aricat7

[aricat7]

A Break in Formality - Chapter 2!

(A HankCon Fic)

Link to Chapter 1 - https://www.tumblr.com/aricat7/781067118909259776/a-break-in-formality?source=share

Chapter 2:

Connor doesn’t leave Hank’s car.

Just as it was back at the investigation, refusal to obey is an apparent and easy option.

His foot taps repeatedly—like he’s seen humans do when they’re anxious (and now fully understanding why they did it)—as he waits for Hank to trudge out of the bar. He desperately wants to talk to him about what happened back at the investigation. A buzzed Hank, Connor hypothesizes, will be more susceptible to that topic of conversation.

It’s been thirty-four minutes since Hank stormed off, so his return shouldn’t be too long now. Connor predicts he’s only ordered two drinks—just enough to melt that burst of… well, whatever it was that had lassoed Hank into drinking about it. Connor wants to know.

A taxi pulls up in front of the car at thirty-seven minutes, and the lieutenant nearly stumbles out of the bar. It’s clear more than just two drinks are involved.

Determined, Connor bolts out of the car. “Lieutenant!”

A step away from entering the taxi, Hank stops—begrudgingly—and looks over at the home of that familiar, goofy voice. “You’re still here?! I told you to go back to the fucking station!”

��Not until you and I talk things out, Hank,” Connor presses, approaching him with no intention of failing his new objective. “It’s vital if we’re going to continue working together efficiently.”

“Fuck that! Just do as you’re told before Fowler gets on my ass about your absence!”

“That shouldn’t happen. I sent Captain Fowler an email stating that CyberLife requested my presence at headquarters for some tune-ups and that you had a family emergency.”

Though his brow knits tight in frustration, his mouth hangs partially open in shock, snowflakes clinging to his thick beard. “You lied to Fowler? Jesus, you really are broken.”

He reaches for the door handle, but Connor swiftly steps in between.

“Why did my decision not to call CyberLife cause you so much turmoil that you had to drink on it?”

Hank scoffs and lifts a pointed finger. “No. No, no, no. No. Not drunk enough for that conversation.”

“Then I’ll buy as many as it takes for you to talk to me.”

Hank debates on pushing him aside, but anytime that aggressive side of Connor plays on the field, it secretly never fails to weaken him in the knees. The alcohol coursing through his system surely doesn’t help in that aspect, nor does it stop him from concentrating on how the specks of snow cluster on Connor’s lashes.

“Look,” Hank says with a drawn-out sigh, “how about you be a good robot and drive us to my place. If I’m getting plastered, I’d rather it be within the comfort of my own home.”

Connor gives a nod, and the android equivalent of a stomach flip happens from being called a “good robot”—for a reason he recognizes, but refuses to process.

“Alright.”

Hank starts to follow Connor, but the drunk man literally gets off on the wrong foot and ends up hugging the taxi to keep him from falling on his face. “Real smooth, Anderson,” he mutters, trying to collect himself, but Connor is already at his side and slinging Hank’s arm over his shoulders.

Once situated in the car, Connor drives off, Knights of the Black Death occupying the silence gaping between them. Despite Detroit’s freezing weather, Connor doesn’t bother turning on the heater, having sensed Hank’s elevated body temperature when he helped him into the passenger seat—courtesy of having had one too many.

When they’re about halfway home, Hank bluntly asks, “Why didn’t you call CyberLife?”

Not hearing an immediate answer, he looks over to see a blinking yellow LED.

“Because I didn’t want to.”

“Yeah, you’ve said that. But why didn’t you want to?”

Connor’s hands change position on the wheel, knuckles tightening. He remains focused on the road ahead, not daring to glance at his partner.

“It would’ve resulted in a major inconvenience on us. They would’ve come down and investigated you and I about what’s going on, or maybe even had me taken away from you.”

Hank lets that sink in.

Why does that even matter to you-

Nope. Hank wasn’t going to think about that just yet. Not drunk enough.

Nothing is said again until Connor applies the brakes at a terribly placed stop sign that was hated by many—one of them being Hank.

“Of course you stop at this stop sign,” Hank gripes.

“You need to stop at all stop signs, Lieutenant. It’s the law.”

“You need to stop at all stop signs, Lieutenant,” Hank mocks in a childish fashion, eliciting the faintest chuckle from Connor.

“Are you fucking laughing? You can do that?”

Somehow, that made Connor chuckle some more. “Please, Hank. I’m driving.”

“Yeah, some of the best goddam driving I’ve ever seen, too. There’s no way I'm distracting you. I’m not even bugging you, your thingy is still blue.”

With a full-on smile, Connor saves this experience under ‘Favorite Memories’. “Enough.”

That smile has a chokehold on Hank—he’s never seen him smile like that before. “You want me to shut up? Thought you wanted me to talk. Thought that’s why you’re dragging me home instead of charging your batteries at the station.”

That toothy grin drops like an internal switch flipping from playful to serious. “Are you wanting to discuss-”

“Nope. Need my handle first, buddy.”

“Okay, Lieutenant.”

~~~

Hank is able to walk into the house on his own—for the most part. They’re greeted by a very happy Sumo, who almost knocks both of them over by jumping on them.

“Sumooo! Relax, son!” Hank laughs, kneeling down carefully to ruffle up the large Saint Bernard.

“What would you like to drink?” asks Connor, who’s already in front of the kitchen shelf lined with booze.

Giving Sumo a few more pats, Hank lifts himself back up with a grunt—like the old man he is. “I got it. You don't have to play waiter.”

“I’m expensive equipment that doesn’t come out of your paycheck, Lieutenant. You might as well make the most of my capabilities.”

Connor steps aside for Hank to pick his poison.

“You really think you’re just equipment?” Hank asks, choosing a near-empty bottle of scotch whiskey and opening the cupboard above for a glass.

“Technically, that… is all that I am.”

That claim doesn’t sit right with Connor when he says it. It doesn’t with Hank either, and he regrets dipping into the serious topic before he’s pounded a few more drinks.

He pours his drink and offers it to Connor, who looks at it, confused.

“What? Never had a drink? You lick evidence and shit, so it’s not like you’ve had nothin’ in your mouth before. Wait, do you even piss?”

In a not-so-subtle fashion, Hank’s eyes drop to Connor’s crotch.

“Anything I ingest is stored in my waste compartment. To empty it, the contents are expelled out of my mouth through a flushing process. I activate it when it’s the right time and place—before it reaches maximum capacity.”

“So you are built like a Ken doll,” Hank says, still staring.

“Is that disappointment in your voice I detect?”

Hank doesn’t acknowledge the question, his attention remaining locked on Connor’s groin.

“I don’t have the parts for urination, Hank,” Connor crosses his arms and smirks. “But I do have eyes, and they’re up here.”

Hank snaps out of it with a hard blink and a shake of his head. “You throw everything up?”

“Essentially, yes. Though I haven’t yet encountered a situation where I needed to consume a beverage or a meal.”

Hank raises the glass nearer to Connor. “You wanna?”

The android glances from the drink to Hank. “Do you… want me to?”

“You didn’t care about what I wanted earlier. Now you do?”

“Speaking of earlier—”

“You downing this or am I?”

//HANK’S ULTERIOR MOTIVE?

“I already know what it tastes like, Hank.”

“You just told me you’ve never had a drink!”

“That is correct. But I am installed with knowledge of what different consumables, such as whiskey, taste like.”

“Okay, but you’ve never experienced the taste.”

The world around them vanishes as they hold each other’s gaze—for what feels like a whole five minutes for Hank, though Connor’s internal timer reads 5.47 seconds.

Solemnly, Hank explains, “There’s a difference between knowing something and experiencing it, you dingus.”

Connor contemplates this and ultimately finds solid reasoning behind it. He accepts the offer and slowly tips the glass, letting the amber liquid coat his tongue and trickle down his interior.

Hank is right.

“It tastes exactly how I thought it would,” says a pleasantly surprised Connor.

“You like it?”

“It’s a bit aggressive. Potent. Strong. Yet the warmth that follows it is soothing.” He meets Hank with a fond expression. “It almost reminds me of someone.”

Hank swallows, ignoring how much that comment beautifully affects him—and how the alcohol saturating his brain only heightens it.

“So you hate it.”

“If that’s the case,” Connor’s voice simmers to a low tone that Hank’s never heard before, “then why am I wanting more?”

It takes Hank a beat too long to be pulled back into reality.

“Jesus. Bolts loosened after one sip?”

“I’m not drunk, if that’s what you’re asking. I can’t experience alcoholic symptoms.”

“Bummer.” Hank refills the glass in Connor’s hand and reaches into the cupboard for another one for himself. “Would loveee to see a shit-faced robot.”

“I could simulate being one. I am capable of many impersonations.”

“Do me.”

Connor quirks an eyebrow. “Do you?”

Flustered—and annoyed at himself for being so—Hank fumbles and almost overflows his glass. “Shit, no. That’s not what I meant—fuck, Connor! Is it your mission to constantly catch me off guard?”

“No. My mission has always been to obey your orders.”

“Yeah. You suck at that.”

Connor sets his drink on the counter and leans back, gripping the edge with both hands. He sighs dramatically and uses his voice mimicry ability to speak in Hank’s exact voice. “Fuckin’ androids! Wish Connor would stop following me around like a poodle!”

Hank freezes mid-sip. “What the fuck. Don’t ever do that again. That’s creepy.”

“My apologies. I’ll make a note of that.”

Hank continues glaring at him as he finishes his sip, shaking his head in amusement.

“Shit. What time is it?”

“Five fifty-seven PM.”

“Gears game is about to start. You uh… wanna watch it with me?”

Connor accepts with a little upturn of his lip. “I’d like that.”

//PROBABILITY OF SUCCESS - 82%

Hank grabs a couple of unopened bottles of scotch—along with the one he and Connor haven’t finished yet—and they make their way to the living room, a slight drunken sway in Hank’s steps. They set everything down on the coffee table, and Connor casually slips off his shoes, jacket, and tie, folding the jacket and tie neatly onto the arm of the couch. It’s the most domestic act Hank’s ever witnessed from the android, and he can’t help but notice the shy reveal of a collarbone peeking through as Connor undoes a few buttons at his collar.

“Not gonna lie,” Hank loses the restraint not to ogle as he plops down on one end of the couch, “thought your clothes were stapled to you or somethin’.”

Connor claims the other end, appreciating this newfound sense of comfort that he’s decided to test. “It’s not surprising that you would think that way.”

“The fuck is that supposed to mean? You callin’ me stupid?”

“Well, compared to a highly intelligent android such as myself…”

Connor lets the jab hang in the air, satisfied to see the Lieutenant grin.

“Fuck you, you talking calculator.”

Sumo pads over, tail wagging, and hops up between them just as the game starts. Throughout the night, Hank shouts loud, drunken commentary at the screen while simultaneously explaining the ins and outs of the sport to Connor. Connor is, of course, well aware of the mechanics of every sport in the world—but he enjoys letting Hank ramble and “educate” him anyway, matching his drinking pace through it all. They stop halfway through the second full bottle, and by then, Hank is completely slumped and sprawled out.

Sumo starts whining.

“Oh shit, dinnertime for you, huh bud?” Hank pets him with a limp hand.

“I got it, Hank. You stay here.”

“Oh, I take orders from you now, huh?” he slurs.

//PROBABILITY OF SUCCESS - 91%

Connor proceeds to the kitchen and fills Sumo’s bowl to the brim with kibble. He then grabs a water bottle from the fridge for Hank and heads to the bathroom to fetch the waste bin to place beside the couch—just in case.

When he returns to the living room, the TV shows a winning game from the Detroit Gears, but Hank now occupies the entirety of the couch, lying on his side and fighting to stay awake.

Connor kneels beside him.

“Lieutenant?”

He grunts, eyes shut tight.

“I can understand you being upset at me for not following your instructions earlier during the investigation, but please—I want to know why it drove you to drink. I need to know.”

Hank takes a deep breath and forces his eyelids open, a troubled haze clouding his pools of blue.

“Because you’re not perfect. You’re supposed to be. But you’re not.”

//MISSION: COMPLETE

Connor gets an answer—but it raises more questions.

“You get more human every day, Connor.”

“But I’m not a human, Hank.”

“Yeah… I know. Just a machine.”

Every circuit screams at Connor to argue—but he doesn’t. He can’t. Not with Hank in this state.

“Just a machine…” His tired eyes trail down to Connor’s lips, and the huskiness in his voice is instantly pinned as Connor’s favorite audio clip. “So if… if I were to do something really stupid right now… it wouldn’t mean a damn thing, right?”

Before Connor can react, the LED circles yellow, and his eyes fall shut.

“Connor?”

Saddened that he might’ve upset him—and being wasted—Hank succumbs to a deep sleep.

[aricat7]

A Break in Formality

(HANKCON FANFIC)

~Connor and Hank's unspoken feelings for one another spark to life, and neither knows how to handle the flames.

Chapter one:

“Can I ask you a question, Lieutenant?”

The decorated officer sighs, aimlessly scrolling through the “Missing Deviants” section of the police database. Deviancy is skyrocketing, and Hank dreads how the station chose him, of all detectives, to figure out the source of what makes androids go haywire.

“Let me guess, it’s another personal one?”

“No, nothing personal. Though, if you want me to ask you a personal question, I can come up with one.”

“Nah.” Hank lifts his mug of coffee and takes a generous slurp. “You already know enough about my life to make a damn book out of it, and I bet it’d only take you two seconds to write it out, huh? Or, compute—whatever.”

“More like two minutes. There’s a lot of your eventful life to document.”

“Eventful. Pfft.” He finishes the last drops of caffeine and scratches his beard. “That’s one way to put it.”

Connor’s circuits burned to ask his question—a question that had thrown him into an uncharted territory within his programming, making him second-guess if it’s really worth asking.

“Would you like a refill on your coffee?”

Hank gives him a sidelong glance. “That’s your fucking question?”

“Not my original one, no.”

“So what was it?”

“The original question?” Connor asks with a tilt of his head.

“Jesus Christ, Connor, just spit it out! Why are you playing dumb with me? What is it?”

Connor’s lenses adjust to his folded hands atop his lap. “It's… I…”

Hank swivels his chair to fully face him. It wasn’t like Connor to stutter or be at a loss for words.

Was he malfunctioning?

The LED shone an unnerving yellow before cooling back down to blue, and it worried Hank more than he cared to admit.

“Connor, if you don’t—”

“Can you grab me and shove me against the wall? Like how you did some time ago, before we got the lead on the runaway AX400 and the child that accompanied it?”

Connor peers up to witness a stupefied, slack-jawed statue of Hank.

“I’ll go ahead and explain myself. In that moment, when you held me hostage, so to speak, I noted a slight anomaly that occurred within my programming, and I’d like for it to reappear so that I can try to decipher what exactly happened during my processing.”

“Well, normally you take someone to dinner first before they put their hands on ya.”

Connor has spent enough time with Hank at this point that he was no stranger to the gruff man’s sarcastic quips, and this was one he wouldn’t miss the opportunity to play along with.

“Alright, then. I’ve found three restaurants in the area whose websites all show open reservations. Would you like to hear the options?”

Hank waves his hand dismissively. “So there’s something wrong with you?”

“Currently, no. My recent diagnostic test shows positive results.”

Hank leans back in his chair and returns to his computer, pretending he isn’t weirded out by the offhand request.

“Then have someone else do it. Maybe it’s just a thing that happens when you plastic fucks get a little roughhoused.”

“That isn’t the case, Lieutenant.”

Connor leans over his desk and lowers his voice.

“Though the impact of my body being shoved against the wall did elicit a warning for potential damage, it wasn’t flagged as a negative occurrence like it should have been. It was marked as positive.”

Hank snorts. “Sooo, what? It turned you on or somethin’?”

Connor blinks. “RK800 models don’t experience sexual arousal.”

“Well maybe someone fucked up when they made you. You lucky duck.”

Hank looks over at him with a stupid grin on his face—which disappears when he notices Connor staring into nothing, LED swirling yellow.

“Uh… should I tell Fowler you’re having… technical difficulties?”

Connor snaps out of whatever he was experiencing and straightens his posture, LED relaxing into a circle of blue. “There’s no need. As I’ve said, there are no apparent issues with my current stability.”

Hank’s repetitive pen clicking fills the silence between them. Should he make the report to Fowler anyway? Maybe it was just a minuscule error with no future of daunting consequences. But, what if it’s a virus, and Connor’s software is corrupted?

What if he's turning deviant?

The breath Hank didn’t know he was holding escapes. He drags his attention away from the android, who had started dissecting paperwork.

“Shit, I’m overthinking this bs,” he mumbles.

“Overthinking what, Lieutenant?”

“Ergh, fuck you and your state-of-the-art hearing. Just do your work—”

“Lieutenant Anderson.”

“Oh, here we fuckin’ go,” Hank grumbles under his breath and nods at the young officer who approaches with purpose. “Whatcha got for me, Miller?”

“A house half a mile away with a dead android and its dead owner inside.”

“Yeah, yeah. I’m on it.” Hank rises and slides his coat on, eager to focus on something else rather than the storm cloud of thoughts the android detective summoned. “Come on, Connor. Let’s mosey.”

~~~

“Any possible chance you can still access its memory?”

On the kitchen floor lay a deceased AL-series android. Thirium streamed from the bullet hole in its forehead, staining the inactive gaze that stared up at them.

“Maybe.” Connor knelt down and scanned the android’s wound, confirming the bullet was fired from the same gun used to kill its owner, who was sprawled a few feet away with multiple bullet holes in the chest. The pistol was registered under the android’s owner’s name and covered in recent traces of the android’s fingerprints. “If its central processing unit-”

“English, please.”

“If its brain is still mostly intact, and its memory wasn’t completely destroyed, it’s possible that I could retrieve some of the memory that was stored before the events of the crime.”

“Go ahead and give it a go, then.” Hank looks over the owner’s body and shakes his head. “No signs anywhere that the android was being abused, so why would it take its owner and itself out?”

Previously, it would’ve been impossible to search the memory of an android in a dismantled state like this, but Connor’s memory-extracting capabilities have improved with Cyberlife’s system updates. He places his hand on the android’s head and is immediately faced with a wall of static. However, through the blurring lines, he manages to uncover a scene where the android discovers its owner purchasing a BL100. Then, it grabs the gun from the bedroom nightstand and shoots its owner shortly after. The last choppy, flickering image Connor can make out shows the android pointing the gun at itself.

Connor explains what he saw to Hank and adds, “I think the deviant was expressing behaviors similar to that of emotional distress in humans, much like the first deviancy case I was assigned to. When that android found out its owners wanted to replace it, it showed characteristics of anger, sadness, jealousy—but no display of wanting self-destruction. I can’t seem to figure out why this android wanted to destroy itself, given it was displaying the same characteristics in a similar situation…”

Hank shrugs. “Maybe it regretted pulling the trigger on its owner.”

“Maybe you’re right.” Connor raises himself up and adjusts his tie. “Each investigation we’ve looked into has a deviant simulating humanistic emotion. I believe it’s safe to assume that ‘regret’ could be another expression.”

“Yeah…” Hank turns away and rubs the back of his neck, looking out through the window at the falling snow.

“You alright, Lieutenant?”

“Like you fucking care.”

“Why are you emotional right now?”

Nothing makes Hank’s blood boil more than hearing a human-like sincerity in Connor’s voice. It was too real.

Hank latches on to the edge of the kitchen counter, knuckles turning white. “Do you care, Connor?”

If Hank were looking at him, he’d see the LED turn yellow.

“I care about the success of this mission.”

Hank huffs. “Have we figured out what causes deviancy?”

“No.”

“No. Exactly. That’s our main objective. And this is our what, fiftieth fuckin’ case on these things?”

“Thirty-eighth.”

“Oh, shut up.” Hank finally turns to his robot partner, the LED shining blue, like the damn computer Connor was—nothing more. “Here’s what I think…”

Hank approaches until he’s a breath away from Connor’s expressionless face.

“I think it all starts with a negative occurrence flagged as a positive,” the older man sneers. “What do you think, you plastic prick?”

“Hank, please, calm down—”

Hank grabs Connor by the collar and shoves him against the wall.

//SOFTWARE INSTABILITY ^

“Well, Connor?” Hank says through gritted teeth. “Is this a positive experience for you like it was last time? Huh?”

//PROBABILITY OF DAMAGE: HIGH

With a grunt that stirs something in Connor, Hank yanks him forward and slams him again, making the LED flash red for a second. “SAY SOMETHING, GODDAMMIT! WHAT’S GOIN’ ON WITH THAT FUCKIN’ COMPUTER INSIDE OF YA?!”

A drop of Hank’s spit lands on Connor’s synthetic lip. Connor tastes it and doesn’t realize that he did until a DNA analysis screening appears beside the situational assessment screen.

//SITUATIONAL ASSESSMENT: @#?3522&//

RECALCULATING…

//SITUATIONAL ASSESSMENT: POSITIVE

OBJECTIVE: FINISH INVESTIGATION

“I demand that you put me down, Hank…”

The strain in Connor’s voice pulled on a heartstring Hank didn’t know he had dangling. But his anger raged on, and he knew damn well that Connor could detect it with his fuckass scanning.

“Not until you tell me how this situation makes you feel.”

Connor opens his mouth to say something, but hesitates—LED spinning yellow.

“I… don’t feel, Hank.”

“Bullshit.” He tightens his grip and closes in on the conflicted android, noses touching. “You feel something, or else you wouldn’t be glitching the fuck out right now.”

The crystal-blue fury of Hank’s eyes locked with Connor’s man-made optics. Though Hank believes there’s gotta be something behind those artificial, soft brown eyes, and that idea both warmed and terrified him.

If Connor was in fact a deviant, he would lose him as a partner.

“Admit it, Connor! As weird as this situation is, just fucking admit that you’re enjoying this! Admit that you're a deviant now with feelings before you start causin’ problems!”

Though Hank’s rage is a force to be reckoned with, Connor doesn't miss the evident desperation emanating from the experienced officer, and it stirs Connor’s inner thoughts to a frenzy.

‘Enjoying this?’

‘Feeling?’

‘Hank’s motive?’

“If you don’t let go… I have no choice but to contact Cyberlife…”

“‘No choice,’ my hairy ass.”

The sensors in Connor’s face tingle strangely from the heat of Hank’s breaths as the man presses his broad body against Connor’s robotic frame.

“Go ahead. Call them.”

“It would result in a disciplinary action on your part…”

Hank could care less about that. Connor knows that, too.

“CALL THEM!”

“NO!”

“WHY NOT?!”

The LED blinks yellow like a time bomb.

“I DON’T WANT TO!”

//SOFTWARE INSTABILITY ^^

Connor’s superior evaluation of human emotion deems Hank’s as unreadable.

“Lieutenant Anderson?” asks the familiar voice of Officer Miller.

Hank slowly backs off, not taking his eyes off his provoked android. “Yeah?”

“Sorry to interrupt. I was just checking in on how the investigation is going.”

“It’s done. We can clean up. We’ve got all the info we could scavenge,” Hank says, walking away and out of the house. Connor follows behind, and the two of them seat themselves in Hank’s old car in unsettling silence.

Hank starts the engine and lets it run, staring out into the snow-blanketed city ahead of them, Knights of the Black Death playing through the speakers—a favorite of Hank’s that Connor eventually grew to enjoy.

“Lieutenant.”

He ignores Connor.

“I know the air between us is thick with tension at the moment, but I want to say thank you for fulfilling my request.”

Hank fastens his seatbelt a little too aggressively. “You’re not supposed to be making requests. You’re supposed to be a perfect machine that follows my orders.”

“I apologize for my behavior.”

“Please, don’t you fucking start.”

He puts the car in drive and begins heading back to the police station, but then turns in a different direction.

“Where are you going? This isn’t the way back to the station.”

“Nope. Decided I’m clocked out for the day.”

He rounds the next corner and pulls up in front of a bar.

“Seriously?” Connor watches in disbelief as Hank kills the engine and steps out of the vehicle.

“Take a shuttle back,” he orders Connor, then slams the door shut.

[aricat7]

Siren

A little poem about Vessel being a siren - inspired by "Telomeres".

_______

The Atlantic - vast and unyielding.

The edge of the Earth - where water meets sky.

A chamber of silence below.

Above - your wounded cry.

Ancient in its power - a tank of stories never to be told.

Thoughts cast into the expanse - baiting for answers.

The closets of your mind unfold.

To swim is to play this game.

Though we don’t know its extent.

Overwhelmed by the flood.

Till the last drop, we die the same.

A debatable end.

Your eyes - rivers that meet the shore.

Tears of secrets, misery, defeat.

A gurgled, strangled pour.

Had given all that you could give.

For a take you couldn't live.

Longing for no more.

Roaring waves ahead.

The night’s chilling air.

Beneath the surface

He is there.

Drinking your secrets.

Absorbing your misery.

Shredding your defeat.

He is here.

Upon moonlit rock he basks.

Your face hidden behind trembling hands.

Your love - his only task.

~“Let the tides carry you back to me”~

An unrecognizable voice.

Yet familiar in nature.

~”The past, the future. Through death, my arms are open”~

Embracing your soul.

Tugging the fibers of your being.

You are pulled.

~”And we go beyond the farthest reaches”~

One step into sinking sand.

Another into the oceanic sanctuary.

~”Where the light bends and wraps beneath us”~

Hearts equally fractured.

He reaches out his hand.

~”And I know as you collapse into me”~

Fingers lace with your own.

His masked eyes, a dark abyss.

Hypnotized and at home.

He savors your kiss.

~”This is the start of something”~

[aricat7]

"The Nephilim were on the earth in those days - and afterward as well - when the sons of God had relations with the daughters of men. And they bore them children who became the mighty men of old, men of renown." -Genesis 6:4

For Serena (OC), loneliness seems eternal, but she finds hope for a future filled with love - even if it means associating with a particular demon she's not fond of.

______________________

Hi everyone!

This story lives in my head rent-free and I'm very excited to finally share it. I've got no update schedule, so patience is much appreciated <3

Thanks!

[aricat7]

Bad Company (Crowley & Kilgrave)

A Good Omens and Jessica Jones crossover where Kilgrave fails to win Crowley over.

🔞18+🔞

~After the events of Good Omens season 2~

_________________________________

"Oh Crowley… nothing lasts forever."

"We could've…" Crowley mumbles to himself, aimlessly driving at the speed limit through London. Nowhere to go. Nothing to do. His light, his anchor, his companion took the elevator to heaven and left him alone on Earth.

He comes to a stop at a red light. People cross the street, some clad in business attire with their heads down, others keeping their kids from running off. Couples holding hands, sharing smiles and laughter, just having a jolly good ol’ time.

"You never say what you're really thinking. That was all we needed. It's what you two need as well."

Well, Crowley had taken that advice from Maggie, and here he is now. Alone. The one time he tries to pour his heart out to the only other being worth spending the rest of eternity with and he ends up alone. Not that it was Maggie's fault, of course—Crowley admits that it was a solid piece of advice, but it just wasn't enough to secure the wobbly bridge that Crowley has tried to walk on all these millennia into Aziraphale's heart.

What if I had...kissed him years ago?

A steady rainfall began. The sound of raindrops tapping on the roof of the Bentley always soothed Crowley, though the storm that raged in his heart drowned out the serene tune. It wouldn't have made a difference if he had kissed him way earlier, Crowley concluded. Aziraphale would've slapped him with the 'I forgive you' and pretended that nothing happened. That nothing had been happening between them. Just friends—no. Not even friends. Casual business partners. I did stuff for him; he did stuff for me.

Crowley shouts and punches the steering wheel, inadvertently changing the light to green, then takes off—this time racing and weaving through the streets. He had enough of feeling sad. He grips the steering wheel as if he were strangling someone and curses for acting so human, with all these emotions—all because of some bloody angel.

"GODDAMMIT, AZIRAPHALE! YOU STUPID, STUBBORN—" Tears prick the corners of his eyes, and his foot involuntarily lets up on the gas. "You beautiful thing..."

He groans and slumps in his seat. He misses him—so much. He can still taste him on his lips and feel the ghost of the angel's hand on his shoulder, pulling him closer. A thousand unspoken words melded together in their kiss, words that had been buried within the depths of their souls that burned for release throughout their lives spent together. They all harmonized under a three-word declaration that should have been so simple to say out loud—and yet it wasn't. Not for Crowley, anyways.

Love. Unconditional love—something a demon shouldn't be capable of knowing and giving, and something an angel shouldn't be denying when it’s explicitly there.

It was their first kiss.

And it would be their last.

Losing the motivation to continue driving, Crowley spots a bar further down the street that he hasn't been to in a long time. "Screw it," he says, and parks in front of it with a new goal of drowning out the hurt with one too many drinks.

He looks over his shoulder at his plants in the backseat. "You guys be good."

They shake fearfully in response.

Unbeknownst to Crowley as he saunters inside and seats himself at the bar, a pair of eyes from the corner of the room follows him.

"Just give me your finest whiskey,” Crowley tells the bartender, barely keeping his head propped up on his hand. As the bartender pours his glass, the man watching Crowley intently finishes off the last drops of bourbon in his and comments aloud, "Nice Bentley."

Crowley takes a swig before shooting a quick and uninterested glance at him. "Yeah, uh, thanks mate."

"What year is she?"

"1926," Crowley answers flatly, his head hung low, unaware that the man is walking over to him and eyeing his car appreciatively through the window.

"Still in such impeccable condition, wow." The man leans against the bar next to Crowley. "How long have you had her for?"

Crowley grunts and tosses back his drink, slamming the empty glass on the bar. "A long time. Look, I'm not here to chat it up with anyone, so please just—" He motions for him to leave.

"Well, neither am I. But then I saw you, mister..." His voice drops to a low as his eyes wander down Crowley's frame. "Tight black skinny jeans and sunglasses in the rain, strutting in here all sexy-lookin', owning a beautiful classic car. I mean," He leans in, noting the demon's natural scent and finding it pleasantly inviting, "I've never seen a man like you before who just...oozes such...yummy elegance..."

Crowley musters up the effort to fully turn to the man and take in his appearance. He was handsome, no doubt. Well dressed; well groomed. "Look, I'm certainly flattered and you're… charming and all… probably a bit insane, but insanity never hurt me, really. But I really don't need your company. What I do need though, is more alcohol." Crowley signals the bartender over and as he's pouring him another, Crowley asks, "Actually, could you just leave me the whole bottle?"

The bartender simply shakes his head and turns to place the bottle back on display.

"Give him the bottle," demands the pestering man.

To Crowley's astonishment, the bartender obeys.

"My, oh my!" A hint of a grin tugs at Crowley's lips as the bottle is brought back to him effortlessly. He looks at the man with a somewhat newfound appreciation. "You must be the owner of this establishment."

The man looks up in thought and sways his head from side to side. "I could be if I wanted to. Too far from home, however. I'm only here in London for a, um, vacation. Clear my head."

Against his better judgement, Crowley found himself a little intrigued by him. He uncaps the bottle and brings it to his lips, welcoming in the impending inebriation that'll momentarily blanket his chokehold of a heartbreak. "Is that so? Must've made some name for yourself here a while back then, yeah? Unless you’re personally familiar with the bartender?"

The man straightens his posture, smirking. "Well, look who's trying to make some company with me after all.”

"Hardly,” Crowley mutters, taking another hearty swig. The man's eyes linger on the bob of Crowley’s Adam’s apple, as he does so.

"Let's just say that people have a knack for giving me what I want."

Crowley sets the bottle down and pretends to inspect the label, responding to him with feigned interest, "Must come off as intimidating to them."

"Don't you think so?" The man leans a bit closer, challenging Crowley with a hardened stare. "Tell the truth."

Crowley’s eyes remain on the bottle, idly tracing its edges. "Not in the slightest. How about you go stroke that ego of yours somewhere else, okay? Leave me be. I'm not normally this patient."

"You'd still like me to go away? After scoring you a free bottle of whiskey?"

The bartender picks up on this and shoots the man with a baffled expression. "Free?"

"Yes," the man bites back. "Free."

The bartender nods politely and returns to his work.

Crowley finally looks up at the man, eyebrow quirked. "Who are you?"

"Kilgrave. And you?"

Crowley grimaces. "Kilgrave? What kind of a name is that? Sounds… I don’t know, death-y?"

"How sweet of you to notice," Kilgrave responds, letting the offense roll off his back. "I personally like it. It's got a nice ring to it, don't you think? Now, tell me your name."

"Nah, thanks for the free booze, though."

Kilgrave’s brow knits together. "You're not complying..."

Crowley takes in more whiskey, feeling its warm, relaxing effect start to spread throughout his body. "Just don't find you that intimidating, Gravekil.”

"It's Kilgrave."

"It's stupid."

Kilgrave’s blood feels like it’s about to boil over. "Maybe yours is worse. Who are you?"

"Mister tight black skinny jeans and sunglasses in the rain," Crowley shoots back mockingly, unable to hide the cunning grin that sprouts so easily whenever alcohol flows through his veins.

“And what exactly are you then, huh? Besides eye candy? Because it's not normal for someone to disregard my orders.”

Oooh, a self-centered asshole—the type of human Crowley found the most entertaining. It’s always fun seeing them squirm when they don’t get their way.

“I’m a demon,” Crowley answers for his own amusement.

That earns a laugh out of Kilgrave. “Can’t be any worse than me, darling.”

“Yeah?” His ability to think clearly rendered obsolete, Crowley takes off his shades, revealing his fiery serpentine eyes. “How about now?”

Instead of backing away and running for his life—as any other human would normally do upon seeing such ungodly eyes—Kilgrave beams. He leans in until their faces are a breath apart and gazes into the demon’s eyes. “Those are real, aren't they? I'd argue that those are some wacky contact lenses, but it’s almost as if I can feel some sort of hellish energy coming off you.” He glances at Crowley’s hand on the bar and adds, “Wonder if you’re hot to the touch…?”

Before Kilgrave can find out, Crowley’s head turns into something monstrously dreadful for a split second—a trick that often leaves humans unconscious from the horrid sight. But the purple-suited man takes only a half-step back and is pleasantly surprised. “You've proved your point! That was the most demonic thing I've ever seen! That wasn't your true form, was it?”

“Eugh. No, thankfully.”

Crowley starts to put his shades back on but is stopped by the touch of Kilgrave’s grasp on his wrist. “So is it this one then? Because I quite like this one…” His other hand cradles Crowley’s cheek, teasing the demon’s skin with small traces of his thumb. “It's a shame that a beautiful thing like you is immune to my control…”

Crowley typically found it cute whenever a human tried to tempt him, but this enigma of a man doesn’t spark endearment in him. If anything, Crowley’s curiosity simmers at finding the man’s audacity. “Immune to your control? What—you can control people's minds? Like, actually?”

“Indeed I can, luv,” he says in a whisper.

“You can't do that…” The entrance bell dings as someone walks in. “That bloke over there—” Crowley nods his head towards the stranger and then dons his shades. “Make him do something.”

“Anything?”

“Surprise me.”

Kilgrave lets go of him and calls the guy over. “Hey! You! Come here!”

The guy looks over, confused, then warily makes his way over to them.

“See that guy over there?” Kilgrave asks him, pointing to another random stranger who was playing pool on the other side of the bar. “You know him?”

“No. What's it to you?”

“Go kick him in the balls. As hard as you can.”

Crowley blinks in disbelief and drinks an incredulous amount of whiskey this time as he waits to see this ridiculous scene fail miserably. There was no way the man was going to—

Crowley chokes on the burning liquid as the man does exactly what Kilgrave ordered him to do. The afflicted man hollers in agony before aiming a jaw-crunching blow to his attacker’s face.

Kilgrave watches in smug victory.

“So you're some sort of freaky superhuman, then?” Crowley asks, feeling the alcohol spread to his limbs. “How'd that come to be?”

“Let’s just chalk it all up to having shitty parents,” he says as he finally tears his attention from the commotion he brewed and takes a seat again beside Crowley. “Now, enough about me. What's a demon doing here, getting shitfaced, huh? Besides not wanting any company?”

Crowley holds his head in his hands as it suddenly feels too heavy. “That's just it. To get shitfaced; to not have to think about anything or… anyone, for that matter.”

“I can understand that. You're not alone there. Bartender-”

Alone. Of course Crowley was alone. When Aziraphale ascended to heaven with his shiny new promotion, Crowley could physically feel the angel’s warm and welcoming aura being ripped away from Earth— ripped away from him. Permanently.

It’s a different kind of loneliness—not the kind Crowley often felt when it came to being the only demon that takes a liking to Earth and the humans. This loneliness consumes him, and the alcohol that courses through his system does little to stop him from mulling over it. He offers what's left of the whiskey to Kilgrave as the bartender is about to take his order. He accepts it and sighs after a generous swig. “A woman. The love of my life. I know she loves me too, but she's just…. urgh! She just has all these problems, and she's… she's unwilling to see past them and she's hurt me in the process…”

Attempting to steer his thoughts away from Aziraphale, Crowley tries to swallow down his own despair and forces himself to look at Kilgrave. “Taking what the two of you have for granted, is she?”

That shit-eating grin returns to Kilgrave's face as he takes another shot from the bottle. “Might I assume, demon, that you know exactly what I'm talking about?”

“It’s Crowley, my name. And… possibly. The whole focusing on other things instead of… nurturing the—” Crowley bites hard on his lip, knowing he shouldn't say what he's about to say next, but he can't deny the truth. “The love that's there between the two of you.”

“Yeah. Pssh,” Kilgrave shakes his head. “Fuckin bitches.”

“Is she a freak of nature like you?”

“Sort of.”

“You use your mind control on her?”

“Ah— well— I,” Kilgrave toys with the bottle, letting the amber-brown liquid inside swirl around. “That's a bit of a personal question.”

“Is it?”

Pretending to not hear that, Kilgrave slides the bottle over to Crowley. “Your turn.”

The demon grimaces with a dismissive wave of his hand. “No. I need to… lay off a little.”

He thinks about draining himself of the liquor, like he and Aziraphale would do whenever they got to the icky part of drinking, but the effort to do so is shunned. He holds his head in his hands and rubs his temples; Kilgrave takes this opportunity to scoot his seat closer to Crowley. “I meant your story, darling. What exactly has made you into this doom-and-gloom of a hot mess, hm? Unless you’re here creating sob stories to tempt people into doing sinful things…” He lightly traces the demon’s snake tattoo on his face and whispers, “If that’s the case, then color me intrigued. I mean, you already tempted me into making that guy kick that other guy’s sack, didn’t you?”

“Oh, please!” Crowley swats the man’s hand away. “Making that guy do that was your idea! You humans… whenever I come up with something horrible, you lot will come up with something a million times worse!”

Kilgrave waits for Crowley to settle down before placing his hand on the demon’s knee. “So what was it, then?”

His mind a hailstorm, his heart destroyed, Crowley just stares at the unsolicited touch, unsure of what to make of it.

“I lost… this guy.”

“Just some guy?”

“No, not just some guy!” Crowley jerks his knee away. “He was...” He slams his fist on the bar. “He's an ineffable fucking idiot, that's what he is.”

“So, what happened?”

“He left me... he—URGH! He thinks what he's doing is the right thing but he's just so goddamn brainwashed— ‘Oh, Crowley! Oh, I can make things right in heaven! You can be my wingman! We can make a difference’ —Please, just spare me—oh, wait a minute, he did just that!”

Kilgrave steals the bottle back and looks at Crowley contemplatively. “Heaven?”

“Yeah, a place you're not getting into.”

“I assumed so—”

“That bloody angel…” Crowley hisses, a profound vein bulging on his forehead. “He and I could’ve run off together and made a life of our own, away from heaven and hell’s politics.”

“Sounds like you and him were pretty close.”

It’s difficult for Crowley not to do the most human thing at this point: scream and cry his eyes out until there’s no breath left in his lungs. “I… certainly thought so.”

Kilgrave clicks his tongue and shakes his head, opening up the bottle. “Love’s a bitch, innit?”

Crowley says nothing. Moving even the tiniest muscle felt like a chore.

“A demon feeling love, and loving an angel for that matter,” Kilgrave says with a chuckle. “You've got to be the most interesting thing I've ever met, Crowley.” He finishes off the last drops of the bottle and continues, “That angel’s missing out. Big time. Did he even—hm, maybe I shouldn't ask.”

“What?” Crowley grumbles into his hands.

“Did he… satisfy you? You know, was he a good lover? Or did you have to tempt him? You being a demon and all.”

“No, I didn't tempt him! Er, not in that fashion, anyway.” Memories of Aziraphale’s sky-blue eyes lighting up at his first taste of food illuminates Crowley’s mind and strangles his heart.

“So he satisfied you without your persuasion?”

“I'm not like you,” the demon sneers. “I don't need to mind-control people to make me happy.”

Kilgrave’s eyes gleam at the sight of Crowley riled-up. “So an angel, a being of all that is holy and godlike and whatnot, willingly gave himself to a demon?”

“Oh for Christ’s—Satan’s—somebody's sake, we didn't—it wasn't physical!”

Kilgrave slithers in, his nose barely touching Crowley’s. “Wouldn't you have liked it to be?”

Crowley’s fingers curl into a fist. If this sonofabitch dares to make one more move…

“It must be difficult, having pent-up urges and desires, yearning for a sweet, long release…”

Crowley’s jaw tightens. “I'm not in the mood for what you're trying to accomplish here, and I never will be.”

“I could get us a free room at that hotel across the street—”

A forceful shove almost knocks Kilgrave off the barstool. “Go fuck yourself,” Crowley snarls.

Collecting himself, Kilgrave straightens out his suit and titters. “Only if you'll watch.”

Crowley inhales sharply, haphazardly gets up on his feet and grabs Kilgrave by the collar. “Leave London. Go back to that woman you love. Talk things out with her. Really talk things out, cause if you don't—if you're not thorough—then shit will stay sideways and then neither of you will be happy. And stay the FUCK away from me.”

Kilgrave maintains his suave demeanor, taking in Crowley’s whiskey breath like a drug. “Then get your hands off of me. But you won't. Because you know that I can satisfy you in ways your angel never did. Don't lie to me and don't lie to yourself, demon.”

“You're a real sack of shit, you know that? You don't know me. You don't know what I want. And it's certainly not you. I'm not going to waste my time on a lowlife sinner like you.”

“You may not be trying to tempt me, luv, but you’re a temptation in and of itself. My God, Crowley, you're practically dripping with sex.” His voice lowers to a sultry tone, “I do wonder how dilated those slits behind those shades can get… and how pretty they'd look staring up at me… pleading…”

Nothing of what Kilgrave has spoken tickled any fancies for Crowley, but Crowley does admit, “You'd make one hell of a demon,” and lets go of him. Before Kilgrave opens his mouth to spew out garbage again, Crowley turns and leaves the bar with a drunken stagger.

The rain hasn't let up at all, and Crowley nearly slips on the wet ground as he gets inside the Bentley. Head spinning and queasy as ever, he fishes for his phone and calls the one number he only ever calls.

After some agonizingly long rings, the call is answered.

“‘Ello, ‘ello, ‘ello! A.Z. Fell and Co! How can I—a human—help you?”

Oh…right…

Crowley hangs up and drops his head onto the steering wheel. It’s a basic instinct to call up Aziraphale whenever something crazy happens, and meeting a psychotic, mind-controlling human who was hitting on him made for some juicy news.

But there was no more Aziraphale.

The tears that fought for escape finally break through in hot trickles down Crowley’s face.

“Aziraphale… please… just come back… m-my angel…”

Sniffling and wiping off his face, he looks up and notices Kilgrave leaving the bar and making his way over to Crowley.

Shattered and intoxicated, Crowley kicks the engine to life and takes off.

[aricat7]

Haha I'm glad you're enjoying the story!!! Thanks for reading! :)

Ineffable Intimacy Ch.2

Link to chapter 1: https://www.tumblr.com/aricat7/759590726338265088/ineffable-intimacy?source=share

Warning: This is a smutty fic of the ineffable husbands 🐍🪽

Chapter 2:

Though late at night, Aziraphale’s mind buzzed with the day's earlier events and refused to process them. He tried distracting himself by reading a book. That normally does the trick to keep rampant thoughts at bay.

"My type...is a being that's the complete opposite of me..."

"You think that's...okay?"

"To think of someone like that while I rub one off?"

Aziraphale almost curses, expecting this night to be a long one. He tries again at concentrating on the text staring up at him, but the page remains unturned. He closes the old book defeatedly - he would have slammed it shut if not for its old and feeble state.

Why, Aziraphale thought, rubbing his brow. Why did Crowley have to start that kind of conversation? It's wrong. It's unnecessary.

Unnecessary. Just as an angel engorges himself with the delectability of savory and sweet foods. Or how a demon sleeps almost every night and did mostly sleep through a whole century.

Unnecessary - those human activities were, yes. But oh how wonderfully satisfied they make you feel.

An angel being gluttonous was one thing, but for him to tap into lust? Well, surely there’s no difference, Aziraphale concluded wearily.

Just within arm’s reach was the telephone; Crowley was a phone call away.

"Oh temptation...you win. Just for tonight."

Without allowing any other thoughts to surface, without any regard for whatever consequences there could possibly be, Aziraphale takes the phone in hand and quickly dials. His head spins, his eyes wide and alert. The call reaches a third ring-

"Hey."

A simple greeting, yet it was drawn out and husky. Aziraphale stood no chance at stopping the inevitable flutter it gave his heart, no matter how much he tried to repel its effect. "Oh, sounds like you must've been sleeping?"

"Yeah. Been doing it almost every night as of recently. You try it yet?"

"I did. Unfortunately, I ended up sleeping for almost a full week! The shop's regulars weren't very fond of that.”

"That's why you've got to set an alarm, Aziraphale. You know? The type of clock that goes beep beep beep and it wakes you up? That."

"I did! I slept through it..."

Aziraphale could hear the faintest chortle. "Deep sleeper. Got it. What woke you up, then?"

"Not sure. Just sort of woke up- oh! No, wait, I remember! I was starting to get hungry. That's what it was."

"Right."

The conversation paused and within the silence, Aziraphale’s anxiety gave way. "Well, I should let you go back to sleep then."

"No, no. Why'd you call?"

Aziraphale took a deep, shaky breath. “I've been...I...can't get out of my head. Something's been plaguing my mind all day."

Crowley changed from lying down in bed to sitting upright. "Does it have anything to do with what we discussed earlier?"

"You know me too well, Crowley."

"Well, I mean, I think I do. I’m..sorta trying to learn more...if you couldn't take that hint earlier. Look, just, tell me what's tinkering around in that mind of yours, would you?"

"I called to...finish explaining myself about...the Ritz."

"You mean how you-"

"Yes,” Aziraphale interrupts, his grip on the telephone tightening.

"Ah. Then I'm all ears. Go on."

"I was imagining what our beach day would look like. The sun high in the sky, making the ocean below shimmer in its wake. The sound of laughter filling the air, everyone having a splendid time. Umbrellas scattered across the golden sand; underneath one of those umbrellas I picture you lounging comfortably. Your wings draped intricately down the sides of the chair-”

"My wings are out? In public? That's highly unlikely."

"Do you wish to hear my fantasy or not?"

"Sorry, yes.”

Very much, Crowley’s thoughts added.

Aziraphale closed his eyes and delved into the vivid scene his imagination was painting. “You were relaxing from a quick swim, letting the heat of the day dry you off. A drop of water trickles down from your auburn hair and follows your jawline down to your neck…to your chest…”

Crowley listens intently, ready to scream at Aziraphale if he stops now.

“All the way down…till it lands on your…what the humans call a ‘happy trail’...”

Crowley lets out a short, breathless laugh. Finally. Him and Aziraphale were finally exploring this new territory together that’s been begging to be explored.

"It's ridiculous, isn't it?"

"Of you? Definitely. I mean, you really imagined that? Are you currently imagining that?"

"Should I...not?"

"No. Keep going."

"I'm sorry?"

"Does anything else happen in this fantasy of yours or does it stop there?"

"Uh. Um…"

"You little…” Crowley’s jaw clenched, desperate for more. “You're gonna leave me hanging, aren't you?"

"It's... hard for someone of my kind to give such mildly graphic descriptions."

"Mildly?"

"Utmost,” Aziraphale corrected bashfully.

"Yeah, that sounds more like it."

Aziraphale toys with the telephone cord. "So, Crowley, you're not appalled by everything I've been telling you?"

"You having lustful thoughts about me? How could that turn me away? Hm?"

"Well, you and I...you know. It’s not that I don't feel comfortable telling you personal things but... if this is too much we can gladly forget about all this!"

Crowley’s desire ignited. There was no turning back from this, he wouldn't allow neither of them to let that happen. Aziraphale’s flustered little voice, the way he imagined Crowley, the vulnerability and tenderness that showed through it all - it harvested a warmth that spread throughout Crowley’s body.

Another effect had also taken place, one that happens often when Crowley lies in bed thinking about Aziraphale.

“Is that what you would want?"

"No."

"What do you want, angel? Tell me."

The words were there in plain sight, but Aziraphale lost the ability to read at that moment. He could hear the rustling of a bedsheet, and Crowley’s voice dropped a level as he continued to speak, “Come onnn! Your lips have already been tainted with a raunchy and dirty story about me, all coming from that marvelous brain of yours.” The sound of Crowley’s breath filled the receiver. “Let me hear a little more..."

"Crowley...you sound...very different."

"I’m sure. This miracle you gave me and all..."

"Miracle?"

"Yeah...not a small one either."

Aziraphale blushed incredulously. "I see. Oh Crowley, this isn't natural. An angel and a demon talking like this...thinking like this..."

“Don’t go spiraling into doubt now, angel. Don’t do this to yourself…to us.” Crowley’s pants were getting tighter by the second. His hand drifts down and palms the bulging fabric of his pants. “We’ve already made efforts, why not put them to good use, yeah?”

"I suppose there's nothing wrong with…experimenting with each other. I just… I don't want it to ruin what we have."

"And what's that? What is it that we have, Aziraphale? What are we?"

Aziraphale opened his mouth to say something, but found himself lost in the sound of Crowley’s breaths gradually laboring.

"How about we figure that out later, okay?” Crowley answers for him hastily. “If you're not going to finish talking about your fantasy, then allow me to continue it."

"By all means, my dear."

"Great. Set the phone aside. I'm coming."

"Oh, do I have to? I think I'd much rather prefer hearing you-"

"Over. I'm coming over. Through the phone.”

"Oh. Uh, very well then."

~~~

[aricat7]

Ineffable Intimacy Ch.2

Link to chapter 1: https://www.tumblr.com/aricat7/759590726338265088/ineffable-intimacy?source=share

Warning: This is a smutty fic of the ineffable husbands 🐍🪽

Chapter 2:

Though late at night, Aziraphale’s mind buzzed with the day's earlier events and refused to process them. He tried distracting himself by reading a book. That normally does the trick to keep rampant thoughts at bay.

"My type...is a being that's the complete opposite of me..."

"You think that's...okay?"

"To think of someone like that while I rub one off?"

Aziraphale almost curses, expecting this night to be a long one. He tries again at concentrating on the text staring up at him, but the page remains unturned. He closes the old book defeatedly - he would have slammed it shut if not for its old and feeble state.

Why, Aziraphale thought, rubbing his brow. Why did Crowley have to start that kind of conversation? It's wrong. It's unnecessary.

Unnecessary. Just as an angel engorges himself with the delectability of savory and sweet foods. Or how a demon sleeps almost every night and did mostly sleep through a whole century.

Unnecessary - those human activities were, yes. But oh how wonderfully satisfied they make you feel.

An angel being gluttonous was one thing, but for him to tap into lust? Well, surely there’s no difference, Aziraphale concluded wearily.

Just within arm’s reach was the telephone; Crowley was a phone call away.

"Oh temptation...you win. Just for tonight."

Without allowing any other thoughts to surface, without any regard for whatever consequences there could possibly be, Aziraphale takes the phone in hand and quickly dials. His head spins, his eyes wide and alert. The call reaches a third ring-

"Hey."

A simple greeting, yet it was drawn out and husky. Aziraphale stood no chance at stopping the inevitable flutter it gave his heart, no matter how much he tried to repel its effect. "Oh, sounds like you must've been sleeping?"

"Yeah. Been doing it almost every night as of recently. You try it yet?"

"I did. Unfortunately, I ended up sleeping for almost a full week! The shop's regulars weren't very fond of that.”

"That's why you've got to set an alarm, Aziraphale. You know? The type of clock that goes beep beep beep and it wakes you up? That."

"I did! I slept through it..."

Aziraphale could hear the faintest chortle. "Deep sleeper. Got it. What woke you up, then?"

"Not sure. Just sort of woke up- oh! No, wait, I remember! I was starting to get hungry. That's what it was."

"Right."

The conversation paused and within the silence, Aziraphale’s anxiety gave way. "Well, I should let you go back to sleep then."

"No, no. Why'd you call?"

Aziraphale took a deep, shaky breath. “I've been...I...can't get out of my head. Something's been plaguing my mind all day."

Crowley changed from lying down in bed to sitting upright. "Does it have anything to do with what we discussed earlier?"

"You know me too well, Crowley."

"Well, I mean, I think I do. I’m..sorta trying to learn more...if you couldn't take that hint earlier. Look, just, tell me what's tinkering around in that mind of yours, would you?"

"I called to...finish explaining myself about...the Ritz."

"You mean how you-"

"Yes,” Aziraphale interrupts, his grip on the telephone tightening.

"Ah. Then I'm all ears. Go on."

"I was imagining what our beach day would look like. The sun high in the sky, making the ocean below shimmer in its wake. The sound of laughter filling the air, everyone having a splendid time. Umbrellas scattered across the golden sand; underneath one of those umbrellas I picture you lounging comfortably. Your wings draped intricately down the sides of the chair-”

"My wings are out? In public? That's highly unlikely."

"Do you wish to hear my fantasy or not?"

"Sorry, yes.”

Very much, Crowley’s thoughts added.

Aziraphale closed his eyes and delved into the vivid scene his imagination was painting. “You were relaxing from a quick swim, letting the heat of the day dry you off. A drop of water trickles down from your auburn hair and follows your jawline down to your neck…to your chest…”

Crowley listens intently, ready to scream at Aziraphale if he stops now.

“All the way down…till it lands on your…what the humans call a ‘happy trail’...”

Crowley lets out a short, breathless laugh. Finally. Him and Aziraphale were finally exploring this new territory together that’s been begging to be explored.

"It's ridiculous, isn't it?"

"Of you? Definitely. I mean, you really imagined that? Are you currently imagining that?"

"Should I...not?"

"No. Keep going."

"I'm sorry?"

"Does anything else happen in this fantasy of yours or does it stop there?"

"Uh. Um…"

"You little…” Crowley’s jaw clenched, desperate for more. “You're gonna leave me hanging, aren't you?"

"It's... hard for someone of my kind to give such mildly graphic descriptions."

"Mildly?"

"Utmost,” Aziraphale corrected bashfully.

"Yeah, that sounds more like it."

Aziraphale toys with the telephone cord. "So, Crowley, you're not appalled by everything I've been telling you?"

"You having lustful thoughts about me? How could that turn me away? Hm?"

"Well, you and I...you know. It’s not that I don't feel comfortable telling you personal things but... if this is too much we can gladly forget about all this!"

Crowley’s desire ignited. There was no turning back from this, he wouldn't allow neither of them to let that happen. Aziraphale’s flustered little voice, the way he imagined Crowley, the vulnerability and tenderness that showed through it all - it harvested a warmth that spread throughout Crowley’s body.

Another effect had also taken place, one that happens often when Crowley lies in bed thinking about Aziraphale.

“Is that what you would want?"

"No."

"What do you want, angel? Tell me."

The words were there in plain sight, but Aziraphale lost the ability to read at that moment. He could hear the rustling of a bedsheet, and Crowley’s voice dropped a level as he continued to speak, “Come onnn! Your lips have already been tainted with a raunchy and dirty story about me, all coming from that marvelous brain of yours.” The sound of Crowley’s breath filled the receiver. “Let me hear a little more..."

"Crowley...you sound...very different."

"I’m sure. This miracle you gave me and all..."

"Miracle?"

"Yeah...not a small one either."

Aziraphale blushed incredulously. "I see. Oh Crowley, this isn't natural. An angel and a demon talking like this...thinking like this..."

“Don’t go spiraling into doubt now, angel. Don’t do this to yourself…to us.” Crowley’s pants were getting tighter by the second. His hand drifts down and palms the bulging fabric of his pants. “We’ve already made efforts, why not put them to good use, yeah?”

"I suppose there's nothing wrong with…experimenting with each other. I just… I don't want it to ruin what we have."

"And what's that? What is it that we have, Aziraphale? What are we?"

Aziraphale opened his mouth to say something, but found himself lost in the sound of Crowley’s breaths gradually laboring.

"How about we figure that out later, okay?” Crowley answers for him hastily. “If you're not going to finish talking about your fantasy, then allow me to continue it."

"By all means, my dear."

"Great. Set the phone aside. I'm coming."

"Oh, do I have to? I think I'd much rather prefer hearing you-"

"Over. I'm coming over. Through the phone.”

"Oh. Uh, very well then."

~~~

[aricat7]

🐍Ineffable Intimacy🪽

Chapter one of my Aziracrow fanfiction. Y'all I love this show so much and this is the result of me being utterly destroyed by the season two ending 😁👍🏻

Summary: Crowley tests the waters of reaching new conversational heights.

🔞Eventual smut in future chapters🔞

~~~

Aziraphale flipped through the worn, tattered pages of an ancient book within the downtime of the bookshop. It had been a pleasant and regular Sunday morning, him and Crowley having just returned from a casual breakfast at the Ritz. The first couple hours of seemingly every Sunday here at the bookshop tends to be achingly slow, Aziraphale's assumption being that their customers must be attending church, while Crowley blamed the wasteland start on hangovers.

Earlier at the Ritz, Crowley relaxed with a glass of champagne in hand and claimed to Aziraphale, “One hearty omelet here is enough to revive even the most degenerative alcoholic. Why do you think so many people dine here on Sunday mornings?”

"Crowley, that's absurd!" Aziraphale had protested. "People who dine here have class!"

"Then how the fuck did I get in here?"

Aziraphale shot him an expression that clearly and politely stated 'behave yourself' while he enjoyed his crepe.

"Just look around at some of the faces here, angel. Look closely."

Aziraphale dabs his mouth with his napkin. “Crowley, I did not come here with you to people watch! I sure wouldn't like it if someone from across the room was casting silent judgment onto me! Would you?"

Crowley gives a subtle nod toward a stranger seated at the table behind Aziraphale.

Curiosity nudges Aziraphale and, thanks to his fluid morals, he carefully looks over his shoulder. Lo and behold, a man cradles his head in his hands. His face grimaces from what could only be perceived as a gruesome hangover, shielding his eyes from the rays of light that shot through a nearby window as a waitress opened its curtain.

"Well, you've made a point, I guess."

Crowley snickers and finishes the last drops of his drink. "If it makes you feel any better, I'm sure a decent amount of your customers are being 'good' souls and attending church or going about their morning in peaceful sobriety. Maybe we can call it a draw and say they're all hungover in church?”

Aziraphale stifles a chuckle from recalling the earlier situation, not wanting to interrupt Crowley's current ramblings about theories of the Almighty. Since the day the two of them met, Crowley's mind had been filled with existential questions and assumptions about God, some of which he had vocally directed at God, resulting in his fall from Heaven.

Even while reading, Aziraphale lends an attentive ear to Crowley, which both bewilders and amazes the demon. Quite the multitasker.

Aziraphale flips to the next page of his book and breaks his eyes away from the fine-printed text, resting on a sight much easier: his best friend. Crowley laid sprawled on the chair across from him, continuing on about what the point of every component of this life could be. Every bit of angst the topic cultivated in his soul poured from his mouth; his slitted pupils trained on the window beside him, as if daring God to make their appearance within the growing bustle of the cross streets outside. The warm light of a near midday sun washing him in a delightful glow.

Amongst the ogling, Aziraphale was blissfully unaware that Crowley had changed the topic. Catching wind of what he sort of heard, Aziraphale nearly chokes on his sip of tea. "I’m sorry, what did you say?"

"Ah, so a book has finally been able to drown me out, eh?"

Aziraphale clears his throat and sets his cup on its dainty saucer. He closes the book. "A-a bit, yes. I apologize. What were you saying?" is what he responds with, though his mind proclaimed ‘oh no, nothing could be more interesting than you, Crowley. You sitting there and gazing out the window while you pour out the deepest depths of your heart is all the interest I need, just excuse the moments like these where the affects of your presence cause my mind to short-circuit.

"That a few months back I was a part of this crazed threesome with a couple I met at the pub...some diabolical kinks those two had. Guaranteed they're not at church this morning."

It was times like this where Aziraphale had to remind himself that Crowley is a demon and with that comes rash, blasphemous decisions.

So, why was it bothering him so much? He wondered as he idly traced his finger along an edge of the book’s hardcover. "Oh..."

"You ever had anything like that, angel?"

"Can't...say that I have. Hope it was still fun for you though, right?" Aziraphale asks with full compassion masked over something else.

"Eh. I've had better rendezvous."

"Oh! So you've had other...others?" Aziraphale prayed for a customer to walk in, anything to snatch him away from sinking further into this well of undisclosed emotions.

Crowley remains straight-faced as ever, a face that'd win at a game of poker. “You know-” he drops the leg that hangs over the arm of the chair and rests his elbows on his knees- “You and I have talked about many things over the millennia, but I can’t recall a single moment where we’ve had this type of discussion.”

"Oh we’re...going to continue discussing this one, are we?"

"I'd like to. So, angel, what have your filthy endeavors been like?"

"I haven't had any, Crowley."

"Oh come onnn-" Crowley rises from his seat and approaches Aziraphale- "None? None at all? It's not as if you're a complete saint, Aziraphale! You’ve got to have at least experienced something!"

Aziraphale drops his book on the end table and rises as well, a burning brew of something he's locked up melting the bars of its enclosure. "No, Crowley, I haven't, and I’m offended that you think I'd just waltz around like some sleaze!- N-no offense."

"Aziraphale-"

"You know, did you not think that maybe I'm just waiting for the right person or...or the right moment?"

Crowley shakes his head slowly. "Is it gonna take another six thousand years for you to know when I'm lying?"

A splash of relief melts the fire in Aziraphale. "You haven't…done it?"

Crowley shrugs. "Only to mahself."

It’s as if all the windows of the bookshop opened at once, granting Aziraphale the ability to breathe again. "I see. Well, I can say that I relate in that aspect then. Oh but uh-" Aziraphale waves his hand dismissively and can't cool the spreading heat of his face- "T-that was quite some time ago- a very long time ago, actually! Why, I can barely remember-"

"You're not a good liar."

"Curses, I know. It's the saint in me."

Crowley slides his hands in his pants pockets and tilts his head. "When was the last time, angel?"

It feels as if those opened windows have slammed shut and Aziraphale can’t compose himself in front of Crowley's suaveness, especially with a question like that; a discussion like this.

Aziraphale answers in a strained voice, "This...this morning."

A smile tugs at the corner of Crowley’s lips. "This morning? You mean as soon as you woke up or...oh- oh my-" he bursts out laughing- "don't tell me it was at the Ritz when you suddenly excused yourself to use the loo?"

Crowley was only joking, but Aziraphale’s fair skin turning beet-red makes Crowley suspect that scenario to be true.

"W-what's the reason for bringing this topic up in the first place, Crowley? And why start it off with a lie?"

"To gauge your reaction. It's always endearing seeing you get all-” he wiggles his fingers in front of Aziraphale- “fussy. Now, what kind of sinful thoughts initiated this sudden urge earlier?”

Aziraphale picks his book up and walks over to the shelf of its home, avoiding Crowley's determined and amused stare. "You had proposed the idea of us getting out of the city and having a beach day..."

"To which you agreed." Crowley sits back down in a laid-back position.

"To which I did." Aziraphale aimlessly skims a row of book spines.

"I don’t see how that proposition elicited a wank in the bathroom stall of the Ritz."

"I was getting there!"

Crowley grins. "Fussy."

“You know, maybe I’m just not ready to talk about this stuff,” Aziraphale admits with a sigh.

Crowley crosses a leg over the other. "Sooo, what, I'll check back in in another six thousand years? Would that be a Tuesday, you think?"

No, Aziraphale thought, I don't believe I can keep my feelings dormant for that long. But to express them? Me? And to a demon for that matter?

But it's not just any demon, it's Crowley - a being Aziraphale plans on adoring and caring about for all of eternity. If only God would offer their approval, then there wouldn't be any sort of hesitation on Aziraphale's part.

"Nonsense! Look, why don't you...tell me what you fancy?" Aziraphale picks up his reading glasses from his work desk and wipes them off with his vest, shyly peeking at Crowley. "What...spurs your motives of...self pleasure? Do you have a type that you...think about?"

"A type? A type of being?"

Aziraphale gives a quick nod, anxiously finding anything on his desk to fiddle with.

Crowley rests his chin on his palm, leaning into the arm of the chair. He watches Aziraphale, entertained by how nervous his close friend is about the subject. "Yeah, I guess I do."

Although Crowley displays nonchalance, he figures a helping of liquid courage is a plausible boost for this conversation. He reaches into the inner pocket of his blazer and retrieves a flask of whiskey.

“Put that down," Aziraphale demands as soon as the flask meets Crowley's lips, his unexpected adamancy causing Crowley to freeze mid-swig.

Aziraphale adds sweetly, "Please."

Crowley twists the cap back on. "What? Afraid I might say or do something stupid?"

"Like what?"

"You tell me, angel."

This conversation might as well be the equivalent of a boomerang, Aziraphale thought.

"What's your type, Crowley?"

"What's yours?"

"I asked first."

"We could keep this up all day, couldn't we?" Crowley chuckles, putting his feet up on the foot rest.

"I suppose so," Aziraphale says, cracking a small smile. "Maybe we ought to not have this conversation, afterall. Maybe reserve it for a later date."

"My type..." Crowley starts, toying with his tie tassels.

"Yes?" Aziraphale browses through the documents on his desk, pretending to act calm and collected as his nerves spike.

"Is a being that's...well, the complete opposite of me, I guess you'd put it. Someone who sees the good in others. Forgiving. Maybe even a bit gullible at times."

"Sounds like you may be referring to someone in particular," Aziraphale says in a low voice, the words of the documents blurring.

"I could be, yeah. You think that's...okay?"

"How do you mean?"

"Well, to think of someone like that while I rub one off?"

Aziraphale’s breath catches in his throat. It takes him a beat too long to remember how to speak. "You're a demon, aren't you? Something like that is probably shamelessly commendable amongst your folk, is it not?"

Crowley thinks it over before giving a shrug-nod. "Fair point. But I didn't ask what they would think of it."

"You don't need my permission, Crowley."

"I wasn't asking for that either, angel."

"I think it's a bit um…scandalous, really. But I fear that's what this conversation is anyways, so."

"I'm gonna take that as you think it's okay, then. Dare I say, you're quite fond of that thought of me maybe?”

Before Aziraphale can conjure up a measly rebuttal, a customer enters the shop and the embarrassed angel makes an immediate beeline over to them to assist them.

"Yeah, you're not ready," Crowley mumbles in defeat. He mulls over what was discussed, a fierce grip tugging at a heartstring. A fine line stretched across his mind, between hanging onto the branch of patience that swayed, and the urge to pull Aziraphale into his arms and expel his undying love for him.

With a huff, he dons his shades and leaves the bookshop without so much as a wave to Aziraphale, making way to his Bentley.

[aricat7]

Wait I have this sudden notion that sleep token is about to release new music soon. If I'm wrong, I'm gonna go back to crying k bye

[aricat7]

🔞DON'T FUCK WITH BUCKS 🔞 (Alastor X Reader X Vox)

Chapter One

Summary: An opportunity of a lifetime enters your taxidermy shop, adorned with a smile.

Warnings: Will contain smut and may contain eventual rape/non-con elements in future chapters.

“Imp heads….imp heads….I know I have one…” You say to yourself as you search through your back stock. Normally, you're a bit more organized and have all your ducks in a row so to speak, but business for you has been booming recently. So, less popular items - such as imp heads - are buried behind all the hot-selling items.

You're relieved when you spot a set of curved imp horns behind a majestic elephant head, but scowl as you pick it up and think back to how fucking disgusting this imp was to you. Most people from this side of hell knew not to ever fuck with you, the others either learn very quickly or end up with a price tag on their severed head like this imp.

You leave the stockroom with a kick of the door and return to your waiting customer at the register. You hear him utter sounds of approval as you package up the head for him. As he's excitedly retrieving his wallet, the front door chime dings and a face you've never seen before steps into the low, ambient lighting of the shop.

And, wow, is this a face you're not gonna forget anytime soon. Or more frankly, the smile.

Perhaps you weren't the only one who found this particular visitor unsettling, for other patrons within the shop frantically scurry out the door when they take notice of him. Striding with a smooth grace, holding a staff with hands placed behind his red-suited back, he halts in front of the buck mount on the wall nearest to you.

Switching your focus, you process the transaction for the customer in front of you and hand him his purchase. “Perfect!” He exclaims, hugging the box as if it's his last meal. “I've got a question though.”

“Yeah?” You say without looking up at him, doing a count of all the money in your register.

“You got any…phallic items, perchance?”

“No.”

“What if I uh… show you what I got on my display, huh?”

You slowly turn your head to him, eyes like daggers. “You need to leave.”

“Oh don't be like that, sugartits-”

Naturally, you grab the pistol in your desk compartment and point it at him.

The smiling man enthralled with the buck mount watches the situation intently out of the corner of his eye with his deer-like ear flicked in your direction.

Aggravated by the gun in his ugly face, the customer rolls his eyes and mutters, “Tch. Whore.” He turns on his heel and leaves with a huff, leaving you and this tall, mysterious man alone in the shop.

“What a charming fellow~”

His staticky voice throws you off completely, your body stiffening for a split second as you put your pistol back in your desk. You steal a quick glance at him, his mannerisms and appearance giving you an old-timey vibe.

“Yeah,” you continue counting your money. “Last time it was a cannibal who got all mad when I told them I don't sell fresh meat.”

“Well, I'm sure that also makes for some lofty entertainment now, does it not?”

“Sure,” you shut your register and look at the man again, the buck on the wall still absorbing all his attention, “until they threaten to gouge my eyeballs out and eat ‘em like olives.”

“Oh?” The man meets your gaze and it's as if that creepy smile of his is stuck permanently. “And what do you do next in such a situation, my dear?”

You nod your head at the display adjacent to him. “Add ‘em to my collection.”

He studies the cannibal section in what appears to be wonder, hard to tell with that damn smile. “My my, so slaying cannibals is your specialty?”

“Pfft, take a look around, dude. I own this place. All of what you see is my work.”

He cleans his monocle with a puff of air and scans the entirety of the shop - from the stoic wildlife to the variety of sinners who have crossed you. “You don't say? All by yourself?”

“Mhm.” You open up the display case of your entomological collection upon your desk and do a bit of fine-tuning, ensuring your array of roaches and moths are in orderly fashion.

“Very impressive. You've got quite the sickening talent, darling~ No doubt it's part of how you wound up being here in hell, I'm sure.”

You look up from your mindless task and catch him staring at the buck mount again, realizing the man has small antlers atop his red hair. “‘Guy you're looking at related to you or something?”

“Say he was, would you provide me with a discount?~”

“Nope.”

The man chuckles. His eyes wander your frame from head to toe, but that's unbeknownst to you, since you're already glued to your next task: making a spreadsheet on your computer of everything you've got in your inventory - that way you’re not ripping your hair out looking for an item like earlier. Just as you're about to head to the back to get a count of everything, the man walks over to you and outstretches his hand across your desk.

“The name’s Alastor, darling. Pleasure to meet you, quite a pleasure.”

“Yeahhh, no. I don't do introductions.”

“What a shame.” Alastor retracts his hand and sets his staff out in front of him in a poised fashion. “Such a lovely establishment, from the authentic - and overly priced - craftsmanship, to its spik and span environment!” He sighs dramatically, “Oh, if only I could know the name of its owner, the brilliant mind behind it all~”

You roll your eyes. “You gonna buy one of these ‘overpriced’ craftsmanship or not?”

He tilts his head to the side. “How long have you been here in hell, sweetheart?”

Your hand hovers over where your pistol is kept. “Enough with the nicknames. And it’s…almost been a year now.”

“A year?! Why, it takes many moons here in hell for someone to be as reputable as you are right now. You're quite the little entrepreneur!”

You refrain from grabbing your pistol because something is tugging at your brain, telling you to tread lightly; to play whatever this game of his he’s playing and to play nice.

“‘Preciate that.” You cross your arms and nod to a poster that advertises the Vees on the storefront window. “‘Think I’ll be as big as them?”

“Ah, the notorious Vees. Well, my dear nameless business woman, with one simple deal I can make that happen.”

You raise your eyebrow. “Excuse me?”

“Your ignorance is excused,” he retorts, sudden malice creeping in his tone and demeanor. He steps closer to you till he’s towering over you. “You really aren’t aware of who I am and what power I hold, are you?”

So much for playing nice.

You whip out your gun and point it at his chest. “How about you enlighten me before I decide on making a face mask for good ol’ buck up there?”

“Ooo, such a feisty one. I like that.” He puts his palm to the barrel and traps your weapon in his slender, pointed fingers. “I’m the radio demon, darling.”

Your eyes widen in fear, your hand loosening its grip on the gun. He gently, yet assertively, pulls your gun down to rest atop your desk - neither of you letting go of it. You've heard of the radio demon and the stupid amount of power he has - toppling over overlords at an unbelievable rate. A pure evil.

“I thought the radio demon had disappeared and has been gone for years.”

“And now I’ve returned~”

“Right…” You clear your throat and regain your composure, despite now knowing you don't stand a goddam chance against him. “Well, I won't make a deal of any kind with you. Please respect that.”

“Even if it means having the opportunity of a lifetime? To meet the Vees in person at the ball tonight, where overlords from territories far and wide shall gather in comradery and regal fun?”

“Yeah, like they’d let me in-”

Letting go of your pistol, he snaps his fingers and a fancy-looking document appears from thin air. An invitation for the ball, but the part showing who it’s addressed to is blank.

“Just tell me your name and the invitations yours, dear. But, this is a deal I’m trying to make with you here, so I’ll need something from you in exchange.”

“Let me guess, my soul?”

“Oh-ho! While that is a very tantalizing idea, I have something else in mind.” He places the formal document on your desk and twirls his staff, positioning it behind his back. “I’d like your company over a nice dinner with me, after the ball.”

You flinch. “Not…not my soul?”

“No, no. Not your pretty little soul,” he eerily soothes. The corners of his smile stretch ever so slightly. “Unless, that is, you’d like to make a second deal where you’d allow me to have it~”

“Uh no, no…” You tap your fingers on your desk and stare at the invitation.

I could meet successful people. I could gain insight and ask them questions on how to better my career…all at the cost of going out with the radio demon, without having to hand over my soul…

“If we do this, you stay out of my life after, alright?”

“But of course! Who am I to defy an astute and beautiful young doe?”

Slightly cringing, you take a deep breath. “Okay.”

He lifts his hand and delicately cups your cheek. “Your name, miss?”

“y/n.”

“y/n…” His thumb caresses your cheek with a feather-light touch. “Oh how lovely your name tastes, my darling. Let’s see what it looks like on paper, shall we?”

With another snap of his fingers, an invisible pen signs the blank space with your name. “Perfect! Looks as if it was meant to be, like it was written in the stars, those of which we cannot see from hell! Now, y/n, let’s finalize this.” He extends his hand before you. “Do we have a deal?”

You nod and shake his hand with a blank expression.

“Wonderful~” He raises your hand to his lips and plants a kiss on your knuckles before letting go. “Put on your best gown for tonight, darling, and do please bring a smile~”

A pitch-black shadow rises from the ground and shrouds Alastor, making him disappear. You blink, processing what the fuck just happened, and then yelp for joy. You're about to meet your idols!

You take one last look at the poster of the Vees and start closing up shop early.