#cheery holiday dialogue?

[jvgsjeff]

[iceman-kazansky]

Smiles, Sun, and Unsaid Feelings

˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊·̩̩̥͙·̩̩̥͙＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊·̩̩̥͙·̩̩̥͙＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊·̩̩̥͙

Requested by: anon, by ask

Request: "will you be writing any Mika Hakkinen or Kimi Raikkonen fics?"

Pairings: Kimi Raikkonen x f!reader

Warnings: Probably unrealistic dialogue, alcohol consumed, Nando is a flirt, 2006 F1 season

Word count: 1.9k

A/n: This kinda took awhile. I was going to write this a week ago (for the 7th,) and I had it ALMOST finished but had school shit thrown on me and now I'm away on holiday. So, what better time to do it then now?

Taglist: @anamiad00msday

˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊·̩̩̥͙·̩̩̥͙＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊·̩̩̥͙·̩̩̥͙＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊·̩̩̥͙

Kimi was a tough nut to crack.

He was aloof, appearing closed off to all onlookers. He was difficult for press and didn't have much of an opinion on anything, always giving short answers to in depth questions. Kimi didn't mind, though, as long as it kept nosy reporters and crowded cameras out of his face, he'd do anything.

Another factor of his personality was, in short, a lack of friends. Sure, he had plenty of acquaintances, but were they really friends? They didn’t know what he was like outside of racing. His personal life.

It wasn't that the iceman didn't want friends, rather that he couldn't be bothered to make new ones.

But he also was beyond content keeping many people in the acquaintance zone. He deeply cherished his privacy.

He stood off to the side of the garage, getting ready for qualifying.

The 2006 season was mid way through when Montoya left Mclaren for good.

Kimi didn't necessarily feel too down about it, he had remained purely cordial with the Columbian.

He saw you step into the garage, clad in racing gear with a helmet tucked under your arm and pressed to your side. At first, he didn't believe you were his team mate. Perhaps an engineer or a mechanic, but a fellow driver? No way.

You were the first to introduce yourself to him. Sauntering up to him without a speck of hesitancy, you reached out and offered to shake hands.

“Hi!” You said, voice cheery.

It was then that you smiled. You beamed a hearty smile that stretched from ear to ear.

Kimi could've sworn he'd been blinded. Teeth so bright they seemed to shine and shimmer. He'd never seen something so.. so bright. Friendly. Outgoing.

He didn't realize it, but from that moment onward, he was hooked.

Kimi didn't return the smile, only offering a small nod to you. His ears burned red hot and he felt strangely awkward.

˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊·̩̩̥͙·̩̩̥͙＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊·̩̩̥͙·̩̩̥͙＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊·̩̩̥͙

Kimi wasn't particularly interested in being friends with you. He had made that much clear. Or atleast, that's what you'd made out his reserved persona as.

But you were determined.

Hot summer sun beat down on you, feeling like every second you stood under its gaze you darkened with tan.

So, what better day for a cold snack?

With two ice-cream cones in hand, you weaved through the many people on the grid to your team garage.

You managed to get close to Kimi, standing beside him. Gently nudging him with your shoulder you presented one of the cold treats to him.

For a long minute he just stared, ice blue eyes flickering from you to the ice cream cone. It looked like he was contemplating or considering something, his brows pinched together and a quizzical look fell into his gaze.

Eventually, Kimi took the ice cream cone, mumbling– or grumbling, you weren't quite sure– a very quiet ‘thank you’.

But what you could've swore you'd seen on his face a moment before was just an ounce of shock. And that was enough to keep you determined to befriend the reserved driver even more.

˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊·̩̩̥͙·̩̩̥͙＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊·̩̩̥͙·̩̩̥͙＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊·̩̩̥

The minute you'd climbed out of your car you looked for Kimi.

Your team had reported that he'd had some technical malfunction mid lap but said nothing else.

It was only after the fact that you exited your car that you found out he had walked off the track and went straight to his yacht.

You imagined he'd be upset over the race; no racer would have been jumping with joy after his incident. Kimi had made it well over half way through the race before unfortunately ending up out on lap 50 due to a mechanical issue.

So, doing the only thing you thought suitable, you sought him out– bringing an offering that was in hope of comforting him and being a good friend.

Or atleast, being a good friend is what you'd told yourself. That there was nothing besides friendly intentions, is what you resorted to claiming. Only, your heart had it twisted. Your emotions had already acted like a fishing hook, thrown straight into the flesh of your heart by his cool blue eyes and ocean vast personality. Kimi had you hooked.

Others may not agree with the ‘ocean vast’, but they were very wrong. Kimi was unique. He was reserved yet still cared about those around him. He wasn't outgoing, eager to meet new people, but he wasn't disinterested in maintaining a friend once you'd gotten there. Sure, it may have taken a bit more effort on your side, but before long you'd chipped through that glacier-tough outside to discover his real self. The one he had put aside for friends only, tucked away from media and press and the other competitors. Kimi wasn't as he appeared, he never had been and it only took a bit of time and observation skills to see that.

Before long, you were at his yacht. Kimi looked shocked when you appeared on the ramp of his boat, still clad in your racing gear and a smile on your face. “Hey,” you greeted, raising a hand slightly to showcase the items you'd run to get as soon as you'd found out about his incident.

In your hand sparkled a bottle of liquor, glinting under the sun. Then, Kimi grinned. His lips tilted up and he genuinely smiled. The action almost made you drop the bottle in shock, luckily, however, you managed to snap out of it and keep your grip on the glass. He may have been feeling upset, but your inclination of bringing a comfort of sorts had him feeling grateful beyond his own words.

And his smile was worth a thousand words to you.

You were welcomed onto Kimi's boat then, the two of you cracking open the liquor and sitting in the shade provided by the boat.

The liquor goes by quicker than you'd imagined.

By the bottom of the bottle you've moved closer, sitting shoulder to shoulder, thighs pressing together while your hands almost touch, lingering a hair's breadth away from each other.

You converse animatedly with Kimi, even if you're the one doing a majority of the talking.

Kimi didn't mind it, though. His head, which previously felt weighted by the loud swirling thoughts, had cleared. Something likely because of your presence.

You're mid story, telling him about some childhood thing you remember when he closes that distance with his hand.

You stop talking, shocked by his action. In your chest, your heart does somersaults, flipping and beating wildly against your ribs. Your eyes dart down to his hand, which tentatively touches yours. Slowly, you reciprocate the action, moving to shift your hand into his. He spreads his fingers and you take the initiative to lace them together.

For Kimi, it's a grounding tactic and a way to show how grateful he is for you. He'd never been one for words, so instead he chose to show his emotion by holding your hand.

Nobody says anything, instead taking the moment silently. Neither of you know what it means to the other, or how the action mirrors an unknown, unspoken affection that’d been brewing for a while.

˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊·̩̩̥͙·̩̩̥͙＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊·̩̩̥͙·̩̩̥͙＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊·̩̩̥͙

The end of the season rolled up quickly. The Monaco incident was far from forgotten to either of you, rather pushed away by the lightning-paced world of Formula 1. It was the evening after Brazil, the final race of the season.

Most of the drivers had gone out to a local bar, deciding to get shitfaced in celebration of what they would argue a successful season.

Kimi sips on a Hardwall Long, a drink of gin and grapefruit soda. The bitter yet sweet mixture dances on his lips as he swallows a mouthful.

Across the bar, you sip your own drink. You know Kimi is here, but you're content while off on your own or meeting new people.

A presence makes itself known to you, leaning against the bartop and flashing a charming smile at you. Immediately, you recognize the face of the Championship winner and fellow driver, Fernando Alonso. His hair peeks out from behind his ears, brown locks waving hello.

“Can I buy you a drink?” he asks politely, gesturing to your almost empty glass. When he speaks, his Spanish accent is thick and rather nice on your ears.

But you don't care for the Spaniards' speech, you've already got your own accented man – whose voice lingers even now in the back of your mind,– to charm your ears.

You smile at Fernando, but politely decline, “I'm good but thank you, Nando. Congratulations on winning the championship, by the way.”

Little did you know that on the other side of the bar, you've caught none other than The Iceman's attention.

It's rare for the Fin to change expressions often– he's simply a man wearing a neutral face most of the time. But as of now, his eyes have narrowed uncharacteristically more, face pulling together in an expression of pure jealousy. Though, Kimi wouldn't really admit that out loud.

Fernando doesn't stick around too long after that, he just flashes you another smile and makes a comment about ‘still being there if you change your mind, hermosa’ before slipping away.

It isn't long before another figure stands beside you, only this time he seems.. off.

You turn your eyes to look at Kimi. He's got this subtle, sour look on his face, like he's just sucked on a lemon. It's unnatural on him, something you're unaccustomed with.

“Is everything alright, Kimi?” you ask, feeling concern.

He doesn't look at you, instead glaring at some object across the bar. “What did he want?”

“Alonso?” you ask, eyeing Kimi suspiciously, “he just wanted to buy me a drink.”

Kimi's eyes dart to the bar top, where a half-finished drink of yours sits. You can see his jaw clench while he simply hums.

“Let me take you on a date.”

“What?”

Kimi stares at you now, icy blue eyes trained on yours. He's serious and there isn't a speck of joke or jab in his speech.

“I promise it'll be better than whatever that.. Kusipää,” the foreign word slides off his tongue smoothly, alien to your ears, “has to offer.”

To say you were speechless was an understatement. Out of everything you expected to come from Kimi's mouth, his offer to take you on a date was not one of them. It wasn't even in the ballpark.

“He didn't ask me on a date,” you say, feeling confused. This whole thing feels confusing and like a big misunderstanding. Like a trick.

“My offer still stands.”

Something in his voice has you doubting your previous thought. How could he sound so sincere and be deceiving? It would be far-fetched. Even more so when you meet his gaze and see the genuine ask present in his eyes.

“Then I'd be honoured, Kimi,” you say, smiling at last. Your heart has taken that leap of faith.

He nods, and for a split second a smile graces his lips. You're thrown back to Monaco, even just for a short time, where he's smiling at you and you're smiling at him with booze in hand. He checks his phone before turning back to you, “let's get out of this place.”

The night was still young, and outside of the bar, within the city of Sao Paulõ, it was alive. Kimi extended his hand and you took it instantly, letting him lead you out of the bar.

˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊·̩̩̥͙·̩̩̥͙＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊·̩̩̥͙·̩̩̥͙＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊·̩̩̥͙

𝐋𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐦𝐲 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤? 𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐫𝐞𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐠! 𝐈𝐭'𝐬 𝐠𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐥𝐲 𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐝!

ᴍᴀꜱᴛᴇʀʟɪꜱᴛ || ᴛᴀɢʟɪꜱᴛ || ɴᴀᴠɪɢᴀᴛɪᴏɴ

[dollyfetti]

౨ৎ❆ ₊˚♡⊹ i smell snow - katsmas day 1

❄️︵︵　summary: getting a whiff of snow one chilly night, you persuade your grumpy neighbor to join you to watch the first snowfall of the year 🍫︵︵　notes: gilmore girls au, bakugou x reader, fluff, the rest of these cw are for ppl who havent watched the show: reader is a young mom, this is mostly dialogue tbh but a huge part of the show is how quick and witty everyone is, 🎀︵︵　word count: 1.8k

you wave and call out to your friend across the block, "night, katsukiiii!" you've known bakugou as your grumpy but somehow caring neighbor since you moved to stars hollow so many years ago. he grunts in response, dismissively throwing his hand before pulling down his scarf and disappearing into his house.

the holidays in your merry little town always filled you with joy. seeing the beautiful red and green lights adorning every lamp post, the festive cookies being sold at iida's market, and the gorgeous nutcracker ballet that mina forced her dancers to perform each year. it all combined to make you feel high-spirited. christmas time's especially meaningful as you never had experienced a proper childhood with the excitement of opening presents or building gingerbread houses, so the cheery season rekindles that sense of wonder and excitement within you.

"awe, that is soo cute! while you two are making googly eyes at each other, i'll just freeze to death. no biggie, don't worry about me..!"

you spin around with a playful roll of your eyes. "huh, i wonder where you get this dramatic flair from," you stick out your tongue to your teenage daughter, rory, waving your hand around in her face before unlocking the front door.

you drop your keys into a dish shaped like betty boop’s head, your feet tripping over each other as you make your way to the kitchen. all you hope for in this very moment is just one more chocolate pop tart to coat your tastebuds with its sweet chocolatey-ness. you swing open the fridge, stomping your foot with a pouty frown and glare when you find it nearly empty.

"ughhh nooo!! my life is overrrr, we're out of pop tarts! why didn't you grab some at iida's roryyyyyy?" you whine annoyingly, dropping yourself into a chair and dramatically burying your face into your hands. rory giggles, patting your head with mock sympathy as she walks by.

she shrugs off her fuzzy red coat with a soft tsk, "you're right, i have noo idea where i get it from!" she exclaims, her voice dripping with playful sarcasm.

"and by the way," she snaps her fingers, catching your attention. she lifts a silver wrapped chocolate pop tart from the counter, wiggling her eyebrows like it was obviously there (cuz it was). you gasp, your jaw dropping cartoonishly. "b-but-" you start with furrowed eyebrows only to be cut off a second later.

"since when do we keep pop tarts in the fridge?" she hums, opening the wrapper and breaking off a piece of the treat before handing you the rest.

"this is all your fault!" you huff, nibbling into the chocolate as soon as it reached your hand. "keeping them in the fridge makes them nice and coldd.. what if i didn't want to toast it? huh? what if i just wanted a cool, chilled, crazy good pop tart?"

she shrugs, utterly unbothered. "okaay, princess, i sincerely apologize,"

the rest of the evening was a blur of corny reruns from a show you and rory had stumbled upon one particularly slow night. the two of you ended up asleep on the couch, wrapped in the cocoon of a large cozy blanket. then the quiet of the night was interrupted when you awoke suddenly, your senses sharpening.

your eyes widen a little as you sniff the air, the distinct scent of something magical wafting through the room. you gasp excitedly, turning to your daughter. you shake her arm, "rory! wake up!!" you whisper-yell.

the girl whines, keeping her heavy eyes shut as she sleepily groans, "whaaaat?"

"i smell it!" you chirp, spinning your head to the window. "i smell snoww!!!"

you get up and tumble to the window, dragging the fluffy blanket along with you followed by a squeak from rory at the sudden chill. you push aside your pink curtain, peering at the night sky. "i love snow..!" you squeal. "everything's magical when it snows, like the world's wearing a big fat sparkly dress!"

"when is it coming down?" rory yawns, shuffling over to you sleepily.

"in like a half hour.. i'm so excited!!" your eyes fixed on the dark sky.

rory whines again, her face scrunched as she let out another long yawn. "i’m tiredddd, m going back to sleep. take pictures." she huffs, waddling back to her bedroom.

you pout after her, still gazing out the window, your heart filled with anticipation.

you don't like watching the first snowfall of the year alone. you always do it with someone whether its a boyfriend or rory. you huff, folding your arms and thinking of what to do. it's then you remember katsuki-- even though he goes to sleep early, he'll still watch with you, right? he’d do this one simple thing for you-- he's always doing stuff much grander for your benefit anyway.

so you grab a post-it and scribble down a quick note to rory in case she wakes up, leaving it under her door. you pull on your babyish pink swan hat and coat before hurrying out the door and making your way to your neighbor's.

you knock once, twice, and almost a third time before the door opens. bakugou stands there, looking entirely too put-together for someone who’s clearly just woken up.

“what?” he grumbles, his voice still thick with sleep.

“we’re gonna miss it!--” you exclaim, your words practically bursting with urgency.

he grunts, "if yer talkin about sleep, then yah."

"nono, cmonnn!! we gotta goo, it's gonna snow!" you hop from foot to foot with barely contained excitement.

he scoffs with a deep frown, "fuck no, its fuckin freezin."

you pout, giving him your best puppy dog eyes. "pleaseeee! for lil ol me? ill buy more coffee and- and- and you'll get soo rich!" you nod enthusiastically with a cheesy grin.

he rolls his eyes, grabbing his coat off the hook with a sigh. "no, ya don't need any more damn coffee in yer system. already give ya more than i should."

you squeal with delight, grabbing his arm and tugging him outside. “hooray! hurry, hurry!!”

he regrets this. the two of you have been standing outside for ten minutes for this stupid snow, and there's been nothing.

"the forecast didn't predict shit." katsuki huffs, his hot breath visible in the cold air.

you don't acknowledge him, too distracted by the anticipation. “i love flakes, flurries, swirls, crystals... me and snow, we have a beautiful history,” you muse, your voice full of fond nostalgia.

the blond lets out an exasperated sigh. “saw two fuckin forecasts, and neither of ‘em said anything about snow,” he growls, shivering as you still cling to his arm.

katsuki stares ahead blankly before doing a double take towards you. he scoffs with a light chuckle. "didya get yer hat from carter's?" he mocks your babyish pink swan hat, but you ignore him, tapping his arm insistently. "it's coming, i know it is.. i'm never ever wrong," your tone unwavering, he watches you gaze at the night sky, his eyes filled with a mixture disbelief and a little something else. he's shamefully endeared by your childlike wonder, even if it is annoying at times-- almost like dealing with a very persistent, stubborn child.

“it needs to come fasterrr...” you whine, blinking at the sky, willing the magical snow to appear.

“oh, geez, ya want it to come faster?” he asks, his voice dripping with sarcasm-- until you realize he wasn't planning on hearing your witty response. without another word uttered, he leans in, his lips crashing against yours. no words, no warning, just a quiet, unspoken understanding that he’s been waiting for this moment.

he's the one who pulls back just a few seconds later, his face flushed from the cold december air and his flustered nerves. you don't say anything. you simply stare at the blond with eyes that long to hear him speak, say anything. you've never seen this side of bakugou with you before, and it makes you nervous.

meanwhile he's bracing himself for impact, thinking he probably just fucked up your eight year friendship.

"say somethin please.." he mutters, his voice low. you exhale sharply before grabbing his hand. you don't know what you're about to say, your mind’s a jumble of thoughts, emotions too tangled to make sense of just yet. you’re not sure what to make of this, or if you even want to. you know katsuki, and you know how much of a burden you can be. you can't explore something that you already know won't last. especially not with him.

and then, as if the universe is offering you a sign, the first snowflake falls—delicate and perfect, followed by another, and another. the sky’s doing its part, now it’s up to you.

still holding his hand, you feel your heart beat louder in your chest. "told you snow’s magical," you whisper, your gaze locked on his. but his eyes refuse to meet yours. they dart nervously around the ground beneath him. the tension radiating from him causes his hand to feel stiff in yours. snow begins to fall more steadily, and one delicate snowflake lands on the bridge of his nose, making him flinch in surprise. you can't help the soft giggle that escapes you.

"yknow for a guy who spends every day in his diner.. you're not a bad kisser," you can't help the wide grin that displays itself on your lips at his fidgety, awkward reaction. his hand tightens around yours. "shut up asshole," he grunts, meeting your eyes finally.

"you're not just gonna.. brush past what happened are you?" you ask, trying to sound casual, but there's a note of worry in your voice, hoping he didn't just kiss you to shut you up. you study him cautiously with a tilt of your head.

you giggle again when an offended expression flashes across his face. "no!!? i thought you were gonna do that!"

you bite your lip softly, your shyness suddenly reappearing. "i think m gonna go inside.." you start, still holding his hand. "i'll see you tomorrow,"

he hums, his thumb unintentionally rubbing your soft hand. "what happened to not brushing past it?"

you grin, leaning in to kiss the corner of his mouth. he exhales slowly, his face turning red again. you smile toothily, "it's my turn to make the next move, so you'll just haveta be patient," you tease, pulling away from him to walk back in your house.

he watches you adorably wave goodbye right before you let out a girly giggle and quietly step inside. the blond can't help the tiny smile that's forced out as he lifts his head to the snow-falling sky. and then he whispers very quietly, hoping none of his nosy neighbors see him talk to himself like an idiot,

"i want a beautiful relationship with her too."

[tellmealovestory]

Crochet Sweater

Summary: You started a new hobby and your first project doesn't come out the way you hoped.

Warnings: A few lines of suggestive dialogue.

Spooktober Masterlist

“It’s finished!” You exude excitement as you skip up to Eddie carrying a black bag stuffed with orange tissue paper that crinkles every time you swing it back and forth in your hands.

“Took you long enough,” Eddie teases, grimacing when you slap his chest playfully. “Ouch, lady! You wound me.” 

You roll your eyes at his dramatics because you clearly didn’t. Shoving the bag into his arms you wait with bated breath as he pushes aside some of the tissue paper to peer inside. His eyebrows meet in the middle of his forehead, lips turning down into a frown and your stomach twists and turns like a pretzel. 

“It’s a Christmas sweater?” he asks with confusion. “Little early for Christmas presents isn’t it? Only October last I checked.” 

“What? No,” you say. “It’s the sweater that Freddy Cougar wears from that movie you won’t stop talking about.” 

“Cougar? You mean Kreuger?” 

You shrug your shoulders and scrunch your face up. Cougar, Kreuger it’s all the same to you. It’s a horror movie villain and you refuse to watch horror movies because you get scared easily and despite Eddie’s promises that he won’t let anything happen to you you still refuse to go to the movies and see it with him. 

“Huh,” Eddie says, pulling the crochet sweater fully out of the bag. The tissue paper crinkles again and he carelessly tosses the bag to the floor, his confusion only growing when he sees it fully. 

All he had told you were the colors were red and green so naturally you had chosen colors that were bright and cheery. A bold green, almost neon like something the Grinch’s fur would be covered in. A red that was cherry colored, the color of ribbons and bows strung up on porches during the holiday season. 

Holding it up to his body he doesn’t even try to hold back his laughter that bursts out loud and hard until his shoulders are shaking and he can barely breath. One sleeve is far longer than the other, covering his rings that rest on his fingers, the other only about a quarter long. It’s wide, but short and as you stare at it and then him you’re mortified. 

“Oh…” 

It’s the ugliest thing you’ve ever seen in your life. In your defense it was your first attempt at a new hobby, but still…

“You don’t have to wear that,” you blurt, reaching out for it to take it back and shove it in the bottom of a dumpster in a part of town that no one goes to, but Eddie is quicker than you, pulling it out of your reach as he slips it over his head. 

Dear god it’s even uglier on him and he’s a man that could pull anything off. 

Your face hurts from how hot it’s burning, but Eddie seems to be having the time of his life. Using the arm that has the longer sleeve he flops his hand about in the air and grins like a mad man. There’s a sliver of midriff showing where you didn’t get the measurements quite right and when he turns around and spins like a ballerina you can see some of the yarn you used already unraveling near the back and the bottom.

“Eddie. If you care about me at all you’re going to take that thing off and burn it in the backyard.”

“Naw. Gonna wear this on our next date. Make everybody in this town jealous. Hey, you ever thought of making one for yourself? We could wear matching sweaters on date night.” He wiggles his eyebrows like he’s come up with the best idea in the world.

This time when you slap his chest you make sure to add a little more force so it hurts. 

“Gonna sleep in this. Gonna wear it till it falls off. Gonna make sweet, sweet love to you in this,” he says, eyebrows dancing higher and that’s the final straw. 

“Oh my god,” you mutter, face burning hotter because only Eddie would think of saying something like that. “I swear to god if you plan on wearing that while we’re making out the only person you’re gonna be making love to is yourself.” You say putting air quotes around the last few words. 

His boisterous laughter is the last thing you hear before he’s enveloping you in his arms and the ugly sweater, mouth covering yours as he kisses you. “I really do like it,” he murmurs against your lips. 

You want to call him a liar because how could anyone love something that ugly? But before you can get a word in edgewise he’s kissing you again making you lose your train of thought.

[lunarsimmer]

[Begin Image Description:

Image 1: Large white Zs coming out of a treehouse.

Image 2: A sim with short wavy black hair relaxing in a glass-walled bathtub.

Image 3: A sim with dark brown hair in braided pigtails relaxing in a glass-walled bathtub with a green face mask and cucumbers over their eyes.

Image 4: A group of sims gathered around a blue and white decorating Winterfest tree with presents underneath that is glowing.

Image 5: A group of sims sitting at a dining table with turkey on the plates in front of them.

Image 6: A sim with short wavy brown hair passed out on the floor as a sim with dark brown hair in a braided crown looks on while an elder sim in a festive Winterfest outfit ignores it.

Image 7: A dark grey and light grey gradient banner with the words Stone Legacy on the left with a swirly heart inside a house above it and the words gen 1 on the right with a swirly heart inside a house above it.

End Image Description]

Story and dialogue below cut:

Well, isn’t this a cheery Winterfest? Someone is sleeping in the treehouse and Didi and Hazel both somehow are in the bathtub?

Hazel: It’s the holidays after our dad died, it’s going to be a little stressful.

Fair, and here is the lighting of the tree which is somewhat bittersweet to witness without Garrett.

Ashton: I don’t know, somehow I can’t shake the feeling your dad is here?

That’s the thing about the Sims, the dead don’t necessarily stay dead annd Gemma’s passed out on the floor. Merry Winterfest everyone!

Father Winter: What did I walk into? Maybe I’ve been drinking too much eggnog...

Beginning / Previous / Next

[jeonqkooks]

supernova | jjk (02)

series masterpost / playlist ; moodboards

"When the stars align, I'll meet you then."

Another Life - Surf Mesa ft. FLETCHER, Josh Golden

pairing: jungkook x reader

rating: PG

genre/warnings: idol au, exes to lovers, fluff if you squint??, angst !! with a happy ending thank fuck, not very edited bc this is me we're talking about!!

word count: 5.3k

note: ahhh so the supernova people can speak lmao this is my only fic where the characters have only had approximately 2 lines of dialogue 🥴 anyway i can't believe supernova has ended up here!! from what was supposed to be an angsty as hell oneshot, she's blossomed into - well, whatever this is bc i don't wanna spoil anything :')

— as always, i’d appreciate any thoughts or comments you may have, and please drop a like and/or reblog if you enjoy reading ♡

When the bakery owner – Jiwon is her name, as you’ve come to learn – informed you that she would be closing the place in a month, you could not help but sink.

One month. It feels like a countdown to your ending all over again.

You didn’t tell her that the reason you stayed loyal to the humble pastry shop wasn’t because of their impeccable treats, though they were certainly a huge plus.

You didn’t tell her that this place had become a safe haven for you, somewhere you could always seek refuge in whenever the world became a little too much to handle and all you needed was to reminisce on happier days.

When the smell of cherries on danishes oddly meant apricots and the universe. When stars weren’t just luminous spheroids made of hydrogen and helium but were housed in a pair of dark brown orbs, twinkling even in the presence of the sun. When home was not an apartment with four walls, scattered with crooked picture frames but a person with a bunny smile and a permanent tiger lily on his arm. When love was everything you needed and that was enough to conquer anything at all.

“It’s not easy closing this chapter of my life, but hopefully I’ll be moving onto bigger and better things!” she had told you with a bright smile on her face, eyes crinkling with sheer excitement for happier days in the future, oblivious to the way your poorly bandaged heart started to bleed again.

Your friends, family, and even this middle aged woman who is practically a stranger to you, have carried on with their lives. They’ve all moved onto new chapters, perhaps even onto new books altogether but you’re still here, rooted to the spot on the same page even after all this time. A novel that no one wants to read anymore, tucked away in a corner of a dusty old shelf, hidden from the light of day. Sealed away to be forgotten…

What a terribly lonely place it is.

You tried to mimic that cheery smile and offered her your kindest sentiments – wishing her good luck with her future endeavors, hoping that she will succeed in whatever chooses to do next – but it’s sad that you know you didn’t mean them, not really.

You couldn’t even if you wanted to. All rational thoughts were out the window the second that Jiwon announced the imminent closure of your most treasured place.

The tapestry gets pulled apart at the seams. Another puzzle piece that will inevitably chip away until the perfect picture of you and him will revert back to the blank canvas it once was.

What will you move onto?

You didn’t talk to Jungkook for months after your worlds shattered, not until the boys achieved yet another milestone that you had to text him congratulations. There were, of course, many things to be considered before you finally had the courage to send that one simple line.

Thank you, he had replied then, we all miss you.

You were thankful that he opted for a neutral “we”.

Even after that first message, the texts only came every time a birthday or a major holiday rolled around, or whenever something happened in either of your lives that was monumental enough to revisit the perpetually fresh wound of your break to share your excitement for the other’s successes. Mostly Jungkook’s, and mostly because half of his life was on the news anyway. You, on the other hand, never took the initiative to share anything significant in your own life, not unless he asked.

There’s this thing he always did that you think might have been deliberate, but you couldn’t really be sure; maybe you’d have to ask him in another life.

It’s silly to mull over messaging etiquette like you were a teenage detective and your crush’s texting pattern was the single greatest casefile you would ever solve, but he never leaves you on read.  He never lets you be the one to send a message last. Even after you both have bidded your goodnights and there is no more small talk to be had. Even when the last thing you sent is a mere lol in response to a stupid comment he made after goodbye, he would still tack on at least a smiley face afterward.

Jungkook could easily chalk it up to his hectic schedule and leave your messages to hang in the dead space of your phone, but he doesn’t though, and you never know how to feel about that.

Sometimes, you’re curious if he’s found someone else yet – a new love to take your place and be everything that you couldn’t be for him – and feel your heart twisting in your chest at the possibility that maybe he has. You’re in no position to care about this; you forfeited the right when you asked him to let you go, but nonetheless the human mind is a funny paradox, and the heart is full of nostalgia.

On nights where you’re brave enough to welcome that familiar ache with open arms, you entertain this possibility. It always starts with a woman, faceless but undoubtedly beautiful beyond words. You want her to be kind, you want her to be gentle, you want her to hold his hand while he’s sleeping and kiss his cheek when he wakes up. You want him to be loved and to be happy regardless of who it’s with, and regardless of how much you wish it could be with you instead.

No matter how much the mere thought of it kills you, you hope she fills his heart with so much joy that he forgets the pain of your departure. You’ve always known that eventually, he’ll have to forget all about you.

Jungkook is the sun to your foolish dying Icarus. You were truly in over your head to think that you could ever fit into his world.

Somewhere down the line, you hope there will only be happiness, and smiles so big that they make his cheeks hurt. It’s the kind of happiness that you had with him, where every moment felt like being on cloud nine and where his name was synonymous with every single wonderful thing that you could ever imagine.

It still does – and it forever will, no matter how hard you try to burn him from your daily routine and fail miserably every single day – but even then, it’s colored with shades of melancholy, every letter tinted blue.

Jungkook means the same thing as love, happiness, complete and utter euphoria, your safest haven. Holding hands with a loved one. Freshly baked chocolate chip cookies on a crisp autumn morning. The magical first snowfall of the season. Feeling the sun shining on your face.

And Jungkook means the same thing as sadness, regret, your greatest heartache, your sweetest downfall… The sudden pang of grief that hits you right in the center of your chest when you pass by a familiar street or hear a bittersweet tune. 

It’s hard to comprehend that a person can single-handedly rewrite your entire vocabulary, but he has managed to change you in ways beyond this too. 

It took you a while to familiarize yourself with what life was like before Jungkook. You forced yourself to do things that you usually wouldn’t, just so the discomfort of doing things you hated could overshadow the discomfort of missing him.

Black coffee at 9AM had to taste more bitter than not receiving a good morning text, one that’s littered with smiley faces and kisses.

Morning runs and the burning sensation in your limbs had to ache more than coming home to an empty apartment and crawling into an empty bed, knowing that he’s somewhere out there in the same city, only a drive away from you.

Over time, you got used to it.

Over time, you got used to the absence of him.

In this new life of yours, nothing looks and feels the same as it once was. Colors have all desaturated, though not by much but it’s still enough to throw you just enough off balance. Some days, everything is completely black and white.

Black and white, save for the golden key around your neck. The key to the box of memories he gave you that you still have, tucked away in a soft corner at home.

All of your what if’s, your could’ve been’s, your maybe’s… they all lead back to him. There’s no other solution to this equation; it’s just him. 

Jungkook has altered the very foundation of your life, wedged in between every crevice of your being, left pieces of himself in every facet of your world. Even when he’s gone, his presence still lingers, sometimes like a ghost, sometimes like the remnants of a tattoo you can never fully get rid of. 

Oftentimes, in instances where you don’t have the luxury of being distracted by work, by the hustle and bustle of the city, by just about anything at all, you ruminate on that decision. The one decision that broke two hearts. The one decision that’s still killing you inside.

You aren’t someone who tends to dwell on their past actions, because what’s done is done. No amount of regret or overanalyzing can change what has happened. Life is sometimes cruel like that, and the only thing to do is accept it and move on, learn from your mistakes and try to do better next time.

But Jungkook isn’t a mistake. He isn’t a lesson that you needed to learn because neither of you did anything wrong. It wasn’t wrong to love him, and it wasn’t wrong to leave him either.

Perhaps, the only thing you’re guilty of is getting the timing wrong.

You wonder if you should message him now, to tell him that where your love first bloomed will soon be gone. You wonder if he still remembers this place, if it still holds the same meaning to him as it does to you.

It’s terrible if it doesn’t, and it’s terrible if it does.

Before you know it, the end is here.

As you enter the bakery for the last time, your nostrils are instantly filled with the pleasant smell of freshly baked goods. Jiwon smiles warmly at you from behind the counter when you give her a small wave. The other patrons here move on with their day as usual, paying no attention to you, like they don’t even care that this is the final moment all of you would be spending here.

You grab a pair of tongs and a small tray as you browse through the selection of pastries, looking for your favorite cherry danishes to pair with the hot chocolate that you’ll order at the counter. You pick up a cinnamon roll and a few macarons too, to take home with you afterward.

You hope, in vain, that Jiwon sees it in the way you’re just a beat slower than normal, drawing things out as much as you can, as if it would somehow make her change her mind and keep this place open. Let you live in this bubble for just a while longer.

It’s the finality of leaving. It’s the finality of being left.

Somewhere behind you, the doorbell chimes, announcing a new customer. You don’t notice the person’s sigh of relief as they escape the cold into the nicely heated shelter of the shop, nor the way they take a couple steps and then stop for a minute before their feet continue to carry them to where you are. You don’t care about any of it, until…

A soft voice revives your heart.

“I hear apricot danishes are much better.”

As cliché as it sounds, you freeze. You almost drop everything in your hands, having been rendered immobile while life goes on around you. Chatter continues like nothing has changed. To the people in this bakery, nothing really has changed. They’re sipping on their lattes and catching up with friends over shared blueberry muffins and banana breads, exchanging mundane tidbits in their daily lives and smiling, laughing, drunk on the cozy atmosphere in this wonderful little haven.

“Oh,” you breathe, paralyzed by the many paradoxical emotions running through you at once. Shock, joy, resentment, relief, sorrow… Even though all of it only comes out in the form of a starstruck Hi, but you have a feeling that he understands.

Your voice is small, timid, like a deer caught in headlights, as if he isn’t someone you once knew better than the back of your hand.

His chocolate eyes lock on yours, and he graces you with a warm smile. You’ve missed the simple quirk of his lips. “Hi,” he parrots.

The bell chimes again, and a couple of strangers filter in. You move along to not hold up the line.

“How– what are you– what are you doing here?” you stutter, heart in your throat just at the sight of him. You try and fail at not thinking about the universe bringing him back to you. Because it’s not. This isn’t a cosmic realignment. You two just happen to be in the same place at the same time, and if you were alone right now, you would probably cry.

“I heard they were closing,” Jungkook answers easily. When you look confused, a silent question dancing on the tip of your tongue – How on earth would you know that? – that you don’t know if you should voice, he supplies, “I saw the announcement a couple weeks ago. I still stop by whenever I have time. ”

He puts a hand on your back as if on instinct, when a woman almost bumps into you on her way out. It’s a miracle that you’re still standing upright.

You clear your throat and inhale. “Oh, you do? I’m here almost every other day. Funny how we never ran into each other.”

“Yeah. Funny, isn’t it?” he agrees, smiling at you fondly. It’s a little bittersweet too. “We must have kept missing each other.”

Your mind goes to a dangerous place before you could stop it. Your stupid brain digs into the hidden layers of meaning that might not even be there at all.

We kept missing each other.

I kept missing you.

You don’t trust yourself to say anything, so you gloss over his words, only returning his smile albeit tightly, and continue to move on. Jungkook grabs a tray like you did some 15 minutes ago, and picks a similar danish, foregoing the apricot ones that you tricked him into getting a long time ago, just so you would be able to get your favorites. The cherry danishes that you both have on your individual trays are the last ones. How symbolically cruel.

He hides half his face in the thick wool scarf he’s wearing as you step closer to the counter. When you ask him if the danish is the only thing he’s getting, he nods; and when you tell that you’ll buy him a drink to go with it, he refuses and says he’ll get both of yours, because lord knows he has the money. But you never once gave in, never let him buy you things that you are more than capable of paying for yourself. You don’t this time either, so he relents.

In the end, you pay for the pastries and two hot chocolates, one with extra marshmallows. Once you have your goods, you wonder if he would bid you goodbye and leave, go back to his busy life that demands him to be on the go 25/8. 

If you head outside right now, you two would probably part ways. But you came here today with the intention of burning every little detail of the bakery into your brain for one last time. Having Jungkook here isn’t going to derail your plan. You could pretend that things are fine for now, but then what? You’ve already lost him; you won’t let this place slip through your fingers so easily too.

You head to a spot in the corner where barely anyone can see you but you can observe everything, and to your surprise, he wordlessly follows you. If you were a little braver, you would throw him a cheeky I didn’t invite you to join, even though that’s all you want.

You both take a seat at the small table and talk about your lives and everything that happened in each other’s absence. Like you’re just old friends, catching up after forever apart. You keep waiting for the ball to drop, to see if he would mention a new lover and inevitably ask if there’s anyone special in your life too, but he never does.

It’s been years since you last saw him, and a while since he stepped a little further away from the spotlight that he once called home. Jungkook is still so caring – the occasional texts have already told you as much, and you wonder if it’s because he’s talking to you or if it’s just in his nature to be kind to everyone around him.

The cherries taste sweeter today, and the hot chocolate too. But the aftertaste is painful, knowing that your unexpected and limited time is running out.

At one point, you just sit in silence, watching the people leave. You notice that every time a customer exits, Jiwon’s gaze would linger on the door. You feel like you should’ve brought her something today, like a small houseplant or a bouquet of flowers, as a thank you or a goodbye present. After all, this place has been there for you a lot these past few years.

You try to take in as much as you can. How the wooden table feels under your hands. How the bell sounds when it chimes. How the printed logo on the takeaway cup feels when you brush your fingers over it. Their incredible recipes that always make you feel like you’re taking a bite of heaven. All the photos on the wall of Jiwon and her staff throughout the decade that this bakery has been on this street corner. You can still pinpoint the exact spot you stood at when you first saw Jungkook.

You want this to last a little longer, but you don’t know if you should ask. You want to be selfish just this once and drown yourself in his presence, because this might very well be the last time. 

When the danishes are gone and the beverages are nearly finished, he asks if you have a minute to spare, to walk around and enjoy the last bits of sun for the day.

“Okay,” you say and watch his face light up. A smile graces his lips again and you suppress the shiver that tries to run up your spine. You can still read him so easily. He wants this as much as you do, and it’s absolutely devastating. Just two people who love each other and a casket full of things unsaid.

Once you’ve collected your things and gone outside, leaving behind your second home for good, Jungkook tips his head somewhere to the right with a question in his eyes, and you know what it means instantly. 

You head down a small, hidden street filled with quaint houses that you both used to love. You haven’t been down this road in forever; it feels surreal that the first time you revisit it in ages is with him, and on today of all days. Cosmic realignment.

No. Stop that.

The two of you walk alone down the narrow street, save for the few times that a student in uniform walks by, eyes glued to their phone as they head home after school, or an older woman hurrying past with her bags full of groceries. He lets his arm brush against yours as you stroll and marvel at the way the colors of the sky reflect in the old windows, shifting from blue, to purple, to pink all in a matter of minutes. Ribbons of clouds unravel in the same way you do.

Eventually, you end up at a small park by the riverfront when cement turns into grass. There’s more people here; people walking their dogs, parents and children enjoying hot snacks on nearby benches, couples with their hands in each other’s coat pockets, trying to stay warm. You’re envious of the last ones that most.

Jungkook must have seen you watching them, because his knuckles touch yours tentatively and a long forgotten habit kicks in. When you instinctively pull back and mutter a quick Sorry, it hurts two hearts at once. 

Back then, every time that he let you go when there was someone else around, someone who wasn’t privy to knowing about you, you would apologize even though it wasn’t your fault that you were a secret. He would always lightly scold you, telling you that you had nothing to be sorry about, but he could never remedy this. It wasn’t possible back then, and Jungkook never found a way to not make you feel like a problem to be dealt with when all you wanted was to hold his hand.

No one is even looking now, but you guess it’s just muscle memory, even after all this time.

You clutch the paper bag holding the pastries, feeling awkward that you just jerked back like he had burnt you. Eyeing an empty bench, you ask if he wants to sit down. As you cross the short distance over there, you realize that it isn’t big enough for you to comfortably put some space between your bodies. The regret is almost immediate.

You sit down next to him with your thighs touching. He’s close enough that you can spot a fallen eyelash on his cheek, but your hands remain in your lap, busying themselves with smoothing over your bag of treats, fighting the urge to brush your fingers against his face.

You focus on the river in front of you and how the water paints a shimmering picture of the setting sun. On the other side of the bank, cars faintly honk at one another as traffic piles on, a cacophony of noises seemingly so far away from your little bubble right here. You feel Jungkook’s eyes on the side of your face, but you don’t dare look at him.

All the times that you have spent, caged in the solitude of your bedroom, wanting to call him and knowing that he would be there for you in a heartbeat, no questions asked. He would be there, and he would hold you until the sun rises, until you stop shaking and crying, until everything feels like it’s going to be okay again even though you both know it isn’t.

Because missing him comes in waves. And why more often than not, you want nights to last longer and days shorter, you want the sun to sink under the horizon faster so darkness can embrace the sky. Because when the stars come out, it feels like being wrapped in his warm embrace again, feels like staring into those twinkling eyes again, feels like he’s right there with you as if you don’t carry him in your heart everywhere you go. You started dreading summers and relished in harsh, long winters – it’s ironic how the cold can make you feel such warmth.

Jungkook is right next to you, and you still miss him.

Some say watching the sun rise over the Grand Canal in Venice is the most beautiful sight one can ever hope to witness. Others say the most wonderful experience is to take in a sunset from Piazzale Michelangelo, Florence, with a glass of wine in hand.

Jungkook has done it all – Rome, Paris, London, all the most marvelous cities to have ever existed. He’s been all over the world and witnessed the endless beauty that it has to offer, but you’re still the most breathtaking thing he’s seen by far. 

Here, holding a bag of baked goods and leaning against a backdrop of cotton candy clouds. The wandering sun casts a golden glow upon your profile, though he would think that you look ethereal regardless.

It’s a sight that he’s too familiar with. He’s seen it many times in his dreams, but the last time he got to have you like this was years ago. 

“Do you ever…” Jungkook starts and then stops for a bit, like he’s deciding if he should go through with the question. “Do you ever wonder… what could’ve been… with us?”

All the damn time.

“Do you?” you ask instead, eyes still on the water, how it ripples when the wind blows. The cold nips at your skin, making you shiver.

“Every single day,” he answers earnestly, like you had expected him to. “You’re not someone I can forget about that easily.”

Some kid throws a pebble into the river. Your heart, like the pebble, sinks to the bottom. The sun sets eventually, to give the sky to the moon. 

You don’t know what to say to him next, so you just hum softly. One of your hands rubs absentmindedly between your collarbones, where the key rests under your sweater. You trace the outline of it over the fabric, hoping to soothe the ache you feel.

Jungkook continues, saying something that you wish he hadn’t.

“I’ve missed you.”

Your eyes well up and your chest feels impossibly tight. It’s getting dark now, but the moon is starting to peek through. There’s not a lot of stars tonight, though you can never really see them in the city anyway. You want to tell him to stop, to tell him that neither of you can take this anymore because wasn’t it enough the first time around? It doesn’t matter if you still love each other. It doesn’t matter that you’re both a little older and wiser, and have thicker skin now to weather heavier storms, because the world hasn’t changed. It’s still rooting for your demise at every turn.

But… all that comes out of your mouth is this, cracking foolishly at every syllable: “I’ve missed you too.” I’m missing you right now.

Jungkook nods slowly, mostly to himself. It’s so cold now without the sun, and especially when you’re sitting right by the waterfront. The wind is so cruel, picking up speed when it knows you just want to reach out for his warmth. You want to go home.

“What if we give it another try?”

A tear escapes. You lick your dry lips. “You know we can’t,” you tell him.

“Why not?” he asks, a sense of urgency in his voice now. “I love you. I’m still in love with you, and I know you feel the same way. Don’t even lie to me.”

You frown, not even bothering to wipe the moisture from your face. “Because love is not enough! I don’t fit into your life. It’s never going to work. We’ll just end up here again.”

You feel his shoulders sag against yours, and when he speaks next, his voice is considerably more quiet, deflated, “You are my life. I haven’t been myself ever since you left.”

“Don’t… don’t say that,” you whisper. “You have your dreams. I’ll always get in the way of that.”

Jungkook twists the rings on his fingers, a nervous tick. The conversation pauses, and you think now is probably a good time to just get up and leave. You’ll get nowhere arguing with him about this. It’s been a long day.

You will your legs to stand, already thinking if you should walk a safe distance away from him and call an Uber there, but he tugs at your coat, standing up too.

“I don’t care,” he says.

“What?”

“Nothing is fucking worth it if there’s no you. Why do my dreams matter if you aren’t there? I regret letting you go all the time. I regret always putting my dreams before you.” Jungkook stops to chuckle bitterly before stepping closer. His eyes, filled with all the resolution in the world, pin you to the spot. “I was too stupid to think that I could have it all. But I would leave everything behind if you’re willing to give this another go.”

You’re only aware that you’re crying because he reaches up to wipe the tears away.

“You don’t mean that,” you say.

“Yes, I do. I’ll let everything go if you say yes.”

You utter the same words as you did back then. “You’ll resent me one day.”

“No,” Jungkook says, water pooling in his own eyes as he tells you, “I won’t. Because I’m with you. I’m still with you.”

He takes one of your hands, timidly at first, lacing your fingers together, and your eyes widen slightly, blinking at his face in surprise. You’re looking at him, really looking at him, maybe for the first time today.

And… he’s here.

He’s still the same Jungkook you knew.

His eyes are still the stars. His smile is still the sun.

There’s no love lost here, only found.

He looks so sure of himself, like he believes so ardently in you and him that it makes you want to believe too. That things will work out this time around, that you will never have to lose each other ever again.

Stop, is what you would tell him if this were a phone call, or a text message, where you don’t have to feel his skin on yours or look into his eyes, so full of conviction, or be able to clearly hear every cadence of his voice as he promises you a future where you don’t have to hurt.

It’s what you would say if you were capable of thinking with your head right now.

But in the end, all you have is a heart that loves him.

“Okay,” you say, and Jungkook actually does cry. You wipe at each other’s faces with freezing hands, not caring that people might think you’re a couple of weirdos, crying in the middle of a park in the cold. You notice that the wind has calmed, like it’s stopping to watch how the story unfolds.

“I’m sorry it took me so long.”

You’ve never seen him like this before, with the weight of the world no longer on his shoulders.

You think back to the start of your relationship, when a silent question arose in a bout of insecurity. It’s a question that would cross anybody’s mind when they’re merely mortal, a speck of dust compared to the entire Milky Way. 

You could have anyone. Anyone at all. Why is it still me?

You didn’t have the courage to voice it aloud, but he understood. It’s funny how he always understands the thoughts in your head that you never have the strength to speak into the universe. Jungkook took your hand then too, just like how he’s doing it right now. He turned your head to look at him, into those starry eyes that he made sure you knew shone just for you.

He utters the same sentiment that he did way back when. The last time you heard it, the statement – however true it might have been – was merely a bandaid over gaping wounds. It had appeased you in the moment and managed to calm your raging sea of anxiety and heartache for a split second, but you saw how that turned out to be. You both know that ending all too well.

This time, for some holy reason, his words feel just right as they nestle within your ribcage and settle next to your heart. The meaning behind his simple declaration holds you together and patches up the parts of you that were shattered long ago – infinitely small pieces of your heart and soul – into a mosaic worthy of being loved and adored by him.

Jungkook is the sun, yes, and Jungkook is the moon. He brings light and love into your life just by existing. He breathes, and your world is better for it, endlessly so.

Jungkook is, and always will be, your entire universe.

Cosmic realignment.

I want you, is what he tells you. I’ve always wanted only you.

all rights reserved © jeonqkooks. reposting, translating and modifying is not permitted by any means. [posted 12.11.22]

[derelictheretic]

Wips be upon ye again

I was tagged by @clicheantagonist @adelaidedrubman @socially-awkward-skeleton @unholymilf @strafethesesinners @aceghosts and @detectivelokis to share a wip!! Thank you beloveds 🥺💕

Tagging @viktor-sinclaire @baldurrs @deputyash @fadedjacket @florbelles @ishwaris @jinfromyarikawa @locustandwildhoney @redreart @shellibisshe @wewillryesagain @bl-beater @jollybone @trashcatsnark @afarcry5fromstraight @bluemojave @shellibisshe

My creative juices have been flowin so I got a whole three things to show off uvu

First Lola wip 👀 (I have half given up on this because I'm not confident in Lola's dialogue/mannerisms yet but it's also cute so who knows)

"I heard we had a newbie!" A boisterous voice sings from the left and the three turn to the doorway of the breakroom, a blonde with pink dyed tips bounds into the room with more energy than anyone else in the whole building had combined. A plastic container in her hands as she shoves past Staci and Joey to stand in front of Dean. Her grey eyes are bright and her pierced smile is breathtaking and infectious. She clutches the container to her chest with one hand and grabs Deans with the other, shaking it enthusiastically as she all but bounces in place.

"Nice to meet'cha rookie, names Lola! You can call me Darling or Your Majesty if you're feeling cute though."

Dean can't help but grin as both Staci and Joey sigh, the high energy from the woman now opening the container a nice change of pace from his slow and dull first week in the county.

"Nice to meet you, my name's–"

"Dean Sinclaire! Australian, twenty five, single, youngest of three kids, no criminal record and owner of a really shitty Jeep wrangler. I'll forgive you for the car because you were playing some bangin' tunes but you're on thin ice—Cupcake?" Lola holds out the container with a cheery smile and Deans tries not to look shaken as he reaches in and takes out a pink frosted cupcake. He knew his file would have some information on him but he had no idea who would have access to it, and he wasn't expecting anyone to list it all off in the middle of the office. Not that any of what she'd said was much of a secret, it was just unexpected.

"Tone it down Darling you're gonna freak him out—she does the background checks on newbies don't overthink it," Joey sighs, shaking her head and offering Dean a reassuring smile. He nods gently and decides to shake it off and take a bite of the cupcake and damn it was a good cupcake. Really good.

"Yeah, yeah i'm the only one tech savvy enough to do 'em, anyway interesting socials you got, don't really scream enforcer of the law if you know what I mean. Why're you here?" Lola takes a bite of a cupcake herself, watching Dean with an intense yet non-judgemental gaze that leaves him feeling unsteady. He swallows the piece of cupcake in his mouth and glances between the three deputies now staring him down, Joey and Staci seeming to want to hear his answer as well.

"Uh… I don't know how to say it without sounding cliché—I just want to help people." He offers sheepishly, suddenly having a hard time keeping eye contact.

"Plenty of other jobs that help people though, why'd you go this route? Is it the gun, it's okay if it's the gun I know you guys don't really get those easy down under." Lola raises the hand holding the cupcake to her mouth, her tone growing hushed in a conspiratorial manner as she offers a squinted, pursed lipped look his way.

"Hah—no, it's not the gun, I'm hoping I don't have to use it if i'm honest but uhm… I don't know it just, ended up this way I guess?" He shrugs gently, not prepared for this line of questioning. Which really he probably should have saw it coming, it's not like it was the one question in every cop movie ever or anything.

Lola nods slowly, humming as if she were dissecting his words in her head, ripping them apart.

"Better reason than Pratt's that's for sure, you'll do fine here. It's slow most days, holidays it tends to get a bit crazy but we'll look out for you." Joey offers another reassuring smile, matched with a welcoming pat to his shoulder. Staci scoffs under his breath, Joey quickly glaring at him to stop any complaints he had from surfacing verbally. Dean can't help but admire the interaction, it seemed like they had a good friendship—maybe in time he'd be sharing similar moments with them as a new guy walked in the door. It was a nice thought.

"You're getting paired up with me so obviously you'll be more than fine," Lola places a hand on Dean's other shoulder and he catches sight of her black acrylic nails, pink hearts dotted along them, "You're like my baby duckling now and if anyone fucks with my baby duckling I'll fuck them up with my car." Her happy tone turns serious in the blink of an eye, sincerity in every syllable and a promise that she meant it in her gaze. Oddly Dean finds the sentiment comforting instead of alarming, it was nice knowing he'd have someone so intent on having his back.

"I'm—Thank you, Lola." He smiles and she shoots a grin back, her vampire smiley piercings gleaming in the office light. She pats his cheek before stepping back and placing an extra cupcake on his desk. 'For later,' she mouths at him, pointing at it as if the other two with them couldn't see exactly what she was doing. As she's closing the plastic container the older deputy Dean had seen sitting at the front desk walks through the doors and Lola lets out an excited squeal, bounding up to the woman with glee.

"Nancy, my baby duckling is here! He doesn't have an accent but he's got the cutest little nose, do we have his uniform yet I wanna show him off—show him the ropes. I'm going to show him the ropes." Lola excitedly buzzes to the older woman, tacking on the last sentence as Sheriff Earl Whitehorse walks in behind her. Dean has to stop himself from laughing as she straightens her poster and blinks owlishly at their sheriff.

Earl shakes his head lightly as she shoots him a less than bashful grin. She tries to offer him a cupcake but he raises a brow at her and she pouts in response, mumbling something about being unappreciated as she walks off with Nancy back to what Dean could only assume was the break room.

And !! More of the jacob/dean fic from the last wip day, I know, me working on the same wip consistently? Shocking

"What did he do to you Rook?" 

Staci's voice feels distant, but Dean knows he's standing in front of the cage—clinging to the bars and probably looking down on him with the same dismay in the others' faces. Their resilient resistance leader was quiet, small, tired. 

"Fuck, your leg—"

They were all scared, Staci was scared. Dean wanted to reassure him, wipe his eyes and tell him he was still getting them out of here. 

"I–I'll get you some bandages, hold on."

But his mind just wanted to rest, shove down every memory of ginger hair and humid nights and stupid towns and stupid dreams and stupid wishes—He wanted to rip it to shreds and destroy every trace that said that motherfucker had ever been something to him. So he laid there on the ground and he stayed quiet. He tried to scrub the images behind his eyelids away, and tried to spit that name out of his mouth. Tried to rip that feeling out of his stupid heart.

Maybe if he was lucky he'd bleed out right now and steal the satisfaction of watching him continue to struggle through Jacob's trials. He could just see the hissy fit he'd throw, tables thrown and paper flying through the air as he cast blame onto whichever chosen shot him. Wouldn't that be funny?

I have a lot of art wips so uhh, peggie!dean and Jacob chillin' while Jo gives a sermon. Giving peggie!dean an alt look entirely based on a cosplay I did and i'm not sorry

[sukunastoy]

A little holiday love. (AU Sukunaxreader)

I'll be honest I wanted to post this several days ago but got sidetracked with the holiday...And this was one of three different versions I tried to write. It was based off of a prompt someone sent to me, and for some reason it was very difficult for me to come up with something for it, as I wasn't sure to go NSFW or SFW with it. I more or less just went a totally different route and decided to do some cute/fluff stuff.

I'm still trying my best on these short stories, as I'm used to putting in a lot of detail and dialogue in writing, and its difficult to wrap all of that up quickly lol.

But, even though its "late", I hope you enjoy! (｡･∀･)ﾉﾞ

Characters: SukunaxReader (Also Yuuji, this AU is where Sukuna and Yuuji are twin brothers. Everyone is of appropriate age/aged up.)

Synopsis: Sukuna is awful at showing his emotions and doesn't like the holidays, but he tries his best to show he cares, especially for you, who loves the holidays.

Wordcouunt: 4.5k+

CW/TW: None, its SFW.

A/N: More or less a quick little story, not too much thought into it, I didn't really overanalyze it and there might be some grammar errors.

Disclaimer: I own nothing of JJK.

Reblogs and comments are appreciated! ヾ(•ω•`)o

It was that time of the year again, everyone getting ready for the holidays, celebrating their traditions, coming together with family, decorating, having amazing food, and everyone being festive.

Well...not everyone apparently.

"I hung a wreath once, and I think he burned it." Yuuji laughed sheepishly while sipping on his hot chocolate as the two of you walked down the snowy sidewalk together.

"He burned it?" You almost choked out, the whip cream on your hot chocolate nearly flying out of the cup at your quick outward burst of appalled air.

You had asked Yuuji why he and his brother didn't have any holiday decorations in the apartment, and you quickly realized the reason. Sukuna was apparently not one for the festivities. Which was unfortunate, as you had just bought a few bags of things to hang up around the place, also, a pair of tickets to a special side tour of the Holiday Night Light walk tomorrow evening that was on the trail you and he would run along on nicer days. Now you were concerned Sukuna was going to get fussy about it and not want anything to do with it.

Several months ago~

You were best friends with Yuuji from work, and you had only seen his twin brother on occasion, never having officially met him before, but you really wanted to from how Yuuji talked about him all the time. When your best friend mentioned you becoming a roommate to help pay for their apartment and you would get your own room -finally having an opportunity to move out of your parents house- you couldn't pass it up.

Of course his brother was a bit reserved on the matter, not wanting another person in the apartment because they might "do weird shit" he had put it. But, Yuuji convinced him otherwise that the extra income would be nice, and having someone else around to talk to -besides his grouchy ass- would be relieving too.

For the first few weeks after you moved in, Sukuna didn't even talk to you and he rarely acknowledged you when passing in the hall or entering the same room. More or less tried to avoid you as much as possible, as if your presence alone was aggravating. He seemed a bit of a grump but he never did anything to be deliberately mean, other than ignore you -which hurt your feelings a little to be honest-, and you couldn't understand it.

Yuuji was obviously the bright and cheery of the two, and it wasn't until he went on a small camping trip with some other friends for a few days that you were finally able to talk to Sukuna, or rather, he talk to you. Knowing Sukuna could get an attitude if he got too hungry, you decided to go ahead and make something for the both of you, also maybe trying to impress him at the same time, hopefully.

"Where the hell is that brat at?" Sukuna's deep voice behind you startled you as you were pulling stuff out of the cabinet and you yelped in surprise, dropping almost everything. "Holy shit dude!" you huffed out at him, turning quickly to face him with your nerves shaking.

It was the first time you saw him laugh or even barely crack a smile for once, even if it was at the expense of you being frightened, it was nice to finally see a tad of joy on his face rather than his usual stoic and disinterested expressions.

"He went on a short trip with some other friends, so I figured I'd make us something to eat. I'm surprised he didn't mention this to you." you said while starting to pick up the items you dropped. "I'm not as good a cook as Yuuji but, it's better than nothing." You nervously laughed, never having actually talked to this guy before, and now that its happening, you weren't even sure how to properly act without seeming overly flustered.

It took him a moment but he knelt down to the ground and helped you pick up a few of the remaining items, and you thanked him profusely, now kind of nervous that you both actually exchanged words.

He remained in the kitchen leaning up against the counter nearby with his arms crossed while you cooked,, making casual conversation, as if just out of boredom. His expression was trying to indicate that he wasn't interested in being so close to you, but his words were coming out differently. He was curiously asking things about you, which made you unintentionally blush and you tried to keep your face hidden behind the small cloud of steam coming from what you were making. Sukuna, the grouch, curious about your likes and interests?

You assumed he didn't want to appear interested while his brother was around, he seemed like that type of guy. He wasn't such a grumpy ass after all, in fact he was quite charming in a devilish way. The way he acted pointed towards him being too much of a hard ass to let someone else see him have a 'crush', cause that would be embarrassing for him.

It made you happy and giddy inside as he seemed to really enjoy what you made, and he practically ate everything you couldn't eat. A way to mans heart was through his stomach, or something like that, right? At least you could put your worries aside that he might have absolutely hated you for moving in, as part of the reason you jumped to the opportunity was to get to know him.

For the rest of the night you both remained in the living room, watching whatever movie was on TV and the two of you were able to share some laughs at certain scenes, finding humor in the same things. You ended up falling asleep on one of the couches, and Sukuna very carefully put his blanket over you so you wouldn't get too cold through the night, not wanting to wake you up as he admired your soft and warm expression as you peacefully slept.

However this was way out of his comfort zone, and it didn't take long for him to retreat to his own room, leaving you out on the couch for the night. He'd be damned if you caught him in the act of being even remotely concerned about you. When you woke up the next morning to the smell of food, you were surprised you had fallen asleep, and to wake up with a blanket over you, Sukuna's blanket at that. The one only he would use while out in the living room.

You dawdled into the kitchen, pretending to just be getting something to drink to get the parched feeling from your throat but you couldn't help spying on Sukuna from behind as he was cooking something, and it smelled great. Not wanting to assume any of it was for you, you started to leave the kitchen but his voice stopped you abruptly.

"You better like this, shouldn't be too much longer." he said nonchalantly, slightly glancing back as you were looking over to him and unintentionally locked eyes for a moment. He grumbled quietly while quickly looking away and you couldn't help but laugh under your breath at his obvious frustration. Oh no, mister grumpy wasn't sure what to do about a little crush.

The meal was really good, and it was surprising cause you never saw him cook, typically it was you or Yuuji in the kitchen so you always assumed that he wasn't any good at it. You tried to thank him and praise the meal but he brushed it off, acting like it wasn't anything special. Though to be honest he had gotten up way earlier, trying to make this meal a few times before finally getting it to not burn or be too salty. The hours of stressful trial and error he would never mention to you.

Now more desperate to crack into that shell of his, already getting a little idea of how he portrayed interest, you invited him out for a run after breakfast, which he pretended to not really want to do, but said he'll go, just so no one kidnaps you. He was so awful at this, and you thought it was adorable, accepting it as his version of trying to flirt or be caring but probably never having any experience or real interest in anyone prior so it just came out so bad.

It was a nice run, in fact he had to keep slowing down and waiting for you and you were the one who ran at least every other day. Every so often you'd both slow to a fast walk, and talk about anything you could think of. Occasionally you'd be able to get a chuckle out of him or even see him crack a small smile and it made your stomach flutter with excitement. You'd keep your full gaze away from his direction, not wanting to overwhelm him too much at first. He didn't seem shy, but more frustrated. Like he couldn't believe that he had a fondness of you, but ignoring it was driving him mad.

As much as you loved hanging out with Yuuji, you were seriously happy he was gone for several days, as spending this time alone with Sukuna was really gratifying.

The next day, Sukuna was the one to invite you out for a run, which you gladly accepted. The two of you were starting to go into deeper conversations beyond just casual small talk, and you realized he actually knew quite a bit about a lot of different topics. Once you'd get him on a subject he enjoyed, he could go on about it for a while, and you loved seeing him enamored about something while sharing the information with you.

A couple days had passed, and even though it just started, running in the morning after breakfast and before work was already becoming a routine that you hoped would continue even after Yuuji returned...

"(Y/N), lets go down this trail." The back of Sukuna's hand gently nudged your arm as the two of you were taking a breather. Smiling and looking past him down the path, it was one you hadn't been on before, and you were up for the adventure. "Sure, something a little different is always fun." You laughed while starting to jog past him. He chuckled in response and easily caught up with you, matching your pace to stay along side of you.

It was a more secluded trail, and it had more trees around so the shade they provided helped keep it a tad cooler while running. Stopping off at a small ledge towards the end of the trail, you both took a moment to break, leaning against the rock wall that acted as a barrier for the small drop on the other side.

After several moments of you both relaxing in silence, you let out a breath and stretched your arms up over your head, getting ready to start the run again towards home. "Ready?" you smiled up to him but the corners of your mouth slightly dropped as you saw him looking off into the distance, jaw clenched and his brows slightly pinching at the top of his nose. "Sukuna..? Are you alright? Feeling okay?"

As you turned more towards him to give your attention to whatever might be wrong, one of his hands came up to your cheek and and slid down under your chin, the pad of his thumb resting on your bottom lip. You felt your chest tighten as you swallowed hard, your eyes widened at his actions. Before you could even part your lips to say something, his words quickly silenced you and you held your tongue back in worry. "What are you doing to me?" His voice was almost a growl and you barely shook your head, not understanding what he was talking about. "Sukuna...you're concerning me..."

"Well maybe now you can understand how I've felt ever since you moved in."

As his words left his mouth, he tilted your chin upwards and leaned his face down to yours, letting his lips land on yours roughly but with gentleness all at the same time. A muffled moan of surprise pushed into his mouth as you were caught off guard, but so quick to melt into him from the sudden action that you had only dreamed of countless times.

Your fingers tangled their way into his shirt as one of his arms found its way around your waist, pulling you closer to be more against him in a way he had strangely yearned for throughout the past few weeks.

The two of you ended up walking back home instead of running, both of you remaining quiet and thinking about what happened along that secluded trail. You wanted him to do it again, and to keep doing it, and to see how far it could go. You hesitantly hooked your pinky finger around his while not looking at him and you could feel his hand twitch at your touch, but lazily curled up his finger to gently hold onto yours in return.

It felt a bit awkward as it was clear this wasn't something he normally did. He was always disinterested and pretty well reserved, not really caring about anyone else, so you couldn't be surprised that he was rough around the edges like this. Yuuji always had plenty of cheerfulness and joy for the both of them.

Of course the situation got really awkward when Yuuji came home later that evening and walked in on you guys making out in the living room, rather intensely, wanting to have picked up where you left off on the trail.

"Finally!" he groaned while tossing his arms up in the air standing in the walkway, startling both you and Sukuna. "Sukuna hasn't shut up about you since you moved in!" Yuuji laughed while setting his stuff down. "I will slit your throat." Sukuna growled at him in warning only making Yuuji laugh more. You of course were dumbfounded but, apparently Sukuna had convinced Yuuji to go on that trip so he could talk to you, alone for once.

He obviously didn't want to be one of those guys that came off as actually interested and it kind of made a lot of sense now as to why he had avoided you so much, cause Yuuji was always around.

However through the few months that you two were "dating" more or less, he still always acted nonchalant about it, never publicly showing affection. When it was the two of you alone at the apartment you were his only interest and he would do anything for you. However when Yuuji was home, or some other friends came over, it was almost like Sukuna wasn't in a relationship with you anymore, as he would avoid anything that could show the two of you were intimately involved with one another. You tried to understand it, and you had talked to Yuuji about it, who tried to reassure you that Sukuna is just horrible at expressing any emotion, especially if anyone else could be there to witness it. He just wasn't that type of guy.

There were times you got afraid that he wasn't actually wanting to be with you, but the way he would hold you so close and safe to him at night would push any and all bad thoughts away. The way he would make you feel while beneath him was incredible and he would make sure to give you his all so you could experience the most intense pleasure possible. He could say the most beautiful and loving things to you, but has never said that he loved you. Which, it had only been a few months, you couldn't be upset at that. Most said it could take up to at least 6 months, some maybe a year or longer...

Unfortunately, you had already felt so intensely for him, but you held your tongue, daring not to say it first. That was something that could definitely scare a guy off, right?

Present~

Frowning deeply down to your cup, Yuuji nudged his arm against yours comfortingly. "Don't get sad, you know how he is."  He said cheerfully with that big goofy smile of his, forcing a small smile in return from you.

"Now I'm worried he's going to hate the stuff I just bought..." "No, he won't!" Yuuji replied confidently. "You bought some really cool stuff, I'd kind of like to see some decorations put up anyway, he's too boring sometimes." You smiled to him hopefully while sipping on your drink. "Thanks again for coming out with me and helping to pick stuff out. Especially this." You laughed while gesturing to the bag that had a pair of reindeer antlers in it that could be worn like a hat. Yuuji laughed about it, remembering how you and him cracked up about it in the store, imagining what Sukuna would look like in it. "I bet he will love it."

. . .

"I hate it..." Sukuna grumbled as you put the little antler headband on him back at home, setting your bags of decorations next to him on the bed. "But you look so adorable." You giggled innocently, adjusting them to stand perky. He rolled his eyes and groaned, grabbing your hand gently to stop you from messing with them and took them off with his other hand. "Look I'm just not into all this festive crap...To me it's pointless, and just tacky looking." You frowned almost pathetically and he pulled you down onto his lap while he sat lazily on his bed, or rather your shared bed, cause lets be honest, you spent almost every night together in his room by now. "Don't look at me like that. I hate that." "But I love the holidays!" You pressed, straddling your legs over his and resting your arms on both of his shoulders. "I really want to decorate with you, and, plus I wanted to go to the Holiday Night Light walk on our trail tomorrow night..." "Absolutely not." "Pleaaase?" You pouted while making a pitiful face, lips frowning and looking doe eyed, making him groan and roll his eyes. "Please don't make me beg..." you pressed more intently, making sure to look as dismal as possible.

"Oh come on, don't beg for something like that...that's ridiculous." He grumbled in irritation at your whining, something that just always made him uncomfortable as he was a very serious and straightforward kind of guy, or at least always tried to be.

"Kunaaaaa!" you pleaded more loudly and he pushed a hand over your mouth, trying to silence you. "I will burn all of it I swear." he threatened while you laughed around his hand, pulling down on his wrist to let your complaints out. "Oh come on...don't be such a grouch...just try to have fun with it. Just decorate with me for like ten minutes, that's all I ask, I'm begging you!"

His glaring eyes narrowed more before he let out a snort and tossed you off of his lap -you landed safely onto the blankets-, standing up to his feet with a deep sigh of aggravation. "Fine. Only if you'll please stop that god awful whining..."

Parading around the apartment with Yuuji at your little victory, you both eagerly hung up decorations, trying not to pressure Sukuna into doing much other than lifting you up so you could reach higher places to hang some garland or flashing lights above the window frames.

He'd keep you sitting atop of his shoulders while he held onto your thighs, walking to the next location you wanted to hang some things up and you kept thanking him with honesty but he would just grumble in return, keeping his disinterest very noticeable.

Only allowing the ten minutes like you asked, Sukuna left the rest to you and Yuuji while he went to go sulk in the living room, lazily sitting on the couch to watch TV, while you and his cheerier brother continued to vandalize the apartment in festive galore.

Being unamused as usual, Sukuna paid little attention to the red and green decorations that adorned every possible feature the apartment could offer as you tried to point all of it out to him, proud of your work. But when your eyes weren't looking at his, he would watch where you pointed, quietly taking in every little detail and care that you put into how you arranged the decorations, and he listened to your joyous tone as you described what something was for, or why you liked it so much, etc.

A small smile would tug at his lips on occasion, enjoying how something so trivial -to him anyway- could bring you such happiness, but it would quickly fade if either you or Yuuji looked in his direction.

You had tried to keep up your cheerful spirit into the night, able to be more understood by Yuuji as you were both enamored by the holiday, but you felt guilty as Sukuna seemed to be more annoyed than usual. Thinking he would at some point come around and at least try to have a little fun, it only made you feel bummed out and apologetic as he still seemed to have no interest.

He did say he would go to the Holiday Night Light walk with you, and that was something that made you really happy, but you were still worried about annoying him too much with all of this. The majority of the next day, you did your best to not seem overexcited about the upcoming night, and you tried not to mention anything about it to avoid already boring him out before even going.

Walking down the decorated trail later into the night, surrounded by other people who enjoyed the extensive arrangement of lights, you snuggled against Sukuna's side, unable to hide how cold you were getting. He sighed and wrapped an arm around you, rubbing your arm to give you some warmth and you smiled happily, not normally getting any physical contact from your boyfriend while others were around.

Coming up on that little secluded path along the trail, where he first kissed you, there was a little ticket booth set up there and someone attending it. Nudging him towards it, he looked at you curiously as you pulled out a couple of tickets and laughed shyly.  "They made that little path more of an exclusive event, and sold tickets for it, and I got a couple so we could go down it together...Since that's where we first kissed."  You were surprised when a small chuckle left his lips, and he took the tickets from you gently and handed them to the person attending the small booth who examined them quickly. "All set to go, enjoy the walk, there's also a small place set up half way to get some warm drinks as well."

You thanked them happily and Sukuna hooked his arm around yours, starting to walk with you down the trail and you looked up at him bashfully. As usual, it was very strange to see him show any attention towards you when others could be around, so you greatly appreciated his effort... It was the little moments like this that helped remind you he was just terrible at affection and emotions. It was adorable a lot of the times, but at the same time kind of hurt your feelings, you just wanted him to try at least on occasion.

Both of you stopped at the small booth set up half way down the secluded trail to get something warm to drink. Of course Sukuna asked for just a plain black coffee and you opted for the hot chocolate with whip cream on top. There weren't as many people on this part of the trail, but almost all of them were couples, which was to be expected as it seemed more of a romantic thing. The lights were more subtle, making the walk more gentle and relaxed, and neither of you said anything, just casually walking, enjoying the warm drinks.

Getting to the end of the trail where you'd have to turn around and head back, leaning against that little stone wall that was a barrier for the drop on the other side, you looked up to Sukuna hopefully, seeing no one was around or in sight. He leaned against the wall next to you, setting his cup down on the ledge while looking up at the soft decorated lights above and let out a small sigh. Turning his gaze towards you, admiring how pretty your face was in the glow of the lights, he clicked his tongue then reached into his pocket as you watched curiously.

"You know...you spoiled what I was going to do." He said with a slight grumble, pulling out a pair of tickets and your eyes widened as he presented them to you. They were tickets for coming down here on this secluded walk...

"I bought these some time ago cause I knew you like this kind of stuff, and I was going to surprise you." He chuckled lightly and you pouted deeply, realizing you missed an opportunity for him to gift something like this to you...no wonder he was so grumpy about it before.

"But no big deal...here we are anyway." Gently reaching over and holding onto your chin with his index finger and thumb, he tilted your head up slightly to look up, and you noticed a mistletoe hanging up above from a small branch. "I came out here before they set all this crap up and hung that up...I'm lucky they didn't take it down." He spoke quietly and you couldn't help but let tears form in the corners of your eyes.

"I'm not one for all of this holiday stuff...or all those cute and romantic things couples do in the presence of others...But I'm trying, because it matters to you, so it matters to me, and I want to do whatever I can to make you happy, (Y/N.)"

Looking back down at him you sniffled and held his hand with yours against your cheek as you nuzzled into it. "Thank you, Sukuna..."  He smiled gently and leaned towards you while gently pulling your face to him as well, capturing your lips tenderly in a kiss. Your arms went around him, holding him close while returning his kiss and he grinned against your lips.

"I've wanted to say it for a while now, just wasn't sure when the best time would be...but, I love you, (Y/N), so much...Even if I don't really show it, just know and trust that I do."

He softly wiped some of your tears away with the back of his fingers as his words made you cry, not even expecting him to say anything remotely like this anytime soon. You clung to him quickly and tightly, surprising him for a moment before he returned your embrace, keeping you close to him.

"I love you too, Sukuna...thank you, so much..."

Reblogs and comments appreciated!

[themosleyreview]

The Mosley Review: Violent Night

Its that wonderful time of the year again and you know what that means. It is time for all the holiday music to truly be listened to at right time and definitely time to get your annual viewing of Christmas films marathon started. Every year I watch "It’s a Wonderful Life", "Christmas with the Joker" episode from the Batman: Animated Series and my favorite the first Die Hard film. Every year there is a film about Christmas that is always cheerful and features old Saint Nick himself. Some are fun and heartwarming like "The Christmas Chronicles" or sometimes a little more funny, crood and dark like "Bad Santa". What I haven't seen is an action film featuring Santa Claus in a situation where he is vulnerable and out of his element. Something that acknowledges his legend and maybe shows a more jaded hero. This film delivered that in spades and I loved every second of it. Now it wasn't only about the amazing amount of creative violence and hilariously well timed usage of classic holiday phrases, it actually was a heartwarming tale of how adults have forgotten how to believe in good and how powerful a child's belief can reinvigorate ones belief. It was a surprisingly smart action film that is of this generation, but also fun for the older crowd as well. I mean who doesn't want to see Santa save a family from armed goons comitting a heist on Christmas?!

David Harbour was absolutely perfect as a modern grumpy and heavily intoxicated Santa Claus. He is truly in his element as the every man that has almost lost his faith in humanity and I loved watching him fumble around while delivering presents. I liked that he wasn't jolly and his commentary on the state of gifts was hilarious and true. Once he gets involved with the action in the film, he was wild, funny and just awesome. He explores Santa's past and then quickly brings back the heart of the character in so many heartwarming moments. You can't help but love David as he takes Santa on a rollercoaster of emotion and creative action. Alex Hassell was good as Jason Lightstone as he tries his best to reconnect with his family. Alexis Louder was great as his estranged wife Linda and their chemistry was excellent. Leah Brady was outstanding as Gertrude "Trudy" Lightstone and she steals your heart in the best way the moment she's on screen. Most child actors can go too over the top or completely undercook the innocence of childhood, but she perfectly balanced. She really reignites the heart of Santa and I loved that she got in on the action as well. She pretty much is almost the R rated version of Kevin McCallister. Beverly D'Angelo was perfectly savage as Jason's mother and Trudy's grandmother Gertrude Lightstone. I always enjoy her on screen presence as she nails that "take no crap from anyone" attitude. Brendan Fletcher was fun as one of the henchman in the heist codenamed Krampus. He was such a good sociopath and I think he is truly an underrated actor. John Leguizamo is the head of the operation as codename Scrooge and my god was he amazing. I loved his dark sense of humor and relentless brutality. Once we get into his backstory, he really embodies his codename. I loved his dialogue with Santa the most and especially their fight scene. It was personal and sad. I'm so happy to see him back in the spotlight.

The score by Dominic Lewis was great and cheery in the right moments and then fantastically joyful and bombastic during the action scenes. I liked his subtle twist on the classic Christmas tunes like Silent Night and Carol of the Bells. They're in there and well hidden. The action in the film was expertly shot and I loved that you could see that most of it was David Harbour really doing it. All the fight scenes were creative and used their environments in the best way. I cheered so many times as a few ornaments were used in brutal ways. Like I said before, this film was exactly what you expect in terms of action, but it will definitely surprise you on how heartwarming the story truly is. This is definitely a new favorite Christmas film that I will add to my annual rotation. Let me know what you thought of the film or my review in the comments below. Thanks for reading!

[crimsonxe]

Wednesday spoilers below the cut, though only episode 1 cause I’ve only gone through it so far.  After this post going to dive back in to binge the whole thing potentially cause holidays:

I ship them so damn much. Goth, monotone colors, and sociopathic-leaned x preppy, rainbow-themed, and nice & cheery. The clashing styles only adding to the chemistry. I’m also going to take the one bit of dialogue with the dude mentioning “...lucky guy...or girl” in response to Wednesday’s waiting for someone and her lack of removal of any options as a hopeful sign that maybe these two could be on the table. Also LOVE Wednesday as a character.

[darkfinch]

Quinn watching Hallmark Movies is inspired. I love it. Does he cry? Does he point out which incredibly WASP-y characters in this Christmas loving town are 'totally serial killers'? Does he write a Very Special Christmas Episode of his hitter romance novel?

"okay so the overly-helpful guy in a variety of terrible christmas sweaters who keeps materializing at their cheery holiday cabin with, like, fully-made gingerbread houses and useful DIY skills has absolutely 100% killed a man, right? he does human taxidermy in his basement. Eliot. Eliot. look at his eyes you Know i'm right—"

i absolutely think he vacillates wildly between turning to parker/eliot/hardison to repeat Particularly Bad Dialogue, deadpan,,,, and gasping very very softly when something sweet happens. he is genuinely anxious in the traditional clumsy 11th hour fakeout where it looks like there might not be a happy ending

these cardboard characters who have known each other for like 4 days are having a heartfelt "of course i didn't take the big city corporate job....i was just calling them to say that i've decided to stay Here, in Gingerbread Creek, with You........i wouldnt miss the christmas gala for anything" moment and quinn is just sniffling quietly, eyes very bright, he's not crying don't look at him,

i DO think he would write an extremely sweet holiday chapter in one of the romance novellas, and probably a full entire book in the qwat au verse (it's extremely chaotic. parker helps with the plot. there's a christmas tree ornament heist)

but for non-qwat au quinn it would come Very late in the series (once he actually, you know, spends holidays somewhere other than a hotel room by himself watching hallmark movies in the dark. writing "finn and elias spend the holidays together in a cozy cabin" content while very deliberately not calling eliot in december would be uhhh profoundly depressing and he doesnt need that in his life)

[heloflor]

Random very small “Cavendish trying to hide the fact that he’s married to a man and not a woman while living in the past but being very bad at it” idea because I like it but don’t know how to put this dialogue in a fic (does this count as an incorrect quote ???) :

Context : Milo, Melissa and Zack at the mall the day before Valentine’s or some other romantic holiday, trying to find a gift that Milo could give Amanda. They run into Cavendish who’s just done shopping for that same holiday and the teens tell him about their gift quest.

Cavendish : Well, I do have some time to spare. I suppose I could help you figure it out if you want ?

Melissa, after the trio glance at each other : Yeah, um…We’re…kinda looking for something romantic here soo…You’re not…exactly, the kind of person we’re hoping to get help from. No offense.

Cavendish *offense taken* : I’ll have you know I’ve been able to maintain a stable marriage for over fifteen years ! I may not always show my affection towards my spouse, but I certainly know quite a lot about relationships and romance !

Zack, looking into Cav’s bag : And right now your vision of romance is a bag of crackers, chips, soda and…why do you have some Italian brand of chocolate snacks ?!

Cavendish, taking the stuff back : Please stop snooping into my bag ! And for your information, my relationship is quite domestic. You aren’t obliged to do grand acts of love during those kinds of celebratory days. Sometimes, all you want is a peaceful day at home, spending some quality time with the one you love…

Milo : Now that I think about it, how can you even celebrate tomorrow ? I mean, didn’t you and Dakota say you got banished from time-travel ? If it’s not too mean to ask, how can you spend the day with your wife if you can’t go to the future ?

Melissa : Yeah, Milo’s right. How do you see your wife if you can’t time-travel ?

*Silence*

Cavendish, nervously starting to walk away fast with a forced smile : Haha ! Well, will you look at the time ! I need to go ! Now ! Cheery-bye ! Enjoy your holiday tomorrow !

Milo : Oh, huh, alright ?

*Insert Cavendish awkwardly half-walking half-running away*

Zack : …So…What just happened ?

 Cut to Cavendish and Dakota being at their “apartment” with Cav lamenting about almost letting the secret slip and how dangerous it would be for them if he did, all while Dakota is on the couch, already eating half the stuff Cav bought while nonchalantly being like “We should tell them.”.

[lady-divine-writes]

Good Omens Holiday Swap 2019 - “Flowers, Ink, and Window Panes” (Rated PG13)

Summary: Aziraphale opened his flower shop across the street from Crowley’s tattoo parlor three months ago, and in that amount of time, they’ve said a grand total of six lines to one another - the same six lines they recite every morning before they start their day. That’s not to say Crowley hasn’t been trying to find a way to break the ice, invite the man out on a date, but past anxiety is holding him back. What in the world would he say to him? What could they possibly have in common. Until one day, Crowley finds a way to talk to Aziraphale without saying a word. (9777 words)

Notes: Written for @scribblemakes and their prompt ‘Florist/Tattoo artist AU’. I hope you enjoy it <3 Fluff, light angst, human AU.</b>

Read on AO3.

Crowley sits at his work station and watches the clock, the second hand hopping from dash to dash, ratcheting up his heart rate with every jerky bounce. He hasn’t opened his shop yet, doesn’t normally open up in the mornings without an appointment, and even then, not before eleven.

He’s a man who appreciates his sleep.

Normally.

But for the past three months, he’s gotten up early, showered and dressed, to sit at his station and babysit his wall clock until ten.

When the man across the narrow street from him unlocks his doors.

The last five minutes are the hardest as the minute hand creeps toward the twelve and the hour hand lingers, hovering close to the ten but not quite touching it. A bizarre anxiety builds in Crowley’s chest that it might never get there, that his clock might break down and throw everything out of whack. Irrationally, he has imbued his clock with far too much power; that its running out of battery may cause the man across the way to show up late.

Or not at all.

Crowley can’t even recall the last time he changed the batteries in that thing. Or his smoke detector. Or the remote to the in-shop telly.

Half the time he’s convinced these things run on sheer will alone.

But after the longest five minutes of his life, his clock finishes its journey to ten a.m., and across the street, thankfully, the man with the keen sense of punctuality makes an appearance.

Crowley doesn’t rush outside to greet him, not even after all that waiting and clock watching and sweating through questions of battery life.

No.

He rises up from his stool leisurely, rolls his neck on his shoulders, takes a deep breath in through his nose, then lets it out through his mouth. He counts to five, then counts to five again. He grabs his leather jacket and strolls towards the front door, unlocking it and sauntering outside as if he, too, were simply opening up shop for the day.

Calm, cool, and collected (on the outside) he raises an arm in greeting. “Good morning, Mr. Fell!”

The man turns, catches Crowley’s eye, and smiles.

Smiles as if he’s just seen the sun for the first time and fallen in love.

That smile alone is worth getting up early for.

“Good morning, Mr. Crowley!” the man answers, waving back with his whole body as if Crowley were standing on the bow of a ship across a channel as opposed to the curb across a single, one-way street.

It’s worth acknowledging, as Crowley zips up his motorcycle jacket, bracing himself against the chill morning air, that the constantly cheery and pleasantly plump object-of-Crowley’s-affections dresses like an unfortunate toddler saddled with a generous but drunk grandmother. Every day with him is a new adventure in tacky, floral-themed jumpers (today’s selection something resembling daffodils if they were featured in a Tim Burton movie) accompanied by khaki pants and a pair of Derby shoes that last saw their heyday when Vaudeville died.

But his jumpers, and the fact that he can go an entire month without wearing the same one twice, are part of his charm.

“Mr. Fell!” Crowley leans forward so far off the edge of the sidewalk, a stiff breeze might shove him into the street. “How many times have I told you? Call me Anthony.”

“And I’ve told you as many times to call me Aziraphale, my dear boy, and yet … here we are.”

Crowley laughs. He shoves his hands in his pockets and busies himself with the mindless task of inspecting the sidewalk outside his shop for trash. But the sidewalk isn’t just clean this morning. The cement is immaculate, the city having come by in the night and done their jobs well for once. Still, he slips on a pair of the latex gloves he keeps in his pants pocket and starts collecting up infinitesimal pieces of debris – the curled corner of a Snickers wrapper, a cigarette butt smoked way into the filter, and a decrepit piece of what could have once been chewing gum, and carries them to the wire trash can by the curb. Then he inspects his window, checks the edges of the decals that spell out his shop’s name – Eden Ink.

For what, he hasn’t a clue.

Anything to keep him outside until Mr. Fell, doing much of the same, calls out to him again.

“Have a lovely day, Mr. Crowley!”

“And you as well, Mr. Fell!”

Except this time, this one time, as Crowley turns to go back inside, he distinctly hears Mr. Fell say in a soft voice, “I mean, Anthony.”

Crowley stops in his tracks. He spins around. He catches a glimpse of white teeth biting into a pink lower lip before Mr. Fell hurries into his shop, the bells above his door tinkling behind him.

“And you as well,” Crowley repeats, watching Mr. Fell’s back as he begins lugging flower buckets from his cooler to start working on his orders, “Aziraphale.”

***

Three months.

It’s been three months since Aziraphale Fell opened the florist shop across the street, and those few lines of dialogue, recited daily, are the farthest Crowley has gotten with regard to asking the man out on a date.

God! He’s gotta come up with better material!

And maybe grow a pair. That’d help, too.

But Crowley doesn’t know how to talk to the bookish man who owns the flower shop. It shouldn’t be that difficult to strike up a conversation with him. Crowley talks to people all the time. Occupational hazard and all that. If he could get Aziraphale into his chair, then he might have a chance at learning the man’s secrets. People seem to equate the tattoo artist’s chair with the therapist’s couch. The second his gun starts buzzing, they spill their secrets.

Maybe, in Aziraphale’s case, he’d find an in to spill some secrets of his own.

And if he ordered coffee and donuts from the deli down the street, it would come close to something like a date.

Crowley sighs at this plan.

Sure. On the off, off, off, off, off, off chance Aziraphale ever wanders over looking to get a tattoo, coffee and donuts might be considered a date.

In the truly pathetic sense.

Which could mean that Crowley and the bubbly grandma who came in a week ago to get the Tasmanian Devil on her upper arm (altered here and there to resemble her late husband, Arnold, since that was his favorite cartoon) and offered him a butterscotch candy had also been on a date.

She’d been sweet and everything (and from the pictures she’d shown him, a looker in her day) but a world of no.

As much as Crowley would like to start a relationship with Aziraphale, even if it were simply the coffee and donut kind, he can’t seem to find a jumping off point. It sounds cliché, and a hundred rom-coms have done it better, but what in the world could they ever have in common?

Rationally, looking past the shallow, they both own small businesses in the exact same neighborhood. That’s one thing they have in common. Sounds like a pretty big jumping off point.

Crowley could find out the rest by talking to him.

But it’s not as easy as it sounds.

Not for Crowley.

People tend to assume Crowley is fathoms more exciting than he is because he owns a tattoo parlor and drives a motorcycle. But nothing could be further from the truth. His business and his bike are the limit lines where interesting things end. Otherwise he’s a simple man who spends much of his time outside work tending to a few small plants and watching retro 80s television.

(Plants! That’s another thing they have in common! Wait – are flowers the same as plants? Must be. They both have leaves, right?)

But the persona his job earns him, which he plays no active part in cultivating, is one of the reasons it’s difficult for him to open up to anyone, particularly potential love interests.

He doesn’t want to show people the real him and risk their being disappointed in what they don’t see.

So, Crowley watches Aziraphale instead of risking rejection, has turned watching him into a sport. Not in a creepy way. He’s not stalking him or anything. But watching the man assemble his arrangements is cathartic, seeing him interact with his customers mesmerizing. Fell’s Flowers became popular overnight when Aziraphale moved into the neighborhood. He must have brought clientele with him from a previous shop that stayed loyal to his business because Crowley has never seen any store apart from the food markets do the kind of business Aziraphale’s does daily.

There was a time when Crowley thought Aziraphale might be a drug dealer, using his shop as a front. If he is, then he’s the kindest, friendliest, most compassionate drug dealer Crowley has ever met. Some of the people who stop by stay for close to an hour while they pour their hearts out to him. And Aziraphale listens to every word while he puts their orders together.

But that’s not all he does.

He makes them feel at home – serves them tea, feeds them biscuits, and, from the back and forth Crowley has observed, gives them advice. It must be good advice, too, because there hasn’t been a single person he’s seen who hasn’t left smiling.

Looking back at it now, Crowley feels the odds of Aziraphale being a drug dealer are very slim.

But if Aziraphale is a drug dealer, that wouldn’t make Crowley admire him any less.

***

Aziraphale runs his shop on a schedule Crowley could set his watch by. With the exception of which customers come in and when, he opens his shop at ten, has his buckets out of the cooler and lined up by 10:15, and starts putting together arrangements by 10:30. These aren’t estimations. These are on the dot times. Once or twice, Crowley has used them to keep track of his own schedule, like how long his kettle has been on the stove, how long his tea bag has been steeping, how long he’s been shading, how long his pizza rolls have been cooling, and the like. Aziraphale takes lunch promptly at noon, closes up to go for a walk around the block at noon thirty, starts his cleaning up at five forty-five, and closes at six.

So it definitely attracts Crowley’s attention (even though there’s a man in his chair getting the wrist portion of his sleeve touched-up) when, at around three in the afternoon, Aziraphale pops out of his shop carrying a bucket and a rag with him. He puts the bucket down, dips the rag inside, then starts scrubbing his window – as far as his arms can reach, anyway. When he’s done, he stands and stares at it with hands on hips, contemplating something.

The pigeons nesting on the fire escape? Have they been messing his window? No, that doesn’t seem the type of thing that would bother Aziraphale. Crowley can’t see him putting up bird wire or anything like that. More than likely he’d invite them in, give them birdseed on toast, and ask them about their day.

Crowley turns off his gun and makes a few adjustments as an excuse to watch Aziraphale without distraction. He sees Aziraphale pull a square of paper from his pocket, unfold it, and tape it to the bottom right corner of his window. Crowley squints to read it, but the writing is so faint, he can’t make it out from this distance. From the same pocket, Aziraphale pulls out a black marker and begins writing on the glass.

‘What in the world?’ Crowley thinks as he watches Aziraphale draw an outline, referring back to the picture from time to time. He shakes his head, pulls the rag out of the bucket, wrings it out, and erases a few lines. He waits for the window to dry, then goes back over the same lines slowly. Without even looking at the picture to check his progress, he shakes his head again, mumbling to himself, and erases what he’s drawn. He waits for the window to dry then starts sketching again. Halfway through, he steps back to take a look.

Crowley can’t see the window clearly. But from Aziraphale’s posture, he seems positively defeated.

“Hey! What’s the hold up? I’m paying you by the hour!” the man in Crowley’s chair grumbles when he sees Crowley motionless, staring blankly out the window.

“Hold yer horses, a’right?” Crowley snaps. “My gun’s gone dodgy. I’ve gotta switch it out. I’ll comp you fifteen minutes.”

“You’d bettah.”

Crowley gets up from his stool and grabs his spare gun to save face. He’ll comp the man thirty in the end to shut his pie hole. He is a repeat customer and besides, Crowley is eating up his time. He’ll admit that.

From this change in perspective, Crowley snags a better look at Aziraphale’s drawing on the window and … yikes.

It’s not … bad.

It’s just …. not … good.

But drawing on windows can be difficult. It takes practice. A few more tries and Aziraphale will get it right.

Crowley thinks so anyway.

He wishes he could stick his head out the door and tell him so, but that might be awkward, all things considered.

Aziraphale drops his head.

He tears the paper off the window, crumples it up, and tosses it in the wire trash can by the curb. He fishes his rag out of the bucket and scrubs his window clean, eliminating all traces of the black outline. Then he grabs his bucket, walks sadly to his front door, and goes back inside his shop, leaving Crowley to wonder what in the world happened.

And how can he fix it.

***

It’s close to eleven o’clock when Crowley leaves his shop and ventures across the street. Aziraphale closed up precisely at six, went upstairs to his apartment, and had his lights out by eight, but Crowley had appointments till well past. After his final customer bid him adieu, Crowley could finally investigate the picture in the trash can.

The picture whose presence has been burning a hole in his brain ever since Aziraphale tossed it away.

Unlike the trash on the curb outside Crowley’s shop, few people use the trash can outside Aziraphale’s, so the crumpled ball sits right on top a stack of abandoned newspapers, courtesy of the douchebag who dumps his daily haul without delivering and then cashes his paycheck. Crowley reaches a gloved hand in, snatches it out, and straightens it, smoothing the wrinkles between his fingers. He holds it up to the light of the street lamp overhead to get a better look.

It’s a picture of a rose – line art printed off a computer, simple enough to recreate. But drawing on glass, especially a large window like Aziraphale’s, can be a challenge. Plus use the wrong cleaner and the paint won’t stick. Crowley should know. He’d been doing the art on his window for years before it became too much of a chore. Now he mainly sticks to throwing stuff up for the major holidays, or paints something silly on nights when he gets sentimental and drunk, which hasn’t been in a while.

He’s curious why Aziraphale thought to paint his window now, at the tail end of February, with nothing particularly spectacular going on. Curb appeal? He definitely doesn’t need to attract new business. Or maybe he wants a change. Something fun to look at.

Something new.

The neighborhood outside their window isn’t always the most pleasant. Not that it’s a bad neighborhood. There’s not much crime, they don’t need gates. But it can be dull. Uneventful. That’s one of the reasons Crowley had started painting his window to begin with. He’d wanted something different to look at, a new vista every once in a while.

Crowley smiles.

He has an idea, and a whole load of paint in the back room of his shop.

Maybe he can’t find the courage to ask Aziraphale out for coffee, but he can definitely change his view.

***

Crowley takes longer than he anticipated finishing up his masterpiece, so by the next morning, he goes straight from his endeavor into a shower. He gets dressed, makes himself a fresh pot of coffee, grabs a cheese Danish from the fridge, and sits at his station.

There he waits.

He doesn’t watch the clock this time. He watches the window, the rising sun touching the glass and making it twinkle. As the new day dawns, brimming with promise, so does Aziraphale, coming down to open up at ten o’clock exactly. He rounds the well of the staircase that leads to the upstairs but before he gets anywhere near the door, key in hand, he stops.

And he stares.

Stares so long that Crowley begins to worry.

Aziraphale approaches the window, a careful hand outstretched, but he doesn’t touch the glass. Fingertips tremble within reach of a single petal but they don’t make contact.

Roses.

Crowley had painted roses.

A waterfall of tea roses rendered in multiple shades of red and pink, shaded in white, yellow, and blue to give them depth. Aziraphale looks around, searching for the person responsible, his face glowing from a smile that doesn’t seem to stop. When Crowley strolls out of his shop, fighting to remain nonchalant in the presence of that smile, Aziraphale calls out, “Anthony! Oh, Anthony! Did you … have you seen what someone’s done to my window?”

“Good morning, Mr. Fell. I …” Crowley stumbles in the midst of his usual script when he realizes Aziraphale called him Anthony. Not once, but twice. “Y-yes, I have,” he says, switching gears to accommodate. “Do you like it?” He can’t help asking though it might seem an odd thing.

But he needs to know.

“Oh, it’s remarkable! Simply breathtaking! I had wanted to do something just like this myself, only I don’t have a talent for drawing!”

“Nonsense,” Crowley rebuts, saying what he’d wanted to say yesterday. “Art is a pursued interest. If it’s something you want to do, keep at it. I’m … I’m sure you could find yourself a teacher. You know, to get you started.”

It’s an invitation, and he tries to make it sound like an invitation. Of course, saying the words, “I could teach you to draw. I’d be happy to!” apparently never occur to him.

“I might do that,” Aziraphale says, a blush to rival the roses rising to his cheeks. “Have a lovely day, Anthony.”

“You, too, Aziraphale.”

The blush on Aziraphale’s cheeks deepens, blossoms into a full-fledged flame as he turns shy eyes back to his window one last time, then opens up his shop.

***

The roses stay up for over two weeks, the paint keeping its brilliance long past what’s stated on the can, and during that time, Crowley and Aziraphale add more lines to their morning dialogue.

“Fine weather we’re having.”

“We are, aren’t we? Quite surprising considering the cold.”

“Good thing. Keeps my roses from wilting, so to speak.”

“Yes.” Crowley smiles. “That is a good thing.”

“By the way, I meant to tell you, if you know someone who might be willing to teach me to draw, I’d be quite interested in learning.”

“I …” That one catches Crowley off guard, the batting of Aziraphale’s blue eyes nearly knocking him off his feet. Crowley had been musing over Aziraphale’s adorably awful bright yellow and orange sunflower jumper when Aziraphale said it, so it didn’t sink in right away. But now, with those words out of Aziraphale’s mouth and hanging in the air, Crowley can’t seem to cough out an answer.

The answer he’s been dying to give.

“I … I’ll give it some … I mean, if I think of anyone, I’ll … uh … yes. Right. A teacher.” And with that, he turns back to his shop yelling, “Coming, coming, I’ll be right with you,” as if someone called his name from inside.

Of course, there is no one, so he looks like an imbecile.

When the roses start to chip, Aziraphale tries to patch them up with paint he’d bought to begin with. Crowley is sketching the template for a complicated piece he’ll put on a customer later in the day and doesn’t catch him before he tries.

By the time he sees, it’s too late.

Mixing the two paints makes it chip even more. Eventually, Aziraphale’s patching does more harm than good and he’s forced to take the painting down. He gives the paint job one last, longing look, then starts to scrub, his shoulders hanging as the roses bleed away.

And Crowley watches him. Watches him when he should go outside and offer to help, or reassure him that he’ll replace it for him. But even though he has no customer to monopolize his attention, he can’t bring himself to. He simply sighs and frowns along with Aziraphale as he scrubs his window clean and then retreats inside his shop, going back to his arrangements, his wistful expression heart wrenching from across a street with two plates of glass between them.

***

Crowley gazes at Aziraphale’s window throughout the day, every time he has a moment free. He knows he can’t leave it bare. He just can’t. He’s been dismal as a neighbor, a coward as a potential romantic interest. If all he can do to bring joy into this man’s life is paint his window then, by Someone, he’s going to do it.

He waits until Aziraphale’s lights are out and his own customers have gone. Then he pads his way across the street, paint in hand, and heads straight for the window. He’d made a decision over his choice of flower about a week ago, inspired by one of Aziraphale’s disastrous jumpers.

Sunflowers.

Yellow and orange sunflowers. As many of them as he can fit in the space between the red brick. That way, Aziraphale can wear that horrendous jumper as many times as he likes and he and his window will match.

Besides, Aziraphale’s smile reminds Crowley of the sun.

***

“Sunflowers have to be one of my favorite flowers in the universe.” Aziraphale sighs, staring at the field on his window, painted to look like it goes on for miles and miles beneath milky clouds and a blue sky.

“Really?” Crowley asks, taking a few steps out into the middle of the street so he can talk to Aziraphale without yelling. “And why is that?”

“They make you happy, for one.” Aziraphale glances over his shoulder at Crowley inching closer to him. “They’re bright and cheerful. You can’t help smiling when you look at them.”

“I suppose …” Crowley takes another step.

“In the language of flowers they mean friendship. And faith and loyalty. Those are such lovely messages to give. People get so caught up in this need to only express passionate love, which, let’s be honest, is usually passionate lust.”

Crowley chuckles at hearing the word lust pass over Aziraphale’s lips. Never in a hundred years would he have pictured that happening. But Aziraphale’s statement reminds him how many times over Valentine’s he’d put someone’s name, or their face, on a customer’s arm, knowing he’ll be covering it up again come April.

He’s already done a few and it’s barely the middle of March.

Most artists would turn down a request to do some of the portraits he’d done last month, but for Crowley, who’s famous for his impeccable cover up work, he sees them as guaranteed business.

Humans can be impulsive creatures.

Stupid ones, too.

But he doesn’t judge his customers based on their poor decision making skills.

They pay his rent.

Aziraphale tilts his head and sighs again. “It’s so nice to be reminded that passionate friendship exists. Don’t you think?”

“I do.” Another step.

“Seed-bearing sunflowers carry a sophisticated mathematical pattern in their centers. The Golden Ratio. I used to sit in my mother’s garden and stare at it for hours. Still do when I get them in my shop. It mirrors the stars in the Heavens, the swirling galaxies. To my eyes, at least. Of course, what do I know about the stars? I own a flower shop.”

“You’re not wrong,” Crowley agrees, stepping onto the curb. “The Fibonacci sequence. I learned about it in art class.”

“Did you?” Aziraphale’s gaze travels over his shoulder, assessing Crowley’s progress. He motions with his head to the space beside him in what seems like a request.

To come stand beside him.

And Crowley accepts.

“Yes,” he says, sauntering over. “You don’t need to be an astronomer or a mathematician to understand it. Patterns and sequences? They occur everywhere in nature. You probably see more of them in your line of work than most people.”

“You think so?”

“Yes, I do.”

“I never realized. Well, then …” Aziraphale winks at Crowley “… maybe that’s something my new art tutor will be willing to teach me.”

***

Crowley no longer waits for the paint on the flowers to chip before he changes them. He does it weekly, too impatient to bring joy into Aziraphale’s life to wait for the old flowers to degrade on their own.

After the sunflowers, he paints poppies.

Then posies.

Azaleas.

Carnations.

Gerberas.

Orchids.

Every morning after, Crowley sits at his station and waits to see Aziraphale’s reaction.

And Aziraphale never disappoints.

It gets to the point Aziraphale rushes down his staircase on Monday morning to see his new flowers. Crowley wanders out after Aziraphale has time to examine his creations and they talk, Crowley crossing the street proactively so he and Aziraphale can stand side by side.

“You know,” Aziraphale says, “I’m beginning to think you don’t want me to learn how to draw.”

“Why’s that?”

“You haven’t given me the name of a teacher. It’s been weeks!”

“Well, I …” Crowley stutters, not sure how to answer that one. He doesn’t want to recommend anyone. He would love to teach Aziraphale to draw himself. Of course he would! But sharing that with him seems so intimate, much more so than grabbing a coffee, which he also hasn’t asked him to do. So for lack of a better answer, he comes out with the lamest thing he could possibly say. “I’m sure you could Google someone in the area who could teach you. Or look on YouTube. There’re some good how to videos on there.” Then Crowley closes his eyes, praying that a hole will open up beneath him so he can disappear into the concrete.

“I think I’ll wait until you come up with someone,” Aziraphale says, a smile in his voice. A forgiving one, thank the Lord. “I’d rather get a teacher on the recommendation of someone I trust then go hen pecking through Craigslist. Probably end up in the boot of someone’s car then.”

“Ngk …. you have a point.”

“Thank you, by the way.”

Crowley opens his eyes to check why. What has he done since he made that asinine YouTube suggestion that warrants a thank you? Aziraphale is still staring at Crowley’s latest creation – bluebells swaying gently in an unseen breeze. He’s getting better. Crowley has to admit that about himself.

Then again, putting paint on paper is something he’s always been good at.

The only thing, it turns out.

“What for?” Crowley asks, nervous because he thinks Aziraphale has him figured out. Why that would be bad, Crowley hasn’t the foggiest idea. Aziraphale loves his paintings. But Aziraphale knowing that he’s putting them on his window fills Crowley with anxiety nonetheless.

“For coming out and talking to me. To be honest, I’ve thought about crossing the street and stopping in so many times, only I … I just couldn’t seem to …” Aziraphale swallows the end of that sentence, seems to jump on a different horse and change course. “I’m not very good around people.”

Crowley snorts. Is Aziraphale kidding him? Not good with what now? He said car engines, right? Speaking Greek? Training ferrets? “Now that I don’t believe.”

“It’s true. Even people I get on with right away, I just … I get so nervous. I’m so afraid I’m going to mess things up and they’ll never want to speak to me again.”

“Rough owning a shop that people like then, huh?”

“Yes, well, I opened the shop because I love flowers, not because I like people. Don’t get me wrong, people can be great. And I like my customers. But I love being surrounded by flowers. And I do need to pay the rent but …” Aziraphale pauses, leans in towards Crowley’s ear “Can I tell you a secret?”

Crowley’s heart races. One of Aziraphale’s secrets? “Of course. Anything.”

“You’re going to think I’m ridiculous.”

“No, I won’t. I promise.”

Aziraphale’s eyes dart to Crowley’s face, double-checking to see if he’s being sincere. Crowley schools his face into the most genuine mask of sincerity he can muster. He’s not going to blow this chance at finding out one of Aziraphale’s secrets.

At this rate, it might be the only chance he gets.

“I switched neighborhoods because my last shop was so popular, it became overwhelming. It was nerve wracking opening the doors every morning. I thought the change would do me good, but everyone found out where I was headed and followed me here. If I could own my shop and never sell a single flower, I’d do it in a second. That’s one of the reasons why I’m so in love with these paintings.” Aziraphale tears his eyes away from the bluebells and looks at Crowley with an expression that tugs at Crowley’s heart. “Does that sound weird?”

“No,” Crowley says softly. “Not as much as you think.”

***

Crowley starts carrying a sketch book with him everywhere he goes, and he’s filled it cover to cover with drawings of flowers. He thought it prudent to get his thoughts down ahead of time, get the painting he wants under his fingers so it’ll take him less time to copy it.

Painting a window in the middle of the night – a window that belongs to a shop other than your own – can be a tricky business.

The idea came to him weeks ago when he was stopped by cops while trying to paint angel’s trumpets on Aziraphale’s window. It took him forever to convince them that he wasn’t a vandal and that yes, Aziraphale knows him, and also yes, Aziraphale would approve, but please don’t call him to verify because the man is asleep and there’s really no reason to wake him. Barely did he convince them not to haul him off to jail, but he had to stop where he was, with the angel’s trumpets nowhere near finished to his liking. He waited hours till shift change, then snuck back out after sunrise to get them done.

He may have gotten a few strange looks from passersby, but it was well worth it.

When Aziraphale saw them the next morning, he gasped; stood with a hand to his mouth, staring at them until well after opening. One of his customers, arriving to pick up a communion bouquet, had to remind him to unlock his door. That’s how long he stood. And when they left, he went back outside and stared some more.

Later, Aziraphale told Crowley that they’d taken his breath away.

Knowing he’d had that effect on him was more than enough to ensure that Crowley would die a happy man someday.

Carrying a sketch book is something Crowley had done most of his life, during high school and college, through till he first opened his shop. It’s something he did when art was a passion for him and not a job. He still loves drawing. Nothing in the world could ever take that away from him. But he does much less in the way of work on canvas now than he did when he first became a tattoo artist to pay the bills, bushy tailed and determined to someday have his own show in a famous gallery.

He hasn’t wandered too far from that dream except his shop is his gallery. He still puts original art up on the walls from time to time.

And his art isn’t stagnant, doesn’t hang in a single location.

He has canvases all over the city.

The jingling of bells signals the arrival of a customer. Crowley has no one on the books so he has no clue who it could be. He figures it’ll take whomever never a minute to decide on what they want so he steals a moment to flip through his sketchbook and survey the latest flowers he’s drawn. He found most of them by doing a search on his phone so he didn’t have the benefit of accurate colors or lighting. How much easier (and better) would it be if he could lamp in Aziraphale’s shop and draw the flowers from the arrangements he has there! But all in all, Crowley is pleased with them.

He’ll put them up in his shop, offer them as tattoos. They’re beautiful, some of his best work.

But they’re not quite worthy of Aziraphale’s window.

“I’ll be right with you,” he murmurs, putting the finishing touches on an iris, giving the yellow eyes on the petals dark rings, like kohl liner. “I’m just … I need to … oh, what the fuck do you care …”

“Hello, Anthony.”

That voice saying his name sends a rampant twist up his spine, torqueing it so tightly it gives him an immediate headache.

“Ugh …” Crowley groans with not a single care that anyone can hear. He takes a reluctant gander at the person strolling about as if they own the place.

The dreaded ex … sort of.

They never properly dated. Crowley took her out for coffee, but it was apparent five minutes in that they had no connection. At least, Crowley didn’t think so. His date, however, has other opinions on the subject …

“Whaddya want, Carmine? Happen to be very busy, me.”

Carmine stops, looks around, taking in the sight of the empty shop and Crowley, sitting in his chair with a pad on his lap, doodling flowers.

“Looks it,” she says dryly. “I was in the neighborhood so I thought I’d drop by. See if you’re free for coffee … tea … me …”

“Well, I’m not. So why don’t you run along? Find some other poor sap to harass? There’s hundreds of willing victims on Tinder. Go. Be fruitful and multiply. Just not here.”

“You know, Anthony,” Carmine starts in that tone Crowley knows means she has no intention of going anywhere, “it’s been a while. We’ve taken a break. Re-grouped. Don’t you think you’re being a tad childish?”

“Childish?” Crowley sets his pad and pencil aside so he can stand and continue this argument eye to eye. Besides, the faster he gets this witch out of his shop, the faster he can go back to finishing up his latest piece for Aziraphale’s window.

“Yes, childish,” Carmine repeats, raising a hand to pat down flyaway strands of crayon red hair on the column of her complicated up-do. “You don’t return my phone calls, you don’t answer my text messages, you’ve blocked my number … Childish.”

“Seeing as I’ve changed my number twice, you’d think you’d get the hint.”

“About what, dearest?”

“We don’t have a relationship, Carmine! We never had a relationship!”

“That’s because you never gave us a chance!”

“I gave you the chance you deserved!” Crowley argues as he tries to usher Carmine out of his shop without actually having to touch her. “Five whole minutes wherein I introduced myself, gave you a brief rundown of my likes and dislikes, and paid for your triple-shot espresso with cayenne pepper and three packets of Splenda! Like that’s a real coffee order! Meanwhile, you started a long and frankly scary rant about feeding homeless children to their parents! And when I called you on it, you said it was a metaphor!”

“What can I say?” Carmine shrugs. “I’m a journalist. A writer. An artistic type, like you.” She runs stiletto nails up the lapels of Crowley’s flannel shirt while she speaks, toying with the soft fabric between the tips of her fingers. “I deal a lot in metaphors. I like to make people think. Shake them up a bit.”

“Feeding children to their parents is not a metaphor, Carmine! And it doesn’t shake me up! It makes me think that you’re a disgusting, heartless human being!”

Carmine pouts, but then she grins, too white teeth gleaming viciously through blood red lips. “Oh, but I do like it when you get all hot and bothered, dearest!”

“Grr! I’m not hot or bothered!” Crowley growls as he herds Carmine towards the door and throws it open. “And don’t call me dear—“

He bumps her accidentally with his hip. She stumbles back on five inch heels. As a reflex, Crowley reaches out to catch her, his arm circling her waist. He may detest her, but he doesn’t want to see her slam her head on the pavement.

Especially not right outside his shop. His insurance premiums would skyrocket!

Her hands curl into the lapels of his button down. Before he can put her back on her feet, she cuts him off with a more painful than sensual kiss on the mouth. He balks the second her lips touch his and tries to yank himself away, but she’s surprisingly strong, locking him against her for a full ten seconds before he manages to get her upright and at arm’s length.

She smiles at him coolly. Crowley pants in shock and anger, wanting nothing more than to lock his front door and hide between the pages of his sketch book. She runs a finger over her lips, then blows him a kiss.

“Why don’t you ring me when you’ve calmed down a bit. You can take me out to dinner, hmm? That way we can talk about this in private.”

“Private?” Crowley’s eyes snap up, his stomach sinking to his knees as Carmine turns on her heel and struts away, shoulders pulled back and chest thrust out. With her out of his line of sight, he can see straight through the window across the street. He doesn’t make out Aziraphale’s expression fully. Aziraphale turns away too quickly. But in profile, he looks as wistful as he did that first time he had to scrub the roses off his window, his effervescent smile, the one that lingers like a shadow on his mouth regardless of what he’s doing, conspicuously absent.

“Shit! Shit shit shit shit!” Crowley spits, slamming his front door with such force he’s sure he’s cracked the glass.

Irony.

It knows no bounds.

Why does he keep fucking up!? If he’d just had the balls to talk to Aziraphale in the first fucking place, invite him out for coffee, this wouldn’t even be an issue! Aziraphale would be rushing over to make sure he’s okay instead of possibly thinking that Carmine is Crowley’s girlfriend!

His volatile and possessive girlfriend!

What does Crowley do now!?

Does he run across the street and explain?

Does Aziraphale even care as much as Crowley assumes he does?

What can he paint on his window that would convey the sentiment, That person you saw me talking to? The one who kissed me like they were trying to remove my tonsils? They mean nothing to me!?

He pulls out his iPhone and jumps online in an attempt to find such an eloquent and expressive flower, one that will say all the things he’s been trying to say for the past few months, but, unfortunately, no such savior exists.

Since he can’t seem to find one, he decides to go in a different direction.

And he prays it works

***

When Aziraphale arrives at his shop in the morning, he is confronted by an intricately painted, hyper-realistic Drosera – a uniquely fascinating (according to Crowley’s research) carnivorous plant, commonly known as the sundew, one of the largest genera of carnivorous plants, with at least 194 species. Crowley didn’t actually care about any of that. He didn’t care about its country of origin, its temperature requirements, its soil pH, or its preferred humidity levels. He cared about the fact that it appeared frighteningly alien, mildly grotesque, and thirsty for blood (he was projecting). He drew its prehensile leaf-parts shimmering with venom, one curled around a plump and wriggling fly.

A fly with the faintest suggestion of a crayon red up-do.

Crowley has no idea what came over him when he painted it. It wasn’t Aziraphale’s style. But in all its glory, it took him less than an hour to complete.

And whether or not Aziraphale understands the message (unlikely since he doesn’t know who’s painting his window as it is) he doubles over with laughter when he sees it. When he��s done laughing, he shakes his head, his face nearly as red as Carmine’s hair, but his smile returns.

And it doesn’t leave.

***

“Oh my goodness! Come in! Come in! How have you been! I never thought you’d finally find time to visit!”

Crowley hears the words so loud and clear, they sound like they’re coming from his own front door. He peeks around the side of his work station and out his window at Aziraphale’s shop and spies the man dressed in a red and brown fall themed jumper standing on his landing, arms wrapped around a young couple stopped from entering his shop by the whole of his body embracing theirs.

As friendly as Aziraphale is with his customers, Crowley has yet to see him touch anybody. Watching him now, he can’t help feeling jealous.

Aziraphale looks like he gives incredible hugs.

What would he have to do to earn one of those?

Crowley doesn’t know who the couple are to him. Children are his first bet. That would open the footlocker to a slew of questions and he hasn’t even gotten answers to the first ones yet! They don’t look a thing like him, but the couple seem to know Aziraphale well. The young woman wraps her arms around him, then pulls away and shows him her finger.

And Aziraphale squeals for joy.

A wedding.

The couple are getting married.

And Aziraphale couldn’t be more thrilled.

He drags the couple into his shop and locks his door, flipping the sign on it to ‘Closed’, adding another one underneath that reads, ‘For pickups, knock twice.’

Crowley feels like a voyeur as he pulls his stool around to the front of his shop, almost in front of his picture window, and watches Aziraphale excitedly show the young couple buckets of flowers – roses in every shade, tulips, irises, carnations, daisies, and other seasonal blooms Crowley doesn’t recognize, but which he makes a mental note to Google later.

The couple stay for over three hours, and in that amount of time, they laugh and reminisce, look at pictures on the young lady’s phone, call someone on the phone of the young gentleman, and present Aziraphale with a bottle of champagne and what looks like a piece of their wedding cake.

“Is he … is he not going?” Crowley asks out loud as if expecting an answer. “Is that why they brought the champagne? Why wouldn’t he go to their wedding? That seems so cruel!”

Crowley decides to reserve judgement until … until when? When in Hell is he going to get an answer to that? Who’s going to tell him why if he doesn’t …?

He gets up from his stool, turns away from the scene playing out across the street, and brews a cup of tea.

When he’s less agitated, he returns to the window.

As close as the couple seem to Aziraphale, Crowley manages to determine that neither man nor woman are a relation of his. Not by blood. But they’re close. So close that watching them leave, watching them hug Aziraphale good bye, knowing that he’s not going to be present on one of the happiest days of their lives, brings tears to Crowley’s eyes.

When they depart, Aziraphale stands by the door to watch them go, calling out Good bye! and Take care! and Be safe! and Have a good time! till they’re well and truly gone.

And then he watches a while longer.

Crowley assumes Aziraphale will clean up and head upstairs to his apartment when they’ve gone. It’s close to eight-thirty as is, long past closing.

But he doesn’t.

Aziraphale drags an antique gramophone out of his back room, sets it up in a corner, and puts a record on. Muffled strains of romantic jazz music fills the air as he pops open the bottle of champagne and pours himself a glass. He reaches underneath his counter, in a drawer beneath the cash register, and pulls out a binder. With its puffy white, quilted cover, its pages overflowing, it’s stuffed beyond closing correctly. Crowley has seen it before - from a distance, but he knows what it is.

He has one himself.

Only his isn’t white and it’s much less puffy.

It’s an idea book, filled with photos cut from magazines to help inspire customers when they’re stumped. Aziraphale opens it to the middle and starts browsing from there. Crowley slides up closer to his window, to a corner that best looks into Aziraphale’s shop, leaning forward as far as he dares to get a better look.

Aziraphale flips through page after page of wedding arrangements – bridal bouquets and groom boutonnieres, centerpieces for tables and church pews and altars. Aziraphale pours over each one with a trembling smile on his face.

A smile that becomes smaller and smaller with each page he turns.

These aren’t his memories. They’re mass produced for the wedding market, which makes how long Aziraphale lingers over each one even sadder. But somewhere between the captions and the msrps lie his own hopes. His own dreams.

He sniffles, raises his glass in the air … and toasts nobody.

A tear rolls down his cheek. He doesn’t catch it before another one follows.

Crowley turns away.

He curses himself for watching. For intruding.

For doing nothing worthwhile to help.

For being so blind.

He’d been searching for a middle ground – something in common that they shared while somehow overlooking the most glaring.

That even with all the customers that stop into Aziraphale’s shop, day in and day out, Aziraphale is lonely.

Terribly lonely.

Crowley is, too.

He doesn’t mind being alone, but being alone and being lonely are two different things. Crowley doesn’t have any friends. No one he can call at a moment’s notice to grab a drink with, no one to text after a rough day. But the mornings he’s spent talking to Aziraphale before they open their shops have been the most fulfilling of his life so far.

That has to count for something.

***

Around midnight, Aziraphale puts his gramophone and his idea book away, and carries his bottle of champagne upstairs to bed. Crowley had opened a bottle of wine himself, toasted Aziraphale whenever he raised his glass.

His bottle is much more full than Aziraphale’s by the time Aziraphale calls it a night.

While he watched Aziraphale drink away the day, Crowley shelved the painting he’d been working on in favor of something new.

Something with the potential to be a bit more melancholy, but perhaps a bit more apropos.

He thinks back to the flowers Aziraphale had been showing the young couple. He’s not too certain what they settled on, but what had he shown them?

Which flowers in particular had made Aziraphale smile the most?

Tulips.

Pale pink tulips.

And calla lilies - bright white and light purple.

Roses. Pastel yellow roses, buds holding hard to their youth a hair longer, not ready to bloom.

There had been others, flowers Crowley had to look up, and he includes those as well: paper thin gladiolus, sweet pea, lily of the valley, buttercups, freesia, gardenias, larkspur, baby’s breath. Crowley crafts a wedding bouquet on Aziraphale’s window deserving of the young woman with the olive skin and the flowing brown hair who had walked up to Aziraphale’s shop and wrapped her arms around his shoulders.

Deserving, he hopes, of the kind but lonely man who secretly longs for companionship.

Just like him.

***

Crowley’s stomach has rolled itself over and over throughout the night till, by morning, it’s one hard bolt, wringing itself to nausea. And even though his pounding head begs him to abandon his ego this one time and go to sleep, he can’t.

He needs to know that he did the right thing putting that bouquet up on Aziraphale’s window.

He needs to see Aziraphale lay eyes on it for the first time.

Aziraphale shows up to work late for the first time ever and Crowley doesn’t think to blame his clock. He trudges down his stairs at a crippled snail’s pace, a hand holding up his head as if it’s pounding as hard as Crowley’s.

Probably polished off that bottle of champagne, Crowley thinks.

If that’s the case, Crowley hopes his painting will help take some of the sting off his hangover.

Aziraphale shouldn’t be expecting anything new on his window since it’s not Monday. He doesn’t even look, the throbbing in his head tunneling his vision so that he turns the corner and heads straight to the front door.

Crowley, holding his breath since he saw the toes of Aziraphale’s Derbys start to descend the staircase, begins feeling lightheaded.

Suddenly he realizes he’s forgotten how to breathe.

Aziraphale aims to stick his key in the lock but misses, fumbling them in his grasp and dropping them on the ground. He looks down at the mess of metal at his feet and sighs, debating between bending over and picking them up or climbing upstairs and going back to bed, praying that one of his more honest customers will find them and slip them in the mail slot for him.

Crowley knows this. He’s been this drunk before.

He decides to pick them up, crouching at the knees, lowering his body like an elevator. He doesn’t make it to the bottom floor, however, swaying forward and backward, threatening to keel over. He reaches slowly between his legs and sweeps left to right. His key ring catches on his right middle finger and he scoops them up.

In his shop, tucked behind his picture window, Crowley cheers for him.

Standing is easier, the bricks in the wall spaced perfectly, giving him holds to hoist himself up with. He slips the key in the lock and opens the door, glancing subconsciously around to see if anyone noticed his little ballet.

That’s when he sees the window.

It draws him out to the sidewalk.

And like with Crowley’s first masterpiece, Aziraphale stares – stares so long, Crowley begins to sweat. Aziraphale puts a hand out, reaching for the petals as his eyes take in the elegant wedding bouquet. He doesn’t touch it, but unlike the first time, his fingers curl around air like he’s trying to grab hold of it.

His empty hand clenches into a fist.

His shoulders shake.

He begins to sob.

He runs inside his shop, straight to his back room.

And Crowley’s heart, bouncing on an emotional trampoline since Aziraphale first called him by his name, stumbles over the side and shatters.

‘What have I done?’ he thinks, slamming his hand on the counter, breaking his pencil in two.

He considers rushing across the street, scraping off the bouquet, and replacing it with something else. Or maybe not. Maybe he should wash it off and leave the window bare. Leave the poor man alone.

Give him a fucking break from the burden of Crowley’s unspoken affections.

Crowley knows Aziraphale loves his paintings. The bouquet was one mistake. One setback. But is it worth the grief behind making another mistake if he can’t find the guts to walk across the street and ask the man out for coffee? Or apologize? Or fuck it! All those times he’s walked across the street to talk to him, why didn’t he bring a damn cup of coffee with him!?

Is this really about the fucking coffee!?!?

Why is he overthinking this?

Aziraphale likes him. Likes his company, anyway. They have to be something in the vein of friends by now.

Acquaintance-friends.

There. That’s his open door.

Now walk across the Goddamned street and go through it!

Why can’t he get up off his arse and do it?

He leaps up off his stool and walks towards the door. Reaching a hand out for it, he sees red.

Literal red.

On his hand.

He’s bleeding.

His broken pencil speared his palm.

He stares at it. It’s a scratch, not all that deep. He should wipe it on his pant leg and continue on.

But he doesn’t.

He turns around and heads for his back room in search of a bandage he doesn’t need.

This isn’t an emergency. He isn’t bleeding to death.

Why does he overthink everything?

That’s his problem. His big problem. It’s what builds walls between him and other people when he hasn’t consciously lifted a trowel.

It’s what pushes people away when he would like them to get closer.

But that doesn’t matter, does it, since not a single person he’s met in his life has tried to climb those walls. Or break them down.

Except for Carmine, but she’s got issues of her own.

And that sort of emphasizes his point.

It’s not up to other people to climb his walls. He needs to take them apart, build a door or lower a rope ladder.

But he doesn’t know how.

Professional help? Therapy? A support group?

Good. That’s a start.

But until then, companionship would be nice. Someone to talk to, share a meal with, watch a movie with.

That’s all he’s looking for.

It’s all he wants.

Why is that so damned …?

“Hello?”

Crowley’s head jerks up, his neck cracking with the speed. He stands in silence, Band-Aid open in his hand, waiting for another word.

“Is anyone … Anthony?”

Crowley’s brow furrows. “Aziraphale?” He peeks out the doorway of his back room. Aziraphale’s voice somehow preceded the sound of the bell above the door. Crowley doesn’t know how that could have happened, but …

“I’m sorry.” Aziraphale walks in the rest of the way, cradling a large bouquet of flowers in his arms, of all things. “Am I interrupting anything? I know I don’t have an appointment.”

Crowley’s gaze meets big blue eyes, red-rimmed from crying and lack of sleep.

But also a Heavenly smile.

“An appointment? Appointment for what?”

“I … I would like to get a tattoo, please. Also, I wanted to bring you these.” He hands the flowers to Crowley. “As a thank you for all the work you’ve done on my window. You’re quite talented.”

“How did you know it was me?” Crowley asks, tongue-in-cheek since his gig is obviously up.

Aziraphale shrugs. “Lucky guess.”

“Thank you for parting with these,” Crowley says, giving the flowers a gentle hug when he turns his back in search of a vase to put them in. “I know how you feel about your flowers.”

“Well, you’re across the street. I can stop by and visit them, replace them when they wilt … like you’ve done for me.”

Crowley finds the vase he’s looking for and sticks the flowers in. On his way to the sink to fill it with water, his eyes find the window, and the wedding bouquet that brought Aziraphale to tears.

Crowley sighs. “Look, about your window. I’m sor—”

“Do you have time to do my tattoo right now?” Aziraphale interrupts, his eyes watery but his smile effervescent. “Or would you prefer it if I came back another time?”

“I have time,” Crowley says. Aziraphale doesn’t want to talk about it. So they won’t talk about it. “Do you have any idea what you’d like to get?”

“I do.” Aziraphale walks over. He pulls his cell phone out of his pocket and scrolls through his gallery. Crowley tries not to look over his shoulder, but at the angle Aziraphale is standing, he can’t help catching a glimpse at a handful.

They’re pictures of the paintings on his window.

Every single one.

And the more peeks Crowley catches, the more he begins to notice a theme.

Aziraphale has taken a photograph of each painting from two perspectives - one from outside his shop looking in as well as from inside looking out. And in each inside picture, somewhere in the background, Crowley can be seen looking out his window towards Aziraphale’s shop.

Crowley wonders if Aziraphale noticed.

He wonders if he framed the photos that way on purpose.

The tips of Crowley’s ears begin to burn.

“This one.” Aziraphale settles on a picture and turns the screen so Crowley can see more clearly.

Crowley smiles at Aziraphale’s choice. It seems fitting. “The angel’s trumpet?”

“Oh no, my dear. That’s a devil’s trumpet,” Aziraphale corrects with the slyest of grins on his face. “They’re very similar until you know what sets them apart. Sometimes Google search switches them around. But that’s what it is.”

“And you would like it where?” Crowley asks, leading Aziraphale to his chair.

“I was thinking my right bicep would be a nice fleshy place to get my first tattoo.”

“Sounds good.”

“You know, dear boy, if you wanted to come over and talk, you could have just popped in and said hello. It would probably have saved you time. And paint.”

“I don’t mind sparing the time. Or the paint.” Crowley sits on his stool and readies his gun. He peeks over at his iPhone sitting beside his pots of ink and gets an idea. With a few swipes across the screen, he places an order on the website of the deli down the street for two coffees and a dozen donuts. He smirks when he receives a confirmation text.

Just because it’s a pathetic plan doesn’t mean it isn’t actionable.

Crowley looks over his shoulder at Aziraphale reclining in his chair, smiling at him the way he’d pictured dozens of times.

His heart does a double thump, and he smiles back.

“It didn’t go to waste.”

[that1nova]

Get to Know my Characters... featuring Mollie Milton

01. What does your character’s name mean? Did you pick it for the symbolism, or did you just like the way it sounded?

Mollie is named after her mother, who passed giving birth to her. The name means “star of the sea” and was given to their mother because she was born in a small, seaside town.

02. What is one of your character’s biggest insecurities? Are they able to hide it easily or can others easily exploit this weakness?

Mollie doesn’t like her body. She does not hide it well, and is easily brought to tears by innocent remarks.

03. What would be their favorite physical trait about themselves?

Her eyes, because she shares the color with her mother and sister.

04. What are their favorite traits about their lover? (one psychological and one physical)

He’s smart and he’s got abs for days.

05. Are they sexually confident or more of the shy type?

Definitely very shy. She’s only had the one lover, and she still does not feel confident with sex.

06. Do they have any hobbies that their lover finds unusual, odd, or otherwise annoying?

Her partner will never understand her obsession with shopping, but doesn’t find it annoying.

07. Is there a catchphrase or sound that they tend to make a lot (likely without being aware of it)?

“Like” (I’m sighing internally, thinking of writing all this dialogue with like in it) Her sister teases her about it, so she knows it happens, but she doesn’t realize it at the time.

08. What is, perhaps, their biggest flaw? Are they aware of this or oblivious to it?

She’s very untrusting. She won’t make that mistake again. She’s aware of it, but doesn’t see it as a flaw.

09. Do they have a favorite season? What about a favorite holiday?

She loves summer, but her favorite holiday is Christmas.

10. Is your character more feminine or masculine?

Feminine 

11. What is something that would make your character fly into a rage?

Anyone messing with her sister.

12. Is there some particular talent, skill, or attribute that they simply could not give up?

Painting. It’s her way out of the world.

13. What are your character’s sleeping habits? Heavy or light sleeper? Blanket stealer? One that always rolls onto the floor? Pushes their lover onto the floor? Sleep talker or walker?

Mollie has always slept like a log. She’s been known to sleep talk, and more than once has pushed her partner out of the bed. 

14. Do they live alone or with family? How do they feel about their family/roommates?

She lives with her sister, whom she loves more than anyone else in the world.

15. Is there a certain person in this world that they cannot stand? The very mention of this person’s name makes them tremble with anger or fear.

(redacted)

16. Is your character the athletic type or more of a couch potato? What are some sports/games that they like?

She loves yoga and ballet, the latter of which she does not participate in, just watches.

17. Does your character have dreams of getting married and/or having children?

Maybe one day, but for now she’s happy as is.

18. What kind of home would they want to live in? Where would they place this abode?

She never wants to leave the place she grew up, either.

19. Would your character be the kind to get into fights? (physical or verbal) Would they be a good fighter or cave in rather easily?

Mollie will start a fight in a heartbeat over the right topic. But not a physical one, just verbal. And she is stubborn as hell, so she’s always going to get the last word.

20. Does your character like animals? What are some of their favorite animals? Would they want pets? What about mythological creatures?

She’s not crazy about animals, but is considering letting her sister get that cat… as long as she never has to clean the litter.

21. What is one of your character’s biggest fears? How would they react when dealing with this fear?

(redacted)

22. What kind of tattoos, piercings, birthmarks, freckles, and other such unique physical features do they have?

She has freckles like her sister and father. She also has several tattoos.

23. What is your character like when it comes to school? What subjects are they good/bad at? Do they get in trouble a lot or are well behaved?

Mollie hated school, and spent most of it trailing behind her sister.

24. In their own words, how would your character describe what their lover is like?

“I mean have you like… seen him? He’s so hot, ohmygosh. I cannot believe how handsome this guy is… and tall. And he wants to be with me?! Pffft. How’d I get so lucky? And not only is he hot, but he’s got the brains to boot. Mmm.”

25. Is there something traumatic from your character’s past that greatly affects them even to this day?

(redacted)

26. What is their lover like sexually? How do they feel about their lover’s quirks, needs, etc?

He’s patient, but passionate.

27. If your character was going to get arrested, what would be the most likely reason for it?

(redacted)

28. If your character became a celebrity, what would they be famous for?

Her paintings. And she hopes to get there one day.

29. What is one of the most courageous things your character has ever done for a loved one?

(redacted)

30. When it comes to the arts (music, film, theater, etc), what does your character like?

She loves listening to music while she paints. And she enjoys joining her sister for plays sometimes.

31. Would your character be the kind capable of killing? Would they enjoy killing or only use it when necessary or, perhaps, refuse to kill no matter what?

(redacted)

32. If your character’s lover offered to take them out on a dream date, what would they want to do?

A dinner in a fancy restaurant, followed by a walk near a river or lake.

33. If your character wanted to be alone, where would they go?

Her art studio.

34. Does your character have favorite foods? (breakfast, lunch, dinner, dessert, snacks, etc)

Don’t even mention chocolate to this girl unless you’re willing to share.

35. Is your character afraid of death? If they got to choose how to die, how would they want to go?

She is. She wants to go quickly, however she does.

36. Does your character have any medical conditions? Are they serious or minor? Do they affect their day to day life?

No, Mollie is healthy.

37. What are some of your character’s pet peeves? What are some things that annoy them or disgust them?

She doesn’t like the sound of people drumming their fingers on a surface, or long nails clicking on things. She also can’t stand the sound of flip flops smacking, which is ironic given her favorite season.

38. What kind of weather does your character like? Cloudy skies, rainy days, sunshine, etc?

Sunshine and blue skies, baby.

39. When people look at your character, is there some assumption they might make about them just by appearance? Is that assumption correct?

People might look at Mollie and think she is a dopey blonde, but they would be very wrong.

40. Does your OC have any guilty pleasures they enjoy? Hobbies, past times, music, etc that they wouldn’t want known by others?

No, Mollie is very open with her likes and dislikes.

41. Does your character’s family affect your character in any way?

Absolutely. 

42. Is there anything in your character’s past that they regret, haunts them, or they wish they could change?

Oh, more than you could ever know…. Until the story comes out, that is.

43. Does your character have a switch that changes aspects of their personality whether they are around friends, family, etc. Is there someone who gets to see their true self?

She’s really shy around strangers, but once you get to know her you’ll see how cheery, smart, and sweet she is.

44. Is there a particular event that would emotionally devastate your character?

Seeing (redacted) again.

45. Is your character the kind to hide their true emotions or do they wear their heart on their sleeve?

She hides her emotions very well.

46. What is some random affectionate thing that your character always does to their lover?

Draws circles on his back with her fingers.

47. Is your character outgoing? Would they be the leader of the friend group, or the quiet one that gets dragged along?

The quiet one, for sure.

48. Is there anything in particular that would ignite your character’s jealousy? Or does your character not get envious?

Yes, she really hates when other women touch her partner while talking to him.

49. What is something that your character has nightmares about? Are these frequent? Do they heavily affect your character’s mood?

(redacted)

50. If your character confessed love to their crush, boyfriend, girlfriend, etc, what would they say?

“Really? You… really feel that way? Oh, Mollie..”

[saoirse-argentum]

I decided it would be more entertaining (for myself at least) to answer these as Saoirse…So I did…Everything outside of the last set of Q and A anyway. Haurchefant also makes a guest appearance. XD

B A S I C S .

FULL NAME:   Saoirse Argentum! NICKNAME(S): Sunshine and Somebunny. I’m told I have a cheery disposition and I love puns.   AGE: 29. BIRTHDAY: 19th Sun of the 1st Astal Moon (Jan. 19th) ETHNIC GROUP: Viera, Rava. NATIONALITY: Gridanian.  LANGUAGE(S) : Common. Dalmascan. High Ivalician. And I’m pretty sure I’ve figured out Mooglespeak….Kupo. SEXUAL ORIENTATION: I like them Elezen boys…and I’m a sucker for a handsome Dragoon.   ROMANTIC ORIENTATION: Heteromantic and hopeless. RELATIONSHIP STATUS: Eternally pining over Estinien. HOME TOWN/AREA: Old Gridania. CURRENT HOME: I still call Old Gridania home, but I spend a lot of time in Ishgard. PROFESSION: White Mage, Serpent Captain for the Order of the Twin Adder…Secretly a Gunbreaker…A bad one, but a girl can dream!

P H Y S I C A L .

HAIR: Brunette EYES: Green. FACE: Hmm. How did Haurchefant put it? You know what, I’ll just let him answer these next few. “If I had a star for every time her beauty brightened my day, I would have a galaxy.” LIPS: “Pink, supple and saccharine.” COMPLEXION: “Lightly sun-kissed.” BLEMISHES: “Not a one in sight…but her freckles…sprinkled like sugar and sweet.” SCARS: “None that I can see…Perhaps I should check.” “No.” TATTOOS: “A heart with my name on it, just above her breast.” “ALSO NO!” HEIGHT:  “Approx. 5’8”. Short for a Viera…I could just keep her in my pocket.” WEIGHT: “A gentleman would never tell.” “130lbs.” BUILD: “Like a brickhouse.” FEATURES: “Long lashes, slender legs, and her breasts—” “Okay, you’re done here.” ALLERGIES: Bananas and cats…both of which I enjoy. A true tragedy. USUAL HAIR STYLE:  Curled with angled bangs and styled to rest over my shoulder on one side. USUAL FACE LOOK: I smile a lot, I guess? USUAL CLOTHING: Thigh-high boots, skirts and dresses, and while in dungeons generally my White Mage robes.

P S Y C H O L O G Y .

FEAR(S): Loss. Letting my friends down…and the dark. ASPIRATION(S): Protect Eorzea, learn to be as good a fighter as I am a healer, and win the heart of Ishgard’s Grandest Grump! POSITIVE TRAITS: I suppose my empathy and optimism. NEGATIVE TRAITS: I can be stubborn and sometimes my shyness can be misconstrued as coldness. MBTI:  INFJ (“The Advocate”) ZODIAC: Capricorn. TEMPERAMENT: Somewhere between Melancholic and Phlegmatic. SOUL TYPE(S): An artisan.   ANIMAL(S): Vulpes Vulpes! Or the Astute Fox, a charming carnivore. VICE HABIT(S): I can be relatively reckless at times. FAITH: By the Twelve! GHOSTS?: Where?! AFTERLIFE?: Yes. There is something after all this. REINCARNATION?: I wouldn’t say it’s an impossibility all things considered. ALIENS?: I’m like 75% sure that Hildibrand is from another planet. POLITICAL ALIGNMENT: I’m a proud member of the Eorzean Alliance. EDUCATION LEVEL:  I have a high desire for learning, so I study whatever I can, when I can.

F A M I L Y .

FATHER: I never met him and my mother spoke little of him. MOTHERS:  Relme Argentum. SIBLINGS: Only child. EXTENDED FAMILY: Cassie Drauman…We’re practically sisters. NAME MEANING(S): Saoirse means “freedom” and Argentum is a metal so it’s considered “shining” in some circles. HISTORICAL CONNECTION?: None that I can verify. When I was kid, I heard rumors that my father was Hyur: Hilghlander who fought for Ala Mhigo during the Garlean invasion.

F A V O R I T E S .

BOOK: I love so many…but I enjoy a good romance story. DEITY: Menphina. HOLIDAY: Heavensturn. MONTH: October…there’s just a certain feeling in the air. SEASON: Fall PLACE: The Dravanian Hinterlands, near Matoya’s Cave! WEATHER: Brisk Autumn days with just a slight breeze…enough to stir the leaves.   SOUND(S): Soft rain and crackling fires. Thunder and crunch of leaves beneath your feet. SCENT(S): The smell of earth after it rains. Strawberries and roses. TASTE(S):  Whiskey kisses. <3 FEEL(S): Plush Velvets…Estinien’s hair. >_> <_< ANIMAL(S): Estinien…but really, puppies. NUMBER(S): 19 is my lucky number! COLOR(S): Pink and pastels.

E X T R A .

TALENT(S): My propensity for puns. BAD AT: Dance and tanking…which obviously go hand in hand. TURN ONS: Estinien is glaring really hard at me right now… TURN OFFS: Cruelty. Smelling like a Sahagin corpse covered in moldy stone cheese. HOBBIES: Reading, sleeping, and baking. TROPES: White Mage, Healing Hands, Girl Next Door, Manic Pixie Dream Girl, and the Klutz. QUOTE(S): “To let evil do evil, to do nothing in its presence is the same as taking their side. Being a hero means taking a stand.”  “I used to be good at wordplay…once a pun a time.”

M U N   Q U E S T I O N S .

Q1: If you could write your character your way in their own movie, what would it be called, what style would it be filmed in, and what would it be about? A1:  It doesn’t matter what I write, romance is usually central to the storyline, so it wouldn’t be any different with Saoirse. It would probably be a reverse harem style anime and all her party members would be beautiful men (standard archetypes) who want to protect Eorzea alongside her while vying for her heart. It would be called: All My Party Members are Bachelors. XD

Q2: What would their soundtrack/score sound like? A2: Probably a combination of Ayumi Hamasaki and Abingdon Boys School.

Q3: Why did you start writing this character? A3: She has a strong, bubbly voice and I spend so much time working on projects with more reserved heroines that it’s nice to break away from that without having to stress over my problematic perfectionism.

Q4: What first attracted you to this character? A4: I really like writing from the perspective of a character who doesn’t take herself too seriously…It makes writing dialogue enjoyable because I don’t have to stress about whether or not she’s actually funny so long as she finds herself amusing.

Q5: Describe the biggest thing you dislike about your muse. A5: Sometimes she’s a little too passive or naïve. I think part of that is because I’m so used to playing as a healer that I forget she can be strong in other ways.

Q6: What do you have in common with your muse?           A6: We’re both hopeless romantics and we both enjoy really simple humor…so easily amused.

Q7: How does your muse feel about you? A7: I dunno, let me ask.

“Are you French?...Because Eiffel for you.”

Ha!

Q8: What characters does your muse have interesting interactions with? A8: As a Manic Pixie Dream Girl, her most interesting interactions are with grumps or others with her sense of humor. Either way the banter is generally amusing.

Q9: What gives you inspiration to write your muse?     A9: Listening to music is one, but drawing is another one. I love drawing Saoirse with other characters and imagining scenes or interactions to bring to life visually and that generally spurs my writing.

Q10: How long did this take you to complete? A10: About two hours…because my dogs and significant other really enjoy distracting me, but it’s cool because I enjoy it too.

[johobi]

Satan, Baby

Word count: 2.6k

Pairing: Seokjin x Reader

Warnings: If you’re sensitive to religious topics and imagery I would skip this one, some rather major if brief angst, alcohol as a crutch, slightly scary in places, especially if you don’t like goats, fingering, tentacles (yep, however brief), archaic dialogue.

Prompt: “Wouldst thou like to live deliciously?” -The VVitch (2015)

AO3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16946889

When the devil knocks, you’re only too happy to answer.

Gin-gle bells, gin-gle bells, gin-gle all the way!

The greetings card sits, sardonic, opposite you. It has become a tragic premonition of this year’s festive agenda.  And the friend who’d gifted it you, gleeful grin and all, likely has no inkling of the accuracy with which it speaks. But how would she, when, blithe flake that she is, no longer favours you for her company this holiday. And not because you demanded it of her; of course not. You’re not the type to presuppose anything of anyone. It had been she who proposed your cosy Christmas twosome. A three-day extravaganza of turkey, gift-exchange and, yes, gin. Indeed, she’d been emphatic in her suggestion. It’s only been two weeks, after all, since you unearthed your ex-girlfriend’s year-long, adulterous deception. And you shouldn’t be alone after that, she’d insisted. But, no. The day before its Eve, your apparent best friend fucked off with her degenerate, drug-peddling boyfriend to a romantic retreat.

Christ.

So much for friendship.

So much for love.

Every unenthused effort you’d exerted in giving that other bitch - the cheating one - the Christmas she’d pouted for was wasted. The lurid lights, the offensively cheery decoration of your living room; it distresses your eyes and heart both. Reminds you how hideous a charade the whole ordeal has been. It’s relentlessly fake. A blanket of spray-on snow over nine layers of flaming lies.

It wasn’t just the pantomime of Christmas, though. Everything had been for Lily.

Your family’s desertion of you, for one. To say that they were disapproving of your relationship was underselling the strength of their abhorrence. Backwards, backwoods, and back-to-back harassment was their mentality and method in a nutshell. But you braved their repudiation for a love so true that it gave you the wings they purported God would tear from you.

If He feels so vehemently that a woman shouldn’t tongue another, though, he can fucking keep them.

And so you sit alone, gin in one hand and your dog snoring under the other, pensive. Numbly so, by this point. One can only weather so much before seeking shelter inside somewhere warm and safe. For you, it’s your mind and in the dregs of a bottle. Can’t drink too much, though. You have work tomorrow. The world doesn’t stop for Jesus these days.

Your drink becomes too cloying to endure. Its bottle, while only half-imbibed, sits suddenly heavy and offensive in your palm, because even alcohol has betrayed you. The stunts your stomach is showcasing deters you from persisting, so you relieve yourself of the bottle’s burden in an extraordinary way. Like an active grenade you lob it into the fireplace opposite and revel, exhilarated, how it enrages the flames for an alluring moment. The crack of splintering glass stirs your dog from repose to alarm in a split second, but you soon have him settled. He peers up at you with a question, but you only need smile before his placidity returns.

Maybe I could skip town? the scenario is heady to conceive. It grips you as you speculate within, everything outside your mind’s four walls forgotten. All but the flames afront of you. As they snap and writhe like the souls of those damned, the fire mesmerises you into a deeper state of introspection. You feel free of the compulsion to blink. Sink further into stupor.

I would sell my soul for another life.

The blaze speaks back. It knows you as well as you do. It is you.

Is that so?

Yes, I would, and there’s no hesitance to your thinking so. In your trance you feel easy, open.

That is quite the sacrifice, your mind supposes, though why you’ve taken on a different, more masculine voice to debate yourself is something you won’t allow yourself to examine.

Your eyeballs prickle in protest for being denied moisture. Nevertheless, it’s impossible to blink. My soul is rotten, if I even have one, and you truly believe that. I’ve been through too much.

The second voice inhabiting your body deepens. Deepens, and mutates, until there’s a trio of them speaking in perfect tandem; a whisper, a growl, and a voice of silver silk. Contrarily, it is luminous. Wouldst thou grant it to me?

“W-What?” you splutter it outside the confines of your internal monologue. Because that is not you conversing back. As soon as the exclamation stumbles over your tongue, your reverie disintegrates. You regain your ability to blink, but within one or two you feel yourself shift into an eerier reality. The fire is no longer quite so bright nor dazzling. The embers gasp their final, fiery breaths as they fade. The room is dark but for the paltry twinkle of your looming Christmas tree. Pluto barrels from the room, tail tucked to his stomach, a piercing yelp in his wake. “P-Pluto?”

Silence.

The rapid in-and-out of your breath is all that meets the muted air. Until the slightest shiver of movement catches in your periphery, and then you’re panting like a dying dog. You shrink into the sofa’s security, legs folding to your chest to screen your defenceless body. It must be a trick of the lowlight, but your eyes insist that there is a figure some eight foot tall occupying the corner. But it can’t be, because the tree’s illumination, however scant, catches nothing tangible. And yet, as your eyes squint through disbelief and murk, you swear, solemnly, that two, twisted horns sit atop this silhouette’s head. “Who’s there?” you don’t so much as threaten as squeak, catching your teeth on the tops of your knees. “Show yourself. How did you get in?!”

One blink and the demonic shadow vanishes, like your dry eyes were the instigator of this nightmarish hallucination. But something still remains there, you’re sure of it. It doesn’t breathe, it doesn’t speak, and it doesn’t disturb this plane of existence in any capacity, but you know it’s there. “Who are you? Have I finally gone insane?”

Your heart-rate is in the cosmos. And it only continues to ascend when the shadow responds, in that same, flanged voice. It’s otherworldly and melodic, bordering on soothing, were it not for the growl underrunning every spoken word. “Thou art of clear mind and clearer eyes. Thou hast summoned me.”

The dark form offers nothing to the truth of its identity, and yet you already know what stands there. There is no doubt in your mind. Strange, when up until this point you’ve been atheistic to the point of obnoxiousness. None of that is of any importance now, though, when faced by a being exuding the formidable truth. “Th-The Devil? I summoned you?”

It’s unnatural how your heartrate quietens when it - he - steps forward from indistinction. With him he brings an aura of utter tranquility, and even on its boundaries you feel like you’ve consumed a healthy dose of some benzo or another. Empty of anxiety, you’re able to appreciate the godless beauty of this man. Yes, a man, or perhaps that is how he’s choosing to present himself to you today. Quite against expectations he’s donned head to toe in white; a suit perfectly tailored to cling, and hair like platinum thread. Wide shoulders and narrow hips draw your eyes first, but then they land on, and refuse to waver from, his divinely-featured face. Everything you see there is sculpted by a deity’s master hand. The man possesses voids for eyes; they neither let light in nor out, and as he observes you without relent, you fear for what might happen if you fall into them. “Thou didst,” he murmurs past ripe, apple red lips, and this distraction is almost more damning. God, you want his mouth. More than all those who came before him.

“I didn’t think you were real. I didn’t think any of this kind of thing was real. What else is real? Do you have a name?” you’re not really the type to babble nonsensically, but you just feel so serene. Weightless. Words are but feathers on the wind, and to release them is to be free. There being an ancient, malevolent entity in your vicinity is of little worry.

“Seokjin is one of mine names,” he smirks; a mere twitch of his generous mouth, and cherubs are in chorus in your heart. The rest of your stumbling enquiries go unanswered. “Address me thus, if thou pleases.”

“You look more like an angel,” you breathe into the space between you.

The Devil smiles wider. It’s tenuous, but perhaps you spy two rows of vaguely pointed teeth. “There is nary a difference. They live to serve their Creator, as doth mine conscripts. I, however, am transparent in mine subjugation. He is not. One might consider that,” he tongues a tapered tooth. “Devilish.”

There’s little time to form an opinion on the matter because he takes two more steps to you, and every incremental increase in his proximity robs you of the wherewithal to function. He’s absolutely breathtaking, fatally so. It’s only when you heave in an urgent breath that you realise how even your most autonomic of impulses are impaired by him. You lower your legs to both see him better and signal your receptiveness to his advance. There’s no suggestion of what he may do when he comes near, but his eyes graze your exposed thighs without apology, only that sultry smirk pulling at his mouth. “Say to me,” he whispers low and slow, savouring each syllable like an indulgent meal. “Wouldst thou like to live deliciously?”

You don’t react verbally, not just yet. Your body, however, gives an immediate answer. There is a diabolical stirring between your spreading legs, intensifying for every second his gaze lingers there. It must be some dark magic hitching up your shift and soddening your cunt, but you sense it comes solely from you. You’re inebriate on his exotic musk, so dense that it fills not only your nostrils but your mouth; an irresistible tang compelling your asphyxiation. Rather than draw breath, however, you release a wanton whine. Each moment you go untouched by him your pussy strengthens its revolt. You’re so, unbearably tender, so shamefully wet, that little more than the heat of his breath on your skin will undo you. That much you’re sure of, as you squirm, open-legged and leaking for his pleasure, beseeching him for his mercy.

“Grant me thy answer, sweet girl,” the demon persists at range. He studies how unreservedly you present yourself to him, leaking so copiously that it moistens the sofa beneath. “I must hear it by thy own lips.”

It takes everything remaining of your modesty to prevent yourself from masturbating. “Y-Yes. I want to live a delicious life. Please.”

The one hand obscured in his pocket, he withdraws, raising it to the air. Adorning it is a ring, inset with a peculiarly flickering jewel. You rise, too, but whether it be by sorcery or out of your own, debauched necessity, you don’t know. The sofa dips under the soles of your feet as you straighten awkwardly to attention. The arousal streaming your legs in depraved amounts demands you keep them apart. An undignified stance, to be sure, but something you care little about in your condition. Fuck, you twinge like a metronome at your centre, mouthing around nothing but a desperate wish.

That wish, Seokjin grants. It’s only one more step before he’s level with your bosom, peering up at you completely soulless. Completely endless. His aroma is spicy and thicker than ever, and more potent an influence on you than the strongest of spirits. “Delightful,” he hums with a resonance that tickles your insides. And there’s no time before he actually is. With just the one, bold hand, he bypasses the lacy hem of your shift and embeds two fingers straight into your pliant cunt. Immediately you are boneless and require his shoulders for support, flagging over him like a damsel courting unconsciousness. You’re very much awake, however, because you feel it all. The quivering of your cunt as he stretches you in slow, circular motions. The press of his fingertips as he palpates your g-spot with enough power to weaken your knees. And then, most peculiarly, how he advances into you even at his knuckles’ limits. What felt like fingers before are now far too thick and flexible to be considered as such. The tendrils that penetrate you lash and writhe along the limits of your pussy, caressing the puckered opening in your cervix. The girth of him transformed is almost too much to bear, but you’d rather be torn asunder than risk his withdrawal. You don’t even think to question the unearthly occurrence. It’s far more gratifying than any appendage a mortal can offer.

But despite your best to keep him, The Devil withdraws. Slowly, painfully, he dislodges his digits from your sticky cunt, until there’s nothing there but an intolerable ache. You tremor as you raise yourself from his shoulders, poised to beg his return. “I need more,” you’re starved; raspy. “Please.”

He doesn’t capitulate to your pitiful plea. Instead, he removes his hand from beneath your skirt, fingers demonstrably fingers. They shine with slick so thick it barely runs. And vacant from his index finger is the ring you swear embellished him once. Confusion can’t establish itself before he ensnares you in his sordid eyes once more. “Sign mine book. Kiss these lips. Thy soul is the price,” he’s guttural but hushed all at once, and before you can fathom his proposition he produces a book in his unsoiled hand. Inlaid with bone and scale, the tome looks primeval. The spoiled, aged pages flip to one without entries, and Seokjin smears your essence in its margins. You require no further explanation.

The quill lies immaculate and waiting. “I can have anything I want?”

“All that thou wishest,” his tongue moves more than his lips do; a serpent behind sharp teeth.

It hurts to behold him much longer. The eyes that bore, unabating, into you; you feel him already taking stock of your soul. He’s in you, somewhere, too hot and too intense. And yet you want more. “Can I have you?”

His self-satisfaction suggests that your request isn’t a revelation to him. Just another of his ploys bearing fruit. “Thou desirest me desecrate your unworthy cunt, girl?” Seokjin waits a beat for your manic head-bobbing. “Very well. Sign thy name.”

You do. There’s no reluctance between your scribbles despite the agony that accompanies it. Each stroke scores itself raw into some unplaceable part of your body; your receipt for this cursed transaction. As your signature dries on the page, it’s with crazed anticipation you meet his waiting gaze. “I’m ready.”

The book slams and disapparates with an ear-shattering snap, but not even that can deter you from your trajectory. Delicately but determinedly, you bend until your lips are a whisper upon his. The kiss doesn’t remain chaste for long, however. Seokjin’s tongue pours like molten lava into your mouth, scalding all it touches. Your eyes drift closed while twined by tongue, and it’s then that he seizes you into a steely embrace. Rough, ravenous hands drag you from the sofa and plant you to the floor beneath him. His heat and weight are suffocating, wonderfully so, and each lap of his tongue is a lick of flame purifying you of misery.

God, you think, staring through the ceiling as Seokjin sinks his whetted fangs into your breast. Let me burn.