#it coming to bite him on the arse i cannot

[darrowsrising]

I really take Alexandar's death more personally than anything else, because there is no closure whatsoever. That also implies that Rhonna gets killing rights over everyone else, Darrow 'I want to spare everyone's feelings' O'Lykos can wait his bloodydamn turn.

[endless-ineffabilities]

chemical override

Ewan Mitchell x actress!reader

a/n: i caved and did an actual Ewan fic! Given that the lad is more of a public persona nowadays, I reckon it's fine (?) This is pure self-indulgence for all my Ewan loves. May have a continuation but idk for now, enjoy!!

series masterlist ▪︎ main masterlist

The reader and Ewan are paired for press interviews. Despite barely having any scenes together and only knowing each other in passing on set, the chemistry they share cannot be denied...

Your first round of press takes place in a primped up hotel suite in Paris, thanks to the team at HBO.

You are an up and coming actress, much like some of your costars in the show, but the pressure is heavier on you because you were entering in season two, whereas everyone was already well-acquainted with one another.

Your few scenes were mostly with Jace and Baela, so you grew close to Harry and Bethany.

However, the media team decided to pair you up with Ewan for the day. A little fun initiative was set by the team that a character from the Blacks would be do press with a counterpart from the Greens - hence, yourself and Ewan.

You're nervous as you walk down the hallway, unable to fully pay attention to the instructions your lovely assistant gives you.

She tells you about the different interviewers for the day, bloggers and magazine writers from all over the world. She reminds you that each one will only be for a maximum of 5 minutes, so it shouldn't be too complicated. She smiles and eagerly says, "Take a deep breath, you got this!", as you reach the suite doors.

But in your mind, all you can recall is your first interaction with Ewan, almost a year ago right after the table read. You had nervously blurted out to him that Aemond is your favourite character, after he just asked, "How are you?". He laughed, said thank you, before he was pulled away in conversation by Tom.

You pray to the fictional Westerosi gods that things will fare better today. That you won't get all tongue-tied when those steel blue eyes land on you.

Upon entering the room, the team is quick to fuss over you. Sometimes you forget that you're actually an actress now. A celebrity, some might say. It all feels surreal and you have a inkling it won't ever stop being this way.

Ewan is already seated in front of the camera, and he stands to give you a hug as you finally walk over.

"Hey there, how are you?" he smiles widely, smelling like cigarettes and something muskier as he wraps his arms around you.

Unroll your tongue. Rework your brain. Calm down.

"Hey, Ewan!" you respond. "I'm doing great, happy to see you again."

"Well, I only wish we could have had more time together on set." Ever the gentleman, he gestures for you to take your seat before he does the same. "But next season perhaps? Who knows?"

"Oh, sure." You settle in, pleased by the fact that your chairs are only about a foot apart. "We can both look forward to my character giving Aemond the arse kicking he deserves."

He laughs, eyes glinting with mischief. "Come on now, I was thinking our characters are actually quite compatible, no?"

"Well, I sure wouldn't want to step on Alys' shoes. She'd probably curse my character all the way to Yi Ti."

"Hmm," he hums, biting his lip. You can't help but hear Aemond when he does that. "I say you can always count on Aemond and Vhagar to come to the rescue of a beautiful maiden such as yourself."

Well, you'll be damned. Ewan, while still an introvert of his own sort, is as charming as can be. If he's turning it on to get himself hyped for the press, it's working.

It's definitely working on you, to say the least.

The media manager gives the signal for the first interview to begin, and a reporter walks in, all ready with prepared script in hand.

"Here we go," you mutter, facing forward.

"Good luck," Ewan replies.

You both shake the reporter's hand, and he introduces himself as Jared.

"So guys," Jared begins. "Why don't we start with you telling me a little bit about what we can expect from your characters this season?"

The question is easy, and it doesn't take long for you and Ewan to think it through. Jared asks a few more basic questions, before drawing the attention more to you.

"When you watched season one, did you have a favourite character?" he asks you.

You smile, "Oh, I mean, I have to say - and Ewan already knows this, by the way - that Aemond was my favourite character."

"Was?" Ewan says, feigning shock. "Unacceptable."

"Was... Is... " you shrug, rolling your eyes playfully, earning a laugh from Jared. "I think I might be more a Daemon girl now."

"Oh!" Jared exclaims happily. "Does Matt know about this?"

"I'll be sure to tell him - "

Ewan interjects, shaking his head at you, "There's no need to tell him, because I'll convert her back to Team Aemond in no time, trust me."

"Daemon is awesome, though," you say to him, smiling.

"Sure." Ewan makes a face like that fact doesn't matter. Wasn't he the one who said that Daemon would be the character he would most like to play if not Aemond?

"And Caraxes is my favourite dragon." You share a look with Jared, hoping he would agree.

"Yes!" Jared says. "Caraxes is the best dragon in the show, in my opinion."

"Ah, you're both wrong," Ewan says. "My Vhagar is the oldest and baddest dragon in all of the land."

"My Vhagar, he says," you joke. "Seems like someone still hasn't shed Aemond for this press tour."

"And I never will, darling." His gaze is intense when he turns to you, and you clear your throat to fight the warmth rushing to your cheeks.

"Alright, they're giving me the wrap-up," Jared thankfully breaks the tension. "It was a pleasure talking to you guys, congratulations on the new season!"

One interview down, and your nerves have already considerably subsided. Ewan tapping your arm to start up a conversation once more surely helps in distracting you.

In the best damn way possible.

"How do you think we did? That wasn't too bad, was it?"

"I think we did quite well," you casually offer a high five, but your heart skips a beat when Ewan interlaces your suspended hands for just a moment.

"I'm glad they paired me with you," Ewan says, after releasing your hand. You hold on to the armrests to keep your fingers from twitching.

"I am, too," you admit. "I am a fan of you, after all, but I think you already know that."

He blushes, "Well, that's not a bad thing. I think you're a fantastic actress. I must have seen your first film a good ten times."

"You mean my first and only film," you add humbly. "But thank you."

"Only film for now," he affirms. "No doubt this is only the beginning for you, darling. With your talent and your charisma, I'm sure you have potential scripts piled up already."

"I could say the same for you! Have you seen what your fans say about you online? You're the internet's new boyfriend, Ewan Mitchell."

The media manager announces the next interview, but Ewan follows up with a response for you under his breath, "I have seen some things. But when I have a girlfriend, I'll make sure she won't have to share me at all."

Oh, so apparently he is single. But wait - why is he telling you this?

You don't get to mull over that thought. For the time being, the next interview starts and you make sure you do a good job at what you're paid to do - promoting the series.

Not daydreaming about getting with a costar, for heaven's sake. Stay professional.

▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎

You feel lightheaded after finishing the seventh - or had it been the eighth? - interview.

Your assistant delivers a coffee to you during the twenty-minute break. Ewan had stepped out to the balcony to have a smoke, leaving you alone with your thoughts.

He certainly is everything you expected him to be, and so much more. Insightful, cheeky, dedicated. An artist, through and through. He was in the business for all the right reasons, passion and respect for the craft.

If he had any flaws, you weren't privy to them yet. If there are any reasons for you not to be attracted to him, you didn't know what those were yet.

And with every flirtatious remark and pointed smile, you can't deny the hope blooming in you.

"Hey," he reappears, pulling you out of your musings. "I hope you don't mind that I smell of smoke."

No, you didn't, not when it's him.

"Don't worry about it," you reassure him. You tilt your head forward to take a sip of your coffee, but a lock of your hair falls in front of your face. Annoyed, you think to reach for it, but Ewan beats you to it, tucking it back in place.

"There you go, darling," he croons, gesturing for you to proceed in drinking.

"Th-thanks." His eyes don't leave yours as you take a slow sip.

"So," you say, desperate to break the silence, "which interview did you enjoy the most so far?"

"How can I possibly choose? I mean, I really liked the one with ComicSociety, the guy that said our characters have a lot of chemistry and should get together next season. He's right, I already told you!"

"Ohhh, sure, that will go down really well with the Blacks and Greens."

He smirks, "I don't see why not?"

"For one, Aemond is ensnared by Alys, and my character will never give up fighting for Rhaenyra. I just don't see it happening, Ewan."

"Right," he mutters thoughtfully, "there is still Alys in the picture."

"Still in the picture? With the amount of steamy scenes you two have lined up for season three, I'd say she will be Aemond's entire picture in and of herself."

"Hmm," he glances at you once, then looks down. Dare you think it, does he look disappointed?

"But hey," you add lightly, "maybe we can talk to Ryan and he can flip the entire script just for our characters."

"Yeah," his cheeky smile resurfaces, "maybe you can take Alys' place."

Take the place of Alys? Of Alys. Is he insinuating...

"Next round of interviews, guys!" The media manager announces to the room.

"Here we go again, darling," Ewan squeezes your hand once, before putting on his professional face once more.

▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎

By the end of it all, not even caffeine can perk you up. You were exhausted, you and Ewan having finished four full hours of press.

Your assistant comes to your aid, ready to direct you back to your own hotel room.

"This has been such a pleasure, Ewan, really." You stand, this time initiating the hug.

He squeezes you gently, humming in your ear. When you pull apart, he says, "I honestly wouldn't mind trudging through hours and hours of press with you."

That's sweet of him. You're too tired to mask the warmth that rises to your cheeks. "And I feel the same. Today couldn't have gone any better."

"Truly, and listen, maybe we could - "

"Ewan!" The manager approaches. "I'm so sorry to rush with this, but we need to film just a quick soundbite with you for Aemond. Just two to three questions for the Max Tiktok account?"

"Oh, okay - " Ewan is reluctant to turn away from you.

"Perfect! If you could just stand there by the windows please..." The manager already has him by the arm, directing where he has to go.

"We have to go," your assistant says. "Still have to prep for tomorrow."

"I'll see you soon, Ewan!" you call out to him. "Thanks again."

He gives a half-hearted wave, dejected as he watches you walk out of the room.

"That wasn't too bad," you share with your assistant as you enter the elevators. "Not bad at all, actually."

"Oh, you did so well," she compliments. "It definitely helps with the press that you and Mr. Mitchell have such insane natural chemistry."

▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎

In the calm of your hotel room, you get ready for bed.

Just when you're about to finish with your nightly routine, your phone rings from your bedside table. You're quick to rush over, thinking it could be your assistant or your manager, with an urgent update about work.

But no - it's an unknown number. A UK number, as it appears.

Confused, you click answer anyway, putting it to your ear with a tentative, "Hello, who is this?"

"Hi, darling."

"Ewan?"

"Yeah, uhm, I hope I didn't disturb you - "

"Not at all," your answer comes out in a rushed breath.

"I also hope you don't mind that I got my assistant to ask your assistant to give me your number? It's what I wanted to ask you before you left today."

"Oh." You feel fully awake now, by some miracle, butterflies finding home in your stomach. "I don't mind. I... I should have given you my number, anyway. I have most of the cast's, in case I need to get a hold of you guys."

"Hmm, right," he says from the other end. You hear him calmly breathing, the sound strangely comforting, and wonder if he can hear the same from you.

He says, "I just wanted to keep hearing your voice. Didn't get enough of it today," and your heart just about stops.

"Oh. Okay," is all you are able to respond with.

"What are you doing?"

"Just... just getting ready for bed." Phone pressed to your ear, you shuffle around the room, putting some things back in place.

He says nothing for a few seconds, but you still hear his breathing, and some shuffling in the background. It occurs to you that he might just be as nervous as you are now.

Maybe.

"Listen," he finally says, "do you want to hear my pitch to Ryan about why our characters should get together next season?"

A genuine laugh escapes you. He sure is persistent. Playful, sure, but you're definitely willing to play along.

"Let's hear it."

"First," he says, "you have to renounce Daemon as your favourite character - "

"Not a chance."

" - and swear your love for Aemond."

"Keep dreaming."

He laughs, and you can only picture the corners of his eyes crinkling.

"Aww darling," he teases, "don't you love me?"

💌 part two - part three

The OGs will know that the final line is a nod to my first ever Aemond fic! 🖤

Did this slightly delay my series works? Yes, yes it did. Do I regret it? For Ewan frickin Mitchell, I would never ~

[2btheanswertothequestion]

Steddie rockstar x roadie AU, with Steve being Eddie's queer awakening

(in a not-fic-format because I cannot be arsed to actually write it)

So. Corroded Coffin isn't huge by any means, but they're big enough. Successful and respected within their genre. Has a loyal fanbase, constantly sells out smaller venues, gets to go on tour every so often. They're rockstars who've made it while still getting to live like they're not rockstars when off the clock (and stage). The best of both worlds, really.

They're gearing up for another tour and have a couple of new faces on their crew. One of them got the job by being a friend of a friend. He doesn't at all look like he'd be a roadie for CC, and he doesn't actually listen to them – he's more into classic rock (respectable) and occasionally new wave (not respectable), but it's whatever. He's strong and hard-working and gets the job done. He also withstands the initial hazing like a champ, even biting back a few times. Yeah, Steve Harrington carves a place for himself in the crew and is soon one of them.

Eddie is especially fond of the new guy. Partly because it's clear Steve is as enamored with Dustin as Eddie is, and mutual interests bring people together. But also because Steve is simply a fun dude to be around? He's nice. Except for when he's mean; then he's funny instead. He's honestly funny a lot of times, even when he doesn't mean to be. Like, sometimes someone will make an exceptionally nerdy reference that he doesn't get, so he'll tilt his head and scrunch his eyebrows as it's explained to him. And, all right, maybe that's not funny, per se. More like cute. Endearing. Eddie often finds himself endeared and wanting to pat Steve on the head like the sweet little puppy he so strongly resembles.

The others mock him for it. Tease him about his man-crush on Harrington. Eddie laughs along with them, because yeah! Were he into men, Steve absolutely would've been his type. Look at him! Guy's ripped and has great hair (almost better than Eddie's. Just imagine the mane it'd be if he let it grow past his shoulders...) and Eddie has great taste. He'd for sure be head over heels for Steve if he were gay, and he is man enough to admit it.

That's how the flirting starts – as an extension of the joke. It's not out of character for Eddie, who flirts with everyone. With reporters, interviewers, photographers, TSA officers, venue security, other bands, anyone! Gender, age, or appearance don't matter because flirting is fun. And it's especially fun to flirt with Steve, because he flirts back! No matter how much Eddie does it, Steve will flirt back and help make everyone laugh. It's a great part of their dynamic and actually brings them closer as friends. Dustin would be proud of them.

So, while on tour, they have this thing where one member of the crew gets to decide where they'll go after shows or on their days off. Participation is optional but encouraged, because it's an 'organic bonding experience' or whatever their manager called it. Occasionally it'll be a movie or a museum, but usually the destination is a bar or club. What's there to say, they're a bunch of male, red-blooded twenty to thirty-somethings – what better pasttime is there than to get drunk after a hard day's work? Yeah, every so often someone will pick up a girl, but it's a rare occurrence. A bunch of the guys has special ladies waiting at home, and for the single ones it's much easier to just book a date with their own hand.

There's one guy on the crew, Peter, who always takes them to a gay bar when it's his turn. This because he is gay. Duh. No one minds it, and if they do they don't come back next tour. Corroded Coffin prides themselves on their allyship. They're freaks of nature welcoming all other freaks of nature. Seriously, what does it matter if a dude likes cock instead of tits? Why is it wrong if he wants it up the ass? It's actually not that bad! See, Eddie used to date this woman who was puh-retty kinky. Pegging was just one of the many, many, maaaaaaany things she enjoyed. And Eddie loved her, so, well. It wasn't as good as she claimed it'd be, but it was fine. Enjoyable enough to do again. The point is that CC doesn't dance with homophobia, and Eddie will scream it from the top of every table.

Anyway. When it's Peter's turn, Steve (who hasn't gotten to pick yet because he's the newbie and they pick last) comments upon it. Nothing big. Nothing bad. Still, Gareth is on him, puffing himself up like a chihuahua and asking if Steve has a problem with it.

Eddie’s hands turn clammy with nerves in the split second it takes for Steve to roll his eyes and scoff "of course not".

Look, he'd really like for Steve to be back next tour, okay? They're buddies now and he doesn't want to lose him to bigotry. Also, it'd suck to have to tell Dustin that the guy he hero-worships is actually a douchebag. Nothing to fear, however – Steve continues to prove himself to be a good dude. He doesn't even blink when propositioned at the club! Simply tells them "thanks, but no thanks". Unsurprising, since he's cool with Eddie's nonsense, but there's a difference between a straight guy hitting on you as a joke and a gay guy doing it for real. At least, for some it is. But not for Steve. Fuck, Eddie hopes he'll be back next tour. He's on his way to being Eddie's new best friend and he'd miss him.

Then, it's time – they're in Chicago and it's Steve's turn to pick. Some of the others grumble over the newbie getting such a big city at his disposal. Eddie doesn't blame them for suspecting favoritism – it's happened before – but not this time! It just became like this and Eddie has nothing to do with it! Ask the other band members.

(When he breaks the news to Steve, his hazel eyes light up. He asks, "Can a friend of mine come with?"

"Sure, man," Eddie says, clapping him on the shoulder.

Steve buzzes with excitement, giddier than a kid on Christmas morning. Fuck, he's so cute.)

That night after the show, as they're leaving for the 'organic bonding experience' (seriously, Chrissy? Of all the things you could call it...), they're met by a young woman outside the venue.

She's tall and skinny, like a giraffe, and that's all Eddie can tell at first glance because she rushes up and flings herself into Steve's embrace. They hug, they laugh, they might cry a little, and he even spins around with her in his arms.

(Girlfriend? She's certainly pretty enough for it.)

Once the heartwarming reunion is over, Steve introduces her as Robin, and tells her that it's his turn to pick a place for them to decompress but he's making it her choice. Robin spits out options with a speed none of them keep up with; Steve stops her, saying, "No, Robs. I'm making it your choice."

They share a look.

She gasps.

They grin, mischievously, and then...

She takes them to a lesbian club.

It's open to gay guys too, obviously, but clearly caters to lesbians. It's a smaller thing, the kind that entertains a steady line of regulars. Apparently, Robin and Steve are among these regulars, because the bartender greets them by name the moment they step inside.

They order their drinks and claim a booth. Robin is quick to instigate a discussion about what dorky things Steve has done while away from her. Eddie is happy to share while Steve laments he should've known better than to introduce them.

An hour or so in, Robin skitters off to catch up with a group of women, all varying degrees of butch. Not ten seconds later, someone new claims her seat (which is also Steve's lap). Eddie mistakes them for a girl at first, because they're small with a high-pitched voice, but no, it's just the twinkiest twink. He makes himself at home on Steve's thigh, pressing a kiss to Steve's cheek and squealing, "Stevie! I didn't know you were back!"

Steve laughs. "Hey, babe. Just for tonight. I'm here with my coworkers."

The twink twists around in Steve's lap. He really is girly-looking: soft jawline, slender build, shoulder-length blond waves, and huge eyes enhanced with makeup. He even smells like a woman, strawberry and jasmine.

"Oh! The rock band!" He extends a dainty hand. "Hi, I'm Brendan!"

Brendan sticks around for a while. Like Robin, he wants to know what Steve's been up to. Unlike Robin, he's more interested in awe-inspiring stories than embarrassing ones (unfortunate, for the latter kind heavily outweighs the former). He doesn't move from Steve's lap. Kind of weird, actually. Like, there are available seats. Yes, Robin also sat exclusively in Steve's lap, but that's different. They're best friends and it was chaste and cute. Brendan is... honestly, Eddie doesn't know who Brendan is. Some dude who's shameless enough to rub his ass on Steve's dick in full view of everyone. Yeah, you're not as subtle as you think, babe.

He doesn't even move when they get up to let another crew member go to the bathroom! No, Steve slides out of the booth still holding him, Brendan perched on his forearm. His muscles flex, a vein straining underneath the skin, but Steve's face is relaxed. As if the – small, sure, but still grown – man in his arms weighs nothing. More likely, Steve is just that used to carrying things.

For some reason, Eddie's mouth dries a little at the thought of it.

At last, Brendan leaves, but not before sweetly kissing Steve on the lips and telling him to "let me know when you're back for real, stud".

Steve promises with a laugh, then turns back to the table and rejoins the conversation as if it was nothing strange. As if making dates with other men happens to him all the time.

Shit.

The entire thing leaves something gnawing on Eddie. He holds it in while in the club. He holds it in when they escort Robin to her cab. He holds it in as they walk back to the tour buses.

Then the others are gone. It's just him and Steve left, lingering to smoke in the parking lot, and he can't hold it any longer.

"I didn't know you're gay!"

Smoothness, thy name is Eddie Munson.

Steve shrugs. "I'm not; I'm bisexual."

"Right, right."

Eddie takes a deep drag, putting some of the smoke in the wrong pipe and coughing it up. Steve thumps his back.

"Woah, man, are you okay?"

"I'm fine," Eddie rasps, tears prickling his eyes. "So, um, is it okay? What we've been... The flirting?"

"Uh, yeah?" Steve tilts his head, eyebrows scrunching and, Jesus Christ, how can he be so adorable? "Why wouldn't it be?"

"Because!" Eddie gestures between the two of them. "You're bi, and I'm not, and is it offensive for me to...?"

Steve blinks at him, before bursting into laughter. Eddie feels the blush warming his neck.

"Don't be stupid," Steve says in between peals of giggles. "It's just a fun thing. S'not that deep. You don't have to lose sleep over it."

"Alright, man. Then I won't."

But he does.

That very night he finds himself tossing and turning. And thinking. Thinking about Steve. About Steve's strong arms and broad chest. About his square jaw and plush lips. About his thick hair and hooded eyes. About how the ugly polo shirts the techs wear look genuinely good on Steve, and about how his tight jeans leave little to the imagination. That particular line of thought has Eddie whimper and roll his hips against the mattress. Rachael's strap-on always felt kind of so-so. Was it because it was too rubbery or because it was too small?

He also thinks about what makes Steve Steve. Like Steve's selflessness, always the first to volunteer to do the tedious work so no one else has to. And Steve's barbed tongue, sharp enough to give even Eddie a run for his money. Eddie thinks about their easy banter, and how Dustin sings his praises, and how Steve let Robin pick a club when it was his turn.

After three consecutive nights of tossing, turning, thinking, and no sleep, Eddie comes to a horrifying conclusion.

It's not simply a question of 'want'. He's not just horny and curious. No, he likes Steve.

It makes things so fucking awkward. He has no idea how to act around Steve afterward. Falling for a crew member is bad enough (so unprofessional; Chrissy would definitely be on his case if she knew), but this is worse because he's a guy. Eddie's never been into guys before! Sure, there are men out there who are objectively hot. Eddie can admit that. But it's not the same. There are feelings involved here.

And the worst is that people notice. Steve notices. How can he not? When Eddie stops responding to their usual flirting, turning into a skittish bunny whenever Steve is close.

At first, it makes Steve pause. Tilt his head, scrunch his eyebrows, and pout in confusion (Eddie's heartbeat turns irregular every time he does). Then Steve pulls away, and Eddie's heart fucking breaks. The atmosphere among the crew turns tense; Peter starts sending him dirty looks that Eddie shrinks away from.

A few days into it, he's cornered by a pissed off Jeff.

"Dude, what's your problem?" he snaps; Eddie wants to sink into the ground. "I thought you were better than this. Who cares that Harrington is also into dudes? It's still Harrington! It won't kill you to treat him like you used to. No one is going to think you're gay for standing next to him."

Eddie croaks, "What if I am?"

"You- What?"

"What if... I like Steve?"

Jeff's jaw hits the floor. "What."

Eddie inhales deeply, staring at his wringing hands. "I like Steve. I've been thinking... After Chicago, I started to think about... And I realized I like him." A sob tears from his throat. "I don't know what I should-"

Jeff's arms wrap around him; Eddie buries his face in the crook of his neck.

"Jesus Christ," Jeff mutters, stroking Eddie's back. "Um, it's okay? We support you. No one will judge you! We love you all the same."

Eddie nods, Jeff's leather jacket squeaking with the movement. He's been wearing it since high school and it smells like home.

"I don't know how to act around him anymore," he sniffles.

"Why don't you tell him?"

Eddie recoils from the embrace to give Jeff his mightiest 'are you stupid for real' look. Jeff sighs at him.

"Oh, come on. You're his friend and a good-looking guy. Why not?" Jeff says, as if it's that easy. But...

"I'm not his type!"

"You don't know that."

"Yes, I do! Didn't you see that Brendan guy?"

Jeff falters. He realizes Eddie is right. Because, yes, Eddie is pretty hot. He has the long hair and a pretty face, he's been told. But he's still a masculine guy. A blue-collar type with calluses on his hands and dirt under his nails. He's not a svelte, dainty, little twink – he's as tall as Steve is, with more tattoos than bare skin and who smells like sweat and tobacco badly masked with cheap cologne, not strawberries and jasmine. He doesn't wear makeup or do his hair and some days he just fucking picks a used shirt from his pile and maybe sniffs it before putting it on. He talks too much and too loud. His limbs flail when he's excited. He's not going to sweetly ask for flattering stories about Steve – his instinct is to tease him for calling one of the guys from Nip/Tuck 'Dr. McDreamy'. He's closer to Robin than he is to Brendan. Jesus Christ, he's in the same category as Steve's lesbian best friend! Or at least he was, before he shot their friendship to hell.

There's no hope.

The tour ends on a sourer note than previous ones. It's all Eddie's fault. He doesn't even stick around for the last 'organic bonding experience' – he gets into his car at the first opportunity and drives home.

And then comes the wallowing. Several tubs of ice cream are consumed as High Fidelity plays on loop on Eddie's TV. He writes dozens of miserable, yearning songs and screens his calls, not even picking up for Chrissy or Wayne. It's not until Dustin's cheerful lisp rings out from his answering machine that there's a change. He's inviting Eddie to come visit him and Suzie and the cats in Massachusetts, like he always does after a tour.

Eddie can't turn that down. Besides, he probably needs to get out of the house.

So he goes, and it's nice. Dustin is still a little shit, Suzie is a pearl, the cats are cuddly, and Eddie is a good enough faker to mask his emotional state – his hosts notice nothing amiss.

Then, halfway through his visit, Eddie returns from his walk and who does he find unpacking their car in Dustin and Suzie's driveway?

Can you guess? I think you can.

It's Robin!

And Steve. They're a package deal, you know.

And Dustin's like, "Eddie! They're here! Oh, did I forget to tell you they were coming? Oops. Well, you already know them, so it's fine."

And Eddie is panicking, and Robin is trying to murder him with her mind, and Steve is just like,

"Hey."

Coldly polite.

Eddie hides in his guest room until dinner time. When he comes out, he expects Dustin to chew him out for being an asshole homophobe and kick him out of his life permanently.

But he doesn't. Dinner is as usual, if Steve Harrington ignoring you and Robin Buckley glaring at you is part of your usual dinner experience.

After cleaning up, Steve steps outside to smoke. Eddie, figuring he has to take some responsibility, follows him. Steve is standing on the deck, elbows resting on the wooden railing, his back to the house. He straightens up and turns when Eddie closes the screen door behind him. The sun has set, but the moon is out; Steve's profile is sharp in the pale moonlight, his posture sure. The cherry of his cigarette makes shadows and flames flicker dramatically over his features, highlighting the edges and the curves and he's so fucking gorgeous Eddie forgets how to breathe. Absence really does make the heart grow fonder.

He slinks over, Steve's gaze following him.

"Hi," Eddie says.

"Hi," Steve says.

"You didn't..." Eddie swallows. "You didn't tell Dustin?"

Steve frowns. "No. It's between us. For now, at least."

"Oh."

Shuddering, Eddie wraps his arms around himself. It's late summer and still warmish as long as there's no wind. Right now it's windless, the cold coming from within.

"I wanted to talk."

Steve hums, noncommittal.

"I wanted to apologize."

Another hum, more interested.

"I'm sorry. For how I acted. I've been an asshole and you don't deserve any of that."

Eddie glances up to gauge Steve's reaction, and oh. The whole evening, Steve's been aloof, cordially keeping Eddie at arm's length, but now...

Now he just looks sad.

A few weeks ago, they were close enough for Eddie to hug him when he looked like this. Eddie would crush his own heart with a sledgehammer if it meant they'll go back to that.

He says, "We haven't known each other for long, but you're already one of my best friends. Then it got weird at the end and-"

Steve's face hardens again, eyes tapering with anger.

"Things didn't 'get weird', Eddie. You made them weird. What the fuck?"

And Eddie takes a deep breath and says,

"I like you."

Shock colors Steve's expression; he takes a step back. It takes everything to stop Eddie from following in an attempt to reel him back in.

"I don't know when it started," he says, the confession tumbling out. "I always liked you? You're a good guy and fun to hang with and a great friend, and I guess you were hot, but a ton of guys are hot and it doesn't have to mean anything. I can be straight and still think guys are hot, you know? But then, in Chicago, you came out and I started seeing you differently. So, huh, turns out, in my case? Thinking guys are hot does mean something. And I freaked out because I didn't know what to do. Being close to you made me so nervous, and I couldn't tell you how I felt because just because you like guys doesn't mean you like me, and I already know your type is cute little blond twinks, and-"

"I actually prefer brunets," Steve says.

Eddie chokes on what else he had to say. He looks up at Steve, who's smiling. Kind of shy but mostly bright, eyes crinkling at the corners. His cigarette is almost down to the filter; Steve drops and snuffs it out without looking away from Eddie. His eyes are like gold, glittering.

"Y-you what?"

"I don't really have a type," Steve says, stepping closer. "I like who I like." Another step. "But, uh, most of my relationships have been with brunets." Another step, then stop – they're nose to nose. "Nerdy ones."

Eddie's head spins. He squeaks, "Oh?"

Steve nods. "I like smart, passionate people. And I..." He giggles. "I've had a crush on you since the beginning."

Eddie's head fucking explodes. It leaves a gash in his face that stretches from ear to ear. A breeze blows past, caressing his burning cheeks. It's his turn to giggle.

"You're fucking with me."

Steve tilts his head, but doesn't scrunch his brow this time. No, it remains smooth, but his eyelids droop as his eyes roam Eddie's body.

"So far, only in my head."

Eddie sputters. He grabs a fistful of hair and pulls it in front of his red face. Steve, the bastard, laughs at him. He reaches out, coaxing the locks out of Eddie's grip and tucks them behind his ear. There's an endlessness in his gaze; simultaneously looking through Eddie and at him. Seeing him from every angle, especially the ugly ones, but touching him just as tenderly anyway.

Eddie wets his lips. Since he caused the distance in the first place, it only seems fair he takes the last step. "Do you want to go out with me?" he asks. "A date?"

Steve leans in until they touch from forehead to nose tip.

"Yes," he says. "I do."

[ruinofchimera]

Hi, I really like your posts, just out of curiosity, what do you think about Sirius Black?

Your curiosity could very well unintentionally land me in a Flynn Rider situation—cornered with a dozen sharp knives pointed at my throat, and for that, I’m more than ready to kiss you on both cheeks, anon. My recklessness be damned; let’s unfold this matter.

Sirius is an entitled arse, no two ways about it. He’s got that privileged, arrogant swagger of someone who’s always had things handed to him, even if he spent half his life rejecting it. He’s all rough edges and volatile intensity, the kind of man who’s survived more by luck and sheer defiance than by any real plan or sense of caution. Characters like him, they’ve got a way of sinking their claws in me, whether I want to or not. Because here’s the thing: Sirius’s short appearances in the books pack more emotional depth than some characters got in entire arcs. In just a few scenes, I saw a man constantly wrestling with his own worst instincts, fiercely loyal but destructively so, and trapped in a past he cannot—will not—let go of.

But let’s get something clear from the outset: I refuse to acknowledge the fever dream version of Sirius that certain corners of the internet have conjured up. You know, the one where he’s some delicate, ethereal twink who twirls his hair and faints at the sight of Lupin. What even is that? That’s not Sirius Black—that’s like trying to shove a feral dog into a tea party dress. It’s laughable, but more than that, it’s a betrayal of who he really is.

His bite, his bike, his relentless defiance—it’s not a costume or an aesthetic; it’s who he is, deep down to his bones. That raw, untamed energy, that edge—it’s woven into the very marrow of his bones. The Sirius Black from the books exuded raw masculinity. He was all bruised knuckles and fiery glares, a man who looked like he could break you in half but might settle for a well-placed punch instead. Unpolished, angry, and unapologetic to his last breath. Stripping all that away to turn him into some hysterical femboy with fluttering lashes doesn’t just miss the point—it actively distorts the very essence of the character.

So, no, I won’t acknowledge this fanon revisionism—or more accurately, fanon distortion. That’s not Sirius Black. And with that out of the way, we can return to the real Sirius Black—the one built from book flesh and bones, the man we actually know.

What intrigues me about Sirius is that he’s constantly at war with himself. The guy stormed out of his aristocratic, silk-sheeted home and straight into the muck and grime of rebellion. And rebellion is a funny thing—it’s loud, it’s violent, but it’s not always about breaking free; sometimes it’s just a different way to cage yourself. He chose to reject his family’s ideals, but the methods, the temperament, the sheer ferocity—that stayed with him. In his desperate attempt to be their opposite, he becomes just as volatile, just as dangerous. He’s trying to kill the part of himself that was shaped by his family, and yet, you can see it, can’t you? That same cruel streak, the same hunger for superiority. Only now it’s turned against anyone who dares remind him of where he comes from. It’s a brutal thing to watch, someone trying so hard to break the chains, only to forge new ones from their own fury.

Then there’s Severus Snape. If there’s anyone who can drag Sirius’s demons out into the open and force them to dance, it’s him. Sirius looks at Snape and sees everything he despises, everything he’s spent his life trying to drown, smother, burn out—the shadows of his family’s poison. Snape is like a living relic of the Black family’s cursed bloodline, a walking monument to what Sirius could have been, should have been, if he’d just bent the knee and stayed in line like a good Black boy. There’s no escaping it. Snape is a mirror that shows Sirius all the worst parts of himself, twisted into something cold, bitter, and unrelenting.

And Severus? Every time Snape looks at Sirius, it’s like staring into a mirror reflecting everything he’s ever wanted but never had. There’s that deep, gnawing resentment—the kind that comes from watching someone like Sirius, a privileged boy born into power and status, toss it all aside like it meant nothing. Sirius had everything Severus spent his entire life yearning for: a sense of belonging, the kind of respect that comes with a name, the freedom to be reckless without consequence. To see someone carelessly discard what he, Severus, would have fought tooth and nail to possess—it’s like being taunted by the very life he’s always dreamed of, but could never reach. Every time their paths cross, it’s not just personal hatred fueling that rivalry—it’s the bitterness of watching someone waste a treasure Snape has been denied his whole life.

They despise each other because, at their core, they’re fighting the same battle. They both want to escape their pasts, their pain, but they’re both trapped by it. Observing their dynamic is like watching two men rage against the same storm from opposite directions, and both of them lose in the end.

For all of Sirius’s darkness, there’s one light that never flickers: his absolute, unwavering loyalty to James Potter. James wasn’t just a friend—he was the family Sirius chose for himself, the anchor Sirius wrapped his entire identity around. Black would’ve followed James into the jaws of hell without a second thought, no questions asked, no hesitation. Sirius’s rebellion wasn’t just against his family’s twisted values; it was a revolt in the name of the bond he shared with James, a bond stronger than blood.

So when he finally clawed his way out of Azkaban, broken and ragged, it wasn’t just freedom he sought—it was the ghost of the only person he’d ever truly cared about. James was dead, but in Sirius’s mind, that bond was still alive, and he clung to it like a drowning man to a piece of driftwood. But the world had moved on, and Sirius—stubborn, proud Sirius—hadn’t. He was trapped in the past, unable to let go of the life he had lost. He smothered Harry with his expectations and projected James’s image onto him. In Sirius’s eyes, he wasn’t just mourning James—he was still trying to save him. Still trying to fight a battle that had ended long ago. Shackled to a memory, a ghost, Sirius was living on borrowed time. His desperate need to relive those days with James blinded him to the truth—that Harry wasn’t James, and the past couldn’t be resurrected. And in the end, Sirius’s death wasn’t a tragic loss; it was inevitable. A man like him, still fighting ghosts, still raging against a world that had moved on without him, was always destined to fall. His death wasn’t the end of a life—it was the final note in a song that had been playing since the day he lost James Potter.

As I said, Sirius Black’s depth far exceeds the number of pages he’s given. He’s the kind of character who burns bright and brief, leaving just enough of a mark to haunt you long after he’s gone. His short appearances were cut off far too soon, but twisted enough to make me take notice. And I’m nothing if not an admirer of the twisted. He’s the kind of man who’s always teetering on the edge of something dangerous, dragging his demons behind him like shadows that never quite leave his side. For all his flaws—his recklessness, his impulsiveness, his Peter Pan syndrome—he makes me feel something—whether it’s anger, sympathy, or that strange, grudging admiration you have for someone who keeps charging headlong into the storm, even when it’s bound to destroy him. The kind of character that makes me want to punch him square in the face and then buy him a drink right after. That’s a rare kind of magic, if you ask me.

[placeinthemiddleofnowhere]

Random hybrid! AU idea that I have floating around my head rn (featuring reader x poly!141 dynamics) 😎

So I’m picturing a world where hybrids are often treated like second class citizens. They can have jobs, but they don’t achieve high status in them, and more often than not will have humans manage or mind them. They’re very similar to humans, but often have smaller statures and of course have tails and ears of animals, sometimes even horns or feathers or claws. Generally hybrids will be sent to jobs they’re best suited to according to their ‘breed’.

One of those jobs can be serving in the military, in fact in this AU it’s encouraged for families to send their hybrids to jobs that they can ‘live away’ in just so that the government can curb trends in neglect and stop antisocial behaviour from runaway hybrids. Our MC is one of these hybrids that gets sent away, born to a family of two humans that couldn’t understand how they’d ended up with a kid with defective ‘dog’ genes.

Of course, reader grows up with a chip on their shoulder because of their crappy parents, so pretty much from the get go in their new job they’re a cheeky shit. They don’t take orders well, they’re constantly being disciplined, they mouth off, they’re sloppy and ultimately they don’t want to be there.

However after a brutal few months of punishment reader eventually caves. They do a good enough job that eventually the traits that make them difficult, become the ones that make them hard as nails. They’re the ones that make reader actually proud of something for once in their life, their capability to do what others cannot.

And for years reader serves and does their job well, though never having the black mark of their bad beginnings scrubbed from their record. Other hybrids have soldiers choose them, to be their permanent handlers and serve them on the field for as long as they live. Though reader never gets the pleasure, as much as they start to yearn for someone that might want them, that might wish to train them and take the time to smooth out their still jagged edges. No one ever wants to take the chance. No one wants the onus of shepherding the black sheep.

Then Ghost shows up.

He comes to the grounds and says his Captain, a man named Price, has ordered for a hybrid to join their team. They need one that can keep up in stressful environments, one that can move fast and take orders quickly. He stressed how deadly the jobs would be and immediately the handlers are balking, not wanting to waste their well trained hybrids on a task force with a near constant suicide mission. Until they remember that you’re still around. Little smart mouth sod that you are, wouldn’t be much of a waste if they were back again after disposing of you.

And so you’re pretty much sent off packing with a kick on your arse and a silent but ever inferred ‘don’t fucking come back’ order.

When you first get a proper look at the skull mask clad giant, you’re scared shitless. The handlers had done some damage to you in their time, but this man stood multiple feet above you and could take you out with one swipe. The fear he elicits is enough to keep you quiet for at least 5 minutes until you’re back to your usual self. Back to the wolf that growls and snarls and bites at the bars, the one that tries to keep the hurt at bay with a flash of their bloodied teeth.

Ghost sees through the act right away. He knows how bad hybrids have it, he has an inkling of what you’ve been through. So instead of treating you how they would, instead of grabbing your scruff and going to hit you and slam down that ‘insolent’ personality of yours he shows you the utmost amount of patience and kindness.

He gently undoes your too-tight collar and replaces it with one from his bag. He puts a couple fingers under the leather just to make sure it’s comfortable for you. Even after you grunt at him when he asks if it’s ok, he just huffs out a laugh at you and ruffles the hair between your ears, rubbing a flat palm around your fluffy head. He doesn’t even care when you growl at him for it, something you’d have been lashed for before. Instead he withdraws his hand and respects your space. He even leads you to a car and has you sit in the backseat with him, telling you after that it’s alright to lean against him and get some rest if you’d like!

Already you feel like your defences are shaking loose. You’re not quite sure of yourself. No matter how many snide remarks you make at the man he doesn’t try to correct you, he doesn’t even give you a cuff around the ears. He just shrugs you off and gives you watchful looks, sizing you up and making you feel even tinier than you are.

It unnerves you like nothing else and ultimately, as you start to dose off and slip ever closer to Ghost, you wonder what the rest of his team will be like. You wonder if maybe your new posting is just the change you’d been craving…

[tonydaddingham]

LWA: To expand on @robinwithay's point some more, I am thinking again about Crowley's equivalent to Aziraphale's stubbornness when it comes to rejecting Heaven. Crowley just will. not. learn. that actions have consequences, and that the responsibility lies with the agent, not some nebulous figure out there somewhere. What's striking, in fact, is that "actions have. consequences" is the closest thing the GO universe has to divine providence in action: when Crowley does something, it comes back to bite his occult arse, without fail, every single time. Shut down the cell phone network? Great, can't call Aziraphale. Make yourself look good to Hell? By golly, Hell is going to give you all the sweet assignments. (From their POV, anyway.) Turn a freeway into a demonic sigil? Whoops, it's on fire when you need to cross it, and also a lot of people are dead. Moreover, not only does the universe keep pointing this out to Crowley, but so do the other characters. In S1e1 alone, Hastur, Aziraphale, and SATAN FOR CRYING OUT LOUD all call him out on the whiny "why me?!" business, and Hell does it again in "The Resurrectionists." ("Off my head on laudanum. Not responsible for my actions!" HELL: Oh honey, no.) Arguably, "why me?" is the /one/ question to which Crowley gets a definitive answer, and he consistently refuses to listen to or learn anything from it.

Gaiman's very deliberate decision to prolong and inflate this aspect of Crowley's character is fascinating, because the Nuremberg Defense moment in the novel is there to put an /end/ to it. I keep harping on the Nuremberg Defense issue because in 1990, that was /topical/, not historical: at the time of publication, the most recent high-profile example of someone Nuremberg Defensing himself out of Nazi-era war crimes was Kurt Waldheim /in 1986/. Pratchett's and Gaiman's point in the novel is that Crowley's--and, more so than in the series, Aziraphale's--refusal to take responsibility for what they've done as Hell's and Heaven's agents leads inexorably to them thinking like, you guessed it, Nazi-era war criminals. But as of the end of S2, Crowley has still not come around to the moral epiphany about this that in the novel, Aziraphale has /first./ Instead, Gaiman's substitute for the Nuremberg Defense, the child murder subplot in S1, is averted in such a way that Crowley doesn't learn anything from it.

Further to the point that @robinwithay and others who responded made, you know who did learn something from the child murder subplot? Aziraphale. I said in an earlier ask that in S1, Aziraphale's own failure in the subplot is that he winds up deferring to Crowley's judgment, despite his own clear discomfort, because he cannot turn to Heaven for moral authority. "You can't kill kids" is not represented as a divine or infernal universal mandate--it's a /human/ mandate that transcends both. (That's entirely in keeping with the point, made in both the book and the series, that humans are capable of both far greater good than angels and far greater evil than demons.) In S2, Aziraphale does what he /should have done/ in S1, and says "no" to Crowley's proposal that Gabriel just be abandoned somewhere. I think people sometimes forget that Crowley, for all that he asks questions and nudges Aziraphale along out of his allegiance to the Heavenly party line, is not the series' moral arbiter. Aziraphale knows that Gabriel is facing "something terrible" and is not sure whether or not he's still "awful," but he does what S2 itself shows by the end to be the right thing. Doing the right thing sometimes means telling Crowley "no" and sticking to that no, just as, in S1, the moment Aziraphale hits on the right question to ask at the airfield, he moves /away/ from Crowley to stand with Adam.

good afternoon LWA!!!💕

okay so i feel some frank warning is due for anyone else reading my reply, especially if you're new around these here parts: what follows beneath the cut is going to be crowley-critical. it's not meant in bad faith, but recognising character shortcomings is important for all characters involved. there is (quite rightly) a lot of critique in relation to aziraphale in the fandom, and this is not in ignorance or denial of that - there are certainly points where aziraphale's actions throughout both seasons are called out, and i agree with a number of them - but a) that's not what im talking about here, that's a different post, and b) similar analysis of crowley is (as far as ive seen personally in the months ive been active) not as common - hence the post. if that's not your bag, fair enough, but take heed!!!✨

can't believe a fandom-specific cw for this is necessary but. here we are

(because i get asked this a fair amount - AWCW: Angel Who Crowley Was) (and just now recognising the grammatical error in this, ah well we move)

the part of crowley's character that does not accept consequences, and seemingly refuses to learn from them, is one of the most intriguing for me. as well as all of the instances that you've listed, this is something that we see as being so inherent to him that it even predates the fall; it's not a trait that is specific to crowley-as-a-demon, but to crowley-as-crowley. for all of the understandable reasons that AWCW felt he should ask questions, should challenge why his hard work and creativity was going to be put to waste as if it were nothing, he outright dismissed aziraphale's frankly prophetic advice that directly delivering criticism to the almighty, even if meant with the best of intentions, might spell for trouble... might even spell for AWCW's own personal ruin.

slightly unrelated, but another note: the mindset of, "if i were in charge", however much it might have been meant offhandedly or innocently, even connotes an incredible amount of hubris that, whilst not wholly condemnable in itself, gives an interesting insight into how crowley views himself from before the fall and going into present day.

AWCW's questions may come from a place of innocence and collaboration, and may speak to how much trust he placed in god/heaven to hear his questions with patience and understanding, but it still remains highly likely that he dismisses aziraphale's warning. and the reason he ignores it, most likely, is because it is not what he wants to hear, nor does it (in his eyes) benefit him to exercise caution. one could go a step further and suggest that this indicates a fatal "crowley knows best" mentality, which the rest of the two seasons doesn't exactly negate. and look - that's fine, ignoring advice is hardly an indictable offence, but if what you're doing goes to shit? that is on you.

shifting into speculation-mode in the absence of any confirmed account of the fall itself, we can presume that AWCW's questions fall on deaf/reticent/dismissive ears, and that will just as likely have left AWCW with a sense of frustration and resentment. i continue to be a really hopeful advocate of AWCW having had a lucifer-parallel narrative; that after what was essentially a dismissal, he may have precipitated (at least) the inception of the fall by way of knowingly or unknowingly planting the seeds of rebellion amongst the eventual-fallen... e.g. "they're not treating us fairly, all of our effort will be for nothing, all in service and deference to 'human beings', i tried to speak to god about it but they won't even hear me out."

i don't think he will have led the rebellion, that doesn't quite seem appropriate to his character, but certainly that he may have sparked the initial machinations, and then - by furfur's account - participated in the war. this, again, would fall in line with crowley's ongoing tumultuous relationship with consequences-borne-from-his-actions.

crowley's unreliable narratorship of his own fall is, by definition, untrustworthy, and as such it's not a given that he was unimpeachable in any participation of it. "i didn't mean to fall" would definitely suggest that it was not his intention, but if we return to the Dead Whale Theory, this is a dead whale that crowley has failed to fully accept, or learn from. he seems - when we consider how he inhabits the role of god (as he sees that role to be, anyway) in how he treats his plants in s1 and the goats in s2 - to be very much of the opinion that he is entirely innocent of any wrongdoing.

and in some respect, he's not wrong - asking questions is not a bad thing, it's a very good thing, and his willingness to do so is one of crowley's greatest assets - but his refusal to heed advice in favour of his own agenda, refusal to accept the answers given even (especially?) when he doesn't like them, to have potentially sparked dissent that led to a war (which he fought in), and his lack of accountability for the results, is where he falls down. im not going to go so far as to call it narcissistic behaviour, that feels a bit extreme, but there are... similarities. he doesn't learn from the whole fiasco in any manner that would indicate self-reflection, and instead seems to have walked away from the fall with his clear-cut conclusion that heaven was wrong, and are in fact The Bad Guys.

certainly, GO proposes that heaven isn't the traditional definition of truth, light, and good that aziraphale hopes that it is intrinsically... but crowley still hasn't reached the point of understanding the rest of what the narrative is saying.

heaven and hell are not always good and bad respectively, but they are not always bad and good respectively either. it's not a simple, 'we're turning this on its head' concept. it is altogether a veeeery grey system that simply exists, and it exists in the way that it always has done since the fall (possibly even before, in heaven's case). it is instead your choice whether or not to be part of that system, if you do not think it is right. if you continue be a part of that system, even if there are stakes involved that would make it difficult or compelling for you to remain and act within that system, you should at least recognise the consequences of your actions, accepting your part in it. this goes for all angels and demons, not just aziraphale and crowley. 'just following orders' may be understandable in some circumstances (e.g. threat to life of yourself or others), but does that mean that you are absolved of all responsibility?

we are, collectively, quick to point out that aziraphale has not fully learnt this, but it's clear that crowley has not either. it also suggests by extension that aziraphale is not always wrong, just as crowley is not always right. where actions-and-consequences are concerned, i'd tentatively wager that aziraphale at least demonstrates a bit more understanding of this than crowley does. aziraphale has been shown to recognise when he is wrong, accept it, and make efforts to correct himself or remedy his erroneous actions moving forward. aziraphale hides the antichrist's location from crowley and holds out hope for a higher power to see reason/do the right thing, but when aziraphale gets the confirmation that heaven isn't going to do the right thing by stopping the apocalypse, the first thing he does is call crowley to tell him about adam. you also then have, as you said, aziraphale physically and figuratively moving to stand with humanity; good and bad are just names for sides, and 'human incarnate' equally embraces both concepts (in their truest meaning) and yet similarly rises above both. this is the side to back; 'our side', to aziraphale, doesn't mean just him and crowley, but humanity too.

alternatively (really grinding at the fall thing here, sorry), even if AWCW did not willfully participate in any goings-on of the rebellion, and the fact that he fell was an incident in which he was blamelessly implicated/scapegoated... well, even then, that does not give him a free-pass for him to continuously believe that he is innocent in all matters that follow. sure, he may have been blameless in the fall, but does that mean he's therefore beyond reproach or above accountability for... everything he does/says that occurs afterwards?

setting up the perfect environment for armageddon? tempting aziraphale to kill the antichrist? giving a group of humans live firearms in order to make a point? abandoning aziraphale and retracting 'our side' when aziraphale asked him for help with hiding gabriel? withholding information from aziraphale that directly concerns him and his safety? i said it in a separate post (mainly because it would have made this one a really ungodly length), but my point remains the same; regardless of his part or not-part in the fall, crowley's character does not develop in this arena, despite incredibly formative experiences that might in fact impart an important lesson upon him*.

*and that lesson - again! - is not that he shouldn't ask questions, but instead that his actions may prove to have consequences that he does not like or want, but must accept anyway, taking accountability for his part in them.

not changing does not mean that he is perfect from (before) the beginning, but instead suggests that he is very comfortable being the same person that he's always been... and in some ways, it's commendable to remain true to oneself, but it's equally not conducive to growth... and crowley still has a lot of growing to do (he has grown since s1: his kindness for one thing absolutely has!).

crowley does not seem to recognise where his lack/refusal of development may have contributed to the breakdown in his and aziraphale's relationship by the end of s2, even if that lack/refusal is not directly referenced in the final fifteen. by this i mean: crowley appears to have a very clear expectation of how he believes aziraphale does - and perhaps should - think and behave. crowley, to crowley's mind, he has the right of it ("crowley knows best"), and that includes him thinking that aziraphale will act in the way he has come to expect as a result of his influence on him. crowley has poked and prodded aziraphale away from heaven's rhetoric and dogma* about what good and right is, which aziraphale desperately needed... but does that mean that aziraphale should replace that belief system with Morality According To Crowley? instead of developing his own ...exactly as aziraphale demonstrates in the final fifteen?

when aziraphale doesn't do what crowley thinks he ought to, instead of crowley considering that his perspective of aziraphale may not actually be reality, he takes it as a betrayal and a rejection of crowley himself. though we won't really know until s3 (and possibly not even then) what crowley was really thinking during the final fifteen, it isn't too impossible a notion that crowley now thinks that aziraphale has chosen heaven over him, and loves heaven more than him. which... after everything that he has seen aziraphale go through, battle, and come to terms with, does he truly think that little of him? that aziraphale would think that little of crowley? if he does, that's an incredibly sad and disappointing prospect. perhaps bold of me to say, but sometimes it seems that there are some specific similarities between crowley and heaven in how they individually view and treat aziraphale.

*whilst crowley encouraging aziraphale to think outside of heaven is a good thing, and aziraphale definitely needs it, it does elicit out a couple of concerning traits from them both that, whilst may be borne from respective senses of powerlessness, they manifest onto each other.

crowley has a hero/saviour complex, which aziraphale encourages. aziraphale encourages it - by his own admission - because he thinks it makes crowley happy. however, what is not clear is whether aziraphale recognises that in allowing this, not only does it potentially suggest that crowley benefits from perceiving aziraphale as incapable of protecting himself, and any ability to protect himself (or indeed crowley! 1941!) threatens what crowley thinks is his place in aziraphale's existence, but also that aziraphale himself is projecting what he doesn't get from heaven/god onto crowley.

it similarly isn't clear whether crowley realises that not only he has been - in part - substituted for god/heaven in aziraphale's eyes because he provides the love, acceptance and confirmation of worth that aziraphale has craved since time immemorial, but also that in keeping information from aziraphale that directly concerns him, crowley is nurturing an environment where aziraphale will make decisions according to the limited information he has. we even have a suggestion of this in the final fifteen: to aziraphale's mind, it won't be crowley that protected him from heaven's threat of erasure from the BOL (ie. crowley didn't tell him), it was the metatron. (and if aziraphale finds out about/puts together, in s3, the sheer amount and scale of information that crowley kept from him, there is going to be the hard conversation of whether trust between them can exist as it has before, built over thousands of years).

just as crowley has an arguably skewed perception of aziraphale, aziraphale has a skewed perception of him in return (the levels of codependency are off the charts, lads). it's not a unique observation to say that they both need this break in order to renegotiate within themselves how they view each other, but it's no less true for being repeated.

[the-common-cowgirl]

The Lost Children -

Part 4

Summary: The group embarked on their mission only to be spotted by two of Brida’s scouts as they crossed into Mercia. A chase ensues and you are injured. Osferth cares for your injury and you both let pent up feelings free. Only, Osferth comes to his senses.

Rating: Mature

Warnings: Mentions of Animal Death, Blood, Injury, Fluff, Angst, Kissing, period typical slut shaming, religious guilt, mentions of arousal, heavy petting.

Word Count: 3.5K

“Don’t put that thing near me or I’ll bite it off, so help me G-“

You were cut off with Finan shoving a cloth into your mouth, gagging you.

“You need to be quiet when we mend your leg, girl.” Finan exclaimed with a hushed, hurried tone in the low bank you were in.

Of course you knew you needed to be quiet. Two of Brida’s scouts had spotted the group as you made your way into Mercia. This resulted in a small chase. Your old, bay horse tripped on a tree root in the chase, causing you to go flying from the horse and hurt your leg. The Dane scouts would have caught up to you lying on the ground and captured you if Osferth had not spun his horse around and lifted you into his saddle, successfully escaping the nearing scouts.

And now, you were in a low bank, with a cloth wrapped tightly around your head and through your teeth with Eadith hiking your skirt up so high that Osferth and Sihtric excused themselves for your modesty. Uhtred of course was busy keeping an eye out for the scouts if they should find the group.

A sharp stick was stuck under the skin of your thigh, poking the muscle. Enough so that when Eadith tried to pull it out, you kicked at her with your free leg, missing her by an inch. She must’ve been used to her patients retaliating, you thought between the surges of pain.

“Finan, grab her other leg,” Eadith ordered. As soon as he had hold of your other ankle, Eadith pulled with enough force that had you reeling in pain. Your hands flew on their own to push her off of you; this time you didn’t miss and she landed on her bottom in mud, painting the arse of her dress brown .

Clearly frustrated, “Go get someone to hold her hands too,” she barked at Finan who obeyed without hesitation, quickly jogging to where the men were. In little time, he came back with Osferth who had his eyes downcast, trying not to look at your exposed legs that neither Eadith or Finan seemed to give a second thought about. “Sit behind her and hold her arms tight.”

Osferth began to object behind you but Eadith shut him down immediately, “She is loosing a great deal of blood and she somehow has enough energy to keep fighting us.” Eadith’s lack of patience had Osferth obeying her order without objections this time. You felt Osferth move behind you to sit and he gently brought your hands behind your back as a cool sweat started to form on your brow and your gaze started to go hazy.

His soft grip felt comforting around your wrists but as Eadith tried again to pull the stick, your hands flew free of his hold and you tried to shove her again, this time, Osferth’s forearm reached around your front and pulled you flush against him. “Sorry,” he muttered - you were unsure if he was speaking to you or Eadith for lacking at his task.

Eadith had grown frustrated. “I cannot try many more times before the stick is too slick with blood to pull! Osferth, hold her tightly. Do not let her go. Same for you Finan.” Then her eyes turned on you, “For Heavens sake girl, stop resisting help.”

Your vision was darkening and you felt a strong hold on your wrists behind you, painfully so. It distracted you momentarily from the pain of the stick wedged into your thigh being ripped from your body. Every touch felt delayed or distant and you were vaguely aware of a muffled scream then it being cut short by a hand over your mouth. You head spun as the world tumbled forward and the last thing you heard was Osferth saying, “It’s okay. It’s okay. I’ve got you.”

The world went black.

Your eyes felt heavy and a dull ache throbbed in your head as you were jolted awake. Slowly opening your eyes, you were met by a dimmed sky. Slowly realizing you were in the back of a covered wagon laying in the softest bed of furs you had ever slept on. Lifting your head took great effort due to the absence of your energy but when you did, you saw the back of Osferth’s head. As if he knew you were awake, he looked back at you and a smile broke across his face. He pulled the horse up to a halt and shouted for the group to do the same as he moved from the seat to the back of the wagon where you lay.

“How are you feeling?” He asked and took your hand, absentmindedly feeling for a stronger pulse but the action had your heart fluttering just a bit at how concerned he was for you.

“Heavy,” you replied as your head unceremoniously fell back into the soft furs. His thumb now brushed against your wrist gingerly. “Where did you get a wagon?”

“Sold your horse for meat to a nearby village to get the wagon.” Your eyebrows furrowed together in sadness as you looked at him. He gave a sorrowful look, “I’m sorry. I thought you didn’t care for the beast.”

“He was a good mount, he didn’t deserve death.” You were surprised at how your heart betrayed you and began to mourn for the old, ugly gelding.

“He was worse off than you after the fall. He welcomed death like an old friend after the pain he was in.” Osferth’s words made you feel better, knowing the bay was given a merciful death.

“He broke his leg?”

“Aye, lady.”

“Osferth, if I ever hurt myself so badly, make sure you give me a merciful death as well.” Your words were soft and true, he knew you weren’t speaking with sarcasm or anger like your normally did. You seemed too weak for that.

Your eyes were growing heavy again as you felt the wagon rock a little and Eadith’s voice, “She awoke?” Your eyes now closed but you knew Osferth nodded.

“She’ll make it then. She’s past the worst of it.” Eadith reassured him.

Sleep was beginning to embrace you again, despite its return, you were keenly aware of Osferth’s soothing thumb over your pulse.

“What about her fever,” he asked, quietly as if not to stir you.

Eadith was silent for a while before she answered him. “You’re a man of God, Osferth, pray.”

When you awoke again, the air was cool and there was no light but a flickering fire some distance away. You realized you had woken to the wagon shaking, someone was climbing in but you were too tired to care.

Your eyes found Osferth’s and he looked startled that you were awake but the shock soon faded as a smile spread across his face. You returned a weak smirk and you could almost see his heart flip.

“I - uh- brought you some stew.” He moved with a bowl and sat with his legs crossed beside your head. Setting the bowl down on the even wooden surface of the wagon that did not make up your soft bedding, he moved to help you prop yourself up. As you did so, your leg throbbed with a dull, burning pain and your head pounded. You could hear the group at the fire some distance away but could not see them due to the privacy the covered wagon offered.

Osferth smiled and grabbed the bowl., dipping the wooden spoon into the stew and gently blowing on it to make sure it wouldn’t burn you. The action was tender, sweet, foreign. You offered him a weak smile and he brought the spoon to you lips. As you slowly sipped the stew, you grew uncomfortable at the action of someone else feeding you, making you nearly lose your appetite. Once the first spoonful was gone and Osferth went in for a second scoop, you stopped him.

“I think I can feed myself,” you said trying to hide your discomfort.

Osferth furrowed his brows, “Are you sure? I can-“

“Yes,” you cut him off, “I’m certain of it.” You said with a little too much finality to be pleasant.

Osferth dropped his smirk a little and offered the bowl and spoon to your weakened hands. Feeding yourself took a bit more care as you were greatly reduced in strength, but you felt more comfortable this way.

Once you finished, you felt incredibly full and offered the bowl and utensil back to Osferth. “Did you like it?” He asked with a proud expression on his face.

You nodded, “Yes.” You willed yourself to be pleasant despite feeling as though you might vomit from how uncomfortably full your stomach felt.

“I made it.” He admitted with a smile, “I used to make it back in the monastery and the brothers devoured it.”

“Back in the nunnery, I was barred from the kitchens.” You admitted to him with a laugh as your stomach was easing down. You were grateful to share a similarity in your upbringing that wasn’t a sour memory.

Osferth laughed, “But why?”

“The sisters believed I was a cook of the devil for everything I cooked, somehow burned.” You laughed at the memory and Osferth laughed with you. It was a warming feeling; to feel humor again.

“So what were your chores at the nunnery?” He kept his bright eyes on you joyfully, simply happy that you were happy.

You huffed a short laugh through your nose, “To stay out of the way.” You both giggled at that. Once you recollected yourself, “Or gathering. I’m quite a good gatherer,” you admitted with pride.

Osferth raised his brows, “Oh really? Did you acquire that skill whilst doing your first chore?”

You tilted your head at his joke and eyed him in disbelief, “Did Osferth make a jest?” You both laughed. Once the laughing died down, you two just stared at each other in bliss, happy to be in the other’s company.

Then, a wave of realization washed over Osferth abruptly, and he shifted in sitting position. “Uh I forgot, I need to,” he stammered, suddenly uncomfortable, “Eadith is-“ he began, “Lady Eadith is busy. She asked me to,” he tripped over his words. “Lady Eadith asked me to clean your wound tonight.”

You gave a short chuckle at the reason for his sudden change in demeanor. “What must you do to it?” You asked, trying to sound like Osferth hiking up your skirt did not excite you.

Osferth began to blush. “Clean the would with a wetted rag and pour this over it,” he produced a small bottle of what you assumed was strong ale from a pouch that hung on his hip.

You nodded and reached for the hem of your now patched skirt. Osferth’s hand came to yours mid-grasp. “Wait, I’ll do it. I have to go get the rag wet in the river below.”

You nodded and Osferth left quickly. Your heart beat wildly at what was about to happen. You didn’t care about the prospect of pain from cleaning, just the mere thought that Osferth was going to see you immodestly had a light sweat breaking out over your body.

When he returned, you were still propped up, nervously biting your nail. Osferth settled next to your leg without a word, water droplets running between his slender fingers and down the bony knuckles of his hand. “May I?” He asked, bringing you from your trance.

“Yes,” you replied, not knowing what you agreed to let him do but knowing you’d most likely let Osferth do anything to you he so desired. You could almost hear the nuns that raised you calling you a harlot but you didn’t care in the wake of Osferth’s light touch at your ankle.

Osferth grasped the hem of your skirt and lifted your dress, keeping a hand on your other covered leg to protect your modesty and only reveal to him what he needed to see in order to clean your wound, nothing else. He rested the raised skirt on the bone of your hip and just below your undergarments. You kept his gaze trained on your wound; definitely not on your long, slender legs you were, for some reason, bending at the knee ever-so-slightly.

The wet rag moved against your wound and you sucking in a sharp breath. Osferth looked at you in terror, horrified that he hurt you more.

When the stinging subsided, you let out an uncomfortable, strained laugh, “Have you been doing this when I’ve been asleep? Not used to me being in pain?”

He shook his head, running the rag along your wound again gently, “No, Lady Eadith has been tending to you. This was the first time I was asked.” He moved the rag against you again, causing you to tense once more.

You let your head fall back, not wanting to look at the swollen pink wound anymore that you knew was infected from the discolored ooze Osferth was wiping away.

“That should do it,” Osferth announced to himself after some time of the cold rag gently caressing your wound. You heard the bottle uncork and prepared yourself for the worst of it. You remembered helping tend to wounds in the nunnery, when the alcohol was poured over the infected wounds, the girls would scream.

I will not scream, you told yourself, I am stronger than they were.

“This might hurt,” Osferth warned. Suddenly, the cold of the liquid touched your wound and you began to let out a squeal that had Osferth putting his hand over your mouth to silence you.

When it was over and the stinging subsided, he released his hand. “I’m sorry,” he apologized softly, “We are in Dane Land. We need to be quiet.”

You scoffed, “Tell the ones around the fire that.” You could still hear some of them talking even at this distance away. You pulled yourself back up to sit against the wagon sideboards.

Osferth bristled at your returning unpleasant attitude but did not say anything. He turned to set the bottle of strong ale at the front of the wagon. When his face found yours again briefly, then his cheeks turned the color of roses and he would not meet your eye, looking down to his hands.

Suddenly you realized your skirt was still hiked up to fully expose your injured leg and the tiniest glider at your undergarment. You began to chuckle at Osferth’s discomfort.

“Have you never seen a naked woman before Osferth?” You pulled your skirt down to cover yourself and he finally met your eye.

“What sins I have committed do not matter for it’s your innocence I am trying to protect.” He looked down to his hands again, they were clasped together.

Now he made you blush and you were glad he was not looking at you to see it. You liked the feeling his words gave you deep in your stomach, so you chased this feeling. “Who is to say I am innocent?” You smirked playfully.

Osferth slowly raised his brilliant blue eyes to connect with yours, eyeing you almost like a predator to find your jest hidden within your face but you were rather good at composing your lies. “Have you been with a man?” His voice was deeper, quieter, softer. You watched his tongue dance behind his teeth as he waited for your response.

Your lungs stopped working for what felt like a lifetime before you could collect yourself. Something about his aura, the way he asked you had you in a trance, you couldn’t lie now even if you wanted to. “No,” you breathed out, “I grew up in a nunnery. There wasn’t a chance.”

Osferth returned his vision to his hands once more, as he fiddled with a loose thread on his clothes. He seemed to be deep in thought. You wondered what he was thinking about in this moment. You longed to get inside his mind and pick it, to know if he imagined you under him. The mere thought of such an act gave way to an uncomfortable want at the apex of your thighs and you decided to do as you always did: not hold back.

“What are you thinking about?”

He met your eyes, and again, he had a deep look of desire in his blue eyes. He took in a quick breath. “I do not wish to tell you what I was - am thinking.” He looked down again, “I should repent.”

“You were thinking of me?” Your voice was soft like a gentle breeze through a field of wildflowers on a warm summer morning. Osferth considered in that moment you might be a living, breathing, walking siren for how you could sound so sweet when he knew you were anything but.

He met your eyes and nodded. “Tis not right,” he breathed, “Not fair to you.” Somehow he was closer to you than before. Who was leaning in? Neither of you could tell.

“I don’t care what’s right or wrong,” you whispered, running your hand up his leather armor and grasping the top of it, gently pulling him toward you, though, there was no resistance. “I want you,” was the last thing you said before your lips crashed on his.

He resisted at first, like the God-fearing monk he was taught to be, like the friend of Uhtred he was, like the caretaker he vowed to be to you, but as all pleasures of the flesh he had partaken in before, he decided he would repent afterward in order to taste salvation on the lips of a devil first.

You had never kissed anyone but you had seen it done between Eadith and Finan and the couples in Winchester. You had practiced on your pillow, and you wanted him, desperately. To say your first kiss was good was an understatement. With your novice lips working with Osferth’s expert lips, you felt like you may have met your God.

He pulled away from you but barely, enough to feel his heavy breath against your own. His eyes were heavy, his mouth hanging agape. “I’ve wanted you for so long,” he admitted.

“I’ve wanted you too,” you blushed, closing the small gap between your hungry mouths again and kissing Osferth with the fever of a rabid dog. He returned the want, the need tenfold and gently, but greedily, placed a large hand on your stomach, another around the bottom of your back and slid you down into a laying position.

He now hovered atop of your body, his large frame covering your own like a cloak of protection. Kneeling beside your body, one of his hands found purchase at the base of your head in your tender hairs and cradled you so that your head was tipped back and neck exposed. Slowly, he worked down your jaw to your neck, kissing and licking against your pulse.

An unfamiliar feeling of tight heat was building in your core and you moved your legs to gather friction against the mounting pressure at the apex of your thighs. When you did so, pain from your wound shot through your body and you let out a small whimper. It was enough for Osferth to stop his pursuit in the taste of your pulse.

He pulled back and you tried to grab his armor, pulling him back but he grasped your hands and shoved them away. “I’m sorry,” he stammered, “This is not right.”

Frustration bubbled up in your throat at his denial, “This is the only thing that’s ever felt right in my life!” You whined, sitting up, angry tears threatening to spill. You sat facing Osferth, propped against the sideboards of the wagon.

Osferth shook his head, “Not everything is about you.” Anger was hidden in his quick words.

You narrowed your eyes, “How could this not be about me? This would have been my first time if you would not have stopped.”

Osferth met your eyes defiantly, “Exactly. I cannot take your innocence! I am not your husband, I am not important enough in your life to do so.”

You rolled your eyes, “If I ask you to take me, then you are.”

He shook his head, jaw clenched hard, “No. That should be reserved for someone more special than me” He met your eye and for the first time in your time knowing him, you saw anger in his eyes, “Do not tempt me again. I will not forgive you if you cause me to sin in such a great way.”

With that, he stood and left angrily, the wagon rocking as he hopped out and away from you, leaving you along in the covered wagon, feeling denied, filthy and shamed.

Taglist: @godrakin @tssf-imagines @brianochka @victoriagaunt @fan-goddess

Let me know if you’d like to be added to the taglist!

[chanshoesunite]

"Go harder for round two?"

Content info: YN and Chan have just fucked, but why not go harder for round two?

Word count: 1K

Warnings: dirty talk, the sex is a bit on the rougher side maybe idk

You lie there, on your stomach, basking in post-coital bliss. Chan and you have just had a very enjoyable tumble in the sheets; a playful little tussle during laundry folding turned less playful and more heated, and now here you are, naked, the late spring afternoon sun falling through the window, tickling your bare back.

Chan returns from discarding the condom and slips under the covers next to you. Immediately, his lips find your shoulder blades as he presses soft kisses to your skin. You giggle into the pillow, enjoying his gentle ministrations.

He continues to kiss you, his hand tenderly stroking your side, his touch light as a feather against your sensitive skin. You could doze off, and you almost do, because the rhythm of his strokes is so calming, and you have just had an orgasm, and the sun is so nice and warm…

Chan lets his hand slide across your arse and between your legs. You open your eyes in surprise as you feel him slide two fingers into your still-wet pussy. “Channie?” you ask, because you hadn’t expected this. The mood was sleepy, comfy, relaxed just a minute ago, and now, you wonder why you thought that – clearly, your cunt wants more, it delights in the way Chan is slowly fingering you.

He shifts his weight, and he is above you, his front pressed against your back, and now you feel it – he is hard. Very much so. You moan involuntarily, and he bites your neck. “I was thinking,” he rasps, his voice rough with want, “I feel like for round two, we can go a bit harder.”

“Go harder for round two?” you breathe, because that sounds overwhelming and incredible at the same time.

“You don’t have to do anything,” he says as he grabs your hips and lifts them so he can push a pillow under them. “You just have to lie there and take it like a good girl.” He spreads your legs a bit wider, showing you exactly what he means – he’ll do all the work. “How does that sound?”

You glance back at him and smile. “Why are you not inside me already?”

His eyes darken, and an evil little smile curls up the corners of his mouth. “Oh, sorry, I didn’t know my little slut was even more eager to be filled than I was to fuck her.”

You begin to say, “Well, clearly, you were wrong about that,” but you cannot finish because with one swift, hard stroke, he is inside you, and the smallest delicious soreness of having just been thoroughly fucked and doing it again so soon takes over your senses. Chan does not wait – you don’t need time for adjusting, you are wet and eager to be taken. And so he does – he pounds you like that’s all you’re good for, and you just lie there, feeling his thick length filling you over and over again, stretching you. Your eyes are screwed shut, your hands curled into the sheets; the angle is so good, the cushion helps him hit your sweet spot with almost every thrust. His hot breath and his grunts against your neck do the rest: Being silent is out of the question – it is the middle of the day, but you can’t help but moan, pant, scream, beg for him to move, to give you more, to fuck you harder. It’s too fucking good, you’re almost sobbing with this assault of pleasure, the way every fibre of your being is focused on your pussy being railed by Chan’s hard cock.

He then shifts his weight onto his one arm, freeing his one hand to put over your mouth. He doesn’t stop fucking you, though. “Shhh, baby,” he growls into your ear. “You’re being so loud, we’ll get kicked out of the building. Everyone can hear you, baby girl, everyone knows I’m fucking you so well. You like that, hm? You like giving me all the control, letting me use your tight little cunt for my pleasure. You like making me feel good, being my little slut. You’re so hot, baby. Come to think of it… I do want everyone to know who’s fucking you this good.” And he takes his hand off your mouth, and he redoubles his efforts, his thrusts become incredibly harder, making the bed squeak. You almost howl at the pleasurable assault and bury your head in the pillow, dead set on keeping quiet. Then –

“Oh no, you won’t.”

Chan is not having it, though; you feel yourself being pulled up onto your knees, your back against his front. He is still thrusting forcefully, but now his hands find your breast and clit, stimulating you even further, making your moans more keening and breathier. “If I want you to come on my cock screaming, you will,” he growls, biting your shoulder and pushing into you relentlessly.

You know it’ll soon be over for you, this is too much, and it only takes a few more well-placed rubs against your clit and you’re coming with a moan that is positively pornographic. Behind you, you can feel Chan shaking with the effort, but he’s a lost cause, too, coming as soon as he can feel you spasm around him. Grabbing your chin, he pulls you in for a messy, wet kiss that swallows most of his groans.

When you both still, he gently pulls out and lays you back down on the bed, once again discarding a used condom before pulling you against his chest. Slowly, both of you catch your breath. He softly kisses your temple. “Was that okay?”

You glance up at him – his dark curls are a sweaty mess, his pupils are dilated, his cheeks are flushed. He looks young and vulnerable and sexy like that, and you’ve never found him more attractive. “Very okay,” you say, kissing his collarbone, clearly underselling the exquisite sex you've just had. “But do I get to nap now?”

Chan chuckles. “You do, baby girl,” he allows, kissing your nose before settling with you under the covers, snuggling closer and closing his eyes.

[bigein]

I hope you do write the explicit scoteng omegaverse because I for one would love to read it!

sorry anon, as befitting my age I was out at the pub this weekend but happy easter and here you go (it ended up more one-shot than pwp and is in need of a proofread but today is my last day off, Godspeed).

---

Alasdair's shoulders are hot under his vest, the grass damp under his knees. He'd shed every layer he could and by mid-morning he was left in his boots, the thick denim he wears in the garden, and the fraying cotton that stretches tight across his chest. The belt at his hips is strapped tight and he tries to focus on that instead of the way his thighs tense and his gloved hands dig into the earth with a shudder like he is cold. It comes in waves, the heat that has him bent and huffing like a beast in the garden, tearing at roots like he wants to tear at himself.

At least the air out here clears his head, away from the unsettled scents of the house and the sharp smell of wood polish. Alasdair would have chosen beeswax but it was Dai charged with the floors and he'd come back from town with a tin can, new brushes and rags. Compromise. They are trying their hands at compromise, and Alasdair is trying, damn the devil, but he is already at his wit's end and today--

He tears harder at the ground and grits his teeth; sweat pools at his back. The grass crushed beneath his weight smells fresh and young; the weeds sharp and the soil rich and clean. The plot behind the house (their house) is little more than a tangle of briars and unkept rows of mint and meadowsweet. It is better than the polish, better than Sean's cider-and-turf and Daffyd's muted amber. They are not so far from the coast that he can't imagine the salt-tang of sea-spray in the air, metallic on his tongue. Today it makes him want to spit on the ground and pant, bite into something sweet until the juice drips down his throat.

He clenches his eyes shut and exhales like it hurts, and, to his great, fucking displeasure, he knows it's Arthur coming down to the garden before he even calls down. "Are those my gloves?"

Damn the devil and damn them all with it.

"Oi!" Arthur's steps stomp down like he is still walking on ship-boards. "I said, are those--"

"They don't fit you right." Alasdair tears at a tangle of roots and feels like a beast.

Arthur had good instincts once, and enough sense to know when to turn tail, but the last century has made him stupid. Stupid and presumptuous. He'd left a lad and came back reckless with it, scenting sweet under the bite of his temper.

"They're mine." He stops where Alasdair dropped his shirt earlier and toes it with his stupid, polished work shoes. Stupid, stubborn, reckless eejit. "What are you doing out here, anyway? You said--"

"--Fuck off back into the house and let me be." Alasdair does not know if it is by grace of his own idiocy or the damp earth that Arthur seems oblivious to the stench of him. He can see the shape of him out of the corner of his eye; the light corduroy of his trousers. Alasdair's left hand twitches where it is buried in the ground, tempted by the give of his thighs and the heat between them.

"What bit your arse today?" Arthur sounds almost too surprised to be angry and Alasdair knows he should have just stalked off himself when the bottom of Arthur's shoe finds his hip, trying to unbalance him from his crouch in retaliation.

He is not being serious with it and some part of Alasdair knows that he must be out here out of some misplaced sense of concern. Otherwise he would have fucked off at the first bark and if he'd been trying to pick up a fight proper he would have come down hollering. Instead he is here, eyebrows furrowed and mouth pursed, hands relaxed by his sides instead of clenched into fists. He has been biting at his nails again, and taking his pick from the laundry hamper like a nesting magpie and Alasdair cannot stand the sight of him, and his scent... He lingers by in the evenings when Alasdair has his whiskey like an old friend. Prattles on about his plans for the garden and what he'll be growing by next spring. Gets underfoot and in the way and on Alasdair's nerves like he means to. His scent is in every corner of the house, strongest in the living room and the kitchen, and the threshold to his room; pressed into the clean bedding because he holds the sheets under his chin when he folds them.

He can tell the moment Arthur catches the scent of rut on him, a flash of shock and sudden heat across his cheekbones. Alasdair already has him by the calf and it only takes a push to get him on the ground.

They grapple. Arthur claws at his vest until he catches skin and then softens, the bite of his nails easing into a tight grip instead. He doesn't want to draw blood, Alasdair thinks, and it makes him feel light-headed to consider why.

He has his full weight on Arthur, one of his knees heavy on the inside of his thigh. He eases up, nudging Arthur's leg around his waist and raising up on his forearms to get a good look at him.

The blush across his cheeks is darker, bleeding down his neck into the high collar of the shirt under the stripped plaid he is wearing. He is breathing hard through his nose, chin tipped back to catch Alasdair's eyes, waiting. Clever thing.

Alasdair is still wearing his gloves, the suede rough and stained. He pulls them off, tossing them carelessly to the side and reaching down to edge up his shirt. He is bare beneath it, ribs rising in time with his breathing. His skin is warm, flushing under his gaze and softest under the swell of his chest, where Alasdair can feel his heartbeat. He flinches when Alasdair thumbs nipple, scenting anxious and aroused.

"You're a sight, like this," Alasdair says and means it. He wants to put him mouth on him, make him sigh.

"And you are..." Arthur squints his eyes, huffs and swallows and lets his head drop back. "I thought you smelled off."

Alasdair thinks of rot and dirt and iron. "Like?"

"Hot," Arthur's throat bobs, the movement strained with his neck stretched out like that. His thighs twitch against Alasdair's sides, like he can't decide whether he'd like to close them. Alasdair can smell the heat of him, stronger now. Maybe he's just squirming. "Yourself or, not yourself just... hot. I thought maybe sick but I didn't think--"

Alasdair shuts him up by pressing his lips to his sternum, has to reach down to fist himself at the first brush of skin against his lips. Arthur doesn't sigh so much as he just hold his breath, holding very still like he's still waiting to see what Alasdair will do next.

He drags it out to see how long he'll last, brushing his lips slowly down, then up again. He breathes warm against Arthur's chest like he is tempting the burn in his lungs until he can't help it himself and his lips leave a path of sucking kisses everywhere he can reach. Arthur bites back a gasp and twitches hard against the press of Alasdair's teeth, hands flying to find his shoulders. He keeps his hands there, like he might throw Alasdair off and knocks his knees against his hips. Alasdair lets go of himself and crowds closer, a hand on Arthur's thigh now, the other on his neck. The shift in weight seems to do something for him and he shivers falling limp again where he'd been tense. Or maybe it is Alasdair lips which find his neck, his jaw, leaving bruises where he can reach.

His hands get rougher and his hips roll down, against the inside of Arthur's thigh who sighs, finally, or maybe moans, the sound drowned out by the grunt of relief deep from Alasdair's chest when he finally gets the friction he needs. His hands find a purchase in Arthur's hair, his thighs, his waist, seemingly unable to hold still and hungry for the give of his flesh. It's Arthur who finally reaches out, first to tear off Alasdair's vest and then tugging at his belt, hissing until Alasdair gives in and helps him undo the buckle.

They both groan, Alasdair in relief and Arthur with a hitch, getting a good look at the thickness of him and thinking there is no way, there is no way--

Alasdair has him on his knees, bare chest to the ground before he can breathe a word, tearing his trousers and getting them halfway down his thighs before he crowds in close again. Arthur's calves are tangled between his and he reaches out with one hand instinctively to scruff him down against the ground. Arthur whines, low and aroused, and holds still.

He's small, Alasdair thinks, blinking stupidly down at the right bonnie sight between his thighs. Alasdair wants to lick him, suck him, finger him loose. He spreads him open with a rough grip and settles for sucking the taste of him off his fingers instead. They'll have time for that later, for all of it. Alasdair will make him sob on his fist before the week is out, will fuck him sore and full and his. Put a bite on him, where everyone will see. He doesn't have the patience now to take his time and he can't, he won't, his knot would--

I'll tear him, Alasdair thinks and he shudders, aroused and balking at the thought at once.

He reaches for his belt instead.

The tail of it whips against the tender edge of Arthur's thigh when he rips it off and he would have apologised if Arthur hadn't pressed his thighs together with a tight moan. If it leaves a mark he'll kiss it better and leave another later, later. He's panting like he's been running miles and needs both hands to do what he's planning, looping his belt around Arthur's tights and pulling the cinch tight enough that it will catch his cock between them like he needs. Arthur gasps and reaches back like it shocks him but he is shaking, wet and aroused and pliable when Alasdair drapes his chest against his back and reaches around to keep his head up with a fist in his hair. His jaw would be too low otherwise and Alasdair wants to kiss him, wants to mouth against his neck and his lips if he can reach them while he thrusts like a beast between his thighs.

"Good, be good," he mouths his praise against his jaw and slaps his thighs against the swell of Arthur's arse. Arthur sobs and fists the grass with one hand, reaching between his legs with the other to rub against Alasdair's cockhead and his, cupping them so they'll rub together and begging like the clever thing he is, already so good for him. Alasdair rewards him with his teeth, wants to eat him whole.

When he comes it's with a shout, one hand desperately reaching down to cinch his belt tighter and milk his knot. They are a mess of cum and slick; they stink of each other and the garden, rubbed filthy with sweat and grass. Arthur comes with a shiver and a sigh, tired and shaking and held up only by the grace of Alasdair's strength. His thighs will bruise.

It is a good thing that it is a warm spring; or warm enough at least that they won't catch their deaths sprawled out in the garden like this, lazy and sated. Alasdair's fingers find Arthur's hair again, kinder this time. He wonders about summer, and whether they can have the plot cleared and tilled before the weather turns.

He's dozing off, thinking about strawberries and counting the weeks till July when a shrill cry from the house startles him bad enough he's almost on his feet, cock wet and trousers stained at the knees, before he recognises Sean's voice.

"Is that me fecking shirt, you goddamned degenerate?!"

Next to him, loose and breathless, Arthur laughs.

[aethernoise]

2. bark

This prompt reminded me to return to a very old WIP idea that I will likely never finish. It may simply be the fic equivalent of writing an angry letter and never sending it - self-care, if anything, in face of grave injustices.

Set in 5.2, inspired by the opening quests of the Sorrows of Werlyt. CW for mild violence.

•

She wanted to spit in his face, but her mouth was dry from anger.

"I don't give a shit about your regrets," she hissed, "They mean nothing to me. They mean nothing to the millions of innocent lives you've taken and the millions more you have ruined forever."

Gaius' face remained stony in the dim light.

"You needn’t list my sins, I know them all full well," he said. "I would never attempt to request your forgiveness, only cooperation--”

"Here is my cooperation, Baelsar," she cut him off. "You are alive at this moment because I will it.”

The corner of his mouth twisted ruefully.

“You would kill an unarmed man in cold blood? It seems we are both a far cry from our former selves.”

“Shut up.” 

"Do it, then, if you must. Say the words, Defender of Eorzea. Prove you're not all bark and no bite. Even if you paint the Royal Palace red with my blood, it will do nothing to stop what is coming."

There was a loud crack and a flash. Gaius grunted and slumped onto the floor. The aether was so loud in Alyx’s ears, she didn’t hear Raubahn’s voice booming down the hall.

“Alyx!”

There was a small singe on the front of Gaius’ coat, leaking a faint smell of burned leather. She remained transfixed on the mark while his chest slowly rose and fell.

“Alyx! Seven hells, what have you done?”

“He’s fine,” she said flatly.

“I cannot say he didn’t have it coming,” Raubahn said with the hint of a chuckle, and Alyx almost gave herself neck strain with the speed she turned to look up at him.

“Nothing compared to what he deserves. He doesn’t even deserve to be here, walking free in our home--” Her fingers clenched, shoulders squared against trembling with anger. “Raubahn, how could you?”

“Do you think I want him here?” His voice was hushed, his enormous shadow tense, black eyes flashing with ferocity. “Do you truly think I welcomed him as a friend with open arms?!”

Alyx had the dim awareness that anyone sane would be completely terrified to be rounded upon by General Aldynn in such a manner, but another awareness reminded her that she could knock him on his arse too if she had to.  

“How am I supposed to know? You certainly looked chummy enough,” she spat, “Standing there next to him like a gods damned diplomat, like he wasn’t the one responsible fo--”

His giant, calloused hand seized her arm. The hold was not ungentle, but the sheer weight of him rooted her to the spot. 

“And what would you have me do?” His voice had lowered to a rumbling growl like an earthquake. “Execute him on sight? Drag him through the streets? He came to us in peace, and with information vital to our survival--”

“And you trusted him!” 

“We have no reason not to.”

“My gods, do you even hear yourself?!”

“We have no choice. I have no choice.” Alyx opened her mouth to disagree, but he continued: “I will not put our borders at further risk out of pride. I cannot afford to refuse help, even from the most hated of sources. If Ala Mhigo is to survive--if Eorzea is to survive--it cannot depend only on you forever, Alyx.”

Her heart hammered in her ears, but she had no rebuttal. The General went on:

"Someday, Rhalgr forbid, you might not be here. What if something were to happen to you? What would become of us? I know full well what you're capable of, but I know you cannot be everywhere at once."

A soft groan from below - Gaius was waking up. As soon as Raubahn's grip slackened enough, Alyx pulled her arm free. 

"Fine. Do what you will." Her voice was low, robbed of much of its former power. "But please, do not ask me to work with him."

Alyx didn't wait for confirmation. Instead she turned to leave before she could regret anything more.

[ficbrish]

Devotion

Rating: Explicit 18+ only!

[AO3 Link]

[Kinktober 2023 prompt thanks to @absurdthirst! October 27th - Wax Play]

[[TW/CW: Blood]]

Summary: Astarion and Vistri devote themselves to one another.

Durge Vistri and Astarion on the night after the graveyard scene, in the Lower City camp church. There are SPOILERS for BG3, Dark Urge, and Astarion under the line!

[Click here for my other Kinktober one-shots]

Astarion could barely articulate himself over his full-chested guffaws, “You are—You are too… Cannot be serious!”

The damp stone of the ruined church crashed with the echo of their voices. Their laughter shouted and bounced between its crumbling walls as if coming from a thousand people, but it was just Astarion with his Vistri.

“It’s true!” she insisted, her voice so full of amusement it went pitchy, “We did!”

Tears were actually streaming down his cheekbones, “Why was I not there?!”

“I don’t know! You were off somewhere.”

“You didn’t wait for me!”

“We couldn’t!” Vistri laughed, “I swear!”

“Then do it again,” Astarion demanded in an even, heated tone. It made them burst apart.

Their cackles smashed crudely across the old stone. Vistri wiped the tears from Astarion’s eyes, her hands shaking with laughter. He grabbed her fingers and kissed them reverently.

“How did you do it?” he asked.

“Shadow,” Vistri collapsed on herself out of hilarity, “Shadowheart and Lae’zel pretended to get into a fight—”

“Pretended?”

“Yes, well, this time.”

“Ah. Do go on.”

“Right. They were shouting over by Wyll, because as you know, Mizora always hangs over by Wyll. Because—”

“Because she’s obsessed with him.”

“Right. Exactly. So,” Vistri broke into giggles again, “So Mizora leaves and—”

“And?” Astarion asked impatiently as Vistri struggled to control herself.

“And when she passed me by! I did a little spell! And… It shoved her stupid, devil panties up her big, blue arse!”

“I hate you!” he howled, laughing.

Vistri was so far gone she collapsed into his chest. If Astarion were to let go now, her face would surely crash into the floor.

“I’m sorry!”

“Without me there!”

“I know!”

“You bitch!”

“I know!”

They sunk to the floor. His knees weakened and his balance collapsed. He fell, and she fell on top of him.

Then there was silence in the church. Only Astarion staring up at Vistri, and Vistri gazing down at Astarion. Their chests danced with heavy breath. He reached up to tuck her little braid behind her ear.

“You are my whole heart,” he whispered.

Vistri shut her eyes, and he reached up to wipe away her tears, “Don’t cry, love.”

She laughed, “It’s so ridiculous! I don’t know why.”

A salty, warm drop landed on Astarion. He let it trickle down his own cheek, leaving a cool trail across his face of her inner life incarnate.

He sat up to hold her better, “Do you have to know?”

Her head shook against his chest.

“That’s all right. Sometimes these things just happen.”

Vistri shut her eyes and found fear woven under layers of her forgotten self. She also found it in Astarion’s care. Somehow those two discoveries were linked, she knew that, but didn’t know what it meant.

Throwing her arms around his neck, clinging like a lost child, she begged him to find her, “I think I might be afraid.”

“Can I tell you a secret, love?”

She nodded and wiped her nose on her arm, for she had no sleeves.

“I’m always afraid.”

He spoke his admittance so close to her trembling lips. She could taste him through his words, and the ache and the void in her both shouted for the salve of him. Vistri leaned in for a kiss. The warmth of it stung her frigid fear.

The moment stilled; they found the stars. His tongue slipped past her lips, and Vistri moaned her acceptance. Now Astarion knew these appetites were truly his, he found himself ravenous.

“Wait,” she interrupted.

“What is it, love?” he asked, his lips lingering on her neck. There was a nasty bite sitting in his fangs with her pulse so near.

“I had a… plan for tonight.”

He nibbled her ear, “Is it a naughty plan?”

Vistri laughed the spikes out of her skin, “A rather silly plan, but one from—Gods!—from the heart.”

Astarion loved when she went all shy, it made her perfect to tease. He chuckled “Please do tell. What does your silly, little plan entail?”

“You’re going to laugh at me.”

“You’ve already made me laugh plenty.”

Vistri rolled her eyes, but she was blushing, “Okay.”

Astarion grinned ridiculously as he helped Vistri to her feet. Her silly, little plan burned inside her pockets. She was discovering so many shades of fear this evening. She thought through this moment so many times it felt casual enough to do for real. Now her thoughts scrambled for a way out, but even with the best excuse, nothing in her wanted to lie to him. Even a tiny deception, after all they’d been through, felt like betraying everything they fostered.

Even at her bravest, Vistri still couldn’t meet his eyes, “I kept something I found in the Shadow-Cursed Lands. I’ve wanted to show you for a while. To share with you...”

Her fist pulled the keepsake from her pocket and stayed shut, “Although, as I warned you, it’s so silly—I just never found the right time.”

A deep breath, and her palm blossomed like a flower; two gold rings sitting at its center.

“…Oh…”

“Please don’t panic!” she said, ignoring her own advice, “I don’t mean it to be that serious.”

Astarion smirked, “Looking to wed me with a delicate veil of blood blooming over my white curls, darling?”

“You’re never going to let that go, are you?”

He shook his head as if the denial was delicious to him, “Never in all my days. I’m just as sure of that as I am of you.”

The impulse to forgive him was blasted away by his sudden outburst of laughter.

“Well, I meant this to be a little serious…”

“No,” he protested, trying his best to regain his composure, “You don’t understand!”

“You said you weren’t going to laugh!”

“I made no such promise, but don’t worry. In a moment, you’ll be laughing too.”

Watching him reach into his pockets, Vistri searched for the punchline. Maybe he was freaked out. Maybe he didn’t understand—

“Turns out, we think quite alike. Eerily similar, really.”

Astarion presented in his palm a different set of rings. Vistri’s mind reeled as a dizzying wave crashed over her.

His confession was shy, even though she’d gone first, “I kept these too. Found them near that Sharran nightmare of a hospital—bleak as it was. Always wanted to show you, but never found the excuse. Until now, you perfect thing.”

Vistri wiped her eyes, scoffing, “Who are we?”

“The kind of people who exchange rings in a church. Apparently,” he giggled.

“Gods, it’s so embarrassing.”

Astarion gathered her face with his free hand and held her close. He kissed the top of her head, feeling her hair on his lips, “Why not be as embarrassing as we can fathom?”

Vistri laughed into his chest, “Okay.”

“So… Uh, what do we do now?”

She cleared her throat, “How about… I’ll give you one of mine, and you’ll give me one of yours. Then we can… Oh, maybe we declare how we feel—Is that dumb? Answer me honest.”

His happiness sang though his eyes, “Every time we reach into our pockets, or look down at our hands, we’ll remember that we belong to each other.”

She almost couldn’t take it when he was this sincere, “Your rings are so much fancier than mine.”

Astarion smiled kindly, “I believe they have a warding bond, so do let me know when you plan to wear it.”

“Wait! But that’s—If I get hurt, then you…?”

“I don’t see how that��s any different. Any scratch on you is a stake through my heart. It’s all the same to me.”

A hard lump thrummed alongside Vistri’s pulse as they fought for occupancy of her throat. There was no space left for sentiments, “Mine don’t do anything special.”

“What made you keep them?”

“They belonged to a local couple—dead now,” she swallowed, “The letters on them… They appeared entirely devoted to one another. A couple of ordinary people, but they—You could just tell they were happy, even though there’s nothing left now but bleached bones.”

“And that made you think of me? Other’s devotions?”

She nodded, ashamed to hear her impulse spoken aloud.

“Then they’re special,” he stated. Astarion had more to say, but the words got caught.

Countless things tugged on her soul, haunted things and resurrected dreams. They crawled out from her arteries like roaches, skittering onto her skin.

“I’m the spawn of a murder god.”

“And I’m the spawn of a vampire lord.”

Vistri shook her head, “You’re your own person now.”

“And I still want to be here. Isn’t that funny?”

“Oh, it’s hilarious.”

That was it, though. Astarion could give his affections freely now his life was his to lead. Bhaal still owned her future, and father didn’t approve. Astarion could dispense promises, but Vistri could only give wishes. It didn’t feel fair; made it harder to take everything in.

“I don’t quite know what living is,” she said, “But I know I want to spend it with you.”

Astarion kissed her, “Put a ring on my finger, love.”

She blinked, recovering from the whirlwind of his kiss, “What should I say?”

“No cheating!” he chided dramatically, “Tell me something you feel and something you promise. I’ll do the same.”

“But I can’t make promises,” she heard herself say.

“And why not?”

“The Urge. It’s still in me.”

“I’d rather be the only dark power inside of you.”

“Astarion!” she giggled.

“What does the Urge have to do with anything? A bit of rope when you feel it coming on, and nobody dies.”

“That’s not the point.”

“Then what is?”

“Could you make promises before Cazador was dead? Really, truly give yourself to anything? Even if you longed for it with your whole heart.”

“Shit.”

“Yes. Exactly.”

Astarion held her tight and thought for a moment. He knew the answer but wanted something different. Even though there was nothing binding in their little theatre, he felt a great sorrow. His freedom didn’t feel the same without hers.

“If you can’t promise, you can’t promise. What else can you do instead?”

Her voice was thick, “I can wish for something. Wishes, I can put my whole heart into.”

He gave the tip of her nose an affectionate peck, “Then we can exchange wishes for now, and save promises for later. Actually—Please allow me one promise. And you don’t even have to return it because you already fulfilled what would be your end of the bargain.”

“…All right.”

“I know-I know it’s bullshit until it happens, but I promise you, you’ll be free of him. As free as I am now. I’ll kill a god if I have to! I don’t know. But I know you won’t be his toy forever, love. And when your life is all yours, on that day, we can make promises together.”

“I think that was three.”

“Vistri.”

“You said one promise.”

He frowned.

“Astarion, I’ll die if I think of it. I can’t hope. I can’t think of it.”

“You won’t die, love, but we can wait if that’s what you want.”

She nodded, “Give me your hand.”

“Oh, right!”

It was like marble, pretty and delicate with a solid strength. His long, pale fingers reminded Vistri of feathers. Art made of nature.

“How I feel about you and a wish?”

“Yes,” he said dryly, “But do make sure it’s only one wish. Otherwise, I’ll come for you.”

Vistri giggled, “I did not come for you!”

Astarion raised his brow, “Really? My mistake.”

“Shush! I’m trying to put together how I feel and you’re teasing me.”

One of his fingers tickled her palm, “Can’t wait to do more than tease you.”

She had to close her eyes and shut him out, or else she wouldn’t make him wait. Vistri knew how she felt, but none of it was in the shape of words. Maybe there was a language out there with some to capture it, but even from the fathomlessness of the Astral Planes, she couldn’t conceive of such a vocabulary existing.

So she settled for her best attempt, “The more you show me, the more I love. Knowing you… Every bit I see, I cherish. You are my favorite thing about the world, and-and I want you. Astarion, I want all of you.”

His tone was warmly strained, “And what do you wish?”

“For our lives to be blended, always. No matter what happens, I wish to never be rid of you.”

Her hands shook as she slipped one of her gold rings onto his finger. After finding which it fit, Vistri lifted it to her lips to bless it.

Emotion clouded his speech, “Thank you. Here let me put the other one on you too.”

They didn’t linger in the moment because they couldn’t. One glance at their matching gilded hands was like a peak at the sun, and their eyes burned from it.

Astarion still had to mark the moment before moving on, “It’s kind of like we’re wearing your heart on our fingers, isn’t it?”

Vistri laughed out of happiness.

“Let’s add mine then, shall we?” he asked, taking hold of her other hand.

“I kept these because I want to protect you. I didn’t tell you about them because I figured you’d never agree. At first. Then I felt too much to give them. Honestly, they’d probably just rot away in a drawer for centuries if you hadn’t brought yours out first. So, thank you for being braver than I. And for being patient with me. And so kind.”

“You taught me how to be all of those things.”

“I was there as you learned along the way. You, my dear, cultivated all that yourself. It’s why I love you so. Or part of why. It’s rather inexplicable actually, which makes the part where I tell you how I feel a bit difficult. How could I possibly capture all of it in the turn of a phrase?”

“Right? It’s so hard!”

“You made it seem so easy,” he giggled, “I’m just so happy that I don’t know what to say. I’m still getting to know what that is, happy, but you’re the one who first introduced it. Actually… That’s my wish. To learn enough that I can tell you. I’ll discover every detail and translate for you; whisper it into your ears every night. That’s what I feel, and that’s what I wish.”

He put the ring on Vistri that would hurt him the next time anyone dared harm her. Astarion would take the hit, even if it were from Bhaal himself. Then she dressed him with the other of the bonded pair. Now they had her heart on one hand and his on the other. Seeing the rings felt the same as when they took each other over his grave once he decided to live again.

“I’m yours now,” Astarion promised.

Vistri threw her arms around his neck, “I was always yours.”

To Astarion, Vistri was the light you see before death, and it brought him back to life. Unreal and bright, like an ideal end to a story; bliss shouted over the blight of his past, and he surrendered to its ebullience. It welled in his eyes, and she kissed it away. He brought her face closer and tasted her mouth before touching her lips. Dissolving self into an ‘us’, they slipped their tongues onto each other, slipped hands under cloth to meet the cool skin underneath.

He picked her up and sat her upon the altar, and possessed, they moaned. Helpless to whatever would happen next, each touch spurred another touch. Every taste only provoked their appetites. Powerless to the miracle of each other, they surrendered to it together.

Astarion leaned forward and crawled to her kiss.

She eagerly gave it, then stole her tongue away to remark, “Good thing our families aren’t here.”

His laughter barked through the church, bouncing down the empty aisles.

Vistri grabbed the front of his shirt to pull him back in, to devour him. He met her with a deep “mmmppphh” that she could feel the buzz of along her teeth. His intoxicating taste was the only thing she ever wanted for the rest of time. Astarion didn’t realize how lucky he was, not having to breathe. Vistri always had to eventually pull away.

“I love you,” slipped out of her so naturally, and used to be so hard to say. It was like taking flight.

Astarion kissed her, over and over, before saying it back.

“I have no gods,” he whispered softly against her jaw, “But I can worship you.”

Vistri yelped from the want that clenched around her like a vice, and she squirmed under his chest.

“I’ll have no sovereign,” she panted, “But I can devote myself to you.”

Astarion smiled so widely it broke their kiss, “You are the most precious thing.”

He stood up and surveyed her with a wild look of affection mixed with lust. Candlelight flickered against the glint in his eye. Then he turned to the long-forgotten, burning votive candles at their side, and told her—

“I have an idea.”

Vistri slipped her tunic off, exposing her back and chest to the cold stone altar.

“I think I like your idea,” she said, having followed the trajectory of his eyes.

“Lie back, darling.”

The candles dripped onto Astarion’s hands before their melted wax met Vistri’s soft stomach. He gritted his teeth and made no sounds. She cried out and laughed heatedly.

A little drop of it on her hip, a button over solid bone. A little stab of a burn that faded fast. As the lightness of pain left her, Astarion caressed her other hip, a gentle tease of his feathery finger. Vistri felt her heart expose itself a bit more with every drop and subsequent caress.

She unraveled as he lowered himself, kneeling. Her belly and hips were decorated with dried wax, and having left a satisfactory painting, Astarion tore her trousers off. Lustily, he trailed his mouth along the inside of her leg. As his touch on her skin cooled in the absence of his tongue, he tipped the dying candle to drip wet heat onto her shivering thigh.

Vistri yelped and Astarion kissed her, slowly, just above the knee.

“Does that hurt, love?”

“A little.”

“Do you like when it hurts?”

Vistri outstretched her arms. She ran her fingers through his hair, tangling herself in it. His fangs scraped along her skin, and she pulled his hair, dragging his face up and down her thigh. Astarion knew his hunger would never best him, but he trembled from the fight.

“I love it when it hurts.

He groaned, a stumble in his control that provided such relief raw emotion escaped it like steam.

Stroking his curls, she begged, “Bite me.”

His armed linked around her thigh like a serpent. Vistri gasped, feeling his teeth pierce the most vulnerable spot, the part prey should never expose to a predator. And he drank her up, sucked her down. Vistri felt the weakness in her head as she gave herself as sacrifice to his ecstasy.

“Take me,” she moaned, rolling her hips; draping her other leg over his shoulder.

He gulped her down with a whimper, then pulled back with a whine. His bloody grin was more warm than devilish. She wanted to see more of it; felt excitement at the prospect of coming days filled with it.

Astarion kissed his bloody bite mark and licked up the mess. Vistri leaned back as his tongue travelled further upwards. When it found her center, he looped his elbows under her knees, and gave it a kiss.

Vistri cried out his name, and the stone shouted it back to them. He felt her nails skate across his scalp and onto his ears. When she grew louder than he knew she wanted to be, Astarion added his fingers to her sweet torment. His sucking and stretching radiated into a beam that made existing in her body something good for once.

“That’s it, love,” he murmured along her folds, “Be a dear and die a little for me.”

Her body took his words as an imperative. The ruined stone around them hadn’t sheltered such praises for decades.

Vistri sat to kiss him with abandon. His hands worked at his tunic, and she helped him out of it. Then off went his breeches and stockings. Naked and trembling, Astarion joined her on the altar. Bodies intertwined; they reached a state of perfection.

Perhaps they were the gods this church was rotting away for.

Vistri rolled out from under him. Straddling him, she looked down and surveyed her beloved. He twitched and shuddered pleasantly as she teased him with a gradual grind of her hips. Hard and unsatisfied, the slow movement against him was equal parts pleasure and torture.

She reached out with a finger to trace his lips, “Whenever I look at you, devotion becomes my favorite word.”

Astarion brought her finger into his mouth, curling the tip of his tongue around it.

“It’s a higher form of love, you see. Most people only give such a thing to gods. It’s when you dedicate yourself, body and soul, to something else. A paladin’s oath. I never wanted to be Bhaal’s chosen, but there isn’t a moment where I don’t wish to be yours.”

He was coming apart underneath her, “Vistri…”

“I love you, and I can’t believe I found you.”

His grip on her thighs tightened enough for her to gasp. He panted, “Take me.”

Doing so all at once, he tore through her like a blade. She needed more, and raised herself for another fall, again and again. Astarion moaned freely under her, not trapped but released; his voice like that of a chanting priest blessing an offering.

Having just feasted on her dragon, god blood, Astarion grew too restless to lie there and take it. He didn’t want to spoil such a splendid sight, but he needed somewhere to put all the power roiling through him. He sat up, embracing her writhing form. Overpowering her rhythm, he wrested control; holding Vistri tight in his lap, rutting into her.

Astarion knew her ecstasy by her breath before he felt her pulse and squeeze around him. Her shouts rumbled under his tongue as he licked her neck. His eyes began to roll back, but he held on to watch her die another few deaths.

“You belong to me now, darling,” he said, “For as long as you wish.”

“I wish it. I wish it.”

“Do you love me?”

“I love you.”

“And who are you devoted to?”

“You, Astarion. Devoted to you.”

“Oh, I know that. Tell me again.”

“Devoted… to yo—Hah—you!”

He flipped her over like a cat with its plaything. On her side a while, then her back.

“Look at me,” he said, and she lost herself. Astarion tumbled into the unknowing with her. Who they were peeled away, leaving only how they felt.

Breath was their last offering to the altar. Reality returned with their clothes, but they brought their fantasy back with them. Their feelings and wishes sat solidly on each other’s fingers and beat life in their chests.

Not wanting to leave the church yet, they sat up against the altar and each other.

“You know,” Astarion remarked, “I thought last night was the best one of my life until tonight.”

Vistri’s muscles were still getting used to smiling so wide, “Every day with you is better than the last.”

He kissed her forehead, “Can’t wait to see tomorrow.”

[Click here for my other Kinktober one-shots]

[cosmictapestry]

A33. lucienne anal

well you see no one requested this. no one wanted this. but i. well i. it's just. um. well i think and i just.

morphienne prompt fill list here

In Lucienne’s opinion, the greatest perk of her lover being the King of Dreams is that he always knows exactly when she’s dreaming of a massage.

She never needs to ask him—he lays her down in the sheets, falls over her back, big hands cool and slick and breath hot on her neck and, inevitably, his hands will work their way to her arse, and they will stay there.

She encourages him enough, soft sighs, back arching to press into him, so perhaps it’s not fair to say that she indulges his fascination.

Tonight he is especially devoted in his worship. While the rest of her tingles, melted from his touch, he kneels astride her knees, strokes and kneads the swells of her arse, spreads her shamelessly wide just to stare. Lucienne cannot claim to be completely unembarrassed. She props herself up on one elbow, and looking over her shoulder she sees him wet his lips. The pad of his thumb teases at her hole and pushes gently. In automatic answer Lucienne lifts her hips higher and his thumb edges in.

Lucienne sighs and dips her head, working back on his thumb, slow and shivering, until she’s bouncing on him. Her lord whispers quiet, stricken praise. He shifts closer, and she feels him hard against the curve of one cheek, hot and dribbling, needy already. “Go ahead, love.”

He mumbles a quiet thank you, which is adorable, and he rubs against her, pressing his cock into plush flesh. He twists his thumb inside her before he draws it out, spreads her wide open again to stare at her, puckered and wet. He moans even before he’s sliding between her cheeks, slow, slippery, his hands squeezing her around him. 

Lucienne continues to rock, stopped only when his hand tightens and pushes her down and keeps her still. Briefly she imagines what she would like him to do and he growls. At the edge of her vision Lucienne watches him sit up higher, sees him take himself in hand with only slight hesitation. He strokes himself loosely, bites his bottom lip and holds his breath and comes, hot and thick and dribbling, nudging at her hole.

Lord Morpheus pulls back, staring, rapt attention, and Lucienne gives him another nudge, arching and grinning for him, encouragement to do as he pleases. His body shivers and he swallows but he doesn’t hesitate now when he runs his fingers through his own spend and pushes it inside of her with two fingers.

Lucienne’s mouth drops open, and her feet kick up instinctually, and he watches her face while he twists his fingers inside of her. They retreat, gather another scoop to shove in, and his eyes drop to watch when he spreads his fingers to see the vivid gape of her body, wet and fluttering. “Lucienne,” he whispers.

Lucienne hums and drops her head to rest her cheek atop her arm. Her voice is admirably steady. “Would you take me like this?”

This snatches his fevered attention. “But you do not—”

“Yes, well, I’ve hardly ever done it,” she insists. “Everything else you do back there feels good, so why not—” and she is cut off by a third finger working past her rim, making her gasp and groan with the strange, exquisite stretch.

“I am thicker than two fingers,” he says by way of explanation, and he presses a smiling kiss to the small of her back when she huffs and snorts. He moves his fingers slow, grinding, kissing his way up her back as he goes. His fingers squelch almost as loudly as he breathes. “It will feel different,” he murmurs between presses of his lips. “Strange.” he pauses for a moment, thoughtfully. “I like it. When I wear this sex.”

“Good to know,” Lucienne slurs, sincerely.

He huffs, embarrassed, somehow. “Yes, I’m sure.” 

For another long few minutes he works her, spreading and straightening those fingers, tracing her rim with his thumb, and it doesn’t feel good, exactly, but it isn’t unpleasant, and the way he whispers to her—I should have put my mouth on you first—keeps her burning. Finally he eases his fingers out, gives her a few more rubs to feel the way her muscles give. 

He repositions, sliding up and pressing himself to her softly. Despite herself, she’s nervous enough that when the head of his cock catches on her sopping rim he makes a tiny sound of disapproval. “Too tense,” he murmurs, and he drapes himself over her back to kiss the nape of her neck. “Relax, Lucienne.”

She is relaxed. Has never been more so in her life, probably. He’s seen to that, seems set to do it again while his hands knead her buttocks up to her waist. “‘M so relaxed,” she slurs. “Just put it in, c’mon.”

He laughs and kisses down the ridges of her spine. “Alright, alright,” she feels him angle himself into the cleft of her arse, thrusting shallowly there, sliding through oil and sweat and spend. “You just need to let me in.”

Lucienne sighs and nuzzles into the pillow, cradling it close to her face. Under the soft rocking motions of his body she lets herself melt that last bit until she’s liquid underneath him. “Good girl,” he kisses her shoulder, and the next drag pushes again at her hole. He reaches down and teases the tip of his cock at her arse, and gently sinks the head into her.

Lucienne had thought to prepare for a certain amount of pain at the moment of penetration, regardless of how thoroughly he��d prepared her. There is no pain at all, as she should have known, only the slightest discomfort at the intensity of the sensation, the give, and then the merciless smooth drag of his cock along some nerve inside of her that sets her twitching, writhing beneath him. “Oh,” Lucienne’s mouth falls open, her entire body trembling, and she turns her face into the pillow, biting it to stifle her wail. 

Her lord stops short, halfway inside, and he breathes heavily on her back, squeezing her hips in his hands to stop her trying to push back into him. “Slowly,” he whispers under great strain. “Easy, there’s no rush.”

Lucienne whines into her pillow and she tries to will her thighs to stop shaking as he draws back, then pushes forward, stroking her inside, sending her eyes rolling. “My lord,” she gasps out. Her fingers are cramping with how tightly they clutch the pillow. Another thrust sinks him deeper, makes her keen and convulse, her body stretching to accommodate him, but only just, so the friction renders her briefly insensate. She garbles something and he stops again and she muffles a curse.

She feels him drop his forehead to her back, cool skin running with sweat, tears searing where they drip. “Tight,” he mumbles. His legs quiver almost as badly as her own. Her body clenches around him and drool gathers in her mouth and she goes rigidly still, vision tilting, while he finally sinks in until she feels his pelvis press to her arse. She’s seeing stars. She’s never felt quite anything like the thick cock buried and twitching in her guts.

Lucienne manages to calm herself, listening to her lord’s ragged breathing, giving into the heat and familiarity of her surroundings, the startling and arresting strike of sensation when he begins to move, dragging back out along that nerve that sends her seizing. She sobs and clutches at his wrist when he sets a hand down beside her head to keep himself steady. “So tight,” he grits, agonized. “You’re so—I’m—”

It takes less than three full thrusts, slower than the crawl of midday, and he is hunching over her, collapsing onto his elbows, teeth to her shoulder, quivering while he tries and fails to keep quiet. She feels his cock jump inside her, feels his full-bodied shudder, but she doesn’t feel the heat of his release, only the surge of wetness between her buttocks when he withdraws to just the tip. “Gods,” he mumbles brokenly, with the quiver of tears. “This is. Intense.”

Lucienne cannot muster wherewithal to do anything but snort at his predicament and grind back in the hopes he will help with hers. “It’s good,” she says, and her voice wheedles high like she’s begging him. “Keep going, please.”

He groans and kisses wetly across her back. “You are trying to destroy me,” he mumbles. Gamely he presses forward, shivering all the while, and she feels his hand skate down her side and slide between her and the bed, spreading wide on her lower belly. “Alright?”

Yes, yes, whatever he’s going to do, it’s all fine with her. She mumbles something that must serve as an answer because in the next moment his cool fingers tuck between her legs and part her slit, spread her wide, rub her firm, squelch obscenely with his come that’s escaped her. Lucienne’s mouth can’t close, the pillow is damp under her, she babbles and curses and writhes in his grip, into the bright grinding friction inside her and the teasing delicacy of his touch.

His body covers hers, presses her down and keeps her pinned, hips rolling languidly, a long keening moan rumbling in his chest, his forehead pressed to the back of her neck, and he stills, puffs a hurt-sounding whimper on her sweaty skin. “Bear with me, please.”

Lucienne coos and lifts a hand behind her to run her fingers through his hair, tangled and damp. “You’re alright,” she slurs, “feels good?” 

And he doesn’t answer, but his fingers keep toying with her, swiping across her clit, briefly hooking under her thigh to spread her further, incapacitate her entirely while he drags out of her, slides up on his knees, drops down on her with snapping, unforgiving speed. 

Lucienne’s eyes roll and her whines die in her throat and she digs her nails into his wrist and he lets her, only sinking his teeth into the back of her neck in response, and she comes, feet kicking and body jerking, trying to buck him off, but he holds her tight and he pounds her until she squeals and only then does he slow down, their bodies still slapping together, sticking and sliding.

Lucienne gasps for breath, muscles clenching and cramping and the relentless ecstacy finally cutting her loose, and she goes entirely limp and buzzing-numb, moaning senselessly. He can’t seem to stop himself from jerking once more and emptying, whimpering so prettily for a man who just fucked her into the mattress.

She strokes his hair again, feels his wet face press to her shoulder, feels him go soft and stay buried inside of her. “I get it now,” she tells him lightly, and he shakes with exhausted laughter. “Are you staying there?”

“I think so,” he mumbles.

[its-actually-minicika]

Hii, I wanted to say that I love your writing and I was extremely happy to see that your requests are open! You deserve all the recognition in the world ❤️ Thank you so much for sharing your talent with us 😭

Could you write Aemond taking both Alys and Y/N as his bedmates as spoils of war? Where the two have a relationship and Aemond becomes a part of it as well. Something sensual and smutty

Again, thank you so much ❤️❤️❤️

Muted Hearts (18+)

Pairing: Alys x Reader x bookcanon!Aemond;

Warnings: very mean Aemond and ANGST, manhandling, very dubious consent from Alys and full-blown non con from the reader;

Word Count: 620;

Author's Note: I cannot do three-ways their justice :") and since this Nonny asked for smutty action that involved Alysmond and the reader to be a happy-esque, credencial throuple, I decided not to write something too long.

This definitely doesn't have a happy ending, and it has potential to be triggering - so please please please proceed with caution?

You loved your Alys. You really did.

And when she told you of her own affection, you tried your hardest to believe her.

“So what? You’re just going to let him do this?”

“What other choice do we even have?”

The hushed whispers of the two old lovers rumbled through their tired throats. Tears of anger seeped her vision, cutting short her broad horizon. When Alys still refused to linger, her voice rose to a contorted scream. “You’re just going to let him bed you?”

Her steps ceased into a halt. The brunette transfixed her with her aching stare, and merely pursed her lips together. “I’m doing this for you – for us.”

“Are you?”

Aemond Targaryen ruined her life when he breached the walls of Harrenhal. And due to his impending lust, her life had never been the same.

Alys, truly, had been smarter – ever the conniving woman, she jumped fast into his bed. Disregarded the years spent in her comely and enwrapping presence, and the promises they had once made.

When the Kinslayer had called upon her, the girl seethed with ablazing rage. She took a hold of the full and hefty wine pouch – the crude excuse Aemond had used, just to draw her closer yet –, and ploddingly ascended the slim and narrow set of stairs, in the steadfast favour of reaching his chambers.

Alys’ elated moans drew narrow blades into her heart. She had reached the wooden door, yet remained enthralled in place. Tears simmered down her cheeks, as choler outrage and futore aggression protruded through her skin and veins.

“Your wine, Your Grace.”

The words which heaved out of her mouth were not her own to recognise. Her eyes closed in vern lividity, as the pair stopped their rasp-long moans – if only for a little bit, the quiet's been a short-lived blessing –, and the Prince Regent’s leaden steps resounded in the quiet room.

Half expecting to surprise him naked – and wholeheartedly precise with that –, her cumbrous neck moved to the side, bringing forth her hair in vision, and blocking the path to his devout discretion.

“I asked for a cup-bearer this evening. Not a girl apt for delivering.”

A sickening swelling of dread smacked her right across the mouth.

“Of course, Your Grace, I’ll go fetch Rickon.”

“The road to him will not be necessary. For we want you to voyeur tonight.”

“I’m afraid I won’t do that.”

“Your Prince commands you.”

“My Prince may well stick his urges in his arse.”

What happened next unravelled fast. He hauled her hair. He dragged her inside. She lost her balance and dropped the wine. Alys rattled out a protesting scream – though she might’ve concocted the latter end part.

“My love,” She hastily spoke, “Forget this dumb girl – come back to me.”

Her extended arms reached out to him, and Aemond’s hold just vaguely loosened.

Gods, how her heart throbbed harder than her head, as she stomached down their sick exchange.

“This one has a mouth to her,” The One-Eyed Prince had hissed unwashed, whilst turning to the sprawling girl with a careless bite laced in his cadent timbre, “My Lady says I shouldn’t punish you.” He hummed quite lax and satisfied, “Yet I cannot just let you off.”

Both women shared a look of panic.

“Touch me now... and I’ll gouge out your one good remaining eye.”

Her own closed up in the expectance of a rough-sent hit. Though that loud slap would never come. Instead, Aemond let out a rumbled laugh, and merely ferried her to the bed’s near edge.

Her hands were tied to the bed’s ebony foot, and a small screech beleft her lips.

“You’ll watch my sweet Lady tonight.” He had grunted with his back all turned, as he pried Alys’ legs in a roughened and effective move.

“Tomorrow I’ll ensure your turn.”

[darklydeliciousdesires]

Light on the Darkside - Chapter Twenty.

Here we are, guys. Time jump time! We now get to see James and Ella as proper (well, as much as our dear James can be, at least!) adults and parents. I really hope you enjoy this next part of the story just as much as you did their early years together :)

Previous chapters - One Two Three Four Five Six Seven Eight Nine Ten Eleven Twelve Thirteen Fourteen Fifteen Sixteen Seventeen Eighteen Nineteen

Tag list - In the comments. Please DM to be added/removed.

Words - 4,336

Warnings - 18+ throughout. Topics cover depression, suicide and eating disorders. Minors DNI!

20th February, 2014. 

He’d blinked and turned forty.  

It honestly felt like five minutes ago when he’d celebrated his twentieth birthday, drunk off his arse in The Gallows, having to be carried out at the end of the night by Steve and Snedders, promptly throwing up all over the latter’s boots. Now, he was twenty years older, probably only marginally wiser, and at a very different stage in his life.  

Most of it was thanks to the woman astride his hips, enjoying riding him into the bed at 5am, the only time either knew they’d get that day before the onslaught of hellions prevented them from partaking of a little husband and wife time. Yes, he and Ella had married ten years before, together for a staggering seventeen in total that coming summer. Seventeen years with his babe. And god, how she still was. 

“Shitting hell, what a top grade way to start my first day being an old bastard,” he panted, reaching to squeeze her tits, Ella licking her top lip seductively with a wink.  

“What kind of wife would I be, if I didn’t give my sexy arsed husband a damn good riding on his birthday?” How much sexier he kept on getting to her adoring eyes, too.  

His hair was still as long and beautiful, his body now ripped with bigger muscles thanks to some serious dedication to the gym. He also sported a larger covering of tattoos with both sleeves now finished, his hands and the sides of his neck adorned, a full back piece and most of his legs covered. Also, he had new additions to his chest that really, really amped his arousal. Especially when his wife tugged them with her teeth.  

Releasing her bite upon one of his nipple piercings, she circled the dark peak with her tongue, driving her hips against him wildly as his thick cock split her wide. While what they once enjoyed once or twice a day was now more realistically once or twice a week or less, depending on life outside of the bedroom, they still burned just as hot for one another as they had in their early twenties. Very, very much so.  

If only their daughters didn’t have quite such a knack of disturbing that burn... 

The thumping of feet preceded her arrival, James’s eyes widening. “You locked the bedroom door, didn’t you?” 

“Yeah,” she panted, moving to his other nipple ring and giving it the kind of tug that had his eyes virtually swivelling, laying a hard smack to her bum. “The tiny beast cannot pass the gates.”  

No, but she could shout from them. Loudly. “Mummy! Mummy! You awake?” 

“Yes, baby cakes. Give me five minutes!” 

“It’ll be more like two if you keep riding me this fucking hard, Ells bells,” her husband panted in whisper, pulling her down to suck upon her nipple. 

“No five minutes! Now!”  

If Freya Kingston was anything, she was very, very demanding. “Go back to bed and wait for me there. Five minutes, promise!” 

“You shitting better, mummy!”  

James almost laughed her off his cock at that, Ella rolling her eyes. Nope, he hadn’t managed to curb his swearing as much as necessary, their three-year-old now picking up on a few of his less than favourable cusses. “Her father’s daughter through and through.” 

“Innit?” he chuckled, kissing her with blistering heat as his hands roamed her back, turning her onto it to begin utterly railing her into the bed. God, the finesse he did it with, though. Sex truly had gotten better over the years, even though it happened much less often. Driving himself into her hard, he smiled down at her, biting her lower lip before their tongues swirled, kisses steeped in sugared embers, Ella’s quiet moans making his heart skip. 

His mouth clasped to hers as the rolling rhythm of his fuck had her cresting against him, the pleasure a blinding neon burst as she shattered like heirloom glass, lying there breathless and sweaty, stroking his mane of incredible hair before her role of mummy had to take precedence.  

With the new extension on the back of their home now complete, it meant the luxury of an en-suite bathroom, something much needed in a house with three children within it. They jumped in the shower together, washing quickly, James out first and drying off before dressing, Ella hurrying into her favourite comfy lounging clothes once she was done. 

“Behave,” she warned, James pulling her flowery lounge pants down to give her bum a quick wallop, still feeling very amped up after their steamy morning session. 

“You love it!” While he went downstairs to put the kettle on and let their two French Bulldogs out, Ella went in to get Freya, finding her youngest emptying one of her drawers.  

“Don’t know what to wear, mummy!” she cried, holding up bundles of tiny clothes with an exasperated look. “Am I princess today, or am I grunge girl today? Who can say!” 

Being Freya’s mummy was a constant stream of pure delight, her youngest by far the most comedic of the three. “How about grunge princess? Nirvana t-shirt and pink jeans?” 

“Yes!” Grabbing a pair of pants as well, Ella hoisted her up, taking her to the bathroom to get washed and her teeth brushed, her long, dark brown hair fought against with a comb and neatly braided into two French plaits either side of her head. Much fussing endured.  

“Wish I had hair like daddy’s!” 

“Everyone wishes they had hair like your daddy has, baby cakes,” she spoke through her mouthful of pink hair elastic, reaching the end of the second plait and securing it. “Come on, then. Let’s get the tiny hell beast fed.” 

“I am not a hell beast! I am chaos of the night, the destroyer of worlds! That’s what daddy calls me!”  

Oh, god. This child.  

Ella and the chaos of the night went downstairs, Freya scrambling down to greet Hugo and Otis, the small yet stacked dogs circling her a few times before she flung herself at James, grabbing his hands and climbing his legs. “Alright, little demoness of darkness. How are the army of the dead this morning?” 

“We ride at dawn!” 

He pointed at the window, where the sun was almost fully up. “It’s dawn now. Better go rouse your troops, innit?”  

“Victory will be mine!” she further shouted, James wincing. 

“Yeah, and your old man here will have perforated eardrums,” he spoke, kissing her cheek. “Right, what do you want to eat?”  

“Burger!” 

“Nah, tiny. You can’t have a burger for breakfast.” Oh, the face he was met with. It was his own in teeny tiny, pissed off female form. 

“Why not?”  

“Shhh, lower your decibels, baba,” he spoke, Freya wriggling around in his grasp, pointing out into the garden. 

“Berries!” 

“It’s winter, none growing,” he reminded her, “but I think there’s some in the fridge.” 

“Blueberries and strawberries.” his wife called, dolling out kibble into the dog’s bowls across the now much bigger kitchen. This seemed to pacify the destroyer of worlds, Freya making her request to have them with yogurt as well, James seating her at the island and furnishing her with a small bowl before going back to his tea. It was quiet for all of ten seconds... 

“Oh daddy! It’s your birthday today! Happy birthday, daddy!” 

“Thank you, your right honourable princess of doom.” Yes, he had many a humorous name for his youngest, and she loved every single one of them.  

“Mummy! Mummy! Can I give daddy hims present now?”  

“Not yet, sweet,” Ella replied, juggling a very hot pitta bread after it had popped up from the toaster, ready to slather it in Marmite. “We’ll do pressies when your sisters are up and daddy is back from the gym.” 

Her other daughters took a while longer to rise of a morning, Zara usually first, Lyra virtually needing a cattle prod to shake her from beneath the covers. She very much followed her dad there, having a deep-rooted love of slumber. True to form, just after she’d kissed James goodbye at 6:10am, Zara came trudging down the stairs.  

“Hi, mummy. Can I have eggs, please?” 

Ella dropped a kiss to her head, stroking her dishevelled mop of dirty blonde hair. Her and Lyra had her exact hair and eye colour, Freya darker and with grey eyes like her daddy. “Scrambled, poached or boiled?”  

“Hmm.” A thoughtful face was made. “Poached, please.” 

Shit. She would say that, Ella’s arch nemesis of all culinary endeavours. Usually she’d task James with it, but with that not possible, she’d have to pay attention. Or cheat. Yes, cheating was preferable.  

“Who’s taking us to school today, you or daddy?” Zara asked, taking a seat at the island while Ella poured some of the boiled water from the kettle into a mug, cracking in the first egg before taking it to the microwave. Forty seconds and boom, one poached egg. Not quite as good as when done the traditional way, but needs must.  

“Daddy is, after he’s dropped your sister at nursery.” 

“What time?” 

“Usual time, quarter past eight.” Zara had to know the details of her day to the very minute, or she became anxious about the littlest of changes. Her routine was very soothing, and she didn’t take well to having it suddenly tampered with.  

Her parents were trying to work in little differing factors to certain situations in order to show her that nothing bad would happen should that routine change, but sadly she’d still have a meltdown over something as innocuous as dinner being switched at the last minute. It was a form of obsessive-compulsive disorder, her ritualistic behaviour, apparently quite common in children and usually something they grew out of. 

Luckily, she showed no other signs of needing such order in her life, her fairly disorderly bedroom testament to that. They’d been told by their GP to keep an eye on it, throw in the occasional curve ball to differ her routine in a gentle way and reinforce that nothing would go wrong because of change, also receiving a lot of advice from someone who had become very close to them over the years. 

“Are we still going to stay at auntie Mary’s on Saturday?” Zara asked. 

“Auntie Mary!” Freya chirped with joy, shovelling in another mouthful of fruit-laden yogurt. She was might have been the wildest of the three, but she never missed her mouth where food was concerned.  

“Yes, baby cakes,” Ella confirmed, placing the second egg down on the toast she’d just buttered, handing them plus cutlery across the island. “Don’t ask me a time, though, because I don’t know just yet.”  

In the years that had passed since Lyra’s birth, Mary had become a treasured part of their lives, ‘auntie’ to their children, and since her retirement four years previously, a very willing babysitter whenever she was needed to be. She was, in short, just as wonderful as she had always been, thinking of James, Ella and their girls as her extended family.  

When Ella had gone into labour two weeks early with Freya, it had been Mary with her for the first few hours, the unexpected labour starting while they’d been enjoying a day out together. Truly, she’d been wonderful, keeping her calm and making for excellent company while James had raced to get a flight home from Sweden, the band in the middle of finishing up a tour.  

Yes, Mary was most certainly as much a part of their family as they were hers.  

With her earlier career years spent working closely with children suffering from mental health issues before moving into caring for young adults, she’d truly been the perfect person to act as a reliable soundboard back when Zara had begun displaying such behaviours a year before.  

Not that Ella wasn’t very capable from her own merits, being a psychologist with eight years under her belt, but Mary still remained her oracle. With all of her children, she’d found Mary to be invaluable where advice was concerned.  

The first born of those children was actually up and in the shower of her own volition by half past seven, which came as a surprise, coming down to give her dad a big hug. 

“Happy birthday, old fart,” she smirked, kissing his cheek and passing him over his gift. 

“Oi, less of that, monster,” he spoke, flicking her on the forehead lightly before carefully opening the very thin gift he’d been presented with. Pulling out the A4 sheet of drawing card, his jaw dropped. “Effing hell! That's awesome! Come here, kid. Give us a hug.” 

Yes, he could filter his predisposition to swear sometimes. Lyra wrapped her arms around him, smiling with pride that he loved the drawing she’d created for him. He’d been mentioning wanting something to fill an empty space upon the back of his leg for some time, his eldest drawing him something truly beautiful to have tattooed. Where art was concerned, Lyra was exceptionally talented. Drawing and music were where she truly excelled, following in her dad’s footsteps and choosing guitar. 

Once his other gifts and cards had been opened, he had just about enough time to blend a protein shake, take the dogs for a quick walk and be back in time to wrangle the girls into his truck and take them to begin their respective days. 

James would never be a people carrier kind of person, choosing instead a Mitsubishi Warrior, of course in black, which dwarfed Ella’s little Jeep on the drive. Hell, it had only been in recent years that they’d been able to afford being a two-car family at all, with how much it had cost them to renovate their home. Both pulled in decent salaries at that point in their lives, though, enjoying reaping the rewards of their hard work.  

Being a musician was something he did more for the love of it than the money, his endeavours within the band netting him on average between twenty-five and thirty thousand a year. Sometimes more, often much less. What earned him the better income was the security firm he now owned and operated, his guys running doors and offering event security around a large portion of the West Midlands area.  

JNK Security had once run out of a leaky portacabin for years in between his long-haul touring stints, his office space now managed from home after having what was virtually a second house grafted onto the back of their existing one. He enjoyed the fact he could be at home when he actually was off tour, helping Ella co-parent their girls since her working space was now run from their house as well.  

While he managed all things security from one room off the kitchen, Ella had a space tailored for her therapy sessions next to it. Her brand of therapy was very much like his now former therapist Michael, wanting to offer a relaxed environment for patients to have their sessions in. The space was very quintessentially Ella, white, light and airy, candles and plants dotted around, and just like Michael, a large sofa she sat upon to chat with her patients informally while assisting with their mental struggles.  

Her speciality? Of course, eating disorders.  

She still did work away from home as well, travelling to various practices on a Monday and Tuesday, running her own clinic from home for the other three days a week, with some Saturday morning sessions too when she could. By the time he arrived back, she was in session with her first patient of the day, James entering his office followed by the dogs, a strong cup of tea in his hand as he sat down to begin his first task of the day. Payroll.  

He’d first thought to pay somebody else to do it for him, but since he had a fairly good aptitude for numbers and using a computer, the payroll software making it even easier, he didn’t see the point when it only took an hour out of his morning around answering calls.  

Between the two, he found a little time for the permanent resident of his office, getting Hel out of her viv and letting her crawl onto his head and over his chest and back. At nineteen, she was an old lady, well into her expected lifespan years of between seventeen and twenty-five. She scared the shit out of his kids, all bar one. Yes, the destroyer of worlds indeed loved the giant, black spider.  

“Right then, beautiful girl,” he spoke, gently lifting her from his chest, “better do some more work and all that.” He returned her to her viv, throwing in a cricket to eat before locking her away (Ella still couldn’t cope if she escaped) and turning back to his desk. 

“Yep, yeah, okay so I’d advise a team of twelve. Four front doors, two rear, two loading bay and four on venue patrol for somewhere that size,” he spoke, on a call to someone who required his services for a one-off music event. “No, the cost is non-negotiable. Okay... yeah, the fourteenth is fine. I’ll send an invoice. Bye.” 

Looking down at where Otis’s potato shaped bulk lay happily on his lap, he gave his massive bat ears a rub. “Always trying to chip me down by a few hundred, innit. Fucking tight arses.” The dog merely yawned and grunted, happily going back to sleep while his dad made a few more calls to arrange who was where that evening. He still went on the doors himself from time to time, usually for old times' sake with Steve, who now worked for him as well whenever he needed a few hours here and there in between his other job of flipping houses with Andrea. 

Just as he had pledged only hours after meeting her, Steve had married her just under seventeen years before. They’d done something utterly insane, eloping to Greta Green after being in a relationship for five months, James and Ella the only people they’d told and invited to the ceremony.  

The couple now had two sons, lived only fifteen minutes away and truly couldn’t be happier. It was on Steve’s advice that he buy the house they now lived in, the abode an absolute steal for what it could have fetched in the town of Atherstone, had it not needed such extensive modernising.  

They’d purchased number three, Thornhill Drive six years ago, Ella virtually ready to pop while pregnant with Zara when they’d moved in, slowly doing it up room by room, the large extension built upon it finishing the work just six months ago. While he continued into the late morning, Ella found a free half an hour to make notes between patients, spending the rest of her time checking her social media accounts and sending a few funny memes to Andrea.  

She had to keep her Instagram on private, save the scores of Nocturnal Descent fans attempting to access her photographs. She tended not to put pictures of her children online unless their faces couldn’t be seen, always mindful of the darker side of the internet. There were, however, plenty of her and her love. One she’d shared recently had made her heart burst, taken on a disposable camera by Andrea while they were still all patients within the confines of Moor Acres. Her caption for it was typical Ella. 

“Me and my church burner, 1997, falling in love.” 

The picture had been taken beneath their tree out on the grounds, her sitting on his lap, both smiling happily at one another. God, she couldn’t get over it, how tiny she’d been back then. As a thirty-nine-year-old woman at a healthy weight of nine stone, she often couldn’t reconcile seeing pictures of herself at twenty-two, just over six and a half stone in that particular picture with James, as being her.  

The ravages of anorexia no longer haunted her, she was pleased to say. Also, James had long been off his antidepressants and no longer in therapy to no ill effects, although he constantly monitored his moods for anything that even slightly fluctuated. Continuing her social media scrolling, she had a peek on the band’s Instagram page, if for nothing else but to see how well received her photographs had been. 

In her spare time, she still loved to get out and about with her camera, her last excursion being granted access to the photographer’s pit at the end of Nocturnal Descent’s UK tour that had rounded up a long stint just three weeks before. James had long been one of her favourite photographic subjects, being as photogenic as he was. Even with corpse paint on and fake blood dripping from his mouth all over his neck and chest. Opening the comments, she had a read through, shaking her head and chuckling softly at some of the spicier reactions to the guys. 

“Good freakin’ god, those rabid fangirls!” 

Once upon a time, she used to tour the message boards to see what was being said about her husband, groupie girls discussing which of the guys were down to fuck, as it was worded. Not because she didn’t trust James, but it was nice to see that her trust was reflected in what he’d say and how he’d act in a room without her in it.  

“If you want to get with Berserker or War, it’s a no-go, unfortunately. They’ll turn you down. Those guys are happily married, trust me. I tried it on with War last time they toured here. He just held up his hand, tapped his wedding ring and said ‘nah, babe. I take that seriously.’ He’s always up for a chat, though. Nice guy, can be quite intimidating but he’s funny and interesting. The only guys in the band you’ll have any chance with are Necro Storm and Fury, maybe Tyrant, depending on whether he’s got a girl or not.” 

“Yeah, I can vouch for that, too. War and his wife don’t live too far from me. I met them at a pub recently and they took a few pictures with me. They’re really nice, but just don’t approach War when he’s with his kids or he’ll tell you to fuck off, so I’ve heard!” 

Those were two from many years before that had stuck out in particular to her. She always welcomed the fans coming up to say hello, unless they ever got a little too friendly with him. Most were very respectful, though, and she was always flattered when they wanted a picture with her as well.  

The only time a line was drawn was when they were with their children, Ella usually being much politer, but the slightly volatile streak in James’s nature decreeing he could often be rude and standoffish. “Nah, I'm with my kids. Fuck off” was what you’d usually have thrown at you if you tried to pester him for a photograph while he was with his daughters. He’d chosen a career which gave him semi-famous status, but they hadn’t.  

Later that night, they were gladly left alone as they sat and ate dinner in the restaurant area of The Queen’s Head, their favourite local pub. Even though his actual birthday outing wasn’t until the weekend, Ella had wanted for them to do something low-key on the actual day itself, joined by her mum and boyfriend, Jon, as well as James’s dad. And his mum. 

Indeed, there had been a change there in his family status. With Carole having passed so many years ago and the damage she’d done put to bed, there was a new woman, one much more deserving who he now fondly referred to as his mother. Alan had met Alice a year after his separation from Carole, the family finding her to be the gentlest, sweetest woman they’d ever met. Since suffering from chronic endometriosis for most of her life, Alice had been unable to have children of her own, and over time had very much grown to see James and Sam as hers.  

She’d surprised them one year at Christmas, with the gifts they’d opened. Adult adoption papers. “Might as well make it official now I’m married to your dad, hmm?” she’d spoken, before receiving a very fast-moving son and daughter into her arms, James and Sam telling her that they didn’t need it, but were thrilled all the same. To them, she was mum, with or without the official paperwork proving such.  

And god, how proud she was of them. Carole had never once been to see Nocturnal Descent play live; Alice made it her priority when they toured. One of Ella’s favourite pictures from the last tour had been of James leaning from the stage, a sweaty, corpse paint-streaked mess, sticking a bloodied tongue out at Alice as she’d guffawed laughing. Ella had captioned it perfectly. 

“War and mother War.”  

“That’s my son!” the bubbly, vivacious blonde had shouted proudly to anyone who’d listen, beaming as she watched from the photographer’s pit with Ella. It was all he’d ever wanted, a mum who was proud of him. Alice was exactly that. 

Even though neither James’s sister or Ella’s could make it, both Sam and Jane working away, they still had a fantastic night together as a family, getting home in time to get the kids ready for bed, one last day of school before the weekend was upon them.  

“So, Mrs. K,” James spoke, plonking himself down on the sofa and lying with his head in her lap. “Are we partying like it’s nineteen ninety-seven on Saturday, or what? I feel a top-grade time coming on.” 

She beamed, leaning to kiss him. “We’d bleedin’ better be, BFG!”  

While a lot of things had changed for them, some remained the same, and they still loved to go out and have a good time whenever they could. Saturday would be no different.  

[charmstwit]

Feels like I'm /really/ testing your generosity at this point but- a drabble of Lionkingstar post sex, Regulus' knot up Sirius and King looking at them like Wow this is divine (or whatever you think his thoughts would be)? Pretty please thank you!! 🥺

Kingsley kicks his shoes off when he walks through the front door. Kreacher takes them and his robes with a Master Kingsley.

“Kreacher, where is Regulus?” Kingsley asks. “Is he already sitting down to dinner?”

“No, sir,” Kreacher says. “Master Sirius arrived about an hour ago, and Master Regulus asked me to hold dinner until he was done. If Master Kingsley would like to eat now, I can prepare a plate?”

“No, thank you, Kreacher,” Kingsley turns toward their playroom where he knows he’ll find the brothers. “I’ll check on them first.”

Kingsley rolls the sleeves on his dress shirt as he walks toward the door. He wonders what he’ll find. What sort of moods are his Little Prince and his omega in tonight? Perhaps they’re on the bed, simply devouring each other. Or, perhaps, Sirius is strapped down to the breeding bench with Regulus filling his arse. Maybe Sirius put Regulus on his knees tonight, filling his mouth until his lips and cheeks are flushed red. Or–

He opens the door before his mind can come up with another scenario, instead taking in the real one in front of him. Regulus is fully dressed, slacks and a dress shirt, though his feet are bare. His shirt hangs open to his naval, his chest and stomach covered with blooming bruises from Sirius’s lips. Sirius, on the other hand, is naked except for the cage around his cock and the ties around his ankles and wrists that hold him to the X-frame. And, of course, except for the tattoos and red welts matching the size of the whip in Regulus’s hand that are decorating his body. They must have been at it for a while given the glaze in Sirius’s eyes and the sweat on Regulus’s brow.

Kingsley walks up to Regulus, who turns to him. “King, my pet showed up for dinner.”

“I see that,” Kingsely says, accepting the kiss Regulus leans up to give him. “It seems that you’ve made a meal of him instead.”

“Quite,” Regulus says. He holds his hand out, offering the whip. “Would you like a turn? He’s great for stress relief.”

“No,” Kingsley says. “Have your fun. I want to watch.” He kisses Regulus again, one hand on his jaw, and feels him smile into it. Instead of retreating to the couch, he approaches Sirius, who has steely grey eyes fixed dozily on him. “Little Omega, you look like you’ve gotten yourself into quite a situation.”

“Yes, Alpha.”

Kingsley cups his chin, running the pad of his thumb down his full lower lip until it pulls open and flops back. “May I kiss you.”

“If Maître permits it, yes, sir.”

Kingsley glances back at Regulus, who has his own dazed expression as he watches his two lovers together. “Baby?” Kingsley asks, and Regulus’s attention snaps to him. “May I kiss your omega?”

“Ye–” Regulus coughs, clears his throat. “Yes, you may, King.”

Kingsley turns back to him, claiming Sirius’s mouth in a harsh kiss. He doesn’t fight it, letting Kingsley deepen it, lick into his mouth. Kingsley takes his time exploring before he releases him again. “You taste of Regulus,” Kingsley says.

“Yes, Alpha.”

“Good,” Kingsely says, kissing him softly again.

He retreats then, finding his way to the long leather sofa that sits in front of the X-frame. Kingsley settles into the corner of the sofa, loosening his trousers enough to pull his own cock out.

Kingsley idly strokes himself as he watches Regulus work over his brother. He delivers sharp cracks of the whip to Sirius’s thighs, arse, stomach and arms, letting the bite of the whip sting him, then soothing it with his own hand coated in delicate magic. Sirius cannot take his eyes off of Regulus, such complete and eternal devotion contained in them. Sirius would jump off a cliff if Regulus asked him to right now, not that Regulus would ever ask. He would rather throw himself off than ask Sirius to.

Regulus grips the cage over Sirius’s cock roughly, pulling a whimper from his lips, and Kingsley considers what an unusual pair they are. Utterly besotted with each other, and finally at a place where they can admit their feelings, where they can act upon them. Kingsley knows that he is fortunate to be part of this. He’s not under any mistaken impression of his place here. He is here because they allow him to be. If Regulus were any other alpha, if Sirius were any other omega, they would demand each other’s undivided attention, and he would be, at best, left outside.

“Color, mon chien?”

Sirius inhales a ragged breath. “Green. So, so green.”

“Good.” Regulus flicks his wand, and the bindings on Sirius’s arms and legs release. “Are you prepared to show me how grateful you are?”

“Yes,” Sirius replies.

It earns him a smack on the thigh, and he jumps for it. “Try that again,” Regulus says, his voice deep and dangerous.

“Y-yes, sir!” Sirius replies. “I’m sorry, sir.”

“Make it up to me,” Regulus says. “Get on your hands and knees and crawl to King. Kiss his feet and beg his permission to suck his cock. You may only do so once he says okay.”

Sirius sinks to his knees and begins to crawl across the space, his hips swaying slightly, the little minx. Kingsley glances up to see Regulus roll his eyes, fondly exasperated. With a flick of his wand, a buzzing fills the air, and Kingsley realizes the plug he didn’t know was in Sirius’s arse has just started buzzing.

“Keep moving, pet,” Regulus says. “If you want that cage off before I fuck you, you had better make Kingsley come quickly.”

“Y-yes, Maître.” Sirius resumes crawling, this time without the jaunty sway.

Regulus disappears somewhere behind him, but Kingsley watches Sirius as he reaches his feet. He bends low to the ground, knees together and arse pointed up, and kisses the tops of Kingsley’s feet. “Alpha, may I please suck your cock?”

“Mmm,” Kingsley hedges. “I don’t know you don’t seem like you particularly want to.”

“Oh, Alpha, I do,” Sirius says. “I want to suck you off very much. I want to taste your come on my tongue. Please, sir, I want to make you feel good. I can make you feel good with my mouth, yes? May I, please?”

“You’re so pretty when you beg,” Kingsley says. “Alright, go on then. You may have my cock.”

Sirius crosses his hands neatly behind his back, as Regulus has trained him to do, and takes Kingsley’s cock without using his hands. Kingsley groans, sinking into the hot heat of his mouth. Sirius works his way down Kingsley’s cock, swallowing until Kingsley is lodged in his throat.

Regulus sits on the arm of the sofa, leaning against Kingsley’s shoulder. “He looks good on your cock,” Regulus says, and he hands Kingsley a sniffer of merfolk brandy.

“He does,” Kingsley says, taking a sip. “You look better.”

“Obviously,” Regulus says. He grabs Kingsley’s cup and takes a drink. “How was your day?”

“Long. Exhausting,” Kingsley says. He threads his fingers into Sirius’s hair, pushing his head lower on Kingsley’s cock. “Better now.”

“Good, I’m glad we could be of service.” Regulus passes Kingsley the glass, then tilts his face up to kiss him with a finger under his chin. As they kiss Regulus flicks his wand, and the buzzing noise gets louder.

[salllzy]

Prompt: "Sold, to the gentleman in red!"

Ohhh, remember back when Alastor had to make Charlie learn to do her taxes and warned her about demons purposefully letting debt build so they could eventually force her to hand over her soul? That could happen. Hell it could happen before Alastor goes to the Hotel or even before the interview and he hears about it first and arranges for her to be transfered to his ownership in a auction. Charlie would not have access to any of her powers or do anything contrary to her owners wellbeing.

Alastor and Sarah could take turns at the Yandere Angel Bond Wheel for once instead of Lucifer or Charlie.

Alastor, disguising Charlie to look like a deer sinner so no one suspects she's the missing princess.

With the power of Charlie's Soul would he even need to hide Sarah's existence anymore? Or could he just show up to a Overlord Meeting for the first time since his sabbatical with two daughters in tow (or three daughters if he grabs Vaggie the Fallen Angel in the deal too) and a immense Lucifer tier power boost they could all sense from across the room?

Lucifer, meanwhile elsewhere: in a rubber duck coma, utterly clueless.

Hi duckie, First thanks for dropping by. Now while this would be a good idea, there are several reasons as to why it wouldn't be possible. Neither Sarah nor Alastor know much about their angelic heritage and depending on the story? They outright shun it, in changes they SM, Alastor doesn't hide Sarah per se, it is more along the lines of if they find out? Good for them. She has been out and about in Hell for a long time, she is friends with Stolas and Octavia calls her aunt. So it isn't as if she is hiding, her job? Yes. But as a whole? She isn't. It is assumed by Hell, that Alastor dislikes children and doesn't have any. Which has come to bite them in the arse. In order for an angelic bond to be created, it needs to be natural, and Charlie having her soul owned by Alastor or even Sarah? Wouldn't allow the bond to form naturally, instead it would twist and warp until it began to consume Charlie. She would either end up insane or dead. This is why in both Changes and Hidden in the shadows, Lucifer needs both Sarah and Alastor willing to bond with him. Flocks and bonds cannot be forced. They can be nurtured, cared for and loved. But never forced. Otherwise, there are some serious consequences. Your idea has a lot of merit, but sadly it wouldn't work with the way that I have set things up. However, that being said, thank you. You dropped by and asked, but that doesn't mean that I will discard the idea entirely.

With some tweaking I should be able to come up with another variation of the idea, that will work with what I already have sorted in the angel Alastor universe. Thanks, duckie. The Duck Overlord.