But I know he'll change thanks to you. So do guide him."

"Sorry you lost me at the talking air..." I blinked.

Hermes laughed and showed a caduceus. "It's just George and Martha."

"Hi?"

Hello!

"I just wanted to let you know. No god or goddess could see you. No matter how hard they tried. So your secrets.. are really secrets. Good luck on your travel."

Next time we meet you should have snacks.

Then he vanished.

Staring at the letter on my hand, I was stunned seeing it was from... my mom and dad.

Sweetie,

You've made quite a friend here.

-Mom and Dad.

I immediately knew where to look. I hurriedly took my bags not bothering to check the contents. I ran to Percy's cabin and helped him out so we could leave.

Percy got a cab and looked at me worriedly.

"I'll write you. Stay safe Arthur Curry." I ruffled his hair and watched him go.

I didn't know where to go so I just went to the first secluded area I saw.

"You have more stuffs than when you arrived." I heard someone behind me.

"You prayed to your dad. I hope he knows how to pack." I sighed turning to him. Turning around I barely made out Luke from the few days I last saw him. "You okay?"

"Do you know where to look first?"

Call upon our hound.

I whistled, I don't know why. But when I did, D/N came out of the blue. Luke looked at me and my dear dog, who was probably bigger than the hound he'd summon back then. "How do feel about L.A?" I said riding on D/N and making space behind me for Luke.

~~~END OF BOOK 1~~~

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END OF BOOK ONE!!! THANK YOU FOR READING YLATHB I HOPE YOU ENJOY!! I'LL PUBLISH BOOK 2 WHEN I'M DONE OR EVEN AT LEAST HAVE WRITTEN 5 CHAPTERS OF THE BOOK 2 ;))

I HOPE TO SEE YOU NEXT TIME!!!

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@gayer-than-the-gayest-gay @the-natureofme @booknerd-3000 @katara720 @ynfics

#percy jackon and the olympians #percy jackson x y/n #percy jackson x reader #percy jackson #y/n l/n #x y/n #x reader #luke castellan x reader #luke castellan #Book 1 #Chapter 22 #Ending of book 1 #completed #y/n l/n and the halfblood #lightning thief #fanfictions #fanfiction #pjo

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mrpenguinpants · 3 years

Note

Okay I keep sending you more things I'm sorry dshdjahsd

BUT today when no resin I decided to take a close look at every character's Vision bc I remember noting that some Mondstadt characters (like Venti and Kaeya) have Visions that are a lot bigger than others (Jean and Diluc). After a good 10 minutes of investigation here are my findings:

There are three general sizes of Visions that apply for (I'm assuming) all nations - small (like a pendant), medium (like a badge), and large (like a keychain charm)

Mondstadt seems to have an even distribution of M and L Visions with two characters that have pendants (Albedo and Lisa)

Interestingly Sucrose wears her Vision in exactly the same way as Albedo but her's is a M

Liyue characters tend to all have M Visions (including Zhongli). The two adepti have S while Beidou is the only one who has L

Childe/Tortellini has M

Idk what to do w this information now that I have it so uhhh here you go ig lmao

YO CATTY. I STILL HAVEN'T TOUCHED THE MAIN STORY QUEST WHERE WE MEET YOUR TWIN. I HAVEN'T EVEN FINISH THE SERENITEA POT QUEST;; I'm so behind but once I'm there @5aph 👀 avengers assemble, it's time to gather at the round table.

Also, no worries, feel free to spam my inbox to your heart's content. But I am treating this post as a stack of research papers.

Apart of me thinks this is just a style/fashion choice but I want to note that Albedo and Lisa both treat their vision as a passing thing. To Albedo, his vision is something that can help him with his alchemy and isn't that big of a deal while Lisa is most definitely qualified to be greater than a librarian (even tho she doesn't want to haha). But I think I might be reading into it too much and I might be wrong haha.

It would be cool if vision sizes were based on how well the vision holder could use them. Or how strong they were.

#cattycattitude #genshin #genshin impact #genshin lore #genshin impact lore #genshin impact spoilers #genshin albedo #genshin spoilers #genshin impact albedo #albedo #genshin lisa #genshin impact lisa #lisa #super duper big mwah #lovely person #ask

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pub-lius · 3 years

Text

De-Georgianizing George Bickham’s Penmanship Made Easy (Young Clerk’s Assistant)

I got this idea a while ago after I made my post about Weird History’s video on Alexander Hamilton, and after @quillsink complemented my post on 18th century penmanship and boosted my ego (you really shouldn’t complement me or I might have self esteem). So, here’s another informal post where I basically just profit off of an old, dead man’s work :D

In the 18th century, people weren’t just given crayons and told to write their name and figure it out from there. They learned from workbooks, like the Young Clerk’s Assistant, that showed them how to from the letters, how to sit properly, and gave example sentences to copy. For purposes of improving my god-awful handwriting and to see what it was like to learn how to write in the 18th century, I purchased this book and went through it, doing only the Round-hand because it looked the easiest.

Georgie starts by dictating every aspect of your entire life. Here’s a dumbed down version of his silly little list:

-The size of letters is determined by O and N, so make sure you know how to write those ig

-Georgie wants you to suffer so your down-strokes should be THICC and your up-strokes should be very tiny, done with the corner of your pen. Idk if it’s just my quills or if I’m stupid (probably both) but this is impossible and I gave up on this a long time ago

-NEVER TURN YOUR PEN OR THE POSITION OF YOUR HAND

-He says something weird about your up and down-strokes being proportioned and “answer one another” so I would just say uh... make it pretty

-Letters without stems (e, m, u, s, etc.) MUST be even at the top and bottom, so like the same width and height

-Your stems (d, h, etc.) should be equal in height to lowercase L, except t. This drives me crazy because I’m so used to making t the same as the other letters with stems, but its supposed to be shorter, like closer to i.

-Stems going below (y, q, etc.) should be equal in length to j. As you can tell, symmetry is key

-Capitals should be equal to lowercase L, but “a little stronger”, so I’ll leave that up to your interpretation

-The space between words should be twice the difference between letters, and the spaces between lines should be twice the distance of L, so that low hanging stems don’t intersect with the line below. I, apparently, forgot this rule lol

-Hold your pen between two fingers, almost straight (???) and the thumb bending. The nib, or point, of your pen should be flat

-Put your paper directly in front of you and your hand should be supported by your pinkie finger (gotta do some finger gymnastics jesus).

-Rest your arm ~lightly~ between the wrist and elbow (okay then)

-Sit up straight you baby and keep your elbow close to your side

-Rest your body on your left arm, keeping the paper down with your left hand. And eat food by chewing and breathe by taking in air through your nose and mouth

-NEVER LEAN HARD ON YOUR PEN (make me)

-write slow at first :)

-this one is stupid. make the nib of your pen (”for the round and round hand text hands”) the ~breadth~ of the full stroke, and the part close to the hand? shorter and narrower. I don’t understand this so I don’t listen (omg do I follow any of these rules jesus-)

-for the Italian Hand, make the nib ~finer~ and the slit? longer (if you chose to use the italian hand you’re asking for these confusing rules i can’t help you)

-when numbers appear with letters, the numbers must slope

-numbers should also be bigger than letters

-when you’re writing numbers in columns (because you do that all the time) make them upright

For fun, I’m going to include some moral maxims because I thought some of them were pretty good and they’re good for practice and for examples of how the youth were educated. They had to copy these a bunch when they were learning so they at least subconsciously learned them

-Art polishes and improves nature

-Beauty’s a fair but fading flower

-Fortune’s a fair but fickle mistrefs [mistress]

-Knowledge is a godlike attribute

-Necefsiy [necessity] is the mother of invention

-Variety is the beauty of the world

-Zeal misapply’d is pious phrenzy

I also copied a couple exercises in this book such as copying the days of the week, the months and their amount of days, and a list of Christian names. There’s also this funny little passage that I copied, so I’ll include that as the conclusion to this post. BTW it’s sounds a bit misogynistic but I can’t exactly discern a moral? Like it’s just like “you know how water moves with wind? Yeah women are like that but instead of junk being in the water, the dirt and stuff is men.” and im like “...okay? is that... is that it?” Idk i hate poetry.

“In a dull Stream, which moving flow, You hardly See the Current flow. If a Small Breeze obstructs the Courfe [course], It whirles about for want of Force; And in its narrow Circle gathers Nothing but Chaff, & Straw, & Feathers. The Current of a Female’s Mind Stops thus, and turns with every wind. Thus whirling round, together draws Fools, Fops, & Rakes, for Chaff & Straws.”

#18th Century #1700s #1700s literature #historical writing #18th Century Literature #literature #writing #Handwriting #calm down george #im not doing hand gymnastics for a man #women are like water #i learned that chaff means like the husk of corn #idk why that fact disturbed me

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leaping-lemur · 2 years

Text

Bird toy store announcement! (Spoiler: it's my store)

I realize I've neglected to let my Tumblr fam know what my IG fam instigated: I opened up an Etsy shop to sell the little foot toys I made for my flock!

TinyConureTrinkets.etsy.com

For the holiday season, why not order a stocking stuffed with a boatload of toys showcasing the variety of what I make? I can 99% guarantee your birb will find something they love! Why little foot toys? I have always loved the cute foot toys I'd see for sale, only to be disappointed when they were just too big and heavy for my green cheek conures. When birds holding things in their little feet is so cute, how could I cope with this lack? I started making my own. Eventually I had amassed a real hoard of toy making supplies and not enough birds to play with them, so I started sending them out as gifts. Then people started asking where my friends got their toys, and my friends told me to put up a storefront to make it easier to direct people, and here we are! Most small bird toys I've found focus on destructibles, foraging, and hanging toys. These are awesome and a necessary part of providing for birdie enrichment! Unlike budgies and cockatiels, conures and parrotlets are not grass/seed eaters and tend to use their feet more to hold things. They also enjoy dropping things! Dropped objects under perches tend to attract, well, droppings. If your toy basket is full of natural materials, you may have noticed what a pain they are to clean. So I started making toys using plastic and metal that can easily be cleaned with poop remover, put in the sink, even tossed in the dishwasher. What are your toys made out of? I primarily work with plastic and stainless steel, though I also have some lollipop sticks and paper or hemp cordage in some toys. My toys are not painted, and all color on the natural parts is done with food safe dye like vita critter. Are they safe for bigger birds? Bask strength scales quickly the bigger the bird, but I do have toys that can withstand the beaking of my mustache parakeet, including the Tough Pops and, surprisingly, the small plastic chains I use in multiple toys. For reference, a mustache parakeet is about the size of an Indian ringneck. My toys have also gone out to some aratinga conures (sun, nanday, etc) and quakers! I have not heard from anyone with a bird bigger than 120 grams, and I wouldn't recommend much of my stock for anything much bigger than that. If you have a bird bigger than a pyrrhura and you want to try, I'd be happy to work with you or direct you to one of the awesome toy makers who work with materials for bigger birds! Also, my holiday sale is still ongoing. So go, enjoy!

#Green cheek conure #greencheekconure #birblr #birb #parrot #Green cheek #GCC #Conure #Pyrrhura #Aratinga #Pet Bird #Toy #Sale #Shop

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hazelandglasz · 4 years

Photo

Sweet, Sweet Temptation

Word count: 12.727

Archive Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Rating: Teen and Up Audiences

Pairing(s): Arizaphale/Crowley (Ineffable Husbands) ; Hastur/Ligur ; Beelzebub/Gabriel (Ineffable Bureaucracy); Background Minor Relationships

Characters: Crowley, Aziraphale, Gabriel, Beelzebub, Hastur

Tags: Alternate Universe-Humans, Bakery and Coffee Shop, Food Porn, Bibliophile Aziraphale, Gourmet Aziraphale, Slow Burn, Awkward Flirting, Romantic Fluff, Fluff and Humor

Summary: Anthony J. Crowley started working at Heavs and Hens, F.A., but they thought he asked too many questions, and frankly, he didn’t like his colleagues’ attitude. (Well. Except for one, but he never got the chance to get close to the blond cutie.) So he left. Now he’s working in a pastry shop and life is infinitely better. (Well. Most of the time, since neither his boss nor his colleagues are too often in the shop and he’s left to his own device, which is really for the best.) Baking is fun, tempting customers is even better, and if there is a certain blond who keeps on coming back to the shop, well, Anthony is not one to deny himself that pleasure.

A massive, massive thank you to the artists who managed to create such beautiful art for this fic, to the mods who set all this process up, and to my betas for blessing this mess!

Artist: IG Hufflepuffbetty (Art Post) / @hufflepuff-betty

Artist: @scribblemakes

😇😈😇😈😇😈

They say they fired him, but if you were to ask him, Anthony J. Crowley would tell you that he quit before they could.

Or, more accurately, he would tell you to bugger off and leave him alone, but if he felt like giving you an answer, that is the one he would give you.

Joining the financial advising firm was never his idea of a good time, really, but he did because he could and that it made his mother happy. But as weeks went by, Crowley discovered some things.

About himself, and about the firm’s ways, and both were inextricably in opposite directions.

He discovered that the more answers he found, the more questions he got.

That questions were not exactly welcomed, at Heavs and Hens.

That asking questions was the equivalent of lighting yourself on fire in the middle of a family dinner--a sure way to get everybody’s attention, but at what cost?

That fairness and obeying to the idea of the law was not a top priority for the partners.

And that fairness was one of his major core value (along with curiosity, which, if you have paid attention, should tell you how bad an idea it was for Crowley to work there).

So he quit, not with a bang, but with a swagger.

(And a comfortable “keep your mouth shut” pocket money.)

Oh, Crowley doesn’t hold any lasting feeling toward his former colleagues--especially not for Gabriel, that pompous ass who kept on stealing all of Crowley’s ideas and notes for his own credit--but there is a, oh, how can he put it into words, a chance of something greater that was missed with one particular junior adviser.

The man must be approximately Crowley’s age--old enough to be an adult, young enough to still have hope and energy--, with curly hair so blond Crowley isn’t quite sure it is natural, blue eyes that remind Crowley of a Spring sky, and the perpetual shadow of a smile on his rosy lips.

Yes, Crowley could wax poetics about this angel of a man who passed his desk once, eyes on a pocket watch while Gabriel was berating him for being too soft with the clients.

Crowley also knows one thing about this former colleague of his, that could-have-been-something-more-but-wasn’t, one thing that nobody else knows--if they knew, Crowley has no doubt about whether the man would still be working at the company or not.

(The answer is a resounding “not”)

The man, Mr. Eastgate is all Crowley knows to call him, is not as robotic as the other employees and, behind his soft smile and perfect attire, hides just enough of a dark side to be interesting.

How does Crowley know this to be facts?

Crowley saw a memo that miraculously disappeared from the system the following day.

A memo stating that while Mr. and Mrs. Godson would have been very interesting clients for the firm to acquire--read, very profitable clients who would have ended up with the clothes on their backs, if at all--, Mr A. Eastgate thought it best to tell them to invest their savings in a more secure venture, such as Apple shares or any other investment they could actually profit from in the future.

Which, if you weren’t aware, goes against the grain for a financial advising firm.

Tells you a lot about the kind of ethic and the character of Mr. Eastgate, that’s for certain, but where Crowley wouldn’t have been able to resist the need to rub it in everybody’s face, Mr. Eastgate apparently possesses much more diplomatic talents and decided to just …

Swipe it under the proverbial carpet, and play dumb whenever asked about it.

Crowley has to admit it: he respects that.

In addition to his already unbearable crush on the guy for simply looking cute, that’s the only reason he has a pang of regret as he leaves the firm’s building with his potted plant and his severance check.

So long, Mr. Eastgate.

😇😈😇😈😇😈

Aziraphale may not be the best financial advisor in the company, let alone in the world, if only because he doesn’t like putting people in harm’s way, and financial enterprises often lead to harmful conclusions.

But he’s good with numbers, and people listen to him, so, financial advisor it is.

When A.J. Crowley is summoned in the boss’s office and leaves with a smile on his (handsome, unusually handsome) face and a swagger to his walk, sunglasses firmly in place even indoors, Aziraphale feels something akin to regret to see him go--the man was probably the only of his colleagues Aziraphale could stand.

Sad to see him go, but delighted to watch him go, if you can catch his drift.

Good Heavens, what a sight.

Anywho, Aziraphale needs to get back to work, now, doesn’t he?

After all, collecting books is one pricey hobby.

😇😈😇😈😇😈

Plant in hand , Crowley lets himself stroll the streets down to the parking garage where he left his beloved car.

As content as he may be to be done with all of those self-righteous lunatics, a question keeps on nagging him:

What is he to do with his life now? Pester his neighbors until they want him blown to smithereens?

Not that he would particularly mind, Crowley delights in being a bother to his admittedly boring neighbors.

But there is a limit to the amount of little offenses one can come up with on a daily basis, isn’t it? And staying idle is really not in his temperament; again, lounging in the sun and doing nothing is a fun past-time, but there always comes a time when his mind cannot stand the passivity.

No, there is no way around it: Crowley needs to find himself a new job, one that will not make him feel like needles are piercing his skin every time his values system is breached.

A quiet, nice job, with almost non-existent colleag--

Oh, look at that shop window.

All thoughts about his future, near and far, come to a standstill as Crowley pauses in front of a bakery.

“Tempting Bites”, an interesting name for sure, but it is the content of the window that really gets his interest.

The cakes are all, indeed, bite-sized, but elegantly decorated--if a little on the morbid side, if Crowley is actually seeing what he thinks he’s seeing.

Yep, that is a tombstone on that grey-glazed éclair.

The pastry cannot be bigger than Crowley’s index finger (sure, he has long, pianist hands, as his mother called it, but still, it is a size-reference) but the fondant is still delicately decorated to mimic granite, and the tombstone is engraved and, dare he say it, sculpted to perfection.

The woman behind the counter glares at him, raising one eyebrow when he replies with a smile.

Daring him to enter her queendom, no doubt, and Crowley has never been good at resisting a dare.

“Good morning,” she says in a deadpan tone, “may I tempt you with one of our delights?”

Crowley’s smile only widens. “I would love to try the éclair in the window,” he replies, eyes perusing the store’s shelves. “And may I get a bag of chouquettes?”

The puff pastries are just, well, too tempting to pass, what with the black and red pearls of sugar decorating them.

“Temptation accomplished,” the salesperson says in a monotone, ringing his purchase. As Crowley goes to pay, he spots a sheet of paper behind them.

“You are hiring?”

They blink at him before sighing. “Yes, we do. Do you have any experience in baking?”

“None whatsoever.”

“Do you mind if the hours are long and the pay minimal?”

Crowley beams at her, leaning over the counter. “Not at all.”

“Are you a felon?”

“Would that matter?”

For the first time since he entered the shop, the hint of a smile appears on the person’s face. “Not at all,” they reply, “but I have to ask.” They shrug, pulling a piece of paper from under the counter. “Here, fill this and send a picture of your I.D. to the number inscribed on top.”

“Right away, boss,” Crowley replies, giving them a jaunty salute with the piece of paper.

“Call me Beelzy.”

😇😈😇😈😇😈

Okay.

If we’re going to continue with this story, there are a couple of things you need to know about Aziraphale Eastgate.

First of all, as previously stated, he is quite the bibliophile, collecting all first editions of British children’s books.

(Yes, it is a collection that requires a lot of time, care, and money.)

(Yes, Mother, he’s aware that he is an adult and that there are better things he could do with his money than chase after kiddy books.)

(No, Mother, he has yet to find a woman to marry and carry on the Eastgate’s legacy.)

((If only she knew.))

Second of all, but perhaps not entirely unrelated to the first point, Aziraphale considers himself an epicurean. A lover of good and beautiful things. A man capable of appreciating the finest things in Life, from a good book to a good meal.

After all, C.S. Lewis said it quite eloquently, “Eating and reading are two pleasures that combine admirably.”

Third of all, as brave and smart as he vows to be on a daily basis, Aziraphale hates being confronted.

All three are needed to understand how conflicted Aziraphale has always felt about the bakery around the corner near the office.

(All right, so maybe the fact that he is a bibliophile is not particularly relevant to this part of the story. But presenting Aziraphale without insisting upon his love for books would be criminal, criminal indeed.

Back to the point.)

Because on the one hand, bakery! Provider of scrumptious cakes and food!

But on the other hand, the person usually behind the counter makes him feel like he’s about to enter a ring just to prove himself worthy of the cakes.

Oh, he has seen many of his colleagues and many people coming out of the shop with little black bags, so the confrontational attitude may just be in his head, but still.

For now, he has only savored the pastries with his eyes, for their aesthetics and satisfies his need for sweet goodness in other places.

(No one needs to know about this, but his favorite place is a little, how should he say, hole-in-the-wall restaurant near the Theater district that serves the finest sushis in all of London and got him addicted to crepe cakes. Di-vine, to say the least.)

That being said, he’s reconsidering his avoidance of the bakery.

The sight of a certain shade of red hair behind the window is most definitely to be blamed for this change of mind, but Aziraphale would never admit it, even under threat.

(It depends on the kind of threat. Though he tends to avoid it if he can, Aziraphale is more than capable to handle a little brawl, shall the need arise. But threaten his books or his closet, and chances are Aziraphale will fold like a … well, like a crepe.

Oh, crepes.)

As it is, Aziraphale is not so easily tempted, so “Tempting Bites” and his possibly newly hired and very tempting salesman will have to work a little bit harder at convincing him.

Or, to be more truthful, Aziraphale will need to be sure that it is his infamous former colleague who is now behind the counter, in order to ensure a fruitful encounter.

😇😈😇😈😇😈

Crowley is many things, but he is not a liar.

When Beelzy asked if he had any baking knowledge, he did not lie when he said none whatsoever.

But. He is a very fast learner.

“Crowley!”

And. He has a lot of imagination.

“Crowleeeeey!”

Not necessarily a bad combination--he supposes it depends on who you asked.

“What. Is. That.”

Crowley beams at his boss and at his colleague.

“That, my Lord,” he replies with a small curtsey, “is a pumpkin brioche.”

“A … brioche.”

“Yes.”

“A bit on the nose, Crowley,” Hastur drawls from behind him. “An orange brioche, shaped like a pumpkin, and you flavor it with pumpkins.”

“Try it, Hastur.”

“No thank you.”

“Try it before you ditch it.”

Hastur rolls his eyes at him but takes a knife from his pocket anyway, cutting two slices of the brioche.

Beelzy’s face barely shows any reaction, but then again, their face is usually expressionless. As it is, the slight uprising of their eyebrows is all Crowley needed from them.

Hastur’s reaction, in comparison, is far more immediate and satisfying.

“WHAAAAA--”

“Yes, Hastur?”

“But--! How--! Beelzebub, how did he do this?”

Beelzy takes another bite, waving the slice in the air. “Well, there are definitely spices in the dough of the brioche--you’ve been too generous with the cinnamon, Crowley, curb your enthusiasm there--reminiscent of the infamous pumpkin spice latte, and there is the matter of the gooey center … Citrus?”

“Lemon zest and orange compote.”

They nod, swallowing the remains of their slice of brioche in two bites. “Good product. We’ll get the high school population and the office population tempted in no time.”

“Only a matter of days until they’re ours.”

Hastur recovered from his shock--or from his distaste of cinnamon, whichever sounds best--and is now smiling like he came up with Crowley’s creation.

“I’m glad you approve of my idea, my Lord,” he simply says, pushing Hastur out of the way with a hip check.

Beelzy leaves the kitchen as the bell above the door rings and Hastur comes far too close for comfort.

“One of these days, Crowley,” he croaks, “one of these days, you’re going to run out of ideas. And then--”

“And then we’ll be more alike than ever, Hastur! Won’t it be wonderful?”

Hastur snarls one more time before pulling his phone out of his pocket--to text his boyfriend about all the things he wishes he could do to Crowley to make him suffer, no doubt.

Crowley picks up the last piece of brioche from the plate and nods to himself. Indeed too much cinnamon, but he lost track of his spices while he was preparing his test batch.

See, a certain blond head happened to walk by the kitchen’s window when Crowley was seasoning his dough, and, well.

Crowley preferred to follow its tracks than to follow his idea.

😇😈😇😈😇😈

That is most definitely Anthony J. Crowley arranging small brioches in a basket in the bakery’s window.

Aziraphale finds himself dry-mouthed at the sight of these long fingers carefully placing one delicate peachy confection after another on a checkered napkin, and he would have an awfully hard time telling you which of the two brings him to push the bakery’s door.

“Good afternoon, how may I tempt you--,” Crowley starts, spinning on his toes before coming to a stop as he sees Aziraphale.

The way he stops and the way he gawks at him from behind his tinted glasses makes Aziraphale blush and preen.

“--today,” Crowley finishes his welcome, a small smile appearing on his face. “Well, well, well. Welcome, Mr. Eastgate.”

He knows who I am.

He knows my name.

Say something, Aziraphale, before he thinks you are under the influence of something illegal.

“Hello, Crowley.”

There, short and to the point.

Oh, dear Lord, he’s leaning against the counter like some sort of Michelangelo’s sculpture.

“Tempted by something, Mr. Eastgate?”

“Oh please, call me Aziraphale, Mr. Eastgate is my brother Uriel.”

“Aziraphale.”

Crowley repeating his name should not awaken such warm tingles in his lower regions, and yet, here we are, aren’t we?

Maybe it’s the way his tongue seems to hiss on the ‘zee’ sound and curl around the last ‘el’, maybe it’s the way he says it like Aziraphale himself is the delicacy about to be devoured.

“Earth to Aziraphale?”

Oh, right. He didn’t enter the shop just to leer at his former colleague and ever-present fantasy-man.

“Forgive me, Crowley,” he manages without a stutter, “I was, um, that is to say,” so much for not stuttering, well done, “your buns caught my attention.”

An army of angels passes by, as Crowley’s smile widens into a smirk. “Did they now? Flatterer.”

Aziraphale blinks at him until the words that left his mouth fully register. “Oh! Not those buns! I--I mean! The edible buns! Brioches! In--in the window!” He groans, placing his hand over his face. “Can the floor swallow me now, please?”

“What a waste it would be,” Crowley says quietly, his smile less mocking and more … gentle. “Don’t worry, Aziraphale, your appreciation of all my kinds of buns will be my little secret.”

Aziraphale can literally feel the color of his face taking a turn for the crimson. “G-g-good to know.”

“Now, about the pastries in the window, would you care for one?”

Aziraphale relaxes with a deep breath. “That would be lovely, yes, please.”

Crowley nods and goes to pick a couple of perfectly round orange brioches to put in a paper bag, and Aziraphale watches him carefully.

There is clearly more to Mr Anthony J. Crowley than meets the eye (and a sight it is already, look at those lines, those curves!).

What a pity that he didn’t get closer to the man when they shared an office--now, if he wants to be better acquainted with him, Aziraphale will have to come to the bakery quite often, won’t he?

As he takes a bite of one pumpkin-flavored brioche at the bus stop, letting moans that scandalize and, or, amuse his fellow commuters, Aziraphale comes to realize that it won’t be much of a hardship to pursue a friendship with his former colleague, present favorite baker.

😇😈😇😈😇😈

Crowley waits for Aziraphale to cross the street and turn toward the bus stop to fall to his knees behind the counter, one hand pressed against his heart.

So not only the man looks like an angel, but he decides to attack Crowley with puns, albeit unintended, and a delicious flush that Crowley wanted to follow under that crisp, white shirt?

Cruel, cruel, cruel.

Cruel and delicious torture.

😇😈😇😈😇😈

As time goes by, Crowley comes to really appreciate his new job.

Sure the hours complicate his social life, but Crowley never really had a social life to begin with, and he’d rather be in the lab in the early morning to tend to his garden of herbs and berries and try new recipes than go out and, what, dance on a sticky dance floor in the hopes of finding someone who will only be second-best to the man he really yearns for ?

He’s not that much of a dancer anyway.

And he has standards.

“I’m warning you, you better do as I say or there will be consequences.”

Luckily for him, now that both Beelzy and Hastur know he can hold the fort alone, they tend to mysteriously disappear and leave him to his own device.

All the better for Crowley to experiment to his heart’s content.

All the better for Crowley to enjoy the company of one particularly faithful customer, too.

Aziraphale comes almost every day now, several times on particularly gruesome days in fact.

By some kind of magic, the shop manages to always be empty when Aziraphale enters it, allowing Crowley to take a break with a man who is slowly becoming a friend.

Crowley doesn’t talk much, not in his nature really, unless a bottle of strong alcohol is involved, but he is a good listener.

And there are very few things in this world as entertaining and satisfying as Aziraphale daintily devouring Crowley’s cakes while ranting about his colleagues.

The man is made of contrasts, and Crowley …

Well, Crowley loves it.

Him.

Whatever.

You’re not in his head.

So what if he made a detailed mental list of all of Aziraphale’s preferences in the matter of tastes, uh?

What about it?

So what if his heart tries to compete in the Gymnastics Olympics every time the doorbell rings?

What are you going to do about it? Mock him? Tell him that he is an idiot for pining after a man who, clearly, seeks his company?

(Well, you wouldn’t be completely wrong about that, even Crowley would admit it. Not out loud, never out loud, but he would admit it.)

Trust him, he knows that this is bordering on ridiculous, this pinning and sighing and burying his feelings in yeast and flour whenever Aziraphale leaves.

Ridiculous, yet productive.

He just put a batch of his matcha, sesame and crushed hazelnut loaves out of the oven, right before the end of the working day, when Aziraphale comes in.

“Hmmm, that smells heavenly.”

“That’s the yeast fucking.”

The words are out of his mouth before he can stop them--he entirely blames Hastur for the phrasing (and his twisted mind for actually enjoying it)--and he looks up toward Aziraphale in alarm, with an apology on the edge of his lips.

Except that Aziraphale, while clearly startled by Crowley’s words, seems to be even more enthused by them, if the beaming smile on his face is to be trusted.

It’s blinding, truth be told, even with the protective sunglasses Crowley has to wear at all times to protect his sensitive eyes from any light.

“The yeast f--”

“I mean, it’s the dough,” Crowley interrupts. He’s not sure he would survive hearing Aziraphale actually curse.

He’s already as infatuated as can be, there is absolutely no need to add another layer of hidden bastardry into the mix.

Aziraphale hums, his amused smile hiding possibly jokes that would kill Crowley on the spot.

“And what, pray tell my dear, did you do to make the dough rise so deliciously?”

A thousand arrows into the chest probably wouldn’t hurt as much as this.

(Probably.)

Either Aziraphale has taken a secret vow to kill Crowley with innuendos while not doing anything about … whatever is brewing between them, or he is really that oblivious and Crowley’s mind just has a dirty filter.

Whatever explanation works, Crowley wouldn’t have it any other way.

“Green tea and roasted sesame seeds,” he replies before shimmying his shoulders. “And my personal touch.”

Aziraphale’s cheeks turn a delicious shade of pink. “As in …?”

“As in, that’s my secret and you won’t get it, as angelic as you may appear.”

Aziraphale looks surprised for a moment, before turning bashful. “An-angelic? Me? No, I’m not, I’m just... I’m just me.”

Crowley cocks his head to the side, mentally listing everything he would love to do to the people who ate this man’s self-esteem.

Then he starts mentally listing everything he could do to restore said self-esteem, and, folks, it takes a turn for the graphic with the speed of light.

“You are just you,” he finally says, leaning over the counter with his chin in his hand, “and that’s all it takes for you to be angelic.”

The blush on Aziraphale’s face darkens, but his smile is more assured already. “That’s … probably the nicest thing anyone has ever s--”

“Oh shut up,” Crowley sneers as he straightens up, “I’m not nice.”

Aziraphale makes a show of zipping his lips shut, but his shy smile is still there when he leaves.

😇😈😇

When Crowley leaves the shop, not too long after Aziraphale, the skies have taken a turn for the gloomy and seem ready to open and throw a flood on them all.

Crowley allows himself a moment of self-pity. Even if he takes the bus instead of walking home like he intended to, there is no actual bus-stop.

Hence no shelter.

Hence his new boots getting soaked and his evening ruined.

Raising his head to the heavens just as the first drops fall, he mouths a heartfelt “why” before making his way to the aforementioned bus-stop.

Only to find a blonde head and a beige trenchcoat waiting under the most Aziraphale-Esque umbrella possibly conceived.

“Aziraphale?”

The man in question looks startled before beaming at him. “Crowley!”

Without another word, he lifts the umbrella higher, giving Crowley some room to shelter himself from the downpour.

“What are you doing here? I thought you had dinner plans for the evening,” Crowley says, digging his hands in his pockets to keep himself from doing something stupid.

Like, on the top of his head, snake his arm around Aziraphale’s waist.

That would be a terrible, awful idea.

A deliciously awful idea.

Aziraphale shrugs. “I did,” he replies, looking at Crowley from the corner of his eye, “and then decided I would rather be at home, with a nice cup of cocoa and a book--and some secret bread someone just created.”

His bus comes and leaves and Crowley cannot be bothered to leave the cocoon of warmth that the umbrella provides.

“Which bus are you taking?” Aziraphale’s voice is muted as if the umbrella really shelters them both, not only from the rain but from the rest of the world.

“I--I think it just drove away.”

Aziraphale looks at him more directly, a crooked smile on his face. Not mocking, no, just …

A smile that speaks a thousand words.

A smile that says, “I know what you did, and I know what it tells me about you and about us, but I won’t say it aloud. For now. Because this is comfortable and nice too.”

Or at least that’s how Crowley reads it.

“Looks like mine is delayed,” Aziraphale simply says. “How do you feel about breakfast for dinner?”

Crowley smiles, tired but content. “What do you have in mind, Mr. Eastgate?”

“If there is enough cocoa for one, there is enough for two, my dear Mr. Crowley.”

😇😈😇

For the life of him, Aziraphale doesn’t know what he was thinking.

He entirely blames Crowley’s tight pants and warm smile and--and ...Well, he entirely blames Crowley for being Crowley for his enthusiastic yet unplanned invitation to go to his place.

If he has to be completely honest, Aziraphale’s place is … Not somewhere you invite someone without careful planning beforehand.

(Especially someone who could potentially see more of the place than any random guest, and is possibly someone Aziraphale would like to see in the said apartment more often than not.

Possibly.

As in, always and forever.)

Because, and not that it is a piece of information that is absolutely needed but it bares being told at least once, Aziraphale is messy.

“Ooooooh,” Crowley starts, low under his breath the moment Aziraphale lets him in, an amused look on his face. “You’re messy.”

It does bare being told twice, to be honest.

What puzzles Aziraphale is the sheer delight in Crowley’s voice. He glances around the living room, slash, kitchen, slash, dining room, slash, personal library, and tries to give it an objective look.

There are empty, dirty mugs in the sink, but otherwise, the kitchen area is clean-ish.

There are … oh dear Lord, there are dirty clothes on the couch where Aziraphale came home last night, too tired to get to his bed but not tired enough that he didn’t feel like indulging in a little one-on-one session with himself and his thoughts before succumbing to sleep.

(If said thoughts involved the very person now standing in said living room, well, that’s for Aziraphale’s shame to feed on.)

Three books are opened, stacked in a precarious pile on the coffee table.

At least Anathema is nowhere in sight. With any luck, she’s asleep on Aziraphale’s bed and won’t bother sniffing around.

(Aziraphale feels like introducing Crowley and Anathema would bare more consequences than introducing Crowley to his family.)

Some shoes and ties create a parkour-worthy arrangement around the room.

On his shelves, it’s not a mess. It’s the perfectly organized chaos Aziraphale has chosen as his way of putting his collection together.

All the editions of one book together, naturally, arranged per publication date, of course.

So it looks a bit in disarray in relation to the sizes and the conservation states.

That doesn’t bother him in the slightest, but he can see how, added to the rest of the room, his shelves give a distinctively chaotic vibe.

Still, Crowley is not running for the hills or making fun of him as some other people did in the past.

(Gabriel is a judgmental asshole who wouldn’t make the difference between a sketch by E.H. Shepard and a napkin at the bottom of a dump, and he can suck on his minimalistic design for all Aziraphale cares.

Still hurts when he makes fun of Aziraphale’s prized possessions.)

No, quite the contrary. Aziraphale can only gulp when he spots Crowley strutting, really, the man is strutting in his living room, caressing the back of Aziraphale’s chair or browsing the shelves, the same delighted look on his face softening as he goes.

“Oh, Aziraphale,” he says suddenly, voice barely above the sound of the rain hitting the window. “How did you get your hands on this one?”

Aziraphale forgets all of his embarrassment at the state of his home to see what caught Crowley’s attention.

“Sendak?”

“Not just any Sendak, you little minx. Quite the controversial item, isn’t it?”

“Oh!” Aziraphale can tell that his cheeks are now matching some of his books binding. “Well, no respectable collection--”

Crowley snorts and raises one eyebrow.

“No collection would be complete without Sendak’s entire body of work, now would it?”

“Dreaming about baking in the nude, Aziraphale?”

Aziraphale’s brain flies out the window and into the gutter. “I--you--but--”

Crowley snickers, reaching for the copy of “In the Night Kitchen”.

Aziraphale takes it first, clutching it to his chest. “You demon! Do you enjoy making fun of me?”

Crowley’s smile slowly melts away. “I am not making fun of you, honest. It’s just …” Crowley looks frustrated, searching for his words and that alone appeases Aziraphale. “I like finding out that there are more layers to you than what you usually let people know, okay?”

It’s raw and honest and, frankly, adorable.

If Aziraphale wasn’t so worried about losing Crowley’s friendship, he would jump in his arms right there and then kiss the sarcasm out of him.

(It would take a while. Maybe even a lifetime. That doesn’t bother him. He’s willing to spend that time on this task.)

As it is, Aziraphale simply puts the book back on its shelf before clasping his hands in front of him. “Oh.”

“Yeah, oh.”

Aziraphale chances a look at Crowley, who is busy pretending he finds the pattern on Aziraphale’s floor mind-riveting.

“How about that cocoa to go with your loaf?”

Crowley visibly chokes on air.

“Of bread! Your loaf of bread! That I bought!”

“... Right.”

Aziraphale all but runs to the safety of his kitchen where he gently smacks his head against a cupboard.

“Are you all right, Aziraphale?”

“Y-yeah, of course, why wouldn’t I be?” Aziraphale closes his eyes one moment before letting out a deep breath. “Do you have a milk preference? And do you want some sugar in your ….?”

Crowley appears next to him. “I wouldn’t mind if you have sheep milk--easier to digest.” Crowley takes a step that puts his hand almost on top of Aziraphale’s. “And I think I have all the sweetness I need.”

“Ah.” Aziraphale is absolutely not using his countertop as a crutch to keep himself upright while Crowley is standing so close to him.

Dear Lord, he smells like a cologne-scented pastry, and that is more appetizing than it should be.

“Perhaps if you mixed some honey in it, though …”

Aziraphale can’t help but beam at Crowley. “Now that’s an excellent idea, my dear! Go, sit, I’ll be with you in a jiffy.”

Crowley frowns at him, silently muttering “a jiffy?” but still complies with the command.

Aziraphale focuses on preparing their drinks, cutting slices of the delicious green tea loaf and putting them on a clean plate--more of a feat than you’d think--before joining Crowley.

And that’s when he almost drops the tray.

Because Crowley is not sitting on the couch, oh no Sir.

Crowley is sprawled on the couch, spread on the pleather like caramel on a crêpe.

“Com-comfortable, I believe?”

“Hm-hm.”

Aziraphale straightens up and bumps his hips against Crowley’s feet. “Leave some room for me, will you?”

Fussing over the cups and saucers, Aziraphale completely misses the fond look Crowley addresses in his direction as he sits more properly.

😇😈😇😈😇😈

“What are your plans for the weekend?” Crowley asks, wondering if today is the day he’ll finally get brave enough to ask Aziraphale if he’d like to--

“Would you care to accompany me to the auction I texted you about? Afterward, we could go get some sushis ….”

“Why do you need me, exactly?” Crowley cuts in. “It’s not like I know anything about books.”

(This is a blatant lie, for once. Crowley knows it, you know it, his shelves of astronomical and botanical books and romance novels know it. Aziraphale, however, does not. This will have to wait for Aziraphale to actually come to Anthony’s place, and, well, sorry dears, but Crowley is not there yet.

Pace yourself and enjoy the moment, will you?)

Aziraphale toys with the paper napkin, wringing it into oblivion. “Well, if I remember our brief moment as colleagues, you always seemed to be the … responsible, shall we say, um, perhaps, the sensible kind of fellow.”

Crowley barely resists the need to bark a laugh at that. As it is, he keeps it to a smirk stretching his lips as he leans back in his chair.“Hardly.”

“Now come on, dear,” Aziraphale tuts, oblivious to the way Crowley’s eyes widen at the term of endearment, “you would do a fantastic wingman to contain my enthusiasm.”

Crowley briefly raises his eyes to the ceiling--dear God, there is no way his former-colleague-turned-friend-could-be-more is not doing it on purpose, is there?--before sighing. “Why is there a need to contain your enthusiasm?”

Aziraphale gives him a look.

“No, seriously, Angel,” he continues, this time being the oblivious one to the stunned look on Aziraphale’s face at his choice of words, “you do make a decent living, working for those vampires, why would you need to, um, contain your enthusiasm?”

“Because that’s the … reasonable, err, thing to do?”

“Screw reasonable, Aziraphale!” Crowley exclaims. “You’re not harming everybody, you are not going to spend all of your money during an auction. After all, there is only one book fitting your collection--”

“Oh. You looked at the catalog I sent you?”

“Of course,” Crowley shrugs, mildly offended. “So if you’re only looking to buy one book, why not splurge a little?”

“When you put it that way …”

“Treat yourself, Angel!”

“Clever tempter.” Aziraphale tries to look angry, but it only comes out as unbearably cute.

Crowley lets himself smile as fondly as his heart desires at Aziraphale. “Not much to tempt when it’s already what you wanted to do.”

“So?”

“So…?”

“So, will you come with me, Crowley?”

Oh, right, he never actually gave an answer did he? “I guess. If nothing else more interesting comes my way.”

“Uh-huh.”

“What? I may have hundreds of invitations waiting for me to give them a reply.”

“Dear,” Aziraphale says, his voice just lower enough to awaken an unidentified heat in Crowley’s stomach, “you’re the one who asked me if I had plans over the weekend.”

With a pat on Crowley’s knees, Aziraphale is up and already at the door with a wave. “See you Saturday on New Bond Street, Crowley!”

Crowley is left stunned in his chair, looking after the blond curls bobbing down the street.

The little devil.

😇😈😇😈😇😈

To be completely honest, Aziraphale wasn’t sure Crowley would show up.

After all, it is his only day of freedom before going back to a job that is far more physically demanding than Aziraphale’s. Aziraphale would completely understand if Crowley decided to just sleep it away.

(He would understand. He would be disappointed and sad, but that would be for him and for his pet to know.)

But no.

Next to the entrance of the auction house, in all his glorious lankiness draped in black, stands the man starring in a lot of Aziraphale’s dreams lately.

Oh, kindly get your mind out of the gutter, not all those dreams are of the pornographic variety.

(The key-word here being “not all”.)

Crowley’s hair is out of his usual messy bun, flowing in crimson rivlets around his angular face. Sunglasses firmly in place even though it is a cloudy day in London.

As for the rest of his attire, one would call it “punk chic” if one even dared to try and qualify Crowley’s …

Well.

Crowley as a whole is inqualifiable, isn’t he? Almost …

Ineffable.

And here he goes again, waxing poetic over Crowley while being too shy, awkward, afraid, to do something about it.

Would that be so hard? “Hey Crowley, thanks for coming, after the auction, would you fancy some dinner? No, not like the hundreds we already shared, no, this one would be special. A date. I’m asking you on a date. No? Preposterous? Oh, alright, back to business as usual then, see you Monday at the bakery.”

See? Not that hard. Hardly more than a band-aid ripped from one’s skin.

… Right. As if that simple mind simulation didn’t rip Aziraphale’s heart out of his chest, stomped on it before putting the beaten pulp back for him to heal.

“Right on time, Angel.”

The pet name never fails to cause more aortic gymnastics and Aziraphale beams at Crowley. “If right on time means half an hour before the auction, then, yes, right on time.”

Crowley digs his hands in his pockets, face turned to the ground. “I know you want to find a good spot to observe without being observed,” he mumbles as they enter the auction house and are directed toward the room. “Half an hour to do so sounds reasonable.”

“I appreciate the effort,” Aziraphale says lightly, lighter than he really feels. “I thought reason was your kryptonite.”

A crooked smile appears on Crowley’s face, and he pulls his glasses down just enough for Aziraphale to see him wink. “Among other things, Angel.”

Crowley takes two strides as Aziraphale is glued on the spot.

That--that was flirting, wasn’t it?

It has to mean something, doesn’t it?

Aziraphale is going to lose his darn mind trying to read between Crowley’s lines.

(And he loves every second of it, don’t get him wrong.)

“Now, do you prefer to sit in the back, or somewhere in the middle? I’d prefer somewhere where we can talk without disturbing anybody, even if the walls have ears,” Crowley is rambling, strutting--there is really no other way to put it--strutting his stuff back and forth across the room where the auction will be held. “Do books have ears?” he mutters, to Aziraphale’s complete delight, before snickering in a way that can only be described as adorable, as much as Crowley denies being anything approaching “adorable”, “cute” ou even just “nice”. “Though I suppose they can be eared.”

It requires a lot of focus on their surroundings and a massive amount of self-control for Aziraphale to keep himself from throwing himself at Crowley and kiss the living daylights out of him right then and there.

“Get it?” Crowley insists, his smile far too much for Aziraphale to handle. “Dog-eared?”

“I get it, dear,” Aziraphale says, willing his cheeks to return to their normal, pale complexion. In a very satisfying turn of event, his blush seems to transfer to Crowley’s cheeks, too. “Very funny, and contextually appropriate. Kudos.”

Crowley gives him a little curtsey before pointing at different seats. “So? The choice is yours, Angel.”

Oh, Aziraphale knows that there is a slight percentage of Crowley’s choice of pet name which is vaguely mocking. He knows.

He does love being called “Angel” by a man who looks like one himself, only in a more lustful way.

(Can angels be lustful creatures? There is a probably a whole moral and theological debate to have there, but he’ll keep it in mind for their next date-not-a-date-God-he-wishes-it-was-a-date.)

“Right this way,” Aziraphale points to two seats in second to last row, somewhere around the middle. “Perfect view, perfect to bid.”

As if summoned by magic, a paddle seems to appear in Crowley’s hand. Aziraphale eyes it warily as Crowley twirls it in the air. “Planning on bidding, dear?”

“Yep. You should get yours too.”

“Seriously?”

Crowley looks over the rim of his sunglasses to look at Aziraphale. “Deadly.”

Aziraphale attempts to glare a him as he stands, taking a double take to make sure that his companion is not pulling his leg. When Crowley has the audacity to make a “go on” motion, Aziraphale huffs and puffs all the way to the paddle counter.

“And what, pray tell, do you plan on bidding on, exactly?”

“Something awfully overpriced, just to make some idiots pay more than they should.”

“Oh, be serious, Crowley.”

The room fills up one person at a time, but as far as Aziraphale is concerned, it’s just the two of them.

“If you must know,” Crowley replies, a faint blush appearing on the apple of his cheeks (and on the tip of his ears, that is just … Aziraphale has no words), “while browsing the catalogue you sent me, I spotted a copy of a book that could look good on my shelves.”

“As in …?”

“As in, wait and see, good things come to those who wait, for Pete’s sake!”

Aziraphale smiles crookedly at that, as discretely as he can manage.

If he had any doubts, they’re all gone now. There is definitely more to Crowley than meets the eye. The man is not as blasé as he would like to appear.

Or maybe, just maybe, he only lets Aziraphale sees under all that nonchalance to show his true self.

That possibility almost makes him faint.

“Ladies and gentlemen, if I can have your attention,” the auctioneer calls with a too-white smile. “Let’s begin with the first lot of this English literature, History science and Children’s book auction, shall we?”

😈😇😈

It’s not that Crowley is a bibliophile--far from it.

He simply has a profound respect for books and the answers they can provide to all the questions in the Universe.

And sometimes, just for the fun of it, he likes to splurge on books which show how far Humanity has come, in terms of knowledge.

The irony of it all, and, though he’ll never admit it, the hope that lies between those lines.

If humanity is capable of growing out of a pit of superstitions and darkness, the future cannot be as bleak as it looks, can it?

Which leads us to the present moment, to the book he spotted in the aforementioned catalogue and wishes to purchase if it fits his splurging budget.

Rachel Bell Maiden’s “The Canape Book”.

The small book doesn’t look like much, on its podium, barely held upright by the handler’s gloved hand.

And yet, Crowley wants it like he doesn’t often want for things.

(A look on his left tells a different story, but a, this is not the place nor the time, and b, Crowley himself doesn’t want to admit to himself that he yearns.

Humans can be stupid like that.)

The green binding is pretty unique, or so Crowley has learned online, and he really, really ...

“Starting the auction at 200 pounds, do we have a bidder, I have an offer at 250 pounds …”

Crowley raises his paddle like a sword in the air.

“300 pounds to paddle 666. I have an offer at 325?”

One more lift.

“350, 350 to paddle 666. What about you, Sir, care to raise the stakes? No? On the phone?”

The auctioneer looks around the room and Crowley starts sweating. As it is, with the fees, and everything, the book is going to be right on the verge of extravagant for his budget.

But it is a good purchase, if only to find recipes to try with Aziraphale, sandwiches and cocktails that will make for splendid afternoon and fantastic evenings, perhaps a prelude to more if they--if he ever gets himself together.

“Going once, going twice …”

“Come on,” Crowley mutters between gritted teeth.

“And sold to paddle 666, congratulations sir.”

“Yesss,” Crowley cannot help but hiss as he puts the paddle away.

Still in the rush of the auction--and yes, it was a rush, shut up--he slides his hand over Aziraphale’s next to him.

And Aziraphale doesn’t move it away.

Oh, no, quite the opposite actually: he turns his hand to clasp Crowley’s firmly and doesn’t let go.

“Congratulations, dear,” he whispers, close enough for his breath to tickle Crowley’s skin. “I hope to be as successful in my own endeavor.”

Crowley smiles bashfully. “Thank you, Angel.”

The fifty or so lots after that go by without Crowley noticing them.

A not so small part of him wishfully thinks that Aziraphale doesn’t pay much attention to it either.

When Aziraphale straightens up in his chair, paddle at the ready, Crowley turns his attention back to the room.

The big lot of the sale isn’t up yet, but a few heads are turning toward the three tan-leather bound books.

“Now, lot 69, a 1840 printing of Charles Dickens’ Oliver Twist, in 3 volumes, signed by the illustrator George Cruikshank, we have a lot of interest from buyers over the phone, let’s start this auction at 1200 pounds. 1200, 1300, thank you Sir, 1400 for you Emma, 1400 over the phone, 1500 for me, 1600 over the phone with Tang, 1650 for me, 1650, do I have more bidding?”

Aziraphale raises his paddle and Crowley can feel his heart beating faster in his friend’s behalf.

Well, “friend”.

Whatever they are.

“1700 pounds for the paddle 29472, thank you Sir. 1700 in the room, not with me, not on the phone.”

Aziraphale wiggles in his chair, a proud smirk on his face.

“And 1800 for the paddle 75005.”

Aziraphale and Crowley snap their head toward the part of the room pointed by the auctioneer’s hammer. A smug looking person raises one eyebrow at them.

Aziraphale scowls at them and lifts his hand.

“1900, paddle 29472.”

“2000, paddle 75005...”

Crowley glances back at the catalogue when Aziraphale reaches 3000.

“Angel,” he whispers, “you’re at the higher estimate.”

“These books are mine,” Aziraphale growls back, and while the sound goes straight to Crowley’s bloodstream, it may be time for this whole affair to end.

Glaring at the back of Mx. 75005’s head, Crowley waits for them to lift their paddle, again, and turn to smirk at them, again.

Which they do--so predictable.

Crowley discreetly brings his thumb to his throat and hisses.

The person seems appropriately taken aback.

Aziraphale lifts his paddle one more time, bringing the auction to 3500 pounds.

“3500 pounds for paddle 29742, do you wish to continue, Sir?”

The person hesitates, glancing at them one more time. Crowley lowers his glasses to glare them into submission.

And then they shake their head.

“We’re at 3500 pounds for the gentleman with the paddle 29742, do I have any more bidder? Going once, going twice…”

Aziraphale is the one reaching for Crowley’s hand this time around.

“And sold. Congratulations, Sir. Now, moving on to lot 70 …”

“Unless you wish to stay for what most of these people consider to be the important lot of this sale,” Aziraphale whispers, his hand still clasping Crowley’s, “we can take our leave.”

“Do you want to see how it goes?”

“Nah, I’ll check the final results online.”

“Sure?”

“Sure. Let’s go. I feel peckish.”

“Peckish.”

“Indeed. How about some crepes?”

“Lead the way, Angel.”

😈😇😈😇😈

“Well, wasn’t that fun?” Aziraphale says happily, hands clasped in his back as they walk down the street.

“It was fun,” Crowley replies, a crooked smile on his face. “Especially to see that side of you, Angel.”

“Which side, my dear?”

“The feisty, slightly bastardish side, of course.”

Aziraphale wants to protest, he does, but even if he felt like lying to Crowley, he couldn’t possibly procede. And he can admit that he did let out his … inner bastard.

“Right. Well. I’m glad you enjoyed that.”

“You have no idea.”

Crowley’s voice catches Aziraphale’s attention. It’s soft suddenly around the edges, almost tender, almost fond.

Almost smitten.

Aziraphale searches Crowley’s face for more clues, but beside this smirk that has indeed softened into a grin, his blasted sunglasses block Aziraphale’s “reading”.

“Crowley …”

“Angel …”

They both start at the same time but Crowley shakes his head before Aziraphale can tell him to go ahead. “Never mind that. Where are you taking us?”

Aziraphale considers pushing it, once and for all--speak your mind and heart, damn you, so I can snog you senseless in the middle of Oxford Circus--but Crowley is not the kind of man you can push into confession, that much Aziraphale knows now.

“To my secret spot.”

Crowley’s face instantly matches the crimson lining of his jacket. “Cool. Do you take all your dates there?”

“I never brought anyone there, I’ll have you know,” Aziraphale replies over the pitter patter of his heart at the mention of this afternoon being a date. “But I--I want you to be my guest there.”

They reach a crossroad and Aziraphale brings his hands in front of him, nervouser and nervouser as Crowley remains silent.

Until, that is, Crowley’s hand enters his line of vision.

“Crowley?”

Crowley is not looking at him, but he still wiggles his fingers, prompting Aziraphale to take it.

“I would love to see your secret spot, Angel,” Crowley finally says, voice barely covering the hubbub around them. “I am--I am honored.”

It’s only because he knows the way so well that Aziraphale doesn’t lose them both in the streets, floating as he is on his very own cloud.

“This,” Crowley says with as much doubt as he can put in a single syllable, “is where you take me to have crêpes?”

“Indeed it is.”

“This restaurant? Really?”

“Don’t pass on such a hasty judgment,” Aziraphale tutts. “‘For by your words you will be acquitted and by your words you will be condemned’.”

Crowley groans as he follows him inside the tiny Japanese restaurant. “Quoting scriptures at me now? Why, oh why would you do that?”

Aziraphale salutes the owner before taking “his” seat, inviting Crowley to join him. “If only to make you admit that you knew the source of my quote, you fallen soul. And to gently ask you not to say another word before you have a chance to try their desserts.”

“Fine, fine, I suppose I can put my judgmental side on hold for a moment with you.”

Oh. Wow. That’s too much, too fast, wow.

All Aziraphale can do on the outside is clearing his throat and pulling the menu in front of him.

“I mean--” Crowley starts, but Aziraphale cuts him short.

“Should we split one plate of crêpes, or should we share two plates, I don’t know, I--I, um, I know I have built an appetite with the adrenaline and all, but how do you feel?”

Crowley shrugs, pulling off his glasses to clean them with his scarf. “You’re the connoisseur, you decide. I’m putting my faith in you, Angel.”

But all of Aziraphale’s knowledge and appreciation for the crêpe cakes on the menu flew out the window the moment Crowley’s eyes came into view.

They’re such a peculiar shade, a mesmerizing golden amber Aziraphale could bask in for all of Eternity.

“-raphale?”

“Uh? Sorry, my dear boy, I was--I was lost in thoughts.”

“Pure, happy thoughts?”

“Enough to make me fly if I had any fairy dust.”

Crowley opens and closes his mouth, the smile left behind enough for Aziraphale to gather that he has a joke on the tip of his tongue and is refraining out of the goodness of his heart.

“You were saying?” he asks instead, folding back the menu to focus on Crowley, now that those jewelled eyes are once again hidden.

(What a shame, but what a relief for his poor heart, too.)

“I was asking you what was your favorite cake?”

“Depends on my mood,” Aziraphale replies, more comfortable on the subject of food. “A good vanilla crêpe can do the trick but when I feel like treating myself properly …”

“Yess?”

“Chestnut and chocolate is my go-to.”

“An interesting combination.”

“A scrumptious combination!” Aziraphale claps his hands. “Oh, that makes my decision easier. We must simply try that.”

Aziraphale’s favorite waiter approaches and they exchange a few words in Japanese before Aziraphale places his order.

As he leaves them to it, Aziraphale turns back to Crowley who is gawking at him.

“What?”

Crowley clears his throat and chuckles awkwardly. “You--you speak Japanese?”

“Oh, yes, I do, don’t I?”

Crowley cocks his head to the side, fingers drumming on the tablecloth.

Aziraphale starts fidgeting under such intense scrutiny. “What’s so special about it, anyway? I’m sure you speak other languages, too.”

It comes out a bit more defensively than he really intended to. There is just something about Crowley that reveals his darker side.

Crowley smirks, still drumming on the table. “I speak Scottish, if that counts.”

“Of course it does.”

“And I suppose I can manage with French, but nothing as … exotic as Japanese.”

“French?”

“Tout à fait.”

Isn’t it funny, how we sometimes discover things about ourselves late in life?

As it is, until this very moment, Aziraphale had no idea that a few words uttered in French could affect him as it does.

But affected he is, and to his core.

“Mighty useful, French, when you enjoy baking,” Crowley continues, seemingly unaware of the sudden heat threatening to consume his companion on the spot. “So many French words just to talk about ingredients. Beurre noisette, crème pâtissière, sucre boulé …”

“Would you teach me?”

Crowley stops in his tracks and looks at Aziraphale over the rim of his glasses. “French, or baking?”

“Both?”

Oh, it’s not that Aziraphale doesn’t see how either lesson could turn into an apocalyptic sort of disaster. He does, he absolutely, with great clarity, does.

But on the other hand, this kind of apocalypse would inevitably lead to him and Crowley spending more time together, getting closer, until Aziraphale would be able to whisper his freshly acquired vocabulary into the meat of Crowley’s skin.

So, yes, Aziraphale would take the risk of an apocalypse of embarrassment for the reward of successfully wooing Crowley.

“That could be fun,” Crowley replies just as the crêpes land on their table, his hand suddenly covering Aziraphale in a sneak attack. “If you teach me something in return.”

Oh, boy.

“What would you want me to teach you?” Aziraphale asks.

“You could teach me Japanese,” Crowley replies, taking his hand back--both a blessing and a curse. “Or fencing.”

Aziraphale freezes. “How do you know I fence?”

Crowley sits back in his chair, cup of tea in his hand as he slouches. “Something in your posture, Angel,” he replies, gesturing in Aziraphale’s direction. “It was either fencing or horse riding.”

“And how do you know it’s not horse riding?”

“Hard on the buttocks, horses. Bit of a flaw in the design, if you ask me. But you don’t strike me as someone who would inflict such pain on his buttocks.”

Such a sentence promptly produces images of Crowley thinking about the comfort of his buttocks, which, if you are in Aziraphale’s mind, doesn’t take too long before derailing into Crowley taking care of his ass.

Not that Aziraphale’s mind needs much prompting to go in that direction nowadays.

“Touché,” is all he can say without making a fool of himself in the middle of his favorite restaurant. To cover for his sudden silence, he picks up a fork to dig into the crêpes.

Ah, crêpes.

Even when they are average, they are the superior dessert, snack and culinary creation altogether.

Aziraphale takes a moment to enjoy his first bite. Much like a French philosopher, Aziraphale thinks that as enjoyable a thing may be, nothing can surpass the happiness brought by the first bite, first sip, first encounter.

The crêpes are thin yet soft, with a delicate crispy ring on the edges. In the center, the pieces of chocolate are on the verge of being completely melted, but not yet, while the crushed chestnuts are bringing some texture to the whole plate.

Aziraphale hums in his delight, before pushing the plate toward Crowley. “Where are my manners? You’re the one who has to try this for the first time.”

Crowley picks up a fork, turning the plate so he can face an untouched part of the crêpe. Aziraphale carefully watches his face for his reaction.

His mind takes another turn for the gutter at the way Crowley flicks his tongue at the fork before closing his lips around it, but then.

Then.

Crowley’s eyes widens, visible even from behind the tainted lenses and he lets out a soft, heartfelt moan that seems to fly directly through Aziraphale’s veins and straight to his heart.

“That’s--” Crowley starts, a pink flush appearing on his high cheeks. “It’s delicious!”

A small part of Aziraphale’s mind takes pride in making his … friend discover such a pleasure, but most of it is entirely consumed by the way Crowley looks at the moment.

Amazement colors his features, and the largest smile Aziraphale has ever seen on his face stretches his lips.

If Aziraphale thought he had a crush on the lanky man before, that is nothing compared to the rush of, well, Love he feels right now.

“I can understand why you kept this place a secret, Angel,” Crowley says, picking a second piece of the crêpe cake. “This is truly a slice of Heaven.”

Aziraphale lets out a short giggle before smothering it with a forkful of cake.

“Aziraphale.”

“Yes, dear?”

Crowley removes his glasses completely before cupping his face in his palm. The sight of those golden eyes, with their oh so particular shade, short-circuits Aziraphale’s brain.

Particularly because of the fondness warming them.

“May I tempt you for dinner?”

“T-tempt me?”

Crowley cocks one eyebrow at him. “Well, asking you for dinner on my terms means making you leave work early, thus tempting you away from them all.”

“Them?”

“The parasites who used to be my colleagues.”

And just like that, the warm feelings in Aziraphale’s chest melt away. “Parasites?”

Crowley must hear the change of tone in his voice. “Well,” he straightens up while managing to still slouch in his chair, “you know. Gabriel, Michael, all those who act all holier than thou.”

Aziraphale feels hurt--he isn’t quite sure if he feels attacked or if it’s just a sense of professional duty. “Aren’t I one of them too?”

Crowley puts his sunglasses back on. “You work there, yes, but you are not one of them,” he replies emphatically.

“How so?”

“I know so.”

Aziraphale swipes his face with his hand. “I know I should take your words as a compliment, but what makes you so sure that I’m not like them?!”

Crowley smiles at him, blinding and, and, loving, yes. “I know you would never take advantage of the people who have faith in you,” he replies simply. “And that you are more layered than any of those buffoons.”

“Oh.”

“And given the chance, you wouldn’t work for them.”

It’s Aziraphale’s turn to raise an eyebrow at Crowley. “Oh really. And what would I rather do?”

“I think that you would be way happier if your job involved books and making people happy.”

Aziraphale blinks at the image those words paint.

Far too appealing an image. He needs to stir the conversation away from it.

“To answer your earlier proposal …”

“Hmm yes?”

“I would love to let you tempt me.”

“Great.” Crowley beams at him. “Meet me at the bakery around 5pm.”

“Where are we going?”

“You’ll see.”

😈😇😈😇😈

The thing you need to know about Crowley is that he’s a perfectionnist.

Oh, maybe you already gathered as much about him from the rest of the story already.

But anyway, that is to say that in preparation for his date--because yes, this is officially a date, if the previous day wasn’t already one--, Crowley spends the night trying to figure out the best sweets to treat his angel to.

(Yes, his. Aziraphale is his. Move on.)

He considers making a decadent crepe cake, perhaps even on with a heart hidden in its center, cliché be damned, but does he really want to enter a competition with Aziraphale’s favorite dessert on their first date?

No, he doesn’t. Maybe later, once they will have dated for a while, for a special occasion perhaps.

No, for now, Crowley needs to blow Aziraphale’s mind and tastebuds.

(No, Crowley is absolutely not considering blowing anything else. Who do you take him for?

… If the mood seems right.

Maybe.

Possibly.)

The rest of the meny is fairly simple: Crowley knows Aziraphale’s tastes now. Fresh, quality ingredients, some fancy ones but nothing that can take him away from the ultimate prize that is the dessert.

So he decided to start with oysters (which doesn’t require a lot of preparation, juste the mignonette sauce).

Pros: it’s easy, fresh and aphrodisiac.

Cons: the shells. But Crowley will deal with them later.

For the main dish, Crowley goes with a pancetta and butternut squash risotto.

Pros: he can prepare it in advance and simply reheat it when needed (and he totally prepares it while considering his dessert options).

Cons: well, there are ways to fail at making a risotto, but this is not Crowley’s first risotto. He knows where the potential failure lies, and he sidesteps it like a pro.

And now back to the dessert.

If everything goes as well as Crowley wishes, thinks, hopes it will go, then by the time they get to dessert, they will both want to get closer.

Maybe kiss.

Maybe hold each other.

(Oh, to feel Aziraphale’s soft body pressed against his. Now that would be his treat.)

In order to to so, Crowley has two choices, really.

Either a dessert they can feed to each other, like an ice cream or a mousse of some sorts, or a dessert they can nibble on, like some kinds of biscuits or--

Hold that thought.

Crowley applauds himself before going through the pages of his book.

“Good Nommins: Agnes Nutter’s Nice and Accurate Recipes”, a book he got from his great-great-great-great aunt. All of Crowley’s recipes are a variation he played from those ancient recipes.

And there is something he thinks will do the trick.

So, yes, he spends the night trying recipes, finding ways to recycle what doesn’t make the cut (an unsuitable cookie is only a good cheesecake crust waiting to happen) until Crowley is sure he has the right treat.

And now he is.

At 5 a.m.

Which means that there is no point in going to bed now, is there, since he has to be at the bakery in one hour.

That’s alright, though. Crowley doesn’t really mind, especially considering the ultimate goal. Mission Woo Aziraphale Eastgate out of his waistcoat, dot dot dot, is a go.

😈😇😈

Crowley is waiting for Aziraphale in front of the bakery and he does his best not to be nervous.

“Whatcha doin’?”

Crowley is too tired to hide that Beelzy managed to surprise him.

“I’m waiting. For my, um, my friend.”

“Right,” they drawl, fixing the brooch on their lapel. “Your … friend, the blondy from the vampire office.”

“You know them?”

“Got my loan from them.”

Crowley can’t help but pull a face.

“And my regular booty call.”

Crowley’s grimace takes a turn for the worse. “Isn’t that what people call a boyfriend?”

Beelzy makes a gagging sound. “Don’t be gross. Okay, I’m off. See you tomorrow? I’d like to talk to you about something.”

“Should I worry?”

“Do or do not, I don’t care. Bye!”

Crowley is still frowning after them when Aziraphale taps on his shoulder, practically vibrating with excitement.

“Good afternoon, dear!” Aziraphale says, rocking on his heels. “So, where are we going?”

Crowley leans in to kiss Aziraphale’s cheek, bringing the rocking to a stop.

“Follow me.”

😈😇😈😇😈

Aziraphale doesn’t quite know what makes him trust Crowley so much that he’s willing to follow him through the streets of London until they reach what looks like an old factory.

“What is--where are we, dear boy?”

“My place, Angel.”

(I told you it would come in the proper time, didn’t I, dear readers? Good things come to those who wait.)

“Your--your place?”

“I thought it would be better to have an intimate setting for our, err, first, you know,” Crowley says while opening his door.

Aziraphale’s brain has already melted at the word “intimate”, but the design of Crowley’s flat finishes the job.

Given the look of the building, Aziraphale expected something rough, somehow bohemian. The idea doesn’t quite fit Crowley’s general look, but what does he know, right?

But that flat!

Everything is sleek and modern, except for the kitchen which has a wooden counter, but even that part of the flat is in the darker shades, black wood and metal.

Though the space is not big, the whole space is tidy and sparkly clean, a complete opposite to the way Aziraphale himself keeps his own flat. Next to the windows, which could be seen from the outside, stand giant plants. Monstera, succulents and alocasia fill in the space, probably eating up the light during the day.

It’s the most luxurious private garden Aziraphale has ever seen. Next to them, in the biggest sunlight spot, stands a vivarium with a napping snake.

Now, that fits the picture of Crowley he has built in his mind.

“Welcome to my casa,” Crowley tells him, taking off his jacket and sending it with a scary accuracy onto the hook. Aziraphale doesn’t trust his own talent and goes to hang his own coat. “I hope you don’t mind Newt?”

“You have a lovely home, Anthony,” he replies instead, looking around. A door is closed, probably leading to Crowley’s private parts of the flat--and Aziraphale is now very intrigued to know more about the kind of bedding Crowley likes to sleep in, while the main room is split between the living room, where the plants are, and the kitchen, where Crowley is standing.

His sleeves rolled up to his elbows, good Lord.

“Thank you, Aziraphale,” Crowley replies softly, simultaneously opening the refrigerator and turning the fire on under a large pan.

For some reason, hearing his first name in Crowley’s mouth is even better than the pet name he got used to.

“Is there something I can do?”

“Make yourself comfortable, angel, and perhaps open a bottle of wine?”

Aziraphale works quickly to open the bottle of red wine in order to be able to return to his gawking at Crowley in action.

“Anthony?”

“Yes?”

“This is a date, right?”

Crowley freezes before nodding.

“I’m really glad it is.”

Crowley comes to sit at the table too, a large plate covered in oysters and a light vinegary sauce. He has a small smile, almost shy. “I’m really glad too.”

“Oh, oysters,” Aziraphale can’t help but sigh happily. “How did you know that they are my “péché mignon”?”

“I had a hunch,” Crowley says, pushing the plate toward Aziraphale.

“You have a lot of them, about me?”

“Quite a few.” Here is that smile again, soft and warm and reaching into Aziraphale’s body to seize his heart in the most tender way.

Aziraphale tries to hide his blush by slurping on an oyster, the peppercorn and the vinegar heightening the ioded taste of the mollusk.

“That’s delicious.”

“I’m glad.”

“How are you so good at cooking?”

That, more than anything else, gets Crowley started, and the hours tick by as they devour the plate of oysters and then the entire pan of risotto, spoonful by spoonful, while Crowley talks about his childhood, his desire to cook and his incessant need to ask questions to understand, really, the why’s and how’s of the universe. Aziraphale interjects some questions, mostly savouring both the food and the way Crowley seems to lighten up from the inside as they move to the plush looking couch in the living room. Truth be told, he becomes more alive the emptier the bottle becomes, sure, and his speech makes less and less sense, but it only makes him more attractive in Aziraphale’s eyes.

“And then, then--” Crowley pauses, pouting. “What was I saying?”

Aziraphale blinks, and yes, he is quite inebriated himself. “Something about fish soup?”

“Bouillabaisse! Yes!”

“What about bulibaze?”

“... I don’t know. But it’s bloody good.”

Aziraphale starts giggling, and when he looks up again to pour himself another glass, Crowley is sitting far closer than he was just a moment ago.

“Oh.”

Crowley’s hair is ruffled and soft-looking, begging for Aziraphale to pass his fingers through them. His eyes are dark, a golden circle surrounding his irises. And his mouth is …

It’s calling for Aziraphale’s touch, that’s what it is.

They both lean closer, and Aziraphale licks his lips the moment Crowley bites on his lower lip.

“I have dessert.”

“You--uh?”

Crowley leans back, still close enough that Aziraphale can feel his body heat radiating on his left side.

“I prepared a dessert. For you. A special dessert.”

I could be happy with you as my dessert, fleetingly crosses Aziraphale’s mind but in the ranking of his sins, gluttony must supersedes lust because he is immediately curious.

“A special dessert for me?”

Crowley winks, the devil, before jumping out of the couch and sautering to the kitchen.

While he waits, Aziraphale tries to compose himself.

Oh, he has every intention of bringing what almost happened to something that definitely happened, but he doesn’t want it to be a drunken, or worse, rushed moment.

Hence the composing.

“Tadaaa,” Crowley singsongs as he brings a plate to his coffee table. The plate is covered in thin golden biscuits, as thin as paper, rolled up and folded.

“Oh, lovely!” Aziraphale picks up one of the biscuits. It’s amazingly light and buttery. “What are those?”

“They have two names,” Crowley explains, pushing forward Aziraphale’s glass. “They’re known as gavottes, or as crêpes dentelles.”

Aziraphale recognizes the first word. “Those are crêpe biscuits?”

“Yes.”

“And you made them for me.”

“... Yes, angel.”

Aziraphale delicately puts the biscuit back on the plate.

“What are y--”

Crowley doesn’t get to finish his sentence, his lips otherwise occupied by Aziraphale’s.

After months of dreaming about it, picturing how it would be, the reality of kissing Crowley is even better than he imagined. It’s soft and passionate and clumsy and perfect, all at once.

Crowley wraps his arms around him, pulling him closer until Aziraphale is practically lying on top of Crowley on the couch.

Clumsy? Definitely.

Uncomfortable? Just a little bit.

Everything Aziraphale wished for? And more.

Crowley moans into the kiss, and it’s not necessarily the good kind of moans. Aziraphale pushes himself up. “Everything alright, my dear boy?”

“Hm-hm,” Crowley replies, looking a bit dizzy. “Just, let me--agh--” Crowley winces, reaching behind him and picking a book. He glares at it, putting it on the table, before returning his gaze to Aziraphale. The love and adoration in those golden eyes render Aziraphale silent. “Better. Now, where were we?”

Aziraphale smiles, caressing Crowley’s cheek. “At the beginning of forever, I believe,” he whispers, before diving in for another kiss.

(They do get to the gavottes, eventually, once Aziraphale is out of his waistcoat and his shirt is opened, and once Crowley’s pants have been opened.)

😈😇😈😇😈

It’s a heartbreak to part, but on the other hand, they make the journey from Crowley’s flat to the street where they both work together, so Crowley counts that as a win.

He waits for Aziraphale to pause at the entrance of his building, smiling at him one more time before they meet again in the evening, before entering the bakery.

“Ah, just the man I wanted to see.” Beelzy’s words contrast with their tone, but Crowley is used to that by now.”

“What can I do for you, my Lord?”

“Do you enjoy your job?”

“I--I do. Did I give you the impression I wanted to leave?”

“No. Then again, I don’t usually care.”

“Oh. Then why--”

“I don’t want to work anymore. So. Are you interested?”

Crowley feels like he has entered the Twilight Zone. “Interested in?”

“In the shop, you imbecile. Wasn’t I clear?”

“Not really, no. But I could be interested.”

Beelzebub smiles at him. “Not so dumb after all then. Take your time, think about it, and come back tomorrow with your answer. I’m off now.”

With that, they walk out of the shop, leaving him alone with more to think about that he thought he would have on this day.

😈😇😈

“Are you interested?”

Crowley walks back and forth in Aziraphale’s living room, after retelling him of his boss’s proposal.

“I am! Of course I am!” he exclaims. “Fancy me, business owner. In charge of …”

“Of everything.”

“Oh God.”

“I’m sure you could do it,” Aziraphale points out, before sipping out of his mug of tea. “You have all it takes to turn this business into a success.”

“Except for the will to be responsible for it.”

“Hm.”

Crowley pauses. “Do you really think I could do it?”

“I do. You’re smart, creative, intuitive. You can do it.”

Crowley leans over the table to kiss Aziraphale before resuming his walking around. “But what of the money?”

“You have your severance money from Heavs.”

“True.”

“And, um.”

“What?”

Aziraphale wiggles on his spot. “I could, um, invest in it too?”

Crowley freezes. “You? What?”

Aziraphale stands to come in front of him. “I have money I could invest in your business.”

Crowley opens and closes his mouth like a fish; he’s sure it’s not attractive, but he can’t do anything else.

“Or better yet?”

“Better?”

Aziraphale nods. “I could … be a partner.”

Crowley feels his face heating up but he focuses. “A partner?”

“Yes.”

“Care to develop on that idea, Angel?”

“I could--that is, I have been thinking.”

“Yes?”

Aziraphale takes a deep breath and then unloads all of the following in seemingly one breath.

“I have been miserable at my job for a while now, even though I’m quite good at it. I just, just, have enough of it, and I don’t think my soul can take much more of it. Meanwhile, I can see myself having a library of sorts, making my books available for all to peruse and enjoy while, I don’t know, maybe, savor some mini pastries?”

Crowley stares at him.

That idea is crazy.

Demented.

Completely out of this world.

Doesn’t make a lick of sense.

… Exactly what he wants, without ever knowing he did.

And yet, what comes out of his mouth next doesn’t make much sense either.

“You’d let people eat or drink near your books?”

Aziraphale had his mouth open to keep on babbling about his plans, but Crowley’s interjection brings him to a halt and he beams at him.

“I would. Would be rather hypocritical of me not to when I do it so often, wouldn’t it?”

“Ah. Right.”

Aziraphale takes Crowley’s hand and brings it to his lips to kiss his knuckles. “Was that your only objection, my dear, dear boy?”

Crowley’s brain fires up before he can get back to his senses. “I would love for us to be partners.”

“You would.”

“I don’t think you’ve ever had a better idea, Angel.”

Aziraphale pulls on Crowley’s hand, pulling him closer, pulling him to him so they can kiss. “I do have a lot of ideas, Anthony.”

“Can’t wait to test them all, Aziraphale.”

(It takes them a moment to get their shop running, but eventually, Londoners get to enter “Above and Below”, thus named for the nurturing of the mind, through the books-- above-- and the body, through the food--below.

Crowley finds a way to make one-bite delicacies that match some of the books and Aziraphale is the one making the match when it’s not obvious.

They work well together, what can we say?)

~~ The End ~~

#good omens big bang #gobb #masterpost #sometimes i write #hufflepuffbetty #scribblemakes #ineffable husbands #ineffable idiots #good omens au #food porn a plenty

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eris0330 · 6 years

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BTS Concert // Experience // Tips

So i went to the BTS Concert in Amsterdam on 131018. It was a wild ride, and not only because of the fact it was my first time traveling, it was also my first BTS concert. So this is a post for people who will go to their first BTS concert (or any concert?) to be aware of and to settle some things down, or to have some type of expectations.

Disclaimer: I’m not saying this is like this at every concert, this is purely out of my own experience.

NOTE: You can see some of my pre-trip pictures and BTS Concert pictures + videos in my Instagram story highlight and it’s called “BTS // AMS”. (IG: Eris0330) Some epic things happened even after the concert in the airport, and i’m not lying when i’m saying my sunday was a fucking mess.

So enjoy!!

Information during the day of the concert

Ticket: GA

Time of arrival at concert line up: 8:00 (8 am)

Location: Amsterdam

Hotel stay: Holiday inn

Amount of people in group: 7

Merch Sale to begin: 12:00 (12 pm)

Doors opening to venue: 17:00 (5 pm)

Concert start: 20:00 (8 pm)

Concert duration: 2 hours and 30 minutes.

Fashion: Plaid yellow shirt, Black loose crop top, Black ripped jeans, Leg garter, Nike sneakers

Tips for being in line // Experience (This is btw not in a chronological order but a whole mess of things)

For the love of god, bring a lot of water. (Some Army’s were nice to hand out water bottles for us in line, Thank you!!)

Check the weather beforehand. (It was about 24+C and we were right in the sunlight, so please remember to get lots of water and a bit of shade. If you’re sensitive to the sun, please wear sunscreen.)

It’s okay to leave for the toilet, or go for the merch line, as long someone else will be willing to hold your spot. You can even plan it, so you can buy merch for you and your friends, without having all of you to go. (People were nice to let us come back without a problem)

Please buy some food the day prior to the concert, it can be sandwiches, minor snacks or bigger. Just remember to get something to eat. (Some Army’s were nice to share their snacks with us, Thank you!!)

The merch line started at around 8-9 am, but the sale already started earlier than stated. It started at around 9-10 am, even tho it was said to first start at 12 pm. Be quick, if you want merch. Shirts were sold out VERY fast. Already within two hours, the black and white (50€) shirts were sold out. We went 3 people to stand in line for merch, while the rest were holding our spot in the entry line.

There were lockers in the venue, but we ended up putting our stuff in my hotel room. Please look up the venue you’re going to, to check if they have lockers or the rules for a bag. (In Ziggo you were only allowed to have a bag the size of an A4 paper). Because if you get merch, you know where to put it.

Go to the bathroom at least 1-2 hours before entering the venue, if you’re a GA it will be hard to hold a spot inside the venue. So when you get a spot in the venue, you are most likely destined to stay there, that means if you want to keep that spot. A friend and I, was close to not getting back in line (because they were moving inside a barricaded line) but the security let us back in because of my pathetic plea of the fact i would lose my spot because I NEEDED TO PEE AND THE LINE STARTED MOVING. A lot of the times, the line was moving and it were swinging with 1-2 metres, it was rare it moved A LOT. The doors were planned to open at 17:00, so we didn’t expect the line to move any further, but we were wrong. (We thought we timed it alright, because we went to pee and drop off things around 15:00 (3 pm), but the line apparently moved.)

Please change the way you stand in between minutes (30+ minutes), so you won’t be standing on your heel for too long, it can make you feel dizzy. So differ a bit in your standing, to get the pressure around on your feet.

Please throw away your trash if you can, do not leave it on the ground. A lot of trash were near the venue under the bridge where we were standing in line and food, blankets, bottles and cans were left behind. Some people were falling over it! Try to help others, even tho it might not seem like something big.

You will sweat and others will too. It’s no big deal.

It will be VERY hot in the venue. I ended up taking my yellow shirt off to wrap it around my waist instead. Despite my very ripped jeans a loose black top, i was sweating like crazy and the show haven’t even started yet. (Bring a fan, or piece of paper with you, to fan yourself. If you feel dizzy, call for security.) Or don’t wear too much clothes. If i had the chance, i’d change my outfit.

We were only allowed to bring 500 ml water inside the venue and it were definitely not enough. Staff had to bring out small cups of water, for the people who were lucky enough to get a cup. So please, stay hydrated throughout the day!!!!

People are greedy, I am too. I met two kinds of Army’s, the ones who were nice and helped me in the venue, by not standing too close to me and asked me if i was okay. Then there were the ones who didn’t care, and were fighting to get up front by pushing as much as they could, means their bodies were as close as they could to mine, to pass through me but there weren’t enough space so i started to heat up and felt cramped and dizzy. Some does it unintentionally, because it’s in the moment of a concert and they want to see their faves up close. I get that, but please look out for each other. I’m not saying i didn’t do it, because i probably did it too without knowing. whenever there was space to move forward, i did. But i never pushed myself on someone, like someone else did with me. There were times, i constantly had a bag pushing in my stomach and a pair of boobs pressing against my back. Heck people even used my shoulder for their arm rest, to record a whole performance??

Some people passed out and were pulled out of the crowd or walked out of the crowd (that is mainly caused from being too warm and people pushing from behind), plus someone not far behind me. PLEASE call for security or make it aware that there is an emergency through the others around. Take care of each other and take care of yourself. If you feel dizzy, tell someone next to you so they know.

If you have sensitive ears, wear ear plugs. It will take most of the screaming, because Army will scream their lungs out.

If you have long hair, put it in a pony tail. It’s not a must, but it’s a great tip to not overheat. I had my hair in a pony tail, but that wasn’t my plan at first because i look ridiculous with a pony tail, but thank god i did. My hair got pulled a few times, but i bet it wasn’t their intention. A girl in front of me, had her hair out and my hand/fingers constantly pulled strands of her hair. I told her before the concert started that it wasn’t on purpose and she said that she knew. (You were so sweet but you got lost in the crowd!!)

If you go as a group, please make a plan for after the concert. Where you will meet, if you lose each other. Or hold each other’s hands, while walking out.

It’s okay, if your legs feel like you have been running a mile after the concert. (Unless there are other symptoms of being uncomfortable, then tell someone). You have been using your leg muscles, to stand, jump, and tip toed to get a better view for over 2 hours. My legs were VERY wobbly, like spaghetti and i looked like i had been drinking too many beers.

Even though you don’t feel hungry, or thirsty after the concert, please eat some snacks (doesn’t have to be a lot) and drink a whole water bottle at least. My friends and i, were VERY exhausted and tired after the concert. Mainly due to dehydration and not enough food (for me at least). I remember being hungry going in the venue at 17:00, as in it was RUMBLING. When the concert ended, i didn’t feel hungry anymore but i did feel VERY tired and light-headed. I know my body well, i need to get a bit of food if i have been hungrier earlier, cause i might feel more uncomfortable later on, if i don’t fix it.

Get a Soda, to get some sugar. It helped me when i was shaking due to panic and stress. (Going a bit up, i mentioned almost not getting back in line) When i ran back with my friends to the line, and luckily got in. I was SO stressed and in after effect of the panic i went through. Due to my running, while being in fear and stress, my hands started to shake really bad. It usually happens very visibly, if i can’t have control of things.

If you’re going with friends, let them know if you have any problems being in a crowd or other things, that they should be aware of. My friends were amazing to ask if i were okay, and it’s IMPORTANT that you tell them if you’re not okay.

Don’t be afraid to ask people for help, even people you don’t know. They are very nice and have the same interest as you. You all came to hear them, so why wouldn’t they feel a little connected to you?

We came to stand in queue at 8 am, and we still managed to get pretty good spots. About 3-4 metres from the stage, and the view was good through the concert.

People WILL move around during the concert, so if you end up standing behind a tall person, it doesn’t necessarily mean they will stand there through the whole concert. Right at the second the music started, people started pushing and we were moved around, but not a lot, just enough for me to get a better view actually.

If you smoke, move out of the line to stand a bit away from the queue to smoke. Some people are sensitive to the smell, or feel uncomfortable if they continuously get smoke in their face even tho it isn’t your intention. It’s just decent respect for others.

Remember, if you are nice to others, they will most certainly be nice to you as well. I had a good small talk with a few Army’s during in queue for merch or the queue to get in. They helped me with some questions, when i couldn’t see anything or if someone said something i couldn’t understand (mainly because i’m a foreigner)

I guess this is all i had! I don’t know if it helped anyone, but i hope it did with some! Enjoy your concert!

Despite the good and bad things i mentioned, it was definitely an experience i loved very much! It’s something i’ll never forget! The concert is most likely what you make it to, try to think positive and enjoy yourself regardless. I had to tell myself that a lot and it did help.

#bts #bts concert #bts amsterdam #Bts concert experience #bts tips #concert #concert tips #love yourself #love yourself tour #tips #tricks #experience #story time

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grad504-catherinepascual · 3 years

Text

Online Class

Week 10 GRAD504 _ Verbal Feedback (requirements)

What we’re looking for:

Experimentation with different animation processes, styles, and methods

Ideation and creation of different concepts

Iteration reflecting and improving concepts

Convey the characteristics, personality, tone, and identity of your typeface

Good use of typographic principles in a moving image context

Use of animation/motion graphic principles

Good technical application and exporting files at correct format and size

Design resolutions - outcomes being produced which are starting to look refined and adhere to good academic and professional standards

Tasteful use of colour

James’ Feedback

1. Good planning

2. Wonder if the scrunched up paper texture is a bit too grungey for the tone of garamond - try a cleaner parchment texture? coffee stain some paper (more cream-coloured than brown).

3. Start to incorporate more type animation into the facebook video (more contextualisation).

4. Experiment with adding some more context and descriptions of what you're animating on screen e.g. 'It has x number of weights' contextualise the animations with some text to explain what you're showing + description.

5. 'Rooted, Enduring, Timeless' make bigger and more prominent

6. IG draft: Tell the history of the typeface and why you're showing those numbers (the years).

7. Good planning and storyboarding

8. Nice ideation around the idea of time and enduring nature of garamond

9. Good visual inspo.

10. Could you take some pages +elements from specimen book and animate them ?

11. Nice experimentation and concepts.

12. Could explore how garamond is used nowadys? to show it's enduring quality across time? (Past vs present).

- Static text or subtly disappearing text.

- Storytelling and context.

- Type as hero (not glyph as hero lol).

- Enduring through time - past and present and future.

#ClassActivities

0 notes

ruined-by-destiel · 6 years

Text

Making Memories (part 9)

Summary: Misha finds some boxes full of childhood objects in the attic.

Words: 1.1k

Misha x Reader

Warnings: none

Notes: written for @thing-you-do-with-that-thing and @like-a-bag-of-potatoes 12 Days of Christmas Challenge

Day 9: Decorating the tree/house

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You had the next week off for Christmas, so you slept in a little more than usual that morning. You woke up a little after 11, pulling on one of Misha’s hoodies and making your way downstairs when something in the corner of your eye caught your attention.

The door leading up to the attic was slightly open, light seeping out from inside. You furrowed your brow, pulling your sleeves further up your hands as you headed up the stairs.

Before you reached the top, you could already make out Misha’s figure, hunched over something you could only tell was quite large. You folded your arms, the cooler air nipping at your bare feet, as you neared him.

“What are you doing up here?”

Misha stood up straight, turning to look at you. “Hey. I forgot I had some boxes up here my mom sent a while back.” He kissed your cheek before taking a seat next to the huge box. “Thought I’d see if any of our old Christmas decorations are here.”

You sat down next to him, helping pull of the tape. He pulled back the flaps and smiled, pulling out the top most item. “Oh geez.”

You stifled a laugh when you saw what he was holding. It was a picture of Misha as a kid, sitting in front of a child-sized Christmas tree, grinning toothily at the camera as he clutched a small present to his chest.

“How old are you in this?” You took the picture from his hand, running your fingers over the worn frame.

“Five, I think?” He rummaged through the box. “I remember that tree, though. My mom bought it at a discount store that year because we couldn’t afford a bigger one.”

“You were adorable,” you set the picture aside and peeked inside the box. “Still are, too.”

Misha shook his head, laughing as he continued to pull things out. Something glinted in the corner and you pulled it out, a soft “aww” escaping your lips when you got a better look.

It was a snow globe ornament, complete with “snow” on the inside and everything. In the center stood a tiny doll, with Misha’s face taped over the head. In messy handwriting, on the side of the base, was “Merry Christmas,” and on the bottom, in the same handwriting, “Dmitri Krushnic, 1982.”

“You were what, eight?” You handed the ornament to Misha, who laughed when he saw what you were talking about.

“Yeah, second grade. We all made these to take home to hang on the tree.” He shook the globe a couple times, watching the scraps of paper inside rise and fall quickly. “Eight-year olds should not be entrusted with glue.”

You smiled, digging back into the box as he started opening another box. “Hey, what’s this?”

Misha looked up at the book you were holding. His smile dropped. “She didn’t.”

“Who didn’t what?”

“My mom. She did not keep that.” Misha reached for the book but you held it out of his reach. “Y/N, give it to me.”

You smiled, confused. “What, what is it?”

Misha scrunched his nose, running a hand through his hair. “It’s, erm, well, it’s my first journal. From when I was nine.”

You gasped, standing up. “Misha Collins had a diary? And I have it? Here,” you waved the book in the air, “in my hands?”

“Y/N, no- shit,” Misha scrambled to his feet as you ran down the stairs, flipping through the pages as you read out loud.

“Today at school, Nancy saw me writing during lunch. She said only girls are allowed to have diaries and boys who have them are sissies. Nancy is stupid.” You stopped for a moment in the hallway, watching Misha hurry down the steps. “This Nancy sounds like a real bitch.”

“Y/N-”

You ran downstairs and into the kitchen, standing behind the island as you flipped to another page. “Sasha is stupid. He doesn’t even know how to spell right yet.” You laughed. “Harsh words, Dmitri.”

Misha jumped the last two stairs and finally reached you, bracing his arms on the island. “Give it back.”

“Are you kidding me? This is gold.” You turned the page. “God, I have to call Jared and Jensen later. They’re gonna have a field day.”

Misha darted around the island just as you ran the other way, making a beeline to the living room.

“Ooooh, this one has something about a girl in your class. Who’s Em-” you were cut off as Misha lunged towards you, both of you landing on the couch.

You squirmed under Misha, laughing as he tried to pry the journal from your grip. He finally yanked it out of your hands, throwing it across the room, both of you gasping for breath.

He took a deep breath, smiling down at you. “You’re crazy.”

You giggled, trying to push him off you. “Come on, it’s stupid kid stuff. Now, if you’d had a diary when you were a teenager, that I would like to see.”

“Don’t worry, it’s probably in a box somewhere.” Your eyes widened and Misha immediately regretted saying anything. “No, you are not-”

“To the attic!” You tried to jump up, but Misha was still laying on top of you. You grunted as you tried again, unsuccessfully, to get him off.

He shook his head, kissing your cheek. “We’re going back up, but only because I want to show you what I was unpacking until you started exposing my deepest, darkest secrets.

You hummed as he stood, pulling you up with him. You held onto his hand as you walked up to the attic, and he led you to a smaller box next to the one you’d been looking through.

From the box, he pulled out the tree from the picture you’d seen earlier, adjusting the branches so they stuck out more.

“You kept it?”

Misha nodded, handing you the tree as he picked up the box. “Ever since mom got it for us.” You followed him downstairs and into the living room, where he set the box down near the fireplace.

He took the tree back and set it on the mantle. “Here, put these on.”

He handed you some tiny ornaments from inside the box, the two of you hooking them on the tree until you didn’t have any left.

You touched the top of the tree. “Do you have a star?”

“No,” Misha pulled one last item from the box, “but I have this.”

He placed the miniature angel on top of the tree, then stepping back to admire it. You wrapped your arms around his waist, hugging him tightly.

“It’s perfect.”

Misha smiled to himself, hugging you back. “Yeah. It is.”

wanna be tagged? send me an ask

Forever Tags: @teamfreewill-imagine @purgatoan @thing-you-do-with-that-thing@sleepywinchester @chucksangel @latinenglishfandomblog @ronnie248-blog@moonstar86 @love-kittykat21 @fangirlingfanatic2442 @plz-feedme@missdestiel67@hexparker @alicat-life @aly-birleanu @frenchhotmess

Misha/Pond Tags: @snowysamw @castieltrash1 @they-are-not-just-stories @gill-ons@angelina-mariex @smoothdogsgirl @serena0121 @abtmnt @youre-my-grxvity@manawhaat @notnaturalanahi @deathtonormalcy56 @scorpiongirl1 @jelly-beans-and-gstrings @curliesallovertheplace @quiddy-writes@babypieandwhiskey@sinceriouslyamellpadalecki @born-to-be-his-baby88@plaidstiel-wormstache @writingbeautifulmen @drarina1737 @chelsea-winchester@evilskank-inthemegacoven @maraisabellegrey @faith-in-dean @clueless-gold@4401lnc @teamfreewill92 @just-another-winchester

if your blog looks like this i couldn’t tag you

#kari and ida's 12 days of christmas challenge #misha x reader #misha x you #spn rpf #misha collins #12 days of christmas #decorating the tree #decorating the house #making memories #suzana writes

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nerddface · 6 years

Text

You’re Magnetic ;)

Characters: Tony Stark, Reader

Warnings: Injury mention

Word count: 1053

Notes: Ficmas Day 17 | What is Ficmas?

Based off of this (or these) (x)

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Y/N scratched absentmindedly at her shoulder as she skimmed over another application. She had been stuck on paperwork duty every since her surgery, and she was done with it.

Tony hadn’t let her out of his sight, either. It was his bike she’d fallen off of, on a trip he’d taken her on, and he wouldn’t let it go, despite how often she reminded him that it wasn’t his fault she lost control of the thing. She’d walked away with one clean break to her arm, a few nasty bruises, and a dozen little slices on her forearm from the bush her dirt bike had eagerly acquainted himself with, but none of it was life-threatening and the doctor said she’d heal up just fine. In a month or so she would have the metal plate holding her humerus in place taken out, and then a scar and a good story would be the only things left behind.

In the midst of her recovery, however, she couldn’t very well do… much of anything, really. She wasn’t allowed to lift anything heavier than the TV remote or anywhere higher than her chest, which meant she couldn’t very well work her animal shelter day job, where she would be shifting heavy gates, lifting costco-sized food bags, and snuggling rowdy puppies. There would be no helping with that for a while.

What she could help with was paperwork, and good god, was there a lot of it. Christmas was one of the busiest times of year, as parents snatched up every available puppy in the building for their kids. Y/N was glad for it; Christmas dogs were less likely to come back to them than, say, Valentine’s day, but the paperwork was abysmal. The shelter couldn’t just hand dogs to any old joe who came in and wanted them, and each dog under a year old had at least half a dozen applications that she had to pick through.

A healing muscle in her arm twitched as she shifted one application a little higher on the makeshift hierarchy she’d created for each dog. This one had a bigger yard than its contender, and the family had cared for high-needs dogs like this guy before.

The elevator dinged, and she looked up to see Tony, two bags of takeout in tow. “I have returned,” he announced. “The world may resume regular rotation.”

Y/N couldn’t help but smile at her boyfriend’s antics, and the delicious reprieve from her paperwork. “My savior!” she exclaimed, throwing her arms out wide. “I’m so glad I have more than your suits to keep me company.”

Dummy, who had been fiddling away in the corner on something, whistled, offended.

“And you, Dummy. You’re excellent company.”

The robot beeped, apparently unsatisfied with her answer. Tony plopped onto the couch they’d dragged in and set their plastic bags atop Y/N’s papers. He wanted her to be close, so he’d moved a couch and a table into his garage so they could work together, “in case you need something”. Even though she was perfectly capable of getting her own glass of water, there was no convincing him of it.

“Don’t push it, Dummy. She’s the only thing keeping you out of a college dorm room.”

Dummy whirred, sounding almost like he was sighing.

“Your favorite,” Tony presented, handing Y/N a styrofoam container as he pointedly ignored the machine. “And a bubble tea, for my favorite weeb.”

Y/N laughed. “You got me. Thank you.”

She indulged in a short kiss to express her gratitude, and tore open her utensils, ready to dig in.

“You’ve got something on your arm, there,” Tony commented as he pulled his own food out of his bag.

“Huh?”

He picked a paperclip off Y/N’s sweater. It pulled cleanly, not breaking any threads like it might have if it had gotten caught on the chunky wool.

“Hang on.”

Tony set his fork down and placed his other hand on her arm, where he wore the thick iron ring she’d gotten for him last anniversary on his forefinger. He lifted and replaced his hand a couple of times, as if he were testing something, before a smile drew his lips apart.

“What?”

He didn’t say anything, but got up and shuffled around on a work table for a moment before turning back to her with a small wrench in his hand. He tugged the loose neck of her sweater off her shoulder, revealing the smooth, clear dressing over her stitches, and held the wrench in the tips of his fingers.

“There are giant magnets keeping my suits up all over the room,” he explained, his eyes sparkling. “Your plate must be an aluminum alloy, which is considered conditionally unsafe for MRI scans.”

Y/N wasn’t quite following. “…okay?”

“They’re unsafe because the magnets in the scanner activate the ferromagnetic metals in some alloy implants.”

When the wrench got about two inches or so from her arm, it surged forward and clung to her skin. Tony beamed. “This room is like a giant MRI scanner.”

Little did she know that this would lead to going on – she glanced down at her watch – three hours of bombardement with paper clips. Every so often, one would come sailing across the room and stick to her arm, startling her out of the zone she would get into while she worked. It appeared, even, that Tony had even begun to construct a little paper clip launcher on his desk.

She considered warning him that maybe, the next piece of metal that hit her would be fashioned into a shank and she would stab him with it, but paused when she went to add this paper clip to the pile she had begun to collect. This time it had a bit of paper attached to it, and when she unfolded it, she found his handwriting.

I love you.

She looked up, towards him, but his back was turned from her, bent over something on a table.

A smile wormed its way onto her lips, and the spark of anger in her chest died. Tony found the most creative ways to be annoying as hell, but adorably so. Y/N supposed she could live with this affliction, and her broken arm, for a while longer.

#tony stark x reader #tony stark #ficmas 2017

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featuredetective · 4 years

Photo

Case File: 1011202001

Code Name: Are You Sure I Was There?

Comments: Everywhere I look (Moof and It’s Psychedelic Baby) I keep seeing and reading about the British Folk scene. Digging yesterday, my attention was arrested by a LP cover for the British band The Left Outsides. An investigation insued. (The Left Outsides are past members of Eighteenth Day of May). TLO are Mark Nicholas and Alison Cotton, a wife and husband duo based in London, England. I gave their latest recording a go. My cultural point of reference, hints of Pink Floyd (Others are saying Nico, Velvet Underground, or 1960’s Greewich Village coffee shop). If you are into what appears to be pure folk then let me pass this to you for hit. Now about that cover art credit. Luke Drozd is a well known gig poster artist. He was an A-lister in the 2009 book by Canadian Author/Curator Clay Hayes called “Gig Posters Volume I: Rock Show Art of the 21st Century”. I have always thought that first volume was the cream and volume two was the minor leagues. Luke Drozd has created three record covers this year for TLO and related projects (all included here). He gave some inside the other day on his IG page about the creation of “Are You Sure I Was There”. LD says, “The image is a collage made from a torn up and reconfigured children’s painting, with added elements by me. The overall feel of the design was meant to feel like an old Bloomsbury Group catalogue.” Final shot, LD has a very interesting book on hock, Can You Make The Band Name Bigger?. It is 15 years of his gig poster work. 210 full color pages (210 x 317 x 20mm translated American as roughly letter/copier size paper.) When funds are flowing, the intention over here is to purchase. Leave me one, ok, thanks.

Notes:

https://theleftoutsides.bandcamp.com

https://theleftoutsides.tumblr.com

Find TLO in all the usual places - Spotify, Apple Music, Youtube, etc.

Luke Drozd:

http://lukedrozd.com

https://lukedrozd.bigcartel.com

Instagram:

@theleftoutsides @lukedrozd