#A begrudging angel or something

[teethbomb]

I wanna. Draw

[carbonfiction]

Irrevocably mine

Worst!Wolverine x reader

summary: Sometimes you get to be too much for Logan; not emotionally, god no. Never like that.. Just the mere presence of you stirs something within him. somedays, it just gets too much, that visceral need to be enveloped by you. it makes him nothing short of desperate, worn eyes begging and pleading, unsatisfied and unhappy until he has you closer than close.

warnings: 18+ SMUT MDNI- Needy worst!Logan, f! Receiving oral, oral on couch?fingering, mentions of bodily fluids (cum and spit) cum eating?(Technically?? S' just suckin on fingers), not sure if this classes as free use?? teeny tiny bit of face slapping, swearing.. he's a little pussy drunk here i cant lie.. But uhh think thats it??

Masterlist words: little over 1.8k

Sometimes you get to be too much for Logan; not emotionally, god no. Never like that.. Just the mere presence of you stirs something within him. The mingled scent of your perfume and shampoo on the bedsheets, on his clothing, a sweet fragrance that seems to follow him around the house even in your absence.

Somedays he can quell the feelings down in his gut until its nothing more than a dull ache, like a muscle overstrained. other times it'll grow, festering in his bloodstream until his body thrums with need.

And Somedays.. Well. Somedays get too much, that visceral need to be enveloped by you. It boils over until he's nothing but desperate, worn eyes begging and pleading as he follows you around, unsatisfied and unhappy until he's inside you- has you closer than close.

Today had been one of those boiling over days. He'd felt it stir from the moment he'd awoken with you snuggled into him, head pushed so far into the crook of his neck it was a wonder you could breathe as you planted gentle kisses across his skin.

Logan pushed the feeling down as you showered together, trying his best to ignore your soapy nakedness and wandering hands, a casual intimacy, as you gently washed him and his hair the same way he always did for you.

He continued his restraint as he'd spent the majority of his day with Wade and his incessant jabbering mouth. But Logan could still feel the ache inside grow, his clothes sitting uncomfortable on his skin, even with half a mind on helping his begrudged friend "fix up a shelf"

*in other words, it was one of Wade's horrible excuse to get logan in his house holding power tools. Making lewd; only-things-wade-would-come-up-with level comments until logan would threaten to shove his claws so far down Wade's throat that he'd be classified as a kebab*

But what really pushed Logan over the edge was when he'd gotten home to the sight of you laid out on the couch reading a book while only wearing one of his flannel shirts with some panties. A usual outfit for you around the house really, but it never stopped driving him wild. The way the of the fabric framed your skin in the soft setting sunlight stirred away at him until his clothes really became uncomfortably constricting.

He needed you, needed to be beside you, above and below you. To finally let your scent consume him whole. He wanted to beg, to plead for you to use him for your pleasure. It was like witchcraft the way you rendered him so pent up by merely existing in his life, like an angel of pure sin had fallen from the sky right into his arms.

His steps were swift as he came to a stop in front of the sofa, jacket thrown haphazardly somewhere in the hall. Your eyes break from the book in your hands as yours meet his, your legs now the only barrier to taking a seat. Within seconds, Logans hands gently lift the soft expanses of your lower legs, a smile appearing on both your faces as he sits.

At first he makes no moves, tells you to keep reading while his hands just simply trace and massage patterns into your limbs, enjoying a comfortable silence. You don't seem to notice how his eyes roam hungry against your dressed form or the chubby bulge that sits heavy in his jeans.

His rough hands slowly walk higher until they find their way under the fabric of your- his- shirt, your thighs soft; doughy and warm in his large palms. And yet his moves don't alarm you, don't break your trance to the page your so taken by in that damn book.

He thinks you don't feel the way his broad body shifts you with him, subtly lowering himself to the carpet until he's practically between your legs. He thinks you don't see the look in his eyes, shining with hunger and need.

Truthfully you see it all, practically felt the growing heat of the fire inside him from the moment he walked in, but you know what he needs from you so you continue to read, letting him believe you don't know.

You make no move when his head dips down, scuffed cheeks moving up from your ankles as he plants gentle kisses. Your stillness burns the flames inside higher, craving acknowledgement, wanting to devour you, but he knows no matter how engrossed in something you are you'd stop him if you didn't want it to happen.

Logan takes his time until he's just above your knees, then, he shifts again, now fully kneeling on the carpet. Your legs placed over broad shoulders. his hands roaming, pushing up the fabric until it rests just above your pubic bone.

His thumb finds your clit over delicate cotton and lace, a teasing pressure that makes you suppress a shudder. Its calculated, barely there and absolutely not enough but it still manages to spark pleasure.

And pleasure given by Logan was like ecstasy.

But, to your surprise, itstays like that for a while; him doing nothing more than planting little nips and kisses to your thighs and lavishing his tongue along the steadily drenching gusset of fabric. Spit aiding the wetness until they press translucent against your slit.

There's a heat in your own gut that builds from his movements, one that has you relenting the little strength you had to ignore him. the exchange so far wordless. But the moment the book hits the couch and your fingers finally entangle in his hair, finding his signature tufts and tugging gently, things shift. The brown strands are soft between your fingers as he lets out a quiet groan, finally speaking up in an intoxicating rumble "gonna let me taste you properly princess? Please.. I need it, been waiting all day to taste you"

For a moment you consider denying him, tease him a little longer, but the embers that burn in his gaze stop you in your tracks. A softly murmured 'yeah' fills the air and as quick as it leaves your lips his own dip, finding the dampening fabric of your underwear and inhaling.

One heavy adamantium arm lies dormant over you, palm splayed on your lower stomach, doing little more than pressing down your hips whenever you even attempt to wriggle for more. The other switches between pawing against your covered tits and holding one of your hands tight.

You squirm under him, sticky and wet as you allow him to choose his pace. Letting him take what he needs so desperately from you, allowing him his time to conduct his main goal; to taste your cum soaked cunt on his tongue like a spoonful of the finest honey.

"Got the sweetest little pussy.. could die happy down here" his eyes make contact with yours as he speaks making you whine. Something in the way they darken when talking about your cunt sending a shooting jolt of pleasure through your veins.

Logan slips his hand from yours until it sits right on the side of your inner thigh. Fingers coming up the middle of the soggy material before he hooks them, pulling them aside and baring you fully unrestricted to him.

"There she is.." he mumbles, lips immediately finding your puffy clit and sucking softly. His tongue flicking against the pulsing bud and paired with the constant suction of his mouth it draws the littlest mewls from your lips; quiet gasps of obscenity.

He spits then, lust blown eyes locked to your puffy cunt, his thumb a steady pressure on your bud as he rubs the saliva in tight circles. A groan as he observes how your empty hole clenches around air, slick arousal mixed with spit drooling down to your ass. "Lookacha fuckin' drooling all over me already.. What a needy princess"

You don't get the chance to respond- to tease him for his own need- what with how his mouth latches back over your pussy. A jumble of sounds filling the room, half sloppy and wet from the way logan laps at you, the other mewls, moans and whimpers as the feeling of your orgasm builds in your gut.

"F-feels so good.... Don't stop, please don't"

If anyone knows how to eat pussy, its Logan. His ability to eat pussy- to eat your pussy- is beyond any man you'd ever been with. You suppose its all in the years, experience built in his time, but its not like you have the capacity to really ponder its origins right now; not with the gusto he's sucking and savoring you with.

"L-Lo.. Fuck- s-so close" you breathe, whiney moans bubbling from your chest as your back arches on the cushion. They grow in volume with each flick and lap of his tongue. Broad strokes to precise flits, all uniquely drawing you closer, winding up the tension higher.

But what really shatters you is Logans fingers. Long and thick, enough to offer a pleasurable stretch, as his index slips just below his working mouth- sliding inside with zero resistance. He crooks it back and forth once, twice, three times before the middle slips inside as well.

You moan louder, hips thrusting down; fucking yourself on his digits as you chase the ecstasy tingling through your fingertips. The grip on his hair tight, making logan grunt and grumble as you guide his face along your dripping pussy.

"C'mon princess. Do it, cum f'me. Need it" he murmurs and the way it wetly vibrates across your clit shatters the tension in your gut, making you cum with a broken gasp. Logans mouth and fingers never stopping their delicious rhythm until tears well in your eyes, fingers desperately tugging at his hair. Your thighs beginning to close around his ears before he pulls away, a deep satisfied grin spread across his face. His beard visibly wet, cum and spit soaked.

"Fuck lo.." you giggle breathless, tugging him up from the floor practically by his hair. "Always make me feel s'good baby" the words are breathy, pressed against his lips in a wet kiss, the taste of you on his tongue.

"I like making you feel good.. Do so well for me everytime" he smirks and you feel it pressed to your lips; a blush spreading from the combination of your taste and his praise.

You kiss him lewdly, sloppy and passionate as you carefully grab his hand from your pussy and tug it up, large fingers still slick and coated in a thin creamy layer of your release. You pull back then, with a soft sinful giggle, making full eye contact with him as you open your mouth, placing those fingers on your tongue, lips closing around them like they would his cock.

The sight makes logan groan, his eyes darkened so much they are almost black. His chubbed cock leaking desperately in his now far to tight jeans. You smile, His free hand lifting to tap roughly on your cheek as they hollow around the digits teasingly. "My pretty girl and her flithy mouth.. Think we should get you something else to suck on hm?"

Save me needy logan.. Save me.. Writers block is easing up a lil so i figured I'd write something I'd enjoy as a reader?? Lemme know whatcha think! <333

[moonstruckme]

And since you're such an angel, I would love some:

snow angels with doctor!remus

Thank you and please hydrate 💧

Awee you're too sweet to me, thanks for requesting lovely <3

cw: blood (not a lot? if that helps), dizziness/lightheadedness

doctor!Remus x fem!reader ♡ 686 words

Remus cups your face in his hand, brows woven together in concern. “Did you eat lunch?” he asks you. 

“Yeah.” 

“What’d you have?” He swipes his thumb gently over your cheek before leaving you, going into the nearby bathroom. 

“A sandwich.” You sound a bit defensive, which isn’t strictly fair. You know you gave Remus a bit of a fright when he came home to find you lying on the rug between the living room and the kitchen, too scared to get up. It was perhaps a tad dramatic—you could’ve walked over to the couch if you’d really wanted to, you’re sure—but you didn’t see any point in pushing yourself when you felt so dizzy and shaky on your feet. Remus has taken it as more cause for alarm than you have. 

He comes back with a blood pressure monitor and a couple of other things, setting them on the kitchen table in front of you. “That sounds fine,” he murmurs, taking your arm to slide the cuff up it. You have the sensation of swaying in your seat, but you’re not sure if it’s really happening or only in your head. “And it’s been going on for how long?” 

“Since maybe two.” You lean sideways so your head rests on his chest. Remus’ free hand comes up to hold it there gently, pinkie stroking the baby hairs by your temple as the cuff inflates around your arm. 

“You should have called me, sweetheart.” 

“I was okay,” you tell him. “I didn’t really think I was gonna pass out or anything, I just thought it’d be safer to sit down.” 

Remus’ hum conveys some disapproval, but he doesn’t seem to think it’s worthwhile to continue arguing with you. The blood pressure monitor beeps, and he leans forward to read it. 

“Hm, that’s normal.” He takes the cuff off you with a satisfying ripping sound. You curl and flex your fingers against the odd feeling. 

Remus holds your head to his chest with his free hand while he leans forward, grabbing something else off the counter. He takes your hand, but you pull it from his grasp when you see what he’s holding, sitting up. 

“Remus,” you whine. 

He chuckles at your tone. “Dove, it’ll be quick.” 

You let him take your hand again, but don’t allow him to pull it near that clicker thing. “Is it going to hurt?” you worry. 

“No.” 

You make a low, petulant sound in the back of your throat. Ordinarily you might be embarrassed for it, but you’re feeling rather self-pitying right now and entitled to some sulking. “Really?” 

“Yes, love. Relax.” 

Still feeling mistrustful, you allow him to pull your hand closer. He pricks the pad of your finger. 

“Ow—Rem!” 

“It’s okay,” Remus shushes you. “All done.” 

“That hurt,” you complain, vindicated, as he collects the bead of blood on a reader. 

“I know,” he admits. “It does, a little. But only for a second, yeah?” 

You make your displeasure known through your silence. 

“Look.” Remus takes your finger, kissing the back. “It’s better now, see?” He brings your head to his chest again, and it’s difficult to keep from softening when he kisses that, too. “Sorry, dovey.” 

“It’s okay,” you say, begrudging, only because he really does seem to feel a bit bad. 

“Mm.” He reads your blood sugar. “You’re at ninety two.” 

“Is that good?” 

“It’s normal.” Remus holds your cheek again, looking down at you and stroking pensively with his thumb. You’re not sure if he’s feeling for something or just touching you; you’re happy either way. 

He hums softly. “Do you feel tired as well?” 

“A little, yeah.” 

“Headache?” 

You tilt your head back to see him. “What’s it mean?” 

“I’ll take that for a yes, then.” His lips curve softly. “I’m not completely sure what it means yet, but I’ve got a couple of theories.” 

“Can you fix it?” you ask, though really you have complete faith. Remus always fixes it. 

He kisses your head again like he knows what you’re thinking. His lips make a soft landing just short of your hairline. “We’ll see.” 

[endless-ineffabilities]

It's not like I'm falling in love, I just want ya to do me no good (and you look like you could) (18+)

Ewan Mitchell x actress!reader

Ewan Mitchell isn't one for parties, but for you? He'd make an exception. Surrounded by stars at the GQ party, his revered muse on the big screen becomes a twisted angel in his arms—leaving him seeing stars again as he finds bliss within your warmth.

word count: 6.7k

main masterlist ▪︎ teaser

Ewan thought he could keep up the celebrity facade, just for the night at least, but the ceaseless barrage of mingling is starting to get to him.

The boo hurled at him right outside the establishment still echoes in his ears. Maybe it wasn't even about him, but his annoyance had been triggered. He decides that it all has gotten to him. What a load of bull.

He had been on the fence about being tapped as an honouree of a lifestyle magazine. Like it means anything. What does this have to do with being an actor? How is this supposed to help his craft? He might as well have been tapped to do one of those videos where he shows everyone what's in his bag.

"It's exposure," his team had chirped in unison, practically reading from a PR handbook.

This wasn't the industry he'd envisioned when he first fell in love with the craft. But none of this is about craft. It's all publicity fodder, all noise.

What he really wants—what his entire being craves—is a BAFTA, a Golden Globe, a SAG award. Hell, he would trade every glitzy dinner party invite for the faintest whiff of Oscar buzz. That was the dream.

Instead, here he is, tethered to a seat at one of four long tables, littered with stars of every calibre—from industry titans to the disposable nobodies who would be forgotten by this time next month.

He had been encouraged to make connections. Socialize. He translated this as a polite way of being told to suck up to people. Maybe a casting director would remember him. Maybe some producer would pass his name along. Easy.

Flattery will get you everywhere in this business.

But at any given time, he would much rather suck on a bloody spliff.

Leaning over to Davey, he says, "I might sneak out for a smoke or something. That's fine, right?"

Davey snickers, sensing Ewan's agitation. "Oh, if you're asking me, I say do whatever you want, mate."

But then someone from his team, straight-laced, precious Lindsay, lets him know otherwise. "Ewan, I'd advise you to sit still for now. What if they call you up some time during dinner?"

Ewan doubles down, his leg anxiously shaking under the table. "Are they going to call on me?"

Lindsay balks. She hasn't heard Ewan sound this pressed before. "Well, we weren't told but—"

"Then I can go. They wouldn't care."

"Ewan, just—"

"Sorry, Lind, but I gotta take a breather. This is all just—"

Lindsay waves him off, resigned. Ewan has always been an easy client to manage, so she can't bring herself to begrudge him this. "Fine, whatever. Just make sure to hide the cigarette if the photographer shows up."

"Sure," he mutters, not meaning it in the slightest. Nobody would care if he is spotted smoking. They should be grateful he is not among the deviants doing lines in the bathroom.

He abruptly gets up from his seat, and backs right into... you.

Of all people. Ewan feels the blood drain from his face, his breath hitching as disbelief engulfs him. His hand instinctively rises, brushing against the silken warmth of flawless skin exposed by your backless dress. The contact sends a jolt through him, and for a moment, he's certain he might pass out. You—right here, in the flesh.

You flash him a dazzling, effortless smile and murmur, "Oops, excuse me," your voice a melodic tease that leaves him utterly undone.

"Oh, no... no problem." He stammers, fully aware that he should be the one begging pardon.

You hold his gaze, ensnaring him so effortlessly. He realises how stupid he must look, with his mouth parted and his eyes wide. He should say his name. He should introduce himself, goddamnit.

But the moment shatters when someone calls your name. You step away without hesitation, and Ewan feels the loss acutely, like an unhooked fish left gasping on dry land.

Then it comes. That fucking sound.

The high-pitched squeal you let out is sharp, almost grating, but somehow it still strikes him as endearing. He'd probably hate it if it didn't come from you.

"Hi! Oh my god, how are you? I haven't seen you since our ski trip in Courmayeur!" Your voice carries, your excitement encroaching his space like an air of warmth.

Ewan follows your trajectory, his eyes trailing as you glide over to Eve Hewson. The two of you embrace like old friends, giggling like co-conspirators, your champagne glasses clinking softly.

He nearly rolls his eyes but catches himself. He knows he's being ridiculous, standing there like a sulking idiot, but the irritation bites anyway. He wants to blame the squeal, or the scene you're making, or the way you seem so goddamn comfortable in this world of chatter and pomp.

But that's not quite it.

He knows the truth, and it gnaws at him like a persistent itch he can't scratch. He's annoyed because he wanted you—your dazzling smile, your undivided attention—to be aimed at him.

He forces his feet to move, making his way down the side hall, where the din of the party fades into muffled chaos. He needs a breather, a moment to reset, but even here, your presence clings to him like static.

It's maddening.

Ewan has spent years watching you. On screens, in interviews, on magazine covers. You're like an open book he's memorised, every detail imprinted on his mind.

That birthmark beneath your right shoulder blade, briefly exposed in that love scene with Glen Powell. He remembers it, even though the camera barely lingered. The way your laugh bursts out unguarded, lighting up every corner of a room.

In one interview, you mentioned Meisner as your go-to technique, and it stuck with him. Of course you'd say Meisner, he thought at the time, like you were someone close to him, because you're all about connection, about living truthfully in the moment.

And here you are, in the same place as him, vibrant and ever so magnetic. Princess of every party, muse of the silver screen.

But you don't know him.

You didn't think you would be attending the British GQ party, but one of your Londoner friends happened to be throwing their birthday bash the night before, so you thought—why the hell not?

You were, of course, invited. Originally, the invite had been for the American GQ Men of the Year party the week prior, but filming schedules had other ideas. For the past two months, you'd been stranded in the icy landscapes of Winnipeg, immersed in the demanding shoot of David Lowery's latest thriller.

Grueling days and endless takes had left you with little energy for glamour. But now, with a few weeks off and the American crew taking a well-earned Thanksgiving break, you finally have some breathing room.

The London event seems like a perfect way to ease back into the whirlwind. And it doesn't disappoint.

The Roof Gardens is buzzing, the atmosphere heavy with the scent of expensive perfume and free-flowing champagne. You glide through it like you belong—because you do. Years of this kind of schmoozing have taught you how to navigate these waters. A charming smile here, a fleeting hug there, a bit of banter with a photographer who asks for the best angle.

You find yourself talking to your old castmate Eve Hewson near the bar, the two of you imbibing something bubbly and dry. She looks luminous as always, her dark hair framing her sharp, mischievous grin.

"Winnipeg, though?" Eve says, her tone incredulous as she leans in. "What the hell is Lowery making you do out there? Freeze to death for art?"

"Pretty much," you laugh, savouring the chill of your drink. "But it's worth it, trust me. The script is absolutely incredible. I just wish the weather wasn't trying to kill me."

"Classic Lowery. He probably thinks the suffering adds authenticity or some shit."

"Probably," you agree, rolling your eyes. For some reason, you find yourself circling back to an earlier incident.

"By the way," you say, leaning a little closer to Eve, "do you know who that guy was? The one I bumped into earlier?"

"Which guy?"

"Clip-on earring. Tall, kind of broody-looking in an overcoat? Wasn't talking much, just sort of... cruising awkwardly."

Eve shrugs, clearly drawing a blank. "I have no idea. Was he hot?"

It only takes you a second to consider this. "I mean, sure. In a tortured artist kind of way. Poor schmuck looked like he'd rather be anywhere but here."

"Oh!" Eve says, snapping her fingers. "Wait, he might be one of the honourees."

You arch a brow. "Not a goddamn influencer, right?"

Eve shakes her head. "No, don't worry. I think he's in that Game of Thrones spinoff. What's it called? House of Dragons?"

"Never saw it." You didn't have the time, truth be told. Also, the last seasons of its predecessor had been enough to edge it off your watchlist.

She taps her chin, thinking. "Wait... oh! Wasn't he that nerd in the movie with Jacob and Barry? Saltburn!"

"Oh my god. That's him? He did great in that role."

"Right? I could not have pointed him out. Kind of a chameleon, I guess."

"Guess so," you agree, the curiosity lingering.

The night unfolds exactly as expected. You exchange quips with Harris Dickinson, who flirts with you just enough to keep things interesting. You catch up with Nicole Kidman, who had been somewhat of a mentor to you when you acted alongside her in your third film at just 16. Jude Law joins your circle at one point, his charm as effortless as ever, and for a while, it feels like just another night on the circuit.

By the time you step outside into the crisp evening air, you're craving a bit of quiet. The gardens around the pavilion are softly lit, the gentle glow of fairy light casting long shadows over the manicured hedges. You pull your vape from your Loewe clutch, taking a long drag as you lean against a cold marble railing.

That's when you notice him again.

He's standing a few feet away, partially obscured by a stone pillar, a cigarette burning between his fingers. The faint smell of tobacco taints the pristine air, and you catch the same restless energy he had earlier.

You wander closer, the soft click of your heels against the stone catching his attention. He glances up, startled, as if he hadn't expected anyone else to venture out here.

"Hey," you say casually, holding your vape up as you stop beside him. "Can you hold this for a sec?"

Before he can respond, you hand him your purse, crouching slightly to tighten the strap on your heel.

He freezes, staring at the outstretched object. "Uh... sure," he relents, albeit hesitantly.

You straighten after a minute, taking the purse back with a quick "Thanks," and give him a once-over. Up close, he's sharper, more distinct. There's something remarkably intense about him that wasn't obvious before.

"I'm Ewan... Mitchell," he blurts, his words a little rushed.

You smile, tilting your head. "Nice to meet you, Ewan."

He fumbles for a response, his cigarette dangling precariously from his fingers. "I, uh, think we bumped into each other earlier. Inside."

"Yeah," you say lightly, your lips curving into a faint smirk. "I like your outfit, by the way. Very vampiric. Dior, right?"

He blinks, then chuckles softly, almost self-deprecatingly. "Yeah. Thanks. I like you too... I mean, I like... I like your dress, too."

You laugh at the accidental remark. There's something undeniably charming about him, despite his nervousness. "Why, thank you, Ewan."

The blush that creeps on his cheeks shows through the powder. He must have felt it, because he immediately trained his gaze down to his polished shoes.

Cute. So you make it your mission to break through his shell. These events tend to get repetitive after a while, but maybe tonight will be a lovely exception.

And so the game begins.

The two of you peacefully take hits of your respective choices of poison, your bubblegum-flavoured vapour melding in the air with his Marlboro red.

"You're quiet," you point out the obvious eventually, a teasing grin playing at your lips.

He almost laughs at the understatement but only shrugs. "Not much to say, I suppose."

"Oh, I doubt that." You lean against the balustrade, studying him. Ewan feels his pulse quicken under the weight of it.

You're so at ease. It's infuriatingly attractive. Your disarming allure, your grace in this world of make-believe, only deepens his self-consciousness. He knows what he must look like: an odd man out, fumbling at the edges of fame while you shine at the centre of it all.

He exhales shakily and finally replies, "Don't let me bore you."

"You're not boring me," you reassure him, before playfully adding, "Not yet at least."

There's a flicker of something unclear behind your eyes when you move closer and ask, "So what are you thinking?"

What he's thinking is that he's out of his depth, that he hasn't felt this kind of raw attraction in years—if ever. He's thinking you're the kind of woman who doesn't even have to command attention, and he's already hopelessly drawn in. But what he says is, "Just... wondering how I got here."

Your laugh is soft, rich with amusement. "To this party?"

"Or this moment."

His words surprise him, his ears burning as they register. You don't say anything, causing Ewan's nerves to spike. Did he sound too eager? Too pathetic?

But then, you smile. That damned megawatt smile that looks even better in person than on screen. "Well, it's a good place to be, isn't it?"

You lean a fraction closer, and could swear his heart is about to burst out of his chest.

"Do you always look so serious?" you ask, your gaze flicking to his lips, admiring the way they seem to be in a state of being perpetually curled. "Or is it just the brooding artist thing?"

"I'll take it if it works," he manages, his voice uneven.

"Oh, it's working," you say softly.

Ewan shifts his weight, tapping the cigarette against the edge of the balustrade. "Sorry, I just... I don't get it. These things. Everyone pretending they know everyone, like it's all some bloody performance."

You exhale a stream of vapour, watching it swirl into the night. He's finally opening up, and there is no way you're letting this slide. "It is a performance," you reply. "That's the point."

He shakes his head, gazing at you with a genuine softness you haven't been at the receiving end of in far too long. "But why? Why not just let the work speak for itself?"

There's something innocent in the way he says it, and it's endearing and definitely rare among your crowd. Ewan Mitchell isn't like the men you usually find at these industry events. He's no preening peacock, no walking cologne ad praying to be noticed.

There's something boyish in the way he fidgets, and yet also something undeniably grown in the way his eyes linger on you when he thinks you're not looking.

You reply, "It's so people know who you are. Why would anyone want to go see your movie if they don't give a shit about you?"

"You see, darling, that's where talent comes into play."

"Hmm, okay. But do you not know how many thousands upon thousands of aspiring actors come to LA every year just to witness the death of their dreams, because nobody gave a shit about who they are? And I'm certain that a lot of them can outact us under the table."

Ewan takes a slow drag from his cigarette, buying himself time. The way you said "us" sends a thrill through him he's desperately trying to smother. "Well," he begins, "if you're talented enough, you'll eventually catch a break. People notice, don't they?"

"Talent isn't everything," you point out. "You need to have drive."

"That I have," he counters quickly, his voice laced with quiet conviction. He wouldn't have been able to climb out of a life of near-guaranteed anonymity in Derbyshire if he didn't possess drive. There's a confidence in him now, a spark you seem to notice, judging by the faint curve of your lips.

"And charisma," you add, your smile widening, "which, clearly, you also have."

"Thank you," he says on instinct. There's a pause, just long enough for him to wonder if he's again blushing under your watchful gaze.

"And," you continue, dragging the word out with deliberate weight, "in this day and age, you need to get people talking."

Ewan exhales, the corner of his mouth quirking up. "How do I do that, superstar?"

"A big, fat scandal usually does the trick." Your voice is casual, but your eyes gleam with mischief.

"Oh, brilliant," he deadpans. His sarcasm earns him another laugh, and he feels it in his chest like a warm shockwave.

"Or... you could date someone famous. Get on the PR train."

Ewan shakes his head, his brow furrowing. "Not for me, I think."

You drift closer, eyes narrowing slightly as if you're sizing him up. "Oh really? You wouldn't get with me if you had the chance?"

The question lands like a lit match in the conversation. He swallows nervously, "Of... of course I would. But I don't want it to be manufactured."

"How would it go then?" There's no mocking in your question, no cruelty in your smile—just curiosity, maybe a touch of challenge.

He falters, betraying the battle waging between his nerves and his growing comfort in your company. "How would what go?"

"How would you, Ewan Mitchell, get me?"

His throat goes dry. He considers dodging it, turning the conversation back to you with one of the rehearsed quips he uses for interviews. But that feels cheap in the face of your boldness, so unabashed and expectant. "Well, I'd ask you on a date."

"And I'd say yes... go on."

"And we'll go to... the cinema," he says simply, and for the first time tonight, he doesn't feel like treading water.

You laugh, shaking your head. "Oh, you're such a purist."

"What's wrong with that?" he asks, a touch defensive but also playful, emboldened by your attention.

"Nothing, you tortured artist, you," you tease, your tone lilting. "And then what?"

"Then... we could grab dinner or—"

"Would you kiss me?" you interrupt, your voice low and threaded with something heavier. Most would hesitate, worrying they'd gone too far, but you're not like most people. You never have been.

"If you... if you wanted me to," he replies, his own voice rough with honesty.

"But would you want to?"

His gaze flickers to your lips for the briefest of moments before snapping back to your eyes. The words spill out of him. "I'd be a fucking idiot not to want to kiss you, darling."

Back in the pavilion, music from the DJ booth intensifies, signalling the post-dinner stage of the festivities. But the booming bass that reverberates is nothing compared to the beating of your hearts.

"On this hypothetical date... do we take it a step further?"

Ewan's thoughts run wild, and they are betrayed by the way his pupils dilate. "What do you mean?"

"I am talking about hooking up." Your words are relaxed, but the way you say them is anything but. They drip with intention, with heat, as if you're privy to the fact that he has pictured that scenario a hundred times over.

"What do you take me for?"

"A warm-blooded man who's clearly attracted to me... and who I'm also attracted to."

"You like me?" he whispers hoarsely.

Instead of answering, you close the distance, your lips brushing featherlight against his. The tentative touch sets him ablaze. When you press harder, surer, he melts into you. His hands tremble as they come up to your waist, anchoring himself in the reality of you.

"Fuck me," he breathes when you pull back, leaving him dazed. "I can't—"

"Do this?" you ask, your lips hovering over his, pulling at the fringes of his restraint.

"No... I mean, I can't believe I'm kissing you." He stumbles over his words, clearly in awe. "I love you."

It's your turn to be taken aback. "Woah, what?"

"I mean, I've loved your work," he stammers. "You inspire me as an actor, you know. I've watched you since your early days. You're fucking amazing."

"Mmm." When he allows his hand to drift along your spine, you ask, "Have you ever... fantasized about... sleeping with me?"

"I... I don't—"

"I'm used to it. Being looked at. Thought of, in that way." There's a tinge of raw sensitivity in your admission, letting him see the real you.

Ewan wants more of it. After just a taste of who you are underneath the surface, he is left craving the rest. "Then I think you know my answer," he says.

You let out a low hum. "I know."

"You're such a goddamn liability," he murmurs, managing to sound equal parts affectionate and exasperated.

"I know that too. Come with me," you say, your tone suddenly commanding. You grab his hand, lacing your fingers through his, and tug him towards the pavilion. He follows without a shred of hesitation, his heart pounding so hard it feels like it might burst out of his chest.

The two of you weave through the edges of the party, slipping past clusters of inebriated guests until you find yourself in the dimly lit, unattended coatroom. The small space is as luxurious as the rest of the venue, the perfect backdrop for the tension threatening to explode.

The moment the lock on the door clicks shut, Ewan's restraint snaps like a taut wire. His hands cradle your face as he initiates the kiss this time, his hunger for you bleeding through every press of his lips.

The rest of the party fades away, and there is only you. He didn't care about any of it anyway.

"You are so fucking hot," he groans into the kiss. "I can't believe this is happening."

"Believe it, handsome," you purr, sliding your hands down the material of his coat.

"Are you sure about this?" His question comes out as a whisper, his forehead resting against yours, his cigarette-scented breath fanning your face.

"Ewan," you say, "get on with it before they all notice we've been gone too long."

He huffs out a nervous laugh. "The way you talk makes me think you wouldn't give a shit."

"No, I wouldn't," you confirm, your grin wicked. "They should fucking wait for us."

"You have an attitude, princess," he mutters, his fingers digging into your exposed back.

"Been told I have a big head," you joke.

He hums, before dropping a line that floors you. "Bet you have a sweet pussy, too."

Your eyes flash with amusement, drawing closer until your lips graze his Dior earring. "Wanna find out?"

"Fuckin' hell," his breath shudders out of him, "yes... yes... yes." He knew it might make him come across as desperate, as a damn simp, but he could not bring himself to give a single flying fuck. Not when you perch atop the gleaming marble edge of the table, and spread each leg out to the side, tantalisingly slow. A precious flower to be plucked, right there for the taking.

For him. He feels unworthy. He has half a mind to check the room for cameras—maybe this is all a prank. But what a lascivious, cruel prank that would be.

Is this some twisted initiation ritual into the Hollywood elite?

You trail a smooth, manicured finger along his jawline, igniting a shiver that ripples down his spine. His nerves come alive under your touch, each one crackling with electric anticipation, flipping a switch deep within him directly connected to his cock.

As he has revered you as a goddess on the silver screen all these years, he now reveres you in reality, sinking to his knees.

"Don't keep me waiting," you whisper silkily.

Ewan takes a steadying breath, before diving in. His hands lift the smooth material of your dress, revealing the sacred area between your legs, barely covered in a white sliver of a thong. You might as well have come with no underwear.

The coat suddenly feels too constricting, so he unbuttons it with a sharp motion, letting the heavy garment slide to the floor. But almost immediately, a flicker of concern crosses his face. The Dior number is a rental, and if it gets damaged, it won't be his head on the block—it'll be Davey's. With a hint of sheepishness, he retrieves it, carefully draping it over the back of an upholstered chair.

You notice the gesture, subtle but telling. He doesn’t quite belong to your world—or perhaps he does, but he moves through it without succumbing to its superficial trappings. Your friend Timothée wouldn’t have spared the coat a second glance, long since desensitized to the weight of designer labels.

But Ewan? He handles it all with a kind of quiet reverence, as if even in a borrowed piece of luxury, he remains grounded in something real.

And it only intensifies your desire for him.

There's a wanton intrigue in your eyes as you take in the bareness of his torso. His muscles are defined, but not in the off-putting gym rat kind of way. Instead, there's a natural leanness to his form—a testament to a body honed not for vanity, but for purpose.

Kneeling before you, eyes bright with awe, he gets right down to work. He pushes the fabric of your dress higher, out of his way, and you help him along, your fist bunching the skirt to one side.

"God, you're... perfect," he whispers. His palms rest on your thighs, and when his lips press to the sensitive skin just above your knee, you let out an involuntary sound that draws a low groan from his throat.

"Ewan," you breathe impatiently, unable to conceal your need for him. But he doesn't rush, dragging his mouth higher, trailing kisses along your inner thigh, his eyes fluttering closed as he savours the sensation.

He pauses just before pulling down the waistband of your thong, glancing up at you with wide, darkened eyes. "Tell me if I'm... if I'm doing too much," he says, almost shyly.

"You're not doing enough," you reply. "Keep going."

So he does. He slides the white lace down your ankles, then presses his mouth to your core, his tongue pushing between your folds with a fervour that makes your head fall back. His guttural moan is muffled as he goes down on you, the vibration of it causing heat to pool in your lower belly. You press the flat stem of your heel to the back of his head, drawing him closer.

"Fuck, Ewan," you gasp aloud, your hips rolling instinctively against his mouth as he works you over. He licks you, sloppy and desperate, his inexperience showing but somehow making it even better. He's so determined to give you pleasure, so eager to make you come undone, that he doesn't care about anything else.

He doesn't care about acting like a starved animal as he sucks on your pussy. All Ewan wishes for, in that very moment, is that you cum all over him—the sweet substance flooding his tongue, dripping down his chin, far more sumptuous than everything they have on offer in the party's banquet.

He's seen you fake an orgasm for a scene before, but this is real.

His tongue flicks over your bud, and when you cry out, he doubles his efforts. He wraps his lips around the aching nub to suck gently, then slides a finger into you, curling it just right. Adding another, he increases the pace, his fingertips pulsing into that damned spot within your walls each time.

The defined bridge of his nose is flush against your clit as he moves, augmenting your pleasure. The whole thing is messy, unrefined, and so damn good that it has you teetering on the edge in no time.

Your thighs quiver around his head, and when your orgasm crashes over you, you clamp a hand over your mouth to stifle the sound. Ewan keeps going, his tongue and fingers refusing to let up, coaxing every last shudder from you until you're trembling and gasping for air.

"Holy. Shit." You lean back on your elbows to recuperate as white spots flood your vision.

"Did I... was that... was that good?" he asks with his lips shiny and swollen, practically yearning for your approval.

"Yeah," you manage, but it escapes your lips as a small, incoherent sigh.

"Hmm? What? What was that... baby?"

Baby, he says. But with the way, he's being so sweet, so dumbstruck, he's certainly the baby in this dynamic.

"More," you give him a better answer, "C'mere." You pull him up to your level, tasting yourself on his lips. Leveraging your legs around his waist, you keep him caged in. The outline of his hardened cock presses against your pelvis, and when you grind into him, his teeth clamp down on your bottom lip.

"Aghhh, hey!"

"Shit, I'm sorry—"

"It's okay," you whisper, not letting him pull away. "I liked it. And I want more."

"Anything, baby," he promises, and the raw honesty in his tone makes your chest tighten. "Anything you want. I'll—fuck—I'll give it to you. I'm all yours."

You nod once, before he claims your lips again in a bruising kiss. One of the thin straps of your dress falls from your shoulder, and he visibly shivers in excitement at the sight of your exposed breast.

"Fuck," he sighs, his hand coming up almost hesitantly to cup you. His thumb brushes over your nipple, as he takes you in with lust-clouded eyes. He leans down and captures the flesh with his mouth, his tongue swirling around your tender peak until you're left squirming.

You reach for him, fumbling with his belt and his zipper, and he helps you, his movements even more hurried and uncoordinated than yours.

When he frees himself, you can't help but stare—his cock is long and hard, already slick with precum. The sight makes your mouth water, and when you drag your gaze back up to his face, you find him watching you, his expression somewhere between bashful and utterly wrecked.

Ewan's hair, once gelled to immaculate perfection, now lies in disarray. He'll need to borrow your comb before he dares rejoin the party. The lower half of his face bears the unmistakable traces of cum and smudged rouge, a vivid testament to the chaotic indulgences of the evening. And somewhere in the frenzy of fumbling and fondling, his clip-on Dior earring has gone astray. He feels the absence keenly, like a phantom limb, yet he resigns himself to the loss—for now, it's a dilemma best left for another moment.

"You're staring," he says, an uneasy laugh escaping him, but there's heat in his gaze, a newfound confidence grounding his nerves.

"Because I like what I see," you reply.

"Tell me if this is too much," he says, his anxiety resurfacing through the haze of lust. It's endearing—so much so that you can't help but smile.

"Ewan," you say firmly. "I want everything."

He groans faintly as he lines himself up. Carefully, he pushes into you, and the stretch is exquisite, sending a shiver rippling up your spine. You both moan, the sound echoing in the quiet of the room. He buries himself to the hilt, pausing to catch his breath, his fingers digging into your hips.

"Fuck, oh fuck," he murmurs, looking down at where your bodies meet. "Your pussy feels so good."

The compliment makes you feel something you can't pinpoint, but there’s no time to dwell on it. He starts to move, his thrusts tentative at first, testing the waters. But the whorish mewls spilling from your lips spur him on, and soon, he finds a rhythm—deep, steady, and just rough enough to leave you begging for more.

"Fuck, Ewan," you gasp, your nails scraping lightly against his back. "Yeah... just like that."

Your words are the only encouragement he needs. His pace quickens, and his grip on you tightens as if he's about to confess that he wants to own you. He's already yours, so it's only fair, isn't it?

He's spent years fantasizing about how your pussy would feel, squeezing his cock like a goddamn vice, and he's happy to find out that his imagination is nothing compared to the real thing.

"So sexy, baby," he mutters, his voice muffled as he nips at your neck. "Better than I ever—" He cuts himself off with a groan, his teeth grazing your skin.

You raise your legs higher up his torso to draw him deeper. The angle sends a bolt of pleasure through you, and your moans grow louder despite your attempts to keep quiet.

Then, suddenly, the doorknob rattles.

Both of you freeze, Ewan still buried deep inside your fleshy walls, his eyes wide with panic. The sound of a familiar voice seeps through the door, followed by a frustrated sigh.

"Where the hell did I leave my phone?" It's your friend, Florence Pugh. Her voice is unmistakable, and the realisation makes your stomach drop.

Ewan’s lips form a silent oh my God. You bite back a laugh, pressing a hand over your mouth as Florence jiggles the doorknob again.

"Seriously?" she mutters. "Locked? For fuck's sake."

You hear her footsteps retreat, her voice fading as she calls out to someone else. "Have you seen my phone? I swear I left it out here."

The moment the coast is clear, you both exhale in unison, the tension breaking into a mix of laughter and relief. Ewan drops his forehead to your shoulder, shaking his head. "This is insane," he whispers, though he doesn't feel a single ounce of regret.

"You're the one who couldn't keep it in his pants," you tease, rolling your hips slightly to remind him of your still-connected bodies.

His response is a low growl, and he resumes his thrusts, harder this time, filled with unfiltered desire. The near-miss only seems to have fueled him, the snap of his hips more frantic, more intense. The sound of your bodies colliding fills the room—mumbled curses, breathless moans, sticky slapping of flesh meeting flesh.

"God, you're incredible," he says, his voice strained. "I can't get enough of you."

You feel the coil in your belly tightening again, the pressure building with each thrust. Your delicate fingers dig into his shoulders, and he groans at the sensation, his cock twitching deep inside you. His rhythm falters for only a second before he recovers.

"Ewan," you gasp, your voice breaking. "I'm so close—don't stop."

"Come for me, baby," he says, his hand slipping between your bodies to find your clit. It sends you spiraling, your climax crashing over you like a tidal wave. You cry out, your body tensing and shuddering beneath him as he continues to move, chasing his own release.

He reaches up and twists your nipple, the sharp sensation making you gasp just before he comes. The sight of you—head thrown back, breast bouncing free from your designer gown, your smudged red lips parted in bliss—drives him to the brink. With a strangled growl, he slams into you one final time. His body shakes as he spills inside you, the warmth of his release flooding you completely. You both tremble in the aftermath, caught in the intensity of the moment, gasping for air, drenched in sweat and tangled in raw desire.

You blink lazily at him, a beautiful mess of tousled hair and make-up in dire need of a retouch. "Still think I'm a liability?" you ask.

"Oh, absolutely. But one worth keeping anyway."

Ewan sits in his dimly lit London apartment, the glow of his phone the only other source of light in the room. A half-empty bottle of Guinness sits forgotten on his coffee table. The screen displays your Instagram profile—your impossibly gorgeous face beaming at him from your latest post, which happens to be a professional photograph of you at the GQ party.

His finger hovers above the Follow button like it's the trigger of a detonator.

His newly-created account is laughably barren—no posts, no followers, no following. Just a desperate, last-ditch attempt to tether himself back to you, even if only digitally.

Ewan had always sworn off social media, claiming it wasn't his style, that he preferred the privacy and the mystique. Yet, here he is, spiraling, drunk on the memory of you and of that night.

The coatroom had been a blur. The attendant had returned far too soon, a flurry of apologies as Florence appeared behind her, claiming her phone from her coat pocket with a triumphant smirk.

Ewan remembers how Florence had tugged you aside, your laughter ringing out as she swiped her thumb across your lips, erasing the evidence of that kiss—or maybe just rearranging it. You had been whisked away to the ladies' room, leaving him standing there, disheveled, speechless, and utterly entranced. He hadn't even managed to get your number.

It's been days since, but he still feels the ghost of your touch, the echo of your moans, the scent of you on his skin. He's tried to focus, tried to pick up his scripts, but his mind keeps replaying the way you looked as you came.

He has even rewatched a film of yours, with special attention paid to a particular love scene. Watching it over and over, repeatedly going back to the timestamp where you're seen riding your male costar.

He felt aroused watching you. Also, incredibly fucking jealous.

"Pathetic," he mutters to himself, his finger still hovering. His thumb twitches, brushing the screen, but before he can commit to his descent into full-blown thirst, his phone buzzes violently, the vibration startling him into dropping it onto the couch.

"Shit." He snatches it back up, squinting at the screen. It's a call from his agent.

"Ewan," comes the voice on the other end, crisp and faintly incredulous. "What the hell did you do at that party?"

His heart stops for a beat. "Uh... what?"

"The party. The GQ one. The one where you disappeared for, what, an hour? Maybe more?"

Ewan's brain scrambles. "I don't—I mean, I just mingled. Like you suggested,” he stammers, his voice cracking slightly. "Why?"

"Because," the agent says, drawing out the word like it's a prize reveal, "you've been shortlisted for a chemistry test next week."

"A chemistry test?" Ewan echoes, blinking. "For what?"

"For her film," his agent says, emphasizing the pronoun like it's blasphemous not to know who you are. "It's one of those secret big-budget Hollywood projects only top actors are getting called for. We didn't submit you because—well, not to be rude, but you're not exactly on their radar for that level yet."

Ewan's heart starts pounding. He sits up straighter, gripping the phone tighter. "Wait, wait. What film? Who's—who's her?"

But he already knows the answer.

His agent drops your name, exasperated now. "Apparently she petitioned for you, Ewan. Said you'd be perfect. So what did you do?”

Ewan is stunned into silence. He leans back against the couch, a slow grin spreading across his face as the pieces click into place. You. You'd done this. You’d reached out and used your pull to bring him into your orbit again.

"What did I do?" he repeats. "Oh, nothing much. Just... made an impression."

"Well, whatever it was, it worked. Chemistry tests are next week in L.A. They'll send over the details. And Ewan," the agent pauses, lowering their voice slightly, "don't screw this up. This is huge."

"I won't," Ewan says, his tone confident now. "I promise."

When the call ends, he stares at his phone for a long moment, the grin still lingering. He glances back at your Instagram profile, his thumb poised over the Follow button again. Then he snorts, tossing the phone onto the cushion beside him.

"What's the point?” he mutters to himself, his grin turning into a full-on self-satisfied smirk. "I'll see you soon enough."

He reaches for the bottle of Guinness instead, lifting it in a silent toast to fate—or whatever it is that's tied you two together.

Something came out of all that mingling after all.

taglist: @bitchception @insideyourimagination @angels-wouldnt-help-youu @seamaiden @silverdragonfly @powpowjinxlife @starfishjellyfish5 @shellysa14 @delespresso @notsurewhattocallthisblog8888 @ninihrtss @believeinthefireflies95 @peachysunrize @darktrashsoulbear

[yanderes-galore]

I may have Yandere Alastor desperate and insane... Topo remember the last chapter where Alastor goes insane after the battle of Adam... Now imagine another reader goes looking for him and finds him in this state... Perhaps the reader tries to console (the reader has a pure soul)

Having a pure soul in Hell? Ironic. However, maybe that's why he wants yours so bad? Just going to say this, I am not the biggest fan of how this came out. This was meant to be how you're meet your yandere but Darling seems so out of place in this prompt :( I'll take feedback on this as I can probably do something better in the future.

Aftermath

Yandere! Alastor Short

Pairing: Dubious

Possible Trigger Warnings: Gender-Neutral Darling, Obsession, OOC Alastor, Manipulation, Possessive behavior, Sadism, Forced companionship (?)

Vulnerability... Alastor has always hated such a thing.

Even more so when he's driven to it.

Alastor doesn't like being vulnerable. He's used to being powerful and showing he's powerful. He likes it when people fear him.

But here he is, nearly at the brink of death because he tried to help Charlie and her friends.

Friends... How funny...

He hates this damn deal he has.

Alastor feels he's going feral as he sits in his old radio tower. It hasn't been touched in years and clearly has fallen into disrepair. Despite it all... It remains a temporary sanctuary for him to lick his wounds.

The others must be so happy... all smiles at their big victory...

Yet he's here cleaning the blood off his suit.

Alastor is used to being alone. He finds comfort in the silence of the radio tower as he listens to his own labored breathing. It's a small respite...

Until he hears footsteps.

The deer demon turns around quickly when he senses a presence in the door way. He's shaking, weak, and he hates it. The sinner in front of him looks much weaker than him...

Yet he glares anyway.

You had heard strange noises coming from the old decrepit tower. A combination of thunking and pained noises. Being curious, you entered to find out what was going on.

Only to be confronted by one of Hell's worst monsters.

"Well isn't your concern cute..." Alastor dryly comments with a laugh as he tries to be charming. "Your fear is better."

Alastor expects you to turn tail and run like most demons. He could see you quivering yet you never ran. Were you frozen in fear?

Then you snap out of it, approaching him like he's a wounded animal.

You notice his wounds and he thinks you're a fool. In fact, your behavior reminds him of Charlie and it makes him wonder just how you got into Hell. You perplex him...

Which is why he recoils with a growl when he sees you try to touch him.

"Do you need help...?" You ask and Alastor still looks unhinged when staring at you.

Help? Alastor doesn't need help. He's fine alone. But... The idea of toying with you may distract him from his pain.

"Help?" Alastor chuckles. "Geez, I never thought I'd come across such a kind sinner. You don't belong here, do you?" Alastor grins as he beckons you closer.

"You want to help, do you?" Alastor bitterly murmurs. "Fine... Entertain me, then. It will help."

Alastor originally called you over to provide him begrudging comfort. Yet as time passed and he healed, he found your soul... sickeningly sweet. It's hard to believe you'd do anything all that horrible.

Alastor is not someone who typically enjoys being vulnerable to anyone. Yet he found himself watching you as you chatted to him. He leans on his hand, ears flicking as he seems oddly calm.

If he didn't know any better, he'd think you were meant to be a fallen angel.

It's actually... Nice to be in your presence within this rotting tower.

Alastor makes dry comments or charming muses towards you, only to see you smile. He hates to admit it but his ears perk up when he sees your smile. You're charming in your own right....

Alastor doesn't let you touch him, but the idea is intriguing to him. He finds himself wondering how it would feel to have your comfort all the time. Then he thinks about that strange soul of yours...

He has an idea.

"My dear, have you ever thought of getting out of here?" Alastor hums, a large grin on his face.

"Out of this tower?"

"No, silly... Out of Hell?"

"That's... an option?"

Your curiosity is amusing yet oddly adorable as Alastor clicks his claws on the tower's metal. He nods with a chuckle, already plotting on what to do with his new toy.

"There's a new hotel a friend of mine is hosting..." Alastor continues, placing a clawed hand on your shoulder. "She says she can redeem sinners and I think you've got it in you... Want to give it a shot, doll?"

At your nod, Alastor can't help but feel giddy. It's great that you agreed so readily. You're probably so desperate to have a different afterlife...

Yet he's taking advantage of you.

"Here, take my hand, we'll work out all the details later..." Alastor encourages, holding your hand in a firm handshake before he pulls you closer. "You'll be a great new guest. I assure you, you'll be taken care of."

In reality, Alastor wants to introduce you to the new hotel in order to continue having you close. You've piqued his interest and now he finds himself wanting more. Surely you should know to not trust a charming face?

Too late now, it seems... as Alastor is already tugging you through a portal. Could you be redeemed? Maybe.

But Alastor was never going to allow that to happen... No, Alastor wants to corrupt you more...

You'll think he's helping you... You'll trust him...

Yet the second you agree to a deal with him, thinking he's just trying to help, you'll be all his and there's nothing you can do about it.

[writingsofwesteros]

inspiration for a filthy lil thought....that can maybe be an au?

Imagine post-dance, the greens win the war. Of Aegon and Helaena's three children, only their daughter remains. She grows up to be the most beautiful maiden in all the realm, she is the apple of Aegon's eye, she is Helaena's greatest comfort, who brings her some semblance of peace and comfort in the aftermath of the loss.

They call her the Golden Princess, because when the sun shines on her, her hair shines with silver and gold mixed, and all who see her are enraptured. Aegon spoils her, incessantly and Helaena does not even begrudge him this, because she spoils her not with jewels or gowns like Aegon, but with her mother's love and attention. Even her dragon, borne of Sunfyre and Dreamfyre, is silverish-gold, like her hair.

Aegon receives dozens of marriage offers every day for the hand of his jewel, and he does the same with them all. "Another proposal?" Helaena asks softly that afternoon, as Aegon's doublet, embroidered by Helaena's own hand with a gold dragon, stood out as he stood under the sunlight from the window. He nodded. Helaena picked up the letter and gently tossed it into Aegon's hearth, making him chuckle. "That once came from all the way up North," He told her. "The snow should not cover such glittering gold," Helaena said. That night the Golden Princess could not sleep, and wandered into her mother's chambers.

"Mother?" She spoke softly. "My lovebug," Helaena sat up, beckoning her daughter up on the bed. "Is something wrong?" "Sleep evades me," She whispered. "Then sleep here," Helaena cupped her cheek. Her perfect, beautiful girl, with eyes like amethyst stones, lips pouty and rosy pink, and skin soft and without blemish, like porcelain. The moonlight shining through the curtains made her daughter's nightgown transparent, and she saw her soft, supple breasts, the cool air hardening her pert little pink nipples. As she settled into bed beside Helaena, Helaena was soothed by the familiar scent of rose oils used in her daughter's hair. "Beautiful girl," Helaena whispered. "Sweet treasure." Her hands slid under her nightgown to feel her skin soft and warm. "Mother?" She whispered, her body growing hotter. How could any even think themselves worthy of her? Her little golden angel, sent from the gods to shine her light upon her and Aegon, the best of them both? No, she belonged to them, this pretty angel. "My sweet girl," Helaena whispered, feeling a slight dampness on her smallclothes. "Let Mother make you feel good. It will help you to sleep, my love."

Ever innocent, ever trusting, for she loved none like she loved her parents, she nodded, gasping softly when Helaena's fingers slipped between her folds to find her clit, sending tremors of pleasure unknown through her body. That was the hidden danger of sweet Helaena. Everyone saw her softness and her riddles and they didn't realise that was exactly what hid her darker desires so well. Her touch was soft but no less hungry. Their sweet little princess, perhaps she might give Aegon the son the council hassles him constantly for. Oh, how Helaena would adore that. But not yet- she wanted her for herself, now.

THE HOTTEST!

Oh people underestimate Helaena all the time but she's just as dark.

The sweet Princess trusts her mother's touches as she falls apart; the pleasure taking over her mind now as Helaena plays with her treasure

[wellofdean]

So...thinking about Dean and Jack...

Jack is not a child. He is NEW, but he is a cosmic being of unknowable power who was cognizant enough in the womb to save Kelly because he was still using her body as an incubator, and to show Cas a manipulative, glorious vision of his future actions specifically as they relate to Cas's desires. When he is born, he speaks English and understands peril, has the physical strength and angelic power to defend himself. He doesn't understand the world, but he is a VERY fast learner. There are a lot of ways in which children are vulnerable and need protection that simply do not apply to Jack at all. He is not a baby, physically or mentally.

Where Jack is vulnerable is in his sense of self and his identity. He is emotionally and spiritually vulnerable, and he is vulnerable to manipulation. From the first time Sam talks to him, he is asking Jack if he can re-open the rift, and Sam DOES want to use him. I don't blame Sam for that, it's a perfectly logical thing to want. Sam believes Mary might still be alive, and he wants to use Jack to go see, and hell, maybe as a weapon, too. Sam needs to believe that Jack can be good and useful to them, and he is not really honest with Jack at first. Dean is right about that.

Dean, though? Dean is completely, 100% honest with Jack in every interaction, no matter how ugly the truth. He tells Jack exactly what he thinks and feels. He has a very reasonable reaction to Jack as a still-unknown cosmic power, and Dean quite reasonably sees him as the reason Cas is dead. Dean is emotional and grieving, but he is honest. Later, as he comes to see Jack as something other than a threat, he is kind to Jack while still being honest. When he comes to love Jack, he loves him honestly. He never lies or manipulates Jack even one time until they lure him into the mal'ak box, and when they talk him into it, Dean can barely look at Jack and makes Sam do the talking, because he really just can't. Lie. To. Jack.

Jack emulates, loves and respects Dean. When Jack thinks Dean has to kill him, he understands and accepts it because he trusts Dean. I think Jack looks to Dean for an honest, clear-eyed assessment of his situation. Cas is blinded by love, Sam is more interested in utility, and Dean is being forced to sacrifice Jack, who has become his and Cas's son -- his family. If Dean can do it, Jack is willing to submit, and then DEAN CAN'T DO IT.

it makes no sense to me to apply real-world child/parent roles to them, to compare Dean with John, who was raising human children, or to think of Jack as an actual human child, and I don't blame Dean for any of it. Dean is so emotionally compromised in so many different ways and I think there is a widespread tendency to begrudge Dean his legitimate feelings when they aren't comfortable, and to apply reality-based roles to these characters who are not at all living normal lives. When it comes down to it, Dean STILL loves Jack (and Cas!) too much to kill Jack or to lie to him, even after Jack oopsie-daisy kills Mary in a moment of uncontrolled panic and has no soul and can't tell right from wrong, and can't even feel remorse. Jack is legitimately dangerous, and Dean is not wrong to try to contain that.

And, by the end of the story, when Dean is saying Jack is not family, not like Cas and Sam are, Dean has lost his compass, and we know that because he also deceives Amara, and tries to kill Sam. Dean is truly in error in those scenes, and doing the wrong things, and seriously, Dean is so good, so self-sacrificing, so full of love that I am able to forgive him a moment of error at the climax of his existential crisis. By that time, Jack is a complex character who is as heavy with grief and guilt as Dean is, and who feels the weight of the world, like Dean does, and who understands Dean.

Is Dean perfect? No. Is Jack a child? No.

I'm just going to say it: I think Dean was a good father to Jack, because what Jack needed more than anything else was honest information about who he was, what threat he posed, who loved him, and HOW to love, so that he could decide who he was and what he wants to be.

He got that from Dean.

[vidavalor]

Hello!

Very often I see criticism mounted at Aziraphale that he treats Crowley like a pet or that he lords himself over Crowley by using his angelic status, reminding him constantly that he’s a demon. Obviously Aziraphale has character flaws as much as any other character but I’ve always found those criticisms harsh (harsher then any leveled against Crowley at least) and was wondering your thoughts?

Hi there. 💕 Thanks for the ask & hope that you're having a good start to your week. There are iced tea and sugar cookies today, if you're hungry.

These people certainly don't think much of Crowley if they think he'd be madly in love with someone who treated him poorly?

Crowley and Aziraphale are as tongue-in-cheek about their use of 'angel' and 'demon' as they are about any other Heaven/Hell terms that they use. Aziraphale doesn't actually know why he's still an angel when he's done more to "thwart the will of God" than most of the demons combined. Being an angel isn't something he's especially proud of-- it's more a source of pain and confusion for him. He does not treat Crowley like a pet-- I'm not even going to dignify that lunacy with a formulated response lol-- nor does he "lord his angelic status" over him because Aziraphale doesn't believe he has a superior status to Crowley. He adores Crowley.

Words like 'demon' and 'fiend' have multiple meanings. Not even just in the sense of Crowley and Aziraphale having a hidden language-- just currently in existence in our world. A demon is someone who is also someone who is very skilled in an area. A fiend is someone who is passionate about something or very focused with a real determination towards something. If you honestly look at a scene like the one below and think that you're watching Aziraphale "lord his angelic status" over Crowley, I'm afraid you might be missing the humor:

If anyone wants meta on just how healthy they are, you can wade through the Apology Dance-centric deep dive I posted yesterday which gets into both of them being wonderfully flawed characters. There are some other posts about Aziraphale and his various Heaven traumas in the pinned post on my blog but I'd say that most recent one is probably best suited for what you're talking about.

I suspect a certain amount of silly Aziraphale hate is just young people whose nascent sexualities have been stirred up by Crowley. Clearly, they have good taste where that's concerned. Can't fault them there. 😊 This stuff isn't new-- every fandom has it. There were people who thought Scully was toxic because she didn't believe in Mulder's every wackadoodle theory when, really, it was just the young having a bit of a sexual awakening around Mulder. Not being able to see both characters in a fictional romantic partnership as flawed is usually the byproduct of being young and having a crush on one of them.

When we more fully grown people develop crushes on fictional characters, we're a bit more objective about the fact that they're all disasters, if sexy disasters. 😂 We don't begrudge the fictional characters their fictional romantic partners and are mature enough/experienced enough with life to appreciate the romance. Cut the kids some slack. Crowley's tight jeans have just gone to their heads, is all. We've all been there. One day, they'll appreciate Aziraphale for the fucking brilliant character he is and see how he and Crowley are terrific together.

[comfortless]

Syl, my lovely, please. I need to see this vision come to life through your words. Would König take his darling to the Ren Faire?🌷

VANI!!! my angel!! of course he would… König is a just a hapless knight at heart & it gives him an excuse to treat you like an actual princess! 🗡💕 i can not promise you that he will not force you to sit in his lap and play skyrim or something when you get home though…! /:

“Danke for agreeing to come,” he whispers to you once you’re out in the sprawling field, an abundance of colorful tents, partitions and others in similar dress surrounding the two of you.

It’s a lot to take in, as though you’ve been whisked away to a separate world entirely; the air smells faintly of fresh food, a bard strums a lute somewhere out in the distance, and… was that supposed to be a dragon’s roar?

König dons a veil of tightly woven chainmail, only a glimpse of his jaw visible, lined with prickly stubble. The rest of his armor leaves little glimpses of him, his thick wrist between cuff and glove, the bob of his Adam’s apple as he curls his arm around you protectively. If it were possible, he seems even larger wearing the plates of armor, far more imposing like this.

Tucked at his side, stands you in your linen bliaut, a soft woolen cloak dyed a royal blue thrown over your shoulders; a stark contrast from the shimmering and hardened armor of the knight guiding each of your steps with his arm around your waist.

König has to look at everything— marveling at the handmade objects and shiny, smithed weapons in each booth.

When you give him a quizzical glance as he ghosts his gloved fingertips over the angular blade of an exceptionally smart spear, he pauses his frantic admiration for a time to explain to you that it reminds him of one he read about once— like Odin’s Gungnir, fierce and proud. Even you take a moment to admire its craftsmanship, to which the pale blue of his eyes seems to light up; he makes the purchase without a second thought.

You find yourself enjoying the atmosphere, especially with that ever-present grin on König’s face; he’s in his element surrounded by fantasies drawn from history. It’s a nice change, seeing him so filled up with whimsy as he whisks you from tent to tent, buying you anything that catches your eye, taking your picture any chance that he gets.

You humor him, lifting your skirts a little when you pass between two of the fabric structures, hidden away from the eyes of any other grinning merchants, pretty ladies, and bellowing bards.

Seated in his lap he tells you of holy grails and swordplay tactics while feeding you from a dish on a wooden countertop, a pastry stuffed full with apple.

You only think to offer a complaint once you note the three now emptied pewter goblets of mead in front of him as König proclaims he wants to act out a proper sword fight with one of the others donning armor in the small, hastily fenced in area serving as a knight’s training yard.

(It was certainly a coincidence that the one he chose to spar with happened to be the very same man who offered you a friendly wave in passing.)

He makes a display of his swordsmanship, swift knocks and parries that leave your eyes wide as you clasp your hands over your mouth; even a prise de fer as you dig your nails into the wood of the shoddy fence. You’ve never seen him so swift, so brutal, as when he finally knocks his opponent into the dust, the sharpened edge of his blade pointed downward. Had this not all been pretend, you could imagine the bloodshed that would have occurred here.

Thankfully, König backs off, dips his head in a begrudging bow to his opponent before wandering back to you.

Your hand is pried from the fence, a kiss placed upon every knuckle as you praise his talents. He smirks, proud, and whispers to you something about how he had to show off for his lady. Even has the audacity to tell you that he would kill for you, and you knew very well it was not said entirely in jest.

When the sun finally dims and lanterns are lit, bathing the green below your boots in a soft, tangerine glow, you find yourself helping to loosen the straps of König’s armor. Poor thing had not thought to wear a proper shirt beneath, or.. perhaps, that was intentional. The sweat glistens off of him when you’ve tossed his dark top and curved metal into a heap, the curls of his chest hair sticking to pale flesh.

You rove your hand over him to dull the ache of those straps digging into his shoulders. He groans, contented as he pulls you up to your feet, leaning down just enough to kiss you, to desperately grope at your hips, your rear, before the strumming of a lute and the cheers and giggles accompanied by dancing fills your ears.

Attentions turned, you find yourself curling your hand into his, tugging him towards the feathery songs and shuffling of feet.

“We should dance,” you suggest, all giggles when you tilt your head to offer a pleading glance to him over your shoulder.

“Anything for you, meine prinzessin.”

[goblinontour]

Knives Out

he’s in the studio…

warnings: dad!alex, angst, smut, piv, arguing

word count: 6.6k

The temporary move to LA was rough. Really rough, if either of you were being honest. It wasn’t like you hadn’t anticipated the so-called adjustment period, but you hadn’t quite expected how much it would affect your little family. Poppy had always been easy going for the most part. Manageable. Or so you both thought. But this move had thrown her, and by extension, the two of you, into uncharted waters.

Alex couldn’t begin to guess what was going through her mind. He’d never experienced a move like this as a kid. He’d grown up in the same house for years, familiar streets and faces always within reach. Even if he had moved, he probably wouldn’t have remembered the details at that age anyway. But here she was, uprooted from everything she knew in London and dropped into the sprawling, sun-drenched landscape of Los Angeles. There was a certain helplessness he felt in watching her navigate this huge change.

The silver lining was that, little by little, she seemed to be finding her footing. There were signs of her adjusting, however small. For one, she now had her own separate playroom, a “luxury” they didn’t have back in London. 

Not that it made much of a difference.

The playroom, for all its shiny newness, remained largely untouched. Poppy, ever the little shadow, still followed her father into the place he’d affectionately dubbed the “Lunar Surface”. The Lunar Surface was still their shared territory. She hadn’t left his side since the move. No matter how many toys or distractions were placed in front of her, she’d always end up trailing after Alex, as if there was something in there she needed just as much as he did.

It made sense, in a way. Maybe she thought she had important business there, too. Maybe she felt it was theirs, a place not just for him to create, but for them to share.

You couldn’t help but feel a twinge of jealousy every time you saw her curling up in a corner of the room while he worked. She never followed you like that. Never clung to you the way she did him. You were the one who stayed behind when he went on tour, the one who kept everything stable and running at home when he disappeared for months or years at a time. Yet, it was him she trailed after, her little feet pattering through the hallways until she found him wherever he was.

You’d never say it out loud, of course. It wasn’t worth admitting that small, irrational jealousy. But the truth was, it stung a bit. You loved watching them together, his little mirror, absorbing every note and gesture. It was beautiful, really. Still, sometimes you couldn’t help but wonder if she followed him because she was afraid he might leave again. That’s what he did, after all. He left. For the studio, for tour, for everything that kept him him.

It was late afternoon, and the house was bathed in a warm, golden light that streamed in through the large windows. From the kitchen, you could see them: Alex, sitting cross-legged on the floor, his guitar resting in his lap, and Poppy, perched next to him, her tiny hands clumsily trying to mimic the way his fingers moved across the strings. He was teaching her some simple chord progression, his voice low and patient, while she watched him with unwavering focus.

You leaned against the counter, drying your hands on a towel, watching them from a distance. There was something so intimate about the scene that you didn’t dare disturb it. Not that you could, anyway. She seemed to have forgotten about you entirely, lost in the little world she and Alex had created, a world you weren’t a part of in that moment. 

You didn’t begrudge her for it. Not really. It was natural, the way she gravitated toward him, the way her eyes lit up every time he showed her something new. But as you stood there, arms crossed over your chest, a soft ache settled in your stomach. 

Alex didn’t think to include you. It wasn’t intentional, you knew that. He was just so absorbed in what he was doing, in that quiet bond he shared with her. But it hurt all the same, watching from the sidelines, feeling like an outsider in your own home. There was something about the way they were together that made you feel…invisible.

You sighed, shaking your head at yourself. You were being dramatic, you knew that. But the weight of it all, this move, the boxes that still littered every corner of the house, the never-ending cycle of unpacking and cleaning, taking care of her needs and making sure everything ran smoothly, it was all starting to pile up. And then there was him. Alex, waking up at noon with the excuse that he’d stayed up late working. Alex, disappearing into the studio for hours on end, as if the world outside didn’t exist. Alex, coming home and going straight back to his music, continuing whatever song or riff he’d been working on in that damn studio.

And then there was her, always at his side, laughing and playing with him as if everything were perfect, as if the house wasn’t still a mess and you weren’t silently unravelling.

It wasn’t that you didn’t understand. You knew how he worked. You’d known from the beginning that this was how it would be with him.

He had the luxury of checking out, of diving into his art whenever he felt like it, and then emerging to be the fun dad who taught his daughter guitar. You, on the other hand, had no such escape. Your days had become a blur of mundane tasks.

From the corner of your eye, you saw her little face scrunch up in concentration as she tried to press down the strings of the guitar, the way Alex had shown her. Her fingers weren’t strong enough yet, but she didn’t give up, and Alex encouraged her softly, his voice a murmur you could barely hear from the kitchen. She grinned when she got it right, and Alex’s face lit up with pride.

You should have been happy, seeing them like that. And part of you was. But another part, the part that was tired and lonely and feeling more than a little neglected, felt like crying. It wasn’t just the move or the endless responsibilities. It was him. He was here, but not really. He was present, but not with you. It was as if the two of you existed on parallel tracks.

And the two of you never quite met in the middle.

You knew it wasn’t fair to think that way. He was doing his best, in his own way. But lately, it felt like his best wasn’t quite enough for you. Not when you were drowning in everything that needed to be done, while he got to disappear and come out only for the fun parts.

You glanced over again, catching the moment when Poppy leaned into him, her head resting against his arm, completely content. He kissed the top of her head absentmindedly, fingers still moving across the strings of the guitar, and she sighed happily, lost in the moment with him.

You swallowed the lump in your throat, setting the dishrag down and turning back to the sink. It was silly, really, to feel so left out. You were part of this family too. But watching them from a distance like this, it was hard not to feel like you were slipping through the cracks, becoming a little less visible with each passing day.

You took a deep breath, trying to push away the rising frustration. There were still boxes to unpack, laundry to fold, and dinner to think about. Maybe later, when the house was quiet and Poppy was asleep, you’d talk to him about it. Or maybe you’d just let it go, like you always did.

Either way, you couldn’t help but wonder when, if ever, you’d stop feeling so alone in all of this.

The light was low by the time they finished, the last of the sunset casting long shadows across the living room floor. Poppy was yawning, rubbing her eyes with the back of her tiny hand, though she was still nestled against Alex’s side, not wanting to let go of him just yet. He seemed to have endless reserves of patience when it came to her.

With you, it was different.

He stood up, guitar still in hand, and scooped her up without missing a beat, her head resting on his shoulder, her legs dangling against his side. It was effortless, the way he held her, his lean frame barely shifting under her weight. His T-shirt was wrinkled like he’d been lounging in it all day, which he probably had been. His jeans were slung low on his hips, and the way his hair fell into his eyes, messy and unbothered, made him look like he had just rolled out of bed. 

He might as well.

Without a word to you, he carried her down the hall to her room, not even glancing back. His voice was soft, murmuring something to her that you couldn’t quite hear from where you stood. His steps were slow, measured, like he was savouring this last moment of the day with her. The light from the hallway caught the sharp angles of his face, the scruff along his jawline that he hadn’t bothered shaving, his long fingers gently brushing her back as he carried her to her room. You felt the familiar knot tighten in your stomach as you stood there, the sound of his low murmurs barely audible as he settled her in. The house was quiet, but your thoughts weren’t. 

You leaned against the counter, the edge pressing into your lower back, and stared after them. He made it look so easy. Effortless. The way he floated in and out of her life. Of your life. Like some distant planet in a lazy orbit. There when he needed to be, and gone when it suited him.

It wasn’t long before he reappeared, the soft creak of the bedroom door closing behind him. He walked back down the hall, stretching his arms above his head as if to shake off the last bit of exhaustion from the day. His shirt rode up slightly, revealing a sliver of skin above his jeans. The way the fabrics clung to him was just a reminder that it was still warm in this LA heat, and his movements were slow, like someone who had nowhere else to be and nothing else to do. He rubbed at the back of his neck, yawning, and didn’t even glance in your direction at first.

He walked into the kitchen, rubbing his jaw with one hand, the hint of stubble catching the light. “Is there anything for dinner?” he asked, his voice almost too casual, as if he didn’t notice the way you were standing there, still, waiting for something, anything, that resembled effort.

You blinked at him, a little taken aback. He didn’t seem to realise how thoughtless the question was, how it felt like he hadn’t noticed a single thing you’d been doing all day. It wasn’t about the food. It was about everything.

You stared at him, your grip tightening on the counter’s edge. There was a moment, just a flash, where you envisioned throwing something across the room at him. Maybe a plate. Maybe the whole table. Instead, you took a deep breath, trying to steady yourself, but it didn’t stop the surge of irritation from rushing through you.

“Dinner?” you repeated softly, trying not to let your frustration bleed into your voice. 

He leaned against the counter, crossing his arms over his chest, his eyebrows raised slightly as if he didn’t understand why you weren’t already moving to grab something. “Yeah. I mean, we haven’t eaten, right?”

“Dinner?” you repeated, incredulous, your voice sharper than you intended. You let the word hang in the air for a beat, watching as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other, his hands casually sliding into the pockets of his jeans. “Dinner, Alex?”

He blinked, clearly not picking up on the tone yet. He tilted his head, his brow furrowing slightly.

“Yeah, what?” His voice was soft, a little slow, a little too casual. It grated on you, that easy, laid-back way he spoke, like the question wasn’t loaded with everything you’d been bottling up for weeks. “What’s up?”

You swallowed, your eyes dropping to the floor for a second before looking back up at him. “I haven’t had a chance to make anything.” you said quietly, feeling the lump in your throat grow. “I’ve been…busy. With everything.”

He sighed, but it was subtle, more of an exhale through his nose. “Yeah, me too.” he muttered, glancing down at his hands like they’d been doing the hardest work in the world all day. 

You shook your head, letting out a humourless laugh. Me too. You wanted to slap him. Instead, you pushed away from the counter, turning to face him fully, arms crossing over your chest.

“Alex, I’ve been dealing with everything all day. You wake up whenever it suits you, waltz into the studio, and then come home like you’ve done a hard day’s work. You barely notice me, and now you’re asking if dinner’s ready?”

He blinked again, the crease between his brows deepening. “Babe, I was in the studio-”

“I know you were in the studio.” you snapped, cutting him off. “You’re always in the studio. Or with her. But never with me. I know the music’s important to you, but…”

He blinked, finally looking at you properly, but there was a slight defensiveness in his eyes. “What, you think I’m just…what? Messing around all day?” He straightened a little, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, that casual tone turning sharper. “I’m working, you know? It’s not like I’m ignoring you on purpose.”

“I didn’t say you were.” you replied quickly, but there was a tremor in your voice that you hated, like you were apologising for feeling something. “I just…I feel like I’m doing everything else. And it’s exhausting, Alex.”

His mouth twitched slightly, as if he was going to say something but decided against it. Instead, he ran his hand through his hair again, tousling it even more. “Look, I didn’t realise it was that bad.” he muttered, his voice quieter now, but still missing the point. “I thought you had it handled.”

“I do have it handled.” you shot back, a little sharper than you meant to. “But I’m tired of having it handled alone.”

He shifted uncomfortably, glancing away, clearly unsure of how to navigate this. He wasn’t great with emotions, never had been. He exhaled through his nose, his jaw tightening. You could see the tension in his shoulders now, the way his fingers flexed at his sides. He was trying to stay calm, trying to understand, but it was clear he hadn’t expected this. 

His eyes darted back to you, and his expression softened, though there was still a hint of frustration in his tone. “I’m not trying to make you feel like you’re on your own, alright? It’s just…I don’t know. I didn’t think about it.”

“That’s the problem.” you whispered, the tightness in your throat growing, but you kept your voice steady. “You don’t think about it. You just assume I’ll take care of everything.”

His shoulders dropped a little, and for a second, he looked like he didn’t know what to do with himself. His arms unfolded, and he took a tentative step toward you, his hand rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m sorry.” he mumbled, his words coming out awkwardly, like he wasn’t used to apologising. “I didn’t mean to make you feel like that.”

You looked at him, taking in the way his jaw clenched and the way his eyes darted away every few seconds like he was uncomfortable being in this moment with you, but not entirely detached either. He wanted to reach for you but didn’t know how.

“I know you didn’t mean to.” you said softly, your voice wavering slightly but still steady. “But it doesn’t change how it feels.”

He looked at you then, really looked, and for a second, something in his face shifted. His eyes softened, that defensiveness fading. “I’m…I’m sorry.” he repeated, his voice lower now, almost a whisper, like he wasn’t sure if it was safe to speak louder. “I didn’t know you felt like this.”

You laughed again, that same bitter edge clinging to it. “Of course you didn’t. Because you haven’t been here to notice. You’re here, Alex, but you’re not really here. You come home, you play with her, and then it’s like I don’t exist.”

He shifted his weight again, “That’s not fair.” he murmured. “You know I’m trying to balance everything. I’m doing my best.”

You stared at him, your arms still crossed tightly, trying to hold yourself together. “Well, your best isn’t enough.” you said quietly, the words hanging heavy between you.

His expression faltered, the sharp lines of his face softening as if your words had cut deeper than either of you expected. He stood there for a moment, silent, and you could see the wheels turning in his mind, trying to find something to say that would make it better, trying to figure out how to fix what was unravelling right in front of him.

But he didn’t have the words. Not this time.

He looked down, his hand rubbing the back of his neck again, a nervous gesture you recognized all too well. His hair fell over his eyes, and he didn’t bother pushing it back this time. “I…I’ll do better.” he said, the words slow, hesitant. He wasn’t sure they’d be enough. “I promise, I’ll try to be more…present. With you.”

You watched him, unsure whether to believe it, unsure if it would change anything at all. But the exhaustion in his eyes, the way his posture slouched now, made you pause. He wasn’t trying to ignore you, not deliberately. But that didn’t make it hurt any less.

“Dinner’s in the fridge.” you said after a long moment, your voice quieter now, the fight draining out of you. “Heat it up yourself.”

He nodded, almost as if he knew it was the best he was going to get right now. He didn’t argue, didn’t push. He just walked to the fridge, his movements slower now, more careful, as if he was trying not to disturb the fragile air between you.

As he pulled out the leftovers, you turned and walked out of the kitchen, the weight of the day still pressing down on you, heavier than ever.

You lay on the bed, staring at the dark ceiling, trying to will your mind into quiet, but it didn’t come. You squeezed your eyes shut, pulling the covers up closer to your chin as if it could somehow shield you from the heaviness pressing on your chest.

The house was silent now. Poppy was asleep, and Alex was in the kitchen, reheating his dinner. You heard the faint hum of the microwave, the soft clinking of dishes. It was almost too normal, too routine, for how you felt. 

You wanted to let it go, to brush it off like you had so many times before, but tonight it stuck with you, sharp and jagged. The loneliness gnawed at you. The kind of loneliness that only comes when the person you need the most is right there, but somehow feels miles away.

You turned onto your side, facing away from the door, pulling your knees closer to your chest. Maybe it was easier to sleep like this, with your back to the world. Maybe if you stayed still long enough, you’d drift off, and the ache would dull by morning.

Then you heard it. The soft creak of the door opening, the faintest sliver of light spilling into the room from the hallway. You didn’t move, keeping your breathing steady, though your heart started beating a little faster. His footsteps were soft, hesitant, the familiar sound of his feet lightly scuffing against the hardwood floor. He was trying not to wake you, or maybe he was just testing the air between you, unsure of how fragile it really was.

The bed dipped slightly as he sat on the edge, and for a moment, you thought he might stay there, distant and unsure. But then the mattress shifted again, and you felt him slip beneath the covers. The warmth of his body radiated toward you as he settled beside you, his movements slow, careful, as if he wasn’t quite sure how close he was allowed to get.

Then, after a beat of silence, you felt it, his chest pressing gently against your back. The weight of his arm tentatively draped over your waist, and he stilled, like he was waiting to see if you’d pull away.

You didn’t.

His breath was warm against the nape of your neck, steady, but you could tell he was awake, his body tense with unspoken words. You could feel the faint tremor in his chest, the rise and fall of his breathing, like he was working up to say something but wasn’t sure if now was the time.

Then, after a long pause, he whispered, his voice low, rough around the edges, as if he’d been holding the words in for too long. “I hope you don’t doubt that I love you.”

He didn’t say anything else. Just that. It was simple, but it felt like more, like it was the one thing he needed to say right now. The one thing he could say.

You lay there, still, your heart beating a little too fast. You didn’t turn to face him. Not yet. But the warmth of his body against yours, the quiet vulnerability in his voice, it chipped away at the wall you’d built up during the day. 

“I don’t.” you whispered back, your voice barely audible, but in the quiet of the room, it was enough.

For a moment, neither of you moved, both of you just lying there in the dark, the silence now filled with something softer, less strained. You could feel him relax slightly, the tension easing from his body, his arm wrapping a little more securely around you.

You reached for his hand, gently curling your fingers around his, and brought it to your lips. You pressed a soft kiss to the back of his hand, feeling the roughness of his skin against your mouth. It was a small gesture, one that spoke the words you weren’t ready to say yet. I still love you, I still need you.

Alex let out a breath, but it wasn’t the kind of exhale you’d heard from him before. It was shaky, broken, like something deep inside him had cracked. You’d never heard him sound like that. His arm tightened slightly around your waist, but when you turned to face him, his eyes were still closed, his brow faintly furrowed as if he was holding something in, something he didn’t want to let you see.

You looked at him in the dim light, the faint outline of his face visible in the shadows. You knew he wasn’t sleeping. He was afraid. Afraid that if he opened his eyes and looked at you, everything he was trying to hold together would fall apart. He didn’t want to break, not in front of you, not now. Not when he thought it would only make things harder.

But you could feel it, the way his body seemed to tense and release with every breath he took, like he was fighting to keep his walls up. And you couldn’t let him carry that alone, not tonight. 

Your hand moved up to his face, fingers lightly tracing the familiar lines of his jaw, the slight scruff on his cheeks. He didn’t flinch, didn’t pull away, but he didn’t open his eyes either. His breath hitched just slightly as your hand travelled lower, down the curve of his neck, over his chest. You could feel the rise and fall of his breathing beneath your palm, the subtle quickening of his heartbeat.

You lifted the hem of his shirt, pushing it up so you could feel the warmth of his skin against your fingertips. There was something grounding about it, something real, the contact pulling you both back from the edge of whatever distance had grown between you. He gasped, just barely, as your hand slipped beneath the fabric, your fingers brushing lightly against his stomach.

His lips parted, his breathing becoming uneven, but he still didn’t say anything. His eyes remained shut, his jaw tight, as though he was trying to hold onto the last bit of control he had left. You felt his muscles tense under your touch, every inhale deep, every exhale strained.

You pressed closer to him, your fingers trailing lower, down the soft skin just above his waistband. His breath caught in his throat when your hand slipped under the band of his sweatpants, your fingertips brushing against him. 

“Ugh…” His voice was a low rasp, like he was about to say more but couldn’t find the words. His eyes stayed shut, his head tilting back slightly as if surrendering to the moment, but still resisting. He didn’t want to make this about him. Not when the weight of your unspoken pain still hung in the air between you.

But you didn’t stop. You didn’t pull away. You kept your touch gentle, tender, letting him know without words that it was okay. That tonight wasn’t about blame or anger or hurt. 

You trailed your hand back up, over his chest, feeling the rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your fingertips, steadying, grounding. You moved closer, resting your forehead against his, your breath mingling with his as you whispered, “I’m still here.” 

And finally, after what felt like an eternity, he opened his eyes. They were darker in the low light, filled with a mixture of emotion you couldn’t quite name, relief, love, all tangled together. He didn’t speak, but the way he looked at you, like he was searching for something he’d thought he’d lost, said enough.

His arms wrapped around you a little tighter, pulling you against him like he needed the contact just as much as you did. For the first time in what felt like forever, it wasn’t about what was wrong. It was about what was still there.

You leaned in, brushing your lips against his, softly at first, testing the space between you. His breath hitched, and for a moment, you both stayed there, suspended in that delicate quiet. Then you kissed him, properly this time, pressing your mouth to his in a way that felt urgent, necessary. He responded slowly, his lips moving against yours, hesitant, unsure where this was headed. But you didn’t hold back, not now.

Your hands trailed back down his chest, feeling the warmth of his skin under your fingertips, his muscles tensing slightly at your touch. His breath quickened as your leg slipped between his thighs, pressing against him. He let out a soft sound, something caught between a sigh and a groan, his body responding instinctively even as his mind seemed to hesitate.

But then, he pulled back, breaking the kiss, his hand gently pushing against your shoulder. “No.” he breathed, his voice low and rough. “Wait…no.”

You blinked, confusion washing over you as you stayed there, hovering above him. “What?” you whispered, your voice barely audible. “Don’t you…don’t you want me?”

He closed his eyes, his brow furrowing as if the question had hurt him somehow. “I do.” he said, his voice soft, strained. “It’s not…it’s not about that, I just-” 

“Shut up.” you interrupted, the words tumbling out before you could stop them. “Please, just…shut up.” You kissed him again, harder this time, desperate for the connection, for him to stop thinking and just be with you. Your hand slipped behind his neck, pulling him closer, and for a second, he hesitated, but he didn’t stop you.

You pushed him back onto the mattress, your hands gripping his shoulders as you straddled his lap, pressing your body against his. His eyes flickered open, dark and stormy with the conflict brewing inside him. His hands hovered at your waist. He wanted to hold on but couldn’t let himself give in fully.

“You…” His voice was a low rasp, but he didn’t say anything more. He didn’t pull you off, didn’t push you away. His eyes searched yours, his chest rising and falling in uneven breaths as you sat above him, your thighs pressed tight around his hips.

You leaned down, kissing him again, harder this time, and he groaned into your mouth, his hands finally gripping your waist, pulling you closer. His fingers pressed into your skin, his touch firm, and you could feel the tension in his body as he let go, just a little, surrendering to you.

His hair was messy, falling into his eyes, his lips swollen from your kisses. There was something raw about him in this moment, his usual confidence stripped away, leaving him vulnerable beneath you. His skin was warm, almost burning under your touch, and you could feel the tautness in his muscles, the quiet restraint he was still clinging to.

But you weren’t stopping. You trailed your hands down his chest again, feeling the rapid beat of his heart beneath your palm. His eyes fluttered closed as you rocked your hips against him, grinding slowly. His breath came out in shallow gasps, his fingers digging into your waist, but he didn’t say no again.

“Why are you holding back?” you whispered, your lips brushing against his ear. “What are you afraid of?”

“I’m not…” he started, but his voice faltered, and he didn’t finish the sentence. His eyes opened, meeting yours, and there was something there. Guilt, maybe. Or fear. He swallowed hard, his jaw clenching as he tried to gather his thoughts, but nothing came out.

You kissed him again, cutting off whatever excuse he was about to make. “Don’t think.” you murmured against his lips. “Just…be here. With me.”

He exhaled shakily, his hands sliding up your back, pulling you down to him. His grip tightened, his hesitation fading the longer you stayed pressed together. He kissed you back this time, properly, his lips moving with yours in a way that felt desperate, needy. 

“Fuck…” he groaned softly, his voice rough, thick with something he wasn’t quite ready to admit. His hips shifted beneath you, pushing up into you as you moved against him. His hands slid down to your thighs, gripping them tightly.

“Don’t stop.” you whispered, your breath hot against his neck. His skin was damp with sweat, his pulse racing beneath your lips as you kissed down the side of his throat, feeling the way his body trembled beneath yours.

“I’m trying.” he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper, his head tilting back into the pillow, eyes squeezing shut as if to keep himself grounded. “I’m trying not to lose it…”

“Maybe I want you to.” you said, your voice low, your hands slipping back under his shirt, feeling the heat of his skin beneath your fingertips.

He groaned again, this time louder, his grip on your thighs tightening as he gave in, finally letting go of whatever was holding him back. His lips found yours again, and this time, he kissed you harder, deeper, his body arching up into yours, pulling you down onto him with a force that sent a shiver down your spine.

It wasn’t perfect, and it wasn’t gentle. It was exactly what you both needed.

The room felt thick with silence as the space between you vanished. His hands slid down, trembling as they caught the waistband of his sweatpants, pushing them down just far enough, exposing himself to you. You pulled off your shorts with a shaky exhale, your body moving on instinct more than anything else. There wasn’t any time for hesitation, no slow unravelling, no careful lead-up. You were both too far gone, too desperate to feel something, anything that would bridge the distance between you.

He was inside you before either of you were fully ready for it, his body meeting yours in a quick, almost frantic rhythm. It wasn’t planned, wasn’t measured, and the sudden rush of sensation felt overwhelming. Your hands gripped his shoulders, fingers digging into his shirt as you moved together, but it wasn’t about pleasure, not in the way it usually was. It was messy, uncoordinated, a little too fast. 

His breathing came in quick, ragged gasps, and you could feel his heart racing against your chest as he held you tight, like letting go would mean losing everything. His hips moved roughly beneath you, and you tried to match him, your bodies working in this frantic, unsynchronized rhythm. It wasn’t nearly the best you’d ever had. Not even close. It didn’t matter.

You both were searching for something in each other, something you couldn’t name, something you didn’t even know if you’d find. It was more about release than connection, about letting go of everything that had built up between you, the frustration, the resentment, the silence.

The room was filled with the sound of your uneven breathing, the soft creak of the bed, his hands clinging to you like you might slip away. His hair fell into his eyes again, damp with sweat, his lips parted as he gasped for breath, his brow furrowed with effort. You could feel his body shaking slightly, the tension in his muscles, the way he tried so hard to keep up, to stay with you.

But it wasn’t perfect. It was quick, almost too quick. You felt him stiffen beneath you, his grip tightening as he gasped out your name, his voice rough and broken. You followed moments after, not because it was the height of pleasure, but because the emotion of the moment pushed you over the edge. It was more like giving in than being consumed.

When it was over, the silence between you returned, but it felt different now. Less strained, more exhausted. You stayed there, your bodies still tangled, your forehead resting against his chest as you caught your breath. Neither of you moved for a long time, neither of you said anything. The moment wasn’t about words.

He let out a long, shaky sigh, one that seemed to start deep in his chest. But as the air left him, it got stuck in his throat, and that was when he broke. You could feel it. The sudden shift, the way his body tensed beneath you before he closed his eyes, trying to hold it together. He gently pulled you off him, moving you to the side, his movements almost too careful, like he didn’t want to add to whatever mess was already between you.

He quickly tucked himself back in, pulling his sweatpants up. He covered his face with his hands, his shoulders slumping as if the weight of everything had finally come crashing down on him. 

“Sorry.” he muttered, his voice muffled by his hands. But this time, it was different. He wasn’t saying it because he thought he was supposed to, or because he wanted to end the argument. This time, he really meant it. You could hear it in the way the word caught in his throat, like it was hard for him to even say.

You sat up slowly, still catching your breath, watching him as he sat on the edge of the bed, his elbows on his knees, his hands covering his face. 

“I’m sorry.” he said again, quieter now. He dropped his hands from his face, staring down at the floor like he couldn’t bear to look at you. “I don’t…I don’t know what I’m doing.”

You swallowed hard, feeling your own emotions tugging at you, but you stayed quiet, waiting for him to continue.

“I tried.” he said, his voice rough and halting. “I tried to be here. For you, for her. I really did. But I…I don’t know how to do it right. I don’t know how to be enough.”

His words hung in the air, and you could see how much they cost him. He wasn’t the type to talk like this, to admit when he was struggling, but there it was, laid out between you.

“You’re trying.” you said softly, unsure if it was the right thing to say, but needing him to know that you saw him. That you understood.

He shook his head, letting out a short, bitter laugh that didn’t reach his eyes. “Trying isn’t enough, though, is it? I’m here, but I’m not really here. Not the way I should be. And I know that. I know it, and I hate it, but I don’t know how to fix it. I don’t know how to…be better.”

You shifted closer to him. “You don’t have to be perfect.” you whispered. “No one’s asking you to be perfect.”

“But I’m not even good enough.” he shot back, his voice cracking slightly. Frustration and confusion etched into every line of his face. “I’m not there when you need me. Not really. I get wrapped up in everything else, in the music, in…whatever, and I can see it. I can see how it’s pushing you away, but I don’t know how to stop.”

You felt a lump forming in your throat, but you forced yourself to push through it. “I don’t need you to stop everything. I just need you to…be with me when you’re here. Be present.”

He exhaled sharply, rubbing his hands over his face again. “I thought I was. But I look at you and Poppy and…God, I feel like I’m just standing on the outside, watching, and no matter what I do, it’s not enough. I’m not enough.”

His voice cracked on the last word, and he looked away, his jaw tight, like he was ashamed of what he had just admitted.

Your heart twisted painfully at the sight of him like this. You reached out, gently placing your hand on his back, feeling the way his body stiffened for a moment before he let out a shaky breath, as if he was finally letting himself feel it.

“You are enough.” you whispered, and you meant it, even though everything felt tangled and complicated. “You are. You just…you get lost sometimes. But you’re still enough.”

He closed his eyes, his hands clenching into fists on his thighs. “It doesn’t feel like it. You’ve said it.” he muttered. “I feel like I’m failing you. Both of you.”

He let out another shaky breath, dropping his head forward, and for a moment, you thought he might cry, but he didn’t. Instead, he just sat there, his shoulders slumped, his body heavy with everything he had been holding inside.

“I’m sorry.” he whispered again, and this time, it felt like the apology was more for himself than for you.

You slid closer, wrapping your arms around him from behind, pressing your cheek against his back. His body was warm, his breath still uneven, but he didn’t pull away. He sat there, letting you hold him, letting the quiet between you settle into something softer, something that felt like the start of understanding.

a/n: i don’t know what this is.

tags: @st7rnioioss @theonlyoneswhoknowsblog @rentsturner @yourstartreatment @avxoxo1 @jqsvi @turnersfav @youresodarkbabe @psychedelicrocker @aacheinthejaw @zayndrider @humbuginmybones @tedioepica

[xiaq]

AO3 Pt. 1 Pt. 2

Pt. 3 I combined the prompts: Outsider POV, Steve Harrington is an Idiot (affectionate), Everyone is Queer Because I Said So, and @c0olness's hyper-specific Wayne's Boyfriend Owns a Gay Bar in Indianapolis and Introduces Steve to a Drag Queen. :)

Angel Reyes has loved Wayne Munson about as long as he’s loved himself. The timing is not coincidental.

Which is why he’s willing to wait for him, even when Angel’s patience is worn thin like the shirt he stole from Wayne three years ago and wears like a prayer to bed.

Some nights, when Wayne calls at the end of his shift and Angel is wiping down his own bar at closing, he’s tempted to say: we might not have much time left—shouldn’t we spend what we do have together?

But he doesn’t.

Because he already knows the answer.

Because the same reason he fell in love with Wayne is the reason Wayne won’t move to Indy. The man is loyal to a fault and when he gives himself to people he gives all of himself and there’s no force in the world that would convince Wayne to leave Hawkins if he thought Eddie still needed him there. Because Wayne loves Angel. But Wayne loved Eddie first. And Angel can hardly begrudge him of that.

So he repeats a well-worn mantra, only slightly comforting: not today, but someday. And he hangs up the phone and he checks the calendar and he looks forward to the time he is allowed. If there’s one thing he learned over the years, it’s that he can’t get greedy when he already has a good thing.

Wayne is worth the quiet agony of patience.

So when he’s locking up for the night and the phone rings, he expects the conversation to take a familiar path. 

“Evening, handsome,” he says, canting his hip against the counter. “You tell him yet?”

It’s been his standard greeting for close to a year. Why the man won’t just tell his gay nephew that he is, conveniently, also gay, is beyond Angel. But then, listening has always been Wayne’s strong suit. Talking, not so much.

“Well,” Wayne says. And that’s new.

“Well?”

“I did, actually. After I walked in on him and Steve kissin’ last night—“

“Finally!” Angel crows. The saga of Eddie and Steve and their will-they-won’t-they relationship had quickly surpassed even his favorite telenovela’s dramatic storylines. The pretty jock with hidden depths and the nerdy metalhead falling in love? Hospital vigils? Protracted pining while sharing a bed? Impeccable. 

“They’re together now,” Wayne finishes.

“Darling,” Angel says, not for the first time, “I’d like to remind you that you are not paying per word for this call.”

Wayne huffs at him, also not for the first time.

“Steve didn’t know liking both boys and girls meant he was bisexual. He thought there was some sort of…threshold he needed to pass to be queer enough to date a man. I suppose Robin set him straight––or, not so straight as the case may be––” he chuckles a little at his own joke, “And he came over to declare his love as soon as his shift ended.”

Angel takes a moment to digest that. “...Maybe they use Eddie as the sperm donor if they want kids,”  he suggests.

“Ease up, it’s not like they teach this shit in school. Bet I’d been a lot more confused too if I had the luxury of liking both.”

“Alright, I won’t pick on your future son-in-law, promise.”

“ Speaking of school,” Wayne says, sidestepping his implication. “Eddie got his diploma in the mail yesterday.”

“You going to do something to celebrate?”

“Actually, we thought we’d take a trip to Indy this weekend.”

Angel twists the phone’s cord around his finger. “…you’re supposed to come next weekend.”

“So you’d have to see me two weeks in a row, if you can bear it.”

“A trial, to be sure. When you say…” he pauses, trying to figure out how to clarify without breaking his own heart. “When you come this weekend. Would you want us—would you want me. To meet them?”

He closes his eyes and bangs a fist against his forehead because that is not the safe way to ask that question. 

“It'd be pretty weird if they didn’t meet the person hosting them.”

“Oh, I see. You’re just using me for my five star accommodations,” he says, because he’s apparently determined to dig his own grave.

“No. Wayne says, “those are nice. But mostly I just want to introduce them to my boyfriend.”

“Ah.”

“And saying shit like that makes me think you’re trying to compete with Steve in the stupid Olympics.”

Angel makes an outraged noise but Wayne talks over him which is unique enough an occurrence that Angel lets him get away with it.

“See,” Wayne says. “The boys have decided they don’t want to stay in Hawkins long-term. They figure they’ll stay another year. Save some money. Make sure the kids are settled. And then Eddie’s set on New York or California and I think Steve’s just set on Eddie, wherever he is. I thought we could at least make a case for Indy, though. ‘Cause if Eddie isn’t staying in Hawkins, I’ve got no reason to.”

“Ah,” Angel says again. “And you don’t have any interest in New York or California?”

“I sure don’t,” Wayne says levelly.

“Well,” he clears his throat. “I’ll mop the floors and clean the windows. Give them the best showing I can. Should we plan to take them to one of the…heavier… music venues? I can probably have Frank cover for me, I’d just need to ask him now.”

“Nah. I figure I’ll help you out Saturday night and let them explore on their own. Eddie’s already making a list of options. But Friday is drag night at your place, right?”

“It is.”

“We should start them with that, I think.”

Angel grins. “Their debut in queer society shall be heralded by Dolly Parton and glitter.”

“Mm.” 

Angel is familiar enough with Wayne’s thoughtful noises to know that he’s smiling.

“Enough about my boys,” Wayne says. “Tell me about your day.”

Angel does.

When Angel hangs up ten minutes later, for once, he’s grinning. He thinks, as usual, not today but someday. Only ‘someday’ suddenly feels tangible in a way it never has before.

***

Eddie Munson is exactly what Angel expected him to be when he comes tumbling out the driver’s side door of the van parked half on Angel’s driveway and half on his lawn. Angel has been hearing about him through the rosy lens of Wayne’s affection for close to five years and as a result, Angel loves him immediately upon first sight. 

Then again, he’d be difficult not to love. Eddie is a bright, frenetic, presence, all hair and chains and affected airs, who shares Wayne's smile, though he dispenses smiles much more freely than his uncle. He is unashamedly himself as he shakes Angel’s hand, tells his uncle he approves, and then asks for a tour of the house.

Steve Harrington is somehow simultaneously exactly and nothing like Angel expected.

Exactly, because he looks the part: a cropped Hawkins Varsity Basketball sweatshirt, tiny athletic shorts, and the well-built frame of someone who regularly works out. His hair is verging on ridiculous. His face is…well-suited to the body, he’ll say.

But the kid also has a hyper-awareness to him, a quick-eyed, assessing, vigilant posture, that Angel has only ever seen in war vets twice the kid’s age. He puts his back to a room’s farthest corner. He keeps doorways in sight. And he constantly, constantly, orbits Eddie like the world's most unsubtle protective detail. 

There are also the scars. Terrible, still-healing, scars. On one exposed thigh, the side of his neck, and his right forearm. On the slice of skin between his waistband and the frayed cut-off hem of his sweater. He wears them unapologetically, with the composure of someone who is neither proud nor embarrassed by them.  

Angel suspects, only a few minutes into their first meeting, that Eddie may have similar scars beneath his torn jeans and bleach-speckled band shirt. One of his arms has some sort of medical sleeve on it—the pale fabric covered in black bleed-fuzzy Sharpie drawings of bats. Angel considers the mangled half-moon-shaped lines decorating Steve’s thigh. Unless earthquakes have suddenly developed teeth, Wayne has clearly been editing his stories. 

But despite their significant aesthetic differences, the two boys are well-suited, if painfully young and unpracticed in the art of subtlety. They touch each other constantly; unthinkingly. Hands. Hips. Shoulders. Elbows. And the way they look at each other—well. They’ll need to work on that if they don’t want to accumulate more scars. Granted, they hardly have to hide their relationship in the sanctuary of his home, but he gets the feeling they don’t know how to be any other way with each other. 

It’s both sweet and more than a little heartbreaking.

“So,” he says, “ I need to get back to the bar before the opening act at 8. It’s drag night.”

“Robin is going to be furious she didn’t come,” Steve says.

“We’ll bring her next time,” Eddie says. 

They go.

***

Angel’s bar is called Innuendo. 

He can’t take credit for the name, but he can take credit for the atmosphere. It’d been a dark, sticky, hole-in-the-wall when he started working there at 21. When he’d bought it from the former owner a decade later, he’d cleaned it up, regulated the jukebox hours, and started live music, drag, and deejay nights. A few years after that, in 1984, when the mayor issued a proclamation declaring the new city policy to no longer discriminate against queers, he’d taken the boards down from all the windows. 

It’s still dark in the back where the stage and dance floor are tucked away, but the front windows with a clear view of the street are big and unashamed. He keeps the windows clean.

There’s a copy of the proclamation framed above them, along with pictures of Angel and noteworthy patrons of the establishment over the years: Wakefield Poole; Tom Higgins; Bayard Rustin; Freddie Mercury, and Jim Hutton. 

A lot has changed in the last two decades that he’s worked there, but some things, like the old oak-wood bar where all the pictures were taken, stay the same.

He brings Wayne and the boys in through the back to scattered shouts of hello from regulars. He and Wayne slide behind the bar to start helping Frank, and the boys sit on stools with wide eyes.

It’s nice, to see the place from their perspective. The magic of it is never lost on him, but sometimes he does forget exactly how magic it is: a bar that looks like most other bars but where men look and touch and kiss without concern, where there’s art and magazines and conversations that wouldn’t be permitted by common society a scant few feet outside the door.

After fifteen minutes, they get brave enough to explore—admiring the posters on the opposite wall: Bijou and Boys in the Sand; Passing Strangers, Forbidden Letters, and A Night at the Adonis.

They play a round of darts near the front windows, the boards covered in shitty black-and-white copies of Anita Bryant’s face.

They sit at a table near the stage when the show starts. They pull their chairs together. They hold hands on the tabletop. They laugh and shout and sing along and kiss when invited.

After, when they’re back at the bar, flushed with alcohol and the subtle worldview shift that Angel remembers well from his first visit to a gay bar, a few of the queens come over to introduce themselves. Leslie, currently in her Cher era, steps up to the bar, accepts her drink from Wayne with a wink, and gives Steve a clear once-over.

“Aren't you out a little late for a school night, baby?" she says in her customary baritone.

“Uh, no ma’am. I graduated last year. Sorry. Sir?”

"Sugar, do I look like a ‘sir’ to you?"

“Take it easy on him, Les,” Angel calls. “He’s new.”

“No kidding.” She purses her lips at him. “Ma’am is fine unless you meet me on the street. But here I’d prefer ‘honey. Or ‘darling.”

Steve swallows. “I promised I’d reserve pet names for my boyfriend. So. I’ll stick with Ma’am.”

“Well aren’t you a charmer. And where is this boyfriend?”

“Hi,” Eddie says.

She gives him an equally critical once-over.

“Do you know what that color bandana means in that pocket?”

Eddie glances down at his back left pocket; at the black bandana hanging against his thigh.

“Ah...that I’m into S&M but that I like to be the  submission one? Like the one getting tied up?”

“You what?” Steve says.

Angel notices that Wayne has made a hasty exit to the bathroom, which is probably for the best.

“Oh my sweet summer child,” Leslie says, “it means the opposite on that side, so maybe switch pockets.” She considers Steve’s pink face. “And also maybe talk to your boyfriend. The whole point of flagging is to find someone to meet your needs and you've got a pretty one right here who seems like he’s awfully willing.”

Steve pulls the bandana out of Eddie’s pocket and, using his teeth, tidily rips it into two. He tucks one half in Eddie’s right back pocket. He tucks the other in his left. He crosses his arms and raises an eyebrow like he's expecting Eddie to argue. Eddie does not argue. Eddie doesn't do much of anything except stare at him with wide, hungry eyes.

“Well,” Leslie says, sounding pleased, “My work here is done. Honestly, kids these days.”

She gives Steve a little pat on the shoulder as she pushes back into the crowd. “I’d dance while you have the chance, boys. Life is short and sometimes so is love. Capitalize on that shit!”

“Do you want to dance?” Steve asks.

Eddie is still watching Leslie with a bemused smile. “I don’t know how to dance to this music.”

“Well I won’t know how to dance to yours tomorrow, but I’m planning to let you show me.”

“Fair enough, King Steve." Eddie affects a curtsy, offering Steve his hand. “I suppose I can allow you to take me for a turn about the dance floor, good sir.”

Steve bows low over Eddie’s hand, pressing his lips to his knuckles, looking up at him with a grin. “An honor,” he says solemnly, and then drags Eddie, laughing, into the throng of moving bodies.

***

The next morning, Angel wakes up early for no reason he can determine. He’s not good at sitting idle, and he doesn’t want his fidgeting to wake Wayne, so he elects to take his book to the garden. Only, as he slips into the hall, careful with the door behind him, he can hear the quiet, indistinct lull of voices in the kitchen.

Angel moves down the hall on sock feet, avoiding the creaky bit of flooring where the original foundation meets the master addition he added four years back. 

The boys have opened the double doors to the patio and Steve is leaning against the jam on one side, coffee cup in hand, looking out at the garden. He’s shirtless, wearing only the shorts from the day before. Warm, tree-diluted, sunrise rays cast him in sepia, making the scars that traverse his flank to his thigh look less gruesome and more artistic. Poetic. He knows more than one photographer who would kill for a shot like this. Something about the coexistence of beauty and pain. Something about a commentary on perceptions of strength; the allure of imperfection resulting from battles survived.

Eddie joins Steve, sliding under his open arm like a habit, dragging a hand down Steve’s side to cup the puckered line of recently-stitched skin at Steve’s hip. 

Eddie is also shirtless—wearing jeans and a riot of bed head that Steve presses his face into, murmuring something low and clearly funny by the stifled laughter it produces. 

Angel wasn't wrong with his initial assumption: Eddie’s back is littered with shallow scars as well, but he also has a fair amount of tattoos, which makes the other marks less incongruous. There’s something about Steve’s otherwise flawless skin and sculpted muscles that make his injuries feel more visceral.

Or, at least, that’s what he thinks until Steve suddenly looks behind him, like he has a preternatural awareness that he’s being watched.

“Oh,” he says, “Good morning.”

Both boys turn to face him. 

And Angel realizes that Steve’s injuries pale in comparison to Eddie’s.

Because Eddie’s chest and belly is a brutal mess of scar tissue.

It looks like something tried to gut him.

It looks like whatever it was probably succeeded.

He knows he’s staring but he can’t seem to stop himself until Steve slides a proprietary hand over the worst of it, spread fingers against what has to still be an agony of healing skin.

He meets Angel's eyes and all but dares him to say anything.

“I think,” Angel says, turning abruptly to enter the kitchen, “the occasion calls for french toast. Thoughts?”

“The occasion?” Eddie asks.

His hand covers Steve’s and presses, not a dismissal but an invitation to linger. 

“Your diploma,” Angel says, “Steve’s first time making a fool of himself in front of a drag queen. Whatever excuse is sufficient for the making of said french toast.”

“See, we’re sort of trying out this new thing lately,” Eddie murmurs, looking at Steve, “where we don’t need excuses for things that make us happy.”

“No guilt in our pleasures,” Steve agrees, voice soft, expression reverent. He tucks an errant curl behind Eddie’s ear.

Angel resists the urge to sigh at them. Instead, he toasts them with a carton of eggs. “French toast for the pleasure of french toast, then. You two go sit on the bench in the garden. The sun should be hitting it right about now and that is surely a pleasurable experience. I’ll let you know when breakfast is ready.”

Steve meets his eyes again, this time less challenging, more thankful. 

His hand slides from Eddie’s belly to the small of his back, pushing him out onto the patio.

“That sounds nice,” he says.

And they go.

When Wayne shuffles out to join Angel at the stove ten minutes later, the bread is sizzling in the skillet. 

They take their time washing the egg bowl and whisk in the sink, elbow to elbow, two men sharing space for a one-man job.

They lean into each other, considering Eddie and Steve, similarly leaned into each other, on the bench under the oak tree outside.

“You think I should talk to them?” Wayne murmurs. “About the way they look at each other. And touch each other. And how they need to cut that shit out if they’re in public?”

“Probably,” Angel sighs. “But not today.”

“No,” Wayne agrees after a moment of silence. He presses a kiss to Angel’s temple. “Not today.”

Pt. 4 (Will's POV)

[minkdelovely]

velocity

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Alastor x Lucifer ; RadioApple

tags/warnings: pining, fluff because where is it? i can’t find it, might be ooc but also i don’t care? let my boy miss his man a lot little? 🤭, not explicit but as a general rule MDNI 18+

word count: 1k

author’s note: a gift to @hazelfoureyes & @sugoi-writes but no one could be more surprised about this than me lol i was just absolutely overcome with need and… here we are? 🥲✨ chapter ten: part two is on its way, promise. this was very much a ‘struck by lightning’ moment — rare and cherished. i hope you enjoy and that this aids in the waiting 🙏🏻

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Slow.

That’s how it starts. So slow it doesn’t feel any different than the usual day-to-day.

Routine.

Safety in boundaries. Both sets and manages expectations. It’s slow here, too. Concealing itself as a begrudging task one could get out of. But doesn’t.

Consistency.

Knowing what to expect. This, unlike the others, is not slow. Though quick to some, it appears to all in its own time, and it’s not alone.

Familiarity.

Blurs the line. A line that was never quite solid from the start. This is slow. And noticeable.

Nerves.

Unpredictable. Some days it’s not too bad. Follow Routine, where it’s safe. Other days, the blur looms overhead. Brings discomfort. An itch under the skin that can only be relieved by another’s hand.

Touch.

Tests boundaries. Starts slow. A light hand to the shoulder. Grabbing of a wrist during a laugh. Longer eye contact. A different heat behind the taunts. The kindling of a new flame. There is no going back.

Desire.

Burns. This feels fast, due to the false sense of security brought on by Slow. There from the start, biding its time. Waiting to be found. Always with the intent to consume.

✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧

It’s here that Alastor finds himself, fidgeting with a pen at his desk. Head in hand, mind wandering, and eyes glossed as he stares through the windows of his tower; the Hellscape he called home beyond the pane might as well have been covered in fog. What he was looking for was far beyond the city.

Would he be back today?

A question the demon found himself wondering often. Followed quickly with a correlating, hopeful squeeze in the chest. An ache that wouldn’t bother him as much as it did if it could be satiated by his own means.

Lucifer been gone for a couple weeks now. The halls of the hotel feeling barren in his absence. Hollow without his voice.

The angel had to leave the Pride Ring to perform his annual duties and make his rounds through the other circles of Hell. Places Alastor did not have the ability to venture to, being a sinner.

Agony.

This was new, and by far the worst development. It was slow, like many of the others, but seeped into the passage of time thick as syrup. Making it heavy. Seconds passing as if carrying the weight of the world. Because they were.

Missing someone was not something Alastor was accustomed to. Not suited for, even. He didn’t have the patience for it. The stamina. Roaming the halls kept his feet busy, but not much else. How many laps could he make through the hotel before an hour passed? It was a goalpost that kept moving as his anticipation turned to restlessness.

What purpose was there in having twenty-four hours in a day in the afterlife when time was a mortal construct? Did they count the hours in Heaven as well? Or was this a punishment tailored for the damned? It was positively infuriating, and Alastor planned to have a word with his king about it upon his return.

Even if just to lament the fact that time passing in solitude had never bothered him before. When Lucifer informed him of this upcoming trip, the Overlord hadn’t given it a second thought. If anything, he recalled quipping back about finally getting some breathing room.

His majesty was a generously affectionate creature in private. Alastor only pretended to be burdened by it. His flippant, exasperated demeanor being thrown in his face with spite as he now suffered the nights alone in bed. The evening chill maliciously soaking into the left side of his body without the barrier of Lucifer’s embrace.

Comfort.

Alastor was shocked to find himself craving it with a force akin to withdrawal. This was something he had been sufficiently providing on his own for much longer than he had ever received it from others. Subjected now to use Lucifer’s pillow to fill the vacancy of his arms. It was a poor substitute. The scent not strong enough, the weight too light. No breath. No heat. No reciprocating cling.

The pen in Alastor’s hand broke with a snap. Ink shining against the leather of his black gloves as it seeped in. Alastor couldn’t bring himself to do anything other than watch it settle in and dry. A stain that couldn’t be seen, but marred its host all the same. Fitting.

Why hadn’t he asked how long this would take? In his need to seem unfazed, he had trapped himself here in the liminal space of waiting with no end in sight. The relief of this misery known only to one of them. Without so much as a phone call for courtesy.

Does he miss me?

A lump formed in Alastor’s throat at the thought, a perturbed growl following close behind. Hand empty and paper blank, his anxiety settled in his chest. Heartbeat in his ears and pulsing against his ribs as he trudged back to their bedroom that might as well have been the gallows.

✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧

In the late hours of the evening there’s movement in the room. Air punctured with the melody of soft, even breath joined by the shedding of clothes and boots falling to the floor with abandon. Bed dipping under the familiar body crawling in, the rustling of sheets as limbs entangle without conscious thought.

Close.

Solace, but not enough. Too much to make up for to be resolved with just an eagerly anticipated embrace.

Longing and adoration are pressed into skin through hungry kisses. Starting on the shoulder and chest before moving up the neck, the jaw, the face. A furrowed brow as consciousness returns to the slumbering demon, senses blooming with recognition at his angel’s long-awaited presence.

A proper kiss now as Alastor’s arms guide Lucifer to lay atop of him. Relieved moans and heavy sighs fill the small spaces between them as hands wander and knead and cling. Time finally on their side as they exchange saccharine apologies and heartsick complaints between the touch of fingers and lips. Basking in the sanctuary that can only be found here.

Slow.

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tag list: @fairyv-ice, @wat4r, @midorichoco, @raynerrold, @krak-jj, @tremendoushearttaco, @redfoxwritesstuff, @chibistar45, @kaylopolis, @cutiebimbo, @lousypotatoes, @rfox1998, @cosmiccandydreamer, @stardustandbrimstone, @cherry-cola-100, @wonderlandangelsposts, @catticora, @velvette3, @sailorsmouth, @reath-solia, @junieshohoho, @cxrsedwxrlds

**tag list darlings, if you only want to be tagged on alastor x reader in the future please let me know — my poll didn’t show me who chose what 🥺🙏🏻✨**

[genericaces]

more rambling about a s5 au: lindsey comes back for a redemption arc to act as legal counsel for angel's team. this ostensibly gives gunn a reason to opt out of the lawyer operation, but he does it anyway because he doesn't trust lindsey not to fuck them over.

lindsey acts as a moral foil to gunn, who comes to believe his necessary contribution to the team (since he's no longer their only lawyer) is being the defender of the group's principles while working at w&h. they frequently butt heads while working on a case, but eventually develop a begrudging respect of each other's respective strengths.

this hostile-to-friendly-rivalry arc is tested when it comes out that w&h was responsible for some demon problem that's been plaguing gunn's home community. gunn has, unbeknownst to himself, been somehow contributing to it while working at w&h; lindsey knowingly contributed to it when he was last working there as a lawyer. lindsey is forced to confront who he was, while gunn is forced to confront who he’s becoming.

since he was involved in the project, lindsey uses his insider knowledge to help come up with a plan to fix the problem. they execute it, something goes wrong, and lindsey risks his life to ensure the plan goes off successfully. he expects congratulations and a pat on the back from gunn, but gunn isn't interested in absolving lindsey's sins (or his own), and their warming relationship freezes over.

at some point, gunn lets himself get taken by the senior partners in an effort to deal with his guilt over various lapses in judgment/perceived moral failures. during their rescue mission to the holding dimension, lindsey stays behind in gunn's place so he can escape, assuring gunn that he's the lawyer the team needs right now. their mutual arcs culminate in lindsey rejecting the idea that redemption is done for recognition, and gunn rejecting the idea that guilt/self-punishment is inherently redemptive.

eventually after being busted out by illyria, lindsey is there to empathize with gunn about losing parts of yourself (body, mind, and/or soul) to w&h, relationships to power when you've grown up without it, and what it means to live with the consequences of your actions. both of them reflect on the nature of redemption/forgiveness/intent as they grapple with how to own up to an appropriate share of the blame.

[bullet-prooflove]

Valeria - Angel Reyes x Reader

Tagging: @proceduralpassion @crazy4chickennuggets @callsignartemis @kmc1989 @witches-unruly-heart @keyweegirlie @annetje @infinity-mars @danzer8705 @im-just-a-mississippi-girl @appreciatelove @the-wandering-lunatic @weiwei0210 @anime-weeb-4-life @multifandomloversworld @harperdoodle @est1887 @prettyinpunk85 @thanossexual @briefpersonenemy @creativitybeware @librarian1002 @mortal--soul @buddinglinguist @spookyboogyuniverse @spaghettificationandpretzels @nu1freakshow @thebaileybugle @legally-a-bastard @bonsaijoons @sclitvdes @justreblogginfics @irishavengersassemble @keyweegirlie

It’s late when Angel makes it home, later than he intended to be. The house is already lit up and the porch light is on, beckoning him inside. He loves coming home to this, knowing that there’s someone waiting for him, someone who cares about him, who wants to hear about his day. He shuts the front door behind him, bending down to untie the laces of his boots before he toes them off carefully and sets them alongside your smaller ones.

He's been thinking of asking you to move in with him. It’s been almost nine months and he’s more than ready, the only reason he hasn’t done it sooner is because you’re a little skittish. You’ve told him before that you’re always waiting for the other shoe to drop. He hopes that you see you don’t have to worry about that with him. That he’s steady, that he wants a place in your life and he’s here to stay.

“Hey baby, sorry I’m late.” he hollers as he treads through the hallway towards the kitchen. He knows you’re probably in there, sitting at the table running through your list of things to do. “We were talking about the food drive this weekend, Bish was worried we wouldn’t have enough bodies…”

He trails off, his hand coming to rest on the door frame as he surveys the sight in front of him.

“I found this on the doorstep.” You tell him, tipping your head towards the car seat and the diaper bag sitting on the kitchen table. “Along with those.”

You’re holding a baby.

She’s tiny, not more than a few weeks old, wrapped up in a white fleece blanket with yellow ducks embroidered into it. There’s a tuft of dark hair sticking out of her head, something that he recognises from his own baby pictures. His heart fucking breaks because he knows, he just knows that this is his baby.

“There’s a note.” You say, swaying from side to side gently as the infant begins to gripe. You hush her and she begins to sooth as you continue with the motion.

He edges towards the table, his fingers picking up the envelop that’s already been torn open. He doesn’t begrudge you that, he would have done the same thing. There’s a letter and a birth certificate tucked inside. He takes them both and smooths them upon the surface of the table along side each other. He studies the birth certificate first.

Her name is Valeria and she’s three weeks old.

His fingertip trails down the paper until he reaches the line where both of the parents are listed. He sees his name scrawled by a registrar along side the word ‘Father’. He puts both of his hands on the back of his head as he breathes the word ‘fuck’.

“Don’t swear in front of the baby.” You murmur, your voice a low, even tone.

“Sorry.” He finds himself saying.

This is so fucking surreal; he can’t wrap his head around it. His gaze strays to the ‘Mother’ column and he sees the name Skylar Rixton listed. Who the fuck…

And then he remembers.

Sky.

The bike bunny he’d fucked a couple of weeks before he met you. She’d been tending bar for a few weeks, a friend of Jess’s. Things had gotten a little wild that night in the Clubhouse, he’d been knocking back tequila trying to drown out the self-loathing that was gnawing at his insides and she’d put herself directly in his path. He’s woken up the next morning with a scratched up back and Sky trying to tempt an encore out of him. He’d stopped it in it’s tracks because he could already see that she was getting attached and Angel didn’t do strings.

She’d taken off a couple of months later after he’d started seeing you.

He read the letter next, and it confirms his suspicions. She’d discovered she was pregnant not long after he’d met you. Decided to raise the kid on her own, then discovered it wasn’t as easy as she thought.

She’s your problem now, the letter said.

“I didn’t know.” He tells you as he raises from his seat at the table.

“It doesn’t matter.” You say, your head tilted away from him.

Your hair falls across your features so he can’t see the expression on your face. He realises that this is the other shoe, that the very thing he promised not to do to you is happening right now and he is powerless to stop it.

“Angel, you need to take you daughter.” You tell him.

Your voice is soft, but he can still hear the hurt in it. It feels like he’s being stabbed in the chest because the last thing he ever wanted was for you to become a casualty of his recklessness.

You’re careful as you hand him the baby. He reacts instinctively, shifting the weight of the tiny infant until she sits comfortably in his arms, her fists flailing just a little.

“You’re alright.” He tells her, his voice kind as he starts to sway. “I’ve got you.”

He doesn’t realise you’ve left until he hears the front door closing behind you. He doesn’t remember you saying anything, only the absence of your presence as he finds himself standing alone in his kitchen with his daughter cradled in his arms. He swallows hard past the ache in his chest, his eyes stinging because he knows he fucked up.

This may be the beginning for him and Valeria but it’s the end of him and you.

Love Angel? Don’t miss any of his stories by joining the taglist here.

Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

[tonydaddingham]

the thing that is actually making me giddy with the possible angst is that i really think that we are about to see the most monumental shift in not only how we saw these characters but also how they previously saw each other.

the fact that we literally now have confirmation that a) they knew each other before the fall, b) aziraphale has had heart eyes since before time began, and c) crowley... possibly not so much, completely changes the context on not just the eden scene but also all the historic scenes that followed.

aziraphale knew crowley as an angel, and knew even then when crowley was meant to be 'perfect' that crowley was maybe a bit different, always asking questions and toeing the line. maybe out of a bit of bastardy himself, or out of begrudging awe of his ability but also his audacity, or just plain attraction, aziraphale immediate takes to him. but this has meant that aziraphale has placed crowley, perhaps unconsciously, upon a pedestal. and the pedestal that aziraphale puts crowley on from that moment may have wobbled throughout their history together, but it's stayed relatively intact.

this worries me, that aziraphale may not have quite let go of the fact that crowley just isn't that person any more, maybe never was to begin with, and continues in some measure to idolise him. my interpretation of this is that yes, crowley can be a bit of a dick (because, well, obviously) and aziraphale knows this, has done since the beginning, but aziraphale continues to hold crowley to an overall moral ideal that is so firmly ensconced in aziraphale's first perception of him as an angel that crowley will never be able to live up to it. not because he isn't a nice person, or because he can't live up to it, but maybe... he just simply doesn't want to.

but the issue is that throughout the ages (including the job minisode which ive had corrected for me, so Crowley Anger is now simply simmering), crowley's actions have only reinforced to aziraphale that despite being technically a demon, he has a huge heart and is not a horrible person. bit of a bastard, but not cruel. all of this just feeds and feeds into this image of crowley that aziraphale has built of him, and when crowley has his flashes of, in fact, not being honourable or kind, this threatens to upset the pedestal altogether.

these wobbly moments - when he thinks crowley is going to kill the children, when crowley snaps at him in rome, when crowley first proposes the arrangement, the prospect that he came up with the french revolt, the holy water request, the bandstand, "how can someone as clever as you be so stupid?"... moments where just for a second, in a small or huge measure, aziraphale's faith in crowley... flickers.

and of course aziraphale has been here before, right? he's had his faith, his devotion, his loyalty tested to the absolute limit of angelic endurance. so when his faith in heaven (never lost it in god) was obliterated, well - it had to cling to something. something that wouldnt mean that aziraphale has to lose the concept of faith altogether. so we're back to the old standby of idolatry, that aziraphale's heavenly faith is replaced by his faith in crowley, this angel that despite never originally giving aziraphale the time of day, aziraphale cannot see - for all of crowley's faults and bastardy and the frustration he poses - crowley as anything less than something to be worshipped.

this is exactly why i think that one of the main points of s2 is going to be a rift between them both. obviously i haven't talked about crowley's perspective of this and maybe i will in another post, but i do think that crowley is going to do something, a bad thing for the right reasons, but aziraphale isn't going to see it like that. that crowley will do something awful to protect aziraphale, but all aziraphale will be able to see is the betrayal or the cruelty or the despair, he can't see wood for the trees, and just lose that last vestige of faith he had altogether.

i feel like once all the disillusion and disenchantment has been swept away, and they're both laid bare at each other's feet... that they may not quite like what they find. from aziraphale's perspective, that whatever crowley does in s2 might be crossing aziraphale's line in the sand, and now aziraphale is starting to see crowley as someone that is truly grey, fluctuating between doing things that are Good, and things that are Good for Crowley.

and it's not as if aziraphale was blind to this before, but instead now... he kind of finally sees who crowley is? who he has been all along? the film has lifted from his eyes. realises that love and worship are not the same thing. what he loves, who he loves, doesn't equate to worshipping it/them, idolising them. there's a very big difference that echoes down to the very core tenet of who aziraphale is and his experiences with having and losing faith, but love having remained.

so stripped of the pedestal, crowley is now just simply... crowley. a person, not an angel, not a demon. and there is the distinct possibility that aziraphale might be completely blindsided by what he finds.

[a-fuckin-husk]

Husker was in a foul mood. "Grumpy" didn't cut it. From the moment he wandered down into the lobby, he snapped at anybody who dared come near and pressed him for anything more than an early-morning drink—which was no one. Literally nobody drank at 8 AM except for- ANYWAYS! It didn't matter.

Every once and a while, he would glance at the staircase, as if waiting for—

He picked listlessly at his breakfast. He was agitated, hardly paying attention to anything anybody had to say. He even snapped at Alastor, who was so taken aback that he merely narrowed his eyes but, luckily, didn't say anything else. For fuck's sake, he even told Pen to "shut the fuck up!" which was completely uncharacteristic because, even though he thought the snake demon's drivel was asenine, it was usually tolerable.

He couldn't stop glancing at the staircase.

It was nearly 3 in the afternoon when Angel Dust finally wandered downstairs. Husk could hardly begrudge him the late awakening, he hadn't even returned home to the hotel until nearly 6 AM.

But when he did finally make an appearance, the barcat's attitude shifted completely. Instead of irritable and distracted, he was suddenly anxious and restless. He did his very best to seem casual—he even went as far as to avoid Angel until the sinner approached his bar. And when the spider finally sat down, Husk turned his back to him, reaching, almost frantically, for a glass to polish.

"What d'ya want?" Husk asked. His tone was harsher than he meant it, but he was so focused on trying to stop his hands from shaking, that he almost didn't notice.

Honestly? Whatever Angel said, whatever he'd ordered, Husk didn't hear it. He was too wrapped up in his own thoughts. Instead, he fixed Angel's usual, passed it to him, and said, "Listen, I went out gamblin' last night with some buddies of mine and they... Alright, so, don't read too much into this, okay?"

Christ, his heart was pounding so rapidly he could hardly think straight.

"I was playing poker with some buddies last night and one of 'em could play the tab, see? Well, it was late and we were all wasted, so we decided to let 'im bet whatever he wanted just 'cause we wanted to keep playin'. So he bets- look. It doesn't matter, okay?" He snapped, cutting himself off abruptly.

Husk only rambled when he was telling tall tails, and he seemed to remember that when his story suddenly stopped.

"Listen, just... Fuckin'... Fuck. Shut the fuck up, okay? Don't fuckin' say anything," he grumbled, before stooping under his bar to retrieve two boxes—a flat, rectangular box made of white cardboard, and a small, square jewelry box covered in black velvet.

"My point is: I won this shit in the poker game last night, but it isn't my style so I figured I'd give it to you. Take it or leave it, I don't give a shit,"

Except, of course, he did give a shit. Inside of the larger box was a gorgeous, rich blue, silk dress. Blue dye was extraordinarily difficult to find in hell—think Tyrian purple... But blue—so the dress was obviously expensive. And inside of the jewelry box was a pair of dangling gold earrings with sapphires. The earrings matched the dress and the color of the dress perfectly matched Angel's white and pink fur.

Obviously, there had been no poker game. Husker had saved up money and bought Angel a very nice dress and matching earrings... Just because. Angel deserved nice things—things that weren't tainted by Valentino. And these things? They were no-strings-attached, Husk emphasized as much with the sheer commitment to his stupid little lie about a non-existent poker game. After all, if he presented them as gifts that he'd painstakingly picked out, Angel might feel like he owed husk something, and the barcat didn't want that. So, it was better to pretend like all of this was a coincidence, like the lovely silk dress and the gold earrings were nothing more than ha d-me-downs that Husk didn't know the true value of. That way, Angel wouldn't feel obligated him. That way, Angel could have something nice, like he deserved, no strings attached.

"Sorry it isn't pink or whatever," he said, even though he knew that Angel would know the value of the color. "If you hate it, just toss it in the dumpster put back, I don't give a shit,"

Oh dear, his voice was shaking, as were his hands. In fact, he had to turn his back to Angel once again, just to hide the heat creeping across his face.