#and davey wanting to kiss him about it

[we-are-inevitable]

am i in the frame from your point of view? // javid

"Katherine Pulitzer."

"David Jacobs," Katherine says, not even looking up from the Essential Journalism textbook she's currently hunched over. She looks like hell, her red curls all over the place, chunky-framed glasses perched on the tip of her nose, and she's wearing an old navy-colored hoodie that reads Trinity School on the front. Dead week has claimed another life, or something. David thinks she could use a break.

Which is why the next words that come out of his mouth, just three seconds after he very abruptly sat in front of her at her table in the library, are: "Remember how I told you I was swearing off men?"

This catches Katherine's attention, clearly, because she looks up at him, her blue ink pen falling limp to the table. "Oh, David, no. Who is it?"

"Look," He starts, defensive. He takes a breath as he pushes his own glasses up, absentmindedly dusting stray cat hair off his own plain black hoodie. "It's not my fault. I say I'm swearing off men, and suddenly my dream guy walks into my life. I'm dying."

"Who is it?" Katherine asks, shifting in her seat; she brings one knee to her chest and tucks the other foot underneath, folding herself like a pretzel in the uncomfortable wooden chairs of the library. "Do I know him? Do you know him? Or is it another barista?"

David rolls his eyes. "He's not a barista, I don't think," He says, then glances away for a fraction of a second; when he looks back, she already has a knowing look on her face. "And yeah. You know him."

Katherine raises a brow expectantly. "Who is it?"

And David regrets starting this conversation now, a little bit, because he doesn't want to admit it. He wanted to string her along a little. Wanted to tease it out, but she's looking at him like she'll strangle him at any moment if he doesn't tell her, and David knows his sister well enough to know that she only dates girls capable of violence. Katherine fits the bill.

Which is why, when he starts speaking again, he braces for impact before she can try anything. "You can't expect me not to fall in love with your hot friends, okay? It wasn't—"

"Oh my God!" She yells, a little too loud for the library's second floor. "You little slut! You like Jack?!"

"It's a pipe dream," He says immediately, throwing his hands out to his sides dramatically. "He's— okay, he's cute, alright? I can't help it!"

Katherine is grinning wildly at him now, textbook forgotten as she raps her hands against the wooden table. "You like Jack! I knew it! I knew you would like Jack!"

"Oh, please, no you did not," David says with a scoff.

"Uh, yes I did," She says, shooting him a look. "He's, like, exactly your type, Dee."

"I don't have a type."

"He's a goofy beefcake with brown eyes and muscles and curls, and he makes you laugh, and he listened to you talk about your mom's dog, and—"

And to her credit, she keeps listing off things, and to David's chagrin, she's not wrong.

When Katherine mentioned a party at her apartment, David was all for it. Despite his typical "I don't like people" front, David did enjoy the company of the six friends he could tolerate- Katherine, Charlie, Racer, Albert, Spot, and Sarah. Well, five friends, technically, since he's known Sarah since she was thirteen minutes old and he was, well, zero minutes old. Still. Six people.

And then Katherine said there would be a seventh.

A guy named Jack.

The lore there, she explained, is that all of them knew each other from community theater back in the day. Jack, Kath, Charlie, Race, Al and Spot- they've always ran in the same circles- outside of school, at least. Apparently, Kath's dad wasn't too happy that he was shelling out thousands of dollars for private school and she decided to make friends elsewhere, but there was really nothing he could do. Sarah was added to the group when she and Kath started dating in freshman year of college, and David was added not too long after that, but until now, Jack has just been... a story. A story about this funny guy with a megawatt smile and a heart of gold, who packed up and went to college in Santa Fe for college. He's been in town a few times since then, apparently, but David had never met the guy until Katherine's birthday party last weekend.

And he can't stop thinking about him.

Literally. David isn't an artist by any means, but thinking about this Jack Kelly guy- this 5'9 guy with with rich brown skin and bright eyes, with the laugh of a lion and a smile that made David want to throw up- has made David want to etch his "I go hiking in the mountains and bathe in the rivers" body in stone and write a symphony just to capture the sound of his voice singing Happy Birthday purposely off-key. It's maddening, and—

"Hellooo? Earth to David?"

David blinks, then groans and takes his glasses off, haphazardly dropping them in a clatter onto the wooden table as he rubs his eyes with the heels of his palm. "I'm fucked, Kath."

She cackles, loudly, like David's misery is the funniest shit she's ever seen. "Oh, you poor thing. Didn't he follow you on Instagram at the party?"

David responds with another guttural groan.

He can practically feels Katherine roll her eyes. "Okay, dumbass. Text him."

"He's your ex," David says, like this is a crucial detail, like she should hate the fact that David is into him on the basis of we used to date and it's fucked up that you're telling me how much you like my ex, like Katherine and Jack weren't lounging on top of each other all weekend, like they don't FaceTime every other day, like they're not as close as can be. "And he's in fucking New Mexico. I'm not getting attached."

"He's coming back next month, y'know," Katherine points out. She picks her pen back up, twirling it between her pointer and middle finger. "He's graduating a semester early. Next weekend, actually, and then he's moving back."

David finally removes his hands from his face. "You're shitting me."

"I'm not! I swear it." Katherine picks up her phone, and David watches as she swipes through her text messages before sliding the phone across the table. "See? He's moving back on the twenty-third. He's surprising Medda for Christmas."

"Oh, fuck," David frowns. "That's cute. He needs to stop being cute."

"He's moving in with Charlie, so, I mean," She shrugs, "you'll be seeing him a lot soon."

"You're making this worse."

"He has a job lined up already. School counselor for one of the middle schools."

"He likes kids?"

"Loves 'em."

"Fuck me," David sighs, rubbing his forehead as he slides the phone back to Katherine. "So, you're saying I have two weeks to get over him?"

"No, David," Katherine says, deadly serious despite the smirk on her face, "I'm saying you have two weeks until your future husband is permanently in your vicinity."

"He doesn't like me like that," David says, crossing his arms. "You're being a bad friend. You're completely feeding my delusions."

Katherine purses her lips and grabs her phone again, silent. David gulps as he leans forward, trying to watch her screen through her glasses; he can tell she's scrolling through her photos, but after a few moments, she stops. When she slides the phone back, David sees an image on the screen.

An image of a video from her birthday. Paused with David and Jack on screen. David's eyes are wide, and his mouth is open and his lips are quirked, and his eyebrows are raised and his hands are splayed in front of him, and he's obviously mid-sentence about something important (or not important; he doesn't remember much after his fourth drink, but remembers talking about Pokémon and Sabrina Carpenter and the fall of the Catholic church, so the possibilities are truly endless).

Despite the animated, ugly, passionate look on David's face, though, what draws his attention is Jack.

Jack, sitting sideways on the couch with his elbow on the back and his cheek resting against his palm. Jack, his other arm draped, barely holding his bottle of beer. Jack, his gaze soft, staring at David like he's completely enraptured in whatever the fuck he's saying.

David takes in a deep breath, slides the phone back to Katherine, and says, "I want him."

She just grins and responds, "You got two weeks, tiger. This is so happening."

[endless-ineffabilities]

my man of the year

Ewan Mitchell x girlfriend!reader

a/n: just a little something for the Ewan girlies, because in this GQ party, we are all fam 💙

main masterlist

You attend the GQ Men of the Year 2024 party with your boyfriend.

You watch in admiration as Davey makes the final tweaks to Ewan's outfit for the event—a suit tailored to perfection, its velvet material snug against his lean form. A classic piece, but sporting some eccentricities that have become essential in the Mitchell-Sutton style partnership.

The velvet suit, not in the usual black or blue, also has a textured high notch and lapels, making him look like some kind of an 80s-flick vampire.

Your gaze sweeps from his polished shoes up to his face, finding that he's watching you in the reflection as he stands in front of the mirror.

He tries turning around to see you better, causing Davey's hand to fall from his shoulder as he was pinning something in place. "Ewan, mate. Save the ogling for later, yeah? Let me finish this first."

Ewan sighs dramatically, like a kid who's been asked to stand in the corner. "Okay."

You giggle softly, shaking your head at the scene. "Ewan, listen to Davey now."

You share a look with Davey, knowing smiles on your lips. Ewan, am I right?

"I just want to look at my girlfriend," Ewan complains.

"Look at me?" you question. "Look at you, handsome! You're my man of the year, every damn year."

"C'mere, babe."

"Ewan, don't move until Davey—."

"I won't move. But come here and give me a kiss."

"Fine." You get up from your comfortable position on the seat. Might as well oblige your boyfriend, the GQ honouree. Just the thought of it makes you so giddy with pride.

Rising onto your tiptoes, you rest your chin gently on his shoulder, batting your eyelashes as he leans his head against yours.

"There's my girl," he purrs, wrapping his free arm around your waist and Davey works on the sleeve on the other.

Then he kisses you, mindful to stay perfectly still. Only his lips move, pillowy as they caress yours. You would have to reapply your lipstick after this.

When he cheekily snakes his tongue out, you pull back, giving him an incredulous shake of your head. "Stand down, handsome."

"Oh, don't worry about me, sweetheart," Davey reassures you. "Maybe we should let Ewan have his way. Poor guy looks like he's about to explode."

You all share a laugh.

A minute later, he's all ready. Davey snaps photos of him alone, then shifts to capture the two of you together. He even manages a few that feel like classic prom poses, with Ewan's arms around you from behind.

The rest of the night is a blur of lights and glamour, and the warmth of Ewan's hand on your back quells your nerves as you step onto the red carpet.

The cameras are everywhere, a sea of flashes and shouting for you to, look here, look here!

Ewan keeps you close the entire time, steering you through it all. You can feel that he's anxious too but he's a steady presence by your side. He used to need a crutch like cigarettes or gum to deal with the chaos of such public events, but when you're with him, the noise is silenced.

It's just you and him against the world.

When his arm tightens around you, you jokingly remark, "Didn't peg you for the clingy type, babe."

He glances down, a mischievous sparkle in his eyes. "Just making sure you don't run off with some other dashing celebrity."

An idea pops up in your head. He makes it all too easy. You let out a shaky gasp, "Wait, is that Pedro Pascal over there?"

"Where?" he asks sharply, distracted.

"By the big GQ sign. Don't make it obvious, though!" you whisper, as if you're entirely serious.

He squints, scanning the sea of people coming through the red carpet, until he realizes… there's no Pedro. Not yet, at least.

He turns to you with a playful glare, his mouth twitching with the hint of a smile. "You think you're funny, don't you, baby?"

You give your best wide-eyed, innocent look. "Who, me?"

"You're asking for it," he whispers close to your ear so the cameras don't catch it.

You only laugh as he pulls you closer, giving your waist another possessive squeeze.

"And what exactly are you gonna do about it?" you ask.

"Guess you'll have to find out after we're done here."

When he kisses you, you both know that the resulting pictures are going to flood the gossip sites, fan pages, and everything in between as soon as the next day. But neither of you care.

He makes sure that there's no mistaking who he came with that night.

And you would never tire of showing everyone just who your boyfriend is. You could scream it from the rooftops.

He doesn't need GQ to tell him he's one of the honourees of the year.

All he needs is you by his side to feel like he's truly won.

[brainrotcharacters]

Must be wild being an elder wolf of the Shaw pack and watching David grow up.

You live a life at the front of the pack when you're moving as a group. To set the pace. And your instincts tell you Gabe Shaw is on the back end of that line, monitoring everyone. Gabe is reliable, and familiar, and you're positive the mating bond between him and one of the females will click soon.

It does. David is born. Perhaps even born to succeed Gabe. Gabe doesn't mind. The pack knows David is his new priority now. You all don't mind. Gabe starts calling him Davey.

Davey is barely as tall as Gabe's knee when they're both in human form. His chubby face is frowning and serious when Gabe is being alpha. He watches Gabe as closely as he could; his young attention span, plus the other toddlers Asher and Milo, distract him often. It frustrates little Davey.

As soon as the meeting is done, Gabe sweeps up his son in one hand and nuzzles his fat cheeks. David protests, but you see him giggling. Gabe messes around with Asher's dad, and if you look close enough, Asher is also poking David until he's pissed enough to bolt into a run and chase Asher down. They crash into little Milo in a yelping pile of puppies. Their dads egg them on. The pack is full of idiots.

David's mother dies of illness.

As pack elders, Gabe confides in you of his grief behind closed doors. The pack meetings continue. Gabriel Shaw keeps things intact, because of course he does. David's human form seems to get taller everyday, his wolf form larger. He is encouraged to find his mate. He himself pulls away from Asher and the others. Asher forces himself to smile, "Give him time. He knows where to find us." Asher could be a wise pack elder someday, you realize.

Gabe dies.

You've never seen David more furious than when he glared at cars. Otherwise, he stares at nothing. Only one other wolf showed such trauma so young. You still lead the line when the pack moves from place to place, but it's David Shaw at the back of the line now. Was Gabe so darkened before he met his mate? You struggle to remember.

David's grief becomes grumpiness. Asher is his second in command, and his mediator to the rest of the world. The pack is more successful than it had ever been before. You know David's parents would be proud.

One day, David introduces a human. Angel.

And you've known David his entire life. He refused to invest in any relationship with a fellow wolf, or an empowered, for a list of reasons. As pack elder, you're more lenient in his choices to fix up the paperwork that would register Angel as an informed unempowered. David knows you'd give Angel the benefit of the doubt.

Outside of official pack business, Angel doesn't care about their reaction when they want to kiss David. When they want to hug David, human form or otherwise, they do it ferociously. Genuinely. You watch David smile at Angel, and you blink. David's mother smiled at Gabe just like that.

Oh. Oh.

Angel visits the pack another time and they're covered in David's scent. The pack knows Angel is David's priority now. None of you mind it.

The one time a crime punishable by death had happened, Angel had dealt the killing blow. The criminal put David at risk. No one stopped Angel that day. You asked David to relay that you're proud of them.

Angel visits the pack another time with a ring around their finger. David is laughing again. He's messing around with Asher, Milo, Darlin, and their respective mates. They guide the pups how to walk in either wolf form or human form, and when you blink, you see David's parents teaching him when he was a child.

And you wonder if Gabe and David's mother really left you. They're right there, in the love and the mating bond between David and Angel. And things are okay.

[poedays]

Angel: Since we're in a relationship now, your clothes are my clothes too. Don't ask me why I have your shirt on, this is our shirt.

David: Fine, but when I come strutting in with your fuzzy socks I don't want to hear shit.

—- —- —-

Welcome to some of my Angel and Davey Headcanons! ❤️

- Whenever the two go to the beach David has to sit Angel still for like five minutes and put on their sunscreen. Angel takes David’s right hand (he’s a lefty) and plays with it while David uses the other to apply sunscreen.

- > Sometimes the two draw different doodles on each other with zinc and the lack of tan stays for a little while after.

- >> Angel would always get David to draw Angel wings on their shoulder blades. Claiming that they weren’t themselves if they weren’t his angel.

- >>> As a wedding surprise Angel got their wings tattooed on their back.

- Angel cuts David’s hair because he refuses to get it cut. ‘Nobody does it right and it always costs too much’

- > Asher asked if Angel could cut his hair, and they said yes on the condition that Asher would pay them.

- David used to wear an old shirt to bed and when Angel moved in they started wearing it, leaving David shirtless.

- David 100% carried Angel bridal style down the aisle after they got married.

- > Babe threw Asher over their shoulder (I cannot think about Angel and David without thinking of Babe and Asher, apologies).

- Angel has, and will again, cover David’s face in deep red lipstick kiss marks. (David looks good with red lipstick on his lips too).

- Angel likes to hold David’s hand all the time, and if the two are walking then they are swaying their joint hands back and forth dramatically.

- Angel calls David ‘baby girl’ sometimes to fuck with him. Sometimes it catches him off guard, but most of the time it earns them an eye roll and a smile.

- > David is so in love with Angels stupid antics.

[samsxowboyhat]

Redacted headcannons BUT some of them are actually cannon

After Vincent got turned and William was positive he wouldn’t go on a bloodlust spree he would sometimes go out and forget he was rich

Asher was one of those overly excited tall scrawny kids who would get colorful bands on his braces

Aaron and Elliot would play as duo characters for every video game that allowed the player to select characters

Gavin would know how to do things but wouldn’t know how he knew how to do them

Laskos powers sometimes happen as a reflex like his fight or flight instinctively turns into float the second he feels his body falling or if he’s on high places(you wouldn’t catch this man on any roller coaster)

Sam has an old outdated picture of him and his grandmother that’s in black and white

All earth elementals are naturally strong, Water elementals are naturally smart, Fire elementals are naturally determined, and Air elementals are naturally focused

Milo and Sam’s family bloodline has/had problems with addiction so they never associate with alcohol or smoking with the fear that they could get addicted

Quinn used to “joke” with Darlin when they were still together by grabbing them and pretending to turn them when they weren’t paying attention and to this day they wonder if he was serious about biting them

Asher was one of those kids who would listen to old metal songs over and over(AND OVER) again until he learned the lyrics

Sam does own a cowboy hat and the Shaw pack(main 8) has made “save a horse, ride a cowboy” jokes(Sam doesn’t know wtf they’re talking about)

Darlin would lie to Gabe and David’s mom about their parents letting them stay over because they wouldn’t wanna go home

Lasko wears sweaters WITH EVERYTHING

Gavin got his music taste from FL when they first started meeting up claiming that he wanted to get closer to them rather than having sex with them

Darlin and Sam were cautious when they had their first time always asking each other if they were okay before, between, and afterwards

David’s contact name in the pack phones is “Davey” but they’ll never admit that to his face(he currently knows that Asher and Angel have it as theirs)

Gavin has nipple piercings and a tongue piercing(he has tried to convince Lasko to get one)

Darlin has a slight degrading kink that you could NEVER get them to admit(Sam found that out when they once started crying and he thought he hurt them and was flabbergasted when they told him to do it again)

ALL of Asher’s shoes are dirty except for his dress shoes and Milo gets so pissed when he wears nice sneakers and creases them or gets them dirty

Angel and Baabe both like kpop specifically Ateez and seventeen

Sam has a house in the woods and prefers a working house over a cute one(he has a porch swing)

Sam doesn’t like talking about his family but could go hours talking about his grandma

David hates the nickname “Dave”(don’t ask me why I just feel like he does)

Darlin once thought they hurt sams feelings and disappeared for days until they came back with a gift for him and waited until he saw it before talking to him(they’re terrible at apologizing and refused to tell Sam where they went while they were gone)

Porter always kisses Treasure's knuckles

FL has once broken a comb in caelums hair(but was so confused when they were able to move their hands through his hair)

The younger Shaw pack had a clubhouse in the woods in an abandoned cabin that Gabe helped David clean up

TS TOOK ME ALMOST 3 HOURS I QUIT(I’m lying:3 GM AND GN It’s currently 4:36 IN THE MORNING)

[aimedis]

david as a dad headcanons (+angel) !!

david and angel have twins (older twin is a girl and younger twin is a boy) and a daughter five years apart

Dad David who, right when he found out they were having a boy, knew he wanted to name him Gabriel (he can't bring himself to call him Gabe most days, but the girls and other pack kids will)

Dad David who bawled like a baby when each of his kids were born

Parents Angel and David who are the best at responsive parenting. They have not and will not ever yell at their children especially not for something as minuscule as dropping a cup

Parent Angel who has to be the disciplinary parent because David literally can’t sometimes. Uses the "they're just kids" excuse all the time (the kids know this and use it get out of trouble when Angel isn't around)

Dad David who has a huge fear of being too harsh for his kids and making them feel unloved or afraid of him

Also Dad David who calls his kids 'angel dust' and 'baby wolf' on the regular

Dad David ‘workaholic’ Shaw taking a whole week off of work because his eldest had separation anxiety from starting school

Parents Angel and David who vowed to never let their kids hear or see them fight (they see the disagreements and banter but never the ones that get a little more hostile)

Dad David who never made any of his kids feel pressure to be the next Alpha after him (it ends up being his youngest daughter)

Dad David who wakes up at the ass crack of dawn to pack each kid's lunch box to be perfect every single day (with the cutely shaped vegetables and fruits and animal picks)

Dad David who also writes a short personalized note to put in their lunch boxes everyday

Dad David who lets his youngest daughter follow him around all day, even to the bathroom (secretly dreads the day when she's a teenager and never wants to be around him anymore)

Parent Angel who cries when the girls find their old dance videos and try to recreate it (they butchered the whole choreography but they looked adorable)

Dad David who forces himself to talk more and give his kids the reassurance they need even if he thinks he's saying the wrong thing (Angel is always there to back him up)

Dad David who, when his kids are trying new food, holds his hand out for them to spit out what they don't like

Dad David who cries when he helps his kids shift for the first time

Dad David who holds his kids the entire time they're sick no matter what Angel says

Dad David who takes his kids to visit the grave of his own parents and tells them about how he grew up (laughs through the tears when his eldest daughter tells him not to die)

Parent Angel who doesn’t let anyone kiss their kids on the mouth or change their diapers/pull-ups

Dad David who has full-blown conversations with the baby babbles

Dad David who sees the slightest injury on one of his kids and goes full doctor mode

Dad David who tells the story of how he proposed to and married his mate to his children over and over

Dad David who watches with the widest smile on face whenever Angel reads to or plays with their kids

Parents Angel and David who call their youngest daughter crybaby

Angel who also calls their youngest 'sushi' because she loves sushi

Dad David who begrudgingly allows the other pack kids to call him Davey when they hear it from Angel (children are surprisingly persistent he finds)

Dad David who has picky kids and has mastered all of their safe foods

Dad David who is the type to stay up all night to finish his kid's art project they left until the last minute

Dad David who will let his kids gnaw on his fingers when they're teething

Dad David who thought he wouldn't be as good of a father as his own was but the second he laid eyes on his firstborn twins he swore he would dry his damn best (best dad david)

Parents Angel and David who go all out for birthday and holiday gifts (gets those kids everything on their wishlists)

Parents Angel and David who still made a point to teach their kids proper gratitude and respect (those kids are genuine angels that choose chaos) ((like someone we know veryyyy well))

Dad David who does the girls' hair in cute styles and is more than happy to oblige when his son shyly asks for pink bows in his hair (will fight anyone who says anything)

Dad David who loves his family more than anything

[sheawritesstuff]

Today is my birthday so,,

Redacted Birthday Headcanons

✩ Sam has never had an actual birthday party and he intends to keep it that way - very few people even know when his birthday is. He prefers spending the day with Darlin and maybe going to dinner with Vincent rather than doing anything big.

✩ Asher has a shirt that literally just says “This Is My Birthday Shirt” that he wears on his birthday every year without fail.

✩ Aaron doesn't like birthday cake so he's gotten a cheesecake every year since he was about 15. Elliott used to make it for him, then he would just buy his own, and now Smartass makes them.

✩ Geordi likes baking and decorating his own cakes so it can be exactly how he wants. Cutie tried to help once, but he got overwhelmed and took over halfway through.

✩ Elliott always cries on his birthday. He doesn't even know why most of the time, it just happens.

✩ Ollie has a movie marathon with his friends to celebrate. They use it as an excuse to eat as much junk food as they want and ruin their sleep schedules - it's been a tradition since college.

✩ David has a small gathering with Asher, Milo, and all of their mates. Angel tries to make it a surprise party, but they always end up spilling the details. Davey pretends to be surprised anyway, just to appease them.

✩ Marie insists on making Milo's favorite dinner and sends him home with enough leftovers to last the rest of the week. He acts annoyed but really appreciates how much she does for him.

✩ Damien would rather treat his birthday like every other day of the year, but the D.A.M.N. crew always gets together to do something for him. Huxley lets him backseat plan to take away some of the stress of the whole ordeal.

✩ Huxley's moms send his presents a week early then video call him on the actual day to make sure he got it and to watch him open them. They also sing to him over the phone.

✩ Even though his coalescence day is technically his birthday, Gavin picked a different day to celebrate based on which zodiac birth chart he likes the most.

✩ Anton tries really hard to call My Love on his birthday. But if he can't, he holds the little plant and just hopes they can feel that he's thinking about them.

✩ Marcus spends his birthday flirting with AI bots on sketchy websites. The more viruses he gets the better.

✩ Lasko usually just buys his own birthday presents because gifts from his family were never just gifts, they were an expectation that something would be given in return. He's still learning to accept gifts without feeling guilty.

✩ Guy tries convincing Honey to give him birthday spanks every year. Sometimes he gets what he asks for, sometimes he settles for birthday kisses.

[aziraphales-library]

Hi team! I was wondering if you might have some recommendations for Aziraphale-centric fics? Not really looking for whump, or fics where his feelings for Crowley are his sole focus (though I'd still enjoy it if were a significant part of the story), but moreso fics that look at Aziraphale holistically. First fic that comes to mind as an example is "Angel-Centered Therapy Through A Multicultural Lens: An Integrative Approach" by Nnm. Thanks!

Hello! Here are some Aziraphale-centric fics for you...

Could you breathe with me? by Euny_Sloane (T)

Aziraphale goes to counseling/therapy with an unnamed therapist and spends some time exploring his feelings related to love, loss, and family. Note that this is an imagined counseling session, and so may bring up uncomfortable feelings, regardless of how many tags I place, especially if you have the unfortunately common experience of feeling unloved by your family, or unworthy of love. Nothing graphic happens except a reference to Pompeii, though.

In a Perfect World, I would Hold your Hand and Kiss your Cheek by boredom (T)

A chance encounter with a young man leads Aziraphale on the path of healing and discovery. Maybe now he can finally admit to what he wants, without guilt and without fear. Maybe now he and Crowley can finally move forward, together.

Human Labels, and Angelic Discovery by Hemlock_Holmes (G)

Aziraphale discovers autism, and goes on a one-angel mission to learn everything he can about it. This is a purely self-indulgent fic about discovering yourself after many years, because I am so tired of reading books (not fanfic!) where the word autism is skirted around and treated like taboo, even when everyone knows that's what the author means. Just say it people! Also because nothing gives me greater joy than watching Aziraphale stim.

something wretched about this by IvyOnTheHolodeck (T)

You might wonder why Aziraphale can't seem to enjoy his retirement in peace. You could ascribe his distress to the series of terrifying thoughts that haunt his days, or the only book he wishes he'd never read, or even the wound that still hurts after six thousand years. Really, though, you should blame the fact he's never learned to talk about his feelings.

The Other Arrangement: or, How the Angel Got so Hungry by burnttongueontea (T)

‘It’s just… funny. Don’t you think it would be funny, if it turned out we’d had it the wrong way round all these years? If I ate all the time, and you hardly ever?’ Crowley discovers that Aziraphale has been strictly and obsessively limiting his food intake for millennia, due to fear of punishment from Heaven if he gets caught eating too regularly. The angel’s confident facade comes apart at the seams after they move to the South Downs, as he struggles to cope with new-found freedom while still keeping his past a secret. With the future of their relationship soon hanging in the balance, Crowley must find a way to convince Aziraphale that he is a safe pair of hands to collapse into – and that they can rebuild things from the ground up.

My Favorite Ghost by cassieoh_draws, DiminishingReturns (T)

Decades after the world didn’t end, Heaven and Hell got their war — and nearly destroyed everything in the process. When Aziraphale finally manages to reacquire a corporation and return to Earth, he discovers he was gone longer than he thought and the planet has become unrecognizable. As he searches for Crowley and tries to figure out how he fits in a world that Heaven, Hell, and God have all wiped their hands of, nature works around him to reclaim the bones of an old civilization as the scraps of humanity build a new one. A lush and optimistic post-apocalypse story, told from the POV of an immortal who can't let go of the past.

And the one you mentioned...

Angel-Centered Therapy Through A Multicultural Lens: An Integrative Approach by Nnm (G)

“I’d love to meet with you,” Davey said, apologetically, when he had been called up by a fellow looking to initiate therapy, “but I’m all booked up for months.” “Are you sure?” The fellow said, through a poor connection that crackled. Davey had been sure. And yet. Right there in his calendar was a blank spot, just a few days away, which he had somehow completely overlooked before. “How about that…I’ve got Wednesday at eleven, if you can make that work.” “What a miracle,” the fellow said, “that would be just the perfect time.”

- Mod D

[chlobliviate]

Wolfstar Microfic - Hogwarts Express

Words: 996

@wolfstarmicrofic

🌙✨🌙✨🌙

It was cowardly of Sirius, really. He could have done this at any point in the last couple of weeks. But then he’d have to manage whatever the fallout would be. This way, Remus had almost three weeks to potentially hate him less before they returned for the second half of their seventh year.

James was ‘spending time with Lily’ which meant groping each other in the prefects' carriage. Peter had been convinced to leave their compartment by Mary. Sirius had promised her a bottle of firewhisky when they returned in January.

Now to the plan itself. Sirius knew deep down that he’d massively overthought this, prepared himself for whatever Remus’ objection might be and prepared himself to be rejected. Still, he had to get it out of his system.

Cowardly, and selfish.

Remus, sleeves rolled up in a way that made Sirius’ pulse race, was reading a book, and it looked like he was almost done with it. Sirius could wait until he was done, but he wasn’t sure how long Mary could distract Pete for, so he decided to just do it.

“I saw you kissing Davey Gudgeon at my birthday party.” He said quietly.

Remus froze, he lifted his eyes from the book to meet Sirius’. “Oh?” He said unsurely. “That was over a month ago.”

Sirius nodded, “I thought maybe you’d tell me— tell us eventually.” He shrugged. “So are you queer then?”

Remus frowned slightly, “Looks like it doesn’t it? Still like girls too, though.”

“Fair enough.”

“Fair enough?” Remus set his book down on the seat next to him, not caring that he’d now lost his place. “That’s it? You waited weeks to ask me about it and your response is ‘Fair enough!’?”

“I— Well, yeah?” Sirius had not prepared for the conversation to go this way. “Are you and Gudgeon…”

“Fuck, no.” Remus sighed. “I don’t date, you know this.”

“Yeah, yeah, big scary werewolf. Whatever.” Sirius rolled his eyes. “He didn’t want to just… hook up?”

“Padfoot.” He looked at Sirius sternly, “Where has this come from? Does it... bother you?”

Sirius thought back to the night of his birthday. It had bothered him, but not for the reason that Remus was implying. The sharp jolt in his chest that he felt as he saw Remus pressed against the wall outside the sixth-year dorm had stuck with him for the rest of the night, and had returned with a vengeance the moment he saw Remus the next morning.

Sirius didn’t know how to respond. “You kissing boys doesn’t bother me.” He started. All hopes of being eloquent were now firmly out of the window. “You kissing boys that aren’t me. That bothers me.”

Remus stared at him. “Oh.” He said quietly. “But you can’t mean— I— What?”

“Can I kiss you Moony?”

Remus blinked a few times then looked at him warily. “Sirius, if this is part of some prank then—”

“It’s not. I would never.” Sirius held his gaze. “I’m asking, uh, seriously.”

“Oh,” Remus said again. “Yeah, alright.”

Sirius got up and held out a hand, pulling Remus to his feet despite the slightly shaky train. He draped an arm over Remus’s shoulder, gently pressing his hand to the back of Remus’ neck. Remus smiled as he wrapped one arm around Sirius’ waist, grasping the front of his T-shirt with the other and pulling him closer.

He wasn’t sure who moved first but their lips met. A few soft brushes, each a little longer than the last. He pulled away, teasing a thumb along Remus’ jaw as he searched for any sign that Remus wasn’t into this. Finding his eyes dark and cheeks flushed, he leaned back in and kissed Remus again, but this was different. Remus pulled him even closer and parted his lips, his tongue met Sirius’ and Sirius knew he was done for.

When they broke apart long enough to have a conversation, albeit with Sirius sitting between Remus’ thighs as he leant back along the seat, Remus asked, “Did you plan this so that if I turned you down, we wouldn’t have to see each other for a few weeks?” Sirius nodded slowly, “You do realise that it’s now going to be a few weeks before we can do that again?”

Sirius looked aghast for a moment before grinning at Remus. “You’re an idiot. I can Apparate now.”

“Oh thank fuck.” Remus kissed his temple just as James and Lily came stumbling back in.

“Finally!” Lily threw her hands into the air, narrowly missing James. “Took you long enough, Remus!”

Sirius looked from Lily to Remus, and then back again. “Took Remus long enough?” He said slowly.

“Lily you ruined my attempt at being cool about this.” He sighed.

“Eh, it wouldn’t have lasted.” She smiled at them as Remus agreed.

Sirius, still baffled, turned to look at Remus. “How long is long enough?”

Lily covered James’ mouth with her hand before he could make the inevitable dick joke.

“Well, a while.” Remus knew Sirius wouldn’t let him get away with being this vague.

“Since fifth year,” Lily said, biting into a chocolate frog.

Remus readied himself for Sirius to tease him, or call him creepy.

But instead, Sirius just stared at him, “How have you not gone completely insane? It’s been five weeks and I really thought I was going to lose my mind at least three times.” Remus was not expecting that.

“That’s the inbreeding.” James cut in, also mid-chocolate-frog, “Not whatever this is.” He gestured to the two of them. “Congrats though.”

“Uh, thanks?” Remus said, before looking back at Sirius. “I’m good at just shoving all my feelings down, I guess.” Lily snorted, “Hey!”

“Remus you were so whiny at one point that I almost cursed you!” She cackled.

“Good to know.” Sirius kissed Remus softly, earning them an ‘Aww’ from James and a surprised yelp from a very confused Pete as he slid open the compartment door.

[free-boundsoul]

Kinda want Davey to get a new jealous audio

But I want some rando flirting with Angel and Davey walks over and pulls them to him, kisses them silly before saying something about having to go or they'll be late before leaving the dude funbling in the dust.

Then he goes into a rant about the nerve of that guy. What was he doing flirting with his mate, his spouse?! Angel clearly has a wedding ring on their finger, any moron could tell they were taken.

And then he gets calmed down by whatever Angel said and gets that pouty, sullen tone. Apologizing for dragging them away so suddenly. His territorial wolf instincts just got the best of him.

And then it turns flirty when Angel admits they liked to see that side of him.

[theredofoctober]

The Sand Violet: A Fallout Dark Fic

Cooper Howard (The Ghoul) x Mute Female Reader fic

Synopisis: The Ghoul known as Cooper Howard kidnaps Reader in an attempt to sell her for medicine. When she escapes and humiliates him he has his revenge.

The Reader insert is female and mute. Other features not described

TW and CW: noncon/rape, violence, death, cannibalism

Words: 6,899

Read after the cut ✂️

It’s quiet in Filly, or as quiet as it gets, the afternoon so hot as to bake the earth dark and to drive its milling residents back indoors.

Store holders draw their shutters down against the sun and crouch, noiseless with exhaustion, over whatever toil pays their way in the world.

Dogs loll snoring in doorways, and bartenders find themselves elbowing old punters aside to serve the new and many stumbling in to wet their mouths and take refuge from the warm.

You and your husband, Gray, idle in one of several junk shops in town, having little else to do until the heatwave dwindles into night.

A thick-shouldered man sits drowsily at the front desk, squinting as you traipse about his wares for your fourth or fifth rotation of the room.

“Clear out if you ain’t tradin’,” he mutters, but as you loiter with stubborn aversion to the sucking heat beyond his doorstep the man does not rise to chase you out.

Gray lays a gentle hand on the crook of your arm.

“Let’s go pretend to be interested in that thing over there,” he murmurs. “Keep the old guy happy.”

Talking Gray’s elbow, you obey, looking at his turned, freckled cheek with a want to kiss it. You’re as in love as two people can be in such times, and though the days are hard and the nights harder still, with Gray they do not feel so.

You sleep rough in sand dunes together, eat canned fruit with one spoon between you over fires you put out before the radroaches come.

Tonight you’ll find a bar and drink with what stray caps you’ve each left in your satchels, and later lie as one until the sun scrapes the night away, still tasting the rum on one another’s breath.

Or so it would have been, had fate not cracked a backhand blow across your hopeful faces.

The junkshop door bangs open against the wall, setting its bells thrashing in an angry fairy chorus. As a mean silhouette moves into the light like an eye gouged from the face of God Gray steps ahead of you by instinct, his right hand grazing the knife at his belt.

“Ah, shit,” says the shopkeeper, half-rising from his seat. “You ain’t allowed in here.”

“Says who?” drawls the stranger, kicking the door shut behind him. “I know you ain’t about to get your ass up and stop me, Davey, else the taste of lead’s startin’ to sound mighty flavoursome to you.”

Davey sits down slowly, his broad face wincing and resigned.

The newcomer is a hairless man in an ancient cowboy hat and a coat whose tatters trail, wisp-like, at the spurs of his boots. His face is like that of a red moon, sunken and cratered, and without a nose to speak of, his skull gleaming with the scars of some ancient burn.

A ghoul.

You know of such creatures, so changed by radiation that some no longer think them men, though they are human, still, for all their deviance from that race.

The stranger’s dark eyes switch the store with a slow calculation, dismissing its contents before turning at last to Gray and to your shielded figure behind him.

“I heard there was two Vaulties in town,” says the Ghoul. “And lucky me: I just happened upon them.”

“We’re not Vault Dwellers,” Gray says, curtly. “Not anymore.”

Six months ago he’d gotten into a fight with another man he’d perceived to have disrespected you, and had been turned out of the Vault on that account. You had followed, seeing no life there without your husband, though you knew little then of what lay beyond.

Quickly you and Gray had learned the way of the wastes, casting much of what softness you’d had aside but that which you held for one another.

Evidently it is not enough, for the Ghoul looks at your husband with a grin full of sly yellow teeth.

“Hell, look at you,” he says. “Those hands of yours are as tender as a new-born’s. Once a Vaultie, always a Vaultie. You ain’t built to step outside those fish tanks you lock yourselves up in.”

The Ghoul turns to peer at you, his eyes narrowed to earthen slits as Gray pushes you further behind him.

“What do you want with us, anyway?” Gray asks. “We’re just minding our business trying to live up here, same as anybody else.”

Sneering, the Ghoul says, “Yeah, well, let’s see how long that lasts. Now who’s this shrinkin' violet you’re trying so damn hard to hide from me?”

He shunts Gray aside with one rude shoulder and stands over you, eyeing you up and down as he might a saloon whore, his hands resting at his belt.

You’re glad of the cotton dress that covers you from throat to boot top, allowing him nothing of the skin that restless stare likely seeks.

“Now, ain’t you pretty,” says the Ghoul. “What’s your name, sugar?”

Trembling with anger, Gray says, “Leave her alone.”

The Ghoul shifts his jaw in an irritable motion.

“I ain’t talkin’ to you, kid. I’m askin’ her.”

“She can’t talk,” says Gray, and you nod at the Ghoul, who tips his hat back from the crenellation of his brow in mock surprise.

“That so?”

With a trembling hand you sign, yes.

“Sorry, sweetie, I don’t speak your language.”

“She’s mute,” says Gray, quietly. “Has been since she was a baby.”

You echo the statement with cradled arms, and the Ghoul’s head tilts aside like a jackal watching a man die at some lofty distance.

“So you’re tellin’ me this beautiful lady right here can’t make no noise?” he asks, slowly. “Well, ain’t that convenient. See, I’m lookin’ to make some easy money, and as it so happens there’s a whole lot of folks chompin’ at the bit to buy a woman of just that description.”

The Ghoul seizes you by the arms with a motion so sudden that you do not protest, only stumble against him, feeling a sash of bullets like some torn out length of spinal cord upon your own.

“You’re comin’ along with me, darlin’,” says the Ghoul. “Hope you don’t mind.”

His breath is hot against your ear, smelling of cigarettes and some strange chemical.

“You’re not taking her anywhere!” snaps Gray, his lean frame tense with fury. “That’s my wife!”

The Ghoul looks sideways at him, his narrow lips upturned.

“Not no more she ain’t.”

Gray pulls his knife from his belt and lunges forwards, halting only at the raised snout of a gun protruding from the Ghoul’s calm grip.

Davey stands up once more, yelling and waving one arm ineffectually.

“Hey now! Hey now!”

Caught up between two men you find yourself oddly collected, as though by desperation fear has made you the sole point of calm.

Perhaps the Ghoul feels the racket of your heart against your bones; it does not matter. You cannot allow Gray to know it beats so, nor to bound, reckless, into a bullet on your behalf

Looking into the jailhouse madness of your husband’s eyes, you sign, I’ll go with him. I’ll get away. I’ll find you. I love you.

Gray flinches, and sheathing his knife, he says hoarsely, “She says she’ll travel with you. Don’t let her get hurt.”

Davey drops to his seat in palpable relief, a single vein writhing like an albino snake along his forehead.

The Ghoul tucks his gun away with a satisfied ease, his other arm still clamping you to him.

“Oh, I won’t let a soul leave a scratch on her,” he says. “’Cause if they did she wouldn’t be worth shit to me.”

He twists you ahead of him, nudging your ankle with the toe of his boot.

“Come on, Violet,” he says, as you attempt to look back at Gray over your shoulder. “We got places to be.”

As he propels you out of the store you hear Davey half-whisper, “What hell were you thinkin' pullin' a knife on him, kid? That’s Cooper Howard, for fuck’s sake.”

The Ghoul pauses abruptly, as though jerking from the dream of some sunken childhood horror.

“Ain’t gone by that name in years,” he says, gruffly. “Don’t you go raisin’ the dead.”

Then he jostles you onwards, and the sound of his spurs and the closing door become the same funeral song.

*

The Ghoul directs you through the town into a quarter of parched woodland, his gun trained lazily at your back. He speaks little, only snapping occasionally at your unrushed pace, which through dull spite you’ve no interest to change.

The shock of your abduction morphs into a watchful cunning in which you await your moment to revolt, your silence lending greatly to the effect of submission.

Still, you are not trusted to fall behind or even aside of your ruthless captor. The Ghoul has likely walked a hundred cringing hostages to their demise at organ shops or dens of ill repute, and from those journeys knows what tricks he might expect from even so pliant a charge.

In time you’re driven on into desert terrain that goes on unbroken for miles, the afternoon heat crushing strength and moisture from you like the blood of some small animal mercy-killed beneath a stone.

That land, as you have glimpsed before, is wrought of death and casual evil.

You see one man dragging another on a leash, the latter’s knees worn through to the bone from crawling so long in the wastes.

You see ferals beheaded and lashed to sun-bleached fences, only letters marked by stones in the earth denoting what, in life, they’d been.

You see a pack of dogs eating a woman’s entrails in the remains of an old shack, one of which raises its head to watch you pass with one viscous eye like the orb of some addled sorceress.

The Ghoul observes all with the same grim cynicism, smirking occasionally, as though gleaning something blackly comic from this show of ugliness.

He only stops when the sun collides with the skyline, setting up camp in what remains of an old gas station.

You loiter by an old pump, thinking that to run or to attack the Ghoul outright would not end in your favour.

Rising from his work, The Ghoul says, “Come here, darlin’. Let’s see if you have any weapons on you.”

You shake your head, thinking of the knife in your boot and the others in your satchel as the last thread by which you might escape.

Please, you sign. I need them.

The Ghoul strides across the camp and outstretches a leather clad palm.

“Hand ‘em over or I’ll pat you down and take ‘em myself. You’ll be waitin’ for the chance to gut me in my sleep. I ain’t takin' no chances with you, sweetie. “

When you hold back he snatches a handful of your dress and begins a rough search of your body, feeling you all over from breasts to groin with a scowl on his wizened lips.

It’s only when he raises your skirt to retrieve the bowie knife from the back of your boot that something of ordinary male desire crosses his face, his stare crawling the smooth plane of your calf.

He does not touch it, though from the stillness of his observation you perceive that he would like to.

“Gimme that satchel,” says the Ghoul, gruffly. “Let’s see what you got in there.”

He rifles through tinned food and RadAway until he finds the three blades sewn into the lining of your bag.

“That’s one hell of an artillery, Violet. You know how to use all this?”

You nod shortly.

“Well, at least that’s somethin’,” says the Ghoul, and he dumps the open bag into the earth. “Pays to know how to survive in this place.”

Producing a length of rope from somewhere under his coat he takes hold of your wrists and binds them, ignoring your mouthed words of dismay.

“I’ve seen you eyein' that desert,” he says, “tryin’ to figure out if you can slip past me. You might not talk, but your face sure does a lot of yappin’ for you.”

Satisfied with the knot, The Ghoul sits on an upturned barrel and hefts a flask of water to his mouth. Your cracked tongue pushes forth in hopeless want of moisture, watching beads of it run in a careless spill upon his chin.

Catching your eye, the Ghoul says, “Want somethin', Vaultie?”

With knotted hands you gesture to the flask. Sneering, the Ghoul takes another noisy mouthful of water and pours the rest onto a grimy rag with which he wipes his face, a waste of precious contraband.

You turn away, refusing him your despair.

“Here, sweetie,” says The Ghoul, gesturing the sopping fabric. “You want water? Come get what’s left of this.”

Still you do not look at him, attempting not to think of the liquid falling drop by silver drop upon the sand.

The Ghoul scoffs.

“Think you’re too good for it, huh? Well, you ain’t gettin’ anythin’ else all night. Maybe not tomorrow, neither. So come on, Violet. Drink while you can.”

He tugs the rope cuffing your wrists until you’re forced to your knees and holds the cloth to your lips, allowing the water to drip between them. Thirst awakened, you snatch a corner of the scrap in your teeth and suck the fabric dry, aware of the Ghoul’s eyes upon you.

“Now ain’t that a pretty sight,” he says. “Just for that I’ll give you a little more.”

He takes the flask from your own bag and again soaks the filthy cloth. This time you rip it from his hand and squeeze its contents down your throat with knotted hands as though pulping some browned fruit.

“You got spirit, Vaultie,” says the Ghoul, drying his hands on his coat. “I can see you ain’t gonna be easy to tame. But I’ve had dogs before. You ain’t no different.”

Snatching the cloth back, he shoves you into the dirt with a boot squared to your chest.

“See, I told that husband of yours I wouldn’t let you get hurt, but that don’t stop me teachin’ you a lesson, sweetheart. Just as long as I don’t leave a mark on you your value won’t shift a dime.”

You lie on your side, breathless and hateful, watching through half-open eyes as the Ghoul slouches nearby to settle in for the night.

“Get some shut-eye, Violet,” he says. “We got another day or so of walkin' ahead of us.”

You keep sentinel for hours, not trusting his appearance of sleep. Once, when you inch away from the Ghoul across camp, the rope at your wrists is tugged smartly taut as he reels you in across the sand.

“Stay close,” he says, opening one eye to squint at you through the dark. “I ain’t riskin’ somethin’ eatin’ you out here. What the fuck would I sell then?”

*

You awake to the Ghoul’s hand on your shoulder, turning you onto your back as though to identify a cadaver. From the luggage draped on his shoulder you guess he’s keen to leave, compelled by some urgency not yet detailed.

“You hungry?” he asks. “I ain’t openin’ the cans till we need ‘em, but I’ve do have this.”

You glance at the strips of dehydrated meat hung from his bag and shake your head, thinking how easily it might be the flesh of a man, being that the eating of them in the wastes is not uncommon.

“Don’t say I never offered,” says the Ghoul. “I’d wager you’ll be beggin’ for it in a couple of hours.”

As he pulls you to your feet you reach towards him with your wrists, mouthing a plea to be released.

“Now, you know I can’t do that, sunshine,” says the Ghoul, not without humour. “I must have heard that one a hundred times.”

Just one. Please.

The cowboy hums under his breath, thumbing the knot that joins your arms in a display of consideration.

“What do you need a hand for, Violet?”

You shift in discomfort, and to your relief the Ghoul gets the message.

“Alright. You get two minutes to do your business. Then we’re on the road.”

Slipping your dominant hand free of the lasso he turns in the other direction, whistling as you squat in the dirt. You’re coldly surprised that he allows you this dignity.

Once both arms are unified by the rope the Ghoul nudges you before him into the desert again, uncaring of the limp you’ve developed in your fatigue.

On your way you pass a church, repaired after the bomb by some follower of that old religion, or else inherited by the new.

Beyond it lies a boneyard, brittle skeletons set up like headstones across the plane.

There are wandering salesmen naming their wares in croaking shouts as they wheel forth shopping carts before them. There are hardened men and women the Ghoul claims are bandits, firing warning shots before they get close enough to attack.

“They’d eat you up, doll,” he drawls, cleaning off his gun. “Right down to those pretty white bones.”

You cross paths with groups of whores who lift their low-cut dresses and holler at your captor, who tips his hat, but otherwise ignores their attempts to woo him. Families stagger along with children whose faces are like rotting taxidermy, mutated, or else merely warped by whatever horrors they’ve encountered on their endless walk.

At the bottom of a sloping dune you come across the remnants of a massacre, bodies cut down into gelatinous morsels afloat on a lake of blood. When you halt, trembling, at its edges the Ghoul spits at your feet.

“What’s the matter, Vaultie? Don’t you know your Great-Great-Grandpappy and Grandmamma had a hand in making the world the way it is? Your ancestors didn’t give two shits what happened to the rest of us. That blood’s on your hands, darlin’.”

You stare at him without comprehension, thinking how closely his visage resembles the dead.

Suddenly the Ghoul bends over in the throes of a coughing fit, one hand scrabbling in his bag for a vial of liquid he decants into his mouth with a feverish need. He stoops, gasping, for some time, his lashes fluttering helplessly.

As you stare on it occurs to you that you know of this illness, the thing that chars the minds of ghouls away with its dread madness.

It makes Cooper weak, and thus you know what you must watch for in him to slip his hold.

*

That night, camped out beneath a blasted tree, the Ghoul coughs again, a wheeze like that of some punctured machine at work. As he falls sideways, his hands spidering for his pack, you see the precious bottles of elixir skid across the dirt out of his reach.

Starving, half-crazed with tiredness and thirst, you drag yourself up with aid of the tree and approach the Ghoul, watching his face upturn in desolate recognition of what you mean to do.

First you snatch the bags from him, finding a knife to cut your tethers. You spread your hands, gasping at their stiffness as you roll the joints.

Being untrained in the use of firearms you carry his gun to a patch of scrub and throw it amidst the foliage, far from sight. If he turns feral he will not think of it; if he survives the fit it will at least take him time to recover.

The Ghoul’s eyes prod your back with bleak resentment as you work.

Returning to the fallen man, you point your boot at the three glass bottles left of his supply.

You want them? You sign.

The Ghoul nods; you see that he expects nothing, and that lends you a cruel edge of power.

Taking care to look into his browless gaze you raise one boot and smash the vials beneath it, letting their contents leech away into the sand. Still the Ghoul inches forward in an attempt to lick it from the dirt, forgoing his dignity in the face of survival, as is surely his habit.

You draw back a foot and kick sand into his raddled face, burying the last of his medicine in its spray.

Fuck you, you tell him. You son of a bitch.

Then you turn and begin the long walk back to Filly, and to Gray.

*

You march, bow-legged with muscle cramp and blistered ankles, both day and night, pausing only to take your RadAway or drink from the flasks the Ghoul had filled at a well the day before. The dried meat you devour in segments, knowing that you must make your food stock last, or else starve before you reach civilisation.

You no longer care where the strips came from, or tell yourself that you do not. Guilt will inhibit your survival, and you’ve seen enough of the land to acknowledge that all men here are for themselves.

On the second day of solitary travel you are followed by a grinning stranger attracted to your stumbling vulnerability. He whispers as though to a lost love as he shadows you, licking at his mouth with his cracked tongue, one hand in his pocket, upon his cock or a blade, their end all the same to you.

You have not killed before, but from what you’ve known in your six months beyond the Vault you are sure in your knife hand as you turn on him and slit his throat. It is as though some sun burned doppelganger commits the act, so little do you feel as he stills, gargling, in the earth.

Only later, taking rest in a rundown cabin, do you look at your killing arm and wonder that it has taken you so long in the desert to have spilt your first blood. You are not sorry for the stranger, knowing from his mutterings what he would have done with you beneath him.

Still, you feel yourself altered, knighted by death as its champion.

In the morning the man’s body is gone, dragged away from the road by animals, or else by people so like them that their differences are irrelevant.

You begin to ask passers-by if they have seen your husband, all of which shake their heads, or send you on false leads that weary you to the point of sickness in their length.

There is no doubt that Gray would have followed you here; his overzealous sense of morality would not abide the notion of remaining behind. Yet there seems no trace of him in this thankless land, and through your savage tutelage in its ways you doubt that you will find him.

The miles are eaten by your splitting boots, and yet more come, as though in some sequence from nightmare they will never conclude, only expand into a formless frontier. You’re in such pain from walking that you can think of nothing but its grip upon you, raising one foot after the other only through the terror that in resting you may never rise again.

It’s afternoon when you come upon the old church once more, pale as a dead tooth in the gum of the horizon. You lope towards the double doors and knock, hankering after the cool shade within.

An elderly man answers, peering out at you without expression. There is a gun in his hand, aimed in a discreet fashion at your stomach.

Raising your palms, you mouth, Safe. I need shelter.

The old man lowers his gun without apology.

“I see. Come on in, sister. I’ll see about finding you something to drink.”

You are led through a hall in which rows of dirty wooden pews face the carved figure of a martyr nailed to a cross. His carved eyes seem to dog you as you sit and accept a cup of water as though judging you for the sin of taking a life.

You look back at him, dispassionate, untouched by He you do not worship.

The priest asks, “You’re troubled, sister. What is it you’re looking for out here?”

Taking a notepad and the worn-down stub of a pencil out of your bag you write, I’m looking for my husband. His name is Gray Freeland. He’s tall. Blue eyes. Freckles. He’s from a Vault. You’d know him.

The old man reads slowly, following the text with his finger.

“Well,” he says. “I haven’t seen many living folks pass through here in a long time. Mostly I keep my doors locked, since the only people I do see are man eaters. Wildmen.

“Just the other day I chased a few of them off a body they were dragging along, thinking to cut pieces from it whenever they were hungry, I suppose. I brought the poor man into the crypt so as I could give him a decent burial.”

Again you glance at the man on the cross and see that he is weeping. Your own eyes are dry, raw from the sand winds, a travelling cynic’s.

Take me to see the body, you write, and the old priest leads you down a narrow stairway like the coil of a shell into a cool basement of stone.

On a slab there lies a corpse, the ribs opened out and plucked clean of organs, the face half devoured, marks left on the skull from scraping teeth.

The other eye, the sloping cheekbone. These, intact, you know.

“You recognise this man?” asks the old man. “Is he your husband?”

You don’t answer, just look at the body as you did the massacre, stunned beyond grief by the cruelty of the wastes.

In the notebook you write, I want a funeral for him. A burial.

“You weren’t parted from your husband by the hand of God alone,” says the priest. “Someone came between you two.”

Yes, you say. The Ghoul. Cooper Howard. He wanted to sell me for caps, or medicine, I think. I ran away.

A twitch tugs the old man’s eye like a fishing line.

You write, you know this Ghoul.

“Yes. Everyone around these parts has heard of him. He’s a brutal man. He’s killed women, children, anyone to get what he wants. If he has any sort of code at all then it’s not one I know of.”

You stare into the eye of your dead lover and inherit from it his resolve to go on.

I should leave. If the Ghoul survived, then he may come here.

Placing a veined hand on yours, the priest asks, “What did you do to him, sister?”

Not enough.

*

You stay at the church overnight, given a meal of salted meat and hard bread, and a bath in a vast tin tub. You sleep on a palette bed in a back room with clean sheets, and drink cool water that tastes only of minerals, and not the filth of the wastes.

Yours is a slumber like that of the sick, or the long dead.

Then at first daylight you’re back on the road again, forced to leave your husband’s body to rot in its chill crypt.

With no purpose but to live you trundle forth past the grotesque landmarks that distinguish each stretch of earth from the other, walk until your boots are blood soaked and your hips ache like a crone’s.

Only when your knees give out do you resign yourself to set up camp by a defunct railroad, warming a tin of soup over a pitiful fire. You think almost of nothing as you drink, beaten flat as an ancient coin by the afternoon sun and the grinding nature of your suffering.

Slumped on an old box, you look at the fire, like some offshoot of your skyward enemy, and yearn for the cool of the Vault.

Footsteps crunch in the sand at your back, and a soft male voice says, “Now there’s my shrinkin' violet. Sittin’ out here all alone.”

Before you can dart away a weight strikes the middle of your back, pitching you into the dirt in a clumsy sideways roll. Winded, you find yourself peering up into the ravaged features of the Ghoul, and think that Death in his ragged coat could not appear so cruel.

“You’re tougher than I gave you credit for, sweetie,” he says, conversationally. “Meaner, too. Where’d that holier than fuckin’ thou Vault attitude go to?”

He must have hidden some vials amidst his clothes, enough to revive him from his lunacy. You had not thought to check his pockets, absorbed as you were in your revenge.

The Ghoul strips you of your weapons, tutting at the banality of routine. Then he looks down at how you’ve fallen, legs apart, your prairie dress gathered up like a tangled net about your knees, and notices the undergarments cupped with sweat to the cut of your cunt.

You see, then, a stain of thought spread through him like a thirst for blood, his eyes as black as the charred stumps of headless ferals you’d seen roped to fencing on the road.

“Well, now,” says the Ghoul. “Least I’ve figured out a way you can pay me back for all them vials you stomped on.”

His voice is low, a purr of heated malice.

With the nose of his gun he lifts your skirts up to your thighs and nudges the barrel against your cunt, Vault regulation underwear done away with in one taunting motion.

“Get up, doll,” says the Ghoul. “I’m gonna do something that dumbfuck husband of yours probably never did and teach you how to ride.”

He sits down on the wooden crate and gestures with his weapon for you to rise.

“Come on, Violet. Get that old dress off and take a seat.”

He pats his thigh, and you shake your head, signing with frantic hands.

No. No. Not this. I’m married.

He doesn’t yet know of your husband’s death, it seems, for when you gesture to your wedding ring the Ghoul’s expression sours.

“I had a wife like you, once,” he says. “Soft skin, and real beautiful, like a movie star. And just like you she screwed me over, so pardon me if I don’t take the sanctity of marriage too seriously no more.”

He moves the gun again, his fingers approaching the trigger.

“Now do what I said. If you make me shoot you I’ll be sure to hit you some place it’ll hurt. You want that, sweetheart?”

You glance over your shoulder at a universe of sand, contemplating how far you’d get before the Ghoul put a bullet in your back. Perhaps he’d let you run a bit for idle fun before he shot you down.

It’s as you’re thinking this that a weight falls about your neck and the Ghoul yanks you to him by a lead of rope, half throttling you in his malice.

“Damn it, Vaultie, you ain’t runnin’ out on your payment,” he says, coolly. “I ought to whip the skin off your hide for what you did.”

You’d be nose to nose with the Ghoul, if he still had one. In his irises you see your own face, still human, so unlike his. The beauty of it has taunted this man like water the many thirsting in the Wasteland, a mirage made real, and now owed to him through your slight upon his person.

It scares you, that bitter lust. He might kill you through the thing he means to do.

Stilled by one gloved fist on the lasso, you daren’t struggle as the Ghoul peels your dress up over your head, blinkering you with the fabric. His free hand trails from your quivering throat to both breasts, taking his time with the exploration.

He wants the glove off; you feel it in the labour with which he draws a path between your thighs, near awed by the delicacy of you against him.

You wrestle the dress off your head and glare with a spiteful terror into his scarred carapace.

“How’d a pure little Vault dweller like you change so fast?” asks The Ghoul, almost in admiration. “The Wasteland ain’t barely started with you yet. Maybe you loved that boy so much it drove you crazy. Used to be songs about that, as I recall. Songs about men like me, too, and what we do when we’re crossed by snakes like yourself.”

You sign you deserved what I did to you with expressions and hard gestures he understands.

“I admit I played with you a little,” says the Ghoul. “’Cause when I see a green, pretty girl like you I want to screw you into the dirt like a smoke. Just about the only way you’ll learn how things really are when you’re in a tough spot in the Wasteland.”

He spits on his gloved fingers and bars them between your folds, watching with his head inclined as you stiffen up in pain and disgust at his entry.

“Well,” he says. “Now I know what I ought to drink when I’m runnin’ low on water.”

You think to strike him, but the lasso is braided across your windpipe merely at the flash of your eye.

“Don’t be stupid now, Violet. I know you’re a smart girl. I’d hate for you to prove me wrong.”

He takes his gloves off with his teeth and spits them in the sand. With one bare palm he touches you all over, the rasp of his strange skin like grit against your own. The other hand struggles with the opening of his pants, starving to have them open.

“What’s the matter?” asks the Ghoul, as you look down at his cock, which is as coarse as the rest of him. “Ain’t nothing to be scared of.”

He tests your opening with two fingers, and you convulse with a silent agony at their insertion, and the betrayal.

“Aw, now come on now, sweetheart. It ain’t that bad. Still, I’d use that mouth of yours instead, only I know you’d bite like a mare.”

His skull-like features press close to yours. He smells of smoke, of sweat, as most men do in the Wasteland.

“Now open those legs of yours and sit,” says the Ghoul, “before I pick some other hole.”

When you merely stare in sickened mutiny he forces you up onto his lap. You cringe as he punctures your cunt with his length, twice that of your husband’s, breaking you upon him like the bones of an enemy.

The Ghoul looks at you from under half lids, his lashes as lush and beautiful as black reeds, a surprising feature amidst such ruin.

“Hurts, don’t it?” he asks. “That’s what you get for crossin’ a fella in these parts.”

He ducks down and licks the sweat off your tits up to your neck, smacking his lips with a pop.

“Salt and tequila. Makes me miss the good old days.”

You grip his tattered coat for stability as he jounces you on his cock, thinking of the sinewy flesh under his collar, wondering if your blunt little white teeth could prise out a vein. Wondering if he still bleeds like a man, or gives but dust.

“Come on, now, little lady,” says the Ghoul. “Why ain’t you puttin' in no work? Get to it.”

He slaps your flank, but you don’t move, in too much pain from walking and the girth of him to do much but wince as in the rhythm of his arms you fall and fall upon it.

“Hope you ain’t tired already,” says the Ghoul. “We’re just warmin’ up.”

You mouth ‘ugly’ into his face, emphasising the syllables.

Your attacker leers.

“That may be, but you’re still wet for me, ain’t you? Maybe you ain’t so opposed to fuckin’ a ghoul as you let on.”

Enraged, you try to spit at him, cannot rally enough moisture to defile the smirking cheek.

“Don’t waste your water, Violet,” says the Ghoul. “I sure won’t be loanin’ you any.”

He turns you on his lap, one arm across your breasts, another at your hip, squeezing the meat there with lusting appreciation. You struggle in his hold, your joints like troughs of magma, and the Ghoul laughs against your neck.

“Still want to fight, huh? Ain’t no skin off my back.”

The Ghoul shoves you forward into the earth, and you roll there together like men. With ease he could overpower you, yet he allows you your digs and attempts to inch out from under him for the sake of some bastard fairness.

His heat, his heaviness upon you incurs a panicked need to buck him from your back. You almost succeed, except the Ghoul yanks you to him through the dirt and stones like a prisoner drawn and quartered.

Then, turning you under him, he casts a palm full of sand into your face, watching you choke and fight to rub the grains from your eyes with a vindicated pleasure.

“You know, Violet,” he says, “I may not speak your signs, but I can read some. There was a deaf fella out in Truth or Consequences I used to have dealings with, and I picked up plenty from him. I know you’ve been cussin’ and cursin’ me since the day we met. Makes it all the better knowing I can fuck you.”

Again he fills you with the rot of his existence, growling as he does so, a gleeful torturer at work. You kick at him with your boot heels as you might some mad horse, but he keeps at you, unrelenting, his grinning teeth like the cracked plains of soil after drought.

The friction of the Ghoul within you, rough skin to the soft, builds a cave there in which pain shambles out as something else.

He groans as he feels that change around him, wetness in a land so absent of it. Not once in this attack had he intended your desire, had expected only your abjection on the pumice of his want. His hands go back to your body then, to your breasts, your outstretched neck, and he touches you as a husband might, as he did his own bride, long ago.

You bury your fingers into the burning sand and pray to what God, if any, rules the wastes. By now you know Him as a man, not the weeping idol of crucifixion but one of greed and brutal caprice.

Climax—yours and the Ghoul’s—ride together like two prey animals grown to hunt in symbiosis, his just ahead of yours. He fucks you with his half-hard cock until you cease motion around him, and still does not pull loose.

The way he looks at you no man ever has, not even the rough ilk of Filly.

The Ghoul’s eyes are hellfire and tenderness; he had loved a woman like you, and hasn’t forgotten who he’d been when he’d done so. But he can love like that no longer, and though there’s something nearly gentle in the way he moves to cup your face in his hand you are only appalled by the radiance of his desire.

The fight snaps free of you in a bracing instant, and the Ghoul watches it go. Watches your face in all the motions of defeat.

“Those lips of yours,” he croons. “Even cherry pie ain’t sweeter. Now I’ve got to have me a taste.”

Then he kisses you, softly, at first, after the ripping winds of his fucking, and then with a grunt like some rooting boar he sets at you with the aggression of before, consuming you with tongue and borderless mouth until what thought there was of past romance is chipped from the gravestone of him.

The Ghoul’s hat fell off sometime in the scuffle; as he rises again you see that the weird planes of his skull are beautiful, as the rest of him must once have been.

Like some Martian fiend he appears as he crouches over your quivering nakedness, tugging your gown back on over your head as though dressing a stiff little corn doll.

“Now we’re just about even,” says the Ghoul. “And if you put even a foot wrong I’ll keep on evenin' that score.”

He sets about tying the lasso about your neck to a stake of wood in the dirt. That done, he sits back on the box and looks at you again, dusting his hat off absently with one hand.

You stare through him and up at the bile of deities that is the golden afternoon sky.

“Now you’re gettin’ it, Violet,” says the Ghoul. “The Wasteland ain’t no place for a Vaultie housewife like yourself.”

Later, one of your hands outstretches to pen letters in the sand.

I-A-M-A-W-I-D-O-W.

The Ghoul blinks.

“Well, shit. And there I was thinkin’ I’d wrecked a decent home.”

S-H-O-O-T-M-E.

“After all the fussin’ I’ve been through to get you back you ain’t goin’ nowhere. And don’t try to kill yourself, neither. I sleep with one eye open. You’re worth more to me alive, and I ain’t about to forget it.”

The Ghoul lies down beside you, arms folded under his head, content in the desert’s justice.

Only when the night slaps like a dripping cloth over you both does he speak to you again.

“I ain’t gonna sell you, Violet. You better learn to earn your keep.”

[darlin-collins]

Heyyy!!!:) NSFW// Davey♡ ,since I liked so many you can choose which ones you wanna do:) A C D K F M N O P U X Y

im doing everything everyone wants

join my picnic?

A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)

they prefer cuddling first, catching their breaths, giggling kissing softly, before David picks angel up and gives them a bath/shower, petting their head and praising them and kissing Their Temple

C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)

David cums alot, it's a lot and it's thick , in oral, angel does their best to swallow it all,but it never really happens, it always spills out, David does tell them to not swallow it all (afraid for their health) so they up only swallowing a bit

it also spills out of angel's respective parts, David like pulling out and see it basically squirt out of them, during the more wolfish sessions, he'd push it back and shut the hole with his finger (queue his breeding kink)

D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs

first thing angel did after looking at the man who just accused them of following him is look down at his dick , because no tiny dick man is gonna be talking to them like that, satisfied with what they saw, they continued their banter

(basically "do you have the dick to be talking like that" "yes." "prove it" "..." "..." "he can keep talking like that")

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)

breeding, dirty talk, biting,they also enjoy the trill of the chase, pinning, edging is on the table too

F = Favorite position (this goes without saying

angel pinned to their bed getting a good dicking down by David who's on top of them

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

David showing any type of physical strength, lifting them, pushing something heavy that sort of thing

angel wearing David 's clothing

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

David is pretty open to anything but i don't think he'd like 3sums or sharing Angel in general

same goes for angel

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

David is pretty good at oral, but he's better w his dick

before meeting David, angel was good at oral,but David did give them tips and some additions to their game, especially to find their way around his size, now they're amazing at it,but it is low-key costume made for David

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

fast n rough w your occasional touchy feely sessions

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

David would be edging sometimes stopping just when angel is about to come just to watch them squirm for a moment under him with a smirk

angel is snarky and all,but it only takes one long ,deep thrust from David to get them to know their place

X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

big tits,bigger ass,big arms,bigger dick

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

at first it was pretty high, David hasn't had action in some time ,and angel is not one to pass a good dicking,now it's a bit lower,but still high compared to others

[livesincerely]

”Hi,” a voice says, much closer than he expects. Davey turns to find a woman at his elbow—pretty, with long, tawny hair and big brown eyes—and her smile is sweet and a little shy. “I’m Julia.”

”Uh, hi,” Davey replies, a little confused.

His first thought is that she needs help flagging down the bartender; Davey’s tall and the place is packed, so it’s a reasonable assumption.

Instead, she says, “I don’t usually do this, but, I thought, maybe— And, my friends said I should just be brave and go for it, so, uh, would you be interested in maybe going out sometime? With me?”

”Oh, uh,” Davey rubs a hand over the back of his neck, a little thrown. He scrambles for a good way to turn her down without being mean. “I’m actually not—“

”Dave, did you want any food or just the drink?” Tony asks, tugging at his shirt sleeve to get his attention.

Davey latches onto him like a lifeline.

”I’m here with my boyfriend, Tony,” he lies, throwing an arm around Tony’s shoulders and pulling him in close.

Tony, because he’s the absolute best and Davey’s new favorite person, doesn’t even miss a beat.

“Oh, hey,” he says, curling into Davey’s side. “Sorry, this one’s taken, but believe me, I understand the appeal.”

”Oh my god,” Julia says, looking mortified. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t realize—“

”No biggie,” Tony says easily. “It happens.”

He turns back to Davey, lifts up on his toes, and presses a chaste kiss to his lips. “Come on, babe,” he says, with a ridiculous eyebrow wriggle. “Help me carry our drinks.”

Julia excuses herself with another flustered apology—Davey almost feels bad, but mostly he’s relieved at how relatively painless the whole exchange was.

“I owe you one,” Davey murmurs to Tony as they escape, heading to their table.

Tony snorts. “Oh, trust me, I’m about to get it back, with interest, in sheer entertainment value.”

“What do you mean?” Davey asks.

“Judging by the look on his face, Jack definitely saw what just went down,” Tony says, oddly vindictive. “And he ate the last of my fucking Froot Loops yesterday, so he deserves what’s coming to him.”

“What’s coming to him?” Davey questions, a little too drunk to follow this new thread of the conversation.

“Don’t worry about it,” Tony says, patting his shoulder. “Here, sit.”

He pushes Davey into the open seat next to Jack—who's watching them with a strange expression, tension pulling at the corners of his mouth.

That tension only grows more pronounced as Tony plops himself into Davey’s lap and makes himself nice and comfortable. Davey just wraps his arms around Tony’s waist, resigned to this becoming A Whole Thing.

”Everyone here owes me money,” Tony announces gleefully to the table at large. “He didn’t even make it five minutes.”

There’s a collective groan.

“Who was it this time?” Specs asks, digging into his pockets for his wallet.

”Girl at the bar,” Tony says, nodding in the right direction. “The one in the green dress.”

The whole group turns to look as one, not even trying to be discreet. Davey resists the urge to sigh.

“She actually seemed normal,” Tony continues, with audible disbelief. Davey wishes he could take offense but, unfortunately, it’s well-warranted. “Cute, too. I wouldn’t’ve chased her off if Dave hadn’t signaled.”

”And where did kissing him factor int’a the equation?” Jack asks, crossing his arms over his chest as he leans back in his chair.

“You kissed Davey?” Albert asks loudly, looking intrigued. He turns to Davey and continues, “You let him kiss you? Don’t’cha know where his mouth has been?”

“Fuck off, Albie, I’m fresh as a fucking daisy—“

“No one should be kissin’ Davey,” Jack insists with a scowl.

“Dave didn’t mind,” Tony says with a smirk. He’s clearly enjoying this way too much. “And anyway, we had’ta sell it.”

“Oh, I bet you fucking did,” Jack mutters under his breath.

“How come Racer gets to mack on Davey?” Albert complains, which tracks—tequila always makes him pouty. “It’s my birthday! If anyone gets to kiss Davey, it should be me.”

“Pretty sure that’s not how that works,” Romeo tells Albert as Jack sputters soundlessly.

“Sure, it does,” Al insists. “Hey, Dave, can I kiss you?”

“No one is kissing Davey!” Jack says. He kind of looks like he’s got a swarm of bees in his mouth, his cheeks flushed and puffed out, his jaw working furiously.

“Uh, not with that fuckin’ attitude,” Albert scoffs, extremely unimpressed. “How ‘bout it, Dave?”

Davey blinks. “Um…”

“No one else is kissing Davey,” Jack orders.

[cyanbugremix]

Glasses - Stories of the Shaw Pack

Characters: Angel/David

CW: None; Fluff

Written in December 2023

Summary: David keeps getting headaches and Angel suggests he gets glasses

Can be found ��here on Ao3✨, written by moi (cyan_bug37 on Ao3)

~~~~

Angel heard the growl from David’s office. Being curious they stopped putting the dishes away to go see what was wrong with their mate. They briskly walked as another series of annoyed muttering filled the house.

“Davey?” Angel knocked on the doorframe. “Are you okay?”

David swiveled his office chair around, rubbing his forehead. Angel came closer, wondering if he somehow hurt his head.

“I’m fine, Angel,” David grumbled.

“Why are you grumbling then?”

“My head hurts.”

Angel confusedly frowned, “Again?”

David got up from his chair, rubbing in between his eyebrows. He walked toward the kitchen.

Angel picked at their nails and followed. What could be causing these headaches? They come and go. . . and it seems it only really happens when he’s. . .

“I have an idea of what might be causing your headaches.”

“What?” David sighed as he opened a cabinet, still fixated on finding ibuprofen for his headache. He grabbed out a bottle and squinted to read it.

“You need glasses.”

There was a long silence as David paused. He moved again to open the bottle but still didn’t reply. He looked to see how many he needed to take, but the pain worsened and he scrunched up his eyes.

“Angel, can you tell me how many I can take?” Angel took the bottle out of his hands, and poured out the correct amount. David quickly swallowed them and put the bottle back.

“This is just proving the point,” Angel continued.

David scoffed. “I don’t need glasses.”

“Yet you can’t read what the pill bottle says, and you can’t look at your computer screen or notes without forming a headache.” Angel leaned back onto the counter.

David leveled his gaze with them, “It only has happened a few times.”

“This week,” Angel added. “And this happened last week, as well.”

David rolled his eyes. “I’m gonna go back to work.”

Angel dejectedly sighed at his response. While David was good at making sure he was healthy, he rarely accepted things that meant he wasn’t at his top performance. They followed him again.

“David.”

This caused him to freeze. They never called him that.

“Go see the eye-doctor. Please? For me?” Angel got close enough to put a hand on his arm. He scanned their face before nodding.

“Okay.”

- - -

The next week, David had set up an appointment with the optometrist. He didn’t want to believe that he needed glasses. He was as healthy as he could be. He made sure he exercised, ate the right food and vitamins, and he could still see things just fine. How could he need glasses? Would his mother have needed glasses? He didn’t remember his dad having any. He was a shifter, weren’t they supposed to have the best eyesight?

David made a note to try out shifting later to see if he still had good eyesight in that form.

His appointment came and went, and to his annoyance, he needed reading glasses. He picked out the frames at the end of the session, and was told they would send him his pair in the mail later that week.

Angel kept pestering about his appointment later that day. They immediately went out to find him in the kitchen, only taking a moment to take off their shoes at the entry, and asked what the doctor said. He had told them that they were right.

“I’m glad I could help,” They smiled. David counted the seconds, already knowing what his mate was going to ask next.

“What frames are you getting?”

David crossed his arms, “Not telling.”

“What?! But I suggested that you should go to the doctor in the first place,” Angel exclaimed, wrapping their arms around his middle. “Don’t I get to know what my stunning mate will look like?”

David’s face heated up at the sudden dramatic display. “It’ll be a surprise for you.”

“But I don’t like surprises.”

“You’ll have to like this one.”

Angel groaned into his chest. David chuckled and placed a kiss onto the top of their head. He held them for a moment longer before suggesting they start working on dinner.

The whole time, Angel kept getting distracted by imagining and guessing what frames he got. Were they rectangular? Circular? Both? Did he get a fun color? Probably not. Black? Golden? Silver?

“Can you at least tell me what vibe you give off when wearing them?” Angel wondered.

“Vibe?”

“Yeah! Like are you stoic, more than you already are? Does it make you look preppy? Do you look like a professor? Does it make you look like an old man?”

David laughed. “You’ll see. They’ll be here by the end of the week.”

- - -

Saturday came and Angel practically squealed when they grabbed the box out of the mailbox. They raced back inside.

“Oh Davey~” They sang. “Look what came in the mail!”

Angel went into his office, and brought it to his desk where David was sitting.

David pursed his lips as he opened the cardboard box. His eyes settled on the contents within. His glasses came in a boring, black case, with a free sample of cleaning solution. He opened up the case and took out the glasses.

He undid them carefully, as the unfamiliarity of the glasses made him wary of holding them. He looked over at Angel, who nodded encouragingly.

David placed them on his face. The rest of the world was blurry, but he could see his papers without feeling like his eyes were straining.

“Do they work well?” Angel quietly asked him.

“Of course, they work well. I went to the optometrist for them.”

Angel smiled, “No, I mean, do you like them?”

David turned to look at Angel, finding that their face was too blurry for his liking. “Yeah. What do you think of them?”

“I think you look handsome and intelligent,” Angel replied. David slid them down to the end of his nose, so he could see the rest of the world normally.

“Now you look like a hot college professor,” Angel laughed.

“You’re such a perv,” David commented. “Come here.”

David led their face down to his and gently kissed them.

Angel carded a hand through his hair before leaning to kiss his forehead. “I’m glad you won’t be having so many headaches anymore.”

David hummed in agreement, and turned to go back to his work. Angel began to walk away, but changed their mind.

Angel grabbed their phone out of their hoodie pocket.

“Hey, Davey? Look.”

David turned confused. Angel quickly took photos before giggling a “thank you” and running away.

David dragged a hand down his face thinking of all the trouble they could be causing. He gave a small smile before focusing on the spreadsheet again. Moments later, David’s phone started ringing. Asher. He swiped open the call.

“Nice glasses, big guy!”

He immediately hung up.

~~~~

As always, I have no ownership or rights to these characters, stories, or franchises. I write this to appreciate the content Redacted ASMR/audio makes. Anything I write is not official in their stories, other than using moments from the original story line. I make no profit from this.

Please don't steal.

[the-xolotl]

Bring You To Heaven.

David Shaw x Reader

ღ Itty bitty snip !!

ღ A/N: I had full intention of turning this into a full one-shot but then other fixations took my energy asdfgnak but if y’all would like to see this as a full length snip lmk ! I hadn’t written my big wolf boy in such a long time. Davey I’m coming home sweetie.

Summary: David is just so good to you, you want to return the favor.

—• TAGS: dom/sub dynamics, doesn’t get to the smut, implied oral, Reader gets on their knees, body worship, no use of y/n, David still calls you Angel.

You smiled mischievously at him, fingers gliding their way under his shirt and traveling up dragging them along the tanned, tight muscles of his torso and chest. He has an amused grin playing on his lips as he held your gaze. He loved those big doe eyes that carried so much love, dedication, even hints of reverence even when you acted like a brat.

David figured he could entertain whatever his mate is planning for a little while, raising his arms allowing for his shirt to be taken off and promptly discarded somewhere on the floor. Your heated gaze fell down on his bare skin, stepping back just barely to admire him better. The alpha is always a sight to behold and you never quite get use to the view. It’s always like seeing him for the very first time.

Your heart raced as hungry eyes devoured him whole shamelessly. It didn’t take long for your hands to continue the exploration of his perfectly sculptured upper body.

“And just where do you plan on taking this, little angel?” He asked with genuine curiosity underlying his words. Because he knew he still the dominant, knew that this wasn’t about a power switch. He couldn’t help but wonder, the suspense of not knowing where you’re taking him is thrilling. David also know how full of surprises you are.

You didn’t respond for a minute, not with words. You took his hands in your gently caressing your thumb over his knuckles, then leaning your head forward to leave a few chaste kisses on his neck, collarbones and chest earning pleased hums from the alpha.

Your eyes traveled up again, locking with his, “You know, you spend so much time taking care of me,” you spoke softly, “Adoring me and my body. It’s time I do the same for you, don’t you think?” You slowly descended down to your knees, never breaking eye contact. Once knelt, brining on of his big hands to nuzzle your cheek against, his thumb instinctively caressing them back.

The alpha felt his breath hitch on his chest, and you didn’t miss the way his expression began to darken. He breath out “Angel…” just as softly as they’d spoken to him. Like a prayer. They smiled again, “And that little nickname you always call me… Why doesn’t my alpha allow his angel to take him to heaven then?”

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⤷ dividers : cafekitsune ✰

[honeyywoods]

give me Davey who is wildly obsessed with Victorian flower language and Jack who begs Medda to teach him about it so that he can save money to make Davey the perfect flower arrangement

(or, alternatively, Jack going to the flower district to sketch certain flowers he wants to use to learn their shapes and then painting the arrangement later when he gets to Medda’s, because it’ll last longer)

and when he invites Davey to the theatre one night, Davey isn’t expecting much. then Jack tells him to close his eyes and he waits there dutifully until Jack tells him to look, and when he does whatever snarky quip he had been about to say dies in his throat. because he’s looking over the arrangement, eyes flitting between pinks and reds and purples as he processes each of their meanings. he cries. bawls like a baby and Jack gets worried that he fucked up and accidentally insulted Davey or something in flower language but then Davey kisses him and when he pulls back he’s finally found his voice again, saying that it was the sweetest thing anyone had done for him. anyways.