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actual-changeling · 8 months

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There is a man with fire-red hair running a bookshop in Soho.

He hasn't always been the original owner, as almost all residents on Whickber Street know, but it is a fact you never bring up with him. Hiding behind a pair of sunglasses and layers of rough sarcasm, he is a shadow moving silently between shelves and plants, the Bentley parked outside seemingly more for decoration than actual use.

Previously, there had been a white-haired man with gentle eyes and a favour up his sleeves living among his books, and while he barely sold any of them, he was a pillar of the community just like the building itself. When he disappeared, an unspoken vow to never discuss the subject matter in the vicinity of the shop was made.

There is a woman with fire-red hair sitting in St. James's Park.

She feeds frozen peas to the ducks and puts the fear of God into everyone who dares to offer them bread or attempts to scare them away. The bench is hers, always empty, awaiting her arrival; sometimes she brings a bottle of wine, other times she cradles a Polaroid in the palm of her hand, and even the dark shades cannot stop the occasional tear from dripping down her cheek.

Rumours of her companion and his absence spread quickly, yet no one dares to ask, and the spies scattered around the park form a mutual understanding to avoid her.

There is a person with fire-red hair wandering the streets of London, wearing sunglasses and no coat, no matter the weather or time.

Their head is tipped back, their eyes glued to the sky, and yet they navigate through the masses parting around them with an unnatural ease. No one stops them, no one dares to ask why, and even if they did, they wouldn't offer an answer, not when they are asking themself the very same question.

When it begins to rain, they stop moving, stretching out their hands in a weak imitation of a prayer and allowing the water to seep into their clothes until they're as dark as the wet concrete beneath them.

There is a man with blinding white hair stepping out of an elevator that does not exist, and the end of the world comes with him. If someone were to listen in, they would realise that the man with fire-red hair meets him in the middle of the street, the air thick with lightning that will never find a home.

As they talk, nightingales all over London begin to sing.

#alex writes good omens #good omens #ineffable husbands #crowley #aziraphale #good omens season 2 #go2 #aziracrow #crowley x aziraphale #ineffable divorce #good omens ficlet #a little warm up improvisation

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goosetooths · 4 months

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pov aziraphale rolls his sleeves up and u see This

#good omens #gomens #digital art #ineffable husbands #crowley #aziraphale #this was a warm up but i love him #my art

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orayart · 5 months

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#those was supposed to be only doodles warm-up #the angsty took over #good omens #ineffable husbands #aziraphale #crowley #aziracrow #ineffable partners #good omens season 2 #good omens fanart #good omens 2 #fanart

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hargreevesseance · 2 months

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loki + finding comfort

#lokiedit #lokiusedit #mcuedit #lokius #loki #loki series #loki laufeyson #mobius m mobius #they're so soft and in love #my roman empire #my comfort ship #time husbands #loki falling asleep in front of mobius 10/10 no notes #their date at the world's fair??? hello??#it's got your shape #[me screaming in the background]#when mobius calls loki the god of mischief and it's so warm and fond #mobius grabbing loki like that i'm SICK #mine: gifs

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jenanigans1207 · 1 year

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I am COMPLETELY NORMAL ABOUT THIS, HAVENT COMPLETELY LOST MY SHIT AT ALL

#good omens #good omens 2 #I can’t fucking believe we finally have a date #all the waiting #and now we get to see them lean on each other #the warm tones?#im fucking deceased #I won’t survive the trailer #and I damn sure won’t survive the season #bury me now #but know I died happy #ineffable husbands

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fakemichaelsheen · 5 months

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-the bookshop-

crowley: *lounging in a chair*

aziraphale, watching him, casually: nina seems to think you're in love with someone

crowley, glances at him: oh *pauses* why?

aziraphale, raises an eyebrow: so it's true?

crowley, splutters: what? no! *waves a hand* you know what humans are like. making stuff up

aziraphale, doubtful: she seems quite convinced

crowley, rolls his eyes: yeah, well, you know me better *holds his breath* what do you think?

aziraphale: *looks at him*

crowley: *waiting*

aziraphale, sighs: I can't feel anything

crowley, relieved: well, there you are, then. if you can't feel it, I can't be in love with anyone, can I?

aziraphale, smiles briefly: I suppose not

crowley: exactly

crowley & aziraphale: ...

crowley & aziraphale: *both miserable*

#imagien if they had communication skills that good...#ineffable husbands #aziracrow #good omens #good omens 2 #muriel: hello mr fell / az: hello muriel. what brings you here today? / muriel: nothing really. I just love it here. it's so warm and cosy #az happy: oh. well that's- / muriel chuckles: you must really love your books mr fell. I haven't felt a love like this anywhere else / az:#ineffable chatfics

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valeron99 · 6 months

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First Snow.

Keep your ears in warm.

#aziracrow #ineffable husbands #crowley x aziraphale #crowly x aziraphale #aziraphale x crowley #aziraphale #crowley #good omens 2 #good omens #good omens fanart #goodomens art #go2 #go #they are so in love #keep your snake warm #winter is coming #first snow #aziraphale and crowley

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rainbowpopeworld · 7 months

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Michael Sheen: “full of edgy danger” 😇

#michael fucking sheen #welsh seduction machine #he knows what he’s doing #and sometimes that’s just being really silly #which also warms my heart #michael sheen #twitter #good omens #good omens 2 #aziraphale #gomens*#aziracrow #ineffable*#ineffable motherfuckers #ineffable husbands #good omens season 2 #go2 #good omens s2 #I miss his curls

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mickeym4ndy · 15 days

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you’re my best friend

#gallavich #gallavich edit #shameless #shameless edit #shamelessedit #gallavichedit #Mickey Milkovich #Ian Gallagher #Mickey Milkovich edit #Ian Gallagher edit #Taylor swift lyrics #you are in love #about time I made a happy one of these!!#domestic husbands #they’re married!!#letting go of the past❤️#I made the filter super warm on purpose bc it’s just supposed to warm and loving #but they might be a bit over saturated #my stuff

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inkskinned · 1 year

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being single in your late 20s & 30s is so fucking wild bc on one hand it's fun and flirty and you skip a lot of the bullshit because you know what you're looking for and you know how to spot a red flag from a mile away and you've learned to set boundaries and communicate your own and be upfront about your needs and most of the time they've learned it too - and if they haven't, you can tell after the second date that they haven't been to therapy

and every time you feel lonely and dried up and an ugly husk there's a whole community of other single people out there who are just as unhinged and want to hang out with you because they just need a plus-one like you do and you get introduced to like. people in their 60's and 70's and 80's who are all like - nope, single life is my choice and i love it and you feel warm and seen and like okay, it's not the end of the world if i'm not seeing anybody. and yeah it's hard and sometimes exhausting but part of getting better is that you do make like so many friends and do so much wild shit because you made a promise to yourself that you'll actually get out there and try shit and actually work on your hobbies and skills and friendships because to be honest in relationships you wouldn't push yourself this hard and it's actually been super rewarding because it came from you and from what you wanted

and yes of course the apps such and dating in general can suck but after one of the bad dates you go back to your apartment and call up those friends you made and make jokes about what the other person said and it rolls right off your back and you have plans for self-care in the morning. you prioritize yourself and your happiness and you really actually don't mind it, a lot of the time, unless it's like at a wedding and they're doing one of those couples-related things. most of the time it's not even a problem except when you can tell people pity you for it and you're like - i'm actually fine, babe, even without a partner i am still, like a person and yes of course it would be nice to have a partner but you have established yourself as a person and as an adult in a way that feels really hard-won and well-earned and you're protective of that and of the life you're living and honestly you're pretty happy, all things considered

and at the same time you do have to tell your father that you are single on purpose right now and that, yes, believe it or not, they're letting women be single past the age of 30 these days without burning us at the stake (can you imagine!) and you have to kind of sit pretty while people make jokes about how you're losing your marriageability and you're like, a little too old for the bars and the clubs and whatever but you do still want to go out dancing and it's like. the other day you went to a board game party and had the time of your life and then your mom calls you and says she's worried because what if you never find the one, shouldn't you be spending more time looking? and you're like - trying to balance this place where you're actually, like, perfectly okay? except you hear this thing over and over and over - oh no. that's so sad. i hope you find your lover. and you weren't really upset about it until someone suggested that you're running out of time and until someone said that it's so miserable that you live without someone to kiss and you're like why can't anyone believe that i'm genuinely happy. like. joy. like. bliss.

and then they look at you and they look at their partner and the look passes between them that says - poor thing. you're just lying to yourself about this.

#writeblr #warm up #i sat down to write something that was literally 3 sentences long oops #the alternative text post was just -#sitting my 60 yr old father down and telling him i'm single on purpose and that they're letting women actually live without a husband #(and then a picture of samson wrestling the lion)#> would have been funnier #> unfortunately turns out i have feelings

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actual-changeling · 7 months

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crowley with chronic pain that gets worse whenever he is forced to return to hell is actually so dear to me and it provides excellent angst material

as someone who had chronic migraines and headaches (not anymore luckily, getting away from my abusive parents solved a lot of issues in that regard) i know exactly how irritated and taut it makes you. the pain never goes away and it never stops hurting, at some point it simply becomes your new normal because it's either that or dying.

so crowley returns from an unplanned trip to hell after doing one good deed too many, and the first and only thing he wants after that experience is aziraphale. his angel is familiar, comfortable, and, most importantly, safe; there's no place he feels and is more protected than in the bookshop with aziraphale by his side.

at first, it's one wave of relief after the other, aziraphale hasn't said anything about his slightly unusual behaviour and silence, just brought him a cup of tea and shooed him towards the sofa. crowley is desperate for a nap, he closes his eyes and blocks out what little light still gets through his shades, every ray of sunshine a piercing knife in his optic nerve, and tries to doze off.

just that aziraphale is chatty today. very chatty. crowley loves listening to him, he really does, but hell is noisy, he is completely overstimulated, in pain, and by god he wants quiet. but he's in aziraphale's home, he's a guest, so he can't ask him to stop talking, can he?

light-headed and with increasing pain, he attempts to ignore it.

it doesn't work.

after about an hour, every muscle in his body is as tense as metaphysically possible, his head is a pulsating drum of pressure and agony, and the next time aziraphale's voice intensifies with excitement, crowley snaps.

"for FUCKS sake angel, can you shut up for one minute? please?"

he regrets it immediately. there's no need to look at him, he knows exactly which expression is spreading across aziraphale's face, and he is not going to cry, he won't, he's a demon.

crowley breathes in the silence, once, twice, three times, each inhale more shallow than the last, and then the frayed thread holding him together snaps, too.

he has miracled himself home before aziraphale can open his mouth or he can make it worse, and his flat is dark and quiet, comfortably cool, and he curls up under his sheets. tears run into his silk pillowcase, the only texture that doesn't exaggerate his migraines, and he spirals down an infinite abyss of guilt and self-hatred until he falls into a fitful sleep.

the pain of loneliness far outweighs that of his migraine, and crowley years and regrets and loves like he always does, like he always has, always will.

(if crowley had waited a moment longer, aziraphale would kneeled next to him, concerned)

(if crowley had tilted his head to look at him, his angel would have gently pressed his palm to his forehead and asked what's wrong?)

(if crowley had stayed, aziraphale would have listened to him talk about hell and the pain it causes him, and he would have understood)

(but they're not like that, are they?)

(but they could be)

#alex writes good omens #good omens #ineffable husbands #crowley #aziraphale #good omens season 2 #go2 #aziracrow #crowley x aziraphale #consider this a warm up idk #not entirely happy with it but im beating my perfectionism with a stick today

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searchingforakeythatdoesntexist · 3 months

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Please, listen to this.

Rose-tinted view

And satellites that compromise the truth

But I wanted more

With the cuts and the bruises

Touch my face

A hopeless embrace

I need to believe

But I still want more

With the cuts and the bruises

Don't close the door

On what you adore

Have faith!

It drives me away

But it turns me on

Like a stranger's love

It rockets through the universe

It fuels the lies and feeds the curse

Believe !

We could be glorious.

They are bound. For better and for worse.

To Hell, to Heaven.

To each other.

@goodomensafterdark

For pure smut, I am still warming up. But it's coming. :-p

[Previous] [Next Day] [First Day]

Don't forget to 💕/ reblog ;-)

Buy me a coffee? ♥ https://ko-fi.com/elenthya ♥

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zaacoy · 9 months

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We don't get to see them in their winter outfits enough they're so cozy I miss them :(( should draw them in these more often tbh, comfy comfy forevah

#I am a certified sucker for cozy warm winter outfits I love drawing characters all toasty and wrapped up #Tang steals Pigsy's jackets when he gets really cold and Pigsy sometimes borrows Tangs hat if his ears get too cold #They keep each other cozy too- sharing clothes AND standing as close together as humanly possible- husband behavior #They are so real to me #lego monkie kid #monkie kid #lmk #lmk tang #lmk pigsy #freenoodleshipping #lmk freenoodles #freenoodles #zaacoy art💫

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lineffability · 7 months

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Wordless, that's how it happens. How could you have put words to any of this? Six thousand years, they have talked. They've never said anything.

So why start now?

Crowley can't bear it, so he keeps his mouth shut.

Aziraphale is reading - looking down intently at his book, anyways. The tip of Crowley's shoe is pushing against his, and he has noticed. The proximity of his lanky form, almost towering, but gentler, more pliable, ready to bend to breezy whims. A soft shadow, but it doesn't reach or touch him. Not yet. Aziraphale grips his drink a little more tightly, imperceptively, holding on to the tangible reality of the warmed glass.

Sometimes, Crowley wonders what is going on in the angel's head. Ignoring him like that. Ignoring the unignorable. He stares down at him, the crown of his head. Halo, rather, no crown. He's no royalty. Halos are only holes, in the end, more nothing than structure. You can look through them, they are no shield. White curls beneath.

Maybe not so holy, after all.

No manners.

Crowley moves slowly, sinking like a broken ship towards the inevitable ocean floor, until his knee feels softness. It's not the ocean floor, not the end of the world. Another destination, a simpler one. The couch, fabric, his pants, his leg, knee against knee.

He leans over him, but sideways. No need to make it too obvious, what he is up to. For all intents and purposes, he is only resting his glass on the side table; the sort-of-accidental-semi-straddling is only something that happens as a byproduct. A by-thought. He can't see Aziraphale's face, but he knows, he knows the angel is caught up in a strategical weighing of procedure, a tug of conscience: the book and the demon. Attention to divert.

You can't ignore me, angel. You can't ignore this.

But I'm just resting my glass, resting my legs, too, beside yours.

I'll make you pay attention. Are you paying attention?

The story will have to wait.

He reaches for the book, first, takes it gently out of an immobile hand. No resistance at all. Only then does he look at his face, at last, but he's only looking at the glasses. Little round reading glasses, as senseless as the halo. Decoration. Crowley pulls them off, awkwardly with one hand only, and a handle snatches on Aziraphale's ear before he tugs it off. His legs settle more firmly on the couch, on the outside of Aziraphale's. He realizes the angel must have moved his legs to accomodate him better. But now he's still.

Aziraphale doesn't say anything, doesn't move: save his eyes. They seek his. But Crowley avoids the eyes.

Aziraphale is looking at him. He is not looking at Aziraphale.

He is ignoring Aziraphale.

But he cannot ignore the sudden intrusion of sound into the hold-your-breath-silence between them. Crowley blinks, pulls taught like a fraying rope: a clink, loud, a thud, muffled, a little trickle, almost a splash. Out of the corner of his eye, he feels the glass drop out of Aziraphale's hand. He only sees movement, not the mistake itself. Not the glass, lying empty on the carpet, nor the liquid spilling from it like feelings. Not the outcome. That comes later. He's only in the moment.

He can't concentrate on the spilled drink, he can only concentrate on the tremble of nerves and muscles he is feeling. It isn't his own body that does it. No, his body is calm. It's Aziraphale who's trembling, though it's the only movement he makes. So still, so soft. What do you want me to do? Aziraphale lets him proceed, and Crowley accepts the invitation, extended silently beneath Aziraphale's chest. The flutter of his heart. The shiver on his breath.

He wants to inspect him, study him, cease the tremble. He seizes him, ever so studiously. Tilts his head up.

What a face. So well-known, from afar and ever-up-closer, too, centuries of drawing nearer, but he finds something new to discover every time, a new kind of familar, understated beauty. No matter how many times you look up at the same night sky, does it ever cease to take your breath away? Old feelings, new feelings, but all of them warm and fuzzy and awestruck and good. So good, his angel. He doesn't need a halo to be good.

Crowley settles a hand on his lips. Soft lips, not chipped at all. Soft hair. Soft angel. Still so pliable.

At last, at last, Aziraphale moves. Crowley can't even see it - not because it's slow, but because it's out of his range of his vision, which is as fixed and immobile as Aziraphale's body has been, this whole time. He can't sway, he can't stray from his path. But he feels it: fingertips on his thigh, then fingers, a gentle pressure. A hesitant press of half a palm.

He can't look at his eyes. He can't do it.

If he does, he might stop. Might snap out of it, reconnect his body to his thoughts. Worse: he might see a hundred conflicting messages in the angel's eyes. So he doesn't. He keeps his eyes trained on his lips, and leans forward.

It tastes of oak and wood, tart first and then sharp at the back of his mouth, as he inhales. Their lips press firmly together. The pressure on his thigh is gone, but Crowley holds on to the face: he is afraid if he lets go, he might topple off the face of the earth. Or worse, the couch. And wouldn't that be undignified.

But then Aziraphale moves his lips, and Crowley moves his lips too, and the pressure of it shifts and the kiss shifts too. Crowley's thoughts, already teetering, tumble out of his head. The taste of alcohol dies away as they find something deeper, underlying, undefinable: the taste of each other.

Aziraphale's hands slowly settle back on Crowley, clutching gingerly at his back and at his hipbone. He doesn't shy away; he doesn't move their bodes closer together, either. Crowley wants to think he can hear another clink, envisions the halo dropping off his holy head, spinning on the floor before coming, finally, finally, to a rest. Only metal, now. A glow dying away. No more illusion or grandeur. Just them.

He still can't see Aziraphale's thoughts, but that's okay. That's tickety-boo. He can feel his lips, his hands.

The hands and the lips and the patches of leg are the only contact between them. But these points of contact are not to be ignored. In fact, they are ignoring everything else: the entire world.

Even sound, or the lack of it. It is still, silent, wordless. Their breaths come strained but softly, their lips make the barest of sounds. They couldn't speak even if they tried, molded together as they are. So close, and yet they could be so much closer. In body - let's not look at the spirit. We'd only be ignored.

No words pass between them. And yet.

And yet, Crowley's mouth is not shut any longer.

The angel cannot ignore that, and opens his own.

[i saw this insane art by @shoomlah and lost my mind, but hopefully not my words. you decide on that. they seized me.]

#good omens #ineffable husbands #my writing #inefficable #writing for art #if you see this i hope you like it #you rewired my brain functions #and now my hands are warmed up and ready for more words

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bug-hearted · 18 days

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head empty just thoughts about crowley ALWAYS burrowing in aziraphale's clothes.

aziraphale would just be reading peacefully when something suddenly slithers beneath her shirt and scares the shit out of her

(she gets used to it at some point. Beneath Her Clothes becomes a frequent napping spot for crowley.)

#she loves how warm and soft aziraphale is-#sorry i meant aziraphales CLOTHES.#she loves how warm and soft aziraphales CLOTHES are... nothing else #snake crowley #good omens #good omens fanart #ineffable wives #aziracrow #🐛#ineffable husbands

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cthulhusstepmom · 6 months

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"Gid we need to talk."

Well fuck.

It's far too early for a Kremy talk.

"You already spell the door shut?"

"You know I did."

With a long-suffering grumble Gideon settles further into the chair, body sore and muscles relaxed in that perfect, intoxicating, pleasure-drenched way that inevitably chases a night of questionable decisions. The mug of strong black coffee on the table in front of him steams, almost too hot even for him.

He can feel a pair of piercing yellow eyes trailing over his neck and shoulders, can feel the quiet disapproval like a stinging rash.

"She got you good hmm?"

"If she didn't her friend certainly did." Gideon chuckles, suppresses the urge to adjust the undershirt he'd slipped on as Brittany and... Courtney? Christie? (Something with a C he's about 60% sure) Had taken their leave late last night(probably early this morning but fuck if he's gonna be worried about the time). Every rouged bite and bruise flames under the fabric in a way that feels far too much like shame.

The barely there feeling of cool fingertips on his shoulder burns like a cold brand, superseding any temporary claim laid underneath in an instant.

"Any coffee left in the pot?" It's not a question, not really; even if Gideon is loathe to move away from that grounding touch he knows this is his part in the song and dance(and dancing always had been more his thing). Falling into the practiced motion he heaves himself up onto his feet to retrieve Kremy's cup from the small cupboard in the wagon, hands whipping together (the equivalent of) an americano with a splash of cream and no sugar.

In the time it takes for the cup to come together Kremy has removed his suit jacket, folded it carefully and set it on top of the rumpled covers of Gideon's cot, before placing his hat atop it and settling into the chair facing the door. Gid gingerly sets the cup on its saucer before placing it in front of Kremy and falling back into his own chair with a grunt. The other man makes a pleased sound as he takes a sip and a pleasant flame of emotion licks at the back of Gideon's brain.

"New technique?" A pair of clever yellow eyes peer over the rim of the cup.

"Working out a few bugs."

"Mmm."

Silence falls in the cozy interior and Gideon can almost pretend those lovely aches and marks didn't come from Brianna or Carrie at all, can indulge in the effortless, lasting clarity he only finds in moments like these.

"What's that bring the total to this week?"

"What total?" Playing dumb with Kremy is playing a loser's hand and he knows it. All he gets for his trouble is the unimpressed arch of a single brow. "Well I guess it depends if you're asking about encounters or headcount." He tries with a lascivious chuckle.

"Every night this week Gid! Every single night you've been tied up with some hussy or another and every day you've been waiting to do it again! You almost set the big top on fire yesterday you were so goddamn distracted!" Heat floods the tips of his ears at the memory. "I want an explanation Gid and I want one now. What the hell is going on with you?"

Now would be the time to say it, to come clean. To just tell Kremy, his boss, his friend, about the click clacking of train wheels over tracks that haunts his brain. How sometimes he can't hear his own thoughts under the bellowing whistle of a long gone steam engine. How his skin doesn't feel like it belongs to him, his body a machine for someone else's use. How good it fucking feels to find parts of himself in the core of somebody else, working for his own pleasure and dragging them along with him right up to the brink. How those primal sounds of skin on skin solidify that he's not just another cog in an infernal machine, forever toiling until he's sucked dry and spit out. How even then it's not always enough, that it's these quiet moments, devising more and more intricate ways to get the perfect cup of coffee that he doesn't even enjoy, sitting at his little table so close their legs have to touch, riding at the head of the caravan directing the horses while Kremy ticks boxes and traces routes on maps at his side, these small quiet moments that quiet his brain more than a month of one night stands and empty touches ever could.

"You know I'm fine with your proclivities, Gods knows you've earned it." A small part of his brain purrs. "But something's obviously bothering you and that's not something I can stand." And just like that he's pierced on a golden stake, feeling those eyes slice him into delicate layers and pick through them at their own leisure.

But Kremy doesn't rush him, never has, just sits serenely and allows him to fiddle with his words, fine tuning his meaning to the best of his abilities.

Now would be the time to say it.

"Remember when you offered me my own wagon?"

A look of mild surprise crosses a reptilian face. "Vaguely."

Gideon nods, letting the word hang on the air, intermingling with the smell of over engineered coffee.

Finally:

" Would you be open to rooming together again?"

The frown that crosses Kremy's features pierces between all the whirring mechanical bits of himself and straight into the fragile meat of his beating heart.

"Well Gid it's good of you to offer but you know I don't swing that way. You're more than welcome to keep the ladies to yourself, can have my share too while you're at it."

It takes a minute to grasp what Kremy's insinuating.

"No man! Not like that, I wouldn't do that to you, not rooming together at least. I'd just invite you here..."He pauses, grasping for the right words. "When it gets quiet... when I'm alone... it can be too... loud... in my head, s' fucked up, down, and sideways..." He trails off, looking up and searching Kremy's gaze for answers, he always has the answers.

His friend nods in understanding.

"Think I can arrange that, we'll need to rearrange the furniture and we can always use another Chow wagon." he begins muttering, turning things over in his head, organizing his thoughts like a hand of cards.

"You know I'm not too picky, I can sleep on the floor."

Kremy waves a hand absent mindedly. "There's plenty of room for two in the bed-" cutting himself off with a painful choking sound, Gideon can see a thread of panic strumming through Kremy's posture. "Of course that's a hell of a presumption, huddling for warmth is a whole different thing I shouldn't have said any-"

"So long as I get a little desk space to tinker and warm breakfast I'm satisfied." Gid shrugs. He misses sharing sleeping arrangements with Kremy, the wagons were a nice upgrade, more spacious and stable than tents and bedrolls, but they also took the few times he was able to hold close the smaller form of his partner. The privilege of feeling the cold-stiffness bleed out of his limbs and turn into languid sleep. Like cuddling the cold side of a pillow all night, a pillow that will occasionally rumble like a thunderstorm and vibrate his whole chest.

"I won't have any of your Jezebels in my bed, you want to let off that steam, fine, but not in our wagon."

Our.

"Seems reasonable enough." He smirks.

"You have yourself a deal Gid."

#kremy is absolutely a good coffee bitch #and gideon is an anything for my husband bastard #this was meant to be way more angsty but then i just felt that they've had enough trauma for a while #everyone notices that kremy(notoriously NOT a morning person) is much more pleasant in the mornings #(he's waking up all nice and warm so he doesnt need to wait for the sun to do the job)#coalecroux #kremy lecroux #gideon coal #once upon a witchlight #ouaw #legends of avantris #gideon and kremy at the front of the caravan bickering like a married couple

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