#It does not matter if you're not finished with your glow up journey but this feeling is the best motivator

[shibaincubus]

Important things have to be said three times ya

Imagine yourself ☆*: .｡. o(≧▽≦)o .｡.:*☆

When you reach the point in your confidence/glow up journey where you look in the mirror and think, I'm so GORGEAUS, hot beautiful, ETHERAL, that you think yourself as some UNIQUE kind of beauty, like you're one in 100000 or so, even if you're not completely your most beautiful self, but you have this feeling when you look at yourself in the mirror and think the mirror enhances my beauty and you would date yourself if you were a random man.

And now you're focusing on perfecting your already flawless features, personal style & mindset to your liking. >>>>>>>>>>

Imagine this day and use this motivation to continue on your GLOW UP journey

[twoidiotwriters1]

The Curse of Oenone (Leo Valdez xFem!Oc)

A/N: Gosh this book feels like it's going on forever I wanna move on to TOA so badly -Danny Words: 2,227 Series' Masterlist Previous Chapter // Next Chapter Listen to: 'Does It Matter?' -by Bestfriend

XLIII: Bombastic Sideye

"Are you sure you don't want me to call in a blessing?" Ara inquires while Jason secures the venti at the prow. "I could help you control them if I ask Zeus..."

"Go in," he tells her. "You fixed the ship, I can do this. If I fail, you can check out that last blessing."

"Alright," she pauses. "And uh... are you sure we'll find Leo in Malta?"

"No, but that's what I choose to believe," once seated on Festus's neck, Jason turns and gives her a warm smile. 

He seems different, his soul-light is dim but constant on his body like he's just happy all the time, which is a weird thought considering their current situation.

"Fine," Ara smiles, trying to believe it too. "Good luck, Ken."

The ship stops and Festus starts the engine. On each side of the ship the oars screech and groan in protest, making her wince.

"Leo's gonna kill me," she places a hand on the hallway wall. If she could use her empath touch she would, but unfortunately, the ship doesn't have human feelings.

"Leo's probably going crazy waiting for you to show up," Nico walks past her. "Piper says it's safe for us to go upstairs."

Ara follows him to the upper level and Jason gestures at her to get closer. The boy points at a little raft, with an engine Ara recognizes as the one Leo was building in Ogygia.

"He's here," she raises her voice. "Leo's here!" Everyone lets out exclamations of relief, Jason gets lots of pats on the back and cheek kisses.

They spot Leo outside a cafe. Piper wraps her arms around the boy and fusses over him. Hazel and Frank hug him, squeezing him between them until he can't breathe. Nico pats his back and Jason cracks it with a bearhug.

Ara scans Leo's clothing and feels a wave of nostalgia. He's dressed in an army jacket, a white shirt, and the pants he was wearing when they first met. Those clothes were destroyed during their winter quest, but now they're back.

The girl clears her throat. "You went missing..." her voice dies before she can finish the joke.

"For a whole year?" He guesses and grins. "You moved on and now you're dating a buff Greek guy instead?"

"I missed you so much," Ara speaks hoarsely. To get out of Ogygia, he must've done something Ara doesn't want to think about.

Leo glows like a Christmas light, and his only thought is: Gods, I'll never thank you enough for Arae. 

The boy minded his business when he landed on Calypso's island, determined to see Ara again. Calypso was kind enough to take food to him—only to complain about the noise, but still, she made sure he was okay. The look in her eyes was always so defensive, yet caring and concerned... it softened Leo's hasty decision to ignore her.

Before he knew it, he started talking to her, after all Calypso wanted to know what Ara had done to get two of the demigods that'd landed on her island so charmed, and Leo knew all about it. Calypso made him fire-proof clothes, and brought scraps and supplies for his journey. 

She would only ask for stories in return. Calypso told him they made her giddy, they reminded her of times when falling in love wasn't all about pain and finality. Something clicked in Leo's head. 

He thought of Narcissus and Echo, and how Ara insisted no cursed soul could help themselves unless they had outer help. Calypso was the answer.

Leo arrived on a raft, the same type of raft Percy arrived in when it was his turn. The raft only shows up when...

"Go talk to him," Piper tells her.

"What?"

"When Frank read the brochure about Calypso's home, I saw it on your face. You know where he's been."

Ara can't shrug off the heaviness in her. She stares at the lamp on Piper's nightstand and ponders. She's been hiding in her sister's room for a full hour because she's unsure of how to proceed. 

"It's whatever," the girl shrugs it off and tries to change the subject. "Hazel and Nico just told us that the doors—"

Piper cuts her off. "You're feeling things you don't want to feel, I get it, but this is not the way to handle it and you know it."

Ara pushes her hair back in frustration. Once upon a time, she took pride in having the softest, most well-behaved hair ever. Those days are gone. "He's busy fixing what I broke."

"Leo's good at multitasking," her sister presses. "Come on, don't be a coward."

Piper kicks her off the bed and Ara slips pathetically to the ground, throwing her head back and whining. "Why are you so mean to me?"

The girl laughs and nudges her shoulder. "Go!"

Ara drags herself out of the girl's room, preparing herself for another conversation she has no interest in having this early in life. 

Leo is repairing the oars individually from inside the hull, his army jacket tied around his waist, but his clothes aren't stained, they don't even look sweaty.

"Need help?" She asks out loud.

Leo's head whips rather quickly at the sound of her voice. "I'm impressed, doll—you did a pro job, you just need to think more like a mechanic. You still struggle with following the rules step by step, huh?"

Ara walks up to him and touches the fabric of his sleeve, examining the material. "We need to talk."

Leo looks at her intently, placing the screwdriver back in his tool belt and holding her chin so she looks at him. "You got tanned. Gee, I can't take my eyes off you for just one second before you start shifting into something else..."

Whatever happened in Ogygia changed him too. He grew an inch or two, though nowhere near enough to be as tall as her. His hands have scratches and callouses that weren't there before, and he takes his time with things now. His hyper energy isn't gone, but he's controlling it better.

"I need to know what happened on that island," she has trouble meeting his eyes. "But I... I can't bring myself to ask what I want to ask."

"Then don't ask yet," Leo looks up at her almost pleadingly. "Focus on rescuing Percy and Annabeth."

"It doesn't mean I'll forget, we'll be pushing back something inevitable," Ara frowns.

"I'm not trying to make you forget," Leo pushes a strand of hair behind her ear, he's always touching her hair when he's anxious. "Right now I'm fixing the ship—then you're killing a giant, we've got a lot going on and I think we should focus on being there for each other."

Her face sets and she nods. "I'm killing a giant. I'm bringing my brother and Annabeth back."

"Atta girl," he lightly squeezes her hip. "I couldn't live without you, doll."

Something about how he says that rubs her the wrong way, apart from it coming a bit out of nowhere, but Ara decides to move past it. "Okay."

He pecks her lips, having to stand a bit on his tiptoes to do so. "Get out, your face is distracting me."

Nico reads the list they wrote together to verify she isn't forgetting things. They're sat on the deck's floor, and the crew moves around them going from one place to another also getting ready.

"Piper, stop!" Ara catches the girl practicing with her new sword. "You'll get tired before we even reach the ruins!"

"Why aren't you bringing the cloak?" Nico asks when she zips the Octopi.

"It'd be like putting a target on my back," Ara raises a brow. "I don't want to be possessed by an Eidolon."

"Take the cloak." Nico presses.

"Why?"

"It's good luck."

Ara frowns. "Says who?"

He gets up and helps her do the same. "In the House of Hades, you'll be in my territory. You should listen to me."

Ara gives him a sideways glance before walking towards the helm. "How's it looking, Admiral?"

"Hot and steamy!" Leo winks at her. "Makes me homesick for Houston! What do you say, Hazel? All we need now are some giant mosquitoes, and it'll feel just like the Gulf Coast!"

"Thanks a lot, Leo," Hazel grumbles. "We'll probably get attacked by Ancient Greek mosquito monsters now."

"There!" Nico points forward. "Maneuver us that way. We're close to the temple. Very close."

"You got it, Ghost King!" Leo quips.

Nico glares at him. "Don't make me hate you, Valdez."

"So you love me right now?" Leo smirks.

Dark lightning snaps above their heads, making Ara's skin crawl. She flinches and touches her left shoulder, the memory of her old injury putting her on edge. She survived that thanks to Artemis's blessing, this time she might not be that lucky.

"Everyone, arm yourself," Jason orders. "Leo, get us close, but don't land—no more contact with the ground than necessary. Piper, Hazel, get the mooring ropes."

"On it!" Piper replies, moving quickly.

"Frank, get below and find Coach Hedge." 

"Yep!"

Ara sighs, fixing her armor. "Gods, I hope we all survive this."

"C'mon, sunshine, where is your fake-it-till-you-make-it energy? We got this in the bag!" Leo tries to cheer her up.

"We only have estimates and guesses, and then once we get Percy and Annabeth—if we get them—there is a giant waiting to crush us with his darkness or whatever the Hades he does," Ara raises a brow.

"General, I say this with the utmost respect," Leo places a hand on her shoulder. "You either chill or zip it."

Ara makes a face but tries to comply. "...At least if I die today the curse gets canceled?"

"Pretty messed up but I'll take it!" Leo says enthusiastically. He's trying to compensate for the bad vibes looming over him. "Talking about curses—Zhang, get Hazel and come here a moment!"

"Okay, here's the plan."

Hazel frowns. "I hate your plans. Besides, Nico and Ara made one already."

"That's not what I'm talking about," Leo stretches out his palm. "I need that piece of magic firewood—Snappy!"

Frank and Hazel step back in alarm. "Leo, you can't—"

"I found a solution," he insists. "It's your call, big guy, but I can protect you."

Frank takes a moment, but he gives in. "Go ahead, Hazel."

"Why am I here?" Ara asks.

Leo hushes her. "In a moment, hun." 

Hazel searches in her pocket and carefully hands Leo the piece of firewood. The boy rummages through the pockets of his tool belt and pulls out a white piece of fabric very similar to his shirt. 

"Behold!"

"A handkerchief?" Frank guesses.

"A surrender flag?" Hazel suggests.

"No, unbelievers! This is a pouch woven from seriously cool fabric—a gift from a friend of mine."

Ara watches as Leo places the wood inside and closes it. She wonders if he asked Calypso to make his magical outfit look like his old clothes, as a reminder of simpler times. Ara doesn't see those times as more manageable, for her, they were lonely and confusing.

"The drawstring was my idea," Leo explains happily. "It took some work, lacing that into the fabric, but the pouch won't open unless you want it to. The fabric breathes just like regular cloth, so the firewood isn't any more sealed up than it would be in Hazel's coat pocket."

"Uh..." Hazel tilts her head. "How is that an improvement, then?"

"Hold this so I don't give you a heart attack." Leo tosses the pouch carelessly to Frank and then ignites his hand, pressing it to the sleeve of his jacket. "See? It doesn't burn!"

"Uh... you're immune to flames."

"He means the fabric," Ara points out. "I've seen him burn through pants for months..." She blushes. "I mean he needs to concentrate to not burn through the fabric. That pouch is magical like your clothes?"

"How are you so smart and hot?" Leo teases her with a crooked grin.

Hazel saves Ara from stammering out a reply. "How can you be sure?"

"Sheesh, tough audience. Guess there's only one way to persuade you." Leo reaches out so Frank hands him the pouch again.

"Uh, no, no." Frank steps back. "That's okay, Leo. Thanks, but I—I can't —"

"Man, you gotta trust me," he persists, looking sure of himself.

"Okay..." Frank takes a slow breath and hands him the pouch. "Try not to kill me." 

Leo's hand gets wrapped in flames, but nothing happens to the stuff he's holding. He keeps it going for about fifteen seconds, then looks up at Frank with a sheepish smile. "Who's your best buddy?"

"Don't answer that," Hazel intervenes again. "But, Leo, that was amazing."

"It was, wasn't it?" He nods, placing his free hand on Ara's waist. "So who wants to take this newly ultra-safe piece of firewood?"

"I'll keep it," Frank says. Hazel looks hurt, but he continues. "Hazel, it's not about you. I can't explain, but I—I have a feeling I'm going to need to step up when we're in the House of Hades. I need to carry my own burden."

"I understand. I just..." she pouts. "I worry."

Leo hands him the pouch and Frank ties it on a loop of his jeans. "Thanks, Leo."

"What are genius friends for?" He smirks. "But this is partly for a selfish reason. You guys know about my curse—and Hazel offered to help Ara, so we're taking you up on that offer, Levesque."

Ara looks at him with concern. "We are?"

He shrugs casually. "I like us as Firecracker and Birdy, I don't want this lifetime to end anytime soon."

Frank pats his shoulder encouragingly. "We'll help, guys, don't worry."

"Oh, I worry alright..." Ara frowns and holds Leo's head against her chest, kissing the top of it and making him blush. "But I won't go through another cursed life either."

Next Chapter –>

Taglist.

@siriuslysirius1107 @ask-giggles1303 @asnyox-the-hoarder @im-planning-something-look @bandshirts-andbooks @coolninjapaper @thewaterlily @whenisthefall @1randomcomic @you-bloody-shank @sunflowergraves @owlalex44 @taylordaughter @typicalsolangelolover @writingmia @espressopatronum454 @slytherinnqueen @orbitingpolaris @obxstiles @ellipsisspelled @thepixiechicksh @ebony-reine-vibes

[samadiw]

SOULMATES 🖤🔥

Sneak Peek into my upcoming fic 😍

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The hunt for hocruxes take longer than expected, the trio are well into their twenties but they tirelessly continue their efforts to vanquish The Dark Lord.

It is by an unfortunate misunderstanding that Ron gives away their location.

Giving her friends a chance to escape and continue their journey, Hermione makes the ultimate sacrifice and surrenders herself to widely proclaimed Angel of Death.

Her terms of imprisonment are strange and baffling to her.

She is to be well cared for and educated. Her captor, Draco Malfoy and his family are entrusted with her care, a decision that does not sit well with the ice blonde man now nearing twenty five years of age.

Voldemort has plans for her, he harbours a strong infatuation that he keeps hidden, except when they are alone.

He keeps his advances to subtle touches and lingering glances but does nothing else to thwart the headstrong woman he holds captive.

Hermione devises a plan, she decides to seduce the young handsome Malfoy into bending to her will and letting her leave.

She entices him with her clothes, secret glances and lingering touches but her advances go unnoticed, it frustrates her that he is immune to her charms.

He notices her alright, it takes all his will power to not kneel at her feet and claim her for himself.

She looks, smells and probably tastes like a forbiddenly enticing fruit.

Hermione puts her plan into motion on his birthday and bites off more than she can chew.

Her body betrays her shamelessly and he takes his birthday present in the form of her orgasm on his tongue but after the deed he leaves her to mercy of the shadows with her cum dripping down her thighs as a reminder of the dangerous game she's playing.

Her existence isn't harrowing, it's the best one could hope for.

It isnt until Narcissa's famous Malfoy Christmas ball and the untimely appearance of Theodore Nott that Draco loses his composure and cracks.

T : "Is that Hermione Granger?"

D : "Yes."

T : "The ugly duckling has blossomed into a beautiful swan."

D : "If you are into that sort of thing."

T : "You have eyes, Malfoy."

He did have eyes and Granger looked stunning in a flowing dark green gown that hugged her neck in a high halter and left her entire back exposed teasing the rise of her shapely arse.

It was obvious his mother had taken it upon herself to dress Granger for the occasion. Malfoy family jewels glistened around the former Gryffindor's neck and wrists.

He didn't appreciate Theo's lustful eyes roving over her body.

T : "I fancy a dance."

D : "She's for show only."

T : "Is that jealousy I hear?"

D : "Granger's fate is in the hands of The Dark Lord."

T : "Indeed, but excuse me, I want to get to know the most beautiful woman in the room."

D : "Theo, I'm warning you."

T : "Fuck off, Malfoy, you have no control over my actions."

Draco simmers in unadulterated fury as he watches Theo approach Hermione and engage her in conversation.

The bloody nerve of her, he narrows his eyes and glares as she touches Theo's arm and throws her head back in laughter.

Hermione locks eyes with a pair of icy swirls of grey, he looks positively good enough to eat.

Handsome is a word wasted on Draco Malfoy such is his presence, she gravitates towards him unwaveringly but tonight a willing good looking man is paying her attention and it feels refreshing and oddly satisfying.

Theo leads Hermione to the dance floor and pulls her close to his body, his fingers tease her exposed skin, she willingly moves in and let's her hand slide around his neck.

She peeks a look over Theo's shoulder at Draco, he continues to stare at them unblinkingly, his body radiates anger and a reddish glow emits from his fingertips.

From afar, Draco watches Theo's slow movements on the woman swaying in his arms.

Theo bends to kiss Hermione"s cheek and Draco stiffens.

The song ends, Theo kisses Hermione's hand and with the promise of a walk under the moonlight, they part ways.

She grabs a flute of champagne and walks into the wide terrace. The night sky is particularly pretty with many stars scattered across the heavens.

Her thoughts linger on Ron and Harry.

Soon, I'll be free.

A voice of pure steel cuts through her thoughts.

D : "Having fun, are we?"

H : "The best one can hope in prison."

D : "Did you enjoy him touching you?"

H : "As a matter of fact, I did."

H : "It gets so lonely and Theo is a distraction I wholeheartedly welcome."

H : "He says he's spending the night, perhaps we can get to know each other better."

D : "Like hell..."

Draco closes the distance between them, pulls her roughly to his chest and apparates them away.

Their feet touch solid ground and Hermione pushes Draco away angrily.

H : "Get away from me, don't fucking touch me."

Draco tosses his jacket aside and begins to unbutton his black shirt.

D : "You don't mean that."

He stalks towards her purposely and Hermione steps back at once.

H : "I'm warning you, Malfoy."

D : "I've been meaning to do this all night."

He grabs her around the waist, pulls her to him and claims her swollen lips hungrily.

Hermione stills as his kisses invade her body and mind but she has some fight left in her.

She struggles, manages to free a hand, bringing it across she slaps him hard with all her might.

The slap echoes through the quiet confinement of the room, her fingermarks stain his pale skin and even in the dim light it stands out.

Draco touches his lip and his fingers glisten with blood, he grins at the woman in front of him.

Her fiery spirit turned him on, but when he took her it would be with her consent and not otherwise.

Hermione stares at her trembling hand and then at the imposing man before her.

She breathes rapidly to calm her shattered nerves.

He turns to leave but a small hand grabs his arm in an ironclad grip, he turns to face her and is momentarily blinded by her mane of thick brown hair.

Hermione grabs Draco by the collar and kisses him fervently.

Their need urgent, they shed their clothes and caress and touch every inch of their naked bodies.

She is impressed by his length and girth, the sight fills her with a sensation she is not familiar with.

It presses into the skin of her inner thigh and she closes her eyes in anticipation.

He trails his fingers along her body, tracing the luscious curves of her full body.

Draco sucks on the delicate skin on her neck, he grabs hold of his rock hard cock and guides it into her entrance.

Without a second thought, he rams into her hoping to make a lasting impression, the wanting to stand out from her former lovers is strong.

Her fingers dig into his back and expensive sheets, a pained moan rolls off her tongue.

A whimper follows and Draco stills as her tight walls clamp down around his dick and the tip tears through a barrier.

He brings his head up and stares at the woman beneath him.

Words desert him....

D : "You're a virgin."

He had already taken her, Hermione almost let's out a laugh.

Boldly, she locks eyes with him and runs her fingers through his silky fine locks.

H : "Not anymore."

D : "Granger, fuck...why didn't you tell me?"

H : "Does it matter?

D : "Yes, I shouldn't have been your first."

H : "Why? What difference does it make?"

D : "Forgive me."

H : "There's nothing to forgive, I wanted this."

H : "I want you."

He claims her lips passionately.

D : "Everything about you is special."

D : "I want to ravish you slowly."

H : "Finish what you started, Draco."

Hearing his name coming out her mouth was explosive, it went down to his core.

He slows his pace and pleasures her until they are bathed in sweat and completely spent.

Draco withdraws reluctantly, throws his long legs off the bed and strides naked into the massive ensuite.

He opens the gold plated tap, takes his cock in his hand and stares at it.

The tip is covered with blood and semen.

Her blood, the evidence of her virginity and purity.

It was pure and untainted, not a drop of mud or discoloration to it.

She was his.

It was nothing like he had ever experienced, he was well versed in bedding a woman, but this, being with her felt as if he was reborn from the ashes.

The roaring feelings from his core scares him, it paralyzes him and he holds onto the porcelain sink to steady himself.

The generations old magic flowing through his veins speak to him, it pulls at the strings of his heart and propels him to her.

Their union is an unexpected one, a forbidden love in dark times.

Draco narrows his eyes at his relection and smirks, he would protect her, cherish her and love her with all his being.

Hermione touches her body, it was mere minutes but she craved him again, her heart aches for his presence, she couldn't understand what was happening but it felt glorious.

The need to be surrounded by his warmth engulfed her, she closes her eyes, throws her head back and groans in frustration.

Large hands palm her ripened breasts and teeth graze her sensitive skin.

He pushes his throbbing cock into her tight cunt and pleasured moans escape their lips.

He growls protectively, "Mine."

She sighs in content, "Yours, always."

[7demonhoes]

The devildom and hell are not the same part 3

This took too long to write but it is done! Thank you to everyone who asked me to write a third and final installment to my short story series! If you’re interested, here is Part 1 and Part 2. And if you have any idea for fics you want to read, let me know, I need the ideas! I do angst, nsfw stuff, and fluff :)

Description: MC has decided that they would lose anything rather than be apart from the demon brothers. But now, after making their decision, MC must come to terms with the new wickedness inside of them. 

Word Count: 4,942

Warnings: Violence, death. 

I stand in the cellar of the House of Lamentation, surrounded by gray statues of demons as old as time. Each statue cups a ball of fire in their hands, the green flame burning for eternity. Shadows cross ominously throughout the room, dancing in the knowledge of the ritual that is to come. 

I stand in the middle of the large room, staring at the impressive pillars that carry the weight of the mansion above me. Details of the brothers Falling are carved into each slab of marble. I shudder, both from the cold and from the anxiety. What does it feel like to be immortal? Will life seem redundant in a few hundred years? Will I regret this decision to shed my humanity? 

Someone coughs, not out of necessity but to get my attention instead. Seven demons surround me, their emotions filling the air with electric tension. They all stand perfectly still, their eyes glowing apprehensively. 

The one who coughed, Lucifer, raises his eyebrows at me in a silent question. Are you ready? 

I swallow in an attempt to soothe my parched throat. Nodding, I steady myself and lower my eyes to the black goblet in front of me. It stands on a stone table, the contents within empty for now. 

After making my decision and telling the brothers that I would rather become a demon and spend eternity with them than forget my time in the Devildom, I was immediately taken to the House of Lamentation to prepare for the ritual. I shift worriedly in my robe, the dark gray fabric flowing in the air with an impossible wind. 

From somewhere beyond my vision, Diavolo steps forward and into my line of sight. He stands proudly in his demon form, all signs of his former anger completely eradicated. He gives me a fanged grin. "Once the ritual begins, there is no turning back. Are you prepared for what's to come?" 

I take in a shuddering breath, thinking it over once again. I scan the faces of the demon brothers, their eyes hopeful and desperate. Would I give up an eternity with them to live a mundane, human life? 

No. Never. 

I nod. "I'm ready," I say, and my voice is filled with strong convention. 

Each of the seven brothers give an audible sigh of relief. Diavolo chuckles quietly. "Let it be done," he says, and I swear that a humming sound of pleasure comes from the statues at the edge of the room. 

"In order to grant you power in your demon form," Diavolo starts, "We will incorporate the power of your pacts into the ritual. You will not be a lesser demon; you will hold the same power that each of the brothers hold within them. This is our gift to you." 

I blink, surprised. "How?" 

"Through blood." Diavolo lifts his arms gesturing towards the demon brothers. "Come forth." 

Belgaphore approaches me first. He's the most awake I've ever seen him, eyes wide and clear. He smiles almost shyly at me, eyes flickering with mischievous light. He walks so that he's behind me. 

Diavolo whispers my name. I stare at him expectantly. "Remove your robe," he demands. 

I begin to protest, then stop. I'm becoming a demon; I don't think I should be worrying about modesty. I stare at a spot of the wall in front of me, keeping my eyes away from the men surrounding me. I bite my inside of my cheek and remove my robe, the breeze making my naked body prickle. 

"Blood will be mixed with blood," Diavolo whispers, his eyes bright with apprehension. 

I feel Belphie's clawed hand against my upper back. I gasp at the sudden touch, twisting my head to look at him. "Sorry," he smirks at me, "this is going to hurt a little." 

He swipes a claw across my skin. I suck in a gasp as hot blood wells in a shallow cut. He quickly swipes at the palm of his hand before pressing it against my back. Almost immediately, the mark of our pack glows in a purple light, washing his face in it's hue. The flesh tingles, completely replacing the pain with a feeling of rolling needles. 

Belphie steps away. I turn to face Beel, who smiles encouragingly at me. "I'm excited to spend eternity with you," he sighs happily, bringing his wrist to his mouth and biting down. He makes a small, careful cut right above my stomach, mumbling apologies the entire time. When he pressed his wrist against my cut, the pack burns bright red. A feeling of hunger washes over me, so powerful that I almost double over with the strange need for something more, something fulfilling. 

Asmo approaches me next, a familiar, flirtatious smile on his full lips. He kneels in front of me, a hand snaking up to caress my inner thigh. I blush, fighting against myself to back away. Asmo giggles, "The pain feels good, doesn't it? Don't worry darling; you're almost done." He takes a beautiful knife out from the sleeve of his shirt, the hilt carved in pink roses. He licks the blade, leaving a thin trace of blood on the steel. He lowers his face to my thigh, and with a warm brush of his breath on my skin, bites down. 

I gasp as pink light glows from my thighs. Asmo winks as he walks away, and I have to take a deep breath to steady the rapid breathing of my heart. Something wicked and exciting tickles in my gut.

Satan is next to step forward. He gently takes my hand, thumb swiping across my knuckles. "You were the first being in existence to make me feel something other than rage." He bares his teeth in a fanged smile. "After today, let's do something truly demonic together." He slashes three claws across my knuckles before pressing a knife to my hand. "Your turn." 

Without hesitating, I take it and grab his hand, turning it so that the pad of his thumb is facing upwards. I take the tip of the knife and press downwards until blood pools. I press his thumb against my knuckles. The pack marks against my knuckles burn green with a maddening heat. I immediately have to clench my hands into my fists. 

Behind me, I hear Levi's timid voice. "M- my turn." When I turn my head to look at him, his face is completely red. "Please don't look at me!" He begs, "Especially when you- you're…" he hides his head in his hoodie. "...naked." 

I suppress a chuckle, instead taking his wrist and pressing his hand against the back of my neck. "Help me finish this, Levi." 

He gulps, curling his fingers and grabbing at the skin at my neck. I turn as he cuts me, waiting for the warmth of his blood pressing against my own. 

When it comes, goosebumps ripple on my neck and a selfish chill travels down my spine. Levi hurries away. I blink, and Mammon is in front of me. He pressed a golden claw ring against his palm. He gingerly takes my hand before pressing it against my palm as well. He grasps my hand, and my palms shine brightly in gold. "Remember that I was your first demon, ya hear?" 

I nod at him. "And you always will be." 

His eyes widen, a blush erupting on his cheeks. "Shuddap, ya human." 

Lucifer steps up behind Mammon and puts a hand on his shoulder. "Not for long." 

Once he reaches me, he rests his hand against my heart and swipes down with a claw. His eyes are dancing with fire as he makes a shallow cut on his lip. 

He rests one hand at my hip before leaning down, pressing his lips against me. My flesh burns blue, an icy feeling creeping from my heart and up to my throat. Lucifer leans forward, lips brushing against my ear. "Remember our pact. You are now mine. Forever." 

I gulp as he turns away. Diavolo chuckles, stepping up to the goblet. He picks up a thick blade from beside it, digging it into the flesh of forearm. He rests his hand above the goblet, letting the dark liquid drip steadily into the cup. 

I take a moment to concentrate on my body. Washed in a rainbow of glowing colors, my skin ripples and crawls with a mixture of pleasant chills and waves of heat. All anxiety of my decision is gone, even as something in my gut churns more and more with each passing moment. Something wicked prickles at the back of my mind.

Diavolo picks up the goblet and faces me. "You are to make a pact with me." His voice deepens with power. The firelight flickers, casting his face in shadow. "And offer me your soul." 

I open my mouth, finding it difficult to speak. Without my soul, what will happen to me? Will I change beyond recognition? 

Do I mind if I do? 

I bite my lip. No matter what happens, it's already far too late. I've made my decision. It's time to see it through. 

"Lord Diavolo," I breathe, feeling the power in my words, "I offer you my soul." 

He passes the goblet to me. Warmth spreads across my body as I take it. I look down to see black runes carved into my skin, covering every part of my body from the neck down with shifting marks. The only place where it is not etched into my skin is where the pacts of each of the brothers burn. "Drink," he commands, and I raise the goblet to my lips. 

The blood is bitter against my tongue. As I take my first swallow, the world around me dims. Somewhere beyond the black, I hear Diavolo's voice. "Once you have finished this unholy Communion, your journey will be over. You will be one of us: a dark, wicked thing. Drink, leave your humanity behind, and become a demon." 

My body hums with his words. Blood steams in my mouth, burning my throat as the thick liquid pours over my tongue. And with one final gulp, I drain the cup. 

My hands are shaking as I lower the cup from my mouth, the tremors vibrating them so badly that the goblet in my hands falls to the floor with a sudden clang. I gasp as searing heat spreads throughout my body, as if Diavolo's blood is scorching through my veins. The back of my head feels as if it's about to burst, and with a sudden cry I throw myself to the floor, curling my legs and clutching them to my chest with shaking arms.

Someone growls, and I look up to see Mammon rushing forth. Diavolo stops him, and Mammon feverishly claws at the hulking demon to get to me. With a grunt, Diavolo pushes Mammon's chest, and he flies backwards and crashes into a statue. 

Something rises in my throat at the sight of Mammon, his body crumpled against the stone statue. A deep, alien rumbling sound climbs out of my mouth, the low growl echoing throughout the cavern. I feel the heat of eight pairs of eyes on me at once. The flames cease to flicker. The air grows still. 

My flesh crawls and writhes as deep lacerations etch themselves into my skin, forming harsh cracks. The growl in my throat turns into a groan, and I watch with wide eyes as the intricate runes glowing from my skin dig themselves deep into me. There is no blood, only deep tunnels of hurt. The pacts scratch into my body, the gouged wounds turning into the color that each pack represents. 

Through the pain, I notice the power. My muscles contort as they grow in size, bones lengthening and shifting underneath. I bite down on my cheeks to keep from screaming and taste blood as fangs dig into my own flesh, sharp molars and incisors itching to bite down harder and revel in the taste. A strong, terrible pressure emits from my skull and I scratch at it with newly formed claws, long black nails slicing open skin to reveal what feels like hard tips of rock bursting through my skull. The horns are about three inches in length and are covered in slick red. 

And suddenly, the pain stops and turns into a dull throbbing. After a few moments, I take a deep breath and attempt to stand. 

Someone wraps the robe around my back just as a different pair of arms help me get to my feet. I pull the robe against my bare skin, though I no longer feel the chill of the air around me.

I have to blink several times as I peer around the room. The cellar, once a dark, shadowy place, now appears to me as a brightly lit room. The details of the faces around me are clearer than they've ever been; I don't think I've ever seen the world around me with such clarity. 

Something strange pulls at my chest. A dark, low heat attempts to twist my body towards a certain direction, an excited tingling feeling churning in my gut. The back of my mind prickles, and a mixture of hunger, anger, and need pours through me. The demon pacts of Beel, Satan, and Asmo shine even brighter. I should go to the place that is pulling me. 

"What is this?" I ask, slowly turning my head to face the pull. 

Beside me, Satan frowns pensively. He looks toward the same direction I am. "You're feeling Hell." 

I blink as the realization dawns on me. Something in the back of my mind recoils at the thought, but it's quickly pushed away by the greed to quench the thirst within me. My palms are bathed in bright gold as the color pulses. 

"The pull gets stronger the longer you wait," Lucifer says from behind me. "It makes it hard to appear human, and eventually it will tear the beast from under your skin." 

I look down at my body, unfamiliar to me. "Is this my True Form?"

"Yes, darling." I hear Asmo's light footsteps approach me. "Would you like to see?" 

I nod. He pulls out a hand mirror from his pocket and hands it to me. I open it carefully, unaccustomed to the claws. 

I lift the mirror to my face and stare into my reflection. 

Tiny runes the size of veins cover my face, giving my face a dark and ethereal glow. I frown at my features thoughtfully; they haven't changed much; my jaw is sharper and my face a little more gaunt. 

My eyes, however, shift in color. When the firelight wanes, they glow just as the pacts etched into my skin do. 

I silently hand the mirror back to Asmo. I scan the room, noticing that each of the brothers stare at me expectantly. I shift uncomfortably, suddenly realizing that I don't know what to do from here. 

I have forever with them. How do I even begin to understand that? Time has always felt limited to me. As a human, the thought of death was never far. And beyond that, I always thought about how my time at the Devildom would come to an end. 

And now? Now I have an eternity, and I have no idea how to process that. 

I scratch my head lightly with a claw. "Uh," I begin, biting the inside of my cheek, "What happens now?" 

Belphie snorts. "For now, you can change into actual clothes. After that, it's no longer my problem." He sticks his tongue out at me, his eyes playful. "I'm taking a nap." 

As he leaves the room, Lucifer gestures towards the spiraling staircase. "Belgaphore has a point. Let's get you comfortable and then we can sort out our next steps." 

I nod and follow the brothers upstairs. After I change out of the robe, Diavolo, the brothers, and me sit in the common room. 

"First thing's first," Diavolo begins, "You must learn how to shift between forms. Then we can focus on training." 

I blink. "Training?"

Lucifer nods. "You're a brand new demon. You have powers you are yet to understand; we don't even know what you're truly capable of. You have to not only learn your new strengths, but you have to learn how to live with your new needs and urges."

Satan cuts in, "Like that pull you felt towards Hell. You can still feel it, right?" 

The need increases as I concentrate on it. Something dark in my mind salivates at the thought of going to that place. I suppress a chill. I nod silently, trying to push the pull from my mind. 

"Once you revert back to your human form, you won't be able to change to your True Form unless you are severely agitated." 

"Or in Hell," I whisper.

Satan and Lucifer nod. "Try changing. Focus in on yourself and concentrate on your body." Lucifer leans forward on the couch, watching me intently. 

I do as he says. I close my eyes and focus on the beating of my heart, willing it to slow. My body cools as the warmth of the pacts etched into my skin fade. I look down to see my body as it was before my transition. 

Asmo, sits at my feet with his arms sprawled across my knees, reaches up and pokes at my biceps. "You've grown some muscle, darling." 

I shake my head, eyes traveling across the faces of Levi, Mammon, and Beel. "What now?"

The three of them sit quietly, thinking. After a few moments of silence, Mammon barks a laugh, leaving back on the seat across from me and crossing his arms. "Who cares? You have forever to think about it." 

I smile, looking at my demon boys. I think I can get used to forever. 

The week passes by in a blur. Days are filled with school, training, and spending time with the brothers. Solomon has asked me to make a pact with him dozens of times. No matter how much time we spend together, I'm not sure I'll ever be able to fully trust that shady wizard enough to offer him control over me. 

Learning what I'm capable of has been strange. I'm still getting used to the superhuman strength and speed. I may not have wings, but I'm able to keep up with the fastest of the brothers with ease. 

Besides strength and speed, I've yet to learn any other new abilities. I haven't even learned how to shift from my human form; I can never focus my energy enough to change. But I can always feel something dark in my mind black tendrils twisting. I try to keep them at bay. Maybe I don't want to know what I'm truly capable of. 

But the pull of Hell is only growing stronger, and I can hardly think about anything but the memory of screaming human souls crashing in my ears. Something shifts and sneers under my skin at the thought of those tortured souls. I push the feeling down, trying desperately to forget it. What happens if I embrace it? Do I lose a part of myself? 

I swallow, forcing my attention back to class. I doodle idly in my notebook, my leg bouncing wildly. I ignore the glares of the other demons surrounding me; they never liked me while I was human, but now that I have strength and power equal to theirs or more, their hatred for me is palpable. Eight of the most powerful demons of all time have chosen me as their own. Before, I was prey. Now I'm a challenger. 

I keep close to the demon brothers during the school day. I haven't been left alone once during the entire week, but Mammon was summoned by Diavolo for stealing something of his, leaving me alone. 

I scratch at the desk. At least I'm meeting most of the brothers for lunch right after this class, so I won't have to watch as all the people around me salivate at the idea of jumping me. 

Just as I'm able to calm the anxiety growing inside of me, the teacher coughs before muttering something about ending class early. The pack up and rush out of the room. 

Okay. Nevermind. My body stiffens as I slowly look over the room, watching as every demon's eyes turn to me. My spine shivers. 

I hope no one can see the soft shaking of my fingers as I slowly put my stuff away and get ready to meet the brothers for lunch. As I stare at my desk, I hear a chair squeak loudly. When I look back up to try to stand, I find a demon standing in the way. He grins maniacally at me, the need for violence written all over his face. 

"You're all alone now." The entire room watches us, the tense energy in the air palpable. "What, your high demons turned you into one of us and then threw you away?" 

I ignore him, unsure of what else to do. I stand in front of him, hoisting my backpack over my shoulder and moving to walk past him. 

He reaches out a hand and places it firmly on my chest. A growl rises in my throat, but before it can be heard the demon pushes me into the air and I fly backwards, crashing into the wall behind me. 

The pain hardly even registers beyond the rage. Without thinking, I focus on the darkness whirling in my head and my gut and let it flow through my veins. I get to my feet, wiping at a thin trickle of blood I feel at the back of my head, and as my body fills with a deep rage a distant part of me noticing the strengthening of my muscles. Something pinched at my gums, head, and fingers as black claws, horns and fangs shoot out from shifting skin. 

Green runes glow from my knuckles. The demon raises his eyebrows at me. As he stays still, sizing me up, I reach back into myself without thinking and focus on the hunger, the need to win. To gorge myself on this demon's blood. 

Something around my gut warms. Muscles tear and grow. When I speak, it's hard to form words beyond the growls. "You think the monster they made wouldn't be able to take care of themself?" 

The man erupts into his demon form, saliva dripping from his fat tongue. I focus on the pricking in the back of my neck and focus my envy, borrowing Levi's speed. I do the same for Asmo's grace, and by the time the demon reaches me I'm able to dodge his first blow. 

I call out to the brothers and Diavolo in my head, using the strength of the pacts to try and reach them. Each pact suddenly explodes in a blast of fury, and I know that they heard my call. 

The demon lunges again and I dodge, springing to the side as huge claws swipe downward towards my eyes. I see an opening near the man's gut and take it, but I'm not used to the sheer strength of my new body and end up becoming off balance. 

The demon yells triumphantly as he swipes at me again, lifting his hand to strike. I watch the movement in slow motion as I stumble, unable to do anything. His hand sweeps in a wide arch towards my face into what I know is a killing blow.

Something bellows at the other side of the classroom. Time slams back into motion as Lucifer, Diavolo, and Satan run into the room. The demon attacking me immediately stops, claws inches from my face. 

Lucifer opens his mouth, eyes glowing with terrifying anger. 

I look at the demon who attacked me. He's half turned to the side, staring at the three high demons with his arm half raised. The darkness and fury I let in swarms, and I can't push it back. I think about the demon, how close it was to killing me. How much I want to return the favor.

Something in me screams. 

Before I can register what I'm doing, I step forward and jam my elbow into the demon's exposed throat. He stumbles back, coughing, as I reach for his outstretched arm and twist it so that he turns, his back facing me. 

Something wet drips from my chin as I kick him in the back of the knees. He falls to the floor with a quiet moan. My mouth twists into a cruel smile, a clawed hand grabbing the demon by the hair and tilting his head in such a way that he is exposing his already injured neck. 

And with a cry of animal excitement, I slash his throat with my claws. 

He collapses, gurgling in his own blood. I'm breathing heavily from the adrenaline, heart racing as I look up at the high demons facing me. 

Belphie slinks into the room. He sees the twitching body on the floor and nods. "Nice." 

Lucifer says my name. I turn to him, but my eyes keep on drifting back to the demon. To his blood. 

Diavolo turns to Belphie. "It's time. We have to take them." He sighs, glancing at the body on the floor. "But it would be difficult to take them in their current state." 

Belphie nods, stepping over to me. It's hard to register his movement. The demons watching seem to be anxious, seem to understand that I want more. I want their blood, to see it pulsing from open wounds, to watch as their eyes widen in fear and- 

Belphie's hand presses softly against my forehead. "Sleep," he commands. 

My vision blurs as I slump against him, my last thought about the blood under my fingernails. 

I wake up staring at the night sky. I look around, seeing the brothers leaning next to me. Diavolo stands a few paces back. He perks up once he sees I'm awake. "So sorry about that, but you wouldn't have come here without trying to kill a few more demons." 

I yawn, blinking rapidly. "Kill?" 

"Yeah dude, you went psycho," Belphi says. 

"Nevermind that," Satan shakes his head. "How do you feel?" 

I raise a hand to my forehead. I don't feel horns, so I must have shifted back to my human form. I groggily try to remember what happened before I passed out. "Fine, I guess," I respond, narrowing my eyes at Belphie as I remember just how I ended up falling asleep.

"Fine?" Levi snorts, sounding almost impressed, "you just teared out some guy's throat." 

I wince. Mammon reaches out and leans a hand on my shoulder. "I bet he deserved it," he whispers. "He tried to hurt ya, didn't he?" 

I shudder. "I think he was about to kill me." I look to Lucifer, Satan, and Diavolo. "If you hadn't come so quickly…"

Lucifer frowns. "We should discuss that. You were able to call us through our pacts." 

I frown, thinking about how I naturally used my newfound abilities while in danger. "I think I drew your power from them." 

"You mean you could use our abilities?" Asmo wrinkles his forehead. "That is certainly interesting." 

Diavolo walks over, staring at me pointedly. "You have the potential to be much stronger than I realized." He raises his eyebrows. "And you clearly are strong willed." 

"What do you mean?"

Belphie scoffs. "Don't you realize where you are?" 

I look around. I sit at the top of a steep hill, dry ash covering my clothes and sifting through my fingers as I clutch the black ground. I look to my left and see the shimmering air of a forcefield. 

"Oh," I whisper to myself. As soon as I realize where I am, the pull I've grown accustomed to suddenly explodes. I gasp at the power, the burning instinct sending sharp tingles throughout my body. I feel an impossible mixture of each of the seven sins as my pacts glow in an ethereal light. 

I shift, the pain almost unnoticeable besides the overwhelming need to step beyond the forcefield. I stand, my limbs moving on their own accord. 

"This is it," Beel mutters beside me. "You know what you'll do when you walk through." He grabs my hand. I clutch his, a mixture of desire and disgust swarming in my stomach. 

"Are you prepared?" Diavolo asks from behind me. 

I swallow. I remember what it felt like to embrace the newfound wickedness within me, how the hot feel of blood under my claws sent shivers of pleasure through me. I remember how much I liked it, and something in me cowers in fear of what I have become.

But the pull will never go away. I have made my choice; I always knew it would come to this. It's time to leave my humanity where I stand. 

I take a deep breath, focusing on the black runes that are ready to carve into my skin. I draw in Diavolo's power, using it to force myself to change into my True Form. I grit my teeth through the pain, focusing on the swirling air in front of me. 

Once I'm fully changed, I walk with unsteady legs into the forcefield, ears filling with the sound of human screams. And as I stare at the Pit below me, I embrace the tendrils of darkness inside of me. I let it flow through me, my body prickling in excitement. I think about what I'm about to do. 

And I smile. 

[lady-divine-writes]

Good Omens one-shot - “Wrong Address” (Rated NC17)

Summary: Since Aziraphale won't let his demon come over during lockdown, Crowley decides to send him a special gift. It doesn't work out quite the way he planned...

... but that might turn out to be an unexpected blessing. (1655 words)

Read on AO3.

"Anthony J Crowley! Did you send me a care package?"

"Yes, indeedy, angel," Crowley admits, a smug smile tugging his lips up at the corners. He reclines in his throne, phone pressed to his ear, staring out his windows in the direction of his angel's shop, beaming at the smile in Aziraphale's voice.

"What a wonderful surprise! This has positively made my day! Whatever made you think of it?"

"Well, when you mentioned finding those cookbooks in your shop, you sounded so damned happy, I wanted to see if I could top it even if you won't let me come over so I can watch you eat your tasty creations... " Crowley mutters on the finish, still bitter at his angel's reluctance to bend the rules, especially since those rules shouldn't apply to them. There's no way either of them can get sick! "So when I saw this online, I thought it could be a way for me to be a part of your culinary journey."

"How very thoughtful of you," Aziraphale says apologetically. He's not trying to hurt Crowley. He would love nothing more than to have him slither over and share a crumpet or two. 

But angels assigned to Earth stations are meant to be role models. What he does, he does for appearance's sake. 

He must lead by example.

Though, to be honest, it's quite annoying being penned in like this for the good of mankind when humans can't see fit to sit on their arses for a few months until this whole virus bother blows over. 

"So... " Crowley nudges as an expectant silence falls between them, each waiting for the other's next move.

"Indeed! Don't keep me in suspense!" Aziraphale says, rubbing his palms together. "What's inside?"  

Crowley rolls his eyes. Like he's going to set up this whole surprise and then just spill the beans! "You won't know until you open it, will you?"

"Oh! You want me to open it now then? With you on the phone?"

"That's wot I was hoping. I want to hear your reaction. You know, since I can't be there and all."

"Okay. Give me a moment. I need to find a letter opener or a box cutter or... or something... " 

Crowley sinks further into his seat, closes his eyes, and makes himself comfortable. Knowing Aziraphale and his unique organizational system, this could take a while. But listening to his angel hum as he roots through his desk drawers relaxes him. Crowley finds himself drifting off, lulled by the sounds of Aziraphale simply being Aziraphale. But he can't let himself get too cozy. It would be a shame if he knocked out and missed Aziraphale digging into his gift. 

Crowley considers snapping his fingers and giving his angel a hand with the packing tape when he hears a dull pop! and a triumphant, "Success!" Unpacking noises follow - the crumpling of paper wrap being pulled apart, amplified through Crowley's phone, then a giggle that falls somewhere between nervousness and confusion. "Oh! Uh... "

Crowley sits up straight, peering into the distance as if he could see what Aziraphale sees from Mayfair if he tries hard enough. "Wot? Wot's going on?"

"I... I don't know how you intend on me making a meal with what's in this box. Or are you punishing me because I won't let you come over? That would be unnecessarily hurtful, even for a demon."

"Why?" Crowley springs up and stalks over to the glass, addressing the greying treetops below. "Wot'sss in the box?"

"Don't you know?" Aziraphale teases when he starts to suspect this as an honest mishap and not a ploy by his demon.

"Obviousssly I don't!"

"Let's sort through the contents together then, shall we?" Aziraphale reaches into the box, pulling out items one by one. "We have here a pair of silky black knickers. I think these would suit you more than me, my dear."

"You think so?" Crowley asks, annoyance replaced in an instant by intrigue over his angel's impression of him.

"Oh, yes. I think they'd be most flattering on you. And here we have something called a Ben Wa ball, some... " Aziraphale clears his throat before he owns up to the next one "... anal beads... "

Crowley snickers, more at Aziraphale's tight tone than the item itself.

"... a Do Not Disturb sign with an illustration on it that’s anything but subtle, and an object I can only describe as a gel-filled self-pleasuring device. Oh... this one needs refrigeration."

Crowley's mouth goes dry, his imagination running wild with that description, trying to conjure a vision in his head of what such a thing might look like, and where it would go, especially cold. He presses a hot palm to the glass and shivers involuntarily. "Oh my... "

"You sound surprised. Is this not what you ordered, dear?"

"No!" Crowley squeaks. Aziraphale stifles a chuckle when his voice cracks. "No, I didn't," Crowley repeats, fighting for composure while the rest of him itches to bust through the window, unfurl his wings, and fly to his angel. 

He could probably make it to him before the first splinter of glass hits the pavement.

But no. 

Boundaries. 

Aziraphale's determination to not have Crowley over is about more than protocol. Crowley knows this. Angel set up boundaries. And even though his reasons for doing so are ludicrous, Crowley needs to respect them. "Is there a company name on the box?"

"Let me check." Aziraphale mumbles as he searches the package for a name. "This end up, handle with care... here it is! Tantalize Me - the premium adult date night mystery box. Ooo! That sounds interesting! Do you think there could be a murder to sort out in all of this?"

"I don't think that's what they mean by mystery, angel," Crowley says, hearing Aziraphale dive back into the box.

"A-ha! I think I've found the problem."

"And that is... ?"

"I'm afraid this package was meant to go to another bookshop on my same block. It's entirely possible they may have my box."

"I think you learned some information about your competition that you maybe didn't want to know."

"Yes, I suppose I did."

Crowley sighs. "But now I feel like a heel."

"Why is that?"

"I promised you a meal and I didn't deliver."

"Pun intended?" Aziraphale asks with a snort. 

"Not," Crowley replies, less than amused.

"I don't think you can be blamed for a mix-up with the post, my dear."

"Bet I can... " Crowley says, thoughts shuffling back to that awful Horizon IT scandal he lazily threw together that went, unfortunately, better than he'd planned.

"There is one thing to eat in here."

"Really?" Crowley grumbles, turning away from the glass and leaning his back against it, an intense chill seeping through his clothes and into his skin, its sting matching his rapidly fouling mood. "What's that?"

"A tube of personal lubricant. And it's chocolate flavored!" Crowley's eyes widen when he hears the telltale snap of a flip-top lid opening, followed by a wet squelch. "Mmm. It's not half bad."

"Are you actually eating that?" Crowley asks breathlessly.

"Only a little. I licked it off my finger."

Crowley fumbles his phone, catching it before it crashes to the floor. "A---Aziraphale... " 

"Listen to this! It says on the label that it tingles with body heat. Isn't that interesting?"

Crowley's eyelids flutter shut and he swallows hard, his entire body becoming a solid, throbbing ache. Aziraphale doesn't have body heat. Not all that much. But as a demon, Crowley is full of Hellfire. What would it feel like to have his angel spread that lube on him, press his body against him with his skin tingling like crazy? Jesus Christ! "Aziraphale... "

"Whatever is the matter, my dear?"

"Nothing. Except now I think you're punishing me."

"Carl and Tish Lloyd are probably expecting their package. They must have some big plans. I should send it on its way," Aziraphale suggests with infuriating rationale. "Shouldn't I?"

"Th---that wouldn't be good form!" a desperate Crowley argues. "You've already opened it! And sampled it! You can't give it to them in that condition!"

"That is true. That wouldn't be very neighborly. But what to do with it? That's the question... " Aziraphale wonders while Crowley dies inside, a moan trapped in his throat struggling to break free every time he thinks about Aziraphale licking chocolate-flavored lube off his fingers. "Did you want to... uh... try a bit? Of the chocolate goo, I mean?"

"Are you going to ship it over?"

"I guess I could do that," Aziraphale muses. "But who's to say it will get there? What with the post office making such tragic errors. No. I think there's only one way we can ensure that you get your fair share."

Crowley's brow furrows, his brain cluttered with mixed signals. "Are you asking me... ? Can I come over?"

"I have some conditions."

"Name them," Crowley says, prepared to bolt the second Aziraphale gives him the go-ahead.

"You can come over only if you can make it here without being seen. No giving the humans irresponsible ideas. I know that's your job, but I can't be a party to that. Deal?"

"Deal." A snap of his fingers and a second later, Crowley snatches the tube of lubricant out of Aziraphale's hand. He takes Aziraphale's right wrist gingerly in his grasp, squeezes a dollop of lube on it, then licks it slowly off, amber eyes locking on his angel's blue gaze. Aziraphale's whole body shudders from a single swipe of his tongue, Crowley's tastebuds tingling on the finish. He licks his lips, depositing a thin layer of the lube, which fires across his skin like firecrackers. He sees his angel tremble, sees the white glow of lust in his eyes, and he grins. 

Crowley is about to enjoy the best meal of his life.

[voidstilesplease]

Swords and Arrows

or That Summer When The Ares and Athena Cabins Finally Allied For Capture The Flag part 1 of 3

⚔️🏹⚔️🏹⚔️🏹

(A Steo Demigod AU) || For @anonymous's prompt: "Scott as a Roman demigod instead of Greek" || word count: 2,647 || The Entire Demigod Series -> [AO3][Tumblr] (it's finally a working link tfg)

Stiles pulls back, "I was going to ask if you missed me," he says, face flushed and beaming. "But it appears I don't need to."

"You never need to."

🏹⚔️🏹⚔️🏹⚔️

I.

"Why the long face, little brother?" Tara asks cheerfully, wedging herself on the bench between Theo and one of their half-siblings, and placing down her tray brimming with colorful food as opposed to Theo's bleak and half-empty one. She grins at Theo, but he's not in the mood to return the goodwill.

Theo pokes half-heartedly at the contents of his tray: a lonely sealed bag with a couple squares of ambrosia inside - the food of the gods - some cheese and two slices of wheat bread. "Don't call me little brother," he mutters with little heat, leaning to the table to whisper a request to his goblet, which immediately fills up with sparkling water.

Tara looks over Theo's head at Fred, their Head Counselor, sitting on Theo's other side. "He's not back yet?"

Fred shakes his head, wiping the bbq sauce at the side of his mouth. "Nope," he replies, popping the 'p' and catching on to the question without much elaboration. By now, there's only one 'he' that reduces Theo to a brooding and sulky man-child. "He hasn't answered Theo's last IM, too."

"Try the last five Iris Messages," Theo grumbles in annoyance. He turns to Tara, face contorted in a sour expression. "I mean, how difficult is it to take my call? He always has drachmas in his pocket exactly for this reason."

"He's probably busy disintegrating monsters," Fred says reasonably. Which, of course, makes sense. Monsters make the most infuriating and persistent roadblock of all. They make any journey twice as long for demigods - if they don't manage to kill you, that is. "Or, you know," Fred adds, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively. "maybe he's being an accomodating companion to the Son of Jupiter."

Theo grinds his teeth hard and fixes his head counselor with a death glare. Fred only shrugs at Theo's reaction, obviously aiming for the exact response, and chuckling through a bite of ambrosia. Theo has half a mind to punch him in the jugular. He doesn't need a reminder of who Stiles is with, thanks. Spitefully, he harshly impales a piece of grape from Fred's tray with the tines of his fork and shoves it to his mouth in the most menacing manner he can project.

It only makes Fred guffaw, spraying bits of food onto the table. The campers across from him slide their trays away protectively, shrieking an indignant chorus of "Fred!" as they make sure no stray bits made it into their platters. Fred raps at his chest as he reaches for his goblet, still laughing his dumb ass off while trying to wave his hand in apology.

Their neighbors also share their opinion on the appalling table manners of the Ares brood - spitting out food may slightly be a common scene from their lot, unfortunately.

Brett from the Apollo cabin throws corn kernels at Fred, a strange display of solidarity if you can believe it, while Ara, the half-Korean junior counselor of Athena cabin, gives the Ares and Apollo tables a look of disapproval. She's a pretty terrifying 15 years old, which is why Stiles is extremely fond of her. With Stiles gone to New Rome the first week back to camp, Ara is doing a kickass job taking over the head counselor duty. (But, to Hades with it, Theo would much prefer Stiles to be scowling at their table.)

"Okay, first of all," Tara says over the little chaos. "Fred, you're disgusting. Second," she holds Theo's chin to compel him to look at her, then smirks, "Stealing a piece of fruit is not a cabin 5-worthy intimidation tactic."

Theo opens his mouth for his scathing retort, but at the same time, one of Stiles's younger siblings points in the direction of the cabins. "Hey, it's Stiles!"

Many heads look up, but Theo springs to his feet instantly, scanning the area for Stiles. He catches sight of him almost immediately, bounding to the Mess Hall in his orange shirt, face bright under the camp's enchanted borders, as radiant as the last time Theo saw him four long months ago. Without much thought, Theo finds himself carried by his feet towards Stiles.

Stiles sees him coming too, and his smile broaden. Theo sprints, forgetting himself and where they are. They meet halfway, by the entrance of the Mess Hall, with Theo knocking into Stiles's open arms strong enough that it's a surprise they're still upright on the ground.

Theo squeezes him to make sure his mind did not conjure a Spectre to appease his longing. Stiles feels solid under his hands, if a little sweaty, and he smells as if he was run over by monsters. But underneath the grime, he catches the scent of Stiles's favorite body wash. He feels himself sagging in satisfaction.

Stiles pulls back, "I was going to ask if you missed me," he says, face flushed and beaming. "But it appears I don't need to."

"You never need to."

Theo doesn't know how long they stood just smiling at each other, but they break apart at Chiron's pointed clearing of the throat. It's not even in Theo's head to be embarrassed by his actions despite the cackling and many leering faces of the other demigods. Mr. D merely raises an unimpressed eyebrow, though the twinkle in his eyes can only be from amusement.

Chiron is sitting on his wheelchair today, hiding his horse's ass behind the illusion of human legs - why he still does it is a wonder - and rolls forward to them.

"Stiles Stilinski," he greets merrily, the lines of his eyes crinkling when he smiles. "Welcome back." Chiron gazes a little behind them, then, nodding kindly towards another boy Theo only notices, is standing patiently at a distance.

The boy, Scott McCall, son of Jupiter and a praetor of the Roman demigods' army, the Twelfth Legion Fulminata, steps forward to bow his head in respect of the centaur. "Chiron," he also acknowledges Mr. D who didn't bother to get up from the head table. "Lord Bacchus."

"Hm," Mr. D hums without correcting the demigod, sipping on his diet coke dismissively.

Theo doesn't hate Scott, but he also doesn't like him - strongly, irrationally, dislikes him. Instinctively, he shuffles closer to Stiles as if his boyfriend is going to dissolve into the Mist if he isn't close enough to pull him back.

Theo's been agitated since Stiles told him, a week prior, that he was flying to New Rome in California where Camp Jupiter is, the Roman camp, for a 'friendly' visit. Everyone's allowed to cross borders, but no one has really done so just to tour around. After all, the camps are on opposing sides of the country and monsters don't pause to consider not killing vacationing demigods.

A couple of times before last week, when Theo visited Stiles in his Manhattan apartment, he'd, out of the blue, mentioned the varied courses and scholarships that New Rome University offered, as Theo laid his head on Stiles's lap while the latter read. Theo hadn't minded it at the time, as Stiles quickly dropped the subject. But another month passed and Stiles mentioned it again, randomly, during one of their IMs, adding that he might check into the enrollment requisites. Theo started to worry, then.

If Stiles goes to New Rome for college, Theo can't follow him. He never even got to finish eighth grade. And Scott, he's one of the Romans, their leader, and grudging as he is to admit, one of Stiles's friends now the more he visits Camp Half-Blood. He will eagerly encourage Stiles, telling him of the countless perks that Camp Jupiter has. He will be as big a hero there as he is in Camp Half-Blood, and he can rise to praetorship alongside Scott if the Legion so wishes it.

Scott is not a bad person per se, but he wears the color and insignia of the place Theo might lose Stiles to. And if Theo blinks the wrong way, he might not see quick enough that Stiles is being whisked away to the other side of the coast, leading a life without him.

⚔️🏹⚔️🏹⚔️🏹

After officially welcoming the son of Jupiter to the camp, feeding him, and getting him settled in Cabin One, the campers go about their daily routine of training.

The blade vibrates when it hits the shooting log, right on the marked spot. Then it disappears into thin air and reappears in Theo's hand only to be thrown back to the same spot. He does it repeatedly, unrelentingly, until Tara aims with his bow and hits his blade with an arrow to send both weapons clanging to the ground, a few meters away.

Theo heaves; he doesn't even know he's breathless just from throwing until then. Wiping beads of sweat from his forehead, he nods appreciatively at the bow in Tara's hands when his sister stands beside him with a smile. "If we aren't siblings, I'd mistake you for a daughter of Apollo."

"Please," she laughs, opening her palm, gesturing at the fallen weapons. Both her arrow and Theo's blade fly to her hands in a matter of seconds. "I don't want to light up like a glow stick while waxing poetry during a fight." Children of Apollo don't actually do those in the middle of a fight, but they do glow when they're healing, and they can make others speak in rhymes just for fun. Tara offers the knife back to his brother. "Also, we're children of Ares. By birthright alone, we should know to wield any weapon of war."

Theo takes the knife and snorts, "And yet, I suck at archery."

"I can't summon weapons out of thin air," She points out, grinning at him as she puts the arrow back to its sheaf. "I guess we just can't have it all or Zeus would be zapping us one by one."

Theo scoffs, leaning into position to begin throwing again.

"Speaking of Zeus," Tara says, a playful tone in her words. "Where's your favorite son of the Sky God?"

Theo spares her a glare before flinging his knife and burying it onto the battered practice log. He purses his lips before answering, "He's at the Big House with Chiron, Mr. D, Stiles, and the other head counselors." He clenches his fingers around the blade's hilt when it returns to his hands. "They're talking about a little orientation on New Rome University's scholarships and handing brochures and study guide for the DSTOMP." Theo doesn't bother hiding the acid in his voice from his sister. She'll recognize it anyway, even if he masks it with neutrality. He can't mask it with neutrality.

She quirks a brow, "You don't sound too eager," she notes. "Are you still jealous of Scott, little brother?"

"I'm not jealous of Scott," he says, gritting his teeth. "And don't call me little brother."

"Why are you so strung up, then, if you're not baselessly jealous?"

He finds his reply being interrupted for the second time that day, this time by a distant rumbling coming from the sky. All activities on the ground cease as everyone turns to the increasing volume of an invisible running engine. Theo scans the space above them, at first not grasping anything in motion, until a burst of light reveals a flying, glowing red bus coming down fast to the ground.

🏹⚔️🏹⚔️🏹⚔️

Someone goes to alert Chiron as the rest of them scamper to the landing site by the amphitheater. The bus landed surprisingly smooth, despite its breakneck descent.

"Is that a Ferrari bus?" One of the campers points out.

Sure enough, the logo at the front of the vehicle, a black prancing horse on a yellow background, is of the famous luxury sports brand. But why would there be a flying Ferrari bus at Camp Half-Blood?

"Oh gods," Lori gasps somewhere on Theo's left. "Is that dad's sun chariot?"

As if on cue, the bus door opens, and a teenager who looks about Theo's age exits, wearing what he can only describe as a hipster look. He flashes a blinding grin - and quite literally at that, since they have to shield their eyes momentarily from the glimmer of his teeth - clears his throat dramatically, and announces:

"Hello demigods

The sun landed on your grounds

I am so awesome."

There's silence at first, then a series of enthusiastic applause from Brett and the rest of cabin seven comes next. The teenager bows theatrically, although Theo finds nothing extraordinary about what he just said. But soon, the others join in with half-hearted claps, recognizing the powerful aura suddenly seeping into their skins that could only mean there's a god among them - well, another god, aside from Dionysus, their Camp Director. And with the terrible haiku, there will be no mistaking who graced their camp today. The last time Theo had seen him, during the almost war on his first year at camp, the god had worn the body of a muscular mid-20's blond man. Now, it seems he favors to look even younger despite his four thousand years.

"Lord Apollo," Chiron's voice drowns out the applaud as he trots forward, now in his form as a white stallion from the waist down. "It's a pleasant surprise. Welcome to Camp Half-Blood."

Mr. D isn't as warm. He snorts, rolling his eyes. "Oh, bother, what brought you here now?"

Apollo's bright persona doesn't falter as he gestures at the bus - that is apparently his sun chariot. Theo remembers the time when he almost drove Apollo's chariot, if the Hermes cabin did not snitch it from under their noses, and thus putting three cabins grounded after a severe prank war. He had to take Liam's dish duties and pay him just so his present for Stiles could be delivered in time for Christmas.

"I'm here at the request of my little sister." The god says proudly, as the door opens again, this time with grumbling teenage and prepubescent girls coming out from the bus. All dressed in the same outfit: silver jackets, silver camo pants, and black combat boots, and they carry at their backs a quiver of sharp silver arrows. They glance at Apollo with apparent distrust, standing as far away from him as possible, as the god continues, "To deliver her hunters safely while she's away on a personal errand."

Several demigods groan in displeasure at the news, and even Chiron's lips form a thin line, though he tries to smile through the tension. Mr. D seems to be delighted now, though, happier to see the strange, vicious-looking ladies than his own brother. Personally, it feels like an omen of danger. Mr. D is never happy unless something perilous is about to descend upon his campers - even if his own daughter, Malia, is among them.

"Thank you, Lord Apollo." One of the hunters says albeit she looks physically pained by her words. She stands at the front of the group, a silver ring headwear around her head, with bouncing black curls, a pointed nose, and a strong chin. The other hunters also look at her when she speaks. It's easy to recognize her as the group's leader. "And thank you, Lord Dionysus, Chiron, for accomodating the hunters of Lady Artemis."

Chiron nods at the girl, eyes softening with kindness born out of familiarity, "You're always welcome, Allison."

Mr. D laughs boisterously, then. Like his punishment has just been lifted and he can go back to Olympus and away from the brats, celebrating by getting drunk on wine after years of prohibition. "Well, at least, Capture the Flag this Friday seems more enticing now, don't you think so, Chiron?" He gives a wicked grin at his campers, not waiting for a reply, his change in demeanor promising a torturous next few days for the demigods. "Ready to lose the Camp Half-Blood banner to these little girls for the 58th time in a row?"

~•~

[bxllafanficc]

¡Skate/sing your hearts out! (Yuri Plizetsky x reader)

(Part three)

Part one. Part two. Part four part five Masterlist

Summary: After last year's cancellation of Figure Skating Grand Prix, Yuri Plisetsky finds himself unable to bring out his inner skater after a year of doing nothing but enjoy life like a regular teenager. That's when you enter the picture; We Are Voice Grand Awards's currently hottest competitive vocalist come first place two years in a row. Just like the other competitors of Grand Prix, it turns out that Victor and Yuuri faces the same issue. With an arrangement between Victor and Yakov, they agree to travel to Japan and hire you as a mutual coach for Yuri and Yuuri to help bring back the emotion into their performances like before, maybe even more intense than ever. Yuri however, who's never experienced issues with his coaches before, for some reason finds this one particularly difficult to coexist along with in their (reasonably) odd partnership. Warnings: mentions of minor injury, tsundere Yuri

*Yuri's POV*

"Do it again. This time slow down and think every turn through before you start over."

It's worse than he anticipated. How many practices did he cancel exactly? The sweat is pooling at the base of his hairline and he can feel a nerve in his pinky twitch uncontrollably after using his hand to save him from a particularly bad fall after attempting a rushed series of jumps ending in a loop. The all too pleasant sound of the blades of his skates cutting up fresh ice from the surface is mixed with grunts of frustration and rapid panting. His mind tells him to repeat repeat repeat from the start if he gets something wrong. Repeat until he gets it right and then move on.

Yakov is visibly in a bad mood after seeing how much training they had to get done before moving to his sessions with (Y/n). That means hiring her longer than expected and that's something both him and Yakov wants to avoid. Not because they don't have the money, but because she'll be wandering around without a purpose in Japan, waiting for Yuri to get back in shape.

Another fall. Yuri attempts to use his other hand for support and spring on his feet again but the balance fails him since it's the wrong hand and the inner edge of his right skate bends outwards. He stumble for a second but gets right onto repeating the combination. Deadset to move on as fast as possible.

He knew that Yakov said they would be starting tomorrow morning with his time at the rink. Though,  Yuri had a feeling he would need all the extra time he could get.

(Y/n). The aftermath of his first meeting with the all too famous singer started kicking in. All he could do was thinking about it. His harsh behavior and the disappointment in her response. 'Your voice isn't that special'. Why did he say that when she's literally gold winner of the hottest contest in current time? Even worse, why did he say that when until today he had been following her journey through We Are Voice with a great interest? He especially remember the shock of entire Russian population when she chose to compete with 'Scream' by Sergey Lazarev. That song got sent as Russia's participating song in Eurovision Song Contest. The music contest arranged by the European countries each year. Even though it only came in 3rd place that year it certainly felt like we had won with such a legendary cover. Her presence glowing on stage like that with one of the prides of Russia certainly exploded all over the internet.

But now? It felt too surreal to stand in the same room as the (y/n) (l/n) from that performance. Like he shouldn't know stuff like what shampoo she uses or her off-camera personality. It was almost too intimate in a way and Yuri wasn't sure that he wanted to get to know her. And certainly not as his coach. That just felt like some sense of mockery to him. 'Hey, let's pic the girl who won gold for her intense stage-presence because Yuri is that sucky on feeling stuff.' Was the stuff people surely would be saying about him as soon as media got hold on the news. No, not that he cared about what other's said. It was partly true.

Each jump more rushed than the other, his ears tuned out the sound of Yakov's irritated voice at the end of the rink. The only sound he heard was the sound of his skates clashing and his own breath. Somewhere a door opened and he heard quiet voices at the entrance.

Great. An audience. He decided to stop with the combination for one moment and went with a basic camel spin, slowly fading into an upright spin, hoping into a salchow. The intention was to gain some of his dignity back before he would have to go back falling on his face again. But when the rotation of the salchow was off, anger burned up inside him. Now he was determined to get the jump right followed by the combined spins.

"Yuri, you still have to..." Yakov said to him somewhere to his left but he didn't hear much of it. Or was it right? No, behind him. Where was he located again? Doesn't matter, just keep moving.

Where are the walls of the rink? No, just do it.

It's just camel, upright and salcho-

*smack*

A heavy impact to his head and startled gasps somewhere. He was on the ground now, clutching his forehead in his hand. After one look of the object causing the impact he groaned and stood up in a haze. That damned wall. Was he really that caught up in his thoughts that he didn't realize his balance was completely off even before the finishing jump?

He looked around on the people inside the room. Yakov with his furrowed brows and a girl and a man running into a lounge. That must be the piglet's friends. And beside Yakov a few turns away-

(Y/n). Of course she had to see that. After her stern words at dinner time, Yuri had no intention of causing a further scolding from her. Yakov he could handle but her, just ridiculous.

The old man flailed his arms for a motion for Yuri to continue practicing.

"Don't stop now! You haven't gotten it right yet!"

R-right, he stopped moving and ended up staring at the people around him. Even if he didn't get to catch his breath, he still was too far behind to call it a day now. 'This time I'll have to get it right.' He thought and proceeded to finish the camel/upright spin and then-

Yes! He landed on the outer edge with his right foot like expected and took a little skip to finish it off more aesthetically pleasing.

He tried to ignore the blood pounding in his ears as he went back to the previous combination. But once again the loop faltered and the muscles in his hand hissed underneath the ice as he held himself upright.

"Hey, Yuri! You go take a breather, don't ya? And come here while you do."

It was (Y/n) who rested her arms against the edge of the rink. But a confused cough from Yakov made him hesitate and he stood still, waiting for the two of them to decide for him. He should probably keep going-

"But he just got it right!"

"I can tell when someone's on the verge of collapsing. It's very clear that he won't get anything done if you keep it at this rate. Hell, he might even get seriously injured if his limbs don't follow instructions, Yakov. At least grant him a break." The smile (Y/n) gave the man was a sign to say 'no hard feelings' but the tone of her voice said otherwise. After a moment of silence he nodded and waved at Yuri to get off the ice towards (Y/n). But Yuri didn't really want to be alone with her so he went to the opposite side of where she was waiting for him. He earned a questioning look from her but just waved it off with his own hand.

His fingers were cold and stale. It was hard getting a good grip on the shoelaces and getting the blades in its sheathing. He grunted and leaned back against his seat, the skates still on his feet and his hands turned to fists.

"I know you don't need my help." The boy gazes up at the girl beside him. His new coach looks down at him from where he's sitting and takes a seat beside him. A first aid kit and a blanket rests in her lap.

He sits up properly and turns his head away from her, continuing to untie his skates.

"You're right, I don't."

"You're very consistent. I personally think you did a grea-"

"Why are you here anyway? Aren't you supposed to meet your fans or something?" Yuri knew it was risky to cut your coach off mid-sentence but the words came anyway. Besides, is she really a coach if she has zero experience how to teach others? She's just playing like Victor did two years ago and kept doing so. Even if she's no coach, her (h/c) eyes still feels like they are piercing his soul and there no way to shield himself from her. He feels like an open book for her to abuse so... Maybe she's just good at reading emotions and not actually teaching them. How does one teach emotions? What will she be doing exactly?

"That ended hours ago. You weren't at Hot Springs when I returned so Victor figured you'd be here."

Stupid Victor. Couldn't he tell that Yuri didn't want her near?

(Y/n) opened up the first aid kit and Yuri eyed it carefully. She handed him the blanket with an extended arm but he just swatted it away. It fell on the floor and she stared at it blankly. Then she bent forwards and picked it back up, forcefully wrapping it around the skater burrito style.

"Wha- stop it!" He pouted and shot daggers at her once again. This time, he only earned a grin of satisfaction from her as she took a cotton pad and drenched it in hydrogen peroxide.

"You earned a pretty nasty wound when you headbanged the wall, you know." He knew. Blood was dripping into his left eye and made his vision turn red. He started thrashing and trying to eel his way away from her. That caused her to take a steady grip of both of his cheeks and hold him still. The look she gave him said 'don't you dare move again' and she put the drenched cotton against his forehead. Sharp pain exploded from the wound and he hissed. When the pad was removed, a wet tissue swept up the blood on his cheek and on his eyelid. The touch was cool against his hot skin. Some of his vision turned back and he released a small sigh of relief. Lastly a bandaid was put over the wound. He saw (Y/n) judging her work carefully and then she nodded to herself.

He jolted slightly when he felt her grab his hand with careful manners. Her hands spread is fingers cautiously and he felt her thumb swipe over his still twitching pinky.

"You feel this, right? Does it hurt badly?" Her voice was soft like a breeze and it startled him slightly. A moment ago she was rough and stern and now she's soft and tender? And for the record, yes. Yes he does feel that. And he doesn't even want to begin to think of how soft her hands are-

"No... It's nothing." He lied. But what else what he supposed to say anyway. His hand was swollen but he can't skate with a bandage. But depending on the unimpressed look she gave him, he knew she wasn't buying any of his bullshit.

"Then how come your face looks like that when I touch this spot?" She spoke and applied the slightest of pressure in between the joints of his knuckles. He let out a forced 'owowow' at the action and yanked his hand out of her grip.

"Fine! But you don't have to hurt me further then!"

"Then only one hurting you here, is yourself."

She picked up the rolled bandage and grabbed his hand once again. He took a moment to linger his attention on what she said. How is he hurting himself? He's just doing what needs to be done!

Yakov returned to the two of them and stood slightly off to the side. Yuri saw the dismay in his eyes when he saw the bandage (Y/n) held.

"Kid, we're done for today. Take the rest of the day to gain back your energy for tomorrow's practice."

Yuri nodded and kept watching (Y/n) wrap the bandage. Meanwhile, he couldn't help but catch the mild scent of peach and wild berries. But there was something else. Probably (f/c) (favorite scent) and it smelled fantastic for some reason.

"You know, you should probably get settled into your room immediately when we return." (Y/n) spoke up and flashed Yuri a smile.

"I'll help you." She continued but he shook his head.

"No, that won't be necessary!"

"Oh right, there is one more thing I forgot to mention earlier." Yakov leaned against the walls of the rink as (Y/n) finished wrapping Yuri's hand with the bandage. It felt better with the comforting pressure onto his swollen hand. Jokes aside, maybe he could actually find something to enjoy at his stay here.

"Hot Springs and the hotels in Japan are currently all occupied. You will be staying in (Y/n)'s room thought your stay, as roommates."

...

Nevermind, scratch that thought.

[audreycritter]

I know you're already writing The Librarian, but I'm greedy. If you're still doing Flash fics - Bruce and Selina? Or Selina interacting with one of the bat kids? Thanks :)

Rating: T? Maybe G? Idk it’s pretty darn mild.

French Fries

“Just a coffee?” he repeated, to make sure. Catwoman studied her nails with a slight frown and nodded at him, a little distracted.

“That’s all,” she said. “Black.”

He didn’t sigh or shrug or give any indication that he felt any particular way about this aside from a pause that stretched out a bit long even for him.

“A coffee,” she repeated. “Un café.”

“You’re not going to steal my fries,” Batman said sternly, more a declaration than a warning or a question.

“Me?” she asked, lifting her goggles to blink at him. “Steal?”

“Hnn,” was all he said. His cowl hid any expression around his eyes and underneath the cowl, his discipline smoothed out any expression that might have dared show itself anyway, but one corner of his mouth quirked up just slightly.

Catwoman slid her goggles back down and moved closer to him. How the hell he managed cursive with a pencil while wearing the gauntleted gloves was beyond her, but his script neatly filled part of the white notepaper all the same. She tried blowing on the lower part of his cheek to see if he’d react. He didn’t.

She traced his jawline with a fingernail and he did not flinch or jerk away, but the pencil stopped moving and he exhaled long and slow and soft. It would have been sweet if it wasn’t clearly a noise of irritation. Catwoman glanced down at the paper, where the pencil mark made a long, marring gash through the words above his present line. She grinned and sat back.

Batman did not bother to erase the line, but finished the short list and then stood and stepped off the edge of the roof. Catwoman yawned and sat back, propping her weight on her outstretched arms, and a second later there was a snick as the grappling hook caught the concrete.

Down the building face, he tucked the folded paper into a windowsill while hanging from one arm, then pressed the recoil button and soared vertically with his cape fluttering around him. At the top, he swung up over onto the roof again.

Catwoman was examining a batarang and he glanced down at the compartment on his utility belt and bit off his own compulsion to sigh. He held a hand out for it and she laughed and shook her head.

“Finders keepers,” she said, spinning the flat edge around on a finger.

“That hardly applies to pickpocketing,” he retorted.

“I thought your belt was ‘impossible,’” she smirked.

“That wasn’t a challenge,” he said, turning to gaze across the city instead of look at her. If he did, she’d know how close she was to eliciting a laugh and it wasn’t exactly the sort of behavior he wanted to encourage.

“Just like ‘take off your pants and get in the van’ wasn’t a challenge?” she asked, snatching his cape and pulling hard. He actually staggered a step back before whirling to scowl at her.

“That was an emergency,” he said, irritated. “And you were wearing that ridiculous disguise. You can’t possibly think that was intended to be flirtatious.”

“It’s hard to tell with you sometimes,” she said obstinately. She reached up to hand him the batarang, which he accepted gingerly with two fingers as if it might explode. She shivered when she realized it had been an actual possibility, considering him and his arsenal.

He actually clicked open the eye visors in the cowl to meet her gaze.

“You know what I do during daylight hours, my reputation,” he said, as if they hadn’t had this conversation half a dozen times already. “If I’m flirting with you, you’ll know. That was a matter of safety.”

“Damn, but you’re prickly tonight,” Catwoman complained. “Are you hangry?”

“I don’t know what that means,” he said stiffly, though she guessed he had to know somehow or other. She didn’t explain.

The roof access door opened just a crack and a paper sack and drink carrier were set on the roof, then the door clicked shut.

“Delivery, too,” she said, whistling. “You don’t even really need to go home if you don’t want to.”

He ignored this and strode over to pick up the food.

This time when he rejoined her, he sat down next to her and handed her the coffee. The other drink looked like it might be a milkshake.

“Are you eating with the gloves on,” she asked, when the burger was halfway to his mouth. He froze for a second and then took a bite as an answer. She rolled her eyes. “It’s a wonder you aren’t dead already.”

For a few minutes, they were quiet and the quiet shifted to companionable, like it usually did these days. He turned his head to scan the skyline, his eye visors still retracted, and Selina snuck a French fry.

She sipped her coffee immediately after, making it soggy, but he’d looked back and she didn’t want to risk her mouth being visibly occupied with food.

It happened again, and then again. He’d let his gaze drift over the city and her hand would creep into the thin cardboard package. Even as good as she was, he had to know she was doing it, so she figured he’d stop her if it really bothered him.

He wadded up the foil wrapped from the burger and tipped the fry container up. It was nearly empty.

“Selina,” he exclaimed, sounding a little shocked. It probably would have sounded flat to most people but she’d known him a long time.

“What?” she asked, a little surprised herself that he apparently hadn’t noticed and feeling a little triumphant that she hadn’t lost her game. She raised an eyebrow even though it was pointless with the mask and goggles and she slurped his milkshake.

His jaw tightened and he reached forward and took it from her hand.

“I could have gotten you anything,” he said.

“It’s more fun this way,” she answered.

But now that the glow of victory was fading a little, she realized that he seemed…distracted. He’d sought her out tonight so it probably wasn’t that she wasn’t interesting, otherwise, he wouldn’t have wasted his time.

He was sometimes infuriatingly unromantic and practical like that.

“You okay?” she asked, bumping his knee with hers. She sipped her own coffee this time and admitted to herself that it was actually really good coffee for a midnight diner.

“Hn,” he said without looking over. “I’m fine.”

“That’s great,” she said, taking the milkshake from him and sucking down a drink again. She put it back in his motionless hand, his fingers still in a C-shape she fit the cup into. “Now how about the truth? I don’t like playing therapist so I’m not asking again.”

Batman scoped out the rooftop and surrounding buildings before setting the milkshake down and pushing his cowl off his head. His hair was slightly damp with sweat and he still wore a domino mask, but it was much more like looking at Bruce than Batman.

Selina pulled her goggles down around her neck and tugged her own mask off. She wasn’t wearing a domino but she didn’t ever care as much as he did about the identity thing.

He finished the French fries while they sat and she’d nearly given up on him actually saying anything more when he spoke, facing the city instead of her.

Their shoulders were touching after she’d scooted closer but for a brief moment, it felt like there was an actual barrier between them as he looked straight ahead; it was like being dragged to confession as a child, but as the confessor for once.

“It doesn’t matter how much I do,” he said. “It’s not enough.”

Selina wanted to tease him about midlife crises, but she held her tongue.

“There was a drive-by tonight,” he said. “I didn’t get there in time. A pedestrian died on the scene.”

“If you think that was your fault, I’m going to scratch your face,” Selina said seriously.

He looked at her then, his slight frown belying the intensity in his eyes. She didn’t scratch his face.

“It all feels like my fault,” he said levelly. “Every time I’m not fast enough. It all matters or none of it does.”

“That sounds like a shitty way to live,” she observed, she hoped neutrally.

The city had his attention again.

“It is,” he said in agreement. “But I can’t settle for the alternative. Too many already do.”

Selina opened her mouth to point out how stupid this sounded, as if his sense of guilt negated the lack of care others might show, but she reconsidered and said simply, “I’m sorry.”

His posture dipped a little and then straightened again and he nodded.

Selina put an arm around his waist and leaned her head against his shoulder. She put her hand in his free hand, intertwining glove and gauntlet.

“For the record, the apology was not for the fries,” she said quietly.

He chuckled, a coarse and cut-off sound, and said, “Noted.”

They didn’t move from the spot for a long time and when the sun began to tinge the eastern horizon faint purple against the dark sky, he lifted her chin with two fingers and kissed her.

It wasn’t hard or passionate, like some kisses she’d had from him or other men. It was gentle, for all the confidence in his movement, and when she ducked her head after he pulled back, she frowned at her hands and then looked up at him again.

“What do you say we get out of here?” he asked. “I know a place.”

“If it has a bed and a nap, count me in,” Selina said, stretching.

“I think that can be arranged,” he answered. “As long as you promise to not steal the blankets.”

“I can’t promise something against my nature,” she retorted, standing and stretching again. “I’ll meet you there, Bat.”

“Selina,” he said, just as she was about to run and leap. She hesitated and looked back. “Thank you,” he said.

“You’re too hard on yourself,” she said in reply, and then she jumped.

He repositioned the cowl and made the journey alone back across the city and through the outskirts and into the Cave.

She wasn’t there.

Bruce climbed the stairs into the Manor thirty minutes later, after writing patrol reports and storing the suit and repairing a utility belt compartment. It was fully dawn outside but the house was still quiet.

He didn’t hear the shower running until he was in the hall leading to the master bedroom.

Tim was sitting on the floor, back propped against the bedroom door, looking groggy and half-asleep.

“Is this an authorized use of your space?” Tim asked, yawning and rubbing his eyes.

“Selina?” Bruce asked, holding out a hand to the teen.

Tim nodded and let Bruce pull him to his feet.

“Yeah,” Bruce said. “Thanks.”

“M’going to bed,” Tim mumbled in reply. “Don’t let her steal the silverware.”

“Has she ever stolen the silverware?” Bruce asked dryly, raising an eyebrow.

“No?” Tim said like it was a question. He disappeared around the corner.

Bruce went into the bedroom. The bathroom door was cracked open and the shower was still running and on his bed was a paper bag. Curious, he wondered over and tipped it to look inside.

It was full of French fries.

[stvlti]

Re: the illusion of choice. 

I think it's a case of semantics, here. When I talk about freewill I'm thinking of metaphysical definitions of freewill v. determinism. Much as Stefan has us, the player, dictating the choices he makes, if you will entertain the theistic notion, there exists an omniscient god who already knows the outcomes of our real life dichotomous decisions. Which begs the question - does freewill truly exist? My answer would be no, but you are right, we do still make choices (even if not out of 100% freewill). Hence why I quoted Colin earlier - the viewer makes choices, "in as much as you have a choice". I think we are in agreement here, if you're also positing the idea that free will and having/the act of making a choice can exist independently of each other.

“Our influence on the plot isn’t so much an influence on the outcome but an influence on our level of control in a small amount of time. Small choices, inconsequential matters that move the story along.” 

I like that take a lot. no argument there.

“The lose of free will we have as a viewer is purely self-driven.” 

Yes, but I would argue the format itself sets us up with the expectation of free will. The nature of the CYOA RPG format inherently presents a false sense of free will in that it tricks you into thinking you can shape the story as you please. Well, yes, most RPGs do have more than binary options in most forks in the paths, and you exert a certain amount of influence on which path and outcome you can get. But at the end of the day, there is only a finite number of paths to every game, paths that only exist because the creators built them into the game. It's like I said before, Bandersnatch just so happens to lean into and lampshade this fact, like a meta commentary on the form, by reducing the number of paths and choices you have, thus deconstructing the idea that the viewer has any freewill at all when they engage with a CYOA narrative, and making us aware of the limited sense of choice there truly is in-game.

I think what you said about the journey being more important than the endings, or the journey being the point of Bandersnatch even, kind of falls in line with my reading of Bandersnatch as a meta-commentary on its form (that is, commentary on the journey / process of choosing between paths).

Speaking of meta-commentary on the RPG format - are you familiar with Undertale? That game plays on and calls out the whole idea of whether you're playing the main character sympathetically or deliberately weaponising them and hurting as many NPCs as possible in a conquest sort of path. It really does reflect the sort of viewer / player / media consumer you are I suppose. There are those who do go into a game to see the characters suffer, a la making your Sims do impossible things (shout out to Extra Credits there for the Sims comparison heh) just to satisfy a sense of curiosity and schadenfreude when your characters go splat. 

But I made the earlier assumption that all viewers go into Bandersnatch empathising with Stefan and "only wants what's best for him" (heh) probably on the account that Bandersnatch is also a film. Films are usually designed so that the protagonist is written for the viewer to empathise with, no matter what, and this is the case not just for the cinnamon rolls but the bastard antiheroes too. In fact I would argue Bandersnatch operates upon this impulse we have as the audience to empathise with the protag - without that impulse the film loses its allure in bringing us back to play it again and again in the hopes that we could get a good ending for Stefan. A lot of people have expressed that they thought the goal of playing Bandersnatch is to uncover the path that gives them a good ending, the good ending being defined as the one where he finishes the game to a glowing 5-stars review. Still others think the goal of playing Bandersnatch is to find the one path with maximum happiness for all characters in the story, where nobody dies, etc. Point is, our impetus to interact with Bandersnatch repeatedly rests on the way we naturally engage with a film / game / whatever with empathy for the main character(s) - which is exactly what the film leverages to make its meta-commentary about choice / freewill / etc. across multiple paths and narrative timelines, as it's a lesson can only be uncovered via experiencing repeated playthroughs.

[Edit 12.02.19 - And I'm personally not a big fan of the White Bear theory, because I think it's a pointless exercise to try to imagine all the black mirror stories as existing in the same fictional universe. But I can see on a purely meta level why some people might take the White Bear glyph as a sign that Stefan is the Victoria to Bandersnatch's equivalent of Justice Park. I think that's all rationale after the fact that though. Because, it's like what I said about the viewer's natural inclination to empathise with the protagonist, I think most of us definitely went into the film seeing Stefan as a subject of empathy at least before the glyph showed up. And by that point we're at least ⅔ into the plot (I have a rough idea of how the film's different timelines fit into the 3-act structure but I'm not going to go into detail about it here rn), so I'd say for most people they'd be lying if they said they didn't at least spend their first playthrough rooting for Stefan and trying to be his helpful guide before they tried being Stefan's tormentor.]

This leads me to my last point in response to yours. On the idea of self-insert and viewer identification: yes, I probably should've worded it differently. Stefan isn't a self-insert at all since, no matter how much of a blank slate he is, he comes with existing traits e.g. his anxiety, his tenacious-borderline-obsessive work ethic, his backstory of trauma with his mother (which is present even if you choose not to explore that path, hinted at by Dr. Haynes, just not as fully fleshed out). But following from what I just argued in the previous paragraph, I agree with you on that Stefan is kind of like an "imprint" of the viewer. Or, I'd actually put it this way: Stefan is meant for viewers to empathise and therefore identify with - whether that be a projective sort of identification, where you project your own views and choices onto the protag (as you do in RPGs, which is where the self-insert-ish relationship between Stefan and the viewer comes in), or an introjective identification, where you see in him similarities to yourself that resonates with you, and you sort of 'become' Stefan in the process of getting to know his character as you uncover the path you are on. 

(Sorry for pulling out these big words and dumping them on you, but it's kind of instrumental to how I understand the audience's relationships with characters on-screen. Although, it seems to me Bandersnatch's cynical approach to the interactive element makes the latter type - introjective identification - kind of hard to achieve, since like you said the narrative could drive a wedge between you and Stefan if you chose the glyph path, where he doesn't get to call you his "friend from the future".)

Schrödinger’s Stefan: musings on Bandersnatch’s narrative structure

There’s playing Bandersnatch from the POV of a media consumer, and then there’s trying to figure out Bandersnatch as a piece of text from the POV of a writer.

See I’m a firm believer in the idea that action defines character. Any slight alterations in a character’s backstory, motivations and future decisions necessarily create versions of a character that diverge from each other.

With Stefan, there are multiple possiblities to the backstory you can uncover for his character, and multiple possibilities to the decisions he could make which reveal different sorts of character progression. If the Stefan we see from the first morning up to his arrival at the Tuckersoft office is a blank canvas, each one of the paths reveal a different character that Stefan could potentially be / become according to what we the audience want to paint him as.

Each different Stefan leads a different timeline. These multiple timelines are not created at the point where Thakur tries to recruit Stefan to work at the office; that is just an arbitrary point in the bigger picture, designated to be the inciting incident that triggers the branching off of the timelines. Instead, these timelines exist before that point, only intersecting at the Schrödinger’s Stefan we see at the opening of the film before running off into different directions again.

Multiple possible backstories converge at that point of Stefan waking up to Frankie Goes To Hollywood, and they diverge with different possible Stefan’s each following a different path. Buttressed like a tree, the backstories snake from our first save point like roots, and branch out forward towards different endings.

At least, that’s one way to look at the bigger picture without adopting the flowchart framework.

[shibaincubus]

Imagine yourself ☆*: .｡. o(≧▽≦)o .｡.:*☆

When you reach the point in your confidence/glow up journey where you look in the mirror and think, I'm so GORGEAUS, hot beautiful, ETHERAL, that you think yourself as some UNIQUE kind of beauty, like you're one in 100000 or so, even if you're not completely your most beautiful self, but you have this feeling when you look at yourself in the mirror and think the mirror enhances my beauty and you would date yourself if you were a random man.

And now you're focusing on perfecting your already flawless features, personal style & mindset to your liking. >>>>>>>>>>

Imagine this day and use this motivation to continue on your GLOW UP journey