ninallthatjazz reblogged
Do you think Crowley would take Az’s name if they got married or would “Crowley Fell” be a little too on the nose?
ninallthatjazz reblogged
Anonymous asked:
Re: that the one tag you put under the Adam and Steve book comic. Crowley indeed can talk to whatever the heck he wants, including god \o/
I love the idea that Crowley’s imagination allows him to accomplish spectacular feats - simply because it never occurs to Crowley that he can’t do them.
- - - - -
I mean, of course plants don’t normally have quite so many feelings - and even if they did, they wouldn’t be quite that good at expressing them. But Crowley remembers a slithering journey through Eden, where everything, including the plants, was vivid - had just a bit more life. And so it really only takes a day - two at most - for the plants Crowley collects to fill his own imitation garden, to start acting just a bit more cognizant.
And despite what Crowley thinks, demons do not come standard issue with the ability to sense their angelic adversaries anywhere on the globe. Honestly, it wouldn’t even be fair.
It’s after Crowley witnesses Aziraphale have not one, but two near discorporations during one of the earlier religious wars (a bloody one which Crowley would really rather not remember), that it occurs to him that the world is a very large place, and that his angelic adversary could be struck down without him even knowing about it. The longer Crowley contemplates it, the more unacceptable the notion becomes - until he realizes that if he closes his eyes and really, really thinks about it, he can feel the angel’s presence flitting about, a spark of white light on a comparatively dim globe.
And so when Crowley offhandedly thinks of Aziraphale one day and senses the angel’s glowing presence in the heart of France (which was inconveniently in the midst of a very bloody revolution, by the way), he expends a month’s worth of demonic miracles in order to teleport across half the globe and into a very dark, very dreary, very angel-occupied prison cell.
And of course, when the world is ending, and Crowley needs to get to Tadfield to reach Aziraphale, he believes rather strongly that a burning Bentley with no tires left to speak of can drive just fine. And so it does.
It all really comes to a head when years later the world does end - or rather, Crowley’s world ends as the occult blade, dark and flame licked, sinks with deadly certainty beneath his angel’s left breast.
It happens during a skirmish - as Aziraphale and Crowley attempt to save humans from a celestial and demonic battle that has spilled over onto earth. In fact, Crowley doesn’t even realize it’s happened. Not at first.
He’s miracling pale, quaking children to safety, and when he finally looks up, Aziraphale is kneeling on war torn earth. Golden, celestial blood drenches his shirt, pooling around him. Aziraphale’s blue eyes burn and he has time to cast a single, agonized look toward Crowley before he goes limp, and eyes rolling back, he falls.
For an infinite moment, reality bends as Crowley circumvents the laws of space and time to catch his angel.
The battle is finished - battles between Heaven and Hell never last long. In the aftermath, a frigid silence has fallen.
And it’s too late, a part of him knows it’s too late, because Aziraphale is quiet, and cold, and so horribly empty where he rests, cradled in Crowley’s shaking arms.
But this is not a truth Crowley can accept. Because if his angel is gone - really and truly gone, then it means the universe is cold, that existence is fundamentally cruel; because Aziraphale is good, and true, and how can a universe without him in it be a part of Her supposedly great plan? Without Aziraphale nothing is great, Crowley thinks, shivering and rocking his angel. Without Aziraphale, nothing is even remotely good.
As Crowley tries to contemplate an existence without his angel, his mind stutters and stalls. He can’t conceive of it - can’t even imagine. No, he doesn’t want to. He refuses. He won’t. He won’t. He won’t. He won’t. He won’t. He won’t. He won’t-
Fine!
Fine.
Enough already.
The voice comes from everywhere and nowhere, and Her words press in, forcefully carving space for themselves within Crowley’s mind.
Just this once.
And before Crowley can contemplate the significance of Her words, a soft hand is cradling his tear stained cheek, and Aziraphale, flushed and blinking, stares up at him in wonder.
“My dear, whatever did you do?”
Crowley, bends - curling protectively, reverently around his angel who is warm, and moving, and very much alive.
“Couldn’t imagine a universe without you in it, is all,” Crowley admits, face pressed into Aziraphale’s soft hair.
“Oh,” Aziraphale breathes, and then the angel’s warm fingers are caressing him, brushing away hot tears.
A demon, armed with an abundance of imagination and just a touch of faith is, as it turns out, a power to be reckoned with -
Or - at the very least, a power worthy of annoying a kindhearted god into giving into his demands.
Just this once.
ninallthatjazz reblogged
ohziland-deactivated20230625
stupid
ninallthatjazz reblogged
And I never minded being on my own Then something broke in me and I wanted to go home To be where you are But even closer to you, you seem so very far And now I’m reaching out with every note I sing And I hope it gets to you on some pacific wind Wraps itself around you and whispers in your ear Tells you that I miss you and I wish that you were here…
[Florence + The Machine - Wish that you were here]
Remember! Sharing is caring! ;D
Close-up under the cut!
ninallthatjazz reblogged
It must be why he worries about them more than the rest of the Fellowship, in my opinion.
Pft! I’m so not crying myself while making this gifset ;w; Insomnia antics I tell you
tookbank
ninallthatjazz reblogged
asteroiddynamics-deactivated201
Friendly reminder that Sherlock still had this ring in his pocket when he was shot.
So what I want to know is, what happened to it?
I believe hospitals often give valuable personal items to friends and family to look after, so it probably would have ended up with John, who was there first.
Do you think he kept the box in his pocket, refusing to look at it? Or do you think he stared at the ring, fiddling nervously, idly circling it around his pinkie because it was the only finger that would fit…
ninallthatjazz reblogged
Sherlock AU: With John and Mary living together, it makes it easier for Sherlock to resume his drug habits.
ninallthatjazz reblogged
Bilbo wrote that song. I would image in the new headcanon that he wrote it when he was in the BOFA. Thanks Anon.
f4ndom-qu33n-deactivated2022010
jonnyluvssherlock
you can see just how much pain he’s in.
i think John thought Sherlock wasn’t interested in being a romantic or sexual relationship and he decided to move on but now that Sherlock’s acting like this John’s think it was just me. he can feel that way it was just me.
Source: weheartit.com
ninallthatjazz reblogged
spacernartin-deactivated2015100
Sometimes, they want to touch each other so badly it burns. And they can’t even meet each other’s eyes. And they clasp their hands tightly in their laps and clench their teeth and swallow hard and try to think of other things. But the need to touch never goes away.
ninallthatjazz reblogged
no you know what would have been worse than “sherlock is a girl’s name”? if sherlock had actually said “I love you” and john had said “I love you, too”, and it cut to sherlock’s face looking so hopeful and then john continued “of course I love you, you’re my best friend” and then they shook hands and the moment sherlock got on the plane his face just crumpled and he started to sob
ninallthatjazz reblogged
“Let him have the coat, officer.”
“But detective Lestrade, it’s evid—”
“He’s been through enough.”
magentablimp
gallifreyan-consulting-detective
deduction019
I HOPE DRAWING THAT MADE YOU CRY AS MUCH AS I AM RIGHT NOW.
ninallthatjazz reblogged
AU: Star Trek: Into Darkness / BBC Sherlock:
for honoring his partner, Khan took a fictional name as “John Harrison”, a compliment for John Watson; his partner who’s currently sleeping on one of the frozen “torpedo”. he asked them to release John, but they took John away from him instead.
…AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAHAHAHAHA————AHAHAHAHAAHAHAHAHAHA——-AHAHAHASH OHFUCKNO.
“Give it back.”
Khan glared at the man opposite him, the man who forced him to make the photon torpedoes in the first place. They were in the concrete cell that served as his laboratory. The two of them were seated across from each other with the stainless steel table which until recently had been his worktop between them. Behind Khan stood two Starfleet officers with their phasers set to kill.
“Why?” Admiral Marcus replied languidly.
Khan grit his teeth. “I’m not asking much,” he responded in a measured tone. “Just that one. It was the first one that I created.”
“I’m afraid we need all seventy-three,” the Admiral responded.
Khan’s mind raced with images of bashing the man’s skull in and taking the torpedo himself. He was capable of it. He even knew how to transport both himself and it to the Klingon home-world, where Marcus would never dream of following. But then what would remain for the other seventy-two? To be blown up to satisfy this little man and his thirst for blood?
“It is defective,” Khan said, banishing the images of violence. “I will make another one for you. A better one.”
The Admiral smiled and crossed over to line of pure white torpedoes that were stacked one on top of the other along the far wall of Khan’s cell. One of them sat with its rocket propulsion system firmly against the ground and its nose pointed towards the ceiling. Inside it was a sandy-haired man in a cream-colored sweater.
“You’re very clever, Khan,” Marcus said, seeming to disregard the other man’s words. He looked through the glass at the man inside the torpedo. “Couldn’t you think of some better way to save your crew than by putting them in explosives?”
“He is nothing special to you,” Khan replied, choosing to ignore the taunt. “He has a bad leg. Surely, of all of my race he would be the least threat to you.”
Admiral Marcus turned, his mouth twisted in a grimace of pure disgust. “None of us are safe until all of you are dead.”
“Then why did you wake me?” Khan snarled. “You could have killed all of us while we were in stasis.”
“I needed you. I needed what you could do.”
“You should have let me sleep,” Khan growled, rising from his chair. The two phasers pressed against the back of his skull did nothing to diminish his fury.
“You knew these were going to be used sooner or later,” Marcus continued, seemingly oblivious to the threat the other man presented. He pulled out his communicator. “Walker, take the torpedoes in Khan’s cell to Storage Bay Seven. Yes, all seventy-three of them.” He gestured with his head to the guards behind Khan. The superhuman heard the click of two phasers being set to stun. He closed his eyes and braced himself for the wracking pain of the stun rays. He felt himself fall to the floor, still conscious, but with his nerves reduced to their infancy. He opened his eyes to see the torpedo’s lid being fastened over the figure inside. “John,” he whispered.
———————
The trail of blood was going to lead them straight to him. He didn’t care. He’d just heard that one of the torpedoes had been detonated as a demonstration for the head of Starfleet. It had taken him mere seconds to kill the two guards who were keeping watch over his cell and only a few more to kill the four that guarded Storage Bay Seven. “John!” he shouted, as if the other man could hear him. He began checking the torpedoes, looking for the mark he’d made. It was designed to look like a slight slip of the hand when he had made the warhead—a single infinitesimal scratch at the very tip of the torpedo. He snarled his distaste at the red numbers and letters that had been painted on them in his absence. MC-9310. MC-9311. MC-9312. The numbers filled him with indescribable rage. But he couldn’t worry about them now. Right now he needed to find John. MC-9321. MC-9322. MC-9323. A flicker of horrible, gut-wrenching fear coursed through him as he scanned each one for his mark. MC-9344. MC-9345. MC-9346. Where was it? MC-9370. MC-9371. MC-9372.
“No.”
He checked through them a second time. And a third. By the fourth sweep, he was openly weeping. He began opening torpedoes, hoping against hope that he’d missed something—that in his hurry to find John’s he’d accidentally missed the crucial mark.
“Khan,” a voice cried from the door to the storage bay. Admiral Marcus’ voice.
Khan quickly sealed up torpedo MC-9372 and wiped away his tears.
“Khan!” the voice cried again. “We know you’re in there. If you come out quietly, we won’t hurt you.”
He stood up amongst the torpedoes. “My name,” he cried. “Is John Harrison!”
ninallthatjazz reblogged
It’s been two years, six months, and seven days since Kurt last saw Blaine in person. Since then he’s tried to remember the way Blaine’s arms had felt wrapped around him that last time, the way he’d cried into Kurt’s shoulder and whispered, so scared and broken but yet still so strong, still like that rock that Kurt has been leaning on for so long now that it’s become the solid, immovable foundation in his life, “I’m never saying goodbye to you.” Echoing Kurt’s words from years past, he’d laughed and Kurt had squeezed him tighter; he’d said, “I’m coming back home, I promise.”
And Kurt, wiping his eyes as they’d parted, smiled. It had been crooked, off-center, and somehow it hadn’t felt right; it’d been too lighthearted for the situation, for the danger both of them had known that Blaine had been going into. He’d said, swallowing hard so his voice wouldn’t wobble like a top about to fall over, “You’d better. I’ve kind of grown accustomed to calling you my husband.”
Blaine had left, and now Kurt is alone, small and shivering in an emptiness he’d long ago forgotten.
how dare you SHUT UP I'M CRYING LIKE A BABY OH MY GOD THIS IS SO SAD AND AT THE SAME TIME THE MOST BEAUTIFUL AND HAPPY STORY I HAVE EVER READ WARN A GIRL WOULD YOU