our own side

my name’s cody, i’m 27, and queer in more ways than two. despite my alleged grumpiness, i am very approachable. dm me a cool animal fact or something. i’ll send you one back.

this space is not safe for neil gaiman and believes kate beckinsale. i’m not exactly quiet about it. if you’re sensitive to this content, trust that i’ll always tag with #fuck neil gaiman and/or #fuck michael sheen as well as other more specific trigger warnings when they apply. feel free to use your filters.

feeling generous? help me afford groceries on ko-fi! i’m offering a few different things on there, but any tip is majorly appreciated.

check out my ao3 if you’re inclined. here’s what’s on there:

tysm @carry-the-sky for the tag! <3 i love this idea. i love all these games. hurray for games.

rules: find the words you were given in your wip/s. i was given light, breath, and hands. i didn’t have ANYTHING for breath that wasn’t explicit, and while i chose the tamest example, you may want to skip that one if smut is not your thing.

LIGHT

The idiot wearing a unicorn helmet stops two metres away from the sidewalk to turn and yell something unintelligible, and Crowley gives up. There’s no time for this. The Bentley growls at the stamp of his foot, and then he’s swerving around the inconsiderate git and leaving the crosswalk in the dust. If he happens to run a red light, it isn’t his fault. He has more important things to focus on.

BREATH

“Crowley,” Aziraphale breathes. A sharp pain tingles Crowley’s scalp as desperate fingers wind deeper into his hair.

With a few slow swishes of his tongue, Crowley slides back up and pauses, flicking his eyes upwards. It’s bait, really. Testosterone has done wonders for his eyelashes, and he blinks, slow and syrupy, as Aziraphale looks down at him.

“Oh, you're just lovely like this,” Aziraphale pants, already coming undone. His pupils are wide, his lips are perfectly pink and parted with his breath, and— “But I didn’t tell you to stop.”

It’s all gone as Aziraphale shoves him back down.

HANDS

It’s heavy, like an entire ocean, like a whirlpool pulling him down towards the inevitable. He’s fighting for air beneath it like an idiot, air he convinced himself he doesn’t need because he can’t, he can't need it because he cannot have it, it’s too far out of reach. It’s always been too far.

His chest is heaving with the effort anyways. His lungs are straining but he can’t breathe, and his hands are clammy and his heart is pounding and maybe he is dying actually, maybe desire is finally consuming him. You can’t kill need without want growing bigger, hungrier, and Crowley’s only grown more ravenous as he starved for oxygen.