Some Words, And Some Words About Words
I've been making progress on my Into a Bar story, although in a good news/bad news kind of a way. The good news is that I've written 1,100 words! The bad news is that I've written 1,100 words, and the two characters I'm supposed to be writing about haven't even talked to each other yet. Sigh. This happens sometimes. I decide to write a particular character just to see if I can get them to talk to me, and then I can't get them to shut up. Klaus! Would you please stop chaotically interior-monologuing about the bar (and why you're in the bar, and what you're drinking in the bar, and...) and pay some goddamn attention to the dead goat-monster child in the bar with you? Most people would find that kind of interesting. Yeesh.
Ahem. Anyway, that's the state of that. In the meantime, while I'm waiting for certain fictional people to start cooperating, here's another bingo fill that is very much like a great many of my other bingo fills, although at least I maybe get to claim this one is... Seasonal? I don't think that's at all the right word, but what the heck, let's go with it.
This one, by the way, I originally thought might be a 100-word drabble, or maybe a 200-word double-drabble, but, no, it ballooned out just far enough to reach that awkward length where you can't really think of it as a full-grown fic, but can't plausibly claim you wrote it that short as some sort of artistic challenge. Maybe next time that happens, I should throw in Klaus Hargreeves to interior-monologue about booze. (Come to think of it, I probably could have, for this one...)
Title: Pride, No Fall
Fandom: Good Omens (TV)
Characters/Pairings: Aziraphale/Crowley
Summary: They do belong here.
Rating/Warnings: G, maybe bordering on PG for some very mildly lusty kissing.
Length: ~500 words
Author's Note: This was written for Gen Prompt Bingo. The prompt was "Pride," so here's a little something for Pride Month.
Pride, No Fall
"Wouldn't have thought this was your kind of thing," Crowley says, as they watch the parade winding its exuberant way through the streets. "All a bit... colorful... for your tastes, isn't it? A bit loud?"
He expects a friendly argument, an affectionate dismissal. But instead, so quietly that Crowley can barely hear him over the sound of human celebration, Aziraphale says, "It's always been my sort of thing. They called it the love that dare not speak its name, Crowley. Do you imagine I couldn't relate to that?"
"Angel..." Ironically enough, he can't seem to say any more than that. Weird. A demon's heart really shouldn't do whatever it's doing to make his throat close up like this, certainly not in response to a few simple words telling him a thing that he already knows.
"Well," says Aziraphale. He smiles, angel-bright and Aziraphale-soft, and if there's a hint of old sadness in his eyes, the happiness layered on top of it puts it to shame. "It's lovely to see them being able to speak it now."
"Yeah," Crowley manages to say. So much for the silver-tongued Serpent of Eden. But haven't they always said the most important things between them without words? Six thousand years later, and he can still feel the wing Aziraphale lifted for him in Eden spreading protectively over his head.
So he steps towards Aziraphale now, raises a hand slowly to touch his waiting face, and kisses him. Right here on a London street corner, surrounded by people, under the naked sky.
Aziraphale kisses back with a tenderness that might be almost unbearable to that undemonic thing in Crowley's heart if it weren't mercifully cut with playfulness and a hint of gratifyingly unangelic lust.
And, lo and behold, there is no smiting and no Falling. The heavens don't rain down lightning, the earth doesn't spew forth lava. In fact, next to them, someone cheers. Crowley isn't sure whether it's meant for them or not, but, even if it isn't, really, it is.
"Look at us," he says, finding his words as his lips and the angel's slide languidly apart. "Fitting right in."
Aziraphale makes a contented, agreeable noise and slides an arm around Crowley's waist, pulling him close. Cuddling him. It ought to be humiliating. Crowley doesn't give a Satanic imp's arse. He's well and truly done with "ought to be." Both of them are, now.
He leans into Aziraphale and turns his gaze back towards the humans, wave after wave of them passing by, each of them by their very presence declaring, "This is me: being who I am, loving who I love, daring to speak my name."
Maybe later, the two of them can step out and join the procession. Crowley could easily imagine himself out there strutting his stuff, maybe waving one of those flags. No question, he likes these rainbows much, much better than the first one. There may even be a promise in them he can actually believe.
This entry was originally posted at https://astrogirl.dreamwidth.org/1008295.html. Comment here or there, whichever you like.
Ahem. Anyway, that's the state of that. In the meantime, while I'm waiting for certain fictional people to start cooperating, here's another bingo fill that is very much like a great many of my other bingo fills, although at least I maybe get to claim this one is... Seasonal? I don't think that's at all the right word, but what the heck, let's go with it.
This one, by the way, I originally thought might be a 100-word drabble, or maybe a 200-word double-drabble, but, no, it ballooned out just far enough to reach that awkward length where you can't really think of it as a full-grown fic, but can't plausibly claim you wrote it that short as some sort of artistic challenge. Maybe next time that happens, I should throw in Klaus Hargreeves to interior-monologue about booze. (Come to think of it, I probably could have, for this one...)
Title: Pride, No Fall
Fandom: Good Omens (TV)
Characters/Pairings: Aziraphale/Crowley
Summary: They do belong here.
Rating/Warnings: G, maybe bordering on PG for some very mildly lusty kissing.
Length: ~500 words
Author's Note: This was written for Gen Prompt Bingo. The prompt was "Pride," so here's a little something for Pride Month.
Pride, No Fall
"Wouldn't have thought this was your kind of thing," Crowley says, as they watch the parade winding its exuberant way through the streets. "All a bit... colorful... for your tastes, isn't it? A bit loud?"
He expects a friendly argument, an affectionate dismissal. But instead, so quietly that Crowley can barely hear him over the sound of human celebration, Aziraphale says, "It's always been my sort of thing. They called it the love that dare not speak its name, Crowley. Do you imagine I couldn't relate to that?"
"Angel..." Ironically enough, he can't seem to say any more than that. Weird. A demon's heart really shouldn't do whatever it's doing to make his throat close up like this, certainly not in response to a few simple words telling him a thing that he already knows.
"Well," says Aziraphale. He smiles, angel-bright and Aziraphale-soft, and if there's a hint of old sadness in his eyes, the happiness layered on top of it puts it to shame. "It's lovely to see them being able to speak it now."
"Yeah," Crowley manages to say. So much for the silver-tongued Serpent of Eden. But haven't they always said the most important things between them without words? Six thousand years later, and he can still feel the wing Aziraphale lifted for him in Eden spreading protectively over his head.
So he steps towards Aziraphale now, raises a hand slowly to touch his waiting face, and kisses him. Right here on a London street corner, surrounded by people, under the naked sky.
Aziraphale kisses back with a tenderness that might be almost unbearable to that undemonic thing in Crowley's heart if it weren't mercifully cut with playfulness and a hint of gratifyingly unangelic lust.
And, lo and behold, there is no smiting and no Falling. The heavens don't rain down lightning, the earth doesn't spew forth lava. In fact, next to them, someone cheers. Crowley isn't sure whether it's meant for them or not, but, even if it isn't, really, it is.
"Look at us," he says, finding his words as his lips and the angel's slide languidly apart. "Fitting right in."
Aziraphale makes a contented, agreeable noise and slides an arm around Crowley's waist, pulling him close. Cuddling him. It ought to be humiliating. Crowley doesn't give a Satanic imp's arse. He's well and truly done with "ought to be." Both of them are, now.
He leans into Aziraphale and turns his gaze back towards the humans, wave after wave of them passing by, each of them by their very presence declaring, "This is me: being who I am, loving who I love, daring to speak my name."
Maybe later, the two of them can step out and join the procession. Crowley could easily imagine himself out there strutting his stuff, maybe waving one of those flags. No question, he likes these rainbows much, much better than the first one. There may even be a promise in them he can actually believe.
This entry was originally posted at https://astrogirl.dreamwidth.org/1008295.html. Comment here or there, whichever you like.