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johannstutt413 · 4 years

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(continuing from this post)

While they continued to spend as much time as they could with each other, it was some time before the Doctor and Ambriel went on their third/fourth/fifth date (depending on where one starts counting). Partially because they didn’t feel the need, because simply being in each other’s company was all the blessing they needed; partially because neither of them were sure where to take things from where they were; and partially because both were nervous that, somehow, making it an official date would change something about the experience for the worse. So, rather than make a big deal of it, Ambriel became the Doctor’s assistant so she didn’t have to leave his side, and while she didn’t have much in the way of work to do, she certainly kept him company, and frankly, that’s all he needed her to do to make him more productive than he’d ever been.

So much more productive, in fact, that he earned a raise, including a hefty one-time bonus, and it was receiving this that got him to thinking of another proper date in celebration. The only question was...well, there were a few, but among them, “Is there anywhere you want to go?”

“Hmm?” Amy was in her chair, as usual, spinning in circles until her halo started to wobble. “You mean, like, to eat?”

“Or travel, or whatever. Is there somewhere you’ve just been dying to see?”

Her first few thoughts weren’t terribly helpful, so she dug deeper to try and find something. “Not...really, no. I’m not much of a sight-seer; if we went anywhere, I’d just want to walk around the shops all day.”

“Hm...” That did give him an idea, actually. “I hear Siesta’s got some good shops this time of year, and since we helped out with the Obsidian Festival last time, I think they’d give us a good discount or two.”

“Obsidian Festival? What’s that?”

He smiled. “A big, long concert with some of Terra’s best musicians performing. It was great the day or so we got to watch, but we spent most of the time trying to stop a giant Originum Slug living in a volcano from causing an eruption and destroying the city.”

“That...” Ambriel shook her head. “You should get the movie rights for that. I’m sure you could get good money out of something like that.”

“Oh, we did, actually. One of the company’s FEater worked with in the past is gonna produce it...Where were we?”

She rolled over to him to set her head on his shoulder. “You were talking up Siesta to me, for some reason.”

“I was thinking we could go somewhere nice to celebrate my promotion.” The Doctor booped her nose. “You made it possible, so if you have a place you want to go, I want to go there, too.”

“Oh, well...I don’t know, Doc. All that really matters to me is being with you.”

While there’d never been a doubt in his mind that was how she felt, hearing it out loud was something else. “Amy...Well, is there anything you think would be nice to have?”

“You just want to spoil me, don’t you?” Guilty as charged. “There’s a dress that arrived at the Procurement Division recently that I’ve had my eye on. It’s way out of my price range, so I didn’t have a hope of getting it myself.”

“We can swing by there today after work and get it, then. Sounds like a plan to you?”

Ambriel nodded. “Yeah, that works...You don’t mind if I keep my head here, do you?”

“Not one bit.” He tilted his head so they were touching. “You’re the best.”

“Aww, don’t go filling up my head with that...C’mere, you.”

Later that day, the Doctor, true to his word, took Ambriel to the Procurement Division’s base of operations - aka, the base’s Penguin Logistics corner. Croissant, watching the register so to speak, waved as they came in. “Ev’nin, Baws! You and ya lady friend need som’in?”

“Amy saw a dress the other day she liked.” He turned to her. “Do you see it anywhere?”

“Uh...Hey, Croissant, do you still have the star print dress that came in a few days ago?”

The Forte shrugged. “I ‘unno, but I’ll take a looksie for ya. Wond’r ‘round while I’m inna back, kay?”

“Sure thing.” As she opened the door behind her, and the creaking echoed ominously into the back of an absurdly large warehouse, Ambriel and the Doctor walked through several aisles of special deals courtesy of Penguin’s not-always-still-alive-by-delivery customer base. “While we’re waiting, see anything you like?”

“This place has everything, doesn’t it? Electronics, clothes, camping gear- oh my God.”

He followed her eyes to what he knew was the dress she’d been talking about. “Oh my God is right...I completely understand the price tag on this thing. Do they have a dressing room or something around here?”

“Yeah, in the back. Wanna see if you can get her back to the register while I try it on?”

“If you don’t need my help with the dress, sure.” The Doctor smiled as she gave him a look. “It’s a zipper-back, after all. Aren’t those hard to close yourself?”

Amy shook her head. “I’ll be fine, Doc. See you soon.”

“I’ll miss you~” A quick kiss, and she was off. He wandered back to the counter, rang the bell a few times, and when no one showed up, he decided to wait by the closet door he’d seen Ambriel walk through.

“Hey, Doc?” She half-shouted through the door. “Could you come help me with this?”

The Doctor opened the door to a shocked Amy. “She didn’t show, so I figured I’d wait out here. What do you need?”

“...I need you to zip it up in the back.” There was a note of defeat in her voice, but he couldn’t quite place it.

“I’ve got you covered.” He closed the door behind him and moved behind her to get to the offending strip of metal. “Huh. It’s broken, I think. Yeah, there’s a knot in the back; it’s not you, believe me.”

She sighed. “That’s good. I thought maybe the sugar was settling in places.”

“I mean, we could get it tailored if that was the problem, I bet...Not the right thing to say?”

“Not really.” Ambriel shook her head. “Well, we can’t get it fixed if we don’t buy it, so...Are you still okay with paying for it?”

He nodded. “Not an issue whatsoever. Besides, we might be able to convince them to give us a discount.”

“Maybe...Doc, are you gonna let me change back or no?”

“Oh, right.” The Doctor left, closing the door behind him. “I’m gonna try to get Croissant’s attention again.”

At this point, the Forte was back at her post, a sly smile on her face. “How’d the fittin’ go, Baws?”

“The zipper on the back’s broken - as in, there’s a major knot in it. We want the dress, but I don’t think I should have to pay that much for it when we’ve got to get it fixed afterwards.”

“Well, we price ev’r’thin’ as-is, Baws.” She crossed her arms. “Trust me, you don’t wanna haggle wi’ me. I know all the tricks.”

He smiled. “Really? What about this one: three days paid vacation for you and a plus one.”

“...70 percent retail.”

“I’ll take it.” The Doctor pulled out a card as Ambriel walked out with the dress folded in her arms. “Here you go.”

As they left the department, Amy’s eyes were focused on the dress in her hands. “Hey, Doc? Can I ask you something?”

“Anything you want, Amy.”

“If...If it turns out I am too big for this dress,” she managed, “what are we gonna do with it?”

He shrugged. “If you didn’t want to get it tailored to fit you better, then I guess we could find someone else to give it to. Are you really worried about it?”

“I’ve been eating a lot of sugar lately. You don’t think I’m gonna get fat, do you?”

“Huh?” The Doctor shook his head. “I haven’t even thought of that. Why do you ask?”

Amy shrugged. “I dunno, I just...I’ve never felt insecure about myself like this until the other day. I’d just gotten out of the shower, and I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror, and I wondered if I was the kind of girl you really wanted to...you know...”

“Oh. I can understand that.”

“Huh?” She frowned at him. “Doc, now you’ve got me worried.”

He shook his head. “I mean I have the same kind of thoughts about myself. I’ll cuddle you like there’s no tomorrow, but there’s this niggling doubt in the back of my head that says if we decide to do anything more intimate, you won’t like what you see.”

“That’s...that’s exactly it. Sorry I doubted you just then.”

“It’s no big.” The Doctor stopped outside the door to her place as she unlocked the door. “You want to come over later?”

She was about to say yes, but another voice prevailed. “Actually...you want to come in?”

“Sure. I don’t think I’ve actually seen your place before.”

“Well, yeah; I was kinda doing it on purpose.” Ambriel blushed as they crossed the threshold. “Sorry about the mess.”

He chuckled. “This is more like how my place was before our first date. You even have the same baking sheet in the sink I did.”

“Heh. I’ll be right back - gonna put this away for now - so make yourself comfortable.”

“Sure.” He looked around, found a spot on her couch that wasn’t filled with pillows, clicked on the TV, and waited. And waited...and started to wonder how her closet was set up if it was taking this long to hang up a dress.

It turned out, there was a bit more going on, as when she returned from her room, she was in a bathrobe instead of what she’d had on before. “So uh...comfortable yet?”

“Pretty much.” He turned the TV off. “What’s up?”

“I was wondering if you, um...wanted to stay the night. With me. In my room.”

The Doctor was walking through his options. “I...I don’t not want to.”

“It sounds like there’s a but coming after that.” She frowned. “Am I moving too fast?”

“Do you think you’re moving too fast? I mean, are you trying to prove something to yourself, or do you really want to...might as well say it, are you really DTF tonight after that conversation we just had?”

Ambriel shrugged. “We won’t know unless we try, right?”

“Honestly?” He looked down at the floor in front of him for a moment before turning back to her. “You know I’ll love you even if we’re never physical, right?”

“Yeah, obviously.”

Okay, so it wasn’t about that. Good…“Then I guess it is a me thing, because I don’t know if I’m ready.”

“I can go change back, then,” she said, “and we can just hang out, if you want.”

“...If I say I kinda want you to keep wearing that just in case I change my mind, would that bother you?”

Amy smiled. “Doc, I sit on my couch in this all the time, and I don’t mind you wanting to keep your options open. Move some of those pillows for me; I’ll get us something to drink.”

“Thanks.” He watched her walk to the fridge, open the door, bend down to look for something- and suddenly he had his answer. “I’m ready.”

“Ready? For- oh! Really?” She closed the door and turned back to him.

He nodded. “Yep, totally, hundred percent.”

“Huh.” She looked down at her robe. “That was quick.”

“I want to take it kind of slow, but...yeah.”

She rejoined him on the couch. “That’s fine by me.”

“Awesome.” The Doctor slowly moved an arm around her waist. “So um...I have no idea what to do.”

“Neither do I.” They looked at each other, hoping to find the answer somewhere in each other’s eyes...and eventually, they did, as independently they drifted closer for a kiss.

#arknights #ambriel (arknights)#as someone who's never had an experience like this #or anything remotely resembling a dating relationship #it's moments like this that stick in my brain #the next time i write for ambriel #(which is practically guaranteed to happen)#i'll have this playing somewhere in my brain #so...yeah #hope this is sweet enough for you anon #arknights fic

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thetravelerwrites · 5 years

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Johnny (Cowboy Minotaur) Pt. 2

Rating: Lemon Relationship: Male Human/Male Minotaur Additional Tags: Exophilia, Reader-Insert, Monster Lover, Interspecies Relationship, Male Reader, Male Monster, Gay Reader, Gay Monster, Post Gold Rush, 1860's California, Cowboys, Cowboy Minotaur Content Warnings: Gun Violence, Gay Sex, Anal Sex, Handcuff Bondage, Cumflation Words: 3798

The conclusion to @severedreamerbeard ‘s commission! Randall puts pressure on Johnny, so the reader decides to do something about it, only to be injured while protecting Johnny. Please reblog and leave feedback!

The Traveler's Masterlist

The next few weeks were unremarkable. The town was small and most folks were mild-mannered. The only place that seemed to have any trouble was the saloon, and Bláithín was more than capable of handling most scrapes that went on there herself. She came in to the jailhouse once or twice, dragging an unconscious drunk behind her while you and Johnny were playing blackjack for peanuts and pennies.

You and Johnny often ate your meals at the saloon, though Uncle George invited you, Johnny, and Judge Jones over for dinner once a week. He liked to cook, but in such a small town, he rarely had anyone to cook for.

All through this time, you’re trying not to think about whether or not Johnny was like you. If you told him and he wasn’t, he could arrest you and send you to the Sacramento big house for indecency. And if he was… what? You had to admit to yourself that you liked him rather much, but it wasn’t as if you could have any sort of relationship with him that was anything more than professional. In the city, people didn’t care about other people, but in small towns, people talked. You knew if you gave in and he reciprocated, people would talk. Johnny hadn’t been here much longer than you, but the people of Redington already respected and admired him. You didn’t want to strip him of his job, home, and dignity because you had feelings.

One afternoon, as you and Johnny were talking with Bláithín about her recent stolen packages, Randall came into the saloon followed his entire entourage, with Lloyd at his left elbow. The entire room went silent and a few of the bar’s patrons hastily threw down money and left. Bláithín stood as straight as her packhorse body would allow and both you and Johnny stiffened.

“Relax,” Randall said, holding up his hands in placation. “We ain’t here to start trouble. We just want some grub and a drink. That against the law now?”

“Bláithín?” Johnny asked.

“I haven’t ever officially barred them from entering, and as long as their payin’, I suppose there’s no harm,” She said slowly.

“Maybe we’ll stick around for a bit,” Johnny told her in an undertone.

“I’d appreciate that, sheriff,” She replied.

The boys settled around the saloon, ordering food and drink and being rowdy, but not so much that it would require tossing them out.

“Hey, sheriff!” Randall shouted over his buddies. He’d been watching the two of us whisper to each other. “You done breakin’ in that new deputy? Workin’ him hard, I bet.”

Johnny snorted, but you said in a whisper, “They want to rile you up. Don’t rise to the bait.”

Lloyd piped up next. “Yeah, I bet he’s so sore from his ‘job’ that he can’t hardly sit down.”

His men laughed uproariously.

“Johnny,” You asked him as you felt him getting more and more tense next to you. “We both know they’re criminals. Why haven’t they been run off or arrested before now?”

Johnny huffed in exasperation. “They’re careful about it. They do most of their… work… outside of the town limits, which means it’s outside of my jurisdiction. What happens out in the desert beyond the town’s boundaries is fair game. There’s no witnesses, so there’s no crime. My hands are tied unless they do something illegal within the town’s borders.”

“What would be enough to get them sent away for good?”

“Burglary, robbery… nothin’ good,” He said, eyeing the group as they howled with laughter.

You thought about what Johnny had said when you first got to town: He loves any chance to prove he’s the biggest swingin’ dick on this side of the tracks. “What about assault on a lawman?” You asked on a low voice.

Johnny frowned. “What’re you--”

“You know, Randall,” You said loudly, pushing yourself off of where you’d been leaning on the bar and advanced slowly. “You want to know what I think? Why you like pokin’ at Johnny so much?”

“Oh, do enlighten me,” Randall said in an amused tone.

“You’re jealous,” You told him simply. “Johnny’s got everything you want. Respect, money, integrity…” You looked Randall up and down. “Height. Looks. Brains. A backbone.”

Randall’s smile changed to a scowl in half a heartbeat. “That prissy dickweed has nothing on me.”

“If you mean smell, you’re exactly right,” You said, holding your nose. “Are you like an actual cow and roll in your own dung? That’s the only reason I can think of that you’d smell so bad all the time.”

Randall stood so fast that his chair flew back. His entourage also shot to their feet, their hands going to their gun belts.

“You’re either as stupid as you look or tryin’ to get your ass beat,” Randall said.

“That’s fair, I do have a hitable face,” You said.

“Kid, stop it,” Johnny said, grabbing your arm.

“Gotta protect your little boy toy, don’t you sheriff?” Randall said, cackling.

“What’s a-matter, Randall?” I shot back. “Mad he won’t take you back?”

That’s what did it. Randall cracked you across the face. You were prepared for it, but he hit hard and you stumbled back into Johnny, who caught you and pushed you back onto your feet.

“That’s enough!” Johnny said. “Randall, you’re under arrest!”

“Like hell I am!” Randall said, drawing his gun. He pointed it right at Johnny.

“Look out!” You couldn’t push Johnny out of the way, he was too large. But you cold jump in front of him. The bullet was aimed at Johnny’s ribcage, but it managed to hit you squarely in the shoulder. It was enough to rattle the bones in your arm and you cried out in pain.

Johnny bellowed in rage and jumped into action, delivering a blow to Randall’s stomach that sent him sprawling, his gun skittering across the floor. Lloyd tried to retrieve it, but Bláithín stood there with her rifle, aimed at his head.

“Wouldn’t be doing that, if I were you, bucko,” She said. Two more of his gang rushed her, guns in hand, and she twirled with incredible agility and kicked them both hard in the knees. The snapping sound echoed throughout the saloon, and they went down screaming. The other four shot out of the saloon, into the street. Bláithín went out to follow them, but you stopped her.

“Leave ‘em,” You gasped, getting up off the floor, gun in hand. “They ain’t actually done anything. These four are the ones we want to worry about.”

Johnny was on the ground over Randall, pummeling him into the floorboards. You grabbed his arm as he was going down for another blow.

“He’s out, John!” You said. Johnny was breathing heavily and stared at you, his pupils pinpricks and hyperfocused, but he stopped and got up, breathing as though he’d run to the coast and back.

Bláithín was holding Lloyd at gunpoint. “These four inna going nowhere, John, but we need the surgeon. Run an’ get ‘im.”

Johnny stared at you for a moment longer, then obeyed.

Getting the bullet out of your shoulder was more painful than it going in, but there was no permanent damage. Johnny was at the other end of the infirmary, securing the other prisoners. He glanced back at you occasionally, as if making sure you were still there, although you were going to be in that bed for a day or two to make sure the wound didn’t open up or get an infection.

Uncle George and Judge Jones arrived shortly after, talking with Johnny in hushed tones. Jones and Johnny went off to another room while Uncle George came to sit on the cot next to you.

“That was a risky gamble, son,” He said, although he couldn’t bring himself to sound too annoyed at you.

“Ain’t this why you brought me out here?” You asked, a little woozy from the whiskey they’d made you drink before taking out the bullet. “To get rid of Randall?”

“Well, yeah, but I didn’t expect you to get yourself shot!” He said, his annoyance bubbling to the surface.

“He was aimin’ for Johnny,” You said seriously. “A gutshot in that big guy would have been fatal.”

“Hmph,” Uncle George said. “Well, you’re not staying here with these hooligans. You’ll be staying with me till you’re patched up. Johnny’s gonna have to make a trip to Sacramento to bring back deputies from the big house to transport Randall and his men back that way. He’ll be gone about two weeks.”

Your heart sank a little, but you kept your face neutral.

“What about the four of Randall’s crew that got away?” You asked.

“Scattered like cockroaches after their leader got caught,” George said. “Just as well. They hadn’t actually committed a crime, they were just present when a crime was committed. Perhaps now they’ll move on and pester someone else.”

“Hmm,” You hummed. “Will the town be alright without a sheriff? I mean, with Johnny gone and me laid up?”

“Bláithín’s takin’ up the reins, so to speak, until John returns. She’s a capable woman.”

“I believe that,” You said, laying back with a tired sigh. “I think I might get some shut-eye, Uncle, if’n thats alright?”

“Sure thing, son,” He said, standing. “Got some paperwork to do, as it is. You rest easy. I’ll have you moved to my house tomorrow morning.”

You fell into a sodden slumber, feeling heavy. Later, you were awoken in the dark by a gentle shake.

“Wake up, deputy,” You heard a gravelly voice say softly.

“Johnny?” You asked, groggy and unable to see much in the dark.

“Yeah, it’s me,” He said. “I’m leavin’ out tonight. I want to get there and back as quick as possible, but… I… I wanted to thank you. For takin’ that bullet for me.”

“I’d do it again, John,” You said, still half asleep. “I’d do it a thousand times.”

You closed your eyes again, and there was silence. Perhaps he thought you’d fallen asleep again. You felt his hand take yours and hold it, gently caressing the knuckles. Your heart thumped when he pressed a kiss to it, but when you opened your eyes, he had dropped you hand and you could hear him hurrying out of the building.

You’re uncle had said it would take two weeks for Johnny to get to Sacramento and back, but he managed the trip in half the time. He was dusty and looked a bit thinner; it looked like he’d barely taken a rest the whole time.

By the time he got back, you were on your feet again and had taken back the job of deputy from Bláithín, though your arm was still in a sling. She gratefully relinquished it, though the town had been quiet with the offenders finally caught and out of the way.

“Welcome back, sheriff,” You said brightly as he leapt off his horse.

“Thanks,” He said. “How you holdin’ up?”

“My arm’s still stickin’, so I’m all good,” You said, wiggling your arm in it’s sling.

Johnny nodded, satisfied. “The boys from Sacramento are about an hour behind me. They’re at the train station, getting a bite to eat.”

“Have you eaten?” You asked him. He shook his head. “Come on, then. I’m buyin’.”

“Nah, kid. You don’t pay for nothin’ when your with me anymore,” He said, smiling at you. It was the first actual, honest-to-god smile you’d ever seen on his face. It completely changed it, lighting it up and making him look…

You shook your head. Now wasn’t the time.

After you’d eaten, the deputies arrived. You followed Johnny into the jailhouse. As soon as Randall saw the deputies, he started screeching.

“They provoked me! Him especially!” He said, pointing at you.

One of the deputies banged the bars of the cell with his baton. “Hush up!”

“What about him then?” Randall asked, pointing at Johnny, his voice more menacing. “There are some things about him you’d probably like to know.”

“And how exactly do you know those things, Randall?” You asked him dangerously, getting in his face though the bars separated you. “How exactly do you know?”

Randall shut his mouth tight and glared at you.

“You said you had something to declare?” The prison deputy asked.

Randall’s jaw worked and he looked at you with pure venom.

“...no. No, I don’t.”

“Fine. Time to get moving,” the deputy said. Randall, Lloyd, and the other two of the gang were loaded into a barred paddy-wagon.

As they moved off, Johnny said, “Can’t say I’m sorry to see the back of ‘em.”

“You said it,” You said, massaging your shoulder a bit.

“Does it hurt?” He asked.

You shook your head. “Not much.”

He snorted. “Quit tryin’ to be a hard ass. When’s the last time the bandage was changed?”

“Couple days.”

“It’s due, then. Come on, I’ll take care of it,” he said, walking back to the jailhouse. You follow.

He sat you down at the table and got a box from the bunkhouse.

“Take off your shirt,” He said.

Your heart threw itself into your throat, but you complied, carefully pulling your arm out of it’s sling and tugging the sleeve off.

“Lay your arm on the table and get comfy,” He said, pulling out strips of cloth and some salve.

He was inches away from you, and you could smell him. He smelled earthy and reminded you of home. Comfy was the last place you could be right now. Your heart was hammering.

He carefully peeled the old bandage off and inspected the skin, checking for infection. He was gentle. You could feel his breath on your bare chest and it was all you could do to hold still and not reach out for him. He gently worked the salve into your skin without hurting you much and re-wrapped the wound.

“...uh…” He started diffidently. He was purposefully not looking you in the eye. “Thanks… for pipin’ up for me. I don’t know… what you know… or… but…”

“John,” You said seriously. “Look at me.”

He looked up, his face stern and closed, but his eyes showed his true self. You bent forward and kissed him. He pushed you back immediately. At first, you were scared you misjudged him, but he was looking at you wonderingly.

“You… you’re…”

You nodded. “I’ve been holdin’ back because I didn’t want to cause you trouble… but… God, Johnny…” You rushed forward again and kissed him, harder this time, and he didn’t pull away. If fact, he gripped you tightly, causing you to yelp in pain from your shoulder.

“Sorry, sorry!” He said, letting you go at once.

You shook your head. “No, I’m fine.” You got up and bolted the door of the jailhouse. “Is this alright?”

He nodded, breathing hard and standing. He unbuttoned his shirt and pulled it off as you unbuckled your belt one-handed.

“Are you sure?” Johnny asked, shedding clothes.

“Yes,” You said, pulling him down by the chin to kiss him again. His hands found your buttocks and lifted you so that your legs were wrapped around him. He swept off the desk and laid you down on your back, pulling your boots and trousers off. He reached over you, bending so that his body was flush with yours, and pulled open a draw on the desk. When he drew back, he was holding the bottle of oil that he used for sore muscles.

He put some on his fingers and rubbed it against your entrance, and you moaned. He worked the oil in while kissing you, eventually inserting one finger, then two, then three. His fingers weren’t exactly small, and the stretch felt amazing.

He moved you so that you were laying lengthways on the desk and reached back into the draw, pulling out a pair of handcuffs. He pushed the desk closer to the cell and took your hands, carefully lifting your arms up and cuffed them to the cell.

“Don’t move around too much,” He said as he climbed onto the desk between your legs. “Don’t want to reopen that wound.”

You nodded, breathless at the sight of him. His length had slipped out of it’s sheath and was standing at attention, brown and black like the rest of his body with a flat head. Johnny covered it in oil and rubbed it in,

“Ready?” He asked.

“It’s been a while,” You admitted. “I’m more than ready.”

“I can guarantee it’s been longer for me,” He said, chuckling, as he pushed himself slowly into you. You groaned with the sensation, your head falling back against the desk.

He took your knees in his hands and pushed them back against your chest and buried himself as deeply as he could go. Looking up, you saw a bulge in your belly were he had planted himself. He moaned as he slowly pulled back out and pushed in again, the bulge disappearing and reappearing with each thrust. Once he was confident he wasn’t hurting you, he sped up and you gasped. Your own member was bobbing and twitching against your stomach, and instead of grasping it, he reached underneath and rubbed his fingers over your sack, massaging the skin and making you cry out. You muted your noise, though, fearful that others would hear.

“Fuck,” He breathed, leaning forward on his hands and speeding up. You could feel him twitching inside you, and he had trapped your cock between your stomachs, so as he thrust, he was rubbing it between the two of you.

“Oh, God, Johnny,” You gasped. You could feel yourself getting close, the friction of his skin against your length and the feeling of him working his against the nerves inside you made you feel like you were going to explode. Your body tensed as you came, spraying against you and him as he continued to move at a frenetic pace. The tension caused a little bit of pain in your shoulder, but you barely noticed it.

He reared up and grasped your hips, ramming into you with a fierce intensity until he came as well, filling you so full that your belly pooched again with the sheer amount he released into you.

He slowed to a stop, still inside you, and rested on his knuckles, wheezing.

“Are you hurt?” He asked, struggling to get his breath back.

“No, I’m alright,” You replied, just as breathless.

After some time, he uncuffed you and helped you down off of the desk, and the two of you cleaned yourselves up and dressed without speaking. Sitting back down at the table, you reached out for his hand.

“I know your worried about people finding out about… us… what we are…” You said. “But… I like you, John. I don’t want to stop this.”

“I don’t either,” he said with a worried frown, gripping your fingers tightly.

“I…” You gulped. “I could… I could talk to my uncle.”

“What?” Johnny said. “No, don’t! No one can know about this.”

“I won’t tell him about you,” You assured him. “I’ll tell him about me. Uncle George has been more of a father to me than my own father. If anyone would understand, he would. And even if he doesn’t, he wouldn’t tell anyone.”

“You’re absolutely sure of that?”

“Yes,” You said, squeezing his hand. “Trust me.”

Johnny regarded you with a grim expression, but nodded.

That night, you stopped at your uncle’s house unannounced, which you had never done before, though the invitation had always been there.

“My boy!” Your uncle said, hugging you when he opened the door. “Good to see you up and about. What brings you by?”

“Actually, Uncle George, there’s somethin’ I need to talk to you about.”

“Well, this sounds serious,” He said, stepping back so that you could come in. “Maybe we could talk about it over a brandy?”

“That’d be nice, Uncle, thank you.”

He took you to his lounge and pulled a decanter from a shelf. “So what has you looking so dour, son?”

You took a glass and sucked in a deep breath. “Did you and my pa ever have a talk about me bein’… different?”

“Not as such,” George said, sitting in a chair opposite you. “Though my brother and I don’t see eye to eye on many things, so his definition of ‘different’ may not be the same as mine.”

You sighed. “Honestly, Uncle… I’ve always wanted to be open about this, especially with my family, but Ma and Pa beat into me that I… wasn’t right.”

“Not right how?”

Moment of truth. “I… You… You must be wonderin’ why I never had a sweetheart or been interested in marryin’. Truth is… I actually would like to be married… just… not to a woman.”

“...I see,” You uncle said slowly. You winced at his distant tone.

“I’m sorry to disappoint you, Uncle,” you said sadly.

“Young man,” He said. “You haven’t disappointed me.”

You looked up. “I haven’t?”

He shook his head firmly. “No, my boy.” He took a swig from his own glass. “You know, Herbert and I went to college together. We’ve been very close friends ever since. He lived in New York, but he came out here with me to be the judge. Did you know that?”

“No, sir?” You asked, confused by the question.

“Jones and I never married or had sweethearts, either, but our positions put us beyond reproach. People gossiped, of course, but we were members of high society. We had enough power to quash most of it.”

Your jaw dropped. “You… is that why Pa never invited you to the farm? I thought it was because he resented you for being rich.”

George laughed sharply. “That was certainly part of it.” He clapped you on your good shoulder. “Look, son, don’t worry. We still have to be careful, but Herb and I started this town to be a safe place for good people. You’re a good man.” He took another sip. “And so is Johnny.”

Your heartbeat hitched up. “Yes, he is.”

“More to the point, he’s safe. You make sure he knows that.”

You smiled and relaxed, sitting back in the armchair. “I will, Uncle.”

After talking with George, you went back to the jailhouse. Johnny was sleeping when you came in, and you slithered into bed with him. The beds were a little narrow, but you made it work. He snorted awake.

“Did you talk to your uncle?” He asked, cuddling you into his side.

“I did,” You said with a smile, kissing him softly. “It’s alright, Johnny. Everything’s alright.”

He sighed and threw the blanket over you. At ease, the two of you slept.

Since my work is no longer searchable, please do me a favor and reblog this story if you enjoyed it. Help me reach a wider audience! To help me continue creating, please consider buying me a Kofi or donating directly to my PayPal!

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tisfan · 5 years

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Title: Learning to Work Together (Opposites Attract) Rating: T Triggers/warnings: None Word count: 4681 Tags: Alternate Universe: College/University, Alternate Universe: No Powers, Summary: When Professor Nutter assigns a partnered project for her Theories of Personality class, Aziraphale finds himself tracking down the mysterious and elusive Crowley. Posted for the @ineffablehusbandsbingo - square “Destruction of Books” ( @27dragons) / square “Food Fight” ( @tisfan) Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20579354

Professor Nutter stood up behind her podium, smiling in that vicious little way of hers that meant she was about to unleash something terrible. The collective mood of the students dropped as she held up a piece of paper. “There is a copy of this handout on the back table,” she said, gleeful. “I’ve matched you up for a group project, based on your questionnaires at the start of term. There will be no swapping partners, you will learn to work together, or you will not pass my class--” the group let out a groan, as one, like a forest of dying trees. “And complete the assignment. You will turn this in the last day of class before exams for thirty percent of your final grade. It was in the syllabus!”

Theories of Personality, psychology 405, had been billed as an easy A class. Be present, participate, pass.

The teacher last semester, Pulsifer, had given out sixty A’s, the highest percentage of any upper level class on campus.

That was last semester, apparently.

Nutter was… well, a Nutter.

(more below the cut)

Aziraphale stayed in his seat as the rest of the class made their way to the back of the class. Surely, whoever’d been assigned to work with him would make themselves known. And he really wanted to finish reading the chapter he’d started. Fascinating stuff, really, even if some of it was a bit, well, medieval in thinking.

He jotted a few notes as he read -- things to look up or cross-reference, things to specifically ask about during class, in case they were part of the exam, possible starting points for the project...

Speaking of which-- Aziraphale looked around. The class had emptied. No one had come up to him to introduce themselves as his partner. Sighing, Aziraphale tucked a marker into his textbook, gathered up his things, and went to look at the pairing sheet. He scanned down the list and found his name, right beside... A. J. Crowley.

Who in Hell was that?

He looked over the list again. He recognized all the names on it. Everyone had spoken up in class discussions, or asked questions, or (on a few occasions) been chided by Professor Nutter for being late. He could swear he’d never heard the name Crowley before.

“Er, Professor,” Aziraphale said cautiously. “Are you quite certain you didn’t mix someone from one of your other classes in here? Because--” He turned around to find that Professor Nutter was gone.

Blast. He was going to have to track this Crowley fellow down.

“Why I always gotta work wiff you?” someone demanded, just outside the door. Ligur was scowling at the sheet, and his apparent partner, Hastur, was smirking. “Always make me do all th’ work, you do.”

Well. At least Aziraphale hadn’t been partnered with Hastur. Aziraphale didn’t like to complain, but Hastur smelled. “Excuse me, gents,” he said, edging past them into the hallway. “Neither of you would happen to know who A. J. Crowley is, would you?”

“Uff, Crowley,” Hastur said. “I hate that flash bastard. Don’t trust him.”

“Yeah,” Ligur said. “He’s inna Hell-dorm. Cross th’ hall from Beez. You know Beez, right? Everyone knows Beez.”

Hell-dorm wasn’t actually called that, officially; the building was named after whichever alum had donated the most money in the last few years or so, which meant it had been rechristened about a dozen times, and no one bothered to remember what it was actually called. Everyone called it Hell because the air conditioning didn’t work in the summer, and worked all too well in the winter.

And, unfortunately, Aziraphale did know Beez, though luckily, by reputation only. Still, he imagined it wouldn’t be too hard to find. “Thank you,” he said, though he wasn’t sure they heard it -- they were already back to bickering about the project.

Aziraphale checked the time and decided there was no time like the present. He straightened his clothes and made his way across the campus to Hell-dorm, where a few inquiries of increasingly surly residents got him the direction to the floor where Beez lived.

Once there, it wasn’t hard to spot the door with “BEEZ” written on it -- not on a whiteboard or tacked-up sign, but directly on the door itself, in what Aziraphale was fairly certain was permanent marker. Below that, in a startlingly elegant hand, someone had written, Abandon all hope, ye who enter here.

The opposite door was unmarred. And unlabeled. No board, no notes, no posted schedule, no name, no decor, no posters in questionable taste. Nothing, no hint as to the character of the person within. Just a door.

Well. There was nothing for it, really. Aziraphale brushed a few wrinkles out of his sweater and knocked smartly.

For a long moment, there was no sound at all, and then-- thud, whump -- someone rolled off the bed and hit the floor like a load of wet laundry. A groan. And then more silence.

“Hello?” Aziraphale said. He rapped on the door again. “I’m looking for someone named A. J. Crowley?”

Another groan, then someone yelled, somewhat slurred, “go away, Beez, tol’ you I’m not lending you any money.”

The door opened suddenly and Aziraphale blinked at what was a very… green room behind the man. “You’re not Beez,” he said. “In fact, I don’t think I’ve seen anyone quite so very un-Beezlike in my entire life. What do you want, angel?”

“What?” Aziraphale looked around, but the hallway behind him was entirely deserted. “Are you Crowley?”

“Who’s asking?” Crowley, if that was Crowley, was tall and lanky, dressed all in black except for a shock of red hair. He wore sunglasses, little round, deeply black ones that didn’t show a hint of his eyes, and he had cheekbones sharp enough to cut paper. He stood in a way that reminded Aziraphale -- in no way that he could actually put words to -- of a snake.

“Oh, yes, quite,” Aziraphale stammered. He shuffled the books in his arms around until he could offer a hand. “Aziraphale. I’m your partner for the project for Professor Nutter’s class.”

Crowley actually lowered his sunglasses to peer at Aziraphale over the rims. His eyes were a shade of brown so pale they could be deemed yellow instead. “What? Agnes gave us partners for a project?” He said this in a deeply aggrieved voice. “What project, oh, bother, you’d better come in then.”

Aziraphale was not, perhaps, the most fastidious student on campus, but his room was at least clean.

Crowley’s room, on the other hand, was spotless. Pristine. Dustless. And filled from the floor to the rafters with thick, luxurious plant-life, living in beautiful, matching pots. There were custom lighting tracks set up to give the plants everything they needed in the way of sunlight, and the whole room smelled of sweet earth and green, growing things.

Crowley grabbed an apple from a fruit bowl on a side table and took a bite. “Apple?” he offered the bowl to Aziraphale.

“Oh, thank you,” Aziraphale said, pleased. Breakfast seemed like a distant memory by this point in the morning. A little nosh would be just the thing. He picked out one of the fruits, heavy with juice and lusciously dark red. “This really is something,” he said, gesturing at all the plants. “Simply lovely. Quite the green thumb you must have.” He bent close to examine the flower buds on the nearest specimen.

“I talk to them,” Crowley said. “They don’t like to disappoint me. What’s this nonsense, then, about a project? Agnes really gave me a project? She loves me, why would she do that?”

“I can’t see how she’d have any opinion about you at all,” Aziraphale said, rather tartly, “as I’m quite certain you’ve not been to a single class all semester.” He certainly would have remembered seeing someone as striking as Crowley before. “Have you even cracked the book?”

“Which one?” Crowley asked. He was slinking around the room, examining all his plants and checking the moisture levels of the soil. “Hand me my mister, would you, angel?”

Aziraphale looked around and spotted the mister, though he had to put his stack of books down in order to have a hand free for it. He dropped them on what he presumed was Crowley’s bed, then handed over the mister. “Prophecy of Personality,” he said, waving at it where it was on top of his stack. “The textbook. For the class you haven’t been attending!”

“Oh, that book,” Crowley said. “Yeah, uh, I think I might have burned it.”

“You what?” Aziraphale screeched. He snatched his books back up off Crowley’s bed, dropping the apple to clutch them close lest this apparent demon start setting fire to them, too.

“It was, you know, a dorm-thing,” Crowley said. “Beez’s idea. We had a big bonfire and, well, there was quite a lot of wine involved. Truly, epic amounts of wine.” Crowley waved his hand around aimlessly, like someone had replaced all the bones in his wrist with overcooked pasta. “I don’t really remember.”

“Your dorm had a book burning and you don’t really remember?” Azirpahale demanded. He looked around, somewhat wildly. He couldn’t stay in this place, in this hell, for one second longer. He pulled the project handout out of the book and shoved it at Crowley. “Here. This is the project. Read it. And then come to my room -- I’m in Heaven dorm -- this afternoon, at four.”

“Of course you are,” Crowley drawled. “Am I allowed… I mean, inviting me to your room, that’s very forward.”

“To work on the project,” Aziraphale snapped, feeling heat climbing up under his collar. “Unless you’d rather meet at the library.”

“No, no, the library is for people who are worried about their grades,” Crowley said. “I wouldn’t be caught dead at the library. Your room. Four o’clock. I’ll bring take away. Unless I fall asleep.”

Aziraphale scowled and gathered his things back up. “Don’t,” he said icily, “fall asleep.”

***

Crowley watched, somewhat stunned, as the ethereal figure scrambled for the door, leaving the room in a cloud of stern disapproval.

“Well, that went over like a lead balloon,” he said, rubbing at his face. He flipped the project assignment sheet over a few times and read it. Nothing on the hand out indicated that Professor Nutter was a complete lunatic, brought in at the last minute to replace Professor Pulsifer, who had, indeed, been cheating on his wife, the Dean of Student Affairs, and who had made a hasty escape from the collegiate life and his marital strife by moving with his mistress to Surrey. Or that Nutter had made it her personal goal to make Crowley have to actually do some work.

Didn’t make either of those things less true, mind.

What it did say was that they’d have to do several sets of interviews with student volunteers, to test their hypothesis about personality cues. And then write up a monograph for it. Ug.

The apple that Aziraphale hadn’t eaten was laying on the floor, bright and shiny, and bruised on one side from where he’d dropped it. Crowley bent to pick it up. “What are you lookin’ at?” he accused his plants.

He eyed the apple for a long moment, the very faint imprints of Aziraphale’s teeth where they’d just started to pierce the skin.

Crowley took a bite, right there. Guess he’d go up to Heaven ‘round four and see what all the fuss was about.

But first. Nap. Mornings were, he decided, some sort of Divinely inspired curse, and should be outlawed almost immediately, if not sooner. He fell back into bed and got up a few hours later, much more coherent and refreshed.

Contrary to Aziraphale’s belief, Crowley had attended every single one of Agnes Nutter’s classes. He just did it in the afternoon instead. She taught the same material at both classes, and it wasn’t difficult to slouch around in the back and catch up on the notes. He’d sit the test at the proper time, but the less Crowley had to be awake in the morning, the happier everyone was going to be.

He placed an order by telephone with the curry-shop just off campus, gathered his notes from class -- he did not, however, grab his copy of the book, which was not burned, but then he couldn’t remember which of his class texts had been deposited on the blaze, but there was no point in giving Aziraphale the satisfaction -- and headed over to Heaven.

There was something more than a little sterile and creepy about Heaven dorm, with its white paint and chrome accents. It looked like a hospital. Or a morgue. Cold and crisp and utterly devoid of sentiment.

“Oi,” Crowley barked at one of the students in the front lounge. “Where’s Aziraphale?”

They looked up, patted perfectly coiffed hair as if to smooth fly aways that weren’t there. Michael. Great. Crowley had swimming class with Michael. Fastidious git. “Down the hall.”

“Thanks. Michael. Dude,” Crowley said, giving Michael finger guns. Michael hated being called dude.

Crowley shifted his burdens, getting the curry out front. A peace offering, of sorts. Walked down the hall and, after frowning at the door, kicked it a few times.

The door opened a moment later to reveal Aziraphale, scowling. A scowl shouldn’t look so adorable on anyone, but there it was. Utterly adorable. “You needn’t bang when a simple knock would-- Oh.” He hesitated, seeing how full Crowley’s arms were. “Well, I suppose it couldn’t have been helped.” He stepped aside, waving Crowley in.

Aziraphale’s room wasn’t empty and sterile like the halls of Heaven. It was filled, top to bottom and side to side, with books. Every sort of book, at every possible age. Crowley wouldn’t have been surprised to find a set of scrolls in there, somewhere, tucked behind the dimestore paperbacks, perhaps. Even the bed was covered with books.

Aziraphale took the containers of curry from Crowley’s hands and then looked around, frowning slightly as he tried to figure out where to set it down. He finally shuffled a few stacks around to make a space on what was, probably, a table or a desk of some sort. “There we are.”

Crowley twitched as Aziraphale came closer. “Are you wearing cologne?” What sort of student was this guy, dressed in pristine, cream colored slacks, wingtip shoes, an embroidered vest, with a blessed pocket watch chain curving neatly across a soft belly.

“Well, yes,” Aziraphale said, in a tone that suggested Crowley was the odd one for even asking. “It’s new, actually. My barber recommended it.”

He couldn’t quite resist, most students smelled like stale food and forgotten antiperspirant and cheap scented spritzers. He leaned in, nose going a few inches from Aziraphale’s throat. “Nice,” he growled. “I’ll take two.” He wasn’t even quite sure if he meant two bottles of cologne, or two of Aziraphale.

Aziraphale backed up half a step, eyes widening a little. “Ah, yes, well,” he stammered, a faint blush rising out of his collar. “Perhaps we’d better get on with the project.”

“Food first,” Crowley countered, “dont’ want to get sauce on your books. Read through th’ notes today--” He opened the take away box, looked down at his bowl of curry and rice and sauce and shoveled a mouthful before going on to suggest a handful of potential project topics.

Aziraphale huffed a little and produced from somewhere a pair of napkins. Not the paper napkins that had come with the takeaway, but actual cloth napkins. He handed one to Crowley with a somewhat stern look, then spread the other across his lap before picking up the second box.

“Oh!” he said, suddenly delighted, a smile blooming on his face that was as bright as the sun. “My favorite! How did you guess?” He picked up the fork and scooped up a bite, somehow managing to avoid dripping curry sauce anywhere and putting it into his mouth without getting any on his lips. It was a damned miracle, that was. He still picked up his napkin and blotted his mouth as he chewed. “This is quite good,” he said. “Where did you get it?”

There were words out there. Words, nouns, verbs, adjectives. Punctuation, sometimes, even. All of them vacated Crowley’s head and went swirling off to Alpha Centauri. He couldn’t have put a coherent sentence together if someone’d held a sword to his throat. He could only stare and watch and deal with a squirmy, heated knot of something in his belly, rather lower than his navel, and might not even count as his stomach at all.

The flittering little shy glances, the way Aziraphale’s whole face radiated joy and pleasure and appreciation.

All for a bowl of take away curry.

“Uh…” Crowley managed. He gestured, hand spread, out there somewhere.

Aziraphale’s smile dimmed just a little, just enough to no longer be blinding. “Oh, yes, sorry, I shouldn’t ask questions while you’re trying to eat.” He took another dainty bite of his own. “So, for our project, I was thinking we--”

“Card! On th’ bag,” Crowley burst, struggling to find a few words. “The curry cart. Good place, my favorite.” He cupped one hand under his bowl, balancing it neatly while he bent backward from his chair to snag the paper bag from the trash.

“Do be careful,” Aziraphale said. “I’d hate for you to fall and hurt yourself.” He took the bag as Crowley handed it over, though, and examined the card stapled to the top. “Lovely,” he pronounced it. “We’ll have to try it again, find out what’s best.”

Crowley sat up, brushing rice off his shirt. “I don’t fall, I just sort of… saunter vaguely downward.” That something in his belly was twisting itself up in knots. We. Again. He didn’t think there were more lovely words in the entire universe. “Whatever you like, angel. Anywhere you want to go.”

Aziraphale shifted a little in his seat. “Yes, well. As I was saying, about the project--”

Someone knocked on the door and then it opened to reveal a slightly older student, immaculately groomed and wearing -- was that a bespoke jacket? “Just a routine check,” he said. “I heard voices.”

“Ah, Gabriel,” Aziraphale said. “Yes, this is Crowley, my partner for Professor Nutter’s class. I imagine he’ll be around quite a bit for the rest of the semester.” He gave Crowley a tight, thin-lipped smile. “Gabriel is our R.A.”

Crowley could almost feel all the synapses in his brain going off at once. “You’re Gabriel? Oh, that’s… heard about you, mate. All good things.” Of course. Literally anyone who lived on Hell’s third circle knew about Gabriel. Beez had… well, Crowley couldn’t decide if it was a thing for Gabriel romantically, or a thing for Gabriel like wanting to cut his head off and stick it on a pig pole. Somehow, Crowley had pictured someone who was… less of a prissy little bastard, though.

“Well of course they’re all good things,” Gabriel said with a self-assured smile. He looked them over. “Is that curry? From off campus?”

“Nothing against the rules in that,” Aziraphale said.

“Perhaps not, but I wouldn’t want to soil my vessel with it,” Gabriel said disapprovingly.

“Your body is a temple, we can tell,” Crowley said, insincere and dripping with it. “Shoo, bzzz. We have work to do.” He waved one hand around, nearly knocking over a book. “We’re all fine here, surely you have the whole rest of the dorm to watch over.”

“Yes, quite,” Gabriel said, entirely missing Crowley’s sarcasm. “I’ll look in again later!” He waved and backed out of the room again.

Aziraphale sighed. “He means well, I’m sure.”

Means well? Means well? That was utter bollocks. “No, he means to be flaunting his authority.” He stretched the word out obscenely. Author-a-taaaaai.

“Well, better Gabriel than getting Her involved,” Aziraphale said, pointing upwards with a meaningful lift of the eyebrows. “You know. The dorm monitor.”

“I’m not entirely certain She exists,” Crowley muttered. “So, angel. Project. Let’s do this.” He scraped the last bit of his curry out of his bowl, tossed the bowl in the trash, and then his jacket in the other direction, landing neatly on a pile of books -- there was nowhere else for things to go, why on earth did Aziraphale need so many books. Surely he couldn’t possibly have read them all.

“Yes, let’s,” Aziraphale said, looking pleased again. He reached into a pile of books and brought out the class textbook, from which he withdrew a folded copy of the syllabus. “We’ll need to choose our subject group, and then our set of cues to interview for. Or perhaps we should do them in the other order.”

Crowley discovered another good side effect to having no text; he was constantly having to read over Aziraphale’s shoulder, or nudge him into pushing the book across both of their laps. He didn’t think he’d ever been quite so pleased to be part of a group project before. Aziraphale had really gorgeous handwriting, too, taking notes on their project so that Crowley didn’t have to.

His phone alarm chirped somewhat after seven and he hadn’t even realized that he’d been there for three hours. “Need t’ grab a bite to eat before my last class,” Crowley apologized. Then, as if it had just occurred to him, “want to have dinner with me?”

“Oh, that would be simply divine,” Aziraphale agreed brightly. “Where shall we go?”

“Just the commons,” Crowley said, trying not to wince as Aziraphale’s smile flattened a bit. “Can’t eat off campus all the time, otherwise, what’s a meal plan for? Besides, I have t’ run to astronomy, right after.”

“I suppose that’s true,” Aziraphael allowed. “Astronomy sounds interesting, at least.” He packed up his books. There was an ink smudge on the side of his face that was entirely too cute. “Very well, let us go and see what’s on offer that’s least likely to give us indigestion.”

They made an odd pair, strolling across campus. At least Crowley noticed more than half the student body turned to watch them pass. He wondered how he’d never seen Aziraphale before, the man had an aura about him that was like a gravity well made of light.

Crowley was not a gourmand of any sort; he liked fizzy drinks and greasy take-away, when he remembered to eat at all and not just talk through the entire meal to whoever happened to sit at his table.

And it was his table. He barely raised an eyebrow when the chattering female students who’d clumped there scattered like startled ducks. “Mister Crowley,” one of them exclaimed as he dumped his tray in front of where she’d been sitting and then waited until she vacated the spot.

“Sit down, angel, take a load off, those books look like they weigh as much as you do,” Crowley teased.

“Oh, hardly that much,” Aziraphale said, but he set his books down. “You didn’t have to run them off; we could have found somewhere else to sit.”

“Well, I didn’t have to, no, but it’s so much fun. And this is my spot,” Crowley said, sprawling on the bench. “Right here, my initials…” He traced his thumb over the groove in the wood, the pale color against the dark patina of age on the bench. “A. J. Crowley.”

Aziraphale looked slightly scandalized, but he reached over to rub the carving thoughtfully. “What does the A. J. stand for?”

“Anthony,�� Crowley said. “The J’s… just a J. You know, it’s a thing.”

Crowley picked at his food, eating the tips off his chips, leaving the mushy middles on the plate. Took the crust off the top of his steak and kidney pie and sorted through the resulting mess trying to figure out if there was anything in there that had once even vaguely been near a cow.

Aziraphale picked at his dinner just as listlessly, though he’d managed to snag some fruit that looked half-decent, and he made consideringly pleased hums around his pudding. “So, astronomy, then? Is that your major?”

“Yeah,” Crowley said. “I like the stars. Beautiful nebulas. Makes all this--” he waved a hand around, indicating the commons, the college, the country, the whole miserable planet. “--seem a little unimportant. Which is the only thing that gets me through conversations with my mother.”

“Stars are nice,” Aziraphale said, somewhat diffidently. “I prefer literature, myself. All the different ways we have to express an idea or a feeling -- it’s fascinating!”

Crowley was just getting ready to launch into his favorite topic, how the entire universe had formed and that, however unlikely, it had made such a delightful person as the one sitting across the table from him, when-- ooff, something hit him, nearly knocking him out of his chair, more from surprise than anything else.

Another squishy thud and Aziraphale’s cream coloured jacket suddenly had a big, blue stain on it.

He looked over his shoulder at the stain in swiftly increasing dismay. “That’s not coming out,” he said, pouting. “My favorite coat! It’s ruined!”

Crowley reached over and ran a finger through the stain. “Blueberry pie,” he confirmed, then glanced around the room. He loaded a mushroom, some gravy and a bit of pie crust onto his fork and-- there. Davis, the economics major, talking in a low, conspiratorial voice with some of his fellows. “This is about to get nasty,” he predicted, and then launched the forkful of pie directly at Davis’s hair.

“Oh dear,” Aziraphale said. He picked up his tray and held it up like a shield. “This is so juvenile, really!”

“That’s what makes it fun,” Crowley said, ducking a poorly aimed bit of baked cod. “Oh, look, it’s your R.A.”

“What, where?” Aziraphale peeked over the rim of the tray. He spotted Gabriel just as the R.A. took an entire soft-serve ice cream cone to the face. Aziraphale coughed out a laugh and then quickly covered his mouth with his hand, his eyes still dancing.

A quick scan of the room, and he found Beez and their group of hangers-on. “Get ready to run, angel,” Crowley said. He moved, quick, lithe, and stealthy, snuck the bowl of treacle pudding from Beez’s table while they were occupied looking at something else and launched it at Gabriel, before flattening himself on the floor to crawl back over to Aziraphale.

“This way!” Aziraphale said, pointing. “We can sneak out the staff entrance!” He gestured for Crowley to go first and followed, holding that tray over Crowley’s head for protection.

They made it to the door, dodged around a confused caretaker, and found themselves outside in the courtyard, Crowley laughing so hard it was difficult to stay upright. “Well, that was exciting,” Crowley said, practically hanging off Aziraphale like a scarf.

Aziraphale was laughing, too, in that restrained sort of way that meant he was trying not to. “The looks on their faces,” he gasped. “Oh, that was wicked. We shouldn’t have done that.” He didn’t try to distance himself from Crowley, however.

“Of course we shouldn’t’ve,” Crowley said. “That’s what makes it delightful. Here, give me that--” He held out his hand. “Your coat. I’ll get it cleaned.” If nothing else, it would give him another excuse to visit, something not schoolwork-related.

“Really?” Aziraphale beamed up at him. “Thank you.” He shucked the coat and carefully folded it stain-inward before handing it carefully over. “Well. Delightful as that was, I believe you have class. And I have homework to attend to.”

“Sure,” Crowley said. “I’ll… see you around.” He watched as Aziraphale walked away, looking somehow even more delicious in his light blue shirt and the silken back of his vest displayed. It was… charming and adorable and… “Bugger,” Crowley said. “I’m in trouble.” He brought the jacket up to his nose, inhaling the scent of Aziraphale’s cologne. He was… desperately in trouble. And not just because he was going to be late for class.

#ineffablehusbands bingo #Good Omens #crowley x aziraphale #university AU

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flamed-like-anything · 5 years

Text

Snoozing with the enemy

A Good Omens Crowley/Aziraphale fluff-fest. 1425 words. Also available on ao3.

Aziraphale pulled the plate of cakes towards him and picked up a fork to make a start on the custard tart. "I suppose you were contractually obliged to tempt the mortal soul with carnal pleasures whenever possible."

"Oh yes, they're very pro that kind of thing down there."

"I remember you getting around Westminster like the gangbusters during that whole Section 28 debacle."

"I got a commendation for that one. And pulled a hamstring."

It was the day after the end of the world, and angels were dining at the Ritz.

"To the world," proposed Crowley, raising his glass.

"To the world," echoed Aziraphale, with relish. He took a long and indulgent sip of his champagne, a lovely crisp 2004 Pommery Cuvée Brut.

"Mmm, wonderful almond notes."

"Very citrusy," said Crowley. "We should stock up."

"Gosh," said Aziraphale, leaning back in his chair. "Imagine the things we can get up to now."

"I can't stop imagining them," murmured the demon, taking a sip.

"You know, I used to worry about this? The day they found out just how much I..."

"Yes?"

Feeling giddy with his freedom, Aziraphale reached over the table and rested his hand next to Crowley's so just their little fingers were touching. "How much I love you, dear boy."

A slow smile was spreading over Crowley's face.

"I knew that one day they would destroy you because of me," the angel continued, "and I was just... well, I was pissing myself. Absolutely pissing myself. For 6,000 years."

Crowley inched his little finger across Aziraphale's, so they were linked.

"But now it's happened! And it really wasn't so bad. I didn't even get my socks wet."

"My socks."

"Your socks, dear boy," he said fondly. "We don't have to sneak around our warring houses, like in-"

"If you're about to say Romeo and Juliet-"

"I was actually going to say West Side Story."

"Somehow that's worse."

"You really think they'll leave us alone? At least for a little while?"

"I do, angel. There's nothing to worry about, not now."

Aziraphale beamed, and covered Crowley's hand with his own, stroking softly with his thumb. "You know, I've done so many wonderful things throughout the years, but I've always wished..."

With a soft smile, the demon inclined his head. "Me too."

"I've also never had cocaine," said Aziraphale lightly. "Was that one of yours?"

"Oh yes, very popular downstairs, cocaine. Turns people into egotistical wankers, and then all they want to do is get some more of it. Your lot did one of them as well, didn't you?"

"Marijuana," said Aziraphale with fond nostalgia, and a touch of smugness. "Makes them all start giggling and hugging each other, such a beautiful sight. One of my best works, if I do say so myself."

Crowley knocked back the rest of his glass in one go and reached for the bottle again. "Have you ever had sex?"

"My dear boy!" Aziraphale spluttered. "That's a little forward, don't you think?"

Crowley topped up the angel's glass of champagne and watched him patiently.

"Well, there was Shakespeare of course," he offered.

"Shakespeare!" Crowley hissed. "That sweet-talking little bastard. He told me he'd never been with another man."

"So you-"

"Yes, me and every other man in Elizabethan London, apparently."

Sipping his drink delicately, the angel thought back to the few partners he'd had over the years. Sexual contact was of course not strictly necessary for a celestial being - but then neither was caviar, and he'd indulged in both when the fancy took him (although never both at once).

There was that gentleman's club in the 19th century, a venerable and very discreet institution where he'd met a number of lovely young men with wolfish smiles and sharp suits, and spent some very pleasant evenings in their company. (There was also a discrete gentlemen's club nearby, but they preferred to keep entirely separate.)

There was also that very confusing dalliance with Giacomo Casanova in 1751, but the less said about that, the better.

"Oh!" he said suddenly, remembering. "Oscar Wilde!"

"I'm impressed," said Crowley sincerely.

"Nice lad, but he did start getting a little bit strange about things after ten years or so."

"Oh?"

"He seemed very suspicious that I wasn't ageing."

"Do you think that's why he-"

"Well, I wouldn't like to assume."

"Mmm."

"Oh yes, they're very pro that kind of thing down there."

"I remember you getting around Westminster like the gangbusters during that whole Section 28 debacle."

"I got a commendation for that one. And pulled a hamstring."

Crowley had mostly stuck to professional sexual encounters, barring a few musicians (he never could resist a musician). There had been one time in the mid-70s when he'd been pulled over in a lay-by on the A264 near the small Sussex town of Crawley (no relation), idly tinkering with his engine, and a beaming man with kind eyes, a shock of white hair, and a well-pressed beige cardigan had stopped to ask if he needed some help. They'd spent a few weeks in a bed in Paris before Crowley had to get back to business. The guy had definitely reminded him of someone, but he'd never been able to work out who.

"It's amazing how inventive the humans have been in that arena," Aziraphale was saying, with a faraway look in his eyes. "I know the Almighty started them off with the basic mechanics, but some of the contraptions they came up with are just astonishing. Did you ever read the Kama Sutra?"

Instead of listening, Crowley was twitching, and concentrating very hard on his napkin.

"I don't suppose you'd-" he started hesitantly. "Would you maybe be interested in-" he tailed off, "exploring the old 'pleasures of the flesh'-"

Against all the laws of metaphysics, he started to blush.

"With me?" he finished, looking hopefully at his angel out of the corner of his eye.

"Oh Crowley," said Aziraphale, in exactly the same tone of voice he used when someone handed him a slice of cheesecake (which was marginally breathier than the one for Victoria sponge and a trifle deeper than the one for trifle). "Do let's."

---

Crowley's bed, much like the rest of his flat, was gothic and overdone, with black and red silk sheets, billowing curtains, and intricately carved wooden posts. It wouldn't have looked out of place in the sex dungeon of a particularly extravagant vampire. On a normal day, the sheets would have been immaculately smooth, with plump, untouched pillows and crisp hospital corners.

Today was not a normal day.

Sprawled over the mattress, completely naked apart from a strategically placed blanket and, inexplicably, his bow tie, Aziraphale was trying to catch his breath. Crowley was plastered to every inch of him, his arms snaked around the angel's back, their legs tangled together, chests pressed close enough to share a heartbeat.

The sheets had come untucked from the corners, pooling in a rumpled mess under their sweaty bodies, and the pillows had mostly ended up on the floor over the course of the evening. From an interior decorating perspective, it simply wouldn't do, but Crowley couldn't bring himself to care.

"That was exactly how I imagined it," said Aziraphale, once he had regained the power of speech. His hands were caressing his demon's arms - giving light, reverent touches as though he couldn't quite believe he was allowed to.

"I love you," said Crowley into his neck. "I've loved you for 6,000 years. I love you so much."

"My dear boy," said Aziraphale, peppering his damp hair with indulgent kisses. "I don't know what I did to deserve you."

"We should go somewhere," suggested Crowley, drawing himself up to make eye contact. "Get out of London for a bit."

Aziraphale lit up with a smile. "Like a holiday."

"Let's find a little cottage in the countryside. You could read some old dusty books, and I could go and encourage some of the plants."

"Old dusty books?" sniffed Aziraphale. "You really mustn't be so disrespectful to them. I know you like to read."

"I haven't read a book made of paper since 2007," he lied, just to make Aziraphale splutter.

The angel took a moment to regain his composure, then tilted his head, considering. "I've always wanted to try beekeeping."

"Like wossface," said Crowley, with an expansive yawn. "Sherlock Holmes."

"Exactly."

"Let's go tomorrow," Crowley mumbled, snuggling closer and taking a deep sniff. "Inna morning."

"Of course, my love. You know, I might try that 'sleeping' thing you're always going on about."

"S'good."

"I'm sure it is," said Aziraphale, drawing his arms around his demon and settling down.

That night, Crowley finally got to do something he'd been dreaming of for 6,000 years, and fell asleep wrapped around his angel.

#good omens #ineffable husbands #crowley #aziraphale

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iu-jjang · 7 years

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[TRANS] 170408 IU replies fans on fancafe (Parts 1 and 2)

Fan: Title song? I haven't heard them yet, but let's use the one you let your father listen to first as the title song!! IU: I let him listen to both though..Hmm Fan: You can't have let him listen to both at the same time.. Use the first one you let him listen to.. Fan: Do you know your (zombie - own comment) Bomsabeot (NSLOCB) rose (from the ashes - own comment) so you're in 1st, 2nd and 3rd place on the Monkey3 chart? IU: Sabeot (note: calling the song by its nickname), I'll give you an award! Fan: The conversation in CLYA is the killer part ^^ Did you compose that part together with Oh Hyuk? IU: Yes God-hyuk..! b Fan: Both your new songs are doing well in China too. TTN was 4th on the rise chart on QQ music (Korea's MelOn..?) and 1st on YY music (Korea's Genie..?) and entered Top 10 on the new songs chart too! They are all on the rise charts today too! Looking forward to April 21st! Always supporting you^^ IU: Omo uwah amazing...! Fan: Unni are you glad that there are more marshmallows this time? IU: Make some noise~~~!! Fan: Selca!!!! Curious about your photos during MV filming!! IU: Not a selca though...

Fan: It's artwork but it's so pretty!!! -insert IU fansupport subway ad- IU: Ohh.......☆ Fan: IU(unni) can't beat IU(unni)?? What's this..? IU: Hmph I'm satisfied just being IU! Fan: I'm not sure whether to trust the shocking rumous that there are 17 tracks on the new album. Is it true? kekeke IU: ...? Fan: A few words for your good Sabeot (NSLOCB)? -inserts 3rd year anniv photo of the song- IU: Thank you so much...☆ (Note: She really seems to like this star symbol recently lol) Fan: Is there any book that would go well with CLYA..? I want to read a book.. Please recommend oneㅠㅠㅠ It's urgent keke (Note: This fan seems to be a student who needs to do his/her book review homework lol) IU: “Do You Like Brahms...?” (Note: This is really the title of the book.) Fan: Ohh!! First time I've heard of it.... I'll go look for it today~~~ Fan: What's the colour of the glow of the firefly that will be sent tonight? (Note: Wordplay on TTN lyrics) IU: Neon yellow☆ Fan: Do you like the movie 'Carol'? IU: bbbb Yes! Fan: Where are you? IU: Where are you? (Note: Wordplay using CLYA lyrics. Initially, IU typed ‘I’m at home’ then she edited her post to ‘Where are you?’) Fan: Unni, I told my friends, "Hey!!! I'm a marshmallow now, so I can get a reply from IU!!!" but they don't believe meㅠㅠ Please give me a reply ㅠㅠ IU: Our kids (referring to uaenas) don't lie. Fan: How long has it been since you last met Inna unni? IU: 0 days. Fan: What's the dress code this time for the Sudden Attack fanmeeting? IU: What do you suggest? Translated by IUteamstarcandy

#iu #fancafe #replies #translation #170408

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nofomoartworld · 7 years

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Hyperallergic: The Competing Politics of the Jamaica Biennial

Installation view of the Jamaica Biennial 2017 at the National Gallery in Kingston (all images courtesy the National Gallery of Jamaica unless otherwise noted)

KINGSTON — What is a biennial for? What does it do? These questions came up on my visit to the Jamaica Biennial 2017, where I was invited to participate in the symposia and performances convened for the closing weekend. While looking at parts of the show and in conversation with other guests, I found myself wondering repeatedly what the aims of this national exhibition were. It was clear that a thicket of bureaucratic and intensely political complexity had ended up making the biennial a mash-up of competing claims and interests.

The Jamaica Biennial 2017 was actually four exhibitions at multiple sites, stitched together under one slightly leaky umbrella. Veerle Poupeye, a Belgian transplant who’s the executive director of the National Gallery of Jamaica, laid them out for me: a juried section chosen by a panel of artists, dealers, gallery directors, and curators; works by about half of a group of 72 artists who have been permanently “invited” to participate in the show by the National Gallery’s Board of Management, which some of those same artists serve on (one can see how this already starts to become unwieldy); a small tribute to the traditional, figurative painter Alexander Cooper and the recently deceased photographer and self-proclaimed “media terrorist” Peter Dean Rickards; and a selection of pieces by artists from the Caribbean and the Caribbean diaspora, grouped under the rubric of “special projects.” The final tally was about 160 artworks installed at the National Gallery; its original home, a historic building known as Devon House; and the National Gallery West in Montego Bay (which I was not able to visit).

Cosmo Whyte, “Golden Kicks/Where You Get Dem Clarks (2016), charcoal and gold leaf on paper, 84 x 72 inches

I walked through the parts of the show I could see a few times, but they never quite settled into clarity. There were several standout pieces and one or two sections where the works spoke with each other eloquently. The loveliest of these contained Cosmo Whyte’s “Golden Kicks/Where you Get Dem Clarks” (2016), an ethereal charcoal drawing of a troupe of dancers wearing what look like grass skirts. The figures are interspersed among a copse of trees, which have the same hue and tone as them, but they’re distinguished by the gold leaf shoes on their feet. Whyte’s drawing created a hushed atmosphere in which I could almost feel the water lapping against a man’s head in Nadia Huggins’s “Is that a Buoy?” (2015) on the opposite wall. In that work, a photograph diptych and video, the figure becomes lost in the watery scene, so that his head is only barely distinguishable from a buoy. Claudia Porges Beyer took up a similar visual theme with “Splendour in the Grass” (2015), which consists of a pair of Manolo Blahnik mules almost submerged in water inside a medium-sized briefcase. The brilliantly cogent surrealist object signals the near drowning of a particularly historicized sign of femininity and elevated socio-economic status.

Claudia Beyer, “Splendour in the grass” (2015), mixed-media assemblage

Installation view of the Jamaica Biennial 2017 at the National Gallery, with Nadia Huggins’s “Is that a Buoy?” (2015) at right

Phillip Thomas, “High-Sis in the Garden of Heathen” (2017), mixed media on fabric, variable dimensions

For the most part, artworks in the show simply had to hold their own space and meaning against the tumult. Some did this better than others, including Phillip Thomas’s installation “His-Sis in the Garden of Heathen” (2017), which allegedly grew from the painting at its center — an arresting portrait of a character who’s festooned with medals and has camouflaged hair like some fantasy cartoon general. I still haven’t fully figured out what relationship he has to the strip of fake grass laid down before him, along with various gardening tools such as a machete and shears, but I think about the piece days after seeing it.

Marlon James’s portrait photographs are compelling because the people in them are so odd: one has lips that are a bruised purple color and a gaze so inward, his eyes might as well be closed. I was grateful for the small oasis of quiet created by Simon Benjamin’s “Urban Beaches: FORUM IV” (2016) and have long appreciated the whimsical feel of Leasho Johnson’s work, which was displayed at Devon House. I walked by Kelley-Ann Lindo’s “Send Love Inna Barrel” (2016–17) with barely a glance, but was later told by the artist Ebony G. Patterson that it needed to be activated by two people sitting at either end of the long, continuous tube created by several barrels suspended together. She said that the sound the piece makes when two people talk to each other through it extends the metaphor of the barrel, which is often used to send food and gifts from other countries (particularly the US) to Jamaica. I do remember, as a child, getting such barrels from my father, who was in the US at the time, and being excited to taste the Juicy Fruit gum sitting atop the other goodies.

Kelly-Ann Lindo, “Send Love Inna Barrel” (2016–17) (photo by the author for Hyperallergic)

Simon Benjamin, “Urban Beaches: FORUM IV” (2016), white marl stone, gold paint on plastered plyboard, video projection

Here’s a metaphor for understanding how the biennial felt to me: During the first event I attended — a session organized to offer critiques of student portfolios — the student musicians were giving their recital right outside the rather thin wooden doors of our room, so that much of what the visual art students said was washed away by the music. Competing aims and interests and a lack of consensus on what the biennial should be and do made the exhibition similarly dissonant. Poupeye indicated to me that she wanted a familiar model: a thematically arranged or juried exhibition that displays to the international art community the work of artists from a particular geographical area, who have a specific set of concerns or sensibilities that marks them as unique. Yet right now, the Jamaica Biennial is also a way for some local, legacy artists to show every two years at the National Gallery — a boost to their pride, however this arrangement threatens, to use Poupeye’s term, to end up “looking like someone’s backyard.” Petrona Morrison, an artist with work in the show and a member of the gallery’s board, said in the weekend’s final public panel that the biennial “is trying to be all things to all people.”

Installation view of the Jamaica Biennial 2017 in a corner of the National Gallery

Senior curator O’Neil Lawrence acknowledged the problems, saying to me, “We know that it is an ugly baby … and that we birthed it.” However, the fault doesn’t lie with the curatorial team; it’s rooted in the politics compressed within the confines of the National Gallery, which are in turn inflected by the politics of the small island nation where I was born. In Jamaica the economic situation is even more desperate, more pressured than it has been in the US for almost a century. When my father left Jamaica in the 1960s, the unemployment rate in Kingston was almost 25%. Many people on the island still struggle to make a living, and in that context, cultural capital means a great deal. People contest each other for it.

Several people I spoke with, who asked not to be named given the delicacy of the situation, said that David Boxer, the National Gallery’s previous director, despised the direction Poupeye wanted to take the museum in, despite having trained her himself. Boxer allegedly stacked the board with his friends who are similarly disposed to leaving the legacy aspect of the biennial in place. I was informed that certain members of the board are actively working to make Poupeye leave her post. And so the organizers ended up with an exhibition in which some of the work by the permanently invited artists was terrible and brought down the worth of the whole show, but it was displayed alongside strong contributions by, for example, Margaret Chen, whose “Cross Section of a Curve” (2016), a sculpture of painted X-rays torqued as if caught in a tornado, cleverly evokes Louise Bourgeois.

Margaret Chen, “Cross Section of Curve” (2016), X-rays, bamboo, wood, paint, variable dimensions

Leasho Johnson, “In the Middle” (2017), Dutch pots, speakers, clay, variable dimensions (photo by Randy Richards)

The obvious question is: why is it this way? And the short answer is: Jamaica is highly political. It’s an island where status is recognized, guarded, and defended. Once, at a party in London, I was asked where I was born. I responded with the name “Half Way Tree,” a neighborhood in Kingston. I was then told that this area signified a certain set of politics: not the quietly middle-class scene of Spanish Town, where my mother lives, nor the more rough and tumble but urbane environs of New Kingston, where my father’s family now lives — but somewhere in between. Yes, even far away from the island, my birthplace is bogged down by the politics of social status.

But then change happens unexpectedly. Over the weekend, David Boxer passed away after a long struggle with cancer. As sad as that is, it might also be an opportunity. Perhaps, over the next two years, enough people who are invested in the Jamaica Biennial can forge a peace about what they want the next one to do and be.

Jasmine Thomas-Girvan, “Parallel Realities Dwelling in the Heartland of my People” (2017), mixed-media assemblage, variable dimensions, installed at Devon House

The Jamaica Biennial 2017 took place at the National Gallery of Jamaica (12 Ocean Blvd, Block C, Kingston), the National Gallery West (Montego Bay Cultural Centre, Sam Sharpe Square, Montego Bay), and Devon House (Hope Road, Kingston) from February 24 through May 28.

Editor’s note: The author’s travel and lodgings were paid for by the Jamaican Ministry of Culture, Gender, Entertainment, and Sport.

The post The Competing Politics of the Jamaica Biennial appeared first on Hyperallergic.

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