#cover up you floozy

[zerocksout]

Andromeda is not happy about it. She's ready to fight me.

Y'know what? Enough swimsuits and other showy stuff- draw your OC/AUs in this:

[katsu28]

i want you here

pairing: steve harrington x reader

summary: you finally gather the courage to ask your boyfriend if he'll move in with you (3k)

a/n: steve girlies i have returned!!! been straying away from my roots lately but i’ll always come back to my favorite guy <3

Steve was on the couch when you came home, only looking up from the cooking show he was watching when he heard the key jingling in the door. 

He’d been camped out at your place for hours now, having taken the morning shift at Family Video today which meant he got off work early. He’d beelined right here, using the key you’d given him to let himself in and wait until you got home. 

He found himself doing that more often than not these days, preferring to spend his time at your apartment over his own place so he could see you right when you got home. Sometimes it was just what he needed to make his day a little brighter than normal. 

Sure, it was just a ten minute drive from his to yours, but those ten minutes always seemed like forever. 

“Hey sweetheart!” He chirped, muting the program in favor of twisting around in his seat to face you, his arm hooked over the back of the sofa. When you only let out a vague noise in response, his smile turned sympathetic.

He patted the cushion next to him, prompting you to come over and collapse face-first onto the sofa, stretching out your sore muscles with a tired groan. 

Steve’s hand came to rest at the nape of your neck immediately, fingers rubbing along your shoulder blades like it was second nature. “Bad day?” 

“Understatement of the century.” 

“Ouch.” 

“Hold me?” 

“Surprised you even had to ask.” He patted his lap a few times and you sat up, curling up with your head on his thigh comfortably. When you were satisfied with your position, you gave a content sigh. “All better now?” 

You nodded, shifting your focus back to his amused smile. “How was your shift? How’s Robin?” 

“Oh y’know, the usual. Scanning, restocking, same thing different day,” He shrugged, hand waving in the air vaguely before coming to settle just above your heart, fingers rounding out absentminded circles against the material of your shirt. His touch radiated warmth through your entire body, making you more at ease than you’d been the entire day since you’d kissed him goodbye this morning. 

Steve always had that kind of effect on you. 

“Robin’s doing good, her and Nance are planning a trip to New York sometime in the summer, asked if we wanna join them. I said I’d ask you tonight, but we can talk about it another day. They’ll understand.” 

“No, it’s okay. Sounds fun, we should go,” You insisted, smiling softly up at him just to see the pink bloom on his cheeks. 

“Yeah?” 

“I’d be completely okay with a vacation.” You must’ve sounded more tired than you meant to, because Steve frowned. 

“They’re really working you hard these days, huh?” 

You shrugged, letting your head loll to the side until your cheek was pressed to the soft blanket covering his lower half. Steve was concerned, you could hear it in his voice clear as day. “S’fine. Means they know I’m reliable, so if a higher position ever opens up maybe they’ll think of me.” 

“As long as you’re not overworking yourself.” 

“I’m okay, Stevie.” 

He didn’t look like he believed you one bit, but he nodded warily, sensing that you just wanted to change the subject. So he did. “Hey, you remember my neighbor, Mrs. Anderson?”

“The one who power walks around the neighborhood every morning?” 

“Yeah, her! She popped into Family Video today, and it turns out that she divorced her son of a bitch husband because he was fooling around with some floozy from his fencing class—had been for months!” He exclaimed, looking like he couldn’t believe what he’d heard. You played along, raising a surprised brow at the news, more interested in the way he was telling his story rather than the story itself. 

Call it creepy, but sometimes you just liked to watch your boyfriend talk. 

“And he had the nerve to ask for more than his share of their money because ‘he had to start from scratch’. I mean honestly, if you’re gonna fuck up your marriage, at least have the decency to just walk the fuck away.” He continued, shaking his head with a disgusted grimace. You fought the urge to laugh at his reaction. “Anyways, she’s doing good, she’s got a date tonight with some guy she dated for a bit in high school who reconnected recently and wanted to get a good movie, so I gave her Doctor Zhivago. Seemed kinda fitting—y’know, reuniting lovers and all that.” 

You snorted. “Did you seriously just use the word floozy?” 

“Really? That’s all you got from my story?” 

“I just didn’t know that word still existed.” 

“Were you not listening to me? I might’ve just kickstarted a new relationship! I should see if Keith would let me start up a new service at the store.”

“Service? Like, you recommending movies to customers?” 

“Yeah!” 

“Isn’t that already technically part of your job description?” 

“I mean technically, but who knows, maybe I could get a raise. A few cents, a buck or two, I dunno.” Steve was mumbling now, more so to himself than to you, rubbing a large palm against his cheek in contemplation. 

You inhaled a deep breath through your nose, gearing up to ask Steve if it was okay if you took a quick nap, but one whiff of fresh laundry distracted you. Propping yourself up on your elbow, you squinted up at your boyfriend.

“What?” He asked, looking simultaneously confused and like he’d been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. 

“Did you—did you do laundry?”

Steve let out a huff of air, shoulders sagging in relief. All traces of annoyance from the former Mr. Anderson and his fencing floozy were long gone. “Yeah, I did. I figured I’d make myself useful for once, get some stuff done around here so you wouldn’t have to when you got home. I hope that’s okay.” 

It was more than okay. Beyond okay, if you were being honest with yourself. 

Steve had been doing that a lot recently, taking care of little things around your apartment while you were away at work. Putting clean dishes away, changing that pesky flickering light in the bathroom that you couldn’t reach, fixing a wobbly table leg. Things that, among others, you’d been too tired to take care of when you got home. 

“Do you wanna move in with me?” You heard yourself asking, shifting yourself into a sitting position, knees pressing against his. 

Steve’s mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water. “You want me to—you want me here?” He sounded taken by complete surprise, honey eyes wide as he blinked at you slowly. 

Sure, was your name on the lease, but there were already traces of Steve everywhere in your apartment. 

A collection of his hair products mixed in with your skincare on the bathroom counter, a few mugs with cheesy puns littering your collection in the cabinet. A handful of sweaters of his in the drawers of your dresser that you’d stolen and he’d never taken back. 

His work schedule tacked onto the fridge with a magnet one of the kids had made for him, almost lost within the various notes he’d written you over the years. Chicken scratch and awful doodles on Post-It notes, receipts, Family Video notepads, anything he could get his hands on, then tucked into your pocket, stuck onto the bathroom mirror. Anywhere and everywhere he could, just so you’d smile and think of him. 

You look really pretty today. 

Do you have a bandaid? I think I scraped my knee falling for you. 

Someone call the cops because I think you’ve stolen my heart. 

You wanted more of him. You wanted all of him. 

“Of course I want you here, Steve,” You murmured, rubbing your thumb along the ridges of his knuckles soothingly. “I wanna come home to you at the end of every day and have dinner with you every single night, breakfast every single morning. I want your toothbrush in the cup next to mine, your clothes in the closet, your weird stolen DVDs from Family Video under the TV.” 

Steve’s lips parted like he was about to say something, then closed again before any words could come out. 

Maybe you’d overstepped by asking him to move in. Maybe you’d been entirely misinterpreting where you were in your relationship, and he wasn’t on the same page as you, and that’s why he wasn’t saying anything. 

“D’you think—is that…something you would want?” You asked hopefully, feeling a bit shy now. 

“Yes.” He replied immediately, nodding so quickly his hair flopped over his forehead. “God, yes. Please.” 

Your smile grew unbelievably wide at his enthusiasm. “Really?” 

“Yeah. Yes, really,” He insisted, nodding again. “I’d love nothing more.” 

“Well, it’s settled then. We’re gonna live together.” 

He beamed, and you swore it was like pure sunshine injected straight into your veins. You’d get to see that smile whenever you wanted now. “Holy shit, sweetheart! We’re gonna live together!” 

Steve moved in very soon after that, only weeks between the day you had the conversation and the moment the last box was shoved into the backseat of his car. 

He dusted his hands off on his jeans, slamming the door shut with a sense of finality before making his way over to come stand next to you. 

“You gonna miss this place?” You asked, tilting your head at the looming house in front of you. You’d never tell Steve, but his house always gave you the shivers. It was nice, of course, but it was too nice. Too staged, like everything was just for show, and not the place that made your Steve into the person he was now. 

“Not a chance.” He replied. His arm snaked around your waist, fingers coming to twine through yours in your jacket pocket. “Not when I have you to look forward to everyday for the rest of my life.” 

“That’s so fucking cheesy.” 

Steve leaned more into you, bumping his hip against yours. “What can I say? You bring out the best in me.” 

“Are you excited?” 

“Do you want me to jump for joy and run around the yard to show you how excited I am? ‘Cause I will.” 

“Please don’t.” 

Steve stuck his tongue out at you childishly. “Party pooper.” 

-------

“Dude, I thought you lived here already. You’re over here all the time anyways.” Dustin scoffed, popping a grape into his mouth. The younger boy had agreed to lend a hand in your unpacking endeavors today, though you suspected he was more here for the promise of dinner after everything was said and done. The same could be said for Eddie, who hadn’t shown up yet. 

“You literally came to my house last week to use my pool?”  

“Yeah, but I thought Y/N had just, like, kicked you out for the day. Like you were in the doghouse or something!” Dustin explained, like it was the simplest thing in the world. Steve squinted at him, brow furrowed. “But yeah, congratulations on the new home, welcome, whatever!” 

“Babe, we should change the locks. Gotta keep the local riffraff out.” He whispered loudly, to which Dustin flipped him a playful bird. “Speaking of riffraff, where’s Eddie? I thought he’d be here by now.” 

“Probably still sleeping.” Dustin shrugged, taking a seat on the couch. 

“It’s the middle of the day!” 

“You know him, he’s like a fucking bat. Sleeps all day, stays up all night.” 

“Henderson! Language!” Steve chided, flinging a grape at the boy. It bounced off Dustin’s arm and rolled across the floor, disappearing under the coffee table. You turned your gaze on Steve, raising an expectant eyebrow at him in an expression that he recognized immediately. The grin on his face disappeared and he nodded once. “Sorry. Getting it now.” 

“You’ve got him on a tight leash, I like it.” 

“How do you think I lured him here in the first place?” You hummed, shooting Dustin a cheeky wink. 

Steve made some sort of noise of protest from under the table, quick to insert himself back into the conversation. “Hey, I have my own free will! Lemme tell you, I—ow, shit!” 

“Better watch your language there, Harrington,” Dustin snickered. 

“This is my home now too, I can kick you out anytime I want!” 

“No you can’t! Y/N would never let you, she loves me.” 

Steve reemerged with the offending grape clutched between his fingers, glaring at Dustin. “Fifty bucks says she loves me more.” 

“I’ll take that action!” Both boys turned their attention on you, waiting for you to settle the score.

You shook your head, lips pressing into an unassuming line as you raised your hands in surrender. “I’m not getting involved.”

-------

Dustin proved little help on the unpacking front of things, as did Eddie when he finally made it over, both of them too enamored with rifling through the boxes looking at everything rather than actually taking them out like they were supposed to. Steve wanted to scold them, but you’d convinced him not to with a simple kiss. He was always easy to persuade like that. 

Most of the boxes had been emptied and littered around the main rooms by the time the sun set, so despite your helpers’ very unhelpful demeanor, things had gotten done anyways.

You’d ordered a few pizzas as a thanks, but Eddie had shuffled Dustin right out the door with the excuse of an emergency Hellfire meeting (which he not-so-quietly whispered was a lie, and that he wanted to give “the two lovebirds some alone time”), much to the dismay of the curly headed boy. 

Missing out on free pizza was a top ten betrayal scenario for him. Maybe even a top five, but Eddie had let the door slam behind him before Dustin was able to finish that thought. 

“Meals til we go to the store, I guess?” Steve offered, picking a green pepper off his slice to discard onto your plate. You were sitting cross-legged on the kitchen counter, Steve leaning on it across from you with his elbows propped up as he passed you every single one of his peppers and claiming your pepperoni in return. 

“I have food in the fridge, y’know.”

“Oh, right, right. No yeah, I’ve seen it. Leftover takeout and a bag of shredded cheese?” He raised an amused brow, cocking his head. You scowled. “Very self sufficient, babe.” 

“I’ve been meaning to go shopping!” 

“And tomorrow we can. Together. Because we live together now.” 

“Is that something you’re gonna be saying all the time from now on?” 

“Until the end of time, sweetheart.” Fondness dripped from his tone like syrup, nearly giving you a cavity from how sweet he was being towards you. 

He met you in the middle, kissing you happily in the middle of your kitchen like he’d done so many times before. Only this time it felt different, because it was now Steve’s kitchen too. His home. 

-------

You were the first one awake the next morning. That was usually how weekends went when Steve was there—you’d wake up before he did, but you wouldn’t rouse him from his deep slumber. You usually just watched him sleep for a bit, in the least creepy way possible. 

It was just…Steve was so pretty in the mornings, and today was no exception. Sunlight poured through the curtains, washing over his sleeping form in a golden glow that made him look goddamn heaven-sent. 

Sometimes you couldn’t even believe how lucky you were to have the privilege of loving him. 

Steve’s arms were tucked under his pillow, face smushed into it and hair a fluffed up mess, and there might’ve even been a little bit of drool gathered at the corner of his mouth. You thought he was pretty nonetheless. 

You must’ve been staring a little harder than you meant, because Steve inhaled a deep breath, sniffling a few times before blinking awake slowly. He yawned big and loud, flipping over onto his back with a sigh. 

“Well good morning, roomie,” He hummed, voice heavy with sleep. He smiled lazily at you, reaching out to trace a line along your arm, past your elbow, your wrist, all the way down to your hand until his fingers were laced tight with yours. “Y’know, it’s not nice to stare.” 

“That’s your fault for being so easy on the eyes.” 

“Oh yeah? I could say the same for you.” Steve’s grin only grew bigger, even though he probably couldn’t really see you clearly without his glasses on. “Okay, wait. Hold on, hold on, I can’t see you properly. Where’s my—'' He felt around the bedside table blindly for the aforementioned glasses, nearly knocking them to the floor before grabbing them and shoving them onto his face. 

He shook his head, blinked a few more times to get used to the change, then focused back on you. “There you are. Hi, my beautiful roommate.” 

You swiped the pillow out from under Steve’s head, swinging it at him so it thumped against his chest. “Call me your roommate again and I’ll kick you out of my bed.” 

“Jesus, ow—did you not hear the part where I called you beautiful?!” Steve yelped, snatching it out of your hands and jamming it back under himself. “Plus, I think you mean our bed now.” 

“You’ve already slept in it enough times to call it yours too, even if you hadn’t moved in.” You pointed out. Steve sighed loudly. “What?” 

“You’re supposed to say yes, I love you, my favorite person in the world.” 

“I love you, my favorite person in the world.” 

“Well, now it feels like you’re just mocking me.” 

“Maybe I am.”

“That’s rude. Anyways, breakfast? I’ll make one of those fancy egg scramble thingies you like.” Steve was already swinging his legs out of bed before you responded, because he knew you’d say yes. He lifted his arms high over his head, stretching out his stiff muscles with the loudest of groans before letting his hands slap back down into his lap. 

When you didn’t reply, he turned around. “There you go again with the staring! Honestly, if I’d known you’d shamelessly ogle me this much, I would’ve thought twice about moving in, you creeper.” 

“You know you love it,” You sing-songed, aiming a teasing smile over at him. “Now go make me breakfast, roomie!” 

“God, you were right. That does not have a nice ring to it.” 

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[redclercs]

does he take care of you? ✩ max verstappen

— or, the one where max could easily fill your boyfriend's shoes.

✐ max verstappen x fem reader, charles leclerc x fem reader.

✐ inspired by the 1975's song 'sex'.

✐ warnings: cheating, toxic behaviors, alcohol consumption, charles is a jerk ngl, angst, mdni! explicit smut!! nipple play, fingering, piv, protected sex, riding, no after-care. while the actions portrayed in this writing are consensual and safe, do not take this as an example and be smart about having sex. 2k words.

HIS eyes are on you, even from across the room. You know it from the way your skin prickles and burns, the way goosebumps lift on your arms and legs, covered by the black dress your boyfriend picked out for you. Your boyfriend, who doesn’t notice—or doesn’t care—about the man who can’t keep his off you. Has never been able to keep his eyes off you.

“Are you cold?” Charles asks as you walk away from the man he was holding a conversation with, one you were not invited to participate in.

“No,” you rub your arms with your palms, making the goosebumps disappear. “Just an air current.”

Charles eyes you up and down, something he’s done several times now. While you changed in your shared hotel room, before you got into his Pista, and before you posed at the Black Carpet for this sponsor event. And he seems unsatisfied every time his eyes leave your figure.

"What?" you taunt, eyebrows arched. He picked this dress, he cannot possibly complain about anything now. He's not even going to care about it when it ends up on the floor of the hotel room along with his perfectly ironed suit.

"Nothing, chérie," he kisses your temple softly, a flutter that makes your skin itch, but you keep your hand stuck to your side, accepting the gesture like you're supposed to. "Give me a minute?"

"Sure," you stay planted in your place as he walks away, your boyfriend. The same person you hate the most every time you are dragged to these events. "I'll be waiting right here," you add, although he's out of earshot and anyway, he won't be looking for you, not for a while.

It's always the same.

"Having fun?" Max is by your side the moment Charles disappears, this too, is always the same.

"I'm thrilled," you reply, mouth in a thin line when you turn to face him. Max has a few drinks on him already, the red in his cheeks, the tell-tale sign. "What about you?"

"It's always fun seeing you with your boyfriend," his inflection doesn't change, he's not even being sarcastic. He's bored. "Where did he go, by the way?"

There are many answers to that question and each one could be the right one. He's holding a boring conversation with another sponsor representative, he's taking pictures with his team, he's pretending to be single and talking to a floozy.

"How would I know?" you retort.

Max's expression finally shifts to an arrogant smile that has you clenching your teeth. You hate him too, sometimes.

"Want to get out of here?" Max downs the last of the drink you didn't notice him holding. His cheeks flush again, eyes brightening.

"You can't drive, Max Emilian," you shake your head and roll your eyes.

Max laughs, taking a black card from the inside pocket of his black suit. "Who said anything about driving?"

You take the elevator first, the card Max gave you is inside your purse and you have the room number memorized. It’s always this easy to slip away from Charles and the rest of the crowd, it’s not as simple for Max but he always manages to.

Your shoes are off and your hair is down by the time Max gets to the hotel room. You’ve had enough time to think your next steps through, whether you want to stay or take the lift back to the party, back to Charles and your hatred. You suspect Max does this on purpose every time—give you time to regret your choices and walk away.

You never walk away.

“He picked this dress out, you know?”

Max has sobered up by the time he crosses the door. His gaze is clearer and his cheeks have lost a shade or two of pink.

“I figured,” the corner of his mouth goes up, taunting again. “It’s ugliest fucking thing.”

“That’s a very mean thing to say,” but it’s true, you hate the dress. It should be you giving Charles fashion advice and not the other way around, but he never takes you seriously. Not about clothes and not about anything else.

Max shrugs, his suit jacket is already resting in the loveseat by the window. “Truth hurts.”

You have no more time to waste. Charles won’t miss you, but it doesn’t mean your absence won’t go unnoticed. People often wonder where your boyfriend’s prettiest accessory is when you’re not around. Most of the time all Charles does is smile and say you’ll come back in a minute.

Not another word before his hands are on you. The calluses on his fingers are so familiar now they somewhat feel like home. How can you hate someone who makes you feel like this, too?

“You’re going to break the zipper,” you breathe against Max’s neck. He’s so impatient, always. These stolen moments are brief and apart from each other, although less every time.

“Wouldn’t that be a problem?” He scoffs, although there’s humor in his voice. Yet he is more gentle trying to undo the zipper of your dress, his knuckles graze the skin on your back and you’re covered in goosebumps again.

It’s your turn to fumble with the zipper of his pants. You’re as impatient as he is but he doesn’t hold it against you the way you do. It’s a very Max thing to do in these situations.

“Why were you staring at me, then?” You ask, breathless. Max’s hands are separating your thighs, and you’re throbbing with anticipation, yet you can’t let go of the thought that’s running through your mind. “If the dress is so horrendous.”

“Seriously?” Max rolls his eyes, but his hand slides to your inner right thigh, fingers ghosting up and down, close to where you want them to be and gone the following second. Your hips buck and it’s Max’s chance to prolong your torture, still holding back his answer.

One of his hands runs up on your side, caressing your hips and the curve of your rib cage before getting to your breast. Your nipples are already perked in excitement, and the sensation that runs through you when he pinches one is nothing short of delicious. But his other hand is still resting on your inner thigh, tracing lazy circles that are running your patience dry.

“I liked the view,” Max grunts as he leans down to kiss your neck and the hollow behind your ear. “But I think, I prefer seeing you like this.”

Your hands are on his hair, pulling softly as he continues to play with your nipples. Adding his mouth now and then, twirling his tongue and grazing with his teeth. The room fills with your moaning and his panting, as you reach your hand down to his dick.

Your thumb swipes the pre-cum down his length, and Max’s breath hitches. It does every time you touch him. You pump him up and down, and this finally motivates him enough to put his fingers inside you, one by one.

This thumb presses down on your clit, and your back arches, making you let go of him momentarily, to hold on to his bicep, your nails sink into his skin.

That’s another imbalance you present to him every time. You mark him, and he can’t ever do the same.

“Fuck me, please,” you whine, his fingers aren’t enough no matter how well he knows how to use them as he pumps them in and out of you and rubs the bud of nerves that demands so much attention. “Please Max.”

He’s made you beg more before, but not tonight. You’re in the middle of another thing, you need to hurry. He can’t have you just the way he wants to, squirming and begging, whining and clenching around nothing as he burns the image in his brain. A memory to hold on to until your next meeting.

Max wastes time, albeit necessarily, looking for the condom he kept on the nightstand, while you rub your thighs together, trying your best to create friction. You sit up only after you see him open the little package, taking the condom from his hands to put it on him yourself. Your fingers are skilled as they run down his length, and Max can’t help but think not only about the many times you’ve done this with him, but with your boyfriend too.

Max watches your movements with lust-filled eyes, his breath fanning your neck, before leaving a wet trace of kisses down to your shoulder. You're desperate to have him inside you, you can't waste more time.

This is the image Max is going to cherish when he's apart from you. The way you look on top of him, how you push him down to the mattress with both palms on his chest, half-moons adorn his skin by the time his shoulders are completely down. He's going to remember the way you moaned and threw your head back as you finally, finally inserted his cock in your pussy.

There aren't many occasions in which Max is willing to waive control to anyone. But he lets you set the pace as you ride him, using his chest as support while moving your hips to hit the spots where you want him most. His hands grip your skin tightly, and there is that fear in the back of your mind that he might finally leave a bruise or a scratch that reveals your little affair.

"N–not so hard," you say, through a high pitched sound that comes right from your throat. "It's going to bruise."

And Max thinks maybe it should. He wants to squeeze you harder, to mark you and bruise you and really, really make you his. To leave evidence behind that he was with you, in you.

But he relents, he always does.

His hand goes back to between your legs, rubbing your clit harshly, quickly. The way he knows will push you through the edge and will make you scream his name.

"Pl–please keep doing that," you gasp, as your pace stutters. "I'm so close."

So is Max, the way you move on top of him, the sight of your breasts bouncing, the salt on your skin due the sweat and the way you glow have him so close to a release, he wonders how he's been able to hold it back.

He thrusts up, hitting you deeper than you had managed yourself. A surprised squeal leaves your mouth and you sink your nails on his shoulder.

"Again," you demand.

Surprisingly, you reach your climax before Max does. Throwing your head back, you let the wave of pleasure run through you, your throat aches when you produce more sounds, turning into nothing other than sensitive nerves and shaky body parts.

Max follows you soon, with a loud groan, he pulls you deeper down into him, squeezing your ass with both hands.

You feel him go soft, still inside you, and you move your hips front and back creating some friction that makes your insides pulse, ready again. Max sighs, he knows he will be hard again even before taking his cock out of you, but tonight you're on limited time.

"We have to go," he says, raspy. "Your boyfriend must be waiting," he adds, bitterly.

And you hate him again, for ruining the perfect interaction you just had. Always bringing up Charles by the end of your nights together.

"Fine," you reply, pushing yourself off him, annoyed. "Let's go."

Silence falls heavy in the room, so contrariant to the sounds that filled it just minutes ago. You fix your hair in the bathroom and Max cleans himself up, tying the used condom before tossing it to the trash.

You give him the room's keycard as he's buttoning his shirt back up. You manage to zip your dress back up without his help, and feel smug about it. Max only rolls his eyes.

"See you down there," you place a hand on his shoulder, and though he's already looking at you, you finally make eye-contact.

Max always finds himself wanting more than what you can offer to him, and tonight isn't the exception. The words 'leave him' get stuck in his throat in a knot he swallows forcefully.

"See you down there," he echoes, and doesn't turn around to watch you leave.

He's never ready to see you with another man's arm around you, much less right after being with you in this way just minutes before. But he has to settle for this, always.

You've got a boyfriend, anyway.

[defectivefanboy]

Hi darling! How are you? How have you been? Sorry for bothering, I wanted to request! You really write very well and keep up with the good work! So anyways.. Can I request smut for Alastor, Lucifer & Crimson reacting to their girlfriend wear a lingerie?

Thank you so much! Have a lovely day/night!!

　　　∧_∧::

(´･ω･`)::

/⌒ ⌒)::

/へ_＿ / /::

(＿＼＼ ﾐ)/::

｜ `-イ::

/ )::

/／ ／::

／ ／::

( く:::

|＼ ヽ:::

Imma go ahead and ignore that icky word that's in there and make it S/O because I want to write Alastor. Here is my request page for anyone who wants to in the future. Please take a read before you come into my inbox :D

Can I request smut for Alastor, Lucifer & Crimson reacting to their [REDACTED] wearing lingerie?

Overall notes: Stories written on this blog are GN until specified. While this story uses they/them pronouns, and while I don't mind female readers on my blog/interacting, love my girlies, hey girlies~, but I do not write female reader, and if you are a fetishizer. fuck off??? ew. How would you even do that on an x reader???

C/W: NSFW topics, Each character will have their own respective warnings, Sexual content, duh, no pronouns used, Bottom! reader favored, Established relationships. OOC?, I mean this would never happen, so yeah ooc

Notes: the giggle I had to stop when I got to Alastor good god, but Lucifer was honestly the funniest and most enjoyable to write. I had a smile on my face the whole time

Crimson ♧︎...

C/W: Slight Voyeurism (mention of his right hand man Alessio), Degradation, he def has a sir kink, don't lie to me, mention of stealing/sugarbaby (hes an asshole) mention of stalkers? admirers?? idk he just mentions people leaving you gifts,

For being an old (mafia) man. He's not opposed to a little dress up

Only if its you though. He would NEVER

He would be into something with a little more class.

Never will his darling look like some 2 cent floozy

So none of that crotchless bull honky. While he wouldn't be mad at it, he would rather leave more to the imagination. Something to work for, y'know?

And he would certainly work for it.

You really wanna get him going? Accentuate your hips. That's something him and Moxxie can agree. They like their darling with a little bit of width~

If you are gonna wear something for him, you best put on a show while you're at it.

He waits to do business after dinner, so why not let him enjoy his meal

For an asshole he has some manners now

Always making you cum once or twice before even taking your outfit off.

It likes to wait before unwrapping his gift <3

But once he gets more accustom to your interest

He's definitely going to be the one buying you the set

well its his money that's being used, Al is the one who goes and picked them up. Poor baby...

"You're so needy, baby. But did you need to go and make yourself out to be a whore in the middle of a meeting?" Crimson said as he placed a hand on your waist. His desk might not be the most comfortable place, but it will do for now. It's not like he can ignore you when you got all dolled up for him.

"I don't remember buying this one. Alessio leaving you gifts now too?" His fingers slid under the thin fabric as you let out a soft whine before answering, "I got them,.. custom made, sir." you said, trying to steady your breathing as his hands wandered between your legs. You let out a yelp as he spreads your legs out more for himself.

"And where are you getting this money from, huh? Hope you're not stealing it from me, brat." He gives you a soft glare and a questioning look as his eyes scan over the fabric that covered you, before his spotted the embroidered 'C. Knolastname' on the front of the waist band. With his index finger and thumb, he hooked them around the band and traced the deigned. Crimson gives you a smirk and placed a kiss right under your belly button before moving down.

"Hmm... maybe i do have a use for that ring then after all, but i should repay this favor before hand. Right, (Y/n) Knolastname?"

Lucifer 𓅰...

C/W: light choking, another one with a superiority kink, mentions of god (he calls himself it), size kink for the fact I thought this man was like 5'8-10 come to look up his like 6'2-3, slight crack fic (because he wouldn't take anything seriously until truly needed, he giggles when you change in front of him, it's always a crack fic with him)

HE HAS A MATCHING SET!!

god how my perception of these characters have been warped

but he has most definitely bought you outfits before, probably the only one to go out of his way to get matching ones.

Even got a few custom ones made, you can always tell by the little duck embroidered somewhere on them.

He's game for anything you wanna wear. He isn't gonna stop you, if anything he's gonna encourage you to wear more.

He's helpless for you in such a pretty outfit and it's all for him?

He feels loved and he's sure to pay that back ten fold in the bedroom.

You might not allowed to be in heaven, but he can show you what it was like~

I maaay..be a bit delusional, but in private I feel like he's all giggly and shit.

Oh an he definitely was the first time you pulled this from your hat of tricks.

Almost a little to giggly i'd sat, to think the ruler of hell would be this flustered over an article of clothing is beyond me

But once he starts to become use to it. He starts to expect it. What? He is the king of Hell after all.

And he truly expects to be treated like one. (He's a brat when he doesn't get attention)

Be it sinner, hell-born, or even the 'perfect OC/that everyone loves who is half angel half devil/stronger then god/etc' he's gonna ask you one thing constantly...

"Please, my angel of death? Just one time, for me? Then i'll never ask again. Promise."

"I'm not wearing a duck tail while you fuck me. When- Where in hell did you even get these made?" you asked as you held up the pair of yellow lingerie with a duck tail sown on the back of the waist band.

"You shouldn't need to worry about that, my love. All you need to worry about is wearing them for me." He said with a light sigh and a shrug of his shoulders, a soft smile resting on his face.

"Again, I am not. fucking. wearing. them, you prick-!" As soon as you got the name out you felt yourself against the wall. The soft smile gone from Lucifer's face as a dark look pooled in his eyes, an unsettling stare never leaving yours. Before you could apologize, his hand wrapped around throat, his index finger pushed your face up to his as he spoke with a low voice.

Almost like that cheery devil was just a front...

"Oh, how far from grace you have fallen, my dear. Seems you already forgotten your god. But that's no trouble at all, for tonight..." His grip on your neck got tighter as he got closer to your ear and a sinister smile made itself at home upon his pale face. Y'know, you really only notice how big he is when he gets like this... oh that wasn't a complaint. Not when his presence alone encaged you against the wall, let alone the possessive grip that he had on you.

"I'll teach you how to praise my name once again."

Alastor 𐂂...

C/W: Teasing, sadly abo mention, WHY ARE YOU BOOING ME I AM RIGHT, blood mentions, possessive behaviors, light choking, mentions of cannabalism, duh, playing more into the abo, uhm, sniffing? idfk leave me alone its late. oh ft: a guest at the end.

Another man with class, just not as much. I mean, come on, he's still a sinner~

though when you present yourself to him in your outfit, he can't help, but raise a brow as he tried to keep down his smile at the sight.

Definitely a big tease, a BIG tease

Especially when you look so cute for him, squirming under his indifferent gaze. Oh how he wants to squeeze your cheeks and leave you begging for release~

He's also one for a game of cat and mouse.

so when you go out into town with him make sure to slip his favorite pair of lingerie under your clothes

And if you're one wear revealing clothes, then I hope you're ready for a possessive (and bloody) overlord, ad pray for anyone who thinks they can touch you, let alone come near you.

oh AND OHHHH wanna know how you really got him? How you really got to him??? When the static cuts out and that Louisiana drawl' comes out of him. (I would die. again.)

(If I say he has a rut would that be considered A/b/o? I mean he is a deer demon, same with other demons in a similar case)

but WHOOO WEE

for someone who normally has a distaste for touch that isn't initiated by him, He'll enjoy a night or two (on the rare occasion) where he lets you indulge yourself

though, do be careful now, he's a gentleman up and foremost, but he's not always a patient man at that. He's always willing to return the favor tenfold~

And if you already couldn't tell, he loves the color red, basically lives in it. So it's safe to it sets something off in him

be the cannibal in him, or maybe he just likes the color a little too much

but at the end of it you'll more marked up then a rough draft <3

"Bless your heart, Dear. Did you think I wouldn't notice... your little getup? His clawed fingers trailed your sides as he leaned down to whisper in your ear. His frame trapping you in your seat and god, would it be terrifying for any mere sinner in this position, if it wasn't for the playful twitch of his ear that told you otherwise. Someone was enjoying this more then he let on...

It wasn't the first time you had teased him in public, but it was the first time people really had the courage to come talk to you. To give the poor souls benefit of the doubt, you were just sat at the bar talking to husk. Though, you would also think the red pinstripe outfit and microphone that rested at your side gave itself away.

"And it seems i'm not the only one. Now, if I were to kill everyone in this god forsaken hotel. Whose fault would that be, hm?" A clawed hand made it's way around your throat as it softly pulled you back, letting him have full access to your neck. Burying his face in your neck, he took in a deep breathe as static radiated off him.

"Or maybe I should have you for a meal tonight. You do smell quite... appetizing, my darling. Such a shame I have to ruin that pretty little outfit of yours." Before you could even gasp a grumbling and angry voice rang out, bringing you both back into reality.

"Can you two not fuck at my bar please? You are just as bad as that damn spider."

"Oh of course Husker! We'll get out of your fur right now actually! Wasn't like these pathetic things were going to get a taste of you anyways."

[drefear]

Sister's Mister

Summary: You and your sister are having issues now that Miguel and her are official. Your friends have some opinions, and things finally get heated.

TW: drinking, heartbreak, cheating, family issues.

part 1 - part 2 - part 3 - part 4

Peter had begun bringing Miguel around more and more, to whom the only person who seemed to dislike this was Miles, but they didn’t interact much. Miles always just kept Gwen close by when Miguel was around, not trusting him around his girlfriend. 

Something about Miguel made MIles uncomfortable, and he tried to tell both you and your sister, but it was no use. Your sister was in love, and you were too visceral to everything now to even comprehend what he was saying. The situation had made you into a shell of who you were. 

One person who found this all very entertaining?

Hobie Fucking Brown. 

Hobie saw you in that nightclub and knew you were the one Miguel had mumbled to him about a few times while he was drunk. Hobie and Peter took Miguel, Jess, and Lyla out a few times since they’d all become friends freshman year and got them all drunk. 

But in the recent few months since Miguel’s summer classes started, he would mumble about some girl under his breath when he was drunk, talk about her like she was a figment of his imagination. 

When Hobie saw you sitting alone in the nightclub, sipping your drink and awkwardly looking around as if searching for an escape route, he knew you were the one Miguel was fixated on. But the poor big bastard was too busy grinding on a girl who could be mistaken for a hooker, so much caked on lipstick and ass almost hanging out. 

Chaos was Hobie’s specialty and when he started dancing with you, he saw a crimson fire burn in Miguel’s eyes. Over your shoulder, he kept winking at the larger of the two, seeing something itch Miguel on the inside of his throat, giving Hobie the idea that he was in for it once they spoke again. 

And then the floozy was dragging Miguel over to you and Hobbie, and this made the alternative boy smile. How perfectly everything was falling into place. 

Hobie pulled you closer, something that had gone unnoticed by the females of the group and had Miguel’s hand almost twitching. 

Weeks had gone by, then he saw you at that party and heard you drunkenly venting. 

“Big and fuckin… stupid, ya know, Gweny? And like… my sister tells me about the sex, Gwen, the sex!” You were barely coherent as you rambled and this made Hobie laugh. He walked off to find his own fling of the night and a few hours later, he saw the big guy carrying out your passed-out body. 

The next day was the pool party and after the heat interaction between you and Miguel, he clapped his hands and laughed. 

“Time for grub, innit? How bout the food now?” He stood and walked to Peter, who hurriedly started passing out food. 

He just sat back and watched, waiting to interfere when he might be needed most, which he had a feeling would be soon. 

Meanwhile, Miguel walked around and finally found Gianna in the upstairs bedroom. 

“Gianna?” He asked and she turned, hugging him. 

“There you are, Miggy! Did you two talk? She still seems really mad.” Gianna bat her eyes and poured a bit, and Miguel felt sick to his stomach. The guilt of wanting you made his mouth dry and his hands freeze. 

“We need to talk.” He took her hand and led her to Mile’s living room. 

“Oh my god.” She covered her mouth and sat down, moving away from him a little. “I guess this was inevitable.” She let her shoulders sag and stared at the ground. 

“Well, I don’t think I’d say it was inevitable. It just started before us, and if I never-“ he looked up once her heard her crying, big tears streaming down her face as she hiccuped a bit. 

“I’m so sorry, Miguel. It’s just- I couldn’t help it!” She gasped and Miguel stopped dead in his tracks. What?

“What are you talking about?” He leaned backwards, frowning a bit. 

“This is about me and my ex, right?” She looked up, eyes glassy and red from crying now. Miguel stood up and furrowed his brows. 

“This- I didn’t even know… did you cheat on me?” The words felt sour in his mouth and like razors on his lips. He stepped backwards and watched as she stood up, reaching towards him. He moved from her hand and glared at the girl. 

“I thought you already knew, wasn’t that what you wanted to talk about?” She looked up to him in shame, then squeezed her eyes shut. “It wasn’t anything much, just a hookup.” 

“I came out here to tell you this wasn’t working because I want someone else.” He blurted out and a hurt expression flashed across Gianna’s face. 

“Who?” 

“Does it even matter now? You’re the one who cheated, I was going to cut things off before anything happened with her.” He started walking away from her. 

“Where are you going?” 

“To go fuck someone else, so I don’t have your taste in my mouth anymore.” He growled and stormed out. He needed to find you. Now. 

But you went home. You snuck out of the bathroom and went home, too embarrassed and hurt to see everyone again. 

How could you face your sister? Ben? Miles and Gwen? Everything was so screwed up, so messy now and you didn’t want to deal with it. You drove home and locked yourself in your bedroom, afraid of the world. 

Days had passed and it was the last class of the semester. You’d been watching your classes online so you didn’t have to leave your house, wanting to avoid everyone and everything. The only time you had to see anyone is when you had to eat, but your mom mainly brought your food to your bedroom. 

Walking onto campus, the sun beat down on you so hard and blinded you behind your sunglasses. You hurried into the lecture hall and bent your head down behind your laptop screen. You needed this final grade, it was an important class for you, but there was only one issue.

A looming presence made you scrunch your eyes shut and curl over your computer more. 

“We need to talk-“

“Class is starting.” You cut him off and fixed the darkened lenses on your nose. 

“Fine.” He yanked out the chair beside you and plopped himself down, leaning back and folding his arms over his chest. 

“That’s not what I meant.” You sighed, giving up and letting him sit there. “Did you study?”

“No.” He answered, as if your question was stupid, “Did you?” 

“I tried, but I couldn't focus.” You slumped, to which Miguel bit his lip. He felt responsible for your distractions. 

“Cheat off of me, then.” 

“What?” You blinked in surprise, uncomfortable with how this sentence made your morality feel. 

“It’s the final, and you know your shit, so if you need to look over to me at any point, just check your answer. I know I’m gonna get an A anyway, this is my whole job.” He rolled his eyes and scooted closer to you, making you suddenly very conscious of the heat of his body near yours and how you looked. 

“F-Fine, but only if I need to, ok?” You stuttered and looked away from him. 

“Only if you promise to talk to me after.” He raised a brow and practically trapped you with just the look in his eyes. 

“Ok, but not here. We’ll get food or something.” You stammered nervously and heard the professor start talking. 

An hour and a half later, you finally finished the test, only glancing at Miguel once through the whole test. A lot of the source material came back to you every time you read the question, only one part stumping you briefly before Miguel held up three fingers and instructed you that it was the third option. 

Walking back out into the sunlight, Miguel grabbed your jean loop and stopped you from running away. “We’re taking my car, since you’re basically an escape artist.” You gulped, seeing how intent he was with speaking with you seriously. Every bone in your body was hesitant and afraid of what he might say, you knew him and Gianna broke up shortly after the fight you had with him and your bathroom excursion. She didn’t want to talk about it, and you didn’t particularly want to talk to her. Everytime you two even made eye contact, bile rose in your esophagus and you choked on the stifling shame of how you felt for her ex-boyfriend. 

Miguel followed you to his car and had you in the front as you watched everything pass by, thinking about how badly life had crumbled the past few weeks. 

Miguel’s hand gripped the steering wheel tighter as he saw you so quiet and upset. He hated this side of you, sad and hurt, but it seemed that this was the only side he brought out of you. 

He finally parked after the silent ride and walked around to get the door for you, waiting for you to jump out and also grabbing the door for you as you both entered the coffee shop. You’d never noticed him being a gentleman before, maybe because you’d never even given him the chance. 

You sat at a table inside and leaned on the wall beside you, too tired to even sit upright. He stood on the line and ordered coffee for you both, as well as a breakfast sandwich. You stared at his tall frame as he took the seat in front of you and sighed. 

“We should get some things out of the way.” He started and you nodded quietly. “I’ll begin with what happened . Your sister and I broke up because she cheated on me and I like you.” 

He spoke like this was obvious but your eyes widened in shock. 

“She cheated? With who?” 

“Some guy in her honors biology class. It wasn’t a big deal, we weren’t that serious and it was only two months.” He shrugged, sipping his black coffee as you milked yours with sugar and cream. 

“But still…” You trailed off and bit your lip. You felt his hurt, but he seemed so indifferent that it made you think again and then remember what else he said. “You like me?” 

His eyes found yours and he nodded.  “I liked you before I knew her, I’ve thought about you since the summer classes started.” He rubbed his thumb across his bottom lip, like he was thinking, and the movement had you mesmerized. “Never knew your name, and when I met Gianna, I liked her because she resembled you, but then I was always around you and I would get angry and bitter because I had gotten so close, yet it wasn’t you.” Miguel rambled, running a hand through his brown hair and sighing in frustration from trying to explain his emotions. You grabbed the hand from his hair before you even realized what you were doing and held it on your own, then dropping it and blushing. 

“I uh-” 

Without waiting for your response, he grabbed that hand again and held it. You sat in silence for a second and stared at where your bodies now met. “You run through my mind like you have no idea.” his hand brushed yours once more and you realized something. 

“You were the one who helped me when I was drunk at Miles’s party.” 

“Yeah.” He nodded, smiling a little. 

You two sat there for hours, talking and laughing as you shared stories and feelings, as if a weight was lifted from both of your shoulders and you could be open to the other now. 

As you threw your head back from laughter to something he said, you heard someone call your name from behind you as you turned and met the eyes of the one person who wouldn’t understand. You both froze, fear chilling the entire area around you all. 

“Gianna?”

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[toxicanonymity]

Ethyl's house

500 words, night walks AU - neighbor Ethyl

One afternoon, Joel was outside getting the mail when Ethyl got home. He saw her Oldsmobile crawling into the cul-de-sac with her hands at ten and two. She was hunched forward with her big glasses above the steering wheel as she pulled into her driveway. Joel lingered at his mailbox. For a moment, he wondered how well she could see the pool from her house, but she likely went to bed before sundown.

After she parked, she got out of the car, hung her purse on her inner elbow, and popped the trunk. Joel put the mail back in his mailbox and walked over to her driveway. In the trunk there were two paper grocery sacks, and she was taking apples out of one to make it light enough to carry. She didn't mind making multiple trips. She would do it with a smile.

“How ‘bout a hand with those,” Joel offered behind her.

She marveled at his strength as he repacked the bag and picked both of them up.

She shuffled in front of him, holding her purse under her arm in one hand and her keys out in front of herself in the other. She unlocked and held open the carport door to her house.

An older chihuahua whined from the den before standing up from its little bed, stretching with its tail up, then shaking his head, jingling the collar.

“That's Barney,” Ethyl informed Joel.

She turned on her small oven, and and took a pan of cookie dough out of her modest fridge while Joel unpacked the groceries. The oven handle was almost as high as she was tall.

Her home was neat and simple with lots of cross stitch and knitted blankets. She gave him the full tour, with Barney silently sniffing behind them, wagging his tail. The smell of chocolate chip cookies began to fill the air as she sat Joel down on the sofa and showed off family photos. There were photos of her and her late husband traveling the world. They didn't have kids. There were photos of her sisters, her niece, and her great nephews.

When the oven timer went off, she shuffled back into the kitchen. She gave Joel a plate full of cookies and a 1970s juice glass of whole milk, but she didn't partake. She smiled while Joel enjoyed them.

“Oh,” she raised a knobby finger. “Let me send some with you.” She brought back a tupperware and told him he better save some for you.

Joel raised his eyebrows with a silent smile. She smiled and covered her mouth, oops. Then croaked, “I'm not trying to be a busy body, Joel.”

She reached for his hand, and he patiently waited for a but. Her hand was cold on top of his.

“But if you've got something special, treat it special.”

He swallowed and looked down.

“And hang onto it as long as you can.”

She squeezed his hand, and he nodded silently.

-----

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thank you for reading!

tag list because this is night walks canon

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[m3talmunson]

Steve Harrington except his mom comes from old money, his father new. So while Steve's mom took his father's last name (reluctantly. She was doing her best to promise that her son would have a good life ahead of him), she got to choose Steve's first, which just happens not to be Steve.

His name is actually Esteban Eberardo Ortiz Harrington, because by God, Maria Harrington would never let her son have an English name since she had to give up her own to promise her son a decent life.

Somewhere along the way she got lost in it all. She chased Mr. Harrington around to make sure he wasn't sleeping with whatever floozie secretary he had at the moment, and in doing so she forgot to be a mother - as much as somebody can just forget that duty.

So, one day Esteban got dropped off at his grandpa's house and became Steve. Then one day Steve's grandfather died and Steve didn't even see his father at the funeral. His father, the dead man's son, sent Maria with flowers to the funeral. Flowers she didn't have a destination for. So, the moment it was over she dragged Steve and the flowers back to the dust-covered Harrington home. She makes some dinner and has a nice night with her son, but as they curl up on the couch and try to settle for the night, she brings him up.

"Mijo, your father. I have to go back to him tomorrow. I have a plane ride in the morning. I have to go sweetheart." She blinks back the tears in her eyes as she delivers the news.

"It's ok mama! I'm 10 now, double digits." He holds out both of his hands, all of his fingers splayed out. "I can take care of things here." He put on his best brave face, something Grandpa Harrington taught him.

"Grandma is going to visit you as much as she can, but she doesn't live near here. You'll be on your own a lot, my sweet sweet boy." She let the tears run at this point, ignoring the musical she had put on the TV to occupy their thoughts.

"Don't cry mama," He curled up into her side. "Wait, Grandma? But she's been gone for longer than Grandpa?"

"No, no, my mama. She'll be up here every so often for you. My brave boy." She kissed the top of Steve's head, peppered a few more against Steve's complaints of tickling.

"Come on mama, Dolly's singing!" He said, and drew his attention back to the TV like it was nothing. They fell asleep on the couch that night. Mr. Harrington never would have approved, but maybe he just didn't need to know.

And that began the life of Steve being alone. At least, most of the time. His grandma did come up every so often. She taught him how to cook, clean, where the stools were, and which ones were tall enough for him to reach the cookie jar. The same cookie jar that stayed in place just incase his parents did come home and happen to give half a shit about it.

When she couldn't be there, over the phone, she taught her little Esteban Spanish. His father never allowed it in the house, but the moment she insisted she be called Abuelita and not Grandma, she piqued Esteban's interest.

He was interested until he got made fun of for the accent. He continued to learn it, but insisted that he be called Steve, the same way she insisted he call her something else. That set the record straight for him.

During high school, she got too frail for him to visit. The Harrington's put money in the bank for Steve, so he began to visit her. He'd fly down to where she was staying, drive once he could. Steve got his license the very first day he could, just to visit her. He planned her funeral when the day came, just a month before Will Byers went missing. That kept him in contact with quite a few of his cousins that way, checked in on everyone and made the rounds while he tried to remain a normal teenager, have a normal girlfriend, live as King Steve, or Steve "The Hair" Harrington. Anything that kept his life nice and neatly in place.

Then, a stupid nail bat was his lifeline. Screw normal, he couldn't trust anyone or anything anymore. Two years later, he got tortured by Russians and then, maybe he could trust someone.

Somewhere between his fall from grace and saving the world for good, he grew to trust a lot of people. Grew to have people at his house all the time, filling that god awful empty house.

He had Eddie over one night when he got a call from his cousin Mariana, she had just finished her freshman year of college in the US, so her English was getting pretty good, but she greeted him in Spanish so he can only return the favor. Steve guessed it was only a matter of time until Eddie and the others found out about him anyways.

So, he responded to Mariana. He had an entire conversation with her, back to the couch that Eddie was sat on. Last he knew Eddie was flipping through movies, but all the noises stopped. At least Steve could assume that maybe he just picked a movie, and maybe get hurt or yelled at or something after the call. He just had to get through this conversation with Mariana.

He heard the crash of tapes falling and had to end it.

"Sorry Mari, I've got to go." He said abruptly in English, and tried his hardest not to slam the phone back into the receiver.

When he turned around, he didn't expect what he saw. Sure, Eddie's jaw was basically on the floor, but he didn't seem angry, not like Steve had expected.

"You- you speak Spanish, Stevie?" Eddie had almost a shocked rasp to his voice, clutching onto the tape in his hand, the one that managed to not fall.

"Yeah, have for about 8 or 9 years now."

"You, Steve Harrington, are fluent in Spanish?"

"Esteban Eberardo Ortiz Harrington, actually. And yeah, my mom is Mexican."

"Est- Esteban???" Eddie laughed out. "Good God Stevie-"

"I know, I know, I should have told you sooner. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to hide it, I just- it's hard walking around Hawkins with a Spanish accent, it's just so-" He interrupted Eddie.

"Steve, Stevie, no." It was Eddie's turn to interrupt. "I'm not mad at you sweetheart. Definitely not mad." Eddie hinted at something else.

"You're not mad? What- I-" Steve raised his eyebrow. "What's that look about then?"

Eddie had been out to Steve for a while, and vice-versa. They hadn't exactly not been flirting, so Eddie didn't feel too crazy saying this next part.

"If I'm being so honest, Stevie," Eddie stepped closer into Steve's personal space, "I wouldn't say completely platonic feelings."

"Oh, that's what does it for you, Munson? Really?" Steve teased. Back with the bravado charm.

"I dunno... want to say some more?"

And, of course, the moment he hears it again -the accent Steve's voice works itself into- he's basically frothing at the mouth. He drops the tape he was holding and swings his arms around Steve's neck, only a little awkward considering the lack of height difference.

"I guess it is, Esteban."

"You don't even know what I said!" Steve pretended to act shocked, or pissed or something, but he really didn't care.

"Tell me later," Eddie cut Steve off with a swift kiss, and maybe Steve would settle for later.

Maybe he'd have a lifetime to tell Eddie that all he said was "I really want to kiss you." He had his wish fulfilled anyway.

[izvmimi]

malevolent enterprise ch. 1

cw: ceo!au. sukuna and yuuji are siblings. drug use. header by @/cafekitsune! a/n: background to a series of oneshots. masterlist

Exactly two unexpected things occur exactly one week to the hour of Wasuke Itadori’s death - 1. Yuuji Itadori, second grandson from his only son Jin Itadori, inherits all of Itadori Enterprises and its subsidiaries and 2. Yuuji’s older brother and lifetime antagonist Sukuna formally changes his name to Ryomen, and establishes Ryomen Industries.

Yuuji, in moments, is saddled with the grand title of C.E.O., and Sukuna, if he didn’t have enough reasons to dislike his kind, caring younger brother, has finally added yet another one to the list. This part doesn’t particularly bother him, after all, even Yuuji has to admit, no matter how much he has tried to love his brother over the years, Sukuna is fundamentally a piece of shit. 

And that’s exactly why he’s the perfect choice for the job.

Yuuji sighs and takes another piece of sushi off of the left flank of the poor girl who’s been laid prone and nearly naked on the table for most of the evening. He’d ask her if her shift was coming to an end soon but even he had to admit it felt weird asking about the work conditions to a girl who was meant to be a prop at an event that was theoretically in his honor. The salmon is exactly the right temperature and feel in his mouth and he can’t ask for more. He offers her a thumbs up as he walks past her which has her somewhat confused, then makes his way back to the lounge chairs.

Sukuna by now has stopped schmoozing all the other industry leaders in the room and now contents himself with four giggling floozies in his lap, his practically blood-red eyes glowing in the neon club lighting as he smirks at him. Yuuji gives him an exasperated look but finds a seat far away alone. He’s actually not sure why he’s still here - the new personal assistant that was assigned to him is already sending emails from the interim chief that he still doesn’t understand and Sukuna’s already told half of the attendees he expects him to run Grandpa’s business into the ground. A few girls venture in his direction, one of which Yuuji has to admit is pretty enough to make his cheeks warm (if it’s not his last three beers finally kicking in) but Sukuna’s already whistled and called them over by the time the first girl opens her mouth to introduce herself.

“I’ve got plenty of arm space to spare!” he practically cackles, and the last girl, the pretty one, takes a last look at Yuuji before apologetically sauntering over to his brother for attention. Sukuna and another young CEO, who Sukuna cruelly trash-talked just less than a month ago, take shots off of another woman’s chest, and Sukuna finishes off the theatrics with a line of coke down her abdomen. 

Yuuji rolls his eyes, but before he can get up and finally convince himself to leave rather than tolerate his brother’s antics, another body slides into the booth next to him, bumping him on the shoulder.

“New CEO!” 

Indoor sunglasses cover the young man’s eyes and before Yuuji can smile and embrace him, Satoru Gojo has him practically in a headlock mussing up his hair. 

“Oi! Stop!” Yuuji hisses, embarrassed to be treated like a kid, especially in the presence of his older brother already trying to force him back into the shadows. Yuuji recollects himself, adjusting the lapel of his shirt but Satoru frowns.

“I’m shocked you made it,” Yuuji says. He’s delighted to see his family friend, just as odd and eccentric as Sukuna can be but with less of the dickish behavior.

Somewhat. 

"I mean hopping on my jet, cutting my vacation short-” Satoru stops and sighs, stretching out his long limbs as he leans deeper into the soft cushions, “but of course I’d show up to congratulate you.” Gojo sits up suddenly, leaning in, and Yuuji doesn’t ask himself how he can see through those. 

“So are you gonna compete with me now? Throw me out of the market?”

Yuuji grins. “I don’t think you’re touchable in all honesty, but even if you were,  I think we can both agree to be successful.”

Gojo is satisfied with this answer. Clinking his beer bottle on Yuuji’s forehead, a move that genuinely throws him off guard, Gojo downs the rest of the bottle then turns, winking at a girl in Sukuna’s court, and when she nearly rises, Sukuna gives him a practically glowing red glare. 

Gojo laughs, then turns back to Yuuji who snorts.

“I think there are enough girls to spare, Aniki,” Yuuji teases. He leans in, draping his arm over his senpai’s shoulder. “After all, I’m pretty sure Sukuna’s laywer friend is here, just waiting for you to get on her nerves.”

Gojo laughs. “She hates my guts but I know she wants me in hers.”

Yuuji sips on the beer he’d set aside, not bothering to make an additional comment, remembering the last time he mentioned the redhead to him, he’d spent nearly thirty minutes just talking about her tits. Despite this, the same man could easily be found in numerous news articles with a number of different women, so he couldn’t actually be sure of the depth of his interest, but Yuuji had the feeling that Gojo felt a little differently about her. 

A sideways glance makes it clear that Satoru is already scanning the room, to see if she’s still here amongst the throng of people. Yuuji watches Sukuna who seems to have chased away the extra floozies and now sits with one girl straddling him, his own hand suspiciously low down the curve of his ass, and the other licking and whispering into his ear, something that looks vaguely doglike. Yuuji frowns and looks away, but Gojo has already risen, his own instincts prompting him to find someone to go home with. 

But before he can go off and get really wasted, Yuuji realizes he has a serious question for the more experienced corporate bigwig before he calls it a night.

“Aniki.”

Gojo’s head turns to him, a drunken half-smile on his face.

“Ne?”

“It’s a work question,” Yuuji answers with a tinge of discomfort. Asking for help is embarrassing at this stage, but Gojo is the only one who doesn’t judge him, rather helps even if it’s in a way that seems ridiculous, like some kind of flippant genius.

Gojo frowns.

“Fine, but you have to promise to have a good time.” 

With that, Gojo starts to sway with the music, and with the great length of his body and limbs, dressed in all black from head to toe, Yuuji is briefly reminded of bamboo gently swaying in the wind. He stifles a laugh before rendering himself serious again. 

“You’ll call me a dumbass but I have a new vacancy that’s sort of high up and I’m trying to figure out who to hire.”

The lenses obscuring Gojo’s eyes don’t help Yuuji gauge his thoughts but Gojo is still dancing so Yuuji continues talking.

“I want someone from the outside. Someone who didn’t know my grandpa or Sukuna. Any recommendations where I should start looking?”

Gojo does a full body roll, then stops. 

“I’ll send you an application tomorrow. Now loosen the fuck up.”

Yuuji blinks, then starts the two-step of a man who is under too much stress but not drunk enough.

“Okay.”

[justjams2003]

Fast Pace- 3

Summary: You're a hard-working Chef in Paris and after a freak accident run-in with Carlos Sainz, your life makes a 180. Let's just say with a certain agreement, you get your bills paid and in return stand in as Carlos' girlfriend for the press. But will you be able to handle the pressure and ensure the lines don't blur?

Pairing: Sugar Daddy!Carlos Sainz x Sugar Baby!Reader

Warnings: I've aged up Carlos, he is 33 in this fic.Smoking, smut, sexual themes, age difference, manipulation, control, slight obsession, tell me if I missed any

Dividers by: @firefly-graphics and @s-silk

Taglist: @httpjeonlicious, @f1lov3r, @messersandmesses, @hollie911, @oriconde08

Word count: 2,6k

Masterlist

Part 2~Part 4

His eyes pierce you like an ice-pick to the brain. Dark like a storm and prowling your mind, trying to pry an answer from you. He looks like a model, posing for a magazine cover. He’s leaned back, sipping from his wine, hair perfectly in place and his broad shoulders lure you in. Those coal-brown eyes don’t beg for you to say yes, but command you.  

How you wish now that you could your friends and beg them to reply for you. But you can’t. You have to pull up your big-girl pants. He’s read you back to front like some cheap pamphlet. You’ve never told anyone about your big dreams. You’ve kept it under wraps, a daydream that keeps you busy when the nights are too long. The only one that really knows is your Instagram algorithm, which constantly shows you other people living your dream.  

Is it too vapid of you? To only want the sweet life and not want to work for it? It’s not that you haven’t tried. You’ve spent three years working your ass off in that damn restaurant and nothing has come from it. You’ve not gotten a single raise, no other higher up, fancier, restaurants have wanted to take you in.  

Your lip is caught in your teeth, and you can’t help but blush at the thought. “Would it make me lackadaisical? A floozy? Lazy?” You ask, unsure if you're asking for his approval or trying to convince yourself. He smirks and shakes his head, then takes your hand. “Quite the opposite, it would make you smart. If you take this opportunity, then you’ll get an advantage that other girls could only dream of.”  

He continues, trying to convince you. “Model work isn’t easy, it will be ruthless, even with my influence. If it helps, I promise I won’t do everything for you, not that I could. But I’m certain if those agencies see you, they’ll want you immediately, as it happened with me.” He caresses each of your knuckles and his words go right to your head.  

“And there would be conditions?” You ask, truly you’d already been convinced. All you really can think of now is your safety. “Naturally, you know how those lawyers are. NDAs, and certain other requirements, from both our sides.” His words are so smooth and play exactly to your heartstrings. The struggle in your mind seems to crumble with each soft sweep of his thumb on his hand.  

You stare him down, trying to see any lies or hidden agreements but you get nothing but sincerity. “Alright, you’ve convinced me.” His face lights up in a huge grin and seems to almost jump in his seat. “You won’t regret it, princesa. I’ll make sure of it.” He places small butterfly kisses all over your hand. His stubble tickles and you can’t help but let the giggles fly from your mouth.  

“You won’t need for another thing, ever again.”  

Screaming is heard through the phone. You can’t help but laugh at your best friends’ reactions all while you soak up the feeling of being snuggled up in bed on a Thursday morning. “Tell us more. Right now.” Jas demands through the phone. “Well, after I agreed to the whole thing, he got us celebration crème brûlée, another one of my favourites.” They gasp and then scream again.  

You had set your Instagram radar to follow everything related to Carlos, and your phone is going crazy. There are already so many photos circulating around the internet. There are photos of him and you at dinner, luckily though you can’t really see your face.

Rumours circulate of who this new mysterious girl could be. If you’re new or if it’s a long-term thing. Then, of course, people mostly upset because Carlos might not be single anymore. There are other people too, excited to finally see him with someone.  

You can’t help but sigh, is this really what you’re getting yourself into? Are you really ready for people speculating about every single aspect of your life? Are you ready to allow yourself to be given to the public like that? More importantly, are you ready to share him? You can’t help but wonder if the fans will like you? Will they accept you or will you ruin his reputation? 

“We’re so proud of you for saying yes, it is what we would have said,” Jas says again and you can’t help but laugh. “And we’re also very proud that you didn’t make it easy for him.” Ilsa comments and you know she’s thinking more long term than Jasmine or yourself. You’re scared to even tell them of the things people are saying. Should you be shocked that this feels normal already?  

 “Then, after the date, he asked for my bank information and then proceeded to deposit me 5,000 euros. He called it a down payment. And a taste of what is to come.” They proceed to scream once more and roll your eyes at them. You’re happier now to have the water apartment for another month. Not that you need it, looking at the F1 calendar.  

A knock is heard at the door. “Uh, girls, I have to go. I’ll text you guys all the deeds at the end of the day.” They say their goodbyes and their goodluck’s. You throw the sheets you’ve had since university to the side and run over, expecting some sort of package or invoice, you throw open the door not looking to see who is outside.  

“Carlos, hi,” you smile, now feeling incredibly self-conscious about the pyjamas you’re wearing. The shorts have a few holes in, and the shirt is stained more than you’d like to admit. “Good morning, hermosa. I hope I did not wake you, no?” Those earth-brown eyes scan over every inch of your form and a smirk creeps across his face.

“Don’t laugh at me, you’re early. You said the flight was at nine and I haven’t gotten ready yet,” a blush coats your cheeks as his charming grin grows wider. “I am not laughing at you, hermosa. Quite the opposite, you look...” he’s holding back, you can see it in his eyes. Already you can tell he wears his heart on his sleeve.  

Carlos’ mind is somewhere else, and his eyes are glued to you. He then snaps out of it, “May I come in?” He asks and now you’re really blushing. The place is small and rundown, the paint is peeling, and you’ve given up on trying to get rid of the musk that the building carries. Not to mention, the place is a mess after your frantic packing last night.  

“Yes, uh, please excuse the mess.” His eyes don’t even glance at any of the strewn-around clothes or dirty dishes. His hand naturally falls to your waist, pulling you closer and then placing a small kiss on the crown of your head. You can’t help but notice how perfectly you fit into his side. After he sits down by your small kitchen counter you notice the things he’s carrying in his hands.  

A packet of paper, and a leather bag. “You can make yourself comfortable while I go get ready.” Again, you go to leave but you’re pulled back by the wrist. In one quick motion, you find yourself standing between his strong legs. He holds up the bag for you, “I’ve brought you something to wear. And don’t bother packing, we’ll buy anything you need there.”  

You go to protest, but he gives you a sharp look, a similar one from last night. The look that fuels and tames the fire in your body all at the same time. And yet, you keep your mouth shut and follow his instructions.  

The hoodie is huge on you, it hangs on the middle of your thigh and the sleeves hang over your hands. It’s bright red with black shoulders and the Ferrari logo is unmistakable. You pair it with plain black leggings and sneakers. You hold the cap, that came with, in your hands, and already you feel a bit showy. 

You walk out and Carlos’ eyes immediately snaps to you. Those stormy eyes of his instantly go even darker. He rakes his hand through those dark locks of his as if he needs to ground himself. “It’s a bit much, don’t you think?” You give a playful scoff, but he shakes his head. He stands up and takes the cap you’re holding from you.  

“I must disagree; I want everyone to know you’re mine now.” He picks up the hat and places it comfortably on your head. His gaze is strong, and you scrunch your nose, unsure if he approves of your appearance. You hadn’t bothered with too much makeup. Your reaction causes something you’d compare to an animalistic growl come from him.  

“He esperado tanto por esto.” His Spanish tongue is something that should be illegal, simply because of the way he makes you feel. You’re certain he could call you a hideous beast and you’d still fall to your knees. “You have no idea what you do to me, mi amor.” His finger just lightly grazes your cheek and you’re entirely mesmerized by the way he stares into my soul. As if you’re a prize he’s been yearning for all his life.  

In desperate need to hide yourself from his burning gaze, you switch the topic, in fear that he might find something wrong with you if he looks long enough. “What’s with the papers?” He looks almost annoyed to be doing something other than admiring you. “It is courtesy of my lawyers. The NDA we had talked about last night.” He takes your hand and guides you to the seat next to him.  

“It’s more to protect the public image than anything. I don’t think it’s needed, but you know how they can be, no?” He jokes while you read it through. If you had a lawyer, you would’ve had them read it through, but you don’t. So, instead in a leap of faith, you sign it without much thought. You can hear your mother yelling at you in your mind.  

“Alright, are we ready to go then?” You ask, not wanting to think more about the legal side of this all. More so just excited to jump into this new life. Excited to see all these new places you two are going to together. He raises his brow at you, “Are you sure that you’re ready?” He asks, taking his hand in yours and you have to hide your smile.  

“Or, is my pretty girl eager to join me in the public eye?” He shoots you a wink and a blush creeps across your cheek. You can’t help but blush your lip and hide yourself from him. How does he always know just what is going on in your mind? “I knew I chose right; other girls would be so scared to face those vultures. But I can see....”  

He seems to trail off, gently caressing your cheek. “Hmm, yes, what do you see?” You bite your lip and flutter your eyes, loving any sort of physical attention from him. He then shoots you a wink before shaking his head. “Come, we’re going to be late.” He stands up from his seat, taking your hand and dragging you out the door.  

“No, please, Carlos! You can’t do that to me!” You whine, though it’s all fun and games. Still, Carlos mutters under his breath, as always in Spanish. A language that you now consider learning. Just to know what he’s saying about you.  

“What are you doing, hermosa?” He asks, watching as you pull out your phone and look at the Instagram again. Ilsa likes to say you’re addicted; you just like to say you’re connected. This, however, isn’t exactly something that you wanted him to know about. A bit embarrassed more than anything scared that he’ll judge you for your extreme consumerism.  

You hide behind your hair, “Nothing,” you mutter immediately turning your phone off. He rolls his eyes at you, then wraps his hand around your waist. He then drags you across the seat, right next to him. He then takes your thigh closest to him and drapes it over his leg. His hand stays there, rubbing soothing circles. “Give it here,” he says, his eyes stern and his hand held out.  

This time you don’t give in and just cross your hands, staring him down. Your phone is your safe space and not even your closest friends are allowed to see it. “Niña terca,” he mutters under his breath, his jaw locking tight.

“If you give it to me now, I’ll buy you a new one.” Your own jaw this time hangs open. This time you give in with a huff and hand him the old 2017 Samsung, already open. Is this how it’ll always be? How much of yourself are you willing to give to him, for your future? 

A smirk crawls on his face, that smile of his could stop traffic. If he were to be charged with a crime, he could simply flash the judge that smile, and they’d free him of all charges. “You like seeing what they say?” Your ears are bright red and wish the earth would swallow you whole. You give a small shrug, “It’s all I used to have time for.”  

“But you don’t post that much, no?” He asks, and you can see him going through your account. “I don’t have anything to post.” Carlos shakes his head. “I must disagree, mi amor. Your beauty should be seen by everyone. But we will make sure that you have too much content, no?” His sweet whispers are something that you’ve been yearning for all your life. 

 “Why don’t we do, what do the people call it?” You furrow your brows, there is a language and generation barrier. You can’t help but smirk at his word choice. “The younger people you mean? Oh, lord, what have I gotten myself into?” You say, referring to the age gap between you two. How lucky aren’t you? As if you’d been written into the perfect book, no plot turns, no villains, nothing.  

This time it’s him who blushes, “No, no, no, hermosa. What do they say? Where you post the kissing instead of letting them find out slowly?” A loud laugh escapes your lips and he too blushes and can’t help but laugh. “A hard launch?” He laughs, this time, he is the one hiding his face in the rook of your neck.  

“Yes, yes, just like so.” There is a moment of silence between the two of you as consider it in your mind. “You mean it? You don’t want to see how the team reacts first? To see how the fans react?” Your voice goes quiet, insecure about your worthiness of him. “I’m sure. I’m sure of you. I’m sure of us.” You don’t deny him and allow him to take the photo.  

He takes a few photos. One with his face still hiding in the crook of your neck, the next where your head sits on his shoulder while you stare up at him. In the last he’s placing a kiss on your forehead, the 55-logo hard to miss.

While you choose the photos to post, you can’t help but see just how much adoration you look at him. In your deepest heart, you hope he doesn’t see it too. He can’t know just how excited you are for this. How much you already like him, and how you’re enjoying his company more than his money.  

You posted the pictures with the caption, “I like a fast pace too.” Of course, with Carlos tagged. He then posts it on his story. And after the rest of the car ride, he tucks both of your phones away and makes sure you get to know each other as much as possible.  

My taglist is open! If you wish to be tagged in this story alone, please comment or reblog with the words 'tag'. And if you wish to be tagged in all my posts please comment or reblog with the words 'tag all'.

[johnwickb1tsch]

A Walk in the Clouds/Don John crossover outline that's turning into a fic Part 4 ~

Paul Sutton x fem!Reader x Don John triangle

You grow up at Las Nubes vineyard, and have to go home to your dying father. You take your fake new husband, Sgt Paul Sutton, with you... Warnings: nsfw, mention of wartime trauma <----Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 chapter map

-When you get back to your room, you don’t really speak, just help each other out of your sopping wet clothes. It is late, and you are both tired, and still a little drunk–but it doesn’t stop you from kissing. You just can’t seem to help yourselves, the magic of the night has not faded, and his arms are around you, and your bare skin is pressed to his. You’ve never felt anything more wonderful.

You burrow under the covers against the night chill, still kissing. The velvety pressure of his manhood against your belly is maddening, and when he reaches down you spread your legs for him, so eager for his touch, for his strong hands on you. He strums at your slit, moaning into your mouth as he feels how wet you are for him. He touches you with those thick fingertips, finding a rhythm you like upon your sensitive bud, your tongues at war. 

“Paul,” you pant, forcing yourself to be quiet, afraid you might wake the household with your passion.

“So beautiful,” he says against your cheek. “I don’t want to trap you, y/n. I understand, if you don’t want a baby. But…let me give this to you.” He ducks to kiss your breasts, flicking your nipple with his tongue. You’ve never felt anything like it–your pleasure surprises you, ripping through you like a string of firecrackers, your spine arching off the bed, your cries muffled by his mouth on yours again. As you come back to the world he smiles down at you with boyish delight, so sweet. Always so sweet, this man. As if you weren’t falling hard enough already. 

No one has ever touched you like that. With such care and focus for your own enjoyment. Not Juan. Not the handful of beaus who took you out and fumbled with you in the front seat of their cars or on dark park benches after a date. 

“Your turn,” you say languidly, your head still in the clouds, your heart full of some warm and damning emotion, crawling on top of him under the sheet. For some reason he seems surprised by this, as though he didn’t expect any reciprocation, your pleasure was enough for him. Is he even real?

“You don’t…have to…” he sighs as you kiss down his torso, his gentle fingers sliding into your hair. 

“What if I want to?” you ask, certain he’ll think you’re such a floozy in the morning, but right now, you don’t care. 

Again, he gives that shaky, self-deprecating laugh, as you brush his sensitive tip with your chin. “I couldn’t say no…God, I want you…” He moans as you take him into your mouth, tongue swirling the sensitive ridge of his head. Bless this man, but he’s so pent up it doesn’t take long at all, from you bobbing on his impressive length, before he is spilling into your mouth with a pained groan. You’ve never done it before, but you swallow him down without thinking, as though you are greedy for any trace of his essence inside you. 

“Sweetheart…” You collapse against his shoulder, and he wraps you up in those strong arms. He is asleep in moments, his head pressed against yours, but you lay there thinking a little longer. You think about how wonderful that was, and yet. Your body still aches to feel him inside you. That is the cosmic joke, you suppose. The thing that fulfills you most as a woman, will also prove your demise. 

And you start to think, with greater charity towards your parents, that maybe this is why you have 9 siblings. Not because your father was careless and callous about your mother. Because…they were in love, and they just couldn’t live without this, no matter the consequences.

You are quiet about it, but you cry in the divot of Paul’s shoulder, that feels as though it was formed in the clay, just for you.  

---------

-The soft light of morning streaming through the windows, you are woken by a lovely soft baritone singing in Spanish very badly. 

“Amor...si me llamas amor…”

Hungover, you groan, pulling the sheet over your head. Paul just chuckles behind you, burrowing into your hair, the long warm line of his body spooning yours. 

“Sii me dejas amarte, mi bien...yo te voy a adorar.”

If you let me love you, I will adore you. 

You believe he would, too. It equally annoys you and fills you with that sneaky, creeping warmth again. 

“You don’t even know what you’re saying,” you groan, snuggling back into him nonetheless, as though your body cannot help itself. 

“Don Pedro said it was a sure thing,” he chuckles, clearly fond of the old man. “He’s been married fifty years, he must know what he’s talking about.” 

“We’re Catholics, Paul, we don’t do divorce. We stick to our mistakes until they kill us.”

His big hand caressing the curve of your hip freezes. “It looks like he and doña Catalina are still in love to me.”

“Or fondly resigned. Hard to tell.”

“What made you so cynical?”

Because love killed my mother, and I don’t want to end up like her.

“I just…have a brain, Paul. I see what goes on in front of me. I prefer not to tell pretty lies about it. Lies that are convenient mostly just for men.”

He actually laughs behind you, a disbelieving huff. He’s not angry, you can tell. Maybe just…flabbergasted.

“I’ve never met a woman who thinks like you.”

“There are plenty of women who think like me. We just…don’t get a voice.”

“Is that what you plan to write your books about?”

“Maybe.”

“You write a lot. I see you scribbling in your notebook all the time.”

“It’s…just how I try to make sense of life.”

“Meanwhile, the rest of us dummies are just stuck living it, huh?”

Here it is. You knew you’d offend him, eventually. “I don’t think you’re dumb,” you growl, trying to vacate the bed. But he pulls you back, with one of those strong arms around your waist.

“Hey, wait. Don’t be mad.”

You hang your head, hiding in the bed clothes. “Paul…I am always mad.”

“Hmm.” He kisses your shoulder. “You didn’t seem mad, last night?”

How does he do that? Diffuse the bomb of your temper with a kiss and a few words?

“Well…you seem to have that effect on me.” He grins, so open and sweet, it hurts your heart.

“I think that makes us a good match, y/n. Like maybe we could balance each other out.”

“Hmm.” Your brain races at a million miles per minute, but you don’t have the courage to say any of it out loud. Paul seems to sense it too, brushing your nose with his. 

“What are you thinking?”

You just shake your head.

“Ok. I’ll tell you what I’m thinking,” he says with a smile.

“Oh no.”

“What? You’re the only one who gets to have big ideas, smarty pants?” You can tell he’s teasing, and something relaxes inside you.

“How long have you been awake?” you grouse.

“Aww. Someone’s not a morning person.”

“Not after consuming my body weight in pinot noir, no.”

“Poor baby.” He sits up, pulling you to rest on his broad chest. It’s a very nice place to lay your head, if you’re being honest. “I like your idea, about the room with a view.”

Oh no.

“What if…we get ourselves a place? I’ll get a job, and while I’m gone in the day you can write your heart out. Maybe when I get home…you could muster a little time for me?”

And have dinner on the table, no doubt. According to a schedule, which you would get no say in. A schedule that would include getting to see his handsome face, his smile all for you, every day, and falling asleep in his arms, like this… 

Ay.

“That doesn’t sound very fair to you?” you attempt to deflect. 

“It sounds like heaven, to me.”

Your heart feels like it might explode.

“And…when we save a little money, we can travel? Though Europe’s kind of a mess right now, and I think I’ve had my fill of Asia for a little while–”

You press your lips to his, interrupting him mid thought. “Paul, you are unbelievably sweet.”

“Yeah?”

“In this little idea of yours…are we married?”

“Well…of course.”

Of course you are. No self respecting landlord would even rent to you, otherwise.

“You just got out of a marriage. Why are you so keen to jump back into one?”

“I barely knew her. I married her the day before I shipped out. I thought…I thought I was going to die,” he admits, his fingers digging into your skin with the thought for a telling moment. “I’m still surprised that I didn’t.”

“I’m so grateful, that you didn’t.” The world is a better place with Paul Sutton in it. 

He looks down at you with a hairline frown, thoughts of the war, and maybe things not going as he hoped, when he offered you exactly what you said you wanted, bringing this indomitable man low. “Well. That’s something, I guess.” 

“Paul…you can take some time, you know. To figure out who you are. You can go to school even, on the GI bill. That is huge. You earned it, you deserve it. You bled for it. Take it.”

He nods, thinking about it, but still so sad. 

“Do you see, how I make you sad?” you say to him gently. “When I tell you what I’m really thinking?”

“That’s ok, y/n.” 

“It’s not. It wouldn’t be, if we were married. Together all the time. Bound, forever. This is how it would be.”

He cants his head, looking at you. You feel like you can’t hide a thing, when he gives you that look. 

“I care about you, y/n. You’re precious to me, and I just…want to honor that.”

“I am honored,” you tell him. “Just hearing you say it…makes me feel like the richest woman in the world.”

He nods, and then smiles, like the sun burst from behind the clouds. How can he do that? When you are in a mood, its like impenetrable fog hangs over you for hours. 

“I know you think I would have fallen for any pretty woman who smiled at me on the bus,” he says thoughtfully. “But I think…God or fate or whatever has brought us together, y/n. And I want to find out where it could go. We don’t have to get married to do that, if you don’t want to. But please…don’t push me away because you think I’m fragile? I’m not.”

Suddenly it’s as though you can’t breathe. You nod, unable to find the right words in your mouth, moved to your toes. “I would like that,” you finally admit. You never thought Paul was dumb, per se, but you are beginning to see that he is a lot more intuitive than you thought.

TBC...

[brisquad-unit-4402]

ik no one requested this but YO is anyone going to talk about how luca and his s/o would genuinely be the hottest couple ever.

a huge amount of how the kaneshiro mafia carries its reputation is by presentation. they have enough money that their aesthetic is all about classy, glamorous casinos and all that goes into keeping up that glamorous vibe. even their boss is young and spry, dude, you look at his coat and tell me that's not excessive. and. well. his tits

oh and in case you forget that they're not all talk the family has dozens of lovely members dressed sharp and with custom lion masks, and if you make the wrong move the boss is ready to shoot and thrill, and will get his hands bloody if he sees fit

and let's be real luca would so pamper his partner. evening wear? you got it. fine jewelry? all yours. he adores showing you off- look at my sweet Reader, the most precious thing in the world, baby you're so gorgeous- and you get to sit in the room where the big boys make the deals that fuel the criminal underbelly of the city all dolled up and seated by luca's right hand. you and luca would compliment each other sooooo well like imagine luca's fur coat over your shoulders while drinking with some contacts and you get to add onto the deals he makes, playing the part of the shiny and stupid sweetheart. "luca, love, 500k isn't enough. i want 650 or higher." the corny old farts think young love is so cute and give you their blessing while shaking on the deal, while the overthinkers make note that you're just some side piece that doesn't know a negotiation when they see one (possibly the coldest take in existence but hey, that just means you get the advantage of surprise, you're not about to correct them)

now let's say something goes awry while a deal's being made and you're out of the room to attend to a different matter, and while luca and a few family members are holding off a threat this poor goon all by themselves from a rival gang gets you in a chokehold. "don't move or you'll get it", lame threat, yadda yadda yadda but you're no floozy. you just step low and yank their arm down. their body tumbles over yours and crushes on the floor when you throw them. before they even stand up you've already pulled out your gun and press it to their temple. oh and by the way you're still in fine formalwear and just as beautiful as ever. that's on them for underestimating you as just another pretty face when they know luca has taste. you're beauty just as much as you are brawn and brains, you're the secret weapon of the kaneshiro family

lmao imagine being the lucub that turned the hallway for reinforcements only to see that you already took care of the threat and just thinking "oh my god i can't be simping over the boss's partner like this"

i just really have this image in my head of luca in the chair from the mafia cover or some other grand old seat for business, handsome as all hell in an unbuttoned shirt and his head resting on a hand as he looks down at the poor sod that seeks audience with the boss himself. and then on the other armrest is a person that almost looks too radiant to be in the dismal criminal world just daintily draped by luca's side. oh and if said poor sod tries anything funny? luca doesn't even need to move, just utters a command and his lovely partner that looks so harmless already has that fool pinned, and yet STILL looks like the definition of beauty. oh and while they were distracted by your surprise attack luca has a gun aimed and ready to fire, and his heated glare is only quelled by how icy cold your own eyes are when the target realizes escaping your pin is futile

power couple fr fr

[demxnicprxncess]

Hiii :)

I really like your writing and i wanted to ask if you could write an Evan peters x fem reader story, where you are Evans gf. You go to a birthday party and tease each other the whole night (maybe some specific movements or touching). You end up in the bathroom, but the whooole action ends up at home. I just had that idea and hoped you could make a good story out of it

THis request is perfect for Evans bday sorry its so late btw im going thru some things but here you go!

Taglist: @kitwalkersgfff, @ppawmpkin, @yes-divine-ruler, @quicksilversg1rl, @charsdunkie, @eddiemunsonsbitch69, @dahmevan, @sultrysullen dm me to be added or removed dears.

His Bday | Evan x Fem!Reader

Cw: angst?, smut but like its making love ig? idk. Happy birthday Evan!

A couple minutes after we got to the beautiful birthday party that the lovely Ms. Sarah Paulson had arranged for the beloved Evan Peters, my husband might I add, some floozie decided to ruin my mood immediately. She hugged him for longer than the friendly overextending 20 seconds, kissed his cheek and decided to announce that he had been her celebrity crush for so many years. However, me being the good wife I am settled on just letting it be, because at the end of the day I will be in OUR bed BESIDE him. He also thought it would be fun to tease me and dance with the woman. I'm trying not to be hurt because he's just trying to fuck with me, but then I see her hands tangle into his hair before he pushes her away and explains it was a friendly dance. I can't help but feel some type of way, his teasing turned against him and now it was my turn to become insufferable. I walked over to him grabbing his hand and dragging him into the bathroom, not caring who bothered to look at where the birthday boy was going. Once in the bathroom I slammed the door shut and locked the door. "Well, Mrs. Peters, how could you drag me from my own par-" He stopped talking as I pressed my lips into his, my hand snaking down to cup his soft dick and massage it, feeling the length grow in my hands. "Sorry Mr. Peters, I just couldn't stop myself." I removed my hand from him and pulled away. "Go have fun baby, Happy Birthday!" He looked at me and covered his now hard dick in his pants glaring at me, forming his lips to object but I push him out of my way and walk out of the bathroom, causing him to follow me like a lost puppy whining about how mean I am before Sarah smacks him dead in the face with a little cake. I turn around and start laughing which makes him smear some on my face. "Evan! My makeup!" He laughed at me and rubbed it all the way down to my cleavage. "Don't you dare." He smirked and ran it over my dress making me smear his into his shirt, we busted into giggles and smiles as Sarah chuckled. "Alright, we'll let you guys go home." I wiped the cake off my face nodding. Once we finally got home, I couldn't even remove my jacket before he was sweeping me off my feet and carrying me to our room. "Evan! Put me down!" He smirked and dropped me on the bed making me bounce and chuckle. "I've been waiting to undress you all night babe." I smiled at him and sat up so he could push up the rather short dress. "But I'm too impatient." I felt him pull my panties down and then I heard him pull his dick out. He lined it up with my entrance and pushed in making me whine out in pleasure. "I love you so much (name) Peters." I smiled before moaning again feeling him pull out slowly and push in at that same pace in a loving manner. "I love you too Evan." I wrapped my arms and legs around his neck and torso as I felt my body push with each of his gentle yet deep thrusts. "Fuck, you're all mine and I don't ever have to share you baby." I whined out in agreement as I felt myself getting closer. He slipped his hand down to my clit rubbing figure eights on it making me jolt in pleasure. "Ev, please." He kissed me and rubbed faster while still lovingly grinding his dick in and out of me. I felt my body convulse before I spilled my liquids onto his cock and him into me. "I love you so much, happy birthday." He smiled and kissed my collar still inside of me, me dress bunched up his pants at his ankles and us dozing off into sleep. "I love you too baby."

[columboscreens]

i was asked recently about my top three and top ten columbo murderers who i think most deserved their fate. after wrangling with the tumblr post editor undoing my text changes and fucking up my photo placement, i finally finished the post. everything looked good in the drafts, in the queue, and in the blog preview.

then for some ungodly reason tumblr published the rough draft version of the post i'd written weeks ago anyway. i got so frustrated i yelled expletives and nuked it. so i'm starting anew. without further ado,

here are the top ten piece of shit columbo murderers who absolutely deserved it:

justin rowe & cooper redman, columbo goes to college: truly, i hate these two scum-sucking motherfuckers the most. they're brats, yes, but look at the absolute dogshit stakes at hand. all the other murderers in this show are killing for true love, power, multimillion dollar fortunes, careers of great prestige--usually for that upon which they've staked their entire lives. these two tar pits blow their professor's brains out because they Got Bad Grades, which was their fault to begin with! they bully columbo mercilessly. i can't even look at them without wanting to throttle them

dr. barry mayfield, a stitch in crime: though his reasoning for murder starts out with at least some comprehensible amount of dignity, he quickly devolves into one of the most evil murderers of the series, not only by trying to off his research lead, but for causing so much collateral damage. he kills his nurse for knowing too much, sure, but killing her poor vietnam vet ex who's trying to shake his perc addiction while working at the petting zoo is…almost comically evil. it's no wonder columbo gets visibly fed up with his shit.

commissioner mark halperin, a friend in deed: god this guy is such a huge piece of shit. he's a spectacularly corrupt cop, covering for his friend's manslaughter and then using it as an excuse to drown his own wife for her money--to make it worse, his wife is somehow an absolute sweetheart angel darling who spends all her time working with underpriviliged children and people of color. then he's dumb enough to let columbo, the star detective with a 200% solve rate, work on the case, while also openly disparaging and discouraging him. utterly contemptible.

nelson hayward, candidate for crime: in typical politician style, so plastic and two-faced that he's not even a real human being. cheats on his adorable wife with a 20-year-old floozy and then gets mad at his clearly fantastic campaign advisor for wanting him to get a grip and fix his fucking marriage. then he shoots him about it. then he tries to make everyone think he's in danger--and he's such a rutting, lying pig that his own wife clearly believes columbo more than she believes him.

sean brantley, columbo cries wolf: i'm not sure if there exists a more smug columbo villain than sean brantley. uniquely repugnant in that he uses and abuses columbo to generate a media frenzy, then mocks and embarrasses him on international television. uniquely moronic in that when he actually DOES do a murder he hides his partner's body in…his own wall? with her smart watch still attached to her wrist. actual dirt man

dale kingston, suitable for framing: total piece of shit who always thinks he's the cleverest person in the room. says the absolute dumbest shit about art all the time; as in, literally everything that comes out of his mouth makes you want to curbstomp him. the girl who loves him gets kind of scared about being an accessory to murder, so instead of being reassuring in any capacity, he brains her with a big rock. this man deserved impalement

paul galesko, negative reaction: starts off the episode SO sympathetic when we see how bitchy and abusive his wife is, then immediately vanquishes all sympathy by being the most annoying, insufferable fuckhead at all times. fucked around with yet another 20-year-old floozy, killed an ex-con who was trying to rebuild his life, and planned everything poorly. is terribly mean to columbo…

milo janus, exercise in fatality: a complete fucking slimeball with vanishingly few redeeming qualities. kills a guy with his bare hands for even suggesting cooked books and then taunts his estranged widow about it by...asking her to fuck? (in all fairness--he has to maintain Quality. when he grows? you grow). it's no wonder that columbo loses his shit and yells at him

emmett clayton, the most dangerous match: seldom talked about in these conversations but he is so smug and killed one of the least deserving columbo victims because…he's a massive fucking coward who is incapable of losing. pathetic! get over yourself! plus this guy was like Ooo i am so Extremeley Jeanius but when columbo diverted his attention for like five seconds he lost to a fucking fool's mate. literally the quickest way you can lose a game of chess. real bobby fischer swag you big goofy ass bitch. grow up moron

harold van wick, playback: just the most abrasive fucking asshole the entire episode. insufferable proto-tech bro who is mean to beautiful radiant sweetheart gena rowlands and not even in the smug columbo murderer way, just an old school ableist/misogynist who openly says shit like why should i allow my dumb disabled wife to Make Decisions. doesn't even pretend to be nice to columbo at any point and not in the charming robert culp way. loathsome garbage heap of a man.

honorable mentchies go to jack cassidy nazi magician, evil french chef, pedophile johnny cash, weird italian polycule artist, and both william shatners. fuck you

[smolalienbee]

A. J. Crowley’s Handbook on Flirtation at Height

good omens // aziraphale/crowley // a human AU meet-cute with construction worker!Aziraphale // rated T // 6.7k words The 5 times Aziraphale got away with breaking work policy and the 1 time he got fired for it. read on AO3 here!

As stated in clause 3.4 of the Heaven Construction employee handbook:

“During active construction work, employees on site should take care not to invade on the privacy of the residents of nearby buildings. As to avoid causing any discomfort, employees are strictly prohibited from engaging with the residents unless strictly necessary (as such as in case of an accident).”

Today, in so far as Crowley is aware, is a Good day. So good, in fact, that he’s up at the whopping hour of five thirty in the morning - and no, for once it’s not because he hasn’t slept at night - and when he moves through his flat, it’s with a certain swagger in his hips that only happens when he’s in a particularly good mood. On a more average day, he prefers lurking and slithering and sauntering - certainly not pirouetting, dancing almost, as he slides in his socks on the slippery tiles.

It’s dark outside, but still, he pulls the blinds open. Then, he cracks open the window and inhales deeply, taking a whiff of London and its rather questionable quality of air. There's scaffolding, right outside his window. It’s been there for a few days, but so far there’s been no sight of any construction work happening, fortunately for him. He isn’t even sure what the work is gonna be nor does he care to find out - there’s always some bloody construction or other going on in Mayfair. As long as there’s no one glaring into his window, he’s fine.

He puts on music - Queen, of course. He’s fairly certain all his files turn into Queen somehow because last he checked, there were not this many Queen MP3s on his phone. Well, at least it’s Queen. Could’ve been worse; as it is, he’s always up to listen to Queen.

When he gets into the shower, it’s to the tune of Good Old-Fashioned Lover Boy; as he washes his hair, he listens to It’s A Hard Life; and, by the time he steps out from under the stream, he’s accompanied by Fat Bottomed Girls. It’s still a Good day and so he wraps a towel around his hips and then more or less dances his way out of the bathroom, all while loudly belting out the familiar lyrics

“Across the wire, across the land,” he and Freddie sing at once, one of them (Crowley, it’s definitely Crowley) louder than the other. The bathroom door slams shut behind him and he moves further into the flat. “I seen every blue-eyed floozy on the way,” the song continues as Crowley throws his head back, eyes closed, and then - oh.

He blinks them open and stops directly in front of the open window. The bloody scaffolding, he remembers as he stares right into a pair of bluest, prettiest eyes he has ever seen on a guy dressed in an ugly hi-vis vest. The construction, he thinks desperately.

He must be a sight. He’s still dripping wet, naked save for the towel covering his most private bits. His mouth hangs open.

At least the other party involved, the construction worker standing on the other side of the glass, seems to also be in quite a state. He’s staring, wide-eyed and completely frozen. Pretty really does seem like a fitting word to describe him - there’s white, curly hair poking out from underneath his hard hat; a softness to his cheeks and laugh lines clearly etched into his skin. Looking closely, Crowley can also spot a hint of muscle, toned arms peeking out from underneath the neon vest and the white t-shirt. So not only pretty, the guy’s clearly strong as well. For Heaven’s sake, it truly is Crowley’s luck that he happens to be exactly his type. To top it all off, he’s blushing, furiously so, even as his gaze never strays from Crowley.

As if the universe was mocking him, Crowley hears Freddie continue from the bathroom, “Oh, won’t you take me home tonight?” How fitting.

It’s at that same time that the construction worker is brought out of his stupor as well. There’s a noise, outside, a clank and a bang and then a distant voice yelling, “Oi! You, up there! Fell! Watch what the bloody hell you’re doing!”

The guy - the angel, Crowley can’t help but think - jumps a little, startled, and twists his head to look over the railing and down. It’s only a few seconds at best, but it’s still enough time for Crowley to finally shut his stupid mouth and compose himself. Right, he can still salvage this one, certainly. He might be - well, he might still be naked, technically, and he might have just been caught belting out Queen lyrics by the most gorgeously angelic construction worker he has ever seen, but… he’s nothing if not transcendentally confident, even at the most absurd of times.

The moment the worker turns back towards the window, Crowley gives him a rakish smile and blows a kiss in his direction. Somehow, the angel manages to blush even harder, smiling sheepishly as he waves at Crowley. See, situation salvaged. Crowley’s still managed to come out of this looking smooth as hell, if he does say so himself.

All in all, today is not just a Good day, but a Spectacular one. After all, Crowley has learned at last that outside his window there’s an angel.

As stated in clause 1.2 of the Heaven Construction employee handbook:

“During active construction work, employees on site are required to be in appropriate personal protective equipment at all times. The type of equipment required will depend on the type of construction work currently being performed and includes, but is not limited to, items such as: high visibility clothing, hard hats and helmets, ear defenders, goggles [...]”

Today is the day Crowley will, for the first time in his life, commit actual bloody murder. He’s certain of it.

The drilling began at a little past six in the morning. While it’s been unpleasant from the very start, it was at least bearable initially. But now, three hours in and with no end in sight? Well, Crowley truly is ready to kill someone, consequences be damned. Hopefully prison is quieter than this absolute hell.

Worst of all, he’s actually been hoping to get some work done today. As it is, though, he sits at his laptop and simply suffers since not even the music blasting into his ears is enough to drown out the incessant drilling.

Finally, fed up with it all, he stands from his desk with a newfound resolution. In a few strides, he makes it over to the window then wrenches it open.

“Oi!” he yells. “Mate! Sod off already with all that bloody noise, driving me - absolutely - bonkers…” he trails off, suddenly realising who he’s yelling at. That angelic face, again. “Oh. ‘s you. Angel.”

Noticing that he’s being talked at, the angel stops drilling and stands up straight. He’s wearing a pair of blue ear defenders and he makes a move to pull them down so that they rest on his shoulders instead of atop his ears. It’s at that moment that Crowley realises he hasn’t heard a word of what he’s been yelling - although admittedly, Crowley still feels a bit bad about it.

“Excuse me?”

“It’s you!” Crowley repeats, trying to squash the feeling. “From the other day. When I - ngk…” He waves an arm uselessly, unable to find an elegant way of phrasing something like when I was dancing and singing naked in my flat and you saw it all. Also, you happen to be the most gorgeous man I’ve ever seen, could we kiss maybe?

Bugger. Crowley’s a disaster.

“No, yes, I know, of course, I remember you, but - sorry, what was it that you said?”

“Ah.” Crowley scratches at the back of his neck. “Er, well, ‘s just that you’ve been drilling a hole into my head this entire morning, angel. But, part of the job, I suppose, not your fault.”

“Oh. Oh, dear, I’m terribly sorry, I don’t intend on disturbing you, truly, but the work is what it is…”

“No, yeah, I know, I know, ‘s not on you, it’s just, well… a bit aggravating, really.”

Looking at him up close like this, Crowley’s beginning to feel even worse over the whole thing. The angel looks genuinely apologetic and a little distressed, as if being a nuisance to Crowley caused him physical pain. It’s not a fit look for a guy as pretty as he is. Besides, Crowley knows well what it’s like to have to do your job while getting in the way and on the nerves of everyone around him. With a soft sigh, he leans against the window frame.

“Look, it’s fine. Don’t worry about it. I’ll just turn the music up a bit or, I dunno, go out, do some work from a Starbucks while you finish up your… drilling.”

“Dear boy, I’d hate to inconvenience you…”

Crowley is about to argue, but before he can say much of anything, there’s a pair of ear defenders being shoved in his direction. Or, well, shoved is perhaps the wrong word to describe what’s really happening - it’s more that the angel is offering them, gingerly, like they’re a treasure. Or a wedding ring, Crowley’s mind supplies helpfully. Right, great one, brain.

“Here,” the angel says.

Crowley stares, dumbfounded. “What?”

“You can use these. While I drill. They muffle the sound quite efficiently, if I do say so myself.”

“Isn’t that exactly why you need them?” Crowley asks, pushing himself off the window frame and standing up straight. The angel is still holding the muffs out and so at last Crowley relents and takes them from him.

“Well - yes, certainly, but it’s no trouble for me to grab another pair.”

“You’re sure you can just… give them away?” The angel nods. “Are you sure you’re sure?”

“Quite sure, indeed.” He clasps his hands, clearly chuffed that he’s managed to talk Crowley into this. “Jolly good, then! Off you go, dear, best not to dawdle.”

“Suppose not…” Crowley turns the muffs over in his hands and considers them for a moment. “Thanks, angel,” he says eventually, giving him a small smile.

The rest of the afternoon is blissfully silent. He sits at his desk, clad in the blue ear defenders and protected by the will of a construction angel.

As stated in clause 2.1 of the Heaven Construction employee handbook:

“While performing work at a construction site, employees should only take breaks in areas designated for that purpose. Employees should not consume their meals in areas not meant for such activities, this includes, but is not limited to: scaffoldings, buildings in which construction is being performed, vehicles [...]”

It’s lunch time, by the time Crowley gets home, and yet the construction work outside his window seems to be going in full force. He sees him, the angel, walking across the scaffolding in his silly hard hat and silly vest, though to Crowley’s eye he seems… a bit more crestfallen than usual; tired, perhaps.

Crowley can’t help but feel a pang of concern and wonder, has he even taken a break today? How do I cheer him up? because he’s that kind of a romance-inclined idiot. Anyway. He can think of one offering he can make to the angel and it comes in the form of a tupperware container full of badly folded sushi. He’s already ingested enough fish food to last him a lifetime during the sushi-making class Anathema had taken him to and so, really, it’d be a waste if he didn’t at least offer some of it to someone, right? The sushi might not be his best work, for sure, but hopefully it’d still be enough to satiate the angel.

And so, with a tupperware container and a set of chopsticks in hand, he makes his way over to the window. He pulls it open and raps his knuckles against the windowsill to get the angel’s attention.

“Oh! Hello,” he greets with a smile and a wave.

“Taken your lunch break yet, angel?”

The angel pauses at the question. He glances at the work around him then back at Crowley and the container that’s still cradled against his chest.

“Right! Yes. Lunch. That is to say, no, I haven’t - if you’d be so kind, what time is it, dear?”

“Like, one. Nearly one, anyway.”

“Rather late already… I’ve gotten so caught up in the work I didn’t even realise. I suppose I shall pop down for a quick bite, then, thank you -”

“Wait.” Crowley holds up a hand. “I thought - er, thought I could tempt you to have lunch with me? I, well, a friend of mine dragged me out to a sushi class, now I’ve got so much sushi leftover there’s no chance I’ll ever finish it on my own so I figured… could share it?”

He raises his eyebrows, gestures at the container and waits. It’s as good an offer as he can make, a chance at a proper conversation with the kindest man on this scaffolding. The angel does appear to consider it, his expression shifting in ten different, miniscule ways as he thinks.

“I could get in trouble,” he says slowly. He chews on his lip, conflicted. “There’s all sorts of rules about it, designated areas…” he trails off. His gaze flickers down to the sushi.

“Surely one time couldn’t hurt? Get a slap on your wrist at worst and at best… no one will even notice.”

Despite not getting a clear response, Crowley places the tupperware down on the windowsill. Carefully, he perches down next to it and then holds his arm out, offering the chopsticks to the angel. With a soft sigh, he relents and takes this offering before joining Crowley on the windowsill. They sit, back to back, the container between them, but still their heads are turned in such a way so that they can look at one another.

“You really didn’t have to,” the angel says fondly, picking up the container. Despite the small protests he’s been putting up, he seems rather pleased by the turn of events.

“Sure I did.” Crowley grins. “Wouldn’t want an angel to go hungry, now would I?”

Chopsticks hovering in the space above the container, the angel pauses. Crowley raises an eyebrow.

“You keep doing that.”

“Doing what?”

“Angel. Calling me angel.”

“Oh. Nyehhh, you know, you’ve got those curly white little -” Crowley gestures at his face. “And your - cherubic… cheeks…” He really should cut it out right about now, before he makes a complete fool out of himself. “And - you’ve never told me your name.”

“Aziraphale,” the angel says. He looks a bit flustered and Crowley wonders what did it, the pet name itself or perhaps Crowley’s terribly eloquent description of his cheeks. He’s not going to ask. “It’s lovely to make proper introductions at last…”

“Crowley,” he supplies with a nod of his head. “Well then. Now that we’re properly acquainted, dig in. And let me know what you think.”

Glancing at the container in Aziraphale’s hands, Crowley’s once again reminded that it is a rather sorry attempt at sushi. While he’s always thought he has a knack for using his hands, it’s clear he hasn’t yet mastered this particular art. The rolls have already mostly fallen apart, loose rice sticking to the walls of the container rather than, well, other pieces of rice. At least, he thinks, the ingredients used are of a high enough quality that the experience shouldn’t be a horrible one, taste-wise. That, and he also hopes Aziraphale is hungry enough not to mind particularly much that this creation is nowhere near proper sushi quality.

Propping his chin on his hand, he watches intently as Aziraphale picks up a roll - squished between the chopsticks it falls apart some more because of course it does - and then carefully places it in his mouth. He chews, agonisingly slow, his eyes fluttering shut - how in the hell are his eyelashes this long? - and then, once he’s finally swallowed - what if I swallowed you, Crowley’s singular braincell says, unprompted - he breathes a tiny, satisfied sigh. To make matters even worse, he, honest-to-Someone, does a full-body wiggle. All in all, it’s quite the sight. Crowley can’t look away.

When Aziraphale finally opens his eyes, their gazes meet instantly - no other way about it, considering how Crowley’s been staring at him, unblinking, for about two full minutes. Crowley doesn’t even try to shy away from it; and, really, it is a bit too late for Aziraphale not to notice that he’s been blatantly ogled this whole time.

“Liked it, then?”

“Oh, it’s lovely.” Aziraphale smiles at him and it’s blinding. “Although…” His eyes flicker down, up, then down again. He carefully picks up another roll. “Well, there’s certainly room for improvement here, wouldn’t you agree?”

Crowley stifles a laugh, opting for an offended pout instead. “Hey, now… you can’t just diss my hard work like this.”

“Oh, but it’s hardly that. Take it as a compliment, dear, you can only go up from here.”

Oh, wow. So Aziraphale is not only a strong-armed, beautiful angel, but he also has a bastard streak. There it is, then. Crowley’s utterly, properly, fucked. And, worst of all, smitten.

“You really know how to praise a man,” he teases.

“Most certainly I do,” Aziraphale says primly, sticking his chin out. He pops another piece of sushi into his mouth, not breaking eye contact. Blasted soon-to-be-buggered-if-Crowley-has-it-his-way bitchy infuriating little - “Next time, you shall treat me to a proper lunch. I know several lovely Japanese restaurants in the area, I believe they’d be wonderful places to draw inspiration from.”

“Oh, I shall?” Crowley hisses, leaning in closer.

It’s at that moment, when Crowley breaks the barrier of his personal space, that Aziraphale seems to realise the level of overfamiliarity he’s just shown in the last couple of minutes. His face flushes and he looks away, far less confident than he was just a moment ago. Crowley doesn’t like this look on him.

“If you’d be amenable to it, that is, of course,” he says, softer. Unsure. Crowley wonders, how many times have you been shot down, after showing someone this side of you?

“Well,” he hums, leaning back and giving Aziraphale his space back. “Research, right? I couldn’t possibly say no.”

He sticks a hand out. Aziraphale looks at it, confused.

“It’s a deal, angel.”

At last, that brings the smile back to Aziraphale’s face. He shakes Crowley’s hand.

As stated in clause 3.2 of the Heaven Construction employee handbook:

“During active construction work, persons not employed by the company nor involved in the work should be prohibited from entering the construction site. In particular, employees should make sure that only permitted personnel is allowed access to areas of the site that could prove to be particularly dangerous without proper training, such as where: injuries from fall are possible; toxic substances are used [...]”

The clock ticks away loudly, the only noise in the otherwise silent flat.

That’s a lie. There’s not a single analog clock in Crowley’s flat - but, what Crowley does have is an imagination. Looking at the minutes passing by on the digital clock that stands on his nightstand, he can imagine the sound of ticking well enough.

6:01. Tick. 6:02. Tick. 6:03. Tick.

His sleep schedule is all fucked, again. There’s not much of a chance that he’ll be able to fall asleep for another three hours or so and, by then, he’ll end up sleeping through all of the daylight instead. Wonderful.

He wonders if Aziraphale’s started work yet.

That thought is what finally gets him out of bed. He grabs a pack of cigarettes, a lighter and then pads out of the bedroom wearing just his pyjamas - or, more precisely, an old, faded Queen t-shirt, ratty sweatpants and duck-print socks.

It’s just his luck, it appears, that Aziraphale does start work early. Sun hasn’t even risen yet and so Aziraphale’s white hair ends up being a stark contrast against the darkness of the early morning sky. Crowley grins and pulls the window open with more force than is strictly necessary.

“Oi, angel!” He waits a beat, until Aziraphale turns towards him. Once he has his attention, he leans an elbow on the windowsill and, for the added effect, waggles his eyebrows. “What’s a handsome guy like you doing in these parts? Hm?”

In response, Aziraphale shoots him what is most likely supposed to be an exasperated glare, but, really, comes across far too fond for its intended effect.

“Dear, I’m at work, must you really?” he asks, shaking his head.

“Yes, I must,” Crowley says, perching on the windowsill. He then swings his legs over the window frame in one smooth motion until his socked feet are firmly planted on the scaffolding.

Instantly, Aziraphale freezes and stares.

“Crowley, what are you -”

“Going out for a smoke,” Crowley replies casually. He pulls one cigarette out, tosses the remainder of the pack carelessly back into the flat and then flicks his lighter.

“But my dear fellow, you can’t -”

“Oh, if anyone asks, just tell them you tried to stop me, but I wouldn’t budge. Besides -” He pauses to light the cigarette, then gestures with it at the surrounding construction. “- no one’s even paying attention to us. ‘s fine, angel.”

Aziraphale opens his mouth, then closes it, but, of course, not without a frustrated huff. Still, he makes no move to actually shoo Crowley back inside.

They both fall silent after that. Crowley leans against the building wall and Aziraphale, dropping any pretence of displeasure, comes to stand next to him. The tension seems to have been drained from his shoulders, not as worried about anyone catching them anymore. In the distance, the first rays of the morning sun begin to shine.

Crowley takes a couple of puffs and then clears his throat.

“I gotta ask, angel, why construction? I mean, no offence, but you don’t strike me as the kind of guy to do manual labour like this out of passion. Bit too…” he waves an arm. “Bit too… something for that.”

“Queer?” Aziraphale supplies helpfully, an amused smile tugging at his lips. “Posh?”

“Eghhhhh…” Crowley makes a vague noise and shrugs. “Both, I guess.”

“Ah, but certainly there’s many posh, queer men such as myself working these jobs,” Aziraphale laughs. Crowley can’t argue with that. “That being said, when it comes to me… you aren’t wrong, dear.”

“Just pays the bills, then?”

Aziraphale nods. “That, it does. I suppose it’s… well, I’ve always been strong enough to do this kind of work. Like you said, it does pay and is fairly easy to come by. And - for all the prejudices that there might be, in a field such as this one, the people I work with tend not to care what my sexual preference is or how manicured my hands are, just as long as I can do the work.”

Instinctively, Crowley’s eyes flicker down to Aziraphale’s hands. They’re littered with callouses, tiny cuts and scars, various signs of hard physical work, yet they really do look well taken care of, nails perfectly trimmed and shiny. He distinctly remembers the time they shook hands, too - how soft Aziraphale’s hand felt, despite the strain of the work. Good hands, they are.

Needing to stop his thoughts from running wild before he starts considering what those hands could feel like against other parts of his body, Crowley takes a drag of his cigarette. “What would you do instead, then?” he asks, blowing the smoke out. “If money was no object.”

Aziraphale doesn’t need to consider the question long. “I’d run a bookshop,” he smiles as he says it. “Or work in a library… some place that’d let me introduce people to the joys of reading.”

“Books, huh,” Crowley hums. “See, now that does seem like you.”

Aziraphale laughs softly.

The silence they fall into once more is a companionable one, neither of them eager to let this moment come to an end just yet. It takes about a minute or two before Aziraphale speaks.

“Would you be so kind as to share a fag, dear?”

Crowley smirks. He can’t possibly pass up an opportunity like this. “Well… that’s forward, even for you.”

Aziraphale puffs his chest out. “That is not -” he begins, but cuts himself off the moment their eyes meet.

Something in the air between them has just changed. All of a sudden, the moment feels charged, something unspoken, and Crowley, provocative as ever, intends to make good use of it. He presses the cigarette to his lips and takes a long drag, eyes never leaving Aziraphale’s. Nicotine smoke billows between them and Crowley drops his arm, letting the cigarette hang loosely between his lips. He raises an eyebrow, what do you say, angel?, and then simply waits, still as a statue.

Aziraphale’s tongue darts out as he wets his lips, his gaze flickering down to Crowley’s own. He seems to get the hint, the clever angel, and without hesitation reaches out to pluck the cigarette directly out of Crowley’s mouth. He presses it to his lips, tips his head back and breathes in, deeply.

Crowley can’t take it anymore.

The moment Aziraphale pulls the cigarette out of his mouth, Crowley pounces. He grasps at the collar of Aziraphale’s shirt and pulls him in, just in time for Aziraphale to exhale the smoke into Crowley’s mouth right as their lips meet. A small gasp of surprise escapes him as well, but he doesn’t seem displeased by the turn of the events; the opposite, really.

Oh, isn’t it a delightfully decadent thing to be kissing an angel on this scaffolding, out for anyone to see, with cigarette smoke clouding in the shared air between.

They stay like that a while, lips moving lazily while the cigarette continues to burn, nested between two of Aziraphale’s soft fingers. Eventually, Crowley’s too-gay-to-function mind finally gets about half a thought and it goes something like fuckfuckfuckbuggerfuck -

At once, he lets go of Aziraphale’s shirt and pulls back, lips parted and breath coming out heavy. Aziraphale, too, is a sight - cheeks flushed, lips pursed and shiny with saliva, shirt mussed up where Crowley had just been holding on. The moment they’re parted, Aziraphale brings a hand up, presses his fingertips to his reddened lips. Fuck, Crowley wants to kiss him again, badly.

He doesn’t, though. Instead, he scrambles away, one hand grasping at the windowsill lest he slips and ends this otherwise wonderful kiss in a rather unfortunate tumble to the ground.

“You can finish it off,” he mumbles, gesturing at the cigarette in Aziraphale’s hand. It’s pretty much burnt down to the butt by now, seeing as how they had gotten too distracted to pay attention to it.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says and his fingers are still pressed to his lips and Crowley should really just leave before he does anything stupid and gets this angel into trouble.

“Nice seeing you, angel.” He hurriedly swings his legs over the windowsill, all while making a half assed attempt at a two-finger salute. “Ciao!”

So that’s how Crowley first kisses an angel. It’s also how he manages to cock it all up the very same morning. Bollocks.

As stated in clause 1.1 of the Heaven Construction employee handbook:

“During active construction work, employees on site are not permitted to leave the site during their scheduled work hours. The only exceptions are: scheduled breaks, in which case employees may leave their work assignments and head to the designated break area; as well as emergencies and accidents.”

There’s a knock on Crowley’s window. He can hear it, clear as day. He considers, for maybe a second or two, if he should ignore it.

He hasn’t spoken to Aziraphale in a few days. He sees him, day in and day out, as he continues his work right by Crowley’s window, but each time, he makes a point to look away, to stay away. All because of the Kiss - and yes, it definitely deserves the capital letter.

Crowley’s not stupid. He knows Aziraphale enjoyed it, could see it in the way he responded so eagerly to it, trailing after him once they parted, how his fingertips pressed against his own lips as if savouring it. He also knows that Aziraphale has been flirting with him as much as Crowley himself has. So, all in all, it seems like there’s certainly no reason for Crowley to be having this giant queer freak out. And yet.

There’s a knock on Crowley’s window and, freak out or no, he can’t ignore it.

He opens the window and raises his eyebrows the moment he’s met with Aziraphale’s bashful face.

“Wassup?” Act casual.

“Ah, yes, hello, terribly sorry to bother you, and you can of course say no, but it seems that Ligur has rendered our portapotty out of order, and well. I was just wondering, that is -”

Oh, as if things weren’t awkward enough already.

Aziraphale is rambling and Crowley is still freaking out, but he likes Aziraphale and so he takes pity on him. “Yes, angel, you can use my bathroom,” he sighs and takes a step back, giving Aziraphale the space to climb inside.

“Oh, oh thank you.”

There isn’t much finesse in how Aziraphale climbs through the window and into Crowley’s flat - in fact, he nearly loses his balance not just once, but twice, and Crowley resists the urge to hold his hand to help him. Eventually, he makes it through and stands up straight, smoothing out his clothes before giving Crowley a tight-lipped, but thankful, smile.

“Ah yes, where do I -”

“Down the hall, second door to the left.”

Aziraphale nods and without another word, walks past Crowley and into the hall in search of the bathroom. The moment he’s gone, the bathroom door clicking shut behind him, Crowley lets out a long sigh of suffering and slumps against a nearby wall. God, what was he thinking…

Outside, he hears first raindrops hit the scaffolding. He turns to look out the window, watch the rain as it falls, heavier and heavier. It’s a gloomy day. It’s a gloomy day and there’s an angel in Crowley’s home and Crowley is an absolute stupid idiot twat -

The bathroom door clicks again. By now, the rain outside pounds heavily, a typical English downpour. Aziraphale comes out of the hall and all Crowley wants to do is wrap him up in a blanket and watch the rain together. He really is an idiot.

“Ah, I suppose the rain was to be expected,” Aziraphale says, another small, fleeting smile on his lips. He’s nervous. Crowley can’t blame him.

“Yup,” he responds.

“I better get a wiggle on, then! Back to work…”

Crowley watches him - as he comes to the window, as he clumsily climbs over the windowsill and as, eventually, the rain catches up to him. Even with the scaffolding in the way, Aziraphale gets drenched immediately and Crowley finds himself doing the impulsive, kind, thing once more.

“Oh for Heaven’s - come back here,” he calls out, leaning out the window to grasp at Aziraphale’s arm and tug him back in before he’s had a chance to walk off. Aziraphale doesn’t resist much - their eyes meet and then Aziraphale’s making his way back inside of Crowley’s flat.

They stand like this for a moment, in front of the window, Aziraphale dripping onto Crowley’s floor while they both stare at one another. Finally, Crowley lets out a frustrated huff and walks away, only to return moments later with a towel. Wordlessly, he pats the towel over Aziraphale’s shoulders, his chest, then gently rubs it over his hair, doing his best to dry him off. Aziraphale lets him. Aziraphale bloody lets him.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” Aziraphale says quietly.

Crowley continues the motions, not meeting his eye. “No I haven’t,” he lies because it’s what he does. Then, he sighs. “Yes, fine, okay.”

Aziraphale sighs as well. “I would love to hear an explanation as to why,” he says. “You… do realise I enjoyed it, yes?”

Crowley groans and, feeling utterly defeated, he lets go of the towel so that it hangs over Aziraphale’s head while Crowley presses his face to the back of his neck. “Yeah, angel, hard not to notice,” he says, voice muffled.

Aziraphale makes a small noise in response and Crowley can easily imagine the flush that’s painted his cheeks now. He still says nothing, though. He waits, Crowley presumes, for an explanation.

“I suppose I’ve been… worrying about getting you in trouble,” Crowley says, lifting his head to speak clearly. He rests his chin on Aziraphale’s shoulder instead. “Making things awkward, me. Anyway. I’m a bit of a - a lost cause, if you haven’t realised, went and did that and then you bloody stare into my window every day so it’s - I just - am I even making any sense?”

He’s fairly certain that he doesn’t. He wonders if that’s enough.

“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale sighs, carefully pulling away so that he can turn around and face him. “You’re being silly.”

Crowley opens his mouth to protest, but is cut off by a hand on his cheek and then lips meeting his. He leans into it easily, his hand finding its way towards Aziraphale, fingers tenderly clutching at his work shirt. It’s different from their first kiss - where their first kiss was intense, this one’s calm, gentle. All Aziraphale, he thinks.

It’s also Aziraphale who pulls away first, though then they both hover in the shared space, close, breathing in each other’s air.

“I’d love an opportunity to get to know you better, dearheart,” Aziraphale says softly. “Perhaps, though, under circumstances where I’m not breaking work policies and neither of us is at risk of a fall injury.” His hand slides down, from Crowley’s cheek to his chest and then rests there. “Buy me lunch sometime, will you?”

Crowley laughs, amused by the way in which Aziraphale demands, never asks. “Sushi?”

Aziraphale beams. “Yes, that’d be splendid!”

They stay like this for another moment before eventually untangling themselves from each other and turning to face the window. The rain continues to pound heavily.

“You know…” Aziraphale begins, his eyes flickering between Crowley and the window. “I do work in the rain, typically. It is England, we would never get anything done otherwise.”

“So what you’re saying is I’m getting you into trouble again?”

“I don’t mind,” Aziraphale reassures quickly, flashing a smile. He pats Crowley’s shoulder gently. “Although - perhaps it’s best if I get back to it now, lest I receive another strongly worded note from Gabriel.”

“Sounds awful, that,” Crowley agrees.

They look into each other’s eyes and Crowley, cheesy as it is, wonders if this is what he’s been looking for all this time. Maybe it is true, what they say about some people being made for each other.

Dear Mr Fell,

We regret to inform you that, effective immediately, your employment with Heaven Construction is to be terminated on the basis of multiple violations of the health and safety regulations, as outlined in the employee handbook. [...]

Something is wrong. Something is very, very wrong.

When Crowley comes up to the window, two mugs of coffee in hand, he expects the familiar, angelic face. What he sees, instead, is an entirely different man, with a far more angular face, short dark hair and eyes that seem to glow purple in the sunlight.

Crowley freezes. The man notices him and, unaware of Crowley’s crisis, gives him a smile and a wave. Who the hell is this twat?

So, something is wrong. Aziraphale is… gone and Crowley’s doing his best not to panic because really, this isn’t a good reason to panic, not at all, except this makes him realise that they’ve never even swapped numbers or… anything, really. If Aziraphale is gone, truly gone, then Crowley has no chance of ever finding him again. Bugger, Crowley’s going to be sick.

The shrill noise of his doorbell makes him jump, some of the coffee spilling onto the floor. Crowley curses under his breath, practically slamming the mugs down onto the nearest surface, ignoring the sting of hot coffee on his fingers. He stomps through the flat, ready to tell whoever is at his door to fuck right off because now is not the time.

“I don’t know what you’re selling but whatever - Aziraphale?”

“Yes. Hi. Hello.”

It’s him, standing in all his angelic glory at Crowley’s doorstep. He looks… well, different from how Crowley’s used to seeing him. Instead of work clothes, he’s dressed much nicer and, as much as Crowley’s enjoyed the chance to see Aziraphale at work, sweat-soaked t-shirts clinging to his skin and toned arms on display, this feels much more like him. It’s old-fashioned, terribly so, a beige suit and a bloody tartan bow tie to top it all off. Crowley wants to kiss him - Crowley realises that he can do just that.

And so he does. Before Aziraphale even has the chance to explain what’s going on, Crowley pulls him in for a kiss. It’s quick, though it leaves them both flushed from the sheer unexpectedness of it.

“Hey,” Crowley says once they part.

“Hi,” Aziraphale repeats and he’s smiling.

Remembering that they’re still standing in the doorway, Crowley steps back and lets Aziraphale come into the flat.

“What the hell are you doing here?” he asks as he shuts the door behind him and then leads him further into the flat. After all, he still has a warm mug of coffee waiting for him. “Not that I’m not happy to see you, but - I was expecting you up there -” He gestures to the window. “- and not over there.”

“Ah, yes - oh, thank you,” Aziraphale interrupts himself as Crowley hands him his mug. “Well, about that…”

He trails off. His eyes flicker over to the window and, as Crowley looks over his shoulder, he sees That Other Guy giving another overenthusiastic wave in their direction. Crowley huffs and pulls the blinds close. It really is wrong to have someone other than Aziraphale looking into his home.

“Yes, angel?” he prompts gently now that there’s no one looking at them.

“I got fired,” Aziraphale admits at last, moving to sit down in a chair. Crowley’s eyes widen and he opens his mouth, but Aziraphale cuts him off. “Oh, do not start apologising, this is entirely on me. And, to be perfectly honest, I don’t find myself upset over losing this job, although, well, it does mean I’ll have to start looking for something new…”

“Angel…”

“Crowley, really, I don’t want to hear a single apology out of you -”

“No, angel, that’s not what I was going to say.” Crowley shakes his head. He comes closer and crouches down in front of Aziraphale who looks down at him with such fondness that Crowley feels like he’s just been shot through his heart. Still, he continues on, “Said you wanted to work with books, didn’t you?”

“Oh, yes. But - well, it’s terribly difficult to -”

“Shhh - shush.” Crowley raises a finger, cutting him off. “Lemme finish. Point is - my point is, I have a friend, book girl, she works at a library. They have an open position, I think, and I could… y’know. Put in a good word.” He raises his eyebrows, letting his hand rest on Aziraphale’s knee. “What do you say?”

“Oh - would you, really?”

“‘course.”

Aziraphale’s smile lights up the entire room. “You’re a darling, Crowley.” He grasps Crowley’s hand and Crowley rolls his eyes.

“Shuddup.”

“Well, you are! And I’m very grateful.”

Crowley grumbles something under his breath. He presses a kiss to Aziraphale’s hand, needing to find an outlet for this warm emotion that’s threatening to burst right out of his heart.

“Buy you lunch about it,” Crowley mutters, lips still brushing against the skin of Aziraphale’s hand.

“Hm?”

He clears his throat, tries again. “I’ll buy you lunch. Today. As soon as you finish your coffee.”

Crowley didn’t think it was possible for the look on Aziraphale’s face to get any fonder and yet somehow the bastard’s done it. Crowley can’t even look him in the eye anymore, too overwhelmed by the love radiating off Aziraphale.

“Lovely,” Aziraphale whispers. “I better make haste, then.”

[kingkatsuki]

Just thinking of ex-mafia now househusbands Bakugou and Kirishima.

Love the thought of seeing them both in an alley after a huge fight and you clean them up. They fall head over heels over the fact you know who they both are and are capable of, yet have the nerve to smack their shoulder or head for being out of line. Both completely falling into the role of doing anything and everything to make life outside your job easy for you they don’t care you make the money. Most afraid to be in their space, you just happy to wrap your arms around them after a long day and cuddle.

I thought this was going to be like everyone thinking Bakugou and Kirishima are the mafia leaders because they’re hench, covered in tattoos and so mean-mugging.

But really the leader is you. So when Denki and Sero bring in men who are begging and groveling to Bakugou or Kiri when they just smirk and laugh at them like “You’re talkin’ to the wrong guy,”

Or the men see you hanging out in the bar and they flirt with you, or talk down to you like you’re just a floozy, but they don’t realise they just insulted the head of the most notorious mafia in Musutafu.

[eggcompany]

Oh Dear, Wife Part 2

It was quiet in the castle. They had met with castle advisors, being rushed from here to there and back again for the last three days. Jaskier had barely been able to even see Geralt before she was collapsing into bed, exhausted. Geralt had been more than busy trying to get the knights trained on how to care for a princess, and one as independent as Jaskier no less.

But today Geralt only had chores to do in the stables, a meeting with Eskel, and then he had to write a proposal. He couldn’t help but let his eyes wander to the diving door, knowing Jaskier was in her room. Maybe she was drawing or composing or reading… He couldn’t stop picturing her bent over a notebook, not even dressed for the day but her white nightgown dashed with loose ink or streaks of lead shavings from her pencils. 

There was no point in trying to focus on his work when he couldn’t stop thinking about her. 

He knocked lightly before opening the door. He expected her to be sitting on the windowsill or at her desk, perhaps lounging on her bed. 

But she wasn’t. She was dressed in a chemise that hung down to her thighs, leaving her legs bared down to the ankle where her socks hemmed. She was sweating, short hair pulling in odd ways, cheeks pinked with exertion. Stood atop her desk chair, one foot lifting up as she tried to reach the top shelf of her wardrobe. Geralt looked her over, skin smooth and soft displayed. Even as she reached higher and the shirt rose up to reveal a pair of light blue bloomers, yellow embroidery running up the sides. 

He only realized he was gawking when she turned and screamed, losing her balance. Geralt ran over, feeling as though the world was spinning in slow motion, and caught her before she hit the floor. He ended up with her in his arms, one under her shoulders and the other behind her knees. She looked up at him, eyes glimmering, heart racing. 

“Do you often watch princesses in their underwear?” She asked. Jaskier felt a bit… torn. Her heart was racing, she didn’t expect to see those glowing yellow eyes staring at her. She couldn’t help the way her heart pulled at the strength that was holding her, the wide rough hands, bulging arms, worried look on the prince’s face. She almost wanted to touch where his eyebrows were drawn together. 

“I just wanted to… talk.” Geralt said, realizing her dress had hiked up to the tops of her thighs, revealing most of her undergarments. He moved to gently set her back down on her feet, looking away as she straightened the chemise back out before sitting on her bed, now adorned in her own bedding. 

“What do you wanna talk about? Because I’ve been reading up on Morhen history and culture. Me and Eskel talk over lunch most days. He’s quite chatty when persuaded.” Jaskier explained and smiled. Eskel was a gossip, worse than any handmaid or stable boy she’d ever known. He was especially chatty about Geralt. 

She smiled and crossed her legs on the bed, facing Geralt who sat down on the chair that she had been standing on. She watched him curiously, wondering why he looked uncomfortable, shifting and looking at the walls. It took a minute too long to realize Geralt wasn’t used to displays of skin like this. Morhen was a modest kingdom, everyone stayed covered. She pulled her chemise over her knees so she was covered completely. 

“Sorry, in my culture we often dress like this when in our own homes. We’re quite comfortable wearing very little, mostly in our own homes but some people prefer to show off at balls and celebrations as well. Given the warm weather, that is.” Jaskier explained and remembered fondly of her home. She would often go walking, the estate was tracked in walking trails extensively, in little more than her sandals and sheer chemise, loving the breeze on her skin. It was common but here in the cold kingdom… there wouldn’t be many days it was even possible. 

“We… do not.” Geralt simply, trying to calm his racing heart. She was very pretty and from such a… floozy kingdom. It made him feel warm under his collar. But his heart also warmed at the thought of this being her home. 

“I know, I know, but… Am I not your wife? Aren’t you the only person who’s supposed to see me in… undress?” Jaskier said shyly, she kept her eyes on the prince, looking him over as her bottom lip caught between her teeth. She knew it would have to happen. The king would want an heir promptly, Geralt was a man, he had needs. But the way Geralt’s cheeks tinted the slightest pink as he looked to the side, it made her feel a bit better about it. 

“In my culture… we do not- um… Marriage means bonding. We are bound because of a treaty therefore we are not romantically or… sexually bonded. If you’d like to be more than treaty bonded then we must wait a year. We do not just get married and… copulate. The marriage must be proved sustainable before the kingdom and then we can focus on… other tasks.” Geralt explained, his face burning up as he looked at Jaskier’s shoulder, unable to meet her eyes. She was Lettenhovian. All they did was fuck, eat, and swim nude. Surely she was itching to have sex. He just… it would be more than improper to bed her because they were married. It would make him look bad in front of the king, court, and country. They were treaty wed, not wed for love. 

Jaskier’s eyebrows raised up as she thought about what was just said. Her mind rolling through each statement. 

“We’re not to have an heir this year?” She asked looking at the window only glancing at him, the stress in her head loosening. Geralt shook his head, laying his hands in his lap. 

“We can… date?” She asked, thinking of all the dates her sisters had been on before they had gotten married. Geralt smirked, his eyes light with amusement. 

“If you wish then we can date, but there’s little for us to do. You are my wife so you are involved in my area of royal duties. You can accompany me to all corners of the kingdom and meet the soldiers.” Geralt said and she nodded. A weight was lifted off her chest, like she could finally breathe. She sighed and looked over at him. 

“One year to show I am suitable as a ruler and life partner?” She asked, smile spreading on her lips before she could even try to hide it. It was… she finally felt calm. Geralt stood up and moved to the bed, hand under her chin to tilt her face up to his. 

“One year to prove to the people.” Geralt clarified and leaned down, their noses barely grazing each other’s. Jaskier’s breath caught, leaning up a bit till their lips were a whisper away. 

“Kissing?” She asked blue eyes hopeful as she looked into golden ones. Geralt only hummed as he leaned in, a warm closed mouth kiss being pressed onto her lips. It was gentle, quick, and made her heart melt. Even when Geralt backed up and moved to the door, staying there for a long moment. 

“I’ll call for the maids to bring you a step stool.” He said quietly before moving back into his own room. 

Jaskier sat there for a moment, in a daze, before grabbing a pillow and squealing into it. She never had a boyfriend or a prince to court her. Never having been kissed before, the memory still fresh in her mind she dashed over to where her journal was laid out on the desk, writing in it furiously. She could still feel the warmth of his hand, the press of his lips, the way he smelled of hair wash and horse. 

-0-0-0-0-0-

The next day Jaskier was dressed for the day, dressing warmly for she found frost on her window when she woke. She applied only a small line of blue around her eyes and some sparkling balm to her lips, knowing Morheners preferred a clean face. She looked over her blue slacks and her heavy coat once more, hoping it wasn’t too unappealing before knocking on the dividing door. 

She peaked in seeing Geralt standing over the table, sifting through papers. He looked up at her, face melting from stressed to a more calm expression. 

“Going somewhere, Dandelion?” He asked and stood up, back popping as he did. He looked her over, amused but not teasing. She stood up straighter, trying her best to look confident. 

“I thought we could go walking, you have yet to show me the estate. I sent for the kitchen to make a picnic basket for us. In my culture daily walks, wanders, are much necessary. I would like to know where I can be.” She said with a smile, knowing from everything she’d read and been told by Eskel that Geralt was fond of the outdoors, preferring to read while sitting outside, no matter the weather. He’d obviously been keeping himself inside for her sake. It was only fair that he show her around the estate, he was her protector after all. 

She felt a tingle in her chest when he smiled, quickly grabbing a long heavy coat from a hook on the wall and moving towards his door. 

She followed behind him, hand reaching for his as they stepped into the hallway. He froze with his key in the door, hand slack in her grip before he locked the door and squeezed back. 

He seemed… happy. Jaskier couldn’t help but stare at him, taking in the straight line of his nose, the stubble along his square jaw, the way he nodded at the guards stepped confidently through a backdoor of the castle, a small servants entrance. 

She could help but savor every gruff word he spoke as he led her to the stables, giving his mare a swiped sugar cube and patting down Pegasus’s side. She loved the way he whispered when they came near the sheep that were grazing in the pasture that fenced the entire back of the estate. She loved the way he picked up a hen to show her they were nice, how he led them to the small courtyard with a table and a few chairs, how he kept her hand in his as they walked through the back trails, keeping her balanced as he explained what each tree was. 

She couldn’t help the way she leaned up to kiss him when he was called back to the castle, leaving her in the stable. She savored the surprised hum and hand that found the small of her back before the bell rang again, calling him. 

It was getting easier. She was comfortable with the castle, knowing a few guards, knowing Eskel, knowing she could live happily while absorbing the culture. 

-0-0-0-0-0-

It was the next week that she barged in again, this time through the prince’s door and not the divider. In her thick blue pants and thicker yet doublet. The snow was light but it would soon blanket everything, feet of frozen snow topped in solid ice. 

Geralt was reading documents about the soldiers who marched in the south, needing to be visited as soon as possible after the winter. Jaskier huffed, stomping in front of his desk. He looked up to see her teary eyes and angry expression. 

“Your stupid guards won’t let me leave because they say what I’m wearing is inappropriate. I wish to ride to town and purchase new books to write in. I want a notebook, something new to read, and fresh bread. I finally finished repairing my flute and intend on using it for an audience more than you, Eskel, and the rats. Why do I have to wear a dress or or plump and prick myself into something horrid that I cannot even ride horseback in. This is absolutely un-” She began ranting, upset and angry. 

She was never very good at being cooped up. Sure talking to Eskel was great, he was very well read, but she needed someone who wasn’t either a prince or a man to talk to. The grounds were great, wonderful to walk, the nature was beautiful but she needed some interaction with people. And to be told she looked inappropriate by guards? Unbelievable! She was royalty she should never- 

She was cut off by Geralt who stood up from his desk, tired expression on his face. He was tired. He worried and his mind kept him up all night. 

“I will tell them to ready Pegasus and to send word to the village. Are you wearing your foot wraps?” Geralt asked, knowing the princess hadn’t been paying attention when he showed her how to wrap them. Geralt was calm, knowing there had been a misunderstanding given his guards couldn’t care less about a woman in pants.

Jaskier stood still, staring at him in shock, having thought there would be some form of disagreement. Not… the response she had been expecting. She just answered the question slowly, almost confused.  

“I’m not. I’m still not sure how to put them on.” She was busy watching the birds when Geralt had told her about the wraps. Geralt looked at her, a slight smirk on his lips. 

“In my culture the spouses wrap each other's feet when trekking in the winter. Bring them to me before you go.” Geralt said and sat back down, turning his attention to writing a note to be passed to the guards. Jaskier nodded, calming as she went to get the thick white wraps from her room. 

Simple rectangles of thick fabric. They were supposed to keep warm and supply extra structure to prevent injuries when walking through slick conditions. 

Jaskier hadn’t seen anything like them but it was… a part of Geralt’s culture. They had been saying it all week. 

‘In my culture you do not braid your hair when it is dry’ 

‘In my culture you must eat together, never alone’ 

‘In my culture the husband unlocks the door’ 

‘In my culture wives eat with their hands, like the rest of us.’ 

‘In my culture women tend animals too.’ 

‘In my culture you don’t call the crowned prince a shitball. At least not in front of the royal advisors.’ 

‘In my culture we often go swimming in the nude, it’s very freeing. Surely you’ve skinny dipped?’ 

They had both learned about each other's customs and became more and more comfortable with each other. Including Eskel who found the princess very amusing, and the king who loved having music in the castle. It was becoming their culture. Geralt felt…. Something. Jaskier found herself happy to be free of her family, finding friends and family amongst the Witchers. 

When she returned, wraps in hand, Geralt was waiting, down on one knee by the foot of the bed. He waved her over, sitting her in front of him

Geralt slipped her boots and socks off, being gentle with her. He settled one wrap over his knee before placing her foot atop it and beginning to wrap it. It felt strangely intimate, in the prince’s room, looking down on him as he carefully dressed her. 

“The men here weren’t referring to your pants, Dandelion, they were referring to your lack of a cap. You have short hair and soft skin, they don’t want your hair to freeze down.” Geralt explained, having stepped out to send his message down to the door guards. He knew what they meant without having to ask them. Jaskier didn’t wear a cap. She hadn’t had her hair freeze to her skin yet. She didn’t know better. 

“Oh… I judged too harshly then” Jaskier said, regret heavy in her voice. Geralt nodded and looked up at her, his golden eyes catching the sunlight that flooded through the window. 

“The people here, Morheners, are different from the Lettenhovian people, Jaskier. We don’t see men in skirts or women in pants much differently as long as you're a good person and you're dressed warmly. Most bakers and workers like that wear skirts as they work, man or woman. The knights want to keep their new princess from freezing to death while on the mountain.” Geralt explained and finished wrapping her foot and redressed her, socks and boots. He stood offering her a hand, noting the sad expression on her face. 

She took it, being pulled up. They were so close, chests inches away from each other. She couldn’t help the way her breath caught in her throat. She could feel the warmth radiating off his body, his warm rough hand in her own, she swore she could hear the steady thrum of his heartbeat. 

“Just wear a cloak or a cap. You cannot leave without a head covering. I’ll see you tomorrow.” Geralt said and stepped away from her, dropping her hand. He quickly moved back to his desk, looking down at the papers, hoping the way his face heated was hidden. His heart was racing, like he’d run miles. Jaskier just stood there, blinking. 

“Thank you, Geralt, I'll bring you back some candy.” Jaskier said teasingly as she left. She stood with her back to the door for a moment, just breathing. Little did she know Geralt was scrubbing a hand over his face, staring at the door feeling… a want. But it wasn’t a want like when a woman threw herself into his lap at a tavern or when he craved sweet ale. It was… heavier. Something in his soul wanted. 

He reached into his desk for the bottle of sour alcohol he kept there, hoping to burn away that feeling.