Some media about women being intense and gloriously weird
May. 13th, 2026 11:03 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
lucymonsterButter by Asako Yuzuki, trans. Polly Barton: osprey_archer wrote in glowing terms about this book, and then just recently, a copy jumped out at me from a library shelf - so really, what was I supposed to do? It's about a journalist, Rika Machida, who gets in over her head while covering a sensational story about convicted female serial killer Manako Kajii, who is claimed to have lured in her victims through marriage-oriented dating apps, seduced them with her cooking skills, milked them to fund her luxury lifestyle and then callously disposed of them. The most controversial thing about the case, far more viscerally appalling to the public than the lives lost and ruined, is the fact that Kajii is fat. The idea that a fat woman could convince multiple men to want her so badly that they'd shower her in money and finery has people bemused at the absolute best and frothing with hateful rage at the worst.
Did Kajii really commit the murders? This novel doesn't give a fuck! The true-crime-journalism angle is mere set dressing for what is actually a passionate story about female hunger in a society where misogyny, rampant body shaming and a general pressure to conform make it taboo for women to actually want almost anything at all. It is fluffy and heartwarming in places, horribly dark in others, and slathered all over with vivid, sensuous descriptions of food. Everything revolves around Rika's dangerous growing closeness to Kajii, and the corresponding distance opening up between her and her best friend, Reiko; both relationships are characterised by obsessiveness, insecurity and unexpressed yearning, with strong homoerotic undercurrents. (These are not just wishful thinking on my part; I know Japanese homosocial norms are different from Western, but Yuzuki herself is explicit, if inconclusive, about the fact that lines are being at the very least toed right up to.) I am a fairly fast reader - partly because suspense is not my friend (I need to know what happens, damn it!) and partly because I so enjoy the dopamine hit of successfully crossing a task off my mental to-do list - and this is the first time in ages that a first-time read has had me regretting this about myself, because I really would have liked to luxuriate for longer in the deliciousness and complex psychological honesty of these pages.
( On the other hand... [cut for candid and personal weight/fatphobia talk] )
Above disclaimer (tldr; big trigger warning for ED sufferers) notwithstanding, this might be my favourite thing I've read this year so far.
Deadloch season 2: This was good telly, but compared to the flawless first season, I feel disappointed. Detectives Eddie and Dulcie, along with Dulcie's civilian wife Cath, have gone caravanning up to the Northern Territory to investigate the possible murder of Eddie's previous detective partner. Instead, they get embroiled in a completely different murder case, involving the deceased owner of one of the town's two competing crocodile tour companies whose body has started washing up in pieces along the river. The formula is the same as last season: it's crime/black comedy with a sharp eye for misogyny and a major subplot focusing on queer relationships. The ongoing workings-out of Cath and Dulcie's marital issues were my very favourite thing this season, followed closely by Eddie's exploration of her/their newly discovered queerness, conducted in the most maximally brash, eccentric, Eddie-ish way possible. Fantastic stuff. Unfortunately, the main plot largely did not work for me this time.
Part of my annoyance is with the cultural depiction of Australia. Last season took a very nuanced and diverse view of small-town Tasmanian society, which rang true even (maybe especially) at its most satirical; this season, the supporting cast was dominated by exhaustingly loud Top End bogans whose portrayal imo tipped a bit over the caricature line. The Kates are southeasterners (and to be fair, so am I) so I guess it makes sense that they have less of a wealth of experience to draw on for their portrayal of the NT, but...idk, I'm not even saying those kinds of people don't exist, I'm just saying they're not ALL that exists up there, and I would have really liked a bit less screentime chewed up by making fun of them. Not least because they are exhaustingly loud. Eddie's antics were funny when Eddie was the clown to everyone else's straight man; once the other clowns all trooped in, and it was just a big crowd of clowns trying to out-clown each other, it stopped being enjoyable to watch.
The other annoying part was the murder mystery itself, which lacked all the sharp, twisty urgency of the previous one. I spent so much of last season compulsively trying to guess who the culprit was, feeling tantalisingly close to putting the pieces together, only to have all my conclusions thoroughly (and pleasurably) swept away by the finale. This time it took me the whole first half of the season to even start caring whodunnit, and by the time I did start caring, the rough shape of the answer was obvious; the twists thrown in at the end to try and make it more of a surprise felt cheap and tacked on. And CONVOLUTED. Holy fuck, the finale was convoluted. Too many threads tied in too loose a knot, with most of them completely unnecessary to the actual structure of the rope.
So I'm not sorry for the time I spent watching it, and I'm very happy with how things worked out for the main characters, but I'm also not sorry it ended in a way that seems to preclude any further sequels. I would like to keep my memories of the absolute pristine perfection that was season one as untainted by later missteps as possible, so here is definitely the place to stop.
osprey_archer wrote in glowing terms about this book, and then just recently, a copy jumped out at me from a library shelf - so really, what was I supposed to do? It's about a journalist, Rika Machida, who gets in over her head while covering a sensational story about convicted female serial killer Manako Kajii, who is claimed to have lured in her victims through marriage-oriented dating apps, seduced them with her cooking skills, milked them to fund her luxury lifestyle and then callously disposed of them. The most controversial thing about the case, far more viscerally appalling to the public than the lives lost and ruined, is the fact that Kajii is fat. The idea that a fat woman could convince multiple men to want her so badly that they'd shower her in money and finery has people bemused at the absolute best and frothing with hateful rage at the worst.Did Kajii really commit the murders? This novel doesn't give a fuck! The true-crime-journalism angle is mere set dressing for what is actually a passionate story about female hunger in a society where misogyny, rampant body shaming and a general pressure to conform make it taboo for women to actually want almost anything at all. It is fluffy and heartwarming in places, horribly dark in others, and slathered all over with vivid, sensuous descriptions of food. Everything revolves around Rika's dangerous growing closeness to Kajii, and the corresponding distance opening up between her and her best friend, Reiko; both relationships are characterised by obsessiveness, insecurity and unexpressed yearning, with strong homoerotic undercurrents. (These are not just wishful thinking on my part; I know Japanese homosocial norms are different from Western, but Yuzuki herself is explicit, if inconclusive, about the fact that lines are being at the very least toed right up to.) I am a fairly fast reader - partly because suspense is not my friend (I need to know what happens, damn it!) and partly because I so enjoy the dopamine hit of successfully crossing a task off my mental to-do list - and this is the first time in ages that a first-time read has had me regretting this about myself, because I really would have liked to luxuriate for longer in the deliciousness and complex psychological honesty of these pages.
( On the other hand... [cut for candid and personal weight/fatphobia talk] )
Above disclaimer (tldr; big trigger warning for ED sufferers) notwithstanding, this might be my favourite thing I've read this year so far.
Deadloch season 2: This was good telly, but compared to the flawless first season, I feel disappointed. Detectives Eddie and Dulcie, along with Dulcie's civilian wife Cath, have gone caravanning up to the Northern Territory to investigate the possible murder of Eddie's previous detective partner. Instead, they get embroiled in a completely different murder case, involving the deceased owner of one of the town's two competing crocodile tour companies whose body has started washing up in pieces along the river. The formula is the same as last season: it's crime/black comedy with a sharp eye for misogyny and a major subplot focusing on queer relationships. The ongoing workings-out of Cath and Dulcie's marital issues were my very favourite thing this season, followed closely by Eddie's exploration of her/their newly discovered queerness, conducted in the most maximally brash, eccentric, Eddie-ish way possible. Fantastic stuff. Unfortunately, the main plot largely did not work for me this time.
Part of my annoyance is with the cultural depiction of Australia. Last season took a very nuanced and diverse view of small-town Tasmanian society, which rang true even (maybe especially) at its most satirical; this season, the supporting cast was dominated by exhaustingly loud Top End bogans whose portrayal imo tipped a bit over the caricature line. The Kates are southeasterners (and to be fair, so am I) so I guess it makes sense that they have less of a wealth of experience to draw on for their portrayal of the NT, but...idk, I'm not even saying those kinds of people don't exist, I'm just saying they're not ALL that exists up there, and I would have really liked a bit less screentime chewed up by making fun of them. Not least because they are exhaustingly loud. Eddie's antics were funny when Eddie was the clown to everyone else's straight man; once the other clowns all trooped in, and it was just a big crowd of clowns trying to out-clown each other, it stopped being enjoyable to watch.
The other annoying part was the murder mystery itself, which lacked all the sharp, twisty urgency of the previous one. I spent so much of last season compulsively trying to guess who the culprit was, feeling tantalisingly close to putting the pieces together, only to have all my conclusions thoroughly (and pleasurably) swept away by the finale. This time it took me the whole first half of the season to even start caring whodunnit, and by the time I did start caring, the rough shape of the answer was obvious; the twists thrown in at the end to try and make it more of a surprise felt cheap and tacked on. And CONVOLUTED. Holy fuck, the finale was convoluted. Too many threads tied in too loose a knot, with most of them completely unnecessary to the actual structure of the rope.
So I'm not sorry for the time I spent watching it, and I'm very happy with how things worked out for the main characters, but I'm also not sorry it ended in a way that seems to preclude any further sequels. I would like to keep my memories of the absolute pristine perfection that was season one as untainted by later missteps as possible, so here is definitely the place to stop.
PG SLASH: Pear Blossoms in Spring - Boya/Qingming, The Yin-yang Master: Dream of Eternity
May. 12th, 2026 06:06 pm028 - 4 tumblr graphics; 25.07 - priest, pitch black
May. 12th, 2026 10:54 pmaliensambaMedium: film
Fandoms: Priest; Pitch Black
Characters: Black Hat, Lucy, Priestess, Priest; Richard B. Riddick, Jack B. Badd, The Imam
Notes: 4 tumblr graphics for 25.07 - "black or white" at Land of Art.
( Read more... )
- aliensamba of ren
Fandoms: Priest; Pitch Black
Characters: Black Hat, Lucy, Priestess, Priest; Richard B. Riddick, Jack B. Badd, The Imam
Notes: 4 tumblr graphics for 25.07 - "black or white" at Land of Art.
( Read more... )
- aliensamba of ren
character meme
May. 11th, 2026 10:53 pmsvgurlAnother meme I snagged from maevedarcy, who created it here.
#mycharacters
Rules: make a list of your top 10 favorite characters to think about. Then let people in the comments choose one question for you to answer about them.
My characters:
-Clark Kent (Smallville)
-Lois Lane (Smallville)
-Oliver Queen (Smallville)
-Eddie Diaz (9-1-1)
-Evan Buckley (9-1-1)
-Rory Gilmore (Gilmore Girls)
-Jess Mariano (Gilmore Girls)
-Steve Rogers (MCU)
-Sam Wilson (MCU)
-Shane Hollander (Heated Rivalry)
The questions:
1- What’s the one thing they refuse to admit they want, even to themselves?
2- If they could undo one moment, would they actually do it—or has it become part of who they are?
3- What kind of love do they think they deserve vs. what they actually accept?
4- What’s their “I’m fine” behavior that clearly means they are not fine?
5-What song would absolutely destroy them emotionally if it came on at the wrong moment?
6- In another life, who would they have been if things had gone right?
7- What’s the smallest, most insignificant thing that still reminds them of someone they lost?
8- What's something they desperately want people to know about them but won't tell a single soul?
maevedarcy, who created it here. #mycharacters
Rules: make a list of your top 10 favorite characters to think about. Then let people in the comments choose one question for you to answer about them.
My characters:
-Clark Kent (Smallville)
-Lois Lane (Smallville)
-Oliver Queen (Smallville)
-Eddie Diaz (9-1-1)
-Evan Buckley (9-1-1)
-Rory Gilmore (Gilmore Girls)
-Jess Mariano (Gilmore Girls)
-Steve Rogers (MCU)
-Sam Wilson (MCU)
-Shane Hollander (Heated Rivalry)
The questions:
1- What’s the one thing they refuse to admit they want, even to themselves?
2- If they could undo one moment, would they actually do it—or has it become part of who they are?
3- What kind of love do they think they deserve vs. what they actually accept?
4- What’s their “I’m fine” behavior that clearly means they are not fine?
5-What song would absolutely destroy them emotionally if it came on at the wrong moment?
6- In another life, who would they have been if things had gone right?
7- What’s the smallest, most insignificant thing that still reminds them of someone they lost?
8- What's something they desperately want people to know about them but won't tell a single soul?
027 - 4 sig tags; 25.05 - mr villain's day off, black clover, witch hat atelier
May. 10th, 2026 07:34 pmaliensambaMedium: anime
Fandoms: Mr. Villain's Day Off; Black Clover; Witch Hat Atelier
Characters: Mr. Villain; Rill Boismortier; Qifrey
Notes: 4 sig tags for 25.05 - "working with pastels" at Land of Art.
( Read more... )
Fandoms: Mr. Villain's Day Off; Black Clover; Witch Hat Atelier
Characters: Mr. Villain; Rill Boismortier; Qifrey
Notes: 4 sig tags for 25.05 - "working with pastels" at Land of Art.
Challenge Details:
In this challenge, we will be focusing on using pastel colors, and themes.
( Read more... )
Jokes
May. 10th, 2026 02:13 ampattrose* The owner of the tuxedo store kept hovering over me when i was browsing, so I asked him to leave me alone. He said, “Fine, suit yourself.”
* Why did the egg have a day off? Because it was Fryday.
* Have you ever heard about the kidnapping at school? It's okay, he woke up.
* Why did the coffee taste like dirt? Because it was ground just a few minutes ago.
* Why do quarterbacks tell obvious jokes? So they don't go over their receivers' heads.
* What is the best present? Broken drums! You can't beat them.
* Why do people who live in Greece hate waking up at dawn? Because Dawn is tough on Greece.
* Why did the egg have a day off? Because it was Fryday.
* Have you ever heard about the kidnapping at school? It's okay, he woke up.
* Why did the coffee taste like dirt? Because it was ground just a few minutes ago.
* Why do quarterbacks tell obvious jokes? So they don't go over their receivers' heads.
* What is the best present? Broken drums! You can't beat them.
* Why do people who live in Greece hate waking up at dawn? Because Dawn is tough on Greece.
Quotes
May. 10th, 2026 02:13 ampattrose56. Age is an issue of mind over matter. If you don’t mind, it doesn’t matter.” – Mark Twain
57. “Old age comes at a bad time.” – San Banducci
58. “You don’t get old. You get better.” – Shirley Bassey
59. “Age is not important unless you’re a cheese.” – Helen Hayes
60. “Growing old is mandatory, but growing up is optional.” – Walt Disney
“Having one child makes you a parent; having two, you are a referee.” – David Frost
57. “Old age comes at a bad time.” – San Banducci
58. “You don’t get old. You get better.” – Shirley Bassey
59. “Age is not important unless you’re a cheese.” – Helen Hayes
60. “Growing old is mandatory, but growing up is optional.” – Walt Disney
“Having one child makes you a parent; having two, you are a referee.” – David Frost
90 discussion questions
May. 10th, 2026 02:07 ampattrose59. Identify the biggest distractions in your life and ways you can reduce or eliminate them.
My biggest distractions are medical problems. I just need to face it all and move on. And hopefully, I can eliminate the problems.
My biggest distractions are medical problems. I just need to face it all and move on. And hopefully, I can eliminate the problems.
Crunchy questions
May. 10th, 2026 02:05 ampattroseDo you binge read, take your sweet time, or somewhere in between?
I love all three. It depends on my mood.
I love all three. It depends on my mood.
May questions
May. 10th, 2026 02:00 ampattrose9. In 1896, the first horseless carriage show in London featured ten models. Do you own a car? What kind of car is it?
Yes, we own a car. It's a Hyundai Santa Fe SUV. It's 4 years old.
10. Are there some colours you would never wear or use in your home?
Orange. I love the color but it washes me out.
Yes, we own a car. It's a Hyundai Santa Fe SUV. It's 4 years old.
10. Are there some colours you would never wear or use in your home?
Orange. I love the color but it washes me out.
Fic: New Habits (Good Omens, Aziraphale/Crowley)
May. 10th, 2026 04:58 ammelimeTitle: New habits
Fandom: Good Omens (TV)
Relationship: Aziraphale/Crowley
Rating: T/Slash
Word count: 5570
Tags: Post-Canon, Canon Compliant (as of Season 2, we'll see what the movie brings), South Downs Cottage, Established Relationship, Introspection, Light Angst, Romantic Fluff
Summary: Crowley always thought of Aziraphale as a creature of habit, but in their third spring since moving in together, he starts to notice some patterns of his own. Or, a study in habits, those born out of fear, and those one's allowed to cherish.
For![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
seasons_of_fandom's season 2, challenge #6: How do you spring? This got away from me a bit, and I was actually not going to stop at this point (he didn't even get to yell at his plants!), but it felt like it was getting long and this already got the point across. Which I suppose is, the slow work of healing from your maladaptive habits? Or maybe what shines through when you're allowed to be yourself freely. Basically, I have too many feelings about Crowley, and spring as a season of renewal got to me.
Between the two of them, Aziraphale had always been the creature of habit, holding on to all his favourite things for a ridiculously long time, and creating all of these little rituals that he would repeat almost without a fault. Over the millennia, Crowley became an expert at reading those habits, both to predict what Aziraphale might want and not tell him, and to best adjust to get what he wanted in a way that Aziraphale might accept.
That was where most of their traditions came from. Aziraphale liked the excuse of a trade, or maybe he thought that Crowley did, and maybe Crowley really did, but either way, repaying a favour or a previous meal was for centuries the best way for them to share a pleasant evening at a restaurant together. Aziraphale liked to be pampered, and knew that there wasn't really much that Crowley could do to openly display affection, so he would complain and sigh until Crowley offered him a miracle that Aziraphale would have been perfectly capable of doing for himself. Aziraphale wished that he could keep Crowley safe, and so they met in an embassy that he had control over, perhaps more times than it would have been advisable back when they were still trying to pretend that they were enemies.
Some of those traditions didn't serve them anymore, while others Aziraphale kept without a change. Aziraphale still wore all of the same clothes that he had for over a century, and no amount of miracles could completely stop them from showing their age, he still collected books that he had no intention of ever selling, he still put on his reading glasses because he liked how he looked with them – which, unfortunately, Crowley had to admit was kind of adorable, not that he would ever say that word aloud –, he still enjoyed sitting down at the end of the day with a nice book and a mug of hot cocoa or a glass of wine, and he still asked without asking that Crowley perform some miracles for him.
What Crowley was surprised to learn during their retirement, take two, officially this time, was that he too was more prone to habits than he would have thought. He would like to blame some of those on Aziraphale, like taking Aziraphale out to dinner and watching him eat, or lounging close to Aziraphale as he read – which these days also included the similar variation of Aziraphale coming to read where Crowley had decided to lounge –, but others might be just on him. He wasn't sure that he could always tell the difference, or even that it mattered, but a couple of years into their retirement, he found himself noticing all sorts of habits that he seemed to have picked up along the way.
It was their third spring at the cottage, but only the second one after a full winter, and really, doing things once was just doing them, twice might be a coincidence, and three was a pattern. Maybe a pattern that he was having trouble seeing, but that was at least in part because of how afraid he was of getting settled, of really believing that this was his life now, and he wasn't going to lose it.
The first day of spring, it was noticeably warmer than the night before. He wasn't sure if that was because of either of them or if it was just climate deciding to cooperate by itself, but it felt right that spring should start like this. Crowley would wake up at midmorning feeling refreshed, and stretch into the warmth of the morning sun coming in through the window. That was his preferred way of waking up every morning during spring time, Crowley was quickly learning, in contrast to how he would often stay in bed until lunch time during winter. Or dinner even, if the day happened to be particularly cold, or he was a bit too comfortable in bed.
Well, that was one element of the perfect spring morning. But there was another, more important one. The true crowning jewel of his mornings, that made him delight in waking up.
“Good morning, darling. Is it finally spring?” Aziraphale asked, marking his place on his book and closing it, then putting it aside at the nightstand.
So maybe Crowley wasn't the only one who was starting to notice a pattern. Aziraphale did comment on his sleeping habits on occasion, mostly to complain when he got bored if Crowley slept for too long, or when he woke Crowley up because he had something to say and didn't want to wait for him to wake up. He would also invite Crowley to sleep with his head on Aziraphale’s lap, but that was done with a little tap to his thighs and without any words, so it probably didn't count as commentary on his sleeping habits.
Crowley reached over and took off Aziraphale’s reading glasses, folding them carefully and stretching over Aziraphale to place them on the nightstand on his side of the bed. Aziraphale’s side of their bed, he wasn't sure if he was ever going to get used to that, but maybe it was a good thing that he always thought of it with a certain wonder.
“I didn't even sleep that much this winter,” Crowley said, slightly defensive, but he knew what Aziraphale meant.
They didn't spend all of their time together, even now, but they spent most of their time around each other, even when they weren't doing anything together. It was funny how quickly they could get used to having each other's company, after how long they spent barely being able to meet every several decades.
This started to change before it was safe for it to change. First they could blame how fast the world was changing and how many conflicts there were around them, and then they had the excuse of Warlock to see each other practically every day, although they could only speak less often than that. Then Warlock turned out not to be the antichrist, and they really had an excuse to meet as often as possible, and having gotten into the habit, they just didn't stop afterwards, not until… Well, it didn't matter anymore, because they didn't have anything standing in their way now, and could spend as much time as they wanted together.
“No, because I kept dragging you out of the bed, but it's time to leave hibernation behind. Breakfast?” Aziraphale said, tapping his shoulder as Crowley was still awkwardly stretched over him, since once he had the contact with Aziraphale he didn't want to let go of him.
So that might be tradition too, since it was the third time in a row. First breakfast together of spring, after Crowley spent the whole winter not waking up early enough for it. As a general rule, Crowley didn't believe in breakfast, but Aziraphale seemed to enjoy it, and he enjoyed watching Aziraphale enjoy it. Besides, they had a fancy espresso machine that he had gotten from Italy, with so many settings that he had no idea how to operate it – he would generally hiss at it and demand a cup of coffee, or several, while Aziraphale preferred to ask nicely, but neither of them had actually found a power button yet –, and a strong coffee was the best way to start a morning, or a season for that matter.
“Alright, but I'm talking to the coffee machine, you coddle it too much,” Crowley said, rolling back to his side of the bed so he could get up. His side of their bed, no, still not used to it, and he might never be, but he was looking forward to trying to do that for at least a few millennia, to make up for all that time that he wanted them to be closer and this wasn't allowed.
If it were up to him – and he supposed that technically it was, but that wasn't the point –, then Crowley would already change his black silk pyjamas into something less comfortable and tighter, but he knew that Aziraphale would just take his tartan robe and put it over his old-fashioned tartan pyjamas, and only change after breakfast. That didn't mean that Crowley couldn't change, but it would be ridiculous to wear tight black jeans in the kitchen while Aziraphale was dressed like that, and if he changed there was a chance that Aziraphale would decide to change as well. It was the first opportunity Crowley had of seeing Aziraphale like this across the kitchen table in months, and he wasn't going to risk missing it. It was just too special to miss.
The clothes were ridiculous, of course. It was rare that Aziraphale would wear something that wasn't ridiculous, and Crowley would die on the hill that he looked good despite his clothes, not because of them. Well, most of the time, at least. Some clothes might fall into value neutral and do nothing to either enhance or damage his appearance. But the point wasn't that Aziraphale looked ridiculous in those clothes, like he stepped out of a 1940s clothing catalogue, which was actually more modern than his day clothes. It was that Aziraphale had just gotten out of bed, even if he hadn't slept, and he wasn't yet ready to face the world, but Crowley still got to see him in this intimate setting.
Aziraphale wouldn't let anyone else see him like this, he wouldn't even answer the door before he changed for the day, but Crowley got to share a bed with him, and got to sit across from him while he wasn't properly dressed, because this wasn't Aziraphale’s bookshop that he was invited to attend as a guest, this was their home, both of theirs, where they got to be without worrying about anyone else.
“I don't coddle it, I just think that it doesn't hurt to be nice. That's why my cups are sweeter,” Aziraphale said, taking his robe just as Crowley predicted, because he was always one for keeping his habits.
“Your cups are sweeter because it keeps making you hot cocoa. It's an espresso machine, it's not supposed to do that. I don't even think it has cocoa, no idea where it gets that from,” Crowley said, because bickering was also one of those habits that they enjoy, and he could miss the opportunity to poke at Aziraphale a little bit.
It wouldn't be the first time that something in their home worked differently than it was supposed to because of Aziraphale. Their fireplace in the reading room somehow had a chimney to the outside, which wouldn't be so weird if their bedroom wasn't above it and didn't have any chimney. He tried following the physics of that, but the bottom and top of the cottage didn't exactly seem like they fit with each other, so they might have accidentally influenced each room on its own until the whole didn't fit all that well. At least the internal dimensions still made more sense than the library.
“Oh, it reminds me of that delicious little café in, where was it? Sicily, the one where we could sit on the balcony and watch the sea, do you remember? I had hot cocoa and a tiramisu, when was that?” Aziraphale asked, his eyes lost in the distance.
Knowing Aziraphale, it wouldn't be entirely impossible that the machine was making the same hot cocoa that he had then. Knowing himself, Crowley would say that it might even be likely, since the machine was full of his demonic energy, and somehow everything that he imbued with demonic energy wanted to please Aziraphale. Especially his treacherous car. Crowley knew very well why that was, but he refused to acknowledge it, because it felt a bit ridiculous even for a demon under his circumstances. He no longer had a reputation to uphold, but old habits died hard, and he still wasn't quite used to wearing his heart on his sleeve like that.
“1973, you were upset about Tolkien, and I came up with an excuse to distract you. And it was in Treviso, the view was from Sicily because you complained that the balcony was practically covered by the building around it,” Crowley said, remembering how Aziraphale hadn't asked and Crowley hadn't offered, he just snapped his fingers and told Aziraphale to stop trying to thank him.
It was amazing how he had gotten into the habit of doing that sort of thing without realising why he was doing it. Well, he knew that it would make Aziraphale happy, and that was reason enough, but he never used to allow the thought to form in his head as to why that was so important to him. Rescuing Aziraphale from a boring view and then pretending like that didn't mean anything at all. It was a good thing that Hell never looked very closely at his miracles back then, because he did plenty that he wouldn't know how to explain away.
Aziraphale smiled, and that was better at warming Crowley than any spring sun. “We spent so long talking, then we had lunch afterwards. I think I still have some of that Veneto wine, I brought a box home with me,” Aziraphale said, because they were both doing this sort of romantic thing and pretending that that wasn't what they were doing, back when they had to hide from their sides.
Crowley wouldn't be surprised if Aziraphale had a bottle of every single wine they ever shared. He didn't know for sure, but whenever either of them mentioned a wine, Aziraphale had a few bottles of it. They couldn't have pictures, so maybe that was the way that he found of having a memento, a way of marking the occasion that no one but the two of them would ever understand. Aziraphale was clever like that, so this was just the type of thing that he might come up with, and yet Crowley didn't want to ask him about it now and make him self-conscious. Maybe one day.
“We should open a bottle with lunch then. Are we still going for a picnic?” Crowley asked, offering his arm after Aziraphale circled the bed and reached him.
It wasn't the most practical way of walking inside a home, but the corridors always adjusted, which might be part of the reason why they didn't make sense, and they liked walking with arms linked or hands held. For too long they couldn't do that sort of thing, which might have been how they fell into the habit of shaking hands for just about any reason, and then holding on for longer than it would be usual. Any excuse to touch, a gesture of affection hidden in something that wasn't necessarily more excusable, but they could at least pretend that it was.
Now they didn't even need an excuse. If either of them wanted to hold hands, they could just extend a hand towards the other, no matter what they were doing. Which did sometimes result in some awkward moments, like when Crowley was trying to check the Bentley's engine with one hand while keeping his other stretched to hold Aziraphale’s, but since he was just doing that because he thought that he should, and he didn't actually know what he was looking for in the engine, it didn't get too much in the way.
“That would be lovely, as long as we have clear skies,” Aziraphale said, knowing full well that there would be. Either because Aziraphale wouldn't let their first picnic of the year be ruined, or because Crowley wouldn't let something like a bit of weather disappoint his angel.
Aziraphale wanted the first day of spring to be a lovely day for a picnic, and so it would be. Just as it was a warm and nicer day than the day before. It didn't matter which of them made reality obey, as long as it did.
“Clear skies, just the right amount of wind, we'll set up by the pound, and if we're lucky there might even be ducks,” Crowley said, which was how their first picnic had gone the last two years, so there was no reason for it not to happen the same way now.
In fact, it was how most of their picnics had gone in general, so there might be something to be said about them both falling into habits, especially when they were with each other. At least now it was about more pleasant things than the dance of not knowing each other and only coincidentally being in the same place. That was something that they did for far too long, until Crowley got frankly too tired of it.
He kept wanting to run away with Aziraphale, and in part it was because he wanted to have a plan B in case things went wrong, since he wasn't very keen on the idea of either of them being destroyed. But a greater part might have just been wanting to be somewhere where they wouldn't have to hide. Only back then he didn't know how to explain that to Aziraphale, let alone ask for it. And things went spectacularly bad when he finally did try, but at least they got past that eventually.
Aziraphale smiled and leaned against him as they walked out of the room, which was enough to keep Crowley from dwelling on things that he didn't want to be dwelling on. “Oh, that would be perfect, wouldn't it, dearest? So beautiful and romantic.”
It would, which was why they would do it. It was the best way to start things off for the new season, and to kick out any attempts of winter blues lingering on. Crowley didn't have anything to feel hopeless about anymore, but he still had over six thousand years with quite a few things that he didn't like to think about, and the cold and the long nights never helped with that, even if he liked nights as a general concept. All that being locked inside didn't help much either, which was why spring was an excellent excuse to just go outside and do things. The particulars didn't matter nearly as much as just being out and about. Preferably with Aziraphale.
“It's going to be, but first we have to get a perfect breakfast out of the way. And then a perfect drive with the Bentley,” Crowley said as a reminder.
They hadn't exactly made plans for the day. Aziraphale had mentioned the night before that they might go on a picnic again now that the weather was going to be good for it, and Crowley made a noise in general agreement, since apparently they were making it into a tradition now, but he also knew that if he didn't take the Bentley to drive for a bit, after a few days it would get antsy, and it had been a couple of weeks since they last went anywhere, so the warmer day might be a good excuse for it. The Bentley did like catching a bit of sun, and if Crowley didn't humour it, he would find that it had left the garage and parked over his plants. He had to be the only person on the planet that had a passive-aggressive car. But he would rather deal with the crushed plants than having to ask Aziraphale to talk to his car, because he still didn't like how after ninety years of care the Bentley decided that it liked Aziraphale better. Crowley also liked Aziraphale better, but that was his prerogative.
“You two have fun, then. I don't think that I can handle those speeds unless the stakes are quite a bit higher than our car sulking because you kept her locked in the garage for too long,” Aziraphale said, which wasn't surprising because he never wanted to aimlessly drive at speed.
If Aziraphale went along, they would end up driving at barely ten miles above the speed limit, and the Bentley would be playing happy romantic songs the entire time. Which Crowley might not actually hate as much as he would say that he did, but the Bentley wasn't the only one who got a bit antsy over not moving for too long. He liked driving and he didn't like the speed limit, and he had to deal with Aziraphale complaining about the speed and his driving every time that they went anywhere, so it was good to get a chance to drive for a bit without him. As it turned out, love didn't suddenly make people like all of the same things, even if their taste was pretty well matched to begin with.
“And I'm still not letting you take the Bentley for a ride when it's snowing. It's dangerous to drive too slow when there's ice on the road, it makes cars swirl, and my Bentley does not lose control,” Crowley said, as he had read something about that in a magazine once, driving in winter conditions. He had only skimmed the article, and he didn't remember it all that well, but what he just said sounded accurate enough, so it should be right. Going fast meant that the ice would melt or wouldn't have time to rip the tires or something like that.
They hadn't had snow to be a problem in a few weeks, but the truth was that he tried to avoid letting Aziraphale and the Bentley alone together as often as he could. They thought that they were being sly, and then next time that Crowley was going to drive, the keys would still be yellow or all his shades in the glove compartment were replaced with a miraculously still fresh pastry.
By then they had arrived in the kitchen, and Crowley sadly had to let go of Aziraphale to procure breakfast. Aziraphale went to sit at the table, and Crowley hissed at the coffee machine, regretting that he didn't think to grab his shades for a more dramatic effect. Still, he was intimidating enough for a piece of modern technology, and when Crowley put the two empty cups under it, it began producing a large dose of espresso and… a hot cocoa. Aziraphale really had gotten to it. Aziraphale could also make it produce tea, and just like with the cocoa, Crowley had no idea where the machine would get tea leaves from. Then again, he also didn't know where it got coffee from, it probably just came with the beans inside.
Crowley placed the mugs on the table and then opened the pantry, grabbing a tray of pastries from there that might only have been there because he expected to find them. He did buy them, technically, the last time that they went by this particular bakery in Paris, but he didn't want to look too closely at whether they should still have any left or if they should be in good condition. A healthy dose of denial could do wonders for keeping reality in a more usable state.
He sat down across from Aziraphale and grabbed his hand again. That was, after all, the best part about having breakfast together. Although that was a close victory over watching Aziraphale eat, which had always been one of his favourite things to do.
He couldn't quite explain why, maybe because he spent so much time trying not to let himself notice that he liked it. There was just something about this temptation that he offered Aziraphale, not through malice but a desire to show him what the Earth had to offer them. And Aziraphale took to it like a duck to water. He enjoyed it as he enjoyed the touch of human made clothing or the skilled blade of a barber. Besides, he just liked seeing joy in Aziraphale’s expression, whatever the cause.
Funny enough, as soon as spring arrived and he was back at waking up near what Aziraphale considered a decent hour, he couldn't remember why he spent the whole winter sleeping in. He enjoyed sleeping, it helped quiet his racing thoughts, and he especially enjoyed sleeping when it was next to Aziraphale. But he also enjoyed sitting across from him on the breakfast table, drinking his coffee while it was still too hot and then just caressing Aziraphale’s hand and watching him savour his meal.
There was something particularly soothing about this sort of moment, how romantic they were in their simplicity. They were allowed this now, they were part of each other's lives, and not only in the big moments when they were trying to save the world together, or when they could make up an excuse to meet.
When Aziraphale was done, Crowley waved away the plates, since his new found love for simple domestic moments didn't extend to doing the dishes. There was a limit to how much he was willing to live a simple human life in retirement, and it was as long as it could be heavily helped by miracles of the demonic and angelic varieties.
“If you want to get back at a decent time for our lunch, you should get going, darling. And do try not to run over anyone,” Aziraphale said, tapping his hand.
Crowley knew when he was being rushed out the door, but it was with love. Aziraphale was right, if he didn't go now, he might get distracted looking at Aziraphale, and then that would throw out his whole schedule. Which he apparently now had and would repeat annually. Funny how that went.
“I'll just go a hundred or so miles out then come back, get a bit of wind, burn the tires a bit,” Crowley said, reluctantly letting go of Aziraphale’s hand.
He had half a mind to take Aziraphale’s hand again and invite him back to their bedroom, but he knew that he would regret not driving for a bit if he didn't, and there was always later.
The Bentley's light blinked when he stepped into the garage, and Crowley could swear that it wasn't so needy until not too long ago. He had blamed Aziraphale and his driving for it a couple of times, but he suspected that it might actually have been a consequence of either Adam remaking it, or whatever Crowley had to do to make sure that the Bentley wouldn't burn down under hellfire. That might have been more demonic energy than an object could handle without becoming a bit demonic itself.
“Alright, calm down, I'm taking you, but you better behave,” Crowley said, getting in and closing the door.
He didn't wear his shades around the house, or generally around Aziraphale anymore, so he had to take one of the spares from the glove compartment, but at least they were there he was expecting them to be, which probably meant that the Bentley couldn't be too annoyed at him yet.
The sunny morning was perfect for a drive, and on the open road he could get past the speed that the Bentley was able to display, the country sights blending together. He didn't know if this was getting his energy up or releasing some of it, but by the time that he circled back home, Crowley was in good spirits. It might be good for him and for the Bentley to keep this one as an annual tradition.
Since it was still a nice day out, Crowley parked outside, leaving the Bentley under the shadow of a tree but where it would still catch some fresh air. He would have to remember to put it back inside before it got too late, but if he didn't, then the Bentley was perfectly capable of getting back to the garage by itself.
“Angel, I'm home,” Crowley said as he was getting in.
The first thing that he did was search for Aziraphale, and he wasn't surprised to find him with his books, not reading but looking for something.
“Ready for lunch?” Crowley asked, kissing him on the side of the head.
That did seem to startle Aziraphale out of his search, which was a shame, but Crowley was just glad to see him, even if he had only been out for a couple of hours.
“Oh, you're back early, my dear. I packed the wine we talked about, so we're all ready to go,” Aziraphale said, turning around to hug him.
Crowley held him by the waist and kissed him. They didn't have nearly as many opportunities to be romantic over the years as he would have liked, so now he would use anything that he could as an excuse. They had taken as well to inventing anniversaries over all sorts of dates, as long as they managed to think of occasions without any negative connotations. At this rate, they might turn the first day of spring into an official celebration.
When he stepped away from Aziraphale, it was only to offer his arm. His favourite way of walking with Aziraphale was holding hands, but this a close second. Crowley grabbed the picnic basket on their way out, and they made their way to the pound on foot.
It was a lovely day for a walk, and they might be going for a bit longer after lunch, but the pound wasn't very far from their home, so it wasn't a long walk. Crowley set the picnic with a little demonic miracle, in perfect view of the pound. Some clouds did try passing over them, but he glared at them and when that didn't work, he waved at them until they caught the message and left. There it was, the perfect day for a picnic, like Aziraphale wanted, or maybe like Crowley did.
Aziraphale sat down first, since he already knew that Crowley would want to lounge on the towel, with his head on Aziraphale’s thighs. That was, after all, how he always preferred to stay during their picnics. Crowley could admit now to wanting that comfort, to enjoying being the one to be cared for at times. He still loved doing things for Aziraphale, but it was good to be on the receiving end of that as well.
It was easier if he didn't have to ask for it, if Aziraphale just knew that he would want something, just like Crowley had become quite adept at guessing what Aziraphale wanted. So maybe that was another point in favour of cultivating habits.
“There you go, dearest, you can relax,” Aziraphale said, as if guessing what he was thinking, and maybe he was. They did know each other for a long time, after all, and Aziraphale understood him best of all.
Far too many of Crowley's habits over the millennia were about making sure that he wouldn't be at risk of being punished by Hell. He couldn't show that he cared about anyone or anything, and he needed to have an excuse for everything that he did. That didn't stop him from caring about his plants, his Bentley, and of course, Aziraphale. He couldn't be kind, he couldn't be nice, and he had to bite back at each time that Aziraphale suggested it. It was too dangerous, being something that he wasn't allowed to be, and so it didn't matter if he wanted to be that or not, he still had to deny it. He still thought that, if only he did that, he would be safe, or as safe as he could be. Just as he thought that he could keep Aziraphale safe from Heaven, as if they weren't always just one step away from punishing him for being so different from everybody else there.
All the secrets, hiding around, constantly looking over his shoulder, never asking for what he wanted. Those habits were hard to break, but he was learning. Slowly, but he was learning. They were both learning to talk to each other, to not take things as said, not run away from each other. Building better habits after six thousand years of learning to act a certain way to survive, even if in the end all that care didn't serve them as well as either of them had hoped for.
They had new traditions now, not as settled, but born out of something better than fear. Maybe it was fitting that they had made this little ritual out of spring, all that talk of renewal made him think of how different their lives were now, how different they could be. It wasn't just about their relationship, the people that they were didn't have to be dictated by their sides anymore, or what the others would think of them.
Crowley didn't have to be always moving, always changing, never getting so attached to something that he couldn't stand to lose it. He could be just as much a creature of habit as Aziraphale was, even if they didn't have quite the same ones. He could make plans for the first day of spring and know that he could repeat them next year, ten years after that, in a hundred years if he wanted to. His habits had been a shield and a prison, but they could be something else now, they could be comfort, familiarity, home.
And for the first time in his existence, Crowley had a future that he could believe in.
Fandom: Good Omens (TV)
Relationship: Aziraphale/Crowley
Rating: T/Slash
Word count: 5570
Tags: Post-Canon, Canon Compliant (as of Season 2, we'll see what the movie brings), South Downs Cottage, Established Relationship, Introspection, Light Angst, Romantic Fluff
Summary: Crowley always thought of Aziraphale as a creature of habit, but in their third spring since moving in together, he starts to notice some patterns of his own. Or, a study in habits, those born out of fear, and those one's allowed to cherish.
For
seasons_of_fandom's season 2, challenge #6: How do you spring? This got away from me a bit, and I was actually not going to stop at this point (he didn't even get to yell at his plants!), but it felt like it was getting long and this already got the point across. Which I suppose is, the slow work of healing from your maladaptive habits? Or maybe what shines through when you're allowed to be yourself freely. Basically, I have too many feelings about Crowley, and spring as a season of renewal got to me.New habits
Between the two of them, Aziraphale had always been the creature of habit, holding on to all his favourite things for a ridiculously long time, and creating all of these little rituals that he would repeat almost without a fault. Over the millennia, Crowley became an expert at reading those habits, both to predict what Aziraphale might want and not tell him, and to best adjust to get what he wanted in a way that Aziraphale might accept.
That was where most of their traditions came from. Aziraphale liked the excuse of a trade, or maybe he thought that Crowley did, and maybe Crowley really did, but either way, repaying a favour or a previous meal was for centuries the best way for them to share a pleasant evening at a restaurant together. Aziraphale liked to be pampered, and knew that there wasn't really much that Crowley could do to openly display affection, so he would complain and sigh until Crowley offered him a miracle that Aziraphale would have been perfectly capable of doing for himself. Aziraphale wished that he could keep Crowley safe, and so they met in an embassy that he had control over, perhaps more times than it would have been advisable back when they were still trying to pretend that they were enemies.
Some of those traditions didn't serve them anymore, while others Aziraphale kept without a change. Aziraphale still wore all of the same clothes that he had for over a century, and no amount of miracles could completely stop them from showing their age, he still collected books that he had no intention of ever selling, he still put on his reading glasses because he liked how he looked with them – which, unfortunately, Crowley had to admit was kind of adorable, not that he would ever say that word aloud –, he still enjoyed sitting down at the end of the day with a nice book and a mug of hot cocoa or a glass of wine, and he still asked without asking that Crowley perform some miracles for him.
What Crowley was surprised to learn during their retirement, take two, officially this time, was that he too was more prone to habits than he would have thought. He would like to blame some of those on Aziraphale, like taking Aziraphale out to dinner and watching him eat, or lounging close to Aziraphale as he read – which these days also included the similar variation of Aziraphale coming to read where Crowley had decided to lounge –, but others might be just on him. He wasn't sure that he could always tell the difference, or even that it mattered, but a couple of years into their retirement, he found himself noticing all sorts of habits that he seemed to have picked up along the way.
It was their third spring at the cottage, but only the second one after a full winter, and really, doing things once was just doing them, twice might be a coincidence, and three was a pattern. Maybe a pattern that he was having trouble seeing, but that was at least in part because of how afraid he was of getting settled, of really believing that this was his life now, and he wasn't going to lose it.
The first day of spring, it was noticeably warmer than the night before. He wasn't sure if that was because of either of them or if it was just climate deciding to cooperate by itself, but it felt right that spring should start like this. Crowley would wake up at midmorning feeling refreshed, and stretch into the warmth of the morning sun coming in through the window. That was his preferred way of waking up every morning during spring time, Crowley was quickly learning, in contrast to how he would often stay in bed until lunch time during winter. Or dinner even, if the day happened to be particularly cold, or he was a bit too comfortable in bed.
Well, that was one element of the perfect spring morning. But there was another, more important one. The true crowning jewel of his mornings, that made him delight in waking up.
“Good morning, darling. Is it finally spring?” Aziraphale asked, marking his place on his book and closing it, then putting it aside at the nightstand.
So maybe Crowley wasn't the only one who was starting to notice a pattern. Aziraphale did comment on his sleeping habits on occasion, mostly to complain when he got bored if Crowley slept for too long, or when he woke Crowley up because he had something to say and didn't want to wait for him to wake up. He would also invite Crowley to sleep with his head on Aziraphale’s lap, but that was done with a little tap to his thighs and without any words, so it probably didn't count as commentary on his sleeping habits.
Crowley reached over and took off Aziraphale’s reading glasses, folding them carefully and stretching over Aziraphale to place them on the nightstand on his side of the bed. Aziraphale’s side of their bed, he wasn't sure if he was ever going to get used to that, but maybe it was a good thing that he always thought of it with a certain wonder.
“I didn't even sleep that much this winter,” Crowley said, slightly defensive, but he knew what Aziraphale meant.
They didn't spend all of their time together, even now, but they spent most of their time around each other, even when they weren't doing anything together. It was funny how quickly they could get used to having each other's company, after how long they spent barely being able to meet every several decades.
This started to change before it was safe for it to change. First they could blame how fast the world was changing and how many conflicts there were around them, and then they had the excuse of Warlock to see each other practically every day, although they could only speak less often than that. Then Warlock turned out not to be the antichrist, and they really had an excuse to meet as often as possible, and having gotten into the habit, they just didn't stop afterwards, not until… Well, it didn't matter anymore, because they didn't have anything standing in their way now, and could spend as much time as they wanted together.
“No, because I kept dragging you out of the bed, but it's time to leave hibernation behind. Breakfast?” Aziraphale said, tapping his shoulder as Crowley was still awkwardly stretched over him, since once he had the contact with Aziraphale he didn't want to let go of him.
So that might be tradition too, since it was the third time in a row. First breakfast together of spring, after Crowley spent the whole winter not waking up early enough for it. As a general rule, Crowley didn't believe in breakfast, but Aziraphale seemed to enjoy it, and he enjoyed watching Aziraphale enjoy it. Besides, they had a fancy espresso machine that he had gotten from Italy, with so many settings that he had no idea how to operate it – he would generally hiss at it and demand a cup of coffee, or several, while Aziraphale preferred to ask nicely, but neither of them had actually found a power button yet –, and a strong coffee was the best way to start a morning, or a season for that matter.
“Alright, but I'm talking to the coffee machine, you coddle it too much,” Crowley said, rolling back to his side of the bed so he could get up. His side of their bed, no, still not used to it, and he might never be, but he was looking forward to trying to do that for at least a few millennia, to make up for all that time that he wanted them to be closer and this wasn't allowed.
If it were up to him – and he supposed that technically it was, but that wasn't the point –, then Crowley would already change his black silk pyjamas into something less comfortable and tighter, but he knew that Aziraphale would just take his tartan robe and put it over his old-fashioned tartan pyjamas, and only change after breakfast. That didn't mean that Crowley couldn't change, but it would be ridiculous to wear tight black jeans in the kitchen while Aziraphale was dressed like that, and if he changed there was a chance that Aziraphale would decide to change as well. It was the first opportunity Crowley had of seeing Aziraphale like this across the kitchen table in months, and he wasn't going to risk missing it. It was just too special to miss.
The clothes were ridiculous, of course. It was rare that Aziraphale would wear something that wasn't ridiculous, and Crowley would die on the hill that he looked good despite his clothes, not because of them. Well, most of the time, at least. Some clothes might fall into value neutral and do nothing to either enhance or damage his appearance. But the point wasn't that Aziraphale looked ridiculous in those clothes, like he stepped out of a 1940s clothing catalogue, which was actually more modern than his day clothes. It was that Aziraphale had just gotten out of bed, even if he hadn't slept, and he wasn't yet ready to face the world, but Crowley still got to see him in this intimate setting.
Aziraphale wouldn't let anyone else see him like this, he wouldn't even answer the door before he changed for the day, but Crowley got to share a bed with him, and got to sit across from him while he wasn't properly dressed, because this wasn't Aziraphale’s bookshop that he was invited to attend as a guest, this was their home, both of theirs, where they got to be without worrying about anyone else.
“I don't coddle it, I just think that it doesn't hurt to be nice. That's why my cups are sweeter,” Aziraphale said, taking his robe just as Crowley predicted, because he was always one for keeping his habits.
“Your cups are sweeter because it keeps making you hot cocoa. It's an espresso machine, it's not supposed to do that. I don't even think it has cocoa, no idea where it gets that from,” Crowley said, because bickering was also one of those habits that they enjoy, and he could miss the opportunity to poke at Aziraphale a little bit.
It wouldn't be the first time that something in their home worked differently than it was supposed to because of Aziraphale. Their fireplace in the reading room somehow had a chimney to the outside, which wouldn't be so weird if their bedroom wasn't above it and didn't have any chimney. He tried following the physics of that, but the bottom and top of the cottage didn't exactly seem like they fit with each other, so they might have accidentally influenced each room on its own until the whole didn't fit all that well. At least the internal dimensions still made more sense than the library.
“Oh, it reminds me of that delicious little café in, where was it? Sicily, the one where we could sit on the balcony and watch the sea, do you remember? I had hot cocoa and a tiramisu, when was that?” Aziraphale asked, his eyes lost in the distance.
Knowing Aziraphale, it wouldn't be entirely impossible that the machine was making the same hot cocoa that he had then. Knowing himself, Crowley would say that it might even be likely, since the machine was full of his demonic energy, and somehow everything that he imbued with demonic energy wanted to please Aziraphale. Especially his treacherous car. Crowley knew very well why that was, but he refused to acknowledge it, because it felt a bit ridiculous even for a demon under his circumstances. He no longer had a reputation to uphold, but old habits died hard, and he still wasn't quite used to wearing his heart on his sleeve like that.
“1973, you were upset about Tolkien, and I came up with an excuse to distract you. And it was in Treviso, the view was from Sicily because you complained that the balcony was practically covered by the building around it,” Crowley said, remembering how Aziraphale hadn't asked and Crowley hadn't offered, he just snapped his fingers and told Aziraphale to stop trying to thank him.
It was amazing how he had gotten into the habit of doing that sort of thing without realising why he was doing it. Well, he knew that it would make Aziraphale happy, and that was reason enough, but he never used to allow the thought to form in his head as to why that was so important to him. Rescuing Aziraphale from a boring view and then pretending like that didn't mean anything at all. It was a good thing that Hell never looked very closely at his miracles back then, because he did plenty that he wouldn't know how to explain away.
Aziraphale smiled, and that was better at warming Crowley than any spring sun. “We spent so long talking, then we had lunch afterwards. I think I still have some of that Veneto wine, I brought a box home with me,” Aziraphale said, because they were both doing this sort of romantic thing and pretending that that wasn't what they were doing, back when they had to hide from their sides.
Crowley wouldn't be surprised if Aziraphale had a bottle of every single wine they ever shared. He didn't know for sure, but whenever either of them mentioned a wine, Aziraphale had a few bottles of it. They couldn't have pictures, so maybe that was the way that he found of having a memento, a way of marking the occasion that no one but the two of them would ever understand. Aziraphale was clever like that, so this was just the type of thing that he might come up with, and yet Crowley didn't want to ask him about it now and make him self-conscious. Maybe one day.
“We should open a bottle with lunch then. Are we still going for a picnic?” Crowley asked, offering his arm after Aziraphale circled the bed and reached him.
It wasn't the most practical way of walking inside a home, but the corridors always adjusted, which might be part of the reason why they didn't make sense, and they liked walking with arms linked or hands held. For too long they couldn't do that sort of thing, which might have been how they fell into the habit of shaking hands for just about any reason, and then holding on for longer than it would be usual. Any excuse to touch, a gesture of affection hidden in something that wasn't necessarily more excusable, but they could at least pretend that it was.
Now they didn't even need an excuse. If either of them wanted to hold hands, they could just extend a hand towards the other, no matter what they were doing. Which did sometimes result in some awkward moments, like when Crowley was trying to check the Bentley's engine with one hand while keeping his other stretched to hold Aziraphale’s, but since he was just doing that because he thought that he should, and he didn't actually know what he was looking for in the engine, it didn't get too much in the way.
“That would be lovely, as long as we have clear skies,” Aziraphale said, knowing full well that there would be. Either because Aziraphale wouldn't let their first picnic of the year be ruined, or because Crowley wouldn't let something like a bit of weather disappoint his angel.
Aziraphale wanted the first day of spring to be a lovely day for a picnic, and so it would be. Just as it was a warm and nicer day than the day before. It didn't matter which of them made reality obey, as long as it did.
“Clear skies, just the right amount of wind, we'll set up by the pound, and if we're lucky there might even be ducks,” Crowley said, which was how their first picnic had gone the last two years, so there was no reason for it not to happen the same way now.
In fact, it was how most of their picnics had gone in general, so there might be something to be said about them both falling into habits, especially when they were with each other. At least now it was about more pleasant things than the dance of not knowing each other and only coincidentally being in the same place. That was something that they did for far too long, until Crowley got frankly too tired of it.
He kept wanting to run away with Aziraphale, and in part it was because he wanted to have a plan B in case things went wrong, since he wasn't very keen on the idea of either of them being destroyed. But a greater part might have just been wanting to be somewhere where they wouldn't have to hide. Only back then he didn't know how to explain that to Aziraphale, let alone ask for it. And things went spectacularly bad when he finally did try, but at least they got past that eventually.
Aziraphale smiled and leaned against him as they walked out of the room, which was enough to keep Crowley from dwelling on things that he didn't want to be dwelling on. “Oh, that would be perfect, wouldn't it, dearest? So beautiful and romantic.”
It would, which was why they would do it. It was the best way to start things off for the new season, and to kick out any attempts of winter blues lingering on. Crowley didn't have anything to feel hopeless about anymore, but he still had over six thousand years with quite a few things that he didn't like to think about, and the cold and the long nights never helped with that, even if he liked nights as a general concept. All that being locked inside didn't help much either, which was why spring was an excellent excuse to just go outside and do things. The particulars didn't matter nearly as much as just being out and about. Preferably with Aziraphale.
“It's going to be, but first we have to get a perfect breakfast out of the way. And then a perfect drive with the Bentley,” Crowley said as a reminder.
They hadn't exactly made plans for the day. Aziraphale had mentioned the night before that they might go on a picnic again now that the weather was going to be good for it, and Crowley made a noise in general agreement, since apparently they were making it into a tradition now, but he also knew that if he didn't take the Bentley to drive for a bit, after a few days it would get antsy, and it had been a couple of weeks since they last went anywhere, so the warmer day might be a good excuse for it. The Bentley did like catching a bit of sun, and if Crowley didn't humour it, he would find that it had left the garage and parked over his plants. He had to be the only person on the planet that had a passive-aggressive car. But he would rather deal with the crushed plants than having to ask Aziraphale to talk to his car, because he still didn't like how after ninety years of care the Bentley decided that it liked Aziraphale better. Crowley also liked Aziraphale better, but that was his prerogative.
“You two have fun, then. I don't think that I can handle those speeds unless the stakes are quite a bit higher than our car sulking because you kept her locked in the garage for too long,” Aziraphale said, which wasn't surprising because he never wanted to aimlessly drive at speed.
If Aziraphale went along, they would end up driving at barely ten miles above the speed limit, and the Bentley would be playing happy romantic songs the entire time. Which Crowley might not actually hate as much as he would say that he did, but the Bentley wasn't the only one who got a bit antsy over not moving for too long. He liked driving and he didn't like the speed limit, and he had to deal with Aziraphale complaining about the speed and his driving every time that they went anywhere, so it was good to get a chance to drive for a bit without him. As it turned out, love didn't suddenly make people like all of the same things, even if their taste was pretty well matched to begin with.
“And I'm still not letting you take the Bentley for a ride when it's snowing. It's dangerous to drive too slow when there's ice on the road, it makes cars swirl, and my Bentley does not lose control,” Crowley said, as he had read something about that in a magazine once, driving in winter conditions. He had only skimmed the article, and he didn't remember it all that well, but what he just said sounded accurate enough, so it should be right. Going fast meant that the ice would melt or wouldn't have time to rip the tires or something like that.
They hadn't had snow to be a problem in a few weeks, but the truth was that he tried to avoid letting Aziraphale and the Bentley alone together as often as he could. They thought that they were being sly, and then next time that Crowley was going to drive, the keys would still be yellow or all his shades in the glove compartment were replaced with a miraculously still fresh pastry.
By then they had arrived in the kitchen, and Crowley sadly had to let go of Aziraphale to procure breakfast. Aziraphale went to sit at the table, and Crowley hissed at the coffee machine, regretting that he didn't think to grab his shades for a more dramatic effect. Still, he was intimidating enough for a piece of modern technology, and when Crowley put the two empty cups under it, it began producing a large dose of espresso and… a hot cocoa. Aziraphale really had gotten to it. Aziraphale could also make it produce tea, and just like with the cocoa, Crowley had no idea where the machine would get tea leaves from. Then again, he also didn't know where it got coffee from, it probably just came with the beans inside.
Crowley placed the mugs on the table and then opened the pantry, grabbing a tray of pastries from there that might only have been there because he expected to find them. He did buy them, technically, the last time that they went by this particular bakery in Paris, but he didn't want to look too closely at whether they should still have any left or if they should be in good condition. A healthy dose of denial could do wonders for keeping reality in a more usable state.
He sat down across from Aziraphale and grabbed his hand again. That was, after all, the best part about having breakfast together. Although that was a close victory over watching Aziraphale eat, which had always been one of his favourite things to do.
He couldn't quite explain why, maybe because he spent so much time trying not to let himself notice that he liked it. There was just something about this temptation that he offered Aziraphale, not through malice but a desire to show him what the Earth had to offer them. And Aziraphale took to it like a duck to water. He enjoyed it as he enjoyed the touch of human made clothing or the skilled blade of a barber. Besides, he just liked seeing joy in Aziraphale’s expression, whatever the cause.
Funny enough, as soon as spring arrived and he was back at waking up near what Aziraphale considered a decent hour, he couldn't remember why he spent the whole winter sleeping in. He enjoyed sleeping, it helped quiet his racing thoughts, and he especially enjoyed sleeping when it was next to Aziraphale. But he also enjoyed sitting across from him on the breakfast table, drinking his coffee while it was still too hot and then just caressing Aziraphale’s hand and watching him savour his meal.
There was something particularly soothing about this sort of moment, how romantic they were in their simplicity. They were allowed this now, they were part of each other's lives, and not only in the big moments when they were trying to save the world together, or when they could make up an excuse to meet.
When Aziraphale was done, Crowley waved away the plates, since his new found love for simple domestic moments didn't extend to doing the dishes. There was a limit to how much he was willing to live a simple human life in retirement, and it was as long as it could be heavily helped by miracles of the demonic and angelic varieties.
“If you want to get back at a decent time for our lunch, you should get going, darling. And do try not to run over anyone,” Aziraphale said, tapping his hand.
Crowley knew when he was being rushed out the door, but it was with love. Aziraphale was right, if he didn't go now, he might get distracted looking at Aziraphale, and then that would throw out his whole schedule. Which he apparently now had and would repeat annually. Funny how that went.
“I'll just go a hundred or so miles out then come back, get a bit of wind, burn the tires a bit,” Crowley said, reluctantly letting go of Aziraphale’s hand.
He had half a mind to take Aziraphale’s hand again and invite him back to their bedroom, but he knew that he would regret not driving for a bit if he didn't, and there was always later.
The Bentley's light blinked when he stepped into the garage, and Crowley could swear that it wasn't so needy until not too long ago. He had blamed Aziraphale and his driving for it a couple of times, but he suspected that it might actually have been a consequence of either Adam remaking it, or whatever Crowley had to do to make sure that the Bentley wouldn't burn down under hellfire. That might have been more demonic energy than an object could handle without becoming a bit demonic itself.
“Alright, calm down, I'm taking you, but you better behave,” Crowley said, getting in and closing the door.
He didn't wear his shades around the house, or generally around Aziraphale anymore, so he had to take one of the spares from the glove compartment, but at least they were there he was expecting them to be, which probably meant that the Bentley couldn't be too annoyed at him yet.
The sunny morning was perfect for a drive, and on the open road he could get past the speed that the Bentley was able to display, the country sights blending together. He didn't know if this was getting his energy up or releasing some of it, but by the time that he circled back home, Crowley was in good spirits. It might be good for him and for the Bentley to keep this one as an annual tradition.
Since it was still a nice day out, Crowley parked outside, leaving the Bentley under the shadow of a tree but where it would still catch some fresh air. He would have to remember to put it back inside before it got too late, but if he didn't, then the Bentley was perfectly capable of getting back to the garage by itself.
“Angel, I'm home,” Crowley said as he was getting in.
The first thing that he did was search for Aziraphale, and he wasn't surprised to find him with his books, not reading but looking for something.
“Ready for lunch?” Crowley asked, kissing him on the side of the head.
That did seem to startle Aziraphale out of his search, which was a shame, but Crowley was just glad to see him, even if he had only been out for a couple of hours.
“Oh, you're back early, my dear. I packed the wine we talked about, so we're all ready to go,” Aziraphale said, turning around to hug him.
Crowley held him by the waist and kissed him. They didn't have nearly as many opportunities to be romantic over the years as he would have liked, so now he would use anything that he could as an excuse. They had taken as well to inventing anniversaries over all sorts of dates, as long as they managed to think of occasions without any negative connotations. At this rate, they might turn the first day of spring into an official celebration.
When he stepped away from Aziraphale, it was only to offer his arm. His favourite way of walking with Aziraphale was holding hands, but this a close second. Crowley grabbed the picnic basket on their way out, and they made their way to the pound on foot.
It was a lovely day for a walk, and they might be going for a bit longer after lunch, but the pound wasn't very far from their home, so it wasn't a long walk. Crowley set the picnic with a little demonic miracle, in perfect view of the pound. Some clouds did try passing over them, but he glared at them and when that didn't work, he waved at them until they caught the message and left. There it was, the perfect day for a picnic, like Aziraphale wanted, or maybe like Crowley did.
Aziraphale sat down first, since he already knew that Crowley would want to lounge on the towel, with his head on Aziraphale’s thighs. That was, after all, how he always preferred to stay during their picnics. Crowley could admit now to wanting that comfort, to enjoying being the one to be cared for at times. He still loved doing things for Aziraphale, but it was good to be on the receiving end of that as well.
It was easier if he didn't have to ask for it, if Aziraphale just knew that he would want something, just like Crowley had become quite adept at guessing what Aziraphale wanted. So maybe that was another point in favour of cultivating habits.
“There you go, dearest, you can relax,” Aziraphale said, as if guessing what he was thinking, and maybe he was. They did know each other for a long time, after all, and Aziraphale understood him best of all.
Far too many of Crowley's habits over the millennia were about making sure that he wouldn't be at risk of being punished by Hell. He couldn't show that he cared about anyone or anything, and he needed to have an excuse for everything that he did. That didn't stop him from caring about his plants, his Bentley, and of course, Aziraphale. He couldn't be kind, he couldn't be nice, and he had to bite back at each time that Aziraphale suggested it. It was too dangerous, being something that he wasn't allowed to be, and so it didn't matter if he wanted to be that or not, he still had to deny it. He still thought that, if only he did that, he would be safe, or as safe as he could be. Just as he thought that he could keep Aziraphale safe from Heaven, as if they weren't always just one step away from punishing him for being so different from everybody else there.
All the secrets, hiding around, constantly looking over his shoulder, never asking for what he wanted. Those habits were hard to break, but he was learning. Slowly, but he was learning. They were both learning to talk to each other, to not take things as said, not run away from each other. Building better habits after six thousand years of learning to act a certain way to survive, even if in the end all that care didn't serve them as well as either of them had hoped for.
They had new traditions now, not as settled, but born out of something better than fear. Maybe it was fitting that they had made this little ritual out of spring, all that talk of renewal made him think of how different their lives were now, how different they could be. It wasn't just about their relationship, the people that they were didn't have to be dictated by their sides anymore, or what the others would think of them.
Crowley didn't have to be always moving, always changing, never getting so attached to something that he couldn't stand to lose it. He could be just as much a creature of habit as Aziraphale was, even if they didn't have quite the same ones. He could make plans for the first day of spring and know that he could repeat them next year, ten years after that, in a hundred years if he wanted to. His habits had been a shield and a prison, but they could be something else now, they could be comfort, familiarity, home.
And for the first time in his existence, Crowley had a future that he could believe in.
fic: (you are) under my skin (steve/tony)
May. 9th, 2026 11:22 pmsvgurlThis is what I wrote for the highadrenalineexchange
Title: (you are) under my skin
Fandom: MCU
Pairing/Characters: Steve/Tony
Rating: Teen
Word Count: 10,046
Summary: Steve has always liked to draw. He finds he likes drawing Tony the most.
highadrenalineexchangeTitle: (you are) under my skin
Fandom: MCU
Pairing/Characters: Steve/Tony
Rating: Teen
Word Count: 10,046
Summary: Steve has always liked to draw. He finds he likes drawing Tony the most.