ryokogirle
ethereal.voice
ramblings and musings of an aspiring artist and destiel superfangirl
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Photo
Okay not a photo op but HOLY SHIT U GUISE IS THIS A STORY.
So, @consulting-cannibal drew this for me a little over a year ago at the last @destielcon, and I’ve been teasing her since then that I was gonna ask the actors to sign their censor bars.
So Misha’s auto was first, and went like this:
Me: *hands photo to handler*
Handler: *stares for like ten seconds while giggling* *slides art over to Misha while watching for his reaction*
Me: Hi Misha um you totally do not have to sign that I have something else for you if you don’t want–
Misha: *grinning* Oh, I’ll sign it. *studies art for several seconds*
Me: *hands Misha a fine-point silver marker* I was hoping you could sign your censor bar.
Misha: *signs bar* *shakes head, chuckles* *starts writing at the bottom*
Now at this point I can’t see what he’s writing because it’s silver ink on white paper in not-great lighting and my contrast vision is shit. So when he’s done he slides it back to me and I read it and laugh and ask “Is this a message for Jensen?” And Misha smiles and says “Yep!”
So the next day (like three hours ago and holy shit I’m still dying) I have Jensen’s auto, which goes like this:
Me: *hands art to handler* I brought an alternate for him to sign he totally doesn’t have to–
Handler: *huge smile* He will definitely sign it. I’ve been waiting for you guys to show up.
Me: Oh wait were you at Misha’s table yesterday?
Handler: Yep!
Me: *gestures to Jensen* Does he know?
Handler: Nope, I wouldn’t dare spoil the surprise. *hands the artwork back to my mother while we wait our turn*
When it’s our turn, the handler leans down on the table to watch Jensen’s face. And then:
Mom (to Jensen): *not yet showing him the artwork, pointing to me* She’s waiting to see your reaction to this.
Jensen: I have to warn you, I’m not a very reactive person.
Mom: *slides him the artwork*
Jensen: *stares at the artwork for like thirty solid seconds while making his Grumpy!Ackles-trying-not-to-laugh-because-he’s-pretending-to-disapprove face.* *studies the artwork some more*
Me: *starting to get nervous that we’re seriously holding up the line* Misha left a note for you at the bottom there.
Jensen: *head still down, trying not to laugh*
Mom: *hands him the fine-tipped pen* Would you sign your censor bar?
Now this whole time I’m elbows down on the table watching his face because he still hasn’t picked his head up, and he’s just all pursed lips/suppressed smiles/eye crinkles and I’M DYING. So he signs the censor bar very, very carefully, and starts to pass the art back to me, and then changes his mind and pulls it back and writes #snag on it and promptly LOSES HIS SHIT. At which point I also lose my shit (and so do all the volunteers around the table, as it’s now been like a full minute and nobody’s even pretended to try to move us along because everyone’s so fucking amused by this), because he was trying so hard not to break and he just couldn’t hold it in and it was fucking GLORIOUS.
So he finally hands it back to me and he’s still chuckling and grinning huge at me and we thank him and he thanks us and off I go to look up whatever the fuck #snag means because apparently I am old and have no fucking idea. Urban dictionary tells me it’s either Australian slang for “sausage” or Native American slang for hooking up, and really either one works, but now I wish I’d asked him what he’d meant. Imma guess “sausage” :-p
And Scout is my roommate at this con so I showed it to her and told her what happened and her reaction was glorious too.
Anyway that is the story of how I and also how Scout both died at SPN NOLA.
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The first boom makes Crowley scowl. “It’s not for hours yet,” he complains.
“Darling. I know full well it was you who put them up to it,” says Aziraphale, who’s settled rather cosily into his armchair, and contrives to continue with his book despite the best efforts of both fireworks and demon to distract him from it.
“Angel,” says Crowley, exasperated. He stands behind Aziraphale and drapes his arms over the back of the chair to rest his hands on broad shoulders. The jumper’s soft beneath his fingertips and he leans into the warmth, the solidity of Aziraphale. “Mm.” On second thought, he decides, better to tackle this head on; he slithers around to the front of the chair and takes a seat in Aziraphale’s lap.
Aziraphale flips the page.
Crowley pouts. “What’s the use of getting all dressed up for the occasion if you won’t even look at me?”
“Yes, you look very nice.”
“You haven’t moved.”
Aziraphale turns to him and beams. “You look very nice,” he says, with a sincerity that sets Crowley’s chest to aching. “And I’d very much like to kiss you, wily serpent that you are.”
This sounds like an excellent plan to Crowley, who leans in and is bitterly disappointed to find a finger at his chest stopping his forward movement. “Wh–”
“It’s not for hours yet,” Aziraphale says, smiling a bastard’s smile.
“Could get a head start,” Crowley suggests quickly. “End the year right.”
For a moment, Aziraphale considers this idea. Crowley watches him turn it over in his mind, gazes at the little creases at the corners of his eyes and mouth, loves the genuine thoughtfulness in his expression; Aziraphale has never been one to take things lightly. Crowley waits, which he’s used to, but it’s not like before, because now he knows he’ll have an answer. He can ask his questions aloud. He can be heard.
“No, I think not,” Aziraphale concludes, and Crowley groans. “Oh hush. It’s only a little while longer and think how much more it will mean.”
Crowley’s protests are futile. He sulks, but not in any way that requires vacating Aziraphale’s lap. He waits. He checks his watch. He resynchronises it with the best satellite technology available to mankind. He waits. He stares at the wall. He steals glances at Aziraphale, who pinkens and pretends to ignore him. He updates his watch again. He waits. He waits. He waits.
Another, louder boom. Aziraphale looks up with interest. “Is it nearly time, then?”
“It’s 11:45 PM and thirteen seconds,” says Crowley, without consulting his watch.
“I see,” says Aziraphale, and resumes giving all his attention to his book.
Crowley frowns. “Gonna miss it,” he warns. “You’ll be so into that thing you’ll forget and then where will we be?”
Aziraphale’s lips twitch. “I imagine we’ll be right here. Still perfectly capable of kissing one another.”
Really he is absolutely impossible. It’s not about that! It’s the principle of the thing! Crowley folds his arms. “It’s traditional,” he says.
It’s a very human thing, all things considered. Celebrating a particular time of a particular day in a particular way. The ritualization of an unremarkable celestial happenstance, based entirely on an abstract manmade system erected around the limited view of the universe from the perspective of a single floating rock. Nothing concrete separates a year from the next; at some point, one society decided to start counting from this position in space, and now here they are. Arguing over New Year’s Eve midnight kisses.
11:56 and forty-seven seconds and counting. “Aziraphale,” says Crowley.
“Yes, dear.”
Another boom. “Are you sure we can’t get started?”
“Oh yes.”
Back to sulking. Back to checking his watch.
11:58 and twenty-six seconds. “Now?”
Aziraphale sighs and sets down his book. “Crowley,” he says, in a tone that means he’s beginning some kind of lecture. “Dearest.”
Crowley cups Aziraphale’s cheek in one hand. “Mmyeah.”
Tragically, Aziraphale does not give in to the temptation to kiss Crowley’s palm. He says slowly, “I think we’ve had enough of waiting, don’t you?”
And before Crowley can answer, Aziraphale is kissing him, drawing him in close, and as Crowley kisses him back the fireworks crescendo and light sparkles through the window, brilliantly coloured, throwing the world into sharp relief with each crack of explosives, and the year is off to a wonderful start.
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Photo
Coming at you with a bit of a cheat today using an edited version of the original promo art and a still frame of the original paint with lighting effects removed. I know, it wasn’t drawn during October, but you’ll forgive me, I hope.
Day 9: Electric
Doing This Thing
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this
Not much can be said about the finale
Keep reading
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Escaped from the Empty and newly human, Cas is coming for Dean in more ways than one 🤡💙💚
(Don’t repost)
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i was not ready
not for that. they did that. they went there.
after all these years.
i need. a moment. or two. to process.
it’s ...overwhelming.
#Destiel FOREVER#destiel is love#Destiel#destiel is real#destiel is life#theymadeitcanon#destiel is canon
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My holidays officially started today (yay!) and I got up without an alarm clock instead of someone particular. I know how hard it is, but you can do it! Wake up Crowley and go to hug your husband.
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I am officially in love with Good Omens yall ;;^;; (i made Crowley look way too serious lmaoasdfghj)
Prints
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Art by Good_Muens
Posted with Permission (reprint/edit and/or commercial use prohibited)
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Thank you to the marvelous @lonicera-caprifolium for this gorgeous rendering of one of my favorite Shotgun Wedding scenes!!! I cannot begin to even! Oh my sweet boys.
——-
“I’d be amenable to staying in touch,” said Aziraphale. If you’d like.“
Yes, I’d like, thought Crowley, trying not to imagine how it would feel to turn and hug the man as hard as he could just now. He wasn’t much for hugs, but that overcoat looked so soft. Good for burying a face in and hiding from everything. He wanted to be squeezed, trapped, compressed to ease this frustration.
Wasn’t that a thought. He hunched his shoulders against it.
“Whatever you want. Sure. Fine.” Crowley stopped at the elevator. “This is me, gotta grab my coat. I’ll, ah, see you next year.”
Aziraphale looked flustered. He stepped in – stepped back again – reached out a hand to shake. He wasn’t sure how to say goodbye. Crowley wasn’t either. He stared at the offered hand as if he’d never seen the like before. It felt all wrong.
He looked left and right; they were alone.
“Can you keep a secret?” he asked.
“I think so,” murmured Aziraphale.
Crowley took his leather-gloved hand and raised it to his lips. He didn’t so much kiss as hold it there, press, exhale against the moment with eyes closed. He held on for a beat, then another, then squeezed his fingers firmly and let go.
Aziraphale stood statue-still. Crowley forced himself to back away – beyond reach – and called the elevator, which opened directly with a ping. His escape vehicle had been waiting. He stepped in with a slight wave of his fingers and turned away as the doors shut.
Crowley’s right hand stretched wide and clenched shut several times over on the rise, chasing a sense memory.
https://archiveofourown.org/works/22557148/chapters/54679162
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