#a stylish bedside table

[pushpa-exports]

ndulge in the ultimate bedroom experience with our Luxury Silver Bedroom Set, complete with exquisite lamps, a stylish bedside table, and elegant nightstands. This opulent ensemble combines timeless silver accents with impeccable craftsmanship to create a space of unrivaled sophistication and comfort. The included lamps provide soft, ambient lighting, while the bedside table and nightstands offer both functionality and aesthetic appeal. Elevate your bedroom to a realm of pure luxury and design with this stunning collection.

[sparkshellcraft]

Aren Danish floating nightstand is a minimalist, timeless beauty and versatile wall-mounted drawer. Made of sustainably sourced wood and solid natural hardwood combination has a clean modern look and plenty of storage space. The Aren floating nightstand drawer is a perfect solution for any and all spaces.

[zillifurniture]

Elevate your bedroom with the Belpasso Nightstand from Zilli Furniture. Crafted with a perfect blend of modern design and functionality, this nightstand offers ample storage and a sleek aesthetic. Explore our collection of bedroom furniture for a stylish and organized space.

[4unnyr0se]

PLS BOKUTO SMUT I WILL SELL YOU MY SOUL VIV 🙏🙏🙏

❥ nepenthe | kotaro bokuto

warnings: timeskip! bokuto, fem! reader, mutual pining, bokuto is emo in the beginning, dry humping/grinding, multiple orgasms, making out, incredibly lewd dialogue, fingering, missionary, two text messages, unprotected sex, tiny corruption kink, possessive! bokuto if u squint, extreme fluff at the end, bokuto is a semi-hard dom in bed, atsumu, hinata and sakusa mentioned, not proofread (unless u count grammarly)

MDNI | 18+ content

word count -> 5.3k (lol)

opal i would write anything for u i love u sm

got a request? asks are open!

Being on the MSBY Black Jackals was all the Bokuto could ever dream of. Playing on a team made up of his peers, the adoring cheers from the crowd filled his ears and boosted his ego. He especially loved how cute the girls in the stands were and how they wore merchandized versions of his jersey. People paid good money to watch him play, him. Was there nothing better than the universe could offer him? Indeed, Kotaro Bokuto’s life was perfectly perfect. 

Except until recently. He had missed a significant spike in the latest game against the Alders, which nearly cost him the match. He was not okay. But that was just a first-time thing, right? Indeed, he would not miss a spike in tomorrow’s practice. He’s Bokuto; he doesn’t miss spikes. And then he missed nearly all of his spikes. He was not doing well when he returned to his penthouse apartment that evening. Was he in a slump?

His golden eyes flicked back and forth on his ceiling as he lay in his plush bed, hands crossed over his chest in thought. Why was he acting like this? He occasionally missed a spike, but that was a rare event. Was he missing them so frequently? What if he wasn’t as good of a volleyball player as he thought? Anxiety plagued his mind, making him toss and turn in his cotton comforter decorated with owls (stylish owls, of course). Bokuto’s black and white hair became incredibly messy, reflecting his inner thoughts. Luckily, he had a means of comforting himself. When the opposite hitter wasn’t doing so well at times like these, he could always turn to you, one of his beloved Black Jackal Managers. 

You were the kindest of all the managers he had, that was for sure. While the other seven managers focused on scheduling or payroll, you were the personality hire. Your pretty face automatically boosted the morale of the entire team, like a beam of sunlight poking out from the clouds after a thunderstorm. Bokuto liked you; he really liked you. Every single practice, he would pray that you’d be there, sitting on your chair, diligently taking notes while wearing that MSBY windbreaker that covered the curves of your breasts in the most annoying manner possible. Fuck, you were so damn pretty.

Bokuto reached for his phone, which was charging on the bedside table, scrolling through his messages until he landed on your chat from a couple of weeks ago. The topic was simple: What kind of onigiri did he want from Onigiri Miya? It was just a question, but the notification made his heart race every time he read it. The pads of his thumbs hovered over the keypad for a moment, unsure of how to word his message. He wanted you to visit him. Why couldn’t he just type that? After minutes of contemplation, he had sent his message. Bokuto’s phone was thrown to the other side of the bed, nearly getting lost in the mess of thick duvet. The opposite hitter slammed his face into his fluffed pillow, groaning into the fabric. 

Kotaro Bokuto: Wanna come over and talk? Been feeling really down recently. :( 

It felt like hours since he sent the text, looking at where he tossed his phone every other minute to see if the home screen lit up. Finally, after agonizingly painful minutes passed, his screen lit up with your message, the cute little heart icon next to your name making him break out in a crooked smile. 

Cute Manager: I’ll be over in 30 minutes. Bringing my famous sugar cookies! They always brighten someone’s day <3

Bokuto practically threw himself off his bed, looking around his messy apartment. Shit, had that smell always been there? Why (and how) was there a sock on the ceiling fan? Don’t even get him started on the empty packages that littered his living room floor; this was a disaster. He had to ensure it was perfect for you, his angelic manager. You thought so highly of him; he wasn’t about to lose that due to a messy apartment. 

He cleaned like a man gone wild, sensual R&B music playing from a speaker in his kitchen. He had obtained three full trash bags and one spilling-over hamper, but he had made his apartment look presentable. The counters were no longer sticky, and the sock was down from the fan, thanks to him expertly flinging rubber bands at the blades. Bokuto was proud of himself, bearing a satisfied smirk while his hands rested on his hips in a hero pose. 

The doorbell rang. Oh fuck, how were you here already? Did half an hour seriously pass by so quickly? He didn’t even have time to change out of his black tank top! Maybe that was a good thing? Perhaps you liked looking at his massive biceps. Whatever, he didn’t have time to think about all that. His cute manager was waiting behind that door with a plate of delicious sugar cookies!

Bokuto swung the door open a little too enthusiastically, his crooked smile fully displayed amongst his handsome features. His golden eyes instantly landed on your figure, drinking in your outfit. A low-cut black scoop neck top with oversized ripped jeans; fucking perfection. You offered him a kind smile and held out the wrapped-up plate of cookies, tilting your head to the side. “Hey, Bokuto! I’m here, like I promised. Oh, and I brought the cookies. Don’t ask for the recipe because I won’t tell!” you giggled, stepping inside his apartment. It was cleaner than you imagined, and it smelled like roses. Who knew that Bokuto could be so neat?

“Woah, it’s even bigger than I imagined! Sometimes I forget how much professional athletes make annually,” you joked, kicking off your ballet flats on the shoe stand. “You must have an amazing view at night, look at the city! It’s gorgeous.” you turned to Bokuto and smiled, placing your hands on his shoulders. “It’s been a while since we last hung out, hasn’t it?”

“Oh, yeah! I guess it has, eh? Time flies when you’re a Black Jackal!” Bokuto awkwardly stammered, growing increasingly flustered as the almond shape of your manicured nails made contact with his muscular shoulders. “Thanks for coming over so quickly; I thought you were at a club or something.”

You shook your head and leaned against the raised kitchen counter, raising an eyebrow. “Nah, I hate clubs. It’s always so stuffy in there, and there’s always a hand on your ass, whether you want it or not.” you brushed your hair to the side, exposing your neck. The perfume you had to carefully put on, a mixture of lilac and jasmine, filled Bokuto’s nostrils. He was only a few feet from your body, yet the aroma drove him secretly insane. “What about you, do you like clubs? You seem like the type.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Bokuto asked, pretending to clutch his pearls.

“Well, you’re extroverted and love having a good time. That’s what the clubs are for, aren’t they?” you paused your speech, matching his gaze with your own. “But you haven’t been having a good time recently, have you?”

Bokuto shook his head and slumped onto the sofa, his bottom lip curling into a childish pout. “No, you’re right. I just can’t hit my stupid spikes! Atsumu’s been on my ass about it like it’s my fault that I can’t seem to hit them! I mean, I guess it’s my fault…whatever! I don’t know what I’m saying anymore!” he slammed his face in his hands, groaning in exasperation. 

You smiled softly and sat next to him, patting his muscular back. “Hey, it’ll be alright. You’ve hit amazing spikes before, and you’ll hit amazing spikes again. I know you will.” your soft hands ran up and down the thin fabric of his tank top, massaging the tense muscles underneath. “We all have our slumps, you know. Nobody is perfect, not even Atsumu. Besides,” your lips were centimeters away from his ear. “Atsumu is my least favorite.”

Bokuto chuckled and wrapped his arm around your waist, pressing your cheek against his pectoral. “Yeah, but he’s really funny! Except when he texts the group chat with me, Shoyo, and Sakusa…then he gets really gross. Usually about the women he slept with or something.”

“Ew,” you blush softly as Bokuto's muscular bicep wraps around your waist, his large hand squeezing the fabric of your jeans. “So, are you feeling any better now? Do you wanna eat a cookie and watch a movie, maybe? What would make you feel better?” you could feel his heartbreak in his chest, the thumbing sensation of the organ being a somewhat calming presence. “Because when you’re sad, the Jackals can’t really get anything done. No offense.”

Bokuto chuckled and squeezed you closer, inhaling the scent of your shampoo. God, you smelled fucking amazing. Did you always smell so good? “I’m down for a movie if you’re down. What kind of movie were you thinking of?”

“Comedy, maybe? I don’t know, you can pick,” you replied.

“Comedy it is,” Bokuto leaned forward to grab the remote from the coffee table, turning on the massive television he owned. His hand remained firmly grasped on your waist, occasionally running his thumb up and down the denim of your high-waisted jeans. He flicked through a couple of films under the comedy section in his DVR until he selected a random one. He chose it solely on how fantastic the movie poster was, naturally. 

The opening credits played from the surround sound speakers, and his hand was still snug on your waist, his golden eyes occasionally stealing a chaste look. You were smaller than him, so he really only got to see the top of your head, but you were so fucking adorable. Bokuto thought it was vital that you didn’t push him away after he wrapped his arm around you and that you welcomed his touch. You trusted him so much, making his heart beat a million miles a minute. 

The movie's beginning was hilarious, as expected from an award-winning comedy. Bokuto’s laugh was deep in comparison to yours. Of course, your laugh was adorable; why wouldn’t it be? He felt as though his heart would explode from your presence, beating erratically in his chest.

“Are you feeling okay? Your heart is beating really fast,” you questioned, lifting your face from its comfortable resting spot on his chest. “Do you need anything at all?”

Bokuto bit down on his lower lip, unsure of what to say. Should he just confess how much he wants you, how much he craves to have your lips on his own? What if you rejected his advances and quit managing the team? “Uh, it’s nothing. Don’t worry about it, sweetheart.” Sweetheart, did he really just say that? Bokuto cringed at himself.

A small smile graced your delicate features at the endearing name, your tiny hand resting on his chest. “Bokuto, I’m always going to worry about my team. Especially you, you’re my favorite. Did you know that?”

His mind went blank for a second. He was your favorite. He was your favorite. Out of all the members of the Black Jackals, you liked him the most. “I-I didn’t know that at all, am I actually your favorite? You aren’t messing with me or anything?”

“Why would I lie about that?” you asked, raising an eyebrow.

“It’s just…you’re beautiful. And I’m your favorite…it makes me feel special. I know I’m already special, just like, more special. Y’know?” 

“You think I’m beautiful?” your eyes bore into his once more, the chatter from the movie falling on deaf ears. “You really think I’m beautiful?”

Bokuto softly smiled at you, adoring how the light from the television illuminated your blushing face. “Yeah, I really think so. I’ve thought that for a while since you were hired.” his other hand cupped the right side of your face, his calloused thumb running across your cheekbone. “Do you…do you think I’m pretty, too?”

You giggled and rested your hand on Bokuto’s, smiling brightly. “Yeah, I think you’re beautiful, Bokuto. And handsome and adorable.” you leaned upwards, your noses touching. “You’re funny, kind, and sometimes a little too confident. You’re sensitive, and you care so much about your teammates. Anyone would be lucky to have you.”

“I want you to have me,” he whispered, his voice a low baritone. “Please, I’ve wanted this for so long. Tell me that I can have you, even if it’s just for tonight.” his lips hovered over yours, not daring to do anything without your permission. “Because if you say it’s okay, I don’t think I’ll be able to hold myself back, sweetness.”

His hot breath tickled the tiny hairs on your face, mouth slightly agape. You gulped and nodded, closing your eyes while his hands cupped your cheeks. “It’s okay, Kotaro.”

The sound of his given name falling from your lips was all he needed to press his mouth to yours in a searing kiss filled with unfulfilled desires. It was slow and sensual, yet it held so much molten passion. His lips molded with yours so perfectly, the taste of your chapstick making him savor you even more. His hands fled your face and grasped onto your hips, pulling you into his lap with no trouble at all. Bokuto pressed your chest against his own, groaning against your petal-like lips. A spark was set in his lower belly, his hands trailing down to your ass. He squeezed the denim fabric, eliciting an adorable squeak from your mouth. 

You pulled away after a moment, both of your faces incredibly flushed. “Shit,” Bokuto breathed out, toying with the hem of your jeans. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do that, sweetness.”

“Me too,” you whispered, kissing his neck gently. “I’ve been wanting to do this,” you placed another kiss, then another, and another. “For so fucking long.” you nibbled onto his collarbone playfully, earning yourself a beautiful moan from Bokuto’s bruised lips. 

“Fuck, I never pegged you for a biter. Thought I would always be the one biting you,” he purred, slipping his hands underneath your jeans and panties. You gasped at the coldness of his hands on your warm skin, how his fingers kneaded the supple flesh of your ass. “But I guess I can let you nibble on me for a little longer since you’re so damn pretty.”

“When did you get so good at flirting, hm?” you began to suckle on his collarbone.

“The moment I got signed to the Black Jackals. They’re, fuck, they’re a bunch of womanizers.” he softly moaned at the sensation of your teeth suckling at his tough flesh. “Taught me a thing or two.”

You pulled away from his neck and smiled, kissing his forehead. “So I take it you picked up a thing or two?”

“Damn right, I have,” his hands squeezed your ass once more. “Can you do me a favor and take these off, sweetness? I’ll take mine off, too. That way, we’re even.”

You got off his lap and shimmied out of your jeans, tossing them aside along with your top. You wore a matching bra and panty set, the black fabric hugging your curves tenderly. “Now, you do yours. Don’t keep me waiting, Ko’.” 

His nickname rang in his ears, your voice making it drip like honey. Bokutp practically ripped off his clothes, leaving him in only his MSBY boxers. “Shit, you’re gorgeous.” he leaned into the leather couch, spreading his legs. “C’mere gorgeous, sit on my lap.”

Bokuto’s hands once again cupped your ass as you straddled his lap, admiring how thick his thighs were. You had never noticed it before, but Bokuto was a big guy. “That’s it, good girl. Right on my thigh there, pretty.”

“Fuck,” you moaned as your clothed pussy made contact with his bare thigh, unconsciously rubbing against it. “You’re really fucking sexy.”

“Tell me something I don’t know,” Bokuto pulled you into another kiss, aggressively slamming his lips against yours while his hands remained glued to your ass. His tongue prodded against your lips impatiently, begging to be let inside your mouth. You happily obliged, a mewl falling from your lips as his tongue briefly danced with yours. Bokuto pulled away, breaking the strand of saliva that connected your lips. “Your voice is too damn pretty,” his hand cracked against your ass, causing you to grind further onto his thigh. Embarrassed, you hid your face in his bruised neck, earning a smug smirk from Bokuto. “Oh, did that feel good, baby? Don’t be shy now; you can tell me.” he smacked your ass once more, relishing in your pleasurable squeaks and squeals. “Does someone like it when I smack their ass?”

“Y-yeah!” you whimpered into his neck, wrapping your arms around his shoulders. Your hips bucked against his thigh, your core desperate for friction. “Please, lemme ride your thigh. You feel so fucking good, Ko’.”

Bokuto threw his head back at your begging, his cock growing painfully hard in his boxers. “Yeah, you wanna grind on my thigh, pretty girl?” he squeezed the plushness of your thigh. “I’m the only one who can make you feel this way, right? Because I’m the best. Say it, and you can do whatever you want.” 

You let out a broken sigh and pulled your face out from his neck, your pearly whites nibbling at the shell of his ear. “You’re the only one who can make me feel this good, Kotaro.” Your breath was sweet and sensual, and you were full of wanting for your release. “Please, I wanna ride your thigh.”

“Good girl,” he praised, gripping onto your hips. He began to drag you up and down his thigh, embracing the cute little noises you made. “That’s it, baby, talk to me. Tell me how good I make you feel, yeah?”

“So good! So good, Ko’.” you whimpered, a warmth sensation bubbling up inside your belly as your clothed clit rubbed against his thigh. Your small hands rested on his abs, running up and down the prevalent muscle. “T-talk to me, helps me get off–fuck!” you tossed your head back, hair falling out of your face as Bokuto purposefully flexed his thigh muscle. 

He groaned at the sight of you, head thrown back, tits bouncing in your bra as you used his thigh to get yourself off. His goddess of a manager was using him to cum, his thigh. It was so fucking perfect. “You’re so fucking sexy, you know that? You come to practice in those short shorts that show off your ass so well. Do you know what you do to me?”

“Tell me,” you moaned, feeling your climax approach quickly. You were basically rutting yourself against his thigh like a bitch in heat, and it felt fucking incredible. 

“Every time you bent over, I thought about this ass,” he smacked the exposed flesh, definitely leaving a handprint later. “Thought about squeezing it, about smacking it, how it would look wearing slutty black panties.” Bokuto flexed his thigh muscles even more, giving you a sturdier surface to grind on. 

“Thought about you clawing at my back while I fuck you in the locker room, so the rest of the team can back the fuck off. Keep you all to myself, my pretty manager.” he spat through his teeth, gripping your jaw tightly with his hand. “Look at me when you cum, pretty girl. Wanna see that cute little face.” his thumb ran across your bottom lip, pulling slightly.

Your mouth went slack-jawed as your orgasm washed over you, your eyes struggling to look at Bokuto while you continued to ride his thigh until you came down from nirvana. “F-fuck!” you sobbed, your hips ceasing their bucking once your high was finished. “Shit, I made a mess on your thigh. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t fucking apologize. That was the sexiest thing I’ve ever fucking seen.” Bokuto groaned, lifting you off of his thigh so quickly. “Fuck, you soaked your panties. I guess you gotta take them off now, yeah? Bra, too. Don’t be shy around me.” he set you down on the coffee table, your form blocking the movie, but he didn’t care about the movie anymore. There was only you. 

Still shaking from the shockwaves of your release, you slowly stripped yourself of your remaining clothes, placing them down on the glass of the table. Bokuto drank in your view, like an artist staring at a finished painting. You were gorgeous, ethereal, out of this world. Surely, it would be impossible for anyone else to match your beauty. “Fucking hell,” he groaned, pushing himself off of the couch to grab your wrist. “Bedroom. Now.”

He practically dragged you into his bedroom, throwing you down onto the plush owl-themed comforter. You giggled at the childish fabric as Bokuto hovered above you, his hands on either side of your head. “I take it you love owls?” you raised an eyebrow.

“I fucking love owls,” he smirked, leaning down to peck your nose. “Not as much as I love how you look right now, pretty girl.” his right hand squeezed your breast, thumb rolling over your nipple while his left hand managed to continue holding him up.

“You’re such a tease,” you moaned as he pinched your sensitive bud, his massive hand encasing your entire breast. “I thought you wanted to fuck me, Kotaro. Am I wrong?” 

“You aren’t wrong, sweetness,” he purred, rolling his hips against yours. You could feel his cock pulsating through his boxers, begging to be inside you. “Just wanna make sure you’re prepped first. I’m a big guy, y’know?” he stuck his fingers inside of his mouth, coating them with saliva before prodding at your entrance with the digits, slowly sticking them inside your heat. “Holy fuck, you’re so fucking wet. Did my thigh make you cum that much, princess?”

You gasped as he curled his fingers deep inside of you, his ministrations slow and sensual. “Fuck! Y-yes, y’made me cum so much! Love your thighs, Ko’!” you squeaked, instinctively squeezing your thighs together.

Bokuto tutted and used his free hand to shove your legs apart, now kneeling above you. “Don’t try to hide it, sweetness. You know I don’t like that.” he was not knuckle-deep inside your weeping cunt, his fingers plunging inside so expertly. “Fuck, gotta make sure you’re nice and loose for me, yeah? Don’t wanna hurt you.”

“S-shit! You’re gonna make me cum again!” you whimpered, grasping onto your breasts for additional stimulation. “God, how do your fingers feel so fucking good?”

“Can’t answer that for you, sweetheart. You wanna cum again, pretty girl? Want me to rub your clit and make a mess all over my hand?” he teased, beginning to massage your sensitive clit with the pad of this thumb. His fingers were still scissoring you open, coating you with the mixture of his saliva and your release. 

“Yes, fuck! Please, Ko’!” you whined, the familiar bubbling sensation in your belly threatening to spill over. Your legs were now dangling over his shoulder, quaking in ecstasy. “Wanna cum, fucking make me cum!”

“That’s what I like to hear,” he offered you a mischievous smirk, furiously rubbing his thumb over your clit as you tumbled into pure pleasure once more. Your mouth became agape; your head tossed into the plush pillow behind you. His fingers ceased their movement, sliding out of your cunt covered in your slick. “Shit,” Bokuto mumbled, bringing his fingers to his mouth. “Fucking delicious.”

He gave you another kiss, leaving some of your release on your lips. His boxers were peeled off and thrown onto the nightstand as he fumbled through one of the drawers, cursing at himself. “God dammnit, I know I have one. Where the fuck is it?”

“Looking for a condom?” you asked, the breath still being knocked out of your lungs.

“Yeah, it’s being a pain in the ass to find, though.”

“I’m on the pill.” you plainly state, smiling at him. “You don’t have to use a condom. It’ll be okay with me.” 

Bokuto stopped rummaging through the drawer, turning over to look at you with a look that could only be a mixture of lust and absolute delight. “Are you sure? I-I mean, I’m happy to hit it raw; I just don’t wanna pressure you or anything.”

You nodded your head and pulled him close to you by his shoulder, pecking his nose sweetly. “I promise, Kotaro. You don’t have to use a condom when you’re with me.”

“God, that’s music to my fucking ears, baby,” his voice rumbled, his hands resting on the bottoms of your thighs. You were propped up by your elbows and Bokuto’s variety of pillows, his cock painfully hard against his abdomen. “Can’t wait to ruin this fucking pussy.”

You tilted your head to the side in confidence, winking. “Then what are you waiting for?” you spread your legs, exposing your glistening heat to him once more. “Ruin me, Kotaro.”

Bokuto bit down on his lower lip and growled, aligning his cock with your cunt. “You have no idea what you’re in for, pretty girl.” the mushroom head pushed past your folds, the newfound sensation causing the both of you to moan softly. “Shit, you’re still so tight. That’s okay,” he chuckled, snapping his hips against yours. His cock slammed inside of you, filling you up so quickly. “I’ll fucking make it fit.”

“Holy shit!” you sobbed, your fingers scrambling for purchase in the bedsheets. “Kotaro!”

“That’s it, baby, scream my name while I fuck this pussy stupid.” Bokuto hissed, pounding into you without giving you the chance to catch your breath. You looked so fucking pretty underneath him, especially the way your greedy pussy took him so well. The way your sobbing walls enveloped him entirely it was perfection. “Taking me so well, good fucking girl.”

Your pathetic mewls were like that of a morning songbird, the most beautiful melody. Bokuto hoisted your legs above his shoulders once again, his cock hitting you at a deeper angle. You screamed, the head prodding at your cervix. “Fuck, shit, oh my god! Kotaro, f-fuck!”

His thrusts were animalistic as if he were in heat. They were uncalculated and had no rhythm, only a mission to make you stupid on his cock. His hands gripped onto your ankles while he started at your lewd form, admiring how your small hands encased your breasts in an attempt to create more stimulation. How greedy you were. He thought it was adorable. Everything about you was simply adorable. 

“Good fucking girl, that’s my girl,” he groaned as you squeezed around him, pulling him impossibly deep. “Oh, you like it when I call you that? Your pussy is sucking me in, pretty girl.” he teased, smacking the underside of your thigh. 

You attempted to speak, but all that fell from your lips was incoherent babbling. Your mind was all fuzzy, full of nothing but thoughts of Bokuto fucking you senseless. You arched your back further into the mattress, your hair forming the messiest halo above you. The sound of his balls slapping against your ass filled the bedroom, the movie in the living room being a thing of the past. 

“My pretty girl can’t speak now, but that’s okay,” Bokuto assured you, punctuating his sentences with a harsh slam inside of you. “I’ll just make you cum again, yeah? We’ll cum at the same time, okay, pretty girl? I know you got one more in you. Wanna give it to me? Don’t you think I deserve it? I wanna hear you say that. Say I deserve to make you cum again!”

“Fuck!” you sobbed, your orgasm dangerously close. You didn’t think you could handle one more, his cock bullying its way in and out of your weeping cunt. “Y’deserve to make me cum again, Kotaro! F-fuck, think I’m gonna cum soon!”

“Don’t fucking hold out on me, baby. You know I like it messy!” Bokuto bent forward, his thrusts becoming more erratic and needy as his cock twitched inside of you, begging for release. “Gonna fucking cum in this pussy, make it all fucking mine!”

“Shit!” you sobbed, tears welling up in the corners of your eyes. “Kotaro!” his name fell from your lips like a broken pair as you came for the third and final time that night, completely coating his cock in your glistening slick.

“Holy fuck, yeah, yeah! Fucking hell!” Bokuto roared, shooting ropes of cum deep inside your core, creating a new warm sensation in your belly. His thrusts grew slower and slower, almost as if he was attempting to fuck his cum inside of you. “Dont wanna…stop fucking you…but I’m tired.” he groaned, letting your legs fall back onto your chest. “Shit.”

Bokuto shamelessly collapsed onto you, purposely landing on your breast. He lifted his hips so his cock could slide out of you, almost with the thinnest streams of his release down your bruised thighs. “Mmm, that was so fucking good,” he mumbled against your breast, sucking on your pert nipple for a moment. “You got the best fucking pussy I’ve ever had.”

“You flatter me,” your hands ran through his damp black and white strands, acting as a comb. “You felt so fucking good, Kotaro. I’m glad I could help out. Do you think you’ll feel better at tomorrow's practice?”

Bokuto looked up from your breast and smiled brightly, cupping your flushed face with his hands. “I’m totally gonna kick everyone's ass! Atsumu won’t know what’ll hit him!”

“There’s the Bokuto we know and love!” you chuckle. 

“I’m back, baby!” he weakly flexed his muscle, kissing your cheek playfully. “Guess all I needed was my sexy manager. Best damn cure on the planet!”

You rolled your eyes and kissed the top of his head. “You act completely different when you’re inside of me.”

“Is that a bad thing?” he titled his head.

“Absolutely not. I think it’s adorable. You’re adorable.” you kissed his cheek once more. “So, uh, is it possible for us to do this again sometime? I-it was nice.” your eyes landed on the floor, embarrassed for no reason.

Bokuto flashed you his signature crooked smile and laughed, kissing your neck. “What a stupid question. Of course, we can do this again! We basically confessed before I fucked you, remember?”

“Oh yeah, I guess I forgot.” you awkwardly chuckled, leaning into his enthusiastic kisses. “Maybe your dick knocked all the brains out of my skull.”

“But then you won’t have any more left when you watch us practice!” Bokuto whined, snuggling his face into your chest once more. “You gotta have some brain left, okay?”

“Okay, Kotaro,” you mumbled, your eyelids growing heavy. “Hey…it’s pretty late. Would it be okay if I slept here for the night? I understand if you don’t want me to.”

“Hell yeah, you can sleep here!” He cheered softly, running his hand up and down your arm. “That way, you can arrive with me to practice tomorrow. Then I can show off my new girlfriend to the team and make them all super jealous.”

You chuckled. “Oh, am I your girlfriend now?”

“Do…do you wanna be my girlfriend?” his voice was soft and unsure.

“Of course I do, cutie.” you pecked the top of his head, pulling up the owl-themed covers. “Now, get some sleep. You got a lot to do tomorrow, yeah?”

“Mm, okay, baby. I can’t wait to wake up in your arms tomorrow.” he innocently whispered, shutting his eyes as sleep overtook him.

“Goodnight, Kotaro,” you whispered, flicking off the lamp as the two of you fell asleep in a mutual embrace, eager for what tomorrow will bring.

copyright © 4unnyr0se 2024 all right reserved

reblogs appreciated ❤

[onepiecestarry]

One Piece Men Headcanons

Things I think the One Piece men would do when they are down bad for you. (fluff)

Ace

He would bring you flowers every time he went out. EVERY. TIME. This man would buy you flowers and come home and try to make dinner for you, just to burn it accidentally.

Kid

He wouldn't show it at all. But you would start noticing your favorite foods are never missing. And if anyone ate your snacks he would curse them out and make them get more. You, of course, would have no idea.

Law

Law would put you to bed every night, even if he was going to stay up, he would go cuddle with you until you fell asleep. Then, he would get up and return to whatever he was doing. He wouldn't let anyone keep him from being there with you at night. And each time you'd wake up from sleep there would be a note and glass of water on the bedside table.

Luffy

He would share his food with you. (jk I have a real one)

He would share his clothes with you, either stealing your clothes or having you wear them. He would love to see you in his baggy shirts or pants, stealing yours to be more stylish noticing he gets more compliments when wearing your clothes.

Sabo

He would leave you notes everywhere. Every time you open a drawer you hadn't opened in a while there would be a new note. Or in your dresser. Anywhere you could look there would be a cute note. Short and sweet.

Sanji

Sanji would read the books you love. He would find out your favorite books, or listen to you talk about them and find them and read them himself so he could talk about them with you.

Zoro

Zoro would learn your native language for you, he would try to hide it for a bit but quickly get caught practicing by himself. When you discover this he will ask you for help with pronunciation and start trying to converse with you.

[wh0reforcoriolanussnow]

Hello! I love your writing. Can I request an actress y/n story of her doing the Vogue 73 questions interview and some of the questions being cute stuff about her relationship with Tom and the interviewer going viral on social media.

73 Questions with Vogue || Tom Blyth x actress!reader

A/n: this was so fun to write, thank u for the request anon :)

Warnings: none

Wc: 606

Tom Blyth x actress!reader au masterlist

Divider by @pommecita

You step into the grand foyer of your opulent home, adorned with exquisite art and gleaming chandeliers. Vogue’s cameras follow your every move as you prepare to answer their 73 questions. The air is charged with anticipation as fans worldwide await a glimpse into your glamorous life.

"Mind your step," you caution the interviewer, noting the subtle elevation that often catches people off guard. "Oh, thanks," he chuckles in response to your warning, and a reciprocal grin plays on your lips. The interviewer then dives in, initiating the conversation with, "What's your morning routine like?"

You flash a radiant smile, “I start my day with a strong cup of coffee and a walk with Tchai.” As you speak, you gently caress your spoodle, cozily curled up on the sofa.

"Tchai is so adorable! How long have you had him?" The interviewer questions, giving your dog an affectionate pat. "I've had Tchai since I started dating my partner Tom, it was actually his gift to me for our one year," you share with a smile, recalling the moment Tom surprised you with the dog of your dreams.

As you stroll through the expansive living room, the camera captures the elegance that surrounds you. A question about your career follows, and you share anecdotes from your latest film.

“I actually took this from the set of tbosas, it’s a photograph of my character and Coriolanus that was on Coryo’s bedside table during the first scenes,” You show the camera the photo, your grin reflecting the fond memories associated with it.

“Texting, calling, or FaceTiming?” The interviewer probes further. “FaceTiming for sure! I’m too slack most of the time to text, so I'd rather FaceTime people because then I can see their reactions,” you share, casting a glance over your shoulder as you navigate through your hallway, adorned with captivating artworks.

The interviewer then delves into a more personal inquiry, asking, “How do you handle the pressures of fame?” You take a contemplative pause, “I’ve learned to prioritize my well-being and maintain a grounded perspective. Surrounding myself with genuine people helps.”

Entering your plush home office, you take pride in showcasing the awards adorning the shelves. The conversation seamlessly transitions to your personal life, and a subtle smile graces your lips.

“Congratulations on reaching your three-year anniversary with Tom!” The interviewer beams, and you reciprocate, “Thank you!” “Could you share a bit more about your relationship with Tom?” the interviewer inquires.

Your eyes light up, “Tom is incredible. We support each other’s dreams and share a deep connection. He’s my biggest cheerleader. And I'm genuinely grateful to have someone like him in my life.”

The camera follows you into the stylish kitchen, where you casually pour a glass of water. “What’s the key to a successful relationship?” He asks. “Communication, trust, and a lot of laughter,” you reply, your tone sincere.

The resonant creak of the front door interrupts the air, and a familiar voice follows, causing an immediate and infectious smile to light up your face. “Oh, there’s Tom right now,” You chuckle setting the glass down before you make your way to the foyer, the camera effortlessly trailing your every move.

“Hi sweetheart,” Tom removes his sunglasses, drawing you close for a tender kiss before casting a warm smile at the camera. “Go, continue your interview,” He encourages, his eyes filled with affection, as you return the grin and redirect your attention to the ongoing interview.

Moving towards the sunlit terrace, you reveal breathtaking views. The interviewer probes further, "How do you maintain a work-life balance?" You chuckle, turning your gaze towards the camera, "It's a juggling act, but quality time with loved ones is non-negotiable," You point out.

As you ascend the staircase, your eyes meet Tom, engrossed in play with Tchai on the couch. A soft giggle escapes your lips, captured by the camera momentarily fixated on the fleeting connection.

"What's something people don't know about you?" You ponder on the question before replying, "I'm allergic to most flowers," You reveal as a soft chuckle leaves your lips. "Really? I wouldn't have known," The interviewer comments, surprised at you revelation.

"Oh, absolutely! During the filming of tbosas, I couldn't escape the constant sneezing, and my eyes were continuously watery, especially when shooting scenes outdoors in the district. We had to take a lot of takes with those scenes" you confess with a sheepish smile, casually walking backward while maintaining a steady gaze with the camera.

The tour continues through a luxurious walk-in closet, filled with designer attire. "Favorite fashion trend right now?" You gesture to your chic outfit, "Effortless elegance. Comfort meets style."

"What are your top artists that you listen to?" You walk over to your vinyl player, hands flickering through the vinyl records. "That's a tough once since I listen to a wide range of music. But I think I'd have to say my top three would be Olivia Rodrigo, The Neighbourhood, and the Smiths," You smile, picking out the 'Louder than bombs' vinyl and playing 'back to the old house'

"This is actually Tom and I's favourite song from the Smiths," You reveal with a grin. "You seem to have quite a collection of hats, care to share some light about the meaning behind your huge collection?" The interviewer points to a wall where about 20 cowboy hats were hung up.

"Funny story actually, these are hats that Tom and I have either taken, or were given from the set of Billy the Kid." You pick up Tom's cowboy hat, "Those who have watched the series, which you definitely should, would recognise this hat to be Billy's," You showcase the hat to the camera.

"This one I was gifted to by the director," You point to a white hat, "And these ones are from other cast members like Daniel, Alex, Ryan, and a few others," You gesture to the others.

A sudden knock at the door causes you to look at the door where Tom peaks his head around, the camera zooming onto him as he grins. "I made some iced chai's, your with oat milk" He walks in, handing you yours and one for the interviewer, "Awe, thanks babe," You gratefully smile at him.

"Yeah, thank you Tom!" The guy smiles at Tom who smiles warmly before leaving. You take a sip and let out a satisfied sigh from the cold beverage. "Mhm, this iced chai is delicious! Is this something you drink often?"

"Oh I love everything and anything chai. That's why I named my dog tchai cause I love it so much," You chuckle, "Do you usually have it with oat milk?" The interviewer asks as you hum, "I'm lactose intolerant so I drink oat milk,"

“Oh I see, I can tell Tom is very thoughtful, what’s your favourite trait that he has?” He asks a difficult question, “You can’t make me choose, I love everything about him!” You giggle.

“Okay, okay, sorry just say one that comes to mind then,” He chuckles, “hmm, I love the little things he does like putting medicine and a cup of water on my bedside table when I’m sick, buying chocolate for me when he knows I’m not having the best day, braiding my hair when I’m in my office doing work because it de-stresses me.”

“He’s the best boyfriend I could have ever asked for,” You smile like a schoolgirl thinking about him. As the interview concludes, you step into the sunlight, the epitome of success and poise.

The Vogue 73 questions interview becomes an internet sensation, captivating audiences worldwide. Your fans celebrate not just the actress but the genuine, relatable person behind the glamour.

In the days that follow, headlines laud your openness and authenticity. Your relationship with Tom Blyth becomes a the talk of the internet once again. The internet buzzes with admiration, turning the Vogue interview into a timeless moment in your career.

[weebsinstash]

I was cleaning my room and I developed a hyper specific thirst for "your red string of fate soulmate uses The String to basically track you down and invite themselves into your apartment and start going through all your things"

I've just, been having my mind run amok with different ideas for Hazbin characters 💀 Vox wants to go through all your tech and your video games, Velvette and Valentino poke through your closet and your skincare, Alastor... he's just fucking judgy about almost everything lmao

They go to open a specific drawer without asking and you're all but BLOCKING THAT SHIT WITH YOUR BODY because Oh My God They Absolutelt Cannot Find Out That That's Your Sex Toy Drawer. And they find out anyways. Just. mortifying. That's too personal man I would die 💀 like I'm sorry can you imagine something just real uh large rolls out and like you've got VALENTINO just looming at you like "giiiiiiiiiiiiiirl---" cause like. Ok guess that solves the question of if you can fit him djggnjffkffjfjf

But it could also be cute! They see so many things around your room that they do enjoy!! Alastor sees that despite being modern, you listen to music that's from all genres including big bands and old jazz and, even your tastes in more modern music tend to be things similar from your childhood. Vox sees that you have like, figurines and anime merch and games he plays too! Velvette sees that you might dress in a way she considers uh ugly maybe just because you're broke as fuck and have been paying for all of your bills but maybe just maybe you like to draw and she can't help but notice the clothing in your drawings are nice and stylish. Valentino.... I dunno man he's kind of a jerk but I think he'd think it's cute when you get happy and excitedly show him things and maybe he even, idk,the yandereness turns him into a semi decent person and he's actually listening to everything you say even if he doesn't understand it because you're just so cute

Also regarding these guys going through your room I feel like it depends on what kind of story you're going for but if they're not being bullying and sadistic they're probably being nosey and infantilizing so like. You would think it would be horrible for Valentino to find your sex toys or lingerie right? Right! But he'll also notice a LACK of those things so there's no winning!!!! He'll tease you for keeping a vibrator wand in your bedside table and if he DOESNT find any fake dicks he'll tease you about being pent up and ask if "Daddy needs to take you to his favorite toy shop" or something 💀💀💀💀

I'm just saying like. Any which way, it's a scenario for a yandere to come into your life and react with either "oh cool, look how much we have in common! This is just further proof we belong together :)" OR "oh wow, you're not what I expected at all, but I love you so don't worry, I promise I'm not gonna abandon you and I'll just put in the work to change you until you better suit my own personal tastes but trust me you being a brat and resisting is also extremely adorable and I love that too :)"

[todayontumblr]

spring cleaning: so you've realized it's time to start decorating.

[gruesomejack]

It hadn't been too hard. All it took was asking the bar tender if he knew any local mechanics named Charlie and he was passed a worn business card. Reimes Auto. It was convincing himself it was alright to go that was terrible.

Vi spent a week with the card sitting on his bedside table, his eyes finding it every time he got up or went to bed. It wasn't sane, was it? To think he and Charlie could be anything more than passing strangers. They were from two completely different worlds, and their brief meeting barely scratched the surface of that. But it could be nice, couldn't it? Something casual! Something where he could wake up a little early and stop by to chat every once in a while. That wouldn't be so bad.

The manor was quiet as he dressed himself. The only people up were some of the staff, and they didn't care enough to wonder what he was up to. Vi yawned as he tied his coat and frowned a little bit at how warm he already felt. Spring was here, and the air outside was breezy, but fair too nice for such a heavy jacket. He didn't have much of a choice, though. If he wanted to step outside while the sun was still high, he had to keep himself covered as much as he possibly could. And by the time he was finished, he'd added a wide brim hat, sunglasses, and a pair of leather gloves. It could've been stylish if it wasn't over sixty degrees outside.

Sneaking downstairs, he peeked around the living room and kitchen just to make sure nobody was awake before slipping out the door.

Victory took in a deep breath. He drummed his thumbs along his steering wheel and peeked out the window to stare at the garage he'd parked in front of. Pulling the keys from the ignition, he put them in his breast pocket and eased himself outside. He felt completely swamped already; he could feel the sweat making the fabric of his clothing cling to his skin. Peeking at the glass of the driver's side door, he frowned at his pink cheeks and straighted up. He could survive it for a few minutes, right? He just wanted to talk. Vi shoved his discomfort to the back of his mind and moved towards the shop.

"Charlie?" Stepping inside, he hummed quietly. The air smelled like oil, gasoline, and faintly of sweat. It was fairly typical-- He glanced over the array of tools and metal mess and smiled. "Are you around? I hope you're not too busy."

@purposefully-lost

[magic-x-1013]

In the image, a man and a woman are seated on a comfortable bed, creating an intimate and relaxed atmosphere. The bed is adorned with soft, plush pillows and a neatly arranged duvet, inviting them to unwind and enjoy each other's company. The room is dimly lit, with warm, gentle lighting emanating from a bedside lamp, casting a soft glow on their faces.

The man, dressed in a casual yet stylish attire, exudes a sense of ease and contentment. His relaxed posture suggests a moment of tranquility, as he gazes affectionately at the woman beside him. His facial expression is one of tenderness, his eyes reflecting a deep connection and admiration for his companion.

The woman, radiating beauty and grace, sits beside him, her body slightly turned towards him, indicating her engagement in their conversation. She is dressed in a comfortable yet elegant outfit, reflecting her effortless style. Her face is illuminated by a gentle smile, mirroring the affectionate energy shared between them. Her eyes sparkle with warmth and love, as she reciprocates his gaze, creating an atmosphere of mutual adoration.

The room itself exudes a sense of coziness and intimacy. The walls are adorned with tasteful artwork, adding a touch of sophistication to the space. A small table beside the bed holds a vase of fresh flowers, infusing the room with a delicate fragrance and a pop of color. The curtains, drawn slightly, allow a soft, diffused light to filter through, creating a serene ambiance.

The image captures a moment of connection and intimacy between the man and woman, showcasing their deep emotional bond. It portrays a sense of comfort, trust, and love, as they share a private moment together. The image invites the viewer to appreciate the beauty of human connection and the power of love in creating a peaceful and harmonious environment.

AI’s interpretation of this Mulder and Scully screen shot.

[heleniad]

She was born from an egg, a daughter of the gods, divinely fair, a pearl, drop-dead gorgeous, beautiful, a peach, a child of grace, a stunner, in her face the starlike sorrows of immortal eyes. Who looked there, loved.

She won the heart of every man she saw. They stood in line, sighed, knelt, beseeched Be Mine. She married one, but every other mother’s son swore to be true to her till death, enchanted by the perfume of her breath, her skin’s celebrity.

So when she took a lover, fled, was nowhere to be seen, her side of the bed unslept in, cold, the small coin of her wedding ring left on the bedside table like a tip, the wardrobe empty of the drama of her clothes, it was War.

A thousand ships — on every one a thousand men, each heaving at an oar, each with her face before his stinging eyes, her name tattooed upon the muscle of his arm, a handkerchief she’d dropped once for his lucky charm, each seeing her as a local girl made good, the girl next door, a princess with the common touch, queen of his heart, pin-up, superstar, the heads of every coin he’d tossed, the smile on every note he’d bet at cards — bragged and shoved across a thousand miles of sea.

Meanwhile, lovely she lay high up in a foreign castle’s walls, clasped in a hero’s brawn, loved and loved and loved again, her cries like the bird of calamity’s, drifting down to the boys at the gates who marched now to the syllables of her name.

Beauty is fame. Some said she turned into a cloud and floated home, falling there like rain, or tears, upon her husband’s face. Some said her lover woke to find her gone, his sword and clothes gone too, before they sliced a last grin in his throat.

Some swore they saw her smuggled on a boat dressed as a boy, rowed to a ship which slid away at dusk, beckoned by the finger of the moon. Some vowed that they were in the crowd that saw her hung, stared up at her body as it swung there on the creaking rope, and noticed how the black silk of her dress clung to her form, a stylish shroud.

Her maid, who loved her most, refused to say one word to anyone at any time or place, would not describe one aspect of her face or tell one anecdote about her life and loves.

But lived alone and kept a little bird inside a cage.

— CAROL ANN DUFFY

[bluebelleisabelle]

Zee headcanons !! Cuz why not? Also, this post will include some spoilers for TDI 2023:

The drummer on the wall of his bedroom is a member of a really obscure band that absolutely no one has heard of except Zee, but he loves their music. Their music fits within the Bongo Flava genre, which is the sort of stuff that Zee likes to listen to. Zee also listens to Pass the Dutchie by Musical Youth. I don’t need to say anything else. That’s his vibe jdjdjd. This band inspired him to learn the drums (bongos), but he hasn’t played in a while due to “not having enough time” (aka, he has no motivation and procrastinates 😭). So now, he holds a speaker on one drum and uses the other as a makeshift bedside table. Something that isn’t addressed within the series is his love for music. This dude, from what we’ve seen in his audition tape, has a couple drums, a record player, and a piano. I would say he’s always enjoyed music. Listening to it, and then playing it.

Zee lives by the sea. His room reminds me of a beach house, and he has a surfboard as the headboard of his bed. During the warmer months, Zee is a fan of riding the giant waves on a surfboard or boogie board. He’ll get absolutely bombarded by the waves, but he always comes out of the water with a smile on his face and excited to go again. In the second episode, when he’s seen confidently swimming back to shore (before the shark assaults him, like damn 😭😭), you can TELL that he has experience swimming. Dude has certainly let a wave take him to shore in the past after surfing.

Zee’s parents are, like, the chillest people on the planet. If you’re friends with Zee and go to his house, you’re automatically friends with his parents. If his personality is influenced by his homelife, his fam is absolutely chill to the max and probably super supportive of Zee and his decision to be on TDI

He’s neurodivergent. That’s it. That’s the headcanon.

Though I can’t be sure what exactly it is, there are boards that look similar to skateboards (without the wheels) mounted on Zee’s wall, so I like the idea that Zee tried his hand at skateboarding. I can’t say if he’s good at it, but he’s certainly tried lol. I also like to envision that those skateboards were made by a friend of his that has a knack for woodworking. So this friend of Zee’s created and painted him a couple of skateboards to mount on his wall.

I literally have no way of explaining this, but Zee probably works for the summer (or generally) at a local arcade. I sense that he either walks or rides his bike to his job, cause I’m pretty sure he doesn’t drive (he just hasn’t gotten around to learning how to lmao).

Even if TDI allowed swearing, Zee is someone that never swears. Not only does he likely not know a lot of swears, lol, but he just generally isn’t someone who enjoys swearing or who feels the need to curse.

In my mind, Zee has many love languages, but there are three that stand out to me as possibilities. One of Zee’s love languages is physical touch. Within the first episode alone, he immediately went to hug Chris, and though he didn’t really hug any other characters in the season, I get the vibe that he would greet you with a hearty hug and slap on the back. But hey, at least he got to hug Chris before he left 😭 (something Zee initiated because there’s no way Chris would actively hug someone lol). Another one of Zee’s love languages is words of affirmation. Numerous times during the season, Zee is seen hyping up another character, reassuring them, or serving as a sort of cheerleader to another character. It’s very sweet. And the final love language I’m thinking of is quality time. Zee is always appreciative of getting to know someone (he literally responds with “cool” when Ripper info dumps to him about flatulence 😭). So I just get the vibe that Zee’s favorite thing is spending time with other people, and getting to know them.

the dude’s stylish room djjdjd

[im-a-king-baby]

Hiii i loved ELYN so much.

I was hoping for any other tidbits/stories/scenes about Simon carrying the frog in the sock. i just wondered if it was like his comfort object or like the orange sweater etc. .That was one of my favorite scenes when Wille finds it

And/or “i wanted to wake up with you” i dont think i will ever forget that line.

💜 thank youuuu

Okay so I'm sorry this is so very late. Life has been a Lot 😅 hopefully folks are still interested in my ramblings!

<3 <S <3

"I wanted to wake up with you."

Fun fact: I almost cut this line. It was originally in the first draft where Simon never made the late-night-call that led everyone to Bjarstad and I was worried that after I'd made that change this line would put people off Simon, because at this point (in theory) Simon knows that Wilhelm had to get up because of what Simon did during the night so it's a bit unfair to Wilhelm. But then I figured Simon's in withdrawal, he's going to be resentful and frustrated and just because intellectually he knows it's his fault that doesn't mean he's not still having those feelings.

As far as the wanting goes, Simon is just dragging himself through life at the moment. He had this whole spiral of failing to sleep, eventually managed it by basically promising himself a future where he'd wake up and things would still be like they were when they went to bed, just the two of them avoiding the world. Plus withdrawal emotions, plus Candace showing up, the bubble is fully burst and this line is Simon tired and resentful and having to face it.

In case you're interested in how things change in editing, this is the first draft version of this moment (in this version Candace showed up basically the moment the queen left which would have been one hell of a coincidence).

“People always leave before I wake up. Maybe they think I’ll be less fun sober, probably they’re right.” “I wasn’t trying to leave you.” “Okay.” It’s the same tone of voice, accepting but not believing. “Are you going back to Stockholm with her?” He pushes himself off the wall, crossing into the kitchen and opening cupboards at random. It’s Friday morning. Wilhelm is due on TV at six PM. He’s supposed to be attending multiple prep meetings, seeing a stylish and a make-up artist before that. Minou is no doubt already at full panic stations. “I can stay if you want me to.” He stands up as Simon emerges from a cupboard with a half full bottle of vodka. “I can help you look for a lawyer. Or we could go for a walk.” Simon unscrews the bottle. “If you want to go, you can go.” The roar of an engine surges outside. Simon is closer to the window, and Wilhelm sees the moment his face shuts down, the inevitability of it, a moment before he sees Candace emerge from a sleek white car. “I want to be here for you. If you’ll let me,” Wilhelm says, picking at a conversation that’s already died as Simon braces his shoulders like a solider going into battle and tilts the bottle up to take three long swallows. Candace raps three times on the door. “Simme! Open this door right the fuck now.” Simon looks at Wilhelm over the bottle. “I wanted to wake up with you.”

x🐸🐸🐸x THE FROG x🐸🐸🐸x

After six hours of meetings a car comes to drive him to the hotel. Rachel tells him to order whatever he likes from room service and to be in the lobby for seven thirty the next morning and then he’s letting himself into a luxury hotel room. There’s a lounge, a bedroom, a bathroom with a full size bath and a separate shower with six different heads.

He takes the frog out of his bag and places it on the bedside table overlooking the pillow then pulls out his phone. He’d messaged Wilhelm when he arrived (Landed! Hopefully someone comes to pick me up!) and now he sees Wilhelm has texted three times since.

Good luck! La doesnt know whats hit it! Everything okay? I’m awake, no plans today whenever you want to call

Simon texts back: Sorry! Dumped straight into meetings all day. I’m kind of exhausted, can we do tomorrow?

Wilhelm: Of course! Jet lags a bitch. Sleep well, I love you xxx

Simon picks up the menu off the side but his stomach is still protesting the bagel it thinks it had in the middle of the night and he kicks off his trainers and his jeans and crawls into the mega bed.

After a moment, he reaches over and picks up the frog again, runs his thumb across the nose, and settles back down with it’s weight firm in his palm as he types: Love you toox

x🐸x

Candace tells him they’re going to Sweden in the same matter-of-fact voice she uses to tell him anything. The label won’t approve a third single. We have to crowdfund plane tickets. We can’t afford to keep the whole band, who can you live without? I’ve booked us a week in Stockholm and put word out to local news sites and venues, we’ll be taking the buses up there after Paris.

Simon reaches for his backpack on instinct, touches the front pocket where Wilhelm’s frog has been nestled since they left L.A. “Should I… I should call Wilhelm, right? Let him know?”

Candace glances at him over her iPad. “Sure,” she says. “Let me know if you need me to put him on the List.”

Simon leaves the meeting, twisting his phone over and over between his hands. They’re going to Sweden. For the first time since he flew out and it’s - he glances at his phone again - it’s September.

Fuck, it’s September. It’s September 2024, somehow. It’s been over a year since he left Sweden, since he last saw Wilhelm. He scrolls through the contacts on his phone but Wilhelm isn’t in there, of course Wilhelm isn’t in there, Simon got this phone back in L.A. and he hadn’t had time to transfer anything across. That had been last Christmas. Ten months ago and god, where had that time gone?

He could ask Candace to get Wilhelm’s number. That’s what she does, she sorts things. Wilhelm doesn’t answer the phone to unknown numbers. Obviously. But Simon could write a text or something. Hi, this is Simon. I know you said there was no way we could make it work because I was so busy all the time but I’m going to be in Sweden and I’ll still be busy all the time and you’re probably off in the army somewhere but -

It sounds stupid. It is stupid. There is no ‘but’, they don’t work and that has always been abundantly clear.

He unzips his backpack and the frog is there in it’s tiny golden crown, glitter still clinging to the paint because glitter is a bitch that can never be removed.

There’s a scratch across it’s nose, deep enough that Simon’s nail can catch against it. Hi Wilhelm, this is Simon, I know we haven’t talked for a while but I need to give you your frog back because you trusted me to keep one thing safe and I couldn’t even -

He scrolls back up his contacts to Guitar, Kevan and types: drinks?

His suitcase is at the edge of the room, surrounded by a scattering of costume pieces and toiletries. He digs through chains and glitter to find a pair of probably-clean socks and tucks the frog inside, where it’ll be safe.

His phone buzzes: party in 267

He just needs something to calm his nerves, to settle his stomach.

He’ll ask Candace to get the number tomorrow. Or, there’s a show tomorrow, next time he has a free minute.

He tucks the bundle down into the case and heads out of the room.

x🐸x

His case is still on the floor of his bedroom half full from tour. Technically he’s been back in L.A. for two months but unpacking was one of those ‘I’ll do it later’ things that has now somehow come full circle. He tugs out clothes, nudging them into the ever growing laundry for the cleaners to pick up once he’s gone.

His hand finds something solid and he pulls it out. Socks, with something inside, and his throat catches as he remembers September, Sweden. Everyone talking to him in Swedish, fans screaming 'jag älskar dig!' like it wasn’t… like…

Candace promised the next tour could skip it. And if he’s not going to Sweden, he can’t give the frog back, so there’s no point having it. He doesn’t need it.

He folds the socks around it a little tighter, stands up to push it into the back of his sock drawer, underneath everything else. It’ll be safer there.

Two days later the taxi is honking it’s horn outside as he runs back into the room, upends the whole drawer on the floor and grabs the wrapped bundle, shoving it into his pocket on his way out the door.

x🐸x

There’s a fresh bruise forming on his collarbone, a faded one on the side of his neck, a man whose name he doesn’t know snoring face down on the cheap polyester pillows.

He runs his thumb back and forth across the nose of the tiny frog statue, lets his head thump back against the wall to stare up at the ceiling and count down the hours until dawn.

[interglw]

Elegant Mushroom Lamp: Cozy and Stylish Lighting for Any Room

Create a cozy ambiance with this elegant mushroom-shaped table lamp. Featuring a warm, soft glow and a unique design, it is perfect for adding a touch of charm and relaxation to any room. Ideal for those seeking stylish and soothing lighting.

[antiquarianandunusual]

The Very Second Day of the Rest of Their Lives (GOmensEverday Countdown Day 36) (A Good Omens Short Fic)

Synopsis: It's the first Monday since the Armageddon That Never Was, and Crowley and Aziraphale start their new lives out with the quiet, gentle, and almost romantic morning they deserve.

Fandom: Good Omens (TV)

Maturity Rating: T (Rated for Language)

Word Count: 4,252

Read it on AO3!

Author’s Note: As of June 22nd, 2023, we are officially 36 days away from Good Omens season 2!! In celebration of this milestone in the long but worthwhile wait to see our favorites in action again, I present a short piece I wrote as part of the @gomenseveryday​ countdown! I’m very excited to be a part of this project and make sure you all go check out the account/tag to see what other Good Omens fans are cooking up while we wait!

Crowley's flat was an astoundingly depressing place to wake up in.

In fact, it was depressing, ultimately, in a general sense; it was so suffocatingly minimalistic that it didn't feel unlike a doctor's office, if the doctor in question didn't care much for practicing medicine and was, in actuality, a swanky denizen of the underworld who had both a bottomless bank account and a shockingly substantial understanding of what modern human culture considered "stylish".

 The place looked almost sterile, untouched by human hands (which was, in a sense, true), and while the style of it all was very sleek, very pleasing to look at upon first glance, looking at it day after day after day turned living there into more of a prison sentence than anything. Despite the blinds remaining perpetually open, what natural light trickled in felt more exposing than welcoming the second it spilled across the floor. The rooms were absolutely cavernous, which was great if you properly invested the time and money into personalizing them, but Crowley never properly had, and so they remained hauntingly empty save for a few trinkets he had picked up on his immortal travels. When he spoke, his voice bounded off the walls and back to someone who was devastatingly tired of listening to the same self-indulgent bullshit he had been spouting since he ascended to Earth 6,000 years ago, but said bullshit was the only indicator that anything alive had ever been in the place aside from the luscious houseplants cowering in the corners.

Though it remained the most lived-in room, the bedroom was still remarkably barren. Anytime he imbibed in some good-old-fashioned sloth (which was often), he would open his eyes to the same cloudy gray walls; the same empty, dusty bedside tables; the same half-shaded windows; and the same resounding thought of, What's even the point of being awake?

It was cold. And lonely. And absolutely no wonder why he spent as little time there as possible.

So, imagine Crowley's surprise when one morning, he wakes up warm. And cozy. And surrounded by what he, despite being demonic in nature, has never been more certain is love. It felt like someone had draped a massive blanket, fresh from the dryer, over him with careful adoration. It was a sensation that was so unbearably heavenly. 

He stirred, bleary and barely aware if he really was awake or if he was simply dreaming that he was. Keeping his eyes open was a fight in and of itself and after nearly no consideration, he made the executive decision to let the inclination to sleep take him back over. It was only a few minutes of lying there, sunglasses still on his face and comedically askew, that his physical body realized that he was, in fact, not falling back asleep and that maybe it was time to move and behave like a functional being.

He begrudgingly pried his eyes back open. There was a feeble attempt to sit up until his joints sang out in a rickety chorus of crackling pops and the crick in his neck served as a groan-inducing reminder that he had spent the night on a couch instead of what was, at least, a decent bed. To boot, he was completely sprawled out; his neck was half-propped up on the armrest on the left side, his right leg was draped over the sofa's back at an awkward angle, and his left reached toward the floor, as did his left arm. His right had been draped across his middle. Hissing through his teeth, Crowley reached to take his glasses off and stretched.

As stiff as it was, he was grateful to be working out the kinks in a body all his own. Aziraphale's had been nice and all, but he maintained this form for a reason; it simply felt right. Besides, the very thought of Aziraphale reclining so unbecomingly was as jarring as it had been for Crowley to watch himself sitting with only the utmost poise on the bench in St. James Park.

As Crowley's other senses began to return to life, he was sharply smacked with a scent reminiscent of ancient. It was of well-worn leatherbound first editions; cinders from a dwindling but once toasty and welcoming flame; and even the old dress coats someone's grandfather might have kept, unworn, in his closet for decades because nowadays, the man had nowhere nice to go and was perfectly pleased with doing little more than staying at home with a good book. Above him, he caught glimpses of classical volumes protruding from an overhead shelf, threatening to teeter off at any moment as always; through eyes that were still slightly fuzzy, he could just barely make out an antique desk across from the couch, covered in long forgone bills and a winged mug that had been left abandoned days before.

Right, Crowley realized. He never did go home last night, did he?

He had naturally planned to, for the simple matter that it was where he always went at the end of the day. But then Aziraphale had prodded him to invite himself back to the shop for some celebratory wine. "Well," he had mournfully sighed, subtle as a flaming Bentley rolling through an allegedly unassuming English town, "I suppose I should be off. It might do some good to take inventory at the shop given the, erm... recent developments."

He expectantly eyed Crowley, who, in turn, flashed him a mischievous smirk. The angel's salient hope was almost charming and besides, it meant he could put off cleaning up the steaming pile of goo that was Ligur for another day (Crowley could infer that there was only so much Adam could have done for occult casualties, after all).

"I'll come with," he nonchalantly offered.

Aziraphale had beamed, and through a smile that he fought oh-so desperately to keep from evolving into a full-blown, all-revealing grin, uttered a passive, "If you insist."

If he had been more awake, Crowley might have indulged in a reticent snicker at the thought, though he instead grunted in acknowledgment, halfheartedly flopped his legs over the edge of the couch, and rolled into a reluctant sitting position. Something fell off of his lap: a blanket- a real one- patterned in a certain trademark tartan because of course, it was. The mere look of it made Crowley's skin tingle with a desperate itch to be coddled in its gentle embrace; an offhand glance from miles away would still manage to betray how plush to the touch it would be, and its unfortunate tumble left Crowley feeling slightly emptier, slightly more vulnerable, and much more alert. He half-wondered if Aziraphale had put a touch of extra miraculous power into it with the express purpose of keeping him out cold, lot of good it did.

He glanced down at his watch. 6:13 a.m. Much too early for his liking, but he resigned himself to his fate of an early start to the day.

Crowley tucked his sunglasses delicately away into his breast pocket. He then pushed himself to his feet with a slightly exaggerated grunt of effort and rubbed at his eyes with the palms of his hands. "'Ziraphale?" he finally called, voice crackling from a few hours' disuse.

There was no answer.

He tried it slightly louder. "Aziraphale?"

Quiet. But not the unsettling kind, with a layer of unease claiming the space sound failed to occupy. It was contented. Safe. Crowley's keen instincts and acute ability to sense certain angelic presences kept him assured that no peril lurked beyond the seemingly infinite shelves. It was preferable to the booming sounds of archangels' warning voices or, Hell forbid, the crackling of all-consuming flame.

Time out. Crowley jerked his head dismissively and huffed.

He began to saunter through the maze of tables, chairs, and stacks upon stacks of senselessly organized tomes.

From a human standpoint, Aziraphale's aura was remarkably, well, unremarkable. To a particularly keen eye, it may have appeared just slightly brighter than that of most others, just enough to prompt a second glance before moving on it was so unworthy of note. It was honestly impressive that Aziraphale had managed to remain incognito for so long. Angels, just like demons, had ways of keeping themselves dimmed to refrain from arousing suspicion, but just like with demons, this didn't mean all of them were good at it; Aziraphale (currently also known as A.Z. Fell, Purveyor of Antiquarian and Unusual Books; formerly known as the Amazing Mr. Fell, accompanied on occasion by Remarkable Feats of Prestidigitation; formerly known as the Principality Aziraphale, Angel of the East Gate) was such a bewildering character that his managing not to expose his own supernatural nature was a feat in and of itself.

From a demonic perspective, however, his otherworldly roots cast a blinding white spotlight on him from the very Heavens he originated from. The only issue was the spotlight was great at pinpointing his general whereabouts but was so intolerably lucent that once you were vaguely in the area, you were left fumbling around trying to figure out where the Heaven the bastard actually was. Thankfully, Aziraphale usually got himself into such a degree of trouble that Crowley could track him from a mile away, be it thanks to mutters of a new Knight of the Round Table who preferred talking to the enemy or the excitable chatter of revolutionaries who simply couldn't wait to lob off the poor head of a misguided English aristocrat who kept haplessly moaning that there'll be paperwork!

His penchant for getting into such inconvenient situations wasn't as helpful in the safety of his own bookshop. Mostly.

Pacing down expansive aisles, Crowley brushed careful fingertips over the spines of treasured books. He admired Aziraphale's organizational handiwork. To the untrained eye, the shelves were in complete disarray; the names of authors bounced from "Y" to "C" to "K"; some genres were grouped together to give the illusion of order, only to pull the rug out from under the customer and switch entirely to a row of jumbled categories halfway through; and it was a gamble of whether the book you pulled from the shelf was even going to be in a living language. He pictured Aziraphale pulling new shipments of books from boxes with only the most delicate of hands, then darting down aisles with careful calculation to determine the best place to store them so he could file them away for himself for later but make it nigh impossible for a surprise customer to find what they were looking for. It was clear to Crowley just how deliberate his storage system actually was, and he wished he could take some credit for such an irksome work of art. But alas, it was all Aziraphale, and it gave Crowley an odd sense of pride to watch Aziraphale fumble to feign cluelessness whenever the demon would give him an offhand almost-compliment on the impeccable arrangement.

I haven't the slightest idea what you're talking about, he'd mumble, fiddling suspiciously with the buttons on his waistcoat.

He could be a real varlet when he wanted to be.

The thought of it drew a toothy grin out of Crowley.

His mind flashed to Aziraphale sitting on that park bench as he, for once in his long lifetime, uncharacteristically bragged with overwhelming giddiness about his Hellish exploits. The mental image of his broad smile and eyes glittering with unadulterated joy in the sunlight spawned pictures of Aziraphale- actual Aziraphale, not an Aziraphale that looked suspiciously like a Crowley- resting in the tub so prim and proper and unperturbed as all of Hell watched him in abject horror. As he looked dead at that wanker Michael, brow almost pleadingly furrowed. Terribly sorry, the version of him in Crowley's mind started, but could I trouble you for a towel? I would normally take care of it myself, but I appear to have found myself in a spot of real bother...

After what he had witnessed in Heaven, Crowley hoped the real Aziraphale had taken the opportunity to be much, much meaner.

He peeked around a corner. A path had been carved out of a pile of books and they were now separated into two neater stacks on either side of the walkway. Aziraphale had been here.

He called the angel's name out again.

At first, there was nothing.

Then, a timid, "Hello?" It came from above, which caught Crowley off-guard.

He waltzed back out into the open. He shaded his eyes from the sunset's glow through the windows above and saw a shadowy shape leaning over the railing of the second floor. "That you, angel?"

"Ah! Crowley!" Aziraphale chirped. He suddenly dashed off and Crowley could hear the resounding thump of something heavy being moved. Distantly, he continued to speak, muffled by the length of dead space between them.

"Can't hear you!"

More thumps and the far-off voice of a bustling angel.

"Yeah, it doesn't help when you keep walking further away."

Aziraphale reappeared above, gripping the railing like a vice as he leaned over and called down almost passive-aggressively at a volume so loud it made Crowley wince, "I said I didn't expect you awake this early!" before darting away once again.

Crowley stumbled searching for a retort with an unsteady groan of uuuuuhhhhh before curtly settling on, "I'm sorry?"

"Oh! Oh, dear me, no, that's not- What I meant to say is- Confound it all, hold that thought!"

"'Cause I could just bugger off right now, you know." The edge in Crowley's voice was rounded out by an air of amusement just barely concealed using oozing sarcasm. "Armageddon's done, I could leave you all alone to your precious books and-"

"Sssh!"

"Did you just shush me, you twat?"

Aziraphale didn't deign to dignify him with a response. Crowley scoffed, his offense only half-feigned.

He stepped farther back and arched his neck so he could make out Aziraphale's shadowy figure speeding from shelf to shelf. He rarely saw the angel in such a state of intense focus, which convinced him to keep his mouth shut; it occurred to him that if he broke Aziraphale's concentration now, the shards wouldn't be able to be pieced back together for the rest of the day and Aziraphale would have either a) made it Crowley's problem or b) really tried to finish whatever his little project was as a distracted mess, ultimately not achieving what he set out to accomplish and honestly, still making it Crowley's problem in the end.

In one arm, Aziraphale cradled a massive binder crammed with enough pages to make it a novel of its own. With his free hand, he counted off books on the shelves, lightly tapping their spines as he made mental notes of what kind of progress he was making and literal notes on the paperwork in his binder. He would occasionally stop on a title, pluck it from the shelf, and consider it for a moment before bounding away and giving it a new home, either on another shelf or in a stack to the side. There were several moments when he would find something it seemed he forgot he had and set his binder aside to flip voraciously through the pages before remembering he had a job to do. Those books would go in a stack of their own, so tall it took a miracle to keep it standing. He hummed absently to himself as he worked.

Crowley soon caught himself less observing and more staring. It wasn't typical demonic staring, either, unblinking and brow so menacingly furrowed that it gave you a headache; his expression felt soft. His eyes may have been slightly crinkled, and his lips curled into the smallest of dreamy smiles, but otherwise, no other demon on Earth or in Hell looked as peaceful as Anthony J. Crowley did at that moment.

He didn't bother to stop himself.

This time yesterday, and the day before, and, Heaven, the week before, neither of them had been entirely certain they were going to see a day like this ever again. They had made it by insane luck but had made it, nonetheless, and maybe, just maybe, there was a new part of him that told him it was okay to take joy in a quiet, strangely domestic moment after what they had been through. The same part of him that was, at heart, just a little bit a good person.

It took several more minutes, but finally, Aziraphale stepped away from the shelves with a triumphant raise of his hand, sighed, set the binder to the side, and stood at just the right angle for Crowley to see him grinning to himself, proud of a job well done. "Right!" he announced. "Be right down!"

Crowley oh-so nonchalantly cleared his throat. He wandered back over to the couch and flopped down, sinking into the sagging cushions and leaning over the couch's arm. As he lackadaisically settled in, there came the sound of fast-approaching hard-soled shoes clacking on a wooden floor, then carpet, then back on the wooden floor. Aziraphale appeared in the corner of Crowley's eye as he busied himself with the blanket by picking it up, folding it, and carefully draping it over his desk chair. Instead of settling down at his desk, as Crowley expected, however, he stepped over the demon's outstretched legs, made a "scooch" motion with his hands, and made himself at home right next to him on the couch. For a second, he froze in surprise as the cushions made a half-effort to pull him in before settling into his best attempt at his typical prim manner of sitting.

Crowley was acutely aware of how close Aziraphale was.

Rather than pointing it out, he began, "What the Heaven were you doing?"

Aziraphale looked over at him, perplexed, but not without a smile. "Inventory. I told you."

"Ah. 'Course. Everything, eh... present and accounted for?"

Aziraphale nodded. He breathed a sigh of relief. "Thank goodness. Of course, I knew wreaking havoc on my collection would be the least of Adam's concerns."

Crowley huffed, bemused.

Aziraphale's eyes darted over to the Richmal Crompton books on display in a neat row on top of his desk. "At least we know he's got a sense of humor," he offered.

There was a long pause.

Crowley and Aziraphale looked over at each other simultaneously, but Crowley was the one who spoke first. "I thought we covered the whole 'uncomfortable silences after surviving the apocalypse' bit already."

"I suppose it's a little different talking about tomorrow and actually living to see it."

A beat. The silence was warping into something awkwardly lingering, words unsaid drifting between them. Crowley began to make an effort to break it, but Aziraphale beat him to the punch.

"I haven't had a morning like this in eleven years."

"Like what?"

"Peaceful. Just... peaceful." He let the word linger for a moment in that wistful way Aziraphale always did when he was trying to make a truly profound point. Crowley allowed it to hover.

"Yeah?" he finally prompted.

"I don't think there's been one single moment I've been at peace since that night you called me about the Antichrist. It's always been one thing or another. Armageddon, mostly." He sighed and forgetting himself for a moment, let himself sink back languidly. "It feels like the weight of the world is finally off my shoulders."

"Don't have to tell me," Crowley pointed out. "I forgot how nice it is to wake up not ticking off another day until the end of life as you know it."

"Or worrying about a surprise visit from Gabriel."

"Or the Dukes of Hell demanding an itemized list of the not-Antichrist's misdeeds."

"Did they really?"

"Might as well have."

They lapsed, for several minutes, into a less edgy silence.

"You know," started Crowley, "the world is completely ours until Heaven and Hell decide to do something about it. And we've got some time until that happens."

"Oh, I know. It's..."

"Wait, hold on, let me guess. A great responsibility? Not something to be taken lightly? Something we're going to screw up so bloody badly?" He shot Aziraphale a playful grin; he was enjoying this greatly.

Aziraphale peered at Crowley with the most mystified gaze, brilliant eyes bright and watery and full of hope. He leaned in, and Crowley felt their shoulders collide. Their knees were touching. "Wonderful."

Based on the funny feeling welling up in his chest, Crowley knew that if his heart had probable cause to beat, it would have been furiously pounding. In the growing sunlight, Aziraphale looked so bright and thrilled and, well, wonderful. It reminded him of the Principality guarding the eastern gate of Eden, gleaming in the sun, powered by a belief in something greater than himself, even if that belief was far from infallible. He was positively brimming with love and hope, and Crowley was possessed by a guard dog instinct to protect it with his very life.

Crowley's dumbfounded expression must have been visible because Aziraphale quickly remembered himself and gently settled back. The angel cleared his throat and quietly (and, in classic Aziraphale fashion, prissily) braved, "I'm glad you're here."

His heart absolutely would have stopped right then and there. And then Aziraphale would have had to phone the emergency line and he would have had to have been resuscitated and dear Lord, would that have been embarrassing to deal with the fallout of, so he was very, very thankful he was immortal.

The much-panicked demon tried to play it off. "That's awfully forward."

"Oh, let me be sentimental, you old serpent!"

"I never said you couldn't be sentimental, I was just saying you're being direct and that's very off-putting after knowing you for 6,000 years."

"I understand. Shame on me for appreciating that my best friend didn't run off to Alpha Centauri like a complete-"

"I'm your best friend?"

"Obviously!"

"Obviously."

Aziraphale didn't bite back. His face was getting red. He actually looked rather flustered.

With a roll of his eyes, Crowley sighed. "I guess," he relented, "I'm glad I stayed, too. Oh, don't look at me like that."

There had been a moment of processing before Aziraphale's frown gave way to a sheepish grin and Crowley thought he would combust. When the angel loved, he loved, and it radiated off of him with the strength of a thousand suns. He was a walking, talking beam of affection. An average demon could never so much as dream of being met with a scant portion of the warmth Crowley was being met with, but thankfully Crowley was far from an average demon, and he was relishing every second behind a nonplussed (or what he hoped was nonplussed and not giddy with an obvious air of Look at how cool I'm being, I'm being so cool, do you see how cool and completely calm and rational I'm acting) facade. 

Aziraphale's brow furrowed, although his smile remained intact. "Like what?" Crowley had seen Aziraphale attempt to play dumb dozens of times before, and this was not playing dumb; this was an angel who was genuinely very oblivious to just how much of a lovesick fool he was making himself out to be.

"Nothing."

"No, Crowley, I don't understand. Don't look at you like what?"

Slowly, Crowley turned to face Aziraphale fully and contemplated slamming his foot down on the metaphorical gas pedal.

But it was early. And he was beginning to feel the draw of sleep beginning to come back over him. And Hell's bells, everything about Aziraphale screamed "soft" and he felt dreamy just looking at him.

And maybe, just maybe, a wily part of him wanted Aziraphale to piece the puzzle together for himself. He had waited 6,000 years for the angel to so much as admit they were friends and besides, with himself in Hell's bad books, there wasn't much left to do except wait and see what came with every passing day. 

"Forget it," grunted Crowley without contempt, and he unceremoniously let his head fall on Aziraphale's shoulder despite the alarm bells going off in the back of his mind. The angel didn't tense. He simply tutted.

"Oh, you're impossible." Endearment dripped from the words like honey.

"Ssshh."

"And a hypocrite! If you're going to behave like that, then you can let me up."

Crowley grunted once again, already slipping away in a haze of uncharacteristic peace. He had unintentionally leaned further into Aziraphale and made no effort to fix himself.

"Crowley," Aziraphale hissed. 

He wasn't dignified with a response. When he shifted to gaze down at Crowley, the demon had gone completely still against his side.

"Oh, good Lord."

Aziraphale knew well and good that pushing Crowley off and keeping him peacefully asleep was a rather simple feat. He was, at best, a heavy sleeper; Aziraphale could have shoved him off onto the floor and unless he really wanted to get back at the angel for such a heinous transgression, Crowley would possibly mumble some discontent yet overall remain out. Besides, he looked the most tranquil Aziraphale had ever seen him, and disrupting the domesticity of the moment felt wrong.

Instead, he sighed and by force of habit, thanked the Almighty for an excuse to keep the shop closed for the day.

As he sat there and basked in the strange aura of love radiating throughout the bookshop, he quietly hoped for a similar excuse tomorrow.

[aestheticinteriorsanddecor]

Touch Control Table Lamp

Illuminate your space with the Aomeya Touch Control Table Lamp, featuring a sleek design and white fabric shade that complements any decor. This 3-way dimmable bedside lamp offers customizable lighting levels, making it perfect for your bedroom or living room. Enjoy the convenience of touch control for effortless adjustments and create the ideal ambiance for any occasion. Stylish and functional, it’s an elegant addition to any nightstand or side table.