#are unable to quite grasp the exact angles you DO have to dig for

[miquellah]

shadow of the erdtree lore and characterization is so fucking good when u dont have someone in ur ear saying it sucks

[floralseokjin]

The Quarantine 

⇢ and beyond timeline (after crystallised) 

[saga index] [drabble index]

kim seokjin x reader // smut // 2,585 words 

warnings! clothed sex, kinda messy, face riding, seokjin’s blue tracksuit (yes his most recent selfie inspired some things), he’s moody and cute in this one 🤧

“You kinda smell...” You mumbled, lifting your face from Seokjin’s arm. It wasn’t a bad smell, wasn’t unbearable, but it was there. Ever so slightly musky, the results of his three day old tracksuit. 

“No I don’t,” he refuted immediately, not bothering to look up from the phone in his hand. “I showered.”

You sat up a little, looking down at him. He was flat on his back, lying on your bed where he’d been all morning, cocooned in that tracksuit, hood up. You’d woken up pretty late, eaten breakfast in the kitchen but still Seokjin was horizontal on his phone. Although while you were asleep he’d had a shower apparently. 

You’d given up and joined him a few minutes ago, if he was planning to be lazy all day then so were you. “It’s this then,” you told him, tugging at his navy hoody. 

He grunted, too engrossed in the game he was playing. Games. You were sick of them. He was either glued to his phone or glued to his PC—which yes, he had moved in too. It was a wonder you still had the ability to move around in your apartment. 

“I’m not taking it off.” 

“You’re so gross.” 

But then again, maybe you were too. You were still in your pyjamas, not even showered yet and it was past midday. When had you gotten so lazy? When had you both gotten so lazy? 

Lockdown had started off great. Work shut, school practically over now and waiting for a graduation you probably wouldn’t be able to attend. A hot boyfriend to entertain your time. Sex and cuddles on tap. Zoom quizzes with your friends and family. Binging the frick out of Netflix all day. Free time was something you had never seemed to have enough of, and yet now you were drowning in the stuff. 

That’s when you’d started getting lazy. No routine. Like too lazy to even start new boxsets or to even watch YouTube. Too lazy to apply makeup or eventually get dressed properly unless you had to pop out to get groceries. Too lazy for conversation. There were a lot of one word questions and replies lately, and don’t even get you started on the bickering. No major arguments had occurred, but Seokjin was finding out you loved giving silent treatment. Quarantine was a bitch, but you‘d learned to work with it else you’d just get on one another’s nerves. 

“Hey, you wanted to quarantine with me.” Seokjin stated, still concentrating on his game. “This is what you get. The cold, harsh reality.” 

He was joking around, you thought, but there was still a little something in his tone. You guessed someone had woken up a little moody. Calling him smelly had awoken the beast. 

“If I remember correctly, you wanted to stay with me.” 

“No, I wanted to stay with you at my place.” 

You shouldn’t really. Rile him up, you mean. But like an itch that shouldn’t be scratched, you couldn’t stop. “So what? Staying at your place would magically make you more hygienic.” You tried to keep the amusement out of your voice but it failed. 

At the same time he must’ve lost his game, groaning loudly before dropping his phone on the bed. He was mad but tried not to rise. “I’m already hygienic. I just have a limited amount of clothes.”

You were lying back down by now, on your side as you watched him clench his jaw and stare up at the ceiling. A slow smile spread across your face. “Again, if I remember correctly, which I am, you came here with the teeniest hand luggage.” 

He blanked you. Rude. Couldn’t he take some light teasing? You shuffled closer, poking at one of his cheeks. “Don’t be moody.” 

“I’m not being moody.” He sounded like he was. 

“You are.” 

“Aren’t.” 

“Are.” 

“Aren’t.” 

“Are.” 

“Are—ahh, stop!” He whined. 

You giggled, poking him again. “Let’s not argue.” 

“We’re not arguing!” He was really whiny today. He turned on his side, facing you with a pout. “You’re annoying.” 

You reached over and kissed his mouth. Those big, pouty lips were made for kissing. “I’m bored.” You said it in the way of apology. He understood. Sometimes annoying one another was all you had for entertainment. 

“You and me both,” he agreed before groaning. “I’m sick of feeling lazy.” 

He kissed you this time. It was with a lack of energy but somehow his tongue still found its way into your mouth. His hand slipping under your t-shirt to rub your side. 

“Mmm,” you hummed into him, beginning to feel warm all over. “Wanna do it?” 

He groaned like a man in agony, twisting himself onto his back dramatically. “I’m even too lazy for sex. This is so depressing.” He threw his hands into the mattress, basically having a tantrum. 

You rolled your eyes, burrowing under his arm because honestly a little bit of musk didn’t faze you at all, why would it? He wrapped his arm around you. “Quit being dramatic,” you told him, running your fingers across his chest before slowly dragging the hand down his torso. You landed on his crotch, cupping the bulge surprisingly easily. Don’t say he’d ran out of underwear too... Was he really too lazy to put things in the laundry basket? Or just start online shopping?  

You ignored the urge to call him out, horniness way more important right now. Had you missed out the part where you’d both gotten too lazy for sex too? Or maybe the novelty had worn off... Either way, something was happening right now and you needed to act on it immediately.  

You nuzzled into his neck, giving him a squeeze. “If you’re feeling lazy just lie there.” 

He froze under your touch, gladly meeting your lips as you kissed your way up from his neck and jaw. “I can probably do that.” 

You smirked and pushed your hand down his sweatpants, stroking him until he began to grow hard. Rocking his hips into your hand he hummed in encouragement. “Mm. I can definitely do that.” 

It wasn’t long before you were straddling him, sweatpants hung low and his dick upright in your grasp. He was eagerly waiting for you to sit on it, getting impatient when you let go of him to shimmy out of your pyjama shorts. “Just pull them to the side,” he “suggested”, hands reaching out to help you.  

Well, now you were both too lazy to even get naked for sex. 

You made enough of a gap to make it work, angling the head of his dick against your entrance and pushed down. It stung and you had to grit your teeth a little as you took him deeper. Probably could’ve done with some foreplay but it was too late now, besides the way Seokjin’s eyes rolled back into his head as you swallowed him made it all worth it. Got you wetter too. 

“Fffuck,” he cursed, fingers digging into your thighs. “You’re trying to murder me.” 

“Serves you right for being so moody.” You quipped. 

He went to argue but gave up, probably had something to do with you beginning to bounce up and down on him, chuckling a little breathlessly instead. But out of shape, unable to go to the gym, you found yourself getting tired quickly, which was kind of embarrassing. Riding dick was overrated. Luckily for you, you could always count on Seokjin.

Gripping your hips tightly he thrust up. And up, and up. Over and over again—all whilst still flat on his back in that damn tracksuit, hood still up too. He was actually pretty relentless, got you a bit louder than usual. Him too, grunting from exertion. You were beginning to clench around his dick, an orgasm definitely approaching, when his movements got a little erratic. What were hard and fast thrusts turned deep and deliberate. He was losing his cool, desperate for your warmth. Desperate for how soft you were, how wet you were. 

As if he was lost in the same thoughts, he moaned out suddenly, freezing inside of you, and that really was the end of it. Your impending orgasm disappeared as he came inside you, almost as if it was never there at all. 

Both trying to catch your breath, you slid off his dick with a nudge from him, underwear snapping back into place. Your legs were wobbly and you were still pretty horny. You yelped a little when Jin suddenly grasped you by the hands and tugged you into him, his mouth on yours immediately. 

“You were so close to coming, I could feel it.” He sounded apologetic and a little mad at himself. 

“It’s okay.” 

“No, it’s not,” he insisted, grabbing for your hips to try and lift you upwards. “Come here, let me eat you out.” 

You laughed and weighted yourself, cupping the sides of his face so he would look at you. “Your cum is about to start dripping out of me.” You needed to shower. 

“Don’t care.” He was determined, you’d give him that. He didn’t give up until you were kneeling over his chest, his lips on your thighs, kissing whatever skin he could reach. 

“Seokjin,” you whined, but the tingles of your lost orgasm began to start up again. A pulsing between your legs you couldn’t stop. 

He kissed up the inside of your right thigh pretty loudly. This was the most energy he’d had in days, and somehow he was still on his back! “If I don’t get my mouth on your beautiful, delectable c— 

“Don’t say it,” you stopped him. How crass of him. But that beautiful, delectable cunt of yours was burning with impatience. 

Seokjin tugged at your shorts, pulling them down over your ass, underwear and all. “Take them off,” he asked nicely (more like demanded).

“Okay, okay.” It was a little difficult and clumsy, a bunch of giggles from you and impatient (but playful) slaps to your ass from Seokjin as you attempted to strip from the waist down still crowded around that pretty face of his, but finally you managed it. 

His tongue found you instantly, practically smooshing you to his face, and despite how good it felt, you were only aware of one thing. Something that was beginning to trickle out of somewhere... 

“Jin,” you whined, “it’s literally sliding out of me–ahhh–!” You were cut off, hips jutting into his face—and hand, because at that exact moment he’d slipped two of his fingers inside of you, pumping in and out and in turn stopping any rogue cum in its tracks. 

“Now it’s not,” he said simply, taking a breath before diving straight back in. He was being noisy with it today. Maybe it was on purpose or maybe he just hadn’t eaten breakfast this morning, who knew. Actually, was he the one being sloppy, or was it you? 

Squelch and slurp, squelch and slurp. You grinded into his face, mouth open as you held your breath, trying to stop the moans that wanted to burst out. You could feel wet against the inside of your thighs, could feel how easily his fingers fucked into you, how little friction there was. Shit, why were you so wet? So messy?

Your moan finally broke free when Seokjin’s lips clamped around your clit, sucking it with just the right amount of pressure, and you gripped onto his hood, tugging down tightly. You either hurt him or he was boiling up, because immediately he used his free hand to pull the hood off, fighting with it for a second until you found some sense to help him, gladly gripping his hair now instead. 

He groaned approvingly, encouraging you and brought his hand to your ass, spanking you once as he sucked harshly on your clit. You yelped, pushing into his face and he repeated, the two fingers that were inside of you digging into your g-spot. Your knees buckled, a few seconds more of that and you’d cum all over him. As if he didn’t know that. 

A third spank and that was you done. You came like an explosion. It was so intense you had to rip away from Seokjin’s grasp, body uncontrollable as you pulsed and twitched. In a bid to stop the overflowing pleasure, yet at the same time make it last as long as possible, you pushed your ass into his chest, grinding down frantically, your hands gripping his sides to save you from falling. 

He reached for your hips to keep you steady, watching you with hungry eyes. Yup, he definitely found this hot. “Unfair,” he grumbled, but his voice was weak and shaky. You definitely found that hot. “I was so confident I was about to make you squirt.” 

You think he may have been right. Your body was still shaking, heart beating fast against your ribcage and you felt odd. Some kind of adrenaline rush. By the look on Seokjin’s face that would be his new obsession now. His new goal. You’d spend the rest of quarantine with him determined to make you squirt one way or another. At least it would give him some gumption. 

Gradually feeling a lot more like yourself, you really took a look at Seokjin and giggled. He looked at you questioningly. “Your hair,” you explained, reaching closer for it. It was pulled out on end. It looked a mess. In fact, he did too. The sheen of your arousal and possibly his own saliva was still glistening slightly across his jaw and chin. There was even a spot on his nose where you guessed you’d grinded too hard. 

He scowled and lifted his head up to flip his hood back on. His hair wasn’t in the best shape anyway, not since you’d both hacked at it with a scissors a couple of weeks ago... Still, it was cute. He was cute. Even when he was a moody little shit. 

“Leave me alone,” he whined, sitting up now, cupping your ass as he brought you to sit on his crotch. When had he put his dick back in his sweatpants? You’d been way too distracted for the finer details. 

He looked down at his torso. “Awh, yuck,” he chuckled, pulling at the fabric. 

You looked too, face to face with the mess you’d made all over that stinky hoody of is. It wasn’t just his face with that was shining, put it that way... 

You grinned and wrapped your arms around his neck. “It’s definitely going in the wash now.” 

He leaned in closer and rubbed your noses together. “That was your plan all along, wasn’t it?” Not exactly, but you’d gotten your way, and a mind blowing orgasm to go with it. You kissed him and he smiled. “Love you.” 

“Really? Sure you’re not sick of me?” You teased. 

He scoffed. “Sick of being in this tiny apartment, yes. Sick of you? Never.” 

Lame ass, but it worked. Got you all fuzzy feeling. Nearly distracted you long enough to forget about the mess you were in. It was time for a shower. 

“Okay,” you cupped his jaw, moving his face this way and that playfully. “I feel so gross, you’re going to have to carry me to the bathroom.” 

He smiled sweetly. “Gladly.” 

And off you went with a squeal, wrapping your legs around his waist and holding on for dear life as he gripped your bare ass and leapt off the bed, sprinting for the bathroom.  

Written 2020. Please refrain from posting my work elsewhere. No translations allowed. © floralseokjin 2020

[gayglitterqueen]

hope of love

Rating: Teen and Up Warning: N/A Words: 5074 Pairings: Ineffable Husbands Notes: based on this post Summary: After all, thousands of years falling in love with a being unable to feel love is something that can be eased into. Being hit with the realization that perhaps not all Demons, specifically the one next to him swinging the wheel of his car to the right in a way that is less like a lane change and more like a swerve just barely missing a building, are entirely incapable of feeling love is much more like a punch to the stomach.

AO3

Aziraphale would prefer if none of his books were available for sale, but one had appearances to keep up, and despite the fact that no one could ever compare in his treatment of books he has to have a few hours of the week open for the public to browse. So, naturally, some books do have to be open for purchasing, typically books of lower value that he keeps just in case. But there are some books, a select few that even if this was a normal bookstore, would never be available for sale.

Over the past few decades, these few books have moved from place to place. Sometimes sitting on a high shelf in the front room, out of the grasp of even the most dedicated book collector, but still in view of his desk. More often, though, they’re in the back. Carefully stacked together on his desk, the only bit of order within all the loose papers and books. Other times closer to the sofa, lined up on a shelf where he can see them whenever he decides to recline.

No matter where he stores them, though, they are always together.

These books Aziraphale has managed to keep in tip-top condition, which is something he prides himself on since they were supposed to be blown up in a church full of Nazis in 1941.

It is 1941 and Aziraphale is tucked away in the passenger seat of Crowley’s Bentley, the sight of still-burning Church rubble quickly shrinking in the side mirror. As the rest of London around them lights up with explosions, Aziraphale can’t seem to take his eyes off the mirror, even when rubble blinks out of sight much too quickly for any legal speed limit. By now he would have said something to Crowley about his insane speed, but his tongue feels heavy and he knows any sort of speech he could conjure wouldn’t be what he wanted.

If you ignore the crashing impact of bombs and the sirens blaring, it’s a quiet ride home. Quieter between them than he would’ve liked, but that is to be expected when the last time they had seen each other it had ended in a loud argument next to a duck pond.

This isn’t an uncomfortable silence or even a tense one. Aziraphale isn’t sure what sort of silence to call it, but to be honest he isn’t thinking about it very hard. Maybe if he was then it wouldn’t be hard later to categorize it when he looks back at this moment. But instead of the silence or the burning world around them, Aziraphale can only look at the mirror, even with the used-to-be Church long gone, and his entire attention has been whittled away to the bag in his hands. The one that is still slightly warm, whether it be from the fire that had engulfed them but had not harmed them, or if this is just a common after-effect of a Demonic miracle he isn’t sure.

Other than that it is in the exact same condition that it had been when it arrived at the Church. Aziraphale doesn’t feel the need to look into the bag to check on the books. Even if he won’t admit it he completely trusts Crowley. With the fact that the books are just fine.

He’s fairly certain he couldn’t check on the books even if he wanted too. His body and his mind aren’t exactly in sync at the moment, thoughts are racing too fast yet he is still as a statue. The bag, and therefore the books inside, are clutched to his chest like a prayer. Perhaps under different circumstances, he would say one, but the one to thank for tonight's miracle isn’t someone he can exactly bring up in prayer.

It takes an explosion hot on their heels, lighting up the mirror in a beautiful wave of yellows and oranges, for Aziraphale to realize he hasn’t blinked in some time. Next to him Crowley mutters something under his breath and hits the gas, jolting the whole car forward.

Aziraphale has seen lots in his millennia on Earth, so naturally, he’s seen his fair share of human reactions on Earth. Specifically: shock. While his form isn’t entirely human, it is designed to mimic humanity as best as possible, helps with blending in and all that. So, it reasons, he shouldn’t be able to be in shock. At least, not physically, and he can agree with that thought at the moment.

It will take several days of reflection for him to realize this strange reaction isn’t a symptom of physical shock, but instead emotional.

After all, thousands of years falling in love with a being unable to feel love is something that can be eased into. Being hit with the realization that perhaps not all Demons, specifically the one next to him swinging the wheel of his car to the right in a way that is less like a lane change and more like a swerve just barely missing a building, are entirely incapable of feeling love is much more like a punch to the stomach.

But, an idea like a Demon feeling love needs proof. It is a brand new idea, one so new that there has been no time to go out and gather proof. But it is also an idea that only appeared after the proof was given.

Aziraphale’s fingers tighten over the leather of the bag, fingernails sinking lightly into the rough outside. Just enough that he can feel the bumps of the uneven material rub against the tips of his fingers, his nails can scrape the creases. Proof. Physical proof, here in his hands.

He has looked away from the mirror but only to move his gaze slightly to the right. Not enough to actually look at Crowley, only enough to see a sliver of him. Just enough, for if he was to look right at Crowley, Aziraphale fears that the tight feeling in his chest would be enough to squeeze all the air out of him entirely. And he doesn’t need air, but that doesn’t make the feeling any less uncomfortable.

Slow breath in. Slow breath out.

For what it’s worth Crowley hasn’t looked over at him either. He wouldn’t have been able to see it if Crowley had, but he would be able to feel it. Since the beginning, he could feel it, even when he was just a serpent peeking over the edge of Eden’s wall.

If only Aziraphale knew what that feeling, the one that lingers in the back of your head that someone is watching you, would turn into over six thousand years. Perhaps he would be better prepared for this night. Certainly, he wouldn’t have changed anything about that first meeting. But preparation would have been nice.

The car swerves again and it is only out of habit, with a chid on his tongue, that Aziraphale finally looks at Crowley for the first time since he had been handed the bag.

The first thing that Aziraphale realizes is that nothing has changed – and why should it? These feelings for Aziraphale are not new, perhaps the exact amount that they seem to hit him at that moment is new, but underneath the velocity of it all is all the same. Some part of him is a bit still a bit surprised. Six thousand years and no signs of anything less than reluctant friendship and all of the sudden a sign that maybe Crowley’s feeling amount to more, but he looks exactly the same.

He’s still leaning back in his seat, body somehow spread out without invading Aziraphale’s side of the car, like always. Glasses perched at the top of his nose. Hands lax on the wheel, somehow gentle while dragging it this way and that, swerving down the street. It feels like the entire world has shifted, but it looks exactly the same.

“I suppose that while a thank you is in order it, hm, wouldn’t exactly be accepted.” It’s the first thing Aziraphale has said in minutes, and while it isn’t what he would like to say, it’s the safest thing he can think of. And he hasn’t much time to say anything else with them rapidly approaching his bookstore.

Crowley raises an eyebrow from underneath his sunglasses, it’s impossible to tell exactly where he’s looking but his face is pointed towards the road. Azirapheal digs his fingers into the bag deeper. The smell of ash and smoke is beginning to fill his head.

Crowley clicks his tongue and tilts his head just slightly in Aziraphale's direction. “I think there’s been enough miracles tonight, angle. Don’t need to go ruining my reputation too bad.”

Aziraphale can feel the corners of his mouth twitch up. Yes, nothing seems to be different between them. The only sign that perhaps there is anything different than yesterday is the bag in his hands and the constricting feeling in his chest, much like, he thinks with mild amusement, like a snake wrapping itself around his torso. It’s quite fitting, but it is also something he will never ever tell Crowley.

“Well, I wouldn’t worry.” Aziraphale keeps his words soft, which is quite a feat considering his head wasn’t working properly a moment ago. “It can be a secret between us.”

“Oh? No need to explain why your side is suddenly missing a Church in the middle of London on your watch?”

Aziraphale lets go of the bag just enough to drum his fingers against it as if in thought. He knows what the question is. Not a question of trust or loyalty, Crowley knows that if Aziraphale says he will keep a secret then whatever it is will stay between them forever. No, instead it’s a question of safety. Will your side really be okay with this? You won’t get in trouble?

“I think that with all these Nazi’s running about, perhaps a bit of holy-like justice is needed in times like these. Sacrifices had to be made, but there’s no telling what evil that undercover group was getting up to in London.” This, Aziraphale is happy to see, gets just the hint of a smile out of Crowley. “So, no, I believe my side will very much understand that such measures had to be taken to protect the good, heaven-bound people of London.”

“Glad to see your paperwork already sorted out, then.” The words are dry coming out of Crowley’s mouth, but the hint of the smile is still there. The snake wrapping itself around Aziraphale’s chest tightens.

Suddenly the car slides to a stop, perfectly, in front of his door. With how reckless and wild these car rides are, Aziraphale has a sneaking suspicion that Crowley fills them to the brim with tiny miracles to make sure they get anywhere in one piece.

The world around them is starting to quite. The air raid is passing. Soon the sirens will calm. The sun will rise. But for now, it is completely still inside the car. Aziraphale knows he should move, if he doesn’t soon dozens of half-thoughts will join together and he knows he will blurt out a question to Crowley that he cannot take back.

Finally, Crowley turns his head completely to look at Aziraphale, well hopefully to do that. The most frustrating thing about Crowley’s affinity for sunglasses is you can never see past the darkness of them, never knowing where exactly he’s looking. Into Aziraphale’s eyes, or maybe just past him to the side, unable to make eye contact. Or maybe, just maybe, he’s looking down at Aziraphale’s lips-

“I appreciate the ride home.” Is all that Aziraphale can get out. Before he can do or think anything else that might ruin whatever exactly has happened between them tonight, he grips the handles of the bag and opens the car door.

It isn’t until he’s rounded the car and is halfway to his door when he hears the sound of a window rolling down. No matter how rude it may come off, he can’t bring himself to turn around and look.

“For what it’s worth,” Crowley calls after him, just loud enough to be heard through the chaos of the night. “It is accepted. Just this once.”

And then the sound of tires and the snake tightens its hold.

Several days after that the books are placed above Aziraphale’s bed, neatly lined up all together, even though the editions look in no way related to a casual observer. He does have to get rid of the bag, though. Dangerous thing to keep something touched with a Demonic miracle in a place where Angels frequent.

It is a week after the Almost-Apocalypse and the seventh day that Crowley has come spent the day at Aziraphale’s bookshop. He would comment on the matter to Crowley, but the warm feeling he gets every morning when his shop bell rings and that familiar Demon comes sauntering in stops him every time. That, and if he’s being honest with himself, the fear that any mention of this new arrangement will bring it to a grinding halt.

Time, to an immortal, feels different. So it isn’t considered rude if you go months, years, or even decades without seeing one another. (Though that almost a century between 1862 and 1941 did upset Aziraphale quite a bit.) Because of this difference in perceiving time it now stands out to Aziraphale that he and Crowley are now practically attached to the hip, especially considering how little time in comparison they spent together before.

It is the seventh day of the rest of the world and it had gone much the same as the other six. Tending to the bookstore while waiting for Crowley to show up, heading out to brunch together, debating on how to spend the rest of the day, heading out to dinner, and then ending up back at the bookshop sprawled out on the couch together with several bottles of wine open.

Tonight Crowley had insisted they pull out Aziraphale’s old TV and put a movie on. He had referred to it as Netflix and Chill with a grin that quickly faded into something much more surprised, and slightly red, when Aziraphale informed him that yes, he did know what that euphemism meant.

So here they are, streaming a documentary about sea animals on a TV that was only able to play it thanks to a miracle or two, a bottle of wine empty and another one half on its way. Aziraphale swishes the wine around in his glass, feeling more at ease than he has in decades, even before the beginning of the end times, and watches a pod of whales swim across the screen. Ever since their first drunken discussion on the end of the world, Crowley had developed a sort of fascination with undersea life, and Aziraphale always had loved a good documentary. Much better than those action films Crowley insisted they watched.

So it is a surprise when Aziraphale looks over and sees that Crowley’s attention isn’t anywhere near the TV. Instead, his head was tilted much too far to the right to see the television, even with his glasses on. Up, Aziraphale followed what he assumed to be Crowley’s gaze, up to the shelf above -. Oh.

Aziraphale feels the urge to stop the documentary, even though he knows he himself won’t be the first to say anything. The remote is too far away for a decently tipsy Aziraphale so, quite lazily, he blinks and he hears the show pause. He has gone from looking at the shelf to watching Crowley, trying to find any sort of hint to a reaction.

Silence goes on for a minute. Aziraphale can feel his mouth start to dry, immediately he takes a rather long sip from his glass, almost completely emptying it.

“Interesting- interesting place for a hmm, a collection of books like that .” The wine bottle they had been sharing is held loosely in Crowley’s grip and he uses it to gesture up at the shelf. The last half of the bottle sloshes, threatening to spill all over the couch and the floor. “Can’t really - you know I can’t really see a connection between them. At first glance. Besides…”

Aziraphale allows a respectful pause during which the alcohol burns its way down to his stomach. “Besides?” He prompts, trying his best to be gentle while his nerves feel fried. Perhaps tonight is the night. Perhaps now is the time to talk about it.

“Well, it’s just, it’s fairly obvious that the organization of your books is quite unfriendly to the average customer. Or any customer, really.” Crowley swings his head over, finally, to look at him. If only it weren’t for those damned glasses. “But I don’t suppose you’ve put them together just to throw people off, hm?”

“Yes, well, not much reason to, given that they’re back here.”

“Yes, well. ” Crowley nods his head and Aziraphale is almost certain it’s the alcohol that makes his fingers itch to rip the glasses off his face. “I’m just surprised that you kept them together for this long.”

Would it be too much to miracle his glass full again? This is a conversation that needs to be had while sober, but Aziraphale can’t handle this dancing around it without the pleasant buzz soothing his nerves just enough to keep him off the edge. Instead, he finished the little amount in his glass and sets it down on the floor next to the couch. “I can’t see why you would be, those books are very dear to me.”

“I’ve miracled plenty of things for you before.”

“Well, those are different.”

For just a moment Aziraphale believes that all of this is a part of God’s ineffable plan because he has half a mind to thank Her as Crowley reaches up and slips the glasses from his nose. Bright yellow, almost glowing, Crowley’s eyes say something that Aziraphale doesn’t recognize in them. Something, he suspects, that if Crowley didn’t wear those glasses all the time, that maybe he would be able to.

“And why would they be different, angel?” Crowley’s voice has gone unbearably soft, and this is why Aziraphale didn’t sober himself up before the conversation started. And if the way Crowley’s loose limbs suggest, he didn’t sober himself either.

It doesn’t take much on the couch to move forward into Crowley’s space. Just a slight shift up and over, a hand out to balance himself. The tips of his fingers just brush the pants of Crowley’s thigh and the sharp breath that Crowley takes rings through Aziraphale’s head. He may be feeling slightly dizzy as he leans forward just a tad too much and his curls brush against the spikes of Crowley’s hair. If he were to even move a hair forward their foreheads would be pressed together.

There suddenly isn’t enough air, which shouldn’t be possible for a being who doesn’t need to breathe. He can see Crowley dig his hand into the arm of the couch, but other than that he doesn’t move a muscle. His eyes, though, his eyes won’t sit still. They move all over Aziraphale and he can both see and feel them. Over his face, his cheeks, his curls, down to his chest, his arm, his hand, back up to his lips , before finally resting on his eyes.

“Because, my dear,” and oh that name is new, but it feels oh so familiar on his lips, “they gave me hope.”

“Hope?” Crowley’s breath is warm as it ghosts over Aziraphale's face. He breathes in and everything around him is Crowley. “Hope of what? Good presiding over evil?”

He means it to be a chuckle, but it’s far too breathy for that. “No. Of love.”

And Aziraphale does what he couldn’t do back in that car, even though he ached for it without letting himself think it. But it has been the end of the world and time feels different now. They feel different now. It is no longer 1941. It is no longer good vs evil. It is no longer side vs side.

So Aziraphale does not hesitate as he closes that distance and presses his lips to Crowley’s.

Many books have described the feeling of kissing someone you love. Aziraphale has read it a million times in a million different ways. Fireworks, igniting a fire in you, intense passion that takes you over. But, Aziraphale finds as he presses himself into Crowley, he prefers the ones that describe it as being as easy as breathing.

Which makes sense. Everything getting to this point, the building of their entire relationship had been its own brand of difficult. But they’ve gotten past all the hard, so of course, this part has to be easy.

It’s easy to move his hand from the couch onto Crowley’s thigh. It’s easy to lean into the hands that come up to cup his face. It’s easy to push himself closer, pressing his whole body against Crowley’s. It is hard to pull himself away to catch his breath.

Aziraphale keeps his eyes closed, savoring the moment he had waited six thousand years for. The taste of the wine they shared stains his mouth, but when Aziraphale sticks his tongue out to lick his lips he tastes not just the wine, but something distinctively Crowley. Like a man lost in the desert coming upon an oasis, immediately he needs another taste. Apparently he isn’t the only one because he only has a moment to take in a breath before Crowley pushes himself forward into Aziraphale.

There is the soft sound of a distant thud, but Aziraphale is focused on much more important things; such as the way Crowley’s hands slip from cupping Aziraphale’s face to combing through his curls, soft yet insistent. Or the way Crowley’s breath hitches when Aziraphale parts his lips.

It feels like ages before they separate again. Aziraphale could spend a thousand more years right on this couch, with Crowley in his arms.

Before he had described the feeling of love like a snake, wrapping itself around his chest, stealing his breath away. It had always been a funny image, but now he was sure it was also an accurate one. Especially when he opens his eyes and sees golden serpent eyes staring back at him, wide and in awe like he had just witnessed Aziraphale hang the moon.

He now knows the look in them. The one is hidden so many times by tinted glasses. The look that he had hoped was there in the car in 1941. The look he had felt on him so many times.

Love. Crowley’s eyes are filled to the brim with love.

Aziraphale smiles, hoping that the same feeling of love, the one that had been there since the beginning of their Arrangement, would be able to be conveyed in the same way Crowley’s eyes did. By the way Crowley’s face softens, he is fairly certain it had. So he has no trouble debating if another kiss is a good idea, reaching up to pull on the lapels of Crowley’s suit and connecting their lips once again.

Words would come later, with the sunrise. Where they would be greeted by the other tangled on the couch, bruised lips and a spilled wine bottle on the floor reminding them of the night before, reminding them it was not a dream. Or, more likely, words would come to that afternoon. After a long morning of making up for lost time.

It is 4004 B.C. and the first every rainstorm has just passed overhead. Aziraphale stands on the wall of Eden, watching the last of the storm leave him behind, with a Demon tucked under his soaked wing, safe from the water. So far this has been the strangest day Aziraphale has ever had and, unknown to him at the time, it would take quite a long time for another day to best this one.

The Demon, who had introduced himself as Crawley minutes before the storm hit, has turned his head to watch the dark clouds continue into the distance. Aziraphale turns his head to watch as well, trying to not turn his body too much as to keep Crawley dry throughout the last of the rain, which has turned into hardly a sprinkle as if saying a soft goodbye.

So far, it has not occurred to anyone that there is no longer a need to stand so close.

The sun above them has started to peek through the light grey clouds, only a handful of rays reaching the desert sand, no longer a dusty yellow but a damp brown for the first time ever.

“Hm.” Crawley lets out a strange, almost deflating noise next to Aziraphale, startling him slightly. It wasn’t that he forgot Crawley was there, more that briefly he forgot that it was a Demon standing under his wing. “Wonder if that’ll be a regular thing, then.”

It hasn’t exactly been a long conversation between the two, but already Crawley’s natural curiosity has already been made completely obvious with his endless questions. Questions that shouldn’t be asked in the first place. Curiosity is fine, an Angel knows, as long as it isn’t voiced.

“Best not to-” Aziraphale begins to say, the reaction a second nature.

“Not to speculate, yeah, yeah.” Crawley’s looks over at him with a raised eyebrow, an almost mocking amusement written on his face. “You’ve made your stance on things like this clear enough.”

“I should hope so.” Aziraphale huffs and promptly realizes that he’s still holding his wing over Crowley, even with the sun starting to come out. He tries to be subtle about pulling it away, but by the look Crawley gives him, he isn’t successful.

“Ineffable plan and all that.” Crawley continues, amusement clearly growing. Something Aziraphale chooses to ignore.

“Exactly.”

The sun has finally come back fully into view, it’s warmth already drying the water droplets off his feathers. If he was alone he would stretch them up, bask in the comfortable heat, but is reluctant to do so around a Demon, especially one he just shielded for no good reason he realizes as of right now. It had just been a reaction, helping Crawley. An Angel helping a Demon, something so unnatural shouldn’t have come as second nature.

Best not to dwell on it, he tries to tell himself.

Crawley doesn’t seem to have the same reservations that Aziraphale is currently facing, because even though his wings hardly got a spot of water on them, he comfortably stretches them out to soak up the sun. He doesn’t stretch them out far enough to properly invade Aziraphale’s space, something that seems to be on purpose and something that Aziraphale doesn’t know what to think of. A considerate Demon? If an oxymoron hasn’t been invented yet, it has now.

“Well,” Crawley sighs and tilts his head back to the sky, “I suppose it is time to get going. This should be enough trouble causing for one day, hmm?”

Perplexing.

“I should hope so.” Aziraphale frowns, but Crawley doesn’t see it as his eyes are closed against the light. He colors his tone with disapproval and something close to a genuine smile graces Crawley’s face.

“I’m fairly certain it goes against Hell’s rules to thank an Angel for anything and, unfortunately, I don’t feel like testing out those rules today. Just so you know. Got a reputation to keep and all.” Crawley muses, looking almost lost in thought. “Though, I- I suppose I could say that this wasn’t an entirely horrible introduction.”

“Oh? And is that, what? High praise for a Demon?”

“From one to an Angel, I’d suppose.”

Aziraphale scoffs and Crawley finally looks over again and smiles, soft and bright. A startling juxtaposition to the rest of Crowley, which is all sharp lines and deep colors, yet at the same time somehow fitting. Perhaps it’s because everything Aziraphale has observed about Crawley has been a juxtaposition so far.

“Either way,” Crawley continues, “for what it is worth, if I ever have to talk to another Angel again, I hope it will be you.”

“ Have to?” Aziraphale doesn’t mean to laugh, but he hasn’t meant to do lots of things today, so what’s one more thing to the list? “If memory serves, and since this memory happened only moments before, there was no having to speak to me. I was the one approached and I don’t recall giving you a reason to approach me.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say no reason,” Crawley mutters under his breath, so soft Aziraphale just barely catches it.

“I’m sorry, what was that?”

“Nothing, nothing.” Crawley steps forward towards the edge, and oh goodness is that how close they had been standing? “The sentiment is all the same no matter how you chose to take it. See you around, Angel.”

And then the Demon known as Crawley is gone with a flap of his wings.

Aziraphale stands on the wall of Eden much longer than he should, seeing is there is hardly a reason to guard it anymore now that the only inhabitants have been, well, forcibly evicted. But he can’t quite seem to bring himself to move, he hardly even considers it. It isn’t until his clothes and his wings have completely dried that he remembers that he can leave this spot. He isn’t even supposed to be up here anyway, only have ventured to the top to watch Adam and Eve leave, both of who are far out of sight by now.

“Crawley,” Aziraphale mutters under his breath as he turns to go back into Eden. He’s unsure exactly where he should go since what is to happen to his post is unclear, but he could at least head back into the garden for now. “Crawley, Crawley, Crawley.”

The name can’t seem to leave his lips even as he is sure that he will never see Crawley again. There is hardly a reason for an Angel and a Demon to be near each other without there being a fight. This was just a phenomenon, one to be left behind as Eden was. Aziraphale is confident that he won’t have a reason to ever be in contact with Crawley ever again.

But, even while Aziraphale thinks this, there is an odd tightening feeling in his chest.

[lalainajanes]

(that other prompt I sent was supposed to be future Klaroline, not just Klaroline, but feel free to do current or even AU) future!Klaroline + sex pollen/accidental aphrodisiac spell + werewolf sex is rougher around the full moon (and made worse by sex pollen/spell) trope

Possibly my shortest smut thing ever? Zero plot, friends.

Takes You Over

A shot glass is put inher hand and Caroline throws it back without even thinking about it, too busyglaring (while acting like she’s completely unbothered – no easy feat) at Klausand his ever widening circle of admirers across the room.

She was pretty sureshe was about to witness some leg humping.

Her throat burns asshe swallows, but not in the way she’s used to. It’s a cold and scratchy allthe way down her throat, an odd sensation. The taste is weird too, herbaceous almost,and her attention is pulled away as she fights a gag. She looks up to find thebartender, a witch Caroline’s become friendly-ish with (and only because thefirst time she’d come to this bar had been during one of Bonnie’s visits) watchingher with great interest. Maybe she’s misread the situation terribly and thegirl’s actually been planning to murder her all along?

That would be justCaroline’s luck.

“What was that?” shedemands, slamming the shot glass down on the bar top so hard it shatters,shards digging into her fingertips.

The smile she’soffered is enigmatic but not malicious. “A local specialty. A helping hand, if you will. Andit’s on the house.”

She’s about to askwhat that even means when she feels Klaus at her side, his hands circling herwrist. His eyes are hard, flitting between the blood dripping from herfingertips and the bartender. “What happened?”

The bartender’sresponse is quiet, her Greek too rapid for Caroline to catch. She’s only livedhere for a couple months, her language skills are still hovering at the remediallevel. A fact that she’s regretting right about now given how still Klaus hasgone, the dangerous edge she can hear in his reply, even if the meaning of hiswords is lost on her. She’s beginning to feel light headed, her heartbeatpicking up and a familiar heat building low and insistent. She’s honestly notsure she’d be able to focus on the conversation happening even if it was ingood ol’ English.

Bright side? She didn’tthink she was going to die unless death by horniness was a thing. Caroline wasonly pissed that she was so transparent, that the heated glares she’d beensending Klaus’ way since he’d strolled back into her life two weeks ago hadbeen noted and accurately assessed.

It’s a tone thatCaroline would bet usually precedes someone losing their head so she reachesout and wraps her hand around his forearm. His attention is immediately pulledto her, eyes assessing and a touch concerned. “All right, sweetheart?”

She licks her lips, unableto help focusing on his. She sways forward, her grip on him tightening, thecrowd melting away. “I think we need to get out of here. Like, now.”

Klaus growls outsomething that sounds like a threat but his arm winds around her waist andtheir outside in a matter of moments, the cool night air, the faint tang ofsalt in it, is a welcome relief. She sucks in a deep breath but control is outof reach. Caroline steps into him, her hands sneaking under his shirt as sheruns her nose up the line of his throat. She lets out a moan and Klaus goesrigid but he doesn’t push her away. “She drugged you,” he tells her gruffly.

“Yeah, I got that.”She’s not an idiot, she put the pieces together just fine. Caroline presses hermouth to his throat, tastes his skin as her nails scratch down his back. “I’llbe pissed later.”

“I can snap your neck,”Klaus offers.

Caroline can’t helpthe giggle that slips out. “Points for selflessness, Klaus but come on. If Ididn’t want you I would have packed my bags and left when you showed up.”

That seems to be allKlaus needs. She’s in his arms, her legs curled over his hips and her backagainst the wall before she can suck in another breath. She grasps his hair,attempts to tug his mouth to hers but Klaus thwarts her, catching her hands andtrapping them against the wall. His expression is strained, his lips wet andCaroline wants to bite them. “Tomorrow’sthe full moon.”

She’s no stranger towerewolves, the way their appetites wax and wane, and it only takes a secondfor Klaus’ meaning to sink in. It makes her hotter, the muscles in her thighstightening in an attempt to get Klaus closer. She rubs herself against himshamelessly, her head thrown back against the wall. The scrap of underwear she’dworn under her dress is soaked, the lace abrading her sensitive foldsdeliciously. He swallows heavily and she watches the movement of his throatavidly, “This isn’t how I planned this.”

She’s not theslightest bit surprised that he’s been plotting. He’s hinted as much the fewtimes their paths had crossed, slipped subtle and not so subtle suggestionsinto conversations. At some point she’d started tossing her own at him, much toKlaus evident delight.

“I had plans of myown.”

His brows rise, “Oh?Do tell me more.”

She shakes her head, “Later.You tell me yours. We can fight over who goes first. I vote me.”

He makes a rough noisein response, leaning in to kiss her. She opens her mouth under the first hotswipe of his tongue, sucking it into her mouth as the rolling of her hips turnfrantic. Klaus begins to move with her, letting her body fall so the angle isbetter, the hard ridge of his cock pressing against her just right. She ripsher mouth away with a gasp and Klaus’ chuckle is low and dirty, his mouthshifting to her ear. “Deal. I can smellhow wet you are, Caroline. It’s delicious.I can’t wait to taste it.”

She shudders, closingher eyes, her nails digging into her palms. She’s not sure how much of this iswhatever she’s been dosed with and how much of it is Klaus but it’s so good,her muscles twitching and sparks flying up her spine every time his zippergrinds against her clit. And she hasn’t even touched him yet, they’re stillwearing most of their clothes. This is the best kind of magic and she’d totallybe up for experimenting with more. Manytimes, just to be sure. “Keep talking,” she mutters.

His lips stretch intoa smile and she’s sure it’s dripping with smugness, even though she can onlyfeel it pressed against her throat. He bites down with blunt teeth and shejolts, presses her lips together to keep from begging for fangs.

She will later, she’ssure. No need to cave quite so soon.

Caroline’s musclesbegin to tense and Klaus makes a soft, soothing sound. “I’ll have you here,love. From behind, your skirt around your waist as you drink from my wrist.After you’ve come for me just like this.”

God, she’s never comefrom dry humping, didn’t think it was really possible. She’s never been quiteso happy to be wrong, loves the ache building where they’re pressed together.Klaus continues, his tone deceptively mild as he does his best to drive herinsane, “I think I’ll wait for a bed to get my mouth between your thighs. Iwant to watch you writhe while you rip at the sheets, claw at the mattress. Topush you to the edge with only my tongue on your clit until your voice breakswhile you curse me.”

She’s breathless, theimages he’s painting for her making her head spin. “That’s not very nice of me,”she manages. “Totally bad guest behavior.”

His laugh is gravelly,“You’re not a nice girl, Caroline. I’ve always enjoyed that about you.” She can’twork up even an ounce of offense, not with the way he says it. Matter of factand tinged with filthy promise that Caroline’s going to make him follow throughon.

He continues to speak,growing hoarse as his mouth teases her neckline. “The bed at my hotel is very large and I’ve imagined you spreadon it since I first walked in. Wrapped my fist around my cock and imagined youdoing the same in your apartment across town. Have you touched yourself andthought of me?”

Her affirmative islittle more than a gasp and her back arches, a silent hint for more. Klaussucks on her nipple through her dress for a moment before he pulls away,resting his forehead against hers. “Excellent,” he drawls. “Will you let mewatch you, Caroline? Let me see how you touch yourself, learn the exactpressure you like on your clit? I remember you were so sensitive after you’dcome. How you squirmed under the lightest pressure of my tongue. Shall we testthat, love? I promise to be a diligentstudent.”

Yep, definitely afantasy she’d had. Often. Last night even, biting into her hand to keep quietwhile she had her vibrator turned way up. She has no doubt Klaus will make themost of any lesson, considering just how good he’s done with instinct andskill. Intimate knowledge will make him lethal to her self-control. Carolinenods, her hips moving fast and frantic as her climax builds.

“Good,” Klaus rasps. “You’realmost there, aren’t you? Just a little more.”

One last thrust of hiships and the waves begin, shuddering through every single one of her limbs, ahigh pitched cry ripped from her throat. He sets her on shaky limbs and turnsher, the strength of his arms the only thing keeping her upright. She hears hisbelt jingle, thinks something’s ripped but he’s pressed against her back, hiscock hot and hard against her ass. She’s tilting her hips even as the lastshockwaves of her orgasm roll over her, propping unsteady arms against thebrick she’s leaning against. He’s inside of her in one slick movement, offeringher his wrist. “Bite,” he grits out, planting his free hand next to her head tobrace them. “Drink. And touch yourself. I need you to come on my cock.”

She nearly does whenshe tastes him, takes a greedy gulp of his blood even as her hand drifts downher stomach to do as he’s urged.

It’s going to bequick, Klaus is tense behind her, his motions rough but just what she needs,breathing heavily against her shoulder.

Caroline doesn’t mind.She’s been promised a bed and she’s certain they’ll make the most of it.