Open To Anyone For Anything RP Post 2
Nov. 11th, 2018 03:46 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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faemused
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Leave a starter, or leave a prompt and I'll start.
Brilliant ideas and clueless flailing all welcome.
AUs and cross-canon, drama and comedy and shipping.
Just throw stuff at me. It's all good.
Good. Crowley needs one. Badly. This is going even worse for him/them than I'd first intended. Oops.
Date: 2020-04-14 11:11 pm (UTC)He giggles, looks back at Aziraphale, paying absolutely no attention to where they're going or what his feet are doing. "Tried to bless 'im," he says, voice lowered to a confidential tone. "But missed! Got a chair instead. Holiest chair in all of Seville, now. Torquemada thinks it's his seat that's holy, but nope. That chair, in the cantina. Officially the holiest."
His eyes go wide all at once and he stops, grabs at Aziraphale's collar to drag him to a halt. "'ziraphale," he whispers. "'ziraphale. You're a demon, you could--you can--" His fingers scrabble at the cloth, the grip of them desperate. Crowley takes a shaky breath. "Hellfire. You can make hellfire. Please? I need--I can't--"
His voice is shaking. So is he. "Please."
Heaven sucks, time to get bridal carried and washed!
Date: 2020-04-16 09:09 pm (UTC)They’ve never talked about this—the parts of their jobs and their very natures that are not only dangerous but lethal to one another—or at least not as explicitly as this. Nothing beyond warnings of imminent events beyond their control. It’s been an unpleasantness they’ve mostly been able to ignore, until now.
And Crowley is almost begging.
(Aziraphale remembers a grief that made him crave holy water, for a few terrible hours nearly a thousand years ago when God had taken his son. But Crowley had been there to share in his sorrow as he mourned Lancelot; his presence, as it always had, reminded Aziraphale that joy was still possible in the world. Seeing Crowley as distraught now as he himself was at his lowest loops cold coils of dread around his heart.)
All at once Aziraphale makes a decision. There’s a flex of power, a faint sharpness on the air as of a lightning strike nearby or a whiff of smoke, and then the building directly in front of them is Fernand’s.
“We’ll talk about it later,” he says firmly. With a flick of his wrist he asks the door to open itself, and it obliges.
Then he bends down, tucks the arm not around Crowley’s shoulders under his bony knees, and lifts him—quickly, but gently—off his feet.
“In fact,” he adds, as he shifts the angel’s slight weight in his arms, “why don’t we discuss it after you’ve had a bath?”
In this case possibly it's me who sucks, but oh well! Tender rescues are a lovely thing.
Date: 2020-04-16 10:22 pm (UTC)The sentence gets lost in a meep! as he's suddenly swept off his feet, a sensation more nauseating than uplifting (except in a strictly literal sense). He looks all at once a little more green, and stops struggling. As Aziraphale carries him through the doorway, that last word gradually sinks in. Bath. Yeah, a bath would be...would be good. Long time since he's had one. He doesn't know how long.
Crowley's fingers loosen their grip on Aziraphale's shirt, though he doesn't let go. "...okay," he says, suddenly quiescent. "Bath, yeah. That's...been a while." He shudders, turns his face towards Aziraphale's chest, closes his eyes. Inhales. Aziraphale smells good, clean and faintly perfumed with something. He'd forgotten that smell, somewhere in the haze of the past...however long.
"...you're really here?" His voice is muffled against the shirt now, even quieter than those last words. He'll wake up lying in the dust any minute now, surely, like always. But this is nice while it lasts.
Well, Heaven sucks regardless, but. ;D
Date: 2020-04-16 11:28 pm (UTC)Heedless of the alcohol-sodden stink of misery that lingers in Crowley’s matted hair, Aziraphale kisses one of the tangles just above his ear.
“I’m really here,” he murmurs, his heart twisting. “I will be even when you’re less drunk. Come on, angel. Not far to go now.”
Keeping his strides deliberate and smooth, mindful of how Crowley’s head must be spinning, Aziraphale carries him across Fernand’s empty shop. As he mounts the stairs he holds the angel a little more firmly, just to keep them both aware that he’s held safe and secure.
No arguments from me about that! ;)
Date: 2020-04-17 01:15 am (UTC)He doesn't bother to look up. It doesn't matter where Aziraphale's taking him, not in the least. It's hardly the first time he's put himself in the demon's hands, literally or figuratively. If Aziraphale wants to carry him to Australia and walk on water all the way, that's fine. So long as he doesn't wake up.
he’s also going to murder all those head lice.
Date: 2020-04-17 04:33 am (UTC)Fernand, clever fellow that he is, does indeed keep a wooden tub in his upstairs room—he’s been a go-between for a number of clandestine meetings, during his career, and people pay well for certain amenities. Being a barber of quality, he also has a selection of soaps and perfumes to hand, as well as a clean sheet in the tub, for comfort. The only thing they need now is something other than Crowley to fill the tub, but Aziraphale spots a small copper pitcher and bowl by the open door, which will do nicely for someone who has miracles at their disposal.
The door closes itself politely once they’ve crossed the threshold.
Aziraphale brushes another kiss against Crowley’s filthy hair, and as he exhales there’s a ripple of power. The seams in Crowley’s already-threadbare clothes give in to the inevitable and unravel, all at once. Scraps of fabric tumble to the floor like withered leaves, until Crowley’s as naked as a branch in winter. Another ripple, and the copper pitcher is suddenly balanced on the edge of the empty tub; it teeters and tips over, hot water gushing out in what ought to be physically impossible quantities for a pitcher of its size.
As he waits for the tub to fill, Aziraphale looks down at the angel in his arms.
He’s as grimy as any street beggar; both the disintegrating clothes and the angel’s skin leave unappealing smears on Aziraphale’s white-and-red doublet. Not to mention there are actually lice attempting to migrate from Crowley’s scalp to Aziraphale’s clothes, and a host of fleas that skitter to the floor. Hurt tightens Aziraphale’s throat, sharp and swift, almost choking off his breath for a moment.
Almost.
The water rises, and rises, and finally Aziraphale is satisfied and it stops rising. With the sort of gentleness thoroughly unbecoming of a high-ranking demon he eases Crowley into the tub; the water is hot but not scalding. He lets go of the angel only briefly, to strip off his jacket with its long red and gold slashed sleeves and toss it in a corner; the plain white linen sleeves of his shirt he rolls up past the elbow.
Then he returns to kneel by the tub, hands running down the angel’s thin shoulders and back up, scooping up a little water along the way to massage the dirt and grime off his skin.
No arguments from Crowley about *that*!
Date: 2020-04-18 05:19 pm (UTC)He has those now, has for millennia. There were a few too many awkward occassions with awkward explanations needed. Besides, over the last few hundred years with Aziraphale he's actually found opportunity to use them, on the lucky, far too short times when they've been together.
None of that on his mind at the moment, however, for all that he snuggles into Aziraphale's hold with complete trust and surrender. Even though they haven't seen each other since...fuck, he's not sure how long. Too long. Time spent apart is always too long.
Crowley knows, deep down in the parts of himself where he keeps the things that he's not thinking about just now, that...recent times...wouldn't have been nearly so difficult with Aziraphale nearby. He wouldn't have hidden in alcohol and something like madness, pulling insensibility around himself like armour. And yes, he is ashamed of himself, hates to be seen in this state by Aziraphale of all people. Aziraphale, who deserves so much better than a sodden wreck of an angel.
At the same time, there's no one he'd rather see or be seen by. Now or ever. He keeps his face buried in Aziraphale's chest, just breathing in the smell of him, the reality of it. He shivers a little as lips gently touch his head again, tries not to wonder how the demon can stand it. Can stand him, in this state.
Worse things in Hell, no doubt.
Crowley clenches his eyes shut harder, grits his teeth. Tries to concentrate on the way Aziraphale's chest rises and falls against his cheek, the support of an arm under his knees, another against his back. The gentle splashing of water nearby. The slow, careful lowering into the tub.
He could weep at the feel of the water against his skin, soft and caressing. He could weep more at the actual soft caresses of careful fingers cleaning a year's worth of dirt and grime. He tries not to, tries to just...be there. Not shaking apart, not babbling inanely, not anything. Just to rest his head on arms folded across his knees as he accepts this kindness the way he's accepted so many of Aziraphale's kindnesses.
(It's not kindness, or not just kindness. It never was. It's love, it was love as far back as Babel or even further, and he knows it. But that's a little too hard to remember just yet. Love has more weight than charity and he doesn't know yet what he can carry, now. I missed you, I missed you, I needed you, I don't know how I've managed anything without you, I've been so lost and I missed you so much...
It's too much, and the words stick in his dry throat the same way the dirt sticks to his skin, all but embedded in the pores. It will take a little time to shake them loose)
no subject
Date: 2020-04-19 07:54 pm (UTC)He knows soap would have done the job, but it would also have been far less satisfying.
With quiet care Aziraphale washes Crowley’s shoulders, his upper arms, the nape of his neck. Then he continues down the long arc of Crowley’s back, and at last he gets a really clear look at the red marks there.
At first count, once the angel bends forward to rest his head on his arms, it looks like eleven separate lines, but there’s a fainter one beside the others, one that’s already mostly a scar. Twelve lashes. Strangely, these don’t look like the work of Heavenly instruments—just the ordinary welts and cuts a human-made whip would leave on human skin.
Aziraphale thinks about the marks on his own back, marks that linger but that fade a little more every time he and Crowley meet up.
Carefully, one at a time, he washes each of the thin long wounds. And though there’s a faint background hum of noise—footsteps and voices from outside, the slosh of water, the regular tide of their own breathing—it still feels too quiet in this room. If he could play something, he would, but with both hands busy all he has is his voice.
But the thing is, humans have been finding ways of making music without singing almost from the beginning of their history.
“I was back in England a few years ago,” he murmurs, as if they’re sitting across from one another over a meal. Or lying tangled up in bed. “They’ve been writing a whole mess of poetry about Arthur, did you know? There’s an entire book about Merlin.”
Thank you for the cathartic nit death
Date: 2020-04-19 11:56 pm (UTC)Crowley's drunk and tired enough to be limp, pliant and trusting under those hands. Even when they careful trace the lines of half-healed whip lashes. He shivers, but tenses only a little, mostly with resignation. Aziraphale won't like that story at all.
He expects questions, all sorts of questions. Angry, grieved, concerned...questions, at any rate. A quiet, almost offhand remark about Arthur and poetry? That he doesn't expect. Even less does he expect the information that someone has been writing about him.
(If there's part of Crowley still doubting whether this is real or a drunken hallucination, that silences it. He wouldn't have imagined that.)
He lifts and turns his head, gives Aziraphale an incredulous look over his shoulder. "Y'r kidding."
My pleasure. Also wow the Vulgate Merlin is a thing.
Date: 2020-04-23 01:30 am (UTC)(It’s like playing the flute and watching a child look up, seeing the whisper in the melody sink in and take hold. It’s a tiny victory against the way Heaven thinks the world ought to be. It’s exactly what Aziraphale needs to keep going.)
“I’m entirely serious,” he says, still keeping his tone as light as if this is just another conversation—even as his fingertips smooth away a smear of caked-on mud from the pink edge of a lash mark. “Of course they got a lot of it wrong, or made up something they thought suitably weird when they were missing information. They think you were fathered by the forces of Hell, for one thing. Also claimed you had a hand in arranging Arthur’s conception—not personally, mind, just that you facilitated things.”
With a flick of his wrist he banishes the dirt already in the water to a back alley somewhere, leaving the bath clean again so he can continue his work.
“Though funnily enough they left out the most interesting bits. Not a word about you showing Arthur what it was like to be a sparrow. Or the arguments you’d get into with Bedivere over why potatoes have eyes.”
I've only vaugely heard of it, I admit!
Date: 2020-04-23 11:25 pm (UTC)Which is no doubt why Aziraphale chose it. Clever demon, tricking Crowley's brain into jumping off the too-worn tracks it's been stuck in.
Kind demon, talking to him as though nothing is wrong, nothing changed, letting Crowley pretend for a little bit. Crowley's smile is small and tremulous, but there. "He made a good sparrow," he says. "Good fish, too. Squirrel, now, that one was a problem."
He sighs, and shifts a little; the water sloshes against the side of the tub. "Those rumors were around even then, y'know. Plus others. One said I didn't have a father at all. Liked that one." Being more or less true. God might be called a the Father by humans but it's a rather different thing. "Not sure anyone would call me arguing with Bedivere the interesting bits of...all that."
Arthur. Christ, Crowley misses him. He misses Christ too, come to that, though it's always hard to reconcile the images of Christ everywhere with Yeshua and his unique mix of determination and selflessness.
But that, that's a thought he's had too many times, one to send him right back into that spiral, and Crowley shudders violently all at once and tries to lurch himself back on topic. "Have you got a poem?" he manages, grasping at...anything, really. "You should. Not just as a minor mention in mine, or--"
Lancelot's. He stops before he says the name, bites back a groan, would kick himself halfway to England if he could. The last, the absolute last thing he wants is to hurt Aziraphale, and reminding him of his lost son will do it. Crowley buries his face back in his arms. "... sorry. 'm an idiot sometimes, you know that."
Found a prose translation online. Arthur has like five bastard sons? And a full sister?
Date: 2020-04-25 01:13 am (UTC)“You did say you were drunk,” he replies, as fondly as if it’s a casual I forgive you, hoping he hasn’t accidentally made everything worse. “But to answer your question, they get more of my story wrong than yours, so I don’t mind being in the background.”
(That, and he’s perfectly content not attracting a great deal of attention from his supervisors as the mother of a famously good and holy knight. Not that any of them read much, or are particularly invested in human stories, but he still prefers to keep a low profile.)
Having finished with the lash marks, he moves to start washing Crowley’s upper arms—but then he pauses, his wet hands gently rubbing at the angel’s thin shoulders.
“If you lean back a bit,” Aziraphale murmurs, as gentle as if he’s offering a few crumbs to a wounded sparrow, “I’ll wash your hair for you.”
Say what?? Welp, Crowley will laugh at that when he reads it.
Date: 2020-04-25 01:51 am (UTC)Then he's rubbing, not for cleaning, that's a gesture purely for giving comfort and pleasure, and tears sting at Crowley's eyes behind his closed lids. They used to do this for each other. He'd forgotten how good it felt.
His face is still hidden in his arms, do his reaction is hidden. Probably a good thing.
"...s'got all sorts of stuff crawling in it, y'know," he says reluctantly after a minute. He's already forgotten the precise surge of power a minute ago, and even if he hadn't he's discombobulated enough to not have realised what it was for. "And it's all, all matted and...pretty awful, really. Might be better just cutting it off."
Yeah apparently Merlin is the one who advises him to get all those bastards started. Which... lol.
Date: 2020-05-01 11:21 pm (UTC)“Nonsense, darling.” It might be a minor miracle that his voice doesn’t wobble. “All the crawling things seem to have fled.(1) And Fernand’s got all sorts of interesting soaps up here. I don’t think I’d mentioned Fernand—pleasant fellow, lovely sense of humor, excellent barber. Now just... lie back a little for me?”
It’s not quite a plea aloud, though in Aziraphale’s soul it resonates like one. For so many centuries Crowley’s been the brave one, recklessly generous with his compassion; seeing him in such desperate need of the most basic comforts... it hurts, in some raw red corner of Aziraphale’s heart that has never quite recovered from the shock of being expelled from Heaven.
But he can’t sit by and do nothing. He won’t. He never has. Even if he has to start small, with the stroke of his hands and the soothing hush of his voice.
(1) For those of you wondering if head lice have their own separate Hell, yes they do, and yes it is worse than human Hell, in ways the human brain cannot fathom. Or at least this has been the case since a very specific point at the turn of the sixteenth century.
Head Lice Hell. <3 And Crowley's going "I NEVER."
Date: 2020-05-01 11:40 pm (UTC)"Fernand..." he repeats, a faint stirring of curiosity rising, dusty and stuff from disuse but never gone. "That where we are? A barber's shop?" He opens his eyes, tries to focus on Aziraphale's face. "What are you doing here? In Seville? Not--" He stops, swallows hard. "For work?"
My own tribute to the Death of Rats. ;D A’s cackling.
Date: 2020-05-02 08:48 pm (UTC)All at once, like the moment a miracle sinks in and he finds himself comprehending the syllables and shapes of a human language, Aziraphale feels understanding start to dawn. He’s been on a non-stop thwarting tour of Spain, insinuating himself between the righteous and those they would strike down, and at the holy seat of the Inquisition he’s found an angel on the verge of madness.
Aziraphale has to breathe firmly and calmly through the first stirrings of rage. Later. Not now. This won’t help him, now. It wasn’t what he needed before the Flood, or after Sodom.
“Not the way you think,” he says at last, cupping a hand to smooth water over the matted mess of Crowley’s hair. “It’s all thwarting—from nuisances all the way up to sabotage. Been all over the country making certain humans’ job much harder for them than it ought to be.”
Death of Rats approves. Crowley sulks. ;)
Date: 2020-05-02 11:58 pm (UTC)Augh I love this verse.
Date: 2020-05-03 01:17 am (UTC)“A work-sanctioned project.” It’s an easier confession to make than he’d suspected; he shifts so that his own free hand can brush at the slope of Crowley’s cheekbone. “It was initially reconaissance, but after that—well, you’d be surprised how easy it was to convince the forces of Hell that we ought to make a policy of being a thorn in the Inquisition’s side.”
Aziraphale tries for a smile, something small and hopeful.
Auughhh me too. And I didn't plan this but he's very insistent.
Date: 2020-05-03 01:40 am (UTC)Then he takes another breath, releases Aziraphale's wrist and sits up a bit straighter. "Cut my hair, would you please?" It's a thick sodden mass on his neck and back, dripping. "'m sure you could get it all, all fixed up. But I'd rather cut it. Please."
Well, might end up being good for both of them!
Date: 2020-05-04 05:13 pm (UTC)Crowley is going to be all right. Still ruinously drunk and partly filthy, but those things can change in a matter of hours. What remains unchanged, beneath the rest of the weight Crowley’s been carrying, is the glimmer of hope—however distant, however hard to reach.
Aziraphale gathers up the dripping mat of hair, begins to shape it into the closest thing to a queue he can manage.
“How short?”
It will, yeah. It'll help Crowley, which will help Aziraphale. Already is. :)
Date: 2020-05-04 06:28 pm (UTC)The word is as clipped as the subject, and his hands are firm where they rest on his folded arms. He's not shaking anymore. Still drunk--and fuck, dealing with that will be a headache of truly epic proportions however he goes about it. But not shaking. Not trying to hide, from Aziraphale's gaze or his own thoughts or anything else.
"And don't...miracle it off, after," he adds, more quietly. "Got a, there's. Something I want to do. With it." He snorts. "To it, I mean. Symbolic."
You can't live on Earth without picking up a few things about the value of symbols.
Will this turn into a bonfire of hair and commendation? :D
Date: 2020-05-04 08:06 pm (UTC)The angel smells terrible. That’ll go away too, in time.
“I won’t shave you bald,” he says at last, his voice gaining a lightness that’s only partly forced. “But I think I can manage short without resorting to that. And Fernand can neaten you up if I make a mess of it.”
Unspoken between them is the understanding that Aziraphale won’t simply get rid of the hair before Crowley can do whatever he has in mind. Aziraphale may put it aside to avoid getting tiny itchy bits of cut hair everywhere in the tub, but only as far as a nearby table, not the Mediterranean.
Yep, though I imagine A would NOT be okay with burning any part of Crowley in hellfire
Date: 2020-05-04 09:16 pm (UTC)He closes his eyes briefly, remembers why that's a bad idea at present, swallows his guilt, and looks back at the knot of wood. "Do it."
Not so much! Apologies for how late this is gaah
Date: 2020-05-09 12:47 am (UTC)“All right,” he murmurs, and gets to work.
The initial bit—hacking off all the matting—is the easiest. While he does it Aziraphale talks quietly to distract Crowley, telling him about the books he’s added to his small collection this century. On a swing back through England he’s acquired a copy of some rather delightful poetry by a fellow named Geoff Chaucer; a recent trip to China netted him a fascinating fictional account of historical events, the Romance of Three Kingdoms. The scissors tug gently at Crowley’s scalp as they disentangle him bit by bit from the weight on his neck.
Once most of the worst tangles are gone, though, Aziraphale finds himself falling quiet to concentrate. Thankfully he hasn’t had to cut close enough to the scalp to have any bald spots that need covering, but the overall effect is still pretty ragged. Admittedly it gives Aziraphale a perfect excuse to run his fingers through what’s left, and gives them both a small bubble of time to be touching in a quiet room.
Don't be silly, I know how busy your work is! *Hugs*
Date: 2020-05-10 01:23 am (UTC)Then Aziraphale quiets, runs fingers through the now-short hairs. The gentle tugging feels wonderful. Crowley closes his eyes and leans into the touch. "'ve given you a pretty shit reunion here, love," he says softly. "M'sorry."
He sighs and opens his eyes, turns to look up at Aziraphale with a small, apologetic smile. "'ll make it up to you. Might need sleep first, 'n a few gallons of one hangover cure or 'nother. But I will."
He reaches up a hand and brushes his fingers on Aziraphale's face, heedless of the water dripping from them. "Missed you." It's a whisper this time. "So much."
A might steal a lock. Just... to keep.
From:Years later when C funds out he'll wish he'd given a proper one. <3 and be cutely flustered
From:Where to? Italy to hang out with da Vinci? England? Elsewhere in Spain? Other?
From:Italy! For a bit Crowley will just be with A or sleep, but then Leo :)
From:He’s gonna do a portrait of them isn’t he :D
From:Obviously. That's canon. And Crowley will get art lessons. ;)
From:Aww yay! :D Odd question: think they’ve exchanged/will exchange feathers?
From:They haven't, or Crowley would've been holding his. Happy for them to do it later. Also A is SO good
From:They could! And yeah he’s eternally soft, especially for his snek.
From:Auuughh Crowley and I have both melted now.
From:Your demon adores you, C! <3
From:It's mutual! Thanks for putting tired angel to bed and I LOVE the bar tab folk song
From:I’ll be honest, I’ve invented quite a few folk song ideas for this verse. ;D
From:Toss lyrics my way and I'll BS a melody for them! ;)
From:OH LORD NOW I MIGHT. <3
From:BRING IT ON <3
From:God if we end up writing actual songs for this fic. I never thought I had it in me.
From:Give it a try! Could be fun!
From:We’re all going to emerge from lockdown unstoppable creative titans of weirdness
From:GOOD. Best outcome. I vote for that future timeline.
From:Btw up to you whether they rent a place or find one. ;D
From:No opinion tbh. Crowley doesn't care either. A have an opinion?
From:i think he’d probably like to rehab an abandoned one. Inspire fairy tales.
From:Sounds good. It'll give Crowley something to focus on..and they can do it together.
From:Exactly! A shared project. <3
From:That will be fun.
From:Already have some ideas. And relishing googling Tuscan countryside.
From:Auughhh yes. So beautiful.
From:(no subject)
From:I keep changing my mind about the year aaaaiiighh. Maybe 1495ish.
From:If we want historical accuracy to a degree, Leo was away from Florence till 1500
From:Torquemada dies 1498 though. Let's aim earlier, C can stay in Italy a few years after C leaves.
From:Ahh gotcha! Yeah 1495ish sounds about right then.
From:Can't wait for Crowley to tell his story. It got longer than I intended.
From:I’m excited to suffer!
From:Not suffering so much, just details. He's been there a while.
From:Excited all the same. ;D also apologies for short tag, shall we assume it’s a 2-day journey?
From:Compulsive research says more like two weeks plus. But I have ideas.
From:I suspect they’re much like my ideas on the matter. ;D
From:Very likely. =) Dunno if they've been stopping at night or changing drivers?
From:At night when it’s overcast, probably changing drivers at the border.
From:Ehhhh /handwave
From:I LIIIIIIIIIIVE
From:YOU DOOOOOOOOOOOO
From:Gabriel might get sucker punched after Armageddoesn’t
From:Watch Crowley and I not object also HELLO I MISSED YOU
From:I HAVE MISSED YOU TOO <3
From:I know I need to get back to Camelot but no brain
From:We’ll get to it! Meanwhile, a holiday and tender smut?
From:Nghhh yes please.
From:He’ll be very thoroughly taken care of. And spoiled more than a bit.
From:GOOD also vice versa.
From:Hee. Winged idiots in love. <3
From:Summary of the show tbh! Also thx for A being careful with fire.
From:He’s been a mom, he gets fire safety. ;)
From:If only more people did! Also, bog of eternal stench? ;)
From:Little bit. ;) On to Italy?
From:On to Italy!
From:Sorry this took a while but HERE WE GO
From:I did leave all the scene-setting to you! But you had clearer ideas about what A wanted =)
From:Hello from cat ownership! Benedict slept on my pillow all night <3
From:Yaaaaaay hello Benedict!! Congrats on gaining a nifty person!
From:<3 <3 My mental & physical health are already improving.
From:YAY. also A whole week late ack what is time accck
From:It’s quarantine! Time is meaningless! Have a taco!
From:Time suddenly has meaning again this week and it's WEIRD mmm tacos though
From:OKAY SO I assume we fast forward a couple weeks after this?
From:Yep that's a plan!
From:Loved this too much to let it go so how about some rainy healing
From:bring on the vavoom!
From:INITIATING VAVOOMING
From:BRING IT ON and I'll edit for Gardening Implements whatever later
From:same, idk how much metal is actually in a vihuela but WHO CARE
From:btw it's not my fault your tags are irresistible and I have to pounce on them like desserts
From:awww shucks. have some wings!
From:What I said last time, and yay wings!!
From: