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koorminii · 2 years ago

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COLLEGESLUTS.COM — IDEA 686 | HHJ

Part one of the CSC series. You can find this series’ masterpost here. This can be read as a stand-alone, but you may have questions that will be answered in future installations. Keep in mind this is the intro.

There are three things you hate more than anything: 1. Your english Lit. professor, 2. Frat parties, and last but most definitely not least, 3. CollegeSluts.com and their founders. There are three things Hyunjin hates more than anything: 1. College, 2. Back alley blowjobs, and 3. The frustrating desire to fuck you silly.

PAIRING: hyunjin x f!reader

GENRE: enemies to lovers; smut; crack; angst; college au

WC: 17k…. fear me! (also broke my record!!)

WARNINGS: reader is going through it and will continue to go through it. there’s no development for them at all in this installment i apologize (😭) reader calls skz sex-crazed demons, she’s very confused but not irrational, there’s not many warnings besides for the smut— profanity, alcohol consumption, mentions of alcoholism, annoying characters, insanely inexperienced reader, bet making, one-sided hatred, hyunjin wants to figure you out & thank god for that otherwise this series wouldn’t exist, sexual tension bottled up as hate bc yn is stupid. virgin/corruption kink, loss of virginity, overstimulation, dirty talking, unprotected sex…, creampie, fingering, pussy eating, teasing, breast play, and i think that’s it…

A/N: hi angels, i finished this in three days somehow and even though i didn’t plan on this being my post for 400, we hit it recently so this is it! and it’s fitting since a lot of people are waiting for this series <3 I hope you enjoy the first installment, feel free to share your thoughts in the comments, my ask box, or in a reblog! & lmk if you want to be added to the taglist for this fic or my permanent one which is linked below! i hate writing the introduction to a fic and if you feel like this entire one-shot is pointless i promise it’s not 😭 there’s a lot of drama to come soon but i had to establish some things first!

i managed to make a playlist for this series! please enjoy 👩🏾‍💻

mlist; taglist; navi; | ⇦ previous | next ⇨

There are three things you hate more than anything.

Your english lit. professor

Frat parties

last, but most definitely not least, collegesluts. com and it’s founders.

It’s the literal bane of your existence, the reason why it’s so hard for you to sleep at night, and the one thing that makes your skin itch even more than the fuzzy sweaters your grandma knits every winter season.

Maybe if the creator of the site wasn’t such a douchebag, and maybe if the site users weren’t even worse, you wouldn’t abhor it as much as you did. But that’s a lot of maybes— ones that create a reality much different than your own and don’t make you feel much better.

You were first introduced to the hellsite in your second year of college— only made a year before. After you found out, age twenty hanging high over your head and no longer a fresh face in the school system, you’d tried and failed to get it shut down. Multiple times.

Happy, carefree people, would just ignore its existence— get on with their life, allow people to be college sluts in peace, but you couldn’t do that. Only you saw it for what it was, right? A sex site for college-goers to ruin their lives before it even started. Everyone else was too blissed out, a hand shoved in their pants every night as they watched their classmates fuck each other without fail. Only you could really see—

“Hello, can you hear!?”

Your eyebrows furrow at the voice behind you and your shoulders tighten when a finger pokes harshly at your skin.

“What?” You groan, rubbing the section of your arm that was unjustly abused. “Can you just be nice like a normal person?”

“Well, you’re an asshole so why would I be nice to you?”

“Fuck off Seungmin. What do you want?”

The only thing that betrays the fact that he heard you at all is the laugh that echoes behind you. Your chest tightens in response, and you fold your arms over your chest.

Kim Seungmin. A close fourth on your list of things you hate more than anything else. He was one of the users on the-site-that-must-not-be-named. A platinum member actually, a fact that always made your skin burn even in the coldest of weather. He was even friends with the site creators, and you wouldn’t doubt he had a hand in making it completely. He’d never been shy in supporting his use of the site, because nowadays regular cam sites were somehow uncool. He even had shirts with the college sluts logo in big, bold, letters. He was a part of one of the things you couldn’t stand. A big part of it even, but you ignored all that so you could call him your best— and one of your only— friends.

Kim Seungmin is first on the things you love, and that automatically removes him from the list of things you hate. When an arm slings itself across your shoulders you barely react, simply steering you both in the direction of your first class. It’s too early to deal with your best friend, and especially his toothy remarks and sarcasm, but you don’t say so and simply allow him to talk your ear off while you concern yourself with more important things.

Things like Hwang Hyunjin and Christopher Bang. The admins of College Sluts and the cause of the twitch in your brow. Sometimes the amount of hatred you felt for the two amazed you. To others, they were college boys— hotter than most, smart, talented, promiscuous. They had a good personality, a future, and were people a lot of other people got along with (and their other friends but you won’t get into that lest you pop a vessel).

To you, it’s agree to disagree. In short, they’ve got everyone totally fooled. Only sex-crazed low lifes actually managed to create a porn site. It’s one thing to think of it, sprawled around their dorm rooms knocked off their ass and barely sober, but it’s another thing to actually do it— work hard on it, execute such ideas— it’s completely baffling to you. How can no one see how perverted that is? You don’t even know what to call it, but the fire that erupts in your gut is enough to tell you that it’s bad.

There’s a bunch of girls and guys crowding around them, laughing and hugging and touching. Touching as if they were in the privacy of their home and not outside where others could see. It makes your chest heat up, and makes weird maggots swallow up your stomach, leaving a tingly feeling in its wake. You hate it. They’re demons. Sex-crazed demons.

“God, I’m starting to think you’re like anti-sex or something.”

You grunt.

“Literally we’re just walking by and you look like you’re contemplating murder.”

You hum.

“Jesus,” Seungmin sighs, shaking his head before waving over at his friends. More like his sinner acquaintances. Don’t get it wrong, you’re not overly religious or particularly shameful— despite how you might seem— but it’s something about that entire group (Seungmin sometimes included) that makes you feel like breaking something. Choking something? Crying? Screaming? You’re not sure anymore.

When you catch Hyunjin’s eye he smirks and you frown. Just the sight of him is enough to make your head hurt and your knees weak. At least, that makes sense to you. The rest of the student body? Not so much.

You hoist your bag up on your shoulder and tear your gaze away from him. Your building isn’t much farther and if you squint really hard you can pretend you don’t see Hyunjin approaching from the corner of your eye. It’s a hot day and when he sidles up to you, shoulders almost touching, it gets much hotter.

“Hey,” he greets, slapping palms with Seungmin and holding one down low for you. Your hand hesitates, almost greeting him in return before you slap his arm and send a glare his way.

“Bye,” you grit, turning your head away from him and grabbing at Seungmin’s arm. “I have somewhere to be.”

“Loosen up!” He calls, his long legs easily catching up to your fast pace. “I just wanted to say hi to my favorite girl.”

Your breath stutters the tiniest bit but you ignore it, not bothering to grant that remark an answer. Hyunjin is flirty. Too flirty. Stupid flirty. The kind of flirty that gets girls like you all riled up even when you’re supposed to be hating him, even when you’re supposed to curse the very ground he walks on, and it just makes the dreadful maggots in your system start up their annoying fluttering.

Seungmin doesn’t say anything, even when your grip on his arm tightens at a painful rate. You will your heart to stop beating so damn hard and for your entire body to stop reacting so easily to him. You don’t even know him so why does he hold so much influence over you? Someone like him? Someone who spends their time and their intelligence on a haphazard college porn site? No. No way.

“What do you want, Hyunjin?”

The devil with the long brown hair, and soft cheeks, and cute dimples takes the chance to lean close to your ear, making sure you hear whatever it is he has to say.

“Don’t be too mad at me, bug. I just wanted to tell you that you look gorgeous today.” Hyunjin pats your cheek, smiling before he leans away, turning back the way he came.

“See you later.”

And that’s that. The sex demon comes to set your cheeks ablaze and leaves once he’s done, letting you deal with your muddled feelings on your own. Once you start walking again, ignoring the stare boring into your cheeks and the confusing pounding of your heart, there’s only three words on your mind.

Fuck Hwang Hyunjin.

There are three things Hyunjin hates more than anything:

1. College

2. Back alley blowjobs

3. The frustratingly clear desire he has to fuck you silly.

Hyunjin isn’t sure when he realized it exactly. He doesn’t even know why he reacts to you so strongly. If you were anyone else he probably wouldn’t give you a second glance. He’s sure of it. Maybe it’s the desire to want something you can’t have, or the fact that you aren’t groveling at his feet.

It’s not like Hyunjin has any idea of why exactly you’re so hellbent on hating his guts, nor does he really care all that much. So you don’t like College Sluts, that’s your right as is anyone else’s, but it’s not like he’s shoving the damn shit in your face. He minds his business, manages his porn site, and does it all with a smile on his face. You, though? It’s a miracle he’s seen you smile once. And that was when he wasn’t paying attention and knocked into someone carrying a full tray of food.

Chan laughs at him all the time and so does Minho, wondering if he has some weird kink for wanting people who clearly don’t want him back, but more and more he’s thinking that isn’t the case. He’s always been bold, always been a bit flirty even when he wasn’t trying, and he knows he’s easy on the eyes. It’s not a secret, but your reaction to him isn’t one of disdain or clear attraction, but rather confusion, and that confuses him.

He flips the mic in his hands, switching between cradling it and flinging it every which way. The speakers of the karaoke system effectively drag him from his thoughts as the music gets louder and Jisung spins Felix around on their makeshift stage. Whoops and hollers echo from around them, the rest of their friends cheering at the performance in front of them. Hyunjin can’t bring himself to laugh even as a smile threatens to take hold of his features.

“Yo, what’s up with you?” Jisung plops down beside him, slinging an arm around Hyunjin's shoulders as puffs of breath leave his lips. “You’ve been sitting here brooding. What’s going on?”

“I don’t brood,” Hyunjin argues, though he maneuvers his body so he can tell Jisung exactly what has him brooding. “It’s just— I’m still thinking about Y/n.”

“Bro.”

“It doesn’t seem weird to you?”

“Weird that she’s just not interested? This is a new low, Hyunjin. Not everyone is gonna be attracted to you—”

“I know, but that’s not what I’m saying. Doesn’t her whole attitude towards us seem a bit excessive? All over a website.”

“It’s not your typical website.”

“Sung, it’s probably one of the safest porn sites out there because of how exclusive it is. No one but students here can get on it.”

“Does she know that?”

“That’s my point,” Hyunjin sighs, running a hand through his hair before starting again. “If she doesn’t even know the full details of the site, how can she possibly hate it? Hate us?”

Jisung pauses, looking back towards the stage. It’s true that all eight of them have thought about this at least once. They know there’s people who hate the website, who steer clear of it in all instances, but none who have made petitions and gone to the superintendent requesting an audience about it. No one who’s actively been so hateful to them specifically, refusing to look in their direction unless it’s to send a glare their way.

“Maybe there's another reason?” Jisung offers, sending Hyunjin a sideways glance. “I mean, maybe she just hates porn.”

Hyunjin snorts at that. How can anyone hate porn?

“You’re laughing but I’m dead serious. Has she ever even had a partner?”

“How the fuck would I know?”

“You think about her 24/7. I wouldn't be surprised if you knew what she ate for breakfast.”

“Not fucking funny.”

Jisung barks out a laugh, falling over into Hyunjin’s space. “Don’t worry, you’ll get over it soon.”

Hyunjin isn’t so sure but he nods anyway, allowing Jisung to go back to the stage for the next song. Hyunjin knocks back his drink, throat constricting barely at the bitter taste. He doesn’t care. He really doesn’t, but there’s something weird about your behavior and he’s more than determined to figure it out. Maybe he needs to just mind his business but fuck that, he thinks, no one is gonna hate him for no reason. Maybe he’s a little too riled up at that, maybe Jisung is right and this is a new low. Maybe he just really can’t deal with rejection well. Maybe.

Minho’s screeching into the mic does it’s hardest to ruin Hyunjin’s night, but the way the rest of his friends tackle him and attempt to steal the mic just makes him laugh, leaving a warm feeling in his chest. This is all he needs— his friends and a good drink to put a smile on his face. And the college porn site he worked very hard on, of course.

The group only gets through a few more songs before they decide to leave, deciding to ignore the fact that some of them have classes in six hours or that they’ll be nursing a bad headache for the entirety of it. Hyunjin is one of them. He laughs along with his friends as they walk, and he watches them from where he stands in the back.

Jisung has his phone out and is making a concerned face, typing furiously on the device. Either they’re having technical issues or his girlfriend is getting on his ass once again. Minho has an arm slung around his shoulders, laughing at whatever it is he’s typing and whoever it is that’s typing back. Next to them Felix and Jeongin have joined hands and Felix swings them back and forth, giggling as he does. Jeongin pretends he doesn’t like it, like usual, but Hyunjin notices the hint of a smile on his face. He always notices.

Chan and Changbin are quiet on either side of him, walking in the tranquil quiet that’s always rare for their group. It feels incomplete— Hyunjin wishes Seungmin could’ve come. He doesn’t know how the boy manages to be friends with the creators of the CSC and also be friends with its #1 hater. Maybe he’s selling secrets, telling you everything about the site, all its loopholes and glitches. Maybe he’s working against them now, coming up with a plan to shut them down once and for all, though Hyunjin doesn’t know if that’s possible.

Right after those thoughts trickle into his mind, he thinks about Seungmin wearing the handmade “merch” for the site, and doesn’t entertain them any longer. It would be ridiculous— even for him— to think that someone who repped college sluts like it was their brand would ever work even harder to tear it away.

The knot in his throat that’s been squeezing at his airways since earlier that night relaxes just a little. He’s never actually said this to anyone, but just as much as he thinks about why you hate him, he thinks about whether Seungmin will hate him too; about if he’ll lose a friend due to reasons he’s not even sure of. As much as he thinks about why you hate him so badly, he thinks about why he doesn’t hate you right back. He wonders why he— instead of wanting nothing to do with you— wants to know everything about you. Why he wants to understand you when you’ve made no effort to understand him, or worse, made up your own mind about who he is without even attempting to entertain the idea that maybe you’re wrong.

Hyunjin has lived his whole life suffering from other people's ideas of him, from their expectations that they held with no prior consultation with him, from the perfect picture of him in their minds that didn’t correlate with the real Hyunjin. He’s had his fair share of wondering, thinking, wanting. And it’s disappointing to see how even after all this time, since childhood, nothing has changed. He’s always wanted what he’s not allowed to have, but it’s not for lack of trying.

They don’t arrive at their frat house quick enough. As soon as the door opens into the building Hyunjin feels like falling asleep on the couch. It wouldn’t be the first time, but he’s also not sure what last happened on that couch. Between spilled drinks and sex that was too rushed to even make it to a bedroom he’d rather take his chances on an actual bed. Chan doesn’t bother to turn the lights on when he comes in, and the seven of them shuffle around each other, spilling into the living room or into the kitchen to grab drinks and snacks as if they didn’t just come back from eating.

Hyunjin knows he’s been distant all night but he can’t be bothered to care as he sends a quick good night his friends’ way and makes his way upstairs. The house holds eight other boys besides them and he’s surprised none of them are downstairs or hanging around even at the late hour. Though, Hyunjin reasons, most of them have girlfriends and the few others that don’t are seniors and probably pull all-nighters in the library or some shit.

Hyunjin doesn’t want to think about that. The year only started back up again a few months ago, he doesn’t need to be thinking about work anymore than he already does. He makes a good living even without a real job, so he’s taking shit day by day. It’s not like anyone else is much different. Most of his seniors are cramming because they were so carefree. Hyunjin doesn’t think about the implications of that either.

The softness of his bed is long overdue and his body sinks into the plush bedding. He strips off his shirt and pants, not bothering to make his way to a shower or put pajamas on or do anything really. He has five hours before he needs to wake back up and this is nothing if not a power nap that won’t help him get through any lectures the next day. Or, later that day rather.

Hyunjin doesn’t concern himself with that though, because there’s only one thing that’s on his mind when he falls asleep and when he wakes up, and that’s what he’s going to say to you tomorrow morning in the first class of the day.

The first thing you manage to think of when you wake up is how best you’re going to ignore Hyunjin today. You’ve been brainstorming, wondering which response will humble him the best, maybe make him speechless for long enough that you can get away. If only those getaways could last forever, you sigh, pulling a fitted tee over your head. It’s low-cut, makes your cleavage pop just a little bit more, and you add a necklace for that exact reason.

You’re not the sex-crazed demon that the CSC most definitely are, but you do like a little attention every now and again even if you don’t get that much action. Or any, really, and you’re just fine with that. It’s one of the reasons why you don’t like the CSC. There’s no reason to sexify everything, and that’s exactly what they do. People can get by just fine without it.

Just fine? Seungmin would probably jab, but he’s not here right now and he doesn’t know what he’s talking about. You are just fine, but the mention of the-site-that-must-not-be-named just fills your stomach with stones and ignites your nerves like nothing else does. To you, that’s more than enough proof that it’s the CSC’s fault— not yours.

Anyway, today is the day you have to see Hyunjin bright and early, which always manages to set your day off to a bad start. No one should have to deal with him at this time of day, or any time of day, and you pity the ones that do. Seeing Chan isn’t rare, but he doesn’t talk to you like Hyunjin does. He stares every now and again, gives you a lazy smirk, and is generally sexy as much as it pains you to admit it, but he doesn’t bother you. Though you know he probably talks about you. His stares are too knowing, way too insightful even when you don’t really know each other.

The rest of the boys you’ve talked to on a few occasions. They aren’t as insufferable, but they are associated with Hyunjin and Chan and are, in fact, involved in the upkeep of the-site-that-must-not-be-named. To you, that’s more than enough reason to at the least dislike them. You don’t hold soft spots for any of them, except maybe Felix who seems way too sweet to be a sex demon, but then again, it’s always the nice ones.

Besides, it doesn’t matter what they say to you or don’t say, or if they look at you or not, or if they even know you exist. It really doesn’t matter. You shake the thoughts from your head vigorously, ashamed at the fact that you spent the first hour of your morning on them. It’s unbecoming of you. It’s good to remind yourself not to actively concern yourself with any of them, and simply fight for the site’s demolition like you’ve been doing.

Seungmin says you have no life, but Seungmin also wears T-shirts with cartoonish, glittery pink boobs and the site’s name in glittery cursive letters. You don’t think Seungmin should have an opinion.

The last time you attempted to do anything about the site was roughly two months ago, a month after school started back. You took your time to settle in, fall into a routine, and get your work and classes in order before resuming your mission. It was arduous, brainstorming and juggling school work, but it was your responsibility since no one else would work hard enough.

A quick shuffle through any of your things would tell people you were a perfectionist— articulate in your placement of items and the way you did things. Even taking the time to plan certain outings to a T, determined to make sure everything goes well. It’s not a secret how obsessive you get over things and how uncomfortable or incomplete you feel when things don’t go your way, when you have to follow someone else’s idea of how things should work. It’s the reason why most people don’t get along with you because to them you’re too controlling, too compulsive and dominating.

When you were a child that fact had bothered you. It was confusing— that was just your nature, and you wouldn’t have survived your childhood without it based on the way your parents lived. When kids would shun you, treat you like something sticky at the bottom of their shoe, it hurt your young heart. You felt apologetic simply for acting the way you always felt like you should act, for doing the things that left you satisfied after. Now, in college, no one demands classmates to get along, no one can shun you in the cafeteria and force you to eat in the library. If they don’t like you it’s fine with you, frankly it doesn’t matter. You have one goal and one goal only, and once that’s over with you can move on.

When you step out of your dorm the sun is blinding, shining down with unforgiving rays of light. All you can do is squint, tilt your head down a little and wish you had a hat. The walk to the Art’s building is long, but feels longer with how warm it is. The heat shimmies its way under your clothes and into your skin, from the top of your head to the tip of your toes.

The scenery on the walk there is always breathtaking though, the pavement that makes up the pathway to the building is closed in by blades of grass that have been cut and trimmed to perfection. Rocks make up the border between them— large smooth stones that vary in size but are more or less the same oval shape. There’s an entire garden full of all types of flowers, Gardenias, Lilies, Irises, Tulips, and even some you can’t name. At the entrance of the building there are bright lights that illuminate at least 25 feet in front of it at night, and wide hedges that have been designed to look like swans, their necks curved in a way that if they were moved next to each other they’d be forming a heart. White flowers grow inside the hedges serving to make the entire scene look more beautiful, and as much as you hate walking there, the view is unmatched.

The Art building has always been your safe haven, Art in general being your home away from home. It took a long time for you to feel comfortable studying it— always caught up in the what if. What if you can’t make a living from it? What if you end up not liking it as you grow older? What if it’s not a sustainable career? Questions that still plague you often, and stop you from putting as much of your heart in it as you’d wish. These classes are somewhat self-indulgent. A way for you to escape from the hectic mess that is your life, away from the stress of work, from the anxiety of what comes next, and from the infuriating instances that continue without your control— away from the things you can’t control so you can run to things you can. So imagine your horror when you found out Hwang Hyunjin was in the same class as you. At the same time. Doing the same thing.

It felt like your escape wasn’t yours anymore, and that the stress from your day followed you everywhere you went. It wasn’t enough for Hyunjin to pester you often— he had to be everywhere you were too.

You take a deep breath to calm your nerves, setting your shoulders and regain the poise you take pride in– carrying yourself with the confidence you wish you had. It doesn’t take long for you to make your way to the entrance of the building, as you walk, having been kissed by the scorching light of the sun and brushed against by dewy blades of grass. It feels surreal and staggering to be outside alone so early in the morning, yet peaceful, for you know that it will be long before you get this chance again.

“Bug!”

Oh no. no no no. You walk faster, hoping to make it inside before Hyunjin can catch up to you. Hyunjin is never this early. He either comes right on time or late to the frustration of your teachers and peers although no one would ever say it to his face. You can hear his feet against the pavement louder and louder as he comes closer to you, catching up just when you take the first step up the stairs to the entrance.

“You didn’t hear me, bug?”

“Stop calling me bug.”

“Sorry, bug,” Hyunjin laughs, putting a heavy arm over your shoulders and bringing you closer.

You roll your eyes so hard it feels like they’re gonna stick. Maybe they should so you don’t ever have to see Hyunjin again. Maybe he’d think you look scary like that, your eyes rolled up forever. Maybe then he’d leave you alone.

Hyunjin is annoying. He always acts like you’re his friend, but you know it’s fake because why would he want to be friends with you, someone who hates everything he works hard on and hates him as well to an extent. It seems overly fake and forced to you, so you don’t ever entertain it. The last thing you need is to fall for it and then be made out to look like an idiot when he eventually embarrasses you.

“It’s too early.”

“It’s never too early, pretty.”

“It’s always too early to be dealing with you,” You groan, wrenching his arm away from where it laid over your shoulders. “Why are you talking to me?”

“Why not?” Hyunjin asks, seemingly unaffected by your attitude towards him. He shoves his hands in his pockets, his shoulders raised up to his chin in a shrug. “I like talking to you.”

You snort, looking up at him with eyebrows raised, “You like talking to me, the one person— possibly in this world— who absolutely hates you, and barely spares you the time of day?” You ask, tilting your head in mock confusion. “I’m sure this is the longest we’ve ever had a conversation, but nice try.” You squeeze his cheeks, hard, and when he swats your hand away you can’t help the giggle that you let out. If his cheeks felt like dough under your fingers you’re choosing to ignore that, wiping a hand on your jeans with way more intensity than needed.

“But see,” Hyunjin starts again, “We’re having a conversation right now and neither of us wanna choke each other.”

“Speak for yourself. I’m barely resisting the urge to punt your head like a baseball.”

It’s silent for a moment before you both burst out into a fit of giggles. Hyunjin braces himself against his knees as he laughs, his hair falling over his face as he does, and you’re not much better— staggering where you stand to laugh with him. It only takes a few seconds for you both to calm down, and slowly the reality of what happened catches up to you.

“Do you even punt baseballs?” Hyunjin snorts, and you just laugh harder.

“I don’t know, Hyunjin, if you haven’t noticed I’m at the arts building not sports.” You wheeze, fighting through another laugh. “Now I’m just imagining your head flying over the gardens.”

Hyunjin lets out another chuckle but shivers a bit at the thought. He waits for you to calm down, your giggles turning into small huffs. A hint of a smile still remains on your cheeks, and the sun shines down so strongly on your features it feels like he’s seeing an angel— like divinity right in front of his eyes. When you straighten up, he can see every movement. The way you position your bag upright, the way a bit of your gums poke out from your lips. Your lips, soft, glossy, and look the most perfect in a smile. He can see the way your eyebrows lose the tension from your laughing fit, the way the crinkle of your eyes lessen as your face relaxes. He can see everything, so he can also see when your lips fall back into a firm line, when your eyebrows go back to that angry stance they always hold when you’re around him. The way your shoulders stiffen, and the grip on your bag tightens. He can see everything, and he reminds himself the only time you laugh is when he’s the butt of the joke.

“I’m going to class,” You murmur, walking the rest of the way up the stairs and into the building without looking back or waiting for him to respond. Though Hyunjin wonders what he would’ve even said.

I’ll come with you.

We can sit together.

No, you both can’t do anything together, and more and more Hyunjin wonders why he even wants to.

“You were laughing with Hwang Hyunjin? The sex demon??” Your friend hisses from next to you, stringing a lock of hair behind her ear. “You?”

“Yes, me, Jieun.” You huff. “I can barely believe it either. What did he do to me? I hate him, I can’t show weakness by laughing around him.”

“Honey,” Jieun laughs, leaning towards you, “You can laugh. Honestly the fact that you ran away after is hilarious.”

“I didn’t run away.”

“You ran away.”

“I didn’t run.”

Jieun settles on you with a heavy stare, face slack, and you roll your eyes. “Fine, I walked away.”

“I don’t know how either of you take each other seriously.”

“I don’t take him seriously.”

“Yeah you do, babe. You refuse to laugh around him. That’s very serious.”

You snort.

“And the fact that he gives you the time of day when this is the dumbest feud possible… I just don’t understand it.”

“It’s not dumb.” You sputter, smoothing your hand over the glossy wooden desk of the classroom. “It’s…” You trail off, staring into the large windows at the side of the room. You cock your head and lean forward, jaw slack when the sex demon himself waves outside. “Oh what a stalker.” You growl, throwing up the middle finger in his direction. “He’s got his little posse following him too.”

When Jieun makes to wave back you smack the back of her head and groan when she gives you an affronted look.

“What was that for?” Jieun exclaims, bringing a hand up to rub against the back of her head.

“Don’t fraternize with the enemy,” You hiss, folding your arms over your chest and staring back at your professor.

“Are you gonna explain the feud—”

“No.”

In your opinion, class doesn’t end quickly enough. You split with Jieun at the entrance, the both of you going in opposite directions, and attempt to reorder your frazzled mind. So you laughed. A lot of people laugh at people they hate. Plus, he laughed too— so why should you be overthinking it? You’ve laughed before, in situations you weren’t supposed to, and this is no different. Now you just need to make sure it never happens again. You nod to yourself as you walk, pulling out your phone to make sure Seungmin is already at the meeting spot.

The sun is still just as ruthless as it was earlier, but a light breeze grazes your skin and rustles the trees along the sidewalk and in the field in front of you. There’s a bunch of picnic tables, some occupied and some of them not. There’s groups of friends sitting under trees, some couples, some of them alone; reading or completing assignments in the nice weather. You spot Seungmin a few tables down, a brown sweater over a collared shirt and cute glasses perched upon his nose.

You take your time walking to the table, letting your skin soak in the warmth and tranquil peace of nature. When Seungmin spots you he shuffles over, giving you some space to sit next to him and you do, mumbling a small hey before knocking your head against the table.

“You’re going to a party with me.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Yes, you are.”

“Seungmin… Hi, how are you? How was your day? No, I’m not.”

“I wasn’t asking.”

“Well, unless you’re going to drag me, no I’m not.”

“I just might,” Seungmin sighs, “Why are you so difficult?”

“Difficult? You’re the one being difficult. I don’t want to go and you’re telling me it’s not a choice.”

“Because it’s not.”

You let out a groan, a long torturous one that has people turning their head to a straight faced Seungmin and you who’s head is still knocked against the table. When people think it’s stopped it starts all over again, a guttural groan filled with displeasure and frustration that loosens your chest when it’s done.

“Are you done?”

“Leave me alone.”

“It’s on Saturday. I can pick you up.” Seungmin says instead of arguing.

“Today’s Thursday.” You whine, just stopping yourself from letting out another groan— one that wouldn’t ever stop for as long as you have to deal with Kim Seungmin and his annoying, snarky, bossy self.

“…. I’m aware.” Seungmin says, and you don’t even have to look at him to know he’s making a face like and so what?

“I can’t stand you, I hope you know that. No type of warning, no preparation… I don’t party. I need at least two weeks to mentally prepare myself and another two weeks to get an outfit.”

“Damn.” Seungmin says, but he rubs a hand against your back, lightly pushing you to lift your head from the table. “Listen, I’ll help you. And it’s being thrown by people I know so you don’t have to worry. I don’t think many people throw college parties a month in advance but I’ll keep that in mind.”

All you can do is nod, waiting patiently as Seungmin finishes whatever assignment he’s working on. You’ve already completed the ones you have, the pro of not having much else to do and being on top of things always. Everyday you both meet up here, either at a table or under one of the trees and talk. Read, finish assignments, or even eat snacks. There have been some times where you meet there and then go somewhere else together, rarely off campus but it happens, and you get something to eat or go on a mini adventure. It’s the highlight of your day and you’re sure it is for Seungmin too, but you’d never admit that to each other. You don’t have to, though, because you’re both always on the same wavelength especially when it counts the most.

Though now he’s given you something else to worry about, that being this sudden party. It’s no doubt being held by a frat house, and you have an inkling which house it is. You haven’t asked, trying not to pop the bubble of secureness that surrounds you. You can go to a party being held by the CSC. You can, and you will, and if it isn’t being held by them then that’s even better. You try to convince yourself you really don’t care at all, but the thought remains. Can you really enjoy yourself at a party being held by them? You don’t know why it bothers you so much or why you feel so uncomfortable having a good time around them, but you just keep repeating the same thing to yourself over and over. It doesn’t matter.

“Jieun told me what happened this morning.”

“Of course she did.” You sigh, staring ahead at the group of squirrels running up a tree. The people under it startle when leaves start to fall over their heads. “We just left each other, how did she find the time to text you all that?”

“She called me,” Seungmin cackles, braces on full display as he scribbles furiously into his notebook. “Every story I hear about you and Hyunjin is against my will.”

“Every interaction between me and Hyunjin is against my will,” You counter, shifting so that you face him. “What did she say?”

“That you laughed with him and it embarrassed you. That you’re confused about your feelings towards him.”

“So are you two my therapists now? I’m not confused. I don’t like the things he does— I don’t like his carefree attitude, how he has no problem talking to me like we’re friends. I don’t like- No, I hate the fact that so many people fucking praise him because he created some crude porn site.”

Your heart rate picks up, your hand gripping at your jeans as a poor attempt to conceal your growing frustration. “I don’t like the fact that no one else sees what’s wrong with it. We shouldn’t have a fucking porn site for college students? I don’t think we should know what we all look like under our clothes and I’m tired of everyone acting like I'm the crazy one. He’s the perverted one, the weird one. Who the fuck thinks of something like that? It’s not just him, it’s all of them.”

Seungmin ponders your words, the grip on his pen tightening ever so slightly. “Hyunjin is a good guy. All of them are, and if that’s how you feel then why do you talk to me? I use the site, I'm their friend, I’ve helped them out when making it. Aren’t I weird and perverted too?”

You sigh, “Seungmin…”

“Help me understand. Because if you can stand to be around me, then why can’t you be around them? Or try.”

“It isn’t the same and you know it. It’s easy to ignore it when it’s you. That’s them. They are the CSC to me. A reminder of everything I hate, what I want to get rid of.”

“But why the hell does it matter? People want to use the site and that’s why they do. No one is fucking forcing it.”

“You guys just don’t understand it. None of you do. It’s like you’re blinded by it or something.”

“We’re grown adults, Y/N,” Seungmin growls, “We don’t need you to be a guardian fucking angel.”

“Don’t make me out to be the bad guy, just because all you fucking care about is sex or some college sluts, like can you actually be that shallow?”

“Why is it so hard for you to see reason? Do you see how angry you’re getting at me for asking a simple question? You asked me what Jieun said and I told you.” Seungmin spits, shutting his book with a slam.

“Stop asking me about that site. Stop making me seem like some confused hateful person just because you’re too dense to understand where I’m coming from. I’m not confused, I know exactly how I feel. I try not to bring it up because you like the damn thing so much, and you can’t seem to hold the same courtesy for me.” You stand from the seat, settling a dark glare at Seungmin’s angered form.

“Fuck your friends, fuck that site. Stop talking about me like I need guidance.”

You’re not irrational. You’re not. You have every right to be angry. Seungmin is your friend. Jieun is your friend. They’re supposed to be there for you, not gang up on you. You feel alone, so alone in everything you fight for, in everything you aim to conquer— as if the things you stand for don’t matter. It reminds you of middle school all over again, of high school— having people look at you like you were something from another planet. Someone people had always failed to understand. It’s lonely. You’re not irrational.

You didn’t blow up. You’re not angry. You’re frustrated, yes, but you don’t blow up. You don’t get mad. You aren’t irrational. Anyone else in your position would feel the same, right? Anyone else would be upset because it feels like your friends always take the side of the people you despise more than anyone else. Why aren’t they on your side? Why don’t they believe you? Why don’t they understand? It makes you feel stupid. It makes you feel like you have no right to feel the way you do. It’s lonely.

You’ve never been irrational. You’ve always had a good grip on your feelings. Always. And when it feels like the grip loosens it’s always the cause of something relating to the CSC. It’s proof that it’s what the root of your problems is. It’s proof that the CSC needs to be gone so you can finally go back to normal. So you don’t feel like the odd one out. So you don’t have to feel so upset. Because you’re not irrational. You have every right to feel this way. You don’t get mad. You’re not angry. You don’t blow up.

You control everything, you control your actions, your emotions, and you make sure to hold control over your environment— of how things play out for every second of your life. This feels like it’s running out of control. That the CSC brings havoc in your life no matter what— even when you try to ignore it, it comes running back to fuck you over even further. You’re not irrational. You’re not confused. You don’t get mad. You don’t. You don’t blow up. You control everything.

The sun hides right when you need it. You pretend tears don’t blur your vision, you pretend that the suddenly gloomy environment doesn’t affect you the way it does. You pretend that the once comforting breeze doesn’t feel sharp against your exposed skin. You pretend because when things run out of control that’s all you can do. Pretend you’ve got it handled, pretend that you still have a grip on things, pretend that you understand. You’re not irrational. You have every right to feel this way.

You never argue with Seungmin. Playful bickering from time to time or you two being rude to each other but always playfully. You’ve never cursed at him so maliciously, spoken to him like he was someone random, as if he wasn’t your best friend. You’ve never done those things— but you do when the CSC is involved. You never get pissed at Jieun, even when she’s annoying, even when she acts like the only thing important in life is the new boy she’s talking to— You don’t get mad. You’re not mad now, but you’re something. Something fiery, and everything always goes back to the CSC. You’re not irrational. You’re just the only one who understands.

Right when you see the blurry form of your dorm building it gets blocked by a large body and you slam right into its chest. You can barely see in front of you and you know your face is screwed up into the worst form imaginable, tears falling with no control. Without your control.

“Sorry, excuse me,” You laugh wetly, sidestepping whoever is blocking your way and running up the steps to your dorm. The sooner you fall into your bed and cry this out, the sooner you can forget about it. The sooner you can apologize and move past this weird limbo of feelings. It feels like purgatory, stuck in the in between, not sure which direction you’ll end up going in. It’s full of unsureness, of frustration. It feels like a loss of control. It angers you, makes you feel like nothing is going right.

But you don’t get angry. You’re not irrational. You don’t get mad. You pretend, because that’s all you can do.

Hyunjin is confused.

The last thing he expected to see this morning was you laughing, but now, he realizes the last thing he ever expected to see was you crying. Eyes glossy with tears, a nose rubbed raw, face screwed up into something pitiful.

Hyunjin doesn’t know a lot of things. He doesn’t expect a lot of things, but most of all he doesn’t know how to continue after seeing it. He doesn’t expect to care so much, not after the way you’ve regarded him. After the way you’ve both regarded each other. He doesn’t know why he can’t walk away and say nothing when he knows he should. If he brings it up you’ll get defensive, be embarrassed, be angry. He shouldn’t say anything.

He keeps walking, frowning slightly at the gloomy clouds. It was so sunny less than an hour ago. Things change so quickly, it doesn’t make any sense. He thinks back to earlier that morning, the light that shone on your face with every laugh you let out. He thinks back to just a few seconds ago. How dark shadows fell over your face as tears ran down your cheeks.

The walk is more automatic than anything else. He doesn’t take the time to stare at the scenery, he doesn’t look at the people around him. He barely sees the ground in front of him as he walks, his mind not registering what’s right in front of his face. He’s too caught up in you. Like usual, wondering why you do the things you do, why you feel the way you feel, wanting to understand. What did he do? What can he do to make you feel better? How can he make you hate him any less? He wants to understand, he wants to listen, to talk to you, to be near you. It confuses him.

His phone vibrates, pulling him from his thoughts. It’s chan, texting about the party on Saturday, and he sighs, running a hand through his hair in frustration. He’s so tired, tired of running around for parties, tired of attending to the site, tired of waking up early for classes. He just wants a second to sit down and relax, to not worry about you ruining the one thing he’s worked hard for, to not worry about what class he’s flunking, about what party he’s expected to attend, to not worry about why you were crying in the middle of the afternoon. He just wants a moment to collect his thoughts and free his mind.

HJ: I got it

BC: alr cool, put it in the cabinet with the lock, you know how Hyunjoon gets

HJ: Fuck, is it that bad?

BC: he’s an alcoholic bud, it’s that bad.

Hyunjin laughs a little, stuffing his phone back into his pocket. He wonders if Seungmin told you about the party yet and grimaces, wondering if that’s the reason why you were crying. If it is, he’s not sure who needs to get a grip. You, for hating him so bad, or him for continuing to try and get you not to. It takes a lot of effort for him to continue the power walk back to the frat, but he arrives sooner than later, stuffing the bag of drinks inside the cabinet and locking it shut. He thinks it’s a bit ridiculous that they have to lock the alcohol up as if they have small kids running around, and also wonders the effectiveness when Hyunjoon lives in a frat house and is an adult who can buy his own alcohol.

It’s Thursday afternoon but he finds that he’s not as excited for a party as he should be. Usually, he’d be bouncing on his heels, counting down the hours for it to start, and realizing he’s so caught up in everything else going around he doesn’t feel that normal excitement that he so often does. He makes sure to fix that, shaking the unnecessary thoughts from his head, pushing responsibilities to later. He has a party to prepare for and he's gonna act like it.

The rest of the boys don’t get back till later— they’d given Hyunjin the responsibility of buying cups and drinks and shitty snacks while they went off somewhere else. Hyunjin can’t keep track of what they do especially if he’s not joining, so he focuses on doing what he’s supposed to in order to make this the best party of the year so far. His frat has always held the record of best parties— has always held their winnings in high regard as well, and he’ll be damned if he gets the cold shoulder if he’s the reason the party isn’t as good as it should be. Most of all, he’s thinking about what he’s gonna do during it.

Hyunjin is not shy on having sex— never has been, never will be, and more often than not he’s having it. Sure, that may be expected since he made a literal porn site, but Jisung also had a hand in it and he has a girlfriend. Felix doesn’t have one-night stands often, nor does Seungmin. It’s different for all of them.

He knows there’s a few girls that have been actively trying to get in his pants, knows that he’s been trying to get into theirs, but he can only hope he can focus on them for long enough to do so without thinking about you. If you come, he knows that there’s no chance he’ll think of anything else, and he’ll probably spend the entire night just getting you to laugh again. To get you to explain to him why. why why why. It’s confusing, but he pretends it doesn’t matter.

Thursday comes and goes too quickly, and Friday does as well. The day isn’t over yet, it’s only the afternoon, but the implications of that make you anxious. Make your nerves ignite far more than they should.

Seungmin didn’t answer your calls for the rest of that Thursday. Didn’t read or respond to a single text until you decided to leave him alone. Jieun called, but you didn’t answer. You think the way you felt towards her is the way Seungmin felt towards you. Maybe something worse, so you gave him space and took some for yourself, a moment to really think about what made you react the way you did. You don’t think you’re in the wrong, you still don’t think you could’ve reacted any other way and you’re not sure what that says about you.

You take another bite of your sandwich as you walk down the street from the Art store, your phone cradled in your other hand and a drink poking out from the opening in your bag. It’s hard to mentally prepare for things that you don’t know anything about. You don’t know where the party is, who’s hosting it, how long you’re expected to stay. Thought that’s if you’re even still going. You want to take Seungmin’s silence as an answer that no, you aren’t, but you also don’t want to assume that and then he shows up at your door and you’re not ready.

You don’t want to go, not at all, but if it made Seungmin happy then you would. If he didn’t come to pick you up you briefly entertained finding your own way to the party and cornering him, forcing him to hear your apology before leaving and soaking your pillow with tears. But you don’t know where the party is. You also briefly entertained the idea of calling Jieun and asking her, but you’re not interested in the lecture that would come from that. You still don’t appreciate her words about you to Seungmin and the implication of them. Seungmin is your friend, you can tell him what happened all by yourself. You don't need Jieun to play messenger.

You swallow the last of your lunch and throw the wrapper in the nearest trash can. You want to start a new painting, one that can unleash the frustrations of your life as it is right now, and you can only do that by getting some new supplies. You save up constantly for this exact reason— for the ability to buy whatever your heart desires whenever it desires it. You dip your toes into whatever interests you, and all concepts of Art satisfies you more than anything. Writing whatever you desire, taking pictures of the things you find beautiful, painting whatever you want— it gives you the control that fuels you more than anything else.

The art shop by your university is quaint, always quiet and never very full, yet always filled with high quality supplies and fully stocked. You’ve made friends with the old lady who owns it and her daughter, constantly going there just to buy something in order to catch up with them on whatever has happened since your last visit. They’re like the mother and sister you never had, people who feel more like family than your own. It’s partly for that reason that you’ve made the trek there, hoping to get some advice for the things you’ve been feeling before going to the party that’s undoubtedly being held by the one group of people you despise.

The bells above the door jingle when you step in, and you let the smell of paint, chalk, crayons, pens, and faint air freshener soothe you. It’s just as cluttered as it’s always been— stacks upon stacks of sketchbooks and canvases on one side situated next to the easels and small desks. The paints have a section of their own, oil, watercolor, acrylic, matte, and more— on the opposite side there’s pens and crayons, colored pencils, oil pastels, and sharpeners of all shapes and sizes.

The walls are covered in paint as if before bringing in all the items they’d had fun splattering the walls in color. It’s messy, unruly, cluttered, and barely organized— so it doesn’t make sense to you why it comforts you so much. When you see a small form hobble out from behind a stack of books a smile forms unbiddenly on your face, and the small old lady smiles back.

“I missed you, dear,” She scolds, wrapping you up in a hug. “It’s been too long since you’ve come to visit.”

“I know, I’ve just been busy Ms. Yang. I missed you.” You sigh, rubbing your nose in the soft fabric of her sweater. She smells like paint and flowers— she smells like home.

“Sam will be here soon, she’d love to see you.”

“Yeah, that’d be nice. I need to talk to her too.”

“I can tell, child. You look stressed.” She sighs, shuffling behind the counter and sitting on one of the other seats behind it. “Get what you’re looking for,” She says waving a hand dismissively towards you.” I won’t make you explain it twice.”

You huff lightheartedly, making your way over to the canvases and picking one of medium proportions. You’re still not sure what it is you want to paint, but you know whatever you’re feeling is strong enough that you grab Oil paint, needing something rich and vibrant and something sharper to contrast the muddled and cloudy image of your mind.

It’s before long that you settle on a brand you normally buy, and the set of bells signal someone’s arrival into the shop. You turn your head, expecting to see Sam and her long curly hair, beautiful in its volume and her tawny brown skin, but instead you’re greeted with the sight of straight brown hair, swept behind the ears of a tall man, a mole under his eye and the reason for all your problems. You don’t know why you react the way you do, but with your items cradled in your hand you sprint behind a large stack of sketchbooks and hold your breath, staring with wide eyes at the cans of paint at your feet.

What the fuck is Hwang Hyunjin doing at your shop? This is your safe place— your safe haven. A part of you curses the ground he walks on, hopes that the store is too messy and cluttered for his liking, prays that he proves he’s as shallow as the company he keeps and that he leaves and doesn’t come back. Another part of you hates yourself for being so ridiculous. For letting your personal feelings about him delve so far that you’d think something like that. Sam and Mrs.Yang deserve the business, deserve the money, deserve the customers. You shouldn’t hope for anything different— but it still amazes you how he never fails to intrude on the things you hold dear. To intrude on the things you want to keep to yourself.

You don’t move from the spot you’re in. It could’ve been ten minutes, an hour, even, or maybe it was only thirty seconds, but you only peek out when you hear Sam’s voice ring through the shop. You survey the room, stepping out from your hiding spot when you confirm that Hyunjin is nowhere to be found. Though, you don’t think you could’ve hid regardless by the way Sam calls your name.

“Hi, Sammy,” You smile, coming up to pull her into a hug. She grips you tightly, her kinky hair tickling your cheek and her clothes smelling faintly of vanilla and roses. “I missed you.”

“I missed you too, hun,” Sam smiles, albeit a little sadly as she looks over your face. “What’s wrong?”

“Hey, don’t leave a poor old lady out,” Mrs. Yang huffs, “Come over here and tell us both about it.”

Without even saying anything they’ve already cheered you up, your steps feeling lighter as you make your way behind the counter and sit on one of the three seats. You sit between them both, their eyes set patiently but concerningly on you.

“I don’t know, really,” You start, and then, you tell them. About your argument with Seungmin, about how lonely it is feeling like you’re the only one feeling this way, about how much the site angers you— how it makes you feel. You tell them about Hyunjin, about how he doesn’t stop bothering you no matter how much you make it obvious you don’t want his company. How much that frustrates you, as well, and about how the lack of control over the entire situation, and over the CSC’s place in your life makes you uncomfortable, and about how the CSC itself makes you feel things you’ve never felt before and how much that scares you. You can barely describe the way it does, and who else can you blame besides its creators.

When you’re done it feels like you’ve vented a lifelong event, it makes a heavy weight lift itself off your shoulders and the heavy silence that remains doesn’t feel like judging, but rather them trying to understand— soaking up the meaning of every word you said in an attempt to place themselves in your shoes.

“I think,” Sam starts, “That your cluelessness about your feelings towards the site in general turns into anger, and the fact that the boy,”

“Hyunjin”, You offer.

“Yes, I think his attempts at speaking to you only worsen it somehow, like you’re being cornered by this weird feeling that you don’t understand and it makes you even angrier.”

“You said your friend is a part of it?” Mrs.Yang interjects, a wrinkly hand kneading your shoulder.

“Yeah,” You murmur, “He’s good friends with the group and he loves the website.”

“That probably doesn’t help then,” She continues, “If you’re surrounded by people who know what they like or enjoy something you don’t like or don’t understand, of course you’re going to feel angry. You feel like the odd one out.”

“I think more than anything you need to figure out if it’s really anger you’re feeling, and if the only reason why you hate this website is not because of its purpose but because of your lack of control over it.” Sam finishes.

“I can’t say I agree with it either,” Mrs.Yang grunts, “It’s not something I think college students need to be worrying about. Things like that stick with you, but it’s their choice to indulge in it, Y/n, you can’t control that.”

You sigh. You guess so, but you still feel like you need to get rid of it. You’ve been slacking, not paying attention to it as much as you should because of all the chaos it’s creating. It’s been a while since you’ve done a petition or made a list of ideas as an attempt to shut it down, but for now it seems like enough to just hate it. They can’t change your mind. Not Seungmin, not Sam, not Jieun, not Mrs.Yang, not Chan or Changbin or Minho— not any of them, and especially not Hyunjin. You just want to be hateful in peace and you don’t know why you don’t seem to be allowed to do that.

You leave the shop feeling lighter, but also like you didn’t actually get any good advice. Sure they validated your feelings, but that’s it. You’ve been trying to figure out your feelings. You know why you’re frustrated, and even though it felt good to be validated it also felt like a waste. You hold the bag of art supplies closer to you as you walk. The sun is setting, painting the sky reds, and oranges, and purples— and you think maybe you’ll paint that. To represent the end of the turmoil that surrounds you, as something hopeful.

You relish in the soft slope of your shoulders, in the relaxation you so rarely feel nowadays, and walk briskly to your dorm so you can fall into your bed and try to forget about the fact that there’s a party you’re supposed to be at tomorrow.

And as if the thought brought it on, your phone buzzes in your pocket. You pull it out quicker than you’d ever admit and a relieved smile pulls on your lips when you see it’s from Seungmin.

pup: be ready by 9

you: ok!!!!!

you: i miss you

There’s no more responses but you don’t let that dampen your mood. He still wants you to go with him and that says enough. You do feel terrible about the way you acted— the way you’ve been acting— but you know it’s justified. You’re not irrational. Not at all.

If you collapse at the foot of your bed, art supplies sitting on the floor by your feet, and a paper by your head titled #686, no one has to know.

This Saturday has not been a day of relaxation for you. You didn’t have any plans, though instead of enjoying the peace you so rarely received, the day consisted of you running around your room with a frazzled energy following behind like a ghost. At first you contemplated showing up in a sweater and jeans; no makeup, no jewelry, just you and a lazy fit— but realized that would only bring you even more stares than if you dressed as slutily as possible.

It’s with a black leather mini skirt and a black, lacy, low cut long sleeve tucked inside that you finally allow yourself to relax. You’re probably dressed way too flashily for a college party, but you can’t entertain any thoughts like that or you’ll spend the next three hours obsessing over it— and that’s three hours that you don’t have. Knee length boots stare at you from the door and it’s with a sigh that you walk to the door and put them on.

There’s more reasons to be nervous than just the party, between the inevitable walk with Seungmin to the encounter you’re most definitely going to have with the CSC and all of its users, you’re out of your element. There’s not enough deep breaths to make you calm down, there’s no method available to help clear your mind. Your heart races much more than should be healthy. It feels like hell, even, and all you can do is let this plethora of nerves run its course.

When your phone buzzes with Seungmin’s ‘I’m outside’ text, it almost feels like your heart stops. Fuck, Seungmin’s gonna ask who you’re all dressed up for, gonna ask why you’re so nervous. Why are you all dressed up? Why are you even going? It’s too much, too much of not knowing, not understanding, not feeling right. What will it take to get you to feel right? Like in freshman year when your biggest worry was whether or not you were passing your classes, now it feels like that's a lifetime ago. Like you’ve encountered way too much to even consider anything like that— not that you need to worry about it anyway. It was supposed to be a carefree year for you. You’re always on top of your responsibilities, always prepared, and nothing ever changed that until you went on that site for the first and last time.

You stop, relax your shoulders, take a deep breath that’s otherwise pointless, and step out the door. You curse the day you ever went on that website. It’s why everything is all messed up now, but you rid those thoughts from your mind. You’re determined to have fun tonight no matter what, and no matter who’s there.

Seungmin waits at the door, A button-down hanging off his shoulders and jeans. His hair is combed back and he’s ditched the glasses.

“Hey.” It comes out meeker than you’d like, a little too timid for what your relationship with Seungmin is.

“Hey,” he smiles, the braces you love so much on full display. Your best friend is beautiful, and it’s with a pang to your chest, it’s with seeing him now— so welcoming and so normal with you— that a small part of you realizes maybe you have been being irrational. Maybe you have been acting too strongly, but then you remind yourself that you’ve never been irrational. Never.

“So I’m guessing we’re going to the CSC’s dorm?”

“You’ll fit right in,” Seungmin laughs, starting to walk. You struggle to catch up to him; it’s been so long since you last wore heels that it’s hard to get used to. You don’t grace his comment with an answer, simply relishing in the soft nightly breeze and the shine of the moon. The stars glitter from above you, light years away yet so visible. So sure of their stance in life. You don’t think stars blow up at their best friends, or feel confused, or feel lonely.

You arrive at the party all too soon. From a block away you could see people drunk, staggering in the same direction, and from down the street you could hear the bass of the music, but the warning signs weren’t nearly enough to prepare you for the actual sight of it. It’s like the typical house parties you’d see on TV, but louder and more nerve-wracking. People hang out in front, the music loud enough for them to enjoy even from outside the building. Lights flash from behind the window, an array of purples, greens, reds, and blues. You can see people's shadows from behind the curtains over the front windows, and you feel like you’re about to throw up.

“Oh god,” You mumble, taking a few shaky steps inside. You can't do this. You’re gonna freak out and embarrass yourself. You can almost feel the anxiety seeping from your pores, and the word no repeats over and over in your head like a mantra.

No no no no no.

You can’t do this, but you do it anyway. Stepping inside the party is a feat in itself, and you can’t tell if your hands are shaking from the strong bass of the music or because of pure anxiety. The music knocks into your body so strongly that your knees buckle, barely able to hold you upright. At any moment you feel like you might collapse.

You can’t do it but you do it anyway, taking one step and then another, and when the door closes behind you, you resist the urge to turn back and run away. The party is full of people— so full that it’s impossible to walk anywhere without bumping into someone, and despite your best efforts you do get stares. Whether it’s because of what you’re wearing or if it’s because it’s you at a party being held by the CSC… you’re not entirely sure. You don’t think it makes a difference. You try to ignore it, act unbothered, and it must work because after a while they look away, murmuring something or the other about what you’re doing there.

Seungmin drags you away from the door and to the kitchen, rummaging through the fridge and cabinets like it’s his home. You take in the somewhat chill vibe of the kitchen compared to everywhere else. It’s not nearly as full, but there are couples at opposite ends acting as if it isn’t a place where food is kept.

You take a few deep breaths, reassure yourself that you can do this, and even if you can’t you’ll do it anyway. Seungmin doesn’t say anything, just pours you something sweet and fruity in a red cup and hands it over with a raise of his eyebrows. You drink it way too quickly and you know you’re gonna regret it later, but you need the effect it’ll bring. The faux calmness that’ll help you get through the night. Though with how full the party is you think that you won’t be able to see the hosts anytime soon if at all, and that’s enough to bring your heart to a stuttering stop before it resumes its beating in a much more slow paced manner. You’re still not calm, but you’re doing your best.

“Try to relax,” Seungmin chides, his gaze heavy where it bores into you. “Everything will be just fine.”

You nod, taking a more calculated sip of your drink this time. You let the music relax you instead of startle you— focusing on the beats and the melody— on the lyrics, instead of the volume and how it makes your body tremble. You can do this.

When you finally feel like you’re able to relax, Seungmin parts from you, saying there’s some people he has to see. You’re an adult, so you can handle being alone for a few minutes. Eventually, though, the few minutes turn into something longer. You wonder if maybe Seungmin is still upset with you— you didn’t speak much about it on the walk like you thought you would. Honestly, it was mostly silence, and you didn’t think much of it before but you are now. You hold your drink close to your chest, dubbing it your life line for the night.

You last all of thirty minutes before you feel like you’re getting too hot— the building only gets even more stuffy as more people arrive, all of you packaged like a can of sardines. You take the fleeting burst of confidence to leave the kitchen and go to the backyard, hoping that it’ll be a bit more peaceful (as peaceful as possible considering the music blasting), and allow the fresh air to graze your skin like a soft blanket. You sit down on one of the benches in the backyard, leaning your head back and closing your eyes. What will it take to feel at peace? Maybe there’s nothing you can do. And it’s with these thoughts that you do exactly what you shouldn’t do at a party, wallowing in self pity and confusion. You’re so caught up in these thoughts that you don’t notice when someone else joins you.

“Hey, bug.”

Your head whips up faster than what’s comfortable, and you barely hide the wince that struggles to leave your lips. Hyunjin speaks again before you can respond.

“Don’t leave, alright. Please?” He asks, sitting down beside you and smoothing his hands over his pants. “Can we talk?”

“About?”

“About us? About you? I’m tired of running in circles and I want to know why you hate me— the CSC so much.”

You’re silent for a moment, contemplating, thinking. You should get up, leave the backyard and this party altogether. You should ignore whatever it is Hyunjin has to say because he’s the reason for all this, right? Why is he always pretending he doesn’t know; acting like he wants to get to know you? Acting like it really matters how you feel. Everyone wants to understand, everyone wants to know why, but you don’t even know— but you’ll never admit it outright. You’ll never say the one thing that’s been your driven principle for the past year is something you’re unsure about. All you know is that it’s bad, that it’s made you feel ways that were foreign to you, and in order to regain control you need to get rid of it. No matter how anyone else feels about it, no matter who gets upset with you along the way. You need to do it.

Your voice is soft, but not meek. For once, you’re gonna get this entire experience off your chest. “When I first went on the site in the beginning of freshman year I was curious,” You start, glancing at Hyunjin and feeling the tightness in your chest return when you realize he’s already looking at you. “At first, I was curious, and then I was confused. I clicked on a few videos— I scrolled for a while— and I started to get this weird feeling. The more I watched the videos, the more I scrolled through pictures and posts, the feeling got stronger.”

You feel so stupid, but you continue. If Hyunjin makes fun of you he’s just proving your assumptions correct. “I’d never felt that way before and honestly, it kinda scared me, and it was annoying that I didn’t understand it. I didn’t do anything after that. I ignored how fast my heart was beating, how my body was reacting, and never went on that site again. Slowly, that confusion turned into anger— it’s not normal. The way I felt wasn’t normal, and that’s why I think that site needs to get shut down.”

“Bug…” Hyunjin laughs a little and you want to be offended, but you can tell it’s more shock than amusement. “Bug have you ever had sex? Or.. touched yourself at all?”

Your mouth opens and closes comically, but Hyunjin is patient, waiting and watching carefully for you to speak. “Is that what’s important?” You finally say, your eyebrows furrowed and you’re ready to defend yourself if need be. “No, I haven’t.”

“God, bug this is…” Hyunjin squints at you, “I think you were aroused.”

You splutter, feeling your heart rate spike in embarrassment. “What!? No. No.”

“That weird feeling? That heat in your gut,” Hyunjin says, and to punctuate he lays a large, warm, hand over your stomach. “You were horny.” This time, Hyunjin’s laugh is one of amusement, but you're too distracted by how big his hand is, splayed over your stomach and so warm it feels like it’s burning through your clothes.

“Hyunjin, the feeling— no, it doesn’t make sense.”

“Bug, if you’ve never ever been aroused before somehow, of course it felt weird. Holy shit.”

You don’t say anything, but Hyunjin continues before you can get a grip on your thoughts.

“I can’t believe this is the reason why you’ve hated us for so long, I honestly can’t believe it.”

“Hyunjin… that feeling wasn’t pleasurable. Control is pleasurable. I didn’t have a grip on anything that day and barely regained it on the days following. You can’t convince me that getting rid of the CSC won’t bring back a sense of normalcy. You can’t, and even if you’re right, I think that morally, the site is still wrong, and I’m not going to stop trying to shut it down.”

“There’s so much about the CSC you don’t know about, and there’s so much more to pleasure than control.” Hyunjin sighs, clearly more at ease now that he realizes you’re just confused. You don’t know, really, why you hate them. That’s clear. You’re stubborn though, he can tell, and even if this idea he has works— he’s not sure you’ll stop until you get what you want.

Earlier that day the CSC received an email from the dean, threatening that they’ll start looking into all that their site entails because of how often you keep badgering them about it. It’s starting to create a murmur between staff, and they’re growing increasingly frustrated. All that means to Hyunjin is you’re finally breaking through their resolve, running them down enough for them to consider shutting it down or supervising more intensely. Hyunjin can’t have that. None of them can. When Hyunjin approached you tonight he expected to have to beg— to have to plead with you to stop meddling. The site is bigger than you know, more important than some college stupidity. It rakes in a lot of cash, and he can’t have such petty reasoning stop that flow.

Hyunjin’s voice is husky as he continues and his words send an undeniable shiver down your spine “I can show you that the site, and sex by association aren’t bad at all. Mentally, you’re confused and physically, you’re pent up. We can’t have that can we, pretty girl?”

“No, we can’t.”

Wait. What? Yes, we can. Yes you can. You’ve been doing just fine right? You don’t need Hyunjin’s help. He’s not gonna change your mind because your mind doesn’t need changing.

“You can try to shut us down, but at the same time let us help you.”

“Us?” You murmur, attempting to understand what exactly is happening.

“All of us, the CSC can help you figure out what you’re feeling, right? We can help you decide what to do.”

“…You can help me?”

Hyunjin hums, removing his hand from your waist and trailing his finger along the skin just above the hem of your shirt. His fingers dip over your cleavage, tug at your necklace, up and up until your chin is in his hand, and he turns you to face him as his lips brush your cheek. “I want to see who will succeed first, so let me show you that there’s more to pleasure than control.”

He can help you. Out of all the people who ask you why, who say they want to understand but don’t try, he’s the one who’s offering a solution. As annoying as he’s always been to you, as much as he’s always embodied something you hate— the person who’s embedded such foreign feelings in your mind— he wants to help you. He wants to try, and he’s not telling you to stop your goal either. He’s not telling you it’s stupid, he’s not getting angry. He doesn’t make you feel irrational. You’re not irrational. You have a goal and it’s one you’re gonna complete, but… it doesn’t hurt to try, right? And if you succeed, if you shut them down and Hyunjin fails— if the CSC fails you’ll win. You’ll win and prove that you were right all along.

“Go easy on me.”

“Of course, bug.”

You keep your eyes downcast in embarrassment as Hyunjin whispers against your skin, his fingers gently turning your chin up and over to the point of focus. His lips. Pouty, sinfully crimson, curving upwards so surely, like they themselves know their effect on people. They look so soft, so wet. You want to feel them, and it’s as if Hyunjin’s read your mind because his lips are on yours before you can even blink.

“You just kissed me,” Your voice is airy, breathless, and usually you’d be embarrassed.

“Can I do it again?”

There’s a simmering, boiling tension both of you have been ignoring but you’ve lost the will to care about hating Hyunjin or Chan or the CSC. Momentarily, you’ve lost the will to feel much at all but a burning desire to take away any negative emotion you feel. You’re sick of it, sick of feeling confused. Last night you’d dealt with it by crying your eyes out, before that you’d dealt with it by having a screaming match with your best friend, and now you’re ready to look for something to fix it. This just might be the best way to start.

“Not outside.” You whisper, your hands clutching the fabric of Hyunjin’s shirt with such an intensity you’re afraid it’ll rip off then and there.

The trip inside and upstairs is a blur. You’re sure if anyone saw you they stared, wondering what you two were doing together, wondering what you were going upstairs for. It’s a blur, nothing is clear but what you’re going to do at this moment, and with Hwang Hyunjin of all people. Of what you’re going to do in the future, with the CSC of all people, what you’re gonna do to them— what you’re gonna allow them to do to you— that’s the only thing on the forefront of your mind. Not about who’s watching, not about who wants to know. It’s about you. You’re the one in control, you’re the one who gets to decide. You’re the one who needs to know.

Warm. You feel warm all over, pressed against Hyunjin with his thighs spreading yours open, warm in his tight embrace. Your hands are clutching at his clothes, at his arms— It’s so hot, yet somehow the constant cool air of the room makes you shiver.

“W-what do I do?”

Hyunjin chuckles, his voice the softest you’ve ever heard it. “You don’t have to do anything, pretty. Let me handle it.”

Letting Hyunjin handle anything doesn’t sound like a very good idea to you in any instance, but in this case you let him. You’re otherwise clueless in this area and frankly, if you want his help you’re going to have to accept it when it’s given. His mouth lands back on yours, a certain kind of desire running through the kiss. His hands are all over you. Trying to grab at every inch he can, and you try your best to kiss him back with equal intensity— to move your lips against his with the same fervor.

Your heart kicks up an irritating notch when Hyunjin slides a warm hand up your shirt. You can feel the way his fingers ghost over your skin with an unnatural intensity, as if his touch is amplified tenfold. And if Hyunjin had imagined this during late nights, cock shamelessly fisted in his hand as he dreamt of you pushing your panties to the side for him to enter your tight hole, no one has to know.

“Look at me, pretty,” Hyunjin growls, your eyes opening at his command against your better judgement. His pupils are dilated, staring down at you with a foreign intensity. The way he looks at you is an awakening, and with a small burst of confidence, you bury your fingers into the collar of his shirt, bringing him down for another kiss. It’s a little awkward with your inexperience, all teeth and clumsy movements until he takes the lead. His lips feel like heaven and you want them everywhere, want to kiss him forever. You want to sink his soft groans into your skin, keep the taste of him on your tongue for the rest of your days as he licks into your mouth, coaxing feelings out of you you've never felt before— kissing you into blissful dizziness.

"I wonder why you're so pretty, hm? Been torturing me for months, sweet thing," Hyunjin teases, pressing your thighs farther apart, tongue pushing against yours, his lips cherry red. You want to kiss him again. "I don’t think you really hate me, bug.”

Your breath hitches when his hands move to your skirt, slipping under the hem and holding the fabric tightly. God, you feel so bare. Like Hyunjin is looking at you from the inside out. When he pulls your skirt down slowly, so slowly it feels like time stands still, all that’s on your mind is him. His breathing, his touch, his warmth. When your pink, lacy panties come into view the chuckle Hyunjin lets out is so deep it feels like a heavy blanket over your mind, soothing you yet igniting something in you that you didn’t know existed. God, you’re in the demon's bed but you feel like you’ve gotten a taste of heaven, and when those soft, cherry red lips ghost over your skin, trailing over your pelvis, leaving light kisses along your skin, all you can do is jerk in his hold. You’re so sensitive. So, so sensitive.

His hands grip your waist tightly and his lips trail upwards, the bridge of his nose pushing your shirt up until it’s so high your breasts threaten to fall, smothering Hyunjin’s face underneath them. You shiver at the thought, those sinful lips pressing kisses against the skin of your breasts; what would it feel like? Would it feel like this? This feeling that you’re still so unfamiliar with?

"Pretty girls deserve to know what it feels like to have me right here,” Hyunjin starts, leaning down to press a trail of kisses to your inner thigh. He bites and marks along the fleshiest parts, chuckling at your quiet whimpers and yelps. You didn’t know you could make sounds like that. He slides a hand up between your thighs and rubs between your folds, still covered by your lacy panties. “Did you come to impress someone tonight?” Hyunjin murmurs, before splitting them to rub your clit through the fabric. You feel like falling as he circles between your thighs, a gasp hiccupping at the base of your throat before it gets stuck— you can’t make a sound.

You faintly hear the rustle of clothing and the absence of Hyunjin’s touch, opening your eyes to see him pulling his shirt off, biceps flexing as he does. He’s so big, and fuck, his whole body could cover your own if he really wanted. He towers over you, caging you in and surrounding you from all sides. When his shirt is off and thrown somewhere to the floor, he looms over you, his hands pressing into the bedding at either side of your head, and all you can do is gasp— your eyes widening at his proximity.

“You okay?” He whispers, and you nod.

“Yes.”

It’s breathless. It’s not you. It’s not the person who wanted nothing to do with Hyunjin only a day ago, but you want answers. You want clarity. And right now, you want this.

Hyunjin wastes no time after your confirmation, his fingers slipping under your panties and ghosting over your skin. He lets out a harsh breath at the feeling where you’re otherwise silent, trusting that he knows what to do. When a rush of cool air blows over you though, your legs close instinctively, and Hyunjin hums, “Stay with me, bug.”

“I’m here,” You respond, slowly spreading your legs back wide and allowing him to pull your underwear down until they’re hanging off ur ankle, your arousal sticks to the fabric, but with a flick of his wrist they’re gone. They’re gone. Oh god. You’re really doing this. You take a deep breath, and when a warm hand comes to cradle your cheek you lean into the warmth. It’s okay. You’re okay.

Soft lips press against your skin, tainting the unmarked flesh with bites and bruises. He paints your neck purple and blue, fingers ghosting between your thighs, tracing and playing with the obvious wetness coating your arousal. His mouth travels upwards, pressing against your own as he claims your lips in a devouring kiss. Everything is on fire, hot and burning as lust begins to entirely consume you for the first time.

A small moan slips past your lips as he dips a finger into your slick, warm cunt, and you clench around the digit almost immediately as instinct. The cool air and your nerves make your thighs tremble, but it doesn’t seem to affect Hyunjin— not at all— if the way he keeps eye contact with you while he fingers you slowly is any indicator. Painfully slow. You don’t know if this is to help you or torture you, and you can’t help the way your thighs tense under his ministrations.

The man before you reaches his other hand towards the hem of your top to pinch the edge of it between an index finger and thumb, and pulls the cloth away from your skin.

His eyes bore into yours: “This okay?”

“Fuck, the more you ask me the more nervous I get.”

“Okay, okay. I don’t wanna make you nervous.”

“Just… be nice to me, Hyunjin. Okay?”

Hyunjin smiles, and you exhale, relaxing into Hyunjin’s sheets and letting his musky cologne consume your senses as his touch roams everywhere else.

And then finally— yet all too quickly— the shirt is tugged away from your breasts and they fall freely as Hyunjin eagerly leans closer. His nose presses against one of your hardened nipples, and you watch his pupils dilate quicker than you thought was possible. He’s barely holding back the urge to fuck you dumb, and the finger that still thrusts slowly into your cunt stutters in its movements.

Look at you. His eyes roam over the look on your face, your bottom lip pulled between your teeth, bright eyes glazed over and hooded in a bliss that’s otherwise foreign to you, a particular ease directed towards him. Then he shamelessly let his eyes drop down to your thighs that tremble even harsher under his gaze. The action only forces his mind to run wild. He can’t help but wonder how you do it— looking all innocent— being all innocent but acting like you’re not. Like you’re so sure. You’re confused, god, you don’t know what real pleasure is— and it’s Hyunjin’s job to teach you. Fuck, did he want to be under you, gazing up at your through half lidded eyes, hungrily eating up the sight of you bouncing on his cock like the slut you could be.

He dipped his head down, holding your breast in his large hand and rubbing over your nipples with his mouth, swirling his tongue around the hardened bud. Your hands automatically perched themselves on his shoulders, and he grins, moving the finger thrusting into your cunt harsher, faster.

“Oh, god,” You moan, loud, your grip on his bare shoulders tightening ever so slight. His skin was warm under your fingers— soft and smooth and fuck if it didn’t feel good.

He groans, cock stiffening more than it already had. At this rate he was probably going to cum in his pants untouched, but he held himself back. He wanted to do this right— show you all that pleasure could be. He moved his mouth from your nipple to slip lower, down lower and lower still until he came face to face with your arousal.

“Fuck. You’re driving me crazy.”

“Oh- oh Hyunjin help me, please,” You pleaded, his shoulders too far to grip onto; your hands instead finding his hair, running your fingers through and pulling when he nosed at your clit, groaning heartily when your wetness clinged to his skin.

It’s with a lick to your clit that you wail, your thighs threatening to close, and they would have if Hyunjin’s hands hadn’t reached out to force them down, pushing further and sticking his face into your arousal with more fervor, licking and sucking with such vigor that it felt as if he was trying to devour you. Your thighs trembled with every movement of his tongue, poking and prodding at every inch of your cunt, his nose dug against your clit and for a moment it felt like you were seeing stars. Your eyes fluttered shut, your mouth letting out uncontrollable moans.

You didn’t think it’d feel this good. But, you remind yourself, control feels better. You can’t let him change that— he won’t change that.

The obscene sounds that came from his actions should’ve embarrassed you, but nothing like that came to mind. Hyunjin was relentless, and you couldn’t even think of anything more than the feeling of his hair between your fingers and his tongue slurping at your cunt.

You tried to quiet your moans by clamping a hand over your mouth, but sitting up and watching the way he sucked and licked at your arousal made your head spin. He made the action so nasty. So filthy. He was wild yet careful. But what did you know? All you knew was that it was driving you insane and you didn’t know anything could feel this good.

Besides control, of course. And you assume, the eradication of the CSC would, also.

Suddenly, your stomach tenses, your body locking up, and you quickly cream all over his tongue, shaky moans slipping through your pretty lips. Your thighs shook from the aftershock, trying to come down from this feeling. Afterwards, Hyunjin’s actions felt too harsh. He didn’t change pace at all, but it felt like your body was going to arch its way into oblivion. Unable to ignore the sensitivity of your body any longer, you pushed against his head until he stopped, attempting to catch your breath.

“You okay?”

You hum, begging the beating of your heart to soften, though as soon as it finally did you looked back at Hyunjin and saw his pants sliding down his legs. His toned, muscular legs, and it started its harsh beating once again. That wasn’t it? Of course, that’s wasn’t it, but fuck. You don’t know if you can handle anything more.

The headboard of his bed knocks against the wall as he climbs back up on the bed, moving his body closer this time and instead of only his chest hovering over you, this time his legs cage you in, one on either side, as your heart pounds itself into oblivion.

One hand supported his weight on the pillow by your head while the other was preoccupied, curled around his cock as he stared down at you— something akin to a beast in his gaze. Tip reddened and precum oozing from the slit while he groaned. The tingly feeling in your groin was coming back, similar to the fluttering you always felt whenever Hyunjin would come bother you. It intensifies when Hyunjin wraps your legs around his waist and pulls you closer to him, your body dragging the bedding from under you and you yelp.

He rubs the tip of his cock against your twitching folds, teasing actions feeling more like torture before he finally sinks in. Slowly, deliberately, but you still tense. It’s scary, having something stick itself inside of you.

“Relax,” Hyunjin murmurs, pressing a kiss to your cheek. “Stay with me.”

You do your best, forcing your body to relax, as he sinks deeper and deeper still. Hyunjin grunts softly when you clench down on him, and he sighs as you blink dazedly up at him.

Pretty eyes are locked intensely on your cunt, Hyunjin watching the slide of his cock as he thrusts inside. His hair is plastered along his sweat slicken forehead, and he sinks back into your slick walls with another languid roll of his hips.

“Fuck you’re so tight, baby.”

You moan, high and light, your eyes fluttering closed in bliss while Hyunjin’s chest expands with a shaky breath. He rolls his hips into yours— sinking his cock into your virgin cunt saying the filthiest words you’ve ever known before his words break off into a moan, his tone lower and deeper than his playful one. Tonight you’re seeing a whole new side of him— a new persona. This isn’t the annoying Hwang Hyunjin who bothers you and calls you ‘bug’, this is the Hwang Hyunjin everyone else knows. The one you hadn’t met yet.

“Oh, please don’t stop— be nice to me,” You babble, your hands grabbing at whatever you can— his shoulders, his back, his hair; and that’s all it takes before he suddenly takes up a pace that’s a little faster, rougher as your pussy squelches, wet and messy while your arousal smears along your thighs and the sheets.

Your body jolts with each thrust, pussy clenching around him as Hyunjin moans—every twitch and squeeze of your pussy leaving him breathless. “Come on, baby,” He pleads, and you don’t know what to do. You’re too lost in the haze of pleasure that’s taken over you— you can’t hear past the slap of your skin and Hyunjin’s groans in your ear. You know you’re moaning, but you can barely hear yourself. It’s all Hyunjin. Him all over you, surrounding you, making you feel good.

He grunts as you clench down on him with another roll of his hips, sinking deeper into you with each thrust. “That’s it, pretty,” he grunts, “Taking me so well, fuck. So greedy for me.” And again, you feel that strange feeling before tensing up, your body convulsing and arching up as Hyunjin’s thrusts grow more frantic— harsher and harsher as he groans gutturally in your ear with one last thrust long and deep, and when something shoots deep inside, you shiver one last time before your body sinks into the mattress and Hyunjin’s weight cases you in.

You feel boneless, lethargic with your movement. You feel when Hyunjin gets off you, when he closes your legs after slipping your underwater back on. You hear it when he sighs, something light and satisfied, and you barely manage to answer when he asks you how you feel. You can’t do much more than sigh, but it seems like enough for him— like that was the exact answer he was looking for. You succumb to blissful sleep right before the door shuts behind Hyunjin.

“Hear me out,” Hyunjin sighs, a lazy smile on his features even still. You’re no joke even if you might not know it yet. “I think it could really work.”

“You want us to convince Y/n to what? Leave us alone or..?” Jeongin says, leaning against the table in the kitchen.

The party has long been over, there’s a mess everywhere but it’s empty except for the eight boys and you knocked out in Hyunjin’s bed. Jisung sits sprawled on the couch, head twisted ever so slightly to betray that he’s listening to the conversation, Jeongin leans against the table and Chan has his arms folded where he leans against the wall serving as the entrance between the kitchen and the living room.

Minho downs a bottle of water by the sink, and Changbin leans against the fridge, leveling Hyunjin with an intense look. Felix and Seungmin sit on the couch opposite Jisung where they have a full view of everything and everyone.

“She barely even knows what porn is, so I said I could convince her the site isn’t that bad— and is something she could grow to like, if not love.” Hyunjin explains, his eyebrows raising in wait for the retaliation that’s sure to come.

“Why should we?” Minho asks, with a swallow, “If she doesn’t like it, honestly what does it matter.” Heads nod in agreement.

“Listen, they’re starting to consider whatever the fuck she’s selling them at those little meetings, and I got an email about investigation if this keeps up. If we fail to change her mind, we can at least distract her enough for the heat to lessen a little.”

Chan nods, “I don’t think it’s a bad idea.” He shrugs, looking over at everyone in the kitchen. “We change her mind, then we got one less problem to deal with.”

“And if we don't?” Changbin asks, tilting his head at both Hyunjin and Chan. “And if this is just a waste of time?”

“It isn’t,” Hyunjin assures, “Trust me.”

The rest of them don’t argue, but Hyunjin feels Seungmin’s gaze boring into him from the couch, feels his questions burning at the tip of his tongue, begging to be let out, so he leaves before they can succeed.

“We can talk about it more later, but I think it’ll work. It’s a good deed, and I know how much you guys love those.” Some scoffs and laughs fill the room, but Hyunjin is already halfway up the stairs, a plan forming in his mind and a pleasant smile growing on his face.

a note from iris: this chapter was late because of that long ass smut scene so i hope it was enjoyable and that this wasn’t 17k worth of a snoozefest 😭 i’m sorry it’s late!! so sorry but it’s still friday even if it’s 11 pm <3<3 not beta read not nothin so pls.. spare me.. and i hope you liked it !!!

not-so-mini taglist (there’s so many of y’all !!???): @chrisbahng @seonghwatoothless @bubblelixie @199719932000 @imsuchasimp00 @hyu-hl @oddinaryfelix @raspbinniecreme @fa3body @kittykatkrissa @andreaswrld @hattorihaechan @lachinitaaaaa @j-0ne25 @bangchanbabygirlx @ni-sh @green-orangeade @sincerely-skz @exclusivej3ss @elizalabs3 @lili-kims-blog @curiousgworge @midsoulz @sawadabegum @reighlee-greaves @lotus-dly @blcar @impossiblewritingrebel @yourhwngness @idek-at-this-point-lol @multihoe-net @hyun-bun @hwan-g @ughbehavior @rindomo @awesomelycoolworld @springdeity @todolyn @meowminhosblog @hyunelixies @emotionalwreckkk-blog @seungschacco @avyskai @cvfechan @jeyelleohe @vvsmydiamonds127 @chriscentric @simpforpunzngl @be-a-spacequeen @svintsandghosts @myjisung @hanjiesgf

*** if your tag didn’t work make sure your blog is visible! if i somehow missed you when tagging i offer a sincere apology <3

#hyunjin scenarios #skz smut #skz scenarios #stray kids x reader #hyunjin x reader #hyunjin x female reader #hyunjin smut #hyunjin angst #hwang hyunjin #hyunjin imagines #skz x reader

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muffindaddystyles · 3 years ago

Note

22! angst to fluff pls love ur works <333

THANK YOU SM EVERYONE FOR REQUESTING HOPE YA'LL LIKE IT LOVE YAA !!!!!!

Harry hates one thing, most. That’s silence. Still, Y/N gave him a silent treatment knowing how much it drives him insane. It pinches him in throat in the most sickening way and makes him vicious about their fights more.

She has her reason too. Anyone would have a right to be mad if their boyfriend will be seen going to bars with models and cherry on top it turns out be his ex.

In his defence it was a PR stunt to keep the quietude about his dating life since Y/N and Harry’s relationship is private for Y/N's sake.

“You could’ve atleast told me, tha' you were going with her?” Was all she said. Confusion and insecurities and the images of her glued all over him mocked her in the most brutal way before she was distancing herself away from him.

He did anything in his will to bring her back to him, apologised and tried to shower her in kisses, making her brekkie and staying at home but she kept on pushing him away.

The problem wasn’t him. It was her. She blamed herself. He’s been nothing but so gentle with her and she’s towing him away like a used tissue.

Harry knew Y/N anxiety was always at bay and he didn’t want to worsen it by going public but it was biting him in arse as questions upon questions were thrown at him for past three years.

It's Saturday morning and she appears from the guest room after ages, the sight for sore eyes.

Harry’s eyes that were staring the tiled wall of kitchen flitters towards her and his gaze turns soft when he sees her drowned into one of his lilac sweater (she missed him so much and felt awfully hollow and cold sleeping in the bed that doesn’t smell like him at all; so she did what could comfort her best).

She looks so small and frail as if the demons of the lone bedroom swallowed her whole.

Heavy eyebags digging away the glimmer in her eyes, her cheekbones prominent and the pinkness of her eyes visible telling how much she’s been crying.

He turns expressionless on purpose when she meets his gaze and isn’t what she wanted? Some space to figure her thoughts out – but that polite gesture turned into a silent treatment from Harry’s side this time.

She knows that he’s more of a meanie in this game than her because he’s the one that never let things bottle up, his eyes gives away everything but right now they’re just murk of anger.

“Can we talk?” Her voice dim from crying for days and Harry elevates his shoulders carelessly, wrinkles on his forehead and his frown deep as he shrugs, “Dunno. Realized t’pick y'puppet back, your eminence?” His taunt hits her right in chest and she blinks the moisture in her eyes away looking down at her fingers fumbling with the frays of the hem.

He’s cloaked with sadness and dejection from her misbehaviour.

He’s the most petty when she’s the reason of his agony.

“I hate how much I care about, you.” He spats. Knuckles turning white from his grip around the marble counter and Y/N listens —— because good, she should now she’s out of her own bubble.

“How much I’ve told y'that no-one ‘n damn nothin’ could come between us —-" His tone dripping with malevolence and bitterness it tears Y/N up.

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep, Harry!!” She almost shouts. Shaky fingers contemplating to rip at her hair and her tears now shines at her cheeks, Harry elicits a flak taunting chuckle.

“See you’ve never trusted our love. Can y'fo’ once get outta y’head?” His own eyes glossy and his cheeks flushing rosy from the impact.

“You don’t want to bear what comes with lovin' me, don’t want me to cover up tha’ fo' you and you couldn’t spend a single day without doubting us,” He licks the salt away from his lips and his heart pauses a slow beat when Y/N's lips wobbles -- incoherent blabbers slipping past her swollen lips.

“What d'ya want then!?” The loud snap of his abrasive voice hitches her breath and she sobs out sorrowfully, “I just want you.” He sighs in defeat. Not really pondering over the severity and nuance of his words before speaking.

“Falling in love with you was the stupidest thing I’ve ever done in my life.” That was the last blow for Y/N. She gasps out a cry. Pupils bursting wide and her insides falls sick as the itching goosebumps pin-prickles at her skin.

Everything gets struck for a moment. Harry’s expression matches her as he realizes what damage he has caused and to confirm it a blaring thunder roars through the sky.

Y/N gulps the achy feeling in her throat and just nods silently retreating back through the steps that led her to him and he’s rushing behind her in fret only to get the door to be slammed on his face.

He curses himself. Hitting his forehead into the door frame, that was the lowest and most cheapest fucking insult you could’ve managed to throw her way you dick.

“Y/N. I’m —-...fuck.” He knows that a sorry will be too humiliating for the hurt he has caused her.

While, Y/N sits on the floor at the most corner of the room with her knees bunched up to her chest. His hurtful words rings in her skull and she stuffs her face into her elbow sobbing into it watching the bear Harry won for her in a carnival with doleful blurry vision.

Through his whole life the only decision he regrets is loving me – out of every stupid thing he thinks our love is the most stupidest, what if it's the end? How I'll live without him? It’s impossible.

Forgetting hurts the more than grieving and she’d never be able to do that.

Her toes numbs to tingles and she feels herself drowning somewhere into pitch darkness, her heart lurching ruefully at each knock Harry taps on the door and her stomach burns with acidy sting lungs knotting tight making her gasp for oxygen.

Her panic attack crawling up her body in beasty blood curling gashes and she attempts to shout a plead for Harry but white dots appears at the back of her eyelids tripping her into mountain of floor pillows.

It knocks the vase out and it shatters beside her head, “Y/N! Baby!” Harry pounds at the door and when doesn’t hear a response from her side he’s kicking it open harshly.

The lock unhinges as he rushes inside worrisome and his world shatters when he sees his lovie struggling for a breather, her petite body trembling and shaking with each gasp that bolts her throat more and she nearly begs for him to do something.

He’s falling beside her on the floor and embracing her pliant figure in his gentle hold, “’S okay. ‘S okay.” He croaks out wiping his own tears with the sleeve of his hoodie.

He rubs her tummy in soothing circles then trails his clammy palm up her chest and maintains an eye contact with her panicked ones. Her breath shudders when she tries to calm it back and her nails digs into his skin in doing so.

“Doing s'good f'me darling, yeah —-..yeah.” He bobs his head vigorously and assuring-ly stroking his thumb against her soaky cheek tenderly in pacifying motions.

Her breath lulls slowly back into a pattern and she jerks a little while inhaling a nourishing puff, “Take a breath honey, yes princess just like that.” He whispers speckling a tiny kiss to her forehead.

He pushes her up with a firm hand on her hip and into his lap murmuring sweet dottings into her ear, “Squeeze me hand if you could hear me baby.” He just wants to be reassured she’s doing okay –- his face crooked against her pulse point into her throat and she does so giving a weak squish to his fingers.

“Jeez.” He bumps her chin up with his head and touches their temples together – eskimo kissing her nose and her eyelids flutter when he pecks her mouth ever so lightly.

His insides are shaking anxiously from fright and he again hugs her warmly to feel her.

“’M sorry. So sorry lovie' didn’t –-.. didn’t mean to hurt ya, swear moppet was just upset tha’ y’were being so far from me. I love you so much precious ....." He presses his wet lips to the side of her head and buries his nose in her hair -- arms tightening around her waist.

".... and I don’t think lovin' you is stupid. Thinks tha’ ‘s the only best thing I’ve ever done in me life ... could never love anyone like that.” He mumbles cradling her sweaty face into his palms and patches soft kisses all over her face.

She hiccups a whimper. Nose quivering and lip wobbling — letting him kiss her pout and fists the flimsy fabric of his hoodie in her teensy hands compared to him, “’M sorry too. Sorry f'acting childish and not talking to you about it. I’m just scared I’m getting too obsessed with the idea of us and it’ll ruin us pathetically.”

“Wait. Wait woah baby ...” He grabs her gently with shoulders and pulls her back from him, “’S tha’ why you were trying to live off all by yourself?” He asks politely a bit glum she was enduring all of that herself.

When she tries to hide her face out of timidness he hooks his thumb under her chin and highers it up, “Y/N.”

“Thinks you love me so intensely?” She sniffs nodding in agreement and he smiles sweetly.

“Then fuckin' do it silly. Why d'ya think I wouldn’t want that lovlin? I want to be so loved by my sweet baby.” He almost falls back when she slings her arms around the nape of his neck and brings him down for a cuddle.

“I love you so much my Angel.” He murmurs with his face squished into her neck and fills his lungs with her warm vanillay scent.

She rubs her cheek up and down his chest like an affectionate starved puppy then stops where his heart lays under the trap of bones and kisses it three times.

Her love language. When she isn’t able to utter something she’s always appreciating him with loving actions and at the moment she did the same to exchange the sentiment.

Three kisses to heart means, “I love you so much it aches me.” He immediately catches it and pecks her nose.

"I know bub, I know."

#HARRY STYLES ANGST #harry styles angst.#harry styles angsty imagines #harry styles angsty blurb #harry styles imagine #harry styles #harry styles blurb #harry styles smut #harry smut #harry styles fanfiction #harry angst #fluff #harry styles one shots #cute harry #harry styles dirty one shot #harry styles fanfic

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starbuckie · 4 years ago

Text

Malia’s 400 Follower Writing Challenge!

Hey there, my gorgeous, lovely followers! First of all, thank you so, so much for 400 followers!! This is incredible that there are 400, let me repeat, four-fucking-hundred people following me on this hellsite, that enjoy my friendship and/or writing. It’s nearly been a year on tumblr, and every piece of writing I’ve published, the friends I’ve made have just been absolutely monumental in my life. 4 is one of my lucky numbers, and so as a tribute to that times 100, I figured that now would be a great time to have a writing challenge. As I work on a few fics of my own, I’d also love to see what y’all come up with as well, so let’s go :)

CHALLENGE MASTERLIST

rules (ugh i don’t like that word let’s go with guidelines):

- you don’t actually gotta be following me, but that’d be pretty cool

- if you could be so kind, even if you don’t participate, please please reblog, as that would be very much appreciated

- to participate just send me an ask with the prompt or prompts you’ll be using, and the character you’ll be writing for. you can definitely choose two prompts from separate categories, but remember that prompts will become unavailable after two requests

- i’m pretty versatile with fandoms, so i’m gonna say marvel, harry potter, supernatural, star wars, criminal minds, bridgerton, and any sebastian stan characters, but if you’d like to write for a character not in any of those fandoms just tell me in the ask (so basically any fandom, i don’t know how to speak)

- please be x reader! doesn’t have to be fem!reader at all, but please make it y/n

- the fics can be any length, a drabble, headcanon, oneshot, twoshot, series, just make sure to tag me in any multipart fics because i’d love reading all your amazing fics

- while any fics are welcome (angst, fluff, smut, darkfic), i draw the line at incest and pedophilia, and make sure to TAG AND WARN YOUR FICS PROPERLY. if you are under eighteen and i see you have requested to write a smut fic, i will say a big fat NO because you should not even be reading that.

- to make sure i see it, make sure to use the tag #mals400followerwritingchallenge and tag me in it

- if i don’t reblog your fic within two days just shoot me an ask or message because i may just be dead or my tumblr is being stupid, and i will get my ass in gear

- all the fics will be put on a masterlist i’ll have on my masterlist as they are submitted, and it will be reblogged every time a new fic is added

- i know a lot of us may be in school right now or have jobs and families and shit just happens and sucks sometimes so i’m gonna make the deadline june 30, and you can sign up or submit any fics until then :)

NOW FOR THE PROMPTS:)) btw, all the line prompts are from @a-cure-for-writers-block

angst line prompts:

“This will be the last time you lie to me.”

“You know it’s not like that.”

“How could you think this wouldn’t hurt me?”

“You’re never going to be the same after this.”

“I just think it’d be best if we never met.”

“I can’t believe you would even think to leave me like this.”

“You never loved me, did you?”

“It didn’t have to be like this, but now you’ve ruined everything.”

“What did you want once this was all through? Tell me!”

“You could’ve- could’ve stayed. You could’ve helped me fix things.”

“This isn’t going to be fixed. You’ve ruined this for good now.”

“I hope I’m not put in the same part of hell as you.”

“When did you think you could hurt me again? Today? Tomorrow?”

“You’re back in my life and I want to die again.”

“You only ever brought me pain and I’m sick of it.”

“You put yourself in that position! That wasn’t my doing!”

“When was it that you realised that you didn’t love me?”

“I really think it’s easier for people when I’m not around.”

“I know, but you didn’t have to use them like that!”

“I’m not someone who breaks easily, but I must commend you on this.”

random line prompts:

“You look like you’re going to punch me.” “I was actually going to kiss you, but if you’re into that sort of thing then I’m out.”

“I mean, if we hadn’t met at a strip club.”

“Can we get coffee?” “Is this a date or is it because you’ll end up strangling someone if you don’t get caffeine in your system.” “I shouldn’t have asked.” (@spaceodditybarnes with Bucky Barnes or Chris Beck)

“… and then he came up up to me and kissed me until I was-” “I’m going to have to tell you to shut up now.”

“We should do this again sometime!” “I would honestly rather do anything other than that again.” (@extremelyblackandwhite)

“I hope you don’t think that we all act like this.” “There’s more than just you? Jesus.”

“I’m just tired.” “That’s understandable. Go and sleep, I’ll sort everything out.”

“You drank it?!” “Yes, it was quite delicious, did you know?”

“Can you just act normal for this evening. It’s all I’ll ask of you.” “You’re asking for a lot then.”

“I haven’t got laid in like forever.” “Oh sorry, did I look like I was offering? Because I’m most certainly not.” (@adorkably)

smutty line prompts:

“Do I look like I’m messing around? Do I look like I won’t punish you?”

“Fucking is a reward, but you haven’t been good.”

“Move an inch and you won’t be coming tonight.”

“You look just about good enough to eat.”

“Take your clothes off. Right now.”

“We’re really going to fuck here? What if someone sees us?” (@bvckysmoon with Bucky barnes)

“Hands behind your back.”

“Open your mouth for me, baby.”

“Is it good when I touch you here? Or maybe here?”

“You’re so in for it when we get home.”

“You can take it, you’ve done it before.”

“Just a little more.”

“I won’t apologise for marking you up, everyone should know you’re taken.”

“Suck on my fingers.”

“You look so good with my hands around your neck.”

“Keep your eyes open, look at me, baby.”

“Look how good you take it.”

“My baby, you did so well.”

“God, you feel amazing.”

“Swallow. All of it.”

tropes:

enemies to lovers

friends to lovers

mutual pining

arranged marriage

sex pollen (@jimmypagesandbrianmayshair)

sharing a bed

slow burn

arranged marriage

unrequited love

childhood sweethearts

fake relationship

roleswap

established relationship

AUs:

Highschool AU

Soulmate AU

College AU (@spaceodditybarnes with Bucky Barnes or Chris Beck)

Coffee Shop AU (@jimmypagesandbrianmayshair)

Detective AU

Historical AU

Bodyguard AU (@i-am-a-closet-fanfic-fiend with Steve Rogers)

CEO AU

Bakery AU

Royal AU

Mob AU

Mythology AU

Modern AU

Hospital AU (@captainscanadian with Bucky Barnes)

Bakery AU

Demon AU

(Guardian!)Angel AU

Criminal AU

songs:

Burn - Hamilton

Dancing With Your Ghost - Sasha Sloan

Tears Dry On Their Own - Amy Winehouse

Silly Girl - Chloe Moriondo

Me and My Husband - Mitski

Something - The Beatles

Uptown Girl - Billy Joel (@blueberrythor with Bucky Barnes)

I Can’t Help Myself - Four Tops

She - dodie

Let’s Fall in Love for the Night - FINNEAS (@subtlebucky with Valkyrie)

Everybody Loves Somebody - Dean Martin

A Sunday Kind Of Love - Etta James

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scenarioslovers · 4 years ago

Text

Our Sin >> Jungkook, You (Part 4)

PLEASE READ ME FIRST : PART 1| PART 2 |PART 3

Once upon a time, three friends loved each other very much, people thought they could pass as siblings. They promised to always stay loyal and never hurt each other no matter what. They promised to stay friends and never let anything ruin what they had for each other. Jungkook, Minju, and Y/N.

Two girls and one boy.

They swore that they wouldn’t fight over love because being together the three of them was the perfect calculation to have existed. Y/N fought her demons and hide her feelings for the boy who brightened up her life and gave her hope to keep going and face life. She couldn’t betray her friend’s trust and let such unwanted feelings to ruin everything.

That was until the last year of high school. When Jungkook and Minju came while holding hands.

Y/N tried so hard to deny all the signs. They could never betray her like this. They all swore on their friendship. However, Minju was blushing and wouldn’t meet her friend’s eyes. Jungkook was braver but he was shy to admit the truth. That they were already in love, leaving her alone, and totally ignoring her feelings.

Their hands will not break free.

Jungkook stuttering trying to form words. It was Minju who broke the silence and awkward moment. “Y/N, sorry. we can’t keep that from you for so long... we are dating.”

Y/N smiled faintly, trying so hard to hide the pain and tears from her eyes. Her efforts to keep the promised gone to air but she had to work harder for the friendship to never go away.

She couldn’t lose two of her friends, just because she is foolishly in love with someone who was in love with someone else.

“I knew it.” A forced chuckle skipped her mouth. “I already knew you would do that eventually. Congratulations, my friends.”

“Aren’t you mad?” Jungkook asked. A hint of surprise rose in his voice.

“I am happy for you.” Y/N nodded at her friends. “Our friendship is stronger than this. I know it is.”

At that time, the three friends didn’t know that their trip of sins would start.

They didn’t know that breaking that promise back then when they were just young and wild would bring them all the unfortunate events and bad feelings. Lies and breaking promised were a cycle that the three friends didn’t stop doing.

_____________

Two weeks after Y/N left.

Jungkook couldn’t stop thinking about what had happened.

Minju wouldn’t answer his calls and Y/N left for a new start even though he wondered if you would be able to get it. He couldn’t stop thinking about you ever since you Left. He wished he could turn back time and make different decisions.

Like how he shouldn’t have hide after hearing about your pregnancy. He shouldn’t have asked for time to think about it. He knew that he loved you and he was so ready to have a life with you. However, Minju always appeared in his mind like a haunting ghost. Blaming him for stopping loving her when she was ready to fully love him. He thought he loved Minju too.

God, he loved Minju but when he saw your tears his heart ached as if thousands of knives decided to stab him in the heart at the same time with no mercy.

His heart ached for you and only you.

He was just too stupid to realize how important you were in his life before. He thought Minju was the answer.

When he first asked Minju out, Y/N popped in his mind smiling brightly at his silly jokes. He pushed that memory away, back in the days he thought he felt sorry for you, for breaking that silly promise they made for each other. He didn’t want to hurt his childhood friend because he fell in love with her best friend.

Your reaction at that time surprised him, yet put him at ease. Maybe he shouldn’t have thought about it too much. That’s what friends are for.

Nevertheless, he was wrong.

You indeed were hurt considering that now he knew how you felt about him. He hated himself more than anything.

Looking at the ceiling of his room, his eyes fell on the stars you had helped him in decorating his room with before. A small smile formed on his lips as tears blurring his vision. He couldn’t believe he let himself be a coward and lose you in the thin air like this.

A vibration coming from his phone made him threw his body in a sitting position. He caught himself hoping it was from you. However, disappointment yet fear washed over him when he saw the name in capital letters and a heart beside it. MINJU.

--Let’s talk! I don’t like to leave things unfinished.

He knew what she meant from her text. She was breaking up with him. However, the Minju he knows wouldn’t let be unless she heard it from him.

-Meet you in 20 minutes. Our regular place.

Jungkook texted back

--Tsk, I wish you didn’t reply so fast. See you there.

First thing, first, Jungkook was determined to confess all of his sins, but he wasn’t going to ask for forgiveness. As the person who should hear it could no longer receive it.

__________________

Everyone deserves a chance to start a new life that was meant to change from them. And that was your decision when you left your best friend; who now hate to hear your name and the one whom you truly love.

They say if you have a guy friend you should never ever fall in love with them. Now, you knew why. Simply you didn’t just lose your long time crush, you lost your secret keeper and the one who tried his best to be a good friend.

A part of you didn’t want to take the whole blame, however you decided to be the bad one when you decided to get rid of the baby.

You wanted to erase everything. It pained you so much to look in the mirror and think of the possibility that you could have been a mother.

You wrote the bad things you did for the past year in a white thin paper. Wanting to let them go and you wrote each one of them, thinking of the mess you cause because of it.

You looked at the list one more time:

1- Slept with my best friend’s ex who is my close friend

2- lied to Minju

3- lied to jungkook

4- got pregnant

5- Took advantage of Jungkook in the loneliest moment in his life.

6- truly loved Jungkook knowing he didn’t love me and cared for Minju

7- I killed the baby

Whipping away the tears that started running down your cheeks, you crumbled the paper with your fist and threw it into the sea.

Today, after this moment, you will live only for yourself. You didn’t deserve to be a girlfriend to anyone or even a mom ever again.

You looked at the paper as it sank slowly into the deep blue water and disappeared. As you no longer could see it, you took a deep breath and promised yourself never to cry again or think about your sins ever. You were going to start a life that was only for yourself.

___________________

Three years later

“Teacher! Can you help me?”

One of your students approached you with a notebook as you were looking through the windows to the sea view beside the school. The cute little girl was more than four years old. You couldn’t help but think that your baby would have been as old as she was or a little younger. The girl was wearing a yellow dress that was filled with flowers everywhere. It made her look like an angel with her hair tied up into two ponies on each side. She was smiling at you excitedly as she pushed her notebook toward you. She was only four years old yet she cared so much about her art and classwork.

“Let me see, Hana.” You kneeled beside her as you opened her notebook. Her handwriting was huge and messy. You found them cute. Sometimes you secretly took pictures of your students' handwriting as a memory for you to keep. However, what Hana showed you, wasn’t an art or classwork. You looked at her handwriting in awe as you smiled so widely from ear to ear. She wrote you a letter.

I love you, teacher Y/N. You are the best teacher and I want to be like you when I grow up. You are cool and pretty. You are the best.

“Are you crying, Teacher?” Hana looked concerned as tears started to form in her eyes too.

You whipped the tears with the back of your hands so quickly as you shook your head, and laughed so that Hana stop making that sad face. “I am happy. Very happy, thank you, Hana.”

“You can take the paper. It is yours.” Hana said as she ripped the paper with the letter out of her notebook before running back to her class.

Working with kids, changed you a lot. After you decided to start all over again a new life, you moved to Jeju island and applied to be a kindergarten teacher. Fortunately, you got the job and you have been living a calm life ever since.

You folded the letter and put it in your bag. You had a box filled with love letters from your students. They were all so cute and loved to show love everywhere they go. These small letters like a cheer up treat to your lonely nights. Whenever thoughts and bad memories haunt your dreams, you would wake up to read all of them without getting tired.

When all the kids went home, you decided to go to the market instead of going home right away. You needed to shop for groceries as your fridge started to be empty.

Since Jeju island is so small, people knew each other. And living for three years in this small island made it easier for people to know you. Every shop vendor greeted you happily as the offered to show you their new products and goods. Everyone was kind to you and made you feel welcomed.

“Good afternoon, Y/N.” The fruit shop grandpa greeted you as you approached his shop.

“Grandpa, do you have apples?” You asked as you looked around for it. “I can’t see them.”

“They are inside, I changed their place as they keeping falling around everywhere.” He laughed as he explained how old he was for him to run after a rolling apple.

“You are still young, grandpa.” You complimented him and he cheered in confidence.

“You, young children, know what to say.” He handed you your apples and you paid him before turning around.

At that moment, the world started to tie up around you. Your lungs forgot how to breathe as you caught sight of the thing you wanted to avoid for as long as you were alive. Why are they here? Questions filled your mind and only one answered popped in your head.

RUN.

You turned so fast the other way around. It was so fast that you didn’t notice someone was behind you. You bumped into the fruit shop grandson, who had a crush on you. However, his strong arms held you in place, protecting you for accidents. “Y/N!” He exclaimed happily. He was so loud that blood went cold into your veins. When he noticed the horror in your eyes he looked at you worriedly. “Is something wrong?”

“I have to go. Talk to you later, Dojoon-shi” and started to walk as fast as you could. Dojoon called after you as you fastened your pace and started to run.

Why are they here out of all the places? What are they doing? They seemed like they are still together. Your chest tightened and your vision blurred as your legs wouldn’t stop.

Jungkook and Minju were in Jeju island. Minju was holding into Jungkook’s arm as he was looking at a necklace from the accessory lady.

The burning in your chest wouldn’t stop. When you reached home, you kicked your shoes away and walked straight to your room. Hands in hair, you pulled into it as you couldn’t stop thinking. Finally, after three years you learned how to move on. Did they come here looking for you? Is it coincident? How did they make up?

A part of you was happy that they could manage to stay together. Another part of you was broken over the fact that you had become the one who couldn’t be forgiven.

“Good for them.” You murmured to yourself. “At least now you can live without feeling guilty. You didn’t ruin their relationship at least.”

__________

“Jungkook, look at this beautiful necklace,” Minju said as she grabbed Jungkook’s arm as she stopped by a lady who was selling jewelry. The necklace charm took a heart shape with a moon and a star inside of it. Jungkook looked at it and couldn’t help but think of Y/N. A moon and a star. Two things that matched well with Y/N’s personality. She was the moon and the star that guided him during his darkest days. He felt her absence when she was gone. Technically she was around him as long as he could ever remember.

“It would look good on, Y/N,” Minju said, reading Jungkook’s expression.

Jungkook’s eyes widened in surprise. Was he thinking out loud?

“It would look good on you too.”

“Eh, stop lying. It also reminded me of her the moment I saw it.” Minju sighed as she looked away from Jungkook. “Did you use to have the same expression while thinking of me?”

Jungkook groaned and Minju laughed. “Minju!”

“You didn’t have to protest like this. I am hurt.”

“Do you think we will find her?” Jungkook’s eyes were full of worry and anxiety.

“Emma said she saw her multiple times while she was on vacation here,” Minju said, shaking her head. “That only means one thing. She moved in her and lied to you.”

“Would she be happy to see me?”

“I—”

“Y/N!!!”

Before Minju could answer, a man shouted a name too familiar and unique to ignore. Minju and Jungkook snapped their head towards the voice. Only to find a man standing in the middle of the street, looking annoyed and sad and no one was in front of him.

Jungkook looked at Minju whose eyes grew in excitement. At least this could be the confirmation they need to know that their search wasn't a waste of time.

Jungkook walked over to the man, he looked around the same age as him. A small burn feeling rose in his chest. “Excuse me, do you know Y/N?”

“Teacher Y/N?” He looked behind him then back at Jungkook. “Yes, and who are you?”

“Her best friend,” Minju answered instead as she reached out for a handshake. “We are looking for Y/N. Can you help us?”

_____________

You couldn’t sleep last night, those dark circles were more visible than ever. Your skin was pale and dehydrated. You reached for a bottle of water as you gulped it down in one sip. You no longer wanted to go out of your house. Jeju Island was so small that there was a huge chance to run into them again. However, you still had a job and a life to live. Until when were you going to keep running away?

With a determined mind, you walked into your bedroom to get ready for a new day. It didn’t matter if you run into them. If that happened you would greet them with a smile, congrats them for being together again, and go on with your life that you choose to live. Or maybe...

Keep avoiding them.

The school you worked in was a few minutes away from your house. You liked to walk there every day as a form of daily exercise. People greeted you as you walked the streets. Elders, children, and young people, everyone was smiling at you, throwing random questions in your direction.

“How is your day, Teacher Y/N?”

“Have a nice day, Y/N”

“You will visit our shop today right?”

After a few seconds, the school gate started to appear. Two figures were standing by the gate. As you walked closer, the figures started to come clearer, colors became more vibrant, and the facial feature was stronger. You stopped in your place as you looked at your old friends. Jungkook was leaning on the wall, he seemed to be in deep thoughts while Minju stood in front of him, talking nonstop. They were standing in front of your school, probably waiting for you. Or why would they be here out of all places?

“Teacher. Y/N, why are you hiding behind a tree?” You looked down at the voice, to find Hana. Her small hands holding the strips of her back bag tightly as she looked at you with curious eyes.

“SHUSH!” You put an index to your mouth as you gestured for her to leave.

“Aren’t you going inside, Teacher Y/N?” She was unnecessarily too loud.

Glancing at Jungkook and Minju’s direction, your breath caught in your chest. They were looking at your direction. You took a deep breath before sighing slowly.

“Hana, darling, go inside or you will miss school.” You said to Hana as Jungkook and Minju walked towards you. “Please, Hana. I will follow you shortly.”

Hana huffed before walking to the school gate. Minju waved to her but Hana ignored her and kept walking to her destination.

“Are all your student brats?” Minju exclaimed as she stopped in front of you, beside her was jungkook who wouldn’t meet your eyes.

“Why are you here?” You asked and it sounded like you were annoyed.

“Someone kept crying every night missing you. It started to annoy me.” Minju sighed as she glanced at Jungkook at thew corner of her eyes. "Plus, that should be our question. What about the UK?"

“Look! I do not know why you are here guys. But I am trying to move on with my life here. Can you please just---?” You sounded harsher than you meant as you gestured for them to leave.

As you started to walk away, a hand reached for your wrist stopping you. You glanced up, to find Jungkook in front of you. Electric waves ran through your arms, reviving all your sensations. That what Jungkook’s touch could always do to you.

“Can we talk?” It was Jungkook’s first words to you. “Please.” The pleading voice and eyes filled with something glittering made you sigh deeply.

“After work. Okay? Wait for me by the cafe around the corner of this street.” You said as you pulled away from his grip. The sensation of his warm hand, still there. Reminding you that this is more real than you thought. “Can you leave now?”

“Let’s go,” Minju said as she locked Jungkook’s arms with hers. You watched as they walked away, bit your lower lip. Why did they come all the way here just to show me how good your relationship became?

This was your chance for a real goodbye. A chance to forgive the sins you all did. A real closure to a friendship that was left hanging on bad terms.

to be continued...

___________________________

IT’S BEEN A WHILE! Hope you liked this part.

#jungkook #bts #kpop scenarios #bts scenarios #jungkook scenarios #kpop #bangtan boys #bts scenario #jungkook scenario #angst scenario #angst #angst scenarios #jungkook imagine #jeon jungkook #kpop imagines #the rose dojoon #bts angst #jungkook angst #kpop angst

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yamisnuffles · 5 years ago

Text

Blitzed

On the night a church is bombed and books are saved, Aziraphale gives in to what he wants. Crowley can't understand it but is more than willing to follow wherever the angel will lead him.

Rated E. Read on Ao3

Based on my art.

- - - - - -

Crowley was deeply familiar with pain. Every demon was baptized in that sulfur pit, their former grace a smouldering ruin. There were myriad other examples each and every one of the Fallen could list, bother utterly merciless and utterly mundane. Crowley had gotten used to most of it. He was up on Earth and free as he could hope to be, barring some unforeseen miracle. Could maybe be a little better off but that would require him to be without his own very unique brand of suffering. A near century long nap had taken some of the edge off hard denial. Off fraternizing .

The problem was, as familiar as he might be with pain, he wasn’t the best at handling it. That was why he’d added a fresh layer in the form of charred feet. It was why he was talking too much. He tended to do that, he knew. Unfortunately, knowledge of a problem didn’t magically cure it. If it did, his life would be much easier and he wouldn’t be rattling on about decades he knew nothing about firsthand because he’d been asleep and Aziraphale couldn’t know he’d been asleep. If the angel noticed he was bullshitting, he didn’t let on. Didn’t really let on to anything. He’d been about silent since Crowley handed over the books and currently looked a bit like he might be sick as he clung to those same books.

Were the books a mistake? Probably a mistake. A step too far. He was always overstepping and ending up with his foot in his mouth. Or his… everything in that pit of boiling sulfur. And so he talked to stop from thinking, even if Aziraphale wasn’t listening. Especially if Aziraphale wasn’t listening.

He very nearly sent up a prayer when they reached the bookshop at last. Instead he said, “Here we are.”

Aziraphale still didn’t say a word. Crowley dared a proper, straight on look rather than the surreptitious side-eye he’d been giving. Just above a powder blue shirt collar was a pulse that looked to be going faster than the Bentley had a moment before. Neat fingers gripped the handle of the case of books like Aziraphale was afraid he’d fall right off the face of the planet if he let go. Wide, mirror eyes reflected what little light there was in that bomb filled night and then were hidden behind fluttering lashes. Then, with no warning or obvious cause, Aziraphale stilled completely. Closed eyes. Not a single breath.

When he finally moved again it was to just about throw himself bodily from the car. Crowley made a more measured exit. His eyes were glued on Aziraphale’s every hurried step and a good thing, because the angel nearly fell on his face tripping over the curb. Wouldn’t have been nearly at all if Crowley hadn’t caught him.

Worry overcame his usual restraint and he held firm to Aziraphale’s shoulders. He dipped his head so that he could look Aziraphale in the eyes. “Are you alright?” One thunderous beat of his heart and Crowley pushed further. “I can stay. If you need me to. Want me.”

Aziraphale started doing that rapid blinking thing. Something too complicated passed over his face and was replaced by surety before Crowley had a chance of understanding it.

“Yes. Yes, I think you should stay.”

Crowley’s heart drummed again. When Aziraphale turned, smiled, Crowley forgot all about the need to breathe, the pain in his feet, anything that wasn’t a smile so bright it felt deadly in the middle of a blitz. This close he could smell hints of the near century between them. There was a new cologne and old books, life during a war and peace in the back of a musty old shop. Crowley wondered if he still fit in somewhere amongst all that. He was frozen in that moment, pondering, until he realized the thing grounding him there was the solid weight of Aziraphale against his palms. He quickly removed his hands and shoved them deep into his pockets.

“After you,” he said with a nod toward the door.

“Right, of course. Silly me. I should unlock that, shouldn’t I?”

Aziraphale finally broke eye contact and Crowley felt like he could finally breathe again. He shuffled a careful distance behind. He slipped inside as smoothly as he could given the pain of each step. The moment he was able, he leaned against a wall and tried to arrange himself in a way that surreptitiously took pressure off his feet.

Aziraphale locked the doors and, just like that, the world outside ceased to exist beyond the blacked out windows. Lights in the back of the shop sprang to life with a snap. Apparently no miracle was frivolous in a time like this. Or maybe Aziraphale had stopped caring so very much. Crowley wished he’d been around to find out which.

“Would you care for some wine?” Aziraphale asked, already winding back through the shelves. “I for one could use a good drink after tonight. I have a lovely Cheval Blanc that I’ve been saving.”

“Don’t open it on my account. Can’t imagine it will be easy to get a replacement anytime soon.”

Aziraphale clicked his tongue. “Don’t be ridiculous. I haven’t seen you in nearly a century. I think this is as good an occasion as I’ll get. Besides, I don’t know about you, but I could use an excuse. I’ve had few enough recently.”

“Well then,” Crowley said, “don’t let me stop you. Demon. Meant to inspire you to indulgence.”

Aziraphale bit the inside of his cheek and gave a smile that strained to be bigger regardless of his best efforts against it. “It’s settled then.”

He puttered off, deeper into the shop, and Crowley was pulled inexorably after. It felt like walking through a dream to be back in the shop with Aziraphale happily chattering away about everything that he’d been up to in the last seventy odd years. How many times had Crowley had that very dream? And yet not a one of them matched up to the reality. He never could have guessed how it would feel to step back into a life so changed. Yes, the world at large was different and he was glad to have woken up with time to figure it all out. The thing, though, that got him was how his memory matched up to the current reality of the shop.

There were new books. New furniture. But it was all only new to him. There was love written into well handled texts. Chair cushions showed where Aziraphale had sat countless times over years, if not decades. It was all thoroughly lived in and every minute of that life devoid of Crowley, all because of a stupid argument and an even stupider decision to sleep his despair off, as though it was something to be quickly gotten rid of.

Aziraphale hadn’t settled into any of his well loved furniture nor had he retrieved the bottle of wine. Instead he was floating about, putting his books of prophecy down one place only to immediately pick them back up and put them somewhere else. Crowley flopped down into the corner of a leather sofa and watched as the angel flitted to and fro.

“Are you hot?” Aziraphale asked. “It seems rather a bit too hot in here.”

Putting words to action, he immediately stripped off his coat and tossed it on the couch next to Crowley. His hat followed soon after. Crowley tried not to think too much about that golden banded halo, so thoughtlessly discarded. Instead he let his eyes flick over to the coat rack and then back to the angel who was currently toeing off his shoes. At this rate, he’d be down to nothing in a minute or two. Crowley swallowed over his increasingly dry mouth.

“Are you sure you’re alright, angel?”

Aziraphale stopped, fingers on the buttons to his waistcoat. “Yes. Absolutely fine. Finer than a frog's hair split five ways.”

“Finer than…? Do frogs have hair?” Crowley shook his head. He took off his hat and placed it delicately next to Aziraphale’s and then pushed out of his seat. His feet screamed at being used again but he grit his teeth and ignored them. He put a hand on Aziraphale’s wrist. “Just stop for a second, would you?”

And he did. When he looked at Crowley, the blue of his eyes had gone grey under a furrowed brow. He stilled completely for a moment and then reached up to take the sunglasses from Crowley’s face. He folded them, gently opened Crowley’s coat, and placed them in a pocket there. His hands lingered on the lining and moved up to the lapels where they stayed.

Crowley’s feet could have caught on fire in that moment and it wouldn’t have been enough to get him to move. His tongue darted out to wet his lips. When he saw Aziraphale track that movement, his breath was aborted in his throat and he was fairly certain he blacked out for a moment. When his brain started again, words tumbled out too fast to stop.

“Are you- What is- You seem like… Was it the thing about the frogs? I know frogs have- don’t have- hair. You know what, maybe I should just leave. Survived one bomb tonight and so I’m feeling pretty good about my chances out there.”

“Crowley?”

“Yes?”

“Please shut up for a moment, would you?”

“Yep. Shutting up. Now.”

The moment Crowley shut his lips he found them covered by Aziraphale’s. The first thing he thought was that he couldn’t believe he had Aziraphale’s lips on his own. The second was that there was a word for that and that word was kiss. He was kissing Aziraphale. Or, at least, Aziraphale was kissing him. Finally came the thought that he really ought to be kissing Aziraphale back. Like many of his best thoughts, it came too late.

Aziraphale released Crowley’s lapels and broke away. “I’m sorry, Crowley. I shouldn’t have presumed. It’s only that, with my books…”

Crowley let one of his incisors dig deep enough into his lip to draw blood. “Was that all that was? Some way to thank me for the sodding books?”

Aziraphale’s eyes widened. “No. Of course not. I only realized, well I’ve felt it for so long that I’d almost stopped noticing, but tonight confirmed it.” Those lips that had so recently been pressed together in a kiss, curled up into a beatific smile. “You lo-”

Crowley swallowed the rest of the word with a kiss. He couldn’t hear those three words, not said for him and certainly not if Aziraphale wasn’t going to say them back. For an excruciating moment, he thought Aziraphale wasn’t going to kiss him back now that he’d had time to think better of it. That moment fell away when the angel sank into it with a small, sweet whine. Crowley tried to focus on that, on the noises he could draw out and the taste of ethereal lips, instead of anything that might have been said or wouldn’t ever be said.

With his wits about him this time, he was able to appreciate just how blessedly soft everything about Aziraphale was. His lips were pliant. His stomach and thighs filled in every bony gap Crowley had. Then there was the worn velvet of his waistcoat under one hand and a cloud of curls under the other and Crowley gripped both as tight as he dared. Some foggy corner of his brain wondered if he pressed himself close enough if he could lose himself entirely in Aziraphale. Only way to find out, he supposed, was to try.

He pressed his tongue to the seam of Aziraphale’s lips and was granted entry with a soft moan that grew louder as he roved ever deeper. He was suddenly glad they’d skipped the wine because now all he could taste was Aziraphale and it was the only thing he wanted to taste for the rest of his innumerable days. He pressed tongue to tongue and licked along even teeth. He was too intoxicated by it all to realize that his own heady, hungry sounds were being added to the chorus.

Crowley could never have imagined he’d want more but there was so much more of Aziraphale and he wanted it all. He kissed along the gentle curve of an angelic jaw. He nipped, testing, at an earlobe and licked down, over tendon, thrumming pulse, and to the small peak of his Adam’s apple. He let his tongue fork slightly over that charming colloquial, just enough to savor the irony and cause Aziraphale to let out a needy whine. Or maybe it had been Crowley himself. He was no longer particularly interested in finding that line where one of them ended and the other began.

Nor, it would appear, was Aziraphale. He all but ripped off Crowley’s jacket and cast it aside before fumbling with his tie. While Azirphale went high, Crowley went low. Aziraphale himself had already done away with his waistcoat while Crowley was occupied elsewhere, so it was a simple task to unclasp braces and flick open the button to his trousers. They fell into a pile around Aziraphale’s ankles. Crowley worried it was too much— he was too much— and yet, for all his softness elsewhere, Aziraphale was half hard already and rolling his hips in search of friction. Of Crowley.

Crowley gripped the flesh and tugged Aziraphale closer. Head to head and mouth to ear, he asked, “Tell me, what do you want, Aziraphale?”

Aziraphale dug his fingers into short cropped hair and tugged so that they were looking each other in the eyes. This close there was no mistaking how much black had overtaken stormy blue. “You.”

That one word shuddered through Crowley and undid millennia of hedging and denial.

“Fuck.”

Breath ragged, he surged forward to close what scant distance remained between them. He could feel desire rolling off Aziraphale in waves and he wanted to drown in it. Instead of letting it wash over him, he lapped up every bit. It wasn’t pretty. Noses bumped and teeth clashed. It was frenetic and sweaty. It was, in a word, perfect. That should have been Crowley’s first sign that it all was gonna go to shit.

In the midst of all that twining of tongues and limbs, Aziraphale stepped onto Crowley’s foot. Not hard. Not the sort of thing he would have noticed any other time but this time, when he had a cock pressed against his stomach, this time of course he had scorched feet. He jolted and hissed in pain. He bit his tongue, hoping his pain somehow had gone unnoticed. It hadn’t. Of course it hadn’t.

Aziraphale stilled and stepped back. “Sorry. Clumsy of me to step on-” His eyes widened in horrified understanding. “Oh! Your feet! Why didn’t you say anything? How could I forget?”

“It’s fine. Just… twinged a bit when you stepped on them.”

Aziraphale paced in place, over one step and back, as though he didn’t have his cock out. Crowley was tempted to grab it and make him forget all about his stupid, bloody, inconsiderate feet.

He realized he hadn’t taken the time to appreciate it. Appreciate any of it. He’d always imagined, when he’d dared, taking things slow and relishing every article of clothing removed. Instead, he barely remembered half of it. He felt certain he would have remembered stripping away Aziraphale’s boxers and yet, there they were, in a pile on the rug with his trousers. He was caught staring at them when Aziraphale stopped fluttering about like a very fussy butterfly.

“Come here,” Aziraphale said.

The Principality didn’t wait for a reply. He put one arm behind Crowley’s knees, the other behind his shoulders, and lifted him as though he was nothing. Crowley flailed in surprise.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m going to take care of your feet.”

“ Now ? We were sort of in the middle of something.”

“That can wait.”

“It can-” Crowley sputtered, losing the war for words in the haze of his lust addled brain. “I think your dick, which is poking me in the back right now, by the way, would argue otherwise.”

Aziraphale ignored him and carried him across the room, back to the couch. He was gently deposited on top of some of their discarded clothing. “Stay there,” Aziraphale said.

“Stay- where are you going?”

“I need to retrieve a few things.” Aziraphale only made it a step before he came back to prop Crowley’s feet on a chair. “There. Stay right there.”

There was a small edge of divine command that Crowley was certain Aziraphale hadn’t intended but which made the skin on the back of his neck tingle. It also triggered that part of him that very much wanted to disobey every firmly given order. Had it come from anyone other than Aziraphale, he probably would have, no matter the damage to his own feet in the process. So he crossed his arms and had a good sulk. He tracked Aziraphale’s movements by the tremendous amount of noise he made, first turning his kitchenette upside down and then crashing through his flat upstairs.

Aziraphale returned with an assortment of fluffy towels over one arm and a large ceramic bowl held out before him. The bowl was placed on the ground with enough care that the water within it barely rippled. The largest of the towels was spread out next to it, and then Aziraphale lifted Crowley’s feet and moved the chair they’d been resting on aside.

Crowley watched it all unfold, strangely transfixed, until Aziraphale started to untie his shoes. “I can take those off myself, you know.”

“Nonsense. They need to be removed with care. Your socks as well.”

“Aziraphale-”

“Crowley.” Aziraphale’s voice was sharp but it softened right along with his expression. “Let me take care of you. Please.”

“Hrnngf.”

Aziraphale rightly took that as assent. Crowley could hardly watch him but he also couldn’t look away. An angel was kneeling at a demon’s feet. An angel with a flagging but still very much present erection, without a stitch on below the waist beyond a ridiculous pair of tartan socks and even more ridiculous garters to hold them up, and pale skin marked by the drag of blunt nails. And somehow that was all nothing next to the gentle curl of kiss stained lips or eyes that sparkled with something private and warm and liable to kill Crowley on the spot if he looked too deep.

Luckily there was pain to distract him, a far more familiar distraction than... whatever that had been with Aziraphale not long ago. Or was going to be before his traitor feet had interrupted. He was tempted to spend the rest of eternity as a snake just to spite them for their impudence.

“Sorry,” Aziraphale said when a hiss escaped from between Crowley’s clenched teeth.

“It’s nothing.”

No matter how easily the lie came to Crowley, the sibilance of it gave him away. Probably Aziraphale would have known anyway. He pursed his lips as he slowly rolled up the bottom hems of Crowley’s trousers.

“The shoes were the easy bit, I’m afraid.” His hands were on Crowley’s ankle, the thumbs rubbing gently over the bone. “Perhaps I should get that wine after all. To help with the pain.”

“Just get it over with, angel.”

Aziraphale nodded and peeled off the first sock. The fabric clung to Crowley’s raw sole. He clenched his teeth until he heard them creak in his jaw. Once one foot was bared, it was lowered delicately into the basin of cool water and Aziraphale was on to the next foot. Crowley sighed at the immediate relief the water brought.

“Better?”

“Yeah. Erm, thanks.”

Aziraphale fiddled with the rolled trousers, though the hems were in no danger of getting wet. “I suppose you already tried to heal them yourself?”

“Yeah. Think something about the consecrated ground. Divine retribution or some such. Can’t fix it with a demonic miracle.”

“Right. So I thought.” Crowley shivered as Aziraphale ran thoughtless fingers under the water and to the edge of wounded flesh. “Do you mind if I try?”

“Sure. What’s the worst that can happen?”

The water could, he suppose, get accidentally blessed and reduce him to a steaming pile of nothing goo. Not that he would say that. He didn’t think Aziraphale would appreciate the visual. Aziraphale must have had a similar idea because he pulled Crowley’s feet out of the water and went so far as to push the bowl aside.

Hands once more gingerly cradling Crowley’s ankles, Aziraphale closed his eyes. The miracle probed gently, slower and more tentative than Aziraphale usually worked. His miracles always left a taste something like honey and paprika on Crowley’s tongue, sweet with enough of a kick to make things interesting.

“There now, that’s better.”

Aziraphale kept his hold on Crowley’s legs but lifted one so that Crowley could get a better look. The soles were the bright, slightly dewy pink of new skin.

“They’ll still be tender for awhile, I’m afraid, but your trespass has been forgiven,” Aziraphale said with a chuckle to punctuate.

Even knowing it was meant in jest, there was a squirming in Crowley’s chest that he didn’t care to examine. He wriggled in his seat but that movement only served to tighten Aziraphale’s grip on him.

Crowley frowned. “Gonna keep me here forever?”

“I don’t think,” Aziraphale said slowly, rubbing circles over protruding ankle bones and working his way up to Crowley’s calves, “that I’m quite done taking care of you. If that’s alright with you, that is.”

“Hrnf. It’s whatever.”

Aziraphale shifted his grip so that he had more freedom to move. If Crowley cursed moving too fast to savor things earlier, he’d changed his tune. Aziraphale was looking at him like a buffet and Crowley felt a mix of awe and terror at being on the menu. He held his hands aloft, not sure where to settle them. Yes, Aziraphale had his nose pressed somewhere just east of his cock but he couldn’t put his hands on him. So he started with his fingers digging into his own scalp and stiffly moved to drape arms over the back of the couch in a show of false bravado.

He wanted to protest. No, he didn’t want to do any such thing but he felt like he should protest. Should at least want to protest. There was Aziraphale, bent in reverent supplication and handling him like the most cherished thing in the world. No matter what he did, he made sure to hold Crowley’s legs in a comfortable position, his feet never so much as whispering over the carpet below. He kissed over the exposed edge of sharp hips, up along lean sides, and then down. Every press of his lips was a benediction that only burned for the rush of blood that followed.

With his hands occupied, Aziraphale was forced to use his mouth to do everything. When meandering progress brought him back to Crowley’s now rather tight trousers, Crowley moved a hand to intercede.

“If you’re going to be so precious about my feet, at least let me get that,” he said, waving at his fly.

“Don’t you trust that I have everything well in hand?” Aziraphale asked. “Or, I suppose I should say, in mouth.”

And then, as though it was just the kind of thing he did all the time, Aziraphale used his teeth to undo the straining button and caught the zipper pull between his teeth. He slowly dragged it down, all the while maintaining eye contact with Crowley. That was the nail in Crowley’s proverbial coffin. He let out a fully undignified keen, the pitiful pitch of which he couldn’t be fucked to care about.

Once freed, his cock sprang out with a sort of eagerness that might have been mortifying if he had a spare thought beyond the heat of Aziraphale’s breath and his intense gaze. Why was Aziraphale staring? Was there something wrong with his cock? Was it all the garishly red hair around it?

“Look, you don’t have to-”

Aziraphale’s tongue hit the base and moved slowly up. Crowley’s eyes slammed shut involuntarily as his head flew backward. He forced them open and forced his head back up. He wanted to paint that image onto his retinas. He didn’t ever want to see anything else. He’d seen that mouth around food, around forks, around fingers even. Now-

“Fuck,” Crowley panted.

Aziraphale let out a pleased hum that turned Crowley’s insides molten. His whole world reduced to the feeling of that mouth on him. That tongue. Those lips. In even his wildest imaginings he had never thought to see this, to have Aziraphale between his legs sucking him off. And he was entirely at the angel’s mercy. His hips ached to move, to get more , closer , but the angle of his legs didn’t allow it. He needed something, though, and so he finally relented and put his hands on Aziraphale. His fingers dug into the meat of Aziraphale’s shoulder and tangled in his curls. It had to hurt but Aziraphale only moaned and smiled around Crowley’s cock.

Crowley couldn’t understand any of this. He couldn’t fathom Aziraphale actually wanting this, enjoying this . How long had Aziraphale wanted this and why had he finally acted tonight of all nights? Was Crowley going to have to don his best suit and burn his feet every night from here to the end of the world? Because God knew he would. Oh, what he wouldn’t have given to be in Her head at that moment, to know what She thought about the Guardian of the Eastern Gate sucking down the Serpent of Eden’s cock like it was the Cheval Blanc that was still collecting dust somewhere.

That thought made his muscles spasm. Contract. “Aziraphale, I-” I love you. Have for the past six thousand years and maybe you’ve finally found me out. Maybe that’s all this is. Pity. And maybe it’s just tonight. But even if it is, I’ll love you still. Always. Always. Always. “I’m close.”

Aziraphale moaned and took him deeper.

“Fuck. Aziraphale. Fuck. I-”

His jaw snapped shut with a clack, his back arched, and his eyes closed against the explosion of color behind them. A supernova, he thought somewhat deliriously. He’d had his hand in a few, back when he’d been good for creating things. Now, Aziraphale had as well. Or a mouth, rather. Maybe Crowley would suggest he name it. The humans only ever gave them a series of numbers and letters.

Crowley melted into the couch, panting. He opened his eyes just in time to see Aziraphale licking his lips as he stood.

“Jesus Christ.”

Aziraphale only smiled as he took Crowley’s legs up with him and swung them around so that his feet could be propped up on the arm of the couch. Crowley was too insensible to protest. What he did protest was Aziraphale stepping away. Crowley quickly sat up and caught the fleeing Principality by the wrist.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

“I was going to fetch our clothes and then perhaps finally break open that bottle of wine.”

“Aziraphale.”

Crowley looked pointedly at Aziraphale’s flushed and leaking cock. Aziraphale’s cheeks turned a similar color before he turned his head away.

“Tonight was about you. I wanted to show you how much I… how thankful I am.”

Crowley’s heart twisted, a flaming sword to the chest. “Yeah, well, I’m feeling really fucking thankful now, so come here.”

He didn’t give Aziraphale time to make excuses. He used his grip on the angel’s wrist to pull him down on top of him. Aziraphale yelped in surprise but did nothing to fight against it as Crowley adjusted them both so that Aziraphale was between his legs. Crowley rested his chin on Aziraphale’s shoulder.

One by one he undid the buttons of Aziraphale’s shirt. Every stretch of skin unveiled was a thrill. He ran a thumb over the pert, pink flesh of one of the nipples. He swept his knuckles through the near white cloud of chest hair and followed its trail down, over a soft stomach, to the place where it darkened to blond in the juncture between thighs. He let the pads of his fingers sink into plush flesh, not yet moving to his intended target.

“Why did humans ever invent clothes?”

He hadn’t expected an answer because he hadn’t entirely meant to say that aloud. Aziraphale gave one anyway. “I believe it had something to do with a tree. And an apple. And a snake.”

“Right. Well, time to do my penance for that, I suppose.”

He took Aziraphale’s length in hand. Aziraphale drew in a sharp breath and pressed back into Crowley. A guttural sound escaped Crowley’s mouth before he buried half his face in the thick muscle of Aziraphale’s shoulder.

Crowley had some hands-on experience. As in, his own hand on himself. He knew what he should do, in theory, but the reality of having Aziraphale in his grip, both hard and velvety soft all at once, was a different thing altogether. What did Aziraphale like? Did he enjoy the same pressure? The same speed? Crowley prided himself in being a quick study of things Aziraphale enjoyed and he was damned sure he was going to get it right. He was willing to spend all the time in the world to find out. He carefully catalogued every reaction, each wiggle, moan, and gasp until he had Aziraphale panting in his lap.

“ Oh .”

He sounded so surprised to find himself cared for. It spurred Crowley onward. He slowed the pace just enough to get Aziraphale thrusting up into his fist in search of more. And Crowley would give him more, give him whatever he wanted. That Aziraphale wanted him only served to make Crowley’s head swim.

He was going to lose his mind. He grabbed onto Aziraphale’s chest with his free hand. There was fat there, that wondrous softness that he adored, but also muscle. Strength. He remembered how easily Aziraphale had hefted him up earlier. So damn strong and so damn much. He’d let himself be pulled down and he was letting Crowley control things now. Everything felt suddenly hot and hazy.

“What do you want?” Crowley asked, desperate for a focus.

Aziraphale put his hand around Crowley’s and guided him. “Like that,” he gasped. “Just like that.”

Crowley followed his lead to the letter. Aziraphale bucked upward and it was all Crowley could do to try to hold him close. He could feel all those glorious muscles tense on top of him. Crowley’s own hips stuttered in rhythm with Aziraphale’s movements.

“Crowley.”

A demonic name sent up like a prayer. Aziraphale said it like he’d never had anything more blessed on his tongue. Crowley blinked away the moisture that had gathered in his eyes. He buried his face deeper into the crook of Aziraphale’s neck. “Just let go. I’ve got you.”

Aziraphale’s entire body shuddered and in another moment, Crowley’s hand was painted with the wet heat of him. Crowley rode the crest of that wave with Aziraphale and did his best to guide him down again. He felt entirely boneless by the time it was all over. It was all he could do to snap away any mess so that Aziraphale wouldn’t fret after it and would, perhaps, lay with him a moment longer.

Aziraphale shifted but didn’t get up. Instead he pulled an exceedingly rumpled suit jacket from underneath him. “Oh dear.”

“Don’t worry about it, angel.”

“But you looked so dashing in your suit.”

A small squeak escaped Crowley’s mouth and he cleared his throat. “Eh. If it makes you feel any better, think I’m sitting on your waistcoat.”

That was the wrong thing to say. Aziraphale scrambled up to his feet. Crowley might have been offended by being cast aside in favor of a piece of clothing, but he was too distracted by the fact that Aziraphale had lifted him up to retrieve said clothing.

Aziraphale put Crowley back down and then held out his waistcoat to examine it. “I’ve had this for nearly a century and now look at the state of it,” he said.

“It’ll be fine, angel. Just get it laundered.”

Aziraphale looked at him with his bottom lip wobbling and Crowley sighed. He gathered up what energy he had left and snapped his fingers again. Aziraphale was dressed tip to toe once more in regular immaculate fashion. He was about to do the same for himself when Aziraphale caught his hand.

“Let me clean them for you,” he offered as he gathered up the discarded clothing. “You really shouldn’t be back on your feet just yet and I can take care of them while you rest.”

“Rest,” Crowley repeated. He blinked. “Wait, you mean here?”

“Well, not there, precisely. I have a small flat upstairs that you can use. I assume the bed would be more comfortable than the couch but I haven’t used it, myself, so I can’t speak definitively.”

“Right. Here. Sleep. Uh…”

He felt like he should say something. There were a lot of unsaid somethings hanging in the air between them still but he was worried if he mentioned any of them, whatever little bubble they were currently in would burst. It couldn’t be too bad to shove that all under the rug for one night, could it? He’d lived through a lot of pain and would gladly live through more if it meant just this one night in Aziraphale’s good graces. Even if it made a space inside him ache so keenly he thought he might split in two.

“Yeah, sure. Why not? Lead the way.”

Aziraphale stooped and gathered Crowley up into his arms once more. “Your feet, remember?”

Crowley’s brain rang with the high pitched squeal of a tea kettle. Once he was sure it wouldn’t escape his mouth when he opened it, he said, “Right, just go ahead and manhandle me. When have I ever gotten in the way of what you wanted to do?”

Aziraphale beamed at him and pressed a featherlight kiss to his temple. “Never, dearest.”

That one word had the power to fell Crowley and perhaps tomorrow it would find its place amongst his many handpicked scars. For the time being, though, he thought he could forget to hurt.

#good omens #fic #my writing #crowley #anthony j crowley #aziraphale #ineffable husbands

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shyvioletcat · 5 years ago

Note

idk if you already have something for how theyre gonna make up in the firefighter au but "the power goes out in our apartment building, but i’m not prepared for this, and you come to check on me" would be perfect im just sayin........

Me to me: Yeah only post one chapter a day... That’s an excellent plan. Also me to me: Nah you’ve already done the chapter. Just post it.

I don’t know what time zone you’re in by this is my second chapter today. So enjoy. Side note my original plan for last chapter was veeerrryyy different so you guys are very lucky I changed my plans. It was much much worse.

Masterlist

~~~~~

Aelin’s head was pounding.

She wasn’t in her bed, but she wasn’t in an unfamiliar bed either. Lysandra was still asleep beside her and would probably feel just as bad as Aelin did once she woke up. The drunker she had got last night the more pissed she was at Rowan for meeting some woman at the bar. The bar that was just down from their apartments, the bar he could have met her at all week apparently if only they had talked about it a little more. But she she had been looking forward that big grand date. Sure it was just lunch but it was the romantic gesture of it.

But instead he’d decided to meet another girl. A friend. A very good friend from the looks of it. Elide had been the voice of reason the whole time, telling Aelin not to overreact, but Manon had been the opposite. The things she said weren’t said maliciously, only pragmatically offering the negative to Elide’s positive. They had been like a demon and an angel on Aelin’s shoulders all night. From the headache Aelin was feeling the demon had fed her already foul mood and won it seemed.Then Aelin hadn’t wanted to go back to her apartment so she’d come home with Lysandra instead.

With a groan Aelin rolled over and grabbed her phone. It was already quarter past 11, if she hadn’t cancelled her plans with Rowan she would be frantically getting ready right now for their date. That at least she remembered. Sending the text to Rowan when her confusion over who the dark haired woman had been had won over any other reasoning.

Why hadn’t he just told her?

Aelin scrolled through her notifications and saw the numerous missed calls from Rowan and a few texts. She checked her call log as saw that there was one outgoing call from her to him. Then her body stilled as she remembered something else she’d done and then covered her face with her hands.

Aelin pulled out her phone, everyone had gone somewhere else and she was minding their booth. She was going to do it. The thing that everyone had told her not to, even Manon. Manon thought there was definitely something more to the new woman than met the eye and even she had discouraged Aelin from doing this. She’d already sent the text cancelling lunch, but that wasn’t enough. She did’t want him to think she was done with him, it might just break her heart.

Stupid gorgeous Rowan, with his easy smiles and laughter with a girl that wasn’t her.

She tapped his name and put the phone to her ear. It only rang twice before he answered.

“Hello, Aelin. Are you alright?”

“Heeey Rowan,” Aelin had said. “I’m fine.”

“That’s good, it’s almost two in the morning so i was a little worried,” was Rowan’s reply.

Aelin had hummed at that. “So chivalrous.”

“I think you should hang up Aelin,” Rowan said.

Aelin shook her head even though he couldn’t see her. “I want to say something. I need to say something. I need you to know this. I told Manon you weren’t my snack. I was right of course, you’re not. But I don’t want you to be anyone else’s”

There was silence on both ends of the phone.

“You need to hang up, Aelin. Talk to me when you’re sober,” Rowan’s voice had been kind but firm.

“But —”

“No buts. I’ll talk to you soon. I’ll do the chivalrous thing and hang up for you.”

Then he hung up.

Aelin pulled the pillow she had been sleeping on from under her head and buried her face in it and let out a frustrated noise, not caring if Lysandra was awake or not. She evidently was when an arm that did not belong to Aelin thumped on top of the pillow. Aelin lifted it a little and peeked out to where her best friend lay.

“What did you do?” Lysandra asked.

“Something stupid, real stupid,” Aelin said. Aelin told Lysandra’s what she had done and when she finished her friend cackled.

“I’m sorry,” Lysandra said, still laughing a little. “It’s just, you two get so close then something just happens to get in the way. And you calling him and saying that… well at least he knows now.”

Aelin let out a heavy sigh. “What do I do now then?”

“We go to brunch, then once you no longer feel like there’s a herd of rhinos in your head we’ll work it out.”

~~~~~

After the events of the night before Rowan had decided it would be best to keep busy today and not in his apartment, where he would no doubt we waiting for sounds of Aelin’s return. After snatching a few hours of sleep he’d knocked on Aelin’s door in the mid morning but there had been no answer. He guessed she hadn’t come home last night or was out again.

Instead he wandered around the mall for a few hours, buying a couple of pairs of new jeans and a few shirts.Then he’d gone over and hung out at Fenrys’ and Connall’s house staying there for dinner but left soon after.

It was raining on the drive home, the sound soothing and monotonous on his wind shield. Aelin cancelling lunch had left a weight in Rowan’s chest, mainly because of his own stupidity. He had meant to tell Aelin about Lyria, he really had.

That was the one thought that kept running through his head, what had kept him awake even though he was bone tired. He’d been so caught up in Aelin that he hadn’t even thought about any other woman when he was with her. Aelin had bewitched him and he would gladly fall under her spell again and again.

Rowan pulled into the underground parking garage and drove straight into his parking spot. As he closed the door of his truck he remembered how Aelin had plastic wrapped it, making him half an hour late for work because he had to cut his way through. At the time Rowan had been fuming, so angry at Aelin for that silly prank. But now it only made him laugh.

Aelin had a wicked sense of humour and quicker wit. She was smart and beautiful, kind and compassionate. Rowan was hesitant to admit she was perfect but she came pretty godsdamned close. He hoped this slip up with Lyria hadn’t ruined his chances with her.

He was sure it hadn’t. Aelin had called him, wasted drunk, and he got the heavy hiny that she did want him.

Rowan reached the landing of his floor and made for his apartment. As he passed Aelin’s door he heard music playing and Rowan smiled. She was home, all Rowan needed was an excuse to drop by. He tried to think of one as he unlocked his door. He could maybe take over dessert? No, he’d have to go out and get something, there was nothing in his fridge or freezer. Dinner was out too. It was well after dinner time and he’d eaten already anyway. He didn’t have anything of hers to return. Rowan went into his bedroom, ripping the tags off his new clothes before dropping them in the basket.

Just then his entire apartment went dark and stayed that way. Power outage, pretty common in this building when it was raining. This was perfect, like for once in his life the gods were on his side. Well, maybe at least just one of them. He grabbed his phone from where it lay on the bed and flicked on the torch. Working as a firefighter Rowan was pretty well equipped when it came to emergency situations. We went to the cupboard where he stored emergency items, pulling out the torches and small portable lanterns before chucking them into the shopping bag from earlier.

Then Rowan went back into his bedroom and swapped his jeans for a pair of sweatpants, grabbed his keys and phone and left.

~~~~~

Aelin was lying on her couch messing around on her phone while music played in her apartment when the room had gone dark and the music cut out on the speaker and started playing on her phone. It was just another thing to go wrong. She’d gone to Rowan’s earlier with some ice cream but there’d been no answer so she’d come back here to mope. She’d been so stupid last night, calling him and telling him that. And she most likely had been wrong about the woman at the bar. When the lights had gone out she used the light on her phone to light the two candles that she had and laid back down on the couch, her phone on her chest. Maybe she should just call him.

Aelin picked up her phone again to do just that when there was a knock on the door. She she adjusted the robe she had slipped on over her gold nightgown, putting it on earlier to make herself feel a bit better. The rain had cooled her apartment down just enough that she was just a little too cold to wear it by itself. It was just by coincidence she didn’t have to run back into her room to grab it so she didn’t answer the door half naked.

But when she opened the door, Aelin had to admit to herself that she kind of wish she had left the robe off. Because it was Rowan Whitethorn at her door.

Aelin was a little shocked to see him, but not at all disappointed. Rowan smiled at her and she smiled right back, albeit a small one considering she was still embarrassed by her drunken phone call.

“Hey,” he said.

“Hey,” Aelin said back to him.

“I just wanted to check if you alright with the power out.” Rowan held up a bag of something Aelin couldn’t make out in the dim light.

“You’ve come to check on me?” Aelin said with a smile still playing on her lips.

“I’m very well prepared working in emergency services, I thought you might like some light in your home,” Rowan said as he took out a torch and turned it on.

Aelin didn’t say anything else, she just moved aside and to let Rowan into her apartment.

~~~~~

Thanks for reading guys! Stick with me, we’re almost there! Also if there’s an excessive amount of typos please forgive me, my eyes are super tired.

Tags: @tangledraysofsunshine // @nalgenewhore // @highqueenofelfhame // @galyxsy // @fucking-winchester-trash // @literary-licorice // @http-itsrebecca // @highladyofthesith // @aelinfire-bringer // @soup-that-is-too-hawt // @sleep-and-books // @3am-reading // @average-girl-at-best // @but-she-was-aelin-galathynius // @rowaelinforeverworld // @alifletcher2012 // @westofmoon // @tswaney17 // @mydarlingfireheart // @rowansfirebringer // @chocolate-eating-bitch-queen // @vanilla28 // @fireheart-of-your-dreams // @enquires-state-building // @im-not-rare-im-rarr // @your-high-lady // @mariamuses // @ttakeitbacknoww // @vi0let-femmes // @kindofawalkingpoem // @sleeping-and-books // @armixers-unite // @velarian-trash // @queenofxhearts // @princess-galathynius // @heroesofterrasen // @ladyofstoriesandmusic // @unassumingsodalovesherbooks // @empire-of-wildfire // @brittneym15 // @camerooonchiu // @worldoffae // @mybbyfeyre // @crackedship // @lowhangingtreebranches // @over300books // @yourwhisperingshadows // @thesirenwashere // @pilesofriles // @chemicha // @keshavomit // @sarahbringsoutmygay13 // @wifeofchrishemsworth // @impossiblescissorspeachpaper // @cat5313 // @judelovescardan // @illyrian-velaris // @flowerspringsea // @whitethorn15 // @whiskeybusiness1776 // @notaddictedtoanything // @thereaderandfangirl // @mynewdreamwasyou // @tintinnabulary // @the-regal-warrior // @searchingforbellarke // @queen-of-wings-and-fire // @court-of-fuck-me-daddy // @officialasianbitch //

#Rowan is a snack and we all know it

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trashboatprince · 5 years ago

Text

Just a one-shot of a silly idea that came to mind the other day while I was at work.

A trip to Paris to remember a friend from the past leads to an angel and a demon sitting in a cathedral for a chat.

And it takes an awkward plan to get said demon inside of the holy building.

This clearly takes place long before the recent fire at Notre Dame, this is more of just a random little trip during the 90s.

And yes, I tagged it with ship stuff, obvious, but let’s face it, anything I write with Aziraphale and Crowley is always gonna be Ineffable Husbands, even if it’s just implied or hinted at.

On with the fic!

Can Demons Sit in Pews?

“Paris? Really? Got another desire for the best crepes in the world, angel?”

Aziraphale smiled, despite the obvious jab at a previous action from well over two hundred years ago, turning around to face the approaching demon. His smile faltered into an annoyed pout when Crowley waved his hand, a few meters away a souvenir stand operator suddenly dashed off when an officer just so happened to notice that his items might be counterfeit.

“Now, my dear, was that really necessary?” He asked as he crossed his arms, getting a smirk in return.

“No, but it was funny. So, what are you doing here?”

“I really should be asking you that question, how did you know I was here?”

Crowley gave a shrug. “I always know, and don’t avoid my question.

With a turn, Aziraphale gestured to the large structure he had been strolling towards before he heard the all-too-familiar voice of his oldest companion. Crowley looked at it and pulled a face. “A church.”

“Ah,” The angel smiled, “not just any old church! Notre Dame! One of the most famous cathedrals in all the world!”

“I like the one in Prague better, you know, the one that looks spooky.” Crowley spoke. “Or that one in Cologne, the one that claims to have the bones of the Three Kings and they’re covered in gold and gems.”

Aziraphale huffed. “You’ve never even been inside, you silly fool.”

“Been in one church in all my life, and it was to save you from a stupid death.” The demon replied, missing the look that crossed Aziraphale’s face. That moment was… rather important to the Principality, it was when feelings were made certain for him. He glanced at Crowley, who seemed to be rambling now, having corrected himself.

He had been in more churches, apparently, but they were ones where devil worshippers or demons had found ways to ruin the holiness of them. And nine out of ten, Crowley only ended up there cause some idiot summoned him while drunk.

“Well, while you wander down memory lane of foolish teenagers and dark ‘warlocks’, I shall wander into the cathedral.” Aziraphale spoke up as he turned on his heel, making his way over before he felt long fingers gently grab his shoulder. “Yes, dear?”

“Can I come with?”

This made the angel pause and give the taller man a funny look. “Crowley, did your melted shoes and me anointing your feet for hours to help heal them not make it obvious that you cannot walk on consecrated ground?”

“I think me howling in pain from having to peel my melted shoes and damaged socks off was the clue, or me making a total arse outta myself in front of stupid nazis as I practically tap danced to keep from standing still for too long, but I’d still like to see it. Been so much buzz about it for centuries, and there were all those films that came out about it, even one recently, been wanting to see this place for myself. Plus, it’s a gothic cathedral, that’s got to account for something, right? You know, what with it being demonic looking and the like.”

“Crowley…” Aziraphale started, but the demon walked past him towards the entrance. “My dear, I don’t think that’s a very good idea-!”

One foot was on the first step up to the door and Crowley buckled, dropping with a sharp hiss, falling on his back as he clutched his foot. Aziraphale was quick to come to his side, ignoring the looks of Parisians and tourists nearby. “Oh gracious, are you alright?! Did you not realize that this is still Catholic, despite how spooky it looks? It’s going to be a bit worse than a little church in Germany.”

“No shit, angel!” Crowley snapped at him, sitting up and removing his boot and sock, looking at his foot. Aside from the scales, the only thing different about it to a normal person would be what looked like a red sunburn, but to Aziraphale, it was clearly a burn of holy grounds. It had only been a moment for the burn to take place, not like he had stood there for a while, so Aziraphale was able to remove the pain with a snap of his fingers.

“Crowley, maybe you can wander around while I’m inside. I know there is a lovely bakery not too far, and the Seines is nice to drop things on people while on one of the bridges, I’d rather you not suffer.”

“Nope.” He shook his head, putting on his sock. “I’m too curious, it’s in my nature.”

“That it is.” Aziraphale sighed as he looked about, waiting for the man to finish getting his boot back on and to regain his pride from that little display. He spotted a family where a little boy was saying something to his father, who then crouched down, the child climbed up his back. Aziraphale grinned at this before turning his attention to his friend. “My dear, I just had the most brilliant idea for you to get inside!”

“You’ll go inside and draw a satanic symbol on the floor, thus corrupting it for a bit?”

“No! I mean…” He moved, turning his back to Crowley as he rested his knees on the ground. “Climb on my back.”

Crowley just looked at him. “What?”

The angel sighed loudly. “Get on my back, I will hold onto you, and this way you can go inside with no problems.”

“Can you even lift me?”

“Crowley, I am a Principality, I am much stronger than I look. Besides, how many times have I carried your drunken and or sleeping self around while you were practically dead weight?”

The snake demon shrugged. “Alright, but if you complain of back aches later, that’s your fault.” He got up and moved to get on the other’s back, before nearly yelping when Aziraphale suddenly stood up, making Crowley wrap his legs around the other’s stomach, his arms around his shoulders. “Damn, angel! It’s like I weigh nothing to you!”

“I’ve carried stacks of books that weigh more than you ever will, my dear.” Aziraphale said with a bit of smug pride as he walked up the stairs, ignoring more stares from people as he opened the doors.

Crowley’s eyes widened a bit behind his shades as he looked inside. He could sense the Godly blessings of this place, felt a bit like when one touched an old television screen when it was on static, a light tingle under the skin. The inside was massive, beautiful, and made Crowley feel so tiny. He was in a house of God, and it felt wrong, yet… with Aziraphale here, giving him permission, it felt a bit right.

He wasn’t here to cause trouble, his natural curiosity, which got him into the whole demon shtick anyway, was too strong for him to ignore being in here. He hadn’t paid too much attention when he was in that church in 1941, he was too worried about Aziraphale, and the other ones he had wandered into (or were summoned into) were damaged.

Here he was now though, inside of one of Europe’s most famous gothic buildings, kept alive by a writer who didn’t want to see it go to waste in the 1800s.

The demon paused and looked at Aziraphale, who seemed lost in his own thoughts as he walked about, seeming to let Crowley look around from his perch. “Do you wanna take a seat?” He asked the blond, who looked at him out of the corner of his eye.

“Can you sit on a pew?”

“We’ll find out.”

Aziraphale made his way over to one near the front, a woman stopped him for a moment, asking in English, an American tourist, if his friend was alright.

“Ah,” Aziraphale smiled, “he’s alright, he stepped wrong outside and now his foot hurts, but he didn’t want to wait for it to stop aching.” Crowley nearly groaned out loud at the excuse the other had come up with to explain why he was carrying a grown man on his back.

She seemed to believe the lie, damn curious humans, and Aziraphale stepped away to allow Crowley to take a seat. It wasn’t easy, Crowley didn’t dare put his feet on the ground, it would be ten times worse than it was outside, so he had to step on the pew.

There was no burn, just more of the television static, so it was safe. Who the hell would bless a seat anyway? He sat down, cross-legged, and the angel sat down next to him with a small, content sigh as he looked up at the sight before them. Clearly the back of the cathedral was where the holy men in charge would speak to the masses, under beautiful stain glass, and symbols of God, The Son, and The Holy Ghost.

Aziraphale put a hand on Crowley’s knee, turning to him to whisper. “What do you think?”

“It’s beautiful, I’ll give your lot’s fan club that. Probably the first demon in history to really appreciate what humans can do when building homes for God. Wonder if She has a favorite somewhere in the world.”

“Lots of them, actually.” Aziraphale replied. “So many have a little something that just makes Her love them more than some others. I don’t blame Her, I can be the same with my books, and I know you are with your plants.”

“You know nothing about me and my plants.” Crowley grumbled, his eyes drifting about. “Speaking of books. We’re here because of Victor, aren’t we?”

Aziraphale blinked, his cheeks suddenly a bit pink from embarrassment. “Yes, uhh… I do try to stop by once a year, to pay my respects.”

“Why not at his grave?”

“Oh, I do, but as an angel, I think the most respect can be paid towards the building he saved from neglect.”

Crowley couldn’t argue with that, so he nodded. Aziraphale had been good friends with the write Victor Hugo, and even Crowley couldn’t deny that he had read through a few of his books, even the ones that could very well be mistaken for bricks. He was rather shocked at how dark The Hunchback of Notre Dame was as a book, young girls being preyed on by creepy older men, a deformed human being treated as a mistake and a monster, a holy man who was doing things that demons were known to influence, dark stuff.

When Victor had died, he remember Aziraphale had spent the day in his shop, just reading away at one of the man’s works. He did go to the funeral, Crowley did not. He had gone back to sleep, seeing as it had been the 1800s and Crowley spent most of it asleep, outside of a few rare times where he couldn’t sleep and pestered humans and Aziraphale.

He had been awake the day the author died, and he just sat with his angel as he quietly mourned in his own way. Aziraphale could be emotional when he wanted to be, but sometimes his more obvious expression of grief was being silent and reading with a frown on his face, Crowley knew his friend all too well. He remembered taking Aziraphale out for dinner that evening, his treat, and they spent the night in the bookshop, toasting wine to humans who have changed things for the better, even in little ways.

“He was an excellent poet and artist.” Crowley spoke softly, hearing Aziraphale hum in agreement. “And apparently a hell of a sex fiend, so many mistresses. His little black book is more infamous than anything he’s ever written.” He deserved the punch to the arm from the angel, but he still got a laugh from Aziraphale.

“Yes, well, he was still a respectful man. He stood for what he believed in, for freedom and liberty, to be one’s self, to stand up for what was right.” Aziraphale replied as he looked at Crowley, there seemed to be something on the man’s face, like there was a weight to his words, a personal one.

“Yeah.” The demon put his hand over the one that rested on his knee. “‘To love is to act’. That was his, seems like a good idea, even if the word love is… meh.” There wasn’t any venom or hate in Crowley’s voice at the last part of his statement, and Aziraphale didn’t comment on it.

“Right, my dear. You are correct, that is his.” A smile came to Aziraphale. “When we’re done here, would you like to go out for lunch? My treat, afterwards, we can do to the Louver. I’d love for you to tell me more silly stories about Da Vinci.”

“Sounds good. Besides, this place is making my limbs feel numb, and that probably means it’s time to go.”

The angel let the demon get on his back once more, walking out as they discussed where would the best place for lunch was and if Crowley should be allowed to make loud, lewd jokes about naked people in religious art when they got to the museum.

END

Originally, this was just an excuse to write the hilarious mental image of Aziraphale taking Crowley into a church on his back, but I did a bit of research of Victor Hugo and found the quote and damnit, I had to throw that in.

(Also, yes, he was a hell of a womanizer and every brothel in Paris closed for his funeral cause a lot of ladies attended).

Thanks for reading

(this is also posted on ao3, under the same title and by me, RiYuYami and I really need to change that name lol)

#good omens #ineffable husbands #aziraphale #anthony j crowley #john's drabbles

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aaymeirah-writes · 5 years ago

Text

Angels & Demons & Slugs

(Written as a gift fic on ao3 for thehedonistspurge as part of the good omens summer gift exchange)

Summary: A fun little fic told from Warlock Dowling’s POV as he tries to understand the peculiar relationship between Nanny Ashtoreth and Brother Francis. Ft. a slug infestation.

Sometimes, it was like living with an angel and a demon on his shoulder. Warlock knew about this concept because Brother Francis made him read a book that had old illustrations of very unrealistic angels and demons whispering into people’s ears. Not that he really knew what angels and demons looked like, but what use are wings if they aren't even attached to your body? Stupid adults.

The book talked about the angel counseling good, and the demon counseling bad, always fighting for dominance. This was exactly like Nanny Ashtoreth and Brother Francis. Case in point; yesterday Brother Francis told him he should ignore those stupid kids mom made him visit who taunted him for still having a Nanny at nine years old while Nanny Ashtoreth grew angry and helped him devise a plan of revenge involving silly string, a few paperclips, and a leaf-blower.

There was a problem with this theory of his though. The angel and the demon were supposed to hate each other. And while Nanny and Brother Francis sniped at each other, they never actually acted like they hated each other. Warlock knew this because he hated schoolwork, and he did anything to avoid it. On the other hand, Nanny and Brother Francis,were always glancing at each other and whispering when they thought he couldn’t see. C’mon, he was nine, not stupid!

However, the strangest proof to his theory was that Brother Francis always seemed to say the exact opposite of what Nanny Ashtoreth told him and Nanny Ashtoreth did the same. They never even had a real chance to talk to each other, because they were both busy during the day and Warlock knew that everybody went to bed at 9 pm. He did. It was only fair.

Maybe all gardeners and Nannies were like this.

“Watch out for that slug my boy,” Brother Francis put a hand on his shoulder, which caused him to pull up short, break out of his musings and look with disgust at the slimy creature that was just about to be crushed under his boot.

“Ew.”

“We must love all God’s creatures. Yes, even the ones whose outward appearance is off-putting.”

“But slugs are pests!”

“That doesn’t mean we have to kill them. Besides, you’ll get your boot all covered in guts.”

“Whatever,” Warlock muttered, continuing to walk beside Brother Francis as they toured the gardens he knew so well.

“Here is another slug. See? It’s only eating the leaf, not harming you at all,” Brother Francis smiled toothily at Warlock. Warlock decided to give him his best sullen glare. For all that Brother Francis seemed to fulfill the angelic role, he didn’t seem to trust that Warlock wouldn’t just ignore the gross and slimy thing like an angel who was supposed to see the best in people should.

“School is canceled for the day,” said Nanny Ashtoreth as she swept into the room in a swirl of black skirts. Warlock looked up from the paper he was happily drawing army tanks on, the kind he imagined his Dad used when he went into the dangerous territory of something called troubled political waters. Warlock didn’t exactly know what that meant, but he did know that it sounded really cool.

“Why?” Warlock asked.

“We are going on a slug extermination mission. Time to get rid of those blighters,” Nanny said.

“But Brother Francis said to leave them alone, they aren’t hurting anybody,”

“Anybody being the keyword. The slugs are hurting the plants,” Nanny scowled, “Brother Francis is sometimes too nice for his own good. I’m tired of seeing that slug infestation destroy the perfectly lovely gardens out there. So come on, put on your jacket.” When Warlock continued to sit there staring at her, she sighed.

“Or would you rather stay inside and do schoolwork?” Nanny had Warlock there.

“So, how do we kill them?” Warlock asked Nanny with interest as she led the way to the big kitchen.

“We’re going to create and set out slug removal traps, and if you see any slugs, you’ll spray them with a special slug killing solution,” Nanny replied, smiling at Warlock from behind her glasses.

“Awesome.”

As Warlock watched Nanny commandeer the kitchen to put together saucers and containers of cornmeal or milk or beer, he decided that she looked to be filled with demonic glee. This was another example of suspiciously going directly against Brother Francis’s counsels. Maybe this was their version of fighting- through battling over slugs.

“Warlock, get me the mister bottles,” Nanny said as she took a generous swig from the beer bottle before grimacing and glaring at it. He got up and found two nice blue-green ones.

“Will these ones work?” he asked. Nanny Ashtoreth glared at him.

“Warlock, you’re the Antichrist. Believe they will work and they will.” Warlock looked at the bottles in his hands.

“They do work?” To demonstrate he sprayed the one that had a small amount of tepid water in it.

“Just give me them little-demon child,” Nanny said with exasperation, somewhat ruining the effect by ruffling his hair at the same time.

“Hey! Not the hair,” Warlock groaned.

“15 slugs for me!” Warlock crowed, holding up a dead one just sprayed with the ammonia mixture from his gloved hands. This was so much more fun than school!

“I’m taking the long way around by planting these traps,” Nany said as a pitiful excuse for only having killed one.

“Hey! Another one.” Warlock tossed the dead slug into the bucket and lunged to spray it. He missed and fell face-first into the dirt. Ow. This was gross. He raised his head to see a pair of muddy boots belonging to Brother Francis. Now it was embarrassing as well.

“Are you alright my boy?” he asked kindly, offering a hand to pull him up. Warlock scowled, he didn’t need any help!

“Yes. I’m fine,” brushing himself off, Warlock turned to see Nanny Ashtoreth watching him, holding a cup of beer and a shovel in the other hand, genuine smile on her face. For him or for Brother Francis? He turned quickly to see Brother Francis looking at Nanny Ashtoreth, not at him in sympathy as he should be.

“What are you two doing in my garden?” Brother Francis asked curiously. Nanny drew herself up to address the hunched over gardener.

“Saving your garden from destruction by slug.”

“You’re killing them?” yelped Brother Francis.

“Gotta make sure the pests don’t come back. It’s for the good of the plants.”

“So to save one thing, you’re killing another?” Brother Francis demanded. Not with anger as Warlock thought he would have, it was his garden after all, but with interest in Nanny Ashtoreth’s motivations.

“You were the one who let the situation develop enough that hard choices had to be made.”

“So it’s my fault?”

“It’s nobody's really, but the slug infestation is a problem that needs to be dealt with.” Nanny lifted an eyebrow as she continued to stare at Brother Francis, ignoring Warlock and the new slug he had just severed with the metal head of the garden shovel.

“I suppose I can see that.”

“You suppose! Angel I don’t-”

“Can we go inside now Nanny? My feet are all slimey,” Warlock whined. These two were spending entirely too much time in some weird unspoken conversation. Time they should be spending paying attention to him and all the slugs he had killed!

“Of course dear,” Nanny sighed. “Brother Francis, I’ll leave the supplies here. Of course you must deal with things as you see fit, since you are the gardener”

“That sounds.. good,” Brother Francis looked disappointed for a moment before he smiled at Warlock.

“Have fun, my boy.” Warlock snorted. He was dirty and cold, killing slugs had lost its’ appeal and now he was even more confused about Nanny Ashtoreth and Brother Francis.

“With what?”

“Life. The world. It won’t be around forever you know,” Brother Francis replied as he picked up the basket full of slug traps, “unless you do something about it.”

“Okay,” shrugged Warlock “have fun with the slugs I guess.”

“I- will.” Brother Francis said, managing to look only mildly disgusted with the brown creatures that had already congregated at a milk saucer by his feet.

His train-themed alarm clock said 11 pm when Warlock woke up from a deep sleep because of a sudden draft of cold air. Blearily looking around him, he saw that the window had blown open. Darn. Getting out of bed, Warlock decided to try to close it himself. After all, he was nine. He didn’t need his Nanny for every little thing. He took a moment to look out the window, then took another when he saw two familiar figures standing just beneath it talking quietly. A secret meeting, awesome! The thought that maybe Nanny had lied to him about everyone going to sleep at the same time came to him suddenly. But then again...this was the perfect time to practice his cool eavesdropping skills.

“Angel...I’ll just....oh thank you, my dear boy...miracle...slugs are little blighters...not my favorite of Her creations...actually, I think...Gabriel, really?” Disjointed words from Brother Francis and Nanny Ashtoreth reached his ears then fell away as the two moved away from under the window and onto the path to Brother Francis’s cottage. Warlock yawned as he strained his ears to catch more. Nothing. There was really no point in listening further. He carefully closed the window and got back into bed.

As he drifted off to sleep, Warlock decided that even if Nanny called Brother Francis angel, even if they wanted him to do opposite things, even if they didn’t really seem to hate each other and quite rudely communicated silently over his head, he still liked them both. After all, the few other kids he’d played with didn’t have someone cool enough to help plan awesome revenge or someone nice enough to listen to him and never intentionally make him feel stupid. Maybe his theory was right after all.

Sleep claimed Warlock and he smiled as the musings were cast aside in favor of a dream of silly stringed revenge, crushed slugs and the comforting presence of an angel and a demon on his shoulders.

#good omens #crowley #aziraphale #warlock dowling #nanny ashtoreth #brother francis #angels #demons #fanfic #warlock is a little shit #but a smol #perceptive little shit #writers on tumblr #my writing #aaymeirah-writes

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superwho-am-i-kidding · 5 years ago

Photo

Oh, @askazfellandco , your art is so wonderful. And I had to go and make y’all sad. (I only colored the images.) There’s a fic to go with these. It is below the cut, just in case you didn’t want to feel more pain.

Once more, fluff and ANGST below the cut. Continue at your own risk, but PLEASE let me know what you think. Legit I thrive off feedback. (Also I used italics a frick-ton more than I usually do, so I hope they’re not distracting.)

Anyways, let’s get to the pain of:

ASK

“Angel, I don’t care how much you beg, I’m not going to tell you.” Aziraphale jutted out his bottom lip while Crowley only laughed. “It wouldn’t be a surprise if I told you where we were going, now would it?”

 Aziraphale sighed, crossing his arms. “At least tell me what we’re going out for.”

 “Surprise,” Crowley reminded him again. “Look, we’ve just stopped Armageddon. We’ve outsmarted Heaven and Hell.” He reached across the Bentley’s center console to intertwine their hands together. “Just trust me, yeah?”

 “Of course I trust you,” Aziraphale gasped. “Why ever would you think I didn’t?”  “You keep asking to ruin the surprise,” Crowley shrugged. “If you trust me, you won’t ask.”

 The angel huffed in annoyance. “Fine.” Crowley took his gaze off of the road to smile at his angel. “Crow–!” Aziraphale gasped as his eyes went wide. Crowley’s head whipped back to the street and managed to perform a rather large miracle (curse?) before the Bentley decided to wrap itself around a telephone pole. “Pay attention!” Aziraphale grit out from between his clenched jaw. “You could have discorporated us! And I can’t imagine that would go over well.”

 “No, I suppose not,” Crowley murmured, an apologetic smile lifting one corner of his mouth. “Sorry, angel. Won’t happen again.”

 “I should hope not,” Aziraphale finally loosened the death grip he had on Crowley’s hand. Instead of squeezing the hand in panic, he gripped it gently as his heart rate slowed down.

 “And here we are,” Crowley said dramatically.

 “It’s St. James’ Park,” Aziraphale said in a slightly questioning tone. “Why would this need to be a surprise? We’ve come here plenty of times before.”

 “Well, yeah, but I thought that maybe you’d enjoy a picnic?” A wicker basket appeared in his lap. “Since there’s no one peering over our shoulders?”

 “Oh, that would be absolutely wonderful, dear boy.” A smug smile appeared on the angel’s lips. “It’s rather sweet, Crowley. Nice, even.”

 “Not nice,” the demon hissed, slamming the door to the Bentley harder than was necessary. Aziraphale only smiled, following the demon towards their bench. The one that they had occupied for hundreds of years, the wear and tear matching their lounging forms perfectly. Crowley set the basket on his left while the angel was tucked into his right.

 “You know,” Aziraphale mused, “this is kind of like our first date.”

 “Angel…” Crowley scoffed, “it’s been 6,000 years. You could hardly call this our first.”

 The angel’s blue eyes widened. “Wha– You think we’ve been… dating this whole time?”

 Crowley paled. “We-we haven’t? You didn’t call it the Arrangement to throw off anyone possibly listening? You thought that’s all it was?” Crowley took a frustrated breath. “When did you realize that I loved you?”

 “Love?” the angel gasped. “But I don’t feel anything different…” his eyes widened as he thought across the past 6,000 years. From the moment they met on the wall of Eden, Aziraphale had gotten a certain feeling from the demon. Not one that would normally coincide with a being of pure evil, but one that had always been surrounding this specific being of minimal evil. The years hit him in the face once he realized what the feeling had been. “Oh, my dear boy,” Aziraphale softened again. “Since the Garden?”

 Crowley laughed a little. “As soon as you told me you gave away your sword, I was a goner. I fell again, but this time for a better reason.”

 “Oh, you old sap.” Aziraphale scooted a little closer to his demon. He could get used to saying that: His demon.

 “Do…” the words got caught in the back of Crowley’s throat. “Do you… love–”

 Aziraphale turned to face Crowley. “Darling, I’ve loved you for centuries. I didn’t know what to call it until you rescued me and my books from those awful Nazis. But I never knew you felt the same way about me until now.”

 “How could I not?” Crowley scoffed, arching an eyebrow.

 “The point is: I love you. And I don’t care about what anyone else thinks. Nothing is going to stop me from loving you anymore.”

 “Angel, I don’t know if I’m still going too fast–”

 “We’re well past that,” Aziraphale smiled at him, brushing a piece of Crowley’s hair off of his forehead. “You don’t need to wait for me anymore. I’m ready.”

 Crowley grinned. “Good, ‘cuz… I got you something. Since, y’know, I thought you knew we’d been… well, dating.”

 “A book?” Aziraphale guessed. “Oh, Crowley, you shouldn’t… have…” his voice got smaller when he saw what Crowley had produced from the picnic basket. A solitary ring was nestled into the palm of the demon’s hand, gold in color and serpentine in shape. “What… what is this?”

 A dark blush peeked over the collar of Crowley’s jacket. “I… well, I know it’s a human tradition, but since we’ve been here with them since the beginning, I think it only makes sense that we make the Arrangement official. Not that it hasn’t been!” he rushed. “It has been very official. I just thought that, well… I thought that maybe you’d… marry me? I mean, now I know that you love me, and I obviously love you–”

 “Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale spoke so gently, it was almost hard for the demon to hear. “Oh, Crowley, of course I’ll marry you!” A couple stray tears of happiness spilled from the corner of his eyes.

 “Surprised?” Crowley smiled, leaning towards the angel, raising a hand to wipe away the tears. He hissed in pain when his thumb made contact with the Holy Water. “Ah!”

 “Crowley?” Aziraphale gasped. “Oh, Crowley, I didn’t mean to hurt you!”

 “Not your fault,” Crowley insisted, shaking the burning hand. “Although it only goes to figure that a Holy Being cries Holy Water.”

 Aziraphale quickly wiped his face with the back of his sleeves. “Ruined the moment, haven’t I?”

 “Nothing could ruin this moment,” Crowley smiled again. “Although something could make it better.”

 “What would that be?”

 The demon slowly leaned closer to the angel, giving him plenty of time to pull away or to tell him to stop. “This,” he whispered as his eyes slipped closed and their lips finally connected. Crowley swore that sparks were literally flying between the two of them. It could’ve been centuries before they separated. “W-well, that…”

 “That was nice,” Aziraphale offered. “Although I’m curious to know if it’s that nice the second time.”

 “Ask and ye shall receive,” Crowley grinned, reclosing the gap that had formed between them. A soft whimper escaped from the back of his angel’s throat. “Angel?” Crowley pulled back. “’S everything alright?”

 “Better than,” Aziraphale smiled, resting a hand on Crowley’s cheek. “I just can’t believe that it’s finally over. That we can have our side. That I can have you.”

 “Shaddup,” Crowley blushed, swatting halfheartedly at the angel next to him.  Aziraphale smiled as he finally slipped the ring onto his finger. “I have one for you, too,” he looked up and began twisting the ring off his pinkie, the one he’d worn since the beginning of time.

“Oh, angel, I can’t–”

 A small miracle sized the ring perfectly to Crowley’s finger as Aziraphale pushed it over his knuckles. “It looks radiant on you, my dear.”

 “Yeah, well…” Crowley’s eyes flickered behind his glasses.

 A soft sigh escaped Aziraphale’s lips. “Won’t you please take off the glasses? I really do love your eyes, my dear.”

 “They’re ugly,” Crowley muttered, turning his head. “Stupid snake’s eyes.”

 Aziraphale gently pulled the glasses from Crowley’s face. He cupped his fingers underneath the demon’s chin to encourage him to meet his eyes. “My darling, I adore your eyes.” Crowley just huffed, shifting his eyes away. Aziraphale placed his glasses back in his hands. “I do hope you’ll keep them off,” he said. “But it’s your choice.”

 Crowley pondered the glasses in his hands for a moment before he tucked them into his jacket pocket. “Only for you,” he finally decided. He nearly regretted the decision to keep them off when Aziraphale beamed radiantly at him. “Stoppit, angel, I’ll go blind.” That only made Aziraphale grin more before turning his attention back to the picnic basket. “For the love of– Go ahead, angel.”

 Aziraphale reached around him and grabbed the basket, setting it on his knees. He opened it and gasped. “These are…”

 “Crêpes,” Crowley nodded. “I made them myself. I doubt they’ll be as good as the ones you risked your life for during the French Revolution, but I–”

 “Oh, they look perfect,” Aziraphale stopped him. “Try one with me?”

 “Angel, you know I don’t eat…” Crowley tried.

 Aziraphale broke off a piece of the crêpe and held it to the demon’s mouth. “For me?”

 Crowley rolled his eyes. “Oh, all right. But together, okay? I don’t want to choke on my terrible cooking alone.”

 “Silly serpent,” Aziraphale shook his head. “Here,” he put the piece into Crowley’s hand.

 The demon gasped a bit. “Still hot.”

 “As it should be,” Aziraphale nodded, setting the piece of pastry onto his tongue. “Oh, Crowley, it’s marvelous!” Aziraphale’s brows knit a little as he tasted something else. “Hm, there’s something else here. I can’t quite tell what it is. You must tell me your recipe.”

 “If you insist,” the demon smiled, tossing the bite into his mouth.

 The taste clicked as soon as Crowley downed the crêpe. “It’s been blessed! Someone’s blessed it!” Aziraphale cried just as the demon swallowed. “Crowley, no!”

 The demon frowned for a moment before he coughed, feeling somehow as if he were choking. It didn’t seem possible that a demon could choke, especially since they didn’t need to breathe. He tore at the scarf around his neck, trying desperately to suck in any oxygen possible. “Az–” he gasped.

 “Crowley!” Aziraphale cried, clutching at the demon’s face as it rapidly lost all color. His eyes closed, his breaths coming in shallow gasps as Aziraphale curled the picnic blanket behind his head. “Crowley, don’t you dare,” the angel begged, tears pouring from his eyes. “Don’t you dare leave me alone. Not after all we’ve been through. Not before we’re married. I can’t do this without you. I love you…” A soft sigh escaped from between his demon’s lips as his body went completely limp. Aziraphale sat back from the ashen body of his only companion of over 6,000 years.

And then he screamed.

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sherry-smith · 5 years ago

Text

We’ll Forget The Tears We Cried

Written for @ineffablehusbandsweek!

Day 4: Senses; Touch/Sight/Hearing/Taste/Smell

Summary: It's a matter of balance, after all.Four times Aziraphale and Crowley question their relationship across the 20th century and one time they actually find the answer

On AO3

Mayfair, 5 November 1918

He’s not quite sure why he keeps staring out of the window, instead of going back to bed.

The first time he woke up was May 31st, 1915; it’s not easy to sleep while bombs explode all around you, no matter how many miracles you’d previously cast to protect your house against anything that could possibly happen. He didn’t exactly expect a war to happen, nor raids in the middle of London. Crowley used to believe that he could miss even a century and almost nothing would’ve changed; now he knows that this is a brand new world, in which suddenly even so little as 53 years can make a difference. This is called, apparently, “progress”, and whoever invented it didn’t really do a good job.

Going back to sleep in 1915 was out of question. So he’d popped across the Channel, tempted soldiers into disobeying orders and desert, forged reports and documents, instilled fear in generals’ and colonels’ hearts, anything to make those silly humans go home and end this stupid war.

(Had Aziraphale been there, he would’ve sworn that Crowley was just making up excuses to save as many lives as possible. But Aziraphale was in London, helping civilians, which spared the demon the embarrassment of being called nice.)

Now, three years later, he’s back in his flat, in his favourite pyjamas, frustrated. When he closes his eyes he sees death and destruction, trenches and explosions, horribly disfigured bodies and amputated limbs and intestines sprawled all over the place. He feel like he’s going to puke any moment now.

It’s not like he’s never seen such things, he’s a demon after all, he’s fought in so many battles, both among humans and celestial beings. Except this war is different, somehow. He’s not sure why, he just feels it. Maybe it’s the fact that humans keep finding better ways to kill each others, to the point where he should consider retiring for good on another planet, since his job had been stolen by puny mortals centuries ago. Yet, he stays.

He’s not quite sure why he keep staring out of the window, instead of going back to bed. It may, or may not, be related to that guy who died a month ago in the flat on the other side of the road. Or rather, to the figure on the pavement who is staring mournfully at said flat.

Robbie Ross. That’s the dead guy’s name. He’s made researches, while dealing with insomnia. What was so special about him remained a mystery; Ross’ story was one of sorrow, persecution and lost love, as many other men’s. And yet, once in a while, an angel would discreetly miracle some flowers on his doorstep. That was, most likely, due to the fact that these days it’s complicated to get to Paris, where the guy’s buried, side by side with a certain Oscar Wilde, apparently a famous writer.

(Had Crowley been awake, he would’ve probably enjoyed Wilde and his friends’ company. It seemed an unlikely company for Aziraphale, though, so he’d tried reading some of the author’s works to understand. One novel and five short stories later he was still confused, although The Nightingale and the Rose sounded vaguely yet inexplicably familiar. Maybe one day Aziraphale himself would explain it to him, but not now, and not in a long time.)

The angel turns his head and Crowley quickly hides behind the curtain. Through the thin fabric, he sees a face he barely recognises. There’s no softness in those eyes, no joy, no hope; just grief, as deep as the deepest ocean, as dark as the darkest pit. Aziraphale stares longingly at his window. On one side of the road lies the friend who’ll never walk the Earth again; on the other side lies the friend who’ll never walk the Earth again by his side, or so he fears.

“Do you miss me, angel?” Crowley thinks, trying to read his mind and heart, trying to find the old, cheerful Aziraphale behind this mask of sorrow and loss and despair.

“Would you greet me like an old friend or smite the enemy you were never supposed to fraternise with?”

Deep down he knows Aziraphale misses him as much as he misses him, but the rejection still burns on the surface and he feels vulnerable, too vulnerable to be seen. So he keep staring, and Aziraphale keeps staring too, both afraid to make the first step.

“Smile, my angel.” he finds himself thinking “Smile and I’ll know everything’s okay and we can fix this mess and forget about the last 53 years. Smile and I’ll come running to you right now, through the scandal and the bombs. Please.”

But he doesn’t smile. Instead, he blinks away the tears and heads back to Soho.

The world has changed and turned a depressing shade of grey. Quietly, in their own ways, Crowley and Aziraphale have changed too.

London Underground, 26 February 1944

He wonders how long his eardrums can resist. Not that he needs them, strictly speaking.

The awful whistle of the bombs is painfully familiar; it reminds him of 1915, a disrupted nap, trenches and bullets and screams that echo through the years. Someone decided that that hadn’t been enough, so here it is, the brand new rerun, with brand new weapons and tortures and horrors. It had took him a whole year, back in 1918, to finally go back to sleep and, as soon as his head hit the pillow, 1939 was there and farewell bed! He didn’t feel rested at all, but one’s gotta do what one’s gotta do, so he joined the Secret Services. No playing with soldiers this time round; he was aiming higher. Strike where it matters, where you have to operate so subtly that neither of the two sides are undoubtedly sure you are working for them. Not Nazis and Allies, not Heaven and Hell. The line between good and evil is so blurred in this new kind of war that it’s incredibly easy for someone like Crowley to do whatever he likes without any higher authority complaining. He’d always craved freedom; this is not the kind he’d hoped for, but it’s something, and that’s a start.

These days, London is disturbingly similar to Hell, except when it’s not. At this point, Crowley’s not sure what he likes best. Lost souls wander, desperately trying to carry on a somewhat normal life, and failing. Children cry, adults weep, sirens wail, bombs explode, all around, all the time. He sometimes suspects that German pilots don’t actually need to see the lights to recognise London, they just have to hush for a bit and follow the broadcast of misery.

And when you think the noise will never stop, it suddenly does. As soon as the raid ends and the last explosion fades into the darkness, Crowley is the first living being to emerge on the surface. He examines the crumpled buildings by the light of the few fires that are yet to be extinguished. He walks the empty streets that can’t belong to London, not the fierce city he’s so proud to be living in. And the silence is somehow louder than any other sound. It’s a delicate moment in which Death walks beside Crowley, collecting dust that used to be alive mere seconds ago, before people come out of the ground and press play once again in the game of survival.

It’s not always easy, but he’s usually able to detach himself. He thinks about the Ineffable Plan and convinces himself that there is a greater good, there has to be, otherwise it means that nothing, nothing matters, and that prospect is far too frightening to be worth being considered. Funny how when he used to be an angel he always doubted divine plans while now, after almost six thousand years on Earth, he desperately wants to believe in them. That’s called “faith”, possibly, in some dark and twisted way.

One night, amidst the deafening silence, he found a teddy bear in the ruins. He showed weakness, for the first and last time during the war. Besides, there was just Death to witness. He knelt and picked it up and cried, the only sound to be heard for miles and miles. He would’ve even prayed, if only he’d remembered how to do it. Truly dark years, if even demons resort to prayers.

He was vaguely aware of Aziraphale standing behind him, piercing him with wet eyes and unasked questions. He had ignored him, too lost in his own grief. Neither of them has mentioned that night so far, and probably neither of them ever will. Besides, they rarely talk these days.

Contrary to the last war, this time he didn’t wait for an angel’s smile; he ran into a church and claimed that blessed smile at the risk of being discorporated. It was worth it, obviously.

Now he’s looking at Aziraphale, who is too busy concentrating to be paying any attention to him, and wonders what exactly is the nature of their relationship. He’s thinking about a song, the most beautiful celestial harmony he can recall, but soon discards it. It’s not really what he’s looking for. It’s something that starts unexpectedly with a loud bang, and then gets quieter, and grows louder and louder until the orchestra tumbles and silence falls. Like the silence that scares him in the streets of London.

He wants to ask, because he truly has no idea wether it’s the town’s noise or the angel’s silence that is driving him mad.

«Crowley… Help…» he whispers, and he snaps out of his pensive trance. He gently takes the weight of the Underground’s ceiling off Aziraphale’s shoulders and on his own. They’ve been doing this for four years, like Atlas in their little world. Activate the sirens. Take people to the shelter. Divert the bombs. Make sure the ceiling doesn’t collapse. Let people go home. Repeat. Again, and again, and again.

When the raid is over, they part their ways without even saying goodbye. Perhaps one day he’ll hear the angel’s merry voice again. Perhaps one day their sweet music will start playing again.

Soho, 6 October 1961

He immediately senses that something’s wrong.

For starts, the bookshop is closed. It’s not that unusual, truth be told; the opening hours have always been erratic, to discourage potential clients. What’s unusual is that it’s been closed for four years now. On top of it, Aziraphale is not there most of the time, and that’s definitely weird. However, when they do see each other, everything seems fine, so he never voices whatever doubt he might have.

It’s well past midnight and Crowley produces a key he’s owned since 1800 (“You know, just in case”

“In case of what?”

Aziraphale had never elaborated further, for some reason.)

There was a time when the bookshop had been the most familiar place in all of London, even more than his own apartment. He would know by heart the entire catalogue and the location of each and every book. He knew the place like the palm of his hand. There was a tricky step by the entrance, so subtle that every single person who set foot in the shop would trip over it; Crowley was rather proud of that addiction of his. The bookshop had been a sort of home for him for nearly 62 years. When he came back, 79 years later, things had changed, but so had Aziraphale and so had Crowley, so he told himself he just needed to get used to it again. Easier said than done.

However, certain things never change, or so he believes. Despite Aziraphale’s best efforts, there’s always been this lingering, undefinable scent that lured you rather than drive you away. It was a delicate mixture of old books and incense, difficult to describe but undoubtedly fascinating. He doesn’t know it yet, but it’s also not there anymore, lost in almost a century full of history.

After the Blitz, Crowley and Aziraphale stopped meeting each other in the Underground, in favour of St. James Park. It took some time to regain the intimacy they used to have, and yet there’s still the feeling that they are not quite there yet. This means that the last time Crowley stepped into the bookshop was exactly one hundred years ago. He’s not prepared to what is waiting for him.

Being a snake, he’s more sensitive to smells than humans. His tongue flickers in the blink on an eye and he realises that something is wrong, really wrong: there are no odours at all. The shop feels cold and aseptic, making him feel deeply uncomfortable. He sits by the desk and leafs through the nearest volume, not really interested in it, wondering what could’ve possibly happened. And waits.

It’s well past midnight when the bell on the door rings and someone trips over the faulty step. He helps Aziraphale up and notices two dreadful things. One: he’s drunk, and that’s shocking; Crowley has never seen him drunk, not once, not ever. Two: he smells like whiskey, and sweat, and something else he can’t define, but it’s definitely awful.

«Where the hell have you been? What happened?»

Aziraphale is only vaguely aware of his surroundings. Not a good sign.

«Just a… reg… regu… normal Sunday night.»

«It’s Thursday. Well, technically, it was Thursday, must be Friday by now.»

«Whatever.» He falls on the sofa and closes his eyes.

This is far worse than Crowley expected. He can’t cope with a drunken Aziraphale, so he snaps his fingers to sober him up. The smell of alcohol is still in the air.

The angel covers his eyes with a hand and sighs. «What are you doing here?»

«Oh, no, you don’t get to ask question. I’m the one asking, you sit there and answer me, understood?»

He peeks through his fingers. This is new. And bizarre.

«Where have you been?»

«What do you care?»

«I said, where have you been?»

«You’re not my mother. Mind your own business!»

It clicks. It’s the early sixties, it’s Soho, he’s male-presenting. Of course, he’s been to a gay pub. Wait, what?

He recalls the whole business of the guy who died in Mayfair in 1918; it had something to do with gross indecency and a scandal.

Whatever happened in the late 19th century, it had deeply broken Aziraphale, possibly beyond repair. He cursed himself under his breath for not having been there. From what he’s gathered, it’s a miracle he hasn’t fallen; deep down, he still hopes his conclusions are wrong.

He’s not sure what to say. He feels like he’s walking on thin ice. «The bookshop’s different.» he tries.

«Must be the change of management. Asher Fell doesn’t own it anymore, I’m afraid. Nor Ishmael. Or Remiel.» His voice breaks upon mentioning that last name. Crowley doesn’t push it; instead, he makes a mental note to investigate further in the future.

«Asher?»

«Asher Ziv Fell. The letters on the sign do mean something.»

«Do they? I’ve always wondered who’s behind Co.»

«Not sure. What was your grandfather’s name?»

«Really? Do I look like I own a bookshop?»

«Appearance can be deceptive.»

He’s secretly pleased, though he won’t admit it. After all, this is kind of his place too.

«So, who owns it now?»

«Ezra J. Fell. He’s Asher’s great-grandson, or great-great-grandson, I don’t remember which one is it. It hardly matters, doesn’t it?»

«Yeah. Wait, what does the J. stands for?»

«It’s just a J.» Aziraphale is staring at him, and it’s impossible to decipher his gaze. It’s making Crowley uncomfortable as much as the lack of smell.

«Right.»

An unbearable silence settles, during which the demon hopes to come up with something clever to say. He doesn’t.

«Crowley, why are you here?»

“Because I missed you, I missed you so much and I hate this whole situation. I’m sorry for what I did, I didn’t mean to screw up, I only wanted holy water because it’s the only thing that will get rid off any demon who dares to put himself between us.”

He comes up with a watered down truth instead. «Have you considered moving to Mayfair?»

Aziraphale frowns.

«I mean, living in Soho now is not like a century ago. The place is full of… bad influences. Sinners. Might be dangerous for an angel.»

He tries to read between the lines and fails. «Aren’t sinners the ones who need angelic influences the most? Besides, these people are not dangerous at all. They’re my people.»

He doesn’t like the implications at all. He groans, frustrated. «At least, be careful. Getting drunk won’t have angelic influences on anyone. And try to be a woman, if you really must have relationships with men, for somebody’s sake.»

«Why? - Aziraphale pretends to be confused, but he obviously isn’t. He’s not as naive as he used to be - It wasn’t necessary among the Greeks. Or the Romans.»

«Yes, but you didn’t have outlawed sexual intercourses with the Romans, angel, that’s the bloody difference!»

Aziraphale’s silence speaks volumes.

«No. You didn’t really… Have you gone mad?»

«I must kindly ask you to leave.»

«But…»

«Get out, demon!»

Crowley is too stunned to properly react, so he doesn’t oppose resistance when he’s pushed out of the bookshop.

That was meant to be a hyperbole, not the truth. Shit. Shitshitshitshitshit. This is wrong, wrong, wrong. This is not Aziraphale. This is a fallen angel who has not fallen, surprisingly. This is someone who has suffered a great deal and is licking his wounds in the most inappropriate way.

Is it possible for angels to suffer from depression? He doesn’t know. What he does know is that blaming himself is easier than blaming him. “Where were you when your angel needed you the most?”

The smell of whiskey haunts him. There is no way out of this mess.

Hyde Park, 6 July 1996

By 1967, Aziraphale is back to being his usual self, the one who used to watch Shakespearean comedies by Crowley’s side or take him to lunch in Paris during the Reign of Terror. He even gave the demon a flask of holy water, trusting him a great deal; the most awful chapter of their lives is finally over.

It’s lunch time, they’re sitting on a blanket on the grass in Hyde Park, a basket and a bottle of champagne between them. Crowley can’t help but feeling grateful. “Perhaps we can go for a picnic, someday.” had said Aziraphale that night. And here they are, having a nice picnic. Progress is slow, but it doesn’t matter; after all, they have all the time in the world.

«Remind me, why do we keep coming here every year since 1972?» he asks playfully.

There’s a new unspoken rule now, both in Heaven and on Earth, that says that Aziraphale is the guardian angel of the - as it has now been renamed - the LGBT community. Crowley’s fine with it. He justifies himself by claiming that people coming out spread hate among families; of course he doesn’t like to put it that way, but Hell does, so it’s sort of alright.

He’s glad that things have changed, that finally Aziraphale is happy and safe. He no longer risks to fall because of a hedonistic, highly immoral lifestyle. He doesn’t even interact with humans that much these days; he helps them, befriend them, but nothing more. The worst that could happen to him is to be mistaken for Crowley’s partner by random people on the streets. Crowley doesn’t mind it at all; actually, he secretly likes it. He wonders if Aziraphale doesn’t mind it too. Probably not, judging by the way his fingers brush the other’s for far too long when taking the glass of champagne handed to him.

«My dear boy, you know perfectly well why. Cheers!»

The glasses clink against each others.

People march past them, thousands of people, waving colourful banners, laughing, singing, kissing.

«I just love all this love! Look at them, how happy they are! Look at how they glow when they are unafraid to be who they are. It’s beautiful.»

Aziraphale glows too, Crowley thinks. His hair is golden under the gleaming sun, his eyes sparkle with enthusiasm. He tries not to stare too long at his rosy cheeks, or else he might tempt himself into caressing them; more than that, he tries to avoid his lips.

He’s been thinking about it for quite a long time - 29 years, to be precise. He’s always been aware of the feelings he harbours for him, despite not daring to say it out loud, or even admitting them for several millennia. But now things seem to be different, easier, maybe, apart from the small detail of him being a demon and he an angel. He hopes that’s something they can sort out. Now things seem to be different because he suspects those feelings are mutual. He wants to ask, but doesn’t want to risk; so he keeps hoping, and staring, and longing for his touch.

«Is everything alright, dear? You are unusually quiet.»

«Am I? Nah, don’t worry, it’s fine. I’m fine. Just thinking.»

«About what?»

“About that couple over there. You see them? How softly they’re hugging? How one of them is shielding the other with a flag? That could be us, if we forget about Heaven and Hell for a second. Can we?”

«About London Pride. Is it one of ours or one of yours?»

Aziraphale smiles fondly. «I can’t recall.»

Of course he does, they both do. It’s one of those things human invented themselves. Doesn’t mean they didn’t both put a hand in it; in the end, they both earned a commendation from the respective sides.

«That reminds me of that time a friend of mine was accused of being the leader of an underground organisation composed by 47,000 gay men here in London. Of course it’s ridiculous, but we found the idea rather amusing. I wish he was here now; I bet he would’ve loved it.»

Aziraphale’s smile fades. Crowley knows exactly who he’s talking about, even though he’s not supposed to. One day he’ll find the courage to ask, but right now his priority is cheering his friend up.

He puts the glass down and gets up. The basket, the bottle and the glasses disappear as he extends his hand.

«Do angels dance?»

Aziraphale looks puzzled. «No, they don’t. Do demons?»

«Not really. Once in a disco in the 70s a guy mocked my moves. Let’s say it was an eventful night.»

Aziraphale hand is delicate and impeccably manicured, his skin smooth and soft, and his fingers fit perfectly against Crowley’s.

They move around quite awkwardly. Neither of them really knows how to dance; neither of them cares.

Aziraphale’s head ends up on Crowley’s shoulder, who suspects his body is going to spontaneously combust. He’s never been so intimately close to him, or at least not in a long time. He thinks it would be a lovely yet weird way to die.

«Crowley?» he calls, uncertain.

«Yes, angel?»

«Can you feel it? All this love, I mean. It’s so strong that even you might be able to sense it.»

Crowley is grateful to Someone that Aziraphale can’t see his stupid, blissful grin.

“Oh, I do, my angel. I do”

Berkeley Square, 2 June 2024

He wouldn’t call it a date, despite it actually being one. It’s more of an anniversary anyway, though he wouldn’t use that word either, because it would imply that there is something more than friendship in their relationship; there is, but it’s not official, so he ignores the voice in the back of his head that keeps calling this a date.

Actually, they don’t go to the Ritz that often. When they eat together, they prefer to explore little restaurants. “We must support local businesses” had declared Aziraphale, or something like that.

(«Besides, isn’t it more interesting than dining at the same old place every day?»

«But they have the most expensive wine, I like good wine.»

«You do realise those are not synonyms, don’t you?»)

They’ve been building this new habit slowly and without much thought. It started with occasional take-away sushi late at night at the bookshop, then weekly outings, depending on what they felt like eating on the appointed Saturday night. Now Crowley’s fridge is always full and they end up having lunch at his place every day, like it’s some kind of ritual.

If someone had told Crowley a decade ago that someday he would’ve had lunch every day, he wouldn’t have believed them. He didn’t need food, so it seemed a pointless waste of time. And anyway his sense of taste is more similar to that of snakes than humans’, meaning he doesn’t have taste buds; he tried to explain it to Aziraphale once, but the angel struggled to grasp the concept.

(«What do you mean you don’t have taste buds?»

«It’s a snake-biology thingy. I just, you know, flick my tongue and smell. It’s like taste, really. Don’t see why you have to separate the two senses, they’re basically the same!»

«No, they’re not!»

«Well, they are to me.»)

He still doesn’t eat much, but he does eat. Although, even more unexpectedly, he realised a couple of years ago that he prefers cooking. So the habit goes like this, Crowley cooks and Aziraphale eats. There’s a certain intimacy in it, a sense of domestic life that shouldn’t be possible for angels or demons. It’s not perfect, not yet, but it’s enough to make Crowley wonder what would it be like to live under the same roof, to properly share a house. He tries not to think about it, as he tries not to label lunches as dates; he fails most of the time.

They don’t go to the Ritz that often, but they go there once a year, on June 2nd. It’s another habit they’ve been building in the past five years, to readjust their lives after having lost their respective sides for good. It’s about tiny details that make them both feel grounded, like they still belong to somewhere. Except somewhere is not a place, but rather each other’s presence.

After lunch, they sit on a bench in Berkeley Square and silently watch passers-by. Kids pretending to be fearless pirates, teenagers snogging not-so-discretely, young couples strolling pushchairs and old couples walking hand in hand.

«It’s wonderful, isn’t it? - says Aziraphale, licking his ice-cream - And to think all of this might have been swept away! I’m so glad the Apocalypse has been averted.»

«Yeah, me too.»

There’s a stain of chocolate on Aziraphale’s cheek, which makes Crowley smile fondly. Day after day, the angel is more and more human, and probably he, too, is less and less of a demon. “It’s not bad, once you get used to it.” he thinks.

«Crowley?»

«Mh?»

«I’ve been thinking. It’s been five years now, maybe… don’t you think it’s time for a change?»

He’s confused. Time to change what, exactly? Things are fine - they are fine - why change anything?

«You remember Anathema and Newt’s wedding last year, don’t you? It was lovely. So, I was thinking, is it possible - I mean, if you want to, of course - could we… be like them?»

«You mean married?»

«I mean, living together. Leave London. Buy a cottage somewhere. We are retired, after all.»

Crowley frowns. He’s not sure whether he’s imagining it or it’s happening for real. He’s not sure what to say, either, so he settles for a neutral statement. «What about the bookshop?»

«I’d be satisfied with a library. Actually, it seems to be the best option. I’m running out of excuses to drive away costumers.»

«And you’d be happy? In the middle of nowhere, with… me?»

Neither of them dares to look at the other. Crowley’s eyes wander from person to person, from tree to tree. Aziraphale is staring at his ice-cream with so much intensity, as if his own life depends on it.

«Wouldn’t you?»

Something snaps inside Crowley’s mind. Here it is, the promise of the perfect future, within reach. Only a fool would turn that down.

«Do you… love me?»

«Oh, my dear, - he whispers adoringly - wasn’t that obvious?»

Carefully, Crowley turns his head to find Aziraphale looking expectantly at him. Carefully, he learns towards him; it’s the angel who fills the gap.

As they kiss, every piece falls into place. This is where they truly belong. “ ‘till Death do us part. Or the next Armageddon. Or whatever.”

Crowley’s overwhelmed, so much that he feels the urge to breath, despite not technically needing it.

Aziraphale laughs. «You have chocolate on your lips, my dear.»

«Oh, angel, I’ve just tasted something far better.»

#good omens #ineffable husbands #ineffable husbands week 2019 #aziraphale #crowley #fanfiction #my writing

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