#chickens are also called cocks and peacocks have cocks…. this is giving me ideas

[yumemiruuuu]

Xue Meng: (seething and running away) Why can’t you just be normal??!

Mo Ran: (chasing Xue Meng in a frenzy) BOWOWOW WOOF WOOF GRRRRRR

Xue Meng: (((confused screaming)))

[johnsamericano]

𝔖𝔲𝔤𝔞𝔯 ℜ𝔲𝔰𝔥 𝔧.𝔧.𝔥 •3•

I hope this ain't getting shitty. Thank you for reading, sexy people. Send me a message or an ask if you'd like to be added to the tag list.

warnings: hungover jaehyun, age gap, hospitals, nothing too extreme.

sugar rush m.list.

taglist: @thoreeo @trustmahluv @sunny-nyu @nanascupid @silent-potato @painted-hills

~

Yoonoh woke up on a strange bed, the mattress stiffer than the one he had back home. He refused to open his eyes, fearing that the daylight would worsen his headache.

Yoonoh woke up on a strange bed, the mattress stiffer than the one he had back home. He refused to open his eyes, fearing that the daylight would worsen his headache.

“Wake up, sunshine.” He groaned, all the memories from the past night hitting him like a truck. “Come on, I made breakfast.”

His eyelids finally fluttered open, frown softening at the sight of you in a messy bun and your cute pajamas.

“How come you look so fresh?” The dark circles under his eyes had deepened in the span of a few hours. Thank God he didn't have to work that day.

“I always look fresh.” You seemed to be more comfortable around him. Perhaps it was because you had to tuck him in last night. “Up.”

You tugged both of his limp hands, forcing him to sit up.

“What did you cook? It smells nice.” He scrunched up his nose like a little kid.

“Eggs, bacon, and hash browns.” Fast as lightning, he got up from bed. On his way to the kitchen, he noticed the blanket hanging from the edge of your sofa. Disappointment pinched his heart.

“Why didn't you sleep with me? You would've been more comfortable.”

You set two plates on the small table, pulling the pan out of the stove to serve them.

“You spread yourself all over the bed as soon as I laid you down.” You lied successfully. You didn’t have the heart to tell him you weren’t that comfortable yet.

You let the pan down on the kitchen counter, taking a seat in front of him.

“Do you still want to visit my father?” Sparkling orbs stared at him timidly, fearing his answer would be negative.

“I mean…” You hummed, trying not to give it as much importance. “I do want to go!” He quickly corrected himself, frantically shaking his hands. “It’s just that I don't want to meet your father like this.” He pointed at his bed hair, which had only become messier since he woke up.

“You’re acting like he's gonna see you.” There was a slight bitterness in your tone, along with a fake grin.

“Alright, let's do this instead...” Yoonoh sat up straight, clearing his throat as if he were about to give a speech. “We’ll have breakfast, you'll shower quickly, and then we’ll drive to my house so I can fix myself. How does that sound?”

“So I'm finally gonna see your mansion? How exciting.” You kicked his leg teasingly under the table, his cheeks inevitably dipping as he tried to suppress a smile. “I bet you have some peacocks in your backyard.”

“And there's also a dolphin in my pool.” He let out a hearty laugh, extending his arm over the table to grab your hand.

His house was most definitely not what you expected.

It was about the size of the one you grew up in, the decoration inside minimalistic. There were no expensive paintings framed with pure gold, only pictures of him and his family. There was a small backyard you could access through the French door in the kitchen. Half of it was occupied by a greenhouse.

“I had to donate the peacocks to the zoo.” He whispered as you looked through the glass door, squeezing your shoulders with his slim fingers.

“What a shame.” Hesitantly, he wrapped both of his limbs around your torso, letting his chin rest stop of your head. Your heartbeat was thumping loudly against your chest. Yoonoh surely felt it but decided not to comment on it.

“There’s a Tv in my room in case you want to watch something while I shower.” A hint of mischief adorned his honey-like voice. “Or you can come in and watch me instead.”

“Stop!” Your elbow connected with his ribs out of pure panic, making him bend in pain with his hands covering the injured spot.

“It was a joke...” He whispered, teeth gritting together.

I made him mad, you thought. Should you escape or face the consequences of his anger? All thoughts erased from your mind as he grabbed your calves, lifting you over his shoulder.

“Put me down!” You hit his back with closed fists, unable to see the expression on his face. “Yoonoh!”

He went up the stairs, proceeding to enter his room and throw you on his bed. Thousands of dirty scenarios crossed your mind before he threw himself on top of you, crushing your bones under his muscular body.

“My...ribs...”

“Oh, sorry, what is that?” To make matters worse, his fingers tickled your sides, provoking a fit of desperate giggles to escape your mouth. “I’m not hearing an apology.”

“Sorry! Sorry!” His hands finally stopped, giving you time to breathe. Nonetheless, he remained laid on your chest, using his forearms to lift his weight. “Aren’t you gonna shower?”

“I like you.”

The confession was so sudden, so raw it took you some time to finally react. But you had no words to give him an answer, instead, you combed your fingers through his long hair, massaging his scalp while waiting for him to speak up again.

“I never thought I'd be feeling more than friendly affection for you. Our agreement doesn't include love, after all. But I've started feeling like a teenager all over again. I can't help but get excited whenever you call me. Do you know how sweet your voice sounds through the phone?” He sighed, discouraged at your lack of response. “I guess you're not there yet.”

Instead of verbally answering, you planted a sweet kiss on his head, right where small, grey hairs had started growing.

“I’m not good with words.”

“That’s alright.” He snuck his hands under your back, holding you tightly as a sudden need to nurture you took over him. The mature image he had of you faded in less than a second, leaving behind a young, troubled woman. “I’ll shower quickly so we can go see your pops. I bet we’ll get along just fine, maybe even go golfing when he wakes up.”

“I forgot you're almost the same age. Creepy.” He smiled, though uneasiness started steering in his guts.

“Does that bother you?” He asked without giving it a second thought.

“I don't know yet.”

(...)

The man with high cheekbones and bruised skin laid limp on the hospital bed. Yoonoh had been working on his case for about a month, yet, it only started feeling real the moment he entered the room.

“This is my dad.” All emotions had escaped your eyes as if your soul wasn't there anymore. Only an empty shell.

“You look so much like him.” he was afraid touching you wouldn't be the right thing to do, so instead, he said: “He seems like a suitable golf buddy.”

Tension finally loosened its grip around his body as you snorted, pigment returning to your cheeks. Finally, he wrapped his hand around yours.

“He will wake up, y/n.”

“He’s taking his sweet time.” You glanced back at the laying figure, skinnier with every day he spent asleep. “I want someone to pay for taking away the last person that loved me.”

The last person that loved you. Would Yoonoh be able to fill that spot? Not yet, probably. He couldn't modify the depth of his feelings, but he could surely give you the vengeance you longed.

“Do you trust me?” With your eyes still glued to your father, you nodded. “Then I can assure you we’ll win the case.”

“I know we will.”

He sat silently with you, holding your hand without saying a word. The smell of alcohol and the beeping noise of machines made him nauseous. He hated hospitals. You noticed the change in his demeanor, his hand becoming cold while holding yours with strength.

“Do you wanna go?”

“No!” He smiled through the pain, scooting his chair closer to lay your hand on his lap.

He wouldn't agree to get his ass off the plastic chair. You had to tell him you were hungry for him to finally stand up, still clutching your hand like your father did when you were still a kid. His parental behavior caused several emotions to stir inside your guts, so mixed up you couldn't quite put a finger on any of them.

“What do you want to eat?” The tension finally left his body once out of the building.

“Soup.” You smiled while swiping your thumb on top of his knuckles. “I know a place, but to be honest, it isn't good. So we can go to the store and get the ingredients to- but you can't cook.”

“I’m up for a cooking lesson if you are.” He wanted to see your pretty smile again. Maybe making a fool of himself would help. “Let’s hit the road.”

“Wow, so cool.”

“I know.”

(...)

“Can you grab that can of chicken broth?” You pointed at the high shelf, letting go of Yoonoh’s hand to allow him to move freely

“I have a better idea.” He dragged you by the arm so you were standing in front of him, trapped between his body and the shelf. “I’ll lift you so you can reach it.” Matching his words, his hands grasped your waist, ready to carry you.

“Stop!” You slapped his hands repeatedly between giggles. Ignoring your complaints, he started lifting you. “Yoonoh!”

“Yoonoh?” A feminine voice had him placing you back on your feet in less than a second.

“Seryeong, I didn't expect to see you here.” His hands remained seated on the curve of your waist.

“Neither did I. I was surprised when Sungchan told me you'd left early yesterday.” She seemed a bit older than you but still younger than the man behind you.

“I had some matters to take care of.” She eyed you from head to toes with a smug grin plastered on her lips. Just by the look of her clothes, you could tell she was as wealthy as Yoonoh. You feared the scene would turn into a tv worthy drama.

“I’ll go get the chicken breast.” You tried escaping his grip, only to be pulled closer to his warmth.

“No need to. It's already inside the cart.”

Why am I so dumb?

“Does your father know about your little girlfriend?” She asked without hesitation.

“I guess.”

“And why didn't he tell me anything?” She cocked an eyebrow, his hands finally loosening around your body and allowing you to move from your position.

“Look, this is something you should talk about with him. Now, if you excuse us...” With a hand on your shoulder, he began pushing the cart to the next aisle, the chicken broth long forgotten.

“Is this some kind of arranged marriage situation?”

“Something like that.” His hands were tense while holding the cart, knuckles turning white from the strength used. “Before you start asking, I'm not really in the mood and I don't want to direct my bad mood toward you. Let's talk about something else, alright?”

Who was that woman that had the power to turn him into a literal raging ball of fire with just a few words?

[lady-divine-writes]

12 Days of Blasphemy - Demon Side (Rated NC17)

Summary:

It's Christmas time, and Hastur hates Christmas time. Avoids it like chocolate and candy canes (since he actually enjoyed the plague). But here he is, on Earth in December, to meet with his least favorite demon ever. But his mind changes somewhat when it seems Crowley has started taking his job seriously again ... But, of course, things aren't always what they seem ... (1561 words)

Notes: Written for the '12 Days of Blasphemy' prompt 'kneeling'. Also, I'm going to cling to the idea that this is a Christmas fic the same way 'Die Hard' is a Christmas movie XD NSFW in the suggestive sense. Warning for implied oral and mention of Crowley's demon form. Basically, Aziraphale is a horrible angel to his poor, overworked husband.

Read on AO3.

“Hail Satan.”

A muffled squawk! and ruffle of feathers greet Hastur as he trudges through the muddy field to reach the assigned meeting place. ‘Bloody pigeons,’ he thinks, scanning the ground for a glimpse of the flying rats. ‘They’re everywhere. Been kicking them left and right all day.’

Of course, he’d been doing it on purpose, mostly for fun, but they still got under foot of their own accord far too often.

“Yeah, uh, you know … hail … and all that,” Crowley calls across the field, offering up a stunted wave, just the wiggle of a few fingers from beneath his collar, his voice hitching up in pitch on the word hail. He sounds uncomfortable, like he’d rather be anywhere but here, which is often the case, but more so than usual on this dismally wet (yet still festive) December night.

Hastur growls. He hates Christmas, loathes the good tidings and cheer that come along with it. There’s a farmhouse nearby, dressed to the nines with Christmas lights and puffy inflatable things that move their arms and turn their heads to reveal the manic smiles on their faces. He doesn’t understand their purpose other than they make children laugh.

And he despises the laughter of children most.

Hastur took the liberty of cursing a handful of them in various front yards on his way over – snowmen, Santas, reindeer, a polar bear or two. Even a bouncy castle, set up and waiting to entertain at a holiday party tomorrow afternoon. Some will simply deflate at odd intervals and require replacing, others will attack pets and children. At full capacity, the castle will collapse in on itself. There may be survivors. There may not.

Either way, the outcome should be hilarious.

Hastur does his best to stay below ground through the entirety of December when he can, avoids large cities entirely, but this meeting couldn’t wait.

Hastur stops a few feet from Crowley. On the whole, he tries not to get too close to him, especially since the bastard did set him on fire.

And after what he did to poor Ligur.

Why Beelzebub decided to give him clemency, along with another fucking chance, Hastur will never understand. But Crowley was a favorite in Hell once. Orchestrate a few wars, pull off a few inquisitions, mess with the construction of a highway, and you can get away with anything apparently.

Hastur looks Crowley over, baffled as to what the flashy asshole is wearing. He’s gone native. That’s generally understood. So nothing he does should surprise Hastur anymore. On the off chance Beelzebub doesn’t have anything ulterior planned for Crowley (along the lines of his utter extermination), Hastur should probably start giving Crowley the benefit of the doubt. He’d agreed to this meeting, for one. Showed up early even. That proves he’s making an effort, right? A demon who can withstand Holy Water doesn’t really need to worry about playing by the rules so the fact that he’s toeing the line should account for something.

Maybe Hastur doesn’t care too much about fitting in with the humans, but that doesn’t mean Crowley’s efforts to blend in aren’t, in some way, rooted in Evil. Maybe that coat of his is Evil, made from some critically endangered bird, like a giant ibis or a California condor, and constructed by child slave labor in Indonesia.

But the closer Hastur gets, the more disappointed he becomes because no, it’s not.

What Hastur thought was a coat is Crowley’s wings, wrapped completely around his body, gleaming like black ice in the dark, more than likely the product of thrice a day grooming or something else equally and ridiculously vain.

“What’s with the wings?” Hastur asks, gesturing to Crowley’s body. The feathers shift and adjust upon mention, as if trying to contain the whole of Crowley’s corporal form from escaping.

“I’m chilly,” Crowley replies, his voice tight. “Mmmph. You hate my clothes anyway. What do you care?”

Hastur stares at his colleague. Crowley is using a great deal of strength to remain impassive, indifferent, stoic, but Hastur can see the struggle on his face – a pain simmering beneath his skin like the dormant claws of his demon self shredding a path to the surface, longing to break free.

Crowley breathes in sharply, rolls his shoulders back together, then one at a time as if trying to relieve an itch without scratching it.

He used to be a snake, Hastur reminds himself. Perhaps he’s shedding.

Hastur shrugs.

“I don’t,” he concludes.

“Great. Ngk. Now that we have that settled, can we please continue? I have places I need to be, you know.”

“What do you have to report? And it’d better be good.”

“Well, I … mmph …” Crowley’s feathers shift again, trembling as if they’re deliberating between staying fixed to his body or falling off.

Maybe Hastur was a bit off the mark. Maybe Crowley isn’t shedding. Maybe he’s molting.

The image that brings to Hastur’s head of this preening peacock losing his precious feathers and looking like a plucked chicken almost makes Hastur smile.

“Well you what?”

“I’ve been working in secret. Uh … uh … undercover as it were. It’s not been long since the whole execution thing, has it? You lot still have operatives on Earth who’ve decided there must be a price on my head.”

At that, Hastur does smile. Whether or not that was his doing is entirely irrelevant.

But yeah, he did that.

“Fine. You’ll get more time. And the angel?”

“Wh---what about the angel?” Crowley stutters as if he’s about to sneeze.

“We’ve heard from our informants that the two of you are now … living together?” Hastur grimaces, the taste those words bring to his mouth vile, even by demon standards.

“Yes, I’m living with him!” Crowley snaps, but then relaxes a little, head lolling back on his shoulders, shielded eyes aimed at the sky. “That’s how I gain his trust … get him to put his guard down.”

“And how is that working out for you, eh?”

For the first time during this whole meeting, Crowley grins. “I’ve got him right where I want him.”

Crowley’s wings around the middle bulge out, then up. They shudder violently, then smooth back into place. He swallows hard, a complicated look clouding his expression. He makes an odd sound, like a whimper. Hastur frowns.

“What the Heaven is wrong with you?”

“Like I said … ngk … I’m cold.”

“You’re a demon! You don’t get cold!” Hastur watches, stares intensely at Crowley’s face contorting, his body undulating beneath his cloak of feathers but only subtly as he forces himself to fight it, and suddenly it all becomes clear. “I know what’s going on …”

Crowley’s yellow eyes meet Hastur’s. For a moment, he looks ominously surprised and terrified. “Y-you … you do?”

“Yes,” Hastur hisses with glee. “Your façade is slipping!”

“That’s … uh … mmph … one way of putting it, I guess.”

“Take this as a sign, brother! Forgo your human shell and let your demon side out! Come back to us as the full expression of yourself and take your rightful place in Hell!”

“You make a convincing argument. I … uh … will definitely consider that … ah!” Crowley doubles over, breathing heavily, shaking as if every maggot beneath his flesh has finally had their fill of being trapped and is growing fangs.

“You do that,” Hastur says, so certain of himself, he wants to add this development to his report for the day. But no, he won’t tell Beelzebub about it just yet. He’ll wait until Crowley arrives, strolling down to Hell in his glorious demon form – grey skin, yellow teeth, leather wings, possibly even holding an angel’s head in his grasp. “See you soon, Crawly. Good to have you back.”

“Uh … right …” Crowley pants into the dirt, bowed so low that the sputtering remains of his breath moves the tips of the grass.

Between Crowley’s heaving breaths and Hastur’s footsteps fading in the sod, a soft voice mutters. “Is he gone?”

“Give it a second, love, a’right?” Crowley whispers, his brain melting into a mixture of anxiety and ecstasy, swirling about the rim of a large, cosmic drain. “That was a dirty trick, by the way. Do you know how much power it takes to shield you from their notice, and then you go and pull something like that?”

“Sorry.”

“Yeah. You sound it.”

When Crowley feels Hastur leave, burrow through the ground and so far beneath the earth that something like a holy signature materializing in Crowley’s personal space wouldn’t be noticed, he opens his wings so he can give a hard, scolding look to the angel on his knees at his feet.

“Just thought I’d lend a helping hand,” Aziraphale says sweetly, licking his lips. “Or a helping mouth in this case.”

“Help with what?” Crowley reaches down trembling hands to slip his spent cock back into his jeans.

“Letting your demon side out.”

“Yes, well, you keep helping like that and you’re going to get me discorporated.” Crowley takes Aziraphale by the upper arms and helps him to his feet, but for all his fuss and bluster, there’s no mistaking the grin on Crowley’s face.

“Like you’re always saying, my dear - if you’re going to go … go in style!”